after a storm (destiel)

Part Two

He avoids Zeke for three days. He wastes most of one packing Kevin into the Impala and driving him seven hours to Branson, where he can translate the tablet in peace for a few days. Dean leaves him holed up in a warded motel room with one of the good cards on file. He tells Kevin to watch some porn, ruffles his hair until Kevin scowls, then heads into town for a burger and fries before driving home.

Around midnight, he notices Sam pull up stiffly into his shoulders. Zeke catches Dean's eye and seethes from the adjacent chair, but Cas is mumbling against Dean's shoulder. Zeke flashes his displeasure and goes out.

Dean's luck runs dry on the fourth morning when Zeke corners him outside the bathroom a little before six. The hall's quiet. Sam and Cas are probably still asleep. Dean was planning to take a quick piss and jerk it before coffee, but Zeke flickers into Sam's eyes and looms furiously over Dean.

"He was supposed to leave."

"I'm working on it," Dean hisses. "I can't just kick the guy to the curb."

"As long as Castiel is here, I am in danger."

Even if Zeke was right and Cas did pose some threat to him, he's warded. So that reaper managed to find him in Detroit—fair point, but Cas was on his own then. He's with them now. With the bunker's hoard of enchantments, it's inconceivable that Heaven or Hell or another rogue reaper could track him. As far as Dean can tell, Zeke's blowing smoke.

"He doesn't have his mojo," Dean challenges, careful to keep his eyes wide, tone neutral. Non-threatening. "I'm telling you, you can't get much safer than this place. No one's gonna find you here."

Zeke stills, clenching Sam's jaw until a muscle jumps. Ha, Dean thinks smugly. Gotcha, asshole.

"You cannot tell him about me," Zeke warns after a minute

"No talking about the angel I'm letting hitch a ride in my kid brother. No shit, Sherlock."

"Is this humorous to you?"

"Yeah, it's frigging hilarious. Now if you don't mind, I gotta piss like a racehorse."

He shoves past Zeke into the bathroom and groans in relief when he gets his boxers open. He tilts his head back and shuts his eyes. The tile floor is cold. Dean forgot his slippers next to the bed. He's running on three hours of sleep. He and Cas sat up until the only thing on was an ad for some bullshit non-sudsing shampoo, but his body's lost the ability to sleep past seven. Yawning, he goes to the sink to wash his hands, scrubbing at the grease around his nail bed when he hears a cry from the shower room.

Cas? What's he doing out of bed this early?

Dean shuts off the water and listens, but he doesn't hear the sound again. The quiet sends a wave of panic through him—is Cas hurt? What if he's been calling for Dean, who hasn't heard him because the walls in this place are so thick?

"Cas, you okay?" he calls out and walks toward the sound.

Cas is in the shower room and the water is running. He probably slipped and fell on the damn concrete. Dean knew they ought to put down a couple of those non-slip things. He expects to find Cas sprawled out on the floor with a couple new bruises. He doesn't expect to find him with his forehead pressed to the tile wall, a hand between his legs. Dean stands in muted shock in the doorway for a moment while he processes what he's seeing.

Cas is naked. Water streams down his back, over the swell of his ass, and down his legs. His skin is blotchy red from the heat and water pressure. Steam curls from the shower floor. Desire curls in Dean's stomach. Cas's face is angled just slightly to the right, so Dean is able to see that his mouth is parted and his eyes are closed. Cas's right arm moves in a rhythm Dean knows well: slow, steady pulls.

Cas is—right. Cas is jerking off. Shit. Shit. Abort mission.

He backs away, but he nearly wipes out on the wet floor and curses as he rights himself. Cas's eyes flutter open.

"Dean?"

"Oh! Hey, sorry, man—" Dean stammers and hightails it out of the bathroom, for the sanctuary of his bedroom where Cas definitely isn't rubbing one out.

He makes the bed. He pulls the sheets taut and props the pillows up against the headboard in two rows. He tosses yesterday's clothes onto the laundry pile. He arranges a stack of books next to the bed, careful to line the edges up with the edge of the nightstand. He tries not to think about what he just saw or his own reaction to it and fails on both accounts, but the order helps a little.

There's a knock on the door. His heart pounds uncontrollably fast.

"Yeah," he calls too loudly—forced ease. He isn't sure whether he should sit down or remain standing, so in a pinch he picks up a book and thumbs through it, the fan of pages releasing a puff of dust.

Cas strides in dressed in jeans and Dean's hoodie. He's flushed from the shower, the color gorgeous in his cheeks.

"I'm sorry if I embarrassed you," he says plainly. It's clear from his tone and the way he holds Dean's gaze that he isn't embarrassed or bothered by it at all, which makes Dean feel marginally better about the intrusion.

"Nah, it's cool," he waves off.

"I didn't think anyone would be awake. This body is...unruly, at times. I find touch relaxes it. And the water helps."

Oh god, Cas is actually talking about jerking it. They're talking about Cas's dick. Dean presses his lips together and nods without looking at him. He can't look at Cas without picturing him in the shower.

"Well, that's. That's good." Dean clears his throat and ignores the burn in his cheeks. He sets down the book. "If you get your hand real soapy, it'll, uh. Reduce the friction."

Cas breaks into a smile. Dean sees it from the corner of his eye. "I'll try that," he says, like they're swapping recipe tips. "Would you like coffee? I was going to make a pot."

"Yeah, I'll be right there."

Cas looks at him warmly before closing the door.

The conversation leaves Dean reeling. Cas spoke about his body the way he did when it was just a vessel, instead of a thing that's connected to him. He accepted no ownership of his arousal, just took care of it, like you might walk a dog. Maybe his body's just going into overdrive now that an angel's at the helm, and Cas is riding out the storm.

It's too early for this. Dean needs a caffeine IV.

Coffee drips into the pot when he steps down into the kitchen. Two mugs wait on the table. Cas is standing at the counter washing dishes. Dean feels betrayed by the sound of running water.

"Sam is still asleep," Cas says, glancing to Dean over his shoulder. He dries his hands. He takes milk from the fridge and gets out a bowl for cereal. "Are you hungry?"

"Sure."

Cas pours twin bowls with the same pride he shows when he microwaves burritos. He slides Dean's bowl in front of him and passes him a spoon.

"Thanks," Dean murmurs. It's nice, Cas taking care of him. Taking care of Cas.

They eat quietly and drink their coffee, and when Cas reaches for Dean's hand and laces their fingers together on top of the table, next to their empty cereal bowls in the silent kitchen, Dean can almost pretend this morning didn't happen.