I'm not an addict (baby that's a lie) 2/2
When Castiel wakes up he feels amazing.. The midday sun shines in through his windows and paints rainbows on the walls when it passes through the crystals he’s hung. His body feels warm and pleasantly heavy, weighed down by the quilt draped over his body. There’s something bundled under his head to act as a pillow, and when he turns to burrow into it he can smell that it’s Dean’s jacket.
Only the smell of something delicious is enough to make Castiel sit up and push away the covers. His left arm stings when he does so, but only a little. There’s a bandage wrapped around his forearm, expertly tied. Following his nose to the delicious smell, Cas notices a single, perfect orange sitting on a nearby chair. For a moment he thinks he’s hallucinating; they haven’t had tropical fruit in years. Castiel crawls to the chair and picks it up, sniffing it and stroking its unblemished peel.
“Hey Cas,” Chuck says from the doorway, and Castiel hides the fruit guiltily behind his back. “You rearrange the furniture?”
“Uh, yeah. Fung shui, you know.”
Chuck nods, and doesn’t move to step over the cot blocking his path. “These are for you,” he says, tossing a brown paper bag into Cas’ lap. A thrill runs through Castiel’s veins when he opens it and finds five or six plastic pill bottles - all full - inside.
“I thought you weren’t going to enable my self-destruction anymore?”
“I’m not,” Chuck snaps back, irritated, “but I don’t make the rules around here. Dean said you could have them.” He turns and walks away, probably to hassle someone about their overenthusiastic use of T.P.
Castiel sits, brown paper bag in one hand and perfect orange in the other, not sure if they represent a thank-you, an apology, or a trade.
***
Castiel pops four of the pills - new purple ones he doesn’t recognize - before dinner that night. He’d avoid going if he could, but he’s fucking ravenous, so hungry he feels weak and light-headed, and he can’t bring himself to actually eat the orange.
The head table is more full of chatter than usual - apparently even the leadership have been cheered by the new abundance of supplies. Everyone also smells significantly better than usual.
When Castiel takes his seat, Risa smiles at him and there’s no malice in it. Castiel grunts back at her, because he’s afraid if he speaks all that will come out is “Food. Now.” He rests his head on his arms and tries to look as pitiful as possible so Chuck will go get his bowl for him.
“What happened to your arm?’ Kyle asks.
“I fell,” Castiel lies easily. “On the way to the can.”
“Smooth, Cas.” Dean says, putting a bowl in front of Cas before squeezing onto the bench next to him. Castiel would’ve scowled, but the food - chicken soup actually identifiable as such, with chunks of some kind of wild game added - smells too delicious. He’s halfway through the bowl before he notices that there’s way too much, that Dean must’ve switched their bowls. He’s about to feel guilty when he notices that Dean’s bowl in nearly empty, making this the first time in months Dean has really eaten in the mess hall.
Everyone else is watching Dean too, it seems, though he’s oblivious. He and Chuck are discussing how best to ration the canned tuna that was part of yesterday’s haul, but everyone else is silent. Dean looks good, alive and healthy and vibrant. The circles under his eyes are lighter, the creases in his forehead smoothed out, and he gestures - energetically - as he speaks. Castiel can see the change in Dean affect everyone else around the table; he notices their muscles relax, their jaws unclench and their breathing slow.
Castiel’s knows he’s responsible for all of it, and for the first time, he feels like he’s pulling his weight around here. He lets the friendly company, the soup and the new purple pills warm him to his bones, and comes strangely close to something like contentment.
That is, until he overhears Dean, leaning over to whisper to Chuck, say “I’m going to need you to find me a demon.”
***
The problem with trying to fight Dean Winchester is that it’s really hard and Castiel is really high. So when he tries to shove Dean against a wall to prove his point, he ends up pinned against it instead, dizzy. And come to think of it being pressed against Dean’s cabin wall is becoming a regular fucking habit and he’s beginning to feel a bit taken for granted.
“Let go of me!” Cas screams, and he’s maybe a bit hysterical but who could blame him? “Fucking...get off!”
“Okay,” Dean agrees, which is pretty unexpected actually, “Just be careful.” Castiel doesn’t know what Dean’s talking about until he releases Castiel’s shoulders and the world starts to tilt alarmingly. Dean catches him, and Castiel seizes the opportunity and tries to land a punch. Somehow, he ends up on the ground.
“Jesus, Cas, you know you used to be a mighty warrior, don’t you?” Dean quips from somewhere above him.
“And you used to be less totally batshit,” Cas counters, ‘You just asked Chuck to bring you a demon.”
“Yeah, well, I need one. To test stuff on. It’s scientific.”
“All we fight is Croats,” Castiel points out. “Not demons.” They had stopped running into real demons about a year ago. Now the demons let the virus do their dirty work for them in most places, focusing their attention on the few huge military-run camps and Washington, where what’s left of Congress is holed up pretending to be in charge.
“For now,” Dean says. “But aren’t you curious about what I can do, Cas? What we can do?”
“I know what we can do,” Cas snaps, rubbing his head where they’re definitely going to be a goose egg in a few hours. “Or I think I do, anyway.”
“Really?” Dean is interested now, and crouches so he’s closer to Cas’ eye level. “How do you know?”
“I read it. In a book. Like a sane person.” He winces as he touches his head, and he really does think he might be bleeding.
“What did you read?” Dean asks, and he moves to sit behind Castiel, brushing aside his hair to inspect the injury. Cas knows he’s supposed to be mad, but Dean’s fingers in his hair feel altogether too good.
“Well, Lucifer was an angel, right? And there are all these theories about how he made the demons. I mean, they call him their Creator but we’ve never exactly figured out how he did it.” Castiel loses his train of thought and trails off when Dean strokes one finger down the skin behind his ear.
“Okay. I’m following you so far,” Dean prompts.
“Right. So one of these theories is that Lucifer mixed his blood with creatures and spirits. He didn’t think God should have a monopoly on Creation. I guess you could say he was a scientist.”
Dean accepts the dig without complaint. He’s rubbing Cas’ shoulders now and despite his best efforts, Cas can’t hold onto his tension.
“Some people think that’s where werewolves came from, actually, but no one knows for sure. In any case, the demons seemed to work out for him.”
“What does all this have to do with us?” Dean asks, and Castiel loves it when he says us.
Castiel snorts. “Idiot,” he says fondly, “What Sam was drinking was just really really watered down angel blood, mixed with something evil and demon-y. You’re getting the good stuff.”
Dean takes too long formulating his question, but Castiel can’t be bothered to care when his eyelids are so heavy and Dean’s hands are so warm. “Even when your mojo’s gone?”
“Probably,” Cas answers with a sigh, “I mean, I’m powered down, but my vessel’s blood is still his blood, and my Grace is intact. The batteries are run down, but, inherently, I am what I am. Practically human, but not technically.”
Someone shivers, but Castiel can’t be sure if it’s him or Dean. Castiel can’t see Dean’s face and he’s glad, afraid of what he might find there if he looked.
“You’re the only angel left,” Dean observes, more to himself than to Cas. “And you’re mine.”
***
It’s Friday, so Castiel is supposed to be hosting at least one orgy today. Instead, the cot is pulled in front of his doorway again, and he and Dean are lying on his rug, making out. Castiel is actually pretty pleased with this change of pace.
“Cas, don’t you trust me?” Dean mumbles between kisses.
“Shut up.” Castiel rolls so he’s straddling Dean, wiggling until their bodies fit snugly together.
“I trust you, you know,” Dean continues, and Cas isn’t sure he believes him. He covers Dean’s mouth with one hand to keep him quiet.
Gently, not nearly hard enough to break skin, Dean bites his palm. The pressure - it’s not even pain, yet - makes Castiel’s whole body shake, and he pulls his hand away with a gasp.
“I promise it’ll feel good,” Dean croons and then smiles and Cas can’t even remember the last time he saw Dean really smile.
“Fuck,” Castiel moans, which Dean correctly interprets as assent. Dean flips them back over, then reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a Swiss army knife.
“Hold on,” Cas says, and reaches into his own back pocket. He pops the last three of the purple pills, which are definitely his new favourite. “Okay.”
Dean unwraps the bandage on Cas’ arm with a sort of reverence. He sets the wrappings carefully aside, then holds the knife to Castiel’s skin. He cuts slowly, careful not to go too deep, and Castiel barely feels any pain through the haze of the pills and the whiskey they’d shared earlier. There are three parallel lines on Castiel’s arm now, the oldest merely pink, Wednesday night’s still angry and inflamed, and now today’s, ruby-red and wet.
Dean slides off of Castiel and lies on his side, his body pressed close. He holds Castiel’s left wrist firmly with his right hand and lowers his mouth to the line of blood. Castiel hisses at the contact of Dean’s tongue, relishing the rush of pleasure which courses through his body in response. Dean groans, and the sound goes straight to Castiel’s cock. He thrusts futilely into the air, and Dean tightens his grip on Castiel’s wrists, as if he’s worried he might try to escape.
With his free hand, Dean reaches over Castiel’s body and unbuttons and unzips his jeans. He grunts encouragingly, and Cas scoots up just enough to let Dean pull his pants down a few inches. Dean slides his hand past the waistband of Castiel’s boxers and then he’s simultaneously sucking at Castiel’s arm and jerking him off, and Castiel’s already addled brain short circuits.
Between the burning, pleasure-pain in his arm and the pressure-friction of Dean’s calloused hand on his cock, Cas knows he won’t be able to last long. He tries to tell Dean to slow down, to hold off for a minute, but all that comes out of his mouth is a series of increasingly desperate moans. Either Dean doesn’t understand him or he just doesn’t care and Castiel actually sees stars as he comes harder than he has in his life, shaking and writhing while Dean struggles to hold his arm still as he drinks. Castiel watches Dean’s Adam’s apple as he swallows, and there’s something magical about the matching rhythms of Dean’s gulps and the pulses of his orgasm.
Castiel’s not sure if Dean comes or not, but when he finally pulls his mouth away from Castiel’s arm his lips are bruised and his pupils are blown and fuck Castiel did that to Dean. When Dean smiles down at him his teeth are tinged with red.
***
Dean takes Chuck “hunting” with him that night after dinner, so of course Castiel follows them. Chuck on a hunting trip is about as useful as a slingshot in a fight against a ghost, so he’s damn sure something else is going on, and he has a pretty good hunch about what that is.
There’s a clearing an hour’s hike outside the camp, and Castiel’s not the world’s best hiker. Honestly, Dean definitely would have caught him if Chuck hadn’t been making at least twice as much noise. Anyway, he’s pretty lucky to trail them all the way to the clearing without being spotted, and he’s relieved when he can crouch behind a bush to watch the action.
Risa’s waiting in the clearing, holding a rifle over one shoulder. She’s standing a safe distance from the demon. It’s wearing a male body, and it’s tied to a chair placed over a devil’s trap, expertly drawn in the dirt with white chalk.
The demon snarls when Dean approaches, then laughs. “Still at it, Winchester?” it asks. “Do you even have anything left to lose at this point?”
“You know what?” Dean says, voice casual. “You’re right. I have kind of hit rock bottom. But the good news is, I don’t have anywhere to go but up.”
Dean holds out his hand and twists his wrist a few degrees to the right, like he’s turning a doorknob. The demon shrieks once, shrilly, and a stream of white light bursts from its open mouth. Castiel closes his eyes tightly, and when he opens them again there are red dots dancing across his eyeballs. Castiel remembers that white light, remembers creating it himself. That demon is history.
Risa whistles, then check’s the guy in the chair’s pulse. “Dead a long time ago,” she says, matter of fact.
Chuck stares at Dean, half-horrified and half-confused. “Demon blood, really Dean?” he accuses, though he must have noticed the suspicious lack of grey smoke which always accompanied Sam’s demon-removal services.
“Naw,” Dean scoffs, “something a little classier than that.”
It takes Chuck a moment to catch on, but when he does his eyes go wide. “Fuck, Cas’ arm.”
“Okay, someone’s gonna have to catch me up,” Risa interrupts, “What did you just do, Winchester, and can you teach me how?”
“No, he can’t,” Chuck snaps, and the guy actually looks pissed. “How could you do that to Cas?”
“Do what?” Dean retorts, “Cas is just fine.”
“I assume we’re not talking about their fucking here,” Risa interjects.
“Oh, probably, it was always part of the deal with Sam and Ruby.”
“You shut the fuck up about Sam!” Dean yells, and Cas is nervous for Chuck’s safety. Apparently Chuck feels the same way, because he ducks behind Risa.
“Chuck,” she says, clearly not as afraid of Dean as she should be, “what is Dean doing to Cas?”
“Drinking his blood for the superpowers.”
Castiel sort of expects Risa to shrug and tell Chuck to lighten up, to stand by Dean’s side like she always does. “Maybe we should stay back,” she says to Chuck, “and bury the body. You can go ahead without us.” She doesn’t look at Dean when she speaks to him.
“Risa,” Dean says, “you’re a hunter. I thought of all people you would understand.”
“Yeah, I’m a hunter. Which makes me pretty good at recognizing monsters.”
Dean looks like he might yell, or hit her, but instead her turns on his heel and stalks back toward the camp. Cas steps out from behind the bush as Dean passes, because he knows his odds of following Dean home without getting caught are slim to none anyway.
“Hey,” Dean says, without the slightest hint of surprise.
“Boo?”
“I knew you were there,” Dean explains, “the whole time.”
“How?” Cas asks, “I was pretty sure Chuck the baby elephant was drowning me out.”
“I couldn’t hear you. I could feel you there.” Dean shrugs.
“That’s new.”
“Yeah.”
“So was that little parlour trick you just pulled.” Instinctively, Castiel reaches out to hold Dean’s hand, and he’s surprised when Dean lets him.
“I think the rest of my audience was less than impressed.”
Castiel isn’t sure himself how he feels about Dean’s new skills, but he knows that losing all his friends can’t help him. “I give you a nine out of ten.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean challenges him, mock offended. “And what would have earned me a ten?”
“Sparkles, glitter, maybe some hot pink.”
“Hey dude,” Dean chuckles, “I just killed a demon with the power of my mind. I think I deserve some credit.”
“It was pretty cool,” Castiel concedes. “Are you tired?”
“Not at all. It was crazy-easy, Cas,” and Castiel can see from the spring in Dean’s step that it’s true.
They walk in silence for a few minutes, Dean steering Cas away from the more cleverly-disguised tree roots. “I’m sorry about Chuck and Risa,” Cas says.
“Don’t be.” Dean’s voice is steely again. “That was easy too.”
***
Dean and Castiel both arrive late to the meeting this time. Risa isn’t there to glare at them, and everyone else in the room seems really conscious of her empty seat. Castiel tries, but he can’t bite back his grin when Dean pulls back that very chair for him. He sits with an immense sense of satisfaction hampered only slightly by Chuck’s death glare from across the table. Cas wonders whether Chuck might try to stab either him or Dean with his minute-taking pencil.
“So,” Dean says, “I need everyone to get their ears to the ground, sends scouts out if you can, find out where Lucifer is.”
“Aren’t we jumping the gun a bit?” Jeff says, “Don’t you want to see the proposals?”
“What?” Dean says, dumbly.
“The proposals,” Chuck snaps, “for getting rid of Lucifer? You asked us all to have them ready for tonight.” He holds up his clipboard for emphasis.
“Oh, right,” Dean responds, “Well I just figure any plan is gonna involve finding him, right? I’ll look over those uh, proposals, tonight. You wanna help, Cas?”
***
Castiel wakes up in the middle of the night with Dean’s mouth wrapped around his cock. At first he thinks he’s dreaming, but even his hallucinations aren’t quite this vivid. Cas luxuriates in the warm, wet awesome, for a few minutes, then moans, partially to let Dean know he’s awake and partially to say don’t-you-dare-stop.
Dean hums, low in his throat, in response and Cas feels the vibration reverberate through his entire body. Castiel struggles to sit up slightly, leaning back on his elbows so he can see Dean by the moonlight filtering in through the cabin windows. He watches Dean bob up and down on is cock and he thinks this boy’s gonna be the death of me and then reaches down to tangle one hand in Dean’s hair, encouragingly.
When he comes - embarrassingly soon, for someone who claims to be trained in tantric sex - Dean swallows him down and Castiel finds himself fascinated, again, with the motion of Dean’s Adam apple. He uses the hand still tangled in Dean’s hair to drag him up for a kiss, low and slow and wet.
“S’good?” Dean asks, against Cas’ skin.
“Mmmmfp,” he replies.
Castiel settles happily into his usual post-sex haze, so it takes a few minutes for him to become conscious of Dean’s mouth at his throat, worrying at a piece of skin with his front teeth. “Am I being nibbled?” he asks sleepily.
“Maybe,” Dean admits. His breath is hot and his voice is low, but he sounds almost happy and Castiel doesn’t really have a choice then, does he?
“Knock yourself out,” Cas says, and Dean bites down hard.
***
Dean tries to sneak away the next morning, but Cas grabs onto his leg and holds on for dear life. Dean has apparently spent the night in Cas’ cabin, and that’s not something he wants to end.
“Uh, Cas, what’s the problem?”
“Don’t leave.”
“I’m just going to grab some breakfast, and then I’ve got a mission to prep for.”
“Don’t leave,” Cas repeats.
“I can’t just stay here all day,” Dean insists, making a half-hearted attempt to shake Cas off his leg. “We’re running short on penicillin and morphine and flour, remember?” Cas does not remember. Cas is not Chuck, so he doesn’t keep a mental inventory of the camp’s supplies, but he lets go of Dean’s leg anyway.
“Come see me before you leave,” he demands, and he watches Dean’s brow furrow. He and Cas have never said goodbye before a mission before, and they’ve never had a problem going without seeing each other for as long as a week at a time.
“Yeah, okay,” Dean says.
The moment Dean’s gone, Castiel scrambles to stand up, pulling up his pants as he does so. He doesn’t bother to change his clothes or straighten up his hair. He knows he looks like shit - especially now that there’s a bandage on his neck to match the one on his arm - but he goes outside anyway, squinting into the bright sunlight.
Castiel doesn’t bother to ask Chuck’s permission to access the supply shed; there’s no way that request would be approved. He’s a bit worried about the guard posted at the door, but when the guy recognizes him, he steps back anxiously.
“Hey Cas,” he says, and yeah, he’s definitely attended an orgy or two but that doesn’t explain why he looks so intimidated.
“Hey,” Castiel can’t remember the guys name, “man. I need some supplies.”
The guy looks over both shoulders, then lowers the gun. “Okay,” he says, “just be quick about it.” Castiel wonders if it’s the way he looks or if word has gotten around camp about what he and Dean are doing. Whatever it is, this guy is scared of Castiel and it makes him nostalgic for the good old days.
“Keep watch,” he barks, and he feels almost like a warrior again.
Inside the shed he grabs a military canteen, syringe and medical tubing, and a fresh bottle of antiseptic. He pauses at the shelf of drugs - pretty, pretty drugs - but grabs only a bottle of Aspirin.
“Thanks,” he calls behind him as he leaves the shed, tucking the equipment under his jacket.
Back in his cabin, Castiel pushes the cot back in front of his door. He doesn’t expect visitors this early in the morning - and people have been coming by a lot less often lately anyway - but it makes him feel more secure.
Cas tears a long strip off of one of his old shirts and fashions it into a tourniquet, tying it tightly around his upper arm. Castiel hadn’t spent a lot of time on injected narcotics; pills were just so much more sanitary and portable, but he has no trouble at all finding a vein and inserting the syringe. Tricky part over, he pops a few pills and sits back, watching his own blood flow through the tubing and drip drip drip into the canteen, opening his hand and flexing his muscles periodically to increase the blood flow.
Castiel removes the needle when the canteen’s half full, which turns out to have been a good idea because he feels a bit dizzy when he tries to move. It’s not a lot of blood - he’s lost more than that in fights before - but there’s probably a reason people are supposed to wait a few weeks between blood donations. Castiel carefully disinfects the area, and slaps on a band-aid from his first aid kit. Then he eats Dean’s orange before trying to stand up, and finds that he feels much better.
Castiel uses his mortar and pestle to crush a few Aspirin into a fine powder, then pours it carefully into the canteen, swirling the liquid around so the powder will dissolve. He puts the cap on the canteen, moves the cot back in place and hides all his equipment underneath it, then collapses onto it, exhausted.
“Cas, hey, Cas.” Dean pushes gently at Castiel’s shoulder to wake him. “I didn’t know you actually ever slept in your bed.”
“I don’t,” Cas says, “Despite evidence to the contrary.” He swallows hard because his mouth feels dry. “Are you leaving?”
“Yeah, but I should be back sometime tonight.” Dean’s deliberately keeping his voice casual, the way he does when the civilians get skittish, and Cas can’t believe Dean thinks that will work on him.
“Take that,” Cas says, using his chin to point at the canteen resting on the floor.
“I’ve got one, thanks.”
“Look inside.”
Dean does, and his face changes in a way that’s unfamiliar to Castiel. “Cas...”
“I put some Aspirin in there, to keep it from clotting too fast, though you might need to add water or something,” Cas explains, picking at his quilt so he doesn’t need to look at Dean.
“Cas,” Dean says again, and he pulls Cas’ chin up to meet his eyes, “Thank you.” Then he kisses Castiel firmly on the mouth and is gone.
***
Castiel doesn’t hear the telltale gravel-crunching on the main road until nearly twenty-four hours have passed, and he might have collapsed with relief if he hadn’t been so busy running. He’s not the only person making a dash for the gate; the team had been gone nearly three times as long as they were supposed to have been, and people gone longer than they’re supposed to be generally don’t come back at all.
At first Castiel can’t tell how many have returned, the bodies look so tangled into one. But as he gets closer he separates them, can see three figures, a man and a woman supporting another man who stands between them. Dean, Castiel realizes as he arrives at the gate, Dean must be injured.
But Dean doesn’t seem to agree with Cas’ assessment, or the support of the soldiers holding him up. When he notices Castiel arrive, panting, he tears away from their arms and starts off down the path to Cas’ cabin, limping slightly. “Come on,” he growls.
Cas starts after him, but stops short when someone calls his name. “Cas,” the man shouts, and Castiel recognizes now that it’s Jeff. “Cas, wait.”
Cas doesn’t want to stop, but something about the horror in Jeff’s voice, so out of place after a safe return home, stops him short. “What?”
Jeff’s lip is bleeding and he has one hell of a black eye. The third member of the team - a woman Cas doesn’t know - is in just as rough shape. “We shot him,” Jeff says, “We had to shoot him.”
“Who?” Castiel asks, and he wants to add And why should I care?
“Dean. We shot Dean. Twice in each leg.”
Castiel squints at Jeff. “That’s impossible.” He turns to watch Dean turn the corner, walking briskly. “Are you fucking with me?”
Jeff shakes his head, and he looks just as astonished as Castiel feels. “He was going to get himself killed and he just wouldn’t stop so we had to shoot him to drag him home.”
“Four times,” Castiel repeats, for clarity’s sake. “And now he’s walking like he’s got a slight sprain.” It’s probably not a Croat that gave Jeff the black eye, then.
Jeff nods, and Castiel takes off after Dean.
“So,” he says as he enters the cabin, stepping over the cot that Dean has apparently pushed in front of the door. “I hear you’re indestructible now or something.”
Dean is lying on Castiel’s rug, staring up at the rainbows dancing on the ceiling. “Remember how you said demon blood is just really diluted angel blood?” He asks, which is a pretty impressive non-sequiter.
“Yeah,” Castiel says, joining Dean on the rug, “I remember.”
“So like, I’m probably better at stuff than Sam was, right?”
“Don’t you think you’re a little old for sibling rivalry?” Cas counters, because he has a bad feeling about actually answering the question.
“Like, he just pulled demons out of people’s bodies most of the time, and I’m actually killing them instantly. And he couldn’t heal like this; I know, I patched him up plenty of times while he was on Ruby’s blood. You said it yourself, Cas, I’m getting the good stuff.”
Castiel can feel the momentum in Dean’s words. He isn’t sure yet where that momentum will lead, but the thought makes his blood run cold.
“I saw him, Cas,” Dean practically whispers.
Castiel knows there are only two possible names on Dean’s tongue, and he can feel their destinies balanced on the knife blade of Dean’s choice. “Who?” he asks.
“Sam.” Dean’s voice doesn’t falter on the name anymore. “I saw Sam.”
***
Castiel has to swallow half a dozen of the blue pills and two shots of absinthe before he can have this conversation.
“You saw Lucifer, Dean, not Sam,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a small child.
“For now.”
“No, forever. It’s in him, Dean, and it’s not getting out.”
“How do you know that?” Dean yells, and Castiel is frighteningly aware of how stretched thin Dean is, like an elastic pulled taut and ready to snap. “How can you know if you’ve never tried? We have no idea what I can do!”
“Anything Sam can do you can do better?” Castiel asks, “Really?”
“Why not?” Dean demands, and his expression is fierce, glowing. “I’m just as much a holy vessel as he is, and I’ve got you instead of some demon whore.”
Right now Castiel feels - guiltily - like he has a lot in common with that demon whore, actually. ‘So you’re going to single-handedly kill the devil?” It sounds even more ridiculous out loud than in did in Cas’ head.
“And save my brother while I’m at it,” Dean confirms, “Who needs Michael? Never trust an angel to do a human’s job. Lucifer’s the same brand of cockroach I’ve been squashing my whole life, only bigger.”
Castiel recognizes the expression on Dean’s face like he’d recognize a long lost friend, if he had any. It’s hope and it’s lighting Dean up from the inside. This Dean is wondrously, beautifully familiar, he’s everything Cas has longed for these past years, and yet Castiel thinks he hates him now.
“You pull him out and Sam will be dead anyway,” Cas asserts, though he knows this Dean and he knows it won’t work.
“Jimmy was fine, and I shot you a bunch of times.”
“The camp needs you.”
“Risa and Kyle can take care of things. And it’s only a matter of time before he comes to us anyway.”
“I won’t help you kill yourself,” Cas says, but he knows it’s a lie, and Dean does to.
“Please,” Dean says. Beautiful, familiar, alive Dean with something to fight for again. Castiel reaches into Dean’s back pocket for the knife. He’d always known he’d end up giving everything for Dean Winchester, after all.
***
Dean doesn’t bother conserving energy now. He’s all action and motion, rushing around the camp giving orders like he’s never been comfortable doing before. He doesn’t wait until dinner to call the meeting, and for once they gather in Dean’s cabin during the day. The place is even bleaker in the sunlight.
Risa’s here, this time, though she doesn’t sit down and hovers around the doorway, as if ready to bolt if Dean makes any sudden movements. Jeff and Kyle are present too, and Chuck, though he hasn’t had time to get his pencil or notebook.
“I’m leaving first thing in the morning,” Dean announces, and no one seems very surprised. “Jeff and Risa can take charge while I’m gone.” Dean doesn’t look at them as he makes the appointment. “Chuck, I’ll need one of the Jeeps.”
“What can we do?” Jeff asks.
“Nothing. Just go on as usual. If everything goes according to plan I’ll be back in a week and we can start repopulating the planet or whatever.” Dean doesn’t mention the bringing Sam back part of the plan, probably because they might shoot him in the legs again if he did.
“You’re not taking anyone with you?” Risa asks. She looks worried, and Castiel, for maybe the first time, feels bad for her.
“I’m going with him,” Castiel says, though he knows that’s unlikely to give her much comfort.
“No,” Dean breaks in, voice firm but somehow also gentle, “you’re not.”
“Bullshit,” Cas snaps, “I always come.”
“Not this time. The camp needs you.”
“You need me, asshole.”
“I’ll need you here, when I get back. I’m not arguing with you on this one, Cas.”
“You can’t stop me.” Cas stomps his boots up onto the table to emphasize his point.
“I don’t want you there.” Dean’s voice is icy cold. “You’ll only get in our way.” Castiel is too stunned to think of a retort, too thrown by the “our,” by the knowledge that Dean is again, already, turning away from him for Sam.
“Can I come with you, then?” Chuck’s voice is soft, but defiant, and the whole table turns to look at him.
Dean smiles, looks almost touched for a moment. “Naw,” he says, “You two will just need to take care of each other for awhile.”
***
“Shit,” Castiel groans, “Ow.” Dean’d slammed him into the wall again, only this time face-first so he’d totally smashed his nose. “Jesus, Dean.”
“Sorry, baby,” Dean says, sarcastic. “I didn’t realize you were so fragile.” He busies himself undoing the buttons on Cas’ shirt, reaching around and pushing his body against Castiel’s, and Cas against the wall. He kisses the back of Castiel’s neck.
“You don’t need to make a big production out of fucking me for it,” Cas snaps, “I’ll just give you what you want and you can get going.” He pushes himself off the wall and slides out of Dean’s grasp, unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way as he moves.
Dean lets him go.
“Here.” Cas lets his shirt drop to the floor, pulls his own knife out of his back pocket. He holds it to his own throat. “Let’s skip straight to the good part, yeah? You don’t need to butter me up.”
Dean moves closer, and reaches out to grip the knife handle. They stand together, breathing the same air. Castiel can feel the cold of the blade against his skin, though it isn’t biting yet. Then Dean kisses him, firmly, and Cas lets his grip go slack.
Dean pushes Castiel until the back of his knees meet the bed-frame, then manoeuvres them both down onto the thin mattress. He pulls the blade safely away from Castiel’s throat as they fall.
Castiel has to admit, he definitely prefers being horizontal, back pressed into a mattress, to being vertical, back pressed against a wall. He’s so busy revelling in the new softness he doesn’t put up much of a fight when Dean forces his wrists together and above his head, pinning them against the bed with one hand. Castiel knows he couldn’t escape from Dean now, recognizes the irony in how and why Dean is so much stronger than him.
Dean duck his head to lick his throat, and Castiel braces himself for the pain, squeezing his eyes shut tight. But instead of a bite, all Cas feels is the softness of Dean’s mouth, the fluttering of Dean’s quick breaths against his skin. Castiel makes a small sound, half moan and half sigh, as his tensed muscles, still expecting a fight, all seem to relax simultaneously.
Dean’s mouth moves away, leaving a cold patch of wet skin in its wake, and Cas hesitantly opens his eyes to see where it’s gone.
With the hand not pinning Castiel’s wrist, Dean snaps the knife closed and drops it. It lands on the rug next to the bed with a muffled thump. Then Dean releases Castiel’s wrists, leaning over to reach into the bedside drawer, where he knows Cas keeps the lube. He grinds his hips shamelessly into Castiel’s as he straightens up again, and grins wickedly when Castiel gasps. The moonlight on Dean’s teeth makes Cas shiver.
Dean helps Castiel out of the rest of his clothes, then efficiently shucks his own. It’s getting chilly outside but they don’t waste electricity on heating until they absolutely have to, and the cold rises thousands of tiny goosebumps across Dean’s skin. Castiel has no goosebumps of his own because Dean’s body and their friction keep him warm.
When they’re finished, Dean doesn’t leave. Instead, he pulls Castiel’s quilt over their bodies and up to their chins. They face one another, limbs entwined, but Castiel can’t bring himself to look Dean in the eye. He’s more afraid of what he might find in Dean’s face than he thinks he’s ever been of anything in his life. Instead, he traces the pink handprint still faintly visible on Dean’s shoulder with one finger, over and over again.
“You can ask me now,” he assures Dean, gently. “You know I’ll say yes.” Dean has given Cas what he needed, after all, it only seems fair to return the favour.
“I know," Dean answers, lips barely moving, “And that’s what scares me.”
They lie in silence for seconds, minutes, maybe even hours.
“Are you going to sleep?” Cas finally asks.
“I haven’t slept in three days,” Dean admits, “and I feel better than I have in years.” He says it guiltily, as if feeling good is something to be ashamed of.
“Angels don’t sleep,” Cas mutters, newly conscious of his own aching limbs and drooping eyelids.
“See, that’s the thing,” Dean’s urgency startles Cas out of his sleepiness. He really doesn’t seem tired for once; Cas can feel his limbs twitching restlessly. Dean should be digging up a grave, or fighting a monster, or driving his car right now. “Sammy and I...we kept each other human.”
Castiel hears fear in Dean’s voice, and it’s contagious. He suddenly feels very awake, knows it’s vitally important he make sense right now. “Well if you start wearing starched suits, or teaching morality lessons in the most complicated ways possible, or calling people mud-monkeys, I’ll be sure to cut you off.”
“I’m not worried,” Dean interrupts, “about the angel blood making me less human. I’m worried that being willing to drink it means I’m already too far gone.” The desperation is his voice is thick, and Castiel thinks he might choke on it. “The whole idea was that Sam and I would stand up for people while you guys played your stupid chess game. But I’m the chess master now, aren’t I? The things I’m willing to do, the people I’ve hurt. He strokes the bruising on Castiel’s neck with the calloused pads of his fingers as he speaks. “ Maybe what Risa said was true. I haven’t felt human in a long, long time Cas.”
Castiel makes up his mind then, and wordlessly leans over the edge of the bed to retrieve his switchblade. “Well,” he says as he cuts a fresh line, deep, and just below his wrist. “If it’s Sam you need to feel human again, you’ll have to go get him.”
Dean’s eyes are hungry as he watches the blood well up around the incision. Castiel’s not certain Dean is even listening to him anymore, As he leans over to press his wrist to Dean’s waiting mouth, two perfect drops of dark red blood drip onto Dean’s bare chest. As Dean sucks - desperately - at his wrist, Castiel bends to lick the droplets up. They taste like metal and tears.
Castiel shifts onto his side so he can watch Dean drink. It hurts like a bitch - especially since Cas hasn’t popped a pill in hours - but it’s the kind of pain that reminds Castiel he’s still alive, and practically human. Maybe ever more human than the man next to him.
Cas’ eyelids droop and he starts to feel dizzy. He knows he should stop Dean before he passes out, but he can’t bring himself to say anything, can’t be the one to bring an end to what might be Dean’s last moment of ecstasy. Besides, he’s not sure Dean would hear him, anyway. The room feels very, very cold. Castiel’s legs fall asleep and his fingertips go numb, and still Dean drinks, even as his angel finally falls asleep.
***
Chuck sits next to Castiel’s cot, expression a combination of genuine concern and thinly veiled smugness. Periodically, he tries to make Castiel take a sip of juice, but he can’t seem to hold anything down. Castiel feels worse than he’s ever felt in his entire life, but he’s not sure if it’s the blood loss or Dean’s absence.
“You could be dead, you know. He could’ve killed you,” Chuck says. “This was a terrible, terrible plan.”
“I know,” Castiel groans.
“Like, when I write my novel this is going to go down as either the stupidest move ever made in the entire series, or the most romantic.”
“Maybe both,” Cas suggests.
“Maybe,” Chuck agrees.
Castiel doesn’t like how Chuck is staring at him like he’s a total idiot, so he closes his eyes. He hopes he’ll be able to float away on some kind of blissful drugged-up sleep, but instead all he can see is Dean, bending over his bed ago, plastic milk jug filled with sloshing red liquid in one hand.
“I’ll see you soon,” he promises, and Castiel just snorts. Dean looks like he’s somehow gained weight in a matter of hours. His cheekbones are less sharp and his eyes aren’t sunken. He looks strong and healthy and ready to kill some fucking monsters, once he has his partner back. And maybe his car.
Castiel’s not an idiot. He knows that this is pretty much a suicide mission. He also knows that if Dean somehow got Sam back, they’d really have no reason to come back to this shithole. There would be monsters to kill, rogue demons to catch, and five years of lost time to make up for. Dean’s been miserable in Camp Chitaqua, and chances are, if he had the chance, he’d jump at the opportunity to put it all behind him, to pretend it never happened. Realistically, Cas knows that whether Dean pulls it off or not, he’s not coming back.
But Castiel is sick and tired of realism. He knows there’s no God anymore and he doesn’t have a lot of faith in any other mystic forces aligning to help them. But he wants to believe in something, and he thinks that something might be Dean.
“I’ll see you both soon,” he mumbles, as Dean kisses his forehead.
Back to Part One
Only the smell of something delicious is enough to make Castiel sit up and push away the covers. His left arm stings when he does so, but only a little. There’s a bandage wrapped around his forearm, expertly tied. Following his nose to the delicious smell, Cas notices a single, perfect orange sitting on a nearby chair. For a moment he thinks he’s hallucinating; they haven’t had tropical fruit in years. Castiel crawls to the chair and picks it up, sniffing it and stroking its unblemished peel.
“Hey Cas,” Chuck says from the doorway, and Castiel hides the fruit guiltily behind his back. “You rearrange the furniture?”
“Uh, yeah. Fung shui, you know.”
Chuck nods, and doesn’t move to step over the cot blocking his path. “These are for you,” he says, tossing a brown paper bag into Cas’ lap. A thrill runs through Castiel’s veins when he opens it and finds five or six plastic pill bottles - all full - inside.
“I thought you weren’t going to enable my self-destruction anymore?”
“I’m not,” Chuck snaps back, irritated, “but I don’t make the rules around here. Dean said you could have them.” He turns and walks away, probably to hassle someone about their overenthusiastic use of T.P.
Castiel sits, brown paper bag in one hand and perfect orange in the other, not sure if they represent a thank-you, an apology, or a trade.
***
Castiel pops four of the pills - new purple ones he doesn’t recognize - before dinner that night. He’d avoid going if he could, but he’s fucking ravenous, so hungry he feels weak and light-headed, and he can’t bring himself to actually eat the orange.
The head table is more full of chatter than usual - apparently even the leadership have been cheered by the new abundance of supplies. Everyone also smells significantly better than usual.
When Castiel takes his seat, Risa smiles at him and there’s no malice in it. Castiel grunts back at her, because he’s afraid if he speaks all that will come out is “Food. Now.” He rests his head on his arms and tries to look as pitiful as possible so Chuck will go get his bowl for him.
“What happened to your arm?’ Kyle asks.
“I fell,” Castiel lies easily. “On the way to the can.”
“Smooth, Cas.” Dean says, putting a bowl in front of Cas before squeezing onto the bench next to him. Castiel would’ve scowled, but the food - chicken soup actually identifiable as such, with chunks of some kind of wild game added - smells too delicious. He’s halfway through the bowl before he notices that there’s way too much, that Dean must’ve switched their bowls. He’s about to feel guilty when he notices that Dean’s bowl in nearly empty, making this the first time in months Dean has really eaten in the mess hall.
Everyone else is watching Dean too, it seems, though he’s oblivious. He and Chuck are discussing how best to ration the canned tuna that was part of yesterday’s haul, but everyone else is silent. Dean looks good, alive and healthy and vibrant. The circles under his eyes are lighter, the creases in his forehead smoothed out, and he gestures - energetically - as he speaks. Castiel can see the change in Dean affect everyone else around the table; he notices their muscles relax, their jaws unclench and their breathing slow.
Castiel’s knows he’s responsible for all of it, and for the first time, he feels like he’s pulling his weight around here. He lets the friendly company, the soup and the new purple pills warm him to his bones, and comes strangely close to something like contentment.
That is, until he overhears Dean, leaning over to whisper to Chuck, say “I’m going to need you to find me a demon.”
***
The problem with trying to fight Dean Winchester is that it’s really hard and Castiel is really high. So when he tries to shove Dean against a wall to prove his point, he ends up pinned against it instead, dizzy. And come to think of it being pressed against Dean’s cabin wall is becoming a regular fucking habit and he’s beginning to feel a bit taken for granted.
“Let go of me!” Cas screams, and he’s maybe a bit hysterical but who could blame him? “Fucking...get off!”
“Okay,” Dean agrees, which is pretty unexpected actually, “Just be careful.” Castiel doesn’t know what Dean’s talking about until he releases Castiel’s shoulders and the world starts to tilt alarmingly. Dean catches him, and Castiel seizes the opportunity and tries to land a punch. Somehow, he ends up on the ground.
“Jesus, Cas, you know you used to be a mighty warrior, don’t you?” Dean quips from somewhere above him.
“And you used to be less totally batshit,” Cas counters, ‘You just asked Chuck to bring you a demon.”
“Yeah, well, I need one. To test stuff on. It’s scientific.”
“All we fight is Croats,” Castiel points out. “Not demons.” They had stopped running into real demons about a year ago. Now the demons let the virus do their dirty work for them in most places, focusing their attention on the few huge military-run camps and Washington, where what’s left of Congress is holed up pretending to be in charge.
“For now,” Dean says. “But aren’t you curious about what I can do, Cas? What we can do?”
“I know what we can do,” Cas snaps, rubbing his head where they’re definitely going to be a goose egg in a few hours. “Or I think I do, anyway.”
“Really?” Dean is interested now, and crouches so he’s closer to Cas’ eye level. “How do you know?”
“I read it. In a book. Like a sane person.” He winces as he touches his head, and he really does think he might be bleeding.
“What did you read?” Dean asks, and he moves to sit behind Castiel, brushing aside his hair to inspect the injury. Cas knows he’s supposed to be mad, but Dean’s fingers in his hair feel altogether too good.
“Well, Lucifer was an angel, right? And there are all these theories about how he made the demons. I mean, they call him their Creator but we’ve never exactly figured out how he did it.” Castiel loses his train of thought and trails off when Dean strokes one finger down the skin behind his ear.
“Okay. I’m following you so far,” Dean prompts.
“Right. So one of these theories is that Lucifer mixed his blood with creatures and spirits. He didn’t think God should have a monopoly on Creation. I guess you could say he was a scientist.”
Dean accepts the dig without complaint. He’s rubbing Cas’ shoulders now and despite his best efforts, Cas can’t hold onto his tension.
“Some people think that’s where werewolves came from, actually, but no one knows for sure. In any case, the demons seemed to work out for him.”
“What does all this have to do with us?” Dean asks, and Castiel loves it when he says us.
Castiel snorts. “Idiot,” he says fondly, “What Sam was drinking was just really really watered down angel blood, mixed with something evil and demon-y. You’re getting the good stuff.”
Dean takes too long formulating his question, but Castiel can’t be bothered to care when his eyelids are so heavy and Dean’s hands are so warm. “Even when your mojo’s gone?”
“Probably,” Cas answers with a sigh, “I mean, I’m powered down, but my vessel’s blood is still his blood, and my Grace is intact. The batteries are run down, but, inherently, I am what I am. Practically human, but not technically.”
Someone shivers, but Castiel can’t be sure if it’s him or Dean. Castiel can’t see Dean’s face and he’s glad, afraid of what he might find there if he looked.
“You’re the only angel left,” Dean observes, more to himself than to Cas. “And you’re mine.”
***
It’s Friday, so Castiel is supposed to be hosting at least one orgy today. Instead, the cot is pulled in front of his doorway again, and he and Dean are lying on his rug, making out. Castiel is actually pretty pleased with this change of pace.
“Cas, don’t you trust me?” Dean mumbles between kisses.
“Shut up.” Castiel rolls so he’s straddling Dean, wiggling until their bodies fit snugly together.
“I trust you, you know,” Dean continues, and Cas isn’t sure he believes him. He covers Dean’s mouth with one hand to keep him quiet.
Gently, not nearly hard enough to break skin, Dean bites his palm. The pressure - it’s not even pain, yet - makes Castiel’s whole body shake, and he pulls his hand away with a gasp.
“I promise it’ll feel good,” Dean croons and then smiles and Cas can’t even remember the last time he saw Dean really smile.
“Fuck,” Castiel moans, which Dean correctly interprets as assent. Dean flips them back over, then reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a Swiss army knife.
“Hold on,” Cas says, and reaches into his own back pocket. He pops the last three of the purple pills, which are definitely his new favourite. “Okay.”
Dean unwraps the bandage on Cas’ arm with a sort of reverence. He sets the wrappings carefully aside, then holds the knife to Castiel’s skin. He cuts slowly, careful not to go too deep, and Castiel barely feels any pain through the haze of the pills and the whiskey they’d shared earlier. There are three parallel lines on Castiel’s arm now, the oldest merely pink, Wednesday night’s still angry and inflamed, and now today’s, ruby-red and wet.
Dean slides off of Castiel and lies on his side, his body pressed close. He holds Castiel’s left wrist firmly with his right hand and lowers his mouth to the line of blood. Castiel hisses at the contact of Dean’s tongue, relishing the rush of pleasure which courses through his body in response. Dean groans, and the sound goes straight to Castiel’s cock. He thrusts futilely into the air, and Dean tightens his grip on Castiel’s wrists, as if he’s worried he might try to escape.
With his free hand, Dean reaches over Castiel’s body and unbuttons and unzips his jeans. He grunts encouragingly, and Cas scoots up just enough to let Dean pull his pants down a few inches. Dean slides his hand past the waistband of Castiel’s boxers and then he’s simultaneously sucking at Castiel’s arm and jerking him off, and Castiel’s already addled brain short circuits.
Between the burning, pleasure-pain in his arm and the pressure-friction of Dean’s calloused hand on his cock, Cas knows he won’t be able to last long. He tries to tell Dean to slow down, to hold off for a minute, but all that comes out of his mouth is a series of increasingly desperate moans. Either Dean doesn’t understand him or he just doesn’t care and Castiel actually sees stars as he comes harder than he has in his life, shaking and writhing while Dean struggles to hold his arm still as he drinks. Castiel watches Dean’s Adam’s apple as he swallows, and there’s something magical about the matching rhythms of Dean’s gulps and the pulses of his orgasm.
Castiel’s not sure if Dean comes or not, but when he finally pulls his mouth away from Castiel’s arm his lips are bruised and his pupils are blown and fuck Castiel did that to Dean. When Dean smiles down at him his teeth are tinged with red.
***
Dean takes Chuck “hunting” with him that night after dinner, so of course Castiel follows them. Chuck on a hunting trip is about as useful as a slingshot in a fight against a ghost, so he’s damn sure something else is going on, and he has a pretty good hunch about what that is.
There’s a clearing an hour’s hike outside the camp, and Castiel’s not the world’s best hiker. Honestly, Dean definitely would have caught him if Chuck hadn’t been making at least twice as much noise. Anyway, he’s pretty lucky to trail them all the way to the clearing without being spotted, and he’s relieved when he can crouch behind a bush to watch the action.
Risa’s waiting in the clearing, holding a rifle over one shoulder. She’s standing a safe distance from the demon. It’s wearing a male body, and it’s tied to a chair placed over a devil’s trap, expertly drawn in the dirt with white chalk.
The demon snarls when Dean approaches, then laughs. “Still at it, Winchester?” it asks. “Do you even have anything left to lose at this point?”
“You know what?” Dean says, voice casual. “You’re right. I have kind of hit rock bottom. But the good news is, I don’t have anywhere to go but up.”
Dean holds out his hand and twists his wrist a few degrees to the right, like he’s turning a doorknob. The demon shrieks once, shrilly, and a stream of white light bursts from its open mouth. Castiel closes his eyes tightly, and when he opens them again there are red dots dancing across his eyeballs. Castiel remembers that white light, remembers creating it himself. That demon is history.
Risa whistles, then check’s the guy in the chair’s pulse. “Dead a long time ago,” she says, matter of fact.
Chuck stares at Dean, half-horrified and half-confused. “Demon blood, really Dean?” he accuses, though he must have noticed the suspicious lack of grey smoke which always accompanied Sam’s demon-removal services.
“Naw,” Dean scoffs, “something a little classier than that.”
It takes Chuck a moment to catch on, but when he does his eyes go wide. “Fuck, Cas’ arm.”
“Okay, someone’s gonna have to catch me up,” Risa interrupts, “What did you just do, Winchester, and can you teach me how?”
“No, he can’t,” Chuck snaps, and the guy actually looks pissed. “How could you do that to Cas?”
“Do what?” Dean retorts, “Cas is just fine.”
“I assume we’re not talking about their fucking here,” Risa interjects.
“Oh, probably, it was always part of the deal with Sam and Ruby.”
“You shut the fuck up about Sam!” Dean yells, and Cas is nervous for Chuck’s safety. Apparently Chuck feels the same way, because he ducks behind Risa.
“Chuck,” she says, clearly not as afraid of Dean as she should be, “what is Dean doing to Cas?”
“Drinking his blood for the superpowers.”
Castiel sort of expects Risa to shrug and tell Chuck to lighten up, to stand by Dean’s side like she always does. “Maybe we should stay back,” she says to Chuck, “and bury the body. You can go ahead without us.” She doesn’t look at Dean when she speaks to him.
“Risa,” Dean says, “you’re a hunter. I thought of all people you would understand.”
“Yeah, I’m a hunter. Which makes me pretty good at recognizing monsters.”
Dean looks like he might yell, or hit her, but instead her turns on his heel and stalks back toward the camp. Cas steps out from behind the bush as Dean passes, because he knows his odds of following Dean home without getting caught are slim to none anyway.
“Hey,” Dean says, without the slightest hint of surprise.
“Boo?”
“I knew you were there,” Dean explains, “the whole time.”
“How?” Cas asks, “I was pretty sure Chuck the baby elephant was drowning me out.”
“I couldn’t hear you. I could feel you there.” Dean shrugs.
“That’s new.”
“Yeah.”
“So was that little parlour trick you just pulled.” Instinctively, Castiel reaches out to hold Dean’s hand, and he’s surprised when Dean lets him.
“I think the rest of my audience was less than impressed.”
Castiel isn’t sure himself how he feels about Dean’s new skills, but he knows that losing all his friends can’t help him. “I give you a nine out of ten.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean challenges him, mock offended. “And what would have earned me a ten?”
“Sparkles, glitter, maybe some hot pink.”
“Hey dude,” Dean chuckles, “I just killed a demon with the power of my mind. I think I deserve some credit.”
“It was pretty cool,” Castiel concedes. “Are you tired?”
“Not at all. It was crazy-easy, Cas,” and Castiel can see from the spring in Dean’s step that it’s true.
They walk in silence for a few minutes, Dean steering Cas away from the more cleverly-disguised tree roots. “I’m sorry about Chuck and Risa,” Cas says.
“Don’t be.” Dean’s voice is steely again. “That was easy too.”
***
Dean and Castiel both arrive late to the meeting this time. Risa isn’t there to glare at them, and everyone else in the room seems really conscious of her empty seat. Castiel tries, but he can’t bite back his grin when Dean pulls back that very chair for him. He sits with an immense sense of satisfaction hampered only slightly by Chuck’s death glare from across the table. Cas wonders whether Chuck might try to stab either him or Dean with his minute-taking pencil.
“So,” Dean says, “I need everyone to get their ears to the ground, sends scouts out if you can, find out where Lucifer is.”
“Aren’t we jumping the gun a bit?” Jeff says, “Don’t you want to see the proposals?”
“What?” Dean says, dumbly.
“The proposals,” Chuck snaps, “for getting rid of Lucifer? You asked us all to have them ready for tonight.” He holds up his clipboard for emphasis.
“Oh, right,” Dean responds, “Well I just figure any plan is gonna involve finding him, right? I’ll look over those uh, proposals, tonight. You wanna help, Cas?”
***
Castiel wakes up in the middle of the night with Dean’s mouth wrapped around his cock. At first he thinks he’s dreaming, but even his hallucinations aren’t quite this vivid. Cas luxuriates in the warm, wet awesome, for a few minutes, then moans, partially to let Dean know he’s awake and partially to say don’t-you-dare-stop.
Dean hums, low in his throat, in response and Cas feels the vibration reverberate through his entire body. Castiel struggles to sit up slightly, leaning back on his elbows so he can see Dean by the moonlight filtering in through the cabin windows. He watches Dean bob up and down on is cock and he thinks this boy’s gonna be the death of me and then reaches down to tangle one hand in Dean’s hair, encouragingly.
When he comes - embarrassingly soon, for someone who claims to be trained in tantric sex - Dean swallows him down and Castiel finds himself fascinated, again, with the motion of Dean’s Adam apple. He uses the hand still tangled in Dean’s hair to drag him up for a kiss, low and slow and wet.
“S’good?” Dean asks, against Cas’ skin.
“Mmmmfp,” he replies.
Castiel settles happily into his usual post-sex haze, so it takes a few minutes for him to become conscious of Dean’s mouth at his throat, worrying at a piece of skin with his front teeth. “Am I being nibbled?” he asks sleepily.
“Maybe,” Dean admits. His breath is hot and his voice is low, but he sounds almost happy and Castiel doesn’t really have a choice then, does he?
“Knock yourself out,” Cas says, and Dean bites down hard.
***
Dean tries to sneak away the next morning, but Cas grabs onto his leg and holds on for dear life. Dean has apparently spent the night in Cas’ cabin, and that’s not something he wants to end.
“Uh, Cas, what’s the problem?”
“Don’t leave.”
“I’m just going to grab some breakfast, and then I’ve got a mission to prep for.”
“Don’t leave,” Cas repeats.
“I can’t just stay here all day,” Dean insists, making a half-hearted attempt to shake Cas off his leg. “We’re running short on penicillin and morphine and flour, remember?” Cas does not remember. Cas is not Chuck, so he doesn’t keep a mental inventory of the camp’s supplies, but he lets go of Dean’s leg anyway.
“Come see me before you leave,” he demands, and he watches Dean’s brow furrow. He and Cas have never said goodbye before a mission before, and they’ve never had a problem going without seeing each other for as long as a week at a time.
“Yeah, okay,” Dean says.
The moment Dean’s gone, Castiel scrambles to stand up, pulling up his pants as he does so. He doesn’t bother to change his clothes or straighten up his hair. He knows he looks like shit - especially now that there’s a bandage on his neck to match the one on his arm - but he goes outside anyway, squinting into the bright sunlight.
Castiel doesn’t bother to ask Chuck’s permission to access the supply shed; there’s no way that request would be approved. He’s a bit worried about the guard posted at the door, but when the guy recognizes him, he steps back anxiously.
“Hey Cas,” he says, and yeah, he’s definitely attended an orgy or two but that doesn’t explain why he looks so intimidated.
“Hey,” Castiel can’t remember the guys name, “man. I need some supplies.”
The guy looks over both shoulders, then lowers the gun. “Okay,” he says, “just be quick about it.” Castiel wonders if it’s the way he looks or if word has gotten around camp about what he and Dean are doing. Whatever it is, this guy is scared of Castiel and it makes him nostalgic for the good old days.
“Keep watch,” he barks, and he feels almost like a warrior again.
Inside the shed he grabs a military canteen, syringe and medical tubing, and a fresh bottle of antiseptic. He pauses at the shelf of drugs - pretty, pretty drugs - but grabs only a bottle of Aspirin.
“Thanks,” he calls behind him as he leaves the shed, tucking the equipment under his jacket.
Back in his cabin, Castiel pushes the cot back in front of his door. He doesn’t expect visitors this early in the morning - and people have been coming by a lot less often lately anyway - but it makes him feel more secure.
Cas tears a long strip off of one of his old shirts and fashions it into a tourniquet, tying it tightly around his upper arm. Castiel hadn’t spent a lot of time on injected narcotics; pills were just so much more sanitary and portable, but he has no trouble at all finding a vein and inserting the syringe. Tricky part over, he pops a few pills and sits back, watching his own blood flow through the tubing and drip drip drip into the canteen, opening his hand and flexing his muscles periodically to increase the blood flow.
Castiel removes the needle when the canteen’s half full, which turns out to have been a good idea because he feels a bit dizzy when he tries to move. It’s not a lot of blood - he’s lost more than that in fights before - but there’s probably a reason people are supposed to wait a few weeks between blood donations. Castiel carefully disinfects the area, and slaps on a band-aid from his first aid kit. Then he eats Dean’s orange before trying to stand up, and finds that he feels much better.
Castiel uses his mortar and pestle to crush a few Aspirin into a fine powder, then pours it carefully into the canteen, swirling the liquid around so the powder will dissolve. He puts the cap on the canteen, moves the cot back in place and hides all his equipment underneath it, then collapses onto it, exhausted.
“Cas, hey, Cas.” Dean pushes gently at Castiel’s shoulder to wake him. “I didn’t know you actually ever slept in your bed.”
“I don’t,” Cas says, “Despite evidence to the contrary.” He swallows hard because his mouth feels dry. “Are you leaving?”
“Yeah, but I should be back sometime tonight.” Dean’s deliberately keeping his voice casual, the way he does when the civilians get skittish, and Cas can’t believe Dean thinks that will work on him.
“Take that,” Cas says, using his chin to point at the canteen resting on the floor.
“I’ve got one, thanks.”
“Look inside.”
Dean does, and his face changes in a way that’s unfamiliar to Castiel. “Cas...”
“I put some Aspirin in there, to keep it from clotting too fast, though you might need to add water or something,” Cas explains, picking at his quilt so he doesn’t need to look at Dean.
“Cas,” Dean says again, and he pulls Cas’ chin up to meet his eyes, “Thank you.” Then he kisses Castiel firmly on the mouth and is gone.
***
Castiel doesn’t hear the telltale gravel-crunching on the main road until nearly twenty-four hours have passed, and he might have collapsed with relief if he hadn’t been so busy running. He’s not the only person making a dash for the gate; the team had been gone nearly three times as long as they were supposed to have been, and people gone longer than they’re supposed to be generally don’t come back at all.
At first Castiel can’t tell how many have returned, the bodies look so tangled into one. But as he gets closer he separates them, can see three figures, a man and a woman supporting another man who stands between them. Dean, Castiel realizes as he arrives at the gate, Dean must be injured.
But Dean doesn’t seem to agree with Cas’ assessment, or the support of the soldiers holding him up. When he notices Castiel arrive, panting, he tears away from their arms and starts off down the path to Cas’ cabin, limping slightly. “Come on,” he growls.
Cas starts after him, but stops short when someone calls his name. “Cas,” the man shouts, and Castiel recognizes now that it’s Jeff. “Cas, wait.”
Cas doesn’t want to stop, but something about the horror in Jeff’s voice, so out of place after a safe return home, stops him short. “What?”
Jeff’s lip is bleeding and he has one hell of a black eye. The third member of the team - a woman Cas doesn’t know - is in just as rough shape. “We shot him,” Jeff says, “We had to shoot him.”
“Who?” Castiel asks, and he wants to add And why should I care?
“Dean. We shot Dean. Twice in each leg.”
Castiel squints at Jeff. “That’s impossible.” He turns to watch Dean turn the corner, walking briskly. “Are you fucking with me?”
Jeff shakes his head, and he looks just as astonished as Castiel feels. “He was going to get himself killed and he just wouldn’t stop so we had to shoot him to drag him home.”
“Four times,” Castiel repeats, for clarity’s sake. “And now he’s walking like he’s got a slight sprain.” It’s probably not a Croat that gave Jeff the black eye, then.
Jeff nods, and Castiel takes off after Dean.
“So,” he says as he enters the cabin, stepping over the cot that Dean has apparently pushed in front of the door. “I hear you’re indestructible now or something.”
Dean is lying on Castiel’s rug, staring up at the rainbows dancing on the ceiling. “Remember how you said demon blood is just really diluted angel blood?” He asks, which is a pretty impressive non-sequiter.
“Yeah,” Castiel says, joining Dean on the rug, “I remember.”
“So like, I’m probably better at stuff than Sam was, right?”
“Don’t you think you’re a little old for sibling rivalry?” Cas counters, because he has a bad feeling about actually answering the question.
“Like, he just pulled demons out of people’s bodies most of the time, and I’m actually killing them instantly. And he couldn’t heal like this; I know, I patched him up plenty of times while he was on Ruby’s blood. You said it yourself, Cas, I’m getting the good stuff.”
Castiel can feel the momentum in Dean’s words. He isn’t sure yet where that momentum will lead, but the thought makes his blood run cold.
“I saw him, Cas,” Dean practically whispers.
Castiel knows there are only two possible names on Dean’s tongue, and he can feel their destinies balanced on the knife blade of Dean’s choice. “Who?” he asks.
“Sam.” Dean’s voice doesn’t falter on the name anymore. “I saw Sam.”
***
Castiel has to swallow half a dozen of the blue pills and two shots of absinthe before he can have this conversation.
“You saw Lucifer, Dean, not Sam,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a small child.
“For now.”
“No, forever. It’s in him, Dean, and it’s not getting out.”
“How do you know that?” Dean yells, and Castiel is frighteningly aware of how stretched thin Dean is, like an elastic pulled taut and ready to snap. “How can you know if you’ve never tried? We have no idea what I can do!”
“Anything Sam can do you can do better?” Castiel asks, “Really?”
“Why not?” Dean demands, and his expression is fierce, glowing. “I’m just as much a holy vessel as he is, and I’ve got you instead of some demon whore.”
Right now Castiel feels - guiltily - like he has a lot in common with that demon whore, actually. ‘So you’re going to single-handedly kill the devil?” It sounds even more ridiculous out loud than in did in Cas’ head.
“And save my brother while I’m at it,” Dean confirms, “Who needs Michael? Never trust an angel to do a human’s job. Lucifer’s the same brand of cockroach I’ve been squashing my whole life, only bigger.”
Castiel recognizes the expression on Dean’s face like he’d recognize a long lost friend, if he had any. It’s hope and it’s lighting Dean up from the inside. This Dean is wondrously, beautifully familiar, he’s everything Cas has longed for these past years, and yet Castiel thinks he hates him now.
“You pull him out and Sam will be dead anyway,” Cas asserts, though he knows this Dean and he knows it won’t work.
“Jimmy was fine, and I shot you a bunch of times.”
“The camp needs you.”
“Risa and Kyle can take care of things. And it’s only a matter of time before he comes to us anyway.”
“I won’t help you kill yourself,” Cas says, but he knows it’s a lie, and Dean does to.
“Please,” Dean says. Beautiful, familiar, alive Dean with something to fight for again. Castiel reaches into Dean’s back pocket for the knife. He’d always known he’d end up giving everything for Dean Winchester, after all.
***
Dean doesn’t bother conserving energy now. He’s all action and motion, rushing around the camp giving orders like he’s never been comfortable doing before. He doesn’t wait until dinner to call the meeting, and for once they gather in Dean’s cabin during the day. The place is even bleaker in the sunlight.
Risa’s here, this time, though she doesn’t sit down and hovers around the doorway, as if ready to bolt if Dean makes any sudden movements. Jeff and Kyle are present too, and Chuck, though he hasn’t had time to get his pencil or notebook.
“I’m leaving first thing in the morning,” Dean announces, and no one seems very surprised. “Jeff and Risa can take charge while I’m gone.” Dean doesn’t look at them as he makes the appointment. “Chuck, I’ll need one of the Jeeps.”
“What can we do?” Jeff asks.
“Nothing. Just go on as usual. If everything goes according to plan I’ll be back in a week and we can start repopulating the planet or whatever.” Dean doesn’t mention the bringing Sam back part of the plan, probably because they might shoot him in the legs again if he did.
“You’re not taking anyone with you?” Risa asks. She looks worried, and Castiel, for maybe the first time, feels bad for her.
“I’m going with him,” Castiel says, though he knows that’s unlikely to give her much comfort.
“No,” Dean breaks in, voice firm but somehow also gentle, “you’re not.”
“Bullshit,” Cas snaps, “I always come.”
“Not this time. The camp needs you.”
“You need me, asshole.”
“I’ll need you here, when I get back. I’m not arguing with you on this one, Cas.”
“You can’t stop me.” Cas stomps his boots up onto the table to emphasize his point.
“I don’t want you there.” Dean’s voice is icy cold. “You’ll only get in our way.” Castiel is too stunned to think of a retort, too thrown by the “our,” by the knowledge that Dean is again, already, turning away from him for Sam.
“Can I come with you, then?” Chuck’s voice is soft, but defiant, and the whole table turns to look at him.
Dean smiles, looks almost touched for a moment. “Naw,” he says, “You two will just need to take care of each other for awhile.”
***
“Shit,” Castiel groans, “Ow.” Dean’d slammed him into the wall again, only this time face-first so he’d totally smashed his nose. “Jesus, Dean.”
“Sorry, baby,” Dean says, sarcastic. “I didn’t realize you were so fragile.” He busies himself undoing the buttons on Cas’ shirt, reaching around and pushing his body against Castiel’s, and Cas against the wall. He kisses the back of Castiel’s neck.
“You don’t need to make a big production out of fucking me for it,” Cas snaps, “I’ll just give you what you want and you can get going.” He pushes himself off the wall and slides out of Dean’s grasp, unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way as he moves.
Dean lets him go.
“Here.” Cas lets his shirt drop to the floor, pulls his own knife out of his back pocket. He holds it to his own throat. “Let’s skip straight to the good part, yeah? You don’t need to butter me up.”
Dean moves closer, and reaches out to grip the knife handle. They stand together, breathing the same air. Castiel can feel the cold of the blade against his skin, though it isn’t biting yet. Then Dean kisses him, firmly, and Cas lets his grip go slack.
Dean pushes Castiel until the back of his knees meet the bed-frame, then manoeuvres them both down onto the thin mattress. He pulls the blade safely away from Castiel’s throat as they fall.
Castiel has to admit, he definitely prefers being horizontal, back pressed into a mattress, to being vertical, back pressed against a wall. He’s so busy revelling in the new softness he doesn’t put up much of a fight when Dean forces his wrists together and above his head, pinning them against the bed with one hand. Castiel knows he couldn’t escape from Dean now, recognizes the irony in how and why Dean is so much stronger than him.
Dean duck his head to lick his throat, and Castiel braces himself for the pain, squeezing his eyes shut tight. But instead of a bite, all Cas feels is the softness of Dean’s mouth, the fluttering of Dean’s quick breaths against his skin. Castiel makes a small sound, half moan and half sigh, as his tensed muscles, still expecting a fight, all seem to relax simultaneously.
Dean’s mouth moves away, leaving a cold patch of wet skin in its wake, and Cas hesitantly opens his eyes to see where it’s gone.
With the hand not pinning Castiel’s wrist, Dean snaps the knife closed and drops it. It lands on the rug next to the bed with a muffled thump. Then Dean releases Castiel’s wrists, leaning over to reach into the bedside drawer, where he knows Cas keeps the lube. He grinds his hips shamelessly into Castiel’s as he straightens up again, and grins wickedly when Castiel gasps. The moonlight on Dean’s teeth makes Cas shiver.
Dean helps Castiel out of the rest of his clothes, then efficiently shucks his own. It’s getting chilly outside but they don’t waste electricity on heating until they absolutely have to, and the cold rises thousands of tiny goosebumps across Dean’s skin. Castiel has no goosebumps of his own because Dean’s body and their friction keep him warm.
When they’re finished, Dean doesn’t leave. Instead, he pulls Castiel’s quilt over their bodies and up to their chins. They face one another, limbs entwined, but Castiel can’t bring himself to look Dean in the eye. He’s more afraid of what he might find in Dean’s face than he thinks he’s ever been of anything in his life. Instead, he traces the pink handprint still faintly visible on Dean’s shoulder with one finger, over and over again.
“You can ask me now,” he assures Dean, gently. “You know I’ll say yes.” Dean has given Cas what he needed, after all, it only seems fair to return the favour.
“I know," Dean answers, lips barely moving, “And that’s what scares me.”
They lie in silence for seconds, minutes, maybe even hours.
“Are you going to sleep?” Cas finally asks.
“I haven’t slept in three days,” Dean admits, “and I feel better than I have in years.” He says it guiltily, as if feeling good is something to be ashamed of.
“Angels don’t sleep,” Cas mutters, newly conscious of his own aching limbs and drooping eyelids.
“See, that’s the thing,” Dean’s urgency startles Cas out of his sleepiness. He really doesn’t seem tired for once; Cas can feel his limbs twitching restlessly. Dean should be digging up a grave, or fighting a monster, or driving his car right now. “Sammy and I...we kept each other human.”
Castiel hears fear in Dean’s voice, and it’s contagious. He suddenly feels very awake, knows it’s vitally important he make sense right now. “Well if you start wearing starched suits, or teaching morality lessons in the most complicated ways possible, or calling people mud-monkeys, I’ll be sure to cut you off.”
“I’m not worried,” Dean interrupts, “about the angel blood making me less human. I’m worried that being willing to drink it means I’m already too far gone.” The desperation is his voice is thick, and Castiel thinks he might choke on it. “The whole idea was that Sam and I would stand up for people while you guys played your stupid chess game. But I’m the chess master now, aren’t I? The things I’m willing to do, the people I’ve hurt. He strokes the bruising on Castiel’s neck with the calloused pads of his fingers as he speaks. “ Maybe what Risa said was true. I haven’t felt human in a long, long time Cas.”
Castiel makes up his mind then, and wordlessly leans over the edge of the bed to retrieve his switchblade. “Well,” he says as he cuts a fresh line, deep, and just below his wrist. “If it’s Sam you need to feel human again, you’ll have to go get him.”
Dean’s eyes are hungry as he watches the blood well up around the incision. Castiel’s not certain Dean is even listening to him anymore, As he leans over to press his wrist to Dean’s waiting mouth, two perfect drops of dark red blood drip onto Dean’s bare chest. As Dean sucks - desperately - at his wrist, Castiel bends to lick the droplets up. They taste like metal and tears.
Castiel shifts onto his side so he can watch Dean drink. It hurts like a bitch - especially since Cas hasn’t popped a pill in hours - but it’s the kind of pain that reminds Castiel he’s still alive, and practically human. Maybe ever more human than the man next to him.
Cas’ eyelids droop and he starts to feel dizzy. He knows he should stop Dean before he passes out, but he can’t bring himself to say anything, can’t be the one to bring an end to what might be Dean’s last moment of ecstasy. Besides, he’s not sure Dean would hear him, anyway. The room feels very, very cold. Castiel’s legs fall asleep and his fingertips go numb, and still Dean drinks, even as his angel finally falls asleep.
***
Chuck sits next to Castiel’s cot, expression a combination of genuine concern and thinly veiled smugness. Periodically, he tries to make Castiel take a sip of juice, but he can’t seem to hold anything down. Castiel feels worse than he’s ever felt in his entire life, but he’s not sure if it’s the blood loss or Dean’s absence.
“You could be dead, you know. He could’ve killed you,” Chuck says. “This was a terrible, terrible plan.”
“I know,” Castiel groans.
“Like, when I write my novel this is going to go down as either the stupidest move ever made in the entire series, or the most romantic.”
“Maybe both,” Cas suggests.
“Maybe,” Chuck agrees.
Castiel doesn’t like how Chuck is staring at him like he’s a total idiot, so he closes his eyes. He hopes he’ll be able to float away on some kind of blissful drugged-up sleep, but instead all he can see is Dean, bending over his bed ago, plastic milk jug filled with sloshing red liquid in one hand.
“I’ll see you soon,” he promises, and Castiel just snorts. Dean looks like he’s somehow gained weight in a matter of hours. His cheekbones are less sharp and his eyes aren’t sunken. He looks strong and healthy and ready to kill some fucking monsters, once he has his partner back. And maybe his car.
Castiel’s not an idiot. He knows that this is pretty much a suicide mission. He also knows that if Dean somehow got Sam back, they’d really have no reason to come back to this shithole. There would be monsters to kill, rogue demons to catch, and five years of lost time to make up for. Dean’s been miserable in Camp Chitaqua, and chances are, if he had the chance, he’d jump at the opportunity to put it all behind him, to pretend it never happened. Realistically, Cas knows that whether Dean pulls it off or not, he’s not coming back.
But Castiel is sick and tired of realism. He knows there’s no God anymore and he doesn’t have a lot of faith in any other mystic forces aligning to help them. But he wants to believe in something, and he thinks that something might be Dean.
“I’ll see you both soon,” he mumbles, as Dean kisses his forehead.
Back to Part One