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In all of his millennia of existence, Castiel never once thought of himself as an angel who would find a mate to call his own. He saw the few select angels who were so perfectly compatible with each other and how they’d act so differently around the others; lighter, more affectionate and outspoken with wing gestures and displays of emotion. He had heard stories from many of his brothers and sisters, detailing the joys of bonding and all that came with it, but it had never appealed to him. Castiel only had eyes for his mission, for being the best garrison commander he could for their Father. The physically attractive angels with their light colored wings never caught his eye, and never would.
Needless to say, Castiel had no desire to settle down with his true mate, and doubted there even was one for him, seeing as such a partnership would be redundant. He was content on his own, content to fight for Heaven and learn about the humans on Earth. So Castiel was the most surprised of all to see these desires turn a complete one-eighty when he met and fell in love with the Righteous Man, Dean Winchester. He believes he was never content with the comparatively shallow level of affection mates experienced, which is why finding Dean -- finding Grace deep love that angelic mates could never imagine -- changed his mindset completely. Years went by before Cas himself acknowledged the fact his deepest affections and loyalties lay with the human and him alone. When the dam burst and they finally discussed their mounting want for each other, it resulted in them forging a relationship. Suddenly so many visceral, angelic desires surfaced in Cas, and now he finds himself wanting Dean not only in the human ways they’ve taken to, but also the more intimate, deeper, and unbreakable angelic manner.
Castiel wants to mark Dean, just as he had when he pulled the hunter from Hell, wants to soul-bond with him and permanently cradle Dean’s soul within his Grace, where they would be two parts of the same whole, forever. He wants to stake his claim and display his love for his mate in every way, both human and angelic, and the desires now are in full force. The only thing keeping him holding back is his fear of not wanting to overwhelm Dean with the very sacred sentimental angelic traditions — the angel isn’t sure how Dean will take to these inhuman things he himself so desperately wants.
One day, he promises himself, he will ask Dean about it. Because there’s nothing more Castiel wants than to take Dean for himself in every way known to Heaven and earth. Until he can have that, however, what the angel needs is to see his charge more; to spend more time with him, enjoy more of the human aspects of having a relationship, things he’s becoming quite fond of. His time to do so has been extremely limited lately, with him having to attend to very demanding matters as a garrison leader while Heaven’s ranks are in chaos from the death of an important figure: Tauriel. Because of his orders always being needed, he’s constantly in Heaven, attending to his duties, when all throughout he is longing to be at Dean’s side instead. He takes every opportunity where there is a lull in the action to fly to earth and be with his charge.
***
Dean didn’t even jump when Castiel appeared just inches from him, heart racing at the familiar whipping of displaced air. Instead, he lurched forward to close the distance between them and threw his arms around Cas’ waist, twisting his head to allow him better access as he pulled the angel into a desperate kiss. It had been too long since he’d seen him — a whole damn week — and the hunter was going crazy missing him. He’s never been vulnerable like this before, always waiting around for Cas to show up, always worrying about what could happen to him up in Heaven. Now the angel is here, pressed against him, and all those anxieties briefly pale into insignificance. Castiel holds Dean tight as he fervently kisses back, his arms a reassuring, familiar weight, holding them both together so they don’t fall apart with relief. Dean reluctantly breaks for breath and Cas runs a hand through Dean’s mussed hair, smiling adoringly at his lover. It has the effect of making the man grin back, warm and euphoric. “Dean,” he started, “I’m sorry I couldn’t aid with the hunt, I was quite occupied. But I managed to delegate for some time out, and I can help dispose of the body,” Cas said, smoothing his thumb over the curve of Dean’s cheek. The older Winchester beamed at the awesome news, and assented cheerily, kissing the top of Cas’ head before stepping aside to let the angel access the fallen body of the monster of the week. As much as he’d have loved Cas’ company, the hunt had been impressively easy; all Sam and Dean had to do was track down the creepy bastard with an M.O. of making its victims so sick they died — an orbisque languorem, or “bringer of sickness” — and kill it.
It was a surprisingly simple plan. Dean lured it out of its forest hideout, distracting it, while Sam snuck up behind it and speared the sonovabitch through the heart with a solid silver blade dipped in illness-free O-negative blood. The only thing that hadn’t gone to plan was when it managed to take a bite out of Dean’s shoulder, just before Sam killed it. It had hurt like a bitch and even now stung a bit, despite being superficial enough to wrap up in gauze until he could stitch it closed later, but it was nothing Dean wasn’t used to. Hell, he’d gotten off pretty damn lightly with just a bite — better than usual, anyway. He’s glad he’d put on his jacket after his half-assed bandaging attempt, otherwise he’s sure Cas would’ve freaked out and tried to heal him. Not that Dean has a problem with Cas healing him, but he doesn’t want to have his angel worry about every little thing all the time. He’s a seasoned hunter; he can handle a lot of wounds, but that has never changed Cas’ desire to heal him of every little thing. With a fond smile, Dean leans up against the trunk of the Impala to catch his breath while Sam and Cas take care of the creature’s corpse. He’s already daydreaming about what movie to watch with Cas later and which new restaurant he’ll take him to, but only after he takes a seriously long nap, because he is fucking exhausted.
He wishes he had a nice, icy cold beer as he watches his brother say something to Cas and slap his shoulder amicably, the angel crouching down by the fallen orbisque languorem and touching two fingers to its forehead. Seconds later, the corpse erupts into a cloud of ash, which Cas channels into a neat pile on the ground. Sam uncaps the water bottle filled with more O-negative blood and douses the pile with it, then kicks dirt over the saturated mess. The two head back and join Dean, Sam perching on the bumper beside his brother while Cas stands across from them, gazing warmly into Dean’s eyes. He takes his hunter’s hand in his own and squeezes, sending Dean’s heart fluttering like he’s a third grade girl who just got smiled at by her crush. Cas smiles at a madly grinning Dean for a few seconds before he furrows his brow, eyes narrowing in concentration, if not mild concern.
“Dean? Are you feeling well?” Castiel asks him, eyes searching his own for an answer. Dean raises an eyebrow, wondering if Cas somehow discovered the bite mark on his shoulder.
“Uh yeah, just peachy. But no, seriously, I’m good. Why?” Dean asks, inquisitive.
“Your temperature is a few degrees above optimum, and your heart is beating faster than it should at rest. Your vitals are all slightly off. Is it possible that you’ve contracted a cold?” Dean chuckles in response, kissing Cas just because he’s so damn happy the angel is here, even if he’s spending his time worrying pointlessly.
“No, I feel great. Probably just tired,” Dean writes it off, offering a crooked smile he knows Cas can never resist. And Cas doesn’t, leaning back in to kiss him. The hunter sucks at his partner’s bottom lip gently, while Cas traces the sensitive inside of Dean’s upper lip with the tip of his tongue, and it sends shivers down his spine. Cas tips the older Winchester’s head back with his thumb underneath his chin to deepen the kiss as Dean laps into his mouth. Dean sighs breathily, losing himself in the hot, wet softness of Cas’ mouth, in the taste of rain and mountain air thick on the back of his tongue. He raises a hand to Cas’ lower back, pulling him in tighter when Cas suddenly freezes up, becoming rigid under Dean’s lips. The hunter pulls back in confusion, gripping Cas’ shoulders and shaking him lightly. “Cas? You okay? What’s wrong?” Cas is staring off at something unseen, like he’s not really quite here, and then Dean realizes what’s going on and his heart drops into his heels. Dean shakes his angel again and he snaps back to the present, brow creased in discontent. He looks at Dean and everything but sadness drains away from his eyes.
“Something important has come up in Heaven, and they need me urgently. I’m so sorry, Dean—"
“No, it’s okay,” Dean hurriedly cuts in, despite it being the furthest damn thing from okay. Castiel just got back after having been gone so long, and Dean internally balks at the idea of Cas leaving already, even for just a few minutes. He’s not sure he can go back to that crippling sadness of missing him, like Cas has been returned to him just long enough to get his hopes back up and is now being taken away again. Dean feels an irrational wave of panic sweep through him; how is he going to handle the angel’s absence again? He needs him now, so much.
“I don’t want to leave you in this state. Something doesn’t seem right, and if your condition worsens--”
“I said I’ll be fine Cas, you need to stop worrying,” Dean snaps, words harsh as he channels his hurt into anger.
“I care a great deal about your well being, I cannot just ‘stop worrying’ like turning off a switch,” Cas says, head tilted, those puppy eyes very nearly resembling Sammy’s alight with hurt. Dean frowns, instantly feeling like a dick. It’s not Cas’ fault, and here he is, taking it out on him. He really doesn’t want Cas leaving, and would do nearly anything to keep him here, but he also knows the angel wouldn’t head back unless he was really needed upstairs. And playing into being sick to get him to stay would just be wrong. With a much softer tone, Dean says,
“Alright, how about I promise you I’ll call you if you I get worse, okay? But otherwise you need to get your feathery ass back up there and finish up so next time you can stay.” His voice nearly breaks on the last word, and he’s suddenly struck with how emotional he’s become. He’s overcome with the sudden urge to beg Cas not to leave, to do whatever it takes just to hold him a little longer. Desperate to staunch the kinda out of hand neediness, Dean sternly tells himself that it’s just the post-hunt adrenaline comedown, and that he needs to get a hold of himself and wait for Castiel to come back without making it harder for them both.
“I would much rather stay, but you’re right, matters are coming to a head. I will be on my way, but don’t forget your promise to me.” Cas instructs firmly, then coils an arm around Dean’s waist and pulls him in close, kissing him with such barely restrained passion that the world around them fades away. When Cas pulls back to the sound of Sam awkwardly clearing his throat, Dean is flushed and breathless. The angel rests his forehead against Dean’s, staring longingly into his eyes. Dean’s heart squeezes painfully inside his chest; he doesn’t want to have Cas ripped back out of his grasp again. He can’t. “I love you. Be safe, my adored,” Cas breathes against his ear, turns to Sam with a smile and says, “Goodbye, Sam,” and then is gone with the faint sound of beating wings. Dean has to clamp down on the miserable feeling of loss, shoving it back down his throat, and turns to Sam with a plastered on smile.
“Let’s get going. I need a beer,” Dean says, getting into the car.
***
By the time they get to the motel, Dean is exhausted. Not the weak-limbed, I-feel-a-headache-coming-on, biceps burning from physical combat kind of tired, but something different. His muscles feel stringy and spent, his brittle bones struggling to support the seemingly incredible weight of his frame. He’s too drained to even take deep breaths, and the soles of his feet ache in protest with each step he takes towards the bathroom for a shower. Which is weird, because of how easy the hunt had been; no being thrown into walls, no sprinting or even much hand to hand combat.
So why does he feel like he’s about to drop dead? All him and Sam have been doing in the hours following the hunt is research and investigation into a possible lead, which really should have left Dean with too much energy to deal with, all pent-up in this shitty motel room as he is. When he gets out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist and dripping wet, he walks across the room to his duffle, shuffling painfully across the floor towards… what was he even doing? He looks at the ratty carpet and loses his train of thought staring at the acid hallucinations-patterned carpet. Sam’s voice snaps him back into focus. “You feeling okay?” he asks, voice infused with just the right amount of concern to let Dean know Sam is not freaking out, but is just a little worried, that’s all.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he blinks, more to reassure himself than Sam. ”Just distracted,” Dean waves him off, sighing under the weight that has found a home on his shoulders after the previous hunt. Dean feels his brother watching him and works to focus his eyes more on the shirts he’s pawing through. Before he can stop him, Sam is pressing his palm against Dean’s forehead, feeling his temperature.
“Maybe Cas was right. You’re a little warm,” Sam remarks, going for the first aid kit and pulling out the thermometer before Dean can bat him away. He’s too damn tired to lift his arms up for the motion anyways — he wants to collapse into bed and sleep until the world ends, maybe longer. Moments later Sam’s arm is around Dean’s shoulders, guiding him over to his bed, and Dean can’t help but sag gratefully against the support, letting his brother bear the bulk of his weight. Once they make it over to the bed, Dean sits down heavily, wanting to lay on his back but forcing himself to stay upright and until Sammy gives him the all-clear and lets him crash.
“C’mon, open your mouth,” Sam prompts him, waving the thermometer back and forth. Dean grumbles and rolls his eyes but is pleased to see Sam smile as he slips the thermometer into his mouth, poking the end of it under Dean’s tongue. Dean closes his eyes and waits, trying not to pass out as he does so. The beep of the thermometer rouses him enough to register when Sam pulls it out and reads the temperature, making an unhappy sound at what he sees. “You’re a degree shy of feverish, Dean. I think I’m gonna run to the store and get some things just in case it goes up, okay? And some more Advil, because we literally have one pill left,” Sam says. Dean just nods, wanting him to just leave so he can damn well sleep already.
“Yeah, sure. Bring me some pie,” Dean mumbles, eyelids heavy as Sam grabs Dean’s keys and pockets his wallet. Sam replies with some form of assent, and as soon as the door shuts behind him, Dean collapses backwards onto the bed, his eyes slipping shut and his body sinking into the mattress. He’s so close to blissful unconsciousness, but now that he’s alone, he can’t ignore the gnawing in his gut that always surfaces when Cas is away. He swears he’d give anything to have his angel to hold right now, to have that lithe body pressed up against his, that messy head of hair to bury his face in. With his angel busy around the clock with stuff going on up in Heaven, so busy he’s only able to come see Dean for five minutes at the end of hunts, Dean feels like he’s drowning. He understands, of course he does, but it doesn’t mean it hurts any less.
God, their long distance relationship fucking sucks, and he hates how helpless he is to do anything about it. They’re closer, more intimate, and more permanently bound than any married couple; Dean knows the profound link between angel and human is unable to be severed by anyone at all, be it angel, demon or anything in between, but it doesn’t make their separation any less shitty. Cas and Sam had nearly died during a hunt where they were outnumbered by a vampire coven, and Dean had been brought to his knees, completely wrecked, thinking for sure he had lost both of them.
It had pushed him over the edge, and he was spilling his feelings to Castiel and not even hesitating to finally spit out the word ‘love’ the second they were back to safety. He’d been beyond relieved when Cas had matched his passionate adoration. The first kiss they shared had tasted of desperation and fear, but also communicated so much pure, unadulterated love that Dean wouldn’t have changed it for all the world. In true Winchester fashion though, it hadn’t all been smooth sailing since then. Now Dean is even more protective of him, has one more vulnerability in the form of the angel to worry about, and the pining has increased exponentially whenever he isn’t with him.
Which, with Dean’s shitty luck, has been most of this week. Cas just has to be commander of the biggest and most badass garrison in Heaven, leaving Dean to wait for him to return from whatever holy war is going on up there like some military wife. At least he’s able to pray to Cas all the time, Cas never failing to respond within seconds of Dean uttering the last word. That’s one bonus he guesses military wives never have. Dean wants to pray to Cas to check up on him, knowing he would be good and pissed off if Dean kept being ‘a degree from feverish’ from him. Dean’s going to, he really is, but before he knows it he’s drifting, sleep pulling him into its dark, peaceful void.
***
Dean wakes to one of Sam’s hands cupping his face, keeping his jaw open so that it doesn’t snap shut on the thermometer his baby brother has jammed under his tongue once again. Dean makes an elongated, pitiful noise of displeasure and Sam pulls the thermometer out just in time to miss Dean trying to spit it out as the device beeps. “Hey, how are you feeling? You slept for almost fourteen hours,” Sam says, eyes wide with concern. Dean rolls onto his stomach with a grunt, muscles lax, and looks over at the digital clock on the nightstand. It’s three in the afternoon, and he raises his eyebrows in disbelief, momentarily doubting that the clock hasn’t been tampered with. Shit, he can’t remember a time he’s ever been unconscious for more than ten hours. Considering he wasn’t even knocked out like this, it’s even more reason for alarm, but since he’s already falling back to sleep, he can’t find it in himself to really care. He already feels the desire to return to unconsciousness pulling at him, trying to make him succumb once more. Damn, he’s only been awake for minutes and he can’t suppress the overwhelming desire to fall back to sleep.
“Dean? Dean, stay with me!” The anxiety in Sam’s voice makes him snap awake, his protective big brother instinct jolting him to life.
“What? What s’appenin’?” he asks drowsily, feeling sweat trickle down his temples from his hair as he blinks up into the too-bright light flooding the room.
“Cas must be right, think you’re coming down with a pretty nasty flu or something,” Sam figures, eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement as he examines Dean’s face. Dean just wants to sleep, and doesn’t understand why Sam’s so worked up. Doesn’t help that he’s really, uncomfortably hot, either, his whole body feeling like it’s been shoved into an oven, or that heat must be radiating off his skin in waves. He makes a pitiful attempt to kick the blankets tangled around his legs off — can’t remember even getting underneath them in the first place. Sam must’ve covered him up, damn caring kid he is. However, it’s not exactly helping Dean. More like he’s trying to get the furnace off his already overheated skin.
“Yeah, yeah guess so,” Dean mumbles in compliance, hating the poorly hidden fear on Sam’s face. It makes Dean want to protect him. He just always wants to protect Sammy, even though he can barely keep the room from spinning, it’s all he wants.
“Here, open your mouth,” Sam instructs, and Dean hears the vague noise of pills rattling around in a bottle. He wants to make Sammy happy, always wants to make Sammy happy, so he opens his sandpaper dry mouth obediently. Sam drops two pills in and then slips a hand behind his neck, helping him drink them down with some lemon-lime flavored Gatorade. Dean smiles after choking them back; Sammy always remembers his favorite things. Lemon-lime Gatorade is the older Winchester’s favorite. In a small corner of his mind, Dean recognizes that he’s feeling overly affectionate, but he can’t find it in himself to care, because his head feels stuffed with wet cotton.
It’s gotta be scaring Sam, that’s for sure. He keeps patting Dean’s sweat-soaked hair and telling him to stay with him, and when he drapes an icy cold washcloth across his forehead, Dean could cry at the euphoria if he had any fluids in him at all. His whole body is burning, burning, burning away, and he feels like a pile of coals glowing white-hot in the bottom of a fireplace. He distantly senses Sam pulling his shirt off of him, but the tepid air is no help to his roasting skin. The washcloth seems to heat up seconds after touching him and is no longer soothing, but just another thing to seal in the fever. Dean slurs his words incoherently, trying to tell Sam to move it, but the plea is garbled and obscure. He hears his brother talking to someone, but he can’t tell who, and when another sweltering wave of heat rushes over him, he passes out.
***
Dean awakes to the sensation of feeling absolutely fucking freezing, like he’s been locked in a freezer. That coupled with the sound of voices leads him to open his eyes, trying to figure out what’s going on. He realizes he’s bare-ass-naked, lying in the drenched motel bed with ice packs resting under his armpits, in the backs of his knees, over his heart and groin. Maybe he’d crack a joke, but Sam talking to someone who is out of his field of vision stops him. What he really doesn’t get is why he’s stripped down and covered with ice when he’s freezing his ass off. The hunter feels like he has hypothermia, and is so cold and numb he can’t tell where his body is making contact with either the ice or bed. One thing is clear: he needs to get warm, or his fucking arms are gonna fall off the way they do in those Arctic survival TV shows. “S-s-s-sammy,” Dean manages to spit through his chattering teeth, head spinning, stomach churning. What’s wrong with him?
“Dean!” Sam cries, coming over to his bedside and crouching beside him to take his temperature again. Dean watches his frantic brother busy himself with replacing the cold rag at the back of Dean’s neck with a fresh icy one. “How are you feeling? How many fingers am I holding up?” Sam waves three fingers back and forth rapidly in front of Dean’s face.
“W-w-where’d my clothes g-go? Why s’it so c-cold?” Dean stutters, lifting his head, and then winces at the way his head pounds in return.
“Your fever is fucking skyrocketing, I have to get it down,” Sam explains as he finishes adjusting the ice. Dean grunts, fumbling with the words to tell Sam to take the ice away and give him some blankets, but he can’t figure out how to make his lips work. Not that it matters; he isn’t really understanding what’s going on, but isn’t about to question Sam’s ‘expertise’ anyways. “I had to pray to Cas for help. He came down here and practically lost his shit over the condition you were in — seriously man, he was hysterical.” Cas. Oh man, Dean really wishes Cas was here. Cas would get him warm, and all he really wants is to be warm right now. “He examined you and found the bite mark on your shoulder and then he was so pissed, holy shit, I’ve never seen Cas like that before,” Sam declares. The only thing Dean really understands is ‘Cas’; Cas, Cas, Cas, and his chest constricts, knowing the angel isn’t there with him. He’s about to ask where Cas is, needing him, when shit hits the fan.
Dean’s head is spinning and he’s starting to shiver so violently the shudders could be considered convulsions. “Dean?” Sam asks, eyes widening in surprise as Dean bites through his lip to keep his teeth from chattering and blood starts to gush from the cut down his chin and into his mouth as his body seizes. “Dean!” Sam cries again, and Dean feels him frantically checking his pulse and breathing with his fingers poking into his neck, then his brother’s big hands holding him down. Cas is suddenly on the bed next to Dean, the bruising grip of fingers on his shoulders as he’s pinned to the mattress distantly conveying the angel’s anxiety. Castiel’s words are harsh and fast, running into each other as he whispers a line of Enochian into Dean’s ear. Something inside of Dean instantly calms, as if the very core of the hunter recognizes the words and is soothed by them, and he whimpers in relief. His body stills and he feels himself fall limp on the bed. Cas’ hand sweeps along the length of his temple and jaw before pressing a few fingers into the side of his neck. Dean notes how Cas’ face goes hard and tense, and he vaguely wonders why his angel looks so upset.
“I don’t understand. He’s absolutely freezing. I need to get him warm, or his body will go into shock,” Castiel announces, bending over Dean and mojoing the ice packs away. Dean groans, freezing his ass off and wanting the warm, reassuring weight of Cas pressing his back into the mattress, but all he gets is the damn sick feeling roiling up inside him and wringing his insides. “Sam, I will take care of your brother, I swear to you, the best of care. But please, I can’t protect you both, you need to leave or risk the ferocity of my Grace. I will let you know how Dean is doing once he is stabilized. Trust me, I will get him better. Nothing will stop me,” Cas growls seriously, and it’s familiar and comforting, reminding him Cas will take take of him and whatever else is going on. Sam nods jerkily and makes a beeline out of the room.
“Cas,” Dean begs as another crashing wave of dizzy weakness and cold wracks his body. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to plead for his angel to help him. It’s agonizing to force the broken word out of his dry throat, and Cas’ livid, pained eyes soften at the sound. Cas cradles Dean’s face in his palms and presses their foreheads together. The angel’s hands feel wonderfully hot against Dean’s frozen skin, and he wishes his whole body was enveloped in the sensation.
“You will be alright, Dean. Nothing will take you away from me. Not ever,” Cas speaks the last word with such conviction, Dean would never in a million years doubt him. “Hold on for me, my beloved, I will shelter you from this illness,” Cas breathes against Dean’s ear, and then the warm spill of Grace is all Dean knows as Cas renders him unconscious.
***
Dean’s senses slowly pull into focus one by one, taking their time in coming back to him. The hunter is first aware of warmth — a comforting, safe warmth that encompasses his whole body. More aspects of the sense become clear; how something huge and silky-soft is wrapped around him, pressing against his naked figure from the top, for he’s resting on familiar equal parts rough and hot skin, his cheek scraping over light stubble. The shallow rise and fall of breathing from the chest he’s cradled to makes his lips twitch into a smile. Next comes smell. The heady, distinctly-Castiel scent is all around Dean. Every time he inhales, he luxuriates in the scent of rain on pavement, clear skies, something sweet but distinctly intoxicating, all amounting to his angel. He breathes deeply, nuzzles closer, and feels the satiny warmth draped over the back of his head, across his back and over the backs of his legs tighten, drawing him closer. Taste comes with thirst and a faint tang of salt from dried blood.
Last to come are hearing and sight. Dean’s ears first register the low rumble of Cas’ voice, like waves in the ocean crashing down over rocks — deep, gravelly, mighty. The words don’t make sense to Dean’s ears, but their cadence is beautiful all the same — most likely Enochian. The contrasting tones with their melting transitions suddenly makes sense: Castiel is singing. His hand is gently carding through Dean’s hair, sifting his fingers through the sleep-induced spikes. Finally Dean indulges himself in his final sense, and slowly opens his eyes, just enough so that he can peek through his eyelashes up at Cas. The angel looks ethereal in his beauty. The moonlight is streaming through the slats in the blinds covering the window and highlighting the smooth curves, lines and planes of his face. Dean wants to kiss every inch of it, and shuffles until he can do so. He tilts his head back, lips seeking along the sharp ridge of Cas’ angular jaw, and kisses him with a light brush of his lips, basking in the gratifying ache of stubble against his skin.
Cas stops singing and returns the kiss, which is slow building, lingering and deep, a love so confident in itself it takes its time. “My adored,” Cas greets him, voice hushed, as he presses a kiss to the hollow at the base of Dean’s throat. “I’ve got you.” Dean pulls Cas’ mouth back to his, and the two fall headlong into another kiss, finding again their rhythm, the slip of wet tongue and the dry rasp of stubble over skin paired with needy intensity. Dean sighs, breathing the angel in and out as he tastes the scent of him on his lips. The trance breaks when Dean’s body suddenly seizes up, muscles petrified, and pain flares to life like a fast-spreading forest fire in his chest. His skin, which just seconds ago felt pleasantly warm, feels now like it has burst into flame. Dean cries out in pain, but before the agony can continue to ratchet up, Cas’ hands are cupping his face, his lips on Dean’s as he speaks a fluid, urgent string of Enochian into Dean’s mouth.
The pain instantly subsides, as if shot with a tranquilizer dart, and retreats. Dean’s muscles unlock and he completely melts into Cas’ figure, body weak and spent. “It’s okay, you’re safe,” Cas promises. The hunter closes his eyes, trying to steady his breathing as he whines. Cas keeps stroking Dean’s hair, trying to soothe him as they wait, hushing him like a child. A long moment passes before Dean’s halfway conscious enough to wonder what that extraordinary sensation of warm satin blanketing him is. He twists his head to the side and then gasps, eyes widening as he takes in the enormous, awe-inspiring wings unfurled from Castiel’s back. One of them is stretched all the way out, so huge it reaches the opposite side of the motel room and is still too big to fit, the tip of the wing pressed up against the wall. The other is fanned out over Dean, curled tightly around him and the angel, easily big enough to fully cocoon them both. “Fuck,” Dean gasps, blinking rapidly to test the image before him, not able to fathom that these are Castiel’s actual freaking wings. “Am I dreaming?” Dean rolls onto his stomach so he can see Cas’ face, shivering pleasantly at the long, silken brush of feathers over his navel, and then forces his eyes to focus so he can take them in.
They’re the perfect manifestation of Castiel’s Grace — lithe and graceful even motionless, the color a gorgeous ebony. When he tilts his head, the moonlight gleams off of them and makes the color appear to hold the entire spectrum of the rainbow within, like oil spilled over concrete. The feathers are glossy and neatly aligned, and the gorgeous arch and curvature of the wings, all the way down to their pointed tips, makes Dean’s breath catch in his throat. He gingerly reaches out a hand to touch them, spreading his fingers and drawing them through the thick feathers in quiet awe. His mind can hardly comprehend the magnificent appendages, but somehow, they feel like a natural extension of Cas’ vessel. “Fucking gorgeous,” Dean mumbles in awe. Cas leans his wing into Dean’s touch, making a contented humming sound in the back of his throat. The hunter can’t keep his hands off the stunning wings of his lover, and is fully entranced until he catches sight of his surroundings out of the corner of his eye.
This isn’t the shitty motel Sam and him had been camped out in for the past two days. First of all, the room is completely empty but for a huge window sheathed in blinds, the walls painted a soft cream color. The absence of wallpaper hideous enough to make your eyes bleed paired with the lack of suspiciously stained carpet is a dead give away. Secondly, Dean is about a thousand times too comfortable to be lying on a motel bed since the springs aren’t digging into his back through the thin cover of worn out stuffing. Instead, the mattress itself feels akin to memory foam but cushier, like it knows exactly how to properly support Dean’s spent body. There’s also the refreshingly cool and luxurious sensation of what feels like silk sheets under his bare limbs, caressing his skin whenever he moves. Dean cranes his head to get a better look at the bed and then realizes that this is hardly a bed at all, surprise hitting him as he looks out around the room in shock.
It’s enormous, taking up almost the entirety of the room but for a little path to the closed door leading out. Something similar to a mattress but shaped into a perfect circle occupies the space, and when Dean brushes his fingers over it, he realizes there is a thick layer of inky black feathers beneath them, as well as a couple of old AC/DC and Metallica t-shirts the hunter was sure he’d thrown out awhile ago when they’d become too threadbare even to sleep in. “Where are we?” Dean mumbles sleepily to Cas, turning over and nestling closer to his angel, his limbs weak and aching. Cas’ hand traces the ridge of his spine, fingers dancing over his posterior. Dean sighs euphorically as Cas presses another kiss to his seeking mouth, then pulls away to speak, his other hand still scritching gently at Dean’s scalp.
“We’re in our nest, my beloved. Traditionally, bonded, or mated, angels build a nest together shortly after their soul-bonding — similar to the concept of matrimony here on Earth, but more a metaphysical union of Grace, or Grace and soul in our case, rather than a legal binding. A nest is meant to be a sort of intimate shelter for the bonded pair and only them. Nests are where your mate watches over you and provides comfort and protection when you are resting, seeking the intimacy of soul-bonding, or at times of great vulnerability, such as when injured or molting feathers,” Cas kisses the now healed spot on his shoulder where the bite mark was, and Dean wants Cas to just keep kissing forever.
“I’d been preparing us a nest for awhile now in case you ever wanted to bond with me. I spent a great while seeking out the perfect place for it and collecting all of the components in hopes that one day we would need it. When I saw how ill you were, more than you’ve ever been, I hastened to finish it, needing a place defensible and safe to keep you, especially since my Grace could not fully cure your ailment,” Cas continues, and now his voice is triste, concerned and protective. “You were so near to death, Dean, it broke my heart and filled me with both rage and worry. My angelic instincts were to protect you as I am meant to -- as your mate. I wanted to keep you in our safe place, wanted to be able to take care of you where only I could touch you, not the creatures of Hell and sin. So I brought you to our nest, and am now going to take care of you how angel mates take care of each other, because you are exactly that to me, only human: my mate,” the angel finishes softly, with a cloying kiss to Dean’s forehead.
His initial reaction is to be overwhelmed and touched by Cas’ concern, followed swiftly by rueful and sad. “Oh.” He frowns, blinking up at Cas, and the angel’s face falls in response.
“What is it, do you not like it?” Cas asks him, and the worry Dean hears leaves him scrambling to speak his thoughts.
“No, I love it, it’s just…” Dean fumbles for the words. “I wish I’d had the chance to build it with you,” he mumbles, heart in his throat. “Sounds like a team effort.” He can’t keep the longing out of his voice, feeling inexplicably melancholy that he had missed out on something so important to the angel.
“Oh, Dean,” Cas murmurs, lips skimming along Dean’s temple to caress his jaw. His eyes are intensely blue, endeared as he gazes into Dean’s eyes. “My precious Dean. I would have loved to build a nest with you, but I had to do it now, because of your sickness. I never thought to ask you if you’d like to build one with me.”
“Why didn’t you want to build one with me before?” Dean asks with a sleepy yawn, his eyelids drooping as his exhaustion increases, pulling at him to stop talking and fall back into unconsciousness.
“You’re tired, beloved. Sleep, and we can discuss this when you’re more fit for conversation,” Cas says quietly, and Dean might be imagining it, but is there a wistful note in his angel’s voice? Cas’ hand comes up to fit the curve of Dean’s cheek, and then Grace is flooding through him and all he can do is fall head long into the darkness of sleep.
***
Dean is remarkably more lucid when he wakes up again, but no less blissed out, still swaddled tightly in the embrace of Cas’ wings. He stretches his body out carefully, shifting in the angel’s grip and alerting him of his return to wakefulness. “How are you feeling?” Cas asks, peering down at Dean through hooded eyes. Dean stifles another massive yawn, blinking the blurs out of his vision before answering. “Thirsty, and kind of like I fell out of five story window, but worth it to be taken to cloud nine to recover,” Dean says, chuckling. Cas grins fondly at him.
“Not exactly ‘cloud nine’, but as close as I can take you,” he responds, then manifests a bottle of water and holds it to Dean’s lips. The hunter drinks greedily, not realizing his acute need until his body takes over and he’s downing the water as fast as he can swallow. The entire bottle is empty within seconds, not a drop left, and Cas conjures up another. The older Winchester doesn’t even bother to say he can hold it himself -- he’s just so thirsty. Once he’s finished with the second, he drops his head back onto the pillowy feathers underneath him, and lets his body sink back into their nest.
That part brings Dean up short, and muddled memories of their conversation return to him in fragments. He’s going over what Cas said, trying to process it more thoroughly this time, but the angel interrupts him. “Dean, I’m so sorry for leaving you, when I first saw the bite mark in your shoulder.” Cas solemnly brushes his thumb across Dean’s shoulder. “It was incredibly reckless of me, and I can never apologize enough. I realized the bite was from the orbisque languorem and panicked — their venom is an effective immunosuppressant, not only leaving their victims immensely susceptible to the first virus that finds its way in, but also rendering your body’s phagocytes useless, protecting the invasive bodies as they multiply and preventing my Grace from abolishing it from your system. Knowing this, I went to find a cure, only to discover there isn’t one, and the only thing I can do is keep your body healthy until the poison wears off and the sickness ebbs. A human without the protection of angelic Grace would surely die following such a bite, their body unable to defend itself from the illness.”
“Guess I’m damned lucky I’ve got you, then,” Dean comments, absorbing the information. He figured the bite mark had something to do with how shitty he was feeling at some point, but now it all makes sense. Belatedly he realizes they should’ve done more research before hand; ‘get bitten and die’ would’ve been nice to know before hunting down the sonovabitch. At least he knows he’s going to live, thanks to Cas’ angel-IV. “I let you down when you needed me, and nothing can excuse such a failure, but I will do everything in my power to atone. I will be nowhere but right here, for as long as you wish me to be. I promise I will not leave your side again, my beloved,” Cas finishes, voice steadfast, kissing the top of Dean’s head as his feathers brush along the length of Dean’s back and over his legs. He sighs happily, thinking how very easily he could get used to the feeling of Cas’ wings around him. The hunter lifts a hand and runs his fingers through the feathers, marveling at their silky yet durable feel, and digs his fingers gently into the meat of Cas’ wing. Cas makes an aborted little moaning sound, arching his wing into Dean’s touch, and the man grins, drawing fingers along a particularly long flight feather.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Cas, I didn’t know….” Dean trails off as a yawn takes over, then cards his other hand through the feathers of Cas’ other wing, right at the base where he can reach.
“I know, it’s okay. Though I fear I might’ve scared Sam a little with my vehemence upon realizing just how close your body was to failing you.” Cas takes a deep, steadying breath, and the self-restraining gesture strikes Dean as painfully human.
Dean’s hands travel to the very base of the wings, right where they emerge from Cas’ smooth skin, the strong bones looking more natural than leaves on trees where they start. Dean massages right there, fingers scritching at the wing beneath the feathers. Another moan, this one louder and more wrecked sounding, passes through Cas’ lips and Dean grins, kissing the angel’s neck with a hot, open mouth. “You know,” Dean starts, continuing on his path of sucking kisses to the graceful curve of his partner’s neck, taking his time to mouth the words in between, “Our nest is without a doubt the comfiest thing I’ve ever slept in. I think it’s going to take a pretty serious pie bribery to get me out,” Dean remarks against the angel’s skin, brushing his lips along each of Cas’ collarbones before planting one more kiss in the little dip between them. “I just have one question: what’s with all the feathers? And my old shirts?”
Dean pulls back just enough to see Cas’ eyes flicker down to the padding of black feathers and worn t-shirts, and it might just be the lighting, but he’s sure his angel’s blushing. “Angels typically line their nests with molted feathers, because feathers are both the best insulators and are considerably soft. Not only that, but they bear strongest the scent of the angel. I’ve taken to collecting my molted feathers from the years before and putting them away for safekeeping. Since you don’t have wings, I utilized the next best thing — these shirts, which you have worn so much that your scent is ingrained into every fiber of cotton. Distinctly my Dean,” Cas finishes softly, smiling as he fingers the sleeve of a black shirt washed so many times it now appears to have faded to gray. Dean nods, some visceral, possessive part of him thrilling at the words.
“Where did you go to molt your feathers before, since you didn’t have a nest?” Dean asks, settling back against Cas and rubbing the tip of a feather between his thumb and index finger.
“I would go to my brothers and sisters to pull them out when the time came. It’s standard for angels without mates, though not as pleasant,” Cas explains, sounding slightly forlorn. Dean winces at the thought.
“Why didn’t you just build a nest with me before?” Dean asks. “I could’ve helped you...molt… your feathers the right way. I wouldn’t have hurt you, you should have come to me,” Dean adds in, and though he’s learning, he’s not really sure he fully understands the implications, nor full meaning, of what he’s offering. Cas’ eyes are sad now, looking infinitely wise with the weight of a loneliness carried for too long. Dean wants to lift the burden away, never wants Cas to look like that again, because he has the hunter now, and that’ll never change.
“I never wanted to push angelic tradition on you, Dean, nor did I want to make you feel pressured to become my mate. Angels have only a single mate for all of eternity, and such things as nesting and the union of souls are very serious — to be performed only with the one you will remain beside until the end. I didn’t want to take away your choice in the matter or jump into things expecting you to desire to be my true mate, along with do all of the traditional angelic practices that go with it,” Cas says, and Dean sees a peculiar vulnerable and shameful shadow in his eyes.
Dean is taken aback, trying desperately to wrap his mind around the immensity of this whole mating thing. What’s most shocking to him isn’t how important and eternal it is, but rather that Cas had refrained from telling Dean for so long, on account of believing Dean wouldn’t want it. That Dean thinks it’s only temporary, or is in it purely for the sex, or something equally as crazy. He struggles to blink back his amazement and force his mouth to vocalize his thoughts. “Cas, you need to understand; this isn’t some short-term, shallow thing for me, which is what this must seem like since it doesn’t have all the angelic bells and whistles with it. But this— this isn’t some one night stand, Cas, this is my everything. I’ve never had a successful relationship before, and never thought I would get the chance. You’ve given me so damn much, what I have with you now is… has my complete devotion, or whatever the hell you wanna call it. I mean it. I want all that… depth… with you, as much as I can possibly get, because you are the only one who has ever meant this much to me, and the only one who ever will,” Dean finishes, voice having gained confidence as he abandoned all attempts at romantic eloquence, and instead focused on just getting his feelings out for once.
Cas looks touched, the angel’s chapped lips slightly parted and his eyes wide, soft, and earnest as they search Dean’s. The older Winchester gazes back just as ardently, wishing he could somehow implant how he feels and exactly what he’s thinking into Castiel’s mind just this once — so he could fully understand how desperately Dean wants him, and not just for some physical, transient ‘relationship’. Dean takes a deep breath and continues, the pain in Cas’ eyes spurring him on. “I want everything with you, Cas. Everything. And yeah, that means the angel stuff too. It’ll take a lot more than an eternity with the guy I love to scare me off, believe me. If anything, having something that means more than just a title, something tangible and unbreakable, is a bonus. We could get married, I guess, but that’s nothing but a piece of paper.” Dean takes a deep breath, resolute. “If there’s a potential for something more between us, then I want it. I want all of you.”
Cas’ eyes are endlessly blue, gazing at Dean with something like reverence, overlaid with relief. “You…” Cas tries again, his face losing the uncertain edge. His voice becomes strong and sure, thus filling the older hunter his own growing sense of confidence. “Dean Winchester, will you be my true mate?” The hunter smiles softly, leaning in to press a fervent kiss to his angel’s lips, trying to convey through his passion exactly how much he wants him, not just in the human ways, but in all of Heaven’s ways as well.
“Yes,” Dean manages to say through the emotion clogging his throat, and then jovially crushes his lips to Cas’ once more. His entire being aches with fulfillment and he tries to communicate it all though the kiss. Cas pulls back, too soon for Dean’s liking, but the sheer joy and triumph in his eyes makes the distance worth it.
“I wish you could understand just how incredibly happy you have made me, Dean,” Cas tilts his head to the side in that endearing way of his. “Happy is far from sufficient… there are no words for what I’m feeling, now that I have the man I love. There’s nothing more I could desire. This… this is beyond anything I could ever have hoped for.” Cas says, and Dean’s heart aches at the sight of tears sparkling in his eyes, brushing at Cas’ waterline with this thumbs before they can fall.
Cas cradles Dean’s head in his hands and kisses every inch of his hunter’s face, and he can feel the angel’s lips curve into a smile against his own. Cas moves back an inch, just enough so they can see each other, and now he looks giddy, the way Sammy did that one time Dean swiped a treasury of poems from a bookstore and presented it to him for his birthday. “I might not be able to express my elation in words, but I think there’s another way,” Cas says excitedly. Dean grins wider, so big he can feel the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Go for it, angel,” he urges, and Cas removes one hand from Dean’s face to press against his shoulder, lining up his palm and fingers so they perfectly overlap the handprint scar there. At first Dean feels a tingly sensation where Cas’ skin is in contact with it, and then suddenly he feels warmth like he’s never felt before. Pleasure rushes through him, concentrated in the handprint and rippling out through the rest of his body, but that’s only secondary to the sensation of gentle softness brushing along something deep inside him. Not only does it send what feels like every nerve ending in his body into a blissful, over-pleasured state, but the touch makes him feel loved and happy as well.
“What is that?” Dean breathes, eyes wide. Cas chuckles.
“My Grace is touching your soul through the bond. I can do this without the bodily contact, but I suspect the visceral pleasure is heightened this way, as the mark is a physical tether to my Grace,” Cas explains. Dean nods rapidly, reaching something — something absolutely integral to him, something so deep inside — out to curl into the welcoming presence. At his eager response, Cas’ Grace gleefully caresses Dean’s soul, enveloping him in the adoring warmth, and Dean’s eyes burn at the rush of tears flooding them at such an overwhelming of what it feels like to be truly treasured. He feels such an abundance of pleasure he’s nearly trembling with it, and his soul attempts to burrow into Cas’ Grace, endlessly seeking more contact, but the angel denies him, pulling away
“Cas,” Dean whimpers through panted breaths, dazed by the pleasure assaulting his senses. “More, please, need you,” he begs, hardly caring how completely wrecked he sounds — he needs Castiel. The angel smoothes his palm over Dean’s hair, kissing his forehead and hushing his muffled cries.
“You’re seeking a soul bond, Dean,” Cas is gasping for breath, clenching his eyes tightly shut, wings trembling. “There is nothing more I want right now than to bond with you, but your body is still too weak for me to safely do so. The poison is still in your system, and I will not risk your well-being — the effects could be harmful to your health,” Cas struggles through heavy breaths, reluctantly removing his grip on the handprint, and the dampening of intensity is like a bucket of ice water over Dean’s head. He cries out at the loss, but Cas’ Grace is there to stroke him through it, offering its reassuring comfort as Dean adjusts to being normal again. Dean forces his breath to even out, his heart slowing down as he grasps tightly at Cas for bodily comfort and out of desperate need to feel close to him again. His eyes are are jammed shut so tightly he can see white, and he grits his teeth as he rides out the loss. Minutes pass before Dean’s finally calm, now just basking in the compassionate warmth brought on by the faint presence of Cas’ Grace around him.
The hunter can’t wait to soul bond, but if Cas is sure it’s for the best, he will. “In the mean time, let me care for you,” Cas murmurs, snugging the hunter up in his wings. Dean buries one hand in the feathers and holds Cas close, sharing the intimacy of lying wrapped in each other in their nest.
“And how do you think you’re gonna do that?” Dean asks playfully.
“Do you feel up to moving?” Cas asks, and Dean remembers he’s still gravely sick. He’d almost forgotten, with Cas’ Grace holding back the pain so flawlessly.
“Yeah, I’m good to go,” Dean answers. Cas grins, wrapping his arms around his hunter and slowly spreading his wings so as not to create a gust of wind in the room and send everything flying. Dean just watches curiously as Cas shifts their positions so they’re sitting up, Dean pulled into his beloved’s lap, and when he opens his eyes after blinking, finds them in the bathroom. This restroom is like something Dean’s only ever seen on TV; it’s sleek, luxurious, and clean, with long black marble countertops embedded with silver flecks, polished white tile floors, and a huge and modern shower in one corner, a matching jacuzzi tub in the other. A neat stack of folded black towels sits on a shelf above the toilet, and Dean smiles at the way they match Cas’ feathers. Cas carries him bridal style, with one arm beneath his bent knees and the other circling his shoulders, and Dean wants to laugh at how effortless it seems for his angel.
Castiel kneels so that one hand can reach the faucet of the jacuzzi and turn it on without loosening his hold on his hunter, then grabs a little unmarked purple bottle sitting on the tub’s edge and dumps a sweet-smelling liquid in. Bubbles start to foam up beneath the pouring water and Dean finds himself chuckling, kissing the side of Cas’ neck. “A bubble bath? Really? I haven’t had one since I was a kid,” the hunter muses. Castiel just holds Dean closer while he waits for the tub to fill, eyes sparkling with fondness.
“You are recovering from being very ill, Dean, I think you have a perfectly valid excuse to take one,” Cas replies mischievously and Dean rolls his eyes.
“Okay, I guess I can’t really complain, but tell Sammy about this and I’ll never live it down,” Dean says good-naturedly with a laugh, the rich sound of Cas’ own making his heart swell. Something distinctly warm and wonderful is blossoming inside Dean’s chest and he can’t stop smiling; everything is so great it seems surreal. Cas is actually here for once, and he’s staying to take care of Dean, and not only that, but he’s built them a nest. Which reminds him… “Cas, you never actually told me where we are,” Dean reminds him, brows raised in interest. “You didn’t sweep me off to Narnia, did you?”
“No,” the angel responds, fondness creasing the corners of his eyes. “This is a little cabin I made in a forest of Washington state’s Olympic Peninsula, somewhere beautiful, but safe and secluded. It took me awhile to decide on the perfect location, but after taking your likes and dislikes into consideration, I finally settled here. It’s nothing too extravagant, but I believe it will satisfy our needs,” Cas says, kissing the tip of Dean’s nose to punctuate his sentence. Dean blushes stupidly and tries to cover it up by clearing his throat.
“No, ah, from what I’ve seen it’s awesome,” he says. “What else is here? We got a nest, we got a bathroom, is there more? I’d explore, but I’m kinda stuck,” the hunter jokes.
“There is,” Cas nods, carding his fingers through the hair at Dean’s nape. “There’s a kitchen downstairs, a second bathroom, and a living room. If there’s anything else you’d like me to add, I’ll get right to work building it in as soon as you are well.”
“Sounds perfect. I’m gonna have to check out this kitchen and see if we have stuff for burgers later,” Dean declares and Cas chuckles, turning off the water.
“Once you’re feeling up to it, my beloved,” Cas amends, gently lowering Dean into the bubbly bathwater. As soon as his body is completely submerged, he lets out a breathy moan, head tilted back and leaning against the edge of the tub.
“This is fucking fantastic,” Dean mumbles, letting his eyes slip shut blissfully as his muscles further relax into the water. Cas hums in agreement, and Dean can almost hear the implied ‘I told you so’ in the happy little sound. He reluctantly cracks his eyes open to the sound of movement, and finds Cas placing a folded towel underneath his head and around the back of his neck to support his head, tenderness in his eyes as he watches Dean unwind.
The angel picks up where he left off with his Enochian song, crooning quietly but beautifully, as he threads his fingers through Dean’s hair, fingertips wet with shampoo. Dean sighs indulgently as Cas’ fingers massage the soap into his scalp, pressing and rubbing in all the right places, scratching just above his ears and at the base of his skull. Dean’s never felt anything in his life so wonderful, he’s sure of it, and most of that’s down to the loving way Cas does it, like Dean is a treasure. The thought makes his eyes misty; never in a million years would he have thought anyone would ever touch him like this, like he’s precious and worth caring for.
Cas leans over him and kisses his exposed throat as his thumbs rub soothing circles at his temples, and Dean kisses the underside of his angel’s jaw, waiting for the tears to die down. Castiel scoops the sudsy water in his cupped hands and begins to rinse the shampoo out of Dean’s hair, taking care to avoid getting any in the hunter’s eyes, still singing serenely as he does. Dean to feel the absence of fingers in his hair, now replaced with a warmed, soft towel absorbing the moisture. Once Cas is satisfied with his work, he unplugs the drain and gathers a dripping Dean to his chest, pulling him out of the draining water, and blankets him with a towel, wrapping him up as he had done with his wings. While Dean would prefer to be cocooned in his angel’s silken feathers, the plush towels are pretty nice too.
Cas has no trouble at all tugging Dean’s favorite green flannel pajama pants and a gray t-shirt onto Dean’s freshly clean body, then in the blink of an eye, flies them back to their nest. Dean sighs euphorically as he feels Cas’ wings curled around him again, both of them this time, keeping the two of them in their own intimate little shelter. The sound of rain pelting against the window, staccato and loud, filling him with a peculiar sense of coziness. He nestles closer to Cas, his eyelids growing heavy with the calming sound of rain paired with Cas’ low voice, still singing. Cas kisses his lips chastly, tucking his hunter’s head underneath his chin. “Sleep, my adored. I will not leave your side,” he promises. Dean mumbles back a half coherent ‘okay’ before he’s drifting off in the warmth of his angel’s arms and wings.
Sure, the orbisque languorem had really fucked Dean over -- his immune system especially -- but now that he thinks about it, all that shit has been really worth it. Between the crazy fever, near hypothermia, and confused delirium, he did some how manage to score himself a nest with his newly proclaimed angel mate, with whom he is deeply in love.
Yeah, definitely worth it.