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They cross paths again in Bartlesville, just over the Oklahoma line. Monday's Examiner-Enterprise had reported strange deaths in the area, the kind of strange Sam had thought might be a lead on Abaddon or Crowley; Cas had apparently thought it might be a lead on Metatron or Gadreel, and now they're standing in the parking lot of a cheap motel behind a Biggerson's, listening to the trucks rattle down US 60. It is almost evening, the sky beginning to bruise above their heads, pink and prairie gold.
"And you spoke with the coroner?" Cas asks.
"Yeah," Dean says. "She showed me all seven bodies. No EMF, no traces of sulfur, and no" -- frowning, he gestures at his eyes -- "no heavenly burnout. Sam's thinking a wraith. He wanted to hit the books to make sure, but I don't know of anything else that juices brains like that."
"Wonderful. It seems I... hauled ass up here for no reason."
Dean smiles a little at that, at the frustration brimming in Cas' voice, the stiff way his mouth curves around the unfamiliar phrase. He looks tired, weirdly human. "Where'd you come from?"
"Las Cruces."
"Jesus," Dean says, whistling through his teeth. New Mexico to Oklahoma is a long trek, long and incredibly lonely, close to nine hundred miles, up through Tularosa Basin and the Texas Panhandle, all white sand and red, jutting rocks. "What about your new buddies?"
"I left them behind. I would've been impractical to bring all of them this far when I didn't know what I was dealing with."
A silence stretches between them, awkward around the edges, bristling with the argument they never finished because Dean had fled like a coward, angry and frightened at once. He turns away as the wind tugs at the lapels of Cas' coat, taps his fingers on the lid of his gas station coffee, jittery with caffeine, his fourth cup in nearly as many hours, churning on an empty stomach. He thinks of leaving Cas in the parking lot of a different motel, on a rainy bridge with Sam, outside the Gas-n-Sip in Rexford; if Dean had any sense at all he'd drive away right now, watching as Cas shrinks in the rearview mirror, burned red by the Impala's tail-lights, but the time and distance already between them feels like a weight, pressing between Dean's shoulders, at the base of Dean's spine.
"Dean -- "
"Don't, all right? Just don't."
"Dean."
"Look, I'm sorry," Dean says quietly. The Mark is a dull ache on the inside of his arm, and his hands shake as he sets his coffee on the hood of the car. "I know you're disappointed, but it's the only way to kill Abaddon, and I -- it's my fault she's still alive."
"You captured her once before."
Dean clears his throat; he needs a drink so badly his skin is crawling with it. "That was luck, just dumb luck. We had her, but then we sewed the crazy bitch back together, just so we could test that demon healing thing. Our grandfather -- "
"I'm not disappointed."
"What?"
"I'm not disappointed," Cas says gently. His gorgeous eyes narrow, watching in a way that makes Dean feel naked and exposed, completely worthless. He wants to squirm under the scrutiny, his heart crawling up into his throat; Cas straightens from where he's been leaning against the hood of his own car, taking a careful step closer, his shoes crunching on the pockmarked asphalt. "I'm worried."
"Don't."
"Dean," Cas says, another burst of wind pulling at his coat. He crowds in closer, his hand cradling Dean's elbow, his thumb sneaking under the sleeve of Dean's shirt, digging into the crease of muscle just above the Mark. Dean has nowhere to go except back against the Impala, and this would be easier if he didn't know what Cas' mouth feels like against his, the way Cas' skin tastes underneath his jaw, how Cas looks clawing at the dingy sheets on a motel bed, the beautifully low, desperate noises Cas makes with a hand stroking his cock. Dean's trip to Rexford seems like a lifetime ago -- before Cain and Crowley, before Kevin, before Ezekiel became Gadreel -- and also like he'd stepped into a place that hadn't really existed. Cas had been human, and Cas had had a job, and Cas had kissed him in the car outside Nora's, artless but eager, still shaking with adrenaline, his hand wrapped in a bloody washcloth, his skin yellowed by the dull sodium flare of the street lamps. Cas had understood human desire, but not all the baggage that came with it, had only frowned when Dean asked him if this is what he really wanted, frowned and pressed his mouth to the hollow of Dean's throat.
Cas does it again now, tucking his head under Dean's chin, his lips tagging the collar of Dean's t-shirt before finding Dean's skin, and Dean closes his eyes, curls his hand in the sleeve of Cas' coat. He has loved Cas so long he doesn't think he'd know what to do without it, without the constant nagging in his gut, the hollow ache behind his ribs, but it makes him weak, unable to push Cas away. Cas mouths his way up to the corner of Dean's jaw, all stubble and heat and the wet drag of his lips, pausing there long enough to take a soft, human-sounding breath, and Dean slides his hand into Cas' hair, turns his head until they're kissing, Cas rumbling Dean's name into it, nudging Dean back against the car, Dean fisting his other hand in the front of Cas' shirt, tugging him closer, closer. He hadn't thought Cas would still want this, not after getting is mojo back, but Cas is holding Dean as tightly as Dean is holding him, is kissing Dean slow and deep and thorough, like it's the most important thing in the world.
"It's a curse," Cas says later -- ten minutes, maybe twenty. The sun has disappeared behind the peak of Biggerson's red-shingled roof, and the sky is nearly dark.
"Yeah, I know," Dean admits, whispering it against the corner of Cas' mouth. "Cain told me."
"Did he tell you everything? Did he tell you that you'll never die? That the Mark creates a bloodlust that cannot be sated? That you'll walk the earth forever, wanting only to kill?"
Dean shrugs. Cain hadn't told him much of anything, but the grave is already dug; the only thing Dean can do now is lie down in it.
"Do you have any idea what that would do to me?" Cas asks, his voice rough, plaintive, his fingers curling in the collar of Dean's shirt, his knuckles brushing the side of Dean's neck. "To see your soul blackened, worse than a demon, and -- "
"I'm sorry."
Cas splays his hand over the Mark, pressing until it pulses hot and angry, a bright flare of orange between his fingers. "Once you have killed Abaddon, I will find a way to remove it."
"Okay."
"Dean, promise me you will let me try." Cas leans in again, his mouth moving against Dean's cheek. "You do not deserve this burden, whatever you may believe."
"All right, yeah. I will. I'll let you."
Dean isn't sure if Cas can, or if either of them will even live that long, but Cas is kissing him again, wrapping an arm around his waist and curving a hand over his jaw, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him.