There's a dingy place, a basement room, in this town where Dean and Sam are working a case. It's been a hard one — the Apocalypse grows closer daily, and every day makes the brothers' blood pressure rise. Following them has stopped being a privilege, not that it ever was — but ever since the incident with Famine two weeks ago, Castiel feels as uncertain as his charges must.

This entire world stands on the brink and teeters back and forth at the edge of the abyss, and so many other adequate analogies from the old books Sam's let Castiel read during their down time — The Lord of the Rings, Nietzsche, Dune, precious few others; a bilingual collection of Pablo Neruda that used to be Jessica's favorite. Paperbacks, all of them, with cracking spines and loose pages, and the faintest, lingering scent of the evil they survived in Sam and Jessica's apartment. Between stints of loaning them to Castiel, Sam keeps them stashed in duffel bags, under the Impala's seats, different places that Dean knows but that would be inconvenient for him to look.

Castiel doesn't quite know why they carry on like this. He doesn't like the way they have to lie to other people, just to survive, the way that everything in Dean and Sam's life seems to hinge on lying and this thing that Dean calls "credit card fraud." He doesn't like the motel rooms and the way that the gas station food, when Dean eats it, tends to make him sick. Sam, at least, has better taste — he sticks to vegetables, but that doesn't take away the stench of his brother's purported food, which makes. Maybe Jimmy isn't there to protest anymore, but his stomach still turns over at the mere smell of some of the things Dean brings home.

And Jimmy ... Castiel misses Jimmy in a way that he's only missed Anna and Uriel before. Understandably, he thinks. Jimmy's soul has moved on to Heaven since their tangle with Famine, and Castiel feels so empty now, so unfillably empty, as though he's had to amputate his wings. Not even falling into bed with Dean and taking the lead despite his confusion over these procedures, laying Dean back onto one of many rock-hard or too-soft grimy mattresses and administering to his every need, rocking their hips together, doing everything he can to make Dean come ... Castiel doesn't even feel better with what he calls "making love," what Dean insists on calling "catching a quick fuck whenever we can."

He doesn't understand why. He should feel better for this, for trying to put Dean right and heal his pain in the way that Dean has always seemed to enjoy.

Sometimes, Castiel wonders if Dean's right, if this fight is really worth his insomnia, his pain; Sam's sickness (the violent urges he tries to contain and the persistent nausea, muscle aches, and low-grade migraines that Castiel knows are psychosomatic), the constant temptation that demon blood gives him, the way he yearns for it regardless of how many nights his brother and Castiel stay awake to watch over him, just hoping that their vigils will make him calm down, ease the torment of the longing; Bobby's paralysis and his loneliness; Jo and Ellen Harvelle's lives; the holes all three of them are boring into their souls with liquor and misery. Castiel wonders what would happen if he bothered thinking on Gabriel long enough to find him, if they worked together to save the Winchesters, and Bobby, and enough people to avoid the negative side-effects of inbreeding. If they just abandoned the fight, as Gabriel did before, and made a new world somewhere else.

But these thoughts never lead anywhere productive, and so Castiel reads. He takes up a seat wherever he can in Sam and Dean's current room and goes through Sam's books — at first, he does so quickly, but after finishing them all three times or more, Castiel slows down. Reading for pleasure, or escapism in this case, shouldn't be handled like a surprise attack.

It's the sofa, tonight. Castiel curls up in a corner of it with Sam's book, and he does his best attempt at tuning out the world. As he makes gets into what Sam calls 'the best part' of Salem's Lot, though, Dean yanks it out of his hands. It thumps onto the sofa next to Castiel, and Dean drags him up without missing a beat; clenches his hand around Castiel's wrist and hauls him out the door.

Sam follows them for long enough to pause in the doorway, arch an eyebrow at the situation, and ask what the Hell is going on. Dean explains nothing about where they're going, when he says that he and Cas need to get out for a while. They climb in the Impala. They drive in silence for half an hour, and for once, Dean doesn't say a word when Castiel fusses with his collection of 'cassette tapes,' or 'out-dated nonsense.' Sam has used both terms to describe them and Dean refuses to clarify which is the more appropriate word, but Castiel knows that he has a fondness for the band 'Judas Priest.'

"Their name," he explains, "verges on blasphemy, but the music is quite pleasing, actually."

Dean says nothing. Only shrugs, makes a noncommittal noise, a half-cough. His knuckles go white on the steering wheel. Asking questions, Castiel thinks, is not the best course of action tonight, and so he stares at the road ahead of them, unaware as he starts humming and tapping his fingers on his thigh.

They drive another forty minutes before they come back into town, and Dean pulls up outside a building that insists upon how nondescript it is. The streetlight reflects off the sheen of grime. Castiel doesn't take note of the name, even though it's spelled out for them in red neon letters, just follows Dean down the stairs toward a private room. Castiel shuts the door behind them and takes note of their surroundings — cold, quiet, lonely. He feels other people's presence in the building, but he can't hear any of them and the design of the room is what the humans call soundproof.

Dean strips as if he's cleaning out his gun, or working on the Impala. Nothing warm, nothing passionate, just mechanical action of muscles stretching, contracting, shifting the bones and tendons around to get off his shirt and jacket, his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped. He holds onto the belt loops, kicks off his boots and sends them tumbling into the middle of the room, then lets his jeans fall off him. He leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor, but doesn't bother checking to see if Castiel's done the he does shiver — his shoulders hunch; the muscles in his back rustle like prowling wolves — he stretches out, and cracks his joints, his neck …

And from the way his stomach turns to see this, Castiel thinks that there's something he should say, some response that he should have beyond the sigh and the warm quiver that he gets in his stomach at the sight of Dean. Something for him to do besides gape at the sinewed glory of Dean's body — the scars here, and those ones there, all of them pale pink and fading; the clusters of freckles in the oddest places (on his cheeks, of course, but right above his tailbone as well, and in the middle of his ass — places Castiel wouldn't think would ever see sunlight for that long); and Castiel's own hand-print, still pink against Dean's skin, resistant to the normal aging process of scars, still burning there, in contrast to Dean's more golden hues.

But something's still so off about the Righteous Man, something that Castiel can't quite place, and he lets his eyes drift up and down Dean's body, looking for any clues as to what it is. All he manages is chiding himself for allowing Dean to get like this. Oh, he's beautiful in his angles and the way that he's so much more than the sum of his parts, the way that his soul transcends the construction of its casing — but underneath his musculature (normally lean enough on its own), there's a spareness, a longing for somethingand frustration with the continued lack of ... whatever it is that he needs. In everything from the eager twitch of his hands to the hollow, hungry look in his eyes, Castiel can see it itching at Dean's nerves, hating him for the fact that this desire goes unappeased.

But what does Dean need so badly, Castiel wonders, eyes lingering on Dean's arms as he flexes them, as he tries to work out more kinks in the joints, knots in the muscles — and why wouldn't he just trust Castiel enough to put these things right … Castiel has no idea. He just keeps looking at Dean, regardless of how he doesn't find an answer anywhere. Before Castiel can appreciate his body for too long, Dean takes him by the wrist and drags him over to the dirtiest looking corner where stands a cross — or at least it looks like one. An 'X' made out of black metal, waiting against the wall with rings and cuffs dangling off it at various locations.

Dean explains the process, but he doesn't need to; with only a cursory glance, Castiel discerns what Dean's objective is and how he means for this encounter to happen. And in perfect, unperturbed silence, Dean stands with his back to the thing. He closes his eyes, raises his arms and bends them at the elbows. His wrists knock into the metal, first because they're falling into place and then because he thumps them there once more, mutters something about making sure Cas is paying attention, knows what to do. When Castiel turns his gaze upward, though, Dean freezes, takes a deep breath, holds it — holds everything about himself perfectly still. He waits as though the thought of moving terrifies him.

Castiel sighs and fastens the leather bounds — yanks them so tight on Dean's wrists that he'll have marks there in the morning — he doesn't mean to do this, but trying to leave them at a more reasonable place gets Dean to pull a face and grouse at him. This makes no sense to Castiel, and as he moves lower down the cross, doing up the cuffs on Dean's ankles, Cas only wonders what on earth could possess anyone to enjoy this. But he kneels before Dean anyway — still clothed while Dean goes naked, checking the bindings, caressing the muscles of Dean's thighs … Nothing seems out of place. As Cas returns to standing, ghosts his hand back up Dean's side, he murmurs an old Enochian blessing he remembers — And, Father, bless this union, may it never—

Dean rattles against his encasings; metal clangs against metal and his deep breath comes out ragged. "If you want to go to a poetry reading," he says, "just ... I'll take you to one next week, alright?"

And then it all makes sense, in some meeting of tone and the way Dean's lips quiver, the way his eyes try and fail not to mist over: he doesn't want to think anymore.

Castiel nods and undoes his tie. He takes it as a good sign that Dean doesn't fight him using it as a blindfold, and with his silent permission, Castiel fastens it around Dean's eyes, does up a knot that he's certain won't allow Dean any opportunity to pull out something creative. Not that he could — Castiel knows the locations of Dean's lock-picks, box-cutters, and other secret tools, and all of them are back in his clothes and boots. But Dean wants this — he wants to feel as though the situation's out of his hands — so Castiel plays along: he makes sure that light can't get past the blindfold easily, and once it's secured, he slips a hand behind Dean's head, snakes his fingers over the short hairs on Dean's neck. He jerks Dean down into a kiss.

Dean yields. Wherever Castiel slides his lips, Dean's almost retreat. They don't fight, only allow Castiel to push them around — in the rare instances when they break this pattern, they seem to move not of their own accord, but if they've been ordered to — plaint, and conforming, and they try to bend so they accommodate Castiel's mouth. His tongue slips underneath Castiel's instead of tangling with it, and he groans when Castiel bites his lower lip, but he does nothing else in response. In their restraints, his arms slacken — Castiel brushes his nose down Dean's face, runs a thumb along Dean's cheek; he takes a deep breath of Dean's scent, salty and sweaty and with a whiskey sting behind it.

And even though he skims his hand over Dean's arm, he feels it: Dean's allowed himself to go limp.

He doesn't move except to breathe. He rests most of his weight back against the cross, as though he needs permission to stand upright; his knees, likewise, are slack beneath him, supporting his weight only as much as they need to, and the rigidity in Dean's legs tries to hide from view, but Castiel can make it out. It has to be there; it must take so much effort for Dean not to stand at attention. He doesn't acknowledge that, though, not even when Castiel drops a hand to caress a scar on Dean's thigh.

He isn't hard, either. Castiel nuzzles down Dean's chest as he lowers himself to his knees — trails his hands, nose, mouth over all the places where Dean's bones are more obvious than they used to be — and he gets down to Dean's dick to find it corpse-stagnant, flaccid — and Castiel wonders if he's somehow neglected anything that he's supposed to do for this human who refuses to leave his thoughts. One of his hands caresses Dean's hip, fingers nestle into the angles as if in a second home; and the other hand, Castiel takes to Dean's member, running one finger, then another, up and down the shaft in slow, tender motions. He teases at the underside, brushes his thumb across the head, cups Dean's balls and waits for any kind of sign that this approach is working.

He gets no reaction, mumbles a string of curses in Enochian. Something's wrong — what is he doing wrong?

Castiel turns his gaze up to Dean and mutters his name — but Dean just shakes his head. "It's fine," he huffs. "Just ... can we cut the lovey-dovey shit already?"

Castiel does not know what Dean means by that.

Dean sighs. "Yeah, you do, Cas — come on, don't even pretend like you don't, okay? You know what I mean and just ... harder, okay? Harder or rougher or whatever it is you need to think you're being — just be. that."

Castiel frowns and smacks Dean's side. This elicits no response — or rather, Dean steels his eyes and forces his lips together into a non-expression; and, experimenting with where he's allowed to take this encounter, he repeats the process, smacks a flat palm and splayed fingers against the skin and bone and muscles around Dean's hip, and just a little bit above. Dean winces, but the noise that comes with it is not a gasp of pain, but a moan, accompanied by a quiver between Dean's legs.

Castiel's brow furrows without his consent as he asks, "... Is that what you want me to be for you?"

And he's not sure what he expects from Dean, but it certainly isn't the response: yeah, like that — just like that. But harder, got it? And Castiel questions this desire without vocalizing it. Keeps his opinions to himself and hits Dean again — harder, like Dean's asked of him, with more of his force, more of his angelic power, behind him. At the groan he gets, he gives Dean another swat, but doesn't leave his hand on Dean's hip; instead, he slides it around to the small of Dean's back.

He digs his nails into Dean's skin, using that grip for balance as he rises to his feet; Dean groans, but the sound of it gives Castiel pause. Rakes against his ears — he grits his teeth and tries to recover, moves his hand along Dean's skin and back to his hip, but the sound of Dean's voice straining still rings in Castiel's ears. Humans shouldn't have been designed to make such noises. Questioning his Father comes easier to him now than Castiel ever thought it would — and it's nothing less than that, finding flaws in humans' construction — Castiel drags himself back to the scene before him by gripping onto the scarred shape of his handprint on Dean's shoulder. He holds so fast that he feels all of Dean's muscles, the ghosts of Dean's bones rubbing underneath his fingers.

But realization hits Castiel as he feels the warm, gnawing sensation of his cock getting hard, the yearning and the frenzy of oh, Father, please, now, need, want, Dean building as his heart starts racing and as his Grace pushes against the boundaries of his body, just wanting to be close to Dean. Arousal, after all, is why they're here — and why they make time for these private moments, even while any energies are best spent averting Armageddon. Castiel sighs as he grinds against Dean, as warmth floods his belly, then his chest — he leans into Dean's chest, only barely remembers not to nuzzle at Dean's neck but to give him a trail of fierce, hungry kisses, filled up with the gnashing of teeth.

He works each spot over, intent on leaving behind his marks, forcing Dean to wear high collars to hide the bruises or else display the evidence of their relationship to everyone. Castiel gets lost in the moment, so much preferable to how lost he's been in search of his Father, and he wants everyone to know that Dean Winchester is his. That he is Dean's until his Father resurfaces, and most likely even after that — despite their myriad miscommunications, Dean and Sam have supported Castiel when his Father hasn't. Dean has taught him so much — made him feel so much, awoken such instincts in him … Castiel would even, if Dean consented to it, allow his Grace to meet Dean's soul, make a union of them, however briefly.

But for now, they only have their bodies and this bond between them, whatever it is — and these are more than enough for Castiel. He presses into Dean, chests and hips falling together, and he rubs against Dean in time with their heartbeats. He slips one of his own legs between Dean's and rubs against Dean's thigh, and it takes him a moment to notice, but Dean doesn't move with him, against him, or at all.

Things between them aren't meant to be like this — that suspicion lingers in the back of Castiel's mind as he grinds his fingers against Dean's shoulders, grips onto him and knocks him back into the cross. Every time Dean hisses, oh God, Cas, yes — just like that — can you just — come on, I know you've got more in you than that, Castiel feels his Grace twisting around inside of him. And his stomach turns over several times at the whole situation. At the way that Dean knots his brow when Castiel forces his palm against Dean's ribcage, without the force he'd need to break any of the bones but hard enough that they creak beneath him.

At the frozen shudder that Dean gives when Castiel grinds into his hips, sends both of their bodies clattering into the cross and sets Dean's wrists knocking into their bounds, rocks the cross on its foundations and makes the bolts holding it to the floor groan — but pointedly doesn't break them. At how he moves against Dean with such ferocity that he can feel his own skin chafing under his shirt's stiff fabric, but Dean still does nothing. At how, even though he shivers like there's ice around his bones, Dean leans his head back and moans; at how his expressions are clearly lost in joy, even though it distorts his features and casts a manic, desperate light on them.

At how, when he snakes a hand behind Dean's head and shoves their mouths together, when he grates his teeth down Dean's lip, plumbs his tongue so far back that he just misses Dean's throat, kisses as though he means to consume Dean's face, Dean's lips only move to accomodate the ministrations of Castiel's own.

Castiel pulls back, his own insides frosting over, his expression even, unruffled, although he feels anything but. He glances down in time to see another twitch of Dean's cock … but it doesn't get hard. Not even close. "You enjoy this," he says, and digs his nails into the skin of Dean's shoulder that still bares his scar; this gets Dean's cock started on stiffening, and though it doesn't fall, it still doesn't harden completely, even when Castiel holds his grip.

The rationale behind all of this seems so obvious now that Castiel can't believe he missed it. He jerks his hand off of Dean's "You enjoy being hurt."

"What? No—" Dean falls silent as Castiel slides the tie down and off of his eyes.

"Then what is it, Dean? Please, explain this to me ... because it looks as though you wish for me to hurt you." Dean says nothing in response; he just ducks his eyes away from Castiel's and, guiltily, swallows. Slipping a finger underneath Dean's chin, Castiel nudges his face back up, just enough for them to make eye contact — and he may be far from Heaven now, it may be harder for him to access Heaven's power, but he summons up the will to look inside of Dean — and he doesn't need to keep that connection up for long. Dean's thoughts are clear enough.

With a flick of his wrist, he undoes Dean's bindings, and he catches Dean when he comes toppling forward. In a rush of feathers, Castiel returns them to the motel, settles them on Dean's bed; Dean's clothes land in a heap at the foot of the bed, and it takes Castiel the blink of an eye to make sure that the Impala is safe outside. Sam's asleep, and he thinks it's for the best. Most likely, Dean doesn't want his brother to see this, to see him naked and reclining against his angel, sinking into the bed while Castiel mutters healing spells in Enochian, strokes Dean's hair with one hand and ghosts the other up and down Dean's arm, just praying, Father … Father, please help Dean.

Please. Help him.