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[mirasfics.livejournal.com]

Title: Better than Wine
Fandom: Supernatural, Sam/Dean/Castiel, NC-17
Summary: Dean thinks Castiel needs to take his mind off his problems. Castiel concedes the point. Post 4.07 PWP.



Castiel is not a stupid person. Angel. Whatever. He knows what drunkenness is, for yea, there have been fruits of the vine for all the long years of Creation and it wasn't long before Man looked on them and found them good. And there was wine in the temple, wine in the Sacrament, making glad the heart of Man, causing the lips of those who are asleep to speak. He's pretty sure there was something about breasts being as clusters of the vine, except he always feels a little uncomfortable looking too closely at that part of the Holy Writ. The point being: wine.

So he knows what drunkenness is. Better than these children do. He's just… out of practice.

Samuel giggles when he's drunk, sprawled loose-limbed and happy over the bed and Dean and half of Castiel's coattails. Castiel looks down at him with fond approval; yes, there's the issue of the demon blood, but Castiel is feeling expansive tonight and the demon blood is easily outweighed by the contentment in Dean's face. Because Castiel loves Dean, is always a little surprised to find that his general shameful adoration of his Father's creations is somehow distilled and focused when it comes to Dean in particular, and if it were a full-blooded demon making Dean laugh like that Castiel might actually be tempted to tone down the inevitable smiting a little. He has a ridiculous urge to pet Samuel's ridiculous hair and tell him stories about his name-saints, if he could remember any that ended well.

Not, apparently, that Castiel is entitled to judge on the hair front. He believes the word cockatiel has come up several times already since he let Dean persuade him to come back to the motel and take his mind off his doubts.

"Dude, take off your coat," Dean says sternly, leaning over to refill the plastic toothbrush glass that Castiel is drinking appalling whiskey from. He has to lean over Sam to do it. Sam opens his mouth and catches Dean's trailing t-shirt between his teeth, tugging at it with little puppy-like yanks.

Castiel, as mentioned before, is not stupid. This, he also knows about. He's known about it since before he pulled Dean from Perdition, and while he's spent the last twenty-four hours nearly vibrating out of his borrowed skin with worry that Uriel would sniff it out and level town, Winchesters, and Castiel all in a fit of pique, Castiel loves Dean too well and is too aware of what rests on his shoulders to judge here either.

Besides, Castiel likes Samuel. He didn't expect to, almost didn't want to, but he does. He doesn't want to think too closely about what it means that he likes this happy, irreverent, Dean's-shirt-biting Samuel better than the one who was so awed by Castiel's presence that he could barely put words together when they first met.

"Coat," Dean orders, passing the bottle of Jim Beam off to Sam to tug with a distinct lack of his usual grace at the collar of Castiel's coat. Obediently – was he not sent here to follow Dean's orders? – Castiel shrugs the coat off his shoulders and lets it slide onto the bed after an awkward moment of trying to figure out which hand his drink is in.

"There. Is that better?" he asks.

"Mmmm-hmmm," Dean hums, drawing it out to a dozen syllables as he looks at Castiel with frank appreciation.

The neck of the whiskey bottle taps against Castiel's sternum and he looks down to see Sam wriggling up onto one elbow, nearly tipping Dean back onto the bed. "'S your host drunk too?" Sam asks, curious.

Castiel winces a little and wishes he were clearer-headed, or better yet, that Sam hadn't asked. He takes a very large drink of the whiskey and turns his attention inward to feel as it burns its way down. "His name is David, and he had a rare degenerative disease," he says quietly. "He was kind and stayed with me until I was used to a human body, though he was in great pain. Then the Lord called and he went, entrusting his living body to me. He sends messages sometimes with my brothers, little things, Don't forget your body is allergic to shellfish and If you don't blink it makes your eyes sore and other people nervous. He is beloved among my sisters and has no regrets."

There's a strange prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Castiel looks up and finds Winchesters staring intently at him from close enough to make his eyes cross a little.

"Cas," Dean says. "Dude, are you in pain?"

"No," Castiel says truthfully. "I don't think we feel pain as you do, even in human bodies."

Samuel sniffles a little. "Man, that was… really sad. And sort of beautiful."

Castiel reaches out with the hand he decides isn't holding his drink and touches Samuel's cheek, fingertips sliding into dark hair, a benediction. "There's nothing to be sad about. I was only afraid you wouldn't understand."

Dean's gaze is resting a little too heavily on where Castiel is touching Samuel, something in it Castiel can't read. Wondering if he's offended Dean, he pulls his hand away. Samuel makes a discontented little sound and tilts his head as though trying to get Castiel's hand back.

"Y'know," Dean says, his voice husky with alcohol, "You shouldn't wear ties when you're relaxing either."

Before Castiel can respond – it takes him longer than he'd like sometimes to navigate the flow of human conversation and the whiskey isn't helping – Dean is tugging at the knot of his tie, slipping nimble fingers in between folds of cloth and coaxing them apart as the cotton whispers unsettlingly against itself. Castiel wonders if he ought to protest this – humans are supposed to wear ties when they're conducting business, and Castiel is here on business, after all – but then his tie is looped around Samuel's neck and it would probably be rude to try to get it back.

"Nice tie," Samuel says sleepily, and grins up at Castiel.

"Still not relaxed enough," Dean says.

"Probably not," Samuel agrees.

"I mean, you're drinking whiskey, man," Dean points out. "Some point you're gonna pass out and we probably won't be in any shape to get you out of your clothes, and you won't thank us for letting you sleep all… dressed."

"Er," Castiel says, getting a little unnerved.

"Ease up, dude, just gonna do something about your sleeves," Dean reassures him. He reaches for Castiel's wrist, managing to maneuver it upward without spilling anything, which is probably more than Castiel could manage at the moment. His hand is warm through the cotton of Castiel's shirt, broader than this vessel's, encircling the bones of Castiel's borrowed wrist as if they were a bird's, and Castiel knows this body isn't particularly imposing but this is the first time he's felt it.

Before he knows quite what's going on, Dean is unbuttoning his cuffs, fingers slipping a little on the slick plastic.

Castiel looks dubiously down at the fingers on his buttons. "I feel that things are occurring here that we should discuss," he says.

Without even turning his attention from Castiel's cuffs, Dean frees a hand to smack Sam amiably in the head, ruffling his hair. It actually improves it a little. "No possessing angels of the Lord, Sammy. Pastor Jim taught you better than that."

"'S not me," Sam tells him, rolling to sprawl on his back with his head resting against Dean's knee. He's watching Dean unbutton Castiel's cuffs, which Castiel thinks ought not to be interesting but apparently it is. Very interesting. "There's a loose thread there, man, you're gonna get that stuck –"

" – Naw, I got it –"

" – Do not, Dean, you're getting it all –"

" – Well, dude, shut up for two seconds and I'll… dammit."

Sam makes an exasperated sound and rolls over onto his stomach, causing the whiskey bottle to slosh wildly. Wedging the bottle into the crook of Dean's bent knee, he braces a hand on either side of Castiel's knees and lowers his head to where Dean's fingers are still tugging at Castiel's button. Dean moves his fingers obligingly out of the way, making room for the warm, damp slip of Samuel's breath.

At some point, taking on a human body had to have sounded like a good idea. Castiel thinks if he sets his whiskey down for a minute and thinks about it, he'll probably even remember why. But this body is hot and dizzy from the alcohol and Samuel is flicking the button into his mouth with a catlike lick and snapping the threads delicately with his teeth, turning his head to spit the button discreetly onto the floor, and Castiel is fairly sure that there is no reason good enough to weigh against the Fall that just opened up under his feet.

Samuel smiles up at him, bright and a little sly, rolling up his sleeve with ostentatiously businesslike speed. "There. Better."

"So," Dean says, sounding as if he can't hold back the words anymore and is too drunk to care. "How long have I got?"

Castiel and Samuel stare at him, waiting patiently for an explanation.

Dean glances up at Castiel, then away. "I flunked your test, remember? Back to Hell for me, then, right?"

Samuel's fingers close around Castiel's wrist in a grip that will bruise, that would burn if it could. "No," he says, four months of the road to Perdition like sulfur in his voice.

"No," Castiel echoes. "I told you, I don't know if you failed or not. But we still need you, Dean."

Dean snorts, not looking at Castiel. "Yeah? I dunno, man, my money's on that dick Uriel coming up behind me in a dark alley and smacking me back to Hell before anyone knows the difference."

Somewhere, someone is keeping a list. Or perhaps it keeps itself. The point is that there is a list, and the name of that list is Things Castiel Did Not Mean To Do, Oops, and there have been more entries made to that list since he raised Dean Winchester from Hell than in the last thousand years. He realizes he's made another when everything electronic in the motel room screams out static at once and the mirror shatters to splinters. Castiel can feel his wings drifting behind him like plasma on a solar wind, so it's a very good thing that their shadows alone aren't enough to burn out human eyes.

"There was war in Heaven once," he tells Dean, and reminds himself as well, because the pure searing rage that fills him at the thought of Uriel touching Dean is not going to lead anywhere good. "Perhaps you've heard. Since then, we've been very careful about inciting each other's wrath. No one will touch you while you wear my mark, and you will wear my mark as long as you have a body to wear it."

The Winchesters stare at him, taken aback.

Chagrined, Castiel puts his wings away and holds out his cup. "May I have some more whiskey?"

"I think you might have had enough, man," Samuel says. Dean cuffs him again and appropriates the bottle to refill Castiel's cup, a little fuller this time. Castiel's cup runneth over, ha.

"Um. Sorry about that," Dean says, scratching at the back of his neck. "Just. Seemed like I should ask while you were here."

"You asked," Castiel says. "I answered. Have some more whiskey, Dean."

Dean has some more whiskey.

"So," Sam says, sounding a little embarrassed. "Can we see your wings again?"



There are a hundred reasons this is a bad idea. Castiel frowns down into his cup and tries to figure out the connection between the warm, tingly lassitude in his body and the way none of those reasons look important. "You have to close your eyes," he finds himself saying. "And don't open them until I tell you. It's very important that you do that."

Dean closes his eyes and slaps his hands over Samuel's. Samuel has flailed his way into a more or less upright position and is leaning against Dean's shoulder, sloppy and comfortable. Castiel lets himself look at them, all luminousness and the shadows of hair and eyelashes and each other, and doesn't realize he's stared too long until Samuel's eyebrow rises behind Dean's hand.

Clearing his throat, he concentrates as best he can. This is a little tricky sometimes, but it can be done. He's done it, in front of saints and anchorites and soldiers; in front of Mary and Martha, an experience he has not repeated to this day because angels of the Lord do not like being made to feel like adorable little boys showing off pet frogs to doting cousins. The point is that it can be done, the not-matter of his wings altered and solidified to soft snowy down, safe for human sight.

Safe for human touch.

Castiel shivers a little and shuts that thought somewhere far, far away. He extends his wings, alters them, parts the fabric of his shirt around them, and shakes them experimentally out. A feather drifts to the bed, ice-white and as long as his hand. "All right, you can open your eyes."

Dean opens his eyes and looks on Castiel's wings for long seconds, testing, before he takes his hands away from Samuel's face. Then they're both staring at him, stunned and something else, and Castiel isn't entirely sure what's going on but his body seems to be happy about it even if Castiel is a little dubious.

"Man, those are some awesome wings," Dean says thoughtfully, reaching out to poke them. "Wow, they're soft. Feel that, Sammy."

"SorryDeanwasborninabarn, canItouchyourwings?" Sam blurts out on a breath that doesn't seem to have been quite long enough.

"Of course," says Castiel, or possibly Jim Beam. Or David's body. There are entirely too many entities in on this equation, and Castiel can't quite figure out which of them is purring at the way Dean's fingers are stroking his down.

He's expecting Sam to reach out as Dean did. Instead Sam scrambles up off the bed, nearly topples back down onto it again, and after a moment of balance-catching comes to roost again behind Castiel's back. A moment later, Castiel can feel Sam's hand running down his left wing where it meets his back, slow and tentative.

"They're soft," Sam whispers. His thumb is trailing along thin cotton over skin, and that's a very interesting reaction Castiel's body is trying to have but a trifle undignified so he suppresses it sternly.

"They're hot," says Dean.

"They're body temperature," Castiel corrects him.

Sam thunks his forehead down between Castiel's shoulder blades and giggles helplessly, still stroking one wing. His breath ruffles the down of Castiel's feathers, warm and sweet from the liquor.

Dean tugs on a handful of feathers, gentle and careful, not hurting. "I wasn't talking about temperature, dumbass."

Angels are allergic to alcohol, or else Castiel's vessel is. That is the only explanation Castiel can come up with for the fact that he actually opens his mouth and says, "Then what were you talking about?"

Dean flails a little with the hand that isn't buried in Castiel's feathers. "Sex, dude," he says as though it should be obvious. Sam makes a despairing noise against the back of Castiel's neck. "They're a turn-on."

"I have no brother," Sam says.

"Sammy, will you take a good look at where your ginormous-ass body is right now?"

Sam really makes some very expressive noises, Castiel thinks. This one is a little like horror and a little like mortification and a little apologetic, as if the horror and mortification aren't quite enough to get him to move and he's apologizing in advance.

Belatedly, Castiel remembers David explaining about personal space. That was one of the first things David told him and he forgot it utterly, as nearly as he can figure out, the first time he looked on Dean with David's eyes. He only remembers about it now because it's fairly obvious the Winchesters have never heard of it either, and Castiel is a little too light-headed right now to figure out whether they're right or David is.

So he asks.

"Personal space is for wussies," Dean explains, inching closer, fingers sliding along the top of Castiel's wing.

"And people Dean doesn't like," Sam tells him.

"I like you, Cas," Dean says, which Castiel supposes is fortunate because another inch and Dean will be sitting in his lap.

"I'm glad," he says simply, reaching up to lay a hand along the side of Dean's face as he'd touched Sam before.

He doesn't mean anything by it, really; it's just touch and reassurance, just that Dean feels good under his hands and it's been a long time since Castiel was corporeal enough for anything to feel good like this. He tells himself this, but it still doesn't entirely take him by surprise when Dean's eyes darken again and he turns his face into Castiel's hand, mouth brushing against his palm.

Sam makes a soft sound behind him and traces the top of Castiel's wing with parted lips and the tip of his nose, as high as he can reach.

"I," Castiel begins. "I should go."

Dean takes the cup out of Castiel's hand, reaches to set it on the nightstand, then moves that last inch, his knees bracing around Castiel's hips. "No. You really shouldn't," he says, and bends to lick the taste of whiskey out of Castiel's mouth.

Castiel wasn't lying earlier, when he told Dean that he isn't even sure what's right and what's wrong anymore. But this he knows: that God is omniscient where angels are not, and Castiel is a dutiful son. And this: Sam and Dean are beautiful, beloved, and Castiel has never since he opened his eyes to Creation asked for anything for himself. He kisses Dean back, trusting his body's memory to remind him what to do.

Sam inhales sharply and touches his mouth almost reverently to the line of Castiel's throat, only breathing in the scent of Castiel's skin for a moment before he goes looking for more of it with careful teeth and slow, patient licks. "Is this okay?" he whispers. "I could leave."

Castiel thinks seriously about ending the existence of the door. Possibly Sam was right and he's had too much to drink. "I don't want you to leave," he says, and he can feel the shadow of the Fall creeping closer every time he thinks I want instead of I am commanded but his answer has made happiness shine from Dean like sunlight on water and this will not be wrong. Castiel is an angel of the Lord, and he will not allow it to be.

Even if it will probably be best never to mention it to Uriel anyway.

There are more fingers on buttons, working upward and working downward. Castiel touches, curious and contented, running a palm along the soft denim of Sam's jeans and slipping his fingertips up under Dean's shirt to reach skin. Even with his eyes closed there are a thousand ways to tell Sam and Dean apart, from their relative positions to the shapes of their souls, but Castiel learns to tell them apart by taste anyway, simply because he wants to.

"Trust me?" Sam breathes against Castiel's mouth.

"Yes," Castiel says, and that is also the right answer.

He hears the soft shing of a blade leaving its sheath. Castiel knows Damascus steel by its smell, and it's close to his nose now, sliding into the parted fabric of his shirt to shear carefully upward until one wing is free of his shirt.

"I could just put my wings away," he offers.

"Nonono," Dean says as best he can with Castiel's finger sucked deep into his mouth. "Hot."

Sam laughs, low and affectionate, close to Castiel's ear. "The 'Dean Winchester can only speak in monosyllables' portion of the evening has now commenced," he tells Castiel, and slices through the other side of his shirt. The shirt goes onto the floor and the knife onto the nightstand, and Castiel wants to see, so he lifts Dean's shirt off as well. His mark is dark and livid on Dean's shoulder, and David's hand isn't large enough to fit against it.

"You have more muscle than this body does," he observes, pleased.

"Wings, dude," Dean says, leaning in close to nip at Castiel's lower lip. "That's like… scissors beating paper or something."

There's a rustle of cloth from behind him and Sam is pressing up against him, skin to skin-and-feathers, his heart beating hard and fast. "Dean's right. They're hot," he says.

"Anyway, David didn't exactly do you wrong, y'know?" Dean mutters as he kisses his way across Castiel's collarbone. He reaches Castiel's ear, hesitates a moment, then pulls Sam forward for a slow, searching kiss.

Castiel is a lot less concerned about the sin of incest than the sin of being an angel and not caring, of finding Sam and Dean beautiful together. But the truth is that Castiel, dutiful son though he is, is older than the beds of the ocean; and there is no sin, not even pride, in believing that he can safeguard what has been entrusted to him.

Dean's mouth tastes like whiskey and Sam when it comes back to Castiel's. His arm is braced over Sam's shoulder, palm flat against the wall behind the bed, and when he moans into Castiel's mouth, Castiel opens his eyes to see Sam tracing the handprint on Dean's shoulder with his tongue. Even Castiel can feel it, hot and slick, resonating in parts of Castiel that aren't this body but certainly seem connected to it at the moment. He dips his wing down as far as he can and reaches back at an awkward angle, touching his mark; Sam's fingers wind into his, and his tongue runs over Castiel's fingers and his own and Dean's shoulder all at once, and Dean gives a strangled cry and slams his hips forward. The movement pushes Castiel farther back against Sam and causes him to make an involuntary sound of his own, because oh, good.

"Fuck, stop, stopstop," Dean pants, his breath rapid and panicked-sounding, the green of his eyes a thin ring around black.

Sam gives a distinctly evil-sounding snicker. Castiel makes a note to stop him from doing that, in a while. "Having some stamina issues, Dean?"

"Gonna have beating-the-crap-out-of-my-little-brother issues here in a minute," Dean gasps, then closes his eyes and moans again when Castiel decides that what actually would be a sin is to have the long stretch of Dean's throat right in front of his face and not taste it. "Okay, maybe not right now. But. Soon."

Castiel's wings are starting to ache a little, so he stretches them out. Dean's eyes follow them hungrily, and Sam says, "God," hoarsely into Castiel's neck.

Dean's eyes flicker up to Sam's, and he sees something there, because he pulls back a little and traces along Castiel's lower lip with his thumb. "Hey," he says, and asks because his brother needs the reassurance. "Is this okay? I mean…"

"We've been gone from you for too long," Castiel whispers, and kisses Dean's palm. "We left you with so little guidance. I'm sorry. We aren't what you think we are, and neither are you."

Sam's hand eases around his waist to rest on the button of his pants. "Is that a yes or a no?"

"It's a yes," Castiel tells him, and when Sam grips him in a way that does not involve Perdition at all, he pushes upward into the touch like a purring cat.

"Well, good, man, because I'd hate like fuck to stop right now," Dean gasps.

Sam's long legs are braced around them both now, pulling them close as Castiel would shelter them in his wings if they were arranged differently. Castiel touches denim and it melts away, reappearing folded neatly on a chair underneath the rest of Sam's clothes, a use of power too trivial to be noticeable outside of this bed. Sam makes a startled sound; Dean's eyes close for just a moment, and then he strips Castiel with unsteady hands. Castiel touches him and sends his clothes to fold themselves on top of Sam's.

"You should come hang out with us on laundry day," Dean mutters, pushing Castiel closer to Sam. Castiel tilts his head, considers his position – the part of it that's not distracting him by being Dean's mouth working its way up his thigh – and shifts a little.

Sam goes tense against him, fingers clamping down on Castiel's hips hard enough to bruise. "Holy shit," he chokes, his hips thrusting involuntarily forward.

Dean makes an interrogative sound.

"Fea – feathers," Sam gasps out. "Sort of soft and scratchy oh god –"

"Language, Sammy," Dean reprimands, and slides Castiel's borrowed erection down into the slick warmth of his throat. Castiel catches his breath and tilts his hips carefully upward, one hand resting on Dean's head and the other lacing into Sam's hair.

"You try to get through sex without blaspheming, Dean, it's not as easy as it looks," Sam manages, grinding desperately against Castiel's wing.

Dean makes a smug noise, apparently a pointed comment on his own foresight in making sure his mouth is too full to say anything he'd rather not.

Sam's answering noise is irritated and needy in equal measure. He pulls Castiel's chin around and kisses him, more teeth than tongue; sharp, frantic nips and tugs, and when Castiel sinks David's teeth into Sam's lower lip in answer, Sam's hands come down on Castiel's thighs as if he's seriously considering a change in position. Dean's mouth feels good in a way Castiel had forgotten until now, and so does Sam's hand and the intersection of the two, and Dean's free hand is trailing down to stroke himself slowly and smoothly.

"Don't," Sam pants. "Don't, I want, I wanna –" His voice snaps off into a pleading whine and the back of his head hits the wall hard.

"Want me to come down your throat?" Dean asks, voice a little hoarse, mouth moving on Castiel's skin. "Yeah, I. Yeah."

It's possible that Castiel had forgotten anything could be this good. Dean's mouth on him, Sam rubbing against the sensitive not-quite-skin of his wings, and then Dean begins doing something with his tongue that would have made Castiel kneel down and serve God out of sheer gratitude even if he hadn't been an angel already. He gives a soft, involuntary moan and drops his hand to Dean's shoulder where he can grip without hurting, moving in a way that snaps his wing against Sam; and it's surprising, a little, when Sam jolts and keens and comes with one hand buried in feathers and the other clenching around Dean's fingers on Castiel's hip.

"No more stamina jokes, dude," Dean manages before Castiel prods him gently but firmly back down to keep doing what he was doing.

Sam is leaning his head against Castiel's, trying to catch his breath, hands moving slowly over as much of Castiel as he can reach past the wings. His fingertips slide up to meet Dean's mouth and Dean sucks them in, weaving his tongue between Sam and Castiel in deft licks that never falter or lose their purpose. "Dean," Sam whispers, broken and adoring, and Castiel breaks right after him.

He'd forgotten – if he ever knew – the vulnerability that this business of pulsing half one's sanity out through the genitalia leaves in its wake. For a moment, it seems odd that Dean, who hates vulnerability more than almost anything else, would be so enamored of it. But Sam's arms are careful and sheltering around Castiel, if a little unsteady, and Dean is stealing a pillow and flopping back onto the bed with a broad, expectant grin, and Castiel thinks maybe the secret is to arrange things so that there's nothing to be vulnerable to. He'll have to give this more thought. Later.

"C'mon, guys, my turn," Dean orders, kicking Sam in the thigh.

Sam laughs and wriggles carefully out from behind Castiel, landing on Dean like a drunken puppy. Castiel smiles and kisses Dean slowly and thoroughly, listening to Sam's happy mutterings as he licks down his brother's body. Rearranging himself a little, Castiel flicks a wing over Sam's shoulders, sheltering both of them, and touches his mark on Dean's shoulder with fingers and tongue both. Dean swears between gritted teeth, grips Sam's hair in careful fingers and thrusts up; Castiel waits until Sam does something that has Dean arching half off the bed and then touches the mark again, with his body and more. Heat flares in it that even Castiel can see, there and then gone so that it's Sam's mouth that pushes Dean over the edge. Dean turns his face into Castiel's throat and lets himself go, lets himself sob and cry out Sam's name and Cas and lets his body twist and shudder; and all this is clearly going to require more thought than Castiel previously believed – but not until Dean has stopped needing his brother and Castiel to hold him together, at least for the moment.



Sam and Dean doze off afterward, a messy pile of humanity sprawled over Castiel and the bed both. Castiel puts his wings away and strokes them to sleep, watches the bright patterns of their thoughts to be sure that their dreams are benign, then –

– is standing at the end of the bed, dressed and tugging the collar of his coat up against the autumn chill waiting for him outside. He feels good, content in an uncomplicated way, as he hasn't since he took on human form. It's that more than anything that drains away the last of his qualms; that and his faith that, alcohol or no, God is not in the habit of letting angels take any path to Hell but the one paved with unambiguously bad intentions.

There's a vase on the table containing a half-dead motel plant of some sort. Castiel touches it and it blooms, spilling over with sweet-smelling blossoms that he remembers from the Garden and has not seen since. With only a brief glance back, he lets himself quietly out of the motel room and walks out into this place that Uriel would have destroyed. It is also pleasing, all crisp air and the smell of wood smoke. Castiel closes his eyes and tilts his face up toward the stars, and can find nothing now but peace and gratitude. For this moment, it's enough.

But he's still not telling Uriel.