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Dean trudged up the rotting steps of the front porch, leaden body only driven forward by the prospect of collapsing onto his bed. The sturdy muscles in his legs screeched for relief every time he took a step, and when he cranked open the front door it took a hell of a lot of willpower not to collapse right there in the foyer.
Immediately the stench of skunk and ash crashed through him like a freight train. It was familiar and expected, but he still scrunched his nose in protest. It was silent, for once– none of the usual obscene moaning, or thumping, or psychedelic rock blasted at max volume. If it weren’t for the telltale reek of weed, he wouldn’t have known his housemate was home. Though, by this point, it had probably seeped into the walls.
“Fuck sake, Cas,” he called out, “would it kill you to open a window when you smoke?”
There was no response, not that Dean expected one. He’d bet his right arm that Cas was out like a light on some cocktail of prescription drugs. How the man hadn't overdosed by now, he had no clue. Maybe some angelic part of him was still kicking in there, keeping him alive under the piles of self-loathing and drug addiction.
Exhaling, he dragged a calloused palm down his face, rubbing at his bleary eyes. He shifted his shoulders, letting his bag thud to the floor. He unbuckled the straps of his gun holsters, tossing them aside with the promise that he’d put them away later- once he’d gotten some goddamn sleep.
He dragged himself up the creaky, dilapidated stairs, praying this wouldn’t be the day they decided to give out on him. At the top of the stairs stood Cas’ bedroom door, just barely cracked open. Dean knocked gently.
“You alive in there?” When he was again met with radio silence he pushed forward, revealing Cas lazing on his stomach, eyes shut, sprawled on the bed. His arm was draped over a pillow and his soft, shaggy hair stuck out in every direction.
As the hinges groaned he cracked an eye open, rolling onto his side with a quiet yawn. “Oh. Welcome back, commander. ”
“Did the apocalypse end or something?” he asked dryly. “I’d love a nap myself.”
Exhaling disgruntledly, Cas pulled himself up. “Did you need something, or are you just here to be an ass?”
“No, no,” Dean snarked, “it’s just, you’re usually so busy. Y’know, bangin’ chicks and lightin’ up.”
“You should loosen up a bit,” he remarked, then abruptly stilled. He tilted his head, inspecting Dean intently. “You’re bleeding.”
Suddenly his attention was brought back to the deep gash in his bicep, courtesy of a croatoan who’s skull he’d blown in seconds after. He shifted uncomfortably as Cas rose, two fingers reaching out as if to heal him. Coming back to himself, to the reality of humanity, Cas retracted his hand and instead turned to sift through his oak dresser.
“Here,” he said, pulling out a roll of gauze, a brown bottle of iodine, an old, yellowed rag, and a small metal box that he knew contained suture needles. “Let me.”
Settling on the edge of the bed, Dean peeled off his navy harrington jacket. Cloth tugged at forming clots of blood, eliciting a wince from him. Cas grasped his bicep, scrutinizing the wound; the edges were jagged and red with irritation, ugly and gaping. It went down to his hypodermis, blood pooling around fatty globules.
Cas poured the contents of the bottle onto the rag, wiping at the dried blood that clung onto his skin. It was cold, and as Cas approached the cut, carried a biting sting. He wrestled the urge to tear his arm away, clenching his teeth. Dousing the rag in more iodine, Cas began to dab carefully at the wound.
“At least try to be more careful.” The words were meant to be biting, but they came with too much tender concern. “The people would hate to lose their fearless leader.”
And you? Dean asked silently, would you hate to lose me too? They hadn’t stood this close in months, too consumed by petty annoyance, the strain of change, the looming fear of death. The complexities of humanity had molded Cas into a form he didn’t always recognize anymore, and he didn’t quite know how to approach this stranger that he called a friend. Their profound bond , as Cas had put it, had been reduced to only necessary conversations and brief encounters.
With Cas hovering just a foot away from him, though, he didn’t seem all that different. He was draped in a too-big t-shirt and baggy jeans, his fitted suit and neatly done-up tie long gone. Smoke had caused red to creep into his scleras. He didn’t bother with meticulously combing his hair or scraping away his coarse stubble. Still, his face was the same, and now he wore that familiar expression of concern poorly disguised as annoyance. He’d still cock his head in confusion and always maintained the same deadpan drawl that gave little away.
“Jesus,” he hissed through his teeth when Cas scrubbed more insistently. His arm seized up against his will. “Ease up a bit, will you?”
“Can’t,” he muttered, not looking up from his work, “there’s debris stuck in there. I have to get it out. Unless you want sepsis.” Popping open the rusty tin, he pulled out a small pair of tweezers. Painstakingly, he picked out fragments of scrap metal and rocks embedded in Dean’s skin. When he finished, he fished out the suture needle and thread, offering Dean a look that could have been sympathetic. “We’re out of numbing cream.”
“Just get it over with,” Dean said, rolling his shoulder to try and ease the tension in his muscles.
Cas scrupulously started to spear the needle through his skin, pulling the thread tight as he went. Sweat pooled on Dean’s forehead and on his back. His hands trembled violently as pain seared through his entire upper-arm. In response, Cas tightened his grip on Dean’s arm, neatly stitching from one end of the gash to the other until there was only a thin, bloody line left. He bit off the end of the thread with his teeth, tying it off. Then he rolled gauze tight around Dean’s bicep with too-delicate fingers.
“I’m sure I have painkillers lying around, if you need them.” He retreated from the bed, tossing the iodine and tin back into his dresser and slamming it shut.
“And end up stoned stupid? I’ll pass.” He tried to add fire to the words, but instead they came out weary and drained. Vertigo rushed him when he tried to stumble to his feet and he collapsed back onto the bed. His whole body ached down to the bones.
“Dean,” Cas said, and it shouldn’t have sounded so saccharine, brimming with solicitude. “Rest here for a while.”
Protests bubbled in his throat, but his body refused to swing upright. The warm covers were all too welcoming, and he was fully willing to let them swallow him forever. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
Flumping onto the bed next to him, leaving space between them, Cas let out a long sigh. He stuck a hand into his pocket, pulling out a silver zippo engraved with a line of Zeppelin lyrics- Dean had gifted it to him when he had first began smoking cigarettes- and a beat up carton of pinners. He brought a joint to his lips, taking a deep breath as he lifted the flame to the head of it. He at least had the courtesy to direct the puff of smoke away from Dean’s general vicinity.
“I mean it,” he rasped. “People worry about you. Every day you come back in worse shape. You're not invincible. This place depends on you.”
Grey clouds hung thick in the air. Dean stared up at the canopy of tapestries above Cas’ bed, forming twisting patterns of colour that you could get lost in. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re worried ‘bout me.”
Cas paused to take a long drag, creases forming along his forehead. “Of course I am.” He rolled to meet Dean face-to-face, absentmindedly tracing a finger along the dark purple and green bruises painting his arms. Goosebumps rose on Dean’s skin like someone had plunged him into a frozen lake.
“Of course,” he echoed, letting out a quick, breathy laugh, more adjacent to a scoff.
“I know that’s difficult for you to believe.” Cas’ hand traveled up to Dean’s shoulders, neck, his eyes scouring the litany of scars covering his body.
He bristled, shouldering away the touch. “Well, we haven’t exactly been all buddy-buddy lately, Cas.”
Sitting upright, Cas’s lips twitched in annoyance. He flicked the half-smoked pinner, sending ash flying. “That’s not my fault.”
“So what, it’s my fault?” Dean craned his neck, propping up on his elbows to give Cas an indignant glare.
Cas shrugged, rolling his eyes. “Come on, Dean. You act like you don’t even know me- you barely speak to me.”
Guilt pricked at his chest, searing hot and familiar. His fingers found the amulet still hanging around his neck, a breath of a memory- a relic of simpler days. “I’m busy. You’re busy. There isn’t a lot of time to chat.”
Scoffing, Cas shifted to the end of the bed, averting his gaze. “Yet I’m always willing to make time for you.” Silence hung thick between them, palpable and sharp. They were teetering on a steep ledge, both on the verge of crumbling. It was Cas that pushed first. “Look, I can go. Get some rest, Dean,” he said, taking a final drag of his joint before squashing the roach in the ashtray that sat next to the bed.
The tension between them snapped, and without thinking Dean stretched a hand to grab his shoulder before he could slip away somewhere he couldn’t reach. “Don’t.”
That was all it took. Cas let out a breathy, “alright,” and he turned back to meet him. Then he was kneeling over Dean, hands bracketing his hips, and all Dean could do was pull in a sharp breath as the man leaned down to kiss him. It felt like a lifetime since he’d had Cas like this, warm and nice and pressed against him- it made him alarmingly persuasive, and Dean stupidly susceptible.
Canines bit softly at his lips, moving down to his neck. He paused to suck firmly into Dean’s skin, planting blooms of purple that were sure to stick around for a while. Dean’s hands found their place on Cas’ hips as they ground gently against him. Hands found the hem of his black t-shirt, coaxing him to shift so it could be removed. It was pulled over his head and shucked aside haphazardly.
He craned his head, moving a hand to the back of Cas’ neck to pull him back up. They kissed again, and Dean felt feverish. God, “I’ve missed this,” he mumbled, trying to catch his breath at the same time.
Cas made his way back down, calloused hands on Dean’s chest, and hips, and then he was fiddling with the button of his jeans. “Lift your hips, cowboy,” he said, then hastily returned to pressing kisses across his abdomen. Dean complied, and it felt like he was falling. Cas shimmied his jeans off and tossed them aside, and he frantically grasped at the man’s shirt. Complying with his silent pleas, Cas sat back on Dean’s thighs, abandoning his own shirt just as quickly.
There was a hand palming at his dick, and he wrapped his arms around Cas’ waist, eager to get his lips on the man’s chest, on the curve of his pecs. He nipped at the soft skin there, hungry, desperate. Pain creeped into his bicep but it didn’t matter, not when Cas was pulling down his boxers and shrugging off his own jeans.
“No lube,” Cas muttered, “want me to blow you?”
Dean shuddered, grinding up against the hand still between his legs. “Yeah. That sounds, uh, good.”
Cas pressed kisses to the insides of Dean’s thighs, stubble scraping lightly against his skin. He was so hard he could barely breathe, and he palmed firmly at Cas’ own hard-on- if he didn’t get those warm, pretty lips around his dick right now he was gonna lose it.
It seemed Cas, however, was determined to drive Dean to his wits end; he licked up the side of his cock languidly, then mouthed wetly at the head before pulling away to suck hickies into his thighs. Dean’s hand slipped into soft brunette hair, the other fisting the comforter. He bit at his bottom lip, letting out a throaty moan. Returning to his flushed dick, Cas sucked at the tip before finally sliding it into his mouth. He hollowed his cheeks as he lazily took it deeper. The head bumped against the back of his throat, and he moved back up, tongue running along the underside.
“Shit,” Dean groaned, hand tightening in Cas’ hair. He spit into his palm before returning it to Cas’ leaking cock. “You got better at this, Cas. Fuck.”
“I’ve had practice,” Cas said, temporarily sliding off to crack a self-satisfied smile. A thin layer of spit coated his chapped lips, and he ran his tongue over them. “Learned a few tricks.”
Then he was ducking his head back down, taking Dean’s cock nice and slow, rhythmically bobbing up and down. It was the best kind of torment, and it took everything in Dean not to fuck deep into Cas’ tight throat. “Oh- God- you feel so damn good-”
Pleasure built in his core, rapturous and nectarine. Cas relaxed his jaw, quickening his pace. It was all-too inviting, the best thing Dean had felt in, hell, years. As the pressure in his gut coiled tighter he couldn’t help himself anymore- he bucked wildly into Cas’ throat, giving a quick warning of, “I’m gonna blow, Cas, ah, Cas-”
Cas pulled off, replacing his mouth with a hand, and Dean came hard, his whole body trembling, across the man’s face. He kept pumping at Cas’ dick, revelling in the array of moans and whines it elicited. It didn’t take long for Cas to cum, coating Dean’s thigh. He rolled off of Dean and onto the bed, both of them panting and their limbs still half-tangled. Dean carded a hand through Cas’ dampened hair, leaning over to kiss him softly.
“Why did we ever stop doin’ that?” he laughed faintly, keeping an arm wrapped around Cas’ shoulder.
“Mmh,” Cas hummed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. He wiped the remaining spurts of white stuck to his lashes off with the sheets. “I’m not sure. But, hey-” he smacked Dean lightly in the shoulder, “no more going M.I.A on me.”
“Yeah,” Dean murmured, pressing another kiss to Cas’ cheek. “No more of that.”