Yeah, I went through a james spader phase a while ago...coming soon – Secretary AU! Updates may slow because of Christmas and other actual work deadlines but I have not forgotten.

Castiel can just about justify the new arrangement. It's just sex, people have casual sex all the time, it was barely a taboo subject anymore. All he was doing was releasing tension, finding an outlet for his grief and frustration.

Of course it was only half true. Most straight men didn't turn after being practically assaulted by an older, drunk, stranger. They probably wouldn't go back looking for round two, anyway. But he had. Nothing he could tell himself justified the idea that it was normal, going from being a celibate widower to moaning like a whore while Dean fucked him slowly into the mattress.

Either way he still ended up in Dean's bungalow most nights. Stripping off his tie and suit coat and lying across the older man's lap in the lurid glow of the portable television. Dean stroked him, hands wandering as they shucked off his clothes. Castiel wound up naked and bucking into Dean's waiting arms, rough denim and soft flannel alternately scraping and soothing his skin.

Dean remained in control, which was ideal as far as Castiel was concerned. He wanted no responsibility for this. Like the first time, held down on Dean's couch, he wanted total deniability. So Dean stayed mostly clothed, at least initially, and Castiel always bottomed for him. There was something about the way Dean felt, on top of him, inside of him, that was strangely addictive. The almost suffocating weight and strength holding him down, almost forcing him and blurring deliciously between tenderness and brutality.

He's so unlike Anna, and the tender, controlled lovemaking that characterised their year of marriage. He remembers laying his slim body against hers, sliding inside, moving gently and murmuring against her hair. His nights with Dean are wildly different, but he enjoys them nonetheless, the feeling of being taken, knowing that he won't break, that neither of them need to be careful or gentle with each other.

Though sometimes Dean doesn't allow him the protection of denial. He presses just past the tight ring of muscle at Castiel's entrance, then stops, panting as the younger man writhes and arches. He wants Castiel to want him, not just to let him take what he wants.

"Say please." His voice comes out a husky but strained whisper. Castiel shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut. "C'mon...just 'please'...just for me." It can take seconds or long torturous minutes, but Castiel will break, eyes opening and catlike pink tongue chasing across his lips.

"Please..." croaked out, whimpering as Dean slides slowly, deliciously, through the clenched flesh of his opening. Pausing, waiting. "Please, Dean..." Finally hitting home, Dean nips his jaw, licking the mark.

The things that come out of his mouth stay with Castiel for days. Filthy, barefaced words about how tight he feels, how hot he burns, the ways in which Dean wants him, the things he'd like to do, and does.

"Such a sweet fuck, aren't you?" Dean groans into his shoulder, barely thrusting, just grinding deep enough to burn all the way up Castiel's spine. "God you're so..." Castiel whimpers, arching and squeezing himself around him, desperate for friction. Dean gives in and starts moving again, Castiel can only hold on, legs folded into his chest, the occasional broken 'please...' his only contribution. Dean keeps up a steady litany. "Can't wait to see you on your knees...so beautiful...I'll show you, would you like that? Being able to make me come like I made you? Hard enough to...oh fuck!" breathlessly he loses himself, Castiel feels burning warmth hit hard inside of him. He squirms, feeling it squeeze through his tensing muscles.

Dean jerks Castiel furiously; thought dissolves as he sweats and breaks, spending with a ragged groan.

They don't do much aside from fuck. There's the television, but that's mainly foreplay. Afterwards they eat - chips, or apples, something that doesn't take much effort. Dean just likes to watch Castiel, naked on the faded sheets, debauched, bruised and sated. They stroke each other and curl up, warm and comfortable.

Privately, and possibly because he's getting older, Dean enjoys this the most.

A month into the arrangement Castiel notices that Dean is asking more and more questions about his life. Who his friends are, what he does at work and where he goes when he isn't with Dean. They aren't bitter, nagging questions, just mildly curious.

They terrify him.

He's become used to Dean's home being an oasis away from his regular life. Now the other man is finding a way into the rest of his world. Castiel doesn't know if he's ready for that – if he even wants to be.

The decision is taken out of his hands when he lies to Dean about his brother's birthday. He claims he's going to be at a meeting all night, to avoid possibly having to take Dean to Gabriel's party. Dean accepts his lie at face value.

After the party, a fairly dull formal affair that bore little of Gabriel's taste in mind. He ends up at Dean's, the place is in darkness and when he opens the front door none of the lights will flick on.

"Dean?"

"Out here." His voice carries from the back porch, thickened with drink. It makes him uneasy.

"Why are the lights out?" he asks, opening the other screen and stepping out on to the porch.

"Because I didn't pay the bill." Dean takes another swig of whisky. "aren't poor people a hoot?" He's wrapped in his leather jacket and looks every one of his 43 years. Castiel sinks into the chair opposite, formal slacks not keeping out the cold.

"Why'd you tell me you were at work?" Dean begins conversationally, and Castiel's heart drops like lead. Dean doesn't look at him, just continues with his train of thought. "I hate the dark you know? Always, since I was a kid." He stares reflectively into his drink. "I got home late and it was dark, thought I'd call you, see if you were coming over."

"Dean..."

"Who'd you take to the party Cas?" Dean squints at him. "Your secretary told me that's where you were. So who'd you take? Some blond with a perky ass and a college education?" He laughs bitterly into his half empty glass. "Won't hold a candle to be in the fucking department, but I guess she won't embarrass you either..."

"You don't embarrass me Dean." He tries to be honest, it's not Dean that embarrasses him, it's his family, his friends – they're so different.

"Who the fuck are you kidding, Cas?" Dean's voice looses its casual tone, an edge creeping in. "you get pissy every time I ask about what you do when you're not here...you lied to me just to keep me out of this thing."

"Because I'm not sure, about you." Castiel admits, quietly. "I don't even know that this is and I...I've never wanted anyone this much before."

"You're saying you love me more than your wife...nice one Cas."

"I'm saying I want you more, there's a difference." Castiel's cold fingers brush Dean's temple, his palm soft against Dean's stubble.

Dean's voice is soft and low when he speaks again. Tired and wounded at its core.

"Want me or not – you lie to me again and we're done."

"Ok" Castiel breathes, hand falling to press at Dean's chest. He drops to his knees on the worn planks of the porch, his other hand finding Dean's fly in the dark. The older man hisses a breath.

"Cas..."

"Tell me what to do" Huge blue eyes look up at him, innocent and damned at the same time. "You promised...you'd tell me."

With Dean's strong fingers at the base of his skull, Castiel works his mouth around his cock, slip-sliding up and down with each tug on his hair. His eyes are half closed, hand rubbing himself through his slacks. Dean moans brokenly with each pass of his lips, thighs opening and clenching. It's sloppy and almost too wet but watching Castiel rock on his knees, moaning with each pulse of pre-come that slicks his tongue...it does a lot for Dean. He comes fast and with only a stuttered "Holy...fu-" to warn the younger man. Castiel swallows valiantly, a small trickle of spunk still managing to escape and creep over his clean shaven jaw.

"Nice boys like you..." Dean struggles to regain his breath. "shouldn't look that good, with come on their faces." Castiel's thumb finds the rivulet, holding it up to his mouth to be sucked clean. Dean lets out a harsh breath. Castiel moves himself into Dean's lap, lying like a satisfied cat, skinny hips emphasising the bulge that still strains his slacks. He kisses the older man's throat slackly.

It's an uneasy peace but it lasts.

Castiel is invited to Sam and Jess's housewarming gathering. In turn he invites Dean cautiously, knowing that this is a test for them.

Dean agrees to go. On the day, Castiel collects him. Dean has washed his hair and put on a green button down and black dress pants. He looks distinguished, even with his calloused hands and scuffed shoes. Castiel kisses him and drives them to Sam's new home.

Of course it doesn't go well. Sam's invited Zach, Alistair and Ruby – all the Stanford crowd. They spend the whole thing ignoring Dean and taking about their stocks, how nice the catering is and where everyone summered. Castiel flicks his eyebrows apologetically at the older man, but it doesn't alleviate his discomfort. He's older than most of the people here and yet he knows nothing. He can contribute nothing of worth to the discussion. They look at him like a slightly unpleasant curiosity, something that Castiel has unwisely acquired. Exotic but ultimately worthless.

Dean escapes to the restroom, planning to sneak a cigarette, he's barely to puffs into it when the door opens behind him. One of the younger guests steps through and closes the door, giving Dean a curious and not entirely friendly look.

There's a long silence as he goes to the mirror, eventually broken when he asks, with a slight smirk,

"So what do you do?"

Dean's caught out, smoking in the washroom, all shiny marble and chrome, tumbler of neat whisky balanced on the cistern. The guy who caught him is clean cut and soft skinned, like Castiel but harder in the eyes. He's watching Dean in the mirror as he washes his hands, spritzing cologne.

"Food preparation." He's not going to run, he's ten years older than this little shit, and he's worked for every damn thing he owns. No way he's backing off.

"Like catering?"

Dean takes a breath.

"No, I work at a White Castle, I'm a server."

"Oh" a moue of distaste graces the other mans youthful features. "that must be...interesting."

"Yeah. Pays the bills as well." Dean smirks dryly, taking a slug of his drink and feeling it burn through him.

"So, How have you managed to hang on to a man like Castiel?" The implications are there, but Christ, the only thing Dean can think is that Castiel is barely a 'man', he's a boy – cut up by tragedy too young.

"I guess I give a good blow job." He lets his accent come out to play, roughening himself beyond ridicule, he wants to scare this fucker.

"I bet you do." He remains unmoved, eyes raking over Dean's reflection. Because it's obvious that the only thing a man like Dean has to offer a rich boy like Cas is a good fuck.

"I bet you don't." He sneers, returning the scathing once over with interest. The other guy looks away first, Dean leaves the bathroom feeling slightly better, but still pretty bad.

Castiel is rich and young and cultured. He listens to opera voluntarily, knows about designer clothing and politics and art. Dean's got his GED, his Doctor Sexy on TiVo and a working knowledge of male anatomy. They have nothing to hold them together beyond what he can do to Castiel's body.

Castiel is at his side almost the minute he steps out of the washroom, his hand gently touches Dean's waist. Dean shakes his head, he's fine or at least, he doesn't want Cas to feel like he's dragged him into the lion's den.

Castiel doesn't seem fooled, his arm stays around Dean's waist as he talks to some old school friends. His fingers idly lift the hem and stroke the skin just underneath. Despite himself Dean is comforted.

Over the carefully catered luncheon conversation turns to Anna, principally because Michael decides it should. Dean squirms internally, knowing that they all loved her, the sainted pale creature that populates the photo's in Castiel's home. He himself wonders how Castiel came to want him – when before he loved such a perfect woman.

Castiel bears the 'such a waste of life' 'so beautiful' and 'so kind' remarks for as long as he can.

"That's enough" he murmurs, but even so the entire table stills.

"Cas..." Michael is still smiling, but it has an edge, like he wants Castiel to let it go, to allow them to memorialise Anna in front of Dean.

"I said, that's enough." Castiel dabs his mouth lightly with a napkin, setting it aside. "Anna...has been dead for two years, and I" his face struggles to remain impassive. "I...cannot express how deeply I feel her loss. But this exercise in character assassination has gone far enough."

"How can you bring him here?" Alistair almost snarls. "You replace Anna, with white-trash, a man Castiel, and we are supposed to respect that decision?"

"As my friends, yes, that is exactly what I expect of you." Castiel stands and Dean does the same, still looking only at Castiel. "You can honour my wife by emulating her compassion, Dean." He takes his elbow and leads him away from the table.

Once they reach his car he's shaking with anger.

Dean covers Castiel's hand on the wheel, squeezing gently.

Castiel drives them back to his home.