Dean tightened his grip on the ladder legs. “Just finish putting up the damn picture so you can get down from there.”
“Your concern is endearing.”
Castiel fit the frame over the nail in the wall and descended the latter, turning in Dean’s arms and tilting his head to let Dean press a kiss to his cheek. “There. Is it centered?”
Destiel: "Cas, where are you?" Dean called across the
dingy warehouse. He cradled his bruised ribs as he staggered to his feet. It was dark in the building, air heavy with dust and gunpowder. The hunt had not gone exactly to plan, so to speak. The last thing Dean had seen was Castiel attempting to drag the crazed werewolf away just before it knocked Dean unconscious.
The back of his head throbbed; he was pretty sure he left a good chunk of himself back on on the pavement, but he was determined. “Cas!” He shouted again.
He waited for that familiar rustle of feathers or even for Castiel to stumble out from behind any stack of crates Dean dragged himself past. Frustration and fear burst hot behind Dean’s eyes as he walked. His brain was a slideshow of horror, Castiel dead or dying, bits of him between the werewolf’s teeth.
He saw a hunter’s funeral and Sam’s sad, round eyes. He saw his life without Castiel. He thought of never hearing Castiel speak again, or hearing his low, soothing voice.
“Cas!” He growled, sharp and short.
Castiel strode out from a nearby doorway, eyes wild, hair all disheveled and matted with blood. “Dean,” he breathed out in a rush of relief, hurrying to the hunter’s side.
“You look like shit,” Dean grunted. He was thrilled. Castiel’s hands on him felt like quench his thirst was desperately seeking. He clutched as Castiel’s sleeve as he felt the angel’s grace ease through his veins like liquid and knit his wounds. He patted Castiel’s shoulder gratefully.
“You look better, now,” Cas said in some strange affectation of a joke. He remained in Dean’s personal space and Dean didn’t usher him away.
“Where’s the dog?”
“Dead,” Castiel said simply. Taken care of, done.
Dean peered at him. “You’re covered in blood.” Castiel had the decency to look startled and embarrassed.
“I suppose I had other priorities,” he said sheepishly. “I had to find you.” As he ran his hand through his hair the blood and dirt vanished and it left him clean and unmarred. Dean felt the inexplicable urge to make his own mark.
He staved it off by bringing Cas in for a hug, something that started loose and friendly, but Dean clung maybe a little too tightly for a little too long. Castiel tentatively wrapped his arms around him, squeezing for just a moment. Dean heard him open his mouth as if he was going to ask something, say something, but snapped his jaw shut.
Gratitude flooded Dean’s senses and before he knew it, he was kissing his best friend and Cas somehow knew exactly how to kiss back through a grin.
"You don't love me anymore," Castiel says one day, as if it's not horrible.
As if the ground under Dean's feet doesn't lurch at the words.
As if the world doesn't tilt and Dean doesn't feel a jerk of pain in the pit of his stomach.
"What are you talking about?" Dean sputters and angrily throws his book down. Castiel is sitting cross-legged in the armchair, stroking a wide, flat palm down his cat's back. With a quiet trill, the animal kneads against the wool of his sweater.
Castiel shrugs. The movement looks practiced, stiff. "It's all right," he says, voice thick. "You loved me so fully and for so long."
"Of course I love you," Dean argues softly. "You're everything to me, Cas."
The smile on Castiel's face is wistful and sad. "I am very important to you," he agrees. "I've been your companion for many years. You rely on me as I rely on you. I am your family."
"Yeah!" Dean says vehemently.
"But you don't love me," Castiel finishes.
Dean's insides twist with the urge to protest. He feels hot behind his eyes, something like anger or guilt flaring up over every inch of his skin. When he looks at Castiel, he searches for those feelings that overwhelm him. The ones that make him want to touch every inch of Cas’ skin, make him want to bury himself in Castiel’s arms and breathe in whatever he can.
He looks at the curve of Castiel’s lips and feels no urge to kiss him. He looks at his fingers and doesn’t want to touch them. He thinks of the bed they will share that night, as they had for years, and no joy bubbles in his chest.
Dean stares at the carpet. “When did this happen?” His voice is hollow, gone.
The cat jumps from Castiel’s lap as he stands to kneel in front of where Dean is sitting on the couch. He takes Dean’s hands within his own and smiles at him. “It’s always a surprise,” he offers. “And I don’t blame you.”
“You can’t go,” Dean croaks. The fear within him is rearing its monstrous, enraged head. “You can’t fucking leave me, Cas. I need you.” His embarrassment is insurmountable.
Castiel just thumbs across his cheek, earnest and honest. “I have no intention of leaving,” he says, trying to hold Dean’s gaze. “I will take you however I can, Dean.”
Dean tears his hands away from Castiel’s and balls them into fists. “That’s not fair. Don’t say that to me.” But he knows the relief is written blatantly on his face, and he doesn’t bother to hide it.
The crinkles around Castiel’s eyes, the ones that show whenever he smiles, are smooth and nearly invisible. Dean used to press his mouth against them, to drag his fingers along Cas’ hips and make him laugh and squirm.
“Why not?” He asks, unsure of who he’s asking or why he’s asking. His desperation is palpable, pinpricks jabbing along his throat and face. “Why don’t I love you?”
Cas cards his fingers through Dean’s short hair. “I don’t know,” he says.
“I want to.”
The first time that Dean had pressed Castiel against the wall and slotted their hips and lips together, he’d known that was his last first kiss. He slid his tongue against Cas’ and knew this was all he wanted, knew he wouldn’t feel the urge to gather anyone else up in his arms with the same burning vehemence as he felt in that moment.
“I know,” Castiel says. “Dean, it wasn’t my intention to make you feel guilty. I just wanted you to be aware.”
Dean laughs, empty of emotion. “What, did you want me to thank you?”
Castiel just gives him a wry smile. “Of course not.”
“Thank you,” Dean murmurs. His eyes are hard on the floor and Castiel doesn’t try to break his stare. He does go up on his knees and kiss Dean, though, bracketing Dean’s face with his soft palms and breathing warmth against his cheek.
Dean clings to Castiel’s sweater and desperately tries to feel in love. When they part, Castiel smiles at him, and Dean knows that if he can’t love Cas, there’s no one left in Heaven or Hell or anywhere in between.
Castiel stands up gathers up the cat, saying something about carving out a new room in the bunker so that Dean can be alone. Dean nods and watches him go as he reaches up to tentatively press his fingers against his lips.
Dean knows, he knows, that he’ll never have a last kiss again.
Cas didn’t want to get another tattoo, not after what happened with April. But Dean wouldn’t have any of it, not after what happened with April. Cas didn’t even grit his teeth, but he did squeeze Dean’s hand as the needle moved up over his collarbone. It was for protection, Dean insisted, but Cas didn’t miss the way Dean’s eyes lingered on his upraised skin, trailing the sweep of the artist’s hand as he marked him up.
It healed fast because Castiel was suddenly an angel again, leaving sitting heavy and moot on his chest. But Dean’s nose skirting across it, appreciating the subtle curves and sweeps of the sigil, it was enough to convince Castiel that the tattoo should stay.
It was enough to convince him to sneak back to the parlor, middle of the night. He lay on his bare stomach while the artist drew long, broad feathers across his shoulder blades, arching them down over his ribs, tips just barely brushing the curve of his ass. The artist asked him if he was all right, but Castiel couldn’t feel the sting. All he could feel was Dean’s tongue lapping up the feathers, calloused fingertips dragging down his sensitive skin, breath wet and warm.
Dean took his time when he saw the wings, though, staring hungrily, scared to touch. When he finally did lay hand to skin, Cas closed his eyes, dropping his chin to his chest, and let himself feel human again.
