#dirtybackroad

Castiel was still asleep, for all his posturing about early rising still remained a late sleeper, still needed to be woken up gently with a cup of coffee and a kiss, and jeez, when did Dean get so soft? He’d never seen  this  as his future, always pictured going out in peak condition, kicking and spitting and swinging till his last, but now he was cradling a mug painted by his kid and sitting on a porch he built himself. 

Sure, his kid was literally God , and the property they lived on was technically owned by the guy who used to live inside the vessel that his husband possesses, but still. Dean had gone soft.  

He wasn’t sure what to make of that, wasn’t sure if he should pass judgement or if that voice sounded too much like his father, but the thought barely had enough time to crease his brow before he heard the front door swing open.  

Dean turned his face to the sound and was rewarded with a soft press of lips to his forehead. Cas still carried the weight of sleep in his limbs as he nudged Dean over to join him on the porch swing. Without a word between them, Cas topped off Dean’s mug with some coffee from his own cup and wrapped his free arm around Dean’s shoulder. The sun hadn’t warmed the air around them yet, but the chill disappeared with the angel’s arrival.  

It was quiet like that for minutes; Dean wasn’t sure how many, as he sat in that feeling of soft warmth with Cas and watched the lake’s small tide and the waves it pulled across the sand.  

Dean didn’t mean to break that silence, but his words always ran on their own track. 

“Do you miss the old me?” Dean interrupted the blanket of peace for that? “I mean… Not when I was being a dick to you. But the old me. Y’know, big, strong hunter me? Not the hunting, sure,” Dean clarified, knowing where Castiel’s mind went.  

Cas relaxed minutely at the reassurance, and Dean leaned against his side, tucked himself right in underneath the ratted arm of his husband’s robe.  

Dean scrunched his face up a bit, sorting his thoughts into some semblance of communication. 

“Like, do you think I got… soft or whatever?”  Close enough,  Dean thought.

Castiel was thinking. He was quiet, and Dean couldn’t see his face, but he could feel the way the energy shifted, how everything seemed to go still as Castiel regarded him.  

When Cas spoke, he did so with careful calculation, like he was saying something that he knew to be absolute fact. He donated that same intensity to most things he said, but that didn’t change the way it still made butterflies twist and turn and tumble for space inside Dean’s stomach when the words were directed at him. 

“Dean, I most definitely think you have gotten soft, and I think that there isn’t a single soul on the planet who deserves that as much as you do.”

Cas turned to face Dean, setting down his mug and twisting his body towards the man he loved. One gentle hand reached up to cup Dean’s cheek, and Castiel stared the way he always did.

“I think that this world has not always been as kind as you deserve, and for a long time, you needed to be stronger than is ever fair to ask of someone. You weathered your way through every single storm the universe had to offer, and you did all of it for love, Dean. Not for vengeance, or for reward, or accolades, or for yourself, but you did it for the world. You didn’t wear down; you just… smoothed out. You could have let any single one of the battles you fought be the one that broke you, but you’re here.” 

Dean had come far, clearly, as he managed to hold the eye contact with Cas even as a tear slipped from his eye. Castiel brushed it away with his thumb, hand cradling Dean’s face.

“I think that soft is a wonderful thing to be,” Cas added, his voice lighter, his hand dropping from Dean’s cheek to steal his mug for a sip. Dean didn’t mention that Castiel’s own mug wasn’t even a foot away where he’d just set it down. Cas turned back to face the lake, kicking off the porch into a gentle swing with his arm snugly around Dean once again.  

Dean took a deep breath, the air off the lake fresh in his lungs. He took another peek at his husband, at the hand-painted mug he cupped in his gentle hands, and thought about the privilege it was to recognize their gentleness. He thought back to years of battles, of knives and swords and heaven and hell and electric blue light behind the eyes that Dean now gets to see bleary with sleep, and Dean smiled.

In such a small town, just a few blocks from home, Mary didn’t often see people she didn’t know, and she really didn’t see people like that.

Mary met Frances - properly met her - on the first day of their junior year.  Mary remembered thinking that the other girl could be mistaken for a boy if it weren’t for the way she smudged out her eyeliner and the deep red pigment she had imperfectly swiped over her lips.  

It was only a few weeks later that Mary found out Frances (or Frankie.  She prefers Frankie.) would have enjoyed that confusion.  

Mary didn’t want to like Frankie.  The girl made her uncomfortable, made her think too hard about her own girlhood, made her address parts of herself that she’d worked hard to shove away.  

Mary did like Frankie though; she liked how the girl wore chunky boots even though she was tall enough without the added height.  She liked how Frankie wore makeup like the other girls but didn’t wear it like the other girls.  

Being like the others - Mary wanted it and hated herself for wanting it.  But Frankie?  Frankie had fun, loving every moment on the fringe.  She said things Mary feared, and she said them with a smile.  

Frankie watched the boys and said things like, “dontcha ever wish you could be like them?” and Mary felt smoke filling her lungs and blotting out her response.  

They were watching football practice, but in a different way than the girls above them, the girls sitting on the bleachers and cheering when the boys finished a drill.  Mary and Frances were watching with a tint of green, green like bronze rusted.  The rosy-colored tinge they should be watching teenage boys with had patinaed into strange, unexamined jealousy.  

Mary didn’t like how it felt, the envy instead of lust, so she tore her gaze away from the quarterback and refocused on the other girl.  

They were watching football practice, but they were really watching each other, hiding under the bleachers and passing one of Frankie’s cigarettes back and forth, sharing the silence as much as the smoke.

Frankie caught Mary staring and pulled in a breath, pushing out hazy rings to rub in Mary’s interest.  Frankie liked being watched as much as Mary liked watching.  

Mary liked how it felt to get caught staring, feared how it felt to get caught staring.  She didn’t realize she was still staring as she contemplated the feeling.  

Frankie finished her cigarette and asked Mary if she’d finally take her shooting soon.  She had been promising for months, ever since Mary used her hunting-for-animals excuse after she showed up with a few noticeable scrapes from a job with her dad.  

Mary jumped on the distraction, glad her staring went unnoticed or at least untouched.  That weekend, they’d go that weekend, and Frankie said sure and that she’d come by in the morning.  

Mary had a hard time falling asleep that night.  Excitement or nerves or both or something else unexamined. 

Over breakfast that morning, over eggs and toast carefully prepared for Samuel by Deanna, Mary mentioned with her feet swinging underneath the table that she had a friend coming by.  

She ignored her parents’ exchanged looks, barely noticing them through her giddiness.  They asked her friend’s name.  She told them.  They must have thought that Mary’s got some lanky, awkward, pimply seventeen-year-old boy on his way to the house; they must have pictured how they’d scare the kid into treating Mary right.  The confusion made Mary giggle. 

She didn’t want to correct them.  Her parents expected Frankie to be some boy down the lane.  She didn’t correct them.  She thought it was funny, thought Frankie would think it was funny.  

When the doorbell rang an hour later, and Deanna went to answer it, it wasn’t so funny anymore.  Deanna did not look like she was laughing.  Mary was not laughing either. 

Frankie could always get Mary out of her head so quickly.  At least away from the part of Mary’s head that her parents liked to lock her in.  Mary and Frankie rolled around to the back of the house, to the shed in the corner of the property with its chicken-scratch warding and devil’s trap on the floor (uncovered and bizarre, surely to Frankie).  Mary forgot that Frankie shouldn’t see - the other girl always brought down her walls before Mary could realize they were there for a reason.  

Frankie just raised an eyebrow, not too shocked, only observing the way she did.  Mary yanked a shotgun off the wall and slammed the door shut before Frankie could see anything too weird.  

Frankie looked at Mary, watching.  Taking everything in.  Frankie looked at Mary’s hands where they wrapped around the shotgun the same way that they watched the boys when they practiced their tackling.  Mary could feel the heat, the jealous green-flame.  She liked the way it burned. 

The two girls made their way out to the woods.  It was hunting season, so the sounds of gunshots wouldn’t be alarming to anyone nearby.  Not that anyone was nearby.  

Mary grabbed her bag, yanking it off her shoulder and loving how the clinks and clangs of the glass hitting inside drew Frankie’s gaze again.  They worked silently, an understanding passing over them as they lined up the bottles.  

One of ‘em had about two shots of Jack left in it, and so Mary giggled and offered half to Frankie.  They drank, sharing swigs from the same bottle.  Mary knew what Frankie’s lips taste like then, even if only because they tasted the same, whiskey wet on their tongues. 

Mary shot twice first, practiced in a way that made Frankie whoop with glee as the bottles burst in line.  Mary lined up a third shot before thinking twice, smirking tight and secretive as she looked back to Frankie.  

Frankie told her she looked good like that, the words falling out ready and raw in the autumn air.  

Mary blanked and blushed and rushed over to crowd the gun into Frankie’s hands.  Mary could deal with the shotgun; she couldn’t deal with the spoken truth.  

But Frankie didn’t stop speaking.  It was all questions then, which Mary could answer.  The girl asked how she should stand; is this right?  Hands like this?  Fingers here?  Thighs far enough apart?  Stance correct?  Feet planted right?  Chin angled like this? 

Mary could answer, but that didn’t mean she would.  She remained silent the whole time, correcting Frankie with gentle touches.  Mary put her hands on skin where Frankie’s clothes didn’t cover, feeling the heat through the fabric where they did.  

Frankie’s first shot missed.  It was way high - the recoil took her by surprise.  She swore and stumbled back into Mary’s body, leaning into the way Mary caught her by the waist.  

Her second shot clipped the neck of the fourth bottle, spinning it off its branch-perch and knocking the fifth bottle as well.  Mary asked if Frankie was aiming for that one or the third.  

Frankie laughed and shrugged, went in for a third shot before Mary was ready, but she made it.  With a solid shot through that third bottle, a laugh punched out of the two girls from the impact.  

The gun was quickly forgotten in the celebration, placed carefully on the ground and stepped over as Frankie crowded Mary away from their homemade range.  

Mary could see the way that Frankie was trembling.  The adrenaline, probably.  It could do that.  Mary felt herself shaking; that had to be why.  

“I liked that, Mary.  Liked that a lot.”  

Mary did too.  “Yeah.”

“I like you a lot, Mary.”  

Mary did too.  “Yeah.” 

Frankie was just a foot away.  Twelve measly inches.  Mary couldn’t close the gap.  

“You too, Mary?”

“Yeah.” 

Frankie looked away, twisting her neck to look over her shoulder at the bottles, two remaining on the branch.  

“Think you could shoot those from twice as far this time?”  

“Yeah.”  

Frankie laughed, throwing her head back in the carefree way she did, running off to grab the surviving bottles and set them up further back.  Mary was left in her wake, frozen in place as she watched, rosy-tinted stare rusted green with jealousy again.  

There are angels everywhere, really. If a girl knows where to look. And then once she’s looked there and acted the wide-eyed, helpless little runaway part until the scene’s been played out and her pretty little blade has found its mark? Well, that’s when Claire really shines.  

Remnants of last night’s kill are still thrumming underneath her skin, but despite the swirling dregs of it, she craves more. She always does. 

It’s been nearly a decade since she’s had a proper fix, since she was everything and nothing and full of a God that she doesn’t believe in. Nearly a decade since the angel Castiel tore its frozen claws through Claire’s flesh, and she was all of it; all of the heavenly host was her and she was it; a Godless angel, something holy and full of a freezing cold light that burned with its nothingness and its everything. 

But then - then it was gone.  

For a while, Claire was lost.  

Not that she’s found now, but she’s looking. And she finds.  

She finds old churches with their rotting pews and unlocked doors - always unlocked - and she finds herself a dry spot to sit. She folds her hands up real good, the way she was taught, and she closes her eyes real tight. Her story changes, but she never begs. Can’t. Her pride won’t let her.  

Despite her lack of desperation, they come. Sometimes two or three in a week.  

Angels have the power to be all-knowing. All it would take is a single thread of grace woven in through Claire’s brain to see her true intentions, but having that kind of power makes them trusting.  

It doesn’t even see her, it sees the last hundred pathetic and whining prayers it has answered, and it is weak for it. 

Claire hides her angel blade in her jacket, tucked close to her heart. After an especially good fix, Claire swears she can feel it beating with her, some sort of extension of herself.  

The angels always come with a vessel, though. Some poor father or mother or daughter or son plucked out of suburbia and dropped in front of Claire, promising salvation. If they could really offer it, Claire might take them up on it, but she knows the truth. Knows God doesn’t give a fuck about her, and if He did, she’d be no better off.  

So, the angel appears, shoulders pushed back into a soldier’s stance, no matter how unnatural it looks in the body it’s stolen; no matter how at odds with its cooing, careful voice, crafted to appeal to the damaged young girl it thinks it sees standing there. So, the angel appears, and it offers salvation and instead finds its end at the tip of Claire’s blade.  

She calls them kills, but she never kills an innocent. The stupidity of someone else’s faith is none of Claire’s business and part of her doesn’t think they deserve the second chance, but she gives it to them anyway. She carves the angel out of them and takes it into herself, a careful, cleansing inhale.  

Everything was corrupted, had been, really, ever since he picked up that blade. He’d never expected his angel’s grace to join the ranks of the things he’d have to ruin, but here he was. Castiel’s grace had slid down his throat like ichor, despite his fighting, and despite his filth.

When Castiel had healed him in the past, it was from the outside in. His hands would come to rest on Dean’s injured flesh, his grace would pulse through them like electricity, and the connection would stop when Cas pulled away. But this - this was more refined. This wasn’t Castiel’s touch; this was Castiel. This was Castiel, healing him from the inside out.

When it was time for the second dose, Dean heard his captors as they paused in front of the door. Their footsteps stopped abruptly, like both Sam and Cas remembered who was waiting for them on the other side. What was waiting for them. After they braced themselves and opened the door, Dean felt an incredible rage bubbling inside him.

Dean fought just as hard against them this time as the first, thrashing about and gnashing his teeth and flitting his newly minted true-form about the devil’s trap bubble he was imprisoned within.

This second portion only strengthened the hold that the grace was gaining on his consciousness. He could feel it weaving through his insides, could sense the way it tugged at his humanity, stretching and kneading the remnants of life and soul into something more concrete.

Something must have changed because when it was time for the third dose, Cas came alone. Dean heard both sets of steps as far as the hallway, but only his angel approached, the vial of grace clutched between his fingers.

“Aw, am I human enough now that you can face me alone?” Dean’s voice came out sickly sweet, the kind of artificial sugar that came hand in hand with his lack of mortality. “Didja pretty-up my demon face? Spread some angel-gloss on my nine mouths?”

Dean puffed out his chest, as much a picture of confidence as could be managed while chained to a chair.

“Can you even see me? The real me?” Dean wasn’t sure what about his words did it, but Castiel flinched at that. When he looked back to Dean, his eyes flickered over the space around Dean first.

Cas took a deep breath before answering. “You mean if I can see the demon’s true face?”

“I’m the demon, Cas. That’s me.”

Castiel looked away again. “I can, yes. See you.”

“Well, then, how come I can’t see you? Doesn’t seem fair, does it? Makes a guy feel a li'l exposed.” Dean took stock of how he was sitting; legs spread wide, feet braced far apart, shoulders back, head lolled to the side. Dean knew how he looked. He poked his tongue out, pink and wet, and watched as Cas followed the movement with his eyes.

“You can’t see me?” Was that… Relief?

Dean shook his head no, and for fun, flitted through a few of his demonic faces, flashing his body’s eyes black for pure dramatics. The display seemed to make Cas uneasy, and something about the way he got shifty was enjoyable for Dean. It was reminiscent of the little cat-and-mouse games he would play with his and Crowley’s targets.

This was just a little last hoorah, a little bit of fun before it was all over. It didn’t have to be more than that.

Cas wasn’t paying attention anymore; he was circling Dean like he was prey, or more aptly - like Dean was a puzzle, something to be taken apart and put back together, solved and fixed, like he could pick out the wrong pieces and leave them out, burn them to ash and ignore the holes in the final picture.

“Could you see me before we started the treatment?”

“The treatment?” Dean laughed, the sound cruel and echoing. “That what we’re calling it? And how the fuck would I know? You didn’t exactly introduce yourself before you grabbed me from behind and threw me into a fuckin' devil’s trap. These things don’t feel great, y’know. They hurt, honestly.”

Castiel straightened up, squinting at Dean, squinting at the swirling forms around him. “Hm.”

Dean would love to have his hands free now, would love the chance to knock some fucking sense into his angel, feel the way the soft skin of his cheek yields to Dean’s hardened fist. Pay him back for the way his grace was constricting around the darkness that filled his chest, really make him see what Dean had become before he’s torn back out from the depths of it.

Dean’s eyes were drawn to Castiel’s grace again, the little glass vial that glowed with the essence of him. Dean wanted it as much as he didn’t. He’d be lying if he said the turmoil it was creating within him wasn’t compelling, wasn’t more interesting than chasing empty highs in the form of false-righteous kills. Grace was tangling with whatever smoke his soul had morphed into, and it felt as hellish as it did heavenly.

Cas stepped forward, his feet centimeters from the circumference of the prison he’d trapped Dean inside.

Toeing the line as always. That was his angel.

His. Dean was only allowed to have when he was a demon. Possession came with the territory, he guessed. As soon as he was cured, Castiel would return to the way he was, as unattainable and celestial as ever.

“Are you weakened by the trap? Is that why you can’t see me?”

Dean sighed, long-suffering and exaggerated. “Cas, c’mon man, how the fuck would I know. I’ve never been in one of these things. Haven’t run into an angel either. Guess they’ve been staying clear. Knight of Hell, and all.”

Cas stepped over the line, the vial of grace gleaming blue against the grime of the dungeon.

Dean didn’t fight while Cas fed him his grace. He was too busy searching for a glimpse of Castiel in the air around them.

Cas walked out without another word, leaving tendrils of his grace to take deeper root in Dean’s soul.

The pain was exquisite. Dean writhed and screamed and cried, the sound coming from deep within him and deeper within his true-form. He wailed from his nine mouths, he scratched with claws and nails and talons. He pounded on the barrier of the devil’s trap.

Dean knew the fight was useless, but when had that ever stopped him?

The pain distracted Dean from the sound of his captors’ fourth approach. Cas was halfway across the floor towards him before Dean noticed.

Castiel flinched when Dean looked up, decay-black meeting grace-blue. Dean tried to flash a few faces, snarl and howl and show his teeth, but the threads of grace were stronger than he had thought. He was tethered in place, the last semblance of control ripped from him.

In the silence stood the two creatures, both equally marred with humanity.

At least Dean saw it as the problem that it was. Castiel was in denial, saw his humanity as a strength. Dean knew better.

The demon fought hard and loud enough that Sam opened the door into the hallway, looking in with wide eyes. Dean only noticed when Cas turned and ordered him out, the flash of heaven’s wrath barely contained behind his vessel’s eyes.

There was no avoiding the invasion. With Castiel’s fingers hooked around Dean’s jaw, forcing his mouth open, the grace slides right in. Like it was meant to be there; like it had a home inside Dean.

Cas barely looked at him on the way out.

That time, the burn was less intense. If Dean closed his eyes and focused, he could picture the grace scraping the inside of his body, digging out his darkest and deepest parts and purifying them. It was a healing like no other, but it was just as much a destruction.

An hour later, Castiel came alone, the door left swinging on its hinges as if to show off this fact.

“Just you? No chaperone this time?” Dean spread his legs, stretching against the restraints at his ankles. He let his thighs fall apart, leaned back against the chair, felt his shirt ride up a bit at his hips. “Aren’t ya scared of the big bad wolf?”

Cas barely acknowledged him, opting instead to pull a chair out and take a seat. “Why would I be? You’re more human than demon now.”

Dean watched as the angel took out a small blade - watched as he took out an empty vial.

Dean watched as Castiel dragged the sharpened edge against his own flesh and drained his own essence into a vial for Dean to consume. Always ready to sacrifice, always happy to bleed.

The sight was mesmerizing, skin parted to allow a stream of light to escape, blood from the vessel’s veins tinging the whole scene a delicious red. Dean wanted to drink straight from the source.

Once Castiel was finished, he healed himself with a thought, flesh knitting together seamlessly, candy red blood evaporated into the air. What a waste.

Dean pouted.

When Castiel stepped forward, sixth dose in hand, Dean locked eyes with him. He knew the demon-black was faded now, and the effect was gone with it, but he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

Dean let his eyelashes flutter shut, his mouth parting as he let his tongue loll out onto his bottom lip. He knew what he looked like.

Cas reached out to rest his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, a precaution in case the demon reared its heads and put up a fight. Instead, Dean leaned into the touch and opened his eyes to meet Castiel’s once again.

The wide-eyed look he was met with was more than reward enough. When Castiel tipped the vial, Dean breathed in.

Communion.

“Do all angels taste this good, or just mine?” Dean watched Castiel’s jaw clench. Whether it was at the words or the display Dean had put on - he couldn’t be sure.

Dean wasn’t lying, though. On this side of the halfway point, the pain was gone, leaving behind only Castiel. His grace was more him than Dean had ever been able to see, and now it was inside him. Now it was part of him. Now Castiel was branded on his shoulder, etched on his ribs, stitched through the very fibers of him.

And, sure, maybe taste wasn’t the right sense to be focused on, but again. Dean knew how he sounded. He knew how he looked.

And so did Castiel, based on the hitch of breath the question triggered.

Dean never got his answer; Castiel only left him alone. Dean pretended he didn’t feel the ghost of abandonment settle into his chest. Feelings that he hadn’t had use for as a demon were flooding back with each dose.

Castiel returned shortly before the hour was up and sat back in the chair just outside Dean’s devil’s trap. When he pulled out the knife again, vial close behind, Dean shook his head.

“C’mon, let’s skip that step, huh? Save the extra dish?”

Castiel’s head shot up, eyes squinted in question.

“Don’t make me beg, Cas. We’re already here, right? So I might as well lay down and take it. Alright, I’ll do it. I’ll bend over and arch my back real pretty for ya. I just want to taste.” The demon must still be hanging on tight if Dean had the words to ask for what he wanted. Despite the shock he felt at his own words, Dean only flashed a smirk.

Castiel’s confusion didn’t seem to clear. Dean bowed his head best he could, pulling his shoulders in tight. “No vial. Just. Come here, will you?” Dean hadn’t missed shame these last few weeks.

Dean didn’t dare look up, but slowly, Castiel stepped into sight, stopping once he’d reached the sigil line.

A beat.

And then a second.

Dean raised his eyes in time to watch Castiel flick the blade across his wrist. He dropped the knife, the clattering sound doing nothing to break the tension in the room.

Dean watched as Castiel took an unnecessary breath and crossed the line. Like a habit, Castiel’s uninjured hand came to rest on the bolt of Dean’s jaw, Castiel’s feet planted firmly behind Dean’s prison-chair. Dean could only see him if he craned his neck back and instead chose to press into Castiel’s hold, leaning his face into the impossibly soft touch he found there.

Dean let Castiel turn his head slightly and licked his lips as the cut moved into view. He wanted nothing more but to latch on, grab with both his hands and gorge himself until he’d had his fill, until Castiel was nothing but swirling essence inside him, grace and light and holiness and purity, until Dean could find a way to snub that out too.

Instead, he waited; waited as Castiel positioned his wrist in front of Dean’s lips, waited as Castiel’s blood dripped red and rusted down onto Dean’s chest, down over his stomach, down onto his lap. The grace waited at the surface, pooling in impossible little puddles of light on Cas’s skin.

It was close enough that Dean just needed to stick his tongue out for a taste. It was close enough that Dean could take and take and take and take.

It was close enough that waiting was a reward in itself.

Castiel closed the gap and pushed with one hand to connect Dean’s lips with the source of grace. Dean moaned at the contact, took a greedy inhale, parted his lips, pressed out his tongue, and drank. The blood was a familiar flavor, but the way it mixed with grace was anything but.

The taste was sunshine. It was bright white light and it was patience and it was purity and it was God, not g-o-d god, not fathergod, but God, something Dean hadn’t experienced before, not until now, not until he knew Castiel inside and out and Castiel knew him in return.

When Cas pulled back, Dean whined, low and thick in the back of his throat. He felt the blood coating his lips, felt the grace settling low in his belly. His eyes were hooded, lids heavy with his drink.

“I’ve never told you how goddamned good you feel. I’ve always thought it… but now that I can taste you? God, Cas.”

Cas was standing behind him, face obscured, body language entirely hidden. Dean tried again, leaning into it, letting himself feel drunk on Castiel’s grace.

“Really, sweetheart. You taste so fucking good. You were addicting enough before, but this is next level.”

Cas spoke up. “Before? You… You can’t….”

Regret twisted dark in Dean’s stomach, blotting out the light. “Yeah, you’re right. A monster like me, angel like you? Is human any better?”

Castiel took careful steps around him, staying within the circle as he moved to look Dean in the eye. “You’re not a monster.”

“Who are you reassuring?” Dean spit the words back, and Castiel blinked twice and left the room.

One more carefully orchestrated dance later, the ritual would be complete. Once more, Castiel would enter the room, once more, Dean would press his lips to Castiel’s skin. Once more, he would drink.

When he finished, Dean reveled in the effects, eyes sliding shut as he floated inside his mind, as the last strands of hell were drowned out with holy light. Knight of Hell gave way to daylight.

He barely noticed as Castiel untied his wrists and ankles, he barely noticed when Castiel dragged his blade through the barrier of the devil trap. He barely noticed as Castiel turned his back and left him there to sit in his own drunken shame.

Human once more.