Made of Earth - Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Dean woke before Castiel, both of them wrapped in Sam’s comforter, filled with down feathers like the pillows. He slept soundly, his face slipping off the pillow, his arms tucked under the sheets. A mass of floppy black hair contrast to the whiteness of the sheets. Dean rolled to his side to get a better view. Cas breathed heavily, moved his legs back and forth, tapping against Dean’s shin.
Faintly, Dean smelled breakfast. Eggs and bacon, toast. Dark specialty coffee, that fruit crap that Sam loved. Dean stretched out his legs, moved until his back popped, then slumped down to watch Cas shift and twitch in his sleep.
He checked the clock, past nine. Shit.
He bolted from bed and into the hall, leaving the door wide open. In the kitchen, he found Sam finishing up breakfast.
“Where’s Ben?”
“I took him to the Care Center.”
“Why aren’t you at work?”
“I’m allowed to have time off.” Sam sipped his coffee. Three plates sat at the coffee table, each with a small pile of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast on the side. Two other mugs filled with coffee, cream and sugar sitting on the center of the table. Dean took his black and when Cas bothered to drink it, it was more sugar than coffee.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” Dean said, running his hand through his hair. The room was a bit too bright, the curtains draw open and the window cracked.
Sam shrugged and started to pull silverware out of the drawer by the sink. “I didn’t,” he agreed.
“Cas doesn’t really eat.”
“He’ll be hungry after that pill, trust me.” He took the forks and knives to the table.
It was picturesque, like when they were kids and John had been off at work all night and Dean and Sam had to fend for themselves at meal time. Sam had always been so desperate to keep things normal. He always set the table, silverware on the correct sides, with folded napkins, and glasses of water with ice.
Dean rubbed his face again. “This is really nice, Sammy.” Like they were a normal family.
“Did he sleep okay?”
“I guess.” He fiddled with the drawstrings of his sweatpants. “Ben make it okay this morning?”
“Yeah. Great. Quiet on the car ride, happy at the center.”
Dean nodded. He glanced around the room again. Everything was pristine, spotless. Something that Castiel would have done in the middle of the night, but Dean wouldn’t have put it pass Sam to be this meticulous. The unmatched throw pillows sat on either side of the couch, the paintings Cas didn’t pick for the party leaned against the wall in the corner by the bookshelf.
Sam sat down his mug and went to sit on the floor at the coffee table. He looked quite silly, giant Sam with his wide shoulders and long legs, sitting like a kid at a table that’s three sizes too small for him.
“Uh, I’ll just go get Cas.” He didn’t wait for Sam to answer, just took a slower stride to the room. He closed the door behind him.
Castiel sat up in the bed, rubbing his eyes. “Where were you?” he asked, squinting in Dean’s direction.
“Just talking to Sam. He made breakfast for us.”
“That’s kind of him.” Cas stretched his arms above his head, then flopped himself back into the pillows. Dean leaned against the door. “How bad was it?”
“You don’t remember?”
Cas shrugged. “Not a lot. Whatever gave me was…awesome.” He smirked.
“How you feelin’ then?”
“Rested. Kind of hungry.” He ruffled his own hair, still squinted, the thin curtains doing nothing to keep out the bright sun. “I didn’t…I mean, is Anna okay?”
Dean sat on the edge of the bed. Cas spread out his left leg to touch Dean’s side. “Yeah. I mean crisis averted. Told everyone you had too much to drink.”
“Great,” Cas huffed. “Now everyone will think I’m a lightweight.”
“You kind of are.”
Cas rolled his eyes and nudged Dean with his knee. “I’m sorry.”
“No.” Dean faced Cas, limbs spread out like a spider, his hair in wild directions. “I shouldn’t have left you on the balcony.”
They were kids again, building forts and telling secrets. “I’m sorry,” Cas repeated. “That I did that. In front of people.”
Dean shrugged. Castiel yawned and stretched again. He moved from Dean and climbed out of bed, took a quick glance out the window. Sam’s room faced the outskirts of the city, buildings becoming smaller and more spread apart. The grassy forested area where Anna lived just visible on the horizon. Cas padded towards the door. Dean caught hold of his hip as he passed, halting his progress.
“What?” his voice lowered, a whisper.
Dean pulled him forward and pressed his face against Cas’ stomach, brushing his lips along the pale and warm skin. Cas shuddered and touched Dean on the shoulders, light, like he was afraid to move. Dean wanted so bad. He ached and needed.
Cas removed his hands and took a step back. “We should eat.”
“Yeah.”
They sat on the floor and ate, Cas finishing all the food on his plate, something Dean hadn’t seen in a long time. Normally he just pushed the food around with his fork, took a few bites and declared he was full.
Sam started to clear the table. “So, Cas, how are you feeling this morning?”
“Fine.”
“Pill do you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He put the dishes in the sink; Dean still worked on his bacon and coffee. It tasted like summer, somewhere exotic, where they sat on the shore and let ocean water roll in over their feet and legs.
Cas set his fork and knife over his plate, crossed, and stared out the window. “I want to leave,” he said.
Dean almost choked on his coffee. “Excuse me?”
“I want to see the old house.”
“They didn’t bulldoze it with everything else?” asked Sam.
“No. Anna convinced Crowley to buy up all that property. It looks like a ghost town now.” He sighed wistfully and turned back, staring at the china plate as if the answer to his problem was there, hidden between the vines and flowers painted around the rim. “Will you drive us out there?”
Dean looked up from his coffee, licked his lips. “Yeah, no problem. Sam, you can handle Ben for a while, right?”
“Yeah. We’ll have a good time.”
Dean thanked the God he wasn’t even sure he believed in for Sam every single day. When all Dean could do was lie in bed like a kicked dog, Sam was the one that soothed Ben, who fed him and took him to the park.
Cas stood and left the table, heading for Dean’s room. As Dean cleaned up the rest of breakfast, he felt Sam’s stare like an itching scab. “What?”
“You’re okay with this?”
“It’s what he wants. Maybe it’ll calm him down.”
Sometimes long drives helped, getting him out of the apartment, or out of Anna’s house. The landscape of their childhood, staring at the blue skies and sending out his prayers.
Sam set a green prescription bottle on the counter. “He can have one before bed. Sleep helps with stuff like this. Mental stuff.”
Dean swallowed. He cleaned the kitchen until it was spotless. He went to the bedroom to pack a small bag, just his jeans and a few shirts. An extra pair of underwear. Cas watched him from the window.
~
Dust kicked up the barely used road that Dean drove down; once made of thick asphalt that they used to ride bikes on, was nothing but gravel and dirt. Castiel’s description of a ghost town was completely accurate down to every definition of the word.
Abandoned, unused. Most of the houses were falling apart, left unoccupied for at least a decade. Cars left in driveways, lawns overrun by grass and weeds. It looked more like the aftermath of a bombing or some sort of zombie invasion, rather than people being herded out of the suburbs and into the growing cities.
Cas knocked his knees against the dashboard. Dean turned off the radio, playing mostly static and the drowned out voice of some Authority programming. “Remember the baseball field over on Meadow?” A street a few demolished neighborhoods over. John had taken them all a few times. Anna turned out to be really good. Sam didn’t really care, his sport was soccer. Dean was great, but all Castiel did was stand out in left field trying to feel gravity while he watched the clouds pass by, like they had a hidden message for him.
“Yeah,” Cas answered. “They tore it up. Landfill or something now.” He watched the passing trees.
In the middle of the block, surrounded by dilapidated homes, sat the Milton house, 1066 Oakdale Drive. The shutters that were once bright blue, the color of Mrs. Milton’s eyes, were now the color of ocean water and falling off their hinges. One had fallen down in the front yard, stuck in the dry dirt. Vines crawled up the front, over and around the giant bay window. The brick had faded to almost pink, the brass of the door knocker chipped. Dean stopped the car on the street right in front of the post that used to hold a green mailbox. A Victorian style house, Cas had told him. Dean didn’t know shit about architecture, but one afternoon, sprawled out in the living room by that bay window, Cas went on for hours about archways and windows and the backyard. Dean listened and held Cas’ hand until Michael walked in, telling them that dinner was ready.
Across the street at 1065 Oakdale Drive, the former Winchester house was caved in the middle, the front door kicked in. People probably used it for shelter during riots, but were eventually found. According to his father, Mary had picked the house because she was in love with the rose bushes and the large bedrooms. There was a real fireplace made of marble where they could all hang stockings at Christmas. Dean shook his head and shut off the engine.
“Looks good,” he told Cas, reaching in the back to pull his duffel bag. Cas slung his own bag over his shoulder.
Cas strode up the concrete walkway. Surprisingly well kept. Grass shorter than the rest of the yards. “Yes,” he agreed, digging through his pocket. He pulled out a key. “I’ve been taking care of it.”
“Really?”
The hydrangea bush by the door was overgrown, giant, floppy pink petals on the stoop and in the grass. Cas unlocked the door. “What do you think I do when I come out to Anna’s?”
“Anna lives twenty miles in the opposite direction.” Dean looked back on the vacant neighborhood.
“We come here a lot. She misses Mom.” He pushed open the door and Dean followed.
Inside, the house was practically as Dean remembered it. The staircase with mauve carpet, the railing scuffed. A piece chipped off the bottom of the last stair from Gabriel shooting a pellet gun. The carpet was the same. Dean looked past the foyer to the living room. The furniture was different though, cheap and bought at a second-hand store. Nothing like the leather couches, posh recliners and giant TV.
It smelled different though. Not the sweet and familiar scent of flowers and lemon cleaner. Of a meal waiting in the oven. Now it smelled of dust of mothballs, lingering sawdust and turpentine.
“I’ll be back in a second.” Cas disappeared behind the door for the basement. Dean heard the wooden steps creaking beneath Cas’ weight. He went back to observing the kitchen. Same table where the used to eat and do their homework. Less sturdy than it used to be. Dean ran his hand over the smooth surface. Mrs. Milton always kept a lace cloth over it.
Suddenly the lights in the tiny chandelier above the table flickered on, the heater suddenly sputtered out warm air that smelled even more of mothballs. Cas came back and closed the door.
“How?”
Cas shrugged. “Crowley owns all this property. I only have the power on when I’m here.”
Dean kept looking around. The pale coral colored curtains, the refrigerator with two pictures taped to the surface. One of Michael, one of Mrs. Milton and Gabriel. “I just can’t believe you kept it like this.”
“It helps me,” Cas said. “Sometimes being here, fixing things or painting. The voices get quiet.”
“Why does he do it? Own this, keep the power…I mean he doesn’t even like you that much.”
Cas smirked and unfolded his arms. “He doesn’t. But he wants her to be happy because he knows she doesn’t love him.” He moved across the room to Dean, ran his fingers over Dean’s knuckles. Cold and shaking. “Come up stairs.”
“Why?”
“Don’t be a baby.”
The stairs creaked with their weight as they ascended to the second floor. The flowers printed on the wallpaper peeled to reveal yellowed and browning walls, some water stains from the shower that Dean knew leaked.
At the top of the stairs, Cas kept going to disappear into his old room at the far end of the hall. Dean took a moment to poke his head into the other rooms. Michael’s was boarded and shut, locked. To Dean’s recollection, it had been that way since he died. Anna and Gabriel’s rooms were the same, minimal furniture covered with sheets. Long curtains over the windows, dust everywhere.
The walls in the hall had been stripped, no pictures, no plaques or any of Castiel’s paintings. The hall runner carpet was matted and frayed at the corners. Dean walked and the floor creaked and moaned under his weight. At the end of the hall on the left side of the house, facing the street was Cas’ room. Dean stepped in.
Cas sat on a bed, different than the one that used to be there, wider, but short. Nothing on the walls except for fading paint, a few drawings etched in black marker. Curtains hung over the window, dull and threadbare. Light from the setting sun shined through. On the door frame were two lines measuring Dean and Castiel’s heights. Started when they were six, stopped at seventeen. Dean had always been just a little bit taller. He ran his finger over the last mark, the names and numbers almost completely gone, just like everything else.
“It’s looking real good, Cas.” He leaned on the frame.
“I miss it,” Cas said, running his hand over the sheets. The room smelled of dust and late summer, when everything was musty and warm. “The house, Michael, Gabriel. All of it.” He finally looked from the sheets to Dean. “I miss you.”
Dean shook his head. “I’m right here.” He almost laughed. “I’m always right here.” He moved farther into the room, his boots making a muted shuffle on the matted carpet. “Cas.” But he didn’t know what else to say. He sat next to him, the mattress stiff, but the springs loose. Their knees touched, their shoulders. His left pinkie trembled, pressing against the fine denim of Cas’ jeans.
“There’s no one here,” Cas reminded him, leaning close.
They turned inward into each other’s mouths. They kissed slow and languid, like teenagers again. Tongues and teeth, Cas biting down on Dean’s bottom lip. “You bring me here to seduce me?”
“Working, isn’t it?” Cas pressed against Dean, getting him to tilt and give, his back on the mattress. Cas kissed his chin. “It’s okay now,” he assured, mouth moving along Dean’s neck, his pulse point and to his collar bone. He tugged off Dean’s shirt and tossed it to the other side of the room.
Cold fingers down Dean’s body, counting all of his ribs, the space between them. The scar on his hip, a birthmark on his side. A warm tongue tracing his bellybutton. Dean threaded his fingers through Cas’ hair, scratching his neck.
“Cas.” Dean gasped for air.
Castiel paused. He sat, right between Dean’s legs, a hand working his belt. “Don’t you want this, dean?”
For years, his skin itched for it, and when Cas kissed him the other night, the spark that was always between them ignited, drew them together like magnets. Like it had been doing since the first time Dean saw Cas for the first time across the street, holding Gabriel’s hand after getting off the school bus.
He didn’t say anything, and Cas went on. The zipper on his jeans coming down with a snntch sound, breaking the silence of the house. Cas mouthed at Dean’s half-hard cock through his underwear, urging him the rest of the way erect with the flat palm of his hand and more kissing against the line of hair under Dean’s navel.
Cas dragged jeans down his thighs, the boxers bunched above the denim. His hot mouth on Dean’s skin again, teeth and nose brushing the coarse hair of his groin. At first, he held Dean down with his hands, stronger than Dean anticipated as he tried to arch up for friction and heat.
“Patience is a virtue, Dean,” Castiel chided with a grin, pressed down harder and fucking just breathed across his skin.
Dean grunted, his skin buzzing, his blood rushing.
He felt Cas’ grin against his hip for a minute before the mouth moved, finally, to his cock a slide of the tongue first before Cas took the length of him past his lips and down his throat. Kept Dean held down with one hand while using the other to assist his working jaw and tongue.
Dean knocked back his head and arched his hips, fucking into Cas’ mouth. His spine tingled, tightness in his chest and groin released, embarrassingly quick, like he was sixteen again, fooling around in the attic and coming in his pants. A flick of the wrist and a growl from Cas and Dean was spilling down Cas’ throat.
“Fuck…” Dean groaned, blinking until the haze of colors disappeared from his vision. Cas popped off him with an obscene wet sound, leaned back on his heels and just stared. Lips bright pink, eyes dilated. “C’mere.” Dean slid off the bed and into Cas’ space, almost knocking him over. They kissed again, desperate and wanton. Dean didn’t care that he was half-naked, jeans and underwear awkwardly tied at his knees, the way they got tangled as he worked his way into Castiel’s pants.
Dean growled when he discovered hot skin against his knuckles instead of cotton. Cas shrugged. “I haven’t worn underwear in years. Well, only on special occasions.”
Dean got Cas off quick, a skilled hand on a slightly unfamiliar terrain. Cas whimpered and slumped against Dean, panting heavily against his ear. “That was…” he slurred. “I have been waiting for that, for years.” He added a chuckle.
Instantly, a wad of guilt settled in Dean’s gut. He hadn’t wanted or even thought about sex since Lisa. How could he move on and be happy when she was so sad when she died? He leaned forward and kissed Cas on the neck, feeling his pulse racing just under his lips, like he could drink him down.
“I’m hungry,” Cas exhaled, lifting some of his weight.
“You’re never hungry.” Thousands of prepared meals had gone untouched.
“Well.” He cleared his throat. “I am now.”
~
The pantry in the kitchen had been stocked with nonperishable food items like a donation box at school or church. Canned fruits and vegetables, boxes of pasta and bags of rice. Some soups and meals in a box.
Castiel made a pot of mac-and-cheese and a small tin of Vienna sausages. Dean felt like he was in college, though neither of them ever went. Bare essential food cooked on the stove top and eaten out of plastic bowls with plastic flatware. The silver had gone to Anna, the fine china and plates. Silver tea sets and all the leather furniture.
They ate in the living room, sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch that smelled of mold and dust, bowls in their laps, bottles of beer (courtesy of Dean on their way out of the city) at their sides. A small radio sat on the coffee table, playing some classical music.
Dean scraped at the bottom of his bowl, pushing around the meat he cut up and mixed with the noodles. “Why are we here, Cas?”
Castiel watched the radio like it was a television, like he was seeing the orchestra, the conductor, arms reached above his head. He prodded his own bowl, the food separated. “I come here a lot after ‘incidents’. I told you, it calms me.” He glanced around the room, like a gutted out trailer.
“Why not just stay here all the time? There’s all this room and it’s quiet.”
“Because I’d be away from you. And Sam and Ben.” He took a forkful of noodles, then a swig from his beer.
They showered together and Dean took the time to map out Cas’ body, to know every mark and scar, his muscles and veins. Cas was pale as paper and thin as sticks; Dean could see and count all his ribs, ran his fingers over the sharp point of his shoulder. The freckle above his left nipple, a long and stretched purple scar from appendicitis. Narrow hips. Cas was all points and angles. The water ran lukewarm, the soap was something cheap and square shaped, smelling of motels and rest stops.
“I want to stay the night,” Cas said as they stood in the bedroom. Dean pulled on his shirt, scanned the room for his socks.
“Why?”
“Because I like this.” He gestured. “I don’t want to go back yet.”
Dean knew what he meant. Here, there were no Uniforms, no one from the Authority. No one who would blow the whistle. He thought of Ben, but knew Sam was good, they were both fine without him, they would be fine without him for a few days. “Yeah, okay.”
~
“There’s something wrong with me,” Castiel said the next night. He and Dean lay in bed, so close together they could be a single body, a whole person.
“No.” Dean mouthed along Cas’ temple.
“I’m sick,” Cas continued. “I know that. You know, Sam knows…and I know that the voices aren’t…there are times, like now, I know that they aren’t real.”
“Do you hear them now?” Dean asked, curious.
“No. They typically leave me alone when I’m with you.”
“Why?”
“It’s rude to bother someone during coitus.”
Dean chuckled. “I like it when you use big words.”
“It’s not a big word.”
Dean rearranged them so he hovered over Cas, wedged between his legs. It was fantastic, being able to be together, to touch and fuck and kiss. No restrictions, no hiding in the shadows. “No one’s going to tell,” Dean promised. He’d been promising for years, since Cas finally admitted that the voices had never went away. “Promise.” He kissed Cas on the neck, buried his face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling. The scent of the cheap bar soap, the metallic shower water.
Cas’ hands wandered over Dean’s shoulders, down his back, fingers finding the fine and knotted scar on his vertebra, the only evidence of his time in the chair. Cas smoothed over it, traced the shape. Dean shuddered and hissed. Dean remembered the lack of feeling on his lower half, the legs that didn’t move and started to wither away, sitting in bed and just looking and touching at the body parts that didn’t work anymore, spongy and soft.
Dean suddenly felt frantic, terrified. That the moment was going to slip and fade away, like flowers down the river. He started to kiss Castiel on the mouth, quick and ardent. Rolled his naked hips against Cas’
The cool room became thick despite the window being opened a crack, but Dean’s skin was on fire. He felt everything, every fiber in his body, all the bones under Castiel’s skin. He let himself go. Indulged. No Authority, no procedures.
He thrust into Cas’ fist, their cocks sliding wet against one another. Warm velvet, sticky. His forehead against Cas and the pillow, biting down on his neck. Cas said I love you over and over again, and all Dean could do was capture his words and swallow them.
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