Laughter filled the air. Dean leaned his wooden chair back, pushing it up on two legs and swigging a beer, while Bobby went right on telling them about the time John fell face first in a muddy riverbed.

"Well he didn't know it was a cow at the time..."

And all around the table, everyone guffawed at the image, Dad most of all. Sam was smiling so hard it must have hurt, and he wiped tears from his eyes. Dean laughed more at their humor than at the story they'd only heard about billion times. But that was the fuckin' point of family, anyway, wasn't it? His ribs ached, and his jaw hurt, but they were the good kinds of hurt, the best kinds.

He sighed, smiling, and looked down into his now-empty beer bottle. Jo came swinging around his end of the table, played with his hair and plucked the bottle away. He watched her swing her hips a little more than necessary and grinned appreciatively.

Ellen at the bar chuckled right along with the rest of them and handed her daughter another full bottle to keep the booze and good times flowing, bless her half-price post-hunt heart.

"Dean..." Someone called his name, and he looked around, but Sam and Dad were watching Bobby, and the rest of the Roadhouse was empty. He set his chair on all fours and leaned forward in anticipation of the really good part of the story, where Dad's face would turn red as a barn, and that alone could make anyone bust a gut.

"Dean..." A voice said again, and Dean turned in his chair to look around.

"Hey, Sam, did you just-" But it was clear Sam wasn't listening. In fact, all of a sudden, it was clear that the whole scene was going on without him, because it was a scene. With crystal clarity, he remembered that Dad was dead. The Roadhouse was gone. And this was just a mishmash of memories. Watching them all, though, back when things were good, made his heart glad, even if knowing it wasn't real made it bittersweet. Bittersweet was better than nothing.

He sat in his chair, choosing to live out the memory and smile.

A third time, he heard his name. And this time he knew exactly who it was. Reluctantly, he pushed back his chair and got up. God, those were good times. He watched Jo laugh and was struck by how cute she looked doing it.

He turned and started for the door, craning a look over his shoulder at a roar of laughter and lifted beer bottles in salute to Dad's Great Bovine Escape of '95. Yeah, good times. When he pushed open the door, it was almost, but not quite exactly, what he expected.

A full moon shone in the night sky, and salty sea air breezed over his face. But the beach was far below. He stepped out onto one of the rock outcroppings on the cliff above the cove. The boulder was worn smooth and flat, a perfect perch overlooking a private paradise.

Castiel sat watching the ocean, his arms hooked around bent knees. It took Dean a second to realize that he'd changed his clothes, a second longer to see that it was an interpretation of his own wardrobe. Cas had on jeans with the cuffs rolled up to just below the knee and a T-shirt and short-sleeve button-down combination that Dean was fairly sure he actually owned. It made him look... human. Delightfully, adorably human. The breeze played with his hair, and Dean's pulse jumped with the urge to bury his hands in those wild strands, to feel Cas alive and not a dream, alive and not dying in his arms.

The angel turned his head slowly and lifted his eyes. He grinned as he held out a hand, beckoning Dean to take it, to come sit. God hadn't fashioned anything more tempting than that look. But...

"No," Dean told him at a whisper. Then louder, "I don't wanna do this here. You come see me in person."

Cas gazed at him curiously and dropped his hand. "As you wish."

The caress of the ocean breeze faded, and all went black.

Castiel heard Dean awaken with a deep breath and a groan as he stretched. He heard him roll, cheap sheets scratching his skin. The room was still dark, and Sam had gone to celebrate a job well done with Ruby. Dean fumbled for the bedside light.

It had been ten days since Gabriel had taken him back home. A long ten days, for the wounds to close and his strength to return. For his brother to speak kind words and suffer under desperate panicked blows of ice and fire for the effort. He was only just now his usual self, or something like it. He stared down at his hands and listened to Dean breathing.

"You coulda called or something," Dean said to his back.

The angel twisted around far enough to face him and looked perplexed.

"Let a guy know you haven't died?" Dean offered.

Oh. "I'm sorry," Castiel replied, not quite looking him in the eye. "I didn't know you were worried." It was true. He hadn't actually thought Dean would need to be updated about his status. Now he recalled Dean's hospital room, Sam's patient waiting, the constant questions to nurses and doctors. Of course. He should have realized and felt stupid for the oversight. That's what humans did when they cared. A warm spot flared in his body at the idea that Dean expected this from him.

"Well, for your information, Wingnut, pretty frickin worried," Dean sounded pissed. He slid out from under the covers and moved to the edge of the bed. His weight bowed the mattress as he sat next to Cas, not quite touching him. Castiel looked down at the space where their knees didn't meet. Even if it was through layers of fabric, he wanted to feel him, to touch his warmth. He started to shift over, but stopped and drew back at the flood of recent memories. Heated lamps, hot blood.

The guilty did not deserve gifts such as that. He hung his head quietly. His recklessness, this... desire to feel Dean in the myriad ways that were possible turned out exactly as he had been warned. It clouded his judgment, allowed him to be played for the fool and captured. So much had nearly been lost. Two lives undeniably were. Even Gabriel's methodical and heartfelt refutation of his sins failed to sufficiently scour the blood from his hands.

Eventually, Dean nudged him with his elbow. "Hey."

Cas lifted his downcast eyes and looked at him. Dean frowned slightly in reply. "What's wrong?"

He could not say it to his face and looked elsewhere, mostly to the yellow wallpaper with dismal green flowers. There was so much wrong.

"I killed those people," he said at last. "Horribly. I... tried to stop, tried to fight it, but--"

"It's not your fault." Dean's voice was resolute, but somehow his confidence made Castiel's failure seem all the more stark. The angel was shaking his head at the floor. "I'm serious!" Dean gripped his shoulder and forced him to look up. "That was some major voodoo mojo she was working, and there was nothing you could have done about it."

With wide eyes and a lift of unexplained fear, Cas pulled from Dean's hand, an almost violent sickness turning in his gut. He gave Dean a confused and apologetic look. A moment ago he had craved his touch, and now this? Human emotions were swift and contradictory, and he struggled to piece out his body's incomprehensible terror at so simple a thing.

Dean was watching him closely, and Castiel averted his eyes in a vain attempt to cover the turmoil.

"Cas." His voice was gentle. Dean frowned slightly, just a crease between his eyes.

The angel felt his eyes drawn and looked over.

"The things she made you do… you know. Inanna made you do them. Forced you." He worried his lower lip and focused on something else for a moment.

"I know," Cas replied in the intervening silence. That was the problem, wasn't it? That for all his angelic essence, he had been powerless to prevent those deaths?

Dean gazed at him hard, a penetrating look like he was reading the insides of his eyes. "You don't… have to be okay with that."

"I'm not." He scowled.

But somehow that wasn't the right answer, or at least not the answer Dean was digging for. He saw as much in the way the man slumped, shaking his head, and raked a weary hand through his hair. Dean scratched at the back of his head and spoke to the floor.

"I'm not talking about the hostages." He let his hand fall. After a sigh, he gripped Castiel's shoulder again, lightly.

Instinctively, Cas pulled away, staring between Dean's face and his hand. He looked terribly sad.

"I'm talkin' about that," Dean intoned.

Cas fought against the urge and squared his shoulder, though small voices he could not identify inside screamed. "I don't know why I did that," he said honestly, concerned that such a thing could be true.

Dean visibly swallowed. "Why does it feel like you did?"

"I…" Cas studied the sensation still churning inside. It wanted to toss Dean's hand aside with righteous indignation. He slowly lifted one hand and wrapped it around Dean's wrist, separating them. And this he could do, touch him this way. Touch him, he realized, of his own volition. "You did not ask permission," he whispered, as though pronouncing the solution to a math problem. He sought confirmation in Dean's expression and found a sorrowful smile. "She did not," he went on, still holding Dean's hand between them. His breath quickened with the thrill of discovery. And then, "Oh," in a small voice. Castiel broke the contact. Another thing, then, that his body had learned on its own—to be afraid of finding the borders of its skin at the hands of another, its limitations.

"It's not your fault," Dean said at his side, meaning more, Cas thought, that just the murders.

It didn't feel that way, even though Castiel knew the truth of his words. Voodoo was strangely potent on human flesh, and his earthly body was just flesh in the end. Inanna violated him. He violated them. He sighed and turned his attention back to the wall. "They are still dead. By my hands." Hands that a wiser angel would never have let slip into a demon's control.

It was Dean's turn to sigh then. After a moment's silence, he muttered, "It's my fault."

The incongruity knocked Cas from his own miserable contemplations, and he stared with wide blue eyes. Before he could say anything, Dean went on.

"I should've known. I keep thinkin' it, goin' over it." His voice was low and gravelly. "You needed help, and I didn't know."

Clairvoyance was not common among humans. "Dean, you couldn't have--"

"I should've known!" He insisted, looking over with anger and sorrow. He shook his head and sagged, staring down at his hands, one still red and raw. "We tried to get to you," he confessed. "Drove nonstop for two days from Wyoming once we knew where you were. But even when we were there, the city's huge, and we didn't know, and..." He looked over, eyes brimming. "I'm sorry. If we'd gotten there faster, maybe..."

"Dean," Castiel said his name just to make him stop. He didn't.

"I tried to save you." Dean said in a thick voice, full of regret and self-recrimination.

Pain gripped in Castiel's chest, and he forgot his own guilt as he saw with new clarity the responsibility Dean heaped upon himself, the expectation of success, and, more importantly, the blame for failure. "You did," he told him, impassioned and outraged that anyone's judgment of Dean should be so cruel, even if it was Dean's own. "Dean, you broke my cage with your blood. Pulled me from it with your hands!"

A slight spasm of Dean's shoulders that Castiel took as a shrug. "Wasn't enough."

Afraid of contact but still wanting it because this was Dean, Cas touched a few fingers briefly to the man's cheek. "I disagree." Could not disagree more. And that had felt right, touching him that way.

He watched the man's expression shift in subtle ways as they looked at one another. The brimming tears slid back, and hope sparkled in his hazel-green eyes. Dean swallowed.

It hurt to watch, knowing that if he continued to feel guilt over the two innocent deaths, Dean would feel a guilt much more profound at not having found a way to stop it. Knowing that if he flinched at a draw of fingertips across his face, Dean would stop and hurt and curse himself for a carelessness that was anything but. It was wrong, so wrong. So much guilt and responsibility and not a moment's rest, even Castiel felt weary under its weight.

He would give him a moment's rest if he could. Take the responsibility for once, if there were a way. And this, this fear would not do. Inanna could force him to murder, take the surety that his body was his alone, but she could not and would not have the solace of Dean's company, the balm of his pleasured sighs.

Castiel paused and gave Dean a tentative considering look. Dean lifted his eyebrows in response and watched as Cas stood and moved to stand in front of him. This, he thought, may work for them both.

"Would you do something for me?" Cas asked gently, gazing down.

"Sure."

"Give me your shirt." The angel held out his hand and kept his expression blank.

Dean hesitated for a fraction of a second, something that looked like bewilderment crossing his face, then hooked a finger into the back of his collar and pulled. He passed him his shirt, right side out and ready for wearing.

The gift was warm with his heat, and soft. Castiel looked down at the shirt in his hands with solemn consideration, and something burning and sweet coursed through him.

His goal achieved, Castiel might have dropped it to the floor, discarded it. But so much that was Dean's had been discarded already that he found he could not bear to do so. Instead, he folded it with gentle hands and set it on the spare bed.

"Sit," he said, pointing toward the headboard.

The corners of Dean's mouth twitched, and he obediently shifted toward the head of the bed.

As he moved, Castiel slipped from his trench coat, which he set next to Dean's folded shirt. He loosened his tie as Dean had shown him before and took it off. The man watched him with wide and darkening eyes, leaning his upper back against the wall.

Castiel stepped closer. "Give me your hands."

Dean dutifully held out his hands, quizzical curiosity written in the arch of one eyebrow.

Castiel looped the tie around his wrists in a deft motion and started to tie a loose knot.

"Dude, you're gonna tie me up?" Dean laughed a little, incredulous, but increasingly turned on. He smiled wickedly and tugged at the tie. "Little loose."

Castiel smirked down at him and tossed his bound hands up toward the wall. They connected just above his head like a magnet. He pulled. They didn't move.

"Oh, now that's cheating." Dean tugged again just to be sure.

The angel swept his eyes over him, unsure. "I won't hold you if you… don't—"

"I'm good," came the husky reply. So trusting. Dean's bare chest already rose and fell a bit more rapidly. The black boxer-briefs he wore were, for the moment, delightfully teasing. Dean licked his lower lip, and Cas watched his eyes start low and drag their way up until their gazes met. They both smiled.

Castiel had made no plan of this, but he took encouragement from the way Dean's eyes tracked his hands. He undid the top button of his shirt, then the next, concentrating on each movement and then glancing up to gauge Dean's reaction. The man's gaze jumped from his hands to his face, and he felt a jolt when they looked into each other, exchanging desire and confirmation. Castiel lowered his eyes to the buttons. Third, fourth. He breathed unevenly. He tugged his shirt from his pants and for a moment, let it hang open, pale skin glowing. To his surprise, his own body reacted to this slow seduction, anticipation like tingling pricking his skin. The shirt sliding off his arms set them on fire with sensation, and he shivered.

He sat on the opposite bed to remove socks and shoes, then stood and contemplated his belt buckle. He lifted his eyes. Dean watched his hands; he watched Dean's face. Unlatched his belt like he had done this a number of times, drew down the zipper. His partner's eyes flashed. And then he slid his pants off, noting with pleasure that Dean licked his lips again. Yes, he could do this. Control his actions, craft Dean's reply.

Only briefs for both of them now. The angel felt the heat of Dean's eyes on his exposed skin. And this was not the leering he suffered being Inanna's prisoner. It was a soft hand touching each ripple and valley, which evoked a sweet desire to give. Were they lovers, he wondered. It felt like an old word, a good word, one that drew a line between the sex of taking and the sex of giving. He hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his briefs and pulled those down as well, nudging the clothes gently out from underfoot.

He was half-hard and they hadn't yet touched.

Castiel crawled onto the bed, not quite sure how he would start, but wanting, oh, wanting this to be good. Dean arched the moment he touched him and settled back as Cas laid himself over top of him, pressing chest to chest. The man smelled like soap. Castiel teased him with a quick nuzzle to the cheek before claiming his real prize.

Dean's lips were soft when they met, wet and slippery. Perfect for tasting, for kneading between blunt teeth. His bound hands jerked, and he moaned into Cas's mouth. The angel responded by pressing harder, sucking, and darting with his tongue, no longer as shy as it had been. Dean arched upward again, seeking more and harder contact, and suddenly his mouth was not enough.

Castiel kissed at his jaw and down the front of his throat. He slid backward, rubbing along Dean's body, and placed a trail of kisses down his chest. He pressed a hand to Dean's face and let it rest there as he gave concerted attention to each pec, scraping the stubble of his beard over tight skin, smiling as Dean flexed. He moved lips and open mouth slowly over every inch, licking and tasting, leaving him wet. Dean sighed under him, shifting and pressing his face into Cas's hand the closer his hot mouth got. A tight nipple, and Castiel didn't hesitate. He licked once and took it between his teeth.

Dean sucked a sharp breath and turned his head to the side, biting the undersides of Cas's fingers lightly.

Cas increased the pressure, until he felt Dean pantpant and finally moan aloud. The sound shot down Cas's spine to his dick, and he felt warmth spread across his body. He released the one nipple and went for the other. Dean turned his head the other way, so Cas's fingers tickled his hair, and gasped at the warm, wet tongue. He pressed into Castiel's mouth until the pain hit just the right spot. He let out a pleasured grunt and sighed as Castiel moved on.

He started at the breastbone, laving to work up saliva, and then licked a slow single line all the way up Dean's chest and throat, over his chin until he met his lips. Dean made a startled and amused series of sounds as Cas's tongue passed over his Adam's apple and then again over his chin.

"You're so expressive," the angel muttered into him, kissing his lips to swollen. If this was rare or not, he didn't know, but it was beautiful.

His hands traced up his lover's bound arms, and he suddenly broke their kiss to investigate the soft inner flesh he had found. He ran one light finger up and down the underside of Dean's arm, fascinated that it made him squirm. He kissed there. And there. Lightly, lovingly. And the heat from his breath bathed the area in goose pimples.

Dean released a ragged breath that washed over Castiel's cheek. The angel looked at him, deep into passion-struck eyes. All want. It struck him like a bell that every tug against his bonds, every lift of Dean's hips, was sheer want. And this look was begging.

Cas felt his own breath quicken at Dean's desire. His eyes traced every curve and feature of his face. Dean's lips parted and he mouthed barely spoken words: Touch me.

Yes. The angel wriggled further down with the aching need to touch Dean everywhere. Dean was hard beneath the thin bit of black fabric he still wore. Cas ran his hand over him once, just to feel, and then slid the boxer-briefs down and off, kneeling just at the edge of the foot of the bed. Dean lay splayed and heaving deep breaths before him.

Cas touched his ankles and spread them wider. He crouched, pressing a hand lightly on each leg, and started to extend with massaging grips, stretching a cougar's tawny paws up Dean's thighs, around his groin, and up to his stomach, beading with sweat. His hands slid in a continuous motion up Dean's arms, eliciting a moan as their skin connected and Cas settled his weight.

He shifted his hips, rubbing his dick against his lover's, pressing both between their bodies. The man growled and rocked for him to do it again. Lifted his head and opened his mouth for another kiss that Cas could not for the life of him deny.

He would see him writhe with pleasure he couldn't contain. Pant and beg and be given all he asked.

But he had never done this before. Not... not kindly, not under his own power. Castiel paused and placed chaste kisses up and down Dean's cheek as he struggled with the memories he wanted to recall and those that came unbidden. He gave a sudden jerk at the shrill sound of an echoed scream and stopped all motion, even breathing, to screw his eyes shut and keep it out.

"Cas." His name whispered and a light nudge against his face. He drew away slightly and opened his eyes. Dean watched, concerned when he should not have to be concerned. Castiel bent to kiss the furrows from his brow and let his lips alight where they wanted, soft and quick until he could hear his partner smile. By this small joy, he found the memories he sought.

He recalled Dean spitting for lubricant, easing slowly.

Cas edged back, spit into his hand, and rubbed it over himself. Even the friction of his own hand was pleasure. But this was not for him. He glanced, and Dean was watching him intensely, his expression unreadable. With one hand cupping Dean's ass, he lifted his weight just enough for an easy angle. Pressed forward, nearly melting at the heat of contact, and fumbling found his way.

Castiel moved with measured control, pressing himself into Dean's incredible heat with constant pressure. So tight it hurt, but pleasure swept through him the deeper he went, and he broke into heavy pants as his lover's body took him in completely.

He nearly fell forward, bracing a hand against the wall and finding a length of exposed neck to kiss and suck.

Pulling back made him shudder. The thrust in, still searingly tight, took calculated strength.

Hot breath and soft grunts, Castiel shook with effort. It took nearly a minute before he realized that the only sounds he was hearing were his own. Dean was silent, utterly. And deathly still.

The angel stopped mid-stroke and moved back slightly, shifting weight to his knees.

Dean's head was turned to one side, his lips curled inward, and he was breathing impossibly short, shallow breaths, pained and frightened gasps that made his nostrils flare. Every muscle corded and shook with tense effort. Cas watched with a spiraling horror. He drew himself out slowly, and the moment he was free, Dean's lips parted and released a puffed breath that could be nothing but relief. His straining muscles relaxed.

That... was why it felt so... Castiel shifted their positions, moving Dean's legs closer together so he could straddle his hips. When he settled, Dean was staring up at him in puzzlement. Cas stared back with worry.

"I hurt you," he said searchingly, his heart beating out pain.

Dean's expression changed in the space of a single swallow, and he looked away, shamefaced. "Wasn't you."

Cas hovered above him, but Dean's eyes were downcast, and he would not look up. Castiel squeezed Dean's hips with his knees. He heard him draw a thick breath and then look up. His words came out whispered and guilty. "Alistair... did a lot to me on the rack."

Castiel recoiled physically, horror punching him in the gut. Things you did not want. Like Inanna. He shook involuntarily.

"It's just a reflex," Dean went on.

Cas looked wonderingly down and placed a hand lightly on his sternum. "Your body remembers," he said breathlessly. Even remade and new, his flesh understood. Flesh was a strange thing.

"I guess," Dean shrugged.

The angel closed his eyes against sorrow and guilt. He pressed his hand down a little more. "You should have said." He opened his eyes, and they shined with bright earnest. "Why didn't you say?"

Dean shrugged again and looked away. "You wanted me," he muttered.

Cas felt the sting of tears. "Happy," he told him. "I wanted you happy."

"I'm sorry," Dean replied quickly, looking up. "I was jus' tryin' to--"

"Don't," Castiel said suddenly, seizing the moment. He nudged back so he could meet Dean's eyes. "Don't try. Don't try to... make me happy or angry. Don't try to be pleased or pleasant. Don't try to be satisfied or satisfying. Don't try to hold back or... hold on. Don't try to be or not to be. Don't... try. You are always trying. Dean, please, don't try." It was possibly the longest string of words he'd ever said, and he willed Dean to understand them. You give. You always give. Please stop giving.

Dean's mouth moved like he was trying to translate. He could read by Cas's expression that this meant something, maybe everything. But he just... couldn't...

In a weak voice broken with emotion, "I don't know what that means."

Castiel sighed and hung his head, hunching in defeat. "I know."

Something was broken, or breaking. Dean could feel it. Something big and important, something that he knew he was supposed to fix, but he couldn't because he just didn't know how. He tugged against his bonds, lurching forward. "I don't know what you want." His voice was desperate, pleading. "Cas, just tell me what you want. Please..."

Castiel's shoulders shook.

Dean lurched forward again on instinct, struggling.

For a moment, there was a silence that filled with Dean's friable hope.

Two warm drops tapped on Dean's skin, and he nearly shattered.

When the angel finally looked up, he was crying. And for a second they simply stared at one another. Cas's gaze was bright and unspeakably sad. Dean felt his heart in his throat, because whatever this was, it looked to him like failure.

At a loss, Castiel did the only thing he could think to do. He leaned down, arching like a cat, and kissed him--because he liked kissing, because kissing was pointless except for pleasure. He kissed him until the crying stopped. Kissed him with his whole body, with his hands on his face and their thighs entwined and squeezing so he could wring joy from pain, and every inch of skin that could be melded together. And if ever angels had been made of compassion and God's love, he kissed him with that too, because an angel shouldn't cry at the tenderness of man.

Cas kissed him until the heat between them flared back to life. Until sweat-slicked skin cried out to be touched and Dean started bucking with need beneath him. He slid down Dean's body, his legs still wrapped around his lover's, and considered. With a rocking and stretching of limbs, he untangled them both and ended up kneeling between Dean's spread legs.

He slanted a look to his face. Dean practically begged, with a wide-eyed helplessness and a twitch of his hips. A bit of precum glistened at the tip of his dick. Cas gave it a contemplative look.

Then he pressed his hands on the soft inner flesh of the other man's thighs and caressed up, drawing his hands together at the same time he leaned down. He was curious as much as anything. Let a cautious tongue dart out and swirl around the very tip. Dean moaned loudly and thrust upward, letting out a sigh of frustration that he found no further heat.

Cas pressed Dean's hip down with one hand to hold him, to keep him from doing any of the work. And then he gave Dean what he was after. Opened his mouth and sucked the other's dick in, laving with his tongue. It felt alien, this hot and silky skin. He caressed, sucked hard, drew back. Flicked his tongue over the very tip until he felt Dean shudder and bobbed down. Caressed. Sucked.

It became a single motion. A faster one. Dean struggled to thrust, and he held him down harder.

His free hand roamed Dean's skin, up and down his thigh, over his stomach, then barely grazing over his balls, and yet he yelped, thrashing. Ahh... The angel slowed his pace, traced his fingers back to investigate. He felt around lightly, teasing. And Dean strained against the hand that held him down. "Cas!" he moaned out sounds of frustration and pleasure. Cas's name became a punctuated hiss on Dean's tongue.

Small motions told Cas that Dean was close. He sucked and licked faster. In the last second he decided to test what it would be like and kept his lips clamped as Dean bucked and made a strangled cry. Hot liquid spurted into his mouth, and he remained still until it was done.

Dean sighed, trembling. And Castiel sat up and swallowed, trying to decide what he thought.

"You don't have to do that," Dean said with a chuckle.

Cas looked over at him, eyes wide in question.

"Swallow? Didn't look like you enjoyed it, so... Just telling you, you don't--"

"I was curious," the angel answered. He crawled up the bed until he and Dean were face to face. Dean was flushed, sweating, and beautiful. With a thought, Cas let the power holding his hands up release, and Dean dropped his arms, encircling his angel's head. The man smiled sweetly and stole a kiss.

Castiel felt the fabric of his tie slide down his side and fall on the floor.

"My turn," Dean told him, grinning wickedly.

"That was your turn," Cas countered.

Dean's eyes narrowed playfully. "Fine, your turn then."

The angel shook his head lightly. "It was mine as well." He slid off to Dean's right and curled himself tightly into his side. He nuzzled in close to Dean's neck and exhaled, just to watch him shiver.

Dean laughed uneasily. "C'mon, man, you're gonna ruin my record." He tugged at Cas's arm.

Cas sighed deeply and pressed a simple kiss to the sensitive spot on Dean's neck. Innocently, though with purpose, he asked, "Is it wrong that I should pleasure you?" Dean couldn't see the calculating look in his eyes.

"Well, no, but--"

Castiel shifted and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. He settled, willing to wait out Dean's annoyance. Or perhaps perturbation. He set his hand lightly on Dean's sternum as he had done before, and he felt the fight relax out of him.

"May I stay?" Cas asked. He hadn't even known he was going to ask, hadn't known he had wanted that until the words came out.

Dean glanced at the hand on his chest and angled a look over at his brother's empty bed. "I... dunno," he admitted in a low voice.

The angel nodded, rubbing rough skin against Dean's shoulder. "Then I'll go before he comes back." Cas felt Dean's arm around him tighten. He made a sudden, panicked sound and bucked against the pressure, his heart pounding as his mind and body screamed warnings.

Dean startled and let his arm fall open. He returned Cas's frightened stare with pained sympathy. "Sorry," he muttered.

No. Castiel concentrated on his racing heartbeat and willed it to slow. By inches, he lowered himself back down, setting his head against Dean's shoulder with a cautiousness that made his eyes sting. It was outrageous. He felt prepared for flight, primed for fleeing, even as he set his hand on his partner's chest to feel him breathe.

"Don't go," Dean said after a moment's silence.

"But--" Cas shifted to peer at Sam's bed.

Dean was shaking his head. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I don't know. Okay? I just..."

"I can't do both," Cas told him gently.

Dean's eyes fell shut, and he beat his fist against the bed because he couldn't wrap Castiel in a hug as he might have done. The angel watched emotions play over his face.

"Wh-... when Gabriel showed up... he said you were gone," Dean whispered. "I thought..." The lump in his throat choked off his words, but Cas could see them trembling on his lips.

Desperate sadness pricked his heart. Dean had thought him dead. He grappled closer. Stretched an arm across Dean's stomach and gripped a leg between his thighs. He nestled his face into his lover's neck. For fear, Dean did not grapple him back—an alien thing. A loving one.

"I am here," Cas rumbled and squeezed him tight as proof.

Dean sniffed and opened his eyes.

"Then stay."