Chapter Text
Once more, he had been cast from Heaven.
Castiel couldn't quite believe it. Even after the angels had all fallen, he stood for a long time in shock.
He also didn't quite remember the intervening hours that had passed from the moment of his exile to picking up the phone to talk to Dean. Dean was going to come get him. He hadn't argued.
Now he was sitting in the back seat of the Impala while Sam and Dean talked amongst themselves. Every so often, Dean would glance in the mirror at him. Castiel would meet his eyes, then look away. He found he couldn't maintain eye contact for very long without experiencing a strange burning sensation in his gut.
—
There were many different uncomfortable sensations that Castiel associated with mortality. Exhaustion, pain, hunger and thirst. The year of the apocalypse, he had spent a short time with his grace drained low enough for the exhaustion and pain to leak through the cracks in his statue-like exterior. He had needed food, and drink. But his grace hadn't been completely burnt out. There had still been a guttering, flickering flame of light deep down inside, one that meant his needs weren't quite so urgent as they could have been.
It felt, now, like someone had played a cruel trick on him, to make him believe that's all there was to it.
This time was so much worse. Initially, he laid the blame on his emotional state. He was guilty for—
For everything.
It was natural for him to feel worse. And of course emotions in human beings could present themselves as physiological symptoms. Castiel knew this.
But as they arrived at the old Men of Letters bunker, Castiel was beginning to realize that it was not just his mental state which was responsible for his many discomforts. Everything ached, his joints especially, and there was a throbbing behind his left eye that was causing his trapezius muscles to tighten in sympathy. The hunger in his belly was sharp, and his tongue felt as dry as the Jordan desert.
Yet, he couldn't bring himself to ask for food or drink when the three of them piled out of the car and into the bunker's spacious garage.
For a moment he was distracted by the grandiosity. Sam and Dean had always lived by rather meager means.
"Home sweet home," Dean said, turning to look back at Castiel as he shut the door and pocketed his keys. "Welcome to the new digs."
"It's very spacious."
Sam snorted.
"Hey, guys. I'm gonna hit the sack."
"What, Sammy, no dinner?"
Sam shrugged, and gave Dean a look that was saying more than he was otherwise letting on. Castiel watched the silent communication before glancing away with a sudden tightness in his chest.
"All right, well. You get some rest."
Sam ducked his head and waved a hand at them both as he turned away, his echoing footsteps following him out the door.
Dean glanced back at Castiel before gesturing him in his direction.
"C'mon, I'll show you around."
Castiel increased his pace to keep up.
—
Castiel had been right. The bunker was large.
There was a central strategy room, with a spiral staircase that led to one of the outdoor exits. There was an extensive library, a kitchen, a large dormitory and a laundry room standing adjacent. There was also an infirmary, and a control facility in the basement, an astronomy lab, and further rooms in the above ground building, all standing empty.
By the time they were done with the tour, Castiel was exhausted, but Dean seemed to have a bounce in his step, even though his smiles were all shaky at the corners. There was something not quite right, but he seemed excited anyway, although Castiel couldn't place why.
They had looped back around to the Library, and Dean was glancing around the bookshelves and rubbing the back of his neck. Castiel watched him. He looked tired, somehow. It felt like it had been a long time since Dean had been so still. Still enough for Castiel to map his features.
The moment stretched thin. Castiel looked down at his shoes.
"Well, uh..."
Dean didn't seem to know what to say now.
"Dean, I'm hungry."
"Fuck, right— Sorry. C'mon."
Castiel hadn't meant to blurt it out. He found he didn't especially want to remind Dean of his mortality, but he also knew that putting it off was foolish. It changed nothing.
He followed Dean back to the kitchen.
—
Castiel sat at the small silver table while Dean moved around in the confined space. The kitchen seemed comparatively smaller than other rooms in the bunker, though it was certainly big enough for three adults when the bunker had obviously been designed to house more. Dean was taking something down from the cupboard — a loaf of bread — and pulling a few jars out from the fridge.
When he turned back to Castiel, he was holding two plates, each with a sandwich of some kind.
"PB&J,"
Dean set one plate down in front of Castiel, and the other at the seat across from him.
He added, "Haven't had time to go to the store, so this is all we got. I'll make a run tomorrow." Then set a glass of milk by Castiel's plate. He was holding a beer when he sat down. Castiel gazed at it for a moment, and then picked up his glass of milk. At the first sip, he realized he was very thirsty, and his sips became gulps. His throat worked as he tipped his head back, and some milk dribbled down his chin.
"Woah, hey! Don't make yourself sick, man. Take it easy."
"Sorry," Castiel croaked. He put the glass down and wiped his chin with his sleeve. Dean gave him an unreadable look, and he picked up his PB&J to avoid his scrutiny. It tasted as good as the milk was thirst-quenching, but he found he wasn't as hungry as he was thirsty, and didn't feel compelled to give into gluttony and gorge himself. He savored each bite, even when they began to feel heavy on his stomach, and finished his plate down to a few crumbs. His hand hesitated as he reached for the glass of milk, but when Dean said nothing to dissuade him, he finished that too. Dean had already finished eating by the time Castiel was done, but he was still nursing his beer and trying to pretend that he wasn't watching him.
"Better?"
"Yes."
But it was obvious that while Castiel's stomach may have been filled, he wasn't okay. They both knew why. Neither one of them wanted to talk about it.
You're. Um. Probably tired, so..."
Castiel realized where Dean's awkwardness was coming from, suddenly. He must have forgotten, at some point, that Castiel was mortal now and what it meant. An easy mistake to make. Castiel had been an angel for a very long time, and it wasn't as though there were any outside signs, flashing, telling everyone by sight that he was no longer of the divine. Dean probably felt bad for dragging him around the bunker after the long drive. Dean could, of course, feel guilty about anything.
Dean was getting up. Castiel hurried to follow him, banging his knee on the table, but not loud enough that Dean heard it.
"C'mon. Let's pick you out a room."
His knee stung, but he said nothing as he trailed Dean into the dormitory.
—
His room was between Sam and Dean's, and not that far from the kitchen or the bathroom. Dean had 'set him up' with an extra set of blankets, as he claimed that it got rather cold in the bunker at night, and then they said their goodbyes at the door.
"'night, Cas."
"Goodnight, Dean."
Dean let his gaze linger, but didn't say anything more before he left. He shut the door behind him. Castiel listened to his footsteps recede.
Castiel peeled off his coat. Dean had instructed him to toe off his shoes by the door. He hung his coat over a chair that was sitting in the corner. He got in bed without any consideration for his wrinkled suit and tie, and quickly fell asleep.
—
It was another strange sensation that woke him. An insistent pressure, low in his gut. He studied it for several groggy moments, attempting to assess his emotional state. Eventually, he settled on a simple conclusion. This was another bodily need, much like hunger or thirst. But he couldn't place it. The longer he lied there, squinting up at the dark ceiling, the more his body felt the urge to squirm. Perhaps, he thought, I'm just restless from lying still so long. After all, it was unusual for him to lie still for any considerable amount of time.
The pressure increased.
It reminded him of another annoying involuntary sensation he had experienced in his last bout of mortality. Irritation. It felt like an inch, but deeper. An inch between his legs. Somehow, inexplicably, he felt embarrassed by the thought, even though he was sure there was no reason to be. When he was done convincing himself that this was the case, he reached between his legs and scratched.
It didn't alleviate the sensation. Castiel made a frustrated sound and dug down harder with the heel of his palm. If anything, it was making the sensation worse. The pressure continued to build. The flesh between his legs was beginning to feel inflamed. He brought his hand away, breathing harder, and moved to rise. As he threw the covers off and sat up, he realized his mistake. The pressure increased sharply with his change in posture, and with a startling abruptness there was a warmth blooming from between his thighs.
Not just a warmth. A wetness.
And in that moment, he understood. It was a bodily need, one he'd never had to face before. Urination. The pressure decreased as the warmth spread to soak his pants, the sheets, the mattress. It was such an overwhelming relief, in those first few seconds, until another bout of understanding washed over him. He was wetting himself. He tried to stop, but found he had no finesse over his own body. His bladder emptied, ounce by ounce, in a steady gush, his abdominal muscles clenching and spasming. A sound escaped his mouth and he shook, fingers twisted in the front of his shirt.
By the time it was over, the wet patch was already beginning to cool. The brief sense of relief was replaced by a sudden, heart-racing fear. He was certain neither Sam or Dean had ever wet the bed.
But — it couldn't be that uncommon, could it? He debated with himself on whether or not to tell Dean now or wait until morning, but when he checked the clock it was in shock to find it was already 6am. Disoriented by this turn of events, Castiel began to climb out of bed, and as he did he felt urine run down his thighs in cool strips that made him cringe. It soaked into his socks instead of dripping on the floor, at least, and he bundled up the sheets with the stains concealed on the inside. He considered, for a moment, taking care of the issue himself. But he had never run a washing or drying machine beore, and didn't know how.
He would need help.
—
"Cas, you— What the hell!?"
"I didn't mean to."
"I get that! You just," Dean stopped himself and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefingers. Castiel felt bad for waking him up. He clearly could have used the sleep. Though he was gratified to find that Sam was, unusually, still in bed.
"C'mon," Dean winced as his eyes tracked up and down his body. The stain wasn't overt due to the dark color of his slacks, but the bunker's overhead lights still made it obvious that they were wet. "Let's teach you how to work the washer."
—
It was a somewhat complicated process, but the settings on each machine were what truly eluded him. Dean explained that different kinds of clothes and messes required different amounts of hot or cold water, which Castiel understood, but naturally he had no easy way to know what settings should apply to each different article of clothing. So Dean explained the little symbols on the tags and what they meant. It was like its own language.
"It's not a big deal. Let's just get this stuff taken care of."
He had opened the washer for Castiel to throw the sheets inside. And then Castiel began to strip. Dean looked a little startled and glanced away. The only thing that hadn't been stained was his suit jacket and tie, which he left draped over the top of the drier. He felt Dean scrutinizing him in his nakedness.
Dean had seen him nude before, of course. Near the close of the year that they were forced to deal with Leviathans, one of his weightier mistakes. Castiel bowed his head, ashamed. He wondered if Dean found him wanting.
"You know where the shower is, right? Go wash off. You can borrow some of my clothes," And then he added, "Sam doesn't need to know about this. Your stuff was dirty anyway."
Castiel glanced up at Dean and nodded without saying anything. He left stiffly, and felt Dean's eyes on him the entire time.
—
The shower felt good. Actually, it felt amazing. His mood was improving as his body became cleaner and warmer. Dean hadn't seemed angry, at least. He was obviously not happy about this, but it was nothing like before, when Dean was still stung by his distrust. His improving mood took a hit at the reminder, alongside the refreshed memory of the Leviathans lingering in the back of his throat, but he was buoyed again when he heard the door open. The room was open in the style of a communal shower, and so there was no partition between the shower and the rest of the room besides a small lip on the floor to keep the water from spilling out toward the sink and bench area. Dean had a bundle of dark clothes in his arms, and he gave a glance in Castiel's direction as he set them down on one of the benches.
Dean looked away.
"I'm gonna whip up something quick for breakfast. Think we got some bacon left. So, yeah."
He turned to go.
"Thank you, Dean." Castiel said, too serious.
Dean shrugged one shoulder and left before he could say any more.
—
Castiel met Dean in the kitchen to a cacophony of smells and sounds. Sizzling bacon and eggs, toast springing from the toaster, music playing from a small tinny tape player dean kept on the center island. Castiel's hair was still damp, and he was wearing a soft, dark green t-shirt and a pair of worn and somewhat oversized jeans. He sat down at the table.
A few minutes later a plate was set in front of him.
"Here you go, the Winchester special." Two strips of bacon, two eggs, and two slices of toast, one with butter and one with some kind of spread that turned out to be the same grape jelly from the PB&J last night, along with a glass of orange juice. It was amazing, especially the rich saltiness of the bacon, and he and Dean talked as they ate. Dean seemed to wake more and more in the process of their conversation, and Castiel felt gratified, as it seemed his accident had been forgotten.
Sam joined them twenty minutes into their meal, still looking exhausted. Dean stood and prepared him his own plate, and they finished their meal together.
When Dean was taking the dishes to the sink, he addressed Sam.
"Me and Cas are going on a grocery run. Anything you want?"
Sam had a small list for Dean, mostly foods that Dean deemed too healthy. However, he didn't refuse to pick them up, only complained in that good-natured way the brothers often did with each other.
While Dean was cleaning up, Sam turned to him.
"How are you, Cas?"
"I'm fine," He said, because he could think of nothing else to say. What had happened, what he had done, was not fine. Being here in this bunker seemed more than he deserved. But he somehow felt a sense of contentment regardless. "I like this bunker."
Sam smiled.
"Yeah, it's great, isn't it? The library alone's a treasure trove."
He heard Dean snort something that sounded suspiciously like the word nerd.
—
It was the first time in a long time he'd had the opportunity to ride in the passenger's seat of Dean's beloved Impala. It was comfortable and warm, the leather soft and the heater throwing heat that pinked his cheeks and his fingers. Dean was talking about the little town nearby.
"We've gotta drive out past Lebanon to get our groceries. Too small. Not much point in having a secret lair if people figure out where you are because you're a regular at the local co-op, y'know? So we usually make the trip to Beloit or up to Superior in Nebraska. Kind of a pain, but that's why we're gonna stock up. You think of anything you want on the way, give me a heads up."
"Okay." Castiel answered, "Are you getting ingredients for the peanut butter and jelly?"
"Yeah," Dean laughed, "We're getting PB&J fixings. Anything else?"
Castiel thought. Then he shrugged.
"Well, all right."
—
It was past nine by the time they arrived, and the grocery store in Superior was noisy and busy. Castiel stuck close to Dean's side as he pushed the buggy through the aisles, picking up items and tossing them into the basket without much thought. He was clearly familiar with the store and the products he preferred. Castiel had been planning to ask him more about his choices, but the sound of overlapping voices was so overwhelming — nothing like angel radio — that he could hardly focus on avoiding people in the aisles. Dean, at some point, seemed to pick up on his discomfort and began moving a little faster.
In one of the quieter aisles, Dean slowed.
"There are so many choices."
"Yeah. See anything you like?"
"I don't know."
"Guess you wouldn't, huh?"
Dean peered at him. After a moment, Castiel stared back.
Then someone bumped into Castiel trying to go around him. Dean coughed and turned back to the cart, but not before throwing a couple of packages of tissues inside. They moved on. Castiel's stomach felt strange, but he once more couldn't identify the feeling.
—
Checking out their items seemed to take forever, from his new mortal perspective. So did carrying it all back and putting it into the trunk of the car. Castiel considered, after sitting back down in the passenger's seat, that perhaps he only felt that way because he was tired. Dean joined him in the driver's side, and they were off. Castiel didn't mean to, but at some point he leaned his head against the window and dozed off.
—
He awoke to a familiar sensation. At first, he was only confused. This wasn't his bed, and his neck was aching in a new way. He shifted, and winced, and then he remembered where he was and a burst of panic hit him.
He was in Dean's car with a full bladder.
His eyes shot to Dean, but he was none the wiser. He had glanced over to see him wake, but otherwise his eyes were on the road. They were on the interstate, driving fast. Surely, Castiel thought to himself, It can wait?
Now that he knew what it was, he could control it.
And that's the belief Castiel operated with for the next several minutes. He made a concentrated effort not to squirm, sitting very still in his seat. But even out here on the freeway, the road wasn't completely smooth, and the occasional turbulence made his entire body clench like a fist. If they were on the interstate, Castiel realized, it would mean they still had at least twenty minutes before they arrived in Lebanon, and likely another ten before they made it to their destination.
"Dean—"
"Mm? What's up?"
"I— I need to use the bathroom."
"Oh. We'll be back at the bunker in a few, can you wait?"
"No."
Something about the urgency, or the finality, of his voice made Dean look over. It was obvious he was trying to decide whether Castiel was overreacting due to his accident, or if his urgency was legitimate. Something in Dean's face shifted, and it became obvious as he flicked a switch on the wheel of his car (his blinkers) that he was intending to take Castiel seriously.
Castiel's grip tightened on the seat. The leather creaked. They had two lanes of traffic to pass through, and then, Castiel realized, they would have to wait for the cars around them to slow enough that they could pull off. He got very still. Dean swore as they hit another bump in the road. Castiel felt something gush — and glanced down on instinct, jolted by a second wave of embarrassment as he remembered it was Dean's clothes he was soiling.
They were pulling off to the grassy curb now, and Castiel scrambled to open his door as he felt himself begin to leak. Hot and wet. The door sprung open and he launched himself out to rip Dean's pants down his thighs and squat. The cold hit his bare bottom and crotch, and his stream faltered as a shiver ran through his body. He could see Dean's knuckles gone white on the steering wheel as Castiel crouched there, pissing. With the driver's door swung wide, he was in full view. Anyone glimpsing their direction from up or down the freeway would be able to see his partial nudity as well.
Castiel stayed crouched there for a while, both arms tight around his middle, until he finally stopped dripping. Steam rose from the puddle beneath him. There was heat coloring his face and between his legs. He stood up using the car door as a ballast, and tried pulling his pants back onto his hips one-handed. He struggled, then took his other hand off the car door to finish clothing himself. His face continued to redden.
It was only when the door was shut behind him that Dean spoke.
"Jeez, Cas. This gonna be a problem?"
Castiel realized this remark was not intended seriously after he answered,
"I don't know."
"Seriously?"
Dean turned to look at him, slinging one arm over the back of the seat. Castiel's fingers twisted together between his knees. His underwear were slightly damp, and he had the same urge, as before, to press his hand between his legs. He didn't.
"I'm not... accustomed to the sensation."
"Because you never had to do this before."
Understanding seemed to dawn. And then Dean's brows knit. He considered Castiel for a moment before putting both hands back on the wheel and returning to the freeway.
"Angels don't normally experience physiological indicators. It's only when we take a vessel..."
"Right. You were a wavelength or whatever."
Castiel turned his head down.
"Hey. C'mon, don't be like that. We're gonna get your grace back."
Castiel didn't think it was likely. He also didn't know if he deserved it. Dean seemed to realize his mistake, and pushed on, changing the subject.
"All right, so. You're not used to this. But you can learn."
"I hope to."
"You've got this, Cas. Don't worry about it. Just, rule of thumb: Take a leak before you leave on a drive. Saves everyone a whole lotta' trouble."
Castiel had to concede that both Sam and Dean had a habit of using the bathroom before leaving anywhere. Perhaps this was standard. It did make sense. Again, he felt ashamed.
"I understand."
—
Together they hauled the groceries from the car and began putting them away in the kitchen. Dean instructed Castiel on where each item was stored, and Castiel noted this in his memory. When they were entirely finished, Castiel excused himself to the bathroom to dab at his damp boxer briefs, which were actually Dean's. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but he still felt a pervasive sense of guilt.
He, Dean, and Sam ate dinner together after an otherwise uneventful day, and Castiel put his dirty clothes in the washing machine after changing into a pair of Dean's pajama's, which he had left for him, before bed.
It was impossible not to notice when he returned to his room that Dean had remade the bed. There was no trace of the mess he'd made, no scent or evidence of a stain, and the now clean sheets were back where they belonged. Which meant Dean had come in at some point during the day and cleaned it up for him.
Castiel felt simultaneously grateful and sickened at the idea that Dean had to clean up his mess. His heart sped. He had to talk himself down.
When he got in bed, he fell almost immediately asleep.
—
The pressure had returned. Castiel struggled up from the thick black sludge of his unconscious, fighting the dead weight of body to pull back the covers and make the trek to the bathroom. It was only outside and across the hall, but that stretch of space felt insurmountable in his current state.
By the time he actually arrived, pulse pounding and palms sweaty, he was awake enough to appreciate that he was fine. It was fine. He sat down on the toilet and relieved himself, taking care of the other unfortunate waste product his body produced before wiping himself clean (with possibly too much toilet paper) and rising to wash his hands at the sink until his knuckles and nail beds were pink. He splashed his face with cold water and pushed his hair back with his fingers, then looked himself in the mirror.
He didn't know what to think about what he saw staring back at him. It was his face and wasn't his face. He had no true face, and yet here were two blue eyes boring into the soul he didn't have, affecting a faint look of ennui. Mentally, he compared his face to Dean's and could immediately see what was lacking. Dean's eyes were bright and alive. His face was always making some expression. It was animated. It was full of feeling.
His own face felt empty.
What did people see when they looked at him now? His stomach ached to think of it.
He left the bathroom and went out into the kitchen.
—
It was still too early even for Dean, so Castiel sat at the table in silence. He kept jiggling his leg and tapping his fingertips against the tabletop as though he was impatient for something to happen, and finally, disgusted by himself, he got up. He moved over to the counter and inspected the coffee machine. He'd watched Dean make the coffee yesterday, though being as he'd been in a state of shellshock, he wasn't sure if he'd fully internalized the steps.
He opened the top of the machine and took out the basket. This is what held the coffee grounds. The water needed to be poured into a basin inside the machine.
Fifteen minutes later, it was happily gurgling away, drips of coffee leaking into the carafe.
He heard steps behind him, and turned to see Dean in the doorway, rubbing his eyes.
"Morning, Sunshine."
Castiel, startled despite himself, gave a little wave.
"Good morning, Dean."
"Got the coffee on? Awesome."
He came into the kitchen still wearing his robe and moved past Castiel in the small space behind the island. Their arms brushed. Dean's skin was very warm.
Today, he was pulling out eggs, bacon, and grabbing a few potatoes out of the pantry. Dean gave him an easy, sleep-addled smile as he stood there and stared. Castiel smiled back, the corners of his mouth unsure, and then realized he was in the way. He moved around to the other side of the island and sat down at the table.
Dean turned on the radio but kept the volume low as he moved around the kitchen with a casual surety that gladdened Castiel to see. Dean had never had a home before. Not since he was a very small child.
"You ever had hashbrowns?"
"No."
"Well, today's your lucky day. Cheesy hashbrowns."
Castiel stood from the table and lingered on the other side of the island, watching Dean work.
By the time the food was done, Sam joined them, and the three of them ate together.
—
The rest of the week was uneventful. All three were recovering from the events of the last several weeks. Sam was putting effort toward his physical recovery, and Castiel was trying his best to adjust to life as a mortal. Dean and Sam were both keeping a lookout for his grace, he knew, but he had to accept there was a very high likelihood that he wouldn't find it. He couldn't allow himself to think too much about it, lest his heart begin to race and his breath come short. Lest he lose all hope. Being restricted to this flesh and bone body was painful. That was the truth that he didn't want to look too closely at.
Even calm days were painful. So he began reading the books in the library. Sam had made a project out of sorting them by topic, and Castiel had come on as his new manpower. It was distracting work.
—
They'd fallen into a pattern with their communal meals. Lunches were fend for yourself (though Dean often made them both PB&Js, while Sam stuck diligently to salad) but Dean cooked breakfast every day, and made dinner every several days with enough leftovers to last them several. On Friday they ordered pizza.
That was also the day Castiel drank his first beer as a mortal.
Castiel had declined up until now. Alcohol was a diuretic, and after his accident(s), he was worried that it might make his issue even worse. But he longed for the communal aspect of drinking together, as he recognized this was something meaningful to Sam and Dean. So he drank. Sam often only had one beer in the evening, while Dean of course drank several. Castiel liked the carbonation, though he thought he might have to get used to the taste, and said so.
"Yeah, well," Dean looked at the label of the beer setting in front of him on the library table, "This isn't exactly the good stuff."
"When was the last time you bought 'the good stuff'?" Sam snorted. Dean shrugged. From this, he took it to mean that Dean and Sam often didn't have much money. Naturally, they weren't paid to hunt. He didn't know much about money, or what he would do with his life from now on. He only knew he had to make recompense, somehow, for the damage he caused in Heaven. Perhaps part of him was holding out some hope he'd find his grace first.
Sam and Dean talked, first about their taste in alcohol, then about Dean's apparently unhealthy eating habits, and then about Sam's desire to return to hunting. It was obvious Dean was uncomfortable with the idea, but they didn't argue. Instead, with the topic of hunts presented, they began to talk about past hunts, and Castiel let the words wash over him, half dozing with his chin in his palm. The beer had made him drowsy. When he finished the first bottle, Dean passed out another round.
Sam and Dean didn't seem to mind that he wasn't paying attention. It felt good to be in their company, casually, with nothing expected of him.
—
The side of his face was cold, wet, and sticky. His cheek was laying on something warm but firm, and his forearms felt numb. His shoulders were aching. Someone shook his shoulder and he lifted his head to find he'd fallen asleep at the library table. Sam was on his feet, gathering the empty beer bottles. It was Dean hovering over him.
"Wakey wakey. Time to get you to bed."
"Night, Dean. Night, Cas."
Castiel grunted. Sam made a gesture that was half a wave, covering his mouth as he yawned on the way out of the room.
Castiel sat up as Dean moved away. The stiff, wet fabric of his jeans rubbing against his thighs and bottom. His breath caught in his throat, hand pressed flat to the table until his fingertips went white.
He had—
These were Dean's pants.
As he turned, Dean noticed he was suddenly wide awake.
"What's up?" His face turned sympathetic, "Bad dream?"
"No."
"Okay. Care to fill me in?"
Castiel glanced down. It was involuntary, but Dean tracked it.
"Oh no. Cas, you didn't—"
He couldn't find his voice. That was confirmation enough. Dean groaned as he came back, nose wrinkled. How hadn't they noticed?
"Stay there."
Stiffly, Castiel nodded. His face was blank with humiliation.
Dean left him and returned half a minute later with two large towels and a plastic shopping bag. He ushered Cas to stand up and strip.
"C'mon, get 'em off so we can put 'em in here. Don't want you dripping everywhere."
"I'm sorry, Dean—"
"Cas, just help me out here, okay?"
Castiel shut his mouth and did as Dean said, stripping down to just his still dry t-shirt.
"Go. Shower. Sam's still in the bathroom, you've got time."
Dean was already quickly sopping up the mess he'd left on the chair and floor. Castiel felt warm between his legs. He couldn't watch.
—
Dean met him the shower. He was holding the clothes that had become Castiel's pajamas in his hands, and he set them down on the bench before turning to idly inspect one of the sinks. Castiel watched him in silence. He wondered if Dean was angry. He had every right to be. Dean was still cleaning up his messes.
"Cas, hey—"
"Dean—"
"Look. This obviously isn't working," Castiel's stomach dropped, "We've gotta do something about this problem of yours."
Do?
"What— what do you mean?"
"Well, something's clearly not clicking here, and we can't have Betsy Wetsy Cas on hunts. Maybe, like— a schedule?"
"A Schedule?"
"Yeah. That way you're not waiting 'till the last moment."
Castiel considered this. It wasn't a bad idea, but.
"That won't help when I'm asleep."
Dean's face said: Touché.
"Then... maybe you just need to practice holding it. Like, uh," Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, like he couldn't quite believe what he was saying, "Endurance training. So it'll become second nature to your body?"
Castiel considered this also. He slowly nodded. Perhaps it was necessary. He had to consider that certain aspects of his vessel may have weakened from lack of use over the past several years. In ideal conditions, his powers would never have fluctuated, and this body would have remained untouched until the day he stopped inhabiting it. But his life on Earth thus far hadn't been ideal. He was grateful for it, but it had been battered, destroyed, and remade too many times to count.
"Yes. I think you may be right."
Castiel turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. He dried himself with one of the white fluffy towels left hanging nearby, and then dressed in his pajamas.
"But how?"
Dean's mouth pinched. He rolled his lips together, brow furrowing in thought. Castiel let himself enjoy the sight of him.
"Let me think about it. For now, why don't you get some shuteye?"
Castiel inclined his head. Dean glanced from him to the shower and left without letting his gaze linger. Castiel brushed his teeth and went to bed.
—
Today was a day like any other.
It didn't feel like a day like any other.
Dean had yet to get back to him about his... endurance training. He wondered what he would come up with. Castiel had a few vague ideas himself, but though he was quite familiar with the human body in a theoretical sense, living in one was a different matter entirely. He'd need Dean's guidance.
Castiel thought about it through breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sam ate with them today during every meal, and the three of them — mostly Sam and Dean — discussed potential hunts. Sam and Dean argued a little, though Sam gave in, in the end. Too tired to fight.
Dean must have felt bad, because he made what he would later tell Castiel was one of Sam's favorite dinners. A low-sodium chicken dish (poultry was healthier than red meat, apparently) with a veggie medley on the side from one of those ingenious frozen bags that could be steamed in the microwave.
Castiel was so taken with it that after Sam left for the library, Castiel stayed to help Dean clean up and Dean showed him how to use the microwave himself. It was simpler than the coffee machine.
"Packaged food usually has instructions for how long to put it in," Dean took another bag of frozen vegetables out of the freezer to show him. "See? If you can't find instructions, ask."
"Okay."
"Now, since we ate healthy tonight, I got us a little dessert."
Dean flashed him a smile and dug back into the freezer. He put the bag away and brought out a small carton of ice cream, which he set on the counter before producing two bowls from the cupboard. It was apple pie flavored ice cream.
"This shit is almost as good as pie. And bonus, Sam doesn't bitch at me about it."
Dean scooped half the container out into one bowl, and the rest into the other. He grabbed two spoons, which he placed in either bowl, and tossed out the container. They ate at the table.
He wanted to ask Dean so badly what he had planned, but couldn't bring himself to speak.
After dessert, they went to the library to share a beer with Sam. Sam and Dean got to talking about their past hunts again, but this time Castiel didn't fall asleep. Every time his eyelids felt heavy, he sat up a little straighter, and Dean would glance his way.
Dean knew.
Despite this, Dean gave him a third beer. He was feeling warm, his fingertips and nose numb by the time Sam got up to say goodnight. A comfortable silence descended. Castiel almost couldn't help dozing off.
But Dean shook his shoulder and woke him before it happened. Castiel gave him a lazy smile, and Dean gave a snort.
"You drunk?"
"No," He paused. "Yes."
Dean laughed. Castiel smiled wider.
—
They talked for a little before Dean finally brought up the topic Castiel had been waiting for.
"So, uh, I was thinking," Castiel leaned closer, "Endurance training. We're gonna see how long you can hold it. Okay? How you feel right now?"
"Uh," He had to concentrate to bring his body into focus, but when he did, he felt the familiar pressure. His throat tightened, and he swallowed around it. "I need to go."
"Okay. Shower."
Dean wasn't wasting any time.
—
"Strip."
Castiel blinked up at Dean's face. Strip.
His clothes. Yes.
Castiel began to disrobe. Dean averted his eyes, and then shooed him to stand in the shower when he was done. Castiel understood Dean's intentions now. It was inevitable that he'd wet himself again, and he didn't want him to ruin his clothes.
"You're going to tell me when you start getting desperate, and then I'll start the timer," Dean waved his phone. "I've gotta know what I'm working with here."
Castiel nodded. Dean leaned against the wall outside the shower, facing away from Castiel to give him his privacy. He was a little bored, standing doing nothing, but they picked up their conversation again after some of the awkwardness lifted, which kept him distracted until he felt a twinge, a heat, between his legs.
"Dean, I—"
He saw Dean press something on his phone screen, and it beeped in acknowledgement as the timer started. Dean's head was turned just enough to take Castiel in from the peripheral while he began to squirm. He clenched and loosened his fists, shifted his weight from heel to heel, pressed his shoulders back against the flat, cool tile. His breaths were coming faster now, and he bit his bottom lip between his teeth, nostrils flaring.
"Not yet."
Castiel squeezed his eyes shut and saw color burst behind the lids. He knew it hadn't even been a minute. His nipples were peaked, and he was flushed all down his front, the heat inflaming his genitals and causing them to swell just slightly. He hoped it wasn't enough for Dean to notice.
"Not yet Cas."
He'd made a sound.
He could feel the warmth localizing at the opening of his urethra. His thighs were trembling. He wasn't going to make it. He wasn't going to make it. His toes curled against the cold tile, and then Dean spoke again.
"Okay. You can let go now."
So Castiel let go. He clutched at his belly as urine ran down his legs in a hot, wet gush. There was an overwhelming desire in him to press his hand between his legs like had the first time, but that would get his hand dirty, and Dean was still right there, so he didn't. Instead, he let a puddle form at his feet, genitals twitching with overstimulation.
By the time he was done, his belly ached.
"All right. A minute eleven. That's, uh... not bad to start."
Dean's voice sounded a little too cheery. There was something beneath it that he wasn't quite able to recognize, but he understood that Dean was hiding something. Perhaps he was disappointed. But Castiel didn't think he had done very good, so he wasn't angry.
"Get washed up, Cas, and I'll see you in the morning."
He left before Castiel had a chance to interject.
—
Castiel slept in the day after.
He had strange dreams all night, and rushed to the bathroom the moment he woke. When he found his way to the kitchen, breakfast had already been served. Sam was eating at the table while Dean moved around the kitchen, turning to acknowledge Cas' entrance.
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty."
"H-hello. Good morning."
"Morning, Cas."
"Good morning, Sam."
Castiel sat down at his seat. Dean brought him a plate. Just eggs and toast today. They had run out of bacon. (Sam was eating turkey bacon, but Castiel had tried it and found it just wasn't comparable.) When Dean sat down with them, he had two cups of steaming coffee in his hands. He pushed one mug toward Castiel, and he mumbled his thank-you into his drink.
He found that today he was having a little trouble looking Dean directly in the eye. A few times, Dean tried to catch his gaze, but eventually he gave up and continued the conversation he'd been having with Sam when he walked in.
—
It had been a few days since his first training, and they were going out again today. There were some basic amenities they needed, like detergent, dish soap, and floor cleaner, and Sam, who was deep in another one of the library books, had no interest in tagging along. Castiel changed back into his own clothes and left with Dean.
—
The drive was long but quiet in a comfortable way. Castiel rested his hand against the door and watched the world pass outside the window while Dean tapped his fingers to the beat of the music playing over the car's speaker system. Every so often, he would glance over. Castiel could feel Dean's eyes on him, but he never turned to look. He still couldn't bring himself to do it.
He kept thinking about last night.
Dean watching him out of the corner of his eye while he pissed down his leg and into the drain. Never once had he thought to contest the idea, but now that he thought back on the experience, he realized it had been incredibly vulnerable. This was why he struggled to meet Dean's eyes, he assumed. On some level, he was embarrassed by having relieved himself in front of Dean. But the more he thought about what had happened, the more warmth he felt grow between his legs. There was no pressure, though. It was a different sensation. A different bodily function.
But before he could identify it, they were pulling into the parking lot of the department store. Dean explained that these stores focused less on food and more on general household items, in contrast with stores that stocked mostly grocery, though there were also big box stores that sold both.
"I like to mix it up. Don't wanna get too predictable."
He winked at Cas, pleased with himself. Castiel smiled back.
—
The department store was much larger than the grocer. The interior seemed to stretch on for miles. It was much more spacious. It was also far less busy than the grocery store had been, and Castiel felt a sense of relief come over him as they walked together down the aisles. Occasionally, he would point to some device or other and ask Dean what it was for, and Dean would explain to the best of his ability the use and history.
"I don't understand why there are so many small plastic vehicles."
"They're toys, Cas. Kids like playing with cars."
Castiel turned to move through the toy aisles, and Dean followed.
He picked up a plastic depiction of a half-naked man with a blond bob haircut.
"Hey, He-Man!"
Dean only laughed when Castiel looked at him in confusion.
"It's from a show that was on when I was a kid. Used to watch it sometimes."
He put the toy back down. Castiel picked it up and gazed at it for a few moments before returning it to the shelf.
—
Dean had his work cut out for him when the entered the electronics section, but there was a sense of camaraderie between them when they encountered devices that neither of them understood how to use. Eventually, Dean would shrug and they would move onto the next thing, and the next. Castiel was enjoying himself, despite all his other misgivings about being surrounded on all sides by the average population.
They had ended up with more in their basket than they had originally come for. Dean had grabbed him another prepaid phone and a couple cards with minutes, as well as body wash and hair soap for Castiel that Castiel had picked out himself. They were the same brands Dean seemed to like, but in different scents. Dean also encouraged him to pick out a few shirts and pairs of sweatpants of his own, and Castiel chose things that he thought Dean might wear. They were more or less the same size anyway, Castiel's waist only a couple inches thinner than Dean's.
On the way out, Dean grabbed them a few bags of snacks and a couple of candybars, and they ate in the car while they made their way back onto the freeway.
—
It was a cold, overcast day, with gusty winds that made Castiel wince every time he felt them on the back of his neck. It was warm in the car, once the heater had been at it for a while, but there weren't many people out. They had the freeway mostly to themselves. His nose was pink from the constant transitions from cold to heat.
"Y'know, we should get you a laptop. Broaden your horizons a bit."
Castiel wrinkled his nose. Dean laughed at him.
"Yeah, I know, but you figured out the phone. And you can use a laptop to find music or, uh, watch Netflix."
"Netflix?"
"Like TV, but better."
Castiel hummed. He liked TV.
"Okay."
"Cool. We'll keep an eye out. I'm sure Sam can find something that'll work. And maybe you can help us with research, while we're still tracking down your grace."
It wasn't exactly a subtle subject change, and the way Dean looked over said he expected something. An answer. Castiel shrugged. Dean paused, then reached over and patted him a couple times on the arm.
"It's fine. We're gonna figure this thing out."
The warmth of his hand lingered.
—
They were still twenty minutes from home when Castiel started to squirm.
He'd forgotten to use the bathroom before leaving this morning. Waking late had thrown him off.
Dean hadn't noticed his squirming yet. He was bobbing along to the music, which he'd turned up after their conversation lapsed. Last night, Castiel had held it for a minute. He would have to hold it longer, now. He couldn't disappoint Dean already.
He pressed his knees together, thighs rubbing through his hand-me-down jeans, and crossed his ankles. Sat up a little straighter, trying to lighten the pressure on his bladder by getting out of his habitual slouch. But no matter how he attempted to alleviate the pressure, it continued to increase. He clenched his muscles and bit the inside of his cheek. Warmth unfurled between his legs, and then he felt it dribbling into the cleft of his butt and wetting the fabric covering his thighs. He clenched harder, and it stopped.
The music's volume suddenly decreased.
"Cas?" And then, in a much firmer voice. "Don't you dare!"
Dean was already pulling off to the side. Castiel scrambled out of the car before it was even completely braked and squatted with his pants down around his ankles, but before he could release, Dean spoke.
"Not yet."
"But I—"
"No. Hold it."
Castiel couldn't hold it. He knew he couldn't. But he clenched as tight as he could, crouched with his genitals exposed to the cold air. Despite the bite of the cold, Castiel only felt warmer. Between his legs, his genitals were suffuse with heat. He wanted to touch them so badly.
He saw Dean drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Counting down in his head, he realized. After a few moments, he reached over to pull some napkins out of the glove compartment, and cleaned up the mess he'd left on the smooth leather. He crumpled up the napkin and did something with it that Castiel didn't see, because now Castiel was trembling.
He didn't know if it was from the cold or something else.
Tap tap tap. Dean's fingers kept counting, all the way up to sixty. Then another twenty. Castiel's stomach hurt.
"Okay. You can go now."
It was a moment before Castiel could convince his body to unclench, and urine dribbled down the inside of his thigh. But then he was pissing in a steady stream, his sigh catching the tail end of a whimper. It was several long seconds before he finished, but he couldn't bring himself to stand just yet. The heat between his thighs was so overwhelming he almost couldn't stand not to touch himself.
He prepared to stand up anyway, and then had a thought.
"Dean, can I— can I have one of those napkins?"
"Huh? Oh. Yeah, sure. Here."
Dean seemed to understand what he wanted it for, and snatched a fistful out of the glove compartment to pass over. He took it with a mumbled thank-you and wiped.
But he didn't just wipe. He pressed his fingers down, hard. He cupped himself in his palm and cradled himself there, digging in with the heel until the heat became sharp and unbearable. He needed something more, but he didn't know what. He felt more damp between his legs. For a moment, he thought it was urine. But it was thicker. It was slick, welling up from his slit.
Castiel crumpled the paper and stood, pulling his pants up his hips, and climbed back into the car, breathing like he had just ran a sprint.
A few minutes later, after they had gotten back onto the road, Dean said,
"Lasted a little longer that time. A minute twenty. Not bad."
The praise burned bright in Castiel's gut.
—
Dean made steak for dinner that night, and poured them each a glass of whiskey, neat. Castiel got tipsy on that single glass, so Dean plied him with water for the remainder of the evening, which made Sam laugh shamelessly. Castiel smiled more easily than he ever had when he was an angel, or sober.
"You never went that easy on me."
"That's because you were a little shit. Stealing dad's beer—"
"So were you!"
"I'm the older brother. I'm allowed."
"Sure, yeah."
"Cas wouldn't steal my beer. Would you, Cas?"
"N-no?"
"See?"
Sam rolled his eyes.
—
When Sam went to bed, Castiel was still drinking a glass of water. Two and a half now, and the whiskey.
He definitely had to go, and he knew Dean knew. He wondered if Dean had given him the water on purpose.
Dean gave him a meaningful look. Or at least he thought Dean was giving him a meaningful look.
"Dean, I..."
"Gotta go? Go ahead and meet me in the shower."
Castiel finished his water first.
—
He had already stripped by the time Dean arrived, and Dean floundered a little in the doorway, but then remembered himself and shut it. His cheeks were a little pink. He coughed.
"Good on you, Cas. Taking initiative."
He came in and sat on one of the benches.
"All right. Get in. And this time, uh... I want you to do something different. Put your hands on the wall, okay, and spread your legs."
Castiel didn't know why they were doing something different, but didn't protest. He stepped over the lip into the shower stall and placed his hands against the tile. He planted his feet apart, which put some strain on his thighs, but it wasn't an uncomfortable position.
He was already squirming. Once he no longer had anything else to focus on, the full force of the urge surprised him. He also soon came to realize that this position was difficult to maintain. He wanted to bring his knees together and close his thighs, to aid the clench of his muscles. To protect his genitals from the cool air that whispered over his heated skin. He was beginning to breathe harder. His chest depressing with each sharp exhale. His toes curled, and so did his fingers, pressing his knuckles into the hard tile.
"I can't—"
"Yes you can, Cas. Hold it."
He heard the click of the timer. And he did. Or, he tried to. He was trembling, his back taut as a bow, his nipples peaked into hard little pebbles. He wanted to put his hands on himself but he couldn't. The timer was counting down and he could only stand there, thighs spread, until the pressure built and built and became too much. He was chewing on his lip. He could feel his grip slipping, could feel the heat gathering as his urethra filled with liquid. A dribble splattered on the floor, and Castiel realized why Dean had asked him to stand this way.
"Not yet, Cas."
"Dean."
Another drip.
Dean said nothing, leaving him to imagine his disappointed expression. He clenched down a few seconds longer, but continued to dribble, until the dribble gradually became a stream. He couldn't stop. He had failed, and a puddle was growing between his spread legs, and he was so hot there and he wanted to press his hand between them so badly. But he had at least some self-control left.
Dean clicked his tongue.
"Well, a minute fourteen isn't bad."
But it wasn't good, either.
Castiel was still standing in the same pose. He heard Dean stand up and walk closer. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked, and the heat between his legs grew and grew. It felt like something else might burst out of him, but it never quite reached the same excruciating pressure.
"Are you going to punish me?"
"Punish you?"
Dean sounded surprised. Castiel was surprised that he sounded surprised. He tried and failed to look over his shoulder.
They both started at the same time.
"I don't wanna hurt you, Cas."
"Training can't be successful without fear of punishment."
Dean shut up. He seemed to be thinking, because he didn't immediately respond. And then,
"...Okay. Okay, fine. Why don't you stand there until I come back for you?"
"Just stand here?"
"Without moving. You think you can do that?"
Castiel hesitated. And then he nodded.
"Okay. I need to— I'll be back."
And, sounding distracted, Dean turned and left.
—
It had been twenty minutes now. The longer Castiel stood here, the more he felt he wanted to touch himself. The more that strange, other pressure built. He was leaking, his thighs slick with a salty-smelling fluid that wasn't urine. He rotated his hips, canting them forward and back, like he was searching for something. And then he remembered Dean's single instruction, and went still, breathing harder. Another rivulet ran all the way down to his knee. It was excruciating.
—
And then Dean returned. It had been not quite an hour when he poked his head in to tell Castiel he could move now. And then he left as quick as he'd come, leaving Castiel alone.
He stood for several more seconds before finally turning around, moving his sore joints. His thighs rubbed against each other and against his crotch, and suddenly Dean's disappearance was forgotten. He dropped his hand to cup the heat between his legs, to finger and grind down against the spreading slick. It was desperate and messy and never, never enough. Even when he leaned back against the wall, even when he spread his legs and touched his hard nipples and poked his slippery fingers inside himself, it wasn't enough. It was a punishment all its own.
Minutes passed as he pawed at himself, almost bent double in the desperation of it. But nothing worked. Nothing was ever quite enough. He even got down on his hands and knees and reached around to probe at himself from behind with his hot cheek pressed against the cold tile (which, he realized too late, was slick with urine as well) but even the change in position gave him no relief.
He got up and turned on the shower. The water tickled his nipples and made him squirm again, but no matter how much he touched himself nothing happened but for the impossible pressure in his belly to increase.
—
Castiel went to bed frustrated and woke up frustrated. In the morning, his thighs were slick, and before he was even fully awake he reached down to grind his heel against his swollen genitals.
It still wasn't enough.
And when he went to complete his morning ablutions, he found he couldn't urinate. Or perhaps he just didn't have to. He had gone last night before bed, after all.
So he went to breakfast and did his utmost to put his distraction out of mind. It seemed to simmer just beneath his skin, bubbling every time Dean looked him directly in the eye, or nearly brushed him in passing. He could smell his skin, feel the heat of his body, and it made everything more defined in a way he wasn't familiar with. Like the heat was only being turned higher and higher.
—
Castiel was watching rain move down the window in long rivulets. They'd forgotten the drain cleaner yesterday, which was apparently quite important for drain cleaning, so they were in the car again on the way to the store.
It was a little busier today, though still not as bad as the grocer had been. Castiel also had less questions to ask, and he was distracted besides. Heat seemed to envelop his body like a cloud, and he was pink-faced as he moved from one aisle to the next, trailing Dean just slightly behind. The cleaning supply section was near the back of the store.
And then, sharp and sudden, he felt that familiar pressure.
He had been so distracted by the other sensation that he hadn't noticed the it creeping up on him. They were in the middle of a store, out in public, and he had no idea if there was a restroom or where its location was. Could he make it outside? He followed Dean unconsciously, gait awkward and slightly stumbling every few steps as he made a concentrated effort to jostle himself as little as possible. He wouldn't be able to run for it, he knew that much.
He should tell Dean. He should tell him. Maybe he would know what to do.
But he just couldn't get his mouth to cooperate. The words wouldn't form on his tongue. The more he argued with himself, the faster his heart raced. His face was impassive except for the flush coloring his cheeks and slight panicked widening of his eyes, but inside he was waging a war.
And then it happened. Just like that.
Dean noticed first. He turned back to look for Castiel when he stopped, and then cursed softly under his breath. Other people turned to look. He heard someone whisper 'Oh my god'. Static was ringing in his ears. As more people noticed, the sound around him grew louder. 'Did that guy just—' 'Don't step in it.' 'That's disgusting.' 'Is he— It all ran together. Dean glanced at the rough crowd that was forming, then pulled off his flannel and dropped it to the floor. Castiel didn't understand what he was doing. Then it dawned on him. He was cleaning up his mess again.
"Wipe your shoes, then let's go— C'mon!" The words were hissed with urgency.
Castiel obeyed. He wiped his shoes off on Dean's ruined flannel, and then Dean was grabbing him by the arm and pulling him through an aisle and around the outside edge of the store. His hot fingers closed around his wrist. He heard someone with authority in their voice ask what was happening here from a distance and a few murmured answers that followed. His socks were soggy. His underwear were soaked through. They chafed against his cool, damp skin as he ran with Dean. It was a shock when they burst out into the cold winter air, but Dean kept urging him, so he kept moving. They were in the car, and the engine was starting, and they were pulling out.
Castiel was staring at the dashboard.
After they were safely on the road, Dean whistled.
"Well, we're not going back there again. What the hell happened, Cas?"
"I." His voice caught in his throat. He tried to push, and all that exited was a sound.
"Cas..." It sounded like a reprimand, if a gentle one.
"I couldn't."
His voice went soft and wispy. His throat closed up. He could feel heat behind his eyes, and then his vision was blurring. He was soiling Dean's clothes, his car. He'd been forced to leave his flannel behind, ruined. He touched the corner of his eye and found it wet.
A sob bubbled up.
"Hey, hey. Cas..."
"I'm sorry."
Dean was pulling off to the side of the road. There was a great, overwhelming pressure growing in Castiel's throat, and the more he stifled it, the more his face twisted, the more his body bowed forward as to hide it. A hand rested heavy on his shoulder when the car was fully stopped, and Castiel cringed away. Dean lifted his hand, both raised in a signal for surrender. Sorry, his face said. Castiel felt worse. He was disgusting. Why should Dean have to touch him? Teach him? Clean up his messes? He should have left him to the angels. Eventually, he'd be returned to Heaven to stand trial for his crimes. And he deserved no less. He should have died. At the end of the apocalypse. In the reservoir.
The reservoir of his throat filled and broke, running over.
He was crying now. Across from him, he could feel Dean's panic. He wanted to touch him but wouldn't after Castiel had rejected the first offer of comfort, which only made everything that much worse — Castiel covered his face with both hands, hiding behind them. His breath hitched in his throat, like his pain was trying to escape his body without being voiced. He was trying to suppress it. To remain as quiet and unobtrusive as possible, even though he knew that nothing about this could possibly be unobtrusive.
He kept thinking: I should have died. I should have died.
It felt like it could have gone on forever.
But if there was one good thing about mortality, it was that eventually he grew fatigued. His sobs went quiet, and his breath pulled deep and low through the hollow of his throat and into the great vacuum of his body.
Some infinite time later, Dean spoke.
"Cas. Look, it's. It's not great, yeah, but you didn't do anything... bad. It was an accident," Castiel shook his head, which encouraged Dean to press on. "I mean, c'mon, how many rooms or houses or whatever have Sam and me trashed? We're gonna go home and get you cleaned up and it's gonna be fine. You hear me?"
Castiel looked at him with a hangdog expression. As much as he felt like he should take Dean's words to heart, he couldn't make himself believe them, and likewise couldn't keep his doubt from translating into the expression on his face. Dean gave him a smile that was half wince, and not very encouraging, but Castiel knew that was his fault as well for not letting himself believe what Dean was saying.
"C'mon. Let's go."
"But, the drain cleaner—"
"S'fine. I'll grab some from one of the dollar stores on the way back. You see one, like, every two miles around here."
Dean had wanted to window shop. That's why he went to the big store in the first place. Castiel's gut twisted with guilt all over again, but there was no point in protesting. They couldn't go back.
Dean turned the heat up before getting back onto the freeway.
—
The drive was quiet. Most of the discomfort came from Castiel's wet clothes. Even with the heat cranked high, he was cold, and his skin was clammy.
He felt a sense of relief as they pulled into the bunker's garage. But when Dean didn't immediately get out of the car, a crackle of anxiety fizzled in his belly. He was squinting in the direction of the door.
And then Castiel remembered: Sam. This time of day, Sam would be about. No telling whether he'd been in his own room or the kitchen or the library. He might even come to greet them at the garage door if he had something to talk about. Castiel's heart was suddenly racing. It was customary for Sam and Dean to bring spare clothes with them on a hunt, but this hadn't been a hunt. Otherwise, Castiel could have changed back on the freeway.
"Stay here."
Dean got out of the car.
Castiel waited.
He considered disobeying Dean. Getting out of the car and sprinting to his bedroom or the shower room. But if he encountered Sam there would be no hiding his accident. If they met while he was in the car, he had a chance to come up with some kind of excuse for why he was lingering, and Sam would never notice. So he stayed.
Several minutes later, he heard voices floating down the hall. He seized up. I could run, he thought again.
But even as he thought the words, he couldn't make himself move.
And then Dean was in the doorway, moving toward him. He had a bundle of clothes under his arm, and he looked harried. He stopped by the window and pulled a plastic shopping back out of his pocket to shove at Castiel through the window.
"Put your dirty clothes in this."
Castiel awkwardly began to undress inside the small space of the cab, glancing at Dean every several seconds as he did so. His soaked through socks went first, as Dean gestured for Castiel to hand over his shoes (which he placed in one of the big industrial sinks and began running hot water over). The rest of Castiel's clothes, save his borrowed jacket (his own coat was too cold for this weather) were crumpled up and deposited inside the bag one by one. When Dean returned, he motioned for Castiel to get out of the car and took the bag from him. He had a wet hand towel in his other hand, and gave it to Castiel.
It was cold in the garage, and even though Dean had used warm water, the wet towel was quickly becoming cold. Castiel wiped himself down as fast as he could, unaware of Dean's eyes on him. His nipples were peaked and he felt swollen between his legs again, that familiar other pressure intent in his belly. He had to clean between his legs anyway, so he used it as an excuse to press his hand between his thigs. He heard Dean cough above him and jolted, face flaming hot as he moved on to the rest of his body. When he was done, Dean took the towel and tossed it over the edge of the sink that his shoes were in and shut off the water.
He watched Castiel dress.
"Cas, why don't you go lie down? I'll deal with..." He gestured at the messy car seat.
"I can help."
"Cas, just, go lie down."
Castiel shrunk. He turned away and walked to his room.
—
He had been lying in bed for two hours by the time Dean came around to tell him that dinner was ready. He wasn't hungry. He didn't move from th bed.
Dean came inside and hovered awkwardly.
"Cas... You know I'm not mad at you, right?"
Castiel looked at Dean but didn't say anything. Dean sighed.
"Look, man. I get that you're not used to this. But if it's really that bad, uh... This could actually be a medical issue. You might have to go to the doctor."
Castiel sat up.
"No! It's not, it's not that bad."
"Cas, I'm not saying— I just mean that this could be a symptom of something worse, you know?"
"I just didn't understand what I was feeling. It's nothing like that."
Sam and Dean never went to the hospital. What would it mean if they had to take him? But, he had asked to be punished. Perhaps he deserved it.
"What d'you mean?"
Castiel hesitated. He realized he didn't want to have to explain. But he had no choice now, did he?
"I was... feeling something else. A different kind of... of pressure. It's similar, but not the same as the urge to urinate. Or defecate."
"What?"
Dean looked confused.
"It's like a heat, and a pressure, a-around my stomach and genitals. It's uncomfortable, but... Eventually, it just goes away. And if I touch myself, it..."
He didn't know how to explain. It got worse but also better?
"You&mdahs; Oh shit."
Dean was laughing. Castiel looked stung, and Dean rushed to explain himself.
"C'mon! I'm not laughing at you. I just didn't think..."
"What?"
It was relief, Castiel realized.
"You're saying you got confused, because you were turned on?"
"'Turned on'?"
"Yeah. Um. That feeling you're describing, that's arousal. Like when you get a boner."
Oh.
Castiel blinked.
"I guess it can feel kinda' similar, sometimes. Never thought about it."
Castiel looked sheepish. He was staring down at his knees. Dean crossed his arms.
"So... what happens when you touch yourself?"
"It gets worse."
"And...?"
Castiel gave Dean a perplexed look.
"You mean... you've always just let the feeling... go away on its own?"
"Yes."
"Ah."
There was an awkward silence.
"Cas... You mean you've never tried to jerk off?"
"It didn't work."
Dean looked thoughtful.
"Okay, well, clearly you need to learn."
"Are you going to teach me?"
"Woah, woah. Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. I can help you out, but not like that."
Castiel's shoulders sagged.
"Hold on. Wait here."
As though Castiel was going anywhere.
He laid back down.
—
Dean came back about twenty minutes later with something held in a bundle of wrinkled tissue. He hovered awkwardly before sitting near Castiel's knee on the bed.
He handed over the bundle. There was something inside it.
"It's, uh. A fleshlight. A sex toy."
"Um."
"You put your dick in it."
"Okay."
Both of them were turning red. Dean rolled his eyes.
"If your hand isn't doin' the job..."
"Yes. I understand."
"Right. Cool."
The awkwardness stretched and lengthened. Castiel was feeling warm again, thinking about it.
"Are you going to punish me?"
"What? Jesus, Cas. No. A life without orgasms is punishment enough."
Castiel looked embarrassed again. The awkward silence returned.
"Uh. Right... Okay. Dinner?"
He had forgotten all about it.
He set the toy aside and they went to dinner.
—
Three beers tonight. Dean sat them beside his plate and Castiel drank them. He felt a fizzle of anxiety. A part of him didn't want to do this tonight. But then, he thought, if he didn't learn how to control it, wouldn't this continue to happen? He had to learn. He had to be better.
So he walked to the shower ahead of Dean and stripped out of his clothes. His midriff felt heavy with the pressure and weight of his bladder, and he touched his swollen stomach gently with his fingertips. His genitals twitched.
Dean closed the door behind him a few minutes later, when Castiel was already beginning to squirm. Castiel didn't say anything. Didn't have anything to say for himself. Dean rubbed the back of his neck, awkward.
"Let's try for a minute thirty, yeah?"
"Yes."
"Put your hands on the wall."
And he did, with his legs spread wide. He felt as much as heard Dean walk over to lean against the wall just outside the shower. Castiel's fingers curled against the tile as the pressure built, and built. His face was turning pink with heat, and he felt hot and swollen between his legs. He pushed his forehead against the cool tile and breathed.
"Dean."
"A minute thirty."
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He didn't let himself count.
"Not yet."
His muscles cramped.
The heat built, and he felt a single rivulet tickle down his inner thigh.
And then Dean spoke again.
"Okay. You did it, man. You can go now."
There was a brightness in his voice, and Castiel let himself go with a feeling of overwhelming relief. Urine splattered on the shower floor and a puddle beneath him began to spread, droplets flecking his ankles. Dean reached over and turned on the spigots, drenching him with no warning, and washing his mess down the drain. Castiel shivered until the heat came into the pipes, and then sagged against the wall.
He looked up and met Dean's eyes through the spray. He smiled a heavy-lidded smile.
Dean smiled back, then dropped his eyes and turned away.
—
When Castiel returned to his room, hair still slightly damp, he laid back on his pillows and felt a lump of something wedged into the small of his back — Dean's toy. He pulled it out and unwrapped it.
He looked down at himself.
His teeth snagged his bottom lip, and with a deep breath, he pushed his sweatpants down past his hips. Masturbation was a perfectly normal human behavior, but he felt the back of his neck burn as he studied himself. The swollenness of his genitals, the heat and wetness gathering at the slit. He touched himself very carefully with a fingertip and his head fell back.
It had been a long day.
He squeezed the fleshlight and pressed his tiny protrusion to the opening. It popped inside with a wet sound, and his chest depressed with a gasp. The slick coolness surrounding him on all sides, squeezing, was overwhelming to his sensitized flesh. He let his thighs fall open and dug his heels into mattress, pistoning his hips. But he wasn't big enough to truly fuck the narrow opening.
He squeezed and twisted the pliant silicone. He made sounds he had never heard himself make before.
But he could tell it still wasn't enough.
By the time he gave up, he was sticking to his sheets with sweat, too exhausted to continue. He set the toy on his bedside table, rolled over, and fell asleep.
—
He woke the next day exhausted. He had slept terribly. All night, he had dreams of falling, and the smell of burning feathers was still thick in his nostrils. He could hear the screams of the angels as they died in mid-air.
Occasionally, when watching the television with Sam and Dean, he saw news reports speculating about the nature of the meteor shower. They always quickly changed the channel, but Castiel would find some excuse to return to his room anyway.
Today, he simply didn't get out of bed. The guilt was suffocating, like dirt being thrown over his head.
Dean came to him when he didn't join them at breakfast. He had a plate, and on that plate was a PB&J. When Castiel looked at him, expressionless, he winced.
"Sorry. Eggs and bacon suck when they're cold."
"I don't deserve it."
"What?"
Castiel didn't elaborate. Dean sighed and walked over to the bed, where he set the plate down on the bedside table. He hesitated.
And then he sat down on the edge of the mattress. Castiel wasn't looking at him. He was looking at the plate.
It was obvious Dean wanted to say something. Castiel could see the war going on behind his features. But after several false starts that never reached his lips, he didn't say anything at all. He sat, with his back bowed and his hands folded together. The tension bled out of the air as Castiel realized Dean wasn't going to lecture him, or try to give him a pep talk. A weight suffused his body, quiet and terrible. A kind of comfortable ennui. He almost dozed off.
And then he finally reached over and took half of the sandwich, spreading crumbs in his bead. Dean turned to watch him for a moment, and this time when he spoke, it was about nothing in particular. Dean talked about Sam, and his "ridiculous" diet foods, and the training regiment he had planned for when he was well enough again. He praised Cas for his work in the library, helping Sam, and quietly explained just how grateful Sam was to have the help. He told Cas about some new comic books he'd picked up, and the newest episode of Dr. Sexy.
And then he stood and patted Castiel on the shoulder, and picked up the empty plate.
"Want me to bring you dinner?"
Castiel considered.
"No. No, I'll come."
—
After dinner, they met in the shower room.
—
The next two weeks turned it into a routine. He trained with Dean every night after dinner, after a couple of beers or a few glasses of water or a whiskey. Sam was recovering. He began staying up later, which meant they had to move their time back further and further, until they were meeting at clandestine midnights. Eventually, they would have to reschedule, Dean explained. He didn't seem keen about getting up at 6am to take advantage of Sam's morning run, but considered it. (Sam wasn't running yet, so they had some time before they would have to decide.)
Castiel was getting better. He could hold it for almost three minutes now, which would definitely prevent any sudden accidents in the future. He had one weakness, however. He still had difficulty telling the difference between a full bladder and arousal. Dean explained this to him as well (after some time spent on the internet). The bladder, when full, pressed up against some sensitive nerve endings, which could stimulate arousal in some people. Castiel, apparently, was especially sensitive.
Neither of them knew what to do about that. Castiel hadn't yet admitted to Dean that his toy hadn't worked. He still hasn't achieved climax, despite trying several times (usually after their sessions).
He was getting very frustrated.
And then he had another accident.
—
Castiel had been aroused since he'd gotten out of bed that morning. No. Even before that. The moment he had opened his eyes, he'd noticed that his underwear were sticking to his crotch and thighs. He had achieved completion at some point in the night, though he didn't benefit from it now. He tried to rub his lower half against the mattress for a while to no avail. There was no relief for him.
He went to breakfast in a bad mood. Dean picked up on it and plied him with sweets — cinnamon rolls out of a tube, which Castiel quite enjoyed, alongside the usual bacon and eggs. It didn't improve his mood as much as he would have liked. He kept his head down and replied to every topic of conversation with a terse yes or no or even nothing at all. Dean rolled his eyes at him and he returned the expression with a glare of his own. Sam's eyebrows raised.
When he was finished eating, he left with an awkward goodbye.
"What the hell crawled up your ass today?"
"Nothing."
"Oh yeah? Then what's up with the caveman routine?"
"I said, it's nothing."
"Fine."
Dean didn't push anymore after that. He tidied the kitchen, washed the dishes, and put away the leftover food all while Castiel sat at the kitchen table boring holes through his coffee cup with his eyes. What right did Dean have to question him, when this was all his fault?
"Well, if you can get the stick outta your ass, you can come to my room. I've got Netflix queued up and ready to go with my Rainy Day Movie Marathon."
"It's not raining." Castiel pointed out.
Dean shrugged and moved past him, out the door.
—
An hour later, Castiel eased the door to Dean's room open. He wasn't actually in a better mood, but he didn't want to sit alone in his room, so he had come to an internal agreement to be civil if only to keep the peace. Dean brightened when he saw him and moved over to make room for him on the bed, which made Castiel's heart give a funny twinge. He was still irritated, but he felt guilty about it abruptly. It was a strange tangle of emotions.
He sat down next to Dean. There was a movie playing on the laptop balanced on his knees, and he moved it over so it would be balanced evenly between them. Castiel didn't recognize any of the characters or actors, and he didn't ask.
"It's a Hallmark movie," Dean explained. "They're super corny. Funny, though. And really popular during the holidays."
"'Corny'?"
"Yeah, like. Cheesy. Super over-the-top, sentimental, kinda' silly. I guess? I dunno. Housewives eat 'em up."
"Are you a housewife?"
"Shut up."
Castiel watched the movie. There were parts that frustrated him very much, and others he liked. Sometimes the decisions of the protagonists seemed inscrutable to him, like the young single mother's indecision over whether to marry the young man she liked, or the young man with a lot of money. He understood that money was necessary for one's upkeep, but if she were that conflicted then the choice was obvious.
He thought of expressing this to Dean, but then remembered he was supposedly angry at the man. He wasn't sure quite why.
By the time the movie ended, he decided that he liked it.
He wondered if he was a housewife.
The second movie was very similar to the first. Knowing now what to expect, Castiel settled in to watch. Unlike during their usual "watch parties", Dean didn't strike up conversation. He must have decided it was better to let Castiel have his thoughts to himself.
It was a good strategy, except that it meant leaving Castiel's thoughts to himself.
When the heat of his anger had abated, his awareness of his body returned in great clarity. He wondered if his anger had been a self-defense mechanism, because he was beyond aroused. He was embarrassingly slick between his thighs, and he realized, after being given some time to think on it, that it was due to Dean's proximity. There was his solid arm pressed against Castiel's own. Their knees brushing. And when Dean got up to use the bathroom, he pushed the laptop over onto Castiel's lap and gave his thigh a solid pat before rising.
The heat seared through his sweatpants and left a lingering touch like the mark he had left years ago on Dean's shoulder. He couldn't help it.
He had to touch himself.
So he ground the heel of his palm down against the hard nub of his arousal. He twisted his hips. A small, dark stain was spreading between his legs. And then he heard Dean's footsteps and tore his hand away from himself, wiping his palm on the sheets on his side of the bed. His face was burning like he had been out too long in the sun, but Dean didn't seem to notice as he settled back in beside him. He flashed an easy smile and tugged the laptop back between them, careless of if he touched Castiel's thigh in the process. Castiel shivered.
"You cold?"
"N-no. No. I'm fine."
"Well, there's extra blankets if you want some."
He hardly absorbed the rest of the movie. How he kept still was anyone's guess — he would never know.
The heat was so oppressive he didn't even notice when the stain began to spread.
"Ah— Cas! C'mon, man, not here!"
Castiel jolted. The shock came so sudden that he clenched down on reflex. Dean seemed to notice, and sprang into action, swearing under his breath.
"Get up, get up—" He was moving the laptop off their knees and shooing Castiel off the bed. He moved around him and grabbed him by the arm to pull him toward the door, cracked it to check that the coast was clear, and then pulled him all the way to the showers. Castiel was so aroused by the time they arrived he felt both dizzy and sick. Either Dean had noticed his daze or he had truly taken control, because he was also undressing him. Pulling his sweatpants and shorts down around his ankles and tugging on his arm so he would step out of them; lifting his shirt over his head. He pushed him toward the shower.
Somehow, neither of them had thought to guide Castiel to the bathroom.
He was still trying to hold it in, even now. It had taken them not quite a minute to get inside the shower room and for Castiel to get undressed. Two more minutes, Castiel thought. I can make it two more minutes.
And then Dean spoke.
"Touch yourself." He said, "Put— put your hand between your legs and touch yourself."
Dean had realized something. Castiel was staring, lips parted to breath through. His pupils were blown dark and wide. Dean raised his voice.
"I said touch yourself."
Castiel dropped his hand to his crotch. He watched Dean while he ground down on his most sensitive parts with the fleshy heel of his palm. And then the sensation overtook him and he sunk his teeth into his lower lip, eyes screwing shut as his head fell between his shoulders and sharp, huffed breaths pulled through his flaring nostrils. Slippery fluid was leaking down his already wet thighs. Dean must know. Dean must know that he had been aroused the entire time he'd been sitting there next to him.
A sound slipped from his mouth, high and desperate. He rubbed harder, and breathed harder, nipples peaked and pink.
"Pinch yourself between your fingers. Squeeze and pull, okay? Don't just rub."
Castiel had tried this technique before, so he wasn't entirely unfamiliar, but somehow it felt better when Dean was the one telling him to do it. He could feel the pressure building so hot and high that he trembled with it, and his breaths hitched in his throat like there might soon be sobbing to accompany them.
"Rub your fingernail along the slit."
Castiel hadn't tried this before, and he whimpered while the blunt nail gathered thick fluid as it dipped into his most sensitive and secret spaces. He trembled hard, and repeated the action until he had to jerk his hand away, overwhelmed and sweating. Liquid was pouring down over his thighs in a deluge. His bladder was emptying, and his inner muscles were spasming wildly. He ground his palm between his legs again, braced with his shoulders back against the tile as he wet his fingers and his palm and his wrist. He reached between his legs with his other hand and shoved a middle finger inside himself in a messy, rhythmless fuck, his voice decaying into gasps and cries, snatches of sound cut-off in his throat in deference to the white-hot feeling searing the entire inside of his body. It felt like being full of grace again. Of light. Eternally blessed.
By the time he finished urinating, his legs gave out. He slid down the side of the shower in a messy heap, genitals still twitching.
He shivered as he eased his finger out of himself. It was very sensitive.
But there was an overwhelming calm descending over him now. A complete and utter lack of thought. It was peaceful. Like being an angel again.
So for a while all he did was sit in his mess with his legs splayed wide and his eyes half open, staring at nothing.
Eventually, Dean whistled.
Then he got up, adjusted himself, and turned the shower on to wash Castiel in a gentle, warm spray.
Castiel's eyes dragged up from their nothing to ease over Dean. He felt immediately guilty when he noticed the tent in his pants. It was only natural, of course, that Dean would become aroused while watching someone else achieve orgasm. Castiel smiled, half-dazed, and laughed.
"You, uh. Were really enjoying yourself there, huh?"
"I couldn't get it to work before."
"Huh?"
"I couldn't... I couldn't achieve orgasm."
There was a stunned silence.
"Cas, are you serious? Shit, man. I could've gotten you some other toys to try out if that wasn't working for you. Nobody should have to go this long without orgasms."
Dean sounded very sure about this. Castiel laughed again.
"You get washed up, okay? I'll take care of these."
He wore a wry smile as he picked up Castiel's dirty clothes and sauntered from the room. He checked the hall before leaving, and came back as Castiel was shutting off the shower with a fresh pair of sweats and another old t-shirt.
Instead of leaving them on the bench for Castiel, he tossed Cas a towel and watched him dry off with his arms crossed and his face turned away. When he was done, he stepped over with his clothes still held under one arm. He tapped his elbow, gesturing for him to put his arms above his head.
Castiel did. They were still trembling.
Dean pulled his shirt on. Castiel laughed as his hair fell in his eyes and stuck up at all angles, but instead of fixing his hair, Dean adjusted his shirt by pinching it at the seams and shaking out the wrinkles. Then he reached up and thumbed his cheek in a brief, familiar movement, the pad of his thumb catching his stubble. He helped him into his sweatpants one leg at a time, allowing Castiel to balance himself with his hands on his broad shoulders. Castiel felt a twinge of something between his legs, but it was brief. It seemed his hunger was sated, for now.
"Okay, Betsy Wetsy. Let's go finish our movie."
—
A few days later, Castiel found a box on his bed when he returned to his room in the evening.
It was long and rectangular, but otherwise nondescript. Castiel opened the box and found another box inside.
In a clear plastic container sat nestled a long, curved vibrator.