Archive of Our Own

*   *   *

“This one’s free,” Dean says, gesturing stiffly to one of the spare bedrooms. It’s not much in the way of décor or amenities, though Cas isn’t known for being picky about that kind of thing. What it does have is four walls and a decent mattress, which makes it pretty damn good in Dean’s opinion. It’s also two doors down from Dean’s, not that he’s keeping track. “You know,” he mumbles, as Cas steps inside and looks around. “If you want it.”

Cas hums thoughtfully and sits on the edge of the bed. “Thank you, Dean,” he says with a soft smile. “This will be fine.”

Cas is often more sincere than anyone has a right to be (until he turns into a sarcastic little shit so fast it gives Dean whiplash) and, absurdly, Dean feels his face heat from the earnest gratitude. “Yeah, no problem,” he says, trying to sound flippant, but honestly, he’s glad Cas likes it. It’s the least Dean could do for him.

It wasn’t that long ago that it would’ve seemed unnecessary to give Cas somewhere of his own to stay – an angel who’s constantly on the move hardly needs a permanent place to crash – but Cas’s grace has been in a weird state of fluctuating reliability for a while now, and if he’s going to be following the Winchesters into situations where shit could get really dicey really fast, he probably oughta save the mojo for emergencies.

So lately, he’s been cutting corners to save energy: taking the car instead of zapping off to their destinations, letting their less life-threatening injuries heal the old-fashioned way, keeping up with basic hygiene like the rest of the mere mortals. Sleep, that’s a thing Cas does now too, and though he frames it like a strictly utilitarian tactic, Dean suspects he just likes turning his brain off for a few hours like everybody else. Finding Cas napping on the couch was downright jarring the first time. Dean figured if Cas was gonna be conking out randomly, he might as well have his own place to do it. Dean needs to sit on that sofa.

Cas even eats with Sam and Dean most of the time. And he actually shows appreciation for Dean’s cooking, unlike some people, Sam.

Speaking of food— “I was thinking pizza tonight.” Dean says, realizing he’s been standing there silently for too long.

“Okay,” Cas says, already up again and puttering around, opening drawers. “Pepperoni?”

“Yeah, you got it.”

“Great,” Cas says with a smile as he slips his shoes off and loosens his tie.

That still catches Dean off-guard sometimes: Cas making himself at home, getting comfortable.

Cas settling in and making a space for himself is new and foreign thing to behold, but, if Dean’s being honest, it’s not unwelcome in the slightest.

*   *   *

For all that Dean’s always had, well, issues with him coming and going, flitting off to do whatever the hell it is he does, having Cas around this much is still… an adjustment.

Dean’s spending a lot more time with him than he ever has, is learning all kinds of stuff about him, the things you can only discover about a person when you’re in close, extended proximity with them. Cas is a night owl, for one, which is interesting. But that also means he’s a complete grouch in the morning, heavily reliant on coffee to get him to a point where Dean can talk to him without getting a grumble and an eyeroll in return.

And, well, he is kind of a slob, but at least he’s apologetic about it. Mostly. Sam says Dean’s a nag when it comes to keeping a clean house, but Sam’s a filthy liar. The pun’s not intentional, but it’s fitting.

On the plus side, Cas will watch the trashiest of trash TV with Dean, zero judgment.

There are times when Dean can’t turn around without running into Cas, but there’s other times when Dean doesn’t see Cas at all for hours on end, long periods that stretch into days, and the only way he can tell if Cas is even at home is by checking for his car in the garage.

It’s crazy to think that the bunker is big enough for a person to lose themselves in entirely, though it is convenient when Dean and Sam have had just about enough of each other’s company for the moment, but no one wants to volunteer to clear out for a while.

But there are times when Cas really is gone, has just disappeared without a word. He doesn’t even leave goddamn note, which is just discourteous, if you ask Dean. He should be used to Cas wandering off on him, but maybe in the back of his mind, Dean expected it to be different now that Cas has got a home base to return to, somewhere he’s supposed to be.

He’s probably overthinking it.

It’s one of those weeks when Dean hardly claps eyes on Cas at all, is only aware of his presence from tiny disturbances throughout the bunker: the occasional abandoned book in the library, a suddenly full shelf in the archives, or – dammit, Cas – unwashed Tupperware left in the sink.

Dean scowls down at the basin, fighting the urge to just wash the damn dishes himself, before storming out of the kitchen, ready to track Cas down and give him a piece of his mind.

It turns out to be a short search, because the minute he rounds the corner, he finds Cas by quite literally walking into him.

“Shit,” he says, instinctively reaching out to steady himself, hand curling around Cas’s arm and—

Whoa, okay.

Dean wasn’t at all prepared for the firm heft of muscle he feels beneath his fingers, Cas’s flesh warm and unyielding and… Yeah. Whoa.

He takes a better look at Cas to reassess. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Cas has… bulked up a bit, and he’s so taken aback by this discovery that his touch lingers for longer than is really appropriate.

Cas is pretty underdressed compared to how Dean’s used to seeing him, outer layers and tie discarded, sleeves rolled up, baring some surprisingly thick forearms. It’s not anything Dean hasn’t seen before, really, but now the fabric of Cas’s white button down is stretched taut along the sleeves and chest, extra snug on his back and shoulders and that doesn’t seem like something Dean’s seen before. He’d remember. There’s no way Cas has been hiding all that under a trench coat.

“Damn, Cas,” Dean says with a self-conscious chuckle, finally letting his hand fall away. “You been working out or something?” he asks, and immediately winces. If he’d been trying to run his mouth to distract from the way he was practically copping a feel, that definitely wasn’t the right thing to say.

Cas looks him in the eye, expression perfectly neutral. “Yes, actually,” he says flatly. “I have.”

Dean searches his face for any sign of a jest, but finds nothing. Huh. That’s interesting.

Dean’s grateful that he dodged that bullet, that Cas didn’t take his dumb observation as a come on—because he did not mean it that way, thank you very much—but he can’t say he expected that response. “Wait, really?” he asks, probably making an incredulous face that might come off as insulting, but he’s more comfortable with Cas thinking he’s an asshole than getting any other impression of him right now. “Uh, why?”

If Cas has picked up on how weird Dean is being, he mercifully doesn’t let on. He sort of shrugs, and Dean’s eyes are helplessly drawn to how his shirt buttons strain at the movement. “I can’t rely on my grace to maintain this vessel anymore,” he says, glancing down at his body, prompting Dean to do the same again, which—nope, bad idea, keep your eyes to yourself, Dean. “I have to put in some of the work myself to take care of it.”

“Right,” Dean says after an awkwardly long pause, not sure how else to respond. “Makes sense.” And it does, really—if Cas has been dabbling in all that mundane shit that humans need to do to stay alive and functional, it’s not totally inconceivable that exercise would factor in. But Dean’s sure that Cas is noticeably more muscular than he was before, stronger and bigger, and that goes beyond basic “maintenance” in Dean’s opinion.

Although it is kind of intriguing to think that Cas is capable of a little vanity.

Cas smiles a little, still seeming unbothered by Dean’s lack of eloquence. “It’s convenient having a gym in the basement, isn’t it?”

Dean gets stuck on that for a second; he’d always assumed that when Cas disappeared for hours on end he was doing something boring, like cataloguing artifacts in the storeroom or digging through the lore archives, but apparently he’s been pumping iron right under Dean’s nose. He used to picture Cas hunched over a dusty book when he wasn’t around, and now Dean’s going to have a drastically different image in mind—one he shouldn’t dwell on, especially when Cas is right in front of him.

It takes a few seconds too long for Dean to remember that Cas asked him a question. “Wouldn’t know,” he stutters out eventually, trying to sound smug but missing by a mile. “I get my workout on the job.”

“I suppose that works,” Cas says mildly, and if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say Cas just gave him a quick once over. “The gym might be more efficient, though.”

It takes all of Dean’s willpower not to say yeah, I can see that, but he really doesn’t need to make more of an ass of himself right now.

Cas smiles at him again. “You should join me some time,” he offers, giving Dean’s arm a brief, friendly touch as he walks away, skirting around him and sauntering down the hall.

Dean takes a moment to compose himself. Not that he needs to compose himself, of course. Nothing weird about that encounter at all. Just business as usual.

It does take him a second to get moving again because, well… he’s kind of forgotten where he was going in the first place.

*   *   *

Dean’s perfectly aware that he should be fixing the fence right now. And, well, he’d put in a good effort for about ten minutes, but knowing that Cas was on the far end of the pasture, driving the sheep into the enclosure beside the barn, had drawn so much of his focus that he found himself moving without even realizing it, setting down his tools and wandering over to watch.

Cas picks up on his presence right away, locks eyes with him as he directs his horse in a wide loop, and even from this distance Dean can see a smirk on his face. Dean tightens his grip on the fence, already feeling a flush rising to his cheeks and hoping Cas doesn’t pick up on it. He looks on in veiled admiration; Dean’s okay with a horse, but he’s got nothing on Cas.

With the sheep in place, Cas hops down to secure the gate and lead his horse into the stable. Dean, against his better judgment, follows him inside.

He hovers in the doorway for a minute, watching quietly as Cas tends to his horse, so engrossed by the sight that he nearly jumps at the sudden sound of Cas’s voice.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” Cas drawls, not even glancing in Dean’s direction.

Dean snorts. “I’m entitled to a break, ain’t I?”

Cas turns to him at last, and damn, does he look good today. He’s dressed in a blue plaid shirt that really brings out his eyes, and it’s unbuttoned a truly irresponsible amount, showing off a hint of chest hair. Dean tries not to stare too blatantly, but if the look on Cas’s face is any indication, he’s not succeeding.

“So you decided to drop by and see a real wrangler in action?” Cas asks, smug as ever, taking measured steps in Dean’s direction.

“You call that riding?” Dean scoffs, fighting back a smile.  “Looked a little sloppy to me.”

Dean secretly loves this little game they play, Cas acting cocky and Dean taking him down a peg, teasing him into flirtatious banter – because that’s exactly what this is. Dean used to pretend otherwise, but there’s no denying that now, not with Cas only a few inches away, close enough that Dean can feel the heat of his body, admire the stubble lining his jaw.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “Sloppy, huh? You think you can ride any better?” he asks, leaning just a little bit closer.  Dean’s got an inch or two of height on Cas, but he wouldn’t know it right now – maybe it’s the hat Cas is wearing, or the slight heel to his boots, or just the way he’s insinuating himself into Dean’s space like he belongs there.

But it doesn’t make Dean feel unsafe, the way Cas is looking at Dean like he’s prey about to be captured. It makes Dean feel wanted, his heart racing, a spark of excitement shooting through him, not just because he’s sneaking off with a wrangler when he’s got other responsibilities. “Wanna try me?” he says slyly, tipping his chin up in challenge, playing along with the implication, thrilled no matter how cheesy the innuendo is.

“Yeah,” Cas murmurs, eyes hooded, “Show me what you can do.”

Dean licks his lips just because he knows Cas is watching, grabs his too-open shirt by the lapels and tugs him into a kiss, pulling him into an empty stall, sending them tumbling into a fresh pile of hay.

Cas’s hat gets knocked off in the process, but that just gives Dean an excuse to tangle his fingers in his hair, already a mess of arousal by the time Cas is flat on the ground and Dean’s straddling him. This has been a long time coming and Dean’s greedy for it, hastily unbuttoning Cas’s shirt because he’s got to get his hands on all that sleek muscle, needs to touch Cas almost as badly as he needs Cas to touch him, to undress him, to get Dean ready for his cock.

It takes some maneuvering and improvisation before they manage to make that happen. Dean’s stripped down to his socks, but Cas is still mostly dressed, shirt hanging off his arms, fly unzipped. He still has his damn boots on, watching with that same lazy self-satisfaction as Dean slowly sinks down on his cock, humming in approval when Dean rises up and pushes down again, builds up a rhythm. Dean meets his eye, not forgetting Cas’s challenge. If Cas wants to see some riding, Dean’s happy to oblige.

Cas is huge inside him but it feels absolutely perfect, nothing but spine-melting bliss that makes him gasp. Cas’s hands rove his body with an undeniable sense of entitlement, hands that have driven Dean to distraction so many times before, strong enough to rein a bucking bronco, gentle enough to soothe a frightened foal; they handle Dean with just as much confidence, just as much care.

Dean can only keep up with this for so long, muscles starting to burn. He doesn’t have the thighs for it, not like Cas – even now Dean can feel how thick and firm they are beneath him, wishes he got Cas’s pants off all the way. Maybe next time.

Cas digs his fingers into Dean’s hips, suddenly thrusting up off the ground and meeting Dean halfway. Dean cries out, pitching forward and rocking back even harder, letting out a desperate whine.

Dean’s legs are shaking by now, but it feels too good for him to stop, and he rolls his hips frantically, fisting a hand in Cas’s shirt, knees scratchy from pressing into the hay. “Cas.”

The heated look on Cas’s face softens, and he sits up and pulls Dean into a fierce kiss, wrapping him in a tight embrace. He pulls back and rests one hand against Dean’s cheek, eyes boring into Dean’s. “Easy, gorgeous,” he murmurs, coaxing Dean into a more languid rhythm. “You made your point.”

Dean’s never cared for those kinds of nicknames before, but it’s different with Cas – he isn’t being condescending, he truly means it, the cocky façade slipping away. Dean feels gorgeous when he’s with Cas like this.

Dean curls inward on a low moan, lets Cas hold him close as they move together, suddenly overwhelmed.

“That’s it,” Cas whispers, breaking off with a gasp. “Dean.”

That’s when Dean wakes up, groping around on his nightstand to turn his alarm off and then scrubbing a hand over his face because what the ever-loving fuck.

Dean swears he can still feel the muscles in his thighs twitching, Cas’s fingers digging bruises into his hips. Cas’s murmured endearments are rapidly fading from memory as he wakes further, and he finds himself oddly frustrated that he can’t call them back. The visual images remain as vivid as ever, and he squirms at the thought of them, still buzzing with arousal, but he’s definitely gonna ignore that because—yeah. That happened.

He had a dream about Cas. A sex dream about Cas.

A sex dream about Cas as a cowboy.

There’s no use beating himself up over it, of course, because it obviously doesn’t mean anything. Dreams are weird as hell. He’s got no control over all that subconscious shit. None of this is his fault.

Okay, yeah, so maybe Dean does have kind of a thing about cowboy boots, so sue him.

And even though he is completely, utterly blameless for this situation, he can kind of understand where his brain got its inspiration. Despite pretending otherwise for years, Dean's gotten to a point where he can admit that he’s not immune to the sight of a strong masculine body, especially one in close proximity, and after their run-in yesterday, Dean knows Cas definitely falls into that demographic.

But that’s just visceral, physical attraction, right? He can’t control that either.

…Not that he hasn’t ever acted on those kinds of urges, but still.

And it’s not like he’s never noticed that Cas is easy on the eyes. Dean might try to keep certain desires hidden sometimes, even from himself, but he’s not blind. If Dean had to cop to having a type, Cas would probably fit the bill.

But Dean’s relationship with Cas has always been… complicated. Too complicated, probably. Finding Cas distractingly hot just adds a new wrinkle that Dean is not at all prepared to deal with, no matter how convincingly he assures himself that it’s no big deal.

If he spends another hour lying in bed – trying to push obscene images from his mind, willing his body to behave itself so he can leave his room without scandalizing anyone, praying he doesn’t run into Cas – then, well. No one has to know.

*   *   *

Dean’s grateful for small mercies.

Avoiding Cas turns out to be easy; his tendency to disappear works out in Dean’s favor, for once. Whether he’s off dealing with nebulous angel business or hitting the gym, Dean doesn’t know, and for the time being, he doesn’t care to find out.

After a few days of successful evasion, Dean’s finally managed to convince himself that that dream was nothing but a fluke, that he can totally continue on with business as usual, because all that’s behind him.

Then he finds Cas in his goddamn bedroom, about to pull one of his dresser drawers open.

“Can I help you?” Dean asks, startled into sounding shriller and more panicked than he intended.

Cas glances up, unfazed as usual. “You said I could borrow some clothes.”

Okay, yeah, Dean’s got a vague memory of making an offer of some kind, but he doesn’t know why Cas chose now to cash in on that favor.

Although as he steps closer to get between Cas and the drawer, he starts to get an idea. Cas’s shirt is looking tight to the point of being uncomfortable, fabric straining across the shoulders every time he shifts his weight.

“I don’t think mine fit very well anymore,” Cas says, as if answering Dean’s thoughts, pulling contemplatively at his collar.

“Yeah, I can—” Dean stops and swallows when one of Cas’s buttons pops free, and he has to collect himself for a moment, starkly reminded of straddling Cas in a pile of hay and all but tearing his shirt open. When he notices Cas staring at him, he clears his throat and turns around to open a drawer full of shirts, eager to change the subject. “You can’t just go digging around in someone’s dresser, all right?”

“Why not? Isn’t that where you keep your clothes?”

“People keep personal stuff in there sometimes,” Dean replies, glad his face is mostly hidden in a drawer of jeans, trying not to think about what Cas might have found if Dean hadn’t shown up when he did.

“Like what?”

Dean turns around and looks at Cas sharply, not sure if he’s playing ignorant to get a rise out of Dean, but as always, Cas’s expression is so blank that it’s impossible for Dean to tell.

“Never mind,” Dean grumbles, shoving a haphazard pile of denim and plaid into Cas’s arms, feeling his cheeks turning pink. “If you need more, go bother Sam.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Dean can’t take another second of this, and when Cas doesn’t budge right away, Dean takes matters into his own hands and physically steers him out of the room—which, yeah, that’s a mistake, because the feel of Cas’s muscles beneath his fingers is not helping matters at all.

When Cas is gone, Dean shuts the door and locks it for good measure, taking a deep breath.

That wasn’t so bad, seeing Cas again. He didn’t make a complete fool of himself. Sort of.

But Dean should know better than to think anything in his life could ever be easy. He realizes the true error of his ways the following morning, lying on his bed and blinking morosely at the ceiling, uncomfortably hard because, well, turns out that little cowboy fantasy wasn’t a fluke after all.

His memory of this one’s fuzzier than the last, but it was some kind of Victorian shit involving decidedly un-Victorian sex on a canopied four-poster bed with bedding fancier than anything Dean would’ve thought his mind had a frame of reference for. He remembers Cas in a vest and a complicated tie that took entirely too long to get off, and that was as far as he got before Cas pushed him onto his back, peeled his clothes off and left him bare on the mattress. He wasted no time in spreading Dean’s legs wide, pressing them back towards his chest – Dean’s not nearly that flexible in real life – and taking Dean apart with his tongue.

It’s also just Dean’s luck that avoiding Cas proves to be a lot more difficult this time around.

Suddenly, Dean can’t turn a corner without bumping into Cas. He walks into the library, catches a glimpse of Cas’s broad, muscular back, and retreats silently before he’s noticed. He heads to the basement archives for something that might be helpful with a potential case and steps through the doorway just in time to see Cas lifting an absurdly heavy-looking chest onto a shelf. Cas sees him this time, and offers Dean some help, but Dean mumbles an excuse and flees, sends an irritated Sam down in his stead.

Dean even starts to purposely avoid cooking anything that could constitute a “family dinner” —people mooching off his hard work and taking advantage of his charitable nature, is a better way to describe it—because the last thing he needs is to be stuck sitting down for a meal with Cas.

But eventually he gets sick of eating takeout and frozen pizzas alone in his room, and he finds himself creeping into the kitchen and firing up the stove when he thinks the coast is clear.

He tries to make it quick, nervously checking the rice even though he knows it’ll be done faster if he just leaves the lid on, eyeing the beans and deciding they’ve simmered long enough.

“That smells good,” a voice says behind him.

It’s only from years of experience dealing with surprise appearances that Dean manages not to drop his spoon when Cas sneaks up on him.

Dean feels like he’d be better off keeping an eye on his food, but he turns to look at Cas instead.

He’s not prepared for the sight of Cas in jeans and a t-shirt because that’s just, uh—yeah. Cas’s biceps are truly testing the limit of his sleeves, and Dean’s not sure if the pants are his or Sam’s, but the denim’s tight around Cas’s thighs, giving Dean a much better idea of just what Cas’s secret workout routine has been doing for him.

Jesus Christ, is Cas even more bulked up than he was before? Is that even possible in a week? Maybe it is for an angel. Dean doesn’t exactly know what the rules are, there.

Dean blinks, remembering that Cas said something. “Thanks,” he says, voice cracking, turning the burners off, grabbing a bowl and hastily piling some food into it. “Uh—” He looks at Cas again, feeling strangely guilty. He’d planned to hoard this food just to avoid this situation, but now that that plan’s failed, he might as well share. He made a big batch, anyway. Force of habit. “Help yourself,” he says, ducking past Cas toward the exit.

“You’re not going to stay?”

Cas’s voice stops Dean in his tracks, and again he’s weak, glancing back in Cas’s direction.

Cas smiles. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

When it comes down to it, Dean has no hope of resisting, but what could the harm be, really?

The harm is that Dean spends the entire meal trying not to stare at Cas’s arms, wondering how many push-ups Cas can do, not even hearing what Cas is saying.

Then he gets roped into a Netflix marathon, and sitting next to Cas on the couch is absolute torture. Dean can’t stop glancing down at how close their thighs are to touching, and he’d be more put out by how much bigger Cas’s look compared to his if he weren’t desperately trying to keep his thoughts PG.

And of course, to top it all off, he has another goddamn dream.

At first, it almost seemed like a nightmare about a hunt gone wrong, but then the vamp pushing him against a rough brick wall turned out to be Cas. Dean ended up firmly pinned in place, didn’t struggle even a little as Cas sank his teeth into his neck – a cliché pair of perfectly pointed canines, nothing at all like the real thing, thank fuck – and yanked Dean’s belt open, jerked Dean off right there in that filthy alley.

Vampire hunts are going to be a little awkward from now on, but that’s what Dean gets for watching Buffy with Cas till 3AM.

Dean rolls out of bed and takes an unusually tepid and unsatisfying shower, wondering how he’s been reduced to this cliché, adolescent bullshit.

He stalls when leaving his room to get some breakfast, but he’s not going to let this shit run his life. He refuses to be too afraid to eat in his own damn kitchen.

He’s an adult. He can handle this.

Sam’s at the kitchen table reading the newspaper when Dean comes in and grunts out a greeting, sullenly getting himself a bowl of cereal. Cas isn’t here, but Dean’s still jumpy over the possibility.

Dean only has a minute or two of peace before Cas comes sauntering in, and Dean almost asphyxiates himself on a spoonful of milk.

Cas has been borrowing clothes from him and Sam, and Dean doesn’t know where the hell he got this particular white tank, but it’s entirely too revealing for Dean’s wellbeing.

It seems like the kind of thing Sam might wear and Dean would relentlessly mock him for, but he’s not laughing now.

Sam glances at Dean as he sputters, looking confused, and even he does a slight double take when he notices Cas. But he recovers quickly, says good morning and goes back to reading, as if everything’s normal.

That irritates Dean to no end because this is not normal, and honestly, fuck Sam for being so calm.

There’s just way too much chest and shoulder on display for Dean to handle this early in the morning.

He wipes his mouth with his hand, unable to tear his eyes away as Cas pours himself some coffee. “What, uh—” Dean cuts himself off, not even sure why he opened his damn mouth, and tries not to blush when Cas looks at him expectantly. “Never mind,” he mumbles, staring into his bowl so he doesn’t stare at anything else.

Cas putters around and gets something to eat before joining them at the table. Every time he takes a sip of coffee or a bite of toast, his flexed bicep is right in Dean’s line of sight, and every time he gets up to refill his cup, Dean’s gaze is helplessly drawn to the muscles in his back, the thickness of his forearms. He forces his eyes back to his cereal as soon as Cas turns his way again, giving up all pretense of actually eating, just pushing around his mushy cornflakes with his spoon.

This is ridiculous. He’s already been over all of this with himself—having a sex dream happens sometimes. Being attracted to your friend just happens sometimes. It’s all perfectly understandable and natural and nothing he shouldn’t be able to deal with like a grown-ass man. But despite all his completely reasonable logic, he still feels like a fucking idiot, sweaty and tongue-tied, silently ogling Cas like a hormonal teenager at every opportunity.

Cas gets up for his third cup of coffee and something in Dean snaps. “Hey, Fabio,” he says derisively, “How about you save some coffee for the rest of us?”

Dean feels immediate regret, especially when he sees Sam giving him a look out of the corner of his eye. Jesus, of all references he could possibly make to try and ease the tension. He didn’t need to remind himself of the disturbingly Harlequin vibe of his dreams.

If Cas is bothered by Dean mocking him, he doesn’t show it. He only gives Dean an inscrutable look and sips his coffee. “I know who that is,” he says matter-of-factly, leaning back against the counter.

Dean clenches his jaw because of course this is the one time a pop culture nod doesn’t go over Cas’s head.

“Didn’t know you were into that kinda thing, Cas,” Dean sneers, and that might have been a cutting remark if he were speaking to literally anyone else, but Dean’s forgetting who he’s dealing with.

Cas quirks an eyebrow at him, and if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say there’s a trace of a smirk on Cas’s face. “It seems there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Well that’s—that’s just—

“I’ll be downstairs,” Cas says, apparently realizing that Dean has no response to that, taking his coffee mug and strolling away.

Dean stews for a second before getting up to unceremoniously dump his dishes in the sink.

“What the hell was that about?” Sam asks.

Dean’s already on his way out the door. “What was what about?” he snaps, storming down the hall to lock himself in his room and try to get his shit together, for fuck’s sake.

For a while, Dean does whatever he can to clear his head – watches Game of Thrones, cleans his weapons, fruitlessly scours the internet for a job – but eventually he realizes his mistake in sequestering himself in his bedroom with only his thoughts for company.

His mind keeps wandering back to Cas the moment it isn’t otherwise engaged, and Dean’s well aware that actively trying not to think of Cas is a surefire way to make it worse.

There’s a lot you don’t know about me.

The thought of Cas saying that so casually, that smug son of a bitch, just gets Dean more and more agitated the longer he sits there and dwells on it.

But it also makes him curious. Cas has seriously been working out, here, right under his nose, and he had no idea? The thought nags at him; he has to see for himself.

Cas did kind of invite him, he reasons, even as another voice in his head tells him that this is probably an even worse idea than cooping himself up. But Dean’s not exactly making smart decisions today.

Dean makes his way to the basement, hesitating as he approaches the gym. It’s sad, but he feels like he needs to work up the nerve to actually walk in. Maybe Cas isn’t even in there, and Dean’s getting himself all wound up for nothing.

But as he gets closer, hovering in the doorway, he can hear the unmistakable clanging of metal equipment, so he bites the bullet and pokes his head in.

Cas doesn’t notice him at first, or at least doesn’t acknowledge him right away, which gives Dean the dangerous opportunity to just watch for a minute – and not only is Cas in the middle of doing bicep curls with a barbell that Dean doesn’t dare calculate the weight of, but the shirt that ruined Dean’s morning is gone altogether.  

Dean’s obviously well aware that Cas is powerful beyond imagination, but he’s not used to seeing physical evidence of it. He’s strong as hell, not just because of his angelic abilities, but because of the work he’s put in, looking like something straight out of Dean’s fantasies, looking like – goddammit – romance hero beefcake.

Dean gulps almost comically at the sight of Cas’s bare torso, his chest firm, abs not perfectly sculpted but toned and muscular. He feels his heartbeat pick up, face getting warm and yep, this was definitely a terrible idea, he needs to get the hell out of here and—

“Dean,” Cas says, locking eyes with Dean mid-curl, arms fully flexed.

Jesus.

“What happened to your shirt?” he blurts out. Real smooth, Dean.

Cas takes the barbell to a bench and sets it down on the support pegs. “It was hot,” he says with a shrug, adding weight to the bar.

Dean’s not sure he buys that. Cas doesn’t look sweaty – or like he’s exerted himself at all, really, and contemplating Cas’s stamina derails whatever reply Dean was trying to work up.

“So you were serious about this shit, huh?” Dean asks, pouncing on the opportunity to change the subject.

Cas slots in another weight and flexes his fingers, drawing Dean’s eyes to his hands. They’re huge and tan, but it’s not like that’s the result of regular workouts. They’ve always been like that, no matter how hard Dean tried not to notice. He definitely can’t ignore it now. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Cas asks.

Dean frowns. “I mean couldn’t you just, you know—” he makes a vague gesture. “Put your mojo to work while you’ve got it. Poof, instant beach bod.”

Cas stops what he’s doing, like he’s thinking about it. “I could, I suppose,” he allows, and Dean’s brain nearly short circuits at the idea of Cas just hulking out right in front of him. “But I like doing this,” he says after a beat. “I find it… therapeutic.”

Dean snorts. “Figured you’d be into, I dunno,” he rolls his eyes to the ceiling, casting around for something appropriate, “Meditation or something for the feel-good vibes.”

Cas smiles faintly. “Meditation can be very rewarding. But this is different.” He tilts his head, expression thoughtful. “Don’t you ever need to do something to…” He pauses again, eyes firmly fixed on Dean, “Work out your frustration?”

Dean clenches his jaw, fighting off the mental images that Cas’s wording brings to the surface. He’s not sure if Cas is deliberately fucking with him. He’s certainly capable of it, more than Dean gives him credit for, which is exactly how he manages to get blindsided when it happens.

“I mean, I usually—” Dean starts, before his brain catches up with him. Cas is so close all of a sudden, right in Dean’s space. “Uh,” Dean says intelligently, no idea where he was going with that—or what the hell is happening here, really.

Then he realizes he’s just in Cas’s way, blocking the end of the bench, and he stumbles back a few paces, embarrassed on too many levels to keep up with.

Cas brushes past him to straddle the bench, glancing up at Dean. “Did you come to join me?”

Dean glances down at his attire – the usual jeans, combat boots, flannel overshirt – and feels caught out. He clearly didn’t come down here to work out, he was just trying to… well, he’s not sure. “No, I just—” he falters as Cas slides back and settles in under the barbell, shorts riding up and exposing a bit of thigh that Dean vainly tries to ignore. “Just wanted to see if you’d be down for pot roast for dinner tonight.”

Cas hums in response, lifting the barbell from the pegs. “That sounds good,” he says, muscles flexing as he lowers the weight to his chest, not sounding strained in the slightest.

Dean can’t take much more of this.

“Cool,” he says, voice tight. “Great. Then I’ll just—uh, go. And you, y’know have fun or—yeah. Later, man.”

Dean’s just glad Cas can’t see his face from his vantage point on the bench, because Dean’s sure his cheeks are flaming red as he backs out of the room.

Dean doesn’t even have a pot roast to cook. He sighs, trying to pull himself together, and goes to collect his car keys. A drive would probably be good for him anyway.

*   *   *

Dean’s stomach flutters with nerves as he steps into the elevator. It always does when he’s called up to Cas’s office for a private meeting. He takes a measured breath and watches the doors close, fixing his hair in their reflective surface. He’s torn between loosening his tie for a little bit of relief – he’s literally hot under the collar right now – and looking his most presentable for Cas. He leaves the tie alone.

Cas is sitting behind his desk when Dean enters his office, looking on impassively as Dean closes the door behind him and steps forward. He doesn’t offer Dean a chair, so Dean stands in the middle of Cas’s excessively spacious office, trying not to fidget under Cas’s enigmatic gaze.

“Thank you for arriving so promptly,” Cas says after a few tense moments. “You’re always so reliable.”

The warmth in Cas’s deep voice only makes Dean want to squirm even more, for entirely different reasons. “Yeah,” he says tightly. He’s never been great at receiving compliments. “No problem.”

Cas rises from his chair, letting Dean drink in the way he’s almost poured into his expensive suit, looking immaculate and formidable. Dean feels his pulse ratchet up another notch. Dean barely gets the chance to admire the cut of Cas’s jacket before Cas is shucking it off and draping it over the back of his chair, Dean’s eyes immediately drawn to the way Cas’s biceps pull the fabric of his sleeves taut.

Dean licks his lips. He hopes he’s not being too obvious, but Cas never misses a thing. Dean catches a glint in his eye, but he merely circles to the other side of the desk in front of Dean, leaning against the edge of it and crossing his arms. “Do you know why I called you up here?” Cas asks with a slight curious tilt of his head.

“No,” Dean says, because he’s still trying to figure out if this is strictly a business visit, or if it’s… something else. He can’t really tell from Cas’s demeanor, but sometimes Cas tries not to reveal his hand until the last possible minute, always keeping Dean on his toes. He might have just called Dean up here just to tease him, flaunt how good he looks, fix his intense gaze on Dean and send him away with nothing else. For now. Dean might find it humiliating if he weren’t so into it.

“I wanted to congratulate you,” Cas says, each word measured, unbuttoning his wrist cuffs. Dean watches, mouth dry, as Cas methodically rolls his sleeves back. “Your work on the Jacobs account was very impressive.”

Again, Dean feels his face heat. “It was more of a team effort, really,” he mumbles, casting his eyes to the floor.

“Dean,” Cas says, surprisingly sharp, and Dean snaps into focus. “There’s no need to downplay your accomplishments in front of me. You’re a valuable part of this company and I’m incredibly lucky to have you here.”

Dean’s heart beats faster at the praise, and he fights to accept it because he knows that’s what Cas wants. “Thank you, sir,” he says, surprisingly breathy. The honorific feels indecent on his lips, capable of symbolizing so much more than a casual display of respect for his boss. Dean’s trying to push his luck a little, steer this meeting into something a lot more like pleasure than business.

Dean’s sure that Cas picks up on what he’s trying to do; he sees an almost imperceptible flicker of recognition on Cas’s face. “You’ve earned any commendation I can give you. In fact,” Cas trails off, straightening up and closing the short distance between himself and Dean. “I think you deserve a reward,” he says, a slow smile forming on his face. “Don’t you?”

Cas’s fingers graze Dean’s cheek and that’s all the confirmation Dean needs that this is going in exactly the direction he’d hoped. “I’d like that,” he replies in a rush, before remembering himself, “Sir.”

Cas’s hand slides into Dean’s hair, tightening into a fist and tugging – not hard, just enough to make sure Dean’s paying attention. “I asked you if you deserve a reward,” he says, voice calm, authoritative but infinitely patient. “Do you?”

Dean knows what this is about, Cas’s insistence that he allows himself to have nice things without feeling guilty, to accept that he’s worth it. Dean tries to duck his head but finds himself unable to with Cas’s strong grip. “Yes, sir,” he mutters.

“Tell me.”

Dean’s cheeks burn and his stomach twists with nerves and arousal, but he looks in Cas’s eyes and does as he’s told. “I deserve a reward, sir,” he says, relieved that his voice comes out steady.

“You absolutely do,” Cas agrees in a low purr, petting Dean’s hair, and he sounds so pleased that Dean swears he feels it all the way down to his toes. Any self-consciousness is well worth the effort, just for that. Cas’s hand trails back down to Dean’s face, curling under his jaw, thumb tracing Dean’s chin. “What do you want?”

Then Cas’s thumb brushes against Dean’s lower lip and Dean instinctively slips his tongue out to swipe at Cas’s finger, let Cas slide it in to press against his tongue.

Cas’s eyes are impossibly dark, gaze so ardent that Dean has to stifle a whine.

“Do you want to get on your knees for me?” Cas asks with a hint of a smirk, moving his hand to the back of Dean’s neck so he can answer.

“Please,” Dean sighs, already too far gone for more of a response than that.

Cas pulls him in for a kiss, pouring everything he has into it, and Dean’s scrambling to keep up, fingers clutching at Cas’s belt, winding around his tie to get him closer. Cas pulls back to suck a mark into Dean’s neck, high enough for the whole office to see, and he barely has to put pressure on Dean’s shoulder before he’s dropping into a kneel like he’s done it a thousand times, eagerly looking up at Cas, hands still on Cas’s thighs, admiring the firm muscle beneath his palms.

Cas’s fingers thread through Dean’s hair again, his other hand cupping Dean’s cheek. Dean leans into the touch, enthralled by Cas’s air of finely controlled power, comforted by the ever-present undercurrent of genuine affection that Cas has for him.

“Good boy,” Cas murmurs, and Dean has to close his eyes for a moment, unbalanced by the sudden jolt of lust, already feeling himself getting hard, thrilled that Cas is satisfied with him.

When he opens his eyes, Cas is palming himself through the fabric of his pants, paying no mind to how desperately Dean is eyeing his growing erection. Cas makes him wait for it, and he tries his best to keep still, licking his lips in anticipation. By the time Cas finally undoes his belt buckle, Dean is practically drooling.

Dean takes Cas’s cock into his mouth without prompting, savoring the stretch of his jaw, the perverse sense of completion. He keeps his gaze trained on Cas, the way he’s supposed to, and he moans when their eyes meet, the fire in Cas’s expression making his head swim.

At first, Cas has Dean do the work, pressing forward, taking Cas as deep as he can go, cock aching in sympathy each time he slides Cas into his mouth. Then Cas takes over, setting the pace, gently holding Dean’s head in place and thrusting inside at his leisure and oh, that’s even better, giving himself over to Cas’s control completely, accepting everything he has to give.

Dean’s whimpering freely now, is so fucking hard that he struggles to keep still and not rock his hips into the inadequate pressure of his pants stretched across his lap.

Cas must notice the tension in Dean’s posture because he backs off, slides free from Dean’s mouth. Dean strains to taste Cas again, but Cas holds him just out of reach, fingers in his hair again.

“You’re so hard, aren’t you?”

Dean nods, the motion stiff, looking up at Cas imploringly and forgoing actual words, but Cas doesn’t correct him.

He strokes Dean’s face, apparently convinced that Dean will stay put for now. “Show me.”

Dean’s quick to unbuckle and inch his zipper down, shoving his open fly and his underwear out of the way so his dick’s hanging obscenely out of his pants. He should be mortified, exposing himself for Cas’s scrutiny like this, but Cas’s face isn’t judgmental, just gratified and very turned on by what he sees. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Cas says, still so soft and sincere, even in the middle of something like this, thumb teasing at Dean’s spit-slick bottom lip.

Dean runs his hands up and down his own thighs, fingers twitching. “Can I…?”

Cas smiles faintly and sighs, “Yes,” pulling Dean closer again.

Dean moans in relief, both from Cas filling his mouth again and the touch of his own hand. Cas is close, Dean can tell, and he only has so much brain power to feel proud of that because he’s right on the edge himself, teetering on the precipice as Cas tugs at his hair, pulses against his tongue, spills down his throat.

Dean gasps and rocks his hips and suddenly wakes, a sweaty mess tangled in his sheets. He groans fuck against his pillow, hand already shoved beneath his boxers and wrapped around his leaking cock. He should stop now that he’s awake, but he can’t help himself; he squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself to slip back into his dream because oh god dammit he was so fucking close.

He rolls onto his back, manages a few desperate thrusts into his own fist, and slides three fingers into his mouth, missing the weight of Cas’s cock, wishing he had a third hand to wind tight in his hair. The heat simmering in his belly starts to bubble up fast, and Dean’s glad his mouth is occupied to keep the indecent noises at bay when he comes hard and fast over his fingers and onto his belly, hyper-aware of the fact that Cas’s room is only a few doors away.

As he lets his hand flop back onto the mattress and his heart rate settles, reality starts to set in. “Fuck,” he mutters again, feeling his skin flushing from embarrassment instead of arousal because shit, what the hell is going on with him? It’s not like he’s never had an unexpected, slightly baffling sex dream before, but these are about Cas.

And even more humiliating, it’s like they’re all torn from the pages of a trashy paperback. That whole good boy bit was probably a bit out of character for Cas, but his subconscious doesn’t know that, and his libido obviously doesn’t care.

It’s one thing to have a dirty dream about someone you consider a friend, it’s another thing to quite literally get off on it.

Dean needs a shower, for obvious reasons, and hell, he feels like his mind could use a good scrubbing too, because apparently it’s too filthy to function properly.

After he’s clean and dressed, he trudges back to his room and flops back onto his bed, distraught, wishing he could have a do-over on today—or the last several weeks, ideally.

What the hell is he supposed to do about this?

As if on cue, Dean hears footsteps outside his open bedroom door. He lifts his head off the pillow just in time to see Cas walking past with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, apparently fresh from a shower himself.

Dean almost chokes on his tongue, a strangled noise escaping his throat voluntarily. “Oh for fuck’s—” Like, come on, seriously, is this a joke or something?

To Dean’s further chagrin, Cas backpedals and pokes his head into Dean’s room. “Did you say something?”

“No,” Dean says quickly, hoping his expression is as inscrutably neutral as Cas’s is.

Cas doesn’t say anything, but his left eyebrow inches up the tiniest bit.

Dean tries not to squirm. “You’re dripping on the floor.”

And Cas has the nerve to roll his eyes before he stalks off, as if Dean’s the one ruining his life, the grumpy bastard.

Dean is so, so screwed. This can’t be normal. Not the dream part anyway. He’s already admitted to some attraction on his part, but this goes so far beyond that and—

Something’s gotta be fucking with him. He doesn’t know what it is – some hoodoo, witchcraft, some nasty monster they’ve never even heard of – he doesn’t fucking know, okay, but that’s gotta be the explanation. Gotta be, definitely.

He spends an hour flipping through books and trolling sketchy websites for any relevant information, long enough to confirm that the usual suspects don’t seem to fit the bill, before he remembers how much he hates doing this shit, gives up on it, and goes to ask Sam.

“Hey,” Dean says, plopping into a chair across from Sam in the war room. “You ever hear of anything that can give people visions?”

“You mean like a monster or something?” Sam asks. Dean was hoping Sam would take the nerd-bait and dive into research mode, but he doesn’t even look up from his laptop, the twerp.

Dean shrugs, aiming for casual, wanting to be careful with his phrasing so he doesn’t give too much away. “Anything, I guess.” He knows this is a longshot borne of desperation, and he’s scrambling to prove to himself that, rampant lust aside, this romance novel bullshit isn’t coming from his own brain, because, well, why would it? Okay, sure, he’s enjoyed a sappy movie or two in his time, but he doesn’t want to be in one. Now his subconscious just needs to get the memo.

Sam finally spares him a glance. “Okay,” he says slowly, expression wary. “Can you be more specific?”

“I dunno, it’s just like… I’m imagining weird shit,” Dean mumbles, willing his face to not turn red at the memory. “At night,” he adds, after a beat. “…while I’m asleep.”

Now Sam just looks unimpressed. “It’s called a dream, Dean.”

Dean glares. “I know that, asshole. This is different. It just keeps happening.”

“Okay, so it’s a recurring dream,” Sam says with an exasperated sigh, already turning back to his computer screen and typing away.

Dean huffs, frustrated. This is not at all how this conversation was supposed to go, and he’s really not in the mood for Sam’s sass today. “I feel like you’re not really hearing me. It’s not a normal kinda dream for me, okay?”

Sam closes his laptop and rubs at his temple, clearly annoyed but willing to humor Dean for the moment. “Well how not normal are they that you think something’s messing with you? What are they about?”

Dean fidgets, clenching his jaw, unable to look Sam in the eye as the images from his dream flood his mind. “It’s personal,” he mutters and yeah, dammit, he can definitely feel his face turning red.

“God,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t want to know, do I?”

Dean thinks the subsequent awkward pause is enough of an answer, but he still follows up with, “Nope, you really don’t.”

Sam shakes his head. “If your dreams are freaking you out, then you need a therapist, not a lore book.”

“Helpful,” Dean says with a grimace, aggravated. “Thanks.”

“Look,” Sam says, standing up and glancing down at Dean.  “Obviously your mind’s hung up on something. Maybe you just need to find some way to work it out of your system.”

Dean’s lucky that Sam chooses that moment to pick up his laptop and leave the room, because there’s no way Dean can keep his cool imagining how he might go about getting these dreams worked out of his system.

But that’s—that’s not an option, so he’s just gonna have to push through these feelings some other way.

And denial just happens to be an old favorite of his. Always there when he needs it.

*   *   *

Victory is a heady feeling, one Dean will never tire of, no matter how many times he experiences it anew.

The war will continue at daybreak, a fresh wave of warriors appearing on the horizon, flooding the Highlands, but for now Dean and his fellow men can revel in their success, the battle won.

He smiles, fierce and elated, as cheers erupt from the thickest part of the battlefield. From the outpost he’d been defending with Cas, his comrades are only blurry shapes in the distance, silhouetted by the setting sun, but their joyous cries echo across the moor.

Dean looks to his right, taking the opportunity to give Cas a thorough once over, smiling wider when Cas’s gaze falls on him. Cas looks glorious, war paint smeared with sweat and what might be the blood of their enemies. Dean unabashedly admires his bare torso, stealing a glimpse of Cas’s powerful legs beneath his tartan kilt, biceps flexing as he sheathes his sword.

Dean’s heart is pounding, body thrumming with nervous energy that he’s itching to burn off. Luckily, he thinks as Cas stares back with a gleam in his eye, he knows just the thing for it.

“Looking a bit winded there, Cas,” he says with a teasing lilt, grin almost manic.

Cas’s eyes flash, a smirk gracing his lips as he recognizes the challenge in Dean’s words. “Not too winded to make you regret those words.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you prove it then?” Dean fires back, delighted that Cas has taken the bait, taking a few steps back as Cas approaches, predatory.

“Gladly,” Cas replies, voice dangerous.

“Gotta catch me first,” Dean says, turning heel and taking off at a sprint.

Dean thrills at the sound of Cas’s footsteps behind him, adrenaline coursing through him, more of a rush than even battle could instill in him. He deliberately slows his pace as he veers towards the boundary wall that bisects the field; he knows Cas would catch him either way. Hell, it’s likely that Dean’s made it this far only because Cas has allowed it.

Cas finally closes the distance, and Dean lets out a giddy yelp of a laugh when Cas shoves him against the stone. He turns, boxed in by Cas’s arms, his body hot and solid against Dean’s front, the hard lip of the wall digging into Dean’s back.

Cas lifts one large hand to Dean’s face, palm resting against his throat, fingers tightening on the back of Dean’s neck – just looking at him, tilting his head back, running his thumb along his jaw, his fluttering pulse.

The playfulness has vanished from Cas’s face, and Dean marvels that even as he feels like prey in Cas’s grasp, Cas still handles him like he’s something precious.

“You were magnificent,” Cas purrs, and heat in his voice has Dean licking his lips in anticipation. “I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”

Dean snorts, feels his cheeks turn pink. “Shouldn’t be looking at me,” he mutters. “Should be watching your back.”

The corner of Cas’s mouth quirks up. “But you’re watching my back, aren’t you?” Cas asks.

A sense of protectiveness washes over Dean because it’s true – nothing’s gonna happen to Cas, not if Dean has anything to say about it.

Cas’s smile widens at Dean’s no-doubt vehement expression, taking it as confirmation. “And I’ll be watching yours,” he promises, caressing Dean’s cheek with the barest brush of his fingertips.

Dean can’t stand it any longer. He reaches out and pulls Cas’s face towards his, letting out a satisfied groan when their lips meet.

Cas immediately springs into action, his touch confident as his hands roam Dean’s body, teeth nipping at Dean’s lower lip. Dean gives as good as he gets, opening his mouth for Cas’s tongue, reveling in the smoothness of Cas’s skin beneath his hands, the muscles in his broad shoulders enticingly firm.

Cas pulls back, already breathing hard again, looking at Dean with wild eyes. “Turn around.”

Dean obeys as readily as he would any commander; Cas has done more to earn his trust and loyalty. He smiles to himself as Cas presses in behind him, humming and kissing Dean’s cheek, apparently pleased.

Dean plants his palms on the rough stone, bending and tilting his hips into Cas’s touch, frustrated when Cas takes too long to get on with it.

“Watching my back?” he asks slyly, huffing out a laugh.

“Always.”

Cas is careful to get Dean ready, but they’re both impatient, so by the time Cas finally pushes into him, it’s not without a slight twinge of pain. But Dean needs that, to hurt from an act of passion instead of violence, to reaffirm that they’re both alive and steadfastly at each other’s side. He suspects Cas needs that too.

Cas doesn’t take it easy on him, drives into him hard and unrelenting with a hand fisted in his hair. Dean keeps goading him for more, reaching behind himself to slip his hand under Cas’s kilt and feel his thighs flex, encouraging his rhythm.

He groans Cas’s name, and Cas answers with impassioned words of affection and praise, sentiments possessive, devoted, and that’s the last thing Dean hears before he wakes with a twitch, blinking in the darkness, panting into his pillow.

Finding himself alone in his bed leaves him rattled, and Dean’s not quite sure how to feel about it. He’s achingly hard against the mattress, of course he is, and in a brief moment of sleep-addled weakness he indulges his arousal and rocks down into the pressure. He loses himself in the promise of release before his higher brain function kicks in and he recoils, ashamed. He flops onto his back, staring into the darkness, wondering how this got out of hand so quickly.

Because it’s not just that Cas was suave and muscular and rocked Dean’s world like only a literal dream man could, it’s that Dean can’t stop thinking about how Cas touched him, looked at him, spoke tender words into his ear that stirred up the same affection in Dean’s chest, almost like—

But those moments are absurd, even more so than Cas in a kilt or Dean as his eager-to-please employee, so far outside of reality that Dean stubbornly pushes away the thought of them. But that leaves only the raunchier bits to contemplate, reminding him how he’s still throbbing in his threadbare sweatpants, and he fights the urge to reach down and take care of it because nope, not gonna do that again. He can barely look Cas in the eye as it is.

He doesn’t trust himself to stay in the inviting warmth of his bed without giving into temptation, and he doesn’t think he’ll manage to fall asleep again anytime soon anyway, so he tosses the blankets aside, stumbling out of his room and into the kitchen, head still swimming with arousal, among other, more confusing sensations.

He snags a bottle of water from the fridge, downing half of it in one swig and leaning against the counter while he catches his breath. He presses the cold plastic to his forehead; it feels ridiculously good against his flushed face, but it doesn’t do much to calm the rest of his body down. Last time a dream got him this worked up, he took the edge off before he even had the chance to think about it. This time he just has to… wait it out.

He takes another sip of water, closing his eyes and trying to compose himself, and when he opens them, Cas has appeared in the doorway.

Dean nearly chokes at the sight of him, as he’s been doing way too often lately, but it’s all the more jarring at the moment – Cas is bleary-eyed and shirtless, looking at Dean intently, in the dim light, in the middle of the night, hot on the heels of that fucking dream and god, Dean’s mind is back there in an instant, gets him spluttering slightly and setting the water down before he really does choke.

Christ, Cas was an animal. They both were.

Cas furrows his brow. “I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, I was just, uh…” He trails off, afraid to let his eyes land on Cas for too long, but unable to stop himself. “Anyway, what’s up?” he asks through an uncomfortable cough. “Can’t sleep?”

A look that Dean has no hope of reading crosses Cas’s face. “Something like that.”

Cas rubs his chin, as if in thought. It’s a perfectly harmless (and surprisingly human) gesture, but Dean’s eyes are immediately drawn to the way Cas’s arm flexes as he reaches up, to the dark shadow of his stubble, his long fingers grazing his lips. Dean’s gaze helplessly drops to the waistband of Cas’s pants—which seem to be slipping lower by the second, baring his sharp hipbones—before flicking back up again, admiring the broadness of Cas’s shoulders.

“Dean?”

Dean blinks. “Uh.” Did Cas say something? Fuck, how long has Dean been standing there drooling? “Don’t you ever wear a shirt anymore?” he snaps before he can stop himself, and feels instant regret. It’s not even a fair criticism; Cas was just in bed, and Dean’s only seen him shirtless twice, so it’s not Cas’s fault if those brief moments have had an inordinately heavy impact on Dean’s memory. But Dean’s far too distracted by Cas’s body, still half-asleep and drowning in lust. He can’t be expected to think his words through. God, with the way those pants fit Cas, Dean swears he can see everything, is reasonably certain that Cas has absolutely nothing on underneath. Dean prays his own state of dress leaves a little more to the imagination, because he really doesn’t need Cas to see what that dream did to him, see how being caught in the kitchen like this isn’t stifling his lingering arousal in the slightest.

If Cas is caught off guard by the question, he doesn’t show it. He studies Dean from across the room, fingertips still idly tracing the line of his jaw, once again skirting dangerously close to his mouth, which Dean is absolutely not staring at, thank you very much. “Does it bother you?” he asks after a tense few seconds.

Jesus, there’s a loaded question, and Dean has no faith in his ability to get around it without saying something stupid or incriminating. “I mean— y’know, it’s just,” he attempts, fidgeting under the scrutiny. “Around here we usually keep our shirts on in the kitchen. Just saying,” he finishes lamely.

“I’ll make a note of it,” Cas says, sounding distracted.

That’s when Dean realizes that Cas is slowly walking towards him, and Dean’s face burns as Cas gives him a shameless once over. His stomach flips with a mix of excitement and apprehension.

Dean stays put as Cas steps up right in front of him, too close to be casual. Dean licks his lips. “What’re you doin’ Cas?” he asks, voice hoarse, pulse quickening.

Cas’s brows knit together again as his eyes land on Dean’s mouth. “I don’t know.”

Dean just barely keeps himself from snorting. “Yeah, you do,” he fires back, unsure where this boldness is coming from, meeting Cas’s eyes, thrilled by the hunger he sees there.

“Maybe,” Cas admits, moving fractionally closer, hands resting on the countertop on either side of Dean. “Maybe I do.” There’s a hint of something seductive there, so faint and fleeting that Dean thinks he might have imagined it.

Dean takes a shaky breath, rationality flying out the window, and does what he usually does when someone he wants is in his personal space, when they’re giving him every reason to think that the feeling is mutual. He closes the scant distance between them and presses his mouth to Cas’s because he can’t help it anymore, too tempted by the way Cas is right there, close enough for Dean to pick up the scent of his soap, feel the heat radiating from his body.

Cas doesn’t respond immediately, just makes a soft noise that Dean can’t interpret, and Dean barely has a chance to register the plush give of Cas’s lips or the scratch of his stubble before he realizes what he’s doing and pulls away, mortified. “Um,” he says, worried that he may have miscalculated, that he’s projected his own desires onto Cas and acted without thinking it through. “That—” Oh god, oh god. “I wasn’t—fuck, I should—”

He averts his eyes and tries to make his escape but finds that he’s boxed in by Cas’s arms, and doesn’t that give him a serious case of déjà vu. Before he can make his next move, Cas is cupping his cheek, and Dean gets a brief glimpse of the fire in Cas’s eyes before he angles Dean’s face towards his and guides their mouths together again.

Dean must have caught Cas off guard the first time, but he certainly seems ready for it now, his other hand immediately moving to Dean’s hip, sliding around to the base of his spine. Cas leans in, pressing the full length of his body flush against him, and Dean’s resulting whine is lost in their heated kiss. Cas approaches this with surprising finesse, demonstrating as much care as he does an exhilarating sense of urgency – tasting him and learning him, experimenting with a sharp nip of his teeth to Dean’s bottom lip that almost turns Dean’s legs to jelly.

Dean seizes his chance to get his hands all over Cas instead of just looking in frustration, running his fingers along the muscles in Cas’s broad back, admiring the way his biceps are thick and straining beneath Dean’s greedy touch. He slides one hand down the back of Cas’s sweatpants, giving his ass an appreciative squeeze – it’s just as firm as the rest of him – and tries to pull Cas even closer. This is better than the dreams by a mile.

Dean can’t remember the last time he’s been kissed like this. He hasn’t had the luxury of indulging in an intense but thorough makeout session in years, and he could be content with just this for hours, it’s that good, but his body has other ideas, revving back into gear after he denied himself any satisfaction after that fucking dream.

Dean can’t resist the promise of friction, Cas’s body warm and firm and right there, and he nudges his hips against Cas’s, breaks away with a gasp when Cas instinctively does the same, sending a jolt of arousal to the pit of Dean’s stomach.

Cas presses against Dean more deliberately, seeming intrigued by the noise Dean makes. He lets out a pleased sound of his own and does it again, and again, and again, nosing at Dean’s neck, leaving a trail of kisses there when Dean tilts his head back to give him better access, the touch of his lips so gentle compared to the increasingly insistent way he’s grinding against Dean.

Cas is so hard – there’s no way that can escape Dean’s notice, with nothing but two thin layers of fabric between them – and Dean’s right there with him, didn’t even need that head start his dream gave him because everything about Cas right now is driving him fucking crazy.

Cas is so into it, hands roaming Dean’s body with self-assurance, not afraid to go for what he wants, his kisses demanding, tongue sliding into Dean’s mouth. One minute he’s rucking up Dean’s shirt, pinching a nipple and humming contentedly when Dean arches into it, the next he’s snaking one hand down to Dean’s ass, the other gripping his thigh and—holy shit, lifting Dean right onto the goddamn counter. He just hoists Dean up and sets him down like he weighs fucking nothing, and Dean has to resist the urge to sigh, “You’re so strong,” like he’s some kind of swooning damsel.

Although he might be swooning, just a little.

Dean’s quick to wrap his legs around Cas’s waist and pull him in, gratified when he slots right into place, rolling his hips with purpose.

Dean’s doing his damnedest to keep up, and he’s embarrassingly close to the brink already, trying to keep the volume down because they’re in the damn kitchen and oh, Jesus, it’s not like they’re alone in the bunker. What if Sam’s still up and wandering around?

Dean sighs yeah as quietly as he can manage, delighted when that encourages Cas to quicken his pace, hand still gripping Dean’s thigh tight enough to bruise. He whispers Cas’s name, just to test the shape of it in his mouth, excited by hearing himself say it in a way he’s never been before. That earns him a growled Dean in return – Cas is less concerned about being overheard, it seems, or less able to control himself – and Dean has to stifle his whimper in the crook of Cas’s neck.

After a moment Cas winds his fingers in Dean’s hair and tugs his head back (fuck, that really does it for Dean) apparently chasing after another kiss.

Dean melts into it, mind hazy with lust, even though this all seems so shockingly, terrifyingly real. The dreams always ended up a little fuzzy in his recollection – he’ll just remember flashes of images and sensations, the undercurrent of arousal – but reality’s so much sharper, every detail burning itself into his brain. Dean’s gonna have a hell of a time forgetting this: Cas’s cock hard against his own, his unshaven cheek tickling Dean’s throat, the long fingers in Dean’s hair tightening as Cas lets loose an obscene moan, muscles locking beneath Dean’s palms—

Oh, god, Cas is coming, groaning Dean’s name again, and just the idea of it has Dean hurtling over the edge too, driven to climax just from this, dick pulsing hard, still trapped in the fabric of his pants, smearing messily against his skin.

For a few moments they just try to ease down from their high, Cas holding Dean close, Dean’s ankles crossed behind Cas’s back.

Dean’s heart is still pounding, hardly slowing down as what they’ve just done starts to sink in because Jesus fuck, that escalated fast.

Eventually, Cas draws back with what appears to be reluctance, gaze landing on Dean’s face. Dean licks his lips, transfixed by Cas’s eyes boring into his, tensing because if this were one of his dreams, this is when Cas would say something gooey and romantic, spout some poetic bullshit that’s corny as hell but makes Dean feel like the center of the goddamn universe.

But this isn’t a dream, and that kind of stuff doesn’t happen in real life. Not to Dean, anyway. Dean hasn’t lost sight of exactly what this is. Two people can only dance around that kind of physical attraction for so long before, well, this happens. That’s all.

Dean lets out an amused little chuckle, one that sounds hollow to his ears. He hopes Cas doesn’t pick up on that. “That’s one way to blow off steam, huh?” Dean says, attempting a cheeky grin. “Beats pumping iron, if you ask me.”

Cas’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “They’re not mutually exclusive.”

Dean doesn’t quite know what to say to that and simply snorts in response, just grateful that he and Cas seem to be on the same page. He has the urge to squirm under Cas’s stare again, weirdly nervous all of a sudden.

“Can you, uh—” he says, not sure how to indicate that Cas should probably let him down from the countertop.

Cas seems to get the message and steps back, helps to bear Dean’s weight as he tries to slide forward off the counter. Dean feels himself blush all over again, thrilled by the strength in Cas’s arms for the brief moment he’s supporting Dean’s body before Dean’s got his feet back on the ground. Cas takes another step back to give him space, hands dropping to his sides, and Dean’s left with an odd sense of loss.

“Well,” Dean says awkwardly. “I should probably—” he says, making a vague gesture at what a disheveled mess he is. Cas is hardly worse for wear, looks just as good as he did when he walked in, and Dean feels another pang of desire that he hastily stifles. “G’night,” he mumbles, turning away so he can slink off to process all this in the privacy of his bedroom.

He’s stopped by Cas’s hand on his arm, the fingers curling around his bicep gentle but firm. “Dean.”

Dean turns back to face Cas, stomach doing somersaults, mind racing through a hundred possibilities of what Cas could have called him back to say.

But Cas simply cups Dean’s cheek in one large hand and reels him in for a heated kiss that leaves Dean’s pulse pounding when he pulls away. “Goodnight,” he says with a slow smile before sauntering out of the room.

It takes a few seconds before Dean can get his legs to work, and then he’s fleeing through the other exit, ducking into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

His face is still burning as he gets himself cleaned up and crawls back into bed, and he doesn’t know how long he lies there staring at the ceiling, trying to settle his racing mind, but he’s overcome by exhaustion before he can overthink himself into a panic.

If his sleep is dreamless, it’s definitely for the best. That’s what he’s been hoping for all along.

Problem solved.

*  *  *

Dean wakes up with surprisingly vivid images of fooling around with Cas, and it takes him a couple of sluggish blinks to realize that oh, shit, that wasn’t a dream.

Christ, if he thought the situation with Cas was delicate before, he’s got a lot to look forward to. Fantasiz—unwillingly dreaming about a friend is bad enough, but to go and act on those feelings… well, Dean doesn’t know. He’s never actually dealt with this before.

It’s not like he regrets it, exactly – nothing to complain about, in his opinion – but it’s bound to open up a lot of uncertainty going forward.

Even so, he dresses and saunters into the kitchen for food more confidently than he has in weeks because he figures, hey, how much worse can things possibly get?

But when he sees Cas already seated at the table, drinking his coffee and locking eyes with Dean mid-sip, he immediately chickens out.

He has no idea how to read the look on Cas’s face, or what his own expression might be revealing at this very moment and okay, yeah, he can see where the uncertainty factors in now.

Sam glances up from his paper and says, “Morning,” completely oblivious to Dean’s mounting crisis.

Dean barely hears him, raiding the cabinets for some food he can make a quick escape with. “I’m just gonna—” He pauses to take an entire box of cereal, opening the fridge to grab a nearly full carton of milk. “Uh, eat in my room,” he finishes as he snags the first thing that remotely resembles a bowl. “Got work to do.”

He can almost hear Sam frowning at him. “Work? What work?”

“None of your business, Sammy,” Dean replies, voice muffled through the packet of Pop-Tarts he shoved into his mouth when he realized his hands were full.

It’s only after he’s returned to his room in shame, staring at a bowl of soggy cereal, that he realizes he forgot to get a spoon.

*   *   *

Dean would love to say he’s never backed down from a difficult situation, but it looks like this is gonna be the thing that does him in.

Damn, he thought he knew how to handle spontaneous hookups by now, but it’s a completely different story when it’s someone whose name he doesn’t quite remember, and he’s two states away by noon the next day. This is someone he knows. And lives with.

God.

Cas, of course, seems totally unaffected by being around Dean. Should Dean be insulted by that? Either way, Cas is handling it just fine. Dean’s the one being weird about it.

It’s not just that it’s uncomfortable, it’s that he spent the last couple of months looking at Cas and remembering how it felt to be with him in purely hypothetical, fabricated scenarios, but now he knows. The phantom sensations that used to linger after his dreams, Cas’s mouth on his, the way Cas touched him, they’re not just a vague projection of his imagination anymore, he’s actually experienced them.

And the part of him that wants to experience those things again flares up every time he sees Cas, threatens to overwhelm whatever’s left of Dean’s common sense and leaves him wondering where they stand. There's a part of him that knows he should try to figure that out, but sweeping the whole thing under the rug is more his style. Much safer.

On some level, he’s not even sure what he’s afraid of. Some conversation he’s not ready for, maybe, though what such a conversation could entail is beyond him. The possibilities seem endless, all of them terrifying in their own way.

Yeah, he might really be out of his depth here.

The silver lining is that it does seem like the tawdry dreams have stopped. Although, those were good dreams, at least, and the alternative for Dean usually ain’t so pretty. But it’s better this way. Eventually things will go back to normal and Dean can stop feeling like a prisoner in his own home, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Hopefully normal gets here sooner rather than later, because this whole routine is getting old. Dean’s practically jumping at shadows, hastily exiting a room before Cas sees him, darting in the opposite direction if they’re about to cross paths. There might be a more mature way to handle this, but Dean’s not exactly open to hearing about it.

He even goes so far as to outright refuse to go into the basement in case Cas is there, no matter how much Sam whines that he needs help moving some boxes.

“Dean, c’mon, it’ll be so much faster if we both do it.”

“No can do,” Dean says cheerfully. “Bad back, you know. Gotta leave the heavy lifting to the whippersnappers.”

“Dean—”

“Have fun,” he says with a grin, clapping Sam on the arm and sauntering away, pleased with himself for effectively worming his way out of potential unpleasantness.

He’s feeling less satisfied when he gets to the TV room and finds Cas on the couch, flipping through channels.

“Oh, I uh—” Dean says, startled into saying something, faltering when Cas finally notices him. Dean had kinda been hoping that he’d been building Cas’s appearance up in his memory, that the shine would’ve worn off now that Dean’s gotten himself a taste, but nope, Cas still looks damn good, even fully dressed. “I was gonna watch—” Dean stops short again, already forgetting what he came in here for. “Something.” Yeah, being this close to Cas still turns Dean into a complete idiot. Real comforting to know that that hasn’t changed.

Cas shrugs and holds the remote out. “Go ahead. There isn’t anything good on.”

Dean takes a moment to reflect on how human that complaint is, before reaching out warily to take the remote.

But once he has it, it’s clear that Cas has every intention of staying put. And that’s fair, they often watch TV together, although it has been kind of a while. Dean’s starting to miss Cas’s commentary. But Dean doesn’t trust himself to be alone with Cas right now, doesn’t know what’ll happen, or what he wants to happen, or what stupid and irrevocable thing he might say.

Dean clears his throat. “Uh, actually.” He awkwardly puts the remote back in Cas’s hand. “I gotta help Sam bring some stuff downstairs.”

Cas’s eyebrows knit together, and Dean sees the doubt written all over his face. “All right,” Cas says slowly, eyes trained intently on Dean’s face. “Well, I could come help you.”

Dean swallows, because he really doesn’t need Cas displaying his strength or his kindness right now. “No, it’s fine, we got it, you just—” He tries not to trip over his feet backing out of the room. “You just watch your show.”

“But I wasn’t wa—”

Cas’s voice is already fading as he retreats. Dean gets quite a look from Sam when he suddenly appears, ready to work.

“Saw the error of my ways,” Dean says brightly, taking a box from the stack. “You’re welcome.”

If he sees skepticism on Sam’s face too, well, he chooses to ignore it.

*   *   *

Dean had always known he couldn’t keep up this song and dance forever, but he’d hoped he would hold out long enough to at least try to keep his cool when he sees Cas. He might’ve underestimated how much time that would take, or just how deeply this whole thing has sunk its claws into him.

Nevertheless, when Dean sees Cas walking out of the war room, he makes a valiant attempt at an abrupt about-face. He’s about to duck around the corner so Cas won’t spot him, but it was overly optimistic of him to think he could do anything about it if Cas were determined to talk to him. It was gonna happen one way or the other.

“Dean,” Cas says behind him, voice sharp. Dean could keep going, pretend he didn’t hear or just blatantly ignore him, but Dean’s not that much of a jerk. He can feel Cas’s eyes on him, and he turns his head, sees Cas’s fuzzy outline through his peripheral vision, and decides to hear Cas out.

Cas takes a few steps towards him, and Dean finally turns around, figuring he should face this head on – whatever this is, anyway.

Cas studies Dean in silence for a moment, before squaring his jaw. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit. “I wasn’t—”

“Dean,” Cas cuts him off, exasperated, and yeah, Dean should know he can’t get away with that bullshit either.

Dean swallows and sets aside the instinctive denial, but finds he has nothing else to say. He wonders where this is going, if the emotional confession he half-expected the other day is finally about to happen. He doesn’t think he’s really ready for that. Right?

But Cas just frowns, gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before rising to meet Dean’s. “If I crossed a line the other night,” he says, careful but resolute, “Then I apologize.”

That’s… not what Dean was expecting, and he can’t quite pin down the feeling that settles in the pit of his stomach, but he settles on ‘relief.’ Nothing else would make sense.

“Dude,” he exhales on a weak laugh. “We kinda crossed that line together. You didn’t do anything that I didn’t—” He pauses, reconsiders his wording. “You’re good, Cas. We’re good. It’s fine.”

Cas isn’t buying it, Dean can see that from the way he narrows his eyes, from the imperious tilt of his head. “But you have been avoiding me.”

Dean looks away, mindful of how incredibly guilty that makes him look. “Yeah okay, that wasn’t cool on my part, but y’know, sometimes it can get a little weird when two friends, uh… mess around like that,” he mumbles, hating the flush he can feel rising to his cheeks. He really needs to get his shit together. “But hey, we talked it out, right? And now we’re past it. No big deal.” He tries to smile and sound convincing. He just hopes Cas doesn’t notice how badly he fails on both counts.

Cas doesn’t say anything. Dean tells himself he couldn’t possibly see disappointment in Cas’s eyes, because there’s no chance that Cas would want him in a more serious way. He’s just feeling out these base human urges. And Dean’s fine with that, of course, because it’s really much simpler this way. Dean was just letting his mind run away with him before, thinking this thing with them was going to go anywhere. Damn, these dreams are really messing with his head.

“No big deal,” Cas echoes, and he’s tough for Dean to figure out even on a good day, but there’s no way in hell Dean can interpret any part of what’s happening right now.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms. “It was just, uh— working out our frustrations. Like you said.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “Which frustrations are those?”

The heat rushes back to Dean’s face full force. “Um—”

Then he realizes Cas is smiling at him, glint in his eye—teasing Dean, enjoying it, the bastard.

But if Cas is going to be chill about this, then so is Dean, because that’s the best possible outcome he could’ve hoped for.

Dean’s just glad this is finally over with. He really doesn’t need his life to be any more complicated.

*   *   *

"This wouldn't have happened if you knew how to steer a fucking ship," Dean grouses as he slogs to shore, making a vain attempt to wring out his sodden shirt, shaking the sea water from his hair.

"This wouldn't have happened if you knew how to read a damn map," Cas fires back, not wasting any time in getting on Dean's case, as usual. He manages to look calm and imperious even when he's just as soaked as Dean is, and it's infuriating.

Dean glares at his back as he trudges up the beach, cursing his luck for the hundredth time in the past few weeks. If Dean had had any real say in things, he would never even be close to a situation like this. But when your boss tell you he needs a shipment delivered ASAP, you do it, regardless of the arrogant prick he sends with you to man the helm.

Dean can't imagine getting shipwrecked with worse fucking company.

Suddenly Cas is stripping off his wet shirt, and Dean chokes on his own air, nearly tripped by the surf still lapping at his heels.

"The hell are you—?" He means to sound aggressive, but his words break off into a squeak when Cas reaches for the waistband of his pants and slides them off too.

Cas starts laying out his clothes on a flat rock, only glancing up to send an unimpressed look Dean's way. "If you want to walk around in wet clothes, be my guest. I'd rather have something dry to put on."

Dean glares again. Cas thinks he's so fucking smart. A nebulous voice in Dean's mind recognizes that Cas probably has a point, but there's no way that Dean is going to undress in front of him. He's not gonna give Cas the satisfaction—of admitting he's right, that is. Not that it would satisfy Cas in… any other way. Dean looks at Cas again, and the damp underwear he’s still wearing gives Dean more of an eyeful than he's prepared for.

He averts his gaze and scowls, because Cas is too obnoxious for him to look at, and the sight of Cas's exposed body, his tan skin glistening, is not one that Dean's interested in, thanks.

"Are you just going to stand there and pout?" Cas pipes up, interrupting Dean's uncharitable thoughts. Cas is already pacing around the island, picking up a large piece of wood and hefting it onto his shoulder. Dean's eyes are drawn to the flex of his biceps before he looks away and frowns again. Show off.

Dean is not pouting. But just as he's mentally cursing Cas for even suggesting it, he starts to berate himself as well. He's better than this, dammit. He's perfectly capable of making the best of a dire situation without panicking or giving up, and he’s not going to let this smug asshole throw him off his game.

An indeterminate length of hostile silence later, they’ve made a decent start of building a shelter. Separate shelters, that is. One for each of them.

Dean swears as his own project starts to list to the side again, eyes Cas's perfectly upright structure in his peripheral vision. "Can't get my walls to stand up for shit," he grumbles aloud.

"I can see that," Cas says dryly.

Dean whips his head around, looking at Cas with disdain. "Yeah, have fun bragging about your perfect walls when your roof collapses on your head," he sneers, pleased when Cas actually seems affected by his comeback.

He turns away again, feeling victorious over Cas's lack of response, but it doesn't last.

"You're right."

Dean tenses, thinking Cas must be fucking with him. He glances over his shoulder warily. "What?" He honestly never thought he'd hear those words out of Cas's mouth, no matter how often Dean has been clearly right in his presence.

Cas sighs, and when Dean gets a closer look at his face, he actually appears sincere. "We're never going to build anything useful by ourselves."

Cas just lets his statement hang there, looking at Dean meaningfully. It makes Dean fidget. "What do you mean?" he says, needing to run his mouth when he feels uncomfortable, like he always does.

Cas snorts. "Don't play dumb with me," he says. "You're too smart for me to buy it."

Dean blinks, bewildered, before plastering on a smirk. "Oh my god, was that a compliment?" he crows, needing to unbalance Cas as well. Seems only fair.

"Don't get used to it," Cas fires back, and it doesn't sound nearly as threatening as Dean suspects he intended.

It turns out that a little compromise is a good thing; working together, they have a passably sturdy shelter constructed before sundown.

But another storm seems to be rolling in, and they rush to put the finishing touches before it hits. Dean’s combing the shoreline for anything else that might be useful to them when an unexpectedly large wave smacks into his side. He curses, defeated, and slinks back up the beach. His clothes were finally almost dry, too.

Cas eyes him when he ducks into the shelter. “You should probably—”

“I’m fine,” Dean snaps, collapsing on the sand, exhausted.

Cas just holds his hands up in sarcastic deference. “Have it your way.”

Dean rolls over, facing away from Cas, and curls in on himself, suddenly worried that he’s burning any semblance of a bridge he and Cas might have built today. He swallows, voice softening. “Don’t worry about me.”

Cas scoffs behind him. Dean doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, and Cas doesn’t elaborate.

They attempt to settle into sleep, worn out from their trying day and, well, what else are they going to do? Not like they can play a game of cards.

Dean feels a surge of pride when their shelter holds up, even as he starts to hear rain splatter against the palm fronds.

But after the heat of the day, Dean didn’t expect for it to get so cold so fast. They didn’t have any luck building a fire with the island still mostly damp, no tools to use, and the shelter taking priority. So the lack of a fire isn’t ideal, but Dean has to admit that the wet clothes aren’t helping either.

He starts shivering audibly in the dark, praying that Cas has fallen asleep by now, but knowing his luck is never that good.

He hears Cas sigh and shift around, and suddenly he’s right up against Dean’s back, breath hot against Dean’s skin, arm wrapped around his middle.

“Said I’m fine,” Dean whispers, voice shaky.

“Don’t be stubborn,” Cas hisses into Dean’s ear. A few beats pass, Dean trembling in Cas’s hold, before Cas sighs. “You drive me crazy,” he murmurs, voice dipping into a growl.

Dean barely has time to wonder about the possible double meaning of those words before he feels Cas’s lips on the back of his neck, hand slipping low, towards the hem of Dean’s shirt.

If Dean were a bit further in denial, he might blame the swoop of his stomach on revulsion. But that wouldn’t explain the way his pulse has suddenly skyrocketed in excitement, or why he lets Cas peel him out of his clothes, breaking out in goosebumps as his skin is bared. He feels warmer already, with Cas wrapped around him, his surprisingly hot hands wandering up Dean’s chest, a flush traveling down Dean’s neck.

Cas’s fingertips brush against his nipple, and he lets out a pathetic sound that Cas, thankfully, takes as encouragement. Dean arches into it as Cas teases and pinches, moaning louder – who’s going to hear him? – and reaches back to tangle his fingers in Cas’s hair.

Dean can’t remember the last time he was this desperate for it, already panting and aching. Cas’s hand dips again, but then he seems to hesitate. Dean wraps his own shaking hand around Cas’s and urges it down, almost sobbing in relief when Cas finally touches him.

Cas tries to push closer, teeth against Dean’s neck; Dean feels Cas’s cock press against his ass, nudging lower, and Dean adjusts his position so Cas can slip between his legs, rock into the soft pressure of his thighs.

It’s a more thrilling sensation than Dean had anticipated, and his orgasm takes him entirely by surprise, cock pulsing in Cas’s hand, gasping half-formed words that sound a lot like Cas’s name. Cas follows a few increasingly frantic thrusts later, muffling his groan in Dean’s hair, spilling hot against his skin.

It grows quiet, and Dean expects the panic to set in, for the regret to seep through their shared space and undo any progress they’ve made. But Dean just feels calm, calmer than he has in months, body loose and satisfied. He’s this close to dozing off when Cas’s voice startles him.

“I was steering recklessly,” he says with a sigh. “You warned me.”

Dean turns in Cas’s arms, enough to look at him over his shoulder. Dean searches his face for a moment, and finds nothing but sincerity. “You told me you needed better directions,” he admits, eyes flicking away guiltily. “I wasn’t on top of it.”

Cas smiles in acknowledgment, but doesn’t say anything. He brings one of his hands to Dean’s face, fingertips caressing Dean’s cheek, unexpectedly tender.

Cas leans forward and kisses him.

Everything seems a lot clearer than it did only hours ago. Looking into Cas’s eyes, Dean’s struck by how right it feels. It makes sense now, the way Cas has always gotten his heart pounding in a way he mistook for distaste, the itch he had to lay his hands on Cas, not to give him a good smack for being a jerk, but just to touch him, to feel that contact and connection. This is what they’ve been needing. He wonders how long they’ve wanted it without realizing it.

Cas pulls back, still affectionately running his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Are you warmer now?”

Dean doesn’t detect even the slightest note of teasing; Cas is just looking out for him. It’s starting to sink in now, how often he does that. Dean kisses him again, because he can. “Much better.” A moment of comfortable silence passes. “Think we’ll get out of here?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says with a hum, letting their foreheads touch. “But I think we can make the best of it, don’t you?”

Dean’s more at peace with the idea than he would’ve thought. Maybe the company’s not so bad after all.

*   *   *

Well, fuck.

So, okay, obviously he was wrong about the solution to his dream problem, which… complicates things.

It does occur to him that maybe he wasn’t wrong, exactly. Maybe he just needs to take another shot at uh, getting it out of his system.

But something about that idea doesn’t seem right. He’s unopposed to getting a little more of what he got the other night. He can’t deny that the pull is still there, that the thought of Cas’s body, his mouth, his hands is still enough to make him squirm, but…

It doesn’t seem worth getting his rocks off, no matter how spectacularly, if he’s going to end up feeling like this.

Because there was something different about this last dream. He’s never woken up from any of the previous ones with this sense of loss, his bed seeming so empty, that urgent feeling of lust strangely absent.

It wasn’t a completely tame dream, sure, but this time that stuff took a backseat to everything else. There was more talking and feelings and… and being held. Even now his most vivid memories are of being safe and warm, looking into Cas’s eyes, and he’s not as eager to put those images out of his mind as he usually is.

That’s probably not a good sign.

He starts his day carrying around a hollow ache in his chest. It’s not anxiety about running into Cas, at least, but it doesn’t feel like an improvement.

And it feels infinitely worse when he finally makes it to the kitchen and finds only Sam seated at the table.

“Where’s Cas?” Dean asks, too out of sorts to try sounding casual.

It’s not unusual for Cas to not be around, really. Dean’s not totally sure what made him ask this time, but he feels his vague distress solidifying into a rock in his stomach.

“He said he had some things to do,” Sam says, taking a bite of toast. “Why, did he leave his clothes in the dryer again? I told you your nagging doesn’t work on him.”

But Dean’s not listening, doesn’t even wait for more information on Cas’s whereabouts, just beelines it to the garage to check for himself.

He tries to squash it down like always, that little seed of bitterness in his heart, the one he always chalks up to annoyance, expresses with anger but nope, there it is, flaring to life, digging in like a knife to the gut when he sees that Cas’s car is gone.

“Goddammit,” he mutters, jaw clenched, breathing hard through his nose.

He should be used to this, but the timing of it just doesn’t sit well with him at all, completely throws him for a loop. For Cas to take off now—

That hurt that he’s always buried beneath cheapshot comments and petty jabs starts to reveal itself, more overwhelming than ever because this rollercoaster Dean’s been on has left him off-balance, vulnerable. Unwanted emotions are seeping in through his defenses, and he’s left wrestling with guilt, worrying he might have driven Cas away, fighting off a sting that feels an awful lot like rejection and it just…

Fuck. He just— he misses Cas. The way he felt this morning is starting to make a lot more sense.

He’s always taken great pains not to put that label on it, needing that aloof façade for the sake of his personal well-being, but it’s out there now, and as soon as it occurs to him, he wishes it hadn’t. As much as he’d like to pretend, there’s no unringing that bell.

This is his own damn fault. Once he allowed himself the possibility of feeling physically attracted to Cas, that opened up the damn floodgates, and every confusing, inconvenient feeling he’s ever had about Cas just came rushing to the surface.

And now Cas is gone, Dean wishes he weren’t, and that fucking sucks. Dean leans against the hood of the nearest car, scrubbing a hand over his face because Jesus Christ, what is he supposed to do with that revelation?

Against his better judgment, he reaches into his pocket and digs out his phone.

He stares at Cas’s name in his contacts, thumb hovering over [CALL], but he loses his nerve, opens up the messenger instead.

He taps out Didn’t peg you for a hit it and quit it kinda guy and immediately erases it. It was supposed to be a joke, but…

He makes another attempt at something lighthearted – Whatever happened to leaving a note – but he scraps that one too, changes tack, drafts and deletes a couple of downright pissy texts.

You’re not supposed to just up and disappear without telling someone

If you don’t want to be here you can just come out and say it

He frowns and tries again.

Where are you

When are you coming back

Why’d you leave – that one he can’t bring himself to type up at all, horrified for even thinking it.

The cursor in the still-empty text field flashes mockingly at him. He scowls and shoves his phone back into his pocket, pushes away from the car because he needs to… do something, he doesn’t know.

For the next couple of days he paces, fidgets, sleeps restlessly. He also keeps checking his phone so often that he gets disgusted with himself, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it. He cycles through all his compulsive self-soothing behavior: rearranging his entire room, washing ten cars in the garage (not including his own), alphabetizing his movie collection. He’d planned on cleaning the kitchen within an inch of its life, but he took one look at the counter and remembered and decided to organize the armory instead.

Dean knows the best thing to get his mind clear would be to find a job and hit the road, but—it’s so stupid, but he doesn’t want to leave in case Cas comes back while he’s gone.

One evening, Dean’s in the war room, finally tackling that one annoying wobbly chair, when he hears footsteps. He isn’t expecting it, but when he looks up there’s Cas, just as abruptly as he’d vanished. Dean licks his lips, heart pounding, and if he’d had any doubt that his feelings for Cas might go a little deeper than he’d first thought, there’d be no arguing against that now. Dean’s not an expert on this, but he’s experienced it enough to know what it is, to know that it’s more terrifying and overwhelming than it’s ever been.

Cas descends the stairs, looking a little tired and rumpled but still, y’know. Good. Dean’s relieved to clap eyes on him. It’s only been about four days, but it felt a lot fucking longer.

“Uh,” Dean says, straightening up as Cas approaches the table and puts his bag down. “Hey.” He swallows down a Good to see you, and normally he might’ve greeted Cas with a clap on the shoulder, even initiated a hug if he was feeling bold, but now…

“Hello, Dean,” Cas replies as he pulls out a chair close to Dean and sits, a fond, slightly lopsided smile on his face that stirs up something warm in Dean’s chest.

Dean clears his throat. “How’s everything?”

“Fine.” Cas leans back and regards Dean with half-lidded eyes. “How are you?”

“Good,” Dean says too quickly. “Great. You know, hanging in there. Same old, same old.” Oh god, he’s babbling, when did he turn into such a disaster, what is wrong with—

Wait.

“The hell is that?” Dean asks, leaning closer to inspect a tear in Cas’s shirt sleeve, a few inches down from his shoulder. It’s almost hidden in the red plaid pattern, but that’s definitely blood staining the fabric, a nasty looking cut visible through the frayed hole.

“Oh,” Cas says, glancing at his arm, disinterested. “That’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Dean says, frowning and crossing his arms.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Cas says gently, maybe seeing the worry in Dean’s face.

“It bothers me,” Dean grits out. He hears You’re hurt echoing in his mind like dialogue stolen from a romance novel protagonist, perched at the rugged hero’s side, but he can’t be bothered to berate himself over that right now.

Cas’s eyes dart away for a brief second before flicking back up towards Dean. “I’d heal it, but…”

Right, saving the mojo for emergencies. Looks like an emergency came up. Cas would’ve been a lot worse off if he’d spent energy patching up minor lacerations, no doubt, though the thought of that makes Dean’s stomach turn.

“Take that off,” he says sternly, nodding towards Cas’s overshirt and setting off to get the first aid kit. “Don’t go anywhere.”

When he comes back, he pulls up a chair next to Cas and gets to work.

“What happened?” he asks, but it comes out slightly frantic, demanding.

Cas smiles to himself, somehow both sad and amused. “Well, you know I’m not very popular with the other angels right now.”

Heaven business, then Dean thinks, scowling. “Well, fuck them,” he says, reaching for the antiseptic. “The people that matter like you.”

Cas’s smile is fuller now, more genuine. “That’s good to know.”

Dean feels a blush coming on and he has to look away, concentrating on the task at hand.

Cas hardly blinks as Dean cleans his wound, though Dean’s sure it’s gotta hurt like a bitch. Dean wonders if he’s deliberately easing the pain away, if he’s trying to be macho, or if he’s just that difficult to faze.

Dean certainly got a rise out of him the other night, tapped into that wild side that Dean’s always known was lurking beneath the surface, but now’s not the time to be thinking about that.

Dean’s clinical approach is suddenly hard to maintain, inescapably aware of his hands on Cas’s tan, muscular arm, remembering how it felt to be wrapped in Cas’s embrace, his touch strong and assuring and—okay, maybe the base lust is better to focus on after all.

Dean knows Cas is looking at him, and he has to fight to keep his fingers steady enough to get the bandage on straight.

“Thank you.”

“You’ve done the same for me,” Dean says, shrugging off the thrill he gets from the affection and sincerity in Cas’s voice. “Not quite as impressive when I do it, though.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Cas says, and when their eyes finally meet again, Dean feels his stomach flip, heart pounding again.

He clears his throat, looking away to pack up the first aid kit. “You should probably take that bandage off tomorrow.”

“I will.”

Dean should leave now, he should. And he does, eventually. But for the first time in a while, he felt like he didn’t quite want to.

That night, he dreams that he and Cas are in a vast meadow, a sea of bright flowers stretching out endlessly around them. Dean can smell their subtle fragrance, feel the sunshine on his skin and the gentle breeze in his hair.

Cas gazes intently into his eyes as they lie face to face, their legs nearly intertwined, and pulls Dean into a passionate kiss. Dean readily gives himself over to it, rolling to let Cas press him down on his back, feeling flower stems bend beneath his weight.

Cas takes a moment to gaze down at him, fierce adoration written all over his face. “You mean everything to me,” he whispers, palm cupping Dean’s cheek. “You’re all I want.”

Dean makes a desperate noise and cranes forward for another kiss, hands fisted in Cas’s shirt. “Need you, Cas,” he pants, absolutely aching for Cas, wanting him closer, anything to sate the hunger that’s consuming him. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” Cas assures him.

“Cas,” Dean gasps when he has miles of skin bare to his touch, Cas’s heated, reverent words in his ear, overcome by bliss and fulfillment like he’s never known or could ever aspire to. “Cas.”

He wakes up before it gets any further, feeling cold, lonely without the warmth of the sun or Cas’s embrace.

Dean’s made an art out of denial by now, can easily navigate his more vulnerable moments by retreating into a convincing shell of performative flippancy, but as he’s gotten older, it’s gotten a lot harder to fool himself with that act.

And at this point, it’s definitely becoming clear what unresolved feelings are causing these dreams—what Dean really wants, even if he’s reluctant to admit it.

But it’s not just about him. He’s asked a lot of Cas since they first crossed paths, and now he’s gone and complicated their whole dynamic even further by not being able to keep his hands to himself.

It just wouldn’t be right to try to rope Cas into anything more… serious. He’s dreamed of Cas as a freakin’ sexy vampire, for god’s sake, but wanting what he had in that last dream is what feels like a violation, like too much to ask.

It’s almost unfair of his subconscious to show him that at all, to put those impossible ideas in his head. He wouldn’t even know where to begin going about this, even if he did think he had a shot. There might’ve been a time when he thought Cas felt a certain way about him, but now that they’ve crossed that line, well, Dean knows better.

Because Cas has made it perfectly clear where his priorities are, and they’re not at home with Dean. And why the hell should they be? Dean knows it wouldn’t be a picnic to be saddled with him, especially with the way he’s been behaving lately.

Stupid, stupid, stupid getting attached to someone who never sticks around. Great job, Dean. Real good work.

*   *   *

The following weeks are difficult.

Cas disappearing was a blessing when Dean was worried about an uncomfortable situation. He almost wishes he could go back to that. He’s not sure why it should matter if Cas is actually in the bunker or not, if Dean doesn’t see him either way, but he’s still masochistic enough to check every time, and he has no choice but to just nurse that sting when Cas’s usual parking spot is empty. He finds himself holing up in his bedroom more often than he did when he was actively avoiding Cas.

Then he won’t feel right again until he Cas returns, even if Dean doesn’t actually see him. Lying in bed and hearing Cas enter his own room is enough. Just knowing that Cas has come home makes Dean sleep better, and he needs all the help with that that he can get, because the dreams haven’t slowed down at all.

He definitely can’t blame them on lust anymore; half of them don’t even get close to scandalous territory.

Like the one where he and Cas get snowed in in a cabin, and end up wrapped in a blanket, sharing their first kiss in front of the fireplace.

Then there’s one where they’re in an ancient villa, Dean reclining on a couch while Cas feeds him grapes and reads him love poetry. He’s almost embarrassed that he dreamed that up. What’s more embarrassing is that he liked it so much, even without any X-rated scenes to offset how sickeningly romantic it was.

The worst are the dreams where he doesn’t remember much beyond Cas’s smile, his laugh, their fingers intertwined, snatches of ardent confessions in Cas’s low, earnest tones—in Dean’s own voice, too, spilling his guts like he’d never dare to in real life, but it’s safe to do it there, when Cas is with him, wants him back.

Dreams where Dean just feels happy.

Even when Cas is home, things still aren’t easy. It takes everything Dean has to not go seeking him out, even though he has no idea what he’d even say, and anytime he gets close to Cas he thinks he might do something stupid, like kiss him. Again.

He still thinks about that more often than he’d like to. If he’d had any kind of chance of making this happen, it would’ve been then, and he fucked it up by pretending that it didn’t mean anything. Then again, Cas didn’t seem to have a problem with that, which is… yeah, okay, fine. Message received.

It’s pathetic, mooning over Cas the way he is, clinging to fantasies because he knows that’s the best he can hope for.

Still, Dean can’t fight how good it feels to see Cas when they do run into each other. His heart races when Cas smiles at him or is amused by one of his dumb jokes. When Cas brings Dean dessert from a diner he stopped at on his way back, or tells him about how he’d tracked down a werewolf pack and easily eliminated it, Dean has no control over the pleasure that starts in his stomach and spreads all the way to his toes. When Cas offers a casual, friendly touch, Dean can’t deny that that spark of lust is still there, on top of everything else, but it’s different now: still electric, but more dangerous.

It was only a matter of time before he found himself creeping around the gym again. It’s like he just can’t stay away this time around either, but everything about this situation feels completely different than before.

He hovers in the doorway, undetected, watching Cas as he repeatedly strikes a punching bag, blows forceful, face determined. A realization sparks in Dean’s mind. He was right, wasn’t he; this whole working out thing goes beyond simple maintenance. He didn’t buy that explanation at the time because he thought Cas was messing with him, but seeing Cas in a fighting stance gives Dean a much clearer picture of why Cas probably does this. It’s gotta be important to him to feel powerful even without his grace, to be able to protect himself and anyone else who might need it. Looking good is just a bonus.

“Hello Dean,” Cas says, and Dean chooses not to wonder how long Cas has known that he’s been there. Cas focuses his energy on one last punch before dropping his arms, turning to Dean. “Did you come to join me?”

Dean feels caught. It’s just as obvious as the first time that he has no intention of working out. “No, I just…” His feet just kind of brought him here, because he wants to get in Cas’s space, soak up his warmth, like he gets to do in his dreams, like he did in reality for one, fantastic, fleeting moment.

Cas catches his gaze and holds it steadily, letting the moment hang. Cas tends to do that, look at him just a little too long, and sometimes Dean thinks he sees something in his eyes but, no, that can’t be right. Wishful thinking.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, looking away, flustered. “Fuck, I don’t know, I… never mind, just—Sorry.” He pretends he doesn’t hear Cas say his name. He’s already out the door anyway.

It might be hard for Dean to keep his distance, but he has to, at least for a little while. For everyone’s sake.

*   *   *

Cas is breathtaking. Dean never tires of watching the graceful, fierce way he moves. Dean’s seen him like this on the battlefield, taking down enemies with ruthless efficiency, but he’s also reminded of the times he shares with Cas far from the horrors of war, their sacred, stolen moments together in his bedchamber. No one questions the crown prince spending time with his most trusted knight.

The last of the melee combatants has been dispatched, leaving Cas as the clear tournament winner. He waves to the crowd as it erupts in applause, sending a knowing nod in the direction of the royal family. By all appearances, it’s merely a respectful gesture, but Dean catches the glint in Cas’s eyes when they land on Dean, lingering as Cas turns away and strides out of the arena towards the competitors’ tents. Dean wastes no time in slipping out of the stands and taking off after him.

When Dean finally ducks into the tent, Cas’s squire, as discreet as ever, leaves with a nod of Dean’s head.

For a moment he and Cas just look at each other, before Dean breaks the silence. “That was quite an impressive performance,” he says with a cheeky smile. Cas is even more mesmerizing up close. Dean isn’t a stranger to wearing armor himself, but there’s something about the way it looks on Cas that stirs up a secret pleasure in his stomach.

Cas smirks back at him, depositing his sword and shield on a table. “That was my intention.”

Dean laughs and steps into Cas’s space. It’s so refreshing that Cas isn’t meek and deferential. Not with Dean.

Cas’s smile widens. “Have you come to bring me my prize?”

Dean laughs again and leans in to kiss Cas, the metal of his armor unyielding beneath Dean’s fingers.

When they part, Cas gazes at him fondly, gloved hand cupping Dean’s cheek. “That’s a much better reward than a sack of gold.”

Dean feels a blush grace his cheeks, and he averts his eyes, setting them on the crook of Cas’s arm. “You wore it,” he says softly, hand slipping down to the bit of fabric tied around Cas’s armor, the green handkerchief he gave Cas before the tournament. The one that Cas says matches his eyes.

“Of course,” Cas says with surprising ferocity, the mirth gone from his face.

Dean can scarcely breathe when Cas looks at him like that. “Let me help you,” he implores, sliding off Cas’s gloves and plucking at his armor. Dean helps him remove it bit by bit – something a servant would do, but those roles don’t seem to mean much between the two of them – and it’s a relief as each piece falls away, breastplate carefully unlatched and removed, chainmail lifted off and cast to the floor.

It’s really Cas underneath, all heat and solidity, rough palms and strong muscles. Dean presses in tight, aligns them head to toe and kisses Cas again, unbothered by the sweat sticking to his skin.

Before long, Cas is urging him down onto the pallet in the corner of the tent. It’s far less comfortable than Dean’s luxurious bed, but there’s nowhere Dean would rather be.

“They’ll be expecting you at the award ceremony,” Dean says as Cas leaves a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“I don’t care,” Cas growls, and Dean only said it to tease, but as always, Cas is more earnest than he planned for. “I’m where I want to be.”

Something tugs at Dean’s heart when Cas’s sentiments echo his own thoughts from only moments ago. Dean runs his hands up Cas’s back, tries to pull him down again, but Cas isn’t finished.

There’s a wildness in Cas’s eyes that Dean recognizes, when all of his feelings for Dean come into sharp focus, when he directs them at Dean with such intensity that Dean wouldn’t be able to stand it if it didn’t make him feel so amazing. “Nothing is more important to me than you are, Dean,” he says, “When I’m in battle, all I can think of is returning to you. The promise of touching you keeps me sane. It keeps me alive.”

“Well, good,” Dean says, lump in his throat. “Alive is the way I like you.”

“I feel exactly the same way about you,” Cas says seriously. “I’ll do whatever I need to keep you safe. I won’t leave your side as long as I’m permitted to be there.”

It never fails to awe Dean, to humble him, to know that Cas would put his life down for him in a second if asked, and not just out of loyalty to the crown.

Maybe it’s inappropriate, but Dean would do the same.

“You belong at my side,” Dean says fiercely. “And I belong at yours. Don’t—” his voice breaks, overcome with emotion. “Don’t leave me, Cas,” he whispers, feeling selfish but too enamored to care. Cas means the world to him, and Dean’s not about to let him go. “Please.”

“Never,” Cas replies, framing Dean’s face in his hands. “Never, I swear.”

If Dean feels his eyes burning when he shudders awake, he chooses to ignore it. It’s still the middle of the night, but there’s no way Dean can go back to sleep, not after a dream like that. Not if he’s doing it alone.

He’d almost be proud of himself for admitting that if it didn’t make him feel like absolute shit.

Might as well get up and try to clear his head. Maybe raid the fridge, really lean into all these feelings and indulge in some emotional eating.

He’s somehow not surprised that Cas is already there, seated at the table in the dimly lit kitchen. He just had a feeling. They only glance at each other silently as Dean walks by to open the refrigerator, but his brain doesn’t even register the food he’s supposed to be looking at. He’s too distracted, hyperaware of Cas behind him, his posture tense.

“Trouble sleeping?” Cas asks.

In his peripheral vision, Dean can see Cas rise from his seat and walk over, standing on the opposite side of the kitchen island.

“Uh,” Dean says, self-consciously rubbing the back of his neck and letting the fridge door swing closed. “Something like that.”

Cas leans on the surface of the counter, looking at Dean intently. “Anything I can do?”

Dean doesn’t know if that’s supposed to be a come on, but a voice in his head tells him to stop projecting. Another part of him has a feeling that he could ask Cas to come to bed with him, in any sense of the term, and Cas, accommodating as he is, would go along with it.

But that’s not fair. Dean’s too needy, and this is too messy already. Even now he’s watching Cas’s fingers resting against the reflective metal and wondering what it would be like to hold Cas’s hand. “No,” he says, abrupt, shaking his head at himself more than anything else. “I’m good.”

“Okay.” A few beats pass, and Cas shifts on his feet, clearing his throat. “I was planning on heading out in the morning.”

Dean’s not sure why Cas is telling him this. He doesn’t usually bother. “How long?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

“I’m not sure,” Cas says slowly. For a moment, Dean almost thinks that he detects a faint apologetic note, but he dismisses that idea immediately.  “It might be a while.”

“Right,” Dean says, voice tight. Cas telling him this way might be worse than just waking up to find him already gone. “Cool.” This used to be easier when he’d cover things up by acting like a passive-aggressive dickhead. Now the hurt inside is exposed and raw, and he has no choice but to face it head on and wallow in it.

“Unless—” Cas attempts, his words careful. “Unless you need me here.”

Dean’s overcome with the usual guilt, that his pathetic clinginess might be keeping Cas from whatever he has to take care of, or just stopping him from… having a little space, if that’s what he wants.

As much as a selfish part of him is willing to lie to keep Cas here, there’s no legitimate excuse he can come up with, and in the end, that’s just not how he wants to do things. “You can—” He swallows. “You do what you gotta do.” He can’t bring himself to actually deny it, to say out loud that he doesn’t need Cas here. “I’ll be—we’ll be fine.”

There’s something behind the look in Cas’s eyes, but it’s gone before Dean can interpret it. “All right,” Cas says, pushing away from the counter. “I should… get some sleep then.”

“Yeah.”

“Good night, Dean.”

For one insane moment, Dean considers pulling Cas back for a kiss, just like Cas did to him. But he doesn’t have the balls for it, just mumbles a weak, “G’night, man,” as Cas walks out of the room.

Dean’s bed is just as empty as he left it, but he figures it’s about time he gets used to it.

*   *   *

It’s hot. After decades of enduring this unforgiving atmosphere, Dean would’ve thought he’d get used to it, but it’s just as oppressive as the moment he arrived, long before he took up the lash and became the tormentor instead of the tormented, as if that would mean he’d suffer any less.

He flexes his aching fingers, looking away from his latest victim, sick with shame.

Suddenly, a blue-white light in the distance catches his eye, approaching with such speed that it makes Dean gasp, ash and smoke searing his throat, constricting his lungs.

In an instant, the light is all he can see, its luminescence drowning out Dean’s grim surroundings. The broken bodies fade into the background, the blazing hellfire snuffed out, overwhelmed by this new presence. The lash falls from Dean’s hand.

He stares in awe, knees quaking. The radiant form in front of him is too bright to see properly, too impossibly huge for Dean’s human eyes to behold it all at once, but he certainly tries, his enraptured gaze darting from the thrashing animal heads to the fluttering wings.

It’s almost too much to bear, but Dean doesn’t dare look away, couldn’t even if he wanted to, held in the approaching figure’s thrall; all at once he realizes he knows this magnificent creature, and he reverently breathes his full name, eyes stinging, legs weak.

“Castiel.”

When Castiel reaches Dean, his form is no longer blinding and ethereal. His arms are solid and real and surprisingly human when they encircle Dean—arms that have held Dean before, all too briefly, that Dean hopes never let him go.

He feels clean when Castiel – Cas – touches him, free of burdens, of sulfur, of the blood of damned souls. He’s drawn in by Cas’s eyes, glowing with an otherworldly power, the shadow of his true form still looming over them, wings spread, curling over Dean’s head. Dean should be petrified; Cas could crush him in an instant with nothing but a thought, but Dean finds only safety here, something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“It’s time to go,” Cas tells him, hand cupping Dean’s cheek. “You’ve been here for far too long.”

Dean trembles at the deep rumble of Cas’s voice, at how badly he wants to listen to it. “I belong here, Cas,” he says, closing his eyes, afraid he might give in otherwise, dare to hope that this could be real.

“No,” Cas says, calm but insistent. “You belong with me.”

Dean’s eyes start to sting again, and he opens them, heart pounding. “Cas, I—”

“I’m not leaving you,” Cas replies, more forcefully. Then, quieter, “You deserve to be saved.”

He turns Dean around and slots in behind him, one arm wrapped tightly around Dean, the other manifesting his blade, ready to fight. There’s a blistering heat where Cas’s hand rests against Dean’s arm, cradling Dean to his chest, but it’s not painful. Cas is nothing but warmth and light, more intense, more beautiful than anything Dean has ever experienced.

“It’s all right, Dean,” Cas whispers in his ear, his booming voice, capable of shattering glass, reined in for Dean’s benefit, soft and intimate. “You don’t have to be alone anymore,” he says, and Dean lets himself go at last, holds on as tightly as he can as Cas prepares to take flight.

Dean bolts upright in his bed, tangled in the blankets. He’s still shaking, fighting back a sob, eyes welled up and spilling over. He swears he can still feel his shoulder burning from Cas’s touch.

He’s out of bed and down the hall towards Cas’s room before he even realizes what he’s doing, startled when Cas opens the door before Dean can even knock. There are still tears trailing down Dean’s face, and Cas looks slightly alarmed at the sight of him.

“Dean?” Cas asks, voice gentle.

Dean inhales shakily, hands clenched at his sides. “It was bullshit, Cas,”

“What?”

“When I said that it was just… fooling around, that it was no big deal, that was all bullshit, okay?”

Dean was totally shaken by that dream. He’s been so caught up wondering how the hell he started dreaming about romance novels that he didn’t even realize he’s practically been living in one. And it’s about time he stopped ignoring the romance part of that.

Dean can’t catch his breath, keeps rambling on. “It wasn’t just—I want—” he tries to stammer through it but he can’t fucking do this, he doesn’t have the words.

But Cas just reaches up, cradles Dean’s face in his hands and kisses him. Dean clutches Cas’s arms as he pulls back and Cas wipes away Dean’s tears with his thumbs, his expression fond and sincere. “Come inside,” he says, taking Dean’s hand and leading him into his room.

Dean blinks in the faint light filtering in from the hallway. He’s been keeping his distance from Cas’s room, for obvious reasons, and he’s caught off-guard by how lived-in it looks, clothes strewn about the floor, a dog-eared book resting on the bedside table.

Then the door clicks closed behind him, and he looks at Cas, faintly terrified, heart pounding. “Cas, I…”

Cas just squeezes Dean’s hand, like he understands everything, and to be honest, he probably fucking does. “It’s all right,” he whispers, words echoing Dean’s dream, and something in Dean breaks. He pulls Cas in by the front of his shirt and kisses him desperately.

The sheets are still warm from Cas’s body when he pushes Dean down onto the mattress. “Let me see you,” he implores as he undresses Dean, and it’s hard to believe that Dean’s body could affect Cas the same way that Cas’s body has affected him, but he’s too overwhelmed by the desire in Cas’s eyes to question it.

Dean’s laid bare in every sense of the word, Cas touching him reverently, murmuring his name with utter adoration. This is it, Dean realizes, the sense of fulfillment and contentment that he was missing, that he thought he could only have in his dreams – and he’s gotta say, with Cas’s mouth on his, his words of praise hot in Dean’s ear, their bodies intertwined, fantasy’s got nothing on the real thing.

It’s different when Dean wakes up this time. He isn’t lacking a faint sense of arousal, mind lingering on pleasant thoughts, but he feels none of the shame, none of the frustration and longing that have plagued him for weeks.

He’s on his side with Cas tucked up behind him, and in the early morning fuzziness, he can admit that he feels safe and held. Strong arms are good for that too, it turns out. Now he can fully appreciate how much of a disappointment it’s been to wake up alone.

“’m I dreamin’?” he slurs. That’s usually the only time he gets to have something like this.

He goes all gooey inside when Cas chuckles behind him, a low rumble that Dean can feel vibrate through him. “No,” he says, smile in his voice. “You’re not.”

“Good,” Dean says, sighing happily when Cas’s lips ghost along the back of his neck. “Just had to check. Been having a lot of crazy dreams lately.”

Cas tenses, so minutely that Dean wouldn’t have noticed it if they weren’t wrapped together so close.

“Cas?”

“I know,” Cas says after a beat. “About the dreams.”

Dean blinks, much more awake, trying to process that. “What?” What the hell is that even supposed to mean? “You been talking to Sam or something?” he asks, racking his brain for how Cas could have heard about this.

“No, I—” Cas cuts himself off, sounding uncomfortable. Dean can feel him shift restlessly, thumb tracing a nervous back and forth pattern against Dean’s stomach. About time the shoe was on the other foot. “I didn’t know this until I started sleeping regularly, but I tend to… wander, and something about your dreams must have called to me, so—”

“What, like, you were dream walking?” Dean interrupts, breezing past wherever Cas was going with that last part. Then what Cas is saying starts to really sink in, and Dean turns around to look at him, eyes widening. “Holy shit, was that actually you?” Dean’s not entirely sure how to feel about his dream self getting down with Cas before his real self got the chance.

“No,” Cas is quick to reassure him. “No, it wasn’t like that. I could only see your dreams, I—” He hesitates, looking sheepish. “I thought they were mine, at first.”

That’s interesting. “But you figured it out,” Dean prompts.

“Eventually. I noticed a pattern with the timing of the dreams and your… behavior.”

Dean wonders how many dreams it took before Cas put the pieces together, what exactly gave him away.

Cas smiles at him faintly. “Then I had a much better understanding of things.”

“Dude,” Dean says with a laugh. “You should’ve said something. Woulda saved us a lot of trouble.”

“I thought you might be angry. I was invading something private.”

Dean frowns. “Well it’s not like you meant to do it.”

Cas raises a skeptical eyebrow at him and okay, yeah, even Dean has to admit that he wouldn’t be quite so understanding if he’d found out in different circumstances. “I was afraid I’d drive you away,” Cas says. “I didn’t want to push you.”

Dean laughs again, mostly to himself. “Starting to think maybe I could use a push sometimes.”

Cas’s smile is back. “Sometimes,” he allows, which is generous, in Dean’s opinion. “You got there on your own this time.”

“I guess,” Dean mumbles, feeling warm from the fond look Cas is giving him. “I mean, the dreams probably helped.” He lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Can’t believe you saw all that though. Christ, that’s embarrassing.”

“You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about,” Cas replies smoothly as he gathers Dean close again, his hands reassuring on Dean’s back. “I rather enjoyed them,” he says in a low voice, a glint in his eyes that Dean is very into. “The one where we worked in an office, is that really something you—”

“It was a dream,” Dean says quickly, face on fire. “But… some of it. I dunno.”

It’s less mortifying to admit that than he would’ve expected. It’s a little exciting, honestly, because Cas has already seen some of his more secret desires, and it turns out he easily mistook them for his own. He definitely looks intrigued when Dean doesn’t deny his interest.

Dean licks his lips, suddenly feeling bold. “What else did you like?”

Cas looks at him, head tilted thoughtfully, and in a blink, he and Dean are lying in a meadow, surrounded by colorful flowers.

For a brief, sinking moment, Dean thinks he must have been dreaming after all. Of course this was too good to be true. But this—Cas did this. With Cas living in the bunker, slumming it like a human, Dean had almost forgotten what he was capable of, and this is how Cas chose to remind him. There are countless small but vital things that Cas decided were a waste of his power, but not this. Making a dramatic gesture for Dean… apparently, that’s worth it.

“Do you remember this one?”

Dean nods, licking his lips again, his shaky hands fisted in Cas’s shirt.

“I liked this one because it was the first time I got to tell you how important you are,” Cas says, with a soft smile, cupping Dean’s face in his palm. “How much you mean to me.”

Dean sucks in a breath, heart hammering beneath his ribcage. His eyes start to burn.

For a moment, Cas looks lost in thought, but he finds Dean’s gaze again and holds it for a few heavy seconds. “I feel as if I’ve told you countless times by now, but I love you in every sense of the word as I understand it,” he says at last, perfectly calm and confident. “And I wanted you to hear that from me, in reality, so you would know just how real my feelings are.”

“God, Cas,” Dean breathes, blinking back tears. Not even the most outlandish fantasy could have prepared him for this. “I—I’m not good at this.” He forces a weak laugh. “I was way better at it in dreamland, but—” Where does he even begin? He inhales deeply, bolstered by the patience and, fuck, love he sees in Cas’s eyes. “You make me want stuff I thought I’d never get to have—like this morning, waking up with you there, that was… Thought I’d have to be stupid to want that, but I do.” Doubt starts creeping in. “But if we’re doing this, I—” He pauses and swallows. “I can’t do this halfway, okay?”

Cas looks confused, but waits for him to continue.

“You’re gonna stay, right?” Dean feels panic rising. His neediness is gonna ruin everything. “You just, you disappear on me, man, I can’t—” He cuts himself off, breathing raggedly.

“Dean.” Cas wipes away a tear as it spills onto Dean’s cheek. “I will always come back to you, no matter what business pulls me elsewhere.”

Old, deep-seated habits tell Dean to take that sentiment as rejection, as unwillingness to deal with Dean’s emotional demands. There’s a part of him that thinks this is exactly what he feared: committing to Dean is just too much to ask.

But the part of him that dares to hope recognizes the promise Cas is making to him. Being with Dean doesn’t have to mean that Cas gives up his freedom, or that Dean has to feel abandoned, as long as Dean trusts Cas enough to believe he’ll return. Cas has earned that trust by now.

“I will always come back to you,” Cas repeats.

Dean sniffs and manages a crooked smile. “You fucking better.”

“I promise,” Cas confirms. He takes hold of Dean’s hand and kisses his knuckles. “This is where I want to be, as long as you’ll have me.”

“Even if that’s forever?” Dean asks, and that was supposed to be a joke but the second he hears himself say it, he wonders who the hell he was trying to kid.

Cas smiles at him in that pleased and serene way he often does. “I had every intention of staying with you that long regardless. I’m glad that this is the way I get to do it.”

Dean finds himself transfixed by Cas’s eyes, so strongly reminded of his dream that tears form in his eyes all over again, because that—that actually happened, this unfathomably powerful celestial being just swept into Dean’s life like a hurricane, exactly when Dean needed him the most.

Cas saved him. And now Cas wants to be with him forever.

Dean pulls him in for a kiss, his eyes stinging. He savors it this time, as if this one is their first. He’s overcome with a sense of contentment and completion, feels butterflies in his stomach. When he pulls back he doesn’t let Cas go far, just whispers into their shared space before he loses his nerve. “Me too, okay? About everything you said, I just—I love you, too. Dreams are fun and all, but this is better. You and me.”

Cas grins. “Does that mean you’ll stop running out of the room every time you see me?”

Dean lets out a surprised laugh. God, this little shit. “No promises,” he teases.

Suddenly Cas presses forward and pushes Dean onto his back, pinning him in place. “Then I’ll just have to keep you here,” he says with a glint in his eye.

That is an almost unforgivably corny move, but it makes Dean laugh anyway. He takes the opportunity to admire Cas’s muscular physique braced above him, ogling shamelessly just because he can. “Yeah, you’d definitely have no problem doing that,” Dean says, running appreciative hands along Cas’s flexed biceps.

Cas tilts his head as he stares down at Dean, a mix of amusement and curiosity on his face. “You really do like that, don’t you?”

Cas’s strength is, yeah, okay, a total turn on, but it feels like more than that when Dean’s wrapped in his embrace. It keeps Dean grounded, gives him an unshakeable safe place to take shelter in. It’s a reminder that Cas is committed to this body, to this life, to Dean.

“I like you,” Dean replies. That’s just as corny as Cas’s line, but he can’t find it in him to be apologetic about that.

Cas dips down to kiss him and Dean smiles into it, hardly believing that this is his life, that he and Cas finally got here.

It seems unreal.