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Fools Rush In

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Castiel was lost.

He felt like his body was made of paper so thin, a sharp-edged breath could cut it. He was heavy and weightless all at once, and when the warm presence he distantly knew was Dean tried to help him stand, his legs swayed under him like uneven props. He was conscious of voices, of words being spoken about and past him, but could no more pin down their meaning than he could read Sanskrit as, over and over and over again, he watched his mother run and fall, her blood jewel-bright as the bullet passed through her. Twelve years too late, she had finally run from Brother Tiberius, and still he'd refused to let her go.

Only Dean's arm around his shoulders kept him upright. This is your fault, the blank voice hissed. You left them there to suffer and die. You knew what he was. You could have gone back. You could have helped.

I know, Cas thought. I know. He wanted to weep, but his tears were gone, replaced by the leaden certainty that even that much relief was more than he deserved. All at once, his strength gave out: he let go of Dean and dropped, his vision reduced to whirling spots and flashes as he tried not to be sick. Someone rubbed his back; more voices babbled overhead; and then he was being levered into a chair, a glass of water thrust into his hand. He drank mechanically, tasting metal and salt. His mother was dead, he understood that now. She'd been dead for years; the bullet just made it official. No, no, that wasn't right; she'd been alive, and he'd as good as killed her, a matricide in spirit if not in flesh. And what about his sisters? What about that nameless, sexless child they'd carried with them, who was maybe his sibling, and maybe not? Were they dead, too? He imagined them shot, coughing and crying in that bleak, forsaken stretch of the Mojave Desert, and his whole body turned to ice.

A hand on his face, almost feverishly warm. He looked up into bright green eyes and a beautiful, worried face.

'Cas, the cops are doing what they can to find out what's happening, but it'll take a while, and we need to get you home. We need to go, OK? You have to get up.' And then, the words tight with desperation, 'Cas, baby, are you in there? Can you hear me?'

He managed the barest nod. His pulse was in his scars, and his scars were in his throat; he couldn't speak, or he'd rip them open, vomiting black blood deep enough to drown in. Lips on his forehead; the kiss burned against him like Cain's mark, or the smudged emet-meit of a dying golem, truth into death and skin of clay, and not a real man at all. Somewhere, Brother Tiberius was laughing, the old belt bright in his hand. You are a cracked vessel, Castiel. To your mother's shame, you most surely are. Do you repent? Or should I have you whet the blades? I'm doin' you a mercy, boy. The devil will surely take your soul, but first, I'll give you wings. You be quiet, now. Only sinners scream.

Dean kissed the cut over his eye. Cas blinked back tears, his fingers clenched on the arms of the chair.

'Come back to me.' A palm on the back of his hand, fingers stroking his wrist as another kissed brushed his cheek. 'I'm right here, Cas. Come back to me.'

The words slipped out before he could stop them, strangling his throat. 'If she's dead –'

'It's not your fault.'

'But I –'

'Shh.' Dean pulled him into his arms and stood, and somehow, Cas stood with him.

Slowly but surely, Dean lead him out to the car park, helping him into the Impala. The car was so old, there was just a single long front seat instead of two separate ones, and when Dean settled himself at the wheel and smoothed a lock of hair behind Cas's ear, it was the easiest thing in the world to just lean into the touch, slipping sideways until his head was resting in Dean's lap, his legs half-curled in the footwell. Dean smiled down at him, gently stroking Cas's cheek.

'You know this a manual, right? I change gears, your face is going to be right in line with my elbow.' But it wasn't really a criticism, and when Cas didn't move, he started the engine anyway. They made it the whole way home like that – though it took some careful driving on Dean's part – and when the engine finally shut off, Cas curled a hand across Dean's knee and straightened up, unbuckling himself.

Dean put an arm around his shoulders, kissing his temple. Cas shut his eyes, suddenly fighting tears. He wanted to be worthy of forgiveness, but couldn't believe it would ever be true.

'Why are you so good to me?'

'You're my lover,' Dean said simply, pressing his lips to the sensitive skin beside his ear. It was an exquisitely intimate kiss, both comforting and erotic, and despite everything, Cas shivered with pleasure. 'Of course I'm good to you.' Dean's free hand trailed up Cas's neck, fingers fanning gently across the juncture of jaw and throat, tilting his face around until their foreheads pressed together. Eyes still closed, Cas inhaled the scent of aftershave, leather and, very faintly, sweat. Craving closeness, he slipped a hand beneath his lover's shirt, resting his palm over Dean's heart, feeling the pulse quicken through his fingertips. They lipped at each other, not quite kissing, not quite teasing. Then Cas began to nip at Dean, first softly, then harder, until he lost all patience and captured his bottom lip, sucking on it wantonly. Dean's throaty gasp aroused him out of all proportion, and Cas kissed him hard, overwhelmed by the burning, desperate need to feel , to make everything else go away.

Urgently, Cas pulled Dean across to the middle of the seat and pushed him upright. Shifting his weight to one leg, he braced both palms against Dean's shoulders, half-stood, swung a knee over his lap and straddled him, ducking his head to keep from hitting the roof. Sliding his hands up either side of Dean's neck, he savoured the rapturous look in those bright green eyes, thumbs stroking across his cheeks. He ruffled his fingers through Dean's hair, pulling his face upwards as his own came down, grinding against him as they kissed. Dean moaned, his hands sliding up Cas's thighs and round to his ass, grabbing him closer, thrusting his hips. They were both rock-hard, their mouths and tongues working hungrily, and as they writhed and grabbed and groaned, as close to outright fucking as you could come while still fully clothed, they were suddenly interrupted by the shocked, disapproving exclamation of a passerby.

Belatedly, it dawned on Cas that they were parked in the middle of a public street, in broad daylight, at lunch hour, in front of their respective places of business, in a car that hadn't been inconspicuous to begin with. Even so, it was a minute more before he could bring himself to stop, and then with difficulty; they were both breathing hard, still visibly aroused.

'Cas.' Dean was flushed, visibly gulping. 'Uh, don't take this the wrong way, but am I taking advantage of you right now?'

By way of answer, Cas slowly rolled his hips; Dean bit his lip, barely stifling groan.

'If anything,' said Cas, 'I think it's the other way around.'

'I just – oh, fuck – I don't want you to regret this later.'

Cas bowed his head, voice low as he spoke directly into Dean's ear. 'What I want ,' he murmured, grinding down again, Dean bucking and shuddering with every word, 'is for you to fuck me so hard, I forget my own name. I want you . I want to feel nothing but you, because if I feel anything else right now, feel any other part of today –' he swallowed the lump in his throat like a coal, '– it's only going to hurt, and I can't take that right now. So.' He leaned down further still and put his mouth over the biggest lovebite on Dean's neck, sucking it anew, then let go, staring into Dean's eyes. 'Don't make me beg. That's your job.'

 

*

 

Dean had never exited a car faster in his life.

Seeking to bypass Anna, Cas let them into Books of a Feather rather than Impala Records, and the second they'd both stepped through the door, he turned and pulled it shut behind them, shoving Dean against the glass and kissing him as his free hand worked the lock. And then Cas was tugging him backwards, up the internal stairs to his flat and straight into the bedroom, tearing Dean's clothes off so aggressively, he actually ripped the lining of his jacket. Stumbling as his jeans came down, Dean kicked off his shoes and socks and reached for Cas, the buttons of his shirt popping loose as Dean all but ripped it from him. He fell to his knees, denuding Cas of the last of his clothes, moaning as his lover grabbed his hair and showed him exactly where he wanted his mouth. Dean obliged, his tongue working skilfully, but he was just getting warmed up when Cas pulled his head back, stopping him.

'Beside you,' he panted, gaze flicking towards the lube. Dean grabbed it and stood, slicking the contents across both their palms. They reached for each other, stroking and gasping as their hands roamed. Suddenly, heedless of his bruises, Cas physically spun them both around and sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling Dean to his knees as he lay back, wrapping his legs around Dean's waist.

'Fuck me,' he whispered. 'That's an order, Winchester.'

Breathing hard, Dean put his hands under Cas's thighs, lifted and pushed into him, all while staring into his eyes, which were wide and blue as oceans. He didn't have Cas's slow control, but just then, he didn't need it: Cas arched his back and gripped the bed, pushing his hips forwards, moaning Dean's name as though it was the only word he knew. Dean shuddered on the brink, completely lost in the tight, wet heat of Cas's body. One hand gripping his lover's cock, he matched each stroke of his hand against the rhythm of his thrusts, feeling a sweat bead trickle between his shoulders. Cas's legs tightened around him, forcing Dean deeper, and suddenly he was coming so hard it was like having his first real orgasm all over again, but infinitely better, his hand abruptly sticky as Cas, too, tipped over the edge.

Pulling out, Dean collapsed forwards, gathering Cas against his chest as they both lay back, shaking. His heart was racing like a greyhound, and as Cas trapped his left leg under his thigh, curling snugly against him, Dean was overwhelmed by a fierce, fond possessiveness. The feeling expanded through his chest and out into his limbs, until he was holding Cas so tightly, he was half afraid of leaving more bruises.

You're mine, he wanted to say. My lover, my only. Cas, I won't let them hurt you again. I swear it. I'm not going anywhere. But all at once, the words stuck in his throat, silenced by the memory of his father's mockery, the sneering scorn which, sure as whiskey sting cuts, had quashed Dean's every childhood attachment. All too vividly, he knew what John Winchester would have to say about Cas, and as bad as the homophobic abuse would be – you pansy-ass faggot; what, is there a global shortage of women, or are you just too dumb to tell the difference? – it would be as nothing compared to his scathing ridicule of the idea that Dean might actually care about someone. How many days you been screwin' this nobody? Three? Four? Not even a damn week, boy, yet here you are, acting like you're in a fairy-tale. Pathetic. Just pathetic.

Dean shut his eyes, trying to banish John's voice through sheer strength of will, but not being able to manage it. In the years since he'd left home, he'd gotten very good at pretending he didn't have a father; or at least, of putting him so far out of mind as to moot the distinction. Logically, he knew John was toxic; that the surest route to a happy life was to take his every bit of vindictive advice and do the exact opposite. But logic only got you so far, and at times like this, it did jack squat against an emotional reaction so deeply ingrained as to have become reflex.

And John or no John, the truth was, Dean was terrified of losing Cas, because that was what happened to things he wanted, people he cared about: they broke, or died, or went away, or got left behind, or some combination of all four, and not even the steady, peaceful feel of his lover breathing against his ribs could make him forget how utterly blank Cas had looked back at the station, like he'd just stepped out of himself and left a shell behind. Cas was in real danger – from the Fellowship, from Crowley; from his own triggers, even – and suddenly Dean was replaying all the times his father had laughed at him for thinking his feelings mattered, for the sheer temerity of wanting something that wasn't a beer or a well-paying job or meaningless sex.

A school dance? You honestly expect me to pass up a full week's paid work, just so's you can listen to shitty music in a shittier gym? You're coming to Blackwood with me and Sam, and that's final.

Jesus, Dean, what the hell do you wanna write to this Danny kid for, anyway? There'll be plenty of boys in Connecticut, and I bet not a one of them has such a stupid-ass haircut. Take the trade-up and stop being a sissy.

I don't give a crap what I said at Easter; we're not staying in this shithole town a minute longer, and that's final. You're only fourteen, for god's sakes – how much of a girlfriend can she really be? Or do you honestly think she's gonna sit around here, moping after your sorry ass just 'cos you didn't say bye? Yeah, that's what I thought. Go get in the car.

Can't bring a dog with us, Dean, not across country. He's just a damn stray; you let him go or I'll shoot him myself, put him out of all our miseries. Hell, it's not like anyone else'll want him. Shelter'd just do the same, only slower. Oh, what, are you crying now? I've taken you hunting, haven't I? You've shot a damn deer, seen me string one up. What makes this mutt any different? You keep carrying on, I'll make you do it. You want that? You want to kill him? Because you're sure killing me, all this carrying on over nothin'.

You mention going to Uncle Bobby's one more time and so help me, I won't be responsible for my actions. One Christmas we had at his crapheap five damn years ago, and you've never shut up about it since. Well, this is the line in the sand, Dean. Don't you dare cross it.

'Dean?' Cas murmured. He turned his head to look up at him, a frown creasing his forehead 'Dean, what's wrong?'

'Nothing's wrong,' he said. 'I'm fine.'

'But you're crying.'

'I – what?'

'You're crying,' Cas repeated. He propped himself on an elbow, solicitously thumbing away the tears which, up until that moment, Dean hadn't even noticed.

'Oh, god.' He sat up, scrubbing fiercely at his face. He felt utterly ashamed of himself, sickened by his own self-pity. Jesus, and after everything Cas had been through in the past few hours, too: what the fuck kind of right did he have to be wallowing? 'It's nothing, really. I just, uh, I mean –' He stumbled to a halt, unable to think of a plausible lie.

Cas's arms twined around his waist, pulling him back down again. This time, though, it was Dean who rested his head on Cas, and Cas who held him close, one hand stroking the back of his neck.

'You don't have to tell me now,' he said, quietly, 'but you can talk to me. I might be damaged, but that doesn't give me a monopoly on grief, or issues, or any of it.'

'It does today,' Dean said, without thinking. And then, almost instantly, 'Oh shit, Cas, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that, I didn't mean –'

'It's OK,' Cas said, though he trembled in a way that made Dean feel lower than pond scum. 'I get it.'

'No. No, it's not OK.' Mirroring Cas's pose of a moment earlier, he sat up a little, resting his weight on an arm, so that he was the one looking down at his lover. 'It was a shitty thing to say. We came up here for you. Today, I'm here for you , not the other way around. Please, just let me take care of you.' He kissed his eyelids, then his cheeks; nose; chin; the corner of his mouth. 'I need to take care of you.'

'You already did,' breathed Cas. 'Twice, actually.'

'Well, you know what they say.' Dean smiled, and Cas's answering grin was all the forgiveness he needed. 'Third time's the charm.'