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Remember Me as a Time of Day

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Title: Remember Me as a Time of Day
Authors: [info]triedunture
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Length: 4800 words
Warnings: Underage (Dean is 16, Cas is an immortal wavelength of celestial intent). Spoilers through 7x17. Time travel, angst, Lucifer-hallucinations, sex-work, oral sex, some experimental narration.
Summary: A gift for [info]brokentoy, who asked for teenage hooker!Dean. Castiel is still hallucinating at the mental hospital, lashing out with his angelic strength when the visions get really bad. In a desperate bid to escape Lucifer, Cas travels through time and meets a much younger Dean Winchester. Meanwhile, present day Sam, Dean, and Meg need to figure out where their angel went.

Note: Guys, obviously don't read anything that makes you uncomfortable. Sex-working minors are no joke.'s a picture of what I imagine young truckstop hooker!Dean to be.



Patient number 0556-7
Doe, J.

The patient has been exhibiting signs of increased distress. His delusions have deepened to encompass not only those of persecution but also of grandeur. More disturbing, the staff has begun to react to the patient's rare outbursts in a superstitious manner. While three nurses in as many weeks have handed in their notices, citing the his "inhuman strength" and ability to "walk through walls" as reasons for their departure, Nurse Masters assures me that Mr. Doe is no more dangerous than the other patients in Ward B, and that these former staffers were simply suffering from their own paranoia. Dosages increased. Group therapy delayed until further improvement is shown.

Don't fight me, Castiel. I said, don't—

Fucking hell, put that down before someone sees!


Those Winchesters owe me. Big time.

Oh, we're back to drool-town, huh? Shit, if Crowley could see me now. Wannabe Queen of Hell, wiping spittle of some angel's chin with a Kleenex. Some plan. Look at me, I'll never sit in the big chair at this rate.

Anyone ever tell you you're a great listener?

Hey. Clarence, chill. Come on, it's me. Meg. Your friendly neighborhood demon. Just take a breath, okay? You don't have to do—whatever it is you're gearing up to do. Ix-nay on the glowing, all right, angel?

Cas? Casti—!

Time is a deep dark well and I fly down as far as I can go. Must get away, must go far away. Must find the thing I need to keep me pieced together.

Cold tile. Damp. Steam. I am still dressed all in white, feet bare, all in white like a bride, like my brother. My lightbringer brother, oh god, my brother, what have I done?

The smells of diesel fuel and cigarettes. It's in my skin, filthy. I remember the black oil, he won't let me forget. Why can't he let me forget? I was so close to forgetting everything.

Hey man, this stall's taken. Get your own.

Who—? A human. No, a monster. No, a stranger, a mere stranger wet with water, not frozen in ice. The cage so cold.

"Shall I sing you another song?" he whispers in my ear. My brother sings of betrayal, his voice burrowing inside my head. I need to shed my white clothes, I need to survive. Dead, dying, I am dying.

Whoa, buddy. You need a doctor or something?

Smash the monster's face with the back of my hand. Knock him against the wall. Unmoving. Take his piled clothes, change into them. Survive. Find—

Find something. The thing that can kill the devil. The thing I flew toward.

Where are you, Dean?

East Peoria, Illinois. 1996.

Dean Winchester leans against the outer wall of the orange-and-pink truck stop mini-mart. He wears his red-tab Levi's with a slash across the left knee. White wife-beater, show off a little skin. His arms are tan, his hair is getting light in the summer sun. He would wear a baseball cap or something to stop the blonding, but the older guys seem to like it. They run their fingers through his hair and ask him stupid questions.

Where you get your hair done, pretty boy? Where'd you get a mouth like that? How's 20? How's 25?

(Minimum: 30. But counter with 45, see where they go from there.)

Dean knows this place, was here a couple times before. It's a good town for John to dump his sons for a week or two before going on a case: access to all the main highways, a motel that doesn't ask too many questions, walking distance from places where Dean can buy food.

When he can buy food.

Shoplifting was easier when he was littler. He could toddle in behind some old guy, stand close enough that the cashier assumed he was there with his dad, then stuff all the Funions and beef jerky he needed into his pockets. Now? He's sixteen, he looks suspicious no matter what he does.

And it's not just that five-finger discounts are getting harder to pull off; it's also Sammy. He's just a runt, still living off bags of chips and vending machine popcorn. Sammy needs a decent meal with, like, vegetables and shit. Only kid in the goddamn country who likes broccoli, just Dean's luck.

John gives Dean cash before he takes off, but sometimes John doesn't come back when he says he will. Sometimes the cash runs low. One time, one time Dean tells John they ran out of money, and can John please leave more next time? Dean never asks again. Not because John hits him, nah. Because John cries. Sits down on the bed like a sack of bricks and cries into his hands. Dean was nine. A fixed point in time: the day you realize your father can't handle everything, that he's not a superhero. He's just a man, and 20 bucks was all he had. So Dean says, it's okay, dad. Says, I'll just have to learn to watch the pennies, dad. No big deal, dad. This is plenty, dad.

Dad can handle the monsters, Dean can handle the rest, the easy stuff.

Sam needs real food. And decent shoes. A thick coat for the winter, books to keep him from going stir-crazy. It adds up. Can't use a credit card, especially a scammed one, when your cheeks got nothing but peach fuzz. Even the dumbest cashiers don't fall for that.

So no, Dean's not doing this for kicks or because his daddy didn't hug him enough, fuck you very much. He's doing this because it's easier to suck dick in a truck stop than trying to get a job washing dishes for $4 an hour when your fake ID isn't good enough to fool the Denny's night manager. Dean knows because he's tried. He's even tried stealing, but here's the thing about stealing: the guy you steal from tends to come after you. Sucking off lonely dudes near the exit ramp? That's a fucking public service. Ain't bothering anybody.

Especially ain't bothering Dean.

There's a building behind the mini-mart where the truckers can shower off the road grime, five bucks for twenty minutes. Dean's picking some dirt from under his fingernails when the door to the shower building bangs open and a guy walks out. Thing is, Dean didn't see this guy walk in, and he's been watching closely for takers.

The guy's maybe thirty, thirty-five. He's wearing a flannel shirt and jeans that, if Dean's not mistaken, had first walked into the showers on a sixtyish biker with a potbelly and no more than a passing scoff for Dean. Okay. Interesting.

Dude's got that wide-eyed, scatterbrained look like something's after him. Dean waits a minute, expecting the biker to come barreling out at any moment to get his threads back, but no dice. Maybe it's some kind of kinky thing? Meet me at the showers off Exit 63 and we'll swap clothes; wear my dirty underwear home and I'll wear yours. Dean's had weirder requests. Ten bucks once for his socks. Not a bad day's work.

The man's gaze lands on him. His eyes are bright blue, the kind you see on people in magazines or TV. He goes stockstill, standing there in the middle of the asphalt with his mouth hanging open a little. Pink lips, Dean watches them get licked.

"You," he says. From this distance, a few dozen yards, Dean makes it out from the shape of his mouth more than the sound.

Dean slouches lower against the mini-mart's cement wall, hands stuffed in his pockets. "How's it going, man?"

A dark head tilts a little. He looks lost. Walks closer, now Dean can hear him more clearly. "Fine." His voice is like scraped glass. He turns his head sharply to the right, staring at something Dean can't see, before swinging his eyes back to Dean.

Dean clears his throat. "Looking for anything in particular?" Hell if he's going to let the whole day go to waste. Maybe he can squeeze 40 out of this guy. He looks desperate enough. Can't even take his eyes off Dean's face, Jesus.

"I—I need your help," the man says. "Please. I need you."

A slow smug grin. I bet you do. "Here or...?" Dean trails off, glancing around the parking lot. "If you want to make it quick, there's a stand of trees at the bottom of that swale." He points to the other side of the county road.

Blue-Eyes blinks at him, his lips parted in confusion, maybe disappointment. A different tack. "Or if you're not in a rush, there's a motel a little way's down the street. You on foot?" The guy nods. "Want to come with me, then?" He nods again. "All right, good deal."

They walk together down the dusty shoulder of the road. The motel isn't the same one Dean left Sam at a few hours ago; this motel is worse. It rents by the hour. Dean directs the guy toward the office where the fat receptionist sits hunkered behind a desk.

"How long you need?" Dean asks. Another blank stare. "How much cash you got?"

The guy fumbles in his pocket and produces a roll of bills so thick, Dean's eyes go wide at the sight.

"Is this enough?" the guy asks, and Dean says, "Yeah. Whole night it is. Go ahead, I'll hang out here."

Dean waits until they're in the room, which is brown and sour-smelling, before asking the important questions.

"What should I call you?"

"You—" The guy looks pained. "You always call me Cas."

"I do?" He gets guys like this once in awhile. They have a fantasy, or maybe want to relive the one that got away, and Dean doesn't mind playing a part if it means a bigger payday. "Course I do. What do you what to do tonight, Cas? Hands, mouth?" Dean doesn't usually go beyond that unless the straits are very dire, but something feels different about this one, so he offers, "I do rubdowns too, but it'll cost you extra."

Cas plucks at the front of his too-large shirt with a grimace. "I would like to be clean," he mumbles. "The black oil. Have to get it off."

"Shower? Okay. But let's agree on a number first," Dean says. He cocks a hip against the flaking windowsill, thumbs in his belt loops. Licks his lips. "A hundred for the night? That'll get you everything, but you got to wear a rubber."

Cas looks at him, dazed. The guy's lucky he's better-looking and seems less dangerous than Dean's usual fare. He doesn't like servicing stoners. They're too unpredictable. Like this one now, digging around in his pocket and pulling out his whole wad. He places it on the table. There's got to be a couple large wrapped in those rubber bands.

"Take it," Cas croaks. "If you need it, take it."

Sugar-daddy kink? Dean can work with that. He picks up the cash, thumbs through it. With money like this, he won't need to suck dick for awhile. Dean shoves the bills in his jeans pocket, cocks his head toward the bathroom. "Let's see how the water pressure is."

They end up crowded close in the mildewed little bathroom, Cas leaning back against the sink as Dean unbuttons his clothes for him. He doesn't try to touch Dean, just watches him through dark lashes.

"You just want to relax, huh?" Dean keeps up the questions because this guy is weirdly quiet. "Want to let me take care of everything? That's cool, I can appreciate that. It's your night, you've earned it."

He eases the plaid shirt from Cas's shoulders and drops it to the floor. Plays a little Sherlock Holmes, looking at the guy's pale, unmarked skin, cool soft palms pressed between Dean's own hands, where he's rubbing warmth into them: office worker, maybe? Someone with a boring life looking for a little excitement on the side. Dean leans past the spotty shower curtain and twists the knob marked H.

"Let's get wet. What do you say, Cas?"

He lays hands on me, and I am healed. The voice in my head, the poisoned whispers, they fade. Fade into a low hum that I might ignore, if I am strong.

I was strong once, for him. And that made me weak. These paradoxes plague me, circling through my head.

Cold tile. Damp. Steam. I go around and around. Not dressed in white this time. This time, not dressed at all. Bare under his hands. He is unclothed too, with warm water in his hair. His body—not the one I remade. A younger one, more lithe, more smooth, less muscled and creased. I didn't notice before; I could only see the familiar gold and green pulse inside of him. A soul the color of constance.

His touch travels the length of my body, fingertips sloughing water across the planes of my chest, my back. He wears the old talisman around his neck on a cord of black leather. I understand now. I have arrived early. This is a Dean who has not yet lost hope. Perhaps—Lord forgive me—perhaps he can lend me some.

He leans closer, his lips parted and red. I think I hear my brother for a moment, but then I realize the sinful thought has come from me and me alone. I burn with shame. My eyes drop to the stained porcelain under our feet, where the water swirls down a black and brown-ringed drain.

"Nervous?" His voice is lighter too. "Happens. No big deal, you got all night." Warm Winchester hands on my body, this impossible body. I have so many questions: how am I alive? Who has resurrected me? Why me, of all the angels in heaven, when I am nothing special?

I do not ask this Dean those questions. I ask him something I should have asked long ago.

"May I kiss you?" I whisper, and he laughs.

"This isn't Pretty Woman. Go ahead."

What do pretty women have to do with anything, I wonder. But I don't care enough to ask what he means. My mouth finds his. I drink warm shower-water along with him. My eyes close and I pray.

Give me peace, give me peace, give me some measure of peace.


This guy Cas kisses carefully, no sloppy edge to it, contained within the small area of Dean's lips and tongue. Soft, like it means something. Dean wonders who he's imagining in Dean's place right now. It's working for him, whoever it is. Cock thickening in its damp stand of curls, pressing into the crease of Dean's thigh. Good size, not too thick. Dean snakes a hand around it and squeezes. Cas gasps into his mouth.

"This good?" Dean jacks him slow, easy with the slide of water washing over them. Cas's mouth is a wide pink oval, his eyes shut tight.

"More," he whines.

"You got it." Folds onto his knees, uncomfortable on the hard tub. But Dean figures this won't last long. Hopes it won't, anyway; the warm water seems to be letting up. He cups Cas's cock, the curve of it to the curve of his palm. Dean's hard too, a rare thing. Most guys don't need to see him come. It takes time to get in the right headspace, to let his mind wander and get his dick hard. But this guy smells good, like something clean, and it makes Dean's cock twitch between his legs.

Cas flattens himself against the tile wall under the shower head, his legs shaking like nobody's business. Dean takes him down his throat, all the way to the root, nose tickling through his pubic hair. Dean is good at this. Took some time to master, but he doesn't even choke anymore. He sucks and licks, bobs his head up and down, fucking his mouth onto Cas's hard cock.

Cas doesn't seem to be complaining. His fingers dig into the grout of the tile wall, an earthy scrape. Dean pulls off to murmur, "Doing okay?" This guy is pretty non-verbal, and Dean likes to make sure everyone's getting what they want out of the deal.

"Yes," Cas hisses, and Dean decides to throw in a little something extra for him since he's so easy. Dean takes his cock back in his mouth, shoving it deep down his throat, suckling at the base. Rolls Cas's tight balls in his fingers and then gently, slowly pushes the right ball up into his mouth. Cas goes crazy, still no words, but breathing harder than a racehorse, pounding the wall once with his closed fist. Dean grins around the mouthful, air rushing in and out through his nose. He pops the other ball into his mouth. Easy as candy. Cas keens, eyes crushed shut. Dean looks up at him and enjoys the view. Wishes he would look down at the picture Dean makes with his red mouth stretched wide, his cheeks puffed out, his warm mouth taking him all in.

He hums to get Cas's attention. Cas opens his eyes and sees him. There's a split second of nothing, just the two of them suspended there with only the falling water moving. Then Cas's hand is in Dean's sun-streaked hair, and he's coming down Dean's throat, his balls contracting on Dean's tongue. Shouting, "Dean, Dean, yes, Dean!"

Dean chokes then, but in surprise.


My head is clearer than it's felt in days, maybe weeks. The stone fist in my chest loosens, and I lean my head back against the cool tile and let the water run down my body. I am weak with relief.

The violence is sudden: Dean's snarl in my ear, his forearm tight across my windpipe. I do not feel fear because I remember I am immortal, but I do feel pain. Dean looks at me like I'm a monster.

"How do you know my name?" he growls. He is so young, but he is not scared. He is my righteous man even now.

"Dean—" I choke out.

"Who sent you?" The sharp bone of his arm tightens on my throat. "Are you a hunter?"

The water runs cold over our heads. His heart beats against his ribs, echoing into my own chest. The talisman is hard and pointed against my skin. I want to be out from under his grasp, and then I am. I move angel-fast behind Dean and put a hand over his mouth before he can scream. He thrashes in my arms.

"I'm not a hunter," I tell him. "But you are. In my future. Dean, I'm sorry, I've been very disoriented. I wasn't sure if you were real at first."

Who are you? muffled against my palm.

I blink away visions of my brother standing with us in the shower. He leers at me pressed up against this Dean—this boy—and flicks his tongue in invitation. He says I am a hopeless waste, heaven says I am a heartless warrior, I said I was a hero, and the Dean I left behind said I was his last hope. Who are you?! young Dean Winchester screams into my hand.

"I wish I knew," I whisper.


Incoming call. Number not found.

Thumb the green button.

"This is Agent Smith."

"Whoa, whoa, Meg. Slow down."

"He what?"

"Jesus Christ. How did—?"

"And you don't know where?"

"Shit. Dean's not going to like this."

"Of course I'm going to tell him! What did you think, that we were just going to— Look, I got to go. We'll call you back, okay?"

"Yeah, I'm sure it wasn't your fault."

"You cannot possibly hear eyes rolling, Meg."


Red button, call disconnected.

Creak-open, slam-shut of the driver's side door. A stick of beef jerky thrown on the dash. "Who was that, Sammy?"

"Bad news. We're going to need a copper bowl and some lavender."

A beat of silence.

"Ah, shit."


The guy, Cas or whoever he is, says he doesn't want to hurt Dean.

Yeah, sure. And Dean's the Queen of England. A thousand scenarios are going through Dean's head, from "this guy's taking me hostage to smoke out dad" to "this guy's been stalking me and is about to go all Silence of the Lambs on me." He fights, but the guy's arms are like steel bands. They wrestle against each other, naked skin slick-wet and sliding.

"If I let you go," Cas says into his ear, "will you promise not to scream?"

Dean stills, nods, his mouth still covered by Cas's hand. Cas lets go of him, and Dean immediately dives out of the tub toward the bundle of his clothes on the bathroom floor. He finds the knife tucked in his boot and he turns quick as a cat to plunge it into Cas's chest.

There's no blood. Not a fucking drop.

Cas looks down at the knife sticking out of his heart. He touches the hilt with steady fingertips, but his voice shakes. "Around and around," he says.

"What the fuck are you?" Dean pants.

The knife comes out cleanly. Cas drops it into the tub, water still falling cold on him, the floor, everything.

"Dean, I'm sorry," he says again. "I needed to find you, but I went too far. I came from a future time. You called me Cas there." His eyes are wet and glassy. "You forgave me, I think."

"What do you want?" Dean keeps his back to the wall, a lithe animal, naked except for the talisman.

"I—I don't know." Cas lowers his head. "I had no idea you would be— Dean, are you a whore?"

Dean flushes red down his cheeks and neck, but he stands defiant. "You paid, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I don't understand. Why—?" Cas draws in a long breath. His blue eyes raise, pinning Dean in place. "Sam?" he asks. "You do this for your brother?"

"How do you know that?" Dean's voice is strangled.

Cas shrugs, a small movement of his shoulder. "Why do you do anything?" He blinks. "I told you. I know you."

Something in Dean's bones relaxes then. He thinks maybe he's a sucker, but this Cas guy could be telling the truth. "So you're from my future?"

"Yes." Cas steps out of the bathtub. He drips on the floor and their piled clothes. "You are my—" He bites his lip and looks away as if frustrated. "I don't know what to call you."

"Boyfriend?" Dean suggests.

"No." Cas shakes his head. "Though I love you." He looks up, startled, wide-eyed. "With all that I am, I love you."

Dean shifts on his feet. "Thanks?" This man is a stranger, no matter how familiar he might seem. What's he supposed to do with these declarations?

"I never knew it. Not like I know it now." Cas takes Dean's hands in his, like Dean had done for him earlier, warming them between his palms. "Am I supposed to save you again? Is that what I'm doing here?"

"No offense, man," Dean says, "but I don't think you're the one doing the saving here."


He reaches out to me then, this boy who lets men use his body. He gives me something priceless: his touch, gentle, overwhelming. He runs his hands up my arms. His eyes ground me on earth.

"You still, uh, disoriented?" Dean asks.

"No." I close my eyes as I feel his palm on my face. "It comes and goes, but for now my head is clear."

"You got drugged or something?"

"Something like that." He even smells younger. This is wrong, I think through the haze. Humans would think this very wrong of me. But I am as old as the stars, and what's twenty turns of one planet compared to all that?

Is that my brother's voice in my head, or am I thinking for myself?

"I was...injured," I try to explain. "There was a battle."

"Is Sam okay?" he asks. My breath catches. If ever I doubted my decision, here is proof I acted well.

"He is fine." I speak to his fingertips as they cross my lips. "I made sure of it."

Dean kisses me. I love him, and I kiss him in return. He is in my arms. I am heady with it.

"You're not human, are you?" he whispers against my jaw.

"Not yet," I say.

Maybe I am absolved. Perhaps this is my reward. Could my Lord Father have given me this Dean, given me this gift of time with him? Could I stay here? Could I hide from time forever?

"Do I love you too?" he asks. "There in the future?"

"No." I kiss his eyelids.

"How do you know?"

"Because you—" I can't form the words. Because he left you, my brother whispers. "You can't." Because he doesn't want you.

"Maybe if you—" Dean begins to say, and then a terrible pain seers through me. Lucifer has returned, I think. I open my mouth to shout for Dean to run before he turns into the ghost of my defeated brother, but I can't speak.

I am too far gone.


A green field. Dew-damp. 2012.

Cas appears before them naked, stretched over the wet ground, a cry of anguish ripped from his throat in a blaze of light. He covers his head with his hands. A tornado drill for time travel.

Sam steps forward, then pauses. He's big and unsure. Meg stands back, casually eating a banana from its peel. Dean eyes her, disgusted, before pushing past Sammy and the big copper bowl full of burning flowers.

"Cas, don't freak. You're back, okay? We got you back." He places a hand on Cas's bare shoulder, and memory floods through him. Had the memories been there this whole time, forgotten beneath twenty years of pain and aging? Had he convinced himself it was all a dream? Or had Castiel the angel never visited his sixteen-year-old self until this very moment?

All Dean knows is he now remembers a Tuesday afternoon spent at a scummy motel with his lips on this guy named Cas who loved him. Who still loves him.

Cas turns over and stares up at Dean, and he knows Dean knows.

"It was real?" he asks weakly.

"Yeah." Dean's throat works open and closed. He can feel Meg and Sam behind him exchanging looks, a living wall of "what the fuck?" He doesn't care. Oh god, he'd been sixteen and Cas had been a pale canvas of skin and need. "And Cas, I—I can. I can, I swear I can."

Cas's hands grab at the sleeves of his jacket, the thin cotton of his shirt. "No, no. This is the dream. Don't do this to me, Lucifer. Don't give this to me and then rip it away. Please, don't. Don't."

It'll all fall down anyway, the voice hisses in his ear. You worthless ape-lover. Around and around and around you go.

Dean's hands on him. A touch to his neck, his face. Smoothing back the wild fall of his hair. Dean's voice, hushed with promises that must be false. But then Cas feels Dean's lips on his temple, and it's real, and he's home.

"I can love you," Dean whispers to him, and maybe Sam and Meg hear it but he doesn't care about that either. "Just—just don't fly away like that, okay? Gave me a heart attack."

"I will stay." Cas feels someone, Sam probably, drape a coat over his naked shoulders. But he doesn't let go of Dean. His face is buried against his chest, where he can taste the hammer of his heart. "I will stay here with you."

And together they can keep the devil away.