#the way this is the first time i've published supernatural fanwork since 2006 on fanfiction dot net........

[mainpopgirldeans]

fic: devotional

‘but still beautiful. still dean winchester’ really snapped something inside me...

title: devotional pairing: dean/cas summary: I’m not here to perch, Castiel had said, once upon a time. Laughable, now. (ambiguously set in season 5. gen, 1k. you can also read at ao3.)

Delight thyself also in the Lord: and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart. Psalm 37:4

It’s snowing when they finally pull into the motel’s half-empty lot, the vacancy sign flickering. Castiel sits wordlessly in the passenger seat and watches, patient, as Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath. Around the steering wheel, his grip tightens and loosens reflexively, rhythmically. There’s blood dried under his fingernails, in his cuticles and the creases of his knuckles, visible even in the darkness of the car.

“Dean,” says Castiel, keeping his hands loose, open on his thighs. Waiting.

It takes a moment. Finally, Dean squints one bleary eye over at the passenger seat and exhales. “Yeah.” Quiet, vacant. “You staying?” Toneless. Couldn’t care either way, or at least careful to keep his preference to himself, even as he watches Castiel sidelong.

Castiel says, “For a while.” If you want, he doesn’t say. Hedging his bet. There’s something about it that settles strangely within him — walking on eggshells around the Michael’s sword. Heaven’s most powerful weapon. This body that he pieced together sinew by sinew, this soul that he writ from dust, entirely anew, that he’d recognize even on the other side of this galaxy and the next. That he knows intimately enough to know what not to say because he — hundreds of millions of years old, a soldier of God — doesn’t want to upset Dean. He wants to give Dean what Dean wants. I’m not here to perch, Castiel had said, once upon a time. Laughable, now.

Dean nods, expressionless. “Okay,” he says. “Good.”

Castiel waits near the front bumper of the Impala, hands in the pockets of his coat, as Dean goes to get a room. A handful of minutes, and then there’s the crunch of Dean’s boots in the snow. He holds the key aloft, giving it a waggle as he says, “117.” Castiel turns and then there’s the pressure of Dean’s hand in the center of his back, propelling him needlessly along. “Here,” Dean says when they come to the door. “Home sweet home.”

The room is small and dark, its shape familiar and unfamiliar in equal measure. Another motel in a line of thousands. There’s the smell of dust hanging in the air, mildewed curtains, two full-sized beds, matching floral comforters. A table, chairs. Through the window, the moonlight is shallow and pale, painting the room in shades of blues and grays.

Dean tosses down his duffel near the wall, toes off his shoes, and then sits heavily at the edge of the bed closest to the door. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, checks its screen. Tosses it toward his pillow with a snort, and then subsides, slump-shouldered, weary-eyed. There’s something wounded, almost childish in his expression. He looks lost, Castiel thinks. Still — despite himself, despite all he’s experienced — shocked at the cruelties of the world. This is Dean with his defenses down. Strings cut. Unable to muster the strength to pretend. And, even still, so beautiful, like a statue, a creature of old. His face, always otherworldly, divine, even in a rictus of exhaustion.

Castiel lingers by the door. He is still unaccustomed to feeling uncertain. He watches as Dean scrubs at his face with his palms, fingers pressing into his eye sockets. This feeling, Castiel thinks — familiar. Remembers Dean in the hospital, after Alastair, ripping apart at the seams. There’s that strange pull of new emotion. Staring at the defeated line of Dean’s shoulders, he wants to do something. Can think of nothing to do. It will be okay, he wants to say, except that would be untruthful, and foolish besides. “Dean,” he starts, over-loud in the silent room. Dean doesn’t move. Another aberrant frisson of  — something, deep inside Castiel. He takes a bracing breath and finally moves.

A few short strides, and he finds himself standing right there, in front of Dean, looking down at his bent head, the sweat-dark strands of hair at the crown of his skull. The toes of his shoes between Dean’s vulnerable, bare feet. There are holes in his socks. Dean keeps his gaze down. Worrying at the charm hanging from his necklace.

“Dean,” Castiel says again. Thinks about touching him, and then — doesn’t think at all. Goes to his knees. It’s nothing to fold himself down to the floor, the carpet gritty and rough through the thin fabric of his pants. Almost surprising to look up and find himself staring into Dean’s wide, uncomprehending eyes, at his parted lips, mouth hanging open like he wants to speak but can’t find the words to say.

His face is — well. Dean is always radiant; has always been radiant. Even knee-deep in the pit, mired in the murk of hell. Every moment of the arduous ascent and every moment after. Up close like this, he’s almost difficult to look at. Castiel has to resist the urge to avert his eyes; to bow his head. He wants to put his hands on Dean. Lifts one before thinking better of it, stops just shy of his denim-clad leg. Feels the heat rising off of Dean’s knee against the palm of his hand.

“Cas — ” Dean stutters, just barely audible. “What — ” Gaping down at him. “What is this? What are you — ” Plaintive. Almost a wail, before he snaps his mouth shut, abortive. Castiel can hear the unvoiced questions anyway: what are you doing? What do you want from me? Dean, who is always needed. Who has always been required to give and give and give. So accustomed to opening himself up and handing pieces over. All bluster even as he shatters.

“Nothing,” Castiel says. Plain. Watches Dean’s expression shift, disbelieving. He forestalls the recrimination burbling up with the lightest touch against the socked toe of Dean’s warm foot. “I just want to help.”

The look on Dean’s face: too startled, too tired, to hide the confusion, the anguish. The relief. Dean doesn’t understand, Castiel knows. But it’s all Castiel wants. Palms open and willing, to take whatever Dean hands him. To — be here, kneeling, at Dean’s feet. Until Dean has no need for him. And even then, Castiel wants to sit at his shoulder, at his hip. He doesn’t know how to say it in a way that Dean will hear or understand or want to accept. He settles for dropping his gaze, letting his fingers close, gently, around Dean’s ankle. Just holding, careful.

Above his head, he hears Dean take a deep, shaky breath, and then another. Feels it rustle the tips of his hair. “Cas,” Dean says. Just a murmur. For a long moment, Castiel expects to be sent away. But Dean doesn’t speak again. There’s a shift, a rustle of the comforter, and then — a featherlight touch settles against the nape of his neck, and, head bowed, Castiel has to squeeze his eyes shut against an unfamiliar rush of a feeling entirely unknown.