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There’s nowhere really to knock, so Dean stands for a moment on the porch. Then he pushes the beaded curtain of Cas’s cabin to one side, clears his throat as he steps in, and says, “Hey.”
Cas is on the floor. He’s sat leaning against the foot of his bed, curled in on himself, his head dropped almost onto his chest. Dean thinks for a second he’s asleep. But then Cas lifts his head in a slow, heavy roll, blinking like Dean is coming into focus. “It’s you,” he says.
“Yeah,” says Dean. And then, when Cas keeps up that slow, doe-eyed blink, “It’s— I’m, you know— Mark I.”
“Yes,” says Cas, “I know.” He props himself up a little straighter. “So he let you off the leash?”
“Yeah.”
“That seems an uncharacteristically bad decision.”
“How’s that?”
Cas squints at the watch on his wrist. “Still a couple of hours til showtime. You could get into any kind of trouble before then.”
“Yeah, well. I said I’m in, I’m in. Not like I’m gonna go wandering off.”
“That seems to me exactly what you might do.”
“Since you know me so well, huh?”
“Yes,” Cas says, and his mouth twitches. “I suppose I should try to stop you.”
Dean snorts. “Good luck with that.”
The twitch in Cas’s mouth turns into a smile, wide and strange. “Come sit,” he says, and tips his head towards the floor by his side.
Dean feels weirdly reluctant. Only that’s stupid, because Dean came here in the first place, and he did that so that he and Cas could talk. But now he’s here, and it’s just the two of them, there’s no getting away from the fact that this isn’t Cas. Dean doesn’t know who this person is, this half-familiar stranger with Cas’s face. He moves wrong, looks wrong, eyes too wide and limbs too loose. Even the hair’s not quite right. It’s like Dean can’t look away, but when he is looking, he wishes he wasn’t. It makes him feel off-balance.
But it was either come here, or sit alone in the empty, depressing hut that Dean woke up in this morning. Or else hang around the camp, getting in the way as the trucks are loaded, watching himself bark orders. The ruler of this grim little kingdom. And having to look himself in the eye is maybe the only thing that’s making the world tilt more sharply than having to look at Cas.
So Dean breathes in, dust and incense and pot hitting the back of his throat. Usually, when Cas pops up from nowhere, the air changes: electricity on the tongue, the taste of oncoming rain, like the air before a storm. It’s nothing like this. But Dean goes to sit on the floor anyway.
Cas reaches behind them, and lifts up the blanket hanging over the edge of the bed. On the floor underneath, there’s a small collection of half-full bottles. “No charge for the minibar,” he says.
Dean looks closer. There’s rye, bourbon, tequila— absinthe?— and a couple of colorless, unlabelled bottles that he figures for some kind of moonshine. “What, you hoarding?”
Cas shakes his head. “Like I said, no charge. Open to all comers.”
“Huh,” says Dean. “Well. That’s cool.” He picks up the rye, and Cas lets the blanket fall back into place.
Cas doesn’t offer him a glass, so Dean just unscrews the top of the bottle and takes a shot. He could go for getting wasted, actually, if it wasn’t for the imminent suicide mission. Still, something’s better than nothing. He wipes the top of the bottle and hands it to Cas.
There’s a ton of things Dean could ask. There’s a clicking chamber of uneasy questions in his head, and he came here because Cas more than anyone seemed like he would talk. But every time the words form on the back of Dean’s tongue— So do you know how it happened, with Sam and Lucifer?— the idea of having to hear the answer makes something tired and sick twist in his stomach. The other me, was it Sam that broke him, or was he already like this? Dean watches Cas drink a long couple of swallows from the bottle like water. And what the hell’s your deal, dude?
In the end, Dean chickens out and says, “What is this place?”
The liquid sloshes in the bottle as it drops back into Cas’s lap, and Cas frowns, his eyes flicking around the cabin.
Dean waves his hand at the window. “I mean— the whole camp. Cozy. You guys built this?”
“Oh.” Cas shakes his head. “No. This used to be a summer camp. Long abandoned by the time we found it, but it had what we needed. Enough to support a small community— plumbing, storage, cooking facilities. But it was remote enough to be defensible.”
“And how long you all been here?”
“Coming up on a year. Before that we were on the move. But we kept collecting waifs and strays. And it’s much harder to keep a whole caravan on the road than one or two people.” Cas puts the bottle down between them. “It was your idea,” he says. “You found this place.”
Dean can’t really imagine it, being forced off the road. There’s an itchy feeling of being stranded in this camp. Squeezed into a trap. Dean thinks of Baby junked and neglected out in the forest, all that dead broken metal, and the sick feeling in his gut comes back. The guy who left her there must’ve given up a long time ago.
“Did I,” Dean says.
Cas is looking at him. After a moment, he says, “You don’t like him.” He sounds interested.
Dean doesn’t. He dislikes the guy out there enough that he’d rather not talk about it, so he shrugs. “Nobody likes looking in the mirror too long.”
“My understanding is that many people do.”
“Not here, I bet they don’t.”
Cas hums in something that might or might not be agreement. But either he’s picking up on Dean’s discomfort— which would be a freakin’ first— or he just loses interest, because he lets it go. Instead he stretches, rolling his arms in his sockets and flexing them up above his head to pop his shoulders. It’s a movement that’s so out of place it makes Dean stare.
Cas drinks again. The bracelets on his wrist click gently together. Then he says, “You could get your head down, if you want.” He tips his own head backwards against the end of the bed. “Couple of hours. It’ll be a long enough drive once we get going.”
Dean’s exhausted. He spent most of last night driving, and his head still aches from the crack to the skull he got from his own goddamn self. But sleep’s not on the cards, not while his brain’s still on danger alert. This whole trip’s too freaky and he’s too on edge. No use trying.
So he shakes his head, and takes another pull on the rye. He can feel Cas watching him while he does it, and it makes him not want to look up. But there’s only so long he can hold the bottle to his mouth.
“No?” Cas says. His gaze on Dean feels heavy and slow-moving, like treacle. “Do you want to do something else?”
Dean swallows. Coming from Cas, a question like that should have nothing under its surface, and it’s jarring— Dean flicks his eyes towards him, to check— to realize that Cas knows exactly what it sounds like he’s saying. There’s something wry and unfamiliar in his expression, and a blotchy heat rises in Dean’s face. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s probably a joke, but it’s not a joke Cas should know how to make.
“Like what?” Dean says.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Cas’s head is still resting against the edge of the bed, and he smiles up at the ceiling. “Poker. Tai chi. Practice mindfulness.”
“You play poker?” Dean asks, which seems the safest bet. “You got a deck of cards?”
Cas’s upward-turned smile spreads further, and he shakes his head. “No. Neither.”
“All right then.” Dean puts the bottle down by his side with a thunk. All of a sudden, it’s too much, the cloying air and the sideways-shifted mindfuck of everything here. That lonely cabin on the other side of the camp isn’t looking like so bad an idea. He stretches forward, about to push himself to his feet.
“Dean.” Jesus, when Dean’s not looking at him, Cas still sounds so entirely like himself. “I’m sorry. Don’t go.”
“Look, I just— I should go clean up, get ready to roll.”
“Dean,” Cas says again, and he lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean doesn’t turn to look at him, but he goes very still. There’s a moment of silence, and then Cas says, “I could use the company.”
“I thought you had plenty of company. Open bar and all.”
“Yes,” Cas agrees. “—Yes. That helps.”
Dean can’t keep a tight enough grip on this conversation. “Helps what?”
Cas doesn’t answer. His hand is still on Dean’s shoulder. When Dean forces himself to look, Cas, as ever, seems to be too close.
Dean watches Cas’s gaze drop from his eyes to his mouth. It makes his lips feel dry, and he licks them. Cas breathes in, and then he leans forward and kisses him.
A hot rush of panic catches in Dean’s throat. This isn’t— he doesn’t do this. Doesn’t let himself do this. Kiss dudes, be kissed by dudes, whatever. It’s not even a safe thing to think about, let alone— fuck, that’s not even the issue, the issue is Cas, kissing Cas. Cas who definitely doesn’t do shit like this. Even though, obviously, now he does.
Cas’s kiss is light, his lips barely moving. Their mouths are just touching, warm and close. There’s nothing to stop Dean from pulling away, or pushing Cas off him, cutting whatever this is off at the knees. But he stays where he is.
Cas pulls back and blinks at Dean. Then he tilts his head to one side, considering him, and Dean immediately shuts his eyes. “Don’t,” he says.
“Don’t what?” Cas sounds genuinely curious. When Dean doesn’t answer, he says, “Dean. Do you— can I do that again?”
Dean can feel his own pulse jumping in his neck, like it’s trying to get out of him. He doesn’t want Cas to ask. He wants him to just do it. After a moment, eyes still shut, he nods.
Cas kisses him again, less hesitantly. And it gets easier, then, to go along with it. It’s just kissing, which is normal, and the slightly drunk-sloppy slide of it is normal— Dean could stand to be a hell of a lot drunker to be doing this, for sure, but the low buzz under his skin smooths the way a little. When he feels the flicker of Cas’s tongue against his lips, Dean leans into his mouth.
They kiss for what feels like a long time. Cas tastes like rye and ash, and he kisses the same way his body seems to move now, loose and messy and not all there. Still, his hand latches onto one side of Dean’s neck, big and warm. Now that the wave of shock has passed, now that Dean’s heart isn’t racing so fast, kissing Cas is weirdly— easy. Weirdly so easy to do.
Dean gets it. The end of the world. In need of some company. All comers. It’s what people do, and it’s what Cas does now, and that’s fine. Well— no, it’s not fine, it’s as wrong as everything else Dean’s seen here, but if Dean could forget for one moment that this is or was Castiel, it would be fine. And Dean’s plenty used to being somebody’s nearest warm body. Hell, he’s liked it. Usually it’s hot. Not that it’s happened with a dude, but— well, if it did, it would be— yeah. Probably something like this. Something convenient.
Cas tips his head back against the bed again, and says, “Do you want to?”
Cas’s body next to his is so warm and open. Yeah. Fuck it. Dean does want to. And he can’t see how he can make any of this worse than it already is. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, all right.”
Cas rolls himself up onto his feet, and Dean kicks his boots off and follows him onto the bed. Cas doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. They make out for a while longer, and Cas is touching him in this slow, kind of spaced-out way, his hands moving over the flannel of Dean’s shirt like he keeps forgetting who’s there. Maybe Dean was just the first person to walk through the door. Jesus, Cas does this now, Cas does this, just falls into bed with whoever’s to hand. And sure, there’s nothing wrong with that, it’s never done Dean any harm, but Cas is— different. Better. Whatever.
Although the more of Dean that Cas touches, the less distracted he seems. It’s almost like he’s grounding, tuning into something. His hand comes to the side of Dean’s face, thumb tracing over Dean’s cheekbone, and his mouth against Dean’s gets a little less sloppy, more focused. He fits his other hand to Dean’s hip like it’s comfortable there, and presses slow, hot kisses down Dean’s neck, nosing at his collarbone. When he slides his fingers under the hem of Dean’s t-shirt and pushes it up, touching his mouth to a spot just between Dean’s ribs, it’s a smooth, easy movement that leaves Dean shifting in surprise. Cas is half on top of him, tongue moving in gentle whorls on Dean’s abdomen before he kisses downwards, inch by inch.
Dean pushes himself up on one elbow as Cas’s head bobs away from him, and Cas looks up. His mouth is still open, the tip of his tongue resting on his bottom lip, and whatever he sees in Dean’s face makes him smile. Then he fits his palm over Dean’s dick inside his jeans, and Dean pushes up against him without a thought in his head.
When Cas tugs his flies open, Dean lifts his hips again. But instead of undressing him, Cas just leans down to meet him as Dean moves upward, coming up against the shape of Dean’s cock in his underwear. Cas kind of nuzzles there, not quite opening his mouth, not even quite breathing on him. He just rubs back and forth, the brush of his nose and cheek against the stretch of the cotton, and hums quietly.
Dean chokes on a hard breath, and fights the impulse to look away, it’s so unlike anything he can bring himself to picture Cas doing. Because if he ever— if they ever— well, Cas wouldn’t be like this. He’d be… unsure, maybe, but direct. Methodical. Curious to understand. Tell me what that feels like, Dean. But this Cas— the way he’s pulling moves like they are moves, teasing, breathing a damp spot onto the gray cotton— is making something dark and tight curl under Dean’s skin. It’s like finding the porno ripoffs of movies you remember watching as a kid, several refractions of wrong, getting off even as you know you’re probably ruining something you loved once and you’re not going to be able to undo it. But that’s kind of why you keep watching.
Not for the first time, Dean wonders if any of this is real. The croats, the camp, the whole shebang. Whether it’s bona fide Back to the Future, or just a nice little cautionary tale that heaven’s thrown together to put the thumbscrews on. But if it isn’t real, then what the fuck is this, Cas curled over him like they’re at the Bunny Ranch, some sick fantasy that Zachariah’s yanked out of Dean’s id? So you like the angel, huh? Something bitter and humiliated rises behind Dean’s teeth. And fuck, yeah, yes, maybe he does, but Jesus Christ, not like this.
Cas’s mouth brushes against the swell of Dean’s dick, and a voice in Dean’s head murmurs, You sure about that?
“Cas,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than he was expecting, ashamed and aroused.
Cas looks up. He presses an oddly gentle kiss to the base of Dean’s stomach, into the scratch of hair arrowing up from his waistband. Then he puts his mouth over the head of Dean’s dick through the cotton, and rubs his tongue there until Dean swears and shifts on the blankets, sweating in his clothes.
The material is damp when Cas finally pulls it away, tugging Dean’s jeans and underwear down, stripping them off so that Dean can open his legs and let Cas crawl back between them. “Fuck,” Dean says when Cas wraps his hand around his dick, and “Yeah, okay, yeah,” when he bends his head and puts his mouth on it.
Dean groans, and for a second it’s pure relief. Cas licks him like a frigging popsicle, and then he swallows him down, sucking wet and slow. Dean breathes deep, the good heat of it spreading out through his body, skin prickling. This should feel crazy, watching Cas do this, working Dean over like it’s nothing, like he could do it with his hands tied behind his back. Who the hell has Cas been learning to suck a dick on, anyway?
But that’s not a good question to ask, because Dean knows the answer, and he’s known it all evening. He could feel it in that ragtag council of war, watching himself and Cas bitch at each other across the room. He might even have known it all day, since he found Cas in the cabin this morning and looked him in the eye, and the indefinable energy of being in a room with Cas turned suddenly, starkly definable. Cas rubs the flat of his tongue just below the head of Dean’s dick, and Dean’s hips buck forward, and Cas moves backwards perfectly in sync, expecting it. Because he knows how to suck Dean’s dick, specifically. Of course he does.
It was me, Dean thinks, Cas’s tongue curling around him, I did this to him. It shatters around Dean like glass, a thousand little fragments of possibility. He’s floored by the imagined reality of it, the other him and the other Cas. What they are to each other, what they’ve done to each other. He wants to know when they first did this. Whether it was before or after the world went to shit. Whether Cas looked like he does now, ragged round the edges, or whether he still looked like— himself. The coat and the tie. The crackle of something unearthly about him. Dean wonders if that Cas ever knelt before him and looked up, grave with intent, Dean’s hand threaded loosely through the tousle of his hair.
Dean’s breath catches. He lifts his hand and brushes it against Cas’s head, and after a moment, he lets it settle there.
Cas goes very still, and Dean feels his own muscles tense in response. He’s done something wrong. But then Cas pushes up into his hand like a cat, and for the first time he makes a sound, low and wanting. The depth of it reverberates around Dean’s body, making him shiver, and he curls his hand gently into Cas’s hair.
Cas doesn’t get going again. His hair is soft and slightly sweaty in Dean’s hand. Dean brushes his thumb across his forehead, but when Cas still doesn’t move, Dean takes his hand away. This gets him another noise from Cas, softer, before he pulls his head up to look at Dean.
“Please,” Cas says, his voice coarse and quiet. “Please do that. Please touch me.”
Cas pleading with him is as weird and shameful as every other part of this, and it makes something in Dean’s chest constrict, but he doesn’t need telling twice. He slides his hand back into Cas’s hair, and Cas’s eyes fall closed and his face goes slack, and for a second he’s drifting, unrecognizable. But when his eyes open again, the laser focus of his expression is frighteningly familiar.
Dean reaches behind himself and finds a pillow, two pillows. He bunches up as much bedding as he can reach and shoves it behind his back, propping himself up. Like this he can reach Cas more easily, so he brushes his fingers against Cas’s cheek, and strokes them down the back of his neck. Cas breathes in deeply and leans into the touch. Then— nodding at Dean, keep going— he bends his head to run his tongue along his dick.
For a while Dean has two hands in Cas’s hair, one pushing damp strands back from his forehead, one cradling the back of his head. Then he reaches down to stroke Cas’s shoulder, wandering across the muscles of his upper back. When he touches the side of Cas’s face, Cas immediately shifts his angle on Dean’s cock so that the head of it presses against his cheek, into Dean’s hand. Dean makes a tight, surprised noise, and Cas does it again. Dean wants to look away. It’s too intimate, too lewd, too specific. Cas has done it before; Dean has liked it before. But he keeps looking.
It occurs to Dean that Cas is kind of— drawing this out. What with how juiced up Dean is on the last couple of days, he’s got pretty much no self-control going on, and it’s embarrassingly obvious that Cas knows how to play him. He could have gotten Dean off in minutes. But this feels as lazy and unhurried as the kissing had been before. Cas is still fully clothed, sprawled out between Dean’s legs, and now and again he ruts against the bed as he moves, like an afterthought, half-forgotten. Dean hopes Cas isn’t expecting to come like that. He has a sudden, fierce urge to touch him properly.
Dean’s still letting that thought settle around him when Cas pulls off, his hand at the base of Dean’s dick starting to jack him slowly, slippery with spit. Okay, so maybe he’s not going to come in Cas’s mouth, but at this point it’s hard to care. Dean gasps as he rolls his hips up, conscious thought disintegrating, but when he looks down he sees Cas has two of his own fingers in his mouth, bobbing his head on them like he had on Dean’s dick.
“Uh— ” says Dean, by which he means he’s not sure what, exactly, but then Cas is rubbing his wet fingers underneath his balls, and Dean is shuddering, his skin sparking. Dean makes an encouraging noise— Yeah, do that again— but instead, Cas slides his fingers further back.
Dean goes very tense. There’s something tight and terrified thudding in his chest, and he can’t unwind it, even though it’s all mixed up with how hot he is for everything else, with the sight of Cas down there starting to mouth again at the head of his dick. But feeling him freeze, Cas stops and looks up. Dean’s hand is still tangled in the mess of his hair. He looks— not surprised, not concerned, not even questioning. Just patient. He watches Dean and waits.
Dean feels something inside him crumbling, some rotten place that’s not worth defending. Cas has already been there; Cas already knows him. And not just this Cas, but Cas back home, too. The way he’s always looked straight at Dean, like he can sift through all his fear and inadequacy and shame without blinking. He knows everything. It’s too late, or it doesn’t matter. Dean closes his eyes and lets his legs fall further open.
Cas doesn’t even really fuck him, just rubs his fingers over and over against his rim until Dean’s dick is aching and twitching with sharp, sordid pleasure. Dean wonders how many times they’ve done this. Whether he asked Cas to do it. Whether he’s let Cas fuck him for real. There’s a dark, strangling curl of heat in his throat that makes him sure that he has. When Cas finally pushes the tip of his finger inside him, Dean goes hot with relief and then falls apart, gritting his teeth as he comes, Cas’s mouth sliding back over him until he’s done.
Dean realizes his hand is fisted way too tight in Cas’s hair, afterwards. “Sorry,” he murmurs, untangling it.
“Don’t apologize,” Cas says. The rumble of his voice trickles along Dean’s spine.
Cas kneels up. He’s breathing heavily, eyes bright, hair wild. When Dean lifts his hand, Cas leans towards it like he’s being pulled. Feeling boneless, brainless, insane, Dean drags his thumb over Cas’s lower lip, watching Cas’s mouth fall further open as he does it. Then Cas turns his head and presses an open kiss to Dean’s palm.
“Me and you,” Dean blurts out. Cas’s mouth slides off his palm. “We’re— we… ”
When Dean doesn’t finish the question, Cas gives him a long, level look, and then he says, “Not in a while.”
Dean inhales and nods. It’s maybe not a shock. Something like this, he can’t see how he wouldn’t have fucked it up.
“Okay,” Dean says. He lets himself look at Cas for a little longer. There’s color in him, a brightness that’s been missing all day. He looks alive. “Come here.”
Cas crawls up over Dean’s body, leaning in for another kiss. The shadow of salt on Cas’s tongue sends an aftershock of heat through Dean’s frazzled system, and he licks at the taste of it, sliding his hand behind Cas’s neck to keep him there. Cas starts to moan into his mouth, low and quiet and regular, but Dean makes out with him for a while longer before he realizes that Cas is jerking off.
“Wait,” Dean says, breaking away, Cas’s mouth trying blindly to follow his. “No, stop.” Cas is breathless, blinking in confusion, one hand shoved into the drawstring waistband of his pants. Dean tugs at the first handful of Cas’s shirt he can reach, pulling at the material over his shoulder, making it slide off-center. “C’mon, take it off, let me see you.”
Something indescribable passes over Cas’s face, something strange and desperate. But he sits back and yanks the shirt over his head, dropping it onto the floor by the bed. His pants are loose enough that they fall easily around his thighs when Dean pulls, even when Cas moves closer and swings his knees apart to straddle Dean’s hips.
Dean is still half-dressed, but not for long. Cas is pulling open his button-down and twisting his t-shirt up over his head, inhaling softly at the sight of him. Dean feels weirdly exposed— despite the fact he’s never really minded being naked, despite the fact that Cas has literally just sucked his cock. But Cas is staring at the raised red handprint on his left shoulder, and for a moment Dean is just watching him stare at it, and neither of them do anything. Then Cas brushes the back of his fingers against the scar, very carefully, and Dean feels something huge and bright and terrifying welling inside him.
He runs his hands up Cas’s legs, feeling the heat of his skin, the weirdly perfect angle of Cas’s hipbones as he settles his thumbs against them. Cas is watching him, the rise and fall of his chest slow and heavy. Dean slides his hands up and touches him there too, feeling Cas’s torso and his ribs, the jut of his collarbone. There’s something lived-in about Cas’s body, worn and battered, like the sheen of heaven has rubbed off it. But he’s no less magnetic.
Staring down at Dean’s hands on him, Cas starts touching himself again, and Dean lets himself look at that, too. Cas’s fist is tight and slow on his cock, and Dean is burning with want. He wants to see this. He wants to know that Cas can do this, to know that if Cas has to be stuck in this hell of a future, he can at least make himself feel good. And, low and uncomfortable beneath the heat, he wants Cas not to know how to do this. Wants him not to need to know, not to be reduced to the indignities of being human, scrabbling around down here in the dust for comfort. But mainly he just wants to touch Cas himself.
Dean smooths his hand across Cas’s skin, and fits his hand around Cas’s where it’s wrapped around his cock. Cas nods jerkily, his eyelids fluttering, and tries to spread his fingers so that Dean’s can fit between them, but the angle of their hands is clumsy and it doesn’t work. So Cas lets go and lets Dean take hold of him instead. He’s hot and iron-hard in Dean’s palm, and he twitches into his fist with a rough noise of almost-satisfaction. Then he puts his hand on top of Dean’s, and he pulls, and Dean gets it, and he lets Cas show him what he wants.
“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice a rasp. Cas is making soft sounds in the back of his throat, but they’re getting louder as he moves Dean’s hand on him harder and faster. “Yeah, come on, do it.”
Cas’s hand tightens on Dean’s, his nails digging in almost painfully, and then he comes, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open on some voiceless word.
Cas slumps down mainly on top of him, and Dean tugs one of the pillows out from under his back so that they both go horizontal. After some half-assed shuffling, Cas settles with one arm around Dean’s chest and his face pressed into his shoulder. He’s murmuring quietly into the damp place by Dean’s neck, and Dean figures it’s just half-drunk nothingness, too wiped to really hear it. But then, like a radio tuning out of static, the words surface, and he realizes that Cas is saying, “I miss you, I really miss you.”
Dean’s hand is resting lightly on Cas’s back, between his shoulder blades. He moves it up and down. “Hey,” he says, “I’m right here.” But he knows what Cas means. There’s no point pretending. It’s still true, though: the other him is right here too, or at least he’s right outside. Just a few cabins over.
Cas props himself up and stares down at Dean’s face again. It’s a long, searching look, and the back of Dean’s neck prickles. Then Cas presses another of those odd, careful kisses to his forehead. It makes Dean think of Cas’s fingertips at the same spot, bright and surging like an electric charge. But when Cas settles back down against him, he feels warm and grubby and human, and the need with which he presses them together is human, too. Not desire, just the instinct to be close. It’s almost more frightening than the desire.
“Does he miss you?” Dean asks.
Cas raises his head again, slowly, and there’s something shuttered in his expression. He says, “You miss what I was.”
Dean nods. Then he gathers Cas back against him so that he doesn’t have to keep looking him in the eye.
Dean almost asks what went so wrong, apart from— he listens to the sound of the camp outside, the slam of truck doors— obviously, everything. Apart from hell on earth. What it was that Dean did to leave Cas as splintered and lonely as this. Because it was him, of course it was him that happened to Cas, slicked his wings in mud and then left him by the roadside. But Dean’s a coward as well as an asshole, because right now he doesn’t want to hear the answer.
Dean gets it, the whole Bill and Ted’s bullshit adventure. He knows he’s here to learn lessons. Well, they don’t come much clearer than this. Don’t touch the angel, jackass. Not if you want him intact.
The last time Dean saw Cas, the real Cas, he’d dragged him to that whorehouse. Dean rubs his knuckles into his eyes, trying to remember why that had seemed like a good idea at the time, what the fuck he was thinking. He’s already doing it, trying to pull Cas down into the dirt. At least it hadn’t worked. It’s not too late. He doesn’t know what it is he’s going to do wrong, but it could be any of it, all of it. But he can’t leave Cas stained if he never marks him in the first place.
Dean swallows and looks down at Cas’s head on his shoulder. The warmth of his breath is tickling across Dean’s collarbone. It’s no sacrifice, obviously, if you don’t even know what it is you’re giving up. That’s how these things work.
There’s a burst of noise from outside: something being moved, the rise and fall of voices. Dean’s watch came off somewhere around the same time as his shirt. He gropes with his free hand in the sheets until he finds it. Cas feels him move, his fingers tightening for a moment on Dean’s skin, and he looks up again.
“It’s past eleven,” Dean says, in explanation.
Cas nods. “Okay,” he says. “So there’s still time.”