godless_son

Castiel sits back on his heels for a moment, considering Dean's words and tones. He's not been worried; he hasn't been trying to fix it. He doesn't seem disappointed.

He will still want Castiel just the same.

"Later," he murmurs, pulling Dean's pants and underwear down just enough to swallow him down.

It is my birthday, he pushes into Dean's mind. I want to hear how much you like this. I want to hear that you love me.

It's been three years since Castiel's wings were temporarily burned away and in that time he would not have thought it possible that he could have truly forgotten how painful and irritating that type of injury could be.

The sick, hollow feeling left in his skin has faded but the words themselves seem to be untouched by his Grace or Dean's sword, healing slowly and as if he were the same pathetic wretch washed up onshore those years ago. He craves sleep more than he ought to but cannot achieve it nor can he find any remedy to touch the constant burn and ache. He feels too exposed to go far from the house without a shirt and the lack of one feels odd even in his own home. He's certain the animals have been judging him, the cats at least.

The message itself is too unsettling to properly process, at this present moment. He knows what he thinks it is, although he cannot fathom what it would want with a defunct Angel and why it would bother giving him a warning. If it is Darkness itself, there is nothing to be done and he'd rather not spend whatever time they do have moping and irritated and sickly. He searches the internet for hours before turning to his new Netflix machine and watching six straight hours of documentaries and movies about the various affects of medicinal and recreational drugs. He knows Dean feels very strongly about Castiel's ingestion of drugs but he thinks he knows something that would work. It comes, unfortunately, with a substantial portion of humble pie but Dean does not outright balk at the idea.

He gathers up the energy and flies straight to Noah, hoping the ghost does not heed the same ideas about 'daytime' visits versus 'nighttime' visits as others have explained to him and invites him to dinner with a plea for his help. His flight to Derek's is slightly less successful as he's unsure if Derek and his singing lover were unclothed underneath the covers but the message was received, regardless.

Burgers and beer in exchange for Noah's magic drugs and a lesson on how to...do drugs. He's even agreed to purchase actual beef rather than the black bean burgers he'd tried to pass off to Dean last week.

It's a plan.

Ok so tagging order would be top level Dean then Noah, Derek then Castiel again. Castiel will be awkwardly shirtless and still has 'I Am Coming' burned into his chest.

"I want to fuck you as I do it," he says, blunt as ever but staring up at Dean with pure adoration for letting him do this. He pushes up, walking behind Dean as he summons one of the many small bottles of lube within these walls. "I'm not going to prep you very much," he warns, shoving a slick finger inside. "If you need me to stop, you don't need to speak if you don't want to. I'll be able to hear you if you think it. I'll be able to hear most everything but if it's too much, just tell me to stop."

This year, Castiel did not purchase a pie for Dean's birthday. This year, Castiel baked a pie. A real pie with sugar and butter with nothing remotely healthy about it accompanied by full fat vanilla ice cream. It had taken 28 practice pies baked at Neil's house (sometimes at very odd hours of the night, he hopes they aren't angry) and he had taken the liberty of ensuring that Dean got a good night's sleep so he could make the official birthday pie exactly perfect.

There is a fortuitous fresh blanket of snow on the ground and he thinks their home, for all of its flaws, has never looked more perfect. Yukio had chosen to remain at his own apartment last night so aside from the their veritable herd, they have the house to themselves. After feeding, walking and generally tending to the hoard, he readies an overlarge piece of pie a la mode and a cup of coffee and carefully makes his way into their still dark bedroom.

Once the pie and coffee is safely in place he peels off his t-shirt and pauses, looking down at Dean's face in the pale morning light. He has a few more gray hairs than last year, an almost imperceptible deepening of the fine lines around his eyes. In Castiel's eyes, he looks somehow better for it, the signs of aging a badge of pride considering all they have gone through. While Castiel may have celebrated his vessel's fortieth birthday, his hair has not more gray and the lines around his eyes look basically the same as the day he inhabited this body. Jimmy was 35 when Castiel took the body from him so he supposes that Dean looks older than him, now. He wonders if the difference between 35 and 40 are obvious, if people wonder about his age. He is unsure how much longer he can stand watching Dean age without him but knows he is lucky to be able to still protect him as he can. He is a very lucky man.

"Dean," he murmurs, crawling onto the bed and running his fingers through those short, gray hairs at Dean's temple. "Happy Birthday."

Castiel has two weeks off of work. He understands it is time meant for families to prepare for the upcoming holiday, to reflect incorrectly on the birth of Son of God and to indulge in disgusting displays of consumerism. He finds himself, however, simply grateful for the timing that has allowed him to decorate their house to a degree that even he finds borderline excessive and now to keep Dean within his line of sight.

Robin and Ishiah were no more ready to leave Darrow than they are and while Castiel knows that he would find a way to follow Dean wherever he goes, he very much wants this life. It is quiet today in the house, his usual rotating mix of Christmas songs turned down low as he stares absently out the window at the patches of snow still decorating the ground from the last storm. All of Ishiah's birds have gone for the winter and he presses a hand to his chest, feeling precisely where his grace senses the absence of his brethren. Robin's apartment had been the most disturbing, quiet and still for the first time without him. They hadn't stayed long and frankly have no desire to go back and had retreated back to their house with heavy hearts and one more animal.

He suspects Dean is unhappy about the new cat, the third cat. He leans down to pat Cambriel on the head, avoiding Ernest's wounded glare and frowns as he spots a small figure making its way down the road towards their homes. He looks closer, more intently at the soul as it seems like..

"Dean," he calls urgently, making his way towards the front door. "Look outside."

Two weeks ago Castiel had been sure, at least for a little while, that this was not going to happen. The difference between knowing about your fiance's massacre and seeing it in full screen is very different, but Dean is forgiving and he is a good partner and as Castiel tries and fails yet again to make his hair lie flat, he decides not to include that particular tidbit in his vows.

Everything is reportedly set up, thanks to Mike and Neil, and he can hear the murmurs of the guests walking through the house to the backyard where the tables, chairs, and food await. The documents are signed, he and Dean having chosen to do that in private yesterday after Castiel's last class but the vows are different, he feels. Neither of them are terribly verbally demonstrative but he hopes very much that his are deemed appropriate. He carefully slips on his jacket, knowing that Robin will have words for him if it's not kept neat for at least the vows and fusses with the blue tie and pocket square that he'd been warned by Robin was not to be utilized for any rag-like purposes. Letting out a steady breath he stares at his reflection, at the very human looking man about to engage in a human ceremony with the Righteous Man he pulled from Hell. He frowns, head tilting as he looks for himself in all of that, for the thousands of years old warrior of the Lord with the wrath of Heaven behind him and decides he rather prefers the version that is still having trouble keeping his hair neat and whose biggest worry of the day is avoiding embarrassing himself during the vows. It is very strange and Heaven will never forgive him for it and he could not be happier.

He gives the stubborn curl spring up in front of his ear a furious swipe with his thumb and checks once more that Dean's ring is in his pocket before stepping out across the hallway to knock on their door. "Dean," he murmurs, "Are you ready?"

Dean feels half strangled by the tie. Long gone are the days disguises and aliases were needed - the last tie he bothered to throw around his neck is probably years past, but this is his wedding, and he means to look nice.

“Yeah,” he calls, adjusting the green silk at his throat a last, futile time. “Just.” He releases it with a sigh. He knows himself well enough to know he’s only nervous, and he passes a hand through his combed hair and takes a few deep breaths before he turns to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob.

“Am I supposed to see you? Is that a thing?”

"I still think that given the chance for a re-match, I would have won," Castiel points out, leaning his head out the window just a bit to let the blessedly cool night air hit his face. They'd decided to take the car, as none of the activities that Castiel had planned would benefit from Dean being either nauseated or constipated and it is a very nice night, besides. It is cooler than they've had recently and it will rain sometime in the next few days. As much as he misses the vivid sensations that humanity lends, he does not miss sweating. It is highly unpleasant.

"That Jersey Devil could have easily been a large bird for as hysterical as people get over urban legends and technically it only skirted the perimeter of the property. It certainly did not feel like a Jersey Devil, anyway, despite my inaccuracy.

The house itself, however, had been proven by and large clean of the supernatural and was well loved by generations of families. Castiel would very much like to have such a home with Dean, although he is doing his best not to push. Dean Winchester, for all that he gives and gives to Castiel, is not one to be pushed.

It has been five days.

He knows by punishing himself he is essentially also punishing Dean who worries but he cannot help it. His hands still bear scrapes from Dean's face, the floor stained with blood from Dean's mouth, the table gone because he'd destroyed it and nearly killed Annie in the process. He remembers the feel of Dean's snapped arm, his bruised skull. He remembers thousands and thousands of atrocities he'd carried out and he just cannot justify doing anything that he might enjoy.

Dean has been, as always, forgiving, almost too much so. Castiel wishes he cared more about his own well being, wishes he understood how amazing it is that he'd saved him.

But until then, he sits. The animals will not yet get too close, even Ernest is avoiding him. His grace is damaged and torn, a constant ache in his chest and that's the only thing that is comforting. That he is still being punished.

He hopes, at least, that everyone enjoyed the fruit baskets.

Number six hundred seven had been nearly perfect.

Nearly.

It had been smart to snap Dean's arm right away, he understands that but there was too much hesitation between that and the final blow. He'd left enough time for him to beg and Castiel gained no satisfaction from it. If anything, it was irritating and displeased his general which meant that next time, the final time, would be perfect. And as promised, once this mission is complete, he can rest and he can come home. Heaven will once again open its gates to him; Father will welcome him back.

He will be restored to his correct place as a warrior of God.

He can stop trying so hard. Everything will make sense and his purpose will be renewed.

He just needs this to be perfect.

He steps out of a bedroom and into a common area. It is a residence and the target has recently arrived. His body temperature is still slightly elevated and he is carrying a weapon Castiel has not entirely anticipated. It has never been a part of the training and he feels uneasy, the uncertainty spurring him on to walk over, ready to put this to an end. Hesitation and unease is swiftly and severely punished and he cannot stand another second of it.

He is not certain what gift is appropriate to bring when checking on a friend's recently charred, newly human husband.

Humans bring something called casserole in the movies when there is illness but Castiel is an atrocious cook and he doesn't know what that is.

So, the houseplant.

He knocks, wondering belatedly if he ought to have called first but deciding that at least he has stopped entering without permission.

"Neil," he calls through the door. "Are you there? It's Castiel."