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XVIII.
That night, Castiel and Dean stay up long after the other two have gone to bed. Sam has clearly had a conversation of some kind with Bobby because after one long, calculating look, the older man simply shakes his head, mutters something to himself, wishes them goodnight, and vanishes up the stairs.
Dean doesn’t get the feeling that Bobby is bothered by the sudden guy-on-guy under his roof – Bobby looks more like he does when he’s trying to refigure something he thought he had figured. And suddenly Dean is wondering if he should have had a few conversations with a few people years earlier.
But that isn’t really his main concern right now; guilt can wait a few hours – at least until after breakfast the next morning. Really, he doesn’t want to think about anything too much because, if he does, he always seems to get sideswiped by something horrific and he’s sick and tired of wincing.
He’s sick and tired of feeling like a fucking pussy. He’s sick and tired of feeling jerked around by his own memory and he’s fucking sick of feeling like this. Wasn’t one lot of bad memories enough? He had to get the jumbo extra value pack? And he pulled it together in pretty classic fucking style last time -- why can’t he do it now? Why has he spent the last week running from what’s inside his own goddamned head? It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. He’s Dean fucking Winchester, for fuck’s sake, and he can handle anything.
He’s also pretty damned tired of worrying about what Castiel is thinking.
At the minute, the angel seems entirely fascinated with a rerun of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. Dean doesn’t get it but he’s willing to go along with it; the eye candy is good, even if the vampires are pretty stupid.
Castiel frowns at the screen as the blonde heroine yanks a fence pole loose from the ground and impales a grinning vampire. ‘I doubt that would work.’
Dean glances up and watches the vampire turn to a convenient cloud of dust. ‘Yeah, I sure as hell wouldn’t trust to it.’ As far as he was concerned, the only way to be sure of a vamp involved a lot more beheading and he’d never yet met one that was self-cleaning. Mostly, clean-up involved shovels. Still – the girl had some nice moves.
He looks back at the book in his hands; he had found another one of Chuck’s novels tucked behind the arm of the sofa and was idly flipping through it. ‘Hey, did you know I have changeable sea-green eyes?’
Castiel looks at him thoughtfully, then the lamp on the table beside Dean switches on. He peers into Dean’s face. ‘I had not thought of that description.’
‘Uh...dude, it was a joke. I don’t.’ Dean isn’t sure whether he wants to lean backwards or forwards more. Part of him wants very much to lean forward and see if Cas is still using his present; his lips look softer, less wind-roughened, and Dean wants to taste the mix of Cas and rose again.
Another, more demanding part, wants him to lean so far back he’s in the next room.
‘Not quite sea-green perhaps.’ Castiel turns back to the show in time to see one of the heroine’s friends cringe in terror as some kind of giant bug moves towards him.
‘They’re just green, Cas. Plain ol’ green.’ He remembers being a kid – when playing superheroes still seemed like a fun game – and wishing he had red eyes. Or silver. Or something cool. Not just ditchwater green.
‘You have lovely eyes, Dean. They change with your moods. And with what you wear.’ Castiel pauses for a minute, then adds thoughtfully: ‘Blue and green look particularly good on you. As does black, of course; you know that which is why you nearly always wear it. But I wish you would wear more colors. Perhaps purple.’
Dean doesn’t even know where to begin. ‘Okay, just for the record, purple is out. No freakin’ way am I wearin’ anything purple. And I wear black because...because it wears hard. And you don’t have to worry about stains.’
Castiel looks at him again, eyes steady, a tiny amused smile twisting one corner of his mouth. ‘And you do not wear your leather jacket because of the way women look at you? Or men, for that matter?’
‘I---I--not--no,’ Dean grits out, knowing he’s bright red and knowing he looks like the world’s worst liar. And it isn’t entirely untrue. He also wears it because it reminds him of John, of feeling young and tough and indestructible. For just a second, every time he slips it on, he feels that way again: as if nothing can touch him. Under the current circumstances, he thinks, maybe he should just sew it to his shoulders.
Castiel regards him for another moment, his mouth twitching towards something like a real smile, then returns his attention to the television in time to see the last frames of the show roll into the credits. ‘Hm.’ The television switches off.
‘Sick of the box at last?’ Dean returns his attention to the book in his hand with no idea what he’s looking at. It might be English or Greek or ancient Phoenician for all he’s getting from it. All he can think is that there’s sweat prickling out down his spine because now would be a great time for him to live up to all the bitching he’s been doing in his head about how little attention Cas has been paying him and show the angel how worthwhile paying attention to Dean can be and – fuck, why had he wanted Cas to come back? He grits his teeth. What the hell is wrong with him? This isn’t the twining anxiety he remembered from when he was a teenager wondering why the hell he was waking up hard dreaming about the cute guy in his math class. This is much worse and only being made worse by the fact that he knows how he feels about Cas: he wants to want this so why won’t his fucking body get with the program?
‘Dean.’
‘What?’ Christ, he sounds awful, like he’s furious. And he is, in a way, but not at Cas.
‘You are very tense.’
‘You’re fantastic at stating the fucking obvious, anyone ever told you that?’ Dean slaps the book down on the arm of the couch and shoves himself to his feet. ‘I’m goin’ to bed.’ He stands there, looking down at Cas as if daring him to say something about it.
The angel looks mildly taken aback. ‘All right.’
‘What – what are you doin’?’
‘I am sitting--’
‘No, Cas. Where are you going to sleep?’ Dean jams his hands in his pockets, knowing he must look pissed-off and sour but unable to do a damned thing about it. He wants to pin Cas to the sofa and taste him all over and he wants to run upstairs and slam his door and hide under the bed.
‘I do not sleep.’
‘So you’re just gonna sit here in the dark for the next seven hours?’
Castiel glances about the room as if the question hadn’t actually occurred to him, then looks back up at Dean. ‘I will read.’
‘Oh, Chr—you can’t sit here reading that ‘til morning.’ Dean waves at the Supernatural paperback. ‘Your brain’ll leak out your ears.’
‘Then I will go somewhere else so I do not disturb you.’ Castiel stands up. The pause was nearly unnoticeable and Dean hadn’t thought it was possible for his shoulders to get any tighter but it absolutely was.
‘Where?’
‘Why are you so concerned, Dean? I can look after myself.’
‘Because you go away and – and you do God knows what and you come back – weird. And...’ And I always think you’re never going to come back this time. The last bit goes unsaid. He may feel like shit but he hasn’t turned into a girl.
‘I do not wish to disturb you, Dean.’ Castiel stands up, looking oddly diffident and, somehow, small.
Dean groans and scrubs a hand backwards over his head, digging his fingers in at the base of his skull. ‘I don’t know when you disturb me more – when I can see you or when I can’t.’ He watches Castiel thoughtfully for a minute, then shakes his head. ‘No.’
‘No?’ Castiel echoes.
‘No. I know what the hell you’re doing when you flap off into the great beyond and you’re not goin’ this time.’ There. Decision made. Now all he has to do is live with it.
Fuck.
He can do this. He’s walked into vampire nests, shapeshifter lairs, werewolf dens, and Santa’s cellar. Taking Cas to bed isn’t anywhere near as terrifying as that. He can do this.
He reaches out and grabs Castiel’s hand. The angel looks startled, but lets himself be towed forward. ‘C’mon.’
Dean manages not to think about what he’s doing quite successfully as he hauls Cas up the stairs, across the landing, down the hall, and into his back bedroom. He even manages to keep not thinking as he closes the door, walks across the room, flicks on the bedside light, and turns back to the smaller man. Castiel is looking at him quizzically, head slightly tilted as if waiting for Dean to explain himself.
Dean takes a deep breath and steps back towards him, slipping his hands under the trenchcoat and easing it gently backwards off Castiel’s shoulders. ‘And you’re not sleeping in this thing, either. Not with me anyways.’
Castiel starts – just slightly – but perceptibly, and a flush tinges his pale skin. ‘Sleep – with you?’
‘Bright boy.’ Dean pulls the coat off Castiel’s unresisting arms and tosses it over the rocking chair in the corner. The roses Castiel had brought him are bright in a vase on the windowsill, still glowing with that strange ruby light when the sun hits them.
‘Dean--’ Castiel raises his hands, tries to catch Dean’s wrists, but Dean’s too quick for him. His brain is starting to kick in again – worse, his memory is starting to kick in again – but he’s not gonna listen to it. He doesn’t have to listen if he doesn’t want to and he really doesn’t want to.
‘And this, too.’ Dean flicks at the cheap material of the suit jacket. ‘That damned thing’s too scratchy. Didn’t you ever think of getting something new?’
Castiel looks down at himself. ‘No. This works well enough.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s boring. And ugly.’ And memories are creeping out of the closet despite his best attempt to slam the door and lean on it leprous face leaning over him. ‘And you should get something nicer.’
Castiel opens his mouth to say something, some protest against surplus clothing, Dean’s sure, but letting him talk is really just giving the voices in his head more time to get their feet under them. He leans forward and kisses Cas instead, forcing both Cas and the voices to shut up for a minute gobbet of flesh falling at his feet.
Castiel’s hands rise to his shoulders, settling warm on either side of his throat, fingers cupping the back of Dean’s neck, Castiel’s thumb rubbing just below his ear blood on his hands, caking the fingers he has left. ‘Dean--’
That’s Cas trying to talk again and Dean tongues at his lips, tasting the faint flavor of roses and metal tin sweat smoke beeswax mixed with the glass of wine Cas had nursed all through dinner. He feels Cas give against him slightly, a puff of breath tickling his cheek. He slides a hand below the suit jacket, pressing against Castiel’s breastbone, feeling warm skin and muscle below the thin, cheap shirt. He breathes into Castiel’s mouth: ‘Take this off.’
Castiel doesn’t seem to want to take his lips off Dean’s, but that’s fine – multi-tasking is a skill Dean can appreciate and he’s happy to help Castiel take his jacket skin skin rolling back like waxed paper off exposed red meat off – for a second, the voices scream too loud and he rests his forehead against Castiel’s collarbone, closing his eyes.
‘Dean?’ Castiel moves slightly – dropping the jacket on the floor, Dean guesses – then his hands return to Dean’s shoulders. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Nothing – nothing’s wrong.’ He straightens up and takes Castiel’s mouth back, hungry, urgent this time, desperate to keep himself from listening, Cas from asking questions. He can feel the other man trying to pull back slightly, trying to ask him something, but he doesn’t let him get away metal through bone. Instead he nips, bites, tugs at Cas’ lips until the smaller man pushes against him, hands on Dean’s hips.
Dean begins to move forward, nudging Castiel backwards until they are closer to the bed. He runs his tongue over Castiel’s mouth, teasing at the corner until Castiel grumbles wordlessly and moves his head back. ‘This shirt? Sucks, man...’ He fumbles with the buttons ice-cold, frozen, skin hard, Hell isn’t all heat.
‘It is a shirt, Dean.’ Castiel’s hands cover his. ‘And something is wrong.’
‘How many times do I have to fucking tell you?’ Dean almost wants to shake him.
Castiel catches his chin, looks into his eyes for a long moment then, without looking away, slides his hand below Dean’s t-shirt, pressing his warm palm to Dean’s ribs. Before he can even think, Dean jerks away fingers slipping below flesh, caressing bone, his body responding to pain that isn’t there bone breaking, muscle tearing but which his flesh expects will be.
Castiel shakes his head, lifts his hand away, and touches Dean’s cheek, gently. ‘You are not ready.’
‘I fucking am!’ He lurches forward, tries to recapture Castiel’s mouth, but the angel sidesteps him neatly and puts a hand on his arm.
‘No. I will not let you do this to yourself.’
‘Cas--’ What the hell is he going to have to do: strip off right there to prove the point? And that was a sad fucking thing, too, ‘cause all it would prove is that he’s all talk. And he doesn’t want to be: Cas is there, right in front of him, as close to undressed as Dean has ever seen him, and Dean wants to touch, wants to get that cheap white shirt off those narrow shoulders and see what color Castiel’s skin really is.
‘No. You are hurting yourself.’ Castiel reaches up and touches Dean’s lip. Again, the younger man twitches back, his hand going out to slap Castiel’s fingers away. Silently, the angel shows Dean his fingertips, bright with blood.
Dean licks his lip, tastes the blood he had thought was in his head. ‘I don’t...’ He bites again on his lip, deliberately opening the wound. ‘Fuck this, Cas. This...this fucking sucks.’
‘I know.’
‘You couldn’t just keep your mouth shut, could you?’ The words escape before he can think about them and he can’t take them back fast enough: ‘Fuck – no, I don’t mean that.’
‘You should mean it.’ Castiel sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Perhaps you would not have remembered if I had not--’
‘Right. I’d’ve just gone on and lived life like a happy little bunny.’ Dean sits beside him, hands between his knees, staring into the middle distance. ‘Like that was ever gonna happen.’
Castiel makes no response.
‘It’s not going to go away, is it?’ Dean hates the sound of his own voice: he sounds tearful, desperate.
‘It will become less.’
‘Great.’ Dean flops back on the bed, drops his hand over his eyes. ‘I’m gonna be a blast at parties.’
‘You do not like parties.’
Dean glares over at him, but the angel doesn’t seem to notice; he is sitting upright as he always does, hands on his knees. ‘I do! I fuckin’ love parties!’
Castiel shakes his head. ‘They make you nervous. There are too many targets, too much distraction. You worry about something going wrong, someone being hurt.’
‘I worry about running out of beer,’ Dean says flatly.
Castiel shrugs and says nothing.
‘So...it’s just gonna be like this. For-fucking-ever?’
‘Like what?’
Dean pulls Castiel down on the bed beside him, yanks his shirt out of his waistband, and shoves his hand down between Castiel’s legs pulled wide split held with metal through bone splintering through skin. ‘Fuck!’ He can’t stop himself cringing back, pulling his hands into his chest as though burned.
Castiel gasps in a single breath, then goes still. After a minute, he curls on his side, facing Dean, his fingers just touching Dean's shoulder, his knees at the level of Dean's thigh. ‘You give yourself no time, Dean.’
‘What? Okay, that wasn’t the smoothest move ever but--’
Castiel shakes his head, then reaches out and strokes Dean’s cheekbone, his thumb making a smooth sweep from nose to ear. ‘Ignoring your memory will not make it go away.’
‘Aw, you’re not gonna give me some listen to your pain crap, are you? Sammy’s been givin’ me that nonstop for the past--’
‘Perhaps you should listen to your brother.’ Castiel’s hand slides down, cups Dean’s chin. ‘I am not leaving, Dean.’
Dean swallows hard, his pulse suddenly hammering in his throat, unable to think of anything to say.
Castiel’s eyes are gentle, steady and his hand does not move. ‘I am not leaving you.’
‘I...’ Dean’s throat closes and he can’t finish.
‘Let yourself rest. Give yourself time.’
‘I don’t want you to think I don’t...’ Dean blurts the words out before he can think and bites his sore lip hard. ‘I...don’t...you...’ He stammers to a halt, hating himself, hating his body, his stupid traitor body that won’t do what he wants it to now he wants it to do it.
Castiel smiles at him and, with a a quick movement Dean doesn’t follow, twists them both around so their heads are on the pillows and Castiel is curled against Dean’s chest like a cat, their hands clasped together over Dean’s ribs. ‘I will not let you hurt yourself.’
‘But...I...if...you...’
Castiel shakes his head against Dean’s shoulder. ‘You think I will abandon you over a single failed attempt at love-making? After I have put up with everything else you throw at me? Dean Winchester, you truly are as foolish as you look.’
‘Hey!’