Archive of Our Own ^beta

Through the forest and passed the glen

Find where the honeysuckle grows

Follow the stream and take the path

To where the angel lies sleeping

He’ll listen to the woes of men

For just a pound of honey fresh

Beg for his boon and mind his wrath

Take heed beware his hidden price

For the bound god will own you then

Castiel takes his due in blood

Mary Winchester was a vision in white, sunlight catching in her hair as she and her precious child weave flower crowns. She sings to Dean in a soft, lilting voice, teaches him the ways of sacrifice and offerings. 

“The angels are watching over us,” she tells him, and spins the story of the god Castiel, the Angel of Solitude, who watches over them. She promises him late one night, Dean sitting on her lap as they rock near the fire, “Castiel will always help you, my sweet child. All you need to do is ask with a bit of honey.”

Father never likes it when mother speaks of Castiel, and Dean doesn’t really understand why. Sometimes late at night he hears them arguing in hushed whispers, and John calls the angel a monster, a traitor, evil. But dad can’t hear them here in the beautiful, sunny valley.

Besides, Dean believes his mother, she would never lie to him.

She brushes his hair in the fall and tells him the good news.

Dean will be a big brother and it’s the happiest day of his young life.

They spend the season picking pumpkins and corn, preserving their vegetables and fruit in the cellar to prepare for winter while John watches over them, smoking meat and fish. It’s a beautiful fall, wonderful weather and full of sunshine.

But that harvest , the spirits are restless and a sickness overtakes the village, and no matter how many carved turnips they leave out they can’t seem to scare the evil away. The reaper takes most of the elderly and some of the young and the grave diggers work from dawn till dusk and by the winter a quarter of the village is dead.

A plague, some call it.

A sickness, a disease, a calamity.

A curse from the gods , others lament.

Castiel , the villagers all whisper to each other.

Whatever it was that swept through the village of Lawrence that year leaves no family unscathed by its shadow.

Mary Winchester falls ill the day before Winter Solstice and develops a cough she just can’t shake, despite the honey and tea and tonics. She gets better and then each time she gets worse, the rosy color leaves her cheeks and the luster dulls from her hair. By the time the spring flowers peek through the show her once golden skin is now sallow and the circles under her eyes are dark like bruises. Dean Winchester is just four years old when his father sits sobbing in the kitchen each night and no longer sleeps with his wife, preferring the company of whiskey.

“Dean, my love,” Mary smiles, stroking her child’s cheek. They sit together in front of the fire on their favorite rocking chair, Dean perched on her lap, “I’m going to be… going to the angels soon and I’ll need you to be brave.”

“I’m always brave, Momma!”

“I know my love,” Mary soothes, stroking his hair with a tender smile on her chapped lips, “You’ll take care of your brother too, won’t you?”

He doesn’t understand the promise he makes, but he listens to her whisper the secrets of the fallen God, dutifully learns how to gather honey from their hives. She teaches him everything she can in those dreary months before the birth of her second son. These will be the last lessons he ever learns from her, not that he knows it yet. John returns home drunk and smelling of vomit and blood the nights be bothers returning at all and the other adults look at Dean with pity in their eyes. Still, Dean is a brave boy and nurses mother as best he can until the day Ellen moves in to help care for her.

It is a week before his brother is due that Mary lays herself down to sleep and does not rise from bed in the morning. 

The village healers come and go.

Make her comfortable, they say.

Take this for the pain, they say.

She needs rest, they say.

There’s nothing more we can do, they say.

It is then Dean understands his mother is sick, and he goes to his father where he sits with a bowed head in their marital bed, “Dad! Castiel can save momma!”

John looks his son in the eye for the first time in months, a dark pain in his eye, “Who told you about that monster ? ”

“Momma did!” Dean tugs on his father’s sleeve, “We have to hurry! Come on!”

But his father just jerks his arm away, “Castiel doesn’t help anyone. He can’t save her, Dean.” 

“He can! Momma says he’ll listen to--”

Rough hands calloused from long days of toil grip his son’s tiny shoulders, giving him a shake, “It’s just a story, Dean! It’s not real .”

“It is!” Dean knows it is. Momma said it was. And Momma would never lie to Dean.

Sorrow born e rage fills his father’s face and , for the first time in his life , Dean fears his father might hit him, and even if he doesn’t Dean knows he’s broken. He sneaks into his mother’s room and holds her hand for the last time, and for once Ellen does not scold him. He hates to see Mary like this, pale and sweaty and eyes a vacant stare. She’s under the spell of the Poppy , the doctors say , and Dean isn’t so sure she can hear him.

“Dad says Castiel won’t help you M o mma,” he whispers to her, holding her clammy hand in his tiny ones. The once long and nimble fingers now resemble the bones he once saw on a picked clean animal, “but he won’t even try.”

Dean is a big boy and he does not cry when Mary squeezes his hand, her breath a trembling rasp, “I know… sweetheart… It’s too late for Castiel now. Please… promise me you’ll look after Sammy if papa can’t.”

He’s a big brother, so he doesn’t cry, even though his face feels wet and his eyes burn, ”I’ll always keep Sammy safe , m o mma.”

Tears trickle down her sallow, sunken cheeks from glassy eyes, “That’s my sweet boy… I love you, Dean.”

“...I love you too , m o mma.”

The next day , Mary Winchester does not wake up and though they won’t let him in the room, Dean watches through the crack in the door with a churning stomach as the midwives cut open his dear mother and pull his brother from her body. Mary Winchester breathes for the last time just before Sam Winchester breathes for the first, and Dean can’t help but think the baby is a monster all covered in blood and gore. But even if he is a monster he’ll always love him anyway, because he’s his little brother and he promised.

John is too overcome with grief to hold his own son, sobbing over his wife’s corpse, so the first arms to hold little Sam are his older brother ’ s. Dean looks at the cleaned baby with loving green eyes and Miss Ellen teaches him how to mix the milk and hold the bottle. He’s relieved Sam is a normal baby after all.

“...I’ll protect you, Sammy,” Dean whispers to his brother tucked in bed with him later that night, “And Castiel will too.”

Dean is so fucking sick of Marv that every part of him yearns to throw his hammer at the aggravating, short book seller’s head just for the satisfaction of seeing his skull crack. Still, a customer is a customer and the Winchester homestead doesn’t make so much gold that he can snub even the most aggravating asshole in town. So here he is, on his knees repairing a bookshelf bigger than his entire bedroom.

Most of the town can’t even read, so what’s the fucking point of a bookseller?

“And can you believe that Mister Adler wouldn’t let me into the university library? Me!” Marv motions at himself, eyes wide and throwing his hands around to emphasise this perceived plight. Dean couldn’t give two fucks about Marv, Adler, or this fancy library but he makes the polite hum of interest as he works anyway.

“Adler is an asshole,” Dean agrees because, well, he is an asshole. An even bigger one than Marv, which is honestly a feat in itself.

“I know, and he has no sense of decorum! He didn’t even offer me tea when I stopped by,” he just keeps going on and on and Dean nods along, interjecting with an occasional quip or noise so the man at least thinks he’s listening and only half paying attention.

Dean loves being a carpenter, but gods above he hated some of his customers.

An hour of hammering and complaining later , Dean can finally make his exit, passing by the other stalls in the market and nodding to Bobby as he stops to admire the animal pelts and smoked meat, “Mornin’ , Bobby. Good hunt yesterday?”

Bobby grunts his affirmation with a nod, the smallest quirk to his lips, “Wasn’t too bad at all but coulda been better. Another huntin’ party were close by and a bunch of loud idjits.”

“Let me guess, Dick-I-Know-Everything-Roman, Gordon, and… Cole?”

“Got it in one,” Bobby groused, a grumpy frown on his face.

Dean holds up one of the thicker skins and looks it over, thinking it’d make a good blanket for Sam for the winter, “How much for the pelt?”

“You know I ain’t gonna charge you, boy. You come fix that fence out back and we’ll call it square,” Dean grins widely at the man and is just about to thank him when Bobby sho o s him away, “now go on, git. Ain’t you got a roof to fix at the Roadhouse?”

“Already done. I’ll stop by your place tomorrow, Bobby,” he rolls up the pelt and ticks it under his arm and leaves with a wave that Bobby answers with a huff.

The path to the Winchester homestead is overgrown with weeds and fallen branches, and Dean knows he should do something about it… eventually. But when it’s just him traveling up and down the path it’s hard to put forth the effort. The smile leaves his face as soon as he’s alone, weary fatigue taking hold of him. Fifteen minutes of walking later and he can see the first signs of the house and equally overgrown yard and Dean tries not to think about how sad his mother would be to see the property in such disrepair.

“I’m home,” he calls out as he kicks off his boots, leaving them by the door and heading towards the kitchen. He’ll need to go to the market and get more food soon, but for now he settles on making some soup over the fire. He wishes he could afford something better, something less watery than this garbage he’s making, but… 

He ladles some of it into a bowl and grabs a hearty chunk of bread and a waterskin, heading towards Sam’s room. He pauses before it, listening to the rattling breathing and coughing on the other side. Taking a deep breath to center himself he pushes open the door, smile back firmly in place, “Hey , Sammy.”

The scent of sickness and sweat permeates his nose as soon as the door is open, wafting out into the hall like a dam had broken. Quickly he places the tray on the nightstand and walks across the room to the window, pushing it open so his brother can get some fresh air. It’s pointless, he knows it won’t actually do anything, but at least it’ll bring in the fall breeze.

“Dee?” Sam’s soft voice croaks from the bed, his eyes fluttering open as he turns his head to look at his older brother.

“Mornin’, sleeping beauty,” Dean sits on the chair next to Sam’s bed, helping the boy sit up. It takes years of schooling his expressions to hide the wince when he feels the ribs of Sam’s back. He’s getting worse, not better, despite the medicine the healer had brought the week before. Sam’s cheeks have g one deep red from fever, sweat covering his face and making his skin clammy. And his hands… he vividly remembers their mothers boney fingers and knows soon Sam will be just as wasted away.

Each time he looks at Sam his heart breaks a little more; Sam was only fourteen summers old, much too young to succumb to the plague. What would mother say if she saw him like this, succumbing to the same sickness that stole her life ? Dean had promised to protect Sam, and yet…

With little else he can do, once he gets Sam propped up on a pillow he pulls the stopper of the sickly green vial and hands it to his brother. Dutifully he brings the bottle up to his parched lips, tipping his head back and scrunches up his face in disgust as he manages to choke it down. Placing the bottle back on the nightstand, he brings the bowl of soup and the chunk of bread and helps his brother eat. It’s been weeks since Sam’s been strong enough to hold the bowl and spoon himself and Dean hasn’t felt so helpless since their mother’s death. His little brother can’t eat much, barely manages to get down a third of the bowl before he’s too tired to continue, even paler than he had been when Dean entered the room.

“Alright , Sammy,” he tries not to pay attention to the silence as he helps Sam back down, tries not to remember the last time he retorted with ‘it’s Sam, Dee!’. All he gets is a weak, tired smile as he tucks him in.

“Am… I going to die, Dee?” Sam whispers into the air between them and Dean freezes, trapped by his brother’s gaze. He doesn’t look sad or angry and God, does Dean wish he did. No, his brother, once so full of fight and spirit simply looks resigned.

“No,” he carefully brushes the sweaty locks from Sam’s forehead, putting all his conviction into his next words, “you’re not going to die, not like this. I’m going to get you help.”

The soft look Sam gives him makes his stomach churn and he knows Sam doesn’t believe him, “It’s… ok, Dee.”

Dean shakes his head, “I promise , Sam. You’re going to get better, no matter what I have to do.”

All he gets in answer is a tired hum as his little brother’s eyes slide closed, sleep taking him once again. Sitting back in his chair and closing his eyes, Dean feels all the strength drain from his body, leaving him barely more than a weary shell. What was he supposed to do for Sam? The healers could do no more, and even the clerics in the capital couldn’t remove the plague that was turning Sam’s blood to poison and filling his lungs with blood.

Impotent rage fills his belly as he slips out of the room, leaning back against the door and squeezing his eyes shut. He hates being useless, being strung along by whatever the fates decide. Dean is a fixer and with his hands so pathetically idle against his will , t he most he can do is stalk up and down the hall, glaring at the room h is dad is supposed to be in.

He can’t even remember the last time he saw John Fucking Wincehster at home and not in the bar. Despite the growing lack of Winchester patriarch , the two brothers hadn’t actually noticed much difference in their day to day lives. John hadn’t been much of a father to them for all of Sam’s life and most of Dean’s, after all. If Mary was still here--

With a shake of his head he chases the thought away; Mary wasn’t here and would never be again no matter how much he wished. Despite that , he finds himself walking into her old bedroom, fingers tracing lightly through the dust on the top of her dresser. It’s been the same since the day she died, John unwilling to allow a single thing to be moved. 

The whole house was little more than a memorial of her death.

Unbidden memories still tickle the back of his mind and he can picture her there, sitting on the edge of the bed and knitting little socks. Hear her singing in the vegetable garden as a young Dean pulls up weeds. Sees her in youthful glory, shining bright in the sun, her features blurred and soft around the edges. He misses her fiercely, misses her stories--

Stories .

Maybe…?

Castiel.

Could he help him…? 

Suddenly feeling nervous he licks his lips, glancing out the window towards the mountains looming in the distance. As he grew , he became familiar with the story of Castiel beyond the warm rhyme his mother used to speak. The village feared him, hated him, thought him a monster and hung charms to keep him away despite the fallen angel being locked in cold iron chains.

But Mary had believed in him, promised him Castiel would always be there and had even shown him how to gather honey when she was near her death bed. Surely if Castiel was completely evil she wouldn’t have… would she?

What did he have to lose either way? Sam was as good as dead at the rate he was deteriorating, and no one could do a damn thing about it. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would take the journey and beg aid from the broken angel.

Ellen takes a little bit of convincing, but she eventually agrees to watch over Sam while Dean makes his trip. All it takes is a little white lie about where he’s going and the bribe of first choice of the spring lambs. It’s a small price to pay, especially if he ends up dead anyway.

Bright and early the week before the harvest festival , he packs up his pound of honey and makes for the fallen angel’s hiding place. His mother’s songs and stories echo in his ears and he prays… to Castiel? To the angels? Who even knows anymore. Still he prays that Castiel can save his brother when no others could. Unfortunately , he has no map, so all he has to go on for directions is a single rhyme.

The first part is easy enough, there’s only one forest anywhere near their little town. No one really goes into it anymore, preferring to take the roads instead of narrow dirt paths. Thankfully , the forest is pretty safe this close to town and he doesn’t run into any bears… or wolves… or mountain lions…

Come to think of it, Dean’s damn glad he remembered to bring his sword and bow.

Despite the lovely weather and lack of face ripping predators, it takes Dean the better part of a day stomping around and marking his path before he finds any sort of glen. The valley is incredibly beautiful, full of lush green grass and blooming flowers. The wind blows and the scent of daisies and dandelions drift through his nose and he sucks in a breath; he recognizes this place.

Mary had taken him here as a child, he realizes. Swallowing, he retraces the steps they had taken so long ago-over a decade now. It’s just like he remembers it, right down to the colorful butterflies drifting flower to flower that guide him to the honeysuckles near a crystal clear stream.

Older now , Dean can easily tell that there’s something unnatural about this place; the colors are more vibrant and there’s a strange static to the air. Something is building here, a sense of anticipation but for what he doesn’t know. Still , he gathers his nerves and crosses the small stream, taking the path nestled under an archway of flowering trees and he knows he’s walking into something other . The further he goes the more his hair stands up on e nd, electricity tingling his skin and making his heart flutter.

The cave he finds at the end of the path is small and non-descript, much different than the rainbow of flora that grows at its mouth. All kinds of flowers, some he doesn’t even recognize and-- these flowers shouldn’t even be growing.

What the hell?

It’s fall in the village, crisp and full of burnt orange leaves. He distinctly remembers the carved pumpkins and turnips lit with little candles. But here? Spring has taken hold and paints the grass and moss in all manner of colors. Steeling himself , he walks into the cave, though his nerves make his knees shake. The deeper he gets the darker it gets without the light of the sun, and deep in the black he sees tiny pinpricks of glowing light.

It feels wrong.

Like something that would make Mary Winchester sob.

Still, he needs to do this, for Sam. So he takes a deep breath and walks forward, leery of what he’s going to find.

There’s a figure collapsed in a heap on the floor, head hung against its chest.

It’s Castiel; he’s sure it is.  The man has to be an angel; his wings lay around him in tatters, the feathers sticky with grime and dust. Dean can tell the man had once been beautiful, his features a pleasing mix of sharp and soft. But any appeal he once had is lost to the filth and--

Castiel had sacrificed so much of himself to save their village, and what did the humans do to thank him?

They bound him in wrought iron chains that anchored him to the rocks of a cave, put him out of sight and out of mind. Wrapped his delicate neck, ankles, and wrists in ugly cuffs that rub his flesh raw. Even now , the scent of copper is bright and strong and Dean knows it’s blood he can taste on his tongue. But the man isn’t bleeding--

No.

That’s not right.

He’s bleeding, just not in red.  

Bright white-blue light shines from under the cuffs holding him, filling the cave with a dull eerie glow. Shaking, he steps closer to get a better look and his heart falls out of his stomach when he notices that the band surrounding the angel's neck is spiked , digging into his flesh so it releases a constant pulsating glow.

They’re bleeding him, he realizes with a sense of dread. Keeping him weak and pliant and half dead so he can’t free himself and flee this living nightmare.

He swallows as he kneels in front of the angel and whispers, “Castiel?”

The god’s eyes snap open and Dean can feel his heart stop; his eyes are beautiful . The stormy blue glows with the same luminescence that his blood does, blue-white hot with righteous rage and agony. But he doesn’t speak, just bores his gaze into Dean’s flesh, right down to his soul, ripping him open and digging into Dean’s soft, warm insides. Something settles in his chest and wraps around his heart to pull tight, tying him to the angel in as physical a way as Castiel is bound to the wall. There’s something between them, vibrating in the air, making it electric and it’s terrifying in a way he’s never experienced before. 

Every part of Dean , right down to the primal drive to survive is screaming at him to flee , leave this place and never think of it again. But he needs to be here, needs this angel turned god’s help. So with shaking hands he unwraps the slab of honey, acutely aware of how those eyes track his every movement. He’s not really sure what he’s supposed to do with it, there’s no place to set an offering, nothing in this cold, dank cave but him and the angel.

But then the angel opens his mouth, plush pink tongue sticking out, and oh. Okay. Right, it’s not like Castiel could actually… use his hands with the way they’re locked up. So Dean shifts closer on his knees, carefully taking a chunk of the sticky honey and bringing it to the angel’s waiting mouth. He means to just carefully lay it on Castiel’s tongue, so when the angel jerks forward and captures his fingers in his mouth Dean freezes.

Dean can feel teeth grazing his knuckles and is positive the angel is going to bite his fingers off.

He releases breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when all he feels is Castiel’s clever tongue curling around his fingers, gathering all the honey up and pulling it into his mouth. Lazily, eyes bright with cruel amusement, Castiel leans back as he licks his lips.

Dean gets the distinct impression the angel is laughing at him.

Still, when Castiel opens up expectantly for more again and again and again, Dean dutifully offers chunk after chunk of honey. It’s weirdly intimate and he’s not sure how to feel about that, nor is he sure how to feel about the arousal simmering in his groin. He definitely doesn’t want to get hard in front of the angel, hand feeding him was already mortifying enough.

Thankfully , his dick behaves until they’re done and Dean wipes his hand off on his pants. He and the angel stare at each other for several long moments, Dean hopeful and Castiel considering, calculating.

Finally the angel speaks and the deep gravelly rumble goes straight through him, making him feel drunk and light headed, “What is it your name.”

After several false starts he manages to choke out, “Dean.”

Castiel hums, eyes still glowing but half lidded, an amused smile on his plump, chapped lips, “Dean,” the name rolls pleasantly off of Castiel’s tongue, “What is it you want.”

Relief crashes through him, and Dean practically melts as the tension leaves his shoulders. Castiel was at least willing to listen to his plea, “My brother is sick. The healers and the clerics have all already seen him, and he doesn’t…” he sucks in a breath, “Doesn’t have long.”

A low hum of consideration fills the cave and makes Dean’s teeth rattle, “And you want me to cure his affliction?”

“Yes, I--Please, Sammy’s all I have left,” it feels much too honest, much too painful to admit out loud but he can feel in his bones that it’s what Castiel expects. No lies, no half truths, nothing but brutal truth.

“And why should I help you? Humans bound me here, after all,” Castiel looks bored more than angry, like this is just another Tuesday for him, and Dean can’t help but wonder if it is. Do other villagers come to the angel and beg favors?

“Sammy isn’t like everyone else in the village. He’s a good kid, smart and--”

Castiel interrupts him with a huff, unimpressed and rolling his eyes, the dismissive flick of his hand making his chains rattle, “That’s not what I mean, Dean,” he leans forward, eyes flashing hungrily, “What would you give for the gift of my grace? How far would you go to save your brother, Dean?”

“I would do anything for Sammy,” the words tumble out of his mouth before he can even think, but he wouldn’t take them back even if he could. It’s true, after all. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to save Sam. Whatever this man wanted , Dean would give it to him, even if it meant burning the village to the ground.

It seems to be the right thing to say, because Castiel looks incredibly pleased as he leans back against the cold rock, his eyes an eerie glow in the dark, “Good. Release me and I shall cure him of this malady.”

Dean leans in to look at the chains, searches for any weak link or keyhole but doesn’t find any. These bonds weren’t meant to be removed, created just to seal this magical being in iron forever. He has no idea how to remove them, “...How?”

“Souls,” when he looks up Castiel is barely an inch from his face and Dean feels that familiar, though extremely inappropriate arousal spike, “given enough sacrifice I may break these chains myself.”

“...Souls,” he swallows, hand reaching up to idly rub his chest right where his heart is. The seat of the soul, according to the clerics and mages, not that Dean can verify that or not.

“Not yours.”

Dean exhales heavily in relief; while he would prefer not to give up his soul he absolutely would have if that was the only thing Castiel would take. He’d much rather bring him someone else to snack on.

“So you want human sacrifices?” Dean sits back, frowning thoughtfully. Getting a living person up here to kill will be a lot harder than just dragging a corpse up the path.

The angel practically purrs, grim delight oozing from every pore, “Yes, Dean. You did say you’d do anything for your brother.”

“Can I just bring the dead body? Or do they need to be freshly killed, like, right here?”

Castiel blinks, clearly taken aback by Dean’s quick agreement to just… murder people, and now it’s Dean’s turn to feel smug for putting him on the back foot. The angel recovers quickly though, lounging back lazily like he has all the time in the world for this, “The sacrifice must be made here, in my presence, so I may absorb the human lifeforce before it dissipates to the afterlife.”

“Sure, sure. And then you’ll heal Sammy after you bust out?” He’s not sure what it says about him that he’d feed this god as many bodies as he demands to save his brother. Maybe Dean’s the actual monster here.

“Yes,” Castiel smiles at him, dark and pleased and Dean nervously licks his lips.

“...And you promise this?” fuck, Dean hates the slight waver of his voice, the vulnerability bleeding through his mask of suspicion. A promise didn’t really matter in the long run, it’s not like Dean could actually force an angel to keep his word. He couldn’t even get his father to keep his word and come home sober. But he needed this on a base level, needed the reassurance that he could rely on someone for his miserable life.

To his surprise the angel’s eyes actually soften and his hands move slightly as if he wanted to reach out in comfort. Remnants of his angelic nature, maybe, compelling him to offer solace, “Yes, Dean,” his tone has dropped lower, soft and melodic and soothing, and Dean feels safe in a way he hasn’t since his mother died, “I promise. Release me and I shall heal your brother.”

Dean sucks in a breath, nods, ste e ls his heart and soul against the deaths he’s about to cause, “Then I’ll do it.”

The softness is gone almost immediately, replaced by a downright predatory grin and Dean knows he’s offered up this god everything he wants on a silver platter. Was Castiel’s concern and gentle demeanor a moment ago just a facade to lull him into a false sense of security so he’d agree? Wouldn’t be the first time someone did. Not that it mattered if it was, Dean was going to do it either way. Castiel’s eyes rake over Dean’s form and he feels naked in the face of that raw hunger, “Good boy,” Castiel all but croons and that shouldn’t send a jolt of heat through his body, but damn if it doesn’t. The angel beckons him closer, eyes half lidded and smile smug, “now, come and kiss me.”

“Excuse me?” he blinks, because what? Where the hell did that come from?

Castiel just tuts, rolling his eyes so hard his chains shift and scratch against the dirt, “How else shall I grant you my grace, Dean? Come and take what I give you.”

Pushing down his innate urge to be an asshole and snark back, Dean shuffles forward on his knees until he’s right in front of Castiel. Callused fingers, dry from years locked in this cave, brush against his lips as if testing the softness and Castiel hums thoughtfully, head cocked to the side and eyes con s idering, “When you arrive home, feed your brother a single drop of your blood each day for a week. No more. Or my grace shall overwhelm him. When this is done, bring me my first human and a vial.”

Dean notices but doesn’t comment on the ‘ first’ slipped in there, “That’ll heal him?”

“Of course not,” for someone chained to a rock Castiel sounds like Dean is the biggest inconvenience he’s ever faced. Sharp, jagged nails tap on Dean’s cheek rougher than necessary and he winces, half expecting to feel a drop of blood trickle down his face, “but it will keep him stable until your work is complete.”

Fair enough, Dean wouldn’t fulfill his end of the deal before the deed was done if he was in Castiel’s position either. Swallowing down his nerves , Dean takes Castiel’s face in his hands and leans forward until their lips gently press together. Castiel surges forward, devouring Dean’s mouth with eager abandon, hands snapping up to brutally grip Dean’s face. A hot, wet tongue slips into his mouth when Dean gasps in shock, tasting him from the inside and Dean shakes . If he had a sense of self preservation he would pull away but he can’t, the heat from the kiss is too much, too bright and hot and--

A violent spasm races down Dean’s spine when the first touch of grace meets his tongue, swallowed up by a pleasured cry. It’s unlike anything he’s ever experienced, like he’s taken the lightning from the skies and is injecting it straight into his veins. Distantly , he can hear himself keening though he’s not sure if it’s crippling agony or blinding pleasure forcing it from his lungs.

When Castiel pulls back with one final, filthy lick Dean’s breathless and can’t think, can barely hold himself up. Castiel grins, wide and toothy and evidently delighted by Dean’s blissed out face and presses one more kiss against his mouth, much more gently this time, sweet in how chaste it is.

“Go, Dean.”

Dean nods and flees the cave to the tune of Castiel’s melodic laughter.

Dean stares down at the vial of tonic, chewing on his lip, eyes briefly flickering to the knife on the table. Just a drop, Castiel had said, one itty bitty drop each day for a week. Would this actually work or was the angel just playing some kind of cruel prank on him? That he had Castiel’s grace inside him now wasn’t up for debate, he could feel the light itching just under his skin. But would it actually do anything?

Huffing to himself, he snatched up the knife and pricked himself in the finger, letting a single drop of blood drip into the bottle.

Might as well try it.

To his absolute fucking shock, the next day Sam’s actually better. Not better enough to get out of bed or anything, but stronger, less pale.

Stabilized .

Just like Castiel had said.

Dean’s first vict-- Sacrifice , not victim, is serendipitous. If he was religious he might even say it was a gift from the gods (and maybe it was now? He was offering people to a god, after all). He’s just returning home from fixing Bobby’s barn, twilight on the horizon, and trying to figure out how the hell he’s going to overpower someone and drag them through the forest.

And then Dick Roman stumbles out of the bar, drunk and laughing, and years later Dean will swear up and down that the last rays of the sun fucking shined on that asshole like a beacon. ‘ Kill this man ,’ the universe whispers to him and the hammer warms in his grip. 

Dick doesn’t even see Dean before he’s on him, swinging.

By the time he makes it to the cave it’s well into the night and Dean is huffing, face red with effort, and seriously considering taking up some sort of exercise if he’s going to be dragging unconscious people through the woods. Dead weight is heavy as fuck . He can feel the angel’s eyes boring into his back before he sees him. 

“I had not expected you to return,” Castiel admits, eyes sliding down to Dick Roman with interest before drifting back up to gaze into Dean’s eyes.

“I said I’d do anything to help Sammy and I meant it. What do you want me to do with this guy?” he gestures vaguely at Dick’s unconscious form, “bring him to you to chomp on? Cut his throat at your feet? Truss him up like a chicken?”

The bark of laughter Castiel lets out both startles Dean and makes him feel incredibly pleased; he gets the impression Castiel hasn’t truly laughed in a long time aside from a few snide chuckles. Chapped lips curl slowly in a secret, pleased little smile and, maybe Dean’s just gone crazy at this point, but it looks fond. Fond of Dean? He hopes so, “Bring him to me and hold him.”

With a grunt , Dean drags Dick Roman the last few feet closer, glancing up to make sure the soon to be corpse is within grabbing distance of Castiel, and as soon as he gets the small nod of approval gathers Dick up in his arms to hold upright.

Offering this man up to Castiel is easy, far easier than he expected. But he doesn’t let himself think about that particular fact. Instead, he watches Castiel lean forward, eyes glowing blue-white and the air vibrates with static that makes the hair on his nape stand up. Dick’s face is taken in a vice grip, and Castiel’s merciless hands jerk his mouth open so roughly Dean hears Dick’s jaw snap. And then Castiel is breathing in through his mouth, eyes fluttering shut, and…

Dean has never seen a soul before.

But they’re so beautiful Dean feels his breath hitch. Bright blue light, twinkling and shifting in the darkness like little motes of starlight while the entire room goes quiet, every living thing around them halting its breath. The light reminds him of Castiel’s eyes, and he can’t help but wonder if Castiel’s made of the same sort of stuff: Stardust and cosmic wonder.

And then Castiel is eating it.

Inhales it right into his mouth and swallows with a low groan and holy fuck, that sound goes right to Dean’s dick and he has to shift to cover his arousal because like hell is he letting the angel see him with a fucking hard on. Castiel leans back with a pleased rumble, licking his lips, all languid satisfaction.

If he looks like this from just eating a soul, what does he look like after fucking?

Not that Dean wants to know.

“So… what do I do with this?” Dean kicks Dick’s foot, eyebrows raised, startled to hear Dick grunt in pain.

He’s answered with a low, thoughtful hum, Castiel cracking a single eye open that’s dark with heady arousal. Oh dear. It’s a very good look on him, “Hmm? Oh. He’s still alive,” he waves a hand dismissively, “soulless, though. So you may wish to remedy that.”

Right, okay, soulless Dick Roman was probably worse than soul-having Dick Roman.

It startles him when Castiel suddenly reaches up and rips the iron cuff around his neck in half like it’s a piece of wet paper, “Finally,” Castiel sighs, tipping his head side to side, clearly enjoying the newly unimpeded range of movement. When Castiel motions him forward with a crook of his finger Dean stumbles forward unthinking in his obedience, “The vial, Dean.”

He scrambles to take it out of his hip pack, passing the tiny empty bottle to Castiel and watching, enthralled. Castiel holds it up to one of the cuts on his neck with a casual nonchalance, and a bit of the wispy white light flows into the bottle. Without breaking eye contact Castiel corks it, offering it back in his long, nimble fingers.

Right as he’s about to reach and take the bottle, Castiel’s hand snaps out and clamps around his wrist. Dean’s heart hammers out a sharp staccato beat as their eyes lock and he’s met with the onslaught of Castiel’s ravenous gaze. But he doesn’t feel afraid, no, quite the opposite--the hunger that echoes in his own belly is sudden and vicious but Dean doesn’t dare try and quench it.

Dean waits with baited breath and half lidded eyes as Castiel leans forward, breathing hot against his lips, “You’ve done well, Dean,” and he’s rewarded with the barest brush of Castiel’s mouth against his own. Every bone in his body turns to jelly, his knees buckling under him and forcing him to sag against the angel like some maiden with the vapors.

Not that Castiel seems to mind, anyway, considering he answers Dean’s little show of pleasure with a deep rumble of approval. The little vial falls to the floor with a tink-tink and rolls away, but Dean doesn’t even notice; he’s too busy being pulled into Castiel’s lap. Their kiss is as rough as the first time, Dean suddenly finding himself delirious with desperation. He wants Castiel to devour him. Sharp pain blooms across his scalp as Castiel buries his fingers into his hair, jerking his head back to bite and suck at Dean’s exposed throat.

Suddenly he’s on his back, tiny pebbles digging into his shoulder blade as Castiel settles between his legs, grinding their hips together. Immediately Dean wraps his legs around Castiel’s waist, tugging him in as close as possible as they writhe against each other. He’s raking his nails against Castiel’s back, arching up into him and--

“The fuck?”

Suddenly his arms are empty and Dean’s left a blinking, dazed mess, cock straining against his pants as Castiel chuckles, leaning back and wiping his own lip with his thumb. His grin is downright cruel , “Bring my grace to your brother. He will sleep for seven days as his body mends, at the end of the week, bring me my next sacrifice.”

The sudden change is enough to give Dean whiplash and he is helpless to do nothing but lay there, blinking dumbly for several moments before his brain processes what’s happened. 

Fucking.

Tease.

All together Dean brings the angel two more people over the course of the month, and with each new vial of grace, Sam gets better and better. On the third week he actually gets out of bed and moves around their small home, to the amazement of the village. Some call it a miracle, others believe the medicine has finally taken effect, but Dean doesn’t correct anyone.

He knows what the cost is and he’s happy to bear it. 

No one even seems to care about the abrupt disappearances of the town drunks and wife beaters.

And this thing between him and Castiel? It just grows brighter with each meeting and threatens to burn Dean alive.

“Only one more,” Castiel’s hands are hot against his skin as the angel slides Dean’s pants down his shaking legs with a casual nonchalance. He seems totally unaffected despite the heavy arousal between his legs, unlike Dean, who is already a gasping mess from just the heavy kissing they’ve done today, “and then your favor will be repaid. The last sacrifice will be the hardest, Dean,” Castiel nuzzles his nose against Dean’s cheek and the stubble feels wonderfully scratchy as he lazily takes Dean’s cock in hand,  “but I have faith in you.”

Dean knows he’s supposed to answer, but all he can focus on is the warmth around his cock and his own labored breathing. The hand not stroking his length slides up Dean’s thigh, lifting it up as if it weighs nothing to drape over Castiel’s shoulder. The angel is incredibly strong, Dean's come to find out, able to effortlessly manhandle him . Something Dean definitely enjoys.

“Dean, dear, are you listening?” Castiel’s question is punctuated with a finger teasing Dean’s rim only to be roughly shoved inside, the abrupt stretch stinging in a way that sets his blood alight.

“Y-yes!” Dean manages to croak out as one finger becomes two, scissoring and stretching him open, a tingling heat easing the way.

“After you have brought him, you will give the final vial to your brother. And then you will take him, and you shall go to Lebanon,” Castiel shifts on his knees, nimble fingers undoing the ties of his trousers and then Dean can feel the blunt head of Castiel’s cock pressing against him.

The angel waits, eyebrow raised and Dean nods vigorously, head knocking against the rocky ground, “L-Lebanon.”

“Good,” his voice is a low, deep purr, dark with desire and promise . Without warning Castiel snaps his hips forward, breaching Dean and sinking down to the hilt in one smooth thrust, “There you will wait for me. Do you understand?” 

Several times Dean tries to answer but the only sound that comes out of his mouth are breathy moans when Castiel starts to languidly thrust and roll his hips, unrushed.

Never before has Dean felt like this, heat building in his stomach as the angel keeps rolling his hips at just the right angle to grind against Dean’s prostate. The angel’s breath is hot and wet against his ear as he whispers, “you must not be here.”

Dean swallows as he nods his head; he’s not an idiot, he knows what that implies. The village will be destroyed, smote with holy fire and wrath for binding this angelic god to the earth. But Sam will be healthy and safe, and apparently Castiel wants to be with Dean too, so that’s hardly a price to pay as far as Dean’s concerned.

The entire universe dances in front of his eyes, his soul ripped out and reassembled in the pleasure that immolates him. “For the last soul , I require the light of the one who locked me here.”

Their eyes meet and they understand each other implicitly.

“John Winchester,” Dean agrees, legs trembling as Castiel grins like a madman and fucks him into the ground, a snarling howl of victory echoing in the cave.

Dean isn’t the least bit surprised to find John Winchester in the bar; it’s the only place the man goes anymore. Drinking Dean’s hard earned money away, practically snatching the food and medicine right out of Sammy’s young hands. He should feel some sort of way about this, probably some sort of bad way, should feel guilty as hell knowing he’s about to help murder his father.

But all he can think about are the bruises, the screaming, the stench of liquor and vomit as he cleans the man off. He remembers the way Sam would ask every year “Dee, is dad coming home for my birthday?” When his hand stalls and shakes he reminds himself of every single time Sam cried because he was hungry, each time Dean had to stay up with a scared child while still a child himself, each time John threatened Sam in a drunken stupor.

“Come on old man, let’s get you home,” he flashes Ellen his most apologetic smile, and she nods at him and simply goes back to work.

It’s a common occurrence with John, after all. They play this little game at least twice a week, Dean coming around to drag his dad’s drunk ass home. No one ever does anything about it, of course, they just let the teenager handle a full grown, abusive man. They ignore the bruises, act with false sympathy, and Dean doesn’t feel bad for them either. 

Castiel will raze this town to the ground and Dean would happily dance on its ashes.

John Winchester doesn’t even seem to realize they aren’t going home, just follows along, stumbling and groaning. There’s a few times the old man gets rough and violent after he trips over his own feet, and Dean has to grapple him back under control, now sporting a fresh black eye for his troubles. For once he’s grateful John is drunk; he’d never be able to do this on the rare occasion John was sober.

The vicious glee radiating off of Castiel is so bright and hot , Dean can practically taste it on his tongue. Castiel gives him an uncharacteristically warm smile as he approaches with a confident swagger, hands tucked in the trousers Dean’s brought him. And John must finally realize where they are because his drunken rambling slows to a stop as his widening eyes take in the fallen angel leaning into his personal space.

“Y-you… Dean! Get a knife! The monster’s--” John’s cut off with a single strike of the back of Castiel’s hand.

“Oh, he won’t help you,” Castiel tuts, prowling around John’s prone form.

“What are you--Dean! Do something!” But Dean doesn’t, just leans back against the cave wall and meeting his dad’s gaze.

They stare at each other for a long minute and Dean can tell the exact moment John realizes what’s happened, “No, Dean, you didn’t .”

“Someone had to save Sammy,” he shrugs, “and it wasn’t going to be you, John.”

“You think this monster is going to save your brother?” John snarls, watching Castiel’s every step, “he’ll betray you just like us!”

Eyes flashing white-hot Castiel snarls, foot kicking out for John’s soft stomach, “I never betrayed you. I saved you all and all I asked for in return? Respect .”

“Monsters don’t deserve respect! Mary was wrong to--”

“Don’t you dare talk about mom,” the rage in Dean’s voice takes John by surprise, his father recoiling like he’d been physically struck.

“Yes, John. The only monster here is you, John Winchester,” Castiel drawls as he stops in front of John, eyes briefly settling on the bruise blooming along Dean’s jaw. The violence that flashes in those stormy blues makes Dean’s heart flutter, “this will hurt, John. Very, very much.”

Castiel doesn’t devour John’s soul right away, and Dean (perhaps naively) thinks that’s at least in part because of the way his father treats him. The thought sends a rush of appreciation to heat up his cheeks as he sits and watches Castiel rip chunk after chunk of John’s soul out of him.

It’s apparently a very painful process, losing a soul, something Dean is treated to watching for the first time. The other sacrifices had been unconscious, after all. John is not and gets to experience every single moment of the hours Castiel spends tearing him apart. The shrill, agonised sounds of John’s screams are one of the most beautiful things Dean’s ever heard.

The little farm in Lebanon Dean and Sam move into is quaint, has window boxes of flowers and a lovely vegetable garden out back that’s separated from the sheep by a well-loved cedar fence. Sam was weary of moving at first, but as soon as he discovers that the small town has an actual academy he takes to the place like a fish in water. Dean dresses him in their nicest linen and wool and sends him off to school each morning with a basket of food and a kiss to the forehead.

It’s expensive, but Dean’s done worse for his baby brother than putting in extra hours fixing houses and shearing sheep. 

They’re just settling in when news of the fire in Lawrence makes its way to them. The whole town and the surrounding forest burned down, the raging inferno only being tamed by a spontaneous rainstorm that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Castiel, he thinks with a smile.

He spends the week waiting like some maiden standing on a widow’s wharf, staring out to sea for the first sight of her long lost sailor to come home. When he finally sees him it’s so out of the blue that he doesn’t even recognize him as he and Sam wander the farmer’s market.

“Hello , Dean,” and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears the low rumble of Castiel’s voice again, and he whips around to try and pinpoint where it’s coming from while Sam looks on, confused.

There Castiel is in all his splendor, or, well, none of his splendor. He looks remarkably human now, though still rumpled and disheveled with that sleepy sort of charm that makes Dean’s mouth dry. The angel is wearing some sort of hideous beige coat and Dean’s pretty sure the angel’s buttons are done up crooked.

The dorky beekeeper persona is such a shift from the dark god of the cave it’s like he’s a completely different person.

Dean kind of digs it.

“Cas?” he asks, because, what the hell was Castiel doing sitting behind a stall selling flowers and honey?

Castiel’s face absolutely lights up, “Ah, you recognize me. Good.”

“You know this guy, Dee?” Sam asks, looking between the two men with raised eyebrows.

Dean grins, opening his arms as Castiel comes around the table to wrap him in a hug, “Yea, Sammy--”

“It’s Sam!”

“This is the guy who made you that medicine I told you about,” an easy lie, since it wasn’t actually a lie anyway.

“Really?” Sam’s attention is fully on Castiel in an instant, eyes bright and excited, “Dee said you used magic? Is that true? I’m studying magic at the academy, but we haven’t learned anything that advanced yet.”

Dean feels his cheeks heat up when Castiel doesn’t pull away from him, instead standing much too close with his hand resting on the small of Dean’s back, “I did, yes. It’s rather ancient magic, not many people are capable of it these days , I’m afraid.”

He tries not to fidget when Sam’s clever eyes drift between the two, eyes narrowed in thought at the close proximity. Sam knows Dean doesn’t like people touching him, and certainly doesn’t like people in his personal space. Well, it was only a matter of time till he was going to introduce Sam and Cas anyway, so he clears his throat, “So yea, Cas, this is Sammy, my brother. Sam, this is Castiel, my…”

Shit. What was Castiel? He doesn’t want to be presumptuous, but… he looks over at the man, knowing he’s got a big, dumb hopeful look on his face.

“I’m his partner,” Castiel fills in smoothly, hand tightening possessively, “It’s nice to finally meet you. Dean’s said such lovely things about you.”

And that is how Dean Winchester

Woke the angel that was sleeping

So journey north and seek him there 

The beekeeper with husband fine

Gather flowers like Aster blue 

And bring your penny of copper

There he waits in the market square 

Offering pounds of honey fresh

Give a gift for a boon or two

From the Angel of Lebanon