And the hunter home from the hill
Cas seemed to become resigned to every emotion rubbing his nerves raw. Dean felt as if he was walking on eggshells for a couple of days after that one strange night in a motel room when Cas had equated a blow job to the end of his world. Dean knew that wasn't the truth, but it was hard to get past that analogy. And the guilt, Dean had the guilt. Sam tried to apologize, but Dean brushed it off; it was really, truly Cas' idea, after all, and just like all of Cas' ideas, it somehow blew up in his face. Well, Dean's face, if they were going to be technical. There was a weird, odd tension now, and Dean knew they'd have to get past it or it was possible that the three of them just couldn't hunt as a team. Sex ruined things and Dean knew that, he'd lived it, he just didn't know it was going to ruin Cas; not when Cas had seemed so eager in the first place. The other part of the problem was Sam and Sam's refusal to step up and talk about this with Cas. Sam told Dean it was not his job to discuss Dean and Cas' sex life with Cas, or to discuss with Cas why Dean and Cas' sex life had made Cas a head case, and that was just that. With no help forthcoming, Dean sort of floundered and kept to only asking Cas about necessary things like, did he want to eat? Sleep? Slit Dean's throat? Cas always told him in a listless and lackluster way that he was fine, and it was such a blatant lie that Dean felt a little uncomfortable that Cas wasn't trying to hide it. That was what men did, right? They hid their emotions, but then he remembered that Cas was new to emotions and probably didn't know he had to hide them. Great, another thing Dean had to teach him: self-repression.
Sam thought this was unhealthy and he let Dean know.
“So what, now he's the boy in the bubble?” Sam asked. “That's how we're going to treat this? Let him hole up in the archives until what? He'll run out of things to catalog or read eventually. Dean, he has to learn to accept this sooner or later, I don't think you're helping.”
“He doesn't have to accept it if I get his grace back,” Dean told his skeptical sibling.
“What are the odds of that happening?” Sam said. “The only way to get into heaven is to die at this point. Then what?”
“I team up with Bobby and Ash and every other dead person who might or might not side with me up there, kick Metatron's ass and toss Cas' grace off a cloud and hope you catch it,” Dean said, then gave Sam a thumbs up because his plan was awesome.
“You're impossible,” Sam reminded him.
“Damn straight. Please go talk Cas into liking the world again. You don't have to mention me or relationships or anything else,” Dean wheedled.
“He's not going to do it for me, Dean,” Sam said with long suffering patience.
“See there you go again, let's get this straight, whatever it is Cas and I have, it isn't this romance novel Sarah Jessica Parker Sex in the City Mr. Big thing going on,” Dean said. “I fucked the dude up with ... never mind, we've been through that. What makes you think he's going to listen to a word I say? Cas has his own agenda.”
“An agenda of crippling self-denial,” Sam interrupted.
“I don't set his agendas, I barely get an appointment to see him not be looney tunes,” Dean snorted.
“Dean, just ... make him a sandwich at lunch and try to talk to him, okay? Just do it, Dean,” Sam sighed.
“Okay, fine, Dr. Phil, I will,” Dean returned and huffed off.
“Behold, I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way, and bring thee into the place which I have prepared,” Dean announced, coming in and setting a tray down on the table Cas was seated at with a flourish. Cas looked up at him and Dean grinned.
“Exodus, chapter 23, verse 20,” Cas said, then looked down again.
“Yeah, okay, that one kind of sucked but there are very few mentions of angels in the Bible, and how is it only Michael and Gabriel got a mention by name, anyways?” Dean prodded, edging the tray closer to Cas.
“Michael possibly for driving out Lucifer, Gabriel because he was a loudmouthed attentionmonger,” Cas said, still not looking at Dean or at the tray.
“Turkey sandwich with avocado,” Dean prompted. “Not my idea, but you seem to like the stuff Sam likes, so ...”
“Why is it that when we are having any form of conflict, you try to feed me?” Cas lifted his eyes from his book, fixed them on Dean and tilted his head.
“I hadn't noticed,” Dean said. “Are we, uh, having a conflict?” and he tried to look earnest, like Sammy could, and wondered if it just looked stupid on him instead. Cas suddenly dropped his eyes again, stared hard at the book.
“It's difficult to look at you,” Cas said, staring hard at the book, “without feeling as if I might start to cry again; if you want honesty, it's very vexing. I don't wish to have these emotions that make me cry like the people on Maury Povich.”
“I told you not to watch that crap,” Dean said. “That is not a good example of how to be a human. Neither is The View. Watch reruns of Andy Griffith or something.”
“When is it going to stop being like this, how long did it take you to come to terms with this?” Cas asked, still glaring down at his book.
Dean gave a chuckle and a snort. “Never, I have never come to terms with any damn thing in my life. I'm not a good advisor. I told Sam to come in here and talk to you, but he won't,” Dean sighed.
“I'm glad he won't, I don't want to talk to Sam,” he looked up at Dean. “That is not to imply I never want to talk to Sam. I like Sam, he and I have our own bond of sorts now that we spend a lot of time together. He's insightful and compassionate and much more patient than you are. He's better with his people skills than you'll ever hope to be and he has an earnestness about him that is hard to set aside. So when I say I don't want to talk to Sam, I mean about this particular situation we have at this moment; not as in never talk to Sam again.”
“Yeah, I get that, “ Dean said with a little smile. “Cas, you're looking at me and not crying.”
“It won't last,” Cas said. “You'll say something poignant or you'll try to inspire me and it will just start again. Or I'll think about that humiliating blow job again.” Cas shook his head. “If I could take that all back, I would,” he said frankly.
“It wasn't that bad,” Dean said, picking at his finger now. “I don't get how I say stuff that makes you cry anyways, you just said Sammy is the sensitive one and I'm a brick. It's like a kid out with his learners permit, you're so afraid of bumping into other cars.”
“I don't drive,” Cas informed him. “Wait, is this one of your attempts at analogies? Don't pout, I didn't get that until just now. I'm sorry if I ruined it again.”
“You are such a shit,” Dean said. “I don't know why I even bother trying to share my awesome wit with you. Or make you awesome sandwiches you ignore.”
“It hurts your feelings when I don't appreciate your efforts to feed me, doesn't it?” Cas said, lip starting to extend outward a bit.
“No,” Dean said quickly. “It just makes me irritated that you're wasting groceries and we have a budget.”
“You're lying to protect me,” and Cas dropped his eyes to the book again. He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose in an effort to hide the fact he was wiping his eye on the side of his hand.
“No, Cas, come on,” Dean squatted at the table, put his chin on it. “If you all you can do is cry every time you look at me, how are we going to get anything done?”
“I'm trying to figure that out, stop what you are doing. It's attractive and endearing,” Cas groused.
Dean grinned at him, bounced his eyebrows up and down.
“I'm attractive and endearing?” Dean asked. “Or are you just saying that?”
“Do not flirt with me; I'm in a emotionally compromised state,” Cas huffed.
“But I can't help it, it's my endearing-ness that makes me do it,” Dean sighed. “Does it help that I have big green eyes?” and Dean batted his eyelashes at him several times.
“Yes! Will you stop it now? I do not wish to flirt with you, can't you see I'm trying to come to terms with my profound bond? I am so attracted to you that I have a hard time internalizing all the emotions I feel when I simply look at you? How can you not see this turmoil I'm embroiled in?” Cas looked at him again, bared his teeth.
“So you want me so much it makes you cry?” Dean said, still right where Cas didn't want him to be. “It makes you cry during sex? Cas are you embarrassed that you cry during sex? Is that it?”
“I can see why Sam wishes you had an off switch now,” Cas said, low and exasperated. “Yes, does that satisfy you? It was more than the crying, it was the complete emotional siege, and I'm not used to it. I suppose sitting in here hiding from it isn't going to help me learn how to deal with it. Sam said I had to build up a callous against it.”
“So wait, Sam talked to you about this?” Dean said. That bitch.
“Yes, yesterday while you were watching Spanish soap operas,” Cas told him. “I didn't quite go into all the detail as I do with you, or do the crying,” Cas did wipe his eyes on his sleeve. “When I talk to Sam it's a heart to heart; with you it's somewhat more cathartic.”
“I'm glad you're here for Sam to be a girl with,” Dean told him with a small smile and sigh. “Feel better now?”
“Oddly enough, yes,” Cas said, put his elbow on the table, chin in palm and looked at Dean still squatting there. “Loving you has been a tremendous complication on my constitution.”
“Lovesick,” Dean cooed to him, made kissy lips at him.
“You think you're clever,” Cas said, leaning there, looking at him with half-lidded blue eyes.
“I am,” Dean said, gave him a little smile. Cas reached out then, pushed his long fingers against Dean's lips and got them kissed for his trouble. Dean watched Cas' lips twitch, but Cas took a deep breath and after a moment mastered it.
“Fast learner,” Dean congratulated him, standing up from his squat, but then leaning down on the table.
Cas pointed at himself with his other hand. “Brilliant, remember?”
The creature who came shambling into his room and climbed up onto his bed and bunched its hands in the front of his shirt and pulled should have been the end of him; but instead it looked at him with runny eyes and nose and bared teeth and said, “What have you done to me?”
It seemed Cas caught Dean's summer cold after all.
Dean freed his hand from the sheets, slapped it to Cas' forehead, then shoved him back, rolled over to curl up again. “You'll live, I did,” he said sleepily. “Either lay down or go back to your room.”
Cas did neither; he sat there on Dean's bed and made miserable wet sounds, nose sniffling, and finally he did a dramatic slow fall, his head landing on Dean's side.
“You were almost this much of a drama queen before you became flightless,” Dean informed him with a snort.
“You're very mean,” Cas bemoaned. “I made a real effort to enjoy seventies music and I did it for you, Dean. I liked The Starbucks. Moonlight Feels Right is a lovely song with a soothing melody but you acted as if I had broken some unwritten commandment. Now you're punishing me.”
“You played that shit in my car,” Dean told him. “Of course you have to suffer. Cas, it's just a cold, be a man, okay? You'll feel like crap for a couple of days, but you'll get over it. What about me, huh? I had it and did I sit around moaning about it, no. I did shit, I worked on Baby, I drove to buy my own Nyquil and I sat in the living room and watched porn.”
“I don't want to get better with porn,” Cas told him. “I find porn degrading to women. I'm leaking and I can't seem to make it stop. My sleeves are damp now.”
“No, Cas, no, don't make me get up and take care of you, you're a man, you are supposed to be stoic about this shit,” Dean groaned.
“I'm hungry and my eyes are itchy, why is there no food?” Cas dug his forehead into Dean's side. “You take care of me when I'm not like this, why is now an exception?”
Dean pulled the pillow over his head for a good minute before giving a muffled curse, tossing it aside and pushing Cas' head off of him so he could get out of the bed and go make Cas some damn soup or something.
Nowhere was a comfortable place to sit. Cas shifted around the room again. He perched on the edge of the couch near Dean, wrapped in two blankets and great misery. Every time one of the Winchesters looked in his direction he did his best to look pitiably near death. It was obvious he didn't think he was getting enough attention during his illness. He got up to move again.
“Okay, Dr. Cooper,” Dean groused, “I'll bite, what's wrong with you now? No one is sitting in your spot because you've never had a dedicated spot in here before. I'm trying to watch El Derecho de Nacer here. I gotta concentrate on it, man, not only do I have to translate in my head, you miss one little plot point and you're screwed.”
“I'm sorry that my illness is inconveniencing you,” Cas hissed. “Shall I go expire somewhere quieter? I can always go... ” but Cas started coughing and he coughed all through a dramatic scene and Dean admitted defeat and turned off the TV and got up and went to get the Robitussin. Cas saw him coming, got up to shuffle away, but Dean followed him with grim silence and determination and cornered him in Dean's bedroom.
“I don't want to take that, it's disgusting,” Cas said with watery eyes and put the bed between Dean and himself. “It gagged me, it's very unpleasant. I don't know why it is that while you are ill you have to endure even more suffering in the name of recovery. It seems pointless.” Then Cas had another coughing bout and Dean came around the bed and snagged him before he could shuffle away. He sat Cas on the bed, poured the prescribed-by-the-bottle amount into the little plastic cup that came with the bottle, and held it out to Cas.
Cas turned his face away.
“Cas, you are not a five year old,” Dean told him. “But if I have to climb on top of your ass and hold your nose like I did this morning, I will. We have the little discussion about you and your dignity and my lack of appreciation for it. I'm about to demonstrate further that your dignity and I have a love/hate relationship, as in it loves to hate me. Now, drink this or risk hacking up a lung.”
Cas looked at him with watery and slightly alarmed eyes, then. Dean felt sort of guilty over exaggerating a condition to get Cas' co-operation; but he wasn't fully convinced Cas wanted to be better because Cas seemed to like all the attention.
At first it was soup, and then blankets, then pillows on the couch and orange juice. Then Sam had petted on him and gave him magazines and watched game shows with him. Then they all watched a movie together and Dean let Cas sleep in his bed all night; something he didn't usually do. That had been yesterday. When today started differently, without so much petting and attention, Cas took it upon himself to show the Winchesters he was still, truly, at death's door. The cough syrup, was as far as Cas was concerned, an abomination. When Dean had offered a dose this morning, Cas had took the little cup, stuck the tip of his tongue into it, then promptly dropped it on the floor. This brought about the inevitable discussion about wastefulness and that he and Sam were not made of money and Cas had waved his hand at Dean and all but called him a peasant. Then Cas had a lesson of Dean being bigger and stronger than him now and that of course became Dean forcing cough syrup down his throat by sitting on him and holding his nose.
Cas informed him that was making Cas die faster, and Dean had called him a loser and left him sitting there on the floor in the puddle of cough syrup he'd wasted earlier. Then there was a heated exchange about dignity and Cas not having any and Dean threatening to strangle it if it ever came into the bunker with them.
“Cas,” Dean said with forced patience, “this is what humans do to get better. I know this is a temporary condition, but when in Rome, yaddah, yaddah.”
Cas snatched the little cup, downed the vile serum and thrust the little cup back at Dean and made bitter, long suffering faces.
“Thank you,” Dean said and left Cas sitting there and then didn't come back. He was supposed to come back and tell Cas that enduring a human illness and taking human medicine was above and beyond the call of temporary human duty. Dean was supposed to come back in and lie down on the bed and let Cas huddle against his stomach. Dean was supposed to come back and let Cas complain without interruption. Dean was not doing his job and his job was making this miserable existence bearable.
“You're supposed to be in here making this better,” Cas finally called out, knowing he was probably alone upstairs.
“Only a dog hits on a sick man,” he heard Dean yell back from down the hall. Then Dean appeared in the doorway. “Are you going to sulk up here all day?”
“Maybe,” Cas said petulantly. Dean came in then, pushed Cas over on the bed, climbed on top of him and physically laid on him.
Cas snapped and snarled, wiggled and shoved. “What are you doing,” he bitched, “get off me.”
“I'm being a hen,” Dean told him, “ you seem to want me to sit on you.” But Dean was grinning now, fending off Cas' hands, straddling his body and clutching with his knees so Cas couldn't dislodge him. Finally Cas gave up and just laid there. “Get better so I can hit on you,” Dean said.
In celebration of Cas getting over a small summer cold that barely lasted two days, they took him out to eat. Dean insisted the celebration be a cuisine Cas had never had before and they ended up in a small Korean restaurant. Dean sat beside Sam and across from Cas. Dean tried to helpfully explain the menu.
“Okay, soondubuchigae is tofu stew, it's the best and you can get it in all different kinds.” Dean pointed at the menu lying on the table in front of Cas. “You got pork and beef and seafood and kimchi, so you just pick what kind you want and how hot you want it. It goes from white and mild to sun scorching, tongue skin peeling, blistering hot. You might want to avoid that. Also kalbi, dude, that's Korean spare ribs, and this place has a stew and spare rib combo.”
“You know a lot about this, and all the names,” Cas said, staring at the menu. “I didn't know you could speak Korean.”
“He can't,” Sam told him, “he speaks food.”
“Which stew is the best?” Cas asked, running his finger over the many choices on the laminated menu.
“Well, I like pork kimchi best,” Dean said with a shrug, “I like it at the hot right before sun scorching, and that's still pretty damn hot. You might wanna try it mild to begin with, angel, I'm sure you haven't had the experience of the Korean people trying to set fire to your insides.”
“Please, human,” Cas answered back and Sam grinned at them. Cas had taken to flinging human around as casually as Dean flung angel. “I am aware there are spicy foods and I have even had some scorching Cheetos and I did just fine with them.”
“Scorching Cheetos is baby food, Cas,” Dean warned, “I'm telling you, don't tempt fate.”
“That is actually wise advice, even if misguided. If the fates sought revenge on me now there is little I could do to stop them,” Cas gave that mild shrug and eyebrow lift. “It doesn't mean that I can't eat spicy tofu stew,” Cas closed his menu.
Sam sort of felt he should add his own warning. “It's really hot, Cas,” he said with a sage nod.
“Thank you, Sam. It will be fine,” Cas assured him. So when Dean ordered, Cas did as he usually did: he copied Dean's order. Dean requested an entire pitcher of water be left on their table and Cas snorted his disapproval of Dean's obvious condescension.
“Don't you make noises at me,” Dean told him with a finger shake. “I'm doing you a favor.”
Sam jumped in to change the topic to monsters: because that was the main topic of discussion no matter what the occasion. Waiting at the DMV? Let's talk about monsters. In the dentist's office? Let's talk about monsters. The grocery store line? Let's talk about monsters. That scary dream about monsters that's making me huddle in the corner with a baseball bat? Let's talk about monsters. It was a Winchester one-topic-fits-all sort of thing. Then Cas naturally contradicted Sam on the topic of monsters and there was a silent huff. That was new, but Dean sort of liked it.
Cas was amazed at the plethora of tiny dishes that came before the meal. Dean actually enjoyed explaining each one as best he could. Some he knew: glass noodles with bean sprouts, actual kimchi with napa cabbage and actual kimchi with radish. Some he knew by description: tiny fish with eyes that were sorta dried and, oh my god, those potatoes in brown sauce! Sam and Cas got maybe a bite of those before they disappeared into Dean's stomach. Cas stared at his stew when it arrived boiling, then he checked Dean and Sam's pots and then looked back at his own.
“I didn't know the hot you were talking about might incur actual burns,” Cas said, bewildered.
“No, Cas,” Sam said, “you have to let it cool down some before you eat it. It's hot both ways.”
“Eat your ribs first, oh, Sammy, tell her to put barley tea in the rice pot when she's done scooping out the rice. That's great, Cas, barley tea in the left over rice,” Dean assured him. “Mix your rice and stuff in it when you start eating it, Cas,” Dean instructed further. “Oh, and now is the time you should put your raw egg in and stir it around.” Then Dean demonstrated and Cas copied him. Dean smiled as he watched Cas tilt his head and smile at the swirl of egg he was making in his bowl.
Cas stared at his stew, willing it to cool down. He wasn't sure that waiting for his meal like this was pleasant until he copied Dean and started to eat his short ribs. They were, without doubt, delicious, and he sucked the sauce off his fingers with great pleasure. Dean secured them refills for all their tiny dishes: banchan, Dean called them, and that was also wonderful. But what he really wanted to do was eat his spicy stew and prove to Dean and Sam, but mostly Dean, that he was just as good at processing spicy foods as any human. For some reason he felt it was a challenge to eat this spicy meal, perhaps not an intentional one, but Dean suggesting he start out mild and then calling him angel on top of it made Cas ruffle the feathers he no longer had. Dean was determined to kid glove him, to walk him, holding his hand, though some things and while Cas appreciated and actually adored Dean's concern for his welfare it was, in truth, not necessary. He was perfectly capable. Sam tried to explain this to Dean as well with little luck. Dean would laugh at them both, then call Sam 'Sammy' and call Cas 'angel' as if to say, please, children, let me handle this.
Sam and Cas both found it irritating. Sam handled it with rolled eyes and facial contortions. Cas handled it with biting sarcasm, when he could think of it, and storming off to sulk. He wasn't aware that removing himself from the situation was storming off to sulk, but Dean insisted that it was. He watched and Dean scooped up a good bit of rice with his long-handled metal spoon and stir it into his soup before he tried it himself. He put the rice in and stirred it around to distribute it evenly, and then with much anticipation he lifted his first spoonful of steaming broth, now with rice, up and blew on it to cool it a bit further. He glanced at the Winchesters. Dean was intent on his food, Sam was intent on his cell phone and stirring his soup absently. Neither of them were bearing witness to his first spoonful of spicy Korean soup; well, that was their loss. Dean was now eating with gusto and still had not even glanced at Cas sitting there with soup hovering near his lips. If Dean could eat it like that, so could Cas. Cas took several spoonfuls in a quick succession, pausing to enjoy the silk texture of tofu. Then, of course, dropping his spoon into the bowl, picking up the pitcher of water and drinking from it directly.
There there was a lot of scowling at giggling Winchesters.
Sam abandoned them early for online gaming. Cas and Dean decided to splay on the couch and watch TV. Cas was still grumpy over the fact that Dean and Sam had had a hard time keeping a straight face in the restaurant after Cas half tearfully requested to be allowed to order a slightly less volcanic tofu stew. Dean brought the abandoned stew home to eat later. But he'd enjoyed it, he'd enjoyed that experience with Cas — through Cas, really; all the Korean food was new again simply because to Cas it was new. Dean wasn't sure how to classify that, why he thought about it like that. So he just focused on the fact that he'd had fun, eating tofu stew with Cas and his brother. He felt the touch on his hand, looked over at Cas. Dean had one hand on the couch between him and Cas, and Cas was touching it now. Running his fingers over Dean's fingers, tracing the veins on the back of it and each tiny scar with a finger tip. Cas wasn't looking at Dean, he was looking at Dean's hand, so Dean turned his hand over and Cas glanced up at him, smiled, then back down to trace the lines of Dean's hand.
“Come to bed with me,” Dean said, soft, quiet.
“Do you really mean that?” Cas returned. “You're not asking me there to sleep. I thought I'd traumatized you the last time we attempted that.”
“You did, but I got over it, and maybe you did, a little, too,” Dean insisted.
“Maybe a little,” Cas agreed.
Dean got up then, switched off the TV, stretched, then came over and held his hand out to Cas, and Cas slowly lifted his hand and put it in Dean's.
In bed, fully dressed save his boots. Dean sat back against the headboard, tugged Cas up to straddle his legs, to sit in his lap. Cas didn't object, settled quietly and cupped Dean's face immediately. Dean opened his mouth as Cas kissed him, as Cas' long fingers worked small circles against his jaw, as Cas moaned into this mouth. Dean wrapped lazy arms around Cas' waist and just enjoyed his weight, his lips, his kisses and the way he made noises into Dean's mouth. After a few moments he pulled back, still holding Dean's face, his eyes holding Dean's eyes and he gave a very slight half-smile.
“What is it, angel?” Dean asked, voice naturally muted to the mood. He moved his hand then, pushing one under Cas' shirt to rub at the bare skin of his back.
“I feel such a welling inside me when I'm with you like this; or even if I'm not with you like this and I just think about it. Emotion is such a disorienting process. I wonder why any creature would want to be crippled with such intensity, and then things like this happen, and I realize this is why,” Cas told him. “These are the same emotions that made me panic; it's so funny how very widely varied the range is; how it can slide so easily up and down. I'm a creature of order; I always have been. My routines are a way I keep my order; it's a way to hold onto who I am. I know you think they are superfluous, but I see them as I see you, an anchor.”
Dean watched him as he spoke, raised his face to Cas' thumbs as they stroked his cheeks. Then Cas called him an anchor and he remembered, Sam telling him that Cas saw him as an anchor to help him stay here; an anchor to keep him grounded and sane. Now Dean felt a welling himself, and he couldn't describe it; he could never put into words these feelings, not like Cas, not like Sam. It made his throat thick to just even think of trying. Cas's thumb stroked over Dean's lower lip now.
“So yes, that whole ritual with the coffee maker, that's necessary,” Cas told him. “I'm sorry it delays your coffee in the mornings, but I need that. So please, put the filters back where they go and make sure the silver coffee scoop is in the glass jar and the plastic coffee scoop is in the bag.”
And Dean laughed, a entire body laugh that made him lean forward and bump foreheads with Cas and he thought his jaw would crack from the grin. And he looked at this man's wary blue eyes and he loved him like nothing since Sam.
“It's not funny,” Cas said a little defensively.
“Cas please, baby, cut me some slack, it really is,” Dean pleaded. “Don't be mad at me, it's just one of those things that's you and no one else. I really like them, okay? It's just me expressing my appreciation.”
“I'm letting you get away with this because I want to be naked with you,” Cas murmured.
“Thank you,” Dean said, moving to drag his mouth down the side of Cas' neck and bring his hands up to start working on Cas' buttons.
“I shouldn't,” Cas said, stopped to watch Dean a moment, “I shouldn't let you get away with things. I do that then you think you can get away with more things. You think I'll just let you. You think I'm some sort of push over,” Cas watched Dean open his shirt, he watched Dean slide the shirt off his shoulders. “I'm not a pushover, Dean,” he informed him.
Dean looked up at him, then leaned forward and kissed Cas on the chest, still keeping eye contact with Cas as he did so.
“You're not listening to me,” Cas complained. “You're using physical stimulation and adorable actions to distract me from the real issue here and that issue is ...” and then Cas sucked in a breath because Dean dipped his head lower and dragged his tongue over Cas' nipple. Then Dean settled there, closed his mouth over Cas' nipple and began to suck. He kept his eyes on Cas', though and raised his eyebrows as if encouraging Cas to continue Cas' thread of thought. As if that were even possible. Instead Cas grabbed a handful of Dean's hair and didn't go any further than that because he wasn't sure why he was grabbing Dean's hair to begin with. When Dean finally released him, Cas gasped and sagged a little.
“That was reality-altering,” Cas said, voice gravelly. “Why are humans such horrifically tactile creatures?”
“I can't wait to hear what you say if I ever get to fuck you,” Dean said with a grin. Then Dean started on the buttons of Cas' jeans. Cas watched him curiously, still playing with Dean's hair, tugging it, dragging his fingers through it, then down to scratch at the nape of Dean's neck and Dean grinned and winked at him, arched his head down for Cas to scratch.
“See? So tactile,” Cas said, enjoying Dean's enjoyment. It made him ache in pleasurable ways when Dean grinned at him. Dean gripped Cas' hips, encouraged him up onto his knees and when Cas complied Dean wiggled his jeans down as much as he could.
“You got a thing against underwear,” Dean said. “I think I get the logic behind your button flies now.” “I have a thing against clothing in general but there is human law and Sam's sensibilities according to Sam,” Cas sighed. “Dean, I'm not above noticing the hazards of a zipper when my genitalia is involved. I know I'm new to the human pain centers, but I do understand pain and I have watched enough TV to grasp that is not a region where you want to pain to happen.”
“You're really fuzzy, too,” Dean said with a grin, looking down.
“I have nothing to do with that,” Cas told him, “the body came that way.”
Dean curled his fingers into the opening of Cas' jeans, rubs the back of them against the little bit of Cas' cock that was free of them and Cas squirmed in his lap and Dean liked that a lot. What to do with Cas? Maybe if he let Cas have more control, then it wouldn't be so overwhelming, or Cas might be able to process it better if Cas knew it was coming beforehand.
“I want to fuck you,” Dean said frankly, then smiled as Cas nodded, already arching forward, rubbing himself on Dean's fingers. “But I want to take it slow and that's not a slight on you so don't make it one. You pointed out that emotions are still new and scary to you, so let's not have a repeat, okay? I'm thinking if I let you sit in my lap while it's going on, let you control the speed and the depth, well, that makes it more of a learning experience, doesn't it?”
“Intriguing,” Cas said, “could you please put more of your hand against my cock? It's really getting achy.” Cas sucked in his lower lip, then made a half-protesting sound when Dean removed his fingers and gripped Cas' hips again.
“Come on, Cas, you need to be the full monty for anything more, and what about me, huh? I can't get my jeans down with you sitting on me,” Dean told him. That stopped the complaints.
Cas subsided, let Dean guide him through getting his jeans off, then he helped Dean get Dean's jeans down to his lower thighs. Then Cas sat further back on Dean's thighs and reached to finger the head of Dean's cock and Dean hissed appreciation, but he gripped Cas' hips to slide him close and reached back to pull the lube from under his pillow where he stashed it. Cas watched him slick up his palm, then he wrapped his palm around Cas' cock and Cas made a positively primal sound, then Dean pushed his cock up against Cas' cock and wrapped a hand around both. Was that even possible? Why was he still alive? What was happening? And when Dean stroked them together, Cas grabbed Dean by the shoulders and pulled him forward so hard that Dean's nose collided with the bone of his sternum, but he didn't care. He was straddling Dean's lap with Dean's face crushed to his chest and Dean's hand on his cock and Dean's cock against his cock in Dean's hand, and life as he knew it was over.
Ow, what the fuck? Dean thought it would be the height of irony if Cas gave him another bloody nose, this time during sex. He pulled his head back, looked up at Cas, but Cas had this strange glaze to his eyes and didn't appear to actually be there in bed with Dean but off in that bizarre Cas-land he sometimes went to when you left him on his own enough. The one where he sat around and stared at spots and talked to you in mathematic equations until you managed to bring him back to earth. He kept stroking them slowly and Cas rocked with it, sucking his bottom lip, and with his other hand Dean got the lube open again, got his fingers messy and used that hand to start slicking Cas up in back. He went slowly, just pressing at first. Cas made another startled intake of air when Dean's fingers brushed his anus the first time. He tried to rock back to the sensation but Dean still had him by the cock and he didn't want to pull free so he rocked forward again. He did this every time Dean brushed him and it became apparent to Dean that Cas was starting to look stressed about it. So Dean pressed a finger in the next time Cas started to rock back, just to his first knuckle and Cas stiffened up all over and looked down at him.
“What do you think about that?” Dean grinned. “You know you're the one who told me you weren't innocent of the act, but what you were really saying was you had watched porn and you thought you knew what you were in for; so go on, let me hear you say you're a know-it-all and sometimes you don't really know what you're in for,” and Dean wiggled his eyebrows. Instead of acquiescing, Cas grabbed his nose and twisted it. “The fuck?” Dean said, but it came out all befuddled because Cas was holding his nose.
“Don't be a smartass, human,” Cas told him, “I do know it all.” and with that he bore down on Dean's finger. “Now, get a move on, I have an appointment in your lap after we're all good and ready.” And Cas pushed back against Dean's finger.
Dean gave in then, he gave in to Cas' great satisfaction. The stroking increased and Cas swallowed and relaxed and breathed as Dean fingered him open, as Dean pressed into him and made him feel good. He worked his hands against Dean's shoulders, kissed the top of Dean's head, tugged Dean's hair with his teeth and just gloried in Dean Winchester, here with him in this intimate place. Dean Winchester wanting Castiel as much as Castiel wanted him. That was the true beauty of human intimacy: the sharing of each other, the implicit trust, the overwhelming humanity of it. Base creatures engaging in nature's oldest act.
Dean must have been satisfied with Cas' responses, because Cas moaned a bit of denial when he withdrew his fingers, released his cock and turned to licking at Cas' chest, cupping his hands under Cas' ass to lift him and move him forward even more. He looked up at Cas then, heavy-lidded green eyes, pursed lips and Cas reached behind himself, his fingers brushing and gripping the head of Dean's erection. Dean moaned then, a beautiful sound that traveled up the flesh of Cas' chest and then back down to Cas' crotch and Cas held Dean, steadied him, nodded to him. There was a pleasant ache, a stretch and burn that wasn't as pleasant but also wasn't unbearable. Then Dean removed his hands, placed them on the bed on either side of his hips and continued to look up at Cas. Dean was giving Cas control of the situation, Dean was only there to serve in the role of something for Cas to fuck himself with.
“It's okay,” he told suddenly anxious blue eyes. “Remember earlier you tried to twist my nose off for implying you didn't know what you were doing? so I'm afraid to give you any advice.” Dean grinned at Cas' exasperated snort. Dean pressed his forehead's to Cas, still keeping his eyes on Cas' and he smiled up at him. “Whatever you do, you're going to be brilliant at it,” he said, a softer tease. “There is no right and way wrong to do this, Cas; this is for you to enjoy and believe me when I say if you enjoy it, I will, too. So just breathe, Cas, and take your time. We don't have a train to catch.”
Cas held himself where Dean had left him, joined but not moving. Dean had never been with a more or less virgin before; he wondered at his own composure and patience. It had to be another of those Cas things, another one of those little mysteries that surrounded Cas and made Dean act like Dean actually knew how to act in certain situations. A holy influence: Dean grinned and groaned to himself and that seemed to prompt Cas, who slowly, very slowly, seated himself entirely in Dean's lap.
“Fuck,” Dean murmured.
“I concur,” Cas said faintly. “I'm not sure how to describe this or if I should even describe it. It's an unlikely event to compare to anything. Some equations pop to mind but you told me to keep my math to myself.”
Dean was grinning now: was Cas gonna be a sex babbler? He had all the potential and was known for running on ad nauseam about nothing.
“I suppose there are many ways to say this; but I find most slang referring to the act to be uncreative at best,” Cas gasped then jerked a little, spasmed a little and moved: lifting and lowering himself once, then stopping to over analyse the sensation. Dean just reassured himself Cas was a fast learner and he couldn't help but get better with practice. Long, sweaty hours of practice that Dean felt obligated to participate in with him.
“Did you know that the word angel has a meaning in the gay vernacular?” Cas continued and rocked himself forward, then up and down yet again. “It means passive person in the relationship, and I want you to know that even if you call me angel I'm not going to conform myself to that role.”
“Yeah, okay,” Dean said, smiling, watching Cas move himself, wanting badly to take Cas' hips in hand and teach him a rhythm — but look at them, look at them having sex and no drama. Why ruin a good thing?
“Also, did you know that we engage in bareback sexual activity? You've never offered me protection and I've never really considered a need to ask for it. Until recently I was divine; maybe that is reassuring to you, and to me as well, I suppose.” Cas licked his lips then, stilled his voice for a moment as he started to ramp up his speed.
“Where the fuck are you getting all of this from?” Dean asked, reaching now to grip Cas' hips, not to direct, just to hold on.
“The internet,” Cas said, “since I was anticipating this in our future I took the time to do research. One of us needs to be touching my cock,” he informed Dean, “I'd rather it be you.”
Dean grinned, released one hip, wormed a hand between them and gripped Cas in a loose circle of fingers, letting Cas' own movement fuck him through them; Dean was just providing him with a bit of friction.
“Yay internet,” Dean groaned, licked his lips, started to regret his non-directional policy.
“The wealth of information it offers rivals all the great collections of knowledge on earth and in the heavens,” Cas informed him, husky, sweaty, guttural. “This is starting to feel really urgent,” he told Dean. “Please feel free to take your lust out on me, you've been very patient and I want you all over me.”
“Urgent is an understatement,” Dean wheezed, “thanks for letting me maul you in advance.” Then Dean tightened his grip on Cas' cock and Cas half howled with it. “We're picking up the pace again,” he told the angel in his lap. “I'm about to bowl you onto your back and put your knees over my shoulders, is that okay with you?”
“Yes,” Cas sobbed, “anything at this point, anything,” he begged.
“Here we go,” and Dean was as good as his word: he rolled them to the side then pushed himself up over Cas, all without disengaging. He pushed Cas' legs up, leaned in and let them fall over his shoulders, and he reached up and gripped Cas's shoulders. Cas started at him with watering blue eyes and Dean winked at him, bowed his head and went as he pleased now. Cas wailed, became all slapping, pulling hands, pleas in Enochian and English and loud, boisterous sobbing. When Cas came it stunned him to silence, but his hands found Dean's hair and pulled hard enough to make Dean fear for his scalp. Dean wasn't but a moment after and his own releases were heralded with a choked-off shout and loud, harsh panting. He lifted his face to look at Cas. Cas was flushed and teary and sweaty; his bangs were stuck to his forehead. He caught Dean looking at him and stared back. He didn't look traumatized in any other way but having had a good lay. Dean tried a half-smile and got one in return.
They'd had sex and they had both survived.
After that, Dean no longer slept alone. Cas, left to his own devices, finally found a reason to settle into his human existence and express himself. He turned out to be a surprising hedonist.
Every day, Cas would wake up while Dean was sitting on the bed putting on his boots. And Cas would be warm and naked or mostly naked; he would pull at Dean's shirt, he would try to coax Dean into lying with him just a little longer. But Dean would just grin and lean over to kiss him.
Today was no exception.
“Get up, don't sleep all day,” Dean said, kissing his forehead, then his cheek. “And maybe you could shave today? You're getting really shaggy, tickles my nose to kiss you.”
“Maybe,” Cas said, rolling away for a yawn and a stretch, then he looked back at Dean. “What if I never shaved again?”
“I'd be sleeping with the wild man of Borneo soon, I guess,” Dean said with a grin, then he got up, leaned over and smacked Cas on the ass before going out the door to make them all breakfast.
Castiel was content and secure and human enough to decide how to live his life at last. And it had only taken a little over two months of sharing a bed with Dean Winchester.
Cas' mornings started around ten thirty. At ten thirty he'd get up and go to shower, he would come back to the room and, depending on what was on the agenda for the day, he would either put on jeans or shapeless, flowing hippy pants. That was not his term, but Dean's, but Cas didn't mind. They were so comfortable and non-confining. Next, he would admit, he surrendered to the plaid, and if Dean's shirt from yesterday was in the basket and not too dirty, he'd put it on over the t-shirt Dean had worn yesterday, if it was not too dirty or stinky. Then, if he was wearing his hippy pants he would not wear shoes. He would go downstairs and find Sam, barely awake and reading the paper in sections, setting aside the sections he'd already read for Cas to read when he came down. Dean, who had been up probably about three hours before either he or Sam, would be in the kitchen making breakfast. Cas would divert there first, to lean on Dean's back and ask for scrambled eggs, then gather his very large cup of coffee and join Sam at the war table until breakfast was served.
Breakfast would be served with a lot of grousing from Dean about how he and Sam were horrible slackers or something else just as colorful, and Cas would happily eat his breakfast and study Dean and all the nuances of Dean until Dean told him to cut it out, it was creepy.
Life was good for Castiel.
“You didn't shave,” Dean said, chewing on toast. “It takes you this long to get up, how is it you don't have time to shave?”
Cas was sitting in a chair with his knees pulled up and lipping the lip of his coffee mug. He was shaggy and unrepentant and he didn't feel the need to explain it.
“Will you let me trim your bangs?” Dean asked and sighed when Cas shook his head no.
“He's going through a phase,” Sam said with a grin. “It's okay, Mom, you have to let him be himself.”
“Fuck you,” Dean said and showed Sam the appropriate hand gesture to accompany the words. “Why don't you let me trim your bangs all the way to the back of your neck? How about that, Sammy boy? At least you're not sliding into the sixties like Cas.” Cas gave Sam the peace sign.
Lunch was late because breakfast was late. Cas put on shoes so he could go out to the warehouse and see what Dean was doing and remind him that it was two thirty and maybe Dean should come make him lunch. Cas had spent his time between breakfast and lunch in the archives rubbing his face on ancient texts. He loved ancient texts and enchanted objects and cursed trinkets and occasional holy relics. He loved them a lot. He wanted to spend all his time which he didn't spend with Dean and Sam with the archives. He'd made a nest in his favorite archive room with pillows and blankets, then Sam had come in with more and some chairs and made Cas a fort. He loved the fort. Dean said Cas was aging backwards from a bajillion to five. Cas liked being five.
His dinner was late as well, usually around seven thirty. Sometimes Dean would plan and they'd have a 'fancy' meal, sometimes Dean just made single pot meals like stew or chili, sometimes Dean just made them a sandwich; but as long as Dean made it, Cas would love it. Then there was TV watching, or shop talk about monsters, always about monsters. And Cas' favorite part of the night was of course getting in bed and sometimes not even going to sleep right away.
“I don't know why you made me come on this hunt,” Cas told him, looking bored. “I'm not even sure these jeans are clean.”
“What does that matter to you, you always wear my yesterday's shirts,” Dean said. “You don't give a rat's ass about clean clothes, you don't even aim when you throw them at the laundry basket, and god forbid you actually wash a load.”
Sam shook his head no. “He doesn't wash a load ever again, we can't just go buying new washing machines every time, Dean.”
“I made you come on the hunt because you can use the exercise, Mahatma Ghandi,” Dean told him. “We think it's a crocotta. It's been hanging out in these abandoned apartments and sucking on squatters. It's fish in a barrel, but you still need the exercise; quit griping, geez.”
There were many buildings to go through, many floors to check, many abandoned units to tromp through. Splitting up was probably a better option, but no one seemed to want to go their own way so they stayed in a loose group, sometimes covering different floors of the same building.
“When I get home, I'm going to take a very long bath with all that lavender I found at the farmer's market,” Cas said, trailing along behind Dean. “I'll make the sheets smell good.”
“Good for you, Joan Baez,” Dean said, poking his head into another room, his gun drawn.
“You guys seen anything?” Sam called from down the hall.
“No, are we sure we're in the right place?” Dean shouted back.
“When it goeth well with the righteous, the city rejoiceth; and when the wicked perish, there is shouting,” Cas said. “You guys are doing this backwards; you're shouting first and perishing the thing after, it's got to know we're coming.”
“Proverbs, Chapter 11, Verse 10: you're not even trying hard, Cas,” Dean said, deciding this unit was clear and turning to head back to the door.
“I thought I'd cut you some slack seeing as how you're being all smooth and paramilitary right now,” Cas informed him, stepping to let Dean by and then follow him out of the unit. “Don't worry, though, being macho makes you hot,” Cas assured him.
“Thanks, Arlo Guthrie, I'll remember that,” Dean snorted.
“I love Arlo Guthrie's music,” Cas sighed.
The time between Dean and Cas walking into the hall and Dean and Cas scrabbling for cover was just seconds. The crocotta struck Dean across the face with a piece of debris from the hallway and Dean half spun, dropped his gun and knocked back into Cas. The creature wasn't stupid: it dove for Dean's gun, grabbing it up and running down the walkway toward the stairs. Dean pushed up and took off after it on foot, calling a warning to Sam. The creature paused at the top of the stairs, looking down and raising the gun to fire. Sam, at the foot of the stairs, returned the fire. Dean threw himself to the wall as the creature raised the gun and took a crazy shot at him, then it decided to run and Dean chased it down the walkway on the opposite side. Sam came running up the stairs the. By this time Dean had tackled it and knocked it to the ground. Sam waded into the Dean vs crocotta wrestling match and extracted his brother and shot the crocotta a couple of times at close range, which pretty much declared Dean, but really Sam, winner of the match. Dean cursed it, kicked it, picked up his beloved pearl-handled gun and looked around, to ask Cas if he had observed closely how a crocotta was killed. But Cas was still over on the other walkway. Cas was sitting in a strange sort of half-leaning position against the wall.
“Cas?” Dean said, pushing past Sam, walking that way. “Cas?” Dean said again, starting to jog. “ Cas? ” Dean screamed, breaking into a run. He could hear Sam running behind him. He ignored the jar to his knees when he fell to them beside Cas. Dean heard Sam make a noise behind him, an awful, disbelieving noise. “No, come on, CPR,” Dean said, pulling Cas away from the wall, lying him out flat. “Sammy, come on,” Dean said. He pushed the bloody shirt open, dragged off his own shirt and balled it up to cover the wound. Sam got on his knees beside him, took over holding the shirt against Cas' chest. Dean felt for a pulse, then pried Cas' mouth open, took a breath and covered Cas' mouth with his own, forced air into his lungs. Then he pulled up, pushed Sam's hands away, crossed his palms over Cas' heart, heedless of the blood, and pressed and counted and pressed and counted. He did it over and over again with hardly a breath in between; he would do it forever if necessary. But Sam put a hand on his shoulder, pushed him back and Dean looked up at him, tense and anxious.
“Stop,” Sam said brokenly. “Just stop, Dean, he's gone.”
“No, Sammy,” Dean said, breathless, shaking, “we have to ...”
“Dean, stop,” Sam said again. “Please, just stop, Dean. Just stop.” And when Dean tried to lean over Cas again Sam pushed him away again. Dean slapped Sam's hand away then, stared at him.
“We're not stopping,” he snarled and shoved Sam hard in the shoulders and Sam reached up and grabbed his wrists and held him there, Cas' body between them. He just held Dean's wrists as tight as he could and Dean bunched his fingers into Sam's shirt and held on, too. They sat there for an indeterminate amount of time, until Sam slowly let Dean go and Dean slid his hands down Sam's shirt and then over onto Cas' body. Sam got up slowly, took a few steps back.
“No, no, why?” Dean said, shaking Cas' body. “Why, why, no, not like this, Cas,” Dean half-screamed at him. “You don't go out like this.” And Dean rocked then, back and forth on his knees, then leaned and pushed his forehead against Cas' chest, and he shook Cas again. “This is not how you die, this is the way I die, this is not supposed to be you.”
How had this happened? This wasn't supposed to happen. He lifted his face, he traced back through his mind. The crocotta hitting him in the face; then he'd dropped his gun. The crocotta had picked up his gun and as he'd chased it toward the stairs, the crocotta had gotten off that one wild shot at him.
Oh, so, the crocotta killed Cas (but really he killed Cas, because he was careless and stupid). With Dean's own gun, no less.
“I really fucked up this time, Cas.” he looked down at the blue eyes staring blankly up at him. “I guess it just figures. I mean you were pretty much my only shot at a happy ending, and I should have known better. ” He reached up then, wiped his eyes hard across his sleeve. “You listen to me, angel, and you listen good. First, you go and you kick the everloving shit out of Metatron and you kick him again, for me. Then you find your grace and all the other angel graces and you put them back where they belong so people have something to pray for again, because even if I know the truth, that's no reason to take away anyone else's faith. And you stay up there, you hear me? You stay up there and wait on me and when I get there, you better fucking find me, you feathered dick, because I will come looking for you.” He shook Cas' body again. “I just wish you'd stayed here longer, you know. But I'm gonna be fine, I'm gonna be all right, so don't worry about me. I got Sammy, we'll do okay. I'm going to miss you so fucking much,” and he stopped then, he knew Sam was standing there watching. He took a few deep breaths. “It's gonna be a bitch sleeping without you. And all your shit is all over my room.” He wiped at his eyes again. He could say it was his fault, but Cas probably already knew that, and Sam would protest.
“Dean?” he heard Sam say, quite and uncertain. “Dean, we should get out of here.”
Getting Cas down to the Impala and into the backseat was mostly a blur for Dean. They drove home in complete silence and, once there, carrying Cas into the bunker was another trial. Sam hesitantly pointed out that there was a cold storage unit in the warehouse and they should take Cas there until they could decide what they were going to do with the body. Dean nodded numbly, and they took Cas out to the unit, made sure it would switch on and put him on a lower shelf. Dean stood there staring down at him and Sam shifted uncomfortably.
“Let's find something to cover him up,” Sam suggested.
“His blanket,” Dean said automatically, then shook himself, looked at Sam. “He has this one blanket that he likes, I should get that, I'll go get that,” and Dean pushed his way out and of the unit and Sam went to wait outside until he came back. Dean came back after a few minutes. He went inside and spread the blanket out over Cas. “I don't know why he likes this thing,” Dean said. “It's faded puke green and it's covered with those damn little fuzz pills,” Dean got it all straightened out. “I can't do this Sam, I can't leave him in here all night by himself, I can't,” Dean said, not looking at his brother.
“I'll get you a coat and blanket, too, then,” Sam said and left to do that. When he returned he also brought Dean a chair. Sam stood by while Dean pulled on his coat and a pair of gloves he'd stuffed in the pocket. He took the blanket and sat it on the chair. Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder then, and they both stood there silently. Then Sam wiped at his eyes after a while and put his arm around Dean's shoulder instead of just on it and hugged Dean against him for a minute and let him go; then he touched Cas on the shoulder for a minute. Then Sam let himself out of the unit and Dean and Cas were alone.
“Okay, God, I'm waiting. You miracled him back to life before, this should be no exception, right? I'm going to wait here all night if I have to, and when I get a cold and die of pneumonia it will be the biggest fucking irony ever in the history of irony. Joke is on you, Winchester. I'll find out we were always the butt of your jokes. I'm okay with that if you make with the Cas coming back to life now, please.” And Dean waited standing there for a while.
“Cas wasn't supposed to die,” Dean said. “See, Cas didn't go through all of that and finally get to where he was happy just to die. That wasn't the agenda, there is no fucking way that was the agenda. He was happy, I was making him happy, you saw that, right? He was doing what he wanted to do and sure, I didn't like some of it, but he didn't care and he'd just laugh at me and tell me to shut up. Cas did that, my Cas did that, and we were going to live here and then maybe we were going to find Sam a girl so he'd get married and make some babies we could steal from him. We were going to have a great big family and fuck, I would have even given in and let him have a cat eventually. Did you see him being happy and picking the peppers off pizza slices and putting his foot into my crotch under the table because he knew I wouldn't say anything in front of Sam? He would read to me,” and Dean's voice faltered then. “Stupid shit or ancient shit I didn't understand from those moldy old books in the archive but I just loved to hear him read. He was so into it, he was so good at it and he loved what he was doing. He loved that, you saw that, right? I mean at this point, it's not about me, fuck me. It's about his happy and why can't he have it? Why can't you let him have all of that, he was happy here, that's all I ever wanted for him and why now? Why does it go away now? I will live the rest of my life now seeing shit and thinking 'Cas would have loved that'. That's my punishment isn't it? Seeing all the shit I can't appreciate and knowing he could and then somehow I could because he could. He made me happy. I was finally happy. I don't get why I don't get to have any happy,” and Dean sat hard then, on the blanket on the chair. “Please, you got to bring him back, just one more time, and I'll take good care of him this time and I'll protect him and I will never let him go on a hunt ever again. You got to do me this one solid, man, I'm begging you. I'm flat-out begging you, please.” He watched Cas lie there, unmoving. “Please,” he said again. He moved the chair very close and he laid his head on Cas' shoulder. And he stayed there all night like he promised.