Chapter Text
Something is wrong.
No, that's not right. A lot of things are right, technically. They have a house. It's a bunker built into the side of a hill, but that's still a house. It has a garage, too, so Baby doesn't have to suffer the slings and arrows of bird shit and storm cells. They have food—stored inside a fridge that works, even. His brother is alive. Cas is alive. Hell, even Mom is alive, and there are very few times in Dean's life when he could've confidently said that was true. All of that checks out. Uncontested facts, to borrow from Sam's fancy pre-law lexicon. It's on to discovery.
He folds laundry while he figures it out. The most obvious witness to call to the stand is helping him pair up the socks that had all piled up in the basket. Cas is quiet while they work, leaning against the table next to him and looking painfully good in a charcoal V-neck. It's a new one, from one of those Wal-Mart shirt packs, but he wears it with the same air of dignity and purpose as he'd worn his dress shirt and trenchcoat and fucked-up tie. He might be human now, but he still approaches every task with the holy zeal of an angel carrying out—or more accurately, not carrying out—God's righteous will.
Cas looks up from the socks in his hand, raising a brow, and Dean realises he's staring.
"Nothing," he says automatically, and Cas' mouth twitches up.
"I didn't say anything."
"You're sure you don't want to be doing something else?"
Cas leans back and slides the basket closer in one easy motion, carefully picking out another pair to ball up. "If you recall, you asked me to help you," he says, like he's completely unaware of how impressive the movement is. Dean can't do that without his back aching.
"I'm just asking," he says, face heating, because he's an idiot and Cas is right.
"I enjoy doing laundry with you, Dean," he adds, really driving the point home. His smile is sweet enough that Dean is glad there aren't any windows in the place, or he'd be jumping out of one right about now. How the cashiers in town haven't all jumped Cas' bones is beyond him. If someone smiled at him like that, he'd be slapping a fruit sticker on his ass and bending over the conveyor belt in the slim hope that Cas would pick him up with the same care that he selected his tomatoes every week.
He doesn't have to, is the thing. Cas already sleeps in his bed. If Dean's really lucky, they use the bed for other stuff. Sex, he thinks, flinching through it. Cas and sex were, historically speaking, two very large spheres of his life kept firmly apart in his mind, never the twain shall meet. Putting the both of them in the same train of thought is still a novel enough concept that it makes his insides gooey, in both the chick flick sense and the anxiety-shits sense.
He grabs more socks from the basket. Cas is wearing jeans, too, which is something he still hasn't figured out how to process. It's clothes that normal people wear, the kind that don't hide every single interesting line of your body beneath a giant beige blanket. Dean wonders if it would've taken him this long to sleep with Cas had he not constantly worn that trenchcoat everywhere. And he likes the coat, it's Cas' favourite coat, but it didn't pucker and roll under the strength of his shoulders, or hug the slim line of his hips. It may as well have been a suit of armour.
Cas is also staring at him. He does that a lot, which Dean used to pretend very hard not to like. He's getting better at letting himself enjoy it now. He knows at least that Cas enjoys doing it, which helps. Dean's hands are the current subject of study, neatly folding the mouth of a sock over the other, forming an oblong ball that Dean tosses into the basket before fishing out another pair. He watches his own hands while he does it, making sure to keep them steady, rolling the line of his thumb while he works. The mouth of the sock stretches under the hook of his index finger, lingering longer than needed before it's folded over its mate. He knows Cas likes it. He doesn't even have to look up to know.
This is normal too, he thinks. And right, and not wrong. Maybe nothing is wrong after all. He's doing laundry with Cas and they're staring at each other a lot, and there's no weird tension in the air aside from the usual kinds he always feels around Cas. It's not unpleasant, just intense. So what if it's been a while since they had sex. That happens to people all the time.
Afterwards, Cas goes to the kitchen to make them sandwiches—one of the few meals Cas is pretty good at making—and Dean retreats to his room under the guise of putting the socks away. He locks his door, which is ridiculous but it makes him feel less cagey, and jerks off with a fervour he hadn't felt since he was a teenager. It's embarrassing how quickly he finishes, actually, but Cas looked really, really good in that shirt.
He gets now why Bobby always made him and Sam dig up the graves while he 'kept watch' for security guards. Even with the sun down, the June heat in Nashville is insufferable, but the sweating isn't the worst part. His back is broken, he decides. No functioning spine hurts this badly.
Whoever buried this fucker clearly had something to prove, because they're definitely past the six feet mark and there's still no coffin in sight. Using his breathlessness as an excuse to lean on his shovel for a minute, Dean wipes at his brow and blinks the sweat out of his eyes. Christ, he's getting old.
Cas pauses beside him. "Are you alright?"
"No," he groans, and has to stand on his tip-toes to locate his water bottle above them. He chugs a good half of it, then wipes his mouth and passes it to Cas, who declines.
Dean frowns, capping the bottle. "You're not…."
"This isn't my first grave," Cas says, smiling. He keeps a firm grip on the handle of his shovel, and Dean realises he's not out of breath. He doesn't even look particularly sweaty, aside from the wilted t-shirt and small whorls of hair stuck to his temples and brow. There's an adorable smear of dirt on his cheek, as if placed there by a make-up artist. It's like he stepped out of a hunter's edition of a Men's Lifestyle magazine.
"Yeah it's not—mine either," Dean says testily. "Jackass."
"Sam is right," Cas continues on, reaching up to place his shovel on the ground. His shirt rides up his stomach when he does it, betraying a thin line of hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans and boxers. "You should take better care of yourself."
"What the hell are you doing?" he asks, watching Cas lift himself out of the grave like it was nothing. His face heats. "Dude."
"I'm helping you," Cas says patiently, rolling up to his knees before holding his hand out. "Come up here."
Dean passes him his shovel first, then takes Cas' hand. He braces his other hand on the lip of the grave, squinting down at the wall of dirt to look for a decent foothold. They really should start bringing ladders with them on cases like this—
Cas pulls. It's a single, smooth motion, unbroken by effort or strain, and ends with Dean landing on his ass in the grass next to him, bewildered and slow to catch up.
"You can keep watch," Cas tells him, getting to his feet and brushing his hands off on his pants. The moonlight is pretty decent tonight, strong enough to bleach the colour from everything, including the tan Cas is slowly acquiring on his arms and neck. Dean watches him in a daze as Cas drops back down into the grave, moving like gravity is only a suggestion to him, and grabs the shovel from the ledge.
"Um—" He looks down at his hand. Cas had hauled his entire body weight up and out of a straight six-foot drop like it was nothing. It's not like Dean doesn't know the guy is unnaturally strong. Cas has just never used it to pick Dean up before.
God, he could pick him up if he wanted to. If Dean asked him to do it. He would in a second. He'd probably do it right now. Jump out of that hole in the ground and haul Dean off his feet, bridal style, and all the world to lay him down on.
"Dean?"
He glances down. Cas is sweaty in that misted kind of way, the kind that only exists on television and photoshoots. If any of this is strenuous for him, he doesn't show it. Is that another ex-angel power of his? Seductively dewy on command?
In the moonlight, his blue eyes look nearly black. Dean swallows. "Thanks," he says, instead of protesting. His back really does hurt, he's just conveniently forgotten about it until now.
"This is almost done anyway," Cas says, and he's definitely doing this shit on purpose, because he turns away and starts digging again, giving Dean an unadulterated view of his shoulders. They roll fluidly under the thin fabric of his t-shirt, eager and ready to work in tandem with his arms and hands as he pierces the spade into the ground, bearing the burden of graveyard dirt like it's nothing. Actually, it's much worse than that—the dirt is heavy to Cas, he just powers through it. This isn't an angel boredly plucking anvils off the ground for kicks; this is a guy who did hard work for a living, used to the strain of digging graves and swinging machetes and firing off salt rounds. He has the physique of a hunter, and unlike Dean, his body had the benefit of being in the possession of an angel. Even if Cas isn't an angel anymore, he'd taken very good care of his vessel in the preceding years.
Dean lies back in the grass, still trying to catch his breath. The muscles at the base of his spine throb in protest. The stars are bright tonight.
He doesn't mean for it to be a date. It isn't, exactly—it's not like he knows what a 'date' really entails. Dean remembers dates from a very long time ago, from Cassie, one of the very few normal people he's ever been involved with, but that's a distant memory. And now he's on one with Cas. Sort of.
It doesn't actually matter. They're sleeping together—even if all they're doing these days is just sleeping—so they're allowed to go on dates. Sam goes on dates with Eileen all the time, and Dean has eaten plenty of meals with Cas sitting across from him. The only difference now is that he put way too much thought into what he wanted to wear before they came to the lakeside. Hunting doesn't usually bring them to nice locales, but he's sure to soak it up when he can.
The jeans are a no-brainer. Jeans have gotten him through every major event in his life. Denim has never let him down, especially slim-cuts. Shirts, however, are a different story. He's worn his fair share of bad shirts in his life, and he can't fuck this one up. It's harder now, because Cas has seen him wear everything in his closet dozens of times over, and he's trying something out. Maybe that's what's wrong with this whole picture—he just needs to try harder. Wear something that'll really bring out his eyes, or whatever. Cas isn't the most intuitive guy, which is fine, but lecherously watching him fold socks and dig graves isn't sending a clear enough signal. He needs to up the ante.
"Claire taught me this trick," he says, passing Cas a can of beer hidden underneath the sleeve of a hollowed out Pepsi can. He'd smoothed the edges of it down with his knife earlier, but the aluminum was still sharp. "Careful."
Cas takes it from him with a frown. "She drinks alcohol in public spaces?"
"I didn't ask." Dean sips his own beer. They'd taken over a picnic bench near the lakefront, sitting on the table next to one another so they can both watch the water. Cheboygan isn't nearly as hot as Nashville, and Nashville didn't have Lake Huron in it either. Maybe they'll stay in Michigan for a while, he thinks. The motels are cheap enough, and there's plenty to hunt.
"I'll have to talk to Jody about that," Cas mutters, studying the takeout container in his lap. They bought lunch from a local place along the beach strip. According to the owner, it's the best lasagna in Michigan, and from the smell alone Dean knows she wasn't just blowing smoke up their asses about it.
"Don't," Dean says quickly, and Cas looks at him. "I'm not telling you this to snitch on her. She's fine, anyway. Won't cause problems."
"Yes," Cas says dryly, taking another sip of his beer, "only vagrants drink in public."
He clinks their cans together. "Takes one to know one, pal."
Cas smiles at him, brighter than the sun, and Dean thinks he picked the right shirt after all. Back to basics, that's his new motto. Nobody looks bad in a black t-shirt, and besides, he's still not convinced that angels like flannel. Cas never wears it—he prefers button ups and quarter-zip sweaters instead. Dean has no complaints in that department. If anyone could pull off the Gap catalogue, it's Cas. And he does, every single day.
Dean turns his attention to his lasagna so he doesn't burn a hole in the side of Cas' head. He has to chill out, play it cool. Cas is sure to make the first move when he's ready, and Dean is gonna be ready for when that moment comes. He's so ready he's aching for it. Been aching for it for weeks, in fact.
Dean holds back a groan as he takes a bite. That woman definitely hadn't been lying about the lasagna. It's disgustingly good, the kind of good he's going to dream about the next time they have to eat cold McDonald's while parked next to an overpass.
"I used to find it irritating, eating," Cas says beside him, balancing his container on his lap as he cut off a corner of his lasagna with the side of his fork. "I still do, sometimes. The human body requires a great deal of maintenance."
"Food ain't maintenance," Dean tells him, shoving a forkful into his mouth. Yeah, heaven. "It's a luxury."
"Yes, I'm seeing that now." He pauses to chew, jaw working. Dean wonders where Cas got his manners from. Dean's not a slob by any stretch of the imagination, and neither is Sam, but there's a weird, restrained sensibility to the way Cas holds cutlery that Dean definitely didn't show him how to do.
"Where'd you—" He frowns, and feels his face flush when Cas looks up.
"What?"
"You just… eat funny, is all."
"I eat funny?"
"Not funny," he says hurriedly, mentally kicking himself. Really awesome romantic conversation starter. "I mean like—you have the table manners of, like, Rose."
"Rose," Cas repeats, uncomprehending.
"From Titanic." God, he's an idiot. "I meant—like a rich English person, or whatever. I don't know."
Cas had another forkful of lasagna in his mouth, so his answering laugh is close-mouthed, swallowed down with his meal. "I see."
Dean's ears are on fire. "Forget it."
"I had to learn a great deal about table etiquette for a previous engagement on Earth several hundred years ago," Cas explains easily, unbothered by the fact that Dean just said something incredibly stupid. "Though it was in Portugal, not England. I suppose some of it must have stuck."
"I thought angels didn't need to eat."
"We don't. Or, they don't." He clears his throat. "But the king at the time was very much convinced we needed to dine at his table—to consume the bread of kings, in his words. It was required to conduct our affairs on Earth, so I put up with it."
"Wait, you met a king?" Dean frowns. "Does Heaven tangle with kings a lot?"
"Not nearly as often as most monarchs would have you believe," Cas replies. "But in this instance, yes, since the king also happened to be a cardinal of the Catholic Church at the time. Henrique I was his name. Very annoying man." He chews thoughtfully, staring out at the lake.
Dean watches him. He isn't the sort of person to use words like dappled very often, but the sunlight filtering through the trees is putting ideas in his head. Cas looks good in the sun. He looks good in any kind of weather, granted, but he's made for bright places.
Belatedly, he registers what Cas just told him. He tries to think of the fanciest place he's ever eaten at, and figures a king's dining table must be a hundred times more fancy than that. And now they're eating lasagna out of styrofoam containers on top of a public picnic bench, drinking warm beer out of a can.
"How's this compare?" Dean asks him, completely bombing any attempt to sound casual.
Cas tilts his head, like the question deserved all the gravity of an angel's full consideration. "I hardly remember the food," he says after a moment, smiling faintly as he looks back at Dean. "This is much better."
Something warm and crackling sets up camp low in the pit of Dean's stomach, feeling much the same way a few fingers of good whiskey does. He tries to figure out how the hell to respond to that in a way that doesn't involve curling up in Cas' lap like a cat when Cas holds his hand up and frowns at it. There's a stray swipe of sauce on his thumb, which he removes by slipping the digit into his mouth. It's only for a moment, his lips puckering around his thumb, but when he takes it out, he's looking directly at Dean.
"That, however, I learned from you," he says quietly, and Dean's morning spent agonising over his choice of clothing is ruined when he spills lasagna all down the front of his shirt.
The motel is actually pretty sweet. They have a room on the second floor, and if you crouch down really low when looking out the window, you could see a slice of the shoreline in between the buildings and tree coverage. Dean's knee is acting up, so he doesn't, but it's comforting to know the water is so close.
His lasagna mishap may have worked out in his favour, because he's lying back on the bed without a shirt on, and Cas moves around their motel room like he's stalking the grounds outside the den of an unsuspecting prey animal. Oh, but the rabbit knows, and he's wearing really nice jeans tonight.
"You wanna watch a movie?" Dean asks innocently. Cas has his back to him, hands busy with Dean's shirt. Sam's insistence on keeping those Tide blotter sticks handy must have rubbed off on Cas, because he packed one for the trip and he's going to down on the fabric with it. "It's probably fine, dude. It's black. It'll wash out."
"I'll let it soak in the tub," Cas says, and then turns to frown at him. "What movie?"
"I dunno, whatever's on. I don't mind paying for something."
The selection turns out to be garbage, which is a strike against the motel, even with the view. Aside from porn, the closest thing to a mood-appropriate movie is The Matrix, which is technically a romance movie in the same way that Subway tuna is fish.
He probably shouldn't put on porn. That would be weird. He's never watched porn with anyone before, and Cas is not the person to pick up that habit with. So, Keanu Reeves and Carrie-Anne Moss in leather it is. Not the worst thing in the world.
Cas gets himself settled beside him after turning off the lights. There's a scandalous lack of distance between them on the bed, which is good, but Cas keeps his hands folded over his stomach, which is not as good. Their arms brush together, a whisper of contact, but he can feel the summer heat radiating off Cas' skin. He suppresses a shiver, suddenly feeling chilly. He bets the rest of Cas' body is just as warm.
Dean stares at the screen as the movie begins, wondering what he's doing wrong. No shirt, no shoes, but apparently that means no service. Cas has to know about the movie thing. It's the oldest trick in the book. Even a (former) Angel of the Lord can't miss the giant neon sign that is lie in bed in a dark room with me while shit plays on TV.
It's not even the first time Dean's pulled this. He did it once, a couple months ago, using Dirty Dancing as a thin pretext to make out on the couch. And Cas had been very receptive to that, so there must be something else he's missing.
He could throw his arm over his shoulders, he thinks, and then immediately recoils at the idea. That's teenager grade shit, not to mention fucking embarrassing. He's got more game than that.
Dean risks a glance in Cas' direction. The first part of the movie is lit a sallow green, and it makes his profile especially sharp in the darkness of the room, catching on the few days' worth of stubble dusting his jaw. Cas notices him staring almost immediately and turns to look at him.
"What?"
"Nothing," Dean says automatically, like a moron, looking back at the screen. He can feel Cas' eyes linger on him for a moment, heavy and warm, before he turns back to the television. His hands remain folded on his stomach.
This is stupid. Very, really, insanely stupid. It would take nothing at all to reach across the bed and touch—well, anything, actually. Cas' elbow could be erotic in certain contexts. And Cas is not someone who takes a lot of convincing to jump into bed. They're already in a bed, which gives Dean a pretty decent head start. It's easy enough to imagine leaning over and kissing Cas' jaw, sliding a hand across his chest and settling it on his bicep like it was a specially crafted handhold just for Dean. Cas would make a very specific noise, deep and thrumming and low in his throat, whenever Dean did that kind of shit, a noise that guarantees he's getting laid. And Cas would be on him in no time, holding him down against the mattress, sucking hickeys into his neck, working his fly loose, shoving his jeans off like they're on fire. Cas fucks like a man on death row, like every time is going to be the last time he ever touches Dean and nothing in all of Creation is going to pull him away. He wonders if that's his fault, that Cas feels like he's always on the verge of losing him, and then shoves that away for later. No interruptions.
Yeah, it would take no time at all to get Cas riled enough that he's pinning Dean on the bed and fucking him until his legs stop working. God, he could even pull the "I'm cold, please hold me" routine. Cas likes it when he gets pouty, and Dean's in a pouting mood. It's been weeks since they had sex, and there's a permanent ache low in his belly from it, one that seeps into his thighs and makes his dick ache if he thinks about it for longer than a second. Which he's currently doing. He could have Cas whenever he wanted, as many times as he wanted. He's not in his twenties anymore, but he could go a couple rounds in one night if he put his mind to it.
All he has to do is reach across the bed.
What the hell is wrong with me plays on a vicious loop in his head as the movie progresses. Dean knows how to ask for sex. He'd even argue that he's pretty good at doing exactly that. But the words lodge in his throat, like they always do with Cas. Instead of just asking to have sex like a normal person, he puts on a movie. Instead of saying I'm grateful you're here, sorry about the whole mortality deal though, he buys him tasty food. Instead of telling Cas he deserves more than a gloomy bunker for a house and a benchwarmer for a boyfriend, he lets him drive Baby around and sleep in his room and goes to dinner with Sam and Eileen when Eileen insists on a double date night.
It's so rote by now that he doesn't have to think about it. Most times he doesn't. Anything else would be cringeworthy, and they amount to more or less the same thing in the end, don't they? Dean's being pretty obvious with how thick he's laying it on, anyway. Those words are said to people you care about, but they aren't words that belong in Dean's mouth. He knows they'd just come out wrong. It's been weeks since he had any sort of disagreement with Cas, and he isn't an idiot, despite the t-shirt soaking in the bathtub as evidence to the contrary. Keeping his mouth shut and making Cas meals like some housewife is what's responsible for that, and he wouldn't trade that kind of peace for anything.
Including, he realises in dawning horror, sex. And sex with Cas, no less.
That has to be the reason he's sitting here, miserable and shirtless, instead of being kissed senseless. He decides that it is, because it sounds right.
Dean sinks lower into his own pillow, listening to Cas breathing instead of paying attention to the movie. It's different from Sam's, which he's listened to his entire life. It's immovably measured and even, without hitch or strain. He could set his watch to how regular Cas' breathing is. It's one of the things that could tip someone off about him being not-quite-human; it's too good of an imitation. Life isn't set to such an even tempo.
He wants to look at him, but doesn't. Cas'll make a move eventually, he reasons. He's got to.
Dean doesn't blame his choice of movie for the nightmares he has that night. He wasn't paying nearly enough attention to warrant that kind of subconscious response.
He wakes up shaking, a sob caught in his throat like a stone. Dean tries to swallow it down, squeezing his eyes closed as he catches his breath. Just a dream, he says, over and over. His fingers tangle up in the cheap motel sheets, hard enough that his knuckles pop. Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.
It's been a while since he dreamt of Sam dying. He'd been making pretty good progress in that department. They hunt separately a lot more often these days—like now, for instance—but Sam's got Eileen, and Mom, and Dean's a phone call away anyway. He doesn't have to be vigilant all day every single day of his life anymore. They have people in their lives now, people who care about them. People who can fight in their corner. Family.
Dean's apparently not doing a very good job at keeping quiet, because he feels the bed shift beside him. "Dean?" Cas' voice is rough and gravely, dragged from a sound sleep.
He feels Cas' hand on his shoulder, warm and gentle. "Sorry," he whispers. "I didn't—sorry."
Instead of answering, Cas gathers him close, pulling him tight against his chest. It's the closest they've been in weeks, and Dean feels sick with guilt over it, with how good it feels to be held by Cas, but he doesn't pull away. The steady, even thrum of his heart and his breathing rise and fall against Dean's back, and when Cas runs a hand through his hair, the sob he'd been holding back escapes him.
"It's alright," Cas says, and god, he's feeling weak enough to believe that, that this is alright and fine and normal and not wrong. He's never had someone hold him after a nightmare before. He doesn't know the etiquette. Cas is touching him, holding him like he's some precious thing, and he can't even get out so much as a thank you. Instead he leans into his fingers, into his chest, takes all the space Cas gives him and more. They only touch each other like this when something's wrong now, because whatever is broken in Dean's brain prevents him from speaking plainly, and Cas is too good of a person to ask him to try anyway. Instead he sits next to him in bed and keeps his hands to himself, even when Dean's half undressed. Nobody's ever done that for him before, and he can't figure out how to tell Cas that he has Dean's permission, now and always, to touch him as much as he likes.
Dean shudders, successfully keeping down any other embarrassing noises, and Cas continues to run his fingers through his hair. It's so soothing that he can already feel himself slipping back into unconsciousness, a thing he's never been able to achieve while sober. He relaxes back into Cas, into his warmth, and lets his eyes slip closed. I'll make it up to you, he doesn't say, but it's a promise all the same. I'll even the score.