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mercyrobot) wrote2012-03-12 06:34 pm
mercyrobot) wrote2012-03-12 06:34 pm
Entry tags:
[SPN] Crossroads State 10/12
Please refer to master post for header information, warnings, etc.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Epilogue
Heaven is not much like what Castiel's limited experience led him to imagine. It's still early for the club crowd, so the absence of a heaving mass of bodies is a welcome relief, though a temporary one. Maybe it's only the absence of too many people that makes it seem different; other clubs he remembers as innavigable dark labyrinths where he could hardly keep his bearings even as far as where the walls were, so Heaven could be exactly the same as all of them, but right now he can see the bones of the place in a way that's reassuring. The lighting is dim but not too dark, and the music hasn't yet had to be forced up to deafening levels to be heard over a hundred conversations. Everything is chrome and white and somewhat ridiculously reminds him of the 'Beauty School Dropout' scene in Grease (last year's spring musical) where an angel appears to Frenchie.
Dean snickers when he voices this thought and says, "Congratulations, you just made us both ten percent gayer."
Castiel doesn't get a chance to respond or to deliberate the meaning of the statement because Anna's leaning over a balcony railing and waving at them. A bouncer at the bottom of the stairs inspects the white plastic wristbands they were given at the door and waves them up. Anna hugs Castiel in greeting and then again when he tells her she looks beautiful, because she does. She's wearing a long white dress and although the circle of silver wire tinsel on top of her head that's probably meant to stand in for a halo is a little silly, it suits her. It wouldn't matter if she were in her most paint-splattered clothes without her hair combed, though, because what he really means is that she looks happy. There's a little pang of jealousy when he sees Dean notice it too, when Anna kisses him on the cheek, but he's not sure if it's because Dean might think she's his 'type' after all or because they seem to have become such good friends over just the course of a few drinks more than a week ago.
"I'm so glad you guys are here. Gabe's already completely potted and I had to stop him from hitting on one of the drag queens."
"She had nice legs, no-fun Annie. And it was legal counsel. She needs a good divorce lawyer. Or her non-drag persona does. Or something. I wasn't too clear on the details, but I recommended someone local. Hello, Cassie. You're looking... schoolteacher-y."
Castiel just shakes his head, but Dean says, "Well, you look like Colonel Sanders. Or Colonel Tom Parker."
Which, minus the black ribbon tie, is true-- Gabriel apparently found time after dinner to return to the hotel and change into a white three-piece suit. "I'm obviously the Devil," he says.
"Like I said, Colonel Tom," Dean says, and Gabriel laughs, though Castiel doesn't understand the reference.
"I like you. Come, boys, pull up an inflatable thingy and sit down carefully. I already popped one by accident and got the stinkeye from Secret-Service down there."
The VIP area (which is where they are, and Anna threatens Gabriel's manhood if he makes another 'VIP-ness' joke, which makes Dean laugh) is filled with inflatable sofas and pillows that are probably supposed to put one in mind of clouds, but creak disconcertingly when sat on. The white formica end tables are the only things that aren't filled with air, and along with a couple of buckets of champagne on ice, have a few scattered dishes on them. Some contain snacks and candy, and the one nearest Castiel is filled with earplugs. Dean reaches into one without looking and comes up with a condom.
"Big plans for the night?" Gabriel says. Anna smacks him on the arm and Dean throws the condom at him. "Ooh, banana."
"There beer up here?" Dean grumbles, and shoves his way to his feet. "Anybody need anything? Cas?" Castiel shakes his head and Dean's gone before he can say anything else.
"Gabe, why are you such a shit?" Anna says as soon as he's gone.
"What? What'd I do?"
Anna makes a sound best approximated as 'ugh' and gets up. "Never mind. They're droping the curtain in twenty minutes, so I have to go backstage. Just so you know, this isn't a private party up here, so if anyone else comes up, behave." The last is mostly directed at Gabriel.
Gabriel makes a rude gesture at her back and pours Castiel some champagne. "Wanna clue me in on what that little shitfit was all about, bro?"
"She must think you embarrassed Dean."
"Please. He can handle a little sex joke. Or, oh, is it the gay bar thing? Should I have said 'no homo'? I mean, I figured since he's in one, he couldn't mind too much."
"It was crass."
"So you're not acting all pissy now because I might've scared him away with thoughts of big bad gay sex?"
"I--"
"Do I need to remind you that your baffling attraction to closet cases always ends in tears?"
"Gabriel, you've had too much to drink." No, Castiel doesn't need reminding, even if it isn't so much a case of 'always' as 'once,' years ago, when he thought secrecy wouldn't bother him because it didn't seem so different from choosing not to share personal matters with just anyone. But it was also lying and sneaking and being jerked away from in public. As far as he knows, Mark is married and running his father's paper business, and, he hopes, happy. But he doesn't think Dean is the same way. Mark would have vocally protested at the cab driver's insinuation, not laughed it off. But Mark would have flirted with a hostess and made up a story to explain why he was out for a nice dinner with another man.
"Oh, I haven't had nearly enough. I was full of shit when I said strictly business re: Kali. We had a nice pre-dinner divorce screw and then talked campaign strategy over Kobe steaks. My treat, of course. Bright side, she's going to give me back the dog. Apparently the little bitch still misses me. Hasn't stopped peeing on the carpet ever since I moved out. Millie, I mean, not Kali."
Castiel's head hurts. Dean's still not back but a glance over the railings indicates there's now quite a wait at the bar. There's most likely some expedited VIP method for ordering drinks, but he doubts Dean bothered to find out. He's actually relieved when a stranger comes up the stairs, even if it's a stranger wearing nothing but a pair of small red shorts and plastic devil horns.
"Well, hail Satan!" Gabriel says, and Castiel fights the urge to smother him with an inflatable pillow.
The man's name is Jeffrey and his stepfather owns the club, a fact that at least forces Gabriel to stop acting like... well, a dick, for Anna's sake. Castiel feels a little guilty for making presuppositions based on the ridiculous costume, and also feel slightly that fate might be laughing in his face somewhere, because Jeffrey is home for the summer from the University of Chicago, where he's working on a doctorate in Jewish Studies. Meaning, of course, that he's had Balthazar's Hebrew Bible course and that he's heard of Castiel. Meaning that when Dean finally returns with his beer, it's to a theological discussion. To Dean's credit, although he looks confused before the introductions are made, he just shrugs, points at Jeffrey, and says, "See, Gabe, that's how you dress like the devil."
"If you wanted to see me in booty shorts, you could have just asked."
"Thank you, I'm never getting it up again for the rest of my life."
"Those poor bastards in Narnia," Gabriel says.
Dean blinks. "Okay, I have no idea what you just said, but I'm going to go ahead and assume that was some kind of nerd insult, so screw you too. I think they're about to start the thing. Should we go down?"
Jeffrey goes with them and helps push them through to the front of the stage. Anna's painting takes up the entire wall behind it and is covered with a ceiling-high white curtain printed with a 'coming soon' and advertising tonight's event. Down here, it's louder, and Castiel wishes he'd taken some of the earplugs. You have to shout at close proximity to be heard, which Jeffrey does.
"So Anna's your sister, right? She's really cool! She wanted me to model but my dad said hell no. But she's like everyone's new favorite hag."
"She's very talented," Castiel shouts back.
Dean's leaning over from his other side to say something too, but there's a strobe flash and thousands of white feathers rain down from the ceiling. The crowd cheers and jostles and Jeffrey uses Castiel's shoulders to brace himself for jumping up and down along with them. A drag queen takes the stage, wearing wings and a halo and yards upon yards of white crinoline, and performs to a Eurythmics song that even Castiel knows. He would be happy just watching, but Jeffrey won't let go of him, keeps pulling at his arms and insisting that he dance.
Castiel shakes his head, shouts, "I can't dance," but that doesn't do anything.
"Come on, sure you can!"
"I don't like dancing."
"Don't be boring," Jeffrey says, still pulling at him as though he can make him dance by force, with very little apparent anymore of the earnest scholar he just discussed Source Q with.
Castiel looks over at Dean, who's got a feather stuck in his hair, which would be amusing if he didn't look so angry. "I really don't--"
"Hey!" Dean shoves his way between them. "He said he didn't wanna dance, asshole."
"All right. Jesus." Jeffrey shrugs out of Dean's grasp. "My fucking bad." He disappears into the crowd behind them.
"I could have handled that," Castiel says to Dean, whose hand is still on his arm.
"Oh, yeah, you were handling it great."
"Without angering the owner's son."
"You weren't doing a great job of that either. Dude was getting douchier by the second." Dean's talking so close to his ear that his lips keep touching it and making Castiel forget he's supposed to be annoyed at being treated like some kind of damsel in distress.
He reaches up and picks the feather out of Dean's hair, shows it to him silently by way of explanation. Dean smiles and squeezes his arm before he lets go, and at the end of the song the drag queen leans over the edge of the stage to deposit her halo onto Castiel's head.
Anna's art is unveiled with the proper amount of fanfare, a drumroll before the curtain drops and an explosive cheer when it does. The employees who modeled for the painting parade across the stage wearing the wings they're depicted having and are introduced, and when Anna herself takes a bow at their encouragement, the applause is deafening and Castiel smiles until his face hurts. When the stage lights go out, he turns around to face Dean, meaning to ask him if he'd like to leave or at least get out of the crowd, but then there's an explosion of music and light and he can't be heard, and Dean's staring at him like he's never seen him before.
"What's the matter?" Castiel says, voice mute even to his own ears.
He sees Dean shake his head and mouth 'nothing' and they cut a slow path through the crowd until they find Anna upstairs, toasting with Gabriel and a few of her models. "I'm very proud of you," he tells her.
"You and me both," she says, and then whispers, "Good luck," in his ear when he hugs her.
"What?"
"Just good luck."
*
It's not far to the hotel, so they walk. Dean's quiet, so Castiel is too, occupied with his own thoughts. What Anna could have meant by 'good luck,' what was behind the strange look Dean gave him before they left the dance floor, whether he really could have gotten away from Jeffrey politely on his own, of the past and playing a part in a lie and whether Gabriel could be right. He doesn't even notice Dean's stopped walking until he hears, "Hey, earth to Major Tom," from a few steps behind him. Dean's standing in front of a drugstore, its automatic doors swishing indecisively open and shut behind him. "I'm gonna grab some beer, okay?"
Castiel nods and follows him in. The strange look he gets from the cashier makes more sense when he catches sight of himself passing by the mirror on the cosmetics counter, the silver halo still sitting cockeyed on top of his head with his hair askew around it. He doesn't take it off, just straightens it, because even if it's admittedly ridiculous, he won't give a judgemental stranger the power to dictate what he wears on his head. Dean seems to have forgotten it's even there. "Not much selection. Newcastle okay? I know you don't like the cheap stuff."
"Whatever you prefer. I doubt I'll drink much of it."
"No? I figured we could exploit the premium cable, find a movie or something. Unless you're tired."
"That sounds nice. I just shouldn't drink much more if I don't want an unpleasant journey tomorrow."
"Lightweight," Dean says with a grin, but pulls the Newcastle out of the cooler anyway.
Back out on the sidewalk, they're quiet again, but it doesn't seem to weigh so much, even if all of Castiel's questions are still there.
"You know," Dean says after they've been waiting a few moments at a busy intersection for the light to change, "I've technically got nowhere to be tomorrow, if you don't wanna go straight home."
"I don't think we could make it to Niagara Falls and back by Monday."
"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. I meant somewhere else, maybe." He shifts the beer from one arm to the other and cuts his eyes over without turning his head.
"I have no obligations. Where would you like to go?"
"I figured pick a direction and wing it."
Castiel only packed enough for one night, and didn't expect to be gone long enough to ask anyone to bring in the mail or the newspaper, and Leuven's in less than a month so he should be using every spare moment preparing for the panel. There won't be the certainty of reservations and they may have to sleep on the side of the road for all he knows, but he'll be with Dean, so the prospect doesn't incite the kind of panic it perhaps should and he says yes, and thinks Dean's smile at his agreement far outweighs any minor concerns about discomfort and uncertainty.
The moment they're inside the hotel suite, Dean strips off his dress shirt and throws it onto a chair like it's wronged him. By the time Castiel has his shoes off and has finished using the bathroom, Dean's lounging on the bed he's claimed in the well-worn jeans he had on this afternoon and Castiel's old Yale t-shirt.
"Figured if I brought it I'd actually remember to give it back," Dean says, more to the channels he's flipping through on the TV screen than to Castiel. The beer's on the table between the two beds and the remainder of the Amish pie is next to Dean, along with two forks he's found somewhere. Castiel isn't hungry, but sharing the pie is a good enough excuse to sit on this bed and not the other. Dean passes him a beer, already open. "You still have that thing on your head," he says. He reaches out and flicks the edge of the halo.
"I keep forgetting it's there." He lifts it off and settles it on Dean's head, which sends Dean comically half-crosseyed trying to look up at it.
"I'm not really halo material. I'm more the horn type-- and wow, that came out wrong." Dean falls onto his back, laughing up at the ceiling, and because the shirt's just a little bit too small, it slides up to expose a line of skin between hem and waistband that's impossible not to look at. He's not quick enough to look away from the space where it was when Dean sits up, leaving the halo behind on the pillow. "Cas?" Dean waves a hand in front of his face, and on something between impulse and instinct, Castiel reaches out and catches it, and then his fingers are all tangled up with Dean's and they're both looking down at them like it's a scientific curiosity.
He should just let go and apologize and ask what's on TV, but then the inaction stretches on past the point where he can. He's imagined this a dozen different ways, but because those were fantasies, he only imagined what he wanted falling into his arms, not what comes before or after. Most of the time it's been Dean walking up and kissing him like it's something he does every day, after Castiel's laughed at one of his bad jokes, or when they're sweaty and out of breath and have just raced each other the last fifty yards to one of their front doors, or midsentence for no reason or because there's pie or bacon or it's Tuesday, or just to say hello. He's never really planned how they'd get there, because fantasies can be controlled, are exempt from weighing out words to say and considering implications, from blood pounding in his ears and from two joined hands resting on a crisp pillowcase like a time bomb that's just had its fuse tripped.
One of his fingers is against a callus above the ring Dean always wears on his right hand, probably rubbed into place by tools and engine parts and work pinching the metal against his skin, because the only time he's seen Dean without it is when he removes it briefly to clean the grease from underneath it. He forces his eyes up and sees that Dean's still looking down, his eyelashes dark against his cheeks. "Dean." It comes out as barely a whisper, but it makes Dean's gaze meet with his. Their faces are close but their bodies curve outward from each other down the bed around the pie and the remote control, and it reminds Castiel of the week he had to spend teaching Sister Rachel's math class when she had the flu and copied meaningless graphs out of her notes onto the board of lines that could never intersect. Then Dean's thumb strokes across the inside of his wrist and someone's breathing hitches, and that's enough.
Castiel's spent enough time studying the bow of Dean's upper lip that it feels nearly familiar against his, like a map he's memorized, even down to the taste of beer and a few stray sugary crumbs. It's soft when he catches it gently between his teeth and when he traces it with his tongue, and Dean's mouth is sweet and hot and he's breathing rough and halting through his nose, one hand digging fingertips into the base of Castiel's scalp and the other still clasped tight where it started. And it's better than anything his imagination could have supplied because it's real, it's Dean, and he doesn't think his heart was designed to beat this fast.
He feels something like a raw nerve all over when, inevitably, they part. Castiel is torn between disbelief and wonder and also worry, because this is real. The first thing Dean says, when they've caught their breath in the space of an openmouthed searching stare, is, "You're not drunk, right?"
That's easy to translate: Dean wants to know this is real too, which is a relief and a thrill and Castiel can't stop his smile. "I'm not." He knows Dean isn't without having to ask.
"Good," Dean says, rough like he sometimes clears his throat around, hand rubbing at the back of Castiel's neck. Castiel's eyes close on reflex but then it's gone and the bed's shifting; they snap back open to see Dean turning back from setting the pie on the bedside table. With the space freed, they gravitate into it; they're not lines anymore, nothing a formula can be applied to, just arms and legs and hands and lips, breath and skin. It's like he's been starving for months for everything he's held back and just had it all set out in front of him and he wants to take all of it, learn the taste of freckles and cheekbones and smiles, memorize the particular rasp of stubble against his neck and jaw and fingers, how everything of his fits into everything of Dean's, to be closer, if there's even such a thing as close enough. In practice it translates frantic and clinging--clumsy, really, but Dean laughs hot against his ear or neck or chest when an elbow or a knee goes wrong or a belt or buttons won't cooperate, pushes when Castiel pulls and pulls when Castiel pushes, lets him take and gives back.
Dean's jeans are caught at his knees and Castiel's only one leg out of his pants and there are still too many places he wants to touch even with their erections pressed tight into skin and friction betwen them. Dean's grip on Castiel's hips is bruising but his voice is soft whenever they're not kissing and he looks up at Castiel and says 'yeah' and 'yes' and 'goddamn, Cas' and then 'oh, fuck' and stutters up into the sweat-slick heat between their bodies, and if Castiel could think clearly enough, he could find something poetic in setting each other over this edge together, but all he can think or say is, "Dean," and, "Dean," and, "Dean."
Sometimes Castiel has found an embarrassment in the humanity of going from need and want and ecstasy to being simply sticky and beginning to develop leg cramps. There could be one here; they know each other so well in some ways, but not like this. Castiel's nearly expecting it when Dean groans and struggles the rest of the way out of his jeans, when Dean's underwear are sacrificed to the cause of cleaning away the mess without having to move and Castiel flinches slightly at the touch of the cotton on his oversensitized skin. "Sorry," Dean murmurs around a kiss to his shoulder. There's a lot that's strange, new, a lot hanging yet to be said between them, but it's not that unsettled discomfort of having possibly bared too much-- it just means Castiel's pulse isn't slowing down.
Dean maneuvers the covers over them and it's easy to slot in against his side, and maybe the notches at the top of his spine were made for Dean's fingers to fit between. "So that was awesome," Dean says.
"Yes," Castiel says. The sharp curve of Dean's collarbone is next to his lips, so he presses a kiss there. "So is this."
Dean's bare toes flex ticklishly against Castiel's ankle. "Yeah, it is."
"You sound surprised."
"I don't usually do the, uh, cuddling thing. 'specially not with guys."
"Oh." That's a lot at once, in a way that stings a little, stokes something possessive on the one hand and something fearful on the other.
"Hey." Dean doesn't let him shift away, pulls his arms tighter and locks Castiel's leg between his. "I said usually. That's just why the surprise. And I guess fair warning if I suck at it."
"At cuddling? You're doing very well so far."
"Gee, thanks, professor."
"Dean, that's disturbing."
"Okay, no hot-for-teacher jokes, gotcha. But seriously, how are half your classes not failing because they can't stop staring at your ass?"
Dean's wired to deflect into humor when there's something serious to say; Castiel knows this, has been patient with it and even found it endearing, but he can't go forward on inferences and implications, not from here, not very far. "Dean."
Dean sighs. "I mean...that, yeah, but I mean... all this." He lifts one hand off Castiel's hip to wave it back and forth between them. "Hell, I already suck right out of the gate. I was gonna do this whole dinner date goodnight kiss thing and try to get it right, but then we came here and I pissed you off conning other people's reservations and nearly punched out Jeffrey Hot-Pants for being all over you and jumped straight into bed anyway. Gold star for the caveman."
"The Mexican restaurant was going to be--"
"Yeah."
Castiel thinks about how that might have gone, of Dean being too polite, nervous, playing a part he thinks he should be playing, like he did with the wine. Then he thinks of climbing dinosaurs and Dean grinning around a mouthful of pie and all the mornings and nights in kitchens and living rooms with records playing and no one second-guessing whether they should be making an off-color joke or should have worn a different shirt, whether their hair is combed or whether they're in a terrible mood. There's no contest. "I don't need that, Dean. I don't need to be...courted, I suppose, or won over. You've already done that. I already know you."
Dean answers that with a kiss rather than words, one that's deep and slow and is lines Castiel doesn't mind reading between, enough for agreement and understanding and for now, to mark a place for Dean to fill in.
*
By the time they're dressed in the morning, Castiel's learned some things. How the shape of his name in Dean's mouth feels as well as looks, and how it even looks a little different now. That Dean snores, just a little, and how gentle his hands can be. That he doesn't feel ridiculous saying words like cock when it's Dean asking him to say them. That for all Dean's purportedly unaccustomed to cuddling, he seems to like it, and that he likes all the parts of Castiel that he himself has always found strange and bony-- his hips, his wrists, his shoulders.
That eating pie naked in bed is a thing worth doing, and that even if Dean will never tend toward sentimental statements, he'll say things like, "Post wake-up sex pie? This is fuckin' heaven," with such visceral contentment that it feels like poetry.
That Dean walks around naked as comfortably as he does in clothes, and that Castiel's going to have to get used to hearing things like, "Damn, I shoulda thought about having to take these with me before I got come all over them." (Castiel silently offers him the plastic laundry bag from the closet to put the soiled underwear in, which for some reason makes Dean laugh.)
And that while there's a lot to worry about, whether they'll work like this, how they'll work like this, whether all the things they already were will work the same way, there's one concern Castiel needn't have had, which Castiel learns when Anna knocks on the door and asks if they're decent, and Dean shouts back, "Naked!" without hesitation.
"Congratulations," Anna says. "We're going to breakfast and Gabe's buying. Should we wait?"
"Be there in five." Dean misinterprets Castiel's expression and says, "Oh, shit. Should I have not-- I didn't even think about it."
"No, Dean, you've done nothing wrong. I would have told them, if they hadn't guessed first. Although Gabriel may threaten you."
"He'd be a shitty brother if he didn't. Only reason I don't with Sammy's that chicks kinda tend to take it the wrong way if I say screwing him over equals pain and suffering. Ruby's damn lucky I don't hit girls." Dean's been bent down lacing up his boots; he looks up now, but not quite at Castiel. "Cas, you know I wasn't talking out my ass before, right? Like I might seriously suck at this, and not in the fun way."
Castiel knows what he means, of course, but he doesn't think it's too selfish to want Dean to say it outright, to need that bit of assurance that comes from getting him to force out whatever he can manage. "I'd be better able to answer your concerns if I knew your definition of 'this.'"
Dean laughs, but not with amusement. "Damn, make it sound like a business meeting, why don't you?"
"I'm sorry. I have shortcomings of my own when it comes to speaking frankly, but I think we should."
"No, yeah, you're right. I just, I mean, this, this us thing. 'Cause I've wanted it for fucking ever and it's not like if I do something stupid like I always do, there's just some dude I never talk to again. I fuck up and I lose my best friend."
He wishes they could talk about this without Dean looking strained and apologetic, and he hopes there's a someday when they'll be able to. He sits down on the edge of the bed and waits until Dean relaxes into having arms around him. "That would pain me more than I have the words to express. It's inevitable that we'll argue. One or the other of us may say something hurtful. I have as many flaws as you do. But if you want this 'us' thing as much as I do, that shouldn't stop us from trying."
Dean lets out a loud breath and says, "Okay." He turns his head to press his lips to Castiel's temple and says, "Okay," and then they're kissing and then Anna calls out at the door again and Dean pulls back smiling and shouts, "One second!" and after at least thirty more of being clutched so tight it's hard to breathe, they tear themselves away and Dean says, hand over the doorknob, "Okay, let's do this."
Next: Part 11
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Epilogue
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Epilogue
Heaven is not much like what Castiel's limited experience led him to imagine. It's still early for the club crowd, so the absence of a heaving mass of bodies is a welcome relief, though a temporary one. Maybe it's only the absence of too many people that makes it seem different; other clubs he remembers as innavigable dark labyrinths where he could hardly keep his bearings even as far as where the walls were, so Heaven could be exactly the same as all of them, but right now he can see the bones of the place in a way that's reassuring. The lighting is dim but not too dark, and the music hasn't yet had to be forced up to deafening levels to be heard over a hundred conversations. Everything is chrome and white and somewhat ridiculously reminds him of the 'Beauty School Dropout' scene in Grease (last year's spring musical) where an angel appears to Frenchie.
Dean snickers when he voices this thought and says, "Congratulations, you just made us both ten percent gayer."
Castiel doesn't get a chance to respond or to deliberate the meaning of the statement because Anna's leaning over a balcony railing and waving at them. A bouncer at the bottom of the stairs inspects the white plastic wristbands they were given at the door and waves them up. Anna hugs Castiel in greeting and then again when he tells her she looks beautiful, because she does. She's wearing a long white dress and although the circle of silver wire tinsel on top of her head that's probably meant to stand in for a halo is a little silly, it suits her. It wouldn't matter if she were in her most paint-splattered clothes without her hair combed, though, because what he really means is that she looks happy. There's a little pang of jealousy when he sees Dean notice it too, when Anna kisses him on the cheek, but he's not sure if it's because Dean might think she's his 'type' after all or because they seem to have become such good friends over just the course of a few drinks more than a week ago.
"I'm so glad you guys are here. Gabe's already completely potted and I had to stop him from hitting on one of the drag queens."
"She had nice legs, no-fun Annie. And it was legal counsel. She needs a good divorce lawyer. Or her non-drag persona does. Or something. I wasn't too clear on the details, but I recommended someone local. Hello, Cassie. You're looking... schoolteacher-y."
Castiel just shakes his head, but Dean says, "Well, you look like Colonel Sanders. Or Colonel Tom Parker."
Which, minus the black ribbon tie, is true-- Gabriel apparently found time after dinner to return to the hotel and change into a white three-piece suit. "I'm obviously the Devil," he says.
"Like I said, Colonel Tom," Dean says, and Gabriel laughs, though Castiel doesn't understand the reference.
"I like you. Come, boys, pull up an inflatable thingy and sit down carefully. I already popped one by accident and got the stinkeye from Secret-Service down there."
The VIP area (which is where they are, and Anna threatens Gabriel's manhood if he makes another 'VIP-ness' joke, which makes Dean laugh) is filled with inflatable sofas and pillows that are probably supposed to put one in mind of clouds, but creak disconcertingly when sat on. The white formica end tables are the only things that aren't filled with air, and along with a couple of buckets of champagne on ice, have a few scattered dishes on them. Some contain snacks and candy, and the one nearest Castiel is filled with earplugs. Dean reaches into one without looking and comes up with a condom.
"Big plans for the night?" Gabriel says. Anna smacks him on the arm and Dean throws the condom at him. "Ooh, banana."
"There beer up here?" Dean grumbles, and shoves his way to his feet. "Anybody need anything? Cas?" Castiel shakes his head and Dean's gone before he can say anything else.
"Gabe, why are you such a shit?" Anna says as soon as he's gone.
"What? What'd I do?"
Anna makes a sound best approximated as 'ugh' and gets up. "Never mind. They're droping the curtain in twenty minutes, so I have to go backstage. Just so you know, this isn't a private party up here, so if anyone else comes up, behave." The last is mostly directed at Gabriel.
Gabriel makes a rude gesture at her back and pours Castiel some champagne. "Wanna clue me in on what that little shitfit was all about, bro?"
"She must think you embarrassed Dean."
"Please. He can handle a little sex joke. Or, oh, is it the gay bar thing? Should I have said 'no homo'? I mean, I figured since he's in one, he couldn't mind too much."
"It was crass."
"So you're not acting all pissy now because I might've scared him away with thoughts of big bad gay sex?"
"I--"
"Do I need to remind you that your baffling attraction to closet cases always ends in tears?"
"Gabriel, you've had too much to drink." No, Castiel doesn't need reminding, even if it isn't so much a case of 'always' as 'once,' years ago, when he thought secrecy wouldn't bother him because it didn't seem so different from choosing not to share personal matters with just anyone. But it was also lying and sneaking and being jerked away from in public. As far as he knows, Mark is married and running his father's paper business, and, he hopes, happy. But he doesn't think Dean is the same way. Mark would have vocally protested at the cab driver's insinuation, not laughed it off. But Mark would have flirted with a hostess and made up a story to explain why he was out for a nice dinner with another man.
"Oh, I haven't had nearly enough. I was full of shit when I said strictly business re: Kali. We had a nice pre-dinner divorce screw and then talked campaign strategy over Kobe steaks. My treat, of course. Bright side, she's going to give me back the dog. Apparently the little bitch still misses me. Hasn't stopped peeing on the carpet ever since I moved out. Millie, I mean, not Kali."
Castiel's head hurts. Dean's still not back but a glance over the railings indicates there's now quite a wait at the bar. There's most likely some expedited VIP method for ordering drinks, but he doubts Dean bothered to find out. He's actually relieved when a stranger comes up the stairs, even if it's a stranger wearing nothing but a pair of small red shorts and plastic devil horns.
"Well, hail Satan!" Gabriel says, and Castiel fights the urge to smother him with an inflatable pillow.
The man's name is Jeffrey and his stepfather owns the club, a fact that at least forces Gabriel to stop acting like... well, a dick, for Anna's sake. Castiel feels a little guilty for making presuppositions based on the ridiculous costume, and also feel slightly that fate might be laughing in his face somewhere, because Jeffrey is home for the summer from the University of Chicago, where he's working on a doctorate in Jewish Studies. Meaning, of course, that he's had Balthazar's Hebrew Bible course and that he's heard of Castiel. Meaning that when Dean finally returns with his beer, it's to a theological discussion. To Dean's credit, although he looks confused before the introductions are made, he just shrugs, points at Jeffrey, and says, "See, Gabe, that's how you dress like the devil."
"If you wanted to see me in booty shorts, you could have just asked."
"Thank you, I'm never getting it up again for the rest of my life."
"Those poor bastards in Narnia," Gabriel says.
Dean blinks. "Okay, I have no idea what you just said, but I'm going to go ahead and assume that was some kind of nerd insult, so screw you too. I think they're about to start the thing. Should we go down?"
Jeffrey goes with them and helps push them through to the front of the stage. Anna's painting takes up the entire wall behind it and is covered with a ceiling-high white curtain printed with a 'coming soon' and advertising tonight's event. Down here, it's louder, and Castiel wishes he'd taken some of the earplugs. You have to shout at close proximity to be heard, which Jeffrey does.
"So Anna's your sister, right? She's really cool! She wanted me to model but my dad said hell no. But she's like everyone's new favorite hag."
"She's very talented," Castiel shouts back.
Dean's leaning over from his other side to say something too, but there's a strobe flash and thousands of white feathers rain down from the ceiling. The crowd cheers and jostles and Jeffrey uses Castiel's shoulders to brace himself for jumping up and down along with them. A drag queen takes the stage, wearing wings and a halo and yards upon yards of white crinoline, and performs to a Eurythmics song that even Castiel knows. He would be happy just watching, but Jeffrey won't let go of him, keeps pulling at his arms and insisting that he dance.
Castiel shakes his head, shouts, "I can't dance," but that doesn't do anything.
"Come on, sure you can!"
"I don't like dancing."
"Don't be boring," Jeffrey says, still pulling at him as though he can make him dance by force, with very little apparent anymore of the earnest scholar he just discussed Source Q with.
Castiel looks over at Dean, who's got a feather stuck in his hair, which would be amusing if he didn't look so angry. "I really don't--"
"Hey!" Dean shoves his way between them. "He said he didn't wanna dance, asshole."
"All right. Jesus." Jeffrey shrugs out of Dean's grasp. "My fucking bad." He disappears into the crowd behind them.
"I could have handled that," Castiel says to Dean, whose hand is still on his arm.
"Oh, yeah, you were handling it great."
"Without angering the owner's son."
"You weren't doing a great job of that either. Dude was getting douchier by the second." Dean's talking so close to his ear that his lips keep touching it and making Castiel forget he's supposed to be annoyed at being treated like some kind of damsel in distress.
He reaches up and picks the feather out of Dean's hair, shows it to him silently by way of explanation. Dean smiles and squeezes his arm before he lets go, and at the end of the song the drag queen leans over the edge of the stage to deposit her halo onto Castiel's head.
Anna's art is unveiled with the proper amount of fanfare, a drumroll before the curtain drops and an explosive cheer when it does. The employees who modeled for the painting parade across the stage wearing the wings they're depicted having and are introduced, and when Anna herself takes a bow at their encouragement, the applause is deafening and Castiel smiles until his face hurts. When the stage lights go out, he turns around to face Dean, meaning to ask him if he'd like to leave or at least get out of the crowd, but then there's an explosion of music and light and he can't be heard, and Dean's staring at him like he's never seen him before.
"What's the matter?" Castiel says, voice mute even to his own ears.
He sees Dean shake his head and mouth 'nothing' and they cut a slow path through the crowd until they find Anna upstairs, toasting with Gabriel and a few of her models. "I'm very proud of you," he tells her.
"You and me both," she says, and then whispers, "Good luck," in his ear when he hugs her.
"What?"
"Just good luck."
*
It's not far to the hotel, so they walk. Dean's quiet, so Castiel is too, occupied with his own thoughts. What Anna could have meant by 'good luck,' what was behind the strange look Dean gave him before they left the dance floor, whether he really could have gotten away from Jeffrey politely on his own, of the past and playing a part in a lie and whether Gabriel could be right. He doesn't even notice Dean's stopped walking until he hears, "Hey, earth to Major Tom," from a few steps behind him. Dean's standing in front of a drugstore, its automatic doors swishing indecisively open and shut behind him. "I'm gonna grab some beer, okay?"
Castiel nods and follows him in. The strange look he gets from the cashier makes more sense when he catches sight of himself passing by the mirror on the cosmetics counter, the silver halo still sitting cockeyed on top of his head with his hair askew around it. He doesn't take it off, just straightens it, because even if it's admittedly ridiculous, he won't give a judgemental stranger the power to dictate what he wears on his head. Dean seems to have forgotten it's even there. "Not much selection. Newcastle okay? I know you don't like the cheap stuff."
"Whatever you prefer. I doubt I'll drink much of it."
"No? I figured we could exploit the premium cable, find a movie or something. Unless you're tired."
"That sounds nice. I just shouldn't drink much more if I don't want an unpleasant journey tomorrow."
"Lightweight," Dean says with a grin, but pulls the Newcastle out of the cooler anyway.
Back out on the sidewalk, they're quiet again, but it doesn't seem to weigh so much, even if all of Castiel's questions are still there.
"You know," Dean says after they've been waiting a few moments at a busy intersection for the light to change, "I've technically got nowhere to be tomorrow, if you don't wanna go straight home."
"I don't think we could make it to Niagara Falls and back by Monday."
"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. I meant somewhere else, maybe." He shifts the beer from one arm to the other and cuts his eyes over without turning his head.
"I have no obligations. Where would you like to go?"
"I figured pick a direction and wing it."
Castiel only packed enough for one night, and didn't expect to be gone long enough to ask anyone to bring in the mail or the newspaper, and Leuven's in less than a month so he should be using every spare moment preparing for the panel. There won't be the certainty of reservations and they may have to sleep on the side of the road for all he knows, but he'll be with Dean, so the prospect doesn't incite the kind of panic it perhaps should and he says yes, and thinks Dean's smile at his agreement far outweighs any minor concerns about discomfort and uncertainty.
The moment they're inside the hotel suite, Dean strips off his dress shirt and throws it onto a chair like it's wronged him. By the time Castiel has his shoes off and has finished using the bathroom, Dean's lounging on the bed he's claimed in the well-worn jeans he had on this afternoon and Castiel's old Yale t-shirt.
"Figured if I brought it I'd actually remember to give it back," Dean says, more to the channels he's flipping through on the TV screen than to Castiel. The beer's on the table between the two beds and the remainder of the Amish pie is next to Dean, along with two forks he's found somewhere. Castiel isn't hungry, but sharing the pie is a good enough excuse to sit on this bed and not the other. Dean passes him a beer, already open. "You still have that thing on your head," he says. He reaches out and flicks the edge of the halo.
"I keep forgetting it's there." He lifts it off and settles it on Dean's head, which sends Dean comically half-crosseyed trying to look up at it.
"I'm not really halo material. I'm more the horn type-- and wow, that came out wrong." Dean falls onto his back, laughing up at the ceiling, and because the shirt's just a little bit too small, it slides up to expose a line of skin between hem and waistband that's impossible not to look at. He's not quick enough to look away from the space where it was when Dean sits up, leaving the halo behind on the pillow. "Cas?" Dean waves a hand in front of his face, and on something between impulse and instinct, Castiel reaches out and catches it, and then his fingers are all tangled up with Dean's and they're both looking down at them like it's a scientific curiosity.
He should just let go and apologize and ask what's on TV, but then the inaction stretches on past the point where he can. He's imagined this a dozen different ways, but because those were fantasies, he only imagined what he wanted falling into his arms, not what comes before or after. Most of the time it's been Dean walking up and kissing him like it's something he does every day, after Castiel's laughed at one of his bad jokes, or when they're sweaty and out of breath and have just raced each other the last fifty yards to one of their front doors, or midsentence for no reason or because there's pie or bacon or it's Tuesday, or just to say hello. He's never really planned how they'd get there, because fantasies can be controlled, are exempt from weighing out words to say and considering implications, from blood pounding in his ears and from two joined hands resting on a crisp pillowcase like a time bomb that's just had its fuse tripped.
One of his fingers is against a callus above the ring Dean always wears on his right hand, probably rubbed into place by tools and engine parts and work pinching the metal against his skin, because the only time he's seen Dean without it is when he removes it briefly to clean the grease from underneath it. He forces his eyes up and sees that Dean's still looking down, his eyelashes dark against his cheeks. "Dean." It comes out as barely a whisper, but it makes Dean's gaze meet with his. Their faces are close but their bodies curve outward from each other down the bed around the pie and the remote control, and it reminds Castiel of the week he had to spend teaching Sister Rachel's math class when she had the flu and copied meaningless graphs out of her notes onto the board of lines that could never intersect. Then Dean's thumb strokes across the inside of his wrist and someone's breathing hitches, and that's enough.
Castiel's spent enough time studying the bow of Dean's upper lip that it feels nearly familiar against his, like a map he's memorized, even down to the taste of beer and a few stray sugary crumbs. It's soft when he catches it gently between his teeth and when he traces it with his tongue, and Dean's mouth is sweet and hot and he's breathing rough and halting through his nose, one hand digging fingertips into the base of Castiel's scalp and the other still clasped tight where it started. And it's better than anything his imagination could have supplied because it's real, it's Dean, and he doesn't think his heart was designed to beat this fast.
He feels something like a raw nerve all over when, inevitably, they part. Castiel is torn between disbelief and wonder and also worry, because this is real. The first thing Dean says, when they've caught their breath in the space of an openmouthed searching stare, is, "You're not drunk, right?"
That's easy to translate: Dean wants to know this is real too, which is a relief and a thrill and Castiel can't stop his smile. "I'm not." He knows Dean isn't without having to ask.
"Good," Dean says, rough like he sometimes clears his throat around, hand rubbing at the back of Castiel's neck. Castiel's eyes close on reflex but then it's gone and the bed's shifting; they snap back open to see Dean turning back from setting the pie on the bedside table. With the space freed, they gravitate into it; they're not lines anymore, nothing a formula can be applied to, just arms and legs and hands and lips, breath and skin. It's like he's been starving for months for everything he's held back and just had it all set out in front of him and he wants to take all of it, learn the taste of freckles and cheekbones and smiles, memorize the particular rasp of stubble against his neck and jaw and fingers, how everything of his fits into everything of Dean's, to be closer, if there's even such a thing as close enough. In practice it translates frantic and clinging--clumsy, really, but Dean laughs hot against his ear or neck or chest when an elbow or a knee goes wrong or a belt or buttons won't cooperate, pushes when Castiel pulls and pulls when Castiel pushes, lets him take and gives back.
Dean's jeans are caught at his knees and Castiel's only one leg out of his pants and there are still too many places he wants to touch even with their erections pressed tight into skin and friction betwen them. Dean's grip on Castiel's hips is bruising but his voice is soft whenever they're not kissing and he looks up at Castiel and says 'yeah' and 'yes' and 'goddamn, Cas' and then 'oh, fuck' and stutters up into the sweat-slick heat between their bodies, and if Castiel could think clearly enough, he could find something poetic in setting each other over this edge together, but all he can think or say is, "Dean," and, "Dean," and, "Dean."
Sometimes Castiel has found an embarrassment in the humanity of going from need and want and ecstasy to being simply sticky and beginning to develop leg cramps. There could be one here; they know each other so well in some ways, but not like this. Castiel's nearly expecting it when Dean groans and struggles the rest of the way out of his jeans, when Dean's underwear are sacrificed to the cause of cleaning away the mess without having to move and Castiel flinches slightly at the touch of the cotton on his oversensitized skin. "Sorry," Dean murmurs around a kiss to his shoulder. There's a lot that's strange, new, a lot hanging yet to be said between them, but it's not that unsettled discomfort of having possibly bared too much-- it just means Castiel's pulse isn't slowing down.
Dean maneuvers the covers over them and it's easy to slot in against his side, and maybe the notches at the top of his spine were made for Dean's fingers to fit between. "So that was awesome," Dean says.
"Yes," Castiel says. The sharp curve of Dean's collarbone is next to his lips, so he presses a kiss there. "So is this."
Dean's bare toes flex ticklishly against Castiel's ankle. "Yeah, it is."
"You sound surprised."
"I don't usually do the, uh, cuddling thing. 'specially not with guys."
"Oh." That's a lot at once, in a way that stings a little, stokes something possessive on the one hand and something fearful on the other.
"Hey." Dean doesn't let him shift away, pulls his arms tighter and locks Castiel's leg between his. "I said usually. That's just why the surprise. And I guess fair warning if I suck at it."
"At cuddling? You're doing very well so far."
"Gee, thanks, professor."
"Dean, that's disturbing."
"Okay, no hot-for-teacher jokes, gotcha. But seriously, how are half your classes not failing because they can't stop staring at your ass?"
Dean's wired to deflect into humor when there's something serious to say; Castiel knows this, has been patient with it and even found it endearing, but he can't go forward on inferences and implications, not from here, not very far. "Dean."
Dean sighs. "I mean...that, yeah, but I mean... all this." He lifts one hand off Castiel's hip to wave it back and forth between them. "Hell, I already suck right out of the gate. I was gonna do this whole dinner date goodnight kiss thing and try to get it right, but then we came here and I pissed you off conning other people's reservations and nearly punched out Jeffrey Hot-Pants for being all over you and jumped straight into bed anyway. Gold star for the caveman."
"The Mexican restaurant was going to be--"
"Yeah."
Castiel thinks about how that might have gone, of Dean being too polite, nervous, playing a part he thinks he should be playing, like he did with the wine. Then he thinks of climbing dinosaurs and Dean grinning around a mouthful of pie and all the mornings and nights in kitchens and living rooms with records playing and no one second-guessing whether they should be making an off-color joke or should have worn a different shirt, whether their hair is combed or whether they're in a terrible mood. There's no contest. "I don't need that, Dean. I don't need to be...courted, I suppose, or won over. You've already done that. I already know you."
Dean answers that with a kiss rather than words, one that's deep and slow and is lines Castiel doesn't mind reading between, enough for agreement and understanding and for now, to mark a place for Dean to fill in.
*
By the time they're dressed in the morning, Castiel's learned some things. How the shape of his name in Dean's mouth feels as well as looks, and how it even looks a little different now. That Dean snores, just a little, and how gentle his hands can be. That he doesn't feel ridiculous saying words like cock when it's Dean asking him to say them. That for all Dean's purportedly unaccustomed to cuddling, he seems to like it, and that he likes all the parts of Castiel that he himself has always found strange and bony-- his hips, his wrists, his shoulders.
That eating pie naked in bed is a thing worth doing, and that even if Dean will never tend toward sentimental statements, he'll say things like, "Post wake-up sex pie? This is fuckin' heaven," with such visceral contentment that it feels like poetry.
That Dean walks around naked as comfortably as he does in clothes, and that Castiel's going to have to get used to hearing things like, "Damn, I shoulda thought about having to take these with me before I got come all over them." (Castiel silently offers him the plastic laundry bag from the closet to put the soiled underwear in, which for some reason makes Dean laugh.)
And that while there's a lot to worry about, whether they'll work like this, how they'll work like this, whether all the things they already were will work the same way, there's one concern Castiel needn't have had, which Castiel learns when Anna knocks on the door and asks if they're decent, and Dean shouts back, "Naked!" without hesitation.
"Congratulations," Anna says. "We're going to breakfast and Gabe's buying. Should we wait?"
"Be there in five." Dean misinterprets Castiel's expression and says, "Oh, shit. Should I have not-- I didn't even think about it."
"No, Dean, you've done nothing wrong. I would have told them, if they hadn't guessed first. Although Gabriel may threaten you."
"He'd be a shitty brother if he didn't. Only reason I don't with Sammy's that chicks kinda tend to take it the wrong way if I say screwing him over equals pain and suffering. Ruby's damn lucky I don't hit girls." Dean's been bent down lacing up his boots; he looks up now, but not quite at Castiel. "Cas, you know I wasn't talking out my ass before, right? Like I might seriously suck at this, and not in the fun way."
Castiel knows what he means, of course, but he doesn't think it's too selfish to want Dean to say it outright, to need that bit of assurance that comes from getting him to force out whatever he can manage. "I'd be better able to answer your concerns if I knew your definition of 'this.'"
Dean laughs, but not with amusement. "Damn, make it sound like a business meeting, why don't you?"
"I'm sorry. I have shortcomings of my own when it comes to speaking frankly, but I think we should."
"No, yeah, you're right. I just, I mean, this, this us thing. 'Cause I've wanted it for fucking ever and it's not like if I do something stupid like I always do, there's just some dude I never talk to again. I fuck up and I lose my best friend."
He wishes they could talk about this without Dean looking strained and apologetic, and he hopes there's a someday when they'll be able to. He sits down on the edge of the bed and waits until Dean relaxes into having arms around him. "That would pain me more than I have the words to express. It's inevitable that we'll argue. One or the other of us may say something hurtful. I have as many flaws as you do. But if you want this 'us' thing as much as I do, that shouldn't stop us from trying."
Dean lets out a loud breath and says, "Okay." He turns his head to press his lips to Castiel's temple and says, "Okay," and then they're kissing and then Anna calls out at the door again and Dean pulls back smiling and shouts, "One second!" and after at least thirty more of being clutched so tight it's hard to breathe, they tear themselves away and Dean says, hand over the doorknob, "Okay, let's do this."
Next: Part 11
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Epilogue