A Thousand Lights in Space: December 25

Mirror, mirror...

—Day 144—

Eldritch Horror has been the only glaring exception to Dean’s ability to remember—in detail—exactly what he did when alcohol is involved, and while the waking up process these days is still slower than it used to be, when he gets there, that much hasn’t changed. Last night hits him and does it all at once, and so does the fact he’s warm but not nearly as comfortable because he’s the only one on the couch, and it says a lot which part bothers him more.

Pop quiz, Vera: how do straight guys feel the next morning after almost getting off enthusiastically dry-humping their best friend, and yes, he knows that’s the wrong goddamn question. Can’t wait for your answer, though: looks like he’s gotta improvise.

Cracking open an eye, he takes in the grey-lit room—snow’s stopped, holy shit, it’s almost sunny—and the lack of guests on the mattress, darting to the empty kitchen, and has just enough time to stiffen before Cas says, in the most normal voice in the history of normal voices, “The coffee is ready.”

Coffee. Okay, then.

Looking down and to the right, Dean sees Cas sitting on the floor, fully dressed, an open laptop and stack of reports on the coffee table before him, and experiences a moment of severe cognitive dissonance. Sitting up, he shivers at the brush of cold—but not death cold—air against his bare arms and decides clarification is in order, and also, the bathroom, and guess which one isn’t gonna wait.

“Thanks,” he says in Cas’s direction, grabbing the topmost blanket and bracing himself for the cold hell of bedroom and emerging into the toasty-warm bathroom in which a mysterious space heater has appeared that was definitely not there last night. He blinks once before shutting the door and shoving a nearby towel at the bottom to conserve the heat and moves on.

Turning on the shower, Dean takes a quick piss and mindlessly brushes his teeth, glancing up and realizing by the steam that the shower’s ready. Stripping down—not entirely a punishment for once—he steps into the steamy fog and sighs at the rain of hot water against his skin before reaching for the soap and gets to business while thinking of absolutely nothing that would make this less an exercise in cleanliness, because reasons.

Climbing out, he reaches for a clean towel and starts to dry off, startled by sharp, unexpected soreness when he turns his head. Frowning, he reaches up, fingertips finding the spot without effort; pressing gently, he catches his breath at the flare of pain and remembered heat. Crossing to the sink, Dean wipes the mirror clean of fog, staring at the blurred but unmistakable purpling hickey just above the curve of his shoulder, and higher, the purple-blue shape of Cas’ teeth. Reaching up, he watches his fingers skim over the bruised skin, and the dull flicker of pain confirms it’s not a hallucination. Also (he checks), yeah, not a single goddamn sheep.

He’s just about ready to think when the face in the mirror catches his attention—mirror, when did they get a mirror—and he freezes, unable to look away. Startled green eyes watch him as he slowly reaches up, hovering uncertainly over the fading bruise on his cheek from Mark’s fist and watches blankly as a thumb sweeps across it. It’s stupid, he gets that, but it’s only when he sees his own wince at the low ache that it registers that the face he’s looking at is his own.

Hands shaking, he traces over the pale skin—way too pale, sunlight would help a lot—following the sharp curve of his jaw, the stretch of his forehead beneath the fringe of wet hair, the tiny split at the corner of his mouth and over his lips, wet, dark hair clinging to his cheeks—he may need a haircut—but there’s nothing but warm, perfectly normal flesh at every touch, no peeling, rotting horror grinning at him from the mirror and that can’t be right. Looking at his arm, he stares at the twisted ropes of scars on his inner arm, but his eyes keep darting away, taking in the firm flesh around it, tracing the building muscle up his arm, and the mirror reflects the same goddamn thing, like this is—like….

Stepping back a few steps, Dean searches frantically for the thing he saw in the mirror that day—a corpse still walking, still breathing, still living when it should be long dead—but even the ghost recedes at the sight of the thin but definitely living body, complete with fucked up scarred arm, the fading yellow remains of a sparring session with Mark, and newer purple smudges pressed into the sharp bones of his hips in the shape of Cas’s fingers.

He’s still trying to work out what to do next when there’s a knock on the door before it opens, and even the chill air that hits him before it closes again isn’t enough to penetrate.

“’I have seen all the works that are done under the sun,’” Cas quotes softly, “’and, behold, all is vanity and like grasping the wind.’” The blue eyes drop to Dean’s feet and take the scenic route back up, an ice age passing before he reaches Dean’s face, raising an eyebrow. “Not that I blame you. I could look at you all day.”

“Not,” Dean grinds out, wondering how to explain or if there is a sane explanation for this, “helping.”

“I brought you coffee.” Dean jerks his gaze to Cas, who is—holding a steaming cup of coffee. And holding it out, even. “I thought it might help.”

Luckily, he recognizes Dean’s decision-making capabilities aren’t up to anything right now, crossing the two feet between them to put the cup in his hands before leaning back against the wall beside the sink, like he wants to consider the entire package from a new angle. Not sure what else to do, Dean takes a drink, and it does help, or at least, gives him something to do.

“Know thyself,” Cas says quietly. “I thought once it was because I formed your body anew that it defined the human ideal. I’ve seen and known many human bodies since then, however, and none have ever compared.”

“You thought…” He swallows hastily at the not-crack in his voice; this is getting ridiculous. “You said I looked fine when I looked like a corpse.”

“You’re without flaw,” Cas answers. “By definition, that makes that which contains you perfect.” Tilting his head, he smiles slowly, adding in a long, appreciative once-over just in case Dean’s not paying attention. “Looking at you now, however—there’s nothing to do but kneel before such in abject worship.”

Why does that sound familiar? “Did you just…” Cas’s smile widens. “Did you just quote hippofucker?”

“One of his less offensively terrible efforts,” Cas concedes with a shrug. “And at this moment, difficult to resist enacting, but needs must. Amanda and Joe left to visit the other cabins, doubtless sharing the undeniably exaggerated story of surviving a long night listening to us have sex.”

Dean blinks.

“And help Brenda in the mess, I think,” Cas adds, attention obviously somewhere south of Dean’s face. “They said they’ll see us tonight. Presents may be involved, they weren’t entirely clear.”

Dean wonders if it’s just him, or this sounds like a report he’s taking naked in the bathroom in front of the mirror while drinking coffee and being—looked at—by Cas. Taking another sip, he nods; that’s actually what’s happening, got it. “Patrol?”

“The snowing stopped an hour before dusk, and they appreciated it very much, though less than they would have it had happened earlier,” Cas answers promptly. “The camp continues to be alive, all the lights in the camp are now red and green, and the posts are decorated with wreaths of various levels of quality but great earnestness.”

He tilts his head toward the space heater. “That?”

“Kyle’s on patrol and therefore has no need of it,” Cas says reasonably. “Mel’s team arrived back an hour ago and states the others were only a few hours behind her, so everyone should be here in time for the insert winter celebration of your choice dinner, pie, and bonding event this evening in the mess.”

He lowers his cup warily. “There’s gonna be singing, isn’t there?”

“You’d think those who aren’t Christian would have no interest in—or reason to—memorize popular holiday songs, and you’d be wrong,” Cas says, tilting his head before finally remembering Dean has a face, too. “I have perfect pitch.”

He nods, taking another drink.

“My relative pitch is equally flawless, and neither are affected by my sobriety or lack thereof,” he continues, and Dean doesn’t think he’s imaging a slightly frantic edge to his voice. “Only two people in this camp know what pitch is or approach understanding its importance in vocal music, and nothing is improved when vocalization is done in groups.”

“Can you sing?” Dean asks suddenly; that the Host doubled as a holy choral group he knew—kind of—but the idea of Cas singing is impossible and awesome and something that has to happen. Tonight, even.

Cas’s eyes narrow: that would be yes, then. “I’m not singing.”

So Cas is singing tonight, and he’s already got the beginnings of a plan on how to make that happen.

“About last night—” Cas starts.

Cup frozen half-way to his mouth, he stares at Cas, who stares back as the silence goes from weird and uncomfortable to deeply uncomfortable, easing into vaguely charged and rushing past ominous to settle into goddamn portent of disaster to come. Worse, it keeps going, and while he’d normally appreciate Cas literally unable to come up with anything to say, this isn’t normally.

“You realize,” Cas says abruptly, eyes fixing on the wall behind Dean’s shoulder and warning him nothing good can come of this, like there was any chance of anything else, “that it’s been a very long time since the last time I—”

“You really want to go with that?” Dean bursts out incredulously, barely remembering he’s holding a coffee cup and hastily setting it down on the sink. “You gotta be kidding me!”

Cas closes his eyes, making a face like he’d do just about anything to not be here, and hey, that makes two of them. It might be true (don’t think that), but the first fucking rule of regrettable hookups is you don’t say they’re regrettable fucking hookups. Jesus, someone should have broken down for Cas how it works, which is either climb out the window in shame (not recommended, especially when unexpected rose bushes make an appearance, but come on, it was fucking dark) or fake it like it’s your new religion until you can get away, like a goddamn normal person. He’s almost ready to explain it himself—education is never wasted, and he’s gotta man up and deal with it now—but that would be after he’s calm enough to pretend he doesn’t want to throw up or at least blame doing it on the whiskey. Before and after punching something really fucking hard.

Then Cas opens his eyes, and the flat glare almost knocks him back a step. “You….”

He waits for it, but… “Me.”

“No one is this oblivious,” breathes Cas himself, without any trace of irony. “You have a habit of undressing in front of me—sometimes while carrying on a conversation—and that would in itself be fine if I wasn’t aware that habit dates from the only witnesses were your father or your brother—”

“Uh, I never fucking stripped down in front of them!” Dean exclaims, horrified.

“—and I am not your brother,” Cas continues viciously, ignoring him. “Nor is this a vessel in which biological urges have no particular meaning. I apologize if this wasn’t clear—though how you could miss it is a mystery—not only do I feel them, I’ve spent my entire mortal existence indulging them at every possible opportunity. That I don’t at this time is quite literally due to the subject. Look in the mirror.”

Dean asks, “What?”

“Look,” Cas grates out, “in the mirror, Dean.”

He does; it might actually be the safest choice in the room right now.

“Thank you,” Cas says. “Now set aside your inexplicable lack of vanity and objectively consider what exactly I’ve been observing in all its states of dress, undress, and on occasion, also wet. Do we understand each other or do my masturbation habits need to be described as well?”

Dean tries to think of a response to that: for some reason, he’s pretty sure sorry would do the exact opposite of help, not to mention be a huge fucking lie. “Oh.”

“That’s not an excuse, however. You were somewhat drunk last night,” Cas adds in a calmer voice, which is why it takes a second too long for Dean to register where this is going and stop it. “I apologize for taking advantage of your trust last night and I hope that this won’t be a source of discomfort for you or make you less comfortable in my presence.” He hesitates before visibly making an effort. “If you feel that—perhaps I should consider other arrangements to our—”

“Shut up,” Dean says, and briefly acknowledges the miracle of Cas actually doing it before adding, “No.”

Cas wets his lips, looking away. “Dean—”

“You’re not moving out because of last night, Jesus!” Dean interrupts. “Why the hell would you even think—”

“I am, actually, perfectly willing—though not necessarily eager—to commit myself to a life of celibacy and unsettlingly frequent masturbation—though we will need a far more efficient water heater and maybe two at this rate—”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean interjects for form’s sake.

“—as long as that life includes you,” Cas finishes in a display of touchingly fucked up—something, holy shit, is this happening? “So if you need time to—feel things—and my presence hinders that in some way, then yes, I can temporarily find other accommodations until you—stop feeling those things and I can return.” He pauses, and Dean sees the flicker of fear he can’t hide anymore. “I don’t—don’t want anything to change. I can’t lose you, Dean.”

“You won’t,” Dean says, ready to carve that in stone somewhere or tattoo it on Cas’s body—not the time, not the time, but for the record, he can think of a few places, not the fucking time—if that gets the point across. “Ever, Cas. Not even on the table.”

For a moment—in which Dean thinks how to subtly get rid of Cas and try that shower thing, fuck, not the time—it’s almost like it’s over but no, it’s not, because this is Cas, and also, they’re on his favorite fucking subject and it’s way too late to start running. Like the starting sequence of a horror movie, Cas tilts his head, subjecting him to—fuck his life—a mirror-perfect copy of Sam at his most earnest and talking about feelings, practically oozing sympathy and support for Dean’s—feelings.

“If it helps,” Cas tells him seriously, “when sexuality and biology are in competition, biology will always win.”

This isn’t happening; the only world that he should have to listen to this speech is one where he both got off and feels guilty about it, and for lack of a goddamn sweatshirt being thrown, one of those at least would be true.

“Human bodies are designed to enjoy sex and aren’t discriminating on how they get it; sexuality and attraction, on the other hand, are…” He pauses, making a face. “Baffling, but one adjusts, I suppose. Generally, there comes a point where the gender or sex of the individual providing stimulation is secondary—if that—to the desire that they keep doing it.” Over…no, just a dramatic pause: this is Cas. “I assure you, even if I’d jerked you off last night, you’d be just as heterosexual today as you were before.”

He could have had Cas jerking him off last night.

Naturally brings up all the other things that can be accomplished on a couch with a willing Cas and a lot of enthusiasm, because what this conversation lacked was goddamn biology and sexuality working together to fuck up his life, so glad they joined the party. He didn’t even get off, for fuck’s sake, and now he has to deal with a morning after no one should have to face on top of it, and this much is perfectly clear; whoever threw Cas’s sweatshirt back on the coffee table isn’t surviving to dusk.

“Yeah,” he agrees helplessly. “Got it.”

“Good,” Cas says, relaxing, but no, it’s not over yet. “If you want to talk about it, I can give you a historical perspective of humanity’s relationship with sex and lust throughout the ages. That might give you some context on—how you may feel.” The pause is brief but ominous, and Dean can see the next question forming before his eyes and braces himself for impact. “I should have asked this earlier; how do you feel?”

Essay question, two page minimum, and here’s the subject: explain Hamlet’s relationship with his dad, how life shouldn’t mimic high school number three on the first day of English class, and also, his goddamn feelings. Pick up your goddamn pen and get to writing already, and by the way, you know the answer to this question, so what are you waiting for?

Dean looks at the shape of his life looking at him worriedly: not a goddamn thing, so fuck off. I got a life to start writing. First, though: get out of the goddamn bathroom and start working on the details.

“Kind of hungry,” he says honestly, grinning into the worried blue eyes and watching them clear in transparent relief. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Blueberry pancakes,” Cas answers promptly, and he raises his eyebrows to remind Cas he heard what Amanda said about fruit. “A private transaction with one of the residents a few weeks ago. I was saving them for a special occasion.”

Dean knows his street prices, but he’s not sure of the ounce of pot-to-dried blueberries conversion rate (or acid-to-blueberries, for that matter) and honestly, kind of doesn’t want to. “Cool.” He also doesn’t want to acknowledge he’s naked—has been for this entire conversation—and a very important part of his future just got decided during a quite literal identity crisis in the fucking bathroom (along with hearing a patrol report and finding out Cas can sing), but that’s kind of undeniable at this point. It happens, moving on. At least out of the bathroom.

“I’m gonna get dressed,” he decides; step one to getting out of the bathroom already is clothes.

Cas makes a disappointed sound. “If you must.”

The stack of clothes on the toilet isn’t a surprise; on a guess, they appeared while he was in the shower, around the time that the mirror got hung, and then Cas waited patiently in the freezing bedroom to make sure what Dean saw this time reflected at him what was actually there. When he fit this plan (or knew there was a thing that needed a plan) into his morning between patrol, worrying about Dean’s reaction to last night, and getting a game plan together for worst case scenario is anyone’s guess, but of course he did.

It takes him two tries to pick up the boxers; he won’t fuck up, not this time.

Boxers accomplished, he looks at Cas—yes, he’s watching, good. “Uh, the undressing thing….”

“Please don’t apologize for that, and if possible, forget I ever mentioned that particular habit.” Dean sees one corner of his mouth trembling, a smile hovering behind his eyes. “No need to think of it at all.”

“Good.” Tugging on the sweatpants, he pulls the t-shirt over his head and turns around. “Need help with breakfast?”