Our Bodies, Possessed By Light -- Part 3

[obstinatrix]

It isn't that Sam is actually inclined to mock Dean for recent developments, not at all. The thing is, though, that he and Dean are brothers, and that comes with certain expectations. When things are okay, their responses and reactions to each other take certain accepted forms. Any deviation from these forms indicates a potential Situation brewing, and the last thing Sam wants is for Dean to feel that the Cas thing is a Situation. Consequently, Sam mocks and smirks and teases, Dean flips him off and tells him he'll whup his ass if he doesn't knock it off, and hopefully - hopefully - Dean will feel that current developments fit well enough into the framework of Normal and Okay. Hopefully. This is the plan, anyway.

It isn't like Sam doesn't get how much of a Situation they actually have on their hands, here. Before, when Cas had been compact and blue-eyed and in a skin that didn't share Dean's DNA, Sam would have dismissed any concerns of Dean's that his feelings for Cas were anything other than normal and good and laudable, and he would have meant it. Now, though -- well. Sam would be lying if he claimed not to realise where the potential pitfalls lie in this equation. They start with the part where he and Cas look set to be roomies for kind of a long time, here, and end with the bit where Dean apparently can't see his brother when he's looking at Cas in his body, wants to touch skin that would be Sam's again in an hour, a minute, and hates himself for it. Sam, frankly, couldn't give a shit if Dean and Cas wanted to get into it with the making out if Cas put Sam (firmly) to sleep first and then never told him about it afterwards (ever. Ever). But, given that Dean would almost certainly be ready to throw himself off a cliff with guilt and self-hatred if he capitulated to his Cas-directed urges and enacted them on his kid brother's body, this is obviously not an option. The only option there is, then, as far as Sam can tell, to give them the space they need, encourage them to take what they can get, and act as normally as possible so Dean can at least almost believe Cas might get a new vessel sometime soon, and put them both out of their misery. Hence the teasing.

Cas, though...Sam isn't so sure what to do with regards to Cas. It's not that he's still an enigma, precisely, but more the fact that Cas can sort of see right into Sam's head from where he's generally standing, which makes it very difficult to put on any kind of front at all. Right now, it doesn't feel as if Cas needs special treatment, the sense of him emanating a soft glow of contentment when Sam closes his eyes and hunts him down. Sam only hopes this state of affairs will continue.

"Cas?" he ventures, calling the name softly in their head. "Hey. I can feel you, you know."

Cas laughs a little, presence skipping light along its edges, and nudges back against Sam. "I know," he assures, and he sounds warm and pleased. "Good morning, Sam. I'm sorry I knocked you out last night without asking your consent. It was rude of me."

Sam gives a mental shrug, finds himself smiling too. It's difficult, sometimes, not to get all tangled up in the emotions emanating out of the other presence in his head, especially when they are strong, and now, Cas's contentment is very strong indeed. "That's okay. Sounds like you had good reason."

"Dean and I watched Star Wars," Cas says brightly. It's possibly one of the most incongruous remarks Sam has ever heard him make, and he can't help but laugh at it, surprised.

"Oh, yeah? Did you like it?"

Cas nods, vigorous, unmistakable waves of affirmative light, and Sam grins. "Fit right in, don't you? I love that movie. Dean too."

"He said," Cas says, sounding dreamy and detached. It is a very un-Cas-like tone, but Sam finds that he likes it. "I must thank you, Sam. I had thought that things were irrevocably ruined after Dean and I had our conversation and the aftermath was so...tense." He shakes himself bemusedly. "Human behaviour can be extremely irrational."

"Could say that," Sam agrees. "Hey, why didn't you stick around and wake up with him, though? Speaking of irrational. I think he was kinda skeeved when he got me."

Cas laughs. "I was asleep," he says, simply. "You are a very strange vessel, Sam. Or possibly it's the way we share our space that makes it strange, but I find that I need to sleep, from time to time. Even if you have already rested. I had meant to resurface before you." A pause, then, a little flicker of warm light, half-embarrassed. "I imagine it is nice, to wake up with Dean. He is certainly...comfortable to sleep on."

Sam can't bite back a snort of laughter at that, although Cas's tone is a little wistful. "Yeah, he -- well. Don't tell him I said this, or I will kill you -- " Sam pauses for effect " -- but I always kinda liked when we had to share. It annoyed the shit out of Dean, 'caused I used to kick like crazy, but he was always all warm and comfy. Always felt -- " he gesticulates, groping for words -- "I dunno, safe. Plus he clings like a freaking octopus. He'll wake up with every limb he has wrapped around you and then he'll blame you for it because he's embarrassed that he's such a huge girl when he's asleep, but yeah." He throws Cas a grin. "Guess you'd appreciate that more'n I ever did."

"I guess," Cas says, and his tone is still warm, but the air has gone out of a little, the edges of it turned a little rueful. "I guess I would."

"Hey," Sam breaks in; gives him a little mental shake. "None of that, okay? I've told Dean, and I'm telling you: if you guys want time to yourselves, all you gotta do is ask. You tell me and I'm perfectly happy to be put to sleep for the duration. So you can give him all the attention he never got enough of, yeah?" Sam laughs a little, shakes his head. "I'd say give him a hug from me, too, but it seems kinda crass under the circumstances."

Cas, though, doesn't seem to think so, the sense of him pleased and touched when it ebbs back against Sam. "We are not the same person, Sam," he says, soft. "I know that. You know that. Dean knows that, and also that my -- hugs -- are from me. So I am sure I can pass one on from you and have it be different."

Mine's the one without the ass-grope, Sam thinks -- happily, far enough away from Cas's presence in his mind that Cas doesn't seem to hear. Sam doubts it would be a helpful comment to make. "Okay," is all Sam says, simply. "Thanks, Cas."

"Thank you Sam," Cas says, and the remarkable thing about having Cas in his head is that Sam literally feels his gratitude, like a wash of warm water down his spine, kneading out all the knots.



Sam, Castiel thinks, is a wonderful human being. Castiel had come a long way from the days of thinking of him as an abomination, but all the same, he never quite understood Dean's excessive devotion to Sam until he experienced his generosity first hand. Now, he appreciates it, and it is because of this appreciation that he composes his mental list of grand promises in the wake of recent developments. Sam is a good man, an endlessly loving person, and this means that the least Castiel can do in reciprocation is to be careful of his sensibilities. Castiel owes it to Sam to try and keep things from deviating too far from what they were Before, and he determines to concentrate all his efforts towards this goal, whatever Sam might argue.

He executes his grand plan very successfully for perhaps seven hours, at the end of which time Dean announces his intention to shower and Castiel, blushing furiously at the thought in his place at the back of Sam's mind, recognises the excess of flaws in his scheme. A week ago, his natural inclination would have been to wander into the bathroom as Sam's passenger and study Dean's nakedness through the curtain with a fixation Dean could never detect, however hard he tried. Now, the mere thought makes his stomach twist in knots, even though the stomach is in Sam's possession and Castiel is an interloper in it. He dreads to think what might happen if he were to be presented with Dean in a state of nudity at this moment. Probably, Sam would find himself in possession of a terribly awkward erection, and Castiel would be too ashamed to speak to him for days. Clearly, the plan to Change Nothing will have to be amended slightly.

Hunting, at least, doesn't change. In the week following the Star Wars incident, they hunt down a poltergeist attached to a teenage boy in Iowa, which eludes their efforts to exorcise it for close to four days, and then drive cross-country to a Kentucky town apparently plagued by werewolves. The werewolves, as it turns out, are some form of mutated Jefferson Starship gang and do not respond to any of the Winchesters' tried and tested methods, so Cas dutifully emerges and blasts the pack to smithereens with his Grace. Afterwards, Dean turns to him with a face split on a grin, and Castiel moves towards him unthinkingly, lets Dean pull him into a victory hug. It's -- all right, so it isn't exactly the way things were before, but it isn't weird. Castiel doesn't think he's doing too badly, all things considered, given that Sam's response to the impromptu squeeze is nothing but warmth, even though Castiel hadn't the time to put him to sleep beforehand. When they're hunting, they're a well-oiled machine in which Castiel is a valuable component part, and that is in no way threatened by recent changes.

It's what happens after the hunts are done, after the boys are showered and the grave dirt has washed away down the drain, that is different. Castiel tries not to let it be, despite Sam's protestations that he ought to just do whatever the hell he wants, but sometimes it is impossible to exercise restraint. Sometimes, when Sam has relinquished control partway through the shower because he knows Castiel enjoys the sensation of hot water pounding on his spine, he cannot help the slow drift of his hand towards his cock at the thought of Dean, mud-smeared and grinning in triumph. He cannot help the way his thoughts turn as his head tips back into the spray, water streaming down the column of his throat, over his sternum, jetting down between his legs in little rivulets. He resists, of course, because he has told himself that he will, but sometimes it is difficult enough that only a sudden sluice of cold water will suffice to kill his erection, and afterwards, looking at Dean in his shorts on the bed, he feels like a starving man gazing helplessly on a forbidden steak.

He can never be sure whether Dean is oblivious, or simply pretending to be. The sceptical part of his mind tells him that Dean must surely know the way Castiel thinks about him; must understand that Castiel cannot help but track his eyes up the naked lines of Dean's legs, over the bulge of his cock under his shorts, his flat stomach, his nipples, peaking in the chill. Then the rest of his mind counters, arguing that Dean has always done this; that Dean is unused to looking at his brother's tall shape in the doorway and wondering whether he ought to cover himself up. What he sees is Sam, after all, and Sam is barely even a separate person, has never really felt like one to Dean.

When they are properly together, though, Castiel knows for sure that this line of argument is entirely fallacious. When they are properly together -- when Sam has smirked at Castiel and put himself pointedly to sleep -- Castiel cannot fail to recognise that Dean sees no element of Sam in Castiel, that Dean sees nothing of his brother when he pulls Castiel into his arms. They have no special arrangements, no timetables or rules, but sometimes Dean will smile at Castiel in a particular way and Castiel will see it, will react to it viscerally enough to jolt forward even if Sam is driving. Dean will smile at him, and Castiel will be incapable of resisting it. This is the nature of Dean, and always has been. The difference is that, now, Castiel is no longer in doubt. Dean loves him, and Castiel could almost burst from the truth of it.

The first rule of this existence is no kissing. This would never have come up, Castiel is sure, if it hadn't been for the near-misses, but near-misses there are, and so rules they have to make. Usually, when he and Dean spend evenings together, they watch movies, which Castiel has determined is fairly traditional. Equally traditional is the way they scoot across the mattress, surreptitiously, towards each other as the movie progresses, both with their eyes still fixed on the screen. Castiel intends to keep his attention on the screen, despite the warmth of Dean all down his spine, but sometimes it is impossible, with Dean so close, his breath against Castiel's cheek. The first time things derailed, it is only, Castiel is sure, because the movie gets dull in the middle, but all the same he finds himself with Dean's warm palm on his cheek, Dean's breath on his mouth. Dean leaning in, slow, until their foreheads are pressed together; Dean's hand around the back of Castiel's neck. Dean's eyes are closed, but Castiel keeps his wide open, steady through the panic, studying Dean's face. It is impossible, from this distance, not to catalogue every tiny detail -- their breathing warm on each other's mouths, short and increasingly ragged, and the way Dean's lips have parted half-consciously, wet shine just inside. Dean's fingers shifting reflexively where the hair curls at Castiel's nape; Cas not daring to move except to turn his head, barely perceptibly, gauging how close he can get before their noses touch. Wondering, somewhere treacherous at the back of his mind, if Dean would protest if he leaned in far enough to brush their mouths together, just a graze of skin. Even the thought of it has Castiel's mouth tingling in anticipation, breathlessly, stupidly hoping. Castiel exhales abortively, damp and warm on Dean's mouth, and Dean hitches a tight little sound in the back of his throat, as if the flash of air has caught along the edge of every nerve he has. Dean, Castiel knows, is as aware as he is himself of how impossible this is; knows as well as Castiel does that they can move no closer, but he strains all the same towards the withheld touch, and Castiel's stomach twists at the sight of it.

"Dean," he murmurs, and his lips graze Dean's cheek as he speaks, brush against the smooth skin of his face. "Dean, we can't." His eyes are steady and wide on Dean's face, but Dean's are still closed, still shuttered against the truth of it, as if he could change it by the power of wishing alone.

"Yeah," he says, thumb skimming Castiel's jawline, the underside of his lip. "Yeah, I know." But he doesn't move back; only slides the tips of his fingers into Castiel's hair, not looking, not looking. "Cas..."

It is up to Castiel, then, to jerk his face away with an effort; to press it into the hollow of Dean's smooth throat. "I promised Sam," he says, although he has promised nothing of the sort, knowing that Dean will respond to the thought. "We can't -- Dean, I want --"

"No," Dean agrees, as his fingers smooth the dip of Castiel's nape, the warm skin at his hairline. His hips are caught just slightly away from Castiel's, but Castiel can gauge all the same that he is hard, his cock a thick line in his jeans when Castiel dares a glance. "No kissing," Dean says, firmly, and it becomes their solid rule. No kissing, because Castiel has no desire to deal with Dean's guilt in the aftermath of that, his brother's warm tongue licking wetly into his mouth, whether Castiel is in control or not. It is impossible, and that must be an end to it. It must.

Dean, though, has not been improvising strategy for two decades of his life to no avail.. Dean has never met a rule he couldn't find a loophole in, and this one is no exception.

When Castiel is behind Dean, they determine, out of his line of sight, things are easier. Dean is less likely to snap into the state of tension that breaks over him when their noses brush and he makes himself remember. Face to face, Castiel's vessel is a hindrance, a guilty truth that leaves Dean all the guiltier for taking so long, on many occasions, to recognise it. When they are back to front, it is different. Castiel approaches Dean in a roadside gas station after a hunt, slides long arms around his waist, and Dean is nothing but lax contentedness as he leans back into it, Castiel easily supporting his weight. Later, in a convenience store in Portland, Dean backs up nonchalantly into Castiel without comment, as if on accident, but the way he holds his spine makes his intention clear, and Castiel is happy to oblige and pull him close. This way, there is the comfort without the potential awkwardness, and Dean, ever shrewd, catches onto it quickly.

Soon enough, it becomes a regular occurrence. Particularly when Dean is bodily exhausted, he will hold himself a certain way, nudge back against Castiel as if he can no longer support his own body, and Castiel will embrace him unthinkingly, makes a cradle of his arms. At such times, Castiel is glad of his larger vessel, the ease with which he can envelop Dean in it, and Dean, too, seems content; closes his eyes as he covers Castiel's hands with his own. There is nothing crude in these embraces, nothing dirty or illicit, and often he will leave Sam exactly where he is, let him be warmed too. If Dean should linger longer than usual, though, Castiel will quietly close Sam's consciousness down, press his mouth softly to the bolt of Dean's jaw. Sometimes, Dean's craving for comfort is bone-deep, visceral, and what he craves is Castiel. Perhaps it is wrong, but Castiel guards that privilege jealously, not wanting even Sam to share it and knowing that Sam will understand.

Castiel is unsure when the back-to-front embrace bled from a post-hunt comfort into an evening indulgence. For weeks, they watched their movies side by side on Dean's bed, hands interlacing tentatively over the course of hours. It was nice, to be so close to Dean, the object of his undivided attention despite the coloured images flickering on the TV screen. Sam would absent himself politely, and Castiel would let himself surrender to the tightness clutching at his chest as he and Dean shifted closer, the heady grip of anticipation wrapping itself around his throat. It was dizzying, to see Dean inching closer; left him short of breath and delusional, cataloguing how little it would take to lean in and press his mouth to Dean's, seeing it so vividly he could taste it in on his tongue. It went on for hours, the slow, choking build of tension, and even if it had to break whenever one of them shifted too close, Castiel couldn't imagine anything better -- couldn't compute, now, the idea of relinquishing this.

Then, somewhere among the blushing near-misses, Dean made an adjustment, and Castiel couldn't understand how it had never occurred to them before. In the daytime, it's easier to forget when Dean can see only space, and equally, this is easier when Dean is snugged up against Castiel's front, tucked into the space between his wide-splayed thighs. Dean fits so neatly against him, head tipped back onto his shoulder, the curve of his spine fitted snugly against Castiel's ribcage. The nape of his neck is soft and pale, and Castiel's heart leaps as he sets his lips against it, closed-mouthed and careful, but permissible. This, after all, is not a kiss, not the tangle of tongues they both of them want; not the deep slip-slide of mouths wet with wishing, hands insinuating themselves beneath clothing. This is only Castiel's face in Dean's hair, breathing in the scent of motel shampoo, and, under it, the gunmetal-leather smell of Dean that never dissipates entirely. He smelled like that, Castiel thinks, when he put him back together, made a body out of dust and found that spice-metal tang in its hollows. It is the Dean-smell, and Castiel wants to breathe it in right from the source, lick it from Dean's pores.

Ostensibly, of course, he cannot. Ostensibly, this position is nothing more than an even greater tease, Dean snugged against him all warm strength and clean sweat, close and constant. But there are things unspoken between them, the sense that every rule can be bent, and if Dean's breath catches when Castiel nuzzles at the underside of his jaw -- well, that's nothing that can't be argued away. These motel rooms get chilly, after all, even in midsummer sometimes when the A/C's all wrong, and that could be all that's behind Dean's shivers, the tension in his shoulders. Castiel does not want to pull back, and Dean quite evidently does not want him to. It is only logical to reason things through and conclude that there is no transgression here.

This is no unusual evening, Dean watching something about cowboys while Castiel watches Dean, but they have been hunting, quick and dirty salt-and-burn, and Dean still smells like gunpowder under the soap. Castiel doesn't mean to, but he can't help his fascination. The scent is compelling, and he becomes quickly drunk on it, so strong and near it's almost a taste, proximity muddling his olfactory system. He is only breathing, mouth half-open at the jut of Dean's jawbone, and there is certainly no rule prohibiting that. He is only breathing, and the heavy pressure of his cock swollen under denim could easily be his cellphone in the pocket of his jeans, the TV remote. Dean shows no signs of surprise or disgust, anyway, when he feels it, as he must. On the contrary, he only shrinks back further into Castiel's warmth, crossing his arms over Castiel's on his chest, squeezing his hands. "Cas," he murmurs, and the word alone means nothing, but the languid tilt of Dean's head to the side is altogether more suggestive, skin glimmering faintly in the light from overhead. Lust hits Castiel hollow as a shadow in his gut, but not by a flicker does he betray himself, simply tightening his hands on Dean's and skipping his mouth a little way down the tendon in Dean's neck, slow and careful. It is not a wet slide, not salacious -- only the dry drag of lips, half-felt, on skin, and Castiel's breathing, soft and quick. Dean goes tense, hips arching strangely, when Castiel's mouth finds the space below his ear, the smooth, fine skin, but that could be nothing, Castiel argues. A shiver.

They both know that it is not, of course, but nobody must say so. That is how this game is played. Without rules, societies collapse into degeneracy, especially when, as in their own little microcosm, the degeneracy is so close to the surface.

They fall in on themselves like dominoes, unexpected and completely. Castiel has no intention of moving further than to rub his mouth against the shell of Dean's ear, press it dryly into the hollow behind, but Dean's hand tightens, clenching, on his wrist; Dean's head tilts in evident, catlike encouragement, and lust spears Castiel like a lance. God, Dean. Always so defiant, even in his fear, and Castiel had never thought to see him like this, exposed and trusting, finally, finally. Like this, Dean is open to him, the flicker of his pulse visible under the fine skin of his neck, and Castiel holds Dean's responses in his hands, so much willing to be shaped to Castiel's designs. He knows he should leave it alone, he knows, but Castiel is no longer a god. Castiel is fallible, and Dean smells of gunmetal and rain, a warm clean scent Castiel wants to learn the taste of. Dean draws in a long breath that almost has voice, and Castiel cannot think around the thick thump of his heart, the ringing in his ears. He opens his mouth.

The sound Dean makes at that is beautiful, raw and shocking, and it thrills Castiel to the marrow. Nothing but the suggestion of dampness between Castiel's parted lips, and Dean is groaning, desperate, his fingers vice-like on Castiel's wrists. He hisses in its wake, sibilant through his teeth, and Castiel cannot but inch himself closer, gripping Dean's hands in fierce response as he traces incremental circles with his mouth, faint drag of lips across the skin. Dean squirms against him, pumps his hips, and Castiel feels the heat of it well up through his body in spurts of want, viscous and filthy. "Dean," he breathes, unintended, against Dean's ear, and his voice is low and dark and his own. A shiver flicks its tail across the breadth of Dean's shoulders, and his fingers flex again on Castiel's wrists, pulling them forward in a slow, firm roll.

"Shit," Dean mutters, "shit. Cas."

Dean pulls, shifts, and Castiel follows blindly. More by accident than design, they wind up on their sides on the bed, Castiel spooned tight against Dean's back, Dean's fingers clenching and unclenching on his as his hips roll slowly, lazy fucks against nothing. Castiel is no longer under any illusions, his own cock thick against Dean's backside through his jeans, and the scent of Dean has changed, now, coarsened under his mouth. He says Dean's name again, voice breaking, and Dean's subsequent shudder confirms his suspicion that the vocal reminder that Castiel is not Sam is what gives Dean's blood its permission to burn, to inch a little further into the realms of the forbidden.

There is nothing they can do to be properly intimate, but lying with Dean like this, Castiel cannot help thinking they are intimate already. Here is Dean; here is Dean's arousal, and Castiel is both the cause of and the witness to it. Already, he has more than he ever thought to get from Dean, and it would be ungrateful indeed not to recognise the beauty of this for what it is.

They move against each other slowly, the rhythm picking up out of nowhere and coiling around Castiel like a cat. He barely registers he's doing it until Dean shifts in his arms; squirms around, eventually, with his eyes closed and his breath shuddering from his parted lips, and Castiel realises. Face to face is not the way they usually do things, but now it seems that they have bypassed that point, the arena of control in which these rules held sway. Now, there is only Dean's knee between Castiel's, although their groins are held politely back from each other; now, Dean's hands on his shoulders, at his nape. Dean's hands in his hair, his breath on Castiel's mouth, almost wet with heat. Castiel bites down a shudder and angles his head, buries his face once more in the side of Dean's neck, softly parted mouth in the hollow of his throat.

"Cas," Dean groans, threading fingers through his hair. Castiel swallows and shifts against him, slow undulation of his trembling body. Dean is taut beneath his clothes, everywhere tense, and Castiel's fingers map the width of his back, the dip of his spine, the strip of skin exposed between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans. Dean shudders bodily at the brush of skin on skin, hips pitching forward, and there, there is Dean's hardness, straining against denim. Castiel sips in a helpless breath, pushes into it as far as he dares. Dean's thigh skitters up a little way further into the junction between Castiel's legs; he twists his hips and rocks once. And again. And again, slow and careful. Castiel can hear their breathing hollow in his head; can smell the tang of sweat creeping over them in swathes. They are only barely touching, there where they shouldn't, but Castiel feels it everywhere, the contact like a constant ringing in his ears, sparking in his blood and under his skin. This is Dean, and his body yearns for closeness; his Grace, his animus, recognise Dean's shape. Perhaps he will die this way, and nobody will ever understand the cause. He rubs his mouth against Dean's skin and whimpers.

If he had known before the way it felt, the way it would feel in his newest vessel, Castiel might have recognised what was coming -- might have pulled back, frustrated and with honour. Castiel has been too honourable, though, and he does not know the signs in this body, the way it pulls in on itself, heat seizing white behind the eyes. No kissing, that is the rule, but they are not kissing, he and Dean. This is not sex, is only their hands mapping each other in shivering paths, Dean's breath warm in Castiel's hair, his own mouth damp against Dean's long throat. This is not supposed to be sex, and so the part of Castiel that is human, full of denial and yearning, refuses to contemplate the thought that it might be; refuses to parse the way his blood is picking up, the way Dean is moving, sinuous, against him. Dean, presumably, is doing the same thing, reason overridden by the cloying closeness of his wanting and his endless capacity for self-delusion. This is only the two of them, watching movies together, and if Castiel's hips are shifting more quickly now, heartbeat starting to centre in a pounding arrow of heat between his legs -- well then, Castiel's grace is responding, growing stronger on the presence of its mate. Castiel is breathless, losing feeling in his fingers, but Dean's hands are warm and anchoring on his back, Dean's little hitched breaths perfect in his ear.

"Cas," Dean is chanting, "Cas, God, I don't, I want, yeah," and it's nonsense, tripping out over his tongue. Castiel doesn't know why his spine pulls tight at the sound of it, why his hips snap forward hotly.

"Dean," he manages, fighting the word through fog. "Dean -- oh --"

The last thing he remembers before it hits him is Dean's face, the eyes wide and glass-green when Castiel jerks back to look at it. Dean's pupils black and dilated and endless, staring Castiel down, seeing him, but seeing nothing beyond. Castiel feels his blood leap wildly, his body jack-knifing as he digs his fingers into the muscle of Dean's back. He feels the heat, then, begin to pulse from him, wet and visceral, and realises what is happening only as he turns his head unconsciously, presses his mouth hard and bruising against Dean's. The next thing he knows, as understanding dawns, is the shame, so black and violent that his blood goes cold with it, but in the tiny space between the pleasure and the abyss, there is one thing, one tiny thing he remembers.

Dean kisses him back, only a cling of lips, but there.

It is not enough to anchor him in his shame, to rectify this level of betrayal -- after everything he has done, Castiel could not even find it in himself to keep from breaking their cardinal rule; could not keep his mouth from Dean's in the moment of climax he never should have let himself fall into. It is not enough, but as the doors begin to slam shut in his mind, it flickers like a candle, receding into the darkness. Dean --

The inner sanctum of any vessel is buried behind layers of everything, a tiny kernel of space in which an angel might conceal himself for decades. Castiel does not even have time to process thought before his shame has propelled him into the darkness, fastened and bolted the entrances.

The vessel falls sideways afterwards, apparently lifeless, but Castiel is not in a position to see it.




The body hits the mattress with a thump, and then is still. The body, Dean thinks, with a sort of stunned detachment, not only because it was so firmly Cas an instant ago and now looks so much like Sam, empty and inanimate, but also because the motionlessness is acute, disturbing, and Dean feels his stomach turn with something more terrifying than belated guilt. Images flash through his mind in fragments: Sam on the floor of some derelict house, tripping Hell; Sam on the bed in the panic room, comatose, his Wall broken. Cas fixed the Wall, broke it down and erased its foundations; but looking at Sam like this -- and it is Sam, this vessel, the shell -- Dean isn't so sure. He thinks of Sam with a bullet in his chest; with a knife in his back, bleeding out, and shudders. "Cas," he mutters, in a thin twist of a voice, "what the fuck did you do?"

When he lays his hand on Sam's chest, his first thought is that it isn't moving, and something dark and panicked spirals up in his throat. But Castiel didn't leave, or Dean would have seen it, and no vessel can die with an angel inside. "Breathe, Dean," he mutters; fumbles with the buttons of Sam's over-shirt, spreading it open over his heart. It might have been awkward, given what just happened, but with the anxiety crushing Dean's chest like girds of iron, he doesn't need to concentrate to make the gesture recall only what it should -- doing up Sammy's buttons for him, brushing his hair. Little brother, and Dean's every instinct is racing to protect.

"Sammy, come on." He lays his palm flat over Sam's heart and, this time, there is something perceptible through the thin t-shirt, a thready but definite beat. Relief floods Dean's mouth and throat like mercury, viscous and metallic. "Sam." He reaches up, smacks Sam's cheek with his open palm, not hard.

It is all it takes. A moment later, Sam's eyelashes flicker groggily; he groans, shifts his head on the pillow. Of course, there is no reason he shouldn't have been okay, except that Dean doesn't know anymore what Cas is physically capable of, and sometimes he thinks he is right to be afraid.

"Dude," he says, weak with recoil, when Sam finally focuses confused eyes on him. "You okay?"

"What happened?" Sam asks. It is all Dean not can do to laugh in response, but it is a dark urge, no humour in it. Happily, any arousal he might have felt beat a hasty retreat at Cas's rude departure, but it was there, and Sam is going to find that out, whether Dean wants him to or not. At least, he is going to notice something sooner or later, maybe draw his own conclusions from the mess of his jeans, and Dean feels hot with shame and disgust just imagining what he might think.

"Dean?" Sam reaches a long arm for him, clutches at his shoulder and Dean, on gut instinct, shakes it summarily away, stomach turning. At the hurt look on Sam's face, he regrets it, but the reality of what just happened here is crowding in at the back of his mind, making him physically nauseous. He can't cope with that right now, not if he hopes to deal sensibly with the bigger issue at hand. Castiel was here, and now he isn't, and the changeover was dramatic to say the least. Everything else, Dean decides firmly, can wait.

He throws Sam an apologetic smile and sits back on his heels, rubbing one hand distractedly over his face. "I, uh." It would help, he thinks, if he actually knew the answer to Sam's question. "Maybe you better ask Cas."

The way Sam's face changes at that -- a brief pensive look, followed by something close to distress - is neither what Dean expects nor what he was hoping for. He sits forward abruptly. "Sam?"

"Dean," Sam begins, voice a slow, uncertain crawl, and Dean can hear already that he will not like whatever Sam is about to say. "Did Cas -- leave?"

Yeah, he doesn't like that at all. "Leave?" Dean blinks. "Um, not that I saw. And it's kind of hard to miss when that guy makes an exit, you know?"

Sam nods, but his brows are furrowing, drawing together. "You definitely didn't notice anything? White light, glass-shattering sounds?"

"Yeah, Sam, I think I woulda caught either of those signs." Dean rolls his eyes, but he feels no levity at all right now. "Why would you say that?"

There is a creeping doubt emerging in the pit of Dean's stomach, but he doesn't know quite what he's afraid of until Sam voices it. "I can't feel him," he says simply. "I mean, he hides sometimes, but I can tell that's what he's doing, you know? Right now it feels like he's..." Sam shrugs. "Gone."

Trust Cas, Dean thinks bitterly, to get so freaked out over a goddamn accidental orgasm that he'd fuck off and leave Dean with the confusion and the guilt and the broken heart, again. Except that they're past that, now, and Dean knows it. It is an unfair supposition, and Castiel, more to the point, cannot have left. He cannot have left without Dean seeing it, and Dean saw nothing. Which means he will simply have to look harder.

"Sam," he says, slow, "He can't have gone, man. I'm telling you, I didn't see anything. One minute he was right there, and then, bam, he was flat on his back. Or, I don't know, you were flat on your back, out cold."

Sam is studying him in bemusement, brows still drawn together. "Just like that?"

Of course, Dean thinks bitterly, of course he wants to just treat it like a case. Dean has trained his kid brother far too goddamn well, and now it's coming back to bite him in the ass, because Sam is the prime piece of evidence in this investigation, and that will make evasion difficult. "Yeah," he says, "Just like that." He spreads his hands. "He can't be gone, Sam."

"Dude," Sam counters, shaking his head as he shifts, finally, and makes to pull himself up into a shifting position. "Something must have happened. He can't just -- "

He cuts off abruptly, frozen in the act of rearranging his legs, and Dean wants to sink through the floor. His heart is beating a tarantella of shame in his chest and he can't even pretend to keep his eyes open and watch this, watch Sam's face. There's a long pause, during which Dean's stomach does several barrel rolls worthy of Baron von Richthofen. Then comes Sam's voice, small, but creditably professional.

"Dean," he says, tightly, "can you just, um. I don't wanna pry or anything, but this could make a difference if it's evidence or whatever, so can I just --" He breaks off. Dean wills him to shut the fuck up before Dean's forced to scream to blot out the rest of it, but Sam has apparently lost any vestige of psychic power he may have once possessed, because the bastard goes on: "Was this, um -- was this a result of Cas blacking out, or did it happen before?"

"Jesus, Sam," Dean mutters, "do we have to talk about it?"

"Before, then," Sam says, nodding his head curtly, and Dean blinks, snaps back to look at him defensively.

"Why do you say that?"

"Dude," Sam says, raising a shoulder in a rueful half-shrug, "you knew what I was talking about. So, since it hasn't stained, I assume -- which, you know, is fine, I mean, I told Cas -- "

"Sam!" Dean breaks in, hardly able to believe what he's hearing. "Sam! Dude! No!"

Sam pauses in mid-stride, looks at him narrowly. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean," Dean says, through gritted teeth, "we weren't -- I wasn't gonna screw Cas while he was wearing my freaking kid brother, okay?" Much as he may have, oh hell, wanted to on occasions he'd berated himself for afterward, when Cas had fled the building and Dean had looked at Sam and thought I'm going to hell. Again. Sam would snap back in, and Dean's feelings shifted like a switch being flipped, but he still remembered the way he'd felt an instant before, the way he'd wanted to reach out and touch. He knows it's sick, this stupid inability to step back and fucking look at the situation, remind himself that this is his brother's body even if it's Cas in it. And now it's led them here, to this, Cas grinding against him and apparently giving himself some kind of forbidden orgasm of death. Jesus Christ. "Dude," Dean reiterates, firmly, "we weren't doing -- that. So you can put that out of your mind right now."

Sam blinks at him a little, looking nonplussed. "But," he says, after a minute, "so -- in that case, this happened after, you're telling me? As a result of the blackout?"

Oh, hell. Dean sighs. "Not exactly."

"But you said -- "

"Jesus, I know what I said, Sam!" Dean scrubs a hand through his hair, drops it irritably. "Okay. I -- it happened before, yeah. But it -- it was never meant to. I didn't touch y-- him. He was just, like -- snuggling me -- " he sneers the word "-- and it happened. But that was the first time, Sam!"

He's panting, flushed all up his face with hoping that Sam will just nod and let the matter drop, but Sam's gotten a pensive look on his face that, shit, Dean thinks spells trouble. Or at least lingering, which is just as bad. "The first time?"

Dean clenches his eyes shut and counts to three. "Yeah, Sam, the first time. Do I gotta write it down?"

Sam doesn't rise to the bait as he is intended to, though; just jerks his head in distracted acknowledgement. "I wonder," he says, thoughtfully. "The first time. I bet it was, you know, absolutely the first. I did ask him if he wanted to, you know -- " Sam performs a little mime, unmistakable back-and-forth motion of his tunnelled fingers.

"Oh, gross," Dean mutters.

"But he wouldn't," Sam finishes, still with that pensive look on his face. "Said he felt like he'd be disrespecting me or something, even though I said he could. So, I don't know, maybe it was that?" Sam shrugs. "He didn't mean to, and then it caught him by surprise and now he's ashamed?"

Dean studies Sam for a long moment, sceptical. "You think Cas has put himself on angel-humiliation lock-down because he touched you in the bad place when he told you he wouldn't?"

Sam huffs, protesting, but once he's done pulling the bitch-face he shrugs and nods. "I guess. It's possible, right? Did anything else happen?"

Dean thinks back to a split second of contact, Cas's mouth on his and the image of Cas in his mind like a hallucination of what he had first gotten attached to, Cas's blue eyes, his mussed dark hair. They shouldn't have done that. They'd decided not to, and when Dean thinks on it too closely his stomach clenches unhappily, even under the overriding sense of rightness. But Cas had already been strange by then, falling into his fit, and Dean doesn't think he can bring himself to tell Sam about it. It would play into the shame idea anyway, Cas betraying what he promised Dean as well as what he promised Sam. Again.

Dean sighs. Okay, looking at it that way, the idea seems a lot more plausible. "Nah," he says, slowly, "but I think you may be right. He promised you he wasn't gonna do that, he promised me he wasn't -- or, you know, we agreed we weren't, because, gross -- and you know he's spent these past months desperately trying to get over the last betrayal he pulled."

"Oh, shit, Dean," Sam says, suddenly all understanding, the puppy eyes of concern firmly in place. "Oh, Cas."

"Yeah," Dean says, his mouth twisting. "Ready to bet he's put a hell of a lot more emphasis on this latest promise stuff than we ever did, from what you said."

Sam nods, eyes fixed on a point on the bedspread. "Think he could have locked himself down somewhere I can't find him?" he asks. "You know -- gone to ground to beat himself up?"

"Could be," Dean agrees. "And if not, I don't have a better idea right now, because he sure as hell didn't leave. Maybe you can try and dig for him, ferret him out?"

"Yeah," Sam says slowly. "That... yeah."

"I tell you what," Dean puts in, bitterly, "we have got to get Cas another vessel, man. Since apparently if lugging around your gigantic self doesn't kill him, his crippling desire for my fine ass might."

Dean neatly evades the point of his own crippling urge to pull Cas against him and fuck him stupid. Sam doesn't need to hear that, and Dean sure as hell doesn't need to think about it.

Sam, thankfully, doesn't pursue the point, just laughs a little, nods. "Yeah," he says, "true." He stands up, joints popping. "Okay, so -- plan a, I try and find Cas. Plan b, we see if anyone knows how to conjure up a vessel capable of holding an archangel without having to, like, birth one."

Dean wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, I am not waiting twenty years for Cas to grow up into some hot babe."

Sam laughs. "Be just as bad, wouldn't it, as him being in me? If you had to bring her up and all."

Dean pulls a face, gives Sam a shove. "Take your fixation away into the shower, dude, yeah? Fuckin' stink."

He's making light, but Sam's face shifts a little, the smile losing its momentary edge of brightness and becoming sympathetic again as his hand finds Dean's shoulder. "Okay," he says gently, "okay. But, Dean?" He squeezes, quick hard grip. "We'll find Cas. We'll fix this. Don't we always?"

The look on his face is all earnestness, so much certainty and Sam, that Dean can't help but smile a little back, even if he isn't so sure he believes. "I guess," he offers, and Sam squeezes again, lets go.

"We will," he says, firmly, and disappears into the bathroom.



There is no sign from Cas the first night. Sam doesn't want to admit it to Dean, given the state of agitation his brother is clearly already in, but the absence is beginning to scare him. He knows, superficially, he knows that Dean is right, that Cas couldn't possibly have left him without it having been obvious to any and all observers, but after an hour's careful and methodical exploration of their once-shared brainscape, Sam is starting to have doubts. Doubts as to whether, for example, Dean really could have been observing the entire time. Cas is a freaking angel, after all, and not even just your standard watcher any more, but something greater, unpredictable and unprecedented. If Cas has always been able to rework time and scour the world for a hairpin in less than a minute, how difficult would it have been for him to distract Dean's attention for the half-second it would take to flee Sam's body? He could have simply frozen Dean in time for thirty seconds while he made his exit, and the Winchesters wouldn't be any the wiser. Sam has had Cas's presence in his head for weeks now, months, and he knows how it feels to have him there. This absence, the tumbleweed feeling whipping through his head like wind, is a radical shift, and it unsettles Sam on a fundamental level.

For the duration of the evening, Dean doesn't say much. He pokes through a book they already know is useless, throwing Sam impatient glances from time to time, but he doesn't speak, for which Sam is grateful. Dean's never liked seeing Sam or Cas space out of the vessel's driving seat, as it were, to have a conversation way back behind the eyes where it's easy, no barriers between them. They haven't had to do it that way of late, conversation moving easily between them without any special measures required, but whatever Cas is doing now, he's more inaccessible than he ever was, if he's still there. If he's gone to ground, Sam is going to have to go in after him.

He isn't there, as far as Sam can reach. He's out of range, or something, but when Sam is able to reason with himself, what pulls him back from panic is the fact that he can still do this. Sure, it's scary, drawing a total blank after so long in cohabitation, but the one thing Sam is sure of is that he was never able to withdraw into his own head like this, literally, before his body was double occupancy. And that, Sam is at least 80% sure, means that Cas must still be here somewhere. Cas may not want to come out right now, but Sam still has him, locked down somewhere inside himself, and that means he will find him. Sooner or later, Cas will slip, and Sam will be able to haul him back up to the surface again.

Basically, it's a question of constant vigilance. The thought makes Sam smile a little -- this would be a hell of a lot easier if he actually had a magical eye to keep up an unbroken watch over happenings inside his head -- but effectively, it is the only plan he has. Dean may be keeping his questions to himself for tonight, but Sam can feel how great an effort it's taking him, and he knows he won't be able to count on the same hands-off attitude if 24 hours go by with no sign of Cas. Cas is Dean's... person, which would have been enough to make Sam desperate to relocate him, fix him, even if he hadn't become Sam's best friend these past few weeks. More than that, he's a fundamental other half for Sam as much as for Dean now, albeit in a different way, and Sam doesn't want to go on without him, doesn't want to leave him to beat himself up all on his own. For both of them, Cas has to be found, and fast. After that... well. Bobby's been politely absent of late, probably still weird about the whole Godstiel business, but maybe it's time to see what he knows. Failing him, the Campbell library might have some ideas. Get Cas back, and Sam is optimistically sure the rest can just take care of itself.

Sam doesn't mean to stay awake all night, but something about the retreat into his head has the effect of creating a sort of false insomnia within which he is alert, a thought-wave only, no body to feel exhaustion. Time becomes liquid, running together. He knows Dean's asleep -- they put out the lights, and eventually Sam hears Dean's breathing even out, deepening -- but it's difficult to judge beyond that how late it must be, how long he must have spent pacing the inside of his skull and shooting out tendrils of energy into the corners. He's done this before, the exploration, but never so exhaustively or with this kind of urgency. Cas has never been so hard to find, usually emerging after a few gentle prods to speak to Sam in their central space. Now, it feels as if the darknesses just continue to appear, a new one for every part of his mind Sam illuminates with his bursts of energy. If Cas is here anywhere, Sam will find him -- he cannot hide forever -- but he's doing a damn good job at evasion.

There's a sense of tunnelling, of churning up surfaces and burrowing underneath, that Sam's never felt before. He's never spent so long hacking away at things like this, but now having started, he knows he can't stop. New space appears, new places in which Cas might have concealed himself, and so Sam endures, goes on turning over every stone. Probably, he knows, he must look comatose, so deep inside himself that the appearance of a trance-like state has become something more pronounced, almost vegetative. Dean is asleep, though, and Sam would have so far to go back from here that he may as well just keep on going forward. He feels as if he's tunnelled almost to the centre of the earth, the remaining uncovered ground diminishing, and something is tugging at the edges of his energy, something uncertain and unhappy and animate. Cas is somewhere close by, he knows it. With a last great effort, he throws out a wide-spanning sweep of light, watches it glancing off the walls of this cavern in his mind.

"Cas!" The word is a pulse of intensity, rippling out of Sam like sonar.

He feels it the moment it hits something, feels it like a punch. It is as if the long wave of energy is still attached to him somewhere, physically part of him, and he feels the jar when it makes contact with another presence. Sam has no idea how long he's been at this, now, has no idea even how to retreat, but there is someone here, and Sam is no longer in fragments, so that only leaves one potential candidate. He reiterates his call, a weaker little pulse of the tendril.

The response, when it comes, is faint, a thready little thing like the protest of a wounded animal, wanting to be left alone to die in peace. It is miserable, thin, but Sam recognises it instantly, knowing the colour of Cas's light. Sam, the message tells him, although it is too faint and dejected to actually form words, go away. Leave me alone.

If Sam were in direct contact with his heart, no doubt he would now be able to hear it pounding. He gathers himself up, treading carefully. "Cas, come on." A pause. "It's okay. You're okay."

A flash of something stronger, then, but the tone of it is the same as before, shame and unhappiness. I can't do this.

"Do what?" Sam prompts, his voice urgent. "Dude, we're worried. Dean thought you'd left."

If only I could leave, Cas shoots back, and this time the energy is stronger, closer to the way Sam remembers it. I cannot do this, Sam. I betrayed both of you. I should have known better.

Sam sighs, something heavy and full. "Cas, you didn't. You guys are, you know, whatever you are, and you got carried away. It's not a crime, okay? I don't blame you for it."

Dean does, Cas shoots back, immediate and twisting on an edge of bitterness. I'm making him feel guilty. He doesn't need anything else to feel guilty about.

That part at least Sam cannot argue with, but the fact remains that Dean would rather have Cas back on the surface alive, so that they can actually start to fix things, than buried in Sam's head, out of sight, so Dean can do nothing but painstakingly dwell on whatever happened to cause the retreat. Sam takes a deep mental breath. "Look, I get that. But seriously, you locking yourself up down here? All it's doing is making Dean obsess about it. He can't stop thinking about it, wondering what you've done, if he broke you. You want him not to feel guilty, you gotta come back up, man."

It's a low blow, and Sam knows it but it seems to strike a chord, the sense of Cas going still and hurt. It's a pensive sort of hurt, though, so Sam pushes on, emboldened. "I know you can't go on like this, Cas. We get that. But we have a plan, okay?"

"A plan?" Cas puts in, sceptically. His voice, Sam is pleased to note, has more body, now, the sense of him more clear and present. "What plan?"

"Won't know," Sam shoots back, enigmatic, "if you don't come out and see." A pause, and then he pulses out another burst of energy, curling light around the fuzzy edges of Cas, glowing faintly in the dark. Cas always liked that before, and it seems to calm him a little now, lowering the frequency of his vibrations. "Look, I'll give you some time to yourself, okay? I know you're embarrassed. But you don't need to be. We can all just get over this is if you come up and let us deal. So... tomorrow?" Another little nudge. "I know where you live, now, man. You can't hide from me in my own head."

The answering flicker Cas gives is hardly the mental laughter Sam has experienced from him in the past, but it is a start, an echo, and it fills Sam's chest with hope. "All right," Cas promises slowly. "You -- go ahead of me, wake up. Tell Dean not to worry. I will be up soon."

"Better be," Sam says, and his voice is curt in an attempt to disguise his sudden dizzying rush of relief.

It is a long climb back up to the surface, and when he wakes, blinking, it is a little after five a.m. The room is grey with the early morning light, and Sam feels suddenly, cripplingly tired, but all told, he's pretty sure his night's endeavours have been worth it.



Castiel is giving Sam time to sleep. He will need a certain amount of rest to compensate for his night's adventuring within the confines of his head, and Castiel has no wish to disturb him before he needs to. This, at least, is what he tells himself as he hunches down a little behind the place they have termed the 'passenger seat', fighting the urge to flee again, either down or out. Eventually, though, even after his strangely-scheduled night, Sam wakes up, and this renders Castiel's argument distressingly redundant. He is far enough away from Sam's major operative centre that he knows Sam will not feel him directly, but he can see what is going on -- cannot help but see it. Dean is exiting the bathroom fully dressed when Sam blinks awake, and the sight of this uncharacteristic precaution makes Castiel's stomach dip a little in shame. He knows that Sam is right -- logically, it could only do harm if he were to abandon Dean now, without explanation or apology -- but Castiel is right too: he cannot go on like this. Dean is perfect, the scent of him body and soul, and Castiel cannot look at him with no promise of touching, not when he knows how Dean feels. Not now.

For a while, he cannot bring himself to do more than observe, and even that is painful, this tilt of Dean's head or that movement of Sam's hand recalling the waves of shame. It is a very human thing, to be bodily ashamed, and Castiel felt it last night like a breaker to the chest, like a chair to the face, too strong and unfamiliar for him to react with anything other than flight. Even now, the little ebbing aftershocks of humiliation set him shivering, leaving him tensed against the urge to flee, either back down into his secret dugout in Sam's mind or out through his mouth and damn the consequences. It takes some very concentrated thought to calm the urges, reiteration of the fact that fleeing now could only make the situation exponentially worse, and even still, while he does not retreat, he doesn't want to go forward. Knowing rationally that he must is an entirely separate issue from feeling that he can, dreading how Dean might look at him when he emerges if he can barely even look at his brother. Dean is nervous, jumpy, and Castiel has watched him long enough to know that, although he never goes out of his way to touch Sam, he makes no special effort to avoid touching him, either. Now, he is avoiding all contact, making conscious decisions to walk around pieces of furniture so as not to brush past Sam in passing, setting his coffee pointedly on the table instead of putting it in Sam's hand as usual. Dean is nervous, and Castiel's own anxiety is in no need of encouragement.

When he hears Sam recounting to Dean the details of the night before, even if only in brief, the shame bubbles up again like blood from a wound. If Castiel could physically put a hand over his eyes instead of watching this, he would, but Sam is in possession of their hands at the moment and Castiel does not dare retreat in any other way, lest he feel entirely unable to come back out.

"It's okay," Sam is saying. "He was there. I gave him some time, and he said he'd be here when he was ready." He shrugs. "He promised, and dude, I know he knows there'd be no point in bullshitting us on this. If he doesn't come out by the end of the day, I can just go right back in there and prod him till he does."

"Huh," is all Dean says. It's not as bad as it might have been -- Castiel was anxiously waiting for a snide remark from Dean about what Castiel's promises are worth -- but it is unreadable, flat, and in some ways that is almost worse. At least if Dean had seemed straightforwardly angry, Castiel would have known what to expect. Like this, he is still hovering in total darkness.

"Yeah," Sam says, with a shrug, as if he understands Dean's grunt on a level Castiel never could. Castiel sighs. On second glance, though, Dean's face betrays nothing set, nothing concealed so much as simply an ignorance, a nervous impatience that suggests he is perhaps as uncertain as Castiel is. Perhaps Castiel is expecting the blind to lead the blind. Perhaps his delay is as unfair to both of them as his entrapment in this impossible vessel, the difference being that this is one thing that Castiel has the power to change.

He doesn't know what Sam meant, when he talked about fixing things. He had seemed earnest, but then, Sam always does. Castiel knows he oughtn't set too much store by it, but the temptation to do so is great. Many a time, the Winchesters have achieved the impossible through sheer power of will alone, and the power of three strong wills is behind this forlorn hope.

Castiel takes a deep breath, a final look at Dean's distracted face, his green eyes blank and fixed on the carpet. For a long, last moment, he takes stock; and then he is snaking forward, cutting through the roil of nausea he feels at the prospect. He catches at Sam gently in acknowledgement as he displaces him, surging up and out.

He can do this. For Dean, for both of them, he has to.



part 4

Comments

[l0stmyrel1g10n.livejournal.com]

Basically, it's a question of constant vigilance. The thought makes Sam smile a little -- this would be a hell of a lot easier if he actually had a magical eye to keep up an unbroken watch over happenings inside his head

XD Now I want crossover fic where Mad-Eye Moody reluctantly lends his expertise and wisdom to Sam and Dean on a hunt.


On a more serious note, you are such an amazing writer.... I can viscerally feel Cas' shame (poor bb!) just from reading it. And I actually can't find the words to express my admiration and appreciation for this.

*gleefully goes to read part 4*

[verizonhorizon.livejournal.com]

That whole section of Dean and Cas toeing the line was sooooo hot. Seriously. There is something intensely erotic about being disallowed something; makes temptation all the sweeter! You wrote it in such detail and in such a satisfying, drawn-out way!