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Somewhere in middle Georgia—somewhere so off the main road that the last car Castiel saw was at least thirty minutes ago—Dean stops the Impala along the side of a streambed. Red clay paints her tires and the side walls, leaves the windshield with a sheen of dust. The engine ticks, not uncharacteristically, but Dean still claims, “She’s overheating,” and shutters the ignition.
With the heat of the mid-afternoon sun, though, Castiel is inclined to believe him. Dean waits a moment before cranking his window down; Castiel mirrors him, wincing at the sudden rush of warm, thick air that rushes into the air-conditioned interior. Outside, the distant wail of cicadas fills the air, rising from a dead silence to a cacophony of screeches, and then back down again. Chimney swifts flutter high above; thrashers and cardinals dart from tree to tree, their wingbeats stirring a forgotten longing in Castiel’s core. Water babbles on the rocks in the stream.
Stripping out of his flannel and tossing it into the backseat, Dean pops open the door. Castiel watches him for a moment before following suit, at the sudden exposure of his bare arms, his fleshy midsection when his shirt rises up as he moves. Sweat beads at Dean’s temple. Oddly and probably inhumanly, Castiel can already smell the musk wafting off him, from the heat of the day and a sudden pungent lust that leaves him winded.
Dean has an idea, or so Castiel suspects.
Whatever the reason, he elects to follow. Stepping out of the car, Castiel pulls his arms out of his coat sleeves, then his suit jacket. Not because he needs to, but sometimes, it makes Dean feel more comfortable, seeing him look more human. With the rising heat, a sudden warmth begins to filter through Castiel’s body, from his ankles to the tips of his ears. Moisture tickles the back of his nape; sweat threatens to spill down his back.
Maybe I’m more human than I figured, Castiel thinks, setting his clothes in his seat.
Dean leaves his door open while Castiel closes his, in the off chance that someone might deign to drive down a barren stretch of road that once connected farmhouses to the main road. Said farmhouses no longer exist, save for toppled chimneystacks and daffodils lining what used to be driveways. Rounding the front of the Impala, Castiel watches Dean descend the short embankment down to the river, his boots sliding through weeds and downed leaves from oaks and scrubs. Castiel follows him, a bit more gingerly, and steps foot onto the sandy bank, where a few feet ahead, water runs, looking infinitely cooler than the air surrounding them.
“Take your shoes off,” Dean suggests, falling to sit along the water’s edge. Nimble fingers unlace the strings tying his boots; Castiel watches him, transfixed on their dexterity, on the scars decorating his skin and the calluses on his fingertips, and wonders what they might feel like, if Dean dared to touch him. But those green eyes look up at him after a moment, his brow furrowed, the barest hint of a frown on his lips. “What?”
“Nothing.” Castiel sinks to his knees, then lowers himself into the sand to untie the laces of his boots. A pair that Dean bought him years ago, the leather scuffed from wear but still holding firm, the black now a darker shade of gray. Dean considers him for a moment before continuing with his mission, and slides his feet from his boots, setting them aside. Afterward, he peels off his socks and rolls the hems of his jeans up to his knees. He has nice ankles, Castiel considers, watching the way they flex as he treads into the water. The surface barely covers his mid-calf, but Castiel finds his envies the water more than he should.
Silence fills the air, occasionally broken by the cicada’s intermittent cry and the swish as Dean walks to the opposite side of the bank. Castiel sets his boots and socks next to Dean’s and rolls up the bottoms of his slacks, tucking them—hopefully—securely into place. After, he steps foot into the stream—after, a brilliant cold rushes through his system, abating the heat of the day in waves.
Apparently, Dean finds it amusing. “Good, right?” he asks, a smirk on his lips.
“Yes,” Castiel says, tamping down the pleasure in his voice. Still, Dean must notice, based on the light in his eyes. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in the water.”
“I bet,” Dean says. Something familiar crosses his face, like a memory, one Castiel can still recall vividly, all these years later. Rather than venture closer, though, Dean turns his back and treks a few steps to the other side of the bank, where vines swamp a thicket of brush and trees, their roots exposed in the embankment. Yellow trumpeted flowers decorate the appendages, their scent floral and intoxicating the closer he walks.
“Here.” Dean reaches into the mass of vines and pulls a few of the flowers free, his touch so ginger, like they might shatter in his palms. “Used to do this when I was a kid.”
To demonstrate, he takes one of the flowers and presses his thumb into the green stem at the bottom, severing it from the stalk. From it, he pulls the style from the flower to reveal a single drop of nectar. Before it can fall, he places the tip against his tongue with abject nostalgia in his eyes. Warmth builds in Castiel’s gut, spreading through his limbs. Not from the sun filtering through the canopy, or the humidity building in the air.
From lust, he realizes. But before he can act on it, Dean hands him a flower. “Try it,” he says, genuinely delighted. “C’mon. If you’re gonna stick around for good, might as well try to blend in.”
“I’m not sure how this helps me to blend in,” Castiel retorts, but does as Dean instructs anyway. Delicately, he cuts the stem with his thumb and slowly pulls the style from the stalk; the nectar drips onto his fingertip, thankfully not lost to the river. Curious, he brings it to his lips—and Dean’s eyes refuse to leave his as Castiel kisses the drop from his fingertip.
“See?” Dean croaks, then clears his throat. “Sweet, right?”
Castiel nods, considering. It tastes like honey, but sweeter, rawer, lingering on his tongue. Dean considers him appraisingly, then faces the vines again, rustling for more flowers. Together, they make their way through a handful, chasing barely enough nectar to slake their thirst, but it’s the camaraderie, the thought of sharing a moment with someone else. With Dean, and his attention to detail, his insistence on Castiel trying human things. Such mundane, trivial things like driving, or learning how to change the oil in a car—or drinking precious liquid from flowers, just because they can.
From one of the flowers, he gathers up a generous drop on his fingertip—and presents it to Dean’s lips. Dean hesitates for the barest of seconds, a scarlet heat painting his cheeks, but leans in, pressing his mouth against the digit. Soft, like the petals on honeysuckle, like velvet against his flesh. Emerald eyes latch onto his own, a question there, am I allowed this? Can I have this?
Castiel steps closer, tracing his fingertips across Dean’s cheek, the bolt of his jaw, the nape of his neck—and leans in, just to feel Dean sigh. With sticky fingers, Dean clings to him, breathes him in, their mouths so close that Castiel can almost taste the ardor on his breath. “Cas,” Dean whispers, and Castiel nods, an answer to the question Dean will never be able to bring himself to ask.
The moment Castiel leans in—the moment Dean meets him—Castiel remembers the sweetest ambrosia he ever tasted, and replaces that memory with this one, with nectar on Dean’s lips, his tongue, with the heat of the south bearing down. Dean grapples with his button-down, aching to find bare flesh; Castiel chases the honey in his mouth, meeting tongue for tongue, lips for lips. Dean moans, hands in Castiel’s hair—Castiel pushes, sending Dean into the soft thicket of vines, and sinks in after him.
Only, Dean refuses to stop laughing, ruining Castiel’s every chance of kissing him quiet. “I’m gonna get my ass wet if you keep shoving me around,” Dean snorts and kicks at the water between Castiel’s thighs. Briefly, Castiel looks down and—finally—notices just how close to the river they are, with Dean sitting on the only strip of land between the water and the embankment, and Castiel soaked up to his knees in the stream.
An idea crosses his mind, one Dean will probably not agree to, considering his stance on nudity and sand at the same time. Maybe later, though, if they can find a motel, or if Dean pulls over for the night and invites him into the backseat. For now, though, he leans in for another kiss, and thankfully, Dean quiets. “You’re lucky you’re a stickler for privacy,” Castiel says between breaths, “because I’d take you now if I could.”
Dean breaks into a laugh, his eyes wrinkling at the edges. Castiel kisses his crow’s feet, then his cheek—then smiles, Dean’s joy so incredibly infectious. “Told you, I’m not getting sand down there again. One time’s enough.”
“But you said it was romantic, to make love on the beach,” Castiel quips, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“One, I never said ‘make love.’ Two, yeah, before I realized that I’d have sand up my ass for a week.” Playful, he taps Castiel’s nose with a wet finger. “Besides, it’s…” He stops, struggling to come up with a single excuse. “Can we just… have this? With the…”
Oh. “Of course,” Castiel breathes, and Dean grins. If Dean loves anything more than sex, it’s closeness, the warmth of bodies close, of touching—and kissing, most of all. “Anything you want.”
“You still—you want this too, right?” Dean asks, quiet, still just as disbelieving as he was a year ago, when Castiel called him from a roadside phone and told him that he was alive. Like everything good in his life comes at a cost. Like after all this, Castiel might not want him.
Looking down at him, at Dean surrounded by honeysuckle and the green of the vines, the chill of the water, the warmth of the sun glancing off his sun-kissed skin, Castiel decides that he could never want anything more, for as long as he lives. “Of course,” he says, and seals it with a nectar-laden kiss. “I always will.”