A/N: WARNING: If blasphemy offends you in any way, do not read this fic.

This takes places early s5, and was written for the beautiful Mistress Whimsy, for her birthday. Love you, shortstack.

You, God, are my God,
earnestly I seek you;
I thirst for you,
my whole being longs for you,
in a dry and parched land
where there is no water.

Psalm 63:1

- o - o - o - o - o -

Castiel desperately wants to find God.

He knows He's out there, somewhere. Castiel hasn't stood in the light of his Father for many, many millennia, but he remembers that warmth as surely as he remembers opening his eyes for the first time, and he would know if it were lost from existence entirely. God is somewhere, and Castiel will find Him.

But it's been damn near impossible.

Even with Dean's amulet, the signal was only ever vague at best, and Castiel wandered all over the globe following a maze of dead ends. He peered over the highest peak in the Himalayas, standing snow-swept and dissatisfied as the sun rose and fell; through the lowest point of the Marianas Trench, hanging weightless in the crushing dark. Castiel stood in the savannah, in the middle of a hurricane, alone in a field at four in the morning. God wasn't even anywhere near any of those places, logically confounding.

And God wasn't beneath Dean Winchester's eyelids when Castiel kissed them, soft one – two. He isn't in the spur of Dean's hip where Castiel clutches so tightly, or the bolt of Dean's jaw where pale fingers slide up slowly, callus catching on stubble.

There's nothing familial, nothing of his Father in the way his very grace twists and bursts aflame when Dean lurches up to kiss him. The heat surging up from his core is nothing new, but it pools in new places, wondrous places. Castiel pants this against Dean's lips and they part, Dean laughing as he slides his tongue into Castiel's mouth and begins to map it with ruthlessly unbalancing swipes. The angel's legs buckle, he drops a few inches but Dean catches him up in those hunter's arms; Castiel can feel the muscles bunch as he clings to them, and not for the first time marvels at his Father's creation. Such a beautiful creature. Dean has indeed come from the mind of Heaven.

"Do you know how long I've been thinking about this?" Dean growls, and there's perhaps the darker side of God in the way he presses against Castiel, who still can't quite stand. Dean's body is a flow of taut lines and Castiel knows them all, but the way they shift still takes him by surprise when Dean moves, mouthing up the side of Castiel's neck. "I can imagine – it was – ah! – quite some time," Castiel manages, eyes flickering shut when Dean's teeth sink into the point of his pulse. "Don't get cute," the hunter breathes, and the wet heat of his mouth near Castiel's ear sends another jagged jolt through to his thoroughly interested dick. He moans, grinding into Dean's thigh, and wonders hazily, briefly, at how wanton he's acting – Dean brings out the worst in you, he realizes, Dean's mouth finding his again and nipping, biting inside, knocking out any capacity for thoughts that don't involve Dean and skin, lots of skin.

Speaking of –

Castiel considers the clothes and they're gone, he and Dean pressed tight to one another, long searing line from lips to thighs. Castiel ruts forward instinctively and their erections strike, slide against one another, the friction such sweet screaming heat. Dean moans into their kiss, meeting Castiel's next thrust with a thrust of his own, grappling great handfuls of Castiel's ass and squeezing. Castiel's hands grasp in vain through the short strands of Dean's hair, and there's nothing holy about the noises he's making in between breath-stealing kisses.

Another consideration and they're horizontal on the plush bed, Dean's bark of surprise quickly lost beneath Castiel's series of moans when Dean works his way down to the angel's nipples, alternating suckling with lips and teeth, and pinching between his fingers. Castiel has an iron grip on the man's hair, but Dean doesn't seem to mind, even groaning encouragingly when Castiel keens, bucking his hips up to meet the stark, hard plane of Dean's sternum as the hunter slides even lower.

Dean's lips close around the head of Castiel's cock and there's nothing of Heaven in the angel's cry.

Dean's mouth, it's a sinful echo of the warmth of God's presence, chasing Castiel's grace out drop by drop, precome bubbling over Dean's tongue. He makes an appreciative sound at the taste and sucks harder, swirling his tongue up the length of Castiel's shaft as he plunges, taking the entire length into his throat. Once or twice he chokes, and Castiel might be ashamed to find Dean's discomfort so pleasurable, except two things: one, he can see that Dean is enjoying himself, and two, he is so turned on he's going blind with it.

"Ahh, Dean," he whimpers, biting his lip and drawing blood, tasting copper as Dean fucks down on to him, and there's a tightening in his balls. He's going to come. I'm going to - "I'm - ohhh," and he's coming in stripes and full-body shakes down Dean's throat, the hunter's pleased hum and gentle swallowing wringing everything from Castiel but the power of sight. He watches, helpless to move, as Dean cleans him, lapping up every trace of come from his cock and pubic hair. "So pretty when you come," Dean murmurs into Castiel's thigh, and when he kisses it Castiel shudders as stubble grazes sensitive flesh.

His dick gives a valiant twitch; Castiel follows the nerve impulse and sits up, reaching for Dean's cock hanging heavy between his thighs. "What do you want, Dean," Castiel asks in a way that's not a question at all, but also every question at once. Dean bites his lip, rolls over on his back and gives a heated little laugh at Castiel still slowly stripping his length as he moves. "This is Vegas, Cas," he says. "Anything goes."

Castiel's search for God shouldn't have led him to this nameless room in Nevada, where Dean was - and Sam almost inexplicably wasn't, but Dean didn't seem worried, so there must be a logical explanation. All in good time - but it has. He would be fooling himself were he to say that perhaps, in this love he has for Dean Winchester, he has in fact already found God.

Were it that easy. Castiel almost wishes for a reality of romantic drivel; it would be easier to stomach than this hopeless confusion.

Of course, Dean's hands on him does help.

But God isn't in Dean's hands, and Castiel wonders how long he can keep up this charade, even as he's shifting lithely to lie over Dean. His hips hang suspended scant millimeters above tantalizing heat, their chests just barely touching, lips whole inches apart. How long can he keep moments like this all for himself, and shared with Dean, before he must once again fly for the garrison and seek out evil with them?

Even if they're the ones that wanted the evil in the first place. Castiel's mouth forms a snarl as he bites down on Dean's neck. Family is the ones you love enough to hurt.

He slides down Dean's body like a serpent and hefts those bowed legs over his shoulders. Dean is perfect, everywhere, and Castiel wants desperately to taste him, diving down behind Dean's balls with a needy whine.

God certainly isn't in Dean Winchester's ass – Castiel could lie and say he thought the opposite, that he'd better check just to be sure, but he doesn't need to. Dean seems agreeable enough, moaning on the tip of Castiel's tongue as the angel probes even deeper, stretching the silky flesh within, sucking on the rim with his lips as he works.

Dean is clean, he tastes new, barely a hint of the Deanness found in his mouth, in their kiss. It's odd but Castiel eats him out eagerly, shivering when he cries out, answering with little groans of his own that he can feel vibrating up through Dean's body. Castiel teases a fingertip alongside his tongue, slips it inside when Dean exhales a long, shaky breath. Dean gasps, tensing briefly, and then his hips are moving in little figure eights, he's fucking down on Castiel's finger and Castiel's dick is back in the game.

"Just fuck me already, I want the burn," Dean's begging, "I haven't done this in so long and fuck, I want you, Cas -"

"Be patient," the angel intones, and there's something of Heaven apparent there; Dean winces, and then shrieks, Castiel's finger grinding against his prostate a shock of pleasure. Castiel sweeps the pad of his finger across the gland, feather-light, and again, delighting in the way Dean's eyes roll back, his hips roll down, and the most delicious sounds pour from his extended throat. "Dean, you are beautiful," Castiel says. Dean is lost, can't form a customary stinging remark or even words at all, and Castiel smiles, adding another finger.

He slows his strokes so that he may admire the play of skin around his fingers, the way Dean's tight pink rim pulls at him, tries to suck him back in. He imagines his cock in place of the fingers, and can't help the sound punched out of him by a clenching deep in his gut. Three fingers now, Dean is cursing as he writhes, sweat standing out on that proud brow, those high, freckled cheekbones, on the dip above his plush lips. When it drips near his mouth his tongue flicks out, and Castiel moans when he sees the hunter tasting himself.

Considering lube makes it so, which further cements Castiel's suspicions but he denies, shakes his head and bows it to Dean's cock. You are real, he tells Dean in his head as he fucks on to and into the hunter, teasing Dean's rock-hard shaft with lips and tongue. You are my Dean and I -

He rears back, looking helplessly down at Dean, whose hips and lip-bit whimper chase his fingers when they slide out. Castiel slicks his cock and leans forward, positioning himself with a dirty hand, waving the other one clean so as to stroke Dean's jaw.

"I'm not - some fragile lotus - flower," Dean grates out, tendons in his neck standing out. "C'mon, Cas, do it - ohh!" Castiel snaps his hips forward, sheathes himself in tight flesh and Dean yowls, arching against the bed, working his hips to shove the angel in deeper. "Fuck, Cas," he bites the words off, as Castiel drags back out to the tip, feeling those muscle walls clench at his passing - then with a very Winchester smirk he punches back in, angled for pleasure, and again, and again, driving a fast, brutal bargain with Dean's prostate.

Dean is simply moaning, thrusting back and hanging on, blunt nails dragging furrows of scraped-up flesh through Castiel's back. Castiel kisses one hairy knee and keeps snapping his hips, a desperate and dirty rhythm into tight, wet heat. Dean is molten inside, indescribable, and sweat begins to drip down Castiel's face, from his nose. Dean's legs slip from his shoulders and Castiel jostles for a better angle and then oh, Dean's cries strike something within him and he lets out a shriek of his own, pure pleasure, buried to the hilt in his hunter.

There is a light building, not in the room but inside him, and Castiel feels them both racing to meet it. Dean's hands clutch tight in the bedsheets now, hips working, eyes rolled back, grunting and letting Castiel just take him apart.

Still thrusting, feeling the catch-drag of the head of his cock inside rings of muscle and a thick shell of bone, his fingers clutched on Dean's thigh and arm, Castiel leans in to murmur, has to tell him even if he might never really hear it: "Dean, of all the places I have looked for God, none is hotter, more accepting, more tender than you. No beauty on Earth -" he punctuates that with a slam to Dean's prostate and they both moan together, "- is mmm, comparable to the way you look right now." His hushed whisper punches harsh from his lungs when Dean pulls down his legs, wraps them 'round Castiel and flips them, sitting up to ride and snapping his slim hips, cock standing ruddy and dripping over Castiel's stomach.

"That - so," he pants, devilish grin somewhat upset by the glazing of his eyes, slackness in his jaw. His ride is a slow grind, steady long-fuse burn. It's glorious, but Castiel becomes impatient. "Yes," he growls, iron grip on Dean's pelvic ridge and he gets his feet flat on the bed. "Yes," he gasps, driving up into Dean with force that drives a startled noise from the man, then a litany of groans and mewls and howled curses that despite the blasphemy make Castiel smile wildly.

Dean slams himself down hard. "Cas, I'm gonna -"

"Yes," the angel breathes, snaps up again again again and Dean comes with a roar, completely untouched, Castiel doubling the time of his thrusts up into that tight, convulsing channel as Dean sprays half his soul out in thick, creamy spurts and Castiel's coming, too, light piercing out from every nerve ending at once, unable to look away from Dean's hooded gaze as he shudders, and moans, and pumps helplessly upward.

They twitch for a while after that, even as Dean slides off, groaning when he slips to the side. Castiel massages one of Dean's thighs as best he can being that he can't see it, this is a terrible angle, and he seems to have no strength left.

Dean pulls himself up on one elbow for a messy, exhausted kiss. "You are miraculous," he groans, laughing. Castiel could say the same to him. Time skips or Castiel spaces out for a moment, because suddenly Dean is sliding a hand through the cooling mess on Castiel's stomach, reaching down between the angel's legs. Castiel makes a token noise of protest even as he's spreading for it, and Dean just laughs.

"Gotta show my angel those stars," he says teasingly, fingertip slickly circling Castiel's entrance. Castiel gasps, his head falling back, and he stares unseeing at the ceiling. I am yours, he thinks numbly, always have been. Always - do I not deserve the truth?

Another, darker part of him hisses, you disobeyed. You deserve nothing of Heaven - and certainly not Dean.

Dean's finger is pushing in and Castiel has to ask, weakly, "Why are you doing this?" Dean looks up from where he's entranced by his finger entering the angel's body, a hint of confusion in those green eyes - but also sadness. He begins, softly, "I just want you to -" but Castiel cuts him off with a wild shake of his head, fling out an arm to indicate all of the room. "This," he hisses, trying to think past the heady sensation of Dean's finger crooking inside him. "Why are you doing all of this?"

The finger stops its stretch; Dean is studying him. "You -" his expression darkens, "- you don't believe you deserve this?" Castiel simply stares. Something ancient and otherworldly shows in Dean's gaze as he presses a reverent kiss to the angel's over-sensitive organ. "Let me show you," Dean whispers, breath hot on his skin, then two fingers enter and curl up just right and Castiel's flying, soaring, if spreading his wings were to mean he'd been doused with electricity and thrown to the wind. "Oh, God, Dean!" and Dean chuckles, thumb rubbing skin where it's taut behind his balls. "Yes," he says. "Yes, Castiel..."

Three fingers now and he's so full, and it's marvelous - Castiel never imagined he'd made Dean feel like this. Every third stroke or so Dean rolls up his fingertips, slow scrabble across that gland and Castiel really does see stars. He's dazzled by them, breathing them out - when Dean says, "You have no idea how beautiful you are," the words hang in the air, sparkling.

When the fingers leave him Castiel cries out at the emptiness, nothing but Dean's other hand on his thigh to ground him. Dean's breathing is harsh, erratic, he lines up and sinks into Castiel with one smooth stroke, the rush driving air from both their lungs. "Caaas," Dean groans, a full-body shudder wracking him when Castiel clenches experimentally. Castiel huffs a laugh and does it again.

In answer Dean snaps his hips out and back in, fucking the angel into the mattress, sharp slap of skin on skin. Castiel can't control the noises he's making but they seem to be driving Dean wild, that and the heat inside him because Castiel's burning up from the inside out and it's Dean who lit him on fire. He slides his legs up Dean's, locking his ankles around the small of the hunter's back, scrabbling frantically at Dean's shoulders, his hair, thrusting back with all he has and every time they meet, worlds are remade.

Then Dean's pulling back; "On your knees," he gasps, and Castiel scrambles to comply. He presents his fucked-out hole to Dean and Dean punches back in, the new angle putting him right in line to hit that spot that makes Castiel scream. And he does, high and sharp, until it dissolves into animalistic grunts and even some swears he learned from Dean, impaled on his hunter's cock and he feels reborn, sewn from new cloth made of sex and flying sparks.

He digs his elbows in to the bed and shoves back, helping Dean strike deeper, deeper, he may be chanting it but all he can hear is the whine and buzz of his orgasm, building in multiple states, on multiple planes of existence.

And this time, he doesn't bother holding back.

Dean strikes hard, grinds in on his prostate and Castiel lets it all go, blinding light and sound waves and all his angelic fury, his ecstasy, the song of Heaven full-force and swelling to fill the room. He comes in spurts, physically, but also flame and whispers and all things created, his grace leaking life and light from his vessel's eyes, ears, and mouth.

When he comes back to himself Dean is pulling out, completely fine, a fond smile on those perfect lips - and Castiel knows, beyond any doubt. Dean grabs a cloth from the bedside table and cleans the angel the human way, with slow swipes and a lazy, satisfied smile. "You're amazing," he drawls, low into Castiel's skin when Dean kisses his stomach.

Castiel smiles, wide in his lassitude, but reality is creeping back in. He has to leave. Dean is naked and about to cuddle and if he stays, he'll never leave.

This would be his Heaven, except too much of it is wrong.

Even more so that Dean doesn't question it when Castiel gets up to leave, clothes re-forming themselves on his body as he stands. "Come back to me soon, angel," the hunter says impishly, where he's sprawled lounging on the bed, and Castiel can only smile at that. This one's more his customary style, a barest twitch of his lips.

He smiles wider at Dean, though, over his shoulder as he reaches to open the door, Dean's answering smile in the low light a beacon of rarity. I believe I love you, Dean Winchester, the angel thinks, painful and fond, and he wrenches the door open –

– it's heavier than he thought it would be and that in itself is wrong, and a frisson of wrongness rockets up his spine when he looks through it, really looks, and finds himself confronted with a blowing red desert. The door, the room behind him disappears, and Castiel is standing in the middle of miles of whirlwind sand, grit eating into every crevice, blinding and muting and deafening him, silencing even his breath when it works its way into his lungs.

He takes a step forward, because he must. He can recognize this as a tribulation, a test of his faith. But that, there, is perhaps the crux of the matter - in light of this latest betrayal, his faith has waned further than ever before. The bite of the sand is testament to just how far he's fallen.

The angel falls to his knees, choking on fine red dust, clawing at his throat – Elohim! he screams without his voice, Elohim, I seek you! Do not touch me and turn me away, my Creator, I have been searching for so long! -

The whirling sand stops, falls still, falls away. He's mercifully clear of the grasping grit, lungs heaving even though there's nothing to breathe out here, in space, and that matters just about as much as the sand should have. As in, not at all.

Stars wink in time with the syllables of his name. Castiel.

There's no air and no sound but there is the impression of a voice, distinct and warm. Castiel doesn't enjoy being surprised, especially not after that business with the sand, and actually rolls his eyes before he thinks about the situation. Hanging alone in between stars and galaxies, in a very human vessel.

In a – he's still in his vessel! Trench coat, blue eyes and pale skin. Fragile cells rupturing and reforming as his grace heals them in the void, low-level pain and somewhat exhausting. Confusion whirls tantamount on the surface of his mind.

You've been searching very hard for me, my child.

"You've been hiding well enough," Castiel says, though no sound comes out, and behind his pout he's screaming at himself this is God, you fool, why are you running your mouth like you're Dean in the face of such power? Father, help me, oh, oh no –

Castiel. Calm down.

He does, he forces himself calm, with a very human flaring of his nostrils and clenching of his fists, dangling helpless in the grip of the cosmos.

I have no opinion regarding your relationship with the human, Dean Winchester. God's 'voice' is kind. If I had, I'd say it'd be in a more positive light, but to be completely honest with you I haven't been paying attention.

No opinion? Seems as though You do, to me, Castiel thinks very, very privately. And - "What?" Castiel mouths faintly. "What could be more important than your children, your creation?"

Nothing in particular.

God is even more frustrating than Dean, and that is saying something.

"You seemed to be paying plenty of attention," Castiel has to say it, feeling petulant. He feels used, sullied, despite how it felt at the time - and despite the holiness imbued within those acts, solely considering those involved.

I made everything, God answers, amused. Wouldn't that indicate a certain level of experience with my creations?

"I'd ask you again, why, but I don't think I want the answer," Castiel sighs.

I was serious, Castiel, God says. I wanted to show you what you deserve, before you go convincing yourself that you don't.

Castiel thinks about mentioning God toying with his emotions before he remembers he's not supposed to have any.

He gets the distinct impression that God is rolling His eyes. You're something new, Castiel, but not bad. I created the angels to serve Me, during a time when I needed serving. Now? You should delight not only in Me, but in My creation.

Castiel's body becomes incredibly still. If he could hear his own voice, he knows he'd sound forlorn. "But why would You show me - that way - if You knew I'd figure it out?"

Oh, you're clever, Castiel. Why do you think I did?

Why, indeed. He thinks he gets it. He knows Dean so well, well enough to know when the Dean he's with is a pale shade of the original - even if, for all intents and purposes, they are identical. No one knows anyone that well for any reason other than love.

(And Castiel has spent just enough time with Dean to know when to consider that someone is just being dirty. He thinks of Dean's - God's fingers inside him and can't help his shudder of arousal. It was, if he had to admit it, transcendent.)

But in knowing all of it was fake, his reticence returns. He can't - Dean doesn't - How does he know it will be returned? Does he just... try it and see?

"Am I supposed to - now," Castiel's cheeks grow hot, "with Dean?" The real Dean. Castiel smiles, touching his lips. They're cold in the vacuum but he imagines he can still feel the heat of that kiss.

I don't know about "supposed to" – God sounds almost cheeky – although, what's stopping you?

"Now You sound like Your creations," Castiel replies with an only-half-incredulous laugh. As with everything his Father does, it hurts, but he does see the lesson being taught.

"Elohim," he begins, but he gets a flick of energy like a dismissive hand. Do not beseech me regarding the end of days, my child. God's tone projects as older, wiser, and much more tired. Castiel stares. "You are aware?"

I felt the Morning Star emerge from his prison and take to the soil of Earth, God says wearily. That was foretold long ago; there was never any specific date involved. It happens when it happens, and now that it has, it's out of my hands.

"Out of your -" Castiel chokes on nothing. "Just stop it! All of your creations will be destroyed if you don't!"

God huffs a very small laugh. Would you kill one son to save another?

"You could return him to his cage."

Or you could.

Castiel shakes his head, frustrated. "I can do nothing against the Morning Star."

Castiel, I believe you misrepresent your potential.

The angel furrows his brow and switches tactics. "Wouldn't you be sacrificing the one to save many? Billions of creatures will live if Lucifer dies."

It doesn't work that way, God says faintly. When the time comes, you should ask Michael if he really, truly will be able to slay his brother.

Castiel opens his mouth, but then God adds: Or perhaps, better you should ask Dean or Sam Winchester the same question.

Blinking, Castiel opens his mouth to reply -

- he gets a warm farewell pulse of energy from all around him, and when he opens his eyes on the end of the blink, he's standing in a motel room done in orange and green with Sam staring at him. "Cas?" The younger Winchester's voice breaks on the one syllable.

Dean leans backward in the bathroom so he can see out the doorway, toothbrush still stuck in his mouth. "Caff?" he splutters. Leans back in, spits, stumbles out. "Cas? Where have you been?"

"I -" Castiel is lost for words, searching Dean's eyes. There's nothing knowing in there; even though Sam is in the room and Dean would be cautious, he's not that good of an actor. Something would show through. But you knew. You knew. Castiel's heart plummets before he forces it to beat normally once more. "Dean, I must speak with you." He shoots a glance at Sam, whose face goes hard. "Alone."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam mutters, more tired than venomous, but Castiel only has eyes for Dean.

As soon as the door slams, the angel surges forward, cupping Dean's face in his hands and kissing him, hard. The hunter gasps, Castiel drinks the little breath down, slides his tongue between Dean's parted lips and tastes, takes. Dean tastes like toothpaste and warmth and himself, and he moans into Castiel's mouth, his hands tightening on Castiel's waist, sliding up his back. Their hips buck together and Dean breaks the kiss, panting, studying Castiel's eyes from mere inches away with his own blown wide and demon-black. He's beautiful, and best of all - it's really, truly him.

"I found God, Dean," Castiel says breathlessly, and swoops in to kiss him again.

*FIN