Our Bodies, Possessed By Light -- Part 2

[obstinatrix]

Dean would never admit it, but the fact is that he went on acting out about the whole Operation: Sam Shell situation for a helluva lot longer than it actually bothered him for. Sure, at first he was terrified by the whole idea of it, his brother with his wall gone kaput stepping up to an angel recently demoted from godhood and saying fill me up. Dean couldn't see how that could end in any way other than absolute tragedy and fucked-up-ness, and Dean had pretty much had his fill of both of those. It wasn't that he didn't want Cas around - most of him, if he had to admit it, yearned for the old days when everything was falling apart except their little three-man unit, stronger than it had ever been, their angel dozing in the backseat as they took down the apocalypse. And yeah, Dean's aware of exactly how fucked up it makes him that the glory days of recent years were the highlights of the End Times. That isn't the issue. The issue was the part where what Dean wanted back was Cas. Not Castiel, not this hyperinflated, wrathful being so pumped up on soul toxins as to be entirely unrecognisable, but Cas, the guy who used to text Dean incompetently at four in the morning and whose mark on Dean's shoulder showed the absolute depths of how far he would go for him, how far he had gone. That was the Cas Dean wanted, and his greatest fear was that something else would fill Sam up, someone he didn't recognise, and then he'd have neither his brother, nor his friend. That was Dean's problem with The Plan.

The thing is, once Sam and Cas got their shit figured out, Dean realised pretty quick that the Cas they'd literally taken in was certainly not the warped travesty of his imagination. At first, he had been quiet, Dean now understands in contrition, but Dean had avoided talking to him much, and that had made the general stiffness hard to read. Dean kept his head down and frowned and ignored him, hoping against hope that whatever-it-was would get the hell out quickly and leave him and Sam in peace. Sure, life wouldn't be the same without Cas, but better a retreat to the way they'd once been than some messed-up enslavement to a creature no longer a god, but something other than an angel. Dean couldn't stand to look at his brother and see the gestures and expressions of someone he didn't recognise, couldn't stand there and feel again the ache he'd felt watching Lucifer or Meg manipulate him. So, Dean kept out of his way until the day Sam stumbled under the force of his own irritation right back into the front seat. At which point, it became pretty clear that, in the first place, Sam was not ground under the boot of some vengeful god, and in the second, Dean actually wouldn't have to go without either his brother or his angel. Cas was a little shiftier than Dean remembered, but Sam was pretty sure he was Cas, and next time Sam checked out, Dean confirmed it for himself in the space of a brief conversation. The thing wearing, sharing Sam is the Cas Dean knew, and that pretty much revolutionised his feelings about the whole situation.

It's taken him a shockingly short space of time to figure out when a swap has occurred. Sam, of course, is still so obviously Sam that Dean could never have mistaken him for anyone else, and Cas -- Cas has a way of manipulating Sam's body, all those yards and yards of it, in a way that somehow exactly resembles the way he had walked and moved in Jimmy Novak's much more compact form, a way that is uniquely and unmistakably Castiel. Dean doesn't know why he's surprised by it, really. He saw, certainly, how different poor Jimmy was to Castiel, how unlike each other they really were, for all they wore the same skin. But it's strange, still, to look at his brother and see only Castiel, hear only Cas. Often, Dean wakes up to find Sam still sleeping while Cas is propped up against the headboard, reading; wishes Dean good morning in his familiar, dark-gravel voice, from Sam's mouth but definitely not Sam's. It's weird, but Dean swiftly becomes aware that he doesn't mind. It isn't bad-weird. He and Cas haven't exactly gotten around to having a heart-to-heart about the whole Godstiel situation, but the fact remains that it's nice to be able to look over and see immediately that Cas is still here, still their Cas, even if his face is different. As if his face is irrelevant. Dean hadn't really thought, before, about how he might respond to Cas in a different vessel, but here he is, wearing the vessel that means more to Dean than any other, and yet all Dean can see is Castiel in Sam's broad hands, his hazel eyes, the cut of his chin like Dean's and like their father's. He can look at it, and not see Sam at all. Just Cas. It shouldn't be possible, Dean thinks, and yet it is. It's Cas, and Dean feels the same way towards him in his gut as he felt before, when Cas was all wide blue eyes and unbrushed hair and that trench coat.

It's definitely something to think about. Even if part of Dean isn't sure he wants to.




Cas himself again or not, Dean's not actually so totally socially unaware as not to have realised there's kind of an elephant in the room between the two of them, keeping their conversations inconsequential, even if they're not so terse any more. He and Cas talk, but there's always a sense of something running under it, unsaid, and Dean's not sure how long he can live with that kind of evasiveness. Dean's of the opinion that keeping secrets usually proves to be a horrible idea all round, and, goddammit, it's not like he doesn't have good reason for it. It's not as if he wants to throw down the gauntlet and demand some kind of sappy-ass hugfest where they all sit around and talk about their feelings, but -- yeah, okay, fine. Dean thinks they should talk about their feelings. Happily, Sam is currently asleep somewhere at the back of Cas's head -- or so Dean understands from their meagre explanations of how that works -- which puts him too far away to pull out the smug expression of I told you so. It also means that Dean has Cas entirely to himself, which is the sort of opportunity he's been waiting for. They've been working this thing for long enough now that it's pretty obvious what the remaining loose end is, and evidently it's up to Dean to make the first overtures towards tying it up again. Sam seems to have left it for him specially; or, at least, if he's talked to Cas about it himself, he hasn't mentioned it. He seems to think this is something Dean needs to hash out for himself, and, probably, he's right. And, given how unusual it is to get Cas alone like this without going to the extreme formality of asking him to actively put Sam to sleep, Dean thinks there's really no time like the present.

Being Dean Winchester, master of subtlety and tact, he knows he'll have to navigate the conversational waters carefully. "So," he says, spreading out a crinkled map of Nevada on his bedspread, "millions of monster souls, huh? What'd that feel like?"

The look on Cas's face is a picture, a deer-in-the-headlights stare that bears no resemblance to Sam's at all. He's been flipping idly through the local newspaper for upwards of ten minutes, but he pauses, now, fingers frozen in the act of turning the page. "Uh," he says, eloquently, after a long beat. "It was -- I -- " He takes a shaky breath, looking suddenly so uncomfortable that Dean almost wants to backtrack, except that this was always going to be uncomfortable and it has to be done. "Disorienting," Cas finishes, stiltedly, after a moment's fumbling for words. His cheeks, Dean notices, are pink along the ridges of bone, and his eyes are pointedly averted. Dean strives to keep his own voice neutral.

"Disorienting like how?" The map is still crinkled deeply across the centre, and he sets himself to smoothing it, pressing on the crease with his palms. Cas, it seems, is heartened by his apparent distraction.

"Like being drunk, I suppose," he offers, and if his voice is tight with embarrassment, at least it is almost a complete sentence. "A little might have been pleasurable, but this was too much. It caused -- an altered mental state."

Dean nods slowly; pauses in his straightening, because this is actually...this is actually useful information. They got into the habit, he and Sam, of thinking of Cas that way, as if he'd become an addict, an alcoholic, one soul in his hands driving the need for another, and another. But, as with alcoholism, that sort of thing doesn't just spiral away out of nowhere, and Dean is half afraid of knowing what had caused this in Cas. His deal with Crowley, at least, Dean can rationalise, as Cas rationalised it: he had a war to fight, and no weapons with which to fight it, and all he'd wanted was to save the poor goddamn world, again, without dragging Dean out of his erstwhile retirement. Ill-advised, maybe, but Dean can get that, he can. Sam, even more so, when they'd discussed it. But this last -- whatever it was that had driven him to suck up all those souls himself, like some kind of great celestial sponge -- that, Dean can't understand. His fingers clench unconsciously on the shiny surface of the map, making it crumple at the edges. "Why'd you do it, Cas?" He doesn't mean to say it until it's out; is surprised to hear it coming out of his mouth, but it's exactly what he's thinking. "You must've known it'd be too much."

The look on Cas's face at that is incredulous and pained, something like a smile curving his lips as he raises his head to look at Dean, but there's nothing happy about it. "Dean, I -- of course I knew. I knew what it would do to me. I couldn't have come that far with Crowley and not have known."

It's not what Dean wants to hear, but it's something, some kind of progress, and Dean seizes upon it. "Well, then?" he prompts, as if maybe, if he keeps at it, he'll end up somewhere where he'll like the landscape -- somewhere where everything will make sense.

"Well, then," Cas echoes, and shakes his head. His hands make patterns on the sheet, Sam's hands with their broad palms, their long fingers, but the gestures are all Cas's. "What else could I have done? I had no-one. Crowley couldn't be trusted. And you..." He trails off, and Dean, moved by an impulse he doesn't quite dare parse, looks away.

"Cas," he says, hesitant, "I said I would help you, man. I told you we could fix it. You didn't have to --"

"I did have to!" Cas interrupts, the words breaking out of him sudden and sharp. "Dean, I know it wasn't a helpful step to take. Believe me -- I had millions of purgatory souls churning around inside me for months, and they made me something so far removed from myself that I could barely see straight any more. I know it was the wrong thing to do. But you're not understanding me."

"Dude," Dean breaks in, shaking his head, "dude, I am trying to understand you, here. Hell, I was trying then! We could have helped you. We could have stopped it."

Cas whips around at that, eyes blazing, chin jutted high, and he looks, for a second, like nothing so much as an agent of all heaven's power and glory. "Dean," he says, and the voice seems to come from outside of Sam's body, from above and below and all around it, like an aura. "Believe me, I appreciated the offer, late though it came. I appreciated it, but you could not have stopped it. That was the crux of it. I knew what Crowley planned to do, and I also knew Crowley. As do you." He laughs a little, helplessly; spreads his hands. "Do you honestly think that if I'd let Crowley take all of that power into himself, he'd have split it like we said? Or Raphael?"

"You didn't split it," Dean points out sharply, "like you said!"

"I'm an angel," Cas shoots back, and there's no apology left in him, now, nothing shrinking or sorry or small. "I am an angel. He is a demon. Raphael was something more dangerous than both of us. I didn't know how much it would change me, to take purgatory into myself, but someone was going to do it, Dean, you have to understand that. Someone was going to become all-powerful, and you would not have wanted it to be either Raphael or Crowley."

"I didn't want it to be you, Cas!" Dean retorts, and the heat pricking at the corners of his eyes is surely rage. "I didn't want to see you like that! I didn't want to lose you!"

"Better that," Cas insists, voice growing more strident with every word, "than lose the world, do you hear me? It had to be one of us. Had to be. And I, while I may be far from perfect, had one quality that made me an obvious candidate, for our purposes, namely the fact that I didn't want to set the Apocalypse back on course."

"What did you want, then, Cas?" Dean demands, wearily. He is shaking his head, he finds, reflexively, but the fight has gone out of him, dampened by the fierceness of Cas's words. "I just wanted you to let me help you. I just wanted my friend."

"And what do you think I wanted?" Cas asks, softly. "Why do you think I care so much about this world, about humanity, after all? What made me side with humanity before my own brothers?"

"I guess," Dean ventures, quietly, "all that time you spent with us. The stuff about God. The -- "

"You, Dean," Cas breaks in, gentle and firm, and something in Dean's chest seizes up like a fist around his heart. "You needn't mince words: it was you. Everything was you. I couldn't let anyone else take on the purgatorial souls because I couldn't risk anything happening to you, Dean Winchester, whom I raised from perdition. I wish you'd trusted me earlier, but - " and he breaks off, laughing, but there's no humour in it "-- I should have realised sooner why you couldn't. You don't think you're worth anything. You never have. It would have been beyond your comprehension, that I could have wanted to do so much for what you thought of as so little."

Dean cannot speak. His tongue seems immobilised in his mouth, his eyes unquestionably wet at the corners, now. He blinks; draws in a deep breath through his nose, and fumbles for speech. "I'm not," he manages, eventually, with a monumental effort, "it's just -- I'm not anything, Cas. Nobody special." He shrugs, loose little gesture that's all arms.

Across the room, Cas is shaking his head, the movement tense and disbelieving. When he speaks, the motion slows, but doesn't stop. His fingers dig into the muscle of his thigh until the knuckles whiten. "You are so much to so many, Dean," he says, his voice low and resigned. "To Sam. To me. This is why you didn't understand Sam's anger when you sold your soul for him, and why you can't understand my actions against Crowley. The world exists today because of you, Dean, and you -- " He breaks off, biting his lip, and the gesture is so suddenly and violently human that Dean is half taken aback by it. Cas means all this, Dean realises, incredulous. He really means it.

"Hey," he ventures, one arm reaching abortively across the space between the beds, although the distance is too far for his hand to encounter anything but air. "Cas, I -- okay." He still doesn't see, himself, what the hell is so special about him, but clearly Cas believes it. Clearly it means a lot to him, if the soft earnestness in his eyes is any indication. "Okay, Cas. I'm sorry." He draws in a shaky little breath. "And thanks. I guess."

"You're welcome," Cas says, and it's only the two words, caught in a single exhalation, but the way his shoulders go loose, the way his face softens -- it's so obviously so much more than what it is on the surface that Dean feels like a monumental douche for not bringing this up earlier, not asking Cas to explain himself. Because, really, when it comes down to it, this isn't even so close to what Sam did, trying to save the world from Lilith, as it is to what Dean did, throwing himself into the jaws of demons just to keep one person safe. A person who didn't appreciate it, sure, because he was scared, because he didn't want to be left alone in the world without his stupid self-sacrificing brother; or in this case, Dean's stupid, self-sacrificing angel, who somehow thinks Dean Winchester is worth taking on heaven to defend.

Suddenly, Dean feels extremely small. Cas loves him. God, oh God, Cas loves him just as hard as Dean ever loved Sam, and nobody ever told him to, which makes it worse, harder, better. Cas fucking loves him, the idiot, and Dean...

"Hey," he says, and his hand stretches out again, mostly of its own accord, as if something in him wants to be closer to Cas, wants to touch him, although Dean isn't much given to touching, unless it's sexual. "Cas..." He trails off, hand wavering in the air.

When Cas pulls himself in, gets hesitantly up and crosses the divide, Dean thinks at first that he's been misread, but he hasn't, not really. When Cas settles himself on the bed, the warmth of his body a solid comfort all down Dean's side, he realises that this is exactly what he'd wanted and hadn't quite known how to ask for. This, Cas's fingers coming softly to rest on his thigh, low on the outside near his knee. Cas's eyes, wide open and hopeful and all Castiel, right down to the very depths of them where the hazel turns to gold. The palm of Cas's free hand coming to rest at the small of Dean's back, so he can't help but turn into it; pulling Cas against him abruptly in an awkward one-armed hug. "Cas," he says, almost into Cas's ear, "Thank you. Really." I'm sorry. I'm sorry

Cas draws in a sharp breath, turns a little, and something about it leeches the awkwardness away, the way Cas presses closer, slackening, fitting their bodies together. It's been a long time since anyone held Dean like this, like he meant something. He hasn't been much in the mood for casual pick-ups lately, and this is, Dean realises slowly, not quite a friendly hug. These are Cas's hands, brushing over the nape of his neck until the hairs stand up with the static, the aftershocks crawling down Dean's spine in a way that says this could be more. There's an intimacy to it that is almost as unfamiliar to Dean as it's got to be to Cas, something visceral and raw, and Dean understands in a moment of shocking certainty that he isn't unsettled by it, by the clear suggestion. It doesn't leave him awkward and cold to think that Cas might - love-him love him, because maybe Dean isn't all that into guys in any serious way, but this is Cas. Cas, who gave everything for him, and Dean didn't even give him the benefit of the doubt. This is Cas, and Dean suddenly aches to be close to him.

When Cas shifts, it is as if he knows; as if he is reading Dean's mind. Then his mouth brushes the curve of Dean's neck, damp and open against the soft place beneath Dean's ear, and all doubt is suddenly removed. "Shit," Dean breathes, hand curving along the line of Cas's jaw, and he pulls back a little, wanting to see him; wanting to see the look in Cas's eyes that he feels is there. He wants to see that from up close, before he --

"...shit," Dean repeats, with all the air gone out of it.

Cas looks back at him, breath coming short and urgent, watching Dean from under lowered lashes. Cas looks back at him, and Dean feels warm all over with the urge to move right back in and kiss the urgency out of him, except that Cas is smiling at him languidly the way Cas so rarely smiles, and the mouth turning up at the corners is Sam's; the body pressed tight to Dean's is Sam's, and Dean is oh so entirely screwed.

"Dean?" Cas ventures, low and hesitant, and Dean draws in a sharp breath through his nose; puts Cas away from him gently and puts a couple of inches between them on the bed.

"Dude," he says, rubbing the back of one hand across his eyes, "no offence, but you have got to get yourself another vessel if we're - " he breaks off; gestures between them, and Cas's eyes go wide. It would be almost comical, the kaleidoscope of expressions that flash across his face, from hopeful to overjoyed to utterly frustrated, were it not for the fact that Dean feels pretty frustrated himself, and also totally skeevy about having gotten half-hard while snuggling his baby brother. Ew.

"Are we...?" Cas asks, slow and small, as if he doesn't quite dare to be hopeful. He looks blindsided, breathless and warm and somehow more Cas than Dean's seen him in months, and goddammit, it's just so fucking unfair. When Cas is like this, all close and open-faced, it's like Dean actually has to peer at him real close before he can see Sam at all, but that doesn't change the facts. And the facts suck.

He shakes his head a little, eyes on Cas's, his stomach coiled up and tense and confused. It's madness in there, utter turmoil, the part of him that hates himself for taking so damn long to figure this out and the part of him that's utterly overjoyed that he has, both coming up short against the part of him that's realising slowly how absolutely impossible this is. The part of him that's realising, more to the point, that Cas may not be able to get another vessel, or at least not easily. Vessels have to be of the blood, of course, and archangel vessels are even rarer than the ordinary kind. Cas is undoubtedly archangel strength, after everything he's been through, and that leaves his list of potential vessels very short indeed.

Cas is still looking at him, head cocked to one side, and the gesture is so long familiar that it makes Dean's stomach clench, screws up whatever it was he was planning to say. He opens his mouth, hand braced between them on the bed, and says, totally unauthorised, "I wanna kiss you."

Cas makes a sound like he's dying, like he's been stabbed, and shit, that isn't what Dean meant (except that it's exactly, entirely what he meant, and somehow the fact that Cas is wearing Sam to their fucking lifelong prom isn't working as the deterrent that it seriously should be). Dean stands up abruptly; turns his back and rubs the palms of his hands against his thighs, frenetic against the denim. "Cas," he says, eyes fixed on the trashcan still filled with their empty Snickers wrappers from that morning, when Dean had fished the emergency rations out of the trunk and everything in life was four hundred times less complicated. "This is so fucked up, oh my God."

"I may not be able to get another vessel for a while, Dean," Cas says from somewhere behind him. His voice is low and miserable, and Dean can hear where the truth of it really stops. I may not be able to get another vessel, Dean.

God dammit. If Dean didn't know for a fact that the man upstairs couldn't actually give a shit, he might think there was some kind of plot against him.

"We can't," he says, firmly. Wrong, really, that he actually has to vocalise it, has to get it out there, but something in his gut tells him it isn't only for Cas's benefit that he's making that explicit. Cas, he tells himself, is in Sam. This is his brother he's thinking about like this. This is his brother, and he isn't even awake; it's like some kind of pervy date-rape thing, everything else aside.

Except that when Dean looks at Cas, all the reasoning kind of disappears under the fact that Cas is all he can see, which is why the rules have to be stipulated like this, when he can't see Cas's eyes. When Cas's face can't sway him.

Cas, though, doesn't seem inclined to protest. "I know," is all he says, although the disappointment is clear in his voice. "I know, Dean. It's all right. As long as you --" He stops. It's a long hesitation, and Dean realises after a second that he's holding his breath, waiting for Cas to go on.

"Cas?" he prompts, when he can't take it any longer, and Cas laughs a little, shortly.

"We understand each other now," Cas says, and Dean can't help but close his eyes at that. Hell, they understand each other, all right. They understand, and that elephant has ambled out of the room to be replaced by an entire herd of insurmountable obstacles, starting with THIS IS TOTALLY RAPEY and ending with INCEST, YOU HEATHEN. Dean sighs. It isn't as if there's anything else he can do.

"Yeah," he concedes, "yeah, we do. It'll be okay." He makes himself turn; smiles a little. "Hey, better than before, right?"

"Definitely," Cas says, and nods. It's totally unconvincing, but Dean appreciates the effort nonetheless.

"Um," Dean says, after an awkward pause, "did you want to catch some TV or something?"

They both turn to look at the conspicuously blank television. Dean feels his cheeks flush. Eventually, Cas says, very levelly, "I think - I think I will sleep a little, after all. It's tiring to - " he gestures vaguely " - manipulate the vessel while Sam is sleeping."

"Oh," Dean says, tongue feeling stupid and thick in his mouth. "Um. Sure. Okay."

Cas nods; rearranges himself jerkily on the pillow. By the time Dean's adjusted to what he's actually going to do, it's already done: Cas has buried himself effortlessly in Sam's sleep, no waiting required. Dean clenches his hands into fists, blinking impotently down at the mattress, at Cas's - Sam's - someone's face gone slack on the pillow.

Forty minutes later, Dean is poring over the map again, maybe eighty percent of his attention elsewhere, when Sam stirs and demands sleepily, "Time 'zit?"

Dean throws a balled-up sock at him. Sam looks outraged, but Dean can't really bring himself to explain right now. Sam can just assume he's in a weird mood. He certainly wouldn't be far wrong.



It doesn't escape Sam's notice that both Dean and Cas seem to be in decidedly weird moods. It doesn't take a genius, either, to work out that whatever went on when Sam was sleeping must have been the cause of it. Cas is atypically quiet, the way he was before they had their little conversation about not attempting to bottle shit up, and Dean -- well. Sam can't remember a time when Dean was ever inattentive, but this is reaching whole new levels of fixation.

"Dude," Sam tries, when he looks up to find Dean staring at him strangely for the fourth time in half an hour, "I'm trying to read, here."

Dean, of course, puts on his best offended face and crosses his arms belligerently. "And?" he demands, going for ignorance. It's not all that convincing, what with how his jaw is twitching the way it does when he's under pressure. "I'm just minding my own business here, Sam. You read if you want to."

Sam sighs. "Okay, look. No offence, but all this creepy staring? Is getting old."

Dean doesn't even have a comeback to offer, beyond a deer-in-the-headlights expression, which is evidence enough that something is seriously up. Sam immediately back-pedals, voice now more concern than pissiness. "Dude, did Cas say something? Are you afraid I'm gonna go all drooling vegetable, still? Because I'm telling you, Cas got rid of any chance of that. I'm fine, Dean."

"Sam, for crying out loud!" Dean bursts out, turning his face away with a pout like an aggrieved five year old. "Not everything's about you, okay? Jesus."

Sam's face twists sceptically. "Right. Okay, I get that. What I don't get is why you're constantly staring at me if it's not about --"

Dean seems to anticipate the realisation before it even hits, raising his eyebrows pointedly when Sam comes to an abrupt halt. "Yeah. Double occupancy, remember?" There's a bitterness in Dean's voice Sam hasn't heard there in a while, and Sam frowns.

"Well, Cas isn't driving right now, as I know you know. Point of fact, Cas hasn't even really been talking since, like, yesterday morning, and you've been --" he gesticulated vaguely -- "like this. So, you know, it'd be nice to know what the hell happened and why you're glaring at Cas by proxy, because I don't appreciate it."

Dean snorts irritably. "Oh, Sam, believe me, I wish I could glare at Cas head-on, instead of though your thick skull." There's a loose thread at the knee of his jeans, and he picks at it, curt and fussy. "That idiot."

At which point Sam, not actually being completely unperceptive, feels light dawn on him like lasers. "Oh, Dean."

Dean looks up sharply at that, eyes round and half alarmed. "'Oh Dean'?" he parrots, voice low and suspicious. "What do you mean, 'oh, Dean'?" He's slouched on the pillows, but he sits up now, abrupt and alert. "Sam? What?"

But Sam only shakes his head, unsure whether to smile at Dean finally getting it or cry at the irony of his unrelentingly horrendous timing. "Nothing," he says, firmly. "Nothing. It's okay."
"Whoa," Dean puts in sharply. He leans forward across the space between the beds, elbows resting on his knees, hands curling into helpless fists. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Sam, you can't just --"

"Dude," Sam says mildly, indicating the newspaper, "what'd I tell you? Trying to read, here. Chill."

Dean subsides, cut-off mid-flow and looking like he thinks he's been played and isn't sure how or what to make of it, except that he damn sure isn't happy about it. As far as Sam's concerned, though, he can just stew for a while. Sam needs to talk to Cas about this, whether Cas wants to discuss it or not.



Castiel likes to emerge, at least partially, when Dean showers. It sounds awful spelled out like that, but the fact of the matter is that he doesn't have many opportunities to be close to Dean under current circumstances, and now that Sam knows everything, it isn't as if Castiel is in danger of giving anything away. The Winchesters aren't much for locked doors, and since Dean is completely unconcerned by having Sam lean against the sink and talk shop to him when he's naked, Castiel doesn't see why he shouldn't get what he can out of it. Sam can usually be convinced to discover a sudden urge to go brush his teeth while Dean is showering, and also to indulgently put up with the warm feeling in his stomach that represents Castiel's fondness toward Dean, including, perhaps, some appreciation for his...packaging. Sam does it out of pity, Castiel knows, but he is too far gone on Dean to let his pride keep him from this. Dean doesn't know, Sam doesn't care, and Castiel is momentarily very happy indeed. It seems to be what Dean would call a win-win scenario -- or rather, it seemed that way. Before.

For some reason, the idea of doing this now, in the knowledge that Dean might want to be the object of his gaze, seems somehow infinitely wronger than it ever did when Castiel was at a remove, unremarked. There is something inherently askew in this, he knows, but it is, nevertheless, how he feels. Often, in the year of Sam's absence, Castiel visited Dean at his home, watched him with Ben or with Lisa, about his everyday business. This is what angels do, after all: patrol and guard, observe and protect and learn. Since that time, though, Castiel has become something else, has confessed things that angels should not feel, and somehow it sets the whole tenor of things awry. To watch Dean with Dean oblivious was not new, but watching him now, he cannot help but think that Dean might expect it -- might recall their conversation and conceal himself from Sam, newly aware of the second observer behind his brother's eyes. It seems -- there is no other word for it -- unfair that Castiel should have so much to look at, and yet nothing to offer in return. His chest twists warmly at the knowledge that Dean would like to look at him too, until he remembers that he has nothing to be looked at, no flesh-and-bone wonders of his own to offer. All he has belongs to Sam, and Dean has seen it all before, looked on it with love but never with ardour.

Evidently, though, Sam cannot be expected to understand this. When Castiel shrank back on the morning after his conversation with Dean, Sam was bemused enough. When he evades Sam's attempts at communication for the second morning running, Sam's bemusement tips over quickly into exasperation.

"Cas," Sam insists, voice unrelenting and abrasive against the edges of Castiel's consciousness, and the sense of him seems to have expanded, taken stock of their shared mental landscape and backed Castiel into a corner of it. "Cas, come on. We don't have to do the ritual morning peep-show if you're not up for it, but seriously." A nudge, hard and jolting, against the shell Castiel has built for himself. "You've been holed up for two days. What happened to not hiding stuff from each other?"

Sam, quite clearly, does not intend to leave Castiel to annihilate himself in peace. Castiel lets out a sigh of resignation and opens up his bounds a fraction. "I was not hiding," he ventures.

The wave of Sam's disbelief is staggering, crashes over him like a breaker. "Oh, sure, you were just sleeping." A pause, and then a wisp of Sam's light extends, coaxing. "Come on, Cas. I know something went down." The wisp expands slightly, soothing, and Castiel curses Sam's adroitness. "Did you tell him?"

Castiel pulls himself up miserably. "I had no intention of doing so," he says, knowing that Sam will hear it for the admission that it is.

Sure enough, Sam interprets the situation accurately. "So you did?" He hesitates a moment, as if checking himself. "He didn't reject you, did he?"

"No!" Castiel assures him, quickly, although he can take no joy in doing so. "No, he..." He sighs. "He reciprocates."

Sam does not seem to hear the resignation in Castiel's voice, the utter lack of pride or levity. "So!" he shoots back, the sense of him positively glowing with satisfaction. "See, Cas, I told you!"

"Sam," Castiel interjects wearily, "you don't understand. Your brother..." He trails off, dejected. "It is impossible."

"Something happened," Sam says, flatly, after a second's pause. It isn't a question. "Before you realised." Castiel nods, small and sad, and Sam goes on, "And now you're embarrassed."

The tone of his comments is altogether too rational, too analytical for the demands of the situation, and Castiel feels a wild compulsion to needle some sense of urgency into him, make him see. "Sam," he says, insistent, "You must realise - this --" and he indicates their shared vessel, Sam's body around both of them " -- may not be a short-term solution for me. I could be forced to inhabit you for months, even years, and Dean -- "

Sam, apparently, is entirely unwilling to let Castiel finish his explanation. "You want Dean the way he is," he interrupts, his voice cautious and pitying, "but he doesn't want you, because you're -- me." Rational, still, as if he is working a case, and the worst of it is that he is missing the point so unerringly. "Oh, Cas, I'm sorry."

Castiel shrugs a little, the edges of his consciousness gone slack, ebbing against Sam's. Perhaps he ought not to explain. Perhaps it could only hurt Dean, if he knew Sam understood.

Sam, though, will not be deterred. His voice picks up again, boyishly hopeful. "But even still, at least you know, right? You can wait? It sucks, but -- "

Evidently, then, Castiel cannot simply let the matter lie as he so desperately would like to. "Sam," he breaks in, resigned, "you misunderstand." He doesn't want to put it in its true blunt terms, but Sam has forced him to it. "It is -- embarrassing -- not solely because you are my vessel, although, yes, that is the reason we cannot be...intimate. It is embarrassing also because, I think, Dean only registers this obstacle cerebrally."

Although he cannot see Sam when they talk like this, Castiel can almost feel his eyes narrowing, the way his brows draw together. "What do you mean?" Sam asks, slowly.

Castiel gives a mental shrug. "I believe that, when Dean and I talk, he forgets that I am not my vessel. He knows I'm in you, the same way he knew I was in Jimmy Novak, but now, just like before, all he sees when he looks at me is Castiel." The words emerge stiltedly, everything about the situation jarring and deeply awkward. "What I mean, Sam, is that your brother is embarrassed because his feelings towards me are not affected by the vessel I inhabit."

The pause that follows this remark is long and tense. Castiel can almost feel a headache developing, increment by increment. Eventually Sam says, tentatively, "So..." and Castiel realises that, much as he doesn't want to explain, he wants even less to hear Sam put the situation into his own words; cannot hope to withstand the shame of it.

"He almost kissed me when we spoke," he cuts in, quick and clean, like a stabbing. "He remembered himself before he did it, but I think it was difficult for him, Sam, and now he is..." He wavers. "He is ashamed, I think. He thinks he should feel that this is impossible, instead of simply knowing that it is while his feelings tell him otherwise."

This is the point, Castiel thinks, at which Sam should pull up short in horror, but the sense of him does not seem as perturbed as it should, his tone still even and thoughtful when he speaks. "Yeah," Sam puts in, pensively, after a moment. "I - I don't know if he's ashamed, exactly. He sounded more pissed off and frustrated when we talked about it."

Castiel blinks, startled. "You talked about it?"

Sam laughs, low and sly. "Uh...well, Dean doesn't know I know what we were talking about, I don't think, but yeah."

Castiel takes a moment to attempt to parse this information, and then decides it isn't worth the excess effort it would require. "You can be very strange, Sam."

Sam smiles. "Well." The tendril of light is back, stroking, gentling. "Come on, Cas. You can't go on avoiding him forever, just because you finally tripped over the big gay elephant in the room."

Castiel sighs. "I don't know what else to do," he points out, but Sam seems unmoved by this argument.

"You get on with it," he insists, and it is as if he has neglected to absorb anything Castiel has said, about the way Dean reacts to Castiel's proximity; about the difficulties both of them are having with the question of the impossible vessel. "What else are you planning to do?"

And Castiel, much as he would like to answer that question, cannot find an appropriate way to do so.

"I suppose," he says, grudgingly, after he has tried and failed to summon an alternative, "I shall simply have to submit to your better judgment."

He means to employ sarcasm as he has seen the Winchesters do, but when Sam responds sincerely, he cannot be sure whether he has failed to convey this, or whether Sam is simply choosing to ignore his intentions out of stubbornness. "Good," he says, lightly. "Good choice, Cas."

Castiel likes Sam very much, but before he lived in his body, he never really registered what Dean meant when he complained that his brother liked to interfere. Now, he thinks, he understands. Sam, when in this mood, is clearly an unstoppable force. All Cas can do is attempt to temper him. "Sam," he puts in, pleading, "don't do anything rash, please."

Sam responds with what is presumably intended to be a reassuring pet, but Castiel cannot say that it has the intended effect.



They're on their way to breakfast when Dean first starts to sense that something weird is going on, which, given that it's, like, 8.30, frankly doesn't bode too well for the rest of the day. It's nothing massive, nothing he can quite put his finger on -- hell, it isn't even that Sam is in a bad mood, as far as Dean can determine. On the contrary, Sam has a long arm thrown across the back of the seat, fingers tapping in rhythm with the music, even though it's Best of Queen for some godforsaken reason and Sam hates Queen at the best of times. His fingers brush against the nape of Dean's neck as he drums them, and when Dean shoots him a look, he smiles back wide and unconcerned, as if he's just happy or some shit.

It's definitely not normal.

They're heading for a Waffle House out on the freeway a little way out of town, which entails twenty minutes of driving before they get there. By the time Dean turns the car into the parking lot, he's genuinely starting to suspect a curse. Sam seems to have given up on his drumming, but instead of taking his hand back like a normal human being, he's left it there instead, thumb against Dean's nape, fingers curving over his shoulder. Between other brothers, maybe that would have been unremarkable, but he and Sam have never been what you might call touchy-feely. Dean can't remember the last time Sam draped his gargantuan self all over him without at least a few shots in his belly, and the fact that Sam's now singing - freakin' singing under his breath is combining with the touching to rack up Dean's suspicions.

"Dude," he says finally, as he switches off the engine, "the fuck is the matter with you today?"

Sam, the bastard, just raises his eyebrows and puts on a face that suggests he thinks he's being wronged. "Huh?" He has to stop singing to speak, which is a plus, but he doesn't move his fingers. Dean wrinkles his nose and gestures vaguely with both hands.

"All the - the touching, Jesus." He leans forward in the chair, shaking off Sam's hand. "What's with that, octopus?"

Sam shrugs, withdraws his hand in a leisurely fashion and shoves open the car door. "Dude, I was just stretching. Paranoid much?" His tone is light, but there's something in his face when Dean scowls back at him that isn't telling everything, some half-amused glint in his eyes. Maybe Cas told him, and now Dean's being made fun of. Which, awesome. It's not as if Dean gets anything at all out of being pawed all over by Sam. Gross.

"Yeah," he says, low and dubious. "Well, I have reason."

Sam only laughs as they cross the parking lot, which doesn't exactly fill Dean with reassurance and rainbows.

Sam may deny everything, but by mid-afternoon, Dean is absolutely convinced that he's doing it on purpose -- if only he could figure out what it was. Dean's been patted on the shoulders, back and (what the fuck) once on the ass; has been rudely lounged against for a fifty-mile stretch of road when Sam decided he needed a nap; has been guided carefully out of the way of oncoming pedestrians by Sam's massive hand unauthorised on his waist, and has been mistaken for Sam's boyfriend by not one, but two waitresses. It is not a good day. The only thing that could have made it worse would have been if Cas had been hanging around, passing comment. If Sam's going to be like this, then Dean's glad Cas is still holed up somewhere having a big gay crisis, or whatever the hell he's doing. If Dean's gonna have Sam's imminent mental breakdown to contend with then at least he could do without being distracted.

They get pizza for dinner, and, okay, Dean is marginally perturbed when Cas doesn't even emerge to partake, but, again: crisis. Dean doesn't want to push. Afterwards, there's nothing desperately in need of research attention and one of the free channels is showing the original Star Wars, so Dean settles back against the pillows and prepares to kick back and absorb it for the millionth time.

He's not exactly surprised when Sam climbs up onto the bed beside him - and how pathetic is that - but that doesn't mean he isn't a little pissed about it, especially when Sam proceeds to shove on up against his side instead of leaving a respectable two feet or so of space between them. "Sam," Dean says, in a weary, long-suffering voice, "I know you were never hugged as a child, okay? I know that. I'm sorry. You're probably mentally scarred. But could you just - " And he gestures, little shooing motions.

Sam, though, is apparently on a mission to be as deliberately dense today as he can possibly manage. "Chill," he says, calmly, for the fourteenth time today. "Can see better from here." He grins at Dean as if impervious to his disgruntled expression and throws an arm around Dean's shoulders, leaning against him in what is, okay, this is a snuggle.

"Sam," Dean says, tightly and through his teeth, "I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you today, but personal fucking space, dude. " He shifts his shoulders uncomfortably. "It's like you've spent too long with Cas or something."

Probably, he should have seen it coming, especially after having staggered through this day prickling in anticipation of some falling anvil. Somehow, though, it is still a shock when Sam's body goes abruptly rigid, muscles seizing, and then slackens again into a panting, clinging mess. Somehow, the first thing Dean does when this happens is still to take Sam's face in his hands as his heart leaps into his mouth, expecting something horrific, hellfire or Lucifer. "Sammy?" he demands, all irritation forgotten, "Sam!"

The moment Sam's eyes find his, though, rueful and a little embarrassed, Dean knows he's been played, even before Cas says, "Hello, Dean."

Dean's known for a while that the distinctions between them are obvious if you know what to look for, but he's never felt himself physically adjusting the way he does now, gears in his body grinding automatically from the 'Sam' to the 'Cas' position with no input from Dean at all. It's weird and it's scary, not least in the way his irritable urge to shove Sam off transmutes into a desire to pull Cas closer, to wallow a little in having him back. Cas has been here the whole time, of course -- maybe talking to Sam all day, when Dean wasn't paying attention -- but Dean hasn't seen him since The Conversation, and he's missed him.

"Cas," he says, slow and wide-eyed. "What the -?"

"I was...pushed," Cas offers in explanation, and his smile is guilty, but it refuses to go away, as if Cas can't repress his pleasure at seeing Dean, either, despite the circumstances. "Sam --"

"Plugged in the jump leads, huh?" Dean shakes his head. "God, I knew that kid was up to something. He's been acting like a freak all day." He snorts. "More than usual, I mean."

"I believe," Cas says -- and God, but it's good to hear his voice -- "I believe the intention was to put me in such close proximity to you that I'd be unable to stay away from you any longer." His mouth twists wryly. "I don't think Sam really understands what we're up against."

"You told him, though, right?" Dean puts in, because by this point, it's pretty clear that Sam's been working with more facts than Dean thought, and the pedant in him wants to know how come.

"He guessed," Cas says, shrugging, "so I explained." He smiles a little at Dean, his eyes soft and fond. "For what it's worth, I'm fairly sure I could put the 'jump leads' on Sam quite easily myself. If it would help. He is -- interfering."

There's a strand of Sam's stupid long hair fallen into Cas's eyes, and Dean reaches up without thinking to push it back, curling his fingers around the shell of Cas's ear, lingering. It's only when Cas jerks back a fraction that he realises what he's doing, and by that point he's feeling pretty vindictive. His stomach pulls a little uncomfortably at the implications of this, sure; of Cas's stare from Sam's face drawing his hands like this, making his fingers itch to smooth his fucking brother's hair. But it isn't Sam he wants to touch, even if it is Sam he's physically touching. This is Cas, manhandled into Dean's personal space against his will, and Dean can't be expected to take responsibility for that. Sam wants to interfere, he can damn well live with the consequences. It's not like any of this is that inappropriate, anyway, he reasons, by the standards of normal brothers who hug outside of resurrections.

"Nah," Dean says, decisively. Pointedly, deliberately, he doesn't withdraw his hand; threads his fingers instead into Cas's (Cas's, Cas's) hair, smoothing it back. "Tell you what, Cas -- you can haul him out of hiding, but can you put him to sleep?"

Cas's face changes at that, eyes widening with uncertainty and, under it, hope. "I could," he says, slowly, the word going up at the end like a question.

"So," Dean says, equally slowly, "I'm guessing you haven't seen Star Wars, huh?"

That gets him a laugh, startled out of Cas like a bullet, and Dean's chest warms with pride. "I...no," Cas admits. They are very close together, Cas's body warm and carefully held, and Dean doesn't want to let him go.

"Well then," he says, "put Sam to sleep and watch the movie with me, yeah?" He feels stupid in a way he hasn't since he was fourteen and awkward, asking Suzy Truman on a date, but he feels good, too, suddenly elated and reckless. "Hell," he finishes, "he deserves it." Sam loves Star Wars. It's maybe the only piece of genuine good taste he's ever demonstrated in his life.

There's a little pause, but Dean knows that Cas is already convinced. When he closes his eyes to work his mojo, he's still smiling, and when he opens them again, Dean feels his stomach dip hotly, as if all his baser impulses now think it's safe to come out. They're mistaken, obviously, but that doesn't mean he can't have his little squeaky-clean 1950s date with Cas just like this, with an arm around his shoulders and two layers of cloth between them at all times. It's still Cas, the familiar way his chest moves with his breaths, his warm presence against Dean's side. Bigger than Dean now, rather than smaller, but that doesn't matter. Dean has to think hard to even remember that Cas ever felt different to this -- if he ever really did.

"There," Cas says, belatedly, and it's redundant, but Dean smiles at him anyway, leans their foreheads momentarily together.

"Hey, you," he says, because apparently he's feeling vomitrociously sentimental right now.

"Hey," Cas says, the word sounding awkward in his mouth, and Dean wants to squish him till he cracks, till there's nothing left between them. Sam might disapprove of that, though, so since Dean doesn't actually want to kill his brother, outright or otherwise, he pulls back, settles for pulling Cas over so his head is on Dean's shoulder. Cas settles into it easily, palm loose on Dean's sternum, and Dean has to struggle not to kiss his temple before he turns back to the screen.

"Okay," he says, trying for normality, "so that's Leia, right? And she --"

He thinks Cas enjoys the movie, for the most part, even if he falls asleep before the end. Dean certainly enjoys it more than on any previous occasion, and he can't help thinking that Cas is the reason. Things are better with Cas, even like this, even when they can neither of them do exactly what they want to and it all feels bizarrely Pleasantville. They can still have this, which is more than they had before, and it's good, even if it isn't everything. Dean can live with that, he thinks, trailing the backs of his fingers down Cas's neck, feeling him breathe. After all, he will have to.



Dean wakes to a warm weight on his chest for the first time in a very long while. He's gotten out of the habit of sharing a bed; doesn't miss it, generally, preferring the freedom to stretch out across the mattress and sleep, like, diagonally if he wants to. Bed-sharing always kind of held connotations of bad times, times when the money was short and a room with three beds was more expensive than a room with two. That left Dean to curl up around his brother in a creaky motel bed, which wasn't so bad when Sam was little and round (although he kicked), but became unbearable by the time Sam was all growing pains and St Vitus' Dance. Dean can only assume there was some medical reasoning behind his inability to stay the fuck still, anyway. Sometimes, though, with Lisa, it was nice, even Dean can admit that. Especially when he first showed up and all the wounds were raw, there was something comforting about waking up with someone who gave a damn, even if she couldn't hope to understand the extent of how he felt. When things started to improve, the warm body in the bed meant stability without so much baggage attached, someone to hold just because he could. And, yeah, Dean can live without it, has no problem living without it, in fact, but sometimes he maybe thinks it would be nice. Humans need contact, and Dean doesn't exactly get much of it.

When he wakes up with someone's head nestled under his chin, arm flung heavily across his chest, this is Dean's first thought: that this is kind of nice. He'd learned with Lisa that there was more to falling asleep with someone than waking up at four a.m. with your kid brother's knee in your junk and his elbow in your throat, or (more recently, not that they talk about it) Sam crying about his dead fiancee and Dean's ass hanging off the bed so they fit. This, though, is like a reaffirmation all over again, a full-body reminder of the way it can feel to be bracketed like this, warm sleepy skin and breath matched to another person's. It's a world away from bunking up with Sam out of necessity, and Dean reaches up unthinkingly to squeeze the hand on his sternum, mouth quirking up at the corners.

The weight moves at the contact, rearranging itself. "Mmmng," it says, the voice familiar and loose with sleep. Dean's half-awake mind approves the voice, tags it safe. There's sunshine streaming in through the window, making a bar of heat across Dean's throat, but Dean doesn't want to move yet. Maybe if they lay here long enough, Dad'll make pancakes. Dad makes great pancakes when he's in a good enough mood to actually put them together. No hunt today. Maybe Dean has homework? Never mind. He and Ben can do their homework together after swimming.

His companion shifts, and it brings Dean's nose into sudden contact with an annoying amount of hair. This doesn't exactly aid Dean in his attempts to drift back into unconsciousness, the sensation too real and raw to jive well with the languid tumble of half-asleep assumptions in his mind, and eventually Dean has to move, jerking his head away in protest. "Tickles," he grunts, giving the weight a nudge.

"Dean," the weight protests in disgruntled response, "quit it. Tryin' to sleep."

It's a fair indication of just how close to sleep Dean still is that his first response is simply to mutter: "Not my fault you got so much freakin' hair, Sam, Jesus," and reach up to smooth the offending ticklish strands away from his face. It's an indication of how equally unconscious Sam, freaking Sam is that he actually allows this for a few seconds before it occurs to him to jolt suddenly away, back stiffening as he scrambles into a sitting position. "Dean, what the hell!"

The look on Sam's face, eyes wide and confused, is probably, Dean thinks, a pretty accurate reflection of what he must look like right now, mouth twisting and hands raised defensively in front of his chest as he scrambles away from his brother on the bed. "Jesus Christ, Sam, you scared the shit out of me," he protests, belligerent in his embarrassment.

Sam, though, is obviously not so much embarrassed as just utterly disoriented. "I scared you?" He glances around himself, wide-eyed, frantically taking stock. "What the fuck! I step back for a minute and I lose like, twelve hours?"

Which, okay, no, Dean is not letting Sam get away with that 'little old me' routine of purported innocence. No way. "Dude," he says on a huffing breath, "Did you just say step back? You basically threw Cas at me, Sam, what did you expect?"

Sam's mouth drops open at that in a way that tells Dean he's said the wrong thing, even before Sam looks down at himself in the time-honoured 'what the shit did I do last night' clothing assessment. Dean claps a hand across his eyes as if it might do anything at all to quash the crippling wave of embarrassment currently taking him over. "Nothing like that, you pervert!"

"What, then?" Sam demands. There's something wild in his eyes that is, Dean thinks after a minute, more agitated than the situation might have prompted for Sam if it was only a case of accidental bed-sharing, and Dean kicks himself mentally when it dawns on him. Sam doesn't care that he woke up snuggling his freaking brother, because Sam has no sense of masculine pride and probably thinks they should cuddle more regularly anyway or some shit. Sam cares, rather, that he woke up in a place he didn't expect to be, with no memory of how he got there, and, given recent events, Dean can understand how this might have seriously freaked him the hell out. He sighs; makes himself calm down enough to explain.

"Cas put you to sleep," he explains, voice dropping back to its ordinary timbre. "He didn't tell you?" An unfair question, really, since Dean never suggested that Cas should, but the look of confusion on Sam's face is suddenly making Dean feel guilty as hell.

Sam shakes his head pensively. He doesn't look panicked any more, but he's doing the goddamn puppy-face of confusion, and Dean can't help but react to that, reaching back out across the bed to grip Sam's forearm. Sam chews his lip. "I didn't mean anything by it," he says, small. "I just wanted you guys to have some time. If it upset Cas, I'm sorry."

And that just makes Dean feel even guiltier, remembering what a stupid amount of enjoyment he got out of something as simple as a movie with Cas last night, and also (cringe) how vindictively pleased he was that Sam didn't get to watch too. He sighs. "Aw, Sammy. Nothing like that, man. You didn't upset us. We just - " He breaks off, feeling his face flushing. "You were right, okay? We needed some time. I asked Cas if he could put you to sleep so we could have some, you know." He waves a hand. "Privacy, whatever." He sighs. "I'm sorry I didn't ask him to tell you what he was doing before he did it, or, ask you, even." Sam's stupid Terminator forearm is tense under Dean's hand, and he squeezes it a little, apologetic. "That was dumb. I should have known better."

Dean still feels like an ass, but when next Sam speaks, his face has gone all soft and understanding, his voice gentle. "That's okay, man. Be good if he could tell me next time, but it's okay. I'm glad you guys had your time." He smiles a little. "'s what I wanted, right?"

Dean nods automatically, but his mind is still kind of caught up in the middle of Sam's remark. "Wait, next time?"

" - well," Sam says, looking bemused, "yeah, dude." And then he smirks, classic expression of Sam-mockery, and Dean realises, with a sudden sinking feeling, that he isn't actually gonna get away with this that easy. "Next time you guys want to have a date and snuggle or whatever," Sam goes on, and confirms it. Dean feels himself flush.

"It was not a date," he mutters. Sam, because he is the most annoying kid brother in the entire world, only flashes his teeth and shrugs.

"Whatever, dude. I just want you to know that I support you and your choices. Y'all want to watch movies together and snuggle without me in the way, you just ask, okay?"

Dean rolls his eyes elaborately, trying his damnedest to keep up the air of cool and self-containment that might be appropriate to a guy not currently flushing a vibrant shade of beet. "Oh, if only you weren't in the way, little brother," he shoots back, pointed as he dares, like maybe it'll make Sam back the hell off.

Sam, though, only rolls his shoulders and shrugs. "Don't worry, Dean. This way, by the time Cas gets himself another vessel, you'll have been on enough dates to maybe even make out."

"You're dead," Dean says, deadpan. Turns out the classics don't get old even after they've been literally true on an unnerving number of occasions.

"Dean has a crush," Sam says, because apparently no amount of time and experience can fully knock the annoying ten-year-old out of his gargantuan ass. Dean flips him off and clambers off the bed, shoulders popping as he rolls them.

"Fuck you. I'm gonna take a shower. You can just stay the fuck in here."

Even after the door is slammed and bolted, he can still hear Sam laughing.



part 3