Archive of Our Own

They come through with a flash of light. It hurts from the inside out, like everything from Dean’s hamstrings to his guts is being ripped up through his chest. But that's still better than 100% of everything that could have happened to any of them in Purgatory.

Dean hits the ground flat with a grunt, his legs giving out. He's still got Cas's arm clamped around his shoulders, but the angel is a near-dead weight along his side. Dean pushes away panic when it’s clear Cas is breathing.

Benny's a few feet away, shaking off the inter-dimensional vertigo. He gets to his feet first and holds out an arm for Dean. Dean looks up at him and nods, but takes a second to secure his grip on the mostly unconscious Cas before accepting it. Benny helps steady them both.

"Thanks, man," Dean says, meaning a lot more than just the hand up.

"I'm the one should be thanking you. Looks like you had enough human mojo after all."

"Yeah, well, you can ride sidecar any time." Dean looks around at the woods they've materialized in. He's so sick of trees he could scream, but there's bird sounds and that forest-fresh smell that never existed in the sulfur sludge of Purgatory. "I owe you one. Or a hundred," he says, shifting Cas's weight once more.

Benny smirks at the two of them a little too knowingly. "You and that friendship thing man."

Dean huffs it off with a half smile, resisting the urge to check on Cas more closely. "You know where we are?"

"Nope, but I know where I'm going, and we should part ways here, friend."

Dean nods. That was the agreement—one ticket to ride out of Purgatory and call it splitsville once topside. He's not sorry, exactly, but he’s reluctant to let go of a strong ally. Reminding himself he's on terra firma, he nods and sticks out his hand. Benny grips it tight and even leans over to chuck Cas gently on the chin. Cas's head lolls against Dean's shoulder. "You take care, now."

"You too," Dean adds as Benny adjusts his cap and turns away, whistling as he retreats through the trees. Dean sighs and looks down at Cas's sagging neck and shoulders. "We made it, Cas. Just you and me now. Home sweet home." He thinks about that for second, earth being at least a plane of existence away from Heaven. "Well, you know. Close enough, I guess."

Dean kicks off in the direction he's facing, thinking maybe the trees thin out that way. He has to figure out where the fuck they are, find transportation, find Sam. But first he has a broken angel to put back together.

"Just a few more steps, Cas. Up this time. Come on."

Castiel has taken so many steps. But Dean asks for a few more. He can give him those.

They are out of the woods, in a house Dean determined to be empty. Beyond that knowledge and the warmth emanating from Dean, Castiel isn't aware of much.

"Okay, down we go," Dean says, voice strained as he lowers Castiel's arm from around his neck. Castiel drops heavily onto a soft surface. A bed, likely.

He doesn't understand this fatigue. He doesn't understand why he is alive. He doesn't understand Dean's insistence on threading him back through that needle's eye, back into this world. He was wounded during their escape—he can't feel his grace, and his physical vessel is beyond collapse.

He took all those steps only for Dean. He doesn't understand why Dean needed him to take them.

"I am going to rest now," he tells Dean without opening his eyes, or moving.

There's nothing left in him, nothing left of him. He's empty.

He hears Dean tell him it is safe to sleep, so he does.

Dean guesses that this is somebody's hunting or vacation cabin. Doesn't looked too lived in, judging by the dust, and there's not much by way of food other than canned goods. But there's water, there's power, and there's a four-wheeler in the shed. He thanks his fucking stars they've got that much. Wherever they are, that highway in the woods was a big, long empty stretch. No cars passed them and Dean was pretty sure they covered a few miles on foot.

So they're safe, but it's eerie here. Like they're only half way back to humanity, in some new limbo space between certain death and real life.

He showers while Cas sleeps, letting the hot water pound the blood and bile and grime away, knowing the worst of what came back with him isn't stuff you can wash off. He scrounges for clothes in the dressers and closets and comes up with enough for both of them.

Cas is still sleeping.

Cas. Sleeping.

That hasn't happened for years. Sure as hell never happened in Purgatory. Dean leans against the bedroom doorjamb, arms crossed, and wonders what's different now, if this is like the power drain during the apocalypse or if losing his angel juice was part of the deal in escaping Purgatory.

He shoves that thought aside fast. He can't feel bad about that. No way he was leaving Cas in that place. He wouldn't just give up on Cas. He'd done that once before and it nearly killed him. It did kill Cas—the Cas Dean had known, anyway. So, no. Not again, not ever again would Dean turn his back and leave Cas behind. Cursed or not, powered or not, Dean would rather have him and have him whole.

Dean catches a few winks himself downstairs on the couch, just in case somebody comes home. Nobody does.

Darkness arrives and Dean doesn't like the quiet. He listens too hard to it.

He heats beans, makes some rice. Downs three glasses of water. Pisses twice.

Cas sleeps. Dean waits.

Castiel's dreams have fangs.

Black fangs and a whiplike tongue that drip gray bile. Yellow fangs covered in red. Fangs on monsters that can't kill him but can kill Dean. That frightens him more.

In the background, the distance, there is mocking vampire laughter. It has fangs too.

He dreams of the Leviathan falling from the sky, about their last moments in Purgatory. The creatures had dropped from above in every direction, one final offensive to capture and kill the angel who had so abused them. Dean bravely fought his way forward to the portal while the vampire did battle at Castiel's side, protecting him from behind. But the vampire fought to ensure his own escape with Dean. Castiel fought only to ensure Dean's.

He dreams of being struck down, which happened, and of Dean being struck down, which didn't. One is more terrifying than the other.

Angels don't dream, but Castiel dreams of Dean rushing back precious steps to slay the beast who threatened him. He dreams of shouting for Dean to go, to leave him. He dreams of Dean turning around too late, his blade unready. He dreams of watching Dean die, of being unable to stop his death.

He dreams of shouting Dean's name though he knows Dean will never hear him again.

"Cas!" Dean pounds up the stairs, two at a time, as Cas shouts his name again. Not shouts. Screams. He skids into the bedroom and hits the light to find Cas cringing and twisting, his eyes still screwed shut. "I'm here, Cas," he says, going straight to the bed. "Cas! Wake up. I'm here. You're okay."

Cas's eyes snap open. "Dean!"

"Right here, man." Dean runs a hand in short, steady strokes down Cas's shoulder. "You're okay. You're safe."

Cas leans up on his elbows and stares across the room, still wild-eyed. "I dreamt."

"No shit. Nightmares from the sound of it."

That wild gaze swings Dean's way and fixates on his face as though he's re-seeing whatever shook him up so bad. "Yes. They were."

Dean skips over that. "Well, whatever was after you isn't here. You're fine now, 'kay?" He gives Cas a reassuring clap on the arch of his neck, but frowns as his hand meets a cold, wet trench coat.

"It wasn't my own safety I was concerned with," Cas mutters, but Dean ignores him, pawing around the collar of Cas's coat. It's soaked.

"What the hell? You're drenched, man. Here, sit up." He stands and hauls Cas upright, hanging onto him even as he peels off the filthy trench coat. The thing should just be burned at this point.

It's not just the coat though, of course. Cas's stupid asylum scrub shirt is drenched and his skin clammy. Sitting limply at the edge of the bed, he looks small and cold.

"We need to warm you up," Dean decides. "Hose you off, wash away those bad dreams. Whaddya say? You'll feel better."

Cas tilts his head up and whatever's going through his head, it's nothing to do with what Dean just asked. He's a million miles away, and there are more emotions wavering across his face than Dean can name—worry, relief, supplication, sorrow, joy, disbelief.

It strikes Dean that Cas's eyes aren't bright anymore. They're dark now, dark like too-deep water. Dean doesn't know why that is, what it means—if anything—but it sends his heart to his throat.

He swallows it back down.

"Okay, come on," he prompts, helping pull Cas to his feet. Cas wavers immediately. He grabs his head but it's his knees that give out. "Whoa!" Dean catches him before he drops straight down.

"I don't feel well," Cas informs him, half clutching one of Dean's arms, legs still tangled below him.

If that's the bad news, the good news is that it looks like Cas knows where he is when he looks up at Dean this time. "Yeah, I got that," Dean replies. He gets Cas seated back on the bed. "Okay, plan B. You stay there," he points as he leaves the room, like Cas is capable of sneaking off anywhere.

He fills the bathtub, cranking open the hot-water valve the whole way and squirting in whatever shower gel stuff is on the rack. He digs out a washcloth and a towel and grabs the sweatpants and t-shirt he found earlier, piling them on the back of the toilet tank for later. He checks the water level in the tub, turns on the cold a little to counter the scalding hot, then shuts off both taps and goes to collect Cas.

Maybe it's how tired he still is, or his lack of mojo, or the nightmares, but Cas is quietly compliant. He helps Dean help him up, concentrates on each step. It doesn't seem to be that there's anything wrong with his legs so much as he's dizzy and weak with exhaustion.

Once in the bathroom, Cas leans against the sink counter as Dean shuts the door—to keep the heat in, he reasons. He turns back and tugs at the hem of Cas's shirt and jerks his chin for arms up. Cas does as he's told and Dean pulls the graying cotton shirt up and off.

They work in silent tandem then, Dean reaching down to pull off Cas's crappy, worn-out hospital shoes and peel off his socks as Cas lifts each foot. Dean slides his fingers into the elastic bands of pants and boxers at Cas's hips, widening his fingers and pulling the material out away from where it's dug into him. He barely brushes his skin as he lowers his arms and he averts his eyes as he bends to the side, allowing Cas to use his shoulder as a brace to climb out of each leg.

This close Dean can smell Cas—no, it's not Cas. It's Purgatory. He smells the mud, the rotted trees, the blood. It doesn't reek in a human way like Dean had. The grime on Cas's fingers is darkest and it fades up his wrists and forearms, the pale skin of his shoulders and chest framed by the beard on his neck and face.

Dean realizes a minute too late that he's standing in front of Cas, hands hovering at his bare hips. He just . . . forgot to move. But he does now, gesturing to the tub and once again ducking his head to give Cas a scrap of privacy as he lowers himself into the water.

Dean hears him hiss into the heat. When he turns back, Cas is reclined along the back of the bathtub, eyes closed and mouth slack in relief. The tub runs the length of one wall, but full of angel it looks small. Cas's knees stick up, but the rest of his pale, bare skin looks even whiter under the sheen of soapy water. Dean keeps his eyes from the dark patch of scruff he knows is there, barely hidden by bubbles, just because that's not what this is about. Sometimes a body's just a body.

"Here, lean up," he says, taking a seat on the edge, facing Cas. He dunks the washcloth into the hot water and grabs the bar of soap.

Cas complies, moving slow, like his muscles are protesting every inch. But it's not that, Dean sees as Cas draws near. His chest seizes as the bruises on Cas's back come into view. They're huge. Dark at the center, over his shoulder blades, and turning a mottled purple-red as they spread out and down, tapering off low on his back. They look like one of those ink-blot tests. Or like wings.

"Cas—" Dean's voice sticks.

He can't see Cas's face, but he's gripping him tight by the shoulders so he feels him wince. "An angel is not supposed to exist in Purgatory, Dean. Let alone escape from it."

A hundred horrible explanations fly through Dean's head. He leans back to look Cas in the eye. "What do you mean." It's not a question.

Cas looks at his upturned palms in the bubbles of soap. "My wings are an extension of my grace. My grace was what would prevent me from leaving through the same portal as a human. I assume they were . . . sheared to make my escape possible." To Dean's stunned, disgusted silence he adds, "I'm not sure why it has manifested this way. Perhaps because I have taken this form for so long. But the pain is not physical, so to speak."

There aren't words Dean could yell loud enough to make what he's feeling go away. Silent seething is a shitty alternative, but he manages it. Anger burns in him hot enough he feels tears spark at his eyes. Anger at himself, at Cas's selflessness, at those Leviathan fuckers, at God. Still, he wills it to stay back, all of it. If he says one thing it will be too many and too hurtful.

"I will heal, Dean," Cas tells him. "But until then I am weak."

Dean stares hard at Cas then, remembering everything the angel had given, everything he'd suffered, every awe-inducing act he'd performed for no greater purpose than to protect Dean. His jaw clenches. He doesn't see any weakness here.

He wets the washcloth, suds it with the soap, and leans forward again, palming it around the back of Cas's neck and rubbing at the ring of muck there until it's gone. He wets the cloth again, rinses the patch of clean skin, and moves on, water sluicing down Cas's shoulders, over his bruised back.

"I could do this for myself," Cas says a few moments later, speaking low. He doesn't sound ashamed or angry. More apologetic.

Dean is working down Cas's wrists to his fingers, pulling off the dirt. The washcloth is turning black, the bathwater cloudy.

"I know," Dean answers, but he doesn't stop. Somehow this is his responsibility—washing the filth from the the angel he'd been given, the holy thing he'd allowed to be defiled. Like Dean’s taking the years of shit he's dragged him through and scrubbing them away. Like he's trying to clean his own conscience and Cas's skin all at the same time.

He doesn't say that, though. He just keeps washing.

Castiel watches as Dean continues to minister to him. His face is set with concentration, brow creased. But there is another, richer expression Castiel understands in Dean's actions—contrition. As he bathes Castiel's underarms, his knees and calves, his feet, he performs an act of humility, of service, of honor. Castiel isn't worthy of Dean's honor, but because it is given, he feels it all the same.

Dean's touch is tender, thorough, but still Castiel aches for more of it. For touches that linger, for Dean's hands to still, to stay. He didn't know this is a thing it is possible to desire. He's never experienced desire for anything other than Dean as an infinite whole—Dean's success, Dean's protection, Dean's acceptance, Dean's forgiveness. This desire for touch is so strangely specific by comparison.

Unexpectedly, Dean offers the cloth to him. "You gotta do those on your own, man," he says, gesturing to Castiel's genitals without looking down himself. Castiel accepts the cloth and does what he thinks is appropriate as Dean fusses with bottles in the rack above their heads.

"Can you get your head wet?" Dean asks, returning to his seat at the edge of the basin. "Take a dunk?" Castiel frowns at the filth that's replaced most of the suds in the water. He hears Dean chuckle. "It'll wash off again, don't worry. Come on," Dean coaxes, offering his hands for Castiel to lean into. He accepts the opportunity for Dean's touch.

Once Castiel’s head is damp, Dean pours a sweet-smelling gel into his hands and rubs it into his hair. It feels ignominious for a moment, but then Dean flexes his fingers and begins to work the lather into Castiel's scalp and Castiel forgets everything else. The smell is overpowering, but the sensation is overwhelming. An indulgent whimper escapes him.

"Yeah," Dean drawls, smiling widely as he works his fingers against Castiel's scalp. "Feels good to get clean, right?"

It does, yes, but the tingling waves of pleasure coursing through Castiel are not, he's certain, related to cleanliness.

Almost as suddenly as he began, Dean leaves off, dipping his hands into the bath water to shake off the lather. "All right, rinse time. If I turn on the shower, think you can keep yourself on two legs long enough to rinse off?"

Castiel nods once. "Yes, I'll be fine." He begins to push himself up from the water and Dean immediately spins away, turning his attention to the taps at the opposite end. The air is cool on Castiel's body, but not unpleasant.

"Ready?" Dean asks, hand testing the temperature of the water pouring from the bath faucet. He pulls a lever and water shoots from the shower head. In quick seconds, before Castiel has a chance to adjust to the spray, Dean ducks out of sight and a curtain slides between them.

He does as Dean suggested, rinsing the soap from his hair and the bath residue from the rest of his body. His skin feels too soft and looks pink. The touch of his own hands to his scalp and shoulders feels nothing like Dean's.

He turns off the water himself, aware that his legs are beginning to feel weak once again. He braces an arm against the shower wall and runs a hands down his face, scratching his fingers through the beard growth he'd allowed in Purgatory. Dean had been correct, however. Castiel does feel better. Restored, if not in strength or grace then in spirit. But there are still so many unknowns ahead of him—of them. He doesn’t know where to begin.

"Hey. Here." Dean's arm appears through the curtain, holding a towel. Castiel takes it and dries himself, wrapping it around his hips when he's finished as he's seen the Winchesters do. He opens the curtain to step out.

Dean is stationed nearby, apparently waiting for him, but he doesn't move when Castiel pushes the curtain aside. Instead his posture stiffens and his eyes grow a little larger. After a second his throat bobs in a swallow. Castiel cocks his head.

"I feel better," he says, hoping to bring Dean back to himself.

Dean seems to startle, blinking several times in rapid succession even as he looks elsewhere. "You what? Oh, yeah. You look, uh, better."

Castiel is still gripping the shower curtain for support. It might be the humid air of the bathroom, but he's beginning to feel light-headed again. "Dean—"

"Yeah. Shit. Yeah, I'm here, Cas," he jumps forward, offering his hands and arms for stability, "sorry." Castiel takes hold of one of his wrists, his other hand keeping a tight grasp on his towel. Dean steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry," he says again when Castiel has both feet safely on the bathmat in front of him. "I was just— Sorry."

Castiel understands that Dean means his distraction, but this, all of this—the bath, his reverence, his care—what else has it been if not an apology? Dean's actions have always said more than his words.

So Castiel closes his eyes to stop the spin of his head and savors this moment just after, this moment before their world shifts again.

"I know, Dean," he says.

It kind of never occurred to Dean how human Cas could look. In the bath he looked tired and sore, but in the way a battle-worn solider might after an ass kicking. But standing there freshly showered and half naked, Cas looks . . . doable. No. Well, yes, that too, but Dean thinks what he means is accessible. Approachable. Or maybe just vulnerable. Whatever. He's not a thesaurus.

Either way, it takes him a couple minutes to snap his head back in the game. He remembers the clothes he'd set aside and turns to hand them to Cas. "These should fit, I think," he says, though he has to clear his voice to speak.

Cas scratches at his chin, then takes the t-shirt and sweatpants.

"Don't like your peach fuzz anymore?" Dean asks, switching spots with him so Cas can have a seat on the toilet seat and he can see about getting the sludge ring out of the tub.

"It itches," Cas says irritably.

"So shave it off," Dean shrugs. When silence follows his suggestion he gives himself a mental kick for forgetting who he's talking to. Cas has never had to shave a day in his million-year life. He sits back on his haunches, trying very hard not to be aware of the fact that Cas is still only wearing a towel, and asks, "Do you want to shave it off?"

"I would like the itching to stop."

"I'll take that as a yes," Dean grunts, getting to his feet. "I saw an electric razor in the closet in the hall. You put pants on, I'll go get it."

Stepping out into the comparatively cold air of the hall, Dean lets out a deep breath, trying to shed some of the intensity. He shakes it off, rubs at his eyes. He's fine. Tired, but fine. Except he feels something inside him drawn tight, like he's holding his breath, waiting. Maybe it's leftover from Purgatory—always waiting for the other shoe to drop, the next monster to show up. Maybe it's the waiting for Cas to get angeled up again. But somehow it feels like it's just Cas. Like he’s waiting too. Dean doesn't know for what. If Cas is wondering where to go from here or what comes next, well, Dean doesn’t have answers for himself, let alone the both of them.

He rifles through the plastic bins of bathroom junk in the hall closet until he finds the razor and the right cord for it. He forgets to knock before going back into the bathroom, but Cas is dressed. At least, he took Dean up on the pants but left off the shirt. Or maybe he just didn't make it that far—he's still seated on the toilet, eyes closed for a two-minute nap. He opens them when he hears Dean and watches him plug in the razor.

"Here ya go," Dean says, switching it on. He offers the buzzing razor to Cas, who looks at the thing the way he does demons—all mistrust and distaste. Dean rolls his eyes. "Okay, here, let me. You'd probably just dork it up anyway."

He kneels down and reaches up to hold one side of Cas's face in his hand. It surprises him when Cas leans into his touch with a short sigh—it tugs at that already tight feeling inside him—but Dean musters on. "This won't hurt, but it might feel weird," he explains.

Cas just nods, so Dean goes for it, pressing the razor to his skin and guiding it over the scruff. He works slowly down his cheek, down around his jaw, up his neck. Cas's eyes are closed the whole time, but he tilts his head at Dean's direction, and Dean finds himself absently smoothing at Cas's face with his thumb as he works. He brushes off the first side when he’s done and continues onto the other.

"There." He clicks off the razor and Cas opens his eyes. Dean dusts some of the stray clumps of dark hair away before standing and holding a hand out for Cas to get up and have a look in the mirror.

The angel scrutinizes himself carefully, rubbing a hand over his mostly bare face. Dean left a short layer of five o'clock shadow just for old times' sake, but Cas seems to be frowning at his reflection.

"Not good enough?"

Cas catches his eyes in the mirror. "It's fine, Dean. Thank you."

Dean frowns. "Still itches, though, doesn't it?" If he didn't know any better, Dean would say that was Cas's exasperated look staring at him from the mirror. "We can fix that." He hits the sink tap without waiting for an argument or agreement.

There's spare razors under the sink and a half used can of Barbasol in the mirror cabinet. He'd used them earlier himself.

He explains to Cas how to apply shaving cream, monitoring from over his shoulder, then hands him the razor. It's a pretty crappy Bic one, but it'll get the job done. "Go with the grain," he advises. Cas looks perplexed, but leans in close to the mirror to give it a try. It goes okay for a few strokes, but then he hisses and a spot of red grows at the base of his cheek.

Dean flinches in sympathy and hands him a piece of toilet paper to blot.

"You should finish," Cas says when he's stopped the bleeding. He turns in the narrow space between Dean and the sink counter, handing him the razor. "Your hands are likely steadier than mine."

Dean takes the blade from him carefully. "Never done this before to somebody else," he warns. "Been told I’m pretty good with sharp objects, though," he adds lamely.

Everything about Cas in that moment is passive compliance, as though he'd rather give way to a whim than try to find one. "I trust you," is all he says.

The last time Dean took a sharp blade to someone else's throat, he was chopping their head off. That was over twenty-hours ago and in a different world. The pure violence of Purgatory, the uncomplicated decision of kill or be killed doesn't exist anymore, not here. But there's something pure in this moment too, Dean thinks as he feels the scrape of the metal against Cas's skin.

Just as he did with the electric razor, Dean works carefully around the corners of Cas's jaw, tipping his head with gentle directions from his fingertips. This time, though, Cas's eyes are open.

He watches Dean concentrate, watches him dip his head so he can see better, watches him hold his breath and hope that didn't hurt. Dean knows because he flicks his own looks at Cas, just to make sure he's okay, and always finds that Cas's eyes are fastened on him.

The awareness of it, of each other, grows. Cas’s heavy gaze is almost a thing Dean can feel. It prickles down his neck, spine, the backs of his arms. And pretty soon the thought Dean can't shake is how close they are. They're close enough to be well beyond personal space, close enough that Dean stands half between Cas's legs and can feel Cas's breath on his neck each time he leans in to rinse foam off the razor in the sink.

He's almost done when he notices he can see Cas's bruises in the mirror, the web of wings he currently doesn't have. They're beautiful, in a sad way.

"So when you say you'll heal, we talking days? Years?" He wants to know how bad it is, needs to know how much damage he did in dragging Cas back with him.

"Not days," Cas answers, his eyes following Dean's hands as he cleans the blade one last time and drains the sink. "Without my grace intact it's difficult to sense. It would be the equivalent of healing a limb."

Months then, Dean guesses, standing back—finally—to make sure he didn't miss a spot. Cas looks older and younger clean shaven. His skin looks new and baby faced, but the creases at his eyes are more evident, more ancient.

"It gets harder each time," he murmurs, looking down.

Dean picks up a towel and swipes a dab of shaving cream from Cas's earlobe. "What does?"

"Healing. Living."

Dean stops with the towel and scowls at him. "Run that by me again."

"I've told you," Cas wags his head dismissively. "Each time I come back, it's worse."

That makes Dean's stomach clench and his hackles go up. "Okay then, so, new goal: no more dying." It sounds harsher and more defensive than he'd meant it to.

"You aren't hearing me, Dean," Cas insists, grabbing his wrist. "I'm not supposed to exist." His eyes are huge with conviction.

Dean hates that answer, hates it so much he shakes off Cas's hold. Something cracks inside him like lightning, like the Grand fucking Canyon, so fast and deep he might fall in.

"Right now, I'm the reason you exist, Cas, and I put a lotta work into making sure you do." He knows he's angry, knows he's being gruff and almost shouting, but he doesn't care. It's too important.

"One thing you can't seem to get through your angel brain is that just because living ain't easy doesn't mean it's not worth it. If that were true, we both know I'd've been dead a long time ago. And it's goddamn well worth it that you're standing in front of me right now instead of having your face eaten off by a Leviathan in monster heaven."

Cas only looks at him, eyes wide but expression unreadable. "You didn't have to save me," he whispers hoarsely.

Dean clenches his teeth and swallows. Cas is just standing there, sagging against the counter, powerless, shirtless, hopeless, lifeless. It's cutting too close, too far into the space inside he purposefully keeps buried over. Cas is supposed to fight, supposed to smite and conquer and ride Dean's ass until he does the right thing. He's supposed to be here.

"Yeah, I did." For a lot of reasons, he thinks. But they're all stuck in his chest.

He doesn't know why he does what he does next—maybe because they're so close, maybe because he's been touching Cas for an hour now, maybe because his face looks so soft, so lost—but Dean reaches out and cups Cas's cheek again, forcing him to look at Dean, grounding him here, now.

Cas's eyes slip closed and he sighs in a way that sounds like maybe he's breaking inside too. But then he looks back at Dean, his dark-water eyes wet.

"It wasn't worth the risk."

"Yeah," Dean says firmly. "It was."

And instead of telling him why, instead of telling him he was worth every risk, Dean kisses him.

It means the same thing anyway.

Dean's mouth touches his and Castiel seizes. His heart, his lungs, his hands where they grip the edge of the counter, they tighten without his consent. But Dean steps in impossibly closer, tilting Castiel's face up, pressing their mouths together more securely, and something in Castiel bursts loose. He sinks into Dean, everything inside him slackening, unraveling. His anxiety and pain and regret unspool, slithering to Dean's feet, only rise and wrap around him as appreciation, wonder, attraction.

His hands find Dean's hips and pull him tight. His mouth opens to admit Dean's tongue and oh—

Dean.

For a long moment that's all he knows, all he thinks, all he is. Dean's other hand has come up to hold Castiel's neck, warm and broad. He aches for it again, Dean's touch. Craves every sensation Dean can give him.

As if somehow Dean knows this, has intuited it, his hand drifts down, smoothing over Castiel's shoulder, his chest, wrapping around his ribs to draw him near, press them together. Dean's mouth slides across Castiel's jaw, his lips leaving a trail, until he latches on to a spot just below and behind Castiel's ear. There is no logic here, no sound reason for why that kiss takes his breath and makes him buck, but it does.

His errant hips have a similar effect on Dean, though. He gives a short groan that Castiel feels in addition to hears and Dean mimics the movement, pushing his own pelvis up and into Castiel's. Arousal meets arousal and Castiel shivers and moans, one hand quickly gripping behind him for support.

Dean is kissing him again, their mouths tangling, probing, but "I got you," he says, his arm tightening around Castiel's back even as his thigh pushes between Castiel's legs, both preventing him from falling and sending pleasure coursing up through him. He moans again, kisses Dean in return more fiercely.

He's unprepared, this is so unpredicted. He knows what's next and he doesn't.

But he wants. Oh Heaven, how he wants.

"Dean," Cas moans, his voice so needy it makes Dean want to drop to his knees and suck him till he comes. He sucks at Cas's neck instead and just lets their bodies work against each other because it's so fucking good.

Dean knows it's been more than a while since he last ground up against somebody in a bathroom, but it's not like he forgot sex, and this is still better. Or maybe it's Cas—the sounds he makes, the way he feeds off Dean's kisses, responds to his touch, all totally unashamed and awesome.

Cas pleads again, his hands clasping and unclasping at a loss for what to do. "Dean, I—"

But Dean interrupts him with a kiss because he already knows. He has a choice to make. He can shove his hand down Cas's pants now and bring him off spectacularly hard for the first time right here, or he can take a giant step back and stop this before it goes so far Dean can never take it back.

"Fuck. Cas, I gotta—" breathe. Dean has to breathe. He does step back, but scarcely an inch and he doesn't let go. Not yet. He inhales the smell of soap and shaving cream and warm skin, feels Cas solid and alive in his hands, and yeah, okay. Decision made.

He flicks off the light, forgets the mess, and pulls Cas with him out the door and down the dark hall because if this is happening—and it is—it's happening someplace Dean can get Cas horizontal.

Once they're in the bedroom, he picks up where they left off, tugging Cas close and kissing him. Dean traces the tip of his tongue along the cusp of Cas's bottom lip, where it meets his skin. It's this perfect ridge, smooth and precariously thin. His hands, meanwhile, travel in two different directions. One goes up so Dean can push his fingers into the hair at the base of Cas's neck, making him gasp, and the other heads down, finding a bare hipbone to tease with his thumb.

Dean can't get over Cas's sleek, clean-shavenness, soft and new. He touches his face to Cas's—temple to temple—and just holds there for a minute.

"God, I want you," he whispers, rushed and rough and unthinking.

Of course he wants Cas. That's not new. Not entirely. It's just easier now, here. In this in-between, after all that's happened and before whatever's next.

"You can have me, Dean," comes Cas's low rumble. Dean pulls back, startled, and tries to determine Cas's expression in the dark. He makes out pale cheeks shadowed by downcast eyes. "It's . . . I'm not much, but—"

"Cas—" Dean begins to counter, but Cas shakes his head minutely, silencing him.

"I'm not what I was. Even once I heal, I know I've . . . changed. But," he looks up at Dean then, "if all that I am is for you, then it's enough."

Dean peers through the dark for Cas's eyes, barely containing everything he's feeling. He can't make Cas better, can't fix him—they just have to wait—but he wills Cas to know that he's everything, that he's the reason Dean kept going for the last year, the reason he escaped.

Hell, if anything, Cas deserves better than him. Dean got emptied out by Purgatory too, got stripped back to everything but the most brutal basics, and the only thing that kept his soul human was probably this busted-up angel in front of him. But maybe it's good Purgatory burned up all their baggage.

"Me too," Dean tells him, voice thick. "For you. It's enough."

Cas kisses him this time, surging up and in, surrounding Dean, swallowing him. Dean didn't know how much he wanted this until he got it. He knew Cas meant something. But, shit. This is more.

Cas's hands grip Dean by the ass, pulling him in to grind against, just once, quickly, before they move on working their way up his ribs. But it was enough for Dean to feel how hard Cas is again. He tilts his head, letting Cas suck at his neck, loving that soft mouth, and moves his hand over just a few inches, dragging the side of one finger up the curve of Cas's erection.

The sound Cas makes is awesomely dirty.

"Say it again," he croaks, clinging to Dean.

Dean doesn't have to ask what. "I want you, Cas," he repeats, turning his hand and spreading his fingers. "You're mine and I want you." He forms a cup with his hand and strokes as Cas begins to rock into his touch.

Dean's brain flatlines a little as Cas seizes another kiss from him, hips still pumping against Dean's hand. It's when he realizes Cas is trembling that he remembers there's a bed nearby. He doesn't know if the trembling is because Cas is exhausted or just that turned on, but he has a solution for both.

He stops the groping and starts crowding Cas backward toward the bed. Cas catches on and wastes no time in shakily stripping off Dean's t-shirt before his legs hit the mattress. Dean follows Cas onto the bed, both pairs of borrowed sweatpants getting shucked along the way.

At Dean's first dip down to Cas's body, he sees hyperspace—tunnel vision of a thousand points of light speeding behind his eyes. Dean's between Cas's thighs, their cocks together, hot and hard. He thrusts for friction and Cas arches and hisses, hands scrabbling at Dean's shoulders.

"Shit," Dean flinches, remembering the wing-shaped bruises, and falls to his side.

He half sees Cas wave a hand in the dark as he rolls up against Dean. "It's fine," he says, but doesn't fight the position change. In fact, he keeps going. He pushes Dean flat and slinks down to kiss the top of Dean's shoulder, his pec, and suck at a nipple—and how he knew to do that, Dean has no idea but, fuck. He writhes and lets out a moan, feeling Cas smile to himself before swirling his tongue again.

Cas gets caught in cataloguing Dean. He touches and kisses him everywhere—arms, elbows, abs, thighs—fingers stroking and palms smoothing by turns. It's all to the good, but Dean's dick aches for attention.

"Come on, c'mere," he beckons, tugging Cas fully on top of him. Cas grinds down, mimicking Dean's move earlier, and Jesus, yeah, that's more like it. Dean can't resist going with it, kissing and tasting Cas everywhere he can, their hips exchanging thrusts. Eventually, though, he forces his way up again, tilting their bodies just enough to get his hand around both of them and fuck yes.

They're both already leaking and Dean slides his thumb through it, over both their cock heads. Cas whimpers and squirms against him. Dean just holds tight, and begins to jack them. Cas shakes and his breaths go ragged, but the next thing Dean knows, his hand is fighting for space with Dean's. He takes Dean's cock in his own hand and Dean's lungs stop. Cas's hand is hot and too dry, but it's also perfect. He starts to jerk Dean off, running a thumb over the crown, and Dean bites his lip.

"Like that, Cas," he encourages, "Just like that." He remembers Cas's dick is still in his own hand and does something about it, taking a few sweaty pulls and kissing Cas on the mouth before creeping his fingers lower to play with his sac.

And that's just it—they find that sweet spot with each other and it's mutual hand job heaven.

But Castiel gets impatient.

He lets go and swats Dean's hand away too, pushing their bodies back together and thrusting messily, the head of his cock grazing the crease of Dean’s hip, sliding in next to his balls. Dean lets go and lets him, happy to lay back and take it, but then Cas's voice breaks from above him.

"There's more, Dean." He sounds like shards of glass and gravel. "There's more to— Please—"

Dean grabs Cas's torso, forces him to slow down, stop. "Shhh, hey. What? There's more what?"

Cas sags against his chest. His heartbeat's hammering. "More to feel, more of you. I want more of you."

Dean holds his breath. If Cas is really begging for as much and as far as Dean can take this, well, Dean's not going to argue. But his mind is a little blown right now and he has to be sure. He pushes up on Cas's shoulder to get a look at his face. "Cas, do you— Can I?"

"I said you could have me, Dean," Cas grates.

"Yeah, but—"

Cas huffs angrily above him. "Dean." The if you don't fuck me, and soon, I might not forgive you is heavily implied.

Dean didn't know it was possible to feel dizzy while laying down. But maybe it's the way Cas's demand went straight to his dick.

"Right." He sits up and twists over to the side of the bed, practically dumping Cas backward. He needs something for lube and he needs it fast.

No luck in drawer number one, just a bunch of maps or some shit, Dean doesn't know. Feels like paper. But he comes up triumphant from drawer two, holding a jar of generic handcream in his fist like a trophy. This place is so definitely a bachelor hunting cabin, and thank fucking god.

He shifts back to his spot on the bed and gathers Cas to him. Cas slips into his lap more than happily and takes over his mouth with kisses. Dean kisses him back, but his hands are busy opening the jar. He gets what he needs and takes a minute to appreciate the very aroused angel straddling him—fisting his cock for a few strokes to watch him swoon, kissing his throat—but ultimately he slides his ass down the bed, turning onto his side, and tugs Cas with him.

Facing each other, Dean tucks Cas's leg up over his hip, under his elbow. "This might feel weird," he warns, because he feels like he should, then kisses Cas as he reaches around to spread the first slick of lube along the newly exposed part of his body.

Cas sucks in air and writhes, hips bucking forward but immediately pushing back against Dean's touch. Dean moves his fingers slowly, drags them down then up, greasing the whole area. He finds the knot of muscle and strokes over it with just his middle finger. Cas groans long and low and pleased. Dean feels himself get a little harder too.

He works at Cas, going for a little more lube when he needs it, sometimes just petting to relax him, occasionally teasing his hole. At one point he leans down to lap at Cas's nipple and Cas hums approval. He tests a finger, slipping it into Cas just up to the knuckle, and Cas buries his face into Dean's shoulder.

"That good?" Dean asks and Cas nods frantically.

Dean pushes in more with small circling motions and is surprised to find Cas doesn't clamp against the intrusion. It's like instead of fighting it, Cas's body is eager for Dean. He gets two fingers in before long, stripping them in and out, always pushing, nudging, circling.

"Oh, Dean," Cas practically purrs. "Ohh, yes."

What Dean wants most in the whole world right then is to roll Cas over and fuck into him balls deep. But he can't do that quite yet—or he won’t, because of Cas’s back—so he goes for the next best thing.

"You ready, Cas?" he whispers, pushing his fingers in deep, making sure to trigger that sweet spot inside.

Cas cries out. "Yes," he confirms, breathless, "please, yes."

Dean rolls back then, pulling Cas's leg with him, until he's on his back and Cas is straddled above him on his knees. Dean makes sure he's got his heels under him for leverage, his thighs bumping Cas's ass. He picks up his own dick and lubes himself up, his other hand pressed to Cas's pale abdomen as Cas looks down at him, watching, waiting. When Dean's good and slick and solid—and fuck if he's not far from coming—he beckons Cas down. "Go slow," he says. Cas nods and positions himself over Dean.

They both groan as Cas slides down onto Dean's cock. He does go slow, but he doesn't hesitate, taking Dean in full before Dean can argue. But, fuck, who can argue with that? Cas is tight and gloriously slick and warm. He's hunched above Dean, one hand on the mattress for balance, his eyes screwed shut but mouth hanging open in shock and awe.

Dean grins. And rolls his hips.

A sound of pleasure rips from Castiel's lungs as Dean moves beneath him, in him.

This. Everything. This. Dean. Here. Now. Castiel is full, brimming. His heart, his mind, his body filled with Dean. And still it builds.

He moves, experimentally, lifting his body just slightly and lowering it again. Dean's hands clutch for him, his mouth finds Castiel’s own, licking a kiss across it and cursing against his lips. "Fuck, Cas. Fuck, do that again."

Castiel does as Dean asks, and then does it again. It gets easier each time—easier to process the glut of pleasure. He's able to lean back and up, fingertips brushing Dean's stomach as he balances. Dean curses again.

Every movement, every incremental adjustment of their bodies brings Castiel closer to a feeling he doesn't understand, but he knows this is what he wanted. This is what he sought from the first moment Dean kissed him. To experience this intimacy, to occupy a moment and feeling together. It's exquisite.

He allows it to wash over him, bathe him. From the tingling of his nerves to the tightening of pressure low in his abdomen.

Castiel rocks forward harder than he has yet and Dean's hands smack onto Castiel's knees as they ride through the sensation together.

His eyes are closed when Dean's gel-slicked hand wraps around his erection. It's a surprise, but such a pleasant one he doesn't startle. He moans in his enjoyment. Dean makes a fist and now with each move Castiel makes, he is overrun with double sensation of Dean in him, around him.

"Dean," he pleads. He's giving so much, Castiel is overcome, but he begs for more, repeating Dean's name. There's something else, just out of reach. That feeling he can't yet comprehend.

He stretches himself fully upright, forcing his body down as Dean levers his up. He arches back, feeling Dean press that spot inside him, and his erection pulses in Dean's grip. And suddenly, there—

Castiel meets ecstasy like a precipice he's unafraid to stand upon.

He's certain he shouts, certain he hears Dean curse or cheer or both. But Castiel doesn't come back to himself until he realizes his hand is gripped hard around Dean's, both covered in his semen. His body sings with indulgence, his skin crackles with oversensitivity, but he’s still canting his hips, still allowing the feel of Dean inside him to skitter across his body like sparks.

But then Dean is pushing at him, trying to unseat him. "Cas, I'm gonna— I’m gonna do what you did. Move, Cas—"

Castiel refuses. He clamps a hand on Dean's thigh to express his intent and bears down. He would have all of Dean.

"Sonofa—" Dean mutters, but then he shouts too, his hips bucking hard up under Castiel, surging into his body, and Castiel is pleased to hear his name fall in full drop from Dean's lips.

Dean can't move. Or maybe he can, but he sure as fuck doesn't want to. Castiel dismounts on his own and settles in on his stomach along Dean's side, chin posted on his chest. Dean chuckles to himself tiredly—just when he gets the angel all clean, he goes and dirties him up again. He closes his eyes as he laughs, giving his body a minute to recover.

The next thing Dean's aware of is movement on the bed next to him. He opens his eyes, confused. Cas was just there and now he's not.

"I brought you this," Cas says as Dean sits up, and hands him a damp, warm washcloth.

Dean scrubs at his face with his not-come-covered hand, trying to figure out when the last time he passed out after sex was. He can't.

That was another life anyway.

"Thanks,” he says. He wipes his dirty hand clean, and swipes the worst of the mess off his junk. “Sorry, I conked out."

Castiel only smiles. "It's been a long night."

Dean realizes he can see more of Cas now, the bedroom dark has faded into gray, predawn half light. He smiles back, remembering where they started—bloodied and beat. It was hours ago, but that feels like another life too.

"Yeah, yeah, I guess it has." He tosses the washcloth on the floor and scoots away from the patch of bed that's still hot with body heat. "Hey," he says, coming to a stop next to Cas.

Cas kisses him, deep and thoroughly. He tastes like toothpaste.

"Hey," Cas answers as he relinquishes Dean's mouth. He swings his legs onto the bed and shuffles to lie down next to Dean. He's still naked, Dean can't help but notice.

Dean curls around him, tracing the curve of one bruised wing and dropping a kiss to Cas's shoulder before he settles in, snug against his back.

He ignores the coming dawn and closes his eyes. When he wakes up, they'll have to leave this place. Go back to the land of the living. Find Sam. Pick up wherever he left off. Dean doesn't know what.

But as Cas nestles back against him, Dean thinks that maybe this is what they were waiting for. Maybe this is what comes next. And maybe that’s enough.