Archive of Our Own

He hears the car before he ever sees it.

Sitting in the shadow of a lone saguaro, Castiel looks up in the direction of the noise, louder than the rest of the cars passing him by. The steady rumble reverberates through the ground, rattling the individual grains of dirt, the rocks beneath his shoes. At first, he sees nothing, only the occasional minivan or truck making their way down the lonely expanse of Interstate 8. Overhead, the sun beats down and bakes the desert, and a haze steadily pours off the asphalt.

Sweat beads at his nape. Might as well try again, since the last fifteen attempts haven’t worked.

Standing, Castiel grabs his briefcase and adjusts his hat, and makes his way to the shoulder. Wind whips through his coattails as car after car passes, none of them bothering to stop. He imitates the few movies he’s seen and lifts a thumb, pointing in the direction of Tucson. Or, where he hopes is Tucson. Anywhere would be more preferable than sitting on the side of the road.

The roar of the engine grows louder. Why Castiel can hear this one specific car, he doesn’t know, but refuses to question it. A faint glimmer makes its way into his vision, shimmering black in the sunlight. Originally in the far lane, it flips on a blinker and makes its way in Castiel’s direction. His heart races—I can finally leave.

Stepping away from the shoulder, he watches the behemoth of a vehicle pull to a stop on the side of the road, sending dust into the air and pebbles scattering. Compared to every other car he’s seen today, this one’s a monster, liquid black in color and scalding just to stand next to. Definitely older, judging by the steel paneling and the wear on the tires. Heat pours off of the hood, and the engine ticks, crackling in a way that makes him antsy.

A hand cranks the window down, and a bright face looks at him from within. Castiel loses himself in the green of the occupant’s eyes, juxtaposed against the utter brown and tan of the desert. “You headed somewhere?” he asks, voice as rough as the road, and Castiel can’t help but nod. “Then hop in.”

He pulls the lock up. Popping the door open, Castiel slides into the passenger seat and nearly groans at the rush of cool air that meets him. Not frigid, but comfortable, infinitely better than sitting out in the heat. Reaching over the bench, he places his briefcase in the backseat and straightens up, only to find eyes once again him. Or, more likely, they never left.

For a brief second—or a lifetime, really—Castiel looks right back, raking his eyes over freckled, sun-warmed skin. Ink covers every inch of the stranger’s arms, some ornate, others looking like he drew them on himself with a ballpoint pen and a needle. His shirt hangs off his frame, a size too large but well-worn and verging on threadbare. Holes mar the knees of his jeans, and his boots are scuffed, repaired one too many times at the sole. A heavy flush heats his cheeks, and sweat tickles the edges of his hair from driving into the sun for too long.

He’s beautiful, even more so under his skin, where a bright gold pulses through his veins. Of all the humans Castiel has ever met, this one is special, he can tell.

“Name’s Dean,” Dean says, offering a hand. Castiel takes it, feeling the calluses on his fingers and the warmth of his palm. “You some kind of detective?”

“What?” Castiel asks, looking down at himself. Just a tan coat and a suit, and the hat to match. Said hat, Castiel takes off and holds in his lap, acutely aware of how matted his hair must be from the weather. His senses can only dull so much, and the cactus had offered little in the way of protection. A spine still pokes at his side through the back of his jacket, stuck there until he can undress. “I’ve heard this is fashionable.”

“Yeah, in the forties,” Dean laughs. Such a rich laugh, both youthful and tired simultaneously. He can’t be more than twenty-eight, maybe thirty at the oldest. The faintest of wrinkles mar the corners of his eyes, and scars, silvered from age, decorate his forehead and the bridge of his nose. One splits his left brow down the center. A man weary from his travels, from a life Castiel desperately wants to learn more about. “Seriously, you’re making me sweat look at you. Here—”

And Dean reaches over, both hands wrenching Castiel’s coat down and off of his shoulders. Castiel moves with him, mostly because he has no other choice, and allows Dean to chuck the fabric into the backseat, along with his hat. He looks Castiel over, apparently satisfied with himself. “Better,” he says with a shrug. “You got anywhere you need to be? Never picked up a hitchhiker before.”

In fact, Castiel has nowhere to be. He could be anywhere he desires, on any continent in any hemisphere, but he’s… here. In the middle of nowhere Arizona, in the passenger seat of an aging car with a man he can’t help but admire, scars and all. “Wherever you’re going,” he says, sincere.

Dean could throw him out, could tell him to leave, and Castiel would go willingly and return to his spot beneath the saguaro. He would be well within his rights to—but instead, Dean throws the gear shift into drive, and instructs Castiel to crank the window back up. “I’m heading up to Holbrook,” he explains. Looking over his shoulder, he waits for a semi to pass before pulling back onto the road, foot slammed onto the accelerator. Castiel waits until he plateaus before pulling on his seatbelt. “Booked a room for the night, and I’m supposed to write a blog post about it in the morning.”

Castiel nods along, settling into his seat. Cold air rushes out of the vents, cooling his skin in increments, even as the sun beats down through the windows. “Do you get paid for that?”

Chuckling, Dean sits back and loosens his grip on the wheel. “Not nearly enough. Beats having to hustle pool,” he says. Castiel can hear a story in those words, one Dean probably won’t broach unless he’s comfortable enough. Maybe in a few days, if Dean decides to let Castiel stay. “You like music?”

“I’ve never had the chance to listen,” Castiel says, earning a bewildered glance from Dean.

Rather than accuse him of living under a rock, Dean reaches for the radio and jabs the play button. A smile splits his lips, revealing straight teeth and the tip of his tongue between them. “Then you’re in for a treat today, man. I just bought an entire cassette tape collection at a yard sale.”

-+-

66 Motel sits off to the side of the mother road, surrounded by dirt and cracked asphalt and the occasional tumbleweed making its way through town. In the daylight, it might as we an ordinary place of lodging, with a shuttered neon sign and a portico, with blue and red chairs lined up facing the roadway. A restaurant sits off to the side, separated by a red picket fence. Several cars park in front of a multitude of rooms, some newer and some well past their prime, all of them featuring out-of-state plates. Dean’s, Castiel notices, is from Kansas.

Dean retrieves his key from the front office and parks in front of room five, close to the office and facing the street. “Couldn't upgrade to a double,” he says, waggling the fob at Castiel. “But you don’t sleep, do you?”

Oh—Oh. Blinking, Castiel nods and takes the key, looking it over. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

Shrugging, Dean pops the latch to his door and shoves it open with his foot. “Nah. Meet me in there?”

Dean rounds the vehicle and heads for the trunk. Castiel, meanwhile, steps foot into the miserable Arizona heat once again and makes his way to their room, his briefcase and coat in hand. Inside, stale air meets him, smelling faintly of chemical deodorizers and a candle burnt one too many times. A king-sized mattress sits up against the wall, with a wooden headboard and green comforter set, dotted with a disturbingly large number of yellow and pink roses. A single table sits by the window with two red-cushioned chairs, and a boxy JVC television sits mounted on the wall opposition of the bed. In the corner, the mini fridge rumbles, and strangely, a chandelier hangs on the opposite side of the room, with a yellow shade covered in dust and casting yellowed light around the room.

“Sweet,” Dean announces from the door, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He toes the door closed and sets his belongings down on the table, then flops onto the bed, mattress springs creaking with his weight. His brow pinches, eyes firmly fixed in the ceiling. “You smell mothballs?”

“Something similar,” Castiel says. Setting his briefcase down, he hangs his coat up on the hook behind the door, placing his hat over the top of it. “How did you know?”

“About you being an angel?” Dean asks. A shiver runs through Castiel’s wings at the word. To his fascination, Dean tracks the movements, curiosity in his eyes. “My brother calls it a ‘gift’ or whatever. I think it’s a curse.” Sitting up, Dean lifts the hem of his shirt to expose a broader expanse of multicolored inks—and the imprint of a hand, seared into his flesh and hidden underneath a tattoo of a lion’s head.

Castiel steps closer, overcome with the desire to touch, to familiarize himself with the wound. Cautiously and with Dean’s permission, he fits his hand over the brand, finding the fingers larger than his own. “You were raised?”

Shaking his head, Dean tugs his shirt back down. Defensive, almost. Castiel stands close, but doesn’t make a move to sit, or to do much other than stare. “I never died, but there was this…” He stops, backtracks. “I got electrocuted a couple years ago. Stopped my heart, and the doctors said I was gonna die in a month. So my brother brought me to this ‘faith healer,’ only it was some guy who had an angel tied to him to do his dirty work.”

“So the angel healed you,” Castiel suggests.

“And left me with the proof.” Dean flops onto the mattress, once again frowning. “Seriously, I think there’s mothballs in here. Or a dead rat.”

“I don't think the two smell similar,” Castiel says, to Dean’s laugh. “Dean, you don’t have to be ashamed of it. You’ve been given the gift of sight.”

A sigh, slow and deflating; Castiel aches just watching him. “I’m not ashamed,” Dean says, brow pinched. “It’s just—I see them everywhere. It’s like The Sixth Sense, but instead of dead people, it’s angels. And what am I supposed to do about it? It’s not like I can walk up to someone and say, ‘Hey, nice wings.’”

“I’m sure some of them would appreciate the compliment,” Castiel says. Dean rolls his eyes. “When you saw me on the side of the road, is that why you stopped? Because you could see my wings?”

At first, Dean doesn’t respond. He lies on the mattress, sprawled out and wiggling to test the give of the springs, before giving up and crawling off. Inside his bag, he pulls out a laptop and a moleskine notebook, setting both on the desk by the window. “I’m trying to be a better person,” he says, eventually, staring down at his belongings. “Not because you’re an angel, but… I’ve got blood on my hands. And I’m trying to make up for the shit I did.”

Eyes narrowed, Castiel looks him over, mostly concentrating on Dean’s face: resigned, with the slightest bit of fear, like he confessed something he never meant to. Rather than scold him, Castiel fits his hand over Dean’s shoulder, feeling the tension there bleed away with his touch. Beautiful, Castiel thinks. He’s stunning. “If you’re worried about the state of your soul, you don’t have to,” he says, soft.

And visibly, Dean slumps, held up solely by Castiel’s grip. Like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, the weight that’s been bearing down on him for more years than he can count. You’re safe, Castiel thinks. Whatever you’ve done, Hell isn’t your fate.

-+-

Holbrook has a public pool on the south side of town, adjacent to the skate park. Castiel tags along, solely for something to do, and sits in one of the chaise loungers while Dean wades in the deep end, arms folded over the concrete edge. In the sunlight, his skin gleams gold, or at least the little of it he can see outside of the tattoos. Several dozen of them, all done by different artists in a wide array of styles.

Most prominent, at least to Castiel, are the wings wrapped around his neck, originating from his collarbones and spreading to his nape. Those, Castiel pays the most attention to, out of all the others decorating his back and arms, and the few on his chest.

Eyes half-lidded, Dean watches Castiel, occasionally ducking under the water to wet his shoulders. Around them, a few teenagers shout at each other from various ends of the pool, and their parents sit in whatever shade they can find, either reading or checking their cellphones. Not loud, but not necessarily quiet either. “Never did ask your name,” he says, brushing the water out of his hair.

“Castiel,” Castiel says.

Dean nods and swims backward, once again submerging his head. He surfaces, sputtering, and pulls himself up along the edge, and Castiel takes a moment to marvel at the strength in his arms and his torso, the way his muscles ripple with strain. He shouldn't look—he shouldn't admire Dean so deeply, but just watching him, Castiel wonders if God had a hand in putting him together.

Castiel pointedly keeps his eyes above Dean’s swim trunks, mostly to preserve his own sanity. Any lower, and Dean might suspect. Grabbing a towel from the lounger next to Castiel, Dean towels his hair dry and sits, facing him. “You could get in,” Dean suggests, but Castiel shakes his head. “Not exactly used to being around people, huh?”

“It’s been a… very long while.” Folding his hands in his lap, Castiel looks in the direction of the sun, the star sinking closer to the horizon. In another hour, the desert will be bathed in darkness, and Dean will be asleep—after that, Castiel doesn’t know exactly what to do. “Several centuries, at least.”

Humming, Dean dries his legs, propping up each foot on Castiel’s lounger. He has nice ankles; a threaded anklet hangs around one, decorated with silver charms, tarnished and in need of a good polish. “Any reason you’re hitching rides? Or are you just here for the fun of it?”

Castiel turns his attention back to his hands, folded in his lap. He could lie and say that Heaven is at war and he’s just escaping the chaos, or he’s searching for a demon that’s been terrorizing the masses. What he comes up with is the truth. “I guess you could say that I’m bored.”

Dean looks up from toweling his thighs. “You’re bored?” he asks, intrigued. “You, an angel, just decided to hitchhike in the middle of the desert because you’re bored?”

“It’s probably better than sitting idle,” Castiel says, fighting to hide a smile, one Dean so easily returns. “Heaven isn’t exactly teeming with activity, especially for angels. With no wars to wage and no orders to fulfill, we’re essentially… sitting there. Waiting. And I would rather spend my downtime doing something meaningful. Before you picked me up, I spent the week in Los Angeles, living amongst those without shelter. The next, I visited hospitals and tended to the children in the oncology ward while their parents slept.”

Nodding, Dean sets his towel over his lap. “So you’ve been helping people?”

“It’s rewarding, seeing people smile,” he says, and means it. He may not heal all of their wounds, but he gives their bodies a chance to fight, to reset the clock. To the men he stood guard over in dark alleys, he looked after them through their crises and prayed for them, giving them guidance. Miracles are forbidden, but he can help in small ways, and never expects anything in return.

Sitting up straighter, Dean rolls his shoulders, then his neck. Castiel watches him out of the corner of his eye, willing his heart calm. “You seem like a good dude,” he says, wincing when something pops. “All the other angels I’ve met are…”

“We’re not the most pleasant of creatures, I know,” Castiel finishes for him. “But there are some of us who care enough to try.”

The slightest hint of a smile brightens Dean’s face. “Ain’t that a miracle.”

Yes, Castiel thinks. “Why were you heading here?” he asks, draping his legs over the edge of the lounger. Sweat clings to his back, soaking through his dress shirt; part of him wants to join Dean in the pool, but the more rational part remembers that he can’t swim. Or, he can, but his wings might drag him down. “You don’t look like a local.”

Dean laughs, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “I have a blog. It’s dumb, but hotels pay me to write reviews, and I go to the local hangouts and take photos. I’ve got a few thousand followers on Instagram, so I’m not doing too bad.”

“It sounds nice,” Castiel says. Truly, it sounds like a dream, the freedom of the open road, of having no set destination. A life without expectations, without commitments. But the loneliness Dean must feel doesn’t escape him; Castiel can see it in his eyes, the longing for conversation, the desperate need for someone to listen. “How long have you been driving?”

For longer than Castiel expects, Dean thinks, counting out numbers on his fingers. “I’m twenty-nine,” he says, slow. His lips move, but no sound comes forth. “Fifteen years, I’ve been behind the wheel. Been on the road long before that.”

Castiel blinks, jaw slack. “Why?”

Huffing, Dean pats the lounger. “Take me to dinner first, and I’ll tell you a story.”

-+-

Joe and Aggies sits catty-cornered along Old Route 66, bright pink with interstate signs painted on the walls. In the front window, the neon OPEN sign flashes, and the aging paint on the glass advertises both Mexican and American food. It’s lively for an afternoon, Castiel thinks; a few locals sit in brown leather booths chatting amongst themselves, while under a window, the jukebox plays a song Castiel doesn’t recognize but that Dean hums along with. A variety of photographs hang on the wood-paneled walls, and a woman near the front door tries to talk tourists into buying commemorative T-shirts.

From what he can tell, everyone seems friendly enough, and Dean enjoys the ambiance and chatting with their waitress. He doesn’t begin to speak until after she’s brought their order—two beef enchilada plates, only because not eating would make Castiel look suspicious, and Dean apparently hasn’t eaten in days, or so he says. Castiel doesn’t need food, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try.

“Used to hunt,” Dean says as he drags a knife through his tortilla. “Not Bambi, but the big stuff. Y’know, stories kids tell each other at slumber parties, but that’s all it is to them. Stories.”

“But not to you,” Castiel says, and Dean nods. “How long were you a hunter?”

That answer comes easier to Dean. “Since I was eight, maybe nine?” He shrugs and pops a forkful of chiles and beef into his mouth. “It’s not like I wanted to, it’s just… Mom died when I was a kid, and dad tried. He did what he thought was best, rather than dropping us off someplace where someone could take care of us. So instead, he drops us off in motels and leaves, and all of a sudden, I’m my baby brother’s father, mother, everything. And he had the nerve to start taking me out on hunts and just left Sammy alone. I mean, the kid was five, he should’ve been in preschool or something, but instead he was rotting his brain in front of the TV while I had my hands on a shotgun.”

He sniffles, stabbing at his plate a little too roughly. “But yeah. I kinda gave it up a few years ago.”

Despite the conversation, Dean doesn’t look up from his plate, nor does he stop eating. Maybe food is a coping mechanism to him—or, maybe he really hasn’t eaten in days. His car must eat up whatever cash he has. The 66 Motel probably paid him well enough to afford a meal. “Why did you stop?” Castiel asks.

Dean falters and finally looks up, his lips pursed. “You know, normally people stop listening at this point.”

Under the table, Castiel toes Dean’s boot with his own. “I’m not normal people,” he says. “Actually, I’m not a person at all.”

Dean sets his fork down. Castiel can see him trying to parse through his thoughts. “I got too attached.” Leaning back, Dean bites his knuckle. “It got to the point where that’s all I thought I could do, and that’s all I did. Drove into town, hustled the locals and killed a ghoul or a vamp, maybe found a warm body along the way. But I…” He turns his head. “The last case I did, I got caught up in a nest. They took me and a couple other kids, and they were just picking us off, and I couldn't do a damn thing. And by the time I escaped, I—I was the last one left.” A shuddering laugh. “And I ran like a damn coward.

“Couple weeks later, word got around that another couple hunters took the pack out, but by that time, I was gone.” He hangs his head, picking up his fork. “Some shit, you can’t forget.”

“Dean.” Reaching across the table, Castiel covers Dean’s wrist; Dean freezes, but doesn’t push him away. “What you went through was a traumatic event. No one can blame you for what you did or didn't do.”

“I can,” he says, mouth full. Thankfully, he swallows before he begins to speak. “Look, I’m… I’m trying to unlearn all of the shit my old man put me through. My brother hooked me up with a friend of his who does phone therapy, and it’s… It’s better than nothing. But it’s years’ worth of shit, Castiel. Shit I haven’t thought about in years, about my obsessive need to please people, how I never got praised as a kid.” His shoulders shake. Not in anguish, but laughter. “And here I am, telling an angel all my secrets.”

Castiel sits back, folding his hands in his lap. Dean barely knows him, but he trusts Castiel enough to carry some of the weight. Never in his incredibly long life has anyone placed that much faith in him, not even the other angels—and now, a human is baring his soul to him, and all Castiel wants to do is protect him, to draw Dean into the shadow of his wings. “I’m here to listen,” he says, and watches Dean look away, his lip between his teeth. Not good dinner conversation, but if Dean didn't want to talk, he wouldn't.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re too nice?” Dean asks. He masks his despair with a smile, just the slightest bit broken.

“I’ve actually been told I’m the opposite,” Castiel replies, to Dean’s apparent interest. “But that was a long, long time ago.”

Humming, Dean finishes off the rest of his plate and goes for Castiel’s. Even if he doesn’t finish it, they can take it back to the room for later. “What’d you get up to in Heaven, then? I told you my tragic backstory, what about yours?"

What a story that is. “At one point, I was of the order of seraphim.”

Dean looks up, still chewing. “What, like, you got six wings or something? ‘Cause all I see is four.”

Castiel shrugs. His feathers rustle, preening under Dean’s gaze. “Heaven is a bureaucracy. Angels can rise through the ranks and be demoted just as quickly. I led a squadron against Lucifer during the first war waged against the angels, but I took heavy losses and ended up captured. An unforgivable act, and I was relieved of my duties, but I was allowed to keep the wings I was created with. At the time, I had rather they’d kill me, but I’ve come to learn from my mistakes.” He leans his elbows atop the table, propping up his chin. “I’d rather live as an angel and answer prayers than wash the blood from my hands every night.”

“I get that.” And somehow, Castiel suspects he really does. Dean downs half of his soda before coming up for air, liquid clinging to his upper lip. “Trust me, I’ve never been freer than I am now. I mean, I know there’s still monsters out there, but I spent my entire life, man. Time I could’ve been in school hanging out with friends, and instead I was up to my elbows in gore.” He shakes his head. “Feel like I wasted my life.”

“You didn't.” Dean really didn't—and neither did Castiel. “What matters now is what you do with the time you have.”

“Feel like I got a lot more time than I had.” This time, Dean’s laugh is genuine, reaching his eyes. “That battle, did you win?”

Closing his eyes, Castiel nods. But at what cost? “Sometimes, I don't know if the sacrifice was worth it, in the end.”

-+-

The last time Castiel visited Earth, humans had just mastered the art of indoor toilets. Showering was still long out of the question, but standing under the spray now, he truly knows what everyone back then was missing. Tilting his head up, he delights in the warmth of the water hitting his face and running down his chest. Sweat is unpleasant, in his opinion, but if this is the reward for it after the fact?

He spends probably longer than necessary just standing there, letting the water beat into his shoulders and between where his wings would reside if he let them free. Dean can see them, yes, but only a visage of them; if he wanted, he could drag all four of them out and let him touch them, and Dean would probably be more than willing. But that’s for another day—another day when he isn’t standing naked in the bathroom and Dean is on the other side of the door.

Reluctantly, Castiel shuts off the water and drags his body from the shower. He could dry himself with a thought—his clothes already sit freshly laundered on the lip of the sink—but the human experience is far more pleasant, if not monotonous. Running a towel across his skin, he watches the way the hairs on his legs stand on end, just from something so simple. If a human touched him, the result would be entirely different. If Dean touched him…

Stop.

He dresses after drying his hair and leaves the room, towel tossed to the floor. A few feet away, Dean lies on the bed and flips through the channels; he offers a wave and shuts the television off, exhaustion weighing down his movements. It’s been a long day. “So’re you planning on leaving?” Dean asks with the slightest bit of desperation in his voice. “I know angels don’t sleep.”

“We don’t,” Castiel says, then shakes his head. “I don’t have anywhere to go, nor do I have any plans. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to… stay a while. See the sights, as you’d probably say.”

Slowly, Dean nods. “Okay,” he says, barely a noise above the rumble of the air conditioner. Dean wants him to stay—and Castiel wants to stand by his side, for a reason he can’t explain, no matter how hard he thinks about it.

Castiel situates himself at the table by the window while Dean strips out of the day’s clothes, leaving only a t-shirt and his briefs on. He doesn’t watch—tries not to, but Dean is a marvel of humanity, from the flex of his muscles to how elegantly he moves, like his body has been through the motions before. If anything, he looks comfortable, probably even more so now that someone else is in the room. Sliding under the sheets, he shuts off the nightstand lamp and turns onto his side, his back facing Castiel.

“Night,” Dean says. Probably for the first time in a while, the word sounding so unused in his mouth. And now, he has someone to say it to.

Nodding to himself, Castiel settles into his chair. “Goodnight, Dean.”

Hours pass slowly, Castiel finds. In Heaven, time is nothing but a concept, the days and nights endless, depending on desire. In the past, Castiel spent most of his time in the dark atop mountains, watching the visages of stars dance across the sky. All he could do, given his standing among the other angels. An outcast, a failure among his kind. No one even knows I’m gone, he thinks. No one cares.

Looking out across the parking lot, Castiel watches cars pass by in the dark, illuminated by street lamps and headlights. The neighbor next door finally shuts off his television, and for the first time since he arrived on solid ground, the world is silent. The air conditioner rattles by his knee, and softly, Dean snores, his breaths even. If he tried, Castiel could listen to Dean’s heartbeat. As it is, Dean’s soul thrums as it rests, glowing bright gold at his core.

Human souls are… complex. All different, bearing the scars of their troubles, the wounds taken after disaster, and all in different colors, shapes, varieties. But Dean’s is special. Looking at him, Castiel aches to touch him, to comfort the part of him that craves attention, that begs on his hands and knees for validation. A man nearly thirty years old, thrust into a life he didn't want to live, and only now spending the last few years on his own, free to do as he wishes. And yet, he’s alone.

No one would stay, and Castiel wants to try.

Soundlessly, Castiel steps out of the chair and knees his way onto the mattress. Dean stirs, but doesn’t wake. For all of its weird smells, the mattress is comfortable, and Dean sleeps soundly, even when Castiel runs his fingers through his hair. Soft, almost like petting a cat, and Dean’s soul rises up to meet him, a gradual shift that Castiel can’t help but admire. The other angels never watched the way humans reacted to one another, to the divine; Castiel marvels at this one particular soul and how it interacts with his Grace, how it practically claws at him to come closer.

And Castiel does. Lifting the sheets, Castiel crawls under and wraps an arm around Dean’s waist. That, out of everything, wakes him, but Dean doesn’t fight him off. If anything, he softens, the pressure in his chest releasing. “Didn’t peg you for a cuddler.”

Smiling, Castiel rests his forehead against Dean’s nape. “I was watching your soul,” he says, listening to Dean hum. “You’re beautiful, Dean. People should tell you that more often.”

Dean sputters, still half-asleep. “Tryin’ to get in my pants, Cas?”

“No,” Castiel mumbles. “I feel that I’m… drawn to you, in the same way that you didn’t want me to leave earlier. We’re both lonely.”

Slowly, Dean lets out a breath, his chest deflating. Their toes brush, Dean’s cold against his own. “Why are you so nice to me? Barely even know me, and…”

“Because I care.” Castiel kisses Dean’s nape, feeling him shiver. “Against my programming, I care. For the world, for humanity, for you. I may have only known you for a few hours, but you make it impossible for me to not look at you, to not want to touch you. I look at you, and I want to know you. And I think, deep down, that you want someone to see you like I do.”

Dean rolls over—and before Castiel can even keep track, Dean throws the covers off and pins him to the mattress by the shoulder. He’s strong, stronger than Castiel anticipated; even if he wanted to, Castiel couldn't look away. “Can’t tell if you’re honest or you really wanna fuck me,” he rumbles, throwing a leg over Castiel’s waist. Out of reflex, Castiel grabs hold of his arms and lets out a breath. Leaning over, Dean whispers into his ear, “Kinda want you to.”

Oh no. Not like Castiel hasn't thought about it—seeing Dean next to nude and glistening in the pool sparked a few fantasies he planned on forgetting—but having Dean so close to him, so warm in his lap, might as well be a dream. Glancing down, he skates his hands up and under Dean’s shirt, and Dean swallows, his breath hitching. “You shouldn't ask this of me,” Castiel says, catching the heat in Dean’s eyes. “You don’t know me. You said it yourself.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna.”

Dean kisses him, a gentle press of lips against his own. Angels don’t kiss other angels, nor do they copulate in the same manner—Dean is his first, and treats him like it, his movements slow, imploring. Cupping the back of Dean’s head, Castiel follows his motions, learning just what Dean likes, what makes him sigh. When he bites Dean’s lip, Dean moans and shudders, and he writhes when Castiel runs a hand up his spine, feeling every inch of warm skin he can. Dean responds beautifully, enjoying himself in the moment, and Castiel can’t get enough.

But too soon, Dean draws away, only to kiss a trail down Castiel’s chest. Deftly, he unties the loose knot of his tie and slides it off, then undoes the buttons of his dress shirt with his teeth, letting the fabric spill open; Castiel watches him, tongue thick. “Dean,” he starts, but Dean shushes him, kissing his belt buckle.

“Just watch me,” Dean says, and winks. Winks, like this isn’t the height of pleasure already.

Unhooking the prong, he slides the leather free, and Castiel lifts his hips to help. After that, he peppers kisses to the front of Castiel’s slacks, capturing the swell of him through heated fabric. Dean knows what he’s doing, or Castiel suspects he does, because he slides Castiel’s pants open with ease, tugging them down and off his legs, along with his boxers. Lying there exposed, Castiel looks down to watch Dean between his legs, layering kiss after kiss to his hips, to the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. Slow, methodical, warming Castiel up. Of all the people he could’ve met today, it had to be this man, this beautiful soul, who was willing to take a chance with him.

“Tell me if you don’t like it, okay?” Dean asks. Castiel nods. “Only ever met one guy who didn't like getting blown.”

“I think there’s only a few things you could do to me that I wouldn't like, and this isn’t one of them,” Castiel says.

Grinning, Dean dives in. Warm lips make their way up his length, already thick and proud in Dean’s hand, and Dean teases the foreskin with his tongue, winding its way underneath. Castiel throws his head back, almost missing the moment Dean kisses his slit, chasing the precome that bubbles over. Reaching down, Castiel grabs a handful of Dean’s hair, holding him, keeping him steady. “Want you to fuck me after,” Dean says, low, heated. “It’s gonna feel so good, Cas, you’re gonna feel good—”

“Dean,” Castiel pants, just as Dean pushes his foreskin back and swallows him down.

Not all the way, nowhere near choking himself, but he takes Castiel’s length with ease, lips stretched wide around the girth of it. Humming, Dean licks up the shaft and pulls off, only to gather up his spit and let it drip from his mouth, down the sides of Castiel’s cock. In a way, it makes him slicker, makes Dean’s steady bobs just that bit easier. That, and the warm suction he provides, along with the light press of his tongue—all of it brings Castiel close, and he holds off purely by a manipulation of his Grace. He could lie there all day and watch Dean like this, eyes hooded and tattooed chest flushed.

Every part of him is soft. Despite Dean’s body being hard, lean muscle, he treats Castiel with kindness, like touching him might shatter him right before Dean’s eyes. Stroking through Dean’s hair, Dean’s eyes roll back, and a moan works its way from his throat, reverberating through Castiel’s length. “Dean,” Castiel sighs, closing his eyes. Sightless, it feels even better, his senses narrowed down to Dean’s mouth and the hands beginning to roam his skin, namely his chest. Fingers toy with a nipple; Castiel bites his lip, tightening his grip. “Dean…”

“I know, I know,” Dean shushes. All at once, Castiel feels Deans weight disappear from the bed. Then, lips touch his own, and Castiel fumbles to find Dean once again, clinging to Dean’s shoulders, his biceps. “It’s gonna be so good,” Dean whispers in his ear. A click, followed by a sigh and a shudder. “It’s gonna be so good, you’re gonna love it.”

“Dean.” Opening his eyes, Castiel trips his way into a moan at the sight of Dean straddling his hips, a hand behind himself, his bicep strained. At some point, he stripped out of his clothes, leaving him naked in all of his glory. A slick wetness spills from the bottle in Dean’s hand, and Castiel gathers some up onto his fingertips, touching them to the hard rise of Dean’s cock. Not nearly as thick as his, but longer, dripping with its own slick. Stroking him, Castiel watches him writhe, thighs flexing with the need to move, to thrust into his fist. “You’re beautiful.”

“Don’t be sappy.” Dean manages a grin, only to have it fall seconds later. He must curl his fingers, or add another, because his face twists, and he pulls Castiel’s hand away. He won’t last; just looking at him, Castiel knows how close he is, how if Castiel touched him just right, the moment might end. “Mm, should probably ask you about condoms—”

“I’ve never done this,” Castiel assures, taking Dean’s hips in hand. “My body is inherently pure. Nothing you do could taint me, and I, you.”

Panting, Dean nods. He pulls his fingers free and takes Castiel’s length in hand; with his other, he braces himself on Castiel’s chest. “Let me,” Dean says, verging on a question. “Let me, Cas—”

“Yes,” Castiel says—and moans, his tip breaching Dean’s rim as Dean bears down. If Dean’s mouth was tight before, then this is indescribable, feeling Dean surround him, envelop him so sweetly. Dean shivers even after he’s fully seated, breaths chaotic, coming in shallow pants. “You’re good.” Pulling Dean down by his neck, Castiel kisses him, tasting the lust on Dean’s tongue. “You’re doing well, Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean whines. “Cas, ‘s big.”

Chuckling, Castiel kisses his forehead. “I don’t know if I should apologize or not.”

“Nah.” Dean clenches, and Castiel gasps. “Feels good. Here, watch me.”

And Dean rears up, both hands covering Castiel’s pecs. Lifting his hips, Dean pulls up, then shoves back down in a slow slide. Testing the waters, seeing how far he can move—whatever he does, Castiel will take it, because this is ecstasy. This is heaven, however blasphemous the thought is. Heaven is absolute, ephemeral—and Dean’s touch will be the death of him in its surety. Love and lust spill from his soul, and Castiel meets it with his Grace, tying the two together; whether or not Dean can feel it, he doesn’t have a clue, but from the look in Dean’s eye, he suspects he might know more than he lets on.

After that, Castiel falls into the rhythm of their hips, of Dean’s slick skin against his own. Dean rises and falls in time with their breaths, his eyes rolled back. Red paints his chest down to his navel; thumbing Dean’s nipple, Dean’s breath hitches, his cock spasming. Wetness spills onto Castiel’s abs, and Castiel gathers it up, pressing his fingers to Dean’s lips. Dean sucks them in without a thought, moaning around the digits. The bedsprings creak, headboard rattling as Dean picks up speed.

The higher Dean climbs, the less pressure Castiel applies to his Grace. Dean’s hands begin to slip on his chest, and his hips falter, nearing the crest. “Cas,” Dean pants, lip between his teeth. “Cas, I’m—c’mon—”

“Dean.” Again, he pulls Dean down to kiss him, all while he wraps a hand around Dean’s length. Dean comes like that, mouth slack against Castiel’s jaw and his body drawn taut, breath caught. The bowstring snaps at all once, and Dean slumps forward, gasping for air. Petting down the length of his spine, Castiel feels him shiver; lower, he touches the place where they’re joined, still wet and making a mess of their thighs. “Dean, can I…”

“Yeah.”

And Dean moves willingly, body limp when Castiel eases him onto his back. Being apart might as well be a sin, because without Dean’s touch, without Dean’s warmth wrapped around him, Castiel is lost. Dean opens easily to him, legs wrapped around Castiel’s waist as Castiel pushes inside, just as warm and tight as before. Castiel crowds him into the mattress, elbows bracketing Dean’s head while he moves. Slow, methodical, each thrust drawing a sigh from Dean’s lips.

Tears well in Dean’s eyes; Castiel kisses them away, and feels Dean laugh, struggling to hide his face. “Sappy,” Dean mumbles, and Castiel doesn’t disagree. “No one’s ever…” Touched me like this hangs in the air. Loved me like this. And Castiel intends to love him, as he should be loved. Like no one ever has before.

He could do this for hours. For days, even, but he feels Dean’s muscles begin to clench. Finally, he eases his Grace away from the surface and gives in, letting Dean’s warmth wash over him; the heat of his own release spirals, pooling in his gut.

“Dean,” he moans into Dean’s ear and hastens his pace. Dean wraps his arms around him, one hand digging into his back, the other in his hair. Thighs strain; breaths quicken, and Castiel fists the pillows, sucking in whatever air he can find. His wings expand in the ether, drawing a groan from deep in Dean’s chest. A wave rushes across Castiel’s senses, seizing his limbs and robbing him of his grip on reality. At his peak, sparks fly from the streetlamp outside, and the air conditioner sputters for a brief second. All the while, Castiel shudders and feels the tension snap, feels his lungs unclench as he spills, hips fighting to drive in deeper, to take Dean, all of him.

He collapses shortly after, held up only by his elbows and Dean’s body. “You did it,” Dean laughs, kissing his temple. “Think you reset the power grid.”

Castiel—somehow—manages to sit up, looking down at Dean’s face. His beautiful, sweat-sheened, flushed face. “I can do more than that,” he says, and a wild grin splits Dean’s lips.

“Know you can,” Dean hums, dragging Castiel into a kiss. “Think you can put your money where your mouth is?”

Oh—Castiel plans to.

-+-

In the morning—around nine, to be exact—Castiel finally wakes from his stasis to find Dean wrapped in his arms, blinking sluggishly. He must have just woken, or he’s been like this for a while, just watching Castiel sleep. From their tangled limbs, Castiel fishes his hand free and strokes across Dean’s cheek, watching him close his eyes.

“You’re still here,” Dean says, disbelieving. “I didn't dream that?”

“No,” Castiel says, soft. “I’m still here.”

Humming, Dean settles further into the mattress. “Don't think I can write this into the review,” he says, breaking into a grin. “Pretty sure no one’s gonna wanna read about how a fifty-year-old mattress can survive three hours of sex.”

“I think that would be glowing praise, actually,” Castiel says, and Dean laughs and hides his face. “You don't think so?”

“Oh, I do. Not that kinda blog, though.”

Castiel kisses his forehead. Dean tastes of stale sweat and sunlight, and his soul rises up to meet Castiel’s lips. “Do you have any plans for today?”

“Nah.” Dean pulls out of Castiel’s hold and sits up, stretching his arms above his head. “Got another night here. Sure we can find some tourist trap to gawk at while we’re out. You up for it?”

“Does that mean I can stay?” Castiel asks, his heart skipping. Objectively, he knows he can—but hearing it and assuming are two separate things.

Dean leans down to kiss him, a soft press of lips that Castiel never wants to forget, for as long as he lives. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re good company, Cas. Kinda can’t see doing this without you.”

Relief rushes through him; Castiel gives in and drags Dean back down into his arms, into the mess they made of the bedding. And Dean clings to him just as tightly, tucking his head under Castiel’s chin. “I’ve never wanted to know someone as much as I want to know you,” Castiel says. “I want to know about your family, your car, your hobbies. I want to see this country, and why you love it so much. I want to spend every night in your arms—”

“Okay, okay.” Dean kisses him to shut him up. Castiel lets him, just because he can. “Promise, you can ride shotgun as long as you want.”

Elated, Castiel drags Dean closer, until all he feels is their skin touching and nothing else.  Dean settles a hand between his shoulder blades, and out of sight, his wings rejoice, draping over Dean’s body. “Still wanna see ‘em sometime,” Dean says, his smile pressed into Castiel’s throat. “The real thing.”

“I’ll show you sometime,” Castiel says, and means it. If Dean can perceive wings in their ethereal form, then he might be able to see them here, might be able to touch them, worship them. Thinking about it, Castiel can’t wait. For the first time, Castiel can breathe in Dean’s arms, can bask in Dean’s love, and not feel ashamed.

This is home, he thinks. Home is with Dean, and no one can take that from him.