Dean slumped a little, closing his eyes and turning away again. He had no idea how Cas managed to be so simple and yet so unbelievably complicated all at the same time, and he really didn’t know why he always felt it necessary to drag Dean into it, too. Cas needed a hobby—a different hobby that wasn’t “completely jack up Dean Winchester’s life to the point that he wants to put his own head in a meat grinder”.
He glanced back up at Cas, pursing his lips a little. “Okay,” he sighed tiredly. “Here—this would just thrill me. Just…tell me if you are…okay with what…just happened, and not just because you think it’ll make me happy. Did you—” Christ, this was awful, because he had to spell it out because Cas was a moron, “—like that, at all?” He winced, shuddering a bit.
Cas’s mouth opened but then shut just as quickly and he went to looking rather studiously at the floor. Dean’s eyes narrowed as he watched him fidget, his eyes flicking up at him but then cutting away just as quickly, his cheeks darkening as he squirmed.
Dean had had a lot of trouble lately reading Cas’s moods and intentions. He really couldn’t remember the last time he’d managed to guess what Cas was feeling, and he didn’t think that he and Cas had been on the same page conversation-wise once over the past two days. But Dean knew that look—he’d seen it plenty of times on people who were way better at hiding their emotions, and he could spot it every time.
Dean probably would’ve laughed at the sight of Cas’s new libido doing battle with his inner Angelic Legion of Decency if it weren’t for the fact that said libido was pointed right at him.
So. He did like it. It wasn’t as bad as Dean thought it was. No, that was wrong—it was just as bad, if not worse. It just wasn’t so bad in the “potential molestation” department. Still meant he had to deal with the fact that, in some weird way that neither of them really got, Cas had the hots for him.
Dean reminded himself to never, ever think that thought again.
He leaned his elbows on his knees again, now regretting that he had decided to come up here completely sober—maybe drinking would’ve made this whole situation easier. At the very least, he probably wouldn’t have cared as much.
Oh, but that wouldn’t be fair to Your Own Personal Jesus over there, would it? his mind sneered at him. He jerked irritably, hating his inner monologue sometimes, but then wearily looked back over at Cas.
He was still looking at the floor, which meant Dean was free to watch him without fear of Cas looking at him. He was a lot twitchier now, he realized. Dean hadn’t really had time to notice any of the differences the last time he’d been human, but he noticed now. It was bizarre, how he’d never noticed how still Cas had been until he suddenly wasn’t anymore. His shoulders slumped, he shifted because he was uncomfortable, and he picked at the hem of his shirt. He kept fidgeting because he couldn’t scratch at his ribs, he blinked often, and the only thing that ever truly focused his gaze anymore, the way it had always been before, was, well…Dean himself.
He was different. Except how he was the same—the same awkward idiot who was loyal to a point that Dean almost had trouble understanding. He was just Cas.
Dean blinked when Cas suddenly looked up at him, and Dean could tell he was still confused and worried and unhappy and embarrassed and eager to please and a whole bunch of other emotions he had no idea what to do with. But even with all of that, he knew he wanted to make Dean happy.
Dean had his hand on Cas’s shoulder before he even knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to try and explain things, but what good would that do? This situation was…well, inexplicable. That, and even if he could put into words what the hell was going on, Cas probably wouldn’t get it anyway. He wasn’t an angel anymore, except he still was an angel—still Cas, who just Didn’t Get It. Telling him anything was pointless—and besides, Dean didn’t do well with the whole “telling” thing anyway. He preferred to let actions do the talking, hence the reason he always shot first and asked questions later.
So show him, simpered the Sam-Voice again.
His hand was already sliding across Cas’s shoulders to the back of his neck, pulling him forward. He wasn’t really sure where to put his other hand—see, if he was with a chick, he’d know exactly where to put it, but he brushed that thought away ‘cause it pissed him off. His edgy mental bitching was interrupted when Cas startled him by not just letting himself be passively led this time—he seemed to know what Dean was doing and so leaned into it, and Dean tensed when Cas put a hand on his shoulder in return, twisting to face him. That almost made Dean want to push him off again—what had happened before when Cas stopped being passive was not okay. But there were those big blue eyes again, and they were all Dean could see—just those, just…Cas.
He wasn’t sure if he was happy or not that he couldn’t tell who started it this time. Maybe we just met in the middle, he thought vaguely as Cas leaned against him, kissing back.
It wasn’t all that terrible. With his eyes closed, he didn’t have to look at everything that was attached, and if he just kept one arm around his shoulders and the other around his lower back, he couldn’t feel everything that was missing. There was the occasional disturbing scrape of stubble, but he was already getting pretty good at avoiding it (Jesus Christ). However, he was definitely making Cas shave the first chance he got whether he wanted to or not, and made a mental note to never, ever try and pick up a girl again when he wasn’t silky-smooth himself, because he’d never known until now just how goddamn uncomfortable that was.
Dean felt Cas’s sigh as much as heard it, but he started a little when Cas’s hand was suddenly on the side of his neck, his fingers curled around the back and the pad of his thumb against his jaw, hesitant and shy again. That…was nice? He was going to go with that, because the other options would probably result in violence and he didn’t really want that.
All this sissy stuff was giving him too much opportunity to think about what he was doing. Dean braced himself, and then let his mouth open a bit, and when he felt Cas’s do the same he slipped his tongue out, feeling his slightly chapped lips and that same cut on his lip that he’d given him last night all scabbed over now and—yep, there it was. Cas’s breath caught and his spine stiffened and Dean felt the fingers in his hair twitch—
He was ready for it this time and managed to keep from getting knocked over when Cas suddenly launched himself at him. He held his ground, refusing to let Cas shove him anywhere. Good God, where did he get ideas like this? Why did he only have two speeds?! With a bit of a jolt he realized that Cas was still bearing down on him and the ropy nerd was actually managing to push him backwards, so with a grunt Dean yanked him around, using his own momentum against him, and Cas landed with a soft thump and a creak of springs with Dean hovering over him. See, Sammy, this is someone who’s confusing reality with porn, he thought in irritation. Well, Cas’s TV privileges were officially revoked, because this was not Casa Erotica, dammit, this was real life and he had better slow down.
Cas had both hands knotted in Dean’s hair, kissing as fiercely as before as he tried to lunge up off the bed, but Dean didn’t let him and just used his weight to press him down into the mattress. He knew how to make the little punk calm down now and was going to use that to his advantage: he just had to hold his breath longer. Dean’s hand touched warm flesh; Cas’s shirt had ridden up in this latest battle, and he didn’t miss how Cas trembled slightly when he touched him. Forcing himself not to think about how messed up it was to be doing it when there was nothing up there to grope and so no reason to do it, he slipped his hand under the hem and up his side, brushing Cas’s uninjured ribs, his fingertips lightly smoothing over the cuts and bruises he felt on the way, careful to stay gentle.
It wasn’t much by way of petting, and by all rights shouldn’t have made Cas quiver like he did. However, Dean wasn’t gonna complain when it did the job, keeping Cas distracted and pin-able. He kept his writhing attempts to crawl on top of him firmly squashed, and let Cas get some air before covering his mouth with his own again and muffling the breathy and decidedly girly moan he’d been letting out.
Cas’s hands were moving restlessly now across the fabric covering Dean’s back. Oh, great, now he was using Dean for inspiration—if Cas tried to wrestle him down on his back like this, he was gonna get his skull thumped for his trouble. He could feel the heat of Cas hands through his shirt and the way they flexed whenever Dean pressed against him a certain way or teased him with his tongue. One hand stayed on his shoulder, pulling him down since Dean wouldn’t let him up, while the other skated down his side, across his back to dig into the flesh just above his waistband, and then down—
Dean tore his mouth away from Cas’s, jerking back with a strangled yell of indignation as he reached around and grabbed Cas’s wrist and yanked his hand away and off his ass, thank you very much. He pinned his hand up near his head, glaring down at him until Cas’s dazed look slowly started to clear.
The torrent of outraged cussing he’d been about to unleash on the grabby bastard evaporated when he suddenly realized that Cas was on his back. On the bed. And Dean was pretty much on top of him.
When the hell had that happened?
He didn’t really have any time to consider it. As he sat there, frozen, he saw that Cas was opening and closing his mouth and trying to talk, but even worse he saw that familiar panic and shame settling in and dammit, he didn’t want to see that anymore.
“Cas,” he managed, and was annoyed that his own voice was shaky and he was a little breathless himself. “Slow. The fuck. Down.”
Cas’s eyes cut to the side. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, but then he quickly looked back to him, his eyes wary, as if he expected Dean to hit him for it.
Dean resisted the urge to roll his own eyes, because this one was actually something he could apologize for—should apologize for, the handsy bitch—and released his wrist. He stared down at Cas, trying to figure out just what he needed to do next—and the solution quickly presented itself. Cas on his back underneath him—that needed to be remedied immediately, because that was Not Acceptable.
Dean still had one arm around and underneath his skinny frame, so he grit his teeth and shifted off him, wiggling around until he had room to roll on his side and drag Cas with him. Cas winced a little when he landed, and Dean stilled and waited for him to adjust himself so he wasn’t sitting on any bruises or anything. Unfortunately, once he stopped wiggling that just left them both there on their sides facing each other, inches apart, Dean’s hand resting on Cas’s hip. In bed together.
He was in bed with Cas.
Dean tensed when Cas’s hand suddenly came up again, and he didn’t relax even when he just…touched his neck. He wasn’t looking at Dean’s face; he was staring at the spot he was stroking, his hand moving slowly over the bare skin sticking out of the neck of his shirt. For a moment, Dean rather pointlessly wondered how the hell his hands could be that soft after all the shit he’d been through before he remembered: angel, frozen in one state until just yesterday. Right.
Cas’s thumb was right at the base of his throat, just rubbing in a way that wasn’t unpleasant (though it was weird), and then the rest of his hand dipped lower, catching the edge of his shirt and tugging it down a bit as his palm pressed against Dean’s collarbone. His hand still didn’t stop moving, trailing back up to his throat until his fingers rested on the side of his neck where his pulse was, and Dean could feel his own heartbeat throbbing against them.
It was a little startling when Cas suddenly met his eyes again, and that annoyed him; Cas had no right to friggin’ mesmerize him. He also had no right to somehow make him hold his breath for a second when he looked at him like that. And where the hell did he get off pushing closer and kissing him again?
He was so busy staring at Cas like an idiot that he forgot to actually start kissing back for a minute. But he finally did, going back to taking it as slow as possible. His eyes started to fall closed and he let them, just concentrating on the way Cas’s fingers kept stroking his cheek and his jaw and his throat, his kisses shallow and small again. There was a pause where Cas rested his forehead against his own and just breathed slowly, but then his mouth was back and that same damn fluttery heat came back too when Cas decided to show off what he’d learned, the tip of his tongue carefully (if a bit clumsily) tracing along Dean’s lower lip for just a moment before he went back to his soft, shy little kisses, his fingers moving to the hair at the back of his neck to try and direct him just like Dean had done to him.
Well, that wasn’t happening, because Dean was the one in charge here. He did let himself be pulled closer, but only ‘cause that’s what he wanted to do, and his own hand gripped Cas’s hip and tugged him forward as well, and then he was all up close and warm against his chest and Dean was unable to stop the sigh that escaped him. Dean wiggled until he freed up the arm he was laying on, sliding it forward until his fingers found the flesh of Cas’s neck. He curled his fingers around to the nape, pausing a moment when he felt Cas’s pulse against his palm—Jesus Christ, it was pounding so fast it felt like he was about to have a coronary!—before getting his hand back in his hair. Cas shivered, and his kisses got a little faster and deeper and Dean braced himself for another attack, but apparently Cas managed to restrain himself for a change.
Dean moved his other hand, mostly so he wouldn’t be gripping his hip anymore, and he came in contact with more skin—Cas’s shirt was riding up again. Without thinking about it, he slid his hand upwards over Cas’s flat but soft stomach and traced his fingers up over his ribs before he once again remembered with exasperation that there wasn’t actually anything up under there worth fondling. He paused, his hand pressed lightly against his ribs, but then just gave a weary mental shrug and kept going. Dean couldn’t help his uncomfortable twitch when his hand encountered the big expanse of nothing where there should’ve been something, dammit. But, no, it was all skinny and flat, no nice handful waiting for him. At least he was slim and smooth, Dean reflected, there was that, which was good; if Cas had quantum leaped himself into some big, hairy, Ron Jeremy lookalike, this so would not be happening.
When Dean’s thumb ran across his sorry excuse for a nipple, Cas’s breath hitched and his tongue was suddenly was suddenly out and pushing forward, but Dean was ready for him and met his seeking tongue with his own, refusing to give way until he’d pressed back enough to make him quiet down again. Jeez, he thought vaguely to himself as Cas broke off to pant and shudder against him, you’d think he actually had something to second-base.
When Cas blundered forward again, he only caught the corner of Dean’s mouth. Come on, man, pay attention—it’s hard to miss. But then he realized no, he hadn’t missed, because then he was dragging his mouth down across Dean’s jaw and, despite the unsettling scratch of his stubble, Dean couldn’t help his own intake of breath and sudden shiver when Cas’s lips found his neck, and—oh, fuck, why did that have to feel that way…
Feeling like he was in some kind of strange dream, he moved his fingers restlessly through Cas’s hair while his other hand circled around and down to press against Cas’s lower back, the skin there hot, and he pulled him closer. He tilted his head back, sinking into the pillow and exposing his throat to the seeking lips moving over it; he wanted to focus but that really wasn’t possible because Cas was clumsy and inexperienced and really didn’t seem to quite know what he was doing but it didn’t matter because the way he kissed and licked and sucked and bit him was driving him crazy and the slow heat unwound in his middle spread from his chest all the way down to his gut. Dean’s own hands had started wandering again, and when he squeezed Cas’s ass the sharp intake of breath cooled the flesh of his neck and then the shaky exhale warmed it back up and dammit, that was an accident but it didn’t matter because it made Dean mmm softly all the same.
And then Cas’s mouth was back on his, frantic and wild again, but this time when his lips parted Dean met him, matching his ridiculous enthusiasm with his own. He felt a knee bump his own, and then let him slide it forward between his legs, rubbing against the insides of his thighs. Dean felt hot—way too hot, and his jeans were getting tight and uncomfortable, and he wasn’t sure when he’d gotten both of his hands up under Cas’s shirt, but there it was. Really, he didn’t mind too much that there wasn’t any important stuff worth grabbing, because there was still skin there, something warm and soft to touch—and because it was Cas, and every movement of Dean’s questing fingers made Cas tremble and moan against his mouth. He could feel one of Cas’s hands on his waist, hot against his flesh, and he really didn’t have much time to wonder who told Cas he could get up under there because he was back to his neck, his eager wet mouth brushing over the all those same sweet spots and Dean didn’t have room in his brain for much else right now.
Dean felt a vague sort of outrage when he barely stopped himself from whining in protest when Cas’s mouth left his neck, but at least some corner of his brain managed to wake up and realize that Cas was tugging restlessly at the edge his shirt. He was apparently having trouble getting both his hands up under the tight hem, so Dean raised up to help. The room went briefly dark as fabric obscured his eyes, and then it was over his head and gone and he laid back down and pulled Cas with him, and he just started back up with the hollow between Dean’s collarbones and things were great again. Christ, his hands were everywhere, and they were so damn hot—every time he’d touched Cas before he’d been cold, distant, an angel, but now he was here and human and hot, burning Dean’s flesh every time he touched him. He reached down again with both hands this time and yanked Cas forward by his ass, feeling the sound of surprised pleasure against his mouth where Cas was kissing him, and Dean didn’t really care about the groan that escaped him ‘cause he’d just driven the knee that was still between his legs further up until it rubbed just right.
His hands skated up under Cas’s shirt again, pulling the hem up as he did. The motion sparked the idea, and a second later he’d bunched up the edge in his hands and tugged insistently upwards. Cas got the idea quick enough and sat up. Dean was amused when he all but tore it off of himself, flinging it away before practically falling back on top of him with a gasp that Dean heard himself echo when he suddenly felt so much skin against his own. Cas’s chest was flat but his stomach was soft and pressed against his as Dean stroked up and down his back, dragging his fingertips up the column of his spine before splaying his hands across his shoulder blades, holding him tight, keeping every burning inch of him tight against his chest. Cas clung desperately back, his hands buried in Dean’s hair as he kissed him hard and long enough to leave him breathless. Dean managed to get a gulp of air before he pushed Cas’s shoulders back, leaning up and pressing his open mouth against his neck, lightly sucking all over and then going back to trace each spot with his tongue. Cas shivered and moaned as Dean breathed against his collarbone, dipping his tongue into the well at the base of his throat before moving lower. He knew there weren’t any tits to kiss but it didn’t really matter because Cas’s hitching breath was worth it and then he was forcing Dean’s mouth back up to his own and pressing him back against the pillows.
The knee between Dean’s thighs was driving him insane, and he writhed against it to try and relieve some of that agonizingly-delicious pressure, but all he wound up doing was tangling his legs up with Cas’s so that neither one of them could really move away. His hands blundered upward, trying to find purchase against Cas, desperate to find some way to push closer, harder, but then Cas’s hand found his and pushed it back and into the pillow beside his head, his fingers lacing with Dean’s and squeezing tight, tighter, and Dean squeezed back, feeling like it was the only thing anchoring him on the earth. And then a long, low moan escaped him as Cas’s hips ground down against his own as he slanted his mouth back down Dean’s neck and lower, marking out hot lines with his tongue that cooled in his wake. Dean was gonna go crazy or explode, one of the two, because then Cas’s teeth were on his throat and his hands were stroking and dragging across his chest and sides and Dean slid his own hands down Cas’s back to come to rest at his waist, his thumbs digging into the hollows of his hipbones and pulling him down harder against him even as he thrust his own hips up to meet him, and that heat simmered hotter in his belly when they both couldn’t help but groan.
God, his jeans were too tight, way too tight, and things were gonna get ugly if he didn’t do something about it. He fumbled his way around between their hips, groping for his fly with one hand, and he managed to get his button open and then tried to work his zipper down, but Jesus, his fingers were like rubber and Cas was still moving on top of him, his hips rocking and pushing against him with nearly unbearable friction, and that hard ridge of flesh was rubbing against Dean’s hip as he moved—
His eyes shot open.
HOLY MOTHERFUCKING SHIT!
The sudden realization of exactly what was going on and exactly what he was doing and exactly what was touching him slammed into him so hard he couldn’t breathe for a second. Then he was twisting and thrashing, struggling to get his hand up so he could push Cas off and push—push that the fuck away from him! Cas didn’t notice, and oh Jesus Christ, why was he on his back, when had Cas gotten him on his back?! His hand was still pinned between their hips—because he’d been down there unzipping his pants, oh fuck fuck fuck, and he finally managed to yank it up and—no, no, no, please say that was not what—
Dean’s eyes flew upwards wildly up at the sound of Cas’s strangled gasp, and his entire body seemed to seize up the second Dean’s hand touched him. Cas’s hands had flailed up to grip Dean’s arms, and Dean caught sight of his face, all shock and rapture as he stared down between them, his mouth hanging open, his whole body trembling violently. Before Dean could even try to move again, his head snapped up, meeting Dean’s eyes with his own, and that fiery look was blazing on his face and he was way, way beyond reason now—
Cas’s hips jerked again, thrust forward against Dean’s hand, and both of them shuddered, this time though for entirely different reasons. But Dean couldn’t move, was frozen on the spot, struggling to do something—throw him off? Hit him? What?!
A plaintive moan snapped him back to attention; Cas’s face was buried against his neck right under his chin and he was shaking and writhing and panting on him, his fingers flexing on his arms as he pushed against Dean, rubbing himself against him, fucking humping him, and he—he—
No! He—he couldn’t do this! He could not just—just grab another guy’s dick—
A whimper cut through his panic, and the sound was so utterly desperate and just so completely wrecked—
Cas. It’s just Cas, goddammit! he snarled to himself, and when Cas next pulled away Dean felt the elastic band of his shorts, and then Cas thrust forward again and his fingers slid under and—oh, fuck—
The low, guttural groan Cas gave was almost enough to distract Dean from the fact that he’d just reached into his pants and deliberately grabbed his cock.
He wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse that he at least didn’t—didn’t have to move much or anything, because Cas seemed to be taking care of thing all on his own, driving his whole body against Dean’s hand. Dean mused crazily that this might have been the noisiest he’d ever heard Cas as he made all kinds of girly gasps and cries against his skin that made him almost sound like he was sobbing.
The whole thing was horrible and gross and embarrassing and just surreal because Dean really hadn’t wanted to do this, but the way it was, with the way Cas was grinding down against his own hips and making that horribly tantalizing pressure and rubbing, his own hard-on hadn’t subsided at all, was getting worse if anything, and—Jesus Mary and Joseph, what the hell was he doing—?!
Dean had never heard his name moaned like that in his entire life. He felt it against his throat, adoring and desperate and worshiping, Cas’s voice thick and shaky and his hitching breath so hot, and the sound of it shot through him and he felt his own arm tighten around Cas’s shoulder and then he felt his hand move, his fingers tightening slightly around—
Cas’s hand clenched hard on Dean’s arm with bruising force, and his whole body just seized up and too late Dean realized what—
Cas let out an almost agonized wail, his hips thrusting helplessly, and Dean felt something hot and thick spurting all over his hand.
That was not “something”.
Cas had just jizzed on him.
Cas had gone silent and still, the only sound in the room his hoarse panting, but Dean didn’t really notice. He couldn’t seem to move. He couldn’t even pull his hand out of Cas’s shorts. His brain was too numb, and all he could hear was what was running through it on repeat like a broken record.
You just gave a dude a handjob.
You just jerked Cas off.
Your hand is covered in angel spunk.
Oh, Jesus Fucking Christ in a sidecar.
His hand was covered in angel spunk.
Because he’d just given Cas a handjob. He’d jerked him off. He’d—
The sudden surge of nausea was the first thing that kicked in as his brain slowly began to reboot, because this was fucking disgusting. Sensory input started filtering in, and with it his dick just kind of wilted, his balls trying to crawl up inside of him as he suddenly was so aware of everything. Now he deliberately kept himself still because if he moved he might puke because then he’d feel it all over him, hot and sticky and gross, even more than he already was and that was too much. Everything was too much right now. What was all over his hand was too much. The way Cas was curled against him with his face buried in his neck was too much. The way his ragged breaths puffed against his skin was too much. The way Cas’s trembling hand had come to rest on his bare chest was too much. The fact that he had a bare chest at all was too much. The fact that Cas also had a bare chest was too much. The fact that he’d somehow been rolled onto his back was too much. The fact that his hand was still down the front of Cas’s shorts was too much. The fact that he could feel that the button on his jeans undone and the zipper halfway down was too much. The fact that he was lying in bed with a post-orgasmic and definitely male ex-angel on top of him was too much.
Too much. This was all too fucking much.
No, what was too fucking much was when he felt Cas’s hand move, start shakily brushing down his torso, and only when he got to Dean’s stomach did he finally realize what he was doing.
That did it.
The hell Cas was gonna touch his dick!
He was suddenly moving, shoving away and rolling as fast as he could out from under the limp guy on top of him. Only he hadn’t realized how close to the edge of the bed he was and even thought he swung his leg out to try and catch himself, he didn’t do it fast enough. With a painful grunt and an accompanying thud, he landed hard on the floor. But he didn’t stop moving; scrabbling up, he stumbled to his feet and bolted for the door, not looking behind him and certainly not looking down at his hand. As he flung himself out the door, his senseless fleeing suddenly gained purpose when he saw the open door at the end of the hallway. He didn’t care that he was probably thundering across the floor loud enough to wake up everyone else in the house; he just ran full-tilt for the bathroom, slamming and locking the door once he reached it and frantically twisting the hot water tap.
The water was still cold but he stuck his hand under it anyway and he felt his stomach twist and he felt sick when he finally saw it, saw all the thick, sticky white shit smeared all over him—Jesus Christ, why did Cas have to be so—so disgusting?! He wasn’t this nasty!
He scrubbed viciously at his hand with a washcloth and soap, rinsed off, and, even thought the water quickly heated up to nearly scalding, did it again until his hand was red and raw—he would’ve gladly scrubbed again if it wasn’t getting painful. Slamming off the water, he gripped the sides of the sink tightly, his eyes squeezed shut in his effort to get his nausea under control.
Had he really just done that?
Yes. Yes, he had. He had done it.
His jaw clenched as he took deep, shaky breaths in through his nose.
It was still all too much. What—that was not supposed to have happened! He had not gone into that room to do that. The thought hadn’t even entered into his mind at all. In fact, he’d purposefully been avoiding it, because godfuckingdammit, he didn’t do that shit!
Oh, but you do, Winchester, and you did, doesn’t matter you washed all the evidence down the sink, his mind jeered at him, and horribly, that voice sounded like Sam too.
After snarling that his subconscious could shove it up its ass (to which Snidely-Sam replied no, Dean was obviously the one who did that kind of thing and it made him want to shoot himself in the head just to shut it the fuck up), he counted to fifteen very slowly and finally opened his eyes. The black eye of the drain stared accusingly back at him as though asking why the hell Dean made it suck down all that nasty shit. He swallowed hard and slowly raised his head, forcing himself to look in the mirror.
He could barely look himself in the eye; when finally did, the image that greeted him was that of a shaky, pale, shame-faced, shirtless guy with his hair sticking up in all directions because he’d just let a dude have his way with him. He couldn’t hold his own gaze for long and looked back down, which wasn’t any better because he saw his fly was still open. Only fumbling a little, he zipped and buttoned his jeans again before making himself look back up, back into that mirror and back at himself.
Fuck him sideways, he had sex hair. Almost reflexively, he raised one of his hands to try and flatten down into some kind of order even as he looked at his mouth, which gave him away just as bad. He reeked of sex, which was both stupid and unfair because he hadn’t fucking had any. But if anyone caught him in here, they’d know—they’d know exactly what he’d been up to, from the way his hair was mussed to the way his lips were swollen to the dark red bruise where his neck met his shoulder—
His eyes widened and he jerked his head to the side, leaning forward and grabbing the light over the mirror to switch it on. The light blinded him momentarily but not long enough to miss it.
He had a hickey.
It wasn’t very big. But it was there, red and mottled and with faint teeth marks surrounding it.
Cas had given him a hickey. A very obvious hickey. That people could see.
He had a fucking hickey!
Outraged fury surged up from his gut so quickly it momentarily reduced him to a quivering tower of frozen indignation. But it didn’t last long, and in two strides he was at the door, nearly yanking the doorknob right off before he remembered he’d locked it, and once he got it unlocked he wrenched it open and was storming down the hall, his fists clenched and shaking, and he was going to go right back into that room and he was going to beat the feather stuffing out of that fucking angel.
Dean was almost sorry he’d left the door open in his haste to get away; kicking it open would’ve been really satisfying. Instead, he just burst through the doorway, one hand shooting out to slam it shut—
…And there was Cas, sitting up in the bed, his pale torso bright in the dim room, his hair a complete mess, looking sleepy and sated and still a little stunned but that worry was back, his eyes all big and forlorn as he anxiously twisted Dean’s discarded shirt in his hands, just sitting there waiting for Dean to come back and beat him up.
Okay. The only reason he wasn’t gonna do it was because he didn’t want to touch Cas again tonight—but he really wanted to strangle Cas, and it was the thought that counted.
He marched stiffly across the room to the bed and reached down to snatch his shirt from Cas’s hands, not really caring that it was pretty ridiculous to be feeling naked in front of him right now. He briskly shook it out and pulled it over his head, doing his best to ignore his burning face and neck, a sensation that only got worse as all they could do was just sit there and stare at each other in silence. Dean badly wanted someone to say something, but he had no idea what to say and was pretty sure he didn’t want to hear anything Cas would probably dream up.
Oh, look, Cas read his mind and started talking.
“You’re upset,” he said tentatively.
Oh, yes, that would be the first thing he’d say—and you have no fucking idea, you little pisswah! Dean snarled to himself. Well, at least he didn’t say he was sorry, though he had a feeling that was not far behind. But he wanted no apologies, especially not now, and he didn’t want to go to sleep knowing that Cas probably sat in here all night sobbing in his pillow because woe is him, Dean hated him. Rubbing his hand on the back of his neck, he took a breath through his nose, and managed to meet Cas’s eyes.
“Look,” he began, really not wanting to say this but saying it anyway, telling himself that it was stupid it was to be embarrassed about words after what they’d just done, “if you—if you really did talk with Sam this morning about…this, then you—know that I’m—I’m not upset, I just, uh…” He coughed uncomfortably. “…have to get used to…it.”
Despite seeming to understand what he was being told, Cas still looked all worried and fretful. “If…what happened—I didn’t mean—”
Dean quickly raised a hand to silence him—no, no, no, he did not want to hear Cas talk about that. “Cas, don’t,” he said flatly. “Just—seriously, don’t. I just have to…get used to…to things…being like…like this.” He paused, his arms crossed tightly across his chest as he tried to figure out what else to say.
His next words suddenly sprang to mind like he’d been struck by lightning. “Just do not talk to anyone about this,” he ordered adamantly. “I mean it—no one. No one needs to…to know about this.” Especially Sam, he wanted to viciously add, and for a moment he almost did, because Cas already blabbed God knew what to him, and if he said anything about this to his brother, he was gonna kill him over and over again. But he didn’t, because while Sam was the top priority, everyone else was pretty top priority, too. “Just don’t talk about it,” he repeated forcefully.
Cas just nodded, staring pitifully at the ground by Dean’s feet. Dean grimaced, turning away from him, and spotted a crumpled T-shirt nearby. Goddammit, don’t throw my clothes on the floor, he groused and, ignoring how his cheeks were burning, bent down and picked it up from the floor. “Here,” he grunted, tossing it at Cas. “Put that back on.” He did as he was told (as usual), and Dean shoved his hands in his pockets.
Cas finally looked back up at him, and Dean nearly groaned aloud when he saw he was still anxious and fretful, because he seemed to think he couldn’t do anything now that didn’t deserve a good beating after it was done. “Cas, stop being so—I’m not mad at you, dammit,” he said gruffly. Okay, so he was, but Cas didn’t need to know that. “I said I’d get used to it, all right? Just give me some time and we’ll—” He closed his eyes, took in a breath through his nose, and then stared as hard as he could at Cas as he steeled himself to say it. “We’re fine, Cas. This is—it’s fine.”
It wasn’t, not really, but it didn’t matter because Cas believed it. Dean could tell; his eyes just seemed to light right up and most of his gloom lifted and for a few seconds all Dean could see was that ridiculous hope and devotion and all those other things Cas felt for Dean that he patently did not want to think about again for the rest of the night because all those things looking out at him from those big blue eyes had led to him getting horizontal with a guy.
“Now just—” No. He was not going to tell Cas to go to bed or go to sleep because every single time he said that they wound up doing— “‘Night,” he blurted out and then turned to leave.
“Good night, Dean.” Cas’s voice was quiet and tired, but Dean still heard the adoration and, oh for fuck’s sake, gratitude.
He just nodded vaguely in Cas’s direction before making his escape, slipping out of the door and pulling it closed behind him.
Before he could truly escape and run down the stairs, he had to pause and lean heavily against the now closed door because the effort of not letting his rather wobbly legs roll up like window shades in front of Cas had taken quite a bit out of him. He closed his eyes, dragging his hand—definitely not that hand—across his face.
What the fuck, man?
After stopping himself from thumping the back of his skull against the door a few times because Cas was an idiot and would probably think he was knocking, he pushed himself away from the rough wood and shuffled downstairs, his brain feeling like mush. He managed to snap to some clarity when he rounded the stairs and spotted his brother, because panic tightened in his chest—oh shit, all that noise, had he woken up?!¬—but no, he was still asleep, his face turned towards the back of the couch against the cushions. He calmed down (a little), just standing in the room and staring at Sam, his arms hanging limply by his sides.
You like pussy. And you like Cas.
“Screw you anyway, Sammy,” his whispered into the darkness.
This all really wasn’t fair. Why was everybody so fine with this? This wasn’t something to be fine with. He certainly wasn’t fine with it! Maybe they wouldn’t be quite so fine with it either if they were the ones who had to go make out with a dude!
He twisted his head sharply to the side at the thought, as if trying to dislodge it. No—they simply didn’t get it because they were stupid and had no grasp of the situation.
Well, you certainly do have a grasp on it, don’t you?
Goddammit, if his inner monologue did shit like that one more time, he was going to take a power drill to his ear.
Dean glared down at Sam because there was no one else convenient, cramming his hands back into his pockets, before he remembered with something like horror just how much Sam knew about all this. Oh yes, he knew way too much, because he’d sat there today and chatted it up with Cas all about this, so this was all his fault, too, Dean decided. He remembered his previous plans for all the ways he was gonna make his bitch little brother pay, and he was already getting a few new ideas just watching him here, because he was asleep and Dean was wide awake, and there were all kinds of things he could do just here—
But then he realized that no, there was absolutely nothing he needed to do. He’d already had his revenge.
Because those were Sam’s shorts that Cas was wearing. Just knowing that Sam would be walking around in those shorts after they’d been angelically defiled was enough.
His shoulders slumped a little—he was simultaneously grossed out, vindictively pleased, and disappointed that his night of potential revelry and havoc had been put off. Oh well. He was tired anyway. Sighing irritably, he turned and made his way quietly out of the room and towards the back door. He figured he’d sleep in the Impala tonight. He really wanted to be alone for a while—and he definitely didn’t want to get waylaid tomorrow morning like he had today. But first, he needed to find his jacket—no way he was gonna let anyone here see what was on his neck.
And he had to wash his hands.
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