Archive of Our Own ^beta

(un) masked

It is hard not to… pretend.

With the last spark of self-control available to him, Castiel tightens his grip on the knife and slams it up and between Dean's ribs.

It's only been two weeks and three days since the Wesley Medical Center in Wichita reluctantly consented to release Dean when he walks into the library, laptop under his arm, and announces: "Hey, Sam. Cas. Found us a hunt!"

Castiel pauses. Marks his page. Sets his book aside.

Then trades an uneasy look with Sam that Dean visibly—eyes tightening, mouth thinning—decides to pretend he doesn't notice as he crosses the room toward them.

"Uh," Sam hedges. "Are you sure we're ready for that, Dean? It's kinda… soon. Cas is still adjusting to being human again, and you just got back on your feet. I thought we'd take another few weeks, maybe a month."

Stubborn-jawed, Dean plops his laptop on their shared table and opens it. "It's a run-of-the-mill hunt, Sammy, our bread and butter. Simple monster; simple gankage. We could do this in our sleep."

"Uh, sure, but—"

"But nothing. I'm sick of being stuck underground while you mother hen me," Dean barrels on. "I'm fine. And Cas seems pretty well-adjusted to me," this with a quick, bitter glance Castiel's way, which he, in his own turn, pretends not to notice.

They do a lot of pretending these days. "I'm fine," Cas says.

"See, Cas says he's fine." Dean's smile is humorless. "And I say it's time for some violent tourism."

Sam sighs. "Alright, show me."

"That's the spirit." Bracing one hand on the table's edge, Dean leans down to navigate something on his screen—no doubt pulling up the news articles that point to this hunt he's dug up. "Okay, so…"

Castiel tunes him out, focusing instead on the deft slide of his finger on the track pad, the surety and strength as Dean double-taps to open another window.

The tremors, at least, have abated. But his knuckles remain too prominent; his nail beds still stained black at the very root.

Castiel swallows the bile in his throat, and looks away.

Castiel's rescue had come at unbearable cost.

Sam and Dean had burned more than one bridge on their quest to find a means to tear into the Empty. But, more than that, when they'd eventually found one—because of course they had, why had Castiel ever believed it could be otherwise?—the spell had demanded outrageous magical and mundane collateral. Extraordinary and unreasonable outlay: Earth's last unicorn horn, ground to dust; a thimble stolen from Neverland; the willingly-shed teardrop of an Unseelie Queen; the tattered remnants of Castiel's grace.

And, very nearly, Dean's own life.

Precious things.

Too precious.

Castiel is sitting in the uncomfortable hospital armchair, musing on the influence a good cushion has over the human experience, when Dean finally wakes up.

"...Cas?" he rasps.

Startled, Castiel looks up. He had not been expecting Dean to rouse when he alone held vigil. Frankly, after spending more than a week watching Dean in a coma, clinging to life by the barest margin, Castiel had practically given up hope of him waking at all.

Every moment—every moment—has been Hell.

Dean has not moved except to turn his head toward him. His eyes barely focus, his sclera still shot through with black, even his lovely seaglass green irises bruise-darkened by the Empty's touch. The sight fills Castiel with rage.

"Ha," Dean manages, weak but triumphant through chapped lips. "That'll show you. Fuckin'- tryin' ta- die on me- again."

Castiel stands sharply, notes the twinge in his lowest vertebrae with a bitten-back growl. He approaches the bedside, hands aching to touch, to cup Dean's face and stroke the arc of his cheekbones with his thumbs. If allowed, he would hold Dean with such love the world would catch its breath.

But he is not allowed.

"You should not have done this, Dean. This was too much to risk. Too much to lose."

"Yeah? Well- hello to you, too." Dean pauses to inhale thickly. "Also- fuck you. I do- what I want."

Every moment—every torturous, brooding moment—has fed the blaze of anger in Castiel's gut; it is incandescent now. And he has never been good at keeping his temper. As a human, the flaw is… exacerbated.

"You- how dare you?" he breathes, and he can hear the shear of ice in his own timbre. The fury and despair.

Dean squints, glassy, confused. "How dare I- what? Rescue- your ungrateful ass?"

"I was at peace with my choice! I did not want to be rescued!" Castiel seethes at him from on high.

"Cas—"

"Why? Why would you take such a stupid gamble?! What you did, the price you paid- what gives you the right? You made my sacrifice meaningless, Dean! Meaningless! Did you stop to think for one second? Or did you just not care what it would be like for me? To be brought back to a life without—!" He cuts himself off, sick of his own incoherency. He can't say the next words anyway, not now he has to face the consequences of them.

Glassy green turns to a shallow pool of wetness—not tears, Castiel refuses to accept that it could be tears in Dean's eyes—as Dean recoils the small distance he can into his pillow. "Better than- bein' dead," he insists, voice small.

"Is it?" Castiel snarls.

"Cas. Cas, just- please- I don't under- stand," Dean croaks, his blackened fingers twitching closer, reaching, but too feeble to cross the distance.

Castiel hates this fragile, hurting mortal body. This graceless sack of meat and viscera, devoid of the power to heal the simplest injury. "You do not respect my right to choose my own fate. You never have. This- This was not a life I wanted to face. Not like this."

A life without dignity, or hope, or usefulness, or even the consolation that was Jack. A life of being another emotional albatross around Dean's neck. A life of Dean drifting farther and farther away, like a divergent tectonic boundary, the inevitable alienation worsened by how Dean will cling to him anyway, foolishly determined to prove friendship and fraternity should prevail over the pitiless and awkward reality of Castiel's yearning for more.

Then the slow descent into death. Followed by what? Heaven? Where he will repeat his pathetic pining for all eternity, lurking always at the fringes of Dean's happily ever after?

It galls like acid in his throat.

Dean's mouth is distraught and trembling. It is as delicately-shaped as a snowflake. Beneath it, his gums are pitch black.

Castiel has to turn. And walk away.

"C- Cas? Where are you- Cas!"

Headlights cut through the night across dark asphalt. Sam dozes in the passenger seat. Thumbs drumming on the steering wheel, Dean hums along low and lovely to a band Castiel cannot name. He seems content, even well, driving them toward this case he's forced them on. Normal in a way that has escaped them all for a long, long time.

From the backseat, Castiel can watch his face in the rearview mirror. He has always enjoyed this view. It feels more intimate than riding 'shotgun,' a secret opportunity for observation, a privilege known solely to him. Especially now that he must police himself strictly, must take pains not to let himself look long or often. Dean notices now, when Castiel is not careful—though he pretends otherwise.

It is not the only kind of pretending Dean does. In truth, Dean is not well. His reflexes are slower. He tires easily. He needs to regain another ten pounds, twenty preferably. After more than a month of recovery, he still wears the Empty's darkness in his lash line.

Infuriatingly, it suits him. Perhaps it will never quite fade. You do not walk into the void with a human soul and emerge unaltered.

You do not walk into the void with a human soul, period.

But Dean did. Worse, Dean did it for Castiel. To rescue him. Out of friendship, fraternity. Out of love. Just—not the right kind.

Perhaps it's wrong of him, perhaps it's unfair and petty and all-too-human, but.

Castiel resents him for it.

He can't stop looking at him every change he gets anyway.

cas come on pls. pls come see me. we gotta talk about this.

Castiel ignores Dean's text, the latest in a long series of similar requests. As far as he is concerned, they do not 'gotta' talk about this. And if he has to witness Dean's ravaged body again amongst all those tubes and wires, inert as a discarded puppet, and be utterly unable to help—he is not confident he can remain tethered to reasonable action.

Human emotion is difficult to control at the best of times.

He fantasizes about breaking things. About putting a fist through the ceaseless beeping monitors, warping the metal of the IV pole beyond recognition, hurling that hideous, uncomfortable armchair out of the hospital window to the melody of shattering glass. About shaking Dean until his teeth rattle in his stupid, stubborn skull.

…Alternatively, it would be very easy to steal a kiss from a man who can barely move under his own power. Castiel just might. Just once. Just to know. He can imagine doing so with perfect clarity.

He sees himself once more at Dean's bedside, placing a single hand gently on Dean's jaw, angling him just so. Watching his eyes widen with realization. Leaning over and ignoring all protest to just once sample the give and flavor of his mouth. After all, why not? Castiel has no pride left to protect. His secret is out now, and that has made it a burden they both must share. Surely Dean is merciful enough to pretend along for one kiss.

i kno ur upset and i get why, i do. im sorry its gotta be this way. if i could change it i would but i can't. but you dont get to freeze me out over it lets just talk. chick flick style with all the bells and whistles i promise.

cas put on ur big boy pants and fucking COME TALK TO ME

Cas goddammit

CAS!!

No. He cannot trust himself. He will wait, and see Dean again when Sam brings him home to the bunker. He will take this time and space to gird himself for what lies ahead. If there is to be a distancing between them, let it begin with him. There is little left in his power but to absolve Dean of the guilt of estrangement, but in this—in this, he can still be useful.

this is a really shitty thing to do man. ur my best friend.

The truth is a knife. Castiel has carved Dean's initials into his heart with it. The question is, can he wield it to sever the ties that bind them?

Castiel is sent to fetch dinner while Sam and Dean research. Because he has, apparently, been downgraded to errand boy until he 'better grasps his own limits.' As if he hasn't been down this road once already. As if he's lost the ability to read in addition to his angelic powers.

Silent, robotic, he hands them each their takeout box, drink, napkin, and cutlery as necessary. Menial and insulting as it may be, it warrants doing well.

"Thanks, Cas," Sam says, glancing up at him with a smile. "Alright, now that you're back, take a look at this. I think I found something." He spins his laptop, revealing a picture of a group of people in a forest setting, likely friends from the grins and the interleaving of arms over shoulders and around waists.

Dean will probably never hug him again.

"Alright, Sammy! What am I lookin' at? Hit us with your hot hackering," Dean says, before taking a huge bite of his fully-loaded triple-patty smashburger. Castiel ordered him the behemoth-sized soda as well. Calories in.

"Looks like all four victims were connected to members of a local hiking club. Husband, girlfriend, ex…and those members?"

"The other four victims?" Castiel surmises as he perches on the edge of the bed to open his own dinner.

"Bingo. The power of social media."

"So, what? They've got a monster in the club? Something stalking them?" Dean sucks grease off his thumb and Castiel thinks helplessly of Ganymede and Ambrosia and Zeus.

It never stops; every being that ever mocked him was right to.

Sam crunches through a mouthful of salad. "Maybe they disturbed an old gravesite out on the trails."

"The deaths were staggered over weeks. That rules out a haunting, I think. But something is in those woods," Castiel says.

Dean grunts, throat bobbing down another too-large bite. "Tomorrow we chat up the other members, see if we can narrow this sucker down. And we need to go to Dick's or something. Whatever sporting goods store they have around here."

Sam is nodding his agreement, but Castiel frowns, confused. "Why? We packed every possible weapon we might need."

Dean looks over at him though, as always lately, he skates past meeting Castiel's eyes. His smirk is sour around the edges, his shrug thin. "Just lookin' after ya, Cas. You need better layers, not to mention the right kind a' socks and boots to go stomping around a mountainside. Could break an ankle. Or worse, chafe. I learned that the hard way, trust me," he shudders with whatever memory comes to mind.

"Among other things," Sam murmurs.

Dean's head slowly swivels; he peers at Sam suspiciously. "Do you mean we need other stuff from the store too, or that I've learned other things the hard way?"

"Both," Sam snorts. "Obviously."

"Takes one to know one," Dean huffs and kicks his brother under the table. Sam grabs a handful of Dean's fries and stuffs them into his mouth in retaliation, and Dean gasps in outrage, and that's all it takes to sink them into their own boisterous private world of affectionate bickering, play-fighting like lion cubs, and Castiel smiles, amused in spite of himself.

Heartsick, but amused.

He already feels so far away.

But really, was he ever any closer than this?

When Sam finally delivers Dean back to the bunker, Castiel has mustered enough courage to meet them at the door. He holds it open as Sam helps Dean across the threshold, grabs the duffel in the footwell and, carrying it, follows their slow progress down the stairs while looking steadfastly elsewhere.

"Here we go," Sam grunts as he lowers Dean to sit at the map table in the war room. "I'll be right back. Gotta go get the chair."

"Don't want the friggin' chair," Dean sulks, despite panting from the effort of getting from the car to here. "I told you I can fucking walk on my own most of the time! Jesus, there's too many stairs in this damn place for a wheelchair anyway!"

Ah. The whining. It begins. Castiel tries—and fails—not to find it endearing.

"No, Dean, you can't." Sam sighs the kind of sigh that can only mean he's dealt with more than his fair share of bitching and moaning already. "Look, it's your choice, man. Either I get the chair or Cas and I carry you around everywhere. Which is it gonna be?" At Dean's aghast expression, he nods knowingly. "Yeah, that's what I thought. So suck it up and stop whining. Be back in a sec."

Sam turns back toward the staircase, but Castiel sets Dean's bag down and steps forward, forestalling him. "Let me, Sam. I can get it while you get Dean settled," he offers.

The look Sam pins him with is fierce, and startling in its forbiddance. "Not a chance, Cas. You two need to talk," he says grimly. "In fact, change of plans. I'm gonna go pick up groceries right now. I'm gonna make it a nice, long trip, get all your favorite stuff, Dean. And you—" he jabs a finger at Castiel, then Dean, "had better work out your shit by the time I get back. I'm not dealing with the two of you in open warfare on top of everything else!"

"Hey, don't put this on me, man. I've tried, you know I have," Dean says, and his tone is blithe but hurt throbs beneath, painfully audible. "Cas is the one with the issue here. Sorry again for saving you from your own stupid kamikaze bullshit, by the way," he drawls unpleasantly, and just for Castiel.

Castiel's spine snaps straight of its own accord. "I did what I felt was necessary," he says woodenly.

"So the fuck did I!" Dean snaps. "Hasn't stopped you bein' pissed about it. Weird, right?"

"Good, good, great start, guys." Sam rolls his eyes. Shaking his head, he pivots on his heel, sidesteps Castiel, and takes the stairs two at a time back up to the main entrance, calling, "Work! It! Out!" before slamming the door behind him.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Dean glares at Castiel, a challenge in his dagger-sharp gaze. "Well? Gonna talk to me now, Cas, or avoid me some more? There's lots of places in the bunker to hide if that's what you wanna do. Obviously I can't chase you down at the moment, so," he waves a dismissive hand, "feel free."

Feeling dishonorably ambushed, Castiel shifts from foot to foot as he struggles to construct an answer. He misses his angelic ability to find stillness acutely. This… was not how he'd envisioned Dean's homecoming unfolding. He'd assumed they would pick up as if nothing out of the ordinary had passed between them, as they had with every other brush against emotions too tender for acceptance. But not this time, it seems. Not when it's Castiel who wants to tuck something back into his dark box of skeletons.

And actually, upon reflection, it seems quite unfair that only Dean gets to decide what topics are filed in the 'don't talk about it and move on' category of their relationship. In that light, it serves him right for Castiel to choose obstinance.

So he does.

"I don't see what there is to talk about."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "You don't- that's what you're going with?"

"I've already expressed my frustration with your choices, and the situation they have put me in," Castiel says mulishly, squaring his shoulders.. "I have nothing else to say on the matter."

"Riiiight," Dean scoffs, derisive beyond measure. "Let me see if I remember what you said… Ah, I got it! You didn't want to be rescued! Nah, you wanted to go out all heroic, a big ol' martyr, am I right? But," he gasps and feigns a mournful expression, and Castiel's teeth grind from the sheer mockery of it, "woe is you, I fucking fought tooth and nail to bring you back and now I'm the bad guy because I stole your self-sacrificial thunder and forced you into a life you apparently hate. I get that correct? Wow. Man, that blows. Poor you. Poor, poor you."

Blood cannot literally boil in the veins but that doesn't stop it from seeming that way. The rage is so violent inside him, it could vibrate Castiel apart at the seams. He draws his hands into shaking fists, straining for control. "Trust you to accomplish the shallowest possible understanding of what this is like for me, you blind ass," he hisses between his teeth, tea-kettle tight. "Nevermind that you almost died, Dean! You came within breaths, within heartbeats, of losing yourself to the Empty! To save me! How could you ever conceivably believe I would be okay with the risk you took?! And if you had, there was nothing- nothing I could've done! Nothing I could do! Without even what was left of my grace, I'm just—"

"Oh, so it's fine for you to throw yourself on a sword for my sake, but not for me to do the same thing?" Dean interrupts belligerently, throwing his hands out. "Yeah, that makes sense! Sell me another one, you hypocrite!"

"You cannot reverse our positions so easily, Dean! The differences are- are definitive! We are not the same! What we did is not the same! My hand was forced, my ending was guaranteed, it could never have been anything else! But you! You made a choice that could very well have undone my last, best act! And your- your life now, after— it will be as it was! But not mine! Mine will never be…" Castiel chokes on it, throat clogged with grief where moments before he was shouting. He can count on one hand the number of times he's ever shouted at Dean. Why is it so hard to reign these infernal feelings in?

"Yeah, the differences are definitive, aren't they, Cas? The main one being that I didn't swandive into the Empty intending to fucking stay there, and you did!" Dean yells back, high bright spots of fever color blooming across his cheekbones. "I- I got us both out alive! Because I wasn't trying to—"

Oh. No. Don't go there, Castiel thinks, anguished. Don't, please. Please.

"—dump this huge, steaming pile of crap in your lap, then cut and run like a coward! I wasn't looking for a way to fucking leave you behind!"

The words hit like a blow from a battering ram, a kick in the sternum. Castiel rocks backward, gutted with it. Horror drains the color from his face; he feels it go with a palpable chill, lost with all the air in his lungs.

Dean goes on, breathing raggedly, knuckles white around the arms of his chair as he leans forward. "What is it that you think makes us so different here, huh? You made an idiotic deal, and I didn't? You were an angel before, but I was always a human so, yanno, no biggie on the trials and tribulations of keeping on keeping on? Or maybe it's that you love me and you think I don't? Of course I love you, Cas! Of course I do!"

Like a friend, Castiel reminds himself sternly, a punishing whip-crack of a thought, a blaze of fresh pain in a never-healed wound. Like a brother.

"Well!" Dean barks a cutting laugh. "If that's true, you really have a way of showing it, buddy, considering you'd rather be in the Empty than alive with me! All because now you have to be human, and that sucks so much for you. Or is it because now you have to face up to your last words or admit you're a goddamn liar!?"

Dean roars the last two words with everything he can bring to bear, and the last of his meager strength goes with them. All at once, he sags like his strings have been cut. Slumps against the backrest of his chair, and tips his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. His bones are too prominent beneath his sallow skin, his Adam's apple a stark shadowed shape. A fine quiver wracks his body as he works to gasp in wheezy breaths. The doctors said his lungs looked as if he'd smoked three packs a day for decades.

Somehow, something has gotten a vice around Castiel's heart and is winching it, winching it tighter, one thread at a time, and the vice is self-loathing, and the threads are anger, and the winch is guilt, and he fears the rupture will end him if he can't release the pressure.

It takes more courage than he thought he had left, to bleed out the truth.

"Dean... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he says. "What I did—" What brought us to this… "I made. A mistake."

"Oh, yeah? Which part?" Dean asks, picking his head up with obvious effort. Hazy-eyed and flushed, he's so beautiful it's a physical sensation in Castiel's chest, and he is grateful for it. Grateful just to behold him. There is still that, isn't there? Even in the absence of all other honors. (Dignity. Use.)

"Everything." Being so weak. "All of it." Leaving you the way I did. "And I shouldn't have—" Lost my temper. Taken it out on you. "This was all a terrible mistake." I don't prefer death to you, my love. "I'm just… so sorry." There is nothing I prefer to you.

"Don't say that. Not everything. You said you—" Dean's voice breaks. "Cas. Please. We can get past this. Can't we? If you- can't you—"

Hating himself, Castiel shakes his head. "I can't. This is- it's too hard."

Dean drops his chin forward, swallowing hard as bitterness bows his shoulders like the weight of a cross. "Fine," he whispers. "I get it."

"I'm sorry." Again; always.

"So… what, then? What do we do now?"

Born down by the weight as well, heavy as a lifetime, Castiel says: "We pretend."

There are two types of people in the world, or so it has always seemed to Castiel. People who respond to Sam, and people who respond to Dean. Someday, he would like to do a study—an informal collation of correlating factors, perhaps a sort of personality questionnaire—to figure out if there's a pattern there. A catalog of qualities that each type shares. As it stands, it rather mystifies him. He can never predict which Winchester brother will strike the right note to make the walls come down.

Nevertheless, somehow one or the other always manages to coax the truth from whomever they must interrogate.

And meanwhile, Castiel can do little but loom in the background like an awkward and extraneous part. He appeals to no one.

No thanks to him, the day's interviews yield a wealth of information, more than enough to paint a picture of exactly what manner of monster they are dealing with and where to find said creature. One—frightened, confused, mother of three, Sam-type—member of the hiking club is both detail-oriented and generous enough to provide a copy of her self-drawn map, with included trail notes. On it, a small waterfall set in a valley between two toothy slopes is circled in red. The tidy cursive in the nearest margin reads: 'Daryl saw something strange in the water?'

It seems, in trailblazing a relatively unexplored portion of the mountainside, the club had stumbled across something long undisturbed. Something that had decided to hunt them, one by one, with a very telling modus operandi.

Tomorrow, though, it will be the prey. Castiel is almost… excited. For the hunt. Assuming he is allowed to participate in the violence and not sidelined by belittling over-protectiveness, that is.

Speaking of.

"How do those feel?" Dean asks as he finishes tying off the laces of the hiking boots he selected and sized for Castiel.

Castiel flexes his feet. Concentrates with all his might on the unfamiliar snugness around them in the hopes of averting his deplorable biology's indecent, visceral reaction to the sight of Dean crouching before him.

Focus. Focus. He's never worn shoes that restrict the movement of his ankles before. "Fine, I suppose."

"'Fine,' he says," Dean mimics, rolling his eyes and rising with a graceful economy of motion that could put the finest danseur to shame. "Dude. Get up and walk around at least. You'll be able to tell pretty fast if you're gonna blister."

Distance, yes. That will be good. As instructed, Castiel stands and paces up the aisle of shoeboxes. Combined with the rub of denim between his thighs—a stiff texture he's still adjusting to—and the weird weightless lack he always feels without his trench coat, the experience leaves him… ambivalent. So much unusual sensation, not to mention expense, for a seven-mile out-and-back hike. It seems unnecessary. But Dean has insisted, and Castiel has not the wherewithal to protest. He has other battles ongoing that require too much of his willpower.

It also doesn't hurt that he derives a selfish pleasure from the warmth of Dean's full attention.

At the end of the row, he turns and heads back. Dean watches his approach with a strange, unparsable expression: eyelids low, lower lip caught between his teeth. Perhaps he's tired? He has been pushing himself harder than Castiel would prefer. It's been a long day.

Dean clears his throat, then asks. "Well? Feel okay? No, uh. Unpleasant friction?"

"Nothing of note."

"Good enough for me. But you can try on other pairs, you know. We got time."

And Dean may insist on tying each pair as he did the first… Tempting. But just as likely to overwhelm Castiel's paltry, human ability to practice restraint, so.

"These will do," he replies.

"Cas," Dean greets sullenly from the kitchen table, where he sits alone nursing a mug of black coffee. Still steaming.

Castiel frowns at him. It's six in the morning. Far too early for a man who requires sixteen hours of sleep out of each twenty-four to be awake, much less roaming the bunker, caffeinating under his own power. "Dean. You should be resting. Are you alright? Did something happen?"

Dean's mouth twists. "You really care? Or just pretending to?"

Every step from the threshold to the percolator is fraught. Tense. Castiel forces himself to bite his tongue and take deep breaths as he fixes his own coffee with extreme precision. Pour, scoop, stir. Fortunately, by the time he's done, the frustration and guilt have subsided enough that he can even savor a nice, bracing drink.

Turning around, he leans against the countertop and finally—calmly—addresses Dean's passive aggressive question. "I care."

"Uh huh," Dean grunts dubiously. Then, "Nightmare. What else?"

About what? Castiel would like to ask. But that—that is absolutely against the rules of their new, reordered interactions.

"Not about what happened in the Empty, if that's what you're wondering," Dean tells him, surprisingly. "I don't dream about that."

That's good. It is all Castiel dreams about.

The agony of Dean on him, above him, expression contorted with savage determination. Dean holding him down in the darkness and cutting his throat, purging his grace like pus from a wound. Worse still, all throughout that torment: time running and running and running out. The horror of helplessly watching Dean wither like an unwatered plant, but in fast-forward. The memory of begging anything that would listen—spill it faster, spill it faster, please, oh god, take it, just don't take him—as emptiness crept into Dean through every orifice and spread gruesome beneath his skin. A thief; a venom.

The last few seconds haunt him to wakefulness. T i c k t o c k tick tock ticktock time's up! Too late! Twisted hands reaching from the void. Vicious laughter. Dean collapsing, dessicated, into his arms. Utter, devastated despair in the face of hopeless defeat.

The final drip -

drip -

drip -

before the shadow cracked open and flung them into light.

He is glad that Dean doesn't dream about that.

"Mistakes are funny things. Forgiveness even funnier," Dean muses, gazing into his coffee, his own black reflection. "Sometimes you do something, and you go in thinking you won't need to be forgiven for it, but it turns out you do. Other times, you know you really fucked up big time, but it doesn't seem to matter to the other person. Water under the bridge. Funny how that works."

Who is that needs forgiving, Dean? And who needs to forgive? Is it me? Or… Castiel wonders.

Is it you?

"Copper blades, we have," Sam says as he pops the Impala's trunk. "Blood of a victim's gonna be harder to get, since they're all already dead."

"I'm not waiting around for this douchebitch to start in on another happy couple," Dean growls, reaching past his brother to yank out a warped brown box. He unlatches it and spreads out the roll of felt inside, putting more than half dozen daggers on display, their rust-color masked behind leather sheaths. "Two each, just in case. Leave the guns here, only thing we can hurt with 'em is each other."

Castiel unholsters his pistol and trades it off for the knives Dean hands to him. Clips the sheaths to his belt—one on his left hip, one on his right—as Sam and Dean do the same. "That means one of us must become a victim ourselves," he observes.

"Yep," Dean says, unperturbed. "We'll stick together until we make it across the ridge, but we'll hafta separate on the approach. I'll go in first, make it think I'm alone. Play bait. Gimme fifteen minutes, then you two follow, slice me, and put it down."

"Absolutely not," Castiel rumbles, incredulous. This foolish, reckless man. "You are not recuperated enough for that."

"Exactly. Whoever it gets to is gonna switch sides, you get that, right? It's because I'm still," Dean grimaces as he spits the next word, "weak that it's gotta be me, man. I sure as shit don't want to roll the dice on pitting New Human and The Invalid against Sasquatch, do you?"

"Then I will do it."

Dean shakes his head. "Nuh uh. Nope. Let's keep the training wheels on a little longer, okay?"

Castiel bristles, but Sam lays a deterring hand on his arm. "Cas is right, Dean," he says. "If anything, you should hang back as much as possible and let us handle this. It's just one monster, two hunters are more than enough. Here's the plan: we hike out together, Cas goes in as bait, then you and I follow. And you," he gives Dean a significant look, "stay behind me."

Ah, sweet validation. Castiel savors the satisfaction of seeing Dean sputter in outrage at being relegated to back-up. Even if he does so quite fetchingly.

Maybe, just maybe, this is his chance to prove that he is not so useless after all.

"You're staring at me again," Dean snaps one afternoon, seconds after Sam leaves the Dean Cave for another round of beers.

Castiel flinches, caught out. He'd thought—well, he hadn't thought anything, actually, but his underlying assumption had been that Dean wouldn't realize given the room's lack of illumination and one of his favorite films playing out in full, gun-fights-and-glory splendor on the television screen.

Dean jabs the remote's pause button with his thumb and the image freezes mid-explosion, but his tone is more than explosive enough to make up the difference in the sudden silence. "You hear me, Cas? You've been staring at me for the last twenty fucking minutes! Is there something on my face? Stuck in my teeth? Or do ya have something to say to me? If so, I'm dyin' to hear it. Except, yanno, not literally this time," he spits.

"No, I- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- stare," Castiel fumbles, humiliated. Heat pulses into his cheeks, and he drags his eyes to his knees, fighting the urge to—as Dean so eloquently accused him of before—cut and run. This is his own fault. On multiple levels. Dean had never noticed before. But then, he didn't know before.

This. This is the kind of indignity he feared the most. Unfortunately, the anticipation does not lessen the shame and sting.

"You need to make up your mind, Cas," Dean growls. "You tell me you can't move past this, but that you wanna pretend we're all good anyway. You say that you- but then tell me it's a big mistake- but then turn around and- well, you better get better at your fucking pretending, buddy, and fast, because I'm sick of being the only one who can fake it!"

Crumpling the fabric of his well-worn slacks into aching fists, Castiel nods shortly.

He will. He's pretended for so long… surely he can do it a little harder now. Human or not.

The cave behind the waterfall extends past the reach of Castiel's flashlight, into darkness.

Cautiously, he moves deeper. Fishbones crunch under the thick soles of his new boots: wet now, and heavy with it. He's drenched from the slick, hazardous climb through the cascade, leaving damp footprints in his wake. He hopes they're not ruined. He came to appreciate them on the demanding trek out to this isolated place. And Dean—well, Dean picked them out for him.

Despite the chill, the air stinks, the way the air in an occupied animal lair always stinks: uncirculated, dank, slightly rancid. Of bits left to rot. Unwashed flesh. Not even the fresh falling water outside can wash away decades, if not centuries, of monstrous habitation.

Right now more than ever, Castiel misses the heightened senses of angelhood. His ears strain against the pervasive drip - drip - drip and crunch - crunch - crunch. His eyes strain to make out boulders from a potential predator in wait. Yes, he wants to be caught—that is what bait is good for—but it would be nice to see it coming.

The going is slow with vigilance setting his pace. Mercifully, there are no offshoots to the cave, no forks or no branches he can discern. Just a single cavern winding into the mountain, stony and narrow and low-ceilinged. But as the distance stretches behind him with no sign of their quarry, Castiel grows increasingly concerned that fifteen minutes will be too short a span to set their trap. How far will he have to go before it comes to him? How long will it take? His sense of time passing is inexact now, but not terribly wide of the mark. Likely Dean and Sam have already ventured through the falls after him by now. If they reach him before he lures the creature in to poison his blood—what then?

"Cas? That you up there?"

At the sound of Dean's voice, Castiel whirls. His flashlight beam severs a half-circle through the darkness, though it doesn't find Dean, reach cut off by the twists and turns of the underground chamber. "Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean calls back over the sound of pebbles skittering underfoot. "Hold up, Cas, I'm almost…"

Embarrassment grips Castiel, and his stomach sinks. That they could catch up to him unawares, and so fast—has he proceeded that slowly? Is he really that wretched a hunter without his grace?

The answer, to his shame, appears to be yes.

Gritting his teeth, he slumps, the nascent seed of confidence leaching out of him. He's spoiled their plan. He should've known he would. Too unpracticed, too tentative. He should never have tried—

Dean emerges from the shadows.

The first thing Castiel notices is how gorgeous he is. Because, well. He is what he is, and that is a man in love and wanting. And Dean practically glows in the hazy stream of light, gaze bright, so green Castiel can make out the color from twenty feet away. His shirt stretches just right across his broad chest, his jeans hug just right around his thighs. He could upset the axis of the Earth with his mouth. Pull angels from Heaven. Castiel himself serves as proof.

The second thing he notices is that Dean is dry.

And Castiel may no longer be an angel. He may have lost his keen perception and his strength and his speed, his endurance and his imperviousness to most harm, his ability to fly and to heal, but he is not suddenly stupid.

It would come to him masked as—this. He should've expected as much.

"Cas! There you are," Dean exclaims, picking his way closer, the light from his own flashlight merging with Castiel's into one milky pool. "Hey, man. Sam and I found the siren outside. Was lurking in the damn pond, like Darryl said he saw—just hanging out with the trout. Bitch got the jump on us, got me good, too," he holds out his arm, showing off his sleeve, gaping wide over an equally-long bloody laceration down his forearm, then gestures to another bruising gash at his temple. "Foreplay must really be dead. Old Bag didn't even kiss me! Spat its venom right into my mouth, how kinky is that? Ugh." He shudders.

"From your lack of enthrallment, I assume the siren is dead, then?" Castiel asks, narrowing his eyes as a whisper of doubt creeps in. It's a good explanation.

"You bet it is. Sam handled it, like we do. Winchester style," Dean says with relish.

"Where is Sam now?"

This earns him an odd look. "Uh, burning the body? Paper wraps rock, and I called Fetch the Cas. Thank god, too, I forgot how bad siren flesh reeks."

Hmm. "How did you get in here without getting soaked?"

"Secret side entrance," Dean says, brows waggling. "Very cool, very Scooby Doo. It made a run for it at the end, led us right to it. After Sam ganked it, all I had to do was follow it up. Put me right behind the waterfall and—here I am."

That would make sense. Castiel might not have seen a crevasse there, he hadn't been searching for other entrances so close to the cave mouth...

"Sorry you had to take the shitty way in. Gonna be a bitch hiking back wet. Now are we done with the third degree? This place stinks like ass, and we got a long walk back to my Baby." Dean turns, starts to walk back toward the cave's entrance.

Castiel wavers where he stands.

It's—it's just about believable. No, it is believable. Totally believable. Maybe… unbelievably believable?

Casual innuendo. Roshambo. Scooby Doo.

What if it is Dean? What if he's wrong?

Can he bear to take that risk?

"Cas?" Dean stops after a few steps, looks back, confused. "What's up? You okay?"

"Yes, uh. Yes." Wary, Castiel falls into step behind him. As they make their way back, mindful of the stalactites overhead and treacherously uneven ground, he examines every detail of Dean. If this is a dupe, there must be a difference somewhere. There must. In the length of Dean's stride or the shape of his shoulders. The precise nut brown color of the cropped hair at the back of his neck. His earlobe, hip swing, the curl of his fingers. Somewhere.

He finds nothing. If this is a siren impersonating Dean for him, it is doing an astonishingly accurate job of it.

Dean glances over his shoulder again, then rolls his eyes. "You're staring at me again, Cas," he says pissily. "I look good from this angle or somethin'?"

Absorbed in evaluating the vocabulary and intonation, Castiel misses the meaning of the words for longer than he'll ever admit to. When it eventually sinks in, he winces, drawing in on himself, wishing he had his trench coat to hunch within. There will be no surcease of tonight's ignominies, it seems. Assuming this is, really, Dean.

Except. Dean is almost… too Dean at the moment, isn't he? Dean shouldn't look so healthy, so muscular. His eyes so unshadowed. Couldn't have—even in the unusual lighting. Right?

Damn it. He doesn't know. He can't tell.

Abruptly, Dean stops—dead center in front of Castiel—and spins around. Castiel nearly barrels right into his chest: catches himself not a moment too soon, inches from contact. For a brief, thrilling second, the heat of him permeates Castiel's sopping clothes and his body tries to sway nearer, soak it in, but he forces the temptation away and hurriedly stumbles back instead.

Dean scoffs as he watches him retreat, exasperation curling his upper lip. "Jesus, Cas, you really- " His expression darkens all at once. "You know what? That's it. That's fucking- it. I'm sick of this," he growls. "Over it. Done with your stupid game of pretending. I don't care if you'll never be able to forgive me for cutting out your grace to save your stupid friggin' life. Either you do something about the way you were just lookin' at me, or I will!"

Castiel stares, his breath hooked in his lungs, snagged up on bewilderment. Shock and surprise render his thoughts a dull roar, null noise. He can't—what does that mean, do something? Do what? Not what he'd like to do, certainly not what he's thinking of when his gaze wanders the captivating expanse of Dean's physique, Dean can't possibly want—and what was that about his grace, what does that have to do with—with—

Sirens are telepathic, but. But that doesn't make sense, it's new, and definitely not from his own mind. A bad guess?

"Forgive- what?" he rasps, desperate for something, anything, to become clear.

With a guttural sound of frustration, Dean's hand whips out and twists in the layers of fabric—canvas over flannel over wool—covering Castiel's heart. "Fuck it," he rumbles, and drags Castiel in.

His mouth is hot and hard and takes Castiel out at the knees. He forgets, instantly and completely, everything that's not the fervor, the fit, the finally of it. All the pent-up hunger of a decade and change breaks from its chains, rushes out, takes over. There's a strange clatter, and before he grasps what he's done, he's dropped his flashlight, secured an arm around Dean's waist, and yanked him thigh-to-thigh, chest-to-chest. Is kissing him back as hot and as hard—no, hotter, harder.

More.

Clasping the back of Dean's neck with his other hand, Castiel tilts him to an angle that, by no accident, opens their lips against each other. And then. The brush of Dean's tongue, curling sinful invitation—beckoning Castiel to follow heedlessly, sink into the lush welcome of his mouth.

The taste hits Castiel like a thunderclap, jolts of lightning arousal blasting beneath his skin. It's so good. So incomprehensibly flawless. No dream, no fantasy, however exhaustive, could have prepared him for the reality of Dean kissing him. Of Dean choosing to kiss him. It's so far beyond… beyond everything he's ever… longed for....

Well. Of course it is.

It couldn't be anything less.

Oh, god. Oh god is it hard not to pretend. For just a little while.

But Castiel doesn't have a little while.

Tick. Tock.

Achingly, he forces his fingers to release Dean's waist. Slide, subtle as he can, to the hilt hanging by his hip. Grasp it, ease it slowly from the sheath. All while Dean kisses him, and kisses him, lips and teeth and demanding hands, and lets himself be kissed in turn, lets Castiel sweep his tongue deep with a heady moan.

Tick tock.

The pain is nothing, barely noticeable, as Castiel slices the blade through denim and flesh, coats the edge with blood from his own thigh.

"Cas…" Dean sighs, arching closer.

ticktockticktockticktock

With the last spark of self-control available to him, Castiel tightens his grip on the knife and thrusts it up and between Dean's ribs.

Dean cries out and tears himself away, staggering sideways until he slams into the wall of the cavern. The copper dagger juts from his back and each gutted breath he manages makes it rise and fall, obscene in the low illumination of their fallen lights. He scrambles for it, reaching clumsily but unable to get it in hand, groaning as he slips down the jagged rock to his knees. Blood pulses out around the cross-guard; Castiel's aim was true, pierced right through a kidney. Fatality guaranteed.

"Cas, what- why—" Dean chokes out, arms falling limp as he stares up at him, huge, shocked eyes fogged with betrayal and pain.

"Don't," Castiel snaps. "I know what you are. Dean would never kiss me."

The thing wearing Dean's beloved face blinks sluggishly. "You're… wrong…" it wheezes. Then it laughs, sharp and bitter, until another grimace of agony cuts that short. "Oh, Cas. You.. stupid… asshole. I- I told you. I fuckin'- told you- I love you…"

"Shut up!" Castiel snarls, heart pounding so hard it throbs in his temples.

"Tell- Sam- " Dean murmurs as his weight carries him down, and down, body akimbo, a sprawl half-supported by raw stone.

"Shut! Up!" Castiel shouts this time, though it's unnecessary. The life, the brightness, is dimming from Dean's eyes. His mouth works, but makes no more sound. Crimson spreads beneath him, puddle growing, glinting eerily in the gloom as it creeps toward Castiel's boots.

Dean blinks one more time, long lashes casting claws of shadow over his face. Then his eyelids sink shut and don't lift again.

"Dean?" Castiel whispers, shaking from uncertainty.

"...Dean?"

A hand falls on his shoulder.

"Here, Cas. I'm right here."

It only takes another minute for the last of the siren's mask to dissipate and reveal its true, monstrous visage, but that minute is plenty of time for Dean to recognize the face it wore for Castiel.

Dean doesn't seem surprised.

But then, why should he be? And actually, Castiel has no idea when he arrived, what amount of the confrontation (kiss) he witnessed. He was too absorbed in the minutia of the moment. For all he knows, Dean was very much surprised at first, but dealt with it before he shook Castiel from his horrified daze.

He'll never find out, he supposes. He is, after all, categorically unwilling to ask, even if he thought Dean might give him an honest answer. Which he assuredly won't, considering that once he's done checking Castiel for injury and curtly explaining what brought him alone into the cave after him, Dean stops speaking at all. Just takes one last look at the dead siren, sets his jaw into a tight and forbidding clench, and stomps off.

He doesn't look back over his shoulder to ensure that Castiel is behind him. Not once.

As they proceed, Castiel tries to wrap his mind around the unexpected series of events that lead them to this sharp-edged silence. Turns out, in a twist of genuine irony, the siren had been mostly truthful in its lies. It had been lurking in the pond. It had jumped Dean and Sam once Castiel left them. Except it'd knocked Sam out in the attack, wounded Dean, and then fled to its secret tunnel. After a hasty triage on Sam, Dean had simply followed it and found—what he found.

Castiel hesitates to guess at the siren's intentions, but he imagines it thought to make an ally of him before circling back to finish off the brothers. Not a bad plan. Almost worked.

Unfortunately, the pride he feels for having defeated the creature single-handed is all but lost beneath overwhelming mortification.

Usefulness? Okay, perhaps. Dignity? Not so much.

When they reach the waterfall, Dean leads him to a narrow crevasse on the right side. It's barely wide enough for Castiel to squeeze through sideways, but at least it saves him another dousing or the risk of losing his grip on moss-slick rock. He emerges into blinding daylight, the sun overhead marking the time as early afternoon. Amazing. It feels like an age has passed since he climbed into the siren's lair.

Dean goes straight to Sam, who is propped up in the shade against a thick tree trunk. He's worse off than Dean made it seem: the bandage around his head is marred by inkblots of red, bled-through, and his ankle is propped high on all three of their backpacks as he holds an icepack to his left side.

"That was fast," he says with a wry smile.

"Yeah, well, I hardly caught up before Cas shish-kebabed the bitch," Dean says, easing Sam's leg down so he can unpack the first aid kit again. "Stabbed it right in the back. Used his own damn blood, too. Made us look like a pair of damn amateurs."

An exaggeration, and pissily offered, but Castiel's stomach swoops at the compliment nonetheless.

Sam's brows shoot up. "You killed it by yourself? After it infected you? How?"

"There was a brief window of opportunity after its venom entered my system but before the spell overrode my rational mind," Castiel tells him, carefully toneless. "I'd already had my suspicions, so when it began to- I merely- realized the improbability of what was occurring and was able to take action prior to losing my wits."

Dean snorts and mutters something under his breath as he jerkily rewraps a wincing Sam's ankle; Castiel pretends not to notice.

"Uh." Sam darts a look between them, "Well. Damn. Congrats, I guess. I didn't even know that was possible. Good job, Cas."

Yes. Good job. And it was. He killed the monster.

Congratulations to him.

The three-and-a-half mile trek back takes them the rest of the afternoon. On top of the bruised ribs and head injury, Sam's ankle, while not broken, is at least grade one sprained. His progress is ponderous and painstaking, reliant on frequent breaks and the support of a sturdy stick. And he's not the only one slowed. Dean may wish to pretend that he is not also worn out and injured—another truth the siren told—but that is one illusion Castiel will not partake of. Which is why he takes up the extra load of Sam's pack and thereafter refuses to acknowledge a single one of Dean's attempts to redistribute the weight evenly. It's not as if one person bearing the entirety of the additional encumbrance could further decrease their pace.

Besides. He is tired of sharing his burdens. Platitudes are naive. It is not any easier.

Night is falling by the time they finally reach the safety of the Impala, and as one they collapse into her familiar cabin, exhausted, chafed, dirty, and in Castiel's case, somehow still damp. Wet socks—an appalling sensation.

"Baby, my beautiful Baby. Oh, Baby, I love you," Dean mumbles with his cheek smushed into the steering wheel. "Can it be nap time now? I'm ready for a nap."

"Only if you let Cas drive," Sam says as he wriggles, trying to get comfortable stretched out over the width of the backseat. "I need to get to an urgent care center pronto."

"Uuuuugh," Dean groans. "That really what you want, Sammy? Cas has the worst friggin' taste in music."

That's rather unfair. He enjoys Led Zeppelin, that must count for something.

"Cas has the worst taste in everything," Sam retorts, the unsubtleness of which makes Castiel tense and Dean pick his head up and glare at Sam through the rearview mirror.

Sam just arches a brow and doubles down. "Poor guy. I feel for him. Must be hard liking things that no one else does."

"I'm right here," Castiel reminds them through gritted teeth. He is, naturally, ignored. They've been sniping at each other like this for hours. Siblings. Honestly.

"Why don't you shut up and take some goddamn Oxy, huh?" Dean suggests to his brother acidly. "Knock yourself out for all our sakes."

Sam huffs and rolls his eyes dramatically, but starts digging through their well-stocked bag of contraband pill bottles anyway. After a beat of further glaring, Dean drops his head back to the steering wheel and, sighing heavily, lets his eyes drift closed in the prettiest manner possible.

Castiel waits until Sam is done rattling out the right medicine to make the offer, tentative, not wanting to trigger Dean's ego. "I would be happy to drive, Dean. It would be no hardship." Logically he is the best choice of the three of them, though let it not be said that logic has at any point made an impact on Dean's decisions regarding his beloved car.

Opening his eyes again, Dean squints at him, mouth a thin line. Against all expectations, after a moment, he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, alright. If you feel up to it."

"I do."

Castiel barely dares to breathe as they get out and swap places, disbelief and dusk giving the exchange of keys a surreal quality. He can count on one hand the number of times Dean has allowed him to drive the Impala. And tonight of all nights, there's something incredibly flattering about it, as if he's earned the highest of praise as well as a tangible reward for his efforts. Accolades, wreaths of laurel, a knighthood. The ineffable prize that is Dean's trust.

Trust that is jarringly at odds with the anger that Dean has been projecting at him since the incident in the cave.

Holding so many different emotions at once—pride and shame, wonder and bitterness, adoration and irritation—will it ever become less bewildering?

"Turn her around and take this road down out of the range, 'bout twenty miles," Dean says, settling in as Castiel twists the key and the Impala's engine purrs to wakefulness. "Be careful on the switchbacks. When you hit the intersection with the county road, go left, that'll take us back to town."

"I remember," Castiel assures him. "You should rest."

A soft snore from the backseat punctuates his words. Dean glances over his shoulder, at Sam, all scrunched up with his head pillowed on his folded jacket and out cold, and his expression softens. "That was fast," he murmurs.

Then he turns back, and everything about him is hard again. "Yeah, I don't think so," he says. "Now Sam's checked out, you and I need to have a little chat."

Castiel, halfway through k-turning across the road, goes cold.

No. Please, no.

After Dean's relentless silence on the matter in the cave, he'd assumed—he'd hoped—he might escape this.

"Uh huh. There it is," Dean sneers knowingly. "You know, you get this real specific look on your face when you're freakin' out, Cas. You really suck at lying- acting- pretending, whatever you wanna call it."

"I don't- there's nothing to—" he tries, dread burbling like nausea in his gut.

Dean slashes a vicious hand through the air. "No! No, goddammit. Don't you start that shit up. That siren had my fuckin' face, and we're gonna talk this through, once and for all, so help me, man, I can't take it anymore."

Oh, this is it, isn't it? This is how it ends between them. Once and for all. In the car, just picking up speed to make their way back home.

Castiel thought—he thought he'd have more time. Time to estrange himself smoothly, civilly. To brace for it. But the siren… that was a blow he never saw coming. The last straw, too heavy to endure. Seems he's going to lose everything in one fell swoop after all.

"Dean…" he croaks. "Can we do this- later? Please, I—" can't let you go yet.

"Later? What later? Later when you're avoiding me like the plague? Later when you friggin' leave again? No, I don't think so. We do this now, while I got you pinned down."

Focus. Castiel swallows, fighting to keep his white-knuckled grip steady enough not to grind the car against the siderails when he hits the first hairpin turn—tight, sloping, pitch dark ahead and on either side. He switches the headlights to high beams, but the road ahead doesn't grow clearer.

"I can't- I need—" a few more minutes with you "—to concentrate," he pleads.

Dean barks a laugh. "Oh, man, this is gold. Pure gold. You let that thing close enough to stick its tongue down your throat, but you won't even talk to me! Classic Cas."

Funny, how aching can turn to anger, all at once and without warning.

"What would you have me say, Dean?" Castiel snaps. "What do you want to hear? That I'm sorry? I am. That I can't control it? I can't. That it hurts me as much as it does you? It does!"

Eyes squeezing shut, Dean tears a ragged breath in through his nose. "I know it hurts you," he scrapes out, halting, like every word has to be forced through his teeth. "I know you're angry about being here, being human. I know I fucked up, okay? I know I fucked it all up. And I've been tryin' to make my peace with that, but how am I supposed to do that if you won't?"

What? Wait—what?

"You keep- pushing me away, then coming back around to string me along with shit like this, and- it's killin' me, Cas." Dean's hands curl into fists in his lap as he grimaces, tormented in the eerie dashboard light. Castiel needs to be watching the road, the switchbacks, but Dean—Dean—

"I just. I need you to make - up - your - fucking - mind, not keep me dangling on this hook," Dean's voice is small, begging. "What's it gonna be? Whatever you decide, I'll- just tell me, now, right now: can you forgive me, or not? Do you want me, or not?"

And Castiel is. Floored. Thrown. Record scratching.

What?

The siren said something… something like…

I don't care if you'll never be able to forgive me for cutting out your grace to save your stupid friggin' life.

And that hadn't made any sense; he'd figured it for a sign, a clue—the siren extrapolating from his mind and getting it wrong. But the siren encountered Dean before it came for him. Read Dean first.

His rescue. His grace. That can't be what Dean thinks this has all been about. Right? It—can't.

Except this is Dean, who's spent a lifetime twisting even the weather into something he can take the blame for. Who's made an art of internalizing rejection and cultivated self-loathing like a skillset. Who apparently believes Castiel is angry with him—and he's not wrong, he is angry, but not as much as he is desperately, pathetically, crushingly in love—over being turned human. Too angry to have feelings for him anymore.

What kind of idiot—? All Castiel is is fucking feelings for Dean Winchester.

"Cas, I swear to god—to Jack, whatever—if you don't answer me—"

Castiel jerks the wheel, pumps the brakes, and with an alarming screech skids into the pull-off he only makes out as they come upon it. Dean's hands fly out, catching himself by the dashboard and door. In the back, Sam yelps, head banging off the window as he's pitched against the backrest.

"Jesus fuck!" Dean swears as Castiel throws the Impala into park. "What the hell, Cas? Stabbing my doppelganger wasn't good enough for ya? You tryin' to kill me for real?"

"Us," Sam groans groggily. "Kill. Us! Uggh."

Of course I love you, Cas! Dean had said. Of course I do!

What if…

Do you want me, or not?

Castiel stares at Dean, heart ramped high and in his throat, and whatever Dean sees in his expression, it silences his grumbling, wipes the outrage right off his face. "Cas?"

"Do you want me?" he demands, breathless with it.

"Um, how dumb are you?" Dean asks incredulously. "I've only been saying it since forever."

Sam mutters something unkind, but it's not important enough to Castiel to parse. As far as he's concerned, Sam is a non-entity. There's only one thing on all the Earth, in all the star systems, in all the Universes, that's important at this moment.

"I want you. I'm in love with you." It feels so good, so good to say it again. And so frightful too—the hope. "You understand that, Dean? I'm in love with you, and I have been for an excruciatingly long time, and if you don't stop me, I'm going to kiss you. Right now."

Lips pursed, twitching in the corners, Dean considers this for a second.

Then: "I dunno, man. Might need you to brush your teeth first. Last thing you put your mouth on—mmph!"

It's not at all the same, kissing Dean versus kissing the siren pretending to be Dean. Dean is grimy. Dean smells like blood and sweat. Dean accidentally knees him in the shin as Castiel crawls up onto the bench and shoves him against the passenger door. Dean is grinning so hard he's kind of terrible at kissing back, keeps interrupting Castiel's attempt to lick into his mouth with wide, toothy laughter.

It's perfect.

It's real.

"Really? Really? Right now? You're gonna do this right now?"

"Guys! Come on, quit it, I'm right here. Wrap it up. You need to take me to a doctor."

"Oh, my—ugh! Stop it! Ew, ew, hands, stop!"

"That's it. That's it! Both of you, out—out! Get. Out. Of. The. Car!"

"...I can't believe I'm driving myself to urgent care for a busted ankle."

END