Hellfire. It burns low. It burns black and hot, pouring out more coal fumes and car exhaust than light. They stoke the fire with souls, and it pulses sharper with their agony. When Lucifer shivers, more of the damned are pulled from their racks for fodder, their screams as much a balm as the heat.

There is no heat on Earth to compare to the sweating, the baking. The damned can feel themselves cooking, the subtle boil and pop of escaping juice. But never done.

Even off the rack, never done.

Torches to see by flicker along the walls of the room, Dean's room, a collage of the empty basements and dead haunted cellars from his life. The room where he has practiced this art with bloody hands. The soul once had a name. She may have told him, but those things don't matter here.

He turns her hand over, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as the whole of her jerks against the ties that keep her down. She mutters a litany of "no, no, no" and "please, don't" that make the edges of his mouth curl.

The two most sensitive places on a human are the fingertips and the tongue. Alastair taught him that. Dean's gaze caresses the upturned hand, fingertips ragged stumps of bleeding meat that quiver.

There are seven kinds of pain. Alastair taught him that as well. Burning, aching, stabbing... these are his favorites.

In a thought, her fingers are restored, whole and new. Primed. It's like looking at a blank canvas, there is nothing ahead but possibility.

The woman makes a mewling sound high in her throat and tries to slip her hand from his grasp, but he clamps down hard, squeezing her fingers together in a crush.

"Now, now," he smirks.

"Don't," she replies in the lightest of voices, somehow finding the capacity for more tears.

Dean reaches for the tools, his tools. He lifts a pin from the table, straight and thin. He could do it quickly. She watches with wide, terrified eyes as he moves the pin closer to her trapped hand. He could. The tip of the pin touches the very tip of her index finger. But he won't.

With just enough pressure, he pushes down, driving the sliver in just near the bone. Shrieks like song break the woman's throat with each fraction of an inch. The second time is never as good as the first, but she is compliant in her agony, and this feels like joy.

Dean slathers her blood over his hands and reaches for a knife. He leans in close, to study her face drawn in pain as tears streak from her eyes. When he lays the knife against her cheek, the sudden shock snaps her eyes open, and she's staring at him. Staring into him.

It takes only a moment, only a spark, for the rush in his chest he had taken for joy to be fear. For it to be his cheek under the knife, his blood, his screams. For him to be there and here and both and bent and breaking.

He cannot scramble away fast enough, even as the knife clatters on the floor. There is, there is... hellfire.

Then light. Light as there has never been light, a shine like diamonds, like the sun on the water and diving into a cool pool. So brilliant, it burns his eyes to see, and he cowers against the wall, breathing great gasps of putrid smoke.

"Dean." A familiar voice, and kind. "Come away from this." Castiel.

And then he knows this is a dream. The angel touches his arms to draw his hands away from his face.

"This is done," the angel says calmly. "Come away."

And Dean lets himself be drawn.

It was like waking from a dream, only different. Dean felt himself come to, felt the visions of Hell slip back down. But he hadn't opened his eyes and had no idea where he was, where they were. Because the only thing he was sure of, other than the fact that they weren't in Hell, was that he was leaning on someone. More specifically, that someone held him lightly, cradled his head against their shoulder, and breathed at a slow, steady pace.

Castiel. Had to be. The thought made him feel he should scowl, but the effort to do so was beyond his reach. He hadn't the for effort anything, lately. Awake, the weight of the air was too much to take. He wanted to run, but even running, there he would always be. And there was no hiding from the truth that of all people, of course, Dean Winchester would be the one who let, literally, everyone down. No amount of booze obscured it. There were not enough sorries in enough languages. So instead, he said nothing. Ate nothing. Took nothing from the world that it might forget his treading, and tried to sleep. In sleep, he dreamed of Hell. And now this.

Dean let his senses stretch. Beyond the sound of Castiel's heart beating, he could hear the slow lap and roll of the ocean. Wherever they were, it sounded like calm seas. The air was filled with a salty spray and the faint hint of seaweed washed ashore. He sent his attention to his limbs and found sand pressing into his bare legs. One arm felt the folds of crisp cotton, which he imagined would be Cas's shirt, and the heat of the body beneath. The angel was warm and similarly solid beneath his cheek and shoulder, and he could just make out the pressure of a hand at his back.

Slowly, Dean cracked one eye open and wasn't surprised to discover that it was night time. It looked like the angel had conjured a full moon. Without lifting his head or moving, it was hard to see the beach, but he knew in an instant that it was a green sand beach, in the way one knows things in dreams. They had those in Hawaii, those beaches. Promised himself a long time ago he'd go see one. Never did. Never would.

Along with the waves and the silvery moonlight, a warm breeze moved across the shoreline, shifting Dean's hair and brushing velvet fingers over his skin. He thought about moving. Seriously considered getting up and asking just what Castiel thought he was doing hugging him on a beach. Weren't there people to save? Demons to kill? But nothing wanted to respond. His limbs felt heavy with liquid languidness. And then there was the peace-an alien calm that felt safe and easy. It whispered enticing things. If he just stayed as he was, neither of them crossing into the unacknowledged space by attempting to move, maybe it would be ok. Maybe it could just be and be good.

How long had it been since anything had felt truly comfortable? The thought made him itch. He didn't do comfortable. And he didn't do snuggling with men, either.

Mind over matter, Dean moved a muscle. And then he lifted his head from Castiel's chest. Emptiness slapped his quickly cooling cheek and just as quickly opened a pit in his gut. The reaction was visceral as his sense of self recoiled from the sudden absence and sought to curl itself down into a defensive ball. He could feel it churning, the wariness, the separation, the worry, the walls, the loathing, his for the taking if he wanted them. He'd moved only a fraction, but he was alone.

Breathless with shock, Dean lowered back down a mere inch, reclaiming what he had no right to. The angel's hand returned to where it had been, though Dean hadn't noticed it moving, and the serene sensation of belonging returned. Despite himself, Dean let out a sigh. He slid his arms around Cas's waist, not quite gripping, but decidedly disturbing the unacknowledged space, and that made him nervous. Something crept at the edge of the space, something watched and disapproved. Alone was where he belonged.

They sat in silence until Dean eventually drifted off to sleep and woke rested in his motel room the next morning. Days later, the next time he had to be pulled from a nightmare, he wasn't surprised to find them sitting on the green sand, entwined as they had been before. Castiel had tucked one leg underneath himself to make more room and propped himself up on one arm. Dean moved his hands around the angel's waist and let them rest, heavy. The voice urged him to move, but he told it in defiance that this didn't mean anything. This was innocent. It became routine, night after night, sometimes days apart, just holding-a strange existence where he didn't have to think about saving Sam or stopping Sam, or hunting, or hurting, or failing, or any other thing he was good at.

Castiel was silent all the while, eyes on the rolling waves, but his presence was one of steady and attentive care. Dean even got used to the sound and rhythm of his breathing, always deep and meditative.

But one night something different sought Dean in his nightmares. Often, so often, he dreamed of being the torturer. He relived putting blades through people's bodies, plucking out their eyes, laughing at their screams. Rarely was he the one on the rack, feeling each cut and burn as a fresh quivering horror. Screaming until his throat closed, falling in blood and pieces.

That night, when Castiel's presence filled the darkness of Hell and swept him upward, he had tried to smile at the light, but his blood-dripping, toothless mouth could not remember the shape.

Dean jerked awake on the beach and bolted upright, a hand instinctively covering his mouth. He shuddered violently, shrinking inward, and quickly turned eyes half filled with tears out toward the ocean. He drew in an unsteady breath through his nose once, twice, seeking calm.

"You're safe here." Cas's first words in the dreamscape were soft and whispered lightly across the short space between them.

There was the sound of cotton crinkling, and Dean felt the angel's fingers slide through the hair at his temple and back over his ear. The breath he released in response came out as a laden sigh. He let his hand fall from his mouth. His jaw still shook, and his teeth ached. The sea remained blurry as he fought back the tears, unwilling to let the bastards win. He'd cried enough lately that there shouldn't have been any left; but he was good at finding new depths. At the second stroke from Cas's hand, the tears receded, unshed. Another and he could feel the tension starting to melt out of his muscles.

Dean's voice was thick when he spoke. "Why do you bring me here?" he asked without looking away from the water as it spread out and sank into the sand.

Castiel continued the soothing gesture and gazed at Dean's profile lit by moonlight. "I find it comforting," he said, "and I hoped you would as well. I thought it might help."

He watched the waves, silent for a moment. Then, "Why do you care?"

Castiel paused to consider his reply, his fingertips resting lightly in Dean's hair as though it never occurred to him to take them away. "Do you always ask people that?"

Dean huffed a humorless little laugh and worked his jaw. "No one's ever around long enough," came the quiet, strained reply.

After another silence, "Because I can." Temple to ear, he resumed.

Dean nodded a few times, a filler motion as his breathing slowly returned to normal. He peered down at his hands, rubbing them together, playing with nothing. He'd been wondering. Wasn't sure he should ask. "How often're you gonna try to save me?" He said it barely above a whisper.

Castiel stopped again, and Dean turned to look at him, their eyes locking briefly. "As often as you need," Cas said seriously, and then finished brushing his fingertips over Dean's ear.

Dean looked at him with an expression that flickered between hope and despair.

Castiel stroked again. His touch was calming and electric. It felt warm, safe, and enticing.

Dean had forgotten what touching was.

When Sam sat across the table from him lately, he was in another county somewhere. They didn't kick each other or fight to get in the door first. He didn't tuck him in when he fell asleep on the covers, because you didn't do that for strangers. Ellen was long gone, and Jo. Ash, dead. Pamela, dead. Dad, dead.

He didn't have the strength to be the charmer who brought chicks back from the bar. He sat in corners, huddled into his jacket, watching and trying not to beg every wandering eye for forgiveness. The world didn't owe him a damn thing, least of all that. A kind touch was better spent on someone else.

Castiel must not have been informed. Because he kept stroking the same easy rhythm, and it kept feeling better, like being plugged in.

"How are you doing that?" Dean muttered.

The angel frowned slightly. "Doing what?"

Dean pressed lightly into the touch on the next stroke. "That. It's like... feels so..." Good. Happy. Free. He concentrated on the sensation. When Cas's palm passed by his cheek, he turned into it and made a small sound, not even meaning to.

Castiel's eyes widened as he cupped Dean's face in his hand. "I'm not doing anything special," he insisted. Cas pulled his right hand from the sand where it had been propping him up, and it came away without a grain clinging to his skin-the magic of dreams. This he slid over Dean's other cheek and held him. His. His human, hard won. This soul, for which he bent in the doors of Hell. Traveled through fire that peeled his being. Through poison, through darkness. On his knees, he fought off demons with a small axe lit with God's fury, for this soul. Staggered, wailed, and toiled on. This soul, whom he held in the shelter of his scorching wings to spare it some measure of torment; whom he gripped too tightly, in fear that it may slip away. In all of time, in all the universe, Castiel had never known anything to be his, save this soul, who suffered still. And he wondered how to cradle its thin tissue of being so his love would not sunder it whole. So many bruises from so many burdens.

He sat up straighter and closed the small gap between them to place a chaste kiss on Dean's forehead. Then a light touch of lips over each closed eye.

Dean let out a sigh and shivered at the gossamer touch, wracked with gratitude and want. He opened his eyes to see his angel's intense gaze-young and ancient, determined and trusting, mostly, concerned and affectionate. It hit him with the same jolt as always, like a knife sinking into his chest that made him momentarily weak, set off his defenses, and made him dig in his heels to fight. Only now it slipped between broken plates and sank deeper, Frankenstein's lightning striking something old and fierce that lifted its head inside Dean and howled. He thought it had been salted and burned years ago, under a father's watchful eye-because when he was thirteen, Dad caught him making out with Curt Kierney. Because he threw him over the coffee table and told him never to come back. Because Dad nearly slugged him and wanted to know what the hell Dean thought he was doing. Because he's supposed to set an example for Sam, and I've never been so disappointed in you, son.

Dean jerked back as though bitten and scurried back on the sand.

The jolt. The desire. Oh, God. He knew, like the ring of a hammer, what it was.

"I can't," he said toward Cas's surprised face, the heat of want rising in his chest.

"You can't what?"

Castiel moved closer and arranged himself in a graceful mirror of Dean's pose, knees bent.

The man stared hard at the dark sand, his breaths coming quicker in both panic and arousal. "This... it's... not who I'm supposed to be." He said it more to himself than anything and sounded disappointed.

He'd tried so hard to be the man Dad had wanted. Trained and fell and fought and once had the scars to prove it. Said good-bye until he stopped saying hello. For nothing. For a sandcastle washed to sea. He couldn't be less of the man his father wanted, except for this, the last hold out. Dean scooped a handful of sand and pitched it hard in anger.

Then he squeezed his eyes shut. He had a choice. Carry the ragged flag of his father's pride down a dusty road alone. Or let it go.

Cas reached out tentatively and closed a hand on Dean's wrist. "You already are who you are supposed to be," he said gently. "You always have been." Dean's miserable expression remained unchanged. "And I like who you are."

Dean laughed bitterly and opened his eyes to study the grains of sand. Slowly, he raised his eyes and gave his angel a searching gaze, looking for the hint of a lie, a joke. The honesty he found made him suck in an unnerved breath. And suddenly their eyes were locked again in the soul gaze that Dean could feel in his bones.

"Dean, what d-" Castiel began, but Dean freed his wrist from Cas's grip and set unsure fingers to rest on the angel's soft lips, more to quiet him than anything. He had to think. Castiel sat so close. So close, he could feel the angel's body heat. So close, he could kiss him right now and no one...

He closed his eyes. Felt Cas's breath on the back of his hand and the howling want scrabbling inside. He took an unsteady draw of salty air. The man his father wanted had no one. Nothing but a pride no one cared about. And he just couldn't see the point anymore. With sorrow, he let his trembling fingers loose and the ragged fabric slip to the dirt.

When he looked up, Cas was watching him, head canted in curiosity. Dean's fingers twitched, and the angel parted his lips slightly in response. It was enough.

Dean bent forward, hesitating once. But he slid his fingers aside and claimed a tentative kiss. Cas didn't push him away; and something inside broke. The cilice around his heart cracked loose-prongs so long embedded ripped out, leaving raw wounds that bled and throbbed in relief. Unbound and able to breathe, he felt... Free. So much soaring emotion in so small a word. Free. And he kissed freely.

Castiel's lips were warm and deliciously pliant when Dean sucked at the lower one and pressed on the upper. But they were also cautious, barely answering Dean's gentle assault.

That wasn't right. Dean slowed and kissed him more lightly, only to have Cas press him closer. Not cautious, he realized. Inexperienced. He grinned and felt a bubble of joy that sent heat to his groin when it burst.

He slid his hands up the angel's neck and settled them, palm to cheek, and pulled back to catch his breath. Castiel's eyes blazed and begged.

Twice Dean dragged his thumbs over the shadow of stubble on Cas's face and grinned at the tremor it caused. He kissed him again, slower. Dean pressed a kiss to the angel's lips, then the corner of his mouth. He sucked and licked, leaving space between that all of a sudden Cas started to fill. Dean hummed and crushed them together, panting and running his tongue over the other's mouth. "Open," he muttered, breathless. And Castiel complied, making a startled sound when he learned why.

Cas had a shy tongue, and Dean worked slowly to coax it out. Every small sound the angel made was articulate music. He spun joy and humor and desire into a chord. When they parted, hunger filled the space between. Dean let go and edged back out of Cas's grip. His chest heaved in spinning energy, and all he could think was that he hadn't had a kiss like that in years. Maybe not ever, not with that mix of boyish anticipation and skillful pride.

He gazed into Castiel's eyes, always expressive and quixotic, and was held frozen by the emotion he found there. Want. An act of choice. As Dean sat kneeling in the sand, he could feel Cas's eyes coursing over him. Too much and not nearly enough.

In a quick motion, he shed the t-shirt he vaguely remembered having gone to sleep in. And then Cas was there, silly tie and white shirt, spreading his hands over Dean's chest like he remembered this and was awed to feel it again. Dean let his head fall back and let himself just feel. When had every inch of skin become an erogenous zone, designed and destined for pleasure instead of pain?

Cas's fingers on his chin drew his head down and traced tender flesh. He didn't bother to open his eyes as he was being kissed. And God, what a good teacher he must be, because his angel had learned a new sacrament. Cas moved with power and assurance, as though kissing had been his invention, and added twists of his own, like nibbling on Dean's lower lip until it stung.

Castiel rubbed his hands over every inch of exposed skin. Over Dean's shoulders, around, and down his chest, skimming tight muscle. As his fingers fell around a nipple, he paused and withdrew from the kiss to investigate. Dean's breath hitched at the scrape of skin. For a moment, Cas looked thoughtful and then turned curious eyes on Dean's face. The man watched him with interest, even a bit of humor. Then he pinched, and Dean jumped and flinched away. "Don't." The angel's eyes narrowed, and he slid his other hand to the other side. Dean tensed beneath his palms, eyes remaining glued. This time, he pinched harder, and Dean hissed as he jerked.

"I said 'don't.'" A slight frown.

"But you didn't mean it," Cas challenged, yanking him close.

"So you're the expert, now?"

"No... but I know when you lie."

Dean held the gaze for a few seconds longer and then looked away. His jaw flexed. And Castiel wondered if he had somehow misstepped, though he had spoken only truth. His heart jumped high with fear, and he closed a hand over the mark he had left on Dean's arm.

The man glanced quickly and then up to his face. Dean moved as if to speak and then wavered, struggling over the words. "I..." No one knew when he lied. Except for Sam. Lying was his life, his bulwark. His gaze fell and rose. "...really need to get you out of that stupid shirt," he finished with a smirk.

And it wasn't quite a lie.

Dean nudged Cas back, and the angel let himself be toppled. Dean reached for the tie and loosened the knot just enough to slip it off. Habit not to undo the whole thing. He sat, straddling Castiel's legs, painfully aware of every place their thighs touched. His fingers worked the first three buttons with relative ease, revealing pale flesh and taught muscle as each one came open. By the fourth, he was hard and aching, every movement causing a glorious friction. His fingers kept slipping on the small buttons.

"Damn, I never thought anything'd be harder than a bra."

The angel smirked and with an unfair amount of control, undid the rest of the buttons himself. He sat up enough for Dean to pull the shirt off and toss it away. And then they fell together in a sprawl on the sand, following the path of pleasure wherever it might lead. The rest of their clothes vanished as they sought new ground, and new sensation.

Dean lay sprawled and sweating on the ground, pressing into the hands that formed his animated clay. ...Breake, blowe, burn, and make me new... Dean tugged Cas up so he could hold him. Roll. Lay his weight, grip his hands, and for once in his life worship at a house of God.

Dean watched his hand skim over Castiel's glowing, slick skin, searching. He licked his lower lip in anticipation, feeling his way down the angel's panting chest and along the plane of his stomach. Then up, skirting a smooth side. Cas jumped, and Dean smiled a wicked smile. He bent his head to a spot just above the other man's hip and flicked out his tongue. Castiel squirmed and let out a low rumble of laughter that no human ears had ever heard.

Dean lifted his head and glanced up to see Cas's eyes on him. Without looking away, he slowly lowered toward the spot again.

"Don't."

He paused, torn. Another lick would win him another laugh. He could make him writhe on the sand, if he wanted, and the image of Castiel flushed tasted like chocolate and cherries. But there was a challenge in the angel's eyes. A curious will that turned to longing the more the gaze stretched. It was the longing that did him in.

Dean sat back on his heels and waited.

When an outstretched hand beckoned, he was there, stretching the full length of their bodies, licking the sweat from Cas's neck. The angel tossed his arms wide, moaning and arching in a shadow of dance. He dug curling fingers into the ground as though to tether them both. Fought for air when their dicks touched and slid as Dean moved.

Words whispered on warm winds, and Dean ran his fingers through Castiel's hair, just to make it wild and wanton, even though it always looked like good sex. He sang a litany of pleas, trying to keep his hips still, and failing.

Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease. I will die if I do not do this.

Castiel gasped a "Yes." Whatever it is, whatever it is, yes.

Dean rolled him quickly onto his side, his brain flinging half formed thoughts about as his teeth found a soft spot on Cas's shoulder. Going to hell-forgot lube-condom-fuck-so beautiful.

As Castiel's pulse raced under his tongue, he suddenly understood the erotic fascination with vampires. If he could have drunk him in, that could only be heaven.

With nothing around them but dream sand and sky, Dean settled for spit. With a nervous hand, he covered himself as best he could and braced with one arm. His lizard mind screamed warnings that he would be caught, be seen. He swallowed and placed a kiss on the back of Castiel's neck. Dean fought for control as he pressed against Cas's bare, perfect ass. God, he had to do this right. Do this right or burn up trying. He moved one hand between them, taking care to rub and coax. Paused and muttered a warning into his ear. One finger, cautiously. Another. And if that hurt, Cas didn't seem to care. So he shifted to grip him around his waist. And groaned as he slid in.

Castiel's fingers bit into his arm. The angel's whole body tightened, and Dean stopped, panting.

"Relax... have to relax," he breathed, kissing from neck to shoulder. "Please, I can't-"

The grip eased. Muscle by muscle, he could feel Castiel unwind, careful and disciplined. He made love like he made war.

The first thrust was slow and exquisite. The angel threw back his head and moaned. He could have been sculpted from bliss.

The second picked up the pace. Dean concentrated on steady motion.

He lost count at the third.

Sweat poured down his back and evaporated into the night air, leaving Dean hot and chilled together. He'd taken Cas's dick in his hand and for every thrust, stroked. Cas writhed with the rhythm, slamming into his hand, bucking back.

Too soon. Dean bit his lip and tried to count or think of ice. But liquid pleasure boiled over, and he was racing. Too soon. He slowed. Cas wasn't ready, wasn't near close enough.

He pumped his hand harder, faster. But the angel shoved back against him anyway, calling his name.

"Too close," he breathed, pained.

Castiel made a strangled, frustrated sound, grinding his hips back. And Dean relented.

A few more thrusts into the wet, hot space, and he convulsed, grunting into Cas's shoulder and shuddering his climax. Forehead bent to Castiel's shoulder blade, he paused and panted, pulsing with aftershocks. In the seconds it took to regain himself, the angel's hand closed over his and forced him to stroke.

Dean could have laughed. Instead, he started rocking his hips with new urgency.

Castiel felt Dean's pace quicken and started to thrash, clutching ground and arm and strands of Dean's hair. He buried his hands in his own hair and moaned as a strange sensation built from nowhere. It felt insistent and feral, clawing its way upward, outward.

"Dean!" He gasped with fear and felt the man caress his shoulder with his cheek. "Something... wrong, this... I feel..."

"Like you're gonna fly apart."

He nodded in jerks. Dean's ragged breath bathed his ear. "Reach for it."

Castiel frowned and struggled in Dean's grip. He didn't know how to reach. But this thing, this wall, this yearning hurt. Dean's thrusts suddenly changed, his hand on his dick tightened, and the ball of screaming energy grew. In frustration, Castiel turned his attention to it.

This was how to reach.

Castiel came, crying out with his vessel's full throat. He doubled over.

Dean watched the angel's skin began to glow. Thin fissures spidered open, spilling brilliant light. It seared his eyes and the air vibrated with an aura of awesome majesty. Dean made a sound of shock and pain and roll quickly away to shield himself. He could feel the sudden emptiness behind him when the light winked out.

Breathing heavily, Dean opened his eyes and blinked. He cleaned his hand in glistening green dream sand slowly. And when he looked back, Castiel lay still, curled on his side.

Fear like an icicle dropped into Dean's gut. Oh, God. Maybe there was some Heavenly Host Anti-Orgasm Clause. He shouldn't have-should have known better.

"Cas?" Cautiously. No reply. "Castiel!" He grabbed the angel's shoulder and rolled him, heart beating against his ribs.

Cas unfurled his limbs like blossoming and stared. Dean stared back.

"I nearly hurt you," the angel's voice was small.

Relief left Dean weak. "You mean that light show?" Cas nodded. "Eh. I'm fine." He shrugged. "No harm, no foul, right?" He gazed down with a half smile that was returned with a slight grin. Crisis averted.

Satisfied, Dean laid himself on the sand, a familiar drowsiness taking hold. He felt Cas's fingers in his hair and shifted closer to pillow his head on the angel's shoulder.

For awhile, there was only the sound of crashing waves. Castiel glanced down at the top of Dean's head. The man was thinking so loudly that surely the stars could hear it.

"What?" he said at last.

Dean huffed. "I was just..."

Cas waited.

"You know I still like chicks, right?"

The angel chuckled and let his head fall back to the ground. "Yes, Dean."

He felt the man turn to look at him but then settle back. "N' you're okay with that."

"You are as you have always been." He ran his hand through Dean's damp hair.

"Not an answer."

Castiel sighed. "Are you asking me if I will be jealous?"

"Will you?"

"No."

Again he felt Dean turn to look at him. "Would it've killed you to say yes?" he muttered.

Castiel closed his eyes and sighed to his bones. "Go to sleep, Dean."

Under the quiet of the stars, for once, Dean listened.