a/n: So after five long months (five!) of writing, my nanowrimo fic is finally finished. It's by far the longest thing I've ever written and there were definitely times when I thought I'd never finish, but I finally have and it's finally ready to be released. Be free, fic. Make babies, drink fine wine, yada yada. So I'm going to try and update every MWF, and we'll see how that goes. I'm estimating about 30ish chapters right now. See disclaimers below.
warnings: drug use, dubcon, graphic torture, child abuse, whump, disturbing themes
disclaimer: There is a huge age difference between Dean and Castiel in this story and often it is not portrayed as unhealthy. I do not condone pedophilia or underage sex, unless, you know, consent or whatever. This is fiction. Treat it as such.
second disclaimer: I literally am not an FBI Agent. Sorry for inaccuracies on that front, I really did try. Also, there is graphic sex and violence. If you would like me to warn for either of these at the beginning of the chapter, let me know, otherwise I probably won't. I will, however, gladly accommodate anyone that wants me to.
Finally, I'd like to dedicate this to Sarah, because I never would have finished (or started) it without her. Thanks, love.
Chapter One
The boy is scrawny and underfed and his intense blue eyes look painfully blank in a way that states he's been rebuked one too many times for showing expression; Dean instantly dislikes him.
"He's a fucking runt," he protests, gesturing haplessly in the direction of the boy. God, he wants a cigarette. He wants a long shower and maybe a glass of brandy. He wants off this fucking case. "I can't work with him. Hell, aren't there laws against people working with him? I'm going to have to arrest myself for even looking at him."
"Relax, boy," Bobby says gruffly, despite his own tense shoulders. Knowing Bobby, he wants a glass of brandy even more than Dean does. "Boy's certified through the OBIT program. Apparently the deadliest one of his year."
"How old is he?" asks Dean, frowning through the two-way mirror at the straight-backed boy standing in the middle of the room, ignoring the chair and table at his disposal. He stands with military precision, looking pitifully thin, his stony expression undermined by the collarbone sharply poking out of the top of his shirt and the paleness of his skin. Doesn't look over fifteen; far too young, whatever he is, to be working on any sort of federal investigation.
Bobby shifts and shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his suit. He's always looked uncomfortable in formal wear, with his scruffy beard and permanent scowl, but today, in this moment, he looks even more so, his thick brows furrowed down.
"Bobby."
"Agent Singer," Bobby corrects, but he's stalling. A huff and then, "Seventeen."
"God, he's not even fucking legal," groans Dean, reaching up to scrub a hand over his face. Make that a double brandy and maybe a couple of beers afterwards as well. "You can't possibly expect -"
"I can and I do, Agent Winchester," growls Bobby, and Dean frowns deeply. After a moment, Bobby relents. "This isn't punishment, Dean."
"Looks like punishment. Feels like punishment. What's that saying? If it looks like a duck and swims like a duck, go get your shotgun?" There's a nonchalant lilt to his voice, but it's been a point of argument between them for the past four months since the trial and he's still not over it. He didn't deserve to get thrown out of the Organized Crime department, didn't deserve to get pushed onto a case that no one wanted with some kid still being potty-trained. There's a lot of things Dean doesn't deserve that still seem to happen. Try his entire fucking life.
"Don't be bitter, Agent, it doesn't become you."
A sideways sneer. "Become me? What are you, Madam Manners now? Come on, Bobby, I don't need to babysit some kid; I need to do my fucking job. I've learned my lesson. I won't -"
"Clearly you haven't learned anything if you can't follow orders."
"I can," says Dean heatedly. "Bobby - Agent Singer - I can."
"Then follow this, Winchester: Wait here, be fucking polite to the OBIT instructor when he comes in, go in there, introduce yourself to your new fucking partner, and get to work. A report had better be on my desk Monday morning and if I hear of any complaints from the kid, it's back to desk work for you."
A file smacks into Dean's chest and then a final glower and Bobby's gone, disappearing through the back door without another word. Dean's left standing before the mirror staring at his new - he swallows distastefully - partner, clutching the file to his chest like he's the inexperienced one. Thank God the kid can't see through the mirror because, truth be told, he still hasn't quite accepted that he's partnering with a half-starved trained assassin and he shifts closer, eyes narrowing. Dark hair, distant eyes - "Yeah, sure, Bobby, I'll get right on that," he mutters. "Let me just go get the fucking stroller first."
It's not Bobby's fault, he knows - Bobby's following the chain of command, just like everyone else. If anyone's to blame, it's Dean; if he hadn't fucked it up so badly on the last case, then he'd still be partners with - but no, he's not going to go there, he can't. Instead, he glances down quickly at the file, flipping it open to see the kid's face looking balefully up at him and the words Certified Class XIV Castiel Novak printed boldly underneath.
"What the fuck kind of name is Castiel," he mumbles out loud and then jerks around at the sound of laughter behind him, instantly snapping the file shut as he stares at the intruder.
"Odd one, isn't it? His parents were a bit religious it seems," says the man, stepping forward and smiling easily. "Of course, not religious enough to prevent them from donating him to the OBIT ward, but their loss," his eyes slide past Dean to greedily latch onto Castiel, "our gain."
"I'm sorry, you're the OBIT guy?" asks Dean, upper lip curling slightly at the way he's staring at Dean's new partner, like he's some sort of food or new chew toy. All of a sudden, he's not as happy that the mirror is two-way.
"Oh, yes, sorry," says the man, sliding his hand out of his trouser pocket and offering it up to Dean who uneasily accepts it. "Dick Roman, director of - well, this and that. Do you like my creation?" A sharp grin spreads across his face, the grin of a politician and weasel alike, and they both turn to observe Castiel again who has not yet moved from his upright position. "Have you been in to meet him yet?"
"Not yet, no," says Dean shortly. "I was waiting to be briefed."
"Ah, yes." Dick Roman is tall and smiles easily, every hair combed perfectly into place; his posture is explicitly straight and his eyes are the grey of wet pavement. Already, Dean can tell that he's a bit of a dick, like his name implies. This seems to be proven as the silence only drags out further.
"For one, what's up with his age?" Dean shifts from one foot to the other, jaw tight. "He's seventeen. He's just a kid. I don't care how good he is at his job, isn't that a bit young for -"
"I can assure you that there's no danger in releasing him into the field this early," says Dick smoothly, not taking his eyes away from Castiel. "He is an expert in angels as well as their Grace, with fighting skills beyond what most FBI agents are capable are. I'm sure he could even put you to the test, Agent Winchester," and finally his eyes flicker back to Dean, his lips curving up slightly. "Look at the file, if you don't believe me. Examine the test results yourself."
"It's not his - capabilities I'm worried about," says Dean through gritted teeth, his hand tightening on the case file. "What's his say in this? I mean, isn't this breaking about a million child labor laws? Did he even have a fucking childhood?"
Dick says nothing but arches an eyebrow and then he steps forward, moving so that he is between the mirror and Dean, blocking his view of the frozen kid. "Agent Winchester," says Dick softly.
That's about the time that Dean realizes he just crossed the line and he might be tiptoeing into some deep shit. Again. "Sir."
"Need I remind you what got you placed on this assignment in the first place, Agent?" His smile is frigid now, ice cold. "If you have any issues with the way this institution is run, we could just as easily suspend you indefinitely from any assignment while you place your complaints. I'm sure one of my assistants would love to hear from you. Is that what you'd like?"
Tersely: "No, sir."
"Let me stress to you that the OBIT is a government-funded institution, with highly successful results. If you have any relevant questions about the case, feel free to address them. If not, I'd love to introduce the two of you." The smile is still there and it's starting to weird Dean out a bit.
For once in his life, Dean manages to remain silent before a douche bag authoritative figure, instead pressing his lips together and slanting his eyes down to the ground. God, he hates this job.
"No? Very well."
He's not thinking about Sammy, he's not thinking about Jo, he's not thinking the trial or the nightmares or the last time he got laid which was months ago. Instead, Dean simply scrapes a hand over the lower half of his face and moves after Roman, pushing the door open with one hand and then coming to a stop at the edge of the room, his eyes narrowing as he meets Castiel's.
Because here in the room - in front of the mirror - Castiel looks even smaller than before, shorter than Dean and spindly and he doesn't look like a fighter, no, not one bit. If anything, he looks like all the fight's been driven out of him, like he's following orders now only because he knows what will happen if he doesn't - and Dean grits his teeth harder, forcing himself to look away.
Except then his eyes fall on Dick and that's not much better.
"Castiel," Dick's saying, his tone dropping into one of condescending and derision. If Castiel's one of their so-called experts, then why is he spoken to in such a way? "This is Agent Winchester. The two of you are investigating the Grace ring spreading in the northeast, understood?" Another one of his razor sharp smiles, and Dean's now ready to ask Castiel if he'll tackle Dick to the ground and show off some of his sick moves. "To disobey his orders would lead directly to severe punishment of the -" his eyes flicker to Dean, "OBIT variety. But there won't be any disobedience here, will there?"
Slowly, Castiel shakes his head, the first movement Dean's seen him make this entire time.
"Delightful! Well, Agent, I know you have your own orders, is there anything else I can assist you in?"
The dangerous glint in those grey eyes tell Dean just what exactly Dick will help him with if he so dares to ask for a favor. "I'm good. Castiel?"
Castiel looks startled at being asked and Dean closes his eyes for a brief moment, hands clenching in his pocket. This is fucking terrible. "Um… No. No, sir, nothing."
When Dean reopens his eyes, Dick is checking his watch and already shifting in direction of the door. "Business meeting," he says in Dean's direction. "Gotta stay on top of things. You understand." His teeth flash unnaturally white and then he's gone.
Dean stares at Castiel who stares at his feet.
"So," says Dean and watches as Castiel's head immediately jerks up, moving to attention. He frowns. "You ever ridden in a 1967 Chevy Impala before?"
Castiel shrinks down in the leather seat, fiddling with the seat belt and feeling sorely lacking, particularly in his knowledge of popular music and classic model cars, neither of which he knew he was supposed to know. If he had - well, there wouldn't be a single album released after 1960 that he wouldn't know by this point. Unfortunately Agent Winchester hasn't asked him anything about what Castiel actually knows about - about Grace or angels or the exact amount of pressure needed to break a bone - but instead has fallen into a dark sort of silence after Castiel admitted he had no idea what a Motorhead is.
Should he speak? The leaders at OBIT were quite clear that under no circumstances were the subjects supposed to speak out of turn, but they had been driving for forty-seven minutes at this point and the car had been dead silent for thirty-six of those minutes. There had been no discussion of the case or where they were going and it is all perfectly normal for Castiel to be held in the dark - but he's anxious without direct orders, without knowing precisely what is expected of him. He opens his mouth to ask - closes it - opens it - falls silent and digs his nails into his hands.
Control, he reminds himself. Obedience.
These are always the things he fights for, no matter the circumstances. These are always these things he is somehow punished for, eventually.
It could be worse, he knows. Agent Winchester doesn't look cruel - just intimidating, and most new faces look intimidating to Castiel. A lifetime of cruel sneers and hard indifference has led to little optimism for the seventeen-year-old. It always seems to take a little time for people's dark sides to come out - and then when it does, it never goes away again. Except in front of strangers. Director Roman had acted much more polite with Agent Winchester in the room than he had when it was just the two of them alone.
But so far Agent Winchester hasn't done anything too incriminating. He's handsome, strikingly so, with a commanding voice that rasps along Castiel's spine when he speaks. And while he hasn't spoken to Castiel in a while now, he'd spoken almost conversationally before, when asking about the music. It had been… odd. Strange, but not cruel. He hasn't slapped Castiel yet, so at least there's that.
Yes, it could be much, much worse.
He looks silently out the window, eyes going out of focus as the scenery melts into one long green blur. This will be the first time he's ever been out of Vermont. His first time to put his skills to the test, first time to contribute directly to the FBI -
"I'm starving, wanna stop and get something to eat?" Agent Winchester grunts, and a quick glance sideways reveals that he's staring fixedly out the windshield. "Maybe if we see a diner or something."
His first time at a diner. "Yes, sir," says Castiel hesitantly, and he watches as Agent Winchester inexplicably flinches.
"Don't call me that."
"Yes… Agent Winchester?" Castiel shrinks further into his seat and he really doesn't know what this man wants from him, what is expected of him. Where is the direction and control that has outlined his entire life up to this point? Its absence aches.
Agent Winchester sighs loudly. "Don't call me that either."
"I'm - sorry, sir," says Castiel in a subdued voice. "What do you want me to call you then?"
The agent's fingers flex against the wheel. "Just Dean, all right? I mean - whatever, you can call me that when we're in front of Dick," slight sneer, "but otherwise, just call me Dean. We're partners."
"Partners," Castiel repeats, the word unfamiliar on his lips. Is this a joke? "That's not what Director Roman told me."
"And what exactly did Director Roman tell you?" There's a moment of quiet as Agent Winchester - Dean - puts on his signal and then glances over his shoulder to exit the highway before his gaze slides finally onto Castiel for the first time in what feels like hours. "What, he told you that if you screwed this up, you're fired?"
"Fired?" Castiel's brow furrows in absent confusion. "We aren't fired, Agent… Dean. No, he told me that you are the overseer and commander of this mission, and I am the easily replaced menial laborer." Further silence follows and Castiel frowns, struggling to read it. "But I'm not easily replaced, I swear - I'll work harder than anyone else, and - and if you ever need to me to skip meals, I can, although that might weaken my fighting abilities a bit - but I'll do whatever you need me too, I'll be better than anyone else, I promise." He sounds desperate, he realizes, but - well, he is. This is his only chance to prove himself, to show what he's really capable of. If he fails this… well, every OBIT subject knows there's no such thing as second chances.
"We're here," says Dean, voice expressionless as he pulls into a small, rundown looking restaurant and throws the gearshift into park. "Come on."
Maybe he's said too much. Maybe he's overstepped his boundaries. He wasn't supposed to speak and this was a test and he's failed. Fingers trembling, Castiel fumbles with his seatbelt and then nearly trips in his haste to follow the special agent, his shoulders hunched.
Inside the diner, it is small and clean, with tables covered in simple checked red and white patterns. Dean picks a booth in the back and Castiel follows, sliding in across from him after a moment hesitation to make sure this is where he's supposed to sit. Silence creeps in again and Castiel jerks slightly when all of a sudden two menus are laid down between them before a chirpy girl introduces herself and asks for their drink orders.
"Coffee, black," says Dean, and smiles far more warmly at the waitress than he has at either Castiel or Dick. "Thanks, sweetheart."
"And you?" asks the girl, smiling over at Castiel.
"Um… water's fine?" He's never ordered anything before and now looks down at the menu in his hands as the waitress leaves to give them time to think it over. Seventeen years of pre-made food solely eaten for nutritional purposes has sorely limited him and once again he finds himself lost. Maybe Dean doesn't want him to eat. After all, he'd only mentioned his own hunger… Cautiously, Castiel sets the menu aside and folds his hands in his lap.
"Ready?" asks the waitress a moment later, bright smile back in place as she stands with her pen poised over the pad.
"I'll have a cheeseburger and fries, with a slice of apple pie for dessert, thanks," says Dean, and then both eyes are fixed on Castiel and he doesn't know what to do.
"I'm fine, thank you."
"Are you sure?" prompts the waitress. "We've got great mac n' cheese here."
Mac n' cheese? "No, I'm sure," he lies, except his stomach chooses that exact moment to let out a snarling growl. His hands fly to cover his stomach, but it's too late. Dean rolls his eyes, looking annoyed.
"He'll have the same thing as me, thank you."
The waitress nods, smiles again, and leaves; instantly the silence is back, only this time Castiel is too busy attempting to melt into the booth and through the floor to notice it.
"Look, Castiel," says Dean, leaning forward. "This isn't the OBIT. You're not in trouble. But you can't lie to me - and if you're hungry, then you need to say something about it. You're not my pet, and I'm not going to forcefeed you."
"I'm sorry," whispers Castiel, mortified. "I thought -"
"Thought what?" asks Dean, and he looks even more aggravated now. He glances around and then purposely lowers his voice, leaning in. "I don't know how they treated you at that fucking OBIT laboratory, all right, but three square meals is the deal here. Four, if you can manage it. You look like you're about to fall over."
Castiel defensively straightens his admittedly small shoulders. "They fed us there."
Dean simply looks at him.
"Well, they did. Every meal was carefully calculated to provide the optimal amount of nutritional value needed for our day," he says. "Sometimes they provided vitamin tablets on top of that, to ensure that we received everything that we needed."
"Cas, that's not eating, that's like - I mean, yeah, it is, but it's not eating eating. Have you ever even had chocolate?" Dean demands, and when Castiel simply stares at him, looks affronted. "You've never even had chocolate? Good God, Cas, please tell me you've had a hamburger before."
"I've had… beef," says Castiel hesitantly. Why is Dean calling him 'Cas'? He's aware of nicknames, but - generally they're used between friends, and they are not friends, not in the vaguest sense of the word. At least, he doesn't think they are. "Lean beef, finely chopped and mixed in with whole wheat noodles, occasionally."
"For fuck's sake," mutters Dean, shaking his head.
Castiel is nonplussed. "I will take into consideration whatever eating habits you believe to be the most beneficial, Agent Winchester -"
"Great," says Dean as the waitress approaches them laden with plates. "Then eat your damn cheeseburger and don't call me that."
Castiel waits for Dean to pick up his burger before hesitantly taking his own food in his hands - no fork? - and lifting it up to his mouth. Dean is watching him with an expectant expression and Castiel bites down on the corner, chewing it to completion before swallowing and feeling his eyes widen.
"Well?" asks Dean.
"It's…" He doesn't know what to say and instead bites down again, taking a larger portion.
Oddly, this of all things seems to make Dean lose his hard expression, and he smirks. "Welcome to the real world, kid."
He knows it's unhealthy - it has to be, tasting this way - but that doesn't stop him from eating it faster than he's ever eaten anything in his entire life. It's gone before he can stop to breathe, and only when he sits back with a little groan does he realize Dean's staring at him.
"Might wanna slow down there," he says, lifting his eyebrows.
"I - I'm sorry, I -"
"Will you stop apologizing?"
"I'm sorry -" says Castiel again and then frowns down into his lap. What is he supposed to say now? Nothing, a small voice says. Don't speak at all. Obedience. Right. Obedience. That's what he's built for, after all.
Silence again. He's never tasted anything like that in his entire life - hot and juicy, fresh, agonizingly delicious, and now he understands obesity, he thinks. How can he not eat that every day, now that he's had it once? But Dean thought he ate it too fast. Dean must think he has no self-control - but he does, it's all he has, he can prove Dean wrong. He has to, if he doesn't want to get sent back, and everything within Castiel tightens painfully at that idea. Getting sent back is the very last thing he wants.
"Know much about the case then?" Dean asks, and immediately Castiel looks up. Finally, something he knows about.
"We're tracking down the main suppliers of Grace, not just arresting minor dealers. The Grace is taken from Grace-touched objects, which are items most recently handled by angels and then collected by humans to -"
"Yeah, yeah," says Dean, waving this aside. "I got that part, I'm aware. So this is your first time doing this kind of thing, right?"
He nods, eyes dropping to the table. There's something about the way Dean's looking at him - open and frank, as though Castiel is his equal - that unnerves him. It's not right at all. "Thank you for the food, Agent Winchester."
Dean sighs. "Yeah. You're welcome. Listen, is there any way you could maybe stop flinching every time I ask you something?"
Castiel's hands tighten against each other in his lap. "I'm -" but he'd told him not to apologize, and so instead he just falls silent again, something clogging his throat. The expectations here are unclear - and each step he takes feels like it's in the wrong direction. What does this man want from him?
"So, what do you do for fun then?"
He looks up, blinking in surprise at the seemingly random question. "Fun?"
"Yeah," says Dean, chewing on a fry. "Watch movies, skateboard, play video games - I don't know, fun."
He's at a complete loss. "I… read books."
"What's your favorite?"
What is the purpose of knowing this? Castiel wonders. "I liked Darwin's On the Origin of Species a lot. I'd like to know how he'd included angels into his theory, if he were told of their existence."
Dean has an unreadable expression on his face. "Wow, okay. Thought you were going to say Harry Potter or something, but yeah, that's cool too."
What is Dean really asking here? The OBIT would never allow their subjects to read science fiction or fantasy - or anything that wasn't educational, as a matter of fact. But Castiel doesn't say this, merely nods and stares back down at the table.
A beat of silence passes and then Dean coughs. "Normally this is where you'd ask me the same question back."
He glances back up again. "What is it you like to do for fun, Agent Winchester?" he asks formally.
"Dean." Right, Dean. It still feels like a trap, but Castiel nods anyway. "There's a few shows I try to keep up with - but you've probably never heard of any of them. The old Star Trek shows are pretty good, when I get a spare moment. Haven't had a lot of those recently though…"
Castiel doesn't think he's ever been this confused in his life and he's grateful for the slight reprieve when the dessert comes and the conversation ends. Nothing that's happened so far is on par with anything he's ever known. It makes him feel tense and on edge, like he could be punished for anything at any moment. Silence is the best defense he has - and so no matter what else Agent Winchester says for the rest of the meal, Castiel does nothing but nod along and keep his mouth shut. Silence protects him - and finally Agent Winchester (Dean) seems to give up, bringing the conversation to a halt and only slightly relieving the pressure building in Castiel's chest.
The hotel room is small, but there are two beds and the hotel clerk had stopped looking at Dean suspiciously after he'd said Castiel was his nephew, so at least he's not getting arrested for child molestation any time soon. There's a faint hint of something that smells like whiskey, but it's passable. Dean's had far, far worse.
"Do you want to take a shower first or do you want me to?" Dean asks the kid, and then suppresses the urge to groan as Castiel automatically looks wary.
"You can go first."
He's getting absolutely nowhere with him and it's frustrating the hell out of Dean. Why did he have to get stuck with the dysfunctional one? "No, you go ahead, I can wait."
"Are you sure?" There it is again, the hesitance, the submissive lowering of his head, the nervous way his eyes flit between Dean and all the exits. Like he's constantly waiting for Dean to fly off the deep end and punch him or something.
"I'm good." To prove this, Dean sinks down onto one of the beds, uncomfortably feeling his suit jacket tighten in the shoulders with the movement. A second later, with another cautious glance over his shoulder to make sure it's still okay, Castiel disappears into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.
A few passing moments later and the water turns on.
Dean sighs, reaching up with one hand to rub at his forehead. "What am I going to do," he mutters, because there's simply no way he can work this way - constantly reassuring his so-called partner that he can make his own choice if he wants to. He didn't sign up for a fucking babysitting job - granted, he didn't sign up for this at all, but honestly, how do they expect him to break up a class A drug ring with some inexperience kid trailing along?
The answer is: they don't. 'Course, Dean doesn't have any proof, but he's not a Special Agent for the FBI for nothing. He screwed up; he brought negative press to his department; he was sent to trial for his actions. So now they've shunted him off to an impossible case with an impossible kid for a partner, expecting him to fail. Wanting him to fail, most likely. And with Castiel fucking hanging around waiting on his every word, he probably will.
And then Castiel will get sent back to the OBIT and Dean will get reassigned to Organized Crime and all will be right with the world.
And Castiel will go back to eating his fucking nutritional diet.
"Never had a cheeseburger," scoffs Dean to himself and then lets his gaze land on the bathroom door. What's next? Soon he's going to find out that this is the kid's first shower as well, God damn. Dean shrugs out of his suit jacket, feeling an ache in his temple begin to build. Well, it's not his fault that OBIT is a shitty place to live. He has no power over what goes on there - hell, no one does. It's hidden away, tucked in its own little corner, and as long as they keep producing certified workers, no one's going to bother them.
Even if the so-called certified workers are underage and underfed and look scared at every little thing that happens nearby.
"Shit," says Dean, because he's starting to realize that if he screws up on this case, as he's mildly tempted to do, Castiel will definitely get sent back and who the hell knows what will happen to him if they think he cost them the case - Dean's eyes land on the sleek briefcase they'd given to him once he'd been assigned an OBIT partner, 'For further obedience.'
Getting up, he stretches briefly and shoots another glance at the bathroom, satisfied that the shower's still running before he lifts the bag up to the table and stares at the four-number combination lock on it for a moment before he thumbs the numbers into place and snaps it open. Inside are four clear pill bottles, all snapped into place and labelled with meticulous handwriting. Dean frowns and slides one out, bringing it up to the light to read: Class A Disobedience.
"What the hell does that mean?" he asks the room at large and then looks at the other three which are apparently for classes B, C, and D. "And what exactly do you do, hmm?" he murmurs, moving to twist the cap off one. Can't hurt to try one himself, just to get a taste of -
The door to the bathroom starts opening and Dean panics, sliding the bottle back into its case and then clicking the briefcase shut before turning around to see Castiel standing there in nothing but a loosely held towel around his hips, his hair dripping wet and falling into his face.
"I forgot my suitcase in here," he says solemnly, and Dean, realizing he's staring at Castiel's smooth chest, snaps his eyes up. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," says Dean automatically and then feels himself grow the slightest bit hard at Castiel's instant flush. Of course Castiel obeys him. Of course he does. Oh shit. Oh shit, shit.
Silently, Castiel moves forward, retrieving his simple black duffel bag and seemingly oblivious to the way Dean's eyes trail him around the room. His towel slips slightly as he moves, revealing sharp hipbones, and Dean awkwardly tries to adjust his jeans as Castiel ducks his head and slips back into the steamy bathroom.
It's official. Dean is the biggest pervert in the entire world. He deserved the check-in clerk's suspicious look because he just basically ogled a seventeen year old boy who is in a significantly inferior position of power to Dean and who constantly looks like he's about to be attacked. Fucking hell.
"Cas?" he calls, willing his voice not to waver. "Can you hurry it up a bit? I'm gonna need that shower soon."
And of course Castiel obeys.
Of course he does.