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After all the pizza’s gone and the six-pack’s drained and Sam and Charlie are safely in bed and the soundproof walls of the bunker have absorbed the remnants of their shared laughter, Dean doesn’t sleep.
He scrubs the kitchen counter. He cleans out the gross crap at the back of the fridge. He watches two back-to-back episodes of Wife Swap.
Castiel finds him at three a.m. in the shooting range, panting and staring at the poor sap of a target he’s just turned into Swiss cheese.
“Hey,” Cas says. He clears his throat, one of those little human gestures that seems extra weird coming from him now that he’s got his groove back. Extra fascinating, too.
Dean’s fingers twitch and flex against the trigger, and then he lowers the gun. “Heya.”
“Charlie is—”
“Awesome,” Dean finishes.
The side of Cas’ mouth lifts. “That’s exactly what I was going to say, believe it or not.”
They get to share a moment, then. Cas is smiling, or something close to it, and Dean hangs onto the warm feeling in the core of him for as long as he can before it dissipates. The gun is cold in his hands and the Mark of Cain is hot, aching under his skin and begging for his attention.
“That was fun,” Cas says.
At the exact same time, Dean blurts out, “That fucking book.”
Shit, when did it get this weird between them? Cas is still dressed down, and his tie is loosened around his neck. Dean gets a flash of collarbone, throat, and then Cas is right up in his space. He looks the same, tired eyes and thoughtful set to his mouth, and Dean could write off that crackle of energy in the air as the thing that always follows them around no matter how much human or angel Cas has in him at any given time.
“Do you…” Cas hesitates. Frustration crosses his features. “Ah, do you want to tell me about it?”
Looks like Cas learned his shitty communication skills from the Winchesters. Dean forces out a laugh, figures Cas has earned some actual opening up for going through spitting out the world’s most awkward phrase. “What’s to tell, man? I’ve got this—curse or whatever, and it’s makin’ me crazy. Crazier. I wanted… God, I wanted to grab that thing and run so bad.”
Cas touches the crook of Dean’s elbow and the Mark flares, simmering angrily. Now Dean feels Cas’ grace—hears it, actually, a low hum like a steady patter of raindrops on a tin roof. “You didn’t,” Cas says. He’s always so, so fucking earnest. Always when Dean needs it and hates it the most. “You’re brave and strong, Dean.”
“Hey.” Dean snorts out another laugh, but the clatter as he drops the gun belies his nonchalance. “You don’t gotta hand out participation trophies for the ‘not going berserk and killing your friends and family’ Olympics.”
Cas looks on the verge of rolling his eyes. “This is hard, Dean. I know.” His expression goes more pointed for a second, which. Oh, okay.
“You can, uh…” Dean doesn’t even wanna say it, so he just spreads the fingers of his right hand. They’re sore and stiff like he’s been clutching something too hard for too long.
“I could before,” Cas allows, “but not like this. There’s nothing like having my own grace.”
“Well, uh.” It’s weirdly hard not to reach for Cas in return. “Congrats, then. Mazel tov and stuff.”
Cas chuckles lowly and spreads two of his fingers against the swell of Dean’s forearm. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through,” he says, “but I can sense your soul again.” His voice dips on that word, again, rough and tight. “I see how hard you’re fighting.”
The Mark sparks afresh, but Dean ignores it. “Least I can do,” he says grudgingly.
“Look.” Cas takes a half-step back, cocking his head and spreading his hands. “Now that I’m—juiced up again, do you need… a punching bag, I suppose? Would that help?”
Yes, the Mark hisses, so loud and clear Dean almost jumps and looks for the person whispering in his ear. Yes, yes.
Something static and wrong curdles the marrow of Dean’s bones. He licks his lips and tries to look away from the brightness of Cas’ eyes. Cas is calm, waiting for an answer.
“Are you really—” Dean shuts his eyes, sifting through all the noise in his head for the buzz of Cas’ grace again. Yeah, it’s there, but it’s shaky, coming in and out like they’re going into a tunnel and the signal’s weak. “You don’t feel so good, pal.”
Cas actually looks surprised. He glances down at himself and then back to Dean. “It’ll restore itself,” he says, but he doesn’t sound sure. “I’m stronger than I was. That’s the point.”
“Fuck off, Cas,” Dean spits, startling himself with his own vehemence. “I don’t want—I’m not gonna hurt you. You really think I could do that?” The thing is, he thinks he could. But fuck if he wants to find out, and fuck Cas for his casual willingness to let him.
Easily, like that, Cas goes soft and shifts close again. Dean’s too aware of the sweat drying under his armpits and the harsh lighting down here. He probably looks like crap.
“I think—” Cas considers. He’s beautiful, Dean notices with another flash of irritation. Asshole. “I think both of us are capable of hurting each other. But I’m not sure that’s what matters.”
“Cas,” Dean protests.
Cas offers up a fresh smile, private, just for Dean. He touches his palm to Dean’s cheek, slides the pad of his thumb against the angle of Dean’s jaw. “Your soul is pure and lovely, Dean Winchester. Just as ever. You’ll beat this.”
Dean kisses him so hard, so suddenly, that their teeth clack together and their foreheads knock painfully. It draws a startled yelp out of Cas, who shoots him an accusing look.
“What did you do that for?”
“I.” Dean almost swallows his tongue. He’s enthralled with the barely-there flush rising high in Cas’ cheekbones. “I really, really wanted to. Gotta carpe that diem, right?”
Mercifully, Cas doesn’t argue or tell him that he has many years of domestic whatever-the-fuck ahead of him. He just holds Dean’s face in both his big, gorgeous hands and kisses him. The way people do when they mean it, this time. Careful, mouths moving slow against each other.
Cas’ grace hums in the background of Dean’s awareness. Steady, for now, and soothing. It drowns out the blood and the terror until morning comes.