Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Hey man, can you c’mere for a second?”

The sound of Sam’s voice is sudden and loud in the comfortable silence of the bunker’s third archive storage room, and it startles Castiel out of his absorption in his work. 

He squints in the dim light as he looks up from the ledger he’s been writing in, documenting his third ethically dubious magical amulet of the day. This one, from what he can tell, compels its wearer to follow any command directed their way, and had been stuffed rather haphazardly into a box also containing six different coins and a candy wrapper, all of the non-magical variety.

It is these poor (and hazardous, frankly) organizational skills that have had Sam and Cas (occasionally accompanied by an unwilling Dean) spending a good deal of their free time in the past several months organizing these archives and creating a written record of their contents. 

Castiel puts said record aside now, setting it on a nearby stack of boxes before weaving his way between the dusty shelves to find Sam, where he appears to be contemplating an intricate stone tablet about the size of those penny paperback romances Castiel has come to enjoy so much lately.

“What is it?” Castiel asks as he comes to a stop beside Sam, looking down at the tablet with less curiosity and a great deal more wariness than he might have four hours ago, before he’d come to realize that Archive Room Three seems to contain the most unpredictable items in the Men of Letters’ collection. 

“I’m not sure,” Sam replies, moving the tablet closer to his face as though that might somehow grant him the ability to spontaneously comprehend an unfamiliar and ancient writing system. “I don’t recognize any of the symbols, and the relief images aren’t giving me much to work with. I thought you might be able to make sense of it?”

He offers the tablet then, and Castiel nods, moves to take it, and—

A jolt of heat runs through his entire body the moment his fingers make contact, fast and hot as lightning, and judging by the way Sam hisses in a sharp breath through his teeth, he feels it too. They make brief eye contact, but Sam looks away before Castiel can get a read on what he might be thinking.

This does not bode well. And if Castiel’s past experiences with tablets, magical artifacts, and Sam Winchester’s luck have taught him anything, it is that he really ought to start worrying.

He sighs, noting absently that his internal temperature has increased by 0.4 degrees since he first touched the tablet approximately thirty seconds ago, and that his face is beginning to feel strangely warm.

He scans the tablet, recognizing the writing as an early iteration of cuneiform, and as fascinating as that might be ordinarily (Castiel remembers fondly that period of human history, and Sam is probably the one person in Castiel’s life that might listen attentively were he to recount these memories), the information it conveys is… unfortunate, to say the least. 

As Dean might say, were he in Castiel’s place: son of a bitch.

Sam is still looking at him expectantly, waiting for his translation, and Castiel stares blankly at the tablet for a moment, contemplating his situation. He’d like to phrase this delicately, but he’s painfully aware of just how much that is not his strong suit. All he can manage is a grimace before Sam catches the scent of impending disaster and begins to fidget.

“What is it?”

“Well,” Castiel replies, mind going unhelpfully and uncharacteristically blank as his body temperature continues to rise and his insides begin to feel sort of funny. “We need to have sex or we’re going to die.”

It’s quiet for a second, and Castiel shifts on his feet, uncomfortable.

“...We— uh,” Sam seems lost for words, and Castiel is nothing but sympathetic. “What?”

“This tablet, it’s… a ceremonial fertility aid, of sorts. When we both laid hands on it simultaneously, it activated, so to speak. And now…”

“We need to have sex,” Sam sounds slightly breathless.

“Yes.”

“With each other.”

“It would seem so.”

“Or we’ll die.”

“That is what the tablet says.”

Sam runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “How?”

“I assumed you knew how sex typically works, Sam, but—”

“How will it kill us, Cas.”

“Oh. From what I can tell, the symptoms of arousal will worsen until they become fatal, unless the body achieves orgasm, fulfilling the requirements of the spell.”

“Oh, is that all?” Sam sounds strained.

“Penetration is also a requirement.”

Sam swallows hard, then swallows again for good measure. This is, for some reason, incredibly distracting to Castiel, and he flexes his hands as his fingers begin to feel oddly tingly. 

“That’s— specific. And your grace can’t… help fix this?’

If Castiel had a nickel for every time he’d been asked that question by one of the Winchesters, he would probably have enough money to buy them an apology gift for every time he’s had to tell them that no, his grace cant help, and he’s sorry. He makes a mental note to look into it, then mentally scratches it out when he considers just how awkward it would be to explain. He’ll just have to find some other way to apologize for his uselessness.

In lieu of an apology gift, Castiel tries to at least look apologetic rather than resigned when he confirms his suspicion with a hand on Sam’s forehead. “Unfortunately, my grace seems to have no power against this spell, as is evident in the way I find myself… similarly affected. I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Oh, god,” Sam laughs helplessly, almost hysterically, stumbling away and falling back against the shelf behind him. “We have to have sex or we… we’re gonna die of horny. Man, Dean’s gonna— oh, god, Dean.”

Castiel’s stomach swoops at the thought of Dean, and he looks down at his feet, noting somewhat distantly that he is visibly aroused. “What about Dean?”

Dean is currently in Sioux Falls, helping Jody with a hunt. Ostensibly. Castiel suspects, judging by the timing of Jody’s alleged request coinciding with just about the exact moment Sam had asked Dean to join them in excavating Archive Room Three, that the whole thing was just an excuse to leave. Frankly, there might not even be a hunt that needs helping.

For the first time since he left, Castiel is glad for Dean’s absence.

“We can’t have sex, Cas. It would kill him.” Sam sounds genuinely distressed even as he can’t tear his eyes away from Castiel’s mouth. “Well— no, he’d probably kill me first, then he’d kill himself.”

“I don’t understand the problem. It’s not like either of us wants this, but we don’t have a choice,” Castiel replies. “Surely he’d see that. Though I’m not sure why he’d care.”

Sam levels him with what Dean calls a ‘bitchface,’ which is somewhat impressive, considering his face is flushed and his eyes are dark with arousal. “Cas, when has Dean ever been rational about anything when it comes to you? Or me for that matter? He’s… I love him, he’s my brother, but the guy’s a little insane. He… Look— look at it this way: how would you feel if Dean had sex with one of your siblings?”

Castiel grimaces, a familiar, shameful jealousy twisting his gut. “He has.”

“Oh yeah. Anna.” Sam looks down, pursing his lips. “I forgot about that. But— how that made you feel—”

“It’s different, Sam,” Castiel snaps, the raging storm of emotion and mindless arousal inside of him making him feel much more brittle than usual. “The way I feel for Dean… it’s different than how he feels about me. And he’s much closer to you than I ever was to Anna. Frankly, I’m not sure the relation is applicable.”

Sam huffs, scruffing a hand over his chin. “Look, it’s not a perfect comparison, I know that. But listen, you’re missing the point. I know how you feel about Dean, Cas. I’m stuck in the middle of your weird… thing constantly, and I’ve been rooting for you guys since… I don’t know, since forever. The point and the problem here is that he cares about you, too, much more than you apparently know. So much that it makes him a little bit insane, like I said. And if we… do this… his brother and his best friend? His brother and the man he—”

“Sam, don’t. Please, this is hard enough already,” Castiel protests, shamefully aware of the pathetic note his voice has begun to take. “I… agree that he would react badly. If only because you’re his brother and I am his friend. So he doesn’t need to know. If we do this.”

“If,” Sam repeats derisively. “Is there any other way?”

Cas hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. “Nothing we can do with the time we have left. Judging by our physical symptoms, I estimate we only have around two hours to resolve this. That’s not enough time to find a spell, or— or a witch that’s willing to help us. I’m not even sure if either could help us. I’m willing to try, though, if that’s what you want. I’m aware that this situation is… entirely coercive in nature.”

“That’s one way of putting it. Doesn’t seem like we really have any choice here. I mean, we have a solution right in front of us,” Sam pushes off of the shelf and takes a single step towards Castiel. “And I feel… wrong knowing that neither of us really has any other option, here, but…”

“...I imagine Dean would be much more upset to return to find both of us dead,” murmurs Castiel, drifting closer to Sam almost subconsciously. “Than he would be to find out that we’d had sex because we had no other choice.”

“And you’re right— he doesn’t need to find out at all… And… it could be worse? I like you, man,” Sam makes a face. “Not… like this, usually, but if I had to be in this situation…”

“Mn,” Castiel rumbles as Sam’s hand comes to rest on his cheek. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine its Dean’s hand, and the thought is not accompanied by nearly as much guilt as it should be. “If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to— but I’m alright with it. If you are.”

“Yeah,” replies Sam, quiet, and then they’re touching, chest to chest, and Castiel gasps as his entire body rushes. “Let’s do it.”

…o0o…

There’s a moment of charged silence, then, and Castiel realizes that this is another one of those ‘easier said than done’ scenarios that have become so common in his life these days. 

Sam seems to have realized this, too, and he pauses, even as his hand creeps downwards to the small of Castiel’s back and rests there, warm even through several layers of clothing. “Let’s… how do you want to do it?”

“That’s a good question,” Castiel replies breathlessly. Now that Sam is touching him, the effects of the spell seem to have increased, and it’s becoming hard to think. “Not… not here…?”

“No,” Sam agrees, stepping away slightly, looking as though it pains him to do so even as his hand remains on Castiel’s hip. “Is my room alright? I have… things.”

Things. Things like… hmm. Sam’s eyes are particularly alluring in this light, and it makes it difficult for Castiel to maintain his train of thought. “Things?”

“Uh— lube. Condoms.”

“Good. Yes. Lubricant. Condoms,” Castiel repeats, his voice embarrassingly gruff. “Lead the way.”

They separate and stumble from the archive room and down the twisting hallway, which seems longer than it ever has before, though Castiel knows such a notion is impossible. It might be awkward, he notes distantly, were he not so completely aroused— they’re walking as far apart as the hallway allows, avoiding each other’s eye, and breathing like they’ve each just run a mile (so to speak— Castiel could run indefinitely without tiring, even though his grace is not what it once was; honestly it’s a little frightening how much of an effect this magic has had on him physiologically).

When they (finally) reach Sam’s door, they pause, making eye contact.

It takes Castiel a concerning amount of willpower to stop himself from reaching down and palming his erection through the front of his slacks.

“It’s getting—” Sam clears his throat when his voice cracks. “It’s getting worse. Are you sure—?”

“Sam,” Castiel all but whines, much to his own disgust. “Please.”

That gets them through the door, at least, and then it’s silent again as Sam shuts it behind them with much greater force than necessary before scrabbling at the buttons of his shirt. Castiel takes this as his cue to do the same, even as he can’t tear his eyes away from the inches of Sam’s bare chest being revealed to him all-too-slowly.

The trench coat and suit jacket are gone as quickly as he can manage, then shoes and socks, the blue tie right behind them, Castiel flinging it off somewhere to his left, but when Sam moves towards him, shirtless now, unbuckling his belt, Castiel forgets about his own half-buttoned shirt entirely, moving to shuck his pants as quickly as he can.

When his belt hits the floor, Sam stops, looking at Castiel (who is standing on the other side of the bed in a white button down and boxer briefs, feeling much less foolish than he probably ought to) like he’d enjoy nothing more than eating him alive. 

“Who…” Sam trails off as Castiel slips a thumb beneath the waistband of his underwear. He tears his eyes away sharply and clears his throat. “Who’s doing what? Like… uh. How are we doing this, Cas?”

“You should penetrate me, Sam,” Castiel says simply, ignoring the punched out sound Sam makes at his words, eyes tracking the rapid rise and fall of his friend’s broad chest. “I am an angel, which means—”

Sam begins unbuttoning his jeans, and Castiel finds it hard to remember what he was saying, suddenly. 

“—uh, it… it means you don’t have to worry about preparation, I can— I’ll be fine.”

With that, Castiel shucks his underwear, which had been growing steadily less bearable the longer he’d stood gazing at the newfound object of his body’s attraction. 

Sam looks— well, he looks a bit wrecked to see Castiel standing there, awkward as ever, gripping his cock and staring at him expectantly, and Castiel can sympathize, because he’s feeling pretty wrecked himself just at the sight of Sam’s well formed chest and stomach, and the mere thought of more skin being revealed to him has him shifting where he stands and biting his lip.

“Okay. Yeah, alright.” Sam reaches over to his bedside table, presumably to fetch the lube and condom they will be needing to continue this little tryst. “Are you sure, though? I don’t want to hurt you, I can… I can prep you.”

“Sam,” Castiel rasps, climbing onto the bed and settling on all fours. “Let’s not draw this out.”

Castiel doesn’t want to give himself time to pretend this is anything (with anyone) other than it actually is. And (maybe it’s foolish, but) he’d rather not do anything more here, with Sam, than he must. Of course, it’s not like Castiel is saving himself or anything. That would be… well, it would be ridiculous, because he can’t save himself for someone who will never want him. But still, even through the haze of arousal, Castiel doesn’t want to have anything more than he must with anyone other than Dean.

Hell, outside of the need to survive, he doesn’t really want to be here doing this at all, but needs must when the devil drives, or however the saying goes.

Not that Sam is the devil, poor man— he’s just as much a victim here as Castiel.

“Right,” Sam agrees, sounding strained. “Of course. So I should just…?”

“Put it in,” Castiel finishes for him. “Slowly.”

It’s silent then, and Castiel glances over his shoulder, almost choking on his own spit when he sees Sam sliding his jeans and underwear down just enough to free his cock, flushed and hard and— Castiel wishes he could tear his eyes away. The arousal rushing through him is becoming somewhat unbearable, and Castiel understands now how it could kill him, if left unattended.

Sam stokes himself briefly, which Castiel can’t help but think of as unnecessary considering the state the tablet has them both in, but he’ll be the first to admit, he doesn’t know the usual proceedings of these things. Sex, and whatnot.

The sight of Sam rolling on the condom and slicking himself up has Castiel biting back a moan, even as it takes an agonizing eternity. He’s never felt quite so desperate, and when Sam climbs onto the bed, swallowing hard as he meets Castiel’s eye, the relieved anticipation makes him push back wantonly into Sam’s space without thinking.

“So just…?”

“Put it in, Sam, I’ll be fi—ine,” Castiel’s voice breaks as Sam acquiesces, his cockhead pushing against Castiel’s entrance with a stretch that is expected, but still startling.

“You okay?” Sam sounds strained.

Castiel just nods, willing himself to relax completely, and taking a moment to be grateful for the control his grace gives him over his vessel, the imperviousness to minor injury and pain. “Ah, yes, just… slowly.”

Sam makes an affirmative noise, and the next few minutes are an agony of slight movement and threadbare patience as Castiel and Sam both fight against the tablet’s magic until Sam is fully seated and Castiel can adjust to Sam’s substantial length.

As they stall there, panting, the smell of Sam all around him, Castiel can’t help his thoughts from straying to Dean— would he be so careful? Would he grip Castiel’s hips like Sam is now, hard and desperate? Or would he drape himself over Castiel’s back like a lover? Hold his hands and kiss his neck? Or would they do it face to face, the way Castiel has always imagined it? Would he be silent, as Sam is now? Or would he talk to Castiel, deep inside of him, would he laugh or moan or—?

The thoughts are torturous, and they do nothing to quell the arousal that is currently inching towards becoming fatal, and Castiel can’t take it anymore. Besides, by his estimate, they only have about half an hour left if they don’t achieve orgasm.

“Okay. Okay, move.”

Sam doesn’t need any more encouragement, and Castiel finds himself shoved roughly forward as Sam begins to thrust, and then he’s lost in a haze of arousal and pleasure. Castiel must credit Sam for that much, because as they get into a groove, Sam hits a spot inside of him that punches a surprised cry out of him as a shock of heat floods his system, tugging at his insides like there's a hook in his stomach. He’s not sure if it’s the spell getting what it wants or just a natural response, but when it happens again, he can’t help but to whimper.

“You okay?” Sam grits out, slowing his pace nearly to a stop with great effort.

“Fine,” Castiel pants. “Good. Keep going.”

Sam acknowledges by resuming his earlier pace, slamming into Castiel over and over and over and Castiel loses himself in the rhythm, eyes sliding shut even as a burst of white hot pleasure forces embarrassing little noises out of him every time Sam hits that spot that makes his stomach quiver and his arms weak. 

An indeterminate period of time later, Sam’s grip on his hips tightens to the point of pain. “Cas— man, I’m gonna…”

He trails off, but Castiel gets the picture, bringing his hand up to stroke himself to completion, the way he gets himself off in every moment of weakness after a long day of Dean in his room, in his space, in his life. He pictures Dean now, though he told himself he wouldn’t, imagines it were Dean driving into him so desperately, imagines it were Dean’s hand on his cock, bringing him off, rough, hard and desperate. 

After that it doesn’t take long— when he gives in to his weakness and allows himself to think of Dean, it never does. He comes with Dean’s name on his lips, spilling onto the blanket beneath him, and allowing himself to drift as he feels Sam’s thrusts begin to stutter in kind.

It’s a few more minutes (one minute and twenty-eight seconds after Castiel’s brain comes back to him enough to resume its normal functions) until Sam reaches his own climax.

He tenses, groans, comes, and then suddenly it’s over.

The magic clears his system with a physical snap, and Castiel can tell by the way Sam sags like a puppet with its string cut that he feels it too.

Well. At least it worked.

It’s silent as Sam pulls out and Castiel collapses face down onto the bed, exhausted despite his angelic physiology.

His second sexual experience come and gone (no pun intended), and it’s still nothing like his romance novels. Well, at least Sam hasn’t tried to kill him yet. That makes this an improvement on last time, at least.

He gives himself ten seconds to lay there and collect himself before he’s sitting up and looking for his boxer briefs on the floor. 

Sam, who has tossed the condom and tucked himself away, takes a deep breath, and graciously waits until Castiel has found his pants and fastened them at the waist to speak.

“So… thanks, man.”

Castiel turns to look at him and offers a strained smile. “Of course, Sam. And thank you.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

They fall quiet then, and Castiel busies himself by finding his shoes on the floor before Sam breaks the silence again.

“Can we agree never to speak of this again?” He grimaces, then, holding up his hands. “Not that it was necessarily bad, just—”

“It was out of our control. I understand completely, Sam. I’d also like to leave this incident behind us,” Castiel interrupts, stooping to slide his shoes on, stuffing his socks into his pocket. “On a related note, I suggest that we agree not to touch unlabelled objects from the archive with our bare hands anymore.”

Sam laughs, a light, surprised sound, and something settles in Castiel’s chest. “You might be onto something there.”

Castiel smiles at him, more genuine this time, before turning to slip on his jacket, trenchcoat, and—

“Ah,” his smile drops as he catches sight of the wet spot on the bed— his wet spot, he thinks with no small amount of shame. “Would you like me to wash your sheets for you? It would be the least I can do, considering you offered up your room for this.”

Sam blinks, surprised, and scratches his neck awkwardly. “I mean— you don’t have to.”

In his time on earth, and (more practically) in his time living with the Winchesters, Castiel has come to understand that this sort of response indicates that Sam would appreciate this gesture, but is too polite to say so. He takes a moment to be proud of himself— a year ago, he might not have caught that nuance.

“It’s really no problem. I think I’d enjoy the mundanity of it right now.” Castiel moves to strip the bed, and Sam’s shoulders relax.

“Okay, well, if you insist. Thanks, man.” Sam smiles, confirming Castiel’s suspicion that he was just refusing out of politeness, and retrieves his spare bedding from a drawer while Castiel finishes stripping the bed.

“Of course,” Castiel replies, scooping up the tangle of sheets and moving towards the door. “Goodnight, Sam.”

“‘Night, Cas.”

Castiel bundles his load under his arm in order to open the door and shares one last tight smile with Sam before shutting the door quietly, leaning his forehead briefly against the cool wood and gathering himself. It’s over. He’s going to be alright. Eventually.

But when straightens, squares his shoulders and turns to walk down the hallway, the world crumbles around him as he finds himself face to face with Dean Winchester.

…o0o…

Castiel has become a very good liar in the years following that fateful day he pulled Dean from the depths of hell.

It hasn’t always gone over well, of course, and everyone gets caught eventually (he’s particularly haunted by the memory of Dean's eyes meeting his own over a line of holy fire, of seeing the betrayal and hurt there that he had wrought), but Castiel can lie his way out of a damn tough situation. Usually.

That said, he’s not quite feeling himself today, and all things considered— he did just have an emotionally fraught and somewhat physically violating experience with a good friend, which has left him feeling guilty and wrong in his skin— Castiel is understandably off his game.

So in the face of Dean’s unexpected presence, his mild, pleasant surprise, a bright smile and cheerful greeting on his full lips, Castiel makes the fatal mistake of letting a bit of his stress show through.

“Dean,” he gasps, stumbling backwards, suddenly aware of his untucked shirt (partially buttoned) and his flushed face (an unfortunate remnant of the spell). “I— you’re back.”

Dean’s smile goes sort of fixed, and his eyes narrow ever so slightly as he scans Castiel, takes in the shirt, and the flush, and the tense posture, and Castiel knows, in that moment, that he is so incredibly fucked it’s not even funny. “Heya, Cas. Yeah, I got home just a couple minutes ago, was headed to the storage room to find you guys. What’s up, you finish inventory?”

It’s okay— Castiel can fix this. He can salvage this— he can— oh, god—

“Laundry,” he says abruptly, not wanting to let the silence stretch so long as to become suspicious. “Yes. We finished the inventory, and so now I am doing laundry.”

Dean nods slowly, his brows furrowing slightly. “Uh-huh. Sam in there?”

Dean’s gestures to Sam’s door and Castiel takes the deepest breath he can manage without being obvious. He can fix this, just— he schools his face.

“Of course, Dean. I wouldn’t trespass in either of your rooms without your permission. I was just offering to do his laundry, as I was planning on doing mine tonight as well. As you know, I don’t need to sleep, so. Laundry.” Talking too much— he's talking too much! He needs to shut up! Dean is under his skin and warning bells are blaring in his mind— he has to get out of here. “If you’ll excuse me.”

It’s clear that Dean doesn’t entirely believe him (at the very least, he must suspect that there’s something Castiel isn’t telling him), but he lets him go without any further argument, humming a wordless agreement when Castiel promises to see him later and flees (at a very reasonable, non-suspicious pace) down the hall to the laundry room, where he can wash away the shame of the day and contemplate finding a reason to leave in the morning.

He’s probably beginning to wear out his welcome anyway.

…o0o…

One thing Castiel appreciates about Sam is his tendency to wake up early. They’ve spent countless mornings together in the kitchen and in the library and outside of shitty motel rooms just passing the time, talking sometimes, enjoying the companionable silence just as often.

Today, he’s especially grateful for it, as it gives him a chance to talk to Sam before Dean is awake and casting suspicious glares at both of them.

He’s waiting in the kitchen, standing by the door, in the dark, when Sam shuffles in at 6:07 AM and startles when he flips the light on and catches sight of him, cursing groggily under his breath. 

“Jesus, Cas,” Sam yawns, squinting at him testily for a moment before making his way to the coffee maker. “You scared me.”

“Dean saw me leaving your room last night.”

Sam whips around at that, looking much more awake than before. “What?”

Castiel just nods. “I told him I was getting your laundry, but I don’t think he— I was surprised. And a little…”

He trails off, and for a moment the air between them is heavy.

Sam huffs. “Yeah, you don’t have to tell me, man. I get it.”

“He suspects something,” Castiel says quietly, looking down at his shoes. “I’ve lied to him so many times… I’m afraid he’s going to think I’ve betrayed him again. In a way, I suppose I have.”

A hand on his shoulder startles Castiel out of his misery, and he looks up to see Sam, looking (underneath the grogginess) sympathetic and a little sad. “Hey dude, I get it. Your fear isn’t… invalid. And I won’t lie and tell you I’m not a little concerned by this whole… Dean thing, too. But we haven’t actually done anything wrong. And if shit hits the fan, I’ll be right here with you, okay?”

“Okay,” Castiel replies, almost comforted. “Thanks, Sam.”

“Anytime.” Sam purses his lips, still in serious conversation mode, clearly with something else to say, and Castiel cocks his head in inquiry. “Hey— I didn’t ask, and I… well. I’d just like to apologize for last night. I would have pushed back a lot more on your ‘no prep’ request if I’d been in my right mind, and I just wanted to make sure I didn’t… hurt you.”

Castiel almost places a hand on Sam’s arm, but thinks better of it, chooses instead to simply shake his head seriously. “I would not have made such a request if it would have been possible for you to hurt me in any real way. You have done nothing to apologize for.”

Sam ducks his head, relieved, and Castiel feels the need to add: “In fact, considering the circumstances, I’d say you were the perfect gentleman.”

Sam laughs at that, a small, quiet thing, but Castiel feels accomplished to have caused it all the same. “Thanks, Cas. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

Castiel is satisfied then, that they’ve cleared the air, and walks over to the kitchen table, taking a seat and smiling softly as Sam joins him, silently drinking his coffee. He’s unspeakably relieved that last night didn’t ruin his relationship with Sam— while it’s no secret (to anyone, apparently) that he prefers Dean, his friendship with Sam is just as important. It’s only… different. 

He doesn’t ache for Sam in the same way he aches for Dean. When they are apart, thoughts of Sam do not plague Castiel’s mind relentlessly. He could not spend hours listening to Sam’s voice, as much as he does enjoy talking to him. But sometimes it feels like his relationship with Sam is the most stable he’s known since the bond he once had with his brothers and sisters in heaven. Sam rarely makes him feel as though his presence is only wanted so long as he can provide his angelic services, and he gets the feeling that Sam just… enjoys his company. Not that Dean doesn’t, of course… but he feels unsteady around Dean, as though, were he to lose his powers or fall ever so slightly out of favor, Dean might no longer want him around.

Which is irrational, probably. He knows it's a fear born from (among other things) his own bone-deep desire to be as useful to Dean as possible, to give him the world, impossible as that may be. 

Besides, Dean is still here after everything, has stuck by his side through thick and thin. Hell, Dean even stayed in purgatory to look for him, even after all he’d done to earn his place there, even when he thought Castiel to be out of his mind. 

But the harrowing time he spent as a human still weighs heavy on him, and he still carries with him the memories of all of his transgressions against Dean over the years. So he treats his relationship with Dean like something precious, something likely to break. Something as delicate and fragile as silence, shattered as soon as its name is spoken.

Which is not an inappropriate metaphor, considering Dean’s aversion to talking. At least about anything which might constitute a ‘chick flick moment,’ the criteria of which Castiel has long struggled to pin down.

It’s frustrating, of course, but what can he do? If Dean doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t have to, Castiel can’t make him. And besides, their relentless number of near-death experiences have given Castiel the precious gift of a few honest words from the man he loves that he can cling to in times of struggle.

Dean needs him. Dean cares about him. It’s enough.

It has to be enough. Even though he’ll never be able to experience something like last night— he cringes away from the thought, beginning to feel slightly ill. He looks around the kitchen, clearing his throat. 

“I think I’d like a break from doing inventory,” he says into the silence, staring fixedly at the fridge. “Last night…”

Sam nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, no argument here. If I see that tablet again anytime soon, I think I’m gonna take a hammer to it.”

“I think I’d help you,” Castiel replies, then, furrowing his brow: “Or— no. Because what if we both touched it again accidentally?”

Sam laughs again at that, this time a full, loud laugh, startling in the morning silence, and Castiel smiles to see it.

“What’s so funny,” someone grumbles from the doorway, the scuff of slippers accompanying the gruff voice. “It’s too early to be laughing. You should be miserable like the rest of us.”

Castiel looks over to see Dean, looking far more awake than his voice would suggest, staring at him with a troubled look in his eye. When their eyes meet, Dean quickly busies himself pouring coffee while Sam gets up to put his empty mug in the sink.

“Well, you’re back early,” Sam says, eyebrow raised. “Thought Jody needed urgent help?”

“Shut up, Sam.” Dean slumps into a chair and takes a long drink. “She told me to fuck off, apparently she figured out how to handle it just fine. Stayed over for a little while just in case she needed anything.”

“You stayed for the food, didn’t you?”

“Shut up, Sam.”

“And us cataloging the storage rooms, that had nothing to do with your absence at all?”

Dean clears his throat, and casts about for an escape, his gaze settling on Castiel. “No tie today, Cas? Warn a guy before you decide to show up in his kitchen practically naked next time, huh man? Jeez.”

Castiel brings a hand up to his throat, noting with a small jolt of fear that, yes, his tie is missing. He can’t help but cut a glance at Sam, who stares back with wide eyes. The tie is still in Sam’s room, it must be, and now he’s been looking at Sam for entirely too long—

He clears his throat, tears his gaze away, and forces his hand back down into his lap, hoping that Dean didn’t notice his momentary crisis. Judging by the tension in his jaw, Castiel is not so lucky.

“Ah, I… seem to have misplaced it. I’ll endeavor to find it soon. So you don’t feel uncomfortable.”

Dean makes a noise that might be called a laugh, if Castiel were feeling generous. “Whatever, buddy. Wear what you want, I was just messin’ with you.”

Castiel isn’t sure whether this reply makes him feel better or worse, so he simply resolves not to feel anything at all, pushing himself up from his seat and making for the door.

“Whoa, where you goin’ man?” Dean twists around in his seat, his cold stare at odds with his casual tone. “Don’t tell me you’ve got more laundry to do.”

Sam flinches at that, only slightly, but Dean catches it (because of course he does), and for a moment no one says anything.

Castiel regrets that he can sense tension these days— he misses the time before he knew to feel awkward. Especially right now, when the air is so thick he feels like he might drown, despite not needing to breathe.

“I…” Castiel hesitates, briefly contemplating just sitting back down and trying to act like everything is normal, but frankly he’s not sure he can stomach it. ”I’m going to look for my tie. I wouldn’t want my practical nudity to impede your enjoyment of breakfast.”

Sam’s face is full of pity and Dean’s face is full of bitter skepticism and Castiel can’t even bring himself to care, consumed by the raging storm of guilt and anger and emptiness inside of him. So he whirls back around and storms out, trying to ignore the sound of Dean’s voice that follows him down the hall.

“Impede… What is he, a friggin’ dictionary?”

“Shut up, Dean.”

…o0o…

Castiel is zipping up his duffel bag when there’s a knock on his bedroom door.

It’s barely been an hour since he stormed out of the kitchen, and he hesitates to answer, trying to weigh the odds of it being Dean on the other side of the door.

He can’t imagine Sam really having anything to say to him right now, but neither can he picture a reason Dean would be here, so really, it’s anyone’s guess.

He must hesitate too long, because the knocking begins anew, a loud, obnoxious, relentless knocking that clears the mystery of who might be standing on the other side of the door right up. 

“C’mon, Cas, I know you’re in there,” Dean shouts, sounding gruff, but less angry than Castiel might have expected.

He sighs and relents (if only to stop the racket), opening the door just enough to meet Dean’s eye and grit out: “What?”

Dean, in true, stubborn, Dean fashion, completely ignores the question, pushing past Castiel and barging into his room, where he stands firmly in the center, hands planted defiantly on his hips. 

“Oh good, you’re already packed. I found a case,” Dean says, turning to face Castiel, who is still standing next to the open door, fondly exasperated despite himself. “It’s a couple states over, seems like a shifter deal.”

Castiel remains silent for a moment, but when no more information follows he nods slowly. “Well, I’m sure you and Sam will take care of it.”

“You’re coming with us, Cas.”

“What? Dean, you don’t need me.” Castiel furrows his brow. “It sounds like something you can take care of—”

“Nope!” Dean’s voice is too cheerful to be natural, and Castiel’s frown deepens. “No arguments! This is a family hunt, and you’re coming with, like it or not. You and Sam have been cooped up in this bunker way too long, dude. If we don’t get you back out there, you’re gonna go all soft on me.”

Castiel sighs, a phantom headache drifting up behind his eyes. He doesn’t get headaches anymore, hasn’t actually had one since he was human, but at times like this, the memory of the feeling seems most vivid. He restrains himself from pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, Dean. When are we leaving?”

“Whenever Sam’s ready,” Dean replies, his voice still abnormally bright. “Which might be a few hours— you know how long it takes to get all of those hair products of his into one bag.”

Castiel opens his mouth, about to point out that Sam doesn’t have an unreasonable number of hair care products at all, when a fond, teasing look from Dean tells him—

“You’re joking.”

“I am.” Dean smiles, and it doesn’t look quite so forced this time. “It won’t be longer than two hours, he’s getting faster every day. Hey, you kept it!”

Dean had glanced at Castiel’s desk, while he’d been talking, and spotted the little glass bee he’d snagged from a tchotchke shop in south Tennessee (a case he’d worked about three months back) sitting alongside the scant few other little keepsakes in Castiel's possession. Upon first handing it to Castiel, he had gestured to the serious frown painted on the bee’s little face, saying ‘See? Looks just like you!,’ and Castiel had taken it with great reverence, this proof that he existed in Dean’s mind when he was not actively there.

Now Castiel frowns as Dean picks it up, looking pleasantly surprised. “Of course I kept it. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I dunno,” Dean replies, shrugging casually as he places it gently back on the desk. “You didn’t have to. It’s just a stupid little thing, bought it on a whim.”

“I don’t find it stupid,” says Castiel, aware that he might be a little bit too defensive over this, something so small, but to have it insulted makes his hackles rise. “It is precious to me, as are all of your gifts.”

Dean rubs a hand over the back of his neck, huffing. “Precious, huh?”

“Besides,” Castiel says, his shoulder brushing Dean’s as he joins him at the desk. “I find it… cute. It really ties the room together.”

This surprises a laugh out of Dean, and Castiel glows quietly, pleased with himself. He likes making Dean laugh. He manages it so rarely these days. 

Then Dean claps an affectionate hand on Castiel’s shoulder and their proximity strikes him all at once. With Dean standing so close, smiling at him so openly, he can’t help but drop his gaze to Dean’s full lips, and the strength of the sudden impulse to lean in and steal a kiss nearly knocks the wind out of him. 

He hasn’t kissed many people in his life, truth be told. But the kiss he shared with Meg sticks in his mind, and he wonders how it would feel to kiss Dean that way. How Dean’s mouth would compare to Meg’s, his skin rough with stubble where hers was soft and pliant, his taste oh-so-human, where hers was distinctly demonic (not that he’d really minded— he’d liked Meg quite a bit, demon and all). He’s always imagined (because he has imagined, has spent so many cold and lonely nights doing nothing but imagining) that Dean would taste like liquor— there’s always beer and whiskey on his lips, because, all told, the man is an absolute mess. Castiel loves him in spite of it (maybe loves him because of it). 

Now, standing here shoulder to shoulder with Dean, he wants nothing more than to lean in and taste for himself.

Now, standing here shoulder to shoulder with Dean, his bed only a few short feet behind them, he can’t help but recall the events of last night.

It was easier when he hadn’t known— sure, he’d had sex with April (though he typically tries not to think about that), but she had been in a female vessel at the time (that poor girl— something else Castiel tries hard to forget). The experience overall had been sort of confusing, and it didn’t really give him much to work with when idly fantasizing about intercourse with a very male Dean Winchester. But now…

Now he knows how it would feel to have Dean, to have Dean driving into him, the way Sam did, hard, hot, forceful— except, in Castiel’s mind, Dean would be desperate for reasons unrelated to any sort of magic, desperate just for Castiel… and he wants. He wants to have sex again, he wants to feel pleasure like that again, but he doesn’t want to have sex with anyone but Dean and—

—and he wants Dean so badly sometimes it seems like the force of his longing will tear him apart and—

Dean doesn’t want him back.

The thought is a bucket of ice water, and Castiel freezes under the gelid torrent.

He clears his throat and shifts away, out from under Dean’s warm palm, mumbling something about needing to pack and taking a few steps back towards the bed. Fiddling pointlessly with the zipper on his duffle, he drops his gaze and bites his lip. 

Foolish. 

He needs to stop deluding himself— he’s just a little raw right now, that’s all. Emotionally speaking. Which is why he wanted to get away from here in the first place, to find some place to curl up and lick his wounds in peace, but… it’s fine. He’s managed before, and he’ll manage now, because Dean seems hellbent on getting them all out of the bunker and on this case together. And he finds it hard to deny Dean anything.

When he’s gathered himself enough to meet Dean’s eye once again, he finds that Dean, face carefully blank, is regarding him closely. They stare at one another for a moment (long enough that, were Sam present, he would be clearing his throat uncomfortably) until Dean’s jaw tenses and he looks down, putting his hand in his pocket.

“Oh, by the way,” he says casually. Too casually. “When I was looking for Sam he wasn’t in his room. But, uh… I did find this.”

From his pocket he pulls a long strip of blue— Castiel’s tie.

Castiel’s stomach plummets like a stone.

“Figured you might want it back.”

It’s a challenge, he knows that, though Castiel isn’t quite sure what he’s being challenged to. All he knows is that Dean is now holding out his tie like it’s nothing more than a cheap menswear accessory from an outlet mall, when they both know it’s an IED primed to explode at any moment.

Castiel thinks he ought to say something as he reaches out and pulls it from Dean’s grasp.

“Ah— thank you, Dean. It… must have gotten mixed up. In our laundry.”

Their fingers brush lightly, and it takes real effort not to flinch away.

“Laundry,” Dean repeats pleasantly.

Castiel can’t find the strength to do anything other than nod.

“Right,” Dean scoffs, shouldering roughly past him to reach the door. “Be in the car in twenty.”

After a moment of deliberation, Castiel puts the tie on. It’s never felt more like slipping a noose around his own neck.

…o0o…

Six hours later, Castiel sits next to Sam in a run-down diner, while Dean slouches in the seat across from them, picking at his burger sullenly.

Sam’s keystrokes on his laptop are loud and sharp, and Castiel stares down at the coffee he’d ordered (just so he had something to do with his hands— a comfort he began to desire in his time as a human), waiting for the other shoe to drop. They haven’t fought it out, yet— whatever’s brewing between the three of them with the guilt and the secrets and the lies and the suspicions. The drive over (all five long hours of it) was nearly dead silent, and he had to pity Sam for being trapped in the front seat with Dean the whole time. At least Castiel was granted the dubious reprieve of a barrier between himself and the brewing thunderstorm that is his best friend.

Castiel takes a sip of his coffee. It tastes of molecules.

It’s almost impressive how quickly they came to this point. Castiel and Sam hardly even had time to agree to keep their unfortunate tryst a secret before Dean started to suspect that something was amiss. Even though truthfully, that was entirely on Castiel and his little slip-up in the hallway. Sam has been incredibly gracious in not pointing that out.

Sam is not feeling gracious towards Dean, however, as is apparent by the permanent ‘bitch face’ that appeared somewhere around hour two of their trip. Here, in the dingy yellowed light of the diner, it’s still going strong.

When Sam finishes whatever business he had on his laptop, he slams it shut none too gently and wrestles it back into the bag at his side with more force and greater difficulty than is typical for him.

“So. Get this,” Sam says, redirecting his glare from his unruly bag to his unruly brother, who takes a large bite of his burger, chewing with his mouth open in silent defiance. “Several people have reported items stolen from safety deposit boxes, and these reports go back years— thing is, the banks responsible for these boxes say that these withdrawals all happened in person, and that, every time, the owner of the deposit box personally made the withdrawal.”

“Classic shifter,” Dean says around a mouthful of burger, and Sam grimaces at him.

“Right. Recently, though, things have been going missing from houses, lockers, preschool cubbies, desks, all valuables, no suspicious presence reported at any scene. It seems like the same MO as the bank jobs.” Sam flicks a strand of hair out of his face. “Best guess is our guy is getting desperate, can’t just use the banks anymore.”

“Great. Let’s ice him, get this over with. He seem to be centered in any part of town?”

“Uh— from what I can tell, the public library seems to be the most likely hideout, just about the epicenter of the incidents,” Sam says, and holds up a hand when Dean pushes his plate away and moves to stand. “Uh— Dean. Wait. If you knew it was a shifter, then nothing I’ve just told you is new. So you knew you could’ve worked this one alone. This is a milk run for us, man. The guy’s working alone, hasn’t killed anyone… and you dragged me and Cas along on this? What’s going on?”

This is, evidently, the wrong thing to say, though Castiel isn’t sure exactly why. All he knows is that Dean’s face darkens and he stands abruptly, his chair making a jarring noise as it scrapes the floor behind him.

“Oh, I’m sorry— what? Did you and Cas want some more alone time at the bunker?” 

Castiel looks very intentionally anywhere other than at Sam, focusing in on the health inspection report posted on the wall by the kitchen door, squinting at the dubious ‘79’ written large across the top and wishing his wings could still carry him away with a thought.

“Man— whatever. Let’s just get this hunt over with, okay? Move,” Sam stands, grabbing his bag and tossing a wad of cash down on the table before shoving past Dean and storming out of the diner.

“Fuckin’...” Dean grumbles, mostly to himself, before turning to Castiel, who is still doing his best impression of someone that doesn’t exist. “You coming?”

Unwilling to risk aggravating Dean further, Castiel just stands silently, following him when he turns and makes his way out of the diner, and climbing silently into the backseat when he unlocks the Impala.

The ride to the library is no more tense than the meal at the diner had been, but the radio stays off, and they all remain silent, and Castiel feels every individual, agonizing second of the six-and-a-half minute journey. It’s exhausting sometimes, caring like this. He isn’t sorry for it, not really, and he wouldn’t go back, but things were simpler when he was fully and truly an Angel of the Lord, who felt nothing more than a sense of duty towards a single purpose.

Now he’s an Angel of the Winchesters, more or less, and he feels a great deal of things, especially when said Winchesters are upset. 

When they get to the library, it’s closed (which makes sense, at 10:00 PM on a Sunday) and they take a moment to retrieve the requisite weapons from the trunk (flashlights for everyone and silver for the brothers, as Castiel will just stick with his angel blade) before heading around back to break in. The routine of the hunt acts as a balm to their dynamic, even with Castiel’s still-awkward presence alongside Sam and Dean’s practiced duo. He’s worked with them both long enough that his assistance shouldn’t trip them up, at least.

Inside of the library, a quick glance around reveals that there’s a boiler room and a basement lurking beneath the ground floor, and it’s quick consensus that, if their shifter is here, that’s where it will most likely be found.

It’s a big basement, though, and they’re all still a little out of it (Dean doesn’t make a single Freddy Krueger joke, which even Castiel recognizes as a sign of something very wrong), tensions between them high and nerves frayed from a long, fraught drive.

So they all, unanimously, make the worst decision possible on a case like this: they split up. 

(More and more human sayings make sense to Castiel every day— later, he reflects on their decision to each go off alone while tracking a shifter, of all things, and can’t help but note how much hindsight really is 20/20.)

Castiel goes left.

The cavernous basement isn’t quiet, the boiler hissing and clanking and groaning continuously, and he remains on edge as he creeps slowly between lines of pipes and piles of boxes that cast eerie shadows along the floor. He comes across something noteworthy not too long after they split up, and doubles back to share his findings.

He comes across Dean first. “Someone has been living here.”

Dean turns, raising his eyebrows. “Think it’s our guy?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel replies. “All I found was some bedding, some food and water. There was no… skin. Nothing to confirm the presence of a shapeshifter.”

Dean hums thoughtfully. “Well, that’s a start. I haven’t seen anything yet, but if he knows we’re here…”

Castiel nods warily, and continues alongside Dean, wandering deeper into the gloom of the dark boiler room. He’s pointing his flashlight into a dark corner and idly pondering Dean’s tendency to default towards ‘he’ when referring to shapeshifters (all of whom, Castiel thinks, must have a more complex relationship to gender than that, given their ability to take any form, musn’t they? He’d like to discuss that with one, someday) when a clatter from behind them sends Dean and him both whipping around, immediately defensive. 

“Whoa,” says Sam, holding his hands up and squeezing his eyes shut against the combined beams of their two flashlights. “Just me.”

“You find anything?” Dean asks, dropping his arm and shining his flashlight back in the direction he’d been heading. “‘Cause Cas says someone’s definitely living here, but I haven’t got anything… shifter-y. You know, their usual nasty shit. Piles of skin, or whatever.”

Sam just shrugs. “I haven’t seen anything either. Thought I heard something, but I guess it was just you two.”

Dean nods, shrugs, and turns to continue on his way, when—

“Hey, Dean? I found something. You might wanna c’mere.”

It’s Sam’s voice, which is odd, because Sam (the Sam standing right here, in front of Castiel) didn’t actually open his mouth to speak. Also, the voice came from across the room, near the far wall, which means that it couldn’t have come from in-front-of-him Sam. So there must be two Sams. And now, looking at “Sam’s” clothes, and factoring in their usual luck, it’s pretty obvious that they’ve been talking to the shifter this whole time.

“Shit. Sam!” Dean raises his gun and fires off a shot, but the shifter is already on them, tackling Castiel to the ground as the bullet strays and hits a pipe, flooding the air with thick steam. “Cas! Dammit, where’d you go?”

Castiel struggles against the shifter’s weight, managing to shove it off before it can do any real damage, scrambling for his angel blade as it lunges for him again. The shifter grabs his wrist with surprising force when he plunges the blade towards it, and then they’re both locked in a stalemate, still on the ground, while Dean shouts something unintelligible somewhere nearby. Unfortunately, Castiel can’t get a read on exactly-where nearby, obscured as he is by the steam around them.

Then someone is pulling the shifter off of him, and Castiel looks up to see Sam, the real Sam, manhandling his exact clone out of the fog. Castiel scrambles to his feet and follows, nearly slamming into Dean on his way after them, and when the shifter (who has escaped Sam’s grasp, but is still cornered against the wall, with no weapons and way out) sees them emerge from the mist together, weapons raised, it begins what Castiel has come to recognize as a commonality amongst the things they hunt: a run-of-the-mill final monologue. Dean once described these speeches as ‘a last ditch attempt to get under your skin’ and promptly followed that bit of wisdom with ‘so you gotta cut ‘em off before they can start yakkin’.’

(Oddly enough, Castiel has never once seen Dean follow his own advice in that area.)

Here’s the biggest thing, though: shifters tend to have some of the worst final monologues, given their intimate knowledge of the minds of those they mimic, and Castiel knows he’s in for it when the shifter meets his eye and bares its bloody teeth in a twisted approximation of Sam’s smile. 

“Go ahead,” it spits at Castiel, quite literally spitting blood with the ferocity of its speech. “Kill me— not like you’ll be around long enough to enjoy it.”

Dean raises his gun, but he doesn’t manage to get a shot off before the shifter levels an accusing finger at Sam, raising their voice.

“Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard? Sleep with Sam Winchester and die!” The shifter hacks out a laugh as Dean lowers his gun slightly in shock. “It’s over for you, Cas, it was over the moment you had sex with him. Your fate is sealed, just like mine, and he knows it and you know it, and you’ve gone and let yourself be cursed by his—”

Castiel darts forward and stabs the shifter in the gut, twisting his blade deeper when its grin doesn’t immediately disappear. 

“You’re going to die,” it chokes out, eyes boring into Castiel’s own. “You are.”

“Already have,” Castiel snaps back. “It didn’t take.”

With that, he pulls the blade free, watching the shifter’s body crumple to the floor, lifeless. Unfortunately, he doesn’t even get to enjoy feeling like a character from one of Dean’s action movies (dropping a line like that had admittedly felt a little bit… ‘awesome’), because the reality of what just happened immediately descends upon him like a free-falling bag of bricks. 

The dreadful quiet has returned, this time somehow immeasurably worse, even with the normal noises of the boiler room and the busted pipe still clunking and humming and hissing away. Castiel feels foolish for thinking he knew what tense was, before, because this— this tension is a new and noxious thing, poisoning the air and making Castiel wish he were far, far away from here.

Seconds pass, or hours maybe, and the pool of the shifter’s blood has almost reached Castiel’s shoes when Sam (a braver man than Castiel) takes it upon himself to break the silence.

“So… uh. Shifter’s dead.”

Castiel can’t bring himself to say anything in response. Dean seems similarly inclined to silence, though Castiel hasn’t actually looked at him since the shifter started final monologuing.

Sam sighs. “Are we gonna talk ab—”

“Let’s go.” Dean cuts him off gruffly, loudly, turning and striding towards the staircase whereby they’d entered the basement. When he reaches the doorway and neither Castiel nor Sam have yet moved to follow him, he stops, shoulders tensing, and sighs. “We can talk at the motel. So either get in the car or stay here, but I’m leaving.”

Castiel meets Sam’s eye then, briefly, and one brief moment of apprehensive solidarity later he’s following Dean to the car.

Dean’s words of wisdom come to him once again, in his time of strife. Son of a bitch  indeed.

…o0o…

As soon as they skid to a stop in the motel parking lot, Dean is out of the car like it’s going to explode any minute. Still, he doesn’t go far, simply pacing in front of the driver’s seat door, clearly agitated.

“Sam…” Castiel starts, not sure what there even is to be said.

“I know, Cas,” Sam replies quietly, one hand gripping the door handle like it’s singlehandedly tethering him to this plane. “It’ll…”

‘It’ll be fine?’ Castiel would ask, scornfully, but Sam already knows. It’s not fine. It’s so beyond fine that Castiel would quite literally rather live with Crowley for the rest of his natural, angelic life than step out of the car to deal with the fallout that awaits him. 

Okay, so he’s being dramatic. He wouldn’t actually live with Crowley for anything.

“Let’s get this over with,” Sam says after a moment, opening the door, and Castiel wasn’t a soldier for millennia without learning to force himself through a tough situation.

So he follows, sliding out of the car on the passenger’s side, and stands, Sam by his side. And when he meets Dean’s eyes overtop the Impala, he knows he’s in for a long night. Dean looks… Well, Castiel knew he’d be angry. Dean tends to channel any negative emotions he has into his anger, tends to express them through his anger, and Castiel expected him to be upset over this, conflicted, even uncomfortable. And so he expected anger.

But in the dingy neon light of the motel ‘vacancy’ sign, Dean looks so unexpectedly furious that a wave of horror rattles through Castiel’s entire body, leaving a sick, guilty feeling in its wake. 

And it’s not just fury, either— there’s betrayal there, too, something Castiel had hoped never to see on Dean’s face again, let alone directed his way. He’s been the cause of that look enough times. Too many. And there’s something deeper there, too, a sadness that Dean is usually so good at hiding, and Castiel can only stand there silently, aching, because he wants to help but he has no idea how. This situation could not feel more impossible to fix. He’s not even really sure where all of this emotion is coming from— he cannot fathom why it would be this serious.

Unless the idea of Castiel having sex with Sam is just that abhorrent to Dean— so disgusting that he sees it as the highest betrayal. 

From there, it’s hard not to wonder if it’s Castiel himself that Dean has a problem with. Maybe Castiel belongs at arms length, and maybe he has violated this unspoken rule.

For the first time since he was human, Castiel feels as though he might throw up.

“So,” Dean finally says through clenched teeth, making no move towards their motel room door, seemingly content to have it out right here in the parking lot. “Were you two ever gonna say anything? Let me know about your… epic love affair? I mean, I’d feel pretty left out if I didn’t get an invite to the wedding.”

Sam huffs, short and annoyed. “Dean. There’s no— epic love affair—”

“Oh, like hell there isn’t,” Dean shouts, drawing the attention of a woman smoking three doors down, who begins to look on curiously. “Do you think I'm stupid? I knew there was something, I just didn’t want to believe— I watched him walk out of your room, Sam, his shirt was half off and he was carrying your goddamn bedsheets.”

Castiel winces, and Dean looks sharply over at him.

“I found your fucking tie on his bedroom floor, Cas! And you think I can't tell what you've been up to? C'mon, I wasn't born yesterday. I've been around this block before, I know you two better’n you know yourselves. So do us all a favor and stop fucking lying for once in your lives!”

That’s a low blow, and they all know it— but it does its job, and it hits Castiel right where it hurts. God, if he could take back all of the lies over the years… But this time was different, and if he could just make Dean understand—

“It wasn’t like that,” Castiel offers, glancing at Sam. “If you’d just give us the chance to explain—”

“Like what, Cas? Like my brother and my best friend are going at it behind my back?”

“It was a one-time thing, Dean!” Sam is shouting now, too.

Dean slams a hand down on the roof of the Impala. “Then why hide it? Why would you even— why, in the first place? When you know how I— goddammit, Sam!”

“Dean!” Castiel says sharply, breaking the brothers’ ferocious staring contest before it has the chance to begin. “Just listen. We didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean scoffs, running a hand over his mouth and shaking his head. “I’ve heard that one before. Seems like you never have a choice, do you Cas? Every time I turn my back, seems like you’ve got no choice but to sell your goddamn soul to the devil or to try and get yourself killed or to— to fucking walk out the door! You know why I made you come on this stupid hunt, Cas? Because if I leave you alone for five minutes, you leave! You disappear or you fuck off or, apparently, you have sex with my fucking brother!"

The woman three doors down drops her cigarette, mouth agape as she listens intently in on their argument, but doesn’t seem to notice. Castiel only sees it himself because he’s avoiding Dean’s eye like his life depends on it.

It feels like his chest might implode, and he can’t explain himself, can’t come to his own defense, because Dean just wouldn’t get it. There’s too much to explain, too much to unpack, and honestly, this ‘can of worms’ that Dean has cracked open has hardly anything to do with him sleeping with Sam. It’s a separate issue, a well trodden argument, and they hash it out again without fail every time they fight about something big. Dean seems to take Castiel’s departures as some sort of personal affront, when half the time, he’s the one telling him to go, and— and it’s not like Castiel ever wants to leave, but how could he possibly explain that? How could he explain that the only thing that hurts more than leaving, sometimes, is staying? And how could he explain why?

Because it all comes back to the same old tired point. He loves Dean. So much that sometimes it seems like it’s destroying him, tearing him up from the inside out. And still, above anything else in his life, he just loves Dean Winchester. 

(It isn’t all bad. Sometimes it feels ineffably warm, something beautiful and colorful and impossible to describe in its rightness. It’s hard to remember that, when things are so rough, but even now, Castel cannot bring himself to regret his love. He never has.)

And usually it’s okay that his love isn’t returned, but sometimes… sometimes it hurts like having his grace ripped out, like having his wings burned away. Falling, in every sense of the word. But if he says that, if he says those words aloud, Dean will never look at him the same way, and he’ll be giving up what little he has now.

He’s too selfish to do that. Not when Dean’s perception of him is already altered because of this whole… thing with Sam.

Sam, who is shaking his head angrily at Dean’s outburst.

“That’s not fair, Dean. Cas has stuck by us this long— give him a little credit.” His voice is stern, and Castiel feels yet another pang of guilt. Dean snorts derisively. 

“Oh, please. It’s not fair? Because when I knocked on his door earlier, he was all packed up and ready to go!”

Castiel would be angry at Dean for twisting this conversation around so much, for turning it all on him, but… It isn’t undeserved. It’s what he gets for choosing the coward's approach. And to the Winchesters (Castiel has learned this the hard way) cowardice is among the worst of transgressions.

Sam turns to look at Castiel, hurt. “Cas… is that true?”

Castiel clenches his fists at his sides and wills himself to retain what little composure he has left. “I— Sam. You don’t understand, it wasn’t— I just needed space. I needed to get away from this. You don’t understand what it’s like. You say you know how I feel, but you don’t know what it's like to feel like this. I… I’m sorry. For…”

He gestures vaguely, a weak attempt at representing this situation he’s found himself in. A weak attempt at encompassing all that is Dean, and the multitude of reasons he wishes Dean had never found out about this in the first place. 

A long pause, and then Sam nods once, sharply, before walking around the front of the car and snatching the car keys from Dean’s hand. 

“Wh— dude! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Sam pulls the key to their motel room from his pocket, tosses it at Dean (who fumbles to catch it on reflex) and shoves Dean towards the motel room door. 

He makes eye contact with Castiel as he yanks open the door to the Impala, and he doesn’t look quite so sympathetic or patient as he had before Castiel’s escape attempt was revealed. “I’ll be back. You two need to sort this out. Talk to each other, for once in your lives, or drop this and don’t bring it up again.”

He says nothing more, then, just slides behind the wheel, starts the car up, and slams it into reverse before peeling away into the night.

When the dust clears, Castiel is left staring at Dean, who in turn stares right back, uncharacteristically motionless. His face is more blank now than angry, but Castiel isn’t exactly comforted to see it. 

The smoker three rooms down seems to realize that no further entertainment will be provided in the parking lot tonight, and the sound of her door shutting behind her is abnormally loud, echoing off of the motel walls like a gunshot. The silence that follows is even louder.

And so they stand there, still in the face of this deafening silence, miles apart, until Castiel’s nerves are frayed and he feels like he’s going to smoke out of his vessel if they carry on much longer. He doesn’t. He’s really quite attached to this body.

But though Fate does hate him (Castiel can sense her fingerprints all over the timing of Dean’s arrival back to the bunker yesterday, actually, and he curses himself for the umpteenth time for ever allowing Balthazar to un-sink that stupid ship) Luck has evidently not yet run out on him entirely. That is to say, his silent prayer is answered, and much longer he does not have to wait.

Castiel watches in relief as the fight visibly drains out of Dean and he sighs heavily. He could honestly cry when Dean, saying nothing, trudges over to the motel door, unlocking it and shouldering it open. 

He hesitates in the doorway, then, briefly. A glance back, a wordless ‘you coming?’ and Castiel is on his heels, following him in and letting the door swing shut behind them.

Inside, cast in dim lamplight, Dean just looks tired as he slumps onto the bed nearest the door. A brief moment of internal debate later, Castiel is settling carefully beside him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, but far enough away that they do not touch.

Dean doesn’t shift, doesn’t add to the distance between them, but he doesn’t tear his gaze away from his shoes when he asks: “Why’d you do it, Cas?”

“I really did have no other choice. If you’d let me explain…?”

Dean shrugs. “Floor’s yours.”

Castiel takes a moment to gather his thoughts. This, he knows, is important.

“We were doing an inventory of Archive Room Three,” Castiel says finally, staring at Dean’s profile, gilded by the lamplight. “You know that much. But the Men of Letters, they were… poorly organized.”

“By which you mean…?”

“Barely labeled, powerful, dangerous magical objects in unlabelled, unwarded boxes.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, glancing up to meet Castiel’s eye, and looking away just as quickly. “Sounds like their usual bullshit.”

Castiel hums in agreement. “But Archive Room Three, it had a wider variety of cursed objects than we’ve come to expect. Sam and I could have been more careful, I suppose, but we’d been working for hours and the tablet seemed so unassuming.”

“Tablet?”

“A stone tablet, Sumerian in origin. The writing was an early iteration of cuneiform, and I would have liked to be able to examine it under different circumstances, but…”

He trails off, turning away from Dean to stare instead at the tacky motel wallpaper. This is harder than he expected it would be.

“But?” Dean’s voice is quiet, and Castiel takes a deep breath.

“I was unable to ascertain much about its origin. Given the circumstances, I was much more concerned with its effects, but it… it was created, I believe, to be a ceremonial fertility aid.”

“So… what? Some rock magically made you really horny?” Dean always did catch on quickly.

“...Essentially, yes. There was a powerful magic attached to the tablet that took effect when Sam and I touched it simultaneously.” Castiel can tell that Dean has now turned to look at him, but he can’t bring himself to tear his eyes from the wall. “But it was more complicated than you make it out to be. There were… requirements, that the spell demanded we meet, or the symptoms of arousal would worsen until they became fatal. I suppose it would be false to claim that Sam and I had no other choice but to engage in sexual intercourse, if you were to consider death a viable alternative.”

He risks a quick glance at Dean, who looks absolutely horrified, but now that the words are flowing, it’s hard to make them stop.

“My grace was useless, of course, and we agreed that a single sexual encounter would be preferable to a rather embarrassing death. Sam was the one that suggested we keep it from you, and I agreed. I was… ashamed. My grace is so weak now, compared to what it once was. I hate reminding you of how useless I’ve become. And I don’t— I know you’re upset, but I want you to know I’m sorry, even if I don’t fully understand why I’ve hurt you. If it’s about Sam— we both consented as much as we were able, given the situation, but if you think that I would ever hurt him in any way, I must assure you—”

“Cas, no. That’s not it, I trust you, I know you wouldn’t… You wouldn’t.” Dean sounds wrecked. “God, that’s— I had no idea.”

Castiel snorts. “Well, you didn’t give us much opportunity to explain.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean replies sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just— so angry. I couldn’t— hell, I still can’t stop thinking about it, and it just tears me up inside. I— fuck. I’m the one who should be sorry, it’s just— god, I understand why Sam didn’t want to say anything, now. I just thought… Why would you try to hide it if it didn’t mean anything, y’know?”

“Does the idea of me being with Sam in that way really upset you so much?” Castiel asks, the itch to understand Dean’s inexplicable anger too much to ignore. “If it did mean something, would that be so bad?”

Dean is quiet, and Castiel sighs.

“As I said… I know I’m not who— what I once was,” he begins carefully, but he doesn’t get any further than that before Dean is on his feet, pacing.

“It’s not you, Cas. Or— of course it is, it’s always you, and that’s the damn problem… It’s you and it’s me and it’s the way I get when it comes to you.” He runs his fingers through his hair, agitated. “This is coming out wrong. God, I need a drink— just. Okay. I was angry at Sam, mostly. And myself. And you, but that was irrational.”

Castiel squints up at him, and he looks away sharply.

“Sam knows how I feel about you.”

“How you… feel about me.”

“Yeah,” Dean huffs, almost a laugh. “He got it out of me one night when I was drunk and you were gone… that’s not really important. But I thought Sam had gone and seduced you and slept with you when he knows how I feel.”

Castiel stands, stepping towards Dean. “How you feel.”

Dean looks away, swallowing hard. “I… how would you feel if I started having sex with one of your… siblings.”

Castiel narrows his eyes— apparently the Winchesters enjoy throwing this in his face. “I will remind you that you have.”

“Oh, yeah.” Dean looks sheepish. “Anna. I forgot about that.”

Poor consolation, but it does make Castiel’s petty heart feel better all the same. He shoves his jealousy aside, refusing to be distracted. “Dean. How do you feel about me?”

“I…” Dean shifts on his feet, uncharacteristically nervous. “I wish I’d been the one to touch that stupid tablet with you. Or— wait. God, I’m such an— I wish you’d want me without the damn tablet—”

“I do.”

“You… What?”

“I want you.”

Dean’s full lips part in surprise, his lovely eyes wide, and Castiel has never admired anything more.

He’s beautiful. Castiel smiles. “And… I want you… to want me?”

This breaks the tension, and Dean groans, laughing despite himself. “Dude… you cannot reference a fuckin’ Cheap Trick song in the middle of a chick flick moment. I can only handle so much corny shit.”

“I like that song,” Castiel says, frowning. “It’s catchy.”

“I do, you know.”

“...Like the song too? I know. You did introduce me to it.”

“No,” Dean says, not quite able to hide his smile. “Want you.”

“Oh. I… love you,” Castiel replies, and Dean buries his face in his hands, groaning.

That was oddly simple. Far easier than Castiel had expected. Anticlimactic, even. He’d imagined, once or twice, that confessing his love would be some grand declaration, probably done in a moment of life or death, a ‘before we die there’s something I must share with you’ type of thing. This is… less exciting, yes, but it’s also easier. It’s like breathing, the same way loving Dean is like breathing, and Castiel has to bite his lip against the wave of relief threatening to bowl him over. He’s said it. Dean knows.

“Dude,” Dean’s voice is muffled, and Castiel can’t help but grin, giddy. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” Dean straightens, letting his hands fall to reveal his blushing cheeks. “You just can’t! We haven’t even kissed, or— or gone on a date, and— there’s rules!”

Castiel cannot stop smiling. He steps closer, into Dean’s space. “We could.”

“Could?”

“Kiss. Go on a date. Go back to the bunker and touch that tablet together…”

Dean looks like he might combust, and for a moment Castiel thinks he might have taken it too far.

But then, Dean reaches out, grabs Castiel’s face between his hands, and hauls him in for a kiss.

Dean’s lips are slightly chapped and sweetly warm, and his scruff scratches Castiel’s skin just so, and it’s all so perfect Castiel feels his knees go weak and his eyes fall shut instinctually.

It’s hard to say whether the kiss lives up to his expectations, but— it must, he thinks rather dazedly as Dean tilts his head, drawing Castiel in further. He just can’t quite remember what his expectations were. He can’t seem to remember anything, really, his mind gone all hazy and vague as Dean explores his mouth with a passion he usually reserves for hunting and Baby and talking about cowboys.

Dean’s hand finds his hair, threads through it, tugs, and Castiel sighs, melting, his own hands finding Dean’s waist and holding on for dear life. They separate, finally, briefly, for air, but Dean doesn’t go far, pressing soft chaste kisses to Castiel’s mouth while he catches his breath.

“Dean,” he rumbles, because he can’t help it, and Dean pulls him in again, kissing him deeper even than before.

They lose themselves for what might be hours (but Castiel’s internal clock has gone all skewed, so that may not be right) to one another. The feeling of Dean’s mouth against his own, slick and hot, makes Castiel’s knees weak, and the taste of him makes Castiel desperate, like the tablet had, only different, joyful and wanted and real this time.

The next time Dean pulls away for air (it is slightly annoying, his human need for things like oxygen), Castiel doesn’t let him go far, ducking his head and focusing in on his neck, the way he’s read about in the romance novels Dean loves to make fun of him for. 

Dean doesn’t seem so keen to make fun of him now, though, small, breathy noises following every kiss and bite Castiel sucks into his sensitive skin, his hands roaming up and down Castiel’s back, pushing beneath his trench and jacket to skim the thin fabric of his button down. The heat of his hands is intoxicating, and Castiel presses closer, desperate for more of that warmth against his body.

“So,” Dean breathes, sounding far too coherent for Castiel’s tastes. “Am I a better kisser than Sam?”

Castiel pulls back then, leveling Dean with his least impressed glare. 

Dean only shrugs. “What?”

“Dean Winchester.” Castiel pulls away, spinning them around and pushing Dean down onto the nearest bed. “You are an idiot.”

Dean extends a needy hand, reaching for Castiel, who obediently steps closer. “Is that a no…?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Castiel sniffs, allowing himself to be pulled down into Dean’s lap, straddling his thighs. “I’ve never kissed your brother.”

“Really?” Dean seems surprised by this. “But you…”

“I was forced to have sex with him in order to ensure our joint survival. We kept it simple.” He rolls his hips down, then, impatient, and is rewarded when he finds Dean just as keyed up, half hard already in his jeans. He inhales sharply, mouth falling open. 

Dean doesn’t say anything else after that, simply slides Castiel’s trench coat from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, the black jacket promptly receiving the same treatment. He leans in for another kiss while he works on the tie, and Castiel lets his eyes slide shut, content to drop this topic altogether for more pleasurable pursuits—

“So then what did you do?”

Castiel sighs, leaning back to look Dean in the eye. “Dean. Why do you want to know?”

Dean drops his gaze, pulling Castiel’s tie off, letting the silk slide between his fingers as he gathers his words. He’s so beautiful Castiel aches with it, physical pain blooming in his chest at the sight of that beloved face.

“I just— it kept me up last night, just the idea of you two… well. I tried to tell myself that I was crazy, because god knows I can’t ever think rationally when it comes to you, but now that I know… You two did it. And it didn’t mean anything. Great. But… I can’t explain it. It’s killing me, not knowing. Which is probably all kinds of wrong and fucked-up, but hey, when am I not wrong and fucked-up. My imagination is driving me up the wall, here, man. I’m sick with it.”

Castiel sighs, sliding his hands beneath the hem of Dean’s t-shirt to skim the warm skin of his belly with delicate fingers. “Alright.”

Dean fiddles with the top button of Castiel’s shirt, finally looking back up at him through long eyelashes. “Alright?”

“Yes, Dean.” Castiel presses a soft kiss to Dean’s forehead. “Alright. If it would make you feel better, then I will tell you.”

Dean raises his eyes in silent prompting when Castiel is not immediately forthcoming with more information.

“The spell required penetration, so—”

Dean chokes, apparently on nothing, and Castiel rubs his back soothingly, distracted by the hard planes of muscle beneath his palm. He ought to get rid of the layers separating him from all of that warm, tanned skin. As soon as possible, really.

When Dean settles, Castiel makes a sympathetic noise, nuzzling his temple distractedly. “Are you alright?”

Rubbing his kiss-swollen mouth (Castiel would really like to go back to kissing that mouth), Dean nods. “Uh— yeah. Just wasn’t prepared for that.”

Castiel hums, taking the chance to shuck Dean’s flannel and pull his shirt up and over his head to reveal the expanse of his bare chest. Pleased at the new sight before him, Castiel drops his head to tongue over the anti-possession tattoo, and is about to continue downwards towards an invitingly pink nipple, when a hand in his hair summons his attention back to Dean’s face.

“Who…” Dean clears his throat. “Who did the, uh—”

Castiel sighs loudly, frustrated now, pushing Dean backwards so that he is laid out flat on the bed and Castiel is astride his hips, grinding down and relishing in the surprised gasp that it earns him. “Sam did the ‘fucking.’ We used protection. I kept my shirt on the entire time. Sam never removed his pants. I ‘jacked myself off’ to completion when he reached orgasm. The whole experience was incredibly uncomfortable and embarrassing for all parties involved, and I thought of you the whole time. Tell me, is there anything else I can answer for you? Would you prefer we put this off for another few years? Perhaps we could discuss your brother some more—”

Dean grabs the front of Castiel’s shirt and hauls him down into another kiss, and Castiel melts into it, rolling his hips and biting down on Dean’s lip when he feels how hard the man has become against him. His annoyance clears, unable to maintain its tooth in the face of the sensation. It’s heady to want Dean, to have him right here beneath him, but it’s downright exhilarating to be wanted in return. 

When Castiel’s hands start to roam, finding the sensitive areas of Dean’s chest, he seems to realize the imbalance in their states of undress, and frantically tries to remedy this, his fingers yanking clumsily at the buttons of Castiel’s shirt. Their combined determination not to break their kiss, hot and sloppy as it’s become, makes the task more difficult than it might have been ordinarily, but they manage nonetheless.

When Castiel’s skin is finally bared to the air and to Dean’s gaze, he shivers, more aroused now than he can ever remember being, even when under the wretched influence of that ancient tablet. His want is so great that it seems to pull him in every direction at once, and he can’t seem to find the words to describe what it is exactly that he’s aching for. 

Dean, his mind helpfully supplies, and while that is both true and a good place to start, it doesn’t help Castiel with his conundrum. That being the imminent danger of climaxing from the act of grinding against Dean alone, before they can even get their pants off.

So it is with great difficulty that he wrenches himself away from Dean’s embrace, sitting up and looking down at a very flushed and very stunned Dean, laying on the shitty motel sheets and staring up at him like… well.

“Dean,” he manages, hardly recognizing his own voice. “What do you want?”

Dean groans, shutting his eyes, and Castiel relates to the sentiment, the sight before him almost too much to take. “Cas…”

“Dean. Tell me. Please. What do you want?”

“I—” Dean looks up at him then, eyes dark. “Can I… fuck you?”

Castiel tilts his head, but doesn’t voice what they must both be thinking: that this request has everything to do with what Castiel told him about his brief assignation with Sam. It doesn’t matter. If Dean wants it, if he needs to do it for whatever reason, to prove something to himself, or to Castiel, or to Sam… it doesn’t matter. Frankly Castiel would enjoy being fucked by Dean. He sees no reason to ruin the mood by asking questions or making comments regarding Dean’s reasoning behind this request. In any case, he can tell that Dean genuinely wants it.

That’s all that really matters.

“Yes,” he says. “Dean, yes, fuck me—”

The words are foreign in his mouth, and they sound odd in Castiel’s voice, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s cut off by Dean’s bruising kiss as he flips their positions, pinning Castiel to the bed beneath him. Castiel is content to lose himself to this kiss, for the rest of time if possible, but then Dean is pulling away, up and off the bed and digging in his duffle, mumbling something about lube.

That’s a good sign, at least.

While Dean is off rummaging, Castiel busies himself with the removal of the rest of his clothing— shoes, socks, pants, and underwear all efficiently disposed of over the side of the bed, leaving him sprawled naked on his back. He begins to stroke himself idly, memories of Sam doing something similar telling him that it must be a normal enough practice in these scenarios. Sex, and whatnot.

He does have a moment of doubt when Dean stands and turns around, Astroglide clutched triumphantly in his hand, and chokes out a strangled ‘holy shit,’ eyes round with shock. Fortunately, he is not given long to regret his actions, as Dean is upon him in an instant, kissing him hungrily, hands trailing up his bare thighs, almost reverent.

When they break apart, Dean looks down at him in awe, eyes trailing over his naked body slowly. “Dude, you’ve been holding out on me.”

Pleased by Dean’s reaction to his body (not his vessel, really, not anymore), Castiel reaches for the front of Dean’s jeans, eager to undress him equally. “I have not. We could have done this anytime.”

“Anytime, huh?” Dean’s voice is rough as he moves away, standing to kick off his shoes and shuck his jeans. “How long ago did ‘anytime’ start?”

When Dean joins him on the bed a moment later, gloriously naked, Castiel allows himself a moment of unguarded staring, pretending to ponder his reply. “Hmm… Well, I believe Hester said it best.”

He scoots back to lay against the pillows at the head of the motel bed, spreading his legs to allow Dean room to settle between them. Dean bites his lip hard at the sight, crawling into Castiel’s embrace and slipping his hands around his waist. Their bodies align, and the sensation of skin on skin is thrilling, even more so when Castiel feels the hot weight of Dean’s cock pressing into his hip. Combined with the pressure and friction against his own erection, it's enough to make him groan aloud.

“Hester?” How Dean is still following the thread of the conversation is beyond Castiel, but he does his best to scrape his thoughts together enough to answer.

He hums, pressing kisses along Dean’s hairline down to his jaw. “She came to find Kevin, years ago. Before purgatory. She told you—” he presses a kiss to Dean’s lips, just because he can— “that I was lost when I first laid hands on you in Hell. I’m inclined to agree.”

“That long, huh?” Dean sounds a  bit choked up, eyes shining in the lamplight, and Castiel pulls him even closer, pressing their bare skin together like he could merge their bodies, like he could keep Dean inside him forever, safe and sound.

Castiel nods, kissing Dean’s shoulder. Dean grasps his chin and pulls him up into a kiss, a real one, long and sweet and edging on desperate. When they separate, Dean doesn’t go far, leaning his forehead against Castiel’s sweetly, eyes still shut tight.

They stay there for a moment, breathing into one another until the arousal becomes impossible to ignore and Castiel begins to squirm. He rocks up against Dean’s firm stomach, the languid pace they’ve allowed to take hold rapidly fading as the desire burning low in his stomach burns hotter, more desperately.

“Dean, I need…”

“Right there with you, sunshine,” Dean groans as Castiel grinds up again. He fumbles behind him for the bottle of lube that lies forgotten somewhere among the sheets. When he finds it, he sits back on his haunches, flipping the cap open and… pausing.

“Uh.” Dean sounds uncertain, and Castiel blinks up at him, confused. “I know how this is supposed to go, obviously, but you’re probably gonna have to guide me here.”

He laughs, a little self-deprecating, but charming all the same, and Castiel warms, smiling at him. “I believe you likely still know better than me, Dean. I trust you.”

“Not on this one, buddy. I hate to say it but I think you have more experience in this area.” Dean squirts a little bit of lube out onto his fingers, shaking his head affably. “I’ve never done this before. Stuff with guys, I mean. It’s… complicated.”

“Dean.” Castiel grips Dean’s wrist gently, pulling his hand down between his legs. “You’re overthinking this.”

He shifts, sliding down the bed and bracing his heels against the mattress and pushing against Dean’s fingers as they brush his rim. He gasps as one slick finger presses in, exploring. 

“Is that… good?”

Castiel nods, grinding into it more desperately than is probably dignified, and groaning as Dean crooks his finger slightly, curious. “Good. It’s very good, Dean, just— keep going. Please.”

Dean hardly needs more encouragement than that, and the next several minutes are a haze of pleasure, one slick finger, then two, then three, Dean seemingly just as affected as Castiel by their activities. He’s flushed and panting and entirely wrecked and Castiel winds an arm around his neck, kissing him deeply as he continues to thrust his fingers deep inside of him. 

He crooks them again, then, experimental, but this time he catches something inside of Castiel, something that punches a breath from his lungs and has him slamming his head back onto the pillows, groaning loud and unabashed.

“Was that…?”

“Dean.”

Dean does it again, then again, and Castiel can tell he’s enjoying this, grinning smugly as he takes Castiel apart. In retribution (and because he wants to), Castiel wraps a firm hand around Dean’s neglected cock, which is already leaking slightly, much to Castiel’s delight. Dean hunches slightly at the unexpected sensation, the muscles of his stomach tensing, and says Castiel’s name so desperately he thinks he might come just by the sound of it.

“Dean,” he pants. “Dean, I’m ready, please, Dean.”

Dean meets his eye, concern evident on his face even through the arousal there— the red cheeks, the blown eyes, the kiss-bitten lips— and Castiel wants him in ways he hadn’t even known were possible yesterday.

“Are you sure?”

Castiel just nods, words failing him when Dean’s fingers brush that spot again.

“Just checkin’, Cas. Is this… I did it right? I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Castiel huffs, pulling Dean in for a kiss and scratching gently over his scalp. “Dean, you’re not going to hurt me. And it’s alright— it’s just us. I’ve never done this before either. You’re not going to disappoint me.”

Dean furrows his brow, sitting up slightly. “What do you mean ‘never done this before?’ You said you and Sam…”

“Ah yes, Sam and I,” Castiel grumbles, put out. “Dean, I told you— we only did it to survive. We did engage in anal intercourse—”

Dean cringes at his choice of words.

“—but we sort of… skipped this part.”

Dean rears back now, pulling fully away, anger dawning on his face once again. “The fuck? He didn’t— at all?”

“Dean.”

“He could have hurt you! He must have hurt you, there’s no way he didn’t—”

“Dean!” Castiel sits up, following Dean and putting a hand on the side of his face. “I am an angel— while my power is not what it once was, I am capable of protecting myself from basic injury. He did not hurt me. I requested that we skip this part because I didn’t want…”

Body relaxing ever so slightly, Dean leans into Castiel’s hand. “Didn’t want what?”

“This may come as a surprise to you, even after everything that I’ve already revealed tonight, but I do not want intimacy with anyone other than you.” Castiel sighs, falling back onto the pillows.

“Cas…” Dean follows, blanketing his body back over Castiel’s like he can’t help himself.

“I love you, Dean. And anything we do here tonight will be incredible for me, even if you want to stop it all right now and simply share this bed.” He skims his hands over Dean’s broad shoulders, runs them down his chest, his stomach, stops just shy of brushing his cock, which is practically begging for attention. “Though I wouldn’t be opposed to you, uh… what’s the saying? ‘Fucking my brains out?’”

“Shit, Cas,” Dean whines (not that he’d admit it), fumbling once again for the lube. “Okay, if you’re ready, then— shit, I want you so bad.”

“Then have me,” Castiel replies, smiling. “I’m yours.”

That seems to be all the encouragement Dean needs, because those words have him yanking Castiel in for another kiss, slicking himself up, and hiking Castiel’s thigh up around his waist with a firm hand. At the last moment, he hesitates, his dick sliding over Castiel’s hole, nose brushing Castiel’s own, blinking heavily.

“Uh— Cas?”

“Mmn?” Castiel is beyond words at this point, so turned on it’s becoming uncomfortable.

“Condom.”

It takes a moment for the word to register, to translate in his addled mind from an abstract sound in Dean’s rich baritone to a word with meanings and implications that require his attention. Finally, he manages: “I’m clean.”

Dean nods, long eyelashes barely brushing Castiel’s forehead. “So’m I.”

Castiel grips Dean’s hip then, pulling him in, grinding his ass against Dean’s erection, and Dean seems to get the message, because after he’s done attempting to suffocate a desperate noise, he’s reaching down, gripping his cock and guiding it into Castiel.

There’s a stretch, and Castiel forces himself to relax— but this time he lets himself really feel it, lets himself experience Dean filling him up entirely, and his chest feels like it might burst with the sheer size of the emotion swelling inside. It might be ages before Dean is seated fully, might just be minutes, but Castiel is getting used to not knowing anymore. When Dean is finally joined with him as fully and as deeply as their physical forms will allow (balls deep, Castiel thinks somewhat distantly, hysterically— he’d heard Dean say that once), they take a moment, gasping into one another, just feeling.

Dean is so hot inside of him, so hard, and suddenly Castiel is seized by the certainty that he will die if Dean does not move in the next five seconds.

“Move,” he gasps out, trying to convey the gravity of the sentiment with his new and reduced capability for language, and fortunately Dean doesn’t need to be told twice.

They lose themselves, then, in the coupling, Dean thrusting shallowly and uncertainly once, twice, three times before Castiel locks his ankles together behind Dean’s ass and tugs him in. Then Dean is thrusting desperately, hard and deep and he keeps hitting that little spot inside of Castiel that makes him cry out, Dean’s name falling from his lips over and over again. For his part, Dean can’t seem to stop saying Castiel’s name either, panting it into his neck when he’s not sucking sweet little marks into the skin there.

Once they begin, it’s over all too quickly. They’re both desperate and overwhelmed, and it isn’t long before Dean’s rhythm becomes slightly erratic and his breathing becomes quick.

“Cas— M’gonna…”

“Dean.” It’s all Castiel can say, but Dean seems to understand what he’s trying to communicate anyway, reaching down and wrapping Castiel’s weeping cock in a warm, calloused hand. 

A few strokes is all it takes, and Castiel is coming harder than he ever has in his life, his vision going spotty as pleasure overwhelms his entire being. 

He drifts in the aftermath, small shocks still lighting up his system every few seconds even as he quickly becomes oversensitive, but it isn’t long after that Dean comes too, and Castiel watches, enraptured, savoring the heat as Dean spills deep inside of him.

When it’s over, Dean collapses onto him, the full weight of him crushing, but Castiel has no complaints to register. If he could stay here— Dean atop him, inside of him, all around him— forever, he would, without hesitation or regret. 

Dean clearly does not feel the same in this regard. As soon as he’s coherent he’s pulling out, rolling off, and wincing at the semen covering his chest and stomach, but that’s alright. Castiel did not fall in love with a man content to stay in one place for long.

“Dude,” Dean says finally, voice hoarse, but light and unbothered. He smiles at Castiel, and nothing has ever been more beautiful. “That was awesome.”

“I agree,” Castiel replies, smiling right back. “I’d like to do it again, if you’d be amenable.”

Were Dean not so flushed already from their previous activities, Castiel suspects he might see a blush rising on his friend’s cheeks. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d be plenty amenable.” He clears his throat, looking down and chuckling. “But you’re gonna have to give me some time to bounce back from this one. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Castiel reaches out, impulsively skimming a finger through the cum on Dean’s belly. Dean looks up at him, nose wrinkling.

“Dude— gross.”

Castiel ignores him, examining his fingers thoughtfully. “I think next time, I’d like to fellate you.”

Dean chokes on nothing again, and Castiel raises an eyebrow at him drily, concerned that this might become a regular occurrence. He hadn’t thought Dean would be so reserved around the topic of sex, but it isn’t the first time the hunter has surprised him.

“Is that objectionable?” he asks, fairly certain that isn’t why Dean started coughing for no reason, but unable to resist teasing.

“No! No, uh, no way, man.” Dean risks a glance up at Castiel’s face. “I’m just surprised. I guess I didn’t think you’d be so… into this.”

Castiel just stares calmly back at him. “I have wanted this for a very long time, Dean. I believe I’d be ‘into’ anything that involves sex with you.”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it when no words come out. Then he ducks his head and asks whether Castiel would be willing to fuck him next time, seemingly talking more to the sheets than his bedmate.

Castiel simply responds with a kiss.

When he shifts, rolling over to be closer to Dean, he feels the evidence of their previous activity begin to leak out of him, and he looks back curiously.

“Ugh, sorry dude.” Dean sounds apologetic. “Here, lemme—”

Dean grabs his t-shirt from the floor and proceeds to use it to make himself and then Castiel clean and spunk-free. When he’s done he tosses it back onto the floor, cheerfully ignoring Castiel’s reproachful look.

“It’ll be fine, Cas, we can worry about it in the morning.”

“It’s unsanitary, Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes fondly. “Well, if you really want to wash it, I’m not sure what’s open now, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out. After all you are so passionate about laundry—”

Castiel cuts him off with a look, and rolls over when Dean laughs, bright and happy and pleased with himself.

“Hey wait, don’t be like that. C’mere.” He turns off the lamp on the nightstand, lying down and tugging Castiel back into his chest. It’s quiet for a long stretch of time, a peaceful, comfortable quiet now, and Castiel relaxes, content to spend the next few hours not-sleeping in Dean’s arms. “I feel the same way, y’know.”

Castiel hums in inquiry.

“You said you… have feelings for me. Well, me too. It’s why I was so torn up over the whole ‘you and Sam’ thing.”

Castiel just smiles into the dark, bringing the hand resting on his belly up to his lips to bestow upon it a tender kiss. “I love you too, Dean. Go to sleep.”

Dean mumbles something or other about Castiel being bossy, but as he settles in, he can’t hide the heat in his face as he presses it into Castiel’s back.