Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Getting out of bed on this particular morning was a spectacular failure of judgement. That’s what Dean Winchester tells himself as he stares intently at his whiskey. It’s the fifth one of the evening, or maybe it’s the twelfth. It’s even possible it’s only the first. He doesn’t really know. He set out not to count, just to drink until he could stop being aware of how royally fucked he is, and his brain won’t supply a number with any certainty. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change anything. It’s not like anyone cares. It also doesn’t matter that if he were to recount his day with any kind of objectivity he’d find that there was nothing about this morning that would have given him any idea of what a horrible day it would turn out to be, so his judgement can’t be blamed; at least, not so far as getting out of bed is concerned. His judgement is certainly at fault for setting in motion the various chains of events that led to probably half the things that sucked about this day, but that doesn’t matter either. They’re all irreparably broken; he doesn’t have the tools to fix them or the energy to try, and that’s the thing that galls him the most. At this point he should know better than to get up any day, really. His whole life has been leading towards shitty things, so it’s no surprise they’re actually happening now.

If he were to bother examining it, he’d see that the day had started like any other. He woke and dressed and ate breakfast just like any other day. He didn’t sleep in and he didn’t hit the snooze button a ridiculous number of times and he didn’t burn his toast or spill coffee on his tie. At least, he didn’t spill any while he was still at home. Really, nothing started to go sideways until he left the apartment he and Bela shared. For starters, he had to take the bus to work. That was enough to sour Dean’s mood even on the best of mornings. There’s only a scant few times he’s happier than when he’s in the driver’s seat of his baby: the ’67 Impala that he’s happily maintained for years. She used to belong to his dad back in the day but sometime in Dean’s early twenties, dad had decided he wanted a truck and had gifted the car to Dean. She couldn’t have gone to a prouder owner. But today, she’s parked because there’s a noise coming from the engine that Dean doesn’t like the sound of and he hasn’t had the time to open her up and take a look, so he got stuck with public transportation like some kind of a chump. He should have made the time for her, but he’s stupid and can’t prioritize to save his life and he got stuck on a goddamn bus. And of course he didn’t get a seat. That would be just way too much to ask. Relegated to hanging on to a bar above his head, Dean had a hard time managing both his briefcase and his travel mug, and had ended up splashing coffee onto his tie when the bus took a turn just a little too sharply and the dick next to him slammed into Dean’s side without even apologizing. By the time he even got to the office he was in a mood so black it absorbed light from his surroundings. That was the first indication that today was going to be awful, but it certainly wouldn’t have been enough to justify the dedication he’s currently applying to his whiskey. Not on its own.

No, the spilled coffee and the bus and the problem with his car are only tiny, tiny details that would make for just an annoying day if there were nothing else to stress about. He could have shaken those off. Dean could easily have cleaned his tie and taken a few deep breaths and gone about his day. He could have been in a half-way decent mood by lunch time, treated himself to something good from the café on the corner instead of the hastily prepared sandwich he brought with him, and salvaged the afternoon. If that’s all that had gone wrong, today could have been kind of ok by the end of things, except that’s not all that went wrong. Not by a long shot. Instead, he cleaned his tie off and dropped his briefcase off at his desk in his small cubicle, with no personal touches and a haphazard filing system that could best be described as “a formation of paper in the shape of piles”, and just as he was about to sit down and try to get some actual work done, Alistair appeared.

Alistair Stewart, in Dean’s mind, cannot be accurately described without expletives. A fucking mountain of them. He’s intelligent and creative which are excellent traits to foster, but he’s also fucking ruthless and cruel and god-damned disingenuous, and Dean can’t stand his smug fucking face. He has to, though, or at least he used to have to. Past tense.

Getting summoned into Alistair’s office is never a fun experience. The guy loves the sound of his own voice so what should be a short conversation, over in one or two minutes, has the tendency to drag on for the better part of an hour while Alistair states and restates the same points in different wording, drones on endlessly about whatever the fuck he’s hung up on, and doesn’t pause at all to ask for agreement or assess comprehension. He just talks. That’s what Dean had been expecting when he dragged his feet on the short walk to the corner office this morning. It’s not what he got.

“Close the door, sit down,” Alistair said, no preamble, and took his own seat behind the ornately carved desk opposite the door. Dean did as he was told, sitting heavily in the comfortable chair facing Alistair. He knew better than to speak first, so he just nodded and waited for a lecture on numbers or synergy or some other business concept he couldn’t possibly care less about. He wasn’t prepared for Alistair to smile softly at him, a smile that didn’t touch his eyes, and heave a sigh before he started speaking.

“You know that we have valued your contributions here for quite some time, Mr. Winchester.” He dragged out the R on Dean’s surname for considerably longer than necessary. Alistair’s accent was always something Dean had a hard time placing. He had no idea where the guy hailed from and he’d frequently been curious, but not curious enough to actually ask. The phrasing struck him as vaguely ominous, too, but he didn’t have much time to ponder it before Alistair continued. “You have been a useful and welcome member of this department for what is it, three years now?” Dean nodded. “Unfortunately, a decision has been made at the corporate level to outsource the work done here. We will continue operations in our current capacity until the end of the month, but at that time we will be closing this branch office and relocating some divisions to head office. Others will be subcontracted to third parties or to overseas. As you have not been identified as a candidate for relocation, what this means for you is that as of the 2nd of next month, your position no longer exists. I’m sorry to have to give you this news, Mr. Winchester, but your services will no longer be required.” Alistair paused, either for effect or to let Dean get a word in edgewise.

For once, Dean didn’t jump at the chance. He sat, stunned, and waited for Alistair to continue or dismiss him.

“You’ll be offered a severance package in accordance with your term of service, and obviously we will provide you with a reference. Do you have any questions?” Dean did have questions, but they were mostly things like what the fuck? And what the actual fuck?? so he didn’t ask them. Instead, he shook his head, and when Alistair dismissed him, Dean left his now ex-boss’ office without another word or a backwards glance. The rest of the day was a blur of distress and panic. He didn’t get much actual work done and he certainly couldn’t vouch for the efficacy of the work he did do. No focus whatsoever. All he could think of was how royally fucked he was, and how if he’d been just a little bit better at his job, a little bit more resourceful or if he’d worked more overtime, maybe he’d still be employed. He didn’t even bother to treat himself to lunch like he’d planned, and the sandwich he brought felt bland and tasteless on his tongue. By the time he shut his computer down and made his way to the bus stop, Dean’s mood was orders of magnitude worse than the blackness he’d carried into the building with him in the morning. If his bus ride was difficult or unpleasant, he didn’t notice. His entire being was focused on getting home, delivering the bad news to Bela, and perhaps drinking until he blacked out. Didn’t even matter that it was a weeknight. What’s the worst that could happen if he showed up hung over, they gonna fire him?

Apparently that wasn’t destined to go his way either, for fuck’s sake. No, of course not. Bela’s words still ring in his ears as he drains the last of his glass and signals to the bartender that he’d like another.

“I’m pregnant,” she’d said, skipping right over any greeting when she walked in the door. She hadn’t even noticed how distraught Dean already looked, or maybe she had and she didn’t care. Dean didn’t hear much of what she said after that. His mind raced, tearing apart this new information and piecing it back together. It’s not like they’d planned this. He knew Bela wanted kids but he’d always figured it would happen later. Much later. Given the events that had unfolded in Dean’s life that day, it could not possibly have come at a worse time. And he barely had a chance to wrap his head around that revelation when she dropped the next bomb, shattering his world further.

“It’s not yours.”

He couldn’t imagine how that was possible, until she reminded him of the week-long trip he’d taken to visit his parents upstate. How she hadn’t come with him, but instead stayed home under the premise that she had too much work on her plate to take time off. There was someone else, she’d told him. Had been for a while. She’d been with him that week, and she was certain the baby was a result of that.

“I’m leaving.”

Dean was so numb by the last statement that he barely nodded in reply. He didn’t process how long it took her to collect her things. He didn’t notice when she left. And he didn’t register how long he sat there in silence afterwards. But when he did finally mark the passage of time again it was pitch black outside, and he decided that being all by himself in the place they’d shared was a terrible idea. So naturally he hauled his sad self to a dive several blocks away, occupied a seat at the bar, and began to drown his sorrows.

He doesn’t get why she did it. Well, no, he does. That’s the problem. There are, in Dean’s estimation, seven hundred or so reasons and/or personality traits and/or actions that she could have chosen from; there are many more reasons for her to leave than there were for her to stay. He just can’t figure out which one she finally settled on, which one made her go and cheat on him. The uncertainty was what was getting him. Any one of the things she could have chosen has been a reality for long enough that it’s hard for Dean to wrap his head around the fact that she’d decided now suddenly that enough was enough. It’s not like they’d been fighting. Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary at all. Even with 20/20 hindsight, Dean has trouble analyzing the past few months of their relationship and coming up with anything that would have given him even half a clue that this was coming.

Alcohol is a poor companion for moods like this. It dulls the pain just enough to make it bearable but it doesn’t really soothe the mind at all. It makes things cloudy, hazy, so that it’s harder for Dean to focus on the specific cause of his discomfort, but he’s still hurt and confused and angry. When his drink is empty again, the glass hits the sticky surface of the bar in front of him with more force than he intends but at least it doesn’t break.

“Careful there,” a voice pipes up from somewhere outside Dean’s periphery, and he spins to face it quickly enough that his stomach lurches and his eyes have trouble focusing. When double vision stills to a single image again, a dark-haired man in an ill-fitting suit and a rumpled tan trench-coat smiles at him from the next barstool. Dean hadn’t noticed anyone sitting down. Idly, his brain tries to figure out how long he’s had company. He eventually decides it doesn't matter and replies with a noncommittal grunt.

“You’re drinking like a man on a mission,” the guy says. Dean doesn't acknowledge the statement but the guy’s not wrong. He gestures for the bartender and orders a drink, and Dean doesn't pay him any mind until he notices there's a new glass in front of his own hands as well. Dean looks at him questioningly and tries not to dwell on how bright his eyes are. “I don't like drinking alone,” the guy says. Dean can get on that level. Hasn’t exactly ever stopped him, but it’s not like he prefers it. He picks up the glass and gestures with it, which the guy mimics, and takes a deep swallow. It's whiskey, same as he’s been drinking for an indeterminate number of hours. The bar’s patrons are dwindling, the raucous after-dinner clientele giving way to a more somber crowd. He’s definitely been here a while

“I'm Castiel,” the guy says, eyes on his own tumbler of amber liquor. He doesn’t seem as engrossed in his beverage as Dean is but then he probably doesn’t have as many things he’s trying to forget about, either. Probably a totally normal kind of guy, just enjoying a nice drink at the end of a normal day, winding down, before he goes home to whatever the rest of his life is. Dean’s not sure how buying him a drink factors into it, not really, but he’s never been one to turn down free booze. Not when there are no obvious strings attached.

Dean offers up his own name in a voice that comes out more raw than he expected. He most certainly didn’t expect to choke on the word. He plays it off by coughing into his fist but he’s pretty sure anyone listening with even half an ear would know he’s covering up what threatened to be a very public sob. Dean’s man enough to admit he cries when it’s called for but he prefers to reserve that for the privacy of his own home or someone else’s home or really just somewhere not inhabited entirely by strangers and people who sell him booze. He’s not going to start crying on a barstool no matter how shitty this day has been.

He can feel the guy – Castiel – regarding him from the other barstool. Whatever he’s looking for, it takes him only a few short moments to find, and then he lets out a satisfied “hmmph” before draining his drink. Dean pretends he’s not buckling under the weight of his eyes. If he acknowledges he’s uncomfortable being weighed and measured, he’s just going to get up and move and he doesn’t strictly trust his legs at this exact juncture. So he focuses on the drink in front of him and tries to ignore both the unsettling way he can tell that Castiel is watching him, and the startling multitude of ways in which his life is royally fucked.

He’s more successful in ignoring the eyes than he is the rest of reality. He tips back the last of the whiskey in his glass right as his brain decides to clear the haze for a moment and point out that without continued employment, staying in the apartment he’d previously only been paying for half of was going to be untenable as fuck. Between his savings and the modest severance package he’s going to get, the quick math slash guesstimation he’s capable of right now tells him there are only a couple months, tops, before he taps out all his resources and can’t make rent. He doesn’t have the slightest clue what he’ll do then. He’ll have to start looking for a new job, which is just such a piss off because as much as he got next to zero joy out of the one he’s had for the past three years or so, the main reason he’d stayed with it is he hates, hates interviewing. He always feels sick trying to convince people he’s worth choosing, worth taking a chance on. To be fair he has empirical evidence to back up this discomfort. Besides, trying to predict the questions they’re going to ask and being able to come up with clever answers on the fly is just such an obnoxious dance. He’d much rather get a job on evidence of his skill but aside from reference letters that’s kind of hard to do, and the hiring managers are still always going to want to meet you. So that part he’s going to put off, at least for another week or so. He’s got three weeks until he’s officially laid off anyway, and a while longer before his severance runs out and he has to dip in to savings. Dean doesn’t have to subject himself to that circus quite yet.

Castiel is speaking, he realizes. Dean hadn’t been listening but now he’s pulled away from his brooding by the low sound of the man’s voice and as much as he’s got his own problems to think about the guy did buy him a drink so maybe the least he can do is listen to whatever he’s saying for like five fucking minutes. He’s not a complete asshole, he can accomplish that.

“Sorry, off in my own world. What were you saying?” Dean says with only a little slur to his voice. The glass in front of him is full again, and he doesn’t recall if he ordered another drink or if the man beside him did.

“I was talking about you, actually,” Castiel says with a laugh. “Just wondering what it is you’re trying to escape from.” He smiles warmly and it’s funny, because it gives Dean this crazy impression that he’d be more than willing to listen to the entire messed up story. He gets the feeling that Castiel would actually even care, though they’re perfect strangers, and he’s tempted for a moment to spill his guts. It might be liberating to vent, but Dean has never been the kind to confess his deepest emotions to strangers in a bar, even if their eyes are bright and inviting, and they offer drinks and knowing smiles. So he goes for the abridged version instead, sighing into his glass with resignation.

“Lost my job. Got cheated on. Got dumped. Apparently she’s preganant with the other guy’s baby. Best day ever.” Castiel cringes like he regrets asking.

“Yikes. Sorry to hear that. Totally explains the drinking on a Thursday.” And he motions for the bartender, orders another round, and claps Dean on the shoulder with familiarity that shouldn’t be found in a minutes old acquaintance, but Dean can’t find the energy to be upset by it. He kinda hates drinking alone too.

“What about you? Rough day at the office? Or do you just hang out in bars looking for sad motherfuckers to drink with because it amuses you?” Dean barks a sarcastic laugh at his own joke.

“Office? Huh? Oh, the suit,” Castiel replies disjointedly. “Yeah, no, I don’t work in an office. Familial obligation. Difficult familial obligation, hence the suit, and the drinking. My job generally calls for much more casual attire.” Dean nods, though he doesn’t really care very much.

“Well then, here’s to drinking away our problems,” he replies, and offers up a rueful smile as he raises the glass to his lips once more.

Chapter Text

The sound of rain driving sideways against his window isn’t the thing that wakes Dean up, but it’s loud enough that it might have been. No, it’s his alarm clock, and he curses the blaring noise out loud as he frantically slaps at the thing, desperate to silence it.

“I’m awake, shut the fuck up!” Dean barks. His voice comes out raw and strained, and he coughs as soon as the words are out. His stomach threatens to come up along with the hoarse, scratchy breaths he draws, and his head hurts like someone put the boots to it while he slept. The left side of his face hurts even worse, but he doesn’t have the brain power at present to wonder why. Dean satisfies himself with a pitiable groan and glances at the clock. Six-thirty, as expected. He should have known better than to get that drunk on a work night, but it’s too late to think responsibly now. He needs to drag his aching carcass out of this bed, the bed he never wants to sleep in again because far too many memories were made there, and go scrub the smell of whiskey off his skin. He must reek of it right now. He can practically feel the bad decisions oozing out of his pores along with the cold sweat that clings to his skin. Bleary and flat, he shuffles to the bathroom, and when he emerges after a ridiculously long respite under the scalding hot water, he feels only slightly better but at least he doesn’t smell. He just might be able to fake it through to five.

The mere idea of preparing food or coffee is daunting, an undertaking of herculean proportions that Dean can’t marshal the strength to attempt. He’ll have to stop on the way to the office and pick up something greasy. Aside from sleep, which he won’t be getting any time soon, it’s the best way to bring himself back to feeling human after a night of way too much whiskey and… and what? For the first time this morning, Dean attempts to cobble together the bits and pieces of the previous night that he can clearly recall, and it’s not much. He distinctly remembers meeting Castiel and sharing a few drinks, actually a lot of drinks, but there’s nothing later in the evening that he can settle on with any certainty. It’s an unpleasant thought, but not one he has time for right now. Dean’s too old to be getting blackout drunk, but he’s also too old to be late for work because he’s hungover and mopey even if he’s already lost the job. So instead of spending any more time wondering about his evening, Dean dresses in the first suit his hands fall on in the closet and a tie picked at random (he’s only got like, four, it’s not a hard choice) and heads in to the kitchen to grab his keys and wallet off the counter where he always leaves them.

Ok, that’s a fun surprise.

There’s a bottle of Gatorade sitting on his counter, the bright green kind, and under his keys is a neatly folded slip of paper torn from some notebook that definitely doesn’t live in this apartment. Dean pockets the keys and his wallet quickly, then unfolds the note.

Good Morning! I imagine you’re feeling a little rough around the edges today, so consider the Gatorade an apology for the part I played in your excessive consumption. You should drink it. Replenishment of electrolytes plays an important part in recovery, and if the sheer volume of alcohol you consumed last night is to be any indication, you are most certainly recovering right now. I also imagine you have some… gaps… in your recollection. I’d be more than happy to fill in the blanks for you. Hope today is better than yesterday – Castiel

There’s a phone number at the bottom of the hastily scrawled note, the letters looping and slanting and surprisingly legible considering they were written by someone who drank as much as he recalls Castiel drinking, even if he had stopped drinking when Dean’s memory of the night starts to get blurry. He folds the note back up and tucks it into his pocket. Only moments before this he was resigned to the blackout theory, but now that there’s an invitation to ask some questions, and also a somewhat cryptic suggestion that there’s something worth asking questions about, Dean’s exhaustion is overwhelmed by curiosity. He’ll call the guy on lunch break, he decides, in case the lucky bastard doesn’t have to work this morning and can still hide from the world in his bed. He owes him at least that courtesy.

He clearly didn’t get his hands inside the Impala to figure out what the unwelcome noise is, so Dean rides the bus again. He still gets jostled every time the thing goes around a corner and he still doesn’t get a seat, but at least when the bus pulls up several blocks from the office, there’s no coffee on Dean’s tie. Dean takes a slight detour, turning down a side street to make his way towards the little coffee shop that is probably the only thing he’s going to miss about working in this neighbourhood. A brightly painted sign above the door proclaims the name “Espresso Patronum” in lettering that somewhat resembles the packaging from the Harry Potter movies but is just different enough to evade legal scrutiny. Dean denied getting the reference the first time he came here his first week on the job, but he’s past that now. Yeah, he’s read the books, and he’s seen the movies, but it’s not like he’s ever taken a sorting hat quiz or anything. The pun is clever, but it’s far from his favourite thing about the little coffee shop. They bake things fresh on site, if you’re in to that kind of thing, and the coffee is fantastic. It’s better than those chain places in every conceivable way, especially when you add in the fact that Dean has developed a pretty fantastic rapport with the staff who work the morning shift. Charlie, the little redhead behind the counter who is in Dean’s opinion far too smart to be spending her days making coffee, waves enthusiastically when she sees Dean enter, and even a hangover isn’t enough to dampen his smile in return.

“Dean!” she shouts, smiling broadly. “How’s the rat race?” Dean cringes.

“Not great,” he tells her, not really interested in talking about it but seeing no reason to lie. “They’re shutting the office down at the end of the month. Guess I won’t be in the neighborhood to come visit you much longer.” Her face falls.

“Jeez Dean, that sucks. Sorry dude.” Charlie makes his order without any further comment on the subject, although she does try to lighten the mood with small talk and jokes. Dean’s feeling just a little bit better by the time she hands him a bag that is far too large to contain just the breakfast sandwich he ordered. He gives her a questioning look. “I’m thinking you could use a win right about now. Don’t tell my boss.” Dean opens the bag, and there’s a neat little cardboard box with a slice of their spectacular homemade apple pie inside.

“Thanks, Charlie. That’s awesome.” It doesn’t fix his hangover, and it doesn’t fix any of his other problems, but any day where he gets to eat pie at lunch can’t be all bad, so he’s feeling nothing but gratitude as he makes his way to the office, coffee and pie in hand.

Dean spends most of the morning staring at his computer, oscillating between honestly attempting to accomplish at least a moderate amount of actual work, and spending as little energy as possible just making it look like he’s working. He keeps one eye out for Alistair during his feigned industriousness. The last thing he needs right now is for that guy to show up and decide he doesn’t have enough to do or that his services are no longer required starting immediately. The mood of the entire office is somber and despondent; apparently no one in his department had been “identified as a candidate for relocation,” so it was layoffs across the board. Dean’s pretty sure that if he put the energy into it, he could count the remaining fucks given collectively by the entire floor on one hand, and the number would be shrinking towards an inevitable count of zero while he was doing the counting. He figures there’s got to be a couple of keeners out there somewhere, still focused on doing the best job possible because they don’t know how to do anything else, or because they think there’s still a chance of a last minute reprieve. Dean, for his part, is fine with not being offered a job at corporate. It’s bad enough living several hours drive from his family. His parents, John and Mary, had moved away from the city to retire a few years back, selling the home he and his younger brother Sam had grown up in to purchase something smaller. Sam was still in town, but they were both so busy lately he rarely had time to see his brother. They talk on the phone once every couple of weeks but it’s not like it used to be. Dean’s fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to stomach moving several states away, especially not for a job he hates. Doesn’t mean he’s happy about losing his job though.

The stack of paperwork on his desk hasn’t shrunk at all by the time he breaks for lunch at noon. Normally he’d sit in the lunch room with everyone else but as he makes his way over to grab his pie out of the fridge, the room takes on the air of one giant pity party at the exact moment he remembers he planned to call Castiel on his lunch break. So instead he takes the pie and a fork borrowed from the office kitchen and heads out of the building, across the street to a courtyard full of trees and benches and shrubberies. It’s a weird little vestige of nature in the middle of the urban landscape, but over the past couple of years Dean has gotten rather fond of taking lunch here on nice days, or when he needs to get out of the office for a few minutes before the politics get so far under his skin he feels the need to dig them out with a knife. The rain has subsided during the morning and made way for warm sun, and blessedly, there’s a bench that has managed to dry out enough for sitting on. He sets the pie down on the bench beside him, consciously aware that it’s not really enough food to qualify as actual lunch, and pulls his phone and the note out of the pocket of his suit coat.

Dean is really looking forward to not wearing suits when this whole thing is over. He’s still not really sure how he ended up in an office in the first place, and part of his brain is convinced he’s going to end up back in an office when he finds a new job, but the time he’s going to get to spend not putting on a tie and buttoning down in the mornings is going to be the best thing about this whole “your job doesn’t exist anymore” thing. He’s not a suit and tie guy. Sure, he cuts a sharp figure when he chooses to dress up; Dean knows he’s a good looking guy, and that a well-made suit can do a lot to accentuate that, but he also knows that he feels so much more comfortable in jeans and a tee-shirt. He’s never felt like himself in a suit. It’s always worn like a costume; something he put on to fit a role that someone else wanted him to play. Putting the suits away is going to be the best part of not working in the office any more, even if it’s only until he loses his resolve and takes another office job.

He punches the numbers on the cryptic note into his phone, but his thumb hovers over the send button. Dean doesn’t even know what questions to ask. He’s got no idea what “gaps” in his memory Castiel thinks he needs filled, but suddenly he can’t stop his brain from coming up with all sorts of awful stories Castiel could be ready to tell him. Maybe he’d gotten belligerent and been kicked out of the bar. Maybe he’d gotten weepy-drunk and cried on this stranger’s shoulder about how much his life sucks. Maybe he’d… oh god. What if he’d come on to the guy? Dean’s not sure he wants to know the answer to that question. He’s way too old at this point to think that one night stands are a thing he wants, and when you’re as emotionally compromised as Dean was last night, it’s a bad time to choose your bed partners. It’s been a long, long time since Dean’s bedded down with anyone who had the same equipment below the belt as he does, and he spent the entire time he was living with Bela telling himself that that whole thing was just a phase he went through in college; an experiment, an exploration. Actually, that’s only a half-truth. He spent the entire time he lived with Bela being told that it was just a phase, with the unspoken threat that a certain someone would be incredibly unhappy if there was any further discussion on the subject. Eventually it got to the point where Dean didn’t even think about it anymore. Years ago, if you’d asked, he would have told you he wasn’t exactly sure what he’d call his orientation but he definitely liked ladies and he definitely liked dudes. Nowadays he’d answer ‘straight’ without further thought.

“Everybody experiments in college,” she’d told him. “That doesn’t make you gay.” Very early in their relationship, she’d been adamant that he level with her about all his past partners. Clearing the slate, she called it. But it wasn’t the number that she’d had a problem with, it was the gender attached to some of the people he’d enumerated. She didn’t say it out loud, but she cringed when he listed off the couple of guys he’d had flings with during his formative years. “You’re with me now. That makes you straight.”

Except now that he’s not looking at her through rose-coloured glasses, now that she’s ripped out his still-beating heart and stomped on it with stiletto heels, the whole concept makes his stomach churn. Because it wasn’t just a phase, was it? It’s not like looking back at a bad haircut you had in high school and thinking “oh, man, am I ever glad I grew out of that.” It’s much more a matter of examining your past and realizing that all the things you did before helped you become the person you are now. And that person, the person that Dean is and has been, the person hidden behind Bela’s machinations, that person is decidedly bisexual. The idea that he was so completely under Bela’s spell that he let her plant those ideas and redirect his thinking is more than a little unsettling. But she loved him, right? She said she did, for all those years. She must have meant it at some point; before the cheating, before the lying, there must have been a time when it had been said with sincerity. There has to have been a point in time where she had been open and honest with him. Dean doesn’t know what to believe anymore. He doesn’t want to think about it.

Dean’s suddenly not hungry. He leaves the pie untouched as he sits on the bench, staring at the people going past. As he sits, his mind starts to wander, and he finds himself paying a lot of attention to the people milling about or making their way somewhere specific. Dean rarely finds himself sitting still long enough to people-watch, but it’s calming, and he allows himself to get lost in it for a little while. He watches women in skirt-suits carrying briefcases make their way towards the office buildings surrounding the courtyard, walking with powerful strides and speaking into cellphones, not able to pull themselves away from work even long enough to take lunch. There’s a construction worker in jeans and a safety vest, hardhat tucked under his arm as he sips a coffee and leans against a tree. Dean’s not sure where there’s construction around here at the exact moment, but the guy looks so fucking chill that he doesn’t really care. He’s jealous for a moment. This guy never has to wear a suit, never has to look in the mirror and wonder if his four-in-hand knot makes him look cheap beside all the half-windsors his coworkers wear. He gets to work with his hands, and when he’s done work there’s something tangible to show for his efforts. Plus, since Dean’s being honest with himself right now, he’s got to admit that he likes a guy in jeans much, much more than a stuffy suit.

He should go get a sandwich. Skipping lunch on a day when he’s already feeling like straight up garbage isn’t the best of plans. But he feels planted on the bench, pie sitting forgotten beside him, turning his phone over and over in inattentive hands. Dean gets an hour for lunch, and he could easily spend the entire time sitting on this bench, staring at the people going by and wondering about their lives. They all seem to have things so much more together than Dean does. They know where they’re going to be living in a month, where they’re going to be working in six weeks, where they’re headed and what they want out of life. Dean doesn’t even know what he’s having for dinner.

His eyes wander away from the passers-by and Dean finds himself looking at his phone again. Castiel’s number is still sitting idly on the screen, waiting for him to delete it or bite the bullet and call. He’s still not sure what questions he needs to ask but there’s enough uncertainty in Dean’s life that he finally convinces himself to take control of this one aspect and at least clear up the holes in his memory from the night before. It can’t be all that bad. He didn’t wake up with any serious injuries and all his possessions made it home with him. At least if his behaviour was ridiculous he and Castiel can have a good laugh about it. Dean could use a laugh right about now.

Before Dean can trick himself into further inaction, he presses send and puts the phone to his ear. The phone rings three times before the line clicks to life, and Castiel’s gravelly voice drifts across the airwaves.

“Hello?” He only says the one word, but it gets under Dean’s skin and he wonders if he’s made a mistake. Maybe it’s better not to know. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear the stories Castiel has to tell.

“Uh, hey. It’s Dean. From last night?” Dean’s acutely aware of how awkward he sounds but it’s too late to take the words back so he hangs on the line and waits for whatever he’s got coming.

Castiel’s voice brightens in response. “Hello, Dean. How are you feeling this morning?” He sounds cheerful and alive. Dean could easily believe Castiel is happy to hear from him, though that doesn’t make sense because they only spent one evening drinking in a shitty dive bar and they know next to nothing about each other.

“Been better.” Dean replies, then reconsiders. “Been worse, too though. Thanks for the Gatorade. And, uh, the whiskey too I guess.”

“You’re quite welcome. I’ve survived my fair share of rough nights. I figured you could use a bit of help when you got up this morning. Did you make it to work ok?”

Dean laughs, a harsh, choked noise. “I made it to work on time. Not sure I qualify as ok. I feel like crap and I think I set a new personal record for time wasted this morning, but physically I’m there. That counts for something, right?” Castiel agrees. “So, uh, you said you could offer me some of the details I’m missing?” Dean’s not feeling the awkward small talk, and he should really start making his way back toward the office. His stomach rumbles aggressively, demanding food, and if he’s going to have time to grab something with nutritional value to go along with the pie he needs to get moving pretty quick.

“Yes, I did say that. Are you free tomorrow? I imagine you don’t have an abundance of time for lunch and it’s quite a tale. Perhaps we could meet for lunch.” Dean mentally scrambles for a reason to decline, but he can’t find one. His brain is too foggy and he’s caught off guard by the invitation, so he finds himself agreeing before he has a chance to come up with anything.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says. What the hell else is he gonna do with his Saturday? “Lunch sounds great.” Castiel sends a text message with the name of a restaurant Dean has been to once or twice. He eats his pie in silence, no longer focused on the people around him but instead turning his attention inward. Dean hasn’t decided yet if the overall sense of malaise he feels can be completely attributed to his hangover or if it’s a physical representation of how horrible he feels about his life at the moment. The nausea is certainly alcohol related; that’s a fact. Dean’s not entirely convinced that his body would function any better right now if he’d skipped the bar and slept eight hours last night, though. His entire life has been ripped out from under him. A guy gets to have a few bad days after that, right? It’s only fair. As Dean makes his way back to the office, stopping at a deli for a sandwich he doesn’t even taste, he gets another text message. It’s from Castiel again, this time a series of those little emoticon pictures. Dean installed the application for them on his phone specifically because Bela used them and he was tired of seeing little blank boxes at the ends of her messages. He’s never bothered to actually use them. Castiel sends a cheeseburger, a bumblebee, and a smiley face. Dean’s not sure how to reply, so he doesn’t.

Sam calls after dinner. Dean’s happy to hear from him but he’s still guarded. A normal person would tell his brother his woes at this point. A normal person would be grateful for the opportunity to unload his troubles on someone who cares. But when Sam asks about Bela, taking great care to hide the scorn in his voice, Dean says she’s fine, she’s just not home right now. It’s not technically a lie. Dean’s sure she’s totally fine, taking her leisure at some other guy’s house, probably laughing about how long they kept things hidden from poor, stupid Dean. He doesn’t say any of that to Sam though. Sam never liked her; he always thought Bela was pretentious and uppity. Thought she wasn’t good enough for his big brother, when all the time Dean kept telling himself it was the other way around. He’s not ready for the I-told-you-so. Sam won’t actually say those words, of course, but he’ll think them, and Dean will hear it in his voice. He’ll say he’s sorry, and ask how Dean is doing, and does he need anything, and things will get better, but all Dean will hear is I told you this was going to happen. So he doesn’t say anything.

They make plans for Saturday night. Sam suggests dinner at his place, just the two of them. Dean thinks that’s just fine because who else would be there now, anyway? He should tell Sam, he knows, but he just can’t be bothered to vocalize it right this minute. He might not even mention it at dinner. Maybe he’ll just avoid talking about it until it doesn’t hurt anymore and then he can bring it up like a piece of distant history. “Oh yeah, Bela,” he’ll say. “We broke up a long time ago. But it’s ok, I’m over it now.” Skip over the whole sympathy bit and jump to the part where he doesn’t care anymore because it’s so old it feels like it happened to someone else and it’s just a story he heard once.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning, Dean doesn’t want to drag himself back into the world of the living any more than he did on Friday, and he doesn’t have a hangover to blame. He slept in the spare room, conscious enough this time to realize how much it was going to hurt waking up alone in their bedroom, but the distance doesn’t really do much to improve his mood. He’s awake with the sun, early morning light streaming through the window and taunting Dean with hints of warmth and comfort. He can’t fall back asleep now, too alert and awake to find any more rest, but he also can’t bring himself to clamber out from beneath the sheets and go about his business.

Being awake sucks. Being awake means thinking. Being awake means he’s unable to escape all the shitty feelings he’s drowning in. Sleep may come with dreams, steeped in the awful sorts of emotions he wrestles with in the waking world, but at least he’s only distantly aware of them. Dreams fade. Reality has a way of sticking with you.

It’s not like Bela was the greatest girlfriend, but damn, at least he wasn’t alone. He had someone to share his life with, even if she was cold and cruel and demanding. Dean’s sure she cared in her own way, though in retrospect she did the world’s worst job of showing it. But even though she was oppressive and mean-spirited and manipulative, she was someone, and when Dean did manage to make her happy he could feel like he was actually worth something. Her rare smiles, a simple word of praise or appreciation, and Dean could feel himself positively glowing with the joy that he was good enough to make her happy. He’ll never feel that again, he thinks, letting his head sink back into the pillow.

Dean doesn’t believe for a second that Bela’s taken with her his only chance for happiness. What they had was never happiness. It was play-acting, at best. But she took years, and he doesn’t know how to start over. He doesn’t know how to pick the right people and fit them into the gaps in his life. He doesn’t know how to try. It all seems like so much effort when all Dean really wants to do is sleep until nothing hurts anymore. It takes the better part of an hour before he can summon up the resolve to get out of bed, and even then it’s only because he convinces himself that he has his baby to take care of in the parking garage downstairs, and if he doesn’t fix the rattle he’ll have to take a bus to meet Castiel for lunch.

Dean should have known that getting his hands dirty was the best way to take his mind off things. The original plan was just to fix the rattling in his engine, but once it’s fixed he just keeps going. He spends the entire morning elbow-deep in grease. His car is always very well maintained, but it’s easy to lose himself in the tinkering. Dean adjusts things that are so close to perfect that you’d need a digital micrometer to notice the difference he’s made, cleans things that don’t entirely need it. He tweaks and fiddles and putters and in the time he loses he finds a piece of himself that he hadn’t noticed was missing. Eventually there’s nothing left to work on; at least not with parts he has on hand. The major downside to an apartment is even though he’s got covered parking and a storage locker to keep tools in, there’s nowhere to store anything bigger and he certainly can’t do anything approaching a big overhaul. It’s lucky that his baby doesn’t need much beyond regular maintenance; brake pads and fluid top-ups and the occasional tune-up. She’s been so well cared for over her nearly fifty years on the road that she drives like a much younger car. A screw-up like him doesn’t even deserve her. He’s lucky to have her.

He washes his baby then, soaps her up and scrubs her down and hey, why not, throws on a coat of wax. She’s gleaming by the time he dashes in to shower. Dean really should have stopped working sooner ‘cause now he’s going to be racing the clock to get across town to meet Castiel. The meeting doesn’t even really matter. It’s just lunch with a guy he barely knows, an opportunity to discuss his rampant stupidity in the neutral environment of a restaurant. Dean still acknowledges that it would be incredibly rude to show up with brake dust and grease and sweat clinging to his skin, in clothing he’s spent the morning working in. Whether Castiel would comment on it or not is entirely beside the point.

Dean throws on a clean tee-shirt and a comfortable, worn-in pair of jeans, then grabs the first clean flannel he finds in his closet and dashes out the door. He’s not worried about being late, but as he slides the key into the ignition and feels the familiar vibrations of his baby’s engine rumble to life and thrum up through the seats to settle into his bones, Dean’s stomach makes a similar noise and he realises how long it’s been since he drank coffee and ate toast before getting to work on the car. He’s grateful he’s meeting Castiel for lunch instead of coffee, although lunch does mean he’s going to be stuck in a much longer conversation if it gets awkward. At least there will be food. He’s less likely to say something stupid if there’s food in his mouth; not entirely prevented from it, cause let’s be honest, he’s still him, but less likely at least.

Castiel is already seated when Dean walks into to the restaurant. It’s casual and relaxed, with one of those open kitchens where you can see the food being prepared and smell the aromas and hear the sizzle of the grill. Castiel waves to Dean when he enters. He’s happy to see the guy is much more dressed down today, in a button-down with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up. He stands when Dean reaches the table and sticks out a hand with stiff formality. It’s as though he’s unused to shaking hands. Dean eyes him sideways but shakes anyway. His movements may be awkward but his smile is warm and genuine; disarming. Dean finds himself smiling back.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says as he releases Dean’s hand and sits back down at the table. He’s drinking tea of all things. The cup is still full almost to the brim, so at least Dean can be reasonably certain he hasn’t been sitting here long. He can’t put words to why, but Dean would rather not think about the guy sitting here by himself, waiting patiently while Dean took his sweet time working on his car.

“Hey,” Dean replies. The waitress comes by at just that moment, taking his order for water and coffee with a smile, and then she leaves and Dean has to face the guy across the table. “Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

“Not at all,” Castiel says, dismissing Dean’s concerns with an idle wave of his hand. He lifts his cup of tea and takes a careful sip, letting out a pleased hum before drinking more deeply. His long fingers cradle the cup rather than setting it down. “I’ve only been here a few moments. Haven’t even opened the menu yet. Have you eaten here before?”

“Yeah, once. Came here with my brother a few months ago. Great burgers,” Dean replies. He’s suddenly keenly aware of how little he’s eaten since he got up. A burger is starting to sound like the best thing under the sun.

“Ah yes. Sam, was it?” Dean regards Castiel carefully, raising a questioning eyebrow. Castiel doesn’t look up from his menu, but he must be aware of Dean’s scrutiny because he replies to the unspoken inquiry. “You’re quite talkative when you’ve been drinking. And sincere, if I’m as good a judge of character as I believe myself to be. Tell me, Dean, have you told your family about everything that happened Thursday yet, or are you still worried that they’re going to be less than supportive?”

Dean just stares at the menu in his hands. It’s possible he’s blushing; he certainly feels the heat of embarrassment rising in his face. This is going far worse than he’d anticipated already, and he would give almost anything to redirect the conversation right about now. Castiel has stopped talking though, which in polite conversation is generally a sign that a response is expected, so Dean clears his throat.

“Uh, no. Not yet. Still kinda figuring it out. It’s a lot to handle all at once, you know? And it’s not like they ever really liked her – Bela – that much, so I’m not expecting a crapload of sympathy.”

“I’ve never met your family, Dean,” Castiel says softly, eyes boring into Dean’s soul. “Really I’ve barely met you, but I have a strong suspicion that you’re not giving them enough credit. You told me the other night how close you and your brother used to be, and that you wish you still were. From the way you talk about him I highly doubt he’s the kind of person who’d take your suffering as an opportunity to be cruel. I think you’ll receive a lot more sympathy than you’re expecting.” Dean must look absolutely flummoxed because Castiel laughs. It shakes his chest and lights up his eyes. “I told you. You talk a lot when you’re drinking. Could barely get you to stop talking once you got going. Now, are you going to stare at me like a deer in the headlights or are you going to order lunch? I’m starving. Good stories require good food, I think.”

Dean can’t disagree. Wouldn’t if he could. He orders a burger and he almost takes a page out of Sam’s book and gets a salad instead of fries, but fuck it, Dean’s having a crap week and he deserves a little bit of comfort food. He can almost taste the salt and the grease as he passes the menu to the waitress and he sends up a silent hope that the kitchen is not too busy and their food arrives quickly. Hunger has dulled his wits and he’s getting the impression that a conversation with Castiel requires sharp reflexes and attentiveness. He’s already got the advantage of knowing god-only-knows-what about Dean. No need to give him any other advantages.

“Now,” Castiel says once their orders are placed, “I believe I promised you a story. What do you remember?”

Dean shrugs. “Not much. I remember it was dark out by the time you sat beside me, so I’d been there a couple hours at least. And you were wearing a suit. Something about a family obligation? And some whiskey… That’s about it. I didn’t…” Dean clears his throat, averts his eyes. “We didn’t. Uh… You know…?” Castiel laughs again and Dean’s not sure whether to be relieved or affronted.

“No Dean, we didn’t sleep together. Don’t get me wrong, you’re an attractive man, but I don’t make a habit of going to bed with people who are too inebriated to fully comprehend consent. Your virtue is safe.”

“Virtue?” Dean snorts. “Don’t remember the last time someone described me as virtuous.”

“Well, you know, it’s all a matter of opinion. In any case, you have nothing to worry about. You were a perfect gentleman.”

Dean drinks a mouthful of his coffee before replying. It’s bitter and cheap but he drinks it black anyway. “Oh well that’s a relief.” It’s not a relief. Sure, he’s glad he didn’t have a drunken one-night stand the same day as he lost his job and his girlfriend, but at least Dean could understand his own motivations if that’s the story Castiel had lined up to tell him. He’s totally flying blind now, and that’s unsettling. “So if it’s not an awkward hookup story, what did happen? I’m dyin’ here. What’s so interesting about that night that I gotta meet you for lunch to hear about it?”

Castiel bides his time with another sip of tea. “Well you clearly don’t remember much, so I suppose I might as well start at the beginning. For quite a while after you told me why your day was so terrible, you were silent, and I was going to let it stand but you got another couple drinks in you and all of a sudden you got rather talkative.” Dean cringes. He knows full well what Castiel is talking about. Sam does the same thing when he’s been drinking. There’s a point in time, around drink eight or nine, where the kid just cannot keep his mouth shut. Last time they drank together it was gushing over how much he appreciates Dean as a big brother. The time before that it was a rant about how much he hates that Dean let himself be pushed around by “that bitch.” In the morning he recanted, apologizing for saying such awful things about Dean’s then-girlfriend. But yeah, Dean knows that phenomenon. It’s a family trait apparently.

“You had some fairly choice words for your former boss,” Castiel continues. Dean doesn’t need to be told what those words are. He could write a whole thesaurus on the descriptors that could be applied to Alistair Stewart, and it would not be a book suitable for children or those faint of heart. “I’m very sorry about your job, incidentally, but from the sounds of things, it’s probably a blessing that you don’t have to work there anymore. I get the distinct impression that you’ve never enjoyed it there.”

“Understatement,” Dean grumbles, glancing around for the waitress. The food has to be coming soon, right? If he can just get his hands on a cheeseburger he’ll be so much less likely to squirm in his seat or shrink under the scrutiny Castiel is subjecting him to.

“Right. You were fairly clear about that the other night, although in no way concise. But then you began to speak of your girlfriend.” Dean tries to keep his features blank. It’s clear from the look of sympathy he gets from Castiel that he has not succeeded. “At the beginning, it was heartbreak and loss. You’re clearly rather upset about the events and how they unfolded. But as I said, you are rather talkative when you drink. And, I suspect, uncharacteristically candid. Right now you’re rather reserved. I suspect you’re somewhat nervous?” Dean starts to shake his head but it turns in to a nod. “You’re easier to read than you might intend. But I digress. You had a lot to say about this Bela person and even more to say about your own role in that relationship. You blamed yourself, repeatedly, for the relationship ending. I really can’t see how it’s your fault all things considered, but you were adamant.”

Dean barely supresses the urge to get up from the table and run away. The heat of embarrassment colours his face bright red and his hands twitch with nervous energy. Of course Castiel doesn’t get it, he’s only just met him. Once he gets to know him better, or rather if he does, he’ll see what a royal fuck-up Dean is and how it’s obviously his fault. “Hey, it’s ok,” Castiel says, and he reaches a hand across the table to rest gently on Dean’s forearm. “I’m not judging you. This is just what you said. Do you honestly believe it’s your fault?”

“Well, yeah,” Dean practically growls the words out. “It’s gotta be, right? I mean, if I was enough to keep her happy then she wouldn’t have…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the meaning is clear. She wouldn’t have cheated.

“That’s stupid,” snaps Castiel, but his features soften to kindness before he continues “You’re not responsible for someone else’s actions. Did she ever tell you she was unhappy? Unfulfilled? Did she even give you a chance to fix the things that are supposedly your fault?” Castiel speaks passionately and intensely, and it’s hard for Dean to comprehend that someone he’s barely met can care at all about his problems, but he also speaks truth. Dean just shakes his head ruefully.

“No. she never said any of it. She never even said she’d been unhappy when she was leaving. Just that there was someone else.”

“So how could it possibly be your fault if you were never given a chance to fix things? I’m not saying you’re flawless; human beings are all flawed. Everyone’s a little broken. But even if you did things that made her unhappy in the first place, she can’t blame you for not fixing things you never knew were wrong. A person isn’t responsible for what happens to them but they are responsible for how they handle it, and if she was unhappy then she handled it poorly.” Castiel raises his teacup to his lips again like he only now remembers he’s been holding it.

“Yeah, whatever.” Castiel’s words make sense, but Dean just can’t bring himself to shuck off the guilt quite yet. He’s supposed to be able to fix things. Like this morning with his car. If something’s wrong you take care of it, fix it, and then it’s fine. If it fell apart, that’s still gotta be on him. He doesn’t voice the opinion though, because Castiel is clearly not going to let it slide if Dean tries to shoulder all the blame.

They talk about Bela for a while longer. Dean doesn’t really want to, but he doesn’t have the energy to fight the conversation and his food’s not here yet to distract Castiel from the topic, so he grudgingly answers Castiel’s questions. Yes, she was always fairly controlling. No, Dean didn’t really see anything wrong with it at the time. Yes, she was demanding. Yes, she was bossy. Yes, he honestly believed that she loved him. He’s tired of the conversation by the time their food arrives and he dives in to his burger both to satiate his gnawing hunger and to occupy his mouth with something other than talking. Castiel is somewhat more reserved with his own food, spearing fries on his fork and dipping them gingerly into a pool of ketchup. If he has an opinion on Dean’s table manners he keeps it to himself.

When he’s half way through his burger, Dean takes a chance on further conversation. “So that’s it then? I got all weepy about my ex-girlfriend and then you bought me Gatorade? That’s not really the exciting story I was promised. I’m a little disappointed.”

Castiel smiles, setting his fork down and wiping his mouth with the corner of his napkin. “No, no that’s not all.” Dean should have just kept his mouth full of cheeseburger instead of words. Now he has to listen to what Castiel is going to say next. “Do you frequently get…” Castiel waves a hand in the air, miming at grasping for the word he wants. After a moment he settles on the right one. “Aggressive when you drink?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Dean groans, dropping his head into his hands. “I tried to fight you? I’m never fucking drinking again.”

Castiel interjects quickly. “Not me. On your way back from the restroom, a rather large man in an Ed Hardy shirt bumped into your shoulder and you took offense. While I have no doubt that you could have held your own against him with your wits about you, I can’t imagine it would have ended well in this instance. I suspect we’d be having this conversation in a hospital room if you’d been allowed to challenge him like you wanted to. As it stands he got in a solid shot to your jaw,” Dean rubs at the sore spot on his face as if triggered by Pavlovian response, “before I stepped in.”

Dean can’t read the look on Castiel’s face. If he knew Castiel better there might be a tell there, something to let Dean know whether he’s judging or pitying or whatever but right now his features show nothing. After a moment, Castiel speaks again. “You’re fortunate I was there, I think. He would have made a mess of you, but I suspect he didn’t actually want to fight you because it wasn’t particularly difficult to talk him into walking away.”

“Thanks for that,” Dean murmurs, ashamed. He’s casting his eyes around furtively, searching for the waitress to ask for his check. It would have been better to leave the holes in his memory at this point. He didn’t need to know all of this.

Castiel frowns. “I’m sorry. This is making you uncomfortable. I only share this information out of concern. I don’t know you well so I can’t tell how much is the drink and how much is your true feelings, but it’s hard for me to see someone be as down on themselves as you were the other night and not be concerned. Do you really think you deserve what’s happened to you? Do you honestly believe you deserve pain? You’re not going to fix anything by letting some asshole in on steroids rearrange your face, you know.”

Dean’s speechless, which all things considered might be a good thing. This is what happens when he runs his mouth. And he really wants to deny it because that seems like the best way to get out of this, but the answer is yes. Adamantly yes. He does believe he deserves pain, and he does feel like if he picked a fight and got himself roughed up he might be able to feel like he’s atoned at least a little. Castiel holds his gaze, blue eyes boring into Dean’s soul and dredging up all the shame and anger he feels over the things that have happened to him lately, all the things that Dean knows are his fault, his fault, and he can’t take it anymore. He can’t bear the weight of those eyes on his, so he drops his gaze to the table in shame.

“Hey,” Castiel says, his voice taking on a new edge of command. “Look at me.” Dean snaps his head up before he realizes he’s assenting to the order. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You’re going through an unbelievably difficult time. It’s understandable that you’re going to have some emotions, and it’s ok not to know how to deal with them. You need to talk to someone though. A friend, a family member. Anyone. You can’t carry this all on your own, ok?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean mumbles, taking a sudden and deep interest in the arrangement of the remaining French fries on his plate.

“Will you at least think about talking through these things with someone, Dean? If not your family, then a friend? You don’t have to deal with this all by yourself.”

“Why do you even care?” Dean barks, harsher than he intends to. “What does it matter? I’m just some asshole you met at a bar. My problems don’t affect you.”

Castiel’s voice is soft when he speaks. “I don’t like seeing people suffer needlessly. Call it an abundance of empathy. I’m sensitive to the woes of others. And you seem like a decent person. I just don’t like the thought of you suffering in silence. It wouldn’t be right.” Try as he might, Dean can’t be angry at that. He has to admit an appreciation for the consideration, misplaced though it might be. It’s still bizarre to him that Castiel cares at all but when he fights past the apprehension and the strangeness of it, it sparks warmth in his chest. “Will you at least actually tell your family what’s going on? Give them a chance to offer support?”

Dean sighs. “Fine, fine. I’ll talk to my brother, ok? Is that what you want?”

Castiel nods with satisfaction, and Dean finds himself wondering what he’s gotten himself in to.

Chapter Text

Dean leaves lunch feeling just a little bit lighter even though he’s carrying the weight of knowledge he’d rather not have. Strictly speaking, his conversation with Castiel wasn’t enlightening or uplifting. The guy has a way about him though, a stoic grace that seems to have rubbed off on Dean just a little bit. He tells himself it has nothing to do with the warmth in his voice or the kindness he showed. Clearly it’s just relief in knowing he didn’t do anything irreparable while he was drunk the other night. Clearly.

Castiel sent him off with a reminder to call or text if he needs to talk. Dean didn’t bother to point out that he likely won’t. He doesn’t need pity from a stranger. He can handle his own problems. Problems like how to slip news of the breakup into conversation casually enough that Sam will register it but not comment, or how to mention that he lost his job without sounding like he’s asking for help. He’s only doing it because it makes perfect sense to do so. Of course he should tell his brother these things. It’s rational. Dean can’t keep secrets forever. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that he promised Castiel he’d share the weight. It’s not like he owes that guy anything. Maybe a drink or two. Maybe more drinks than that; Dean definitely wasn’t keeping count of how much either of them drank the other night and he has no idea if he bought any rounds. Castiel didn’t bring it up over lunch.

He doesn’t have anything planned before his evening with Sam, so Dean goes home and tries to be lazy. The place is oppressive in its silence, though. He putters around not really doing anything but not really relaxing either, and after about an hour he decides he can’t stand it anymore. He drives to the grocery store and scavenges some empty boxes from the recycling bins, and starts packing up anything that used to belong to Bela. All the clothes she didn’t take with her go first; the cocktail dresses and the lingerie, and Dean almost puts a couple of his shirts in there because she wore them more than he did. Lazy weekends when they didn’t really do much other than nap and screw, she’d steal one of his faded and worn band tee-shirts and wear it like a mini-dress, and even though he can’t remember the last time they had a weekend like that there’s a couple that he associates more closely with her than with himself. They’re still Dean’s though, and he snatches them out of the box with a look of consternation on his face. The closet is so much emptier without her stuff, so he crams the boxes back in there. It doesn’t really change much, but the activity makes him feel better and at least he doesn’t have to look at the clothes any more.

More than half the books in the apartment are hers. Bela had this habit of going to bookstores and buying things on a whim and then never reading them. There are entire series of novels that she hasn’t even cracked the cover on, cookbooks she made a single recipe out of before deciding (again) that she didn’t like cooking. When they’re all boxed up, he stares at the empty space on the shelves and it makes his chest hurt, so he spreads his own collection of books out and it makes a show of filling the space. It hurts a little bit less.

Dean’s not happy by the time he goes to Sam’s for dinner but he’s not anxious and stressed out either, so the afternoon wasn’t a total waste. Sam pulls him in to a hug the second he opens the door and it feels good, this brotherly affection. He’s told himself time and time again he needs to make more time for Sam. All his good intentions seemed to end in impotence while he was with Bela. There was always something that got in the way, some plans she’d made or something she needed Dean to do and he never seemed to get around to making plans with Sam. Now that his calendar is clear, that might just be a little bit easier.

“How’s it goin’?” Sam asks, casual as can be, and there’s a split second where Dean ponders lying, telling him everything is ok, but he can’t do that to Sammy. It wouldn’t be fair. So he doesn’t lie, doesn’t even sugar-coat it.

“Things are shitty,” Dean admits, and Sam rounds on him so fast Dean flinches. He’s got beers in hand before Dean can go any further, leading him to the couch to sit down, imploring Dean to spill his guts.

“I got laid off the other day,” Dean begins with a sigh. “It’s not like I even liked that job, but at least it was a paycheck. I’m so fucked. And I got home from work and there’s Bela, bags packed, telling me she’s been fucking some other guy on the side, and she’s fucking pregnant, and it’s his, and she’s leaving. It’s basically been the worst week of my life.”

Sam is quiet for a moment, regarding his brother with soft, kind eyes. When he opens his mouth to speak, it’s not the words Dean expects to hear. “I’m so sorry Dean. That’s awful. I know she was really important to you.” Dean knows he’s fighting not to drag her name through the mud, that Sam would just absolutely love to have a serious Bela-bashing session, but he also gets the sense that now is not the time. Maybe later, when the wounds are a little less raw Dean will find catharsis in spewing forth all the things that were awful about her but right now he doesn’t even really want to talk about her at all. He’s grateful that Sam picks up on that.

“Yeah,” he says with a rueful shake of his head. “Yeah, she was. Thought the feeling was mutual. Guess I was wrong.” Dean stares at his beer for a few minutes, letting the words sink in as Sam just lets him be quiet, and eventually the silence becomes too oppressive and he has to speak. “Sammy, I am so fucked. I can’t afford that apartment on my own and my savings aren’t gonna last forever.”

“Maybe you could get a roommate,” Sam suggests. “You could buy yourself some time if you didn’t have to pay for the whole place yourself.”

“I’m not sure I want to stay there at all anymore. She picked the place out, she picked the furniture out. It’s all Bela. Nothing there feels like me. It just feels like us, and that’s history now.”

Sam grimaces. “Fair point. Um… well if it’s not too weird, you could just get rid of the apartment altogether and stay with me until you figure things out. It’s not as fancy as your place downtown but it’s way cheaper.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the offer,” Dean says, and he means it because it’s incredibly considerate, “but won’t it be a little crowded in here with you and me and your roommate? It’s not exactly a big house. And don’t you think he’d be slightly annoyed with your miserable brother bumming around on your couch all the time?”

“Nope. Brady moved out. He’s living with his girlfriend now. Coming by to get the rest of his stuff tomorrow actually. I was going to put an ad up on Craigslist or something but if you want it, the second bedroom is yours.”

It takes Dean the space of a single breath to decide that he’s going to accept. His brother may have some bizarre notions on the subject of food, and he might go running, voluntarily, unreasonably early in the morning, and he might be a giant nerd in ways that Dean can’t even begin to understand, but this spare bedroom is the solution to about half of his problems right now and buys him time on the job front. It lifts a substantial weight off his shoulders. Sam claps him on the shoulder when he accepts, smiling and speaking enthusiastically like Dean’s doing him a favour, not the other way around.

“I was going to make chicken and a salad, but I think you need comfort food right now,” Sam says. “Let’s order a pizza, and we can figure out when we’re going to move your stuff in.”

Dean sleeps on Sam’s couch that night, fully aware that he’s in no condition to drive as he yawns and sways and laughs. Sam’s company is just as good as he remembers, and as much as the circumstances around the move are anything but exciting, there’s no denying he’s going to welcome the opportunity to spend a bit more time around his brother. They settled on the following Saturday to move the possessions Dean is going to bother keeping: the bed out of the spare bedroom and his clothes and all the things that are Dean’s alone. He doesn’t want their bed, the one they shared. The thing has too many feminine touches, a style he never liked at the time but was overruled on, and the mattress is much firmer than he likes but his vote didn’t count for much there either. The spare bed was Dean’s before they moved in together and is several years from needing to be replaced. It’s got a soft memory foam top and the frame is solid wood, the slatted head-and footboards stained a dark brown that Bela always said looked “too heavy” but Dean thinks is just fine. It’s good craftsmanship and that’s enough reason to keep it. He plans to keep some of the stuff from the kitchen but not all of it. He doesn’t want any of the furniture. It all bears her touch; the colours and the details will all feel weird in any space that’s uniquely Dean’s, foreign and strange and uncomfortable.

When he wakes up Sunday morning, Dean sends two text messages. The first is to Bela.

>>Giving up the apartment for the first of the month if they can find a renter for then. Anything you want needs to be picked up by the 30^th. Anything left I’m selling. If you want the damage deposit back, you get it cleaned. I’m not dealing with it.

She replies only with “K”, which is barely an acknowledgement of receipt but honestly about as much as Dean expected. She’ll show or she won’t. She’ll get the stuff moved out or she won’t. He doesn’t care. The second text message is to Castiel.

>>Told my brother. You were right. Totally supportive. Thanks dude

He’s not really sure why he bothers. Castiel invited him to call if he needs anyone to talk to, implored Dean to talk to his family, but there’s not a single part of his mind that truly believes the guy had any lasting concern for Dean’s well-being. Still, he had been insistent that Sam would be in his corner even while Dean worried about the impending I-Told-You-So, and it doesn’t hurt to give credit where credit is due. There’s no denying that Dean would have put the conversation off way longer than this if it hadn’t been for Castiel’s persistence. For all of that, Dean is still surprised when his phone rings less than a minute after he sends the message.

“Hello?” Dean says hesitantly, though he looked at the call display and already knows who is going to be on the other end of the line when he answers it.

“Hello, Dean, it’s Castiel,” he rumbles, that gravelly voice sounding exactly the way Dean remembers it from the day before.

“Yeah, hey. What’s up?” It’s not that Dean doesn’t want to talk to the guy. He just can’t imagine what there is to talk about. They went over all the details of Dean’s drunken stupidity over lunch.

“Sam was supportive? He didn’t mock you like you were worried about?”

“Nope. he was great. Exactly like you said he’d be. Worried about me, little bit angry, but yeah, totally supportive.” Dean finds himself smiling as he talks, not exactly happy with his overall situation but at least happy in the moment. It carries over into his voice, making the words warm and almost cheerful when they reach Castiel’s ears.

“That’s good. I’m really glad to hear that.” Castiel sounds like he actually means it. “So what’s next?” He asks the question like he’s entirely certain Dean is going to have an answer. Like there’s no doubt in his mind that Dean is going to choose to share that answer.

“Uh, moving out of the apartment I guess. Sammy has a spare room so I’m gonna move in to that. Get rid of stuff that reminds me of…” Dean’s voice catches when he tries to use the offending name, so he settles for a pronoun. “Stuff that reminds me of her. And then I guess at some point I’ve gotta start looking for work. Not exactly excited about that. I hate job hunting.”

Castiel laughs, but it’s not derisive. “I don’t think I’ve met a lot of people who do like it, Dean. That’s a perfectly normal reaction. It sounds like you’ve got a handle on things for the time being. That’s good. I’m glad you have some stability. Listen, would you like to get coffee some time?”

The inquiry catches Dean off guard. “Why?”

“Because I enjoy your company? Isn’t that enough of a reason?”

“I guess so,” Dean replies, still not entirely convinced.

“Ok, how about this. We should have coffee sometime because you are having a rough go, and you clearly need a friend, and you are totally not the kind of person to ask for help or even to accept it unless it’s practically forced on you. Sound like truth?”

Dean laughs bitterly. “Yup,” he replies. “That sounds about right. Ok. We’ll hang out. I’ll catch you later, Cas.” Dean doesn’t realize he’s shortened the name until he’s already ended the call, and by then it’s too late to correct himself. Castiel himself doesn’t comment.

Chapter Text

Dean can’t seem to summon even a little bit of enthusiasm for work over the following week. He knows the mature thing to do is to carry on doing his job as if he’s still going to have it in three weeks but that level of commitment seems entirely beyond him. Most of the office is operating on the same level, too. Even if he wanted to go all gung-ho and pour himself in to it, half the paperwork he’d need access to in order to operate at peak efficiency would be tied up in someone else’s pity party. Instead, he puts in just enough effort to fly under the radar. It doesn’t tap into his energy reserves too much, which is fantastic because Dean is really quickly learning how draining being this fucking sad can be. He tries not to be all mopey about Bela, really he does, but it’s sorta hard when he goes home to an apartment where literally everything is branded with her touch, infused with her scent, saddled with her memory. It’d be easier if there weren’t good times to draw on. Even now, with the rose-coloured glasses removed and the ability to see things clearly bestowed upon him, Dean still finds happy memories to hang out with. Sure, he’s way more aware of how horribly oppressive she’s been over the years, but it doesn’t make the good memories disappear.

Dean barely contains the exasperated sigh that escapes his lips as he drags his feet over to Espresso Patronum on Friday during his lunch break. He’s not usually one to drink coffee this late in the day. It gives him heartburn. It messes with his sleeping pattern. But today has been trying, and Dean’s man enough to know when he’s beat. Caffeine is the only thing that’s going to keep him making a show of functionality. This is usually his morning spot, and he knows Charlie works the morning shift so he’s a bit surprised to see her still behind the counter when he lumbers in at quarter past twelve.

“Hey!” she chirps cheerfully, beaming at Dean from behind the counter.

“I thought you only did the early shift,” Dean replies. He tries to make his own smile mirror her enthusiasm but it comes up lackluster and wan.

Charlie replies with a somber face. “It is known,” and gives a short nod. “I’m actually just about to clock out. If you’re not too weirded out by crossing the boundary that is this finely crafted counter,” she says, smacking the countertop in front of her with a flat palm, “we could have a conversation that lasts longer than it takes me to pour your coffee for a change.”

“Yeah, sure, why not?” Dean replies, and he takes his coffee and sandwich to a table near the window to wait for Charlie. He picks at the sandwich and stares out the window while he waits, eyes not really focusing on the people passing by, and he’s kinda startled when she sits down across from him a few minutes later.

“So you’re not usually here this late in the day,” Charlie announces as she drops herself into the chair opposite Dean and lets her bag hit the floor heavily. She carries a travel mug and the words are barely out of her mouth before she’s flipping the lid open and drawing deeply from the steaming coffee inside. She sighs, infused with life by the caffeine, and waits for Dean to reply.

“Yeah, well, I realized I really wasn’t fooling anyone. Its either get some coffee in me, or they’re gonna find me face-down on my desk, drooling on paperwork. As great as a nap sounds, that’s not really the way I wanna go out, y’know?”

Charlie nods. “I hear that. Five am is an awful time of day. It’s only by the grace of coffee that I’m forming words right now. I’m going to nap for like, four hours when I get home. Maybe three. I should probably be at least partially conscious when my girlfriend gets home.”

“Girlfriend? I didn’t know you were…”

“Gay?” Charlie offers helpfully, raising an eyebrow in an unspoken challenge.

Dean laughs. “Dating someone. I try not to make assumptions about people’s sexuality. It’s a recipe for disaster.” That’s at least mostly true. Societal norms have an ugly way of working themselves into your thought process even if you don’t want them to, and Dean’s aware that even with his own sexuality in flux he still tends to default to ‘straight until proven otherwise.’ It’s just that he never actually acts on those assumptions, and he tries very hard not to let that impact how he interacts with a person. He did kinda assume Charlie was straight. He just also didn’t assume she was in a relationship.

“Fair enough.” Charlie sips her coffee again, reminding Dean of his own beverage, and of the neglected sandwich in front of him. As soon as he’s got his mouth full of food, Charlie starts talking again. “So what about you? Anybody special in the picture?” Dean stops chewing. His face falls. It’s only a short moment before he catches himself and finishes the bite of sandwich he’s been working on, but by the time his mouth is free to speak Charlie has most certainly caught on. “Yikes. Forget I asked.”

“No, it’s cool.” It’s not cool. Dean is nowhere near cool on this subject. He’s on the other side of the country from cool. He keeps talking anyway. “There was someone up until recently. But things ended. Badly. Still sorta reeling from it, if you know what I mean.” The look in Charlie’s eyes might be identified as pity, but Dean tries hard not to think too much about that.

“Man, you got a raw deal lately huh?”

Dean snorts. She’s not wrong.

-----

Moving in with Sam was an easy decision. The actual process of moving his stuff in was also fairly simple and only took the better part of a morning, leaving the afternoon free for unpacking and staring at the wall wondering what his life was going to be like now. But living with Sam, actually living together for the first time since they moved out of their parents’ house years before, that’s a trial. Dean had never really noticed any habits in his brother that led him to believe that he’d be a frustrating roommate. The buffer of other family members tempered any annoyance and made it easy to remember only a selective handful of details about their formative years. As a result Dean finds himself somewhat jarred by the shift from his old life into one ruled by his brother’s preferences and routines.

Sam is out of bed at what Dean considers to be an ungodly hour every morning and that in and of itself wouldn’t be so terrible, because he’s out the door to go running within minutes of his alarm. But once he’s up, he doesn’t leave immediately. No. Rather, he bangs on Dean’s door and makes valiant efforts to drag his brother out to run with him. The first week or so, it’s futile. Sam bangs on the door and Dean groans and grunts and mutters incomprehensibly and eventually Sam goes away. There’s a brief respite in the intervening space where Dean drifts in a shallow sleep again, not quite long enough to return to his dreams but just long enough to forget how rudely he’s been woken up, and then Sam returns from his run and starts the coffee grinder, jarring Dean awake again. And then Sam takes a shower, and Dean’s room is right next to the bathroom so he can’t help but hear the water running. He wants nothing more than to sleep until the last possible minute and drag himself awake with only enough time to put on a mask of functionality and mime his way through the last painful days of gainful employment, but instead he’s forced awake so, so much earlier than he wants.

And it doesn’t stop there. In the first week, Sam makes no successes and Dean thinks he’s settling into a good rhythm. As of the Friday, he’s at the point where he can get back to sleep almost immediately when Sam gives up. It’s easy at that point to convince himself that come Monday, Sam will give up completely and let him sleep away his mornings and pretend the world outside his door doesn’t exist. But no, that’s just a dream, fleeting and with no root in reality. Monday morning rolls around and Sam’s mammoth fist bangs on his door again, and just when he would normally give up and go running by himself, the door opens and Sam throws the lights on, flinging the blankets from Dean’s bed in a rude and brutal awakening.

“Get up,” Sam commands, his voice flat. Dean grimaces at him through squinted eyes, grabbing blindly for the blankets that Sam refuses to give back.

“Dude, no.”

“Dude, yes. I’m not going to let you lie here and feel sorry for yourself. Come running with me. It’ll do you good.” By the time Dean’s eyes have adjusted to the searing light, Sam is standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, looking for all the world like he actually believes Dean is going to cave and come with him. When his brother doesn’t move to give him back the blankets, Dean reaches out and tries to grab them. Sam steps back just out of reach.

“Come on, Sam. Don’t do this. ‘m not a charity case. Don’t need saving.” Dean considers just rolling over and going back to sleep without his blankets and let the light be damned, but it’s just cold enough that he knows he won’t be comfortable. “And seriously, lose the ponytail. You look like a tool.”

Sam glares at him, eyes narrowing, and he barely stills the arm that reaches up towards the messy bundle of hair at the back of his head. “I don’t like my hair in my face while I’m running. It’s distracting.”

“You know they’ve invented these things called haircuts, right? They take scissors and… I hear they can cut hair as short as you want it these days. Modern technology man, I tell ya. It’s a miracle.”

“Jerk,” Sam replies.

“Bitch,” Dean shoots back.

“I’ll make you a deal. You come running with me, I’ll make you bacon and eggs before work.” Sam arches an eyebrow when he sees Dean perk up slightly at the mention of bacon, and any pretense Dean has of refusing is stripped away when his stomach rumbles loudly.

“Fine. Gimme five minutes to try and find my trainers. But just so we’re clear, I’m only doing this for the bacon.”

Running, as it turns out, really fucking sucks. If Dean had to hazard a guess he’d have said they were out there for like, an entire hour, plodding along the pavement at a brutal pace. Dean’s out of breath by the end of the second block. Sam’s still able to carry on a casual conversation. He keeps trying to engage his brother in idle chatter, but all Dean can do is grunt in response. Dean’s always been a fit guy, packing on muscle pretty easily, but cardio’s never been his game. “Never run unless something’s chasing you,” he’s been known to say. But Sam refuses to let him turn around and crawl home, so run he does. By the time Sam leads him back to hobble into the house, Dean’s not actually certain the promised bacon is worth it, and that’s saying something. He’s startled to let his eyes fall on the clock in the kitchen and find that it’s only been half an hour since Sam pushed him out the front door into the cool morning air. It felt way longer.

Still, he can’t deny that by the time he’s showered and eaten his bacon bribe, he’s feeling way more alert than on a normal morning. He doesn’t tell Sam this. He can’t. He won’t. And still he’s convinced that it’s going to die here. Sam got his wish; his sad, sorry, single, jobless brother dragged his lazy ass out of bed and shuffled around the neighbourhood like a zombie in pursuit of brains. He can say he tried and leave it at that. But no, Tuesday morning starts just as Monday had only Dean knows he’s not going to be allowed to go back to sleep so it takes slightly less badgering before he rolls his body out of bed and tugs on trainers. It sucks just as much this time around and he has to make his own bacon at the end but he survives, and more’s the surprise, he does pretty ok remaining conscious and functional while he tries to pretend he cares even a little bit about the work he’s not even sure anyone’s going to bother looking at. The office closes for good on Friday. He’s only got three more days of employment left and he hasn’t actually started looking for work yet. And Dean knows, he knows, Sam’s going to wake him up tomorrow morning and expect another run, and he knows he’s going to let himself be dragged.

Tuesday evening Dean drags out his laptop, used in past mostly just for porn and online shopping (ok mostly just porn), and starts scouring the internet for job opportunities. It’s somewhat futile given that he has no idea what he wants to do and hasn’t even bothered updating his resume since he printed the one that got him the job he’s about to lose. There’s nothing that catches his eye, nothing interesting. There are plenty of tedious looking office jobs, entry level ones that would afford him enough of a wage to stay afloat and squirrel some away to eventually move out from under his brother’s roof someday, but would likely drive him mad with boredom before that day ever came. And there are some jobs that look a little interesting, all of which Dean lacks even the basic education necessary to qualify for, let alone the experience to single him out from the flock. Dean spends over an hour looking through various sites and by the end of it he hasn’t applied for a single job.

Sam is out for the evening, which Dean counts as a blessing. Dean loves his brother, he truly does, but since he moved in Sam’s been such a mother hen it’s honestly been overbearing. The running is one thing; Dean can admit that maybe being a bit more active will be good for him even if he won’t actually say it out loud where Sam can hear. But the food? Dean has never eaten so many green things in his life. The first time Sam put tofu down in front of him Dean laughed. He thought it was a prank. But then Sam started eating his own identical serving and Dean was forced to acknowledge that no, this is meant to be food, and Sam actually expected him to eat it. Abomination. And Dean was sure he’d never hear the end of it when he put his dishes in the sink after he managed to choke it down. Some diatribe about “cleaning as you go” and how it’s easier to keep the place tidy if you just do your dishes right away and blah blah blah. He didn’t plan to leave them there forever, honestly, he just wanted to chill for like, five minutes, but Sam was done washing them and well on his way to bitching about it by the time Dean came back in to the room.

And he watches nature programs. Hours of them. Dean’s not even actually sure he watches them so much as he enjoys the background noise. He’ll put on a show about penguins and read a book after dinner. He reads on weekends even. And he sings in the shower, which always seems to be full of sasquatch hair. And the fridge is always full of boring leafy green things. And all of those things would be totally easy to ignore if it weren’t for the fact that every time Sam opens his mouth, Dean flinches, because he’s not sure if he’s going to get nagged about looking for a job or pleaded with to share his feelings on the subject of his horrific breakup.

“It’s not healthy to bottle these things up, Dean.”

Part of Dean knows he’s right. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he’s going to have to find an outlet for his hurt and his anger eventually. Doesn’t mean he wants to sit down and cry it out over a pint of Ben and Jerry’s though. Come to think of it, he wouldn’t even be lucky enough to get actual ice cream in this place. Sam’s probably got a carton of non-dairy frozen confection in the back of the freezer somewhere; rice-cream or frozen soy-gurt or some fucking hippie crap like that. One more reason to not have that conversation.

Shortly before ten, Dean gets a text message from his most favourite person on the planet.

<<Anything left in the flat is yours. I’ve left my key with the manager.

Dean doesn’t reply. It doesn’t require a response and he doesn’t have anything to say that doesn’t start and end with “fuck you.” He’s not tired yet, not really, but mindlessly flipping through the channels is losing its draw and he doesn’t really want to be up when Sam gets home. So he crawls into bed and stares at the ceiling until long after Sam’s footsteps hammer down the hallway, pause outside his door, and continue on to his own bedroom.

The final three days of Dean’s agonizing employment denouement are spent in pretty much the exact same routine. He runs with Sam, grudgingly, and pretends it’s not getting just a little bit easier every time he does it. If Sam finds out, next thing Dean knows he’ll be signed up for running clinics or half-marathons or some shit like that. No thanks. He makes breakfast, pulls on whatever suit he sees first and whatever tie he grabs blindly and drives in to work. The mornings are a hodge-podge of pretending to get actual work done and talking to other people about the work they’re pretending to do, with the occasional foray into other departments to ask for files he would totally need if the work he was pretending to do was ever going to amount for anything. On lunch, Dean walks over to Espresso Patronum for a second coffee and a sandwich, and he hangs out with Charlie until it’s time to drag himself back to the office for an afternoon of staring at the walls of his cubicle and counting the minutes before he can escape.

On Thursday, Castiel calls.

“Heya, Cas. How’s it goin?” Dean makes himself sound cheerful and chipper out of habit but he’s not really feeling it. Castiel’s rough voice manages to sound warm; Dean imagines he can actually hear the smile that lights up the man’s face and crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“I’m well. Thank you for asking. How are you?”

Dean’s hollow laugh slips out before he can catch it. “I got one day of work left tomorrow and on Saturday I get to go see what kind of a nightmare my ex left our place in. I’m fuckin’ walking on sunshine over here.”

“I see,” Castiel replies. “Does that make this weekend a better or a worse time for us to meet for coffee? I was going to suggest Saturday afternoon but perhaps another time might be better for you?” Dean ponders for a moment before answering. There’s no telling what he’ll walk into when he goes to the old apartment and the company might soften the blow.

“Swap that coffee out for a beer and you got yourself a deal.

Chapter Text

When Dean hands in his keycard on Friday, it’s anticlimactic. He walks out the front door and it doesn’t feel any different than the end of any other workday. The air doesn’t smell any fresher, his step doesn’t feel any lighter (or any heavier for that matter), and the world doesn’t seem like it holds any more promise than it did yesterday. It just is. All things considered, he should be grateful for that. It could easily be a heavily depressing day. Then again Dean’s not entirely certain it won’t still end up being one.

The first instinct, the one he almost succumbs to, is to interrupt the fairly routine drive home to stop at a liquor store, grab a bottle of something cheap and dark, and punctuate the end of his corporate sentence with a glass or seven. But as he maps the route in his head, Dean realizes he’s already mourned the loss of this job on a messy Thursday night several weeks ago, and no volume of liquor is going to bring him any further measure of closure. Instead he lets himself drive as if guided by programming and takes the same turns he has every day since moving in with Sam, pulling his baby into the driveway beside Sam’s incredibly economical and thoroughly embarrassing hybrid with an ease that comes from having driven the same car for his entire adult life. The last time Dean drove anything other than his Impala had been the week he stayed with his parents; the trip Bela was “too busy” to come along for. It’s a struggle not to let that detail taint the memory, but he tries anyway. Fails, miserably, like he does pretty much everything else he tries to do these days. But he tries. John had asked him to move the truck out of the driveway and on to the curb. He claimed, in his gruff voice, that the truck was a working vehicle, and as such could give up its place of pride in the driveway for a few days. It could handle dings. It could sit in the street while Dean visited, and let the Impala that mattered so much to Dean rest easy in the narrow drive. It was unspoken that the car also mattered quite a lot to John, but it was there in the background. Before that, Dean can’t actually recall driving anything else for a long time. He’s never been behind the wheel of Sam’s hippie car, that’s a damn fact, and he won’t any time soon if it’s up to him. That car’s an affront to everything his baby stands for. Dean would never hear of it.

Walking through the front door Dean realizes he’s expecting Sam to comment on the event. He’s not sure how, but something. He strips off his suit jacket as he walks through the kitchen, dropping his now empty briefcase in the closet before sinking heavily into the couch. Sam is already in the living room there with shirt sleeves rolled up and a beer in front of him as he flips through a book that looks way too heavy for weekend reading. He doesn’t look up when Dean sits down.

“Last day, huh?” he says.

“Yup.” Dean replies with a sigh, and for a few minutes, it seems like that’s going to be that. Dean stares blankly, thinks about flipping on the tv, but in the end he just remains motionless until Sam speaks again.

“What’re you gonna do now?” He hasn’t looked up from his book, and he’s only moved to grab his beer a couple times. Dean doesn’t need to see his face to feel the weight of judgement trying to be passed off as casual concern that comes with the words.

“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?” Dean snaps.

“I’m just worried about you, Dean. You’ve barely left the house since you moved in here, except to go to work.” Sam’s looking at him now, and Dean wishes he weren’t. He does this thing with his eyes that makes Dean think of a puppy that’s just been kicked and it makes him feel like such an asshole for upsetting him even though he is fully aware it’s pure manipulation. He wishes Sam had never learned the power of that look.

“I’m going out tomorrow,” Dean retorts, and it’s a whole lot more defensive than he’d like it to sound.

Sam smirks at him. “Super.” The sarcasm drips so heavily Dean wouldn’t be surprised to see it pooling on the table. “I assume you’re turning in the keys to your old place and then coming straight home?”

“As a matter of fact, no. I’m going to hang out with a friend.” Dean thinks he does a pretty good job of not looking smug.

“You don’t have friends,” Sam replies sharply, and the smile is wiped clean off Dean’s face.

“I do so!”

“Yeah? Like who?”

“Um… Well, there’s Benny,” Dean starts.

“Whom you haven’t seen in over a year. I know, because I have seen him, and he asks about you.” It’s not that Sam’s trying to be cruel, but the words cut anyway.

“Shut up. And Jo—“

Sam cuts him off. “You haven’t seen Jo since you moved in with Bela.” They both ignore the way Dean flinches at the mention of her name.

“And Victor,” Dean offers, now getting more than a little defensive.

“And can you recall seeing him since the time he dared to disagree with Bela when you guys had that one dinner party ever?” Sam watches Dean with careful eyes as the realization dawns on him slowly, and his face falls.

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, not unkindly. “You used to have friends. Then you got her. Now you have a long list of people who aren’t really in your life anymore.”

“Well fuck,” is all Dean can muster up in response to that, and he decides that this conversation would be much more palatable if accompanied by beer, so he makes his way to the kitchen and grabs a bottle out of the fridge. The worst part is, Sam’s totally right. Dean used to have people who cared about him, and he fucked all that up too. He and Benny used to go out drinking on the weekends. Sometimes they’d just hang out. And Benny was always there for him, even though Dean couldn’t understand why. Jo always called Dean on his bullshit. And Victor was the only friend Dean managed to make in college before he dropped out, and he never judged Dean for not following through. Dean managed to drive every single one of them away. When he returns to the couch, Sam lays into him again immediately.

“So what are you actually doing tomorrow?” Sam asks with a look on his face that is considerably bitchier than Dean thinks is called for.

“Exactly what I said. I’m finishing up the bullshit with the old apartment, and then I’m meeting up with a friend.” He cracks his beer and takes a long drink.

“Uh huh. Sure, Dean.”

“Look, fuck you, ok? I’ll have you know I went out and made me a brand new friend. Actually if it weren’t for his pestering, I probably still wouldn’t have told you about getting dumped. You guys would probably get along great. Trade notes on how to tell Dean what to do with his life.”

Sam stares blankly at his brother for a moment before deciding it’s not a joke. “Where did you even find time to meet anyone new? I wasn’t exaggerating. You really haven’t left the house much since you got here.”

“The night everything went to shit, I went out drinking. Apparently I’m charming even when I’m hammered or some shit.”

Sam’s only reply is a derisive snort, which his brother pointedly ignores.

“Whatever dude. Believe what you want. I don’t need your pity.” He does though, and it galls him. Without Sam’s pity, he’s unemployed and homeless. Dean immediately feels bad for being so snappish about the whole conversation, though he does his best to mask his face and keep up the defensive façade. If he lets Sam think he’s won, he’ll never hear the end of it.

Neither brother really has the energy to make an involved dinner, so Dean ends up throwing together a quick spaghetti dish. The jarred sauce is not the same as the stuff their mom would have made from scratch but it’ll pass, and it’s fast, and Dean is suddenly incredibly tired. He’d rather have just ordered a pizza and be done with it, really, but the look he got from Sam when he suggested takeout was enough to start another war all on its own, and that seemed like more effort than just making food, so he caved. He gets a text message from Cas sometime shortly after the dishes are done (Sam’s turn, since Dean cooked, and thank god for that because it’s one more disagreement Dean doesn’t have to skirt around), and the two of them text back and forth throughout the evening while Dean flips through the channels and Sam reads his giant book.

The conversation is fairly aimless. Cas asks how he’s doing and confirms plans for tomorrow. Dean mentions how weird it is to think that he doesn’t have to go in to work on Monday, and they chat casually about the job market for a while. A half-heartedly begrudging comment about Dean’s relationship with his brother leads to a string of cryptic statements from Cas on the nature of familial relationship. Something about duty, and responsibility, and how sometimes you don’t like them but you do have to love them. It leaves Dean curious, but nothing Cas says gives him any indication it’s an invitation to ask more prying questions, so he lets it lie. It does bring to mind the fact that Cas knows a great deal about Dean’s life but hasn’t really shared any details about his own. He knows almost nothing at all about the guy. He wishes he could work up the nerve to start asking.

At one point, Cas mentions that he’s watching Fight Club for the first time. Dean types out a few messages extoling the virtues of that particular cinematic masterpiece, and then he tells Cas that there’s some days he wishes there was an actual Fight Club he could get down with. Cas replies with a single word.

>>Why?

<<I dunno. Blow off steam? Might feel good to hit something. Might feel good to get hit.

He doesn’t get a message back from Cas for a long time after that. Up until now they’ve been sending and receiving messages at a pretty decent clip and it’s been easy to operate under the assumption that Cas is reading the messages as soon as they pop up and replying right away. This time, a solid twenty minutes go by and he hasn’t gotten another text. Dean glares at his phone, confused. Did he say something wrong? He hadn’t meant anything by it, not really. Only now he’s left wondering what Cas saw when he read between those lines, and it makes him feel something twisted in his gut, a sense of shame he doesn’t quite understand, and the silence is maddening, so he sends another text.

<<Sorry. That was kind of a fucked up thing to say.

This time, Cas replies fairly quickly.

>>Not at all. Sorry, I was on the phone with my brother. I don’t think that’s fucked up at all. There’s something cathartic in pain, under the right circumstances. I don’t think letting a stranger break your nose is a particularly controlled environment, though. You might pick a better venue, if that’s a route you want to explore.

Dean has to laugh a little. Cas’ texts are always so formal, properly punctuated and with no shorthand, and he’s not stingy with the big words. He’s relieved his comment didn’t weird Cas out, but that in itself weirds Dean out because he was not under the impression that he actually cared what Cas thought.

------

Just after three on Saturday, Dean and Cas walk through the door of Dean’s soon-to-be-former apartment. Dean tries very hard not to hold his breath as he crosses the threshold. Though Bela had always been meticulous about housekeeping, there’s a part of Dean that is convinced he’s going to walk into the aftermath of a hurricaine, discarded tea-towels and abandoned furniture littering every room, and a full day’s worth of work ahead of him to get the place clean enough to walk away from. What he finds instead is the most pleasant surprise of this entire experience. The place is spotless. It smells of chemicals, presumably from getting the carpets cleaned as the few stains Dean can recall are conspicuously absent, and even the oven has been scoured. Despite his rather understandable anger towards the woman, Dean finds himself hoping she hired a cleaning company to do the work, or at least enlisted the help of friends. Even though she’s a cold-hearted bitch, he doesn’t relish the idea of a pregnant woman breathing in even a little bit of oven cleaner.

The only thing left for Dean to deal with is a single box in the middle of the kitchen floor. Cas just kinda hangs back in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t speak, and when Dean looks over his shoulder Cas smiles softly at him, barely making eye contact. It’s kinda weird having company in this moment because it should be incredibly personal but at the same time Dean is grateful. It’s a bit easier to handle the finality of it when there’s another person here to tether him to reality. Dean opens the flaps of the box roughly and starts rifling through the contents. If he’s firm and inconsiderate, maybe he’ll feel it less. Predictably, it doesn’t work.

Bela has left him pictures. At first glance, it seems like every single picture of them together is stuffed into this single box. There’s a couple other things, too: a book that Dean was pretty sure was hers but either he’s wrong or she decided she didn’t want it; the spare key to the Impala that must have been in her purse; odds and ends and trinkets that Dean didn’t see when he was moving out. He pockets the key and lets himself pick out a couple favourite pictures to keep. They’re all from events that have their own positive memories attached, things that have meaning outside of Bela. He glowers and glares at the box for a moment before standing up and closing the top again.

“Dumpster,” Dean growls, covering the sadness in his voice with gruff callousness, and Cas just nods in reply. On the way down to throw the box away, Dean stops by the resident manager’s suite.

Her voice echoes through the apartment when he knocks, “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she calls as she makes her way to the door. She smiles fondly when she greets him. He drops his keys into her ready hand.

“Anything I gotta sign for the move out? She gave you a forwarding address for the damage deposit?” Dean’s surprised when the manager, a slight woman with hard eyes and greying hair, shakes her head.

“She said to send the damage deposit to you. Said you’d need it more than she did.” Dean leaves his address at Sam’s, shakes her hand and thanks her, and turns back to where Cas is standing a few feet down the hallway.

“That was kind,” Castiel says as they exit the building and draw closer to the Impala. Dean shakes his head ruefully.

“It definitely wasn’t. It’s just another reminder that she always made more money than I did. Just one last ‘fuck you’ before she leaves me alone. Fuck that. She doesn’t get to treat me like crap anymore.” Dean slams his hands on the steering wheel, startling Cas. Dean never cared that Bela was the major breadwinner between them. She had a damn good job. There would always be more money in managing art galleries than there would be pushing paper in a cubicle farm. It just made him sick how she wielded it like a weapon, using the knowledge that she made nearly twice as much money as he did to win arguments and get her way and just generally make Dean feel even more undeserving than he usually did.

“So you’re not going to take the money then?”

“What? Hell yes I’m taking the money. I’m just not gonna… It doesn’t mean that… You know what? Nevermind. Let’s just go get that beer. And since I’m getting an unexpected wad of cash back, first couple rounds are on me. I owe you at least that many.” Castiel starts to protest, but Dean cuts him off. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Just let me buy you a beer, ok? It’ll make me feel better.”

Dean’s mood stays dark the entire drive, though. He didn’t realize how angry he was about the financial disparity between him and Bela. It’s not that he begrudged Bela her earning power; she was good at her job and was compensated accordingly. But she also never passed up an opportunity to remind him that she earned more, and it always managed to carry an unspoken reminder that it made him lesser. Not good enough. Not her equal.

Castiel lets Dean buy him a beer, and steers the conversation towards warmer subjects, and it doesn’t fix anything but it lets Dean pretend that things don’t suck for the time being, and for that he’s grateful.

Chapter Text

Dean looks forward to sleeping in on Monday. It’s his first day of unemployment and if there’s one benefit to the whole not having a job thing, it’s the lack of a predetermined schedule. He doesn’t set an alarm on his phone and he very pointedly doesn’t make any plans at all for the day. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he’s going to spend at least some time looking for a job; even as much as he loves the idea of a few lazy days or weeks, he knows he needs employment. But it’s not something Dean actually schedules in, it’s just an idea he lets simmer on the backburner.

Sam has other ideas.

And so Dean finds himself sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and munching cereal as Sam walks out the door on his way to work. He’d joined Sam on his run, showered, washed the dishes, and drank two and a half cups of coffee. There was a brief moment during the run, which he did not want to go on, by the way, that Dean figured he could just go back to bed as soon as he got home. The thought sustained him through the rigors of putting one foot in front of the other and kept him upright through his shower, but now that the place is quiet and he’s had too much coffee to sleep. Even if he hadn’t drank a single drop, he’s too awake from the exertion to bother trying. It’s amazing how much tiring yourself out can make you feel alert.

The morning passes slowly. Dean drinks more coffee than he should and scrolls through countless pages of nothing on his laptop until his eyes threaten to roll back in his head. He checks the time. It’s barely noon.

The job postings online are no more interesting than they were last time he looked. There’s nothing new and none of the things he saw before seem any more appealing or suited to his skills. He wants none of this. It’s incredibly disheartening, so much so that he gives up on actually looking at any of them and instead tries to update his resume. That’s not any more productive, because when he tries to think of the actual skills he learned or used during his last three years, the most impressive thing he can think of is that he never once fell asleep while Alistair Stewart was ranting at him about brand image and corporate synergy, and he’s got a pretty strong suspicion that isn’t something that should be on a resume. By the time he finally gives up and closes the laptop completely, he’s managed to waste the better part of the day and has accomplished exactly nothing worth mentioning, and he’s not one inch closer to finding a new job. Dean’s not sure if he’d rather drink himself stupid, climb back into bed and sleep for a week, or slam his head into the table. He picks a fourth option, evasion and denial, and texts Castiel instead.

<<Job hunting is the actual worst

Dean doesn’t really expect a reply right away. He’s still got no idea what Cas does other than the fact that it allows attire more casual than a suit, but he is fairly certain it involves working. So the little alert tone his phone makes less than five minutes later when he gets a reply message is unexpected.

>>My sympathies. That’s the best part about being self-employed, I think. No application process. What have you found so far?

<<Sweet fuck all with a side of minimum wage slave labor. Haven’t even got my resume updated. I hate this

Cas doesn’t reply for a few more minutes after that, during which Dean finds himself digging around in the fridge even though he’s not actually hungry. Sam is going to be home soon though, and Dean figures that the least he can do if he’s been home all day is have dinner started, so he starts pulling out chicken and vegetables. He’s got no idea what he’s going to do with it, not really, but Dean figures that as long as there are a couple different kinds of produce on the plate Sam will shut up and eat what he’s served.

>>What are you doing tomorrow? I have some free time in the afternoon, I could help you with your resume if you like.

<<I’m unemployed dude. I’m pretty much doing nothing, ever, until I find a job. That would be awesome

Sam arrives home just a few minutes before dinner is ready and he is actually pretty grateful, both for the variety of vegetables (Dean made a salad and steamed broccoli), and for the fact that Dean made dinner for him. He pointedly doesn’t ask about the job search, although he does ask how Dean’s day was. The wording is chosen carefully enough that Dean knows what he’s really asking.

“The job market is a crap-hole, Sam. Cas is gonna help me with my resume tomorrow though, so we’ll see. At least if I find something worth applying for I’ll have the paperwork to do it with.”

Sam nods, and smiles. When he finishes his bite of chicken he asks, “Who’s Cas?”

Dean stops, fork half-way to his mouth. “I’ve mentioned Cas.”

“No you haven’t,” Sam counters.

“Sure I have. Guy I met the day I got laid off? The friend you don’t believe I have? The real life person I’ve been spending social time with? You were the one who pointed out that I don’t have any friends. This is literally the one person I’ve talked about hanging out with. Try to keep up, Sammy.” Dean jokes about it, but really, he’s starting to realize how much he misses the social interaction of, you know, actually being social. Maybe it’s the fact that he didn’t have a lot of time all by himself up until recently, or maybe it’s how quiet the house is while Sam’s at work, or maybe he’s just gotten so used to the hum of computers and the drone of distant voices in the office, but even the one day spent tucked away with the quiet of his own thoughts is driving him a little bit crazy. If it keeps going at this rate, Sam won’t need to nag him to find a job. Dean will take the first thing that’s offered, literally any paying job, just to get himself out of the house for eight hours a day.

-----

Meeting Cas to work on his resume is, in Dean’s estimation, a completely valid excuse to visit Espresso Patronum. It also means he gets to see Charlie again, which is a huge bonus. Cas isn’t free until around one, but Dean hops in the Impala and heads over to the café just before noon to catch the end of Charlie’s usual shift. He shouldn’t be this starved for human interaction after only one day of unemployment but he is, he really is, and he’ll be damned if he’s not going to jump at the opportunity to break the cabin fever. Charlie lights up with enthusiasm when she sees him stride through the door but after a moment her face flashes to confusion.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were free of the shackles of corporate dominance?” She leans casually against the pastry case and wipes her hands on her apron, glancing around the café to make sure she’s not ignoring any customers.

“Meeting a friend in a little bit. He’s gonna help me salvage my resume so I can start applying for continued enslavement.” Dean orders a coffee and some kind of a croissant with chocolate and almonds all over it, and Charlie gives him a contemplative look.

“Have you ever considered, you know, getting a job that doesn’t feel like slavery? Something you maybe just only kinda hate? Or, and hear me out, cause this is gonna sound crazy, but like maybe a job you even enjoy? It’s a pretty insane idea, I know, but it just might work.” She passes him a mug of coffee, large and dark and steaming, and puts his croissant on a plate.

“That would be nice,” Dean says somewhat wistfully. “But that would involve me having even a tiny idea of what kind of a job I wouldn’t hate. I dropped out of college so I have no degree, no skills, and a reference letter from a boss I hated. My options are limited. Besides, you’re one to talk, brilliant girl like you wasting her days serving coffee to the huddled masses.”

That gets a laugh, short and sharp. “Bitch, please. This just pays the bills. You think this is all there is to ‘lil old me? I do a lot of freelancing, building websites and fixing computers. You don’t need a nine to five to be successful, Dean. I do what works for me.” And Dean has to stop and ponder that for a moment because yeah, that sounds like really solid advice, but he’s never actually considered what he might want to do. He’s only thought about what he’s allowed to do. “I’m off in like five. I’ve got some time to kill before I go meet a client about a webpage, do you wanna hang out while you wait for your resume wizard?”

“Hell yes,” Dean replies.

When she joins him at a corner table ten minutes later, Dean’s got his laptop out and connected to the store’s wifi, and he’s drank half his coffee already while scrolling through his bookmarked job search websites. Unsurprisingly, he’s come up with nothing again.

“Quit that,” Charlie commands as she drops herself into the seat across the table.

“Quit what?”

“Glaring at your computer. It’s not internet’s fault you can’t find a job you want. Actually, just totally quit looking at your computer. You can fight with the job market later. This is Charlie time.” Dean shoots her a look, but he closes his laptop anyway.

“So you make websites? That’s your deal?” Dean realizes only now that he knows very little about Charlie other than that she’s got red hair and sass and he likes her.

“Well, yeah that’s part of it. I’m sort of a Jill-of-all-trades when it comes to computers. I’ve built gaming rigs for some friends. I repair shit, I build websites, I’ve done some contract networking stuff for some small businesses. Some slightly less above-board stuff too, but we don’t need to talk about that.” She winks before continuing, “Basically if it has to do with computers, I’m good at it.”

“If you’re such a genius, why don’t you have a gig at like, Google or some shit?” Dean asks, taking a bite of his croissant.

“Are you kidding me? And sell out? No way Jose.”

They chat for a solid half hour about nothing and everything, and Dean enjoys the companionship but not just because it’s an excuse to get out of the house. Charlie’s got this incredibly refreshing approach to life. She’s bright and she’s cheerful but she’s got grit to her, and he’s torn between protecting her like a little sister and wanting to unleash her on the world and watch the damage she can do. Eventually, when their coffees are drained and Dean’s croissant is long gone, she stands up from the table.

“Well, I should get going. Client’s website isn’t going to code itself. Gimme your phone,” she demands, holding out her hand.

“What? Why?”

“So I can give you my number, you doofus. I officially declare us friends.” Dean drops his device into her palm and she quickly programs in the contact information, then texts herself from his phone so she’s got his info too. “Now I can complain at you on my breaks in text format and we can maybe even hang out somewhere that isn’t my place of employment someday. It’ll be awesome.”

“I’d like that,” Dean says, and he’s surprised to find that he means it. He’s alone at his table for roughly twenty minutes before Cas shows up, and he does nothing with the time except to order another coffee. He briefly considers ordering one for Cas, only he actually doesn’t know what the guy likes in his coffee. He’d had tea when they met for lunch, but Dean knows about as much about tea as he does about quantum physics, so he errs on the side of caution and doesn’t order anything. He can always pay for Cas’ drink when he gets here.

It’s funny, Dean finds himself thinking, how easily he seems to make friends now, and he’s not even trying. Sam was entirely accurate in his assessment of Dean’s social life over the past couple years. It’s been about as barren as a desert and Dean didn’t even notice. He never felt lonely. His calendar was always full, but it was always with Bela. They’d go to parties with her friends, or dinner with her family, and Dean always kinda thought of them as their friends but that was never really true. He never liked any of them, and he’s pretty sure the feeling was mutual. Her best friend, Lilith, looked at him like a clod of dirt stuck to her boot, and although she never said anything on the subject it was obvious that Lilith did not consider Dean a suitable pairing for Bela. Ruby and Eve were friendly enough with him. They’d make conversation at parties and were at least capable of looking him in the face without sneering, but he always got the feeling that it was false kindness. Like they were just putting up with his presence out of love for Bela, and would just as soon see the end of him. He’d never put words to it at the time, but Dean has to acknowledge that he kinda assumed it was a problem with him, not with them. He must have been a poor conversationalist, terrible company, uninteresting, or at least one of Bela’s friends would have taken a liking to him. He’s starting to see another side to it though. Dean may not be the most amazing guy, but he’s not as bad as they made him out to be. Dean is plenty interesting. He’s funny. He’s a nice guy. Hell, he’s managed to make two whole friends in the time since Bela left him, and he’s barely left the house. He’s feeling pretty good about himself by the time Cas shows up, in low- slung jeans and a dark blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is a mess as always, and he smiles when he spots Dean across the café. It’s hard not to acknowledge how good that smile makes him look.

“Sorry I’m late,” Cas says, and when Dean stands up and holds out his arm for a handshake, Cas raises his eyebrow and smirks, and Dean drops the hand, feeling awkward. He doesn’t have time to consider the implications though, because Cas is suddenly wrapping his arms around Dean in an incredibly unexpected, incredibly friendly hug. Dean’s not a big hugger. It’s not that he doesn’t like hugs. He just doesn’t really hug casual acquaintances. But he’s startled enough that he responds without thinking, and he wraps his own arms around Cas for a brief embrace before they break away.

“Handshakes are so formal, don’t you think?” Cas says, when he catches the blush on Dean’s cheeks. “I much prefer hugs. More personal. Do you have a beverage already?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a coffee,” Dean says, choosing to ignore the topic of hugs and handshakes. “Can I get you something? It’s the least I can do to thank you. I’m shit at this resume stuff.” Cas orders a coffee, black, sits down at the table with rigid posture that makes Dean feel like a slob, reclined in his chair as he is. It doesn’t look comfortable though, so he doesn’t move to mimic.

“Let me see this resume of yours,” Castiel says, cutting right through the small talk and getting to the heart of the matter. Dean opens the file on his laptop and spins it around to face him, and then sits quietly for several minutes while Cas reads through the file and makes contemplative noises. He squints a little as he reads. Dean gets the impression that it’s out of judgement though, not from vision problems. When he finishes reading, he grunts and leans back in his chair. “So that’s terrible.”

“Excuse me?” Dean sputters, not actually sure why he’s offended. He knows his resume is no good. That’s why they’re having this conversation.

“It’s boring. Run of the mill. We need to change basically everything about it. I mean, the format is ok, that can stay. You don’t want anything too flashy or it can turn people off, but your content is no good. It doesn’t sell you.” He pulls a notebook out of his bag and hands it to Dean, along with a pen. “I’m going to fix what’s already on here. It’s at least detailed enough that I can rephrase things and make you sound like a much more appealing employee on paper. While I do that, I want you to make me a list of all your responsibilities from your most recent job. We’ll make something out of this yet.”

Dean stares at the blank page for several minutes before he really starts making a list. Once he does though, the idea of going back in to an office becomes ten times more unpleasant. As he lists off the tedious things he did there, day in and day out, it sucks the life out of him. Still, Cas is trying to help him, so he does as he’s asked, and by the time Cas finishes repairing his existing resume, he’s got a fairly comprehensive list of things to add to his employment history. Cas scans the list without comment and adds it to the file, muttering to himself every couple of minutes while he decides how to rephrase the things Dean has said. Eventually, Cas hands the laptop back to him and he reads over the finished work.

It’s pretty impressive. Dean is the one who did these jobs, he knows they sucked, but here on the screen they sound considerably more interesting. ‘Filing’ has become ‘physical records management’. The part that used to read ‘answering phones’ now says ‘consumer liaison and end user support’. He’s even tweaked the part where Dean used to make coffee and set out notepads for administrator meetings to say that Dean played an integral role in ‘facilitating senior management conferences’. It’s all basically bullshit but it’s true bullshit and it sounds considerably more appealing than what he wrote on the notepad. The rest of his employment history looks better, too. It’s so much more polished.

“This is awesome,” he says, smiling across the table at his companion. “How did you get so good at this?”

Cas waves off the compliment. “I used to do some hiring. My parents own a business, nothing huge, but before I struck out on my own I worked for them for a while. You read enough resumes, you start to pick up on the stuff that makes a person worth taking a second look at. And spinning stuff like we did here puts a more positive outlook on the menial tasks, which makes it sound more like you liked working there, which means you’re more likely to bring a good attitude to wherever you end up. The tasks are less important than the roles you fill. Hopefully now you can find something you actually want to get hired for.”

“Thanks, Cas. Really. This is great. I can’t thank you enough.”

“You can thank me by finding a job you don’t hate,” Cas says with a smile. Dean hopes he’s up to the challenge.

Chapter Text

Having an up-to-date resume and a slew of situationally tailored cover letters courtesy of one Castiel Novak does not, as it turns out, make hunting for a job an easy feat. Dean manages to convince himself that Wednesday will be better. Wednesday will be the day he finds things he doesn’t cringe at the prospect of doing for a living. Wednesday will be the day.

Wednesday is not the day.

Thursday is not the day either.

Friday is certainly not the day.

Each of these mornings he is woken up in the ugly pre-dawn dark and dragged kicking and screaming (metaphorically of course, because actual kicking would take more energy than just going, and actual screaming would wake the neighbors and possibly draw police attention) out the door for a run with his drill sergeant of a brother. He still hasn’t told Sam that he’s getting pretty comfortable with their pace, though it’s probably obvious because Dean is capable of forming the occasional word as they go. He doesn’t hate it any less now that it’s getting easier, and he sure as hell doesn’t want Sam to think that this kind of behaviour is encouraged. Not at all.

And each of these mornings, he brews the maximum amount of coffee their brewer will provide, and once Sam is out the door for work he begins the repetitive and soul-sucking task of searching Craigslist and Workopolis and Monster.com and even the newspaper classifieds and literally every job posting source he can think of or has been informed of. And he finds basically nothing. Sure, there’s a couple of jobs he could see himself doing, but Dean takes one glance at the minimum requirements and backs away disappointedly. Any recruiter for the ones he thinks are interesting would take one look at his credentials, see that he graduated high school but obtained no further education, and has no first-hand experience doing the things they’re hiring for, and toss his resume in the circular file. He won’t even get the chance to blow the interview by making awkward jokes or accidentally dropping an F-bomb, a feat he’s accomplished before and would be happy never to repeat.

The jobs he is qualified for, well, no fucking thanks. Each and every single one sounds about as exciting as a root canal and as enriching to his life as a full frontal lobotomy. He skims through the job descriptions and the summary of key responsibilities and whatever else the listings choose to call them, and then he gets another cup of coffee because he’s so bored just reading about these jobs it threatens to put him asleep right there at the kitchen table. There’s no way Dean could imagine dragging himself out of bed on a daily basis to actually go do one of these jobs. Pass. Hard no. Not happening.

So Friday afternoon rolls around and Dean finds himself leaning back on the couch with the laptop propped open in front of him, and he’s scrolling through the job listings again with so much disinterest that he can’t recall a single word out of any of the listings he’s read. It’s embarrassing to acknowledge that it’s this late in the day and he hasn’t even put real pants on yet. He’s still hanging out in boxer shorts and a faded tee-shirt. There’s no coffee left in the pot. He thinks about making another batch but honestly, it’s after two. Nobody needs more coffee this late. There’s an instinct to say ‘I don’t have to get up tomorrow morning, I have nowhere to go, I can drink coffee and stay up as late as I want,’ but really he’s starting to get used to waking up early and running with Sam, so the weekends aren’t really the realm of sleeping in anymore. He’ll probably be awake by seven regardless.

Instead of making more coffee, he stares unseeing at the screen until the letters blur into one big pixel cloud. An indeterminate number of minutes later, as he’s trying to force his eyes to focus again he’s pulled out of his drifting boredom by the sound of his phone vibrating across the table. Dean answers it without looking at the screen.

“Hello?” he queries. Dean’s voice cracks as he speaks; it’s only now he realizes it’s been all day since he spoke a word and it’s strained from disuse.

“Good afternoon, Dean,” says Castiel’s voice. It’s a welcome distraction. Dean has to admit that his friendship with Castiel is the best thing that’s come out of this whole clusterfuck of job loss and relationship disintegration. It’s certainly the thing that’s kept him sane. Cas texts him throughout the day whenever his schedule allows, and they talk on the phone at least a couple times a week. He’s not really sure what Cas is getting out of the deal though. Dean knows he’s a sad mess. He can’t be that much fun to hang around with. Castiel doesn’t complain though, and he doesn’t stop calling, so whatever it is at least Cas thinks it’s worth putting up with Dean’s bullshit.

“Hey Cas,” he replies, “What’s the word?”

“How is your job search going?” Castiel asks instead of answering Dean’s question. Dean lifts himself off the couch and putters around the kitchen as he talks. Sam’s going to be home soon, and Dean hasn’t thought about dinner, nor has he done the dishes from breakfast.

“Spectacularly awful. Everything I look at seems like a punishment. At this rate I’m going to end up delivering pizzas for minimum wage.” Dean sighs as he glances around the kitchen and notices he’s left the milk out all day and even though it smells fine when he sniffs it, he pours the entire carton down the drain.

“That’s unfortunate.”

“No shit,” says Dean grumpily, and then he backpedals. “Sorry. Not your fault.”

Castiel is gracious as always. “No offense taken. I was actually calling to see if you’re free this evening. We could watch a movie and have dinner?”

“That sounds great, but I think I informally promised my brother I’d make dinner here tonight and—“ Dean cuts off speaking as the sound of a text message alert assaults his ear. “Hang on a sec, ok?”

>>U cool if I bail on dinner tonight? Something came up

<<no prob Sam. Have fun

“I take that back. My brother made other plans. Looks like my evening just opened up.”

“Fantastic,” Cas replies. “I’ll text you my address. Come by whenever you want. I’m already home.”

-----

Dean checks the address Cas has texted him, then glances back up at the numbers on the house he’s currently parked in front of. It’s certainly the same digits in the same order. Glancing around the neighborhood, Dean wonders if he’s maybe found his way onto West Harrow Street instead of just Harrow like Cas’ message indicated. Is there even a West Harrow Street? The numbers on the text message still match when he looks again but Dean has a hard time believing it. The house is not a mansion but it’s still huge, with what appear to be actual river stones decorating the lower level, and a yard that shows the kind of maintenance that makes Dean feel like there’s hired help doing the work. He’s about to text Cas to make sure he’s got the details right when his phone vibrates in his hand.

>>Are you just going to sit in your car all night or are you going to come inside?

That settles that. Cas is waiting at the door when Dean finally makes his way up the driveway, and he opens it right as Dean raises his fist to knock.

“You could have parked in the driveway, you know,” he says instead of a greeting. Dean is ushered into a well-appointed foyer and he suddenly feels staggeringly under-dressed for this place. Cas may be dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, but his house is nicer than anywhere Dean’s ever lived. He feels out of place. It also makes him question, yet again, what Castiel gets out of their friendship. Was he just slumming it the night they met at that bar? Anyone who owns a house like this in this part of town doesn’t need to drink in dive bars.

“Wasn’t actually sure I had the right house. You seriously live here?”

“Yes,” Cas laughs. “I told you I used to work for my parents?” Dean nods. “Technically, I owned a portion of the business. When I stepped away to pursue my own goals, I sold my interests, and my condo downtown, and bought this instead.” Dean tries not to gape as Cas leads him through a dining area to the large kitchen.

“It’s… nice,” Dean volunteers.

“I live quite comfortably. Beer?” Castiel offers him a bottle, condensation running down its label, and Dean accepts gratefully. “I was thinking of ordering takeout if that’s ok with you? I feel like I might have given you the impression you were being invited for a home cooked meal but I must admit I’m feeling lazy. Do you like Italian food? There’s a place not far from here that delivers excellent pasta.”

Once they’ve ordered food, Cas gives Dean the grand tour of the house. It’s not as huge as he originally thought but there’s still three bedrooms upstairs and the kitchen with its marble countertops is one of the nicest that Dean’s ever been in. Castiel’s bedroom is huge, with a giant four poster bed dominating the middle of the room and big picture windows that must let in a great deal of light in the mornings. It’s big enough that there’s a sofa off to one side in what you’d probably call a sitting room or whatever. A small family could live comfortably in this bedroom. There’s a soaker tub in the master bathroom, an impressively large TV in the living room, and one of those fancy fridges that’s made for keeping wine at exactly the right temperature tucked away in the garage. Dean’s never cared for wine, so that’s not particuarly impressive to him, but he still knows what it is and gets that it’s a big deal. Just because he hasn’t got any class doesn’t mean he can’t recognize it when he sees it. The only room Dean isn’t shown the inside of, he notices, is Castiel’s office just off to the left of the foyer, and he can’t imagine what could be exciting about an office so he doesn’t bother to ask any follow up questions. They hang around the kitchen for a while, Dean seated at one of the tall chairs at the island in the middle of the room, Cas leaning against the counter, until the food arrives. They retire to the living room with takeout dishes of pasta (ravioli for Dean, fettuccini alfredo for Cas), and settle on something on Netflix they’ve both seen before but can bear to watch again.

It’s enjoyable, just hanging out with Cas. There’s no mission here. Any time they’ve hung out prior to this there has been a specific plan in place. He’s helped Dean clear out his old apartment or work on his resume, and it’s nice to just sit and enjoy a movie with a friend. Dean could get used to this. It’s possible he already is used to it. The entire evening is casual and comfortable and so familiar it’s easy to forget they’ve only been acquainted for a few weeks. Castiel makes snide comments at the movie in all the places Dean would have if Bela hadn’t chastised him so much for doing so in the past that he’s afraid to open his mouth now during a movie. By the time it’s half way over they’re barely watching the film anymore, instead just giving a running commentary that could easily become inside jokes, and Dean’s sides hurt from laughter.

As the credits roll and Netflix starts to suggest other movies they might want to watch, Castiel turns off the tv. “So how are you doing?” he asks. It feels awkward. This is the kind of question you ask at the beginning of a conversation, not several hours into the night. The only conclusion is that Cas isn’t asking because it’s a social construct, a nicety; he’s asking because there’s something he’s trying to get at.

“I’m good,” Dean lies, but he knows he’s caught when Cas’ eyebrow climbs up his forehead. “I mean, I’m handling things. I’d be less stressed out if I could sort out the job thing, but I’m handling the breakup ok. It’s… I’m fine.”

“So you’re not still telling yourself it’s your fault then?” Castiel asks, and Dean freezes.

“Look I get where you’re coming from Cas, and I appreciate it, I really do. I know what you’re trying to say. But I’m probably not going to stop feeling guilty any time soon.” Dean’s face heats with embarrassment as he tries to stall the whole feelings discussion. He should be angry, getting put on the spot like this, but instead he’s just ashamed that there’s anything to put him on the spot about. It’s not like it’s Cas’ fault he’s fucked up.

“And you’re not still convinced that finding some jacked up stranger to goad into a fight isn’t the best way to assuage your guilt?” Cas’ words are spoken softly, kindly, but they cut through Dean’s defenses and the only reply available to him is to break off eye contact and have a detailed examination of the floor.

Castiel is quiet for a moment as his comments sink in. He’s not wrong. Dean’s definitely still convinced he has things to atone for, and physical pain seems the most logical way to clear the haze of guilt that clouds his mind any time he thinks of things falling apart. Dean knows that Bela made her own choices. On some level, he’s fully aware of it. But rationality doesn’t really play into it when he’s stuck home alone with his thoughts all day every day, turning things over in his mind repeatedly, like a broken record playing back all the things he could have done differently to not drive her to cheat and break his heart and leave. His days are endless streams of “if only”s and “I should have”s. So yeah, yeah he feels guilty. And yeah, a solid beating would probably go a long way to making Dean feel like he’s done penance. He can’t make those thoughts be words at this exact moment, but from the look Cas is giving him his face says just about enough.

“I have a suggestion.” Dean looks up slowly as Cas breaks the silence, but Cas’ face gives no hint of judgement, no glimpse of what he’s thinking. “If you’re convinced that you need to do physical penance to feel better about things, there are ways you can go about that without putting yourself in any real danger.” Dean wants to laugh, and he almost does, except it becomes immediately apparent that Cas isn’t kidding.

“My damn brother is already dragging me out for a run every single day of the week, and let me tell you that hurts like hell. I don’t think there’s any kind of punishment I can lay on myself that’s gonna make things feel any better. Thanks, though. I appreciate it.”

Cas shakes his head with a slight smile quirking the corners of his lips, eyes sparkling. It’s almost mischevious, and when Dean catches the look in his eye he’s filled with a mixture of trepidation and something else, something he doesn’t recognize immediately and can’t put a name to.

“No, Dean, I’m not suggesting you just need a good workout. That’d be pretty condescending. What I had in mind is a bit more unorthodox, but I think you might benefit. If you’ll just hear me out?”

Dean nods. “Uh, yeah. Sure. I guess.” His voice carries a tinge of apprehension but he’s intrigued, and his curiosity wins out.

“What I’m talking about is creating a scenario where you can experience pain in a controlled environment,” Cas intones, like he’s reading from a textbook or a script he prepared in advance. His posture is relaxed, but Dean can read people well enough to know that it’s an act; there’s tension hidden inside his reclined form, and it makes Dean alert and wary of what’s to come next. “If your safety isn’t jeopardized like it would be in a bar fight, you can still get the catharsis of physical release. Pain is, on a base level, your body’s way of telling you there’s something wrong, although it doesn’t always have to go along with danger. If you’re getting hurt but you get to say when it stops, then it doesn’t carry that danger anymore. The adrenaline still happens though, and you still get the endorphin rush that comes along with it. It can be incredibly cathartic.”

And Dean just stares at him, dumbfounded, because none of this gives him any idea what Cas is actually getting at. “You’re not making a hell of a lot of sense here, Cas. Care to drop the theatrics and tell me what you’re actually talking about?”

“Have you ever heard the term BDSM before?” Cas asks bluntly.

Dean laughs out loud, trying to hide his nerves. “Yeah, of course. I’m not exactly a blushing virgin over here, Cas. But gimp suits and ball gags or whatever isn’t really my scene.”

Cas shakes his head, as if he’s had to explain this several times before. “That can be one aspect of it, but that’s not really what it’s about. It stands for bondage, dominance, submission or sadism, and masochism. I couldn’t hope to impart a complete understanding to you in a single conversation, but for the purposes of a cursory explanation, the idea as it applies to you is that you can allow someone you trust to hurt you, but not harm you, in a safe space where there are rules, where you can call a stop to it at any time, and where you know nothing is going to happen that you haven’t previously agreed to. It’s like Fight Club but with rules and a trusted friend, rather than skin-head psychos.” Castiel draws another deep breath like he plans to continue speaking, but then exhales long and slow, rests his hands on his knees, and lets his words sink in.

Dean laughs nervously. “Cas, I had no idea you were into the kinky shit. But I gotta tell you, totally barking up the wrong tree here. I have pretty much just one unbreakable rule. No cash for ass, you know what I mean?” Super. There goes this comfortable, easy friendship. Dean sure knows how to pick ‘em. He’s already starting to squirm in his seat, pondering the easiest way to extricate himself from this conversation without hurting the guy’s feelings, how to make it to the door without being rude while at the same time never, ever having to talk about this again.

“You mistake me, Dean. I’m not suggesting a financial transaction, or even a sexual encounter. BDSM is definitely about sex for a lot of people, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be. It’s about intense sensations, and in some cases, using the infliction of those sensations to overcome or control emotional responses. And if you’re engaging in the practices with someone you know and trust, well, it can certainly be enriching as well as cathartic.” Cas smiles, his face softening, and it’s disarming how warm and open he can look while talking about the prospect of beating Dean up to help him not feel bad anymore. Dean’s world suddenly doesn’t make a lot of sense.

“So what, like, instead of drinking beer and watching movies, you’re proposing I come over some Saturday, you take me down to your kinky sex dungeon, smack me around a little, and then I magically don’t feel like the guy who ruins everything anymore?” Dean’s tone is incredulous, almost comical, but he laughs derisively.

Cas deadpans. “I don’t have a kinky sex dungeon.” Of course he doesn’t. He’s just got that office he hasn’t shown Dean the inside of. Dean can just imagine it now: Cas’ clients on their knees in that little room, all “please sir may I have another” and “yes master” and fuck. This is absurdly awkward.

“Well that’s a shame. House like this, you think they would have planned for that.”

“I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of explaining what I’m suggesting here.” Castiel’s mouth twists with concern as he ponders his next sentence carefully. “I have some websites bookmarked that I can email you links for, if you’d prefer to do some independent research on the subject. Some of them are quite informative.”

“While I appreciate the offer of internet porn, and trust me, I do appreciate internet porn, I’m not entirely sure that’s going to do much to clarify what you’re getting at here. You do know that porn isn’t reality, right?” Dean laughs again, bravado masking how weird he feels about this whole conversation.

“I meant literature. Articles. Instructional websites,” Cas corrects, frowning. “But I can tell I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry. I thought I might be able to offer you a measure of comfort. I can see that I misread the situation. I won’t bring it up again. Please forget I ever said anything. Would you like another beer, dessert maybe? I’ve got half an apple pie in the fridge.” His face is an open apology, kind and sincere and Dean feels maybe just a little bad for not hearing him out, but not bad enough to change his stance. Not even for pie.

“No, thanks. I do really love pie, and beer to be honest, but no. I think I should head home. Thanks for dinner though Cas. I appreciate it. I’ll text you soon.” Dean intentionally doesn’t say when he’ll text. There’s an unspoken feeling in the air that things are going to be awkward for a while, and Dean senses that Cas feels it as much as he does.

Driving home, Dean tries very hard to keep his mind on other things. He thinks about searching for a job, about how long it’s going to take before Sam catches on that he’s getting better at running and starts pushing him further, or faster, or starts trying to get him to train for that stupid half marathon he’s been talking about. He thinks about whether he ever met the guy Bela left him for. He thinks about how grateful he is that his parents moved out of town, because he doesn’t think he could stand the idea of moving back in with them now that his life has turned to shit and he knows, he knows that Mary would have offered and he wouldn’t have been able to say no without hurting her feelings. He thinks about anything and everything he can put his mind to, anything at all to shake the mental image of Cas tying him to that beautiful four poster bed like he’s seen in porn, spanking his ass raw. Dean isn’t about to try denying to himself that he’s delved into “fetish” porn on a few occasions, and yeah he’s seen some stuff that was pretty damn hot, no lies. But what he can’t wrap his head around is how a person could actually like having those things done to them.

Dean expects Sam to be home when he gets back but the house is dark and empty. He grabs a beer out of the fridge and drinks it quickly, drawing long pulls of the cool amber liquid from the glass bottle. He doesn’t bother to savor it, and in a last minute decision fueled by rebellion, he leaves the bottle on the counter without rinsing it out.

Lying in bed, Dean’s head swims. He’s still trying to shake that mental image, the one playing on a loop in his head where Cas binds his wrists and tells him he’s been bad and smacks his bare backside, sometimes with his hand, sometimes with a belt, sometimes with a wooden spoon. It’s dark in his bedroom, nearly pitch black, but he knows if he could see, his cheeks would be crimson with embarrassment that he’s even thinking about this. Dean’s still not asleep an hour and a half after shutting off the lights, and he’s no closer to shaking that image from his mind, so he does the only rational thing he can fathom and picks up his phone off the nightstand.

<<You know what, go ahead and send me those links. I can’t promise I’m on board but, you know, I guess there’s no harm in reading or whatever.

Dean sends Cas his email address, and doesn’t bother to wait for a response before rolling on to his side and shutting his eyes again. The vision keeps playing in his mind, but eventually exhaustion wins out over embarrassment and he finally succumbs to restless sleep, knowing full well that he’s going to wake up at seven regardless of what time he drifts off.

Chapter Text

Sam is already sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the news on his laptop when Dean shuffles out of his bedroom on Saturday morning. Dean nods, and Sam nods back, eyebrow raised in unspoken question. He takes his time pouring coffee, starting a fresh pot when what’s left in the carafe leaves his mug only two-thirds of the way full. While it sputters through percolation, Dean drops himself into the chair opposite his brother with his stale brew.

“So,” he begins casually “I was awake ‘til nearly two, and I didn’t hear you come in.”

Sam raises his eyes from the laptop screen, his mouth twitching with the effort of supressing a smile. “Well, Dean, that’s because I didn’t come home.” Dean waits a beat for him to continue. Surely there’s more to this story. But Sam just goes back to his reading, sipping his coffee at regular intervals and basically ignoring Dean’s presence. Even with his face tilted downward toward the screen Dean can see the beginnings of a smile forming on his brother’s face.

“Sam?” Dean asks pointedly, and Sam looks up inquisitively, eyes wide and innocent. “What’s her name?” It’s a blunt question, but Sam has rarely been good at keeping secrets from his brother, and he doesn’t bother to try to hide this one now that he’s caught. He blushes, just a little, before responding.

“Her name is Jessica. Jess.” Sam stops trying to fight the grin that splits his face and instead lets it happen, smiling wide with his eyes bright.

“And why am I just hearing about this now if you’re already spending nights at her place?”

“Dude, who are you, Dad?” Sam’s tone says he resents the interrogation, but there’s too much happiness on his face for Dean to really believe it. “It just sorta… happened. I met her a couple of weeks ago through some friends. I’ve seen her a few times but never just the two of us, and then yesterday I got the balls to call and ask her out. And she said that she’d prefer to stay in, thanks, but I was welcome to join her, so…” Sam shrugs.

“So you slept with her on the first date,” Dean supplies, helpfully. He raises his hand in offer of a high five, but Sam doesn’t join in.

“I actually didn’t,” Sam corrects, pairing the words with a withering stare. “I stayed at her place, but we just sat up talking, I don’t even know how late. We woke up at like six on her couch and that’s when I came home. I really like this girl, Dean. She’s amazing.”

“Dude, that’s awesome,” Dean says, and he means it. “Good for you Sammy.” Sam is a great kid, one of the best people Dean has ever had the pleasure of knowing and he’s not just saying that because they’re blood, and he deserves a girl who’s going to make him happy. “Tell me about her.”

Dean pours them each a fresh cup of coffee and starts the process of making bacon and eggs and hashbrowns, and listens contentedly as Sam tells him everything there is to know about Jessica. She’s a nurse, he learns, first year out of school. Wants to do pediatrics because she loves kids. Dean doesn’t make any comment on that, but he knows that Sam is thinking about how much he loves kids too. Sam is totally cut out for the apple pie life; picket fence and a dog and 2 or 3 kids and barbeques on the weekend. It makes Dean think of the bullet he dodged. Even though he’s relieved not to be the father of Bela’s child, he still spent a lot of time in the days that followed that lovely bombshell thinking about how horribly it could have gone for him, There were a lot of ways it could have gone and almost none of them were good. He doesn’t believe that her cold, controlling personality would lend itself well to motherhood, and in almost every eventuality he could think of, the end result was the same. Dean would have been miserable. There’s no doubt about it. She’d be a controlling harridan of a mother, stifling and manipulating the kids (beause Dean is also certain she’d want more than one, and would somehow manage to get her way regardless of Dean’s objections). She’d browbeat him and she’d oppress them and she’d probably still end up leaving. It’s just a matter of if she’d take the kids with her or abandon them for Dean to raise.. It was a horrible future, one he knows he should be grateful for the chance to avoid, but he’s still struck with a sense of melancholy by the time he’s scooping eggs onto plates and setting them down on the table.

“Are you even listening to me?” Sam asks, and Dean realizes he isn’t.

“Sorry,” Dean apologises, trying to sound contrite, as he sits down in front of his food. “Got a lot on my mind. She sounds awesome. When do I get to meet her?”

“Dude, I stopped talking about Jess a while ago. I asked if you’d talked to mom or dad lately.” Dean shakes his head. He told them about Bela, and his job, and that he was moving in with Sam and they’ve had small chats a couple times since, but it’s been at least a week. “You should call them after breakfast. Mom’s worried about you. And you know she won’t listen when I tell her you’re fine. She needs to hear it from you.”

Dean grimaces. He loves his parents, he really does. John’s a little cantankerous, rough around the edges, and Mary has this tendency to baby him a bit even though he’s twenty-eight years old. But they love their boys, and Dean is grateful for the life they gave him. But he knows there’s going to be questions about the job search, and how he’s holding together, and he doesn’t have any good answers. Sam is right though. He does need to call them.

“I’ll call after breakfast,” Dean promises. Sam nods and tucks into his eggs without further comment.

It’s noon before Dean gets around to calling his parents. Mary answers on the first ring almost as if she’s been waiting by the phone for him to call. Guilt flares in Dean’s gut but he stamps it down.

“Dean, sweetie!” she exclaims. “How are you?”

Dean can’t help the fondness that shapes his words when he replies. “Hi Mom. I’m good, I’m good. How are you? How’s dad?” Dean doesn’t believe the lie and he’s not surprised when Mary doesn’t either.

“Dad’s fine. He’s out working in the yard. Do you want to come up to the house for a few days? Maybe a break from the city would be good for you. We can set up the guest room and you can just get away for a bit? Come back with a fresh perspective?”

There’s a solid five seconds of dead air while Dean tries to find a kind and loving way to tell his mother how much he does not want to do this thing. The unfortunate conclusion he’s faced with is that there’s no way to explain that he just plain has no desire to be upstate at his parents’ house that doesn’t come off as a rejection of his mother’s undying love and support. So instead what he says is, “Thanks mom, I appreciate that, but I should really be in town. What if I get a callback for an interview at short notice?” And Mary takes that as logical and rational, and doesn’t press any further.

“Of course. That makes sense. Well once things settle, you and Sam should really come up and visit. We’d love to see you more. I know it’s a long drive but… Oh, your father’s just come back inside. You should talk to him,” Mary exclaims, handing the phone off to John before her husband or her son can protest. There’s always been a scant few words between the patriarch and his eldest son. Phone conversations are not their style.

“Hi Dad,” Dean mutters into the phone, rolling his eyes. Mary is not likely to ever give up on her mission to turn the quiet bond between the two into something more approaching a friendship. They both stopped trying to fight it actively long ago and now it’s just grudging acceptance of something they can’t avoid. Mary will push Dean at John any time he calls, or send him out into the yard to help John with something he needs no help at when he comes to visit. It’s good-natured meddling though, motivated by love. John was strict when Sam and Dean were growing up, firm but loving, and she’s admitted to harbouring an unrealistic hope that the deference her boys cultivated can be wiped away and replaced with a father-son relationship on a more equal footing.

“Dean,” John replies, his voice gruff as always. “How’s things?” He pointedly doesn’t ask about the job search, not in words, but they both know that’s exactly what he means.

“Nothing good,” Dean admits. He’s never had an easy time lying to John, even about things he wanted to play very close to the chest. John has this intense way about him that cuts through Dean’s defenses and makes him feel like a kid again. A kid who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Fortunately, John also hides a great deal of wisdom and thoughtfulness behind his quiet demeanor, so usually the things Dean wants to play close to the chest are the things John is well suited to offer advice and counsel on.

“What are you looking at?” John asks, a short, simple question. Even so, the question feels like an interrogation. It’s not John’s fault. Dean is already weighed down by his situation and he’d much rather muddle through on his own than bitch to family or ask for help. Even talking about it feels like admitting he can’t do this on his own. Sam would tell him that’s stupid, that family supports you in times like this and there’s nothing wrong with letting them, but stubborn Dean can’t make himself see it that way.

“Same kinda stuff I was doing before. Entry-level office stuff. Pretty much all I’m qualified for.”

“Well sure, on paper that’s true. But you got a good work ethic, and you’re smart. Someone gives you a chance, I know you’ll prove yourself at whatever you decide to do.” John says the words casually but it’s a truly uncommon level of emotion coming from this stoic man. Dean is floored, but he doesn’t comment. That would only make it weirder.

“Thanks,” is all he says in reply, but it’s enough.

“You know what, I have an idea. Lemme make some phone calls and get back to you. I might have a guy you should talk to. Take care, son.” Dean doesn’t get a chance to ask follow up questions as John ends the call abruptly. He stares at his phone for a moment after that, eyebrow raised in confusion. Dean’s met lots of John’s friends over the years. Most of them are grizzled war vets and guys who made their way through life on backbreaking labour, and then a man of the cloth the boys grew up calling Pastor Jim, who seemed to have nothing in common with John but managed to call him friend all the same. No one Dean could imagine having any kind of job opportunity he might be suited for. Finally he shrugs and puts the phone away. It’s early afternoon. Perfect time for a Saturday nap.

Sam is gone by the time Dean wakes up, sprawled on the couch a couple hours later. He yawns and stretches as he sits himself up. This is not a couch for sleeping. It’s soft in all the wrong places and just a little too short to actually stretch out on. He should probably stop napping here.

There’s a text message from Sam on his phone advising that he’s spending the rest of the day with Jess, and that he’s not quite sure what their plans are but maybe don’t wait up. There are a whole slew of dickish, big brother things Dean could say in reply, rude and inconsiderate things that would probably get a fairly amusing reaction from Sam. Dean is half way through typing out one of those things when he relents, deleting the message and instead just telling his brother to have fun.

Dean grabs the remote and flips on the tv, but it doesn’t do a very good job of holding his attention. Saturday afternoon television is a sinkhole of boredom and poor production values. There’s not really anything that Dean can feign interest in for very long, but he scrolls through the channels dutifully anyway. Around the third cycle through, Dean finds his eyes sliding away from the screen towards his laptop on the coffee table a few feet away and he’s forced to acknowledge the thing he’s been pointedly ignoring all day. There’s an email in his inbox from Castiel by now, full of helpful tips and tricks, essays and website links and articles on the subject of pain for pleasure, and Dean agreed to read them. Sighing, Dean turns the TV off and opens the computer in front of him.

When Dean logs into his email, he’s a bit startled by the number of new emails. The newest one is from C. Novak, and he knows what’s going to be in that one. But the fifteen that came before that are all from job search sites, and that’s confusing because Dean didn’t even get as far as creating a profile on any of them. There was nothing he even wanted to apply for yet. He opens the first one and it starts to make sense. They’re all links to jobs he’s looked at and dismissed already, only this time he’s seeing them because Sam has been searching on his behalf and emailing him his finds. Dean shakes his head. It’s a bit annoying, yeah, but it’s endearing that Sam wants to help. He’s still not going to apply for any of them, but Sam doesn’t have to know that. Finally, he opens the email at the top of the list, the one from C. Novak.

Hello Dean,

I’ve included links to a great deal of resource material on the subject of BDSM, as discussed. Please don’t feel daunted by the sheer volume of information I’ve provided. Start with the first three articles – they’ll give you the best broad-strokes idea of what I’m talking about and why I think you might be interested. If I’m wrong, stop there and I won’t bring it up again. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call me. I can direct you to more specific resources, or we can discuss your inquiries one-on-one, whichever makes you most comfortable.

Below the short message there is nearly a full screen’s worth of links. Judging from the staggering number of them, Dean has a solid afternoon of reading ahead of him, so he cracks a beer, clicks the first link, and gets at it. Right away he’s glad Sam’s not home while this is happening. He may have been slightly off in his assumption that the resources Cas mentioned would be actual pornography, but the header image on the first site features a girl wearing nothing but purple satin ropes, her head thrown back and a look of bliss on her features. It’s too small to see in any particular detail, but yeah, if Sam were home this is definitely the exact moment he’d walk into the room and ask what the fuck Dean was doing. The article is about submission, about how the relinquishing of one’s immediate agency can be freeing in that it removes the onus of decision and action, but also empowering in that there’s a remarkable level of trust that goes into handing that agency over to another person (even temporarily), and the ability to actively choose who is given that power creates a new power. Dean tries to read without judgement. All the concepts are foreign and new, but he finds himself comprehending the basic ideas pretty easily. He expected to have to google definitions. He expected not to understand any word of it. It’s a pleasant surprise to be proven wrong there.

The second article talks less about the broad strokes of the psychology of submission and moves more into bondage and discipline. The author speaks from the perspective of the one being bound, and she shares experiences about losing herself in the moment when her partner (she calls him her ‘Dom’, but Dean’s mind wants to stick to ‘partner’) binds her in all sorts of intricate knots. She talks about getting pleasure from the pain he inflicts, about trusting him not to do anything that would actually harm her, and about the altered headspace she seeks in these ‘scenes’ Dean reads the entire article with an open mind, and by the time she wraps it up with commentary about how the endorphin rush of being bound, spanked, and pleasured is unlike anything she ever experienced from ‘vanilla’ sex, he’s starting to comprehend the appeal, at least on an intellectual level.

Dean spends the rest of the afternoon, as he anticipated, working through his reading list. The more he reads, the more he gets where Castiel was coming from when he brought up the subject, and the less weirded out he is. All of this is so very outside his realm of experience, and none of it is anything he’d previously thought about wanting or needing, but it’s kinda making sense. He’s not even freaked out that Cas looked at him and went, yeah, Dean would probably like getting tied up and fucked. Dean tries very hard not to think about the fucking part, though. Cas was adamant that he wasn’t suggesting a sexual relationship. It’s still somewhat beyond Dean’s comprehension how any of this could be not sexual but he’s the student here; the one with only second and third hand knowledge. If Cas says it can be done, well, he still has questions, but it’s probably true.

The last link is a glossary of BDSM terms. Some of them Dean knows already, or are obvious even to the inexperienced. You don’t need a degree in kink to know what humiliation is, or fellatio. Some are new though, and several of them make Dean’s skin crawl. The glossary is detailed enough to give him the very clear impression that there are parts of this… culture that Dean has no interest in experiencing first hand. Some of them he can’t even wrap his head around. Like, can’t even get why other people would be into it. It’s like there’s this entire universe out there full of people having really kinky sex that Dean never even knew about. It’s a lot to take in.

When he finishes reading, Dean picks up his phone to text Castiel. The only problem is he can’t actually decide what it is he wants to say. He understands a little bit about what Castiel meant when he suggested this might be of interest to Dean, and he knows just enough about the whole kink thing to understand that there are things that have appeal for him. But as he stares at the screen of his phone he can’t quite figure out what it is he should be saying right now. Does he want this? If so, does he want this with Castiel? Dean won’t try to deny the guy is easy on the eyes, but then, if this isn’t about sex then it doesn’t really matter if he finds him attractive. Does Dean even know what he wants? The answer should be obvious. A man should know his own mind. It’s not until he’s already typed and sent the text that Dean realizes how confident he actually feels about it.

<<I’m in. When do we start?

Chapter Text

“It’s not that simple, Dean,” Castiel tells him over dinner on Tuesday. “You can’t just jump into something like this half-cocked. I’m happy you’re amenable. Really, I appreciate the enthusiasm. But this isn’t something I take lightly.” They’re sitting at the island in Cas’ kitchen eating leftover chicken carbonara, and it’s not the conversation Dean thought he was going to be having today.

“I’m gonna need you to not use the phrase half-cocked again for the rest of this conversation.” Dean retorts. He tells himself the reason he’s annoyed is that Castiel won’t tell Dean how he learned to make such perfect carbonara. It’s not at all because Cas insists on having what looks like it’s going to be a long ass conversation about this whole thing before he’ll even tell Dean what it is he has in mind. The image he attempts to project is casual disinterest. He’s giving this a shot for Cas, because Cas suggested it, because Cas thought it would be good for Dean. He’s not excited; not at all. Quite the contrary. Dean could totally take it or leave it. The enthusiasm is totally for show. And Dean plans to keep telling himself that right up until the moment he believes it.

“Whatever you say, Dean.” Castiel takes another bite of his pasta, chewing slowly and savouring the creaminess and the little bits of bacon studded throughout the sauce. “I only mean that there’s more to talk about before we—“

“Before you spank me?” Dean interjects. The flat look he gets from Cas shuts him up right away.

“See that was a question,” Cas tells him.

“And?”

“And my point is, it’s a question. You don’t know what I’m in to. What if the things I want scare the crap out of you? What if I have no interest in the things you want?”

Dean frowns. “I don’t really think that’s going to be the case. I mean, this was your idea.”

Cas rolls his eyes, sets his fork down. His next words are spoken slowly, like he’s choosing them with meticulous care. “The point of negotiating these things in advance,” he says, holding contact with Dean’s eyes the entire time, “Is to make sure there isn’t a problem. You go into a scene knowing what your partner is into, and what’s a deal breaker. That way, you never have anything sprung on you that you wouldn’t want. A large portion of this thing is trust, Dean. And you need to be able to trust that I won’t do anything you wouldn’t consent to. It’s pretty hard for me to stay within your boundaries if I don’t know where they are. So we negotiate. That’s how it works. Then we both know what’s on the table, and what’s off limits, and what might be ok at a later date.”

“Ok. I get it,” Dean sighs.

“You don’t like talking about this,” Cas observes.

“Yeah I guess not? It’s kinda just… I don’t know. Still not really seeing how this is non-sexual, and it’s weird talking about sex with someone I’m not sleeping with. I mean, not that… I didn’t mean…” Dean backpedals, blushing, but Cas cuts him off before he can stammer out more of an explanation.

“It’s fine Dean. I understand. A lot of people look at BDSM that way. It’s a fair assessment. It’s definitely sexual for a lot of people. But it doesn’t have to be. Think about it this way; sex is like food, but kink is like liquor. Some people eat all their meals without ever having a drink to go along with it and they’re perfectly happy with it. Some people can’t sit down to dinner without having a glass of wine, and that’s fine too. They’re not hurting anyone, and if it helps them enjoy it more, that’s ok. But there’s also going to be times when a person might just want to have a couple drinks with a friend, and they don’t have to have dinner unless they’re both hungry, and even then there’s no obligation to eat together.. And that’s sorta what I’m getting at here.” Cas’ smile is warm and open when he finishes speaking.

Dean regards his companion quietly for a moment, narrowing his eyes in deep thought, and he considers the idea carefully before replying. “So what you’re proposing is that we’re just… a couple of friends getting to know each other over beers. But if we wanna have an appetizer or like… I don’t know, this analogy is weird… share a pizza? Then we can deal with that later? Am I following you?” Castiel laughs, but it’s a soft laugh. Friendly.

“What I’m saying is, the rules are whatever we say they are. We. You and I both. As long as there’s a clear understanding of where we both stand, it’s whatever we want it to be. So yeah, right now all I’m suggesting is drinks. I think a couple drinks might help you relax. As for the rest?” Cas shrugs, casual, but Dean feels his face heat nonetheless. “I’m not gonna lie. You’re an attractive man. I wouldn’t mind taking you out for dinner. But I’m your friend first. That’s not my endgame. You done with that?” Cas asks, gesturing at the empty plate in front of Dean, the fork still clutched in his hand. Dean nods, a little stunned at the moment. Castiel takes the plate and puts it in the dishwasher, then grabs a couple of beers out of the fridge.

“Completely non-metaphorical beer?” he asks, and Dean accepts it with a laugh. If he’s going to sit there and admit to Castiel what kind of kinky shit he’s considered doing, then yes, he’s going to need a drink.

-----

Wednesday morning, as usual, Sam drags Dean out of bed for a run. His legs are lazy and leaden, and his mind is decidedly elsewhere, but he manages to plod along at a respectable pace and Sam doesn’t give him too much flack. The whole time they run, pale morning light filters through the trees and gives the world a ghostly sort of look, Dean has a difficult time keeping his mind in the present. He keeps drifting back to his conversation with Castiel the night before. The list they went through titled itself as a checklist but it was really more of a comprehensive exploration of kinks a person could be in to. They spent a solid hour and a half going through the multi-page document. The first few pages were relatively tame, but as they got further into the heart of the matter Dean found his answers more difficult to give. The no’s were given cautiously. Dean didn’t admit it out loud, but he harboured a little shred of worry that each time he eliminated something from the list, it would be the one thing Castiel really needed out of this and it would be over before it started. And every time it was a yes, or even a maybe later, his face heated with little flares of shame at the acknowledgement that that thing was a thing he could see himself doing.

Castiel, ever observant, did his best to reassure Dean that he had nothing to be ashamed of, that he didn’t have to do anything he wasn’t comfortable with, and that Castiel wouldn’t be disappointed with Dean for anything he didn’t want to do. Even the things that Dean admitted an interest in which could not ever be considered nonsexual, Castiel acknowledged with a quiet grace and a smile, and never put any pressure on Dean as he considered his answers. They left the conversation open after that. Castiel said he wanted to give the new information time to sink in, so they didn’t talk about when any of this might be put in to practice. Dean couldn’t quite say whether that was reassuring, or whether he’d rather know what to expect.

“So what do you have planned for the day?” Sam asks as they round the corner back towards home. Dean’s not so out of breath that he can’t answer, but he pretends like it’s taking more effort than it actually is. He’s got a reputation to keep up, one that specifically paints him as a mediocre athlete and ensures that his sasquatch of a brother doesn’t get the insane idea that he might want to register for running clinics or a half marathon. So after an exaggerated gasp for breath, Dean replies.

“Same shit.” Wheeze. “Look for jobs.” Pant, gasp. “Stare at the wall.”

“Sounds thrilling,” Sam intones, voice dripping with sarcasm. They’re no sooner in the front door than Dean’s making a beeline for the coffee maker. Tomorrow, he tells himself, he’s going to set the thing before they run. Then there’s no waiting once they get home. “But hey, I’m glad you’re putting some time in. I’m sure you’ll find something soon.”

“I know, right? My life is so much fun. I might even get adventurous and put on real pants today,” Dean mocks, but he already knows it’s not true. He’s going to sit around in his boxers until thirty seconds before he expects Sam to walk through the door. It’s like, the one part of his routine he still enjoys. If Dean had his way, he’d never wear pants around the house. He always relished the weekends when Bela was away on a business trip or visiting friends out of town because he could get away with living in his underwear for a couple days straight. A man should be able to go pantsless in his own home. Couldn’t do it when she was home though. Bela had these ridiculous notions about propriety and she always managed to make Dean feel like trash any time he left the bedroom without pants on. She didn’t even have to say it. She’d just look at him, and go back to whatever she was doing, and he’d feel like he had no choice but to go back and dress himself. Fucking oppressive. Actually now that he thought about it, he wondered how many of those weekends away were what she said they were, and how many were her fucking whatever his face is. The thought makes his insides twist unpleasantly, but he tries to shrug it off.

Dean’s prediction about his day is pretty much spot on, though. He’s on his second cup of coffee by the time Sam leaves for work, and he waits until his brother is gone to take his shower so he doesn’t even have to aspire to the pretense of actually getting dressed. Boxers and a well worn tee-shirt, a fresh mug of coffee beside his laptop, and he begins the familiar practice of searching the job websites for new postings. There’s not much new since the day before, and none of it good.

It’s beginning to worry Dean. Theoretically there has to be a good job out there for him. He’s hard working, he’s kinda clever. Totally employable. But just like all the other days, there’s nothing he even wants to apply for. He should bite the bullet and start throwing his resume at everything he could even feign interest in. Dean’s savings aren’t running out yet, but he doesn’t really want to ride them out until the last minute. It would be nice to find something new before his account actually dries up. The idea of asking his little brother for financial help is just about the most depressing thought as he can conjure up. So after lunch, Dean starts going back through the listings he’s already rejected; the ones Sam emailed him and the ones he read and dismissed, and starts actually putting in applications.

It’s fucking tedious. Most of the jobs want you to submit an actual resume in document form, but also fill out an online application with all of the same information, and then do a questionnaire or a survey or a personality test or some other time-consuming bullshit. He doesn’t get nearly as many applications submitted during the course of the afternoon as he predicted, but there’s still a sense of accomplishment that goes along with the knowledge that he actually did something today, and he’s going to ride that out.

Charlie sends him a text message somewhere in the middle of his job application frenzy, but his phone is on silent for some reason and he doesn’t see it until hours later when he’s put the laptop away and is pondering what he’s going to throw together for dinner.

>>Espresso Patronum is hiring. You wanna apprentice as a baker?

<<I’ve never baked a pie in my life. Eaten plenty. Never quite got around to the making part.

Even though the message is hours old, Charlie replies right away. Dean gets the feeling she’s one of those people who’s attached to her phone at the hip, that she never has the thing more than arm’s length away.

>>Hence the apprenticing. I could put in a good word for you

<<I’ll think about it? Not sure I’m quite cut out for the early morning thing. Thanks though

>>No problem. We should hang out soon

<<Name the time and place. I got nothing on the calendar until I’m gainfully employed again

>>How about tomorrow? I’m off at noon same as usual

<<I’ll pick you up at the shop

Dean curses under his breath when he puts the phone down. If he’s meeting Charlie at noon that means he’s gonna have to put pants on.

He makes tacos for dinner. Sam doesn’t complain but Dean is pretty sure that’s only because he served up a side salad too. It’s just iceberg lettuce and some tomatoes, but it seems to placate the moose.

“So what’s new?” Sam asks between mouthfuls.

“Applied for some jobs today. Some of the ones you emailed me about,” Dean gives his brother a flat stare that says I don’t like your meddling but I get that you’re not trying to be a dick so I’m going to let it slide. “I don’t know if I’ll even get an interview but at least I’m putting the paperwork out there.”

“That’s great Dean. I’m glad. I know you’ll find something soon.” Sam grins and turns his attention back to his food. It’s easy for him to be positive. Sam likes working in an office. He knew early on in high school that he wanted to be a lawyer and he made it happen. He’s got goals, ambitions, and an actual interest in what he’s doing. Dean wishes he could have that kind of drive but man, the idea of getting back into a suit makes his skin crawl with dread. If he never wears a monkey suit again it’ll be too soon.

“So um,” Sam clears his throat, interrupting Dean’s train of thought. “Do you have plans on Friday?”

“Other than sitting on the couch in my underwear staring at my computer and hoping some HR manager decides to take pity on me and call me in for an interview?” If Dean had anywhere near Sam’s mastery of the bitch-face, he’d use it to excellent effect right now.

“Ok but like Friday night. I sorta invited Jess over for dinner, and I was kinda hoping you’d be um… somewhere else. If you can.” Sam tries to be casual about it, he really does, but Dean can see right through the act and it’s fucking adorable. Not that Dean would ever say it’s adorable, of course, but it totally is.

“I think I can figure something out,” Dean assures him.

After dinner, while Sam is doing the dishes and Dean is sitting on the couch, local news on low but ignored, he pulls out his phone and texts Castiel.

<<So my brother has just informed me that he’s making dinner for this girl he’s totally head over heels for on Friday, and he’s not so subtly suggested that I might want to be elsewhere for the evening. Probably overnight, if we’re being realistic

<<If it’s not too much of an intrusion, could I crash on your couch?

>>That sounds like the perfect opportunity for you to come over for drinks.

Dean doesn’t miss the second meaning in Castiel’s reply. It’s kinda what he expected actually, and he’d be lying if he told himself he wasn’t hoping for exactly that in the first place.

<<It does, doesn’t it?

>>I’m free after four. That should get you out of the house before your brother’s date, right?

Castiel follows his last text up with that damned bumblebee emoticon again. Dean doesn’t get why he likes it so much, but it’s a common one for Cas. Maybe he just likes bees. Maybe it makes him happy. He’s going to have to ask about that eventually.

<<Sounds good, he signs off.

Holy ever loving fuck what has he just agreed to?

Chapter Text

It’s four in the afternoon, but with the dim light in Charlie’s windowless rec room, it could easily be the middle of the night. He tried to resist when she suggested board games, but every argument he made fell on deaf ears. Charlie’s girlfriend Gilda arrived home only minutes after Charlie gave Dean the tour of their place and began making her case for tabletop entertainment, and her voice soon joined the convincing chorus. Dean finally relented, allowing himself to be given a crash course in the staggeringly complicated game they chose, and though they’ve been playing for three and a half hours, he still barely understands what’s happening. He knows the game is nowhere near over though. It’s called Talisman apparently. Dean’s never heard of it before, but the girls are both enthusiastic about it and he didn’t get a vote anyway so it doesn’t matter whether he was previously aware of its existence. He’s moving his little plastic figure around the outer portion of the boards trying to collect some other little plastic things so he can trade them for a bigger plastic thing, and maybe move on to the other boards to collect yet other things. That’s boards, with an S, plural. There’s expansion packs, and these girls own every one. The entire dining room table is laid out in an array of maps, forest scenes and plains and deserts and an ice realm and something that looks hellish and fiery. There’s dragons, even. Dean’s pretty sure the endgame is to try to slay one, but he’s not exactly certain how that’s supposed to happen.

“It’s your turn, Dean.” Charlie chirps. Her phone vibrates on the side table she’s got her cards laid out on, but she ignores it. Dean’s own cards take up a similar table, one of those fold out ones old people put over their laps while they eat dinner in front of the TV. Gilda has one too. This game is so expansive, Dean is starting to wonder if he shouldn’t call Sam and tell him not to expect him home before dark. Instead, he picks up the dice and shakes them into an upturned box from the game. You can’t just toss them on the board, he learned early on. Might knock something over. Very important.

“I think we should order takeout,” Gilda muses from her little corner. Her cards are all turned over so as not to tip her hand, but she keeps sneaking peeks underneath them and casting her eyes around the board furtively. She’s up to something. Dean wishes he understood the rules of the game well enough to have even the slightest idea as to what.

“That’s a good plan,” Dean replies, moving his little plastic dude the designated number of spaces. He draws the assigned card and reads it four times before he’s able to decide if it even applies to him. Complicated. Dean can’t deny he’s enjoying this though. He’s learning very quickly that Charlie and Gilda are huge nerds, and it’s drawing out the geeky side of himself he had forgotten about. Ok maybe not forgotten, more like pretended didn’t exist while he was with Bela. Turns out he’s realizing he lost a lot of himself with her. His sexual orientation, his friends, his geeky side. And even having changed so much about himself, he still wasn’t good enough to make her happy. Fuck her, he’s hanging out with cool people now and he’s going to focus on that.

When’s the last time Dean got to rant on about comic books, he wonders, or have an actual conversation with someone who shares his appreciation of Star Trek? Charlie has been trying to teach Gilda how to do the Vulcan salute since their first date, he learns, and it’s kind of the cutest fucking thing. During Charlie’s turns, Gilda tells him about the ComicCon where she first met Charlie. Charlie blushes furiously but doesn’t say a word when Gilda mentions her Princess Leia tattoo, but she silences her girlfriend with a sharp “SHHH!” when she starts to go into detail on the cosplay Charlie was wearing when they first bumped into each other. Gilda’s was a detailed Poison Ivy costume apparently, with body paint and a whip made out of fake vines, so he can only imagine what Charlie might have been wearing that would have topped that. She makes it clear that there’s no further details to be shared on the subject though, and Dean knows well enough not to ask. When it’s Gilda’s turn, he and Charlie discuss their hopes and fears for the upcoming release of Star Wars Episode VII. Dean is worried they’ll introduce something else akin to Jar Jar Binks and ruin the entire thing. Charlie hopes there will be more than one named female character. And less boring political intrigue. And 100% less of Anakin Skywalker’s whining She’d like it to pass the Bechdel test, too, but she’s not holding her breath. She has to explain to Dean what that even is, but once she does heagrees that’s a pretty reasonable thing to expect , and turns to find Gilda beaming at him. She’s holding a few of those carefully guarded cards though, so he’s not really sure if it’s because of the Bechdel thing or because she’s just figured out how to friggin’ destroy him.

Charlie surveys the board like a general planning a campaign, hands clasped behind her back, mouth drawn into a tight line. “Thai food,” she says, finally, and scoops the dice up out of the box. “Twenty minute recess to order food and check phones.” As if on command, her device vibrates again on the side table. Dean knows there’s at least a couple text messages on his own, maybe a missed call too. He hasn’t looked in hours. Kinda hopes none of them were job call-backs. He’d feel dumb if he missed an opportunity because he was too wrapped up in his trek through the Grasslands to answer the phone.

“You like spring rolls?” Gilda asks him, and Dean nods, grinning widely.

“I like pretty much everything. ‘Cept maybe tofu. Please don’t make me eat tofu.” Gilda pulls out her own phone and calls a restaurant she’s got on speed dial, not even bothering to look at a menu. Dean gets the feeling the girls do this a lot; delivery for dinner and board games for hours. He’s beginning to understand the appeal. Dean hasn’t thought much about his problems for the past few hours. He sends a quick message to Sam to let him know he’s on his own for dinner. There’s no missed calls thankfully, but he does have three unread messages from Castiel.

>>I just spent 45 minutes on the phone with my mother, and I’m fairly certain I only spoke a total of 6 words the entire time. I could have put the phone down and she never would have noticed.

>>Incidentally, I’ve had to rearrange my day tomorrow. It means that I’m not free until about six now.

>>If you like, you can come over then and we can do dinner.

Dean reads the timestamps on the messages and allows himself a little laugh. There’s exactly an hour between each one, and if he didn’t know better he’d say that Cas was making himself wait a predetermined amount of time before sending another message. Almost another hour has passed since the last message, so he takes pity on the guy and fires off a reply.

<<I thought we were tabling the dinner discussion for a later date? ;)

Dean remembers retroactively that he probably could have used one of those little picture smiley things that Cas is so fond of. He’s not a complete Luddite. But it’s too late now, and the semi-colon close-parentheses face does what he hopes is a sufficient job of showing that he’s just joking, and it’s just a stupid comment anyway, and why does he care again? Dean stares at his phone like it’s personally offended him, but he doesn’t have to ponder his own stupidity for very long, because it vibrates in his hand and a new message notification pops up on his screen.

>>I regret that metaphor now. I’m talking about actual food. Not a euphemism.

<<I know Cas. I’m being a jerk. That works fine. Can’t talk long, I’m in an epic quest to collect some magical bits or something and trade them in for another thing so I can kill a paper dragon.

>>???

>>I don’t understand.

<<It’s a board game. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow

Dean rests his phone on the table beside his cards and gratefully accepts the beer Charlie hands him when she comes back into the room. Gilda’s got a glass of red wine, which she sets down carefully so as not to spill a drop.

“Food’s gonna be about forty-five minutes.” She starts lifting up the corners of her cards again like she doesn’t already know exactly which one is which, casting her eyes over the board and plotting her next move.

Charlie eyes her sideways. “You remembered to get the—“

“You know I did, babe. I always do. Now are you gonna roll the dice, or not?”

-----

Dean doesn’t make it home until nearly midnight. Talisman is one of the most involved games he’s ever been acquainted with and even after an entire evening with the game he only sort of understands the rules. Charlie assures him he’ll get the hang of it, a statement which carries the unspoken promise that he’ll be playing it again in the near future. Dean can get on board with that, although next time he’s gonna bring slippers or something. Standing over a table for twelve hours in boots isn’t entirely pleasant. Charlie very graciously doesn’t rub it in his face that she totally kicked his ass, but she does throw her arms around his neck and draw him into a bone-crushing hug when he goes to leave. What is it with Dean’s new friends and hugs? Does he look like he needs one or something?

Sam is fast asleep by the time he gets home. The kitchen smells like that weird teriyaki tofu that Sam keeps trying to feed him, and there’s leftovers in a plastic container in the fridge that Dean hopes his brother plans on taking to work tomorrow because he’s sure as hell not going to eat it. A note on the coffee maker tells him that tomorrow’s run is most certainly not cancelled, regardless of what time Dean manages to drag his ass in, so he’d best “stow his crap” and be prepared for the usual wake up call. The note gets crumpled and tossed in the trash. Dean would expect nothing less.

-----

The pretense of calm that Dean wears as he walks up to Castiel’s door just after six on Friday is just that: a pretense. He’d be lying if he tried to say he wasn’t excited about whatever it is that Cas has planned for the evening, but he’d also be lying if he said he wasn’t incredibly nervous. On one hand, that’s probably a perfectly normal reaction, but Dean would much rather pretend he’s totally chill about this whole thing. Take it or leave it. He’s got a sinking suspicion that Cas will see right through it as soon as he lays eyes on Dean, but hey, as long as he can keep telling himself he’s cool, maybe he can believe it.

He hears Castiel’s footsteps echoing through the hallway from the moment he rings the bell. Cas smiles widely when he opens the door, looking relaxed in black lounge pants and a close-fitting tee-shirt. Dean finds his smile disarming, distracting even, and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth when he tries to speak in greeting.

“No overnight bag?” Cas asks, stepping back into the house to allow Dean into the entryway. He kicks off his boots and sets them neatly beside Castiel’s own shoes.

“I uh… I didn’t actually think I needed anything.” Dean runs a hand through his hair, grinning to cover his nerves. Cas is staring at him with a crooked smile on his face. “I usually just sleep in my shorts or whatever.”

“So not like, a toothbrush, for example?”

“Ooh! I got that covered,” Dean announces, reaching in to his coat pocket and pulling out one of those little travel toothbrushes that folds up to store in the handle.

“Such a boy scout. Prepared for everything.” Castiel’s tone is devoid of mockery, and all Dean can think to do in response is beam at him. It’s a strange feeling. “Since you’re not exactly running out of here any time soon, I think we can hang out and watch a movie before we get down to anything else. Maybe help you relax a bit. Does that sound reasonable?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Dean replies, suddenly not sure where to look or where to put his hands. Castiel just smiles knowingly and turns toward the kitchen, and Dean has no choice but to follow. He pulls out one of the chairs and leans his elbows on the island counter while Castiel rummages around in the fridge, pulling out a couple cans of ginger ale and unclipping a pizza menu from a magnet on the door. Dean eyes the can sideways, but he takes it anyway.

“What kind of pizza do you like?” Castiel asks. He’s leaning his hips back against the counter, all feline grace and casual limbs, but there’s something different in the way he looks at Dean. It doesn’t quite make him shrink but it gives him pause. Dean’s never been looked at quite like that but he can think of a time or two his eyes have fallen on someone else with that same kind of weight to them. He doesn’t really need to think about how easily he’d let Cas turn this into something decidedly sexual if Cas only asked, but the thought forms in his mind anyway, and he hides behind his ginger ale before it can become obvious on his features.

“Meat,” Dean replies after a moment. His eyes don’t leave the floor, though. He’s intently focused on the detail of the linoleum. It’s some pretty nice linoleum. “And cheese.”

Castiel does a fairly convincing job of ignoring Dean’s awkwardness. He can’t have missed it entirely, Dean decides, but yeah, he’s smooth. He nods in acknowledgement, orders a pizza in his calm, sonorous voice, and smiles at Dean like this is the most normal conversation. And maybe it is. It’s a distinct possibility. Dean isn’t a very good judge of these things.

Dean doesn’t pay much attention to the movie Castiel picks. He eats his pizza silently, offers answers at the appropriate points in conversation, but Dean’s clearly distracted. The entire time they’re lounging in Cas’ living room his mind keeps wandering to the indeterminate point later in the evening when they’re going to stop dancing around this, and there’s a war going on inside his head: Dean can’t make himself decide with any certainty if he’s going to go through with it. The idea of it, whatever it might happen to be, is oddly appealing. Castiel hasn’t let on as to what exactly he has planned for Dean tonight, and that’s a little frightening but maybe it makes the anticipation a little more exciting too. There’s still a little part of Dean’s brain that nags at him though, tells him he doesn’t have the stones to go through with it and he’s going to back out at the last second. Maybe he will. Maybe the movie will end and Cas will suggest they go upstairs and he’ll balk, he’ll bolt, and then he’ll never know if there was any merit to Cas’ suggestion.

Dean’s not good at disguising his distress; at least, not as good as he thinks. About half way through the movie (as near as Dean can figure because, well, he’s not really focused) Cas picks the remote up off the table and pauses it.

“You’re miles away. What’s up?” he asks, like he doesn’t totally know where Dean’s at right now.

“Nothing. It’s good. I’m fine. Let’s finish the movie.” Dean grabs for the remote, but Cas pulls it out of arm’s reach and regards him carefully.

“Unless I miss my guess, with you ‘fine’ means ‘everything is not fine but I’m trying to pretend it isn’t because I don’t talk about my feelings.’ Sound about right?”

“Nah,” Dean lies. “I’m just distracted.”

“Dean,” Cas says, his voice firm and unyielding. “You know this doesn’t work if you’re not honest with me, right?” Dean can’t make eye contact, or won’t let himself. The result is the same either way, his eyes searching for a point of focus on the table until Cas reaches out and pushes against his shoulder. It’s not hard enough to hurt but it gets his attention, and Dean shifts in his seat to face the other man. “The thing you’re worried about? The thing that’s going to happen later? It’s only going to happen if you still want it. And if you do want it, we need to have trust. You need to be able to trust that I’m going to respect your limits and I’m not going to do anything you don’t consent to. But I need to trust that you’re going to tell me if something makes you uncomfortable. If I can’t expect you to tell me when something’s wrong, then we can’t do this. So I’m going to ask you again. What’s up?”

Dean blushes, letting his eyes slip closed as he takes a calming breath. “I’m nervous,” he murmurs finally, and the words come out so softly he’s barely sure it’s his own voice. “And I kinda don’t know what to expect. The anticipation is killing me, and at the same time I’m afraid I’m going to back out at the last minute.”

“Do you want to back out?” Cas asks, all the firm pressure of his earlier speech replaced with gentle persuasion.

“I don’t think so.” His voice wavers just a little.

“Then how about we forget the rest of the movie? I’m not sure you’ve caught any of what’s happened anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s cool,” Dean tells him, not entirely without nonchalance, grateful that the anticipation looming over him is about to end, for better or for worse.

Chapter Text

The air in Cas’ bedroom is a comfortable temperature, warm but not hot. Dean’s skin pebbles anyway when he comes to stand at the foot of the bed like he’s been instructed. He’s naked, which he basically expected, but Castiel is still dressed in the lounge pants and shirt he was wearing when Dean arrived and it doesn’t appear that he has any plans on changing that any time soon. He’s seated on the sofa across the room and Dean can actually feel his eyes on his skin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, testing his footing on the soft carpet, and as soon as he stops shifting Cas stands up from where he’s seated and crosses the room.

“We’re going to start slow and simple. No bondage, no paddles. I’m going to strike you with the palm of my hand only. Ok?” Cas’ voice has taken on an edge, an air of command that says he knows what he’s doing and expects to be obeyed.

“Ok,” Dean croaks out, his voice catching in his throat. His hands dangle at his sides and it feels awkward. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with them.

“If you decide this is for you, eventually you’ll want to pick a safeword. For now, we’ll use the stoplight system. Green means you’re ok to proceed or you’re fine with what’s happening. Yellow means it’s pushing your limits. Proceed with caution. Red means full stop, immediately. Do you understand?” Cas is just outside of Dean’s field of vision but he can still sense him hovering. There’s something calming about his presence that, later, Dean will probably overthink the shit out of, but for now it steadies him.

“Yup. Makes sense. I got it,” he replies. His fists clench uselessly. Should he hold on to the footboard? Clasp his hands behind his back?

“I’m going to start now. Are you green?”

“Green.” Dean affirms.

“Put your hands on the bedframe. Answer me when I speak to you. You can cry out if it hurts, but if you need me to stop you have to use the stoplight colours.” Cas pauses only long enough for Dean to comply. As soon as his hands find their way to the heavy wood of Cas’ bed, Dean begins to take a slow breath and Cas’ hand connects with his backside, hard.

Dean doesn’t mean to yelp. He’s tougher than that. It catches him off guard is all. He can feel the sharp sting of the slap on his ass, heat and pain coursing through his veins, but all things considered it’s not actually that bad. Except that as soon as he lets out the yelp, as soon as he has a chance to acknowledge that it isn’t the worst pain he’s ever felt, Cas does it again, in the exact same spot. He’s a bit more ready for it this time so he manages not to squeal like a stuck pig, but his hips jerk forward and his muscles tense, and the next breath he lets out is shaky and strained.

The blows fall with regularity after that. Dean takes each one stoically, never making more than a choked noise in his throat when Cas strikes him particularly hard, never moving. He holds himself steady with hands planted firmly on the foot of the bed, feet grounded on the floor, and the rhythm of the slaps is steady and unbroken for what seems like a very long time.

It takes him a moment to realize Cas is speaking. His brain is so keyed to deal with the pain as a threat that he’s already anticipating the next strike. His focus has narrowed to the pain radiating from his skin and the search for anything that might tell him when or where the next impact is coming.

“I asked you a question, Dean,” Cas prods him. He sounds just a little amused. Dean imagines if he were to turn around, he’d see Cas’ mouth turned up in a little hint of a smile.

“Sorry. Sorry. What did you say?” Dean replies, embarrassed. Smack him on the ass a few times and he loses all ability to communicate. Ain’t that a thing.

“I said, what’s your colour?” Cas paces behind him in slow, measured steps, perfectly spaced like a metronome. He speaks calmly and patiently, but Dean feels compelled to answer regardless.

“Green,” he replies quickly. “Green.”

“Good, that’s good,” Cas murmurs softly, and Dean expects another strike right away but it doesn’t come. Instead, Cas rests a hand on his shoulder and leans in close. “Are you good Dean?” His breath ghosts across the skin of Dean’s neck and makes his hair stand on end. “Are you a good boy?” Cas’ hand slides off Dean’s shoulder before he can answer, slicing through the air to collide with his ass with the same sharp smack ringing through the otherwise quiet room as before, and Dean is momentarily proud of how steady he is in its wake.

Dean is caught off guard by the question more than he is by the slap. He doesn’t want to answer it. He doesn’t want to talk at all really, he just wants Cas to distract him with well-placed hands until he can forget how shitty he feels about real life. He wants to escape, and maybe that’s the crux of it. Cas resumes his pacing while Dean considers his answer, making a few passes back and forth across the same stretch of carpet as he waits.

“No,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m not good.” Cas stops his pacing. He comes to a halt directly behind Dean. There’s still so much space between them but Dean still feels crowded. He tries to calm himself with closed eyes and steady breathing.

“You aren’t?” Cas muses. “Whatever makes you say that?”

“I’m not,” Dean affirms. “I fuck everything up.”

Cas hums, considering. “Is that so? Well, I’m not so sure about that. But if you think you’ve been bad, there’s really only one thing for it.” Before Dean can ask what he means by that, Cas’ hand connects with his ass again, hard, and no sooner has the startled gasp left his lips than he’s struck again, and again, and again until he loses track of how many times since Cas first struck him. His ass rages with fire, pain that he can’t ignore. He can’t even think straight. Cas varies the intensity of his slaps just enough to keep Dean guessing, and he’s placing them haphazardly between Dean’s left and right flank and down both his thighs so that while he knows exactly when the next one is going to come, certain and rhythmic, he’s never sure quite where. It takes everything Dean has not to cry out, and then suddenly it takes more than that, and he’s releasing sharp little yelps with every sting of Cas’ hand on his skin, and then he’s whimpering, and then he’s howling in pain.

“Tell me you’re good,” Cas commands. He says it with a tone that brooks no resistance, one that says Dean will obey, or else, and Dean wants to obey him, wants so very much to do as he’s told, but the words choke him the second they start to form. Castiel slaps him again, the weight of his hand ringing out against Dean’s flesh and his hand stays there, a promise and a threat. “Say it,” he demands again. “Say that you’re good.”

“I’m not, though,” Dean whispers, and there are tears in his eyes, tears he doesn’t recall giving his face permission to shed.

“Yes, you are,” Cas murmurs, more gently than his orders. “But it doesn’t matter if you agree It only matters that you say it. You’ll do it because I told you to, or you’ll be punished again.”

Dean breathes, slow and even, and tries so hard to collect himself. The man behind him doesn’t move even a fraction of an inch, but the anticipation is palpable. He’s waiting for Dean to decide he can’t so the next blow can fall, or to obey, and then no one but Cas knows what will follow.

“I can’t,” Dean chokes out finally, and the space between his words and the next sharp smack is impossibly, incalculably small. And Cas hits him again. And again. And he stops trying to count because it doesn’t matter how many because this only ends when one of them decides it’s enough, and Dean’s too proud to be the one that does it.

Dean could stop this at any time. He knows this. Cas told him he’d stop if he asked. All he has to do is call out the colour; the same colour Cas is turning his skin right now with the blows he’s raining down.. There’s not a single moment that he considers actually calling a halt to things, though. It hurts. It hurts so much. But every time Cas’ hand connects with his flesh and leaves behind another dose of pain, he feels just that much lighter in his soul, in the dark place where he keeps all the less tangible pain. Every time Cas hits him, he feels a little bit less like he’s ruined everything. He feels a little bit less horrible. So Dean doesn’t call his red, even when Cas lands a blow that strikes both of his ass-cheeks at once and feels like he’s thrown the weight of his entire body into it. He just lets Cas keep on slapping him senseless, and revelling in the freedom that comes with letting Cas work him over.

It’s the sound that catches him. Or more accurately, the lack thereof. Dean’s entire backside is so alight with pain that he doesn’t register at first that Cas has stopped slapping him, but he doesn’t hear the sound of Cas’ hand connecting with his abused flesh any more, and then the sensations start to register. He’s no longer standing at the foot of the bed and no part of Dean’s brain can really supply him with any details as to when that happened, but the bed he’s lying face-down on is soft and comfortable, so he doesn’t really feel the need ask. He opens his eyes, because apparently they came to be closed at some point, and finds that he’s face-to-face with a very calm, very placid looking Castiel.

“Hi,” Cas says, smiling at him.

“Hi,” Dean returns. “What uh… What happened?” He moves to roll on to his side, but Cas stills him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Just stay here for a little bit. Everything’s fine. You just spaced out; it’s very common. How do you feel?” Castiel cards his fingers through Dean’s hair, and Dean wonders how long he’s been doing that. It’s incredibly soothing.

“Floaty,” Dean admits. “Sore.” He adds, for good measure. Castiel laughs softly.

“Yes, I’d imagine so. Are you ok if I leave for a moment? I promise I’ll be right back.” Dean nods as well as he can manage with his cheek resting against the mattress, and then the bed shifts with the loss of Castiel’s weight. He’s not gone long, just long enough for Dean to register how soft the sheets feel against his bare skin, and how his body feels alive with the same kind of pleasant tingle he’s used to feeling after a particularly satisfying round of sex.

“Can you sit up?” Cas asks gently. “Be careful. Your ass is going to be quite sore.” He sits back and watches quietly as Dean wiggles onto his side and then swings his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as he goes.

“What time is it?” Dean asks. It’s least painful if he doesn’t move, so obviously the best answer is to sit still, but isn’t the pain what he wanted? Dean squirms just a little, almost regretting it when the pain wells up in his skin again, and looks up at Cas as he comes around to Dean’s side of the bed.

“It’s not quite nine yet. We can still watch the rest of the movie if you want?” Cas holds a bottle of orange juice in his hand, outstretched towards Dean. “Here. You should drink this. A scene like that can take a lot out of you.”

Dean is about to dismiss the idea out of hand until he realizes that his mouth is dry as the Sahara. He’s tempted to drink the whole thing in one long gulp, but the first sip is so sweet on his tongue it’s all he can manage to take another mouthful before setting the bottle on Cas’ nightstand.

“I don’t think I paid any attention to the movie, like at all. We’d have to start over,” Dean admits with a sigh, then picks up the bottle and slams the rest of it without breathing. It’s still too sweet on his tongue but it feels refreshing running down his throat and he’s inclined to believe Cas knows what he’s talking about when he says Dean needs fluids.

“We could do that. But I get the sense you’re not really interested?” Dean’s already searching around at the foot of the bed for his boxers when Cas snatches them off the blankets and hands them over.

“Uh… thanks.” Dean can’t really hide the blush that creeps up his cheeks. It seems so much weirder to be naked now without the intensity of their scene clouding his mind, and he’s consciously aware that his fully exposed cock is half hard. Cas can’t have missed it but he says nothing on the subject, for which Dean should probably be grateful. Instead he’s wondering if it’s normal to get turned on by his friend beating his ass black and blue, and then he’s lighting that train of thought on fire and burning it to the ground because no, this does not need to get awkward. “Not really feeling the movie. We could watch something else if you want.”

Cas shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “I’m not particular. But I could use a beer, I think. Can you walk?” Dean snorts, pushing himself up off the bed with both hands and pretending his thighs aren’t on fire when he does.

“’Course I can walk.”

Dean leans against the counter as they sip ice cold beer out of bottles. He doesn’t relish the idea of sitting on a hard wooden stool at this present juncture.

“So like, you don’t even have a car?” he asks Cas, for the third time.

“No,” Cas replies smugly. “I can get everywhere I need to go either by public transportation or taxi. Sometimes I even walk.”

“You take the bus to work?”

“My clients come to my home.” Cas gestures vaguely toward the front left corner of the house. “Office, over there. Remember?”

“Oh. Yeah. Ok but still. The bus sucks. I hate riding the bus. It’s a giant pain in the ass.” Dean sneers into his beer, shaking his head as he goes.

“It doesn’t really come up much, honestly. I work from home, there’s a grocery store and a pharmacy not far up the road that I can walk to. I only need transportation for social engagements, and then it’s not really a chore.” He shrugs again. “I never really thought I needed one.”

“You’re missing out,” Dean tells him, gesturing with his beer bottle. “There’s nothing I love more than getting out on the highway with the roar of my baby under me and the wind in my hair. That’s peace man. That’s bliss.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Cas smiles fondly, picking at the label on his beer bottle.

“Nah. I’ll take you for a ride sometime. You’ll love it. She’s beautiful.”

“I’d like that,” Cas replies, but absentmindedly, like he’s not affording the matter his full attention. He studies Dean surreptitiously, though he’s not as stealthy as he thinks because Dean is aware of eyes on him almost from the first. His eyes narrow and his lips purse and his head leans to one side just subtly. They haven’t been friends for all that long, but it’s been long enough that Dean knows that these are the things Cas does when he’s curious or confused, when he’s thoughtful or ponderous. These are the things Cas does when he doesn’t trust what his eyes show him on the surface and he’s decided he needs to read deeper than that. Whatever sign he’s looking for doesn’t present itself for several long minutes, or maybe he doesn’t find it at all. Eventually, he stops trying to answer the question himself and asks it with words.

“How are you feeling?” he asks slowly. He tips back the last of his beer and sets the bottle down on the counter. It’s a focal point, and both of their eyes settle on the bottle as an alternative to looking too long at one another.

“I’m fine,” Dean answers almost immediately. The words are out before he really thinks about it, but he wouldn’t have them back if he could. He feels great, actually, although he feels like he’s sunburned from hips to knees and it flares up every time he shifts enough that the thin fabric of his boxer shorts drags across his flesh. It’s a lot like a sunburn, actually, now that he thinks about it. His skin still radiates heat in the same way, and if he pressed a finger to it, he’s sure his skin would flash white before letting the colour bleed back in. He doesn’t plan on testing this theory.

“Yeah?” Cas doesn’t sound doubtful, but rather like he’s seeking confirmation. Fine means everything’s not fine but you’re not willing to admit it, he’d said, and Dean hadn’t denied it. It was true then and it’s still true now even if it doesn’t apply at this exact moment.

“Yeah. I’m good. Honestly. That was actually pretty awesome.” Dean doesn’t elaborate, but it’s clear what they’re talking about even without explanation.

“It wasn’t too much for you,” he pushes, and Dean should be annoyed but instead he’s comforted by the concern. “Or too hard?”

“No, nothing like that.” Dean smiles a tiny smile before lifting his beer bottle to his lips. “If you’d told me exactly what the plan was, I might have panicked, I think, but I liked it. Even the uh…” his eyes drop to the counter, hiding the shame he thinks he’s supposed to feel right now. “Even the talking part.”

“So that was the bit that was difficult for you?” Dean doesn’t lift his eyes, but that’s as much of an answer as if he’d spoken. “I thought it might be. Maybe next time you’ll do as you’re told,” he muses. Dean rubs the back of his neck, stalling for time, but Cas doesn’t wait for an answer. “I think we should go to bed. It’s been an intense evening.

“Are there sheets on the spare bed or do I need to make it up first?” Dean asks, and Cas shakes his head, but not for the reason Dean would have expected.

“You’re not sleeping in the spare room. You read the article I sent you about sub-drop?” he asks, and Dean nods slowly. “Well you’re fine now, but you might not be later, and if that happens I don’t want to be fast asleep down the hall. We can either share my bed and I’ll keep a respectful distance, or you can sleep there and I’ll take the couch in my sitting room”

“I can sleep on the couch,” Dean protests, but Cas silences him immediately.

“It’s a bit too hard for someone who’s taken the beating you had. I wouldn’t even recommend sitting on it right now, to be honest.”

“I can’t kick you out of your bed,” Dean pleads, and even as he’s speaking he’s not really sure why he’s fighting it so much, but there it is.

“So don’t, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s big enough. We’ll barely know we’re sharing a bed. But those are your only two options so you’d best pick one.”

Chapter Text

Dean expects it’s going to take him a long time to fall asleep in Cas’ big, soft bed, but he doesn’t even have enough time to concern himself with their proximity before sleep claims him. And Cas’ assessment was accurate; the king mattress leaves plenty of space for them both to sprawl without encroaching on each other’s space. Whatever restlessness Dean might have had, borne of worries over waking up cradled in the other man’s arms or awkwardly spooned together or any other configuration of his nightmare’s imagination, he sleeps right through the night and wakes up to morning light and stiff limbs and an entirely empty room.

His muscles protest as Dean hauls himself upright, shoulders popping and tendons cracking. He slept well, he has to admit. There isn’t a clock nearby, at least not one he can see at first glance, but his stomach tells him it’s definitely time to be awake. Dean stops half way through pulling on his jeans and winces. He should have brought something not made of denim, anything at all that would be less rough and grating on the abused and probably very red skin of his ass and the backs of his legs. He can’t drive home in his boxer shorts, but Castiel has seen him naked so it’s probably ok to go downstairs in his underwear. Probably. He drops his jeans and pads softly down the hallway towards the stairs, all the while wondering what time it is and what has dragged Cas out of bed.

From half way down the staircase, he gets his answer. Morning light filters in the living room through windows with their curtains drawn back, and some of it shines on the lithe figure of Castiel, balanced on one foot with the other pressed against his inner thigh, arms extended overhead. He doesn’t move at all for nearly a minute, and the entire time Dean can’t bring himself to move either for fear of startling his host. When he does move, it’s to settle his left foot on the mat under his feet and mirror the position on the other side, and he holds it just as long. Castiel doesn’t sway in the slightest as he balances here, in what Dean thinks he remembers to be called tree pose. Bela made him accompany her to yoga classes sometimes. Invited, she’d called it, but Dean didn’t really recall having a say in the matter. Still, he picked up on a thing or two while he was wishing he were somewhere else.

Cas releases from tree pose and Dean thinks he’s noticed that he’s not alone in the room right up until he begins his next series of movements. He should make his presence known. It would be polite. Only Dean doesn’t want to interrupt, and Cas moves with such remarkable grace it seems a worse crime to be the cause of the end of his practice than it does to observe it uninvited, so he stands in silence and watches.

His feet root strongly into the ground in mountain pose, arms loose at his sides, and he breathes with an even control that Dean envies. A slight arch to his back, arms stretched overhead, and then he’s diving forward to hug his chest to his thighs, forehead to shins. Dean will never bend in half that easily as long as he lives, he thinks, but Cas does it as easy as breathing. He releases half way up before bringing his hands to the mat and stepping his feet back, like he’s about to do pushups. He lingers there for so long Dean could imagine he’s forgotten what comes next, and then all at once he lowers to the mat, elbows tucked neatly at his sides, and then smoothly arches his back. All that’s touching the mat is the tops of his feet and the palms of his hands, yet he looks so solid, so balanced. He’s so serene it starts to rub off on Dean, and he’s not even the one doing the yoga.

The strength of Cas’ limbs is apparent in his motions when he pushes up onto his toes, lifting his hips high in the air, his flexibility obvious in how easily he brings his left foot up to step between his hands, then his right, so he’s folded in half again, head hanging low. His spine rolls slowly as he comes back up to stand, each vertebrae moving almost by itself, until his back is straight and his head is held high. He takes a few breaths here, deep, calming breaths, and then he begins the whole cycle again. A strong standing posture gives way to standing back bend, which in turn melts into a forward fold. Forward fold lets itself become half fold, which lets Cas bring himself into plank pose with no visible effort. Plank becomes cobra, cobra becomes downward facing dog, and with two simple steps, he’s back in forward fold, and then mountain, and then he’s just standing there breathing. He repeats the cycle two more times, and the whole while Dean stands there enrapt with this simple thing Cas is doing so beautifully. It’s not until Cas finishes the fourth and final cycle, when his posture changes just slightly and he starts to roll up his pale yellow mat, that Dean decides he should finally make himself known. His mouth is open ready to speak, but Cas beats him to it.

“You should join me next time,” he says, not even turning his head.

“Sorry, I should have said something,” Dean replies.

“You’re not as quiet as you think,” Cas says softly, his words light with just a hint of mocking. “You’ve been there since tree pose, I believe.”

“Uh,” Dean begins, eloquent as always. “Yeah. That one. Yoga isn't really my thing though.”

“Hmmph,” Cas huffs, and Dean can’t tell if he’s being judgemental or not. “It’s no wonder you’re all pent up. I bet you have no idea how to actually relax.” Dean glares and tries to take offense but he's immediately distracted by Cas’ offer of coffee, and they don't discuss it any further.

-----

On Monday Dean runs with Sam and cleans the entire house just to keep himself occupied. His brother was remarkably tight-lipped about his date with Jess which means it went incredibly well or spectacularly poorly, but Sam seemed to be in a pretty good mood when Dean got home on Saturday afternoon, so he's guessing “incredibly well.” He ponders this question over a third cup of coffee, having already cleaned everything he can think to clean. It's been a long time since he can remember Sam having enough free time between school and work and extra-curricular stuff to even bother dating. Hopefully this pans out for him. Sam deserves to be happy.

Dean jumps about five feet in the air when his phone rings. He's expecting Cas because who the hell else calls him these days? The call display doesn't show Cas’ number though so he answers with curiosity and trepidation.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, am I speaking with Dean Winchester?”

“Yes ma’am,” Dean replies. “This is Dean.”

“I’m calling from Sandover Bridge and Iron. We’ve received your application and we’re interested in meeting you to discuss your qualifications further. Are you available tomorrow morning at ten?” The woman’s voice is clipped and business-like, but she could be screaming obscenities every second word right now and Dean would still think she sounded beautiful.

“Yes, absolutely,” Dean replies, trying to sound as professional as possible. It’s an immense relief to even get the chance to fuck an interview up at this point in time. And the first thing Dean does when he gets off the phone after jotting down a few details is send a text message to Cas. There’s like seven exclamation points at the end of it and probably the first person he should be texting is Sam, but oh well. It’s too late for that now.

-----

Putting a suit on to go to the interview is the least appealing thing Dean has done in the last few weeks, and that’s counting the day that Sam made him tofu for dinner. He grimaces as he shrugs the jacket onto his shoulders and straightens his tie. Even in the short walk from his car to the building he can feel his posture change, stiffen and tense into something that reminds Dean of someone else. Someone he doesn’t much like the idea of being again. After waiting in the lobby for what feels like a lot more minutes than it actually is, Dean is ushered into a corner office with windows looking out over the city, and a striking woman with red hair and a sharp eye stands from behind her desk to shake his hand. Dean makes pleasantries as well as can be expected before handing over a fresh copy of his resume on crisp white paper, kept pressed flat inside a leather folio he borrowed from Sam just for the occasion. You should look the part, Sam had said, and Dean didn’t see the point in arguing.

She introduces herself as Abby Donaldson, Director of Marketing, and they spend the better part of an hour in one of the most detailed, intense interviews of Dean’s life. She asks about his experiences and his education. She asks for stories about his applied learnings, his understanding of concepts and his views on various current events that she somehow finds enlightening. Dean’s mouth is dry and his throat is parched by the time he’s done extolling his own virtues.

“You should know, Mr. Winchester, that you meet the minimum requirements for the position that you’ve applied for, but many of the candidates we’re considering have a great deal more experience in this field,” she tells him. “If we choose to bring you on, we’ll be taking a chance here. To be entirely honest, I nearly dismissed your application entirely.” Dean’s face falls, but he wills his features back to stoicism. “However, you come highly recommended, and I’ve worked with Alistair Stewart myself in past, so I know he’s a man of many words and little praise. You should thank him next time you get the chance. The reference letter he wrote you is hardly the form letter I’d expect to see after the mass layoffs he just handed down at Morningstar.”

Dean is, needless to say, a bit stunned. Alistair said nice things about him?

Abby continues, heedless of Dean’s surprise. “That’s not to say I’ve made a decision either way. But you’ve given me some things to consider. You’ll be hearing from me by the end of the week. Do you have any questions of your own?” Dean doesn’t, not about the job, because honestly right now he’ll take anything that doesn’t come with a paper hat and a drive-thru lane, but he thanks Abby for her time anyway and makes an exit he hopes is smooth and controlled instead of hurried.

-----

“Do you think you’ll get it?” Cas asks Tuesday night. Dean doesn’t have a prepared answer, so he shrugs and focuses his attention on chopping veggies instead. They’re making tacos and Cas’ big kitchen is filled with the savoury aromas of ground beef and spices.

“I think the more important question is, do I want it?” Dean retorts after a moment. He hands Cas a bowl full of chopped onions, which Cas tosses into the frying pan alongside the ground beef. They sizzle when they hit the hot pan and the scent of them wafts through the air almost immediately. “It’s decent money. And I’m technically qualified. But like, I can’t help feeling like it’s the exact same kind of thing that I dreaded dragging myself in to every day for the past three years and I’m not really seeing how that’s a win.”

“So you won’t take it?” Cas keeps all hints of his own opinions out of his voice but Dean already knows him well enough to tell that it’s carefully constructed. He’s definitely got an opinion on what Dean should do; whether or not he voices it is a totally different matter.

“I didn’t say that,” Dean replies. He thinks about grabbing a cold beer out of the fridge but Cas’ earlier reminder sits on his brain like a weight. We don’t drink before we scene. You can have a beer after, or you can have one now and we don’t do anything else. It’s your choice. It nearly felt like Cas was giving him an out. That might actually have been his intention. He promised something a little more creative than a firm, open palmed slap on the behind this evening, though he hasn’t actually told Dean what that entails. Something on his yes list, presumably. Second time out is probably too early to start playing at any of the maybes. Cas seems to be operating under the assumption that Dean is going to bolt like a scared rabbit any minute and he keeps giving him openings to run through. Dean can’t say for certain that he hasn’t considered bowing out a time or two but he’s here, and his interest is piqued. For the time being, that’s enough.

“I just feel like maybe I should be looking for something I want to do, you know? Instead of just something that pays the bills? Taking this job doesn’t mean I have to stop looking for something better. I’m just worried that I’m gonna end up stuck there if I do.” Dean sighs, forgets the thought of beer, and sips the iced tea Cas had poured for him. Whatever Cas has planned, it’s probably going to do a better job of relieving his stress than a drink with dinner will.

Cas turns from the stove to smile warmly at Dean. “You always have a choice,” Cas reminds him. “As long as it’s not a contract position you can leave whenever you want. Take the job, Dean, and keep looking for something that you actually look forward to doing.”

“Promise me something?” Dean asks, and he hates how needy he feels even asking Cas the smallest of favours, but the words are out and he can’t have them back.

“Of course,” Cas replies.

“If I look like I’m gonna get stuck there, if it seems like I’m just gonna be this fuckin’ corporate drone again, you gotta say something. Remind me, yell at me, hell, get my damn brother involved if you have to, but don’t let me turn back into that guy again.” He can’t make eye contact with Cas right now; it feels way too personal. The floor looks mighty fine though, so he keeps his eyes trained on the linoleum.

“It’s not going to come to that,” Cas tells him firmly. “But of course. I’m your friend, Dean. I won’t let that happen to you.” Dean lifts his eyes off the floor and some of the tension bleeds out of his posture. Not all of it, but enough.

Dean is anxious all through dinner. From almost the moment they sit down at the kitchen island with tacos and iced tea, Dean’s mind races trying to come up with an idea of what Cas might have planned for him. He can think of plenty, but that’s the problem. There’s no telling which of those things Cas actually plans to do, or if he’s planning something else entirely. Dean can’t even pretend that’s not exciting to think of. Cas raises an eyebrow, noticing Dean’s fidgeting, and Dean opens his mouth to make an excuse but Cas speaks first.

“If you’re finished eating,” he says, gesturing blithely at Dean’s empty plate, “Then I suppose you might as well go upstairs and get undressed. Fold your clothes on the chair by the door and kneel on the cushion at the foot of the bed. Don’t move until I get upstairs.” He’s barely finished speaking before Dean nods assent and pushes away from the table, pausing only briefly to put his plate in the dishwasher before heading for the stairs. It takes every bit of restraint he has not to take the stairs two at a time. Dean does as he’s told, stripping down quickly and folding his clothes neatly on the armchair just to the left of Cas’ bedroom door. It really is an unreasonably large bedroom. Between the sitting room area and the walk-in closet, it’s bigger than some people’s apartments. Dean’s pretty sure he could park his car in here if only he could get it through the door.

Once on his knees, Dean has nothing to do but observe the room around him. Cas has decorated the room in rich earthy tones, from the bedspread to the carpets, but it’s such an expansive room that it manages not to feel heavy or overpowering. He hasn’t hung any art in here, although there are definitely pieces hung in other rooms of the house, and all the furniture is well coordinated, if not perfectly matched. For a moment, Dean wonders why Cas needs to bother with the carved wooden wardrobe set along the wall if he’s got a walk in closet, but then the sound of Cas’ footsteps carry down the hall and he snaps his head forward, eager for Cas to find him exactly as he expects.

“Good boy,” Cas purrs as he steps through the door, and Dean is embarrassed, no, mortified, at how pleased he feels that Cas is happy with him. “You take direction well when you want to,” he praises. Dean blushes a little but his spine straightens and his shoulders square and yeah, ok, he’ll let himself be proud of impressing Cas. Just inside this room, just for this night, he’ll let himself feel good about that.

“Stand up,” Cas commands, his voice dropping lower. The words come out sharp, but not angry, and Dean complies immediately. He stands tall with shoulders back and chin raised as Cas circles him, eyes raking up and down as he inspects what Dean has to offer. The flush of pink across his cheeks doesn’t escape Cas’ attention. “Does it make you uncomfortable, being exposed like this?” He trails the tip of one finger down the curve of Dean’s bicep as he speaks.

Dean starts to nod because his first instinct is that it should make him uncomfortable but half way through the motion it feels like the wrong answer, so he turns it into a negative. “No,” he rasps. Immediately, he regrets speaking. Cas didn’t say he couldn’t speak, but he also didn’t say he could, and he’s still not quite sure what’s expected of him in these situations. Cas regards him with a wry smile though.

“It’s ok. You can answer me,” Cas tells him, pacing in slow circles, never taking his eyes off Dean as he goes. Cas has changed his clothes since dinner, which has escaped Dean’s notice until this precise moment. He’s exchanged his slacks for a pair of lounge pants like last time, soft and wide-legged, but he’s naked from the waist up, and Dean finds he has a very hard time focusing with Cas’ bare chest in view.

“I like the attention,” Dean tells him finally, darting his tongue out to wet his lips as he speaks. Cas moves out of his peripheral vision and he counts the seconds until he rounds the other side and comes into Dean’s field of view again, but the seconds pass and Dean still doesn’t see him.

“Come over here,” Cas’s voice calls from behind Dean. He turns to see Cas standing over in the sitting area with arms crossed over his chest. Everything about his posture is casual, but his eyes are so much darker than usual and as Dean approaches he notices a pronounced bulge in the front of Cas’ pants. He stifles an off-the-cuff remark as he comes to stand a few feet in front of Cas and, unsure of what to do with his hands, lets them hang loose at his sides. It still feels awkward, being naked and just standing there, but he gets the impression that’s not going to be the case for long.

Cas eyes him up and down with an unreadable look on his face. “Hands up,” he orders, and as soon as he complies Cas’s fingers wrap around one of his wrists, holding it steady while he fastens a padded leather cuff around it, then secures the other one. Dean tugs experimentally on the cuffs and finds them snug but not uncomfortable, and secured to the ceiling by chains leading to heavy anchored hooks. There’s just enough slack to get a bit of a bend in his elbows, but he’s not going anywhere. Once Dean’s bound, Cas steps back and admires his handiwork.

“Green?” Cas asks with a light tone. His voice taunts, but his eyes say he’s listening for real.

“Green,” Dean affirms. Cas turns then, opening the wardrobe Dean wondered about earlier. Dean can’t see inside, but when Cas closes the doors and turns around again, he’s got a metal pole in one hand, and something that could easily be mistaken for a ping pong paddle in the other.

“This,” Cas tells him, holding up the pole in front of Dean’s face where he can’t help but see its gleaming length, “is a spreader bar.” Cas pauses for a few breaths to let the words leave their impression. He turns the bar in his hands, letting Dean get a good clear look at it. “Its use, I think, is quite obvious.” Cas drops down in front of Dean quite quickly and runs a hand down Dean’s thigh as he kneels on the carpet. He’s slow and careful fastening the cuffs of the bar around Dean’s ankles, trailing gentle fingertips across Dean’s skin. The bar holds his feet wider apart than he’d choose to stand if the choice were offered but not so wide that he can’t stand steady. Again, Cas circles him slowly, always keeping a hand or a fingertip somewhere on Dean’s skin, a single point of contact to anchor Dean and give him focus.

“Usually, when someone’s bound like this,” Cas muses almost as if speaking to himself, “It’s because they’re about to get fucked.” Dean jerks in his chains when Cas’ hand connects sharply with his backside. He hadn’t seen that coming.

Cas laughs darkly, his voice low in the dimly lit room. “Oh, did I startle you? Hmm. That’s too bad. As I was saying,” another smack, this time gentler, “Usually if I’ve got someone spread like this, it’s because I have very certain plans. Not tonight though.” He circles Dean again with slow measured strides. “Tonight, I just want to keep you right where you are.” Dean turns his head to try to catch a glimpse of Cas behind him, just to get an idea of what to expect.

“Eyes forward,” Cas commands, punctuating it with a sharp smack to Dean’s ass. Instead of pulling back to strike again, he runs the palm of his hand over the curve of Dean’s ass, grabbing a firm handful and squeezing roughly. Dean twitches his hips involuntarily before he can steel himself.

“I thought we’d play with the paddle tonight,” Cas tells him, his tone conversational. “If you like it, next time we might try a flogger perhaps, but I don’t want to overwhelm you. At least…not right away..” His hand rings a series of sharp smacks on Dean’s ass and thighs. The chains above his head rattle as he tries to remain steady. “What do you think? Does that sound fun?”

“Yes,” Dean rasps quickly. There’s no hesitation in his answer and it surprises him as much as it amuses Cas. The soft sound of laughter drifts from over Dean’s shoulder, and is quickly followed by a few more fierce strikes. Cas stoops to pick up the paddle and runs the flat of it across Dean’s hip, letting the rough texture of its surface drag over his skin. He draws it back and gives an experimental swat, letting out a satisfied hmph when Dean twitches and lets out a startled cry.

Dean focuses on the pain, the way it makes him feel so alive, as Cas begins to strike him with an irregular rhythm. His backside grows warm and red and eventually he stops jerking with each connection and just lets the blows fall. It’s oddly soothing to give over control and let Cas break him down. The paddle feels so different from Cas’ palm, hard and rough and raw, with none of the smooth touch of Cas’ skin as a reward after the pain, and soon Dean is groaning with the agony of it all. Cas drops the paddle and palms his cheeks after a particularly rough smack that leaves Dean huffing harsh breaths with his eyes squeezed shut.

“I see you’re enjoying this.” Cas’ voice is an amused whisper in Dean’s ear, and Dean looks down to find that the arousal he’s been ignoring through the course of their playtime has made his cock thick and erect. Dean is just focused enough to register the embarrassment that wells up in his chest.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, letting his chin drop to his chest when Cas’ teeth sink into the meat of his shoulder. It’s like every single thing he does is calculated to break down Dean’s defenses and leave him quivering, wrecked and mindless.

“Not sure what you’re apologizing for,” Cas replies with danger in his voice. “Making you feel good is kinda the point. Now, I can go back to turning your ass red,” he smacks Dean again with an open palm just to make his point, and Dean can’t stop the shamefully high-pitched whimper that emanates from his throat, “And you can take care of that later, if you’ve got the strength left.” The mocking tone in Cas’ words makes it clear he doesn’t think that’s going to happen. “Or I can help you take care of it right now.” Cas keeps his hands safely away from Dean’s cock, tracing lazy patterns on the reddened flesh of his ass with blunt fingernails. He’s clearly aware of the desire coiling in Dean’s belly but he makes careful movements, touching hips and rump and thighs, never getting too close to Dean’s cock.

Dean, true to form, hesitates. Oh, he knows what he wants. The achingly hard cock between his legs makes that one pretty obvious. But admitting it is another thing altogether. He silently wishes Cas would interpret his whimpering as consent and just get his hands on him. It would be so much easier if he didn’t have to say the words. Cas is a cruel bastard though, and a stickler for the enthusiastic consent thing if there ever was one. He won’t make a move until Dean speaks his mind.

“Well?” Cas inquires after long moments of silence. “What’s your answer? Do you want me to spank you, or do you want to come?”

“I want to come,” Dean whispers, raw and low. His eyes squeeze shut with the shame of it, asking for permission. He wants to hide but he’s laid bare, wants to run but he’s stuck standing in place, arms and legs secured, spread out and waiting for Cas to do his worst.

“Ask nicely,” Castiel chides, swatting at Dean’s ass again.

“Please,” Dean breathes, and it wrecks him. It’s near enough to a sob, his arousal grown so hot through Cas’ careful teasing that he’ll do anything at all to get Cas’ hands on him. He’ll whine and whimper, he’ll beg, he’ll do pretty much anything Cas asks of him if there’s release at the end of it. “Please let me come.”

“Good boy.” Cas glides the palm of his right hand slowly across Dean’s hip to drag the tip of one finger along the length of Dean’s erection, watching over his shoulder as it twitches at the attention. He takes his time teasing and taunting, trailing gentle fingers and hinting at friction before finally wrapping his long fingers around Dean’s cock. And then he just stands there with Dean’s cock in his hand, not moving an inch. “I said I would help you,” Cas explains plainly. “I didn’t say I’d do it for you. You’ve got my permission and you’ve got my fist. Whether you get off or not is entirely up to you at this point.” He gives Dean’s dick a gentle squeeze, drawing a low moan out of Dean’s throat, and then stops moving completely.

The tiniest little voice in the back of Dean’s mind tells him that this would be a fantastic time to call red and get himself out of this predicament. That’s too much, isn’t it? Dean can’t really be thinking about going along with this. Castiel can’t possibly expect him to do this. He’s testing Dean, seeing how obedient he can really be. That’s got to be it. He’s just trying to figure out where Dean’s limits are. Of course. Except it doesn’t matter whether it’s for real, and it certainly doesn’t matter that Dean briefly considered safewording, because almost as soon as the thought crosses his mind, his hips start rocking forward experimentally, completely without his upstairs brain’s permission.

Castiel holds his fist steady, making a tight channel for Dean’s dick to slide through. When he pushes forward all the way, Cas’ wrist bumps into his pelvis, and when he draws back, his sore, reddened ass ruts up against Cas’ hips, thin lounge pants draping over the bulge of his cock. And that just makes Dean harder, because as much as Cas has shown no leanings towards trying to get his own dick involved, he’s far from disinterested. And Dean, well, Dean does like to be appreciated. He knows he’s good looking, knows he’s got charm and sex appeal. He doesn’t need to be told any of this, but it’s pretty hard to deny how much he likes being shown anyway. Feeling Cas’ erection bumping against his heated, probably bruised ass gets him going almost as much as the sensation of Cas’ fingers wrapped around his cock, slick with precome and squeezing just a little bit tighter now despite his warning that it was all up to Dean.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Cas purrs in his ear. “I know you want it more than this.” Cas’ free hand leaves Dean’s hip and ghosts up his ribs, coming up to grab a fistful of the longer hair on top of Dean’s head and yank it back, exposing his throat and putting him off balance. Dean keeps on with the shallow thrusts, groaning as he revels in the rough handling. “C’mon Dean, fuck my fist. You’ve been so good for me, it’s time to earn your reward. Come on, come for me,” he growls.

It sparks something in Dean, the praise, Cas’ desire to see him come, and where before he thought his hips were moving as much as they could, he finds more range of motion, faster thrusts and better angles, and he fucks into Cas’ fist for all he’s worth. It feels amazing, the heat in his belly, even as his thighs burn and his ass screams with the memory of paddles and spankings. He pushes through it if for no reason other than Cas told him to, and he keeps pulling until a guttural moan rips from his throat and he spills over Cas’ fingers, keeps thrusting his hips forward even as he comes and comes and starts to soften.

“I knew you had it in you,” Cas tells him, wiping his hand on a towel Dean didn’t see him grab. He moves around in front to where Dean can see him, still keeping a point of contact as he moves, and though there’s a soft smile on his face, he’s flushed and breathing almost as hard as Dean. “You’re a marvel,” he says. Dean preens at the praise, unable to keep the grin from forming on his tired lips. Cas reaches up to release each of Dean’s hands from the cuffs, gently massaging his wrists before guiding the arms to hang at his sides, and Dean works the blood back into his fingers while Cas releases his legs. He lets himself be guided over to the bed in a haze. Cas leads him to lay down on the pillowy mattress, then climbs up beside to work his hands on Dean’s sore shoulders.

“How are you feeling” Cas murmurs, pressing his thumb into a tight muscle and drawing a groan out of Dean’s mouth before he can answer.

“Pretty awesome,” Dean admits. “But uh, kinda weird?”

“Weird how?” Cas asks him. His hands never stop moving.

“Well I didn’t really expect any of that. And it was hot, don’t get me wrong. But…” he trails off, not quite sure how to phrase what he means

“But you didn’t think this was going to be anything sexual.”

“Yeah. Basically.” Dean shifts, letting his limbs drag him down into the bed.

“Did we do anything you weren’t comfortable with?” Dean grunts in disagreement. “And do you wish we hadn’t, in hindsight?” Same answer. “Look, my aim here is to give you what you need. Last time, you needed me to break you down with pain until you let yourself relax. Tonight, you needed excitement and an orgasm. There’s no shame in that. If you want to keep playing, I’m going to take you out of your comfort zone on a regular basis. I’m never going to do anything I have reason to believe you don’t want. As long as you keep being honest with me and with yourself, weird doesn’t have to be bad. Now, can you stay awake long enough for me to go get you a drink?“ Dean makes a noncommittal noise that Cas has no choice but to take as agreement.

Dean manages to roll onto his side by the time Cas returns with a bottle of orange juice. He’s going to be sore in the morning, that much is already obvious, but right now he’s so full of endorphins and the delicious heavy-limbed sleepiness that follows an orgasm that it’s not really a concern.

“You uh, want me to return the favour?” he rasps, gesturing at Cas’ dick, still visibly hard in his pants. Cas laughs softly.

“No, Dean, I think you’ve already done enough for me this evening.” Cas holds out the juice, then turns to collect Dean’s boxers from the pile of his clothing by the door. “Do you remember what I told you about sub-drop?” he asks.

“BDSM bad trip. Guilt. Shame. Ugly spiral. Avoid at all costs.” Dean replies as if by rote before downing half the bottle of juice in one go.

“If you stay in the guest room, can I trust you to come wake me if you drop?” He holds out Dean’s shorts, just out of reach so Dean has to lean over to grab them.

“Uh, yeah, totally.” Dean is a terrible liar, and he knows it. Cas snatches the shorts back out of reach.

“Dean…” he warns, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, you know what? Maybe I’ll just stay here. Bed’s pretty comfortable anyway.” He takes his underwear back from Cas, wincing as he wiggles into them, and the bed dips as Cas climbs in next to him, turning the lights low as he settles himself in. “What makes you think I’m any more likely to wake you up if I’m sleeping in here though?”

“I’m a light sleeper,” Cas replies, but Dean is already drifting off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Dean hears back from Abby on Friday, and he starts his illustrious new career at Sandover Bridge and Iron the following Monday. It’s devoid of fanfare and holds no excitement for Dean except the promise of a steady paycheck, but Sam is still a well of enthusiasm when he wakes Dean up to go running.

“Come on,” he laughs, dragging Dean out the door into the cool morning air. “Don’t you want to get a good start on your first day?” Dean gives a grunt in reply, rolling his shoulders dismissively.

“It’s a job dude. Nothing to get all worked up about. I’m gonna be pushing papers and staring at cubicle walls pretty much the same as I did at the old place. Just a different sign on the door, that’s all.” He lumbers along beside his younger, taller brother, barely trying to keep pace. Dean never would have predicted that an end to unemployment would be so fucking depressing.

“Jeez, aren’t you mister sunshine,” Sam teases, but there’s a look of concern on his face that Dean pretends he doesn’t see. He doesn’t need pity. He just needs to keep putting one foot in front of the other, keep rolling in to the office day after day.

Abby drones at him through boilerplate paperwork and nondisclosure agreements and 401k forms and direct deposit enrollment. Eventually her voice stops sounding like words and starts to resemble the buzzing of countless bees swarming around his head. She’s probably saying things that are almost identical to the words on the pages in front of him but he’s not reading them any more than he’s hearing her. By lunch, Dean’s wondering if the job he’s taken might not just be available because the person he’s replacing got bored to death.

<<Kill Me.

He texts Cas as he sits down with the lunch Sam packed him out of last night’s leftovers. Warmed over spaghetti is possibly the most exciting thing that’s happened to him today, and that’s a horribly unappealing thought.

>>The new job isn’t as much fun as you’d hoped?

<<Oh no, it’s exactly as much fun as I thought it would be. It’s torture. I hate it.

>>Well that’s disappointing.

<<Tell me about it. At least when I was an unemployed loser I could sit around being useless in my underwear all day.

>>Tell you what, you survive to the weekend and make yourself free Friday night, I’ll see if I can’t make you feel a little less useless in your underwear. Or out of it. Your call.

Dean does a double take as he reads Cas’ message, nearly choking on his spaghetti. There’s quiet conversation among the other people hanging around in the lunch room, but no one looks up at his sputtering.

<<Dude.

>>Did I cross a line? Sorry.

<<Nah. Just not used to sitting in the lunch room talking about this kind of thing

>>Carry on then.

Dean’s being ridiculous and he knows it, both about the job and the text message. Sure, it’s boring, but it’s money, and he can still keep looking for something less… corporate while he’s here. And as for his personal life, well no one’s going to be reading his text messages, and there’s no way they can tell by looking at his face what kind of a conversation is happening. But it doesn’t mean Dean’s going to suddenly get over all of his issues at once.

He survives the day without incident. It’s boring, and by the time the paperwork and office tours and introductions are done and he gets to the point of doing any actual tasks, there’s barely two hours left in the day so he doesn’t accomplish much. Abby still makes noise about him being a good fit, promises that the paperwork is all out of the way now and he can start settling in to a routine, but he’s not entirely convinced it isn’t lip service. Dean replies graciously anyway. He doesn’t need to fuck this up.

At five, the office clears out in the blink of an eye. There’s probably some department heads and executives on the upper floors who don’t bolt the second the clock strikes quitting time but the area Dean’s little desk is in is full of clock-punchers like himself without a huge vested interest, so they’re gone before he even realizes it’s time to go. Most of his time has been spent learning to navigate the various systems they use, familiarizing himself with the corporate hierarchy, and reading through some incredibly tedious reports. When he finally notices the time, it’s already nearly ten past, and the floor is a ghost town. The elevator door is already closing when he notices Abby striding towards it, briefcase in hand, and Dean does the polite thing and holds it for her.

“Thanks,” she says, staring at him unblinking. Dean feels very small in her presence despite the fact that she’s several inches shorter than him, even in heels. “You settling in alright?”

“Yeah, I think so. There’s a lot to learn. I’m still getting comfortable with the flow of things, y’know? It’ll take some time.” He shrugs, noncommittal.

“That’s good,” Abby purrs. The corners of her red lips pull up into a smile that she might mean to be friendly. Dean sees it as anything but. “We want you to be comfortable.” She suddenly reminds him of a wolf circling prey, intent on catching what she’s set her eye on but being very, very careful not to spook her quarry lest it run off before she can strike. Dean swallows a lump in his throat and vows that tomorrow, he’s going to find out who his HR rep is without asking Abby directly. He’s got a sinking suspicion he might need to brush up on the workplace harassment policy in the coming weeks.

Sam’s already home when Dean pulls in to the driveway, and surprisingly, he’s in the kitchen instead of on the couch with a book. Dean has been cooking so much lately that he took for granted that he’d be making dinner again even with a job back on his schedule, but Sam seems to have other ideas.

“So, how was the first day?” Sam asks the second Dean walks in to the room.

“How’s the first day at any job, Sammy? Paperwork. Signing a thousand forms and being introduced to like, forty people whose names I’m just going to have to ask again in a week when I finally end up having to talk to them. Nothing exciting.”

“But you think you’ll like it?” Sam presses, rolling up his shirtsleeves and wetting a dishcloth to start wiping down the counters. “Do me a favour? Grab that bottle of wine off the table and put it in the fridge.”

“I pretty much guarantee I won’t end up liking it. I’m not meant for offices. Also I’m not totally sure, but I think this Abby woman has some unwholesome ideas about the benefits of me as an employee and she’s hot but she kinda scares me, so that’s a mess waiting to happen. Why the fuck do you need chilled Chardonay?” Dean lays the bottle down on its side on the bottom shelf and drops himself into a kitchen chair, tugging at the knot on his tie like it’s a noose he can’t wait to be free of. It’s not far from the truth.

Sam gives him a flat look, which Dean matches. He might, might be exaggerating about Abby. He might also be totally imagining it. But he’s not off base about the job. He’s going to hate everything about it. Dean’s entirely sure about that.

“Jess is coming for dinner.” Dean stops fighting with his tie to stare at his brother, trying to get a read on the situation.

“So…” he says slowly, “You want me to make myself scarce?” Dean starts pulling his phone out, thinking perhaps he’ll see if Cas or Charlie has plans he can intrude on to give his brother some space to entertain.

“Actually, I was sorta thinking you might wanna stick around. No pressure or anything, but she’s been bugging me about meeting you. She’ll be here in like an hour.” Dean wants to give him shit for springing this at the last minute, or at least make fun of Sam for how obviously head over heels he is if he’s bringing Jessica around to meet family already but apparently he’s going soft in his old age because instead he just takes in Sam’s beaming grin and smiles back.

“Yeah, alright. I’ll meet your girlfriend,” Dean agrees, pretending like he’s doing it begrudgingly, as a favour. At best, she’s probably amazing and Dean will get to make friends with the girl that’s turning his genius little brother into a puddle of feelings. At worst, it’s an opportunity to embarrass Sam by regaling her with embarrassing stories of their childhood. Maybe Dean can bring out some photo albums, show Jess how awkward Sam was at junior prom when he hadn’t really grown into his moose legs yet. That’ll be fun for everyone.

“She’s not really my girlfriend,” Sam protests.

“You’ve been wiping that same spot on the counter since we started this conversation,” Dean points out helpfully.”You bought wine, and neither of us really drinks the stuff so you’re doing that to impress her. I’m pretty sure I saw a pie in the fridge when I was in there, and not the grocery store kind. From an actual bakery. Either you’re totally gone for this girl and you’re worried I won’t like her, so you’re bribing me with baked goods, or you’re worried she won’t like me, so you’re trying to keep me on my best behavior with baked goods. Either way, you’re grinning like a lovesick idiot and it’s so cute I think I might throw up in my mouth a little, so whether you’re actually calling her your girlfriend or not is totally irrelevant.” Sam starts to counter Dean’s argument, stops halfway into the first word, and shuts his mouth. Dean gives him a smug look, then pushes away from the table.

“That’s what I thought. Now, do I have to stay in the suit, or can I at least go change into some jeans? I wouldn’t want your not-girlfriend to be offended by my overly casual manner of dress.” Dean teases, because he’s a big brother and it’s like, the law or something. He has to. But he’s also thrilled for Sam. Maybe he won’t bring out the prom pictures. Maybe he’ll just describe them. That’s a nice concession, right?

Jessica arrives at 6:30 on the nose. Sam’s still in his slacks and dress shirt in the kitchen when she knocks on the door, and he tries to get to the door first but Dean outpaces him.

“Hi,” Dean greets her warmly, stepping back from the door to let her into the entryway. “You must be Jess. I’m Dean, Sam’s older and much more attractive brother.”

“Not from where I’m standing,” Jess quirks with a grin. She’s tall, probably almost 6 feet by Dean’s estimation, which makes her one of the only women Dean’s ever met that won’t look tiny standing beside his gigantor of a brother. Her blonde hair hangs in loose curls that shake when she moves past him to stride confidently into the kitchen.

Sam stops what he’s doing when she walks in to the kitchen and leans down to kiss her. It looks like he’s going to for gentle and chaste, but Jessica throws her arms around his neck and kisses him like it’s going out of style. When they break apart, Sam smiles at her adoringly, and the look is mirrored on her face. Sam may be in denial about where this relationship stands, Dean decides, but Jess is certainly not.

Despite the wine and the fact that Sam is still in a suit, dinner is a casual affair. Dean doesn’t really have to put much thought into whether he’s going to be on his best behaviour or just be a total dick to spite his brother because it turns out that Jess is kind of an asshole. Like, in the best way. She digs at Sam in ways that have him laughing right along with her instead of getting indignant like when Dean does it, and he ribs her right back. Honestly, Dean has a hard time keeping up, but long before that pie makes its way out of the fridge, Dean decides he’s not even gonna bring up the awkward prom photos. This girl’s got plenty of ammo without Dean helping her reload.

“So Dean.” Jessica rounds on him when Sam announces it’s time for dessert, pushing away from the table and essentially ending their conversation about healthcare reform. As a nurse, Jess has some pretty strong opinions on what responsibilities local and state government have when it comes to patient care, and Dean is sure she’s totally right about all of them, but it’s not a debate he feels equipped to participate in so he just nods at what seem like the appropriate points in conversation. “Sam didn’t actually tell me a whole lot about you other than you’re ‘great’ and ‘the best big brother a kid could ask for’ and ‘super great.’ Is there anything about you that isn’t just a superlative?”

Dean’s first instinct is to be a cocky little shit and tell her that no, there isn’t. He’s the greatest. His second is to contradict her completely and point out that he’s a useless loser who didn’t even finish college and is living in his little brother’s spare room ‘cause he couldn’t hack it in the grownup world, so he’s not really a superlative anything. He settles on a third, slightly more moderate approach.

“I don’t know, I mean, I’m not that exciting. Nobody’s rushing out to buy the Dean Winchester autobiography.” He shrugs dismissively, taking another sip of beer.

“Seriously? That’s all you have to say? I don’t even get the Cliff’s notes?” Jess crosses her arms and leans back in her chair, and Dean gets the impression he’s about to be interrogated. “What about work? What do you do for work?”

“I actually just started a new job today,” Dean confesses. “Office bitch at Sandover Bridge and Iron.”

“See, that’s interesting. Why not lead with that?” She leans over and jabs him on the shoulder.

“’Cause it’s not? I already hate it.”

“So why are you there?” Jess asks the question in a voice that brooks no nonsense as Sam sets a slice of pie down in front of each of them. It turns out to be cherry pie, with a modest helping of whipped cream on top, and Dean uses it as an excuse not to answer for a moment.

“Because we live in a horrible, capitalist society, and if I don’t work, Sam here is gonna be the only thing keeping his loser big brother off the streets.” Sam glares at him, but Jess silences her ‘not-boyfriend’ with a look.

“Yeah, that’s definitely why people have jobs. Doesn’t explain why you have to be at this one.”

Dean doesn’t have an answer for that, and he pretends he’s too focused on his pie to answer until Sam changes the subject.

“So um, you got plans with Cas this weekend?” Dean’s head snaps up at Sam’s words. Apparently he’s still a little focused on Cas’ texts from lunch break because he’s immediately worried that Sam has read them and drawn some horribly accurate conclusions.

“Uh, maybe. Nothing concrete. Why?”

“No reason,” Sam replies. “You guys are just hanging out a lot recently so I figured you were probably going to be hanging out over there on Saturday again.”

“Who’s Cass?” Jess asks, leaning forward with interest. “Your girlfriend? Is she pretty?”

“Cas is a dude,” Dean tells her, voice level. “I don’t know that he’d take kindly to being called pretty.”

“Sorry. Boyfriend. My bad,” Jess corrects. Dean laughs nervously and then wonders why.

“Not that either. Just this guy I’ve been hanging out with.” Yeah. A friend that he lets tie him up and bruise his ass and apparently, a friend that gives him really great orgasms because knows that Dean needs them.

“So you’re single then?” Jess presses. “Want me to introduce you to some of the nurses in my unit? There’s a couple of really cute ones. Just say the word and I can make it happen.”

“Noooooo thank you,” Dean replies with hyperbolic enthusiasm. “I just got out of a whole sea of trouble with my ex. Not looking to start drowning again right this minute.”

Sam changes the subject again, and Dean gets lost in the ensuing discussion of environmental politics. It’s not that he can’t follow. He just has no interest at all in discussing the G-8 summit and fracking. Still, the pie is pretty damn good, and it’s nice to see Sam hit it off with someone who can and will engage in conversations like this with him. He needs that, and it means that Dean doesn’t have to feign interest as frequently.

Just before Sam walks Jess out to her car, she pulls Dean into a hug he wasn’t expecting. “It was good to meet you, Dean,” she tells him earnestly, a sentiment he shares. “But I need you to do something for me. I need you to start thinking about what’s gonna make you happy. This job is never going to be enough for you if you hate it after one day. Think about where you’re happiest, and find a way to get paid to do something like that.”

“You always give this kind of life advice to guys you just met?” Dean retorts.

“Hey, I got a vested interest. Sam cares about you a lot, and he worries. You’re happy, he’s happy. He’s happy, you can sure as hell bet that I’m happy. It’s very selfish really. I don’t deny it. Doesn’t mean it can’t do you some good in the meantime.” Dean sends her off with a promise that he will, but he doesn’t think it’s going to be any time soon. He’s not sure he remembers the last time he was truly happy, so it’s going to be hard to pin down.

Chapter Text

On Tuesday Dean gets down to actual work. And predictably, he hates it. The hours drag by torturously and while he does accomplish a decent amount of work, there’s no sense of satisfaction in seeing the pile of documents beside his keyboard gradually dwindle. If Dean goes to hell when he dies, he’s fairly certain his eternal suffering will be a scenario very similar to this one, with the thrum of the air conditioner and the buzz of the neon lights the only accompaniment to the clacking of keys and the dull murmur of other people’s voices in their cubicles, and a stack of paperwork that keeps getting smaller and never seems to actually end. He’ll be here forever, he thinks, just entering data until his fingers are worn to bloody stumps and his eyes dry up and fall out of their sockets.

Sam would tell him that’s unfair. It’s only the second day. He could potentially grow to find satisfaction in this work. That’s what Sam would say. And Dean can’t fault him for the optimism, but that’s not what’s going to happen. He’s not going to get used to the drudgery. It’s going to get more familiar, sure, but he’s not going to get to the point where he gets through a work day and feels like anything he’s done there matters even in the slightest, and he’s not going to wake up in the morning with any particular desire to go in. It isn’t going to get better. Dean can already tell.

Abby has this habit of standing in the entrance to Dean’s cubicle, looming over him as she talks, and it’s really fucking irritating. She crosses her arms under her breasts as she does, pushing them up and amplifying her cleavage, and he swears she unbuttons her blouse a little more before she comes his way because when he catches sight of her later on her way into a meeting, she is not showing even the slightest glimpse of cleavage. He tries very, very hard not to look. He does not want to look, but she appears to be doing everything in her power to make the dynamic between them uncomfortably sexual, and it’s working. Every time Dean is in the same room as Abby there’s this predatory gleam in her eyes and Dean actually finds himself trying to figure out her patterns so he can avoid her. It doesn’t work, of course, but it’s the only way he can think of to distract himself from her attentions. She’ll place her hand just so on his forearm when she compliments his work (which is startling in itself because Dean doesn’t really feel like he’s done anything since he’s started at Sandover, but whatever,) and she leaves less space between them than she appears to with other people in the department. It’s all so subtle he doesn’t even think he could go to HR with it and be taken seriously, but he’s almost entirely certain it’s on purpose.

By the time Friday rolls around, Dean’s got more tension coiled up inside him than he did the entire time he was unemployed. Job hunting was never this stressful. The constant cat and mouse game with Abby is tiring, the workload is unappealing, and Dean finds himself falling in to bed every night bone weary and exhausted even though there’s nothing physically demanding about his job. Sam still drags him out to run every morning no matter how tired he claims to be, and none of it is enjoyable.

Walking in to Cas’ house on Friday evening feels like a vacation. His presence is so calming and the home so warm and welcoming that when he slips the strap of his overnight bag off his shoulder it feels like he’s putting the weight of his worries down on the floor with it. Cas smiles knowingly when Dean sighs with relief, offers him a glass of fresh lemonade, because of course he makes lemonade from scratch, and asks Dean to help him make dinner.

Dean peels potatoes, deftly working a paring knife to whisk away the skin in stripes, then chops them into cubes while Cas moves gracefully around the kitchen. He hums as he goes, this clever, enigmatic man that Dean has somehow thrown his lot in with, washing vegetables in a colander while the oven heats.

“So, you’re a contributing member of society again. How’s that going?” Cas asks. Dean slides a tray of potatoes into the oven to roast, seasoned with paprika and garlic and salt, shrugging as he stands.

“I don’t belong there,” Dean admits.

“But you’re not going to quit?”

“Quitting gets me nowhere. Not if I don’t have somewhere else to be. At least it’s a paycheck, right? I can hold out for a while.” There’s nothing to do until the potatoes are nearly done, so he sits at the island in Cas’ kitchen and leans his elbows on the smooth surface, letting it carry some of the weight for a while. Cas narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t comment. Dean can practically hear the wheels turning in his head, though. He hasn’t learned how to read Cas, not yet, so it’s hard to say if he’s got Dean’s job in the forefront of his mind, or dinner, or the scene he’s got planned for later this evening. He likes to play his cards close to the chest, apparently. Dean supposes that makes him good at what he does, doling out information when it serves him, figuring things out and not revealing what he knows.

“A movie, then? We’ve got a good forty minutes before anything else needs to go on. Might as well relax.” Might be that Cas thinks Dean needs a distraction. Might be that Cas doesn’t feel like holding up the other half of a conversation. Might just be that he wants to keep Dean guessing a little bit longer. And maybe Dean’s just being contrary because work has him annoyed and he’s trying to buck authority, but he makes a snap decision not to play along tonight.

“Nah,” he replies, grinning broadly. “I’m fine right here. How was your week? Do anything exciting?”

“My life is rarely exciting,” Cas tells him. “What we do on the weekends? That’s interesting. Working with my clients isn’t particularly thrilling. It’s fulfilling and I enjoy it, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call it exciting.”

“I thought I was the one stuck in a rut.” Dean doesn’t mean his laughter to be cruel, but Cas raises an eyebrow and stares flatly across the island before taking a slow sip of his lemonade. “Sorry. I didn’t mean… just. Nevermind,” he says sheepishly.

“No, continue. I’m interested to see where you’re going with this. Keep digging,” Cas insists. He’s got an air of nonchalance, but Dean can see just a little edge of playfulness to it, the same way his personality shifts a little when he’s got Dean at his mercy upstairs. It’s not cruel; or rather, it is cruel, but Dean is learning that there are rewards hidden in the cruelty. And Cas never puts him up to anything he doesn’t believe Dean can handle, and he’d never push if Dean decided he couldn’t do it. That applies as much out here in the real world as it does locked away in Cas’ room, that much Dean is sure of.

“Well I mean, here’s me, got basically nothing, no direction, no plans. And I’m sorta just swept up in the current trying to hang on to whatever. I got a job that doesn’t really do it for me, and I got a place to live but it’s basically just my little brother taking pity on me, and like, day to day, there’s nothing really exciting about it ‘cept when I come here on the weekends. And there’s you. Big house, get to be your own boss, and you’re telling me you got the same aimless deal going on. It’s just, it’s funny. Just thought you had it all figured out but apparently you’re just as lost as me.”

“I didn’t say I was lost,” Cas counters.

“Well no, but—“

“I didn’t say you were either.” He stands, checking on the potatoes, then turns back to Dean. “Not having the answers yet doesn’t mean you’re aimless. Give yourself a bit of credit.”

Dean sighs. “You make it sound easy.”

“It is, in theory. Figure out what you’re good at. Find someone who’ll pay you for it.” Dean wishes it were that simple. The things he’s good at don’t seem all that marketable though. He’s good with his hands; good at fixing things. He’s always been intuitively skilled with cars even before Dad decided he should learn how to take care of the Impala in his teens. That’s probably part of why John handed it over eventually. He knew Dean would do her proud.

Thing is, Dean’s getting this advice from all angles lately. Twice might be a coincidence, but now Jess, Charlie and Cas have all given him some variation on the same helpful suggestion, and he can’t pretend that’s meaningless. He’s not sure what to do with that, but it bears some contemplation.

The conversation has steered towards more casual things when Cas goes outside to put steaks on the grill. Dean sautés vegetables on the stove inside, then they sit down to dinner. Steaks grilled to perfection on Cas’ barbeque are accompanied by roasted potatoes and sautéed vegetables and a chat about movies. Cas is a huge fan of the Harry Potter movies, apparently, and while any other time Dean might try to hold up the pretense that he hasn’t seen them, this is a man who makes it his business to get behind Dean’s walls and he’s fairly certain the denial would just get him a knowingly raised eyebrow and a smirk. So he admits it.

“Have you read the books though?” Cas questions. “Because they fucked up a lot of things in the movies. It’s totally not the same experience.”

Dean averts his gaze, unable to ignore the embarrassment he feels at the knowledge that he loves this series that’s totally meant for kids. “Yeah, I’ve read ‘em.” He has, too. All of them. He bought Deathly Hallows the day it came out and devoured it over the course of a weekend, basically only putting the book down to eat and sleep. He’s lucky Bela was out of town then, or he might not have gotten away with it.

“So what house are you then? Slytherin? Ravenclaw?”

“Dude. I have no clue.”

“You’re telling me you’ve never taken a quiz online when you’re bored. Or even thought about it?” Cas has the audacity to sound appalled with Dean’s behaviour, like he’s personally offended that Dean’s not letting his geek flag fly.

“Never seemed interesting,” Dean replies nonchalantly. “But you know who you should have this conversation with? My brother. Sam’s Ravenclaw all the way, and if you get him started on it he’ll go on for hours. Kid’s a fucking genius.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that when I meet him,” Cas replies, and shit, yeah, Dean just implied that Cas is going to be meeting his brother someday. It’s not that he’s ashamed of Cas, not really. They do have an excellent friendship and he’s totally the kind of person Dean could see getting along with Sammy, no problem. Only he’s not just Dean’s friend, he’s the guy who’s tying Dean up and beating him with paddles and making him beg to come, and that’s not something he’s ever thought about bringing home to meet the family. It shouldn’t be an issue, not rationally. They’re not even technically friends with benefits. They’re friends who have taken a detour into the BDSM world, but it doesn’t actually impose itself into the rest of their interactions.

Or does it?

Because Dean has this distinct recollection of Cas sending him incredibly suggestive text messages the other day while he was at work, and he may or may not be repressing the knowledge that it kinda got him psyched up. Not turned on per-se, but like, really excited to see what Cas had in mind as a reward for surviving the workweek. So perhaps that’s not true. Perhaps it totally does filter through when they leave the bedroom. So Dean’s forced to wonder what this actually is. Like, they’re not fuckbuddies because there is no fucking, but this is not a thing normal friends just randomly do together. Dean doesn’t have a word for it.

“Hey,” Cas interjects sharply. “I can see the overthinking going on in there. What’s up?”

“Nothin,” Dean replies quickly.

“Uh huh.” It’s obvious Cas doesn’t believe him.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m all good.” Dean isn’t sure if he sounds like he even believes his own words.

Cas rolls his eyes. It’s obvious he wants to press, but Dean can be a stubborn asshole when he wants to or thinks he has to be, and apparently it’s not a fight Cas wants to pick. Instead, he clears their dishes and as he’s walking past, lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It sends chills down Dean’s spine though, sparking an intense desire to have Cas touching him, pressing hands to his skin, and suddenly he’s not overthinking anymore because he’s barely capable of thinking.

“Shall we?” Cas asks, like Dean’s going to say no or something. He lets his hand linger for a second longer, then strides purposefully towards the stairs, not glancing back to see if Dean is going to follow.

Dean’s barely two steps behind him. He’s past the point of pretending he doesn’t totally love this shit even if he won’t actually talk about it. His heart rate is already picking up, skin tingling with excitement the whole time he follows Cas into the bedroom. It always looks the same when he walks in, bed perfectly made, everything tidy and clean and meticulous, but by the end of it the room always feels like a chaotic mess. Dean’s the same way. The sleeves of his flannel are rolled neatly up to his elbows and his shirt is clean and his hair is neat and tidy, but by the time they’re done he’s going to be wrecked. Maybe he’ll have bruises. Maybe he’ll be covered in his own sweat and come. He’ll be a mess though. Cas will make sure of that.

“Undress, leave your things on the chair.” Cas manages to sound almost disinterested. Dean obeys quickly, folding his clothes carefully to draw out the process and stealing not-so-subtle glances over his shoulder as he does. Cas opens the cabinet in the corner and brings out a length of rope. He lays it gently on the foot of the bed before stripping out of his own clothes and stepping into soft lounge pants again. It’s the first time he’s changed in the room with Dean, and that doesn’t entirely escape notice, but at the moment Dean is mostly just distracted by how solid Cas’ legs are. In the brief moments before they’re covered with soft grey cotton, Dean stares openly at the thick muscle of his thighs, the powerful curve of his calves. Dean could have assumed that Castiel was hiding some serious muscle under his clothes. He’s seen the guy’s arms and his chest, and he’s seen the way he moves, but outside of the fleeting moments when he first fantasized about taking Cas up on this offer, he’s never really thought about him naked. Ok, maybe that’s a lie. Dean’s totally thought about Castiel naked. But that was all fantasy. That was imagining what it would be like to let Cas do the things he was suggesting, before he decided it was going to be a reality. He certainly never tried to deduce what it would actually be like. Now though, Dean is drawn to the curve of his ass as his pants cling and when he moves, Dean can visualize the muscles beneath the clothes, and it’s highly distracting.

“Dean,” Cas chides, raising an eyebrow. Dean has frozen half way through taking his pants off and instead of undressing like Cas commanded, he’s just staring. He catches himself quickly (although not quickly enough to avoid notice, unfortunately), and hurries to catch up to where Cas expects him to be. Cas shakes his head, and there’s a look on his face that Dean would say is almost fond if he didn’t know better, but he doesn’t have long to think on it because there is rope in Cas’ hand, a length of red hemp that smells sweet and clean and earthy, and that’s a much more immediate point of interest.

“You seem distracted,” Cas muses. He’s uncoiling the rope with smooth, skilled motions, laying it out on the bed with a precision that Dean has to appreciate. “You’re thinking too much. Hands behind your back.” Dean turns to face away from Cas and grips his left wrist in his right hand. “No, like this,” Cas corrects, moving his hands so his forearms are parallel and he’s basically holding his elbows. It’s a bit of a stretch on his shoulders but not too bad. It’s doubtful that he could stay like this for too long under his own power. Dean doubts that’s what Cas has in mind.

“I’m going to bind your arms now. Tell me if the rope is too tight or if you need out. If your fingers start to go numb you need to say something immediately. Understood?” Cas watches Dean nod stiffly, humming disappointedly. He sets a firm hand on Dean’s hip. “Use your words. I want to be clear that you understand me before we proceed.”

“Safeword if it hurts. Numb fingers are bad. Tell an adult. Got it.” Dean blurts his answer out quickly, stumbling over the words and earning a soft smack on the ass for his attitude.

“That’s better.” Cas affirms, and without another word, he starts to work. Dean wishes he could see what Cas is doing. It feels intricate, and it certainly isn’t just a quick hitch knot. His arms are wrapped in loops of rope from one wrist across to the other in a long column, and any time the rope shifts or tugs, Dean gets a slight scratchy sensation from the hemp. It’s fairly pleasant actually, and even before Cas has completed his knots Dean is starting to feel centered, grounded. He likes the ropes, he decides, although he has no idea what Cas plans to do once he’s got Dean all trussed up. It’s certainly going to be fun finding out.

Cas finishes securing the rope then slips a finger under a few of the loops to test their tension. He seems satisfied with what he finds, humming softly and running a palm over Dean’s hip. “What’s your feeling?” he asks firmly, and Dean is quick to reply there, too.

“I’m good,” he breathes emphatically, and then again for emphasis. “Definitely green.”

“Hmm.” Cas hums. He does that, Dean is noticing. He makes these satisfied little noises in his throat when Dean does what he wants. It’s certainly encouraging. “That’s interesting.” Dean wants to ask him what’s so interesting about it, but Cas is guiding him to stand up against the bed, pressing himself up rather close behind, and Dean is much more focused on the feeling of Cas’ hips against his ass than he is on Cas’ words. With a bare foot, Cas nudges his feet further apart and coaxes him to plant them firmly, then splays a hand out over the center of Dean’s chest. “Lean forward,” Cas commands. Dean eases himself forward under Cas’ guidance, letting himself be lowered to the bed. Now he’s face down on the mattress, arms tightly secured behind his back, and the bed is just a little lower than his hips so he’s pretty much ass in the air. He feels so very exposed, and it makes him want to squirm.

“You’re breathtaking.” Dean is hard-pressed to believe it, but he knows better than to openly protest. “I wish you could see yourself like this.” Cas runs reverent palms over Dean’s exposed ass, skirting close to touching him very intimately but never really going there, and Dean sighs softly. Cas’ hands feel so good on his skin. He could stay like this all night, just let Cas caress him, and he’d be happy. He doesn’t need to get off, he doesn’t even need to hurt. Just Cas and the ropes alone might be enough.

It might be enough, but it doesn’t have to be. Cas’ hands roam his body with increasing pressure and persistence. Slow gentle strokes soon give way to firm massages, and soon Cas is kneading Dean’s ass with deft fingers and Dean is sighing softly, his head turned sideways on the mattress. If he cranes his neck he can almost see Cas out of the corner of his eye. It seems like Cas wants to keep him guessing though (when does he not?) so Dean gives up after a moment and lets himself succumb to Cas’ careful ministrations. Before long he’s plenty soothed, relaxing into the mattress and letting his arms sag against the ropes instead of tensing his arms to keep them in place. His legs are going to be sore later, the way he’s spread out and bent over, but for now Dean is rather comfortable.

That’s when the first slap falls.

Dean’s not expecting it so he flinches. Cas makes a soft ‘tsk’ sound from behind him, slaps him again for his troubles. Hard. This one, Dean is ready for so he’s able to hold himself still and Cas seems much more pleased with that. Dean imagines he can feel the outline of each individual finger on his ass, and he kinda wishes he could see the stark red handprint against his skin.

Cas resumes his gentle massage, gradually lulling Dean back to the place where he’s relaxed and drifting. Once Dean’s had a chance to settle down again, the sharp sting on his skin fading to a memory, Cas’ hand connects again, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room. He’s not going to get the predictable rhythm tonight, the one that lets him give himself over to the pain quickly and easily. Cas is going to drag it out of him, that calm that comes when he’s so flush with endorphins that he can’t help but let go, and Dean can’t begrudge him a thing about it. He’s never steered Dean wrong before.

Dean loses track of how long it goes on like this for. Soothing palms warm on his skin, coaxing him to relax and release his tension, then an unpredictable shock of pain as Cas slaps him with those same tender hands. Soft, and then brutal. Kind, and then cruel. He doesn’t even try to count the slaps that Cas rains down upon him, just lets them fall, and eventually Dean finds himself in a hazy place where he just feels so good, regardless of what he’s getting.

The next smack brings a soft whimper out of Dean’s throat, startled and pleased at the delicious spark of pain. Cas starts to caress him again and Dean is distantly aware that only one of his hands is on Dean’s ass. The other returns shortly after, a single finger running down the cleft between his cheeks, soft pad of Cas’ fingertip pressing gently against Dean’s hole.

“Yes?” Cas asks, circling his finger over the pucker of muscle and drawing a groan out of Dean’s lips. It’s been so long since anyone has touched him there. Years and years since he last had a partner with any desire to put a finger (or anything else) in his ass, and Dean’s done his very best not to think about it but god he’s missed it. He and Cas talked about this during their original chat about boundaries, and Dean admitted it was a yes but he did so without any of the enthusiasm he really felt, hoping that Cas wouldn’t find cause to judge him for how much he might want something like this. It had felt too much like asking for sex, admitting to Cas that he’d be ok with things in and around his ass, and although his own boundaries have been fading at an alarming rate, he didn’t realize Cas had picked up on it quite yet.

“Yes,” Dean breathes, squeezing his eyes shut to hide the shame that overwhelms him. He’s not asking for this, he tries to tell himself, he’s accepting an offer freely given. There’s nothing shameful in that. If only Dean could believe himself.

“Hey,” Cas murmurs, too gently for the way he punctuates it with a sharp slap on Dean’s thigh. “Stop thinking so much. You’re supposed to be letting go.” He draws his hands away, inching his hips forward to press against Dean’s ass, always making sure there’s some point of contact to let Dean know where Cas is, to keep him grounded. When the finger returns, it’s cool and slick with lube, and Cas presses just the tip of the digit in, working it in and out torturously slow, and drawing a barely suppressed moan out of Dean’s mouth.

“Good boy,” Cas croons, and there’s no denying how hot Dean finds that. It’s embarrassing though, the way it buoys him to hear Cas’ praise, and he squirms, hiding his face in the sheets. “Hey, don’t hide. You’re so good. I want to hear you.” Cas slaps him again, and then another, and Dean lets out an undignified noise as he’s pulled taut between the pleasure of Cas’ finger teasing his ass and the slaps that spark pain across his skin. And oh, is it good. His body responds so well to the dual assault, relaxing gradually to Cas’ touch until he’s able to slide his whole finger in and out of Dean with little resistance. Cas adds another, the burning stretch narrowing Dean’s focus and drawing his attention away from the slaps that continue to fall. He works Dean open slowly, carefully, dragging it out for what seems like eons. And Dean loves it. He’s the center of Cas’ attention, his sole focus, and between the pleasure and the pain, Dean feels like he hasn't a care in the world. He can feel the occasional brush of Cas’ clothed erection against his thigh, hear the soft hums and laudations Cas gives him in reply to his own moans and whimpers, and aside from his own pleasure there’s a whole other sense of satisfaction in feeling that Cas enjoys this too. Soon, Cas has worked a third finger in alongside the other two, keeping the same slow, steady rhythm going.

And fuck, Dean forgot how amazing it feels to have that kind of attention paid to his ass. Even with just three fingers, he feels so full, so stretched open, and he doesn’t even try to stop the soft sounds he’s making constantly. Cas slaps him again, a few strokes in quick succession, alternating between the two reddened ass cheeks, and Dean starts to rock his hips back almost instinctively, urging Cas’s fingers deeper.

“Ah ah ah,” Cas chides. “Stay still,” he warns, stilling his fingers and resting a solid hand on Dean’s hip, holding him steady. Dean tries. He really does. It’s difficult to focus with Cas’ fingers in his ass and the spankings that are still raining down with irregular frequency. He manages for a short while, but Cas is so persistent with his touches and his slaps, and Dean doesn’t get a warning this time. He pushes back desperately, and all of a sudden Cas’ fingers are gone, both hands gripping his ass hard, long fingers digging into the reddened flesh.

“I thought I told you to stay still.” The disapproval in Cas’ tone is plain.

“Please,” Dean pleads. “I can be good.” He doesn’t want to disappoint Cas, wants so very badly to do what Cas needs him to do. In this moment, being what Cas needs him to be seems like the most important thing in the world. More important than his own pleasure, more important than the stresses he’s trying to escape while he’s here. “Please,” Dean says again, almost begging.

“I know you can,” Cas tells him fondly. “That’s why I’m going to give you one more chance. Stay still for me.” He speaks firmly but not unkindly, and the words bring Dean a rush of relief he’ll likely overanalyze later. Anticipation courses through him as he waits for the stretch of Cas’ fingers filling him up again, but it’s not what he gets. There’s the sensation of something cold, maybe metallic against his rim, a gentle stretch as it pushes in, and Dean groans as Cas slides whatever it is in further than his fingers would reach. A question forms on Dean’s lips for just a moment but it’s completely blown away when Cas pushes a button or something and the vibrator comes to life with a low, persistent buzzing right up against his prostate. Dean lets out the filthiest of moans.

“Don’t forget. You promised to stay still,” Cas reminds him, before the blows start falling again. Cas fucks the vibrator slowly in and out, spanking Dean with more regularity now, and it’s all Dean can do to keep his legs under him. Chasing the friction like he did before is far out of Dean’s reach. He’s moaning and whimpering without restraint now, letting fly all the noises his throat can summon up to let Cas know how good this feels, how grateful he is.

“So good,” Cas tells him in a voice that sounds almost as wrecked as Dean feels. “So good for me.” He zeros in on Dean’s prostate with the tip of the vibrator and just holds it there, dialing up the intensity until Dean feels like he’s going to come apart at the seams. His cock, ignored for this entire endeavour, jerks against the edge of the bed. Dean isn’t going to last long like this, the persistent assault of the vibrator right on that sweet spot and Cas spanking his ass raw and red the whole time.

“Fuck,” Dean groans. “Cas…I’m—“ he cuts off as Cas spanks him again, somehow harder than before. He grinds the vibe against that bundle of nerves, running his other hand over Dean’s sore flesh, then spanks him again a few times in quick succession. “I’m so close,” Dean whines, heedless of how desperate he sounds.

“Shh,” Cas whispers. “It’s ok.” He turns the vibrator up to an even higher setting, one Dean didn’t even know existed. He’s merciless with his slaps now, striking with quickness and precision as he holds the vibrator firm on Dean’s prostate. Dean shakes with the intensity of it, crying out as his vision blurs and he comes hard and fast, cock completely untouched. His shuddering breaths and the muted buzzing of the vibrator in his ass are the only sounds in the room for a long moment as Cas works him through the orgasm, the hand that was delivering ruthless slaps now soothing over his skin with gentle, tender touches. He slides the vibrator out slowly as Dean comes down, dropping it onto the nightstand and touching reverently at Dean’s hips, his thighs, his back. As Dean starts to come down and his awareness returns, Cas works quickly at the ropes binding his arms, murmuring soft praise as he goes. He reminds Dean how good he is, how beautiful he is, how marvellously he did everything that was asked of him, and in his current state, drifting and dreamlike, Dean accepts all the praise without protest, smiling softly and preening under the attention.

When his hands are free, Cas helps Dean up to lie on the bed face down, then starts to gently massage the muscles in his shoulders. Dean groans softly. The attention is more than welcome. He hadn’t noticed the strain while there were ropes to sag against, but now that his limbs are free he can feel it in every motion. He’s stiff and sore, and he’ll likely be stiff and sore in the morning as well, but right now Cas’ fingers working into those sore spots is the best thing in the world. He barely notices when Cas urges him to sit up, presses a straw to his lips and coaxes him to drink orange juice, cloyingly sweet on his tongue. He drinks it anyway, revelling in the cool sensation of it running down his throat. There isn’t even a question of whether Dean is going to sleep in Cas’ big bed tonight, because he’s asleep before Cas even climbs in beside him.

Chapter Text

He’s the furthest thing from a morning person, but somehow Dean is awake before Cas. He’s certainly not excited to face the day, though. He wakes up in a fantastically terrible mood. You’re not supposed to wake up pissed off on a Saturday, but he is. The birds outside Cas’ window are way too fucking loud; they immediately destroy any hopes he might have had of going back to sleep and lazing the morning away. If Dean turns his head just slightly, he can see Cas, curled up on his side facing away from Dean, sleeping soundly for all he can tell. Dean narrows his eyes and glares. It’s not fair that he’s awake and Cas is asleep. He could get up and make coffee, if he were so inclined, but that would involve digging around in Cas’ kitchen and that feels weird. Not like he’s never been in the kitchen before, and not like he feels that he’s not welcome to do so, but everything about this morning (all five minutes of it that have passed so far) has rubbed him the wrong way and rather than piss himself off further by actually doing something, he’s just going to lie here and sulk.

This is not how mornings waking up in someone else’s bed are supposed to go. It’s been a long time since Dean’s spent the night in bed with someone he wasn’t dating, if you exclude the few previous nights he’s stayed at Cas’ after a scene, but he’s pretty sure it’s not supposed to be like this. Either you wake up, grab your things, and get the hell out of dodge as fast as possible, and just hope they don’t catch you sneaking out, or you wake up and you’re glad you’re still there, and maybe you wake that other person up for a round two (or three, or more). Dean knows full well which kind he prefers, and his dick seems to share that opinion. Only there can’t be a round two, because there was never even a round one. He doesn’t get to wake Cas up for sex. That’s not what this is. He’s just some guy Dean met in a bar taking pity on him and indulging the sick desires Dean himself never knew he had. Cas probably has no desire to have sex with Dean, morning or otherwise. It’s pretty obvious. Really, they’ve scened what, three times now? And Cas has gotten Dean off twice, which was pretty awesome, but he’s never let Dean touch him at all. The message is fairly clear. Cas can give Dean what he needs: a sound beating, someone to tell him what to do and punish him when he doesn’t comply, and maybe an orgasm better than the ones his own hands are capable of, but Dean isn’t good enough to give Cas what he needs.

The idea sits in his belly like a stone. He’s not sure why he didn’t think of it sooner. When they went for lunch that first time, Cas had found it laughable when Dean was worried they’d drunkenly slept together the night before. At the time, Dean had taken that to mean the drunken part of the idea was the issue, but it’s clear now that it was the very thought of sleeping with Dean that so amused him. He even said as much, when he first suggested this arrangement. I’m not suggesting a sexual encounter. Cas probably has plenty of other people he scenes with that are way less fucked up and way more experienced. From what Dean knows through readings and his limited experience, Cas is an amazing Dom. He’s probably got loads of clients who are way better subs than Dean. And eventually he’s going to get bored of wasting his time on someone so screwed up. Dean doesn’t even know what’s expected of him in these scenarios except what Cas has told him. He’s never going to be what Cas needs.

And so it’s back to square one. And since he’s not going to wake up the person sleeping next to him for a repeat performance, it’s time to slip back into last night’s clothes and sneak out before Cas wakes up. Cas will call of course, and he’ll text, but Dean can deal with that later. Right now, anything sounds better than lying next to someone he’s not allowed to touch.

The moment Dean sets his feet on the floor, Cas stirs behind him.

“Hey,” he murmurs sleepily. “What time is it?”

“Early. You can go back to sleep.” Dean doesn’t turn to look at Cas. He’s terrified that if he lays eyes on him, it’s going to confirm everything he’s all but concluded in his mind. Cas rolls closer and reaches out a hand to rest on his forearm though, halting Dean’s escape.

“Or you can tell me what you’re doing up so early,” Cas rasps, his voice heavy with sleep.

Dean shrugs. If he tries to answer, there’s really no telling what’ll come out. He’s awake because what? He’s upset that Cas doesn’t want to fuck him? Because Cas doesn’t even want Dean to touch him? Christ, the things Cas has done to him and they’ve never so much as kissed. How unappealing must Dean be that Cas doesn’t even want that? And it’s not even like Dean even wants Cas to fuck him, right? Except obviously he must, because why else would this be fucking him up so badly? Dean is dimly aware that his shoulders are shaking, and there’s wetness on his cheeks when he rubs at his tired eyes, and then Cas is up, crawling over the bed to wrap arms around him from behind. It’s so fucking soothing, Cas’ bare chest pressed to his back, and it feels good and warm and safe for just a second. Then the bottom drops out and Dean feels even worse, because he does want this, and it just reinforces that he can’t have it.

“Dean, what’s wrong?” Cas sounds genuinely concerned and it makes Dean laugh, a watery sound that just makes Cas squeeze him tighter. He tries to shrug out of the embrace, still intent on the door and escape, but Cas won’t let go.

“I’m fine, Cas,” he lies. “I should go home though.” Dean tries again to get out of bed, but Cas won’t be dissuaded.

“You’re definitely not. Dean, look at me,” he implores, nudging Dean’s shoulders. “Did I do something to upset you?” Dean finally relents and lets himself be turned, and Cas’ face falls the second he sees the wet shine of Dean’s eyes. “Oh. Oh no. Come here,” Cas commands. He doesn’t even wait for an answer before pulling Dean back into bed and wrapping him up in his arms, settling the blankets back down over them.

“No, it’s nothing,” Dean tries to insist, but he lets himself be coaxed into the warmth of the blankets and the embrace anyway. “It’s stupid.” Cas is pressed so close, so warm against him. He strokes soothing fingers up and down Dean’s back and through his hair, and gradually he feels himself calming down just a little.

“Whatever’s wrong, you can tell me. I’m not going to judge.” The edge of worry is gone from Cas’ voice when he speaks this time, replaced with the calm kind of command he uses in a scene. It’s the voice he uses when he’s trying to get Dean to stop fighting something, the same voice he used when Dean refused to admit he was good.

“I’m just,” Dean starts, trying very hard not to sniffle. The last thing he needs is for Cas to see him crying. “I don’t understand what you get out of this. I can’t see how any of this is good for you, and I guess I just realized that it can’t be too long before you’re gonna start getting bored of me. And I’m having fun, you know? Like this is good. I like it. I guess I just don’t like that it isn’t gonna last.” He finishes with a sigh, feeling the weight of the words heavy on his chest while he waits for Cas to tell him how right he is.

“What makes you think I’m going to get bored of you, Dean? Do you have any idea how amazing you are?”

And now Dean is really wishing he had just kept his mouth shut. He’s already nestled up against Cas’ chest so it’s no effort to hide his face from the praise, but his reasoning sounds so shaky now that he’s trying to put it into words. Still, once he starts speaking, the words spill out in a rush. “You never want me to touch you. And when we scene, you get me off, but never yourself. And we do all these things, these fucking filthy things, but we’ve never even kissed. And I just keep thinking, if I was good enough, then you’d want those things with me. I mean, I don’t know what you do with your clients, but I gotta assume that it’s fun for you with at least some of them and I know I’m new at all this but I just… I want to be good for you like you’re good to me.”

“Dean,” Cas says softly. There’s only a short pause after his name, but Dean hates every nanosecond of it. He feels more stripped bare now than he ever does when Cas has him naked and bound, and it’s terribly frightening to lay something like that out. Dean doesn’t even know why he did it. He’s always been good at bottling things up and locking them away. He shouldn’t even be worrying about these things let alone talking about them. “Oh Dean, you’ve got it all wrong.” His voice is barely above a whisper, pitched low for Dean’s ears alone, and he sounds so remarkably sad that, almost immediately, Dean feels a stab of guilt that he’s the cause of that sadness. “I never asked you to touch me because I wanted this to be about you, and on your terms. You’re a gorgeous man and you’ve done everything I ever asked of you. Don’t think for even a second that you’re not good enough. You’re wonderful. You’ve had such a rough time lately though and I didn’t want to put any pressure on you to turn this into anything you don’t want.”

“I don’t get how you get anything at all out of this,” Dean persists, though his resolve is softened by Cas’ gentle praise.

“I get to have my hands and my toys all over a beautiful man who takes so naturally to submission, who can handle a great deal of pain with grace, and who makes the most amazing noises. I very much enjoy taking you apart Dean. And if it’s ever something you want, I think that we’d have a lot of fun in other ways, but if you never feel like you want this to be about sex and you just want to keep it to the bondage and the impact and the submission, I’m not going to have a problem with that. You have nothing to worry about—wait. Did you say clients?” Cas loosens his hold on Dean enough to look him in the face, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah?”                                    

“Dean, what is it that you think I do?”

“Well you’re a Dom, right?” Dean replies slowly, suddenly unsure.

“In my personal time, yes. You thought I did this for a living?” Cas’ voice pitches up incredulously, but there’s a tinge of mirth to it like he’s fighting laughter.

“I guess I kinda just assumed? I’m way off base then, eh?”

“Very. Here, come on. Get dressed. I’ll show you my office.”

Dean shuffles his feet as he follows Cas down the stairs to the one room in the house he’s never seen. He threw lounge pants on and chose to forgo socks and a shirt, not really thinking any further than slaking his curiosity on the subject. Cas leads him to the door that has always remained closed anytime Dean has glimpsed it and opens it without standing on ceremony, and Dean follows him into a small room with low lighting and a padded table in the middle. A small electric fountain sits on a pedestal table in the far corner, filling the room with quiet white noise, and Cas stands back against the wall, watching Dean take it all in.

“I’m a massage therapist, Dean. My clients are people with back pain and stress. I don’t sleep with any of my clients, and I certainly don’t tie them up and flog them.” He manages to sound incredibly amused but he still watches Dean warily.

“So I feel like a total idiot,” Dean offers bluntly.

“Not at all,” Cas tells him. “This is my fault. I should have been clearer with you about the details of our arrangement, and I shouldn’t have assumed you’d feel comfortable telling me if it wasn’t working for you right off the bat. I do need you to be honest with me though, ok? Don’t wait until something like this gets to you before you say something.”

Dean sighs heavily. “Yeah, I know. I don’t even know why I got so worked up about it. I woke up feeling shitty and it just kinda spiralled.”

“I suspect that’s also my fault as well,” Cas admits with a grimace. “You didn’t get nearly enough aftercare for such an intense scene last night, but you fell asleep and you seemed so peaceful that I didn’t think you’d want to be woken up. You’re probably experiencing your own incarnation of sub-drop right now.”

“Super. How do I make it stop?”

“Talking is a good start,” Cas tells him, but shakes his head ruefully. “As for the rest, that’s pretty subjective. Some people find that tactile things help. Cuddling, gentle touches, kisses. Favourite foods. The best plan is to prevent it with good aftercare, which I promise I won’t skimp on again. Are you hungry?”

Dean thinks about it for a minute before shaking his head. He doesn’t feel particularly in tune with his body at this exact moment, so the answer doesn’t come easily. “Not really? I could use some coffee though.”

In the kitchen, Cas fusses with the coffee maker and sets out mugs. Then he rounds on Dean and grabs his hand, all but dragging him into the living room. He pushes Dean onto the couch with gentle hands and tucks a soft blanket around him before Dean can even protest. He disappears into the kitchen again with a promise that he’ll be right back, and when he returns he’s got a tray with two mugs of coffee, a dish of strawberries, and half a loaf of banana bread on a plate.

“I don’t have pie,” he says with a shrug. “But I thought you might get hungry. What do you take in your coffee?”

“Just black.” Dean accepts the mug gratefully, sipping from the hot mug with care before setting it on the table. He feels silly, coddled and tucked in like this, but Cas seems determined to rectify the lack of aftercare.

“Look, here’s the thing.” Cas sinks onto the couch as he speaks, sitting quite close to Dean and resting a hand on his knee through the blanket. “Sub-drop can certainly amplify your reactions to things, but it’s not going to make you get upset over something completely out of nowhere. So are you upset because you want those things, or just because you think that’s what’s supposed to happen?”

Dean makes a very close examination of the stitching details on the blanket so he doesn’t have to look at Cas. “Well I hadn’t really thought about it before today, but yeah, I guess I do. I know I just got out of the thing with Bela and I’m a mess, though, so…”

“Dean, stop,” Cas commands, that forceful voice making an appearance again. Dean is always surprised how quickly he moves to obey when Cas uses that voice. “Do you want to touch me? I’m only going to work that into our scenes if it’s something you want for you, not if it’s just because you think that’s what’s expected of you.”  

A thought crosses Dean’s mind unbidden, of himself on his knees, Cas’ cock in his mouth, and Cas stroking him and telling Dean how good he is as Dean sucks him down as deep as his throat will allow. In this quick little fantasy, Cas grips his hair as he comes, head thrown back to groan in pleasure, and Dean swallows every drop.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his voice suddenly dark. “I want that.” Cas laughs softly.

“And the kissing?” Cas presses. “You want me to kiss you when we scene?”

“I kinda want to let you kiss me right now,” Dean tells him, feeling emboldened. “Not sure there’s much I wouldn’t let you do.” He doesn’t expect anything to happen right away, not really, but Cas seems as enthused by the idea as he is.

Cas leans in close and presses his lips to Dean’s, kissing softly and sweetly. He cradles Dean’s cheek in his hand, tilting his own head to the side to slot their mouths together, his tongue sliding against Dean’s lips to coax them open. Dean yields to the gentle pressure and welcomes Cas’ tongue against his own, a slow tease that has him sighing against Cas’ mouth by the time they break away.

“As for the rest of it,” Cas says breathlessly, and Dean is relieved to see that Cas is as affected by their kiss as he is. “Let’s take things slow. I’ve no desire to push you. In the event that we do take it further it might be prudent for us to get tested.” Dean snaps to attention, narrowing his eyes as Cas keeps on. “I don’t mean to be crass, but it’s quite necessary I think. I used to get tested quite regularly. It’s been quite some time since I’ve had any play that involved sex, though, so I’ll admit I haven’t quite kept up.”

“I’ve been in a relationship with the same person for like, a bunch of years.” It’s not that Dean’s affronted at the suggestion that he might not be clean. He’s never really been risky about sex though.

Cas cringes as he speaks. “You’ve been in a monogamous relationship. Your partner? Not so much. Without being indelicate, let’s just say I think we need to acknowledge the possibility that you might have been exposed to something. You’re probably fine, but wouldn’t you prefer to know?” He lays a hand on Dean’s forearm, warmth on his face and honesty in his eyes.

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean replies, but his stomach is in knots. It’s not something he’d bothered to think on before now, and he feels sick and angry all over again. And Cas, bless him, is already so well in tune with Dean’s moods that it’s like he can see the walls going up even as Dean shrugs and tugs the blanket closer around him.

“Hey,” he cautions, shuffling closer and tilting Dean’s chin up. “Don’t stress about it, ok? You’re probably fine. I don’t want you to get too worked up over this. It’s much more to confirm nothing’s wrong than it is to look for anything. And then if you do decide you want to take this further or even if you don’t and you find yourself ready to be with another partner, you have peace of mind going into it.” Dean sighs. Cas’ words make sense, he can’t deny that, but it’s not a pleasant train of thought in any case. Just another reminder that he was more invested in Bela than she was in him.

“Sure. I’ll do that. Can we drop it?” Cas nods, his hand on Dean’s shoulder a reassuring gesture.

“I’ll make you a deal. Drink your coffee, then we’ll go to my office and I’ll give you a proper massage. I think you could use a little relaxation.”

-----

It’s not the first time Dean’s found himself naked and completely at Cas’ mercy, but it’s totally different in every nuance. There is no anticipation whatsoever, no tease. Cas is, for all intents and purposes, completely professional from the second his office door opens. He even leaves the room for Dean to undress, mentioning that he can either strip to his boxers or go completely nude, as his comfort level dictates. Dean folds his clothes on the chair in one corner just like he did the night before in Cas’ bedroom before climbing onto the table and laying face down with the sheet over his hips and legs. It’s actually pretty comfortable, though laying his face in the cut out is a bit strange, but he doesn’t have long to think about it before Cas returns. There’s soft instrumental music playing and the lights are low, and Cas hasn’t even touched him yet but it’s already incredibly soothing.

“Any sore spots I should be aware of?” Cas asks, dispensing massage oil onto his hands and warming it up before gliding his palms gently across Dean’s back and shoulders.

“Well my shoulders are pretty stiff on account of someone had me tied up last night, but other than that, nah, I’m pretty good.”

 Cas snorts a quiet laugh, then goes to work. He works the massage oil into Dean’s skin with smooth, gentle strokes, drawing soft sighs from Dean’s mouth as he works his magic. Dean finds the rhythmic, methodical way he caresses Dean’s muscles to be soothing, almost lulling him to sleep. He can understand how Cas has made a career of this. He’s fantastic. His big, strong hands glide across Dean’s skin, bringing warmth and comfort, and soon the tension starts to bleed out of his body, and Dean remembers how to relax. Then Cas really gets to work

The sweeping caresses give way to more searching touches and firmer pressure from his fingertips. Right away, Cas starts to zero in on all the spots that give Dean trouble. He attacks them all with practiced ease; rolling pressure working the pain and stiffness out until Dean feels like his limbs are made of gelatine and his bones have ceased to exist. Cas presses his thumb into a particularly tight spot, one that makes Dean seize and hiss, and he holds the pressure there until something shifts and Dean feels the pain soften and fade into oblivion.

“Roll onto your back,” Cas tells him, voice soft and low. He holds the sheet still so Dean can move without losing its protection, which he’s grateful for but also finds so very strange given the nature of their relationship. Still, this is Cas’ office, so a measure of professionalism must survive, though it’s tarnished heavily when Dean settles onto his back and Cas drapes the sheet again only to have it tented by Dean’s cock standing at attention. He begins to stammer out an apology, but Cas hushes him.

“It’s more common than you’d think,” he explains. He stands by Dean’s head, placing firm hands on his shoulders and working into the muscles of his neck. All the while, the peaceful melody of the music and the soft light and the gentle touches pull Dean away from reality until he’s drifting and dreamlike. When Cas speaks again, Dean startles, then laughs at himself.

“How do you feel?” He asks, jolting Dean out of his trance.

“Fuckin awesome,” Dean confesses, a wide grin on his face. “You’re pretty good at that.”

“I’d better be,” Cas reminds him. “It’s kinda my job.”

Chapter Text

Maybe, Dean thinks, the answer is not avoiding Abby. She always manages to corner him anyway. He can’t exactly run every time she approaches. His cubicle is basically on the way to everywhere and it only has one exit. He’s at an extreme tactical disadvantage. But she can’t (or won’t) approach when he’s around others, he’s noticed. If he’s eating lunch and there are other people making bored faces at their leftovers or sandwiches, Abby keeps her talons to herself. If he leaves a meeting in the first wave and doesn’t take his time clearing out, he doesn’t get cornered. So Dean stops trying to avoid her completely, because that’s not exactly possible, and starts putting his energy into being strategic. He can’t avoid being where she is, but he can avoid being where only she is.

It starts the second he gets off the elevator. She’s always in the office early. There’s a pattern to these things. If he makes a hard left as soon as the doors open he can make it to the sanctuary of the break room and most of the time, she doesn’t look up until the doors are already closed and he’s safe. At any given time there are at least three or four others in there, bleak faces staring into their shitty office coffee like it holds the answers to the universe. He even stops bringing the good coffee from home just so there’s an excuse to hang out in there until the last second before the clock clicks over to nine and he’s obligated to actually do things. The break room is life.

He starts taking shorter coffee breaks. If he ducks away from his desk a few minutes after others start to go and sneaks back before they drag themselves away, there’s no chance she can catch him out alone. There’s still the walk back to his cubicle of course, but that’s a hazard he can’t entirely avoid. Then it’s just a matter of keeping his eyes out for the flash of red hair coming his way. Sometimes one of the nature documentaries Sam is always watching will turn out to be one of those shark ones. That’s what she reminds him of. The bright red of her hair is like a shark’s fin cutting across the tops of the cubicle walls. Dean has never felt so much like the little feeder fish they sell down at the pet store, the ones you offer up to bigger fish and other aquatic predators. The cubicle is just the tiny little tank he gets to swim in until dinner time.

Over the next couple of weeks, Dean manages to avoid Abby as effectively as he could have hoped for with this strategy. It’s a lot of effort, but it keeps him sane.. He doesn’t avoid her completely. Can’t really, seeing as she’s actually, you know, his boss. But he does manage to minimize the unstructured time he has to spend in her presence, and as much as it’s exhausting doing it, at least he doesn’t have to feel like a piece of meat.

On Wednesday, after eight solid hours of mind numbing boredom and drudgery, Dean drives home in an exhausted haze. He’s considering skipping dinner and going right to bed, but he knows that’s not going to happen. His stomach rumbles aggressively the whole way home. Just as he steps out of the car, his phone rings in the pocket of his suit coat.

“Hello?” Dean answers, juggling the phone and his keys and his lunch bag as he makes his way to his front door.

“What’s up, Winchester?” Charlie’s cheerful voice chirps from the other end of the phone. “You got plans on Friday?”

“Uh, I don’t think so,” Dean replies. He’s been spending either Friday or Saturday with Cas most weeks since he decided to adopt Cas’ unorthodox approach to stress relief but they haven’t actually made plans for this weekend so far. It’ll just have to be Saturday.

“Come over for a lil dinner party? Gilda’s gonna make pizza dough from scratch and we can have another board game night. I got a friend I want you to meet.”

“You’re not trying to set me up, are you?” Dean warns. He tugs at the knot on his tie with his free hand only seconds after walking through the front door, making a beeline for his bedroom to shed the suit jacket and toss the tie on his bed. Dean’s eye falls forlornly to his pillow, thinking only of crawling in to bed and passing out until his stomach asserts itself again.

“Me? Play matchmaker? Dean Winchester, I’m offended. If I was gonna play that game, you’d never see it coming. I just think you guys would get along. Please? Come for dinner,” Charlie pleads.

“Far be it for me to pass on food,” Dean tells her. “I’ll be there.”

Sam, apparently, is out with Jess tonight. Again. He’s spending a lot of time with that girl lately, not that Dean minds, but it does mean he has to forge his own path in the kitchen. He’d like nothing more right now than to sit down in front of a hot meal he didn’t have to make for himself. But it’s not meant to be, so he settles on canned soup and toast. It’s at least low effort and warm, which is welcome now that the chill of autumn is starting to take hold. He’s about half way through his high-class dinner when the phone rings again. Dean sees his parents’ number on the call display and answers the call on the first ring.

John Winchester is a man of few words. He’s gruff and quiet and he always has been. It is therefore no surprise when Dean answers the call and he cuts right to the chase. There’s no pleasantries, no small talk. Just straight to the details.

“Got a lead on a job for you,” John announces in his gravelly baritone. “Remember my hunting buddy Bobby Singer?”

“Yeah, sure. Surly guy, trucker hat. Taught me and Sam how to shoot soda cans one summer.” Dean smiles quietly at the memory. Bobby’s a good guy, one of the best.

“Did he now?” John laughs. “I’m gonna have to talk to him about that some time. He never told me he let you boys handle firearms. Rifles or handguns?”

“BBs,” is Dean’s somber reply. “You really think he’d let a couple kids get their hands on a .45?”

John laughs again. “No, no. Fair enough. Anyway, Bobby’s looking for some help at his salvage yard just outside of town. Sounds a whole lot more like your kind of thing than pushing paper.”

“You sure? I’m not exactly a trained mechanic, Dad.”

“You know enough. Anyway, he’s not looking for a mechanic. He’s looking for a pair of hands on the salvage parts end of things. You should call him, talk it out. Can’t hurt to see what he’s looking for. Could be good. You wanna talk to your mom?” John hands the phone over to Mary without waiting for a reply.

Predictably, she fusses. Are you eating enough? and Are you and your brother getting along? I know how you can push each other’s buttons, and Do you want to come spend the weekend with us? and Don’t work yourself too hard Dean, I worry about you, and all the other ways that moms say they love you.

“Yeah mom, Sam and I take turns cooking and you know how he is about vegetables so I promise you I’m not starving. He does try to make me eat tofu sometimes though.” Not for the first time, Dean catches himself feeling a little annoyed with all the mothering, but he stifles it. Mary is possibly the kindest person Dean has ever met and she’s just looking out for her boys. The least he can do is bear it with patience and appreciation.

“Well, I know you’re busy with the new job and everything, but you really should come up and spend a weekend sometime soon,” she persists.

“No promises. We’ll be up for Christmas though, for sure.”

Mary sighs, and Dean can totally imagine the tilt of her head, the way she leans against the counter with one hip. There’s patience and exasperation in her every gesture. It reminds him of home. “I suppose if it has to wait until Christmas, then it has to wait until Christmas. You tell your brother to invite that girl he’s seeing though.”

“Yeah mom,” Dean agrees. “I’ll make sure of it.”

It’s not until Dean’s off the phone with his parents and almost immediately tapping out a text message to Cas that he realizes how excited he is at the prospect of this new job. He hasn’t even called Bobby to find out what it is yet, doesn’t even know how likely it is that he’s the guy Bobby’s gonna hire, but he’s over the moon. Dean’s enthusiasm screeches to a halt as he realises, yet again, his immediate reaction is to message Cas about his good news. That says something, something Dean isn’t ready to think too closely on, so he stuffs it down and instead goes through his contacts to find Bobby’s number, leaving the message to Cas unfinished and unsent.

“Dean Winchester,” Bobby grumbles as the line clicks to life. “How the hell are you, boy?”

“Ah you know, been better,” Dean admits honestly.

“Heard you’re livin’ at Sam’s place these days.”

“Yeah, living on brotherly charity and pushing paper in a cubicle farm. It’s a thrilling life.” Dean cracks a beer and paces casually around the kitchen, not entirely certain if he should be expecting a lengthy chat or a short and direct exposition like when he talks to Dad.

“Well, I suppose John told you to call me, did he?”

“Uh huh,” Dean replies, sipping his beer. “Said you were looking for someone to do some work around the salvage yard, but he didn’t really go into detail. What’s the job?”

“Well,” Bobby sighs heavily. “It’s like this.” Dean can imagine him sinking into an armchair, kicking up his tired feet. “I got too much goin’ on these days. Between the salvage yard and the garage, I’m goin’ dawn ‘til dusk all of my days. I’m too old for this shit. I need someone with smarts who knows their way around an engine to take over the day-to-day at the yard and make sure it keeps makin’ me money. I got three classic project cars in the garage under tarps collectin’ dust and gettin' more classic by the minute and if I can get myself a couple days a week where I don’t have to run everything myself, might be I can restore ‘em before I’m too old to give a shit. You think you can manage that?”

Dean ponders for a second, and realizes he has no idea whatsoever. “What exactly does that mean?”

Bobby laughs, short and sharp. “Fair question. I guess technically you’d be the manager. Not a ton of hands on stuff, but sure as shit not a desk job. There’s some paperwork, true, but mostly you’d be wrangling the two guys I got doin’ the grunt work out there, inspecting any cars we bring in for scrap and making sure there’s actually enough salvageable parts on ‘em to turn a profit, and when we got restoration guys who wanna come in and search the yard for something special, you’d be tour guide. Pay’s not huge, but it ain’t minimum wage either, and if you take to it and do right by me, you know there’s more comin’ your way.” Bobby stops dead, letting the unspoken question hang in the air. And perhaps it’s an ill-advised decision, but Dean replies without giving it much thought at all.

“When can I start?” Dean blurts the answer out enthusiastically, shaking his head at himself even as the words are still falling from his mouth. There was a time when he would have second-guessed the shit out of a choice like this. He’s never done anything even remotely like this. He probably wouldn’t even be considered for a job in a place like this if Bobby weren’t a family friend. But Cas and Charlie and Jess keep telling him to find something that makes him happy and find a way to get paid doing it. And Sam knows deep down that Dean doesn’t belong in an office, it’s just the best path to stability that Sam knows and he wants that success for Dean too. This is the kind of job Dean can do and come home from every day, tired but satisfied instead of exhausted and full of loathing. And he’s good with cars whether he’s a trained mechanic or not. Engines speak to him. The weekend after Bela left, working on his baby was probably the only reason he didn’t start punching things. Dean knows now that he can’t pass up an opportunity like this. He needs it.

“Whenever you can get yourself unshackled from that desk of yours, I guess. Monday’s probably too early for that but you just figure out when you can get here and we’ll make it happen.”

“Seriously?” Dean queries incredulously. “That’s it? You don’t wanna like, I don’t know, quiz me about cars or something?”

“Dean,” Bobby says flatly. “I’ve known you since you were in diapers and I’ve known your old man even longer. The fact that John let you even test drive the Impala let alone take it off his hands says ‘bout all I need to know ‘bout your usefulness around cars. This ain’t some job I’m just gonna post in the classifieds. It’s someone I know and trust or no one at all. Right about now, you’re the entire short list. Gimme a call when you know how soon you can start.” He hangs up before Dean can say anything further and he’s just left staring at his phone, totally floored. Dean’s always known Bobby to be a man of few words, but he’s also observant and incredibly wise. It’s beyond flattering to hear Bobby sing such glowing praises about his qualifications. It also means he has something tangible to be excited about so his unfinished message to Castiel gets sent.

<<Quittin my job tomorrow.

Castiel doesn’t text back right away, but instead Dean’s phone rings in his hand.

“Finally fed up?” Cas asks wryly.

“Got something better,” Dean tells him, practically vibrating with excitement. “Friend of my dad’s runs a salvage yard. Wants me to come run the thing so he can spend more time on his project cars. I’m gonna give notice tomorrow.”

“That’s excellent news!” Cas chirps excitedly. “I’m so glad. Hey, listen, I know we’ve been hanging out most Friday nights lately, but I’ve had something come up tomorrow. We could still get together later in the evening if that works for you? Or I suppose we could just meet up Saturday night if you still want to scene this weekend.”

“Well that’s a fun coincidence. I’ve got plans tomorrow night too, but it shouldn’t go too late. Let’s say Saturday for sure, but I’ll let you know when I’m free Friday and we can maybe get together then too.” That settled, Dean bids Cas good night, and tries to calm himself down enough to actually fall asleep. He’s still got Abby to contend with tomorrow, and he doesn’t need to be reminded that, best-case scenario, it’s going to be an uncomfortable conversation. He does not need to be sleep deprived while he does it.

Chapter Text

“Seriously? You quit after a month?” Charlie blurts out incredulously when he shares the news.

“Well yeah, I mean, that job sucked. Besides, I got this way better offer from a family friend. I get to work with cars. No suit, no tie. It’s gonna be fuckin’ awesome.” Rivulets of condensation run down the side of Dean’s beer bottle, cool and damp on his hand, and he grins when Charlie raises her own bottle in salute.

“Well then this dinner party just officially became a celebration!” She clinks the glass against Dean’s, and Gilda joins in smiling broadly.

“Tell you what, though,” Dean offers. “Boss did not take it well.”

“Oh yeah?” Gilda asks, an invitation to continue, and her eyebrow raises in question.

“I got this big lecture on how they took a chance on me and I shouldn’t have taken the job if I wasn’t serious about it and blah blah blah. She went on forever. Kinda tuned her out after a while actually.” Dean laughs. “The upside is, she was so pissed off she said I might as well not come back at all, so I get to start the new job on Monday instead of working out my two weeks’ notice.” He can’t shake the image of Abby practically foaming at the mouth though. The rage darkened her eyes and Dean never imagined she could be so terrifying when she raised her voice, but it’s not like she managed to strike any real fear into him. Just one more reason he’s been happy to walk out of that building and never go back. Say what you want about burning bridges. This one, he’s happy to put torch to.

“That’s awesome,” Charlie affirms, reaching into the pocket of her jeans to read the text message that just made her phone chime. “Bad news. Our fourth just cancelled. He says it can’t be avoided and he’ll explain later. So it looks like it’s just the three of us for dinner. You guys wanna play Talisman again? We can totally do that while we eat pizza.”

“Sweetheart,” Gilda tells her firmly. “You have been up since four in the morning. If we start Talisman now you’re going to be up until four in the morning. This is not a good plan.” Charlie pouts, but she knows sense when she hears it.

“Fine. Risk, then? That’s shorter.”

“Anything is shorter than Talisman, darling. That’s not a fair measure. Dean? Risk?” Gilda pulls the box out of a closet even as she poses the question.

“Yeah I can get on board with that.”

Gilda disappears back into the kitchen to fetch pizza while Dean and Charlie set up the board. It’s well-worn and plenty used, but none of the pieces are missing and it has a certain charm with the battered edges of the board and the old plastic soldiers.

“You didn’t really think I was trying to set you up, did you?” Charlie asks. She doesn’t look up while she speaks, just focuses all of her attention on setting the red soldiers up in neat little rows on her side of the board.

“No, not really. I was just being a dick. I do that sometimes.”

“Ok good,” Charlie sighs with relief. “’Cause like, I know you just got out of a rough thing and I do totally think you and my friend would get along so well but I just wanted you to meet as friends. But I would never presume to—” Dean cuts her off.

“Charlie, it’s fine. I know you weren’t trying to meddle. Besides, things are just way too complicated in my life right now. I’m pretty sure any attempts to set me up would just fall flat.” Dean has the green soldiers all set up in front of him, and moves to start unpacking the grey ones for Gilda.

“Don’t,” Charlie says, reaching an arm out prohibitively. “She likes to do it herself. So… complicated, eh? Do go on.” She waggles a suggestive eyebrow.

“It’s not like that,” Dean protests, glancing up as Gilda comes back in to the room balancing plates of pizza.

“What’s not like what?” She asks, setting a plate down in front of each of them. Dean takes the pizza gratefully and takes a huge bite. It’s sausage and mushroom with loads of cheese, and the crust might be the best he’s ever eaten.

“Nothing’s not like anything,” Dean insists. “This pizza is amazing.”

“Dean was just about to tell me about his complicated romantic life.” Charlie announces smugly.

“Was not,” Dean counters.

“Uh huh,” Gilda murmurs as she drapes herself casually over her own chair. “If you say so.” The soft curls of her hair shake as she settles in, sharing a secret smile with her girlfriend. “Just so we’re clear, I’m going to school both of you.”

By the time the evening with Charlie and Gilda winds down and the girls are both stuck in a feedback loop of contagious yawning, Dean’s in a pretty good mood. Between the evening in great company and the knowledge that he never has to go back to that damned office again, he’s looking forward to the idea of going to Cas’ for a scene that’s all about fun instead of pulling him out of his funk. It doesn’t even matter that Gilda was prophetic in the accuracy of her prediction. She wiped the board with them both. But he had fun. He sends Cas a quick text message while his car is warming up, and gets a short reply rather quickly, telling him to come over whenever he’s free.

The drive from Charlie and Gilda’s apartment is just long enough that Dean starts to let his mind wander. Maybe tonight’s the night he starts asking Cas to work specific things into their scenes. Since Dean’s horrible experience with sub-drop, Cas has changed things around a little, kissing Dean while he’s teasing or spanking him. But maybe if Dean asks nicely, Cas will finally let Dean touch him. Maybe Cas will instruct Dean to suck his cock, grab his hair roughly and guide Dean exactly where he wants him, or maybe he’ll make Dean get him off before he’s allowed his own orgasm. That would be awesome. Dean’s really starting to enjoy having a friend he can play around with like this, and as he gets more comfortable with their arrangement it’s becoming easier to push his own boundaries and start thinking about where else he’d like to take things. Maybe sex, eventually. He knows it’s off the table until he gets his test results back, but that doesn’t mean he can’t dream.

Cas’ house is dark save for the porch light. Dean guides his baby to a stop in the driveway and cuts the engine, but when he knocks on the door there’s no answer. He knocks again and leans against the doorframe. After long minutes he starts to get a little concerned. Cas said he’d be home and to come over whenever, so it’s perplexing that he’s not answering. When Dean tries the handle, the door swings open.

“Hello?” Dean calls. No answer. He kicks his boots off, moving quickly through the house. The lights are all off and he can’t hear any sounds that lead him to believe anyone’s here, but Dean can’t believe Cas would just leave his front door unlocked if he weren’t home. Dean’s path takes him through to the kitchen, where he sees Cas’ sock foot jutting out from behind the kitchen island in the darkened room.

“Cas?” He calls, darting around the island to kneel beside Cas. He’s sitting in the corner leaning against the cabinets with a bottle of whiskey clutched loosely in one hand, and he’s definitely been crying. “What’s goin’ on, buddy?”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas replies, ignoring the question. “I… I seem to be drunk.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Dean tells him, trying to keep the snark out of his voice. He doesn’t know why Cas is drinking in the dark right now, but it’s a safe guess that it’s not happy news. “Come on. Let’s get you off this floor.” Cas grunts when Dean tries to lift him off the linoleum, latching on and pulling Dean back down instead. “Ok, fine,” Dean concedes. “We’ll sit down here. Now, you mind explaining to me why we’re drinking whiskey right out the bottle and sitting alone in the dark?”

“It seemed like an appropriate response to the situation,” Cas hiccups. His voice is even raspier than usual, a combination of the drink and the crying, Dean supposes.

“And the situation would be what, exactly?” Dean wiggles the bottle out of Cas’ hand, setting it down just out of reach. It’s only about half gone, but there’s no telling whether that’s all Cas has had to drink.

“My brother.” Cas sighs, rubbing the heel of his hand against his tired eyes and pushing the messy hair back off his forehead. “He’s uh… fuck. You know what? You’re right. I don’t want to sit on the floor anymore.” Cas hauls himself up, grabbing the counter to steady himself. He starts to walk towards the living room on surprisingly steady legs. “Bring the whiskey,” he calls over his shoulder, pointing vaguely at the spot on the floor where Dean set it down.

When Dean joins him in the living room a few moments later with glasses and ice, Cas scoffs, but he lets Dean pour a small measure and hand it over. “Now, you gonna tell me what’s going on or do I have to start guessing? I’m a stubborn bastard. I’ll keep pushing,” Dean warns. It earns a small smile from Cas, one that appears and fades so quickly it’s more of a grimace.

“My brother’s dead,” Cas admits, barely above a whisper. There’s more here, much more, Dean can tell from the weight of the silence, but he doesn’t know how to ask and Cas doesn’t volunteer. They sit in silence, awkward and heavy, for minutes that drag on. Cas’ form shakes with a sob, his face hidden in shadows.

Dean has no idea what to do. He’s woefully unqualified to assist with crying. “Cas…” he breathes, and it makes his heart ache. Here is this man who has put so much effort and attention into caring for Dean, soothing him and taking away his worries, and now that he’s hurting Dean can’t even begin to think of how to return the favour. It occurs to him in this moment that he’d do anything Cas asked, if only it would make him stop hurting. He reaches out a hand, unsure what he means to do with it except make some form of physical contact, something to tether Cas to reality as he’s buffeted with waves of grief. The second Dean’s fingertips make contact with Cas’ arm, Cas falls, his entire body sinking like a puppet whose strings have been cut. He collapses into Dean’s arms, face buried in his shoulder as sobs wrack his body, silent weeping choking the breath out of his lungs as tears soak into Dean’s shirt. Dean holds him close, letting Cas take whatever comfort he can find in the warmth of the embrace.

It feels to Dean that they sit like this for an eternity: Cas a limp weight in Dean’s strong arms, not a word exchanged, so he can only imagine how much longer it feels to Cas. He can’t fathom what his friend is feeling right now, can’t even put himself in the same ballpark. The idea of something like that happening to Sam, well that’s… that’s too much to imagine. Eventually, Cas’ sobs subside and he sniffles, pushing himself away from Dean’s body on limbs that seem weak and uncooperative.

“I believe I’ve had too much to drink,” he announces.

“Are you gonna be sick?” Dean asks, voice full of concern, and without thinking, he reaches out to brush an errant lock of hair from Cas’ forehead. A soft breath escapes Cas’ lips at the gentle touch, but he shakes his head and breaks eye contact.

“No,” he replies, and then repeats it like he’s trying to convince himself that it’s true. “No, I’m not going to be sick. But I’m entirely certain I’m not fit for a scene tonight.”

“Yeah, I kinda got that.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas says forlornly.

“Dude, don’t. You don’t need to be worried about me. If anything, I should be taking care of you right now. What do you need?”

“Um, water,” Cas offers tentatively. “And then I think I should go to bed.”

“Sure thing, Cas,” Dean agrees, standing up and pulling the broken man before him to his feet. “Let’s get you upstairs.” Cas lets himself be guided through the house, his sock-clad feet making shuffling footfalls as they go. He brushes his teeth when Dean hands him his tooth brush, only grumbling slightly, and attempts to fall into bed still in jeans and button-down. Dean manages to convince him to at least take his jeans off, trying very hard not to let his eyes linger too long on the solid lines of Cas’ thighs before he climbs under the covers, and Cas is only in bed for a few seconds before he realizes that taking the shirt off will be infinitely more comfortable. This, he requires help with, and it falls to Dean to untangle his hands from the sleeves. Cas heaves a sigh as he sinks into the pillows with eyes closed, but the look on his face is nothing approaching the serenity of sleep.

“I’ll go set myself up in the spare room. Just holler if you need anything. You don’t have to go through this alone.” Dean’s hand is already on the light switch when Cas’ voice rasps through the room.

“Dean, wait,” he calls softly.

“Yeah?” Dean replies, turning from the door.

“Stay,” Cas murmurs. “Please?” He hasn’t moved from his position on the bed, and he looks so broken, so forlorn, that it makes Dean’s gut twist. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Dean nods, not even sure if Cas is looking, and steps away from the door. “I think your front door is unlocked though. I’m just going to go lock up and I’ll be right back, ok?” Cas grunts something indecipherable in reply, which Dean takes for assent, and strides purposefully out of the room. He takes a moment to clean up the whiskey glasses in the living room and locks the deadbolt, grabbing his overnight bag from the entryway before heading back upstairs. By the time he’s brushed his own teeth and stripped down to boxers and a t-shirt, Cas appears dead to the world. He’s shifted to curl up on his side in the bed, limbs tucked close and eyes scrunched shut. He looks so vulnerable, Dean thinks, and it’s so stark a contrast to the man who usually stands so confident and makes Dean feel vulnerable. He wants nothing more than to take the hurt away and make Cas smile again, and he wonders when he started to care this much. Flicking off the light and crossing the room, Dean climbs in to bed as carefully as he can, not wanting to disturb Cas. He might not wake up at all through the night, but if he does, Dean will be there for him.

“Thank you,” Cas murmurs, shuffling closer to Dean’s warmth.

“Hey, what are friends for?” Dean wraps his arms around Cas’ huddled form, holding him close against his chest. It should be weird, this intimacy. It’s so different from anything they’ve shared before. There’s no cuddling during their scenes, and the after-care is always about Cas touching Dean, not the other way around. But this feels almost familiar, welcome, comfortable and safe, and if it makes Cas feel good right now then Dean isn’t going to question it.

“Normally, not this.”

“Yeah, well, since when has our friendship ever been normal?” Dean sighs. He could kiss Cas right now. That would be soothing, right? Or distracting at least. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s just thinking about it because he wants it though, that he’s thinking about what he’d get out of it, and he can’t trust his motivations right now with Cas pressed against him, nearly naked, warm and close and real, so he does nothing.

“Tell me about your brother,” Cas commands instead of answering. “Tell me about Sam.”

“What do you want to know?” Dean asks.

“Tell me all the best things about him.”

Dean can easily oblige. “Sam’s a genius,” he says. “No word of a lie. He’s always been smart. He always wanted to be a lawyer. I remember when we were kids, a bunch of us were playing cops and robbers. You know, because that’s what a bunch of kids do. And I remember Sam saying that he wanted to be the lawyer for the robbers. Even when he was seven, he was always seeing the big picture. I always knew he’d amount to something.

“When he said he wanted to go to Stanford, I never had any doubt he’d do it. Got a full ride, aced everything. I was so glad he decided not to stay in California to start his career though. He coulda done it. Could have worked wherever he wanted. But flying out there to visit him? No thanks.”

“You’re afraid of flying?” Cas asks, his voice muffled as he snuggles closer.

“Dude, hurtling through the air in a tin can? Pass. I mean, for Sam, I’d consider it, but I can’t even tell you how glad I am that I don’t have to.” He smiles fondly, though Cas can’t see his face. “Sam doesn’t get it. He’s never been afraid of flying. He’s rarely afraid of anything.”

“Everyone’s afraid of something,” Cas tells him pointedly.

“Huh. Yeah. It’s funny, I remember when we were kids, god, I had to have been like, ten, so Sam was six. And he used to have these nightmares. Awful ones. He was sure afraid of shit back then. And he used to get out of bed in the middle of the night when it happened, and sneak down the hall past Mom and Dad’s room and knock on my door. He was so quiet. I barely heard him sometimes. But he would just beg me, beg me, to let him sleep in my room so the monsters couldn’t get him. Sometimes I let him, and he’d curl up in my bed so he’d take up as little space as possible. Sometimes I’d tell him there was no such thing as monsters and he’d cry. He’d promise to sleep on the floor and be so quiet if I’d just let him in. One time, I refused, and I woke up in the morning and I found him asleep outside my door. I always let him in right away after that. Couldn’t stand to see the little shit so upset.”

“I bet you’re happy to be his roommate now, then,” Cas says, stifling a yawn. “You get to see him all the time.”

“Most days, yes. Drives me up the wall sometimes though. He tries to make me eat tofu.” Dean grimaces. “Tofu, Cas. It’s made from soybeans. That’s what my food eats.”

“I’m not fond of the stuff myself, but apparently it’s a very good source of protein.”

“So’s ground beef. So’s bacon. Tofu doesn’t even taste like anything,” Dean persists with a shake of his head. “Anyway, aside from the tofu thing, it’s great. Living with him is the best thing about this whole shitty situation I ended up in.” Second best, Dean’s brain corrects helpfully, but he doesn’t volunteer the correction out loud. There’s no need to make things weird.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better about your life,” says Cas. “You deserve good things.”

“If you say so. But hey. This isn’t about me right now. How’s your head? You got the spins? Think you can sleep?”

Cas thinks a moment before answering. “Maybe. You’ll stay though, right?”

“Yeah, Cas. I’ll be right here.”

For all his indecision, Cas falls asleep quickly. Dean’s not sure if he’s only snoring softly because he’s drunk, or if he always snores and Dean never noticed before because he’s always boneless and passes out instantly when he sleeps here after a scene. That’s not what’s keeping Dean awake, though. The optimistic part of his brain is wondering what it would be like to make something with Cas, something outside the bondage and the begging and the paddles. That part of his brain thinks that Cas would be so nice to come home to, and that if he were given the chance, Dean would do everything in his power to make Cas happy. With Cas curled up against his side, twitching as he dreams, Dean feels like this is something he could want, something he could have, and it’s such a cruel thing for his brain to do. He could never ask Cas to waste his time on someone like him. It wouldn’t be fair.

Dean’s a fixer. He always has been. He takes broken things and he finds the answers and he puts them back together. That’s why he’s so good with cars, he figures. He understands how they work and he can see how to undo whatever’s wrong with them. He’s learning very fast though that he can’t apply the same approach to himself. All these parts of his life fell apart all at once and they only seem to be getting better because someone else fixes them. He only has a home because Sam gave him one. He only had the job at Sandover because Alistair wrote him a reference and Cas fixed his stupid resume. He only has his new job, the one he’s so excited to start, because Dad called in a favour and Bobby remembers teaching him about cars as a kid. He only has a social life because Charlie keeps inviting him to things. He only has an outlet for his self-loathing because Cas saw how broken he was and offered a solution. Dean didn’t fix any of these things himself. He can’t ask Cas to make this into something more because he knows it’s the same as asking Cas to keep fixing problems for him, and Cas deserves better than that.

It’s late into the night before Dean manages to find any rest, but it’s only because Cas is so warm and comforting beside him that he manages to find even that little bit of peace. Just another piece of proof that he can’t ask Cas for more.

Chapter Text

Dean wakes up late on Saturday morning, which is understandable considering he didn’t fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning. At first, he thinks Cas is still sleeping too, curled up behind Dean in big spoon position with an arm thrown over his waist. But when Dean shifts, intent on rolling onto his back, Cas shifts with him, and he can feel the unmistakable jut of Cas’ erection against the swell of his ass.

“Good morning,” Cas murmurs against his hair. “You’re still here.”

“I said I would be,” Dean reminds him, sucking a sharp breath as Cas’ hands begin to roam over his chest, the one thrown over his waist sneaking under the hem of his shirt to rake sharp nails across his belly.

“Hmm,” Cas agrees. “I’m glad you stayed. We missed out on our fun last night.” His fingertips skirt dangerously close to the waistband of Dean’s shorts, hips rocking forward to press against Dean’s body. “We can make up for it now, though. You want the paddle, or a spanking?”

“Cas,” Dean groans, fighting through the desire that Cas’ touches spark and reaching for the last threads of rationality. It would be so easy to let Cas have his way. Dean would certainly benefit. But he’d have to be blind and wilfully stupid besides to believe that Cas is holding together as well as he’s presenting himself to be right now. It’s a mask, obviously, and likely one that’s very tenuously held. “Stop.”

“You don’t want to play?” Cas asks tauntingly. He doesn’t stop the gentle play of his hands on Dean’s skin, though he makes no further attempts to slip beneath the waistband of Dean’s shorts. Dean grabs his hands, holds them steady while he rolls to face him. Cas’ eyes are dark and ringed with red, and Dean lets go of his hands to brush an errant tear away from his face.

“I want to help you feel better,” Dean says. “I’m—” Cas cuts him off with dry, chapped lips pressed against his mouth. His tongue slides against the seam of Dean’s lips and, against his better judgement, Dean kisses him back.

“Let me have this.” Cas whispers, pulling away just long enough to speak before diving back in for another kiss, this one long and lingering. “Let me take care of you. It’ll make me feel good.”

If Dean were a righteous man, he thinks, he’d put up a much better show of resisting. But he’s only just sort of a good one apparently, because it takes only the touch of Cas’ hand through his boxers and he gives up any pretense of stopping this in its tracks. Cas’ lips are soft and perfect, his hands roaming freely, and if Cas says this will make him feel better, then Dean can’t come up with a good argument to stand in his way. Especially not when it feels this good to finally be allowed to touch.

Dean knows what the muscles of Cas’ chest look like. He’s seen him in various states of undress on many occasions. He’s watched the muscles flex in his neck and shoulders when Cas has pulled a t-shirt off over his head, studied the neat lines of his waist as he worked his way through yoga poses. It isn’t until right this very minute, though, that Dean has had cause to realise how very much he’s wanted to get his hands on that body. He’s played it off as broad-strokes lust; the general desire to touch and be touched by another person. As his fingers get their first real touch of Cas’ skin, he realizes the truth. He wants Cas. Every fibre of him. Wants to feel the weight of Cas’ cock in his mouth, hear the sounds he makes when he comes. Dean wants everything Cas has to offer and he wants to give everything he has back.

“Dean,” Cas murmurs, rough hands hurriedly pushing at his boxer shorts, making a desperate play to get his hands on more skin. “I want—”

“Let me,” Dean tells him, kissing fiercely and rolling his weight on top of Cas’ body. He takes his time working his way down, leaving hot kisses all over Cas’ chest, resisting any attempts Cas makes to pull him back up to his mouth. Cas’ breath starts to come in ragged gasps, his back arching off the bed to meet Dean’s touches. Still he tries to take control. Even as Dean latches his lips onto the nub of one pink nipple, Cas is trying valiantly to draw Dean back up to his mouth, to get his hands on Dean’s body and to make this about someone other than himself. Dean has made his mind up, though. He never feels so free as when he lets go of the reins and Cas is making the decisions; he’s going to give Cas that freedom. Maybe it won’t be the same thing. Cas has never made any mention of inclinations towards the same kind of submissive behaviour he brings out in Dean, but Dean is good with his hands and with his mouth. He can still coax Cas towards some kind of relief. Soon Cas gives up any attempts at being an active participant and succumbs to Dean’s efforts, letting himself be kissed and touched wherever and however Dean sees fit. It’s complete surrender then. All the fight goes out of Cas’ body and the hands that were previously focused on trying to pull Dean’s attention back upwards instead clutch at his shoulders and tangle in his hair. The mouth that’s been trying to articulate how all he wants to do is make Dean feel good stops trying to form words and just gives up gentle sighs, and moans with unbridled pleasure when Dean sinks down to take Cas’ cock in his mouth.

It’s been years since Dean’s had his lips around a dick, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten what feels good. He had kinda forgotten how much he enjoyed it though. As soon as he feels the weight of Cas’ cock on his tongue, as soon as he tastes the first bead of precome, Dean can’t help but act on his enthusiasm. He bobs his head up and down shallowly, his mouth making wet noises that are nearly drowned out by the breathy moans that Cas makes. One hand rests on the side of Dean’s head, appreciatively petting his hair and stroking his face, the other clutching the sheets like a lifeline. His hips twitch upward like he wants to let loose and thrust into the heat of Dean’s mouth and god, does Dean want him to. He remembers now, how much he enjoys sucking cock, and how much he loves all the little signs that his partner is enjoying it. He loves a hand tugging tight in his hair, loves hearing their sounds heading up towards fever pitch until they just can’t contain them any more. This is all about Cas because Dean wants it to be, but Dean is enjoying himself nearly as much.

With one hand supporting his weight, Dean trails the other gently up the inside of Cas’ thigh to fondle his balls. Cas groans and jerks upwards, thrusting himself further into Dean’s mouth than Dean was expecting, but he goes with it and keeps bobbing his head, gentle touches and flicks of his tongue urging Cas onwards. He sets a gentle roll of his hips, not pushing up as far as he did with that first thrust, and Dean holds himself as steady as he can so Cas can fuck his mouth. The hand caressing his face moves more firmly now, gripping Dean’s hair and pressing fingertips into his scalp, the panting breaths from Cas’ throat becoming more ragged as the moments pass.

“Dean, I’m…” Cas groans in warning, and Dean squeezes his thigh in what he hopes is interpreted as permission. Soon after, Cas arches off the bed, groaning as he comes, the taste of his release hot on Dean’s tongue. Dean works lips and tongue along Cas’ length until he’s spent, his oversensitive cock twitching in Dean’s mouth as he whimpers and grasps at Dean’s shoulders. Satisfied with his work, Dean kisses his way back up Cas’ torso and lets Cas drag him in to press their mouths together.

“Wow,” Cas breathes as Dean curls up beside him. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind, but wow.”

“You’re complaining?” Dean teases.

“I never said that. Come here. Let me take care of you,” he says, that air of command back in his voice.

“Nah,” Dean brushes him off. “Maybe later. Right now, I’m gonna go make you some coffee, and then we’re gonna be lazy as fuck in this big comfy bed.” Dean rolls out of bed before Cas can protest, adjusting his erection as surreptitiously as he can manage.

When he returns with steaming mugs of coffee a few minutes later, Cas is still lying in the exact same position in bed, but he hauls himself up to sitting as soon as he sees the mugs in Dean’s hands.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, taking a careful sip. Dean climbs back in to bed with his own mug, tucking his legs under the blankets and settling comfortably back in. He feels like he should say something but there’s no simple conversation starters hanging in the air and he knows that Cas probably needs to talk about his brother but the whole point of the impromptu blow-job was to take his mind off of things so it’s kind of counterintuitive to bring it up right now. Instead, he drinks his coffee in silence, and hopes Cas feels invited to speak if he wants to. The quiet drags on and on, and Dean’s almost finished his coffee before Cas’ voice is heard again.

“I grew up with two older brothers,” Cas begins out of nowhere. His voice lacks its usual forcefulness, and the story takes on the tone of a confession. He hesitates for so long that Dean’s almost sure he’s not going to go on. “Michael’s the oldest, five years older than me. He was my father’s golden child. There was never any question that he’d grow up to take dad’s place at the helm of the company. Luke and I were born about two years apart. We were friendly enough as children but he and my father never saw eye-to-eye, and he was rebellious. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Sneaking out to go to parties, underage drinking, that sort of thing. He dropped out of high school though, and there was an ultimatum. Return to school and get his diploma, or get out of the house. Luke was gone by the end of the day.”

Cas pauses his story to take a long drink of his coffee and stares into the mug like it holds answers he desperately needs. On a whim, Dean reaches out and rests a hand on his knee. It’s meant to be comforting, and maybe it is, but Cas’ expression doesn’t change. Eventually he continues.

“I was still in high school then, obviously. We didn’t see Luke again until after I’d graduated. He uh… the hospital called. He’d overdosed on something. I never asked what, and my parents didn’t volunteer. Mom tried to bring him home after that and she even talked Dad into relenting, but Luke only stuck around long enough to get back on his feet and then he took off again.

“He OD’d a few more times over the years, unfortunately, but nothing was ever as scary as that first time. I hadn’t even known he was using drugs. I could have guessed though. Luke was always one for the dramatic. So it was quite the surprise when he fell off the radar completely for a couple years. And then I got a call. It wasn’t the hospital this time. It was Luke.

“For some reason, when they arrested him, I was his one phone call. Not our parents. Me. They charged him with fraud, possession with intent, theft, and some small arms charges. The day I met you, I’d just come from his sentencing.” Cas drains his mug and sets it on the nightstand, his posture becoming defensive and closed off.

“God Cas, that’s awful.” Dean struggles for something helpful to say or do, but all he can offer is platitudes.

Cas shakes with laughter, short and mirthless. “The imprisonment I could live with. At least I knew where he was. And he called me sometimes, sent letters. Since he’s gone to jail, I’ve heard from Luke more than I have in over a decade. He was supposed to be in there for five years. It took him only a few months to make enemies. They found him dead in his cell yesterday morning. Shiv made of out of a toothbrush or something like that.”

Dean sets his coffee down and shuffles closer, wrapping Cas in a tentative embrace. Cas sinks into it, slumping against Dean’s body, his own arms clutching weakly at Dean’s sides. He’s not crying, though Dean couldn’t see fit to blame him if he were. Grief does funny things to a person. They tell you it’s all uncontrollable sobbing and tearstained faces and mourners clad in black, crowded around graveside services in the rain, but that’s not always what it looks like. Sometimes, it’s a blanket of numbness as the idea that you’ll never see this person’s face, never hear their voice again sets in and you’re left wondering what could ever possibly fill that emptiness. That’s where Cas is now, Dean thinks. He’s completely motionless in Dean’s arms, the tickle of air on Dean’s neck the only sign that he’s still even breathing, and he’s really just more huddled against Dean than hugging back. It’s ok though. Dean can hold him up through this. He doesn’t know who else Cas has to lean on right now anyway.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Cas sighs against Dean’s neck. He makes no move to pull away, so Dean doesn’t release his hold but the words pull him out of some distant place and he’s immediately more aware of Cas’ fragile state. Carefully, he brings one hand up to drag through Cas’ messy hair, soothing strokes telling Cas that it’s ok in ways that words cannot. Dean won’t say that everything is going to be ok. He can’t. It might be and it might not be, but Cas doesn’t need someone feeding him empty lines and tired clichés. He just needs someone to be here, in this moment, so he doesn’t have to deal with this alone. Nothing in Dean’s life has prepared him to be this person for someone, but if all that’s being asked of him in this moment is to not leave, then it’s the least that he can do.

“You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Dean assures him.

“I don’t want to see my mother,” Cas asserts. “She’s going to be unbearable.”

“You might have to do that eventually.” All Dean gets in reply is a grunt. “Not today though.”

Cas falls quiet again, breathing slowly and quietly in Dean’s arms. They’ve only been awake for an hour or so, but considering how much he drank last night, Dean can understand his reluctance to leave bed. His fingers twitch against Dean’s t-shirt, chest rising and falling steadily, until eventually Dean surmises that he must have fallen asleep again. He’s careful to set Cas down on the bed gently, tucking him back in under the blankets with care and attention, and he leaves the room on soft feet, closing the door with a nearly inaudible click behind him.

It’s a good thing Dean didn’t actually make any plans for his weekend, because as soon as he settles onto Cas’ couch and starts flipping through Netflix, he realises he’s decided without thinking about it that he’s spending the remainder of his time off here. Unless Cas sends him off, of course, but considering how adamant Cas was about Dean sticking around overnight, he’s guessing that his presence is still welcome and wanted. Cas will wake up eventually, and he’ll probably be starving by then.

It’s weird, watching Netflix on someone else’s TV in someone else’s house, when they’re not there watching it too. Nothing is markedly different about it but still, Dean doesn’t relax the way he does at home. He’s used to this room being filled with the sounds of Cas’ laughter, and he finds himself making snide commentary at the screen and being disappointed when Cas doesn’t chime in. Still, he’s got nothing but time to kill, so he keeps hitting the “play next episode” button for far longer than his interest in The Office survives.

“I love Jim,” says a familiar voice from behind him, and Dean glances over his shoulder to see Cas, an oversized t-shirt hanging limply from his shoulders, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and giving Dean a crooked grin. He huffs a soft laugh, smiling back. “Although I have to agree, having your possessions encased in jell-o would probably be pretty fucking irritating.”

“You must be starving,” Dean ventures, ignoring the sounds his own stomach makes. He’s not the one who just slept off a sorrow hangover. His own needs can wait.

“I could eat,” Cas replies noncommittally. He’s probably fully aware he’s not fooling anyone, but Dean chooses not to call him on it.

“Well I’m hungry,” he announces. “So I’m gonna make pancakes.”

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Cas protests.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Dean tells him, vaulting off the couch and making a beeline for the kitchen. He doesn’t know how to fix this for Cas, but he knows the value of comfort food, and that, he can do.

-----

“Come with me,” Cas demands, when the pancakes are all eaten and the dishes are done and Dean is about to ask if Cas is up for a movie. He takes a few steps towards the stairs, turning to glance over his shoulder to make sure Dean is following, and his bare feet slap on the wood floors as he climbs them.

Cas flips the light switch on as he leads the way into the bedroom, bathing the room in bright light, then turns to shut the door behind Dean. The blankets lie in a jumbled heap at the foot of the bed, discarded at some point during or after Cas’ nap, and there’s a pile of hemp rope sitting in the dead center, still in neat coils.

Dean curses under his breath. “Cas,” he protests, “You don’t have to do this. You’re having like, the worst weekend.”

“Dean,” Cas counters, his voice taking on that intense note of command. “You fed me and you cared for me and you fucking blew me for no reason other than that you wanted to make me feel better. Right now, what’s going to make me feel good is you, on this bed, on your hands and knees facing the headboard. Can you do that for me?”

For a moment, the only response at Dean’s disposal is a stunned stare. His jaw works to form words in reply but no sounds come out. He’s frozen in place, too startled to reply. Startled and filled with an immediate rush of want.

“I gave you a command,” Cas presses. “Do as you’re told, or safeword out. Now,” he hisses, punctuating the command with a sharp clap of his hands. It shocks Dean into action. It’s possible he’s never undressed this fast in his entire life. Even with the time it takes to fold his clothes the way Cas has trained him, Dean is naked and climbing on to the bed in the briefest of moments. It’s not even enough time for Cas to shed his t-shirt. Naturally, he takes his time, drawing the process out now that Dean can’t catch a glimpse without craning his neck over his shoulder. When Cas finally moves back in to view, it’s to fetch the pile of rope off the mattress. He runs his hands over the coarse hemp, inspecting each line for damage before finally selecting a length and draping it across Dean’s back. The rasp of the hemp feels good against his skin, sharp prickles making his senses spring to life.

“I’m going to bind your hands to the bedposts” Cas announces. There’s an unspoken question there, a chance for Dean to opt out, but he knows Cas isn’t really expecting him to take it. He builds all these little things in out of habit, because he’s so good to Dean, because he wants Dean to enjoy this as much as he does. Dean nods sharply in consent, and Cas threads an arm under his torso, guiding him down to meet the sheets so his hips jut up sharply and his weight rests on knees and elbows. Dean’s arms splay out at angles towards the bedposts, an awkward pose, but there isn’t much time to get used to it. Right away Cas picks up the length of rope off Dean’s back and lets the ends trail down his right arm as he begins forming a simple rope cuff. He ties the other end to the bedpost, checking the knot to make certain it’s secure, then circles around the foot of the bed to do the same with Dean’s other wrist. Once he’s bound, Cas comes around to the end of the bed to survey his work, his eyes devouring Dean as he sits on display, afforded not even the slightest opportunity to shield his modesty.

“I was very disappointed that we didn’t get to play last night,” Cas offers conversationally as he climbs on to the bed beside Dean. His hands fall to Dean’s hips, jerking him backwards sharply to shift him down the bed. The ropes on his wrists draw tight, extending his arms and forcing his hips higher as his center of balance shifts. “I had such great plans for our evening,” he muses. “I was going to make such a mess of you.” Cas caresses Dean’s flank as he speaks, gently and teasingly, and it’s a promise of things to come. It doesn’t seem like this is one of those times that Cas is going to tell him what to expect though. At first it was this is what I’m going to do to you, and that worked, because at the start there was nothing about this that Dean found familiar and so little that he was prepared for. Now there’s a rhythm, a sort of dance between them, and Dean doesn’t know all the steps but his muscles remember dancing it, and he’s content to let Cas lead because he has a general idea of where they’re headed. It surprises Dean to realize that he’s developed an innate trust for Cas, one he doesn’t quite understand but feels in his bones. He knows Cas will take care of him, and whatever he has planned will be good. If Cas doesn’t want to tell him exactly what’s in store, all it’s going to do is add to the anticipation and heighten the thrill.

“I think I’m still going to make a mess of you,” he announces. His voice is low and soothing, a calming rumble that, in conjunction with the scent of the hemp ropes and the smooth sheets beneath his body, leave Dean feeling comfortable and soothed and relaxed. It’s an excellent start to a scene he wasn’t even expecting to get. “What’s your colour?”

“Green,” Dean murmurs, turning his head to the other side. It’s really the only motion afforded to him at the moment, but he can’t bring himself to mind. Cas runs palms across his skin, squeezing his ass and pressing hot kisses along the curve of his backside. It’s slow and reverent; Dean can easily imagine the way Cas is staring at him, lips slightly parted, eyes wide, drinking in every detail of the sight.

The first sting of leather on skin is punctuated by a sharp crack, but it’s more pronounced than the pain. The strap is split in to two tails of soft leather, flexible and bending to meet the curves of Dean’s ass. It doesn’t have the same heft as a paddle with its solid connection and follow through. Dean hums, pleased with the warmth it spreads, and waits for the next blow to fall. When it does, it connects with the lower curve of his ass, the roundest part, and the end of the strap makes the barest graze against his balls. Dean groans loudly, squirming in his bonds.

“You like that?” Cas rumbles, reaching out to card fingers through Dean’s hair. They meet eyes for just a moment. Cas is flushed and so alive, his eyes dark and his lips red, and Dean wants nothing more than to please this man.

“Yes,” he moans, and is immediately rewarded with three more stinging blows, the final one landing right across the crack of his ass so each cheek takes equal force.

“Good boy,” Cas murmurs, caressing gentle hands over the already pink skin. He raises his arm again and swings, this time harder, and Dean gasps at the impact, letting the breath out in a low moan. It’s remarkable how much it can sting for such a little thing, slender and supple strips of leather, but Dean can feel every inch of it each time Cas strikes him, leaving pink stripes across the pale flesh of his ass and thighs.

After a while, when Dean has lost all track of time, the pain fades into the background. Somewhere far away. Dean is still markedly aware of the slap of leather but his flesh is just a solid mass of warmth; fire that emanates from deep within the skin, and he notices the pressure of the strokes but not so much the sting of its lashes. Cas stops, caressing him with gentle hands and cooing words of praise. Dean doesn’t need the break. He almost tells Cas as much, but the gentle touches on his heated skin are so pleasant, so pleasing in the wake of the pain, that he doesn’t really mind the change of pace.

Cas starts again, easing off on the intensity for a few stripes to warm Dean back up to it. It doesn’t take long before the sting is back in the impact, sharp, searing licks of pain each time the crack of leather sings out. Dean hears himself moaning, soft breathy little noises that are scarcely audible over the slap of leather. He tries to count, though Cas hasn’t told him it’s required tonight, but it’s something else to focus on and he wants to stay clear for as long as possible. He wants to be good for Cas, to give him the release he needs from his sorrow and his pain, so Dean will take as much pain as he can manage before slipping into that far-away place where he’s drunk on endorphins and Cas has next to no choice but to stop. Counting the stings is the only way he can imagine keeping himself from slipping away too soon.

14… 15… 16… Breathing in shallow, scratchy puffs, Dean silently counts his lashes. 25… No, wait, 23. He can’t be sure. If he asks nicely, maybe Cas will let him count out loud. No, then he’ll have to explain why he wants it, and it won’t be the same if Cas knows he’s holding out on purpose. He wants to be good, needs to be good. He has to do this.

Cas stops again, lowering himself to press his lips to the heated skin of Dean’s ass. He nips tiny bites, laughing softly under his breath as Dean’s breathing becomes a pitched up whine. His tongue soothes the bites, breath like fire on Dean’s skin, slowly easing Dean back to calm.

This time, when Cas starts, he won’t count the strokes, Dean decides. He’ll count the cycles. Cas starts, warms him up, striping up his ass and his thighs until he’s heady and blissful and burning, and then he stops and kisses and soothes, and that’ll be one. Dean can keep track of that, he’s sure of it.

Apparently it’s not that easy.

He should have known better. Cas is brutal. He checks in periodically to make sure Dean is with him but he seems to have this inherent sense of when Dean can handle the next level and he dials it up right when Dean gets to the point of comfort. The moment Dean starts to sigh, relaxing in his bonds, Cas will start raining these heavier blows, and with each cycle it gets harder and harder to keep track of the number. He thinks he’s at seven now, but it could be nine. He’s not confident.

Somewhere between the time he decides to start counting and the time he decides he’s totally lost count, Cas slides his free hand under Dean’s body and slowly drags his fingertips up and down Dean’s thigh. It’s a contrast to the stinging blows that still fall with regularity, but Dean welcomes every moment of it because, again, it’s something else to focus on. Until, at the same time the leather hits its high and the stings are sharper than they’ve been at any other time this evening, warm fingers trail up the inside of his thigh and ghost a touch across the underside of Dean’s hard, leaking cock.

“Fuck, you’re loving this,” Cas rumbles, delighting in the groan of lust that escapes Dean’s lips at the attention. A hum of appreciation follows as he continues to tease Dean, slapping hard with the strap all the while. Cas decides Dean has had enough teasing though, when his hips jerk abortively and he whimpers into the mattress.

“Shhhh,” Cas whispers. “I got you.” And he does, god he does. He takes Dean’s cock in hand, swiping his thumb through the slick of precome and stroking him slow and firm while his other hand soothes the fiery pain in Dean’s ass. The praise comes constantly, “Good boy, so good for me,” and Dean thinks he replies but it might just be a desperate moan. It definitely becomes one when Cas starts in with the strap again.

There’s no keeping count now. There’s no trying to keep himself grounded. There’s nothing left of stoicism. There’s no clinging to consciousness. There’s just the pleasure of Cas’ hand and the pain of his strap, and Dean is pulled taught between them. The sounds fall freely from his lips, needy, desperate sounds. Cries of pleasure and pain, loud and long and guttural, until even Dean can’t tell which is which. It hurts, it hurts so much. It hurts and he loves it and he doesn’t want it to stop. Not for a single second.

The punched out groan that pierces the air when Dean comes is just as unexpected as the orgasm itself. He’s got no idea how long it’s been building, no sense of time at all now, but it rips through him like a force of nature, whiting his vision and sending electricity through his veins until everything but the white hot pleasure is burned away. Cas strokes him through it, the strap discarded on the bed and his palm soothing the stinging heat of Dean’s ass, all the while murmuring the praise that Dean craves so much.

“Magnificent,” Cas breathes when Dean quiets. “How do you feel?”                                                                      

“M’good,” Dean slurs, dizzy with it, hissing as a wet cloth cleans the come from his thighs. It would feel so soothing on the reddened skin of his ass, but Dean’s not sure he wants anything that would lessen the sting. It’s a reminder of how good he was. Cas reaches up to untie Dean’s right arm, deftly loosening the knot and freeing Dean of the bindings so he can move freely again.

“Shit, Dean, your wrists!” Cas exclaims, worry replacing command in his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me it hurt?” Dean brings his arm, the one that’s already free, into view and stares blankly at the angry red lines left by the rope while Cas works on untying the other arm. He views them distantly, like an injury taken by someone else, and even now that he’s looking right at them it still doesn’t register. He’s too hazy, too dizzy and floaty to process what he’s looking at.

“Not hurt,” he protests, rolling his shoulders. It feels good to move. It feels good to stretch. He rolls carefully onto his back at Cas’s gentle nudging. The sheets feel cool against the flaming heat of his backside, drawing a slow sigh from his parted lips.

“Yes, you are,” Cas insists. “You’ve got rope burns. Were they too tight? Why didn’t you say anything? I could have loosened them.”

“Didn’t notice,” Dean replies, because honestly, he didn’t. All his attention was focused on the sting of leather, the slick slide of Cas’ hand on his cock. His hands were of no concern. It never even registered.

“Damnit,” Cas grumbles. He takes in the pout on Dean’s face and corrects himself. “I’m not mad at you, Dean. I’m upset with myself. Hey,” he takes Dean’s right hand in his own, pressing soft kisses to the rope burns. “Hey, this isn’t your fault. I should have double-checked the ropes. I should have asked. I shouldn’t have assumed you were ok.” Dean hums contentedly, the frown (he’ll never admit he pouts, not ever) slipping from his face to be replaced with a soft smile.

“What do you need?” Cas murmurs, laying kisses on the other wrist.

“Water?” Dean mumbles after a moment. “And you.” He means it in this moment, but some half-awake part of his brain thinks that maybe he means it in general, day-to-day, asleep and waking, and he’s too sleepy to protest that it might be entirely true. That’s dangerous to think on, and even in this state he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when Cas returns with a bottle of ice-cold water and holds it to his lips, murmuring praise the whole time. Not when Cas massages scented oils into his shoulders and arms and tells him how wonderfully he performed. Certainly not when Cas lays him out and kisses his body all over, and tells Dean he’s good, he’s so good, he’s marvellous. By the time Cas turns out the light and curls up behind him, arm around Dean’s waist and mouth on his neck, pressing soft kisses and softer words into his skin, Dean’s forgotten all about how he’s not supposed to want this, and has completely given himself over to thinking about how lucky he is that Cas chose him for this.

Chapter Text

Walking in to Singer Salvage on Monday shouldn’t feel like coming home, but it does. There’s something familiar and inviting about the office even though he hasn’t been there since he was maybe ten or twelve, and Dean immediately knows he’s made the right choice coming to work here. Bobby is the only one there. He’s hunched over the counter with a stack of paperwork and a calculator, a steaming mug of coffee at his elbow, and he’s so lost in his work that he doesn’t even look up when Dean walks in.

“Mornin’ Bobby,” he supplies cheerfully.

“Dean,” comes Bobby’s reply, the smile on his face the only indication that he isn’t as grumpy as his voice would lead Dean to believe. “You can hang your coat in the back there. Coffee’s on. Grab a mug and I’ll show you the ropes. The boys’ll be here in a bit. I’ll introduce you soon as they show.”

The long sleeves of his Henley cover the rope marks on Dean’s wrists, but even so he’s just slightly self-conscious about them when he takes his jacket off. They look like exactly what they are, and every time he sees them, Dean feels stupid for not noticing what was happening at the time and saying something about it. Cas would have stopped if Dean was uncomfortable, but that’s the problem. Dean wasn’t uncomfortable. Dean loved every minute of it: the pain, the teasing pleasure, and the thrill that came from the combination. A wave of heat runs up his spine at the memory of falling to pieces under the sting of leather and the caress of Cas’ hands, and Dean is forced to shake himself back to reality before he ends up falling into a very not-safe-for-work daydream. He checks that his sleeves are still covering his wrists, and then Dean pours coffee into a mug bearing the logo of an auto parts distributor and notes with satisfaction that even the coffee here is better than at the office he just left. That’s just the frickin icing on the cake. He tells Bobby as much, which earns a short laugh in reply.

“I told you, I spend way too many hours here. You think I’m gonna put up with shitty coffee too? Nice thing about being the boss, Dean. I getta do whatever I want.”

Dean is just coming through the other side of a cash-register crash-course when the door opens again. A pair of skinny blonde men in coveralls slink in, eyes firmly planted on the newcomer in their midst, and Bobby greets them warmly.

“Garth, Ash, this is Dean. Believe I told you he was comin’ to work with us.”

“Howdy,” says the one with short hair and a nose too big for his face. “Garth Fitzgerald IV.” He grasps Dean’s hand in a surprisingly firm handshake, grinning widely and refusing to let go until Dean is forced to almost tear his hand away. “I do pretty much whatever needs doin’ around here. Nice to meet ya.”

The other guy, Ash, is considerably less enthusiastic, but he’s not cold. There’s this air of intelligence about him that’s totally at odds with the business in the front, party in the back hairstyle he’s rocking, and he regards Dean carefully like he’s weighing out his worth. He shakes Dean’s hand but offers no greeting, and disappears into the back to grab coffee without a word spoken.

“Ash’ll warm up to you eventually,” Garth offers. “Set in his ways, that one is. But I tell you, he knows every car in this yard and he can tell you exactly where to find what you need. I don’t know how we’d run the place without him.”

“Boy’s not wrong,” Bobby tells him. “Mind like a computer. I keep records of what we got out there but half the time it’s just faster to ask Ash if we got what a buyer wants. He knows what’s up. For now, someone calls in asking if we got something, you take down the details and tell ‘em you’ll call back. Check the book if Ash ain’t nearby,” Bobby gestures to a thick binder labelled salvage cars, “otherwise, he’ll tell ya where to find it.”

Dean spends his morning learning the ropes. There aren’t exactly a lot of ropes to learn, so some of the time is blown on shooting the shit with Bobby. Dean is particularly interested in the project cars he’s hoping to work on, namely the Stingray that’s been hanging out in his garage for the better part of a decade.

“She’s mostly just a chassis and panels right now,” Bobby admits forlornly. “But I got most of what I need to kit ‘er out scavenged from cars that’ve come through here over the years. I’m thinkin’ I probably paint her up cherry red when she’s done.”

When they break for lunch, Dean’s got a missed call from Bela.

“Super,” he says with a growl, and dismisses the notification. She didn’t leave a voice mail, and he’s got less than zero interest in having any kind of conversation with her, so no, he’s not calling back.

He’s got another call from her when he goes to leave for the day, and a text message imploring him to call her back, which he pointedly ignores. He’s in a damn good mood, buoyed by the feeling of having accomplished something good for a change, and he’s not about to let Bela ruin it with whatever her big crisis is. Instead, he gets in his car and blasts Back in Black as loud as he can handle, and drives home belting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs.

“You’re in a good mood,” Sam points out during dinner. He’s in a hurry, apparently, because he’s going to see a movie with Jess, but he’s still got time to big-brother his big brother.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. Even the ridiculously healthy dinner of grilled chicken and steamed veggies isn’t dampening his cheer.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you went out and got laid.”

Dean scoffs. “Not the only thing that makes me happy, you know. I’m complex like that. I’ll have you know I’m in such a damn good mood ‘cause an honest day’s hard work feels a fuck of a lot better than the shit I’ve been doing.”

“So you’re finally getting the hang of the job at Sandover?” Sam asks, not even trying to disguise his smugness.

“Uh... no. It was my first day at Bobby’s today, remember?”

“Like, Uncle Bobby? Bobby Singer? What the hell are you talking about?” Sam demands.

“I told you. Bobby offered me a job managing the salvage yard.” Dean glares at him, irritation starting to filter through his good spirits. “I gave notice on Friday and they told me not to bother coming back, so Bobby had me start today.”

“Yeah you definitely didn’t mention that. Of course, I actually didn’t see you all weekend so I’m not really sure when you would have had the chance. Are you sure you want to be working in a garage though? I mean, what kind of a career path is that? You’re not even a trained mechanic.”

“So now you’re mad at me for having a social life?” Dean counters defensively. “Didn’t realize I needed to get my calendar approved. Any other house rules you’re not telling me about, Mom? Curfew on school nights? Gonna start limiting my TV time? Maybe you want Bobby to start sending home report cards for you to sign off on?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah I know. But seriously, can’t you just be happy for me? I’m not cut out for the suit and tie shit. I’m happier after one day here than I ever was at Morningstar or at Sandover. This is where I’m supposed to be.” Dean tries not to be snappish, but he’s not really successful.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Sam says with a sigh. It’s unexpected. Dean was anticipating a much more uphill battle.

“And besides, I’m not working as a mechanic. Bobby’s got me managing the place so he can deal with the garage and maybe get some time off ever. It’s a good gig.”

“Then I’m happy for you. I am. I really am. I guess I just…I thought I’d see more of you now that you’re living here,” Sam admits.

“Well, hey, you’re spending a lot of time out with Jess, too, so this ain’t all on me. Look, I’ll make dinner when I get home tomorrow, we’ll catch up, ok?”

“Ok,” Sam agrees. Dean still feels awful that he was expecting a fight, but at least he was able to keep from blowing up at Sam over nothing. It’s something.

-----

Over the next couple days, Dean learns everything there is to know about running a salvage yard. Bobby’s systems are simple and organized for the most part, but they’re also just far enough outside of Dean’s realm of experience that every little thing is a challenge. The cash register is ancient, but it’s an anti-theft measure in and of itself because Dean’s pretty sure it would take three of him to lift it, and half the time he can’t even get it to open when he wants it to so there’s no way someone’s going to break in to it. That, and the four shotguns hanging on the wall which Dean knows for a fact are not decommissioned means that Bobby doesn’t really have to worry about daring daylight scrap yard robberies.

Still, for all the difficulties the job poses, Dean is happy. He’s facing challenges born of hard work and it’s actually interesting, as opposed to the crap he’s used to dealing with where the main challenge is remaining conscious through his boredom or maintaining the resolve not to haul off and slap someone for being wilfully stupid. Garth has already taken a shine to him, calling him Dean-o (which he hates, but grits his teeth and smiles at because the guy means well), and while Ash isn’t exactly his best friend yet, he’s not rude or unhelpful so Dean supposes that’s good enough for the time being.

Every time a customer calls in to ask if Singer Salvage has the part they need, the process is the same, and Dean can’t help but feel like it could be easier. He just doesn’t know how yet. Dean writes down all the information he can think to ask for, and then calls Ash on his walkie-talkie. Inevitably, there’s something Ash asks about that Dean never thought to check on, so he ends up calling the customer back to find out the specifics. Then he calls Ash again. Then he calls the customer back. Even though Dean tries to remember the stuff Ash wants to know about the cars in question, he still feels stupid every time he has to call the customer back for more info, and none of the scenarios have repeated themselves exactly yet so yeah, it’s frustrating. In the back pocket of his coveralls, there’s a little notebook where he’s writing down every single thing Ash sends him back to check on. Eventually, he’ll get the hang of it. That’s what he tells himself. He’s been doing this job less than a week. It has to get easier. He just wishes he didn’t feel so useless in the meantime.

Wednesday afternoon, there’s yet another missed call from Bela when Dean leaves work. He can’t imagine what it is she’s so set on discussing with him but none of the possibilities his brain can supply are any good, so Dean does the logical thing and completely avoids the conversation. He’ll just end up pushing her buttons until she says something cruel but true and it’ll hurt Dean even further, or she’ll remind him how this whole thing ending is really his fault anyway. He’s been doing a remarkably good job of countering the little voice in his head that tells him he ruins everything since Cas became part of his life, but the voice is definitely still there. The last thing he needs is to add Bela’s voice to the chorus. Or worse, and he hates the fact that he even needs to consider this possibility, he’ll hear her voice on the phone and start to miss her again, and the only thing that could make this breakup any harder is if Dean found himself actively wanting her back.

Sam is quiet through dinner. Even in silence, Dean has to admit that weeknight dinners with his brother are better than those with Bela. Sam only tries to tell him how to make his choices some of the time. And he’s not openly condescending like she was. Like she is. No, even when there’s not a word exchanged between them, sharing a meal with Sam is far and away preferable to sitting down with Bela. If he’s lucky, he’ll never have to be in the same room as her again for the rest of his life.

A knock at the door has Dean confused. He glances at Sam with a silent question, because Dean isn’t expecting anyone, but Sam just does that cocked-eyebrow upside-down smile thing that says “don’t look at me,” and shrugs his shoulders disinterestedly. Dean shoves his chair back from the table and stalks to the door, and nope, he’s definitely not lucky, because there’s Bela. She’s got one hand resting on her belly, though she’s not visibly pregnant yet, and there’s a warm glow to her face that makes her look more alive than Dean can remember ever seeing.

“Hello, Dean,” she says softly. “You haven’t answered any of my calls, so I’m forced to come see you myself.”

“I see that.” Dean crosses his arms across his chest, leaning against the doorframe with nonchalance he doesn’t really feel. “I’d invite you in, but, well, I just plain don’t fucking want to. What do you want?”

“I need you to take a paternity test.” Bela, as usual, is blunt and doesn’t sugar-coat things, but that doesn’t make it feel any less like a slap in the face.

“Do you now? ‘Cause last time we talked on this subject, you were pretty damn sure it wasn’t mine.”

“I realize that,” she admits. Her voice is uncharacteristically gentle now, and it makes her words feel honest and vulnerable. It’s unsettling. “I’ve had an ultrasound, and the doctor has adjusted her initial assessment of how far along I am. It means that I was wrong,” her mouth twitches around the words, so unfamiliar with admitting this kind of thing, “When I said it was definitely not yours. It could be yours, or it could be his, and I need to know. I want my child to be raised knowing who they are. I don’t want there to be any questions. And I want the biological father to sign the birth certificate. And I want the biological father in my child’s life. If… If it’s yours, I want you to be an active part in the child’s life.” She pulls a card out of her purse and hands it over. “This is the doctor I’m doing the test through. You just have to submit to a cheek swab. Goodbye, Dean. I’ll call you when I get the results.” She turns on her heel and walks away without waiting to see if he consents, her heels clicking down the driveway as she gets into the passenger door of a waiting vehicle. Dean stares at the card for a moment before cramming it into his pocket, then slams the front door and stomps back to the kitchen with fire in his eyes.

“She wants me to take a paternity test. Apparently she was a bit hasty in deciding the kid isn’t mine. Can you fucking believe this?!” He doesn’t mean to shout, but the words come out loud and angry anyway.

“I know, Dean,” Sam says softly.

“You know? You know??” Dean repeats. “How the fuck do you… Wait. She called you, didn’t she?”

“You weren’t calling her back, so she called me this afternoon. I told her you’d be home this evening. I didn’t think she’d show up. I figured she’d just call when she knew you’d be home, maybe call my phone if you didn’t answer.” Sam offers a weak smile. “I’m sorry.”

“And you didn’t think to, I don’t know, tell me any of this?” Dean snaps.

“It wasn’t my place,” Sam reminds him defensively. “And I’m not her errand boy.”

“Thanks. That’s super helpful. I would much rather have her show up unannounced and have this sprung on me than I would have my brother warn me about it. Thanks for looking out for me, dick.” Dean grabs his plate off the table, intent on throwing his leftovers in the fridge to take to work tomorrow because he’s definitely not going to sit here with Sam and eat them right now. In the process, he knocks over Sam’s water, spilling the full glass all over the table. “Shit.”

Dean springs into action, pushing up his sleeves and grabbing a kitchen towel to soak up the spill. Sam mops up the rest with paper towel, spouting reassurance that it’s fine, it’s no big deal, it’s just water, but then he goes silent mid-sentence, grabbing Dean’s wrist in a vicelike grip and holding it up in front of his face.

“What the fuck is this, Dean? What happened to your wrist?” Sam’s face has gone hard and angry, a look that Dean isn’t used to seeing on his brother. Sam has never been quick to anger, but when he gets the motivation, damn, he’s intense.

“I got hurt. It’s fine,” Dean replies, his flat voice inviting no further conversation on the subject. Sam doesn’t need an invitation though; he just barrels on with no regard.

“Doesn’t look fine to me,” he snaps. “Who did this to you? Was it this Cas guy? What kind of bullshit have you gotten yourself into now?”

“I said I’m fucking fine, Sam. And no, Cas didn’t do this to me. It’s my own damn fault. You need to drop it.” Dean launches the wet towel in the general direction of the sink, tossing it much harder than is strictly called for.

“Is that what he told you? Jesus Christ Dean! It’s like you have no self preservation instinct!” Sam shouts.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Dean spits in reply.

“Well you wasted how many years letting Bela boss you around, and you finally get out from under her thumb and it takes you what, two months to find someone else to be a doormat for? Only now instead of your girlfriend just driving all your friends off, you’ve got some asshole boyfriend beating you up?” Sam rakes the hair off his forehead in exasperation. “I don’t fucking get it.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, Sam, and he’s not beating me. And you know what? Even if I did get myself into some shit, it’s my fucking life. I don’t need you telling me how to live it any more than I needed Bela to do that for me.” Dean rolls the sleeves of his shirt back down aggressively, punctuating the end to his argument. “And I definitely don’t need you giving me the third degree when I’m actually doing just fine.”

“I’m not trying to tell you how to life your life,” Sam says, easing off on the attack. “I just don’t want to watch you do this to yourself.”

“Then don’t watch,” Dean snaps. He storms out of the kitchen, grabbing his jacket on the way, and slams the front door behind him. Somewhere in the distance, Sam calls out behind him, but Dean has no intention of turning around. He’s in the Impala and pulling out of the driveway before Sam gets a chance to follow him out the door and the house shrinks in the distance without Dean even checking to see if he’s being followed.

Dean drives. He just drives. He’s got no particular destination in mind. All he knows is that he is not going back there, not tonight. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Sam is reading this all wrong, but it doesn’t sting any less. Dean fucks up. He does it all the time. Dean fucking up is nothing new. But for once, he hasn’t fucked up. Right fucking now, his life is the best it’s been in years. He’s got a great job, he’s making friends and building a social life again, and yeah, this thing with Cas is pretty damn unconventional but it’s good, isn’t it? Dean thought it was. But what if Sam is right? What if he’s putting himself into a bad situation all over again and he’s just too fucking dumb to see it?

The thought sits heavy on Dean’s mind as he navigates through familiar streets. What if he’s tricked himself into thinking this is good, but really he’s just letting Cas take advantage of him? Cas has always been able to see right through Dean. He’d know how vulnerable Dean was, and it’d be easy for someone who just wanted a plaything to take advantage of that. It’s probably why he put up with Bela for so long. She was mean-spirited and demanding and condescending, but god, when he could actually manage to make her happy, it all seemed worthwhile. She’d finally smile, or she’d actually say how much she appreciated whatever he’d done, and he’d just light up. It’s sickening to think of it, and it’s sickening to think that it’s the same kind of glow he feels when he kneels in Cas’ bedroom and Cas tells him he’s good.

Dean doesn’t want to believe this, but it’s hard not to. It all makes perfect sense. Dean met Cas when he was at his worst. He was easy pickings. And it’s even worse to realize all these things and to remember, still, that he enjoyed every minute of it. If Sam’s right and he’s just jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire, then what does it say about Dean that he’s happier in the fire than he’s ever been?

The needle on Dean’s gas gauge is nudging into the red by the time his phone starts ringing in his pocket. It’s a little surprising that it’s taken Sam this long to call, honestly, but when Dean pulls the phone out of his pocket to mute it, it’s not Sam’s name on the display. It’s Cas’. And Dean shouldn’t want to talk to him right now, he really shouldn’t, but he does because that’s just how fucked up he is. So he answers it, one hand on the wheel and both eyes on the road.

“Hey Cas,” he says, and he’s not sure if he’s hoping his voice sounds normal so he can avoid a conversation or that it doesn’t so Cas will ask him what’s wrong.

“Hey,” Cas replies cheerfully. “I was just calling to see if we’re still on for Friday.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Dean tells him uncertainly. “Yeah, that sounds good.” This was a terrible idea. He never should have answered the phone. He’s not going to be able to hold it together and Cas is going to see how fucking useless he is, and then it won’t even matter whether he was using Dean in the first place because he’s not going to want someone this fucked up. Dean can already see it coming.

“Dean, are you ok?” Cas asks, his voice all care and concern.

“No.” The word slips out before Dean can stop it, and he has to pull over to the side of the road to combat the hot tears that are stinging his face and clouding his vision.

“What’s happening? Are you at home? What can I do?”

And there’s the Cas Dean knows, the one who puts Dean’s needs first, the one who leaves him Gatorade when he’s drunk and pushes him to talk to people about his problems and tells him how perfect he is. This is the Cas that Dean wants to see, not the picture his brain has been painting as the lines on the road streak by and Dean runs from his problems yet again. He still can’t reconcile whether they’re two halves of the same whole, or whether one of them is lie and one truth, but this is the Cas that Dean needs to see right now, so that’s what he chooses to believe.

“Can I come over?” Dean asks, because he’s weak, because he’s fucked up and broken and he can’t handle things himself. Because he needs someone to tell him what to do about this. And because tonight, there’s no fucking way he’s going home.

“Of course, Dean. Whatever you need. Come right over.” And that’s just like Cas, not even asking any questions. Of course, the second Dean hangs up the phone, that little voice in his brain points out that Dean is just about as vulnerable right now as he was the day he got laid off, so it’s entirely possible he’s being just as stupid now as he was then, and if Sam’s right then he’s doing the worst thing he could do right now. He doesn’t even care right now. It doesn’t matter if it’s fake. He just needs Cas to tell him he’s good. What was it Cas said to him that first time? It doesn’t matter if you believe it, I just need you to say it. That’s where Dean is right now. He doesn’t care if Cas truly believes he’s good, he just needs to hear it.

When he gets to Cas’ place, Dean comes off cagey, but it’s only because he doesn’t really know how to talk about how fucked up things are. He knows he looks like shit, eyes red and puffy, but until the second Cas ushers him in the door, Dean manages to convince himself he’s going to sell this off as something much smaller than it is.

“I just got into a fight with my brother,” Dean tells him, hoping that the casual tone he forces into his voice will convince Cas that it’s not so bad.

“What happened?”

For a second, Dean is entirely certain he’s going to play it off. He opens his mouth to answer, and he’s gearing up to offer some pedestrian answer. It was a fight about Dean leaving socks on the floor, or the division of housework or something else equally mundane that Dean can shrug off. It’s small and simple and it’ll blow over, and Dean just needed to get out of the house for a little bit. All he has to do is say that, and Cas will believe him.

Only that’s not what happens. Dean opens his mouth to tell Cas that he had the tiniest argument with Sam, and what he says instead is, “I might be the father.”

Dean lets himself be led into the living room and he sits down on the couch when Cas pushes him towards it, but his mind is elsewhere, because that’s not what he’s upset about. He’s angry with Sam. Bela has nothing to do with this. He hasn’t even thought about the baby-daddy scenario since the second he slammed the door on Sam. And he means to correct himself. Really he does. But he doesn’t, because of course he doesn’t. Dean can’t even vent properly.

“Apparently, that whole it’s not yours I’m leaving you for a real man speech was a bit premature ‘cause now it turns out there’s a solid chance it’s my kid and she wants me to take a fucking test and…” Dean sighs, dejected, and chooses his remaining words very carefully. “If it’s mine, she wants to raise the kid together.”

Cas says nothing, sitting beside Dean on the couch with a comforting hand on his forearm, and waits for Dean to continue. Even so, Dean feels the weight of Cas’ eyes like a lodestone around his neck. The silence is far from comforting. Dean realizes belatedly he was expecting Cas to tell him that everything was going to be ok, or suggest how he should approach the problem. Despite everything, despite his reservations about their arrangement and the conviction that he can’t expect Cas to fix his messes, Dean still subconsciously leans toward his support. Even with the intensity of all the other emotions at war in his brain right now, that thought causes shame to come to the forefront, and he’s not sure he can continue.

Finally, Cas takes pity on him and breaks the silence.

“What will you do if it’s yours?” he asks softly, hand never leaving Dean’s arm, but he makes no further move. He can probably sense how alike a frightened animal Dean is right now, quick to startle and ready to bolt. Or he doesn’t really care at all and is just feigning kindness. Dean can’t really tell the difference. The ugly voice in his head is much more powerful than anything rational he can grasp on the subject, and he doesn’t know how to tell truth from lies anymore.

“Well of course I’d be there,” Dean retorts snappishly. “What kind of asshole do you think I am? Not gonna leave some kid without a dad just because the mom’s a cold-hearted bitch.” He immediately feels even worse for speaking to Cas like that, but he can’t find the words to apologise. Cas must be very practiced at dealing with ungrateful, rude people, because he doesn’t even flinch at the outburst and carries on calmly as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“Would that be the worst thing? Raising a child? I mean, I know it’s not ideal, and I know you’d just as soon never see her again, but I’m having a hard time believing that maybe being someone’s father is enough to get you this upset. You mentioned a fight with your brother?” He slips the question in casually, like it wasn’t his goal all along, and Dean fell right into the trap because he’s dumb like that. It’s no wonder he’s in this mess.

Dean laughs bitterly, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. “Exhibit A. Star attorney Sam Winchester’s slam dunk evidence in the case of Dean Winchester versus Making Good Decisions. He’s super impressed at my ability to finally get out of a shitty relationship and land myself in an abusive one in record time. Didn’t care much for my explanation that it was neither abusive nor a relationship. I told him to butt out. Didn’t care much for that either. So I left.”

Cas sinks back against the arm of the couch, his posture closed off and defensive, and Dean knows he’s really done it this time. He can picture it now, the way the rest of the conversation is going to go. Cas will be upset that Dean has dragged him into all this bullshit, and he’s run out of patience for Dean’s inability to handle his life. He doesn’t want to be part of Dean’s family drama. Having Dean as his plaything isn’t worth dealing with the emotional baggage that comes along with it, and it’s been fun, but please leave. And then Dean will have to go back home and face Sam, and he’ll have to do it with the knowledge that Sam was right. Sam will see it all over his face, of course, and he’ll be a smug fucking dick about it, and Dean will have one more thing to add to the list of examples of why he can’t have nice things. He’s actually about to get up off the couch and forestall the entire conversation when Cas speaks, his voice heavy and tired.

“This is my fault,” he announces. “I kept you tied up too long and I should have checked the ropes more closely. You never should have got those marks.”

“No,” Dean counters. “I didn’t even notice it hurt. I should have paid more attention. This isn’t on you.”

“I pushed you too far,” Cas insists. “I thought you were ready for a scene like that and I wanted to reward you for taking such good care of me. You’re so good for me, sometimes I forget how new you are to all of this. I never should have put you in this position. Can you forgive me?”

“I never blamed you in the first place,” Dean tells him, confused. “But uh, what’s done is done. And I kinda don’t wanna go home and deal with my brother right now. So… can I crash here for a couple days? I’ll sleep in the guest room.” He doesn’t come right out and say it, but it’s as good as calling an end to the conversation. Dean’s said all he’s willing to say on the subject, and the walls are going back up as surely as if he was laying brick and mortar with his bare hands. It’s hard to reconcile the cruel manipulations his brain suggested earlier with the kindness Cas offers now, but he can’t bring himself to wipe them totally away. Now that the idea has taken root it feeds tendrils throughout his brain, strong little vines working their way into everything he thought solid and defensible, and even more confusing, none of it makes him want to be close to Cas any less.

Cas laughs softly. “If you like. Go pick out a movie on Netflix. Anything you want. I’ll go grab the spare sheets out of the linen closet.”

After a tense evening of television that Dean half-watches and awkward conversation about nothing in particular, he’s not feeling any better. The angry flare of his foul mood is gone but the slow simmer of resentment and fear and uncertainty keeps Dean from getting even a little bit comfortable. He fidgets constantly, resettling his position on the couch every few minutes. Cas shoots him sidelong glances but doesn’t comment, and again Dean finds himself wondering whether it’s apathy or respect that keeps him from pushing. It’s not that he wants Cas to pry, but there’s this horribly needy part of Dean’s psyche that’s begging for validation. Dean wants the attention, he realizes with a grimace. Whatever kind of attention Cas is willing to give him, he wants, and yet he knows he doesn’t deserve any of it. How could he? Last weekend, Cas tried to do something nice for him, and it was so, so good. He loved the sting of the strap on his bare ass, loved the caress of Cas’ hands on his skin so much that he got lost in it. Dean had one responsibility there. All he had to do was listen to his body and say the word if the pain became actual injury. And he fucked it up so badly that now he can’t even show his face at home. He’s definitely not deserving of the comfort he’d find in Cas’ arms.

So even though he knows that Cas would gladly welcome Dean into his own bed, Dean doesn’t let himself ask. He accepts the offer of a clean shirt and sweats to sleep in, since Dean is still in the clothes he wore to work, but Cas is conspicuously quiet the whole time they share the task of putting clean sheets on the spare bed. The room carries a little bit of a chill, the air somewhat stale from disuse and just a hint of dust tickles his nose, but it’s a place to lay his head for the night, and if the room is colder than he’d like, well, that’s penance. He’ll just have to bear it.

On the way back from the bathroom, Dean runs into Cas in the hall. They’ve already said their goodnights so Dean just gives him a cursory nod, but he’s only another few paces down the hallway before Cas calls out.

“Dean, wait.”

Dean turns back to face him, head angled inquisitively, and Cas strides purposefully over, leaning in slightly to press the smallest of kisses to Dean’s mouth. It’s closed-lipped and chaste, no tongue, no heat, no passion, but it’s soft and gentle in all the ways that Dean needs and won’t let himself ask for. It’s a balm for his wounds and he finds himself sighing into the kiss for the brief second that it lasts. He refuses to admit how disappointed he is that it doesn’t melt into something else.

“I just…” Cas breathes, his eyes fixed on Dean’s like he can drive the message home through eye contact alone. “It’s going to be ok.”

And then he’s gone, disappearing into the darkness of his bedroom. The door is still open a few inches, an invitation if Dean ever saw one, but even with the comforting touch of Cas’ lips still fresh in his mind Dean won’t let himself take it. In the dark of his borrowed bed though, he can’t keep his mind from lingering on that moment. Sleep doesn’t come easily for Dean. It’s fewer than 30 paces, if he throws back the blankets and strides briskly down the hall, to the edge of Cas’ bed. Fewer than 30 paces, and he could climb silently beneath the covers and let Cas wrap his arms around Dean, press kisses to the back of his neck and tell him it’s going to be ok. Dean hadn’t realized just how badly he wanted to hear that until Cas offered it up in the hallway, and now it’s all he can think of. Only 30 paces, and he could have comfort and peace, if only for one night. Finally, long after it’s stopped being late at night and started to be early in the morning, exhaustion wins out over desire and he slips into what passes for rest. It doesn’t feel like a victory.

-----

Dean wakes disoriented, but he quickly remembers where he is when he glances down and sees Cas’ Save the Honeybees shirt in place of his own. It’s soft and well worn, just as comfortable as the shirts that are locked away in his room at Sam’s. It’s a reminder that he doesn’t have any clean clothes, and Dean realises quite quickly what he has to do.

“I’m gonna make a detour on the way to work and pick up some clothes before I head in,” Dean tells Cas over coffee. He pointedly ignores the fact that he doesn’t feel awkward bumping into Cas as they share kitchen space in their morning routine. Cas was up doing yoga, naturally, and a fresh pot of coffee was ready to go before Dean even got out of bed. “That is, if you’re still ok with me staying here tonight.”

Cas looks at him like he’s just asked the dumbest question ever, and for some reason, it makes him feel a little bit better. He still can’t shake the feeling that he’s the world’s most useless human being, but if Cas is back to sassing him with every facial expression and every word, then maybe he’s at least doing a better job at pretending to be a functional human being today.

“Of course you can stay here, Dean. Tonight, the whole weekend if you need to. But…” he hesitates, and Dean suddenly feels even more unsettled than he did before.

“But what?” he asks, afraid of the answer he might get in reply.

“But I’ve been thinking, too, that there might be something I can do to help smooth things over. You said your brother was worried that you were in an abusive relationship, right? Do you suppose he might be more open to believing that you’re not if he and I could meet, and he could see for himself that I’m not… whatever it is he thinks I am?”

Dean winces. “I appreciate the offer, Cas. I really do. But I’m not about to go home begging for permission to live my own life, and I’m sure as hell not ready to talk to him.”

“I understand,” Cas tells him, offering up a sad smile. He doesn’t say another word on the subject, and for that, Dean is grateful.

Sam has thankfully left for work before Dean pulls into the driveway. He’s usually gone by this time in the morning, but Dean harboured more than a bit of worry that Sam had changed his routine in hopes of catching Dean in this exact situation, and he was prepared to keep driving if he saw Sam’s practical hybrid in front of the house. No such evasion is necessary, and he makes short work of packing a couple days’ worth of clothing. Dean takes care to ensure the house is exactly the way he left it. He doesn’t want Sam to have the satisfaction of knowing Dean snuck in when he wasn’t there.

Dean ignores several calls from Sam over the course of the day, telling himself it has nothing to do with his brother and everything to do with the fact that he’s an upstanding employee and would never answer a personal call on company time. He also doesn’t check the voicemails at lunch, or when he clocks out for the day, so that argument holds no water, but he says it inside his head anyway.

He makes Cas dinner. It’s the least he can do, he argues, when Cas tries to point out that he’s a guest and should feel no such obligation, but Dean eventually argues his way into the kitchen and makes burgers from scratch. With the way Cas praises the food, it feels a lot more like a victory.

There are several more calls from Sam to ignore throughout the evening, but by the time he’s yawning and stretching, Dean’s not even really thinking about that. He’s taking his leisure on the couch, same old shit on TV, only at some point during the evening he’s moved almost the entire way across to where Cas is sitting. Cas’ arm, previously slung over the back of the cushions, has slipped down to drape itself over Dean’s shoulders, and he doesn’t even recall when it happened but he’s glad it’s there.

It doesn’t even occur to Dean until they’re shoulder to shoulder in the bathroom brushing their teeth that he let himself take comfort where he swore he wouldn’t. Inside his head, he curses the weakness that led him to enjoy this temporary domesticity. It can’t last. All the familiarity of the scene, the ease with which he and Cas slide into each other’s lives like this, it’s an illusion. It doesn’t mean anything. Eventually, he’s going to have to go home and deal with Sam. Not today, but soon, and it’ll shatter the façade that Dean’s let himself fall under the spell of. Cas grins at him around the toothbrush in his mouth, and Dean makes himself grin back, but the pit in his stomach threatens to swallow him whole.

Cas pauses for a split-second outside the bathroom door, glances at Dean with his eyebrow raised in silent question. Then he turns towards his own room, and Dean’s left to decide. Does he follow? He wants to. God, does he want to. But that’s just playing into the illusion again. It’s one thing to spend the night in Cas’ room when they scene. He needs the aftercare and, he thinks, Cas needs to be gentle after being so brutal. This isn’t that. This is just a Thursday night. If Dean could ever let himself hope for something beyond friendship and beatings and begging to come, he’d hope for nights like this: quiet nights curled up together and climbing into bed, falling asleep wrapped up in the arms of someone who actually cares. He can’t hope though, because down that path lies more pain. He knows it’s all too good to be true. Either Cas is all the horrible things Sam said, and he’s going to get tired of Dean’s bullshit, or he’s everything Dean wishes he could have, which makes him too good for Dean. It doesn’t really matter which one it is; it’ll end with Dean alone again. Reluctantly, he turns towards the spare bedroom, curls in on himself, and wills the litany of doubt to quiet enough that he can drift off to sleep.

-----

It’s mid-morning when Bobby walks into the office at Singer Salvage. Now that Dean has a hang of the basic routine of running the shop, and he’s not worrying about fucking up on the regular, Bobby is spending most of his time a few blocks away at the garage, so he’s not really in the office every day. Garth pokes his head out from the back room where he’s hanging out by the coffee maker and Bobby greets him with a curt nod.

“Garth, watch the office for a while?” Garth replies enthusiastically, always happy to help with basically anything, and Bobby gestures for Dean to follow him outside. Bobby is quiet, even for Bobby, as they walk between rows of gutted cars, hollow shells of the machines they used to be. He draws up short eventually in front of a red and grey pickup with the driver’s door missing and no tailgate.

“Show me,” he demands in his gruff voice, perpetual scowl on his face. It doesn’t tell Dean anything about what Bobby is thinking though. He scowls at everything. Sometimes Bobby even scowls when he’s happy.

“Show you what?” Dean answers slowly. He shoves his hands in his pockets awkwardly, but the expression on his face is one of challenge. He’s got a pretty good idea what Bobby’s talking about, though.

“Boy, don’t make me spell it out for you. Show me your damn wrists.”

Dean sighs, jerking his hands free of his pockets and pushing the sleeves of his shirt up roughly and holding both arms straight out in front of him. “Sam called you,” he blurts out.

“Of course he called me. Says you haven’t been home in a couple days,” Bobby snaps back, giving Dean a look that dares him to point out something else that obvious. “He’s worried about ya, y’idjit.”

“Yeah, well, he’s got a shitty way of showing it.”

“And you think the best plan is to not talk to him?” Bobby sneers.

“I don’t see the point,” Dean admits. “Not gonna fix anything.”

“I see,” Bobby replies, turning away to rest his hands on the hood of a ’61 Valiant that’s seen better days. “So you think, because you’re not going to put everything back together with one conversation it’s better to just, I don’t know, give up?!”

“You got a better plan?” Dean shoots back with a smirk. “’Cause I’m kinda on the clock here and I think my boss would be pissed if he caught me having personal conversations on company time.”

“Don’t you sass me,” he snaps. “What the hell is wrong with you, Dean?”

Dean laughs bitterly. “Been asking myself the same question. Lemme guess. You agree with Sam.”

“Never said that. Do you?”

“I’m starting to,” Dean says with a sigh. “I mean, it’s pretty fucked up, right?” It occurs to Dean that he doesn’t really know how much Sam said, but Bobby’s smart. It’s safe to assume he’s drawn the conclusions.

Bobby answers his question with another question. “You like this guy? You trust him?”

“I do,” Dean replies without thinking, and it startles him to realize that he means it. “He’s a good friend. He’s there for me. Sam won’t see that though. He’s already made his decision. And I don’t know. Maybe he’s got a point. This is not how normal people function.”

Bobby sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face and resettling his hat. “Dean, look at this car. Tell me what you see.”

“I see the ugliest paint colour in the history of cars,” he quips. “And rust.” Bobby gives him a flat stare.

“You know what’s different between this Valiant and the one three rows over?”

“The other one is a piece of shit convertible,” Dean tells him, proud that he remembered the car Bobby is talking about.

“Yeah, and it’s a gasoline engine. This one’s diesel.” He taps the hood with two fingers. “The thing about diesel cars, and you should know this if you’re gonna be running my damn yard, is they don’t really look any different. Engines are essentially the same too, when you get down to it. All internal combustion is just ‘bout blowin’ stuff up properly. You gotta be careful though. Know what happens if you put unleaded fuel in a diesel engine?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Everybody knows that. You pretty much gotta rebuild it from the ground up.”

“Not everybody,” Bobby corrects sourly. “Number of times I had someone tow a damn diesel into the shop for that…” he trails off, shaking his head. “Anyway, not the point. You put the wrong fuel in a diesel, you’re boned. You let it run out of gas, well, you’re gonna have a rough time getting it running again, don’t matter how well cared for the rest of the car is. Same goes the other direction too, actually. Puttin’ diesel in a gas engine’ll fuck shit right up. But you treat it right, and you put the right fuel in, diesel’s gonna run just fine. Better than gas, some say. More economical, for sure.”

Bobby hesitates, and the pause goes on long enough that Dean wonders if he’s missed the point. Maybe he’s supposed to know what that means, but he doesn’t, and Bobby lets out a long breath before imparting the rest of his wisdom.

“Look, I don’t quite understand this thing you got goin’ on, but I know this. People need all kinds of different things to run right, same as engines. Maybe this is your diesel fuel. I’m thinkin’, if that’s what it takes for you to run proper, and you’re taking care of the rest of you, if you’re smart about things, then no, I don’t think it’s fucked up. And I think if you pull your head out of your ass long enough, you might realize that your brother’s worried ‘cause he just sees what’s on the surface. You look just like any other car to him and he can’t figure out why the hell you’re putting the wrong fuel in your tank. Hell, all he sees is those damn marks on your wrists. Did you really try to explain it to him, or did you just blow up ‘cause he challenged you?” Dean takes a sudden interest in his shoes, which is answer enough for Bobby.

“I thought so. Call your damn brother, boy. Talk to him. I can’t promise he’ll love what you’ll have to say, but he loves your stupid ass. He’ll listen.”

Dean’s stunned to silence, but when he finally speaks, there’s warmth in his words. “Thanks, Bobby,” he murmurs, not sure what else to say.

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Go on, get back in the office. I ain’t payin’ you to sit around and talk about your feelings. Back to work.” The familiar gruff tone is there in Bobby’s voice, but a smile plays behind his beard, and it’s mirrored on Dean’s face as he makes his way back into the office. He’ll send Sam a text on lunch break, he decides, and maybe it’s not such a terrible idea for Sam and Cas to meet after all. The little voice in his head says that’s the same as letting Cas fix his problems again, but Dean stuffs it down. Diesel. Dean likes the sound of that.

Chapter Text

Castiel’s full throated laugh rings throughout the room when Dean tells him about Bobby’s wisdom.

“I’ve never thought about it like that,” he chuckles. “But it makes a surprising amount of sense. What do you think?”

Dean shrugs. “Bobby’s smart. He was like a second father to me growing up. Let me tell you though, it was not a comfortable conversation.”

Cas grows quiet, moving about the kitchen in grace and silence as he puts dinner together. Dean tried to help, but he’s been relegated to a chair at the island. Cas is fascinating to watch, though he’s not doing anything particularly complicated. Every motion of his limbs is precise and calculated, like a well-choreographed dance. He’s solid muscle but he still manages to appear lithe and fluid. The knife in his hand minces garlic with precision, his hips shift like he wants to dance, and Dean is entranced.

“So when are you going to talk to your brother again?” Cas asks out of nowhere.

“I already sent him a message this afternoon,” Dean tells him sheepishly. “We’re gonna talk about it more tomorrow.” Cas regards him thoughtfully, an unreadable something passing over his features before he smiles wide and ducks his head. It’s too damn endearing.

“Good,” Cas says firmly. “I’m glad. You need to sort this out. You’re not doing anything wrong, and I’ve hated seeing you so upset the past few days.”

“Am I though?” Dean wonders aloud. “Like, Bobby’s whole perspective makes sense, but I don’t even know. I feel like it’s kinda fucked up that I get off on this shit.”

“I’m the wrong person to answer that for you. If you’ve got doubts, they’re at least partially stemming from me.” Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Cas cuts him off. “No, don’t deny it. You can’t be doubting this without doubting me. Anything I can say to convince you could just as easily be for my own ends. That’s what you’re thinking, right? That maybe you’re fucked up and maybe I’m using you and maybe you’re not smart enough to see the truth?”

Dean sighs. “It’s not like that,” he says weakly.

“I’m not offended,” Cas says plainly, setting down the knife and abandoning his dinner prep for the moment. “I brought you in to this. I hurt you, Dean, because I enjoy it, and because, as far as I’m aware, you enjoy it. It’s not crazy for you to have a hard time reconciling that. But if there’s even a little bit of your brain that thinks I’m maybe some manipulative beast, then I can’t be a part of you sorting this out.”

“So what, like, you wanna call it quits until I get my shit sorted out?” Dean asks, dejected. He doesn’t want that. He wants Cas.

“I want you to meet some more people who like the things you like. Maybe if you can meet some functional, well-adjusted submissives, you can find some peace in that. And no, I don’t want to call it quits. If this isn’t something you want to do anymore, we’re still friends. We were friends first; that’s not going anywhere. I just don’t want to do anything that’s going to make you feel worse.”

“Ha, yeah, and obviously there are like, regularly scheduled meetings I can just show up at, I’m sure.” Dean quips.

Cas stares at him flatly. “Yes, actually, there are. I’ve never been to one since, well, obviously. But that happens. I was thinking more of a party though. A little socializing, meet some people, get some perspective.” Dean makes an amused face.

“I like a good party,” he says.

“Then it’s settled,” Cas announces. “There’s one next Saturday. We’re going to a party.”

“Is there a dress code?” Dean asks as Cas resumes his kitchen machinations. “Do I need to go find leather pants or something? Because I’m not sure that’s a good look for me.”

“There will definitely be people in leather pants. You do not need to be one of them. Wear whatever you like. Full disclosure though, there is literally no dress code. I can’t promise what you’re going to see.” He tosses the garlic into a hot pan, letting it jump and sizzle in the oil. “Have you thought any more about picking a safeword?”

Dean plays it off with a noncommittal shrug, but actually he has. He’s been thinking about it a lot. The logic goes like this: The rope burns on Dean’s wrists are his own fault. Either he’s a complete fucking moron for trusting Cas in the first place in which case they’re totally on Dean, or Cas can be trusted and therefore would have listened if Dean had paid enough attention to his own body to know something was wrong and had actually bothered to say something. Take your pick, but basically, he’s the one who fucked up here. Following that line of thought, Dean is also likely to put himself in Cas’ hands again, whether it’s tonight or next week or just eventually, whether it’s advisable or not. Therefore, he’s going to end up in a situation that could injure him again. If, as the ugly, loud, persistent part of Dean’s brain keeps pointing out, Cas doesn’t have his best interests in mind and is just playing with Dean’s body as long as he can get away with, then having a safeword isn’t going to save his ass. It will tell him that Cas can’t be trusted though. He’s not entirely convinced he’s smart enough to heed the warning that would bring, but hey, it’ll be information. And if Dean is just a weak, sad, loser who can’t see a friend when they’re right in front of him, then calling his safeword will, hypothetically be the proof he needs that Cas is on his side. He’s thought about it plenty. Overthought it, really.

“When Sam turned twenty-one, we took a road trip to Vegas,” he tells Cas. “Bela was so fuckin’ angry, you can’t even imagine. Didn’t try to actually stop me from going, but yeah. Cold shoulder for weeks when I got home. And Sam’s fucking brilliant. Total genius, I’ve told you as much. So he figures, hey, Blackjack isn’t that hard. I get how it works. I think I can count cards.” Cas rolls his eyes. It’s pretty obvious where this story is going.

“Anyway, we worked out this system, and it was really kinda juvenile when you think about it, but we thought it was gonna work. Sam was gonna do his thing, make little bets and keep track of the deck, and when everything was right to take advantage, he’s supposed to ask the table if they’ve done much travelling around the states. If I’m gonna take it, I say I’m planning a roadtrip. If I think security’s noticed what’s happening, because you know they watch for this shit and the house only likes cheating when they’re the ones doin’ it, I tell him I just got back from Poughkeepsie. That’s the killswitch word. So we had it all planned out, we were gonna rake it in and live large for a weekend. And we get like, I don’t know, ten hands in at this one table, and these fuckin thugs in cheap suits come and ask us if we don’t mind taking a walk. Didn’t even get to the actual plan.”

“That was a terrible, terrible idea,” Cas interjects.

“Don’t I know it. So yeah, these guys take us into a back office, and there’s this poncey British dude, eyes like coal, spins around in his office chair like a fuckin’ Bond villain. I probably should have been scared shitless, but I wasn’t. I think Sam was though. Never seen him shut up so fast. Anyway, this guy, I think his name was Crowley or some shit, goes on this rant about rules and business acumen and the empire he’s building. I kinda tuned him out. He gets to the end of it and he’s like, who are you boys. And we give him our names. And then he’s like, where are you from. And for some damn reason, I decide it’s a good time to lie, so I tell him, Poughkeepsie. He raises an eyebrow like I’m full of shit, which I am, but he doesn’t say anything, and then he goes, well, Sam and Dean from Poughkeepsie, if I ever see your pretty little faces in my casino again, I will…. You know, I actually don’t remember what he threatened? Something vague. References to torture. Point is, we were escorted out of the casino in a most unkind fashion, and I think we spent the rest of the trip on the nickel slots.” Dean shakes his head ruefully. “I don’t know what ever possessed either of us to think we could pull this thing off, but we were lucky all we got was kicked out. Anyway. Poughkeepsie. That’s my safeword.”

“Poughkeepsie it is,” Cas laughs.

-----

Dean corners Cas in the kitchen as he’s putting away the last of the dishes from dinner. “Get bored of Netflix?” Cas asks, draping his dishtowel over the handle of the oven door.

Instead of answering, Dean crowds Cas up against the counter, then, before he can reconsider and lose his resolve, kisses Cas full on the mouth. Cas doesn’t miss a beat, though he can’t have been expecting it. Almost immediately he takes control. Firm hands grip Dean’s hips, manoeuvering him around until Dean’s the one backed up against the counter and Cas is the one doing the crowding. From there, he deepens the kiss, licking into Dean’s mouth and letting his hands roam from hips up to waist, and Dean moans softly against the pressure of Cas’ lips. His hands loosen their grip on the counter and come forward to grasp Cas’ hips, tugging him closer. Dean told himself walking into the room that he was just going to go for a quick kiss, just to see if Cas would permit it outside a scene, but this is what he really wanted. He wanted the fire, the passion. He wanted Cas to want him, and from the growing bulge pressed up against his hip, Dean’s pretty sure he’s getting exactly what he wanted.

Dean, and he’d be totally ashamed to admit this, fucking melts. It’s not even the aggression that does it, though he won’t deny he likes being manhandled. It’s the fire in it that Dean likes. Even when they scene and Cas kisses him, it’s reserved, controlled. It’s all part of whatever carefully calculated plan he’s got going at the time, and while Cas obviously gets something out of it just as much as Dean does, it’s nothing like this. Cas moves against him, a fluid thing, making low sounds in his throat. He touches Dean, possessive with his hands, getting as close as possible and still trying for more. And his mouth, god, his mouth! The wet slide of his tongue against Dean’s, the masterful way his lips move, the teeth nipping at Dean’s lip, biting just short of pain until Dean whimpers. And then Cas growls, surging in to kiss and claim, and Dean is just putty in his hands.

The first real breath he gets since the whole thing began comes when Cas moves his lips away from Dean’s mouth to nip at his jaw, leaving a trail of hot kisses and tiny little red marks. The breath comes out shaky and raw, Dean’s hands clinging to Cas’ shoulders like that’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“So I’m guessing you want to skip right to playtime,” Cas growls against Dean’s throat, sharp teeth reddening the tender flesh.

Dean’s eyes squeeze shut. It takes all his focus just to try to form words. “I kinda just want this right now,” he admits in a voice barely above a whisper. “Is that ok?” Dean hates how weak his voice sounds, how pleading and desperate it is, begging for confirmation.

“That’s just fine, Dean,” Cas answers quickly, but even so Dean lets out a shaky breath in relief when he hears it. “Maybe we don’t stay in the kitchen though?” Reluctantly, Dean releases his grip on Cas’ shoulders, immediately regretting it when Cas steps away and he’s left without the warmth of Cas’ body. He follows to the living room though, where Cas picks up the remote and puts a random movie on Netflix, some random old kung fu movie with subtitles that neither of them is going to read. Cas sits himself down on the couch and pulls Dean onto his lap, one knee on either side of Cas’ thighs, and immediately drags him down into another heated kiss.

It’s been so, so long since Dean can remember just making out with someone. It’s always a means to an end, it seems. But he knows they’re not going to fuck, not until he gets that damned test back, which should be any day now but still. And he knows they’re not going to scene because he already declined that in favour of this, so unless Dean actually retracts his answer and asks for something a bit rougher, this is where the evening is going. There’s no endgame, no pressure, and for the first time in years, Dean can take the time to really enjoy it. Which is exactly what he sets out to do.

Dean braces his hands on Cas’ shoulders and settles in comfortably on his lap. There’s no ignoring the brush of Cas’ cock against his own, even through two pairs of pants, but he forces himself to push the thought aside. It feels good, yes, but so does Cas’ tongue caressing his own, and Cas’ hands pushing their way under the hem of Dean’s t-shirt. Maybe he can have just this, just for now, if he’s smart enough not to let himself chase it towards something else.

Somehow they end up lying down on the couch, Cas on top of Dean, making out and grinding against each other like horny teenagers. Dean’s lips are swollen and kiss-bitten, his face scratched by Cas’ stubble, his hands roaming freely to hold Cas close, but they’re both still fully clothed and Dean, at least, has no plans on trying to change that. He moans softly against Cas’ mouth when the roll of their hips gives enough friction to send sparks of pleasure from his cock right up into his brain, and he kisses back for all he’s worth, and it never gets any further than that. By the time the nameless kung fu movie has played its course and the credits are rolling, Dean’s arousal has taken a total back seat and he’s content. Happy, even. He plays with Cas’ hair and smiles when Cas smiles and even if it’s just for tonight, he gets to have this good thing.

Outside the bathroom, the same scene that played out last night makes a repeat appearance. It’s less subtle this time, the look on Cas’ face a more open invitation, the nod of his head more pronounced, and Dean nods back, because maybe he’s weak, but maybe he’ll always be weak, so why fight it. He crawls into Cas’ bed and lets Cas wrap arms around him, curl up behind him like a big spoon and press his lips to the back of Dean’s neck until they fall asleep. It doesn’t even take Dean that long to drift off, and that should say something, but he pointedly pretends it doesn’t.

-----

Sam, as it turns out, is more than happy to hear Dean’s side of the story. The tension is still palpable when Dean arrives back at the house Saturday afternoon. He almost knocks, before mentally bitchslapping himself and walking through the front door like he lives here because, well, he does. Sam is seated in the living room with some documentary on aardvarks with a cup of some fucking herbal shit that smells like death.

“Hey,” Dean offers blithely as he sits down on the couch. Sam mutes the TV and turns to face Dean, his motions slow and deliberate.

“Hey.”

“So you talked to Bobby,” he says, false nonchalance betrayed by the firm set of his shoulders and the knee that won’t stop bouncing.

Sam makes a crooked smile, half embarrassed, half warmth. “I just wanted to check if you’d been in to work. You know, make sure nothing had happened to you. You just kind of disappeared.”

“Well I was fucking pissed,” Dean snaps.

“I know, I know. It wasn’t the best reaction, was it?”

“You mean the part where you accused me of being too stupid to know when someone was taking advantage of me? Or the part where you jumped to a whole bunch of totally wrong conclusions and then refused to listen when I tried to tell you what’s actually what? ‘Cause yeah, you sorta blew the whole thing. For a lawyer, you’re shit at arguments.” Dean’s laugh is short and bitter. “Not the best reaction is kind of an understatement.”

“Jeez, ok, I get it,” Sam cringes. “You wanna keep tearing me a new one or are you going to explain what’s going on?”

Dean sighs. This is the part he’s been dreading since he woke up this morning. Even the warmth of Cas’ body tucked up behind his wasn’t enough to settle the apprehension. “Ok, but remember, you asked.”

Sam spreads his hands, the corners of his mouth pulling downwards. “I’m just gonna let you talk.”

“Well for starters,” Dean tells Sam, trying to keep the venom out of his voice and mostly (mostly) succeeding, “Cas isn’t my damn boyfriend. He’s a friend, and he’s not fucking abusing me, so you can just wipe that shit right out of your mind.”

“But you are sleeping together,” Sam interjects, earning a sharp look from his brother.

“I’m just gonna let you talk,” Dean repeats mockingly. “But since you jumped right to that part, yeah. It’s a sex thing. At least, it’s kind of a sex thing. It’s sorta non… uh… non-traditional, I guess.”

“I picked up on that,” Sam snarks.

“Dude, shut up!” Dean snaps. Sam raises his hands defensively. “It’s like, look, I don’t really wanna talk about this shit any more than you wanna hear about it, so just can it. There’s bondage, and there’s sex, and he fucking takes care of me, ok? Like, all he cares about is whether I’m ok and if it’s too much and if I’m happy. And there’s rules. If it was ever hurting me all I have to say is one word and everything stops.”

“So how’d you end up with those?” Sam asks, his voice softer than last time they spoke about this.

“I didn’t notice it was happening,” Dean says plainly.

“I find that hard to believe,” Sam mutters under his breath.

“Well, you weren’t there,” Dean snaps. “And I think we’re both thankful for that. But lemme tell you, I’m lucky I remembered how to breathe on my own when he was done with me.”

“Dude, gross,” Sam shouts, cringing again.

“Well, don’t be a dick then. Anyway, point is, Cas was really fucking upset when he found out I got hurt. He thought I wasn’t telling him I was uncomfortable and he had a serious problem with that. He’s totally on my side, and you need to get over this.”

Sam sighs. “I’m not sure it’s going to be that easy, Dean. This is way off book for me.”

“And you think I’m like, an expert at this shit? All I know is I like being around him and the rest of it doesn’t suck either.” Dean isn’t entirely sure where to go from here, because honestly, the conversation is going way better than any of the thousand times he played the worst case scenario game in his head. Sam’s not yelling or calling him horrible names or calling the cops on Cas or any of the shit he imagined. So he goes somewhere he hadn’t exactly planned on. “So I think the best thing for now is for you to meet him and see for yourself that he’s not some crazy serial killer or whatever, and then you can stop trying to be my third parent.”

Sam laughs. “Your solution is to invite your kinky friend-with-benefits over for a cup of tea and just hope we’ll all be best of friends?”

“You got a better solution that doesn’t involve you having a freak out every time I end up with a bruise?” Dean snarks, and Sam just shakes his head.

“No, I suppose I don’t,” he admits. “Jess is coming over for dinner tonight. Why don’t you invite Cas. She’ll be a great buffer.”

“Probably not a bad idea to have a nurse around,” Dean snorts. “You know, in case you decide you’ve gotta defend my honour and pick a fight.”

“I’m not going to pick a fight with your boyfriend,” Sam says defensively, earning him the ugliest look Dean has at his disposal. It’s got nothing on Sam’s bitch-faces, but it gets the point across. “Sorry. Not boyfriend. You know what I mean. I’m not going to be a dick.”

“That’ll be a first,” Dean replies, and suddenly they’re laughing again like nothing’s wrong, like Dean didn’t just spend the last three days sleeping at his not-boyfriend’s house; like Sam didn’t lose his shit because of the rope burns on Dean’s wrists; like they’re normal people who have conversations about things instead of yelling and running away.

-----

Sam and Dean fight about what to make for dinner. And then they fight about who should cook. They fight about whether the four of them should watch a movie together after or whether that’s enough forced interaction. They fight and they bicker and they argue for literally the entire afternoon, until about five minutes before Jess is set to arrive, Dean retreats to his room for a moment of peace before he has to pretend again. This is going to go horribly, that voice in his head insists. Sam is going to hate Cas. Hate him. He’s going to be rude and judgemental and brutal about the entire thing, and there’s not really going to be anything Dean can do except sit there and let Sam drive him off. It was a terrible idea. He can’t remember how he managed to agree to it in the first place, but it was a huge, huge mistake.

“Dean?” Jess calls, knocking firmly on his door. “Can you come out here please?” He doesn’t really want to, but when he doesn’t answer right away she lets herself in, smiling sweetly.

“Dude, Jess. You can’t just storm in like that! What if I was naked?” Ah, if only that’s what Dean was actually affronted about.

“You know I’m a nurse, right? Do you have any idea how many penises I see in the course of my work week? Come on. Come be social.” She strides off down the hallway, confident she’s being heeded, and leaves the door open in her wake. Dean’s slow in following, dragging his feet around the room petulantly while he changes into something clean before he emerges. The hallway smells of spices and fragrant herbs, and the aromatic air that wafts towards him carries with it the sounds of Sam and Jess laughing, as well as another voice, one he wasn’t expecting to hear quite yet.

“Cas?” Dean calls out expectantly. “When did you get here?”

“Just a few minutes ago.” Cas vacates his seat at the kitchen table in favour of meeting Dean half way into the room, hugging him like it’s going out of style and sharing a smile that’s a bit softer, a bit warmer than the one he shares with the table. He’s dressed in a deep blue button down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and a grey vest, dressed down with a pair of dark jeans. Dean thinks about telling Cas that he didn’t have to dress up for the occasion but he’s kind of glad he did. Sam’s not one to stand on ceremony or judge on appearances, and this certainly isn’t the same as bringing a significant other home to meet the parents, but it says something poignant that this impromptu pseudo family dinner felt like an occasion worth slightly more effort to Cas. Dean hopes his appreciation is palpable in the smile he gives back.

“Cas showed up about the time I told you to get your butt our here,” Jess chimes in, shooting him a withering glance that she completely ruins with a playful wink. “I’m not sure what Sam’s making for dinner. He insisted on doing all the cooking himself, so your guess is as good as mine what we’re having.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Cas offers diplomatically. “It smells great, in any case. Is that lemongrass?”

Sam nods. “Thai curry. It’s a spice mix from a package, but I did add some fresh lemongrass and cilantro. I hope it’s good.”

“No tofu though, right?” Dean demands accusingly.

“There’s no tofu, Dean. Just chicken and prawns.” Sam rolls his eyes in an exaggerated show of how ridiculous he thinks Dean is being.

To Dean’s relief, Sam is in a considerably better mood than he was when Dean retreated to his room earlier in the afternoon. He’s chatty and engaged, but even so, Dean’s sitting on the edge of his seat waiting for the other shoe to drop. Any minute, he might decide it’s time to lay into Cas, go into lawyer mode and cross examine him. Find some little chink in his armour, some flaw to get his hooks into. Dean doesn’t for a second believe that Cas is incapable of defending himself, oh goodness no. He’s not worried about that. He is, however, worried about what will happen in the aftermath. That’s a lot of scrutiny to bear just for someone you’re not even fucking. A lot of bullshit to deal with for someone you’re not dating. Dean wouldn’t blame him for deciding he doesn’t want to go through with it, and he’s waiting for the moment Sam decides to start in, just waiting for Cas to throw in the towel and walk out.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” Dean asks, suddenly aware that Jess is talking to him. He’s too focused on what could happen. He needs to get his attention on what’s happening in front of him right now.

“I was asking where you and Castiel met,” She repeats, pulling the cork from a bottle of wine and offering it around the table. Sam has a beer with him at the edge of the stove so he declines, but Cas accepts graciously.

“At a bar,” Dean replies sheepishly. “I had kind of the shittiest day ever a few months ago, and I went out to basically drink my feelings, and we just sort of ran into each other.”

“Dean had just gotten fired and dumped,” Cas supplies, helpfully, earning him a glare from the man in question. “My older brother had just been sentenced to five years for fraud and possession. It was a good day all around. You know what they say, misery loves company. Only Dean seemed like he was going to be carrying his misery around a lot longer, so I figured he could use a friend to help carry the burden.” He looks at Jess as he says it, but the words are clearly meant for Sam’s benefit.

“Not exactly a fairytale,” Jess observes, but she’s smiling. Doesn’t seem to matter that Sam has reservations. It’s clear that she likes Cas just fine.

“Dude, have you ever read any of the old versions of those? Grimms Brothers or whatever? They’re brutal. People getting their eyes pecked out by birds, little kids getting baked into pies. Not exactly what I’d be dreaming of anyway,” Dean counters. “But no. Not storybook. Considering I didn’t exactly have any friends left standing after the whole ex-girlfriend debacle, though, I ain’t complaining.”

“So, this older brother,” Sam asks, sitting back down beside Jess and laying a light kiss on her cheek. “He’s in the state penitentiary? Is he going to be filing for appeal?” Dean tries to give him a look that demands silence on the subject, but it’s too late. The words are already out.

“Um, no,” Cas says quietly. “There will be no appeal. Luke had a habit of getting on people’s bad sides. Apparently that applies behind bars, too. My parents him had him cremated yesterday.”

Sam recoils like he’s been slapped. Rightly so, Dean thinks, because he’s got half a mind to slap him right across the face. The wound is too fresh for Cas to be forced to talk about this with strangers. He’s not on trial here. The daggers he’s staring across the table should be boring holes in Sam’s skull by now, and his jaw hurts from clenching it to keep his mouth from saying something truly cruel.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam murmurs after a moment, voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t even begin to imagine how I would be feeling in your shoes. You must think I’m an insensitive asshole.”

Dean opens his mouth to confirm that Sam is, in fact, exactly that, but Cas catches his eye and shakes his head. “It’s quite alright. You had no way of knowing. I’m just grateful Dean was around last weekend when I found out though. Bearing that kind of grief all by myself, I’m not sure I’d still be standing.” It’s petty, but Dean’s first thought is he hopes Sam remembers giving him shit for not coming home that weekend and puts two and two together.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, eager to change the subject. “Dean’s always been good at looking after people. Took pretty good care of me as a kid, when mom and dad were working or whatever. Not quite as good at taking care of himself sometimes though.” Dean levels another glare across the table, but Sam ignores it.

“On this, we can agree. He definitely needs to be reminded of that sometimes,” Cas replies with a smirk.

Dean glowers. “Sitting right here, guys.” At least they’re agreeing on something, though.

“I think Dean’s compassion is one of the greatest things about him,” Cas continues, and Dean wants to crawl under a rock and die. “He may be selfless to a fault, but he’s also remarkably kind. I consider myself lucky to have a friend like him.”

At this point, thankfully, the timer Sam set for the rice goes off, and he’s forced to abandon the conversation in favour of tending to dinner. Dean gives Cas a ‘what the fuck’ look, which just gets a shrug in response. As Sam serves up steaming plates of rice and fragrant red curry, full of chicken and bamboo shoots and prawns and no tofu at all, Jess catches Castiel’s eye.

“So what do you do, Cas?” she asks.

I tie your boyfriend’s brother up and spank him until he cries, the awful little voice in Dean’s brain mutters wickedly, and he should have been expecting it because, hello, it’s his brain, but it catches him off guard and he chokes on his beer. He waves Cas off when he sees the look of concern on his face. “Just swallowed wrong, it’s fine.”

“I’m a registered massage therapist,” Cas replies. “I have a treatment space in my home, so I work for myself. It’s quite a lot nicer than working for someone else, and I get to help people.”

“He’s good at it, too,” Dean chimes in, happy that the conversation is no longer a discussion of his personality traits. “Awesome with his hands.” It takes Dean only the space of a breath to realize how easily that statement could be misconstrued, but apparently he’s the only one with his mind in the gutter because the conversation has already moved on without him and no one else has reacted to the unintentional innuendo.

Despite Dean’s reservations, they make it through dinner without arguments or accusations. Sam doesn’t go into lawyer mode, Cas isn’t forced to endure a character assassination, and Jess doesn’t have to tend to any wounds. By the end of the night, Dean has almost forgotten why he was worried in the first place. Almost.

“Thank you for the excellent meal, Sam,” Cas says, gracious as always as they make their goodbyes. Dean’s offered to drive him home, eager for the short respite from the scrutiny. Sam raises an eyebrow when he heads for the door, but Dean assures him that he’s coming home, and as the door clicks shut it looks like Sam and Jess are settling in to watch a movie.

“So, do you think it helped?” Cas queries as they sit in the Impala waiting for the engine to warm up.

“Pretty sure,” Dean admits with relief. “I mean, I don’t know. Not for sure. But you didn’t get treated like a hostile witness so at the very least you made a good impression. Probably not going to have to deal with Sam freaking out like that again.”

“You know, he’s probably going to be a whole lot more understanding if you don’t get hurt again.”

“I know, I know, I’ll pay more attention next time,” Dean promises.

There’s a moment in Cas’ driveway where he thinks Cas is going to say something, but either he imagines it or Cas decides against it. Instead, he waves a casual goodnight and heads into the house without further comment.

At home, Dean makes a beeline for his room. It’s nice to be back home in his own bed, and the day has been mentally exhausting so perhaps an early night is exactly what he needs. Besides, letting Sam and Jess have some time alone seems like the nice thing to do, and considering Sam was so much less difficult than Dean expected, he probably deserves the consideration. So it’s unexpected when there’s a knock on the door only a few minutes after he settles in with a battered copy of Cat’s Cradle. Sam opens the door without waiting for a response, a trend that Dean isn’t a huge fan of.

“You good?” Sam asks, closing the door behind him. “Wasn’t expecting you to disappear into your room right away.”

“Just wanted to give you and Jess some space.” Sam nods, appreciative, but he doesn’t vacate the room.

“Hey um,” Sam says, cagey. “Cas seems like a pretty ok guy.”

“Yup,” Dean agrees, sliding a slip of receipt paper into his book to mark his place. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“Yeah, I know. I guess I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I still can’t say I like this whole thing, but I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat.”

“Thanks. Jess put you up to this?” Dean asks.

“No, this is me. Although when I told her where I was going, she did tell me I was stupid for not doing it sooner.” Sam admits it grudgingly.

“I like your girlfriend,” Dean says, stifling a laugh. “She’s tough. Cas, he uh… he suggested it might be a good idea for you guys to meet about three days ago when I first took off, so I guess we’ve both shacked up with people who are way smarter than us, huh?”

“Well, it’s a damn good thing,” Sam agrees. “Anyway, I’m gonna get back to Jess and our movie.” Sam glances back over his shoulder just before he closes the door behind him. “I like your boyfriend too.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Dean calls after his brother, but Sam doesn’t reply and his voice echoes off the walls.

Chapter Text

Cas told Dean all about what to expect at the party. He told him there would be varying degrees of nudity and people wearing all manner of clothing, from jeans and tee-shirt to literally nothing at all. He should expect leather and studs, people in collars with leashes, and probably some outfits the average person would consider scandalous and outlandish. He should expect to see people scening in plain view. There would be benches and wooden crosses and various other devices for people to be tied and strapped and cuffed to, and it’s not unheard of for the sound of leather hitting flesh to punctuate conversation without warning. Cas warned Dean about all these things, but none of it really makes Dean feel prepared for the party.

Since the dress code is no dress code at all, Dean’s chosen a black t-shirt and comfortable jeans, just like he would for any other Saturday night out. Cas looks remarkably nondescript in a dress shirt and blazer over jeans, all dark blues and blacks. He’s always in dark colours, Dean has noticed, except for when he’s doing yoga. Or preparing to spank Dean’s ass raw.

“Now, look,” Cas says, reaching out to turn down the Impala’s radio down a notch. Dean flinches inwardly. If Sam touched the stereo, he’d lose the hand. “No one is going to touch you without permission, and these people are generally very respectful. But if anything happens that you’re not comfortable with, you just tell them you’re under my protection. And if you need to go, just drop your safeword into conversation and I’ll make an excuse. There’s no pressure to stay.”

“You’re not making me feel exactly confident in this whole thing,” Dean mutters, not taking his eyes off the road.

“I’m just saying,” Cas says defensively.

“You’ve been just saying a whole bunch this evening.”

“I don’t want you to be caught off guard by anything,” he explains.

“I can go to a party, Cas. It’s just people, right? I’ll be fine.”

Dean’s certainty lasts until the moment they walk into the venue. On a normal night, this place is a banquet hall. There’s a table set up near the entrance where a woman with neatly styled hair takes their money and stamps their wrists. Dean doesn’t bother checking his coat, but Cas hands his, the same one he was wearing the night Dean met him, to the skinny guy behind the counter and sticks the ticket into his wallet. And it all seems so freaking normal, like they’re showing up for some kind of convention or a high school reunion or something, until they approach the door to the ballroom proper, and it’s covered by a curtain.

“It’s so people who wander in off the street can’t see what’s happening inside,” Cas explains, and Dean swallows hard.

“Oh,” he replies, and steels himself as Cas pushes the curtain aside.

It is possibly the single most anti-climactic moment of his life. He’d been expecting something outlandish and scandalous, with dim lighting and gimp masks and maybe an actual dungeon with like, flaming torches set into the wall. It’s not that. This party is a dungeon party in name only. Any other Saturday this room is probably host to wedding receptions and company Christmas parties and all other manner of cookie cutter events. There’s a bar along one side, a disinterested looking guy in a bow-tie and vest leaning on one elbow, waiting for something to do. A few tables are scattered across one half of the room, people in twos and threes seated throughout, engaged in casual conversation. It’s so unbelievably tame, even as compared to the most conservative of Dean’s imaginings. Certainly not worth the buildup.

“Do you want a drink?” Cas asks, nodding towards the bar. Crossing the room, Dean takes the opportunity to get a better look at its other occupants. There’s such a disparity. Cas waves at one couple, a pair of girls in cocktail dresses and heels, who wouldn’t be out of place in a nightclub, and they wave back with enthusiasm. But just to the left of the bar, he sees a man roughly his own age wearing nothing but a pair of black lace panties, a thick leather collar around his neck. The collar’s leash is held in the hand of a woman who could be the PTA president at her kids’ elementary school if it weren’t for the vinyl corset that’s pushing her breasts up close to her chin. There’s a couple of guys in dresses, some of them looking markedly more comfortable than others, and leather as far as the eye can see.

Dean orders a beer, plastering on a false smile. Cas reaches out and squeezes his hand reassuringly. He’s so keyed in to Dean’s moods that even when he’s putting on a show of confidence, Cas can tell when he needs to borrow some strength. It’s remarkable, Dean thinks, because if anyone else were to pull that he’d be affronted and snappish, but from Cas it’s welcome and appreciated. He squeezes back, stamping down the swell of emotions that bubbles up at that kind of contact, and waits for something to happen.

“How’re you doing?” Cas asks, scanning the crowd. He’d promised that there were submissives he’d introduce Dean to. Apparently Cas knows quite a few people who get off on what pushes Dean’s buttons. Dean wants to ask if it’s because they’re people he’s messed around with or just because they self-identify, but he stops himself. There’s no point in getting jealous over something that isn’t even his.

“I’m golden,” Dean lies, taking a long swallow of his beer. Now he’s hung up trying to figure out which of these people Cas has tied up and spanked. Has he fucked many of them? How does Dean measure up? Is he even half as good at this as whatever partners Cas has had in past? His mood darkens and it takes a great deal of effort not to down his beer in one long pull.

“Uh huh,” Cas murmurs, the sarcasm plain in his tone. “I’m sure you are. What’s up?”

“Nothing. I just think too much, is all.”

“Well stop it,” he says in that commanding voice Dean loves and can’t help but obey. “You’re here to have fun and meet people. No thinking required. Come on. I see a couple people I know.” He tugs at Dean’s hand, taking a few paces away from his side and looking back to make sure Dean follows. He does, reluctantly, but when they come to a stop beside the couple Cas is apparently friends with, Cas’ arm slides around his waist oh so casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world and they do this all the time. It’s comforting, makes him feel safe, which is probably exactly why Cas did it. The warmth of Cas’ hand bleeds through Dean’s t-shirt and he inches closer, letting Cas press their hips together while he makes introductions.

On the surface, the people Cas is introducing him too look like a total power couple. She’s dressed in a pencil skirt and a white blouse, unbuttoned to show an impressive amount of cleavage. Dean has a hard time not looking, but then, apparently so do most of the eyes in their immediate vicinity. She’s got long dark hair falling in waves, and even without the spike heels she’d be tall. Her partner, a dark- haired man with grey at the temples, is all hard lines and sharp angles. He’s in a shirt and tie, all buttoned down and tidy, but he carries himself like he’d be much more at ease in denim and leather, astride a motorcycle with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. Dean immediately likes him.

“Maggie, Don, I’d like you to meet Dean,” Cas intones, the hand that rests on Dean’s waist squeezing gently. Dean grins broadly now that he’s feeling somewhat less apprehensive and turns on the charm. He doesn’t really think on the why but he’s decided it’s incredibly important to make a good impression on Cas’ friends.

Maggie shakes his hand, her grip firm and unyielding. Dean holds his hand out to Don as well, a greeting on his lips, but Don doesn’t reach for it at first. His eyes twitch sideways to Maggie, who tears her attention away from conversation with Cas long enough to give a short nod, and only then does Don grasp Dean’s hand. His demeanor changes just slightly then from one of walled off aloofness to careful deference. Maggie and Cas chat amiably for a few moments, Dean and Don eying each other uncertainly the whole time. Eventually, Maggie sees someone across the room she wants to talk to so the couple take their leave, and Dean is once more confused.

“What was that about,” he asks as soon as they’re out of earshot. His gaze follows the swing of Maggie’s hips as she retreats across the room, Don never leaving her side as they’re swallowed up by the moving crowd.

“Maggie and Don are in a 24/7 Dom/sub relationship. He’s at her command all day, every day. You notice how he didn’t shake your hand right away?” Dean nods. “He was waiting for permission. Maggie lets him interact with other subs all he wants, but she’s selective about which other dominants he can speak to and on what terms. You’re unfamiliar, so he needed permission to even acknowledge you, and that wariness is because he doesn’t know yet if he’s allowed to talk to you.”

“Yikes,” Dean says with a cringe. “That’s intense.”

“It seems that way. But they’re a very well balanced couple, and I’ve known them since they first met. There’s a great deal of respect there. If he’s been good tonight she might take him on the floor later. That might interest you.” Cas gestures towards the section of the room filled with all the nameless equipment, separated from the seating area by a crimson velvet rope. The floor, as Cas called it, is starting to come to life now that there are more people in attendance. There’s a few couples at play or getting set up for it, hands being bound and cuffs being fastened. Soon, if Cas’ descriptions are to be believed, things are about to start getting kinda freaky.

Dean tries to relax, letting his eyes roam over the crowd and getting a feel for the party. He expected the experience to be a bit shocking, but it’s honestly not. Sure, there are people being paddled and whipped and flogged on the floor, and one girl in the back is a total screamer, but it’s nothing unfathomable or offensive. The weirdest thing, if Dean is being entirely honest, is the soundtrack of mid ‘90s trip-hop that’s emanating from the speakers. It’s a mix of Portishead and Sneaker Pimps and a whole bunch of other stuff Dean has never heard of. It’s not at all what he’d be playing if he sat on a kink party planning committee, but hey, what does he know? He’s the newcomer here.

A short girl with dark hair and darker eyes approaches out of the corner of Dean’s vision, the broad grin splitting her face striking Dean as nothing short of unsettling.

“Cas-Tee-El.” She drags his name out tauntingly. “I haven’t seen you at one of these in a long ass time. Thought you were too good for us.”

“Nice to see you too, Meg,” Cas says with a laugh. “I’ve been busy.”

“I can see that,” she says flatly, eyeing Dean up in a most unwholesome way. “Your dance card all full or do you think you can spare a bit of time to take me for a spin?”

“Sorry, social visit only. I’m not taking any time on the floor tonight. Meg, this is Dean.”

“Dean,” she repeats with a curt nod, which Dean returns. “Boy, you must be something special. I haven’t seen my buddy Cas here at a party in months.” Her eyes take on a predatory gleam. “Maybe some time he’ll let me have a turn at you, see what really makes you tick. Cas,” she says with a dismissive wave before turning and striding off into the crowd.

“I’m sorry about that.” Cas shakes his head as she walks away, turning to face Dean. “Meg used to sub for me. She’s… difficult. And her bark is worse than her bite. Unless of course you let her get her hands on a flogger, or a whip. Then she’s nasty.”

“I thought you said she subbed for you.”

“Yes. She plays both sides of the coin though. She’s what we call a switch. I actually think you’d like her, although I’m certainly not about to offer… how did she put it… to let her have a turn at you?” Cas rolls his eyes.

“Do people do that?” Dean asks, somewhat astonished.

“What, share subs? Sure, if the sub is ok with it.” Dean makes a face. “Hey, “ Cas says with a laugh. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’d never ask you to do something you weren’t comfortable with, and besides,” Cas says, leaning in and dropping his voice down into a dangerous whisper. “I kinda like having you all to myself.” Dean preens, swelling with pride, and Cas raises a hand to drag a knuckle along the line of Dean’s jaw. “She’s not wrong. You’re definitely something special.”

It doesn’t take long for Dean to find himself completely enrapt in watching a suspension bondage demonstration. At the forefront of the floor sits this large wooden frame, cross-braced beams all gleaming with varnish, heavy hooks anchored securely into the thick wood. It reminds Dean of a gallows, which, aside from the important distinction of being hanged versus being hung, is probably a fairly accurate way to look at it. Cas managed to snag a couple of seats right near the velvet rope so they’ve got an unobstructed view, and it’s pretty damn cool. A tangle of ropes tied in intricate knots all along the left side of this tiny, birdlike woman’s body forms the framework for suspension. It’s fascinating to watch. It’s all carefully crafted to not put too much pressure here, not to bind a joint there, and before long, the man at the other end of the ropes is feeding a line through one of the eyelets hanging from the top of the frame and hoisting her skyward. She hovers effortlessly, just as relaxed and comfortable as if she were reclined in a hammock.

“Wow,” Dean murmurs, mostly under his breath. There is nothing at all sexual about this, which is unexpected, but instead it’s just beauty and craftsmanship.

“Is that something you’re interested in?” Cas asks, gesturing to the suspended girl. “It’s not something I’m experienced at, but I could certainly introduce you to someone.”

“Me? No. I think I’m a bit big for that anyway. I don’t mind watching it though. He’s really good at all that ropework.”

Cas excuses himself to go find a restroom, and Dean returns his attention to the bondage. Apparently it’s a dynamic display, and she’s able to move and reposition herself within the ropes. There’s something acrobatic about the whole thing, fluid and graceful, and he loses track of time watching it until someone sits down in the seat next to him. He’s expecting it to be Cas, but it’s not.

“Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn’t Dean motherfucking Winchester,” Charlie drawls in the fakest southern accent in the history of bad fake accents. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Dean cannot believe his eyes. He blinks a couple times just to make sure he’s not imagining things, but the sight in front of him does not change. It is most assuredly Charlie Bradbury sitting beside him, but there is almost nothing familiar about her. The mini-skirt she’s wearing is barely long enough to deserve the name, and instead of a shirt with a video game character like he’s used to seeing her in, she wears an emerald green satin corset, cinched tight around her waist and pushing her breasts up and out enticingly. Her red hair hangs in tight curls and she’s done something with makeup that makes her eyes look dark and sultry.

“Uh…” Dean stammers. “I guess I could ask you the same question.”

“Fair enough,” she laughs. “Hey Gilda! Look who I found!” Charlie bellows, waving above her head at a girl who vaguely resembles Gilda but certainly cannot be because she’s wearing nothing but a bra and panties, and Dean can’t fathom seeing his friend’s girlfriend dressed like that in public so there’s no way it’s actually Gilda.

“But really though,” Charlie carries on, leaning on Dean’s shoulder. “I mean, have you been coming to these things all this time and I’ve just never run in to you, or is this you popping your dungeon party cherry? And you’re here… alone?”

“Not exactly. Remember how I said my life was uh… complicated lately? I’m here with the complication.” Dean tries to survey the room for Cas’ return while he speaks, but it’s difficult with their chairs facing the rope display and there’s too many people standing behind them to get a good look.

“Hmm,” Charlie hums thoughtfully. “That’s most unexpected. Well anyway, I’m glad you’re here. We’ll have to see if this complication passes the Charlie test. Can’t have you messing around with anyone beneath your station.”

“Pfft, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh Dean, you know you’re a catch. I mean, I’m nearly too gay to function but even I can tell you’re a very attractive man. And you’re a super nice guy. Bonus points for being a huge nerd, too. Whoever you’re getting complicated with has gotta be at least as awesome or I really can’t permit it. It would be a waste, and the universe loathes wastefulness.” Gilda chooses this moment to join them, slipping between their chairs and dropping herself in Charlie’s lap with a coy smile.

“Well he should be back any minute, so you can tell me whether he passes muster, I guess,” Dean mutters, feeling the anxiety rise like a bubble in his throat. Dean hadn’t considered the possibility of meeting someone he already knew here. What’s the protocol for this? Is it like, the first rule of kink club is that you don’t talk about kink club? Or is he going to meet Charlie for coffee now and have to have a conversation about bondage in the middle of Espresso Patronum? Oh Jesus. What if Dean runs into someone else he knows here? The first spikes of panic start to heat his skin, sending Dean into a spiral and looking for the nearest exit when a firm hand lands on his shoulder, and the warmth of Cas’ touch shouldn’t be enough to take the edge off, but it is. Just his presence is enough to force Dean to take a deep breath, fortify, and consider that maybe, just maybe, it’s actually a really good thing that he’s run in to Charlie here.

“Cas?” Charlie exclaims in exaggerated disbelief. “You’re Dean’s ‘it’s complicated?’ Oh this is just too good. Way too good.”

“Charlie,” Cas replies calmly, though his lips twitch upward like he’s fighting to keep a smile off his face. “It’s good to see you. Where do you know Dean from?”

“Oh I’ve been serving him coffee for eons. Dean and I go way back.”

“Ah, well it’s a shame I didn’t know you two already knew each other. I’ve been telling Dean he needs to meet more people in the community. It would have been so much easier if I knew he had you.” Cas squeezes Dean’s shoulder reassuringly. “How come you’ve never mentioned Charlie?”

“Uh, never came up? We’re not, you know, dating or whatever. Didn’t realize I needed to introduce you to my friends.” Dean ducks his head in embarrassment. “But yeah. I know Charlie. It was her dinner party I was at last Friday. Wait.” He rounds on Charlie, “I don’t suppose Cas was this ‘friend’ you were real keen on me meeting, was he?”

“Circle gets the square,” Charlie replies sheepishly. “But I was right, wasn’t I? You guys get along great. How was I supposed to know you already met?”

“Gilda,” Cas murmurs, drawing everyone’s attention. “Why don’t we go get these two a couple of drinks, let them have a minute.” Reluctantly, she extricates herself from her girlfriend’s lap.

“Try not to upset her too badly, Dean,” She murmurs playfully, running her palm along Charlie’s jawline and tilting her chin up for a kiss. “I’ve got plans for tonight, and it’s way less fun to make her cry later if you’ve already got her started.”

Dean sputters as she walks away, useless for a coherent response, but Charlie just laughs loudly.

“Um. Yeah. So, that’s a thing. Since you’ve probably already pieced it together at this point anyway. But yes. Gilda is fucking bossy. You cannot unlearn these things. I’m truly sorry.”

“Picking up on that. I’m not really in a position to judge though. I’m at a dungeon party with my ‘it’s complicated.’ I’m not about to start throwing stones. I am gonna ask you where you got the idea that you should set me up with your hot Dom friend, though.” The rope display is coming to an end, with the rigger letting the tiny girl set her feet back on the ground and slowly starting to unwind the countless strands of rope that had held her bound and supported, but Dean only pays it half a mind.

“See, I wasn’t,” she defends. “It was definitely just about the fact that Castiel is like, the nicest guy, and I thought you guys would get along really well. I really don’t spend a lot of time thinking about what my friends like in the bedroom, to be entirely honest with you. But, well, you already know he’s a Dom, so I’m guessing that’s where the complicated comes from.”

“That’s part of it,” Dean admits. “That’s definitely part of it.”

“And the other part?” Charlie pries, a coy smile on her lips. Dean’s got a feeling she’s already made her mind up, though, and is just waiting for Dean to confirm. He’d also wager that she’s right on the money. He scoffs, shaking his head, a clear dismissal, but Charlie’s never been one to be so easily rebuffed. “Fine, suit yourself. Don’t admit it. But I know gay bondage love when I see it. You’re only hurting yourself by pretending it’s not there. My advice? Don’t blow this. Cas is good people. So are you. I’d love to see you guys happy, but I’d hate to see either one of you screw this up because you’re too afraid of chick flick moments to do something about it.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue that he’s not afraid, but two very important things happen. First, she levels a flat look that brooks no nonsense, and reminds Dean that he actually is afraid, though it’s not the chick flick moment that scares him. Ok, it’s not just that. It’s the exposure of letting Cas get that close, and the uncertainty that comes from not knowing what Cas wants, and the inevitability of pain when Cas eventually decides that Dean’s baggage is too much to carry. Secondly, Cas and Gilda return, chatting animatedly and trying not to spill the drinks in their hands. Cas hands Dean a soda, which he accepts gratefully, and he gives Charlie a look that he hopes says this conversation is over. She raises an eyebrow, so it’s obvious she thinks there’s more to say but thankfully she doesn’t push the envelope. In gratitude, Dean tries very, very hard to keep his eyes from settling too long on hers or her girlfriends amply displayed cleavage for the rest of the evening. He’s mostly successful.

Chapter Text

A rain so light it barely earns the name falls lazily from the sky when Dean and Cas step outside the hall later that night and make their way a few blocks away to where the Impala is parked. A gleeful smile plays on Dean’s lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes and warming his heart, and it only grows stronger as Cas sidles up close and slings an arm around his waist. The warmth between them isn’t enough to fight off the chill of the night, but Dean is warm in all the ways that it counts.

“So you had fun tonight?” Cas already knows the answer, but clearly, he wants to hear Dean’s thoughts on the subject.

“It was a lot to take in,” he admits. “But yeah, fun. Still a bit surprised Charlie was there.”

“Ah yes, the effervescent Miss Bradbury. She’s lovely. A bit mad, sometimes, but a fantastic friend.”

“You can say that again.” The streets are quiet, footfalls and distant traffic the only noise for a few moments as they navigate the streets. The Impala isn’t far away, just a few side streets down from where the party still carries on without them. Dean wonders idly if they’re missing anything spectacular. “I liked the uh… the floggers? Leather things, lots of straps.”

“Yeah?” Cas murmurs in reply. “I’ve got one. More than one, actually. Maybe next time we play I can bring one out.”

“You’re just full of surprises,” Dean laughs.

“Oh come on. How is that a surprise? Just ‘cause you haven’t seen the inside of my toy cupboard doesn’t mean you can’t extrapolate. You’re a smart guy. You know me. You know what I’m in to. I think you can probably take a stab in the dark and come up with a pretty good idea of what kind of toys I’ve got my hands on.” A man and a woman huddled as close together as Dean and Cas approach from down the block, forcing a momentary break in their conversation but as soon as they’re past, Cas carries on. “Besides the floggers, is there anything you’re interested in playing around with?”

“Maybe you can just let me have a peek, see if anything catches my eye?” Dean bargains, giving Cas a playful hipcheck.

“And give away all my secrets?”                                       

“Not a big fan of secrets,” Dean tells him, an edge of uncertainty worming its way into his voice.

Cas stops, grabbing Dean by the hand and swinging him around so they’re face to face. “Then no secrets. As soon as we get home. I don’t want to keep anything from you.”

Dean’s mouth curls into the kind of smile he rarely wears, secretive and sincere, and it stays there as Cas leans in and kisses him gently, chastely. “Since we’re on the subject of sharing things, I uh… the clinic called to say my test results were in like a week ago.” He laughs, nervously, a thin shaky noise that feels so out of place in his mouth.

Cas makes a noise in his throat. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I went in yesterday to hear the news.”

“And you didn’t want to bring it up because…?” Cas asks wryly.

“I don’t know. Just like, well I figure you went out and got tested right away after we talked about it, and I put it off a week or two, and then you didn’t bring it up again and I thought maybe…” he sighs, shrugging, like that says anything at all.

“You thought maybe I’d lost interest?”

“Something like that. It’s stupid. I know.”

“Yes Dean. It’s completely stupid. I’m not going to lose interest in you. You’re right, I did go get tested right after that, but I didn’t want to press the issue. That’s the only reason I haven’t brought it up. Waiting two weeks to hear if you’re clean isn’t going to change it, waiting two years for you to decide if you even want to sleep with me isn’t going to change it. I don’t know how to make this any clearer for you. You’re interesting. I’m interested. I’m not going anywhere,” Cas explains, more than a little exasperated.

“Oh. Ok.” A smile spreads across his face. “Well in that case, um, I’m clean. Negative results across the board. The only thing I picked up from Bela was trust issues. And uh, you know. The thing where I might have a kid.”

Cas snorts. “Profound,” he says through the laughter. Dean heaves a sigh of relief. Tension broken, he allows Cas to finally drag him back on track towards the car. The night is getting chillier, and the rain is picking up, and neither of them wants to be outside a second longer than necessary at this point in time.

It takes a few minutes for the windows to defog, even with the heater cranked, but Dean doesn’t mind, because he’s never too old for an impromptu make-out in the front seat. Cas seems to have the same idea, so he leans across the seat and curls his hand around the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him forward until their mouths meet. It doesn’t do much to clear the steam off the windows, though, and probably doubles the time they have to sit and wait for the windows to be clear enough to see out of, but they do eventually get on the road.

The sounds of Metallica fill the air as the Impala rolls down the road, rain now pouring down in icy sheets and making the road shine in the light of the headlamps.

“Are you happy?” Cas speaks suddenly, his voice low enough that Dean has to strain his ears to hear clearly over the chorus of Enter Sandman. He’s not sure how to answer that. Is he happy in this exact moment? Sure. He’s behind the wheel, a hot guy who, for some unknowable reason, thinks Dean is worth his time is sitting in the passenger seat. It’s a good night. In general though? That’s a bigger question. The job front is good, sure. Bobby’s a great boss, and the work he’s doing at the yard is more satisfying than anything he’s done to earn a paycheck in years past. And he’s comfortable at home with Sam, though there’s this nagging feeling in the back of his head that’s constantly reminding him that he’s only not homeless through the grace of charity. He’s not stable there, not really. He might never actually be stable, but he definitely won’t feel like it while he’s freeloading under his brother’s roof. Oh sure, Sam charges him rent. A pittance, less than a quarter of what he could get if he actually rented the room out, and Dean knows because he’s done some pretty exhaustive searches on the subject of finding his own place and has always, always given up. It wouldn’t be that hard to move. He hasn’t amassed any more possessions since he moved in, and moving that stuff over only took a morning and a pickup truck. But once he’s there, Dean will be alone. He’ll have nothing to distract him from the blackness of his own thoughts: no human beings in his space to force him into pretending to be functional; no external motivation at all to do anything other than coast, and when it comes to sink or swim, Dean knows he’ll flounder. He’s not ready to be an adult, not by a long shot. So on the home front? A mask of happiness, but not the real thing.

And personal relationships. Well shit. He’s got Charlie and Cas, though those are both pretty fucking non-standard friendships. Gilda probably counts too, if the parameters are stretched a little. The best friends Dean has in the entire world, and he holds them at arms’ length. It’d be so nice to have people he could lean on. Dean misses that, wants it. But that involves letting people in, which involves showing them how royally fucked up he is. No one is going to stick around for that. No one is going to knowingly saddle themselves with Dean’s wealth of shit. He can’t imagine how it’d be worth it. It’s not like he really brings anything to the table.

“Happy with what?” he asks Cas, instead of elaborating on all the thoughts that are running through his head.

“Us,” Cas replies promptly, his voice a beacon in the dark.

“We’re an ‘us?’” Dean steals a glance at Cas as they roll up to a red light, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever game he’s playing, but Cas’ face is open and bears no hint of deception.

“We could be,” Cas shrugs. “If you wanted to. I mean. It’s no secret, Dean. I’m rather fond of you. I don’t think I’m off base in guessing the feeling goes both ways. We could get dinner sometime, if you’re interested. See where it goes.”

Dean laughs softly as the car pulls away from the line, changing lanes as soon as they’re through the intersection. “Are we talking like, first date, go somewhere halfway decent and get to know each other over a meal dinner? Or like, your really messed up metaphor for sex dinner?”

“Depends. Which one is a yes?”

A lull falls over the car for a moment as Dean mulls it over. It’s a terrible idea. The worst. Cas will get to know him and he’ll run screaming. He’ll get close to Dean and Dean will let him, and it will hurt so, so much when he lets himself believe it’s something he can have and then has it ripped away. It won’t last. It can’t. Dean will ruin it just like everything else he touches.

“It’s not a good idea,” Dean sighs, keeping his eyes on the road and his voice soft. “I just… It’s not.”

Nothing could be more deafening than the silence that follows. It drags on for blocks, sustained by the rain that slicks the streets and drums on the roof. Dean breathes life into it, mentally begging Cas to let it go, though he’d love nothing more than to say yes. It’s not about what Dean wants though. It never is. It’s just about what Dean can have.

They’re turning on to Cas’ street before anyone speaks again. The tape in the Impala’s cassette deck has run its course so there’s no music to speak over, and Cas’ voice is appropriately soft given the moment.

“So you don’t want to. I see.”

Dean can even fuck this up, apparently.

“I didn’t say that,” he argues.

“I’m not sure how this is any different.” Dejected, Cas stares at his hands while Dean pulls the car into the driveway and kills the engine. Inside Dean’s head, a war rages. It would be so easy to let Cas think Dean’s not interested. But god, the hurt in his voice. Dean did that. Dean made him hurt. All the desire he’s got to avoid his own pain, that can’t win against the risk of hurting someone he actually cares about. The lie would be so much easier for Dean. It’s obvious it won’t make it easier for Cas. “You either want me, or you don’t.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Dean explains. “You don’t get to have something just because you want it. There’s a lot of things I want in life. And maybe someday, I’ll deserve ‘em. Wanting you doesn’t mean I get you though. It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple!” Cas shouts. “You want me, I’m offering. Let yourself have something good for a change! Sometimes you do get what you want, you know.”

“You deserve better than to be burdened with my shit.”

“Fuck what I deserve. You know what I want? You know what would make me happy? You. I want you to let me in. I want to actually get to know you instead of this whole keeping me at a distance bullshit. I want you to know me. And I’m perfectly happy to drop it if you can look me in the eye and tell me you honestly don’t want that. But I’m not walking away from this because you can’t let yourself want things. And I’m sure as fuck not letting you walk away thinking you’re not good enough for me.” Cas is fire, burning bright and lashing out, and it’s startling.

Dean can’t. He looks Cas in the eye and he can’t. Those eyes are so inviting, even with the intensity of Cas’ stare, and he could easily drown in them, but he can’t meet that gaze and lie. It would be better for everyone if he could, but damnit, he can’t. He opens his mouth to try anyway, working soundlessly as the hard line of Cas’ mouth softens into a crooked smile.

“That’s what I thought,” Cas announces.

Still, Dean tries to argue. “I’m no damn good, Cas.”

“You are though. And even if you were no good, I wouldn’t care. I like you just the way you are.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. Cas is wrong, so wrong. It’s only a matter of time before he sees it. But if Dean can make him even just a little bit happy in the meantime, maybe it’s worth the eventual heartbreak. That’s what they say, right? If you love someone, you want to make them happy more than anything else. Maybe Dean could love Cas. Not nearly as well as he deserves, but for as long as he’ll allow, and as well as he’s able.

“Come inside?” Cas’ hand rests on the door handle, his eyes still on Dean’s face.

That was the plan for tonight anyway, so it seems a strange question at first, but Dean sees it for what it is. It’s the safe way out Cas always leaves, the opportunity to tuck tail and run if things are too much and Dean can’t handle it. He’s not willing to take Dean’s posturing about not being good enough, and maybe they’ll never see eye to eye on that, but it’s a promise that regardless of the reasons why, if Dean says no, Cas will respect it. It’s with a resigned sigh that Dean pulls the keys out of the ignition and climbs out to follow Cas out of the shadows of the driveway and into the light of the doorway. Cas holds the door open long enough for Dean to slip inside out of the cold and the rain and leaves him his space just long enough to extricate his feet from boots, but the second he tucks them against the wall and stands up, Cas backs him against the door. He’s fierce, fierce like Dean has never seen before, their mouths colliding so that it’s nearly painful, and oh god yes, this is something Dean can get behind. Cas devours his mouth hungrily, kissing with unreserved passion and pressing his body up against Dean’s, trapping him between Cas and the door so that escape, should he want it, would be hard fought. Dean kisses back, already hard in his jeans.

Tenderness that’s out of place with the fire in his kisses accompanies each touch of Cas’ hands. He glides them up Dean’s arms to cup the side of his face, drags gentle fingers across his jaw and tangles them in his hair. When Dean sighs his pleasure against Cas’ mouth, he gets his lower lip worried between Cas’ teeth, tugged and nibbled and soothed with little flicks of Cas’ tongue, and those same hands slide back down Dean’s biceps to link their hands together. So familiar, so tender, these things that Dean wants but couldn’t bear to ask for, and he’s putty in Cas’ hands. He always has been, only it’s just now he’s realizing it. From the first second they shared words and whiskey in a shitty little dive bar on the worst day of Dean’s life, it’s always been leading to this. It thrills him. It terrifies him, and the fact that he’s not fighting it frightens Dean more still, but he wants this. Fuck, does he want this. Maybe it’s weakness that keeps him from fighting it. Maybe it’s Cas’ insistence that he can have it if he’s brave enough to take it. His brain is too concerned with the delicious taste of Cas’ lips to make any real analysis of that right now. It’s a problem for tomorrow-Dean to mull over, and in all likeliness he’ll overthink the shit out of it, but tonight, he can at least try to give himself over.

The wonderful thing about Cas, with his air of command and his wicked kisses, is that when Dean is willing but can’t bring himself to actively give, Cas is perfectly willing to take. Oh, he’s all manner of concerned about permission and consent. Dean knows, implicitly, that Cas has no desire to claim anything he’s not invited to, but when Dean has opened the door and can’t quite summon the strength to walk through it, Cas is more than happy to make up the difference. They’re beautifully matched, really. Dean’s pleasure is in the surrender. Even when he tries to deny his nature, it’s clear that he has the most fun, the most remarkable pleasure in the times when he’s completely at Cas’ mercy. He can’t bring himself to ask for it, not yet, but he can give Cas the reins and let him do what he pleases. Like right now, with his head full of thoughts of how little he deserves Cas’ time and affection and attention, what he really needs is for Cas to show him with actions what he can’t believe in words, but Dean could never, not in a thousand years, bring himself to articulate that. So instead, he moans with abandon when Cas latches on to his throat and sucks a purple bruise just above his clavicle, and doesn’t give the slightest resistance to Cas lifting his arms above his head and pressing them against the door.

Between heavy wood and hard muscle, Dean is as good as bound, and oh fuck does he love it. Even the pressure of Cas’ hands against his wrists where the faint remnants of the offending rope burn still mar his skin is enough to send a flare through his body and make his hips thrust away from the door, chasing the warmth of Cas’ body. And Cas, well, he just devours Dean, his mouth on lips and face and throat, touching and tasting and claiming. It’s a strain, but he manages to get both of Dean’s wrists trapped in one of his hands and works the other one under Dean’s shirt. Clever fingers trail gently over his stomach, teasing up his side, and latch onto a nipple with enough pressure to draw a hiss of a breath through Dean’s teeth.

“I wanna make you scream.” Cas murmurs, circling a thumb around the hard nub. His breath warms the side of Dean’s neck but somehow the words still send a chill up his spine. They weren’t going to scene tonight, not originally, but between the frankly inspiring things Dean bore witness to at the dungeon party and the knowledge that sex is on the table, Dean is perfectly willing to throw that and almost any other standing agreement out the window. If he weren’t held fast against the back of a door right now, Dean’s entirely certain he’d be stripping out of his clothes in an effort to speed things along, and he’d take it pretty much any way Cas wanted to give it to him. His dick, straining against the zipper of his jeans, wholeheartedly agrees.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, low and breathy, worrying his lip between his teeth as Cas’s mouth and hand reduce him to a quivering, needy mess.

“Eventually, yes. But not right this minute.”

“You smug bastard,” Dean snarks, but his heart isn’t in it. Cas may be smug, but he also knows how to play Dean like a harp, and if he wants to pluck at those strings until Dean is too wound up to remember his own name, there’s not a single part of his brain that wants to protest.

“Yup.” Cas’ confirmation is paired with another filthy kiss, wet and intense, and Dean could easily get lost in it. That is, of course, if he wasn’t focused on the hand working its way down his torso to fumble with the fastenings of his jeans. After a brief fight, from which Cas emerges victorious, Dean’s jeans and boxers are shoved unceremoniously downwards to squeeze his thighs and that clever hand wraps its way around Dean’s cock.

Firm. Languorous. Torturously slow. Cas’ hand moves without any haste at all, wringing tiny little noises out of Dean’s throat and he relishes each and every one of them. He draws it out, the slide of skin on skin, drawing his thumb through the abundance of precome leaking from the tip and using it to slick the increasingly rougher strokes. All the while, Cas kisses Dean breathless, swallowing up his pleasured noises like they’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, nipping at his lip and licking into his mouth, his other hand still keeping Dean’s arms pinned above his head.

Without warning, all points of contact are gone, The hand on his wrists, the one mercilessly stroking his cock, the mouth, the body pressed up close, all gone. Dean’s eyes fly open, startled by the sudden absence, but Cas’ face isn’t floating before his anymore. Instead, Cas has dropped to his knees, fingers curled seductively as he drags Dean’s clothes further towards the floor. His eyes rake over Dean’s body in a decidedly unwholesome manner, tongue darting out to flick over the shiny head, and it pulls a sound from Dean’s mouth that he couldn’t repeat if he tried.

“Here? Really?” Dean asks, his voice a battle between lust and incredulity.

Cas leans back to stare up at him with a look that’s pure sarcasm. “Why not? It’s my house.” He smiles wickedly, not waiting for an answer before taking Dean’s cock in his mouth and sliding down oh so slowly until his nose is brushing up against the soft curls of hair at the base. It’s wet, and hot, so perfect the way he swallows Dean down. It’s been way too long since anyone has done this for him, and longer still since anyone’s done it well. Cas certainly knows what he’s doing. He knows it real well. He could teach a master class. It doesn’t take long at all before Dean is real close to the edge, that white-hot fire raging in his core.

“Cas, I—” He only manages to choke out the simplest of warnings, but it’s enough. Cas pulls off and clamps his hand around the base of Dean’s cock, pulling Dean back from the edge just before the point of no return. Dean’s not strictly grateful, not at this exactly moment. He groans out a curse, low and wrecked, but it doesn’t get him what he wants.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he warns, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Come on. Upstairs. I think I promised you a peek at my toys.”

It takes Dean a stunned second to collect himself, but he’s at least with it enough to pull his pants back up and drop his jacket in the entryway before following Cas towards the stairs. His mind is blessedly blank, just the memory of sensation and a flood of pleasure chemicals driving him forward. The door to Cas’ bedroom stands ajar, lamps lit inside, and Cas has enough of a head start that he’s already standing in front of the wardrobe that houses his toys, the doors flung wide as he quietly surveys the contents. His blazer lies abandoned on the sofa.

“Come have a look,” Cas calls when he hears Dean enter the room. Dean crosses hesitantly, but takes Cas’ hand when it’s offered, letting himself be drawn to stand before the open cabinet. Cas sidles up behind him, hands circling around to run lazily across Dean’s body. “You put your pants back on,” he notices, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

“Just so I could get upstairs without tripping over them,” Dean assures him, but his focus is much more on the array of tools before him. Everything Dean could ever imagine is laid out in there, and several things he has never imagined, too. Silicone dildos and vibrators in every permutation, butt plugs ranging from tiny to frighteningly large. Floggers and straps and paddles, cuffs and ropes and chains. A single tail whip lies coiled on a shelf in the center. Blindfolds. Ball gags. Cock rings. The spreader bar that Dean is so pleasantly acquainted with, as well as a couple others that seem to serve the same purpose, though perhaps they have some additional feature that Dean can’t see at first glance. He’s not certain.

Dean snorts. “Is that all?” he asks sarcastically.

“See anything you like?” Cas ghosts his hands over Dean’s body, rucking his shirt up as he goes. Dean raises his arms above his head at Cas’ gentle insistence, letting himself be stripped from the waist up, and sighs contentedly when he’s rewarded with kisses to his neck and shoulders.

“A few things. For another time though, maybe.” He retrieves a pair of thick leather cuffs, a length of silver chain dangling from each. “I like these.” Cas takes the cuffs from him and tosses them on the bed without looking, and they land with a soft clink. A bottle of lube follows, and Dean likes what that means for their evening.

“I can work with that,” he murmurs, once again working Dean’s jeans open and pushing them down over his hips. Dean steps out of them willingly, letting the fabric pool on the floor, and turns to face Cas.

“Kinda unfair.” His hands come up to work at the buttons on Cas’ shirt. “I’m naked and you’re still fully dressed.” Cas doesn’t interfere as Dean pries the buttons free and pushes the shirt to fall from his shoulders.

“You’d better do something about that then,” Cas agrees, voice pitched low. “Go on.” Dean takes the permission to heart, quickly working Cas’ jeans open and shoving them down over his hips. His cock has already left a damp spot on the front of his boxer-briefs. Dean sinks slowly to his knees, settling into the soft carpet with Cas’ crotch at eye level, and works the palm of his hand over the hard length before grasping the waistband and tugging the underwear out of the way. Cas steps out of his pants, toeing off his socks too.

Dean gets his mouth on Cas’ dick as soon as it bobs free. He loves the weight of Cas’ cock on his tongue. He loves the pleasured moans that fall to his ears as he works his lips around the head, teasing at the slit with his tongue. He especially loves the words of praise that Cas whispers as he strokes and sucks, using every trick at his disposal to make Cas feel good.

“Fuck,” Cas moans. “So good. Such a perfect mouth.” Dean redoubles his efforts, aroused as much by the words of encouragement as the taste of precome on his tongue. He swallows Cas down as deep as he can, one hand teasing gently at Cas’ balls, and feels Cas’ hand tighten in his hair.

“On the bed,” Cas growls, pulling Dean back to stare down at his face with a look of pure lust. He wastes no time in complying, letting go of Cas’ cock and climbing to sit in the centre of the bed. Cas crawls up after him, shoving Dean backwards to fall onto the soft pillows and straddling his waist with solid thighs. The cuffs, previously abandoned in favour of foreplay, are suddenly in Cas’ hands again. Dean doesn’t stand a chance of containing the little thrill that runs through his body as the first one closes around his left wrist. The chain loops around the bedpost and clips back on to the cuff, leaving him with a small range of motion as Cas repeats the process with the other. As he leans over, Dean has the opportunity to reach just the head of Cas’ cock with his tongue, and it’s not an opportunity he wants to waste.

Cas hums contentedly as he secures Dean’s cuffs, then settles back on his knees to fix Dean with a hungry stare. He drags the pad of his thumb across Dean’s lower lip tenderly and Dean sucks the digit into his mouth, swirling his tongue and watching with a look of satisfaction as Cas’ mouth falls open. Regaining control of himself, Cas pulls away and resettles between Dean’s thighs.

“What’s your safeword?” Cas demands, his voice firm and confident. He lays soft touches to Dean’s inner thighs, almost soft enough to tickle.

“Poughkeepsie,” Dean answers, squirming in his bonds. “It’s Poughkeepsie.”

“Good boy,” Cas praises. The look on his face says he knows full well what it does to Dean when he says things like that. “Don’t hesitate to use it.” Dean nods slightly, muscles flexing as he fights unconsciously against his bonds. “I mean it. Promise me, if anything feels wrong you’ll use your safeword. You owe me that, but you owe me nothing else. Promise.”

“I promise,” Dean breathes, though Cas is wrong. Dean owes him so much more than that. He’ll promise though, and he’ll keep his promise if it gets to that, but there’s little doubt in his mind that Cas will give him exactly what he needs. Satisfied, Cas nods, then retrieves the bottle of lube that he tossed on the bed earlier. A slick finger nudges at Dean’s entrance, circling the rim until Dean is writhing on the bed, desperate for something more solid than a tease. Cas ignores his pleas, dragging out the torture for long minutes before finally breaching Dean’s ass with a single finger. And then he works that one finger in and out with slow, controlled strokes until Dean begs for more. Once he’s got a second finger, Cas refuses to give him another until he’s whining, breath coming in raw, panting gasps, and every word out of his lips is a desperate “please!” that is just plain music to Cas’ ears. Then Cas gives him a third slick finger, driving the digits into his hole with more patience than Dean can fathom, driving Dean mad with the slow pace. He arches his back, desperately seeking more touch, some friction on his cock, anything at all. Cas carefully avoids his prostate, all the while watching Dean with rapt attention.

“Fuck, Cas, c’mon!” Dean demands, sweat beading on his brow.

“What do you want, Dean?” Cas purrs, a coy smile on his lips.

“You know what I want,” Dean pleads. Cas doesn’t stop fucking Dean with his fingers, not for a second, but it’s nowhere near enough.

“Do I? I’m not sure. Ask nicely, and maybe you’ll get it.”

Dean moans loudly to cover up the embarrassment that overtakes him. He wants, god does he want, but asking for it is overwhelming. He opens his mouth to try, but all that comes out is a groan.

“Come on Dean, you can do it. Whatever you want, just ask for it and it’s yours.” Dean glares at him as best he’s able, with arousal and shame warring in his brain, but Cas just smiles knowingly. He knows what lesson Cas is trying to teach him here. He also knows there’s only one way out of this predicament. Well, two, but he’s not about to safeword.

“Please, Cas,” he begs quietly, like it’s somehow less pitiful if the volume is low. “Please just… just fuck me.” Tears well in his eyes, threatening to spill over if he’s forced to utter one more word on the subject, but it’s enough for Cas. It’s all he’s been waiting for, and he springs into action. His fingers slide free, leaving Dean’s hole empty and wanting, but it only takes a moment before he’s slicked his cock up and the head is nudging against Dean’s entrance. He pushes in with agonizing slowness, sinking into Dean in a long, drawn out push that has them both gasping for breath.

“So good,” Cas murmurs, rocking his hips just slightly when he’s fully seated, pressed up close to Dean’s body. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks mockingly, but Dean doesn’t answer. He can’t. Words are totally lost to him right now. He’s so full, stretched around Cas’ girth, and it’s all he can do to remember how to breathe. Cas tucks his hands under Dean’s knees, bracing them on his shoulders and then blessedly, he starts to move.

He’s ruthless, brutal, and Dean wouldn’t have it any other way. Right from the first thrust, he drives into Dean hard, fucking him mercilessly. Dean’s spread out, laid bare by the cuffs that keep him stretched between the bedposts, and while he’d love to be grasping at Cas’ shoulders while he cries out in bliss, being restrained and at Cas’ mercy is a thrill unto itself. Being tied like this while Cas fucks him is a level of pleasure he hadn’t previously imagined.

Cas grins, appearing almost wicked with delight. Dean must look a mess, sweat beading on his forehead, eyes and mouth wide. He thrusts fast and short, barely pulling back before driving into Dean with everything he’s got, hips colliding hard enough that Dean’s reminded of the pain of being paddled, though certainly not as intense. And fuck, Dean loves every second of it. He can feel himself coming apart at the seams, giving up desperate noises with no resistance, and still somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks it might be great if Cas could fuck him even harder.

Leaning forward to brace himself on his hands, Cas lowers himself until Dean’s bent nearly in two, folded up as far as his muscles will stretch. They’re face to face as Cas keeps rocking his hips shallowly, capturing Dean’s mouth in a heated, messy kiss. His torso keeps Dean’s thighs pressed close, trapping his cock between their bodies, and the friction has him moaning into Cas’ mouth. He sounds unhinged, wrecked, but there’s no part of Dean that wants to stop the noises. Let Cas hear them. Let him know what he does to Dean.

Cas breaks the kiss, panting for breath beside Dean’s ear as he drops his head to the side, and picks up the pace again. His hips draw back, pulling away as far as he can in this position and then slamming forward, slower than before but with an intensity that has Dean crying out.

“Fuck, Cas, yes! Just like that!” He shouts, every single nerve ending alive with the filthy-hot bliss that assaults his body. Cas has zeroed in on his prostate, thrusting hard and deep to nail it repeatedly. Dean’s arms flex, hands grasping at the chains that bind him. He’d be clawing Cas’ back right now if he could move, leaving half-moon indentations and angry red furrows on his skin in an attempt to draw him closer, deeper. The chains are all he can reach though, so the chains bear the brunt of his enthusiasm, clattering against the bedpost but giving no ground. He’d be stuck here for a very long time if Cas wanted to keep him bound. In this moment, with Cas’ thick cock stretching him open, nailing his prostate and making him moan uncontrollably, Dean’s not really sure why he’d want to get away.

His laboured breaths hot against Dean’s neck, Cas shifts his weight on to one arm and works the other between their bodies to find Dean’s cock, slick with precome and achingly hard. His touch is rapture, hurtling Dean towards his inevitable climax at breakneck speed.

“You feel so fucking good!” Cas groans in a voice so raw with lust it’s nearly a growl. “So tight.” Dean’s left leg slips off of Cas’ shoulder, easing the strain in his muscles. It’s the only part of his body that he can really move, but freedom is nowhere to be seen on Dean’s list of desires. Instead, he hitches his leg around Cas’ middle, using it to draw him closer, urging him harder, faster deeper. Dean gasps as Cas’ hand speeds up, gripping tighter as it flies over his cock, trying desperately to match the harried pace of his thrusts. It’s all too much, pleasure in his core and pain in his limbs, and Dean doesn’t know which one to focus on.

“You like that?” Cas rasps, earning nothing but a desperate whimper in reply. “Oh, come on. I know you can do better than that. Don’t hold back.” He fucks up into Dean’s ass and rolls his hips, grinding the tip of his cock against Dean’s prostate. “I said I wanted to make you scream. I’m not done with you until I get what I want. Show me what feels good, Dean,” he implores. “Scream for me.”

Dean doesn’t scream, but he does let out a filthy moan that’s nearly as good. The knowledge that Cas wants him this badly, wants to make it so good that Dean can’t keep quiet, that’s too fucking hot for Dean to process. He’s used to doing, not having done to him, and certainly not used to the intoxicating feeling of a cock in his ass at this stage in the game. It’s never been about Dean’s pleasure, not in recent years. Letting go of his inhibitions enough to get that riled up, to really give up control and sound out his enjoyment, Dean’s not sure he remembers how. Cas wants him to though, and more than anything else Dean wants to be good for Cas. Cas wants screams, and Dean will do whatever he can to give them to him.

Though it’s hard to focus with Cas thrusting hard and fast, his hand working in quick strokes over Dean’s cock, he tries to think back to the last time he got well and truly fucked, and what he liked best. If Dean’s going to give Cas the screams he wants, he’s going to need to let Cas drive him towards a mind-blowing orgasm, the kind that leaves him feeling like he’s had his brains fucked out. Toe curling, weak in the knees kind of sex. And there’s only one time ever that Dean can think of that he’s had that kind of orgasm while bottoming, so if Cas wants him to scream, he’s gonna need to change his gameplan.

“Put me on my knees,” Dean says. It comes out barely a whisper. He’s trying to make himself sound bold and confident and instead manages to sound wrecked and desperate. All in all, it’s not a bad thing, because wrecked and desperate is exactly what Cas wants, so Dean doesn’t try to correct it.

“Your arms hurt?” Cas breaks the rhythm of his thrusts, sounding concerned even through the deep lustful rasp of his voice. He’s already leaning over to reach for the chains before Dean has a chance to explain, so it’s obvious he’s going to comply regardless of the reason but Dean still feels the need to elaborate.

“Arms are fine,” he says, much more firmly this time. “I’m not hurting at all. But you want me to scream, so you should put me on my knees.” He catches a glimpse of Cas’ eyes as he moves to free Deans’ other wrist, and he’s nothing less than satisfied with the way his eyes darken at the advice.

“Oh really?” Cas chuckles. “That’s good to know. What are you waiting for then?” He settles back on his heels, letting Dean’s legs free and giving him a playful but still rather firm swat on the ass. “Get on your damn knees.”

Dean scrambles to comply. Happily he notices that there’s no fresh marks on his wrists, and he gets onto his hands and knees with only a small measure of effort. Cas pets gentle hands over his flanks, taking a moment to drink in the delicious sight of Dean perched before him, ass presented and ready for the taking. The pad of his thumb drags gently over Dean’s slick rim, drawing fevered gasps from the man, and Cas decides that this is a good time to be a tease.

Instead of filling Dean up with his cock right away, Cas lines himself up and pushes forward just enough to settle the tip inside, and grips Dean’s hips firmly enough to keep him from pushing back. When he’s sure that Dean has gotten the message, knows that he’s not supposed to move, Cas draws his hand back and slaps Dean’s rump, hard and sharp, the sound of his palm ringing out over the sound of their laboured breaths. Dean gasps quietly, thighs quivering as he fights to stay still, desperate to shove back and take Cas in. He’s so wound up, so hard, all he wants is for Cas to fuck him into the mattress, to come screaming like he’s supposed to, and Cas, that fucker, is playing games.

Cas spanks him again, and again, sharp smacks in quick succession, warming up the skin until he’s glowing a rosy pink and each slap leaves nothing but a tingle. When Cas gets the colour he wants, the intensity ramps up, firmer slaps that make it harder for Dean to stay still, and gets breathy little moans in response. And still Cas holds himself steady, not giving Dean a single inch of penetration, just slapping his ass and watching him struggle to stay still.

Finally, a particularly hard and well-placed slap has Dean crying out, a sharp noise that falls from his lips unbidden.

“That’s what I want to hear,” Cas praises, smoothing his palms over Dean’s ass. “Don’t hold back.” Dean nods with feverish enthusiasm, eager to obey. Whatever Cas wants, Dean will do, as long as he stops teasing and just lets him have it. His thighs quiver, his breath ragged, and a needy little whine escapes his lips when he tries to vocalize a response. Cas gives Dean one more slap to make his point, earning another cry, though not as loud. Then, satisfied that he’ll be obeyed, Cas grabs Dean’s hips and surges forward, thrusting hard and deep.

It doesn’t even matter that Dean’s ready to give Cas the screams that he wants, because that first thrust drives Cas’ thighs against the still stinging flesh of his rear and puts the tip of Cas’ cock right up against his prostate. Dean’s already hovering so close to coming, his entire body primed for pleasure, so a filthy cry fills the room the second Cas fills him up, one that he couldn’t have held back if he tried. And once Cas hears that, once he gets a hint of the kind of noises Dean can make when he’s given the right motivation, well, there’s no stopping him.

It’s a beautiful kind of symbiosis. Maybe later Dean will appreciate it fully, but right now all he can do is ride the moment. Something about the break in eye contact shuts down the part of Dean that gets all self-conscious during sex and allows him to really let go. He yells, begs Cas to fuck him harder, tells him how good it feels. And those noises drive Cas wild, finally giving him what he wants, pulling Dean backward by the hips, thrusting harder and harder. That in turn gets Dean howling louder, which urges Cas on, and soon they’re just a loud, sweaty mess, skin slapping on skin, ragged breaths and a constant stream of profanity and begging, “oh fuck oh fuck, Cas, Cas! Yes, oh god, right there, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

And then it stops being words. Soon it’s just syllables, broken half-words that Dean starts but can’t find the brainpower to finish. And then it stops being syllables too, and it’s just sounds. Wordless shouts. Screaming. Music to Cas’ ears, and it’s touch and go for a moment as to who is going to surrender first to the groundswell of bliss that threatens to overtake them. Unsurprisingly, it’s Dean who lets go first. He was loud before, but the beautiful noises he sings out when Cas tags that sweet spot once again as he comes hot and messy across the bed and his own chest are on a completely different level..

“Fuck,” Cas groans. “That’s it, sweetheart. Sing for me.” He reaches a hand around Dean’s hip to stroke him through it, dragging his fingers through the mess of come. Dean’s noises pitch higher as he becomes oversensitive, but still Cas keeps fisting his cock and fucking into him, until finally, like a dam breaking, Cas slams in one more time and falters, a guttural moan joining Dean’s chorus as he reaches his climax.

Collapsing to the bed as one tangled heap of limbs, Dean and Cas heave exhausted breaths and lie in silence for minutes that stretch on long past the point where their heart rates settle back to normal. Dean is the first to move, rolling on to his other side so he can face Cas in the pale lamplight. Cas’ eyes are closed, but the smile on his lips says he hasn’t drifted off to sleep yet.

“Hey,” Cas murmurs softly, eyelids fluttering open and smile widening.

“Hey yourself,” Dean shoots back. “So, that was awesome.”

“Yeah? It wasn’t too much? I get carried away sometimes.” Cas’ smile turns a little shy, a look Dean isn’t familiar with seeing on his face.

“Dude!” Dean says with a laugh. “Are you kidding? If that’s what happens when you get carried away, sign me the fuck up.” Castiel kisses him then, the tenderness in such contrast to the rest of the evening.

“Still think this was a terrible idea?”

In this exact moment, Dean can’t bring himself to say that he does, but it’s floating in the back of his mind just like always. For tonight (or this morning, Dean supposes,) he’s just going to have to enjoy the post orgasmic haze though, because his legs are very, very tired, and his pants are rather far across the room, so running isn’t exactly an option.

Chapter Text

The first time you sleep with someone new, the first time you wake up next to them, is a truly singular experience. There are a remarkable number of variables to navigate, and it’s not always the right time for chats about such things when you’ve recently screamed that other person’s name in a fit of passion. So you sleep passed out in their bed, and you wake up, and that’s when the awkwardness is supposed to happen. It happens all the time. It happens to one night stands and it happens to couples who have just started dating and it probably even happens to those who date for years and don’t roll in the hay for the first time until their wedding night. These people wake up that next morning beside this person they’ve just fucked for the first time, and something tangible has changed, and they have to deal with that.

Dean wakes up next to Cas that Sunday morning, arms wrapped tight around his waist and hot breath ghosting across the back of his neck, and there are no variables. It’s odd, because sure, they’ve slept in the same bed before and they’ve given each other orgasms before, but last night was sex, actual fucking, and for some reason Dean expected it to change something. He should feel different towards Cas in some way, though he’s not entirely certain what that way is supposed to be, but he knows he should, he really should, and he doesn’t. And aside from the fact that he has no idea what to do with that information, it feels kind of ok.

“Breakfast?” Cas presses soft kisses to the back of Dean’s neck as he stirs awake, snuggling close and hoarding the warmth of the blankets against the inevitable chill of the morning.

“Breakfast in bed?” Dean bargains, though he knows it’s futile.

“Keep dreaming. All I have is oatmeal. Unless you’ve suddenly changed your mind on its qualification as a proper breakfast food, you’re going to have to put your pants on and leave the house with me.”

“You’re a monster,” Dean teases. “Ten more minutes.” Cas only agrees to the extended stay in bed because Dean kisses him until he forgets to argue, and ten minutes stretches out into nearly an hour.

By the time they finally make it out of the house, Dean’s stomach rumbles loudly enough to match the growl of the Impala’s engine. Cas knows this great little breakfast place downtown, he says, with excellent coffee and a really great menu.

“You had me at coffee,” Dean laughs.

Dean finds that there’s no parking anywhere near this restaurant so they end up parking blocks and blocks away and trekking on foot. Cas asserts that it’s worth it, so worth it. It’s to too late to make a different plan anyway. The majority of Dean’s energy goes into toning down the irritation and not getting snappish. He knows it’s just hunger gnawing at his gut and not any actual reason to be pissed off, but its sill there: first in the background, and then by the time they reach the restaurant, in the foreground. Thankfully, staying in bed an entire additional hour means they missed the Sunday morning brunch rush, and there’s no wait for a table. Dean drops into the hard wooden chair heavily, an exaggerated sigh on his lips. Cas orders them both coffee without even waiting for Dean to answer, offering a compassionate smile across the table and reaching out to squeeze Dean’s hand.

“Shoulda got up when you said,” Dean grumbles, staring unfocused at the menu.

“Yes, well, it’s not like I tried very hard to motivate you. And to be fair, we went to sleep quite late, so I think a lazy Sunday morning is completely reasonable.”

“What about a lazy Sunday afternoon though? I mean, I don’t see any reason to be out of bed any longer than absolutely necessary. Chicken and Waffles,” Dean announces confidently, slapping his menu down on the table.”

“See, I knew you’d like it here,” Cas says with a smile. “As for the lazy afternoon, I’ve got no plans. Let’s make it happen.”

Food and coffee work wonders for Dean’s mood. He’s caffeinated and fed, warm and cozy inside the snug little restaurant as the first hint of a snowfall starts to drift down from the sky. People outside on the sidewalk huddle inside their coats and stuff their hands deeper into pockets to ward off the chill, and Dean makes a note to drive very, very slowly on the way back to Cas’ house. The Impala isn’t really built for winter conditions, and her tires are all wrong for snow.

Dean’s jacket is about as well suited for the chill as Cas’ thin trench coat, which is to say not at all. The wind has picked up, swirling around them in biting gusts and whipping at their clothes cruelly. What starts off as a brisk and hurried walk back to the car very quickly becomes a slow crawl, huddled together for warmth. Cas cinches the belt on his trench and tucks himself under Dean’s arm as they stroll along almost casually, peering in shop windows and paying as little mind to the snow as they can get away with. Full bellies lead to much more patience for both of them so the slow pace is a welcome start to the laziness.

“We should make hot chocolate and watch a movie,” Cas suggests, smiling up at Dean.

Dean doesn’t hear though, because he’s frozen like a deer in the headlights, staring straight ahead with a mixture of terror and disgust painted across his features.

“Dean? What’s wrong?” Cas doesn’t get a reply, but it’s obvious the couple walking down the sidewalk toward them is the source of his distress.

“I don’t fuckin’ believe it,” Dean mutters, eyes darting like he’s looking for a means of escape. “Of all the...” he cuts himself off, realizing they’re nearly in earshot. Everything about his posture screams frightened animal. He’d be running if it weren’t for Cas’ arm around his waist, and if there were any way to avoid notice, Dean would certainly take it. Too late, Dean turns his face towards Cas and whispers harshly, “That’s my ex girlfriend.”

“Dean!” Bela calls, far more enthusiasm in her voice than she has any right to. “How are you, darling?”

“Just peachy,” Dean says with false cheer, a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes slapped on his face. He very pointedly does not ask how she’s doing.

“Have you met Tyson Brady?” she inquires, a smug twist of her lips the only hint that she knows full well the answer to that question.

“Nice to see you again, man.” Dean never liked Brady. Not back when he was just Sam’s classmate, definitely not when he was Sam’s roommate. And now that he’s Bela's new beau, Dean actually feels a little sorry for the guy but none of that translates into liking him any better.

“You too, Dean. How’s Sam?” Brady asks. At least he has the decency to look a little sheepish, but Dean isn’t about to be the one to bring up the unfaithful elephant in the room, so he ignores this.

“Sam’s good.” This is getting awkward. This small talk has to end. It’s torture.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your…” Bela pauses, heavy with meaning and no small measure of judgement. “…Friend?” Her face is all pretentiousness, a tight smile that holds no mirth, her chin lifted so she can look down her nose.

“My apologies,” Dean offers, as sarcastically as he thinks he can be without lighting the entire encounter on fire. “Bela, Brady, this is Castiel. Cas, I believe I’ve mentioned Bela? Brady was my brother’s roommate until recently. I wasn’t aware of just how well these two knew each other, but I guess it’s a small city.” His desire to be civil is apparently short-lived, because there’s a remarkable amount of venom in the words.

“Too small, if you ask me,” Castiel replies haughtily, shaking Brady and Bela’s hands with all the enthusiasm of someone who is finds themselves having to clean someone else’s dog’s leavings off their front lawn.

“Actually, now that I think about it, it did seem pretty convenient that Sam’s roommate moved out the same week our dear Bela dropped a bombshell on me. What a fun coincidence, don’t you think, Cas?” Dean might be laying the sarcasm on a little thick, but he can’t really be blamed. It’s that or scream until his lungs give out. All things considered he’s being totally reasonable.

Cas smiles sweetly, resting his chilly hand on Dean’s forearm in a gesture that’s a little bit comforting, a little bit possessive. “I don’t really believe in coincidences. The universe is rarely that lazy.” The smile, Dean notices, doesn’t reach his eyes any more than Dean’s does. Dean knows Cas well enough by now to recognize the danger that dances behind his gaze. He’s morbidly excited to see just how fucked up this encounter can get and he knows Bela isn’t above fighting dirty. Maybe Cas isn’t either.

“This is the kind of company you’re keeping now, Dean? I’m disappointed.” Bela clucks her tongue, a tiny frown tugging down at the corner of her lips for just the shortest moment. “I thought we got that whole phase out of your system years ago.”

Dean’s dumbfounded. Absolutely floored. He’s too stunned to make any sort of intelligent defence of his character, so instead he just stares daggers at this vile woman, hoping that somehow he’s developed Superman’s laser vision and can burn her to a smouldering heap of ash with a look. It doesn’t work. Thankfully, Cas is just slightly less taken aback by her abject disdain.

“Oh no. Not at all. What Dean got out of his system was the ridiculous notion that he was under any obligation to put up with the kind of sanctimonious, manipulative, bullshit behaviour you seem to think you’re entitled to.” Everything about his posture is casual and relaxed, like he’s discussing something of no consequence whatsoever, but Dean knows that voice. It’s the voice that takes no shit, the one that makes Dean weak in the knees when they’re in the middle of a scene. Here and now, on a snowy sidewalk in the middle of the day, it manages to make Bela’s jaw drop. No one ever talks to her like that, not that Dean’s ever seen. She doesn’t seem to know how to reply. “You spent so much time trying to make him feel like he wasn’t good enough for you, which is absurd, because I’m having a really hard time figuring out how you ever convinced yourself that you were good enough for him.” Cas laughs to himself, like he’s just remembered some very clever anecdote that he doesn’t plan on sharing with the rest of them. His arm tightens around Dean’s waist, a reassuring gesture that rouses Dean out of the stunned silence Cas’ diatribe has wrought. “I mean, it’s kind of sad actually.”

Bela, choking on her anger, gives the ugliest laugh that Dean has ever heard from the damn woman. “Your little boyfriend is quite the firecracker, Dean. Might want to get a shorter leash if you’re going to be taking him out in public.” Dean rolls his eyes, nudging Cas to indicate he’d like to leave. Immediately.

“We should get going. I have a pressing need to be literally anywhere else right now. Call me when you hear back about that paternity test.” Dean’s deviously, unexpectedly elated to see the look of surprise on Brady’s face at that last comment, appearing only briefly before he schools his features to hide the reaction. Dean hadn’t meant to sow any division, but it would be just like Bela not to mention her quandary until she had confirmation. Manipulative, deceptive, and always working some kind of an angle. Textbook Bela. “Yeah. That’s right. The paternity test you asked me to take. I can’t wait to have our very own little Jenny Jones moment. I’d say it’s been nice running in to you two, but, well, let’s be honest. It hasn’t. Cas?” And with that they’re gone, striding off confidently in the general direction of the Impala.

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for,” Cas apologises when they’re out of earshot. Dean stops in his tracks.

“Dude. No fuckin way. That was awesome. Did you see the look on her face? I could kiss you right now!” And then he does, earning a startled gasp from Cas as their lips meet, Dean’s cold hands on the sides of Cas’ face. “She had that coming. And uh, you know. Thanks. For sticking up for me. That was pretty cool.” Cas just smiles crookedly and wraps his arm around Dean’s waist again, and they walk side by side through the snow, tiny flakes catching in eyelashes and on cheeks.

It doesn’t even occur to Dean until they’re back at Cas’, curled up under a blanket with Bailey’s and hot chocolate and watching Empire Strikes Back, that Bela called Cas his boyfriend and Dean didn’t bother to correct her.

-----

The first time Dean has to dig through the paper records to find an obscure part some random guy needs in order to restore a car he’s working on, it’s a minor inconvenience. There’s a bunch of paperwork Dean needs to deal with, like three new salvage vehicles to be inventoried, and since Bobby is over at the garage today, it’s just Dean and Garth. He doesn’t begrudge Ash for calling in sick. The guy sounded like death warmed over. He definitely shouldn’t be here. It’s just... inconvenient.

The second time he gets pulled away from his workload to hunt down a very specific factory bucket seat, he grumbles the entire time he’s flipping through the records. The customer is at least grateful when Dean calls him back, but yeah. He’s got too much work to do to be dealing with this.

By the sixth time, Dean’s ready to leave the phone off the hook just to actually get something done. He’s gotta deal with the invoices. Non-negotiable. But then the phone rings again, and he reaches for it with a sigh, pushing the aggravation out of his voice before he speaks.

“Mornin’, Singer Salvage,” Dean intones, trying to sound at least half-way cheerful.

“Just me, Dean.” Bobby’s deep rumble is a welcome sound, partly because he’s pretty much the best boss Dean’s ever had but mostly because it means there isn’t anything new being added to his to-do list right this minute. “Just callin’ to check in. How’s things goin’ over there?”

“Hectic,” Dean admits with a deep sigh, reaching for the mug of coffee that has long since gone cold. He drinks it anyway. “I don’t think I’m getting those new cars logged in today if this damn phone doesn’t stop ringing.”

“I wish I could spare myself to come help out, but with the snowfall this weekend I’m up to my neck in repair work. Everyone and their dog wants snow tires on too, and they want it done yesterday.”

“Don’t worry about it Bobby. Me and Garth got this. I just wish there was an easier way to track down parts.” Dean glances longingly at the coffee maker, finally deciding that cold coffee isn’t going to cut it. He tucks the phone between his shoulder and ear and goes to pour a fresh cup.

“Yeah, well, you figure one out, you be sure to let me know.” Bobby hangs up and Dean returns to his paperwork with a fresh cup of coffee. The phone rings again almost as soon as he picks up his pen. It’s going to be a very long week.

Chapter Text

Tuesday finds Dean just as overwhelmed as Monday did, and although Ash promises he’ll be back on his feet in no time, the rattle in his cough leads Dean to believe that’s wishful thinking. He’d love to believe it, really he would, but Dean would bet cold, hard cash that he’s going to see the back end of Friday before he lays eyes on Ash again. He resigns himself to a hectic week, full of unfinished tasks and frustration. Even so, driving in to the salvage yard every day, unlocking the office and starting up the coffee maker, Dean feels far and away more satisfied than he ever did on his best day at Morningstar. And he’s not sure he ever had a good day at Sandover so it blows that one right out of the water. He’ll take a shitty week at Singer Salvage over anything an office job can hand him. It’s not even a contest.

The upside of not having Ash around to send on wild goose chases is that Dean is forced to think on his feet and do a lot of the hunting himself, which means he’s learning a whole lot about salvaging parts; really, really fast. Garth’s still a bit behind on pulling the stuff customers are looking for, and fair, because he’s out there by himself, but at least it isn’t taking Dean as long to find out whether they’ve even got what the caller wants. Sure, it’s frustrating, but it’s giving him a solid appreciation for what the guy does, even if “resident spare parts genius” isn’t his actual job description. Dean makes a mental note to make a better effort to break the ice with Ash when he’s recovered from whatever plague has him bedridden.

Ash isn’t back Wednesday either. Dean’s not surprised, but he would have been beyond relieved if he’d strolled in that morning to see a familiar mullet hanging out in the shop. Alas, no such luck. He finds only Garth in the break room, drinking far too much coffee in preparation for another long day. He’s getting to know Garth pretty well, and as much as Dean found him to be just a little too much to handle at first, he’s got to admit the guy is growing on him. Garth is quite possibly the most positive person Dean’s ever met. That might be what rubbed him the wrong way at first, actually. It’s hard to live with such a dark cloud over your head and see others finding it so easy to see the good in themselves, in others, and in every situation. Garth finds the silver lining in every cloud. He’d probably tell Dean that his own negativity, the way he always finds something to worry about, is practical and helps him solve problems before they happen or some utter bullshit like that. He’d probably believe it too, say it with such a wide smile that Dean couldn’t bear to tell him where to stuff it, and then go in for a completely awkward hug. It shouldn’t be endearing. It kind of is anyway.

“Don’t know how Ash does it,” Dean mutters under his breath as he flips through the salvage inventory and tries, once again, to locate the ’84 Oldsmobile Omega he knows for a fact is somewhere on the lot.

“I know, right?” Garth says, a little dreamy, and Dean jumps. He hadn’t realized anyone else was in the room. How long has Garth been standing there? Is he always this quiet? “I could never remember that much information. Hope he’s not sick too long.”

Dean listens with only half an ear, still trying to find the information on the Oldsmobile.

“I mean, it’s one thing pulling the parts without his help. Any old idiot can turn some screws. Just takes a bit longer without a second pair of hands,” Garth carries on, not really noticing that Dean isn’t paying

him much attention. “But figuring out where stuff is? Man, that guy’s got a brain like a computer. He’s a frickin’ genius.”

And despite Dean’s disinterest, a lightbulb goes on over his head. It’s such a stunningly brilliant idea the light is almost tangible. There could very easily be a cartoon lightbulb hovering over his head at this very minute. It might be why Garth is staring at him like he’s got two heads, come to think of it. Or it just might be the vacant look on his face, with his jaw hanging open and his eyes unfocused.

“Dean?” Garth ventures cautiously. “Are you ok? You’re not getting sick too, are you?”

“Garth, you’re the genius!” Dean exclaims, snapping back to himself. “Oh man. How did I not think of this before?”

“So, you’re not sick?”

“No dude, I’m not sick. Oh man. Ok, wait. I gotta find this Oldsmobile. I’ll figure this out later.” Dean goes back to flipping through the book, but it takes forever to locate the Olds because his mind is decidedly elsewhere. It’s going to take some doing, and he’s going to need a whole lot of help, but if Dean can pull this off, well, that’s just going to be awesome.

-----

“So, what do you think?” Dean looks at Charlie expectantly, trying to contain his enthusiasm and failing miserably. He’s practically vibrating, a mix of nervous energy and excitement.

“It’s doable,” she says with a shrug. “Not that complicated. The data entry will take the most time, but you won’t need my help for that part.”

“So if Bobby’s on board, you’ll do it?”

“Are you kidding?” Charlie laughs. “This kind of thing is totally my jam. I’m in. Gimme a couple days to mock up something stupid basic so you can run it by him, and once we’ve got the go-ahead I’ll start building it for real.”

Dean heaves a relieved sigh. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I do, as a matter of fact. I’ve been told this numerous times.”

“And modest, too,” Dean laughs.

“Hey. Nothing wrong with owning your own awesomeness. You should try it some time. Works wonders.” Charlie punches him playfully in the shoulder. “Speaking of people who are totally awesome, how’s Cas?” It’s the least subtle segue possible.

“Cas is… Cas is good.” Dean hopes the warmth he feels in his face is from the hot coffee he’s sipping instead of the blush he’s pretty sure colours his face for all the world to see. At least some of that colour might be because the mention of Cas’ name sends Dean’s brain spinning back to the night before, when Cas had him tied to the bed for hours. His ass is still sore, and he shifts unconsciously on the hard, wooden chair. Saturday afternoons at Espresso Patronum are much quieter than weekday mornings, but Dean missedtheir pie, and it seemed like a perfectly logical place to meet up with Charlie even if she doesn’t work weekends. So yes, the coffee. Definitely blaming the coffee.

“That’s it? That’s all I get? He’s good??? No details?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Charlie.” Dean shrugs. “He’s Cas. He’s awesome. Things are good.”

“Are things still… complicated?” She asks, winking conspiratorially. “Or have you finally simplified things?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “We didn’t exactly talk about it. But you know, we ran in to my ex this weekend when we went out for breakfast, and you should have heard Cas lay in to her. God, it was amazing. And after he tore her a new one, she just fucking laughs and tells me to put my boyfriend on a shorter leash!”

“You’re kidding!” Charlie squeals. “That’s too rich. I don’t suppose anyone took the opportunity to point out which one of you is more likely to be wearing a leash and collar in this dynamic?”

So yup, here Dean is, exactly like he was worried he’d be, sitting in a coffee shop talking about bondage with a red-headed lesbian. And despite his misgivings, no part of the conversation feels even a little bit weird.

“No. Definitely not. And for the record, not really seeing myself as a leash and collar kind of guy.”

“Hmm but what about the boyfriend part? Was she wrong about that too?” Charlie crosses her arms across her chest victoriously, certain she’s won whatever contest she’s decided this is.

“Charlie, don’t,” Dean warns. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t listen.

“Oh come on,” she pushes. “You can’t leave me hanging like that. I need the gossip. I thrive on it. Tell me stories.”

Dean leans back in his chair, defiant and casual. “Nah. I don’t need to talk about it.” Truth is, Dean’s scared shitless to put any kind of name to whatever this thing is. That means acknowledging what it is, which means there’s been a change in status, which means there’s something to lose. If he starts acknowledging that he has any kind of attachment, that just means it’s going to hurt that much more when Cas decides he can’t wait around for Dean to get his shit in gear and make something of his life.

Dean decides on the drive home that it’s kind of ridiculous that he’s still living in his brother’s house.. It was just supposed to be a temporary thing until he got back on his feet. Chaotic as life is, Dean’s own two feet are squarely placed under the rest of him, in contact with the ground, doing that whole support thing that legs are so good at. Upright. The whole deal. Reason stands, it’s probably about time to start thinking about a place of his own, one where he doesn’t feel like he’s encroaching on Sam’s way of life. It can’t be easy having your failure of a brother hanging around all the time. Probably cramps his style with the ladies. Though, on second thought, Sam obviously only has eyes for one particular lady. But still, he’d probably rather not have Dean lurking around all the time. Dean will start looking for a place, he decides. An apartment, or a basement suite. Something. He’s got a job, so that’s the logical next step.

Just as he’s pulling in to Cas’ driveway, his phone rings.

“Oh joy,” he exclaims with fake glee, glancing at the call display . He answers the call with a grimace. “Hello, Bela.”

“Dean.” Her voice is nearly emotionless on the other end of the line. “I’ve got test results.”

Dean’s heart threatens to beat out of his chest. It’s worst case scenario all over again, and in the split second it takes her to continue speaking, he runs the gamut of all the horrible things his life could become if he was forced to raise a child with that woman. Not that he’d begrudge the kid any of it, but at this point, any day he has to be in the same room as her is automatically going to be the new worst day of his life.

“You’ll be thrilled, I’m sure, to hear it’s not yours, but I assure you it’s nowhere near as happy as I am to have that news.”

“Thrilled. That’s definitely the word I’d choose.” He’s ready to hang up the phone without another word, but Bela seems to have more to get off her chest.

“Your little stunt caused me quite a lot of difficulty over the past week, I’ll have you know. I’d no intention of sharing my misgivings with Brady until I knew for certain the parentage of my child. You had no right to bring that up.” Her voice is a font of anger, barely contained in her clipped speech and lilting accent.

“I had no right? That’s fucking rich. You want someone to keep your dirty little secret, you might want to start by letting them know there’s a secret to be kept!” Dean snaps.

“He was going to leave me if the child turned out to be yours. Do you have any idea how close you came to ruining my life?” She’s nearly yelling, her voice pitching higher as she rages.

“Ruining your life?” Un-fucking-believable. “You cheated on me for months, left me the day I got fired, and you’ve got the nerve to make me into the bad guy? Not that you wouldn’t have it coming, but trust me, I have more important things to think about than ruining your life. Why would I do something like that on purpose?”

“Oh yes, you had no ulterior motives in mentioning the paternity test. Of course. Pardon my cynicism, but I have a hard time believing you’re not looking for a way to make things more difficult for me.” Bela’s face is clear in Dean’s mind, the wicked little sneer that makes her normally pretty face look so ugly and cruel, the icy stare.

“Just because you’re cruel enough to pull something like that on purpose doesn’t mean everyone else in the world is as horrible as you, Bela. Honestly? My only mistake here is assuming I was the only one you were lying through your teeth to. But I see your new relationship is off to a fantastic start. Why not lie to the new guy? It worked out great for you before.” Dean’s laughter is bitter and mirthless. “ You know what, Bela? I couldn’t care less what happens in your life now that I’m not part of it. It’s seriously not even on my radar. I don’t care if you and Brady spend the rest of your lives making each other miserable, or if you get bored and throw him away like you did with me, or whatever else might happen. I sincerely hope you drop the spite before that kid’s born though, because if you’re half as manipulative with them as you are with everyone else in your life, there’s a lifetime of therapy and mommy issues comin’.”

“Yes, well, I can see you haven’t grown up at all since I left. I can’t say I’m surprised. You always were a slow learner. I thought you’d figured out you weren’t gay years ago but apparently all it takes is one rough patch in your life and you’re willing to succumb to delusion again. I do hope that boy of yours doesn’t take it too hard when he finds out he’s just a rebound. I’m sure you’ll be back chasing skirts out of your league before too long. Goodbye, Dean,” she says, with a sense of finality like she’s sure it will be the last goodbye she ever bids him. At least that, they can agree on. Dean hopes it’s the last time he has to speak to her, too. He ends the call and tosses the phone on the passenger seat, slamming his hands on the steering wheel in rage and disgust. How dare she? How fucking dare she?

Bela’s cruelty makes the bile rise in Dean’s throat. He tries to focus on the good news, the fact that he’s not father to Bela’s child and therefore is under no obligation to ever speak to her again, but it’s a difficult fight. More than anything he’s angry with himself for letting her get under his skin. She knows how to push his buttons, knows all the right things to say to hurt him the most, but somehow even though Dean’s caught on to her tactics it still gets him every time. He’d like to think he gained some ground in (hopefully) their final argument, but no, he’s not the victor here. He may have kept the moral high ground but Bela got in enough cheap shots to leave him reeling.

A tap on the window grabs Dean’s attention, startling him out of the black hole he’d started to spiral in to. Cas is standing there in a t-shirt, clearly shivering in the cold, a look of concern on his face. Dean collects himself and his things, stuffing his phone back into his pocket and dragging his overnight bag out of the back seat, and opens the door to let himself out.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks, letting Dean lead the way back in to the house. “What happened?”

“Fuckin’ Bela,” Dean snarls, ashamed at his rudeness but too angry to keep his temper in check at this exact moment.

“Is it…” Cas starts, then changes tactics. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” There’s far more petulance in Dean’s voice than he’d like. “Definitely not. Kid ain’t mine, so that’s a plus, but other than that, not talking about it.” He kicks his boots off aggressively, all the muscles in his back stiff and strained with the desire to lash out and break things. If Dean doesn’t vent his anger soon, he feels like he might explode.

“Then go upstairs, strip, and wait for me in the bedroom.” Dean rounds on Cas, confusion cutting through his anger and an inquiry on his lips, which Cas forestalls. “I know that look. You’re doing that thing where you blame yourself for something that probably isn’t even your fault. We’re either going to talk about it, or I’m gonna help you stop the guilt trip before it gets any worse. It’s up to you.” He shrugs, like it doesn’t really concern him which answer Dean chooses. Dean doesn’t open his mouth to answer, which is answer enough in itself, but he also doesn’t move to go anywhere. “Upstairs, kneeling at the foot of the bed. You have two minutes.” Cas’ voice is serenity, soothing the edges of Dean’s rage just enough that he can latch onto the offer. Dean’s turned towards the stairs before he even acknowledged that he means to, and he can feel Cas’ eyes on his back as he goes. The seconds tick, counting down towards the end of the time Cas gave him, and Dean toys with the idea of pushing the limits. He’s not certain what kind of outlet Cas is offering, but if there’s impact play involved, it’s a sure-fire way to get Dean’s mind off of things. If he’s disobedient, maybe Cas will punish him. That would be better. He couldn’t even stand up to Bela when she said those horrible things about him. Even when she implied he was using Cas, that he’d get bored and leave him to run after girls, Dean couldn’t summon up a single thing to say in his defense. He doesn’t deserve whatever else Cas might be offering, but a punishment, that’ll be just the thing.

In the end, Dean is naked and kneeling before Cas comes in to the room, but he certainly wasn’t ready at the two minute mark. He’s not sure if Cas knows, but he won’t lie about it if he’s asked. Cas stands in the doorway, eyes on Dean’s naked skin for a long moment, but he doesn’t make any commentary at all. The silence is unsettling, adding to the tension that makes Dean’s shoulders bunch. His mood isn’t getting any less black. A rustle of fabric is the only indication Dean has to tell him that Cas is undressing, but he doesn’t turn his head to look, as much as he wants to. It’s tempting. Cas is unbearably sexy whether he’s naked or fully clothed, but there’s something extra enticing about the tanned muscles and smooth skin when he’s not wearing a stitch. Still, as much as Dean craves the sting of punishment, the sharp pain of leather against his skin, a feral need to be good bleeds through and overtakes his brain, and it’s the only thing that keeps his limbs still and his eyes forward. The pain is good. The pain makes him feel alive in ways he’d forgotten how. Cas’ praise though, when Dean can really behave himself and meet Cas’ expectations? Dean will take that over the pain any day. It’s so much sweeter.

Time drags onward, giving Dean far more opportunity than he’d like to contemplate what might be coming. Ropes or cuffs? The paddle? The strap? Something new? Dean has no idea. Just thinking about the assortment of options in the cupboard behind him makes Dean’s cock thicken and his mouth water. Anger and frustration lingers at a slow simmer, just this side of boiling, but the night’s potential events are at least a momentary distraction from it all.

“Get up here, please,” Cas calls finally. Dean stands, his legs protesting after so long tucked under him, and turns to find Cas reclined on the bed, naked and relaxed with one arm behind his head on the pillows. Dean complies quickly, climbing on to the bed though he’s unsure exactly what Cas wants. There’s plenty of room beside him though, so Dean lays himself down alongside Castiel, splaying a hand out across the taut muscles of his stomach. The arm comes out from behind Cas’ head to wrap around Dean’s shoulders and pull him into a deep and filthy kiss, startled moans swallowed up by Cas’ mouth.

“I want you to show me how good you can be,” Cas says when they break apart. That tells him nothing. This entire game is about showing Cas how good he can be. Whatever Cas wants, that’s what Dean does. Always. “You complained once that I never let you touch me when we scene. Now’s your chance. I want your hands on me. I want your mouth. I want you.” Dean looks curiously at Cas’ face, watching his lips as he moves. Cas’ eyes darken at the first tentative touch of Dean’s fingers, hesitantly moving upwards from his belly to brush against one of Cas’ nipples. He makes a soft noise, encouraging, and Dean rolls the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Dean nearly forgets to breathe when Cas moans his pleasure, his fingers tight in Dean’s hair. Their mouths meet again, hurried and messy kisses that stir lust and longing in Dean where previously there was just bitterness and anger. It’s only Cas’ gasping breath that reminds Dean he needs air to keep doing things; only the touch of Cas’ hand on the back of his head that reminds him that he’s got muscles to move with. It’s a fantastic distraction for a few minutes. Kissing Cas is everything his mind can bear to process, but as he settles into the enjoyment of it, those ugly thoughts start to rear their heads again, and his mind wanders.

I sure hope that boy of yours doesn’t take it too hard when he learns he’s just a rebound, says Bela’s voice in his head. Dean struggles to shut it out, to focus on the luscious taste of Cas’ lips, but he only meets with so much success. I thought you’d figured out you weren’t gay years ago, she taunts. He hates it, that voice. Hates that he ever let her into his head. Hates that she knew exactly where to aim with her cruelty so it hurt the worst, and more than anything, he hates the doubt it allows in. Dean has his hands and his mouth on a gorgeous man, a man he wants to touch and to taste and to please, and still her voice rings in his head and makes him question his own motivations. He wants Castiel with everything he has, and still she makes him doubt.

“You’re overthinking again,” Cas notices. Dean doesn’t have the stones to deny it, so he just sighs, dejected, and falls to his back on the bed with a hand over his face. At least if Cas can’t see his face, Dean won’t have to see the look of disappointment reflected back there.

Cas pulls his hand away. “Don’t think. Just do. Follow my directions. Can you do that?” Dean nods slowly, still warring between shame and anger.

“I can try.”

“That’s a start,” Cas tells him, a devious smile on his lips. “Change of plans. You need to give up control right now, yeah?” Dean’s nod is more certain this time, though he doesn’t realize until he’s already agreed that it’s exactly what he needs. “Kneel on the floor, hands behind your back. Let me get some rope.” Cas points to a spot on the floor, striding over to the cabinet to fetch a length of hemp. Dean sets his feet on the floor and settles onto his knees, clasping hands behind his back without needing to be told.

“Good boy,” Cas praises. His fingertips trail over Dean’s neck and shoulders as he circles, the rope held loosely in his other hand. He drags the pad of his thumb across Dean’s lower lip, shaky breaths chasing the touch as he moves away. “You’re always so eager to please me. I love that about you.” He circles around behind Dean, sinking to kneel behind him. Dean waits patiently for the familiar scratch of hemp across his skin, the mounting tension easing just a little as Cas begins to bind his wrists. Thick cords of hemp wrap around his arms, securing them at the small of his back. There’s a little room to move but its only enough to prevent rope burn. Dean knows exactly what Cas is thinking when he checks the tension, then slides a finger between Dean’s wrists and the rope to double check it. He still asks Dean if it’s too tight.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure Cas. They’re good.” He’s being overcautious and they both know it, but if anything, Dean appreciates it. It’s something to cling to, a piece of evidence that Cas is on his side. He circles around again to stand in front of Dean, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down with an almost contemplative look on his features. Of course. Cas had a plan in mind, probably some clever and filthy way to take Dean’s mind completely away from his troubles, and Dean ruined it by being too weak to even focus. Now Cas has to come up with something new on the fly. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “This isn’t what you had planned. I didn’t mean to fuck it up.”

“Hey!” Cas grabs a handful of Dean’s hair, jerking his head back roughly so his downcast eyes are forced to meet those of the man standing above him. “Did I say you’d done something wrong?” Dean shakes his head.

“No, but…” Cas cuts him off.

“Then why are you apologising? It’s not up to you to decide what I want out of this. I get to change my mind. As long as you do as you’re told, I don’t want to hear a word of apology.” His hand slides out of Dean’s hair, caressing over his cheek and Dean finds himself leaning into the touch unintentionally. “Besides, I can think of much better uses for your mouth than apologising when you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Dean knows exactly what Cas means, and this, he can do. He opens his mouth wide, welcoming the weight of Cas’ cock on his tongue. Immediately, Dean goes to work. It’s a bit difficult with his hands tied behind his back, but Cas makes this sound, this soft, delighted little noise like oh, and it’s apparent to Dean in that moment that whatever effort this takes, it’s worth it. He suckles the tip, tasting precome, then leans forward to work his lips along Cas’ length. A quick glance upwards as he pulls back shows Cas’ lower lip trapped between his teeth, and everything about his face speaks of barely contained desire.

Dean’s good at this, sucking cock, and he knows it. The few guys he had flings with back in college were always impressed with his skill and enthusiasm. They praised his pretty mouth, his clever tongue. They liked how happy he was to drop to his knees and get his mouth on their cocks. That’s the trick to sucking dick. It’s not enough to be talented. You’re never really good at it unless you enjoy it. And Dean enjoys it like nothing else. He especially enjoys sucking Cas’ cock. Even now, with his fingers tight in Dean’s hair, he doesn’t push for more than Dean is ready to give. He doesn’t pull Dean in, doesn’t try to advance things. Cas holds him like an anchor, not a handle, and for that, Dean is grateful. He can work his mouth at his own pace, escalating the intensity when he sees fit, using his favourite tricks to keep things interesting.

Cas, for his part, seems to appreciate everything Dean has to offer. He starts off quiet, just giving up little sounds when Dean changes his tactics and tightening his grip on Dean’s hair when he does something particularly delicious, but overall, he remains passive. As Dean really gets in to it, though, Cas loses his stoicism. The noises he makes stop being quite so soft, and then instead of aimless noises they’re words.

“Fuck,” Cas groans. “So good.” His other hand strokes Dean’s cheek, feeling the head of his cock nudge against it as Dean works his tongue in little circles. “I could fuck your mouth all night, would you like that?” Cas’ voice is a low rasp, dark with lust. “Just use you for my own pleasure? Maybe keep you on edge until I want you again, leave you tied up on the bed and tease you all evening?” Dean moans, a low noise in his throat that sends vibrations through Cas’ cock. “I don’t think I can restrain myself long enough for that, though. Fuck. You look so hot with my cock in your mouth like that. The things I wanna do to you…” he trails off. “Does that sound good, Dean? Do you want that?” Cas asks, using his grip on Dean’s hair to pull him backwards to permit an answer.

“Whatever you want,” Dean hums. “Just wanna be good for you.” He tries to lean forward to get his lips on Cas’ cock again, but is prevented by the hand still gripping his hair.

“Oh but you are,” Cas purrs. “You do such a good job of pleasing me. Can’t you tell?” His cock, still slick from Dean’s mouth, bobs as he laughs darkly. “You’re so good for me, always. But I asked you a question.” He jerks Dean’s head back, the rough gesture just shy of painful. “And I expect an answer.”

Dean winces, but the pain is more than welcome. It narrows his focus, helps to sweep away all the other thoughts that swirl in his head and lets him zero in on the one thing that matters right now. Cas. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Dean considers what his honest answer to the question might actually be. He thought he was already being honest, but clearly, that wasn’t the answer Cas was looking for. It is true, though. There’s a sense of pride in making Cas happy. It makes him feel like less of a fuck-up, even if it’s only temporary. He pleases Cas with his mouth and gets praise, and that’s something he did right. Cas fucks him and they both get to come, and that’s something Dean’s good at. Cas wants him to scream, and lord, does he scream. It doesn’t matter what it is, not really, as long as he can live up to Cas’ expectations inside the four walls of this bedroom, he doesn’t have to think about all the ways he fails everywhere else.

“I want what you want,” Dean ventures carefully. “You always take such good care of me, no matter what. And when I’m good for you…” his voice gets shaky with uncertainty, “And you tell me I’m good, I can almost believe it. I just want to make you happy.”

“Dean…” Cas’ voice sounds almost sorrowful. He strokes Dean’s cheek tenderly, his other hand relaxing in Dean’s hair. “Of course you make me happy. Don’t ever doubt that. Hmmm,” he hums contemplatively, letting go of Dean’s hair and guiding him up to stand on shaky legs. “Well if that’s the way you want to play it, I guess I can do whatever I want.” He pushes Dean back towards the bed, hands still bound behind his back. The commanding presence that slipped away for a moment is back in place now, and Dean can’t read his intentions at all. That’s thrilling on its own, but it also makes Dean worry that he’s pushed the boundaries too far, and Cas is walling himself off. Perhaps that last confession sounded a little too personal. Perhaps Cas thinks he’s getting too attached, and is trying to push Dean away. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it though, because before he ever figures out how best to climb onto the bed without hands to help him, Cas is back, dropping his selected implements onto the bedspread and helping Dean up beside them. With Cas’ assistance, Dean gets his knees under him, then Cas works a pillow under his chest and shoulders so his face isn’t mashed into the bed. Dean groans louder than he anticipated when Cas begins stroking his cock. His hand is slick with lube, cool to the touch at first but quickly warming with the heat of his body.

“Tell me when you’re close,” Cas demands in a rough voice. He fists Dean’s cock with singleminded purpose, ignoring his own erection in favour of driving Dean wild with pleasure. Dean’s desire ramps up slowly, building towards inevitable release at a measured pace right up until the point that the thumb of Cas’ free hand slides between his cheeks andbegins to stroke over his hole, teasing at the promise of more but not quite pushing in. That’s when Dean really starts to feel it looming, and he gasps out a warning.

“I’m gonna,” he breathes, his desire to obey outweighing the need to come. Cas breaks off all contact immediately, leaving Dean panting for breath. Cas retrieves the item he deposited on the bed minutes earlier, a thin black strap of leather with snaps on it, and fastens it around the base of Dean’s cock and balls.

“I want to make you come,” Cas explains, “but not yet. So you’re going to wear this until I’m done playing with you, and then I’ll take it off. Ok?” Dean nods eagerly. He’s never worn a cock ring, this much is true, but if it’s what Cas wants, well, Dean’s already established he’s gonna do whatever it takes to make him happy. “Good,” Cas murmurs. It’s not possible for him to miss the shift in Dean’s body at that single word of praise, the way his shoulders relax a little, the tiny little sigh Dean gives.

Cock ring in place, Cas shifts back away from Dean’s hips, but he doesn’t go far. His hands grip Dean’s ass, spreading him open, and Dean feels the slick heat of Cas’ tongue pressing against his rim. A loud moan escapes his lips, desperate to show Cas how much he’s enjoying these first few gentle kitten licks. And then Cas really gets going. The flat of his tongue drags heavily across Dean’s hole, wet, filthy kisses giving Dean a kind of pleasure he’s never known before. Dean’s breath comes in shaky gasps, mouth hanging open as he’s completely overwhelmed by the gentle pressure of Cas’ tongue. His thighs quiver. His shoulders ache. And still Cas keeps licking, making Dean’s hole sloppy and wet. He presses the tip of his tongue just past the ring of muscle at Dean’s entrance, probing and teasing, urging Dean to relax. Slowly, oh so slowly, Cas works his tongue in. Dean moans with abandon, loud and filthy and he doesn’t care how desperate he sounds because this right here is the most amazing thing he’s ever experienced. He could die happy right now, but he prays to any god that will listen that he doesn’t because he never wants this to end.

Unsurprisingly, Dean finds himself on the edge of coming all too soon. He doesn’t even hear his own voice call out in warning, but he must have. He must have said something because Cas pulls away, humming to himself as he massages the globes of Dean’s ass, giving him a moment to catch his breath.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean groans, when he’s able to form words again. “That’s fucking intense.”

“Has no one ever done that for you before?” Cas sounds scandalized, like he’s never met anyone who hasn’t had someone’s tongue in their ass before, like any good friend would be totally happy to rim their friend, because that’s just what friends do. Dean wants to laugh. There’s something desperately intimate about the act, and none of the guys he’s been with in past have even approached that kind of familiarity. They were all one night stands or friends with short term benefits. Nobody he would have felt comfortable bringing it up with. So no, that never happened. And her? She didn’t even suck Dean’s cock unless it was his birthday or something, so even if Dean had considered it something he wanted to try, there’s no way he would have broached the subject. And he sure as hell wouldn’t have gotten a yes if he did.

“Nah,” Dean says dismissively, wiggling his arms to work the tension out of his shoulders.

“How are your wrists? Are the ropes hurting you?” He checks the bonds even as he asks, but still waits for Dean to reply before he deems them safe.

“I’m good,” Dean replies softly.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Cas murmurs dangerously, spreading Dean’s cheeks again and diving back in. He starts with such a slow tease, keeping Dean’s arousal at a simmer, but before long the point of his tongue is probing back into Dean’s slick hole, and Dean can’t help but whimper when he works his first finger in alongside his tongue.

“Fuck,” Dean groans. Balanced on his shoulders as he is, Dean couldn’t move if he wanted to, but he wishes he could push his hips back just a little, force Cas to give him just a bit more friction. It feels so fucking good, the heat of Cas’ mouth, the teasing slide of his finger. A little trail of spit runs down Dean’s balls, just a tiny reminder of how wet he is.

Cas is so fucking enthusiastic about it. His mouth is amazing. His tongue ought to be fucking illegal. But the knowledge that he’s getting off on this? The way he moans right along with Dean, giving up little hints at how much he’s enjoying himself? That’s almost more than Dean can handle. The attention, the sensation of it is enough to get Dean so close to the edge, and if not for the cock ring he’d probably go off like a rocket. Knowing that his pleasure gives Cas pleasure pushes him to the point where he can hardly contain himself, whimpering pitifully as it all becomes too much.

“Cas…” Dean groans, eyes sliding shut, voice raw. “I’m so close. Please…” he whines, but Cas doesn’t give in. He stops licking, pulls back, and in his mind’s eye Dean can just imagine him sitting back on his knees, staring at the mess he’s made of Dean with satisfaction and interest. It takes longer for Dean to come back from the brink this time. A couple of minutes pass before he feels like he can control his breathing and even then he’s not certain he could stand if he tried to put his legs under him. Cas smacks his ass, hard, and laughs darkly when Dean yelps.

“Beg all you want,” he warns. “You don’t come until I’m done with you. And I’m having way too much fun to let this end yet.”

Dean loses track of how many times Cas pushes him to the edge and then yanks him back. Always, just before it becomes too much to handle, Cas’ tongue ceases its exquisite torture and Dean gets just enough time to catch his breath before it starts again. And each time, Cas pushes him closer and closer, until Dean isn’t certain he’s going to be able to stop himself from coming, cock ring or no. It feels like hours. It feels like they go all night. Somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind he knows that can’t be true, but it’s hard to believe it’s been anything shorter. And still Cas keeps teasing him, spanking his ass when Dean resorts to begging, finding his prostate with clever fingers, and basically just being the cruelest bastard Dean has ever had the pleasure of meeting. He loves every fucking second of it. Even when he’s nearly crying, begging Cas to let him come, Dean wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Cas takes some semblance of pity on him. Dean’s just recovering from the most recent assault, gasping for breath as the tidal wave of an impending orgasm recedes and leaves him tingling from head to toe. Cas checks his bonds for like, the thousandth time, decides they’re good and that Dean isn’t sustaining any injury, and Dean is halfway to bracing himself to endure another round of torture at the end of Cas’ tongue, but what he gets instead is the head of Cas’ cock, thick and hard, sliding past his slick entrance with almost no resistance.

This time, it’s Cas’ deep groan that rings out through the room. Dean’s sure he makes a sound too, but it’s nothing beside the beautiful noise that Cas makes when he finally sinks into Dean’s ass, gripping his hips like a lifeline. He slides in slowly, taking his time and letting Dean feel every inch until they’re pressed together hips to ass, and Dean is remarkably, unbearably full.

He can do nothing but breathe. Drawing a shaky breath takes everything he has. If he moves, he’ll fall apart, and he’s not sure he could even if he wanted to. Cas holds his hips so tight, motionless as he lets Dean grow accustomed to the fullness, and when he starts to move, it’s with slow, tentative thrusts. The caution only lasts a moment. Dean groans in pleasure, a raw, needy sound that’s just as much begging as the words he can no longer bring himself to use, and something in Cas snaps. He reaches down around Dean’s hips and unsnaps the cock ring, and his hips slam into Dean’s ass with the full force his strong thighs can provide.

“You’ve been so good,” Cas growls, his voice impossibly low. “So fucking good. You can come any time you’re ready.” Dean doesn’t reply. He isn’t sure he’s capable of forming words. But Cas seems ok with that, because he doesn’t press for an answer, just fucks Dean hard and deep, pulling him back by his hips as Dean cries out in bliss.

Dean would have expected that he’d come hard and fast the moment the cock ring released its hold, but now that he’s got Cas’ cock in his ass it’s almost like he’s too overwhelmed to come yet. And Cas doesn’t let up, not the speed, not the intensity, not even as Dean wails, the side of his face pressed hard into the pillow. Cas releases his hold on Dean’s hips and grabs his arms, pulling his chest up off the mattress. It’s raw and rough, a certain kind of aggressive that has Dean shouting in pleasure. Cas gets so into it, fucking Dean like it’s the best sex he’s ever had. He’s like a wild beast, surrendering completely to desire. He slams into Dean over and over, breathing hard and growling low in his throat, and suddenly it’s so good, just right, and Dean comes, crying out as he shoots his release over his own belly and the bed below him. And Cas just keeps fucking him through it, pulling him backwards with the iron grip on his arms, burying his cock in Dean’s ass over and over.

Dean’s moaning becomes a high whine. He’s oversensitive, fucked out and near to crying, and Cas doesn’t let up. He just keeps fucking, hard and deep and fast, and god help him, Dean doesn’t want him to stop. Every fibre of Dean’s being is alive with sensation. He’s long since gone limp, sagging against Cas’ hold on his arms, punched-out little moans falling from his lips with every sharp thrust. And here in this moment, where Dean is floating in the post orgasmic haze, his limbs tingly and his brain drowning in endorphins, he’s happier than he can ever remember being. He’s been good, so good, and he’s making Cas happy, and Dean can’t think of the last time he wanted anything more than he wants this. That’s the thought that hovers at the forefront of his brain as Cas comes, hips slamming into Dean’s ass one last time as he tenses, a guttural moan on his lips as he lets go of Dean’s arms, lowering him gently to the bed and petting Dean’s flanks with a tenderness that’s almost a jarring contrast to the ferocity of his thrusts. Cas is happy, so Dean is happy, and everything is right with the world.

Chapter Text

Floating. Relaxed and pleasantly exhausted. Dean always feels so much better after a scene with Cas. It’s the physical release of sex, for sure, but there’s something else to it that puts him so much more at ease than just a quick fuck could ever do. Cas pulls something out of him in those moments that he didn’t even know was there, like little splinters stuck in his skin that he’s so relieved to be rid of. He could fall asleep right now and sleep right through ‘til morning, though realistically it’s far too early for that. Still, with the delicious soreness in his muscles and the memory of a mind-blowing orgasm still fresh in mind, Dean would not be opposed to it.

Cas has other ideas.

“Shower?” he suggests once Dean’s eyes have lost that glassy look that says he’s still very far away, and he’s drank the orange juice Cas presses to his lips. It sounds more like an order, though, so even though Dean would be perfectly happy to remain motionless for several hours to come, he rolls himself out of bed and follows Cas down the hallway. There’s a loose sort of relaxation in his muscles that wasn’t there before, exhaustion be damned. Cas is a miracle worker. Dean remembers full well what he was upset about, but he just can’t summon up the same level of vitriol now.

Neither one of them has the energy to turn the steamy heat of the shower into anything much more than just washing, but even so, they spend far more time under the spray than is strictly called for. Dean lets Cas wash his hair, revelling in the soothing touch of hands on his scalp, and returns the favour eagerly. Cas backs Dean up against the wall and kisses him lazily, hands roaming aimlessly over freshly washed skin until Dean is sure the hot water is going to run out any minute. Finally, as the heat starts to wane just a little, Cas turns the shower off and hands Dean a big fluffy towel.

Soon there’s takeout on the way, Thai food from a place Cas swears is the best in the city, and they’re getting ready to watch Harry Potter. Cas has seen it seven times, and Dean has watched the entire series a once or twice, but they’ve never watched it together, so, yeah. They’re downstairs on the couch, scrubbed clean and wrapped in a blanket when Cas brings it up.

“What does your family do for Christmas?” Dean’s kicked back against one arm of the couch with Cas settled between his legs, a single blanket thrown over the both of them. It’s comfortable. It’s easy. It’s exactly the kind of comfort that comes from this kind of domesticity, and Dean tries not to think too closely on what that might mean.

“Not much. My parents live a couple hours north, so me and Sam’ll drive up there on Christmas Eve, come back on the 26^th. Mom bakes pies, we mostly just bum around. Used to have the grandparents over for dinner on Christmas day but now my mom’s folks are in Boca, and I think dad’s parents are up in Washington State now. They travel a lot.”

“Sounds nice.” He snuggles against Dean’s chest, a contented sigh on his lips. It should probably be the other way around, what with the rest of their dynamic. Dean should be seeking shelter in Cas’ arms like he does in the bedroom. It feels natural this way though, with Cas wrapped up in Dean’s arms and in the blanket, so he doesn’t fight the comfort of it. “I’m not sure what Christmas is going to be like this year. Luke was never there, not since he left home, but there’s this cloud, you know? And I feel like it’s going to hang over everything we do as a family until I figure out how to dispel it.”

“How come it’s gotta be you?” Dean doesn’t mean to be challenging, but he doesn’t see how it’s all on Cas to fix this. It’s something the whole family has to come to terms with.

“Because if I don’t start the conversation no one else is going to talk about it. My father won’t even mention his name unless someone else brings it up. He hasn’t spoken about Luke in years. Michael, even when he has opinions of his own, is so well trained to follow in his footsteps that he’ll just parrot what dad says, or in this case, doesn’t say. And my mother is so committed to keeping up appearances she’d never dare bring up something that dramatic. It’ll be this horrid little farce where we pretend like nothing has changed. She didn’t even plan a funeral, you know? Nobody was there when they laid him to rest. I know they’re grieving too, but other than when she called to tell me it was done, it’s like no one’s willing to acknowledge it happened.” The doorbell rings, pre-empting whatever else Cas was going to say, and he extricates himself from the blanket and Dean’s limbs with a heavy sigh.

Dean heads to the kitchen to get plates and cutlery, pausing to grab a couple of beers out of the fridge. They’ve already scened tonight, he figures, so there’s no reason not to have a drink or two, and judging from the forlorn way Cas spoke about his family, Dean figures he could use one. It tugs on something in Dean’s chest to hear him talk so sorrowfully about his family. It’s not fair. Cas is such a good person, so unfailingly caring. He doesn’t deserve to spend his Christmas fighting with people who are more concerned with maintaining the status quo than being good to each other.

He smells the takeout before he hears Cas enter the room, turning to take the bags from Cas’ hands and setting the little foil containers out on the counter. There’s red curry and spare-ribs, spring rolls and a spicy pork dish, and a mountain of fluffy steamed rice. They load up their plates and trek back to the living room, where Dean has paused Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone in the middle of the scene where Harry unwittingly frees a giant snake from the zoo.

Dean waits for Cas to pick up their previous conversation when they sit down to dinner, but it doesn’t come. He’s much more interested in making idle commentary about the movie now, and Dean decides the moment has passed. Still, he’s uncharacteristically quiet through the rest of the movie, save for a brief conversation where Dean announces that he feels kind of bad for Severus Snape.

“You’re not a Snape Justifier, are you?” Cas exclaims, taken aback. “I mean, I can forgive a lot of things, but…”

“No dude, I just mean, I feel sorry for him ‘cause he has like, no idea what a shitty person he’s been. I mean like, he’s got no clue. He’s living so far in the friend-zone he doesn’t even remember what the real world looks like, and I don’t think he even understands how fucked up that is.”

“Oh,” Cas replies thoughtfully. “That makes sense.” And then he just settles back again Dean’s chest, quiet for the rest of the movie.

Dean blows him before they go to sleep, because it’s the only thing he can think to do to lift Cas’ somber mood, but he’s not convinced it accomplishes anything.

-----

Three nights that week, Dean meets up with Charlie after work to iron out the details of his brilliant plan. On Tuesday he shows up at her place after work with a pizza and a head full of ideas. She’s put together a fairly effective framework, and in between bites of New York Deli with extra cheese, Dean rattles off all the inspired things that have been spinning through his head since Garth first sparked his imagination. Charlie nods, mouth full of pizza, her red hair swaying with the movement.

“I see what you’re getting at here.” She wipes her hands on a napkin before hovering over the keyboard for a moment while she collects her thoughts, then starts typing furiously, like if she tries hard enough she can code as fast as he speaks. Dean slows his words down but she waves him on.

“I’m just taking notes. I can keep up. Keep it coming.” So Dean keeps it coming, trying to temper his enthusiasm over this project his boss hasn’t even actually authorized yet.

Wednesday, Dean shows up with Chinese takeout and Charlie has the beginnings of a functional workup ready to play around with. After a little bit of tooling around, a little bit of dummy data entry to take it on a test drive, it’s starting to resemble what Dean imagined. It’s not pretty, which Charlie makes apologies for but assures Dean it’ll be shiny if Bobby likes the idea enough to run with it.

“This is a sketch, Dean. Rough outline only. You think I’d give you anything but my best work?” Her laugh is a short cackle, face full of glee. She really is in her element when she’s wrapping computer code around her little finger.

By Thursday, it basically functions like Dean imagined, minus a few little kinks that are really fairly insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Charlie kicks her shoes up on the coffee table, looking for all the world like the Khaleesi come home to sit on the Iron Throne.

“I told you, Dean.” She saves her work, then saves again, because apparently she’s been burned by unsaved work enough times to be extra wary. “This kind of shit is totally my jam.”

-----

The first thing Dean feels when he wakes up Saturday morning is Cas’ cock nudging at his ass through their respective boxers. The fabric slides over his skin with each tiny movement Cas makes, shifting slightly in his sleep, and Dean gasps, reminded suddenly of how red his ass was after their scene last night. He really does love the leather strap but even more than that he enjoys the way Cas purrs praise and affection and appreciation at how well Dean takes the beatings. He’d fallen asleep happy, a jumbled tangle of limbs with his Dom… lover… boyfriend… whatever Cas is, and woken up just about as happy. Morning wood tents his boxers as he rolls his hips back to meet Cas’ movements, and Dean hears a soft sigh from the sleeping man behind him.

“That’s a nice way to wake a guy up.” Ok, so not sleeping then.

“Hey, you started it,” Dean challenges. “I’m just lying here minding my own business. You’re the one humping me in your sleep.”

“Well now I’m awake.” Cas’ hand moves from where it’s slung over Dean’s waist and sneaks down the front of Dean’s shorts. “Apparently so are you.” His hand closes around Dean’s cock, already hard but growing thicker at his touch. A satisfied noise drifts from Dean’s lips, morphing into a moan as Cas works him in slow, gentle strokes. The firm press of Cas’ cock against his ass is an ever-present reminder of last night’s impact play. This is nothing like the heat of that scene though. Cas doesn’t move with an air of command. He barely moves at all. His palm glides along Dean’s cock like a gentle caress as he rocks his hips lazily, enjoying the sensation but in no hurry to escalate. Dean brings his hand back to clutch weakly at Cas’ hip, pulling him closer as they move in tandem. The air is filled with quiet moans, breathy utterances of Mmm, just like that, and Yes! and Yeah Cas, do that again, but not a single one of them does anything to hasten Cas’ touches. Dean’s not sure he has any cause to complain though. Sleepy morning sex is a thing of beauty.

When Cas finally pushes Dean’s boxers down around his thighs and quickly sheds his own, it’s an abrupt change of pace, but it doesn’t last. Cas rushes only long enough to slick himself up and fit the head of his cock between Dean’s cheeks, pushing gently past his rim in slow, short thrusts. Dean still aches from their last round, but he supposes that was technically only about four hours ago. He sighs and drops his head heavily to the pillow as Cas pushes inside, holding Dean close with an arm around his waist. He kisses the back of Dean’s neck, soft lips and warm breath full of affection that Dean will overanalyze the shit out of later and probably find a totally believable reason to discount, but for now, it’s bliss.

There’s so little range of motion, spooned together like this. Any intensity either of them might yearn for is completely obliterated by the confines of the blankets wrapped around them and the slow, shallow thrusts afforded by their position. Cas ruts against Dean like he’s got all the time in the world. Dean supposes he does. It’s Saturday after all.

When Cas finally comes, it’s with his face buried in the crook of Dean’s neck and his palm splayed out across Dean’s belly. A breathy gasp flees his lips like he’s startled by it. He kisses at Dean’s neck, his shoulders, sliding his hand down to grip Dean’s cock and work to bring him over the edge too. Dean clutches at Cas’ hair with the arm that’s half-pinned beneath his body, the other on Cas’ hip, too overwhelmed with sensation and a welling up of emotion to use any words other than Cas’ name. He moans it softly while Cas thrusts into him, cock still thick between his cheeks. He breathes it like something sacred, full of reverence and awe as he approaches the edge, his lips parted to allow the sound to escape. It falls from his mouth over and over as he comes, sounding at once forceful and needy, his release spilling over Cas’ fingers until he’s oversensitive, shuddering at every touch.

The way they curl up in the afterglow can only be accurately described as cuddling. The thought occurs to Dean while Cas is busy entwining their limbs together, cocooning Dean in his arms. He should probably be protesting. Cuddling isn’t Dean’s deal, really. It doesn’t seem right to raise a fuss though, not when he’s so comfortable and Cas is humming contentedly. He’ll definitely have to call a stop before it happens again, of course, but this one time can’t hurt. It’s totally ok to enjoy the comfort for just this one Saturday morning.

Obviously, the exact moment that Dean decides to let the cuddling happen is the very same moment that Cas’ phone rings out from the nightstand. It’s some obnoxious pop song; one Dean doesn’t recognize but hates instantaneously. Cas clearly has similar emotions about either the song or the caller attached to that particular ringtone because the noise he makes is one of utter disgust. He still releases his hold on Dean and rolls to answer it though.

“Hello, mother.” Cas makes a valiant effort of sounding like he didn’t just finish a lazy romp between the sheets, and Dean decides that it’s a very, very good time to get up and relieve himself. Afterwards, he makes his way down to the kitchen to make coffee, and by the time he heads back upstairs Cas has ended his phone call.

“Everything alright?” Dean ventures carefully, climbing back into bed. The look on Cas’ face doesn’t escape him but Dean knows better than to pry at this stage. Dean wouldn’t want to be pushed. He’d pointedly not talk about it if he were pushed.

“Well, on the upside, there will be no need for me to play mediator for my family over Christmas.”

“That’s good, right?” Dean offers, but he immediately wishes he could have the words back, because as soon as he’s finished speaking he wakes up enough to realize that Cas is in no way acting like the recipient of good news.

“Sure. I suppose. My father is going to be in London for some important meeting over Christmas. Obviously he’s taking Michael with him. And my mother has decided that, since it would just be herself and me, there’s not really any need to go to the trouble of putting anything together, so she’s just going to have a quiet holiday at home, and she was just calling to tell me I might as well not make the trip.” He flops onto the bed heavily. “She’s a twenty-five minute bus ride away. We’re in the same city, for fuck’s sake.”

Dean scoots his way across the bed. “So you’re just supposed to spend Christmas by yourself?”

“It won’t be so bad,” Cas sighs, but Dean can tell he doesn’t really mean it. “I won’t have to listen to them pretending everything is normal. It’ll be a nice change of pace.”

Dean snorts. “Well, I’m convinced. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Cas. This sucks. You don’t have to pretend you’re ok with it.”

“Fine, yes. It sucks. I am the furthest thing from happy that my family has cancelled Christmas. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to be spending the holiday alone.” The complete resignation in his voice hits Dean in the gut like a sucker punch. He tells himself it’s just natural to feel bad. No one should have to be alone on Christmas. He’s just expressing normal empathy. Deep down though, he knows his need to do whatever it takes to make Cas happy has evolved to the point where it lives outside the bedroom now, and if he’s not very, very careful, he’s going to do something irreparably stupid.

-----

Dean’s not careful. Well, he is, when it comes to approaching the conversation. He’s meticulously selective about the words he uses, and absurdly cautious about when he corners Sam and works it oh so casually into conversation. The part where he was supposed to not do a thing that could end up being kind of a big deal though? Caution meet wind.

“So Cas’ mom cancelled Christmas, can you believe that?” Dean throws the segue out like it’s of no importance, flopping on to the couch and kicking his heels up on the coffee table. He’s fresh and clean from the shower, feeling a far sight more presentable than he did when he got home from work a few hours ago, and now that the dinner dishes are done and Sam’s relaxing on the couch, Dean figures it’s the best possible time to bring this up without sounding like he’s been waiting to spring it on Sam.

“Why?” Sam asks, not looking up from his book. There’s a documentary about puffins on in the background. Dean has no idea how Sam can focus on reading like this.

“His dad’s out of town and so’s his brother, and his mom just figured she’d just rather not. So even though she’s just across town, Cas is going to spend Christmas at his house all by himself.”

Sam doesn’t even lift his eyes off the page. “You want to bring him to mom and dad’s with us, don’t you?”

There is nothing graceful in Dean’s response. He chokes on syllables that he’s not sure were ever going to end up being words anyway, makes a face that would frighten children, and tries to play it cool with such a strength of conviction that he comes out looking far, far worse by the end of it.

“Um. Yeah. I was kinda thinking about it. You think they’ll mind hosting another person?”

Sam laughs softly. “No, Dean, I don’t think they’ll mind. Dad’s going to look at you sideways a bit though. You know he doesn’t really understand your sexuality.”

“Dude, I told you,” Dean says, totally not whining. “He’s not my—”

Sam cuts him off. “I know. Not your boyfriend. But seriously, Dean. You’re sleeping together. You spend like, every weekend together. You talk about him all the time. And you’re inviting him over for Christmas. Dad’s not going to see a difference, even if you don’t bring up the sex thing. Which, actually, please don’t. I just got rid of the mental images from the last time we had to talk about the you and Cas thing. I’m fresh out of brain bleach.”

“Aw, Sammy, don’t be such a prude,” Dean taunts, but he doesn’t need the warning. John may not have freaked out when he found out Dean played for both teams, but Dean had left the conversation with the distinct impression that the gruff patriarch was in no way clear on the details of the scenario and didn’t want to be. Dean hops off the couch and makes his way towards his bedroom.

“You gonna go call Cas?” Sam yells after him, but Dean ignores it. He wasn’t, as a matter of fact, but there’s no point in giving Sam the satisfaction he’ll get from putting Dean on the defensive. Instead, he calls his parents. Mary answers after a few rings.

“Dean, honey, how are you?” She’s always so thrilled to hear from her sons. It wouldn’t matter if they called every day, she’d still be excited.

“I’m good, mom. Real good.” For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like he has to lie to answer that question. Things are good. He’s enjoying his job at the salvage yard, he’s starting to feel like he has his life back, and with the knowledge that Bela’s baby is not also Dean’s baby, he can start looking forward to life instead of fearing what it’s going to throw at him.

“That’s excellent. I’m so looking forward to seeing you boys for Christmas next week. I’m still disappointed that Sam isn’t bringing that Jessica girl though. I was looking forward to meeting her. I suppose it makes sense that she’d want to spend the day with her family though. It’ll be nice having you two up for the holiday though.”

“That’s actually what I’m calling about,” Dean tells her.

“You’re not cancelling on us are you?” There’s so much sadness in her voice at just the prospect of it, Dean immediately feels guilty for being the source of the misunderstanding.

“No mom, nothing like that. Actually I uh…I was calling to see if you’d mind if I brought someone along. My friend Cas, his family Christmas sorta fell apart at the last minute and it would suck if he had to spend the holiday alone so I thought…”

“Oh Dean, of course you can bring him. There’s plenty of room. I’m glad you’ve found someone special you want to spend time with again.”

“It’s not like that. He’s just a friend.” Dean sighs, hoping his mother can’t hear the exasperation in his voice.

“Well whatever. Sam can take the pullout couch in the den and you two can have the guest bedroom. Unless that would be weird? I suppose we could always pull the cot out of the crawl space if we had to but I think it’s a little short, now that you boys are so tall…”

“Mom. Stop. It’s fine. We’ll sleep in the guest bedroom. It’s not weird. Stop worrying. It’s just for Christmas for a couple nights. Stop.”

“Ok, ok, ok. We’ll deal with the sleeping arrangements later. Oh, John!” she pulls the phone away from her face and calls out in to the house. “Dean’s bringing someone for Christmas. See if you can find the leaves for the dining room table in the garage. We’ll need to set an extra place for dinner. Do you want to talk to your son?” Dean can just picture John grunting and shrugging, turning from his chosen path towards the garage just so he doesn’t have to take the phone and make pointless conversation. “Your father says hi,” Mary tells him, but they both know John didn’t say a word. Dean stifles a laugh.

“I should get going, mom. I have laundry to do.”

“Ok sweetie, well, we’ll see you next week, and you make sure and let me know if there’s anything Cas can’t eat.” Dean assures her that he will, then hangs up the phone and eyes the basket of laundry sitting on his bedroom floor. He leaves the room without folding any of it.

Chapter Text

Bobby spends so much time at the shop these days, Dean actually has to call him and schedule a meeting to talk about his big plan. Charlie is supposed to show up at the yard just before five on Friday, and Dean spends the entire day so busy he barely notices his anxiety ramping up until the day is nearly over and he can’t stop drumming his pen against the counter.

“Chill, Winchester,” Charlie calls cheerfully as she walks through the door. “I can smell the panic all the way out in the yard.”

Dean glares at her. “What am I doing Charlie? What if he thinks the whole idea sucks? This is a terrible plan. Fuck. I should just forget the whole thing.”

“Hey!” Charlie snaps, grabbing both of Dean’s hands over the counter, heedless of the grease on his palms. “You got this. You fuckin’ got this. Your idea is hella fuckin’ balls to the wall awesome, and I did the coding so you have that going for you, and even if for some crazy reason Bobby doesn’t love the shit out of it, nothing bad is going to happen. Now sit the fuck down and take a deep breath, because you are harshing my mellow and I need to get my laptop set up.” She kisses him on the cheek in this endearingly platonic and not at all patronizing way that no one else in Dean’s life could possibly get away with, then starts pulling cords out of her computer bag so she can set up for the display.

Instead of sitting down and breathing, Dean goes to the break room to grab another coffee, just for something to distract himself. He manages to drink the entire thing before Bobby shows up and is seriously considering pouring another when the bell on the front door jingles and Bobby steps in.

“Well,” he grumps. “What you got goin’ on that’s so important you gotta make me schedule a meetin’?”

“Hey Bobby. This is Charlie, she’s been helping me out with this idea I was telling you about.” Charlie sticks her hand out, grinning widely, and Bobby has no choice but to shake it. There’s a small moment of surprise when her handshake is considerably fiercer than he was expecting, but Dean would bet that just earned her a couple points in his book. Bobby likes people who defy his expectations.

“So anyway,” Dean interjects, clearing his throat. “Remember when Ash was sick and you told me if I came up with a better way to find parts, I should let you know? Well, I sorta took you literally, and I figured the whole thing would go over better if I could show you what I meant so I got Charlie, who is a computer genius by the way, to help me put something together, and it’s really sort of a rough draft right now but if you like it we can go back and build something that’s really functional and…” Dean notices Bobby staring at him with a wry look on his face. “What?”

“You keep runnin’ your mouth like that without breathin’ you’re gonna have a hard time gettin’ to the point. Slow down, boy.” Charlie stifles a laugh, but both men turn sharply to look at her anyway.

“I like him, Dean. I like him a lot.”

Bobby just rolls his eyes, inclining his head in question towards the counter. “Show me what the hell’s got you so worked up, then. Try to talk in short sentences. Can’t have you passing out on me.”

Charlie loads the mock-up database, letting Bobby get a good look at the layout with the Singer Salvage name proudly displayed at the top.

“So Ash is basically a computer on two legs with how much he remembers about the cars on the lot, right? But that ain’t his job, and it’s not fair to rely on him to tell us where stuff is when he’s got actual work to do. But if we had an actual computer we could ask, well, then he and Garth will be more effective pulling parts and doing the rest of the upkeep, and that’s overall going to make us more profitable. And then I got thinking, if we had a database, and we keep an accurate inventory of what cars we have on the lot and what parts they still have on ‘em, well, what’s to stop us from making that available online?” Dean pauses, taking a good look at Bobby’s face, trying to get a read on his opinion. Unfortunately, his unimpressed face looks about the same as his this is the best idea ever face, so Dean comes up with nothing.

“Online shopping,” Bobby says flatly.

“Well, kinda. It’s too cost prohibitive to ship cars, and most of the parts are going to be too heavy to courier, but it’d put us in the good books of the restoration shops in town and throughout the state that don’t really have time to poke around for stuff, and it would make it way easier for people working on collector cars to find the parts they need. Think about it. You own this place, and it still took you years to get all the parts you need for your Stingray. But you also got to see a list of every single car that came in if you weren’t inventorying them yourself. We could let people register for alerts for rare gear, and if we got a car in that there isn’t much demand for but we had someone registered for alerts, we’d know we had at least one guaranteed sale out of it. It would do a lot to build your customer base.”

Bobby is quiet for a moment as he clicks around on Charlie’s dummy database, playing around with the test data that she and Dean had entered and checking out the search function.

“I’ll admit, I was just being a sarcastic asshole when I told you to let me know if you came up with a better way. But this?” He gestures to the computer. “This is damn smart. You come up with this?”

Dean casts his eyes at the floor. “Well Charlie did all the coding. And it was Garth who gave me the idea when he compared Ash to a computer.”

“But it was your idea.”

“Yeah,” Dean admits.

“It’s a damn good one. Be a lot of work to get it all set up though.”

“Well sure. It’s a big yard. But now that Ash is back at work it’s a bit less chaotic in here, and there’s a lot fewer calls for parts now that the weather’s gone to shit. This is a good time to start. If you want to.” Dean adds the qualifier almost as an afterthought. Even through his passion, Dean’s spent most of the time working on this project fighting with the looming dread that Bobby is going to reject it outright.

“I imagine we’d need a better computer than the old thing you been doin’ invoices on.”

“Yes,” Charlie interjects. “Definitely. But I’ve put some recommendations for that together, and I’d be happy to build you a custom rig or just help you make sure that what you buy is going to meet the system requirements for what we’re doing. And if you want to go online, you’d need hosting space.”

“Yeah, yeah, I ain’t interested in the technical details. That’d be all you, Red.”

“So you like it?” Dean asks, excitement thinly veiled.

“Dean. I told you, I wasn’t looking for just anyone to run this place. You’re smart. Too fucking smart for your own good sometimes, but yeah. This is what I wanted you for. Not because you know a driveshaft from a carburetor, but because you see how things work. Cars, businesses, people. All of it. You figure out how things work. You put together a budget for this project, and you get it to me by the new year. Charlie’s time to build the thing, new computer, whatever it’s going to take to make this happen, and we’ll get it rolling in January.” He turns to walk towards the door with his hands jammed in his pocket. “And Dean?” Dean’s eyes snap up from the laptop.

“You did good, boy.”

Dean’s hand still hurts from Charlie’s high-five by the time he makes it to Cas’ for the evening. She’s tiny, but man, can she pack a punch, especially when she’s that excited. Not that Dean can blame her. He’s pretty excited too.

He tells Cas all about the plan through dinner. It’s the first time he’s mentioned it, not wanting to put the cart before the horse, but now that Bobby’s on board he can’t stop running his mouth. Dean talks excitedly about the online database, and Bobby’s praise, and the sheer joy that comes from knowing he came up with something that’s going to help Bobby’s business stay profitable enough that Bobby can finally start working on his own cars.

“That’s fantastic, Dean.” Cas grins at him, clearing their plates. “You know, if you got Charlie to load it onto a tablet, something portable, I bet that would make it way easier to collect data from the cars in the yard and get the initial database set up. Are you going to do most of that yourself?”

“Well I was thinking I’d do most of the entry from the paper records and then get Ash to fill in the rest. There’s probably some inaccuracies, ‘cause that always happens, so it’d be good to have him go through and add his crazy memory to it. The tablet idea is good, though. I’ll run it by Bobby.” Dean’s been smiling so much today his face is starting to hurt.

“I’m really glad you’re doing something you’re passionate about. It makes me happy.”

“Hey,” Dean says quickly before he loses the nerve. “Come to my parents for Christmas. It’s no big thing. Just mom and dad and me and Sam, but you wouldn’t be alone.”

Cas frowns. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be. My mom loves having company, though she’d never admit it. Having someone else to fawn over for a couple days will make her so happy. And you already know Sam. And my dad can be kind of a jerk sometimes but mostly he’s a good guy. And I’ll be there, so if nothing else you get to hang out with me over the holidays. It’s way better than hanging out at home wishing your holiday was something else. Come on. Don’t make me beg.” A darkness falls over Cas’ face, but it’s not one borne of anger.

“Ok fine. Christmas at your parents. I’m still totally going to make you beg though. Just… not about this.” Cas wraps his hand around the back of Dean’s neck and pulls him in close, kissing with fierce passion that stirs a heat in Dean’s belly. “Upstairs, naked and kneeling. I’ll be up in five minutes to show you some really intense gratitude.” Cas slaps his ass as he makes for the stairs. It’s been a good Friday.

-----

Sam and Dean didn’t grow up in this house. No part of their childhood happened here. There are no deep memories rooted in this house, no pivotal moments that happened in any of these rooms, but none of that seems to matter. With fresh snow on the ground and the lights hanging from the eaves, John and Mary’s home is just as welcoming as any house the brothers knew growing up. The smell of cinnamon and apples permeates the air when they let themselves in, a sure sign that Mary’s in the kitchen, and a CD of Christmas music provides the soundtrack. It’s barely mid-day but already, Dean finds himself thinking about a nap. Or at least a lazy afternoon on the couch, maybe with rum and eggnog. He’ll end up helping Mary in the kitchen at some point, for sure, but it’s definitely a day for relaxation.

Mary descends on them with open arms the moment she realizes they’ve arrived. There’s flour on her face, pie crust half-finished on the counter. She hugs her sons, generally making a fuss as she talks a mile a minute about everything and nothing, and Sam and Dean know well enough to not bother trying to get a word in edgewise until she’s worn out the excitement.

“And you must be Castiel,” she says warmly, stepping past Dean to take in the stranger standing in her kitchen. “Let me get a look at you.” Cas takes his hands out of his pockets and smiles crookedly. He’s only got a few seconds to feel like he’s on display before Mary swoops in to wrap him up in a motherly hug, which he returns earnestly. “I like this one, Dean. He knows how to hug.”

Before Mary can start a game of twenty questions about the new arrival, Dean asserts a desire to drop their stuff off upstairs and maybe take a nap. She nods, already fully involved in making her pie, and waves them off with floury digits. Sam stays in the kitchen to keep her company while Dean and Cas make their way upstairs.

“So there’s only the one bed in the guest bedroom,” he explains, turning the knob and leading Cas inside. “But there’s extra bedding and an inflatable mattress in the closet so I’ll just set that up and you can have the bed.” He drops his bag in the corner, turning to take in the room decorated in soft blues that he knows for a fact his mother chose and his father has no opinion on, and finds Cas staring at him with an eyebrow climbing toward his hairline. “What?”

“You’re going to sleep on the floor.” His voice is so flat it’s not even really a question, just an assertion of how absurd he thinks it sounds.

“Well I don’t know, I just thought…” Dean trails off. He’s not sure what he thought.

“You are out to your parents, aren’t you?” Cas asks, suddenly concerned.

“Yeah. I am. They know I’m… whatever. They know.”

“So what are you worried about? Look, we can share the bed. I promise, no funny business. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.” Cas gives him such an innocent look, all wide eyes and honest smile, that Dean is nearly certain he plans to break that promise as soon as the opportunity presents itself.

“What if I can’t make the same promise?” Dean asks suggestively, moving closer and drawing Cas in with an arm around his waist.

“Then I hope you’re capable of being quieter than you usually are, because your parents’ bedroom isn’t exactly all that far away.” Cas kisses him softly, nipping at his lower lip as he pulls away. “Just for the record, I do have a present here for you, but its misdirection. Your real gift is back at my place. It’s… not family friendly.”

“Well then merry fucking Christmas,” Dean murmurs, leaning in to kiss Cas again. It’s always been his favourite holiday anyway.

When the gifts are all settled beneath the tree and Mary’s pie has been baked and they’re all relaxed on the couch with rum and eggnog, that’s when Dean really starts to relax. At first it’s mildly awkward because there’s this magnetic force pulling him over to lean against Cas’ side and let him drape an arm over Dean’s shoulders, but it doesn’t feel like this is an appropriate situation for that. They’re still side by side on the couch but with a very clear space between them, and as much as Dean wants to close it, the buffer is also welcome. He isn’t prepared for the looks he’d get from John if he did let himself succumb to that desire for comfort, and whatever this is, it’s sure not at that stage. He wouldn’t say anything about it of course. Mary would never let John hear the end of it if he said even one sideways word about Dean curled up on the couch with Cas. Accepting Dean’s sexuality isn’t the same thing as embracing it though, and Dean’s never brought a guy home before anyway and it’s not like this is even the same thing as bringing a guy home for Christmas, not really and… Dean shakes his head to clear the thoughts before he gets too wrapped up in it. This is just Christmas Eve watching a movie. There’s nothing to stress about. He just needs to keep repeating that until he believes it.

Come to think of it, John’s probably not the one Dean should be concerned about. Oh sure, he might glance sideways and there might be unspoken questions on his face at every turn, but Mary’s got that meddlesome kind of curiosity in her looks. Dean catches her smiling knowingly as the end credits on It’s a Wonderful Life roll by, looking away as soon as she realizes Dean sees her looking. Yes. It’s definitely Mary he should be worried about.

Sam’s busy flipping through the channels trying to find another Christmas movie to put on. Dean thinks about suggesting Die Hard but he knows that no one else here shares his opinion that it’s the best Christmas movie ever made, so he keeps it to himself. Sam will probably find the original Christmas Carol or maybe that claymation Rudolph thing. That’ll be tolerable.

“I think we could all use a little something to eat, don’t you boys? Dean, come help me in the kitchen,” Mary announces and disappears out of the room without a backwards glance, leaving no room for objection, and Dean reluctantly leaves the comfort of the couch. He tries not to think about Cas’ quiet smile as he goes.

Mary’s already busy pulling things out of the fridge; cheese and deli meats and pickles and crackers. She always has too much food here on nights like this. Dean sets to work slicing cheese into little cracker sized slices, knowing full well what she’s aiming for and not needing any kind of direction. They do this every year on Christmas Eve. She’ll pull out champagne next, which Dean doesn’t particularly like but hey, tradition. Busy hands make quiet work, so there’s no conversation as they slice and chop and arrange, and the tray of snacks is soon piled high. Dean’s reaching in to the fridge to start putting things back when Mary finally speaks.

“How come you’ve never mentioned Cas before?”

Dean stops, fingers still wrapped around a jar of pickles, caught totally off guard by her question. “Didn’t think there was anything to mention. I don’t talk about all my friends. Glad you guys got to meet him though. He’s a good friend.”

“Are you sure he’s just a friend?” She asks softly. Dean is meticulously careful not to make eye contact as he continues putting things back in the fridge.

“Yeah, he uh… Cas helped me through a rough patch, is all. And now he’s having a bad time, I just need to return the favour.” Dean’s not sure he believes his own words, but he’s entirely convinced that Mary does not.

“You know your father and I just want you to be happy, right?”

“Of course, mom.” Dean pretends he doesn’t know exactly what she means. Mary nods, somehow satisfied with the result of the conversation, and glides gracefully out of the room with a stack of plates and a handful of cutlery.

“He looks at you like you hung the moon, you know. You don’t see it, but he does,” she says quietly over her shoulder before disappearing from view.

Dean shakes his head in her wake. He wouldn’t have to endure any of this if he hadn’t felt such a strong urge to invite Cas along. But then Cas would be back home, spending Christmas in his big house all alone, and when Dean thinks of how he found Cas the day Luke died, it makes him ache. No. Dean will endure an endless barrage of parental meddling if it means Cas gets to spend Christmas warm and snug and surrounded by good people. Anything at all to make Cas happy.

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The drive back home from the Winchester family home is raucous and cheerful. They didn’t get on the road until mid-morning on the 26^th, after Mary insisted on cooking breakfast and seeing everyone off with full bellies, and even with the dire need for additional caffeine, the overall mood is one of contentment. They stop for coffee before they even get out of town, with Dean giving strict instructions not to spill a drop inside his precious car, and by the time it’s cooled off enough to even sip at, Sam and Cas are in an intense conversation about Harry Potter. Dean doesn’t really feel like he can contribute all that much because he just really doesn’t care to debate books that were technically written for kids, but he does feel a smug sense of satisfaction that he predicted the bond his brother and his friend would form on this particular topic.

“I think Harry would have fit perfectly into Slytherin,” Cas is explaining. “They’re known for their loyalty, right? And cleverness. And Dumbledore even says at one point that they tend to have a certain disregard for the rules. If that’s not Harry, I don’t know what is.”

“Well sure, but he was never going to get sorted into Slytherin. Maybe if he’d been raised in the wizarding world and knew anything at all about the houses before he went to Hogwarts, he might have been able to avoid the prejudice that made him tell the hat not to send him there. Pretty much everything he knew of Slytherin was his brief interaction with Draco when he first got to the school, and the Weasleys’ loathing of it. If he’d grown up with his parents and knew anything at all about wizards before that day he might not have made a judgement about the whole house based on one shitty little eleven year old. But you might as well say that Batman would have grown up to be well adjusted if his parents hadn’t died. That’s not the story. He had to be Griffindor.” Sam speaks animatedly from the back seat, his hair swinging as he moves, his hands visible in the rear view mirror as Dean navigates traffic.

“Don’t bring Batman in to this,” Cas warns. “I’m just saying. Harry didn’t have to be Griffindor.”

“He did though. The Sword of Godric Griffindor is a huge point later on. Only a true Griffindor could have used it.”

“So you’re ok with totally disregarding Ron and Hermione’s value then?”

“Guys!” Dean interjects. “Can we talk about something less incendiary maybe? Like our views on the death penalty or gun control or religion perhaps? If you two start throwing punches I’m not gonna be able to referee and drive the car at the same time.”

“Oh come on, you’re saying you don’t have an opinion on this?” Cas demands. “You’ve read the books. You’ve seen the movies. You’ve never thought about it?”

“Dude, we’ve talked about this. I don’t think about that stuff. Harry Potter is written as a Griffindor so he’s a Griffindor.”

“You see what I have to put up with?” Sam snarks from the back seat.

“Unconscionable.” Cas agrees. “Total squib.”

“I know what that means,” Dean snaps, but his heart’s not in it. Honestly, he’s just glad Cas and Sam are getting along. It was touch and go that first meeting, and he’s been dancing around the fear that Sam will still decide Cas is some evil monster taking advantage of the brother he doesn’t think is smart enough to know better. It’s nice to see them finding common ground, even if that common ground is making fun of Dean. If that’s what it takes to keep the peace, Dean can bear it.

Originally, Dean planned to drop Cas off at his place first and then go home with Sam. Somewhere along the drive home Dean managed to decide all on his own that he’d much rather drop Sam off and head to Cas’ for a little one on one time. It’s not like he’s got a scene in mind or anything but there’s this need welling up inside him, a need to be alone with Cas and be able to touch and kiss and feel him like he can’t when there’s a slew of familial eyes around. He could pretend that he got on auto-pilot mode and drove straight to his and Sam’s place without thinking, but he’s fairly certain it’s obvious to the car’s other occupants that he fully intended to drop Sam and his stuff off and head across town to spend the night. Maybe it’s a little presumptuous, assuming Cas wants to spend more time around Dean after spending the holidays together. But after two nights side-by-side in a double bed and not really being able to get up to anything more than quiet blowjobs, Dean kinda has a one track mind for getting down to something a little more involved than that and he hopes that Cas is similarly inclined.

It’s so oddly domestic. Cas unpacks his bag and throws a load of laundry into the washer while Dean brews coffee and rummages in the fridge for something to make for lunch. There was a time when he would have felt awkward and intrusive puttering around in Cas’ kitchen. The first few times he spent the night here he wouldn’t have even gone downstairs to make coffee without a direct invitation to do so. Now it’s like a second home. He knows where everything is, and he spends enough time here to know at a quick glance which food items have probably been there too long to eat. He’s here basically every weekend, sometimes for the whole weekend. The occasional weeknight too, come to think of it, though he’s generally too tired after work lately to get up to much of anything besides a movie and falling asleep beside Cas. It’s nice. Comfortable.

“Did you find anything good?” Cas queries, stepping in close behind Dean as he peers in the fridge. His body presses close against Dean’s, arms around his waist, and Dean stops paying any attention to what’s in the fridge.

“Not really. Cheese. Some sad looking tomatoes. That pizza we had last week is still in there. I don’t recommend eating it.” Cas makes a thoroughly disgusted noise.

“Ew. Definitely no. Why is that still in there?”

“Because you said you wanted to clean your fridge out before we went up state for Christmas but you decided at the last minute you’d rather stay in bed with me, and then you didn’t bother doing it after I went home I assume. Not my fault.”

“That doesn’t solve the lunch problem,” Cas complains.

“Grilled cheese sandwiches?” Dean suggests, already pulling ingredients out of the fridge.

“How did I get so lucky?” Cas muses, seating himself onto a stool at the island while Dean starts assembling sandwiches.

“Yeah, I know, I’m such a catch right? I can make a basic sandwich, I’m vaguely entertaining at parties. Not bad to look at either.” Dean snorts. “Super desirable.”

“Very. Speaking of parties, there’s this New Year’s thing some friends of mine are throwing . Nothing huge, but I was thinking of going. Charlie and Gilda are going to be there, and I think a couple of people you met at the dungeon last month.”

“And?” Dean leads, not looking up from his work.

“And I thought you might want to come with me.” Dean’s silence is more of an answer than he intends it to be. It’s stalling for time more than anything, but it lasts long enough that Cas hears the unspoken rejection. “You apparently do not.”

And that’s not it. Not really. Dean wouldn’t mind going to this shindig. It’s what Cas wants, and Dean is down to do anything that’s going to make Cas happy. The problem isn’t the party. The problem is that Dean is getting way too comfortable with this whole thing. He’s comfortable spending nights at Cas’, comfortable bringing him home for Christmas. There’s routine here, and ease, and Dean’s almost gotten to the point where he’s stopped reminding himself he can’t have this.

He knows how it will go. They go to a party. Then maybe they go to another. Or it might be a dinner thing at one of Cas’ friends’ houses. And gradually this, whatever this is, turns into a decidedly relationship thing. Now that’s not so terrible all on its own but it’s just prolonging the inevitable moment where it all goes to shit. Every time Dean lets himself forget about that looming end means it’s going to hurt that much more when Cas eventually realizes how fucked up Dean is; how much Dean is beneath him. Hell, Bela was awful to Dean and when she left it hurt like hell. He can’t imagine getting in that deep with Cas and having him leave too. It would be more than he could bear. So as much as he wants this, the party and the happiness and the normalcy, he pushes. Arm’s length. That’s as close as he can afford.

Dean sighs. “A New Years’ party, Cas? We gonna sing Auld Lang Syne and make resolutions?”

“What’s so bad about that?” Cas demands.

“I don’t know, just seems kinda lame. I’d rather just stay in.” It’s not a fair response, nor a mature one, but Dean says it anyway. “Come on, just you and me. Stay home for New Years’ Eve, mess around a bit…”

“You know that any other night I’d be perfectly happy with that but it’s New Years’. I want to be social. And I’d like it if you came with me.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Dean explains.

“Then what? Because it sure sounds like you don’t want to go.”

“It’s just… I don’t know man, I don’t know these people and it’s gonna be all couples and I know I’m just some sorry asshole you met in a bar but it’s like, you don’t take your friend you’re just banging on the side to a party like that. It’s something people who’re dating do and…” And if we’re people who are dating, then we’re that much closer to you realizing you could do better, Dean’s brain finishes. These are not words he can bring himself to say out loud.

“And you’re perfectly happy with what we’re doing, as long as it all happens in the privacy of my own home and no one else has to know about it.”

“I didn’t say that,” Dean argues.

“You didn’t have to,” Cas says softly. “The fact that someone might even think we’re dating is enough to make you avoid going in public with me, but as long as the sex is good, hey, I mean that’s what really matters, right?” His laugh is short and mirthless.

“That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Then what, Dean? Yeah, sure, we have a lot of really good sex but it’s not like that’s all we do when we’re together. And you invited me to spend Christmas with your family. I get that you just got out of something messy and you maybe don’t actually want to date me, but seriously? We were friends before we started sleeping together and I kind of thought we still were. You’re talking about it like I’m some fuck-buddy you’re ashamed to be seen with.” It’s shocking to Dean, to hear the little quake in Cas’ voice; a break in his usually stoic self-control, and all Dean wants to do is fix this but he doesn’t understand how.

“I’m not ashamed,” Dean counters. “I just… I can’t—” Cas cuts him off.

“It’s fine. I get it. You can’t do this,” he waves a hand between them, a gesture that encompasses everything between them and highlights the distance that’s opened up in this moment. “I shouldn’t have assumed. Forget I said anything.” The control is back in his voice now, that brief wavering gone, and it’s stark and cold now by comparison. It cuts Dean deeper than any knife could. It shouldn’t hurt this much, not if Dean has distanced himself as well as he pretends he has. And now it is too late, and he’s in too deep, and all Dean can think to do is scramble for purchase, try vainly to fix this thing. And it’s stupid, because in trying to keep himself walled off enough to avoid getting hurt, he’s gone past arm’s length and pushed Cas too far.

“Cas, it’s not like that,” Dean pleads. It doesn’t fix anything. Cas acts like he hasn’t even heard, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “This is all new to me. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m figuring it out as I go. And you’ve been so good to me but I don’t know how to do this. We can go to the party. It’ll be fun.”

“No, you’ve made it clear that you don’t want to. I’m not interested in dragging you into something you’re obviously not comfortable with.”

“I’ll get over it. It’ll be fine. Look, just forget I said anything, ok? Going to the party is what’s going to make you happy, and I want to make you happy, so let’s do it. You and me and all these friends of yours. It’ll be great.” Dean can hear the desperate tinge to his voice; that little note that is far too close to begging, and he hates it. But he hates the idea of Cas being upset with him even more.

“If going to this party with me isn’t something that makes you happy, then dragging you there isn’t going to make me happy either. Just drop it, ok?” Cas rubs at the bridge of his nose like he’s got a headache, but it’s the only break in his calm demeanor now. He’s shut down completely, and Dean knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that whatever’s broken here, he’s the one who broke it.

“Ok, Cas,” Dean says, as calmly as he can. “Whatever you want.”

“The last few days have been a bit overwhelming. I’m tired. I’m going to go lay down. Feel free to finish making yourself lunch before you go home.” It’s as clear a dismissal as Dean has ever received. He watches Cas turn and walk out of the room in stunned silence. As soon as his brain catches up, all the thoughts inside Dean’s head are a resounding chorus reminding him that this is what happens when he pretends he’s anything but a failure.

Chapter Text

Sam’s eyebrows climb toward the ceiling when Dean arrives home so quickly after heading off to Cas’ place, but Dean’s in his room with the door closed before Sam can even decide what question to ask. The knock on Dean’s door is inevitable. It’s just a matter of counting the minutes until it comes. Except it doesn’t, and Dean realizes he’s been so wrapped up in how to get Sam off his case that he hasn’t even really stopped to process what just happened. All Cas wanted was to go to a stupid party for New Year’s Eve, which in reality is a totally reasonable thing to ask, and Dean had to go and panic and ruin everything. This is why he can’t have nice things. He always breaks them. The thing with Bela wasn’t even good, it was just sorta status quo, but even that probably would have lasted longer if Dean hadn’t been such a shitty boyfriend that Bela got tired of having him under her thumb. Not that he would have wanted it to last longer but it would have been awesome to have a choice in the matter. He ruins everything he touches. Dean’s not a fixer. That much is clear now. He’s deluded himself into believing he is, but he’s not. He’s a failed wreck of a human being who can’t even manage to have a no strings attached fling with a friend without completely destroying it. And now what does he have? A job he loves that he is most certainly going to find a way to fuck up at some point, a rented room in his little brother’s house, and a box of old Metallica cassette tapes. Real fucking good job, Winchester. Aces. Totally pro.

He doesn’t realize he’s sitting there crying until a tear falls from his cheek and lands on the back of his hand. Dean sniffles pathetically, wiping tears from his face with the heel of his hand and mentally commanding himself to man up, get his fucking emotions in check and deal with this like a goddamned adult. The full measure of how badly he’s fucked up hits him right then because the first thought that crosses his mind when he actually starts trying to deal with things is that Cas would know what to do, and would inevitably make him feel better. And fuck if that doesn’t make it instantly worse. Of course Cas would know how to deal with this. Cas isn’t the kind of person who ruins all his relationships by being so emotionally stunted he can’t even have a real conversation about things. Cas doesn’t hurt the people around him because he’s too selfish to consider how his actions might affect them. Cas is kind and considerate and selfless and desperately sexy and an actual functional adult and way, way too good for Dean. It’s probably better this way. Yes. At least now Dean can’t do any lasting damage.

What Dean really wants right now is a drink, but it’s the middle of the afternoon and despite the fact that it’s Saturday and there isn’t really anything stopping him from drinking if he wants, the bottle of Jack he’s thinking of is in the kitchen, which is beside the living room, which currently houses a brother who is prone to asking all sorts of questions. He’s in the middle of weighing his options when a fist shakes his door.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice calls from the hallway. “I thought you were staying at Cas’.” It’s not technically a question but Dean hears the implication clearly.

“Yeah, well, I’m not. Did you want something?” Dean’s voice is surprisingly level.

“I’m headed over to Jess’ place. Probably won’t be back tonight. Just wanted to tell you I’m leaving.”

“Have fun, Sammy,” Dean replies with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. He waits for the sound of the front door closing behind his brother, and then makes his way to the kitchen to reacquaint himself with Jack Daniels.

-----

Dean’s mouth tastes like whiskey and regret, his head throbs, and even the light from the screen of his phone is harsh enough to make him unleash a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. It’s ten am, which means absolutely nothing because it’s Sunday, but it also means it’s been nearly twenty four hours since Dean’s consumed anything that wasn’t aged in an oak barrel, and his stomach has some pretty strong feelings about that. Reluctantly, he rolls his way out of bed and staggers to the bathroom to relieve himself, pointedly avoiding looking at his own sorry face in the mirror, then shuffles zombie-like to the kitchen to see what edible food he can scrounge up. It’s too bad he didn’t have the foresight to order a pizza last night because leftover pizza would be perfect. He’s not that effective of a drunk. Instead, it turns out all his options involve actual prep work, with the exception of peanut butter on toast, so apparently that’s what he’s eating.

Food is not satisfying. Well, it is, in the sense that his stomach no longer feels like it’s trying to gnaw through his spine, but there’s no joy in the taste of it. Dean eats mechanically, not really thinking or tasting or paying any mind to the bites he takes. His eyes fix dead and lifeless on the wall directly across from him, and it’s only a matter of time before his brain wakes up enough to remind him why he’s so disgustingly hung over right now.

The previous night is a blur. Dean remembers drinking whiskey straight out of the bottle, flipping through the TV channels with no real interest, and a brief but shameful conversation with himself, out loud, where he tried to convince himself that he should call Cas. Or maybe that he shouldn’t. He can’t really remember what side he was on. Fumbling for his phone, Dean is relieved to see no outgoing calls and no text messages to Cas. At least that part he didn’t ruin. He can’t say for certain whether Cas is done with him completely or just sexually, but a drunken phone call in the middle of the night wouldn’t get him into anyone’s good books.

Dean doesn’t even know why he cares so much. He shouldn’t care at all. The whole point was not to get close enough to get hurt. That’s what started this whole thing. He was so scared of the idea of letting Cas mean anything at all to him other than sex. This was supposed to be physical. Friends with benefits, at the most. And whatever they were before, they sure as fuck aren’t now. He’ll probably never even see the guy again. The flip-flop his stomach does at that thought is 100% a result of the copious amounts of whiskey he drank last night and no one will ever convince him otherwise.

Toast consumed and self-loathing fully activated, Dean throws himself on the couch in an entirely manly and not at all dramatic fashion and prays that daytime TV can distract him long enough to break the cycle of replaying all his own mistakes over and over on repeat. Dean knows himself well enough not to expect any real measure of success.

-----

The salvage yard is surprisingly busy between Christmas and New Year’s, and Dean uses it as an excuse to pour himself into work in an effort to avoid all his own problems. They don’t go away. Don’t even shrink, but Dean practically invented denial, so it’s easy to convince himself it’s working. He spends ten hours a day in the office and the yard, putting out metaphorical fires (and one literal one), handling phone calls and paperwork, and trying not to snap at Garth. It’s not his fault Dean’s in a shitty mood all the time lately, the scrawny little dork.

Charlie texts him Thursday to say she’s put together the computer specs for the database slash website project, and a budget for her time for building the thing. Dean texts her back with the business email address to send it all to and they chat back and forth for a little bit. It’s the least harried Dean’s felt since the week started, and it’s a nice reprieve. That is, until she follows it up with a question.

So are you coming to the party tonight or not? I asked Castiel about it but he was decidedly cagey. You guys aren’t going to bail on me just so you can ring in the New Year naked, are you?

Dean stuffs his phone back in the pocket of his coveralls without answering, his mood just as black as it’s been all week.

Sam and Jess are going to a party, so Dean has the house all to his sorry self. He celebrates with a bottle of cheap whiskey and a pizza, because on rare occasions he learns from his mistakes. He’s passed out on the couch long before the ball drops, snoring drunkenly as Ryan Seacrest counts down to midnight in Times Square. He wakes up hours later to a text message from Charlie.

What the fuck, dude? Cas is here and you aren’t? Call me.

And one from Cas.

Happy New Year

Followed by that goddamned bumblebee picture thing, and Dean can’t decide how to reply that isn’t going to count as another colossal fuck up, so he doesn’t say anything to either of them. At least this time he has cold pizza for company.

Sam notices something is wrong. There’s no way he doesn’t. It’s not completely out of character for Dean to be hung over and grumpy on New Year’s day so that in itself wouldn’t confirm anything, but the hangover passes and several days come and go, and Dean isn’t any less moody. Long hours at the shop and exhaustion can’t account for it and he sees it in Sam’s eyes every time Dean slams a door or eats dinner in silence. Despite all that it still takes nearly an entire week after New Year’s before Sam gets tired of the storm cloud that follows his brother around the house and asks the inevitable question.

“So you wanna talk about it?” he asks one morning during their run. Long hours or no, Sam continues to drag Dean out of the house every morning. Dean has long since accepted that this is his routine now. He’d love the extra sleep, especially now that he’s putting in so many hours at work, but he also doesn’t even have the energy to fight Sam on it anymore. It actually takes less effort to just put his shoes on and run.

“Nope,” Dean replies dismissively, dodging around a large stick on the sidewalk. Sam’s keeping the pace a little easier than usual today, and it’s a sure sign that he’s going to try to drag a conversation out. It’s the only reason Dean can think of that Sam would be letting Dean get away with an easy run.

“Just gonna pretend nothing’s wrong?” Sam doesn’t even sound out of breath.

“Basically.” Dean’s not really out of breath either, but he’d deny it if Sam brought it up. Even after a couple months of daily runs, Dean is in the habit of pretending running is difficult and he hates it. Well, it’s not all pretending. He does hate it. It’s just not that hard anymore.

“You think that’s gonna fix anything?”

“Not sure what you think bitching to you would solve anyway,” Dean grunts. Then, because figuratively running away from his problems isn’t enough, he speeds up just a little and puts a few paces distance between himself and Sam, effectively ending the conversation and shattering the illusion that Dean is struggling to keep pace. He’ll regret that tomorrow when Sam plots a longer route or tries to make Dean run hills or some shit, but right now he’s saved from talking about his feelings and that’s pretty much all he’s concerned about.

The thing is, Dean’s not even really sure what he’s upset about because it’s all his own damn fault anyway. It’s not like a shitty thing happened to him. He made a shitty thing happen and he hurt someone he supposedly cared about in the process. And he knows exactly what Sam would say if he did want to talk about it, not that he’s actually considered opening up or anything but he knows his brother well enough to predict it. Dean would explain what happened and Sam would hum, and he’d sigh, and he’d say something like Dean, you should just talk to him. And that’s not what Dean needs to hear right now because obviously he should talk to Cas. Duh. He’s not stupid. He just has no fucking idea what he should even be saying to Cas, and if he doesn’t have that shit figured out then he’s certainly not going to call him up and fuck things up even worse. If he’s very, very lucky, the exact right apology might fix this. Whatever this is. But Dean is not a lucky man, and the chances of him stumbling onto the exact right combination of words that would make Cas stop hating him and give him a chance to un-fuck up their groove are slim to nil. So he doesn’t see the point in trying.

Dean’s mood does not improve as the week goes on. He plays through the same cyclical conversation in his head every time he stops being too busy to think at all and he never arrives at a better conclusion than the one he’s had all along: something is broken, and Dean is the one who broke it, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Chapter Text

“I’ve got the database done,” Charlie announces the second Dean answers the phone. “I’ll come in Monday afternoon when I’m done slinging coffee and get the new computer set up, and then you can start doing your meticulous data entry thing. Bobby decided to get a tablet right?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, glad for the distraction. By this time on any other Saturday he’d already be at Cas’ place, and the thought has weighed heavy on his mind all day. And as much as he still doesn’t know what to say, a small, petty part of his brain had hoped that Cas would have called by now, and he hasn’t. Dean cannot stop thinking about that. Maybe it’s too far gone. Maybe there’s nothing he can do to fix it.

“So, celebration?”

“Maybe a different time Charlie. Not really in the mood right now.”

Charlie snorts. “That’s stupid. I just finished coding a motherfucking behemoth of a project that’s going to make your job way easier, which I charged your boss like half my normal rate for because I like you, and its Saturday night. The least you can do to thank me is have a drink with me. I’ll even buy the beer. I’m not taking no for an answer. Text me your address or I’ll just use nefarious internet resources to find it out for myself.”

Dean sighs in resignation. “Can I take a rain check?” It’s a futile bargain, a last ditch effort to avoid social interaction.

“Nope. And I’m already working on that address so unless you’re sure I’m not going to see anything incriminating while I pry into your online presence, you should probably just quit stalling and tell me where to find you.”

Dean hangs up, sets his phone down on the coffee table and scrubs a hand down his tired face. He’s been in the same clothes since he got home from work Friday night, definitely hasn’t showered, and he really doesn’t feel like celebrating. He feels like crawling into bed and sleeping until there’s nothing left for him to ruin. He’s toying with the idea of calling Charlie’s bluff and not providing his address when the phone chimes again.

Robin? I never would have guessed. I would have pegged you more for a Batman guy.

And Dean immediately knows what picture she’s found, and the fact that it only took her that long is pretty fucking disconcerting. He doesn’t want to know what she could dig up given time and motivation, so he replies with his address damn fast, and groans as he throws his phone on the couch. If he’s going to be having unwelcome company, he should probably put on a clean shirt.

Sam comes out of the bathroom at the same time Dean walks out of his bedroom pulling a Metallica shirt on over his head.

“You got plans this evening?” Sam asks casually. He hasn’t tried to talk to Dean about Cas since their run earlier this week, but it’s obvious that he wants to. There’s hesitation at the beginning of every innocuous sentence, and the way he looks at Dean, God, it just stabs him in the gut. The pity is maddening. It actually manages to make Dean feel even worse.

“Apparently,” he says with a grimace. “You?”

“I’m going out with Jess, but not until later.”

“Cool,” Dean replies dismissively, shying away from Sam’s gaze. He looks like he’s going to bring it up again, or ask how Dean is doing, and he is nearly certain he’s going to get hit between the eyes with it when Charlie gets there so he’s not interested in a practice round right now. Sam turns without a word and heads into the living room, so Dean does the mature thing and ducks back into his room, shutting the door firmly but quietly behind him, and hides in there until Charlie arrives. She shows up with a six-pack of beer and a cheerful grin, one that falters when she sees Dean’s mood. She forces it back in place quickly, clearly spurred on by a fierce determination to cheer Dean up if it’s the last thing she does.

Despite his insistence that he didn’t want to socialize, by the time he’s half way through his first beer, his mood has improved markedly. Things aren’t better, not by a long shot, but he’s not wallowing in his own misery. At least Charlie consented to keep the celebration in the living room and dropped her attempts to drag him out to a pub.

“…and then Gilda turns to the asshole and she says, I kid you not, ‘if you like the slave Leia costume so much, you fucking wear it!’ You should have seen the look on his face, Dean! I swear to God, I thought smoke was going to start pouring out of his ears.” Dean’s laughter booms and Charlie joins in, laughing gleefully at her own punchline.

“Oh man. Comicon sounds awesome. I would have loved to see that.”

“We should plan a road trip sometime. Pile the four of us into a car, you and me and Gilda and Cas, it’ll be so much fun. You’d make a great Han Solo. You want another beer?” Charlie leaps off the couch and grabs the empty bottles, not waiting for an answer. When she comes back, handing a fresh brew to Dean, she takes in the look on his face and her own features soften to sympathy as she sits back down and rests a hand on his forearm. “You miss him.”

“No. No. It’s just… nevermind.”

“You’re a shitty liar,” Charlie accuses. “Come on. Spill. You’ll feel better, I promise.”

“I don’t really see the point,” Dean says with a shake of his head.

“The point is you’ve been moping for like, a week and you won’t even talk about what happened, which means you’re just stewing in your own juices and it’s probably not even as bad as you think it is and if you’re just going to be a little bitch about it I can’t very well help you figure out how to fix it. So spill.” She grabs the unopened beer out of his hand. “No more beer until you tell me what happened. Why aren’t you and Cas talking?” Dean makes an indignant noise and a helpless snatch at his drink, but Charlie is too quick and pulls it out of his reach. “Hey! I mean it. Start talking.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter. I fucked it up, ok? Cas has been nothing but awesome to me and I fucked it up because I’m a selfish asshole, and he’s probably better off without me anyway so let it go.”

“Unlikely,” Charlie argues. “Up until last week, Cas was way happier than I’ve seen him in a long time. Quit stalling.”

“You’re really fucking annoying, you know that?” Dean says with a sigh.

“I’ve been told. It’s one of my finer qualities.”

Dean glares at Charlie, but he can’t find it in his heart to keep being angry. She’s just trying to help, after all. “Fine,” Dean growls, crossing his arms over his chest. “So Cas came up to my parents’ house for Christmas with me and Sam, and that went fine. Great, actually. Like, my parents thought he was pretty cool, and I know he wasn’t looking forward to spending Christmas alone after his mom cancelled so I’m glad I invited him. And when we got home, he invited me to that New Year’s party and he was pretty upset that I didn’t want to go.”

“That’s it?” Charlie asks incredulously. “That’s the reason you’re sitting here like you got stood up at prom?”

“Hey!”

“No, I’m just saying, that doesn’t seem that bad. So either you’re glazing over some details or you’re totally blowing it out of proportion in your head.” She gives a crooked smile. “Or both.”

“Little of both, probably,” Dean admits sheepishly. “I um, I may have said I didn’t want to go because that’s couple stuff.“

“Shit dude, poor form. That’s how you tell a guy you don’t want to date him?”

“That’s not even what I meant! Look, my life has been full of some seriously fucked up shit lately, not the least of which is my psychotic ex-girlfriend cheated on me with my brother’s roommate, got pregnant with his kid and left me for him. I’m still reeling. And that was a royally screwed up relationship. I forgot who I was when I was with her. She made me forget who I was. She manipulated me into thinking I didn’t even actually like guys, that it was just a phase I went through. She drove off all my friends, and she made me feel like nothing I ever did was good enough. The last thing Cas needs is to get dragged into that shit, and I’m not actually sure I know how to do the dating thing anymore. I mean, this whole thing has been screwed up right from the beginning even if it has been fun. How can that turn into anything good? And besides, Cas would never be happy with a guy like me. He’d realize it eventually. If he’s going to bail on me eventually anyway, it might as well be now.” Dean flops against the back of the couch dramatically.

“Wait a second,” Sam’s voice comes from the kitchen. “Bela left you for Brady? Tyson Brady? Are you kidding me?

“Uh, yeah.” Dean calls with a grimace. “Did I not tell you that?”

“No. You did not. Wow. Dude, I’m so sorry. That’s even worse. I realize they must have met but I didn’t think they like… wow. I’m gonna rip him a new one next time I see him at work.”

“Sam, don’t bother. He’s raising a fucking kid with Bela. His life is already shitty enough. Forget it.”

“Whatever you say, dude. I’m heading out to Jess’ place. You two kids have fun.” Dean waves blindly as he hears Sam make his way to the front door and disappear out of the house.

“Anyway, back to the subject at hand, why the hell haven’t you called Cas to explain any of this?”

Dean shrugs. “Didn’t figure he wanted to hear from me right now.”

“Wow. You’re lucky you’re pretty,” Charlie snorts.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, that’s just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, and I work in the service industry. Of course he wants to hear from you. Look, I wasn’t going to say anything, but he was miserable at the New Year’s party. He was really looking forward to introducing you to people.”

“I don’t see why,” Dean grumbles.

“Um, dude, because you’re a catch? And because you’re fun to be around? He really fucking likes you.”

“Yeah, well I totally blew that one. He’s been great to me and I fucked it up by being an asshole, so I can pretty much write that one off. I thought you said talking about this shit was supposed to make me feel better.”

“It might if you stop being so defeatist. You just need to figure out how to make it up to Castiel.”

“How? He’s pissed.”

“Being pissed off doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you anymore,” Charlie says with a challenge in her voice. “Here, I think you’ve earned this back.” She hands him his beer, which Dean takes gratefully.

“Dude, he’s not even my boyfriend. I don’t think you need to be throwing around the ‘L’ word.”

“But you want him to be your boyfriend, right?”

“I don’t know. I want to be around him. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

“That’s stupid,” Charlie blurts out. “You need to sort yourself out, Dean.”

“I don’t see the point,” Dean argues. “It is what it is. Talking about it doesn’t change anything. I sleep over on weekends. We scene. Sometimes I cook him dinner, sometimes he cooks me dinner. Slapping a label on it doesn’t change what it is.”

Charlie stares at him, eyebrow raised in question, daring Dean to continue. When he doesn’t speak again, she starts in.

“Would you say you’re gay?”

“Did we not just talk about my ex-girlfriend?”

“So you’re straight then.”

“Also no.”

“Alright then, what would you call yourself?”

“Bisexual, I guess, but I’m not really sure what this has to do with anything at all.”

“Look, it’s like this,” Charlie explains calmly. “You like guys and you like girls, and that’s a thing. A real thing. Whether you call yourself bisexual or you say you don’t like labels or you just don’t talk about it at all, it’s always going to be part of who you are. But there’s something important in owning it and being comfortable saying it. It’s called a Pride Parade for a reason. Owning who you are matters. Same goes for whatever this thing with Cas is. Yeah, it is what it is, and it probably doesn’t feel like it’s going to be something different just because you decide to label it, but it’s the difference between hiding it and being proud of it. And maybe that matters to you, maybe it doesn’t, but I’m gonna be honest with you. It matters to Cas, because he’s proud of who you are and he’s proud of what you guys have. Of course he wants to call you his boyfriend. The guy is stupid crazy about you. And when you tell him you don’t see the need to label it, and you act like you don’t want to be with him in public, that reads like you’re ashamed of him; of what you have or are doing or whatever. If you don’t want this to be anything more than sex and friendship, that’s fine. You’re an adult, you get to decide what you want, but you owe it to Cas to be honest about that. I challenge you though, ‘cause I think if you stop being so emotionally stunted for five minutes you’ll realize you don’t want just sex.”

Dean stares at her blankly, not really sure how to reply. He was so wrapped up in the stupid idea that he shouldn’t get invested in this thing he never bothered to think about whether Cas was getting invested.

“Look, you don’t have to say anything, but I want you to promise me you’re at least going to think about what I said, and that you’ll talk to Cas? You’re not going to fix anything just sitting around here feeling sorry for yourself. If you’re not going to do it for you then do it for Cas.”

“I don’t even know what to say to him,” Dean whines.

“You could start with an apology. And then perhaps talk about some of those feelings you do a really shitty job of pretending not to have.” Charlie’s wearing her cut the bullshit face. It’s surprisingly endearing.

“I don’t see the point. He’s not going to want to hear it. Cas has been awesome to me and I basically threw it back in his face.”

“Dean No-Middle-Name Winchester. You are, without a doubt, the most bullheaded, stubborn, irrationally self-deprecating asshole I have ever had the pleasure of being friends with. Yeah, sure, maybe he doesn’t want to hear it. I don’t know. You sure as hell don’t know and you won’t until you talk to him. Absolute worst case scenario? It’s over and you can’t fix it, which means you’re still better off than you are now because you’ll actually know where you stand. There’s a whole lot of better case scenarios than that, though, and I can’t believe you’re being so blind about that. If you do not call the stupid idiot who is as adorably messed up over his feelings for you as you are for him and at least try to sort this out, I swear on the old gods and the new that I will continue my diggings into your internet presence and I will find the worst possible photo of you and you don’t want to know what I will do with it.”

Dean throws up his hands defensively. “Dude, chill.”

“Not in my vocab. Not happening. Call him. In fact, you know what? Call him right now. If you call him right now, I will promise you that the Robin picture doesn’t see the light of day. I’ll even see what I can do about making sure no one else finds it.”

Dean’s sigh is audible. “Fine. But I’m only doing this to shut you up. He’s not gonna want to talk to me.”

“Bitch, please. Less whining, more dialing.” Charlie picks his phone up off the table and waves it in his face. “Hop to it.”

“Are you always this meddlesome?” Dean gripes, but he’s already dialing.

“Only when I’m right. So… basically yes. All the time.” She vacates the living room to give Dean the illusion of privacy, but out of the corner of his eye he can see her hovering. She crosses her arms defiantly, watching with barely contained glee as Dean holds the phone to his ear and waits for Cas to inevitably tell him where to stick it.

“Dean?” Cas’ gruff voice sounds even more raw than usual when he answers the phone.

“Hey, yeah, it’s me.” The words stick in Dean’s throat like peanut butter. “Look, I uh… I owe you an apology.”

“You don’t. It’s ok. I shouldn’t have put so much pressure on you. It… it wasn’t reasonable.”

“No, Cas, listen. I mean it. I haven’t been fair to you and if you don’t totally hate me, which I would completely understand, I want to ask you to give me a chance to make it right.” Dean is somewhat distracted by Charlie beaming at him from across the room, eyes wide like she’s just been told she gets to be a Jedi or some shit. Dean waves her off.

Cas is quiet for a long moment, and without facial expressions to clue him in, Dean starts to wonder whether Cas is going to tell him no, it’s too late, there’s nothing you can do. Instead, his quiet voice comes over the line, speaking with affection and kindness. “I could never hate you,” he says finally, causing Dean to sink into the couch with relief. Tension beyond what he ever acknowledged seeps out of his muscles the instant Cas speaks those magic words. “Will you come over tomorrow? I think it would be easier to talk about this face to face.”

“Yeah, yeah of course. What time works for you?”

“You could come over around noon? We never did get to have lunch.” It sounds like Cas is smiling, which means Dean is smiling too.

“You got it,” Dean says. “See you tomorrow, Cas.”

Dean sets the phone down on the coffee table with slow, careful movements, and avoids looking up at Charlie as long as he thinks he can reasonably get away with. When he finally looks, there’s a mixture of unbridled joy and smug self-righteousness on her face, and she appears to be stifling giggles. “Shut it, Bradbury. I don’t want to hear a word of it.”

“Oh but Dean, I told you so. Did I not tell you so? You should listen when the queen is speaking. When have I ever steered you wrong before?”

Dean snorts a laugh, but it’s not a denial. Charlie does tend to know what she’s about. “Any of those beers left?” Dean asks instead of admitting it. “Feeling a little more like celebrating now.”

Chapter Text

“You can do this, Winchester. Fuckin’ man up.” Dean berates himself for the fifth time as he sits in the car outside Cas’ house, trying to convince himself to stop stalling and get in there. Cas already said he wants to talk, and that’s a thousand times better than he had expected, so he shouldn’t be nervous right now. He totally is anyway.

Before Dean can talk himself into growing a pair, Cas opens the door and leans against the frame with an unreadable look on his face, and they make eye contact so the time for dallying has clearly passed. One more deep breath for strength and then Dean’s out of the car, striding towards Cas with a posture far more confident than he truly feels. About half way there he reconsiders. Maybe confidence isn’t the way to go. He’s basically throwing himself on the mercy of the court. Metaphorically crawling back, begging forgiveness. He slows his pace and lets his eyes slide downwards, letting the shame and guilt he feels bleed back up to the surface and show through in his body language. Charlie said be honest, show his damn feelings. Well he feels like shit, so there it is.

“Hey,” he offers blithely when he reaches the door.

“Hey yourself,” Cas replies, stepping inside and holding the door open for Dean to follow. The silence of the house is only broken by their soft footfalls, socked feet barely audible on the wood floors. Cas’ movements are stiffer, more tense than Dean has ever seen him, and it suddenly hits him how deeply Cas has felt the rift between them. And maybe before his chat with Charlie that would have made Dean feel so much worse, but today it inspires a decision. Yes, Cas is hurting, and yes, it’s Dean’s fault, but he can fix this. At the very least, he can try. Even if Dean doesn’t get what he wants, he can try to make Cas happy, and that’s worth doing.

“You didn’t call,” Cas says quietly when they reach the living room. So many nights they’ve spent in this room, curled up on the couch watching movies, making out under blankets. Cas sits stiffly, his arms awkward at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them if he can’t wrap them around Dean.

“I didn’t think you wanted to talk to me. I’ve been so wrapped up in thinking about how I fucked everything up… I just assumed it couldn’t be fixed…”

“You’re talking like you’re the only one who made a mistake,” Cas says kindly. “I never should have pressured you about New Year’s.”

“That’s the thing though,” Dean argues. “You didn’t pressure me at all. You just asked me to go to a party. It was such a little thing and I kinda flipped out. And I did a really shitty job of explaining myself. You deserve better than that. I had myself convinced that was the same thing as being better off without me in your life.”

Cas makes a face somewhere between shock and disgust. It carries more than a little contempt for Dean’s blatant disregard for his own value and a strong desire to shake Dean until he recants the claim, but what he says instead is, “What changed?”

“Charlie,” Dean says, his voice flat. “Girl is meddlesome, but she did call me on my bullshit. She threatened to dig up dirt on the internet if I didn’t swallow my pride and call you. Actually sat there and stared me down until I called you.” Cas laughs wryly, his lips curling up into the faintest impression of a smile, though it fades quickly.

“Sounds about right,” he mutters under his breath. “You should have called sooner. You could have reached out at any point and I would have wanted to talk to you.”

“Yeah, well, apparently I needed to be provided with directions before I learned how to pull my head out of my ass, so…” Dean shrugs, a ten-tonne sigh drifting from his lips. “Cas, I fucked up. I know that. You weren’t asking anything unreasonable, but I panicked and I fucked it up. You know what I went through with Bela. Nothing was ever good enough. I was never good enough. And I guess, I don’t know, I got it into my head that if we were dating or whatever, it was just a matter of time before you couldn’t put up with my shit anymore either. I never meant for you to get the idea that I didn’t want people to see us together or that I’m ashamed of what this thing is. I just…” His hand rests heavily on the back of his neck as he trails off, fingers still cold against the warmth of his skin.

“I wasn’t expecting you to go to the party as my boyfriend,” Cas replies softly. He holds Dean’s eye contact for a long beat, and they both break away in such quick succession that Dean can’t tell who started it and who followed.

“I get that. I think I knew at the time. But like, in my head, even if we didn’t say that’s what it was, that’s what it would be. I’d be showing up at this party and I’d be Cas’ boyfriend, lover, plus-one, whatever. And I had myself convinced that was as good as giving myself up again. I… I can’t go back to the way I lived with her. I can’t keep being who someone else wants me to be. It’ll kill me. Slowly, sure, but it’ll kill me.”

“So don’t.” Cas speaks bluntly, his eyes hard. “I’m not asking you to. I don’t want you to be anything but who you are. I like who you are. Fuck, I liked you when I saw you at rock bottom. I’m dying to meet the real you when you finally figure out who that’s supposed to be again, but I’m also not convinced you’re not already that guy. I don’t want anything but your honest self, and I want it in whatever capacity you’re comfortable giving. I just… maybe I read you wrong. I thought there was something else happening here, and I thought you’d want to go to the party because you wanted to be around me like I wanted to be around you. And you pushed me away so hard… It hurt, Dean. I was so sure we wanted the same thing. After you invited me home for Christmas it was so easy to let myself believe you had feelings for me... Maybe I shouldn’t have sent you away. Maybe that did more harm than good, I don’t know. I just… I needed to think.”

“And what did you come up with?” Dean hesitates to ask the question, still so unsure of himself that he’s able to conjure up concern even now that Cas will cut him out of his life before he gets a chance to fix his mistake.

“That I’m an idiot for thinking I could ever look at someone whose soul shines as bright as yours and not be blinded by it. That I’m a fool for thinking I could ever get close enough to touch you and then convince myself to let go. That if I was ever going to walk away from you I would have had to do it a long, long time ago, long before I learned how amazing you are, long before I let myself fall in love with you. I won’t push you. If you don’t want what I want then, ok. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but not having you around has been harder than I could ever have predicted.”

Dean shrinks under the attention, ducking his head and averting his eyes to avoid showing the surprise he knows is clear on his face. Cas loves him? He’s not only willing to keep Dean around after the heartache he’s put him through, but he loves him? It’s more than he could have hoped for. More than he was ready to hear. Far more than he prepared himself for.

“I’m sorry. That was too much. I shouldn’t…”

“No,” Dean cuts him off quickly. “It’s not. I’m the one who should be sorry. I never meant to hurt you. All I ever wanted to do was make you happy.”

“That’s not enough,” Cas interjects sharply. “I want you because you make me happy, but I want to be with you because I want to make you happy. You’re not just some object, a plaything for me to pull out when I need a bit of joy. I don’t want you to do things just because you think I want them and I don’t want you to consent to things just for me. If you don’t want it, I don’t want it either. Don’t tell me you want to make me happy, Dean. You already do that. Tell me whether you want to let me make you happy. That’s what being in a relationship is supposed to mean.”

Dean looks up then, taking in the openness on Cas’ face, his wide blue eyes sparkling with emotion. It’s not a question he’s ever been asked before, and certainly not one he’s asked himself. He answers carefully, all too aware of the consequences of careless words when it comes to this thing between them, and still too wary of breaking it further to be even a little headstrong.

“I don’t know what I want, Cas.” Dean struggles to keep his voice even. “And I don’t know how to ask for what I need.”

“Speak plainly. Whatever your answer is, I just want to hear it.”

“I need to take this slow. We skipped some steps, or maybe we started off right in the middle, I don’t know, but I’m afraid if we jump right into it I’m going to freak out and fuck it up again.”

“You’re not going to fuck it up,” Cas insists. He reaches out to rest his fingertips against Dean’s jaw, the first point of contact since they sat down, and he must want more because Dean certainly does but he holds himself steady.

“You can’t know that,” Dean argues, leaning into the touch subconsciously. It would be so easy to just let it happen, to say ok and fall into routine and let himself be swept away. But who would Dean end up being if he just went back to letting things happen instead of choosing for himself?

“I do though. I believe in you. I trust you. As long as you stay honest with yourself and with me, you’re not going to fuck it up. But I… I hear what you’re saying. It’s ass backwards. We met and we fucked and I met your family and only now we’re talking about what any of this means. What if I asked you out for a meal, no strings, no expectations, and we see where it goes from there?”

Dean blushes, actually blushes, high spots of pink on his cheeks, warmth spreading across his face and blooming right down to his very core. His brain supplies a series of brief images like a movie montage in his mind: he and Cas seated across from each other with a red and white checked table cloth between them, candlelight and laughter and soft lighting; Cas reaching across the center console of the Impala to hold his hand like in some fucking cheesy movie; dropping Cas off at his door at the end of the night and leaning in to press the softest of kisses to his dry, chapped lips, breathing in the scent of each other and kissing with no intention of doing anything other than kissing.

“I’d ask where you planned on taking me,” Dean replies finally, a smile he has no will to fight painting itself across his features in tandem with the blush that has settled in and made a home for itself. “But I’d inevitably say yes.”

Cas propels himself off the couch then, striding purposefully out of the room towards the front door. “Hey!” Dean calls after him, giving chase. “Where are you going?”

“Out to lunch,” Cas replies patiently as if Dean has asked him the silliest question in the history of silly questions. “Unless you’ve already started reconsidering?”

“No but, shit, Cas, I didn’t realize you meant right now,” he whines plaintively.

“Then I don’t see what the problem is. I’m hungry, you’re always hungry, and you still owe me lunch from the day after Christmas. Besides,” Cas murmurs suggestively, gripping fistfuls of Dean’s shirt and drawing him in for the softest, sweetest kiss. “I don’t put out on the first date, and I miss the way you look when you’re naked in my bed, so there’s no time like the present.”

And just like that, they’re out the door. Dean needs both of his hands to back the car out of the driveway and put it in gear, but as soon as Dean’s right hand is no longer strictly required for driving related tasks, he has Cas’ fingers laced between his own, warm and solid.

Chapter Text

“So, how’d it go?” Charlie probably thinks she’s being really subtle, waiting until she’s elbow deep in Bobby’s new computer set-up to bring up Dean’s conversation with Cas. She’s definitely not. Dean would have to be stupid not to expect it; she eyed him up the second she walked in the door, clearly hoping for some discernable sign of whether her meddling had been successful. Dean toyed with the idea of saving her the effort and volunteering details, but in the end he chose to immerse himself in paperwork and fielding phone calls instead, so she’s forced to ask.

“How’d what go?” Dean asks, feigning ignorance.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, ass. How’s Cas? Did you guys make up? Did my big gay bondage heart to heart fix everything? Was there make-up sex?” She leans on her forearms on the counter, eyes dreamy and vacant. Dean can almost imagine little cartoon hearts drifting around her head.

“Dude, for a lesbian, you’re awfully interested in who’s putting their dick where.”

“I just want my boys to be happy. Is that so bad? This place is really dusty by the way. If you wanna avoid issues with this computer, you’re going to have to do something about that. It’s gonna slow your fan down.”

“Duly noted.” Dean nods absently, moving another invoice from the you need to deal with this today pile into the thank God that’s finished pile. “And since you’re so interested, Cas and I went on a date.”

“Like, an actual date?”

“Like we went out for lunch and he held my hand and picked up the check and I walked him to his door and didn’t go in. Like an actual date.”

“Awww!” Charlie squeals. “My little gay babies!”

“If you keep making noises like that, I’m gonna declare this an off-limits conversation topic,” Dean warns.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Dean fixes her with an icy stare. “Watch me.”

“Ok but, what does that mean? Is he your boyfriend?” Charlie has ceased all work on the computer at this point, no longer even looking at the array of parts spread out on the counter in front of her.

“It means we went on a date. And we’re going on another one on Friday, to see the new Star Wars.”

Charlie makes another shrill noise. “Oh my god! It’s so good! You haven’t seen it yet? You’re going to love it. Gilda and I went on opening night. And then seven more times. I could probably recite all the dialogue at this point.”

“Do not.” Dean commands, his voice dark and threatening. “If you ruin this for me, so help me God…”

“Ok, ok,” Charlie concedes, spreading her palms in surrender. “No comment.”

“Anyway, we’re taking it slow. I don’t wanna fuck this up again. So we’re dating. We’re going on dates. We are people who are dating. For now, I can do that.”

“Aw, Winchester! You big softie,” Charlie says teasingly, but the grin that splits her face doesn’t fade the entire time she’s in the shop working on the computer, even when she’s muttering under her breath about the abysmal state of Bobby’s network connection.

-----

“Holy shit that was good!” Dean exclaims for the thousandth time, easing the Impala into park in Cas’ driveway. He’s been riding a high since the opening crawl started, one he hasn’t felt since the first time he watched the original trilogy. “I mean, that movie was everything! Lightsabre battles, space, inside jokes, explosions, no Jar-Jar Binks. I want to go see it again. Like, right now.”

“I’m glad you had fun,” Cas offers, somewhat more calmly.

“Aw, come on. You’re not telling me you didn’t like it, are you?” Dean’s face falls.

“No, I enjoyed it. It was excellent. Far better than the prequels. And I’m also really enjoying seeing you so happy.”

“Yeah.” Dean blushes a little, smiling wide to cover it. “Yeah, it was awesome. And uh… I’m glad I got to see it with you. I can’t wait to see it again. I’d go right now. Like is there a midnight showing? Think we could still get tickets?”

Cas laughs heartily. “We could try. Or…” he trails off, reaching to open the passenger side door. “You could come in?”

“What… Oh.” Dean’s brain catches up as Cas gets out of the car, shutting the door gently behind him. He cuts the engine and follows quickly, ducking his head as he enters through the front door. It makes a soft click as it shuts behind him, and Dean doesn’t even have time to kick his boots off before Cas’ body is pressed up against his, pinning Dean to the door and kissing him fiercely. A startled noise becomes a soft moan as it escapes his lips, lips that part to allow Cas’ tongue to gently brush against his own, tasting and claiming. Cas tastes just a little bit like movie theatre popcorn but Dean supposes he likely does too.

“Fuck I missed this,” Dean groans when Cas breaks away from his mouth to trail the tip of his tongue over the pulse point on Dean’s throat. His hot kisses chase the chill away from Dean’s skin and replace it with a tingling sort of need, one that settles down low in his belly, shortening his breath and narrowing his focus until all he can perceive is Cas. His eyes are full of him, his hands want nothing but to touch, his mouth to kiss. Cas seems to sense this, or maybe he feels the need just as keenly, because he doesn’t even reply, just latches his mouth on to Dean’s collarbone and sucks a deep bruise that Dean will just barely be able to cover for work on Monday. He’ll wear it like a badge of honour, though, a reminder of the mouth that left it behind.

Clever fingers find Dean’s belt loops, snatching at them and jerking his hips away from the door that is supporting nearly all of his weight. He stumbles to follow, clinging to Cas’ hips and sending up a silent prayer that he doesn’t trip. His mouth finds Cas’ again, lips and teeth and tongue meeting with pent up desire, and Dean hopes Cas knows where he’s leading them because Dean stops paying any mind whatsoever to their path and lets himself be wrapped up completely in the intoxication of Cas’ kisses. Three weeks is far too long to go without losing himself in the taste of Cas’ mouth, in the feel of his hands and the heat of his body and everyone says that absence makes they heart grow fonder but they never mention what it does to other organs.

Cas lets go of belt loops to push his hands up under Dean’s shirt, warm palms gliding across his skin. Dean flinches when Cas touches the softness of his belly, drawing a soft grunt from Cas’ mouth as he touches more firmly, pressing affection into each touch.

“You’re perfect,” Cas murmurs against Dean’s lips, kissing him deeply to cut off any protest. His hands dip below the waistband of Dean’s jeans, teasing touches that distract Dean from any complaint he might have at the ready. If he had his way, they’d already be naked in bed, or on the couch, or on the floor, anywhere Cas will have him, letting the entire rest of the world fall away. It’s not even a want anymore, it’s a need, a desire so strong it’s become requirement, and he’s so hard in his jeans that it aches.

“Stay right there,” Cas commands, letting his hands fall away and stepping back. Dean opens his eyes again and finds them standing in the living room. He watches hungrily as Cas strips off his own shirt, then his pants and socks, and finally his underwear, dropping them in an unceremonious heap on the floor before dropping himself down in the middle of the couch, his cock bobbing against his belly.

When Dean finally meets Cas’ eyes, they’re dark with lust, only a faint ring of blue visible around the wide pupils. “Take your clothes off,” he orders, staring at Dean like he can see into his very soul. Dean doesn’t know if this is a scene or just sex. The two are so inextricably intertwined in his brain that he’s not sure he knows how to do one without the other anymore. Can he even be near Cas without submitting to him? Does he know how to be fucked without being claimed? Dean has no idea. One day that might be relevant, but not today. Cas has given him an order, and he’s entirely certain he wants to obey it. Dean moves slowly to remove his shirt, not in defiance but out of a desire for theatrics. The flannel falls from his shoulders to form a plaid pool on the floor, and before his t-shirt follows he makes sure to drag the hem up so gradually that Cas’ eyes are forced to follow his every move, slowly exposing his chest, then his shoulders as he pulls it over his head. Cas makes a pleased sound but doesn’t move, perfectly content to watch the scene unfolding before him. There is no sexy way to unlace a pair of boots, Dean finds, so he turns away from Cas and bends over, hoping at least that displaying his ass will distract from the awkwardness of the task. When he steps out of his jeans and pushes his boxers down to the floor, the slightest hint of a smile breaks Cas’ stoic resolve. Dean can’t help but smile back.

“Come join me on the couch,” Cas intones, holding a hand out for Dean to take. He pulls Dean into his lap, hissing out a breath as the straddled position brings their cocks in contact. Dean can’t help but rut against him, crashing their mouths together with a moan. Cas grips his ass, pulling him down and grinding his own hips up just to feel the heat of their bodies meeting.

Dean lets out an embarrassingly needing noise when Cas drags the tip of one finger over the pucker of his hole, back arching and hips clutching at Cas’ shoulders. “Fuck,” he breathes, nuzzling against Cas’ neck.

“Grab the lube out of the basket on the coffee table and I will,” Cas says wryly, his lips curving against Dean’s throat as he speaks.

Dean twists around in Cas’ lap to reach an arm around on the table until he finds the edge of the little wicker basket that holds all of Cas’ various remote controls. He digs around in its depths until he finds a little bottle of Astroglide. He arches an eyebrow at Cas.

“What? You’ve met me. You know how much I love sex. How are you possibly surprised that I’ve got lube in the living room?” He snatches it out of Dean’s hand, squeezing some on to his fingertips and rubbing them together to warm it up before pressing one slick digit to Dean’s entrance.

Dean cries out as Cas breeches him, the burning stretch mixed with headiest pleasure making it impossible to contain the sound. Cas moves slowly, carefully, cooing soft words of encouragement into Dean’s skin as he works him open to take increasingly greater girth, until he’s stretched around three fingers and gasping for breath, his cock leaking between their bellies. “Are you ready?” Cas murmurs. His fingers twist and stretch, pulling another startled gasp in answer.

“Yes!” Dean tells him, all breathy and urgent. “Jesus just… fuck, yes, I want, I want…”

“Shh, it’s ok, I’ve got you,” Cas croons. His free hand strokes over Dean’s hip and guides him until the slick head of Cas’ cock is nudging between his cheeks, sliding in slowly and filling him up until all Dean can feel is Cas, in him and around him. Cas’ mouth leaves a wet trail of kisses down his throat and along his collarbone; his hands splay across the small of Dean’s back, guiding him to rock his hips and move with the roll of Cas’ body. It’s slow and careful at first, finding a rhythm and testing out the way their bodies move together. Dean holds on to Cas’ shoulders, riding his cock and gasping softly at the closeness, the fullness, the pure blissful sensation of it all.

“Fuck.” Dean’s forehead rests against Cas’, eyes closed against the intimacy of eye contact. There’s no telling what Cas will see reflected back if he’s allowed to look in to Dean’s eyes like this, no telling what Dean will admit with his gaze that he’s still not ready to say with words. He slips a hand between them, taking hold of his cock and stroking it roughly in time with the thrusts, letting himself get lost in the physical sensations and the sound of Cas’ voice murmuring soft praise with every breath.

Dean is on the edge of losing control, of breaking away from the perfect undulations of his and Cas’ bodies entwined and just slamming himself down on Cas’ cock, chasing the release of orgasm with everything he has, when Cas’ susurrating voice stops droning endless sweet nothings and calls out more firmly. “Dean,” he’s saying, “Open your eyes. Look at me. Look at me, Dean.” And no, he can’t. It’s too much. He won’t. “Let me see your eyes, Dean,” Cas implores. Dean thinks to obey, because he wants to make Cas happy, because he’s good, so good for Cas, but this tiny little voice in his head reminds him that that isn’t enough. He can’t just do this to make Cas happy, he has to want to let Cas make him happy. That’s what he’s really afraid of. There’s so much power he gives away freely. The power to hurt him, the power to decide when he comes and when he is denied release. This though, the power to make him happy, that’s the one he’s guarded most jealously, too wary of the consequences to think about the rewards.

His eyelids flutter open softly, like one awaking from sleep blinks away the light of the sun, and takes in the look of reverence on Cas’ face like he’s seeing it for the first time. A grin creeps on to Dean’s face, and the joy on Cas’ grows exponentially, and that’s when he knows, truly knows in his bones. Cas wants him for his body, of course. That can’t be denied. They take too much pleasure in each other’s touch to ever pretend that’s not a factor. But the joy he gets from making Dean happy can’t be faked, and the knowledge that all Dean has to do is let him and he’ll never stop, that’s worth wearing whatever label is required. Dean will wear it on his sleeve, etch it into his skin, hang it on a sign around his throat, whatever it takes, so long as Cas keeps looking at him with all that glowing joy on his face.

Dean comes with a shout, painting both their chests with his release, stroking his cock until it’s so sensitive it’s nearly painful, all the while Cas pets his arms, his hips, his shoulders and tells him how good he is, how beautiful, how perfect, how stunning. Even when Dean is fully spent, and all he can do is hold himself up as Cas rocks into him, Cas still breathes out soft praise with every thrust. And when Cas comes, mouth hanging open in silent bliss, he clutches at Dean, touching everywhere he can reach, saying with his hands the words his mouth can’t quite form. Their mouths meet the moment Cas draws a full breath again, pressing together and kissing deeply, heedless of the mess between them. Cas reaches up and wipes a tear from Dean’s cheek, one that snuck its way out between the beads of sweat on his skin and passed unnoticed. There’s more following it, but Dean doesn’t remember shedding them. Cas wipes those away too.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You with me?”

“Yeah, Cas. I’m here,” Dean replies. “I’m not going anywhere.” It doesn’t say nearly as much as the moment calls for, but they’re the words he has available right now. Cas nods like he understands. Dean thinks perhaps he really does.

Chapter Text

“You didn’t have to go to all that trouble.” Cas has told him seven times tonight that it was very little effort, he didn’t mind anyway, and also shut up and just let someone do something nice for him already, but Dean still protests. It’s half-hearted this time at least, but he protests. It keeps him from feeling guilty about accepting what he considers being thoroughly spoiled. “We could have just stayed in for dinner.”

“Dean.” Cas levels him with a flat stare, his face cloaked in the shadows that hang from the interior of the taxi. “For what I hope is the last time this evening, I would like to remind you that it took me almost no energy whatsoever, and in any case, I wanted to, so while we could definitely have stayed in and cooked dinner or ordered takeout, it’s your goddamned birthday and I decided to take you out for dinner and that’s the end of the discussion. I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve pointed out that it’s unnecessary. I get it. But necessity was never really my goal here. My goal was to take my stubborn-ass boyfriend out for a burger and a couple of drinks. That’s why I went to the trouble, that’s why we’re in this taxi. End of story.”

Dean smiles in the dark, a crooked thing that he thinks Cas can’t see. “Not even my birthday until tomorrow.” Only the faintest note of wry humor creeps into his voice to let on that he’s not being petulant.

“Yes, and I have plans for you tomorrow too, but seeing as you’re working on Monday I figured it might be nice to go out to dinner when you didn’t have to be up in the morning. And you had a good time, didn’t you? So quit telling me I didn’t have to. I’m well aware.”

“Thanks, Cas.” The crooked smile blossoms into a full grin, one he’s not trying to hide in the dark any longer, and his hand bridges the gap between them, creeping over the seat cushions to find Cas’, linking their fingers together and giving him a squeeze.

“You said that already, too,” Cas reminds him, but he’s smiling too. The taxi pulls into Cas’ driveway, closer to the Impala’s bumper than Dean would like but not so close that he feels it’s appropriate to chew the guy out over it. He pushes down his irritation at it, just like he stamps down the little flare of panic when Cas calls him boyfriend. The past few weeks have been a trial in that respect, learning to get over his issues and get comfortable with this nebulous thing being a Thing, capital T, no nebulousness about it. If he’s being honest, (and Cas would love to hear him admit this, so he’s definitely not admitting it out loud quite yet) then it’s been a Thing for much longer than the past few weeks, and aside from Cas having licence to refer to Dean as his boyfriend and introduce him to people as such and all those silly label things that frighten him, not much has changed. Dean stays over one or two nights on the weekend, and sometimes a weeknight too if he’s not too drained from meticulous data entry to do anything more than fall facedown into his lonely bed and approach a comatose state. They talk on the phone and text on the evenings Dean spends at home. On Tuesday they even double-dated with Sam and Jess again, this time with no overhanging dread to make the evening awkward and even Dean had to admit that it was fun. So really, they’re carrying on exactly as they did before, except now Dean leaves a toothbrush in Cas’ bathroom and a couple of t-shirts in his closet instead of lugging an overnight bag with him every time he comes over. Purely from a standpoint of convenience, of course. Naturally.

“Keep the change,” Cas tells the cab driver, who nods in vague appreciation and watches them approach the front door before twisting in his seat and peering out the back window as he backs onto the street. His cab, Dean notes with disdain, is the same sort of awful little hybrid car that Sam drives.

“Those little things are way too quiet,” Dean says as they reach the door. “A car should make noise. My baby has the most beautiful rumble. You can hear her coming. That fuckin taxi was almost silent. It’s not natural. Unholy, is what it is. Should have just let me drive.”

“Whatever you say, dear,” Cas placates, long-suffering. He’s not facing Dean, but he’d bet money Cas’ eyes are rolling so hard they’re likely to stick that way.

“You’re lucky there’s no one here to listen to you call me that,” Dean warns. “I’d never stand for it.” Cas makes a noncommittal noise, toeing off his loafers and hanging his coat on the coat rack. Dean’s bootlaces take longer to manage, so he’s already disappeared into the depths of the house by the time Dean is similarly unshod. “Where’d you go?” Dean calls after him, hanging his coat up and tucking his cellphone into the pocket of his jeans.

“Kitchen!” Cas’ voice echoes through the halls. Dean follows the sound of his voice through the darkened house, muttering under his breath about how a guy could break his neck wandering around a house like this with no lights on.

“Surprise!!!”

Dean stops dead in his tracks, a bitten-back curse fresh on his lips, and surveys the now fully lit expanse of Cas’ kitchen with elation and incredulity battling for dominance in his mind. “What the…” he starts, then trails off, the answer obvious.

Cas’ kitchen is full of people. Sam is there obviously, Jess at his side, and Bobby, looking vaguely amused at the entire situation. Charlie and Gilda hover nearby, Charlie’s excitement barely contained as she grins widely. And Cas has positioned himself near the middle of the group, clearly the architect of this plot. He smiles at Dean expectantly, apparently worried that the surprise will receive a mixed review. It’s not the party that has Dean so surprised though. It’s the rest of the guests.

Leaning against Cas’ fridge, thick arms crossed over his barrel chest stands Benny, a wry smile tugging at the Cajun’s lips. Dean doesn’t remember the last time he saw the man, but it was long enough ago that he definitely didn’t expect to see him tonight. To Dean’s further shock, Victor and Jo are clustered near the sink, beaming at Dean so broadly he thinks their faces might split.

“Happy Birthday,” Cas says loudly, crossing the room to pull Dean towards his friends at the same time he pushes a beer into Dean’s hand. “Get in here. I think there’s a couple people you need to get caught up with.” Speechless, Dean takes the beer, ducking his head to press a chaste kiss to Cas’ lips in reply and gratitude.

Jo is the first to descend on him when the shock clears and he’s able to form words again. “Happy Birthday, buddy!” she cries with glee, throwing arms around his neck and nearly knocking the beer from his hand. Dean has no choice but to hug her back. She squeezes so tight Dean fears his ribs might crack. “It’s so good to see you again. How are you? What’s new?”

Dean snorts. “Loaded question. Short answer? Everything.”

“And the long answer?” Victor interjects. His handshake is just as firm as Dean remembers, though this time Victor pulls him in and embraces quickly, clapping Dean on the back and grinning warmly.

“Well, I’m not working at the same place, I’m not living where I was last time I saw you, and I’m not dating Bela anymore, that’s for damn sure. Shit kinda fell apart there for a while, but I think I’m finally back on my feet. Dude, how did this even happen? Did Sam call you?”

Victor shakes his head. “Your boyfriend. I think Sam helped, obviously, but it was Castiel that called me.”

“Me too,” Jo agrees. “He said he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do for your birthday than give you your friends back. Pretty fucking sweet, actually. You traded up, Winchester.” She holds up her beer and Dean clinks his own bottle against the glass.

“Damn straight, brother,” Benny’s voice adds, his heavy frame looming just behind Dean’s shoulder. The grin on Dean’s face feels permanent by the time he breaks away from the resulting hug. “Been too long.”

“Don’t I know it,” Dean agrees. “It’s so good to see you guys. Hey! When did that happen?” He waves his hand vaguely in the direction of Jo and Victor, whom he has just noticed are standing incredibly close together, Victor’s arm slung over Jo’s shoulder.

“Dean, it’s been nearly two years since we’ve seen you,” Victor laughs. “Jo and I moved in together over a year ago. You missed a lot.”

“Yeah,” Dean says sadly. “I suppose I did. I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch, guys.”

“Hey, none of that. This is a day for celebratin’,” Benny says sternly. “You can start payin’ penance later. Right about now, I think we got more than a little catchin’ up to do. I bet you got stories. I know I do.”

Dean is in the middle of relating the tale of Cas’ scathing dismantling of Bela’s ego when Cas approaches from behind, making his presence known by a hand resting on Dean’s hip. It’s a testament to how happy he is with this party, his friends, and with Cas in general, that the obviously familiar gesture doesn’t make him feel at all uncomfortable. These people were his life once, and they’re mingling with the people who are currently in his life, and Cas, the magnificent bastard, he’s the thing that brought them together. Dean can’t call up a memory of a time when he’s been this happy; not in a long, long time.

“So anyway, you should have seen the look on her face when Cas called her out on her bullshit. It was brutal. And it turns out the guy she left me for? Tyson Brady. Sam’s fucking roommate. Can you believe it?” Dean gestures enthusiastically as he recounts the moment of glory, fully aware of Cas’ quiet presence at his side.

“I don’t think you want me to answer that,” Jo replies with a sneer, but Victor elbows her in the ribs.

“Don’t be petty,” he cautions, but Jo’s already all smiles.

“If you don’t mind, I need to steal the man of the hour for just a few minutes. I promise, I’ll bring him right back,” Cas interjects, giving Dean’s hip a gentle squeeze before heading towards the stairs, stealing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure Dean follows. Dean excuses himself quickly, feeling his heart warm at the smiles his friends offer in reply. He catches up to Cas just as he reaches the bedroom door.

“I can’t believe you arranged all this.” Dean grins broadly, letting Cas tangle their fingers together as he shuts the bedroom door behind them.

“I wanted to give you something for your birthday that you’d never get for yourself,” Cas replies quietly. “Sam got their numbers for me. He thought it was a great idea. Apparently, you’re ‘too fucking stubborn’ to call them yourself regardless of how much you miss them, and he didn’t share the specifics of the rifts but I’m given to understand that it wasn’t exactly your choice to keep them out of your life.”

“Bela,” Dean says with a sigh. “I think she just wanted to get rid of anyone who might point out how shitty she was to me. Anyway, it’s not important now. Thank you, Cas. You have no idea how much I appreciate this.” He pulls Cas closer, their linked hands hovering between them, and kisses him soundly. The memory of a glass of whiskey clings to Cas’ lips, sharp and sweet.

“That’s not even technically your present,” Cas tells him when they break apart for air. “I was going to give it to you when we got back from Christmas out of town, but then… Well, it’s not important. It didn’t seem right after that. But I want to give it to you now.” Cas pulls his hands away and retrieves two boxes from his bedside table. He sets one on the bed and hands the other, smaller box to Dean. Dean lifts the lid to reveal a single brass key, plain and unadorned.

“I’m not asking you to move in,” Cas explains quickly. “I mean, if you wanted to, we could talk about that, but what I mean is you spend so much time here anyway, and I want you to feel at home here. Not like you’re a guest, but like you belong. I know I work from home so I’d always be here to let you in anyway but I just… it’s more symbolic than anything. I hope I haven’t overstepped. I know you wanted to take things slow, and we’ve only technically been calling each other boyfriend for a couple weeks but… Dean? Say something.”

“I would, if you’d let me get a word in edgewise,” Dean laughs. “This is cool, Cas. Really. I’m definitely not thinking about moving in right now, but I like this. Thanks.” He tries to pull Cas in for another kiss, but Cas stalls him.

“There’s one more. Remember how I said the gift I gave you at your parents place was misdirection? That your real present wasn’t quite family friendly?” Dean raises an eyebrow suggestively, but Cas doesn’t say another word, just drops the box into Dean’s hands and crosses his arms across his chest.

Dean tears the paper off the box quickly, shredding the wrapping as he goes. It’s blue and yellow and red striped paper, appropriate for a birthday rather than Christmas, which gives Dean the impression that Cas has unwrapped and rewrapped the thing since the holidays.

“It’s a butt plug,” Dean says flatly. And it is. Dean takes it out of the box and inspects it, turning the device over in his hands and smoothing his fingers over the surfaces. It’s small, not much wider than his thumb, sleek and black and altogether unobtrusive. Cas reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out something small enough to hide in his hand. Almost immediately, the plug starts vibrating in Dean’s hand, emitting a low humming noise.

“It’s a remote controlled butt plug,” Cas corrects matter-of-factly. “I do hope you don’t have one already. They’re not really returnable.”

“Especially once you’ve opened the box,” Dean observes. “I take it you have all sorts of horrible plans for this.”

“Naturally,” Cas says, switching the remote off and getting all up in Dean’s space. “For example, if I calculate correctly, you’ve had a total of five drinks tonight, spaced out over the course of the evening. If I had to guess I’d say you’re feeling buzzed but not drunk so your judgement cannot be called in to question. So… if you wanted to switch to soda when we go back downstairs and maintain an air of at least partial sobriety, we could give this little thing a test run. See how good your poker face is.”

Dean’s face goes from pink to crimson in the space of a heartbeat, his pulse racing at the very idea of what Cas is suggesting. The thought of that plug, nestled snug between his cheeks, a little secret under his jeans while he makes conversation and celebrates his birthday…

“I wouldn’t turn it up too high, of course, and you could call your safeword at any time. And if you’re not comfortable with it, we can put it away and play with it tomorrow. I mean, we’ll still play tomorrow. I have very strong feelings about birthday orgasms. But that doesn’t mean we can’t play tonight too, if you want to.”

“Jesus,” Dean breathes. He’s getting hard already just thinking about it. “You seriously want me to wear this thing and go back down there?”

The smile that Cas gives him in reply is nothing short of mischievous, dark and sultry and fuck, it just does things to Dean. Things he can’t put in to words. “Well sure,” Cas says dismissively. “If you think you’re up for it.” He palms Dean through his jeans, feeling the swell of his erection and taking note of the breathy little hiss Dean makes in response. The press of his lips is soft and sweet, tender in a way that almost offsets the filthiness of what he’s suggesting but not quite.

“Yeah, ok,” Dean breathes against Cas’s mouth. Cas grabs his beltloops, spinning him around and pushing him towards the bed.

“Drop your pants and bend over the mattress. And do try to keep it down,” Cas warns. “I don’t think the volume downstairs is enough to stifle your usual noise level.”

-----

By the time Dean makes it back downstairs there’s a pink glow to his skin and a smile on his lips. The tiny black plug is snuggly nestled in his ass, leaving him feeling nowhere near as full as he does getting fucked but still full enough to be a very serious distraction. Cas hasn’t turned it on yet, aside from a brief test inside the safety of the bedroom to make sure it wasn’t too overwhelming to give Dean a fair chance at behaving. Now, coming down the stairs to rejoin the party, he can feel the thing shifting with every step he takes, and he’s grateful that everyone here is drinking so he can pass the redness of his face off as alcohol related.

“Where were you?” Sam asks. “We were about to send a search party.”

“Cas just wanted to give me a birthday present,” Dean replies quietly, not making eye contact.

“Uh huh,” Sam says dismissively. “You know birthday sex doesn’t actually count as a gift, right?”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean laughs. “No uh, he actually gave me a key to his place.”

“Cool. So… it’s serious then, eh?”

“Guess so,” Dean smiles.

“You moving in?”

“Maybe eventually,” Dean tells him. “Right now, I think we’re just gonna see how things go. But I mean, I got things pretty good. I have a good job, an awesome boyfriend, and I got some damn good friends back. Not a bad birthday.”

“No, I suppose it’s not,” Sam agrees, grinning at his brother. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something further, but Cas rounds the corner and interrupts the moment, and Sam shakes it off without a further word.

His friends are gathered around Cas’ dining table, drinks scattered across the surface and a stack of cards in front of Charlie. He raises an eyebrow questioningly, dropping into a chair more heavily than he reasonably should have given his current situation, lips pursed to stifle the very telling moan that tries to escape his lips.

“Cards Against Humanity,” she explains, dealing a pile of cards in front of him. Cas settles himself gracefully into the seat beside Dean, passing Dean a glass bottle of cola with a smile that is far too innocent. “You playing, Cas?”

“Why not?” Cas replies with a shrug.

“This is my exit,” Bobby tells them gruffly, clapping Dean on the shoulder. “Happy birthday, boy. See you Monday.” Dean turns in his seat to give the man a broad smile. Maybe a hug would be more appropriate but it’s not like Bobby is exactly known for warm showings of emotion and besides, Dean’s not sure he can trust Cas not to switch on the remote in the middle of the touching moment.

The first few rounds of the game are tame. Sam has never played before although Jess seems to be surprisingly comfortable with the rules. And Victor declares loudly that he doesn’t even know what half the cards in his hand mean so he has to have them explained by Jo, and the way his eyes widen at whatever she says is enough to make Dean forget his own discomfort for a moment and laugh out loud.

“I think we’ve offended his delicate sensibilities,” Dean chuckles, reaching out to draw a question card for his own turn. The moment he opens his mouth to read off what it says, the plug in his ass buzzes to life and he chokes on the words, quickly covering the sound with what he hopes is a believable coughing fit. He shoots Cas the most threatening look he can muster, but Cas just smiles and asks if he needs a drink of water. He leaves the plug on a low setting, and Dean knows he’s safe at least for the moment because both of Cas’ hands are above the table, shuffling through his cards with no hint on his face of the secret he’s hiding. Dean takes a deep breath and reads his card out for real this time, glad at least that they’re sitting at a table and no one can see the fierce erection that’s pressing at the zipper of his jeans. If anyone asked, Dean would tell them he has no idea what possessed him to go along with this, but the truth is quite simple. Cas asked. Cas wants to watch him squirm, wants to spend the rest of the evening torturing Dean and having no one else know about it. Dean wants to make Cas happy. When Cas is happy he does very, very nice things to Dean. And even if there wasn’t the promise of mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex later, Dean would probably do it anyway. That’s what he’s come to realize in the past few months. He’d do basically anything Cas asked him to. The real difference, the thing that makes him feel safe and comfortable with that knowledge is the assertion that Cas wouldn’t ask Dean to do anything he doesn’t think Dean would want to do. So he’ll sit here with all his friends and try to be good, and he’ll be grateful for their presence but even more grateful when they start to weave in their seats and their numbers gradually dwindle until the last taxi has been called and the final farewell said. He promised to let Cas make him happy, and he’s got a feeling that tonight, Cas is going to do exactly that.

-----

“I thought they’d never leave,” Dean sighs, watching from the front doorstep as Charlie and Gilda climb into a taxi idling at the end of the driveway. He waves at her in the dark, her red hair clearly visible even in the dim streetlight.

“What, you didn’t enjoy your party?” Cas taunts, hands jammed in his pockets against the cold. Dean eyes him sideways, knowing it’s only a matter of time before Cas drops the façade and finally stops teasing. He’s only switched the plug up to the third setting so far this evening, though Dean doesn’t actually know how much further up it goes. It’s probably a good thing that Cas didn’t see fit to test that out. Even that was almost more than Dean could handle. There’s heat in his cheeks he’s sure must translate to an absurdly red blush that has to extend all the way down his throat and across his chest. He’s so hard it aches. There were three separate times when he thought he was going to come in his pants, and a couple moments where he was nearly certain someone knew what was up and there are not words in Dean Winchester’s vocabulary to properly express his gratitude that he did not have to have that awkward conversation.

But does he regret it?

Hell no.

“I enjoyed it plenty,” Dean counters. “But fuck...” he groans, “I didn’t think I was gonna make it.”

Cas shakes with laughter as he closes and locks the front door. “And you did so well, Dean,” he praises, his voice dark now that there’s no one else around to hear. “Nobody had any idea. You were perfectly well behaved. I knew you could do it. In fact, you’ve done such a good job holding it together, I bet you’d be just fine to wait while I clean up the kitchen before I turn the plug off for you.”

“You wouldn’t,” Dean sputters, his eyes wide.

“No, I wouldn’t. But the look on your face was totally worth it. Come on, let’s go upstairs.” He gropes at Dean’s ass on the stairs, drawing a yelp from his lips. As soon as the bedroom door is shut behind them, Cas grabs a handful of Dean’s hair and grips it tight as he kisses him fiercely, worrying his bottom lip with teeth and swallowing up Dean’s moans. “So good for me,” he mutters. “So very good. I’m gonna make you feel amazing, Dean,” he promises. He keeps kissing Dean as he sneaks his hands under the hem of Dean’s shirt, pressing icy fingertips against the softness of his belly. Their lips part only to allow Dean to shed his layers, standing naked from the waist up as Cas kisses him again, passionate and possessive, smoothing his hands over Dean’s skin to show him how appreciated he is. Dean’s hands are much rougher where they clutch at Cas’ arms, an entire evening of want and need and hovering near the edge making him even more impatient than usual. Cas swats his hand away when he tries to go for the fly on Cas’ jeans, and again when he tries to remove his own. He’s got a timeline in mind, it seems, and won’t be hurried. Dean makes a disgruntled little noise, tangling his fingers in Cas’ shirt in frustration.

Cas slips his hand into his pocket, turning the plug up, which in turn produces such a plaintive whine from Dean. “How high does this thing even go?” Dean asks, sounding thoroughly debauched now that he doesn’t have to try to hide it.

“Higher than this, for sure.” Cas pauses for a moment, his fingertips skimming the waistband of Dean’s jeans, toying with the prospect of touch. “Should we test it out?” He grabs Dean’s ass in both hands, pulling him close enough that Dean’s aching cock grinds against his hip.

“It doesn’t really matter what my answer is, does it?” Dean asks dryly, gasping when Cas grinds against him again.

“Not unless it’s a safeword,” Cas singsongs. “Because I really want to see how high it goes. It’s important to research these things fully. So you’d better not come until I’m done with you,” he warns, unzipping Dean’s jeans and pushing them down over his hips along with his boxer shorts. “Or you won’t get fucked.”

“You’re fucking cruel,” Dean groans. The touch of Cas’ hand on his cock is a welcome change from the confinement of his pants but it’s only gentle touches, the barest hint of contact, and it’s not enough.

“Yeah,” Cas sighs dreamily. “I kinda am. Step out of your pants.” He gives Dean’s ass one more good squeeze then moves over to the cabinet, returning with a length of green hemp rope. “Hands out in front of you. What’s your colour? Are you ready?” He drapes the rope over his shoulder, holding both of Dean’s proffered hands but not moving to tie him yet.

“Green,” Dean affirms, feeling excitement spread throughout his body. “Definitely green.”

“Good.” Cas begins to tie his wrists in a simple cuff, letting the tails of the rope drag across his skin and fingertips graze the inside of his wrists so there’s always some sensation for Dean to focus on. He kisses each wrist gently before inspecting his work, turning Dean’s wrists and lifting them so he can see the underside, tugging and pulling on the rope until he’s satisfied it’s tied the way he wants. “Is that too tight?”

“No, I’m good,” Dean breathes.

Cas brings one of his own hands up to Dean’s face, cupping his jaw and dragging the pad of his thumb across Dean’s lower lip. “Perfect,” he whispers, breath catching as Dean’s tongue sweeps across the tip of his thumb as he sucks the digit into his mouth. “How did I get so lucky?”

“Wrong place, right time,” Dean shoots back.

“I should drink in dive bars more often,” Cas muses. “If this is what being in the wrong place gets me.”

“Shut up,” Dean laughs.

“Oh, are you giving the orders now? I didn’t realize we’d switched.”

“Nope,” Dean replies, still cocky. “You’re still totally the boss of me.”

“Then I suggest you find something to do with your mouth other than making smart ass comments.” Cas unbuttons his own pants, finally, pulling his cock out and giving it a quick couple of strokes. “Show me how much you want it,” he commands, his voice surprisingly casual. Dean raises an eyebrow, a gesture that Cas returns but does so much better, and Dean finds himself sinking to his knees without another word, his bound hands getting a gentle grip on Cas’ cock and guiding the tip into his mouth.

The taste of precome blossoms on his tongue as he licks and sucks at the head of Cas’ cock. He get so turned on doing this. Cas is hard and thick, and Dean wants to take all of him in his mouth but he forces himself to slow down and tease a little. It’s only fair. Cas has been teasing him all night. The rope keeps his hands bound together and there’s not much he can do about that, but it does give him enough range of motion that when he slides his lips down Cas’ shaft, he’s still able to fondle Cas’ balls. He works Cas with his mouth and hands as best he can, taking Cas as deep as he can go, teasing the slit with his tongue. His own aching cock is nearly forgotten as his entire focus narrows to the heady taste of precome on his tongue and the weight of Cas’ cock in his mouth. Even the slender little butt plug is only distantly remembered, until Cas flicks it up to the next setting, and Dean groans loudly, a trickle of spit running down his chin. It’s only on the third setting now, and he managed to survive that one in a room full of people, but now that he’s not actively trying to ignore it, the vibrations seem so much more intense.

“Good boy,” Cas croons, stroking Dean’s hair lovingly and smiling down at him. “So good for me.” Dean looks up at him through his eyelashes, lips still stretched around Cas’ cock. Filtered through the lust in his dark eyes there’s love in his gaze. Love and adoration, and it’s so pure and so real that all Dean wants in the entire world is to be worthy of it.

Cas didn’t say he could stop, so he doesn’t. He gives Cas the messiest, wettest blowjob he can manage, tiny little moans catching in his throat every once in a while. Cas has decided, apparently, that it’s a really good idea to flip the plug back down to the second setting, let Dean find a false sense of security, and then crank it back up to three when he least expects it. Dean thinks Cas likes the noises he makes, because every time he moans around Cas’ cock, the hand in his hair tightens and Cas gasps, so he does it again. Dean loses complete track of time. His jaw gets sore and he ignores it. His cock leaks precome steadily, running a trail down to his balls and dripping onto the floor. And still that tiny little plug keeps buzzing away. Dean is a definite mess and he kinda gets the picture they’ve barely gotten started.

Cas breathes heavy, murmuring about how good Dean is, and he gets no warning whatsoever before Cas cranks the plug up again, hitting a setting they haven’t gotten to before. Cas’ cock slips from his mouth as he cries out, startled by the intensity of it. The hand in his hair doesn’t let go but Cas isn’t holding him still either, so Dean nuzzles his face in closer and runs the flat of his tongue along Cas’ balls, mouthing at the delicate skin and feeling entirely pleased when Cas’ groan rings out through the room.

“Fuck, that feels good,” Cas praises, so Dean does it again, stroking Cas’ cock with both of his bound hands at once, his legs quivering from the intensity of the stimulation he’s receiving right now. So of course, Castiel being the asshole that he is, choses this exact moment to see if there’s a fifth setting, and it’s definitely more than Dean is ready for.

“Ah, fuck! Cas, fuck, I’m gonna come!” he whines. Cas’ warning about not coming until he has permission is fresh in his mind, and he most certainly wants to get fucked tonight so Dean has every intention of complying. He’s beyond grateful when Cas dials it back down to three, stroking Dean’s face gently as his breathing returns to normal.

“You’ll be happy to know that’s as high as it goes.” He pulls Dean to his feet, looping an arm around his waist to hold him steady as he leans in for a kiss, and suddenly Dean understands why because Cas kisses him so soundly he goes weak in the knees like some old-time movie heroine. “Not done with you yet though.”

Dean is unsteady as Cas guides him towards whatever he’s got planned. His legs feel wobbly and weak, and having his hands tied doesn’t necessarily throw him off but being unable to rely on them should he fall definitely does. Its fortunate Cas is there with a hand on the small of his back to guide him. Cas would never let him fall.

“Remember this?” Cas asks conversationally as he pulls the spreader bar out of his cupboard of toys.

Dean nods. “Yeah,” he croaks, but offers no further comment. Cas presses a button or something on the side of the thing and there’s an audible click, and suddenly a bar that previously kept his legs spread at shoulder width twists and extends in Cas’ hands, becoming long enough to really spread Dean’s legs out. Cas smiles coyly as he steps back towards where Dean is standing. It’s such a beautiful, open smile, so disarming, so kind. If Dean didn’t already know better he’d never expect the kind of devious shit that’s going on behind those blue eyes.

Cas is silent as he crouches down to affix the requisite cuffs to Dean’s ankles, clipping the first one to the bar and then nudging Dean’s feet apart until the second one is far enough away to attach to the other end. It’s not enough that Dean feels a pull in his muscles, but definitely enough to put him off balance and out of his comfort zone, and that’s probably exactly what Cas is going for. Dean glances down past the jut of his cock, still slick with precome, and sees that the little button that serves to lock the bar in place after an adjustment is in the center of three slots, which means this thing could be even longer if Cas wanted it to be.

“How’s that?” Cas asks softly, trailing fingertips over Dean’s hip as he circles around.

“Feel like I’m on display,” Dean blushes.

“Well you kind of are,” Cas tells him, kissing his shoulder, his neck. “Just for me though. Hands up.” Dean lifts his arms above his head as commanded, settling into his stance as the ropes are attached and he’s secured in place. Dean has no idea what happened in his brain that this is a thing he enjoys, but god damn, it feels so good to be spread out and toyed with like this. Cas knows how to hit all his buttons, how to make him feel so amazing and adored and blissful. He knows how to make it hurt so good. It’s everything Dean never knew he wanted. “Since it’s your birthday and all, I’ll let you choose. Do you want the paddle, or the strap?”

Dean thinks for a long moment, letting himself get lost in the sensation of Cas’ hands on his skin, the ropes at his wrists and the tug of the cuffs on his ankles. The paddle is a deeper sort of pain, one that leaves bruises and makes it hurt to sit down the next day. The strap though, that one makes his skin sing, makes him cry out as it snaps at him. If Cas wants to make a mess of him tonight, that’s the one he should use. And this is supposed to be about what Dean wants, but what Dean really wants is to put the tools in Cas’ hands that are going to give them both the most pleasure, and that means the choice is obvious.

“The strap,” he answers confidently.

“I thought you might say that,” Cas says. He’s undressed himself while Dean was thinking, something that managed to escape Dean’s notice entirely, and now he’s standing fully naked in front of Dean with the strap in his hand. “Don’t forget. You don’t come until I give you permission. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy,” Cas murmurs, bestowing Dean with a filthy kiss before traipsing slowly around his restrained form to land a quick series of short, sharp blows to his ass and thighs. He turns the plug down to its lowest level to give Dean a chance to get used to the mixture of sensations, but now that he knows full well what Dean can handle in the way of pain, he doesn’t waste too much time progressing from gentler warm-up strikes into the firmer ones that have Dean twitching in his bonds and huffing out laboured breaths.

And then he turns the plug up again.

Dean cries out, his voice piercing the relative quiet of the room. Cas doesn’t stop the rain of blows that he’s delivering, just keeps letting the strap sing against Dean’s skin as he goes rigid, hands clutching at nothing and toes curling with the effort it takes to keep from coming right on the spot. Sweat runs down Dean’s chest. He groans, relaxing a little as the shock of it subsides.

“How are your hands?” Cas asks, feigning obliviousness to Dean’s current predicament. “Too tight?” Dean shakes his head, not sure he’s actually capable of forming words right now, and hopes Cas doesn’t expect an audible response. “You good to keep going?” Dean nods enthusiastically, supressing a yelp when the strikes start falling again regularly.

Dean has no idea what setting the plug is on now, just that it’s not the highest setting, because if that was the case he’s certain he’d be coming before he could even beg for mercy. That doesn’t mean he’s not close though. The pain that radiates from his hips all the way down his thighs has started to send adrenaline surging through his body, and that mixed with the pleasure of the plug vibrating in his ass and the gentle touches Cas gives his reddened skin every few minutes have him flying high. It’s flirting with disaster. When he does finally reach the point where he can’t fight it anymore he’s going to come so hard his legs are going to give out. Thank God he’s tied to the ceiling. Every time he gets close and has to beg Cas to back off, it gets more and more likely that the next one is going to be the one he can’t fight, and he very much wants to end this night with Cas’ dick in his ass.

“Fuck,” Cas groans behind him. “You look so good like this.” He palms Dean’s ass, his fingernails dragging across the welts left by the strap, and gives him a few good, solid slaps with his hand. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Dean’s not perfect. He knows this for a fact. He’s far from perfect. But when he’s trussed up like this, completely at Cas’ mercy, when all he can do is hang in his bonds and take what Cas is giving, and when Cas tells him he’s perfect, he can almost begin to believe it. At the very least, he can believe that he’s good. He says none of this out loud, but somehow Cas knows all of it anyway.

“You are, you know. You’re amazing.” Another smack, this time with the strap instead of Cas’ hand. “You’re gorgeous,” – smack – “And you’re kind,” – smack – “And you’re fucking brilliant.” Three more smacks, each harder than the last, and the final one hard enough that Dean hisses a breath through his teeth. Cas soothes his fingers over the spot, but he doesn’t stop talking. “You are everything I ever wanted, in here and out there too, and I will make you understand this if it takes the rest of my life.” Cas stops speaking abruptly, cranking the plug up to what Dean surmises is the fifth and highest setting, because his toes curl and he feels himself teetering on the edge, crying out loudly with the intense pleasure of it.

“Fuck, Cas! I can’t… I’m gonna…” he rasps, his voice harsh from hovering on the edge for god only knows how long.

“Yeah baby, I know.” Cas grabs the base of Dean’s dick firmly, pulling the still-vibrating plug out with the other hand and lining his slick cock up with Dean’s hole without a moment’s delay. He slides in slowly until his hips are pressed up against Dean’s ass, the heat radiating off him in waves and seeping into Cas’ skin. “You’ve been so good for me, Dean. So fucking amazing.” He starts to move, thrusting into Dean’s ass in slow, shallow strokes, his hand still holding Dean’s cock and the other gripping tightly enough to Dean’s hip that his fingernails leave little half-moon indentations in the freckled skin.

Dean groans with pleasure. It’s all he can do. Cas’ cock feels so good filling him up after what feels like an eternity of teasing, and he’s loosening his hold on Dean’s cock to begin stroking him in time with the thrusts, his clever fingers working over the slick shaft and finally giving Dean what he needs.

Cas presses his lips to Dean’s shoulder, tasting salt on the tip of his tongue. He kisses tenderly across Dean’s back and up the side of his neck to let his breath drift across the skin below Dean’s ear. “Say it for me, Dean,” he coaxes, thrusting in deeper. “Tell me how good you are.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down his back. He can’t do this. He just can’t. He barely believes it in the solitude of this room, and even that only lasts as long as he’s being taken apart and remade under Cas’ hands. He can’t say it out loud.

“It’s ok,” Cas tells him. “You can do it. I know you can. You’ve done everything I’ve asked and you’ve been so good, so perfect and sexy and you’re amazing. You’re so amazing. But I just need you to do this one more thing for me ok? Just say it. Just tell me you’re good. I need to hear you say it.” The words keep coming, and if Dean listens closely it almost sounds like Cas is begging, just begging him to admit it, and he’s not asking that much is he? It’s just a couple little words, and Dean doesn’t even have to mean them, he just has to say them.

He opens his mouth to speak as Cas thrusts in deeper, hitting his prostate and turning the words into a desperate moan. Cas thumbs over the head of his cock, pressing against the slit as he continues his litany, urging Dean to speak for him, coaxing words to form on his lips.

“I’m good,” Dean groans quietly. Nothing happens. He doesn’t implode. Lightning doesn’t strike him down for lying. Forcing the words out doesn’t change anything at all, and he feels lighter for letting them go. But more importantly, Cas tightens his grip on Dean’s cock and starts stroking him more firmly, faster, and the constant demands in his ear become praise instead.

“Fuck, yes. You’re so good, you’re so good. Perfect for me. Say it again.” His lips burn against Dean’s skin, lighting Dean on fire wherever he touches, and he wants to be good, wants to be whatever Cas wants, so he complies, perfect and good and obedient.

“I’m good,” he says louder this time. “I’m so good.” He groans as Cas’ hand flies over his cock, his shoulders straining and his legs quivering with the effort of keeping himself supported. And Cas doesn’t stop, just keeps praising him and stroking him and fucking him, until it’s all too much and Dean cries out, coming in hot spurts over Cas’ hand, his vision blurring and his knees going weak with the intensity of it.

And still Cas doesn’t stop. He grabs Dean’s hips with both hands now, pulling him back onto his cock, still telling Dean with every breath how perfect he is, and in the haze of orgasm Dean just lets it wash over him, suffusing his very soul with Cas’ deeply held belief that Dean isn’t just enough; he’s loved, cared for, wanted, and it feels so good. When Cas comes, he calls out Dean’s name, shuddering and clutching his hips for all he’s worth. He kisses Dean’s neck, strokes his skin, still thrusting through the aftershocks until he’s got nothing left to give. Dean is barely aware of his surroundings while Cas unhooks the spreader bar, unties his hands, and helps him to the bed. Gentle hands settle him comfortably on the soft sheets, and he sighs gratefully at the cool washcloth that wipes the sweat and the lube from his skin.

“Hey,” Cas murmurs softly, carding his fingers through Dean’s hair. “You with me?”

“Damn straight,” Dean relies dreamily, leaning into the tender touch. “Or damn bi. Or something. You know what I mean. Yes.”

Cas settles onto the bed beside him with a laugh. “I know exactly what you mean. How are you feeling?”

“Fucking awesome.” Dean smiles, eyes still closed, relaxing bonelessly into the comfort of the bed. “Best birthday sex ever.”

“Oh that wasn’t birthday sex,” Cas says seriously. “That was just sex. Birthday sex happens tomorrow. You thirsty?”

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Stay here.” Like Dean could move right now even if he wanted to. “I’ll be right back.” Dean stares at the ceiling, idly finding patterns in the texture and thinking vaguely about how happy he is in this very small, very perfect moment. He’s more alert when Cas returns, a question on his lips as soon as the orange juice is gone and Cas has climbed into bed behind him, flipping the lights off and wrapping his limbs around Dean like a very cuddly octopus.

“Did you mean that?” He asks softly when he’s safely encased in darkness and no one can see his face. “What you said about… about the rest of your life? Or was that just something you said in the scene?” Cas kisses the back of his neck again and again and again, holding him as close as limbs and physics will allow.

“Every word,” Cas tells him. “I’ll love you for as long as you’ll let me, and I’ll never stop trying to convince you how much you’re worth to me.” For a time, there’s no sound except their breathing, gradually falling into sync as they drift towards sleep. Just before he sinks too far to speak, Dean gives up his thoughts to the darkness, not sure if he’s hoping Cas is still awake to hear them or that he’s asleep and Dean can speak without consequence.

“I love you too, Cas,” he says sleepily and Cas doesn’t say anything in response, but the lips pressed to the back of his neck curl upwards in a little bit of a smile and the arms around his waist tighten just a little bit. Dean yawns and nuzzles into his pillow, feeling sleep already starting to weigh his limbs down. Tomorrow, there will be reality to deal with, and birthday sex, and the rest of the world. Tonight, there’s just this perfect moment, and this perfect man, and as far as Dean’s concerned, that’s all the perfect he needs.