Fic: Am I Origami, SPN, Dean/Castiel
Nov. 8th, 2009 05:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonlettuceI originally wrote this for the Renegade Angels challenge over on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
deancastiel, but never actually got around to posting it here.
Title: Am I Origami
Author: Claire
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tracy_loo_who
Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Set after the resolution of the Lucifer arc. There are no spoilers, though, since I don't know any.
Word Count: 4,059
Notes/Prompt(s): I went for the following prompt: Multiple Deans and/or Castiels via time travel shenanigans. Mainly because the thought made me grin. Hope you enjoy ::grin:: The title is a line from the Eve 6 song Inside Out.
Summary: In which there is Dean. And then another one.
Am I Origami
If anybody ever asks, Sam will deny to his dying day that the phrase "Gnahh!" passed his lips when Dean appeared in Bobby's living room, as normally Sam tended not to have that reaction to seeing Dean. Granted, there was that one time when they'd exorcised a ghost from a circus and he'd found Dean with the Amazing Flying Triplets, but Sam felt he was totally justified in that reaction given the scenario that had been in front of him. It had taken weeks for the mental image to fade, and if there's one thing Sam doesn't ever want to know it's how his brother got to be that flexible in the first place. He's also pretty sure he doesn't want to know what they did with the jello afterwards.
To give Sam his due, it's not every day people just appear in front of him. (If there'd been a puff of smoke and the faint sound of swearing it would have been just like the magician at Philip Darcy's birthday party he'd gone to when he was eight. It had been the one time they'd actually stayed anywhere long enough for Sam to be invited to a birthday party, so the memory had stuck. Right down to the fact that he'd yelled and made Mr Magic have a coughing fit by throwing salt in his face. Philip Darcy had been in tears afterwards, but Dad had bought him pizza for having such a quick reaction time.) But, middle-aged postmen who were trying to supplement their incomes aside, the appearing thing tended not to happen, not unless whoever it was who was appearing had been possessed by an angel first. Of course, Sam doubts if Dean would let any angel take up residence inside him unless it was Castiel, and since Dean seems pretty damn fond of the body Cas already has (not that Dean's admitting that to himself, never mind admitting it to Sam), Sam figures that theory's out of the window.
"Dean?"
"Sam? Where--" The word trails off as Dean glances around the room, emotions filtering across his features, running from confusion through comprehension before finally settling on annoyance. "Ah, fuck, I hate witches."
"Wit--"
Sam doesn't even get the word out, because how the hell had Dean managed to get involved with witches when 30 minutes ago he'd been outside working on the junkers in the yard, when the What the ever lovin' fuck? reaches him.
Sam looks over to the door leading to Bobby's kitchen. Looks over to Bobby standing there with a beer in his hand and Dean with a hamburger half-way to his mouth, staring at his doppelganger.
"What the hell did you do now, Sammy?"
"I didn't do anything! He just appeared!" And why was it always Sam who had to have done something. It wasn't as though he'd just spontaneously developed freaky mutant people replicating abilities. Okay, he had been thinking of Dean when the other Dean had appeared but that doesn't mean anything. Especially since the Dana Scully, Dana Scully, Dana Scully running through his head doesn't seem to be landing her in Sam's lap.
"What do you mean, you didn't do anything?" Dean's frowning as he walks forward, hamburger forgotten as he waves his hand in the air,and a blob of mustard flies out to land on Sam's laptop. "You've got to have done something, Sam. People don't just appear out of thin air!"
"This one did!" And if Dean's killed any of the keys on his laptop with condiments again, he's going to strangle him in his sleep. He had enough hassle the last time he had to type without the 'd' for three weeks.
"I'm right here, y'know--"
Great, now he's got two pissy Deans.
"I didn't--"
"Er--"
"You had--"
"I really don't feel too--"
"What the fuck--"
"Sam!"
Bobby's shout cuts through the argument and Sam turns just in time to catch the Dean who may or may not be Dean before he hits the floor, just managing to manoeuvre him onto the couch.
"Sam?" Bobby's eyeing him. He's also eyeing the Dean Sam's settling onto the couch and throwing not so subtle glances to the Dean standing next to him.
The not unconscious Dean frowns. "Quit it, Bobby. I'm me, okay?"
"I think he fainted," Sam says.
"Fainted? That just proves I'm the real one."
Bobby just harrumphs at Dean's comment and goes to get the holy water, still eyeing Dean (both of them) suspiciously as he returns, flask in his hand. "Here."
Dean sighs dramatically, making a show of taking the flask and knocking back a swig of the liquid inside. "See?" he says smugly after no writhing in agony occurs. "Told you I was me."
"Maybe so, boy, but that still doesn't explain him." Bobby nods towards his couch, where the second Dean is still unconscious, as he screws the lid back on the flask and throws it to Sam.
There's a fine art to getting someone who's unconscious to drink, Sam feels, but he's been in the position of having to give both Dean and his Dad liquid painkillers at various points, so at least it's something he's got experience in. Still, most of the water ends up under Dean? Not Dean? Random Dean-like thing? and soaking into the couch. Enough goes down his throat though, and they all wait.
"Well, that was an anti-climax," Dean comments when there's no agonized writhing this time, either. "Shapeshifter?" he suggests. "Trickster? Someone who just happens to have been blessed with the exact same stunning good looks as me?"
"Actually, Dean, he really is you."
"Cas!" Dean exclaims, as Sam turns to see Castiel standing in the doorway next to-- "And Cas--"
"This might take a bit of explaining." Sam figures the Castiel who's just spoken is the one that came with the Dean on the couch if the looks he's throwing in their direction is any indication.
"I'll get the whiskey," Bobby says.
~
Dean hates witches. Hates them with a passion. Hates their potions and their spells and their cats that try to trip him up every time he's trying to kill one. But most of all, he hates the way they feel totally at ease with fucking up his life. There he is, minding his own goddamn business and then bam, a trio of insane witches drops another you in your lap.
"I hate witches."
"Tell me about it," the other him commiserates.
And Dean has to concede that, yes, as weird as this is for him, it's got to be a thousand times worse for, well, him. After all, the last thing he'd expect on a standard witch hunt is a spell that would throw him five years into his own past, so he's not surprised he didn't see it coming, that he didn't see enough to duck the spell that enveloped him and Castiel and sent them hurtling back to their counterparts.
"And this'll only last a day?" Bobby asks.
The Cas that isn't his nods. "Yes. 24 hours at the most."
"Thank god for that," Bobby mutters. "We've got enough keepin' one of him out of trouble without throwin' another into the mix for any length of time."
Bobby looks too damn relieved, and Dean thinks he should work up the energy to be pissed that apparently he's just that much effort but he's too busy trying to not look freaked facing a him that's not him but will be in a few years. There's at least one new scar and a couple of wrinkles that Dean's trying not to notice. He's still a good looking bastard, though.
"Are you sure you can't tell us anything about how it goes?"
The other them (and, fuck, Dean's getting a headache just trying to not think of them as him and Cas. Because they're not. Except in all the ways that they absolutely are) glance at each other, soft shake from Castiel's head (because that's how he's doing it. Cas and Castiel. His Cas and Not-His's Castiel.)
"Nothing?"
And, Christ, Sam's brought out the pout. Although apparently the intervening years are going to render him immune to all forms of 'Sam eyes' because Not-Him is just grinning.
"Sorry, Sammy."
Even with the silence coming from the other side of the table, Dean's pretty sure they can determine some things out themselves. And, hell, at least he knows they all get through whatever shit's about to be thrown at them in the next five years. Although, after facing down Lucifer and surviving, hopefully whatever those years do bring will be a walk in the fucking park. Possibly with a picnic.
"Not even the lottery numbers?"
Castiel looks at him, not even voicing the bitch, please that's obviously running through his head, as Dean finishes off his beer.
~
"Sam! Have you seen him, me, the other me?"
Sam doesn't answer, waving a hand at Dean as he continues to write, mumbling under his breath in Latin as he translates.
"They went outside," Bobby says, from his position on the couch. "Boy was as bad as you for getting' underfoot, so I sent him to work on one of the trucks." He looks up from the book next to him. "You ain't about to ask for those damn lottery numbers again?" he asks suspiciously.
"No--" Dean answers, turning away and heading out of the door before Bobby can call him on the blatant lie.
Dean shivers as he steps out of the door, the faint chill raising gooseflesh on his arms. The truck Not-Him has been working on is abandoned, hood up and parts scattered around. At the other end of the yard, a figure is lying in the hood of one of junkers, jacket off and arms outstretched against the slight bite in the air.
When Not-Him sits up, Dean thinks he's been heard. Door closing, boots on dirt, it could have been anything that gave away that he was there. But the other guy's not looking at him, not looking in his direction at all, with his face tilted towards the sky.
There's a beat, a second of silence, before Castiel appears, looking as unruffled in five year's time as he does now.
Part of Dean says he should call out, make himself known, but he doesn't. Just stands there and watches. Watches as Castiel moves closer. Watches as Not-Him reaches out, fists bunching in Castiel's coat as he pulls him forward the rest of the way. Watches as their lips meet.
There's the sound of the door opening behind him, and the approaching footfalls get louder until Sam's by his side.
"Dean, wh-- are you kissing the angel?" Sam asks, disbelief and wonder colouring his words. "That-- actually explains a lot."
Dean's looking at Sam, because he's sure Sammy just said that Not-Him kissing Not-Cas explains a lot, only Dean's not sure what sucking face with an angel could actually explain. "What the hell do you think it explains?" Because, seriously, Dean wants to hear this one.
"It explains why Cas is still around."
"Because he was one of the ones who chose to stay behind." Because even though they won, there's still a hell of a lot of clean-up to do.
"It explains why Cas is still hanging around us instead of saying 'Thanks, now I'm off to find some demons to kill,' like the other angels did."
"We're Hunters. Who stopped the Apocalypse. He doesn't need to look elsewhere. Trust me, we're friggin' demon magnets."
"It explains why you touch him so damn much. What with the reaching and the petting and the watching him all the time."
Images of Dean's hand on Cas's shoulder, of his fingers wrapped around Cas's wrist, spring to mind. "I don't pet him," Dean mutters, resolutely ignoring the muffled snort of amusement coming from his freak of a brother.
"Well, even if you don't," Sam says, tone making it perfectly clear that he think, yes, Dean does have a habit of petting Cas, "looks like the other you has no problem with it."
Sam just grins at the glare Dean sends him. "He was also flaked on the couch earlier, Sammy. Doesn't mean I'm about to start goin' around fainting like a chick, unlike some people."
"You do realize that's yourself you're mocking?" And damn Sam for sounding so reasonable. "Maybe in five years time you fainting and planting one on Cas is a regular thing."
The "I'm going to hurt you," is thrown over Dean's shoulder as he heads (and no, he isn't stomping, he's merely walking more forcefully than normal) back into the house.
"Of course you are, Dean." Even the words are carrying Sam's amusement.
"When you least expect it. Bitch."
The door slamming drowns out Sam's response.
~
The thing is, Dean hasn't been able to get it out of his mind. The other them have been gone for two days now, back to whatever the future holds (which, apparently, includes a lot of nakedness, his mind supplies helpfully), and for two days all he's been able to think about is how soft Cas's lips would be. Screw it. Screw witches and screw time-travelling hims who think it's funny to fuck with his head by fucking with his angel.
"Fuck!" he mutters, dropping the gun he's been running a cloth over for ten minutes onto the table with the others and standing up.
"Dean?" Sam looks up from the knife he's sharpening.
"Just goin' for some air, Sammy," he says, not waiting for a response as he heads towards the front door.
"Cas?" he whispers harshly as soon as the door is closed behind him, each step carrying him further from Bobby's house. "I know you're listening. Get your ass down here!"
But he's already there, sitting on the hood of the same truck the other Dean had been on two days ago, the light from the spotlight in the yard casting him in shadow.
"Did you know?" Dean asks, as he walks towards him. "About them? About us?"
Cas doesn't answer as he looks at Dean. He doesn't need to, Dean can read all the answers he needs in blue.
Dean scrubs a hand over his face as he glances down briefly. So much has happened in the past few years that Dean would never have imagined. Fuck, if you'd told him that an angel would risk everything to pull him, Dean Winchester, out of hell, then he would have fucking laughed. Sammy, yes. But not him. Not with all the shit he's done in his life.
But Cas did. He came into Hell and he pulled Dean out. And, yes, he was a dick when he first faced Dean afterwards, but he came through. He fucking faced down his brothers, faced down Heaven, because he believed in Dean. Outside of his family, outside of Sam and his Dad and Bobby, no one's ever done that before. No one's ever had that much belief, not just in what Dean was doing, but in Dean.
Cas is the one who risked it all. He's the one who risked his family turning their backs on him. And he did it for Dean.
Cas is-- his.
"Dean?" It's the first word Cas has said since Dean found him out here, ass on a beaten-up old junker, with the light from Bobby's barely illuminating him. It's the first word he's said and it sounds so fucking unsure
"Damn it, Cas--" Dean is moving before he even thinks about it, closing the distance between them and pressing their lips together.
Cas is stiff in his arms and for a brief moment, for one brief, fucking horrible moment, Dean thinks that he's made the biggest mistake of his life. Even though he knows. Even though, in five years time, they won't even think about it before reaching out, before touching. And then Cas's hands are gripping his arms and he's kissing Dean back, sure and steady and tongue lapping along Dean's lower lip, asking for entry.
"I want--" The words are mumbled against Dean's mouth, gasps between breath that ghosts over Dean's lips. "I want--"
"Anything," Dean says. And he means it. Because Dean's been ignoring this for too long. Has been pushing aside the fact that he's wanted to lay Cas down on the nearest bed and bury himself inside for too fucking long. Pushed it aside for Sam, for Lucifer, for the friggin' Apocalypse, but not any more. Because Sam's alive and Bobby's alive and Lucifer's buried and the Apocalypse is done. Done and gone. It's game over and the fat chick stopped singing nearly a year ago now. And Cas is still here. Still here and not leaving and Dean's. And Dean's fucking well keeping him.
"You--" Cas finally says. "I want you--" The words are thick on his tongue, heavy and careful and all Dean can think is fuck, yes--. Fuck, yes, because his cock is hard and Cas is wanting and Dean is fucking there.
"Bed," Dean manages to get out, the word barely dying in the air before there's a rustle of wings and the feel of wind and they're in Bobby's spare room, covers on the bed still rumpled from where Dean didn't make it this morning.
Cas tastes like strawberries, rich and tart and smooth, as Dean moves him back to the bed. His hands are working at their clothes, too slow and too clumsy until Cas wraps his fingers around Dean's wrists and lifts one of Dean's hands to his mouth, lips wrapping around Dean's fingers, laving the skin with his tongue.
Coming back with renewed attention, Dean finds his fingers working and their clothes scatter around the room, lying where they fall.
The mattress squeaks slightly when they fall onto it, Dean's hands at either side of Cas's head as he leans down to recapture Cas's lips.
This is what they've been working towards since that first day, since Cas gripped him tight and dragged him back from Hell, broken and fighting and incomplete.
Dean doesn't break the kiss as he reaches out, hand finding the tube on the small cabinet next to the bed without having to look. Because he's Dean, and the lube was never going to be anywhere else but within easy reaching distance.
Cas is under him, legs spread and cock hard and skin flushed and--
"Please--"
Dean's cock jumps at Cas's voice, jumps like Cas is fucking Pavlov. The snap of the tube opening is a counterbalance to their breathing and Cas shudders as Dean squirts lube onto his stomach, cold and slick.
"Sorry," Dean smirks, even though he's not, even though the look Cas is giving him says the angel knows he isn't.
He swipes his fingers through the lube, smearing some across Cas's belly. The grip on his arm tightens as Dean's fingers slide into Cas, pushing through muscle and into tight and hot and fucking perfect.
His fingers twist and Cas gasps. And it's too much and not enough and Dean needs to be buried in Cas right the fuck now.
He slicks his cock with the rest of the lube, light and patchy because he's two seconds away from coming over Cas's stomach, and that ain't happening until he's so far inside Cas the angel's never getting rid of him.
Cas shifts, hand under a knee as he opens himself to Dean. Guiding his cock to Cas's ass, Dean pauses, cockhead resting against Cas's body and heat spreading through him.
Cas looks at him, fucking looks at him, long moments passing before Cas finally breaks. "Dean, move--" And Dean's heard Cas sound completely calm when he's surrounded by demons, heard him sound like the fury of God was running through him when he saw Dean go down under a pile of black smoke, but this is the first time he's ever heard him wrecked, voice breaking and fingers pressing bruises into Dean's flesh where he's holding his arm.
Dean runs his fingers through Cas's hair, lube making the strands sticky, as he pushes, cock sliding into Cas in one, sliding in until his balls are against Cas's ass and Dean's seeing fucking Heaven.
And, Christ, he's not going to last long, can't last long, not with Cas under him and begging him to move, not when his entire body is buzzing with need and want.
He pulls out, slowly, carefully, until just the head of his cock is still seated in Cas. There's a beat, two, until he lowers his head, mouth catching Cas's and tongue sliding across his lower lip, sliding into Cas's mouth at the same time he snaps his hips forward, swallowing the breath forced out of Cas's body. And now he's started, he can't stop, driving into Cas in a way he's wanted to, needed to, for too fucking long.
Cas's cock is trapped between them, hard against their stomachs as Dean fucks him, flesh rubbing over flesh. Adjusting his angle so he can get a hand between them, Dean wraps his fingers around Cas's cock, jerking him, striping his cock in time with the thrusts into his body. There's a keening sound in the air and it's a moment before Dean realises it's coming from Cas, eyes blown and head back, throat bared.
There's heat gathering in his belly, pooling into him with each noise Cas makes, with each thrust into Cas's body. And when Cas's hand moves up his arm, moves to cover the brand on his shoulder that marks him as Cas's, that marks Cas as his, the heat explodes out of him. He's barely holding himself up when he comes, want and need and yes running out of him and into Cas. And Dean's still emptying himself into Cas when heat floods between them, covering sweat-slick skin as Cas comes, sticky over Dean's fingers.
And if Sam and Bobby hadn't realised they were back in the house then they know it now, silence shattered by discovering that Cas is a screamer.
Dean's still shuddering when he collapses, body blanketing Cas and trusting that Cas can move mountains so he isn't about to find 175lbs of Dean Winchester heavy.
There are words he wants to say, ones he hasn't wanted to say since it was Cassie in the bed with him, but his mind is stuck on yes and Cas and gnuh, stuck on stay and please and mine. Lips brush against his temple and the soft And I, Dean, whispers across his skin before he closes his eyes.
~
Dean winces as he opens his eyes, the light streaming in through the window too damn bright. The other side of the bed is still empty, which means Cas isn't back from helping Michael dispatch the group of demons Jophiel had tracked to Montana, which also means the morning blowjob Dean had been hoping for was out of the question. (It also means that Dean needs to remember to tell Michael that he doesn't appreciate him just turning up in the bedroom at 3-fucking-am and dragging Cas off. Yes, it's Cas's job, but Michael calling Cas has never needed a personal visit before and Dean doubts it needed one now. It especially didn't need Michael's comment about Dean's ass. Fucking pervy-ass angel.)
Since the likelihood of Sam bringing him breakfast in bed is about the same as Sam dressing in pink taffeta and singing about how he's a whiny little bitch, Dean figures it's easier just to get out of bed.
Grabbing his jeans off the floor from where they'd landed last night, he drags them on, frowning when they crinkle as he pulls them over his ass. Sticking his hand in his back pocket, Dean draws out the folded piece of paper he finds. It takes him a few seconds to realise what he's looking at, at first. Six numbers and a date about eight months from now in a scrawl that's his, but isn't. Six numbers in his hand and an angel in his bed. Dean just grins. Maybe he'll give any witches they find a free pass for now. Well, for the next five years, anyway.
End
deancastiel, but never actually got around to posting it here.Title: Am I Origami
Author: Claire
Recipient:
tracy_loo_whoPairing: Dean/Castiel, Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Set after the resolution of the Lucifer arc. There are no spoilers, though, since I don't know any.
Word Count: 4,059
Notes/Prompt(s): I went for the following prompt: Multiple Deans and/or Castiels via time travel shenanigans. Mainly because the thought made me grin. Hope you enjoy ::grin:: The title is a line from the Eve 6 song Inside Out.
Summary: In which there is Dean. And then another one.
Am I Origami
If anybody ever asks, Sam will deny to his dying day that the phrase "Gnahh!" passed his lips when Dean appeared in Bobby's living room, as normally Sam tended not to have that reaction to seeing Dean. Granted, there was that one time when they'd exorcised a ghost from a circus and he'd found Dean with the Amazing Flying Triplets, but Sam felt he was totally justified in that reaction given the scenario that had been in front of him. It had taken weeks for the mental image to fade, and if there's one thing Sam doesn't ever want to know it's how his brother got to be that flexible in the first place. He's also pretty sure he doesn't want to know what they did with the jello afterwards.
To give Sam his due, it's not every day people just appear in front of him. (If there'd been a puff of smoke and the faint sound of swearing it would have been just like the magician at Philip Darcy's birthday party he'd gone to when he was eight. It had been the one time they'd actually stayed anywhere long enough for Sam to be invited to a birthday party, so the memory had stuck. Right down to the fact that he'd yelled and made Mr Magic have a coughing fit by throwing salt in his face. Philip Darcy had been in tears afterwards, but Dad had bought him pizza for having such a quick reaction time.) But, middle-aged postmen who were trying to supplement their incomes aside, the appearing thing tended not to happen, not unless whoever it was who was appearing had been possessed by an angel first. Of course, Sam doubts if Dean would let any angel take up residence inside him unless it was Castiel, and since Dean seems pretty damn fond of the body Cas already has (not that Dean's admitting that to himself, never mind admitting it to Sam), Sam figures that theory's out of the window.
"Dean?"
"Sam? Where--" The word trails off as Dean glances around the room, emotions filtering across his features, running from confusion through comprehension before finally settling on annoyance. "Ah, fuck, I hate witches."
"Wit--"
Sam doesn't even get the word out, because how the hell had Dean managed to get involved with witches when 30 minutes ago he'd been outside working on the junkers in the yard, when the What the ever lovin' fuck? reaches him.
Sam looks over to the door leading to Bobby's kitchen. Looks over to Bobby standing there with a beer in his hand and Dean with a hamburger half-way to his mouth, staring at his doppelganger.
"What the hell did you do now, Sammy?"
"I didn't do anything! He just appeared!" And why was it always Sam who had to have done something. It wasn't as though he'd just spontaneously developed freaky mutant people replicating abilities. Okay, he had been thinking of Dean when the other Dean had appeared but that doesn't mean anything. Especially since the Dana Scully, Dana Scully, Dana Scully running through his head doesn't seem to be landing her in Sam's lap.
"What do you mean, you didn't do anything?" Dean's frowning as he walks forward, hamburger forgotten as he waves his hand in the air,and a blob of mustard flies out to land on Sam's laptop. "You've got to have done something, Sam. People don't just appear out of thin air!"
"This one did!" And if Dean's killed any of the keys on his laptop with condiments again, he's going to strangle him in his sleep. He had enough hassle the last time he had to type without the 'd' for three weeks.
"I'm right here, y'know--"
Great, now he's got two pissy Deans.
"I didn't--"
"Er--"
"You had--"
"I really don't feel too--"
"What the fuck--"
"Sam!"
Bobby's shout cuts through the argument and Sam turns just in time to catch the Dean who may or may not be Dean before he hits the floor, just managing to manoeuvre him onto the couch.
"Sam?" Bobby's eyeing him. He's also eyeing the Dean Sam's settling onto the couch and throwing not so subtle glances to the Dean standing next to him.
The not unconscious Dean frowns. "Quit it, Bobby. I'm me, okay?"
"I think he fainted," Sam says.
"Fainted? That just proves I'm the real one."
Bobby just harrumphs at Dean's comment and goes to get the holy water, still eyeing Dean (both of them) suspiciously as he returns, flask in his hand. "Here."
Dean sighs dramatically, making a show of taking the flask and knocking back a swig of the liquid inside. "See?" he says smugly after no writhing in agony occurs. "Told you I was me."
"Maybe so, boy, but that still doesn't explain him." Bobby nods towards his couch, where the second Dean is still unconscious, as he screws the lid back on the flask and throws it to Sam.
There's a fine art to getting someone who's unconscious to drink, Sam feels, but he's been in the position of having to give both Dean and his Dad liquid painkillers at various points, so at least it's something he's got experience in. Still, most of the water ends up under Dean? Not Dean? Random Dean-like thing? and soaking into the couch. Enough goes down his throat though, and they all wait.
"Well, that was an anti-climax," Dean comments when there's no agonized writhing this time, either. "Shapeshifter?" he suggests. "Trickster? Someone who just happens to have been blessed with the exact same stunning good looks as me?"
"Actually, Dean, he really is you."
"Cas!" Dean exclaims, as Sam turns to see Castiel standing in the doorway next to-- "And Cas--"
"This might take a bit of explaining." Sam figures the Castiel who's just spoken is the one that came with the Dean on the couch if the looks he's throwing in their direction is any indication.
"I'll get the whiskey," Bobby says.
~
Dean hates witches. Hates them with a passion. Hates their potions and their spells and their cats that try to trip him up every time he's trying to kill one. But most of all, he hates the way they feel totally at ease with fucking up his life. There he is, minding his own goddamn business and then bam, a trio of insane witches drops another you in your lap.
"I hate witches."
"Tell me about it," the other him commiserates.
And Dean has to concede that, yes, as weird as this is for him, it's got to be a thousand times worse for, well, him. After all, the last thing he'd expect on a standard witch hunt is a spell that would throw him five years into his own past, so he's not surprised he didn't see it coming, that he didn't see enough to duck the spell that enveloped him and Castiel and sent them hurtling back to their counterparts.
"And this'll only last a day?" Bobby asks.
The Cas that isn't his nods. "Yes. 24 hours at the most."
"Thank god for that," Bobby mutters. "We've got enough keepin' one of him out of trouble without throwin' another into the mix for any length of time."
Bobby looks too damn relieved, and Dean thinks he should work up the energy to be pissed that apparently he's just that much effort but he's too busy trying to not look freaked facing a him that's not him but will be in a few years. There's at least one new scar and a couple of wrinkles that Dean's trying not to notice. He's still a good looking bastard, though.
"Are you sure you can't tell us anything about how it goes?"
The other them (and, fuck, Dean's getting a headache just trying to not think of them as him and Cas. Because they're not. Except in all the ways that they absolutely are) glance at each other, soft shake from Castiel's head (because that's how he's doing it. Cas and Castiel. His Cas and Not-His's Castiel.)
"Nothing?"
And, Christ, Sam's brought out the pout. Although apparently the intervening years are going to render him immune to all forms of 'Sam eyes' because Not-Him is just grinning.
"Sorry, Sammy."
Even with the silence coming from the other side of the table, Dean's pretty sure they can determine some things out themselves. And, hell, at least he knows they all get through whatever shit's about to be thrown at them in the next five years. Although, after facing down Lucifer and surviving, hopefully whatever those years do bring will be a walk in the fucking park. Possibly with a picnic.
"Not even the lottery numbers?"
Castiel looks at him, not even voicing the bitch, please that's obviously running through his head, as Dean finishes off his beer.
~
"Sam! Have you seen him, me, the other me?"
Sam doesn't answer, waving a hand at Dean as he continues to write, mumbling under his breath in Latin as he translates.
"They went outside," Bobby says, from his position on the couch. "Boy was as bad as you for getting' underfoot, so I sent him to work on one of the trucks." He looks up from the book next to him. "You ain't about to ask for those damn lottery numbers again?" he asks suspiciously.
"No--" Dean answers, turning away and heading out of the door before Bobby can call him on the blatant lie.
Dean shivers as he steps out of the door, the faint chill raising gooseflesh on his arms. The truck Not-Him has been working on is abandoned, hood up and parts scattered around. At the other end of the yard, a figure is lying in the hood of one of junkers, jacket off and arms outstretched against the slight bite in the air.
When Not-Him sits up, Dean thinks he's been heard. Door closing, boots on dirt, it could have been anything that gave away that he was there. But the other guy's not looking at him, not looking in his direction at all, with his face tilted towards the sky.
There's a beat, a second of silence, before Castiel appears, looking as unruffled in five year's time as he does now.
Part of Dean says he should call out, make himself known, but he doesn't. Just stands there and watches. Watches as Castiel moves closer. Watches as Not-Him reaches out, fists bunching in Castiel's coat as he pulls him forward the rest of the way. Watches as their lips meet.
There's the sound of the door opening behind him, and the approaching footfalls get louder until Sam's by his side.
"Dean, wh-- are you kissing the angel?" Sam asks, disbelief and wonder colouring his words. "That-- actually explains a lot."
Dean's looking at Sam, because he's sure Sammy just said that Not-Him kissing Not-Cas explains a lot, only Dean's not sure what sucking face with an angel could actually explain. "What the hell do you think it explains?" Because, seriously, Dean wants to hear this one.
"It explains why Cas is still around."
"Because he was one of the ones who chose to stay behind." Because even though they won, there's still a hell of a lot of clean-up to do.
"It explains why Cas is still hanging around us instead of saying 'Thanks, now I'm off to find some demons to kill,' like the other angels did."
"We're Hunters. Who stopped the Apocalypse. He doesn't need to look elsewhere. Trust me, we're friggin' demon magnets."
"It explains why you touch him so damn much. What with the reaching and the petting and the watching him all the time."
Images of Dean's hand on Cas's shoulder, of his fingers wrapped around Cas's wrist, spring to mind. "I don't pet him," Dean mutters, resolutely ignoring the muffled snort of amusement coming from his freak of a brother.
"Well, even if you don't," Sam says, tone making it perfectly clear that he think, yes, Dean does have a habit of petting Cas, "looks like the other you has no problem with it."
Sam just grins at the glare Dean sends him. "He was also flaked on the couch earlier, Sammy. Doesn't mean I'm about to start goin' around fainting like a chick, unlike some people."
"You do realize that's yourself you're mocking?" And damn Sam for sounding so reasonable. "Maybe in five years time you fainting and planting one on Cas is a regular thing."
The "I'm going to hurt you," is thrown over Dean's shoulder as he heads (and no, he isn't stomping, he's merely walking more forcefully than normal) back into the house.
"Of course you are, Dean." Even the words are carrying Sam's amusement.
"When you least expect it. Bitch."
The door slamming drowns out Sam's response.
~
The thing is, Dean hasn't been able to get it out of his mind. The other them have been gone for two days now, back to whatever the future holds (which, apparently, includes a lot of nakedness, his mind supplies helpfully), and for two days all he's been able to think about is how soft Cas's lips would be. Screw it. Screw witches and screw time-travelling hims who think it's funny to fuck with his head by fucking with his angel.
"Fuck!" he mutters, dropping the gun he's been running a cloth over for ten minutes onto the table with the others and standing up.
"Dean?" Sam looks up from the knife he's sharpening.
"Just goin' for some air, Sammy," he says, not waiting for a response as he heads towards the front door.
"Cas?" he whispers harshly as soon as the door is closed behind him, each step carrying him further from Bobby's house. "I know you're listening. Get your ass down here!"
But he's already there, sitting on the hood of the same truck the other Dean had been on two days ago, the light from the spotlight in the yard casting him in shadow.
"Did you know?" Dean asks, as he walks towards him. "About them? About us?"
Cas doesn't answer as he looks at Dean. He doesn't need to, Dean can read all the answers he needs in blue.
Dean scrubs a hand over his face as he glances down briefly. So much has happened in the past few years that Dean would never have imagined. Fuck, if you'd told him that an angel would risk everything to pull him, Dean Winchester, out of hell, then he would have fucking laughed. Sammy, yes. But not him. Not with all the shit he's done in his life.
But Cas did. He came into Hell and he pulled Dean out. And, yes, he was a dick when he first faced Dean afterwards, but he came through. He fucking faced down his brothers, faced down Heaven, because he believed in Dean. Outside of his family, outside of Sam and his Dad and Bobby, no one's ever done that before. No one's ever had that much belief, not just in what Dean was doing, but in Dean.
Cas is the one who risked it all. He's the one who risked his family turning their backs on him. And he did it for Dean.
Cas is-- his.
"Dean?" It's the first word Cas has said since Dean found him out here, ass on a beaten-up old junker, with the light from Bobby's barely illuminating him. It's the first word he's said and it sounds so fucking unsure
"Damn it, Cas--" Dean is moving before he even thinks about it, closing the distance between them and pressing their lips together.
Cas is stiff in his arms and for a brief moment, for one brief, fucking horrible moment, Dean thinks that he's made the biggest mistake of his life. Even though he knows. Even though, in five years time, they won't even think about it before reaching out, before touching. And then Cas's hands are gripping his arms and he's kissing Dean back, sure and steady and tongue lapping along Dean's lower lip, asking for entry.
"I want--" The words are mumbled against Dean's mouth, gasps between breath that ghosts over Dean's lips. "I want--"
"Anything," Dean says. And he means it. Because Dean's been ignoring this for too long. Has been pushing aside the fact that he's wanted to lay Cas down on the nearest bed and bury himself inside for too fucking long. Pushed it aside for Sam, for Lucifer, for the friggin' Apocalypse, but not any more. Because Sam's alive and Bobby's alive and Lucifer's buried and the Apocalypse is done. Done and gone. It's game over and the fat chick stopped singing nearly a year ago now. And Cas is still here. Still here and not leaving and Dean's. And Dean's fucking well keeping him.
"You--" Cas finally says. "I want you--" The words are thick on his tongue, heavy and careful and all Dean can think is fuck, yes--. Fuck, yes, because his cock is hard and Cas is wanting and Dean is fucking there.
"Bed," Dean manages to get out, the word barely dying in the air before there's a rustle of wings and the feel of wind and they're in Bobby's spare room, covers on the bed still rumpled from where Dean didn't make it this morning.
Cas tastes like strawberries, rich and tart and smooth, as Dean moves him back to the bed. His hands are working at their clothes, too slow and too clumsy until Cas wraps his fingers around Dean's wrists and lifts one of Dean's hands to his mouth, lips wrapping around Dean's fingers, laving the skin with his tongue.
Coming back with renewed attention, Dean finds his fingers working and their clothes scatter around the room, lying where they fall.
The mattress squeaks slightly when they fall onto it, Dean's hands at either side of Cas's head as he leans down to recapture Cas's lips.
This is what they've been working towards since that first day, since Cas gripped him tight and dragged him back from Hell, broken and fighting and incomplete.
Dean doesn't break the kiss as he reaches out, hand finding the tube on the small cabinet next to the bed without having to look. Because he's Dean, and the lube was never going to be anywhere else but within easy reaching distance.
Cas is under him, legs spread and cock hard and skin flushed and--
"Please--"
Dean's cock jumps at Cas's voice, jumps like Cas is fucking Pavlov. The snap of the tube opening is a counterbalance to their breathing and Cas shudders as Dean squirts lube onto his stomach, cold and slick.
"Sorry," Dean smirks, even though he's not, even though the look Cas is giving him says the angel knows he isn't.
He swipes his fingers through the lube, smearing some across Cas's belly. The grip on his arm tightens as Dean's fingers slide into Cas, pushing through muscle and into tight and hot and fucking perfect.
His fingers twist and Cas gasps. And it's too much and not enough and Dean needs to be buried in Cas right the fuck now.
He slicks his cock with the rest of the lube, light and patchy because he's two seconds away from coming over Cas's stomach, and that ain't happening until he's so far inside Cas the angel's never getting rid of him.
Cas shifts, hand under a knee as he opens himself to Dean. Guiding his cock to Cas's ass, Dean pauses, cockhead resting against Cas's body and heat spreading through him.
Cas looks at him, fucking looks at him, long moments passing before Cas finally breaks. "Dean, move--" And Dean's heard Cas sound completely calm when he's surrounded by demons, heard him sound like the fury of God was running through him when he saw Dean go down under a pile of black smoke, but this is the first time he's ever heard him wrecked, voice breaking and fingers pressing bruises into Dean's flesh where he's holding his arm.
Dean runs his fingers through Cas's hair, lube making the strands sticky, as he pushes, cock sliding into Cas in one, sliding in until his balls are against Cas's ass and Dean's seeing fucking Heaven.
And, Christ, he's not going to last long, can't last long, not with Cas under him and begging him to move, not when his entire body is buzzing with need and want.
He pulls out, slowly, carefully, until just the head of his cock is still seated in Cas. There's a beat, two, until he lowers his head, mouth catching Cas's and tongue sliding across his lower lip, sliding into Cas's mouth at the same time he snaps his hips forward, swallowing the breath forced out of Cas's body. And now he's started, he can't stop, driving into Cas in a way he's wanted to, needed to, for too fucking long.
Cas's cock is trapped between them, hard against their stomachs as Dean fucks him, flesh rubbing over flesh. Adjusting his angle so he can get a hand between them, Dean wraps his fingers around Cas's cock, jerking him, striping his cock in time with the thrusts into his body. There's a keening sound in the air and it's a moment before Dean realises it's coming from Cas, eyes blown and head back, throat bared.
There's heat gathering in his belly, pooling into him with each noise Cas makes, with each thrust into Cas's body. And when Cas's hand moves up his arm, moves to cover the brand on his shoulder that marks him as Cas's, that marks Cas as his, the heat explodes out of him. He's barely holding himself up when he comes, want and need and yes running out of him and into Cas. And Dean's still emptying himself into Cas when heat floods between them, covering sweat-slick skin as Cas comes, sticky over Dean's fingers.
And if Sam and Bobby hadn't realised they were back in the house then they know it now, silence shattered by discovering that Cas is a screamer.
Dean's still shuddering when he collapses, body blanketing Cas and trusting that Cas can move mountains so he isn't about to find 175lbs of Dean Winchester heavy.
There are words he wants to say, ones he hasn't wanted to say since it was Cassie in the bed with him, but his mind is stuck on yes and Cas and gnuh, stuck on stay and please and mine. Lips brush against his temple and the soft And I, Dean, whispers across his skin before he closes his eyes.
~
Dean winces as he opens his eyes, the light streaming in through the window too damn bright. The other side of the bed is still empty, which means Cas isn't back from helping Michael dispatch the group of demons Jophiel had tracked to Montana, which also means the morning blowjob Dean had been hoping for was out of the question. (It also means that Dean needs to remember to tell Michael that he doesn't appreciate him just turning up in the bedroom at 3-fucking-am and dragging Cas off. Yes, it's Cas's job, but Michael calling Cas has never needed a personal visit before and Dean doubts it needed one now. It especially didn't need Michael's comment about Dean's ass. Fucking pervy-ass angel.)
Since the likelihood of Sam bringing him breakfast in bed is about the same as Sam dressing in pink taffeta and singing about how he's a whiny little bitch, Dean figures it's easier just to get out of bed.
Grabbing his jeans off the floor from where they'd landed last night, he drags them on, frowning when they crinkle as he pulls them over his ass. Sticking his hand in his back pocket, Dean draws out the folded piece of paper he finds. It takes him a few seconds to realise what he's looking at, at first. Six numbers and a date about eight months from now in a scrawl that's his, but isn't. Six numbers in his hand and an angel in his bed. Dean just grins. Maybe he'll give any witches they find a free pass for now. Well, for the next five years, anyway.
End
