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Cas isn’t afraid of Dean. There was a time, once, when he could have brought the man to his knees with nothing more than a breath. Sure, he has the Mark of Cain now and he’s less predictable, more explosive, more likely to turn to violence for something as small as this, but he doesn’t have a choice right now. He has to face Dean, and he won’t be afraid of him.
So he takes a breath and opens the door to the Bunker. Dean isn’t waiting at the top of the stairs with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, so Cas is forced to venture down into the underground tomb of a home. (He’s thankful to Dean for building a home for them, he’s so thankful, but why the man couldn’t just let the past die… Cas tries to be understanding but it eats into him.)
Sam creeps down the stairs behind him, and his big frame triples Cas’s guilt. His breaths come out shaky.
Dean isn’t waiting at the top of the stairs. He’s waiting at the map table in the library, sitting at the very end with his back stiff and his arms folded in front of his chest. There’s a bottle of whiskey and a glass sitting in front of him. He’s wearing nothing but an old, ragged henley and his hot dog pajamas, which in any other context would have been enough to make Cas smile. His sexy, silly man.
“Finally decided to drop by, huh?” Dean hisses. Cas isn’t afraid of Dean. He draws himself up to full height (which still feels short, standing next to Sam) and scowls right back.
Sam has the opposite reaction. He curls in on himself, shrinking as small as he can to avoid Dean’s wrathful gaze, like a child about to be scolded. Cas half-misses the Sam who would have yelled back, who didn’t tiptoe around Dean like he was a bomb just waiting to go off, but maybe it’s for the best. Maybe Sam chiming into this fight would make it so much more uncomfortable.
“Should I have asked for permission? Am I not allowed to leave?” They’ve been having this same argument for the past two weeks. This isn’t Heaven; this is so much better than what Heaven was for Cas and yet…
Dean slams his fist on the table. Sam stiffens next to Cas. Cas can’t seem to get his heartbeat to slow. He wants to cry, to hit Dean, to scream at him and make him understand, to kill Sam and everyone else Dean cares about, to throw himself at Dean’s feet and kiss them until Dean forgives him, to walk away and see if Dean would come after him… But he just stands there like an idiot and waits for Dean to speak.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Dean growls. “You think the whole damn world revolves around you. You and your precious damn feelings. I’m up half the night waiting up because you don’t bother to text me, you’re out fucking my brother—”
Sam opens his mouth, probably to defend himself as having no involvement with Cas; he’s done terrible things but he would never do that—
“And then you come in here and mock me?”
His eyes are pink. He’s drunk and Cas should just take him to bed, just wave Sam off and deal with this tomorrow when Dean is sober and they can have a conversation without the violence. But Cas is angry. Cas feels drunk on his own feelings and he wants more than this. He wants to rile Dean up. He’s disgusting.
“I am not an adulterer, Dean,” he says through gritted teeth.
“He didn’t, we didn’t,” Sam corroborates quietly.
A sarcastic smile spreads across Dean’s face. “Really? Then what exactly were you two up to, that you didn’t bother to tell me about?”
The careful lie he and Sam had put together was not as bad as an affair, Cas reasons. It might upset Dean, but it’s so much better than what he’s imagining right now.
“Sam found a case, and he wanted me to come check it out with him. That was all.”
Dean turns to look at Sam, eyebrows raised. “Really?”
Sam nods. His fists clench and unclench, and Cas really wishes this whole thing was just between himself and Dean. “Dean, I know you’re— I know you have your own crap going on right now, but, look, me and Cas, we aren’t doing anything wrong. And it was my case, anyway. Don’t take it out on him.”
Dean stands abruptly. Cas carefully, subtly steps forward. If Dean wants to take it out on anyone, it should be someone who is willing and able to take it. Ever since Dean chased him around the Bunker with a hammer and black eyes, Sam seems to be one misstep away from seriously hurting himself. The Winchesters are both fragile like that, when it comes to one another, and Cas wishes he could just absorb it all for them. He wants a family that won’t cannibalize itself.
“I have my own crap going on? So you two sneak around behind my back, lie to me, treat me like an idiot, what, because I took the Mark to save your sorry lives? I died for you. Does that mean nothing to you?”
“You are twisting things. That isn’t what happened.” Cas should know better than to argue against something like this. Dean won’t care that he’s twisting things or misconstruing their actions. He only cares about his version of events, and he only cares about getting what he wants; whether it’s an apology from his broken little family or a promise to never ever leave him alone again. But Cas is stupid, and Cas still doesn’t know when to stop. “We were hunting. I texted you before we left, and I told you we wouldn’t be back until late. You have no right to be angry.”
Dean’s open palm hurts more than a fist would have. It’s a slap. Dean doesn’t even respect Cas enough to hit him properly; he knows Cas will stand there and take it.
“Dean!” Sam yells.
Cas stands there, eyes on the floor. He’s shaking with emotion. It shouldn’t have happened in front of Sam, but it was bound to happen all the same.
Sam bravely puts himself between Cas and Dean to defend whatever honor he thinks Cas has. The whole thing is embarrassing, and Cas can’t help but wonder if Dean will laugh in Sam’s face and tell him the truth, the stupid game they’ve been playing. Would Sam still be able to work with Cas? To trust that he did want to cure Dean, really?
“Sammy. Go to your room.” It’s so sharp, Cas’s whole body tingles.
“Go to my room? I’m not a child, Dean. And you can’t hit Cas! You need to stop. We’re leaving.” Sam grabs Cas by the wrist and starts to walk towards the door, like he expects Cas to follow him like a dog. Cas doesn’t move.
“Sam, it’s okay,” Cas tries to reassure him. He isn’t sure what he could possibly say to disarm the situation. Dean stands there, eyes glinting with anger, waiting for him to fix this. “It’s okay. Dean and I are going to bed. He won’t hurt me.” But he will hurt you, remains an unspoken threat.
Sam stares at him, eyes wide and incredulous. It isn’t a surprise that Sam doesn’t believe him, but it’s frustrating. Cas is tired. He spent the whole day sneaking around Dean, tense and nervous, and he’s ready to unspool. He doesn’t need Sam to be his knight in shining armor. He deserves to be Dean’s whipping boy for the night. He needs it.
“It’s okay,” Cas says again. He gently extricates his arm from Sam’s hand and moves to stand beside Dean. He kisses Dean on the cheek, demonstrating that Dean isn’t hurting him. That he still loves Dean. That Dean, despite everything, still loves him. And Dean is stoic, but he wraps a tender arm around Cas’s waist.
Besides, Cas and Sam are confidantes now, partners in crime. Surely, if something were really wrong, if Cas was really worried about something Dean was doing to him, he would have told Sam while they were away from Dean. Cas tries to communicate this with his eyes. Sam looks hurt, but he doesn’t seem to know how to argue.
“Cas…”
Dean’s arm wraps tighter around Cas’s waist, like a boa constrictor trying to suffocate its prey. Cas feels right, taking his bruising grip easily and soaking up the violence like a half-angelic sponge, but Sam makes it difficult. Because Sam doesn’t understand that this is what Cas wants.
“Sammy, stop being so controlling. Cas isn’t gonna let you fuck him. We’re going to bed,” Dean cuts in, finally.
And Sam turns a shade of pink and doesn’t say another word.
Dean leads Cas to the bedroom and shuts the door.
His hands are mean, the words he spits in Cas’s face are meaner. Adulterer. Whore. Useless. Cas doubles over in pain with a punch to his stomach. He whimpers. Dean doesn’t stop the assault. He kicks Cas’s legs out from under him, leaving Cas in a heap on the floor. He kicks him in the face, the ribs, anywhere his boot can reach. Pain shoots through every inch of Cas’s body.
And worse; it feels good.
Blood runs down his forehead and his lips are split from Dean’s knuckles and he can feel the beginnings of bruises blooming over his ribs and there is so much sensation that he can’t feel anything beyond it. Suddenly, the change in Dean doesn’t matter. This is good, this is working. Then Dean drops to the floor and his hands curl tight in Cas’s collar and he’s jamming his lips against Cas’s. Their teeth knock into each other.
Cas is detached, floating. There is only space in his body for the pain and Dean’s love. He kisses back fervently, pulls Dean closer and doesn’t stop even when he tastes his own blood between their mouths. He hopes Dean likes the taste.
Cas doesn’t have to be afraid of Dean, because they have this. No matter how hard Dean hits, his body is moving against Cas in a way that takes Cas apart completely.
His dick is hard in those hot dog pajamas, pressing into Cas’s hip and reminding Cas that he’s wanted, he’s desired. Dean Winchester has the Mark of Cain, is a ruthless killer, nearly smashed his own brother’s skull open, and still gets hard for Cas. They will make it through this.
Sam and Cas will find a way to cure Dean, and they will return to what they once had. But for now Cas laps up any love he can find, in any form Dean allows him.