#perlukafari

“Crowley’s an ass,” Cas sighs. “I honestly wonder how Hell hasn’t banded together to kill him yet.”

“Yeah, sounds like him.”

“How’s Jody? Claire texted me about the Radiohead concert but you didn’t answer your phone last night. I assumed—”

“Cas, I’m in Canada.”

“Canada?”

“Yep.”

“As in: The Great White North, Canada?”

“Manitoba,” Dean affirms. “Any longer and I’m gonna start saying ‘eh’ and ‘aboot’.”

“But you must be enjoying the real maple syrup.”

“I wish,” Dean scoffs. “No time. We’re grabbing breakfast somewhere quick and then heading back. We, uh… we were at a gathering. For a hunter. Some crazy shit went down.”

There’s a pause. “Crazy, like…?”

“A demon,” Dean sighs, pulling his hand down his face. “And it turned out Mom knew him, and Jody slept with him, and his best friend killed him.”

“...Dean, I’m sorry—”

“S’fine,” Dean brushes off quickly. “We can… talk about it later?” Because they do that, now. They lay down pressed together and speak real words that matter.

“Of course,” Cas replies. “I have so much to tell you.”

Dean’s voice turns quiet: “Yeah, me too.” A beat. “So, uh… guess what I found out? Turns out, me n’Sammy are pretty damn famous. We got quite a reputation: Sam Winchester, living Lucifer condom, and Dean… the guy who made an angel fall. Turns out you’re pretty famous, too: Castiel: the angel who fell for humanity. Who fell for,” he swallows thickly, “for me.”

“I did,” Cas says. “But clearly our Northern neighbour’s sources have been greatly biased: there is so much more to Sam than having been Lucifer’s vessel.” There’s noise then, and the phone slides against what sounds like Cas’s shirt. There are deep reverberations through the speaker before Cas is sighing in annoyance into the other’s ear. “Dean? I’m so sorry, I have to go; Crowley is being insufferable again.”

“’Course. Yeah. Um—hey,” Dean mumbles, quick and under his breath. He bites his lip and squints at the blue sky, heart hiccupping in his chest when Cas’s tinny yeah? filters through.

It’s still hard to say, sometimes, when he’s outside a Denny’s or—or a fucking Tim Horton’s and not cuddled up in bed or on the brink of death. It’s something he’s trying to get used to… because Cas? Cas deserves to know every minute of every day, and Dean will spend whatever time he has left trying to do that for him: “Love you.”

Cas’s voice turns soft and sweet, and Dean can imagine his angel blushing and smiling like he always does when this comes up, fidgeting like he’s constantly surprised by it. Dean’s heart aches.

Looking at them both, Cas’s smile starts to fade. “Is this.. wrong? I mean, she worked for it, but she won’t be able to eat her spoils.”

Dean shrugs. “She’s too little to understand anyway. And next year? Good fucking luck getting her to share with us at all; Sammy was a total nightmare.” A beat. “’Sides, we were totally rockin’ the whole beekeeper thing. If we hadn’t, she probably wouldn’t have gotten as much. That was genius.”

Cas purses his lips to keep from smirking. “So... what you’re saying is that my idea was actually brilliant.”

“No, I’m saying that it worked---but it would’ve worked better if we went as Finn and Poe and she was baby Rey or BB-8 or something.”

“...I’m fairly certain I heard the word ‘genius’ in there somewhere, though.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. It was a really good idea. I still get first pick of the loot.” To punctuate his sentence, he stalks to the table and looks over the pile like a general strategizing before battle, taking in each piece with a critical eye.

“Come, Mary. Let’s see what Daddy’s going to pick.”

“Daddy!”

“M’here, Bug.”

Dean chooses a Snickers. Cas’s eyes narrow.

“...Huh.”

“‘Huh’? What d’you mean, ‘huh’?”

“Nothing,” Cas shrugs. “I just... never pegged you as a Snickers guy.”

“What’s wrong with being a Snickers guy?”

“Snickers are evil incarnate.”

"Well then what would you choose, fancy pants? Coffeecrisp?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Oh my god, Cas, that is such a dad candy.”

Castiel’s brows almost reach his hairline as he gently bounces the child in his arms. “Then good thing I’m an actual real life dad.”

Dean huffs and rolls his eyes, holding up the two pieces in front of Mary. “Which one do you like best, baby girl?”

Naturally, the toddler goes for the brightly coloured one. Which, of course, causes Dean to fall to the floor in a fake death so theatrical, the world has never seen its likeness. Which then dissolves into Cas and Mary “whispering” amongst themselves before deciding to True Love’s Kiss him back to life.

“My hero,” Dean sighs, fluttering his lashes before going in for another kiss. The contact hasn’t been anywhere near long enough when tiny fists (tiny, but strong... babies are surprisingly violent,) begin to pound against their faces. Parting with twin wry grins, the pair attack little Mary Beatrice Winchester with kisses of her own. 

“So, for real, how do you want to handle this candy thing?” Dean asks, once they’re naked and cuddling in bed. Cas shrugs.

“Honestly? I don’t mind. Keep all the ones the other doesn’t like and split the rest? I’d be willing to give up 70% instead of 50% because you humoured me with the bee costumes.”

“Aww,” Dean smirks, leaning up for a soft kiss. “You really do love me.”

“I love you 70%,” Castiel teases, running a hand through the other’s hair. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Mm, never. But make it 80 and you got yourself a deal, cowboy.”

“80?” Cas makes a huge show of worrying his lip and thinking on it, humming and hahing until he finally flips them over and kisses Dean breathless. “...Alright. I guess you’re worth 80%.”

“I love you,” Dean grins.

This happened because Dean dared to think he was more than he is; he’s not smart, he’s not good, and he doesn’t deserve a mom. He missed all the signs because he was so caught up in his selfish fucking fantasy that he refused to see the real person right in front of him. And because of that—he missed the fuckin’ boat. She left. She doesn’t want them. He was lumped together with Sam in her I love you at the end; she always said his name last, and—jesus fuck.

Because she doesn’t really love him.

Because he’s poison.

Because he’s trash.

Because everyone leaves him.

A-And what? His mom’s riding off into the sunset to try and find herself in the twenty-first century? Bullshit. She doesn’t—She can’t—

In a fit of blind rage, Dean pushes every damn pot and pan and plate off the kitchen counter, listening as they hit the floor. His heart that seizes with every deafening crash. He knows he’s hyperventilating, but the destruction doesn’t stop until his vision spots and he falls back against the cabinets with a yelp, a metal handle digging painfully into his back. “Fuck.”

He feels… helpless and hopeless and bad and this is why he hurts himself until his skin is thick with calluses, because if you let yourself go soft—if you allow yourself to love and be loved with anything other than the sharp, desperate stuff that rears its ugly head when death comes around—you get hurt.

Dean doesn’t call Cas.

He wants to; his fingers tremble and his chest feels tight and he reaches for his phone at least a dozen times before letting his hands dig into the flesh of his thigh. It’s a bad idea; Cas will hold him and hug him and make him feel things he shouldn’t.

Dean pulls himself to the liquor cabinet, and cracks open a bottle of Jack.

He’s gagging who-knows-how-long later, on his hands and knees and shaking with the effort of holding himself up as he’s sick all over the kitchen floor. Between the vomiting and his gross, wracking, drunken sobs, he honestly doesn’t know how he’s still breathing. Giving one last heave, he collapses, briefly sending up a thank you to Chuck or God or Whoever-The-Fuck that Sam hasn’t stumbled in and started mothering him. Fuck that, he can take care of himself.

Besides, his real mom doesn’t want him anymore—but she’s sorry, so…

Dean wants to fall asleep forever.

He curls around his empty bottle, feeling blackness start to creep in at the edges of reality as he waits for it to take over completely. Just a little longer and he can sleep. Just a little longer, and this whole thing will be just one bad dream. “Don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me…”

“…Dean?”

“Cas.”

A touch to his forehead, and sobriety comes back slowly, headache-free and empty. The kitchen smells like puke and alcohol, and Dean gags. He tries to shuffle away from the smell, but his eyes are closed and his hands ends up in sick and he’s having trouble breathing again because his chest is tight and he’s floating out of his body and he can see it happening he’s gonna die here—when a warm cloth begins to wipe at his face and fingers. By the time he’s been cleaned up, he’s pretty much sober.

Cas.

The angel is close; eyes wide and blue as he drops the soiled washcloth and fits his hand around Dean’s cheek. When he speaks, he sounds relieved. “Dean, thank god—”

And Dean pushes him away. “Don’t.”

“Dean, please—”

“What’re you even doing here, man?”

“Sam called me,” Cas says. He looks nervous. “He was crying, and—he said—I came as soon as I could—”

“Yeah, well, next time: don’t bother.”

Cas licks his lips. Hesitates. “Dean—”

“No, you know what: fuck you, Cas!” When he pushes away a second time, Dean ends up in more vomit. He’s too angry and embarrassed to give a shit. “Fuck you for showing up and fuck you for taking away my fucking buzz and fuck you for caring! Fuck you—”

And Cas is hugging him.

And maybe it’s because he feels like a black hole, or that the angel smells like ozone and stupid pickup truck, but Dean barely puts up a fight before he’s clinging to Cas instead of trying to knock him out of orbit, the gross, snotty sobs making a triumphant return as he buries his face into his angel’s chest. They’re sitting in sick and he’s falling apart and nothing matters. “Sh-She left us,” he manages when he gets a spare breath. “She left me.” It feels like he’s being split in two. “She’s sorry.”

Though Dean can’t really hear anything over the sounds of his own misery, he can feel the vibration of Cas murmuring assurance and sweetness into his hair. He’s holding the lapels of the other’s suit jacket so hard his fingers ache, but if he lets go he’s sure Cas’ll leave him, too. “I d-don’t know what I did wrong but it’s gotta be me I’m the reason she left us I can’t even hold my own family together I’m useless I’m stupid I can’t even do my one job Cas—”

“I’m here. It’s okay, I’ve got you, Dean. I won’t leave you. I’m here.”

He hiccups again. “I don’t—don’t deserve anything­—”

“You deserve everything.”

“Sh-Shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you ‘bout this—”

“You’re alright, I’ve got you…”

“Cas…”

“I’m here…”

They stay twisted up on the filthy kitchen floor until Dean’s knees ache and his head begins to droop. He’s exhausted, and raw, and “nono Cas don’t leave me” whenever Castiel moves, he holds him twice as tightly. It’s a miracle that the angel manages to get him to the bathroom, let alone in the shower. They wash together, pressed close under the spray until Cas deems them clean enough and wraps them both in a towel. He urges Dean to brush his teeth before they stumble into his room and into bed.

Tensed and shaking, Dean feels himself slowly start to relax when Cas gives him a small, soft kiss. His fingertips trace the planes of Dean’s face—jaw and cheeks and mouth and nose and forehead. “You would’ve been proud of me today,” the angel rumbles. His hand now moves to push through damp hair. “I hunted like a human; my codename was Agent Beyoncé.”

Dean cracks a hint of a smile. “Beyoncé?”

“Mmhm.” With nothing between them, it’s easy to feel how Cas’s chest puffs up with pride. “I know how much we both enjoy her music, and I missed you, so.” A beat. “I think I was convincing, for the most part.”

Dean feels some of the phantom pressure ease up on his chest and takes a deep breath, leaning in for a more substantial kiss. When he pulls away, his eyes are stubbornly wet. “Hey, Cas?” the hunter whimpers, drifting off as he snuggles in as close to his angel as is humanely possible. “Why—Why aren’t I enough?” He feels Cas press a kiss to his forehead.

“You are,” Castiel breathes. “You’re more than enough.”

*

Both of them are silent on the road. Some of his former bodyguards have tried to lighten the mood after a couple of hours of silence at least, especially if they have been sharing a hotel room, but Novak attempts no such thing. All he does is keep his mouth closed and his eyes on the road, and without Dean telling him to do so or not, he rolls up the partition and effectively creates a barrier that Dean, even if he had any inclination for the smallest of talks, does not care to overcome.

Instead, he sits on the backseat on their ways to the destinations or stretches out on top of it when they come back from his promotional events. And whenever they do, Dean is more than thankful for the silence that greets him from the front, because after a full day of being touched, tugged about and talked to in any which way, all he wants is to be left in peace. Then more than ever, Novak keeps his distance, makes sure not to lay his hands on him and to wordlessly anticipate any of Dean’s needs, such as a warm meal, a hot bath or a comfy bed.

The only need Novak does not see to – can’t, really – remains a pathetic little longing in Dean’s heart. Because like this, away from home, where his family and friends and the few other people who mean well for him are, he feels lonely, vulnerable. To wash away the multitude of foreign touches of the day, he would love nothing more than to be held every now and then, be told kind words, perhaps be kissed into a calm slumber.

But there is no one there to take care of that. Novak, he is all attention and professionalism, and Dean has come to value and even respect him for that. Really, if Novak suddenly started touching Dean if unnecessary and unasked for, Dean would can him in an instant. Probably. In whatever range Dean would react, he has no chance to find out anyhow, because Novak knows the limits of his job as well as Dean does. He does not speak unless spoken to and does not touch unless given permission, and he keeps to his side of the room and his own bed, even when Dean curls up into a tight ball on his own, tries to keep his soft whimpers down and longs for an affection that seems so close yet so very, very far.

*

“We are home,” Novak wakes him, one hand gently shaking Dean’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

Apparently, Dean didn’t wake up after Novak has parked the car – and going by what Dean has come to know of him, Novak probably even let him sleep for however many minutes after the car has come to a halt, waiting in his endless patience for Dean to finally get his ass in gear –, so he took initiative. Which seems to include Novak having opened the back door, leaning over Dean and finally putting his hands on him, if only to shake him awake.

Dean lets out a decidedly unsexy noise and stares up in confusion, into the handsome face of his own bodyguard, shrouded in shadows and stubble. He has troubles pinpointing where he is and why it’s so dark. Somehow,  Novak’s words make sense, although within the frame of the in the dream that Dean’s consciousness still clings to. One in which kisses and smiles and their whole lives were easily shared between Dean and Novak, interwoven to a point of perfect unity.

And that’s his sorry excuse for why Dean sleepily echoes, “Home,” blinks once more at the handsome face that should be wearing a smile and, believing it to be a natural course of action to beckon forth that smile again, puts a small kiss to the Adam’s apple that’s directly on display above him.

Said Adam’s apple bobs heavily under his lips, and a sharp intake of breath follows.

And then, abruptly, in one violent motion, the throat and warmth of Novak are gone, leaving Dean’s lips as chilled as all of his body.

Because Novak has pulled away, with eyes that are first wide, then at once narrowed, and then impossible to see in the dark outside the car. But he doesn’t say anything as he stumbles out and away, he is as silent as always, just a soft growl of surprise hanging in the air between them.

And Dean is now awake almost as quickly as Novak reacted to his untoward action. “I–,” he starts, breathless and ashamed, sitting up on the backseat in such a hurry that he hits his head at the car roof. He gasps as he does, but apart from becoming aware of the sting of tears in his eyes, he does nothing about it. “Cast–, Novak, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was, uh…”

“Asleep,” Novak adds, quickly and with a voice as deep as never before. Dean thinks he sounds pissed off, and he’s suddenly afraid that Novak might hit him or shout at him or, worse, leave him. The past few weeks, they have been on the road together, Novak at his side as he had to brave event after event after dinner, and now all of it seems to go to shit. Unless, of course, this is Novak giving him an out. Which he seems to.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, aware of how weak he sounds, “I thought I was still– dreaming. A nice dream. A– a guy’s dream. I’m sure you know what I mean.” He blushes violently, because even though he is trying to diffuse the situation at hand by pulling it down to a base 'I had a wet dream, so what the hell’ level, it skirts too close to the truth. In fact, it is the truth. Dean just hopes that Novak sees it as nothing more than that, and won’t venture to think that said 'guy dream’ might have been about him. Because, among other, more domestic things, it has been. About his lips and hands and other parts of his body that Dean would care to feel.

“Certainly,” Novak replies, as terse and unabashed as ever. And that seems to be the end of it, because Novak says nothing more on the matter, just opens the car door wide for Dean to eventually step out off, and stalks towards the mansion.

Dean lets his head drop back against the car window and sighs, and shivers.

*

Back in his home town and at his headquarters, there’s finally familiar faces again. His mom hugging and kissing him, Sam hugging him too, and many people patting him on the back. He should feel settled again, safe and home, but everything feels as though it is disconnected, if only the slightest bit. Dean feels happy to eat dinner with his mom again and to know his way around his colleagues and employees, but it doesn’t feel quite like before, quite as perfect.

Novak, who has usually been two steps behind him and now has started to keep a distance of three steps, might have something to do with that.

Also unlike before, whenever Dean catches Novak’s gazes, he drops his own. Every now and then, his hand hover close to Dean, his neck or back or wherever else he may be vulnerable. But before he lays his hands on Dean or drags them up and down his skin, his hands curl up into fists and he steps away.

*

For what feels like years, but is actually no more than a few weeks, they keep doing this little dance. Gaze, drop. Touch, fist. An attempt to speak the truth, silence.

It hurts Dean, more than anything before. He wants to beg Novak for forgiveness and in the same breath ask him to join him, in the bath tub, in his bed, in every decision of his life. And although they come so close sometimes that it seems inevitable for them to finally bridge that last gap, for Novak to actually reciprocate and not detest him, he turns away.

Instead of feeling protected by his bodyguard, Dean feels raw. Vulnerable. Again.

*

It happens in a flash.

One moment Dean is smiling his broad and fake winning smile, the next there is a loud shot cutting through the mass of voices whose laughter instantly turns into screaming, and then, instead of some bald guy in a cheap suit in front of him, Dean hears his name being called and Novak is suddenly throwing himself against and on top of him.

Despite having already tackled Dean to the ground, Novak’s hands keep him down harshly and so does the weight of all of him. He’s a firm and warm shield, the only thing keeping Dean safe from the further shots and screams, and the trampling horde. Novak cradles Dean against him, in what might otherwise feel sweet if it wasn’t done with such rough desperation, and and he alternates between yelling something or another into his headset and murmuring soft reassurances against the shell of Dean’s ear.

And Dean can do nothing more than to hold onto him. His arms might be squeezed into the tight space between both of their torsos, but his fingers are still agile enough to grip the lapels of Novak’s jacket and to pull him in even closer. He sighs every time Novak stops yelling and quietly reassures him that, “You are alright, Dean, you are safe. I will protect you,” and wishes, pathetically and inappropriately, that Novak would keep whispering into his ear forever. Upon that thought, he hides his face in the crook of Novak’s neck to calm himself, breathes in the smell of his salt and skin and all that he has come to adore, and the copper.

Copper?

“Cas?” Dean asks, and that’s when he feels the sticky warmth soaking Castiel’s jacket and his own hands. Hot blood runs between Dean’s fingers and drips down onto him, and he lifts his head in fear, to take a look at Novak’s face. It’s obvious that Novak is trying to school his expression into something as stoic as usual, but he is looking scared, even if not for himself, and his skin is already turning pale and clammy.

“Cas?” Dean asks again, much more urgently this time, almost a scream among so many other screams.

Novak just quirks the corners of his mouth at him, in that familiar way of his, promises, “You will be fine, Dean,” and drags his lips against Dean’s throat in a soft, almost non-existent kiss, full of the affection Dean has longed for and so much more, before – with a hurt and watery sound – he collapses on top of him.

*

Frantically, Dean refuses to leave Castiel’s side. Not in the ambulance or at the hospital, not during those many months of recovery or when Castiel is finally allowed to go home.

Politically, Dean is more popular than ever, because there is nothing more that people love than a good love story, especially a tragic one. But he is uninterested in that, far beyond the reach of his own campaign and former political ambitions.