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obstinatrix) wrote2011-10-02 11:28 pm
obstinatrix) wrote2011-10-02 11:28 pm
Entry tags:
Our Bodies, Possessed By Light -- Part 4
Dean's had enough of talking to last him a lifetime. Sam would probably advocate jawing through every issue they have until there's nothing left, but as far as Dean can see that would only work here if it killed the sexual tension between them with boredom, and while that might be a technically good idea under the circumstances, Dean isn't sure it's a route he wants to take. Sure, Cas is in his brother right now, and that's caused way more trouble than it should have done, but Dean's never had a -- this -- before, and he isn't about to give up on it entirely just because there's a little thing like incest in the way. So he's an optimist -- so what? The way Dean sees it, they've dealt with every damn evil from Lucifer to the Mother of freakin' everything: they can deal with this, and it won't be by talking about their feelings. Dean's done his share of that, and he's pretty sure he's taken it as far as it goes as a helpful fix-it in this situation. He's had a night to think about this stuff, tossing and turning for an hour in the dark while Sam tried to reach Cas's secret underground HQ or whatever, and he's come to the conclusion that it's time to try this his way.
That being the case, when Cas tumbles abruptly forward and jolts into place behind Sam's eyes, the last thing Dean wants to do is start in on a heart-to-heart about their thing. If Cas's feelings are anything like Dean's right now, he won't want to talk about it. He'll want things to go the hell back to normal, or as normal as they can manage, and Dean is behind that a hundred percent. He's more than a little surprised -- a large part of him kind of expected Cas to leave it till the last acceptable second to show -- but he makes a manful attempt not to let it show on his face, and other than maybe some initial eye bulging, he thinks it mostly works.
He can see by the look in Cas's eyes, something akin to the expression of a puppy just come back home after peeing all over everything and then running the fuck away, that Cas is expecting him to break out the heavy duty guns right off the bat. This fact is even clearer when Dean only leans back in his chair, shifts his legs a little and says, "Hey, Cas."
Seriously, it would have been comical if it hadn't made Dean's chest twist a little in sympathy, the way Cas's eyes widen and his mouth slips out of its grim straight line into something loose and bemused. "Uh. Hello, Dean," he manages after a moment's flurried blinking, but his tone lilts up at the end, questioning, and his head is tilting to the side despite himself. It's some time since Dean's seen that particular gesture of angelic confusion, and it makes his mouth quirk up helplessly at the corners, fondness flushing over the surface of his skin like a fine heat.
"Didn't need to run off like that," Dean says, nonchalant, because, whatever his feelings on the issue, he knows there's something to be said for not avoiding the point entirely; for letting Cas know that he hasn't simply entered a stage of flat-out denial due to the sheer extent of his disgust. He has no intention of dwelling on it, though, and when Cas opens his mouth, looking in danger of responding, Dean hurries on: "Me and Sam've been thinking."
Cas, to his credit, recovers quite convincingly from the momentary goldfish face that overtakes him at that, mouth opening and closing soundlessly for a long second before he squares his shoulders, visibly pulling himself together, although his eyes are still wide. "...oh?"
That's more like it. If he and Cas aren't on the same page, they're clearly getting to it. Dean nods lackadaisically and reaches across the table for his beer, curling his fingers idly around its neck. "Yep. Thought it was maybe time we tried putting out feelers, you know? See about getting you a meat-suit of your own."
There's something in Dean's throat that insists on quavering a little as he speaks, some traitor of a nervous thing, but he overcomes it sufficiently to look Cas square in the face when he's tossed out his comment, meeting his eyes. Cas colours under the onslaught at first, flushing right up his cheekbones in a way that Sam has never flushed in his life, which is an interesting thought. Another moment, though, and he's taking a deep breath, forcing the redness down by sheer force of will, and Dean thinks he's never been prouder of him in his life.
"We've talked about this, Dean," Cas says steadily. "I would almost certainly need a vessel that could contain an archangel. They are not easily located. Especially since I am, effectively, a new archangel, or psuedo-archangel; there won't be a bloodline of possible vessels for me."
Which, of course, is all true, but it's also exactly what Dean expected him to say, what they've been working from all along, and Dean is beyond that now, driven by circumstances to think outside the box. He nods as he pulls at his beer, but holds up a finger in a halting gesture as he sets it down again, wipes a hand across his mouth. "This is true. But, Cas, you're talking about going through the normal channels. What if we try to go a little more unorthodox?"
Cas furrows his brows, pulls his characteristic expression of confusion. "I don't understand."
"Well," Dean says, spreading his hands, "don't we always go around shit like this?" He's warming to his subject, now, voice slipping out of its false cheer and into something genuinely enthusiastic, and he embraces that, lets himself sink into it. "Look, we have Bobby, we have the Campbells' library -- shit, if nothing else, we have God on our side, apparently -- or on yours, at least. He's saved you more than once before, right? I mean, personally I don't have a clue what the guy's doing up there, but he definitely seems to have a thing for you."
Cas says nothing, but the expression on his face has shifted into something pensive, attentive, and it's encouraging. Dean takes a deep breath and hurries on before he can stop himself. "It's just -- okay, normally you'd have to have a vessel, grow your own if there wasn't one available, yada yada yada. But what if we could do it some other way, huh?" He shrugs. "We're not above a little black magic, and neither are you, before you say anything. Wouldn't it be worth it, if we could find some way to get you a body of your own?"
Dean doesn't want to be obvious -- it's never been his style -- but he's pretty much aware as he speaks that the so we could fuck unobserved goes unsaid on the end of the question. Cas, too, clearly picks up on it, to judge by the resurgence of blood into his cheeks. "I suppose," Cas says, slow and dubious.
"So," Dean cuts in, seizing upon it before Cas can change his mind, "that's what we do, right? We hit Bobby's first, see what he knows, go through all the obscure shit he has holed up in there, and then if we don't find anything we try the Campbells' library. No point having all this crap if we never use it, is there?"
"No," Cas responds -- as if there's anything else he could say -- but his voice is still slow, unsure. "But, Dean -- "
"But nothing!" Dean breaks in. He knows he's being impatient, Cas's hesitation getting to him quicker than it should, but this is a tense situation, goddammit, and trying to turn it into something natural is fucking strenuous. "I know you're used to doing everything the proper way, going through all the bureaucratic red tape and whatever, but we don't have time for that here, Cas. We've tried waiting and it's obviously not working for us."
Cas's flush is back in force at that, half-ashamed, and Dean's every impulse wants to lean across the table, take his hand and squeeze it in his own. With a great effort, he resists; goes on, more quietly, "Let's just try it this way, huh? All else fails, we get down on our knees and pray, but it's worth a try, right?"
If it hadn't been for the expression on Cas's face then, the flicker of hope trapped under all the uncertainty and anxiety and concern, Dean might have left it there. He might have gotten up, and gone for coffee, and pushed on without pausing to make sure Cas was with the programme. But Cas does look uncertain; he does look anxious and concerned, and Dean doesn't have it in him to leave him that way, in any doubt as to what Dean wants from him when all this is done. It's awkward, still, monumentally awkward after last night's pointed obsessing on the fact, to lean across and slip his hand into Sam's, Cas's hand and squeeze it tight, but Cas needs it, and that's enough to give Dean the strength to do it. The look on Cas's face, surprised by joy, is heartening, and Dean hitches a breath.
"Look," he says, low and quick, "Cas, I -- you know how this is, man." Cas is staring at him intently, Dean can feel, but he doesn't have the means to pay attention to him now, not if he wants to get this out. "I want you to be -- you, you know? Not my kid brother. You and me, man, we're -- " He gesticulates, and Cas nods tightly.
"I love you," he says, flat and soft and simple in a way unimaginable to Dean until he hears it, three little words that rock him to the core. "Dean, you know I love you."
Sam has never said that to him. Dean knows it to be true, knows Sam loves him more than anything he has left in the world, but never in so many words have they said it to each other, and that alone is enough to let Dean detach himself into the illusion of Cas as the compact, blue-eyed ethereal thing he'd been when they first met, the Cas he'd -- shit -- fallen in love with. This is that Cas, putting all his trust in Dean again and again, and Dean is humbled by it, every muscle in his body going tense and trembling as the words ripple through him.
"Cas," he says, inadequate and gentle and absolutely all he can manage, but Cas seems to understand, only nods and smiles at him a little.
"I know," he says, soft, "I know." His fingers tighten on Dean's, squeezing hard enough to cut off the blood supply. "I agree with you, Dean. Let's find a new vessel for me."
Somehow, when Dean looks at him -- when Dean lets himself think about fucking him, carding fingers through his hair, kissing his soft wide mouth -- all Dean can see is that guy, that one-time beautiful man Cas no longer is, but this isn't the time to be picky. Dean can't have that, but he can have something. Dammit, he will have something.
"We will, Cas," he says, and means it. "We will, if it's the last thing we ever do."
The obvious first point of call is Bobby's, so, naturally, the first thing they do is to take a trip to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, in search of answers. Probably, Bobby could have told them anything he had to tell them over the phone, but some part of Dean wants to take Cas all the way down there, if only to demonstrate in person that he's back to being the guy they hunted and fought and died with, and not the way he was when Bobby last saw him, all hyped-up and chock full of bad decisions. This is Cas, and even if the trip to Singer Salvage turns up nothing as far as their latest quest goes, if it results in Bobby recognising that again then it won't have been a total failure.
They're stiff around each other on first contact, Bobby eyeing Cas sidelong as if fearing an attack, Cas chewing his lip and looking so uncertain that Sam eventually takes pity on him and takes control, pulling Bobby into a hug. "Hey, Bobby."
"Good to see you, boy," Bobby says, but Dean can see from the stiffness to his shoulders that he's still uncertain, and that has to go. Dean and Cas will never make a go of whatever it is they're thinking about trying if Bobby isn't on board, and that means getting the two of them used to each other again, come hell or high water. Bobby's library is extensive, and Dean fully intends to scour it until every last page has been interrogated. By the time that's over, Bobby and Cas better be on speaking terms again, or Dean will need to have very stern words with one or both of them.
In the event, they stay at Sioux Falls four days, and Bobby seems convinced that Cas is Cas again by maybe the evening of the second. Not that it's hard to work it out, really -- Cas is so pointedly, obviously, awkwardly different from the brief flash of Godstiel they saw that day that Dean would have been left doubting Bobby's skills as a hunter if he hadn't realised Cas was back to normal. Then there's the part where, living in Sam's head, it's pretty much impossible for Cas to conceal anything, and Sam explained that to Bobby on the first evening during dinner, when Bobby asked how hosting an angel was going. By the time they've spent four days poring through Bobby's library -- and back up library -- and back-up back-up library -- it's fairly clear that he has absolutely nothing that could help them with the search for a new vessel, but also that Bobby is no longer loath to pass Castiel the butter upon request, so Dean counts it as a win on at least one front. Small wins, at the moment, are worth more than they might seem.
They pack up on the fifth day, heading for the Campbell family library, and Dean can feel a faint tension in Cas that's a little disturbing, given how comfortable he had seemed by the end of their stay at Bobby's. Dean knows him well enough to be able to guess at why that might be, and he doesn't like it.
"Cas," he says, apropos of nothing, as they cross the state line, "we will find something, okay? Even if there's nothing here, we'll keep looking. Okay?"
"Okay," Cas says, automatic, but he doesn't sound convinced. Dean presses his lips together, but it's hard to know what else to say at this point. Sometimes, tell is no good, and only show will work.
Second book Sam picks up in the Campbells' library has a spell in it that has to be performed at night, but not under any particular kind of moon, and as far as Dean can tell it looks promising as all get-out. Dean is excited, Sam is excited, and Cas, although he tries to suppress it, is obviously just as worked up about it as the Winchesters are. Under the waxing moon, they chant the relevant Latin, hands linked in the darkness, and Dean thinks about Cas -- thinks about the warmth of him, the way his animus feels, hot and sharp and sweet, so much more a soul than any of those broken things Cas'd had inside him all those months. Dean thinks about it, dwells on it, and hopes as Sam says the words, as he hears Sam's voice blend into Cas's somewhere in the middle.
"Please," Dean thinks, over and over in his head like a mantra, "please, God, if you're there -- seriously, please. Doesn't Cas deserve a little happiness, after everything?"
They complete the ritual perfectly, the way it's written in the book, but at the end of it Cas is still all up in Sam, even after minutes and minutes of blinking at the moon; even with Dean's fingers clenched, vice-like, around Sam's wrist, as if he could grind the bones to dust and extract Cas from the remains.
"Maybe it takes a while," Sam ventures, after a few minutes' fruitless staring at the sky, and Dean nods, lets himself be led inside. Sometimes rituals are that way, have to happen when everyone's asleep, like the damn things get performance anxiety or something. When Dean wakes up in the morning, though, there's nobody on the other bed but Sam, overlong hair tousled over his forehead, and Dean loves his stupid face to death and wants to weep at the sight of it, all the same. Jesus Christ, Cas. Cas is gonna be the death of him.
The Campbells' library has no further suggestions. Dean's about as sure of that as he possibly can be, given the time he spent poring over every last fragmentary page he could find after the incident of the failed ritual, but there's nothing more they could try, no further suggestion that might have any bearing at all on the current case. Seems that getting new vessels for sexually frustrated angels isn't exactly high on anyone's hit-list of spells. Dean wishes the reason why wasn't so goddamn obvious. If his father was here, he'd be wondering why Dean couldn't have picked himself some nice girl and moved on with his life, but no, Dean has to do things the hard way. That, it seems, is kind of Dean's thing.
Obviously, they don't stop there. The Campbells aren't the only old hunting family in North America, and Bobby, once he's figured out the situation -- from the tone of sympathy his voice suddenly acquires, Dean can't help thinking Sam's appraised him of it in full -- Bobby is happy to hook them up with as many as possible. Weeks go by, and they check out libraries in New York, Pennsylvania, Arkansas, Louisiana and Texas. They invade, infiltrate and investigate what feels like every relevant library on the North American continent; they talk to folklorists and theologians and university professors. They try out a ritual every second place, voices a little less hopeful with every passing one, and all the while,the tension leaps hot and dirty between them, Dean's eyes catching on Cas's and sliding down his body, even while his stomach turns; Cas's hand resting on Dean's shoulder, on his hip, warm and sure in the second before Dean shakes it off. They traipse over the whole freaking country, minds open to everything and anything, but there's nothing. There's nothing, or nothing, at least, that seems to actually work. No obvious bloodline-vessels anywhere, and no way to create one, and Dean is starting to despair of ever moving out of this quagmire he's walked into, and now has no way of leaving.
"We'll find something," Sam tells him, palm warm on the nape of his neck, and Dean pretends not to be losing himself in the contact, in how he can feel Cas sparking under Sam's skin and how truly fucked it makes him.
"Yeah," he says, because Sam has this as bad as he and Cas do, maybe worse, after all. "Sure we will, Sammy. We're on it."
By the time they've scoured Washington state and come up with nothing, though, Dean's starting to doubt it. He wishes he was a true man of faith, someone who could believe in miracles, but it's stupidly, impossibly difficult. Sometimes, when he falls into bed after a long and unsuccessful day, all he wants is to pull Cas against him, even if only the way he used to before The Incident, before safety drove him to leave off touching Sam's body altogether if he could help it. Sometimes, it's the only goddamn thing he wants in the world to fall asleep like that with Cas, and he can't have it, thinks he never will.
It's hard to be optimistic when that's the reality of things. Dean wishes it weren't, but it is, and that's an end to it. It is.
The revelation happens, as revelations tend to do, when Dean has almost entirely given up hope. It's been months, now, that Cas has been in Sam's body, and long enough since they decided to start scouring libraries for solutions that they've moved back onto hunting part-time again, on the understanding that most of the likely places have pretty much been searched. Dean wishes he could still feel as if there was a chance, but most of the time, he doesn't any more. Most of the time, his life is a question of researching simple salt-n-burns and letting the exhilaration of it carry him through the devastating fact that he's in love with his best friend, and his best friend is in his brother, and that means they're not going to be having sex any time soon. And that means Dean won't be having sex at all, consequently, and that makes for a seriously cranky Dean. There's jerking off, of course, but it doesn't exactly cut it. Honestly, Dean doesn't know how Sam does it. Life like this is hard, and harder still is the realisation that he's gotten used to it, because it’s the only option.
They're in the middle of an easy hunt in northern New Mexico, and Dean's taken the Impala out for gas. It's an ordinary day, the sky blue-blazing above them, the ground red dirt under Dean's feet as he pulls into the gas station and gets out, slamming the car door behind him. There's nothing remarkable about any of it, and Dean isn't expecting anything more than a tankful of gas and maybe a minute's brief conversation. It's noon. He should be back to the hotel by one, easily, and then they can think seriously about how to deal with the poltergeist they're hunting.
The gas station itself is a one-room hut with a single pump, and an old man slips out of it when Dean pulls up, denim overalls over a grimy shirt, exactly like a thousand other old men he's seen in a thousand other gas stations. He's skinny, stubble creeping grey along the line of his jaw, and Dean couldn't say what it is about him that makes him immediately aware that he isn't quite human, that he isn't actually an old man at all. He smiles at Dean, soft, like he knows; takes the pump from Dean's hand-gone-lax and plugs it lovingly into the Impala.
"Afternoon, Dean," he says, and Dean feels the words ripple down his spine in a long, sinuous wave. "Haven't seen you around these parts in a while."
Dean doesn't mean to speak -- wouldn't normally have revealed anything at all to a guy like this, beyond the most minimal conversation, but this man isn't an ordinary guy, and Dean feels the words slipping out of his mouth like water. "Well," he says, "tried everywhere else, man. Cas is at his wits' end, here."
He doesn't add I'm at my wits' end, but the old man hears it all the same, lips pursing thoughtfully as the gas starts to pump into the chamber. "Hard situation, that," says the old man, and the whole thing is surreal, Dean caught up in it like a mote of dust in a beam of light, feeling, for the most part, as if this is normal. As if there should be aged pump attendants asking about Cas, commiserating about his fucked-up situation. "Tell me," says the old man, "how would you have it? If you could decide?"
Dean doesn't pause to think about the weirdness of the question. In the moment of its asking, it doesn't seem weird at all. "How do you mean?" he asks, brow furrowing. The old man shrugs a thin shoulder.
"You've done a lot for this world, Dean," he says simply. "If you could have Castiel in any guise you liked, what would you choose?" He smiles a little, not quite a leer, but almost. "Busty blonde, maybe? Leggy brunette?" The man laughs, and Dean sees omnipotence in it in a sudden, aching flash. "Imagine, Dean, it's your choice. How would you have him?"
Barefoot and in his shift, Dean thinks, but what he says is, "Any way I could get him, sir." Doesn't even think, the words tripping out of him unbidden.
The old man laughs again. "Such a gentleman you are, Dean Winchester." The tank is full now, and he withdraws the pump handle, hangs it back on its hook. "Say you could choose, though. How?"
And it's something Dean's thought about before, this question, even if he never let himself dwell on it in any conscious way. In detached moments, he sees Cas as he was, that blue-eyed man, his sharp nose, his tan, and although he knows Cas is not his body -- this whole thing with Sam can't help but have shown him that -- that is the way he knew Cas first, the way he sees him in his mind when all outside pressures are removed. Physically, historically, Dean's preferences run towards the same sort of leggy brunette that Sam prefers, some kind of shared genetic taste there, but Cas is outside of all that. Dean knows, rationally, that Cas has no gender, but he can't imagine him as a girl. Cas is that guy, Jimmy Novak. Cas is, in Dean's mind, the way he first saw him, pink mouth and mussy bed-hair under the power and the glory.
"I want," he says, unprompted, although he ought to be embarrassed to speak; ought to want to fight this down and keep it sealed, "I want him back the way he was. If I could choose, I mean. I'd take him the way I knew him."
The old man smiles as he screws on the Impala's cap, closes the tiny door to the tank. "Jimmy Novak, you mean? You want him like that?"
Dean shrugs expansively. "That's the way I knew him," he explains, simply. "That's Cas to me, if I'm thinking about him physically. I guess it's pretty restrictive."
But the old man shakes his head a little, no. "I think," he confesses, "Castiel thinks of himself that way, too. He hadn't often taken vessels before, you know." And he smiles again. "You're a good man, Dean. Do you know that?"
Dean is adrift, drunken, but even through the haze of it he feels the beginnings of embarrassment begin, something hot and crude in his guts. "Nah," he mutters, waving a hand dismissively. "Dude, I'm just -- I'm just me. Just doing my job, here."
The old man neither nods nor shakes his head, doesn't say anything at all for a long while, studying Dean's face. By the time he speaks -- "You are a good man, Dean --" Dean is truly uncomfortable, but the old man, it seems, has finished. He wipes his hands on the denim of his thighs, makes to move back towards the hut. "Keep in touch, boy," he calls over his shoulder as he leaves, and Dean doesn't think twice, doesn't wonder how or why or when.
"I will," he says, as he climbs into the car, flicks it easily into gear. "Thanks for everything, sir."
The man inclines his head, raises a hand to bid Dean a farewell that follows him down into the valley. It's a hot day, overbright, and the sun glances whitely off the broad red rocks as he heads for the freeway, strange white noise still sparking in his head, his fingers clenched on the steering wheel.
It isn't until he's almost home that he realises he's talked with God today, in the gas station at the end of the universe. He's driven almost ten miles, now, though, and it's too late to turn back. The white noise disappears as swiftly as it arrived, and in its wake, Dean just knows. He doesn't know what to do about it, but he sure as hell knows what just happened.
He puts the pedal to the floor, drives a little faster.
When Dean slams open the door to the motel room, for a moment, he thinks he's dreaming. "Cas," he stutters, the tail of the word tripping drunkenly over his tongue. "Cas, you -- Jesus --"
"Yes," Cas says, crossing the room towards him. "Dean -- " and it's Cas, Jesus Christ, Cas with his indigo eyes and his mussy dark hair, his narrow boy-hips and long slim thighs; Cas, on whom Dean has an inch of height and twenty pounds; Cas. Dean hasn't seen him in months, and every nerve in his body springs to life at the sight of him, his blood rushing a little faster, his mouth falling open.
"How," he starts, breathlessly, even as his hands come up to span Cas's biceps, pulling him in. "I was -- I just -- "
Everything that comes to mind to be said is nonsense, but Cas doesn't seem to mind; is saying nonsense right back as his arms snake around Dean's waist, palms flattening against the small of his back. "I know," he says, "I just -- suddenly -- I sent Sam out, Dean, he went to the store, I think, or -- "
"Yeah," Dean breaks in, distracted over the wave of heat spiralling up through his stomach on the back of his astonishment, a hot, heavy pulse of it. "Cas -- " and he's angling his head, pressing in close, crushing Cas's mouth under his. "Cas, oh my God. "
Cas draws in a breath, sharp and stuttered. Dean sees his eyes close, expression gone soft and desperate as he sways against Dean, but Dean can't look away, can't let himself get lost in this when there's Cas to look at, his face long-familiar and long-missed, soft mouth giving over and over under Dean's. Cas tips his head back, lengthening his throat, lips parting for more, but Dean isn't done looking yet. His hands slide up from Cas's biceps, fingers wrapping momentarily around his throat, drifting up to cradle his face as he kisses him, little dips of kisses, brief, repeated presses of lips.
"Cas," he breathes into it, because this is Cas and it's a goddamn fucking miracle and Dean can't get over the marvel of it; thumbs at Cas's cheekbones and hopes to God it isn't about to melt away under his hands like a dream. "Cas, Cas," and Cas is chasing his mouth now, mouthing at the corners of it, the curve of Dean's lower lip as he speaks.
"Yes, yes," he says, thin and wanting. All these months, Dean thought he had Cas's voice, at least, if not the rest of him, but hearing it like this, the burned whisky rasp of it, what he had pales in comparison, a feeble imitation of the real thing. This is Cas's voice, his own and nobody else's, words shaped between his own lips as his own long throat works. It's gorgeous, gravel-deep and dark as pitch, and Dean's chest clutches at the sound of it, cock twitching in his jeans.
"Got you," Dean mutters pointlessly, hands sliding up into Cas's hair, twisting it between his fingers. Cas is shifting against him, finding a strip of skin above the waistband of his jeans and flattening his hands there, and for a moment it's the same sort of manual mapping of each other they've lost themselves in before. This time, though, there will be no need to stop, nothing to jerk them back from the edge of falling, and the thought makes Dean's heart race, body flush to Cas's from knee to chest. This time, Dean will have no need to work blind, when all he wants is to spread Cas naked under his hands, learn him with his eyes and his mouth as well as his fingers.
Cas, evidently, is absolutely with the programme. His fingers dig into the muscle of Dean's shoulders under his shirt, hard enough that there'll be crescent-shaped marks there tomorrow, and Dean is breathless with it even before Cas shifts, sliding his hands up to cradle Dean's skull. Dean's mouthing at Cas's jaw, tonguing the sharp line of it up to the shell of his ear, but Cas, for all he's shivering, has clearly had enough of that. His hands are strong and firm as he anchors them on Dean's face, holding him still for Cas's mouth, and the surety of it is so hot that Dean can't help but give in, lips parting on a groan.
They fall together like water, more sudden and swift than blood and a better conductor for the bottled charge of Castiel's energy sparking between them. It's obvious from the clumsy motions of Cas's mouth, the sloppy heat of the kiss, that he hasn't done this before; but obvious, too, that he wants nothing more than to learn how, tongue crooking eagerly at Dean's, wet rasp of tastebuds. It's messy, but something in Dean almost wants it that way, wants to feel Cas wanting this, unpractised and uncontained. His body is fine-boned under Dean's hands, this human thing that holds all the endless power of him, and Dean explores it with his fingers, the sharp jut of a hipbone, the curve of Cas's ass. Cas, though, outside of this body, is uncontained, the sense of him a vibrant balm to Dean's soul no matter what vessel he inhabits, and like this, matching the desperate thrusts of Cas's tongue, he feels that, singing across his nerves like a burn.
Cas's hands are everywhere, urgent as his lips and tongue as they skate over the nape of Dean's neck, the breadth of his shoulders, slipping into the valley of his spine. Cas is new to this, virgin, but Dean finds himself adrift all the same in his intensity, echoing Cas's motions with slow drags of his own palms as Cas moans into his mouth, licks over his soft palate. He is hard against Dean's hip, thick clear line of it through his pants, and the sound he makes when Dean shifts to pull them closer together is so obscene that Dean's fingers slip in response, his own breath stuttering. "Cas," he groans, breaking away to breathe, but Cas only follows the motions of his mouth, nipping gently at Dean's lower lip in a way that makes Dean's pulse skip drunkenly. Cas, judging by the way he presses against Dean, flattening pelvis to hip, does not want to talk, and Dean is absolutely willing to indulge him.
They find the bed through a succession of slips and staggers, unable to break away long enough to determine its precise location before they're on it, collapsing ungainly and tangled. Dean, more by accident than design, is underneath, spreadeagled and breathless under Cas's pinioning weight, but the way Cas squirms against him is enough to displace any discomfort, the way his hair stands up in a dark mussed sheaf when he lifts his head to breathe. He's beautiful, and it's been a while since Dean's thought such a thing about a man-shaped person, but goddamn, it's true of Cas right now, his parted pink mouth and the pupils of his eyes blown black. Dean's cock is achingly, shockingly hard at the mere sight of him, and when Cas shifts against him, grinding himself into the hollow of Dean's hip, it's all Dean can do not to arch up and flip him right then, fuck.
When their mouths come together again, it's slower, harder, jaws opening filthy wide as their tongues stroke spitslick over each other. Cas is panting into it, hips working in unconscious, incremental little fucks, and Dean feels the tension thrumming everywhere under his skin; wants to work Cas out of his stupid fucking clothes, Sam's t-shirt and jeans hanging off him already. His hand is flattened at the small of Cas's back, thumb smearing through a sheen of sweat, and it's easy enough to push lower, slide right under the too-loose waistband until the curve of Cas's backside is fitted to the cup of his palm. Dean's breathless, nervousness lurching sudden up his spine and sparking between his legs, but Cas is ready for him, pushing back against Dean's hand as his mouth slips on Dean's, finds the curve of Dean's lower lip and sucks it between his own.
Wet heat, sharp edge of teeth, and Dean's dissolving under its impact, Cas's clever tongue licking slow along the edges of his every nerve, suckling at his mouth until his skin is tingling everywhere. It's so stupidly, absolutely configured to hit every single one of Dean's bulletproof turn-ons that he might even wonder if Cas worked this out beforehand, watched Dean with someone or just felt him out as he put him back together, except that the kiss is going straight to his cock, leaving him abruptly, definitively too turned on to care. This is Cas, this is his fucking angel letting Dean grope his ass while they make out, and no part of Dean has the capacity to process that right now.
The hollow of Cas's throat smells like ozone and sweat when Dean presses his face there, mouth opening wet against the curve, but his shirt smells like Sam, a warm, comfortable smell that has no place here. He rolls his hips, taking advantage of Cas's momentary distraction, his hitched moan, to take hold of the shirt by the shoulder-seam and haul it bodily upward. It's a bad angle, Dean's vicious tug doing little but ruck up the fabric around Cas's neck, but it certainly works as an anvilicious hint and Cas takes it; pulls back long enough to grip the hem of the shirt and haul it over his head himself. In the aftermath of the gesture, he sits back on Dean's hips and breathes, hair yet more impossibly ruffled, tight pink nipples on his smooth pale chest. Dean feels his blood jump at the sight of him, his steady dark eyes burning into Dean's, the way his ribcage heaves with his breaths. Suddenly, intensely, he feels an urge to mark him up, leave him messy and dishevelled, bite at the mole on the upper swell of his right pec and suck bruises into the promontory of his clavicle. It's gut wrenching, hits him out of nowhere with the force of a semi-truck, and Dean has to close his eyes as it wracks him, both hands clenching on Cas's waist.
Cas's skin is ludicrously soft, fine and smooth like something newly made, and Dean realises with a shock as he palms it that it actually is. This body under his hands, straddling his thighs, was made for him, its particulars specified by him, and the thought leaves Dean dry-mouthed and desperate for nakedness, wanting to know exactly how perfectly they fit. He shifts, arching his back to free his t-shirt where it's trapped under his waist and goes for the hem of it. Cas, above him, seems to want the same thing he does, rolling them over bodily so Dean is on top and shoving his shirt up over his stomach. "Dean," he's murmuring, thumbs skimming the underside of Dean's ribcage, hands twisting in damp cotton as they push it up over his chest, and the tone of his voice is so crazy hot that Dean lets his head fall back and goes with it, lifting his arms so Cas can strip him. The shirt hits the carpet with a muffled sound, crumpling, and then Dean is leaning down, mouth finding the line of Cas's collarbone as they slide together, smooth and hot and gloriously bare.
In the midst of all his silken skin, the tight buds of Cas's nipples stand out starkly, drawing little whispers of sparks over Dean's chest as they move. There's sweat collecting at the small of Dean's back, at his nape; he feels it prickling all along the surface of his skin as Cas palms his spine, shoves his hands unceremoniously under the waistband of jeans and shorts together. The contact forces a groan up out of his throat, and he torques his hips, fucks down hard until Cas's thighs splay loose around him, making room. The shift brings them flush against each other, the viscous heat in Dean's veins arrowing down to a point between his legs. Cas rolls up, grinding the hard line of his cock directly against Dean's, and the flash flood of pleasure at the contact drags both of them under with it, echoing each other's cries.
"Shit," Dean mutters, thumbing at Cas's nipples, at his ribs; he drags his fingernails frenetically down Cas's flanks and follows them mindlessly with his mouth. It isn't a conscious decision inasmuch as it's an impulse, fuelled by the hot urge to learn Cas everywhere, but the sound Cas makes is deeply gratifying, the way he bucks his pelvis up hard against Dean's. Dean groans low through his teeth at the rush of it, the dizzying, prideful heat behind his eyes at the way Cas is spread for him, his wanton sprawl as Dean trails his mouth lower. His tongue leaves shining paths as it finds Cas's secret places, the soft place where his arm meets his shoulder, the sinful dip of his belly at the navel, but the spit disappears swiftly, and Dean doesn't want his claim to do the same. He digs in his nails, rakes them harder down Cas's sides until they leave fine threads of pink. Cas is panting, trembling everywhere as Dean noses his way into the cuts of Cas's pelvis and sucks on the jut of a hipbone, cresting out of his jeans.
"Dean," Cas says, back arching, wanting more, and Dean wants to give him more, never wants to stop. It takes no thought to fumble at the fastenings of his jeans, splaying the vee of them open, and then Cas is kicking, lifting his backside so Dean can dispense with jeans and undershorts together. Freed from its confines, his cock smacks up against his stomach, slick-smeared and drooling precome, and the sight hits Dean in the stomach like a physical blow.
"Fuck," he breathes, "Jesus -- Cas." He can smell him, shit, the raw human scent of his dick, and it makes Dean's cheeks cramp with the rush of saliva, mouth suddenly wet and aching to taste. He wants, tangibly, lust metallic under his tongue, and when he leans in, it is prompted by nothing but instinct.
He barely gets his lips around the head, open-mouthed kiss against the tip, before Cas is crying out, grasping at Dean's hair as his hips piston jaggedly upward. Dean huffs a breath, stomach dipping hotly, and flattens his thumbs on Cas's hipbones, pinning him down. "Still," he breathes; licks a ribbon of heat around the wet crown of Cas's cock and grins up at him darkly. Cas moans, pulsing a slick of precome over the flat of Dean's tongue, and releases his grip on Dean's hair to cover his eyes with his hands, as if it the sight of Dean like this might blind him.
"Dean," he breathes, ragged and muffled through his fingers, "Dean, I can't -- can't --" It's stupid hot, both the thready rasp of Cas's voice and the knowledge that he is already overloading on sensation and Dean has barely started. Dean can't imagine the state he'll be in by the time Dean's finished with him, but he knows he wants to see it, and soon.
"Sssh," he murmurs, curling his fingers around the base of Cas's cock and angling it so the head rubs along the curve of his lip when he speaks, slipping just slightly into the wet heat inside. "Sssh, Cas, just let me. I got this." And he opens his mouth on the tail of the word, slides down into Cas in a smooth, wet twist.
Cas yells, no other word for it, and scrabbles at Dean's hair, but Dean's hands are strong on his hips, keeping him still as he jerks abortively into Dean's mouth. It's been a while since Dean's done this, and longer still since he really wanted to, but Cas is hot silk over iron in his mouth and God, but Dean really wants to do this. Cas is so wet, the head of him sliding slippery against the insides of Dean's cheeks, saliva and precome drooling down Cas's shaft as Dean works, but that's okay, makes it easier, even. Dean tightens his fingers, jacks them up to meet his mouth as it descends, and Cas moans, tiny pulses of his hips pushing him deeper into Dean's mouth on every stroke until the tip of him hits the back of Dean's throat.
After that, it is as if Dean has fallen into some sort of frenzy. Cas, the smell of him, the taste of him all over the inside of Dean's mouth; it's too much, heady and dizzying, and all Dean can do is swallow in little flutters around the head of him and repeat; slide up slow and press his tongue into the slit. Cas is near-keening, now, gripping Dean's nape and hair and shoulders, but Dean has had enough of holding him off; slides his hands around and under Cas's backside to pull him in as deep as he will go. He can't bite back a moan as Cas edges into his throat, and the vibration sets Cas pistoning forward, his voice hitching into something almost a sob as he twists his hand in Dean's hair, tugs him roughly upward.
Dean pulls off only under duress, throat burning from the penetration, but the way Cas looks, chest heaving, everywhere sheened with sweat, is worth the sudden empty feeling in his mouth. Cas is staring at him wide-eyed, frantic, combing shivering fingers through Dean's hair, and Dean heaves a breath, thumbs the curve of Cas's hip and tries to get a hold of himself. "Cas?" His voice sounds about as bad as he expected, well-fucked and filthy and raw. "Okay?"
Cas flushes slow at that, a pink tide that Dean follows with fascination as it sweeps up his body. He looks debauched, strung out and wild, and his voice, when it comes, sounds almost as abused as Dean's. "It's just," he says, and then stops, biting his lip. Dean watches the white flash of it, rolls his own hips restlessly against the mattress.
"C'mon, Cas," he prompts. "Think it's kinda late to be shy, don't you?"
He means it -- Cas has nothing left to hide, after all, cock still wet from Dean's mouth, pupils blown -- but he's flippant with it, not really expecting Cas to capitulate and spill. So when Cas takes a jerky breath and says, "It's just... I want you to -- fuck me," Dean's blindsided, cock slicking reflexively in the confines of his jeans. His throat has gone tight, closed off; he tries to speak, but for a moment it's as if his brain has disconnected, his mouth open soundlessly. Then Cas shifts, spreads his thighs a little wider in blatant invitation, and Dean gives up, surrenders to the dizzying clutch of heat balled like a fist in the pit of his stomach.
"Shit," he manages, when he can breathe again, "shit --" and then he's scooting off the bed, legs liquid as he staggers to his feet, snapping open the buttons on his jeans one-handed while he makes a frantic survey of the room. They'll need something for this, anything, and if they do end up having to improvise, they can -- Cas won't mind, and Dean isn't about to walk away from this for anything -- but if there's any actual lube, that would be optimal. His duffel is on the floor between the beds, and he ducks to rifle through it, shucking his jeans down as he does so, and yeah, okay, there's lotion, which would do, but he seems to remember --
"Got it," he mutters in relief, extracting the bottle of KY from the inside pocket of the bag, where he stowed it over a year ago so Sam wouldn't find it. No condoms, but Cas is brand freaking new and Dean hasn't got anything, hasn't had opportunity, so maybe they can --
"Dean," Cas hisses, shifting frenetically on the bed, and, fuck, okay, Dean's sure they can manage without. He kicks off his jeans haphazardly and scrambles up onto the mattress between Cas's knees; flips open the cap of the lube and squirts an inadvertently huge amount into his hand. Cas rocks his hips up, angling for more, for closer, and Dean takes a breath, shoulders into the vee of Cas's thighs.
He feels crazy, like someone in the throes of a fever, the surface of his skin crawling like it's on fire and his cock fat and straining against his stomach. Cas, spread beneath him like a fallen idol, has closed his eyes again, his head tipped back against the pillows, and shit, Dean wants him, more than he can remember ever wanting anyone. It's all he can do to breathe as his lube-slick fingers find Cas's entrance, tracing it in tremulous, staggered circles. When Cas twitches, moans brokenly, Dean finds himself echoing it, his dick leaping against his belly.
"Dean," Cas gasps out, so roughly it barely has voice, "would you just -- " and he pushes back against Dean's fingers, shoving up so that Dean breaches the muscle to the first knuckle. It looks obscene, Cas's body opening to swallow him like that, and Dean has to reach down and steady himself with a hand at the base of his cock, because Jesus fuck.
"Christ," he groans out; dips his head impulsively to curl his tongue around the joint of his finger where it enters Cas's body. Cas stifles a yell, goes for Dean's hair in protest, and so he pulls back, but the way Cas shivered at the touch was interesting, visceral and delicious, and Dean's sure as hell going to try that again, some time when Cas isn't strung out on a hair trigger. Now, though, Cas is desperate, and Dean isn't far behind. He crooks his finger impatiently, sliding it out and fucking back in until Cas is loose enough to take a second, but Cas is clawing at Dean's hair and at the sheets, rocking into Dean's hand, and it doesn't seem like leisurely prep would be welcomed.
"Dean," Cas is moaning, "Dean, come on, Dean -- " and Dean's fingers are trembling as he works in a second, scissoring them quick and dirty, stretching him out until he can shove in a third, probably too soon. Under his hands, Cas doesn't seem to mind; thrusts back hard onto Dean's three fingers and twists his hips in a frantic figure eight, and that's it, Dean is only human.
He pulls out as slow as he can manage, wipes his sticky fingers on the sheet, and then it's a matter of seconds to haul Cas against him, to lift his knees and push them back. Cas is malleable, hooking his elbows behind his knees to hold himself open, and shit, Dean can't look at that and expect to be able to last more than a second. He scrunches his eyes tight shut against a roil of heat and lines himself up, fingers bruise-tight on Cas's thighs.
"Okay," he gasps, "okay," and it's the only warning he can give. He pushes forward, a first stuttered shove, and it's like dying, like fucking into heat so tight and perfect no part of him can take it. And then Cas moves, rocks up and grips Dean's shoulders to haul him further in, and Dean is fucking lost, pulled over an edge he never knew was coming until he was on it.
"Fuck," he yells out, "fuck." He might have been embarrassed, were it not for the way Cas's head is tipped back, mouth open on a breathless whine of sound that rises and falls; the way Cas swallows him easily like he wants to swallow him whole. It should be harder than this, with so little prep, but Cas is trembling everywhere, frantic with desperation, and they're neither of them capable of pacing themselves, not any more. Dean is having a hard enough time just supporting his weight as his hips piston forward, driving his cock into Cas's body in deep, juddering thrusts, and Cas just takes it, yelling out nonsense and clinging to whatever he can reach. It can't last, not like this, but Dean's too far gone to care, his vision starting to spark and blur as he grips tight and fucks. When Cas goes still, back arching up off the bed, it is hardly unexpected, but the way his cock leaps and spurts against his belly is still gut-wrenching, glorious, too fucking sexy for Dean to endure and survive.
"Dean," Cas grits out, "Dean!" and it's everywhere, all over him, slicks of white all over his belly and the rise of his ribcage, and Dean fucks him through it, come smearing like wax across his chest as he moves. He was close already, and Cas clamped tight like that around his cock, Cas sprawled out like a vision of sin -- Dean feels it taking root within seconds, orgasm building up huge and violent. Cas is still spurting out his last feeble shimmers when Dean seizes and comes; lets it shudder through him like thunder as he jackhammers into Cas, once, again, and holds himself still.
"Jesus." He's loud enough to be heard at the fucking front desk, probably, but he doesn't care, not with Cas's hands on him, with Cas all around him. He hasn't come as hard as this in what feels like forever, and as the last of it ebbs away he feels utterly drained; collapses onto Cas like a wounded soldier.
"God," he murmurs, brokenly, "God." And then, before his conscious mind can think better of it, "God, Cas. Love you."
Cas hitches a laugh in his chest, vibrating against Dean's ear, and presses a kiss to his sweat-damp temple. "Mmm," he says, "Dean." But he's tired, Dean can sense, everything about him singing with contented exhaustion. He doesn't say anything else, and Dean doesn't prompt; only presses a kiss to Cas's chest and turns to lay his cheek over it, only for a moment. He'll get up in a minute, clean this mess up.
It isn't until he's almost asleep (hey, he's entitled) that Dean actually realises what he just said, what made Cas laugh like that, as if all his doubts had been evaporated.
He could angst about it like he regretted it, but that would be dumb. He knows that now. Dean had this man, this being, remade to his design, chose him explicitly, was granted him by a higher power. After all that, it seems a little petty to be hoping that Cas doesn't expect to be told Dean loves him. Dean loves him viscerally, painfully, so hard he can't breathe around the shape of it: that is just the way things are. And Dean wouldn't change them for the world.
A little time later, Castiel wakes for the first time in a skin of his own. Dean is warm against him, naked, their legs entangled, and for a moment the swell of warmth in Castiel's chest is so intense that he does not recognise it for joy. It is almost a pain, and then he realises that it is only emotion, parsed through a body that has no other occupant, no barrier to any sensation.
He is happy, Castiel decides. He has never been happier in millennia.
Dean is awake, watching him with soft green eyes. Castiel cups a hand over his cheek and feels Dean's smile grow to fit his palm. "Okay?" Dean asks, softly.
For a moment, Castiel considers this. There is a crick in his back from the way he was positioned before, when he and Dean were fucking. His belly, where his ejaculate dried, is a little itchy. He smells of sweat and sex, and it is glorious. He smiles at Dean widely, feels his heart pound a little at the way Dean's grin widens still more in response. "I am happy," Castiel says simply, and Dean laughs a little.
"Thought you might ache," he offers, but Castiel only shakes his head.
"I do. But it is interesting."
Dean quirks his mouth. "Interesting how?"
Castiel shrugs a shoulder. "I like to feel things, human things. There is no one in this body with me now, so I feel everything." He shifts; feels the way the sheet slides against his skin, a little starchy with soap. It is uncomfortable and he enjoys it. "I thought I had experienced the world the way humans do, but now I see I was wrong."
Dean's head tilts, intrigued, but he is still smiling, still almost glowing with lassitude and simple happiness. "So this is a pretty good outcome then, huh?"
Castiel laughs. He feels it all the way down to his feet, rasping over his aching throat where his cries have left it red and raw. "It is perfect, Dean. Thank you." He doesn't know what Dean did, how this happened, but he knows it was something. Dean says nothing in reply, volunteers no information, but he doesn't reject the gratitude, and that confirms Castiel's supposition, and so it is all right. He doesn't need to know the specifics of this, not as long as he knows they have each saved the other now.
Dean is almost asleep again, nodding on Castiel's shoulder, when Castiel muses slowly, "I miss Sam." It is good to be the sole commander of his own body, but Castiel had grown very accustomed to his companion. Doubtless, he will grow accustomed to this as well, but there was a comfort in Sam's constant presence, in having him always on hand to turn to.
Dean huffs a laugh, kisses Castiel's shoulder. "What, you miss having Sasquatch goin' on at you all the time?"
Castiel smiles at the insult, Dean's casual expression of love through rudeness. It is so very Dean, and that makes Castiel love it. "Yes," he says, shrugging. "I'm used to him."
"Well," Dean says, stretching unconcernedly, "given the way we live, 's probably a pretty good thing, so." He opens his mouth against Cas's skin, languid and damp. "He'll be back soon. Just giving us time."
"Yes," Castiel agrees, low and drowsy. He and Dean fitted well enough before, but this is better, Castiel marginally smaller, curled in against his side. Castiel remembers the ways of this body, and now he will learn them fully for the first time. He will enjoy it.
Presently, he falls asleep again.
It's dark by the time Sam gets back to the motel, hope and fear beating out a nervous tango in his head as he hesitates outside the door to their room. Cas's revesselling had been rather anticlimactic -- Sam had blacked out unexpectedly and come round to find himself staring at Cas, sitting Jimmy-shaped and naked on the edge of the bed. Jimmy-shaped, but Jimmy Novak was long dead, now. Sam saw it happen; they buried him. Cas looked like Cas, the way he'd been when they met, but this was a body all his own, and Sam didn't know how it had happened but he knew what it must mean. Dean would be back before too long, and Sam knew immediately that he shouldn't be here then. He'd rifled through his duffel, extracted some clothes for Cas, and Cas had shrugged into them in the familiar gestures he'd learned from dressing Sam's body all this time. He looked ridiculous, swamped, but it would have to do for now. The last thing Sam wanted was to be here when Dean got back, throwing a wrench into the path of whatever was building between them, which otherwise could now break free.
He gripped Cas's nape, told him he was going to the store, but he knew from the look in Cas's eyes that there was an understanding between them, that Cas knew better. There was no time to explain, though, and Sam had fled, hoping against hope that all their prayers would truly be answered.
Now, as he fumbles open the door, his heart is in his mouth, but one look at Cas and he knows there is nothing to fear. He's scooted back against the headboard of one of the beds, radiating contentment, in loose jeans and a t-shirt Dean bought in Cali in '95. It's a black shirt, worn thin and soft with washing, and it suits Cas very well, makes him look approachable and young and pleased. Dean, at the table, is eating what appears to be an oversized marshmallow as he flips through a newspaper.
"Hey," Sam says, slowly, glancing between them, and they both grin back at him, matching 100-watt stunners.
"Hello, Sam," Cas says, unfolding. Sam's smile dips a little, confused, but Cas is apparently unconcerned; pads across the room on silent feet until they're almost touching. Dean, at the table, makes no sound, but for the white-noise of another page turning.
"Cas," Sam says, looking down at him. And God, but it's weird, after all this time, to be looking down at Cas, to have space between them where for months there'd been none. Cas is so absolutely himself like this, all wry blue eyes and the familiar curve of his mouth, that Sam can hardly credit the fact that he's ever been anything else, except for the way the back of Sam's head feels empty, like an article of clothing made to contain a much larger person. Cas seems very small, all of a sudden, and it sparks a rush of fondness in the pit of Sam's stomach, an abortive impulse to embrace. He takes a step back. That would be awkward. He and Cas established that already. "Guess you guys got it together then, huh?"
"Could say that," Dean leers, tossing Sam a wink. Sam's just in the process of pulling together a stellar bitchface when Cas hooks his arms unceremoniously around Sam's neck, which sort of makes the expression wobble alarmingly at the edges.
"Dude," Dean laughs, "you look like something just stuck you."
"I," Sam says, nonplussed, but Cas is pressing his face to Sam's shoulder, his grip strong and firm, and Sam can't deny the sense of comfort in his fierceness. Cas is happy: Sam is his friend, and these two factors between them have made him want to be hugged. Sam takes a second to congratulate himself on imbuing Cas with such skills of logical thinking, because evidently he can't have got them from Dean. His arms come up, tentative and awkward, and bracket Cas's waist, cross over his back.
"Sam," Dean says, low and wry, "Stop thinking and give Cas a goddamn hug, would you? So we can all get over it, already."
Cas tips his head back, glances up. The advantage to having Cas outside of his head, Sam realises in this moment, is that they can exchange Looks whenever Dean is being particularly Dean. Cas has arched an eyebrow, and Sam arches his right back; laughs and surrenders to his impulse to squeeze. "It's good to see you," he confesses, because even if Cas has been here this whole time, they haven't seen him, and somehow, obscurely, it's a different thing entirely.
Cas, pulling back, seems to understand. "It's good to be seen," he says, mouth quirking. He's still a little jerky in his movements, maybe, still getting used to the span of this body again, but when he crosses the room to stand at Dean's elbow, there's nothing awkward in his reaction to Dean's touch, an idle curl of Dean's fingers around Cas's wrist. It's so natural a gesture, quietly intimate, and it makes Sam lose his breath for a second. He's never seen Dean this way before, never. Dean's never been close to anyone but Sam, and Sam has always worried about it.
Now, he has Cas, and Cas loves both of them in the respectively appropriate ways. Dean doesn't have to choose, and it couldn't have been more perfect if Sam had designed the logistics himself.
He steps towards the table, halting steps. "You guys haven't eaten, have you?" he ventures. "Want me to run back out for Chinese?"
Dean glances at Cas and then back to Sam. There's equal intimacy in each look, and Sam feels his heart swell just a little further. "Nah. Let's go out to eat, huh? Pizza."
Cas's eyes light up. "With peppers?"
"Yes," Sam interjects, before Dean can refuse. "You and I can get peppers. Dean can suffocate himself with his meat feast all on his own."
The change in Cas's expression at that is so wholly unexpected that Sam doesn't realise that it's actually amusement until Dean snorts, squeezes Cas's wrist. "Yeah, well. Maybe not all on my own." Whereupon Sam gets it, and ew.
"Gross, Dean," Sam protests, wrinkling his nose.
"Dude, you try and gang up on me, expect to be ganged up on right back, okay? He's my goddamn angel." He gets up, shoves the chair back in place beneath the table. "That a plan, then? We'll have to book another room when we get back, since these are the narrowest fucking alleged queens I've ever seen in my life, but that's okay. Should be able to ditch this place by this time tomorrow, you think?"
This last is to Sam, but it takes Sam's brain a second to make the connection between -- this -- and their research about the case that brought them here, 24 hours ago when everything in their lives was different. The fact that Dean can switch so easily between the two is shocking, but then, Dean's been with Cas, in a separate body, if not this separate body, all along, not holed up with him in the same damn skull. Sam guesses it's different, guesses it's easier, and he knows it'll make everything easier for all of them. This is their life now, Sam, Dean and Cas and whatever creepy bastards need blasting off the face of the earth. That was their life last week, and that's their life now, no need for ceremony or angst or discussion.
Except that Sam is totally not sharing a room with these guys unless he's absolutely forced to, two proper queen beds or not.
"Yeah," he tells Dean, when he can speak again. "I, uh -- yeah, I think we can gank the thing by tomorrow."
"Awesome." Dean slings his jacket over his shoulder, retrieves his keys. "Let's go, then. If this place has good beer, you get to be designated driver, Sammy."
And so it goes, Sam thinks, as he follows his brother and his angel out of the door. And so it goes.
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