Dean hid in the shadow of a tree, breathing through his mouth as the sentry passed the gate. He didn't know what his drug tolerance would be in five years, but it was a safe bet that the morphine he snaked from Cas' miniature pharmacy would keep his future self from alerting the camp to his absence, for a few hours at least.

A ribbon of sweat rolled down the side of his face. Though he doubted the Colt would reflect much light, he gripped it close inside his jacket, knowing his night vision would have nothing on the men who'd spent the last few years in a country darkness this city hadn't seen since the days of Prohibition. He had a good ten minutes before the guard rounded the corner to keep watch on the eastern gate entrance.

The morphine had been too easy to find. Sam had gone to great lengths to hide his addiction, tucked behind his mother's eyes and a grifter smile. Cas left his out on the table like a ketchup bottle.

He swallowed drily as the guard's footsteps faded, his shirt sticking to him in sweaty patches that let in the cold. His shoulders curled in, shivering, and more than anything he wished he weren't alone.

"Hello Dean."

He spun around, the gun pointing in the direction of the voice.

"You can't leave." said Cas, with a smile that radiated straight from his medicated little heart.

Dean looked around, straining to see the Cheshire figure in the dark, and mentally mapping how far the guard must have walked by now.

And like that, Cas was in front of him, the barrel pointed at his chest, the toes of his shoes pressing against Dean's.

"Cas," whispered Dean, "I have to go."

Cas didn't reply, his silence weighing on all the other silences of the forest like a lead ball on a sheet.

"I have a gun." Dean said weakly.

"Hold onto it if it makes you feel better." said Cas, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the tree so hard that something popped in his back.

The sides of their faces pressed together, a rush of smells, Cas's shirt mixed with crushed grass and old sweat. Cas exhaled against Dean's neck like warm fog on a window, and Dean leaned into it not meaning to. His pistol hand fell, keeping a tight grip while the rest of his body molded itself between the tree and his assailant.

A warm mouth found his neck, the teeth pressing without biting, feeling Dean's head swivel beneath their pressure. A hand came up and pressed his face against the tree, steadying it, studying the muscles with his mouth for a target.

Dean's eyes opened, fixed on the gate, scared as his breath clouded the winter air. What if the guard came back?

Cas noticed his distracted air, and grasped his jaw between his thumb and forefinger. Turning him forward, he kissed him, like a man dying of thirst, like a man who'd been robbed. Five years of women had been a poor substitute, he'd broken young girls like meringues.

Cas peeled off his shirt, his chest a pale after-image against the dark.

"Wait." said Dean.

He was answered with a slap, right below the ear, more an insult than to sting, and then his face was jammed against the tree bark. Cas got right up in face as if to confide something, so close that the heat radiated off him like a running engine. Dean fingered the trigger, wondering if this was how it would end for Cas.

But instead Cas released his grip, bending down to remove Dean's shoes and clothes with a mechanic professionalism of a librarian alphabetizing books. When he stood up straight, his eyes were bright and far away as pinprick stars, one hand feeling for the underside of a thigh to lift up.

He spit in his hand, and buried his face in Dean's neck as he entered, a hand clamped over Dean's mouth to keep him quiet. The tree bark bit into the small of his back, his one standing leg threatening to give out under the strain, the gun pointing to the ground despite his shaking hand.

He thought the pain would distract him, but feeling Cas there, as real and true as a bath of fire, he exhaled and the pain wilted, and he found he could take it. The tree branches shivered under their effort, leaves falling gently as rocket trails.

"Gun's gonna go off." said Dean.

Cas moved him to the ground, still training one hand on Dean's face to keep it turned away, to keep him looking away, the pad of his finger tracing a cheekbone as he had a hundred times in recent memory, before slamming into the man again. It didn't take long, Dean's chest rose and fell and shuddered, Cas's hand on his heart like a child comforting a dying animal.

Lying down next to him, waiting for his breathing to steady, Cas evaluated his handiwork. Dean looked up with a question on his face.

Cas hesitated, turning his face to the sky so filled with stars that it had more white than black. "You can't go tonight. I know what the plans are for tomorrow," he said, turning back toward Dean, "And I don't want to die alone."

Dean kept his eyes closed, Cas' voice resonating in his head as the little wound pulsed like a stop light. "You're not gonna die. I'm not gonna let that happen." he said as he began to drift to sleep.

Cas' hand reached for the Colt, which lay limp in Dean's hand, and stood up to report back to camp. "Liar."