This is why he does it.

OK, maybe there are two reason why he does it, all for his own selfish purposes.

One is the recognition, the simple satisfaction he has knowing that the moans and the panting and the chanting of his name over and over are for him and him alone. He can look up to view the clenched eyes and parted lips and slender fingers gripping the bedsheets like he wanted to rip holes into them, and hear between sharp intakes of breath

Dean... Dean...

and grin so smugly inward that Satan himself would be shocked. He is doing this to him, the angel imagining no one else, wanting no one else but his human to share his bed and indulge in his body.

That's what it was, wasn't it? An indulgence, as Dean got as much pleasure out of this as the wanton Castiel currently was. Though he remained untouched, this is how he wanted it; his own needs would distract him from his goal.

Mmm– Dean

His voice drawled on, moving his legs further apart slightly in an invitation for Dean to continue, to go further if possible.

That was it. That was the reward. The dominance was merely a cherry and whipped cream. The way Castiel spoke Dean's name when he lay like this, when his mouth claimed his body, was the god damn blueberry pie itself. The honey-coated vibration shook Dean and seemed to do the same to the very air around them.. It rattled his brain, almost dizzying him. To hear that guttural groaning, the same raspy voice that Dean had teased him endlessly for over the years, was what made this nearly equivalent to sex. The tenseness in his gut, the flutter of his eyes, a contented sigh, a tingle up and down his spine. It was all there. Despite straining in his own shorts, he did not consider once releasing his grip on one of Cas' thighs and the base of his cock, stroking what Dean was unable to reach with his mouth, but he was hoping to change that in due time. With Cas more the willing to be a subject to Dean's experimentation, it shouldn't take too long to become skilled.

Down. A languid pull back up, lips sealed tightly and cheeks drawn in creating suction. A mewl; Dean was going too slow. More, faster, why must you tease? His hand continued to stroke, just as slowly his mouth had, tongue now playing with the slit.

Dean... Cas whined. He lifted his head slightly to view Dean, moving at a pace so frustratingly slow that he seemed to be on a vacation, not a worry in the world and no responsibilities to anyone. Please... Too slow.

The hunter looked up at Cas through his eyelashes. I'm trying to coax more out. Now be quiet. He resumed his work, sealing his bruised lips around the head and tongue flicking.

You mean... His breath hitched as Dean intentionally grazed his teeth over the sensitive flesh.

Exactly that, yes. Zip it.

Cas chuckled, or tried to as his exhales were interrupted by sharp and spasmodic inhales. Would it not be easier... if I achieved orgasm quickly rather than–ohh, he choked out as Dean ran his tongue flat against the underside of his cock, rather than hoping more preseminal fluid will form?

Mere weeks ago Dean would have choked on air in response to Cas' blunt use of medical and technical terminology to not just sex but anatomy in general, but having the angel's various body parts in his mouth on a now regular basis lightened the impact of such phrases.

Sure I could, but where's the fun in that? Not to mention how listening to an otherwise stoic and headstrong creature beg for release, to give in to something so primal and human turned him on far greater than he was willing to admit or his body was able to show. He was not a stranger to such psychological arousal, but it had been way too long and he greeted it like an old friend.

The taste, well, it was an extremely pleasant surprise. That was what frightened Dean, but only at first; the horror stories that assaulted all senses made him feel uncomfortable and kind of nauseated. But those were human problems. How do angels fare? A celestial diet was having no diet to speak of, so that was something. Other than the stint in Purgatory and a small amount of post-Purgatory, they're hygienic and... Well, this all bothered Dean something terrible until one day he had Cas naked and hard underneath him but with eyes so patient and understanding that Dean thought to himself, fuck preconceptions.

Molten hot velvet against his tongue. The musk accumulating over the day was non-existent. Salty perhaps, but not the highly condensed briny liquid he was expecting.

It was Cas. It was not the body he was inhabiting. The taste, the moans, the curl of his toes when Dean got it just right, and of course his bewilderment when the insufferable human insisted on slowing his ministrations down to the speed of grass growth. It was Cas and he wanted every little thing he could offer.

Mine. Yes.

Don't let go of him. Don't let him fall.

I won't. Dean sighed and looked up to Cas, who stared back with the same veil of disappointment. Looks like the honeymoon's over.

Cas turned his head aside. You never let me finish. Like clockwork he pouted resembling the stubborn child he was when they were interrupted. Dean rose to all fours and crawled over top of his sulking mate, a glimmer of light in his eyes.

You know I can't control it. I'll get ya off one day. Promise. He grinned in spite of himself, realizing how absurd that sounded out loud. Yes, Dean meant it but really, it was an odd promise to make. If circumstances were different, that is.

Castiel huffed and looked Dean in the eyes. He opened his mouth in reply and shut it just as quickly, eyebrows lowered quizzically. The internal struggle for words was lost on Dean but he made no mention of it. In the meantime he would enjoy Cas' display of every facial expression he knew. It wasn't much. Maybe the fact that his length remained fully engorged resting on his stomach was making him feel peckish. That was understandable.

A warm hand caresses Dean's cheek, soft, reassuring, thumb tracing through stubble.

Libera te ex infernis .

Dean cringed and violently shook his head, batting the hand away. No. You can't do this again. You sound like him, you sound exactly fucking like him! His voice rose exponentially higher as his frustration and anxiety grew. Flight was now not an option, invisible chains tethering him in place. Several times this has happened yet he still struggled against those bonds like a captive animal, frightened and aggressive. Why... Why are you pretending to be Cas! he growled.

I am, Dean. Whatever it was currently inhabiting Castiel looked genuinely upset. Why do you fight me?

Fuckin' liar! Dean spat and pulled his fist back. Never given a straight answer, it was all he could do.

One to the nose, the echo of the crack sharp in the small expanse of the room. Another to the temple, then the cheek, blood beginning to drip from the left nostril. The pain never registered from the force and neither did it for "Cas," who looked neither hurt nor scared nor threatened. Only patient. Always humbly waiting. Why did he look like that? It always ended this way and the expression never changed. Do something. Say something. Answer me!

Another.

That voice. He couldn't tolerate it. Could not accept it.

Another crack and blood on his knuckles.

You can't do this to me, Dean nearly choked out. It's... He hung his head low and squeezed his eyes closed. It's not fair.

The last one, a blow he put his entire body weight into was intercepted, "Cas'" grip easily holding back his own. Blood on his lips running into his grinning mouth, dying white teeth. Reddening swollen skin. One eye sealing shut. And he brought that hand to his lips, kissing the swelling knuckles.

It's okay, Dean. Libera te ex infernis.

A flap of wings and his world turned

to an all too familiar sight. Filtered sunlight through cigarette smoke-stained curtains, resting in a bed that was not his own. A ceiling fan rotating slowly above him which as far as he could recall was not on when he and Cas went to bed. Cas must have had his reasons. Fake hardwood paneling just shy of his field of vision a beacon of his lifestyle as much as the Impala and the artillery she transported. A tsunami of nostalgia and repugnance would rise within whenever his focus strayed to the tacky motif.

Another day, another motel room. Another bright beginning in the life of Dean Winchester, slayer of monsters and other assorted abominations, and dreamer of sex as violent as his waking life. This made it the third night in a row in a span of weeks that seemed like eons of troubled sleep. An occasional wet dream was nothing new to him; lengthy journeys on the road, injuries, unpleasant cocktails of hexes and curses, and those rare as good news evenings where he simply struck out left him more sexually frustrated than should be allowed for a guy such as himself. Violence came with the territory, images seared into his memory like a retinal burn. But together... It was discomforting. They stood on the border of nightmare and omen. They did not frighten him nor scare him, although the visions left a residue of unease for nearly a half hour after waking.

Do the dreams have a purpose, a portent of something to come? Was it frustration? Dean's inability to act upon his emotions and urges weighed heavily upon his mind daily. Drawing a hand close to the angel he cared so deeply for, the angel he wanted to show that love to, only to pull away.

His angel. Ancient and innocent all at once. Misguided but weren't they all? A creature who suffered just as harshly as Dean and yet remained so understanding and endured. The man, a mortal with daddy issues and a toxic attachment to his brother who thought the world owed him nothing would gaze into the soft eyes of an angel who proclaimed that it owed him everything. Castiel was not ignorant to the struggle Dean was enduring internally, but the creature who bemoaned riding in automobiles laid beside him in silence, asking no questions and encouraging only with a quick quirk of his lips, knowing there were some problems he could not help solve and trusting Dean to come to a conclusion.

If it's not a demon or ghost haunting him, it's sex. Or a lack of it in this case.

Dean rubbed his eyes vigorously and let out a discouraged groan. He couldn't take many more nights of this.

"You looked troubled, but I was still reluctant to wake you," Cas replied softly to Dean's movement. "Should I do so next time?"

He laughed darkly to himself; even Cas knew there was going to be a next time, the frequency not lost on him either. While becoming a nuisance and a foul ending to what was otherwise fantastic dreams, he was not sure if he should prevent himself from having them. Was there a deeper message he wasn't able to perceive yet, some symbolic bullshit that was better left to his brother to decipher? Like the Latin. That's Latin, right? It has to be. Other than the exorcism ritual he knew not a word of the dead language. Hell, he wasn't even sure if the phrase was only gibberish doing a very convincing impression of what he thought of as correct.

Dean was positive Cas could translate for him, but he was not ready just yet for the magnitude of questions the ever-curious angel would ask. Sam, on the other hand, would know well enough not to pry after the first inquiry. He'd find the time to ask his brother privately. That simple task sounded like the quest to find the holy grail with Cas quite literally perched upon his shoulder. He loved Cas to death, but he made it so difficult to talk behind his back while he faced you only a foot away.

"No, it's fine," Dean said, trying to convince himself he was, in fact, fine. "They're not nightmares or anything. Just a little bit on the weird side. Nothing I can't handle." His voice grated like rocks in a food processor from a dry throat, but removing himself from the bed to remedy the situation sounded like the most idiotic decision to be made in the history of bad decisions. His legs wouldn't budge and god damnit, he remained somewhat aroused and confused... Confused about the dream and confused as to why he was turned on despite him caving in Cas' head.

Some days he wished he had the option of calling in sick to work. Pulling the blankets above their heads, pressing Castiel tight against him and commanding him to not ask questions and be quiet, let's go back to sleep and let Sammy risk his ass today, it rang like church bells in his mind. If only.

Dean... Please.

Oh yeah, everything was fine.

Deep, soothing breaths, Dean, come on now. In, that's great, doing just fine, and out.

"Your lie is obvious," Cas said matter-of-factly, "but I will not press the matter further as a courtesy."

Dean swallowed, trying to wet his parched throat. "Very kind of you, Cassy."

Cas huffed at the childish -as if "Cas" wasn't juvenile enough- nickname. It nipped at his skin like an insect, nothing but annoying to him, and Dean knew it. All a part of being a member of his new family. But that was absolutely no reason to enjoy it. Cas had made a mental list of sobriquets for his mate, contemplating them days before the rainy day in the Impala. Upon inspection, he concluded that the risk of aggravating or having Dean storm out of his life with tears in his eyes was too great. So he withheld them, as Dean continued to taunt with "Cassy" when the urge struck him.

The Winchester twisted onto his side and shoved an arm under the pillow, closing his eyes. "Is it too late for me to go back to sleep or are we at that point where you start unintentionally kicking me and groaning until I get up?"

"Sam left his room to begin his morning jog fifteen minutes ago so staying awake would be reasonable." Cas continued, somewhat affronted. "I do not mean to hit you. Resuming sleep is difficult for me..."

"Yeah yeah yeah, why don't you just admit it? You paw at me so you can get my attention. Don't think I haven't noticed you falling asleep every night before I do: it's so you're not left alone. And you don't run the risk of oogling me while I'm passed out," Dean added.

He could feel the angel shift, sitting up. What he could not see was his expression, his voice providing no hint to the honest emotion behind the matter. "I touch you so that I may have your attention. That's a partial truth," he pointed out more lightheartedly, becoming amused with himself. "The kicking is due to my being unable to reclaim unconsciousness. You cannot sense the difference between a caress and my knees bumping into yours?"

Dean tossed the covers over his head, not sure if he was intending to muffle his voice or Cas'. "No, I can't. They all start feeling the same around the eighth bruise, Pele."

"I am... sorry..." Cas' voice faded, like something grabbed his attention and he forgot he was in the middle of a conversation about bedtime etiquette and safety. It remained this way for what felt like five minutes to Dean, still anticipating for Cas to be ashamed or steamed or fucking something. He remained still and silent.

"Cas?"

Did time freeze?

"Hey, Cas?"

Wasn't Chronos dead? Damnit, angels again? What's wrong now?

He uncovered his head and pulled down the bed cover to his waist. Well, Cas was blinking, so that was a positive sign. Dean pulled himself up onto his knees, tight muscles and limbs aching in protest. The glossiness of his eyes and relaxed facial features told Dean he was in the very far recesses of space. Hands limply placed on either side of his thighs, his gaze was dead ahead as if he were watching a show on the television directly across the bed, like when Castiel paid the utmost attention to the delicate nuances and subtlety that was Bridezillas and series of the like.

A quick wave of the hand and snap of the fingers yielded no results. Did I short circuit him? Dean asked himself. I broke him, didn't I? I just blue screened the guy I have sexy bloody dreams about. No, that doesn't sound right. It has to be a waking dream.

"Alright Cas, I'm gonna bet my necklace that this'll snap you out of it, I'm that positive. How about..." Dean paused for dramatic effect, leaning in close to Cas's ear and whispered, "Cassy." He beamed, expecting a pat on the back and a job well done. It never came; Cas didn't budge a fraction of an inch. Dean sighed disgustedly, ashamed with himself for failing when being so damn sure.

"Good thing there's no witnesses to that bet I just made," Dean mumbled, unconsciously clutching at his neck. "Our little secret, right Cassy?"

Castiel blinked.

"Glad we're on the same page. Now there has to be some reset button on you somewhere." He grabbed Cas by the shoulders and mildly shook him, almost expecting to hear a rattle of a broken part inside. "Unless it's an angel poking where it doesn't belong, then you better wake up so you can stab them."

"Who do you want me to stab, Dean?"

Castiel's eyes unglazed so quickly, his voice came on so suddenly and so calmly that Dean yelped and fell onto his backside and nearly off the bed. "The hell, man?!" Dean forced out indignantly, trying to remain calm despite the embarrassment of screeching out like a little girl. It was his eyes, he rationalized. It was if he had a second set of eyelids. Nothing he hadn't seen before, although terrifying to see in someone he shared his bed with.

"Have I done something to startle you?" Cas asked innocently.

"Um, yeah? You just... You don't remember, don't you?"

"I haven't the slightest clue as to what you are talking about so it is safe to assume that no, I don't." Cas squinted. "Are you sure you weren't dreaming?"

"I wasn't. I'm pretty certain I wasn't." Dean hunched over in both exhaustion and defeat. "Now I don't know. It was just..." He shook his head. "It was weird."

The angel leaned over and patted Dean's hand. "But I see you're awake now. I am too, which means I can't kick you, correct?" Dean nodded, head still drooping. "Your dreams nor my regard for your time will affect you. For a short period." A broad smile graced Cas's lips.

Nothing about this settled right with Dean. His own dreams of nearly beating Cas to death were he not interrupted, Cas blanking out and being so swift to pass the blame on him. It did not bode well, not at all. Vision like this weren't to be shoved aside and ignored; no, he had made the mistake of doing that, losing valuable information so he could pass them off as hippie New Age "dream interpretation" bullshit. Something was amiss but there was still too little information to narrow down possibilities. Telling Sam or Garth "I had a bad dream" would get him laughed at, and saying Cas blacked out in bed, well, he'd never hear the end of it. All Dean could do now was wait for a hint and hope it did not come at a cost.

A ruffle of sheets and Cas rose from the bed and Dean begged to Cas's father that if he were truly listening to his creation he'd get Cas to cover up because he really, really didn't need this right now. He padded to the small kitchenette hidden dimly in the corner of the room and opened the refrigerator door.

"You sound like shit." After deep contemplation that the brightly colored purple sports drink had the appearance of good taste, he grabbed it and tossed it Dean's way who, after a brief internal struggle that made the American Civil War look like a pillow fight, looked at Cas and cursed all the gods he could name.

He snatched the bottle out of the air and twisted off the cap. At least Cas wasn't completely unlike himself. Dean enjoyed it so when Cas cussed. It made him slightly less of a nerd. Only slightly.

Sam returned shortly after Dean found the willpower to lifelessly roll off the bed and shuffle to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The youngest Winchester brother announced his arrival with a knock on the door and a shout loud enough the cars on the interstate could hear.

"Would you two finish up having sex in there? We have places to go Dean and I'm starving." A pause. "But not as much as you were."

Dean could feel that little shit of a horse snickering through two walls separating them. One of these days he would have Cas face-down on the mattress and was going to make damn sure Sam knew it.

A slam of a door and Sam returned to him room, to peel off sweaty clothing and shower meaning Dean had very little time to get ready. For a man the height of a giraffe and hair like a lion's mane it should take much longer for Sam to bathe. If his hair style were to give anything away, he probably just willed himself to be clean; Dean had never seen his brother use spray nor gel nor mousse to get that shiny and perfectly windswept look and that made him, in Dean's book, a dick. Perfect hair, perfect grades, perfect abs, perfect manners. Why was Dean protecting him, again?

Dean turned off the television before Cas could become too involved with whatever garbage aired on cable this early in the morning and demanded he get dressed. Despite the normal stubborn resistance, it never lasted long and Cas obliged, wings flapping and tie askew.

"One of these days you'll poof on your clothes correctly," Dean chided, tightening and centering the knot.

There's more to this act than simply correcting clothing. Castiel knew this well, watching Dean do this countless times. His eagerness to help, the attention he put into it similar to tuning up and maintaining Baby. It affected Dean on an emotion level, playing the part of big brother and father to someone new: c'mere you idiot, let Big Brother Dean fix this for you. There was so little he could do to help his angel physically, so Cas let him, on the days Dean noticed enough that the tie needed adjusting.

In a race to beat the clock Dean threw on his standard interview/morgue suit-and-tie costume with such speed that by the time he finished he thought an award was in order. Oh the ways he maimed himself to show up his brother; he wondered if it was ever this way with Castiel's brothers once upon a time, competitions to show who was better at something or who loved Dad more. He was a pain in the ass and perfect, but Dean thought himself very fortunate to only have one sibling.

The heat that hit him like hammer to the face as he opened the door made him want to broadcast his disgust to the world using language not meant for most of it and turn around to the comfort of dwelling indoors. Castiel trailing him out the door made that impossible. Too sunny, too hot to be wearing so many layers of clothing. The quicker the job gets done, the quicker he could change clothes, Dean ensured himself.

Fearing to set himself in the Impala just yet, he opened the door to air her out and rested against the front of the car.

"Could you do me a favor, Cas?"

"Yes, as long as you allow me one, also."

Dean hummed in interest and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'll see what I can do.

"I know you're not gonna like it, but would you take off that fucking coat? My insides are melting just by me looking at ya."

"But I do not sweat. There's no reason for me to do that," Cas protested, looking down at his attire without realizing.

"I'm not chaperoning you on this field trip with it on. Besides, you'll draw attention like flies on carrion in this heat. You might not know this yet, but," Dean glanced over his shoulders as if he were about to divulge an earth-shattering secret and the press might be hiding in the bushes recording it, "humans do sweat."

"I do not wish to go on a field trip today." The words were stressed, a new phrase to his vernacular.

No, this wasn't right, not at all. Since the day in the Impala when he asked Cas if he looked for mutual suffering in a mate he had never passed an opportunity to travel with the brothers, practicing the investigative side of hunting. Something was off and Dean was not hallucinating it. The short time between Cas waking and sitting up to exit the bed, something had occurred. The request rose red flags but to bring this suspicion to Cas' attention would only put him on the defensive again. Like before, all he could do at the moment was agree to the request and inquire later.

"Sure Cas. You're a big boy, no obligations to tag along all the time." Dean climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, rolling down the window and leaning out of it. The heat was still suffocating, but this was going to be as good as it was going to get until he got the car rolling. "Just promise me that," he took a short and sharp breath, trying to force the concern out of his voice, "that you'll come back here, 'K? If you get into trouble," he added as Cas' eyes grew darker. Someone meeting Cas for the first time, maybe even Sam, might not notice it. Dean sure as hell did.

Cas replied playfully all the same. "Yes, mother. I'll respect your curfew."

"I swear to god, Cas, your sass mouth is going to get you in trouble one of these days."

Sam exited his room beside Dean's own, hair partially damp and momentarily clean as Cas flew off, tan coat remaining on his body. "He's not coming with us?" Sam asked, pointing with his thumb to the empty space, just as confused as Dean was.

"Guess even angels need a change of scenery sometimes. Weren't you hungry?" Dean hollered, wanting to change the topic as quickly as possible. "How about... a rectangular egg substance breakfast sandwich, huh? Sounds delicious! C'mon Sammy, what the hell are we waiting for!" Sam grimaced and approached the car, not so hungry anymore.

Cas would come back, right?