Part 7 of the I Dream of Deanie Series.

Part 1: "Can't Hold a Man's Dreams Against Him"

Part 2: "The First Time, Again"

Part 3: "They're Good For Your Heart"

Part 4: "Emotional Constipation"

Part 5: "This Story is Definitely Not About a Date"

Part 6: "There But For the Grace of Castiel"

...I'm too tired to tell if this is good. I think it might have gotten a bit on the wordy side. When I get distractable I start using way too many commas, when I should be breaking things into multiple sentences. Sorry if that happened...it's been a long week, not bad but very busy, and for Reasons I want to get this up tonight.

Hope you enjoy.

Castiel woke up in Dean's arms.

Castiel woke up.

Reveling in the sensation, Castiel took in a panoply of new, unfamiliar, disorienting, wonderful feelings. Naked, he could feel the rub of rough-washed sheets against smooth, bare skin; the warmth of the air beneath the blankets; the wonderful heat of Dean's bare body pressed against his. He felt sluggish, so comfortable that though he suspected that he was physically capable of moving, he had no desire to do so. Dean was wrapped around him, one arm resting on the pillows such that Castiel's head was cradled in his elbow, his face pressed to Dean's forearm. Dean's other arm was wrapped around Castiel's waist to lay along his chest, fingers limply splayed over Castiel's heart. Castiel lay partially on his side, partially on his stomach, and Dean lay half beside him, half atop him, their legs interlaced. The only movement was the rise and fall of Dean's chest, slow and steady and even with sleep.

Dean's soul pressed against Castiel grace, a mirror to the tangle of their physical bodies, mingled together and muddled into a contented magical morass. Only concern that he would wake Dean prevented Castiel from twitching his grace to bring pleasure to that soul, to make Dean's essence pulse with delight. After so long enforcing division between them, after so long restraining himself, it was gloriously liberating to no longer battle, constrain, and imprison himself. That Dean shared his enjoyment was evident, from the calm way in which he slept, the half-hard erection confined between their bodies, the luxurious way that Dean's soul undulated unrestrained by his physical body, cooing and whinnying happiness, preening under the attention of Castiel's grace. Castiel felt exactly the same way. His grace was the essence of his angelhood, God's celestial power given form and thought, and though it inhabited his vessel and could feel some little of what his vessel felt – more and more, of late – the interaction between soul and grace granted him pleasures beyond what his flesh was capable of feeling. Laying still, for the first time Castiel was able to bask in the wonderful, peaceful light of the soul of the man that he loved.

Dean had said yes.

Castiel's grace sang with joy, Dean's soul lilting a drowsy, muffled, irresistibly endearing accompaniment. Lying still with his eyes closed, Castiel could feel Dean without trying. No nightmares roiled his thoughts, no depression stole his smiles. At rest, serenity and acceptance overrode the conscious thoughts that so often overwhelmed Dean with misery and guilt. As they'd slept, soul and grace had consolidated, coalesced. Where last night, it had been easy to recognize where fragments of mortal soul had scattered throughout his angelhood, with morning light pinking his eyelids Castiel found it more difficult to tell. When what they had started finally finished, Castiel wondered what they would be, what they would be capable of. The possibilities were almost inconceivable, they were so alien, so different from everything that Castiel thought he knew about how magic worked. Castiel couldn't believe how blessed he was, that Dean cared for him, that, mind and soul, Dean wished this unification, that of all of Heaven's angels, he was the one who had this opportunity to explore free will, to love a mortal man, to learn what joys awaited when the taboos that separated seraphim from humanity were cast aside.

Dean had said yes, and despite all of Castiel's apprehensions, the results were glorious.

When Dean woke up, thing would grow complicated once more. The end of the previous evening had been tense. Exhaustion, brought on by the power that each had expended to bring about the merging of soul and grace, had driven them to sleep before discussing what they had done, but today they would need to speak on it. Castiel feared that what had seemed so natural and easy to Dean the night before would trouble him today. Neither of them had understood what they were agreeing to. Even Castiel's expectations bore little relationship to what had actually happened. Castiel wasn't sure what had happened.

When a human could be a vessel for a specific angel, the angel approached them. If the angel was ethical, they explained their nature and discussed that they needed a vessel, that the person had been chosen to help in God's work. So Castiel had proceeded with James Novak, and he yet harbored regrets for the consequences of that decision for the devout mortal and his family. If the angel was less upstanding, or expected the human to be recalcitrant or resistant, they might resort coercive means to obtain an affirmative answer, as Michael had done with Dean, as Lucifer had done with Sam. However, provided the human said yes, the end result was the same: the mortal soul was repressed, suppressed, shunted aside, and the angelic grace possessed the vessel completely. The human's soul was used as lubricant to ease binding, as fuel to maintain the flesh, as a mediating force between Heaven and Earth. The two did not actually join, but without the human soul, grace could not be contained on Earth. Even the most powerful vessel wore out quickly if the human soul did not cooperate. When Novak had died the year before, soul sent to Heaven when Raphael killed them both, Castiel had subsequently been forced to expend more of his own energy to keep the vessel from decaying, to keep his grace bound, to maintain the illusion of being a human, to remain on Earth. He'd faced the prospect of, in a matter of decades, being forced to vacate the vessel, with minimal possibility of another suitable for him being born. In light of the past day, he doubted he needed to worry about that any longer.

The model for demonic possession was similar, greatly facilitated by the presence of a demon soul. Ostensibly, when a human became a witch, the power for their spells was granted by the demon to whom they swore, but the true interplay of magic and might was much more complicated. The spells would be impossible if they did not draw from the human's own wellspring of magic. When a demon possessed a human, they used human souls to ease the way as surely as angels did, only with far more depravity than even the most ruthless angel would. The more powerful the demon, the more powerful soul was required to sustain their presence on Earth. Alternatively, demons could use human souls as power sources – the more powerful the soul, the more powerful the fuel source. Such humans invariably ended up in hell, and invariably ended up as demons – the more powerful the soul, the more powerful the demon. In creating humanity, God had granted them unspeakable power, even the weakest a repository of might to equal most angels, the most powerful strong enough to make the entire Heavenly host quake. Sam's soul was powerful enough to serve as fuel for Lucifer for untold eons. Had Castiel not rescued Dean, he ultimately would have grown nearly unstoppable, an evil to rival the fallen archangel.

The thought sent a shudder through Castiel.

The tradeoff was that human's had no conscious access to that power. Their mortality was another check to their might – unlimited cosmic power, contained in a fragile flesh vessel with, in comparison to the age of the universe, scant seconds with which to understand that which they held at their fingertips. The balance of it, the beauty, was unspeakable. Humanity was his Father's greatest triumph, spectacular, shooting stars streaking across the infinite, reproducing themselves endlessly, desperate for knowledge, thirsty for experiences, insatiably curious, equipped with more potential for creation and destruction than any save God Himself.

And now, Castiel was sharing his grace with one. The power that lay beside him, that curled around him, that whispered strains of endearment into his grace, was beautifully terrifying in its majesty and potential.

James Novak had described being Castiel's vessel as like being 'chained to a comet.' The analogy had made little sense to Castiel – he'd been on a few comets, and it produced an interesting sensation, the streaming of sublimating particulars through his ethereal form was pleasant – but being chained to it would have made little difference, and Novak had no frame of reference for such a comparison. Lying still beside Dean, feeling his quiescent soul reveling in their connection, Castiel had the first glimmers of understanding of what metaphor Novak had been striving. The feeling was nothing like being on a comet – more like standing in the heart of a star, forever one moment's distraction, one nuclear recombination, from being annihilated. It was utterly terrifying yet euphorically good.

"Stop thinking so hard," mumbled Dean into Castiel's hair. "Wakin' me up." Dean shifted, pressed more of his body against Castiel's back, pressed his hardening erection against the cleft of Castiel's butt.

Another shudder, entirely more pleasurable in origin than his previous, shook Castiel. Dean chuckled sinfully. The arm wrapped around Castiel's chest tensed, strong muscles holding Castiel still. The leg Dean had between Castiel's rose, forcing Castiel's thighs apart, brushing firm muscle against Castiel's testicles. His flaccid cock twitched with interest, beginning to awaken as Dean lazily stretched, tensing his muscles, teasing Castiel with hardness. With a pleased, vocal sigh, Castiel pressed back against Dean. He was sore, more sore than he should be after a night to recover, but the possibility of pain paled before the promise of sensual pleasure.

"Cas," Dean breathed heavily against Castiel's neck, air thick beneath the blankets. "You up for this?"

Anticipation coiled through Castiel. He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded vigorously, back of his head bumping Dean's nose every movement. Dean smiled and leaned atop him more heavily, rutting into his body, and Castiel matched him, rubbing his thickening cock against the sheets until he was fully hard, until each brush against the low-quality fabric sent a burst of pleasure like sparks into his body, into the air suffused with grace and soul.

His stomach gave an unfamiliar lurch and made a strange popping noise. Dean froze.

"Don't stop," Castiel murmured encouragingly, grinding against Dean's erection.

"You're hungry," said Dean, all seductiveness gone, replaced with unmistakable traces of anger. "When you slept through the night, I thought…but now you're hungry." The hunter rolled onto his back, away from Castiel. The loss of heat, of flesh pressing against his, of Dean's soul pooled with his, felt upsettingly like being abandoned. Regret tore away every rational response that Dean's words prompted as Castiel repressed another shudder. His body quivered in disappointed anticipation, his hips rolling as he continued to chase gratification against the unfeeling bedding. Torn, Castiel struggled against his desires. Asking Dean to continue his attentions when the hunter was obviously unhappy was inappropriate, yet Castiel's thoughts screamed to feel Dean's touch once more, to consummate what they had started.

"Please, Dean," he breathed against his pillow, unable to stop himself from voicing his desires. His grace reached longingly towards Dean's soul, which offered reassurance in the form of a trilling low-pitched melody.

"Fuck," muttered Dean. "I can feel how much you want me. Fuck!" With a growl, Dean was back, heavy weight against Castiel's body, tip of his cock brushing against Castiel's entrance, still moist from the night before. Desperate, Castiel moaned and hitched up into that contact, urging Dean on. "This doesn't mean we don't talk about this shit, understand?"

"We will," agreed Castiel. He didn't have the answers that Dean would demand, and the prospect worried him, but concern vanished as Dean's hand wrapped firmly around Castiel's hip, holding him still. Pulling Castiel back against him, pressing forward, Dean's cock slowly spread him, struggling against protesting muscles that were achy and tense after the previous night's activities. "Yes," Castiel groaned fervently. His strained insides gave before the wonderful heat, shuddering heat and want through his body. His grace thrummed, guiding Dean's soul in how their magical essence could interact with the physical existence. Castiel acted by instinct, stirring Dean's soul, roiling him, sending ripples cascading through him. Dean groaned hugely and his hips jerked, forcing the head of his cock completely into Castiel with a moist squelch and a surprising burst of mingled pain and pleasure. Mouthing desire against his pillow, Castiel's eyes leaked grateful tears, hands fisting against the sheets.

"Thank you, Dean," he whispered. "You feel so good…"

With grace and soul attuned, Castiel pulsed power through every piece of them, weaving Dean's soul around him, causing indescribable friction between the joined magical forces. The air around them responded, warming, eddying, and Castiel reached out magically to wrap around Dean, caress along his back. Castiel allowed his awareness of his physical body to fade until all he knew was the heat originating from Dean's penetration, the pleasure of thick cock filling his narrow channel. Instead, he focused on the pleasure he could give spiritually. Another groan wracked Dean's entire body, tensing him against Castiel's back, and a thrust drove Dean into him in one smooth motion. "Holy shit," Dean whispered.

"Holy, yes," Castiel's smile was wasted on his pillow. "No excrement involved."

"Terrible." It shouldn't be possible to feel Dean's eyes rolling, but Castiel could. "You know you're ruining me for anyone else." Dean emphasized the words by gently drawing his hips back, thrusting them forward again.

"Good." Smiling more widely, Castiel stroked down Dean's spine with his grace and settled slight pressure against Dean's tight entrance. The previous evening, touching there had brought Dean pleasure, and Castiel's alluring thoughts of filling Dean had him curious to see if Dean might not be interested in exploring switching their roles sometimes. The teasing touch drew a startled gasped and Dean tensed and rolled hard into Castiel, brushing sensitive nerves, forcing the air from Castiel's lungs. Dean's soul sang, an almost strident note of mixed surprise and glee.

"Is that alright, Dean?" Castiel asked. The hunter drew back slightly, thrust forward gently, and Castiel's breath caught as the tender movements coursed pleasure through him, bliss entirely out of proportion to the magnitude of the motion.

"It's nice." The words sounded like a confession. "But—" Reluctance and discomfort added discordant notes to the air, and Castiel drew back immediately, returning to massaging his grace over the firm muscles of Dean's back. Tension dissipated and Dean relaxed into Castiel's body, moving against him, rubbing chest to back, hips to buttocks, cock head to prostate, soul to grace.

Leaning into Castiel's back, dragging both his legs between Castiel's, Dean settled into a tender rhythm. He seemed to know, without Castiel saying so, that Castiel's body was not up to anything vigorous. Strokes rubbed gently within him, driving through Castiel with pleasure that seemed to fill the room. Sounds leaked from Dean, somewhere between grunts and whimpers, with each thrust. One of Dean's hands came to rest atop Castiel where he fingered the mattress, the other continued to press against Castiel's desperately fluttering heart. Through that touch, soul caressed Castiel, incandescent heat wrapped protectively around him, and the interaction of soul and vessel forced a guttural, ragged, long moan from him. Dean's soul flared in reply and wrapped around Castiel's whole body. Cradled, supported, loved, Castiel moaned as Dean steadily thrust within him.

Ethereal fingers trailed along Castiel's thigh, a tingling counterpoint to the firm thrusts, the abrasion of Dean's chest against his back, the magical pressure and light enveloping him. Each time Dean filled him, bliss like bright sun burst behind Castiel's eyes, the feeling building until Castiel felt like he stood within a supernova in truth. The teasing touch flicked at his pubic hair, mussed the strands with innocent eroticism. Castiel's cock twitched in response, eager for a firm grasp. With difficulty, he released his grip on the sheet and tilted his hips back, meeting Dean mid-thrust, so that he could wrap firmly over the hot flesh. A surge of ecstasy flooded him, forcing a groan through his lips, forcing his hips back hard against Dean's cock, forcing his muscles to clench. Dean echoed his groan and his restraint wavered, he pulled back, thrust in hard.

The clumsy touch of Dean's soul wrapped around Castiel's hand, and Castiel spread his fingers apart, allowing flesh and magic to share the task of stroking him. Together, they began rough ministrations to his cock, only pre-come and a twanging music like an electric guitar to smooth the way, ministrations a staccato counterpoint to Dean's thrusts. Castiel's hips rocked back against Dean's cock to force him deeper, rocked forward into their joined grips.

"Take it that's working," Dean said breathily.

Well, that demolished any possibility that Dean didn't have some conscious control of his soul. How long had he been aware of it? How long had he been able to manipulate it? How long…

A hard thrust slammed into Castiel's prostate, ragged music manipulated the delicate skin at the slit and head of Castiel's cock, a feeling as of lips on both his nipples settled on his chest, and all thought disappeared in rapture. He wasn't even aware of his body releasing, all he could feel was unspeakable bliss, his grace swelling and pulsing and billowing and singing adoration to Dean's soul, which tentatively following his lead.

"Cas," Dean panted against his back, thrusts growing urgent and ragged. "Fuck, Cas…" Groaning, Dean came with a sigh that drained all the tension from his body, all the strength from his muscles. Weak stutters faded to stillness, and they lay unmoving, breathing hard, bodies easing together in a mirror to the way Dean's soul and Castiel's grace melted and flowed as one, harmonizing around a song Castiel knew he'd heard in the Impala but couldn't place for the ecstasy blanking his thoughts.

Completely replete, Castiel sighed happily. Breath caught in his throat, a rough itchy tingle as the air was drawn into him. An involuntary muscle spasmed, and Castiel coughed.

"You good, Cas?" Dean asked. There was a thread of anxiety to his words, a thread that Castiel's thoughts grasped and immediately spun into a web woven of all the worries that had plagued him before Dean had woken up. The peaceful feeling suffusing them both vanished. Dean tensed and rolled away, sitting up and dragging most of the blankets with him. Pushing aside lingering lethargy, Castiel sat up as well, grimacing as he found the wet place where his semen had struck the sheets. Dean was gorgeous, cross legged on the bed, blankets wrapped with unnecessary modesty about his hips, elbows resting on his covered knees, hunched back causing an adorable pouch of loose skin and flesh at his belly. The handprint on Dean's shoulder stood out prominently, pink and puffed as if new-made. Even Dean's soul had drawn back from Castiel, contained, haloing around Dean's body like the sun's corona, streamers leaking towards Castiel only to withdraw, brilliant except for the dullness of Castiel's interspersed grace. Castiel longed to reach out with his hands, with his grace, to poke and tickle and tease the wary, guarded expression from Dean's face, to bring a gleam of happiness to his lowered eyes, to draw the lips quirked in a frown into an unabashed smile.

"I'm sorry," said Castiel, his voice raspy and cracked. Dean flinched as if the apology hurt him and withdrew further into himself. "I appreciate how confusing this situation must be for you, and I am grateful—" He coughed. "—I'm grateful for how patient you've been with me. There is a lot that—" The words snagged, and he coughed again, swallowing saliva. "—I don't understand." His stomach burbled to emphasize the words.

"Cas…"

"It was unfair of me to ask for relations this morning when there is so much that we must discuss, especially after I forestalled conversation last night…" He trailed off, trying to clear his throat, but the scratchiness only grew worse. An idle, frustrated thought wondered if he could use his grace to itch inside of his body to relieve the inexplicable, uncomfortable feeling.

"Ca—"

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel pressed on. "We can talk as long as you want." His throat hurt. "I don't know exactly what has happened but we can figure it out together. You are—"

"Would you shut up already?" snapped Dean. He looked up and met Castiel's eyes for a moment, green gleaming in the faint light that seeped around the drawn curtains. Castiel averted his gaze and swallowed instinctually, causing another cough. With an irked sigh, Dean dropped his head into his hand, rubbing his temple with a thumb. "Fuck. You okay?"

"I'm fine," Castiel said. It felt like there was a burr in his throat. Perhaps he had swallowed something other than saliva, and that was the cause of the unpleasant feeling. He'd not had anything to eat or drink since he and Dean's date at Bubba's Italiano. "There seems to be a deficiency of moisture in my mouth."

"You're thirsty," Dean muttered, disgruntled. A surge of darkness flooded Dean's soul, the all-too-familiar colors of guilt and self-condemnation. Castiel could sense the feelings like a knot in his stomach, a pall over his thoughts. Tossing the blankets aside, Dean rose and walked across the motel room. The accommodations at The Stop and Sleep were modest in comparison to many places they stayed. The walls were a muted beige, the curtains and comforter bore a matching floral pattern, and a coarse dark green carpet stretched wall to wall. Everything looked cheap, clapboard and polyester, but it was clean and comfortable. The sink was inexplicably outside of the bathroom, smooth white synthetic beneath a large mirror. Dean walked to it, pointedly ignoring his own reflection even as Castiel stared, mesmerized by the play of muscles along the hunter's back and thighs as he walked, the powerful broadness of his shoulders contrasted to his narrower waist, the curve of his lower back, the tautness of his buttocks. Dean grabbed a plastic cup and turned the water on. The mirror showed a reflection of his front, and Castiel wondered idly that he'd never imagined anything could be so over-stimulating as being able to see Dean's sleek, hard chest, stunning face and flaccid cock at the same time as his shapely backside. All of Dean at once was entirely, overwhelmingly gorgeous. "Quit objectifying me," Dean added as he flipped the water off. Glowering, Dean crossed back to the bed and shoved the water towards Castiel forcefully enough that some sloshed onto the blankets, pooling on the imitation plastic fibers.

Confused, Castiel peered at Dean through narrowed eyes as he took the cup and drank the contents. The water was lukewarm, produced an unfamiliar tang on his tongue and felt like grit against his teeth, but it instantly relieved the dryness in his mouth, soothed the ache in his throat. "There is not a single sense in which I perceive you as an object," said Castiel seriously. "It is your humanity, your manliness, that attracts me to you."

Dean's jaw dropped and a slow flush rose in his cheeks. "Fuck," he muttered darkly. "I can't have this conversation without pants on." A muddle of feelings that Castiel couldn't comprehend seeped into his mind, inexplicable distress, embarrassment, and guilt compounding Dean's usually tangle of depression. It made no sense. Would Dean prefer if Castiel were objectifying him? That was inconceivable; Castiel remembered how unhappily Dean had behaved when he thought Castiel was only interested in his body. Watching Dean putter about his baggage, retrieve a clean pair of boxers, grab his jeans from where they made a haphazard heap on the floor, Castiel felt sorrow clutch at his heart. Whoever had left Dean Winchester convinced that his only value was in how he looked and behaved and in what he could do for others, had done Dean the cruelest of disservices.

Boxers and pants donned, Dean stood, posture uneasy, eyes steadily fixed on the bed several feet to Castiel's left. Glancing over, Castiel saw nothing amiss about the spot. "Dean," he said with authority. The hunter started and looked to Castiel with a wry, cocked, inauthentic smile. "What's the matter?"

"Can't you just read my mind?" Dean teased disingenuously.

"I could, but I won't," said Castiel. "We've discussed this. Just because our relationship—" Dean scowled at the word. "—has changed, doesn't change that I will not intrude on your thoughts unless you explicitly ask me to, or you are in mortal danger."

"Yeah, but that's all different now, right?" There was an intensity to Dean's words that Castiel couldn't understand, and nothing in the mess of emotions Castiel sensed gave him the least hint. "I said 'yes.' Gave you the green light. You said it was like if I'd said yes to Michael, or like making a demon deal. So, what went wrong?"

"Nothing went wrong," Castiel frowned, trying to figure out how to put into words something he only barely understood himself. "I never meant to imply that what happened between us would be identical to those situations. What we were doing, what we've done, no one has ever done before as far as I'm aware. It's forbidden."

"Right, because you were gonna use my soul for power or some shit. Help you control that wild 'n crazy grace of yours."

"No," Castiel said. "That was never my intention. In the case of demons granting power to witches, or angels taking vessels, the power dynamic is inherently unequal. We ask for permission, and once it is granted, we take what we need. There is nothing forbidden in an angel taking a willing vessel, even though the cost to the human soul can be every as great as the cost when they are used as a demon vessel."

"But this is forbidden…" Dean trailed off. "How is it different?"

Surprised, Castiel quirked an eyebrow at Dean. It hadn't occurred to him that Dean hadn't realized what had happened. "I said yes, too," he said, unable to keep how obvious he felt the answer to be from his voice. "When you asked my consent, I said yes."

"When I…asked your consent…?" Dean's look of furrow-browed concentration should be criminal, it was so endearing. In his confusion, Dean even forgot to look surly for a moment.

Castiel heaved a sigh, amazed that such an intelligent man could possibly be so dense. "Dean, you asked me if it was alright with me if you proceeded last night, and I said yes. What did you think I meant?"

"Not…this!" There was real anger in Dean's voice now. "What the fuck even is this? When you tired last night – fine, whatever, not the first time expending a whole shit-ton of your angel mojo left you hard up. But now? You're hungry! You're thirsty! Fuck, Cas, you're practically human. Any minute now you're going to need to use the God damned bathroom!"

"God has nothing against the bathroom…"

"Don't you fucking dare start with me," snarled Dean. "This is serious, Cas. Can you get hurt now? Can you die? Will you be able to go back to Heaven?"

A puzzled frown won over Castiel's face as he watched Dean blankly. "I don't know," he said. "Does it matter?"

Dean was stunned still for a moment, and then he surged across the space between them. "Does it matter?" he shouted in Castiel's face. "Of course it fucking matters! Are you even still an angel?"

"I don't know. I don't care. I chose this, Dean," Castiel said calmly in the face of Dean's rage. "I chose you." The anger was only a mask for Dean's distress, worry and guilt, all of which emotions were writ large across his soul.

"Why?"

"Because I love you," said Castiel, finally feeling the first hints of exasperation. "Was there something unclear about the first three times I said that?" Dean's persistent sense of unworthiness was by far his least appealing trait.

"Right," Dean said slowly, straightening, turning away. "Look, you feelin' okay?"

"No, I'm frustrated," said Castiel mildly. "In the face of my attempts to discourage you last night, you declared that it was for you to choose what you consented to, and you grew angry when I suggested otherwise. Despite your prior insistence on the importance of free will, now you seem perfectly comfortable denying me that same right. I do not understand what the difference is."

Dean's incredulity screamed through his thoughts, though all that showed on his face was a brow so furrowed it cast his eyes in shadow. "The difference is you, Cas! Your safety! Your grace! Your, like, pure fucking angelness or whatever."

"Pure?" Castiel's eyes narrowed. There was no way the word choice was a coincidence.

Snarling wordlessly, Dean turned away and walked the short distance to the far wall of the small room. Every muscle in his back was tight, his shoulders so tense he trembled visibly. His soul was wound up so tightly that could the sounds it made be heard, they'd have shattered all the glass in the room.

"You think that my grace was pure before," Castiel reasoned aloud. Every word added to the stress bunching Dean's shoulders and back. "You are aware that your soul and my grace have combined?" Dean's hands balled into shaking fists, shoulders creeping up towards his ears. "Answer me, Dean."

"Yeah, couldn't exactly miss the way I can feel you moving...in...me, or the way you're fucking screaming confusion in my head right now," Dean snapped sarcastically.

"So my grace was pure, and now it's combined with your soul, and..." he paused, giving Dean the opportunity to fill in the blank, but the only answer was a growl and a dull thud as Dean rounded and slammed a fist into the wall. "...and as a result, you believe that my grace has been made impure?"

"Yes," roared Dean. "Yeah, yes, that's exactly what I fucking believe. It's what fucking happened. Why the fuck would you do this, Cas?"

"You're wrong," Castiel snapped. Grace flared around him, blazed behind his eyes, haloed his head. What a fool Dean could be! Dean's eyes widened at the show of power. Deliberately, Castiel rose, the blankets falling away from his naked body. His muscles ached, his legs were stiff, a dull pain chaffed within him, but he ignored all. "There was a great Japanese Hunter named Sogi who my garrison watched over for a time. He was a monk who specialized in helping souls find rest." As Castiel talked, Dean's expression grew increasingly nonplussed. "In order to travel without arousing suspicion, he developed a cover identity as a traveling renga poet. Eventually, he earned enough from his poetry to support himself. Even the ghosts he hunted would stop to listen to the wisdom of his writings. He pioneered using this as a tool to ease them to the afterlife."

"Perfect, Cas," Dean rolled his eyes. "The answer to our every fucking problem, History one-oh—"

Castiel's eyes gleamed brilliant blue, amplified by magic, reflected in the mirror, off the TV screen, from the glass of a piece of inane artwork hanging on the wall. "Ghostly possession is similar, in some ways, to demonic possession, but it is rarely as damaging to the mortal. Observing this, Sogi wrote about how two could be one, and yet still two. Roughly translated, he said:

"To each thing spontaneously arises

Its own true inner nature.

Water need not think of itself as the consort

For the clear moonlight it hosts."

"Brilliant," said Dean with flagrant disinterest. "Well, glad we cleared that up."

"Think about it, Dean," said Castiel intensely. "Really think about it."

To Dean's credit, he did. Even with how angry and worthless he felt, Dean's anger ebbed away as he frowned in concentration. Finally, he said, "are you the water or the moonlight?"

"Does it matter?" Castiel asked again. Grimacing, Dean looked away. "Neither the water nor the moonlight is good or evil. Neither the water nor the moonlight is less pure or more pure. They are equal, and each possesses its own unique nature. When they comingle, neither is made impure. When they comingle, neither ceases to have separate, independent existence. They are still water and moonlight. They are still discrete, yet they are joined. Together, they create a beauty that neither had alone, something new and unique and ineffable. Together, they have properties that neither possessed independently."

Castiel's could feel Dean's consideration, his tension easing by degrees until his shaking stop, his temper subsided. "So, we can undo it?" asked Dean at length, quiet, earnest.

Sadness tore through Castiel's thoughts, dimmed the halo of his grace. "Do you want to undo it?" Only silence answered his question, Dean's eyes lowered, expression troubled. "I don't know, Dean. Until last night, I'd never dreamed that what we did was possible." With all the love that consumed him, Castiel ripped away the inhibitions that existed only because of his own desires and said what he thought Dean most needed to hear. "If you wish it undone, I will find a way."

"I..." Dean took a deep breath, let it out heavily. "I need some time."

"As much as you need, Dean," Castiel said with a melancholy smile. "When you're ready to talk, call me, and I'll come." Letting his grace fade away, Castiel walked to the door, set his hand on the knob and—

"Cas," Dean sighed. "Pants."

"Oh, right."

Dean watched Castiel closely as he picked up his rumpled clothing from the floor: his shoes, socks, trousers and boxers in a tangled mass near the foot of the bed; his shirt, jacket and trench coat bundled beside the door. Donning the items required for human modesty hastily, Castiel resisted the urge to shoot Dean one final, pleading glance as he set his hand to the door knob. He didn't want to undo the connection that they had made. He wanted what Dean had offered up freely the night before, when Dean didn't understand the consequences. However, no force on Heaven, Hell or Earth would compel Castiel to take what Dean did not offer freely. The door closed softly behind him, and Castiel allowed a glum sigh to escape him, his shoulders slumping with dejection.

Outside, the sun was approaching its zenith, an incandescent ball of white so bright it bleached the blue from the sky. The day was not as hot as the stunning light suggested, a cool breeze stirring around Castiel's trench coat, causing weeds scattered about the cracked asphalt of the parking lot to sway. When Castiel had first taken this vessel, he'd paid no attention to the physical sensations that his body experienced. The longer he spent on Earth, the more aware of them he'd grown, and when his grace had begun to fade the previous year he'd been forced to confront them, but there had always been a separation between himself and his vessel, always been a divide between what the body felt and what penetrated through to Castiel's seraphim grace.

No longer.

The wind felt pleasant against his skin, soothing, causing his hair to stir in a way that sent a faint tingling through his limbs, caressed his scalp. The sunshine was invigorating, heartening, his vessel soaking up the brightness and craving more. The chill in the air made him glad of his coat, and conflicting instincts told him to remove the item of clothing and bask in the sunlight, or keep it on and protect himself from the bite of cold. Bemused, he stood in the parking lot as life in Savona moved around him, watching the cars drive by on Main Street, watching a family of tourists leave the motel and head to the modest strip of local shops on Main Street, watching a flock of birds whirl and spin, alight and take off from the branches of a nearby tree and a cluster of power lines. His stomach made a burbling sound and his hand automatically settled against his belly. He looked down at himself in confusion.

"You okay, Cas?"

Danger!

Whirling about nearly planted Castiel on his face as his instincts screamed that evil stood behind him. An instant later, he had control again – it was only Sam's familiar demon-tainted soul, nothing wicked, nothing threatening. The world fuzzed about the edges and his stomach ached hollowly. Castiel forced calm to his expression, eased the tension from about his eyes through sheer willpower.

"I'm fine, Sam," he said. "Dean believes I may be hungry."

"Hungry, huh? That's new," observed Sam.

"Yes."

"So, are you and Dean going to lunch?"

"Dean has requested some time to think," said Castiel.

"Ah, is that how things are?" Sam said sagely.

"I have no idea what that means." It was impossible to keep his frustration from tinging his voice. Assessing his own emotional state was something Castiel was still learning to do, but it wasn't difficult to determine his feelings and then honestly reporting them to Dean. There must be some barrier that mortals experienced that Castiel was not aware of, for he'd met none who spoke with such forthrightness, and Dean clearly struggled a great deal to be open and trusting with Castiel. Dean didn't wish Castiel to read his mind, yet he provided Castiel with little information about his thoughts and feelings, and grew unhappy if Castiel was unable to correctly conclude what Dean's unstated intentions were. The more he thought about it, the more unfair it seemed that he was expected to simply know. "Dean is extremely aggravating sometimes."

"Wow," murmured Sam.

"I do not mean to malign your brother, but…"

"It's taken you two years to figure that out?" Sam interrupted. Castiel sighed, glancing Heavenward. "Come on, let's grab some food. I've still got the car keys, might as well use 'em."

The Impala was parked in front of Sam's room, several doors down from the room that Dean and Castiel shared. Settling in to the front seat, an unfamiliar, lyrical song played as a melodic female voice crooned about love and heartbreak. Neither spoke as they pulled out of the parking lot and Sam navigated through side streets to a nameless diner they'd found when they first arrived. At 11 AM on a Saturday, the small, pleasantly decorated place was nearly empty, and an exhausted-looking waiter seated them at a large booth in a corner of the room.

"I've been meaning to speak with you," said Sam. Castiel waited expectantly, meeting Sam's equally expectant look. When neither broke the impasse, Sam sighed and dragged a hand over his face. He opened his mouth, only to pause when the waiter returned, poured them both coffee without asking if they wanted it, and left again. Castiel eyed the dark liquid uncertainly, the steam curling in the cool air, the smell acrid and sharp. "Fuck," muttered Sam. "Alright. I'm just gonna say this. If you hurt my brother, I will kill you," Sam wore a pleasant smile, but his eyes were intense. The purple and black striations that twisted and pulsed within the purity of Sam's mortal soul swelled malevolently. Every instinct that Castiel had screamed to annihilate the abomination, the urge so compelling that Sam's words hardly registered on his awareness. "You know that I can."

The swirling eddies of demonic influence screamed rage and fury and the desire to destroy all of God's creation, starting with Castiel's grace.

"It would be highly inadvisable for you to imbibe enough demonic blood to kill me, Sam," Castiel said steadily. "It would be comparable to the amount required to vanquish Lilith."

Concern whispered through the connection that Castiel shared with Dean.

"I know," said Sam with deadly intensity. "And if we fought, it'd destroy Dean. So if you care for him at all, please – don't make me do it." The sense of impending violence faded. With fascination, Castiel watched as the brilliant glow of Sam's tainted soul struggled against the demonic influence, placated it, restrained it, tamed it. Not for the first time, Castiel wondered if it might not be possible to cure Sam. His soul was nearly as stunning as Dean's was, and the cross he bore was every bit as heavy as the one that Christ carried to Cavalry.

"I don't intend to cause him unhappiness," Castiel said. "However, it seems to happen regardless of my intentions." As best he could, he permeated his thoughts with calm, suspecting that Dean had sensed the disquiet that Sam's soul caused Castiel and grown worried. Sure enough, as soon as Castiel curtailed his aggressive instincts towards the demonic influence, Dean's concerns faded.

"It's not you," said Sam. "You make him happy. Being happy...makes him unhappy." Baffled, Castiel quirked his head to one side and stared at Sam curiously. The hunter took a deep breath then blew it out again, hair shifting about his shoulders. "Hokay. I know angels have been watching our family for generations. Were you in on that?"

"Yes," confirmed Castiel. "My garrison had primary responsibility for watching over the Ventacastra family from 432 until 876." Sam stared at him blankly. "When the Romans left England, many of their troops remained behind and…"

"Nothing more recent than 1200 years ago?" interrupted Sam. "What about us? Me, Dean, mom, dad?"

"I have seen glimpses of your familial interactions and am familiar with your history," Castiel said. Various events in the lives of the Winchesters had been mandatory study in preparation for his mission to liaise with Dean. "Is there something specific you had in mind?"

"What'd you think of what you saw?" asked Sam.

Considering his observations, Castiel paused before replying. "John Winchester was a concerned father. Though he might have left you and Dean safely with Bobby or other friends, not taken you hunting with him, he was attached to you and worried greatly what might befall you were he not there to protect you. When he was unable to see to your protection himself, he felt little concern about delegating that task to Dean, despite the fact that Dean was too young and unproven to adequately see to your care, your safety, or his own. Also…"

"Right – and how do you think that screwed with Dean's head?" interrupted Sam.

"At the time of my observations, I was not adequately versed on human psychology to understand the emotional impact of John's behavior on Dean," Castiel said. The waiter interrupted them to take their orders, buying Castiel several moments to think about his answer. Sam ordered a salad, and, without any idea what might be amenable to his mysterious taste buds, Castiel asked for the same. No insight came to him. "I'm still not adequately versed on human psychology to understand the emotional impact of John's behavior on Dean."

"That's what I figured," Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "To understand Dean, you need to understand dad…"

And, as Castiel ate an entirely unsatisfying salad, Sam told him.

Earlier, Castiel had wondered who had imbued Dean with the sense that his only value was in what he could do for others. Listening to Sam, Castiel came to understand too well that the culprit was John Winchester. Castiel was familiar with Sam and Dean's background in basic terms: that Mary was a hunter and made a deal with Azazel to save John; that Michael caused Mary to forget about both the deal and her encounters with her sons; that she died the night that Azazel came to taint Sam; that investigating her death led John to learn of the existence of the supernatural; that John had embarked on a 20 year hunt against the demon; that John had kept his sons perpetually in tow. Hearing the account from Sam's point of view changed everything. The conflicted nature of Sam's feelings, towards his father, towards his brother, came through clearly. Sam's guilt, his perception that he was to blame for all, was particularly difficult to hear, and only the implacable way that Sam pressed through his narrative prevented Castiel from speaking words of reassurance. The guilt that John Winchester had carried for the death of his wife – pointless guilt, since it had not been his fault – had been passed to both boys. Convinced in their hearts that they were to blame for something, but not knowing what, the guilt floated free in their thoughts, happy to attach to any small infraction and heap approbation on them for it. With all the love in the world, John had nevertheless done his sons unspeakable harm.

In his heart, Castiel thought he might hate the man for what he did to Dean.

Sam's expressive face was grieved, his eyes moist with unshed tears, by the time he finished speaking.

"Thank you, Sam," Castiel said, imbuing his tone with all the gratitude he truly felt. "I can see that speaking of this was difficult for you, and I appreciate your taking the time to do so."

"Here to help," said Sam, taking up the check that had been sitting on their table for the past half hour and scrawling his signature on it. "Dean's given up everything he's ever had for this family – for me – because he thought he had to. I doubt it's ever occurred to him that he's allowed to keep something he wants for no reason other than that he wants it. He'll push you away because it's safer to do that than get his hopes up that you'll stay, that you'll want him, that you won't die or be stolen away or leave in disgust." Sam paused, and then said quietly. "Dean's default assumption is that he will be abandoned, because he always has been."

"I have no intention of leaving," Castiel replied.

"I didn't think you did."

"I love Dean."

"I know," Sam gave him a supportive smile. "Look, I know my brother better than anyone, and believe me - no matter what bullshit he spews, he loves you, too. That's why his behavior is so erratic. He's scared shitless. Give him time. Show that you're there for him. He'll come around eventually."

There was nothing to say to that. Castiel would wait for Dean until all hope was dead. They rose and headed to the Impala, took their seats, and Sam started the car.

"Sam, you know that Dean isn't the only one who deserves forgiveness and happiness," Castiel said into the silence in the vehicle.

It was the only thing either of them said on the trip back to The Stop and Sleep.

When they pulled into the parking lot of the motel, Dean was pacing in front of Sam's door impatiently. His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he saw Castiel and Sam sharing the front seat of the Impala.

"Dude," said Dean as soon as Sam got out of the car. "Daylight's wasting. We gonna hunt this bitch at the Landry place or what?"

"I'm not the one who slept all morning," said Sam, rolling his eyes. "I got a lead – we were looking for the wrong last name. The wife's maiden name was Juniper, and the Juniper family has one hell of a history…"

To the accompaniment of Sam's explanation of what he'd learned of the Landry haunting, Castiel moved to the backseat, ignoring the strange feeling of pressure in his lower abdomen, ignoring the anger still obvious in Dean's thoughts, and trying – with difficulty – to be oblivious to the way that Dean was completely ignoring him. Perhaps he should leave. However, knowing that they would be hunting, knowing that Dean might be in danger, made Castiel want to stay. If something happened to Dean that Castiel could have prevented, he'd never forgive himself. The sense of guilt he felt considering the possibility of such a thing happening was eye-opening. That condemning whisper of self-recrimination was what Dean experienced perpetually.

Sitting in the backseat, Castiel watched the back of Dean's chair, catching glimpses of the hunter's handsome reflection in the rear view mirror, catching glimpses of his own reflection, bright blue eyes, dark messy hair, expression furrowed with concern. Dean's eyes flicked to the mirror and saw Castiel watching him. In an instant Dean's mien transformed from intent concentration on the road to an inscrutable, vulnerable, wide-eyed look. Gleaming soul stretched towards him, and Castiel's grace reciprocated, the two magical forces mingling in the space between them. The tension eased from Dean's face as he felt the calm acceptance, patience, and comfort that Castiel exuded.

The motor stopped with a sputter as they pulled in before the Landry house. A bit outside of town, the property was large and surrounded by an overgrown thicket, the house pleasant and well maintained. A "For Sale" sign stood out front, a box attached the front detailing the property – newly renovated, 3 bedrooms, two bathrooms, perfect for your growing family! – but the place hadn't sold because of persistent rumors of hauntings. Nothing they'd learned thus far had uncovered any sign of actual supernatural activity, but the statements of the two witnesses were unimpeachable.

Sam got out of the car immediately and strode down the gravel path to the front door, where he fiddled with the lockbox attached to the knob. Dean made no move to leave, so Castiel waited patiently, elbows on his knees, hands clasped before him as he leaned forward in the wide backseat of the car.

"Is my soul really pure?" asked Dean quietly. His eyes were fixed on the dashboard before him, denying Castiel a view of his expression.

"Yes, Dean."

"I…I can't believe that." Dean squeezed a white-knuckled grip around the steering wheel, his head dropping. "After everything…after the shit I've done…" Dean's soul keened in agony, and Castiel wanted to weep for all the pain it contained. Castiel rippled his grace through that glorious light, reinforced every pained weakness, strengthened every strained blemish, rewove every frayed, tattered tear. Dean shuddered. "Stop it, Cas."

"Why?"

"What the hell kinda question is that?" Dean tried to muster anger, but Castiel could hear the tears thick in his voice. It was a struggle not to reach out to provide physical as well as spiritual comfort. "You know why."

"I don't," disagreed Castiel. "I don't know why you are unwilling to accept that which you seemed amenable to yesterday."

"Yesterday was different," said Dean, shoulders slumped.

"How so?" Dean made no answer. "Dean, I can't understand if you won't tell me. It's unreasonable to expect me to be able to." The hunter continued to hold his peace. "Do you need more time? Would you like me to leave?"

"No!" Dean shuddered again and banged his head against the steering wheel. Castiel waited patiently as seconds stretched out. A clatter from the direction of the Landry house spoke to Sam winning through the door and going inside. When Dean spoke again, it was very soft. "Please don't go, Cas. I…I don't want you to go."

The heartbreak in Dean's voice was utterly compelling. Interweaving his grace further with Dean's troubled soul, Castiel reached out and tentatively ran the fingers of one hand through Dean's hair, tendrils of hair tickling at Castiel's skin as he traced gentle lines along Dean's scalp. A choked off sound of distress died in Dean's throat. Hesitating before repeating the motion, Castiel held his hand just above Dean's head, waiting to see how he would react. Castiel was on the verge of withdrawing when Dean lifted his head and nudged it against Castiel's hand. He settled lithe fingers amidst brown strands once more, mussing them, soothing, rubbing a thumb along the base of Dean's skull.

"Castiel…" Dean breathed the name like a prayer.

"Dean," Castiel said tenderly. "I would do anything for you, but I can't do this – the lies, the omissions, the way you panic and push me away. I need you to be straight with me."

Dean twisted in the front seat to look over his shoulder at Castiel. His eyes were bright and red streaks stained his cheeks. "Cas, man," he said with a dazzling, sexy smirk, "you're stealing my best lines." Castiel smiled kindly, leaned forward and let his eyes slip shut as he kissed Dean gently on the lips. Hot breath sighed through Dean's mouth as he reciprocated, lips working softly against Castiel's. Around them, soul and grace swirled, trading a melodic line back and forth. Dean drew away, and Castiel opened his eyes to find himself staring into bottomless green, gold flecks burnished by the light of Dean's soul, swimming through the viridian like the fragments of Castiel's sundered grace floated through Dean's soul. "I have terrible news for you," Dean continued with a cocky grin.

Castiel frowned. "What is it, Dean?"

"Can't be straight with you, Cas," Dean winked.

Since the dawn of his existence, Castiel had never truly laughed. To lose himself in humor required a vessel, required angelic grace, required a soul, required free will, required love, required so many things that he'd never had, never dreamed of having before he felt Dean's soul calling him into the depths of Hell. Collapsing against the backseat of the Impala, he threw his head back, astonished at the sound emerging from his body, amazed at how fantastic it felt. Laughter eddied through his grace, transforming the wavelength, tangling it irretrievably with Dean's gleeful soul. Dean was laughing too, smiling genuinely, his soul so radiant that if it hadn't been for Castiel's grace permeating it, Castiel would not have been able to look upon Dean without searing the sight of his mortal vessel. Tears gathered in his eyes, spilled down his cheeks, he could hardly breathe for the humor overwhelming him, forcing through his mouth, spasming through his body. All the tension that had built between them dissipated in an instant.

A hand on Castiel's cheek brought him back to himself instantly. Calloused, gentle fingers wiped the tears from the corners of Castiel's eyes. Castiel's vision cleared to see Dean beside him in the backseat, so close that Castiel's heartbeat picked up.

"You're gorgeous like this, angel," murmured Dean. Cupping Castiel's cheek, Dean brushed their lips together. "God, you're gorgeous." The backseat was crowded with them sharing the bench seat. Castiel hardly had to move to lean into Dean's body, rest a hand on his shoulder, lengthen the contact of mouth on mouth. Dean's lips worked expertly against Castiel's, massaging, teasing at him softly until Castiel was panting for more. Castiel slid his hand down to lay, fingers splayed, over the seared handprint on Dean's arm. Their merged essences sang a joyful chorus, the symphony that had been begun the previous night, and Dean groaned and licked at Castiel's lips, begging entry to his mouth. Castiel's lips parted and his teased at the tip of Dean's tongue with his own, the wet heat of mouth on mouth echoing with an erotic pulse in his head, behind his eyes, in his crotch. Sighing into the physical contact, Castiel allowed constrained grace to fill the car, carefully controlled so that it posed no danger to Dean. Dean's soul answered with increasing confidence, twirling through the angelic magic with jubilation. The interaction was palpable, pleasurable, candid, and brought a smile to both their lips as they deepened their kiss. Dean eased Castiel back until he leaned against the corner formed by the backseat and the car door. Shifting, Dean settled awkwardly, straddling Castiel's thighs, one knee buried against the seat cushions, the other leg resting on the car floor. With a growl that rumbled deep in his throat, Dean rutted against Castiel and banged his head against the roof of the car with a dull thud. Castiel chucked; Dean huffed an embarrassed laugh.

"Dean," Castiel said gruffly, "let me."

Warmth filled the air and Castiel stretched his grace to caress Dean's skin, passing through his clothing as if it didn't exist. Grace kneaded at Dean, rubbed at the perfect muscles along his chest, back, buttocks and thighs. "Fuck, Cas," Dean breathed. Teasing a line of kisses along Castiel's cheek, Dean scraped their faces together, scruff against scruff as Dean settled flush against Castiel. "Why?" Maintaining his grip on Dean's scarred shoulder, Castiel slipped his other hand between them and undid the button and zipper on Dean's jeans. His fingers wrapped around Dean's cock, firm grip a counterpoint to tantalizing brushes of grace over Dean's back, along his inner thighs, against his balls, around his nipples. A needy whimper escaped Dean's throat, mumbled wetly against Castiel's neck.

"Why what, Dean?"

Dean's left hand fumbled at Castiel's fly, his soul reaching through the cloth to stroke him hotly. A stifled groan escaped Castiel's throat at the unbridled joy of that mystical touch against his most sensitive mortal flesh. His head knocked back against the thick glass of the window.

"Why me?"

Castiel threaded his grace through Dean's uncertain fingers, through Dean's soul, and together magic and mortal flesh freed Castiel from his pants. Streamers of light manifest around their bodies, curling about them, harmonizing. The celestial power tousled their hair, stirred their clothing. The touch of invisible hands ghosted along Castiel's spine even as Castiel's grace continued tenderly urging Dean's physical body closer to Castiel's vessel.

"Why not you?"

Heavy breathe sent humid swelter beneath the fabric of Castiel's jacket, his body growing so hot he was uncomfortable, the fabric suffocating him. Dean wiggled against him, shimmying and twisting to bring their cocks closer together within the confines of the car. Sensitive flesh brushed then parted, and Castiel's cock twitched with longing that the touch of their clothing couldn't possibly satisfy. Castiel slid his hips down, bringing them together for another instant, sending pleasure licking through him, causing heat to effervesce through his grace. There was no way to get a hand between them effectively, no way to find a tempo that kept them in contact. Suddenly, glorious heat wrapped around each of them, merged soul and grace working as one force to create unadulterated bliss. Radiance took hold of their cocks, slotted the shafts together, and both men groaned, a throaty sound that fell heavily in the thick air inside the Impala.

"Cas..."

Friction aroused Castiel everywhere simultaneously, all along his body, all along his cock, teasing at his lips, massaging at his balls, driving the air roughly from Castiel's throat. Incandescent power gathered around their joined crotches, dazzlingly bright, dexterous tendrils wrapping around them, compounded by constant awkward half-thrusts from Dean, accentuated by the involuntary twitching of Castiel's hips. Dean gave up on using his hand to help, instead wrapping his left arm around Castiel's back to bring their chests together, draping the other arm around Castiel's shoulders, threading his fingers through Castiel's hair.

"Please, Cas...I need to hear this. Why me?"

Protectively, Dean cradled the back of Castiel's head even as Castiel groaned and threw his head back again, Dean's hand preventing him from knocking once more into hard glass. There was no word for how good Castiel felt, no description for the stimulation blanking his vision, filling him with Dean. Dean's jacket hung open and Castiel wrapped his free arm around Dean's back as he continued to grip the handprint on Dean's shoulders. Holy notes, inaudible to the mortal ear, filled the car as Castiel's grace sang glory and Dean's soul matched the note, harmonized with it, echoed hallelujah, the sound waves combining and multiplying into a chorus that filled the Impala, notes so powerful that the glass vibrated.

"Because your soul sings, Dean," Castiel managed breathlessly. Desperation urged Castiel on, a thick arm of grace wrapped around Dean's butt and pressed their thighs together, hips straining to thrust into Dean, into the heat encompassing their cocks. They moved as one, and Dean choked back a sob of pleasure, arms tightening convulsively around Castiel. "More beautifully than the entire angelic host." He gasped as Dean's soul squeezed against them, heat vibrating through Castiel, multiplying and cascading to every extremity, to the tips of his incorporeal wings, to the outskirts of his slowly expanding grace. "More dauntlessly than the heralds." His body stiffened, arching into Dean's. The urge to use his grace to destroy their clothing, to bring aching, needy flesh against aching, needy flesh, began to overrule all the reasons not to. "Every note echoes radiant and true." Dean's lips mouthed against his neck, inaudible words raised to Heaven in the duet of soul and grace, need and love and trust and Cas and yours.

"From the deepest pits you called me to you." Dean's body stuttered in his even movements. Castiel tightened his embrace, anchored Dean's soul as it quavered and quailed. "Without that dazzling purity drawing me on, I would never have found you. I would have died in Hell as so many of my brothers and sisters did." Guilt swelled within the precious man, so strong that it nearly felt like Castiel's own emotion. "You saved me, Dean." Love overwhelmed Castiel's grace, completely flooded them both, leaving no room for any other emotions. "You saved me." Dean sobbed against Castiel's shoulder and clutched Castiel so tightly that it was painful, wonderfully painful. "The irrepressible soul of the most noble man ever born to humanity." Their hips thrust together hard, coruscating grace and soul mixing their pre-come, smearing it over both their lengths as they moved as one. "So beautiful, Dean." Dean's lips rubbed at his neck, sucked a bruise, whispered his name over and over again. A swirl of soul passed incorporeally through Castiel's body, firmed within him, pressed into his prostate. White blanked his vision, every word escaped him as a gasp. "You're so beautiful to me."

The soul nestled within him sang a weeping note against his delicate, sensitive nerves, and the vibrations through his sensitive insides, through his dick, through every fiber of his vessel, through every oscillating wave of his existence, were sublime. Words died in his throat, washed away by Dean's incomparable divinity. All that was left was Dean's name, etched into his grace for eternity by Dean's own hand. With a cry torn from his vessel's throat, echoed as amen by his swelling grace, Castiel found rapture in Dean's arms as he came, profoundly, ineffably, spectacularly.

"Cas..." whispered Dean hoarsely, voice tingling through Castiel's skin. "So beautiful to me...so..." He groaned, hips jerking. "So warm..." Dean thrust against him, his soul compressing around Castiel's body, drawing an over-stimulated moan from his lips. "So perfect." The urgency of Dean's movements intensified, and on a sudden impulse Castiel curled his grace within Dean and gently brushed through Dean's tight insides, against the untouched nerves within. "Castiel!" With a ragged, rough cry, Dean rutted through his climax, further imbuing Castiel's grace with soul, further staining his trousers with semen.

The windshield cracked with a sharp snap.

Sweat made a damp trail down Castiel's back, his awareness of the close heat within the Impala returning now that their shared epiphany of pleasure began to ebb. A faint whisper of air seeped through the broken glass. Dean panted, breath hitching through his worn throat, arms holding Castiel as if afraid the angel would vanish. With one final tensing of his fingers against the scar on Dean's arm, Castiel slipped his hands around Dean's body and touched him soothingly.

"You don't understand how I can love you?" whispered Castiel, holding the shivering hunter close to him. "I don't understand how you can love me."

Dean didn't deny it.

There was a knock on the front window. They both looked up, startled, to see Sam giving them a raised eyebrow and an exasperated smirk. Unwilling to move or to permit Dean to move, Castiel used his grace to turn the window handle, lowering the pane. Sam bent forward, setting his hands on top of the car door, leaning his head in.

"Really?" Sam snapped, words a contrast to his wry expression. "You know I have to ride in this car also, right?"

"You've had sex in the Impala too, Sam," muttered Dean.

"Not while you were in a house, looking for a ghost, risking your ass, Dean!" said Sam. "And Cas!"

"I'm sorry, Sam," said Castiel, though true contrition was hard to come by with the lingering bliss trickling through his limbs, the glorious feeling of Dean, completely satisfied, lying atop his. "I am making an effort to be more considerate of your feelings, but Dean and I had several..." Dean pinched his back, and he frowned. "Dean and I had several things..." Another pinch, another pause. "There were things we needed to resolve."

"Like Dean's erection?" smirked Sam.

"Wow," muttered Dean. "Real mature, bro."

"I'm not the one humping an angel in the backseat in the middle of a hunt," said Sam sarcastically.

"I could move if you'd prefer," said Dean. He began to sit up, a wicked grin on his tear-streaked, sweaty face. "If you'd really like a show."

"No, no," Sam stood up and looked away hurriedly. "I'm going to go...over here...you two...do whatever...and I'll see you inside in a few. I think I found something." True to his word, Sam walked aimlessly away from the car, pointedly looking in every direction but theirs.

"I know I found something," Dean gave Castiel a wink, then flushed bright red as he appeared to realize what he said.

With an affectionate chuckle, Castiel brushed his fingers over Dean's cheek, kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose, his lips. "You're adorable."

"Is there any way I can get you to never say that again?" said Dean with what Castiel was fairly sure was mock effrontery. The hunter leaned back and settled into the other side of the back seat, using his boxers to clean himself off. Castiel watched him lazily, ardently, a half-smile painting his lips. He'd put that relaxed look on Dean's face. He'd put that tremble in the hunter's usually steady hands. He'd taken Dean from rock hard and desperate to limp and satiated. The haste of Dean's actions waned as he realized Castiel was watching him, and he alternated between inspecting his own appearance and increasingly long periods meeting Castiel's eyes with embarrassment.

"No," said Castiel when Dean finally met his gaze and didn't look away. "There is absolutely nothing you can do that will induce me to stop saying that you are adorable." In the early afternoon sunlight, Dean's eyes were pure green, his skin lustrous, his hair reflected blonde, and his soul stretched to encompass the car, the entire clearing, languid and content. "The look you give me when I call you adorable is too adorable for me to consider any alternatives."

Clearing his throat, Dean looked away, hand fumbling behind him for the car door. He found it, jerked the door open, and practically tumbled out of the Impala. "Coming, Sam!" said Dean, his low and gruff. "Cas, you coming?"

"I'll always come when you call, Dean," Castiel stretched and used his grace to remove the semen slowly drying into his clothing. "Literally and figuratively."

Dean fled.

This is the first fic I've ever written by request! Mimidujour asked me to write a fic in the "I Dream of Deanie" series with the following prompt:

"I'd like to see what you can do with this quote from a Japanese rengashi named Sogi: 'They arise spontaneously, the principles of all things. Water need not think to offer itself as a home for clear moonlight.' The first time I read the quote, it just sounded like something Cas would say to Dean. Being ancient, Cas would have been watching over the earth while Sogi lived (1421-1502), so one can imagine him hearing the quote firsthand, which dovetails nicely with the kind and indulgent Cas you've created."

This fic is what I came up with. :)

As of now, I have two more stories in some stage or another of planning, both requests. If you've got something you'd like to see me incorporate into an "I Dream of Deanie" story - a favorite kink, a story trope - run it by me, and I bet I can come up with something! :) I'll add you to the queue. (No promises on how long it'll take - I got this story request six weeks ago - but I promise I'll get to it! I'm trying to do them in order...)

Now continued in Part 8, "O Magnum Mysterium."