[FIC] All Too Human for electrolitestar
Gift Type: Fanfic
Title: All Too Human
Author: kriari
Recipient: electrolitestar
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 3,500
Warnings Human!Castiel
Spoilers: General for S5
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, offscreen Sam
A/N: Somewhat to the prompt - Dean teaches Castiel to drive the Impala. Laughs and hot sex in the back seat ensue. Many thanks to both qthelights and cassiopeia7. Thanks to you this not only got finished, but actually makes some sense.
Summary: Humanity doesn't agree with Castiel. Or rather, Castiel doesn't agree with it.
Of all the adjustments humanity requires of him, time has proven the most difficult. The weight. The speed. Before the fall, time had been little more than an abundant commodity, endless in supply. Now there is never enough. His body moves too slowly, the days too quickly. Even absent his enhanced senses he can feel cells dying and sloughing off - dust to dust.
It's humanity that handicaps him, makes him more burden than warrior despite his millennia of experience. He's not used to being anchored or feeling pain and it makes him cautious.
Too cautious.
Sam's splinted ankle and Dean's concussion are a testament to this latest failure, another in a long line that draws him ever further from what he once was. Castiel hates it.
The wind kicks up, biting through the thin fabric of his borrowed coat, leaves skipping noisily across the pavement as if to taunt him with his own impermanence. He feels the cold now, the texture of the concrete stair beneath his palms, the rough ridge of peeling trim-work nudged against the back of his head. Anna might have understood once, but all that's left of her now is memory. Angels don't leave ashes.
The door at his back opens, a slice of warmth and light spilling down his arm, its brightness somehow immutable in a dark so deep Castiel hasn't gotten used to it yet.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Dean says, his boots heavy on the threshold and then the stair. Castiel used to be able to smell the oil Dean wipes on to make them waterproof, even if he didn't care enough to catalog. He can't anymore.
Dean sits beside him, lending some of the warmth that's lost when he closes the door. The unkempt bushes bursting from their beds crackle as he does, a tiny shower of twigs littering the ground.
"If you're brooding," Dean says, "So help me, I will kick your ass."
He's still wearing the blood-stained jeans from this morning but the knot at the base of his skull looks slightly less foreboding. The shadows cut into the hollows under his eyes are deeper, but they're doubtless more for Sam than himself.
Castiel says, "I'm sorry," and wishes it were enough to make up for almost getting them all killed.
Dean's knee knocks into his, his fingers tangled and dangling between his thighs. His watch glints in the moonlight.
"For what?" Dean asks, but Castiel knows better, knows the tone is the one he uses when he's trying to avoid placing blame. "No harm, no foul. We're still kicking is what matters. That and the nest is clean."
They'd been lucky today. He'd been lucky. If Dean hadn't come around and helped him get Sam to the car, if Dean hadn't been able to limp the Impala back to the abandoned farmhouse they're squatting in without passing out, they'd probably still be at the warehouse or worse. Time was, he could've rendered the entire building to cinders with a thought. But those days are gone and helplessness doesn't suit him any more than the skin he wears or the secondhand denim that's the only thing keeping him from freezing. He was never intended to be this - fragile, disposable, aching - so full of selfishness and emotion he can only yearn for what he'll never have again.
You can't change the past, after all, you can only move past it. Castiel had known that as an angel, had actually tried to teach Dean the futility of trying. Lately, universal truths aren't so clear.
"This is difficult," he says, and Dean hums.
Castiel tugs the cuffs of his coat down over his hands. They're long enough because it is - was - Dean's.
"Hunting?" Dean eventually asks and Castiel sighs because the necessity of elaboration never occurred to him. He misses the largely collective conscious of the Host more than ever.
"This," he answers. "Sleeping, eating, waking up, operating in a near constant state of confusion and doubt. Failing over and over again."
"Welcome to the human race my formerly feathered friend," Dean says, laughs. "Usually, it takes longer for folks to get fed up but I guess you're not what anyone could consider normal."
The warmth at his side vanishes abruptly and Dean's well-oiled boots crunch across the gravel driveway.
"C'mon," Dean tosses back over his shoulder, "Time's wasting."
***
The all-night diner they discover tucked into a barren, brambled curve of US-41 has seen better days. Green linoleum stretches as far as the eye can see and the beige stools tucked under the edge of the counter have been patched a hundred times over with color-coordinated duct tape. There's also a stunning array of pies sitting in the bakery case.
Castiel suspects they are the reason for this visit.
Coffee is the only scent he catches though, the place seemingly abandoned save a square-bodied woman behind the counter, her hair shot through with grey.
"What can I get for you boys?" she says as they settle in, and Castiel can't contain his laughter.
Dean eyes him, brows drawn together in an impressive furrow, and answers for them both.
"Coffee, black. Two cheeseburgers, an order of onion rings, and a super-size slice of cherry pie a la mode for here. Oh, and a large Caesar salad, to go.
The woman - Mabel according to her nametag - nods and bustles through the stainless steel door into the kitchen instead of calling their order through the window as he's seen a hundred other waitresses do in a hundred other diners. He remembers what it was like to know people instantly - their hopes, their desires, their sins. It's one of his Father's great ironies that while he can now understand, he'll never know again. It makes Castiel laugh harder, his ribs aching, lungs seizing. He's well aware he sounds hysterical, but the chipped formica is cool against his forehead and laughter means he can ignore the absurdity of being called "boy" by someone four thousand years his junior.
"Am I gonna have to put you down?" Dean asks, voice hushed and elbow planted between Castiel's ribs. His gaze flits, following the path of Mabel's restless pacing beyond the window. "Last thing we need here is trouble, Cas. Try to at least act human."
The words hit Castiel in the gut, winding his stomach into infuriating knots. Watching the answering realization twist Dean's features offers no satisfaction, but he wonders idly if this is why he stays. That human or angel he will always know Dean better than Dean thinks he does.
Like it or not, Dean apparently knows him, because even though Castiel doesn't say anything, Dean calls through the window to Mabel, "Hey sweetheart, can you make all of it to go?"
***
The bell dings merrily as they leave, Dean loaded down with two greasy paper bags and a take-out box bearing the letters GCC in a decidedly feminine scrawl. Castiel may not be able to smell the individual chemicals in Dean's boot oil anymore, but the anchovies in Sam's Caesar dressing are overpowering. He resolves to put the box on the opposite corner of the backseat as soon as Dean hands them across. But Dean doesn't stick to the mutually - if silently - agreed upon choreography that defines a typical food run. Castiel can hear the footsteps echoing his, at his back instead of rounding the opposite fender, and when he turns Sam's stinky salad nearly ends up splattered across the asphalt. Only Dean's reflexes prevent disaster.
"Shit, Cas," Dean says, juggling the box, checking the bags. "You have any idea how pissed Sam would've been if you wasted his salad? He hasn't eaten since breakfast."
In spite of himself, Castiel feels ashamed. The only reason they haven't eaten is because he'd forgotten they needed to. That he needed to. His stomach reminds him now, loudly, and he makes a second resolution - to eat as many of the sweet onion rings as he can before they get back. Otherwise, he knows he won't get any.
"Neither have I," he answers, making a grab for the greasier of the two bags because that's where experience tells him the rings will be.
Dean avoids his reach with a sidestep and a crooked smile. "And whose fault is that?" he says, tucking box and bags alike under his arm as he digs the keys out of his pocket.
Sometimes, Castiel wishes for his grace to perform the most menial of tasks. Others, he wants to rain fire and brimstone down upon Dean Winchester's head. In this case, Dean's holding the food and such an action would be counterproductive.
So instead he steps back as Dean leans in to unlock the passenger door and drag it open. He doesn't expect Dean to slip between him and the seat, his knee lodged against the handle. He certainly doesn't expect Dean to jangle the keys at him or press them into his palm when he doesn't take them on his own. But Dean does.
"Wha-?" Castiel starts.
Dean stops him. "I'm fucking starving, okay? Take me home, Jeeves."
Castiel scrubs a hand across his face and into his hair as he's seen Dean do so often and stares at the line of Dean's shoulder as disappears into the dark confines of the car.
"I don't know how," Castiel says. Stupidity is the only thing less desirable than helplessness, and not for the first time he questions his own judgment, his belief that Dean might understand.
Because now, he feels brainless. He could disassemble and clean every piece of the Impala's motor, reassemble it with a care and concern she'd only ever been shown at Dean's hands. He could offer a dissertation on the theory of combustion engines and the purpose of a carburetor. Write volumes about the invention of the windshield wiper and recite endless arguments that deemed the 1967 model the height of muscle car royalty.
In the beginning, when he'd still been firmly in Heaven's service, he'd wasted what little free time he'd had learning about the car in an effort to understand Dean. Only after he fell, did he realize the Impala's draw was not in her nuts or belts or plugs, but in what she'd come to symbolize to Dean.
It occurs to Castiel then, with the sharp sting of December air curling under his collar, just what Dean has offered.
"I can't," he says, haltingly, and thrusts the keys at Dean.
Dean peels back the paper on a cheeseburger and takes a bite big enough to choke a normal man, settling himself into a comfortable sprawl.
Castiel shoves the passenger door closed and rounds the nose of the car.
***
"Use your right foot," Dean says. "No, your other right. How the hell did you ever manage to fly without getting lost?"
Castiel rests his head against the steering wheel and counts carefully to ten like Sam taught him before he answers.
"Flying was - is - based on compass points. I could find true north in a hurricane. Two dimensions are - limiting."
Dean scoffs, chews the bite of cheeseburger caught between his teeth and says, "Yeah, well. Now you work with what you've got." His fingers tap against Castiel's right knee, leaving spots of mustard behind. "Right foot. Right pedal to go. Left pedal to stop or shift. Hold that one down now. Gearshift on-" He leans across the seat and pulls on one of the levers attached to the steering column. "D. And away we go."
The car jerks, tires squealing as Castiel stomps on the right pedal as instructed. He realizes, albeit belatedly, that the speed at which they are moving isn't appropriate for the small lot outside the diner and stomps on the left pedal instead.
"Fuck," Dean hisses. "What the fuck?" The half-eaten lettuce leaf he peels off the ceiling is covered in ketchup.
"I did as you asked," Castiel answers, knuckles aching everywhere they touch the wheel; he can't seem to find the right ridges and they cut into his hands.
"Easy," Dean says," Easy. Treat her like a lady. Sweet talk her." He pats the dash fondly before he shrugs and pops the renegade lettuce into his mouth. "You're cleaning that up, by the way."
"Easy," Castiel echoes, lowering his foot to meet the pedal again. The tires whisper. The car purrs. Dean smiles.
"Much better," Dean says, "Now there's a hill coming and we need to turn out onto the highway. So back off the gas and tap the brake. Gotta check for other cars."
Castiel hears the words and in the abstract he understands them. He knows that gas equals go and brake equals stop, but with the black ribbon of pavement creeping ever closer, he does everything wrong. The Impala rocks on her chassis and between the crack of Dean's elbow against the window and a second squeal of rubber, he realizes he's stopped far short of the highway.
With everything else that's happened today, it's too much.
The buckle of his seatbelt thumps dully against the door and Dean scrabbles at the steering column until the indicator reads "Park".
"Damn it, Cas. Don't do that." Castiel fumbles for the handle blindly because if his only choices are to walk or drive, he'll walk. Dean's hand closes around his elbow before he can even get the door open. "Stop, okay? Just. Stop."
"No," he grits out, the weight of his fury building, pushing him nearer the edge. It's impotent anger, he knows, frustration at what he's become and how inept he's been at actually becoming it. Castiel tries to shake Dean off, but doesn't quite manage. "I can't do this anymore," he says. Dean's fingers flex on his arm, and he feels the seams of his thin jacket bite into the skin beneath, his breath coming in fierce stops and starts.
"Do what? Drive? It's your first try-" Dean says, rewrapping his burger one-handed and plopping it unceremoniously on the gentle slope of the dash. He doesn't let go.
"Be human," Castiel spits back, unwanted heat rising in his cheeks to crawl up the back of his neck. He hates it - the weakness, the emotion - feeling powerless and hapless and so completely lost.
He needs someone to understand.
There are no burning bushes for him anymore. No impressive light shows to frame the manufactured shadow of wings an angel is expected to possess. Dean's shoulders are close enough to clutch and shake though, so he does, says, "I can't," and tries to pour every ounce of his frustration into those two simple syllables.
And Dean kisses him.
It's both graceless and reckless, all teeth because Castiel had been winding up to say something he's forgotten in the crush of Dean’s lips to his. Like driving, he understands the mechanics of human intimacies. Given the amount of time he’s been watching and the quality of Dean’s character, it’s reasonable to assume he knows more than any angel ever has except perhaps Gabriel. Only he isn't an angel anymore, and as unaffected as he once was by the call of the flesh, as much as it had been simply a curiosity, things are very different.
Every ounce of what had once been purely platonic longing suddenly has fire behind it and his blood rushes a thousand dizzying directions as if to chase Dean's hands. Hands that are firm and sure and in a constant state of calculated momentum. And when Dean pulls back, his features are as keen as they've ever been, his intentions clear but reasons unreadable in the sallow circle of the streetlamp overhead. Nevertheless, Castiel knows where this is going and that now is not the time to question motive.
Maybe this he can do.
Dean shoves at him, uncurling like a jungle cat who's scented prey and Castiel lets go, does what he's always done when the world ceases to make sense. He follows Dean.
"This, is human," Dean says, mouth warm and spit-slicked at the side of his neck. "Feel it, Cas?" Teeth replace lips with a sharp scrape before they clamp down and Castiel jerks at the burst of pain, his head thwacking back against the window.
He says, "Dean," because he can't help himself. The name tastes different on his tongue - strung tight upon the wire of his ignorance and desire. Dean smiles against his shoulder. His body responds as Dean manhandles him, an ache blooming at the base of his spine he can't quite connect with until those clever fingers find his belt buckle and tug.
"How about now?" Dean snarls and everything snaps into focus. Castiel hears the ragged pull of his breath, feels the skitter of his heart and the film on his lips where he's panted them dry. Most importantly he feels Dean working his fly open and the weight between his legs when Dean touches him skin to intimate skin.
His leg kicks out of its own accord, heavy heel of his new boot thumping against the opposite door, and Dean's on top of him, surrounding him, kneeling half in the floorboard to watch. And something in Castiel's brain hitches, buzzing out to make his teeth chatter when Dean thumbs through the slick heat gathered at the tip of his hardness and strokes down.
It chases the words away, all of them but, "Dean," and even that gets more distorted each time he says it. As adrift as he is, he still sees the way Dean's lashes sweep low and dark against his cheeks, the catch of teeth in his lower lip each time he hears his name, each time Castiel says his name.
So he says it again, "Dean," caught suddenly by instinct or impulse and shifting for leverage. He wedges a knee beneath the dashboard and toes into the space between seat and door so he can thrust into the circle of Dean's hand, because it feels right, feels good. Dean shakes, throat clicking as he swallows thickly, eyes gone wide and glassy. And Castiel has a moment, just a moment, of purely wicked rapture when Dean curses under his breath.
"Fuck, Cas. You should see yourself," Dean says, and that's the last thing Castiel hears before the world gets packed in cotton wool and he comes for the first time with Dean's hands on him, Dean's voice in his ear.
At a distance, he's aware of things - rough texture against tender skin, a blast of cold air that nearly brings him back too soon. For the first time since the fall, Castiel's perfectly content and wants to remain so as long as he's allowed.
The thought has not so much as crossed his mind when Dean laughs, bright and loud, then pokes him with something sharp.
"There's basking and then there's basking," Dean says. "You, my friend, are crossing a line. And mutilating my burger." The sharp thing pokes again. Castiel presumes it to be Dean's finger. "Move your ass."
This time, when he says, "Dean," it carries all kinds of meanings it didn't yesterday.
Dean rolls his eyes in response, but the smile that crinkles at the corners is warm, his cheeks flushed and Castiel feels it like a kick to the chest.
Somehow, they switch spots without getting out of the car. There are casualties of course. Sam's salad bears the brunt, the lid dented but not cracked although the stench is beginning to give Castiel a headache. He knows he should feel guilty for smashing Sam's dinner, but he can't because Dean's hands are on him - pushing, pulling, groping and while it's completely unnecessary to act of getting "home", Castiel doesn't mind.
Dean's movements are surprisingly fluid as he gets them back on the road and turned toward the farmhouse.
"We good?" Dean asks the windshield.
"Better than," Castiel says, and he barely resists the urge to indulge in another bout of hysterical laughter when he finds the wayward carton of onion rings in the gap between the passenger seat and the door. They're cold and a little bit slimy, but they're his.
If this is human, Castiel thinks maybe he'll manage.
Title: All Too Human
Author: kriari
Recipient: electrolitestar
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 3,500
Warnings Human!Castiel
Spoilers: General for S5
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, offscreen Sam
A/N: Somewhat to the prompt - Dean teaches Castiel to drive the Impala. Laughs and hot sex in the back seat ensue. Many thanks to both qthelights and cassiopeia7. Thanks to you this not only got finished, but actually makes some sense.
Summary: Humanity doesn't agree with Castiel. Or rather, Castiel doesn't agree with it.
Of all the adjustments humanity requires of him, time has proven the most difficult. The weight. The speed. Before the fall, time had been little more than an abundant commodity, endless in supply. Now there is never enough. His body moves too slowly, the days too quickly. Even absent his enhanced senses he can feel cells dying and sloughing off - dust to dust.
It's humanity that handicaps him, makes him more burden than warrior despite his millennia of experience. He's not used to being anchored or feeling pain and it makes him cautious.
Too cautious.
Sam's splinted ankle and Dean's concussion are a testament to this latest failure, another in a long line that draws him ever further from what he once was. Castiel hates it.
The wind kicks up, biting through the thin fabric of his borrowed coat, leaves skipping noisily across the pavement as if to taunt him with his own impermanence. He feels the cold now, the texture of the concrete stair beneath his palms, the rough ridge of peeling trim-work nudged against the back of his head. Anna might have understood once, but all that's left of her now is memory. Angels don't leave ashes.
The door at his back opens, a slice of warmth and light spilling down his arm, its brightness somehow immutable in a dark so deep Castiel hasn't gotten used to it yet.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Dean says, his boots heavy on the threshold and then the stair. Castiel used to be able to smell the oil Dean wipes on to make them waterproof, even if he didn't care enough to catalog. He can't anymore.
Dean sits beside him, lending some of the warmth that's lost when he closes the door. The unkempt bushes bursting from their beds crackle as he does, a tiny shower of twigs littering the ground.
"If you're brooding," Dean says, "So help me, I will kick your ass."
He's still wearing the blood-stained jeans from this morning but the knot at the base of his skull looks slightly less foreboding. The shadows cut into the hollows under his eyes are deeper, but they're doubtless more for Sam than himself.
Castiel says, "I'm sorry," and wishes it were enough to make up for almost getting them all killed.
Dean's knee knocks into his, his fingers tangled and dangling between his thighs. His watch glints in the moonlight.
"For what?" Dean asks, but Castiel knows better, knows the tone is the one he uses when he's trying to avoid placing blame. "No harm, no foul. We're still kicking is what matters. That and the nest is clean."
They'd been lucky today. He'd been lucky. If Dean hadn't come around and helped him get Sam to the car, if Dean hadn't been able to limp the Impala back to the abandoned farmhouse they're squatting in without passing out, they'd probably still be at the warehouse or worse. Time was, he could've rendered the entire building to cinders with a thought. But those days are gone and helplessness doesn't suit him any more than the skin he wears or the secondhand denim that's the only thing keeping him from freezing. He was never intended to be this - fragile, disposable, aching - so full of selfishness and emotion he can only yearn for what he'll never have again.
You can't change the past, after all, you can only move past it. Castiel had known that as an angel, had actually tried to teach Dean the futility of trying. Lately, universal truths aren't so clear.
"This is difficult," he says, and Dean hums.
Castiel tugs the cuffs of his coat down over his hands. They're long enough because it is - was - Dean's.
"Hunting?" Dean eventually asks and Castiel sighs because the necessity of elaboration never occurred to him. He misses the largely collective conscious of the Host more than ever.
"This," he answers. "Sleeping, eating, waking up, operating in a near constant state of confusion and doubt. Failing over and over again."
"Welcome to the human race my formerly feathered friend," Dean says, laughs. "Usually, it takes longer for folks to get fed up but I guess you're not what anyone could consider normal."
The warmth at his side vanishes abruptly and Dean's well-oiled boots crunch across the gravel driveway.
"C'mon," Dean tosses back over his shoulder, "Time's wasting."
***
The all-night diner they discover tucked into a barren, brambled curve of US-41 has seen better days. Green linoleum stretches as far as the eye can see and the beige stools tucked under the edge of the counter have been patched a hundred times over with color-coordinated duct tape. There's also a stunning array of pies sitting in the bakery case.
Castiel suspects they are the reason for this visit.
Coffee is the only scent he catches though, the place seemingly abandoned save a square-bodied woman behind the counter, her hair shot through with grey.
"What can I get for you boys?" she says as they settle in, and Castiel can't contain his laughter.
Dean eyes him, brows drawn together in an impressive furrow, and answers for them both.
"Coffee, black. Two cheeseburgers, an order of onion rings, and a super-size slice of cherry pie a la mode for here. Oh, and a large Caesar salad, to go.
The woman - Mabel according to her nametag - nods and bustles through the stainless steel door into the kitchen instead of calling their order through the window as he's seen a hundred other waitresses do in a hundred other diners. He remembers what it was like to know people instantly - their hopes, their desires, their sins. It's one of his Father's great ironies that while he can now understand, he'll never know again. It makes Castiel laugh harder, his ribs aching, lungs seizing. He's well aware he sounds hysterical, but the chipped formica is cool against his forehead and laughter means he can ignore the absurdity of being called "boy" by someone four thousand years his junior.
"Am I gonna have to put you down?" Dean asks, voice hushed and elbow planted between Castiel's ribs. His gaze flits, following the path of Mabel's restless pacing beyond the window. "Last thing we need here is trouble, Cas. Try to at least act human."
The words hit Castiel in the gut, winding his stomach into infuriating knots. Watching the answering realization twist Dean's features offers no satisfaction, but he wonders idly if this is why he stays. That human or angel he will always know Dean better than Dean thinks he does.
Like it or not, Dean apparently knows him, because even though Castiel doesn't say anything, Dean calls through the window to Mabel, "Hey sweetheart, can you make all of it to go?"
***
The bell dings merrily as they leave, Dean loaded down with two greasy paper bags and a take-out box bearing the letters GCC in a decidedly feminine scrawl. Castiel may not be able to smell the individual chemicals in Dean's boot oil anymore, but the anchovies in Sam's Caesar dressing are overpowering. He resolves to put the box on the opposite corner of the backseat as soon as Dean hands them across. But Dean doesn't stick to the mutually - if silently - agreed upon choreography that defines a typical food run. Castiel can hear the footsteps echoing his, at his back instead of rounding the opposite fender, and when he turns Sam's stinky salad nearly ends up splattered across the asphalt. Only Dean's reflexes prevent disaster.
"Shit, Cas," Dean says, juggling the box, checking the bags. "You have any idea how pissed Sam would've been if you wasted his salad? He hasn't eaten since breakfast."
In spite of himself, Castiel feels ashamed. The only reason they haven't eaten is because he'd forgotten they needed to. That he needed to. His stomach reminds him now, loudly, and he makes a second resolution - to eat as many of the sweet onion rings as he can before they get back. Otherwise, he knows he won't get any.
"Neither have I," he answers, making a grab for the greasier of the two bags because that's where experience tells him the rings will be.
Dean avoids his reach with a sidestep and a crooked smile. "And whose fault is that?" he says, tucking box and bags alike under his arm as he digs the keys out of his pocket.
Sometimes, Castiel wishes for his grace to perform the most menial of tasks. Others, he wants to rain fire and brimstone down upon Dean Winchester's head. In this case, Dean's holding the food and such an action would be counterproductive.
So instead he steps back as Dean leans in to unlock the passenger door and drag it open. He doesn't expect Dean to slip between him and the seat, his knee lodged against the handle. He certainly doesn't expect Dean to jangle the keys at him or press them into his palm when he doesn't take them on his own. But Dean does.
"Wha-?" Castiel starts.
Dean stops him. "I'm fucking starving, okay? Take me home, Jeeves."
Castiel scrubs a hand across his face and into his hair as he's seen Dean do so often and stares at the line of Dean's shoulder as disappears into the dark confines of the car.
"I don't know how," Castiel says. Stupidity is the only thing less desirable than helplessness, and not for the first time he questions his own judgment, his belief that Dean might understand.
Because now, he feels brainless. He could disassemble and clean every piece of the Impala's motor, reassemble it with a care and concern she'd only ever been shown at Dean's hands. He could offer a dissertation on the theory of combustion engines and the purpose of a carburetor. Write volumes about the invention of the windshield wiper and recite endless arguments that deemed the 1967 model the height of muscle car royalty.
In the beginning, when he'd still been firmly in Heaven's service, he'd wasted what little free time he'd had learning about the car in an effort to understand Dean. Only after he fell, did he realize the Impala's draw was not in her nuts or belts or plugs, but in what she'd come to symbolize to Dean.
It occurs to Castiel then, with the sharp sting of December air curling under his collar, just what Dean has offered.
"I can't," he says, haltingly, and thrusts the keys at Dean.
Dean peels back the paper on a cheeseburger and takes a bite big enough to choke a normal man, settling himself into a comfortable sprawl.
Castiel shoves the passenger door closed and rounds the nose of the car.
***
"Use your right foot," Dean says. "No, your other right. How the hell did you ever manage to fly without getting lost?"
Castiel rests his head against the steering wheel and counts carefully to ten like Sam taught him before he answers.
"Flying was - is - based on compass points. I could find true north in a hurricane. Two dimensions are - limiting."
Dean scoffs, chews the bite of cheeseburger caught between his teeth and says, "Yeah, well. Now you work with what you've got." His fingers tap against Castiel's right knee, leaving spots of mustard behind. "Right foot. Right pedal to go. Left pedal to stop or shift. Hold that one down now. Gearshift on-" He leans across the seat and pulls on one of the levers attached to the steering column. "D. And away we go."
The car jerks, tires squealing as Castiel stomps on the right pedal as instructed. He realizes, albeit belatedly, that the speed at which they are moving isn't appropriate for the small lot outside the diner and stomps on the left pedal instead.
"Fuck," Dean hisses. "What the fuck?" The half-eaten lettuce leaf he peels off the ceiling is covered in ketchup.
"I did as you asked," Castiel answers, knuckles aching everywhere they touch the wheel; he can't seem to find the right ridges and they cut into his hands.
"Easy," Dean says," Easy. Treat her like a lady. Sweet talk her." He pats the dash fondly before he shrugs and pops the renegade lettuce into his mouth. "You're cleaning that up, by the way."
"Easy," Castiel echoes, lowering his foot to meet the pedal again. The tires whisper. The car purrs. Dean smiles.
"Much better," Dean says, "Now there's a hill coming and we need to turn out onto the highway. So back off the gas and tap the brake. Gotta check for other cars."
Castiel hears the words and in the abstract he understands them. He knows that gas equals go and brake equals stop, but with the black ribbon of pavement creeping ever closer, he does everything wrong. The Impala rocks on her chassis and between the crack of Dean's elbow against the window and a second squeal of rubber, he realizes he's stopped far short of the highway.
With everything else that's happened today, it's too much.
The buckle of his seatbelt thumps dully against the door and Dean scrabbles at the steering column until the indicator reads "Park".
"Damn it, Cas. Don't do that." Castiel fumbles for the handle blindly because if his only choices are to walk or drive, he'll walk. Dean's hand closes around his elbow before he can even get the door open. "Stop, okay? Just. Stop."
"No," he grits out, the weight of his fury building, pushing him nearer the edge. It's impotent anger, he knows, frustration at what he's become and how inept he's been at actually becoming it. Castiel tries to shake Dean off, but doesn't quite manage. "I can't do this anymore," he says. Dean's fingers flex on his arm, and he feels the seams of his thin jacket bite into the skin beneath, his breath coming in fierce stops and starts.
"Do what? Drive? It's your first try-" Dean says, rewrapping his burger one-handed and plopping it unceremoniously on the gentle slope of the dash. He doesn't let go.
"Be human," Castiel spits back, unwanted heat rising in his cheeks to crawl up the back of his neck. He hates it - the weakness, the emotion - feeling powerless and hapless and so completely lost.
He needs someone to understand.
There are no burning bushes for him anymore. No impressive light shows to frame the manufactured shadow of wings an angel is expected to possess. Dean's shoulders are close enough to clutch and shake though, so he does, says, "I can't," and tries to pour every ounce of his frustration into those two simple syllables.
And Dean kisses him.
It's both graceless and reckless, all teeth because Castiel had been winding up to say something he's forgotten in the crush of Dean’s lips to his. Like driving, he understands the mechanics of human intimacies. Given the amount of time he’s been watching and the quality of Dean’s character, it’s reasonable to assume he knows more than any angel ever has except perhaps Gabriel. Only he isn't an angel anymore, and as unaffected as he once was by the call of the flesh, as much as it had been simply a curiosity, things are very different.
Every ounce of what had once been purely platonic longing suddenly has fire behind it and his blood rushes a thousand dizzying directions as if to chase Dean's hands. Hands that are firm and sure and in a constant state of calculated momentum. And when Dean pulls back, his features are as keen as they've ever been, his intentions clear but reasons unreadable in the sallow circle of the streetlamp overhead. Nevertheless, Castiel knows where this is going and that now is not the time to question motive.
Maybe this he can do.
Dean shoves at him, uncurling like a jungle cat who's scented prey and Castiel lets go, does what he's always done when the world ceases to make sense. He follows Dean.
"This, is human," Dean says, mouth warm and spit-slicked at the side of his neck. "Feel it, Cas?" Teeth replace lips with a sharp scrape before they clamp down and Castiel jerks at the burst of pain, his head thwacking back against the window.
He says, "Dean," because he can't help himself. The name tastes different on his tongue - strung tight upon the wire of his ignorance and desire. Dean smiles against his shoulder. His body responds as Dean manhandles him, an ache blooming at the base of his spine he can't quite connect with until those clever fingers find his belt buckle and tug.
"How about now?" Dean snarls and everything snaps into focus. Castiel hears the ragged pull of his breath, feels the skitter of his heart and the film on his lips where he's panted them dry. Most importantly he feels Dean working his fly open and the weight between his legs when Dean touches him skin to intimate skin.
His leg kicks out of its own accord, heavy heel of his new boot thumping against the opposite door, and Dean's on top of him, surrounding him, kneeling half in the floorboard to watch. And something in Castiel's brain hitches, buzzing out to make his teeth chatter when Dean thumbs through the slick heat gathered at the tip of his hardness and strokes down.
It chases the words away, all of them but, "Dean," and even that gets more distorted each time he says it. As adrift as he is, he still sees the way Dean's lashes sweep low and dark against his cheeks, the catch of teeth in his lower lip each time he hears his name, each time Castiel says his name.
So he says it again, "Dean," caught suddenly by instinct or impulse and shifting for leverage. He wedges a knee beneath the dashboard and toes into the space between seat and door so he can thrust into the circle of Dean's hand, because it feels right, feels good. Dean shakes, throat clicking as he swallows thickly, eyes gone wide and glassy. And Castiel has a moment, just a moment, of purely wicked rapture when Dean curses under his breath.
"Fuck, Cas. You should see yourself," Dean says, and that's the last thing Castiel hears before the world gets packed in cotton wool and he comes for the first time with Dean's hands on him, Dean's voice in his ear.
At a distance, he's aware of things - rough texture against tender skin, a blast of cold air that nearly brings him back too soon. For the first time since the fall, Castiel's perfectly content and wants to remain so as long as he's allowed.
The thought has not so much as crossed his mind when Dean laughs, bright and loud, then pokes him with something sharp.
"There's basking and then there's basking," Dean says. "You, my friend, are crossing a line. And mutilating my burger." The sharp thing pokes again. Castiel presumes it to be Dean's finger. "Move your ass."
This time, when he says, "Dean," it carries all kinds of meanings it didn't yesterday.
Dean rolls his eyes in response, but the smile that crinkles at the corners is warm, his cheeks flushed and Castiel feels it like a kick to the chest.
Somehow, they switch spots without getting out of the car. There are casualties of course. Sam's salad bears the brunt, the lid dented but not cracked although the stench is beginning to give Castiel a headache. He knows he should feel guilty for smashing Sam's dinner, but he can't because Dean's hands are on him - pushing, pulling, groping and while it's completely unnecessary to act of getting "home", Castiel doesn't mind.
Dean's movements are surprisingly fluid as he gets them back on the road and turned toward the farmhouse.
"We good?" Dean asks the windshield.
"Better than," Castiel says, and he barely resists the urge to indulge in another bout of hysterical laughter when he finds the wayward carton of onion rings in the gap between the passenger seat and the door. They're cold and a little bit slimy, but they're his.
If this is human, Castiel thinks maybe he'll manage.