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Castiel is on duty when the call comes in. Castiel, report. Zachariah, with the familiar sting of a superior to an inferior.
Early. Castiel reported an hour ago. Heaven and Earth operate on different time scales, of course, but Zachariah knows where Castiel is.
Unchanged. Room 10, Dead Creek Motel, Addison, Vermont, United States of America. Michael sword asleep, Castiel reports. Dean was asleep an hour ago too. Castiel has to concentrate not to slip into his dreams.
East edge of the parking lot, Zachariah says and cuts the connection.
Castiel’s black wings move faster than thought, saving Castiel from the punishment hesitation demands. Flying out of the motel room and landing in the specified meeting place, Castiel has a traitorous flicker of unease. It disappears immediately. It cannot be allowed to exist.
Zachariah is already there. His vessel is shorter than Castiel’s, hair white and balding. His wings are so white they are almost blue. He holds them perfectly still, following protocol. “We have work for you, Castiel,” he says, smiling. Smiling seems to come naturally to that vessel, since Zachariah is always doing it.
Castiel does not attempt to smile back. “What is the will of Heaven?”
“We need you to seduce the Michael sword to our side,” Zachariah says.
Seduce Dean? Castiel freezes.
Zachariah keeps talking but the English words turn into meaningless sounds. Blood that Castiel should be able to control is pounding in the ears, the heartbeat suddenly increasing. Castiel’s wings do not move, do not open or flutter or twitch. They lie calmly and serenely. And their stillness is certainly a lie. Surprise makes Castiel want to move.
Is it only surprise?
Through sheer force of will, Castiel tunes back in to what Zachariah is saying. “...make his commitment to Heaven. Will you need a prompter, Castiel?”
“No!” Castiel blurts, too loud, too fast. A breath to calm the frantic heartbeat. “No, I can set this in motion alone.” Prompters remain unseen and tell angels in the field what to say. Compliance is mandatory.
Castiel does not do well listening to Enochian and then translating to human languages seamlessly. Dean is especially quick to pick up on pauses, so Heaven has only used prompters with Castiel a couple of times during this campaign.
Zachariah nods once, like he expected Castiel to refuse. A good superior knows the limits of direct inferiors. “Then we’ll eagerly await developments,” he says.
It’s a dismissal. Castiel unfolds tense wings.
“Do not fail us, Castiel,” Zachariah says, still smiling. He flies away, presumably back to Heaven.
Returning to the motel room, Castiel finds Dean awake. The lamp on his bedside table is warm, though it’s off. Dean must have woken from the slight disturbance of Castiel’s exit and turned it on. No threats detected, he’s ready to go back to sleep. His eyes are still open as he lies on his back, staring at the dark ceiling.
“Hello Dean,” Castiel says.
Dean flinches. He turns the lamp back on as an extension of that involuntary motion, almost brushing the trench coat with his reaching fingers. “What the hell, Cas?” he demands. He’s blinking up at Castiel, hair mussed from sleep, no weapon in his hand. The only sharp thing about him is his voice.
Sam groans loudly in the other bed and pulls a pillow over his head.
“Dean, we need to have intercourse,” Castiel says.
Dean stares up at Castiel. His lips part silently. Then he shakes himself. “Uh, you mean, like, talk, right? Talking intercourse.”
Ah, yes, that was a confusing way to phrase it. “I mean sexual intercourse,” Castiel clarifies.
“Oh. Sexual intercourse,” Dean repeats, eyes fixed on Castiel again. “Okay. Huh.”
That was easy. Castiel leans closer.
Dean’s already wide eyes widen further and he scrambles away, back pressing against the headboard. “Whoa, hold on. That wasn’t—just give me a minute.”
Sam sits up. “Oh my god, I’m right here,” he complains.
Dean flinches again, whipping his head around to look at Sam. “Sammy, I... I’m not...” He trails off with a choke. His heart rate has increased markedly since the start of this conversation.
Sam rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” He shoves hair out of his face and stands up, glancing at the digital clock. “It’s three in the fucking morning. Jesus Christ. I’ll be in the car.” He crosses the room, grabbing his phone and keys off the table as he goes.
Tension tight in his shoulders, Dean tracks Sam’s movements. He watches Sam shove bare feet into his shoes.
In the doorway, Sam turns. “Do not have sex in my bed,” he says, pointing at Dean, then Castiel.
Castiel nods. Sam leaves, closing the door forcefully behind him.
Dean heaves out a long breath. “What the fuck,” he mutters to the ceiling.
Castiel waits. They have hit a barrier of some kind. Castiel isn’t sure how to proceed.
Finally, Dean looks at Castiel. “What’s going on? Why the sudden urge to do the horizontal mambo with yours truly?” he asks.
Castiel squints at him. “Are you talking about dancing or snakes?” If it’s snakes, then it should be mamba. Dean’s slang is often confusing. Castiel usually doesn’t bother asking but this is important.
The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches up. “Well, both, I guess.” The tiny smile disappears and he shakes his head. “You wanna have sex: why?”
“Isn’t it enough to ask and be answered?” Seduction does imply a more elaborate approach. Castiel has no skill with words. Hopefully, Dean will be forgiving.
Dean sighs. “Sure, if you get all philosophical about it. But, uh, I’m the wrong person to—you’ll want a woman.”
Castiel tilts the head. “How would a woman help me have sex with you?”
Dean ducks his head, breathing out a laugh. “Oh, Cas, buddy. No, I mean, just you and uh, her.” He doesn’t meet Castiel’s gaze, holding on to the sheet covering his legs and pulling it a little higher.
“That seems pointless.”
Castiel, report. Zachariah, much too early again. Castiel can’t be distracted now.
On mission, Castiel replies, and tunes out his further commands. It’s painful. Wings shift and stir, reacting.
Dean is saying, “But you’re a... man.”
Pain and irritation make Castiel’s tone sharper than it should be. “No, I’m not.”
Dean’s eyebrows go up. “What?”
“I’m an angel,” Castiel reminds him. Dean forgets this obvious fact more often than one would expect.
Dean gestures to Castiel’s vessel. “Yeah, but you’re also kind of a man.” He takes a deep breath. “Look, Cas,” Dean says. “You don’t actually want me.”
Castiel has never wanted anyone before. Angels obey. They only want the will of Heaven. Dean has always been special. Saving him from Hell and reconstructing his body impacted Castiel in unexplainable ways. Watching over him, speaking to him, learning from him has influenced Castiel even more. Simple eye contact with Dean is profound.
“Yes,” Castiel says. “I do want you.”
Castiel, report. The request comes from Naomi. She isn’t in the chain of command. Why is she asking for Castiel’s report?
On mission, Castiel repeats, and tunes her out too.
Wings open entirely, causing a localized electricity surge. The lamp flickers.
Dean checks the room for threats, reaching one hand under his pillow. “Did you see that?” he asks.
“I caused it,” Castiel admits, folding wings slowly enough to leave the atmosphere unaffected.
Dean relaxes, pulling out his empty hand. “Don’t break the windows this time, okay? I get it, you’re an angel. But...”
“Do you want me to take a different vessel?” Castiel asks. The genetic compatibility of this one makes it strong. Finding another will cause delay, especially if Dean has specific requirements.
“No!” Dean protests. He stares at Castiel, throat moving as he swallows. “No, this one’s good,” he says.
“You were objecting to it,” Castiel reminds him.
Dean huffs. “I was just—you know what? Fuck it, let’s do this.” He shoves the sheet aside. He’s fully dressed. Only his boots were discarded before sleep.
Instinctively, Castiel flies the short distance between them and lands kneeling, straddling Dean. Hands braced against the wall behind and above him. Displaced air rushes around the room, fluttering the curtains and rustling the papers left on the motel table.
Eyes wide, Dean stares at Castiel. Then he surges up, grabbing the lapels of the trench coat. Dean’s mouth is warm. They’re kissing. It feels... Castiel feels...
The light bulb in the lamp beside them shatters.
Dean doesn’t break the kiss, just makes a little satisfied noise into the mouth, eyes closed. Castiel kisses him back. Dean’s breathing increases in speed and Castiel mirrors him.
It’s good to kiss Dean. Castiel didn’t know how good it would be. The feeling of connection, of joy. It’s such a simple act. So easy!
Then the pain hits. Castiel, What Are You Doing With My Sword?
Michael.
Castiel falls backward, away from Dean. Even though it won’t help, the hands instinctively clutch at the vessel’s head, fingers in the hair. The eyes squeeze shut. It hurts so much.
“Cas? Cas, what’s wrong?” Dean, his hands braced on the chest.
Castiel tries to respond. Only a low groan escapes.
Michael speaks again. Archangels can’t be ignored. Castiel, You Are Disobedient To The Will Of Heaven.
Mission within parameters, Castiel protests, barely able to think through the pain, let alone communicate.
“What? Who are you talking to?” Dean asks. “Cas, you’re freaking me out.” The pressure of his hands disappears.
Castiel frantically tunes back in to Zachariah’s frequency. Seeking revelation.
Don’t ruin the Michael sword, Castiel, Zachariah sends back. I did try to warn you.
Communication with Zachariah distances Castiel from Michael’s annoyance. The extreme pain recedes. Just the normal sting remains.
Castiel opens the eyes. The motel room is half-lit again.
“Cas?” Dean is standing beside the bed, leaning over Castiel. “You okay now?”
The fingers still in the hair, the body still lying flat on the bed. Castiel slowly sits up. The other bedside lamp is now lit.
Dean moves back, his hands hovering nearby but not touching Castiel. His brow is furrowed in concentration.
Thankfully, Michael doesn’t resume communication. Castiel rests the hands on the bed so they don’t shake. The wings ache. Castiel keeps them still.
“Cas, buddy, talk to me,” Dean says. He perches on the edge of the bed. Castiel can feel his warmth through the air between them.
“I was... reprimanded,” Castiel says, meeting Dean’s gaze. What was the mission supposed to be, if not seduction?
Dean’s expression tightens, his jaw clenching. Then he lets out a long breath. “Not really a surprise that angels are homophobic,” he says.
It isn’t? Castiel squints at him. “I don’t think that concept applies here. I misinterpreted my orders.”
“Your orders?” Dean asks. His eyes widen and he leans away. “Wait, wait. You thought they ordered you to...” He trails off and gestures to himself.
Castiel nods.
Dean rubs one hand over his face. “Of fucking course,” he mutters. “Why would you say that shit otherwise, right?”
Castiel bristles. “I meant it. I want you, Dean.” Even though it will result in punishment.
Dean blinks at Castiel, hand still in his hair. “Really?”
Castiel reaches out and covers the scar on Dean’s shoulder, where it is concealed by his clothes. “Yes.”
Castiel, Stop Touching My Sword, Michael commands, with a rush of renewed pain.
Castiel cries out. Pulling away from Dean, Castiel overbalances. The body hits the floor with a thump.
“Cas!” Dean is kneeling beside Castiel. Through waves of agony, Castiel sees him throw his head back to shout at the ceiling. “Stop hurting him, you bastards!”
In response, the pain disappears. Castiel gasps in relief. “Thank you, Dean.”
Dean helps Castiel stand up, unnecessarily solicitous. “Are they gone?” he asks, grip shifting to the hands, holding them in his.
“No,” Castiel says. They’re never gone.
“If the other angels shitcan you for this, I’m done with them. I don’t care if they throw me back.” Dean’s jaw is tight again. He’s angry.
Castiel feels warm inside. Like Dean’s protectiveness has fed a fire already burning. Squeezing Dean’s hands gently, Castiel says, “I want to kiss you again.”
Dean relaxes slightly. “Cool. Uh, rain check? When we don’t have an audience of celestial dicks.”
It’s an unlikely scenario. Castiel can wait. Dean is worth waiting for.