Chapter Text
“Okay,” Dean says, shifting his grip on his phone, watching Cas walk back round the edge of the parking lot, coffees in hand, with his usual Castiel-brand of casual elegance; some kind of angelic power in it, mixed with some human awkwardness and some belligerent determination that’s all Cas. Dean tracks his progress towards the passenger door, leant back against the seat. Cas slides across the bench next to him. “Run that last part by me again. Uhuh ----- thanks,” Dean says, accepting the coffee with a weak smile that catches at the corner of his mouth when Cas smiles back, this lovely thing that blossoms on his face and crinkles at the corner of the eyes, til Dean registers that he’s stopped listening again. He drags his gaze away and regroups, because he’s the one who called Sam for research support in the first place and Sam has already threatened to hang up twice. “So, this freak gets off on people getting off?”
Cas raises an eyebrow at him. Dean rolls his eyes and puts the phone on speaker, resting it against the dashboard, so that Sam’s dulcet tones fill the space between them.
“No, Dean, the law says it’s drawn in by expressions of physical affection. Particularly if it’s, uh, ‘caught your scent’. That’s probably what happened with those teenagers.”
“Creepy,” Dean comments, “So, a couple wanders round the woods, gets too close to its nest on their quest for a make out spot, and gets mauled to death when they’re getting handsy later at the prom.”
“Yeah, that kind of thing,” Sam says, “So you need iron soaked in goat blood and— --”
Dean’s gaze drops to where Cas’ knee is faux-causally pressed up against his in the middle of the seat, some unease beginning to settle in his stomach. He picks up his coffee.
“So, uh,” Dean says, clearing his throat. “What, exactly, do we think counts as, um, ‘physical affection’.”
Sam is silent for a beat. Dean can practically see the accompanying bitchface.
“Didn’t you give me this talk? Badly, if we’re keeping a record of awkward childhood trauma.”
“Sam,” Dean says, making a face, “Is an ‘expression of physical affection’ nerd talk for sex, or what?”
“Well, that would definitely count, but from the couple of accounts it can be a lot more innocent than that. I don’t know, Dean, there’s not a lot of information out there. I’d never even heard of it till today. That sketchy blog suggested they were just holding hands, but who knows if they were downplaying it---- I guess pretty much anything that falls under the bracket of PDA can’t be ruled out at this point.”
Dean moves his knee. He misses the warmth of Cas’ thigh immediately. He swallows.
“So,” Dean says, “Hypothetically, what would the danger zone be? For disrupting the nest.”
“Twenty, thirty feet?” Sam says, still distracted enough turning pages of his damn book that he hasn’t goddamn twigged —- and maybe he never would give their current context —- but Cas has gone very still and is directing a very serious look at his coffee. There’s that usual grove creased into the center of his forehead. “That’s how far away it can smell initially. After it’s gotten your scent…” Sam trails off, pages turning, “It can smell ‘passion’ for a thousand miles.”
“Awesome,” Dean mutters, eyeing Cas in the rearview mirror feeling a vague sense of bemused resignation, because of freaking course they’re hunting some cockblocking Scandinavian wood creature that’s trying to out him to his brother. He takes another sip of his coffee. “And … once it’s got your scent, how often does it just…” Dean gestures vaguely. “Give up.”
“Uh, it says here it once hunted a couple for two years across three continents, using their ‘lovemaking as a compass’.”
“Fucking hell,” Dean says, pinching his forehead and sighing.
“But, Dean, it’s only invisible if it's got your scent. If it hasn’t, it’s actually pretty easy to surprise,” Sam says, “So, iron soaked in goat's blood and then you —-“
“Wait, It’s invisible if it’s already picked you to be it’s Valentine? Wow. Talk about a bad blind date.”
Cas does this pointed deadpan that means he thinks Dean is adorable, but isn't inclined to admit it. Dean quirks his eyebrows at him. Cas frowns a little more.
“Right, so, like I was saying about the goat’s blood —-“
Cas knits his eyebrows together and sends him the look. Dean feigns a casual shrug. Cas frowns like he’s being paid to do it and, goddamnit, the frowny-face-Angel has a point and —
Fuck it.
“Sam,” Dean, pained, “This really isn’t how I envisioned having this conversation, but…” Dean looks up at the ceiling of the Impala to gather some kind of strength in lieu of reaching out to take Cas’ hand, which is what he’d actually like to do if circumstances were different. “Pretty sure we’re gonna need some help. How soon can you get here?”
“You,” Sam begins, then stops, falters, flails on the other end of the phone in silence for a few long, painful seconds. “Okay,” He says, strangely high pitched.
“Sam.”
“I’ll —- yeah, I’ll pack and hit the road. Should be with you by morning.”
“Great,” Dean says, faux-cheerfully, “Bring the iron and some goat's blood and whatever else you were gonna tell us we needed.”
“Roger that.”
“Thank you, Sam.” Cas chimes in, which is enough that Sam seemingly chokes on the other end of the phone — apparently he didn’t know Cas was there, or something — and at that Dean’s nerves can’t take it anymore, and he hangs up before his brother can comment on it.
“Dean,” Cas says, hitting him with the imploring voice and that look which does embarrassing things to his resolve.
“You,” Dean says, waving a finger at him, “Keep your baby blues on that side of the car, Sunshine, no douchebag monster voyeur is gonna read the compass of my goddamn lovemaking. Shut up,” Dean says, because Cas’ mouth has curled into an amused smile and Dean’s really not in the mood to find it properly funny yet.
*
“Telling Sam was on the to-do list,” Cas says, from the other side of their booth, and that is very reasonable. He had meant to do it, and soon, he just didn’t really imagine it happening like this, because he’s never goddamn heard of these horny wood nymphs and he definitely didn’t anticipate getting one interested in his newly spawned relationship.
Dean conjures up a flat smile in response and reaches for his soda. His arm brushes up against Cas’ in the process because it’s the world’s smallest booth and Dean draws back sharply.
“Dean, I don’t think it’s going to smell you brushing past me.”
“Slippery slope, pal,” Dean mutters, “And we don’t know what it can and can’t smell, so from here on in we’re leaving room for Jesus.” Cas’ eyebrows crumple in that glorious, crinkled confusion. “Just, let’s play it safe until we have some back up, okay?”
“Okay,” Cas agrees, “Apologies for kissing you in the woods.”
“Not like you jumped my bones,” Dean mutters, darkly, because it hadn’t been some earth-shattering cosmic event in the grand scheme of things. Those happened a few weeks back — well, a month and three days if they’re counting specifically, which Dean definitely is —- and they’re still getting in the rhythm of it all and how all the new pieces of the puzzle fit together. Settling in. Getting used to it. Last night, he’d tripped over a freaking tree root in the dark, and Cas had basically laughed at him, and Dean had told him to shut up and called him something rude and Cas had kissed him —- briefly, for all of a couple of seconds — and taken his hand and pulled him forwards through the trees with his magic cosmic eyesight, and ten minutes later they’d stumbled across the nest. Definitely less than thirty feet away from the damn thing and the asshole that threw him into a fucking tree twenty minutes after that was definitely invisible and Dean had wondered why Sam hadn’t mentioned that part in his epic nerd rant. “Anyway, don't freaking apologize. You know I liked it.”
“You liked it,” Cas repeats, with this pleased hue to his voice and, god, they’re in trouble.
Dean’s cheeks flush slightly. He picks up his soda again. He really wants to press their feet back together under the table and pick up his fucking hand. He hadn’t really registered how easily he settled into all of this, actually, given they haven't been broadcasting it to other people, but apparently he’s gotten used to giving into the instinct of it.
“Pretty sure we established that, man.”
“Yes,” Cas agrees, tilting his head and looking at him with all the intensity of a hurricane, in a way that’s really not appropriate for a goddamn diner. “Speaking to Sam is a good thing.”
“Yeah,” Dean snorts, rubbing the back of his neck, “Dunno if this was the ideal vehicle for delivering the message, but uh … I guess it’s done. Sort of. He’ll want us to feel our feelings. Hug it out. All that bullcrap.”
“At least you can still hug him.” Cas says, still looking slightly amused.
Dean hums in acknowledgment and checks his phone for something that to do with his hands that isn’t prod Cas in the side for being a snarky little shit that isn’t taking this seriously, or straighten his perpetually crooked tie which is goddamn calling to him. He regrets it immediately, because Sam has apparently deemed it appropriate to finish his fucking research before packing his bag and hitting the road and has sent him a picture of some crusty old volume where he’s highlighted the words “relevant expressions of physical affection include any physical touch where one or more party is experiencing erotic intentions and self-gratification where one party is thinking of the other” because he is the fucking worst.
Dean nearly chokes on his own tongue and drops his phone.
“What?” Cas asks, expression twisted into concern.
“ Nothing.” Dean mutters, “Just Sam being a —-,” Dean continues, as Cas plucks the phone out of his hand, unlocks it with Dean’s freaking password because he is shameless and goddamn bold, and reads it. Castiel cocks his head at it and considers it for a long few moments.
“Maybe it will smell you brushing past me.” Cas says, placing it back down. Dean makes a slightly high pitched noise that he will later deny ever making and tries not to think about that too hard. “What do you think the threshold for erotic intentions is?”
“Hi, are you ready to order?”
Dean nearly jumps out of his fucking skin —- he had definitely forgotten they were sitting in a diner —- and in the process knocks both their knees and thighs together. He jolts backwards, some alarm bell in his head screaming at him not to think ‘ erotic things’ even though the whole situation is a lot more awkward than remotely sexy. Also, he is a goddamn forty year old, not some spotty, hormonal, fourteen year old, and he’s got no idea why this ‘off limits’ thing has so quickly turned his head to mulch, when Cas has basically been off limits for a decade anyway.
The waitress stares at them.
“Dean?”
“Uh,” Dean says, weakly, “Special with extra fries.”
“Got it,” the waitress says, offering them both a nod and disappearing again. Dean sucks in a deep breath and looks back at Cas, who is thoughtfully stabbing the ice in his drink with his straw, looking artfully beautiful and hot as hell.
“What’s the definition of eroticism?”
Dean’s got no goddamn idea how he’s getting out of this one alive.
*
The other problem is that they actually opted to upgrade from their normal pay-by-the-hour-joint to a pretty nice room, with one bed. In reality, given Cas doesn’t actually sleep it should be a moot goddamn point, but he can already see the amused self-satisfied smile Sam is going to give him when he sees the set up, like he can see right through to Dean’s dumb self consciousness about Cas slumming it with him the first place and how should at least be slumming it someplace you wouldn’t be scared to take a blacklight, and it doesn’t offer a lot of space for physical space.
“ I’m still curious which sleazy men of letters did that research in the first place,” Dean says, holding the door open for Cas and practically wincing as he gets too close to him on his way past. There’s not even a damn sofa or anywhere else to sit.
“The pursuit of knowledge is important.”
“Yeah,” Dean snorts, “ Self-gratification for science. So uh , wanna watch some TV?”
“Okay,” Cas says, tilting his head at him.
“Okay.”
“You’re being very awkward, Dean,” Cas says, assessing him carefully from a respectful distance of two feet away, and he is absolutely not wrong, and part of the problem is they never actually really talked about any of it. Dean’s aware that makes him kind of an asshole, which is part of the reason he hadn’t gotten round to talking to Sam, because he knows exactly what Sam will say if Dean finally brings it all up. And… Dean’s pretty crappy with words, but it was absolutely a cowardly move to dodge them, finally, actually, having a conversation by Dean just launching forward and goddamn kissing him the second he managed to get Cas alone in a room after he returned from the Empty. Since then, he’s been relying pretty heavily on physicality to magically translate some of the stuff out of his head: touching Cas knee whenever he looked unsure; pulling on his sleeve to pull his orbit; sex.
Dean swallows and shrugs off his jacket, very aware of Cas’ gaze thick on his skin.
“Just trying to keep us on the straight and narrow, man.” Dean says, his voice slightly mangled. He dodges Cas’ gaze to look at the bed with a vague sense of trepidation. It’s not that big. Last night, they whiled away the hours pre-dark lying side by side, half re-reading case research and half channel flicking and not really having a conversation because they’d both settled on the conclusion that turning up and the woods and poking around was as good of a plan as any (they were wrong). They weren’t freaking cuddling, but they probably spent a fair amount of time touching, and it definitely can’t be repeated right now. “Pun so not intended.”
Dean heads for the vast amounts of throw cushions he evicted from the bed the second they arrived yesterday (well, right after he’d eaten both pillow chocolates) and starts creating a wall of cushions down the center of the bed.
“ Dean,” Cas complains. “Is this necessary?”
“Yes.”
“Is it that hard to divorce this from sex?” Cas asks, and now he looks thoroughly fucking irritated, as he faces Dean down in the goddamn hotel room. And mostly Dean wants to answer yes. That’s not really an accurate or fair representation because Dean’s goddamn feelings have been weaved together with a thousand other things — betrayal and hurt and loss — and sex is by far the simplest of those things, but it is hard to separate the undercurrent of yearning and affection from sex. This last month he’s finally gotten to drop some of his damn barriers and that’s been a revelation and a lot of that has been about sex, and Cas is beautiful and enigmatic and handsome as hell and obviously Dean wants to jump his bones. Have his bones jumped. Whatever works. Dean’s a damn basket case with abandonment issues and a whole stacked up pile of trauma he hasn’t dealt with and he’s really bad at feelings and intimacy, and he’s good at sex part of it and that part has been going really goddamn well, from Dean’s perspective. Taking it off the table even for the twenty four hours until Sam shows up feels pretty terrifying.
That feels like the wrong answer.
“You’re the one who said it would smell you brushing past me, Buddy.” Dean says, putting down the last cushion in his modesty-wall with a flourish and turning round to look at him. Cas has migrated further into his space, firmly placing himself in the danger zone.
“I am not your Buddy, or your Pal, Dean. If I were, we wouldn't have this problem. ”
“Right,” Dean says, because he’s an absolute disaster who can never resist a goddamn fight, especially when he feels backed into a corner. “Because your erotic intentions just appeared, suddenly, a month ago. Before that this was a fully platonic zone.”
“Do not mock my feelings, Dean,” Cas says, gaze sparking, underlined with all this fucking gravity and —- they’re just lucky that this creepy stalker wood nymph can’t read their minds too, because all that righteous thunder has always been a problem — they’re practically chest-to-chest. Dean balls his hands into fists to stop him reaching out and grabbing hold of a handful of Cas’ shirt and yanking him in.
“That’s not what I meant,” Dean says, lost in all the goddamn blue, “ Cas.”
“I am not incapable of restraint, Dean.”
“Restraints, huh,” Dean says, weakly, and he doesn’t know why he’s fucking doing it — he can normally tell when he’s being a total idiot and it’s definitely happening now— but there’s something about this whole situation that has rendered him hopeless. “Something to add to the list after we’ve killed our biggest fan.”
Cas’ eyes flash and, oh yeah, he’s furious. He steps back and whirls around. Picks up the remote, puts on the first TV channel he stumbles across that he’s sure Dean will hate and then disappears behind the Great-Wall-of-Throw-Cushion.
Awesome.
Dean picks up his phone for something to do with his hands and rereads his conversation with Sam. Dean sent him the middle finger emoji in response to his goddamn research and Sam replied to say ‘just trying to help 😇.’ He’s only just responded to Dean’s reply of ‘ you need to work on your communication skills, Sammy’, which probably means he’s just stopped for gas. The fact that he’ll be here in the morning and they’ll actually have to talk about it really doesn’t help.
Sam’s suitably brutal in his return message.
Its a hastily typed ‘i need to work on MY communication skills?? That’s hilarious coming from you’ and, really, he may have a point.