A/N: This was supposed to be a super serious coda to 5.22. It turned into off-season smut. I'm only a little bit sorry. Notes regarding bible passages referenced in fic can be found at the end. Pairing is Dean/Cas, but first Dean/Lisa for like a minute. Spoilers for 5.22, "Swan Song." Warnings for blasphemy and appropriation of biblical texts.

Disclaimer: No profits sought or made. Supernatural belongs to CW and Kripke and crew.

Gospel of John

Dean's been reading the bible since the apocalypse ended.

It's not because he's suddenly found faith. He believes in God enough to believe he's a douche, and since the free will debate is pretty much moot now he doesn't see much point in all the rest, either. But he reads it anyway.

Most nights, after Ben has been tucked in tight, Dean props his heels on the armrest of Lisa's couch and reads the bible with his head in her lap, while she strokes his hair and reads her own book until going to bed. Dean always reads for another hour or two before joining her.

He found this copy on Lisa's bookshelf. She's had it since middle school, she said, a gift for her confirmation, and she hadn't used it much since. But she also said she'd started praying for him after he came to say goodbye. He wanted to ask specifics about that—had she prayed he would survive, or that everybody would?—but that would have been a dick thing to do. It's not her fault Sam's gone.

The bible is a New American translation, maybe not the exact one they'd used, but it sounds close enough to the babble Sam and Bobby and Cas were always quoting. Dean starts with the book of Revelation. It turns out the bible's a whole lot less specific on everything than the angels seemed to be, but he discovers that locking Sam up with Satan really did save the world. A lot more freaky bad shit could've gone down. Doesn't stop the hurt, but it's good to know.

He starts over from the beginning after that and meets a Lilith, if not the Lilith, and Lucifer and Michael and Gabriel. There's no Cas. Or Sam, of course, but Dean admits he got a little choked up over Cain and Abel.

. . . . .

The gospels don't seem to have much to do with anything but he reads them, too. One night, after Lisa's already slipped a pillow under his head, Dean finishes Luke and moves on to John. He gets stuck on John 3:16—for God so loved the world that he gave his only Son. Because for Dean so felt the crushing weight of saving the goddamn world that he gave his only brother. And Jesus got magicked back up to heaven, but there's no resurrecting Sam.

He gets hung up on the part about Lazarus for the same reason. Apparently it's damn easy to bring a smelly dead guy back to life—hell, he did it for Sam and then Cas did it for him—but Sam didn't die this time. There's no body. He's just gone. Everybody's gone.

Dean keeps reading.

He decides John must be the most quotable book of the bible. It has a lot of stuff he's heard all the born-again bible thumpers spout his whole life: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. And, Amen, amen, I say to you. And, I am the light of the world. And, This is my commandment: love one another as I love you. But it's the peace be with you that finally just pisses him off.

There is no peace. Not for him. Not without a lot of things he can't have.

Dean claps the book shut and scrubs his hands over his face. It's late, well past time for bed, but bedtime—and this is just depressing—has become his least favorite time of day.

If he had to guess he'd say it's because he's not sleeping with Lisa. Well, he's sleeping with her but not getting it on with her, and that marks a first ever for Dean. He keeps telling himself it's because he has to work up to this normality thing, but it's been a couple months now and even he is beginning to see through that bullshit. Lisa tries. She'll slide her arms around and down his chest from behind as he does the dishes after dinner, or run coy fingers along the top of his waistband under the covers, but each time he passes with a benign kiss to her forehead. She lets him because she knows he's been through bad shit, and he lets her believe that's the only thing holding him back. It blows, it's weak, and Dean hates himself for it.

He strips down to his boxers in the dark and slides under the light covers. The pillows smell like Lisa's shampoo and she's lying on her side, facing what's become his half of the bed. Lisa opens her eyes when he runs a hand up the curve of her hip to her waist, then closes them again as he leans down to kiss her, on the mouth this time. She rolls onto her back and skates her hands over Dean's arms and shoulders and back as he deepens the kiss. He gets a hand beneath her tank-top, palm pressed to soft skin over her ribs, arc of his thumb cupping the base of her breast, and something inside him shifts into gear.

Want and excitement rush up and over and through him and then combine to spill out as a sob.

Dean drops his head to Lisa's shoulder and tries to swallow it down. He chokes back the tears and soul-aching pain that threaten to rip out of him in a scream, and regrets ever having made fun of Sam—Dean Winchester cries during sex, who knew?

"It's okay," Lisa coos, long fingers at the back of his neck. "Shhh, it's okay, shhh, Dean. I understand."

And he knows does, but also knows there's no way she ever could, so he just nods his head, rasps a couple yeahs, and scrambles out of the sheets and into the jeans and t-shirt he'd just discarded.

Hoping that she'll decide against following him, Dean makes a hasty exit from the bedroom. He swipes the bible from the coffee table, but opts for fresh air and alcohol, grabbing a beer before making his way around back to where the Impala lives now. It's still his refuge.

The beer doesn't wash down the lump in his throat, and after a few tight swallows he gives up. Lisa's narrow driveway has high wooden fences along the sides but is open to the sky. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose then blinks up at the late-summer stars. Sam had told him to cut himself a slice of the apple-pie life, but Dean can't do it. That shouldn't be such a bitch of a surprise since it's practically the family slogan—The Winchesters: Promising Each Other the Impossible since 1983.

Dean sits on the trunk of the Impala and smoothes a thumb over the bible's soft pages without opening it. He still has all their hunting supplies safely stashed in the trunk—no sense in bringing an arsenal into a house with an eleven-year-old, but he can't bear to get rid of the stuff yet, either. Just like he can't let go of the hurt. Because he can't be happy if it means letting go of the things he's already lost. And he can't let go without drowning.

After the almost-apocalypse Dean wanted to die or find Sam, but he didn't do either. Instead he sits on his ass and reads the bible and doesn't have sex with the woman of his dreams.

He takes another swig of beer and swallows back hopelessness.

A cool breeze disturbs the air as the streetlight in the alley flickers, and Dean hangs his head with a slight shiver. It takes him a second to remember that summer nights smack-dab in the center of Indiana don't usually include cool breezes.

"Hello, Dean."

Instantly alert, Dean ditches the bible but keeps the bottle, skitters off the Impala, and stands to the side, placing at least a portion of the car between himself and his visitor, just in case. Suspicion tangles with an achy kind of elation inside him.

Castiel stands at the crease where the driveway concrete meets the street, shoulders in their same slight slump beneath Jimmy's trench coat, hands at his sides. He squints at the book on the back of the car like he can read the gilt words on the black leather cover from there, then looks back to Dean, considering. "It's nice to see you again."

"That so?" Dean deflects as his heart pounds and mind spins through the hundred reasons why Cas would show up now, after months without so much as a stroll through his dreams. "Not sure I can say the same. What brings you back down to earth?"

Mouthing off always makes him bolder. Dean comes around the car, lowering the half empty beer bottle to the pavement nice and easy before settling against the taillight, arms crossed. "You and your fine feathered friends cooking up another apocalypse up there? Need me to pinch hit? Well, you're S-O-L because I'm out. I'm done."

Cas turns out his empty palms and does something like a shrug. "I'm not here to ask anything of you, Dean."

Dean really wants to believe that, but two years of personal experience and one pass through the Good Book stand contrary. "Ha. Yeah, that's a good one, Cas." His throat tightens but he fakes it. "Seriously, just tell me what you want so I can say 'piss off' and you can get the hell out of here."

The night is not so dark that Dean can't see Cas's eyebrows knit and his head cock to the side, owlish.

There were a ton of things about Cas that Dean hadn't really registered until later, until after it was all over and Dean was left alone with nothing to do but scrabble together details or risk losing them. Cas's mix of naiveté and omniscience, his ability to cut you in half with his stare and inability to look you in the eye if he thought he was lying, his attempts to make things square even though he lacks any kind of tact—all of those were things Dean respected in him, things he had counted on him for. Things now on the long list of what he misses about the apocalypse.

That look is on that list.

Cas rotates his head back the way it's supposed to be and closes his eyes. It looks for a moment as though he's both settling deeper into his human skin and summoning angelic power (or patience). When he opens them again his eyes burn fierce under his lowered brow.

"Hail, favored one, the Lord is with you. Do not be afraid, Dean, for you have found favor in Heaven. I am Castiel, who stand before God. I was sent to speak to you and to announce to you this good news."

The words are as good as gospel, but the derision dripping in Cas's voice makes Dean's skin crawl. For a second he thinks that maybe he's finally gone too far, but even if he's over the line there's nowhere to go but forward. And getting an angel of the Lord to smite him would at least be a way to end this bullshit. He sets his jaw and holds firm.

"So angels still do house calls? Thought you were busy laying down the law upstairs these days."

Cas's posture deflates.

Well. That wasn't the response Dean expected.

Cas sighs—exasperated—and wags his head. "I come to you as a friend, Dean."

Dean twitches. Neither was that. He ignores the lump in his throat and Cas's earnest expression, though, because friends don't let friends waste away in suburbia, and it's easier to be mad than sad.

Cautious, Cas moves steps closer. "You would be wise to listen to me. I have news about—"

"No." Dean smacks the Impala, open-palmed, and points an accusing finger. "You can take your news and shove it, Cas," he warns, meeting him nose-to-nose. "A friend? That shows up now, after weeks of a whole lot of nothing?"

Cas's eyes narrow and his chin raises in wary defiance, but Dean has to stop him right here. He can't do it again—can't half have what he wants only for it to be ripped away for whatever crap reason later.

"You said it just before you took off last time: peace or freedom, and I got my goddamned freedom. So leave me the fuck alone." He shoves Cas in the chest, quick and hard.

There's a blur and a tussle and a thunk and in seconds Dean is pinned against the Impala. Cas stares at him dully, on the angry side of inscrutable, with his arm outstretched and one hand gripped in Dean's shirt.

Pain pulses at the back of Dean's skull where it collided with the roof of the car. He squeezes his eyes against the stinging buzz and struggles to escape. "Jesus, what're you doing? Let go."

"I'm preventing you from hurting yourself."

Dean glares. "Whatever. Get your hands off me."

"You are provoking me." Cas's voice remains steady and deep. The full weight of his concentration bores into Dean like X-ray vision even in the dark. He lets up an inch only to slam Dean against the car once more. "On purpose."

Dean doesn't say anything because it's true. If he can't escape it altogether, he wants a new kind of hurt. Something he can fight. Something he can control. Something to make him forget—forget for just one goddamned minute that his world ended when the apocalypse did.

His teeth clench.

"I'm like you, Dean." Cas says, softer, though his hold doesn't slacken. "It is . . . difficult to be a warrior in time of peace." His shoulders shift in a way that could be called restless and it makes Dean wonder about the weight of invisible wings. "Soldiers need battle to fight."

"Yeah, you trying to say you miss me?" Dean's throat is full, his voice broken, but Cas is solemn and steady.

"Yes."

Ache swells in Dean's chest. That kind of honesty is dangerous. He wants to crack that he knew heaven couldn't compare to Dean Winchester, or wants to tell Cas that he's not missing much. But he can't trust what might come out if he opens his mouth.

He grabs Castiel at the collar and yanks him forward. Their mouths crash in the collision and Dean swallows Cas's grunt of surprise.

This was not planned. It just happened. Is happening. Cas is fumbling his hands out from between their bodies and pressing himself closer, pressing Dean harder against the car door. They kiss like fighting, fast and harsh and relentless. When Dean swipes Cas's broad bottom lip and traps it between his teeth, Cas retaliates with tongue. Dean sinks lower against the car and shoves his hips up hard into Cas's, his hands gripping Cas in place to make sure he feels it. The sound Castiel makes in response is awe-filled and unholy, like centuries of self-denial shattering.

Cas's hands cup Dean's neck as he attacks Dean's mouth with his. His mouth is warm but fierce and his kisses drive desire straight to Dean's gut. For a second, his stomach churns—he winces, ready to lose the moment—but Cas's thigh slips against his groin and the only thoughts left to him are this. now. more.

One hand curled over Cas's waistband, Dean gropes with the other along the Impala for the door handle. He finds it, pulls it, and drags Cas down with him, pushing the trench coat off as they go.

They make fast work of the clothing that's in the way—Cas tugs at the hem of Dean's t-shirt, Dean whips through buttons and both zippers, and then Cas is rutting against him as if on instinct, mouth at Dean's bared collar bone as Dean rocks with him—one leg pressed between Cas and the backseat, palms flattened to the jut of the angel's hips, eyes closed, mouth open. He captures Cas's earlobe and folds it into the tip of his tongue. Cas's elbows give out. He drops flush to Dean, but the motion of their bodies doesn't stop. Dean shifts his hips, slipping a hand between them, sliding it over Cas's dick, just to feel, just to know. Cas growls and kisses Dean deep and hard. A few long pulls and Cas's breaths are ragged.

Their pace picks up, slick skin and friction. Dean's hands fly above his head. Cas gathers them at the wrists and holds tight. Dean's lungs hitch. He wraps his leg around Cas's hip and Cas groans, forehead sinking to Dean's shoulder.

Out of nowhere, Dean wonders if this will make it into the Winchester Gospel? Dean's post-apocalypse hookup with Castiel? There's sex in the bible, but it's not like this. It's not lips and force and fingers and Cas. Cas against him, pinning him, wanting him.

Something cracks inside Dean, an earthquake fault line. He fights it by squeezing Cas tighter, kissing him harder, but an anguished kind of moan escapes anyway. Cas pulls back just enough to lock eyes with him. It's dark but his gaze is smoldering and the air between them is heavy with lust and alarm, anger and need. Dean bites his lip and shakes his head, urges Cas on. "Just do it, Cas. God—just—please—"

Sex with Cas isn't a letting go. It's a flooding. It's rough and angry because Dean is, intense and reverent because Cas is. Dean is awash, swept away on the current of electricity firing through him, the rush of hurt flowing out to be forgotten. Cas hangs on. He doesn't stop Dean from fighting, biting, pushing. He just grips hard at Dean's wrists, his shoulder, his thigh, anchoring him.

Dean's not crying. He's not, but his cheeks are wet and his chest heaves and Cas is murmuring something soft in an ancient language into his ear. Cas has one hand clasped in both of Dean's against the car window. Still murmuring, he slides a thumb over and around the crown of Dean's cock and jacks him, firm strokes from strong fingers. He slips his thumb over Dean's slit, goes around again, pumping with the heel of his palm, and Dean's there—burning at the edge of everything. Dean cusses, arches off the seat, cusses again, and comes. Cas clings to him, thrusts against him, hips and breath stuttering. "Dean," he pants, almost fearful, and then not, "Dean— Yes."

Minutes or an hour later, Dean blinks open his eyes. It's still dark. Cas is on top of him, still unbuttoned and unkempt, cheek to Dean's chest, eyes closed in what can't be sleep so must be concentration.

"Your heart beat," Cas says, answering Dean's unasked question, and his voice is sex-wrecked. Dean likes it. "How do you feel?" Cas asks, lifting his head to meet Dean's eyes.

Dean takes a deep breath, stretching his lungs to capacity. There's a heaviness around his heart, but it's not the kind that will keep him from standing upright anymore, and the ache he feels is in his muscles rather than his soul. The hurt's not gone, it never will be, but it's manageable, maybe. He quirks a smile at Cas then leans forward, sliding his fingers up the back of Cas's neck, into his mussed hair, and kisses him thoroughly. He keeps his eyes closed when they finish, savoring. "Think I'm good."

Cas actually chuckles.

They are quiet again for a minute or so. Dean strokes a hand along Cas's spine, trying to piece together what just happened, exactly. He remembers reaching out for Cas, wanting what that might get him. But he never got a straight answer for why Cas showed up at all, and he suddenly feels a little sick. "Hey, tell me something." He clears his throat. "This wasn't, you know, an order from on high, was it? Some kind of angelic pity fuck, or a—what's it called—magical-healing-cock thing?"

Dean can feel Cas about to ask what he's talking about. "I mean, I'm not better because somebody upstairs told you to make me that way, am I?"

Fingers tracing Dean's hip, Cas answers thoughtfully. "I was not ordered here, Dean. I came as a friend, but I came with a purpose. Heaven heard the news, and I wanted you to know."

"Wanted me to know what?"

Cas pushes himself up, all shadows and seriousness. "Sam Winchester is to be saved."

Dean goes cold, goes still. "Come again?"

"Sam is to be saved. He is to be rescued from the pit, body and soul."

Adrenaline kicks in, his heart already knocking against his ribs. "Body and soul? You're bringing him back alive?"

"Yes," Cas nods, and Dean's on the move, scooting out from under him, sitting upright, and snatching up clothes.

"Jesus, Cas. Why didn't you just say so?"

"I tried," Cas snaps as he watches Dean scrabble back into his clothing. "You were not prepared to listen."

Dean ignores that for the moment, pushing open the car door he climbs out, zipping his pants as he gets to his feet. "So where's Sam?"

"Nowhere you can reach him, yet." Dean startles. The angel is inches behind him, all tidied tax-accountant, of course. "Others have been sent to his rescue."

"Okay, what's with the rescue mission? You said you couldn't bring him back. I thought he was better than dead." There's tear in his chest when he says it, but considering that thought alone used to cripple him, it's a big improvement—he'd only been able to tell Lisa Sam was gone, just gone forever.

"Sam is a special case. In battle with Satan, he kept the Lord's commandment."

Dean crosses his arms, defensive even though he's not sure he needs to be. "Nobody commanded Sammy into that pit. He made that choice himself."

"Exactly," Cas gives a solemn nod.

Dean rolls his eyes. This cryptic crap was never on that list of things Dean missed. "Okay, I give up. What am I missing? What're you trying to tell me?"

"I tell you this 'so that my joy may be in you and your joy may be complete. This is God's commandment: love one another as he loves you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends.'" Cas picks up the bible from where Dean left it. "You read it yourself." He slaps the book against Dean's chest. "John, chapter fifteen, verses eleven through thirteen."

Dean fumbles to catch the bible before it falls, eyes wide. "So, Sam—"

"Sam gave up his life not for another, but for the whole world, Dean. It was his free choice to make the ultimate sacrifice, and he did." Cas does his new shrug thing. "That deserves reward."

The news really sinks in now, melts over Dean's bones and makes his veins run hot. His brother is a hero. The hero—he stares at the bible in his hands—the kind they write gospels about.

He looks up at Cas. "And why didn't you just tell me?" he asks again, without the heat of impatience and anger this time.

"You needed to hear me, Dean," Cas says, and he almost sounds apologetic. "You needed to be able to hear. But if you are now at peace, it's nothing I did." Cas shifts shyly. "Not directly."

Dean flinches with guilt. He should've known better than to think Cas had showed up to dick him over. And Cas is right—if he'd popped up and told him Sam was about to be busted free, Dean wouldn't have believed him. He'd been ready to get his hands on the angel sword stashed in the trunk as it was.

"Hey," he ducks into Cas's eye line. "C'mere." Hand to the bridge of Cas's neck and shoulder, he draws Cas close and kisses him again, full and smooth.

Cas looks pleasantly dazed when Dean pulls back.

"I'm glad it wasn't an order, but it was you. Just so you know." He feels himself start to clam up after the Precious Moment, but fights it enough to manage, "So, thanks."

"You're welcome." A grin splits over Cas's face. "Anytime."

Dean grins back, positive that he'll take Cas up on that. But he clears his throat and shakes himself out of where that thought was about to lead. Pale light is beginning to seep into the sky, and Dean has peace and freedom, and has to go pick up his brother.

. . . . .

Dean doesn't finish reading the bible. He closes the book on the gospel of John that night and never reopens it for the Acts that follow. He leaves the Letters unread. He doesn't return to Revelation. He explains to Lisa, as best he can, that his brother is back, or will be soon, and that he has to go meet him. Lisa calls it a miracle and Dean says he supposes it is. He put the bible back on Lisa's bookshelf, where he got it, but as he leaves, she hands it back to him with a picture of she and Ben tucked in the cover. She kisses him goodbye and he kisses her back this time, this last time. Then Dean hugs Ben hard, tells him he'll be back to visit and knows that's a promise he can keep.

-end-

Notes:

The King James Bible is the version typically referenced in canon. The New American Bible is the Catholic translation.

John's account of Lazarus is found in chapter 12. Specific allusion is made to 12:39, Jesus said, "Take away the stone." Martha, the dead man's sister, said to him, "Lord, by now there will be a stench; he has been dead for four days."

Dean's quotable moments in John: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God, John 1:1. Amen, amen, I say to you, John 1:51. I am the light of the world, John 9:5. This is my commandment: love one another as I love you, John 15:12. Peace be with you, John 20:19.

When Cas answers Dean regarding why he has come, his words are adapted from Gabriel's greetings to Zechariah and Mary, announcing the arrivals of John and Jesus, respectively, as found in Luke 1:28 and 1:30, and Luke 1:19. And, for the record, it's not a typo: "who stand before God" = "angel of the Lord."

Cas's account of Sam's salvation, John 15:11–13: I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and your joy may be complete. This is my commandment: love one another as I love you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends. "Love" here is related to the Greek agapē meaning "affectionate love." Common contemporary definition of agape is "love that is wholly selfless or spiritual." In the Christian tradition it is "selfless love felt by Christians for their fellow human beings."