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It starts during a hunt, much to his misfortune.
There’s an itch in his chest that he can’t scratch when they break into the barn that night, the smell of chickens and a lone horse permeating the air the second they jerk open the doors, in the hopes that the vamp nest that has been prowling the tri-state area for the last week is hiding out there after having wrecked havoc across Alabama, Tennessee and Georgia. From what he can tell, they’ve mostly kept to the Tennessee River area, never staying in one spot for long, but always wringing out a few humans before they go. The state police had no clue—one of them chalked it up to aliens, with cows being substituted for lone hikers looking to get away from the world.
Now, the Impala sits outside a faded red barn on State Route 73 north of Bryant, blending into the night as they creep around the corner and sneak in, three sets of footsteps crackling lightly against the straw floor, a pig waking long enough to squeal, then fall back asleep in its pen. Other than the occasional ruffle of feathers or the mare on the other side snorting in her sleep, it’s quiet. Too quiet.
Dean barely has time to register that Sam has wandered ahead with Castiel or that he feels like he’s spontaneously running a fever in thirty-degree weather before something charges at his back and bowls him to the floor, his brother firing shots in his direction, nailing his attacker between the eyes, but nothing more. Three more vamps follow, Castiel taking the first out with a well-aimed strike when it charges, Dean finishing off his assailant when he rolls over and sends its head flying, blood spraying across his face and the straw floor. Sam doubles up and catches Dean’s machete, decapitating the third before the fourth can even think to run, the pair falling flat to the earth.
They’ll have to burn them before they leave, preferably away from the barn and the poor farmer’s property; the chickens are already scarred for life, many screeching in their coop and waking the poor sow and her piglets. Thankfully, the mare keeps out of the conversation, simply turning her back in her stall and twitching her tail. “We need to move them, before the owner wakes up,” Sam announces, Dean resisting the urge to roll his eyes out of his head.
At least he can occupy his mind with body removal and not the sudden ache in his joints—anything less, and he just might panic.
He doesn't question it again until they make it back to the Super 8 in Kimball around four in the morning, Castiel promptly passing out on Sam’s mattress the minute they get in the door, Sam untying his shoes while Dean locks himself in the bathroom and soaks under the blessedly warm showerhead, scrubbing any remnants from the barn down the drain until all that’s left is rubbed-raw skin and the fire that burns through him, unsettling his bones and leaving him weak kneed on the tile floor.
He stays there for another fifteen minutes before Sam knocks and asks if he’s alive, knees pulled tight against his chest and forehead resting on folded arms, trying every breathing exercise he knows, anything to keep himself sane. “’M fine,” he lies through his teeth, pulling in closer under the spray, ignoring the water that drips into his eyes and mouth, the shivers that run through his veins. Not now…
“Don’t sound fine,” he hears Sam mumble, followed by, “Are you decent?”
“No,” Dean grouses. Sam barges in anyway, nose wrinkling the minute he steps inside, eyes wide once it hits him. Dean knows what he smells like when he’s like this, knows the scent by heart, however faint it is at his age. That doesn't mean he likes it, especially when Sam covers his nose, probably laughing behind his hand. “Yuck it up, Samantha,” he growls, dropping his head again, reaching down to cover the arrangement of black spirals on his hip, faded with the years but still as present as ever. “Ain’t like you’ve never seen me in heat.”
“I don’t like it any better than you do,” Sam huffs right back, sitting on the toilet lid, pointedly keeping his eyes to the wall. Dean continues sucking in deep breaths, eyes closed to the floor, the water running cold over his skin; better than nothing, he guesses. “You gonna be good until we head out, or—?”
“Still got another day,” he sighs and grips his hip tighter.
This is stupid, all of it. And having two Alphas in the same proximity as him isn’t helping—not that Castiel is in any way interested, and Sam’s his brother. How Sam got sidled up top tier while Dean had to suffer through heats and leering stares at all times, he still didn't know, didn’t care to ask. Mary had been one of the strongest Omegas he ever knew, John a steadfast Alpha hell-bent on teaching his sons the way of the world, even if one of them wasn’t exactly how he had imagined. Not that it made a difference, anyway, Omegas spending just as much time in the limelight as their opposite counterparts, if not more. No one paid much attention to blood types or lineages outside of casual conversation, only those too concerned with the ways of the past putting too much stock into who fucked whom or who had what part, who smelled like cherries or birch, who had what permanently tattooed into their skin.
For Dean, a set of delicate brushstroke spirals decorated his hip—Mary’s crest, borne by all Campbell women. For Sam, the jagged lines of a mountain range wrapped around his left bicep. He’d always admired John’s crest, the sharpness of the lines, the distinction behind it—Alpha, untouched by Omega or Beta, at least until he happened. Sam had been John’s saving grace, the last chance of leaving the Winchester’s legacy intact, bringing forth more Alpha children long after their departure. Like that would happen.
They never talk about it on hunts, or at all if they can help it. For the most part, Dean keeps to himself during his heat, holing up in whatever room he can find with anything soft and sleeping for the week, sometimes uninterrupted, other times not. Now, he has nothing, just a hotel room in the middle of nowhere and the Impala parked out front, both offering no sense of comfort whatsoever. “We’re heading back at eight, you think you can make it until then?” Sam asks, and Dean nods, breath shaky when he responds.
“I’ll be fine.” He attempts to stand, fighting off the blood rushing to his head when he makes it to his feet, Sam’s hand on his arm the entire way. “Seriously, go. Don’t need to be coddled just ‘cause my hormones are freaking out.”
Sam snorts a bit but leaves him otherwise alone, treading the short distance to the door. Dean waves him off before he can ask something else, reaching over to turn off the nozzles, leaving him in the cold chill of the bathroom, a new set of clothes sitting on the sink, a soft pair of pajama pants and an equally worn t-shirt. The gentler, the better, at least until they can make it back to Lebanon and he can isolate himself for a week, undisturbed.
He sleeps long enough to take some of the edge off, face buried in a pillow while he fades in and out of consciousness, a hand stroking through his hair all the while. At first, he doesn't question it, simply revels in the warmth of those fingers and the slight twist behind his ear, something about it raising his heart rate, barely enough to be detectable. Either way, the hand’s owner doesn’t question it, simply continuing to pet him while he speaks. “I can smell him now, though,” a voice similar to Castiel’s states, close enough to confirm just who’s in his bed and who has the nerve to touch him like that. “Is that normal?”
“He’s in heat,” Sam says from across the room, unzipping his duffle and shoving something inside. Dean fights the urge to throw something at him. “Or, about to be anyway. You couldn't smell him when you were an Angel?”
Through closed eyes, he knows Castiel is shaking his head, confusion furrowing his brow; he nearly laughs at the image. “I wasn't—I could mute my impulses. Angels aren’t part of the human spectrum, we nullify anything our vessel is feeling during the time we possess them.” He continues his ministrations, Dean letting out a warm breath in content. “I’ve never noticed it before. How he smells.”
“Kinda overpowering,” Sam adds, nonchalant about the whole thing. “He normally takes blockers, but he’s been off them for a while. Think he’s just gotten comfortable being at the bunker all the time.”
“What did your father think?”
Great, this discussion. Dean pinches his eyes tighter at the question, praying Castiel doesn't notice. If he does, he doesn't let on. “He… was alright with it, for the most part,” Sam shrugs, feet padding across the carpet. “Pushed Dean harder than necessary, but never called him out on it.” A laugh. “Y’know, for a long time, I thought he was null after we started hunting again.”
“I wasn’t null,” Dean announces, startling Castiel into removing his hand; Sam chuckles and continues packing, neither he nor Castiel thinking to retract their words. “I just—took more than required. Not a lot of Omegas hunt in the first place. Figured I could play it as a Beta for a while.”
“Yeah, but I think they would’ve made an exception for you,” Sam chimes. “You gonna pack, or are you planning on sleeping all day?”
“Don’t think I’m drivin’, either way,” he says through a yawn. Settling in the sheets, he closes his eyes to Castiel’s hand, fingers scraping through his hair until he nods off again.
They make it to Lebanon long after the sun falls beyond the horizon, temperatures dropping into the upper teens by the time Dean drags himself from the backseat with their bags, unceremoniously dropping them by their owner’s doors. Neither his brother nor their resident Angel-turned-human bother him after he shuts himself in his bedroom, crawling under the sheets of his bed for a record two minutes before the itch resurfaces, heat having blossomed in the Impala from a nagging insistence to an all out need—for touch, for comfort, for food, he doesn't know. And neither of his houseguests seem to care about what he does, one way or another.
Which leads him to wandering the halls dressed in solely his robe once Castiel and Sam have gone to bed, in search of a storage closet or vacant bedrooms, or anywhere with bedding. He ends up with five spare quilts and two down comforters, along with fifteen pillows and a pint of Cherry Garcia from the freezer. Almost on instinct, he follows the thrum in his veins, pushing his bed against the wall and pulling the memory foam from the frame, decorating it with his collection until the entire floor is draped in pillows and blankets, the room lit by confiscated taper candles and the light of a portable television.
Which is how Castiel finds him in the early hours of the morning, Dean’s hair in absolute disarray and spooning melted ice cream into his mouth while draped with a quilt and surrounded by many more, Castiel watching him with a quirked eyebrow. Dean rolls his eyes and sets the carton aside, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re judging me,” he scolds, ignoring Castiel’s mirthful sigh.
“I’m not,” Castiel says, quiet, and shuts the door behind him as he enters, bare feet crossing into his makeshift nest without permission, Dean glaring at him when he kneels to sit at his side, still a respectable distance away. “Your brother told me you do this when you’re in heat. How come you’ve never…?”
“Shown you before?” Dean laughs and turns his head, tugging the quilt tighter around him. “I was on suppressants for a long time, at least till we got this place.” He nods to his bedroom, strewn in blankets and more than enough places to sprawl out, candles a quarter melted on the bedside tables and shelving, illuminating the extensive weapons collection and the record player on his desk. “Haven’t really… been through one in a long time. Fuckin’ sucks.”
“Do you need anything?” Dean shakes his head and falls back into the comfort of his nest, arranging himself on his stomach while Castiel sits, eyes flicking between him and the television. “You’re not… craving anything?”
Dean snorts and looks over his shoulder, Castiel failing to hide a smirk. “Are you askin’ me if I’m horny, Cas?”
“It’s a simple question,” Castiel smirks; Dean kicks his hip, enough to jostle him. “I understand other Omegas are more receptive during this time.”
Dean rolls onto his front and folds his arms behind his head, feet kicking beneath worn sheets. “Depends on the person. Some people go crazy on hormones, but me?” He catches Castiel’s gaze, blinking once before closing his eyes. “I… kinda hoard things. Soft things.”
“You like feeling comfortable,” Castiel says, and—that’s basically it. Sleeping in scratchy motel beds had always done him a disservice through the years, even when the suppressants failed and Sam had to drag him away from his cocoon on the floor to interview witnesses or hunt down whatever was threatening children across town. But now, with his own room and everything he could ever want at his disposal, he feels… at home. Peace takes the place of fear, content flowing through him while he rests with the knowledge that he has a home, that he’s safe, that Sam and Castiel are here with him. He can finally relax without the fear that someone’s coming for him, at least for the week.
“What about you?” Dean lifts up to watch confusion flit across Castiel’s face, lips pursed in thought. “You ever gone through—.”
“Have I gone into rut?” Dean nods. At that, Castiel shakes his head, looking down at his palms. “I don’t think I’ve been human long enough for my body to realize it’s not being suppressed any longer. I was close, years ago, but nothing came of it.”
Dean cocks a brow, nudging Castiel’s hip with his foot. “Did you start gettin’ ‘cravings,’ Cas?” he joshes, watching Castiel lower his head, hiding a grin. “C’mon what was it? Booze, food, what?”
“Affection, mostly.” Dean makes a noise with the admission, rising up to lean on his elbows, taking Castiel in: the slump of his shoulders, hands fidgeting in his lap, idly chewing his lower lip, all such human gestures. He nudges him again, this time softer, more pleading. “I wanted to… touch you, sometimes. For reassurance, to know that what we were doing was right, that we weren’t on a fruitless mission.”
“You touched me plenty of times though.” Sitting up, he pulls himself from his nest and sits at Castiel’s side, sighing when Castiel reaches up to pet his hair, raking his fingers through sweat-damp strands. “Unless you meant another kind of touching. Which, ‘m not gonna lie—.”
“I wouldn't have been opposed to either,” Castiel says, Dean flushing red, even brighter than the fever burning through him. “But we were focused. I couldn't—I didn't want to pull you aside for something so trivial.”
Dean nods, barely observant of the moan he lets out when Castiel pets under his ear, letting his fingers trail up the shell ever so gently. He has half the mind to bare his neck, let Castiel take what he wants while they’re alone, before Sam starts snooping around and finds them tangled together in the sheets. Castiel must share the same thought, because he leans in without warning and licks at the juncture of Dean’s neck, kissing there long enough to draw blood to the surface, Dean’s mouth parting with every individual kiss, every nip until Castiel pulls his robe off to the side, baring his skin fully. “Wait—Wait, Cas—.”
Castiel pulls back without a word, absently tracing his fingers over the mottled spot along Dean’s collar. “I’m—I apologize,” he says, rushed. “That was too forward—.”
“It’s fine.” Really, it is—just not now, when his body feels like a livewire and Castiel being within three feet of him has him feeling both strung out and calmed at the same time. Still, he leans in and lets Castiel pull him closer, one hand curled around his wrist, the other cupping his neck, something about it incredibly intimate; he burns hotter in recognition, the tips of his ears red. “Do you—Are you gonna—?”
“I’d like to stay, at least for now,” Castiel finishes for him, Dean nodding along. “Sam left for his run before I came here. I figured you might want some time to rest.”
Rest, right—what he was doing before Castiel decided to come in and suck his neck. Not that he didn’t mind; he could get used to this, if Castiel decided to help him with his heats or stay as a permanent fixture in his bed. Either one will do. “Then get in here,” Dean concedes, patting the spot next to him with a grin. “Or I’m gonna pass out without you, your choice.”
Castiel crawls into the cocoon without preamble, still dressed in pajamas and sporting an incredible case of bedhead when he makes himself comfortable at Dean’s back, slinging an arm over his waist. And Dean falls into it just as easy, lacing their fingers together on his stomach and closing his eyes to the candlelight, letting their shared breaths lull him to sleep, at least for the next few hours. It’s nice here, he figures as he tangles their legs together, Castiel pulling him flush with his body. Not like it wasn't the first time they had slept in the same bed together—there were only so many beds in motel rooms, and more often than not, he chose Dean’s instead of Sam’s, citing something about it always being more comfortable there.
But here, the situation is different. He’s in heat, and Castiel is an Alpha, albeit one more interested in keeping him safe rather than getting into his pants. He doesn't even smell, at least not one that he can notice. Though, the scent that meets him an hour later changes that thought, his bed drenched in petrichor and cedar, nearly stealing the air from his lungs with a single breath. “Cas,” he hisses, reaching back enough to pat Castiel’s back, his friend grunting in reply. “Cas, you’re—fuck, you smell good. You raid a perfume department?”
“Doubtful,” Castiel mumbles, hips twitching against Dean’s ass and—oh. “Though, I may be having a reaction.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Dude, this couldn’t’ve happened another time?” Castiel only glares at him when he moves away, just enough to separate himself from the erection digging into his robe. “Thought you said—.”
“I think you triggered my rut,” Castiel says, rolling fully onto his front, arm still draped over Dean’s waist, hands sneaking beneath his robe to clutch his hip. Dean shudders with the notion, fighting every instinct to prostrate himself and let Castiel take like every other Alpha wanted him to in the past, something he never allowed himself to do.
This time, he wavers. And he knows Castiel senses his hesitation, can tell by the softened look Castiel gives him, a gentle hand urging him back into the sheets. “I don’t want that, Dean,” he mutters once they’re close again, foreheads pressed together, Dean shivering with every little touch, every kiss to his neck, cheek, never where he wants those lips. “Not unless you do.”
But that’s the problem—he doesn't know. Dean watches him with his hands fisted in the back of Castiel’s shirt, searching the intent in his eyes, tired blue staring back at him in fear—he won’t take if Dean says no. He’d back off, most likely. Give him whatever space he needs, even if it means leaving the room. But he can’t bring himself to force him to leave, especially with that look on his face, mixed with apprehension and despair at just the idea. “Y’don’t know how long I’ve wanted you to even say that,” Dean says, face brightening; Castiel deflates with a grin, finally relaxing. “But now? Outta all the times we could’ve?”
“It seems more practical now,” Castiel shrugs. “The statistical likelihood that you’ll become impreg—.”
“Don’t need the biology lesson.” Dean waves him off and pulls up enough to shrug off his robe, letting the slight chill in the room cool the sweat beading along his spine, at least for a minute.
Castiel pins him before he can right himself, Dean finding himself staring up at Castiel when he kisses him, soft and teasing, Dean falling into it without a second thought. They stay like that for a while under the blankets, Castiel stroking over naked skin and over his cock every once in a while, enough to get him hard but nothing more. “Need you wet,” Castiel mumbles into his ear when they break apart, kissing along his pulse point and his collar, sucking another mark into already bruised skin.
“Gettin’ there,” Dean chuckles and lowers one of Castiel’s hands, letting him trace his fingers over his cleft, already soaked to the touch. “Don’t even think you needed to kiss me to do that.”
“I like kissing.” Castiel kisses him for emphasis, open mouthed and sloppy this time, Dean moaning into it when Castiel knees his legs open, rubbing his clothed cock against his own; he bucks up against it, riding his rhythm until Castiel lays claim to his neck, Dean letting out a groan when teeth threaten to break skin. “Dean.”
“Thought you weren’t all about sex,” Dean whines, barely holding back. No one will hear him anyway, with how thick the walls are.
Castiel stops at that, slowing to a glacial roll as he rests their foreheads together, Dean staring up into his eyes, the reverence there almost blinding. “It’s you,” Castiel tells him between kisses. “It’s because it’s you. I want to touch you—want you, Dean.”
“Touch me,” Dean pleads—Castiel does.
He lets Castiel work him for a while, stretched out at his side while he fingers him, Dean slick and yielding under his touch while they kiss, Castiel still fully clothed. It’s infuriating—he can’t touch him like he wants to, can barely see him in the darkness of the room aside from the candles and the television, long since abandoned. He stretches his arms above his head in compromise, Castiel laving his tongue over every groove, every divot of his body until the fever burns bright and insatiable, Dean pawing at his shoulder.
“Get on with it,” he says, ending with a laugh; Castiel kisses him quiet, pulling his fingers free much to Dean’s distaste.
“I’m getting there,” Castiel hushes him, a finger to his lips. Dean pouts when he pulls up long enough to pull off his shirt and pants, the jagged lines of a wing stretching along his ribs; he covers it with his hand, Castiel looking down long enough to thread their fingers together, pulling it up above Dean’s head and pinning it there. “You’re soaked, Dean.”
Dean snorts and hikes his hips to get Castiel’s fingers where he wants them when they return, brushing against his prostate without intent, Dean still hardening despite the lack of attention. He wants this—wants all of it, wants to feel Castiel against him, in him, his scent doing absolute wonders for his nerves, now reduced to a dull thrum in his veins, barely noticeable except for when Castiel pushes too deep, igniting the repressed fire that burns through him, leaves him aching at his core. “C’mon,” he complains, tightening his hold on Castiel’s hand. “You’re wastin’ time. How do you want me?”
“Like this, if you don’t mind.” Castiel leans in to kiss him again, pulling his fingers free and leaving Dean empty again, hole fluttering around nothing; he whines, both from the absence and Castiel’s mouth on his neck, until that familiar press of a cock against his rim gives rise to the want inside him, Castiel pushing in with no resistance. Dean throws his head back with a moan, clenching around him after he’s fully seated, their hips pressed flush and Dean’s legs around his waist, toes curling in empty air. “You’re beautiful, Dean.”
“Don’t—.” Opening his eyes, he struggles to ignore Castiel’s stare, the tenderness in his expression as he cups his face in both hands, Dean swallowing under his watch. It’s invasive, how Castiel looks at him like he loves him, like he’s the center of his universe, the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him. He flushes with the thought, turning his head; he doesn’t deserve it, doesn't need to be treated like that. Like he’s loved. “Don't—that’s your rut talking—.”
“It’s true, though.” Dean opens to his next kiss, bringing an arm around Castiel’s back when he starts to move, stroking his cock in slow rolls as he quickens his pace, until Dean’s left moaning in the sheets and clinging to his skin with white knuckles. “Beautiful—all of you, Dean—.”
“Gotta—teach you to talk dirty—.” The next thrust leaves him gasping, words caught in his throat when Castiel latches onto his neck, the heat slowly growing unbearable inside him, burning through his veins the harder Castiel thrusts, the more intending his nips become, now bordering on a claim. He has half the mind to let him do it, let him mark his neck and fuck him dry, until all that’s left is them and the mess they’ve made of the bed. And even the thought of the slick he’s leaking all over the bed doesn't stop him, only drives him on, fisting himself faster as the faint tug of a knot catches his rim, more persistent as the seconds pass. “Fuck—you close already?”
Castiel nods against his neck and simply breathes him in, licking over the faint impression of his teeth before he sits up, both hands on Dean’s hips as he fucks in, harder now, Dean vibrating with the need to feel Castiel’s knot inside him. It’s different now—he’s never fucked during heats before, never felt the need, his mind more occupied with hoarding blankets and hiding in them, much to his brother’s amusement. But now, with Castiel looming over him and watching him with affection in his eyes, he could get used to it.
Never in his life did he figure he’d have a mate—and Castiel, no less.
“Hey—slow down,” Dean whispers, temporarily abandoning his cock to pull Castiel closer, urging his hips to slow, Castiel moaning loud into his neck. “Feels better like this, right?” He nearly laughs with the words, Castiel shuddering a sigh in agreement. He’s thick inside him, knot swelling with each thrust, with every kiss and touch, their hands wandering over sweat-soaked skin. Castiel strokes him for a while, matching the pace with his hips while Dean rides him back, a grin on his face. “You like that?”
Castiel rolls his eyes and lowers himself, pecking Dean’s cheek. “You’re a menace,” he teases; Dean laughs and kisses his nose, bringing both arms around his neck. “Do you intend on being so distracting for much longer?”
He clenches around him intentionally, Castiel grunting and slapping his hip, Dean only laughing harder. “I don’t see you complaining,” he taunts and runs a hand down his spine, earning a shiver. “C’mon, want you to come. Want you to bite me.”
“You—really?” His words come in a rush, and Dean nods his answer, replying with a groan when Castiel speeds up again, blanketing him with his body; Dean holds on tight and buries his head in Castiel’s shoulder, mouthing at the juncture of his throat, tempted to sink his teeth in and taste him on his tongue, sweat and musk and whatever else he can find, the scents all clouding his brain. He groans at the feeling of Castiel’s knot swelling inside him, hips grinding in hard rolls against his own until it finally pushes past his rim.
Two things happen before he can gather his thoughts—Castiel comes inside him in a frantic rush, leading Dean to clamp around his knot while Castiel bites him, Dean barely having time to hold back his shout before he’s reaching between them to fist himself, spilling white up his chest and into his hand, shuddering in the aftermath. He’s probably bleeding from what he can tell, Castiel now pulling back to lap at the wound along his neck, a bite he can feel in his bones, a claim he can’t describe. Sam will probably interrogate him after his heat’s over, he knows, questions about what he was doing in there and why Cas was with him, and why the place reeked of sex and mates.
For now, he lets the thoughts slide away and turns his head to kiss Castiel, smiling against his lips. “Pretty sure you ruined my bed,” he says, Castiel dropping his head against the claim with a stifled laugh. “Can you at least roll over? Pretty sure this whole area’s a wet spot.”
“You’re wetter than other Omega,” Castiel notes to no one in particular. Somehow, he manages to roll them to another part of the nest and cradles Dean to his chest, Dean tucking his head under Castiel’s chin and closing his eyes to the scent, some mix of summer storms and spices, honey and juniper that lulls his heart to rest, calms him enough to ignore the mild discomfort of Castiel’s knot still inside him, keeping them tied. “…You’re sure you won’t catch? We didn’t exactly… think this through.”
Dean shrugs a bit, curling further into Castiel’s embrace, snaking an arm around his waist in return. “Can’t,” he mouths into his neck, opening his eyes enough to take in the dim light between them, the sweat that drips down his chest. “This line of work, gettin’ my ass handed to me every day, shit just… happens.” Castiel kisses his forehead in sympathy. “Figure if I want kids, I’ll adopt. Probably a few years down the road though. Don’t need to be puttin’ anything on them while we’re runnin’ around a step away from dying.”
“And you’re… okay with this?”
There’s no malice behind it, purely curiosity. Still, Dean snuffles and pats Castiel’s back, muttering, “Dude, can we talk about this when we wake up? You’re killin’ my afterglow,” before relaxing entirely, Castiel holding him close. “’F you’re gonna be so clingy all the damn time, we’re gonna need more ice cream.”
Castiel snorts and ruffles his hair. “I left a note for Sam on the refrigerator when I saw your stash was gone. Hopefully he’ll have seen it.”
Dean nods. “Smart man.” He pauses, listening to Castiel’s steady breaths before speaking again, voice frail. “You’re… You’re it for me, you know that, right?”
It’s the closest thing to a confession he has, in it the fear of rejection and need for compassion, a level of intimacy he doesn't allow himself, even on a good day. But in the midst of his heat and Castiel’s proximity, in the quiet of his nest… “I know, Dean,” Castiel tells him, lips close to his ear. “And I, you.”
“Good.” He closes his eyes then, absently tracing his fingers over Castiel’s shoulder blade as he drifts off, undisturbed. “Good.”