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Castiel was floating, calm and peaceful, in a field of pale blue. It was beautiful and perfectly still. He could hear his vessel’s heart, very slow, in his ears. Nothing hurt. In fact he couldn’t feel anything at all.
The vessel was almost unmoving; most of its cells, at risk of icing over, were in a suspended state of animation. Castiel did not want to use his limited energy to force them into operation; better to wait until his flickering grace was recharged, rather than expend it as fast as he regained it.
It was very quiet.
An arm plunged through the frozen water and grabbed the back of his trench coat. Castiel’s vessel was lifted in the style of an errant kitten by its mother.
“Jesus Christ, Cas,” said a familiar voice, as Castiel’s head cleared the frozen surface. Water slopped everywhere. Someone had cracked and broken the ice open, with their boots and fists, until the weak places were chipped away. Now strong hands hauled him up by the armpits, out onto a more solid platform of snowy ground.
They had been on a hunt, Castiel remembered now; ice-wraiths in Northern Minnesota. Sam had protested that it was too dangerous to be out in that climate, that they didn't have the right gear, but there had no help for it; the wraiths didn’t appear in any time other than the depths of winter, when they swarmed and attacked unwary travelers who were alone.
The three of them had succeeded in luring wraiths out into the open, but Castiel should have conducted more research on the weaponry they could expect to encounter. The creatures were readily destroyed by the adapted flare gun Dean had built for this purpose – but not before one had shot an icy arrow at Sam. It had knocked him back onto the frozen lake where they had made their last stand. He had broken through the thinner ice of the middle and gone under; Castiel had gone after him.
Now Dean was cursing and muttering, mopping his streaming arms; the cold water was pouring off of his waterproof jacket, and Castiel was uncertain that his gloves and gear would protect him from the chill.
“You two idiots,” he grumbled. "Gonna be the death of me.”
Castiel was dragged backwards, towards a sodden bundle of clothing and limbs that he recognized as Sam. Dean must have managed to retrieve his brother first, once Castiel had gotten him back to the edge of the ice.
He wanted to confirm that Sam was alive and well, but he could not move, even to redirect his gaze from where it was fixed in front of him. It felt as though he had become envesseled in an unmoving machine rather than a limber human body.
Dean piled him in a heap next to Sam, pausing to roll the vessel onto its side, and then dropped to his knees to check on his brother, mumbling reassuring nonsense. Castiel thought he could see what looked like bloody water trickling away from under Sam, but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.
The end of this hunt was rapidly becoming what he had heard described as ‘a cluster fuck.’ The wraiths were destroyed, yes, but Sam was injured, they were both soaked, and the Impala was an hour’s hike through the snow.
His vision grayed over, flickered out.
“Cas, buddy, you with me?” Dean had paused his attentions to Sam – another negative result of Castiel’s poor planning, they were stacking up – and bent over the vessel’s empty chest to listen for the nonexistent breath. His dismay was evident. Quickly he checked the vessel’s pulse at the wrist and neck; the touch tingled distantly.
“Oh shit, are you dead? Are you kidding me right now?”
Castiel was not dead; he would continue to exist on the physical plain as long as his grace was contained within a vessel, and he was anchored solidly in this one; he was merely conserving the effort it would take to warm and run its autonomic systems.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t thought to warn Dean about this possibility, which meant that the hunter, with his human eyes, perceived the vessel to be lifeless. Dependably proactive, Dean immediately set about attempting to restore its function.
“Okay - okay buddy, I gotcha, okay? I got you. You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine.”
Dean got the body laid out flat, cupping the chin in his palm, the broken fingers and calloused fingertips infinitely familiar to Castiel.
He wished he had the foresight to leave more of his power in the vessel so that he could easily reanimate it, and reassure Dean that he was merely recuperating. He had forgotten how Dean and Sam fixated on the physical signs of life. And they had never seen him perform this particular function before. But to “pop in” now would be energy prohibitive and defeat the purpose of the entire maneuver; he’d be left with nothing, barely clinging to this plain of existence.
Dean tipped the vessel’s head up and pressed their lips together, shockingly warm and wet. He forcefully exhaled his own breath into Castiel’s borrowed lungs. The sensation was – strange. Intimate. They were, in essence, sharing a life force. Or rather, Castiel was receiving one.
He felt the chest inflate, the dizzy fizz of oxygen hitting the vessel’s sluggish bloodstream. Dean’s mouth was soft and plush.
“C’mon, c’mon …” Dean fumbled for his pulse. Cursed. Placed his hands over the sternum of the vessel and paused, uncertain.
Castiel couldn’t let him continue to exert himself out here in these temperatures. He couldn’t reanimate, but with effort he forced the vessel to manually breathe, using a fraction of his remaining grace. It came out as a raspy huff, but it was detectable.
“Oh, thank God,” said Dean, stroking the sodden hair out of the vessel’s face. He was so exquisitely gentle when he got the chance to be. When he allowed it. “Or Billie, or whoever. You’re going to be okay Cas. Let’s get you warmed up. There’s a cabin nearby, okay? We can make it. Just hang in there.”
Time faded out. Castiel focused only on continuing an unnatural, intermittent breath, lest Dean think he was once again expired. He was capable of nothing more.
Then Dean jammed his shoulder under Castiel’s armpit – if his throat had been working, Castiel might have cried out – and hauled him up, mostly dragging him over the frozen ground. “Alright, Cas, here we go, I gotcha buddy.”
Sam, thought Castiel, where was Samuel? But when he found himself deposited on the porch of some kind of dwelling, he found Sam already laid out next to him, wheezing audibly. Of course Dean would have ensured his safety first, with Sam being mortal, as well as bearing a significant portion of Dean’s own soul.
As an angel, Castiel had not-infrequently watched Dean and Sam as they went about their lives, from their earliest childhood to the present day. When his grace was at full capacity he was capable of being in the room undetected while they performed human activities of bathing or sleeping; even at low levels, he could – although he usually chose not to – enter their minds and experience their thoughts and emotions. He knew, therefore, how incapable Dean was of prioritizing anything other than Sam.
Castiel watched, uncomprehending – he suspected his vessel’s brain was frozen – as Dean broke the door with his shoulder, then turned to gather Sam under the arms and drag him backwards into the house. Their duffel was lying next to him. How Dean, who was more compact than his brother, had managed to transport Sam and the bag any distance was a little too much for Castiel’s numb mind to untangle. In the next moment he himself was being transported in the same unceremonious way, the frozen rear end of his vessel dragging over wooden planks although Castiel could barely feel it.
“Alright buddy, here we go,” said Dean, who had been alternating imprecations and encouragement the entire time to a conscious audience of no one. Still, Castiel found it … soothing. He allowed himself to settle a little deeper into the vessel.
“Hey. Cas, hey.” Dean tapped his cheek. It was profoundly annoying; Castiel growled as he was propped up sitting against a wall. “Hey. Don’t fall asleep, okay?”
“Angels don’t sleep,” he gritted out.
Dean cupped his cheek with a shockingly warm hand, lifting his head to squint into his face. “Good man.” As if it was an affirmation rather than merely a statement of fact.
Castiel stared around at the incongruously luxurious cabin, vacant during this long tail of the season. The walls made of were knotty pine and there was a hearty wood stove, currently unlit, set against a stone wall. At other times this was no doubt a pleasant retreat for skiing and ice fishing. However at present there seemed to be no power, and it was barely warmer inside than out. With both himself and Sam incapacitated, the situation was dire.
“Do me a favor and hold on, okay?” Dean gripped his shoulder, squeezed. “Keep breathing.”
Castiel obeyed orders as Dean bustled around.
Using split logs that had been stored on the porch, Dean got the stove lit with shaking hands. Castiel watched, uncomprehending, as he quickly stripped off his own mostly-dry jacket and hung it up in front of the fire, arranging it to catch the heat.
He had also rummaged through the cabin to pull out all the blankets, sheets, and towels, which he arranged in front of the stove on the floor in an impromptu bed.
“Okay, so the power’s out and we’ve got no running water,” said Dean. “But just being out of the wind is something, eh?”
He retrieved his jacket from the fire and draped it over Castiel in the style of what humans in this century called a “snuggie.” Castiel moaned audibly at the heat of it sinking in to his twitching limbs.
“There ya go,” muttered Dean, tucking it tighter around his shoulders. “Bet that feels good, huh.” Castiel worried that Dean was going to be too cold himself, without his jacket – he had gotten damp too, fishing them out of the water – but his thoughts were sluggish and slow; he didn’t know how to address the concern, and in the next moment, when Dean dropped a similarly-warmed knit hat down over his head, pulling it low over his ears, he forgot it all together in his relief.
“Okay, Sammy, let’s get you outta these wet clothes first.” Dean, kneeling next to his brother, started with the zipper of Sam’s coat. “You gonna be okay?”
Sam was conscious, at least. His face was leeched of color, his lips tinged blue, but his eyes were open, fixed trustingly on Dean’s face.
“Mm,” he managed, which Dean treated as a reply, nodding.
Dean moved swiftly, stripping Sam out of his sodden outerwear. He was briefly occupied with the buttons on Sam’s stiff, frozen flannel, then he stripped the sleeves off of his brother’s arms. “Hey,” he murmured, tapping Sam’s cheek briefly to get his attention. “Gonna tear this.” He tugged on the neck of Sam’s thin cotton undershirt.
Sam’s teeth were chattering. “Do it.”
Dean ripped it down the front and stripped it off his brother quickly, leaving his chest bare. Castiel watched, blinking, as Sam’s ivory-pale body, smooth and mostly hairless, was exposed. Like this it was easy to see how Dean had carried him; while long, Sam had grown shockingly thin under his usual layers.
“Easy now, little bro, you hurt? Where you hurt, Sammy?” Dean toweled him off, patting and blotting the pale skin carefully, not scrubbing. Castiel could see that Sam’s wrists and hands were covered with cuts from his struggle against the ice, and he had a sluggishly-bleeding wound under his ribs where one of the icy arrows had grazed him. Dean located it quickly, whistling through his teeth. “Okay,” he said, inspecting the wound knowledgeably. “Okay, we can fix that once you’re warmed up. One thing at a time, huh? The good thing is it didn’t bleed much, in this cold. Always a silver lining. Gonna get your pants, just relax.”
Sam was not really dressed for the weather; none of them were, the hunt was supposed to be quick. Dean opened the buckle of his belt with seeming difficulty and unsnapped his jeans, peeling them down over Sam’s narrow hips.
Samuel, Castiel realized, was considered beautiful among humans. Castiel typically observed his body as merely a reflection of his soul: many times injured but still so strong and pure. Occasionally he wondered if it was Dean’s love and care that he was seeing reflected, his possessiveness, his obsession and devotion. Still, in this moment he could also appreciate the – aesthetic qualities of his form, long and lean, the finely-wrought angles of his joints.
Sam turned his head at that moment and met Castiel’s eyes. Castiel blinked at him as Dean bared more of his body to view.
“Lift your hips, Sammy,” Dean muttered, distracted.
Sam made an uncertain sound and Dean – stopped what he was doing.
“Sammy? You seeing me?” He moved around to Sam’s eyes, lifted his head and turned it on the pillow so he could see Dean. “It’s just your big brother, okay? Sammy?”
“Dean,” Sam whispered.
“That’s right. Good job.” Dean tucked his hair behind his ears. “Now lay back for me, Sammy,” he soothed. “Lift your hips.” He pulled the cotton boxers, dark with water, down with the jeans, down his thighs, over his knees, down to his calves.
“There ya go, little brother,” Dean hummed softly. Castiel believed that this type of human utterance might be best characterized as a ‘coo,’ except that the association with birds rendered it effeminate. Angels were also associated with birds sometimes. That bore additional consideration.
Castiel pretended to avert his eyes from Sam’s penis and testicles, knowing that humans were sensitive about such things. Sam had closed his eyes anyway.
Dean was working the laces on Sam’s boots and sliding them off with care, cradling Sam’s foot, quickly feeling over his ankles for injury. “Okay, Sammy?”
“Y-yeah. Just – hurry.”
“I know, I know. Sorry.” Dean stripped off the soaked wool socks, then pulled the pants and boxers all the way off. Then he hurried to offer one of the fire-warmed blankets, wrapping it tight around his brother, covering Sam’s nakedness from Castiel’s appraising eyes.
Sam gasped in mingled pain and pleasure; Castiel was familiar with the experience.
Meanwhile Dean used another warm towel to scrub and squeeze the water from Sam’s hair as he whined and squirmed and ultimately allowed it. Finally Dean bundled the towel around his rumpled head and guided him to sit back, still shivering miserably.
Sam, teeth chattering, tried to say – something – but Dean just settled him with a hand the back of his neck. “Shh, little brother, wait till you’re warmed up to start bitching.”
Castiel watched the touches hungrily. There was so much evidence of his love and care for his brother in their every contact. Their hands were a language, one of the few that were incomprehensible to him. He wondered if it had to exist within the confines of their bodies, their fragility; for Castiel – without form, without weakness – surely it was entirely cut off.
“Don’t worry, Sammy, you’ll be feeling better in no time.”
He watched as Dean carefully unswaddled Sam’s ivory-pale feet and, without any ceremony, tucked them under his own armpits. Sam moaned softly but Dean just shushed him. “Remember I had to do this for you that winter dad ditched us in Helena,” he mused, extracting one limb to rub it gently. Sam’s long, graceful foot dwarfed his brother’s careful hands. They were as thin as his elegant wrists. Dean switched feet, exchanging the one in his lap for the one under his arm, swaddling them both in a warmed towel when he was done as Sam hissed in pleasure. “Ok, now gimme your hands,” said Dean.
Castiel jealously imagined how good it would feel for the vessel’s own nerveless extremities.
Dean chafed Sam’s bare hands, blowing on them, giving an exaggerated little shudder. “You’re okay, Sammy,” he murmured, tucking him in when he was finished. “You’re fine. I gotcha. I’m here.”
Sam was watching the operation with a wide, soft expression – doe eyed, Castiel had heard it styled. “D-Dean,” he managed, as Dean fussed around getting him settled, the blankets re-tucked tighter around him, the pillows arranged to better support his neck.
“Yeah, that’s me. There, I bet that’s more comfortable, huh.” Dean patted his chest. “Okay, angel, your turn.”
Then he was turning to Castiel himself and beginning, with similar unconcern, to remove the vessel’s sodden clothing, although he himself was still insufficiently dressed. Focused as always on the comfort of others. Castiel would have liked to tell him that it wasn’t necessary, that he could use grace to dry or remove his garments, but – but something kept the knowledge back.
His mind flashed back to Dean’s soft lips, pressed over the vessel’s; his hands on the vessel’s head, under its chin, holding the mouth open, receptive; Castiel shivered.
“Alright, buddy, I gotcha – don’t worry.”
He did not worry. He watched passively as Dean removed first the outdoor pants that the Winchesters had lent him, tugging on his sore limbs to strip away the sodden fabric. Underneath that was Jimmy Novak’s clothing, which was soon similarly removed. He assumed that Dean had practice at undressing others. His hands were gentle and sure; wherever they touched the vessel’s skin, it rippled and broke out in tiny raised protrusions. Eventually he was similarly naked as Sam. He was not frequently confronted with the body that he occupied when it was unclothed, and he looked down at it in interest.
He dared to wonder – shamefully – if Dean was at all compelled by the sight of it, bared before him; its secret places and seeming vulnerability. The vessel had healthy male sex organs, although long unused. Dean was very human, and lust was among his many besetting sins. But his eyes were unreadable, focused on his worry and the task at hand; Castiel longed to slip into his mind, but refrained; it was not polite. He had been doing so much better lately, at least for the past few months. Instead he allowed Dean to lift and settle him next to Sam on the bedding, wrapped similarly in another blanket, bare and frozen underneath.
Sam, he noted, who was awake, would not make eye contact while they were both naked. His cheeks at least were now healthier pink. The thought that the younger Winchester might have studied the vessel’s nakedness, just as Castiel had studied his, was amusing. Had he also compared their male organs, the amount of hair at the groin, the weight of their testicles?
Castiel was aware of all the places they were pressed together. It was only a few layers of fabric.
“My two little frozen burritos,” said Dean nonsensically, patting his hip.
Castiel could detect that Samuel's vessel - no, his body - was tense and finely trembling. His own was solid and unmoving now that Dean was done with it.
“Well, there’s plenty of canned foods in the kitchen so we’re not going to starve. I’m going to go fill this bucket with snow – but don’t worry, I’ll avoid the yellow stuff.” Dean ruffled Castiel’s hair and then thumbed Sam’s cheek. So many touches. He must have been quite concerned. "You think we can make margaritas, maybe? That'd be good eh?"
Sam had explained before that Dean rambled when he was uncomfortable, especially if he was scared. Castiel wished to reassure him, but he couldn’t even move, all his muscles locked in place. He wasn’t sure that all of Dean’s drying-off and bundling had really done anything for him, except maybe keep him from getting worse. He wasn’t feeling much stronger.
It seemed that Dean returned almost instantly, the pot filled with white snow, which he set inside the now-roaring stove, adjusting the angle of the screen. In reality Castiel suspected that the vessel was losing time.
“This weather is the pits,” Dean complained, now pacing in front the windows. “How about the fire, you getting any heat yet? It’s not too bad now I think.” Neither Sam nor Castiel answered, but that didn’t seem to bother him. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “It’s not too bad. We should be able to hike out tomorrow, once you two popsicles melt.”
They waited in silence while the storm picked up outside.
Castiel was watching the water slowly come to boil on the fire. It was for purification, he knew. It would be dangerous to drink it until Dean said it was safe. But his throat was dry. A vessel was, in fact, mostly comprised of water, of all things. It was ridiculous, but without his grace to recharge and restore it, it craved the liquid. He swallowed thickly.
“Alright now,” said Dean, skillfully pouring the hot water into a metal cup from their pack. He set it on the windowsill to cool and began fussing over Sam again, getting him seated with his back propped up on a mountain of pillows. Sam was still twitching faintly, his gaze remote. “Getcha warmed up from the inside out, eh?”
He checked the cup, then took his brother by the chin, rubbing his cheekbone with a callused thumb. “C’mere, Sammy, gotta drink something hot,” said Dean, pressing the cup to his brother’s lips. “No no, don’t be a little bitch. Take this, swallow it down. That’s it. That it, good boy.” By dint of alternate coaxing and threatening he managed to get the swallows down Sam’s throat, holding his gaze the whole time, as Sam stared back, unblinking.
“That’s it, Sammy, good job. You want a little more? Yeah?”
Dean was stroking Sam’s hair, his face, running his thumb over Sam’s fat lower lip whenever he paused, until he accepted another swallow. His voice was unbearably soft and sweet; Castiel knew he should look away, that this was something too intimate for him to casually watch. But he did not consider looking away.
Sam was exhausted after he was done, and Dean focused on getting him tucked in as warmly as possible, multiple blankets being required for his long frame. If he let his fingers rake through Sam’s hair once or twice too, tracing over his high forehead, Castiel didn’t consider it unusual. He had long accepted that the brothers had a unique relationship, and he often failed to understand its intricacies. Instead he focused on the cup in Dean’s hand.
“Can I have some of that?” Castiel inquired.
“Huh? Oh, sure. Sorry, I didn’t think you’d – well. Sure, here you go. There’s plenty.”
Because Castiel was tightly wrapped, Dean had to also hold the cup for him, tipping it against the vessel’s lips at the right inclination so that it would not spill or cause him to choke. It was a nurturing act, he reflected. Dean also seemed to feel is, as he glanced away, at his brother - always his brother - to detract from the intimacy.
Castiel allowed himself to look anyway. Dean's face was always his favorite subject of contemplation; it held so many contradictions. It was - beautiful, to use the human word; the first time that his vessel had recognized beauty.
He drink until the vessel’s thirst was slacked. “Thank you.”
“Sure thing. C’mon, Sammy, you warming up any?” Dean gently rubbed Sam’s arms before feeling his cheeks with the back of his hand. Castiel watched the touches greedily, observing Sam’s reaction to them – his eyelashes fluttered, his chin dipped.
“Hmm, not really. You don’t feel worse, but you don’t feel better. You shivering at all?”
“I am,” said Sam. “S’not tha’ bad. Really. `S…working.”
“Well, it’s not working fast enough,” said Dean, shaking his head. “You know what that means. Cuddle puddle.”
“Oh god,” said Sam, through chattering teeth. “Dean, please d-d-don’t call it that.”
“What is that?” asked Castiel.
“Old home remedy. Sammy here is still cold, and you’re an inhuman temperature at the best of times, so we’ll get everybody situated with some good old fashioned body heat,” said Dean, stripping the impromptu bed. “It won’t shock the body and you’ll warm up gradually. Come over here into the blanket fort and I’ll show you.”
“Dean, we don’t need to do this,” said Sam. “You’re half frozen yourself already, you don’t need to – ”
“Sammy, come on, little brother,” said Dean, opening his arms. “It’s okay. Free pass on this one. What happens in Bemidji stays in Bemidji.”
“This is a risk to Dean?” asked Castiel, allowing himself to be tugged over to the center of the bed. He should not permit it if it could bring harm to either brother.
“He’s trying to – use his body heat to – warm us up,” Sam stuttered. “But if we’re too cold – especially since there’s two of us – we could end up giving him hypothermia instead.” But he didn’t resist being helped to recline back, more pillows tucked under his head, his blanket swaddle removed and laid carefully over him instead. Dean, still fully dressed, dragged Castiel in behind him.
“C’mon, I’ll let everybody keep a layer so long as nobody’s lips are blue.” Now Dean was stripping down to his own undershirt and boxers. His skin was almost glowing in the firelight like this, like a supernatural creature.
Castiel was uncertain what color he wished for his lips to be under those conditions.
“It’s not gay or whatever,” added Dean, pulling Sam closer despite his resistance and re-tucking the blankets around him. “If that’s what you’re worried about. This is like, very manly huddling for survival purposes. It’s military stuff.”
Castiel was not at all concerned that the activity was too homosexual, but he always appreciated Dean’s attempts at reassurance. There were many things that he did wrong as an occupant of a vessel; he required frequent guidance.
Dean settled himself in the middle, and then arranged Sam on one side of him and Castiel on the other.
He had two shoulders and pulled one head down to each, then put an arm around each of their backs and moved it up and down. Castiel understood that, if he were not a supernatural creature who controlled the vessel’s circulatory system, this gentle movement might increase blood flow and benefit the body temperature. In his condition it was unnecessary but pleasant. Dean piled more blankets on top of all of them. “Everyone alright?” he asked.
“Just humiliated,” said Sam. Dean huffed a laugh.
“I am fine,” said Castiel honestly. “I think I’m just – still a bit chilled.” He allowed himself to quiver. It felt good.
Dean put his hand on Castiel’s cheek, turning his face to look into his eyes. He let Dean feel the vessel’s forehead, check the pulse at his neck. Castiel was aware that he was, to use the colloquial term, “milking it,” but he didn’t let that prevent him from absorbing the moment.
“Hey, c'mon, can’t you loosen up a little,” said Dean, patting his back and then smoothing a hand between his shoulder blades. He was not usually so willing to touch; the circumstances, Castiel understood, allowed for it now, because it was a medical treatment.
“Sam said this could make you too cold,” said Castiel cautiously, extending his control of the vessel so that he could detect the reassuringly steady beat of Dean’s heart.
“I think we all know that Sammy’s a bit of a ninny,” said Dean. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll feel better in a bit. C’mere.” He dragged Castiel, who went unresisting, and guided him to rest his cheek pressed to the ribbed cotton over his chest, tucking the blankets tighter around him. “C’mon Sam, you better catch up, Tauntaun.”
A Star Wars reference, Castiel observed, accessing the knowledge of pop culture granted to him by Metatron. Usually he kept it partitioned away from the rest of his knowledge, because it was overwhelming and generally useless, as well as rather annoying.
“How is he?”
Dean’s hand passed over his damp hair and guided his face into the hollow of his shoulder. “He’ll be okay. Just rest, Cas,” he murmured, sounding sleepy himself. “Get your strength back.”
He couldn’t tell if Dean’s body temperature felt lower. Now that he knew the risk, Castiel chanced channeling what little power he could muster into raising the ambient temperature of the vessel so that its embrace would not harm Dean or Sam. If it meant losing consciousness, that would be worth it.
He felt Dean’s fingers skate through the vessel’s hair, over the scalp, and shivered.
“Sorry,” said Dean sleepily. “Too much?”
“You do that to Sam,” Castiel observed. “When he’s hurt or upset. You touch his hair – stroke it.”
“Just a way to calm him down. Feels good, you know?”
Castiel did not know. He had no human associations with the caress, except what lingered in the vessel long after the departure of Jimmy Novak. He was merely an alien creature trapped in the shell. Castiel was hardly experienced at sorting sensations beyond pain into categories of good or bad. Dean’s full lips on the vessel’s own, pressing air into its frame; which one was that?
He huddled closer against Dean. “Do it again,” he requested, allowing the eyes to close.
But next to him Sam made a sound, and Dean reached at once for him, distracted. Sam’s face was clenched in pain, his body shaking uncontrollably.
Castiel almost resented losing the spotlight of Dean’s attention, although he could admit that Sam required it and he technically did not. However, Dean didn’t know that, so the point stood.
“Hey now, s'okay, shivering’s a good thing, Sammy, it just sucks balls. I know, I know. How you holding up, huh? Good? Yeah, you’re good, aren’t you.”
Sam seemed restless, requiring Dean’s full attention to soothe him. Now Castiel watched as Dean moved a hand in circles between his shoulder blades, down his spine. Castiel watched, scowling, as Dean’s touches made Sam settle; Sam, being human and born into Dean’s care, relaxed instinctively, body going loose and soft so that his body could be molded into a complementary shape to Dean’s body.
This was what Dean had been expecting before, from Castiel, he realized now, and he had not understood.
Now he watched as Dean drew his brother in, making himself loose and adaptable, accommodating Sam’s form; turning himself into a soft place for Sam to rest. As they had done when they were children, Castiel remembered, in an endless array of motel rooms, left alone too long, sometimes hungry, often scared; although he had witnessed it all, he had not lived it, could not experience what it meant.
“You’re okay, Sammy,” Dean soothed.
Castiel lay awake listening to Dean as he tried to warm Samuel’s body. He tried several positions, but Samuel was large, and not particularly cooperative, so it was difficult. Finally Dean got them onto their sides, pulling Castiel up behind him and wrapping his own body around Sam. Castiel understood now the comparison to cutlery in a drawer.
“C’mon, Sammy, you gotta warm up,” Dean fretted. Sam was cuddled up shivering miserably while Dean rubbed him vigorously on top of the blankets. “We’ve got fire, blankets, body heat, it’s practically tropical in here. Cas isn’t cold, are you Cas?”
“No,” Castiel acknowledged honestly at last.
“See, and he was under longer than you.” Because Dean had fished Sam out first. Castiel had boosted him up and Dean had dragged him backwards off of the ice before returning for Castiel. Because Sam was human and fragile – but also because Dean loved him the most dearly. Certainly more dearly than Dean’s own life, and likely also more than Castiel’s also.
“You remember that time we blew out a tire outside of Death Valley and had to wait for a tow? And we ended up camping out?"
“Y-yeah,” Sam stuttered. Despite his shivering, his body was in fact getting warmer, Castiel noted. The “old home remedy” was working.
"Man it must have been like 100 degrees. We didn’t even want to get in the tent but we had to because there were those little biting flies, remember?”
Castiel could also remember, vaguely, this incident, standing as an observer, invisible. He would have to revisit it to understand the relevance.
“Man, do you remember how hot we were? I thought we were gonna suffocate, it was so hot. That tent was like a sauna in there. You remember that?”
“J-just for the record, this is-is-isn’t how viz-visualization works. You’re supposed to think of a g-g-good experience.”
“Huh. Well, we were together, and we survived, so I guess that’s about the best we can do, huh?” Dean was still combing through Sam’s damp hair, pushing it back off his face. Sam closed his eyes, a smile on his pale face.
I was also there, Castiel wanted to say. And would be there again. But only in a certain manner of speaking, and not the one that counted. As usual.
It took time for Sam's shaking to die down, and even then he was exhausted in the aftermath. “We need to keep a close eye on him, he's zonked,” Dean confided over his shoulder, to Castiel. "Gonna be a long night."
"You should try to get some sleep yourself, Dean."
“I'll be fine. How’s that wound on your ribs doing, Sammy?” Dean was trying to feel over them under the blanket. Sam tried to push his brother's hand away but Dean was not dissuaded. “Should stitch it, probably, if you’re finally warming up,” he said, shifting up onto his knees. Castiel, suddenly deprived of his heat, wormed in closer. “You ready for that?”
Sam blew out a breath. “I guess.”
Dean reached to fish a metal box out of his duffel. He was careful to keep the blankets undisturbed everywhere except the injury, so as not to permit a draft. “Cas, you still awake?” He took out an alcohol wipe and cleaned his hands, then opened a second one.
“Yes, I’m awake.”
“Great.” Dean was threading a curved needle. “Distract him,” he said, jerking his head to Sam.
“I’m fine,” grumbled Sam, inhaling as Dean began to carefully clean the wound.
Castiel, wrapped closely in his own blanket, obediently crawled to sit next to his head, although he wasn’t sure exactly what to do. “Hello, Samuel,” he said.
Sam gasped; Castiel glanced down to watch Dean cast the first neat, tiny stitch.
“Pet his hair,” said Dean, around the needle he was holding between his teeth. His voice had no inflection, focused on his task; a simple statement of fact. “Call him Sammy.”
“You’re serious?”
“My hands are full here, Cas, and he's not all with it - hurry up, you don’t want to see gigantor here when he’s freaking out.”
“M’ not gonna – freak out,” Sam protested. But Castiel could understand Dean’s point; they were all disoriented, exhausted, and Samuel was still recovering from his ordeal.
Castiel reached out a clumsy hand and petted Sam’s broad forehead. “It’s alright – Samuel,” he said, glancing back to Dean for reassurance. “Sammy. We will heal you. You will be fine.”
Was this working? His hands seemed to lack the ability of Dean’s, to soothe and comfort. Sam’s eyes were closed as if blocking out the experience, his lower lip caught between his teeth.
“This is hilarious,” Dean observed, finishing up. “I probably shoulda told you to put some pants on first. Ok, Sammy, two more – one more. There you go, that’s it, all done with that. We’ll get you patched up and then see about getting food into you next.”
He taped a clean square of gauze down over the stitched wound, and then spent too much time examining the other cuts and scrapes on Sam’s body, while Sam protested weakly and insisted they were fine.
Even Castiel could recognize that Sam looked, as Dean muttered darkly, “like shit,” the bruised skin of his ribs patched over with beige squares of adhesive. Dean spent a long time cleaning and covering each injury on his hands and forearms, all the while rambling through a long story about the time he “made it” with a set of triplets. Castiel knew him well enough to know both that the story was intended to be a distraction and also that it was probably fictitious.
After finally wiping down Sam’s long body with a damp washcloth and then swaddling him back up under the blankets (now dressed at least in boxers, as was Castiel, at Dean's suggestion) Dean had insisted that they had to eat before they could sleep.
“Not hungry,” slurred Sam.
Dean ignored him, rummaging through the duffel again. “I’ve got stuff. Here we go.”
“Don' wan' it.”
“Did I ask if you wanted it? No? Nah, didn’t think so. Now you can choose between jerky, or some dried fruit crap for girls and toddlers, those are your choices.”
Sam shook his head to jerky but nodded reluctantly at the second offer, and – as he was still bundled up – opened his mouth to let his brother feed him some dried apricots from a bag. Castiel found himself staring too closely again at the spectacle, the trust and vulnerability of both boys when they took care of each other like this. He couldn't look away. He couldn't do anything but watch.
“C’mon, one more bite for me. For me, Sammy. That’s it. That’s good.”
The task of nourishing a body was a special act of love, Castiel determined. “I will try some of this – jerky,” he declared.
Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “Really? You? You hurt worse than you say, Cas?”
“I merely wish to recharge as fast as possible.” He accepted a piece that was handed to him, raising it slowly to the vessel’s mouth. It was – repellant. Consuming nutrients in this manner was repellant anyway, but also this – dried meat product.
He glanced over to see Dean breaking his own piece in half, and then again. Picking at it.
Dean typically ate with a lot of enthusiasm, but now he ate slowly and deliberately, pausing after every bite to drink the heated water. A practiced ritual.
Castiel, having silently observed long stretches of their childhood, recognized the gesture. “There is enough for all three of us, Dean,” he said.
He had made an error, he realized now, in attempting food. Dean had not packed three servings, and it was unclear how long they would remain in the cabin. A situation designed to cause him agitation.
Sam kicked his brother’s leg through the blankets. “Finish the fruit,” he whispered. “You’re gonna get scurvy.”
“Hate when you guys gang up on me,” Dean muttered. Castiel observed him closely and he did consume at least a few more bites.
He felt himself flush with satisfaction at the thought that he had also provided – nourishment. At least (with Sam's help) he had honored Dean’s vessel, the container of his soul.
By the time they were all finished Sam had gone silent; his face was flushed as if was running a fever. Dean tsked and touched his forehead more times than necessary, surely, and fetched water and pills that he watched him swallow. Sam didn’t even protest, nor argue when Dean gave him the lion’s share of the coverings and got him settled back in the bed.
“What is wrong with him?” asked Castiel.
“Little infection, maybe,” said Dean, still cupping Sam’s face, rubbing his cheek with his thumb. “We’ll keep an eye on him. There’s such a thing as secondary drowning, but this is probably just his immune system kicking in after everything.”
Humans were impossible. How was it possible that getting too cold could now make him too hot?
“M’fine,” said Sam. “Jus’ sleep it off. Don’ worry.”
“Nobody’s worrying,” said Dean, who was obviously worrying. Brooding like a mother over her only child. His hands, Castiel noticed, were trembling. He probably needed a drink. Castiel wished that the vessel of the Righteous Man were not dependent on regular applications of alcohol, but there were many things that were beyond his power to change.
“I don’t like this,” said Dean quietly, when Sam seemed to be asleep. He rubbed his chin, the way he always did when he was anxious and had nothing to hold on to except his own bones. Castiel wished impossibly that he would somehow reach for Castiel instead.
“Dean, he will be alright,” said Castiel.
“I know, but … “
Sam shifted with a moan.
“Easy, Sammy,” said Dean, instantly redirecting his attention.
Castiel sighed.
For the next several hours, Dean sat up with Sam, wiping down his superheated flesh and letting him, with complete equanimity, clutch hold of his shirt hem, his sleeve, his wrist. All his usual bombastic aggression was completely gone. Castiel had seen him do terrible things with the same hands that were now so gentle on his brother’s skin. Calling him Sammy and Sasquatch and then, as the fever continued, Baby Brother.
A term of endearment, Castiel recognized; Dean did not believe his brother was an actual infant.
And Sam – Sam who had lead armies and defeated the devil himself – Sam who was disoriented and could have been dangerous, seemed instead perfectly docile as long as Dean was in reach, his gravelly voice tender and low, preferably one hand at all times on Sam’s shoulder (or, if Cas wasn’t looking, his cheek).
Dean dozed on and off, head on his forearm, other arm still stretched out to his brother’s grasp. He kept waking with a start, and feeling his brother’s forehead, and shushing him to take another pass of the cool cloth or another sip of water. Rubbing his cheekbone with a callused thumb, whispering words of reassurance.
The night stretched on. Castiel allowed himself to slip into meditation, as a way of more quickly restoring his depleted grace.
He was drawn out of a deep contemplative state by the sound of Dean, rising from the bed.
It was perfectly dark in the cabin, and the sound of the wind was audible outside. It sounded hungry, like it was eager to get inside and consume them.
“What are you doing? You need to rest.” Dean was still raw-eyed and pale. Efforts to persuade him to lie down had proven futile, even after they had gotten Sam settled.
“Just going to get more water started,” said Dean.
“No, stay with us,” said Castiel. “We don’t need more water yet.” Dean was overly tired, had barely eaten, was probably injured and cold himself; overwrought, like a child, although he would not like the comparison. Castiel couldn’t stand to think of him opening the door, stepping out into that endless cold, not even for a second.
Dean huffed a sigh and returned to the bed, bending over Sam. He was restless, Castiel suspected.
“You should try to get some sleep,” said Castiel. “I will watch over him.” He put his hand on Sam’s head.
Dean ignored him. “I wanna take another look at that wound.”
“Dean, he’s asleep. You will wake him,” Castiel scolded mildly. He didn’t expect to change Dean’s actions, having almost never succeeded at it in the past – nor did he truly believe that Dean could be careless where Sam’s health and safety were concerned (if not happiness, which he did not always value so highly).
“Nah, gumby here is drugged up to the gills. He’s got that face.” Dean bared his side, his hands careful as they peeled back the dressing to check the wound concealed beneath.
“Is it overly warm?” Asked Castiel, recalling the latest medical tome he had consumed. “Is it unusually red, leaking pus, or are the blood vessels inflamed?”
Dean shook his head. It looked like he might be repressing a smile, which Castiel considered a good sign. Dean, when he was worried about his brother, was less likely to be amused by the didactic nature of angels.
“It’s not bad,” said Dean. He kept one hand on Sam’s stomach – as a gesture of assurance? Castiel theorized – while reaching for the antibiotic ointment on the bedside table with the other. This he applied carefully, using a square of sterile gauze for an applicator in deference to his unwashed, ungloved hands. The same unguent had been applied several times, but it seemed that another anointment was not contraindicated. Cas observed him closely as he returned the dressing to its original space and then secured it. His face was fixed on his brother’s body, observing its movement – its in- and ex-halations, the rumble of the bowels, the slight movement as Samuel adjusted to the exposure of being uncovered. He made a faint noise, perhaps displeasure, and Dean gently covered him again with the sheet, tucking it close around his neck.
“Let him sleep now, Dean,” directed Castiel.
Dean nodded, reaching to pat Sam’s hand which had snaked free of the blanket as though reaching for his brother, perhaps sensing his distress. Dean tenderly guided it back into place under the covers. He bent over Sam’s head, kissing his temple, then the very center of his broad forehead, and finally the crown of his skull, through his hair. Castiel knew he had often performed such rituals, in their childhood as well as more recently.
“Come back to bed,” said Castiel. He liked the sound of the words. He liked it even more when Dean complied, sliding back into the space between them, his body warm and loose. "Thank you," he said, settling in himself. The heat sunk into the vessel's bones, making them heavy.
"How're you holding up, Cas - you doing okay?"
Castiel felt almost drugged by the warmth of their bodies, the nearness of those who were most dear to him, his sense of their safety. "Yes, Dean. I'm fine." To his own surprise, his voice came out slurred; the vessel seemed to be craving unconsciousness, which meant his grace must be even lower than he’d realized.
It was uncomfortable, being forced to waste time consuming nutrients and reducing activity, like an organism. He didn’t like it.
The next time Castiel opened the vessel’s eyes, it was early morning and the light seeping in through the windows was pale and weak. Something had roused him.
He was disoriented, but he already knew he was safe; he with Dean. For all that Dean was only human, he was surprisingly competent at protecting people. Plus, Sam was there, and injured; Dean would not let anything bring them harm.
The same sound again – it was Sam, uttering a soft exhalation of frustration as he tried to roll over. He was bundled too tightly to move. Castiel was familiar.
Dean, of course, was already awake and alerted to the problem. “Sammy? You hurting?” he dropped a hand to Sam’s chest. “Sam, look at me. Hey. Where are you hurting? Your head or your side?”
“Dunno,” said Sam, voice small. “Just woke up feeling … weird. Kinda – floaty and out of it.”
Dean stroked his hair back, loosening his blankets. “You’re fine,” he said. “That’s just stress, okay?” Castiel knew that “stress” was their codeword for Sam’s anxiety, which they rarely talked about directly. Just like they didn’t mention Dean’s temper or his fugue states (which they called “being tired”).
“Think m’good now,” said Sam, his eyes heavy and soft, following his brother’s hand with his own, trying to entangle their fingers.
“Yeah, you’re good,” Dean agreed softly. He let his brother catch his hand and hold it. Castiel was unfamiliar with this gesture between them, at least not since childhood.
“S’ Cas still asleep?” asked Sam drowsily.
Castiel closed the vessel’s eyes.
“Yeah,” said Dean, glancing over. “He’s been sacked out for hours.” There was a creak as he rearranged his position, sounding very close.
Keeping his face composed, Castiel allowed himself to peer upwards through the vessel's long eyelashes as Dean, from his position blanketing Sam, bent forward slowly to offer a soft kiss to his brother’s mouth.
Castiel blinked. He was unfamiliar with all of the norms of human culture, but he was … approximately ninety-nine per cent confident that the human males of this time period did not kiss platonically - or at least, not like that.
Sam’s lips had quirked up in a smile. “Hey,” he whispered.
“Hey,” said Dean. “Your fever broke a while back. You feel better?”
Sam nodded yes, stretching up for another kiss.
Nobody knew of this, thought Castiel; not heaven or hell. There was no way this could have been concealed. It would have been detected, used against them. It must be very recent, perhaps only in the past few months, or even less.
“Just take it easy, you had a rough night,” murmured Dean. He was still keeping his face close to Sam’s face, their eyes holding constant contact, soft kisses exchanged. Sam reached up one giant hand to stroke Dean’s cheek, playing with the hair behind his ear; even Castiel could detect the tenderness in the gesture. He, who had watched Samuel during intercourse several times, could never have imagined that he could be so gentle in this way.
Castiel had experienced sex, with a woman, but it was not this. He was regretfully aware that his own consciousness, two levels removed from this human vessel, would fail to communicate in the way the boys did so effortlessly, as Dean moved down Sam’s chest, over his pectoral muscles, his belly. He had not lingered on the soft places of the body out of pure affection for them, the jut of a hip, the gentle curve of an inner thigh. Castiel had never experienced the dedication, the determination to honor each part.
With his grace mostly restored to its usual low level, Castiel allowed himself the indulgence of sinking into Dean’s mind. As was often the case, Dean’s thoughts were not articulated in words, but in flashes of emotion; contentment, the warm stirring of lust, and adoration; SammySammySammyMySam. He was vaguely wishing that Samuel were recovered so that he could perform athletic acts of love, bring him to orgasm that way, watching his face go slack and relaxed in his moment of satisfaction, see his eyes heavy lidded with pleasure instead of pain and exhaustion. Overwrite his suffering and replace it with joy. The usual, for Dean. This new love had just been layered on top of what had always been there, like a polish.
As Dean took Sam’s soft penis between his lips, Castiel shifted to slip into Sam’s consciousness, feeling the shock of his pleasure, his love for Dean, his sense of completeness when they were together in this way.
Sam cried out, softly.
“Shh,” Dean whispered. “We have to keep quiet, Sammy. Remember?”
Sam tended to process his thoughts both visually and in words, which Castiel found somewhat easier to experience, and so Castiel was treated to Sam’s memories – of past lovers, of times he had been frustrated by his brother, of times he had been overwhelmed with love for him; of Dean’s beautiful face – in fear, in happiness, in regret, in death, in orgasm. Sam’s mind buzzed between memories (Dean’s mind was still completely preoccupied with SammySammySammy, which Castiel found charming; he dipped back there occasionally). Sam wanted to reciprocate, knew that his brother could get too caught up in providing pleasure and would decline to take his own; this was an old dispute between them, and Sam’s fond awareness that Dean was “getting away with it” now, taking advantage of Sam’s weakness.
Castiel found that he was not much interested in the physical response of his own vessel, although he knew it was capable of performing the act of intercourse; nor was he particularly compelled by the bodily sensations he was encountering second hand, even though Sam’s head dropped back, gasping, his hands fisting in the bed sheets, almost too much activity for one so recently recovered although Dean was exquisitely careful to keep him on the knife’s edge. It was the affection and desperation and need that interested him.
Yet while Dean was preoccupied, Sam turned his head on the pillow, perhaps sensing something of Castiel’s presence, opened his eyes and met his gaze dead-on.
Castiel paused. Would he tell Dean to stop? Would he be angered, frightened, ashamed?
Sam dropped his hand down to stroke Dean’s hair, possessive but also indulgent. He closed his eyes in acceptance – at least Castiel believed it was acceptance.
He allowed himself to settle deeper into Samuel’s perception. He could easily ignore the stinging of his many wounds, the irritated snag of his consciousness on the need for healing and rest; as long as he focused on the sensations of Dean’s lips, the slight touch of his teeth, the gentle press of a calloused hand around Sam’s testicles. His awareness of his brother’s body, its strength and its weaknesses.
Castiel understood pleasure. He had observed it for millennia. What he found far more compelling was the dizzying cloud of emotion between the two of them – Dean’s love and care, conflicted with his desire to give Sam pleasure, conflicted with his desire to control Sam’s body, to occupy it, however indirectly, with his own energy. Sam’s warring instinct to submit and to resist, his concern that Dean was neglecting himself (as he often did) - his fixation on Dean’s physical form in the present but also memories of their shared past. His consciousness of being observed.
“Cas,” rasped Sam, his voice still faint and weak.
Dean glanced up (he was preoccupied) and Castiel experienced a blast of contradictory emotions; a lot of it was oh shit.
“Dean, c’mon,” said Sam, tugging his hair. “He doesn’t care. I think he likes it.” Dean took a deep breath through his nose and then swallowed obediently, tipping Sam over the edge of his pleasure.
No wonder the brothers struggled to see eye to eye. Dean would fail to articulate how he did not experience this act as “neglecting himself” and Sam would not understand his account anyway.
Castiel allowed himself to be swept up in the tide of Sam’s release, suspended in rolling waves of warmth and happiness. Their minds were both open to him; Castiel was pleased to find that they did love and honor him as well, although he could admit that their total obsession with each other did not leave a large space to admit much else. But Castiel was an interdimensional light wave. He did not need a lot of space.
“Hope you enjoyed the peep show, pervert,” Dean grumbled to Cas, coming up to kiss Sam with a dirty mouth. Sam smiled at him weakly, barely conscious, which Castiel could tell had been Dean’s intention. Dean was already preoccupied with bundling him back up, stroking his forehead, brushing a thumb over his eyes to close them.
Then he leaned over Castiel and pressed a wet kiss to the vessel’s lips – Castiel could feel an echoed remnant of his affection and hummed, pleased, although he didn’t know what to do with his mouth, and the idea of consuming anyone’s saliva held no particular appeal.
Dean chuckled and withdrew. “Okay, buddy,” he said. “A little too much, eh? That’s okay.”
Then he too was being tucked and settled, and Dean moved to the bathroom to finish his own erection into the toilet. Sam would be exasperated when he realized in the morning. But Dean’s mind was only dull and sleepy with pleasure, no resentment.
He crawled back between the two of them, looping a familiar arm around Castiel’s vessel to drag him in, his head on Dean’s chest. His other hand settled on Sam’s hip.
“A few more hours and we can dig out of here, get back to the car,” said Dean. “You got any ideas for how we can pass the time?”
“I do,” said Castiel, mustering his limited grace; he would put Dean to sleep, and once Sam joined them, he could enter their dreams to show them all the pleasure to be found in a world disconnected from the realm of physical bodies. It would be easy, there, for him to show them his own emotions, his own feelings of love and need and care, and for once they would be able to understand and accept it – at least until they woke.
FIN
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