Chapter Text
Castiel couldn’t think of anywhere to go, so the first place that popped into his head became his destination. He sat on the dry sand close to where Dean had on the beach in Hokkaido. No one was out, despite it being a Sunday. A stiff, frigid wind blew in from the ocean and whipped at his hair and coat. Dark gray clouds writhed above him. In front of him, the ocean foamed and seethed. There was probably a local blizzard warning in effect. Castiel was glad that he couldn’t feel the cold.
Loathe as he was to do it, he found a certain poetry in the weather and his mood. He wasn’t angry like the sky, but he wished that he was. The last thing he’d wanted to be was understanding. He’d always been that with Dean. Always let him call the shots. Always let him make his move. Always let him decide their fate. Always let him have the last word. It tore at Castiel, deep in his chest, knowing that Dean took because Castiel allowed. His love was a passive, toxic thing inside him. That’s why he’d given before Dean demanded at their final joining. He’d been thrilled, terrified when Dean had accepted. Then he’d crushed it when he had returned the gift with buyer’s remorse.
Castiel tossed a piece of driftwood into the surf with a sigh. He’d never been so uncharitable of thought before. This must have been what his brothers and sisters talked about when they told him that he’d been on Earth among the humans for too long. Then again, he supposed he couldn’t always have the good parts. He had to take the good with the bad, or have nothing at all. But since he had accepted that fact, he allowed a bit of petulance and self-pity to leak in because the bad was a lot easier to focus on than trying to find the good.
A light snow began to fall. Castiel stood up, turning his face towards it. He had always liked snow. Supposedly rain was the purifying agent. But when it solidified into endless fractals that chilled everything they touched, Castiel found beauty in that. He saw God in a world painted white. He supposed that he should be grateful for that much since he rarely saw God anywhere else.
It was time to leave. Maybe somewhere indoors. Remote. He was slightly surprised that he desired to be squirreled away confined after spending days in the hospital. But when he appeared in an old prospector’s cabin in Montana, he was glad he’d come. No one ever stayed here. It was remote and all of the old trails leading towards it had overgrown years ago. Decades, probably. Castiel maintained it himself with pride. It was small so that it could be heated easily during the harsh winters, just under two hundred square feet total. There was an iron fireplace, double bed, wood burning stove, and a hand carved wooden table worn shiny with use. Not much else in the way of decoration since Castiel didn’t need those sorts of things, but he’d brought a few items in over time. A crocheted blanket, moth-eaten brown sofa, a curious collection of river rocks that he enjoyed the feel of. Castiel snapped his fingers and a fire roared to life in the fireplace. He’d never gotten the hang of making them the human way, though he was fascinated by the process.
He removed his trench coat and folded it carefully over the back of the couch before sitting down to watch the flames in the fireplace. The musky smell of burning wood combined with the sound of crackling sparks relaxed him immeasurably. It never failed to.
He took a moment to look around the room, smiling. Nothing had changed in his absence, he was pleased to note, except for a thin layer of undisturbed dust. Naturally he hadn’t expected anyone to have found the place. He’d warded it quite strictly once he’d realized that no one owned the place or even visited, like so many spots in this part of the country; either turned into ghost towns or swallowed up and claimed by nature. His eyes settled on the bed tucked into the far corner of the room behind the utility sink that only had running water from a well outside about half the time. Angels didn’t sleep. There was no reason for that bed to be there at all. Once upon a time he’d allowed himself the small and brief fantasy of bringing Dean here. The very air surrounding the secluded spot felt like him. He’d enjoy the rough terrain. Probably love fishing in the cold river less than a mile away. Castiel had thought about it when he’d visited the hunter in his dream to find him sitting by a lake. His happy place. Somewhere quiet with a good view. The sunrises from the cabin were spectacular.
He spent several days there before moving on to Egypt. Then Australia. Then almost a month after he’d left the Winchesters to wander, he was walking along the cliffs in Ireland when he heard Dean’s voice. It made him ache even though it was only a thin echo of the real thing.
Hey, Cas. Uh. Hey, you can come on back whenever. We should talk.
Between Castiel’s irritated, knee-jerk reaction of finally, and the dull throb behind his sternum, he didn’t have enough clarity of mind to be amused that Dean had sounded almost embarrassed with his short prayer. He straightened his tie and took himself back to the bunker.
~ o ~ x ~ xoXox ~ x ~ o ~
Dean called himself a chickenshit every chance he got these days. As soon as he’d left the hospital and put Sam off with his questions, he’d elected to ignore all of it, promise or no. There was probably a special level of torment in Hell for outright lying to an angel. Maybe being cursed to listen to Crowley sing show tunes at him for a hundred years, or something. Dean smiled a little at the thought. He’d probably take requests after a few decades and Dean could get him to do all of Little Shop of Horrors.
Those thoughts only kept the real problems at bay for so long, though. With both Charlie and Sam breathing down his neck, and no new cases to speak of for the moment, he couldn’t hide himself as well as he’d hoped, and even Charlie had found him moping in the storage room and said, “come on, Dean, it’s like you’re begging me to ask you what’s got you so down.” Like she didn’t already know the answer.
Luckily, Sam being the smart man that he was, gave Dean his space for weeks. Dean was grateful because he knew his little brother was getting an ulcer trying to keep his mouth shut. Wasn’t like he couldn’t figure out the high notes, of course. Dean sunk in a depression, Castiel never showing up. Everyone knew how to add up that equation.
Three weeks became the cutoff point, though. That was a whole week longer than Dean had been betting on. Sam trapped him by the coffee maker, rightly assuming that Dean would deal with his questions rather than forgo caffeine so early in the morning. Fucking brothers, man.
“Dean,” he said with that “get ready because I’m loading your name with all the warnings and feelings I can to prepare you for what’s ahead” tone.
“Sam,” Dean answered in his best “not a single emotion or giveaway” tone.
“I’m not trying to force you or anything, but it’s obvious something’s up with you and Cas after everything went down, and I’d like you to tell me what’s going on.”
Dean slammed the carafe back onto the warming pad a bit harder than intended. He swung around to face his brother and spread his arms wide. “There’s nothing going on, Sammy. Zero. Zilch. Nada.”
“Obviously,” Sam answered sarcastically. “You haven’t left the bunker except to go buy groceries, and Cas hasn’t shown himself for three weeks now. Did you tell him to leave?”
Dean let out a sound between a groan and a growl. “No. He did that on his own.”
“Why?”
“I’m not having this talk with you.”
Sam huffed and trailed Dean out to the war room. “You say that every time, Dean. Look, I know when to back off and I know when you should just talk. Get it out there. You’ve been like this for three weeks and nothing’s gotten better. I’d say that’s enough time for you to work it out on your own, and since it doesn’t appear to be helping, it’s time to give something else a try.”
Dean wasn’t angry, not really. He also wasn’t unwilling to talk about it. It felt weird with Sam because they’d been close with Castiel for so long. And now it was some strange, nebulous thing. More than being scared of confiding in his brother, he just wanted to hold the status quo for as long as possible. But there was no such thing anymore. He and Cas had crossed a line that had built up a brick wall behind them. Telling everything to his brother would just make it real. He didn’t know if he was ready for that. But why did he fear change anyway? It was the defining characteristic of his life.
Instead of answering Sam head-on, he said, “I just want shit to stay the same, y’know? The crap we have control over.” He hated how defeated he sounded saying it out loud. He sat down at the war table, hands wrapped around his mug almost defensively.
Carefully, Sam sat down across from him. “I don’t get it. Are you talking about you and Cas, or what?”
“I guess so,” he admitted like he was having a tooth pulled. “It’s all of it, you know? Why the hell am I the one to call this? What makes me so special to be like, ‘hey, yeah, let’s change the entire dynamic of our lives because I want to.’ Every time I make a big call, it always goes south.”
“Not always,” Sam protested gently. “Look, Dean, I know I’ve said this to you before, but it’s not all on you. And more than that, you deserve to be happy when you can. It’s a big thing for either of us, right? Sure, it might be short lived. Maybe it ends up right back where you started. But I think it’s worth it.”
“How?” Dean demanded, mystified.
Sam smiled. “Because there’s not enough of it. Happiness, I mean. You’ve had your hang-ups, and a ton of reasons to be cautious. After Cassie, after Lisa, man you tried. You really did, but you also learned.”
Dean stared at the black brew in his mug. “Yeah,” he agreed bitterly. “I learned that I ruin everything I touch.”
Sam sighed. “You like to think that. I disagree on a lot of it. I also disagree completely with you pushing your issues onto Cas. It’s Cas. I’m almost positive that everything will be different with him.” When Dean gave him a knowing look, he hastened to add, “in a good way!”
Dean leaned back in his chair, giving his brother a calculating look. He saw nothing but sincerity. “Seriously, Sammy, where is your faith coming from these days?”
Sam rolled his eyes with a smirk. “Like I said, it’s because it’s Cas. Think of it this way: the lives we lead, the fact that we’re Winchesters, doesn’t leave a lot of room for normal happiness. But Cas is an angel. If anyone could handle either of us, it’d be him.”
Dean laughed outright. It sounded rusty from ages of disuse. “Can’t really argue with that.”
“You gonna do something about it, then?” Sam asked with an unsure, but genuine smile.
“Yeah, I just need some time to... process it all.” He held his hands up when Sam’s face immediately fell. “I said I would and I will. I promised Cas and I’m promising you.”
“Good. You know... I’m really... ah. Just, good luck, okay?”
Sam’s embarrassment eked out another laugh. “Whatever, man. Drink your damn coffee.”
~ o ~ x ~ xoXox ~ x ~ o ~
Castiel appeared in the war room, figuring it to be the most neutral ground. Plus, he remembered all the times that Dean had been short with him over privacy and personal space. Dean wasn’t in the room, though Castiel already knew that. Sam blinked at him in surprise. “Hey, Cas,” he said, a slow smile turning his lips up. “You’re back.”
“Yes,” he answered, confused at the strange look. “How are you, Sam?”
Sam cleared his throat. “I’m good, man. Really good. If you’re looking for Dean, he’s been in his room all morning listening to music as loud as his headphones will let him.”
“Thank you, Sam,” he said vaguely, turning towards the dorms, though not entirely sure if he was being rude not catching up with the younger Winchester since it had been so long. When he glanced over his shoulder, though, he was fairly certain that the strange look Sam was giving him was a clear sign he wasn’t offended.
No sound came from Dean’s room when Castiel stopped in front of the closed door. He raised his hand to knock, then stopped and brought it down to knuckle at the tightness in his chest. He still didn’t have a complete understanding of the range of human emotions. This feeling he recognized. It happened every time he thought about Dean, touched Dean. It was Dean-exclusive and as painful as it was wonderful. He breathed in and knocked.
“Yeah?” Dean’s voice called, muffled almost completely by the door.
Castiel turned the handle and let it swing open, staying in the doorway.
Dean took off his headphones, the tinny strains of Kansas audible through them. They were silent, staring at one another until the song finished. A new one didn’t start afterwards. Good timing showing up at the end of the playlist.
Castiel couldn’t understand Dean’s expression no matter how long he studied it. It didn’t change. Dean appeared like he was frozen, sitting at the end of the bed, feet on the floor. The angel wasn’t sure if too much or not enough space separated them. “Hello, Dean. I heard your prayer,” he began haltingly. “You said you wanted to talk.”
Dean stood slowly, his eyes never leaving Castiel’s face, as if he thought he might spook him into zapping away. “I said that, but it’s not true,” he answered.
Castiel tilted his head to the side, trying not to let the swooping disappointment in his chest show. “Then why did you say that?”
Dean took a single step forward. “I don’t wanna talk, Cas. I never wanted to talk. I never say the right things, and if I don’t do it here, then I’ll regret it forever.”
“I don’t understand,” Castiel answered, an urge to step back when Dean stepped forward barely tamped down. He really didn’t understand.
Instead of explaining, Dean took another small step forward. “I’m totally back to normal now. Not an incubus. Are you back?”
“Yes,” he said, voice hitched. There wasn’t enough space between them. He could touch Dean if he moved his arm just slightly. “I recovered quickly once my grace was restored.”
“So you’re in your right mind?”
Castiel’s forehead wrinkled with offense. “Of course I am.”
They stood practically nose to nose now. Castiel had to flick his focus from Dean’s right eye to his left quickly to take him all in. He smelled the man’s mint toothpaste when Dean murmured, “Good, because I need you all there to answer my question. Do you still want what you told me?”
Voice having failed him, Castiel nodded. Dean grinned and Castiel thought the hunter might kiss him, but he didn’t. He held completely still, expectant. Castiel gave in and answered. “It’s always you, Dean.”
“I know,” he answered, and it sounded a whole lot different to Castiel than a simple acknowledgement. For a brief second he thought about Star Wars and didn’t know why. Then Dean kissed him and Castiel didn’t waste even a millisecond before responding. Such as it was. This wasn’t the incubus poison driving them both forward to get to the final act. Castiel half expected the overwhelming ambrosia scent, both relieved and slightly sad when it didn’t happen. This was better. It had to be better. Just Dean. Just Castiel. Nothing between them except for the small tremors of nervous anxiety wracking their bodies.
Dean kissed like memorization was the most important part. He took Castiel’s face in his hands gently, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, fingers curling behind his ears. That and their mouths were the only things that touched. Castiel was pleased with the familiar feeling of Dean’s warm, dry lips. He tilted his head slightly like he remembered Dean enjoying as if to ask for more. But Dean didn’t give it to him right away. He used the angle to press a series of smaller kisses to the corner of Castiel’s mouth, doing nothing more until the angel’s lips parted on a reedy sigh. Dean delved in, then. Their tongues met and Dean’s grip grew stronger, pulling their bodies together firmly. He still didn’t move much. When he was an incubus, he would have already been grinding them together to stimulate them both further. This time he let them both experience an actual kiss that wasn’t a means to an end, specifically there to capture Castiel’s attention. It was a thing all by itself, exploratory and communicative. Castiel couldn’t read Dean’s mind any longer, but he was surprised that he could understand what he was saying wordlessly, anyway.
Finally unfrozen, Castiel slipped his hands between Dean’s unbuttoned dark red over shirt and black undershirt. His hands slid back over Dean’s ribs to curl against the dip of his spine. Dean shuddered and tugged him closer.
When they pulled apart, Dean’s eyes were bright and searching. He licked his lips and smiled, though it wobbled a little. “Not the same, is it?”
Castiel released the hunter, but didn’t put space between them. He brushed his own wet lips with his fingertips. “I like this better,” he admitted. “It feels like you.”
Dean pressed their foreheads together. He shut his eyes. “Are you okay with me not being an incubus anymore? We can’t, like, bond or anything now.”
Castiel reached up and gripped Dean by the back of the neck, steadying and warm. “I told you before, didn’t I? I’d give up the rest just for this.”
“Jesus, Cas,” Dean whispered. “Never pegged you for a sappy romantic. How come you’re such a smooth talker now?”
Castiel couldn’t stop his smile as he bent forward to press another small series of light kisses along Dean’s face. The hunter tilted his head for easier access. “Sometimes I know exactly how to say what I’m thinking.”
“Yeah, I’ll buy that,” Dean answered, tugging the angel backwards by the lapels of his trench coat until they were laid out on the bed. Castiel tumbled down on top and caught himself on his hands, bracketing Dean’s shoulders. “It doesn’t have to be anything you don’t want it to be,” Dean said softly.
“I want everything,” Cas said severely.
Dean’s expression softened. “I mean it, Cas. You gave up everything for me.”
Castiel bent his elbows, bringing him closer. “It’s not a contest. And a sacrifice is nothing if there’s nothing for me to miss.”
Unable to form a coherent answer, Dean arched his neck up and Castiel met him halfway in a suddenly bruising kiss. Castiel wasn’t sure if it was his confession that had changed the tone, but something had, and he found himself flipped onto his back in a rush. That was followed by an awkward struggle full of elbows and protests as they scrambled out of their clothes as quickly as possible. Dean was fairly certain that Cas could just make his own clothes disappear, but he appreciated the camaraderie during the unsexy fumbling.
Skin on skin slowed everything back down again. Dean lowered himself over Castiel almost like he was doing a pushup and the angel followed the rigid flex of his biceps with his eyes and then his mouth, biting at the firm flesh. Dean huffed a small moan that made Castiel spread his legs just wide enough for Dean to settle between them, torso to torso as he chased another kiss.
The similarities and differences between the before and after of the curse amazed Castiel. Part of him felt as though he was exploring Dean for the first time, almost like a piece of music he’d forgotten the tune of, but fingers remembering the notes to play. His skin felt rough and firm and familiar wherever his hands traveled. The heavy length of his hard cock brushing along the inside curve of his hip elicited an automatic response of drawing his hips up lightly for a bit more friction.
But the sounds were certainly different. Dean’s voice pitched lower than ever, but rather than the silky glide of an incubus trying its best to seduce and claim, now Dean sounded rough and wrecked, as undone by the contact as Castiel was. He could listen to those dirty sounds of pleasure forever.
By the time they were both worked up to a fever pitch, Castiel didn’t even have the presence of mind to protest the loss of Dean’s heat and weight when he sat up to grab the lube. In fact, he could barely keep his eyes open without being overwhelmed when Dean sat back on his knees, uncapped the bottle, and spread a thick sheen of it over his already slick cock. In a fluid movement, he wrapped his arms under Castiel’s knees and dragged him forward until he was half in Dean’s lap. The pressure on his entrance made him moan. Dean didn’t satisfy the urge right then, though.
He leaned over a little and Castiel pushed up onto his elbows to meet him halfway. “Dean,” he said breathlessly.
Dean ran his fingers through the sweat-dampened hair sticking to Castiel’s forehead, mussing it up into wilting spikes. “You’re right,” he said between heavy breaths. “This is totally better.” Then he used his body weight to shove forward, capturing Castiel’s lips in a messy, open mouthed kiss at the same time as he breached Castiel’s tight hole in a long, powerful thrust.
Castiel’s arms wobbled enough to topple him, and he collapsed back onto the pillows as he cried out. Dean didn’t seem to mind. He took a moment to seat himself to the hilt and then crawled onto all fours for better leverage. Castiel wrapped his shaking legs around Dean’s waist, gripping him tightly.
Dean slid his palms firmly down Castiel’s arms from shoulders to fingertips, forcing the angel to spread them wide across the mattress before tangling their fingers together. Then he started to move. Slowly.
Head rolling back onto the pillow, Castiel moaned deep in his chest and loudly every time that Dean hit the angle just right. He didn’t even recognize the filthy sounds being ripped from his throat, though every one made Dean gasp and murmur words of praise against his chest. His skin felt tight, everything taut and straining. And hot. He was burning. He gripped Dean’s hands so hard that they hurt.
“Cas,” Dean hissed. The angel opened his eyes to find Dean staring at him with the most intense expression he’d ever seen. It took his breath away and coiled the pleasure in his groin tighter and fuller.
Castiel arched up. Dean seared their lips together. His thrusts became erratic and wild. “Please,” he sobbed like the most devout prayer. “Dean, I’m going to-”
“Let me feel it,” Dean demanded. And just like that, Castiel flew over the edge and spilled between them untouched. The catch and squeeze of his muscles made Dean shout. It cut off into a low growl and he pulled out right before he came, adding thick ropes of come to Castiel’s on his belly. It took a long time for either of them to move at all after that.
Flexing his cramped fingers, Castiel wiggled underneath Dean’s weight. They untangled, both with small whines of protest. “I’m sore,” Dean complained. “And sticky.”
Castiel lazily touched Dean’s chest and whisked away the sweat and semen. Dean chuckled. “Wow, that’s a nice perk of having sex with an angel.”
A startled laugh rumbled in the angel’s chest. “I’m pleased to be of use.”
Dean rolled up onto his elbow, leaning just slightly over Castiel, who was sprawled on his back. “Thanks,” he said softly, eyes roaming over Castiel’s body.
“For cleaning you?”
“That too, but also for waiting me out. It... it means a lot, okay?”
Castiel smiled beatifically. “It’s worth it. I’m very happy, Dean.”
“Me too, Cas,” Dean answered, kissing the angel again.
In the end, it seemed sort of fitting that a curse would be a blessing. If he squinted at it sideways, Dean could find the patterns of blessings after the curses. Or, he could hope that the curses came before the blessings so that this particular one wouldn’t even itself out with another tragedy. He kissed Castiel over and over. And when he leaned back enough to study his face in the low light from the desk lamp, he knew. He just knew. They’d always be this way. This was it for him. So the curses could pile on up. He’d fight them with Castiel. And they’d win.