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Orpheus

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Sunday morning, I'm waking up

Can't even focus on a coffee cup

Don't even know who's bed I'm in

Where do I start, where do I begin?

 

Dean isn't ordinarily a Chemical Brothers fan, but he can't get the song out of his head, because it really is Sunday, he really did wake up confused about where he was, and he really did fail to drink his coffee, largely because Castiel brought it to him in bed, and then proceeded to make such good use of his mouth that it ended up growing cold on the nightstand. For all that they ended up racing against the clock to get Dean to work on time – and despite the fact that his throat is sore, his muscles aching with incipient fever – this has still been one of the most relaxing mornings he can remember. Now, freshly dressed in dark slacks and a button-down, the collar and long sleeves conveniently hiding all but one of his new marks, he leans back in the passenger seat of Cas's car, which – rather pleasingly – has turned out to be an old silver Porsche Boxster. They pull into the parking lot with three minutes to spare, and Dean wastes two of them kissing his boyfriend goodbye, because even though they're going to see each other in a few hours – the book launch starts at 4pm, and Cas has promised he'll come – they haven't been able to keep their hands off each other.

Which is new for Dean, and more than a little exhilarating. He hadn't realised how touch-starved he was until last night, when Cas tied him to the bed and made Dean watch as he prepped himself. He's pretty sure that's how he hurt his shoulder, wrenching against the cord because he'd needed to touch Cas, and couldn't, and part of him went wild with it, until he'd finally managed to suck Cas's earlobe into his mouth and give back just a fraction of what he wanted.

Spurred by the memory, he grips the front of Cas's shirt and pulls him half out of the driver's seat, kissing him even more deeply. Cas responds eagerly, one hand sliding up Dean's thigh as the other cups his neck.

'You're going to be late,' he says, nipping at the one, dark hickie Dean's collar can't hide, just below his left ear.

'Worth it,' Dean pants, and chases his mouth, pulling him down again. Which is more than a little awkward, physically speaking: the Boxster is small, with seats that weren't exactly designed for romantic liaisons between two grown men. But Dean doesn't give a shit, because right now, he wants to stop kissing Cas only slightly less than he wants to stop breathing, and if the urgency of Cas's response is anything to go by, then the feeling is definitely mutual.

' Dean? '

The voice hits him like a shock of cold water. Dean jerks away so suddenly, he gets almost tangled in his seatbelt – and there, right outside the car window, is Charlie, staring at him with one hand clapped to her mouth, her eyebrows shooting into her hairline.

'Evidently, the jig is up,' says Cas, and Dean gives a short, embarrassed bark of laughter. Shooting Charlie a meaningful glare, he turns back to Cas, a fierce blush already spreading up his neck, and says, 'I'll see you at four?'

Cas grins, giving him a gentle peck on the cheek. 'I wouldn't miss it. But, Dean?'

'Yeah?'

'If you need me before then – if you get upset, or you want to talk, whatever the reason – just call, OK?'

'I will,' he says, a little overwhelmed by the offer, but nonetheless grateful for it. 'Thanks, Cas.'

'Any time.'

Dean lets out a shaky breath, steadies himself as best he can, which isn't very, and exits the car.

' Dude ,' says Charlie, dropping her hand. Her brown eyes are wide, and she cranes her head, angling for a better look at Cas. 'Not that I swing that way, but damn !'

Growling, Dean stalks towards the library, walking fast enough that Charlie has to struggle to catch up. His pulse is hammering in his ears, his stomach churning sickly, and it takes him a moment to realise why: he just outed himself to Charlie, which makes her the first of his friends to know, and it doesn't matter that she's gay, too, and therefore supremely unlikely to judge him – this is a big deal for him, he was supposed to do it properly, not get caught making out in the carpark like some horny teenager, and oh, fuck

He reaches the library just in time to grab the wall, gulping in breaths as his vision spins.

'Dean! Hey, are you OK?' Charlie finally catches him up, putting a tentative hand on his shoulder. 'Dean?'

'Is he still there?' He shuts his eyes, leaning against the bricks.

'Who?'

'The guy in the car. Is he still there? Can he see me?'

'Oh! No, he's gone, he drove away while you were walking.'

Dean slumps, shaking with relief. 'Oh, thank god. He's already dealt with enough of my crap, he doesn't need to see me like this, too.'

He looks up in time to see Charlie do a double-take, the penny finally dropping. 'Wait a minute. I thought you were straight!'

Dean smiles weakly. 'Surprise?'

'You secretive ass!' Charlie smacks his shoulder. 'All that time I wasted setting you up with straight chicks, and you couldn't have tipped me the wink?' She's clearly expecting a laugh, but her face changes when Dean stays silent. 'Oh. Oh! Shit!' Her hand flies back to her mouth. 'Did I just out you?'

'Technically, I think I outed myself. But I was going to tell you. Today. With, you know. Words.' And then, because he needs to hear himself say it to someone, just once. 'I'm gay.'

'Well, obviously.' Charlie smiles at him. 'Welcome to the club. You wanna hug?'

'Maybe,' Dean mumbles.

Despite her small size, Charlie turns out to be surprisingly strong, wrapping him in a tight squeeze worthy of a boa constrictor. Dean hugs back, only slightly awkward, and yeah, it's all a bit dorky and cliché, but it still makes him feel better, and when Charlie finally lets him go, his anxiety is gone. She grins at him, sensing the change, and loops her bright red hair behind her ears.

'Right, so, not to demand your whole closeted backstory up front or anything, but you so owe me a conversation about this. With drinks. And possibly some onion rings.'

'Deal,' says Dean, unable to keep from grinning back, because Charlie's happiness is infectious like that. Even so, a nervous jolt goes through him at the prospect.

They head into the library, which is already open – Ash, their other colleague, comes in a half hour earlier to set up the computers – and Dean distracts himself with work. He starts by reshelving books; he's always found the rhythm of it soothing, and today is no exception. It's one of the reasons he likes having two different jobs: they challenge him in different ways, keep him balanced, and he's self-aware enough to realise that, with everything else that's screwed up in his life, it's a dichotomy he needs as much as enjoys. When he fixes cars, it's cathartic, like solving a puzzle, but not always relaxing – aside from being physically intensive, he has to think about what he's doing, what happens next, what the customer wants. But at the library, he can let himself go, moving on a pleasant autopilot while his thoughts drift. It's as close as he ever gets to zen, and he treasures it.

Except, of course, when he's dealing with library patrons, which is the less tranquil aspect of his weekend job. Books might be calming, but adult members of the general public are vastly less so, especially when they refuse to understand why you can't just hand over the popular new release that ten other people already have on reserve, or when they talk loudly on their phones, or spill the smoothie they're not meant to bring inside on the photocopier five other people are waiting to use.

Because the universe loves irony, this last happens just when Dean is due to go for lunch, and as Ash has been railroaded by yet another senior citizen who can't figure out how to use Google – and as he owes Charlie for yesterday – it falls to him to clean it up. Happily, the machine itself is undamaged, but by the time he's finished, Dean is famished. Stomach growling, he's on his way out when Charlie pops up alongside him like a manic jack-in-the-box.

'Hey! Mind if I join you?'

Dean blinks at her. Usually, they try to stagger their lunchbreaks so as not to leave the place short-staffed, and it's not like they've had a slow morning. 'You sure? I mean, will Ash be OK on his own?'

Charlie rolls her eyes. 'Ash is Ash. He'll be fine.' She waggles her wallet at him. 'C'mon, my treat! And don't even pretend you don't wanna tell me all about Porsche Guy.'

'Cas,' Dean says, blushing despite himself. 'His name is Cas, OK? Not Porsche Guy?'

'I see .' Charlie feigns seriousness. 'Clearly, this is a conversation we should be having with food.'

'Not gonna argue with that,' he says, and lets Charlie shepherd him over the road to his usual burger place. But as they walk, Dean's earlier nervousness returns, and what disquiets him almost as much as the feeling itself is the fact that he doesn't know where it's coming from, or why. Charlie is his friend; he'd planned on telling her about Cas, and so far, she's been nothing but nice about it. It's not like she's being pushy, either: she doesn't say a word until after they've ordered, then props her chin on her hands and says, 'All right, Winchester. Spill.'

'Spill?' says Dean, the word raising his eyebrow and heartrate both. 'Really?'

Charlie just beams at him, and after a moment, Dean gives in. 'All right,' he says, and just like that, his nerves are back. 'I just... no judging, OK? This is all kinda new to me.'

'I get that,' says Charlie. 'But, straight up, I gotta ask – were you really sick yesterday, or were you just having the sex ?'

'Both,' he admits, blushing despite himself. 'I was sick, and Cas, ah... took care of me.'

'I'll bet he did,' Charlie says. 'So, when did you guys get together?'

'Thursday night.'

Charlie blinks. 'Last Thursday? As in, Thursday that was three days ago ?'

'Yeah?'

'And you're already having steamy morning makeouts in his car when he drops you at work?'

'I guess?' Dean fidgets, not sure whether he's being teased or censured. He knows that Charlie means well, but he's feeling more unsettled now, not less.

'Dude.' Oblivious to his reaction, Charlie shoots him an impressed look, leaning back into her side of the booth. 'That is smooth . But all right, so, Thursday. Put me in the picture. Was it a date? How did you meet him?'

It's a precipice moment, and like the setup to an episode of Star Trek , Dean can practically feel the timelines bifurcating as he hesitates. In one possible future, he lies, sanding the rough edges off the story into something sweet and safe and, ultimately, unrecognisable, thereby letting him keep up his treasured pretence of being, if not always happy, then at least normal. In the other, he tells the truth – or the relevant parts of it, anyway – and either alienates his friend, or gains her trust, but at the expense of his privacy either way.

And the stupid thing is, he really does need someone to talk to about all this, because even though he's determinedly refusing to think about Alistair and Gabriel and everything that happened last night between dinner and sex, it's still hanging over him like Edgar Allen Poe's pendulum, and he's spent the last decade lying to pretty much everyone, including himself, and Charlie gives really good advice. It should be a complete no-brainer. All he has to do is tell her that –

I went to get fucked at a skeezy club and ended up going home with the owner's brother, and the next day, their other brother showed up and called me a whore, so I went home, got blackout drunk, had a personal crisis and then let my new boyfriend tie me up and fuck me so hard, I've had to hide the bruises.

Shame punches through him, and guilt, and fear. Dean's vision greys at the edges, and it's like he's tumbled off the edge of a cliff, plummeting through screaming air without any hope of rescue. I'm hiding bruises. I let him fuck me like that and I liked it and I thought it was different, I thought Cas was different but what if he's not, what if I'm not, what if I'm just doing the same thing I always did and it's not about submission and trust at all, just me being broken? No, no, I told him to mark me, not hurt me, we had a safeword and he makes me feel safe and it's not dirty, it's not the same thing as Dante's, it feels too good, it can't be, it can't be.

Can it?

Oh, god. Fuck. I don't know. I don't know any more.

Dean grips the tabletop, dimly aware that Charlie is saying is name, that he needs to answer, but he can't make himself do it, because the second he opens his mouth, he's going to be sick.

Cas. I need Cas.

He mouths his name, silently, an almost-prayer. Because Cas had understood that this might happen; had explained about subdrop over breakfast, how Dean might react to what they'd done once the high wore off and what he should do to keep himself steady if it happened, but Dean hadn't been paying attention, because he finally felt right , better than he had in years, and why did Cas want to talk about it going wrong? Except that it has gone wrong, and now he's hyperventilating in a fucking burger place, only dimly aware that Charlie looks completely freaked out, getting up from her side of the table to come and kneel beside him. Dean gulps, trying to breathe, and finally mumbles something about being hungry, lightheaded, which is a pisspoor excuse for a lie, but Charlie doesn't press. Instead, she's on the phone – Dean's phone? Did she get it out of his pocket? – and talking to someone, rapid bursts of speech that sound like they're coming from underwater.

Then she hangs up, and makes Dean scoot over to make room for her, so they're both on the same side of the booth. She puts a hand on his back and starts rubbing, gentle pats as he struggles to calm down, and it's soothing enough that, for half a minute, it almost works. But then Dean remembers what set him off in the first place, and he feels like the ugliest, least deserving person alive, and oh, god, he promised to help Gabriel, he promised to tell him about Alistair, but he can't even tell Charlie about how he met Cas without freezing up, and why is this so goddamn difficult? It's not like you can have any pride left, the things you've done. Stop being such a fucking drama queen. He's trying to shock himself out of it, but it only makes things worse, and he has no idea how long he's just been sitting there, but all at once, Charlie isn't touching him any more – she's standing, moving aside, letting someone take her place –

It's Cas. Somehow, impossibly, it's Cas, and Dean almost sobs, though whether from shame or relief, he doesn't know.

Cas puts an arm around his waist, giving him a gentle squeeze. His fingers stroke against Dean's ribs, and he leans in, speaking quietly into his ear, low enough that not even Charlie could overhear.

'Hey, beautiful.' He kisses his cheek. 'It's OK, you're safe, I've got you, I promise. Can you breathe in for me? Nice and deep, that's it. And out again.'

Slowly, Dean breathes, and something in him starts to unknot. Cas keeps stroking his side, deft fingers slipping under his shirt to warm against his skin. Dean shuts his eyes, and Castiel kisses his ear, his jaw, still murmuring praise. 'You're amazing, Dean. You're doing so well. Just breathe in again, that's it. You're fine. You're wonderful.'

A lump forms in his throat. 'I'm sorry,' he whispers. 'Cas, I'm sorry I'm such a mess, you shouldn't –'

'Shhh. You're not a mess, Dean, you don't need to apologise for anything. Come here.' Cas shifts in the booth and pulls him close, running his fingers through Dean's hair, letting him rest his head on his shoulder. 'I've got you. It's all right.'

Dean puts his arms around Cas and holds on, forehead pressed hard to his collarbone. Cas smells of linen and salt, with just a hint of oil paint and the bacon he cooked for breakfast, and Dean breathes it in, anchoring himself, until his heart stops pounding and his stomach settles. Only then does he ease himself up and open his eyes, and there's Cas, smiling at him like they're back in bed.

'Hey,' says Dean, unable to think of anything else.

'Hey,' says Cas, and brushes their lips together. 'You feeling a bit better?'

'Yeah.' Dean manages a smile. 'What are you doing here, anyway?'

'Charlie called me. Said you needed help.'

'She did?' And then, turning to face the opposite side of the booth – where, to his embarrassment, Charlie is still sitting – 'You did? How come?'

'You asked for him,' Charlie says.

'I did?'

'You did.' She still looks a bit rattled, her sharp gaze flitting between them, but her voice is soft, her hands folded in her lap. 'And I didn't know what else to do, so I went with it. You're just lucky he was nearby.'

Dean turns back to Cas, surprised. 'You were?'

Cas shrugs, sheepishly. 'Well, I haven't spent much time in this part of town before, so I thought I'd drive around a little, check it out. I was only a few streets over when Charlie called. And I'm very glad you did,' he says, turning those bright blue eyes her way. 'Thank you.'

'Sure thing,' says Charlie, only a little awkward. 'And, uh, just so's you know, I don't judge. Like, if we're talking exchange of trust, I once woke up in a strange girl's room at Comic-Con wearing nothing but a Princess Leia bikini and go-go boots, neither of which were mine. Oh, and I was hugging an inflatable crocodile. So whatever you guys took, I honestly –'

'Wait,' says Dean, cutting her off. 'What we took? You think this about drugs?' He almost laughs out loud. 'You honestly think I'm on drugs right now?'

Charlie makes a face. 'Are you honestly trying to tell me that you're not?'

Dean opens his mouth to answer, but finds himself forestalled by the arrival of their burgers. The plates sound overly loud as they clink against the table top, and he stares dumbly at the food, partly because he's hungry, but mostly because he doesn't know what to say. Cas's face is fixed in a sort of bemused squint, and when Dean looks at him, he just flicks an eyebrow, as if to say, Your friend, your call .

'I mean,' says Charlie, obliviously tucking into her food, 'no offence, but I know what a comedown looks like.'

Clearly, you don't , Dean almost says. Instead, he distracts himself with his burger, which turns out to be a solid move: he's starving, it's delicious, and he ends up devouring the whole thing in about five bites, which is no mean feat. He's wiping the sauce off his chin when he realises Cas is watching him, a faint smile tugging the corner of his mouth.

'What?'

'Nothing,' says Cas, feigning innocence as he helps himself to Dean's fries. 'You're cute when you eat.'

Dean's ears turn pink. 'I am not.'

'You are too. Like a surly python.'

'Like a what?'

'You heard me.'

'Oh, I heard you. I'm just trying to figure out how that's a compliment.'

'Use your imagination,' says Cas, reaching for more fries. Dean swats his hand away, snorting with laughter.

'If I'm a python, you're a vulture. Get your own!'

'I am. It's called foraging in the wild –' Cas snakes a hand behind Dean's guard, snagging a fry, '– and I am an expert .' He pops it in his mouth, chewing triumphantly.

Huffing, Dean curls a protective arm around his plate. 'Yeah, well, why not engage in some equal-opportunities foraging? Go steal from Charlie!'

Charlie swallows the last of her burger and rolls her eyes at the pair of them. 'Stoners,' she mutters, not without a certain air of grudging affection.

Almost, Dean corrects her. He can feel the words on the back of his tongue, like a pill half-swallowed: I'm not on drugs, Charlie. I just freaked out because I've done some ugly things, and I don't know how to explain about Cas and why I'm out all of a sudden without mentioning them, and subdrop is also a factor, assuming you know what that is, which you possibly don't – hell, I'm not even sure I fully get it – but that's another new thing, too, and it's a lot for me to take in, let alone explain over lunch. Also, I hate myself.

Which is why, instead, he eats his fries and leans into Cas as though there's nothing else left to discuss. And besides, it's not like he's actually lying to Charlie, per se – he's just not setting her straight.

'So, now that I'm here,' says Cas, interrupting this chain of thought, 'would it be weird if I came in and loitered until the launch? I promise, I'll keep out of your way.'

Dean gives him a playful shove. 'Dude, it's a public library. Of course you can come in.'

Cas shoves back, then ducks his head, kissing Dean's neck. 'Just wanted to make sure.'

Charlie squints at them suspiciously. 'Are you guys sure you only met on Thursday? Because high or not, this is all a bit too adorable for day three.'

'What can I say?' says Dean, grinning just a little too broadly. 'I'm a fast learner.'

'I'll say,' Cas murmurs, and strokes a hand up his thigh.

Dean makes a choking noise. 'Pretty sure that's cheating, Cas.'

'Says who?'

Charlie puts a hand over her eyes. 'Oh my god, stop . I'm getting diabetes by proximity, here!' She leaves a handful of bills by her plate and scooches out of the booth, winking at Dean as she makes for the door. 'I'll see you guys back at the ranch!'

Cas watches her go, his expression amused. 'She's odd. I like her.' And then, more quietly, 'How are you feeling?'

'Better, I think. You helped. And I really needed to eat.' Dean stares at his hands. 'So, that was subdrop.'

'I suspect so,' says Cas. He reaches up and strokes Dean's jaw. 'You want to tell me what happened?'

Dean swallows. 'She asked how we met, and I – I didn't know what to say, because of – well, you know. And then I started thinking about last night, and it's not that I don't trust you, Cas, because I do, I really do, but what if I can't trust me?' His hands are shaking; he clenches them in his lap. 'I've made so many bad calls, and that night at Dante's, if it hadn't been you who found me, I would've just gone with someone, I would've – I would've let them – oh, god – and I thought you were going to – but you weren't, you were so good, and I didn't know –' the words tumble out in sharp bursts, like he's spitting seeds, '– but that's just it, Cas, I didn't know, you could've been anyone, and I would've – and you know I would've, you know, and what if that's why I like what I do? What if I only trust you because I don't trust myself, because part of me still wants this to be a bad decision?' He feels like there's a knife in his throat, and his last question comes out raw and cracked. 'What if I fuck this up?'

'Look at me. Look at me, Dean.' Cas lifts his jaw, and his eyes are so damn blue, they're like a trap: even wanting to look away, he can't. 'You're not fucking anything up. What we do in bed, my dominance, it's not about me demanding your trust like a tribute and having carte blanche forever and ever, amen. Trust is a process; I have to earn it from you, I have to give you back safety and care and pleasure in exchange for it, and if you ever feel like I'm not doing those things, or if I'm giving you one at the expense of the others, you need to let me know, OK? And what you need to know, right now, is that you have nothing to be ashamed of – not for what you did at Dante's before me, or might have done at Dante's without me, or for anything we did afterwards. Nothing.

'And as for last night –' Cas inhales, an awed light stealing over his features, '– god, Dean, you were extraordinary. Every sound you make, every touch. Just – everything.' He brushes his thumb against his lips and leans in, kissing his ear. 'You set me on fire,' he whispers.

Liquid lightning shivers through him, every nerve sparking like tapped flint, and he doesn't know whether he grabs Cas or Cas grabs him, but suddenly they're kissing, Dean shoved back against the wall of the booth and digging his hands through Castiel's hair. He can't get enough, and when they finally break apart, Dean doesn't need a mirror to know how thoroughly debauched he looks; he can feel it, right down to his bones.

'Jesus, Cas,' he breathes. 'If I'm extraordinary, what does that make you?'

Cas grins, running a hand through his already ruffled sex-hair. 'Lucky, I think. Very, very lucky.'

'Lucky,' Dean echoes. A slow smile spreads across his face. Somehow, he's always believed in luck, despite – or perhaps, perversely, because of – how little of it he's had, and maybe he can't quite trust his own judgement yet, but he can trust in luck, because luck gave him Cas, and it's enough. For now, it's more than enough. 'I can live with that.'