(A/N: Rated T for mildly suggestive themes/adult content and mild coarse language.
Uhm. Hello. I know there are so many other things I should be doing and not putting out something new, but… Well. Oops? BUT it's short! It needed to be expunged for my sanity.
Obviously, this was inspired by the J. Giles Band song "Centerfold". It's not a songfic though... merely an inspiration, so there shall be no annoying lyrics to skip or be sued over. heh. It was more or less one of those moments where you're listening to the song and inspiration hits. I can't even say how many times I've heard this song but it was the last time—inappropriate images from a Destiel group convo assaulted me and BOOM. This. It's completely ridiculous and got completely out of hand, length wise, but it had to be done.
Warnings: MalexMale (pre) Slash. Mild language. Mentions of naked Castiel (his Angel is a centerfold). Crossdressing—Castiel in lingerie/negligee (it's really just too much).
Enjoy. :))
Dean is wandering down the magazine rack, shamelessly peering at the adult section. He's at the end, right by where his favorite magazine usually is, hand already outstretched and ready to grab one, when he realizes the spot is empty.
No Busty Asian Beauties. Dammit.
He nearly pouts and briefly considers asking the bored looking dude behind the counter if they have some in the back or something. He turns towards the counter, but doesn't move just yet, remembering the last time he said something about it and the douche just shrugged and had the stones to mention there was a new thing called the internet he might want to check out. He's an old fashioned, tactile guy and he likes the feel of a magazine's glossy light pages in his hand.
He's still considering his options, complain or leave, when another cover catches his eye. It's not one he's ever noticed before, the title Dazzle doesn't ring any bells, but it looks OK enough to warrant a second look. He lifts it out from the slot from the top, eyebrows raised as he looks it over.
It's glossy, brightly colored and features a real classy picture of a girl from the back; the kinda thing that reminds him of old-school pin-ups. The picture ends just above the curve of a butt, just a hint of ass-crack at the bottom of the page and you can tell she's totally naked. He clicks his tongue happily and nearly winks back at the magazine when he catches sight of the seductive wink aimed at him from over her shoulder.
He opens the magazine and flips through a few pages, his eyebrows slowly lowering into a slight frown as he brings the magazine a little closer for a better look. Oh. Wow. He's now aware of why he'd never thumbed through this skinmag before... So far as he can tell, there aren't any women in the magazine; just guys. Guys in padded jocks, skimpy underwear and—
Yup. Naked.
He's not exactly bothered by seeing dicks, they're everywhere in porn and Sam doesn't have an ounce of shame when it comes to getting dressed or stripping for a shower when it's his turn and he's not in the mood to hide behind a towel or in the bathroom like a normal person, but he's not exactly looking for... that. Especially where just anyone can walk over and see him looking. Instinctively, flattens the magazine to his chest and he peeks over his shoulder. Slightly narrowed eyes dart around as he confirms no one's even there in the store, let alone looking at him looking at naked dudes.
He flips the magazine closed over his thumb, staring closely at the cover image. And now that he's looking closer, past the saucy wink and nice ass, he can see it's a guy. The shoulders are a bit too broad to be feminine, the muscles slightly more defined even for a built chick even if the dude is lithe instead of bulky. The hips and waist a bit too straight. But other than that, it's confusing as all hell because it kind of looks like a chick otherwise. He studies the profile of the face, looking for hint of make-up or stubble; something to tip it either way but there's nothing.
He makes a soft 'huh' sound and lowers the magazine, trying to process and pretty much failing. He's distracted by the shiny cover, though. He's just not the introspective type; that's Sam's thing.
Dean is just about to put the magazine back when it flops open again and he sees something tan—a very familiar shade of tan. Is that—? Part of him immediately denies the possibility, even through the hot flutter of excitement that makes his knees feel weird and his hands clammy and a little shaky. But another part, a more insistent part, demands he look.
Just in case. Just to make sure.
Weirder things have happened, after all.
He thumbs through until he gets to where he saw the thing. A wash of hot and cold surges through his body and Dean nearly drops the magazine with a very unmanly shriek of shock when he gets a better look. He brings the magazine closer to his face, his hands tightening on the pages, crinkling them a little and making a papery-squeaking sound against his suddenly sweaty palms.
Oh shit.
Oh, fucking goddammit—it is.
He stares, wide-eyed and completely stunned immobile as he stares at Castiel. Castiel, Angel of the freakin' Lord, in a damn skin mag. He's staring, unable to compute much else but that goddam trench coat and Cas in a nudie mag, and no longer giving a shit that he's staring at a magazine full of dicks in full view.
He's not sure why, maybe it's some sort of auto-pilot he's conditioned his body for—see porn, turn page kinda thing—but he's turning the page without any actual conscious thought, whether he wants to or not. A few pages, apparently, because there's a few pages laying against his thumb and he's suddenly looking at a naked Cas.
His mouth drops open and he doesn't quite manage to suppress the surprised little grunting sound he makes as he stares, wide eyed and open mouthed like an idiot. Because Cas is naked. He's the friggin' centerfold.
And. Well. Dean has to admit, dude looks good. In a completely surprising and unexpected way. He knows better than to try to say in a no-homo way; not with the warm feeling shooting through him and settling pleasantly in his middle, accompanied with a familiar restless/twitching feeling to go along with it all that he's so not thinking about right now.
He thumbs back a few pages when he realizes there's an entire spread devoted to Cas. Freakin' A right there should be, he muses with a sharp nods as he flips pages. They'd be stupid not to stick Cas in the middle...
It starts tame enough; Cas fully clothed—Holy Tax Accountant get-up and all. But different enough that Dean knows it's stocked wardrobe or something and not Cas' actual old clothes. He saw for himself that Cas had ditched the suit and trench coat for jeans and a hoodie (even if he shies away from the memories of why). As much as he'd liked the casual look (and how human it made Cas look), he sorta missed the old, dirty creeper-coat just because it was so Cas, what he was used to since he met the guy.
It's been awhile since he's seen the shapeless tan thing and an odd little pang constricts his chest for a moment as he stares at the trench coat, the fit slightly baggy and too long as it should be. He nearly lets out a hysterical laugh and tightens his fingers on the pages so he doesn't do anything ridiculously crazy like pet the damn picture or something.
Otherwise, it's just Cas—staring at the camera with all the intensity Dean's used to seeing from the angel, not at all muted or washed out because it's just a flat picture. It's... Well, it's oddly arousing and familiar and all sorts of weird shit goes on in his knees and stomach again. He shifts uncomfortably on his feet as he turns the page. He swallows a few times when he sees the next picture.
Cas, sans trench coat, dark suit jacket mid-arm since the picture was taken as it was being slid down and off his arms. Cas' hair is a bit more mussed, like he'd taken the trench coat off over his head like the dork he is. The tie is loose, draped around his neck, both ends left to dangle against his chest. It's distracting and too-casual to be Cas and kind of wrong and just all kinds of hot and Dean can't stop staring. The top 2 buttons of the white button down are undone, totally completing the debauched look. Cas head is slightly cocked, like he's listening intently to someone and trying to compute.
Or just confused as to why he's partially disrobed but not concerned enough to do anything about it.
Dean might stare at the few inches of skin teasingly on view in the gap of Cas' collar. Jesus, why the hell is that making his breathing pick up and his palms damp? There's barely any skin and only the barest peek of a sharp, defined collarbone. He rolls his lips over his teeth when the ridiculous idea of licking that patch of skin surfaces briefly, teasingly, only to be quickly squashed.
He turns the page, hastily, and nearly groans aloud when he does. That was stupid because now he's looking at a picture of a half-naked Cas. The white shirt is completely unbuttoned and he's not wearing any damn pants. Dean's gaze travels down Cas' bared legs, noting the dark, sparse hair and runner's build. Cas is also wearing the smallest, tightest pair of black briefs Dean's ever seen.
Huh. He would've pegged Jimmy as a boxers kinda guy.
The page has a few pictures on it, chunks of words that he skips right over (because forget the articles, OK?) to look over the picture in the corner showing the unbuttoned shirt being slid down Cas' arms—Cas' toned, inexplicably tanned arms. He can't help wondering where the hell Cas got off being built like that. And why the hell he wears that damn fugly trench coat, hiding all this? He kind of wishes Cas' elbows weren't bent and keeping the shirt from falling off completely...
Dean flips to the next page, more than a little eager to finally get back to the good stuff—Cas naked.
And there it is: Cas, completely naked. He's not really posing, just standing there, shamelessly naked and gazing into the camera with a calm intensity that Dean recognizes as Cas' patient expression, waiting for instruction or trying to mask boredom in an attempt at some sort of angelic impression of human politeness. It's legitimately weird to see that expression on a naked Cas but it's not weird enough to not enjoy, though.
He knows most people would think it's confidence or something, but Dean knows it's just Cas' indifference to his vessel—his body. To nudity in general. Even human, Cas just didn't give a shit about it, apparently. He was probably going to have to teach the guy some modesty so he didn't think it was hunky dory to strip at random times or something. Not that he ever considered that would be a problem... but that was before seeing this.
Now, he just doesn't know and the idea of having a talk with Cas about bad touching and keeping clothes on nearly makes him laugh out loud.
His gaze involuntarily drops below Cas' nipples (with a freakin' adorable freckle hovering just over the right one), softly toned chest and stomach, man-scaped pubes and finally settles on his dick. Oh shit. Now he's staring at it. It's unfairly impressive, even just hanging out there between Cas' thighs. (Not that he's lacking in that area himself—but just. Damn.)
He looks awhile longer; not so much comparing, just looking (probably for less than scientific reasons), and finally turns the page.
Not that he's hoping for more. But he finds it. He nearly chokes on his own spit and actually drops the magazine this time, his fingers lax and nerveless with shock. He's quick to squat down and retrieve the magazine, though, curling it protectively towards his chest as he looks around again in darting, furtive glances. Still alone. Thank god... He slowly lowers the magazine and that shock is still there, but less so now that he's expecting it.
Because, holy shit—Lingerie. Cas is wearing freakin' lingerie. A pale pink negligee; a wispy looking thing with delicate little spaghetti straps against muscled shoulders and those defined collarbones, and a matching set of silky-looking panties that Cas barely fits into. Seriously—any degree of wood and Cas would be popping outta that thing.
Sonofabitch.
He can't help staring. It really shouldn't do a damn thing for him, but. Well. The need to adjust himself says otherwise. He's been in on Victoria's secret before, the random hook-up wearing lacy matching bra and panties every once in a while, but this is so different he can barely process it fully beyond just 'yes' and 'fuck yeah'. He shakes his head when memories of the fit and feel of pink panties try to invade and looks back at the picture.
It's the first picture Dean can make out any real emotion in Cas' eyes; something dark and mesmerizing that looks suspiciously like desire. Simmering, hot-as-fuck bedroom eyes he's never seen before and he's irrationally drawn towards and then ticked off for it because Cas isn't really aiming them at him. He kind of wants to cover them with his hand before he gets ideas.
Or before anyone else sees and gets ideas. He briefly wonders just how many copies of this magazine there are, how many other people are perving on Cas right now, staring into those baby-blues and thinking things they shouldn't about an angel. Ex-angel... whatever. He's nearly working himself up to righteous lather, tinged with something hot and slick he thinks might be jealousy but he really wants to ignore. He glares, wondering if Sam can work his research mojo and track every damn one of the sonsabitches down when he's distracted from questionable thoughts of what he'd do with his demon blade by more pictures.
More pictures, clustered together, of Cas in the nightie. The smoldering over-the-shoulder one nearly makes him whimper. One thin, pale pink strap has slipped mid-way down a toned arm, and it's stupid how hot the whole thing is. The shiny, tiny panties do really amazing things to Cas' ass, too. It shouldn't do a damn thing for him, but his dick isn't getting the 'not interested' memo—its 100 percent behind the last few minutes (possibly longer, depending how long he's spent perving on Cas in the middle of the damn store). He's pretty sure he should find the next pose, Cas half bent over and resting his hands on something suspiciously desk-like, cheesy and clichéd and corny but it's kind of not.
It's kinda hot. Before he can do something stupid, like wonder how it would feel to put his palm right between Cas' shoulder blades and push until the guy's silky-covered chest meets the wood and giving the perfect position to angle his ass up just right, he closes the magazine. He loosely rolls the magazine and lets out a shaky exhale and just... stands there. Trying not to think or focus too much on his tight pants and the tell-tale flush he can feel on his face and neck.
He's pretty sure he closes the magazine and slips it back into its spot on the rack, but when he goes to the register to buy his beef jerky and mini cherry pie, that damn glossy cover is amongst his items. So he goes along with it—it's gotta be more embarrassing to put back porn than to actually buy it, right?—paying for his stuff like he meant to come in and get everything he's buying. He fishes the magazine out of the plastic bag the second he slides in behind the wheel and he tucks it into his jacket for the ride home. Thankfully no one is around when he gets home, stepping down the staircase cautiously looking around, before practically running to his room. He slides the magazine between the pages of an older Busty Asian Beauties and tucks it carefully out of sight.
Maybe he'll look at it again later, when Sam and Cas head out for supplies.
.o.
He tries to play it cool, tries to just force his brain—and crotchal area—to just forget the magazine. To forget that he didn't see Cas naked. Or in lingerie. That Cas is just the same poor little dork that's been dumped unceremoniously into humanity and been living with them for the past month. Cas, the guy that's grumpy until an ungodly amount of coffee and eats Golden Grahams in his borrowed pajamas, bed-headed and bleary eyed, on the sofa instead of at the table. Cas: his best friend and friendly neighborhood ex-angel. And that's it. To do that repress/denial thing he's practiced for decades and is usually really damn good at.
Naturally, he fails. Spectacularly.
They're researching about Selkies in the Bunker's fully stocked library, sitting catercorner to each other. His book is open, but he's spent the last 20 minutes just looking at Cas whenever he thinks Cas won't notice. Gaze tracking his mussed hair. The slouched posture as he reads. The way long, dextrous fingers absently brush along the edges of the pages as he reads. The new-found habit of occasionally rolling his tongue out over his bottom lip now that Cas can feel how dry his lips can get.
They're close enough together Dean can tell Cas has been using his body wash and missed two spots while shaving.
It's all kind of distracting, really.
"Why'd you do it, Cas?" he blurts out. Even though he's been thinking about it for the last half hour (past couple of weeks), he knows it's actually a really random thing to just ask. It's so out of left field and breaks the comfortable silence so completely that he really doesn't blame Cas for startling with a soft gasp, his eyes blinking then narrowing in momentary confusion. Or for the way he then stiffens, body going rigid and tense in that new-human way he's got now, eyes shifting away and down.
He feels like a dick about it, for making Cas look guilty for that nanosecond before Cas wiped it away, but he can't take the words back. The guilt is back and tinged with annoyance and a little exasperation. Without the mojo, jedi-mind tricks, Cas has no idea Dean's been imagining him naked, thinking about doing very unangelic things to him on the library table and that he's not bringing up any number of things from the past. It's ironically, tragically, hilarious that Cas would immediately assume the worst, that Dean's bringing up old hurts, picking at old scabs.
Which stings if he's being honest, but he totally gets it. He might be a little guilty of snarking about it, talking around Cas' epic fuck-ups before. It's not like they've ever really talked it out, though, had the appropriate Dr. Phil moment and put it to bed properly with a teddy bear and a bed-time story like normal people would do. And since they'd pretty much moved past everything, he'd counted it good and over.
Dean's wondering how best to back-track, how to phrase 'What made you get naked on camera?' into a properly phrased, rational question, get the air cleared of the tenseness and get rid of that slump to Cas' shoulders when Cas' low voice saying his name breaks into his thoughts. He looks up and blinks, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he calms himself down from Cas simply saying his damn name.
"I'm afraid you'll need to be more specific, Dean," Castiel finally says, eyebrow quirked but otherwise managing to erase the earlier kicked-puppy expression and almost sound like his old-bored-angel self again.
Dean nearly smiles, secretly enjoying Cas' snark. He clears his throat and fiddles with the spine of his book. "The, uh, magazine?" he half asks, half says, trying to put some meaning in the last word, like there's only one damn magazine in God's creation. Of course, Cas' eyes squint, his head tilts ever-so slightly to the left with confusion. It's familiar and Dean's glad to see it. Damn near all warm and fuzzy, really. Too damn much has changed—it's nice to have some things stay consistent.
"Magazine?" Castiel asks, brows slightly pinched with confusion.
Dean nearly explains what a magazine is, just to be a shit, but he reins in the urge with a mighty effort (and a mental pat on the back for being a big boy and not the huge 12-year-old Sam often accuses him of being). Instead, he carefully reaches between the stack of books to his left, eyes darting around to make sure Sam doesn't choose now to barge in and help them research, and slowly extracts the magazine.
Its seen better days; the edges are soft, one corner slightly dog-eared with repeated handling. As soon as Cas sees the cover, the ex-angel's confused expression clears and he merely nods. Dean blinks a few times, trying to take in the complete calmness that is Castiel. No blushing, no apologies, no stammering excuses. He feels kind of disappointed, actually. He hasn't seen much of that from Cas and it's always a teensy bit of a secret thrill when it does happen even if it rudely reminds him of Cas' new-found, forced state of humanity.
"Ah, that magazine," Castiel says, nodding his head once and returning to his book. He'd nearly forgotten about it, honestly. If he hadn't received a copy gratis, he wouldn't even recognize it to know what Dean had been referring to. He had looked through it but looking at himself in various states of undress and nudity hadn't been as exciting as most seemed to find it. Nor had looking at the other models, even as aesthetically pleasing, in a general sense, as they were. It hadn't been all that engaging and he ended up storing the magazine somewhere in his room shortly after he'd received it.
He looks up to see Dean staring at him, eyebrows raised with expectation. "I needed the money," he adds with an indifferent shrug when Dean waves a hand, obviously needing further explanation.
Dean winces; he can't help it. He wants to pretend like he doesn't know why Cas would've needed money. Even if Cas' didn't blame him for the whole kicking-him-out-of-the-bunker-at-the-worst-possible-time thing, he blames himself enough for the both of them. He should've found another way... He snorts derisively and digs his palms into his eyes until star-bursts are going off like the grand finale at the fourth of July and huffs out a slow breath, rubbing his hand down his face harshly and across his lips.
"I'm sorry," Dean murmurs, suddenly feeling like an even worse scumbag for enjoying those pictures. Now that he knows that Cas only did it for the money, so he could get food? Probably rent money? Douchiest douche. He pushes the magazine away a little, not so into looking at it anymore.
Castiel looks up and cocks his head, curious. "Why?"
"Because, if I hadn't done that—" Dean chokes out, fingernails digging into his palms. God, he hadn't thought that shit through. He just knew Sam was in a bad way and he was desperate as usual, mind blanking on the remote possibility of his life being jeopardized and doing whatever it took. He'd hated choosing and still feels nauseated about the whole thing. Cas had been too damn understanding about the whole damn mess and a little part of him wants Cas to demand his respect again, hit him, do something to help even things out the teensiest bit. "If I had—"
"No, Dean," Castiel interrupts, placing his hand over Dean's, unhappy to see it fisted tightly. It doesn't loosen but at least Dean doesn't shake him off and eventually meets his eye. "We've been through this," he admonishes, tone somewhere between gentle and exasperated. The one and only time Dean brought it up, he'd understood the impossible choice he'd been forced to endure and he understood why Dean did what he felt needed to be done. He hadn't thought he'd ever be turned away by Dean before, but knowing Sam's very life had been in the balance had made it a little easier to handle.
It still hadn't felt good to know Dean had chosen Sam over him, but the anguish in Dean's expression had been perversely uplifting; it had not been an easy choice.
Dean grits his teeth together. Yeah, they've been through it and he feels like an undeserving ass every time Cas gives him that soft look, or a smile, instead of yelling or damning him like Cas should. Every 'I understand, Dean' has the opposite affect of soothing his guilt and just adds to the sting.
He has no idea how to explain that people usually do that sorta shit in desperation, selling their bodies in one way or another, as a last resort. He wants to just take something apart with his bare hands because he was the reason Cas got to that point. He's the reason Cas had to do something so—
He covers his eyes with a trembling hand, wondering how they hell the situation got so damn bad Cas thought he had to do that instead of pick up a damn phone and call him for help. He would've found a way...
"I'm sorry because you shouldn't have had to do that for money, man." Dean spreads his fingers a little, daring a peek at Cas, when there's only silence. A thoughtful kind of silence, so he's not too wary as he lowers his hand a bit and peeks over his fingers at Cas. His head tilts again and Dean doesn't know if he wants to hit something because Cas just isn't getting it.
Or maybe do something really stupid like kiss Cas until he stops being accidentally adorable.
"It wasn't difficult," Castiel says, tone serious. Of all the jobs he'd attempted, standing still for some pictures and taking a few simple instructions had been the easiest. He hadn't even minded the wardrobe choices, the last outfit being rather comfortable and smooth against his skin. He'd even been paid extra to wear it since he hadn't any issue with the garment like some of the previous models. Dean still looks pained, so he smiles and adds; "The money was very good, as well." He still has some of it, saved in a box that originally contained Milk Duds that Dean had given him when he visited and they spent the day together.
He had been tempted to call Dean for assistance, even just advice, but he knew there would be little Dean could do from where he was and he hadn't wanted to place even more of a burden on his shoulders.
Dean slowly exhales and closes his eyes, pinching and rubbing at the spot above his nose as he tries to calm himself down. OK. So Cas didn't feel vulnerable or victimized or something. No one talked him into a skeezy leather sofa shoot or bad-touched him for a few extra bucks. Right? He opens his eyes and pins Cas with a serious look, pointing a finger at him, "No leather? No touching?"
Castiel shakes his head, trying not to smile so Dean doesn't misunderstand and think he's being mocked. The corner of his mouth quirks up anyway and Dean's posture relaxes even more when he sees it. "No, Dean," he says softly. "There was no inappropriate handling involved whatsoever."
Dean nods stiffly before relaxing a little again. He eyes Cas curiously, noting his calm demeanor. Cas almost looks happy, proud, to be talking about this. He leans in closer, an elbow on the table and his hand dangling over the side. He pitches his voice lower, because damn the library has an echo to it, and can't help asking "Okay, so. Uh. Did you—like it?" he asks, remembering the last few photos.
"Yes," Castiel says, shrugging one shoulder. "The clothing was reasonably comfortable—when I was wearing it. The room was adequately heated and I was paid well for simply doing something I do nightly now."
Dean might've swallowed his tongue. His leg twitches involuntarily, smacking the underside of the table, and he presses his palm into his knee. "You still wear that kinda stuff? Every night?" Cas' confused squint has him looking away and heat practically exploding in his face. Oh, of course Cas meant just undressing for bed, getting into pajamas or something. Not—not wearing panties and stuff. Of course Cas totally meant all that human nightly habits he hadn't had to suffer through before.
Shit. He's an idiot.
"Oh," Castiel says slowly as realization dawns. "The negligee," he says knowingly. He purses his lips as he studies Dean. He's been around humanity—and Dean especially—to know what he's looking at. Dean isn't nearly as skilled at deception as he likes to think, not with him anyway. He narrows his eyes a little, intrigued. As unlikely as it might seem, something he'd not expected, but Dean's... interested. Aroused. He assumed there was a reason he'd been asked to wear something so feminine, he just hadn't known it was something Dean would find arousing.
He takes another few moments to study Dean, warmth curling slow and lazy through him as he does so. "Did you enjoy those pictures, Dean?" He hadn't intended his voice to drop so low, but he hadn't been able to help it. He's careful not to touch, however. Just because Dean liked the pictures, doesn't mean it was because of him. He knows many men use it simply for fantasy, imaginations replacing faces with other's. It's quite possible Dean merely enjoyed the negligee. Possibly even imagined how much better it would look on a female body.
Dean clears his throat, trying his damnedest to ignore the lower pitch to Cas' voice that does things to places on his body. He can be an adult about this. It isn't that weird. Naked people are a normal, everyday thing. Hell, he's even worn panties once... or twice. "Uh. Maybe." He shrugs, trying for indifferent. Cool. Like it's totally all part of the Dean Winchester character profile Cas' has up in his head and Cas is the one a page behind the times.
Castiel glances at the magazine sitting on the table before meeting Dean's eyes once again. The lack of outraged denial is very interesting. A thought occurs to him and he leans forward, involuntarily. "Do you carry that around with you?" He's very interested in the answer when the tips of Dean's ears pink, his head ducks down and he makes a low groaning sound of frustration. Maybe of discomfort.
"No," Dean immediately denies, a bit louder than he'd intended. Well. Not all the time, he didn't. He's really tempted to just knock the books on the floor and the second Cas leans over, distracted by picking them up, and book it out of the room as fast as humanly possible. He doesn't though, because he really doesn't want to hear Cas and Sam bitching about his disrespecting the books. "Maybe," he relents, trying his best to give as bored a shrug as he can muster. If he knows he'll have a moment alone, he might bring something along with him to read...
Castiel hums softly, gaze intent on Dean. He pulls the magazine across the table until it's closer to himself and flips it open. He glances down, eyeing his photos again. He had looked at them before, but hadn't thought much about them. He'd seen his nude body before, it doesn't hold any special sort of attention for him. He did have pleasant memories of the experience, but he doesn't need the pictures to remember.
He glances up to meet Dean's eyes, a little surprised to see Dean's gaze is on the photos as well, a familiar sort of heat lurking in his eyes that's he's not familiar with being directed at him so candidly. A different kind of focus than he was used to getting from Dean. He didn't keep track of how long their gazes met, but they dropped at the same time to look at the magazine again when Dean leans forward a little, breaking the moment to turn the page.
"I like this one," Dean murmurs, thumb brushing along the bottom of the first negligee picture. He's always wondered what changed there. What gave Cas that look in his eyes. He shrugs to himself, what did he have to lose? Cas isn't shy and maybe he'll finally know. "What were you thinking about here?" he asks quietly, gaze lowered and watching his finger brush along the edges of the picture.
After too long a silence, he looks up and blinks a few times. Apparently, it's Cas' turn to flush; lightly stubbled cheeks pinking in a way that Dean can only stare at. He's never seen Cas blush before and... Shit. This is not good. He slowly slides his hand away and traps it under his leg so he doesn't do anything stupid and completely against every bro-code. Because he's pretty damn sure doing anything like touching Cas' cheek to feel the glorious heat or palm his tented jeans is a definite friend-zone no-no.
Castiel averts his eyes, unsure how to answer. He doesn't know how Dean will react and is finally uncomfortable speaking about this. Truly wary about confessing this, even if he had vowed to avoid keeping things from Dean again (surely this doesn't count as important, life or death situation?). He doesn't expect Dean to react too badly, not after the reaction he saw earlier, but he's very afraid of damaging their friendship. Of finding the one thing that Dean can't forgive, look past, ignore and just continue to carry on as they have been.
The photographer had requested a bit of emotion from him, but he'd been unsure how to do such a thing. He felt them, unfortunately, but he didn't know how to manufacturer them without direct stimuli. He'd been grateful the photographer had helped, offering ideas. Asking questions, trying to help motivate him. A few questions about his hopes, dreams, fantasies, and he'd been dangerously close to ruining the shoot for the day because he'd gotten aroused and the magazine didn't do those sort of pictures.
Dean notices Cas chewing on his lip, his fingers twisted together and flexing with stress and worry. It's a really weird thing to see on Cas, honestly, and he's quick to wave the question away, needing to see that tension melt out of his body. As much fun as it can be to poke fun at Cas, this seems too serious to joke around with. He forces a smile, patting Cas' upper arm twice with a loose fist before dropping his hand. "It's cool, man. You don't have to tell me if it's personal."
"No," Castiel says, immediately looking up. "I do want to tell you, I'm just... unsure how you'll react."
Dean frowns, confused. Oh. Maybe Cas had a few hook-ups while he was doing his human thing and he was afraid of being judged about it or something. He almost doesn't want to know what sort of things made Cas eye-fuck the camera, what sort of fantasies he'd had running through his head. And yeah, OK, maybe it burned a little to think about someone doing things to Cas, or Cas doing things to other people, but he knew damn well he had no right to say a damn thing about who Cas slept with. He snorts softly with the irony.
"S'cool, Cas," he says easily, offering a smile he hopes looks genuine. He's mostly happy Cas got to experience some of the good stuff about being human, because whatever made Cas look like that had to be something really good. And he's going to clap him on the back and be a bud about it, even if it twists his guts just a little. His smile slips into a frown when Cas squirms out from under his hand and looks away, cheeks pinking up even more.
OK. That's weird and new. He holds his hands up and leans back, slightly offended but very willing to get out of Cas' personal space.
Castiel takes a deep breath and plows onward, knowing Dean truly won't drop the subject. Will keep asking at random times, pestering and prodding relentlessly until he finally gets an answer. "You," he admits softly. He looks away, looking at the nearest bookshelf instead of at Dean.
"Me?" Dean asks, confused. Until it sinks in and then he groans under his breath. He can't help looking back down at the picture of Cas and flushes hot all over. "Seriously?"
Castiel looks back at Dean at the choked word, expecting disgust. Possibly discomfort. He blinks a few times when he realizes Dean is looking... intrigued. Aroused and surprised. "Yes, Dean," he says, tone clipped and short. "Seriously."
"What—exactly—were you thinking about?" Dean asks, voice stupidly breathless, leaning closer. He's torn between looking at real-life Cas and the picture Cas. Both are giving him the same look, so he goes with the breathing one on the off chance there will be some follow-through. He goes still when Cas shifts in his seat, moving in closer until their knees are touching. He nearly looks down and sucks in a breath, sure he's imagining the hot feeling, the tingle as their bodies touch.
He's touched Cas numerous time before and it hadn't felt like this... Never like this. Of course, then they weren't inches away from Cas' nudie pictures and stripping each other with their eyes. He's pretty sure if he gave himself time to actually think, he'd be freaking out at the very real chance of a kiss. Shit, he's been looked at like this before and it always leads to good times.
"Sexual things, Dean," Castiel murmurs.
Dean nearly laughs at the answer, but it's so Cas, it's just about sexy as he knows Cas' intended it to be. Before he can ask which specific sexual things, maybe instructing Cas to be very specific, spell it out nice and slow in his deep sex-voice, he hears the tell-tale sound of his brother's massive shuffling gait approach the library.
Son of a bitch. Why does Sam have the worst freakin' timing? It takes Cas easing back into his seat for him to realize that they both had been perched on the edges of their chairs, knees overlapping they were so damn close together, and their faces inches apart.
He slides back hard enough to make his chair scoot across the floor about an inch just as Sam saunters into the room and lowers his gigantic interrupting moose ass into the chair with a soft huff and groan as he settles, casually flipping open a book like he didn't just walk into something heated and heavy. Dean wraps his hands around the chair arms, clenching until the wood groans. Quite honestly, now that he's got some space and blood flow back to his brain, he really doesn't know if he's relieved or disappointed Sam broke their moment.
He still glares at Sam for all he's worth though, just because he freakin' deserves it.
Sam slides a book off the top of the pile and cracks it open with a flick of the wrist and gets to reading, not even bothering to address the weird seating arrangements between Cas and Dean. Or the palpable tension in the room. It's really not the first time he's walked in on the weird between his brother and the angel and it sure as hell won't be the last because this is his freakin' life and Dean's a clueless dick. It's getting easier to ignore, though.
Dean scowls at Sam with no effect. He gaze darts to Cas and he cocks his head toward Sam, a silent 'check this assbutt out' gesture that Cas only shrugs at, a hint of a smile fluttering over his lips. They share a grin and... Well. Keep staring. He might wish he could scoot closer again, see if Cas' sexual thoughts really meant what he thought, but there's Sam to deal with and he reluctantly turns to go back to glaring at Sam.
It takes a solid minute for Sam's nerd haze to be penetrated by Dean's laser-eyes on the side of his face before Sam breaks eye contact with the book and looks up, eyes flicking between him and Cas before his gaze settles on Dean. He glares when Sam just looks like a massive moose-puppy, confused look wrinkling his huge forehead and pushing his too-damn-long hair behind his ear like he hasn't care outside Nerdvana.
"Uh, what's up, guys?" Sam asks, forehead scrunched up with confusion. Seriously. Cas looks amused but Dean looks like he's trying to melt shit with his eyeballs alone. That's new. He looks between the two again, confused even more when Cas blushes and sneaks a magazine into his lap, doing a cartoon-character worthy impression of someone playing nonchalant. Seriously; it's bad and he's expecting Cas to start looking around the room and whistling like Bugs Bunny.
He's curious about what's going on at the same time he's expecting the tuneless whistling and pointedly averted eyes to complete the whole weird-ass scene any second now.
Dean snorts with disgust and stands, not bothering to dignify that with an answer, slamming his book closed with a very unsatisfying soft whump as the cover settles gently against the pages. He glares at it for ruining his moment before stalking off, headed towards the kitchen for a beer or seven. When he hears Cas hurrying to catch up, magazine crinkling from where he'd shoved it into his pants, he slows down just a little.
He rubs at his face to hide a smile behind his fist and detours to his room instead.