By Fortune or Design: Part Three
Masterpost
13. I held your name inside my mouth through all the days of wandering
Castiel was in the same position he had been the night before, at the kitchen table, hands folded in front of his face in a travesty of prayer. The morning light filtering through the window was the only light. He hadn’t moved since waking up from a fitful sleep, and somehow going through the motions of getting dressed.
He should go to work. His only client was… Well, he wouldn’t be showing up, most likely, but Castiel had paperwork he needed to do and…
He ran the checklist through in his head, all the while trying to pretend that he wasn’t thinking about doing what he was thinking about doing. The coffee slowly cooled on the table, and went ice cold before he moved, desperately not thinking.
When he did, it was a startled jump, the shrill beeping of his cell phone startling in the silence.
It was probably his work, asking if he was okay, if they needed to cancel his appointment.
He should answer it. He had a good job…it wasn’t something he was willing to give up. It wasn’t. He swallowed grimly, knowing that the only person he was trying to convince was himself.
He slipped the phone from his trouser pocket and glanced at the display. It wasn’t a number he recognized. Not work then. And not D… anyone he was familiar with.
He let it ring.
A few moments of strained silence later, the infernal ringing came again. It was the same series of digits.
This time he picked up. “Doctor Castiel Novak,” he answered roughly.
“Thank God,” a slightly familiar voice said. “You know what I had to go through to get this number?”
“Who is this?” Castiel asked, not in the mood for small talk.
“Bobby Singer-trying to find out what’s up with Dean.”
Time stopped for a moment, and Castiel’s heart began thudding in his chest. He already had a bad, bad feeling about where this was going.
“Did he not come in for work?” He asked, barely keeping his voice in check.
“Naw, and the idjit won’t answer his damn phone either. I tried calling Sam to see if he knew anything, but the boy just got pissy about it, which I’m guessing means they had a fight.” He paused, and Castiel could hear the gravitas underlying the nonchalant gruffness. “With Dean not exactly on top of his game, I’m a little worried. Anyway, you’re really his only friend, sad as that is, so I figured you might have an idea-“
“This is my fault,” he said, quietly, shattering, ignoring Bobby’s startled, “Come again?”
“This is my fault,” he repeated, “But I’m going to fix it. Is Dean at home?”
“Uhh… Well, I don’t know where else he’d be,” Bobby answered cautiously.
“Good. Thank you,” Castiel replied before flipping his phone shut.
His suit was rumpled, tie loose around his neck. He would never have gone into work looking like he did. Still, that was the direction he began driving, after pulling on his old trench coat like a security blanket, despite the hot weather.
Yes, he’d be going to knock some sense into Dean, but first, he had some business to take care of.
Out of habit, Castiel parked his car in his usual spot, but walked straight past the building he worked in and through a weed-covered courtyard to the administration wing of the main building, slipping through the door into the sterile-smelling hallway.
He knew the way to the office, though he’d only been there once before, when he had been hired. When the doorknob was in his hand, he didn’t even think to knock, walking straight in.
Uriel and Zachariah ceased in their conversation at his intrusion, both turning to look at him reproachfully.
“I apologize, Uriel, but I need to speak with Mr. Adler.” When he didn’t move, Castiel hardened his voice, and added, “At once, if you don’t mind.”
“This had best be important, Novak,” he growled, but left the room, deliberately bumping him out of the way as he did so.
“What’s this about, Doctor?” Zachariah said, with that easy arrogance that made Castiel grind his teeth whenever they were forced to be in the same room. “Have a seat, make yourself comfortable. You look tense.”
“I quit.”
“You-you what?” he replied, and any other time, Castiel would have savored the look of genuine shock that crossed the smarmy bastard’s face.
“I. Quit. I’m turning in my license.”
The calm veneer returned, and Zachariah smirked. “Is this about Dean Winchester? Honestly, Castiel, you can do better.”
“You know nothing about him,” Castiel snapped, reaching the limit of his tolerance for the day.
“Well, that rather answers my question. Now, you don’t really want to do this…Just think of your career. You’re off to a very successful start, minus this little…crush of yours. We can all pretend this never happened, as long as you…”
He didn’t wait to hear what Zachariah had to say. “No. I’m done. I voluntarily surrender my license and…whatever legal processes I have to do for that. I just can’t do them right now. Goodbye.”
“Castiel-wait,” was all he heard before the door was shutting behind him again. Trying not to shake with the enormity of what he’d just done, he all but ran back to his car.
It was for Dean. Everything was for Dean.
The city was a blur as he single-mindedly drove to Dean’s apartment. The Impala was parked-he had to be there. He pulled into the empty space next to it and got out of the car.
He had already knocked on the door directly in front of Dean’s car when he realized that he didn’t actually know if that was his apartment or not. Either way, too late to go back now.
A young bearded man answered the door, a confused look on his face.
“I’m looking for Dean Winchester. Do you know where he lives?” Castiel asked before he could get a word in.
The man blinked, and pointed vaguely up. “The mechanic, right? The apartment right above mine, I think,” he said.
“Thank you,” he replied and walked off without another word, scaling the staircase two steps at a time. When he reached the door the man had indicated, he knocked loudly, hurting his fist.
There was no answer from inside. He only knocked harder.
After a good two minutes of that his hand was sore, and he was beginning to wonder if the man had given him the right apartment after all. Then, finally, a voice that was unmistakably Dean’s came through the door.
“God motherfucking damn it, you son of a bitch, I’m on my way, quit your fucking knocking!” He yanked the door open, and Castiel had just enough time to see that he looked like a wreck, eyes bloodshot, face unshaven, dressed in the same clothes from last night, before the door was shutting in his face again.
He reacted quickly, shouldering his way in by force. The first thing he saw was an empty whiskey bottle on the table by the couch, and a silent fury filled him.
Without really thinking about it, his fist-the same one that he had been abusing the door with-met Dean’s cheekbone, knocking the man backwards, reeling until he was stabilized by a wall.
“I turned in my medical license for this,” he hissed, grabbing the shoulders of Dean’s jacket, pinning him down, “So that you could give up on everything?”
“Cas, please,” Dean said weakly, turning his head to avoid looking into Castiel’s eyes.
He just shoved him more roughly against the wall. “I gave up everything I’ve worked for, all for you. And this,” he paused and released one of Dean’s shoulders to gesture accusingly at the bottle across the room, “This is how you repay me?”
He released Dean entirely and took a disgusted step back, not moving as he crumpled to the ground without the support.
Defensive now, angry, Dean looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “What are you gonna do Cas, hit me again? Will that make you feel better? Come on then. Do it. Just do it!” The last words were a shout. For a moment, his fist flexed and he considered doing just that.
But no. Several deep breaths, and he relaxed, letting his shoulders drop, his fingers uncurling to hang limply at his sides. Another moment and he finally had the presence of mind to close the door, sparing a thought to hope that none of the neighbors had called the police.
Then, he held out a hand to help Dean up.
He didn’t accept it, and used the wall instead, eyeing Castiel warily all the while. The hand dropped. He winced when Dean gingerly rubbed at his cheek…it wasn’t showing yet, but Castiel knew from his time in the army that he had hit Dean hard enough for it to bruise.
“Will you be alright?” he asked lowly, finally. It was the closest thing he was going to get to an apology with the rage still simmering within him.
“Uh-fine, I guess. What the hell, Cas?” His anger wasn’t hidden nearly as well, but Castiel didn’t shy away from the dark fire in his eyes.
He didn’t answer immediately, instead shrugging off his jacket and tossing it haphazardly on the back of the couch. Then, he picked up the empty liquor bottle, and very deliberately took it into the kitchen, dropping it into the trash.
When he settled onto the couch, Dean hadn’t moved from his spot by the door.
“I went to my boss today and surrendered my medical license,” he said, calm this time.
“You-you what?” Dean asked, turning to face him.
“I quit. My job. Gave it up. And it did it, all of it, for you. Only to come in here and find that you’re doing your best to undo the last six months,” he looked Dean square in the eye, and tried not to feel vindicated when he looked away guiltily.
“Yeah, well, Sam’s pissed, and you didn’t want me around either-I didn’t have any reason not to,” Dean said defensively.
“Have you ever considered that maybe you should be the reason you want to change?” He asked harshly.
“You’re the one who told me that doesn’t work. And maybe I’m not worth saving, Cas. Ever consider that?” He threw his arms out wide, taking a few steps into the room.
“No,” Castiel answered seriously, face blank as their eyes met, and held there. Dean was the one to look away first.
“Then maybe you should think again. I’m not worth it,” he said, with less heat this time.
Castiel’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t about to sit and listen to this self-hating shit. “Fine, then. I’ll go.”
He made a move to collect his coat, but a brief look of deep, sincere pain flashed across Dean’s face, and he froze mid-action. Perhaps trying that tactic on someone with severe abandonment issues…hadn’t been his finest idea.
“Wait, Cas, I…” He stopped, and gingerly sank down on the opposite end of the couch.
“Yes?” he prompted softly, straining for his ‘patient therapist’ tone.
“I started saving up. To go back to school. Ever since you suggested it. That’s why I’ve been working all those extra hours at Bobby’s…” he rambled.
Castiel blinked, confused. It was excellent news, but he didn’t understand why he was telling him this now. “Okay?”
“I…just. Look, Cas, I really am trying to turn my life around, man. There are just…bumps in the road or-fuck it, this is a shit metaphor.” He put an arm in front of his eyes and leaned back.
Castiel didn’t respond. Wasn’t sure what to say without brushing him off or making everything worse. Eventually Dean put his arm back at his side and looked hesitantly over. Weakly, he smiled.
“Why are you still talking to me like a shrink, anyway?”
“I will never stop caring for you, Dean, license or no,” he said before his filter caught the words. Dean’s eyebrows shot up and he blinked rapidly.
“I, um. Oh. Well, then.”
A long moment passed, and Castiel was afraid he’d said too much.
“So…when you say ‘caring,’ you do mean…you know, caring, caring, right?” Dean asked, a hopeful edge to his voice. Castiel found himself thinking of the kind of notes elementary school students passed to one another, according to Claire: ‘Do you like me? Y/N’
“Yes, Dean, I am interested in pursuing a relationship with you,” he said, going for reassuring, but the sigh at the end of the statement rather ruined that effect.
“Oh,” Dean said, “Well, uh, it’s mutual.”
“I assumed as much,” Castiel said, looking at the door, the floor, the television set across the room.
“Oh. Yeah. Last night. Right.” He ducked his head and rubbed the short hair at the nape of his neck. “In that case, maybe we could get some coffee, or…something.”
Castiel winced. He wanted to, he really, really did, but not today. Any day but today. His head was spinning with the enormity of what he’d done, all but throwing away his career, coming here, punching Dean in the face-which he felt truly terrible about, despite still being more than a little upset with Dean-and now…whatever this was. Was becoming.
“Not right now…” He said, not realizing that it sounded like a brush off until a moment later, so he added. “Is, um, tomorrow evening okay? I can cook…”
“Um, yeah, sure. Great,” Dean replied, and they finally made eye contact, then.
Abruptly, Castiel stood up, somehow afraid of staying any longer. “I need to go deal with the fallout from work…I’ll see you tomorrow, Dean. Eight?”
Dean nodded, a small smile forming under the tempest of emotions in his face. “Okay.”
He began to walk out, pausing again when his hand was on the doorknob.
“One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Sober up. And stay that way.”
A pause. “I know, Cas. I know.”
Then he was out the door, and, had he closed it back a split second earlier, he would have missed the murmured, “I’m sorry,” from inside.
The walls were down, now, torn apart brick by brick, mortar crumbled into dust. Their hands were bruised, scraped, and bloody. But that meant they could begin to heal. And something good could be built between them, instead.
Castiel let go of the doorknob and went home.
14. Until the sky shudders open, impossibly wide
Dean kept straightening his shirt, adjusting the cuffs, checking the button, making sure his pants weren’t wrinkled. He was honest-to-god nervous. He didn’t know when the last time he’d actually been nervous before a date was.
He wasn’t sure when the last time he’d actually had a date was. Probably Cassie, or Lisa…and that had been years ago. He didn’t count drunken fumbling or nameless hookups as dates.
But Cas…this was a big deal to him. He wasn’t sure when it had happened. He could see why, easily…for the man to look at him, see every flaw, every scar, and to still exude warmth and respect. His mind flashed back to the day before, and the bruise on his right cheek…He winced. He didn’t blame Cas, though. He had had it coming.
What he didn’t understand, though, was how Castiel could possibly feel the same way about him. Dean was just another guy plagued by his personal demons, and surely Cas had talked to plenty of people just like him in his…former…career.
And then Cas had gone and quit his damn job to be with Dean…it was too much. He’d probably never admit it out loud, but he owed Castiel more than he could say. Probably owed him his life.
Either way, their strange, more-than-a-little fucked up relationship was about to actually happen, and Dean was determined to do it right, this time.
Of course, he had told himself that with Lisa, too. But he actually meant it, this time.
The song ended and he realized that he had been sitting in the Impala outside Cas’ house for a good ten minutes, working up the courage to go in.
Don’t be a girl, Winchester, he told himself, and opened the door, grabbing the plastic sack out of the passenger seat. Finally, he rang the doorbell, damn butterflies having a party in his stomach. What, was he suddenly in high school again?
Cas opened the door and it was suddenly just like the other night. “Dean.” His eyes lingered on Dean’s face, regretfully eyeing the bruise before doing a once over. “You look nice,” he added softly, and Dean was glad he’d decided on something other than his usual tee shirt and jeans. Cas, on the other hand, had dressed down, in a soft knit cobalt blue shirt with a white smudge that Dean guessed was flour near the hem.
“Thank you. You too…Second time I’ve ever seen you out of a suit,” he replied before accepting the invitation in when the door was opened wide.
He followed Cas to a kitchen, which smelled really, really good.
“So-uh… You cook?” he asked, searching for a conversation starter while he discreetly checked the house out. He hadn’t exactly been focusing on the furnishings last time…it was a nice house, but so…Spartan. Cas didn’t seem to believe in decorating.
“Ah, yes,” he answered, stirring something. “My father was never around much, so I learned to feed myself.”
“I guess I can sympathize, except I never had a chance to cook…I grew up on fast food…surprised I’m not three hundred pounds.” He paused, and awkwardly held out the plastic bag. “I have a contribution. It’s customary or something to bring wine, but…”
The look on Castiel’s face let him know immediately that the comment, joking or otherwise, was not appreciated. Apparently Dean was not yet forgiven. Still, he accepted the bag, and pulled out the bottle of grape juice. He did smile at that, and Dean smiled at Cas smiling. Damn it, he was becoming some sort of sap.
“Anything I can help with?” Dean asked after Cas had put the bottle in his (unadorned, and seriously, who didn’t have at least one magnet?) fridge.
“Ah…everything’s just about done, actually, except the pie,” Castiel replied, gesturing vaguely toward the oven while he took a pot off the top of the stove.
“You make pie?”
“I…do now,” he said, and Dean could have sworn he saw a faint blush.
“Oh, god, I knew you were perfect,” he said thoughtlessly, and almost kicked himself before he remembered that they were…something, now. He was…allowed to say those things now, right?
Either way, Cas only smiled again, faintly, before draining the pasta and getting plates down for them. They served themselves and sat down at the small table in the kitchen-he guessed Cas didn’t have a dining room or whatever, which was fine with him.
They made small talk through the meal, avoiding serious topics like the day before, or Sam, or Dean going back to school, or what Cas was going to do now, without his job. At some point, the timer went off, and Castiel pulled the pie out of the oven, filling the room with the smell of cinnamon and apples. Dean had wanted to try the pie straight away, but Castiel insisted that it be allowed to cool. Since Dean had never baked a pie, merely enjoyed the finished product, he reluctantly bowed to Cas’ orders.
They migrated to the living room and Cas fiddled with the TV, putting on something about nature and then muting it anyway while Dean looked around the room. It was just as bare as the kitchen and the hall had been, with the exception of a large painting hanging on the wall opposite the couch. It depicted the sea in storm, with one ray of light breaking through the clouds.
“That’s nice,” he said, pointing at the painting.
“I thought so,” Cas agreed, “I find it very…symbolic.”
“I can see that, yeah,” Dean agreed.
He looked over and found Cas staring at him again, looking unhappy.
“What’s up?” he asked.
His reply was to reach out gently, brushing his thumb over the bruise on Dean’s face. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“It’s fine, Cas. I’m not mad,” he said honestly.
“I still should never have done that…I don’t do that kind of thing,” he said, dropping his hand back to his side.
“I probably would have punched me too, in that situation,” Dean offered, trying for humor, but at the way Cas winced and looked down, he hadn’t succeeded.
“I haven’t hurt anyone since the war, and then you…It will not ever happen again, Dean,” he said, raising his head so their eyes met, and Dean nodded.
“I believe you, Cas.” And he did. He had been pretty shocked yesterday, though the whiskey-flavored haze, but he really did understand. There’d been times when he’d gotten so pissed he’d broken things, yelled, and thrown the occasional punch himself.
“Thank you…” a pause, and Dean really, really wanted to take Cas’ hand, sitting on the couch space between them. “I think we need to talk about yesterday, though.”
He grimaced, and tightened his grip in his pants instead. “I was an idiot. Can we leave it at that?”
“You were,” Cas agreed, “But no. Why did you do it?”
“You know why…” he deflected.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Same as always.” He shrugged, looking away. “I just wanted to forget…I fucked everything up with Sammy, thought I’d fucked everything up with you. Wasn’t sure I had anything to live for anymore.”
“You’re always living your life for other people, Dean…”
“I know. Pathetic, isn’t it?” he said with a self-deprecating laugh.
“No. Selfless. You’re so much better than you think you are and sometimes I want to shake you until you realize that,” Castiel said, eliciting a small laugh of surprise from Dean. He was beginning to see a divide between therapist Cas and real Cas. The core was the same, but some of the details seemed downright contradictory. He wanted to know more.
“Yeah, well, I’m off it for good now, anyway. No more. All cured,” he said.
“Dean, we both know it doesn’t work like that,” Cas said sadly.
He sighed. “Yeah. But now I’ve got you to help me through it, right? You’re not going to let me fall,” he said, looking over, and damn it, he was not blushing.
“I don’t know why you have such faith in me, Dean,” Cas replied, not returning the look.
“You’ve been there for me, and, besides, you were able to overcome this whole…addiction, business,” he said nonchalantly, but it went so much deeper than that.
Cas winced. “I overcame it, yeah. After a suicide attempt and two months in rehab.” Dean raised his eyebrows, not having heard this bit of Castiel’s story before.
“You never told me that.”
“I…tried to keep some professionalism,” he admitted. “But yes. I was twenty-three. Took a whole bottle of narcotics. Would have worked, too, except Gabriel decided to drop in that night.”
It reminded Dean a lot of what had happened with him, but without the intent behind the overdose… Still, “And yet you picked yourself up and became a doctor. You keep telling me how awesome I supposedly am. Ever think that the same principle applies to you?”
The profound silence from the other end of the couch let him know that, no, Castiel hadn’t considered that.
He did take his hand, then, and finally, the man looked at him, expression wide and open, and the tension in that look was like an electric current. Dean shivered, but didn’t move.
This time, Castiel was the one to kiss Dean. The stupid butterflies, which had gone dormant, erupted. He slid his eyes closed, wrapping his free hand around Cas’ neck to tangle in his hair, running his fingers through it like he’d wanted to for months. For a long moment, time stopped, and the friction between their lips was the only moving thing in the world. There was nothing sexual about the kiss. It was support, comfort, catharsis. Dean had never felt anything like it, had never really bothered with kissing without direct intent for it to lead to something more. It was one of the best things he’d ever felt.
He couldn’t say how long they stayed like that, but eventually, it changed, with a small noise from Castiel’s throat, and he was opening his mouth to Dean’s, an invitation. He eagerly returned the gesture, shivering at the first contact between their tongues. Cas’ stubble scraped across his chin, their mouths dancing, exploring, plundering, memorizing. It wasn’t anything like his random hookups, overly painted girls whose numbers never made it into his phone. He was active, not submissive in the least, but mostly, the difference was that he was Cas.
He was still gripping Castiel’s hand, he realized, holding it so tightly that his fingers creaked when he did let go, wanting to be closer, as close as their side-by-side sitting positions would allow. Castiel had the same idea, breaking the kiss with a small gasp for air, then pulling Dean on top of him as he leaned back. They took a moment to adjust their legs on the too-short couch, and the sight of Castiel under him in the half-light of the room, hair mussed, lips swollen, blue eyes wide and staring back into his, was an image he’d carry forever.
He didn’t take too long to savor it, though. Months of waiting, hopeless wanting, and finally it was happening. Dean hadn’t come tonight expecting this-as far as he had planned, it was just going to be dinner, some talking. He wasn’t complaining, but, now that it actually was happening, he didn’t want to wait another second.
He met Cas’ mouth again, letting out a rough groan, hands clutching in his shirt, over his shoulder blades, crushing their chests together. Their kisses were different now, urgent, holding a hint of desperation. Their bodies were lined up, legs tangled, and Dean was already half-hard, just from the slight contact with Cas’ thigh.
His breathing was harsh through his nose, and he slipped his lips from Castiel’s to mouth at his throat, a thrill of want going through him with every pant, sigh, quiet moan.
“Dean,” he said, voice rough and breathless, even lower than usual, “Bedroom.”
He froze, lips in the hollow of Cas’ throat. “Yeah. Okay,” he replied. Legs shaky, he stood up, and then took a step back when Castiel also got off the couch.
Almost businesslike, Castiel led the way down the hall, and into a room that was as undecorated as the rest of the house, dominated by a large bed, covered with a deep white comforter. Dean’s heart rate increased at the sight of it, and, yeah, he was nervous. He’d never been with a guy, and it had been a while, months, since he’d been with anyone at all. And this, this, he hadn’t expected to happen in a million years. He’d wanted to take it slow, do things, right with Cas. But he had a feeling that that wasn’t what was about to happen.
The door was shut behind him and they met halfway in another surge of heat, hands everywhere, in his hair, the small of his back, thighs, ass. It wasn’t a gentle exploration of bodies, no, that would have to come later. Dean wanted to be as close to Castiel as possible, to touch, to taste every inch of him. He raised his hands to the collar of his shirt and began unbuttoning it, quickly, with no finesse, not bothering to put on a show. But Castiel watched anyway, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. It sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through Dean’s body, and his breathing sped up, until it stopped altogether.
Cas’ shirt joined Dean’s in a haphazard pile on the floor, and he was perfect in the ghostly glow of the streetlights, seeping in through the cracks in the blinds. He was lean, toned, not bulky. There were scars, but they only made him more beautiful, proof that he had faced tribulation, and had come out on top.
“Cas,” he breathed, voice husky, and then they were kissing again, hot, rough, tongues battling for dominance. Dean didn’t realize they’d reached the bed until he felt the mattress press against the backs of his legs. He allowed himself to be pushed backwards onto it, and gasped when the other man’s firm thigh slid between his, narrow hips fitting with his own, and, fuck, if he hadn’t been completely hard before, he definitely was, now. It was difficult to tell through the layers of fabric between them, but he was pretty certain that Cas was in the same state of affairs.
Soft lips met the side of his neck, and he tilted his head for better access. The contrast between the smooth wetness of Castiel’s lips and the roughness of his chin left Dean shuddering, wanting more. His mouth moved across his jaw line, down over his clavicle, and one hand skimmed Dean’s chest, rubbing the pad of his thumb over a nipple, leaving Dean somehow both panting and breathless, and really, really wanting to touch Castiel, to make him lose control.
“Cas,” he half-whispered, “Can I touch you?”
There was a moment of silence, and Dean was afraid for a moment that Castiel was going to back out, but then, he released a shuddering breath, and replied, “God, yes.”
Using one of his favorite tricks, Dean flipped him, so that he was straddling Cas. He set his lips back in the hollow of Castiel’s throat, moving over his chest, lightly dragging his teeth over both nipples before going to his navel, kissing that spot while he worked on the button of Cas’ jeans with hands that might as well have been made of wood. He finally got it open, and drew his hand over the bulge in Castiel’s pants, savoring the gasp-moan he let out at the contact, before pulling the zipper down. He lifted his hips, allowing Dean to tug the denim down, and his boxer-briefs were dragged with them partway, exposing dark hair and the base of Cas’ erection.
He froze for a moment, unsure of what to do, now. Dean had never really seen another guy’s dick up close or anything, let alone touched one, but he had one, and it couldn’t be that different from getting himself off. Trying not to think too hard about it, he slipped a hand under the waistband and gripped Cas, using his other hand to push the fabric down and out of the way.
Yeah, it was a little weird, touching another guy like this, but not really a bad weird. He gave an experimental stroke, head to base, and Cas moaned, not loud, not wanton, but still less control than he had ever seen the man display before. Yeah. Definitely the good kind of weird. Carefully, he maneuvered so that he was face-to-face with Cas again, supporting his weight with one hand and kissing him sloppily and still moving his other hand over Castiel’s cock in a gentle grip.
“Tell me how you like it,” Dean asked lowly, beginning to feel a little more confident. It wasn’t an invitation to dirty talk, he really wanted to know what to do to make Cas feel as good as possible. After all the man had done for him, he wanted to do that for him.
“Tighter,” Cas gasped, “Not going to break.” That voice, already like tires crunching over gravel, seemed to have dropped an octave, and fuck, it was sexy. Dean complied immediately, watching as Cas’ eyes fluttered closed and he grasped the sheets in a death grip.
They didn’t speak again, and the only sounds in the room were Castiel’s gasps, wordless whispers, and the slick pumping of Dean’s fist between them. They didn’t so much kiss as blindly press open mouths at each other.
It didn’t take long before let out another soft moan, and spilled over Dean’s hand, mouthing his name over and over as he lay, boneless, beneath him. He wiped his hand off on the sheets and lifted himself off Castiel and over to the side, pausing to let his eyes roam over the man’s body, the pale flesh, nipples stiff and red, lips swollen, hair impossibly mussed. He suppressed a groan and settled beside Cas, pressing his lips to the crook of his neck in an open-mouthed kiss.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever been so turned-on, honestly. His own dick was straining at the front of his pants like it could rip out the seams, and he was half-tempted to just take care of it himself, but Castiel turned his head, catching Dean’s mouth with his own, and making thoughts scatter beyond want, want, want. He certainly didn’t whimper when Cas broke away.
“Dean,” he said, voice still lower than usual. And-yeah, sexiest thing ever. He really, really hoped Cas was up for returning the favor.
“Cas,” he replied, able to hear how rough and low his own voice was.
“I need you to take off your pants,” he demanded, and who was Dean to disobey an order like that? He raised his hips and stripped as quickly as he could, kicking the cloth to the floor, one foot still in the cuff when Cas, apparently having ditched his own pants, rolled on top of him and planted a bruising kiss on his lips. And then the contact was gone, leaving Dean gasping like there wasn’t enough air in the room.
It was no time at all, and interminably long when Cas’ fist fastened around the base of his cock, and then something warm, wet was trailing up the underside.
“Oh, god,” Dean said breathlessly.
“Thank you for the compliment, Dean, but no,” Castiel said, and then his lips closed over Dean’s erection, taking him down to the back of his throat, then almost all the way off, swirling his tongue around the head in a way that had Dean writhing, making Cas hold his hips down with his free hand.
Those lips were heaven, Dean thought absently. Where had his nerdy little counselor learned to suck cock like this? Cas’ hand moved to toy with his balls, and damn it, it had been too long, he couldn’t take much of this. Fuck, but he wasn’t going to last.
“Oh, go-Cas, Cas, I’m gonna,” he said, but Castiel only took him in as deep as he could, and sucked, cheeks hollowing out, and Dean completely lost it, coming so hard his vision went white for a long moment, boneless lethargy seeping into his bones, not moving as Castiel pulled off of him and rearranged to lay beside and half-on-top-of Dean.
When Cas kissed him, he could taste himself in his mouth, and that was kind of really hot, even though he wouldn’t be up for round two for…a while. He wasn’t seventeen anymore.
“You know what I just realized?” Castiel asked softly, sounding serious.
“What’s that?” Dean asked, hoping the answer wouldn’t kill the easy peace they found themselves in, sated, like a bubble was protecting them from the shit storm going on outside that room.
“The pie has probably gotten cold by now,” he said, and Dean laughed. Cas laughed, too, but neither of them moved. Dean took it as an invitation to stay, rolling onto his side and resting his head on Cas’ chest.
“Also,” Cas said again, and Dean hmm’d in reply. “I don’t usually do this kind of thing on the first date. Just…so you know.”
“I must just be special,” Dean said with a smirk, beginning to feel absurdly sleepy. There were all sorts of goopy chick-flick things running through his mind, but he retained enough testosterone to keep them inside his head where they belonged.
“You are,” Castiel replied, pulling Dean closer. He would indulge in some shameless cuddling, then he would get up and go home, Dean told himself. He wasn’t too proud to cuddle. Anyone who was honest with themselves would admit to liking the occasional cuddle, and Dean Winchester was no exception. He didn’t, however, plan on falling asleep on Cas’ chest, still on top of the blankets, feeling peaceful for the first time in far too long.
15. Mirrored beams and dog-like stretch
Castiel awoke disoriented. He was on the wrong side of his bed, with the comforter under him. Also, he was naked.
That realization brought the memories of the night before flooding back, a rush of warmth tinged with regret-not that it had happened, but how it had happened. Excepting those drug-muddled times, sex had always been something serious to him, not frivolous. He was simply that kind of man-emotional intimacy before physical. He was close to Dean, yes, but their relationship felt…unequal, Dean having shared nearly everything, while Castiel only gave out enough information to keep him appeased.
So he had wanted to fix that, to take it slow, and, hopefully to work through some of their issues before taking this step. And preferably, have it happen at a time when he wasn’t reeling and, if he was completely honest with himself, a little bit broken from having his strictly ordered life fall apart.
Still, he thought as he looked over at Dean, still sleeping, head turned toward him, lips parted to reveal perfectly white teeth, the curve of a golden shoulder, dappled with striated light filtering in through the blinds, he couldn’t bring himself to feel too bad about it.
Not bad at all. Castiel let his eyes trail down the rest of Dean’s body, the most relaxed he’d ever seen the man. He looked younger in sleep, and Castiel wondered if this is how he would look all the time had that man never killed his mother, if he had been able to have a normal childhood…
Dean shifted then, breaking his thoughts. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, luminous even with his face in shadow. He was beautiful, a perfect specimen of humanity, glorious inside and out. Castiel’s rising desire was as much a want to reach out and hold some of that light to himself as anything sexual.
“Hi,” he said thickly, smiling, turning onto his side and stretching, arms over his head, bracing his hands against the wall. Dean must have noticed the way that Castiel’s eyes were trained on him, glassy, pupils wide.
“Dean,” he said, raising himself and shifting to allow his torso over the other man’s. Dean grabbed him by his shoulder blades and pulled him down, chest to chest, before their mouths met, open, hot, lazy and dirty. The hands slipped from his shoulders, across his back, skimming his ass, and down to his hips, tugging, a not-so-subtle demand that Castiel move more fully on top of him. He complied, settling his hips between Dean’s thighs, eliciting a gasp from the man when his cock rubbed against Castiel’s.
Their kisses grew sloppier, deeper, broken by groans as Castiel ground against Dean, all coarse friction and need. It was enough, sending them both spiraling into sharp-edged pleasure, first Dean, then Castiel, spilling hotly over their stomachs. He slumped on top of Dean, unable to move for a long moment, while the rush faded from his body and the world righted itself. Eventually, he managed to roll off of him, and, moments later, right back into luxurious, gluttonous sleep.
The next time he awoke, the clock on the nightstand read 1:15. Castiel couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept this late. His eyes automatically fell to Dean, watching him in sleep again. He would have been happy to close his eyes again and join him in the comfortable darkness, but the more fastidious part of him was demanding a shower, and the more responsible part demanded that he try to clean up the less literal mess he had made of his life.
Reluctantly, he slid out of bed, rummaged for a change of clothes, and slipped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He stepped into the glass-walled shower stall and turned the water on, shivering at the initial icy shock before the hot water made it through the pipes. He didn’t linger. The day felt unreal, already. Sleeping past noon, waking with Dean beside him…no job to go back to. Still, he felt vaguely rushed, pressed for time, even though he knew that nothing warranted his attention that very moment.
Either way, he only stayed in the shower long enough to wash his skin and hair before shutting the water off, drying off and getting dressed.
When he quietly opened the door, he saw that Dean hadn’t appeared to have awoken, but he had shifted to take up the entire bed, somehow. It brought a small smile to Castiel’s face as he silently made his way to the door, unwilling to wake him. They needed to talk, badly, to resolve those lingering issues, but he was reluctant to disturb Dean when the man looked so peaceful. His own reticence and reservations, of course, had nothing to do with it.
The sound of a chirp and vibration got his attention as he wandered into the kitchen. A text. He determinedly looked away from it, instead fetching his aluminum foil and covering the pie from the night before, hoping that it was still good after sitting out for…he did a quick count in his head…seventeen hours. Then, he took a deep breath, and took a look at his mobile. Eighteen text messages. Twenty-three missed calls.
The first seven texts were from his sister. The next three were from Jimmy. The following five were also from Anna. The other three were from Gabe, Mike, and Rafe. Evidently word of his fall had reached his family.
Jittery, anxious to get this over with, but also dreading it, he forced himself to go through the motions, preparing a pot of industrial-strength coffee by rote. As the scents of the brew began wafting around the room, he opened up the first message, from Gabriel.
‘Castiel you fucktard,’ was all it said. He had a feeling that dear old Uncle Gabe would be stopping by for another of his ‘surprise visits’ soon. They were always excruciating.
Michael was more pragmatic, with a snarky, ‘Well, how you planning on getting out of this one?’ Rafe left a threatening, ‘We will speak about this.’
Of the three texts from Jimmy, two were disappointed but resigned, and the third was obviously from Claire, if the atrocious spelling and grammar was any judge. Anna’s texts started out with fury, several demands that he answer her calls, then changed to a more sympathetic tone. The last simply read, ‘He’d better be hot.’
He didn’t smile. A sick feeling was beginning to bubble up in his stomach, and he knew that the coffee he’d just made would be going to waste after all. He didn’t think he could stomach another bitter brew, not when his was churning already. Here, away from Dean, he was again horrified at everything he’d done. Not only had he quit his job, but the route he’d taken in doing so had virtually guaranteed that his chances of ever returning to counseling work were nonexistent.
Grimacing, he stared at the grain of his table, beginning to feel physically ill from the coffee smell. Between talking to a lawyer and dealing with admin the day before, he hadn’t really had time to think about what his decisions meant, in terms of his life.
So he was free, and could legally be with Dean. And he had thrown away his career for that. Castiel had always liked to think he was more pragmatic than that-work over love. The thought had come up before, but finally, he indulged it. Was he really worth it? He traced the whorls in the pale wood with a fingertip, and found himself disturbingly unsure. In the prior weeks, he’d felt so certain, so vindicated in his knowledge that, yes, Dean was worth everything he had to offer, and more.
But now that he’d given up so much, he was beginning to have second thoughts.
And yet, as he thought back, recalling everything from the first time he’d seen the man up until this morning, he couldn’t help but think that, given the opportunity, he’d do it all over again. He’d come a long way from being an obedient little soldier, blindly taking orders.
That, at least, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret.
He knew he was only staving off the inevitable when he closed his phone again, setting it back down on the table, then moving the napkin rack in front of it so he didn’t have to look at it. Still, he wanted some time to mentally prepare himself to deal with phone call after phone call, and Castiel wasn’t much of a phone person in the first place. He’d much rather meet everyone face to face, despite the inconvenience. But maybe he was just old-fashioned, in that regard.
It was also a conversation he didn’t want Dean walking into. They would insist on meeting him, that much Castiel was certain of. But not now, not yet. Not when everything was so fresh, and new, and still raw around the edges. They needed to solidify their places in each others’ lives before letting other people in, trying to define that space for them.
And that was exactly the type of thing Castiel’s family would do-they all meant well, but a type A personality ran in the family-minus Gabriel-and they could all be control freaks-Gabriel included (Castiel would never forget the time Gabe forcibly covered his mouth with duct tape to give a lecture without any interruptions).
Still, since quitting his job, Castiel’s personal life had gone into stasis-family ignored, mail piling up, phone calls unreturned. He was hiding, fretting, wringing his hands. His commanding officer would have been disgusted with him. His father would have been ashamed.
He needed to crawl out of his shell again, face the consequences of his actions. He didn’t doubt for a second that they would be excruciating. Nevertheless, his savings account couldn’t handle his jobless state for too long-through the end of the summer if he was frugal-and Castiel didn’t want to ask any of his uncles for money. If all else failed, he could go to Jimmy, or Anna, but they were busy, and didn’t have much to spare.
There had to be something that he could do, was qualified to do with a doctorate in psychology. Other than counseling. He had rather taken that one out of the pool…voluntarily surrendering a license was barely a step up from having it taken forcibly, somewhat along the lines of, “You can’t fire me, I quit.”
And that was going to look brilliant to potential employers.
He hadn’t realized exactly how long he’d been lost in thought until there was a knock on the wall behind him, startling him.
“You burn something?” Dean asked, when Castiel turned in his seat. He was wearing his clothes from the night before, hair damp, smelling of Castiel’s soap.
There was a distinctly burned tinge on top of Dean’s scent. “That’s probably the coffee. It’s been on for…a while.”
“So, I probably don’t want to drink it?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“You okay, man?”
“Fine. Just…thinking,” Castiel said, not missing the quickly-covered worry that flared up in Dean’s eyes. “About work,” he added, clarifying. The worry changed to guilt, and he assumed that he was simply incapable of saying the right thing to Dean.
“Should I go?” he asked, somewhat subdued.
He hastily made up his mind. “No. I do need to take care of some things, but they can wait until after dinner.”
Dean smiled then, relaxing some, and taking the seat across from Castiel. “I just woke up, Cas. No breakfast?”
“It’s somewhere between lunch and dinner time, Dean,” Castiel said, unsure as to what Dean meant by that comment.
“All the more reason to have breakfast. Do you have bacon? I can fry up some awesome bacon. Oh! And your pie. That sounds like the breakfast of champions to me.”
Castiel smiled weakly. “There might be some in the freezer.” He made no move to get up, so Dean maneuvered around the table to get to the freezer, digging disgustedly through bags of frozen vegetables before finally finding a package of bacon.
“Dude, how long have you had this? Half of it has freezer burn.”
“I’m…not sure,” Castiel answered, eyeing the offending package as it was held up for his inspection.
Dean shrugged, setting it on the counter and opening cabinets, presumably searching for a frying pan. “Ah, well, you know, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and all that.”
Castiel mulled over that statement, finding it absurdly applicable to more than just questionable bacon. He only hoped that the both of them were able to come out of their own struggles stronger. Dean he had faith in. He wasn’t so sure about himself.
Nevertheless, as Dean reheated the pie and fried the bacon, amiably talking about whatever came to mind, and forcing Castiel out of his melancholy musings, he couldn’t help but think that maybe they would save each other. It didn’t have to just go one way.
Part Two | Part Four
13. I held your name inside my mouth through all the days of wandering
Castiel was in the same position he had been the night before, at the kitchen table, hands folded in front of his face in a travesty of prayer. The morning light filtering through the window was the only light. He hadn’t moved since waking up from a fitful sleep, and somehow going through the motions of getting dressed.
He should go to work. His only client was… Well, he wouldn’t be showing up, most likely, but Castiel had paperwork he needed to do and…
He ran the checklist through in his head, all the while trying to pretend that he wasn’t thinking about doing what he was thinking about doing. The coffee slowly cooled on the table, and went ice cold before he moved, desperately not thinking.
When he did, it was a startled jump, the shrill beeping of his cell phone startling in the silence.
It was probably his work, asking if he was okay, if they needed to cancel his appointment.
He should answer it. He had a good job…it wasn’t something he was willing to give up. It wasn’t. He swallowed grimly, knowing that the only person he was trying to convince was himself.
He slipped the phone from his trouser pocket and glanced at the display. It wasn’t a number he recognized. Not work then. And not D… anyone he was familiar with.
He let it ring.
A few moments of strained silence later, the infernal ringing came again. It was the same series of digits.
This time he picked up. “Doctor Castiel Novak,” he answered roughly.
“Thank God,” a slightly familiar voice said. “You know what I had to go through to get this number?”
“Who is this?” Castiel asked, not in the mood for small talk.
“Bobby Singer-trying to find out what’s up with Dean.”
Time stopped for a moment, and Castiel’s heart began thudding in his chest. He already had a bad, bad feeling about where this was going.
“Did he not come in for work?” He asked, barely keeping his voice in check.
“Naw, and the idjit won’t answer his damn phone either. I tried calling Sam to see if he knew anything, but the boy just got pissy about it, which I’m guessing means they had a fight.” He paused, and Castiel could hear the gravitas underlying the nonchalant gruffness. “With Dean not exactly on top of his game, I’m a little worried. Anyway, you’re really his only friend, sad as that is, so I figured you might have an idea-“
“This is my fault,” he said, quietly, shattering, ignoring Bobby’s startled, “Come again?”
“This is my fault,” he repeated, “But I’m going to fix it. Is Dean at home?”
“Uhh… Well, I don’t know where else he’d be,” Bobby answered cautiously.
“Good. Thank you,” Castiel replied before flipping his phone shut.
His suit was rumpled, tie loose around his neck. He would never have gone into work looking like he did. Still, that was the direction he began driving, after pulling on his old trench coat like a security blanket, despite the hot weather.
Yes, he’d be going to knock some sense into Dean, but first, he had some business to take care of.
Out of habit, Castiel parked his car in his usual spot, but walked straight past the building he worked in and through a weed-covered courtyard to the administration wing of the main building, slipping through the door into the sterile-smelling hallway.
He knew the way to the office, though he’d only been there once before, when he had been hired. When the doorknob was in his hand, he didn’t even think to knock, walking straight in.
Uriel and Zachariah ceased in their conversation at his intrusion, both turning to look at him reproachfully.
“I apologize, Uriel, but I need to speak with Mr. Adler.” When he didn’t move, Castiel hardened his voice, and added, “At once, if you don’t mind.”
“This had best be important, Novak,” he growled, but left the room, deliberately bumping him out of the way as he did so.
“What’s this about, Doctor?” Zachariah said, with that easy arrogance that made Castiel grind his teeth whenever they were forced to be in the same room. “Have a seat, make yourself comfortable. You look tense.”
“I quit.”
“You-you what?” he replied, and any other time, Castiel would have savored the look of genuine shock that crossed the smarmy bastard’s face.
“I. Quit. I’m turning in my license.”
The calm veneer returned, and Zachariah smirked. “Is this about Dean Winchester? Honestly, Castiel, you can do better.”
“You know nothing about him,” Castiel snapped, reaching the limit of his tolerance for the day.
“Well, that rather answers my question. Now, you don’t really want to do this…Just think of your career. You’re off to a very successful start, minus this little…crush of yours. We can all pretend this never happened, as long as you…”
He didn’t wait to hear what Zachariah had to say. “No. I’m done. I voluntarily surrender my license and…whatever legal processes I have to do for that. I just can’t do them right now. Goodbye.”
“Castiel-wait,” was all he heard before the door was shutting behind him again. Trying not to shake with the enormity of what he’d just done, he all but ran back to his car.
It was for Dean. Everything was for Dean.
The city was a blur as he single-mindedly drove to Dean’s apartment. The Impala was parked-he had to be there. He pulled into the empty space next to it and got out of the car.
He had already knocked on the door directly in front of Dean’s car when he realized that he didn’t actually know if that was his apartment or not. Either way, too late to go back now.
A young bearded man answered the door, a confused look on his face.
“I’m looking for Dean Winchester. Do you know where he lives?” Castiel asked before he could get a word in.
The man blinked, and pointed vaguely up. “The mechanic, right? The apartment right above mine, I think,” he said.
“Thank you,” he replied and walked off without another word, scaling the staircase two steps at a time. When he reached the door the man had indicated, he knocked loudly, hurting his fist.
There was no answer from inside. He only knocked harder.
After a good two minutes of that his hand was sore, and he was beginning to wonder if the man had given him the right apartment after all. Then, finally, a voice that was unmistakably Dean’s came through the door.
“God motherfucking damn it, you son of a bitch, I’m on my way, quit your fucking knocking!” He yanked the door open, and Castiel had just enough time to see that he looked like a wreck, eyes bloodshot, face unshaven, dressed in the same clothes from last night, before the door was shutting in his face again.
He reacted quickly, shouldering his way in by force. The first thing he saw was an empty whiskey bottle on the table by the couch, and a silent fury filled him.
Without really thinking about it, his fist-the same one that he had been abusing the door with-met Dean’s cheekbone, knocking the man backwards, reeling until he was stabilized by a wall.
“I turned in my medical license for this,” he hissed, grabbing the shoulders of Dean’s jacket, pinning him down, “So that you could give up on everything?”
“Cas, please,” Dean said weakly, turning his head to avoid looking into Castiel’s eyes.
He just shoved him more roughly against the wall. “I gave up everything I’ve worked for, all for you. And this,” he paused and released one of Dean’s shoulders to gesture accusingly at the bottle across the room, “This is how you repay me?”
He released Dean entirely and took a disgusted step back, not moving as he crumpled to the ground without the support.
Defensive now, angry, Dean looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “What are you gonna do Cas, hit me again? Will that make you feel better? Come on then. Do it. Just do it!” The last words were a shout. For a moment, his fist flexed and he considered doing just that.
But no. Several deep breaths, and he relaxed, letting his shoulders drop, his fingers uncurling to hang limply at his sides. Another moment and he finally had the presence of mind to close the door, sparing a thought to hope that none of the neighbors had called the police.
Then, he held out a hand to help Dean up.
He didn’t accept it, and used the wall instead, eyeing Castiel warily all the while. The hand dropped. He winced when Dean gingerly rubbed at his cheek…it wasn’t showing yet, but Castiel knew from his time in the army that he had hit Dean hard enough for it to bruise.
“Will you be alright?” he asked lowly, finally. It was the closest thing he was going to get to an apology with the rage still simmering within him.
“Uh-fine, I guess. What the hell, Cas?” His anger wasn’t hidden nearly as well, but Castiel didn’t shy away from the dark fire in his eyes.
He didn’t answer immediately, instead shrugging off his jacket and tossing it haphazardly on the back of the couch. Then, he picked up the empty liquor bottle, and very deliberately took it into the kitchen, dropping it into the trash.
When he settled onto the couch, Dean hadn’t moved from his spot by the door.
“I went to my boss today and surrendered my medical license,” he said, calm this time.
“You-you what?” Dean asked, turning to face him.
“I quit. My job. Gave it up. And it did it, all of it, for you. Only to come in here and find that you’re doing your best to undo the last six months,” he looked Dean square in the eye, and tried not to feel vindicated when he looked away guiltily.
“Yeah, well, Sam’s pissed, and you didn’t want me around either-I didn’t have any reason not to,” Dean said defensively.
“Have you ever considered that maybe you should be the reason you want to change?” He asked harshly.
“You’re the one who told me that doesn’t work. And maybe I’m not worth saving, Cas. Ever consider that?” He threw his arms out wide, taking a few steps into the room.
“No,” Castiel answered seriously, face blank as their eyes met, and held there. Dean was the one to look away first.
“Then maybe you should think again. I’m not worth it,” he said, with less heat this time.
Castiel’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t about to sit and listen to this self-hating shit. “Fine, then. I’ll go.”
He made a move to collect his coat, but a brief look of deep, sincere pain flashed across Dean’s face, and he froze mid-action. Perhaps trying that tactic on someone with severe abandonment issues…hadn’t been his finest idea.
“Wait, Cas, I…” He stopped, and gingerly sank down on the opposite end of the couch.
“Yes?” he prompted softly, straining for his ‘patient therapist’ tone.
“I started saving up. To go back to school. Ever since you suggested it. That’s why I’ve been working all those extra hours at Bobby’s…” he rambled.
Castiel blinked, confused. It was excellent news, but he didn’t understand why he was telling him this now. “Okay?”
“I…just. Look, Cas, I really am trying to turn my life around, man. There are just…bumps in the road or-fuck it, this is a shit metaphor.” He put an arm in front of his eyes and leaned back.
Castiel didn’t respond. Wasn’t sure what to say without brushing him off or making everything worse. Eventually Dean put his arm back at his side and looked hesitantly over. Weakly, he smiled.
“Why are you still talking to me like a shrink, anyway?”
“I will never stop caring for you, Dean, license or no,” he said before his filter caught the words. Dean’s eyebrows shot up and he blinked rapidly.
“I, um. Oh. Well, then.”
A long moment passed, and Castiel was afraid he’d said too much.
“So…when you say ‘caring,’ you do mean…you know, caring, caring, right?” Dean asked, a hopeful edge to his voice. Castiel found himself thinking of the kind of notes elementary school students passed to one another, according to Claire: ‘Do you like me? Y/N’
“Yes, Dean, I am interested in pursuing a relationship with you,” he said, going for reassuring, but the sigh at the end of the statement rather ruined that effect.
“Oh,” Dean said, “Well, uh, it’s mutual.”
“I assumed as much,” Castiel said, looking at the door, the floor, the television set across the room.
“Oh. Yeah. Last night. Right.” He ducked his head and rubbed the short hair at the nape of his neck. “In that case, maybe we could get some coffee, or…something.”
Castiel winced. He wanted to, he really, really did, but not today. Any day but today. His head was spinning with the enormity of what he’d done, all but throwing away his career, coming here, punching Dean in the face-which he felt truly terrible about, despite still being more than a little upset with Dean-and now…whatever this was. Was becoming.
“Not right now…” He said, not realizing that it sounded like a brush off until a moment later, so he added. “Is, um, tomorrow evening okay? I can cook…”
“Um, yeah, sure. Great,” Dean replied, and they finally made eye contact, then.
Abruptly, Castiel stood up, somehow afraid of staying any longer. “I need to go deal with the fallout from work…I’ll see you tomorrow, Dean. Eight?”
Dean nodded, a small smile forming under the tempest of emotions in his face. “Okay.”
He began to walk out, pausing again when his hand was on the doorknob.
“One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Sober up. And stay that way.”
A pause. “I know, Cas. I know.”
Then he was out the door, and, had he closed it back a split second earlier, he would have missed the murmured, “I’m sorry,” from inside.
The walls were down, now, torn apart brick by brick, mortar crumbled into dust. Their hands were bruised, scraped, and bloody. But that meant they could begin to heal. And something good could be built between them, instead.
Castiel let go of the doorknob and went home.
14. Until the sky shudders open, impossibly wide
Dean kept straightening his shirt, adjusting the cuffs, checking the button, making sure his pants weren’t wrinkled. He was honest-to-god nervous. He didn’t know when the last time he’d actually been nervous before a date was.
He wasn’t sure when the last time he’d actually had a date was. Probably Cassie, or Lisa…and that had been years ago. He didn’t count drunken fumbling or nameless hookups as dates.
But Cas…this was a big deal to him. He wasn’t sure when it had happened. He could see why, easily…for the man to look at him, see every flaw, every scar, and to still exude warmth and respect. His mind flashed back to the day before, and the bruise on his right cheek…He winced. He didn’t blame Cas, though. He had had it coming.
What he didn’t understand, though, was how Castiel could possibly feel the same way about him. Dean was just another guy plagued by his personal demons, and surely Cas had talked to plenty of people just like him in his…former…career.
And then Cas had gone and quit his damn job to be with Dean…it was too much. He’d probably never admit it out loud, but he owed Castiel more than he could say. Probably owed him his life.
Either way, their strange, more-than-a-little fucked up relationship was about to actually happen, and Dean was determined to do it right, this time.
Of course, he had told himself that with Lisa, too. But he actually meant it, this time.
The song ended and he realized that he had been sitting in the Impala outside Cas’ house for a good ten minutes, working up the courage to go in.
Don’t be a girl, Winchester, he told himself, and opened the door, grabbing the plastic sack out of the passenger seat. Finally, he rang the doorbell, damn butterflies having a party in his stomach. What, was he suddenly in high school again?
Cas opened the door and it was suddenly just like the other night. “Dean.” His eyes lingered on Dean’s face, regretfully eyeing the bruise before doing a once over. “You look nice,” he added softly, and Dean was glad he’d decided on something other than his usual tee shirt and jeans. Cas, on the other hand, had dressed down, in a soft knit cobalt blue shirt with a white smudge that Dean guessed was flour near the hem.
“Thank you. You too…Second time I’ve ever seen you out of a suit,” he replied before accepting the invitation in when the door was opened wide.
He followed Cas to a kitchen, which smelled really, really good.
“So-uh… You cook?” he asked, searching for a conversation starter while he discreetly checked the house out. He hadn’t exactly been focusing on the furnishings last time…it was a nice house, but so…Spartan. Cas didn’t seem to believe in decorating.
“Ah, yes,” he answered, stirring something. “My father was never around much, so I learned to feed myself.”
“I guess I can sympathize, except I never had a chance to cook…I grew up on fast food…surprised I’m not three hundred pounds.” He paused, and awkwardly held out the plastic bag. “I have a contribution. It’s customary or something to bring wine, but…”
The look on Castiel’s face let him know immediately that the comment, joking or otherwise, was not appreciated. Apparently Dean was not yet forgiven. Still, he accepted the bag, and pulled out the bottle of grape juice. He did smile at that, and Dean smiled at Cas smiling. Damn it, he was becoming some sort of sap.
“Anything I can help with?” Dean asked after Cas had put the bottle in his (unadorned, and seriously, who didn’t have at least one magnet?) fridge.
“Ah…everything’s just about done, actually, except the pie,” Castiel replied, gesturing vaguely toward the oven while he took a pot off the top of the stove.
“You make pie?”
“I…do now,” he said, and Dean could have sworn he saw a faint blush.
“Oh, god, I knew you were perfect,” he said thoughtlessly, and almost kicked himself before he remembered that they were…something, now. He was…allowed to say those things now, right?
Either way, Cas only smiled again, faintly, before draining the pasta and getting plates down for them. They served themselves and sat down at the small table in the kitchen-he guessed Cas didn’t have a dining room or whatever, which was fine with him.
They made small talk through the meal, avoiding serious topics like the day before, or Sam, or Dean going back to school, or what Cas was going to do now, without his job. At some point, the timer went off, and Castiel pulled the pie out of the oven, filling the room with the smell of cinnamon and apples. Dean had wanted to try the pie straight away, but Castiel insisted that it be allowed to cool. Since Dean had never baked a pie, merely enjoyed the finished product, he reluctantly bowed to Cas’ orders.
They migrated to the living room and Cas fiddled with the TV, putting on something about nature and then muting it anyway while Dean looked around the room. It was just as bare as the kitchen and the hall had been, with the exception of a large painting hanging on the wall opposite the couch. It depicted the sea in storm, with one ray of light breaking through the clouds.
“That’s nice,” he said, pointing at the painting.
“I thought so,” Cas agreed, “I find it very…symbolic.”
“I can see that, yeah,” Dean agreed.
He looked over and found Cas staring at him again, looking unhappy.
“What’s up?” he asked.
His reply was to reach out gently, brushing his thumb over the bruise on Dean’s face. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“It’s fine, Cas. I’m not mad,” he said honestly.
“I still should never have done that…I don’t do that kind of thing,” he said, dropping his hand back to his side.
“I probably would have punched me too, in that situation,” Dean offered, trying for humor, but at the way Cas winced and looked down, he hadn’t succeeded.
“I haven’t hurt anyone since the war, and then you…It will not ever happen again, Dean,” he said, raising his head so their eyes met, and Dean nodded.
“I believe you, Cas.” And he did. He had been pretty shocked yesterday, though the whiskey-flavored haze, but he really did understand. There’d been times when he’d gotten so pissed he’d broken things, yelled, and thrown the occasional punch himself.
“Thank you…” a pause, and Dean really, really wanted to take Cas’ hand, sitting on the couch space between them. “I think we need to talk about yesterday, though.”
He grimaced, and tightened his grip in his pants instead. “I was an idiot. Can we leave it at that?”
“You were,” Cas agreed, “But no. Why did you do it?”
“You know why…” he deflected.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Same as always.” He shrugged, looking away. “I just wanted to forget…I fucked everything up with Sammy, thought I’d fucked everything up with you. Wasn’t sure I had anything to live for anymore.”
“You’re always living your life for other people, Dean…”
“I know. Pathetic, isn’t it?” he said with a self-deprecating laugh.
“No. Selfless. You’re so much better than you think you are and sometimes I want to shake you until you realize that,” Castiel said, eliciting a small laugh of surprise from Dean. He was beginning to see a divide between therapist Cas and real Cas. The core was the same, but some of the details seemed downright contradictory. He wanted to know more.
“Yeah, well, I’m off it for good now, anyway. No more. All cured,” he said.
“Dean, we both know it doesn’t work like that,” Cas said sadly.
He sighed. “Yeah. But now I’ve got you to help me through it, right? You’re not going to let me fall,” he said, looking over, and damn it, he was not blushing.
“I don’t know why you have such faith in me, Dean,” Cas replied, not returning the look.
“You’ve been there for me, and, besides, you were able to overcome this whole…addiction, business,” he said nonchalantly, but it went so much deeper than that.
Cas winced. “I overcame it, yeah. After a suicide attempt and two months in rehab.” Dean raised his eyebrows, not having heard this bit of Castiel’s story before.
“You never told me that.”
“I…tried to keep some professionalism,” he admitted. “But yes. I was twenty-three. Took a whole bottle of narcotics. Would have worked, too, except Gabriel decided to drop in that night.”
It reminded Dean a lot of what had happened with him, but without the intent behind the overdose… Still, “And yet you picked yourself up and became a doctor. You keep telling me how awesome I supposedly am. Ever think that the same principle applies to you?”
The profound silence from the other end of the couch let him know that, no, Castiel hadn’t considered that.
He did take his hand, then, and finally, the man looked at him, expression wide and open, and the tension in that look was like an electric current. Dean shivered, but didn’t move.
This time, Castiel was the one to kiss Dean. The stupid butterflies, which had gone dormant, erupted. He slid his eyes closed, wrapping his free hand around Cas’ neck to tangle in his hair, running his fingers through it like he’d wanted to for months. For a long moment, time stopped, and the friction between their lips was the only moving thing in the world. There was nothing sexual about the kiss. It was support, comfort, catharsis. Dean had never felt anything like it, had never really bothered with kissing without direct intent for it to lead to something more. It was one of the best things he’d ever felt.
He couldn’t say how long they stayed like that, but eventually, it changed, with a small noise from Castiel’s throat, and he was opening his mouth to Dean’s, an invitation. He eagerly returned the gesture, shivering at the first contact between their tongues. Cas’ stubble scraped across his chin, their mouths dancing, exploring, plundering, memorizing. It wasn’t anything like his random hookups, overly painted girls whose numbers never made it into his phone. He was active, not submissive in the least, but mostly, the difference was that he was Cas.
He was still gripping Castiel’s hand, he realized, holding it so tightly that his fingers creaked when he did let go, wanting to be closer, as close as their side-by-side sitting positions would allow. Castiel had the same idea, breaking the kiss with a small gasp for air, then pulling Dean on top of him as he leaned back. They took a moment to adjust their legs on the too-short couch, and the sight of Castiel under him in the half-light of the room, hair mussed, lips swollen, blue eyes wide and staring back into his, was an image he’d carry forever.
He didn’t take too long to savor it, though. Months of waiting, hopeless wanting, and finally it was happening. Dean hadn’t come tonight expecting this-as far as he had planned, it was just going to be dinner, some talking. He wasn’t complaining, but, now that it actually was happening, he didn’t want to wait another second.
He met Cas’ mouth again, letting out a rough groan, hands clutching in his shirt, over his shoulder blades, crushing their chests together. Their kisses were different now, urgent, holding a hint of desperation. Their bodies were lined up, legs tangled, and Dean was already half-hard, just from the slight contact with Cas’ thigh.
His breathing was harsh through his nose, and he slipped his lips from Castiel’s to mouth at his throat, a thrill of want going through him with every pant, sigh, quiet moan.
“Dean,” he said, voice rough and breathless, even lower than usual, “Bedroom.”
He froze, lips in the hollow of Cas’ throat. “Yeah. Okay,” he replied. Legs shaky, he stood up, and then took a step back when Castiel also got off the couch.
Almost businesslike, Castiel led the way down the hall, and into a room that was as undecorated as the rest of the house, dominated by a large bed, covered with a deep white comforter. Dean’s heart rate increased at the sight of it, and, yeah, he was nervous. He’d never been with a guy, and it had been a while, months, since he’d been with anyone at all. And this, this, he hadn’t expected to happen in a million years. He’d wanted to take it slow, do things, right with Cas. But he had a feeling that that wasn’t what was about to happen.
The door was shut behind him and they met halfway in another surge of heat, hands everywhere, in his hair, the small of his back, thighs, ass. It wasn’t a gentle exploration of bodies, no, that would have to come later. Dean wanted to be as close to Castiel as possible, to touch, to taste every inch of him. He raised his hands to the collar of his shirt and began unbuttoning it, quickly, with no finesse, not bothering to put on a show. But Castiel watched anyway, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. It sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through Dean’s body, and his breathing sped up, until it stopped altogether.
Cas’ shirt joined Dean’s in a haphazard pile on the floor, and he was perfect in the ghostly glow of the streetlights, seeping in through the cracks in the blinds. He was lean, toned, not bulky. There were scars, but they only made him more beautiful, proof that he had faced tribulation, and had come out on top.
“Cas,” he breathed, voice husky, and then they were kissing again, hot, rough, tongues battling for dominance. Dean didn’t realize they’d reached the bed until he felt the mattress press against the backs of his legs. He allowed himself to be pushed backwards onto it, and gasped when the other man’s firm thigh slid between his, narrow hips fitting with his own, and, fuck, if he hadn’t been completely hard before, he definitely was, now. It was difficult to tell through the layers of fabric between them, but he was pretty certain that Cas was in the same state of affairs.
Soft lips met the side of his neck, and he tilted his head for better access. The contrast between the smooth wetness of Castiel’s lips and the roughness of his chin left Dean shuddering, wanting more. His mouth moved across his jaw line, down over his clavicle, and one hand skimmed Dean’s chest, rubbing the pad of his thumb over a nipple, leaving Dean somehow both panting and breathless, and really, really wanting to touch Castiel, to make him lose control.
“Cas,” he half-whispered, “Can I touch you?”
There was a moment of silence, and Dean was afraid for a moment that Castiel was going to back out, but then, he released a shuddering breath, and replied, “God, yes.”
Using one of his favorite tricks, Dean flipped him, so that he was straddling Cas. He set his lips back in the hollow of Castiel’s throat, moving over his chest, lightly dragging his teeth over both nipples before going to his navel, kissing that spot while he worked on the button of Cas’ jeans with hands that might as well have been made of wood. He finally got it open, and drew his hand over the bulge in Castiel’s pants, savoring the gasp-moan he let out at the contact, before pulling the zipper down. He lifted his hips, allowing Dean to tug the denim down, and his boxer-briefs were dragged with them partway, exposing dark hair and the base of Cas’ erection.
He froze for a moment, unsure of what to do, now. Dean had never really seen another guy’s dick up close or anything, let alone touched one, but he had one, and it couldn’t be that different from getting himself off. Trying not to think too hard about it, he slipped a hand under the waistband and gripped Cas, using his other hand to push the fabric down and out of the way.
Yeah, it was a little weird, touching another guy like this, but not really a bad weird. He gave an experimental stroke, head to base, and Cas moaned, not loud, not wanton, but still less control than he had ever seen the man display before. Yeah. Definitely the good kind of weird. Carefully, he maneuvered so that he was face-to-face with Cas again, supporting his weight with one hand and kissing him sloppily and still moving his other hand over Castiel’s cock in a gentle grip.
“Tell me how you like it,” Dean asked lowly, beginning to feel a little more confident. It wasn’t an invitation to dirty talk, he really wanted to know what to do to make Cas feel as good as possible. After all the man had done for him, he wanted to do that for him.
“Tighter,” Cas gasped, “Not going to break.” That voice, already like tires crunching over gravel, seemed to have dropped an octave, and fuck, it was sexy. Dean complied immediately, watching as Cas’ eyes fluttered closed and he grasped the sheets in a death grip.
They didn’t speak again, and the only sounds in the room were Castiel’s gasps, wordless whispers, and the slick pumping of Dean’s fist between them. They didn’t so much kiss as blindly press open mouths at each other.
It didn’t take long before let out another soft moan, and spilled over Dean’s hand, mouthing his name over and over as he lay, boneless, beneath him. He wiped his hand off on the sheets and lifted himself off Castiel and over to the side, pausing to let his eyes roam over the man’s body, the pale flesh, nipples stiff and red, lips swollen, hair impossibly mussed. He suppressed a groan and settled beside Cas, pressing his lips to the crook of his neck in an open-mouthed kiss.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever been so turned-on, honestly. His own dick was straining at the front of his pants like it could rip out the seams, and he was half-tempted to just take care of it himself, but Castiel turned his head, catching Dean’s mouth with his own, and making thoughts scatter beyond want, want, want. He certainly didn’t whimper when Cas broke away.
“Dean,” he said, voice still lower than usual. And-yeah, sexiest thing ever. He really, really hoped Cas was up for returning the favor.
“Cas,” he replied, able to hear how rough and low his own voice was.
“I need you to take off your pants,” he demanded, and who was Dean to disobey an order like that? He raised his hips and stripped as quickly as he could, kicking the cloth to the floor, one foot still in the cuff when Cas, apparently having ditched his own pants, rolled on top of him and planted a bruising kiss on his lips. And then the contact was gone, leaving Dean gasping like there wasn’t enough air in the room.
It was no time at all, and interminably long when Cas’ fist fastened around the base of his cock, and then something warm, wet was trailing up the underside.
“Oh, god,” Dean said breathlessly.
“Thank you for the compliment, Dean, but no,” Castiel said, and then his lips closed over Dean’s erection, taking him down to the back of his throat, then almost all the way off, swirling his tongue around the head in a way that had Dean writhing, making Cas hold his hips down with his free hand.
Those lips were heaven, Dean thought absently. Where had his nerdy little counselor learned to suck cock like this? Cas’ hand moved to toy with his balls, and damn it, it had been too long, he couldn’t take much of this. Fuck, but he wasn’t going to last.
“Oh, go-Cas, Cas, I’m gonna,” he said, but Castiel only took him in as deep as he could, and sucked, cheeks hollowing out, and Dean completely lost it, coming so hard his vision went white for a long moment, boneless lethargy seeping into his bones, not moving as Castiel pulled off of him and rearranged to lay beside and half-on-top-of Dean.
When Cas kissed him, he could taste himself in his mouth, and that was kind of really hot, even though he wouldn’t be up for round two for…a while. He wasn’t seventeen anymore.
“You know what I just realized?” Castiel asked softly, sounding serious.
“What’s that?” Dean asked, hoping the answer wouldn’t kill the easy peace they found themselves in, sated, like a bubble was protecting them from the shit storm going on outside that room.
“The pie has probably gotten cold by now,” he said, and Dean laughed. Cas laughed, too, but neither of them moved. Dean took it as an invitation to stay, rolling onto his side and resting his head on Cas’ chest.
“Also,” Cas said again, and Dean hmm’d in reply. “I don’t usually do this kind of thing on the first date. Just…so you know.”
“I must just be special,” Dean said with a smirk, beginning to feel absurdly sleepy. There were all sorts of goopy chick-flick things running through his mind, but he retained enough testosterone to keep them inside his head where they belonged.
“You are,” Castiel replied, pulling Dean closer. He would indulge in some shameless cuddling, then he would get up and go home, Dean told himself. He wasn’t too proud to cuddle. Anyone who was honest with themselves would admit to liking the occasional cuddle, and Dean Winchester was no exception. He didn’t, however, plan on falling asleep on Cas’ chest, still on top of the blankets, feeling peaceful for the first time in far too long.
15. Mirrored beams and dog-like stretch
Castiel awoke disoriented. He was on the wrong side of his bed, with the comforter under him. Also, he was naked.
That realization brought the memories of the night before flooding back, a rush of warmth tinged with regret-not that it had happened, but how it had happened. Excepting those drug-muddled times, sex had always been something serious to him, not frivolous. He was simply that kind of man-emotional intimacy before physical. He was close to Dean, yes, but their relationship felt…unequal, Dean having shared nearly everything, while Castiel only gave out enough information to keep him appeased.
So he had wanted to fix that, to take it slow, and, hopefully to work through some of their issues before taking this step. And preferably, have it happen at a time when he wasn’t reeling and, if he was completely honest with himself, a little bit broken from having his strictly ordered life fall apart.
Still, he thought as he looked over at Dean, still sleeping, head turned toward him, lips parted to reveal perfectly white teeth, the curve of a golden shoulder, dappled with striated light filtering in through the blinds, he couldn’t bring himself to feel too bad about it.
Not bad at all. Castiel let his eyes trail down the rest of Dean’s body, the most relaxed he’d ever seen the man. He looked younger in sleep, and Castiel wondered if this is how he would look all the time had that man never killed his mother, if he had been able to have a normal childhood…
Dean shifted then, breaking his thoughts. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, luminous even with his face in shadow. He was beautiful, a perfect specimen of humanity, glorious inside and out. Castiel’s rising desire was as much a want to reach out and hold some of that light to himself as anything sexual.
“Hi,” he said thickly, smiling, turning onto his side and stretching, arms over his head, bracing his hands against the wall. Dean must have noticed the way that Castiel’s eyes were trained on him, glassy, pupils wide.
“Dean,” he said, raising himself and shifting to allow his torso over the other man’s. Dean grabbed him by his shoulder blades and pulled him down, chest to chest, before their mouths met, open, hot, lazy and dirty. The hands slipped from his shoulders, across his back, skimming his ass, and down to his hips, tugging, a not-so-subtle demand that Castiel move more fully on top of him. He complied, settling his hips between Dean’s thighs, eliciting a gasp from the man when his cock rubbed against Castiel’s.
Their kisses grew sloppier, deeper, broken by groans as Castiel ground against Dean, all coarse friction and need. It was enough, sending them both spiraling into sharp-edged pleasure, first Dean, then Castiel, spilling hotly over their stomachs. He slumped on top of Dean, unable to move for a long moment, while the rush faded from his body and the world righted itself. Eventually, he managed to roll off of him, and, moments later, right back into luxurious, gluttonous sleep.
The next time he awoke, the clock on the nightstand read 1:15. Castiel couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept this late. His eyes automatically fell to Dean, watching him in sleep again. He would have been happy to close his eyes again and join him in the comfortable darkness, but the more fastidious part of him was demanding a shower, and the more responsible part demanded that he try to clean up the less literal mess he had made of his life.
Reluctantly, he slid out of bed, rummaged for a change of clothes, and slipped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He stepped into the glass-walled shower stall and turned the water on, shivering at the initial icy shock before the hot water made it through the pipes. He didn’t linger. The day felt unreal, already. Sleeping past noon, waking with Dean beside him…no job to go back to. Still, he felt vaguely rushed, pressed for time, even though he knew that nothing warranted his attention that very moment.
Either way, he only stayed in the shower long enough to wash his skin and hair before shutting the water off, drying off and getting dressed.
When he quietly opened the door, he saw that Dean hadn’t appeared to have awoken, but he had shifted to take up the entire bed, somehow. It brought a small smile to Castiel’s face as he silently made his way to the door, unwilling to wake him. They needed to talk, badly, to resolve those lingering issues, but he was reluctant to disturb Dean when the man looked so peaceful. His own reticence and reservations, of course, had nothing to do with it.
The sound of a chirp and vibration got his attention as he wandered into the kitchen. A text. He determinedly looked away from it, instead fetching his aluminum foil and covering the pie from the night before, hoping that it was still good after sitting out for…he did a quick count in his head…seventeen hours. Then, he took a deep breath, and took a look at his mobile. Eighteen text messages. Twenty-three missed calls.
The first seven texts were from his sister. The next three were from Jimmy. The following five were also from Anna. The other three were from Gabe, Mike, and Rafe. Evidently word of his fall had reached his family.
Jittery, anxious to get this over with, but also dreading it, he forced himself to go through the motions, preparing a pot of industrial-strength coffee by rote. As the scents of the brew began wafting around the room, he opened up the first message, from Gabriel.
‘Castiel you fucktard,’ was all it said. He had a feeling that dear old Uncle Gabe would be stopping by for another of his ‘surprise visits’ soon. They were always excruciating.
Michael was more pragmatic, with a snarky, ‘Well, how you planning on getting out of this one?’ Rafe left a threatening, ‘We will speak about this.’
Of the three texts from Jimmy, two were disappointed but resigned, and the third was obviously from Claire, if the atrocious spelling and grammar was any judge. Anna’s texts started out with fury, several demands that he answer her calls, then changed to a more sympathetic tone. The last simply read, ‘He’d better be hot.’
He didn’t smile. A sick feeling was beginning to bubble up in his stomach, and he knew that the coffee he’d just made would be going to waste after all. He didn’t think he could stomach another bitter brew, not when his was churning already. Here, away from Dean, he was again horrified at everything he’d done. Not only had he quit his job, but the route he’d taken in doing so had virtually guaranteed that his chances of ever returning to counseling work were nonexistent.
Grimacing, he stared at the grain of his table, beginning to feel physically ill from the coffee smell. Between talking to a lawyer and dealing with admin the day before, he hadn’t really had time to think about what his decisions meant, in terms of his life.
So he was free, and could legally be with Dean. And he had thrown away his career for that. Castiel had always liked to think he was more pragmatic than that-work over love. The thought had come up before, but finally, he indulged it. Was he really worth it? He traced the whorls in the pale wood with a fingertip, and found himself disturbingly unsure. In the prior weeks, he’d felt so certain, so vindicated in his knowledge that, yes, Dean was worth everything he had to offer, and more.
But now that he’d given up so much, he was beginning to have second thoughts.
And yet, as he thought back, recalling everything from the first time he’d seen the man up until this morning, he couldn’t help but think that, given the opportunity, he’d do it all over again. He’d come a long way from being an obedient little soldier, blindly taking orders.
That, at least, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret.
He knew he was only staving off the inevitable when he closed his phone again, setting it back down on the table, then moving the napkin rack in front of it so he didn’t have to look at it. Still, he wanted some time to mentally prepare himself to deal with phone call after phone call, and Castiel wasn’t much of a phone person in the first place. He’d much rather meet everyone face to face, despite the inconvenience. But maybe he was just old-fashioned, in that regard.
It was also a conversation he didn’t want Dean walking into. They would insist on meeting him, that much Castiel was certain of. But not now, not yet. Not when everything was so fresh, and new, and still raw around the edges. They needed to solidify their places in each others’ lives before letting other people in, trying to define that space for them.
And that was exactly the type of thing Castiel’s family would do-they all meant well, but a type A personality ran in the family-minus Gabriel-and they could all be control freaks-Gabriel included (Castiel would never forget the time Gabe forcibly covered his mouth with duct tape to give a lecture without any interruptions).
Still, since quitting his job, Castiel’s personal life had gone into stasis-family ignored, mail piling up, phone calls unreturned. He was hiding, fretting, wringing his hands. His commanding officer would have been disgusted with him. His father would have been ashamed.
He needed to crawl out of his shell again, face the consequences of his actions. He didn’t doubt for a second that they would be excruciating. Nevertheless, his savings account couldn’t handle his jobless state for too long-through the end of the summer if he was frugal-and Castiel didn’t want to ask any of his uncles for money. If all else failed, he could go to Jimmy, or Anna, but they were busy, and didn’t have much to spare.
There had to be something that he could do, was qualified to do with a doctorate in psychology. Other than counseling. He had rather taken that one out of the pool…voluntarily surrendering a license was barely a step up from having it taken forcibly, somewhat along the lines of, “You can’t fire me, I quit.”
And that was going to look brilliant to potential employers.
He hadn’t realized exactly how long he’d been lost in thought until there was a knock on the wall behind him, startling him.
“You burn something?” Dean asked, when Castiel turned in his seat. He was wearing his clothes from the night before, hair damp, smelling of Castiel’s soap.
There was a distinctly burned tinge on top of Dean’s scent. “That’s probably the coffee. It’s been on for…a while.”
“So, I probably don’t want to drink it?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“You okay, man?”
“Fine. Just…thinking,” Castiel said, not missing the quickly-covered worry that flared up in Dean’s eyes. “About work,” he added, clarifying. The worry changed to guilt, and he assumed that he was simply incapable of saying the right thing to Dean.
“Should I go?” he asked, somewhat subdued.
He hastily made up his mind. “No. I do need to take care of some things, but they can wait until after dinner.”
Dean smiled then, relaxing some, and taking the seat across from Castiel. “I just woke up, Cas. No breakfast?”
“It’s somewhere between lunch and dinner time, Dean,” Castiel said, unsure as to what Dean meant by that comment.
“All the more reason to have breakfast. Do you have bacon? I can fry up some awesome bacon. Oh! And your pie. That sounds like the breakfast of champions to me.”
Castiel smiled weakly. “There might be some in the freezer.” He made no move to get up, so Dean maneuvered around the table to get to the freezer, digging disgustedly through bags of frozen vegetables before finally finding a package of bacon.
“Dude, how long have you had this? Half of it has freezer burn.”
“I’m…not sure,” Castiel answered, eyeing the offending package as it was held up for his inspection.
Dean shrugged, setting it on the counter and opening cabinets, presumably searching for a frying pan. “Ah, well, you know, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and all that.”
Castiel mulled over that statement, finding it absurdly applicable to more than just questionable bacon. He only hoped that the both of them were able to come out of their own struggles stronger. Dean he had faith in. He wasn’t so sure about himself.
Nevertheless, as Dean reheated the pie and fried the bacon, amiably talking about whatever came to mind, and forcing Castiel out of his melancholy musings, he couldn’t help but think that maybe they would save each other. It didn’t have to just go one way.
Part Two | Part Four