Archive of Our Own

Supernatural fic: On the Verge of a Usual Mistake
Title: On the Verge of a Usual Mistake
Author: triedunture
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Cas, Sam, Bobby
Spoilers: through 6.22
Warnings: angst, fallen!Cas, teasing, mutual masturbation
Word Count: 7000

Summary: For the kink_bingo prompt "Teasing." Takes place after Containing Multitudes, a 6.22 coda fic, but can be read alone. Castiel has fallen and isn't transitioning to humanity very well. Dean tries to help but Cas keeps pulling away. Literally. If anyone's responsible for making sure this ex-angel becomes a well-adjusted member of the human race, Dean figures it's him. And isn't that a fucking laugh riot?

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"Never thought this dump would get to be some kinda paranormal halfway house," Bobby Singer says to Dean as they clump up the porch steps with armfuls of groceries: instant soup packets, sports drinks, canned ravioli, stuff sick children would eat. Because in Bobby's mind, that's what they're dealing with. Just a couple of sick kids.

Sam and Castiel have been recovering, slowly. Sam is still sensitive to light, stays inside a lot. Can't stand loud noises either. Likes to sit and breathe deep. Dean's found him zoning out, staring at a wall or the floor or a piece of furniture, more times than he can count. When Dean snaps him awake with a sharp "hey!" or a light punch to the shoulder, Sam blinks and says he was just thinking. Could be worse, a lot worse. Two weeks ago the guy had barely been able to speak, what with all the memories of hell and his soulless self flooding back.

And Cas? Seems like as Sam improves, Cas gets worse. He's human now, no longer an Angel of the Whatever. And in Dean's opinion, Cas is pretty sucky at being human. But who could blame him? Nobody ever mastered the art of humanity, let alone after being a power-hungry god filled with the tarnished souls of millions of monsters.

"Maybe we could get some sorta government backing," Dean replies to Bobby. They heft their paper bags onto the kitchen table with the one short leg. It leans rightways. Cas sits on the far side of the table, watching the bags closely. Dean gestures to one. "Go ahead."

Cas starts digging through, pulling out cans and bottles and boxes. He's not helping Dean put them away. He plans on eating the massive pile of sustenance for lunch. He's been that way since his grace took off: constantly hungry, constantly thirsty. It's like his body, which he'd been borrowing via an angelic sublet-agreement, was making up for years of neglect. Dean thinks he should be disgusted with the amount of food the guy could put away, but actually, he's more impressed than anything.

"When you're done, will you take some up to Sammy?" Dean asks. Cas stops with his fork halfway to his mouth; did he even heat up that ravioli? Dean scrunches his nose at it and Castiel's reaction. "Come on, man. Suck it up. He needs to eat." And you need to stop taking a guilt trip every time you see his face goes unsaid, but Cas knows it's implied. He nods, slowly, and chews his ravioli in silence.

Much of what he does now is done in silence. Dean can get him to speak if he asks a direct question that can't be answered with a shrug or an eyebrow twitch. But most of the time, Cas prefers to keep his mouth shut. Dean asked him about it a few days ago, and the son of a bitch said, "There's not much left for me to say."

Dean's got to live with this shit, mind you. It's a weird feeling, being the stable one.

He tries his best to Be There, whatever that means. Tries to listen when Sam talks about his memories returning, tries not to jump in and say 'well, you should do this' or 'dude, what about that' because it's not his brain and he doesn't know any better than Sam how to fix it. He tries to keep pushing at Cas, keeps making sure he's woken up, gotten dressed in his hand-me-down clothes, gotten around to showering. Like a wind-up toy just learning the motions of how humans operate, and Dean keeps him going around and around because it's the only thing he can think to do.

That and touch. It's some real Dr. Phil bullshit, Dean knows it, but they say trauma victims need the reassurance of human touch, don't they? And Dean can believe it because he's always been a tactile guy. Always liked the feel of things in his hands: guns, keys, a girl's slim fingers. So a pat to his brother's knee when he listens, a gentle knead of Cas's shoulder as he walks by. Just to say 'hey, we're in this together' or maybe 'I'm not freaking out, see?'

Dean bestows a casual touch on Cas as he walks out of the kitchen, just a quick squeeze of his forearm. As always, Cas freezes up, his spine stiffening in the straight-backed chair. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe. Dean sighs.

"Today will be better," he promises. "Every day, things'll get a little easier. You're doing good, Cas."

Positive reinforcement. Everything Dean is supposed to be doing.

Cas doesn't look up from his bowl of residue tomato sauce. Dean shakes his head and makes his way through Bobby's house, climbs up the stairs to find Sam. His brother has been given the only guest bedroom that isn't packed with artifacts and books and charms and boxes of evidence from crime scenes past. Dean can't begrudge him that, but trading off with Cas for the couch and the floor every night is getting old. And it's hard on his back, which isn't in great shape for a guy who's only thirty-something.

Dean knocks lightly. Sam grunts in greeting, and Dean cracks open the door. His brother sits in the middle of the sagging bed, cross-legged and eyes closed, making little circles with his thumbs and forefingers above his kneecaps.

"Meditation?" Dean can't help but sound skeptical.

"Thought it might help deal with the flashbacks," Sam murmurs, his eyes still closed. His skin is getting pale from lack of sunlight; his hair is getting long, past his jaw now. Dean makes a mental note to bring the shears up next time, if Sam's ready for something with a sharp edge on it.

"So does it?"

Sam sighs through his nose. "Nah. Not really. Not yet." He opens his eyes and unfolds his long frame, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "Maybe I just need more practice."

There's a low cough in the hallway behind Dean. Castiel is standing there barefoot in Dean's old jeans and Sam's worn flannel shirt, holding a bowl of corn pops.

"Lunch?" He directs this at Sam, a question that encompasses all kinds of things.

"Sure." Sam reaches out and Cas steps forward with the food. Dean's still in the doorway, but he doesn't move because he plans on talking with Sam a little longer. Cas steps around him, edging around the door jamb, making himself as small as possible. He passes the cereal to Sam and turns to leave with near-comical swiftness, gaze averted.

"Hey, thanks, Cas." Dean gives him a light slap on the shoulder, nothing more than a gesture of camaraderie. Cas does his freezing thing before marching out of the room like a toy soldier. His footsteps are heavy on the stairs.

Dean stares at the place Cas just vacated. "Was it something I said?"

Sam slurps some milk out of his spoon and hums. "Come on, Dean, don't you think you're being a little cruel?"

"Cruel?" Dean has gone out of his fucking way to make sure Castiel is treated with kid gloves. The constant grocery runs, the endless attempts to Be There: he can't remember how many times he's sidled up to Cas on the couch or in the junkyard, put a friendly hand on his elbow and said something really goddamn girly like 'Do you wanna talk about it?'

"I have been nothing but un-cruel! I'm Professor Understanding here!" Dean gestures widely, his arms outstretched.

"Okay, professor." Sam chews some more. He looks up and catches his brother's frustrated gaze. "Oh. You honestly don't know you're doing it?"

"Doing what?"

"The touching, Dean! The little pats and back slaps and whatever." Sam sets his empty bowl on the nightstand. "Look, I know you're just trying to be supportive—"

"Professor Supportive."

"Yeah. That. But I don't think he likes it."

"What, he told you that?"

"No, it's just a," Sam shrugs, "feeling I get."

Dean points an accusing finger. "Okay, you're crazy. Why would Cas get worked up over a little thing like—? And anyway, the dude's got a lot on his plate, in case you haven't noticed, so—"

Sam throws his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay, what do I know? I was just thinking out loud, Dean. Geez, don't blow a gasket."

"I'm not blowing a—!" Dean takes a breath. Tries to settle down. It's not something to be angry about, his brother's teasing. In fact, this is a good thing. A sign of normalcy. He ekes out a lopsided grin for Sam. "Heh. All right, fair enough. You coming down for dinner later?"

He asks the same question every afternoon, and every afternoon, Sam has given him the same answer. His eyes go a little wide at the thought, and he glances at the doorway.

"Maybe. I dunno." His eyes fasten on a point on the wallpaper, and they glaze over slowly.

Sam won't be down. Not yet. But Dean keeps asking and accepting the answer. "Okay. Whenever you're ready."

He heads back downstairs, thinking about what Sam said about Cas. If anything, Cas should be starved for touch the way he's starving for food and water. He should welcome the feel of Dean's fingertips on his sleeve, or his palm on his shoulder. It doesn't make any sense.

Dean threads his way through the dusty stacks of books on the study floor. Bobby sits at the desk, poring over some illuminated manuscript.

"Cas?" Dean asks.

Bobby grunts and points towards the front door. So Dean heads out into the yard.

It's summer, and the mercury's been hitting 90-plus almost every day this week. The sunlight is blindingly white as it glints off the metal in the yard, and the air was the thick quality of warm tapioca. It's uncomfortable, the way Dean's shirt immediately sticks to his back with sweat as soon as he steps off the cool shade of the porch. He doesn't get how Cas can hang around outside for hours like he does.

"Cas!" he calls, shielding his eyes from the sun with the flat of his hand. He doesn't get a reply, wasn't expecting one. He weaves in and out of the junk heaps and car shells until he spots Cas hunkered down in the shadow of an old Volvo, drinking from a gallon jug of water.

"Hey." Dean plunks himself down next to Cas like it's no big deal, makes sure their arms are brushing. He watches Cas closely; Cas swallows a few times and moves his arm away, resting it awkwardly across his lap. He keeps his eyes glued to Dean's elbow, which might come leaping out at him any second, Dean guesses.

"Listen. We gotta talk about some things." Dean tries to keep the words light, but there's no un-dramatic way to say it. And Cas reacts predictably, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. A bed of sweat drips down his temple to trace down his throat. Does he really think Dean will tell him to get lost now, after everything? Dean looks away. "Sam seems to think you got a problem with people touching you. That true?"

Cas's hands settle on his bent knees, and he's doing it again, damn it, trying to shrink himself smaller.

"You gotta tell me one way or the other, Cas," Dean says. "I can't help you if I don't know what's tripping you up."

"...not people," Castiel mumbles so quietly that Dean half-believes it might be the wind whistling through the scrap metal.

"What's that?"

"It's not people," Cas enunciates, "touching me. It's you." His eyes slide over to meet Dean's, and they still have that steely resolve, that stubbornness that makes Cas Cas. Dean needs to see it surface from time to time. He doesn't want 2014 to happen the way he saw it happen. It's a nightmare that haunts Dean: Lucifer returning, dressing his brother and his broken mind in white, and Cas, fallen, powerless, and so unlike himself.

"Me. Okay. What about it is giving you problems? Does it hurt? Is your skin, like, sensitive or—"

Cas's gaze slides away again and he rests his forehead on his up-pointed knees, hiding his face from Dean. Oh no you don't, Dean thinks.

"Hey, I'm talking here." He places his hand on the bare strip of skin on the back of Castiel's neck, between his dark hair and the soft flannel of his shirt collar. He doesn't know what he plans; to force Cas to look up at him, maybe. But his fingers barely have a chance to touch, let alone grasp, before Cas is scuttling away from him, out of the reprieve of the shade, into the dusty sunlit ground, his hands raised as if defending from an attack.

"Don't," he gasps like he's been sprinting.

"Damn it, Cas!" All the pent-up frustration that's been building inside Dean since the last archangel was killed comes tumbling out. He's sick of Being There and having nothing to show for it. "I'm trying to fucking help you!"

Cas swallows some dusty air, his voice rough. "If you don't stop, you will regret it."

Dean blinks. One hand is in the dirt, supporting his weight. Cas faces him, unblinking. Like one of those Old West showdown scenes, except no one remembered to bring the guns.

"That a threat, Cas?" Dean asks lowly. "Thought we were all done with those."

That earns a wince. Dean wins the staring contest; Castiel's eyes dart along the gravel-strewn ground.

"Just a warning. I don't want anybody to get hurt." Cas struggles to his feet. His shoes are too large, cast-offs found in Bobby's hall closet, creaky with age. They make it difficult for him to walk as precisely as he used to. Now, imprecisely, he's walking away, leaving his water jug with the light blue cap behind. "This isn't something you can fix, Dean."

Dean watches him head deeper into the junk heap. It's too bad people aren't like cars. No replaceable parts. No way to crack them open to see what's going on. Ah, here's your problem: post-angelic stress disorder, or something like that. We'll have him all fixed up for ya in a jiffy.

Dean wonders what Cas has lost that's so irreplaceable, and why it makes his touch so abhorrent.

He touches Cas twice more before the day is over. Once is an accident: he's passing a plate of sandwiches, their dinner, and his fingers graze Cas's for just a moment. Cas nearly drops the plate, his eyes pinched in pain. Dean is annoyed, thinks he's overreacting just a little, so he tests it again after they're done eating.

"You have an eyelash," he says, indicating Cas's pale cheek. Cas brings his hand up to swipe at his face, but predictably misses the nonexistent mark. "Here, I'll get it." And Dean's thumb brushes as lightly as air over Castiel's skin. Cas is still, and when it's over (an eyeblink, no more) he purses his lips and shakes his head. Like he's really disappointed in Dean.

"Don't do that again," he whispers, low enough that Bobby can't hear them over his own dishwashing.

It's Dean's turn to take the floor that night. Even if it wasn't, the way Cas slumps onto the sofa, his back a taut line under his borrowed shirt, his face turned inward toward the cushions, tells Dean he'd be on the floor no matter what.

Dean wakes up in the middle of the night. The old Persian rug is scratchy beneath his aching back, but that's not the reason he's awake. He doesn't know what woke him up; he just lays there listening to the night sounds, listening for something out of place among the insects and the owls. He turns his head and sees the dark shape of the couch, empty. Cas's breathing is missing in the night noises.

He sits up and sees a weak light spilling down the staircase. On bare feet he climbs upstairs, quiet as he can be while still half-asleep, scrubbing the grit from his eyes. The light's coming from under Sam's bedroom door. Voices, hushed in nighttime conference.

"—can't tell him, Sam. Please don't make me." Cas very rarely sounds like he's pleading, but Dean doesn't know what else to call this tone of his.

"I won't make you do anything." Sam's voice, earnest and steady. "But you can't go on like this. Not if it's escalating like you say it is."

"Maybe I can learn to control it. Maybe I can—"

"Cas. This isn't something humans can control." There's a shuffling noise, a creak of bedsprings. Dean pictures his brother sitting on his bed (his soft, cushy bed) with Castiel, their heads bent close together. In the middle of the frickin' night. What is this, a sleep-over?

He pushes the mocking thoughts from his mind. They're talking about something important, and he's got to pay attention. Already they're gone ahead without him, chatting again.

"—and let him know how this is affecting you," Sam says gently. "Dean will...." He peters out.

"He will understand?" Cas's tone implies sarcasm. Dean wishes they hasn't taught him sarcasm.

"No, I was going to say he will try his best to help you. Dean wants to help you. That's all he knows: helping people. You believe that, right?"

Cas is quiet, and Dean leans his shoulder against the wall carefully, his arms crossed over his chest. He'd like to hear an answer, and he'd like it to be quicker.

"I do," Cas finally says, as soft as a vow.

"Don't forget it," Sam advises. "Thanks for finally talking to me about this. I know it's not easy."

"I've been praying to the angels," Cas says. It's a radical change in subject, and he blurts it out like he's been keeping it in too long. "I'm going through the list of names, the ones that fought against Raphael. I've been asking them to lay hands on you and repair the wall in your mind." There's a short pause, and when Cas speaks again, it's so quiet, so sad. "Perhaps they do not hear me. Or perhaps I cannot pray anymore."

Dean closes his eyes. He's been wondering about the other angels, whether or not Cas is still tuned in to Angel Radio like Anna had been after she fell. Looks like he's got an answer now. And Cas was trying to make things right.

Sam replies in the voice he uses with witnesses. "Even if the angels could rebuild the wall, I'm not sure I'd want them to. I think—I've been trying to get everything under control, all the different parts of me. And in the end, I have a feeling it's going to make me stronger."

God, Dean fucking hopes so. He feels a surge of pride for his brother, the kid who never feared doing things the hard way.

Cas murmurs something in return, and Dean starts edging back toward the stairs. He doesn't want to get caught snooping. Might clash with the whole 'no more lies, only the truth among family' thing he's been trying to cultivate. But if Sam and Cas's little hair-braiding session means anything, it means that everyone still has their secrets.

He's back on the floor feigning sleep by the time Cas drifts downstairs and steps cautiously over his prone body. He listens to Cas settling back into the old sofa with all its squeaks and grumbles. And just as he hears Cas's breathing even out, he lifts a hand and touches Cas's naked ankle.

Cas sighs in his sleep and curls deeper into the cushions like a contented pet, and Dean is more perplexed than ever.

The next morning after breakfast (more cereal), Dean takes Cas aside. He tries to do this at first with a hand to Cas's elbow, to steer him into the foyer where Bobby and Sam can't hear them, but of course Cas shrugs out of Dean's grasp. So instead Dean just nods his head toward the foyer and says, "Come on."

They step outside onto the listing porch. There are three beat-up wicker chairs out there, and Dean sits carefully in one, testing the seat to make sure it won't break.

"What are we doing out here?" Cas asks, taking another.

"You can't keep freaking out every time someone touches you," Dean says. This is what Dean likes: confronting problems head-on. No talking or thinking or wondering. Doing. "How are you ever going to leave Bobby's house and walk down a crowded street? How are you going to help us hunt?"

Cas looks up at that. "You want me to hunt with you?"

"Yeah. Eventually."

Cas averts his gaze again, sliding it along the weathered porch railing. "I told you. Other people don't— The reaction is caused only by you."

"How do you know? Because Sam and Bobby don't scare you silly when they brush by? Cas, that's a sample of three you're working with. Besides, what about me is so different?"

Cas doesn't answer. He stares sullenly at a dusty cobweb that's bobbing in the porch's latticework.

Dean sighs. Lifts a hand, splays out his finely formed fingers. Lets it hover there between them until Castiel shifts his gaze to it.

"Are you scared I'll hurt you?" Dean asks.

"No." Cas answers too quickly for it to be a lie.

"Then what are you so afraid of?"

Castiel just looks away, bites his lip in a way he never did before. Dean's hand wavers. His arm is a little sore; he laid on it funny last night when he finally fell asleep.

"If you want to get over this," Dean says, "then we can start slow." His hand reaches out, and Cas flinches but doesn't pull back entirely. Dean's fingertips brush the back of Cas's hand where it rests on his thigh. Dean watches: Cas is flushed, his mouth pressed in a thin line.

"Tell me what feels wrong," he says, his voice a quiet undercurrent to the breeze and the birdsongs.

"W-warm. Too warm," Cas chokes out.

"Hurts?"

"Yes. But, no." Castiel draws his hand away from Dean's, cradling it against his chest. "The pain is not physical. If I still had any grace, I would think— But it cannot be that."

"Is it unbearable? Or can you power through?" Dean doesn't retreat. His hand comes to rest on Castiel's upper arm, vulnerable in a faded short-sleeved tee.

"I can bear it only so long." Cas stands abruptly, pushing his chair back and turning to lean over the porch railing, looking out over the stunted trees and junk piles of Bobby's yard. "I warned you, Dean. You should avoid touching me altogether."

Not an acceptable solution, and Dean doesn't stop to analyze why. Except that it's not normal and sounds kind of crazy, and if anyone's responsible for making sure this ex-angel becomes a well-adjusted member of the human race, Dean figures it's him. And isn't that a fucking laugh riot?

"Okay." Dean stands as well and steps behind Cas. "What terrible thing happens if I don't stop?" And to prove his point, he reaches out and circles Cas's wrist with his fingers.

Cas is quick as a cat, turning and fisting his hand in Dean's thin tee-shirt, spinning him around and slamming his lower back into the flaking railing, making the whole porch lurch. Growling deep in his throat like an animal and pressing his hot face into the crook of Dean's neck and shoulder. Cas's teeth land there, a bite as painful as it is swift.

"Dean, I don't know what I'll do," Cas breathes into the hollow of his throat. Cas is trembling, shaking like a stage of hypothermia, and Dean is very aware of how still and quiet his own body has become.

"Hey. Take a breath." Dean's voice is so calm it surprises himself. His arms come up to clasp Cas's shivering shoulders. He holds Cas to him for just a moment before Cas pulls away, tearing himself from Dean's grasp.

He doesn't look back at Dean as he says, "Stop tormenting me." And he slams back into the house, the screen door screaming on its hinges behind him.

Dean has a good long while to spend on the porch, thinking about what the hell just happened. And after a few minutes, which is all Dean wants to spend on it, he decides he's not going to drop it, no fucking way.

He waits until nighttime, when Bobby packs up a bag to go investigate a call two states over, when Sam is still sitting and staring in his upstairs room. When Cas can't stay hidden in the junkyard any longer and has to come inside to sleep. Dean is sitting on the sofa, waiting for him in his boxers and faded tee shirt.

"It isn't a big deal," is what he opens with.

It's the wrong thing to say, because Castiel turns red in anger this time, not shame. "It's not normal. It's not how humans are supposed to react to—to—to what is really an everyday occurrence. And you were correct: what if it's not just you? What if I go out into the world and—?"

"Of course it's not just me," Dean says mildly. He pats the cushion next to him on the sofa, but Cas remains standing in the entryway. Dean sighs but lets it go. "I'm not a doctor, but I think what we've got here is a case of human attraction. You're gonna be attracted to people, Cas. It's like eating and sleeping; humans need it."

"But I don't want it," Cas says. He sounds so angelic—Dean wishes there was another word that meant how angels really are—in that moment: proud, confused, above earthly things.

"It's one of the nicer things humans get to feel. You should be happy about this one."

Cas looks down at the floor, and Dean gets it. Feels stupid for not getting it sooner. He stands and goes to Cas, remembering a time when Cas was standing in his place, marveling at Dean, the man who still didn't believe he deserved to be saved.

"You don't wanna be happy about it, is that right? You don't think you should get any of the nice stuff."

"I've done terrible things," Cas tells him. "I betrayed the people I swore to protect. Now I betray you all over again, when you touch me in friendship and my body reacts like some," he sneers, "filthy creature."

"Okay, seriously?" Dean lifts his hand, then remembers and drops it. "Knock it off with the 'filthy creature' stuff; one of 'em is standing right here." He gestures to his own chest. "And it's not a betrayal. Jesus."

Cas wets his dry lips and studies Dean's face as if searching for lies. "I am male now," he says slowly, like Dean doesn't know. "You should find these sorts of attentions from males distasteful."

"Cas," Dean sighs, his eyes pointing heavenward, "you're not possessed, you're not cursed, you're not insane or hulked-out or homicidal. Having the hots for me is probably the best we coulda hoped for." As he says it, he knows it's true. Things could be a whole lot worse. Count your blessings: this is definitely one of them. This one is manageable.

"You are not angry." Cas blinks.

"Nah." Dean sticks his fingers through his own frayed belt loops, peacock posturing, a big grin spreading across his face. "Besides, you could do worse than me."

The smile is infectious. Cas returns it after a long moment, his lips curling into the unfamiliar shape, not quite right, too many teeth, but a good start. Dean gives him a light slap on his shoulder, and Cas doesn't even flinch. Much.

"You wanna get past this?" Dean asks.

Cas's eyes are wide. "If you know a way, show it to me."

They end up on the rough Persian rug because the sofa is too narrow. Dean starts slow, sitting face-to-face, his fingertips trailing very lightly, very gently down Castiel's forearm. It's a wiry forearm, whipcord strong, and surprisingly smooth. His wrist contains fluttering pulses.

"You can get used to anything," Dean promises. "Humans are pretty tough that way."

Cas is watching his hand like a hawk, his eyes fixed on Dean's fingers. His voice is gravel when he speaks: "Even this?"

"Yeah." Dean remembers the first and only time his dad ever caught him smoking. He was maybe fourteen, crouching in the shady part of a motel parking lot with a half-empty pack of Parliament Lights, trying to coax a flame out of his silver-plated lighter. John Winchester tore the cigarettes out of Dean's hand, plucked the one from between his lips, and said, "Fine, you wanna smoke? You smoke all of these right here, right now." Dean had thrown up somewhere around the ninth cigarette.

Same principal, except now he's hoping no one has to vomit.

"Doing okay?" he asks Cas when he slips his hand up his arm, under the sleeve of his tee shirt, which is damp with sweat. Cas nods, his eyes glassy and directed somewhere in the distance. "Here, let's get this off." Dean grasps the hem of Cas's shirt and starts to lift.

"Wait." Cas stops him with a hand on his arm, which Dean sees as an improvement: voluntary touch-backs. "I can get it." Cas pulls the shirt over his head, his back arching and his face obscured for the moment it takes for Dean to glance over his bared chest.

Once the shirt is gone, Dean brings his hand up, and Cas watches it like it's a cobra. Not good. Dean beckons him closer and puts a hand on his shoulder, turning him to face away. "Here, lean back. Against me." And Cas does, easier now that he isn't looking directly at Dean. His back nestles against Dean's chest, as trusting as anything. Dean swallows.

He knows where this is heading, but he needs to make sure Cas knows too. His hand draws a whorl across his pectoral, through the sparse sprinkling of dark hair there. Rests over his heart. "Cas, listen." Makes a mental note: he'll have to take Cas to the tattoo parlor in Sioux Falls. He needs a five-pointed star inked onto that naked skin before they can face any demons. "You gotta tell me when to stop and when to go, all right?"

Cas looks over his shoulder at Dean, a question in his dark blue eyes. "And if I never say stop?"

It's not coy because Cas hasn't learned coy yet, and that tugs at something inside Dean's chest. Another hand skates over Cas's stomach, tracing down his ribs and the quivering muscles of his abdomen. "Then I keep going. But you gotta be ready for that."

Dean's lips are right next to Cas's ear; Cas's hair is tickling his cheek. He smells like the hot sand outside and clean sweat. Before, when he was an angel, he never smelled like anything to Dean.

"So," Cas rests his palms on Dean's thighs, "go."

Cas is not still now. Now every caress of Dean's hands and stroke of his fingers brings out a gasp, a shudder, a noise from Castiel. His hips jut forward when Dean runs a fingernail across his left nipple. His spine arches and his head tips back onto Dean's shoulder when Dean brushes his lips against his neck.

Cas doesn't know how to play it cool like every other adult human in the world. As far as Dean can tell, Cas has seen a grand total of ten minutes of pornography since he was created and has gleaned little from it. He doesn't know how to modify his grunts and sighs, doesn't try. Dean finds he likes it that way. Every noise may sound crude, ridiculous even, but it's something pure.

"H-how long will you torture me?" Cas asks. His eyes are squeezed shut. Dean hasn't even gone below the waist yet. He bites back a laugh.

"You think this is torture?" He kisses the fleshy part of Cas's shoulder, not too hard, just enough to make him whine in that high register. "Does it hurt like torture?"

"No, not exactly."

"Then quit complaining." His fingers slide over Cas's denim-covered kneecap, and Cas learns what it means to be ticklish.

With Cas laying in the V of Dean's legs, he's free to touch any part of him. Down the soft skin of his flank, coaxing his knee to bend so he can reach the arch of his bare foot ("Oh, that is very pleasant"), keeping his hands constantly moving. Cas has been hard since the first touch to his arm, his erection pressing thickly inside his dark blue jeans. Dean hesitates at the belt buckle, his hand hovering over it like an indecisive bird.

"If you're sure," he starts. Cas thrusts his hips the last few inches, bringing his crotch into contact with Dean's palm, making the choice himself.

Belt clanging open, zipper sliding down by pressure alone, Dean's hand slipping inside to draw him out, hard and hot and slick. Cas is wild at this point, great puffs of air from his nose against Dean's neck. Like a bull getting ready to charge. His spine is twisting, his hands are clenching at Dean, any piece of him he can reach. It's distracting, so Dean spares one hand to gather Cas's narrow wrists in his fingers, pinning them behind his back.

"Just let me," he says. Cas makes a sound like assent, but not submission. He's arched like a bow in Dean's arms, somewhere between struggling to get away and maneuvering closer. Dean sets his teeth into his own bottom lip; he can't laugh, not when Cas is so perfectly raw in his need.

"Will you let me?" Cas asks in a rough voice, his pinioned hands flexing towards Dean's body. The tips of three fingers brush the tented front of Dean's boxer shorts, worn in preparation for sleep.

Dean tightens his grip on Cas's wrists. "You don't have to." Doesn't stop sliding his fist up and down that straining, wet cock.

Cas trembles, his head whipping back and forth on his swan-neck, wanting a 180 to see Dean fully and not quite getting it. "Will you let me anyway?" he persists, and Dean's only human, and for fuck's sake, Cas is going to have to learn this sometime anyway. He releases Cas's wrists and feels slim hands snaking unsure into his lap.

"Just touch me the way I'm doing you," he advises, voice still rocksteady. He slows his hand's movements to help Cas concentrate. "That's it. You got it." Cas's fingers find their grip, the rhythm, which is pretty impressive with his hands behind his back. He's distracted enough by trying to get it right that he doesn't notice Dean shifting before it's too late, and Dean's now-free hand has found a nipple to pinch and play with.

Cas gasps, hips juttering. "N-no," he says, "don't—"

Dean's hand stills on Cas's chest. "No good?" From the way he'd moved, it seemed like it was very good.

Panting against Dean's forearm. "I don't want it to end." Dean looks into his face, drawn in pleasure, the push and pull of want.

"It's gotta." Dean places a kiss on his pounding throat. "But the good news is, you can have more later."

"Just like this?" Cas opens his eyes and meets Dean's gaze, bleary and pupil-blown. Dean sees the real question there: Will you be the one giving it to me?

"Yes," Dean says. Grates out the promise, deep and low. Squeezes that stiff cock, dips his head to lick at that nipple. That's all Cas can take, in the end. He palms Dean's dick through his boxers with a loud sound, something between a shout and a sob. He comes in ribbons across his naked torso. Dean's hand joins Cas's on his own cock, finishing himself off easily, using the sight before him as fuel.

When it's over, and their breaths are caught, Cas wriggles out of the jeans that are trapped around his ankles.

"I usually dislike being nude. This body," he gestures to it, sprawled across the rug in the dim light, "I'm still not used to it. But it's so warm in here."

"Yeah." Dean mops the sweat from his brow with Cas's discarded tee shirt, tucks himself back into his boxers, eyes on the ceiling. "It's like a sauna." Dean thinks maybe he should shed his clothes too, so Cas doesn't feel self-conscious being the only one naked, but decides he's too tired to move.

He hands Cas the shirt when he's done, and Cas just looks at it until Dean glances pointedly at his come-covered stomach, trails of stickiness drying on his ribs. "Oh." Cas colors slightly and brushes at his skin with the damp shirt. When he's done, he places it carefully on top of the rest of his clothes, a dark heap on the floor. He lays back, mimicking Dean's pose, a full foot between them.

"Not gonna take the couch?" Dean asks.

"Would you like it?" Cas's voice is perfectly modulated to hide any concern, but Dean senses it anyway. Cas isn't taking the couch because he wants to see where Dean wants to be tonight.

"I want to stay here," Dean tells him. His hand reaches out, brushes against Cas's smooth hip. Cas doesn't tense, but doesn't respond either.

He'll learn. If Dean has to teach him every damn thing, he'll learn. "Come on," he says, and pulls Cas gently by the elbow until Cas's head is resting in the crook of his shoulder and his warm breath is ghosting over his chest.

Before he falls asleep, Cas whispers, "Since my fall, I've been disturbed by the emptiness in my mind. Being alone with nothing but my own thoughts." His hand rests on Dean's chest, clutching subtly at his tee shirt. "But right now, my thoughts are blessedly quiet."

Dean chuckles. "You mean we're not going to ask each other 'What are you thinking right now?'"

"I hope to Heaven we never do," Cas says, and he's so serious that Dean can't even laugh at him. He just smiles in the dark, hiding it in Cas's dark hair at the crown of his head.

"Deal," Dean says, teasing one hand up and down Cas's arm until sleep claims them both.

fin