A Moving Experience

by jemariel

Summary:

Of course Castiel goes into heat the day he's supposed to move into his new house.

Of course one of the movers he hired has pretty green eyes and smells like heaven.

What could possibly go wrong so very right?

Notes:

I liiiiiiiiiive!

Thanks as always to Elanor for the beta reading and a whole host of other friends for encouragement. You know who you are ^.^

Moving is hell.

Castiel should know; he’s been—effectively—in the middle of moving for the past four months.

The studio apartment he’s been renting feels more like a storage unit than a home. What furniture he has is mostly buried and inaccessible, certainly not positioned for regular use. There are boxes of books in his kitchen cupboards; his clothing cycles perpetually between a pair of duffel bags; he’s only seen one set of dishes in weeks. There’s no room for the bed he bought, so the frame is still all wrapped up in Saran Wrap and the mattress is sagging against a wall while he camps on the too-short sofa. 

He’s not even sure he remembers what’s in most of these boxes. He’d apparently decided it was all necessary when he packed up his life in Boston and drove it across the country, but now he’s sorely tempted to just leave it all out on the sidewalk.

Anyway. Moving is hell.

And going into heat is only going to make it worse.

He feels it prickling over his skin the moment he wakes up, scrunched and sweating under a single fleece blanket. He’d been dreaming, but even the residual horniness of a really good wet dream doesn’t usually get him grinding into the cushions. God. When was the last time he even had a heat? He still recognizes it immediately: hard to forget your entire undercarriage feeling like you sat on the surface of the sun. 

Groaning himself all the way awake, Castiel redirects the hand that’s plucking at the elastic of his boxers, clenching a fist. If he starts, he won’t stop until it’s over, and he has a busy day ahead of him.

After one large cup of coffee, a very cold shower, two thorough applications of his heaviest scent blockers, and throwing open every window his studio has to offer, he thinks he might be ready for when the movers arrive. None of that stops him from chewing his nails down to the bed, though.

Maybe he should reschedule. The movers he’s hired are almost certainly alphas. There has to be some kind of—no, he can’t reschedule, he has to turn in his keys to this dump the day after tomorrow. 

He’ll just have to muscle through and trust his blockers. Maybe it won’t be so bad. He’s on suppressants. This isn’t supposed to happen at all. 

Of course it would happen now, of all times. If there’s bad luck to be had, it will fall on Castiel’s head. It’s some sort of universal law, he’s sure of it.

He’s just begun poking at Google to see if breakthrough heats are generally easier or worse than uncontrolled when there’s a knock at the door. His stomach swoops.

Here goes nothing.

~~

“It’s a little cramped,” Castiel says, “and, uh. Nothing is really labeled properly—”

“It’s okay,” says the absurdly tall one who had introduced himself as Sam Winchester of Winchester Bros Moving Company. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, our job’s just to chuck it all in the truck and spit it out at the other end,” says the other one, shorter and stockier with pretty green eyes that Castiel is trying very hard not to notice. “What happens after that is your problem.”

“Dean,” Sam starts, long-suffering. 

“What?” When Sam just rolls his eyes and pulls on some heavy work gloves, Dean leans close to Castiel. Too close. Cas hopes to hell that his blockers are functioning. “Don’t worry ‘bout him. He’s just grumpy ‘cause he’s on baby watch.”

As if on reflex, Sam pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks the screen. He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for, because he goes right back to glaring at Dean. “Would it kill you to be professional for five seconds?” he asks, affectionate frustration evident in his tone. 

“Wah, wah, wah,” Dean chides, with a wink and a conspiratorial smirk in Cas’s direction. It sends an absurd fluttering around his ribcage, which is a confusing response, to say the least. What has gotten into him? 

It must be his heat. That’s the only explanation.

The brothers get down to business, discussing their plan of attack in curt, efficient tones and the kind of verbal shorthand that comes from long association. It’s fairly opaque to Castiel, and more than a bit odd to hear them discussing his belongings with such dispassionate professionalism. But, he supposes, that’s why he hired them.

After a few minutes of hovering while they start organizing things onto dollies and hand trucks, Castiel asks, “How can I help?”

Sam nearly laughs. Dean sends him a look that’s half grin and half condescension and points at the couch. “You pop a squat,” he says. “Get yourself some tea, curl up in that nest of yours, and let us do our jobs.”

Irritation flares hot in Castiel’s temples. “What do you think you know about nesting,” he snaps. “Anyway, they’re my possessions. I didn’t hire you to be patronizing.”

“No, you hired us to move your ‘possessions’ so you didn’t have to,” Dean says. “So. Sit.”

To his immense surprise, Castiel feels his ass hit the couch cushions. He feels it very keenly.

Sam chimes in. “It’s a liability issue,” he says. “If we have any questions, we’ll ask.”

And so, with little other option, Castiel is stuck watching Sam and Dean heft and hoist his boxes, slowly carving holes in his fortress. He stands up long enough to fold up his blankets, and later he does make himself a cup of tea. (Not because he’s doing what the pretty alpha told him to do. Not at all. It just sounded like a good idea.) To distract himself, he browses news headlines and plays idle phone games, ignoring the steadily increasing musk of active, healthy alphas filling the small space, even with the windows open. 

But Tetris and Candy Crush can only hold his interest for so long. Around the time they’re unearthing the actual furniture, Castiel allows himself a moment of weakness, letting his head fall back, closing his eyes, opening his nose. When he lets his brain sift through the aromas, the two scents are fairly easy to tease apart. They’re clearly related—brothers—but one of them has a delectable sweetness to him, like amber honey, that almost has Castiel wondering if he’s not an alpha at all. Wouldn’t that be something? But, no. No, the way these scents resonate in his brain is nothing like the warbling trill of an omega or the neutral twang of a beta. It’s all alpha, deep and thrumming. Except for that sweetness. It’s unusual. It’s fascinating. It keeps him breathing in long, meditative breaths, filling himself all the way down to the belly with fragrance. 

“So, you from around here?”

Dean’s question startles him out of his daze; his tea sloshes over his hand. “Uh. No. No, I’m from Boston.”

Dean’s eyebrows climb as he stacks boxes onto a hand truck. “Really?” He swipes at his sweaty brow with his forearm, then pulls off one of his heavy work gloves to scrub under his nose and the back of his neck. Castiel has to squeeze his thighs together. Pit stains are not sexy, he reminds himself. Not sexy at all. “You come out here for work or something?”

“Or something. Would you like anything to drink?” he says in a rush.

Dean’s grin is all perfect white teeth against the grime on his skin. “That’d be great.”

Castiel nearly springs off the couch and hurries past Dean toward the kitchen.

He really, really hopes his blockers are working.

Peering into the vacant fridge, his heart sinks into his toes. “Um. It looks like you’ll have to make do with water.” Luckily, they haven’t absconded with his in-use dishes yet, so he grabs a cup—a large red plastic affair bearing a spiraling swoosh of a logo—and runs the tap cold.

“That’s fine,” Dean says, and for the first time today, his attention seems to have wandered away from both Castiel and his work. He looks pensive, with a tiny crease between his eyebrows. His nostrils flare; Castiel’s throat closes up.

As Castiel turns to hand him the cup, he holds up a finger and pulls a small tube from his pocket. He uncaps it and rubs a clear, waxy substance under both nostrils. Even from the distance of the other side of the tiny kitchen, Castiel catches a whiff of camphor and eucalyptus.

“Active blocker,” Dean explains, stuffing the tube back in his pocket and standing up straighter. “It’s a new thing, any time you’re an alpha entering an omega’s home for professional reasons. Industry standard.”

“Oh.” Something in Castiel sinks down, settles in the pit of his stomach. He’s not sure if it’s relief or shame.

“Stings like a bitch, though,” Dean says, pinching at his tear ducts. His smirk is not so bright this time, and he keeps himself at arm’s length when Castiel hands him the glass of water.

He knows.

Now it’s definitely shame. 

“Go Blazers,” Dean says as a sort of toast as he tips the cup.

“Who?”

Dean stops before the water reaches his lips. “Blazers—you know?” he points to the swooshy logo.

“Oh.” Castiel doesn’t want to admit it, but—“I picked that up at a yard sale. I just thought the pattern looked interesting.”

Dean laughs, shakes his head. “Is everything in these boxes yard sale crap?”

“Excuse me.” Castiel crosses his arms over his chest. “Yard sales are a perfectly legitimate avenue for repurposing used items.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“It’s—possibly a high percentage.” Heat climbs up Castiel’s neck, but he stands his ground, chin high.

Thankfully, Dean just grins and asks, “But how can you not know who the Blazers are?”

With a shrug of one shoulder, Castiel says, “I’m not much of a sports fan.”

“Ah-ha! So you at least knew they were a sports team.”

He feels his eyes roll back in his head on reflex, and he’s about to make some rebuttal about the inescapability of sports in modern culture when he notices that Dean is finally actually drinking his water. All words flee his brain as Castiel forcibly averts his eyes from the purse of Dean’s lips against the cup—Castiel’s own cup, the cup he drinks from every day. And definitely does not watch the little trickle that escapes from the corner of his mouth to join the sweat on his cheek and run down to his jaw. No. No, he does not.

Dean drains the water quickly, and Castiel hates that he gets caught staring. He’s trapped in the kitchen, that’s all. Dean is between him and the exit.

He’s.

Trapped in the kitchen.

Adrenaline kicks his heart into high gear. No—he can get out. He has to—he could try vaulting over the counter, he could—no, if he runs, Dean will only chase him— oh lord, would Dean chase him—? Does he want Dean to chase him? (Yes. Actually. Yes. Shit. )

Castiel can feel his flight instinct coiling in his leg muscles—idiotic, uncontrollable instinct—when Sam reappears in the front door. “Hey,” he grunts. “Are we taking a coffee break? Because I would have liked to know that.”

Dean visibly starts, and Cas wonders what the hell was going through his head. His eyes go wide and he backs suddenly out of the kitchen, long legs carrying him back into the main room, and Castiel’s limbs turn to jelly. He listens to Dean bickering back at Sam, then they’re back to their barking professionalism and grunts as they lift and move heavy things.

It’s going to be a very long day.

~~

Castiel’s new house is nestled in the elbow of an aimless road deep in a suburban maze. In place of a lawn, there is a forest of low-maintenance shrubbery between him and the road; it had been a big selling point. The aroma of sun-warmed cypress and juniper fills his nose immediately as he steps out of the car. There are more evergreens out back, tall and twiggy, and the cozy two-bedroom craftsman almost disappears amongst them. The only thing standing out is the white trim and the faded green of the front door.

“Nice place,” Dean comments as he hops out of the truck’s cab. 

“Thank you.” Castiel squints against the early afternoon sun. The large window in the front room faces south; that will be interesting in winter, but hopefully, the deep porch overhang will help keep things cool in the summer. In any case, he’s already considering curtains.

Sam opens the back of the truck with a metal skree and a solid thunk while Castiel ambles up the brick steps to the porch. His footsteps echo on the dusty, painted wood; the key in his palm is newly cut and sharp. It gleams silver next to the grubby copper one from his apartment and a novelty Minnie Mouse key that he hasn’t really looked at since Boston. He looks at it now, tucked behind his car key, enamel worn away at the edges by the years of hands and pockets.

He should probably take it off the ring. There is an entire continent between him and that house, now.

Instead, he pushes open his new front door and starts opening windows.

He should probably reapply his blocker, too.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean’s voice floats from the porch. “You wanna give the okay to set up a portable ramp out here? It’ll make these stairs a hell of a lot easier.”

Castiel squints into the bright sunshine framing Dean in the doorway. “Will it cost extra?”

That white-teeth smile comes back, now with a wink that’s at least 50% flirtatious. “For you? On the house. Literally.”

Heat surges through Castiel’s belly, ludicrous and unexpected. He feels the first leak of slick slide down inside his boxers. God, help me.

“Fine,” he says, terse and tight to his own ears. “Just don’t damage the bricks.”

He’s going to have to find somewhere to hide. They won’t let him help, anyway, so perhaps he can just go upstairs and—

And masturbate himself into a frenzy with two alphas in his home? No. Absolutely not.

He needs to keep himself distracted.

There are some things that he brought himself in his car. That’s a good start.

Keeping as far as he can from where Sam and Dean are securing the ramp, he makes his way to his car in quick, shuffling steps. Laser-focus, that’s all he can do. Just focus on what’s in his hands right now and right in front of him.

He’s so focused, he doesn’t notice his neighbor ambling down the walk next to him.

“Well, hello there,” comes a smarmy, nasal voice. Maybe it’s just because Castiel was startled, but his hackles go up instantly.

He looks pleasant enough, though Castiel doesn’t like the way he’s smirking at him. He rounds Castiel’s Honda Civic and leans against the driver’s side like he intends to stay there for a while. When his scent reaches Castiel’s nose, it’s all asphalt and wet paint, and Castiel wants to sneeze it out. “Hello,” he says.

“Moving in?”

Of all the obvious questions. “Yes,” Cas says, gritting his teeth and trying not to get off on the wrong foot with his neighbor before the ink is even dry on his mortgage. 

“Great. It’ll be nice to have a new face around the neighborhood.”

Castiel yanks open the door to the back seat, grateful for the excuse to put some kind of barrier between himself and the nasal-voiced man. He’ll have to bend down to reach his belongings, though, and he doesn’t really want to do that. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says. “We have a lot of work to do.”

“We?”

Castiel nods to where Sam and Dean are hefting the first round of boxes from the truck to the dolly. 

“Friends of yours?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Not a boyfriend, though?”

Against his better judgement, Castiel shakes his head.

“So you’ll be living alone?”

Klaxons blare inside Castiel’s skull, and he hesitates. No, that’s wrong: he freezes. Goes ice cold from neck to knee, his fingers locking up in fists. “Look,” he finally forces through his throat. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other—” Wrong words, bad move— 

“I’d like that,” he says, then holds out a hand over the car door. “I’m Alistair.”

Castiel gives him the briefest possible handshake and does not offer his own name in return. “I need to get my things inside,” he says instead.

“I could give you a hand.”

“No.” Biting the bullet, Castiel bends his knees and ducks his head into the sauna inside the Civic. He hauls the straps of his messenger bag over his shoulder, heaves an open-topped box of everyday necessities into his grip, and pointedly ignores the way he can feel eyes on his body. His spine prickles, and not just with sweat; every hair stands on end.

“Hey, buddy!” he hears in the distance. Glancing up through the window, he spies Dean in Alistair’s driveway. “This your car?” He’s pointing enthusiastically at a gleaming cherry-red Jaguar.

Castiel can feel the pressure drop as Alistair moves away, back toward his own house, ambling like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Dean engages him in conversation, all open chest and easygoing expression, playing twenty questions about the—admittedly very impressive—vehicle. 

Gathering his breath, his belongings, and his courage, Castiel kicks the door closed and hustles back to the house.

Sam’s there, leaning against the wall next to the door with his arms hugged around his chest. There’s a crease between his brows, and he’s not smiling. “You know that guy?”

The last thing Castiel wants to do is stand on his front porch and talk about it, so he brushes past Sam with a quick, “Not at all.” Sam follows him in, all the way to the bare space that will be the dining room. The messenger bag and the box go straight down on a built-in window seat. His hands are shaking; he makes fists on the cardboard edge.

“You okay?” Sam asks. He’s keeping a careful distance. Cas slumps down on the window seat and scrubs his face with both hands, digging his fingertips into his eyes until he sees purple and green.

“I’m—I will be,” he says.

“Do you want us to hang around? I mean, after we’ve got everything in the house. We can put some stuff together and—”

“And what?” Castiel takes his hands off his eyes and glares, jaw out, heart pounding.

Sam shrugs. “Make sure that creep doesn’t come a-knockin’.”

Castiel bristles, bitterness flooding his mouth. “And what makes you think your offer is any less creepy than my neighbor showing interest?” 

Sam’s face goes plaster-white. “Oh—I— dude, I’m.” He pulls down his collar a few inches, just enough for Castiel to make out the edge of a mating bite, strong and fresh. “I’m not gonna—no. And Dean—trust me, that’s the last thing he’d—no.”

Castiel swallows against a solid lump and tries not to make note of the fact that Dean is unmated. He’d guessed, but the confirmation makes his inner omega sing a stupid, chirpy little song.

“Sorry,” Sam says with a wry, half-smiling laugh. “I was trying to make you more comfortable, not less.”

“It’s okay,” Castiel says. “It’s—it makes me jumpy.”

Sam nods, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Jess gets like that too.”

Castiel leans back against the window; it’s cool through his shirt, which is a comfort. Exhaustion leeches through him like paper dipped in water, slowly saturating. 

“Anyway. If you wanna go upstairs and, and be by yourself, me ‘n’ Dean can handle it down here,” Sam finishes, and Castiel wishes he hadn’t.

“Thank you,” he says. “But I’m not about to be chased into hiding the moment I set foot in my own home.”

“No, yeah, sure. I get that. It’s just—”

“I’ll be fine, Sam,” he says, firm, but not unkind. “Thank you for your concern.” With that, Castiel hauls himself to his feet and digs a blocker stick out of the box. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, and shuffles to the barren bathroom. The door gives a satisfactory click when he pushes it closed with his forehead.

For a few moments, he drifts. The mewling heat between his legs scratches at his skin, a caged kitten, and he squeezes his thighs together to calm it. It sort of works, for the moment.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so stubborn. But he has his pride. And he’s going to have to live next to Alistair. He can’t start out being afraid of him.

And so, with heavy arms, he lifts his T-shirt—very ripe, he should have done this hours ago—and reapplies his shield.

~~

And so it goes. The process unfolds in reverse, the boxes and furniture looking much more meager in this house than they had in Castiel’s shoebox of an apartment. Sam and Dean show no sign of weariness, possibly because they do this professionally, possibly because they’re not sapped with hormonal imbalance. 

True to their word, they don’t let Castiel do much of the heavy lifting, but he does bring in the delicate things that had traveled with him in his car—constantly on watch but blissfully unaccosted. He doesn’t miss the fact that whenever he ventures outside, Dean is there with his nose and jaw jutted out, hawklike. Or perhaps like a hunting dog pointing his nose toward its prey. Which happens to be the direction of the cherry-red Jaguar in the next driveway.

On the one hand, Castiel doesn’t appreciate the implication that he needs some alpha to shield him from some other, less friendly alpha. On the other, the protectiveness makes something fuzzy turn over in his chest, expose its belly and start purring.

He can grudgingly admit that it’s sweet, if a little presumptuous. But it’s nice to think that somebody cares.

“Do you have a special interest in cars?” Castiel teases on his last trip out past the truck. 

“What? Oh. I mean, yeah, it’s a nice Jag, but—um.” Oh, Dean is pretty when he blushes. Castiel did that. He bites his lips against a smirk and pushes past Dean—just a little too close. Close enough that their arms brush from shoulder to elbow.

Dean’s skin is warm and slightly sticky with sweat. That honeyed sweetness flares in his nose, and he stumbles—trips over absolutely nothing but his own feet and— 

“Woah, hey—” Suddenly, Dean’s hands are on him properly, one supporting his chest and keeping him from face-planting on the driveway, the other gripping his shoulder, whole-handed and firm. He springs back after barely a second, but his handprints linger like two hot brands. “Sorry—sorry. I, uh.”

“It’s fine. Thank you.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel insists, and tears himself away from Dean on shaky legs to stop himself from falling full-weight against him.

He’s not some swooning maiden, god dammit. What has gotten into him? He shakes his head, but the fog doesn’t lift. He can hear his heartbeat in his eardrums, can feel it pulsing in his eager cock, half-hard in his jeans. 

Why couldn’t he have met Dean on a different day, any other day? Because an alpha who smells sweet like honey has to be special, but what if that’s just his heat talking?

The nose knows , his grandmother had always said. He’d always written it off as old-fashioned twaddle meant to excuse sexual assault, alphas sweeping omegas off their feet and marking them before the heat wore off. But maybe there’s something to it. By the way he feels drunk and dizzy and unbelievably fucking horny, even for heat, when he gets too close to Dean, he could almost believe it.

He stops for air the next time he’s in the house, slumping on the window seat and letting his limbs melt like gelatin. He’s tired. He’s exhausted . And that was the last of his things from the car. He lets himself rest a bit, thinking about nothing and definitely not clenching his ass against the bench. 

A thump startles him; Sam and Dean are finegaling the sofa through the door with all the requisite grunts and grumbles. Castiel lets himself idly watch the play of muscles in Dean’s arms, his shoulders, the way his jeans cling to his ass and thighs—then curls over on himself, pushing his hands through his hair.

It’s just heat, he reminds himself.

Once they’ve settled the couch into some kind of reasonable position, Castiel hears Dean’s boots clomping closer. Watches them cross the floor toward him. “Hey,” Dean says, all gentleness. “You wanna sit somewhere more comfy than a wooden bench?”

Castiel sucks in a breath—god, honey —and unfolds himself to stand. Dean keeps a respectful distance as he shuffles over to the couch, and for that he is grateful. He’s not sure he trusts his hands with Dean within arms’ length.

Before he lets himself collapse onto it, though, he turns back to Dean. “Thank you,” he says. “For earlier. I know you weren’t just interested in my neighbor’s car.”

Surprise colors Dean’s cheeks; he ducks his chin. “Oh, uh. Yeah, no. He was being a creep, we could see that a mile off.”

“Yes, he was,” Castiel can feel the growl in his throat. “What did you say to him?”

Dean shrugs. “Nothing, really. We really did talk about cars for a while. He’s a condescending dick. Pardon my French.”

That startles Castiel into a snort, and he covers his grin with one hand. Can’t help but watch the little smile that flickers over Dean’s lips, though. They’re very pretty lips. Too pretty by half. 

“Anyway,” Dean continues, “Sorry if I overstepped. I just can’t stand when alphas do that, you know? Get all up in your space like that and—” he stops. Pulls his lips between his teeth.

Castiel squints at him. “You’re an alpha,” he says.

Dean regards him, then, a sober look that reveals more questions than answers. Then he sucks in a big breath of air through the nose, something guarded in the twitch of his jaw. “I should get back to work,” he says, quieter than Cas has yet heard him speak. “You—you take a load off.”

Castiel doesn’t sit. In spite of his earlier fatigue, his pulse is thrumming in his veins, a keening in his ear. He’s right on the verge of something, he can tell—

And that’s when Sam stumbles through the door.

“It’s happening,” he blurts. He has his phone in his hand.

Dean meets him at the door in two long strides. “Jess?”

“Yeah.” Sam stares at his phone like it might explode. “Yeah, she’s—She’s—”

Dean claps him around the neck, a huge, proud grin on his face. “Time to go be a papa,” he says.

Sam echoes his grin, though with considerably more shell-shocked fear. “Can I—I mean—the truck’s still half full, I—”

“Get outta here,” Dean says. “I’ll handle it. Here—” Dean digs a set of car keys out of his pocket. “Baby for the baby, right?”

“Okay.” Sam takes two deep breaths and plucks the car keys out of Dean’s hand. “Okay,” he says again.

Dean hugs him then, long and hard, and Castiel averts his eyes. It’s a family moment; he’s intruding. There’s probably something in the kitchen that needs his attention. Yes. Kitchen.

And so he ends up with his elbows on the edge of the sink, staring out the back window over his brand new garden, listening to some more brotherly shorthand—apparently, they’re like that in their personal lives, too, not just professional—until he hears his front door swing shut. Then it’s all silent, pressing in against his skull.

In the sudden quiet, he hears Dean sigh, the scuff of boot tread on hardwood. “See ya, Sammy,” he murmurs, so soft, Castiel is certain he wasn’t meant to hear it.

Then those booted feet move closer across the hardwood; Castiel turns in time to see Dean framed in the arched entry to the kitchen, tapping his fingers on the wood. Ungloved. His gloves are sticking out of his pocket. For a moment Castiel is distracted by his bare fingers, long and dextrous, nails neatly trimmed but grubby. They draw his eye and his mouth waters. “So,” Dean says. “Since it’s just gonna be me, the rest of the stuff might take a little longer. Not gonna charge you for it, though. You’re our only move today, anyway, so it’s no skin off my nose.”

“I can help.”

“Dude, no, you’re dead on your feet.”

“I’m actually feeling much better.” And he is. Some jolt of adrenaline has cleared the fogginess from his brain and the lassitude from his limbs, though there’s still a hot puddle of arousal in his pelvis. He can ignore that. It doesn’t control him.

“This is my job.”

“Not to do it by yourself, it isn’t. I can’t just sit by and let you exhaust yourself doing a two-man job all on your own.” Dean wavers a little, and Castiel goes in for the kill: “Besides, there’s still furniture in there. Don’t pretend you’re going to carry a standing desk all by yourself.”

A moment of bluster, Dean’s chest puffing out, and then he deflates. “Okay. But you’re still not getting in the truck.”

~~

Dean has a spare pair of gloves, which are a bit large on Castiel’s hands, but they keep his fingertips from rubbing raw. They develop a system where Dean fills the back ledge of the truck with things to be carried in, Castiel stacks them onto the dolly and the hand truck, and then they both wheel things into the house. It works great for small furnishings and boxes, but the flaws become apparent when they’re down to the large items at the back of the truck that really do need a second pair of hands.

“Are you sure you don’t want a hand with that?” Castiel asks while Dean frowns at the motorized standing desk.

“I got it. You just be there to catch on the other end.”

Castiel leans against the truck and watches his evergreens sway in the late afternoon breeze, content to let Dean wrestle with office furnishings. The hideous skree of the desk’s feet on the truck bed definitely doesn’t promote the peace and tranquility of the moment. Castiel listens to him shove, scoot, pivot, and swear, until finally the only sound is Dean panting for breath.

“Okay,  fine,” he says. “Get up here and help.”

Castiel pushes himself off the bumper of the truck and turns to find that the desk has barely budged. “You sure?”

“Can’t tell my insurance about it, but you’re right. This ain’t a one-man job.”

“I hate to say I told you so,” Castiel mutters as he grips the handle, puts one foot on the bumper, and hauls himself up into the truck—and straight into a solid wall of Dean’s scent.

It’s been bad enough sharing air with Dean while wheeling things up and down the ramp, but in the closeness of the truck’s interior—it’s concentrated sweetness, all clean alpha sweat and honey. Castiel’s head swims and he sags against the truck’s interior wall, vision going a bit blurry like a bad head rush. His cock pulses and his hole clenches, wet and wanting at the sudden smack of pheromones.

Dean’s saying something, but the words are underwater. Cas watches him, the only clear thing he can see, as his expression takes a turn for the concerned. His bee-sting lips form words that might be you okay?

Castiel tries to shake the blur from his eyes. His thighs feel like jello. “I’m fine,” he says, but all he can see is Dean. Up close and surrounded like this, Castiel can detect a grassy, wheaty accent, like the dry end of summer. God, he wants to wrap himself around that scent. He could get closer. He should get closer. Between one blink and the next, Dean is almost within reach, Castiel’s feet shuffling him forward on instinct. He wants to sip that scent from the source, wants to fill himself up with it, get drunk on it. 

“Hey.” Dean’s voice is sharp as a clap. “Hey—” 

One second Dean is digging something out of his pocket, and the next, the medicinal sting of eucalyptus and camphor smacks Castiel in the brain. He stumbles back, spitting and snorting, until he hits the wall of the truck.

When he can open his eyes again, it’s to see Dean rubbing copious amounts of the blocker stick under both nostrils, working his nose and rubbing at his watering eyes. “God damn,” he mutters, then laughs a little.

The humiliation is scalding. “Oh god. I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do,” Dean says. “And, look, it’s—it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. That’s life, right?”

Ignoring the flush he can feel prickling all the way up to his hairline, Castiel positions himself at one end of the desk. “Let’s just get this finished.”

They hoist and heave the desk down one ramp and up the other, across the porch and through the front door. Castiel’s fingers burn and his arms shake, but he still finds his gaze gravitating toward Dean’s muscular chest and arms, trying desperately to breathe through his mouth so he doesn’t lose his faculties again. Dropping a hundred-twenty-pound mechanical desk on one’s foot is a surefire way to break the mood.

“This is good enough,” Cas says once they’re in the living room.

“You sure? This thing’s a bitch,” Dean grunts. “Let’s get it where you want it so you don’t scratch the floors trying to move it yourself.”

A few quick breaths, and yeah, that’s a good point. “This way.” With shaking arms and twitchy legs, he leads them into the ground-floor bedroom.

The second they get the desk roughly in the corner where he wants it, Castiel’s arms give out, and with them, the rest of his body. He slumps over the desk, not even caring about the vulnerable position he’s put himself in, ass and throat more or less bare to this alpha he barely knows. The top of the desk is cool against his forearms and face, and it’s dark behind his eyelids. He indulges in a brief fantasy of hands on his hips, of someone taking care of him, soothing him—god, it’s been so long.

“Hey,” Dean asks, soft. “You okay?”

Castiel can only groan in return. He likes that voice. 

Dean’s next words are mumbled; they sound halfway between a curse and a prayer for strength. Then there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Castiel pries his eyes open, and Dean’s are close, blurry, beautiful. He smiles. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean almost smiles back. “Hello, yourself.” Castiel watches his throat work in a hard swallow. “Let’s get your mattress next. I think I can get the rest myself. Okay?”

Mattress. Yes. Bed sounds like a fantastic idea. “Okay.” But moving means he’d have to dislodge Dean’s hand from where it’s pressing between his shoulder blades, and that… that would be most unfortunate.

Dean pats him twice, then removes his hand on his own. “Come on. Just one more, and then you can fall down.”

Okay. He can do this.

Exhaustion keeps Castiel laser-focused. All he sees is Dean—Dean’s shoulders in a tight green T-shirt, Dean’s scent like all the best things about late summer. Dean giving him orders—Grab here, lift on three, one, two, go —and then there’s weight in his hands again. He barely feels like he’s lifting at all, which, maybe he’s not. Maybe it’s an illusion and Dean’s just dragging the thing all by himself.

It’s a miracle he makes it down one ramp and up the other without breaking his neck, or Dean’s. The mattress ends up in the same room as the desk, flopped directly on the floor because his bed frame is still in pieces.

“Okay. Hey—” he takes Cas’s elbow in one hand. “You wanna—you wanna lie down?”

Yes. Yes, that sounds marvelous.

Without another thought, Castiel faceplants into the bare mattress. He’s floating, fuzzing in and out of his skin. The bed beneath him is like a cloud, but solid enough that he can grind against it, and that first hard press of his cock to the bed has him groaning aloud. It feels so good, and the scent of honey washes over him in waves.

It might be minutes or hours later when Dean’s voice wakes him up again, saying, “Hey. You wanna get up for a second? No no—leave your jeans on. Okay—stay where you are, I guess. I just—here. I found some things. You might want ‘em.”

Softness drifts up and down around him. A cotton sheet, a fleece blanket, a thick winter duvet (which gets tucked around him for security rather than thrown over for warmth). Throw pillows, down pillows, even an ancient stuffed penguin that had belonged to a younger sibling. It’s all dusty from their months in boxes and bags, but he pries his eyes open and blinks up at Dean all the same.

“Are you—?” he starts to ask. 

“Shhh, just relax,” Dean says, and remarkably, Cas does.

“Are you making me a nest?”

Dean freezes in the act of unfolding a chenille throw that—yes, had in fact come from a yard sale. “Uh. Maybe?”

There’s that pretty blush again. Sparkling eyes, long lashes, freckles standing out on pink cheeks. Castiel just stares at him, already having forgotten his own question.

Dean mops a hand over his face, then crosses his arms over his chest, shifting his weight. “Yeah, I should—you’re right, this is—yeah. Sorry. I’ll get out of your hair.”

A second ago Castiel wasn’t even sure he could move. Now he dives to the end of the bed to catch Dean’s wrist before it’s too late.

Dean stares down at the hand on his arm, wary question all over his brow. 

Cas swallows the scent of honey. “Stay?”

“You’re out of your gourd,” Dean says. 

“No.” Castiel shakes the fog from his head. “I don’t need—that, I just.” He pulls in a deep breath, letting Dean’s heady aroma sink into his muscles like a palliative drug. “I like your scent. It makes it easier.”

God. Is that really the best he can come up with? He’s no better than Alistair, and that thought has him releasing Dean’s arm and burrowing into the pillows. The pillows Dean found for him and nested up under his head. “Sorry,” he says. “You can go if you want. You’ve done more than enough.”

Dean doesn’t move. Castiel can practically hear his brain ticking. “It’s okay,” he says finally, and there’s a softness to the way he says it. It sounds like a hand on his back, stroking down his spine; he shivers. “I’ll stick around and look after you. Just—just remember this conversation when you wake up, alright? I don’t wanna look like a total creeper.”

Cas laughs, a soft exhale into his pillow that makes the cotton steam against his cheek. “I will.”

Dean will stay.

The scents of a sunny harvest melt around Castiel as he drifts back into a fitful slumber.

~~

Bright blue sky. Sunshine. Dry grass under his feet, tall around his ankles. His palms brush the tips, and burred seeds fall onto the wind under his touch. He can hear birdsong in the distance, sweet, chirruping. A breeze. He moves, turns, and all at once he’s in a forest, dappled with insects and dots of gold. He can hear water rushing in the distance, can smell the humidity of lush green growing things. Damp earth, green grass, rain.

And honey.

He follows the buzz of the bees, a sultry summertime sound that sinks heat into his bones. He follows them to the heart of the woods, a deep pool of blood-warm water. He sinks into it, entirely nude, and the water envelopes him as if it were made to suit his skin. It cradles him, supports him, caresses him, fills him. He drinks deeply,  and it only tastes sweet.

Castiel dreams.

~~

It must be very late when Castiel drifts into consciousness. The curtainless windows are dark, save for the glancing beams of a neighbor’s back porch lamp. There’s a stillness all around, nothing but the faint, distant buzz of electricity and the settling of an old house.

His pillow is warm. And more solid than he’s used to.

His pillow is breathing .

Castiel jolts. His heat seems to be in a lull, his mind clearer than it had been when he’d fallen into this bed—

His bed. 

His bed, full of pillows and blankets piled onto him by— 

His bed, which currently smells like—

His pillow that’s shaped like—

The warm mass that Castiel has been curled around shifts a little and gives a sleepy hum.

Cas scrambles back, all the way back until one palm off the edge into thin air. “Dean?”

“Cas. Hey—” Dean does not take very long to wake up, and his shadow shifts against the hazy-dark outline of the window. “This isn’t what it looks like—”

Confusion fights through the fuzzy sleep-fog of Castiel’s brain. They’re both fully clothed, which is a blessing. He’s still wearing jeans, for god’s sake, damp and clinging unpleasantly with night-sweat and his own slick. His heat flares, bright and sudden arousal that feels like it’s melting him open. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, letting Dean’s honey-summer scent calm his racing heart and twitching muscles. “What are you doing here?” he asks with his eyes closed. 

“You did ask me to stay.”

“Not in my bed,” he growls. Not that he didn’t want that, but— 

“Dude, I know—that’s not what I—I was on the couch, okay? Then you—you were sleepwalking, I guess. You came and found me.”

Castiel deflates, sinking into his pillow. “That hasn’t happened since I was a teenager,” he says. It’s not uncommon, especially for unmated omegas, but it has always made him uncomfortable. “What did I do?” he asks, trepidatious. 

“Well, I mean, first you tried to lay down on top of me.”

“I what ?”

“I got out from under you, don't worry, and I tried to just leave you on the couch, but you weren’t having that. So. I, uh. I led you back in here.”

“You came to my bed. Of your own volition? You do realize what you could have been walking into, right?”

He hears more than sees Dean shrug in the darkness. “I was just gonna put you back in the bed and leave, but, well. You cling pretty strong.”

Humiliation burns like an ulcer; he scrubs his hands over his face. The fiery flare of arousal recedes, leaving him boneless in exhaustion, stomach queasy. “I can’t believe I did that,” he says. “I didn’t—I didn’t do anything else, did I?”

“Nah. And trust me, I could have stopped you if you had. I could have pushed you down and slammed the door in your face. I just didn’t wanna wake you up.”

Cas nods slowly, then makes a stalwart attempt at burying himself in the pillows. His jeans are hideously uncomfortable, twisted around his legs; he lifts and shimmies, squirms his hips, tugging at damp denim, trying to get them uncurled. The fact that it grinds his cock against the mattress is an incidental frustration.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“Fine,” Castiel answers, curt and annoyed. “You should probably go.” But he doesn’t really want Dean to leave. The heat in his blood has him craving Dean’s scent, his physical presence, whispering suggestions for what to do now that he has an alpha in his nest. The nest Dean built for him , which is its own strange question mark . It doesn’t seem to matter that he’s only known the man for a day and only in a professional capacity; his heart and his loins are in agreement on what they want. They want Dean.

“This might sound crazy,” Dean starts to say. “But what if I don’t want to?”

Cas snaps his head up from the pillow to stare at the vague shape of the other man in the dark. “Don’t want to what?”

“To leave.” He shifts and clears his throat. “Call it instinct or whatever, but I just, I dunno. I don’t wanna leave you.”

“You should,” Cas growls, still tugging at his jeans, struggling against the torture of their twisted cling. It feels claustrophobic, suffocating. “I pulled you in here against your will while unaware of my actions. I’m no better than Alistair.”

“And I said, I could have gotten out if I wanted. What does it tell you that I came in here anyway?”

“That you’re an idiot.”

“Or that I like you.”

“You hardly know me.”

The dark shape of Dean shrugs again.

“Well, whatever you decide to do, I refuse to wear jeans in bed any longer.” Flopping over on his back, Castiel defiantly unbuttons and unzips his jeans, dragging them down his legs and kicking them off the side of the mattress. It’s an instant relief. As an afterthought, he wrestles out of his T-shirt as well, freeing himself from the irritant of cloth excepting his boxers, which remain necessary. With a satisfied sigh, he nestles his bare skin into the pillows and the scratchy lumps of the mattress. He wishes he’d been cooperative enough for Dean to put down a sheet.

Beside him, Dean’s throat clicks and he swallows a quiet moan. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to leave?”

Dean doesn’t respond at first, the moment stretching into a long, staticky silence. “Do you actually want me to?” he asks.

“Of course not,” Castiel groans, then bites his tongue. Too revealing. Too much. “I told you, your scent helps.”

“And what about the rest of me?”

“Hm.” Cas’s fingertips drum on the mattress. “Tolerable.”

An exhalation that might be a laugh, and then there’s a rustle of fabric, a shadow against shadow as Dean’s T-shirt hits the floor. A metallic zzzzpp, and Castiel’s pulse skyrockets. The bed shifts, and then the heavier thump of jeans on hardwood.

Castiel’s entire body is buzzing. His dick plumps up against the cling of his boxers and he leaks another slide of slick, and the sweet scent of honey and wheat is so thick he can taste it. His mouth waters and he swallows it down, scooting across the mattress, closer to Dean—

Then there’s the pop of a cap, and the shock of camphor and eucalyptus short-circuits his raging hormones. Again.

“Sorry,” Dean says. “Look, if this’ll keep us both gentlemen, it’s what I gotta do.”

Groaning, Castiel buries his face in a pillow. He’s starting to hate the smell of camphor. 

After a long moment that could have been awkward outside the anonymity of the witching hour, Dean asks, “Do you wanna—I dunno. Snuggle?”

Castiel’s hackles rise at the suggestion—no, he doesn’t want to snuggle, he wants to fuck— but if it will get Dean’s arms around him, if he can find some of that scent under the blocking shield, maybe it will be worth it.

He scoots closer. Dean does too, and they find each other in the dark. Dean’s chest is solid and muscular, his arms thick as they wind around Castiel’s shoulders. He burrows closer, abandoning shame and shoving his face into the soft spot between Dean’s defined pectoral and the rise of his shoulder. His scent is strong there, and Cas groans as he finds the source of honeycomb sweetness and dry wheat grass.

Dean laughs at him, softened by the tightness of his arms. “Okay, Trufflehunter. Dig all you want.”

Surprise holds Castiel still. “What did you just call me?”

“Um. Nothing.”

There’s a very strange bell ringing in Castiel’s brain. “You called me a Trufflehunter. Isn’t that a kind of badger?”

“Uh. Sort of. It’s—you know, truffles, dogs or badgers or whatever, they dig for them—” Dean seems to shrink away, even as his arms settle around Castiel. “Nevermind.”

Castiel lies dead still against him for a long moment, still puzzling away.

“It’s a character from a book,” Dean says again, like he’s admitting some great embarrassment, and that’s enough to ping Castiel’s memory.

“The Chronicles of Narnia,” he says. “That’s how I knew it was a badger.”

“Yeah, I read them to Sam when we were kids. I don’t know why it stuck out in my brain now.”

Something from earlier snaps in Cas’s brain like a rubber band. “You’re going to be an uncle,” he says. “Don’t you—shouldn’t you be with them?”

Dean lets out a sigh he doesn’t seem to have enough air for. “Apparently, this is something Sam needs to do alone.”

Castiel can taste the bitterness. “You two seem close.”

“We are.” It’s defensive. “We were, anyway. It was kinda just me ‘n’ him after our mom passed. I mean, Dad was there, but. You know.”

“Right.” It’s a complete filler response; what exactly does one say to that?

“Anyway. I guess the kid’s gotta grow up sometime, right? He was always too independent for his own good.”

“I’m sorry.”

The shoulder under Cas’s head shrugs, and they lapse back into silence, heavier than before, thick with swirling thoughts.  The longer it stretches out, though, the less it seems to need filling, growing into something soft and smooth between them. Their bodies settle together. Somewhere in the distance, a train sounds its Devil’s triad; Castiel tries to guess how far away it might be. A couple of miles, but no more than that. Sleep pulls at Castiel’s eyelids, but his brain refuses to shut off, and he doesn’t hear any change to Dean’s breathing that might indicate sleep, either. He tries to keep his groin politely distant from Dean’s body, but his heat is a prowling beast low in his belly, his loins, his ass, his cock. It’s making him restless. He almost wishes Dean weren’t here so that he could take care of his situation, but it’s worth it for the clear-headed calm that comes with an alpha’s scent. The centering. He doesn’t miss the unmoored anxiety of spending heats alone, even if it is frustrating.

“I hate my heats,” he whispers into the emptiness around them.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs back, rubbing warm, calloused palms up and down his shoulders. 

“I’m on suppressants; this shouldn’t even be happening.”

“It doesn’t seem like a super bad one, at least. You’re more coherent than a lot of omegas I know.”

Castiel’s lips curve against Dean’s skin. “Do you do this often? Find your way into bed with omegas in heat?”

“What? No, I—this is just—”

“Relax, Dean,” he says, closing his eyes and feeling the weight of the day dragging on him. “I’m teasing.”

Dean just nods at that, his chin bumping twice against the crown of Castiel’s head. 

It’s nice. It is worth it, having Dean close, even if there’s a very loud part of him that wants more. Castiel drifts, pillowed by Dean’s sweetness and wrapped up in his strength, not falling asleep so much as slowly rolling down the hill. Dean’s fingertips trace nonsense patterns over the skin of his back, circling smaller and smaller until his hands come to rest, one on his shoulder, one on the small of his back. Their breathing syncs; Castiel counts the difference between their inhales and exhales, then deliberately times his own to Dean’s. It lulls him down deeper, deeper. He feels entranced by Dean, intent on the shape of his physical presence; it’s like he’s vibrating, glowing in Castiel’s kinesthetic perception. He wants closer. He wants more. In incremental shifts and shuffles, he presses them impossibly closer, thirsting for more skin, more scent, more touch, more breath, until—

There’s a shock of ignition when his cock presses against Dean’s thigh. All at once,  he’s fully awake again—awake enough to notice Dean’s heavy, sharp exhale, the strain of his muscles, and the hard line of his own cock in his boxers, pressed to Castiel’s hip.

“Shit—”

“Sorry—”

But neither of them pull back. Castiel is both frozen and aflame, primed and ready.

He gives one, just one quick circle of his hips, like if he does it with enough stealth, Dean won’t notice.

He does notice, though. Of course. The whimper in the back of his throat sounds pained, and then his arms are untangling from around Castiel and pushing on his shoulder and hips—“Wait, Cas, just—just hang on a second.”

Rejection is a biting sting, and Castiel moves himself back, though it feels like pulling against gravity. Every part of him that was touching Dean feels cold in his absence. 

“Okay, two things,” Dean’s saying.

“You don’t have to explain,” Castiel says. “This is why you should have left.”

“Will you just listen to me for a second?”

Castiel clenches his teeth and presses his thighs together.

“Okay. One. Are you sure you’re, like. In your right mind?”

Castiel’s instant biting response to that is right there on his tongue, but he swallows it long enough to force his brain into gear. 

He doesn’t know Dean. But he wants to. And he thinks he’d want to know him regardless.

“This perhaps isn’t the first date I would have preferred,” he grumbles. “But no, this is not just some hormone-addled haze. I am in control of my faculties.”

“Okay.” Dean sighs, and palpably relaxes; Cas can feel it through the mattress. “Okay.”

“What about you?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. I mean, I’ve got the active blockers. I can’t really smell you yet—they last a while. So, no, I’m not just going all pheromone-head or whatever.”

Castiel nods against the pillow. “And the other thing?”

“Hm?”

“You said two things. You asked one, I asked about another. What’s your second thing?”

Dean goes tense again, but it’s different this time, a stillness. A thread of worry tugs at Castiel’s heart. “Dean?”

“It’s nothing. I’m just. Kind of a shitty alpha, that’s all.” 

Cas sits up enough to find the shape of Dean's nose, jaw, brow, outlined in lamplight. “I find that hard to believe.” 

Dean snorts. “Yeah, well. It’s the truth”

“And what’s so shitty about your alphaness?”

Dean shrugs again. “I just am.” 

Castiel regards him for a long time as close as he can. He can see when the shine of his eyes disappears under his lashes, the way his throat clicks on a hard swallow. 

“You gonna stare at me all night, or what?” 

Castiel considers pressing. But he’s tired, and he misses the warmth of Dean's skin. His cock is tired too, still fat but soft, ready to cede to the exhaustion of the middle of the night rather than demand immediate attention. It’s a shame, almost, but the lure of Dean’s skin and scent is as much about sensation and connection as it is about sex.

He settles back down. Dean’s still tense under his cheek and hands, but he holds Castiel close. 

He’s more than halfway back to sleep when his own voice surprises him. “You asked earlier why I left Boston.”

“Yeah, I did.”

He takes a deep breath. “My family was not impressed when they discovered that I had taken an omega lover.” 

“Oh.” 

“They didn’t want my younger siblings to get any ideas about my lifestyle choices. I was given two options: either settle down with an alpha of their choosing, or leave. I chose to relocate as far away as possible.” 

“Cas, I’m—” Dean stops halfway through apologizing, and Cas is grateful for it. “Wait, does that mean you—” 

Cas cocks his head up at Dean's shadow. 

“You don't like alphas?” 

“I don't distinguish based on secondary gender.” 

A tiny knot of tension unwinds out of the shoulder under Castiel's head. “Glad to hear it.” Dean reaches up to scratch at his nose, and before Cas can respond, he continues. “So, I take it your, um. ‘Omega lover?’ Isn’t in the picture anymore?” 

“Inais and I were never that serious. As far as I know, he’s seeing a beta in Vermont.” 

Dean’s arm settles over Cas again, pulling him that last little bit closer. “Kinda glad to hear that.” 

Castiel purrs against his chest. Sleep is pulling him down again, warm and thick and viscous. 

“You passin’ out on me, Cas?”

“Mmhmm.”

There are more words, but Castiel doesn’t register them. Just the rumble of Dean’s voice in the barrel of his chest.  The phantom press of lips against his forehead, dry and soft, follows him into vivid dreams. 

~

It’s morning the next time Castiel awakes, and the bed is cold. He’s not cold, bundled up as he is in fleece and quilts with a mound of pillows all around him. But he’s alone in the bed; the only sign of Dean is a trace of honey scenting the pillows.

He’s still stuck on confusion and hasn’t quite processed far enough to be upset before he hears sounds from the kitchen. The clang of a pan on the stove, the fridge opening. Running water.

Then it hits his nose. Not the smell of honey and late grass.

Eggs.

And coffee.

Castiel rises from the blankets like Neptune from the sea, with a poor sense of gravity outside of his natural habitat, stumbling on legs that really want him to just stay in his nest and wait for his alpha. He nearly trips on Dean’s discarded jeans as he wanders through the hallways of his brand new house, following the scent to a kitchen he’s seen more in listing photos than in person. 

Sunlight angles through the window over the sink, sparkling on the blue-and-white backsplash. Castiel stops with his feet half on hardwood and half on cool tile, stopped dead by the sight of Dean dancing in and out of that sunbeam as he whistles to himself. He’s wearing yesterday’s boxers and T-shirt, which must be ripe with his sweat—no, pit stains are not a turn-on, dammit. Cas is going to develop some sort of kink at this rate. Still, he finds himself opening his nose to try and catch a scent of him, but all he smells is breakfast.

“Where did you get the eggs?” he asks.

Dean jumps about half a mile; a spatula goes clattering to the floor.

“Jesus, Cas—”

“Sorry.”

Dean takes a second to collect himself—and his spatula—before answering. “Didn’t realize you were awake,” he says. “I was gonna bring you breakfast.”

“Thank you,” Cas thinks he says. His brain is still back in the pillows, he’s sure, and whatever falls out of his mouth might as well be gibberish . “That doesn’t explain where the eggs came from. You saw the state of my fridge.”

Dean scratches at the back of his neck. “I, uh. I might have ordered groceries yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Well, you were down for the count, and I figured you weren’t gonna be in any shape today to—anyway. I just got the basics. S’not like I went crazy. I hope you like scrambled.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Cas mumbles, distracted by the sight of his coffee maker, shining on the counter. It’s clean. Certainly cleaner than when he’d tucked it in a box yesterday, promising it a thorough wipe-down upon arrival. Cleaner even than when he’d picked it up at the second-hand shop. As baffling as that is, the more important thing is that the carafe is full of ink-black brew. There’s even a mug sitting out on the counter, waiting for him. It’s his favorite, tall and wide with a substantial handle, wrapped in a honeycomb pattern dotted with small, realistic bees.

“I helped myself,” Dean says, and Cas turns just in time to watch Dean’s perfect lips settle on his second-favorite mug, hand-wrought and rustic. He stares—can’t help it—until Dean lowers the coffee, licks his lips, and notices that he’s being stared at. “What?”

“You did all this?”

Dean rolls his eyes, turns to the pan to stop the eggs from burning. “It’s no big deal. You were asleep, and I wasn’t going anywhere; what was I supposed to do?”

“How did you find my pans?”

“Got lucky. They were in a box labeled ‘pans.’” He adds a teasing wink as he presents a plate of scrambled eggs and a piece of untoasted bread with jam.

Castiel isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or if he wants to grab Dean and kiss him breathless. Probably both. But instead, he takes his plate and sets it down on his brand-new counter, reaching first for the coffee.

They sip and savor, humming over much-needed food, nearly catching each other in shy smiles. The coffee is perfect, and Castiel’s eggs are gone before he even remembers that he skipped dinner the previous day.

“Sorry about the bread. I couldn’t find a toaster.”

“That’s because I don’t have one,” Castiel says. “I intended to get a toaster oven once I bought a house.”

“I can’t believe you bought a house before a toaster. What the hell do you even do for a living? Wait. You’re not, like, a trust-fund baby, are you?”

The question chafes; Castiel gives Dean a cool glare. “If you must know, I’m a junior accountant. But if you count my inheritance from my great aunt’s untimely death a ‘trust fund,’ then I suppose I am.”

Dean flushes. “Yeah, let’s see how far I can get my foot down my throat today.”

That is an entirely unhelpful mental image. “Are you that flexible?”

Dean chokes on his last bite of bread.

~~

“This is highly irregular.”

“Just keep ‘em closed, okay?”

“It’s my house.”

“I know, I know, just—hang on.”

Castiel sighs and tightens his grip on Dean’s elbow, other hand over his eyes, following that heightened sense of Dean’s physical presence as they shuffle up the creaking stairs. He cheats for the first couple of steps, peeking under his hand to find the next step, but ultimately, he gives over his trust to Dean and ascends in perfect darkness.

When they reach the second floor, Castiel flinches preemptively, waiting for the moment when his head will collide with the sloped ceiling. But it never comes. Dean leads him over the plush carpet toward the far end of the single room that takes up the entire attic, barring crawlspaces. 

“Okay,” Dean says once they’ve stopped. “Open ‘em.”

Cas does. He’s momentarily blinded by the morning sunshine through the wall of windows, bright even though they face north and are shaded by the evergreens. When the glare clears, he spies what Dean has clearly been very busy doing.

There’s his bed frame. No longer wrapped in shrinkwrap, it’s now standing proudly in the center of the room, fully assembled and sturdy-looking. It’s only the frame, obviously, since his mattress is still downstairs buried in blankets, but more than half the work is done.

And as Castiel looks around, he spies his matching end tables placed on either side of the bed. His dresser tucked against one wall; beside it is a small armchair and writing desk that he hadn’t even thought about putting in a bedroom, but which fills the corner by the windows so perfectly, he’s inclined to call it brilliance. Every single box he had bothered to label ‘bedroom’ is up here, stacked neatly against the opposite wall, along with his duffle bags of clothing. 

“You kept calling the downstairs room the office, so I figured this was probably gonna be the actual bedroom,” Dean says, sheepish. When Castiel can tear his eyes away from the bed frame, he spies Dean shifting his weight from foot to foot, fingers tucked in his jean pockets. He wonders briefly why Dean bothered to put those jeans back on when Castiel is definitely going to tear them off very soon. “And I know these things are a pain to put together by yourself, so—I mean, I guess I didn’t have help either, but, you know—part of the job—I mean, I’m not gonna charge you for it, obviously, I just had extra time, but—”

“Dean.”

Dean pinches his lips closed and looks at Castiel, eyebrows up, guileless.

“Are you nesting?”

Dean’s whole face flushes bright pink all the way up to his hairline. He scoffs out of the corner of his mouth, and his pretty green eyes shutter under his lashes. “I, uh—come on, alphas don’t nest —”

“Dean.”

Castiel steps close and cups his cheek in one hand. It’s warm under his palm, rough with second-day stubble. When Dean meets his eyes again, Castiel is struck by how clear and vivid the golden-green is.

“Thank you,” Castiel says. He’s close enough now that he can watch Dean’s tongue and throat work in a swallow. He feels it on his hand.

“No big deal. I had time.”

Castiel shakes his head. “You are remarkable.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“That.”

“Complimenting you?”

“Yes.”

“Only if you stop depreciating your—frankly, delightful—efforts to take care of me.”

If Castiel can get Dean squirming like this just from thanking him for an act of kindness, he wonders just how badly he’ll writhe under a more sensual kind of praise. Just the thought is mouth-watering.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Cas informs him.

Dean snaps to attention and licks his lips. “Okay.”

“And then we are going to go downstairs and take care of my god-damned heat.” The kitten has grown into a tiger, roaring at the center of him, pounding the drum, demanding.

Dean’s exhale is hard and warm on Castiel’s palm, and Dean’s hands come up to grab at his shirt at the waist. “Yeah, okay.”

“And then”—Castiel traces one fingertip over Dean’s chin, up over the rise of his lips, just to feel his jaw drop open—“I’m going to take you out to dinner.”

“Thought that was my job,” Dean says, and Castiel is close enough to see the shy smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His fucking gorgeous mouth.

“We can take turns.”

Dean nods his head in Castiel’s hands, and then, “I, um. I didn’t do the blockers this morning.”

“I noticed.” Warm and sultry, the scent of him is, without even a hint of camphor blocking either of their senses.

“Is that okay?”

“What do you think?”

Dean’s nostrils flare and he scents, mouth open and eyes closed. Castiel’s toes curl against the carpet at the sight of Dean breathing him in, tasting him. He wonders what he smells like to Dean, now that he’s letting himself scent properly.

When Dean meets his eye again, his pupils are blown wide and dark. “What was that you said about kissing?”

Right. They’ve wasted enough time.

In a single push, Castiel closes what’s left of the distance between their lips. Dean’s breath rushes over his face, the scent of honey billowing up around them and setting Castiel’s blood alight. It’s a dark sweetness, like blackberry stems and juice running down your palm, and when Castiel opens his mouth to taste Dean’s tongue, he can feel the thorns scraping at him. He groans, and Dean grips him tighter.

Before he’s had more than a sip, Cas tears himself away. Dean lurches forward, off-balance, and then—“Catch me,” Castiel says. And he tears off across the attic bedroom, slinging himself around the banister and flying down the stairs. Dean charges after him, slower than he could go but quick enough to send giddy glee down Castiel’s spine.

The slipperiness of the stairs under his feet adds a jump of adrenaline; it’s a miracle that they both make it to the ground floor safely. Cas darts behind a stack of boxes. Dean heads him off from the other side, and they lock eyes over the top of it. Dean’s grinning fit to split his cheeks, that hunting-dog point to his chin now focused squarely on Castiel. Cas bites his lips, and finds that he’s grinning too as he feints left, then lunges right and bolts for their nest in the office. There’s a thunking crash and a bitten-off curse as Dean knocks a box off the top of the stack, but Castiel can’t be bothered. He’s reached the door. He turns as he crosses the threshold, just in time for Dean to barrel bodily into him and wrap three limbs around him as they tumble onto the bed, spinning them so that he lands first with Castiel pressing him into the mattress.

“Gotcha,” Dean grins.

“It would seem that I’ve got you,” Cas says, deliberately putting more of his weight on Dean’s shoulders.

Dean’s cheeks pink. “Do you mind?”

Cas shakes his head and tries to say, “Not at all,” but they’re already halfway kissing.

And oh, god, what a kiss. Dean’s body arches up into his like he’s the one in heat, not Cas. Every press of skin, even through clothing, is like a thundering rush of water in the desert, and Castiel blooms to feel it. Dean’s mouth is open to him, open wide, and Cas takes full advantage, tasting every secret, every part of Dean. Their hands grip and tug, fumbling under shirts, hunting for bare skin. When Dean’s fingernails scrape at the tender skin of Cas’s lower back, he breaks the kiss to gasp against his lips.

“Naked,” he pants. “Now.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, and they endure separation long enough to divest themselves of T-shirts, jeans, boxers.

Cas is still kicking his underwear from his foot when Dean scoots across the bundled mess of blankets to pull Castiel back into his arms. Cas goes willingly, wrapping his arms and one leg completely around Dean, and oh fuck , he’s needed skin. Barely a touch and he’s already trembling, whining into Dean’s mouth, and at the first tentative brush of chest, his cock , against Dean’s body, he lets out a moan that comes all the way up from his stomach. It’s shocking, just how sensitive he is. Dean is almost shy, cock fattening fast, jutting from the crook of his tucked-up legs, and Castiel needs it, a sudden, throat-clenching urgency. “Let me see,” he demands, pushing Dean back and down on the bed again, straddling his knees. “Let me see.”

A shiver wracks Dean’s body. “Sure—anything you want.”

Castiel growls. “That is a dangerous promise.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. Just swallows and tilts his head back, yielding his most sensitive skin. And Castiel takes what is offered. He fills himself up—his mouth, his hands—with Dean’s skin, first at the neck, then down his chest, tasting and biting at every soft and tender spot he can find. He grips Dean’s legs tight between his thighs and works his hips, pressing every hot, throbbing, slick part of himself against Dean. Just having him there feels incredible.

“God damn—” Dean chokes out, and Cas purrs against his stomach.

“You feel so good under me,” he says, teeth against skin.

Dean’s eyes slip closed, and for a terrible instant, he freezes under Castiel. Cas is about to ask what’s wrong when Dean surges up suddenly, pushing against Castiel’s hold, flipping him so that he’s flat on his back in the nest. 

Oh. This works, too. Castiel keens, his higher brain functions shutting down at the sight of Dean and his broad shoulders looming over him, solid and spattered with freckles. His trim hips and waist fill the space between Castiel’s legs; Cas hooks his ankles at Dean’s lower back and pulls them flush.

“Is this—” Dean starts to ask, then grunts, and his eyes flutter closed again. Their cocks slot together, a slip-sliding distraction. “I wanna—” 

“Yes,” Cas exhales. “Do it. Dean. Do it.”

“Condom. Fuck. ” 

Cas feels the back of his head hit the pillows in a frustrated thump. “Don’t need it,” he growls. “Suppressants—it’s fine. Just.” Given free reign at last, Castiel’s body and mind are consumed by his heat, swallowed whole by the flames of need. He hikes his knees higher and strains against Dean’s grip on his wrists. “Don’t make me beg.”

A flash of a smirk, and then, “What if I want you to?”

Castiel strains harder, still not actually trying to get free, growling and feeling something in his neck pop as he reaches for Dean’s neck with his teeth. Dean stays frustratingly just out of reach. “Dean, get in me—”

Dean shifts his weight, lets Cas’s arms free in order to hook his hands under his knees and push them up, push him open. Castiel’s cock leaks a puddle on his stomach, blood-hot and iron-hard, and he can feel his needy ass clenching down on nothing, slick and wet and so, so ready. He barely gets a glance at Dean’s cock before he presses his tip right up where Castiel needs him most. 

In a frenzy, Castiel does the only thing he can do: he flexes his hips, impaling himself on Dean even as Dean drives forward .

“Ah, shit—” Dean gasps, and then he’s fucking in, working himself deeper in sinful thrusts. Castiel feels the soft swell of his knot, thick and promising, and he bears down harder while Dean pushes until it pops right past the slick ring of muscle. Sensation explodes through Castiel, so bright that he can barely hear Dean’s string of curses, tremulous and broken . Dean’s chest heaves against Castiel’s; his breathing is harsh in his ear.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, a rough gasp. “Yeah, just—been a while.”

Now that he has Dean’s heavy girth filling him up, Cas feels marginally more calm. Calm enough to pet Dean’s hair back from his forehead. There’s a dew of sweat there, and on his upper lip, and down the lines of his neck toward his collarbone. Castiel’s mouth waters, entirely different needs building inside him.

With a clench of his thighs and a roll of his hips, Castiel begs with his body. 

Castiel knows he is not an ideal omega. He’s too aggressive, too growly, too interested in taking what he wants rather than submitting to what an alpha thinks he needs. But he has never seen the sense of hiding it. His partners will enjoy it, or they won’t, and either way, he would rather be himself than feign compatibility that will ultimately crumble.

That doesn’t mean he can’t play the game. He pulls Dean deeper, pulls him down, envelopes Dean’s body entirely with his own. His lips find the hot shell of Dean’s ear and he growls, “Fuck me, Alpha.”

He’s never been with an alpha who didn’t go wild at that. It’s something built into their DNA, and nothing has ever gotten him fucked harder than egging on an alpha.

But Dean just curls in on himself, then yanks himself away from Cas’s mouth like he’s burned him. His face is hot-red, eyes shuttered and mouth pinched into a line, a muscle in his jaw twitching. And fuck him he does, but it’s distant. Mechanical. He grunts and pants and pushes Castiel’s knees back to his ears, but something’s off. Even through the haze of heat, Castiel notices. Oh, sure, the pounding feels amazing, but there’s something missing—wrong.

“Dean?”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I can do this—”

“Dean.”

Dean’s eyes slam closed, lips contorting into a grimace that bears his perfect teeth. “I’m not,” he says. 

A bucket of ice water sluices over Castiel, and he starts to sit up, to pull away. “Dean, stop—we don’t have to—”

“What, no—no, I’m—this is—” he grips Cas’s hips again and pushes deeper, sparking a messy tornado of conflicting feelings. He’s still rock-hard in the center of Castiel’s being. “Amazing, Cas, you’re amazing.”

Cas reaches up and brushes Dean’s cheek with tender fingertips. “What’s going on?”

Dean bites his lip and hangs his head, curling down again and hiding under Castiel’s chin. He sighs, a gust over Castiel’s sweaty chest. “I told you I was a shitty alpha,” he mumbles to Castiel’s collarbone.

“You’re not. Dean—”

“No, but—I’m not an alpha at all. I try, but I’m just—”

Castiel’s teeth snap shut. It’s a surprise, and then it isn’t. 

“It’s okay,” Castiel says, petting his fingers over Dean’s neck, his hair, his shoulders. “It’s okay. I understand.”

Dean snorts into his neck. “Really? ‘Cuz I don’t.” But the tension in his shoulders eases a little as Cas feels two fat tears splash on his chest. He lets Dean hide, wraps all of his limbs around him and holds him tight. 

“I can just go if you want,” Dean murmurs, tension crawling back up his spine. “Better now than after I get stuck here.”

“Don’t be an idiot. I told you I was going to ask you to dinner, and I meant it.”

“Even if I’m—” He stops. The words scream their own absence, too large to say.

“No matter what.” And maybe it’s too much, too soon. Maybe he has only known Dean for a day. But the truth has a very distinct flavor. It tastes of honey.

Another gusty sigh, and Dean goes heavy on Castiel’s chest. It’s a good weight. The fact that Dean is still hard in Castiel’s ass says something about the power of pheromones, and the shift makes Cas squirm and rub his own cock against Dean’s belly. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Not trying to be insensitive, just—”

“I get it,” Dean says. Cas can feel a smile against his throat. 

“Take it as a compliment.”

Slowly, incrementally, Dean starts to move again, tiny little thrusts and deep, grinding circles, accompanied by deep hums low in his chest. It’s a slow, slow build, sticky-sweet and viscous, and Castiel feels like he’s being turned to jelly. Pleasure wracks through them both, and he holds Dean tight through it all, hands roaming down the lines of his back until they find Dean’s ass cheeks.

The way he shudders as Castiel’s fingers explore the crevice—it gives him an idea.

“Dean,” he says.

“Hm,” he hums, dazed and distracted.

Cas reaches farther, stretches his arm until he can press the tip of his index finger against the dry pucker of Dean’s hole.

He jumps like he’s been zapped with a live wire. Jerks up to look Cas in the eye, surprise, disbelief, mouth hanging open.

Cas lifts his eyebrows, a question and a suggestion.

Dean swallows. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, please.”

“On your back.”

Dean pulls out just a bit too quick, but then he’s flat on his back, his thighs falling open and a sweet whine in his throat. Cas takes a second to kiss him, deep and thoroughly with his face in both hands, and then, “Hand me a pillow. Or two.”

Adorably eager, Dean shoves two throw pillows at Cas, and—“What’s this?”

Castiel snatches the penguin plushie out of his hands. “Not that.” And lobs it across the room. “Lift your hips,” he says, catching Dean before the smart remark can cross his lips. Still twinkling around the eye, Dean plants his feet and lifts, letting Cas wedge the pillows under him. “Spread your legs.” 

“Bossy,” Dean says, but he does it, his knees dropping as wide as he can get them, thighs trembling. Cas turns, kneels between his legs facing the foot of the bed, ankles tucked under Dean’s thighs and against the pillows, and lowers himself down on Dean’s cock.

“Wha— ah, ” Dean gasps, clutching at Cas’s hips with tight fingertips. “I thought you were gonna—”

“Oh, I’m going to,” Cas pants, riding down and tugging at Dean’s burgeoning knot. Briefly, his mind flashes to his small collection of dildos and fake knots, but they’re tucked away upstairs in his clothing duffles, and there is no way he’s going that far from Dean right now. So instead, he reaches under himself, touching the place where he’s wet and leaking slick. It’s everywhere, dirtying up Dean’s balls, copious and thick. Perfect.

Dean’s fingertips dig into Cas’s hips and he thrusts up, pushing deeper into his body. “Please—” he groans out. “Do it quick—”

“I’ll take care of you, Dean,” Cas promises. He swirls his fingers around the place where they’re joined, coating his fingers with his own slick before traveling farther. Deeper.

When two fingertips find the fluttering pucker of Dean’s hole, the sound he makes—like a punch through a solid wall.  Cas tests the waters with his middle finger, working in slow circles, and finds him tight, furnace-hot, and willing.

“Oh Jesus,” Dean groans. “Jesus—yes.”

Cas pushes deeper. Leans harder. Strokes his finger in a come-hither gesture. “Yes,” he sighs. “That’s it, my good boy. Let it feel good.” 

Dean’s hips work in mindless fucks between Cas’s ass and his hand, completely blissed out and beyond control. “Cas….” 

“Take it, Dean. Take me. You’re perfect. You’re exactly what I want, you’re just who I need. Mine, just for me, all for me.”

“More,” Dean groans out. “Give me more—another, please—”

He does. And then another, nearly falling forward to get as deep as he can. Dean’s grip keeps him stable, anchoring him so that Dean can fuck him two ways: down onto Cas’s fingers stretching him out, up to grind his cock and his ripe, swelling knot into Cas’s hole. 

“Is this what you want?” Cas asks. “Is this how you want to come? Locked inside me, fucking yourself on my hand?” 

Dean whimpers his assent. His body is tight with need, toes curled and legs pedaling in the sheets as he chases orgasm. “You—you—” 

“Don’t worry about me,” Cas says. “I’m going to come on your knot, my sweet omega.” 

For just a second he curses the slip of his tongue, but then Dean trembles and snaps. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—” he groans, and Cas works his hand deeper into Dean’s slick hole, dragging against his sweet spot, bearing down on his cock. Dean thrashes under him, driving in as deep as he can, the swell of his knot tugging against Cas’s rim once, twice—then catching, popping huge and hard and filling Castiel up completely. 

“That’s it,” Castiel encourages as Dean shakes apart. “Come for me. That’s it.”

Dean comes for what seems like ages, jerking and twitching before he finally exhales and goes lax under Castiel. Cas curses his choice of positioning for just a moment, wishing he could watch Dean melt into the bed, blissed out. 

Next time.

After three strong breaths, in and out, Cas slides his fingers free. Dean’s legs jump, like he wasn’t expecting that.

“My turn,” Cas whispers. And he pulls his body against the lock of Dean’s knot.

Several things happen at once.

First, a blinding flash of pleasure shoots through Castiel as Dean’s huge, rock-hard knot presses against all the sweet, sensitive spots inside himself.

Second, Dean jerks awake with a curse, hands slippery with sweat where they renew their grip on Cas’s body. 

“I’m going to try something,” Cas says, moving his wet hand to his near-forgotten cock. It’s swollen and heavy between his legs, leaking a steady stream onto the blankets below. He shivers at the touch of his own hand. Once he’s brought himself back to steely readiness, he reaches below himself again to gather more of his own slick and coat himself with it. “Let me know if anything hurts.”

Dean’s barely with it, but he grunts an affirmative. Cas leans himself forward in slow shifts, lowers himself down so that he’s nearly face-planted on the bed between Dean’s legs. If it weren’t for Dean’s knot, he probably would have slipped out, but Dean isn’t going anywhere, even though he shakes hard when Cas’s body pulls.

“Cas—”

“Alright?” Cas says, bracing himself on one elbow and manhandling his own cock.

“Yeah—what—”

“I think you’ll like this,” Cas says as he points the tip of his cock toward Dean’s hole.

The string of profanity that falls from Dean’s lips is all the approval he needs.

The head of his cock breaches Dean’s body, and from there it’s easy for his girth to slip right on inside. Dean’s violent twitching embeds him deeper, deeper, and— 

Christ, it’s so fucking intense. His cock is squeezed in the furnace of Dean’s body, and at the same time he’s so full, so full of Dean’s cock and knot. Cas feels like he’s on fire, a supernova radiating from his pelvis, and he barely has to move at all for the sensations to rock him to the core. And Dean—Dean is busy coming in him again, jerking like he doesn’t know which way is up or down, he just needs, just needs— 

There’s no way Cas can last like this. A few quick twitches of his hips and he’s consumed, coming inside Dean’s ass even as Dean comes again . It’s a feedback loop of obscenity, of blinding pleasure, and every time Cas thinks about how he’s filling Dean up with his come , he finds another pocket of sin to dive into. Wave after wave of ecstasy ripples over him; his toes curl, his scalp tingles, his fingers rip at the sheets.

He hasn’t missed much about being in heat, but he can’t deny, the heightened orgasms are sometimes worth it.

Eventually, the shivers die down, and his softening cock slips wetly out of Dean’s ass. Dean is still knotted, but that’s fine. On boneless limbs, Castiel pushes himself up, turns himself in slow, careful movements that involve a lot of heavy breathing on both their parts, and nearly kicks Dean in the head while getting his legs in the right place. But eventually, he manages to straddle Dean’s hips in a normal fashion, flopping down over his chest and nuzzling under his chin.

Dean makes a bold attempt to wrap his arms around Cas, but he ends up just slapping sweaty skin together before his arms fall back down to the bed. He sums up his feelings with one hearty, emphatic, “Fuck.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Cas says.

“You should. God damn. Where the hell’d you learn to do that?”

“Omega school,” Cas says. “Where they secretly teach all omegas to be simultaneously virgins and whores.”

The faint puffs of Dean’s laughter ruffle Cas’s hair. “Where do I sign up?”

They drift for a long time, then, quiet, settling together. Cas feels like he could lose hours in the aroma of Dean’s neck, now with a salted tang to his sweetness. Dean does eventually get his arms around Cas, grabbing his own wrist to hold the embrace. Several times, Dean opens his mouth to speak, but always ends up with a sigh instead. Cas waits him out, lets him think. He’s content to enjoy the silence until he’s ready.

“I, uh. I don’t usually—you know. What I said?”

“About not being an alpha?”

Dean nods, a small one. “I don’t usually tell people that. Anyone. Least of all, people I’m—y’know. About to knot.”

Cas pushes up just a fraction, just enough to catch Dean’s eyes. He’s not sure what to say, though, so he just cocks his head, waiting.

“I mean—I was born alpha, obviously. I got the equipment. I just.”

“It’s not correct?”

Dean’s breathing is slow; the shake of his head, infinitesimal. “Not always. Sometimes, it’s fine. But that just makes it worse when it’s not fine. It’s fucking confusing, actually.”

Cas shifts so that he can stroke Dean’s cheek with two fingertips, following the line of his blush up to his ears. “It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to have it all figured out. Not now, not ever.”

Dean’s eyes slam closed. There’s a jewel of a tear embedded in his eyelashes.

“I could tell, I think,” Cas says. “Something about your scent.”

“It’s sweet, right?”

Cas nods.

Dean huffs at himself, opens his eyes to roll them, but Cas can see the faintest pleased flush on his cheekbones. “Everyone always says that. It’s not right for an alpha.”

“I like it,” Cas says, lowering his lips to Dean’s neck, opening his mouth to taste his scent right from his skin. “I like it very much.”

Dean’s breath all leaves him in a rush, and his arms tighten around Cas’s ribcage. “I’m totally still jelly, man,” he says. “If your heat’s flaring up again, I don’t know how much use I’ll be.”

Cas smiles against Dean’s throat, adjusting his hips where Dean’s knot is only just starting to soften. “I have faith in you.”

~~

The sunlight is starting to angle long and low by the time they can spare some energy to move Castiel’s mattress upstairs. They don’t bother to get dressed to accomplish this task, but in the act of gathering all the bedding and clothing to move Operation Castiel’s Heat upstairs to their proper nest, Dean takes a second to check his phone. And his face bursts into a wide grin.

“Hey, Cas, check this out,” he says, then points the screen in his direction. “I’m an uncle.”

The baby on the screen looks very much like any other newborn baby, a small red raisin in a lumpy hat. Still, the sight makes Castiel smile, if only in response to Dean’s luminescent grin.

“You should go to them,” Cas says. The thought of Dean leaving him right now puts a lump in his throat, but he won’t come between Dean and his family.

For a long moment, Dean stares at the picture, his expression soft and awed and fond. But then he looks back up at Castiel, and the expression doesn’t change. He just shakes his head and tucks the phone back in his pocket.

“Nah,” Dean says, stepping close enough that Cas has to drop the pillows he was picking up. “I gotta let go sometime. And, I dunno.” He picks up Castiel’s hand, playing with his fingers. “Maybe I just found somethin’ of my own.”

Castiel is certain that his heart just burst all over the inside of his chest. 

“Besides, Sammy’s got my car.” A roll of his eyes, and then, “Guess I should get used to calling him Sam. He’s a dad ‘n’ everything.”

“He’s still your brother,” Cas says. “He always will be.”

Dean ducks his head. “Let’s talk about my brother and his newborn infant sometime when we’re not both covered in slick, okay?”

Cas steps closer, but whatever pithy or suggestive response is ready on his lips is derailed by a knock at the door. In a frozen moment of indecision, they stare at each other across the office that reeks of their combined scents, scattered with discarded nesting materials.

“I’m very naked,” Castiel says.

“We could ignore it.”

There’s another, more insistent knock. Cas shakes his head and roots around for his jeans and T-shirt.

“What if it’s Alistair?” Dean asks.

That gives him pause. “I’m not going to be afraid of him.”

“Yeah, but this whole house reeks of heat.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not alone, isn’t it?” Cas says with a peck on Dean’s lips.

Dean may not always be an alpha, but the ferocity of his protectiveness is strong in the clench of his jaw, and Castiel is glad for it.

There’s more knocking as Castiel grumbles his way up to the door, a consistent rapping that doesn’t stop until he opens the door on a petite, curvy brunette. “Can I help you?” Castiel growls.

The woman’s face contorts as the aroma of Castiel’s heat washes out of the open door.  Cas’s nose informs him that she is a beta, but even betas aren’t blind to heat pheromones. She holds her sleeve to her nose. “Whoa. I guess I’m interrupting something, huh, champ?”

Cas can feel Dean’s presence at his shoulder, and he stands taller against it. “As a matter of fact, yes. What do you want?”

“Nice to meet you, too, neighbor,” she says. “You just moved in, right?”

Cas squints. “Yes?”

“I’m Meg. I live over there,” she says, and points to the house that Castiel had previously assumed to be Alistair’s. “I heard you met my uncle yesterday.  Skeezy alpha, zero boundaries?”

Cas bristles, but it’s Dean who answers. “Yeah, we met him. Can’t say it was a pleasure.”

Meg smiles the kind of smile that hides more teeth than it shows. “Easy, puppy. Look, you’re only gonna get one apology out of me this year, so you’d better enjoy it while it lasts. I’m no Ned Flanders, but even I know better than to let my creepy uncle perv on my neighbors. You’ll probably be glad to know that he doesn’t actually live around here; he’s just after my car.”

“Your car?” Dean asks, peering around the door frame to spy the Jaguar still in the driveway. “That’s yours?”

“You bet your ass, sweet cheeks.”

“Awesome.”

Cas’s throat rumbles in an entirely unprecedented jealous growl, and Meg throws her head back in a laugh.

“Relax, dollface, I’m not gonna steal your sweetheart. I’ll let you two get back to boinking, now,” she says, already backing toward the stairs. “We should all have a barbecue sometime, though. Somethin’ with free food.”

“Really?” Cas asks. 

“No. I’m very antisocial.” She gives a lazy wave and spins on her combat-booted heel to trot down the stairs. “Later.”

Dean and Cas are left standing in the doorway, staring at her bouncing waves as she ambles down the driveway and back to her own house. Slowly, Cas closes the door.

“Well,” Dean says. “That’s one less thing to worry about.”

Cas nods. “I will admit, that makes me feel much better about my decision to move here.”

“Good,” Dean says, sidling closer and insinuating his hands between Castiel’s jeans and his bare ass underneath. “‘Cuz I don’t really feel like moving you again.”

“Was it really that bad?” Cas asks, stepping closer until they’re standing chest to chest, groin to groin. The scent of their congress lies thick on his tongue. 

“Nah,” Dean says, eyes going soft and one corner of his lips ticking up in a smile. “Actually, this is going down as one of my favorite moves ever, I think.”

“I should hope so.”

 

~end~

Notes:

(Author's note: Dean's particular flavor of gender nonconformity is left purposefully vague, but it's loosely based on my experience identifying as genderfluid. Because of course it is.)

For the curious: Yes, it is technically physically possible for two people with penises to penetrate each other at the same time. I took some liberties with the positioning, but here is video evidence: Warning. It's porn. Obviously.

If you'd like you can follow me on tumblr and reblog this post if you'd like to help me spread the word.

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Thanks for reading :-) Kudos and comments make my entire week and keep me afloat on tough days.