Chapter Text
The next morning, Cas tried to get Dean to tell him what was wrong, why he'd been crying alone at 3am after phoning his brother, but to no avail. Dean dodged the more subtle inquiries by pretending they were about something else, and when Cas finally asked outright, he stood his ground, refusing to be drawn.
'It was nothing,' he said, angrily. 'It won't happen again. I'm fine. Please, Cas, can you just let it go?'
'All right,' said Cas, startled and a little stung by the sharpness of his tone. 'Sorry.'
Dean flinched. 'Don't apologise,' he said. 'It's not your fault.' And as if to prove it, he came over and kissed him deeply. Cas, determined to regain control of the situation, responded by grabbing both his wrists and pinned him up against the wall, and as Dean gasped and shuddered, it occurred to Cas that, if he were to ask for the truth in his bedroom voice – which is to say, clearly, authoritatively and while making Dean moan – he might just get an honest answer. He could feel Dean's hardness pressing through his jeans, which were all he was wearing; could feel, too, the way his hips thrust desperately forwards whenever Cas shifted his weight, and decided to test this theory with an experiment.
'All right,' Cas said, putting his mouth to Dean's ear, loving the way it made him shiver. 'No apologies.' He switched his grip on Dean's wrists, holding them both above his head with a single hand while the other roamed. 'After all, you were rude to me.' He pinched a nipple; Dean bit his lip and whimpered. 'Very rude.' His fingers moved lower, undoing the jeans; the fabric slipped marginally down Dean's hips as Cas reached for him. 'I'm hurt.'
And he was, too, he realised; neither his arousal nor Dean's submission had altered that. It lent his control a dangerous edge. He'd trusted Dean with more of himself than he'd ever shown to another person, and even knowing that Dean trusted him sexually, it upset him to think he hadn't earned some emotional trust, too. Which was why he had to be so careful, here, to demonstrate that trustworthiness rather than proving the opposite: just because he could maybe make Dean confess his secrets didn't mean he should.
He slid his hand up and down Dean's shaft, occasionally darting his fingers underneath to stroke the tender skin of his perineum. 'Do you like this?' he murmured.
The answer was breathless with lust. 'Yes.'
'You like me touching you?'
'Yes.'
Cas pulled back a little, watching his face. 'Tell me what you want.'
Dean's eyes, which had been closed, snapped open, wide and green as lily-pads. 'What I want?'
'From me,' said Cas. 'What do you want me to do to you?' He leaned in again, quickening his strokes to match Dean's breathing. 'I could fuck you hard or slow. Tie you up. Tease you until you screamed. I could take you in the shower again, would you like that? I could bring you off right here, or leave you aching all day, wishing I had. I could –'
'Go down on me,' Dean blurted.
Cas smiled lazily, though he was so turned on by the answer, it took some considerable strength of will to restrain himself. 'You want me on my knees?'
'Yes.'
'Tasting you?'
'Yes.'
'Right now?'
'Yes,' Dean begged, and that was when Cas kissed him, releasing his wrists as he trailed his mouth down Dean's neck, across his chest and the flat, hard muscles of his stomach, kneeling like a penitent. He paused, looking up at his lover, savouring his anticipation, the way he'd put his palms flat to the wall, as though Cas held him still; and perhaps he did.
Cas licked his lips, and slowly took Dean in his mouth. He'd held off doing this until now out of concern for his bruised face, but as of this morning, it no longer hurt, and even had it done, the throb and pulse of his own arousal as Dean moaned for him would have rendered the pain as nothing. He worked slowly, shameless in his own enjoyment, and when Dean finally reached for him, his fingers gliding through Cas's hair, he growled with pleasure, glancing up to see the answering ecstasy on Dean's face. After that, he didn't look away, hypnotised by the way his lover's eyes would alternately close, as though it was too much for him, then spring open again, fixing on Cas in a wordless plea for release.
Cas drew it out as long as he could, and when Dean finally climaxed, he cried Cas's name. He swallowed, the taste lingering in his throat, and stood, and kissed his lover; and when Dean's hands slipped around his waist, as they always did, Cas surprised them both by directing his touch upwards, towards his scars.
Dean pulled back, looking him in the eyes. 'Are... are you sure?'
'Yes.' And then, because Dean needed to hear the explanation almost as much as Cas needed to give it, 'You don't make me feel ashamed of them, or fragile. You make me feel like I deserve –' love, he almost said, but it was too enormous a word, and too soon; he choked on it, and said instead, '– to be touched.'
Slowly, Dean slid his hands up Cas's back, his fingers finding every hard ridge, every knot, caressing every scar with the same gentle reverence he showed the rest of his body. Cas kissed him again, passionately, but even when Dean's grip tightened, those square, clever fingers clutching and digging at his skin, the old panic stayed dead, and he almost sobbed with relief.
When they finally pulled apart, Dean was blushing violently. 'Cas, about last night, I – I'm sorry. You're right. It wasn't nothing. I just –' he gulped, turning even redder, '– it just scared me, is all, and I need some time – I don't know how to say it, and I didn't think – with everything, I mean, it just didn't seem like I should –'
And suddenly, Cas understood. 'You didn't want to burden me.'
'Yes.' Dean sagged with relief.
Cas laughed and kissed him. 'You are such a beautiful idiot.' He cupped his cheek fondly. 'Dean, I already told you: I might be messed up, but I don't have a monopoly on problems. The fact that I'm having a hard time doesn't mean you're not allowed to be upset, too. You're allowed to want help, to ask me to help. We're allowed to need each other. That's what –' love is '– this is. Isn't it?'
'Yeah,' said Dean, hoarsely. 'Yeah, it is.'
They stared at each other, into each other, and Cas could hear his heart in his ears, because he loved Dean Winchester, loved him like he had never loved anyone in his life, and what sort of person fell in love in under a week, anyway? Someone so sad and desperate and damaged as to find basic human compassion miraculous, that was who; or worse still, someone with such a profoundly unsatisfying sexual history as to assume their first truly good fuck meant a happily ever after. God, he was so pathetic; and the worst thing was that, even knowing the love was illusory, a symptom of his own catastrophic pathology, he was still relieved to feel it; had feared, deep down, that he was incapable of even that much connection. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, Castiel. And you were never an angel.
He realised he was shaking, and stepped back sharply, not trusting himself to speak.
'Cas?' The sudden confusion in Dean's voice was almost physically painful.
Say something. Anything. 'Time,' he rasped. 'We should – it's almost nine, I mean – we should get ready. Get downstairs.'
'Oh.' Dean ran a hand through his hair, and with that single, familiar action, it was like he'd put on a mask, the naked, blushing vulnerability of a moment earlier replaced by cockiness. 'Sure, yeah, whatever. I'll go get dressed.' He hesitated minutely. 'I'll, uh, see you for lunch?'
'Of course,' said Cas, hating the uncertainty of the question, hating Dean's visible relief. 'Just come get me, OK?' And he made himself kiss his cheek.
Apparently satisfied, Dean went back to the bedroom. Cas waited until he was gone, then braced his hands on the table, perilously close to tears. This doesn't have to change anything. It's not real, anyway; it's not like it matters.
But it did. Of course it did. Even if it wasn't love, whatever he felt was strong enough that Dean could touch his scars; that he wanted Dean to touch his scars. God, and he was still so shamefully hard, too; and it would be so easy just to go into the bedroom and kiss him, push him down and pull off his clothes and –
No. He shook himself, straightened and counted his breaths and, when that didn't work, dredged up his ugliest memories from yesterday, flung his injured family at himself like a shock of cold water. That worked a little too well: the guilt and fear came flooding back, and for a moment, he was paralysed all over again. Somehow, he'd allowed himself to forget that the Fellowship siege was still ongoing; that even though his family were, for an extremely generous value of the word, safe, Brother Tiberius remained at large, and was threatening other innocents with his cruelty. And now, the FBI knew who he was; they were coming for him, to speak to him, and he was neither brave nor good enough to view the prospect with anything other than terror.
Just then, Dean returned, his emergence sudden enough that Cas couldn't even try to hide his distress, and his self-hatred at how completely he melted into his lover's concerned embrace was equalled only by the strength of his relief that it was even an option, that he didn't have to be alone in this.
'The Fellowship,' he stammered. 'Can you track the news again? I know my family's out, but if anything happens –'
'Of course.' Dean held him close, and when he finally pulled away, Cas felt the separation like a physical ache in his chest. He doesn't love me. He never will. Oh, god, I'm such a fool.
He suddenly remembered a book he'd read as a teenager, an old, dogeared paperback John Aveline had given him. It was long gone, burned when Brother Tiberius found his hidden book cache, but all these years later, he still remembered it vividly enough to raise the hairs on his neck. It was called The Killing Choice, an obscure work of fantasy by an equally obscure author. The protagonist, Virian, was a famous soldier from a warrior-caste rich with its own mythologies, chief among which was the titular killing choice: the decision, when one was mortally pierced with an arrow or sword, to either remove the weapon and risk instant death, or else to leave it in, and potentially die, by slow degrees, from poisoning or sepsis. On the battlefield, Virian counselled his troops to take the quick option; but after being shot and taken prisoner by the enemy commander, Severin, he defied his own logic, leaving an arrowhead lodged in his chest in a bid to live and return to war.
But slowly, impossibly, Virian and Severin fell in love, eventually plotting their mutual escape to a neighbouring, peaceful country. To the teenage Cas, still struggling with his attraction to men, the book had been revelatory, not least because of the idea that Virian's conflicted loyalty, and not his sexual orientation, was what made the relationship with Severin taboo. But of course, it all went wrong for them: having thought himself long forgotten, Virian was rescued by his men on the eve of their planned escape, and in the ensuing chaos, Severin was killed. Rather than live without him, Virian ripped the arrowhead from his chest, and as he died, he finally understood that for him, the killing choice was never about enduring a mortal wound, but his decision to love what he could never have.
It had been years before Cas, in thinking of the book, had realised how upset he was, that a story which normalised love between men – the first such book he'd ever read – was also one in which both heroes died tragically; it was why, despite how much it meant to him, he'd never tracked down a replacement copy. But now, as Dean stepped away from him, Cas felt the terrible weight of his loneliness and inadequacy settle on him like chains, and knew, with an absolute, visceral certainty, that he, like Virian, had made the fateful killing choice: to love without hope of being loved, until he either tore his heart from his chest, or poisoned himself with grief.
*
'What's the news?' said Anna, peering over Dean's shoulder.
'Nothing,' he said, a little too quickly. Which was, at least as far as his promise to Cas went, true: after yesterday's dramatic events, the Fellowship siege had descended into an uneasy stalemate as both sides withdrew to lick their wounds. Forced into an uneasy alliance, the Nevada police, the ATF, and the FBI were still debating what course of action to take, while Brother Tiberius and his followers had released a savagely-worded statement about the actions of 'heretics, sinners and traitors' and the dire consequences soon to be visited upon any and all who helped them. There were also unconfirmed rumours that several Fellowship members had been wounded during the exchange of fire, but of course, Tiberius was hardly going to admit to it; and in the mean time, the police barrier – and, as a consequence, the news crews swarming the scene like flies – had all been pushed back in a futile attempt to mitigate the range of the Fellowship's weapons. (Futile, in Dean's view, because if they hadn't guessed their capabilities right the first time, then there was no guarantee they'd done so this time, either.)
Anna crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. 'Really. There is no news? None at all? The entire world is magically at a standstill?'
'You know what I mean.'
'What I know is that you're acting shifty as fuck,' said Anna, pointedly. 'What is up with you today? Did you and Cas have a fight or something?'
'No!' But something's upset him, and I don't know what.
'Well, good. Because I stand by last night's assessment.' She grinned sweetly. 'You two are adorable.'
'So help me, Anna, if you say one more word –'
The cowbell jangled, cutting him off. Dean glanced up to see who it was, looked back to Anna, then did a double take. All the blood drained from his face.
'Oh, shit,' he whispered.
Anna looked at him blankly. 'What?'
Dean swallowed. 'Anna, I need you to do me a favour.'
'What?'
'Go tell Cas the FBI guy is my ex from the army, that I'm sorry, and that I'll explain later.'
Anna physically choked. 'Your what?'
Dean grit his teeth. 'Just do it. Please.'
And, for a miracle, Anna went, leaving Dean to stare helplessly into the oncoming storm that was Agent Daniel Lassiter, who was staring back with all the smug self-vindication of an avenging fury. Apart from the suit, he was the same as ever: tall, black-haired, with sharp brown eyes and milk-white skin, and a languid easiness to his stride that made him look permanently like a well-fed apex predator – which, both professionally and sexually, he was.
Dean gulped.
Lassiter's smile was lazy and sharp, like a well-oiled flick knife. 'Dean Winchester,' he said, in that deceptively silky voice that simultaneously warmed and chilled. 'A scapegrace running a record store. Wonders will never cease!'
'Danny,' said Dean, because it was the only weapon he had to hand, however petty. 'No, sorry, Special Agent Danny. How can I help you? Here to improve your taste in music? And here I thought you were a lost cause.'
'I think you've got us confused,' said Lassiter. 'I'm not the one who tucked tail and wound up in Monument .' He pronounced the word like it was a synonym for dead rat.
Dean forced his most annoying grin. 'And yet, here you are. Tell me, did you volunteer for this assignment, or did you just piss someone off?'
That clearly hit a nerve, but Lassiter recovered quickly. 'Neither. You'd be surprised how often my having fucked you has failed to constitute a career advantage.'
If comebacks were blows, that one was a suckerpunch. Dean flinched, and more than Lassiter's triumphant smirk, he hated how much he deserved it. 'Come on, then,' he said. 'Show me your badge. I know you're dying to.'
'Just a little,' said Lassiter, and reaching into his inside pocket, he did just that. 'Special Agent Lassiter. I'm here to speak to Castiel Novak about his connection to the Fellowship of the Righteous Angels, and specifically his relationship to Brother Tiberius, aka Martin Bruckner.'
'And you're in my shop because –?'
'Because,' said Lassiter, smiling like Dean had just fed him exactly the straight line he wanted, 'the Bureau is aware of your... talent, shall we say, for complicating matters.'
'Oh, really? And who told them that, exactly?'
'I did.'
'In your capacity as a neutral, fair-minded professional, or in your capacity as a petty dickbag?'
'In my capacity,' said Lassiter, sharply, 'as someone whose life you ruined.'
'Doesn't look ruined to me,' said Dean, though he knew exactly how unfair that was.
'I'm resilient,' Lassiter said, dryly. 'My skills proved to be very transferable. Unlike, for instance, yours.'
Abruptly, Dean was tired of the fencing. 'Danny, look. What I did – I still don't know if it was on purpose, or if it was a mistake, or if I was just hoping we'd get caught, but however fucked up I was at the time, that doesn't make it right. I know what I said back in Sacramento, how I acted, and I'm sorry, I really am – you have every reason in the world to hate me, and that's fine, that's how it should be. But if you take any of this out on Cas, then I swear to god, I will rain fire and fucking brimstone down on you, OK? I will burn you out of whatever comfy burrow you've built yourself at Quantico, and I will do it with a song in my heart. Probably something by AC/DC.'
For a long moment, Lassiter was silent. Then he smiled, the expression reminiscent of nothing so much as a shark. 'Let me explain something here, Dean. You're in no position to demand anything of me, because you have no leverage. I could arrest you right now for threatening me, and by extension the agency I represent, and you want to know the only reason why I won't? Because you're pathetic. You're a white trash grunt with daddy issues and a history of alcoholism who's failed at everything he's ever attempted, legally or illegally, up to and including suicide, and who will undoubtedly fail at this, too, whatever it's meant to be.' He gestured disparagingly at the record shop. 'So whatever I say to Castiel Novak – however I choose to deal with him – I want you to understand, with absolute clarity, how very little you matter.'
Dean felt like he was going to throw up. 'And yet,' he somehow managed, 'you've still gone out of your way to involve me. I might be a grunt, but it seems to me that, if I really didn't matter, you'd have gone straight to the bookshop. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, do not verbally harass the man caught sucking your cock in the mess hall.'
Two high spots of colour appeared on Lassiter's cheeks. 'Just tell me where he is,' he hissed.
And suddenly Cas said, 'I'm right here,' and stepped out from the back of the shop.
Any pleasure Dean might have taken in Lassiter's shock was utterly annihilated by his own appalled horror. How long had Cas been there? How much had he heard? Turning, he could just see Anna peeping out from the stairwell, one hand clapped to her mouth in utter mortification, and realised instantly what must have happened. Once she'd delivered his message, it didn't really matter which of them had been more curious, whose idea it had been to go back up Cas's stairs, across the front landing and into Dean's flat, creeping silently down to Impala Records and eavesdropping on his conversation with Lassiter; what mattered was that they'd learned more about his sordid history he'd ever wanted either of them to know, and just at that moment, he'd cheerfully have slit his own throat if it meant undoing the last ten minutes forever.
Lassiter, however, was made of sterner stuff. Folding his own embarrassment away like a used handkerchief, he looked Cas up and down, and said, 'Mr Novak, I'm Special Agent Lassiter with the FBI. I'd like to ask you to come with me; I have some questions to ask you about the Fellowship of the Righteous Angels.'
'Of course,' said Cas. 'How long will it take?'
'That all depends on you. Hopefully no more than an hour or so.' He paused. 'It would, I think, be better all round if Mr Winchester remained here.'
Almost imperceptibly, Cas's gaze flicked to Dean. 'I can see that.'
Dean gripped the edge of the table, fighting nausea. Oh god, Cas, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, you shouldn't have heard it like that, I should have told you everything, I should have –
'Excellent!' said Lassiter. 'Well, let's get this over and done with. And Dean?' he added, as Cas walked to his side. 'Stay.'
Dean watched them leave together. Heard the cowbell ring their exit, the ludicrous clamour so loud in the silence, it was like bombs falling. A sick, black knot was tangled in the pit of his stomach, and before he could get a hold of himself, he was moving towards the door.
'Dean?' Anna whispered, finally creeping out from the staircase. 'Dean, I'm so sorry –'
He wrenched down the cowbell, gripping it hard enough to hurt. And then, with an inarticulate yell, he threw it at the nearest shelf.
A splintering smash of plastic and polycarbonate. Bits of broken CD flew everywhere, and for a raw, red moment, Dean could have easily wrecked the whole shop. But then he saw the look on Anna's face – remembered Lassiter's biting prediction that he'd fail at this, too – and all at once, the rage went out of him.
He dropped to his knees, his head in his hands, and sobbed.