Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sam considers himself to be a reasonable guy. The world he inhabits might exist inside a vacuum of insanity, but he likes to believe he can maintain a level head, even when the shit really starts hitting the fan.

There are, of course, exceptions.

Losing Dean never fails to send Sam into a tailspin, no matter how prepared he thinks he is for that particular inevitability. He has unfortunately discovered that losing Jack or Cas triggers a similar reaction.

Point is, unless his world is crashing down around him, Sam can keep his shit together long enough to pinpoint a solution to whatever shenanigans should arise.

Dean and Cas don’t know it, but they’ve been grinding down the edge of that ability for the better part of a decade. Between the long, soulful eyefucking and what Sam alternately deems obliviousness and denial, his brother and their Angel have driven Sam right to the furthest stretches of his restraint, inching him ever closer to the moment he just says fuck it and gives them a solid shove simply to save himself the aggravation. If he has to watch the two of them wildly pendulate between sarcastic flirting and aggressive angsting in one another’s general direction even one. more. time. he’s gonna get whiplash.

How long is he supposed to sit back and watch those two morons orbit like a pair of satellites caught up in one another’s gravity, drawn together but unable to collide? He has tried to stay out of it. Despite how glaringly obvious it is that Dean and Cas are hopelessly tangled up in knots over each other, and how intensely happy Sam would be to see them finally drop the pretense and let themselves be happy, he's always understood the plethora of reasons why they might feel it necessary to keep things between them strictly platonic. He doesn't agree with them, but it isn't really his place to argue either. So, Sam just keeps his mouth shut and tries to remember that he loves them even if they're both stubborn idiots.

Problem is, it’s been ten goddamn years of this and, honestly, he doesn’t need Patience’s foresight to know that his breaking point is rapidly approaching the horizon.

***

The War Room is empty when Sam returns from his morning run, sweaty and panting as he descends the stairs into the bunker on aching legs. He can hear the muffled echoes of a conversation wafting through from the kitchen on the scent of coffee and bacon, and even though making out individual words is impossible, it’s easy enough to tell that Dean and Cas are at it again.

Rolling his eyes toward a sky he can’t see, Sam uses half of the towel draping his neck to sop up the sweat trickling from his hairline, and heads down the hallway to his bedroom. He’s on his way to the showers less than five minutes later, barely two steps outside his bedroom door when he hears Dean’s raised voice coming down the hall.

“You gotta face facts eventually, buddy,” Dean needles, barreling around the corner and almost directly into his brother. His expression registers surprise, but he recovers quickly and then raps his knuckles against Sam’s bare chest three times in quick succession. “Oh, hey, Sam! Listen, do me a favor, would you?” Sam’s mouth tugs down at the corners, but he lifts his eyebrows expectantly. Dean waves a hand, indicating the sleep-rumpled Angel scowling grumpily behind him, his too-big sweatshirt hanging crookedly from his shoulders, “Tell Cas that honey is bee puke.”

“It is not,” Cas grumbles, fisting his knuckles into tired eyes and sighing like he’s already made this point at least a dozen times. “Bees have a stomach designed specifically--”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean declares, oozing smugness while he beams at Cas -- the big, brilliant smile of an argument he thinks he’s won. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his plaid pajama bottoms, rocking obnoxiously on the balls of his feet. “They scarf it down, they barf it back up. That, my friend, makes it bee puke -- doesn’t matter which stomach it came from. Tell him, Sammy.”

“Dean.”

Cas sounds like he’s beyond exasperated, but Dean keeps grinning like a cheeseball and Cas’ eyes reluctantly soften, humor making them glitter. They might as well be alone in the universe for all the attention they pay to Sam standing beside them. The two of them just stare, letting the moment catch and ignite into something that both is and isn’t the argument it began as.

If these two could see themselves…

Sam clears his throat, making Dean jerk back to himself. “Did you guys actually need me, or…”

Color climbing into his cheeks, Dean rearranges his features, settling them into a mask of sarcasm Sam’s seen about a billion times. “No, why? Do you have opinions on bee barf, Sam?”

Sam doesn’t even bother with a witty retort.

***

Sometimes he can’t get away from it.

No matter how intense his desire to be as far as physically possible from Dean and Cas when they start in with the pining looks, it’s nothing compared to the desperation Sam experiences when the… tension starts. Unfortunately, there are occasions when he can feel the atmosphere change, but putting distance between himself and the eye of the storm is impossible, short of flinging himself out of the Impala at roughly 70 miles an hour.

Right now, for instance.

Dean and Cas have been bickering consistently since the three of them wrapped a case just south of the Kansas/Oklahoma border. That’s not to say they hadn’t bickered while on the case -- just that it increased exponentially as soon as they were in the car with the doors closed behind them. Sam had been in the passenger seat originally, but less than a mile inside the Kansas state line he made Dean pull over so he could swap with Cas. Now he sits wedged into the Impala’s backseat, long legs bent up with his feet on the leather just to find some relative comfort. It is infinitely better than riding shotgun though, the perpetual monkey-in-the-middle while Dean and Cas trade words over the back of the seat.

Some of it is innocuous. Cas gets under Dean’s skin by picking a fight over which Metallica songs deserve a slot in the top five of all-time greatests, and Dean returns the favor with a thinly veiled reference to the time he spent with Ketch in the AU.

Sam rolls his eyes but tolerates it.

The closer they get to home, however, the worse it gets. They’ve stopped bickering almost entirely, but now it’s morphed into something that feels way too close to foreplay for Sam’s liking. Especially when he knows this is an endless cycle, one with no obvious conclusion -- or, one obvious conclusion, but only if you're literally anybody other than Dean and Cas.

Because unless one of them miraculously grows a pair in the next hundred or so miles, this ride is going to end the same way as every one of its predecessors: Dean stomping off in a huff that has nothing to do with rage, Cas wandering the halls of the bunker like a lost soul searching for a host, and Sam in desperate need of a radiation shower and approximately one and a half gallons of brain bleach.

By the time Dean navigates the Impala down the road to the bunker, running his mouth at Cas all the while, Sam is ready to shove Ruby’s knife through his eardrums just so he doesn’t have to hear it anymore.

“I can’t believe you’ve never been on a horse,” Dean says, like the mere idea is an affront to his not-at-all-obvious, obvious-from-space cowboy kink. “I mean, I can, because you’re you, but that is just... an absolute tragedy, Cas.”

“And why is that?” Cas asks, turning so that Sam is looking at the side of his face where the road had been a second before.

Dean smirks, the sharp, predatory grin he gets when he’s hunting. “Everybody should ride at least once.”

“Jesus.” Sam sinks down so far he’s sure Dean can’t even see him in the rearview anymore.

It's likely for the best, because Sam’s also sure he looks a little green around the gills right now and the last thing he needs is Dean barking about him tossing his cookies in the car. It would one hundred percent be Dean's own fault for subjecting Sam to this blatantly obvious game of innuendo in the first place. He didn't need the words on top of the heinous mental images already wedged so firmly into his psyche they’ll probably never come out, but that's where he's at regardless.

“Oh,” Cas hums, squinting as he considers. “Does a mechanical steer count?”

“Mechanical bull, Cas. It’s a mechanical b--” Dean straightens all at once, glancing sideways at Cas like he’s never seen him before. “Wait, I’m sorry, when did you ride a mechanical bull?”

Sam doesn’t care, so he tunes out. He doesn’t want to hear any more of this than he absolutely has to. Honestly, he’s probably accumulated enough trauma to require therapy already. Unfortunately, when they reach the garage door, Sam discovers his own truly horrific timing via the snippet of conversation he catches when he tunes back in.

“I know a guy, I’ll set it up. I could even help you out, if you want -- give you some pointers before you attempt the real thing. It’s a whole different ball game when the thing you’re riding has a pulse,” Dean is saying, that stupid smirk back on his face. He keeps cutting his eyes sideways, like he can’t bear to tear them away from the Angel while he tells him, in excruciating detail, exactly how he feels about riding. “They say it’s all in the hips and core or whatever, but my thighs hurt so bad my first time. When that bronco bucks, you just gotta tighten up and hang on.”

“I understand,” Cas nods sagely, like he’s carefully digesting every word and committing it to memory. “Perhaps it would be beneficial to hear what you’ve learned. Do you have any suggestions as to how I might avoid the… discomfort one experiences the first time?”

Dean chuckles, low and throaty, and Sam kind of hates him. “Don’t worry, Cas, I’ve got a trick or two up my sleeve. I get my hands on you, you’ll be riding like a pro in no time.”

Screw kind of; Sam definitely hates him.

***

They don’t let up.

A week goes by and Sam is crawling out of his skin trying to maintain no less than a fifty-foot radius from Dean and Cas and their… whatever the hell it is they’ve got going on right now. Sometimes it’s difficult to determine whether they’re flirting or fighting, but if Sam walks in on one more charged conversation in a room that reeks of sexual tension, he’s gonna feed himself to the nearest werewolf.

Maybe Garth’s daughter is teething.

It’s gotten so bad that even Jack has noticed.

If he picked up on any vibes from Dean and Cas before now, he’s never said as much. In fact, Sam has no idea what the kid makes of the relationship between two of his three fathers, but Jack’s never mentioned it one way or the other.

For the past few days though, ever since the night Sam, Dean, and Cas returned from Oklahoma, Jack’s been watching. Sam can practically feel the gears turning in his brain from across the room when Dean and Cas start building momentum. Jack’s brow furrows while he observes them, puzzling out whatever data he gathers and trying to make sense of it through the lense of his own limited experience. When he fails to make heads nor tails of any of it, Jack will turn to Sam with confusion splashed across his features and a plethora of questions in his eyes.

Sam never knows what to tell him. How does he begin to explain the complicated tangle of repressed emotions and personal baggage keeping Dean and Cas from going supernova? Even if he could somehow make it all make sense, where does he start trying to explain it to Jack so that he can understand?

The shooting range seems like a weird place for things to reach a brand new critical mass, but if Sam is being honest, it could have just as easily been any other location in both the known and unknown universe. To be fair, he knows all about Dean’s appreciation for guns -- weapons in general -- and everyone with eyes can see his appreciation for Cas; combining the two was bound to create some sparks.

The day began like any other domestic Sunday in the bunker. Dean commandeered the kitchen long enough to produce a spread too big for an army, while Sam read the local paper and Jack taught Cas how to use the fancy gaming console they’d gotten him for Christmas. They spent the morning taking care of whatever housework had piled up while they were hunting, and by lunchtime, Dean was back in the kitchen.

It was, rather predictably, Dean who, after lunch, suggested they sneak in some target practice while the war-front remained relatively quiet.

Sam should have known better.

That point is really hammered home once they’re actually in the shooting range. Dean is finished setting Jack up in the first stall with a piece and some noise-canceling headphones, and immediately ends up sharing the center stall with Cas. He crowds in closer than necessary and has his hands everywhere he can reasonably get away with, but Cas doesn’t object. If the flush of color and sparkling eyes are anything to go by, a complaint of any kind is probably unlikely. Sam does his best to block them out and focus on the details of his technique as he empties a clip into the target and the concrete wall behind it.

“Headshot!” Dean shouts approvingly, dipping his head in encouragement. “Nice job, Sammy. Cas, buddy, you’re up. Teach my kid brother a thing or two, would you?” Sam removes his headphones and sets the gun down, then crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the partition with a bored stare. Dean waggles his eyebrows suggestively over a shit-eating grin, aiming a wink Cas’ way for maximum effect. “C’mon,” he cajoles, “I taught both of you, right? Call it professional curiosity.”

Sam scoffs. “So what, we all taught Jack and he’s better than any of us.”

“That’s true,” Jack calls from his own stall, beaming widely when the three men look his way, earning proud smiles in return.

When they turn back, Sam adds, “And, for the record, there isn’t anything professional about any of your curiosities, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes flash with amusement. He cocks one brow up, mouth tilting in a crooked grin. “I’m a man of diverse tastes, Samuel. Cas, what do you say -- wanna show Sammy here how it’s done?”

“I hardly think a contest--” Cas starts to protest, only to have Dean cut him off by grabbing his hand to physically curl the Angel’s fingers around the ivory grips of his own pistol. Cas lifts wide eyes to Dean’s face, head tilting just so, and licks his lips like he can taste the tension that just sparked back to life.

Dean makes a sound like he’s clearing his throat, eyes fixed hard on where his fingertips linger over Cas’ knuckles. “It's not a contest. Never has been, never will be -- you hear me?”

Dean must look up, because Cas suddenly looks like he’s drowning. He studies Dean’s face for a long moment, his own gaze skipping down to Dean’s mouth until he seems to remember himself and flicks it back to where it started. “Um… Yes.”

“You better,” Dean says, too softly to have been meant for anyone but Cas. “Now, c'mon, don't you wanna see what kinda difference all that practice makes?”

Cas gives in with a sigh, though the pleased curl of his mouth never straightens out. He proceeds to empty his clip without a single blink, and Sam has to admit he's impressed with the marked improvement in Cas’ skill. The Angel is a soldier somewhere deep in his makeup, but he’s always exhibited more talent with a blade than a gun of any kind. And while Sam nailed his groupings, Cas’ shots pass through his own paper target in a pair of almost perfect circles, one dead center in the outline of the head, the other where a heart would be if the target were human.

Dean immediately erupts in celebratory jeers, shooting taunting finger-guns at Sam from his and Cas’ stall. “Boom! That’s how we do!”

Cas smiles indulgently but gives Sam an apologetic shrug, like he can’t fathom trying to put a lid on Dean’s enthusiasm even though he knows it’s obnoxious. Worst part is, Sam can’t really blame the guy. That look of joy on Dean’s face is a rare sight, and Sam would have to be a monster to begrudge his brother such a small victory, even at his own expense.

Shaking his head fondly, Sam picks up his gun and waves Jack over, intent on getting in some quality lesson time while Dean and Cas are absorbed in one another. Jack deconstructs his pistol and then reassembles it while Sam watches, giving praise at every available opportunity. They move on to weapon selection, and it’s when Sam is in the middle of explaining which weapon is the best choice for short range defense that the door slams behind him, making both him and Jack jump.

Sam turns to look and finds Dean alone, knuckles of his closed fists propped on the counter while he glares angrily down at it. His lips are moving but Sam can’t hear with the cans mostly covering his ears, so he tugs them off.

“What? Where’d Cas go?”

Dean shakes his head and straightens, scooping up both his gun and the one Cas abandoned. “I’m an idiot, don’t worry about it.”

He leaves, door slamming again behind him. Sam tries to smile reassuringly at Jack, but it falls flat.

“Gabriel said that Dean and Castiel fight all the time because they need to get their heads out of their asses,” Jack says seriously, that confused furrow back in his brow when Sam snorts out a muted laugh. “I don’t really understand what he meant, because that doesn’t seem like an anatomical possibility, but maybe we can help. Do you think they need our help, Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, giving Jack’s shoulder an affectionate thump, “Yeah, I think they might.”

***

Sunday evenings are reserved for movie night. When there’s no case on deck and everybody is in the bunker, the four of them pile into one of their bedrooms -- usually Dean’s, because he’s a control freak -- and spend half an hour arguing over what to watch. Eventually they’ll settle on a selection and proceed to waste the rest of the night stuffing their faces with snacks and heckling whatever ends up on the screen.

Sam has been carting munchies from the kitchen to Dean’s room in anticipation of their weekly ritual, shuffling back and forth, arms laden down with drinks and snacks and extra blankets with each trip. He hadn’t run into anyone while setting up and is therefore surprised on his final lap when he nears Dean’s open door and hears elevated voices coming from inside.

“Can we not do this right now?” Dean loudly groans, making Sam stutter to a stop right outside the doorway.

He quietly adjusts his cargo (nougat bars for Jack and a giant bowl of popcorn for Cas) and leans closer, trying to peer inside without giving himself away. Cas is seated on the edge of Dean’s bed, facing the wall with his elbows braced on his knees, head down, eyes on the floor.

Sam can’t see Dean -- he must be pacing in front of the dresser -- but he can hear his brother clear as day. “I said I was sorry, okay? What more do you want from me here?”

Cas doesn’t raise his head. “I honestly don’t know anymore, Dean,” he says softly, exhaustion lacing every word. “I used to think…”

Sam pulls back, intending to give his brother and their Angel some privacy to work out whatever disagreement they’re currently embroiled in, but the edge in Dean’s response makes him hesitate.

“Used to think what?” It’s quiet -- fearful in a way Sam recognizes. Like Dean is afraid of the answer, afraid that it’ll be yet another rejection while simultaneously terrified that it won’t. “What did you think, Cas?”

A rough sigh reaches Sam’s ears, and Cas says, “There was a time when I believed you would outgrow the aversion you have to accepting happiness. That you would learn to allow yourself that small comfort, to stop running from this simply because you don’t understand it.”

“I ain’t running from shit. And seriously - this?” Dean overanunciates, like he’s offended. “Ten goddamn years, and all you’ve got is this? What happened to the Profound Bond?”

“You dislike that terminology!” Cas says sharply. His voice sounds much closer than it was a second before. “Is a broad term not more palatable?”

“No!”

It comes out frustrated and angry and wrapped in hurt, and Sam knows Dean is reaching max capacity. He can only confront so much baggage head-on before he bolts, which is exactly the outcome that needs to be avoided. Sam has had enough of this fucked up merry-go-round and he wants off. That isn’t going to happen if Dean makes his umpteenth run for the hills, abandoning Cas on the edge of yet another precipice.

“Look, Cas, I can’t--”

Sam decides to step in before things reach the point of no return. When he actually enters the bedroom, Dean and Cas are facing each other from opposite sides, cheeks flushed, eyes mutinous.

Showing his palms as much as he’s able with an armful of junk food, Sam says, “Uh, hey, sorry to interrupt… whatever is going on here,” he deposits his loot on Dean’s desk and then backs up, looking between them, “Jack will be in any second. You guys know how much he hates the fighting.”

Both men’s expressions lose some of the heat in them, but neither looks particularly happy about it.

Dean speaks first, jabbing an accusatory finger in Cas’ direction, “I’m cool, talk to him.”

Cas’ glare intensifies. “Dean. Sam is right, we--”

“Don’t ‘Dean’ me,” Dean snaps, doing his best to mockingly approximate the rough baritone of Cas’ voice while he crosses his arms defensively over his chest and storm clouds roll through his eyes. “Stop acting like a jackass and we’ll be fine when the kid gets here.”

“I’m the one behaving like a jackass?” Cas takes a step toward Dean, and Sam isn’t having it.

He throws his arms out to either side, a sea wall caught between the tailwinds of a hurricane and the front lines of a tsunami. “Knock it off!”

“Sam?” Jack chooses that moment to round the corner, one of the heavy wooden chairs from the library held out in front of him like a prize. He brandishes it proudly, like Sam somehow didn’t notice, and announces, “I brought the extra chair.”

The thing with golden opportunities is that they tend to present themselves when you're not actively looking for them. Jack’s arrival isn't just fortuitous, it gives Sam an idea. Eyes darting around Dean's desk, he finds a thick red marker and scoops it up.

“Thanks, Jack.” Sam reaches back to accept the chair with an air of nonchalance, then snags Jack by the elbow when he goes to sit down, stealthily steering them both backwards toward the hall. He sends a furtive glance between Dean and Cas. “You two have been asking for this since the day you met.”

“I don't remember asking for anything,” Cas says, mostly to himself, at the same moment Dean’s eyes light with understanding.

He starts forward. “Sam, don’t you dare.”

His brother’s panic-stricken face is the last thing Sam sees before he slams the bedroom door shut and wedges the chair beneath the knob to ensure it stays that way. Over the flurry of fists raining down from inside, Sam shouts, “Work your shit out, Dean. This door doesn’t open ‘til you do.”

Jack hovers beside him, his face a mask of anxious confusion. “Sam? What’s happening?”

“It’s okay, Jack. I’ll explain everything in a minute.”

Before Dean can go full Wreck-It Ralph, Sam uses his commandeered marker to draw an Enochian binding sigil on the chair’s seat, adding matching runes for strength and immobility on the door and the surrounding frame. Now, even if Dean tries to shoot the knob off, the door isn't budging.

“I swear to god, Sam, I will murder you myself,” Dean snarls. The solid slab of wood shudders from the impact of what sounds like his boot, but it holds. “Open the fucking door!”

“Sorry, Dean, no can do,” Sam calls back, already ushering Jack away. “Jack and I are gonna go see a movie, maybe grab some dinner, and you and Cas are going to fix it. Brawl it out, bang it out -- I don’t care. Just do it.”

***

“Sam? Sam!”

“I believe your brother made his terms very clear,” Cas intones in a bored tone from his place at the foot of the bed. He tugs up the sleeves of his maroon henley until they sit just below his elbows, appearing completely at ease with their current situation.

Dean can barely see him out of the corner of his eye, but it’s enough to know that Cas wears his clothes like a walking advertisement for all things carnal. Sleeves up, sleeves down -- none of the details matter. Cas looked damn good covered in scruff and grime in Purgatory, so Dean is pretty sure there’s no look the Angel can’t rock. Normally he’d appreciate that, even if just in an abstract, “back of the mind” kind of way. Right now, the thought only serves to irritate him.

“Eat me, Cas.”

“Is that what you want?”

Dean thumps his forehead uselessly against the door, eyes screwed shut and a grimace twisting his mouth. “That stint as a demon really fucked up my karma.”

Cas hums. Dean isn’t sure if it’s in agreement or simple acknowledgment, but that doesn’t really matter either.

“Can you mojo this door open?”

“Unfortunately, no. My Grace hasn’t fully regenerated from that run in--”

“With the Raijū, yeah, yeah, I remember.” Dean yanks on the knob in another futile attempt at a jailbreak, but the door stands resolute. “Shit. How are we supposed to get out of here?”

Appearing directly at Dean’s side, Cas rests one shoulder against the door in a casual lean, sapphire eyes still burning despite the calmness of his tone, “Not getting out was likely Sam’s point.”

“Fucking Sam.” Dean kicks the door one last time and then shoves away from it, tunneling his fingers through his hair in annoyance while he stews with impotent rage.

How long has Sam been planning this? Why has Sam been planning this? Dean suffers no delusions about the state of his… Thing with Cas. He may play up the whole oblivious naivety schtick whenever the topic is brought up, but he isn’t stupid. Besides, it doesn’t take a Kevin- or Charlie-level IQ to see that Angel plus Hunter equals unresolved sexual tension aplenty around these parts. A blind man on Pluto can probably see the way Dean and Cas rile each other up. Despite all of that though, Sam going full lockdown on them seems like a bit of an overreaction.

Scanning the room for an outlet for his frustration, Dean notices the green Coleman sitting on the floor up by his nightstand. To say he dives for it would be exaggerating, but only just. Inside is a six pack snuggled in a bed of fresh ice, as well as a couple of those ridiculously tiny cans of Coke.

Well, if they're going to be trapped in here for the foreseeable future, at least they won't die of dehydration.

Dean pulls out a beer and offers it back without looking, reaching into the cooler for his own when Cas accepts. The fight has already begun ebbing out of him, but Dean finds that alcohol helps with most things, so slugging it back can’t hurt. He drains the bottle and bends to retrieve another one, then crosses the room to deposit his empty in the sink.

Cas tracks his every move, a weighted stare on Dean’s skin while he opens his next beer and takes a deep pull. “You don’t want to talk about this. I understand, Dean, I do… But we appear to be out of alternatives.”

Dean hates that Cas can’t give it a name anymore. He used to be so sure of what they were and where they stood, and now he won't even attempt to find a label that fits. Dean knows he's likely at least partially to blame for that, and he'd be lying if he said the realization doesn't sting.

The thing that exists between them -- too intense to be platonic, too risky to be anything else -- is huge. It’s massive, the kind of thing that transcends realms and realities, life and death, and if Dean thinks about it too long it gives him a headache because, try as he might, he just can't process the enormity of it all.

Something like that, something with its own identity, an almost living, breathing thing… A Thing like that deserves a name. Dean’s no better than Cas at calling this what it is, but admitting that right now feels tantamount to failure and, that, Dean can’t stomach.

“Us,” he says, shocked that he manages it without choking.

Cas’ frame goes rigid, from the wild tangle of his dark hair to the bottom of his slippered feet. His eyes widen, fear and hope warring in their oceanic depths. “I’m sorry?”

Setting his beer down on the desk, Dean gathers the stones to meet Cas’ gaze head on. “Us,” he repeats, voice gruff but mostly steady, “I don’t wanna talk about us.”

Cas studies him carefully, eyes shifting like they’re drinking in every minute detail. “Us then. Unless… Do you want to talk about us?”

Swallowing is impossible with a bowling ball of emotions lodged in his throat, but Dean tries. Does he actually want to talk about what lives just there, in the perpetual distance between him and Cas? Fuck no. Will he do it if it means not only getting out of this room when Sam comes home, but finally finding a way to stop carting his feelings around like an albatross hanging from his neck?

…

Maybe.

Cas’ shoulders slump, defeated. “I suppose we could just tell your brother we’ve worked things out. Sam is very astute, but perhaps -- if we are uncharacteristically lucky -- he’ll accept that as resolution enough.”

It hits Dean suddenly then, how tired Cas looks. Not the kind of tired that a nap and a cup of coffee can fix, but the sort of soul tired no amount of sleep or caffeine can touch. Cas sleeping at all is, in and of itself, a relatively recent development. Dean is unable to pinpoint exactly when it started, but he’s seen the Angel wearing sleep clothes often enough to know that it’s become an at least semi-regular occurrence over the last couple of months. He’d chalked it up to Cas embracing the simple pleasure of going unconscious for a few hours every now and again, but maybe there’s more to it than that. When added up with the happy crinkles at the corners of Cas’ eyes that have carved themselves into sad little trenches and the bone-weary way his shoulders slump when he thinks no one is looking, maybe -- just maybe -- it all means more than Dean realized.

“Cas…”

He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. It’s impossible to take how he feels and form it into any kind of coherent thought, nevermind trying to say it aloud. How is he supposed to explain the way he wants Cas, all the ways he needs him, and then look him in the eye and say none of it matters?

When they met, Dean won’t deny he felt something. For the first part of their alliance, he convinced himself he was attracted to the power, the grace Cas exudes by simply existing. Sure, Jimmy was attractive enough, but what called to Dean was something innately Castiel, all pulsating technicolor and stardust, shining brighter than anything Dean had ever seen. It was easier to believe his own lies, to accept Cas’ presence as an ally, a brother-in-arms, instead of looking too closely at why exactly Cas’ proximity made Dean feel like his skin was too tight for his bones.

By the time they rode Dick Roman into Purgatory, Dean was already lost -- Eyeball-deep in feelings he didn’t want for a being he couldn’t even think of having. The attraction to Cas wasn’t new, but being attracted to his body came upon Dean like a revelation, and the first stirrings of something bigger than a passing infatuation sent him into an all-out tailspin. When he looked at it, at the grand total of ways in which he wanted the Angel, it terrified him into silence.

Over the years, it’s gotten more and more difficult to think of Cas without remembering that conversation with Sam way back when. Something more. Someone who understands the life. Dean didn’t want it back then. He’s not entirely sure he wants it now, but something inside him screams that he needs it more now than he ever has, and every second they’re locked in this room together the screams get more and more difficult to ignore.

Guys like Dean, they aren’t meant to lay hands on a thing like Cas. He’s goodness and light in a way that Dean could never hope to be. There is a lot of blood on Cas’ hands, some of it spilled from Dean’s own veins, and he’s made a laundry list of mistakes in his millenia, but that doesn’t change the facts. Cas wants nothing more than to live his life, helping people when he can and only slaying dragons when he has to. His intent is pure even if, occasionally, his methods are not; Dean is something else altogether and he knows it. To risk getting too close to Cas is to risk dragging him down into the deepest pits of Hell itself, something Dean will do without ever even trying. It’s what he does, what he’s always done.

His touch corrupts.

He never wants to corrupt Cas -- not like that. He’d love to wreck the Angel in a multitude of other creative ways, but him and Cas will never be a one-off kind of thing. They can’t fuck without falling into one another in some irrevocable way, becoming so entangled an atomic bomb couldn’t pry them apart. Falling like that will inevitably lead to complete and utter mutual ruination, presumably at Dean’s own hand, and the stakes have always been far too high to gamble on.

Given the choice between loving Cas up close and losing him from a distance, Dean’s always chosen distance. Even if keeping Cas at arm’s length is the more painful of his options, it’s by far the safest. They can’t screw everything up if they never give themselves the chance. Dean never runs the risk of losing the best thing to happen to him since becoming a big brother if he refuses to let Cas all the way in. So, instead of giving in, they continue to dance around each other like flames licking at the surface of a frozen lake -- hungry to ignite but powerless to catch.

None of that is easy to articulate, especially for a guy whose sole means of verbally communicating his love for his little brother is affectionately calling him a bitch.

Dean is fucking scared to death that this won’t end the way Sam was probably hoping when he locked them in.

“Cas, man, you gotta tell me what to do here,” he tries, laughing breathlessly halfway through. “Where’s that infinite celestial wisdom when I need it? And if you hit me with that ‘the truth will set you free’ bullshit, I swear to god...”

If that’s sympathy in Cas’ eyes, Dean refuses to acknowledge it. “You’re carrying an unnecessary burden, Dean.”

Throwing his hands up in frustration, Dean stalks away, falling into an anxious loop from the door to his nightstand and back. “You don’t understand, Cas.”

“So help me understand.”

The plea in Cas’ words is apparent. It triggers a physical ache in the depths of Dean’s ribcage, a steady throb of hollowness that echoes like a chasm.

“And then what?” He doesn’t mean to yell, but his words reverberate back at him from the concrete walls anyway. Dean huffs out a sarcastic sound, but gentles his tone as much as he’s able with his heart pounding in his head like a jackhammer. “Look, we got a good thing going here. I got you, you got me, and we've both got Sam and Jack, you know?” Cas nods, so Dean plows ahead, “Right. So, we’ve got all of us, and this bunker and the hunting, and all of it is good. But, outside of that, there’s me and you. And that’s good too, don’t get me wrong, but it’s… delicate.”

Cas’ eyebrows wing up toward the limp curl hanging over his forehead. “Delicate?”

He knows he’s blushing, but Dean can’t stop the color from rising any more than he could stop that Hellhound from dragging his ass to the pit. “You know what I mean -- it only works because we toe the line. One step too far in either direction and this whole house of cards comes tumbling down around us. You willing to risk all this for anything less than a sure thing?”

“Dean.” Cas crosses the room, closing the distance between them without so much as a moment’s hesitation. He stops about a foot away, close enough to touch but still outside Dean's reach. He dips his head to catch Dean's averted gaze. “In my time here on Earth, I've had the unfortunate privilege of learning harsh truths with a great degree of repetition. There are some things, though, that I have known since I was still nothing more than a flicker of celestial intent. It seems impossible for me to say that you, Dean Winchester, are something I have always known belonged to me, but it feels true.”

Dean can't breathe. There is a fully grown pachyderm snoozing on his lungs and he can't fucking breathe, but Cas isn't even done yet.

“I risked the wrath of Heaven itself for you, Dean. I fought my way in and out of the pit, betrayed my siblings, my father, and waged war by your side, and yet, somehow, after all that has transpired between us, you still doubt that I would deem you a worthy gamble?”

The words sink in Dean's stomach like a boulder even as a warm sensation envelopes him, glowing soft and soothing in the space behind his heart. He grits his teeth against the impulse to throw himself bodily into Cas’ arms.

“That ain't playing fair, Cas.”

“Fair?” A dark glint of something sharp reflects back at Dean from Cas’ eyes. He takes another step forward and Dean feels goosebumps race up the line of his spine. “By fair, do you mean your behavior in the firing range?”

Ah fuck, he forgot about that. “Okay, that was an accident.”

If Cas is buying any of this, his expression missed the memo. “So, you accidentally moaned in my ear while under the pretense of instructing my posture?”

“I like guns!”

It's weak as far as excuses go, but it's close enough to the truth that Dean doesn't feel like a total douche. He couldn’t help it, okay? Cas and guns is a lethal combination, in more ways than one.

“You're the one who ran away, remember?” Dean points out. And maybe it's petulant, but he's grasping at the rapidly unraveling tendrils of his self-control and he can't think of another way to douse the inferno raging beneath his skin.

“Oh, I remember very clearly,” Cas murmurs, voice pitched low and smokey. His hands curl into fists at his side like he’s struggling to keep them to himself. “But there is no retreat now, is there?”

“Cas.”

The waver in his own name must chase a chill through him, because Cas shivers. He never releases Dean's gaze, holds it with a steady calm that Dean wishes he could draw from. “Tell me what it is that you are really afraid of, Dean. Is it that you fear your brother’s judgement? Or perhaps the judgement of our fathers?”

“God, no, Cas, that ain't it.” Dean’s taken aback that Cas’ mind would immediately jump to that conclusion, even though he knows it’s actually a pretty reasonable assumption. “Sam obviously knows I’m into dudes - it’s never changed anything for him. I give all of zero fucks what Chuck thinks, and my dad… My dad’s been gone a long time. Even if he wasn’t, as far as I know, he never cared one way or the other who I got off with, long as I did my job. Matching junk is the least of my concerns, and if anybody else has a problem with that, they can tell me all about it while I buff the floor with their face.”

“Fair enough.” The soft rumble of Cas’ chuckle makes Dean’s eyelids linger shut for a breath too long when he blinks. “But there is something -- there has to be. You would not have spent all this time running if there weren’t.”

Cas is picking the lock on Pandora’s Box and, lord help him, Dean is about to blow the whole locking mechanism right off. He forces out a calming breath, dropping his gaze to the second button of Cas’ collar so he doesn’t have to maintain eye contact while he struggles to power through the wall of his anxiety. “Alright, look, we’re only going to talk about this once, capiche?”

Cas nods seriously. “Yes, I capiche.”

Dean fidgets, tongue sweeping out to pull his bottom lip between his teeth. Fear prickles along his skin like static, making his hands shake. He shoves them into his hip pockets before Cas notices, eyes restlessly drawn back to the Angel’s’ face. “Okay. Okay.... Uh, so, obviously I’m into your whole… thing.” Cas hefts a brow. “Shut up,” Dean mutters, cheeks heating until he has to look away again. “Point is, wanting you… that’s one thing. But if we reach for this, it’s a bell we can’t unring. We go all in, that’s it - we’re in it. And when I fuck it up -- because we both know I will -- you’re gonna leave. I barely survived losing you the last time, Cas. I can’t risk it again.”

“Dean--”

“I can’t,” Dean repeats emphatically, moisture pricking along his lashes, lungs burning with ragged breaths while memories pour through him. He can still taste burnt ozone, still see wings scorched in the sand, and it hurts just as much now as it did back then. “I won’t do it, you understand me?”

“Dean, listen to me--”

Dean shakes his head, lips trembling. “You can’t ask me to give up what we’ve got for something that will probably kill us both, for something I don't even deserve in the first--”

Cas’ lips are bruising when they collide with Dean’s. His kiss is all hot impatience and quiet desperation, muffling the rest of Dean’s protests between them. Dean goes stockstill for the time it takes Cas to erase the remaining distance, fitting their bodies together like the ocean kissing the shore, and then he’s diving headfirst into it, using Cas’ hips to try and pull him impossibly closer. Cas’ hands frame Dean’s face, palms lovingly cupping his jaw an intoxicating contrast to the way he attacks his mouth, sucking at the chewed-tender swell of Dean’s bottom lip just to sink his teeth into it a second later and then lave away the sting with his tongue.

The groan that rumbles in Dean’s throat sounds like it traveled up from the soles of his feet, pulling every ounce of suppressed desire along in its wake. Letting Cas in when his tongue teases at the seam of Dean’s lips is as easy as breathing despite the tornado siren wailing in his head, warning him that this way lies danger. Cas tastes like hops and devotion, and all the reasons why spiralling into him is a bad idea fall away. Dean is left to helplessly chase Cas’ tongue around his mouth, digging his fingertips into the firm planes of Cas’ hips, scalding up the slope of his ribcage to leave crescent moon imprints in the thin skin behind his ears.

Dean goes easily when Cas urges him blindly backward, grunting as the backs of his thighs connect hard with the smooth wooden edge of the desk, making the whole thing shake. His forgotten beer tips over and rolls away, lazily spilling its contents over the side of the desk in a sudsy waterfall that pools on the concrete floor. The lamp sitting vigil on one corner falls too, light bulb exploding on impact. The snacks Sam brought go flying, but neither of them spare a second thought to the chaos without, trading it willingly for the chaos within.

Stretching out on the desk, Dean pulls Cas over him and fuses their mouths back together. The entire Milky Way Galaxy lights up in his body when Cas grinds down into the bulge between his denim-wrapped thighs, hiking one of Dean’s knees up under his arm so he can get as close as possible.

Dean tears his mouth from Cas’ assault, biting out a curse and arching into the feeling of a stubbled jaw and silken lips scorching a damp line down the column of his throat. He's panting when he says, “Fuck, Cas, this is a terrible idea.”

It’s probably token protest at this point, completely contradicted by the way Dean rolls his pelvis forward searchingly and twists his fingers in the strands of Cas’ hair, anchoring the Angel to his skin.

Cas stops worrying at Dean’s neck long enough to murmur, “That may be so, but you are the very best of all my terrible ideas,” against his skin.

Dean manages to suppress a whimper, but it’s a near thing. And then Cas is diverting his attention to the hint of clavicle exposed by the way Dean’s t-shirt is twisted around his torso, nibbling along the curve of bone while his fingers dip beneath cotton to tease at skin. Dean can't stop the sounds tripping from his lips. Cas sucks a bruise beside the hollow of Dean’s throat, letting out a pleased rumble when he surveys his handiwork.

A shudder wracks Dean’s body, nerves itching, alight with possibility. He’s dizzy with want, drunk on the feeling of yes, more, please buzzing under his skin like a whole hive of bees. Whatever fantasies he’s managed to concoct over the years, no matter how vivid, pale in comparison to the real deal. Cas is lightning caught in a gossamer web. He’s power in its purest form, contained by fragility only because he allows it. Dean’s imagination is good, but even he couldn’t have predicted how it would feel to finally let Cas get this kind of close - to finally let himself allow it.

Cas shifts above him, inching back so he can redirect his worship from Dean’s collarbone to his chest, rucking up his t-shirt to get his mouth on skin. Dean sucks a hissing breath between his teeth when Cas nips sharply at one puffy nipple, the hot slide of his mouth swooping in to chase away the sting. It’s exquisite torture and Cas is a master of the art, dragging moans from Dean’s throat that would embarrass him if he were of the mind to care.

He already feels like he’s soaring through the stratosphere, but then Cas’ lips rasp feather-light at the slight protrusion of his pelvic bone and Dean’s hurtling through space on the tail of a comet. His spine pulls into a perfect bow, tilting his pelvis down, and Cas takes that as an invitation to lavish Dean’s hips and belly with reverent focus while Dean just tries to hold on for dear life.

Cas dares to venture lower, the very tip of his nose brushing teasingly at the line of Dean’s erection through thread-bare denim. When Dean doesn’t voice an objection to his exploration, Cas sets his sights on Dean’s belt. He yanks and the leather slides free of the loops with a thwack, jerking Dean’s hips up from the desk. The belt ends up on the floor and Cas drops to his knees to join it, working the front of Dean’s jeans open along the way. He doesn’t bother pulling them or Dean’s boxer briefs down to his ankles, just bunches the fabric beneath the globes of his ass and leaves it there while he leans in to bury his face where Dean’s cock swells in a nest of sandy curls.

He’s a quivering mess by the time Cas takes him in his mouth. The Angel doesn’t ease into it, just swallows Dean’s cock down like he’s been doing it all along, bubbling over with confidence and enthusiasm, and Dean has to anchor himself to the desk just to keep from melting off it. Of course Cas gives the kind of head that makes Dean feel like his soul is being sucked out by the root.

Resisting the urge to thrust up into the velvet heat of Cas’ mouth is like resisting a sip of water after living several lifetimes in a drought. Dean has never had that kind of self-control, not when it comes to the things that light him up from the inside, and the fact that Cas is touching his dick at all is evidence enough of that fact. When Dean tries to fuck up between Cas’ lips, though, the Angel immediately puts a stop to it by pinning his hips down.

“Cas, c’mo--”

Cas does something with his teeth that has Dean’s eyes rolling back, any further complaints dying in his throat. Pleasure courses through him and he cries out, overwhelmed. When he looks down at what Cas is doing, Dean is struck by the image he presents. His thumb is pressing to the corner of Cas’ mouth before he’s thought about it, feeling the way the Angel’s lips stretch around him, the way Cas’ cheeks hollow and his jaw works. Dean is mesmerized, caught up in the shockwaves of sensation ricocheting through him and the way Cas blinks up from his lap with wet, hungry eyes. Every roll of his tongue over Dean’s sensitive tip sends a cascade of molten heat through Dean’s core. Each flutter of his throat when Dean nudges into its clutching warmth makes his eyes roll back and his breath catch. Dean always knew Cas’ mouth held tantalizing secrets, but even he didn’t expect the raw talent the Angel has for cocksucking.

Far too soon, Dean can feel his impending release in the tightening of his sac, rushing up to thrum urgently beneath his skin. He opens his mouth to warn Cas, only to have the single syllable turn into a mangled exhalation of protest when Cas pulls off his cock with an obscene slurp.

“You stopped,” Dean says dumbly, chest heaving out one labored breath after another. “Why are you stopping?”

Back on his feet between Dean’s partially-restrained thighs, Cas swipes his knuckles across spit-slick lips and prowls closer, curving his body over Dean's supine form so he can lean in and whisper, “Trust me,” low and dirty in his ear.

It shouldn't sound like absolute filth but it does -- full of sinful promise despite the purity of the sentiment.

They work together to rid Dean of the rest of his clothes and, once he's sufficiently naked, Cas grabs Dean around the thighs and jerks, dragging him to the very edge of the desk.

“Hold on,” he orders, soft but assertive, and then, before Dean can comply, lifts him up to wrap Dean’s legs around his waist.

Scrambling to cling to Cas’ shoulders, Dean’s head swims. He pinches the back of Cas’ neck in reprimand when the Angel chuffs out a laugh at his expense, but Cas just settles Dean more securely against his torso and carries him toward the bed. Dean is a big guy - manhandling him ain't exactly easy, but Cas accomplishes it with hardly any effort at all. He moves with graceful confidence, like he’s weighed down by nothing more than the clothes on his body even though he’s carrying a grownass man, and that’s...

It's hot as fuck, is what it is.

They stop beside the bed and Cas tosses Dean onto the mattress without warning, sending him into a rather undignified sprawl of limbs. Pushing up on his elbows, Dean glares. “Do I look like Raggedy Ann to you?”

That mischievous little smile could topple empires, Dean’s sure of it. “Maybe,” Cas replies, reaching for the hem of his shirt, “Though I would have to see you in the striped stockings to be truly certain.”

Dean has blushed more in the past half an hour than probably ever in the entirety of his life. And while turning scarlet is likely a dead giveaway that he’s more down with that idea than he’d ever let on to aloud, he can’t control the rush of heat.

The glint in Cas’ eyes turns predatory. Naked from the low-slung waist of his jeans up, Cas stalks along the length of Dean’s body until they’re face to face. He hovers above him, a teasing grin on his plush lips. “Your complexion betrays you, Dean.”

“Shoulda figured you’d be a talker.”

Cas tuts but the sound is immediately swallowed down when Dean surges up to reclaim his mouth, sinking his hands back into Cas’ hair and angling his head just the way he wants it, kissing him like he’s trying to inhale him. Cas is content to let Dean guide their kiss, but his hands wander restlessly, snatching at flesh and bone, fitting their bodies closer. There’s very little control in the way they devour one another, but the frenzy is just beginning.

By the time Dean manages to coax Cas’ pants off, they’re both panting, desperately clinging to skin like they can’t get close enough to quench the flames consuming them. Every time one of them breaks their liplock to try and move on, the other makes a soft sound of protest and they’re back to making out like horny teenagers before the protestation dies off.

Dean is all for taking it slow, enjoying the anticipation, but this tension has been building between them for what feels like eons. He’s afraid he’s going to fly apart at the seams if it doesn’t reach its crescendo soon. Dean is overthinking how to go about ushering them both forward when Cas decides for him.

“Do you still keep lubricant in your nightstand?”

Fuck.

“I’m not even gonna ask how you know that,” Dean decides. “Yeah, it’s, uh, it’s in the drawer. There’re condoms too, but… I mean, we don’t really need ‘em, do we?”

“Protection is not necessary. Though, if you would prefer I wear--”

“No, you, um… you're good.”

Cas retrieves the little bottle, resuming his place above Dean with a triumphant grin. It falters when he notices the pinched set of Dean’s brow, the dimples of discontent no doubt making themselves known beside his mouth. His eyes go soft and he trails a comforting caress through Dean’s hair. “We don’t have to do anything else, Dean. If this is far as you wish to go, I will understand. Or, if you’re uncomfortable with being penetrated--”

“No, no, I’m good. I want to,” Dean insists despite the flutter of hummingbird wings in his stomach.

Giving Dean an out is pretty par for the course as far as who Cas is in their dynamic. He’s always been the one bending so that Dean can break, giving up the ground that Dean can’t stand to lose.

This isn’t that, though.

Sue him, but he’s nervous. Sex, on its own, is easy. And Dean’s had more than his fair share of easy. But sex with someone like Cas, when there are feelings involved… That’s anything but. That’s complicated and messy and fucking momentus, and yeah, Dean’s a little nervous.

“I’m good with taking it, just…”

“I will do everything in my power to make this experience good for you, Dean. You have my word.” Every syllable rings with earnest conviction.

“I know, Cas,” Dean breathes. He lifts his head the centimeter or two it takes to chastely brush their mouths together. “I trust you.”

Cas shoulders the burden of Dean’s faith with grace, accepting it without hesitation and cradling it like the fragile thing it is. Dean knows, with every fiber of his being, that Cas is worthy of that trust. He’s more than earned it. Cas proves it though, in the way he understands exactly what Dean needs from him right now. He recognizes that Dean isn’t asking to be treated like he’s made of brittle things, like he’ll crack and splinter the moment Cas touches him. Dean hasn’t really asked for anything at all, but Cas gives it to him anyway.

A sweet press of lips to his helps soothe some of Dean’s frayed edges. He relaxes under Cas’ languid kiss, melting into the mattress while his Angel blankets him with his weight, propping the bulk of it up on his forearms beside Dean’s head. Cas doesn’t thrust against him, doesn’t seek friction or stimulation beyond the dry brush of skin on skin. He just focuses all his efforts on Dean’s mouth and pours himself into it. He doesn’t stop until Dean is practically vibrating with want beneath him.

By the time Cas reaches a hand down between them, Dean is near begging. His body is on fire, heart racing like he’s running a marathon, and when Cas’ knuckles brush his achingly hard cock, Dean almost jolts off the bed. Cas keeps going, fingertips trailing lower still, dipping into the cleft between Dean’s cheeks. The first nudge of Cas’ slick fingertip against his hole makes Dean tense, but Cas draws him into another deep, searching kiss and eases one finger inside, and Dean can’t string together anything resembling protest.

Cas takes his time, working Dean’s body open slowly, whispering gentle praise into his neck while his digits stretch Dean’s rim. He’s got two fingers stuffed into Dean’s ass, unraveling all of his threads with patient deliberateness until Dean is writhing beneath him, hips rocking in desperate search of more.

“Cas -- ah -- please,” he whines. He’s already clawing at Cas’ shoulders, leaving red welts all up and down them, and that’s maybe some kind of record, but it still isn’t enough. “I need--”

“Shh,” Cas soothes, nudging a third finger in beside the others.

His fingers crook just right and sparks slide up Dean’s spine, neon arcs of ecstasy pulsing through his limbs. “Fuck, I love your hands.”

A laugh puffs across his throat. “That certainly seems to be the case,” Cas murmurs, mouthing his way to Dean's ear so he can nip at the lobe. “Your body responds so beautifully to my touch, Dean. I could spend millenia mapping your skin.”

Dean’s cock dribbles precome onto his belly even as a blush crawls up his chest and onto his cheekbones. “Cute how you can spout poetry with half your hand stuffed in my ass, Sweetheart.”

He can feel Cas’ grin against his skin, right where his pulse pounds. “Would you prefer I recite it with my cock stuffed in your ass instead?”

Somehow, Dean knew the teasing and banter would bleed over if they ever got around to screwing each other inside out. The filthy mouth on Cas is a nice surprise, but Dean isn’t even a little bit shocked they’re both just as snarky between the sheets as they are outside them.

“If it gets you inside me sometime tonight, sure, why not?”

“Romantic,” Cas notes dryly, twisting his fingers until he can rub deliberately at Dean’s prostate, rocketing him back toward the edge of orgasm between one breath and the next. “It is truly a wonder I’ve managed to resist your charms all this time.”

Dean wants to respond, to toss back some equally sarcastic quip, but he’s struck dumb by the intensity of heat pooling in his hips, choked silent by the way his lungs heave for their next breath. His grip tightens in Cas’ hair and, just like that, Cas backs off. He keeps his fingers buried to the webbing, but the swell of Dean’s looming release has already begun to recede.

He whimpers, rolling his hips down and back, desperately chasing the feeling. Unsuccessful, he glares up into teasing eyes. “Wish you’d stop doing that.”

Cas shrugs, half his mouth curled devilishly. “I may be an Angel, but I have never claimed to be free of sin.” He curls his fingers and tugs at Dean’s rim, drawing a hiss of sound from the hunter. “Besides, I have every intention of allowing you to come. Just… Not until I say so.”

Oh.

Oh.

Yeah, okay, he can get behind that.

Dean swallows thickly, lost in the gravity of Cas’ gaze. “Don’t expect me to call you sir,” he manages, just to say something that isn’t oh fuck yes, please own me. If Cas really wanted him to, Dean would call him whatever floats his boat and do it with glee. He’s pretty sure they both know it.

If the way Cas’ eyes blaze is anything to go by, he’s right. “Perhaps not just yet.”

Dean can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

Cas withdraws his fingers from Dean’s asshole and suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore. Before Dean can protest though, Cas is kneeling between his lewdly spread thighs and drizzling lube directly onto the thick jut of his impressive erection. His Angel tosses the bottle aside and wraps a hand around his dick, giving himself a few long strokes before he settles back above him and uses his clean hand to push one of Dean’s thighs up toward his shoulder. He kneads the flesh in his firm grasp, a soothing point of grounding contact that helps Dean settle down and focus on Cas’ touch rather than the panic lingering in the back of his mind.

When Cas pushes inside, Dean’s entire body trembles. He feels like he’s being cracked open, leaking everything out into the open that he’s ever tried to keep concealed. Cas runs his palm up the cut of Dean’s waist while he rolls his hips, working his way deeper in maddeningly slow increments, murmuring encouragement and softness in between bitten off obscenities. Dean is drowning in sensation, caught in the undertow of burning pleasure that waves through his core, when Cas bottoms out. He falls forward, draping his weight over Dean’s chest and kissing him so hard they’re both gasping by the time they break apart.

“You take me so well,” Cas all but slurs into the curve of Dean’s neck, his stubble creating a delicious counterpoint to the deliberate drag of his cock against Dean’s walls. “Perfect.”

Honestly, Dean’s impressed that his Angel is still capable of speech. He’s lost to cracked moans and sighs of bone-deep pleasure, so Cas has him beat. It’s probably for the best, since if Dean could talk he would no doubt be babbling flowery nonsense and embarrassing himself, and nobody wants that.

“Dean.” It’s little more than an exhalation breathed against Dean’s cheek, but he hears the question in it.

“Yeah, Cas, c’mon,” he urges, rocking his hips in tight little undulations that make Cas hiss. “Move.”

Cas groans, a low, guttural sound that swoops low in Dean’s belly. He pulls out slow just to sink back in fast, a hard shove of his hips that moves Dean up the bed. Cas pushes up at the same time he drags Dean back down and their bodies collide with enough force to rattle the bed frame, forcing a fucked-out punch of noise from Dean’s lips.

Encouraged, Cas starts fucking Dean in earnest. Dean tries to counter each thrust but can’t because his feet keep sliding uselessly against the sheets. They’re both covered in sweat, skin too slippery to get a proper hold, so Dean buries his hands in Cas’ hair and seals their mouths together, arching into each snap of Cas’ hips as much as he can. The subtle change in position allows for more friction, aligning their bodies so that Dean's cock doesn't feel neglected.

He's a mess, chanting Cas’ name like it’s the only prayer he knows, scrabbling at his Angel’s shoulders, the back of his neck, his scalp -- just trying to get closer. The need for release is overwhelming, a constant throb that intensifies with every bump of Cas’ cock against his prostate.

“Pleasepleaseplease,” Dean whimpers, teeth scraping the edge of Cas’ jaw. “Please, Cas, I need -- fuck. Cas, please -- let me come.”

Cas doesn’t respond, at least not with words. He redoubles his efforts to fuck Dean through the mattress, arranging his body beneath him just the way he wants it so he can take Dean apart atom by atom. Dean is already beyond wrecked, body one raw, pulsing trigger that tightens every time Cas pounds into him. He feels like he’s burning up, like his flesh itself is made of flames, and the intensity of his impending release makes his eyes water. He’s willing to beg again just to put an end to the exquisite pain, but then Cas reaches down between their bodies and wraps his hand around Dean’s length, wringing a shuddering sob from his lips. Dean is delirious with relief the moment his orgasm catches hold.

“Shit, shit, Cas, I’m gonna--”

“Not yet.”

It’s quiet but full of command, delivered with absolute confidence that Dean will obey despite the line of tears already rolling down his temples and the pitiful cries falling from his tongue. Dean fights it, gritting his teeth against the near-irresistible urge to let himself be dragged over the edge and freefall into bliss simply because Cas told him to. He doesn’t even think twice about it. Cas said wait, so Dean does his best to comply. But then Cas buries inside deep and grinds, twisting his fist around Dean’s weeping cockhead, and Dean’s muscles go taut from his scalp to his heels, liquid heat pouring through his veins.

“I can’t-- Can’t wait, Cas, please, I--”

Whatever coherence Dean had managed up to that point abandons him, leaving him a pleading, quivering disaster. And as though that were exactly what Cas was waiting for, he relents.

“Come for me, Dean.”

Just like that, the tension snaps and Dean shoots off between them, Cas’ name strangling past his lips as everything rushes up to crest. Some of his come even manages to paint his chin, which Cas helpfully licks away before leaving a trail of warm, damp kisses from Dean’s jawline to his shoulder. He bites down hard, no doubt leaving a perfect imprint of his teeth. Dean sucks in a breath, body clenching, and a moan rips out of Cas’ chest that actually sounds like it hurts. He stutters in his rhythm and comes with a soft cry, the lightbulb in the bedside lamp exploding in the background.

Cas doesn’t pull out immediately, instead slumping onto Dean’s chest like someone cut his strings. They don’t talk right away either. Dean is too strung out to try making with the words, but he dredges up enough energy to push his hand limply into the messy nest of Cas’ hair, scritching lazily while his Angel nuzzles in the shallow valley between his pecs.

Dean must doze off, because the next thing he knows Cas has rearranged them on the bed. He’s curled around Dean’s back with one arm slung low over his waist and his nose pressed into the nape of Dean’s neck. There’s a blanket pulled up around them like a shroud, creating a perfect little bubble of peace right there in the bed. Squirming back into the warmth of Cas’ arms, Dean reaches down to weave their fingers together and tugs until their clasped hands are cradled up under his chin.

They still don’t speak, and that’s the least surprising thing about the entire night. They’ve always communicated better without words anyway, through the things they leave unsaid, and neither of them appears inclined to change that now. Even Cas seems content to share the quiet, just brushing his thumb along the ridge of Dean’s knuckles while they slip in and out of consciousness.

At some point during the night, Cas ends up with his head pillowed on the soft swell of Dean’s belly, the rest of his body sprawled haphazardly in a diagonal line across most of the bed. Dean isn’t sure what pulled him up from the depths of the best sleep he’s had in...maybe ever, but then he hears Cas’ voice, low and gravel-rough in the dark.

“And so today, my world it smiles
Your hand in mine, we walk the miles
Thanks to you it will be done
For you to me are the only one...”

Warmth suffuses Dean’s chest, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He recognizes the lyrics even though Cas is mouthing them quietly, and only feels marginally guilty for thinking the words sound better in Cas’ whispered poetry than Zeppelin ever sang them.

Dean doesn’t interrupt. He understands that they’ll have to talk eventually -- Shit like this doesn’t just sort itself out because the levee breaks and even Dean isn’t emotionally stunted enough to think otherwise. So as long as he and Cas are risking disaster by screwing each other’s brains out, they might as well risk one more night of silence.

***

It’s after midnight by the time Sam and Jack return to the bunker. Jack is still wired from the action-heavy superhero movie they saw after dinner, so Sam sets him up in the kitchen with a mug full of chamomile and the radio set on low to drown out any shouting.

The hallway outside of Dean’s bedroom is quiet. The lack of raised voices should be a good sign, but Sam has known Dean all his life, Cas for over a decade, and he knows better by now. Removing the chair from its position lodged beneath the doorknob, he listens for any signs of life from within, but nothing happens. He kills a couple seconds by scraping his knife through the magical reinforcements he’d use to shore up the blockade and still, nobody comes rushing through. The temptation to just open the door and check on them is strong, but Sam isn’t exactly eager to add to his scarred psyche and an Angel’s bare ass is bound to register on the trauma scale. Nobody needs to walk in on their brother mid-session, and seeing an Angel of the Lord get porny was bad enough with Gabriel in the starring role -- Cas is a whole other basket of feathers.

Deciding to wait them out, Sam returns to the kitchen. Jack is slumped over on the table, snoring lightly with his head cushioned on his bicep and the tip of his index finger dipping into his tea. He’s slow to wake when Sam gently jostles him and groggy all the while he shuffles to his bedroom, Sam following along beside him just to make sure he doesn’t faceplant into anything along the way. Jack crawls into bed without changing, barely managing to toe off his sneakers before burying his toes in blankets. He mumbles something in his sleep that sounds a lot like “Hulk smash” and Sam can’t help but chuckle to himself when he clicks off the light and pulls the door closed behind him.

Dean’s door is still shut when Sam makes his way back to his own room, and it remains that way the next morning. Through breakfast and showers and a small handful of concerned text messages, the door doesn’t open.

Around noon, Sam is sitting at a table in the library, an ancient bestiary lying open in front of him while he jots notes on a scrap of paper and determinedly does not wonder at the state of affairs in his brother’s bedroom.

Maybe they’ve killed each other. Maybe locking them in was a terrible decision and Sam forced them to confront things they weren’t ready to deal with. Maybe they confessed all the things they’d been hiding and the fallout was too much and--

“Sammy?”

Startled, Sam whips his head up to find Dean in the doorway, hair a riotous mess and eyes soft but tired. He looks relatively intact, if one ignores the mottled purple bruises littered down the side of his neck, disappearing below his collar -- which Sam is mostly trying to do. He’s relieved that they apparently worked through whatever bullshit they had to work through, ecstatic for them, really, but that doesn’t mean he wants to dwell on precisely how those bruises got where they are.

“There you are.” Preempting Dean’s angry tirade, Sam attempts to explain. “Listen, before you--”

Dean holds up a hand and Sam goes silent. “I’m not pissed.” One of Sam’s eyebrows tries to make a run for his hairline, so Dean rephrases, “Okay, I’m not crazy pissed. Anymore. Mostly. I mean, I’m still a little pissed, but you weren’t entirely wrong, so--”

“What your brother is trying to say is thank you, Sam,” Cas interjects, slipping into the room with two steaming mugs, one of which he hands to a mildly offended Dean. “While I disapprove of your methods, one cannot argue with your results.”

Dean lifts his coffee to his lips, grumbling under his breath, “That’s literally what I just said.”

Cas rolls his eyes in solidarity with Sam, but they both smile while Dean isn’t looking. Small victories.

“So, it’s over?” Sam asks, just to be sure he’s correctly assessed the new lay of the land.

Dean scoffs. “Stop acting like you lived through a war, Sam.”

“Technically--”

“Cas.”

“Sam was born into a war--”

“You’re gonna start already?” Dean begins walking away, shaking his head as he goes. “I haven't even had my coffee yet.”

Cas falls into step beside him. “Azazel was a powerful foe, Dean. Sam fought with honor, you should acknowledge--”

“Why are you like this? God, why do I like that you’re like this? Go grab the broom, you got popcorn all over my floor.”

“I seem to recall you being extremely satisfied with the evening’s events, despite the mess.”

“Toe-curling orgasms don't make up for a trashed bedroom, Sunshine. C'mon, I'll make it worth your while.”

Dean and Cas get further away, and Sam stares numbly after them, a horrifying thought occuring to him while their conversation fades into the distance…

He might have made it worse.