Chapter Text
The picture that commemorates the end of the kaiju war is taken through Colorado’s front-lens camera. It’s blurry with underwater silt, barely lit. The entire world seems to be tinted a hazy, eerie purple from the Breach, catching on silica and diatoms in the sand.
But Castiel has to admit, the visual of Banshee standing inside an enormous maw, both arms up in the air and the entire slender form of the Jaeger silhouetted with Lucifer’s hot internal light as Sam and Eileen fire both of Banshee’s thrusters into the kaiju’s tongue and their one remaining missile directly into the roof of the creature’s mouth, is very compelling.
In comparison, the little jury-rigged package that limped its way into the Breach, its thrusters sparking and firing as its circuits intermittently cut out, was not very impressive. Castiel’s reasonably sure that the only ones even remotely interested in it are other scientists.
Mechanical Engineering—the magazine—wants to interview him and Dean about it. Apparently, rewiring a Jaeger’s leg propulsion system to function independently, all while using two people’s minds and two three-fingered hands with each joint the size of a car, requires a very different type of dexterity than coordinating the balance to kick a kaiju in the face. (Castiel could have told them that.)
But other than that, Castiel doubts anyone else is very impressed by the feat.
They’re too busy celebrating.
He can’t blame anyone for that.
After everything—after the six of them limped, crawled, and dragged themselves back to shore; after the Pacific stopped drenching the coastlines with tidal waves from the explosion; after Bobby told the United World Coalition and all the reporters to fuck off and leave the pilots alone or he’d blow up their asses too (a direct quote)—the matter of who gets to be on the front page of which newspaper seems to matter very little.
Well. It matters very little to some people. Dean’s going to be teasing Sam about it until the end of time.
Witch Borrower has found its final home—as have the twins—in Sydney, the smallest of the Jaegers standing guard over what was once the ruins of the famous Opera House.
China negotiated for Irish Banshee—it was built in the Taizhou Shatterdome, and that was where it had been housed before Eileen’s former copilot chose to leave. Castiel, cynically, suspects that that now-famous photo had quite a lot to do with it; Dean doesn’t disagree. Sam and Eileen didn’t mind—they certainly didn’t mind the unveiling ceremony in Shanghai, during which they were lavishly fussed over by the Chinese government.
They’re now settled in Berkeley, where Sam has, to Castiel’s bemusement and Dean’s horror, officially enrolled in a degree in xenobiology. Eileen is going to start in a few months as a professor at the California School for the Deaf.
Clearly, neither of them knows how to relax. They’re also still claiming they’re “just friends,” though, and Castiel has to agree with Dean when he says, “The denial is strong in this one.”
(Yes, he does know what that’s referencing, thank you.)
Mexico claimed Colorado Bisaan, to no one’s surprise. Not that anyone is complaining. Jesse and Cesar have officially settled in Puerto Vallarta. Cesar’s planning to run for the Congress of the Union next year.
Castiel has no idea what sort of strings their friends pulled to get him and Dean a stay at this sprawling bungalow with its own small, utterly private cove.
There’s certainly no Internet here, and barely anything televised. They have a video player hooked up to an old cathode-ray TV that weighs more than they do, and a host of old movies, but sometimes the electricity goes out in the afternoons.
Castiel has to admit, it’s still all shockingly lovely, the arch of the sand meeting the sea as beautiful as an old brochure from the days before people started to fear the water. The very first time Castiel left the Midwest, it was for a relief mission; he hasn’t had much opportunity before this to see a coast that isn’t torn and broken, except in pictures.
Castiel jogs on the beach in the morning as the sun is rising, the wet sand sucking on his bare feet. Sometimes he stops to look for crabs and anemones in tidepools. It’s too humid for knitting, the wool clinging to his fingers, so instead, he and Dean have cold beer and books under a huge plastic umbrella. Sometimes Dean expertly uses a machete to behead fresh, green coconuts for them to drink. (Him wielding it like that is quite a sight. Mmm.) Dean’s hair gains the same warm, golden highlights as his eyelashes from the sun kissing him again and again.
In the late afternoon, once it’s not so hot, they take their borrowed Jeep into town for supplies, or a visit to an Internet café to check their email. Occasionally, people seem to recognize them in the village and there are whispers, but it’s nothing like it was in the big cities.
Or maybe it’s simply that they’re two tall American men holding hands in public. Castiel doesn’t know. He doesn’t really care.
Seraph’s final resting place is in the middle of Illinois, keeping watch over cornfields and an infinity of highways that will never see the Pacific Ocean. It was Castiel’s single stipulation.
The other day, Castiel received a picture—a selfie of a young woman with her blonde hair in thin braids around her face, the rest of it in a messy tousle. She had an eyebrow raised at the camera and her mouth turned into a sarcastic moue. In the background, far away, a black, battered Jaeger rose into the grey-blue autumn sky.
“View’s amazing, Uncle Castiel,” the email said. “See you in a few weeks.”
Claire has Jimmy’s eyes. But her cheekbones, the slyness of her gaze, the insouciance of her sneer, all make Castiel rather afraid that she and Dean are going to get along magnificently. God help them all.
But that’s all in a few weeks, after they get back Stateside. Right now, Castiel has the only view he’s ever wanted.
Even with regular exposure to sun, Dean’s flanks are still a little too pale from the weeks he spent with his torso braced in medical tape, and the bruises are still lurid, the wound where bone broke through skin a bright, angry red. The remnants of an impressive black eye have now faded to a murky green around the edges, and the brace only just came off his dislocated shoulder a week ago.
Castiel, well. He looks fine. He feels alright, honestly. He doesn’t need to make more than one attempt when he reaches out to grab or hold something anymore, but his vision still goes blurry at the most inconvenient of times, and the nosebleeds are incredibly annoying. The neurologists have, quite bluntly, told him that they have no idea when it’s going to get better. They should probably not be doing any of this yet.
But their doctors reluctantly cleared them. And Dean insisted.
Castiel did promise, after all.
Who is he kidding? The sight of Dean standing naked and confident in his welcome at the foot of Castiel’s low bed, shower-damp and twirling a bottle of lube in the fingers of one hand, would entice an angel to sin. And Castiel is only human.
(All right, maybe the fact that Dean was holding the condom foil between his teeth might have put off anyone but him. But Castiel found it adorable.)
Dean’s still a little nervous, joking his way through being opened even when he’s gasping and biting his lower lip through the newness of the sensation. But Castiel’s fingers moving slowly inside him coax at him, teasing, stretching him with gentle little motions, and the tight crease between Dean’s eyebrows eventually relaxes. (Dean offered to prep himself, but first of all, Castiel wasn’t sure about him twisting his shoulder like that; second, Castiel wanted to be able to last long enough to actually get inside him. As it is, he has to stop what he’s doing, gasping into Dean’s scarred shoulder, the first time Dean props his feet on the bed and tucks his hips tentatively upwards, fucking himself slowly on Castiel’s fingers.)
Castiel’s not sure which of them is trembling harder when Dean finally straddles him and lowers himself carefully towards Castiel’s cock, gripping him in slippery fingers to guide him in. They’re already sweating again in the thick, tropical humidity, even with all the sliding doors open and the cross-breeze blowing through the house. Dean’s flushed down to his neck—though some of that might be the gentle friction from Castiel’s scruff, since he hasn’t shaved in three days.
The muscled line of Dean’s broad shoulders and work-hardened arms flex, his chest shuddering as he sips in breath and presses, presses. Castiel can’t help the way his eyes are drawn to the clean, dark lines of the tattoo over Dean’s heart: the simple outline of Seraph’s wing, just where it once was on Dean’s gear-suit.
“Ah, fuck!” Dean gasps as Castiel finally breaches him, and he pauses where he is, thighs shivering. His chin drops to his chest, but his cock twitches, half-hard, uncertain but willing.
God, Castiel has absolutely nothing to complain about with this view.
“Don’t rush,” Castiel says, though the coarse rasp of his own broken voice makes that sound more like a plea than a command. Dean’s so tight. He reaches out and traces Dean’s bellybutton, petting up and down the coarse little trail of golden-brown hair just underneath—Dean has the most delicious, unexpected patches of sensitivity, like right here, and Castiel’s so looking forward to finding them all. Even that gentle stroke starts to stir Dean’s flagging erection, and Castiel watches him greedily.
Then Dean flexes experimentally around him, clenching around his glans, and Castiel’s eyes almost cross. “A-ah. That’s… you’re not relaxing,” he complains.
“Oh, you think?” Dean grumbles, but he’s breathing more deeply again, and when he gathers himself and starts to ease up and down in gorgeous, torturous increments, slippery with an overabundance of lube, Castiel doesn’t know whether he wants to close his eyes into the pleasure of it or never close them again.
He keeps them open, watching.
Castiel knows that if they ever Drift again, the circumstances will never be the same. An unmonitored neural handshake like that in the Jaegers, a Drift formed simply for the purpose of locomotion, has been deemed too dangerous—a wartime product. Industries are salivating over the technology, but it’s going to be picked over, dissected, doled out in tiny parcels. Trauma rehabilitation, perhaps. Construction.
Castiel has no desire to share Dean’s mind with the world watching; there’s certainly never going to be an opportunity again for them to fight side by side, gripping the neural handshake tight, their palms resting together through Dean’s vivid memories of the Impala’s bench seat.
He’ll miss Dean’s mind. He’ll miss the glory of it, the dandelions and the proud curve of Mary Winchester’s smile, Robert Plant’s crooning felt deep in his solar plexus, where Castiel had never felt music before.
But Dean wears the socks Castiel’s knit him, and he grudgingly admits that princess soles do feel better. He is shockingly good at Jeopardy. Castiel has already compiled a reading list for him, and Dean’s going to teach him to shoot. They both love burgers, the rarer the better; Dean puts too much hot sauce in his tacos, every single time, and doesn’t like cilantro.
Dean can kiss lazily for hours and has a way of looking at Castiel with the corner of his lip rising slyly that can make Castiel torturously hard in heartbeats—particularly frustrating since they’ve spent weeks not cleared for sexual activity.
Castiel’s learned so much about Dean in the months since they first met. And none of it was in the Drift at all.
They have other ways to connect. Other ways to be together. The firm plane of the back of Dean’s hand as Castiel settles his palm over it, where it rests on his chest. Dean’s calluses chafing gently across his when Dean repositions their fingers so they’re intertwined, gripping tightly; the way Dean settles onto him, shivering as the full curve of his rear meets Castiel’s hips. The muscles of his legs flex as he finally sets his weight down, Castiel buried fully inside him.
“Fuck,” Dean groans. “God, this is…”
Carefully, aware that Dean is shaky and tense with the glut of sensation, Castiel thumbs one of his pink, tight nipples. Dean gasps and doesn’t quite squirm.
“Intense?” Castiel teases. “Uncomfortable?”
Dean cracks an eye open and glares at him. “I’d call you an asshole,” he retorts, “But I’m really afraid of what you’d say to that.”
Castiel laughs, unbearably happy, and settles his free hand gently on Dean’s hip—not pressing, just holding, for the simple pleasure of his palm molding on the firm ridge of bone, the tight arch of Dean’s side. “I think you mean ‘assbutt’.”
“I really don’t,” Dean complains. But he’s relaxing, now, the playful sarcasm of their banter easing him into familiarity. “Goddamn.”
When he starts to move, a tentative back-and-forth shift of his hips, Castiel has the pleasure of watching the flush rise in Dean’s cheeks again, staining away the tiny, almost-invisible freckles that the Mexico sun has started to kiss onto his face. Castiel will never tire of that blush. “Fu-uck,” Dean purrs into the first careful grind. “Yeah.”
Castiel shudders. Every time Dean shifts his weight like that, he flutters just slightly inside, muscles sliding wetly along Castiel’s length even though Dean’s not moving much. “Good?” he asks hopefully, but he knows the answer: he can see it in the slow parting of Dean’s lips, the way the lower one has gone soft as he tilts carefully back and forth. It’s been a very long time since Castiel had a man inside him, but he remembers the pressure, the friction, the obscene stretch of it, so well.
It’ll be different, with Dean. It’s always different with him.
Castiel can hardly wait.
“Mmm. I know what you’re thinking,” Dean pants, bracing himself on Castiel’s shoulder with his left arm. His right inches inwards until it’s tucked between their bodies, petting up and down his erection until it’s rigid again. The next time he moves his hips, a less tentative swing, wetness beads at his flushed, full tip. Castiel’s mouth waters.
“Do you?” Castiel asks, rocking his hips carefully upwards and pulling Dean downwards with the two hands he has on Dean’s hipbones now—deliberately, slowly, but the sink into Dean’s tight heat still makes him quiver all over.
“Uh huh,” Dean agrees, his eyes lazy, eyelashes fanning downwards. “You’re thinkin’ it’s your turn next time.”
“You’re not wrong,” Castiel admits. “How…?”
“Dude,” Dean says, the word clipped by laughter, his lips pink and swollen and abraded from the hours that Castiel’s spent kissing them today. “I always know what you’re thinking.”
It’s like neither of them wants to be far apart enough for the leverage a real thrust would require, but they don’t need it. It’s too hot and sticky for anything more vigorous than this, even with the ceiling fan rattling softly overhead. Castiel knows that Dean’s ribs are still sore, though he tries to pretend they aren’t. But they brace each other and rock together, Castiel barely slipping in and out of Dean’s body, Dean’s knuckles brushing against Castiel’s stomach over and over as he strokes himself with small, tight strokes. Castiel pushes himself upright just for a few moments to kiss Dean’s scarred shoulder, but with Dean groaning into his hair, he can’t maintain it for long.
Castiel’s on the verge himself, his legs flexing as he pushes up towards where Dean’s perched on top of him, when Dean goes tense and shaky on top of him, shuddering, moaning so low his voice rasps and his head goes back. His hand goes still on his cock as his ass flexes so sweetly around Castiel that for a moment he thinks he staves off his orgasm simply so he doesn’t miss a second of watching Dean’s pleasure, feeling every burst and twitch as Dean finds his release.
They don’t come together this time.
But Castiel doesn’t need that anymore.
(Still, it’s something to strive for, he thinks—hazily, happily, as he chases his own pleasure into Dean’s body, Dean slumped on top of him and saying, “Yeah, Cas. Yeah, baby, c’mon,” in a deep slur. Something to try for again, and again, and again.)
Afterwards, Dean’s fingertip traces the wet, warm smear marking the matching angel wing tattoo on Castiel’s left pectoral, his mouth curving in a possessive smile.
“Got come on you,” Dean announces, like it’s an achievement.
“So you did,” Castiel agrees, and pulls him down into a slow, lazy kiss.
It’s not the first time they’ve kissed. It won’t be the last. It won’t even be the last today.
In five minutes, one of them should get out of bed and get something to clean off with. In three weeks, they’ll join the outside world again. And in six months—who knows?
Their fingers entwine again, and Castiel rubs the simple titanium ring on Dean’s ring finger, bringing it to his lips. Dean doesn’t scoff this time, and Castiel smiles against his skin: he can’t help himself. Dean’s not the only one who’s possessive.
Outside their honeymoon bungalow, the Pacific laps sweetly at the shore in a quiet, untroubled rush of waves.
~fin~