Everything for Castiel
Part Two, sequel to 'Anything for Dean'
Rated M for sex, angst, wing-porn, language, more blind devotion and cliche.
When he woke up the next morning, Dean wanted to believe that everything he thought he'd done had been a bad dream. He wanted to bury his head in the sand, dig deep inside himself for confirmation, for affirmation that what he thought he'd witnessed – what he'd done – was just a horrible, horrible hallucination, or some sick joke, and he'd wake up without the scent of an Angel's blood in his nose, the taste of it on his tongue.
No such luck.
If the sound of a shower running – he knew Sam had gotten a second room – wasn't enough to clue him in, then his naked state and the scent of blood and sex in the room hit him with reality like a slap to the face, like a punch in the gut.
Castiel…you stupid son of a bitch…
Dean pushed himself up to a sitting position, ashamed that he was lying in a comfortable, clean bed, and there was still that giant bloodstain on the floor. It was almost in the shape of two outstretched wings. His eyes followed the red trail to the wall, where there were stains there as well from hands, back, head, body, all of blood, of Castiel's blood. And Dean wanted to vomit.
He didn't remember much of what had happened after…that. He remembered stroking Castiel's wings, the Angel making delicious little sounds in his ear as he stroked the fine downy feathers, whatever had remained untouched from his brutal assault. He remembered the feeling of Castiel shaking when he came, his body flushed, warm and sweating, and covered in his own blood. Dean could even remember the vague sensation of being carried, then set down.
On this bed.
He'd fucking fallen asleep and hadn't even tried to take care of his Angel!
With a snarl Dean tore himself away from the sheets, near-quivering with pent-up rage. One, two, three breaths forced him to calm down. After all, what had happened the last time he and Castiel had been alone, and he'd been angry as hell? Exactly, this.
In Hell he wouldn't have had to deal with the repercussions. On Earth he was accountable. He was guilty. He was…God, he was alone. Where was Cas?
The shower turned off, a low pained grunt sounding from behind the closed bathroom door. Within a second Dean was shoving it open, shocked into a standstill at the sight that greeted him. Castiel was naked, staring forlornly at the shower, his wings hanging bloody and half-severed to his sides as he leaned back against the granite sink. The great wings were shaking, blood still dripping from the tear Dean had inflicted. The first thing that struck Dean after he'd gotten over his shock was amazement that Castiel hadn't bled out. That would need to be taken care of.
The actual vessel looked no better – the bruises Dean had inflicted had deepened, darkened and covered way more of his body that the Hunter had thought last night; there was a large handprint shaped one on Cas' neck, almost around his throat. To match my own, a darker side of him thought. His hips were heavily bruised as were the insides of his thighs. Blood still dripped down them. The Angel hadn't even tried to clean himself up.
"Cas…" Dean's voice was hardly above a whisper, he couldn't force any air out. The Angel turned to look at him, eyes widening in shock as he took in Dean's tortured expression. Almost immediately he tried folding in his wings, tried to hide the sight of his injuries, but was unable to due to their extent.
"I'm sorry," he said, causing Dean's expression to turn from shocked and guilty to downright incredulous. He was apologizing? Why?
It was at that moment that Dean truly learned the meaning of self-hatred. It was suffocating him with its force. Before he could stop himself Dean was standing in front of the Angel, hands resting heavily on the other man's shoulders. He knew it must have been painful, especially with the near-desperate way his nails dug into flesh and he shook Castiel, trying to get his message across, but damn it he couldn't bring himself to care. He was near-crazed with his emotions, so much anger and doubt and self-loathing, it had Castiel dizzy with all the black swirling around in his Hunter's soul.
"Don't say that. Don't fucking say that, Cas," Dean growled through clenched teeth, on the verge of tears though he would never admit it. "Don't apologize for my own failure. I should have…" What? Stopped? Yes. Taken better care? Just sent you the fuck away so that I couldn't have done this to you? Never had Dean seen Cas take as much of a beating as the hunter himself had dealt, and that was only the physical pain he'd caused…
"Just…God, Cas…I'm so sorry. Let me take care of you," he said, close to begging when he moved his hands away. He didn't feel worthy to even breath the same air as the Angel, but that didn't stop him from meeting the bright blue eyes of his lover, his hatred deepening ever-further when he saw the pain masked there, and the forgiveness. Stop being so fucking forgiving!
Castiel was silent for a long moment, long enough for Dean to fear his rejection, but he needn't have. Even at his lowest, treated like a stray dog, beaten, bruised, Castiel's faith in Dean was unshaken. The Hunter was starting to think he could invite the Devil around for a tea party and the Angel would offer to take his coat.
"I tried to clean myself up, but the pressure of the shower was too high," the Angel said, his eyes flickering over Dean's shoulder to the dripping faucet, voice low and apologetic as though it was his fault he was still a broken mess. Dean nodded in understanding, rubbing a hand over his face as he sighed.
"Okay. Go to the other bed and sit down. I'll come in a minute to help clean you up, okay?" he said after a moment, opening his eyes again to look as Castiel. The Angel nodded, slight smile shadowing his face for a moment before he stepped forward, leaned up and captured Dean's lips in a smooth, chaste kiss. His hands scraped gently through the hair above Dean's ears, gripping the Hunter's head to prevent him pulling away, and as soon as Dean stopped fighting and gave in Castiel broke it, his smile widened.
"Alright, Dean. I'll be waiting," he said, and if Dean didn't know any better, he'd have said that Castiel flashed him the bedroom eyes, his voice lowering to the usual gruffness that Dean had come to realize the Angel adopted when he was 'In the mood'. Probably just a trick of the light. God knows Dean wouldn't even be able to touch the Angel in his current state. Let alone sleep with him.
God…unthinkable, to take advantage of Castiel when he's…
No. Just no.
Dean didn't let himself ponder; he wanted to take care of Castiel, because that's what he's always done. When Dean screws up, he prides himself on being able to clean up the mess. It makes him feel better. Whenever he messed up a hunt and his Dad had ended up getting hurt, Dean always patched him up and offered him a beer. Same with Sam. Same with Castiel; Dean would patch the Angel up and then take all the well-deserved abuse that he knew would never be thrown his way. The Angel was too fucking forgiving for that. He'd forgiven Dean last night – he said so himself. Weird, during the act Dean had felt lighter than he had in years, but now it seemed that all that loaned weight was coming down on him like a ton of bricks, crushing him into nothingness. He wasn't sure he would be able to deal with this devastating weight for very long.
How could the son of a bitch let me do that to him?
How could I do that to him?
Easy, he's broken. Dean is broken and he tries, he does try to fix himself, for Sam's sake, for his own sake, for the sake of the world, but everything's bearing down like a freight train and he can't stand it, can't handle it. Emotions run too high in a broken man, and he has to take it out on something. Every psycho-analyst will say humans need outlets for their emotions. Castiel had become Dean's, and when he didn't think about it, the Hunter had absolutely no problem with that.
There had been a time when Dean was proud, proud and arrogant and cocky. He'd thought to himself, 'These sons of bitches need me.' And in reality…the complete polar opposite. The Angels didn't need him, not really. Yes, they needed his skin, his body, but they didn't need him. In fact, he kept getting in the way.
Castiel needed him, needed a strong leader to look up to since his search for God kept failing. The Angel was losing faith, and in that process was placing his in Dean, replacing the Father with a lover. And the Hunter was alright with that because by God, it felt good to have control over someone who follows so willingly, to be able to give and receive whatever is asked without fear of being rejected, cast away. Dean was secure because Castiel had no choice. He was running out of the options, and he knew the only one that would forever be open was Dean, and Dean liked that. He relied on it.
The Hunter shook himself out of his thoughts, sighing heavily. It's thinking like that that gets you into places like this. For the first time, as Dean emptied the metal waste basket and began to fill it with lukewarm water, he noticed the thin trails of blood running down and along the granite surface, the white-painted cupboard doors, pooling on the floor in small puddles. The blood seemed to keep flowing though the source had moved, the puddle growing and growing until Dean felt he was standing in it, the red liquid rising up to cover his feet, to his knees, his hips. He was going to drown in it.
Alarmed at the growing wet patch seeping from underneath the closed bathroom door, Castiel pushed himself up on shaking legs, swung the door open. Dean stood staring blankly at the overflowing waste basket, his hand still on the sink faucet as the water, tainted with Castiel's blood, filled the sink and spilled over, wetting the floor and gathering in reddened pools around Dean. The Angel turned the water off, feeling how warm Dean's hand was with the near-scalding water, brought his lover's hand away to inspect, to see if Dean had done any damage to himself. Dark green eyes followed his movement, and with a blink Dean was back to himself, stiffening in Castiel's hold, reflexively curling his fingers to draw back, but a flash of the Angel's eyes and he stopped himself. Castiel's gentle touch covered Dean's hand, making sure he hadn't burned himself – it was superficial, nothing of note – before his bright gaze landed on the full metal bucket, head cocked in curiosity.
"What were you doing?" he asked, and his voice came out soft, muted, as though suddenly speaking too loudly would break this moment and shatter it, cutting the both of them. Dean's eyes flickered to the sink before he shrugged.
"You couldn't get in the shower," he said, as though that were explanation enough. Castiel didn't press; he merely squeezed Dean's hand before letting go, walking back into the bedroom with what could have been another look. Probably wishful thinking. Or paranoia.
Dean was certain of one thing – he had to get his Angel better. Castiel's back had turned, revealing the angry red lines down his back – burns from the carpet – and the half-torn wing, hanging limply by his right side, a hole showing bone where Dean had ripped through it. His other wing seemed a little off as well, probably sprained from the crushing weight it had had to endure, pinned under Castiel and Dean's body as they'd fucked. There was – in an even more distressing sight to Dean – dried blood on the inside of Castiel's thighs, around his hips and ass from where Dean had grabbed him and…
God. Dean wanted to vomit.
But he didn't. Instead he did what he always did – tried to clean up his mistakes as best he could and hope that he would come out the other end without completely severing his ties with Castiel. Not that he didn't deserve it.
Dean heaved the basket full of water out of the sink, carrying it over and setting it down with a wet slosh at one corner of the bed he hadn't slept in. The bloodstains were on the floor, huge and red and mocking him, and he did his best to ignore them as Castiel sat down at one end of the bed, watching him expectantly. Dean didn't miss the slight wince and stiffness of movement he had as the Angel tried to sit. Every time, the words 'Animal, bastard, monster' repeated loud and raucous in his head. And he'd called Sam the freak.
He folded a towel once, twice, soaking it in the lukewarm water with one hand. The water overflowed, spilling into yet another puddle on the carpet – Dean didn't care, it's not like they were going to stay there any longer than necessary. He stood, wringing the water out and gently pushed against Castiel's shoulder, coaxing him to lie back on the soft bed. Thinking better of it, he pulled on Castiel's arm again, turning him so that the Angel lay on his stomach, the least injured side of him. Dean's breath caught in his throat at what he saw; the bloodied wings, shaking and limp as Castiel stretched his only usable one off to one side. The long feathers extended over the other bed, covering it in black down almost completely. His other wing, his right wing, fell in a heap on his other side, off of the bed in a pile on the floor. His back was covered in angry red lines, the carpet burn and – now that Dean could see closer – a few scabs where he must have rubbed too hard, drawing blood. Castiel's legs spread slightly, giving the Hunter a view of his crimson-coated thighs, the blood flaking off, dry.
"How could you let me do that to you?" He hadn't meant to say it aloud. Dean hadn't even realized he'd spoken at all until he had knelt over Castiel's prone form, and the Angel tensed at his question. Castiel lifted his head, bright blue eyes finding and holding Dean's. The Hunter could swear he saw fury flash across them for a split second, righteous anger that reminded him forcefully of Castiel's true nature.
A breath later the anger was gone – he'd taken a calming breath before speaking; "You are my charge, Dean. I told you this yesterday. I would do anything for you, anything at all." His head dropped back down onto the pillows, as though lifting it for that short amount of time had drained his energy. Dean shook his head, more than a little pissed off at the blind devotion so obvious in the Angel's words. Ironic, most people would kill to have an Angel watching over him. Not Dean. Not now.
He took the soaked cloth and started with the parts of Castiel he assumed were the least injured. He wanted to clean the Angel's wings first, love them and bandage them up and apologize all the while, but God help him he couldn't bring himself to touch the glorious, unnatural things yet. The smaller feathers at the base of Castiel's less-injured wing brushed against his thigh and back as he ran the soaked towel up and down Castiel's legs, cleaning the blood away from his thighs and ass with gentle, sure strokes, then up around the Angel's hips. As the flaking blood cleared away Dean could better see the bruises his hands had left behind on his Angel's body, and every time he put even the slightest amount of pressure on the hand-prints Castiel flinched, his muscles tightening under Dean's touch before almost instantly Castiel relaxed, as though reacting at all was something he didn't want.
He didn't want to show Dean how much pain he was in.
The man can't even stand in the fucking shower. Of course he's in pain.
Castiel was shivering, his body temperature lowering almost dangerously as the water evaporated off of his skin, cooling him down rapidly. Dean quickly covered the naked Angel with the relatively – but now slightly damp – motel bed sheets, letting them settle around his lower back so that they didn't touch his wings. Every time Dean shifted on the bed Castiel tensed, and his eyes were wide, open and focused intently on Dean.
There it was. Castiel was bracing himself.
For round two between them.
Or round three.
Dean rewetted the towel, wringing it out into the basket again before he gently wiped down Castiel's back, unable to stop himself watching the play and twitch of muscles under his touches as Dean wiped away the rug-burns. Those worried him; the carpet was far from clean and while Cas may still technically be part Angel, if he hadn't healed himself yet then there must be some part of him that's prone to infection as well. Castiel's back felt hot under his hand, unnaturally so, and the burns, parts that had rubbed hard enough to be scabs, looked angry and red and swollen.
The Angel hissed, entire body tensing when Dean's fingers trailed up the centre of his spine, the wing that he could still move reflexively folding in, as though trying to protect himself. Castiel buried his face in his forearms, now the one unable to meet his lover's gaze, as he very slowly extended his wing out again.
This was so hard. He wanted to show that he trusted Dean, still loved him with everything he had – and more – but this human body was so full of pain and it felt so warm. Castiel was reminded pointedly of the siege his garrison undertook to rescue the Righteous Man…Dean, who was right beside him, and Castiel could practically feel the self-loathing and the anger like ice on his skin, and it made him shiver. But he was at a loss of what to do – he understood Dean's almost obsessive need to fix the things he had broken, but honestly it was only hurting, and hurting Castiel meant hurting Dean.
They could never win.
"This isn't right." Dean's voice carried through to Castiel, making him turn his head to gaze upon his Hunter. The beautiful aquamarine of Dean's soul swirled heavy around the centre, around his heart, where it shone a pure, painful white. The white of the Angels. Dean wouldn't meet his eyes, just kept cleaning around Castiel's wounds. At some point he'd grabbed a first aid kit and was rubbing some weird-smelling salve on the Angel's back, and it helped soothe the fire, making Castiel relax. "You shouldn't…God, Cas, you shouldn't let me do this to you. I don't care what was going through that head of yours; no one deserves this. Not for my sake."
"You really believe that, don't you?" Castiel asked before he could stop himself, and it was like his voice startled the Hunter; like he wasn't expecting a response. Dean's dark green eyes flashed over to his and they held. "Belief doesn't make something true, Dean, and neither does the lack of it. You never believed in Angels until you met me. You never believed in God until you were faced with proof. You are a doubting Thomas. What must I do to convince you, to prove that you're worthy?"
Dean's eyes darkened further. He looked almost like a demon again. "You shouldn't have to prove anything!" he snarled, moving further up the bed, careful to avoid Castiel's wing, and he sat on the edge, next to Castiel's head. The Angel followed Dean's movement with his eyes, either unable or unwilling to get his body to make the effort to move. "You shouldn't have to…I don't deserve it, and you can say what you want, but I know the truth, alright? I guess, in a way, I even deserve this, don't I? This…anger, this hatred towards myself, because sometimes, Cas, sometimes, when I look really hard…I can see you. Like, really see you. And then I look at what I've done to you and it breaks me." He smirked slightly, a harsh, bitter smile that didn't reach his eyes and Dean shook his head, combing a hand through the soft, fine hair above Castiel's ear. "You've waited long enough for your turn."
"I don't want to break you, Dean." The Hunter snorted at that. Castiel pushed himself so that he was resting on his elbows, ignoring the flare of pain along his back that the action brought. Reaching up one hand, his fingers found Dean's jaw, rough with morning stubble, and forced the Hunter to meet his eyes once again – would they ever finish this dance, this back and forth between them? By the Father, Castiel hoped so.
He didn't say anything, nor did he try and get Dean to speak; it was all there, in the Hunter's eyes. Laid bare and broken to Castiel's fading, all-seeing gaze; Dean was broken. So badly. It hurt to look at, to see, and the pain only sharpened with the knowledge that Castiel was at a loss of how to fix it. He couldn't help his own Charge, for goodness' sake! His own mate.
He had to be the strong one here. For both their sakes.
Dean watched his movements like a wary animal, shaking in the presence of something stronger, something higher up on the food chain. He was so close to completely shattering, Castiel could see that now, but there was nothing unsure about the meeting between their mouths, lips parting as they tasted each other, learned each other like they were doing this for the first time. Castiel's less-injured wing, out of reflex, curled around the Hunter in a gesture Castiel had been doing before Dean was even able to feel them, and the Hunter gently, hesitantly, coaxed a hand into the soft feathers. The Angel gave a soft mewl of encouragement against Dean's throat, his body shuddering with every caress, every touch to the sensitive, ethereal things.
It felt good, but this wasn't about sex. It was about strength and love, and giving that strength and love to someone else, who thought that they didn't deserve it.
Castiel straddled Dean's thighs, the Hunter shifting so that he was sat up against the headboard, in a position that was achingly familiar to the both of them. Unbidden, Dean's eyes strayed to the bloodstains on the wall, guilt flooding him but the Angel didn't let him linger long, distracting his mate with another kiss. Dean's hands flexed in Castiel's wing, still hesitant, still afraid, but the Angel was patient, whispering words no human had hope of hearing into his soul, trying to coax the beautiful, terrified thing to relax, come out and greet his Grace.
Castiel held Dean's soul as close as he could, as close as the physical barriers of skin and matter could bring them, his lips worshipping Dean's, his Hunter's neck, his jaw. He drew up his wings – both of them – as much as he could, the giant black appendages covering Dean as his Grace was. Castiel's hand sealed over Dean's shoulder and the Hunter arched, very suddenly, the aquamarine of his soul exploding in white. Castiel's other hand brushed through Dean's hair, his Grace enveloping that beautiful soul and whispering.
Dean opened his eyes, and he could see. Castiel, the pulsing light that always seemed to surround him, even when it was faded. His wings were made of pure Grace, broken and stained black from the blood, the sacrifice the Angel had given him. He knew Cas was trying some stupid Angel mojo on him, but since he was at a loss of what it was he was defenseless against it. Slowly, very slowly, he felt the guilt and fear being drawn away. He had no idea how Castiel was doing it, but he was very literally ridding the Hunter of his self-hatred, his anger. Dean wanted to be annoyed about that, wanted to be furious – Cas shouldn't be trying to fix him! – but with every negative emotion that was drawn into him it was drawn away, forced away from him by Castiel.
"What…are you doing?"
"'A man shall not be established by wickedness: but the root of the righteous shall not be moved'," Castiel murmured, planting another small kiss on Dean's mouth, silencing the Hunter's confused reply. He brushed his lips over Dean's furrowed brow, his hands moving to cup the Hunter's face. Dean shivered at the loss of Cas' hand. "You are a good man, Dean. I'm trying to convince your soul of the same thing."
"What -?" Dean was cut off once again by Castiel's lips, tongue demanding entrance and being granted it, the Hunter unable to resist the Angel's advances. Small tendrils of Grace spread through Dean's body from every point of contact, and it made Dean want more, to reach further inside of the Angel as though he could be forever wrapped up, encircled permanently in Castiel's fading Grace, to become one with his lover so completely, on a level no one can really understand.
A soft nirvana stole over him; Dean's entire body relaxed as one muscle, his head dropping forward to rest on Castiel's shoulder. The Angel didn't stop his ethereal contact, but his Grace practically glowed when Dean's soul uncurled itself, immersed itself in him and settled, a piece lingering inside Castiel as, months ago, the Angel had done, when he used part of his Grace to put the Righteous Man back together.
"I don't understand why you're doing this," he muttered, stubbornly refusing to let go of that self-loathing that seemed so integral to him, now. Still, he was pliant as Castiel pushed him onto his back on the bed, their eyes locked. Neither one of them dared to blink, for a fear of missing something on the other's face, or like a single break in this scene and it would shatter. Castiel's Grace kept soothing the quivering human soul, his more responsive wing tucking itself quite nicely into Dean's side as Castiel straddled the Hunter, sitting on his stomach. Dean was glad to see most of the stiffness his Angel had had was gone now; the pain was fading, or so he hoped.
Castiel sighed, his eyes dropping from Dean's finally as his hand pressed flat against Dean's chest, fingers splayed almost as far out as they could go. His fingertips felt cold against Dean's chest, making the human shiver even as his heart jumped in response to the Angel's touch.
"I was watching," Castiel began, dragging his palm flat downwards, feeling the jump and play of muscles underneath Dean's skin, and counting his ribs; "when you were talking to Karen Singer. She told you that when you love someone, your job is to bring them peace, and never pain. I love you, and I want to ease your pain any way I can." He began to slide down Dean's body, feeling his human begin to respond to his vessel's warmth, Grace still leaking through him at every point of contact.
Dean's hand wrapped around Castiel's shoulder, stopping the slow descent. The Hunter's jaw clenched when, for a moment, the Angel didn't seem to notice he was being told to stop, and exhaled gently onto Dean's bare skin, right above the waistband of his pants. Dean growled and pulled, just slightly, using the leverage to force himself to a sitting position again. Castiel moved with him, so they were kneeling and facing each other.
"I've brought you pain." There was agony in Dean's eyes, in his voice, and Castiel just smiled and leaned forward. A hand around the back of Dean's neck prevented him from pulling away as, very deliberately; he kissed his Charge and met no resistance when his tongue invaded Dean's mouth. The kiss was slow, lazy almost as he caressed the roof of Dean's mouth with his tongue, learning and relearning the taste of his Hunter, as though it changed every time. A tilt of his head and Dean began to respond, pushing back, but the attempt was only halfhearted and Castiel took dominance easily. His hands moved to Dean's chest and he pushed back, following the Hunter down until his body covered Dean's, his wings splayed out to either side. Castiel could feel his Grace and Dean's soul mimic the actions of their mouths, pushing against each other, trying to crawl deeper, deeper, and never separate again. The beautiful, shining thing spread out, molded itself to fit perfectly against Castiel…
…And something happened, then. There are no real words in English to describe it.
Dean and Castiel…sort of…joined. They became so close, fit so perfectly together that something clicked and Castiel was filled with light. He gasped into the kiss, his earthly vessel seemingly overwhelmed with the sudden ethereal energy. White went off behind his eyes and he kissed Dean hard, needing to let this energy out somehow, by any means necessary. The white light was pushing outwards from his body and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, Castiel feared his true form would burn right through his vessel and harm Dean. But then the light focused, refined itself and zeroed in on his shoulders, around his spine and down from there, to the sides where his wings lay next to him. He opened his eyes, wanting to see what was happening to him, the energy so bright and fierce that it almost burned, and looked to see his wings…glowing…healing. Dean's soul was pushing at him as hard as it could, giving energy to his depleting Grace and healing his wings, as though it were determined to pay for the sins of its body.
Castiel was taking too much. He knew that. The glow of Dean's soul was getting weaker, darker, more a smoky grey now than a blinding white, and Castiel knew he should stop, should break this connection somehow. But Father help him, he couldn't. He didn't realize he'd been crying until Dean broke their kiss, desperate for air, and he felt wetness on his cheeks and jaw. Dean's hands had moved, were surrounding his waist just below his wings, and keeping the Angel in place.
On its own Dean's soul withdrew, tired but pulsing with happiness. Castiel's Grace soothed the thing, feeling it warm and brighten again under his caress. He was still shuddering with the force of what had just happened, amazement and awe surrounding him as he finally, finally, met Dean's eyes. The Hunter's were wide and dark with surprise, with lust. Dean felt like he was suffering from a fever, his body was burning hot under Castiel's hands. Cautiously the Angel tried to shift, to try and get feeling back into his limbs, and stopped when he realized why he was still trembling; Dean's hands were in his wings, right at the base where they met his body, his touch hot and almost harsh and so good.
Castiel bit his lip, trying to fight against the sensations of his body, and he tried to push himself away, to get air between them when it was suddenly too hot, but Dean dragged his fingernails along the base of Castiel's wings, nails digging in with blunt almost-pain and the Angel was lost. He cried out as his pleasure consumed him, burying his face into Dean's neck and losing himself in the scent and racing pulse of his lover.
When he came back to himself he felt warm, liquid almost. Loose and loved with Dean's hands still stroking through his hair and wings, the Hunter trying to calm his own breathing down. Castiel shifted a little and found that he'd actually come already, just from stroking Castiel's wings and melding his soul with Castiel's Grace.
When the Angel sealed his hand over the burn on Dean's shoulder, the human shivered, lingering traces of doubt in his mind and soul. I've brought you pain. The Angel's wings shuddered at the raw agony in his Charge's voice; Castiel's own was lower than usual and gravel-rough when he spoke;
"If you could feel what I feel right now, feel yourself as I feel you…"
His Grace reached out to Dean's soul. The thing pulsed happily, pushed back into the contact, and Dean found himself smiling, though he had no idea why.
"You wouldn't be able to say that."
And Castiel kissed Dean again, and the rest of the morning was spent in confession, forgiveness and reconciliation.
Author's Note: So...yeah. This caused some tears to flow when it was read too. I count it as a second win. I've been working on this for two freaking months and I'm SO glad it's finished, even if it does end a little abruptly for my tastes. Sigh. I might fix it later. For now though I hope you enjoyed the angstiness and the Dean/Cas love. I know I did.
This was unbeta'd, kinda.