Chapter Text
**See trigger warnings at the bottom of page**
Dean held perfectly still. If this were Sam, he’d be in his element--huffing out jokes that were simultaneously pep talks, a few warm nudges and shoulder slaps and trapezius squeezes, finding nonchalant ways to shift and settle, edging toward Sam to provide comforting warmth and silent understanding as they stared into the distance in brotherly camaraderie. Cas was different. Dean was a man’s man--the king of heart-to-hearts with any man under the sun--but Cas wasn’t a man. Or he was, sort of, more than sort of. The sensations and distractions Dean was getting from Cas’s proximity had become a lot like those of a few magnetic, musky hunters in years past that had become something more to him, in that stolen-moment’s electricity of comrades sharing a foxhole together. But in many ways Cas was… Cas. A different creature entirely. And he was hurting in ways Dean wasn’t sure he understood.
Cas was pulling back his hand and pulling away and Dean knew one thing: that wasn’t what he wanted for either of them. “Cas,” he said, his words coming out voiceless, with no confidence, in a way that made him sound more vulnerable and tender than he could think about.
Cas turned to him with downcast eyes, chewing lightly on his lower lip. It was so unlike his angelic self. Dean waited till Cas had gained enough strength to meet his eyes, still unsure, searching. Dean’s eyes suddenly got caught in the subtle slide of Cas’s lip out from his own soft bite. The light was glancing off the slight shine of moisture. Dean cleared his throat and tried to remember what he’d decided to say, his palms beginning to sweat as they clenched around Cas’s wrist. “Just, come on, work with me here…”
Cas’s face smoothed through several waves of release. The anticipation, tension and tender uncertainty he had held evaporated into a relaxed sense of completeness, his gaze loosening to the unhurried long-distance gaze he had worn as an unaffected minion of heaven. He turned his neck in a bird-like way reminiscent of that time too, disengaging from Dean’s gaze to turn away in blank consideration before swiveling back to take in the whole picture--Dean, his glassy eyes and breathless warm intentness, his open mouth and tense posture, the way his leg was tucked and crooked, sole upward, on the bed in half a meditation pose to direct his full trunk toward Cas.
Cas pulled his hand away, blinked in a measured way. He began to let his coat drop from his shoulders, folding it precisely at a contemplative pace. He turned back to Dean and squinted slightly, shoulders rolling softly inward as he bent forward. He wrapped both hands around Dean’s as if to shake it warmly, and instead started kneading it between his thumbs. His carefully detached gaze continued to search Dean’s face. Dean looked at their hands and choked on a shaky breath. He let his hand go limp to signal safety and acceptance.
Cas’s ministrations climbed upward almost imperceptibly, and Dean was still transfixed. The moment had taken them past what words could convey. He tried to show Cas his silent appreciation for this quiet intimacy, how humbled he was to be trusted and touched. Cas continued.
The gentle pressure on Dean’s shoulder encouraged him to sink backward into a more reclining position against the pillows. He still didn’t dare move actively. Cas seemed so shy and gentle, suggesting the slightest word or action might shatter this moment and the progress they were making. His long lashes fluttered as his eyes darted self-consciously and almost clinically across Dean’s muscles, looking for the next bit of tension that would heat up the intimacy by just another slow, thrumming degree.
Dean’s pupils had become large and his gaze swimmy. He felt each breath push his muscles into Cas’s waiting, gentle hands. He didn’t dare make a sound but the effort not to pant or sigh was considerable. He caught Cas’s eyes at glances, seeing the color bloom in Cas’s cheeks each time. This was a road he’d never let his mind go down this far. How would Cas look aroused? Would Cas touch someone with soldier-like boldness, with heavenly aloof precision, with angelic grace, with innocent timidity? He knew it wasn’t Cas’s first time, but he could only see it that way--a virginal angel he didn’t deserve ministering to his humble nerve endings, a blessing, a holy gift.
He tipped back his head submissively as Cas’s fingers ran across his collarbones and under his shirt collar. Dean wasn’t religious, but imagery of holy offerings, supplicants, fervent kneeling prayers entered his mind. He had always considered sex a sacrament, one way he could honor humanity, experience, free will and vitality. His eyelids drooped as he soared higher than he ever had from drugs or spells.
“What do you want?” Cas said, unbuttoning Dean’s fly. “You,” Dean chanted, half out of his mind. Cas’s hands stopped and he huffed a tense sigh. “How?” he said tightly. Dean’s mind couldn’t keep up. “What?”
“How do you want me?”
“Uh…” Dean struggled to catch his breath. He peered at Cas. He hadn’t pictured Cas being this confident about human matters. He’d always been straightforward, but this seemed abrupt, and a little janglingly out of tune with the reverent tone of Dean’s stream of thoughts in this encounter.
Cas was clumsily arranged balancing on one hip, body as far as possible from Dean’s own considering how thoroughly his hands had been stretched across his skin. His throat was still bobbing and he seemed very interested in the painting above the bed. Dean arched his back to take a look at it upside down--an unremarkable landscape. He looked back at Cas and said “Familiar?”
Cas didn’t meet his gaze or speak. “Cas?”
When Cas looked back down at Dean something felt off. “Cas? What… do you want here?”
Cas’s eyes glazed over a little, apparently disinterested in entertaining such a question. And Dean’s brain finally caught up.
This wasn’t Cas.