Castiel sat in a motel room in Michigan whose name, Super 8, he assumed must hold numerological significance. The number 8 represented power and control. He didn't feel either of those things at the moment. He locked the door and then jammed a chair under the handle. He wasn't enthusiastic about what he was about to do and he certainly didn't want to be interrupted by housekeeping staff.

His glance took in the glossy magazines fanned across the bedspread. His first instinct had been to search for appropriate material on the internet, but his attempts to do so had caused him to be banned from two public libraries in the Northeast. A Gas-n-Sip in Milwaukee had carried an impressive array of publications, although the clerk had been unhelpful when asked to recommend masturbation material featuring attractive men. He picked up a copy of Men's Health and flipped through it, looking for an image that would help focus and eliminate his arousal. Castiel frowned. None of these men looked like Dean. They looked like an anatomy lesson on abdominal muscles. He flipped through the pages, but found himself more interested in an article about lowering his cholesterol than he did in the photos. At least the article reminded him of Dean, given all the fried food he ate.

This was not promising. He turned to the copy of Busty Asian Beauties he had purchased because he knew Dean liked it. Castiel found himself drawn to breasts, although he wasn't sure why. Possibly this was some residue of Jimmy's attractions. Perhaps human beings were naturally drawn to body parts that distinguished them from reptiles and birds, such as breasts, body hair, and the auditory ossicles of the middle ear. This magazine featured a woman whose Japanese name meant 'elegant beauty.' Her elegance wasn't immediately apparent, as she was wearing a very short plastic dress and biting a riding crop. Castiel attempted to engage with the image using fantasy, but the only one that came to mind involved helping her to obtain warmer, more comfortable garments. He threw the magazine onto the bed. How could he eliminate his lustful thoughts toward Dean if he couldn't even reach the first stage of sexual arousal?

Perhaps he needed more information. Sam had been too reticent to speak about his lust management techniques. As much as he hated to, he might have to broach the subject with Dean. He stared resentfully at the magazines. He hadn't been near Dean since realizing the nature of his feelings toward him. He just hoped his 'game face' was up to the challenge. There was no reason to burden Dean with this. Dean was not interested in Men's Health magazines.

Dean was behind the wheel of the Impala, which as far as he was concerned was as it should be, even if they were only going to the store and back. The cassette in the stereo was playing Foreigner's Cold As Ice. Sam knew this tape well, having been forced to listen to it ad nauseam on the way to Phoenix once. Refusing to relive that fiasco, he opened the glove compartment and sorted through the cassettes, desperate for something he hadn't been hearing since he was four.

"You know, they still make music," Sam said. "You might even like some of it."

"I've heard current music. It all sucks." Dean turned onto North Minnesota Avenue, the car purring like a lion. Dean would never speak of the time in El Paso when he and Cas had sung along to Taylor Swift's "Shake It Off" while going to pick Sam up from the library.

Sam popped a cassette into the player as Dean waited for a bronze Toyota to get out of his way so he could switch lanes. The tape started up, a jazzy number with trumpet, saxophone, and lots of brush on the cymbals, like the opening of a 1960s sitcom. Then Frank Sinatra's voice poured from the speaker. "Heaven, I'm in Heaven."

Dean swerved and almost sideswiped a rusty Audi. He adjusted and made a desperate grab for the stereo, jabbing the buttons until the tape popped out. Fumbling, he stuffed the cassette into his jacket pocket. "Pick somethin' else."

Sam settled for Zeppelin.

"Now you're talkin'." Dean's smile looked slightly forced. "It was good enough for Dad, it's good enough for me."

Sam grumbled all the way to the grocery store and all the way inside, and if he noticed that Dean was quieter than usual for the rest of the day, he didn't mention it.

Dean chewed the last half of a stale sandwich and listened at Sam's door to the sound of his brother's even, deep breathing. Good. The big lunk was finally asleep. He slipped into the room, returning with the laptop. The booze wasn't helping. The women weren't helping. The pressure was building and Dean had to bleed it off if he was going to stay functional. Or get back to functional. He owed it to Sam. He owed it to Cas, too. Poor bastard was getting the fuzzy end of the friendship lollipop and didn't even know why.

Dean did his research, remembering to erase the browser history. The last thing he needed was Sam going all Gay-Straight Alliance on him. The bar he selected was downtown, by the Big Sioux River, and at 1:00am it was a good hunting ground. He ordered a double scotch, downed it, and ordered a second. Clutching his drink like a weapon, he stood with his back to the wall, surveying the crowd.

He spotted his quarry, sitting alone, drinking beer. He was almost perfect. White dress shirt, tie hanging askew, hair short and dark against his skin. Sure, the hair was too artfully styled and the chin wasn't quite right, but beggars can't be choosers. Dean approached, hiding his nerves behind a crooked smile.

"Hey." He noted the man's drink was almost gone. "Buy you another?"

"Sure. Thanks." The smile was returned. Good start.

Dean signaled the waiter for another beer and joined the stranger at his table.

"You live around here?" The man asked, his legs shifting to align with Dean's.

"Just passing through." Dean held the man's gaze one second, two, three. The stranger's eyes weren't exactly piercing, but they were blue. It was enough.

Sixteen minutes later they were in a motel off the highway.

The walls were tan and slightly textured, and Dean ran his fingers against the pattern as he pressed the stranger to the wall with the length of his body. The man moved in for a kiss and Dean redirected him to his neck, despite his fading bruise. This wasn't the friggin' prom. He had a job to do and scratching this itch was gonna help him do it. Still, he understood the impulse. When the light hit him just right, the stranger was almost Cas. The effect made his heart pound.

Panting slightly, the stranger pulled Dean's t-shirt up and off, and clamped his mouth on a nipple. Losing himself to the feeling, Dean hissed a name, which the stranger mistook for "Yes." Dean closed his eyes, thinking of blue eyes and black shadowy wings as the man unbuttoned Dean's jeans and tugged the zipper open. Moments later his pants were at his knees and he stepped back and pushed them off.

Showtime.

The man pulled at his tie.

"No." Dean stilled the stranger's wrist. "Keep the shirt and tie. Lose the pants."

Almost-Cas smiled. "Whatever turns you on."

"You're doing fine." Dean pulled off his boxer briefs. As the stranger's hands explored his body Dean closed his eyes and gave himself over to memory. Only instead of Alistair, he pictured Castiel using him, breaking him. In that space between fantasy and reality, he wasn't sure if the reedy "Please" that escaped his lips was him begging for mercy or for more. In Hell it had been both too.

He braced himself against the dresser, feeling lips against the back of his neck, hands gripping his hips, and the warmth of the stranger against him, hard and prodding.

"Wrap up." He grabbed a condom and lube pack from the dresser and passed them back. Soon this almost-Cas would punish him the way he deserved, and maybe then the guilt and lust would ease enough that he could work or get a decent night's sleep.

There was a rustle by the door, and he heard the stranger behind him swear and step away from him. Dean opened his eyes and raised his head. There, illuminated by a table lamp shaped like a seahorse, stood Cas, looking concerned.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean bolted upright and slammed a fist onto the dresser, denting the chipboard. This was probably his own damn fault. He'd said Cas' name, maybe more than once. The phrase 'butt-dial' came to mind but wasn't one he wanted to use, given the circumstances.

Dean closed his eyes, wishing he could be somewhere, anywhere, else when he opened them. He'd been sloppy. He should have warded the room against angels. Of course scribbling symbols on the walls might have scared off his 'date.' His gaze darted to the half-naked man cowering behind him. In the same room as Cas, the stranger looked like a cheap knock-off.

"Oh." Cas frowned and looked at the carpet. "I didn't realize you..." He glanced at the half naked man and then looked again, taking in his tousled hair, pale skin, and stubbled jaw. "Oh."

"This your boyfriend?" The stranger asked Dean, his voice tense as Cas stared at him with his laser eyes.

"Somethin' like that," Dean grumbled as he grabbed his boxer briefs and pulled them on as fast as he could move.

The stranger took a few anxious steps toward the door and Cas pinned him to the wall with a hand, glowering at him as if he were a disappointing science experiment.

"Dean," The angel turned his fierce attention to him as the hunter jumped into his jeans, "do you love this man?"

Dean raised his palms. "Hey, I don't even know the guy."

Cas withdrew his hand, looking down at where the stranger's pants weren't. "But you were going to have sex with him."

Silence. The longer it stretched out the more evident the answer seemed.

"I should go." The stranger grabbed his pants from the floor and held them in front of his crotch, like a shield.

"Yeah." Dean nodded, his eyes on the dingy carpet where the condom and tiny pack of lube had fallen. The man bolted for the door, scrambling for his underwear and shoes as he went. Dean pulled on his shirt, sat on the edge of the bed, and crammed his feet into his boots. Fully dressed now, he smiled to mask his panic.

"Look, Cas, I think you might have gotten the wrong impression here."

The angel looked at him with an expression that, on Sam's face, would have meant, 'Bitch, please!' Dean hoped his next line, whatever it was, could be more convincing.

Cas surveyed the room as if tracing Dean's movements in it. "I can smell him on you. And then there's this." He picked up the condom, still in its wrapper, and loomed over him, the package raised. His impression of the situation was entirely accurate.

Dean exhaled, something between a laugh and a sigh. "I'm self destructive, man, not stupid."

"I think I understand." Cas looked at Dean as if seeing him for the first time. And then surged forward, mouth first. Dean's eyes went wide. This was no tentative first time kiss. This was a kiss learned from a porno, all frantic tongue, and desperate lips. It was nothing like kissing the world's biggest ball of twine.

Dean's dick, straining for friction, didn't care that his anonymous hookup had tapped out in favor of someone who could break him in half, physically and emotionally. His hips bucked forward and he gasped into Cas' mouth. This was good. Too good. The memories were flooding him, every sick thing he'd done to those souls in Hell, and the urge to repeat them here, with Cas. Why did this angel stir up his Hell memories in a way no one night stand ever did? Was this God's way of saying 'stand down, soldier?' Whatever it was, the warning lights were going off in Dean's brain.

"Cas, stop." Dean pushed him back and the angel allowed himself to be pushed. "Just stop, okay?"

"Am I not doing it right?" Cas' pale face was disheveled and puzzled. Gorgeous.

"Oh, you're doing it right." Dean covered his eyes with his palms and growled in frustration. "I, I gotta go before I do something we're both gonna regret." He tapped a sympathetic hand on Cas' shoulder. "I'll uh, I'll call you, okay?" He wrenched open the door and lurched into the dark parking lot. His heart was still pounding when, safe inside the Impala, he pulled onto the asphalt and sped away.

Chalmers, a demon wearing a weightlifter in a jean jacket, had been tracking Dean Winchester for five days now. He hated these observe and report jobs. Perkins, with that pinched voice of his, called them O-and-Rs, as if having a stupid nickname made the assignment suck any less. And they did suck. Instead of raising Hell across the continental United States Chalmers was tailing Dean Winchester and taking notes. He'd heard the stories, but nothing he'd seen so far lived up to the legend. Dean Winchester eats at Biggersons. Dean Winchester buys booze. Dean Winchester drives aimlessly around town. Dean Winchester goes to a bar. Blah blah blah. Exorcise me now.

Chalmers snarled. If he didn't kill someone soon he was going to lose his mind. Then, outside a cheap motel by the highway a man had come running from the room he'd entered with Winchester only minutes before. Naked from the waist down, and struggling into his clothes, the guy looked terrified. What in Hell's holy name had Winchester done to the guy? It piqued the imagination.

Chalmers stepped from his stolen Cadillac and approached.

"Looks like you've had a rough night. Need a lift?"

As the stranger nodded gratefully Chalmers hand moved into his jacket pocket and curled around his straight razor. Maybe this evening wouldn't be such a waste.

Castiel sat on the bed in Dean's abandoned motel room, thinking. He'd hoped to ask Dean for advice about lust elimination, but things had taken an unexpected turn. He had evidently been wrong about Dean's attraction patterns. He let this new evidence percolate, assessing what it changed. He attempted to do this dispassionately, but found himself unable to take a purely logical perspective.

The pleasure of Dean's mouth had filled his senses until Dean was all he could see, smell, feel, hear, or taste. He remembered how tightly Dean had gripped his hair. He had wanted the kiss. In fact, based on Dean's physiological response, he had wanted more than that, right up until he had fled the room. This incident was a disquieting mix of satisfying and torturous. It certainly cast the evenings when Dean had locked himself into the bathroom in a new light.

Castiel turned the condom over in his hand. The Ancient Egyptians had used something like this, made of sheep intestine. He pulled it from the wrapper and stretched it until it snapped. The mechanics were easy to grasp. He squeezed the tiny pack of lube, marveling at its resemblance to the ketchup packets Dean brought from Biggersons, and then recoiled when the package split, discharging thick clear liquid onto his fingers.

He walked to the bathroom, dropped the condom and lube pack into the garbage, and washed his hands. Looking at the reflection of his vessel in the mirror, he thought about the stranger Dean had brought to the motel. A male stranger. With whom Dean had been going to have sex. Castiel frowned as hope and despair battled for supremacy inside him. Dean Winchester was extremely confusing.

Dean knew he was dreaming, but that didn't make the situation any less terrifying. He was in the motel by the highway with the stranger who wasn't Cas. Only this time Dean had him pressed against the dresser, gripping his hair, running his nails down his pale back, across his ass. He moved forward, then hesitated. Everything felt wrong.

"What's the matter?" The stranger turned to look at him. "You weren't shy when we did this before."

"Before?" Dean struggled to remember.

"In Hell." His eyes flickered and went black. Dean recoiled and fell onto the bed. The demon smiled, his resemblance to the angel now entirely superficial. "Aw. Poor Dean," it said, its voice tinged with false pity. "Can't get it up for me unless I'm screaming and pleading?"

"Who are you?"

"Don't remember our special time together? I'd be hurt, but ten years of depravity really racks up the numbers, doesn't it? Let me jog your memory." The demon approached, his mouth broken in a leer. Dean groped for his knife, for a weapon of any kind, but found none. Fuck. He was going to die bad, and he deserved every minute of it.

Then the furniture began to shake, the lights flickered, and Castiel was there, bright, and strong, and angry. He grabbed the demon and burned him from the inside out, the skull visible against the embers. Dean's breath hitched and he gripped fistfuls of the comforter. He shouldn't find this so damn hot.

Suddenly, with the strange logic of a dream, Cas was beneath him, looking up at him with eyes that saw everything but trusted him anyway. He touched Dean's face. "Wouldn't you prefer to do this with someone you love?"

Dean hadn't used that particular word in his own head yet, but hearing the question, he wished he could say 'yes.' But then he remembered the joyful oblivion he'd felt in Hell when he'd pinned a soul beneath him like this and made them feel his rage and pain and fear. He couldn't do that to Cas.

"Not for a second." He pulled away. Even in his dreams, Dean Winchester fought to protect the people he cared about.