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Orpheus

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With the threat of Charlie's spritzer bottle still hanging over them and Cas determined to take him to dinner, Dean manages to keep things mainly PG, though after what Cas said to him at lunch, their encounter by the photocopier and then that mind-bending kiss, it's a near thing. As guests start to arrive for the launch, Dean peels himself out of Cas's lap and takes him on a tour of the library, which is less about the layout of the building than of the selection of books within it. To Dean's delight, Cas turns out to be a sci-fi fan, and they lose a solid twenty minutes talking about Slaughterhouse-Five before they even get to the rest of their favourites. Cas vouches for the excellence of something called the Vorkosigan saga, which Dean promises to read, so long as Cas tries Feed, because, dude, zombie journalism.

Despite this, however, Dean still tenses a little when they cross from the SFF section into YA: he's met far too many adults who instinctively snob teen authors, and he doesn't want Cas to be one of them. But his worries are soon proven groundless: Cas goes straight in to bat for The Hunger Games and Little Brother, making it easy for Dean to tell him how much he loves curating this particular section, and about Charlie's new YA book review blog, which Cas says he'll look up. The conversation is so easy, Dean even starts talking about Krissy, a tough-as-nails girl who comes in every week or so and raids the YA shelves for pretty much everything she can lay her hands on, and how she'd been going to drop out of school until Dean convinced her to stay on. Now, she runs a reading group for younger kids in her neighbourhood, and when she brings them in, they follow her around like ducklings who've imprinted on a wolverine. Midway through, he realises he's gushing a bit and apologises, because YA fan or not, there's no way Cas wants to hear Dean talk about some random kids.

Except, apparently, he does. Cas urges him on, saying all the right things in praise of Dean and Krissy both, and then they're in with the picture books, and Dean almost sinks through the floor in embarrassment when he realises Cas saw him reading to Ben and Emma.

'Oh, god, don't even say it, I'm a total dork.'

Cas laughs. 'That's actually the last thing I was thinking, but if you insist –'

'No, no! I just, uh –' goddamit, he's blushing so hard that even his hair feels warm, '– it's, well, on Saturdays, I usually do storytime, but I wasn't here yesterday and neither were they, and the Braedens are regulars, so –'

'Dean.' Cas squeezes his hand, and even that single, brief touch has him catching his breath. 'You read them a story, and it was adorable, and you don't have to apologise. Besides, you know I've got a soft spot for twins.'

'Oh,' says Dean, who'd somehow managed to forget this fact. 'Yeah. That makes sense.'

They fall quiet then, in deference to the fact that the visiting author, whose name Dean has somehow managed to forget, has started reading aloud from his book. Dean tries his best to listen attentively, but the second Cas loops an arm around his waist, those long, lean fingers curling over his hip, he completely loses the ability to focus. An unfamiliar warmth spreads through his stomach, and he's startled to realise that, for all he can't wait to get Cas into bed again, he also doesn't want to go home yet, either. Even if Cas is just being polite about the kid stuff, the fact that he's willing to listen at all is somehow wonderful: an intimacy Dean didn't know he wanted, let alone needed. Smiling, he puts his arm around Cas in turn, and when the shorter man rests his head on Dean's shoulder, Dean leans on him, too, his cheek pressed to Cas's temple.

There's a round of applause as the reading ends, and Dean disentangles from Cas for long enough to join in, though he didn't catch more than a sentence or two.

'Want to get out of here?' Cas says, over the subsequent buzz of conversation.

Dean grins. 'I thought you'd never ask.'

They say their goodbyes to Charlie and Ash – the latter looks Cas over once, then shoots Dean an approving thumbs up – and head out to the car. It's chill, but not windy, and once they've buckled up, Cas puts the heater on.

'It's still a bit early,' he says, as the Boxster purrs into life, 'but I thought we could park the car at home and walk to dinner instead. At my home, I mean. At the apartment.' He runs a hand through his hair, and if Dean didn't know any better, he'd think Cas was nervous. 'But if you wanted, um, we could stop by your place first. Pick up some clean clothes for tomorrow, maybe.'

Dean grins. 'You inviting me to sleep over, Cas?'

'I'd be happy to stay with you instead –'

Dean laughs. 'Your place is fine. But grabbing my stuff would be good, yeah.'

Though Dean offers to navigate, Cas finds his way to the house from memory, pulling up on the opposite curb.

'Wait here,' says Dean, 'I'll just be a minute,' and hops out before Cas can object. As he walks to the door, a guilty pang goes through him. He kept Cas waiting outside that morning, too, claiming it was because they were running late, but once he's inside, the truth is impossible to avoid. Cas's apartment is gorgeous, well-furnished and beautifully maintained, and Dean's house is... not so much. He's embarrassed by the number of empty cans and bottles littering the coffee table and kitchen bench, the dirty clothes thrown over the couch, the unscrubbed plates in the sink. He tries to straighten up a bit as he goes, but he's conscious of keeping Cas waiting, and besides which, it's not like the place looks that great tidy, either. Most of his furniture is either curbside salvage or cheap flatpack stuff; the books in his shelves, though much loved, are almost universally battered, secondhand paperbacks, and junk from his various hobbies and DIY projects is littered all over the place.

Ducking through to the bedroom, he picks up his work boots, socks, a change of boxers, a pair of jeans and a mostly-clean shirt, shoving them all into a duffle bag. On impulse, he also grabs his spare toothbrush from the bathroom, then hurries back out to the car, where Cas greets him with a raised eyebrow.

'Sorry,' says Dean, getting in ahead of him. He gulps, shoving the bag in the footwell. 'I didn't mean to, uh, keep you out. It's just, my place is kind of a mess.'

Cas laughs. 'I'm not going to put on my little white gloves and check the shelves for dust, Dean.' He leans over, giving him a gentle kiss. 'Besides, I'm sure it's fine.'

Dean's cheeks burn as they pull away. 'I just don't have many people over, you know. I mean – god, I have friends, it's not like I don't have friends, but we usually just go out for drinks, and – ' He realises he's babbling and stops, gripping his knees. 'Anyway,' he says, taking refuge in a change of topic, 'So, you ever sell any of your paintings? Like, in a gallery or whatever?'

The question seems to catch Cas off guard. 'I was part of an exhibition back in college, but since then, no.'

Dean blinks at him. 'Why the hell not, man? Your stuff is amazing! You should sell it, or, I don't know, freelance or something. Or do book covers! I can totally see your stuff rocking sales in the fantasy section. Like that new piece, the Orpheus one, you've got a real nice Luis Royo vibe going on there, but with a bit of H. R. Giger, too, you know?'

'I –' Cas looks stunned, mouth hanging open a little as they pull into traffic. 'I don't quite know what to say to that. Um. I love Royo's work. So thank you. But it really is just a hobby.'

'Yeah, right.' Dean snorts, but there's a tightness to Cas's shoulders that wasn't there before, so he reaches over and squeezes his leg, trying to take the sting out of it. He can't bear the thought of upsetting him, and he doesn't understand why Cas is so dismissive of his art. 'I mean it, Cas. You should sell your work, or at least show it to people. Charlie spends a bunch of time online, and she says lots of artists now have, like, art blogs and stuff, and pages on tumblr and Deviantart, and there's this whole community where people support each other, like a mix of amateurs and professionals and whatever. You should give it a try.'

'But I'm not –' he sounds almost pained, wrenching the wheel a little harder than necessary as they turn the corner, '– I mean, I'm not really good with computers, Dean, I wouldn't know where to start –'

'Honestly, neither would I. But Charlie sure does, and I'm sure she'd walk you through it, if you asked her.'

'You're starting to sound like Gabriel.'

'Well, your brother may be a dick in all other respects, but if he's trying to get you to art more in public, too, then no offence taken.'

Castiel laughs, a choking snort. 'Art more in public? Really?' And then he smacks a palm on the wheel, a mixture of irritation and apology flashing across his features. 'Ugh, that reminds me. Gabriel texted me earlier about meeting with you at noon on Tuesday. Are you free?'

'Meeting with – oh.' Dean curls his hands in his lap, a cold, ugly feeling creeping through his gullet. 'Right. Alistair.'

'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have – damn.' Cas hits the wheel again, though whether he's more frustrated with Gabriel, himself or the whole situation, Dean can't tell. 'You're not obliged to help him, you know. I can tell him you've changed your mind, and he can deal with it like an adult.'

'No, it's fine. Really.' Dean forces himself to smile. 'I mean, it'll suck, and I'll probably need a recovery blowjob afterwards, but it's important, you know? Alistair's not a good guy, and if I can help hold him accountable, then I should.' He stares fixedly at the dashboard, trying to swallow against the knot in his throat. 'Besides, I've fucked up this sort of thing too many times already. Gotta pay my debts.'

'No, you don't.' Cas guns the Porsche through a yellow light, the engine revving angrily. 'You don't owe this to anybody, Dean, least of all Gabriel.'

'And what about me, huh? Can't I owe it to myself?' He feels almost dizzy, fear and anger coursing through him in equal measure. 'I've got my own damn reasons for wanting Alistair to get what's coming to him, and you don't get to sit there and tell me they don't matter, that I don't –' He bites off the sentence, scared of what he might say if he keeps going. Reflexively, he wraps his arms around his stomach, hunching in on himself. 'I need to,' he says, softly.

'Oh.' Castiel reaches over, stroking his knuckles against Dean's knee until he looks up again. 'Whatever you want to do, of course, you have my support. I just don't want you to feel as if you're doing penance.' He bites his lip, those blue eyes irresistible. 'I'm truly sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to be insensitive.'

'No, it's not your fault. I shouldn't have snapped.' He tries for a watery smile, and finds a drier one than he expected. 'Can we start over?'

They pull up at a set of lights, and Cas takes advantage of the pause to lean across and kiss him. 'Of course.'

The rest of the way to Cas's building, they talk about books, and by the time they pull up in the underground garage, Dean is back on an even keel. They take the lift up together in silence, lingering in the apartment only for as long as it takes to put Dean's duffle in the bedroom and his toothbrush by the sink, and then they head back down again, out into the darkening street.

They head off walking, shoulder to shoulder in the crisp air. After a moment, Dean plucks up his courage and tangles their fingers together, and the smile Cas gives him as he squeezes his hand makes something twist in his chest. God, it's not like any of this is simple – it's all too new and fraught and wonderful for that – but somehow, impossibly, Cas makes it feel easy.

The restaurant is called Marco's, and though they arrive early, it's quiet enough that they're seated straight away. The décor manages to be cozy and spacious all at once, with its mix of wooden furniture and warm, amber walls, and the smell of fresh pizza coming from the kitchen is enough to make Dean's mouth water. The waiter seats them at a table opposite the bar, then asks if they want any drinks. Dean isn't usually much for wine, but it feels like that sort of an evening, so when Cas suggests getting a bottle, he agrees to share. The waiter smiles approvingly, and as Cas picks out a cabernet something-or-other, Dean realises he can't remember the last time he went on an actual, honest-to-god date, which raises the awkward possibility that he's never, in fact, been on one. Or at least, not with a guy – he took out girls in high school, back when he was still trying to figure himself out – but even with all his closeted guilt over Aaron, it somehow doesn't seem possible that he managed to get through college without either buying or being bought a single crappy dinner.

'Penny for your thoughts?' Cas asks, jolting him out of his stupor.

Sheepishly, Dean rubs his neck. 'I was just, uh... I was trying to think if I'd ever, you know. Done this. The dinner thing.' He waves a hand to indicate the restaurant. 'It's nice.'

'I'm glad you like it,' Cas says, and his tone is so sincere that Dean melts a little.

'How do you do that?' he asks.

'Do what?'

'Make me feel normal. Like there's nothing wrong with me.'

'Well, there's not.'

'You know what I mean. You're not even a little weirded out that I've never really dated?'

'Why should I be? You're here now.' And he smiles, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

Before Dean can reply, the waiter returns with their wine, showing the bottle to Cas and pouring a tiny amount in his glass as a taster. Cas gives Dean a conspiratorial wink and falls straight into the role of wine connoisseur, feigning seriousness as he lifts his glass, sniffs and sips. To the waiter's solemn approval, Cas deems the bottle up to scratch, giving such a slow, lofty nod that Dean struggles to keep a straight face. Somehow, he manages to order dinner without cracking up, but the second the waiter is gone again, he bursts out laughing.

'Oh man, that was priceless!'

Cas grins. 'I know nothing about wine, but if you order the second cheapest bottle and nod seriously when they bring it over, it seems to convey the appropriate degree of competence.' He nods at Dean's now-full glass. 'What do you think of it?'

'Hmm.' Dean picks up the glass, twirling the stem between his fingers. Aping Cas's mannerisms, he peers at the contents, swills the wine, and takes a tentative mouthful. 'Nice, full bodied. Tastes like... hipster flannel. Red flannel, to be precise. Also grapes.'

Cas's laughter catches him mid-sip; he snorts into his glass, choking on half-swallowed wine. 'You ass!' he says, wiping his mouth, and kicks Dean playfully in the leg.

Dean reciprocates, and suddenly they're playing footsie under the table, which is completely ridiculous, because who actually does that? Almost, he says so out loud, but then Cas's foot slides gently up the back of his calf, and the words freeze in his throat. Palms braced flat on the table, Dean looks at Cas, who looks steadily back, his expression both soft and intense as he strokes his leg, and Jesus, there's no way that should be sexy, right? But it's like Cas has the cheat codes to Dean's sexuality, like he's been playing him on god mode from minute one: whatever he tries seems bound to work, which is both scary-thrilling and arousing as all hell, and so Dean just sits there, semi-hard and dazed, until Cas says, 'You know, one of us should probably say something.'

'I'm trying,' Dean says, 'but you're, uh... you're pretty distracting.'

Smiling, Cas pulls his foot away. 'Better?'

'A little,' Dean admits. 'You... shit, Cas, I can't even think straight around you.'

Cas crooks a finger, leaning in over the table. Curious, Dean leans in, too, and shivers as Cas lips his ear. 'Lucky we're not straight, then,' he says, and cups Dean's cheek, and kisses him. It only lasts a moment – they're too far away from each other for more – but Dean groans and leans into it all the same, the table hard against his ribs, and when he sits back again, he's flushed, aching for more. A trio of younger twentysomethings stares at them from across the room, their expressions ranging from surprise to mild disgust. Cas follows Dean's gaze, frowns slightly, and then pokes out his tongue at the most disapproving of the three, a wide-eyed blonde girl, eliciting a squeak as she ducks behind her menu. The other two look away, too, and when Cas turns back to Dean, he rolls his eyes.

'Idiots,' he mutters. And then, as he scans Dean's face, 'Are you OK?'

'Yeah,' says Dean, shrugging. 'I mean, they're strangers. What do I care, right? The guys at the garage, though – not sure how it's all gonna go over with them tomorrow.' He sighs, rubbing his neck. 'Or with Sammy, for that matter. I mean, we've never really talked about this kinda thing, and I know he's all Mr Liberal Arts Stanford Guy these days, but that's no guarantee he won't freak out on me, you know?' He blinks, suddenly curious. 'Hey, how was it for you? The whole coming out thing? I mean, Gabe's into guys, too, so did that make it easier, or harder?'

Castiel laughs. 'It was... interesting. As much as he'd like to claim otherwise, Gabriel wasn't the sexual trailblazer in our family – that was all Luke's doing, and he knows it.' He leans back, lips curved in amusement. 'They're fraternal twins, not identical, and let's just say that puberty made their differences pretty obvious. Luke hit six foot when they were still fifteen, but Gabriel's shorter than both of us, and he didn't get his growth spurt for another year. And Luke's always been... I'm trying to think of a better word than rebellious, because that implies a sort of moral conviction – chaotic, maybe?'

'More chaotic than Gabriel?' Dean asks, raising an eyebrow.

'Infinitely so.'

He whistles. 'Man, your family is nuts.'

'You have no idea,' Cas says, dryly.

Dean chuckles. 'So, what did Luke get up to, then?'

'Let me put it this way,' says Cas. 'Once, when Anna and Michael were off at camp and our parents were out of town, I came home and found him having an orgy in the living room with several young women, my history teacher, and at least three members of the football team.' He shudders. 'I never sat on that couch again.'

Dean's jaw drops. 'You're not serious.'

Cas's expression is equal parts fond reminiscence and old exasperation. 'Luke at eighteen was a fearsome thing. He was voracious, always keen to try anything with anyone – and still is, I suspect, though he's grown more discreet around family. But back then, it was a game to him; he played because he could. Our parents have always been conservative, stern, but Luke was never afraid of them, not even when we were little. It's like he thought the whole idea of parents was a challenge. He'd bring home boys and girls – older or younger than him, it didn't matter – and from the time he was sixteen, he'd arrange, literally arrange, to get caught in the act with them, just to see the reactions.'

'Holy shit, dude. What did your parents do?'

Castiel grins, a little more sharply than before. 'Yelled, mostly, though I do recall some very frosty silences and a good deal of financial withholding. If he'd been the only queer child, they'd probably have kicked him out – things were certainly headed that way – but then Gabriel started bringing home quiet, handsome boys with expensive haircuts and good manners, and they seemed to reach the convenient decision that fiscal conservatism was more important than the religious kind, for all that they named three of us after angels. They still clashed with Luke, of course, because he made it impossible not to, but by the time I started dating, I think they'd more or less resigned themselves to the inevitable. And then, when Anna introduced us to her first boyfriend, our mother actually cried at the prospect of one day having biological grandchildren, which was... awkward, given that Anna and the boy in question were both in the room, and all of fifteen at the time.'

Dean stares at him. 'That is messed up. Like, Jerry Springer level messed up.'

'That's the Novak clan in a nutshell, I'm afraid.' Cas shrugs, the gesture wryly apologetic. 'Honestly, I think Michael's the only one of us who's halfway normal, and he's a marine. Which is ironic, given that he's the token straight brother. Gabriel thinks it's hilarious, but then again, he also thinks he's funny, so he's not exactly the best judge of humour.'

'Brothers never are,' says Dean, grinning. 'I mean, my jokes are gold, but does Sam laugh at them?'

'You said he's at Stanford?' Cas asks. 'What's he studying?'

'Originally, he wanted to go into law,' Dean says, unable to keep the fondness from his tone, 'but he ended up switching to veterinary science. Which isn't surprising, really. Kid's smart, and he loves animals. I'm proud of him.'

'I'm not surprised. You obviously care for him a great deal.' Cas smiles. 'You Winchesters are an eclectic pair, if you don't mind my saying – one librarian-mechanic, and one nearly-lawyer-turned-nearly-vet.'

'Oh, like you're one to talk.' Dean holds up a hand, counting Novaks off on his fingers. 'What about your lot? Michael's in the navy, Anna does –?'

'Child psychology,' Cas supplies. 'Given what she grew up with, I can hardly blame her.'

'– right, and then there's you, the artist-slash-accountant –'

'I prefer accountant-slash-artist.'

'– Gabriel's a lawyer,' Dean continues, ignoring the correction, 'and Luke runs a... seedy gay nightclub? Jesus. You're like the Dark Bradys, or something.'

'That's a terrifying thought,' says Cas – and then, groaning, 'God, does that make me Jan? I don't want to be Jan, Dean.'

He laughs. 'You're not. I'm pretty sure that's Gabriel role.'

'Which would make Luke Marsha.' He shakes his head, mock-wistful. 'And here we've all been wasting time calling him Lucifer.'

For no reason that he can articulate, the name makes Dean's pulse quicken. 'You really call him that?'

'Sometimes, yes. It's sort of a family joke. The first time he walked in on one of Luke's liaisons, our father said the devil was in him; so Luke, of course, turned it right around and started going by Lucifer. We only really use it when he's being a complete shit – Lucifer's on form today, that sort of thing – but he keeps it up with everyone else. It's why he called his club Dante's – you know, circles of hell, Paradise Lost, all that. He never was one for subtlety.'

As before, Dean is saved from having to respond by the fortuitous return of the waiter, who serves their respective pizzas with a smile and a flourish. The food is delicious, and they both set to with a will, swapping slices rather than sticking purely to their own orders. Even given his total lack of experience with dates, Dean knows this is a good one, and whenever he looks up at Cas, he feels that wanting itch in his skin, a thrill that's almost surreal. But the name Lucifer has lodged itself in his memory, niggling at him even when he tries to set it aside. He doesn't know why, and he doesn't want to think about it, either, but it's like tonguing a loose tooth – part of him can't help it, and it adds a single, unpleasant note to an otherwise perfect evening.

They finish the wine and top off the pizza with tiramisu, which is damn near the best that Dean's ever had, trading more harmless anecdotes about their respective siblings. Afterwards, they split the bill, but Cas insists on taking care of the tip, which Dean allows only on the condition that he gets it next time.

'Deal,' says Cas, and they leave the restaurant hand in hand, the same way they came in.

It's colder on the walk home, and all at once, Dean starts to feel that familiar, you're-coming-down-with-something ache in the back of his throat. He tries to ignore it – he'd felt sick that morning, but it went away by the time he reached work, and he's been quietly hoping to escape any actual illness – but it persists the whole way back, and he starts sneezing the second they hit the lobby of Cas's building, the change in temperature making him shiver all over.

Cas puts a hand to his forehead. 'You feel hot,' he says, concerned. 'You should've said something earlier, Dean. I could have called us a cab.'

'What are you, my –' Dean sneezes again, more violently than before, '– mother? Damn. Damn it.' He sniffs, the sound both angry and pathetic. 'I'm not sick. I refuse to be sick.'

Cas kisses his cheek and users him into the lift, an arm around his waist. 'You're cute when you're stubborn.'

'I'm not stubborn.' Dean leans into him, craving warmth. 'And I'm definitely not sick, either.'

By the time they reach the apartment, his head is starting to throb, the same feverish ache he felt on waking creeping into his muscles. Though he puts up a token resistance, he lets Cas feed him the same mix of vitamins and cold tablets he took after his walk in the rain, inwardly cursing his crappy, traitorous immune system.

'Go sit down,' says Cas, nodding towards the couch. 'I'll be there in a minute.'

'OK,' Dean mumbles. Kicking off his shoes, he settles on the (extremely comfortable) leather lounge, protesting only feebly as Cas drapes a mohair blanket over his legs. There's a flatscreen TV opposite, and when Cas puts the remote in his hand, Dean starts flicking through the channels.

'Try Netflix,' Cas calls from the kitchen, and Dean complies, but rather than picking out something new, he ends up chuckling over the contents of Cas's 'Recently Watched' list instead.

'Did you seriously watch a whole documentary on knitting?'

'I did, and I make no apologies for it.' Smiling, Cas walks over and pushes a mug in his hand. 'Here. Drink this. And move over, will you? You're hogging the space.'

Dean shuffles over, staring at the unfamiliar beverege. 'What is it?'

'Honey and lemon. It'll help your throat.' Cas squeezes in beside him, sliding arm around Dean as his free hand grabs the remote. 'Also, quit mocking my viewing choices. I'm not above making you watch Mama Mia.'

'You are such a jerk –' Dean says, then stops, completely arrested by the look of teasing fondness on Cas's face. He breathes in the scent of lemon and honey, gentle warmth transferring itself from the mug to his hands, from Cas's arm to his back, and when his throat tightens again, it has nothing to do with illness. 'You're a jerk, Cas,' he says again, softly, and settles his head on his shoulder.

Cas pulls him in close and kisses his temple. 'I'm a jerk,' he agrees, 'and you know what else? I wasn't joking about Mama Mia. Pick something out, or prepare to be Meryl Streeped.'

Dean laughs, rubbing his cheek against Cas's Henley. His tattoos are just visible through the half-open collar, and it's like getting a tiny glimpse of god. 'Anything but that.' He takes a sip of the lemon and honey drink, which is surprisingly good, and says, 'Do you have Die Hard on there?'

'I think so.' Cas thumb the remote, and says, almost shyly, 'Is it good? I've never actually seen it.'

'Are you kidding me?' Dean lifts his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. 'Oh, man. You are in for a treat.'

Curled up together, they watch the film, though Dean spends at least half the time watching Cas, too, delighting in his reactions. They stretch out, fingers weaving together when Dean sets down the empty mug, and by the time the credits roll, he's lying with his head on Cas's chest, their legs tangled under the blanket. It's the strangest feeling, because even though he's still demonstrably sick – he's had several sneezing fits, his joints ache when he moves, and he's started to cough – everything else is so comfortable, it hardly seems to matter.

As the menu comes back up again, Dean lets his eyes slip shut, snuggling back into Cas without a second thought.

'Oh, no you don't.' Cas kisses his ear, giving him a gentle squeeze. 'Get up and come to bed.'

'Can't. I'm too comfy.'

'The bed has pillows.'

'You're a pillow.'

'I'm a pillow with pins and needles.'

'Pincushion, then. Heh.' Dean grins, coughing a little. 'Told you I'm funny.'

'You're hysterical. Now get up.' And he starts to push his legs off the edge of the couch, dragging Dean along with him. Dean groans in protest, but Cas is merciless, and in the end, it's stand or fall. He lurches upright, and almost sits straight back down again, he's that dizzy. He sways, wincing as his headache returns.

'I'm not sick,' he says, as though saying it often enough might make it true. 'I have work tomorrow.'

'One thing at a time, Winchester. Sleep first, work later.'

Still making piteous noises, Dean staggers in to the bathroom, where he somehow manages to get through his evening routine without falling down or tripping over Cas, who rolls his eyes and accepts his bumbling in good grace.

'Promise you won't let me miss work,' Dean says, as he climbs into bed. They're both naked, Cas pausing to fiddle with his phone alarm before sliding in beside him. 'Or wake me up on time, at least.'

'If you insist,' says Cas, kissing the back of his neck. 'I'll drive you.'

'Thanks,' says Dean, and it's only then, as he feels the full, gorgeous warmth of Cas press up against his back, that he remembers how he'd planned on ending the evening. A small groan escapes him at the missed opportunity.

'What is it?'

'There was meant to be seducing.'

'And who says there hasn't been?' Another kiss, warm on his shoulder. 'I'm feeling pretty seduced.'

'You know what I mean.' Dean rolls in his arms, putting them face to face. Hesitantly, he asks, 'You're not disappointed?'

Rather than answer straight away, Cas reaches up and snugs the comforter more tightly around Dean's shoulders, kissing the tip of his nose. 'I'm not disappointed, Dean. And as much as I want you to feel better soon, there's no rush. We've got plenty of time.' And then, more quietly, 'I'm not going anywhere.'

Dean reaches up, stroking his thumb across the plane of Cas's cheek. 'Me, neither,' he whispers.

Their noses bump in the dark as their mouths slot gently together. The kiss is slow, a teasing friction of soft, warm lips, exploratory and sweet. They sigh, foreheads touching, tongues flicking almost lazily as Dean walks his weary fingers up Castiel's flank, ribs, spine. He's aroused, but comfortably so, the coiling warmth more simmer than burn. There's no pressure to any of it, nothing but easy intimacy, and Dean relaxes into it like a cat in a sunbeam, letting his eyes fall closed to the sound of Cas's heartbeat. Dean drifts cleanly into sleep, as warm and safe as he's felt in years.

At first, he dreams vaguely, nonsense and colours and snippets of things all jumbled together, a bright, harmless babble. But his waking walls are there for a reason, and with those barriers down, his dreaming starts to twist out of true, anxiety replacing ease, a thread of discord stitching together scenes that unsettle him, old panic hot in the back of his throat, as coppery-bright as blood. The nightmare builds and breaks over him like a cresting wave, and Dean is helpless, shuddering as he goes under.

Voices and hands, long-fingered, hard. A white flash, lights poured overhead and stuttering red through closed lids heavy as stones, his blood is numb but his bones are air and he can't move, lolling in a grip that drags and pinches, laughter in his ear like teeth.

'– you're perverse, you know that?'

'Then stop watching.'

'Oh, he liked that. Do it again.'

Trembling, shoved under and it all goes dark, but the wrongness is there in his ribs like ice, and lower than his ribs, within and under and all around, hands and laughter and a cold, sharp burn, wasps in his head and heart, and then he's back again and no, no, he won't be back for this, let it fall back, fall away under, good pet, just like that.

'– did I fucking stutter? No bruises. No marks but mine.'

'It's barely even a scratch.'

'– like a fucking angel, want to –'

'– my turn, not yours –'

'Fucking Lucifer, I swear –'

Breaking. Rising into pain and out of it, into light and down again where hell is hands and he doesn't know, he wakes and he doesn't remember, he remembers being afraid but not why, not when he's awake and it's fine, it's all fine, but underneath is blood and bile and choking ash, he's choking, he's choking, he's choking and he won't look, can't look can't make me won't no god please don't –

'Dean!'

He spasms awake mid-sob, cheeks wet with tears, fighting the arms around him out of instinctive terror, gasping into the dark.

'Dean, it's me, it's Cas, it's Cas, you're all right, please be all right, please, it's a nightmare, I've got you, please –'

'Cas?' he croaks, and all at once, he comes back to himself, sweaty and shaking and weak with relief, because it was just a dream, just a bad dream, he's fine. Over and over, he babbles it into Cas's shoulder – I'm fine, I had a bad dream, I'm fine – but clings to him as though it were something different, as though Cas is the only real thing left in the world.

'I've got you,' Cas says again, 'Dean, I've got you, I promise,' and cards his fingers through his hair, kissing his cheek and jaw and neck and anywhere else he can reach, pulling him back beneath the blankets, warming him, holding him close. Dean's pulse slows from jackhammer to metronome, his stomach still churning sickly.

'I'm sorry,' he whispers. 'Cas, I'm so fucked up, I'm sorry.'

'Shh. Don't apologise. Here.' Cas shifts position, rolling them onto their sides. 'Do you want to talk about it?'

Dean shakes his head, tight and fierce. 'No. Just a bad dream. That's it.'

'OK. All right.' Cas kisses his eyelids. 'Can I get you anything? Water?'

'No, stay here. Please, stay.'

'All right.'

Cas strokes along his back, gentle and soothing. Kind hands, not hard. Dean takes a shuddering breath, and shrugs off the dream like cobwebs. His head hurts, and he's sick and tired and feverish, and even if he wanted to stay awake and fret, he couldn't.

Dean shuts his eyes, and somewhere between one minute and the next, he falls back asleep.

He doesn't dream again.