Dean knows he thinks about it too much. Way too much. In fact it worries him. Save for when he is hunting, it's the foremost thought on his mind. When he's driving, it's not the road ahead he's concentrating one, not really. Ever since he's been back, this time round, there's been something different. He can't quite put his finger on what it is.
Piercing blue eyes, ebony mussed locks, voluptuous locks, gentle hands, broad shoulders, perfectly muscled forearms... Wait, what?
Dean clears his throat as if that erases the last thoughts, and he freezes as blue meets green.
Castiel is standing ahead of Dean, trench coat discarded in a perfectly folded pile on the table. Whaddya know? Angels seems to be born – well... is created a better word perhaps? - with OCD. Dean's paying attention to that. The fact that the trench coat, goodness or, forgive him God, only knows how, is folded perfectly, not a lapel or a button out of place or so much as crooked, and it's placed perfectly in the middle of the small table. Dean can't help wondering exactly when, where, how or even why they teach Angels to fold clothes. He relaxes as he muses on whether Cas has been watching Sam with his quirky little habits of folding clothes that he seems to have taken up, and Dean tries to deny that it's been an issue, alongside laying notepads square to the edge of the table and pens square in ascending size, smallest to largest square to the edge of the notepad, his laptop two inches from the edge of the table, exactly in the middle of the table, Hell even his doodles are perfectly symmetrical. That's when he notices Sam fiddling with Cas' trench coat, tucking in loose edges, flattening buttons out. That's not strange at all. Dean is definitely concentrating wholly on that, and there's not a little bit of him, just an eye sliding to focus on the Angel, whose tie has now been undone, another button undone on the shirt, revealing just a little more of that milky skin beneath that Dean hadn't seen before, and the sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, muscles tensing and flexing, fists balling and relaxing at his sides. There's even a smirk on his Angel's face, another trait picked up from spending too much time around Dean.
Sam is facing Castiel, a cruel grin twisting his features, and Dean can't help but want to protect his Angel from the enormous man facing him, and shivers run through Dean as he remembers The Devil in his baby brother; he can't say he hasn't had dreams about it. Nightmares to be more precise. Little dimples present themselves in Sam's cheeks, and Dean can't help the wave of big brother adoration that floods him, as he sees the matching juvenile twinkle in his little brother's eyes. It's just his little brother in there now. No Lucifer, no broken Wall, just Dean's Sammy.
"What you gonna do, Cas?" Sam challenges.
Dean himself is tense, hand clamped so tight around his pint glass, he fears it might shatter. He can't let that happen, because he knows his Angel will come to his aid, and lay his hand on him in front of the entire bar and heal the wounds without a second thought. What fun that would be to explain their way out of.
Castiel leans down, rests one hand and grips tightly with the other – Dean gulps – and he aims.
The crack pierces Dean's ear drums, and he winces.
Castiel erupts in a dance – a dance? - of victory, Dean's jaw drops, just about hits the table in front of him, and thoughts of dousing his friend in Holy Water cross his mind, but another awkward situation he wouldn't want to explain his way out of, and he has this strange feeling he might just suffer some more adverse effects from seeing the blue eyed man standing looking helpless and hurt, head tilted in his hopeless manner, with water running down his face and dripping on to that partly revealed chest of his.
"Dammit!" Sam throws his cue down, defeated. "Fluke! Divine intervention!" He's pointing an accusing finger at the Angel, who undoes another button on his top and untucks the back of his shirt.
Cas tilts his head and winks at Sam, and he actually pokes his tongue out at him. "The Lord is on my side, Winchester."
Dean smiles quietly to himself, sips his drink, sets it down. Was that a joke? Had Castiel just cracked a joke? Either Dean had had too much to drink, or he hadn't had enough.
A grinning Castiel gloats at Sam's expense, and he receives grunting in return. He sits down and Dean's eyes follow him. Dean watches Castiel take a sip of his Sea Breeze – he had taken fondly to cocktails, and he chose to have one alongside his pints to ease the harsh bitter taste – then stretch out his perfect arms in front of him. Dean clears his throat again and blink away the inappropriate images in his mind. He's an Angel, Dean. An Angel of the Lord. Dean recalled their initial introduction. A Fallen Angel. Two voices bicker in his head. Or whatever it is he has become.
Sam brings over shots, and they down them. Whatever his Angel has become, alcohol has more of an effect on him, Dean notes as Castiel staggers around the pool table, joking and laughing with Dean's younger brother. He seems more relaxed to Dean, more natural. Less of the stiff stature, emotionless facial expressions. He seems more normal; more human.
A few weeks have passed with no real action on the supernatural front. Save for one false possession, which turned out to be an incredibly crabby, hormonal and pregnant fifteen year old.
Castiel had looked her in the eyes and announced plainly in front of her parents that she was 'carrying a new life in utero' Dean had put on his best dashing smile at the open mouthed, flabbergasted parents, and dragged the confused Angel out of the house just in time to hear some colorful language erupting from the furious grandparents to be. That, and a bog standard haunting in a family home in Tucson, Arizona. Sam and Bobby had taken care of that – of all the irony – and had decided to take a leave of absence for a couple of weeks after.
Dean and Castiel were taking full advantage of their time off, mostly by eating junk food, experimenting with home made cocktails and lounging around.
Dean had tried – and quickly given up – showing Castiel the simple ins and outs of the workings of a car.
Castiel spends more time listening than speaking, despite the fact that Dean is certain Castiel firstly has a lot more to tell and secondly, he suspects Cas probably has watched Dean his whole life, and already knows everything Dean could possibly have to tell him, yet Castiel listens intently, his steely gaze never faltering, moving only to sip his Sex On The Beach or to cram Doritos in to his mouth as Dean speaks. He chews slowly and as quietly as he can, as if deliberating every word that comes out of Dean's mouth. Those electric blues burn in to Dean's soul as he yabbers on about him and Sam's lifelong commitment to pranking one another, chuckling to himself about an incident a few years back involving itching powder and Sam's boxers. Dean's eyes steal to Castiel as a slight hint of a smile threatens to upturn those lips. He has to look away again, and squeeze his hands together to stop himself from getting lost in the cosmic beauty next to him. Dean grinds his teeth and bites back the urge to slide himself just a little to the left, just a little closer to the unwitting Fallen Angel beside him.
Castiel solves this dilemma after fetching more drinks – cans this time – and sits closer to Dean than before. Dean can't decide whether it's intentional or not, but he's sure as Hell not gonna complain about it. He practically sits on him, stumbling and tripping over the table that Dean has his feet resting on. They both laugh at him, then Castiel shuffles off Dean's leg. Dean didn't mind Cas on his lap. In fact he quite liked it. He wanted him that close again. Touching him. Dean had automatically placed his hands on Castiel's hips to steady the other man as he clambered off Dean's lap. He only hoped Cas hadn't noticed.
Castiel smiles sheepishly at Dean, barely making eye contact with him. He cracks open the beers, handing one to Dean, definitely noticing their fingers brushing together. Definitely noticing the way Dean stiffens visibly at the contact. He feels saddened at the thought of Dean not liking the contact, and he necks half the beer, subtly shifting further from Dean.
Dean smiles and pours out whiskey for each of them, unsure why he feels the need to consume so much alcohol just to cope with being around Cas.
Castiel takes his and demolishes it in one.
"Whoa," Dean winces at the sour taste of the Jack, "don't you need a liquor store to get you hammered, Cas?"
Castiel's look says he doesn't share Dean's amusement. "Do I displease you, Dean?"
Dean chokes on his swig of beer. "Excuse me?"
Castiel glowers, his jaw clenching; Dean looks away – those eyes make him feel uneasy. The way Castiel looks at him, every time it has made him feel uneasy, dizzy even. It made him want things he shouldn't. He would shake it off with some witty comment or a hefty thump on Castiel's shoulder. Castiel's firm, warm, muscular shoulder. Dean was aware of Castiel having a bitch fit – another trait he must have picked up from Sam, and some why this wound Dean up. It made him jealous. Why was his Angel paying more attention to his brother? "You don't look me in the eyes, you avoid my touch..." Dean can hear him, but he isn't processing the words.
Castiel, the Angel of the Lord, sitting next to him, Dean Winchester, was having a bitch fit. Dean watches Castiel as he flails his arms dramatically, another over zealous human manoeuvre, and his eyes fix on those arms, anything to avoid eye contact. Dean imagines those arms bare and holding him down, those hands clutching at his wrists so tight it actually hurt. Dragging through his hair, grabbing a handful and pulling his head back, exposing his neck, and those lips exploring the bare skin. Dean is aware that Castiel has stopped talking, that he was expecting an answer. His lips are pressed together tightly, in to a thin line of fury. Eventually they part, and a sigh of frustration passes through them. Dean can't stop looking at those lips. He notices that Castiel's posture has changed from upright and irate, to shrinking back in his seat, defeated and almost afraid.
Dean doesn't know what he's doing, but he doesn't want to stop. Why the fuck should he? He's had enough taken from him, he's refused himself enough, why not just take something for himself just for once. He touches Castiel's upper arm, gingerly stroking and squeezing it. His heart is thumping, and his breathing is sharp and shallow. Their eyes meet, Castiel's wide with confusion and fear.
"You don't displease me, Cas," Dean coos, daring to close the gap between them again. He strokes the Angel's face, smiling when Castiel leans in to his touch, freezing as Castiel's hand lands atop his own and closes around it. Castiel closes his eyes, apparently lost in the moment. Dean shifts himself so he is above Castiel, his knees either side of Castiel's legs, and he lowers his head and nuzzles in to the crook of his Angel's neck, teasing his lips against the soft, warm skin. Castiel plucks up the courage to lay his free hand on Dean's back. Dean shudders and lowers himself gently on to his Angel's lap, and angles Castiel's face up, so they are eye to eye again. He waits for a moment, and then braves it and brushes his lips against Castiel's. He feels Cas shiver beneath him, and he presses a kiss to Castiel's lips, more than happy when the Angel returns the gesture, if not a little clumsily. Dean puts his forehead to Castiel's, looking him in the eyes, "You could never displease me, Cas." He promised.