Chapter Text
Precision has never historically been an issue for Castiel. Prayers came from fixed and easy geography; even if the supplicant was moving—even if they were moving very quickly—it was a trivial task of locating them in spacetime. Human beings resided in the lower dimensions, as did their thoughts, as did their bodies on Earth. To situate his vessel in their immediate vicinity was a task so inconsequential that Castiel had never bothered being proud of the ability.
Sam's prayer to him had been brief, full of desperate intent, and only four words long: Cas, please help us. He didn't require further elaboration. The fact that it was Sam and not his brother praying to him was explanation enough. Castiel had offered just as brief a justification to Hannah moments before his departure: I will be swift. She had given him a displeased frown, but no argument, and for that alone he owed her his favour.
But his Grace was a fickle thing these days. The abuse it had suffered meant he needed to dedicate higher order parts of himself to accomplish what had once been reflexive, instant. The human brain did not require conscious thought to understand that the flame on a stovetop was not to be touched; Castiel did not—should not—expect any effort on his part to produce his vessel on Earth at the appropriate coordinates in spacetime.
He succeeded, with much dedication and discipline, to land himself just outside of an abandoned warehouse in Hastings, Kansas, two minutes and forty-eight seconds after Sam had called out for him. He was off by one hundred sixty seven metres, placing him in the middle of a dark parking lot with an improbable number of potholes.
Castiel scanned the exterior of the building, adjusting the collar on his coat in annoyance. The warehouse's use prior to closure appeared to be meat packaging and storage. A faded sign suspended on the southern wall read Cauldwell & Cauldwell, est. 1932. Just under it, spray painted haphazardly in stilted white lettering, proclaimed IT COULD BE WORSE!
The Impala was nowhere to be seen in the lot. Castiel moved forward, expanding his Grace and locating Sam within the northern side of the warehouse. The distance annoyed him; the imprecision was concerning.
He stumbled as his foot caught in a divot, slowing him further, and he looked down to see his right shoe ensnared in a pothole. There was water collecting at the bottom of it, and it seeped quickly through the sole of his shoe, making his sock damp. He remembered how unpleasant the sensation had been while he was human, and he didn't much care for it now.
Irritated, Castiel shook it off, stepping around the divot as he approached the building. The doors were all bolted shut, and the refuse and dirt around the exterior looked undisturbed. It further confirmed his suspicion; Sam and Dean had entered through the other side.
Imprecise. Messy. Unacceptable.
His strength, at least, was still something he could rely on. Pressing a hand to the graffitied steel of a side entrance, his palm ignited as the door blew off its hinges. The shriek of shorn metal echoed across the empty parking lot, and funnelled through the winding maintenance halls leading further in the warehouse.
Castiel ducked under the crooked door frame, listening to the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching from a hallway to his right. It was completely dark inside; he blinked, waiting impatiently for his vessel's eyes to adjust. Another inconvenience.
Sam's flashlight preceded his voice, slicing through the gloom and pointing directly in Castiel's face. "Hey!" Sam barked, pistol sat atop the stock of his flashlight. His reflexes and trigger discipline were good enough that Castiel didn't have to disarm him—or endure the misfortune of a bullet wound—but the alarm was clear in Sam's voice. "Woah. Jesus, Cas." The flashlight dipped, leaving white spots in Castiel's vision, and he blinked them away as Sam's sweaty, pinched expression came into view. He glanced down at the crumpled door on the ground, incredulous. "Could you be any louder?"
"Easily." He glanced behind Sam's shoulder and saw only empty space. "What's happening?"
"Follow me."
Sam led him through the maintenance halls of the warehouse, gun pointed at the ground in front of him but still held at the ready. They passed several bodies as they moved, all beheaded. He could sense a reaper nearby, in an adjacent hallway, negotiating with the souls it had to ferry into Purgatory. It had a good deal of work to do here tonight.
"Vampires?" Castiel asked, stepping carefully over the headless torso of a very unfortunate man.
"A nest, yeah. Charlie—Charlie found them." Sam scanned a side hallway they passed, flashlight sweeping the corners, the ceiling, before swinging back in front of him. They kept moving.
"Charlie's with you?" Castiel frowned, expanding his Grace and his senses. It strained him, taking too long, and by the time he registered Charlie's presence here, Sam was already answering him.
"We're supervising her hunts. For help—and everything." Sam turned right on the upcoming T-juncture, pace fast. His voice was strung tight, a faint tremor in the undercurrent from leftover adrenaline. He was calm in the tense way Castiel had come to recognise as well-controlled panic.
His mind caught on the addendum—and everything. He knew what else that entailed, or at least some of it. Hunting was difficult work in every sense of the word.
"And Dean is in trouble," Castiel surmised.
"Yeah," Sam huffed. "He's—"
"Sam!"
Charlie's voice was close, and decidedly far less calm. Sam broke into a run at the sound, and Castiel followed closely behind him, dodging around corpses and batting away the filthy PVC strip curtains hanging between the doorways.
They came upon the room quickly; a small housing bay for loading vans. Dean was in the middle of the room, restrained to a chair with zip ties. It was knocked over on its side, back facing them, and he was struggling to get out of it. Charlie was backing into the far corner, machete in hand, aimed in Dean's general direction but without any real threat behind it. Her eyes were wide, frightened, though she wasn't quite panicking yet.
"Sam! He just—he started struggling, and—"
"It's okay," Sam said immediately, gesturing for her to lower her weapon. He circled the chair cautiously, giving Dean a wide berth before stopping in front of him. "Dean?"
"Shut up," his brother muttered into the concrete floor, coughing. He jerked his wrists, making the chair creak. "Help me up."
Castiel circled around from the other side, meeting Sam. Dean was in poor shape—gore on his clothes, though most of it likely wasn't his; bruises on his face from fighting; eyes bloodshot and rimmed with red; blood smeared across his mouth, glistening between the grooves of his teeth. That blood was also not his.
"In a minute," Sam said soothingly to his brother, shoving his pistol in the waistband of his jeans. The beam of the flashlight danced across the floor with the movement.
Dean squinted as it swept his face, cringing. "Jesus, turn that off."
"Someone turned him," Castiel murmured, frowning at Dean. He knelt down, bracing his knuckles on the concrete floor to keep him steady, and behind him he could head Sam speaking softly to Charlie. "Hello, Dean."
"Hey, Cas." The dust swirled across the surface of the floor from Dean's breath, making him cough. "How's it going?"
"That is yet to be determined." His eyes drifted down to Dean's forearm, where the tail of the Mark was poking out from beneath his rolled up sleeve. It looked irritated.
"You smell… really good," Dean murmured. His eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere below Castiel's face—his throat, he imagined. "Can you do me a favour and—"
Sam's hand clapped Castiel's shoulder, making him look up. "How's he doing?"
"I'm fine," Dean answered for him, jerking his arms again. His legs were affixed to the chair as well, his jeans tangled up in the strips of the zip ties. His expression turned withering as he looked at his brother. "You can untie me. And get me out of this chair!"
"I don't think that's a good idea," Charlie said, frowning down at Dean. The machete hung limply by her side.
"Sorry, Charlie," Dean muttered. "Your blood's noisy." His hand tightened into a fist around the end of the armrest, and the wood groaned under the strain.
"I called Cas here. He's gonna heal you," Sam assured him.
"No, I'm not."
Sam gave him an incredulous look. "What? Why?"
Castiel stood up, dusting off the knees of his pants. "Vampirism isn't a disease. It's not like a wound, or cancer, or—" He cut himself short, seeing Sam gearing up to interrupt him. He sighed. "It's more complicated than that."
"How the hell is it not a disease?" Dean's voice was gruff, the angry edge to it more menacing than antagonistic. There was very little light in the room, but the glare from Sam's flashlight may as well have been the afternoon summer sun from the way Dean was squinting.
"I've tried to explain this to you before," Castiel reminded him calmly. "You were uninterested in the topic."
"But there is a cure, right?" Charlie asked, cutting the ensuing argument short. "You guys have one in your journals."
"Yes, but we don't exactly have all the ingredients on hand." Sam looked back at Castiel. "Can you fix him or not?"
Castiel bent down and grabbed the arm of the chair, hauling Dean back into a proper upright position. He was less than grateful for the assistance, lunging in Castiel's direction with teeth bared. The restraints made the action pointless, producing little more than a concerning creak from the chair, but Castiel could feel how malicious the intent of it was, even without looking at the vicious expression contorting Dean's face. The Mark of Cain was hungry, and so was Dean. This was not good.
"No," Castiel admitted. "But I can help you transport him."
"No," Dean said for the fourth time, digging his heels into the broken asphalt as they approached the car. "Cas, listen to me—"
"You can't be trusted in the backseat," he replied calmly, shoving Dean towards the Impala. Sam was making room in the trunk, passing Charlie the two duffels stashed in there, which she deposited in the back seat. He also had a jug of vampire blood sitting on the pavement, the cap already crusting as it dried.
Dean continued to kick against the ground, thrashing in Castiel's grip. "I'm not riding in the fucking trunk of my own car!"
"It's an hour's drive back to the bunker, tops," Sam assured him, as if that solved anything. He was doing a good job of looking dour, but Castiel could sense his amusement. "I'll drive gentle, I promise."
Castiel kept a firm grip on Dean's arms as he hurled expletives at his brother. He was a good deal stronger than usual—partly from the Mark, partly from the vampirism. It paled in comparison to the strength of an angel, but it would have been impossible for Charlie and Sam to move him safely on their own without knocking him unconscious.
"This is fucking ridiculous," Dean snarled, and grew angrier at his uncaring audience. "Why don't you put a bag over my head while you're at it?"
"We can do that if it makes you feel better," Sam offered.
One of Dean's boots wedged itself into a pothole. It brought them up short, Castiel bumping into Dean's back, and Dean made a last ditch effort to escape by slamming his head backwards into Castiel's nose. His vision blurred instantly from tears, and the bridge of his nose cracked painfully from the impact. He grit his teeth, feeling blood already wetting his upper lip.
"Stop it," Castiel hissed, yanking Dean out of the divot and shoving him forward. His hands tightened on his arms, no doubt painful by now.
"Come on!" Dean barked, jerking his shoulders and doing his best not to walk forward. "I'm not gonna—Jesus, you think I can't control myself for a damn car ride—"
"You tried to bite Charlie in the warehouse." Sam gestured to the bed of the trunk as Castiel hauled Dean next to the car, frowning. He ducked his head to wipe the blood from his nose on his jacket sleeve, then nudged Dean forward.
"I said sorry for that!"
Castiel ignored him. "Get in."
"No."
Sam sighed. "Dean—"
"Don't touch him," Castiel warned, seeing Sam reach for his brother. He let go of one of Dean's arms and grabbed his head, shoving it down so that it wouldn't hit the hood. "Get in."
Repeating his instructions didn't produce anything aside from an enraged shout. Dean thrashed again, bucking wildly against Castiel's grip on his arm and head, and a snarl ripped out of him. He put up enough of a struggle that Castiel had to remind Sam to stay back as he shoved Dean bodily into the trunk of the car.
"We will bind your hands and feet if you don't sit still—"
One of Dean's fists connected with Castiel's ribs. There was enough force behind it to sting, making him grunt. A moment later, Sam's hand appeared in his periphery, silently offering him fresh zip ties.
"Fine," Castiel ground out. Sam helpfully shone his flashlight into the trunk as Castiel flipped Dean onto his stomach, zipping his wrists together.
"Get that flashlight out of my face," he hissed into the carpet of the trunk, seething. He coughed again, his tongue running over his teeth under his lips, and his next words came out surprisingly lucid. "And get away from me, Sam—"
"We're almost done," his brother interrupted, face grim. Any lingering humour at watching Dean be shoved into the trunk had vanished. He handed Cas another zip tie.
Dean's nose flattened against the bed of the trunk, his eyes squeezing closed. His breath came out stuttered. "Your heartbeat is really loud."
Sam said nothing, watching Castiel string Dean's boots together. It was easy to catch the edge in Dean's voice—concern for his brother tainted by something angry and volatile.
"I'm being serious," Dean warned.
"Just another second, Dean."
Castiel was arranging his legs into what was hopefully a semi-comfortable position when he felt Dean attempt another lunge upright. Castiel had a hand pressed to his shoulder to keep him braced on his stomach, which was Dean's new target. His teeth were bared, intent on the exposed skin, and Castiel removed the hand to grab roughly at Dean's jaw instead.
"You bite me, you're a vampire forever," he reminded Dean flatly, glaring down at him. His nose was still bleeding, his ribs still aching from the earlier blow, and he was not in a particularly patient mood. "Control yourself."
"Fuck you," Dean spat back, the words coming out mumbled from the force of Castiel's hand on his face. He jerked his head, trying to buck free, and Castiel let go of him. Then he slammed the hood of the trunk down before Dean tried to escape again, and he heard another muffled bump and a string of curses come from inside.
Sam sighed beside him, deflating. "Thanks, Cas."
He looked at Sam, then Charlie. "I didn't know it was this bad."
Castiel was used to Dean's impatience, his irreverence and his antagonism. This was not that. The Mark had done well to latch onto Dean's temper, twisting it, stripping it of mercy or compassion. And now with the vampirism setting in….
One of Sam's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug beside him. "It is, some days. Other times he's mostly himself. And the vamp thing—" He shot a look back at the warehouse, jaw working. "I don't know. It's like he can't do impulse control anymore. This isn't helping."
"It's my fault," Charlie interjected, hands shoved in the pockets of her jeans. "Dean was helping me clear out the room, and those guys—one of them saw the thing on his arm. He said he wanted Dean—"
"It's not anyone's fault," Sam said quickly. "And it's nothing we can't handle. This has happened before."
Charlie's eyes widened. "Dean's been turned before?"
Sam looked away. "Long story. Let's—get going."
Charlie graciously offered Cas shotgun, opting to spread out in the backseat, shoving the duffel bags to the floor and curling up on the leather bench, folding her jacket into a pillow against the window. Sam kept a white-knuckle grip on the wheel as he drove, trying to avoid dips and bumps in the road. He tensed up whenever there was noise from the trunk.
"You said…." Sam trailed off, eyes restless on the road, searching for things to avoid. "You said vampirism isn't a disease."
"It isn't inherently one, no."
Sam shot him a look. "Care to elaborate?"
"Cannibalism is a common practice in many species," Castiel explained. "Vampirism is a form of that."
"Yeah, but it's—it's passed on through blood, like a virus."
"There's a biological locus to it," Castiel agreed, nodding.
"And there's a remedy to cure vampirism," Sam continued. "It works."
"It resolves the urge to drink blood by triggering an immune response, yes."
Sam grunted. "Okay…."
"Human beings have understood disease in many different ways," Castiel told him. "What you call disease changes across space and time, as does your response to it. Were you a hunter a few hundred years ago, you would likely be hunting homosexuals, or women diagnosed with hysteria."
"Wait, seriously?" Charlie's head poked in between them from the backseat. "Did hunters used to do that?"
"What? No," Sam said hurriedly, and then looked at Castiel, concern spreading across his face. "They didn't. Right?"
"Hunters have done a lot of things."
"But—" Sam's eyes continued to search the road, and he took the upcoming turn wide and slow. "Being gay or a woman isn't—that's not the same thing as being a vampire. Vampires are dangerous and violent. They hurt people."
"I've known ones that don't," Castiel replied softly, looking out of his window. The trees blurred past them, shimmering from the light of the Impala's low beams. "Were human society ordered in such a way that human blood was readily available, violence wouldn't be necessary for them to survive."
The silence in the car lasted for several minutes, and he could tell Sam and Charlie were both uncomfortable. Castiel searched for words to explain himself, to correct whatever indiscretion he'd clearly committed. He knew Dean would be even less receptive to this conversation, and found himself grateful that his friend was locked in the trunk. For the time being, anyway.
"I'm not condemning the work you and your brother do, Sam," Castiel said finally. "Or you, Charlie. You help people. You mean well. But I know you've encountered people who are monsters in name only. Ones who don't hurt anybody, who want to live their lives in peace despite their deviance."
"Yeah," Sam breathed, nodding. "I get you, Cas. I've thought about it before, anyway. The whole—" He took a hand off the wheel to gesture at the air, as if grasping for something. "Monster… thing. I dunno. It's a lot."
"Do you know of places where vamps aren't hunted?" Charlie asked, arms resting on the back rest of the front bench. "Like where they can just be themselves and don't have to hide?"
"No extant places, no," Castiel admitted. "Or not to my knowledge. There have been places in the past."
"That's so cool," Charlie murmured. "I wonder…."
There was another series of thumps from the trunk, interrupting her train of thought, making everyone except for Sam glance back.
Charlie frowned. "Man, he's pissed."
"He's hungry," Sam corrected her, voice strained. "Vampires need to feed pretty soon after they turn. The Mark isn't helping with that, either. He was a lot better at controlling it last time this happened."
"When did that happen?"
Sam winced. "Few years ago. Long, bad story. He's in for a pretty rough couple of days after we get vamp blood into him." His eyes flicked to Castiel again. "You're sure there's no way you can fix him?"
Castiel glanced down at the hands in his lap, examining his upturned palm. His other hand was clenched around a rag Sam had given to him to wipe his face clean of the blood from his nose. "I could remove the vampirism from Dean," he said after a moment. "Just as I could change the colour of his eyes, or his appetite for beef. But it would take a great deal of work. It isn't the same as healing a wound. And my Grace is… damaged and unreliable at the moment. I wouldn't entrust Dean's safety with it."
"Are you okay?"
"I'll be fine," Castiel assured him. The answering smile Sam gave him was distant, and the rest of the drive was quiet.
Dean was about as grateful for Castiel's presence now as he had been when he was being shoved into the trunk of the Impala. His shoulders heaved as he vomited blood into the toilet, arm braced on the seat for support. Castiel kept him steady, holding his shoulders, and helped him lie back down on the floor when he was done.
"Go away," he croaked, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. He pressed his face into the towel Castiel had folded up as a pillow for him, breathing shallowly. "I'm fine."
Ignoring him, Castiel sat back on the bathroom floor. His trenchcoat was gone, hung haphazardly over a chair in the library, and now he picked carefully at the dirty spots on his jacket, frowning at the stray specks of blood on his left sleeve.
Sam had been swaying in place by the time they got back to the bunker, exhausted and upset. Charlie was in similar shape, though she was still keyed up from the fight—and from Dean. Sam insisted on drawing up the mixture from Samuel Campbell's notebook, but had gratefully acquiesced when Cas offered to spend the night watching over Dean.
"I know you're busy," Sam had said around a massive yawn, using the back of a chair to support his weight. "If you need to leave—"
"I'll wake you," Castiel had assured him. Satisfied, Sam had stumbled towards the sleeping quarters with Charlie, mumbling a vague thank you before departing.
Sitting now on the tiles of the lavatory, Castiel grabbed the water bottle beside him and unscrewed the cap. "I have to sit you up again."
Dean's bloodshot eyes rolled around in their sockets, glancing sightlessly around the room before landing on Castiel. His face was drawn, pale, shiny with sweat. He'd removed his flannel, leaving him shivering in his t-shirt, though he was hot to the touch.
It was a long moment before he answered. "I'll just throw it back up," he murmured, looking at the water bottle.
"Take small sips," Castiel instructed, and Dean was compliant as he was pulled into a sitting position. His earlier fury wasn't gone, but rather vacant, pushed to the margins to make room for how violently ill he was.
Dean was reaching for the bottle when he suddenly jerked, retching, and Castiel got him turned towards the toilet just in time for him to vomit again.
Dean groaned when he was finished, head pressing into the toilet seat, shivering. Blood dripped from his bottom lip, spotting the tile beneath him, but he didn't seem to notice. The shiver that wracked through him was strong enough to make him tip sideways, and Castiel's hand was the only thing keeping him from slumping back onto the floor.
"You're cold," Cas noted, looking around for a towel large enough to use as a blanket and coming up short. Irritated, he shrugged out of his jacket an arm at a time, draping it over Dean's shoulders as he offered him the water bottle. Dean batted it away weakly, wincing.
"I'm good," he whispered, head lolling.
"Dean—"
"Can you… can you shut off the light?"
Castiel glanced towards the light switch and waved his hand. It flicked off with a crack of punctured plastic, plunging them in darkness. A small night light by the sink was the only source of illumination now, a faint and pleasant yellow.
Castiel sighed, frowning at the broken fixture. It was punched into the wall as if someone had taken a hammer to it, cracked badly enough that a piece of it crumbled to the floor.
Dean was listing again, this time into Castiel's chest, and he slumped back into him with a wet, rattling cough. The sweat from his cheek left an imprint on Castiel's shirt, and Dean was very warm. Gone was his resistance to being cared for—he must be more sick than he was letting on. Castiel folded his jacket closer around him, holding him gently.
Something forced itself out of Dean's throat, and it took Castiel a moment to realise it was a laugh. "Mojo all screwy?"
"My Grace is…." He looked at the busted light switch. "Uncooperative."
"Who fuckin' knows what Metatron did to it," Dean whispered, slumping deeper into the shoulders of the jacket draped around him. His eyes fluttered closed.
The offer of water was met with resigned compliance this time, and he managed to get a few capfuls of it into Dean before his hand was pushed away again. Setting it down on the floor next to them, he shifted Dean so that he wasn't leaning all of his weight into his neck. Castiel should just deposit him back onto the floor, but—holding Dean in his arms was not exactly a common occurrence, and while his selfishness filled him with shame, he did not move to correct it.
Dean was unwell enough that he had no interest in talking, and Castiel was grateful for that. He held him carefully, tucking the jacket around him, keeping him steady. The tremors came and went in between fits of retching, and Cas guided him through it. There was an advantage to this upright position, he reasoned. It was easier to prop Dean against the toilet whenever he had to vomit.
Dean's sweaty hair brushed his jaw as he slumped against him, pawing the jacket back to expose his arms. "It's hot in here."
"You have a fever."
"No shit." Dean coughed, the movement rattling him. "This is worse than a hangover."
"Sam said it'll last three to five days."
"He's a know-it-all." The last round of vomiting seemed to have alleviated some of his nausea. He shifted on the ground, rearranging the weak tangle of his legs, and his face pressed into Castiel's shoulder. The breath escaped him in something more exhausted than a sigh. It made Castiel's gut twist unpleasantly at the sound, and thoughtlessly, he tightened his arms around Dean.
He felt the moment Dean registered the touch, when he realised how close they were pressed together. It was a clinching along his spine, rigid with recognition.
"Cas?"
Castiel quickly shifted his grip, bolstering instead of cradling, but the damage was done. He'd been too eager again. He closed his eyes, clenching his jaw. "Yes?"
Dean lurched forward weakly, gesturing for the towel. "I wanna—wanna lie down."
He crawled over to it on hands and knees, guided by the hand Castiel had on his back, and he laid him gently down on the floor, a ball of lead in the pit of his stomach. The tile was cold enough to make Dean shiver, and Castiel tugged the jacket more tightly round him. He sat back on the tile, frigid from the absence of Dean's warmth, and distracted himself with rebuttoning the cuffs of his shirt.
"No tie," Dean murmured, licking his lips, eyes dancing across Castiel's collar, down the line of buttons on his shirt. Even his mouth was pale, drained of colour, but the blood on his tongue left a faint, pink smear on his upper lip.
Castiel kept his eyes on his cuffs. "No," he agreed, fumbling with the button. "No tie."
"I thought you liked wearing one."
"I did. I do."
Dean was still looking at him. Castiel gave him the space to do so, avoiding his gaze, knowing it would only make him look away and study the tile floor instead. He was used to Dean staring at him. Always from a safe distance, always with the assumption Castiel hadn't noticed.
"Sorry I messed up your shirt," Dean said then, coughing into the towel under his head. Castiel frowned down at himself, plucking at the front of his dress shirt. It was wrinkled from the heat of Dean's body, smudged with blood in a few places. Some of it was from the nosebleed Dean had given him, though he seemed in no rush to apologise for that.
Castiel glanced up at him, smiling fondly. "Dean," he counselled. "It's fine."
"Messing up your jacket, too," he murmured, even as he burrowed deeper beneath it. "It's warm."
"You can keep it." He crossed his legs underneath him, bracing his elbows on his knees as he studied his hands. He didn't know why they preoccupied him so much. He'd never found anything noteworthy about Jimmy Novak's hands before. They were effective tools, precise and gentle when needed, firm and responsive when required of him. They felt fumbling now, blunt, unfamiliar. It wasn't like being intoxicated, a sensation he remembered from being human. Their movements felt out of sync with the rest of himself, delayed in their reaction and imprecise upon movement.
"You okay?"
The words were tentative, hoarse from strain, and more earnest than Castiel was used to hearing from Dean. Stripped of bravado and bluster and charm, what lay beneath was genuine sentiment. It was an apology for the three feet of bathroom tile between them.
Castiel smiled. "Not really," he admitted. "The last few years have been more eventful than the previous several billion. I'm having difficulty keeping up."
"You still put your pants on in the morning and do your job. I count that as a win." Dean rolled with a grunt onto his back, hands shuffling beneath the jacket so that it was spread out across his chest. The tail of his shirt had ridden up, exposing a strip of his abdomen, dusted lightly with hair. After a moment of shifting around, he pulled his arms out from under the jacket, hot again, and didn't bother to fix his shirt.
Castiel's hands tightened to fists in his lap as he swallowed down the dryness in his throat. "You need to drink more water."