pieces (Destiel)

The Warehouse

Castiel curled into Dean’s side in a dark motel room, and Castiel stood in the shadows, in a warehouse, fingers twitching around his angel blade. 

He looked out from behind a staircase, vision separated into rectangles by the risers. Dean walked fifty feet beyond them, his silhouette identifiable by the bow of his legs, the cautious way he stalked forward with a gun in hand. 

Kill him, Castiel.

His sister's order was straightforward. His instinct was to ignore it; it wasn't right—Dean was sleeping in a motel room outside Oklahoma City; Dean wasn't here; there was no reason for Castiel to harm him—but Castiel advanced because the order said he must. 

“Cas!” Dean cried when Castiel raised his fist.

Dean shifted in his sleep, nosing Castiel's neck and murmuring sounds that weren't words. Castiel gathered him closer and inhaled the scent of home. 

He swung his arm and heard Dean's nose crack, saw red and didn't blink. 

“Cas, Cas, no—” Dean cried as Castiel continued to hit him. Dean stumbled and fell to the hard concrete. Castiel loomed over him and felt nothing as he drove the blade home. 

He jerked upright in bed, gasping for breath, and craned his neck to look down at Dean's face. It was concealed by the pillow, but Castiel lowered his mouth and shakily kissed the corner of Dean's lips and his cheek and his ear, kissed him until Dean stirred and turned his face enough to kiss back.

Tears pricked at Castiel's eyes as Dean held him. 

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Castiel, and he moaned when Dean gently bit his neck, then soothed it with his tongue. 

When he whispered into Castiel's ear, “Don't wake Sammy,” there was laughter in it, and Naomi spoke again: 

Kill him, Castiel.

Dean lay heavily on top of him. Castiel memorized the slow grind of his hips, the changes in his breathing, and Castiel looked out from behind a staircase as Dean kissed his mouth open. He wouldn't hurt Dean. He wouldn't hurt Dean. 

Kill him, Castiel.

He began to shake. He could not disobey an order, but he could not follow it. He tightened his grip on the blade in the shadows, wrapped his arms around Dean and held him desperately under the sheets before flapping away. 

+

He waited until daylight, standing invisible at the end of Dean's bed, watching. Dean couldn't see or sense him. He slept on his back with both arms under the dingy sheet, mouth just parted, breathing noisily. His hair was flattened and stuck to the side of his face. In the next bed, Sam snored into a pillow. 

Castiel didn't trust himself. His memories conflicted. He had no memory of leaving Purgatory, but there was a room, a white room, and echoes of pain. But he wouldn't hurt Dean. He would kill himself first. 

The brothers woke and dressed. Castiel read disappointment on Dean's face as he surveyed the empty half of the bed, but the voice giving orders had gone silent for now. 

He materialized in a diner two miles down the road. Sam was picking at his eggs. Dean drummed his fingers lazily on the white table and spun the bowl of creamer cups around and around. The diner was small, just ten tables and a counter. It had vibrant red walls, red like Dean's blood. The bowls and plates were rimmed with black and white checkers. The floor was gray like the warehouse's concrete floor and needed to be swept.