Chapter 6: The Hunt for New Bonds
The quiet in the sacristy had been deep, but it couldn’t last. Not with Dean Winchester. The post-coital haze was pleasant, a warm blanket over his senses, but beneath it, the old wiring was sparking. The need to do something, to have a purpose beyond the moment, began to itch under his skin.
He shifted, the silk sticking to his back. “So, what’s the cosmic plan here? We just… live in this ruined church forever?”
God turned his head, galaxies spinning languidly. “The ‘cosmic plan’ is presently enjoying the lack of one. It’s novel.”
“It’s boring,” Dean said, though the corner of his mouth twitched. He sat up, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Look, I get it. Heaven, Hell, the whole production number—you’re over it. I chased things for a living. Now I’m just… here.” He gestured around the velvety decay. “Feels like retirement. And I’m not that old.”
Jesus propped himself on an elbow, studying him. “You miss the hunt.”
“I miss having a direction. A cause.” Dean looked at them, each impossibly beautiful, each his. “This, us… it’s everything. But my engine’s still running. Maybe we could… I don’t know. Find others.”
Samandriel, curled against God’s side, lifted his head. “Others?”
“Like you,” Dean said, meeting the angel’s blue eyes. “Ones who don’t fit. Angels who got lost in the shuffle. People who’ve seen too much and have nowhere left to go. Ones who need a family that doesn’t play by the old rules.”
A slow smile spread across God’s face, the kind that made the candle flames flare. “A new congregation.” His clawed fingers stroked Samandriel’s golden hair. “Built not on fear or duty, but on this.” He meant the tangled limbs, the trust, the raw honesty of skin on skin.
“Scouting mission,” Dean said, the old hunter terminology coming naturally. “See who’s out there yearning for something real.”
“I’ll go.”
Samandriel’s voice was firm. He untangled himself and stood, his grace a visible, gentle glow under his skin. The shyness was gone, burned away. In its place was a steady resolve. “I know what it is to be alone. To feel unworthy of connection. I can find them.”
Jesus nodded. “Your grace will be a beacon to those adrift.”
Samandriel leaned down, kissing God, then Jesus, then Dean—a quick, firm press of lips that tasted of promise. “I’ll return before the moon is high.”
He stepped back, and with a sound like unfurling wings and a flash of golden light that illuminated every dust mote and saint’s face in the glass, he was gone. The air fizzed in his wake.
The library felt suddenly quieter, emptier. Dean’s restlessness returned, sharper now.
“He’ll be alright out there?” he asked, looking at God.
“He is powerful. More than he knows. And he carries our love with him. That is a formidable armor.” God’s gaze drifted to the towering shelves. “Now, we wait.”
But waiting was Dean’s worst skill. He paced between the aisles, his fingers brushing cracked leather spines. Summa Daemonica… Liber Ignis… Junk to most, scripture to him. A lifetime spent in places like this, but never for this.
A hand caught his wrist, warm and familiar.
“Dean.”
Jesus stood close, his hazel eyes soft in the candlelight. The faint scars on his wrists were pale against his skin. “You set a thing in motion. That is purpose enough for now. Let the purpose wait a moment.”
He guided Dean backward into a shadowy alcove where the shelves crowded close. The smell of old paper and beeswax was thick here. Jesus pressed him against the sturdy oak, the wood solid against Dean’s bare back.
“We have time,” Jesus murmured, his voice a low vibration against Dean’s throat. His hands went to Dean’s belt, the buckle clinking softly in the quiet.
Dean’s breath hitched. “Here?”
“Everywhere is consecrated ground now.” Jesus sank to his knees, his hair falling forward. He looked up, and the devotion in his eyes wasn’t servile—it was hungry, claiming. He freed Dean, his touch sure and unhurried.
From a worn velvet armchair a few paces away, God watched. He had manifested a simple robe of deep space-black, but it was open. One clawed hand rested on the arm of the chair, the other stroked slowly along his own thigh, nails leaving faint, glowing trails on his skin. His galaxy eyes were fixed on them, a silent, appreciative audience.
Dean’s head thumped back against a shelf. “He’s just gonna watch?”
“He enjoys the show,” Jesus said, his breath hot. “And I enjoy showing him what’s mine.” Then he took Dean in, his mouth a miracle of heat and wet pressure.
A groan ripped from Dean’s chest. His hands went to Jesus’s hair, tangling in the chestnut strands. It was overwhelming, the contrast: the sanctity of the place, the utterly profane act, the feeling of being worshipped by a god while another watched with star-bright eyes. His hips stuttered forward.
Jesus worked him with a relentless, tender expertise. He knew Dean’s body, its rhythms and tells, from lifetimes of spiritual connection condensed into these past weeks of physical discovery. A hum of pleasure vibrated against Dean’s skin, and the sensation shot straight to his core.
“Look at him,” Jesus whispered, pulling off for a moment, his lips slick and swollen. “See how he delights in us.”
Dean forced his eyes open, his gaze blurry. God’s hand was moving faster now, his claws digging lightly into his own flesh, his lips parted. A low, cosmic rumble, like distant thunder, emanated from him. The sight was wildly potent—the most powerful being in existence, unraveling just from watching.
“Christ,” Dean choked out.
“Yes,” Jesus said, a sly smile on his mouth before he swallowed Dean down again, deeper.
That did it. The coil snapped. Dean came with a broken shout, his knees buckling, held up only by the shelf and the mouth on him. Jesus took it all, gentle swallows, his hands firm on Dean’s hips until the last tremor passed.
Silence, broken by Dean’s ragged breathing and the soft, slick sound of God’s hand moving faster in his chair.
Jesus rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He turned to his Father, his expression soft but edged with command. “Your turn.”
He crossed to the chair. God looked up at him, a question in his swirling eyes. Without a word, Jesus gently pushed God’s hand away and took its place, sinking to his knees before the chair just as he had for Dean. He leaned forward and took God into his mouth.
The rumble became a sharp, shuddering gasp. God’s claws sunk into the velvet of the armrests, tearing it. His head fell back, silver hair cascading. “My son.”
Dean, still leaning against the shelf, his body humming, watched. The hierarchy was fluid, beautiful. Jesus, who had just commanded Dean, now served his Father with the same focused intensity. And God, who could snap existence with a thought, surrendered completely to the sensation.
It was over quickly. God cried out, a sound like a collapsing star, and Jesus held him through it, steadying him as his celestial form flickered with released light.
In the aftermath, the library felt different. Not just a repository of dead knowledge, but a living, breathing space. Their space.
Jesus stood, returning to Dean. He kissed him softly, and Dean could taste the unique, electric essence of the Divine on his lips.
God slowly sat forward, his form stabilizing, a deep peace settling over his terrifying beauty. “Your restlessness brought us a new purpose, Dean Winchester,” he said, his voice warm gravel. “And your impatience gave us a perfect way to pass the time until our angel returns.”
Dean let out a shaky laugh, finally pushing off the shelf. The itch was gone, replaced by a solid, steady certainty. The hunt had changed shape, that’s all. The quarry was no longer monsters, but lonely hearts. The weapon wasn’t a blade or a bullet, but this ragged, perfect bond they were building.
He listened. Beyond the soft breaths of his lovers, he imagined he could hear it—the faint, echoing calls of countless lonely souls, waiting for a beacon in the dark. Samandriel was out there, their first emissary. And Dean was ready. Not with a gun, but with an open door.
“He better hurry back,” Dean said, pulling Jesus close. “We’ve got work to do.”