A/N: Warning: Minor character death. Momentary crack pairing.

This was up on tumblr for a week. Haven't been around to post it, sorry.

They had made it to the week mark by some miracle.

Dean was sure they wouldn't last that long (he was pretty sure Cas thought so, too) but they had made it a whole seven days of Cas going cold turkey together, even though it wasn't without bumps and hairpin turns along the way.

After that first night of digging through Google for a potential master list of withdrawal symptoms, Dean was better equipped with what he may deal with and that made it that much better to try and prepare for what Cas may throw his way.

After the first night, Cas had started to sweat and burn with imaginary fever—to the point where he'd be curled up in the shower three, four times a day. Insomnia seemed to go hand-in-hand with nausea, and the fourth and fifth night neither of them slept in the bed. Cas was a retching, dry-heaving mess cuddled up next to the toilet, pressing his face into the porcelain of the bowl to cool himself off. Dean had dutifully wiped him down with a washcloth before prodding the ill man to lie in the bathtub. Since their tub was too small to fit two grown men, he'd been forced to sit beside it on the cold tile floor, comforting Cas the best he could. It came to him again, the sense of routine, of domesticity, of something he wasn't entirely sure he could handle at the moment. But he'd kept wiping Castiel's face of sweat, fingers threading through damp curls and singing under his breath anything from Led Zeppelin to Bob Segar to even Cheap Trick (if only for Cas, because, seriously? Cheap Trick?)— whatever he could think of next to help Cas relax through the nausea and tremors.

By the end of the week mark, the symptoms almost seemed to be winding down. A sense of accomplishment could be wrought from it, if but for several factors that were a severe tripping hazard;

They were flat-fuck broke. Castiel had taken to cooking as a way to deal with his mounting anxiety, and it actually helped. The dishes he made were strange, yes, but actually delicious. Unfortunately, Cas had no sense of proportion size and usually made enough to eat for the entire complex as well as the rest of the homes on the block. And when they were only surviving on Dean's pay-cheque (because apparently drying himself out halted whatever income he had coming in, and Dean did not want to dwell on that) and they were holding out on his pay for an undetermined reason for four days past pay day now, they couldn't afford Cas' anxiety-relieving amateur cooking show. It had caused some fights, some harmless and some actually quite vicious. They'd make up hours later, but the burn of a stuck situation still remaining in the center of it all.

And they still hadn't talked about that stupid 'L' word of Cas', either.

Truthfully, he had no idea why it was clenching his heart so tight. Yes, they were friends. Yes, they fucked. But, love? Love was a whole other ballpark, that was reserved for families and close, monogamous relationships. Not a pair of roommates going at it like bunnies when it was convenient.

A pair of roommates who occasionally had sex and were not in a serious, monogamous relationship also did not kiss in a hospital after the other had almost died from an overdose. Or spend countless hours fighting between home and work to help care for a drying-out opioid addict. Who certainly did not scrimp change from his crap Mustang to buy Cas those stupid gummy burgers because even though they were horrible candy, the little burgers made Cas light up almost as much as if he'd brought actual White Castle home.

No, Dean Winchester did not do love.

He was a borderline alcoholic with so many mental issues… No. Once this was all over, he was going to tell Cas once and for all. It settled like a weight in his chest, tumbling down and collapsing into his stomach where it made it hang down to about his kidneys. But he had to; Castiel had to move on from him. His life would be on the up and out—Dean would only drag him back down.

But that soon flew out of his mind as he returned home to a quiet apartment, no smells, no sounds besides the occasional snuffle from somewhere.

"Cas?" A pause.

No answer.

He peeked into the kitchen, spotting the huddled mass in the corner on the floor. Castiel had one hand cradling the phone to his neck, tears slowly trailing down his face as he stared off at a hidden horizon. He didn't look tripped out, but looks could be deceiving… A cold weight settled in him. If Cas had gone back to using…

Dean knelt down, gently touching his knee to gain his attention. "Cas…?"

Castiel startled, looking up at Dean and blinking owlishly. "When did you get home…?"

"Just now." Frowning, Dean slowly unfurled the hand clutching the phone like a lifeline before setting it on the floor. "What happened…?"

Cas blanked out for a moment, curling himself up tighter. "My brother died."

Settling in next to him, Dean slipped an arm around Castiel's shoulders, tugging him over until he was tucked into his chest.
Castiel didn't fight the motion.

The funeral for Balthazar was the next day.

It seemed like such short notice, but apparently he had died days prior and the only reason Cas had been told was because apparently Ana had taken pity and told him, because Cas and Balthazar were close.

Dean had accompanied Castiel to the wake and burial service on the man's asking. Though it was definitely an educational experience— learning all about the family of dicks that had partially ruined his angel.

For one, Balthazar wasn't his brother. He was actually his cousin, but they'd been as close as brothers. His only actual brother was Michael, who Dean decided needed that stick pulled out of his ass ASAP. Castiel's mother had passed away soon after he'd been born, and when their father had left they'd been taken to live with their aunt, uncle and four cousins; Lucifer, Gabriel, Balthazar and Rachael. Castiel and Michael never saw eye to eye, but apparently him and Balthazar got on good.

Balthazar was the brother Cas didn't have in Michael, had lost once everything came out. Balthazar was there to help make the wounds okay—not heal, but make them sting just a bit less. He died of a supposed heart failure, but Cas' scoff at his side made him wonder.

Now they sat in the back of the large room reserved for the wake, ignoring the scandalized looks they kept throwing Cas. Castiel wore his suit like a set of armor; curled into the dark fabric like it would protect him, frame shivering in quelled emotion every now and then. A good three inches of space lay between them—a chasm Castiel had made and one Dean was still trying to figure out how to cross.

"I'm sorry you had to come, Dean." He murmured quietly, staring at his hands.

Dean glanced over at him, waiting for Cas to look up at him but his gaze remained steady. "Cas, you asked me to come."

Castiel winced. "I know, but..."

"Dude, seriously." He slid a hand around Castiel's bicep, offering a half smile. "It's fine. I'm here for you."

Unfortunately, that small action had the complete opposite reaction that Dean could've ever guessed he'd get.

Cas flinched hard, yanking himself from under Dean's touch so hard he nearly toppled into the empty seat next to him, ignoring the hurt look to flash across Dean's face. "Don't touch me." He snapped, scrambling to his feet. And in a moment, he'd composed himself, stood and left the room.

Dean considered going after him.

It got about as far as that thought, as a hand slid around the crook of his elbow, gaining his attention. A small woman had taken the seat next to him, her eyes red and mildly puffy from crying.

"So, you're with my cousin?"

No, no he wasn't.

"So you're single?"

Seems that way, yeah.

"C'mon, then."

Her other hand slid to his thigh, curling in clear invitation. He shook off the lost and hurt feeling, threw her his best cocky grin but followed her out like a lost sheep.

—-

Her name was Rachael, she had murmured against his lips, neck in the small back room of the funeral home.

Somewhere in the back of Dean's mind, he knew that this was Balthazar's sister. Somewhere in the back of his mind, this wasn't a good idea. He was being objectified as an easy lay. All of this was said in Cas' voice, tinged with disapproval. Dean decided to ignore the voice.

He was also shutting out what Rachael was saying directly into his ear about Castiel, but it kept bleeding through;

"I know your with him, I saw how you looked when he walked away."

"He's a whore, you know that?"

"Dunno why you'd choose him, addicted to every drug under the sun…"

Her pillow talk was fucking annoying.

"Shut up, and leave him out of this." Dean snarled, before slamming his lips back onto hers to stop her tirade of Cas-hate. He backed her up, pressing her against the wall. She complied, hooking a leg around his waist as her small black dress hitched up around her waist. Her hands slid over his suit jacket, up into his hair and mussing both up. Sliding his hands up her waist, his thumb toyed with the hem of her underwear, slipping under to stroke soft flesh just as the door to the backroom opened.

"Rachael, Aunt Hester is looking for you, and Luce said he saw you... head into here…"

Dean froze at that whiskey over gravel voice, quickly losing interest over the prospect of a quick job. Rachael meekly slid out from between them, fixing her dress and leaving. The door shutting behind her sounded like a gunshot in the echoing silence. He still refused to turn around.

"Dean."

"No."

"Look at me."

"I said no, Cas. Now go away."

"Dean Winchester, look at me." Reluctantly, Dean obeyed at the strong tone, meeting the storm in Castiel's eyes with the same amount of excitement he saved for getting his prostate exam. His whole stance was rigid, bristling with pent up energy and anger. Those deep blue eyes burned with anger, with hurt. Dean couldn't fathom why. "You look like a cheap whore."

Ow, okay. Not pulling punches. Dean's fingers itched for the flask in his suit jacket, desperately wanting a drink despite knowing how little good it would do. But he staved off from temptation, no matter how strong it was.

"What do you care, Cas?" He threw back, leaning back against the wall. It was still vaguely warm from Rachael's body, and he soaked it in as much as he could.

"Are you kidding?" His voice stayed at that constant, low-level pitch. And that probably worried Dean the most. "I love you, you assbutt. And here I find you making out like some horny teenager in the back room with my grieving cousin at her brother's funeral?"

"It's not like we were a thing! We've never been anything, except an easy-accessed lay." He hated this. Hated talking about his feelings. The flask became a more pronounced weight in his clothing.

The darkness is Castiel's face grew darker, if possible. "There has never been anyone but you, Dean. Not for me, at least." He started crossing the distance between them slowly, stalking like a predator to his prey. "I've been waiting for you to see that. But you haven't, and I don't have the patience of a saint, Dean."

Dean watched him approach, his stomach uncoiling and recoiling for an entirely different reason. "What are you saying, Cas?"

Cas was up in his personal space now, so close to touching but just a hair's breadth away from doing so. "I'm saying," He murmured, voice dropping down to a husky purr. "I'm tired of sharing you. I want to be selfish." One of his hands came up to cradle his face gently, fingers
caressing skin as his thumb dragged slowly over his bottom lip. "But give me a reason, Dean. And I'll stop."

Pushing his face into Cas' palm, Dean closed his eyes and focused on his warmth, rather than the pure want for alcohol burning in his gut. "You deserve better, Cas." The hand stroking his cheek froze but didn't move away, so Dean continued. "You're cleaning up. You deserve better, I'll only drag you back down."

"Dean, look at me." Dean reluctantly opened his eyes, looking at the stormy blues. He'd expected Castiel to be pissed, disappointed. But he was only sad, and something that might've been affectionate. "You won't drag me down. I'll raise you up if you get too low." He leaned forward until their chests were pressed together, the warmth seeping through the fabric. "Will you let me love you, Dean?"

Dean leaned in, resting his forehead against his lover's. Cas' hand continued stroking his cheek tenderly, noses brushing together. Green met blue, and Castiel must have seen the silent signal because he smiled and leaned forward, catching his lips in a slow burning kiss that tasted like promise, the future, and the bitter taint of lipstick.

Castiel pulled back, making a face. "Go wash it off." Dean chuckled, pulling away slowly until Cas slapped his ass, making him jump and scowl. But Dean felt lighter, happier; things would be okay.

For now, at least.
Hopefully.