Whispers in the dark told him sometimes that God was watching, but Castiel did it anyway. The beautiful sin of it was enticing; the overpowering need which nothing but the act itself could satisfy was euphoric. There was no substitute and although he knew that it was wrong, he went ahead and did it anyway.

Days passed, turning to weeks, and Dean knew nothing of what he did in the dark, and who he imagined when he did it. The ironically innocent human remained oblivious to the new drug which Castiel was taking and his role as the object of his desire.

Sometimes he tried to think of other things. God, Sam, Heaven, Hell, angels, demons, life, death, but all things led back to Dean in some twisted way or another, and they developed into brand new fantasies which situated themselves in his mind, not to be moved until he played them out while running his hand up and down his dick, Dean's name turning to a ghost in the air around his lips. Everything reminded him of Dean, however inappropriate the time and however inappropriate the fantasy which surfaced at the reminder.

Four times he had been interrupted, and all four times, thankfully, Jimmy's long trench coat had hidden his shame effectively when he had answered the Winchesters' calls. However, once when he had heard Dean's deeply alluring, rumbling tones, he had paused to listen to the inflexion and the resonance in his tone. Ever since Dean had learned that he could pray to Castiel and Castiel could physically hear him, he took complete advantage of the fact. Sometimes he would just talk to his angel, while he was flying places and no matter how many times he spoke to him, Castiel's body not once failed to respond. Sometimes, he was forced to retire to a private place, so that he could take matters into his own hands.

Literally.

Castiel leaned back onto the rough motel bedspread, listening to Sam and Dean argue through the wall. They did not know he was there, and that would suit him just fine. From here, he could listen without feeling as though he was intruding - even though he would be cloaked from the human eye, Dean's green ones always managed to find him. Shame would overcome his curiousity and he would leave, to listen guiltily from another adjacent area. It was ironic, Castiel thought, as he rubbed his palm over the front of his black dress pants, that he would feel such shame when listening in on a conversation with his human while he felt no regret from jacking off to the sound of said human's voice.

But, as he had learned rather fast on Earth, emotions were irrational, and wildly uncontrollable. Recently had had realised that the easiest way to get by was to just roll with them.

The voices next door cumulated with the dramatic slamming of the motel room door and the sound of footsteps passing Castiel's (or to the motel receptionist: the empty) room and heading out to the street for a walk to cool down. It was undoubtedly Sam. Even if Castiel could not feel Dean's presence in the next room, he would know. Dean was far too stubborn to leave an argument and would never back down first. While Sam too suffered from severe stubbornness, he was the less of the two and had enough sense to walk away from a problem without aggravating the confrontation further. Dean had no such sense of knowing what was good for him, and faced confrontation with all the bravado or an ill-informed fool.

Castiel waited patiently, his sensitive ears picking up on the movement from the next room. Clicking his tongue absently – an irksome habit which he had inherited from Jimmy – the angel dropped his head back onto his pillow, caressing his thighs absently and allowing his mind to wander: a new phenomenon. The feeling of his hands, even through the material of his slacks, relaxed him deeper than just the point of sexual need. It brought him to a gentler fantasy, which he happily indulged in.

...

Dean lay next to him, his body at complete peace with the warm, post-coital rush simmering below the surface. His chest rose and fell steadily, though slightly faster than normal, eyes shut tight as he tried to regain his composure. Feeling over blindly, he laid one hand on Castiel's opposite thigh, pushing his own against the nearest one. Breathing slowly inwards, using the spent air which he had drawn from the clammy air, his mouth adopted a pretty curve.

There were no words to use; no words to convey what he was feeling. There was no other way to show Dean the overwhelming urge to hold him except to let his actions speak for themselves.

Forcing one hand under Dean's torso – which was not difficult, as the human arched pleasantly to his touch – he rolled him up so they were face to face, one on top of the other. He stared up at the intense green eyes he had grown so fond of. Dean's smirk widened into a full blown grin as he lowered his mouth onto Castiel's, murmuring trite humanisms as he so often did. Many of them included the angel's nickname, spoken in a deep breathy tone which drew out into a long moan as Castiel ground his hips up onto Dean's. The friction was truly delicious.

Rhythmic movement steadied his pleasurable desire, and they were held back by the controlled method of their indulgence. Biting back his groans, Castiel took his sweet time to listen to Dean's soul, squirming and whining desperately in his chest. It was beautiful, the way that it glowed and moved, as an extension of Castiel, and it clung to the angel as if he was...

As if he was the part which it had always been missing.

...

Castiel sat bolt upright, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. This was wrong. He could not do this, not to Dean. Not only was it an insult to his father – using his grace to envision Dean's soul – but it was also an insult to Dean himself.

He was not Dean's soulmate.

This is wrong.

In considerable distress, he spread his wings and escaped from the motel room, vividly imagining Dean's accusatory tone in his mind's eye, and for the first time since he had acquired his new gift, wishing that he couldn't imagine anything. The human's voice did not turn him on as much when he sounded like this; malicious and angry, that Castiel would be so cowardly and repulsive.

Cas, this is wrong.

...

Short chapter, I know, but revising for prelims is tricky business. I have the next chapter half written, as it was originally meant to be a part of this one, but I still need to touch up. As always, I would be eternally grateful if you would take a second to review, and constructive criticism is very much appreciated. Thanks!