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XVII.
Dean slumps onto the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him and almost immediately sits upright again, cursing, and digging at the small of his back for whatever jabbed him. He hauls the thing out and glares at it.
It’s one of those Supernatural novels that Prophet Chuck churns out. There’s his name, big as life on the cover, above the cover art based on hope and overheated imagination. He can’t even tell which one is supposed to be him and which is supposed to be Sam. And who the hell told Chuck that either of them were that shade of blond? He also realises the longer he looks at it that he’s starting to flex, trying to match what he tells himself are the overinflated, ridiculous-looking male model-types on the cover. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake...’
He moves to toss the book on the magazine-covered coffee table but notices that there’s a bookmark stuck in about halfway through. Apparently Castiel had been serious when he said he had read all of them; he had produced a complete set from somewhere and Sam had been cackling like a fool over them.
Not that Dean is jealous.
Not that he had thought maybe the angel had come back to Bobby’s to spend time with him or anything.
Because that would be too needy and desperate for words so obviously that isn’t what happened.
But Cas hadn’t even said thank you for the damned chapstick.
Not that Dean cares.
He snorts to himself, shaking his head and flipping the book open to the slip of paper – a receipt for milk and a six-pack that he thinks was his.
Nah, he doesn’t care – it was just – it would have been nice if – well, hell, what had Cas bothered to show the fuck up for if – fuck it. Just fuck the whole damned thing. He is tired, it had been a long damned day, and he isn’t going to have this conversation with himself for the thousandth time.
Dean scowls at the page, reaching up to flip on the floor lamp next to the sofa, and only slowly realises that he’s reading a sex scene. A really intricate sex scene. Of which he is the star.
Oh, fuck.
He reads on in a kind of horrified fascination, in awe at his own apparent abilities in the bedroom. He has no idea when this is supposed to have taken place or who he’s with – not that it’s really him but damn: he is good. Like, can do no freakin’ wrong good.
And in his efforts not to think about Chuck sprawled in his ratty old bathrobe on his dingy couch having visions of Dean’s sex life, he starts wondering if he and Castiel are in here somewhere. Not that two pretty quick kisses have much on the gymnastics on the pages in his hands right now, but still – the thought makes a cold chill run down his spine.
Is the whole thing with the chapstick going to make it into one of these? He groans and slams the book shut, tossing it onto the coffee table and swinging his feet up onto the couch.
‘Hey, careful with that – it’s Cas’ favorite.’ Sam ducks into the room, his jacket in one hand, and picks up the book.
‘He hasn’t even finished it yet,’ Dean snaps, wriggling to get comfortable on the bumpy cushions. Why the hell can’t Bobby get a proper couch? One that isn’t stuffed with silverware and rocks?
‘Nope, that’s mine.’ Sam flicks the book open, looks at the page, and shudders theatrically. ‘Reading about your sex life was starting to make me feel sick to my stomach, so I stopped.’
‘Fuck you, Sammy – at least I’ve got one!’ Dean closes his eyes, crosses his arms over his chest, and tries to pretend Sam isn’t there. It doesn’t work. He can feel Sam looking at him and not asking things. ‘Aren’t you and Bobby supposed to be on a research trip somewhere? Somewhere far far away?’
‘You mean making a run two towns over to pick up spare parts? Yeah. He’s just gassing up the car. I don’t know why you didn’t want to do this. It’s more your thing than mine!’
‘I’m tired,’ Dean says flatly.
Sam doesn’t ask. Loudly. ‘Want anything from town?’
‘Nah.’ Dean hears honking from outside and Sam’s footsteps fade out down the hall. Distantly, he hears the screen door open and slam. He shakes his head against the cushions, resolutely telling himself that he’s going to have a nap. He spent all morning and half the afternoon helping Bobby in the junkyard, so he gets to have a nap.
It doesn’t help, of course, that he can’t think of anything but that damned book.
Cas’ favorite? That was angelic taste? Maybe Heaven was a lot better than it sounded.
He squirms against the couch, trying to find a spot where his head rests on something soft, and wonders uneasily if he should dig out a few more of those damned books. Who knew what else Chuck had tapped into? Maybe he needed to send the poor little peeper a thank-you note for making him such an operator!
He scowls without opening his eyes.
Castiel’s favorite book.
Shit.
That couldn’t be a good sign.
That Dean – Chuck’s Dean – was friggin’ perfect. He was damned near psychic he was so good in bed. Definitely not the sort of lame-ass high-school douche who would buy a chapstick and think it was a great gift. Or get himself rolled by a value pack of demons.
‘Oh, fuck it...’ Dean groans and rolls over, burying his face in the lumpy, stale-smelling cushions.
It wasn’t like he’d spent a lot of time having to seduce his previous male– what the hell was he supposed to call them? Flings, he supposes – or whatever the male equivalent of that is. Hell, he’d never even spent that much time on seducing the women! Either there was interest or there wasn’t and either it went somewhere or it didn’t. None of them really lasted long enough to be more than a one-night stand. And that had all ended where? Making a decision out of desperation and misery that ended him in the pit with demons who apparently hadn’t had shore leave for a couple millennia.
And that’s in the books, too. He’s suddenly, sickeningly sure of it. And Cas has read them – practically fucking memorized them.
And therefore he thinks Dean’s an attention-hungry, self-obsessed, love ‘em and leave ‘em slut who ended up getting himself torn to pieces in the pit and--
‘I do not think that.’ There’s a gentle touch on his ankles and Dean yelps.
He involuntarily inhales couch fluff, and chokes, awkwardly rolling himself over and glaring at Castiel. ‘You can read minds now?’
Castiel shakes his head. ‘Not really. You shout your emotions when you are upset. And Sam brought me the book.’
Dean winces and shoves himself up to sitting, hacking the last of the couch fuzz out of his throat. ‘Hey, man, whatever you want to read in your spare time – do angels get days off?’
Castiel shrugs, perching on the arm of the couch.
He’s shed the trenchoat, Dean notices, and his shoes. He has dark blue socks on and there’s a hole in one instep, showing a semi-circular patch of pale skin. Dean wants to reach out and touch the spot and clenches his hands together between his knees.
‘You’ve really read all those?’ He blurts the question out before he can think and feels himself blush.
Castiel looks at him, then seeming to take a minute to consider his answer, digs in his trouser pocket. He doesn’t find whatever he’s looking for in the first one, so switches to the other side. He pulls out something small and Dean hears a tiny pop and then smells rose and spice.
His mouth is suddenly dry as he watches Castiel smooth the balm over his lips. He takes his time doing it, then presses his lips together carefully. His lower lip flushes a delicate pink and Dean wants to groan.
‘Yes, I have read them all.’ Castiel recaps the tube and drops it in the breast pocket of his shirt, patting it absently. ‘No, your male lovers do not feature in them.’
‘Oh.’
‘I know about them, of course.’
‘I—yeah, yeah, of course.’ Dean swallows hard.
‘But I did not watch you with them, Dean.’ Castiel’s expression is sober, his eyes dark and hooded so Dean can’t read what he’s thinking. ‘Or with any of your partners. If they made you happy – then I am happy.’
Dean may be crap at a lot of things and there’s no way in Hell he’s half the lover his fictional self is, but he is fucking fantastic at calling bullshit. ‘You’re lyin’.’
Cas blinks. ‘What?’
Dean pushes himself up on his hands and knees, then rests back on his heels, studying Castiel. ‘Oh, yeah. You’re lyin’ through your teeth. Shit – Cas – you’re jealous?’
Castiel blinks again and a faint flush begins to spread over his cheekbones. ‘Angels do not feel jealousy.’
‘Oh, yeah? Explain the crusades.’
‘We were not responsible for that!’
‘Well, that mother Uriel’s prints are all over this Iraq shit – let the “mud monkeys” kill each other, right?’
‘Dean!’
‘Hey, he said it.’ Dean holds up his hands, but he’s aware the conversation is getting sidetracked. ‘So – how long have you had the hots for my sweet ass?’
‘Dean!’ This time, his name comes out as pure agonized embarrassment and Castiel can’t meet his eyes.
Dean wants to reach out and touch Castiel’s face again – grab him and kiss him and show him it’s all right and then see what the hell else happens. But that was also how he treated everyone else he’d been to bed – or wall, alley, back seat, or bathroom stall – with for the past – well, the past damned long time. And as soon as he thinks of the idea, he’s not sure he could do it: the thought causes an uncomfortable tightness in his chest and a sudden feeling of unease, like he’s suddenly uncomfortable with Cas for some fucked up reason.
‘I am not – I do not – I –‘ Castiel is stammering again, flushed, staring up at some point on the ceiling that has a brand-new fascination for him and Dean realises dimly past the loud voices of panic in his head that he’s falling fast when a terminally awkward angel is rapidly topping his list of favorite things.
‘Hey, c’mon, Cas. It’s okay. Better men than you’ve done it.’ And Dean could bite his tongue out.
Castiel looks as if Dean has just reached out and slapped him. His eyes have that bright, wounded look again. ‘I know.’
‘Fuck, fuck – I didn’t mean – I – I didn’t mean it like that!’ Dean grabs Castiel’s arm. ‘It was a joke – okay? A Dean Winchester special. Forget it.’
‘I should--’ Castiel moves as if to stand and Dean tightens his grip, yanking Castiel forward onto the couch. The angel lets out a startled squawk as he loses his balance and tumbles against Dean’s left side.
‘No, you shouldn’t. You keep vanishing every time I say something stupid and it’s going to take a long time to have a conversation.’ Dean looks at Cas. ‘Are you okay?’
Castiel is pale and his free hand has balled into a fist. ‘Yes.’
‘Uh...you don’t look okay.’ He squeezes Cas’ forearm, trying to be reassuring, sees him wince, and realises there’s a bulk under his hand that can’t be explained by a shirt and jacket. He pushes up Cas’ sleeve. ‘What the hell happened!’
‘I...slipped.’
‘What – shaving? C’mon, Cas – what’s going on?’
‘A demon. I was...careless.’ Castiel frees his arm gingerly and rolls his sleeve back down.
Dean doesn’t know where to start. ‘A fuckin’ demon? You’ve been hunting and you didn’t tell me?’
‘I did not need your help.’
‘Well, that’s just fuckin’ great, Cas – what the hell else did you think I was doing that was so freakin’ important? Bein’ Bobby’s junkyard goon isn’t takin’ that much of my time!’
‘You would not have been able to help me, Dean.’
‘Why the hell not!’ Dean stares at him and a horrible idea wells out of the back of his mind. ‘Alastair came back.’
‘No – no, Dean.’ Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head. ‘Alastair is gone. He can never come back.’
‘Then what the hell was so freakin’ fantastic about this damned demon that I couldn’t help you with it?’
Castiel remains silent, carefully buttoning his shirt cuff.
‘Goddamn it, Cas--’
‘It is work I can do alone. You and Sam should take this time to rest.’
‘Rest? What the—I’ve been doing nothing but resting for the last month! I’m gonna get sick from resting!’
‘That is not possible.’
Dean rolls his eyes. ‘C’mon, Cas, work with me here. What’s with this demon? It’s tough, smart, nuts, what?’
‘That demon is bound permanently.’
Dean frowns – something about that sounds familiar.
‘The devil’s trap will hold it until this world is rubble.’ Castiel pauses for a minute, then adds, ‘And perhaps a little beyond.’
Dean stares at him, the words suddenly chiming with something he had thought was a dream. ‘Jesus – Cas – you’re hunting them all down?’
Castiel does not answer.
‘Can you even do that?’
Castiel shrugs.
‘Cas – no.’ Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, tries to get him to turn so he can see the other man’s face. ‘You can’t do this.’
Castiel glances at him in surprise. ‘I can. I am perfectly capable--’
‘No. That’s not what I mean. Look, I know what going nuts for vengeance looks like and it is a damned good way to get yourself killed. How many of these things have you gone through?’
Castiel sighs. ‘Three.’ He rubs at his eyes, then presses his fingers against his temples. ‘Only three.’
‘Yeah, and you look like shit and you’re startin’ to get yourself hurt. Give it up, man...please.’
Castiel is silent for a minute and Dean can see him biting his lower lip hard. Then, abruptly, he looks up at Dean and his eyes are shining, wet with tears. ‘They should not be allowed to live after what they did to you.’
Dean swallows hard. ‘Well – I’m sure word’s got around.’
Castiel reaches out and almost touches Dean’s cheek, but pulls his hand back at the last minute. ‘I do not want to let them live.’
Dean can’t think of a damned thing to say. Castiel looks miserable and furious all at once and Dean wants to help him plan a campaign against the demons and haul him against his chest and never let him go at the same time. And he’s never had anyone look at him like that, never had anyone think about him like that – hell, if there had ever been anyone planning revenge in the Winchester family, if it wasn’t John, it was him! Sam was the one always trying to talk him down – but it was never for him.
He catches Cas’ hand before the other man can pull back. He can’t imagine what the angel has done, what favors he’s called in, what magic he’s called up – for the sake of binding a demon who hurt him. If it had been Sam, Bobby, Ellen – hell, Cas, yeah, sure, Dean would be planning the war right this second but – not for himself.
Dean holds Castiel’s hand as if it is suddenly fragile, looking at the slender fingers as if he has never seen them before. Abruptly, he slides his fingers between Castiel’s, cradling the man’s hand in his own, keeping it safe so Cas can’t take it and do stupid shit like go after demons single-handed.