Chapter Text
Dean settles into the cool darkness of Jody's living room, shifting his body ever-so-slightly as Cas lays on top of him, and thrilling - alright, maybe even relishing - at the feeling of it. Feeling of threading his fingers through the angel's dark hair, curling them to scratch Cas' head, back and forth slightly, hearing him make a small sound as he shifts his cheek and chin, nuzzling into the space between Dean's pectorals. And Dean has to internally pinch himself because what the fuck is goin' on? It's that Cas is here, with him, and he might not have been able to say back exactly what the angel said to him, but nevertheless he feels it.
And Cas knows it. Dean doesn't have to haunt the bunker halls like some stumbling drunken ghost anymore (if ghosts ever even got drunk, he thinks of the things they had to BE drunk to see, and fight) but this is different. He doesn't have to stare with eyes glazed at rust-colored spots and blemishes of blood on knives he kept, kept using; less and less often yet still, even with all his training, with the knowledge that a rusted or blunt or dirty weapon is a useless weapon, he didn't bother cleaning em. He was taking cases and dropping bodies over and over, hauling out and chucking back his sawed-off; trailing in and out of the bunker all by himself. Running away.
He was running away, and he admits that. Even if he doesn't say it out loud to Sam, he was running. Running himself into the ground, like he'd said to Cas. Now, though, he isn't. He settles into the sheets stop the cushions of this couch and holds his angel tight, dropping face into his hair and twisting slightly to the side to keep him close. The Empty isn't taking him again, not if Dean can help it.
Not without a fight.
Dimness. Metal struts and shelves, rolling carts and half-filled half crushed boxes and the barest etchings... Eyes zeroing in to circled swathes of blood.
And distant screeching, high sound, that makes the foundation shake and rises to a decibel that can pierce - church bells ringing in my head - we got a name, Castiel or whatever - Cas?! Where the hell are you?
And then laughter, nasal, but not so high-pitched as the screech, and suddenly lolling forward, bloody pustules like burns on his cheek and jaw and across her s chest precede black drips from mouth and eyes and nose - Oh Castiel? He's, ah, hmm. Not here!
Groaning, eyes squeezed tight as a twisting daggered shock to the back of his neck, forced, dug through skin and into flesh, dug and hollowed out and he is gulping, drowning from the sweet thick taste of blood and then a sharp hard strike, of metal, of bone - Cas, hey, this isn't you. You can snap out of it, man! Come on. I need you.
And over, through it all echoes nasal laughter.
You got him back, silly little speck of dust... but now - now I've got YOU gloating, filling Dean with icy cold and darkness that he's drowning in, hell no, oh shit, come on and wake UP -
Dean heaves in air like he'd been drowning, catapulting almost completely off the couch to see Cas leaning over him in the half-light, his eyes wide and focused, hand clenching around Dean's shoulder, a fiery brand where fingers grasp skin burning but with a sensation less like fire and more akin to dry ice.
"Dean, are you all right? What were you dreaming about?"
Dean gasps, sweat coating his face as he opens and closes his mouth, working lips and sucking in air. His chest heaves as he blinks and eventually looks up at the angel. "I, uh," voice feeling about as ragged as it had in Hell, from screaming, and wobbling a little too, damn it; Dean gulps and curses the weakness "...if we're still thinkin' or talkin', uh. About consequences of screwing with the Empty, buddy, I don't think we're havin' to wait all that long."