Work Text:
It's late November, maybe December. Dean's lost track of the days on this particular drive from Palo Alto towards New Hampshire, and people seem to be putting up Christmas decorations earlier and earlier every year. So much of the middle journey is the same: flat, gray, dirty snow hanging onto midday shadows. Dean hates winter, though he will admit that the long, cold trek from a warm bed to the Impala and then to wherever was serving breakfast that early always seemed to make the skillet grease a little bit greasier and the diner coffee a little bit better. On those early mornings, the boys would sit in their booth and stir each other awake with food and caffeine and conversation hours before the sun ever came up.
Castiel sits with them beside Sam and occasionally fills his mug with half an inch of coffee from the insulated carafe set on the table. He only sips it for appearances, but still, the heat is pleasant. Castiel doesn't mind the cold, of course, though he does find the winds irritating when they rustle his eyelashes. Dean shivers slightly every time the door behind him opens with a jingle. There is a bit of sleep crust below the outer corner of his right eye. Castiel doesn't move to brush it away.
One night, they stop at a motor lodge outside Springfield. Castiel was feeling particularly sentimental and rode much of the way in the back seat, sitting back and enjoying the mindless rumble of the highway and the voices of his two favorite people. Dean swears when the light dusting of snow turns big, flaky, and begins to stick. Castiel notes the symmetry and crystalline structure of each one.
"Damn, and it's already dark out too," Dean says as the snowfall whizzes past like stars. Castiel has always wondered how humans can see the same phenomenon year after year and keep finding it notable of comment. They seem to enjoy commenting on what hour the sun went down as much as they enjoyed talking about less-than-ideal parking.
The snow picks up more. A few miles later, the Impala is struggling, and Dean pulls her into whatever accommodation the interstate sign said was closest. The receptionist gives them a strange look when they only ask for one room despite the third man, quiet in a disheveled trench coat, looking over the rack of tourist brochures. But he gives them the room key anyways, despite company policy, and the boys trudge through the gathering snow to the room and begin to unload duffel bags from the car.
It's far from the nicest place they've stayed, but then Dean jokes that their motel rooms always seem to be a "helluva lot" cleaner with Cas around. The room is partially wood-paneled with two beds made up in starchy sheets and avocado green quilts. The heat and air unit smells like burning dust when it turns on, and the sound is unbelievably grating. Castiel kicks it when no one is paying attention.
Sam begins to unpack a bit like he isn't sure how long it will be until the weather turns for the better. Dean drops his duffel on the floor and falls face-first into the bed furthest from the door. He flops onto his back, curls up to untie his boots, then falls back again with a groan indicating a sore neck and shoulders. Castiel leans against the dresser with arms folded and one leg crossed casually over the other. Dean, still in wet boots, lifts one of his feet towards him with a bit of a grin and says, "Cas. Help me out here, buddy."
Castiel doesn't move and instead just almost-rolls his eyes. Sam claims a hot shower first, and Dean doesn't seem to mind. Castiel sits down in a chair by a dining table stuffed in a corner. He keeps his arms and ankles crossed and leans back slightly as he stares at the door, affording Dean a bit of modesty while he changes out of his wet clothes. Dean is convinced that Cas has seen him in more compromising circumstances plenty of times, but Castiel doesn't want to invite that conversation. So he stares at the door.
Dean fakes a cough to let Castiel know he is "decent" again. He has on a clean, gray henley and a different pair of jeans. The jeans will be on the floor before Dean goes to bed for real, but, again, a bit of modesty.
"Penny for your thoughts," Dean says.
"I have no thoughts," replies Castiel. His voice is perhaps a bit more raw than normal, either from the dry heater air or from not being used much that day. Dean laughs and pats him on the shoulder. He gives it a subtle squeeze through the layers of clothing, and his fingers hug the curve where collarbone meets shoulder as he lets his hand fall away. But when Castiel looks up, Dean has turned away and is setting an alarm on the digital clock between the two beds. As predicted, he shimmies out of the clean pair of jeans before sliding into bed, and Castiel goes someplace else just before the lights go out.
It goes on like this for the next couple of days. Snow keeps coming down. When the boys go in to secure another night, the receptionist says it was the most snow they’d seen in a decade. The Impala was already in need of her one-million-mile tune-up, and Dean couldn't safely get her out of the inclined parking lot if he tried, even if he had chains. So they stay put. Castiel had offered to transport them, but Dean wasn't abandoning the car and Sam had felt uneasy about leaving behind a trunk full of illegal firearms.
As a rule, Dean didn’t like being “zapped” around. Often, Castiel’s grace made Dean uneasy, and he was determined to do most things the hard way. Castiel gathered that it was to maintain some sense of normalcy. Humans often didn’t like change even if it objectively made more sense or, at least, was more convenient. As it were, the trip to New Hampshire wasn’t urgent. Things were quiet, for now, so they stayed through the weather.
On the second day, Dean decides to unpack as well. The lodge is thankfully in one of those slightly built-up areas just off an exit. There’s nothing around for miles after that, but there is at least a 24-hour diner and gas station within walking distance. Castiel wonders where all of the employees reside, but he doesn’t pry.
The three of them get breakfast while it’s still dark out, which Castiel appreciates. The early hour and the snow dampen every noise the world throws his way. It's much easier to either block out or take in all the sounds and thoughts around him, whichever he preferred. Castiel was capable of experiencing God’s creation from any vantage point he so chose, but the longer he resided on Earth, the more he preferred the human perspective. He had even begun to learn how to appreciate music for its emotional and psychological effects rather than experience it purely vibrationally and mathematically. That was mostly because of Dean.
Food was proving to be more difficult, Castiel thinks on that second morning in the diner. He takes a sip of the coffee Dean ordered for him and pushes it aside. Sam excuses himself after they order so he can see if the gas station next door has The New York Times and some beers for the room. Dean downs one cup of coffee then pours himself another.
“It’s still dark outside,” Castiel says.
“Sure is, buddy,” Dean says as he rubs his eyes. An eyelash falls onto his knuckle when he pulls away. He wraps his hand absentmindedly around his coffee cup, and Castiel reaches over and brushes the lash away. Dean stretches out his hand as if it’s burning under his skin.
The rest of the day is spent working. Sam sits at the table in their room on his laptop. Dean switches between watching TV, going to the parking lot to clear the snow off of the Impala, and occasionally being useful to Sam. That evening, Dean gets the first shower. Castiel enjoys the silence that is occasionally broken by Sam asking for his perspective on something he is researching. That night, Castiel secretly stays and watches over them while they sleep. Dean tosses and shivers and twists himself into the bedding. Castiel steps over and gently lays a hand on the top of the quilt. It is warm all over, Dean’s shivering stops, and he relaxes.
The next morning, Dean tells Sam, “Dude, I think I dreamed I pissed myself last night.” He pats his hand over the sheets he was just lying on.
Sam tells him, “Too much information.”
They do the same things again, except the boys start to slowly pack up a bit. Neither of them had set the alarm, so it isn’t as dark this morning when they head across the street to get breakfast. Snow is still on the ground, though it is no longer coming down. They sit in their new usual booth. Sam happily fills out a crossword between bites of raisin wheat toast. Castiel doesn’t bother pouring himself a coffee, and Dean doesn’t eat. He just stares at his coffee until it gets cold. Castiel reaches out and reheats it with a touch.
“Thanks,” Dean grumbles.
“Hey, Cas?” Sam asks out of the side of his mouth, toast crammed in the other side. He swallows. “What is ‘form of the Latin esse’? Four letters.”
“Erat,” he says. Sam fills it in with a pen stolen from the motel’s front desk.
“Really, Sammy? You didn’t know that?” Dean asks.
Sam clears his throat and glances at Castiel.
“Your brother likes to include me in his morning crosswords, Dean,” Castiel says. “Though, I do find they often reuse the same answers.”
“Oh, here’s one like that for ya’, Cas. What is a ‘treat with a 71% to 29% cookie-to-cream ratio’? Four letters.”
“Oreo,” Castiel replies immediately.
Sam smiles like Cas just passed a test. Dean looks surprised.
“I assume that the letters O-R-E are helpful in the creation of other words,” Castiel says to him.
“Well, I’m glad you two can dork out together,” Dean says, patting his sides in search of his wallet. “We’ll hit the road in the morning.” He takes a lengthy swig of his coffee too quickly, and his face contorts from the burn.
“You’re irritated,” Castiel says. Sam initially glances at Castiel but turns to Dean without missing a beat. Dean just blinks at Castiel whose face is softly scrunched with concern. “Something’s on your mind.”
Dean gives him the quickest flash of a smile that’s meant to be disarming. “What makes you say that Cas?”
Castiel looks to Sam and then looks down at the table. “Nothing. My mistake.”
“Anyways, you two can head back to the room. I’m gonna pay and then I’ll be a minute,” Dean says. He claps Sam on the shoulder and saunters off to pay at the counter.
Back in the room, Sam finishes his crossword. He holds it up to show Castiel, who nods approvingly. Castiel stands in front of the heat and air unit with his arms crossed and stares out the window.
“Y’know,” Sam says from behind his laptop. “You don’t have to stay here if you’re bored.” He sounds genuine when he says it like he’s bothering Cas instead of the other way around.
“I’m not bored,” Castiel replies. “In fact, I quite enjoy the silence when you’re around.”
“O-Oh.”
“That is not to imply that I dislike our conversations,” Castiel clarifies after a beat.
Sam smiles. “No, man, I get it. It’s like, like a comfortable silence.”
Castiel gives Sam a small smile and says, “Yes.” He looks back out the window. “Your brother is only silent when he is thinking about something.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, he is.”
“Like today,” Castiel says. Dean is back from the diner and is in the parking lot. He opens the Impala’s back door, reaches all the way in, and comes back out. He leans against the door, puts his hands to his face, and blows out smoke rather than the fog of his breath.
Sam is left alone before he can even look up.
“Shit! Jesus, Cas,” Dean says. His free hand shoots up and presses against his chest. “Y’know somebody is going to see you one of these days.”
“This is new,” Castiel says.
“Old, actually,” Dean says. He folds his arms up tightly under his armpits with one hand hanging loosely with a cigarette delicately between his fingers. He takes a short, shallow drag and blows it away from Castiel’s face. “I quit just before me and Sammy hit the road together. Not a secret or anything. I just—”
“Have something on your mind?” Castiel asks, finishing Dean’s sentence.
Dean’s head drops down and he lets out a breathless laugh. He looks back up and catches Castiel’s eyes, as unrelenting as ever. “C’mon, man,” he says, dropping his chin to his chest. “Can’t you read my mind or something?”
“You asked me not to,” Castiel replies.
“Oh,” Dean murmurs, “I did, didn’t I.”
Castiel isn’t quite sure how to respond to that. “Do you want to be left alone?”
“No,” Dean says as he holds in smoke before exhaling. He presses the heel of his palm into his eye and rubs. He takes another drag and says, “It’s like you and coffee.”
“What is?”
Dean gestures with the cigarette. “Doesn’t exactly taste great, but it’s warm and gives you something to do with your hands.”
“I see,” Castiel says.
Dean looks off into the distance again and finishes his cigarette. Castiel leans back onto the Impala, next to Dean with his hands resting behind him on the front fender. Silences around Dean are rarely comfortable, Castiel thinks. He can always see in Dean’s eyes how much he is mulling over what to say next, whether it be scathing or sincere.
Dean drops the butt onto the ground and stomps it through the snow and into the asphalt. He folds his arms against the cold again. “So,” he finally says.
“So.” Castiel is met with silence. “Dean?”
“This what it’s gonna be like from now on, huh? Me, you, and Sammy?”
“Would you rather I leave?”
Dean reaches over and grabs Castiel’s sleeve. “No,” he says quietly. “No, it’s just different. Just so used to it being the two of us with me always watching over Sam.”
“Someone could watch over you as well, Dean.”
Dean looks over, drops his hand, and laughs again. It’s cold and devoid of humor. “Jesus Christ, man,” he says. “You can’t just say shit like that to people.”
“Dean,” Castiel says carefully.
“Can we not talk about this now?”
Castiel is quiet. He nods, and the subject is dropped.
Dean opens the car door and rummages through his bag again. He pulls out a travel-sized bottle of Listerine, swishes, and spits into the nearby bushes. Then he heads back inside without looking back.
Sam cracks open a beer with the strike plate on the bathroom door frame and sips it while he sits at his laptop. Dean does the same, and Sam doesn’t complain when Dean also has the other four.
That night, after Sam has gone to bed and he thinks Castiel is gone, Dean goes back out to the Impala again to smoke. It's dark aside from the faint orange glow of the lights in the parking lot seeping through the early-winter mist hanging in the air. Dean is quiet for a few minutes before he rolls his shoulders and says, “Dammit, Cas, I know you’re there.”
Castiel is by his side again.
“That isn’t much of a prayer,” he says, and Dean actually smiles. “Is this now going to be a regular occurrence?”
The smile fades, and Dean scoffs. He glances over the shoulder Castiel isn’t standing beside. “If you’re here, where’s the other guy? With the, y’know, pitchfork and—”
“I was simply asking.”
Dean runs his free hand over his face. “Dunno’,” he says, voice dry. “Why were you watching me?”
Castiel doesn’t answer but instead searches Dean's face for his intentions.
“You do that a lot?” Dean asks. The cigarette ash falls over his fingers into the snow. He doesn’t move.
“Often,” is all Castiel says. After a moment, he adds, “But not a lot.”
Dean rubs at his neck again and shivers with his whole body. “Shit,” he says through gritted teeth, dropping the cigarette as it burns down to his fingers. He hisses, and Castiel reaches for his hand. “It’s fine. I’m not hurt.”
“Do you want to talk?” Castiel asks.
“Not really,” Dean says. He rolls his neck and shoulders. His eyes flicker up at Castiel through his eyelashes. “You don’t have to go, though.”
“You want company.”
Dean says nothing, so Castiel looks up at the sky and tries to take in everything. But then Dean is moving, and he is brought back down to Earth again. He grabs the lapel on Castiel’s overcoat and pulls him towards him until they can touch their foreheads together.
“I see,” Castiel says.
“Shh. Just don’t, okay?” Dean whispers as his eyes drift closed. His breath comes out in white clouds, warm and ashy. In the misty lamplight, all is quiet except Dean’s heart pounding out of his chest. He barely lets it show on his face. “Just let me ruin things.”
That word — “ruin” — hangs in the air.
“Dean.”
Dean’s hand drops from Castiel’s lapel to find its way beneath the coat and jacket. The other cold hand follows, and he is holding him by the waist.
“So warm,” Dean murmurs. He brushes their noses together.
“You’re still drunk.”
“Hardly,” Dean says. He tries to pull the angel closer, and Castiel's guard is down enough that he lets him. One hand goes against the Impala; the other braces against Dean’s shoulder. Physically, Dean can’t make him do anything. But the longer Castiel questions his orders and the further he strays and the longer he is around him, the harder it is to tell Dean Winchester no about anything.
“Dean,” Castiel says, this time more cautiously. Dean’s hands are still on him.
Dean smiles a bit, though Castiel isn’t sure what exactly it conveys. He puts his mouth against the corner of Castiel’s lips, and Castiel runs cold all over. Dean doesn’t kiss him; he just touches lips to skin and nuzzles against him, eyes clenched shut.
“I can’t,” is all Castiel can say. He closes his eyes and knits his brow in concentration.
"Can’t or won’t, Cas?” Dean’s hands run up his shirt, over his chest and shoulders. They spread back to his waist then curve and slide up his back before coming back down, nails leaving tracks in his skin through thin cotton. His voice is raw, desperate. His mouth gets under Castiel’s collar, his breath hot against cold skin. “C’mon, man. I know you can’t and you’re above it all and I know, okay, but just ... please. C’mon, let’s just get in the backseat and....”
Castiel has never seen Dean beg for anything before. He doesn’t need to. Castiel has seen countless numbers of other warm bodies in the same backseat. He’s heard the soft sounds, whispers, and unfulfilled promises. Dean has sex like he’s looking for something, and that something is always different: a distraction, release, comfort. Sometimes it’s guilt that he can hold over his own head to remind himself that he leaves a path of ruined lives in his wake.
Castiel’s head is swimming. It would be so easy, he thinks, to just give in — to sate his curiosities and fall in over his head in a way he’s never been before. Every cold breath through his teeth drives him further and further down — sinking, sinking more and more. Something catches deep in his throat when Dean’s mouth gently graces the angel’s ear. Castiel can feel him smile as he whispers, warm and husky.
“I’ll be worth it.”
Dean cries out when he is slammed back into the Impala. His eyes are on fire, glancing back between the angel and the hand sitting heavy on his chest.
“Will you?” The bulb in the light post above them goes out in a shower of sparks. “Do you have any idea what all I put at risk for you?”
The power has gone out all along the exit, and the only sound around is the sound of Dean’s breath. Dean’s legs are weak, and he wilts under Castiel’s hand, frightened and shaking. He doesn’t comprehend what it is he’s asking of Castiel, but then again, one could fill a hundred libraries with things Dean Winchester doesn’t know.
It’s dark.
Dean’s lips are parted and panting. A flush spreads across the bridge of his nose like a sunburn.
And Castiel kisses like a cool breeze over summer sweat.
He takes Dean’s face in both hands, cupped under the curve of his jaw as if he’s taking a drink of water from a stream. Dean is pulled from the side of the Impala as his knees begin to fail him. His head is bent as far back as it’ll go as he kisses back, too deep and needy. His hands grab onto Castiel’s belt and begin to fumble with his buckle.
But Castiel has a sinking suspicion.
Dean’s thoughts are racing, and Castiel cannot help but let himself inside. Dean thinks of tanned skin and sweat and the scrape of stubble against his thighs. Bodies moving on black leather. Fogged up windows and “Cas....” softly pouring from Dean’s lips in waves. His hands leave filthy pitch-black streaks over Castiel’s bare chest, back, and shoulders as he whimpers, “Cas, I’m so sorry.” Dean thinks of how much he will have to drink and fight and kill to even begin to forgive himself later for defiling a soldier of Heaven.
Castiel takes Dean by the collar of his leather jacket and slams him into the Impala again. Dean gasps like the wind has been knocked out of him.
“I will give you everything that is mine to give if you will let me,” Castiel says, cold yet furious in a way Dean hasn’t seen before. “But you will not use me to hurt yourself.”
Then Castiel is gone, and Dean crumbles into the dirty snow.
Sam and Dean pack and check out in silence. Snow is still on the ground, though most of it had melted off of the roads in the night. It’s later in the morning than Sam would like, but the alarm clock in their room must have reset last night for some reason. They don’t bother to go across the street to eat. Both get a black coffee in a styrofoam cup from the continental breakfast, and Sam grabs a protein bar for the road.
“Hey Dean, have you seen Cas?” Sam asks as he loads his duffel and slams the trunk.
“Nope.” Dean shoots Sam an exhausted smile. “Maybe he finally got tired of your snoring, huh?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, his tone short. “He say anything to you?”
“Nope.”
The Impala struggles to a cold start, but she gets there after a couple of tries.
“Did something ... happen?” Sam asks.
Dean’s head jerks over. “Yeah. He asked too many stupid questions that I’d already answered. Pull up the map, will ya?”
“Okay, geez,” Sam says, bringing up the directions on his phone. “Once we get back onto the interstate, we’ve got about 9 miles before you have to take the Decatur exit. Then it’s a straight shot to Concord.”
Dean backs out as he says, “Sounds like a plan.” He doesn’t turn around to look out the rear windshield.
He doesn’t look in the backseat at all for the rest of the 16-hour drive.