Dean wakes up a few hours later, aching and bleary from sleeping in the middle of the day. He looks up at the ceiling, feeling the dull burn as he shifts his cramped legs. His back throbs with recently released tension. He feels worn out and satisfied, but uneasy.

He remembers Castiel and looks to one side, seeing the other man curled contentedly on his side, facing him. His breathing is deep and even, mouth a tensionless dab of pink on his pale skin. No sheet covers them so Dean can see their bodies, semen on his own stomach, bruises blooming across Castiel's hips, showing where Dean gripped him harder and harder as he moved him against himself.

He swallows dryly.

He's just fucked a man, a prostitute, in the middle of the day. The first time he's been with a man, or a whore come to that. He feels bizarre, numbed against his own disgust for himself. The situation is too strange to feel real. It's like a very bad dream, one he might have had in the bed he shared with Lisa. A dream he might any minute wake up from.

Castiel frowns in his sleep when Dean moves away, padding to the shower to rinse off sweat and come and to give himself time to think.

What he thinks is – what the fuck am I doing? Over and over again as he soaps himself, standing under the streaming water and closing his eyes. What the fuck am I doing with a whore when I could date someone? What the fuck am I going to do about the baby? Why the fuck did it have to be him, again? Why Castiel?

What the fuck is happening to me?

It goes round and round in his head until he can't stand it anymore, grabs a towel and dries himself, stepping out of the bathroom and into the bedroom with the towel pinned against his hips.

Castiel is awake, sitting in the middle of the double bed with its rumpled white sheets. His knees are drawn up to his chest, his arms linked around them, his forehead resting on his knees. He looks very small, very dark in the middle of all that white.

He looks up when he senses Dean's presence.

The silence stretches between them, on and on and on until Dean prickles with unease.

"How much...how much do I owe you?" he says, voice seeming too loud in the formerly intimate quiet.

"A hundred" Castiel's voice cracks with sleep and Dean realises that he's just made the figure up. Castiel unfolds himself and goes to pluck his clothes up off the floor, vulnerable and naked. Dean quashes the thought, Castiel is anything but vulnerable- he is used to this. Dean is not. He still feels bad, especially when Castiel winces, moving awkwardly with pronounced effort to reduce the soreness that he must be feeling.

"Did I hurt you?" It comes out quiet, almost unheard. Castiel looks at him, then down at the purple blushes on his hips, he runs his fingers over them speculatively, not looking at him.

"No" his eyes meets Dean's, finally. He's adamant, sincere. A couple of bruises is nothing to a man like him, especially accrued in the way these were, bent up and shaking with orgasm. Castiel is fine with a little lasting mark of this afternoon. "No, Dean you haven't hurt me."

Dean nods, still pinched faced and awkward, like he doesn't believe it. Castiel steps into his underwear, followed by his jeans, lifting them to his hips and popping the buttons through. Dean realises that he's still naked under his towel, finds the pants he was wearing earlier and slips them on, followed by his shirt. Even once they're dressed the tension refuses to dissipate and Dean feels exhausted by it, by the day so far.

"So...if you want me to leave..." Castiel swallows, and for the first time Dean notices that this isn't running according to the rules. Castiel hasn't been paid, when that's the first step in these encounters, he remembers that much. Castiel has slept beside him and not simply slipped out unnoticed. He finds his wallet, fumbles loose the bills there and folds them, handing them awkwardly to the other man, who takes them and stuffs them into his pocket.

"Thank you...for coming over."

"Anytime." Castiel says, and the depth to that one word makes his chest ache. It's not a come on, a coy tease. It's Castiel promising to be there, whenever he needs it, whenever he needs this.

"I'll call."

Castiel nods once, stiffly and uncertainly. Dean leads the way back to the front door, holding his breath until Castiel is gone and the door is closed. He sits on the floor, exactly where he'd been when Castiel arrived, wondering what the hell he's done, and why it feels different to last time. Why he feels bad about Castiel leaving.

Castiel jogs down the staircase and opens the door onto the street. The money in his pocket presses at him and he realises that he can take a cab home if he wants, rather than catching the bus or walking the whole way. He can afford decent take-out for dinner, maybe catch a movie or stop by Barnes and Noble to pick up some new reading material. He's long past needing the cash for rent.

He gets to the third corner before he starts crying, and can't stop.

Backing into the alley behind a diner he leans a hand against the wall and feels the bitter, sick feeling in his stomach intensify with each sob. It's humiliating, urgent and out of his control. His eyes burn, tears well out and spread over his cheeks. He feels like a child, green, like he's new to this game, even though it's been years, years since he turned his first trick.

He feels used and small and so easily lost. He still has sweat and semen dried to his skin, bruises pressed into his skin, the taste of someone else's mouth on his own. He can smell Dean's aftershave on himself and it makes it worse somehow. Makes him shake harder as he tries to stop himself from coming apart like this.

And he has no idea why.