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Dean falls asleep with his mind circling around the First Blade like muddy water around a drain. It’s pointless, doesn’t lead anywhere but frustration and an incurable itch under his palms, but he can’t tear his head away from the way it felt in his hands.
He wants it. Like wanting a drink but worse. Even more bright and visceral, that voice at the base of his skull that tells him to go get it, to threaten Cas into giving up the location.
His dreams are all blood, smeared crimson across the walls. Cas’ eyes wide, Sam’s throat slashed. Cas’ wings burned into the floor of the bunker dungeon.
“Dean—”
Dean’s mouth is dry, his heart is in his throat; he jolts upright and stares. But you’re dead, he almost tells Cas. I killed you.
Right, yeah. That was a dream. Cas looks tired, a few stray curls of dark hair escaping onto his forehead and temples—but he’s alive.
“Dean,” he says again. Slower, taking one step closer to the bed, like he’s afraid of what Dean’ll do.
Well, hey, Dean doesn’t blame him. He rakes his hands through his hair and musters up a smile. “What’s up, Cas?”
Cas hesitates, which is pretty much as good as an answer.
“I’m good,” Dean says. “Not flipping out right now.”
Cas narrows his eyes and sits at the edge of the bed. Exactly close enough for Dean to feel the heat of him, the mattress dipping under his weight. More than it used to, he thinks, like the approach of humanity is actually making Cas heavier.
The question beats at the back of Dean’s throat, way too close to clawing its way out of him. He swallows hard and doesn’t ask it, doesn’t fucking ask it. Where is it? Where did you put it? How soon can I get it back? Where the fuck is it?
Cas touches his cheek, two dry and cool fingertips that sting a little against his wounds, which is when Dean realizes his eyes are closed. “I, uh.” He swallows thickly.
“I can’t tell you where the Blade is is,” Cas says, sounding like he really is sorry. “Would you let me tell you about somewhere it’s not?”
Dean stares stupidly.
“I’ve only seen it once.” Cas’ voice twists with something rueful or maybe wistful. “They call it the peacock room now. It’s been in Tuscany since the early seventh century, and it’s beautiful.” The words turn into a quiet rumble that wraps around Dean’s spine and sidles into his veins. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many colors in one place, not even in Heaven during the best of times. Every inch, every doorway. You would like it.”
Dean slumps back into the sheets and lets Cas’ voice, all golden and sweet with nostalgic fondness, push him back over the edge into sleep. It’s easier this time, and he doesn’t dream.
Sam makes him bacon and eggs the next morning. Dean keeps wanting to get up, help him find the spatula or take out the trash or something, but Sam won’t let up eyeing him, pinning him in his seat with that damn kicked puppy expression he gets.
So Dean shovels the food into his mouth. It mostly tastes like ash. Not Sam’s fault; it’s hard to taste the subtleties of regular human food when the only taste you’re really craving is blood.
“Good morning, Dean.” Cas says it like he didn’t practically rock Dean to sleep the night before, slides into his chair with his hair mussed and his sleeves rolled up.
“Hey.” It’s about all he can get out without wanting to break. He could do it, too. He could lunge across the table and squeeze his hands around Cas’ throat and beg like a dog for the Blade’s location.
Cas’ eyebrows quirk up, his mouth pink against the coffee-stained edge of his mug. “You know,” he says, low and conversational and exactly quiet enough that Sam won’t hear over the bustling clatter of washing dishes, “where else I didn’t put it?”
Okay. Okay, this is a game. Dean can do games. He and Sam played a million stupid car games on long trips in the back of the Impala.
“Shoot,” he says.
Cas’ throat moves as he swallows his coffee. He sets the mug down, laces his fingers together, and pins Dean with a look. “It’s called Lac Rose,” he says, “or Lake Retba. The pink lake. There’s a kind of algae that turns it—well, actually, during the right season, from the right angle, it looks like Pepto-Bismol.”
“Dude.” Dean pushes down a laugh.
“I didn’t hide the Blade there.” Cas smiles, so quick Dean’s not sure he didn’t imagine it. “But I’d like to take you there one day anyway. If—well.”
If Cas doesn’t burn out; if Dean doesn’t lose his shit and kill them all; if a million things. Dean tosses him an answering smile anyway. “Sounds gross and awesome.”
“What sounds gross and awesome?” Sam squints at them from the kitchen sink.
“Oh, just your face,” Dean tells him.
Cas rolls his eyes, so Dean counts that as a win.
Good as his word, Dean goes back to bed. Everything hurts, the kind of ache so deep he can’t figure out if it’s physical, mental, emotional, or all three.
In his dreams, he kills Cain again and again, but better. More thorough. Grinding his skull into dust, popping his eyeballs out with his thumbs, until he’s so completely destroyed that the Mark slithers its way off Dean’s arm in defeat.
It’s still there when he wakes up, the burning throb getting too familiar for his liking.
“Hey.” The low rasp clues him in; he must’ve woken up at the shifting of sheets when Cas sat again. Dean scrubs his face with both hands, wondering how many flavors of shit warmed over he looks like.
“I said four days, right? Still not good enough to murder and sleep at the same time.”
“I doubt you’re going to sleep for four days, uninterrupted,” Cas says. He pushes a box of Band-Aids and a tube of Neosporin across the blankets toward Dean. “And you’re hurt.”
“Gee, thanks.” Dean takes them for lack of anything better to do. He squeezes some of the Neosporin onto his knuckles, rubbing it in with his thumbs while Cas’ gaze prickles at his neck and shoulders.
Cas shouldn’t be bringing him this stuff like he’s a kindergartener; Cas should be doing whatever it takes to patch himself up. The grace equivalent of Band-Aids. It kinda pisses Dean off that he can’t help Cas out in exchange.
He slaps a Band-Aid across his temple just to see Cas’ expression soften.
“See,” Dean drawls, “all better. I’m good. And I’m tired.”
He’s not—Cas’ presence makes him edgy now, so painfully aware that Cas knows. Cas knows where the Blade is. Cas could give it to him and stop this pounding need that’s robbing Dean of all his control, his own fucking sanity.
Cas tugs himself closer and sets a hand at Dean’s shoulder. “It’s not in Ukraine, either. There’s a tunnel there, near Kleven. They call it the tunnel of love.”
Dean mentally awards himself some points for only snickering instead of making a filthy joke.
When Dean sinks back into bed, Cas follows him. On top of the covers, not touching, but there. The shape of him mirroring the shape of Dean, and he keeps talking, about trains and lovers’ promises and so much greenery that your eyes wouldn’t even believe it, and the Blade’s not there, the Blade’s not there so who gives a fuck—
“It’s the—well,” Cas amends, his tone going more thoughtful, “it’s one of the greenest things I’ve seen in my existence.”
Dean suddenly gives a fuck. His breath catches and holds, his lungs expand, and everything’s quiet long enough for his exhaustion to pull him back under.
Oh, fuck. That’s Dean’s first thought as consciousness yanks him back to the surface.
It makes sense the second he realizes what an embarrassingly massive erection he’s sporting. It’s straining at his jeans, aching and distracting and Jesus, there’s Cas’ breath hot at the back of his neck and his whole damn existence thrums with fierce desire. For blood, for sex, for everything there is in the world that feels good and uncomplicated.
Dean stirs, tentative. Is Cas actually asleep? Is he that close to human again?
Cas makes an incoherent noise and tightens the arm that’s slung around Dean’s waist. God, his hand is big and it feels huge spread possessively against Dean’s belly.
“Cas,” Dean rasps.
“Mmm.” Cas’ forehead presses between Dean’s shoulder blades. His hair tickles Dean’s neck.
“Dude.” Dean’s clinging as hard as he can to decency here, much as he wants to grab Cas’ wrist and move his hand down and make all his half-formed fantasies come true.
“I’m awake,” Cas says, petulant even though Dean didn’t accuse him of anything. “I’m just…”
The old Cas didn’t trail off like that. But the old Cas didn’t rub his stubbly cheek against Dean’s T-shirt, or spoon Dean in his sleep, or fall asleep at all.
They need something between them. Sam’s presence or an emergency or a case; without those paper-thin barriers, they end up like this, tangled together and turned on and without an excuse. Dean’s heart thumps, his dick twitches against the zippered fly of his jeans, and he struggles to breathe.
“So, uh.” He licks his lips. “Where else? I mean—y’know. Where didn’t you put it?”
Cas takes a second to respond. Gathering his thoughts for an answer or deciding if Dean is even worthy of an answer, Dean doesn’t know. “Cambodia,” he says right as Dean’s gearing up to panic. “It’s not at Angkor Wat.”
“Angkor what?”
The way Dean can feel Cas’ smile against his shoulder almost tips him into fresh humiliation, but then Cas is talking. Largest religious monument in the world, incredibly beautiful, overgrown ruins, trees, the whole nine yards. Dean listens, and his blood cools for now, and eventually they extricate themselves and the world doesn’t end.
Dean should’ve known better. He did know better. Sam gave him the doubtful eyebrows, and Cas made the worried face at him, but the articles said exsanguinated and killer on the loose? and he was exactly as desperate for something like normalcy as he was desperate for the satisfaction of killing something he knew deserved it.
His hands are soaked in blood. Yeah, yeah, he washed them, but it’s there, caked under his fingernails, dried into the creases of his palms.
They deserved it, sure. Piece of shit warlocks taking more than their share of human blood, they deserved it—they deserved to go down. Someone had to stop them. But maybe someone didn’t need to grind their jaws into the dust under the heel of his boot, didn’t need to claw at their already-bloody throats with his nails. Jesus Christ, and he doesn’t even have the Blade.
Doesn’t stop him from wanting it still. Dean’s locked his door, torn his shirt and jeans off; maybe he’ll burn them to get all the traces of blood out. It’s a waste when they’re down to two credit cards, but he can’t stand the idea of hanging onto them.
There’s a knock, and Dean catches himself just before he hisses at it.
“Busy,” he says instead, gruff and to the point.
Cas’ tidy little sigh makes it through the door. “Dean.” A click, and the door opens; damn cheating angel, using his dwindling grace for stuff that doesn’t matter. Cas hovers there, barefoot and in his button-down, the corners of his mouth drawn down in a mask of apprehension. “Let me in.”
Dean grunts. “Whatever.” He’s practically naked and there’s blood in his hair. His own tongue tastes like iron and burning things.
The door closes behind Cas. He strides right toward Dean, implacable and purposeful, and puts both hands on Dean’s shoulders. His eyes close, heat sparks in Dean’s stomach, and—
“Oh, come on, man,” Dean says. “You shouldn’t be using that up on this.” The blood is gone. He can tell by the lack of itch near his scalp, the scrubbed-clean feel of his hands.
Cas raises an eyebrow. “This grace was dishonestly gotten, but it’s mine now. I can use it however I want.”
Dean steps away, letting Cas’ hands slide off their perches on his shoulders. “Fine. Whatever. Thanks.”
Undeterred, Cas grips his elbows again, his left hand so close to the Mark that it kinda makes Dean want to smack him away. He doesn’t, just lets his breath out through his teeth and doesn’t fight as Cas steers him gently to sit at the edge of the bed.
“Don’t you have some angels to be rounding up?”
Cas doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He crosses his legs, one foot tucked neatly under his thigh, and holds out both his hands, palms up.
“You know,” he says, cocking his head to the side like he’s prompting something from Dean, “it’s not in Liechtenstein, either. Or the Sani Pass in South Africa.”
“Okay,” Dean says slowly. Something tangled and ugly in his chest perks up, like it’s thrilled just by a passing mention of the First Blade. “So?”
Cas pushes his hands closer, and Dean feels like an idiot, but he sets his hands on top of Cas’. Same position, palms toward the ceiling, and Cas rewards him with a smile, short-lived and warm.
“So there are literally billions of places that the Blade isn’t.” He curls his thumbs over Dean’s hands, pressed to the meat of his palms. “Haleakalā on the island of Maui. Kobe, Japan. Christiania, Denmark. The one I care about is this. Here.”
Dean snorts, shifting uneasily. “Just say what you mean, buddy.”
“Your hands, Dean.” Cas looks up. His gaze is all sharpness, angel-blade steel. “They were meant to hold the tools of your trades—that gun you’re so fond of, the pocket knives you use to whittle stakes, wooden stirring spoons, garden rakes, all of it. Anything you want. But not that—that thing. That thing is an abomination, and you’re too good for it.”
Dean’s next laugh doesn’t really make it out. It’s some shaky ghost of a chuckle, his fingers fluttering nervously in Cas’ grasp.
“If I have my way,” Cas continues, steady and intent, “these hands will never hold that atrocity again.”
Maybe Dean’s losing his mind. Maybe the Mark’s making him reckless. He flips his hands, presses their palms together, and folds his fingers around Cas’ wrists. “What about these?”
Cas blinks at him. “Dean?”
Dean comes close to smirking. “You were waxing all poetic about the things I’m meant to hold. What about these?” He squeezes Cas’ wrists and strokes Cas’ pulse with his thumbs.
“Oh,” Cas says, breathless and, apparently, thrown off-balance this time. His brows draw together, his mouth twisting into something that’d be a smile if he didn’t look like he might start getting weepy any second now. “Well. My opinion there is probably a little biased.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. He leans in; the Mark’s hot on his arm, but not as hot as Cas’ gaze on his bare chest, his mouth, his thighs. “Yeah, me too, man. I know we’re kind of fucked here, I just…”
“Yeah,” Cas echoes. “Me too.”
“Oh, fuck.” This time Dean gets to say it out loud. He gets to buck his hips into the solid warmth of Cas’ hand and relish the low rumble Cas makes into his ear.
It might be only the second time they’ve woken up like this, but it’s going a hell of a lot better than the first. Dean came to awareness with Cas dropping careful kisses to his back, all along the length of his spine, and then the hesitation, the are you sure before Cas slid his hand into the front of Dean’s boxers and cupped his dick and balls in one smooth motion.
“Cas,” he says, panting and reaching back. His hands feel empty, but this time, they’re not aching for the Blade—and this time, when they get what they want, the fingers of Cas’ free hand lacing themselves through his, it doesn’t feel like the first in a series of choices that’s eventually gonna kill him.
“I’m here,” Cas says. At least he doesn’t say for now, and Dean can hang onto the illusion that this is like a normal first time. The prelude to a dozen more, to lazy kisses and morning breath and figuring each other out.
“I’m here,” Cas says again, biting the word into the side of Dean’s neck like that’ll make it truer.
Dean moans, rolling his hips and then moaning again when he feels the hardness of Cas’ dick nestled into the cleft of his ass through his boxers. God, the things he wants. He wants to know what that would feel like inside him; wants to know what Cas would feel like on the inside; wants to swallow up every gorgeous noise Cas makes and hoard them in his memory so even when Cas—when Cas is—
“And,” Cas growls, “I’m not going anywhere, dammit.”
Dean’s spine pulls tight and his eyes roll back in his head and he comes, all that pleasure spreading along his limbs and drowning out everything except Cas’ teeth grazing his jaw, Cas’ lips brushing his earlobe.
“Jesus,” he mutters. He’s boneless and sticky, his hair’s a friggin’ wreck, and Cas is still kissing his shoulders, nose brushing his armpits, and he’s gotta smell pretty rank but Cas seems to like it.
“Good morning,” Cas says agreeably. Dean rolls over, his heart skittering at the sight of Cas all flushed and beautiful with a hand covered in Dean’s come.
“Had worse.” Dean curls in closer and works his hand into the front of Cas’ slacks, squeezing tight around the solidity of his erection.
Cas gasps and his eyelashes flutter and oh, fuck yeah.
Dean grins. “So would you say I’m meant to hold this too?”
Cas manages a strangled laugh. “We might need to perform some more tests on that theory.”
The Blade’s out there somewhere. Dean doesn’t forget that. He doesn’t think he could. It’s just that Cas is whimpering under his touch, his chest and throat gleaming with sweat, and this is the kind of power, the kind of rush and thrill in his veins, that he wants to feel for as long as the two of them can hold onto it.