It all starts during a particularly long and drawn-out hunt, the spirit of a thirty-something lady going after flamboyantly gay men for a reason Dean can't figure out yet. All he knows is that Sam is doing a surprisingly good job masquerading as gay, and all three of them (him, Sammy, and Cas) are apparently really appealing to guys who swing that way.
Then, out of nowhere, Sam approaches him, flushed and smiling.
"I'm going to, um, go-" Sam stops short as a well-built young man stops beside him, equally flushed and smiley. Dean stares, unwilling to put two and two together, and when he does he knows that he can't call Sammy out for fear of tipping this guy off to the fact that they're only faking homosexuality.
"Um. Uh. That's-" Dean stutters as Sam's very male conquest grabs his hand and nudges him along.
"Got to go," Sam says, and he's gone.
What the fuck just happened?
"Have fun," Dean mutters at his retreating form, flabbergasted. He's not nearly drunk enough for this.
"I was not aware that your brother is bisexual," Cas says, suddenly beside him.
"Me neither," Dean says. He grabs Cas's tumbler of whiskey on the rocks and downs it until the ice is bobbing against his nose and the amber liquid is gone.
"Do we still need to be here?" Cas says, borderline pout, and he's encroaching on Dean's personal space. Dean shoves him away because he's stunned and he still can't get over the fact that Sam just left with a guy, a guy with a dick, Sammy, the same guy who flashed his puppy eyes at any passing female-
"Thisss guy baw-thering you, lovely?" Dean looks at the guy speaking, and frankly he's affronted at the man's alcohol breath and slurred speech.
"I can handle it-" Dean starts but is interrupted by the intoxicated gay guy again.
"Come- come on, freckles, ditch ya law boy there and let me show ya a good time," he says.
"Ew." Dean curls his lip. This guy is disgusting. Briefly, he wonders if this is how girls feel when guys- himself included- try to pick them up with any half-assed excuse. He makes a mental note to be polite and non-pushy in the future.
"I said leeeeave freckles heah alone," the guy says, turning on Cas now. "'nless you want ta come wi' me instead a him?" He waggles his eyebrows lewdly.
Maybe it's the alcohol or the shock of Sammy's male conquest or the pure disgust at this guy or the fact that Cas seems to not notice his creepy advances but Dean hauls back and punches him in the nose.
"Don't call me 'freckles'," he snarls, before grabbing Cas forcefully and wheeling him out of the bar.
"We're not achieving anything here. I thought you wanted to leave?"
"I do, but-"
"So let's go." Dean drags him by the elbow, not bothering to question Cas's quizzical head tilt. Hell, the guy is always confused.
They get in the Impala, Cas aiming for the back seat until he realizes that Sam's not here and therefore he gets shotgun. Dean relaxes immensely away from the bar.
"You seem surprisingly nonplussed by Sam's sexuality," Cas says.
"I don't care who the hell he's with, I just wish he had bothered to tell me at any point rather than wait 'til he's about to get in some guy's pants."
"You bear no ill feelings towards him despite his preferences?" Cas wonders, clearly confused.
"Yeah, that's what I said."
"So if you're fine with homosexuality and bisexuality, then why were you so incensed by that man's advances?"
"He was gross. And I'm not gay. And he called me 'freckles'." Dean drums his thumbs on the steering wheel.
"You were patronizing a bar that caters specifically to homosexual people, it's not a difficult assumption."
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I have to let him get all up over me."
Cas ponders this carefully.
"Oh, I understand," he says finally, but he doesn't. Dean is demonizing some poor guy for hitting on him, despite the fact that he does this all the time. And if gay people aren't appalling, then why was this one to be hated for acting as such?
"But-" Cas interjects, and then thinks better of it.
"But what?" Dean questions absently, mind back on the whole issue of Sam sleeping with guys. That is kind of big in anyone's book. Like he told Cas, he was totally fine with it, he just would have rather been informed by Sam himself.
"You got offended by his objectifying your physical attributes," Cas says, hesitant.
"My physical- oh, you mean the 'freckles' thing?" Dean asks.
"Yes. You often call girls names which highlight their physical features, yet you shy away from the same conduct once it has been directed at you."
"I don't know, man," Dean snaps. "It's weird."
"Did you ever consider that maybe it feels just as degrading to females? That you choose to acknowledge them by their appearance rather than their personalities, therefore asserting that they're worth only as much as their bodies?" Cas doesn't say it accusingly, but as if he honestly doesn't understand.
"I don't know." Dean frowns. He never thought about it like that. It made a lot of sense though, and now that he had been on the receiving end he thought back on how much of a douche he has probably been to innumerable girls without even realizing it.
"You feel guilt," Cas states neutrally.
"Whatever. I just don't like being called 'freckles'," he grumbles.
"Do you not like your freckles?" Cas asks, seeming a teensy bit....offended? Why would he be offended now?
"Yes. No. I don't know," the hunter snaps.
"Why?" Cas pries.
"They make me seem like a little kid or something. Twelve year old girls have freckles, okay? Not muscular manly....men."
"People of all ages and gender identities are marked with freckles. I like them."
Dean squints at him.
"You don't just say that to other dudes."
"I said that I like freckles. I didn't specify that I liked your freckles alone."
"Do you like my freckles alone?" Dean asks, incredulous.
He is met with a stony silence from Cas's side of the car, and he isn't sure whether to be flattered or creeped out.
"Now that is something you don't say to other dudes."
"I didn't 'say' it," Cas says petulantly, emphasis on the 'say'.
"You didn't not."
"Of import. Yeah, yeah, whatever. I got the point. You like my freckles, I don't. Now, don't compliment me like that again." Dean grumbles admanantly.
"You have freckles for a reason," Cas says softly, and strictly speaking he is not breaking any of Dean's guidelines.
"A reason?" Dean repeats incredulously.
"Yes, Dean. A reason. That reason being that you wouldn't be you without them."
"Well, yes I would, 'cause no one would know the difference, so I would be me without freckles and it would be weird for me to have freckles."
"You were made that way," Cas insists.
"Yeah, well, I wish I had gotten the gift receipt."
Dean sets his jaw in a hard angle, unsure of why he's so defensive. They sit in silence for a while longer, Cas not-so-subtly watching Dean.
"They were the hardest part of you to get correctly," Cas says quietly after a while.
"Come again?" Dean quirks an eyebrow.
"When I built you. The inside was easy, because I didn't replicate your organs exactly, in order to account for damage to your liver and other areas. I basically gave you a clean slate on the inside. But externally, it was very, very different to create a perfect facsimile."
It takes Dean a moment to process this. He had never really asked what Cas's reconstruction of him had entailed, he had had more pressing things on his mind and it had been all but forgotten once he and Cas were close enough to talk about something so meaningful.
Cas, however, saves him the trouble of thinking of a response by speaking again.
"I was fatigued by your retrieval and your inner being; recreating a body from a pile of bones is difficult work. Essentially, I had to fabricate matter out of nothing, create functioning cells where there was just empty space beforehand. Manifesting new energy is hard work, usually reserved for an archangel rather than a seraph. You learn in school that energy cannot be created or destroyed, correct?" Dean nods, looking and feeling rather lost.
"I think so."
"I had to create energy and matter where none existed previously, and as if that was not difficult enough in and of itself, I had to make it look perfect." Cas sighs, as if he is recalling the difficulty of that task. "On the inside, I took some liberties, for example erasing blemishes from undernourishment during childhood and rheumatoid arthritis you were to have developed at age forty six."
"What does that have to do with my freckles?"
"Those.... those are concrete. I couldn't afford to miss just one. I saved them for last."
"Okay....?" This is beginning to border on creep factor.
"I had to draw all them perfectly," Cas insists, and Dean suddenly can't get rid of the image of Cas, clutching on to a Crayola washable marker, jamming it into his skin forcefully like a little kid mashes his markers on the paper in a vehement attempt to make the color deeper.
"And now you're insulted 'cause I don't appreciate 'em?" Dean asks, bewildered.
"No," Cas lies petulantly.
"Huh." The stubborn child version of Cas Dean has painted in his mind is now clutching his paper possessively, shielding it from scrutiny.
They drive in silence for a while.
"Thank you for making my freckles," Dean grouses finally, knowing that it's the only way Cas will forgive him.
"I'm sorry you don't like them," Cas says in a small voice, genuinely apologetic. "If I had known...."
"No! No," Dean insists, self-conscious again. He feels really guilty that he's been actively insulting something Cas worked so hard to perfect. Something he cared enough to replicate painstakingly and Dean just dismisses his work as ugly and unwanted. "If you like 'em, I like 'em."
Cas whips his head around, and Dean instantly wishes he had not said that.
"Why?" It's that childish inquisitiveness again, and it's strangely endearing.
"'Cause you worked hard on 'em."
"Oh." Cas smiles at Dean, not much but as the angel never smiles he knows it's genuine. Then, "I can punish anyone who calls you 'freckles'," he says, and Dean grins. It's such a Cas thing to offer.
"Nah. I'll just stay out of gay bars."
The next time Dean thinks about his freckles, he's shaving a few days after the gay bar incident went down. He and Sam had a heart to heart and they discovered the spirit's motive. She had been married, but her husband left her for his young, attractive lover. His young, attractive male lover. Cas had been hit on a few times, and, completely unaware of the situation, had blundered on into the conversations leaving Dean to rescue him.
"Cas, you remember what I said about the guys around here?" Dean had said, exasperated at his friend's apparent sex appeal to guys.
"They wish to try my clothing?" Cas had replied innocently, tilting his head.
"Cas, what-" Dean had said, confused. "Oh, you mean- Cas, when I said 'they just want to get in your pants' that means that those guys wanted to have quick, meaningless sex with you before leaving your life completely."
Cas's eyes had widened. "Oh."
"But.... you do the same all the time with girls."
Now, standing in front of the mirror with shoplifted shaving cream spread across his face, Dean considers his freckles. His mind darts back to the way Cas had focused his gaze on his cheekbones, drinking in the pale imperfections scattered across their surface. Maybe he liked them a little more than Dean had originally thought.
Grumbling, Dean focuses on shaving. He's not pretty, he's the manliest man to ever walk manly man-like in a manly manner.
"'M not even gay," Dean wheezes, slouched against the wall. Blood trickles down from the corners of his mouth, and he can feel a couple of broken ribs poking his lungs.
Matt, or Mike, or whatever that unfortunate twink's name is, the one that Dean had seen the ghost zero in on, is lying on his stomach, taking shallow breaths. The ghost is gone, finally, and Dean even feels a tiny bit bad for the guy. Even if he's a total twink and should probably get a better fake I. D.
"All- ugnhhhh- right, Cas, do you think you could please come heal me or something now?" Dean whispers to the air, wincing as his ribs and his lungs go all en garde in his chest.
"Dean?" Cas seems worried, and his blue eyes are filled with concern, Dean notes, because he can't see anything else but Cas all up in his face. "Are you okay? Did you get the ghost?"
Dean moans as Cas drags him into his lap, cradling his head.
"Jus' heal me a'ready, man," he demands.
"Yes, you're okay," Cas says, and he smiles again, that rare fond gesture reserved only for the elder Winchester. Shyly, he caresses the side of Dean's head and ghosts his thumb across his cheekbone as his other hand glides over Dean's rib cage.
Dean blinks at him as the unpleasant but gratifying sensation of flesh and bone knitting back together washes over him, and Cas is still grazing his thumb across Dean's cheek, and therefore his freckles.
"Why didn't you just tap my head, like normal?" Dean mutters, and Cas's expression changes to affectionate and exposed to guilty and alarmed immediately.
"Sorry," he mumbles, a blush staining his own cheekbones, and Dean smirks. He didn't know Cas could blush. He doesn't meet Dean's eye, but he doesn't release him from his embrace either.
"Better go fix twink over there," Dean reminds him after the moment stretches out awkwardly.
"'Twink'?" Cas asks.
"That guy." Dean nods his head towards the unconscious Matt/Mike/Whatever.
Cas's eyes narrow. "He touched you," he mutters, voice deep and angry.
"Yeah, dude, he thought he was going to sleep with me."
"I don't like him in your pants," Cas growls.
"He wasn't actually going to get in my pants," Dean chuckles.
"I don't like him thinking about getting in your pants."
"Cas, no offense, but that's really not your call," Dean says, and instantly he knows it's the wrong thing to say, because Cas is looking at him again. Scratch that, Cas is downright glaring.
"He was going to call you 'freckles'," Cas protests.
"How do you know?"
"It was all he could think about. That and getting in your pants."
"You're one possessive son of a bitch, aren't you?" Dean asks, half amused and half weirded out.
This breaks Cas's glare. His cheeks redden again.
"I'm not blushing."
"You so are blushing."
"That's so human of you," Dean jokes.
"You make me feel human, Dean," Cas says seriously, and then his eyes widen and he disappears.
"Cas?" Dean asks the now empty space. He desperately wants to ask Cas what that's supposed to mean.
Cas doesn't respond.
"Cas, you can't just say that and poof out."
Still no answer. Dean sighs.
"Castiel, feathery child, don't make me summon you."
Finally, the telltale flutter of wings resonates softly in the room, and Cas materializes next to the unconscious dude. He prods at him roughly and the boy disappears.
"What do you want?" Cas asks, and suddenly he's inches from Dean's face.
"I make you human?" Dean breathes.
"You make me feel things," Cas states quietly, and his eyelashes flutter softly against his skin as he looks down bashfully.
"Things." Cas swallows audibly.
"What kind of things?" The air is charged, crackling with tension. Now is not the time to be shy. Dean's heart races.
"Affection. Fondness. Friendship. Longing. Jealousy. Admiration." Cas bites his lip, hoping he has not gone too far.
"'s that all?" Dean whispers.
"Then what else?" Dean can feel Cas's breath on his skin, and it makes him shiver. Does that make him gay? Maybe not, but the uncomfortably hot want that's echoing through his blood stream probably does. And if not that, then the desire to cut off Cas's answer by occupying his mouth by doing something else-
"I don't know. My heart speeds up and I can't think straight when I think about you and I can't stop looking at your face."
"Oh." Dean's heart speeds up even faster.
"Your heart rate," Cas exclaims, looking alarmed up at Dean. "Are you ill?"
"Tell me what else," Dean demands, unable to control himself. Damn, this feels like a Nicholas Sparks movie, like the ones he has allowed himself to be dragged to so he could sleep with the dragger afterwards.
And it feels good.
"I don't know!" Cas snaps out at him, flustered. "I don't know."
Dean swallows, trying to work up some courage.
"Like you want to call me 'freckles'?"
Cas stares at him, and then makes a small nod without breaking eye contact.
"Like I want to call you 'freckles', and like I want to smite anyone else who even thinks of calling you 'freckles'."
"You like me, don't you."
It's not a question.
"I.... yes." Cas's gaze dusts across his cheeks again, and his nervousness is palpable.
"I don't know."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Dean prods gently.
"Because I can't give you what you want," Cas admits, and Dean's heart constricts unpleasantly.
"What do you mean?"
"Do you know how many times I've had to be around you while you still smell of women and intercourse?" Cas asks, voice timid and shy.
"Cas, they don't mean anything-"
"They mean everything, Dean, to me. Each time, it's a reminder of what I cannot have." Damn, are his eyes watering?
"I'm a douche," Dean states, not in apology but in blatant observation. "God, Cas, I'm such a douchebag."
"No, Dean, don't say that. Don't worry about me, I'm used to it."
Ouch. That doesn't help one little bit.
"You shouldn't have to be. God, I'm a dick."
"I just..... watching you pretend to be interested in males....." Cas trails off.
"They called you 'freckles', Dean, and you didn't like it," Cas observes somberly. "And I think your freckles are..." Cas searches for the right word. "Breathtaking."
Dean bites his lip. He is feeling absurdly guilty. How the holy hell could he have been so damn insensitive?
"I can erase this conversation from your memory," Cas says sadly, backing away. "I have no wish to make you uncomfortable."
"No," Dean asserts.
Cas blinks at him, blue eyes unreadable.
It's then that Sammy decides to insert himself, loud and brash and panting, back into their lives.
"Oh my god you guys, are you okay?"
"Fine, Sammy," Dean says, plastering on his best fake smile.
"We are doing fine," Cas says, but he's a horrible liar.
"Cas-" Sam says.
"I should go," Cas responds, and go he does.
"What's the matter with you, Dean? Ever since you got attacked by Homophobic Hannah last week, you're really-"
"I'm fine, Sam," Dean bites.
Sam frowns, but doesn't press further. To change the subject, he asks, "Dean, have you seen Castiel recently?"
Dean doesn't respond, and it's only then does Sam realize that maybe he's still on the same subject after all.
"Not tonight, sweetheart," Dean says quietly, with a sad smile. The blonde seated next to him looks at him with a soft pity. She hadn't even said anything before Dean had interjected.
"Work or woman?"
"Both. Neither," Dean responds evasively, and sips on his drink.
The side of the girl's mouth quirks up.
"What? No," Dean stutters. He attempts to take a sip of whiskey but fails miserably and just ends up choking into his sleeve.
"Uh huh. Sure."
"It's not a guy," Dean insists.
Her eyebrow raises.
"Okay. Yes. It's a guy. My best friend guy who I previously thought was straight- hell, I just never considered that he might not be- but he just basically admitted he has the hots for me and now he isn't talking to me."
"Oh. Um. Ouch."
"He's my best friend in the world, hell, my only friend unless we're counting my brother, and I really don't want him to think I don't like him- urgh." Dean cuts off, frustrated.
"You like him? Or do you like like him?" The woman is making him feel like he's in the third grade with that sort of vocabulary.
"I don't know." He finishes off his drink.
"Let me guess: you're not gay, but he's making you think that maybe perhaps you are a little bit but you can't quite figure it out, and now you don't know what to do."
Dean sulks at the ice cubes in his cup.
"He's whipped, and you can't decide whether or not you are too," she summarizes.
"So get your head out of your bisexual ass and call him."
"And now I lay me down to sleep, except not, because I can't get Castiel and his stupidly blue eyes out of my head, so I prey that he gets down here so I can talk to His Feathery Highness."
"Hello, Dean," Cas says, but it's reluctant.
"Cas," Dean says, breaking out into a huge smile that he doesn't know why he's suddenly sporting.
"Do you need my help with something?"
"Naw, man. I can't just want to spend time with my best friend?"
At the words 'best friend' Cas flinches.
"You're thoroughly drunk, Dean," he says mildly.
"When am I not?"
Cas slumps in a chair, expression cloudy.
"You tell me." He fiddles with his coat. "I've been in Russia."
"Russia? Why Russia?"
"I like Russia," Cas states, like it's obvious. "The snow calms me."
"There's snow in the United States."
"Only in Alaska right now."
"Russia distracts me," Cas blurts. "Sorry. Sorry, I'll just go, I'm making you uncomfortable, I am always making you uncomfortable-"
"Cas, why would I call you down if I didn't want to talk?"
Dean sits down in the armchair situated across the coffee table from Cas.
"Look at me," he requests, and Cas meets his gaze for the most fleeting of seconds before looking away again.
"I'd rather not," Cas admits.
"Fine." Cas does.
Dean isn't sure of what he's hoping to achieve by this. His heart stutters in his chest like a weary old car on a cold morning.
"Cas- did you just read my mind or something?" Dean forgets to be offended. Sometimes he's still a little overwhelmed by the fact that Cas is actually really fucking powerful.
"You project sometimes when you're confused, or when you're feeling strongly, or when you're trying to convince yourself that something's not true when it is, and it's like trying to tune out a blaring radio, and I cant really help it," Cas babbles.
"What else have you heard?"
"Uh, mainly.... when you're lusting after someone, you get really excited. And when you're exasperated or nervous or unsure. The one that makes you project most often, and the loudest, is when you're putting yourself down. You're really....vehement in your self-hatred. It makes me sad."
"You really don't like yourself, do you," Cas wonders, blue gaze imploring.
"Sure I do."
"You also project when you're lying."
"You're projecting rather loudly."
"Why don't you like yourself?"
"Because-" Dean huffs out an indignant laugh. "Hell, where do I start? Because I'm a liar, and I'm selfish. I break people's hearts and I kill people just 'cause they have a demon in them. I break things, and- and, I hurt people-" Dean cuts off with a loud sigh. "And I just keep running away."
"Well, I like you," Cas says.
"Nobody likes me," Dean snaps, and his anguish fills the air, throbbing at Castiel's temples in its intensity.
"Nobody!" Dean hisses. "I don't deserve your stupid- Cas. I wreck everyone's lives, and anyone stupid to love me dies a gruesome and horrible death, while I keep on living- and- and killing- and I wish people would just quit pretending they love me."
"No one is pretending."
"Dean, you are always loved."
Dean clenches his jaw and his fists, glaring at his lap and trying to will away the angry tears now gathering in the corners of his eyes, stinging and taunting.
"Dean, please listen to me. Your parents loved you. Bobby loved you. Sam loves you. Ellen and her daughter- Jo, was it? They all loved you."
"And look how well it turned out for them!" Dean's head falls, and the tears finally spill.
"None of it was your fault," Cas continues quietly. "And you still have people who care about you. Sam loves you. I love you."
Dean freezes, unable to tell if that had actually just happened.
"I know I'm not supposed to say that to other guys," Cas says, resigned, "but I do."
"Why," Dean finally chokes out. "Why me?"
"Because you're you." Cas's voice is soft, but firm. Adamant. "I like you, broken or not. And I'll never talk to you again if it makes you feel uncomfortable. If that's what you want. But I love you more than you hate yourself."
"Impossible," Dean sighs.
"Dean. Stop." Cas stands up and storms over to Dean's chair, grabbing the collar of his shirt and forcing him upright until he's at eye level, blue glaring at muted green. "Nobody gets to talk about Dean Winchester like that. Not even Dean Winchester gets to talk about Dean Winchester like that. Not while I'm alive," he hisses.
"Cas," Dean says. "Would you rather me lie?"
"Why should letting you like yourself be a lie?" Cas hisses.
"Because nobody in their right minds could ever like me, let alone love me."
"Too bad, because I do. Like you. I like you, Dean."
"I'm not lying!" Cas yells, and the lights of the motel room crackle and spark. The television turns on and off, and in the adjoining bathroom the sink begins to run. He closes his eyes, gathering his temper, and then with a huge effort the water stops running and the television quits spazzing out. "I'm not lying," he says again. "I am not lying." He looks at Dean, saddened irrevocably. "How can I prove to you that I am not lying?"
Dean closes his eyes and more tears escape, scalding against those damned freckles. Cas lets go of Dean's shirt where his fists have tightened during his anger, and takes either side of his face in a soft embrace. He brushes away the wet trails on Dean's cheeks, strokes his freckles, those stupid, stupid freckles. Then, he guides Dean's bowed head forward and tentatively presses a light kiss to his forehead.
"I could never lie to you about something that important," he breathes into the hunter's flushed skin, and for some reason this statement makes Dean cry harder, and a fierce wave of something makes Cas wrap his arms around him and pull him into a tight embrace. He loses his balance a little, and instinctively flutters across the room so that they fall lightly onto the ugly couch.
"Oh, Dean," Cas sighs sadly as he rubs his friend's back. He's reclining against the arm of the couch, his legs on the floor, and Dean's curled up into his chest.
Dean is quiet when he cries, and Cas loses himself in the smell of open road and aftershave and wind-beaten leather that he's come to love so much.
Cas murmurs comforting words into Dean's hair, in a language that isn't English so he can express himself fully without fear of further rejection.
"You are loved. You are loved. My beloved. I was made not to feel, and yet I love you so much. You are beautiful, you are strong, you are brave, and I love you."
Eventually, Dean's quiet sobs turn to even quieter sobs, and then to sniffles, and then it all gives way to deep, even breaths. Cas kisses the top of his head once more before carrying him to his bed and tucking him in like a small child.
"Good night, freckles," he says in Russian. "Спокойной ночи, веснушки."
Sam returns later that night and decides not to wonder why Dean looks like he's been crying.
He sees Cas's trench coat lying forgotten on the chair, and sincerely hopes he won't have to procure an angel blade for any reason.
Dean doesn't even realize he's thinking of Cas until the angel in question appears beside him.
"I thought about what you said last night," Dean blurts.
"And...." Dean loses his train of thought. "And this."
Then, it's his turn to grab at his friend's collar, and then they're kissing, desperate and passionate. Cas squeaks a little in surprise, but then relaxes as Dean wraps his arms around his torso, pulling him closer, closer, and it's all he's ever wanted in one little moment, because his Dean- his hunter, his Dean- likes him back, and he's happy. The light bulbs crackle and burst as Cas grabs a fistful of Dean's shirt, oh, it's utter bliss, unlike anything he's ever experienced, ever, and he's experienced a lot-
"Um. Guys?" Sam clears his throat.
They spring apart like two teenagers caught fooling around in the janitor's closet. Dean's grinning, and Cas is grinning, and they're both trying very, very hard not to grin, but Cas takes Dean's hand or maybe it's the other way around, but either way they are grinning. Cas has the decency to look at least halfway bashful, and Dean bites his lip and looks everywhere but Cas and Sam.
"What the hell?"
Neither man answers him, but Cas does sneak a glance at Dean, and then Dean sneaks a glance at him, and they're being sickeningly cutesy.
"Seriously, what the fuck is going on?"
Dean stares at his shoes, but he's still grinning, and he grasps their entwined hands in his other hand and pulls Cas closer to him. Cas mutters admonishingly, but he's still fucking beaming, they both are.
"Are- are you guys cursed? Is it a witch? Or- or a renegade cupid? Do I need to check for hex bags? Seriously, guys, what the fuck is going on?!?" Sam is stuttering.
"Sam, Cas and I are together," Dean says giddily.
"What even-" Sam sputters indignantly. "Since- since when?"
"About two hundred and eighteen seconds ago," Cas says, and he sounds actually happy, which is beyond weird.
"The fuck. What the fuck. It is too early for this," Sam rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes.
And when he opens his eyes again, Dean has one hand pulling Cas's tie, the other in his hair, and the angel is melting into his brother's body-
"GUYS!" Sam yells. "RIGHT HERE, GUYS!"
"Sorry," Dean gasps, not sounding sorry at all.
Cas mutters something in Dean's ear and Dean giggles.
"Cas says you need to leave now or he's zapping both of us to a place in Russia."
Cas smirks and says something else.
"Some place in Russia where it's cold outside but warm inside-"
Cas kicks him lightly but keeps whispering.
"Some place where there is a fire place, and- what was that, Cas?" Dean pauses, and then his eyes widen.
Sam isn't sure whether to laugh maniacally or sob maniacally.
"He says that the place has a really large bed," Dean snickers, and Cas kicks his shin, drawing a whine from Dean, which he drowns with a hungry kiss.
Sam lets out a choked half sob, half laugh. This is horrifying.
"Sam, if you value your life, you will leave us alone now," Cas growls, and Sam is reminded of an angry bear he saw once on a wendigo hunt.
Dean whimpers, and that's- that's the last straw. That's it. That's fucking it. Sam runs away, gets into the Impala, and searches frantically for a bar open this early, while totally not thinking about what Cas and his brother are probably about to do together. Ew ew ew ew ew ew EW.
Dean smirks as the door slams shut, only to forget about his brother completely as Cas runs his tongue from Dean's Adam's apple to the tender spot where his ear meets his jaw.
"Cas," he whines as his blood begins to simmer, and Cas chuckles against his neck.
"This is- Dean, this is better than I could ever imagine," the angel pants, and when Dean turns to meet his gaze he's blown away with how stupidly happy the angel looks.
"Shit, Cas," Dean moans roughly as Cas's gravelly voice sends sparks down between his legs. He bucks his hips into Castiel's solid heat, and the strangled cry that meets his ears is the most beautiful thing ever.
"De-" Cas gasps, holding onto Dean like he's drowning. The light bulb in the lamp sizzles and explodes.
"I love you, Cas," Dean grunts, and he meets shocked blue eyes before they flutter closed.
In the bathroom, the mirror shatters.
Dean grasps a fist full of Cas's hair, swallowing the whine that results. Cas is utterly wrecked. He shoves his leg between Dean's thighs, rolling his hips against the hunter and gasping at the pleasure that rolls through him.
"Dean," he breathes, scared and overwhelmed and ecstatic all at once. The television turns on and static fills the room as the channels change rapidly.
"Bed," Dean growls, and then Cas is splayed across his chest, leaving them both panting for air.
"I missed," Cas grunts, and sure enough they're lying sprawled across the floor. "Oops."
"Shut up, Cas," Dean hisses, and then pulls him by the tie, crashing their mouths together.
"Quit distracting me," Cas scolds, and the television explodes.
"Sorry." Dean bites Cas's lower lip possessively. He squirms under the angel, moaning and bucking for some sort of friction, and Cas wails quietly at the new feelings.
Then, the air grows hotter, because they're in the desert, and then they're in Paris, and then the National Air and Space museum, and then they're in a cave-
"What the-" Dean gasps as his head hits the solid rock of the cave wall.
"Hard to-" Cas bites Dean's neck as the scenery changes once again to the African savanna. "I'm a bit....excited right now," he explains, only to be cut off with a gasp as Dean smirks and drags his hips along Cas's. Things keep exploding, and the ground under Dean's body shifts again and again.
"A bit," Dean growls, pulling Cas's hair. "Just get us to a fucking bed already. Any bed. How about the one- nnngh! The one you mentioned earlier?"
"I am trying," Cas whines. "You're really-" he shudders. "Dean, stop moving!!" He shuts his eyes in concentration and then they're in a bed in a cabin with snow falling outside, and they seem to have gathered some momentum during the flight because now Cas is tumbling over, his tight grip on Dean's body pulling the panting hunter with him.
"You weren't kidding about the bed being big," Dean says. The fire flares in the massive stone fireplace.
"Shh," Cas says, and then they're kissing again, desperately tangling teeth and tongues, whines and moans as Cas ruts against Dean.
"God, Cas," Dean says, and he starts tearing at the angel's clothes, yearning to feel skin against skin, dying to know what the angel looked like under his stupid outfit.
Cas grunts and waves his hand sloppily in the air, and then they're both naked.
"Dean!" The angel cries out at the sudden contact, and he grips Dean tight underneath him. His Dean. His hunter, his lifeline. The fire roars bigger than ever.
Dean whines as he feels himself give in to Cas's sheer power.
"You trust me," Cas says, breaking off their frantic kiss for a minute.
"Yeah, Cas- FUCK!" Dean yells as the angel forces his legs apart.
"That's the general idea, yeah," Cas pants.
"Cas. Cas Cas Cas- mmmmmmhhhhhh." Cas feels so incredible, propped up on his elbows, straddling Dean, and he just needs- needs something more than the frenzied rubbing of their cocks against each other.
Cas growls, low and predatory, and he kisses his way down to Dean's heated chest, back arching as he latches on to a nipple and sucks, hard.
"Casssssssssssss," Dean whines, head dropping back as Cas continues rutting into him.
"So beautiful, Dean," Cas says, returning to hover over Dean's face, grabbing his hair roughly and forcing eye contact. "So beautiful," he repeats, and rolls his hips over and over.
"Fucking gorgeous, Cas," Dean grunts as the angel closes his eyes and his mouth hangs open a little, drunk on the brand new pleasure.
Cas draws a shaky breath and sits back on his feet, an mournful whine spilling from Dean at the loss of contact.
"Trust me?" The angel is panting. Dean nods, too far gone to fully process what he's agreeing to, but Castiel can feel the trust and affection saturating the air, mixing with his own.
"Cas. Cas. Cas Cas Cas."
"Shh, my beloved, be still," Cas urges, and something materializes in his open hand before he even realizes that he wants it.
Dean pants and writhes, needing more of Cas and Cas's body and his body and their bodies-
"Casti-el," he moans, begging. "Please."
"Shh. I've got you. I've got you, Dean, be calm."
"Cas," Dean babbles. Cas gently grasps the backs of Dean's knees and maneuvers them so that his legs are spread wide and his ass is exposed.
"It's okay," he soothes, only he's not sure that he's still speaking English.
"Cas?" Dean whimpers as his angel wraps his legs around his waist, holding them there as he moves closer to Dean.
"This is going to feel strange at first," Cas warns, and Dean's eyes fly open as he realizes why Cas's hand is all wet and what he's about to do.
"Oh," he gasps, head lolling back as Cas finds his entrance and traces teasing circles around it. His cock is throbbing, and somewhere in his lust addled mind he finds it amusing that there is no barrier that pops up suddenly to proclaim that he can't do this because he's straight.
Fuck, why was he ever straight?
"Castiel," he breaths as two fingers push past the tight ring of muscle, burning and stretching and filling and teasing and utterly fucking perfect.
"I've got you, Dean," the angel whispers soothingly. "Relax, I've got you."
"God. God! Don't stop," Dean grits out, hips bucking into Cas's strokes. Then, Cas begins to tease and pry, opening his fingers and massaging Dean open gently and urgently at the same time.
Then, there are three fingers, and it hurts and it burns and stings but then Cas's forefinger curls against a certain spot that sends him arching into Cas, pleading for more.
"Cas, Cas, please, Cas," he pants.
"So beautiful, Dean," Cas sighs. Neither of them notice the fact that the snow is howling now, wind rushing around their safe little cabin as Cas begins to lose his cool.
"Cas," Dean whines as he feels the angel pull his fingers out, keening at the loss.
"I love you, Dean," Cas sighs as he adjusts his position.
Cas can't control himself, he pulls Dean up to his chest and lines himself up, pushing in without warning. Dean cries out and stiffens, nails digging into Cas's back.
Cas is in heaven.
The pleasure is unlike anything he's ever felt, ever dared to imagine as he begins to move inside Dean. Dean bites his neck and groans as he pulls back, and slams into him again and again, swollen cock dragging across Dean's prostate, hitting it perfectly with every thrust. A log explodes in the fireplace as Cas screams his hunter's name, shouting praises and swear words in every language at once.
Dean is blown away by the sensation of being full. Cas is huge, and it hurts, but god, the noises he makes as he thrusts into Dean, and that damn spot inside him sending electric shocks along his spine as it's slammed against again and again. It's pretty fucking lucky that Cas is clinging to him so tightly, because he's lost all control he once had over his body, and perhaps this is what it feels like to melt, or dissolve, or something.
"Dean," Cas moans.
Dean utters a string of curses as Cas reaches between him to find his leaking, neglected dick. He bucks into the grasp, and the new angle makes Cas scream and another poor log blows up, sending sparks everywhere.
"Cas," Dean whines. He can't last much longer. "Castiel."
A few more rough thrusts and Dean is thrust into white, body seizing and shuddering in the best orgasm of his life. Feeling his muscles clench and tighten, Cas follows soon afterwards, filling Dean with warm, sticky seed as he collapses, gasping for air, on Dean's chest.
Their chests heave for air as they come down from their high, and Cas finally pulls out, waving his hand vaguely and suddenly they are clean and safe and warm in the covers.
"Fuck, Cas," Dean says finally. Cas blinks up at him, too fucked out to say anything.
Dean kisses his head lazily until he's too tired to move. Cas's eyelashes flutter across his chest. Apparently angels get sleepy after sex. And snuggly, too, Dean notes lazily. Who would have pegged Cas for a cuddler?
He stirs until they're curled into each other, drowsing and blissed out.
Dean is almost asleep when he hears Cas whisper, and later he will wonder if he dreamed it.
"Good night, freckles," he murmurs.