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The day had started with a weight that settled deep in Castiel's bones, a familiar heaviness that had nothing to do with his vessel and everything to do with the endless, grinding, and seriously fucked up exhaustion of existence. He'd woken to the sound of the usual hum coming from the electrical room and Dean's warm arm draped across his chest. For a moment, he considered simply staying there, burrowed beneath the covers until the world felt less sharp around the edges. It was already a miracle he'd woken up before Dean, or before 10 a.m. But Dean had already been stirring, pressing a sleepy kiss to his shoulder before shuffling off to the kitchen. That forced Castiel upright, because that was what one did. One got up and pretended to be alive enough to participate in the act of existing.
Except today, his grace felt like molasses. His limbs were leaden, his thoughts slow and syrupy, and very small task seemed to require an impossible amount of effort. No wonder he'd actually fallen asleep and slept through the night considering he didn't really need to do that anymore.
He'd been on his way back from a solo supply run (Dean had asked him to pick up more of that terrible gas station coffee he liked) when the attack came. Three very young and very eager kidnappers, their eyes gleaming with the particular arrogance of demons who had never faced anything truly formidable. They'd cornered him in an alley, rough hands grabbing at his coat, a blade pressed to his throat.
And Castiel, for the first time in a long while, simply couldn't be bothered.
He could've smote Tham with a thought. Could have vanished before their clumsy fingers even touched him. Instead, he'd let out a long, slow breath and allowed himself to be shoved into the back of a waiting van, his wrists bound with rough rope that chafed his skin. One of them had tied a strip of cloth around his mouth (he just hoped it was clean) and Castiel had stared at the fabric with something approaching amusement. It had been the first time he been treated in such a flimsy manner. He could disintegrate the cloth with a blink. he could tear it apart with his teeth. He could, quite literally, do anything other than what he was doing, which was nothing.
It's fine, he thought, as the van rattled over potholes and the demons argued about the best route back to their hideout. Dean will notice I'm gone. Sooner or later.
For the sake of the demons, it better be later.
The thought was comforting and Castiel let himself sink into it, closing his eyes as the motion of the van lulled him toward something that felt almost like sleep.
The hideout turned out to be an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, all rusted metal and dripping pipes, and the three demons who had taken him were clearly thrilled with themselves. They'd shoved him into a chair, bound his ankles to the legs, and stood back to admire their handiwork with the sort of pride usually reserved for children presenting a macaroni sculpture.
How cute.
"So," the first one said, a wiry demon with a nervous twitch in his left eye, "you're the angle, huh? The Winchester's pet?"
Castiel blinked at him slowly. The gag was still in place, which meant he couldn't respond even if he wanted to, but he found he didn't particularly mind. They weren't very good at this whole interrogating thing. He tilted his head, studying the demon's true form. Unimpressive, truly. That must be a new record, considering Castiel's long, long existence.
"I heard he's powerful," the second demon said, a hulking brute with more muscle than sense. "Like, really powerful. Think we should've used more chains?"
"He doesn't look so tough," the third one sneered. She was the smallest of the group, with a sharp face and sharper eyes, and she seemed to be then in charge. "Loot at him. Just sitting there. Probably scared out of his mind."
Castiel let out a soft huff of breath through his nose. Scared. That was certainly a word of it. Tired was another. Bored was rapidly becoming the most accurate.
"Okay," the leader said, clapping her hands together. "Here's the plan. We send a message to the Winchesters. Tell them we've got their angel, and if they want him back, they're gonna pay. Big time."
This had to be a joke.
"And if they don't?" the twitchy one asked.
The leader's smile was sharp. "Then we've got ourselves an angel to play with."
Castiel's eyes drifted shut. He could barely feel the ropes digging into his wrists, the rough wood of the chair pressing against his back, and none of it mattered. He thought of Dean and the way his husband's brow furrowed when he was worried, the way his voice dropped into something low and menacing when he was angry (he'd talked to Dean about his probable issues controlling his anger but to Dean therapy was just another scam to get his money). He thought of the way Dean's hands felt on his face, cradling him like something precious, and he let the memory settle over him like a blanket.
He'll come, Castiel thought. He always comes.
That might've been the only thought that kept Castiel from going insane from boredom. The demons spent the next hour (Jesus Christ, they had a lot of free time in their hands) trying to interrogate him, which was, Castiel reflected, one of the most tedious experiences of his eons of living. They asked him questions about Heaven, about the Winchesters, about the location of various artifacts and weapons; all things he could have answered in his sleep, if he'd been inclined to answer at all. Instead, he responded with vague hums and noncommittal shrugs, watching their frustration mount with each passing minute.
"Does he even understand us?" the brute demanded, throwing his hands up.
"He's an angel," the leader snapped. "Of course he understands us. He's just being difficult.'
Castiel raised an eyebrow. Difficult. He supposed that was fair. He'd been told more than once occasion that he had a talent for being infuriating. Dean has said it just last week, actually, after Castiel had spent an entire dinner asking increasingly specific questions about the integrity of pie crust. Dean had called him a menace, but he'd been trying too hard not to smile, and later, when they'd fallen into bed together, he'd called him other things too. Things that made Castiel's grace flutter warm and bright in his chest.
"Maybe we should take the gag off," the twitchy one suggested. "See what he has to say."
Castiel was surprised it had taken them that long to figure out that particular detail about interrogating someone.
The leader considered this, then shrugged. "Fine. But if he starts chanting in Enochian or something, put it back on."
She yanked the cloth down, and Castiel worked his jaw for a moment, tasting the stale air of the warehouse. The demons watch him expectantly, and he stared back, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable.
"Well?" the leader demanded. "Anything to say for yourself?"
Castiel considered the question.There were many things he could say, He could tell them that they had made a grave mistake. He could tell them that Dean Winchester was going to tear them apart piece by piece. He could tell them that he, personally, had killed creatures far more powerful than the three of the, combined before breakfast on multiple occasions.
Instead, he said, "You have a very poor sense of interior design."
The demons exchanged confused glances.
"What?" the twitchy one asked.
"The color scheme," Castiel said, nodding toward the rusted walls. "It's very... red. And brown. It's quite garish, actually. Have you considered adding some greenery? A fern, perhaps?"
The leader's face twisted in what only could be described as the moment before she starts stooping and hissing. "Are you—are you criticizing our hideout?"
"I'm offering constructive feedback," Castiel said mildly. "There's a difference."
The brute stepped forward, fists clenched. "I think he's messing with us."
"Oh, absolutely," Castiel agreed. "But that doesn't mean my feedback isn't valid."
It went on like that for some time. The demons asked questions; Castiel gave answers that were technically responsive but entirely useless. He could see the anger building in them, the way their patience frayed like old rope, and he found it strangely satisfying. It reminded him of the early days with Dean, when he'd been learning the nuances of human sarcasm and had accidentally become quite good at it, even if he still had trouble detecting it. Dean had called it his "secret weapon", and Castiel had never been sure whether that was a compliment or a complaint.
Rage bait, Dean called it. Castiel had learned the term from him, along with many others, memes, shitposts, the fine art of winding someone up just to watch them spin. It was, he had discovered, an excellent way to pass the time.
But these demons weren't nearly as entertaining as his husband. They didn't have Dean's quick wit or his harp tongue or the way his eyes flashed green when he was truly angry or turned on. They were just... loud and really super boring.
Castiel yawned.
"Did he just yawn?" the twitchy once demanded.
"I believe I did," Castiel said. "I apologize. It's not you. I'm just very tired and you guys aren't really the pinnacle of stimulation, so really, it is you. forget what I just said then."
"We are interrogating you!"
"Yes, I'm aware. You're doing a very thorough job." Castiel paused. "Well. Not very thorough. But you're trying, and that's what matters. Ever thought of a career switch? Just a suggestion.'
The leader's face had gone an interesting shade of purple. "That's it. I'm going to—"
The door to the warehouse creaked open, and all three demons froze.
The newcomer was older than the others. Castiel didn't even need to see his true form, he could tell by the way he moves, the weight of experience in his steps. His vessel had a weathered face and dark eyes that flickered black when he took in the scene before him, and there was something in his bearing that suggested he had been doing this for a very long time.
"What's going on here?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "I got a message about a capture. Something about an angel?"
"We did it!" the leader said, her earlier anger replaced by the unmistakable cover of pride. "We caught him all by ourselves! No help or back up, just us."
The older demon's eyebrows rose. "An angel. You caught an angel?"
"Not just any angel," the brute said, puffing out his chest." We caught the Winchester's angel. Castiel."
For a moment, the older demon didn't react. Then his gaze slid to Castiel, and something in his face shifted. The color drained from his cheeks, his eyes widening slightly, and Castiel watched with no small amount of satisfaction as recognition dawned.
Ah, he thought. There it is.
"You're sure," the older demon said, his voice suddenly very quiet. "You're sure this is Castiel? The angel who—"
"Who helped stop the Apocalypse," Castiel couldn't help but to toot his own horn. "Who killed Raphael. Who has, on multiple occasions, smitten entire garrisons of demons without breaking a sweat." He paused. "That Castiel, yes. But that was all a while ago. I've fallen and risen more times than I can count and my grace isn't what it used to be so don't worry... too much."
The older demon's jaw tightened. "And you just... grabbed him? Off the street?" He completely avoided Castiel'd gaze.
"He was in an alley," the twitchy one said, still sounding proud. "He didn't even fight back."
"He didn't—" The older demon closed his eyes, and Castiel could see his lips moving, forming words that looked very much like a prayer. Or possibly a curse. "You kidnapped Dean Winchester's angel."
"That's what we said," the leader said, frowning. "Why are you looking at us like that?"
The older demon opened his eyes, and there was something in them that looked very much like despair. "Because," he said, very slowly, very deliberately," Dean Winchester is going to kill us. All of us. And then he's going to bring us back and kill us again."
The three younger demons exchanged uncertain glances.
"But... we captured an angel,' the twitchy one said. "That's a good thing, right?'
The older demon stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned to Castiel, and his expression was almost pleading. "Is he coming?"
Castiel smiled.
"You guys called him yourselves. He's already here," he said.
The door might have as well imploded with the force of the kick.
Dean Winchester stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the gray afternoon light, and he was a vision of, in Castiel's very humble opinion, hot angry husband. His jaw was set, his eyes blazing that impossible green, and in his hands were the Colt (because it had somehow become a statement weapon to him) and a sawed-off shotgun that Castiel knew was loaded with salt roads and something considerably less pleasant.
"Cas," Dean said, his voice low and rough. "You okay?"
Castiel felt something warm bloom in his chest, something that had nothing. to do with his replenishing grace and everything to do with the man standing just a few meters from him. "I'm fine, Dean," he said. "I've been having a lovely conversation with our hosts."
Dean's eyes swept over him, checking for injuries or signs of distress or at the very least anything that would require immediate action. He found nothing but a tied up angel smiling at him as fresh as a cucumber. Honestly, this man keeps taking years from his life, but he did choose to marry him. Satisfied enough with Castiel's lack of panic, Dean turned his attention back to the demons.
"So," Dean said, his voice deceptively light, "I'm gonna give you one chance to explain yourselves. What exactly were you thinking, kidnapping someone's husband?"
The older demon stepped forward, hands raised and shaking slightly. "Look, we didn't—I didn't—this wasn't my idea. These idiots, they're new, they don't know—"
"They don't know what?" Dean asked. "That Cas is off-limits? That you don't touch what's mine?"
"I tried to tell them," the older demon said desperately. "I tried to—"
"You didn't try hard enough, clearly," Dean said, and then he moved.
Castiel got himself comfortable on his chair as he watched Dean working.
It was, he reflected, something of an art form. Dean fought with a brutal grace from years of being thrown into the lion's den, all efficiency and fury, and there was a beauty to it that Castiel had always admired. The way he moved, the way he anticipated his opponent's actions, the way he never wasted a single motion, and sure Castiel knew he was putting more of a performance in front of him (like a peacock trying to impress him), but it was still mesmerizing to watch. Could be just Castiel, though.
The three younger demon's fell quickly. They were inexperienced, overconfident, and Dean was neither of those things. He dispatched the brute with a single shot from the Colt, sent the twitchy one to the floor with a round of salt rock before pulling Ruby's knife from his belt and stabbing him, and cornered the leader against a wall.
"You guys were fooled big time by him. Be glad I'm the one killing you," Dean said, and then she was gone.
The older demon had been trying to escape, had made it halfway to a side for before Dean caught up with him. He turned, hands raised and pleading.
"I had nothing to do with this," he said. "You have to believe me. I would never—I know who you are. I know what you and the angel are capable of. I would never be that stupid."
Dean considered him for a moment. Then he shot him.
"I believe you," he said, staring over the slowly disintegrating body. "But you still should've stopped them."
The warehouse was quiet now, the only sound the distant drip of water and the soft crackle of dying grace. Dean crossed to Castiel, kneeling in front of him, and his hands were gentle as he worked the knots on the ropes.
"You could've gotten out of this yourself." Dean said, and there was a petulant edge to his voice that made Castiel's heart ache. "You're literally an angel. You could've just—" He made a vague gesture with his hand. "Poof. Gone."
Castiel flexed his wrists as the ropes fell away, more of a reflex than actual soreness, then reached up to pull the gag from around his neck. "I could have," he agreed.
"So why didn't you? You enjoy watching me lose my mind or something? What? This a new kink of yours? Cause we didn't discuss any of it, yet."
Castiel looked at his husband, tracing with his eyes the pout of his lips, the furrow between his brows the way his eyes were still bright with the adrenaline of the fight, and felt something in him soften.
"I was tired," he said. "And I knew you would come."
Dean's expression flickered and Castiel knew he was struggling between sighing and smiling. "Cas..."
"It's true." Castiel reached out, rapping his arms around Dean's neck, pulling him close. "I knew you would come for me. I always know." He paused, searching Dean's eyes. "I'm sorry I worried you."
Dean let out a long breath, sone of the tension draining from his shoulders. "You're a menace," he said.
"I know."
"I'm gonna have to start putting a bell on you."
"That seems excessive."
"Everything about you is excessive," Dean said, and then he was kissing I'm, slow and sweet, and Castiel melted into it.
When they finally pulled apart, Castiel was smiling. He couldn't help it. There was something about Dean, all rumpled and fierce and his, that made Castiel feel giddy and light, like he might float away if Dean wasn't holding onto him.
"We should go home," Castiel said.
"Yeah." Dean stood, then, without warning, bent down and scooped Castiel into his arms.
Castiel let out a startled sound, his arms instinctively wrapping around Dean's neck. "Dean—"
"Shut up," Dean said, but he was grinning. "You said you were tired. I'm carrying you."
"I can walk."
"I know you can. But I'm carrying you anyway." He adjusted his grip, cradling Castiel against his chest. "Besides, I know you like it, angel."
Castiel opened his mouth to protest, then thought better about it and closed it again. Dean was right. He did like it and he was done pretending he didn't. He liked the warmth of Dean' body, the strength in his arms, the way he held Castiel like he was something precious and Castiel wanted that more than anything. He would allow himself to want. Dean had promised him the day he put that ring on his finger, after all.
"I like it," he admitted.
Dean's grin widened. "Told you."
He carrie Castiel out of the warehouse, into the gray afternoon light, and Castiel let his head rest against Dean's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him. He smelled like leather and gunpowder and something underneath that was just Dean.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"For what?"
"For coming."
Dean was quiet for a moment. Then he pressed a kiss to Castiel's forehead.
"Always," he whispered. "You know that. Always."