It happens like most of the dumb things he does: unplanned, unwise… but at least he can damn well be sure it wasn't unprovoked. Still, after Dean punches Castiel in the face, there's that instant of slowed, honey-molasses-winter-jam timefreeze between when his fist connects and Castiel stumbles back, and Dean has the chance to reflect that this is probably one of the more retarded things he's ever done. Granted, he's done some pretty fucking stupid things in his time, but socking an angel who doesn't really give a shit about whether or not you bleed as long as you can toddle on to do his holy bidding? Kinda high on the list.
But when Castiel's hand, or Jimmy's hand, or however the fuck they're playing it now, rises up to touch his cheek, there's a heady rush of pure satisfaction that makes it all worth it. Dean smirks, one brow raised in a cocky challenge, and watches the way irritation makes Cas's dark eyes go liquid-hot. He wants to say they look like steaming coffee, but that just sounds gay. Which, Dean has to admit, is a little ironic.
"You don't want to pick a fight with me," Castiel says, Jimmy's voice but not Jimmy's voice, not at all. Lower, darker, filled with promises Dean has heard boiling somewhere beneath his own. That's my guardian angel, he thinks dryly. Out loud, Dean just barks a laugh and rocks back on his heels, arms spread.
"Oh, I really think I do."
"We're not doing this," the angel says then, and blatantly begins to turn his back. Dean's at his side in a second, one hand wrenching his shoulder, pulling him around to face him. They're very close now, and Dean wonders if Cas's shoulder has always been this warm.
"Talk to me," he says instead of asking, the sharpness mostly gone. But because it's Dean, only mostly. "If you won't fight me, talk to me. Tell me what the hell is going on." Castiel looks at him, actually looks at him, and there's some kind of pain there.
"I can't." Face hardens, eyes still deep and sad and like he knows it all, knows it all and knows it ends like you believe it never ever will because that can't happen in real life, the good guys always win in real life, and of course this is real life. "I'm gone, Dean. This," and he gestures between the two of them, the back of his hand striking Dean's chest, "is gone." And he makes like he's stepping away, shoulder tensing beneath Dean's hand, and Dean leans forward and kisses him hard on the mouth. They're out behind the motel and it's dark so it's not like anyone could see, but his heart is racing and his breath is not there anymore and he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing but Castiel's mouth is moving under his now, that mouth, that mouth.
They slam into the motel as one moving thing, Cas's back hitting the plaster hard enough that their foreheads knock together, and Dean has his forearms up against the wall on either side of Castiel's head and he can feel him, all of him, and god, god, they're kissing like it hurts.
It's over fast, it's always over fast, it never goes too far. Or it always goes too far. Or it just is too far, even the thinking of it. They pull away like schoolboys, breathing hard, flushed, ashamed of the need in it and the way it's so goddamn hard to let that air between them.
Castiel leans against the wall, head tilted back, chin up, eyes on Dean's face. He looks winded, and wounded, and Dean feels like one big fucking bruise.
"I told you I don't answer to you," Cas says. His voice is always so calm, so even. Except when it's not.
"You answer to something," Dean says, as if the words mean anything. "We both do."
"I'm going," Cas says.
"I'll find you."
"You're meant to."
He watches him walk away, long coat flapping pale in the dark, and then Dean goes back inside. Sam'll be watching for him.