#tohellandbackanthology

As the night goes on, though, Castiel’s determination fractures. He’s not sure if it’s the shots Dean keeps plying him with or if he’s merely intoxicated on the nearness of Dean after being starved of him for so long. Cas doesn’t ask what Dean’s been doing, and Dean doesn’t bring it up. Castiel just wants to be able to imagine that nothing’s changed, that Metatron never killed Dean in the first place. Maybe that’s why Cas finds himself meeting Dean in a tentative press of lips that doesn’t stay that way for long. Dean surges forward, bringing a hand up to rake it through Cas's hair, and Cas stops trying to fight it. Dean’s lips are just as soft and pliant as Castiel has always imagined, but the taste of sulfur gives him pause. Dean doesn’t let up, though, doesn’t give him time for the hesitation to take hold, pressing his tongue against the seam of Cas's lips before he can think too hard. Cas opens his mouth, and Dean takes.

Castiel is lost in the almost overwhelming sensations until a shout drags his attention away. Dean pulls back from their kiss, and Cas looks dazedly at the string of saliva connecting their lips before following Dean’s line of sight to see a man advancing towards them, hurling slurs. Cas has never understood that, humanity’s need to trap each other in boxes and bury them under offensive words. Dean, however, seems to be even less understanding than Cas is. Dean practically flies out of his seat, and then he has the man in a chokehold against the dingy bar wall.

The other bar patrons titter among themselves, but the chattering quickly turns to alarm when Dean hits the man, and keeps hitting him, until his face is a bloody mess, and Cas is sure he hears the man’s nose break with a sickening crunch. It’s a staunch reminder that this isn’t his Dean, but the molten arousal pooling in Cas's gut doesn’t seem to care.

Castiel can hear the tone of alarm in the owner of the bar’s voice in the background, so he steps forward and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “That’s enough.”

Dean jerks his shoulder to dislodge Cas's hand, but he straightens up, releasing his hold on the man and leaving him to sputter on the ground.

“Let’s get out of here,” Dean laughs, taking Cas by the hand. Castiel spares a glance for the man gasping on the dirty bar floor, but he lets himself be led.

*

When they make it through the door of Dean’s motel room, Dean slams Cas against the wall, boxing him in as Dean captures his lips in a sloppy kiss. Castiel can’t help but note the mystery stains that seem to be everywhere in the room and does his best to ignore them. Cas wants to just focus on the pleasure he’s feeling, but the rotten egg taste gets to be too much for him to ignore.

He pushes against Dean, and Dean backs off, but not without his eyes flashing black. Cas recoils, backing even further against the wall. “I changed my mind. You’re not Dean—I can’t…”

Dean heaves a massive sigh. “Afraid I am. Still got all the daddy issues to prove it. Just with less fucks to give and all wrapped up in a pretty demonic package.” Dean shoots him a winning grin, and Cas gulps. “Speaking of wrapped up in pretty packages—” Dean slowly unzips his jeans to reveal a hint of red lace.

Dean arches an eyebrow at the look of shock Cas is sure is pasted on his face. “What? Crowley liked them.”

“Crowley?” Cas echoes distantly.

Dean steps out of his jeans, and Cas can’t tear his eyes away as Dean grinds his palm on his cock through the flimsy red material. “That make you jealous? Does it make you want to do something about it?” Dean asks, shedding his shirt as he steps closer to Cas.

He runs a hand down Cas's chest, his breath hot on Cas's neck as his lips land on the bolt of Cas's jaw. Cas doesn’t push him away, and Dean’s fingers start working on the buttons of Cas's shirt. He bites back a sigh as Dean’s fingers brush his nipple. Dean must be paying close attention to Castiel’s reactions, because he pauses his fingers’ downward drift and rolls the nipple between his fingers. Cas bites his lip, and Dean’s thumb catches on the bottom one. “Come on, I want to hear all the noises I can pull out of you. What do you think it takes to corrupt an angel?” Dean asks with a cheeky grin.

“I think it’s too late for that,” Cas replies, his sentence ending in a higher pitch as Dean plunges his hand into his jeans, squeezing his cock through his boxers.

Cas looks heavenward before swallowing hard and unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way, pushing it off his shoulders.

Dean tracks his eye movement and grins. “You think one of your brothers is perving on us?”

Castiel winces at the mention of the other angels. “Gabriel and Balthazar are dead, so I doubt it.”

“Their loss.” Dean shrugs before surging forward again to kiss Cas.

This time, he’s more prepared for the unpleasant taste as he opens up to Dean. He kisses him hungrily, choosing to ignore the uneasy feeling in his gut and focus on the desire coiled right beneath it.

Dean shoves down Cas's slacks, leaving them both in just their underwear. Cas's fingers skim Dean’s panties, dragging against the rough lace. Dean grins at him, but it’s more a baring of teeth than a smile. “You like em? You know, if you wanted to get kinkier, I could probably rustle up some rope, maybe a cowboy hat…”

Cas shakes his head minutely. “Too bad,” Dean says breezily as he drops to his knees.

He mouths at the hard outline of Cas's cock, licking at the fabric until it’s damp. “Let’s give little Cas some breathing room, what do you think?” Dean asks as he tugs down Cas's boxers.

Cas swallows convulsively, but his mouth is dry as Dean bends down to kitten lick his cock. Dean takes him deeper, Cas holding back a wince at a slight scrape of Dean’s teeth. After a minute, Dean pops off, grinning at him as he straightens up to kiss Cas again. One of Dean’s fingers prod between Cas's cheeks, and Cas has no misunderstandings that this is going to be gentle.

He’s an angel, anyway, he thinks, trying to keep his mind off his dwindling grace. He won’t mind the reminder of Dean in the morning. Dean brings his fingers to Cas's mouth, getting them wet before dropping back down to open him up. Dean does it roughly, another finger joining shortly after the first, his fingers rotating and trying to spread, forcing his hole to loosen. Cas bites his lip, a moan threatening to escape him as Dean jabs at his prostate. “You like that?” Dean asks smugly.

“Yes, fuck,” Cas groans breathlessly through the pain as Dean finds it again and adds more spit and another finger.

“Now I can add making an angel swear to the list of reasons I’m going to Hell,” Dean pulls his cock out of his panties and stands up, jacking himself as he tugs Cas into a position where the head of his cock can prod at Cas's hole. “Oh, wait,” he laughs as his eyes flash black again, and Cas squeezes his eyes shut.

It’s harder to ignore that he shouldn’t be doing this when it’s so obvious that this isn’t the Dean Cas knows, but it’s too late to back out now. Cas sucks in a breath as the blunt head of Dean’s cock enters him, squeezing his eyes shut at the friction that his spit did little to help. Dean goes slowly at first, giving him a second to adjust to the foreign feeling before starting to slam into him. The slap of skin on skin fills the room, along with their combined breathless grunts.

Dean reaches around to take Cas in his hand, and the friction is just what Cas's neglected cock was craving. Dean nails his prostate again and again with his hard thrusts, and it’s enough to make Cas's vision flash white, enough to see the wretched state of Dean’s soul once again. Cas comes, splattering all over Dean’s hand. Dean chuckles breathlessly. “I probably wouldn’t have lasted long either if I’d only gotten laid once in a billion years.”

He pats Cas's thigh with his sticky hand as he continues to thrust, keeping Cas upright even as he bites the inside of his cheek at the over sensitivity of it all. A few minutes later, the hand turns into more of a claw as Castiel feels Dean coming inside of him. After he softens, he pulls out, grinning at Cas like the cat who ate the canary. Cas feels sick as he collapses on the bed, Dean’s come leaking sluggishly out of his hole.

Cas lays there, looking at Dean heaving breaths he doesn’t even need, and is struck by soul aching regret. Now that his arousal is gone, he doesn’t know why he agreed to this. Having sex with this shadow of Dean didn’t make him feel any better, didn’t lessen the gaping pit he feels pushing against his ribs. He lets himself wallow for a few minutes before he sits up, burning red with shame. Dean’s eyes track him lazily. “Problem, cowboy?” he asks, his tongue poking between his teeth.

“This was a mistake,” he says, pushing the covers off and standing up.

He gathers his clothes hastily, haphazardly buttoning his wrinkled shirt and stepping into his slacks. He steps out of the motel, his untucked shirt flapping in the wind, trying his best to ignore how Dean’s laughter follows him.

*

Castiel stews in his shame for weeks. His gut twists uncomfortably at the thought of telling Sam what happened, so he doesn’t. He hides in motels, never staying put for more than a few days. Over the phone, he hears the way Sam clutches at straws for hints of Dean’s whereabouts. He doesn’t even know his brother’s a demon, and Cas can’t work up the courage to tell him. Some angel he is. The cough wracking his body that won’t go away no matter how much he concentrates his grace doesn’t help, compounded and made even worse by the dreams he keeps having. Angels aren’t supposed to dream.

Visions of Dean’s black eyes and fractured soul haunt him, and he wonders if that’s the reason his grace is so corrupted now. It was bad before his night with Dean, but now it seems like it’s eating away at him from the inside, a gangrenous mass that he wishes he had the strength to sever. He’s tempted to curl up on his ratty mattress and wait for his grace to fizzle out, taking him with it, but a call from Sam disrupts him, and later, a visit from Hannah. Cas heaves himself out of the bed, cursing the enormous effort it takes.

While Castiel is helping Hannah hunt down rogue angels, Sam calls him to say he found Dean. Cas knew that with Sam’s determination this was going to happen eventually, but Cas still hasn’t managed to tell Sam anything about what happened between them, and he fervently hopes Dean won’t mention it. He’s on edge the whole drive to the bunker, half expecting an outraged call from Sam at any moment. Hannah scrutinizing his every move from the passenger seat doesn’t help matters much, either.

By the time he makes it to the bunker, he’s a nervous mess. He rushes down to the dungeons, braced for the worst, but Dean’s already cured. He doesn’t look Dean in the eye, but he revels in Dean’s soul, the way he can chance a glimpse of it now and not feel ill from the wrongness of it all. Dean’s soul might be a little more hunched in on itself than normal, but the casing that had made it so dim before is gone, and with it, a small part of the weight from Cas's shoulders.

Meanwhile, Dean feels anything but relief. Now that he doesn’t have black eyes to hide behind, he has to face everything he did while he was a demon. This was a mistake echoes in Dean’s mind, and he reaches a hand up to tug at his hair, still damp with holy water. “You wanna talk about it?” Sam offers.

Dean shoulders his way past both of them. “No,” he snaps, “I sure as hell don’t.”

He’s barely flopped down onto his bed, content to stay there for the immediate future, when there’s a soft knock on his bedroom door. Dean looks up to see Cas poking his head in.

“You look terrible,” Cas says, and Dean curses himself for the way his stomach flops at the sound of Cas's voice.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to lie every now and again. But you, on the other hand, you’re looking good.”

For all that Dean had vehemently not wanted to talk to Sam, he kind of does want to open up to Cas about all the shit he did. Cas has a way of making him feel not so awful about himself, and Dean could really use that right now. But then Cas is opening his mouth and saying, “There’s a female outside in the car,” and Dean fumbles any words that were gathering on his tongue.

This was a mistake.

*

Almost a year goes by, and their night becomes one of many things that gets shelved away, never to be brought up again. Dean thinks Sam might tear up a little with pride if he ever learned that Dean actually does want to talk about this. For all that he tries to shove everything down, this is something that refuses to stay down; it burns like acid everytime it crosses his mind. He swears Cas has been acting more distant ever since it happened, and he gives Cas his space for a while, but after Rowena curses Cas with the attack dog spell, Dean can’t stand idly by.

Cas looks pale and sweaty where he slumps in his chair, and it’s making Dean antsy. Sam went to his room to get some dusty old grimoire, and now all Dean has to do is sit here, wait, and look at Cas shift in the library chair like he can’t find a comfortable spot. Cas shivers like he’s being wracked with chills, and Dean gets up.

“Where are you going?” Cas mumbles.

“I’ll be right back.” Dean rushes down the hallway to his own room to find a blanket. His stomach hasn’t stopped turning since he saw Cas laying on the bunker floor, covered in his own blood, barely able to get the words help me out. Dean pulls a soft blanket from his closet, his hands clutching at the fabric as he tries to center himself.

By the time he heads back out to the library, Cas is slumped over the table, asleep. Dean bites his lip. He doesn’t reckon a sleeping angel is a good thing. He settles the blanket around Cas's shoulders, careful not to wake him. When he doesn’t stir, Dean runs a hand through Cas's sweat-slicked hair.

Dean leans down to brush his lips on Cas’s temple, and he freezes when Cas shifts in his sleep. He pats Cas’s shoulder and beats a hasty retreat.

*

A few weeks after Rowena lifts the curse from Castiel, Dean comes back from a werewolf hunt limping and being supported by Sam, but he refuses to let Cas even look at the wound. “Dean, just let me heal you, please,” he begs, but Dean shakes his head. Cas sends him a frustrated glare, and Dean doesn’t even have the common courtesy to look cowed.

Cas can see it’s causing Dean pain, can read it on his face, and he can’t help but get more and more exasperated the longer Dean insists on this needless suffering. From hushed conversations with Sam, Cas knows it’s weeping pus. He’s not going to be happy if Dean dies from an infection out of sheer stubbornness.

Cas' attention is dragged away from his silent fuming when Dean winces as he settles straighter in his chair, the movement tugging on his stitches. Cas looks towards him, but Dean won’t meet his eyes. Cas grimaces at the spark of pain erupting on Dean’s soul.

He scowls at Dean and gets up to go to the kitchen, determined to be useful in whatever way Dean will allow.

Right before Sam and Dean had left for their hunt, Cas had gone grocery shopping with Sam. He had poked and prodded at everything he could reach, inspecting labels and sniffing the foods. “Cas, stop,” Sam hissed before he got a good look at Cas's smirking face.

Sam cracked a smile and shoved at him in exasperation, shaking his head. “Dean is rubbing off on you way too much.”

Cas was feeling pleased with himself for making Sam laugh until a label caught his attention that made him stumble to a stop. Tomato rice, the soup can proclaimed, and Castiel could remember Dean saying that was what his mother had made him. Sam gave him an odd look, but he didn’t stop him when Cas put it in the cart.

Now, the can stares at him from the cupboard shelf. He pulls it down and sets it on the counter before tugging open drawers to look for a can opener. When he finds one in the second to last drawer, he scrabbles with it briefly before figuring out how it works. His finger drags over the rough edges of the can as he opens it and dumps the contents into a waiting pot on the stove. He flicks at the burner knob until he hears the gas catching alight, then sits back to wait until the soup heats up.

Footsteps echo in the hall outside the kitchen, and Dean calls out, “What’s all that banging? You better not be messing up my kitchen!”

Cas rolls his eyes fondly. “Yes, dear,” he mumbles to himself, and there’s a brief pause in Dean’s gait.

When he limps into the kitchen a few seconds later, his eyes seize on the pot on the stove. “I didn’t think you could cook,” he says gruffly, lifting up the lid to look at the contents.

Cas shrugs. “Your mother used to make this for you, right?”

“I mean, yeah. Thanks, man. This is—this is awesome.” Dean opens a drawer to get a spoon so he can taste it, and his eyes light up. “It even tastes like hers used to.”

Castiel decides not to mention it’s from a can. Instead, he asks, “Why won’t you let me heal you?”

Dean sighs. “I’ve had worse. It’s getting better—you don’t need to waste your grace.”

“It’s not a waste, Dean, I want to,” Cas insists.

“Just drop it, would you?”

Cas seethes, but he doesn’t say anything else about it.

*

Months pass, and things are largely the same. The mark of Cain might be gone from Dean’s arm, but he and Cas still don’t talk about anything important—not with ever-present looming crises to be averted. Castiel is idly flipping through a lore book, searching for anything the angels don’t already know about the darkness, when he feels it. There’s a vicious snap to his grace, and it makes him hiss in pain. He bolts up from his chair, on high alert for what might be wrong, when his phone begins to buzz in his pocket. He pulls it out and holds it to his ear to hear Sam’s shrill voice, “Cas! Cas, it’s Dean. We—we were hunting a wendigo, and it shoved him, and he hit his head, and there’s so much blood, and—”

“Sam,” Cas cuts him off, grabbing his keys and heading towards the bunker door. “Where are you?”

“Um. Olathe. Cas, it’s not looking good.”

Cas forces a tight smile, even though Sam can’t see it through the phone. He thinks he might just be trying to convince himself that everything’s going to be okay. “I’m on my way there now. Meet me halfway? You always say head wounds bleed a lot, right? It’s likely it’s not as bad as it seems.”

“Right,” Sam says, and Cas can almost envision the pained look on his face. “I’ll see you, then.”

“An hour and a half,” Cas promises as he hangs up and rushes out to his car.

His head spins the whole way there, his grace constantly buzzing. It hasn’t been this insistent for his attention since purgatory, and it puts him on edge. His grace has been connected to Dean’s soul since he resurrected him, but the pull on their bond has only intensified over time. He had barely noticed when it had first formed, but it became harder and harder to miss with the way Dean would constantly tug on it. Cas doesn’t think Dean is aware of it, would probably be furious if he knew, actually, but it’s the thing that’s propelling Cas to him right now. The buzzing settles to a light vibration, and Cas pushes his foot down harder on the gas.

*

When the Impala comes into view, Cas flashes his brights and pulls over, Sam quickly following suit. Cas shoves at his door handle, stumbling out of the car and to Dean. His soul is sputtering, burning weakly like it’s a fire running out of oxygen, and it twists Cas's gut.

Cas yanks open the backseat, climbing in to pull Dean’s head onto his lap. Sam watches anxiously as Cas's hands start to glow. He puts his palm on Dean’s forehead, trying not to let Sam see the way his hands shake. Cas pours his grace into Dean and watches as his soul slowly gets brighter and brighter, like those slide lights he can’t help but mess with at motels.

By the time Dean’s soul is spitting emerald fire again, Cas is exhausted. Dean’s eyes flutter open, and Cas is so tired that it only seems to make sense when he leans down and kisses him. Dean’s eyes widen, and Cas pulls back instantly. “Shit, Dean, I’m sorry, I don’t know—” he splutters, but Dean interrupts him with a quiet voice.

“You said I was a mistake.”

“What?” Cas asks, face pinched in confusion.

“When we had sex. You said it was a mistake. You left.”

Sam makes a startled noise. “I’m just, uh, I’ll be over there,” he says, gesturing jerkily before rushing off.

Cas barely glances up from where he’s staring down at Dean. “Why’d you leave me?” Dean whispers, and that always seems to be the crux of the matter, when it comes to Dean.

“I—I didn’t know that bothered you. You were a demon.”

“Being a demon was kind of like looking in a mirror, you know? It wasn’t me, but it wasn’t not me. Maybe I was more of a dick than usual, and maybe I regret some of the things I did, but I could never regret you,” Dean says, panting to get all of his words out.

He reaches up to trail his fingers over Cas's jaw, and when Cas puts a hand over his, it feels like revelation.

“Can’t say that’s the way I wanted our first time to go, though, probably could have used some more mood lighting or something,” Dean laughs weakly.

Castiel shakes his head. “I felt so helpless. I couldn’t even help Sam properly. All I was trying to do was get a drink, and then I saw you. I couldn’t make you not a demon, but I just wanted to be close to you.” Cas clutches at Dean’s shirt collar. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye when you died. Your body was just—gone. It was a second chance, but you wouldn’t let me forget that you were a demon. Metatron slaughtered you, on my watch, and knowing you turned into that because of me? Knowing that your soul was warped the way it was because of me? I couldn’t stay, then.”

“I was looking for you that night,” Dean blurts. “I tracked your phone.”

Cas raises his eyebrows in surprise as Dean continues, “I wanted to see you. Wanted you to reject me, I think. I was looking for a reason to do something dumb, to just go be a demon with a clear conscience, not have to worry about you or Sam.” Dean chuckles and shakes his head. “Demon with a conscience. I really do suck at everything.”

“Shut up,” Cas growls, and kisses him again.

Dean presses a hand to Cas's chest, and Castiel backs off. “Are you okay? What hurts? Do you want me to stop?”

“Whoa, whoa, who said anything about stopping? Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, here. Just—you’re going to stay, now, right?”

Cas leans back to look at the vulnerable set of Dean’s face. “I’m going to stay,” he agrees.

Dean didn’t wait around to watch Swayze’s burn. He doused the whole place with gasoline, including his former friend’s corpse, stole a couple bottles of top-shelf whiskey, and put the bar in his rear-view.

It was a mockery of a hunter’s funeral, sure, but Lee had turned out to be a mockery of a hunter so maybe it was fitting. Besides, he had made sure that damned basement would burn too, so that anyone else from the life who had known Lee and heard about his death would mourn him with respect, rather than with the disappointed head-shake that one of their own had turned to the kidnap and murder of innocents.

Dean was still wrestling with it himself, driving too fast under a cloud of nostalgic grief and fury. He was angry at Lee, unreasonably so, almost childishly so in fact. He hadn’t seen the guy in a decade and a half, he had no right to expect things of him... and yet, hearing that gun cock behind him, hearing his friend’s voice before the blow that had knocked him out cold, that had sliced him deeper than he’d been prepared for. It had felt like a personal betrayal, the same way that hearing that Mary had sided with the British Men of Letters had felt like a betrayal, the same way that Cas choosing not to tell them about that damn snake had been a betrayal. It had been good to see him, dammit! Realising that Lee Webb was the guy on stage had taken fifteen years off of Dean in an instant. Even if not all of the memories associated with the guy were pleasant, it had given him the briefest flash of hope. Until he woke up tied to a chair.