Chapter Text
Chapter 1
It’s inevitable that Sam ends up rooming with Dean at college. Their parents try to talk him out of it, but it has been a futile battle from the beginning. There’s just no separating them, and no amount of “You should make friends,” or “Learn to be your own men,” or “Haven’t you lived together long enough?” is going to change that. The minute the college acceptance letter comes, Sam has made up his mind.
Actually, their minds are made up long before that. Since they were children, Dean and Sam have been whispering to each other, making promises that someday they’ll get to sleep in the same room again, maybe even the same bed. They’re forced into separate rooms when he’s nine and Sam has just turned seven, after two years of their parents trying to keep them from crawling into each other’s bed after the lights had gone out. They wake up tangled together and endure a torrent of tough talk from their father about how they need to not do that, big boys don’t sleep in the same bed.
There are several months of a child psychologist, too. Lots of talking to puppets and putting together puzzles in an office that smells funny and has a bunch of big books on the shelves with names Dean can’t pronounce. It’s boring, but at least he doesn’t have to do homework during that one hour a week. By the end of it all Dean is no less lonely at night, but he does have a clearer idea of what’s OK to talk about and what has to be kept secret.
He starts setting his alarm earlier so Sam can sneak out of his room by daylight. And he stops kissing Sam on the cheek and saying “I love you” in public. His parents think he’s gotten better. But he’s just gotten smart.
It’s stupid, he thinks, that there should be so many rules. Why can’t he hold hands with his brother? But he can’t. Just like he can’t be popular in junior high unless he has a girlfriend. So he gets one, and he holds hands with her instead, and it feels like nothing, but whatever. The guys at school like him, and Sammy still thinks he’s cool. And Sammy still holds his hand when nobody’s around.
When Sam’s voice changes, though -- that feels like something. When Sam suddenly shoots up a few inches taller than Dean. When Sam comes to him, flustered, at the age of fourteen and demands Dean talk to him alone.
Dean has to look up at him, even when they sit together on the bed. Mom and Dad aren’t home yet, and even if they were, it’s safe for them to hang out together there now as long as the door is open. Their parents have started to believe they’ve grown out of their “clingy phase,” as Mom puts it. But seeing Sam like this, all long torso and his Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny throat, eyes full of questions -- Dean is starting to feel kinda like he does when things get hot and heavy with Julia in the back seat of the car, all weird and like something isn’t quite right, but his body is tingling with all the contact. Times like that he can forget how weird it all is and just let himself go to a mindless, happy place.
Sam shatters the happiness in four words. “Dean, I have a girlfriend.”
Dean blinks. A clutch of anger, hot in his chest, makes him swallow hard. “And?” he says, trying to sound nonchalant.
“And she wants me to kiss her.”
Now he wants to take a building apart with his bare hands. Screw that, screw Sammy kissing girls. But Dean kisses girls. He does more than that. Because he has to, those are the rules. No, he can’t get mad at Sammy. He just doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel. So, numbly, he just repeats himself. “And?”
“And I don’t want to.”
Relief deadens the anger in a minute. As long as Sam isn’t into it, it seems totally okay. In fact, it’s probably good. They both have to pretend they’re normal. Sam should be kissing girls. “Why not?”
Sam’s lip curls. “You said it was gross.”
Dean shrugs. “It’s not gross, it’s just weird.”
“I’m scared.” Sam leans forward on the bed.
“It’s not a big deal, Sammy.“
But Sam’s eyes are wide and wondering, and Dean knows what he wants. He nods. “OK, but you know we have to keep it secret, right?”
Joy radiates from Sam. “I know, I promise. Our secret.” Dean didn’t have to ask. They’re good at keeping secrets by now.
Dean leans forward, slides a hand under Sam’s chin and angles it down so Dean can reach his mouth. Their lips slide over each other briefly at first. Sam’s eyelashes beat a sudden flutter against Dean’s cheek.
“That wasn’t gross,” Sam says. His voice quavers on a single note, almost like he’s chanting.
“That’s not how it usually feels,” Dean replies. He can’t take his eyes off Sam’s mouth. He must sound hypnotized. Surprise is ricocheting like a pinball in his ribcage. That felt like a kiss ought to feel, like the movies make kisses look like they feel. Jesus,he wants to do it again.
But he’s seventeen now, and he’s old enough and smart enough to understand that this is the unspoken fear behind the child psychologist and the separation and the insistence of their parents that they outgrow their “clingy phase.” This is what Mom and Dad were afraid they might do. And even though Dean knows it’s not normal, even at seventeen he can’t figure out why it’s wrong.
It is, though, and even if Dean doesn’t care about being messed up, he cares about Sam, and he isn’t gonna do anything to mess up Sam--
“Do it again.”
He blinks. Sam won’t let him look away. Won’t let go of his gaze with the big, pleading eyes.
“Do it again, Dean, I want to do it again.”
“Sammy, we can’t.” His words ring so hollow that they feel like ghosts of themselves. Nobody could believe words that thinly spoken.
“Dean.”
Sam has a way of pressing Dean’s name against the flat of his tongue that stops Dean’s thoughts in their tracks under the best of circumstances. Right now, with his blood singing under his skin, Dean
can’t even try to resist. His hands tighten on Sam’s jaw, and he leans forward instinctively, catching Sam’s lips under his and pressing in hard. Sam’s tongue has darted out to wet his lips, and Dean catches it in mid-lick. A lurch of heat shoots through him, and he groans, horrified at the sound but unable to stop it. Sam’s soft whimper just underneath his groan makes him even crazier.
He licks at the tip of Sam’s tongue as it retreats, and Sam gives a sharp gasp, pulling at Dean so they both lose their balance and topple. And then, God, Dean’s pressing Sam into the bed, kissing him harder, their bodies running together like two bright lines, and somewhere at his hip Sam is hard, an insistent poke up into Dean’s body that feels like everything right and wrong at once --
Dean pulls himself off. Sam whimpers again and reaches up for him.
“Stop it, Sammy,” Dean says, brusque, turning away.
“Dean...!” Desperation in Sam’s voice, like the world is ending.
“We can’t do that.” Dean rises, walks to the opposite wall. His own dick is throbbing painfully, his balls starting to ache. Fuck, he’s messed up, he’s going to go to jail for this. “Damn it.” He leans his forehead against the wall and sighs, willing himself to deflate.
But Sam won’t let him. “Why?” he asks. “Why can’t we? Nobody’s gonna know.”
“I’m gonna know,” Dean says, and Sam falls silent. Guilt crushes Dean, and he winces and forces himself to turn to face Sam. “Don’t you get it? It’s not that I don’t want to. But it’s wrong.”
“Why?” Sam asks, and Dean has no answer, no matter how many times he struggles to find the words.
With a sigh, he sits down on the bed. “OK.” he relented. “We can kiss. A little. But nothing more than that, OK? You get horny, you go jerk off in your own room. Understand? You’re a kid, Sammy.” Sam frowns, back stiffening. “I get it, you’re growing up, but you’re still a kid, and I won’t be responsible for screwing you up.”
Sam nodded. “I get it.” His hands go to his waist, pushes down on his pants. He looks ashamed, Dean realizes, and it’s the first time Dean’s seen that shame on Sam’s face. Nothing Mom or Dad said has ever made Sam look like that, and Dean knows it’s half his own fault. He’s the one who’s led Sam here, who’s taught him not to care. It’s only Dean’s opinion that’s worth a damn in Sam’s eyes, and for the first time, Dean has shot him down. It hurts to watch. But even so, Sam’s a kid. Sam’s a kid and this is wrong.
“But once you grow up,” he mutters, then stops.
Sam jerks upward. Still trying to cover his erection, he eases up to sit next to Dean. “Once I grow up?”
“Yeah.” Dean bites his lip. “Once we’re grown up, we--”
“Tell me,” Sam says breathlessly, pressing in closer to him. “What we do when we’re grown up.”
OK, Dean thought. I can still make this normal. Us, but still... normal. “We’ll... we’ll grow up, and go to college, right? And then... and then we’ll open a garage together. You know. I’ll fix cars, and you’ll do
all the nerdy numbers stuff. And at the end of the day we’ll hang out, and you’ll be old enough to drink beer, then--” never mind Dean isn’t old enough either, doesn’t mean he hasn’t-- “and we’ll drink beer, and when we get sleepy we’ll just... we’ll go to bed, and nobody will tell us we can’t sleep together, Sammy, I’ll climb in bed and so will you and we’ll curl up together and--”
Sam gives a soft nngh noise and slumps abruptly against Dean’s shoulder, breathing quickly. Dean looks over, at first afraid that Sam is having some kind of seizure, but then he sees the wet stain
spreading across the front of Sam’s pants. Horror freezes him, and while he stares, Sam lifts his head again and stares back at him through bleary eyes, smiling stupidly.
“Sorry,” he says, like it was some sort of innocent mistake. “I got really...”
“Get out.” Dean jumps from the bed like it’s caught fire. “Go away.”
“Dean,” Sam still sounds half-mad with bliss. “Come on.”
“Go change.” Dean turns away. “Before Mom and Dad come home. Get out of here.” His heart is hammering. He can’t do this, can’t be part of it. Sam is fourteen. Fourteen!
Sick at heart, half-sure he’s going to hell, Dean hides in his room the rest of the night. He can’t meet Sam’s eyes for a week. Chaste, don’t-know-why-it’s-wrong kissing was one thing, but Sam turned it into an abomination in a single overwhelmed moment, and now Dean feels like a monster. It wasn’t Sam’s fault. Sam didn’t know any better, couldn’t control himself. And maybe Dean can’t control himself either, when his hand drifts south and he thinks about the noise Sam made. But he won’t be part of dragging Sam down to hell with him.
No matter how many times he jerks off with Sam’s name trembling just behind his lips, no matter how many times he sees that guilty look on Sam’s face and knows he’s been doing the same, Dean can’t control himself. And he is terrified of the day he leaves his bedroom and does something he’ll regret.
So he leaves the house, instead.
Dean’s not smart enough to skip a grade like Sam is, but he’s smart enough to make it through high school and get into college, albeit just a local one. It’s a decent school, though, and it has vocational courses as well as the usual liberal arts education, and Dean really wants to learn how to fix cars. He’s gonna be a mechanic, he tells Mom and Dad, much to their horror, and he endures their tirade about how a liberal arts education is important and Dean shouldn’t cut off any career pathways, because the important part isn’t the career, the important part is getting them to let him live on campus. Which they’re surprisingly good about, despite the cost. Maybe their fears about him and Sam aren’t so assuaged after all.
He doesn’t tell Sam until after he's secured his place at school and his room, and, predictably, Sam freaks out. “You're leaving?” he says, his eyes wide with the beginnings of tears, and his hands seize Dean's. Dean snaps at him not to cry, and Sam blinks back the tears, anxious to be a man about it. Or, at least, to be Dean's definition of a man. Dean hates himself all the more for the way Sam struggles to do just what Dean said. It’s a sickening power to have, and Dean can only think of what he could do with it. What he wants to do with it. God,
no
.
“I thought we were gonna go away together,” Sam says. “And start a garage, and--”
“I gotta go to school for that first.” Dean tries to give him the most level, chaste, big-brother gaze he can. “Look at me, Sammy.” Sam turns away. “Come on.” He grabs Sam's chin, forces him to meet his eyes. “You know what we want to do, we can't do. You know that, right?”
“But nobody will know.” Sam tries to press forward. Still, even after a half a year of trying, Dean still hasn't gotten Sam to see things the way they need to be. “That's the whole point, right? We'll go away together, and we'll live together, and Dean--”
He’s too close, his eyes bright with betrayal and want, and Dean can’t resist as Sam pushes into his arms, seals his lips over Dean's in a slow, aching kiss. Dean tries to open his mouth to talk, and Sam’s there, filling the space with the wet press of his tongue, moaning as he grabs Dean by the shoulders, holds him fast. Dean tries his best not to react or kiss back, but the moan that rises up in his throat is an animal all its own, and Dean can’t hold it back any more than he can keep Sam away.
“I love you, Dean,” Sam murmurs. “Love you and want to be with you. You know I never had a girlfriend, right? Never kissed that girl. The minute we kissed, I knew it was just you. Would always be you.”
“Sam--” But Dean's hands are closed over Sam's arms, are stroking his skin and sliding under his sleeves. “Sam, stop.”
“Why?” Sam rocks against Dean's body. His stomach is hard, built. Warm and flat against the telltale jut of Dean's cock. “I can feel you want this, Dean. If nobody knows but us, what harm could it do?”
“What harm-- you're fifteen!” Dean spits. “Shit, Sam, we're brothers and you're a kid and we just-- God, we can't.” He pushes backward, disgusted, his stomach burning up his throat.
“Look at me!” Sam spreads his arms wide. “Do I look like a kid anymore, Dean? I'm taller than you. Hell, you might not wanna hear it, but I'm stronger than you, too. If I wanted to I could beat the crap out of you for leaving me.”
“But you won't.” Dean points a finger at him. “Because that's not who you are. You're Sammy, and you're sweet, and innocent, and you're a kid, and I'm not going to screw you up. I'm just not.”
“So you'll leave?” Sam's voice falters.
“If that's what it takes.”
Sam sighs. Stepping back, closing the circle of his arms, he leans heavily against the wall. “Fine,” he says softly. “Fine, Dean. If that's what you've got to do. But I'm not giving up.”
Dean dares to stay quiet. He wants to see what Sam has to say.
“If you won't do it because I'm a kid,” Sam goes on, “I'll wait. I'll wait until I'm legal. And then I'm gonna come to college with you, Dean, and you're gonna be done making excuses. We're gonna be together.”
“Sam,” Dean says, but he has no words to follow up the name.
“You think I don't know how weird this is? I've been on the Internet, Dean. I know it's fucked up. But it's fucked up because most of the time it's abuse. Most of the time it's one brother forcing the other one. That's not what this is. You know it and so do I. It's a one-in-a-million chance, maybe. But we're the one in a million. So if you won't believe that until I'm old enough to give informed consent, then fine, we'll wait.”
“And what if you change your mind?” Dean says. The fear in his voice startles him, and he struggles to recover. “What if I do? What if one of us meets someone?”
“Then it wasn't meant to be and it'll suck, but we'll move on.” Sam smiles. “That's how these things work. All I know is right now, I want to be with you, and I'm willing to wait for you. Dean, it's OK. It's all gonna be fine.”
He’s smiling like the freaking Dalai Lama. How the hell can he do that? Have that much confidence? He really is a kid, Dean thinks bitterly. Either that, or he’s wiser than Dean, which is even scarier. Because if Sam’s right, that means Dean is stuck with this curse forever. He'll just go on wanting his brother, and even if he doesn’t end up in jail he'll still be a freak for life.
“OK,” he says, mustering up a smile. “Fair deal, Sammy. If you can make it to 18, and this-- this thing isn't gone, we'll give it a try. But in the meantime, you can't tell anyone.”
“Never have,” Sam says evenly. “Never will.” He leaned in, kisses Dean on the mouth once, and leaves the room, smiling.
Dean stands there for a long while, staring at the spot where Sam stood. Things are starting to crystallize. There is a way out of this after all. All he has to do is go to school and meet someone else.
That turns out to be remarkably easy to do.
From the moment he arrives, Dean finds himself in the weird situation of being a chick magnet. Girls who are a year ahead of him, who can slide under a junker and have it purring in a half-hour, suddenly forget the most basic things and need a refresher from Dean in his T-shirt with his arm muscles bulging beneath it. Their gaze wanders, Dean asks a question and they answer in a dazed voice if they can remember to answer at all -- it’s all something out of a Playboy fantasy, honestly.
A fantasy, but Dean finds himself demurring more often than not. Oh, he’ll take them up on their offers of dates and rides in beautifully restored classic cars and tickets to the best concerts. And he’ll kiss them, soft lips against his own, pretty bodies pushing against him demanding more. But he can never quite get past the semi-heavy petting stage. His body won’t react the way he wants it to, the way it should. Not because they aren’t beautiful or because he doesn’t like them. Because there’s always something that reminds him of Sam. A sigh or a moan or the brush of a hand against his hardening cock and it’s Sam he’s kissing, Sam whose voice he’s hearing from across the state waiting for him, begging him to stay true. And Dean breaks off the kiss, pulls his shirt back on, and sits with his head in his hands, muttering “sorry” until the girl, disappointed but overcome with sympathy, tells him it’s all right and drives him home.
There’s only so much of that he can take before he gives up on dating altogether. It’s not happening. His heart isn’t letting it happen.
It’s not long before rumors start to fly. Dean is aware of them, but he doesn’t much care. At least the constant pressure of attention is finally off him. And he doesn’t mind just concentrating on his books and, mostly, his cars. That’s something he can love, sweat over, slave over, and devote his whole attention to for days on end. A couple of classes a day and then good music, a garage, the smell of grease -- he’s good there, and he doesn’t feel the loss. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he’s supposed to be trying like hell to meet someone, anyone that will take his mind off Sammy, but it just isn’t happening. If worst comes to worst, he tells himself, he’ll have to lie.
He slides out from under the car one day and finds himself looking up at an upside-down face.
"The hell?" He nearly bangs his head on the car above him. The face tilts, as though trying to see him more clearly from a different angle. "Uh, can I help you?"
"Hello, Dean." Unsmiling, just spoken, as though read from a teleprompter.
"Um, hello. You mind moving back so I can get out from under this car?" Because the face is attached to a body standing exactly where Dean has to slide the dolly if he wants to get vertical again.
"Sorry." Said face and body retreats, and Dean finds his way right-side-up again. Getting to his feet, he fights past a rush of dizziness and blinks his way back to focus.
The guy who's greeted him is a lean boy with a mess of dark hair that stands up as though he spends hours every day with his finger plugged into a light socket. Though he stands ramrod-straight, still unsmiling, there is a kind of ease about the way his arms fall at his side, the intensity of his stare. He is, Dean thinks, completely focused, without any self-consciousness or worry about how he'll be received. It’s weirdly impressive, though at first glance the guy seems as sober and tense as you can get.
"So," Dean says. "You were about to tell me who the hell you are and what you want?"
"My name is Castiel," the boy says. "I want--"
And completely inexplicably, his eyes sweep down the length of Dean's body, and he smirks.
Dean feels his skin prickle in response to the look. It’s more brazen than any leering glance he's ever gotten from a girl, and undeniably sexual, but at the same time there’s something almost businesslike about it. It’s a weird hybrid feeling, and Dean has no idea how to approach it. He stands silently, lets himself be appraised, and just squints at this Castiel guy, trying to figure him out.
"Yes," Castiel says, "I think you'll do."
"Huh?" Dean realizes he's been clutching his grease rag like a church lady might hang onto a handkerchief. He throws it to the floor with a decisive fling. "What will I do, exactly, and who the hell are you?"
Castiel's eyes meet Dean's, and Dean realizes for the first time just how bright and huge they are, like something out of a cartoon. Blue, too, the color of fresh paint. "I'm a student. I'm in two of your classes. You haven't noticed me. And as for what you'll do... that's what I'd like to talk to you about. Can I buy you a drink?"
Dean bit his lip. "I'm underage, dude."
"That's why I'll buy it."
They’re halfway back to Castiel's place with a six-pack of beer before it hits Dean that Castiel must have stayed back a year or two in high school to be over twenty-one and in the same classes as Dean. And yet he doesn’t seem like a dumb guy. Simple-minded, maybe, but not dumb. Maybe he has a disorder of some sort. Not that it’s really worth it to speculate. Dean’s getting free beer out of whatever this is, so he'd better keep his theories to himself.
As for what this is, Castiel says that it’s a business proposition. There’s money in it for Dean, far more than he can earn as a gas station attendant or convenience store clerk, and he can pretty much make his own hours. Dean asks him why Castiel has come to him about it ("That will all become very clear,") whether he does the same job ("yes, and I enjoy it very much") and, of course, what kind of a job it is ("Pleasure before business, Dean. Let's have a drink first."). The whole thing is mysterious and suspicious as hell, but Dean can’t seem to figure out what it could be. Maybe he’s just slow. Or maybe the ridiculous hugeness of Castiel's eyes, the almost hypnotic motions of his body, are draining the brain power right out of him.
They have a few beers, discuss professors, and Castiel has leaned forward to impart a rumor about a mutual classmate when Dean realizes he’s turned on. It’s a brand-new sensation, to be turned on by someone who isn’t Sam, and it thrills the hell out of him. This was the problem the whole time. He’s been trying to get turned on by girls and it hasn’t worked. He needed a guy. A gorgeous guy, one like Castiel. The way out of pining after Sam is finally right in front of him. He nods, grins, and listens, enjoying the pleasant prickle up his spine. His head is buzzing with possibilities.
But he's afraid, because he knows just how screwed-up he is. If he starts something with Castiel, that'll come up eventually, and then he'll be even more alone, more screwed-up for having lost someone to the fact that he's got a hard-on for his little brother. Maybe Cas isn't the right one to distract him after all. Not when he thinks about Sam and still aches with how much he wants to pull him close and touch him in every possible way. The separation isn't complete enough.
"So you've been hinting at some kind of business opportunity," Dean says, his voice tripping over the words. They have far too many syllables for this much alcohol in him. "A part-time job?"
"You could call it that, yes." There's something oddly vague and grave about Castiel, even when he's drunk, and Dean finds it sexy as hell. He sits forward, examining the crease of his forehead and the thick line of his jaw, rough with stubble. So severe, but wry at the same time. Like a guy who knows his way around the darker side of life. And here he is teasing Dean with vague hints, a soft smile. Dean's impure thoughts are going to swallow him up, consequences be damned.
"Well, I'm always up for making some cash," Dean says, "but you're being pretty cryptic, dude. Can't you give me at least an idea what I'd have to do for the money?"
Castiel grins widely. Dean feels the expression like a lightning shot to the gut.
"Sure," Castiel says, and he reaches forward to pull Dean's face to his. His fingers stretch long and curved over Dean's cheeks. "I'll give you a hint." Dean struggles to take in a breath. The next thing he knows, Castiel is kissing him, long and deliberate, sucking softly on his slack lips, then pulling away and staring at Dean through benign blue eyes.
"Um," Dean says dumbly.
Castiel's fingers remain pressed into his cheeks. He's smiling.
Dean takes in a hurried breath and lunges forward. He kisses Cas hard, pressing his lips against Castiel's with purpose, hands coming up to claw at his shoulders. He groans into the kiss, louder when he feels Castiel's mouth part against his own. They're not close enough, not nearly. Dean yanks Castiel across the couch, tries to pull the lanky body on top of him, swinging his legs up onto the couch so Cas can collapse on top of him. God, he wants. His fingertips crawl up into the base of Castiel's hairline, slide beneath his collar and try to yank off his shirt. Fire is making its way up his spine.
Castiel gasps against his mouth. "Wait, Dean. Stop."
"You started it," Dean says between kisses pressed up into Castiel's jaw and neck.
"I know," Castiel says, and gasps. His body shudders in Dean's arms. "Oh, God, Dean, I know. But... but not yet." He pulls off, sits up straight on the couch and looks at Dean with hard eyes.
Dean's hands go slack and slide off Castiel. He sits up, too. "Why the hell not?"
"Because," Castiel says. His sly smile re-emerges. "That's the part you get paid for."
"What?"
Castiel shrugs. He licks his lips, re-adjusts his shirt where Dean's pulled it askew, and waits for Dean to put the puzzle pieces together.
But Dean's slow on the uptake. "I'm not a whore," he informs Castiel reproachfully.
"No, you're not," Castiel says. "You're a porn star."
Dean sits back. It settles into his system slowly -- the words, things thrown around casually, and the concept that it could be real, could be him -- and then, slowly, the substance of just what it is they're even talking about.
"You -- you do porn ?" he asks, and he probably sounds like he's asking if Castiel is really an alien from another planet.
"I work for a really reputable company," Castiel says evenly. "They run a website called Collegeangels.com. It's a very particular business model. Each performer has his own webcam and chat room, and people pay to participate in live webcasts and chats. It's like being paid to have your own TV show, basically. You have to cultivate your own following, but once you have people who want to visit your site, it's very lucrative. And there's a signing bonus to bring new talent aboard, but frankly, there aren't many people here who would satisfy their criteria. They're very strict about who they bring on."
"But I would?" Dean is having trouble fitting his brain around how businesslike Castiel's being about this.
Castiel smiles. "Oh, yes. At the very least, you're undeniably gay."
"I'm--" Dean has a protest at the ready, but it chokes in the face of Castiel's bright blue eyes. The guy can see Dean better than Dean himself, that's been clear since the moment they met. Dean just doesn't get interested in girls. Not the way he's interested in Castiel.
And Sam.
"I'm--" He sighs and tries to gather his thoughts. "I'm not experienced."
"That's a good thing." Castiel's smile is gone, and he's all business now, all somber sales pitch. "Innocence plays very well for the camera. Frankly, most of the others are too cavalier about sex by this point. Myself included. I've had my share of meaningless encounters for the cameras, and they're fun, but new blood is how the industry stays alive."
"So you do this with other people, then. Not just you alone in your bedroom in front of a webcam."
Castiel nods. "I try to have guests often enough."
"Guests. Huh." It seems a weird word for someone you sleep with, but Dean's new at this. He takes a deep breath. "So we wouldn't be doing this -- only with each other."
"Does that disappoint you?" Castiel cocks his head.
Dean has to tilt his own head; Castiel looking at him at the forty-five degree angle is pretty disconcerting. "No. Actually, it's a relief. I don't really want to have to--"
To tell you about Sam , he thinks.
"To be exclusive? No, once you're signed up you'll have a camera in your own room, and you can invite anyone else who's a member of the program. There's a whole list of local boys. You'll get to know them."
Dean's starting to be seriously convinced. Did he think this wouldn't distract him enough? A long list of guys to invite over and get with is the perfect distraction. And Castiel as No. 1 on the list? And money ? He won't have time to think about Sam. And by the end, he'll have enough experience that Sam will seem like a sad dream from a lonely time.
"Don't get me wrong," he says, leaning over and squeezing Castiel's knee, "I think you are really, really hot."
"Then that's all that matters." Castiel's eyes flash with excitement. "Dean, your eyes -- your body -- I knew I had to get you on the site. It had to happen."
"So do we have to test for STDs?" Now he's talking like he's already signed up, but who is he kidding himself? He is. He's sold.
"Of course. Every three months, and if you have a partner outside of the site, you have to test before you can do anything with a program member. Everyone on the site is clean. Testing's unpleasant, but..."
"I'm a virgin," Dean blurts out.
Castiel blinks. Dean can see him fighting to keep a smile suppressed. "Really?"
"Really." Dean doesn't bother holding back the smile. "I haven't even been with a girl. You better be gentle."
"Of course." Castiel bites his lip. Literally chomping at the bit, Dean thinks.
He winks. "Not too gentle, though."