Chapter Text
It annoys him that Cas has spent their two hours in the middle of the night. It shouldn’t. But it does.
He wakes up feeling more rested than he has in years. It makes no sense. Cas disturbed him, and to top it off, Sam is continuing his reign of terror of waking up well before 6 AM.
Without the expectation that Cas is gonna drop by unannounced, the day stretches before him once Sam is in kindergarten.
He drinks his coffee on the back porch while Sofia is in the house. It’s crisp out, with the oak tree in his garden clinging to the last of its leaves under a gray sky. He burrows deeper into his leather jacket and breathes in the crisp air.
Attempting to stop yesterday from churning in his head, he messes around on his phone.
It’s the fucking pancakes, mainly.
Other stuff too, because he’s all lizard brain.
But it’s the pancakes that truly keep him from reading the blog post he has optimistically opened.
He clicks out of it and instead looks up the clinic Cas took him to a while back. Hovering over the phone number that’s provided on the webpage, he hesitates. Should wait, probably.
For his dignity’s sake, but also because he’s a week or two short of the rest of the non-syphilis window. It just doesn’t matter a whole lot, because it’s been longer since he last let anyone else fuck him, and there was very much no barebacking involved.
And it’s not as if he has anything better to do today. Might as well get an appointment booked.
He calls and waits in the phone queue, accepting to listen to staticky jazz while being informed that they appreciate his patience. He shifts in his chair, vaguely wishing he were a smoker.
Once he gets through, he gets informed that their next opening is in two weeks, and that he should pick a different clinic if it’s urgent.
“No, it’s…” his face gets hot, “Not urgent, no. Two weeks is great.”
“Sure, let me just check here,” the secretary says.
There’s some back and forth until they settle on a date and Dean gives his name. Just his first one; old habits die hard and all that.
Once he does, there’s a long pause. Maybe loaded. It feels different than the ones that have indicated juggling a calendar. “You’ve been here before?”
He grimaces. Not really the place you want to get clocked as a recurring customer. He admits, “Yeah, I have. Couple of weeks ago. Appointment probably wasn’t in my name, but I’m all caught up on the procedure.”
“I’m so sorry, Sir. How soon of an appointment would you prefer? This week?”
New clients go to the back of the queue. Got it.
He laughs, “Ah, sorry. Just whenever you have an opening is great.”
He’s asked to state a preferred time and he jokingly says ‘in an hour’. Which is what he ends up with.
Before they hang up, he’s given a different phone number for next time.
He would like to hold onto his initial assumption about the process being different because he’s already a client, but the entire thing suddenly has Cas’ name written all over it.
Which makes it a lot worse that Dean has opted to make this call at all. Even more so because he has literally waited less than 24 hours.
Cas is gonna have a goddamn field day.
Dean would chicken out if it would do anything but add to the embarrassment.
He drives to the clinic and accepts going through the full prodding experience. This time he asks for the paper version that Cas got his results as last time.
There’s no rush to inform Cas, past what the clinic has probably already done. They refused payment, which very much confirmed what he already knew. He shoves the paper into the glove compartment and goes to get a burger.
Like the patron saint of patience, he waits until he gets back home to send Cas a picture of the sheet with the results.
Sure, he does it in the damn entryway. And yeah, maybe he could have waited until they saw each other. Or until he gets the rest of the results.
But, hey, there’s no time like the present.
For every minute Cas doesn’t reply, he shifts uneasily, marking this as probably the most embarrassing experience of his life.
No part of this should matter. Not whether Cas replies to his texts – what is he? A thirteen year old with a middle school crush? – and absolutely not whether a condom can get dropped.
He should have outright refused, just for the sake of it. Because the whole concept feels like showing Cas unearned trust. Feels like commitment, too.
Like the kind of confirmation of a conversation of exclusivity that other people describe having with their partners.
Partners.
This is the last fucking time he’s gonna let Cas cook him anything. Because even just putting some batter, that Dean himself made, on a pan is apparently enough to make him lose the entire plot.
Can’t be just that. It’s the back-to-back orgasms following the denial situation. Has to be.
Stockholm syndrome or some shit.
Sofia has cleaned and tidied the entire house, so there are no self-evident tasks he can distract himself with. He resorts to doing sit-ups on the living room floor, which he regrets before he reaches any kind of respectable number of sets.
He finishes anyway, switching to push-ups. He’s out of shape and the exercise burns worse than it should. Not that it’s ever pleasant; it’s always been a necessity rather than vanity or pleasure.
He continues until sweat covers his skin, before taking a shower.
Instead of leaving his phone on the dining table – or throwing it into the sea – he brings it with him and places it on the counter next to the bathroom sink. He connects it to a bluetooth speaker, mainly to make the choice less conspicuous.
In the shower, the spray of the water muffles John Bonham’s iconic drumming on When the Levee Breaks. The ding of a notification goes through cleanly, though.
His entire system lights up. Blood pumping faster. Heat flooding him. Breath turning shallower.
Forcing himself to ignore it, he goes through the motions of washing himself. Anticipation roars in his veins, barely contained by his attempt at shoving it down.
Finally he runs his hands through his hair, helping the water along in getting rid of the rest of the conditioner. Watching it swirl down the drain, he gets the distinct feeling that the last of his ability to lie to himself is probably joining it in the sewer.
He likes Cas.
Wants him for real.
It’s not just about the money.
He doesn’t know what to do about it. Maybe it doesn’t fucking matter. Doesn’t really change anything.
He turns off the shower and gets out. He runs a fluffy towel through his hair, barely drying off his hand before grabbing the phone.
It’s Cas. Which is fortunate, because his inner teenager would throw a fit if it was anyone else.
It’s a photo.
A corresponding test-panel to Dean’s.
Like a crazy person, Dean zooms in and squints to make out the date and time stamped in the corner, which marks it as having gotten taken fifteen minutes ago. Paired with booking an appointment, going there etc… it all adds up to the most unhinged reason for a delayed reply that Dean has ever experienced.
Dean: Efficient
Cas: The same could be said for you.
Cas: Have you given any thought to what I asked?
No, not at all…
Dean starts typing out a reply. ‘Shit’s treatable. I’m good if you are’. He holds down backspace, deleting the entire thing before changing the content.
Dean: When you say it’s been longer since you were with anyone else?
Dots appear. They wobble on his screen, disappearing before returning, and Dean is gonna throw up from nerves. Shouldn’t have tried to use this as an attempt of snooping
Cas: Six months.
Dean: From now or from when we met?
Cas: Last one.
His phone only narrowly avoids a death from getting dropped on tile.
He doesn’t know what he had expected from Cas’ sexual behavior.
Not this.
Could be a lie, but if so, Cas is grossly overshooting the length of the testing window. So there’s a solid chance he’s telling the truth.
While Dean gapes at his phone, Cas texts him again.
Cas: I’ve been busy.
It sounds defensive. Meaning he’s definitely telling the truth.
Dean: Cool
Dean: I’m game
---
After putting Sam to bed that night, Dean picks up the book he’s currently reading – Slaughterhouse-Five, smelling like new paper and chosen from the ones Cas has gotten someone to fill the bookcase with. Dean has found it mostly because it sat on the shelf right next to his own battered copy of Cat’s Cradle.
The book is lying on top of another, due to Sofia’s obsession with stacking his crap, probably to make it easier to wipe down surfaces. So when he picks it up, it reveals the one underneath.
It’s the GED prep bullshit that’s mainly still there because he refuses to touch it.
After a furtive glance around the room, he leaves the Vonnegut on the coffee table and snatches up the GED book. He flicks through the pages, with his heart hammering and nausea tightening in his gut.
Gradually, he slows down. It’s just some damn text on paper. Pictures and graphs. Nothing to have a fucking panic attack over. No one even has to know. He can leave it alone at any point.
He returns to the first page and copies the link written there into the search bar of his computer. He watches the first half of a video on geometry. Mostly because he’s bored.
---
Cas has him face down, ass up, on the bed. He’s gasping into the mattress, the sheet clenched in his hands.
He’s so fucking hard. If not for gravity, he would be leaking onto himself. He might be dripping onto the bed. Difficult to tell.
His ass stings as Cas brings down his hand again. The skin on skin echoes in the room and thuds through his body. Curtains block out the daylight, warping his sense of time.
“I told you to count for me,” Cas says, “Or we’re going to have to start over again.”
“I don’t… Eight,” Dean gasps, “I think it’s eight.”
He has no fucking idea. It’s all floating through his body, intoxicating.
Cas grabs his ass, kneading a burning cheek. “I don’t know, Dean. Maybe we should start from the beginning, just to make sure.”
Cas’ hand creeps lower. Between his legs, over his perineum to his balls, running a finger along.
“Fuck,” Dean groans, arching into Cas’ retreating touch. “Seven. Let’s call it seven, Cas. Please”
“Five,” Cas decides.
His palm instantly connects with Dean’s ass, adding to the count.
“Six,” Dean chokes out, accepting the compromise. They’ve started over three or four times already and he’s gonna die if Cas doesn’t fuck him soon.
Cas grabs the back of his neck, squeezing. “Good boy.”
He brings his hand down again.
“Seven,” Dean whimpers, cruising on the high of it.
They make it to nine before Cas stops. He’s just as worked up as Dean is, breathing harder than the exertion warrants. “You should see yourself. So pretty in this color.”
They’re just one short of the ten that Cas has told him is the total.
Cas separates Dean’s cheeks. The skin burns and stings where he touches it. Worse in the places where his fingertips dig in.
The mattress moves with the shift of Cas’ body-weight behind him. And then Cas’ tongue pushes against his hole. The stubble covering Cas’ jaw scratches the tender skin that surrounds it.
Dean curses, pressing back as Cas’ tongue retreats and switches to licking long stripes, smearing the wetness. On some passes, he licks across Dean’s hole, on others he doesn’t.
When Dean starts pleading, face half buried in the sheet, Cas laughs. It hums against Dean’s abused skin, but Cas takes mercy on him, pushing against his rim again. His tongue presses inside, firm and wet. Dean grinds against him, stopping when Cas tightens the hold of his ass in a silent order.
Cas continues until the world is fuzzy and Dean’s throat is raw with badly suppressed moans. He whines when Cas pushes two fingers into him, pressing back.
“Needy,” Cas mumbles. There’s a rasp to it.
He shoves into Dean’s prostate, timing it to delivering the final blow.
The one that Dean had forgotten about.
Dean gasps. His dick bobs.
This one hurts worse than the others. A mix of the burn from Cas’ stubble and the reprieve, giving the skin time to regain sensation.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Cas asks silkily, “Or have you been doing it on purpose all this time?”
“Ten,” Dean scrambles to reply, “That was ten.”
“And?”
Cas could be fishing for anything, but Dean’s brain isn’t working. The words that spill from him are barely a reply. They would have escaped all of their own, either way. “Thank you.”
Cas doesn’t reply. In fact he removes his fingers. But there’s the sound of a zipper and Dean keens.
Cas’ hands don’t return to him. There’s the sound of skin on skin as Cas strokes himself. He does it too fast for it to be in preparation.
Which is the point that Dean realizes that Cas hasn’t promised to fuck him at all.
He twists and Cas immediately pins him by the back of his neck.
Pushing against the hold, dragging his face over the sheet, Dean would be in the process of giving himself a friction burn, if the thread count had been lower.
Cas is cutting off his blood-flow with capable hands, pressing just enough below his jaw to make him drip and writhe, but not enough that his vision goes black.
He could touch himself. Let go of the sheet, before he tears it, and get himself off. Release the aching pressure that gets worse with every moan out of Cas.
He clenches the sheet harder.
With a grunt, Cas comes on him. It streaks wet and heavy on his back, tracking from waist to ass. It trickles down, slipping between his cheeks and over his hole.
Cas lets go of his neck. There’s a metal sound of a zipper getting closed. “Okay, I’m done.”
Dean barely gets the chance to sob. Doesn’t even start to beg before Cas picks up on it.
Cas stops him from moving with a firm hand on his hip. “No, you wanted the re-test. Now we’re doing it properly.”
As in; they still need the final results and if it can’t be without anything between them, it’s not gonna be at all.
“I’m clean,” the words come out breathless and wrecked. “Please, Cas. We don’t have to wait. It’s been months since I let anyone else fuck me.”
Cas freezes. “It’s been what?”
“Months,” Dean repeats.
Cas’ fingers twitch where they’re clenching Dean’s hip. “And what about the other way around?”
“Years,” Dean replies. He avoids it whenever he can. “I don’t like to top.”
The beat before Cas replies is too long, but when he does, it’s smug and dark. “Fortunate.” Cas runs a finger over his hole, smearing come. “It would have been a waste.” He pushes the tip into him and Dean convulses.
He barely lets Dean clench around it, before retracting it, leaving him empty again.
“You’re a goddamn sadist,” Dean slurs.
He can hear the smile in Cas’ voice, “Yes, that’s why we fit. Stay there.”
He’s expecting to have to stay unmoving for a while, but in reality Cas returns after a minute or two, and gently cleans him.
He’s needlessly thorough on Dean’s ass, making it sting and hurt all over again. He says no when Dean begs to get to come.
It’s torture when Cas hauls him close and kisses him. It’s slow and deep and Dean is panting at the end of it, still leaking, but Cas isn’t in a negotiating mood.
Cas draws back and Dean curls a fist into the open collar of his button-down. It takes both of them by surprise. Cas squints down at Dean’s hold of him. Dean uses the opportunity to flick a glance at the clock on his bedside table. There’s still time left.
“Can you stay?” he hears himself ask.
Cas’ attention snaps to his face, a line appearing between his brows.
Looking away, Dean mumbles, “Just… I’m feeling weird. Could use some help to come down.”
Cas is full-on short-circuiting and Dean shouldn’t have asked. What he’s saying isn’t a lie, but he can handle it by himself. Shouldn’t have bothered Cas with it. Shouldn’t have admitted it at all.
It’s the endorphins that are fucking him up. He gets like this on the tail end of pain. Soft and stupid.
Cas brings his hands to the top of the shirt Dean is grasping and Dean is fully expecting that it’s to pry him off. But it’s not. Cas instead starts unbuttoning it. Dean lets go when Cas slides it from his shoulders and leaves it where it falls.
Then Cas goes for him. He pushes him down on the bed and manhandles him until Dean is curled against his side, head on his bare chest.
The manhandling is great. This, though… it’s turning him tense as all hell.
The arm Cas has wrapped around his back shifts and his hand finds Dean’s waist, slowly stroking up and down. And for some reason Dean finds himself melting into it.
Cas lets out a soft breath, his chest moving with it under Dean’s cheek.
Dean is perfectly content to stay in silence, until Cas’ breathing changes, going shallower. Tension weaves in the air between them as Cas gears up to say something. Dean’s heartrate speeds up.
“Where is Sam’s mom?” Cas finally asks. His voice is in the realm of soft.
“She, um…” Dean trails off. It’s a strange question but there’s no reason to dig in his heels and refuse to answer, “She died. When Sam was a baby.”
Dean never liked her much. Which came with a solid dose of guilty conscience once his dad’s illicit activities fucked her over. Fatally.
She was nice enough, Dean just had a stupid hang-up about it feeling like his own mom was getting replaced, even though she’d been long gone and her grave sat on the other end of the country, overgrown in their absence.
And then, shamefully, a part of it was likely a dose of resentment over the fact that his dad doted on her, showing himself capable of it. While staying exactly like he’d always been with Dean – cold authority and expecting perfection, which Dean has never been able to get anywhere close to, no matter how hard he tried.
Maybe he would have been different with a different child. With Sam, if Dean hadn’t hesitated that night.
Or maybe it would have been the exact same.
History has repeated itself on all other counts, after all.
“I’m sorry.” Cas’ voice is still doing the soft thing.
Dean shrugs. He should probably indicate that he’s upset about the death of the near-stranger. And he is, but it’s solely for Sam’s sake. That he, too, is gonna grow up without a mom.
There’s a pause, just as tense, before Cas makes up his mind and asks, “Why doesn’t he call you dad?”
“Uh…” An inappropriate urge to laugh sparks in Dean’s chest. “Because I’m not?”
“What?” Cas hasn’t been looking at him, but now he shifts and Dean reluctantly adjusts to meet his gaze.
“He’s my brother,” Dean says, the laugh coming through this time. Then it hits him and the laugh disappears altogether.
He never told Cas.
Cas has fully expected Dean to have had a kid at twenty-one and has still wanted him. He doesn’t know why it makes a difference. It just does.
At Cas’ palpable confusion, Dean amends, “Half. Same dad, different moms.”
“Oh.”
There’s a solid chance that Cas is about to ask more questions, so Dean breaks their eye-contact and drags his teeth along Cas’ collarbone. He traces the path back with his tongue, making sure to make it wet and tempting.
Cas groans. His hand twitches on Dean’s waist and he drags him closer.
Dean rolls his hips, grinding against the side of Cas’ thigh he has been resting against. His dick stirs again.
Cas feels it, too, and his whole energy shifts. His hold of Dean’s waist turns bruising. “No. The next time you come is going to be on my cock.”
A whimper escapes from Dean.
Cas brings the fingers of his free hand to Dean’s mouth, tracing his lower lip before nudging inside.
Anticipation spikes sharp and dizzying in Dean’s chest. He licks Cas’ fingers eagerly, before closing around them and hollowing his cheeks. Cas grunts, his eyes dark and trained on Dean’s mouth.
Dean is fully hard, which is pushing firmly into Cas’ thigh. It takes everything to stay still instead of chasing friction.
The sound of Cas’ alarm forces him out of it.
Cas’ grunt is very, very different this time. His hold of Dean tightens, pulling him closer for just a moment before letting go. They draw apart and Cas gets up and turns it off.
The muscles of Cas’ back shifts and bunches as he moves. It’s only the second time he lets Dean see him without a shirt on, and Dean would kill for a chance at continuing what he started on Cas’ collarbone, tracking his mouth down to map every inch.
It’s unlikely to happen. Cas likes touching him, rather than the other way around.
Dean lets himself study the tattoo on Cas’ ribs. It’s roman numerals and, like he’d assumed last time before getting distracted, it’s dates. The top two are old; gray and sunken deep into the skin. The third, placed under the others, is still black, with lines that haven’t diffused.
Cas grabs his shirt from the floor. While he buttons it up, he asks, “How are you feeling?”
“Turned on,” Dean grumbles.
Cas looks to the ceiling. Or maybe to a point above, praying. He lets out a muted sound that might be a laugh. It’s gone before he returns his attention to Dean. “Compared to before. Do you need anything?”
“Nah,” Dean tips his mouth into a grin, “All good here.”
---
Dean has his collar turned up against the cold. He’s halfway between the kindergarten and the safety of his Impala. Safety from parents, that is. They’re tripping over each other to talk to him in the hallways and the vibes continue to be severely strange.
There’s a slight crinkle and he looks down to see that he’s still wearing the neon blue shoe covers that are obligatory to put on before going inside. At least if you don’t enjoy living in fear of getting murdered by the people taking care of the child you’re there to drop off.
With a curse, he yanks them off and locates a trashcan. Sam woke up even earlier than usual this morning and it’s melting his damn brain.
On his way back he spots a familiar red-head. Right next to a woman who has trailed him on more than one occasion but who has never found any reason to introduce herself to him.
He strongly doubts that they’re here for the same reason that everyone else is.
He heads for their car and makes eye contact with Charlie, who reluctantly rolls down a window.
Dean braces his forearms there. “Hey, guys. Come here often?”
Charlie grimaces, cracking through the worst poker face he has ever seen.
“Just browsing,” the dark-haired woman says, turning to Charlie and her voice changes into something uncomfortably saccharine, “I was thinking the little blonde girl with pigtails, what do you think, babe?”
Dean stares at her in disbelief, “Who’s writing your cover stories? Steven Moffat?”
She mouths, “What?” until Charlie breaks into a laugh next to her. At which point she rolls her eyes – probably at both of them.
There’s no remorse, in fact she’s even more stand-offish when she says, “Okay, you got us. We’re stalking you, what about it?”
“Meg,” Charlie levels an unimpressed glare at the woman next to her, “He already knows Cas has people watching him. Can you maybe save that energy for when you’re DMing?”
Could be DND.
Probably isn’t.
Meg grumbles something and Charlie turns back to Dean, smiling big and bright, “Wanna do something together? We’re gonna be creeping on you for the next couple of hours either way.”
Sounds like as good a plan as any.
Meg announces that she needs new guitar strings, which ends them in a music store. While she grabs some rolled-up strings, he and Charlie browse crates of second-hand vinyls.
Dean has never owned a record-player. All he has is a cardboard box of cassettes in the trunk of his Impala, and a streaming service. That last one is a recent (Cas-related) development.
But he has always wanted one.
He imagines Cas as the kind of person who probably does.
Flicking through covers with softened edges, he asks, “Cas is into classic rock, right?”
They’re not that far from December. This isn’t unreasonable. He feels a blush threatening to give him away and focuses on the vinyls. He locks his gaze on the flawless angles of Jim Morrison’s face.
Meg, who unfortunately appears to have rejoined them, snorts a laugh, “Cas? I’m pretty sure the only rock he knows is the opening to Smoke on the Water. And if you catch him on a really good day, he’ll maybe even remember the artist.”
Dean blinks rapidly, probably looking like a drunk barn owl while he tries to make sense of the information.
Next to him, Charlie smacks Meg’s arm.
“Ow, what? His only interest is world domination.”
“Okay, he isn’t Sauron.” Charlie says. “And he does have other interests.”
Meg laughs lewdly and Dean has to silently agree.
“Oh, look, is that guy lecturing a chick on how to hold a guitar pick?” Charlie says innocently.
Meg rolls her eyes but follows the line of Charlie’s gesturing to the spread of instruments set up in the middle of the store, available to try out.
As Meg hones in on the scene, she scowls deeply. Without a word, she marches over, presumably to dress him down. She’s at least a foot shorter, half as wide, and lacks the neck tattoo. But Dean would put his money on her any day, even without the long knife she has left in the car.
Dean continues browsing in silence next to Charlie.
She picks out a brightly colored europop cover and studies it before setting it back down. Without looking at him, she neutrally says, “You wore that Ramones shirt once. Looked like it had been chewed up by a rabid chihuahua.”
“Thanks,” Dean deadpans.
“That’s not the important part,” Charlie says, as if it should be in any way clear what the important part is. “Cas listened to them for the entire next week. It was very annoying.” She pauses and when Dean doesn’t reply, she adds, “He doesn’t usually do this.”
Her gaze burns into the side of his face, but Dean doesn’t look up from the vinyls. “Do what? Pay for sex?”
“No, I meant get a boyfriend. Is he…”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. I mean, that’s what he’s been saying. I just thought he was big-dicking. For your safety, y’know.”
“Did he tell you-”
Charlie shakes her head, “No, no. I just-” she breaks off and hitches her bag higher, “I think we better interfere unless we want a murder on our hands.”
She beelines for Meg and though it’s an obvious diversion from the question, she’s…. not wrong.
---
Dean: I’m gonna head to bed. Just wake me when you get here
Cas: Are you okay?
Dean: Apart from Sam trying to kill me?
Cas: Yes.
Dean: All good, just saving my energy. See you later
He adds a winking emoji at the end, which Cas doesn’t deign to reply to. Dean smiles anyway, imagining him scowling at the screen.
Preparing for bed at eight in the evening, he feels approximately one hundred and ten years old. He falls asleep immediately, though.
It’s Cas’ footsteps creaking on the stairs that later drag him towards consciousness. He pries one eye open, checking the clock that informs him that it’s 10 pm. Last minute, but here.
He mumbles a greeting to Cas.
“I’m just going to shower,” Cas says softly and Dean thinks he maybe replies before falling back asleep.
He resurfaces when Cas crawls under the comforter with him. His hair is damp and he’s warm. Dean pushes back against him, in something resembling a grind along Cas' erection.
“How d’you want me?” Dean mumbles, halfway into his pillow.
Cas wraps an arm around him and pushes a leg between his, lying half on top of him. He presses a kiss to Dean’s shoulder-blade. “Just go back to sleep.”
This is a kink Dean can definitely get behind right now. He yawns. “Wake me if you need me to participate in anything.”
He drags his ass against Cas’ dick again, just to accentuate it. It’s a damn mistake, because he’s still sore from yesterday’s spanking. Cas groans but pins him by the hip and doesn’t move further.
Message received.
Cas is warm and firm, doubling as a weighted blanket that guides his body into a calm that nothing but Cas has ever been able to give him.
It makes falling asleep even quicker.
He wakes at the sound of a phone vibrating. The mattress shifts as Cas gets out of bed. Sleep-muddled, he asks, “You’re leaving?”
Fabric swishes softly when Cas dresses. “Yes.”
“Wanna catch me up to speed?”
The bed dips as Cas sits down to put on his socks. “Don’t worry about it.”
Part of the power-play probably. Dean can live with not knowing, but he shifts, trying to figure it out for himself. He’s wearing boxers. His ass isn’t sore apart from the spanking. He doesn’t feel crusty or sticky.
“I said don’t worry about it,” Cas repeats, firmer this time and Dean stops moving. Heat pools in his abdomen and he checks the clock, trying to gauge if there might be a bit of time left.
It’s 2 am.
Dammit.
Cas’ hand finds his arm and gently squeezes. The touch lingering, he says, “Sleep tight, Dean.”
The room doesn’t smell like sex and Dean gets the insane urge to ask Cas to return to see him later, even though the day’s hours are already spent. He forces himself not to.
“Yeah, you too,” he mumbles as Cas lets go of him and gets up from the edge of the bed.
It’s hard to go back to sleep after Cas leaves. His heart is racing at the thought that there’s a real chance that Cas has lumped all of the hours for two days together just to sleep with him. Literally sleep. There’s not really any other explanation. Not when the alarm vibrated and they’re hitting the hours this cleanly.
It’s not even paired with an orgasm, which could otherwise have preceded a sleepy decision to change the alarm rather than having to get up sooner than necessary. Dean is close to a hundred percent sure.
That day he disassembles his gun, cleaning it thoroughly before putting it away. The risk of Sam getting his hands on it outweighs the probability that he’s gonna need it.
---
The next time he sees Cas is the following evening.
It’s a Saturday and Dean has let Sam stay up longer than usual. They’re watching Frozen, with white cardboard boxes from their Chinese take-out littering the coffee table.
Sam is awake, but barely.
The guitar accompanying Reindeer Are Better Than People mostly blocks out the lock and handle turning on the front door. What truly registers is the shift in atmosphere that Cas’ presence always creates.
It fills the room, prickling at the back of Dean’s neck and heating him up from the inside.
He tilts his head back, looking past the arm he’s resting on the back of the couch. “Hey, Cas.”
The trench coat is in Cas’ hands, but he doesn’t make any move to hang it up.
Sam perks up immediately at the sound of Cas’ name. He twists and crawls half up on Dean’s arm to look over the back of the couch. “Hi!”
“Hi,” Cas echoes. It sounds strangled.
“Sorry,” Dean grimaces, “You can just come in, he’ll be down in like ten minutes. We have more food and-”
Sam’s hearing is unfortunately still fine and at the indication of bedtime, he starts protesting. Loudly.
“I’ll come back later,” Cas says stiffly.
It’s not a bad call, really, but the bottom of Dean’s stomach drops out. He’s not sure he manages to cover it appropriately when he forces himself to reply, “Yeah, sure. See you.”
After Cas has left and Sam is asleep, Dean gets the thought that he should have added that it wouldn’t have needed to count towards the hours.
But then again, Cas has cut their time short on several occasions. If he doesn’t want to do it for this, it’s not about the hours. It’s a lack of will.
Dean had felt so fucking sure. Maybe it’s just that Sam was there.
It doesn’t necessarily mean he was wrong.
He feels like goddamn crying.
Once it passes 11, he gets ready for bed. He does it mechanically, stopping halfway to write a text to Cas that he ends up deleting. It’s just an update that he’s going to bed, but it feels desperate. Would make him crazy with wondering whether Cas is gonna reply – on top of already coming to terms with the fact that Cas isn’t going to show tonight.