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I've got to quit you

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Though half his brain is whirring anxiously about Naomi's reveal that the trials might kill Sam, Dean can't help the spark of joy that rips through him. If it is all bullshit, if Metatron is lying his ass off and this doesn't have to be the last time he ever sees Cas—he can't let himself think about it, but his mind is abuzz nevertheless. "If" is a drug with a tantalizing high. The weird thing is he doesn't even feel guilty about it. There's no second where the consequences of not shutting down Hell and letting evil continue to run rampant come into question—he's not thinking for a second about the averted catastrophe of all the angels getting kicked off their clouds.

No, Dean is thinking about the possibility of sitting down to a shortstack tomorrow morning with Cas in the booth next to him, not locked upstairs forever, never to be seen again.

"She's lying," Cas repeats, and a bit of high-strung fear ebbs away, because despite the past few weeks, Dean still can't help believing Cas.

"And if she's not?"

"There's still time," Cas argues, "and— Dean, I am not wrong."

"Yeah? And what if you are?"

"I'm going to fix it," he swears.

It's not an answer to the question Dean asked, not really, but at the same time, it's still an answer to the question he doesn't dare ask: the one that starts Would you stop even if you were wrong, and ends if I ask? Would you? For me?


"Dean." The angel just takes him by the shoulders. Distantly, Dean hears a gross wrinkle-and-thump that can only be him dropping the bag with the cupid's... bow in it. "I will fix it. Please believe me."

"Well, yeah, Cas, I do, but—"

But nothing, apparently, as Cas drags him into a searing kiss.

It's frantic right off the bat, fueled by peril and hope and sand slipping through the hourglass, through their sweaty fists. Adrenaline. Cas drags him down and pushes him back into the brick wall of the building behind them, immediate and unignorable. It's everything Dean would have expected—he remembers another apocalypse, another shove down an alley—and yet more. Cas's tongue in his mouth, his jaw under Dean's hands, all of it more than the sum of parts that are enough on their own.

Dean doesn't, even for a second, entertain the thought that Cas is trying to play him, distracting him with a will-shattering kiss before fucking off to save Heaven without listening to anyone else, again. Not that he thinks it's impossible—Dean is well aware that, with his luck, that's probably exactly what's going on. He just doesn't care. The fact remains that they've been given a chance, no matter how small, that things will all work out, and Cas's first reaction to that is to reel Dean into a kiss to end all kisses. No matter how literal that might be.

A car backfires down the street, but it's like it's in another world. In this one, there's only their paired heavy breathing and the sound of shoes scrambling against pavement, mouths against mouths. It's quiet. Neither of them says anything, but there's a conversation being had; the movement of Cas's lips is too earnest to ignore the intent pushing through every touch.

Dean tries to give as good as he gets, hands wrenched in the lapels of that stupid coat he doesn't want to never see again, face scraping up deliciously against that stupid stubble, that nose pressing into this cheek, tongues tied together for once. Teeth catch against his lower lip, the sudden air between them quickly filled with a sound Dean assumes he makes only because he doesn't feel Cas's throat buzzing under his hands (an odd way to decide one hasn't spoken, but about as much attention as Dean can spare for non-Cas things right now, which is none). He feels Cas swallow the sound, literally, sucking down the air Dean exhales like he's an alien that needs carbon dioxide to survive on Earth—like he needs whatever Dean will give him because he's Cas.

The air around them whirls, Dean's brain lagging behind the feeling of his own feet stumbling backwards, before Cas has him pressed against the brick back of the bar. Hands raze across Dean's ribs as Cas presses him tighter against the wall, his palms trapped like two brands compared to the misty chill of the brick at Dean's back.

"Dean," Cas says into his parted lips.

Dean just nods, hands clenching in Cas's hair, and abandons the idea of giving as good as he can get. He lets his head fall back, night chill sneaking in between them as Cas's mouth moves to his neck, back to his jaw, everywhere he can get.

"I'll fix it," he finishes off before Dean gets his hands on Cas's face and shuts him up.

It's not enough. It probably never could. Hopefully, it won't have to be.

Something underneath shifts. Between Dean's thumbs tracing the curve of Cas's jaw and Cas palming Dean's ribs, it gets soft—frantic, still, yes, but sweet underneath the heat. He's pretty sure Cas is saying sorry. Dean's pretty sure he says he forgives him.

Just as their noses brush, Dean recognizes the swoop and pop in his ears. He knows, before even opening his eyes, that Cas has flown them back to that damp little church shack that Sam's holed up in to cure the King of Hell. Still, he kisses back until Cas retreats, misty drizzle sticking to his face as it becomes open to the air. He knows Cas is looking at him now—even if it didn't explain the following silence, that's just what Cas does—but takes a second to himself, feeling the rain, the bare breeze, the tiny metallic pings of raindrops on Baby's roof.

It's a different kind of quiet.

Without speaking, Cas apologizes by squeezing Dean's shoulders, hard enough to not be ignored.

"You better come back, you son of a bitch," is all Dean says. Then, in silent prayer, he adds, After a stunt like that, you fucking better.

He can't pray back, but Cas squeezing him again works just as well. "Okay, Dean."

It's not a promise. Dean doesn't miss that detail, but he nods anyway, squeezing one of Cas's hands on him before they step apart. Rain fills the vacuum he leaves behind.