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Brings the Sunrise

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"You sure you want to do this?" Sam asks him for what seems like the hundredth time in five minutes.

Dean nods. "We gotta find out what's going on, Sammy, and so far, this is the best shot we have." Because nobody's telling them anything. And Cas? Well, Cas is Cas but Heaven's been keeping him on a pretty tight leash recently.

So when Bobby managed to find a spell in one of his books that would supposedly hide their presence from the angels, Dean figured they had to go for it. It took a while to persuade Pamela to help them, her first reply having been a resounding fuck, no. And Dean's still not too sure what Bobby said to her to get her here, but she's with them and prepared to help, on the condition that she doesn't go anywhere near those angelic sons of bitches.

It's a condition Dean can live with. If someone's going to do this, going to risk being blinded or burned up then it's going to be him.

Pamela pats the bed next to her. "The quicker we do this, the quicker I can forget that I ever agreed to this insanity."

Dean toes his boots off and gets on the bed. And his head has barely touched the pillow before Pamela's fingers are on his forehead, wet with something fragrant and oily, brushing across his skin.

"Close your eyes," she says, "and breathe. And remember, tap the back of your left hand twice to come back."

Dean takes a final look at Sam, worried look on his face and pacing the small room before he does as she asks, and Bobby's spare bedroom blinks out into darkness.

Pamela's fingers are still on his forehead and she's saying something, words that should make sense, but don't.

There's long moments of nothing, and Dean's about to say something, about to get up and tell them it didn't work when his body feels like it's being pulled in a hundred directions at once, sharp and hard and wind rushing over his face.

And he's a second away from puking, a second away from really regretting the fried breakfast he had this morning, when it stops. It's lurching and it's sudden, but it's over, and Dean gasps with relief.

The room he's in sure as hell isn't Bobby's any more, lush and clean and very obviously a hotel. A good hotel. One that Dean's pretty sure doesn't come with the cockroaches that Dean's become accustomed to in most of the places he and Sam stay in. And it looks like Heaven's got a way bigger checking account than they've been letting on.

There's a familiar trench coat thrown over one of the chairs but no actual sign of-- and then Dean's holding his breath as Uriel's in front of him, so close Dean could reach out and touch. And this is it, he thinks, this is when Uriel turns around and smites him. But Uriel's not looking in his direction, is too busy frowning at a closed door.

Dean can't resist it, can't resist reaching out and waving a hand in front of Uriel's face. And it's only when Uriel does nothing that Dean lets go of the breath he's holding. Score one for the good guys.

Uriel's still frowning when the closed door becomes an open door and, whoa--

Because if there's anything Dean didn't expect to see on this jaunt of his, it's Castiel naked with a towel wrapped around him, hair wet and very obviously just out of the shower.

"I don't know why you insist on indulging in that," Uriel snaps. Like taking a shower's worse than kiddie porn and kicking puppies rolled into one.

"Because Jimmy enjoys it. And since he gave up this body for our cause, then it behooves me to allow him this," Cas replies, running fingers through damp hair.

And Dean's hands aren't bunched by his sides to stop him from doing exactly the same. Because he's never thought of Cas in that way before. Never looked at the angel and wondered what he's like under the suit, what he'd be like on his knees. Never.

"Have a care, Castiel, that you do not become too enamoured with the things Jimmy likes. Remember, brother, he's a vessel, not an excuse."

Cas ignores the jibe in a way Dean never would. "Do you have news on the Seal in Maine?"

The frown doesn't leave Uriel's face. "No--"

"Then I suggest you go and find some, Uriel. Unless you seek to lecture me some more."

And if anyone had asked Dean an hour ago how righteous a man could look, clothed in only a towel and with drops of water slowly dripping from his hair to run down his chest, Dean would have said not a whole hell of a lot.

Of course, if they'd asked him an hour ago what the likelihood of him standing in a room with Cas and wanting to follow said drops of water with his tongue was, he'd have answered the same thing.

Looks like he's wrong on both counts, then.

Uriel doesn't reply, the sound of Cas's voice barely faded from the air before he goes, Cas not even blinking at the sudden departure, and soft rustling that Dean's never noticed before accompanying his exit.

Dean's just about to tap his hand, to go back to Bobby's to tell them yes, the spell works but no, he didn't find anything out beyond the fact that Cas apparently likes to use all the hot water, when Cas moves, gaze slowly leaving the spot Uriel had been standing in.

And Dean knows he should leave, knows that he can't find out anything this time around, that he should come back again now that he knows he can. But he doesn't.

He doesn't leave because he wants to know, wants to know what Cas does when he's not riding Dean's ass about Seals and God and stopping the apocalypse.

The bed looks soft as Cas sinks down onto it, towel dropped to the floor. And who'd've thought that Cas is a hedonistic little fucker, arms spread and fingers bunched in the comforter.

Dean's not checking him out, he's not. He's not looking at a smooth stomach and lithe legs and a cock that he's kinda itching to get his fingers around. And, jesus, perving on an angel has to be breaking at least three of the commandments, right. But he's here and Dean's here and it's fucking manna from Heaven.

Cas's eyes are shut as his hand moves down over his stomach, fingers splayed as they trail over his skin. And Dean can almost feel it, can almost feel the touch over his own skin.

Cas's cock is filling, already almost half hard before Cas even wraps his fingers around it. Cas doesn't start out slowly, doesn't start out unsure. He jacks his cock steadily, thumb brushing over his cockhead to spread the precome over his hardness, and Dean knows this isn't the first time he's done this. He's too steady, too quick to fall into a specific rhythm for this to be anything other than familiar.

Dean's own cock is twitching in sympathy, pressing against his jeans and Dean's tempted to slide his fingers inside, to jerk off to the sight of an angel, of Cas, hard and wanting and arching into his own touch. He's tempted, but he's not really here and he doesn't know what will happen back at Bobby's. And while he can probably explain away his body getting hard, coming in his jeans when Sam and Pamela are in the room is something he's not about to get in to.

Cas is close now, he has to be. His strokes are quicker and the breathy noises coming from him are ones Dean wants to hear again. And Dean will leave as soon as Cas is done, but even Hell at the door isn't going to get him to leave a second before then.

Cas's hips lift off the bed and he's coming, spilling himself over his fingers with a soft cry and stripping his chest with come.

And Dean's gone; two taps to the back of his hand and body turning inside out as he wakes back in Bobby's spare room, eyes wide and heart pounding and Sam next to him, concern in his eyes.

"Did it work?" Sam's asking, hand on Dean's arm.

"Yeah," Dean nods. "Yeah, it worked." And his voice sounds wrecked, like he hasn't spoken in years.

"Here." Pamela hands him a glass of water and he drains it in one, liquid blissfully cool against his throat. "Did you find anything out?" she asks.

"No. Uriel was there for a minute and then Cas was--" The words break off for a second, break off because Dean's mind is still back in a hotel room somewhere.

"Dean?" Sam's fingers tighten slightly on his arm.

"Cas was alone." Dean gets the words out, gets them past the dryness that's still in his throat. "But at least we know it works, right."

But the worry is still in Sam's eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Fine. It's just-- it was a hell of a rush. Kinda feel like I've been 12 rounds with Tyson."

Pamela pats his arm. "Get some rest," she says, before turning to Sam. "Come on, sweetcheeks, you can take me downstairs and get me a drink."

He's not sure how long he lies on the bed after they've gone, staring at the ceiling, and he's not sure if they'll find out anything useful if they use the spell again. But he's sure about one thing. He's sure about what he heard, about what Cas said as he came. One name, wrapped in want and desire and falling from Cas's lips like a prayer, like a hope, like a beginning.