Dean keeps to their scheduled meetings, coming by in the evenings and helping him to prepare his meals. They work their way through a box set of Dr. Sexy (MD) and Castiel is quite sure it's the worst thing he's ever been subjected to, and tells Dean this unflinchingly.
"You have no taste." Dean flicks a potato chip at him and proceeds to defend the show to the hilt. As bad as the drama is, Castiel enjoys the way Dean knows all the plot lines and characters, and yet vehemently protests being called a 'fan' or even any suggestion that he might like the show for anything other than the big scale plane crashes and ship wrecks that seem to happen on a weekly basis.
Nothing is said of Dean's promise to prove that neither of them is going to succumb any time soon. He's glad of that; he doesn't think he could take the strain of it.
Though Dean has yet to sleep over again they have adjusted their routine to involve lying in bed, transferring their readings upstairs or else just talking, clothed and comfortable beneath the blankets.
There is so much Castiel wants to know of Dean's life. It's a life just barely beginning and he has so many dreams for it, so many opportunities just waiting to be presented, and yet Castiel can't help but think that maybe, by the time Dean reaches his own age, he will have settled in with a wife and be having children.
It becomes increasingly obvious that though their present is marginally comfortable, they can have no future. Castiel will never be able to live with a younger man, even when Dean comes of age, it would be seen as inappropriate. He can never be anything to Dean in public, save for his priest.
"Don't think like that." Dean tells him, when Castiel voices his thoughts on the matter. "We'll work it out when it happens."
"You're going to go to college in under a year." Castiel points out. "and I'll still be here."
"And I can write, and visit and..." Dean is frustrated by this obstacle. "And we will cope with it."
"What about children? Even the possibility of waking up beside someone in the morning, sharing a home..." Castiel sighs "Dean, we can't even share a pet, and we'll never share a space because it would be frowned upon...and even if it wasn't." His desperation laces his tone. "Can you imagine sharing a bedroom with someone...and still changing in separate rooms? Wearing night clothes even in the height of summer because..." he shakes his head bitterly. "Because I cannot be allowed to see you naked?" He almost whispers it, shame evident in every aspect of his posture.
Dean slides across the bed and touches his face.
"Why not?"
Castiel's eyes fly to his in an instant.
"I've seen you, remember?" Dean refuses to relinquish his hold on the other man's gaze. "I pulled you out of that tub and it never even occurred to me to touch you like that. And you are a lot better at this than me."
"If you were unconscious and hurt then yes, of course I'd be preoccupied." Castiel mutters with exasperation. "But lying with you, naked, is not...it pushes us too far and I would be concerned for you. For both of us."
Dean sits very still for a moment, blankets pooled in his lap, then he reaches for the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it over his head and fisting the fabric nervously, holding it in one hand.
If Castiel found him tempting, found the sight of the boy unequivocally beautiful, when clothed, it is nothing compared to the bare skin of him. Dean's chest is lightly tanned from the previous summer, fading but still present, each part of him is toned and still slightly rounded with youth, the skin soft and even. He drinks in the sight of him guiltily even as Dean's uncertain fingers reach for the waist of his pyjama pants, the only item of clothing Dean is still wearing.
"Dean. Don't." Castiel says, but he can't muster the strength to sound foreboding, because Dean is arresting in this condition, half naked and so, so close. Castiel cannot find a way to deny the impulse to uncover him further.
And so when Dean slides his thin cotton pants down over his thighs and knees, leaning up to work them down his calves and off over his feet...Castiel cannot tell him to stop. The words die in his throat.
Dean. Naked...is a sight that would drive him mad if he weren't already there, evidenced by his willingness to choose this, to allow this to happen.
He is the same even tone, brown paling to white on the parts of him that are shielded from the sun always. The hair on his chest, arms and legs is almost invisible, gleaming burnt brown as his limbs move with his pulse. That leading down his belly and lining his groin is darker, though, he notices abstractly, not as dark as his own, the only other such body he has ever seen this close.
His ankles and wrists are oddly delicate, his shoulders broad, pectorals defined and his lips parted slightly as his eyes fix on Castiel's, watching as he is watched. His eyes are drawn back to Dean's groin, taking in the sight as it begins to swell, slowly, reddening under a gaze Dean has so often seen focussed on the bowed heads of celebrants or the words of a psalm, and has wanted on him for so long. It's almost unbearable in its intensity.
Dean leans forwards and wraps his hands in the fabric of the priest's T-shirt, pulling it slowly upwards over the other man's head. Castiel raises his arms to let the fabric pass over him, swallowing hard now that he is bared to the boys gaze, feeling it rake over him like a touch. And he isn't, touching, save for the removal of his shirt they have yet to touch each other, and yet Dean continues to harden, and Castiel feels an answering pool of warmth in his abdomen.
Castiel leans back against the pillows, partly to gain some distance, and partly to do something, anything, that isn't crushing his own bared flesh to Dean's.
"Castiel...I..." and he sees unease flicker in the boys expression, nervousness and awkwardness stiffening his posture as he draws his knees up to his chest, sheltering the arousal that suddenly embarrasses him. "I'm sorry...if you want...I can...I can go."
This is how he ends up reaching for the boy, turning him and moulding his body to his naked back so that he can hold his curled up form against his own. Castiel threads his fingers into the boys hair, keeping his other arm clear of Dean's naked skin.
"I would never make you leave." He murmurs, feeling the tension and upset radiating from Dean's naked body, vulnerable and flushed, exposed to him so freely it makes him ache. He lifts a sheet over Dean, watching it settle over him, giving him some measure of protection, before moving away. Dean turns to track his progress, and goes still when he sees Castiel slowly dragging the waistband of his own pyjamas down over his hips. When the boy makes no sound or sign to show he is disturbed, Castiel continues with the action, laying himself naked before Dean's eyes.
Dean will never be able to accurately and eloquently describe what he feels at this precise moment. Because it is one thing for Castiel to look on his naked body and find it beautiful, but another for a boy to look on the body of an older man and feel...want, coursing deeply and yet so near the surface. He sees the tapered hipbones, trails and shadows of dark hair, the steady beat of a pulse in the pale skin of his throat, the slightly hardened flesh between his legs, purpling at the tip, and the long, elegant legs so often concealed beneath robes and suplice. He sees all of him, and he wants, more than he can bear, and more than he has hope of resisting.
The sheet is crushed under his back before he has conscious thought, and he falls on Castiel in a tangle of hot skin, the alternate smooth-rough play of hairs standing on end and the slight dampness of sweat on them both. Castiel's body jerks at his first touch, as their chests seal together, legs tangled, brown, white, brown, white as Dean shifts on top of him. He moans when the boy's mouth finds his, pressing blindly into the first kiss they've shared since Dean pleaded with him for some measure of intimacy. And now there is this. Everything.
Dean's hands can't stop touching Castiel's skin, running over him, rubbing, squeezing and soothing alternately as the other man touches him with awe stricken greed. Gasping for breath every time their mouths part they snatch air before pressing together again, and Castiel thinks he might never get the taste of Dean out of his mouth, so deeply it's gone.
It's too much and not enough, and too soon Castiel feels Dean resting between his legs, shifting with frustration, tiny sounds of discontent and desire caught in his throat. He wraps his legs around Dean and wants with more power than he thought he possessed, he wants this.
"Can we...?" Dean pants, flushed and glazed in sweat, mouth swollen and eyes half closed in hazy need. "Can I?"
Castiel can only nod, kissing again in a rush of teeth and bitten lips, the taste of saliva shared between them, the raw taste of Dean's mouth.
"I need to get something...something to..." Another nod, hands dragging down the boys back and circling his waist. Dean whimpers and bucks against him involuntarily, they're both coming apart and Castiel feels a spike of fear that he is no longer in control of this, of himself.
Naked, Dean scrambles out of bed and pads swiftly across the floor, out onto the landing and towards the bathroom. Alone, Castiel pulls the sheets around himself, frustrated and anxious, afraid and hard and lost as to where they're going.
At the same time, he knows exactly what is going to happen.
And that frightens him all the more.
Dean returns, slowly opening the door and standing, unsure, on the threshold, bottle of lotion in one hand, the hard line of his erection shadowed against his stomach. Castiel feels himself twitch distinctly, a thickness to his throat as he nods, and raises an arm towards Dean as he approaches the bed. Castiel wraps the arm around the boy and pulls him closer, kissing his forehead, his mouth, his throat. He's warm and close and perfectly smooth, even the hair trailing his stomach is soft, Castiel clings to him and tries valiantly to fight himself.
There's no pause as they work out how this will go. Castiel lies down, his eyes travel over the boy's body, taught and smooth and beautiful. When Dean covers his shaking fingers in grease, Castiel feels answering tremors in his spine. Their eyes meet and Dean parts him slowly, hearing Castiel gasp over his own ragged breath. His finger presses against the innocent pink pucker there, the tiniest amount of pressure is all he can summon. He can barely think the word 'penetrate' he can hardly dare to press into him.
"Castiel..." He looks up into the blue eyes fixed on him. "Don't hate me." Are the only words he can put forth. He doesn't want him to despise him for wanting this, for bringing them both to this, knowing it would break them, that it could still break them – and wanting it all the same.
He can't stand to hear the answer, so he goes on, falling, failing.
"Oh" Castiel makes the tiny sound as the curved pad of Dean's finger breaches him, then, "U-uh..." as it works its way inside. Dean whimpers, shifting so that his other hand and touch his weeping arousal. He can't look away from the ring of tight pink flesh that flirts with the length of his finger, flickering open just slightly around it, pulling and pushing alternately as the muscle clenches.
"Oh Castiel..." The boy's hand touches his penis again, stroking inexpertly as he opens him up, and Castiel feels himself give to the pressure, opening up, preparing.
When he's considered this, in his more vulnerable moments of self indulgence, it was always with a view to the animal. The carnal, unnatural actions of one man debasing himself for another. On hands and knees, whoring oneself like a Godless creature, without reason, without morality, only with desire. And it frightened him, truly frightened him to his core, that he might be like that. That, given the right circumstances, the wrongness inside of him might break free, sweeping all else in its path and leaving him, begging on his knees, for the rutting force of someone, anyone else, or worse, forcing himself inside someone's willing body, using it for something so base it didn't deserve a name. In a righteous world it would not have a name at all, if all men were good and faithful, there would be no need for the term 'sodomy'.
It is not like that at all.
It hurts, there's pain as he expected there to be, even a moment where he's aware of what is taking place in all its anatomical horror, he can feel the boy's knuckle inside of him, pressing into the wall of his backside. The curved bluntness of the finger tip with a hard edge of nail. He can feel them, know how they are intruding on him, and feel a shudder of shame and disgust.
He did not expect to feel so good with Dean finally inside of him. So full and hot and reduced to only the simplest of wants, to have Dean so close to him, to feel so much of him. As Dean pushed inside he'd heard the boy moan, long and low, and now Dean mutters into his throat, head bowed and back shaking with tension. "I didn't...oh fuck, I didn't know it would feel like this..." He shifts until his forehead is pressed to Castiel's, and the priest hears him speak, feeling warm breath on his face. "It's so...tight...Castiel..." he trails into a low groan as he moves a little. "So tight...I can't..." The boy lets out a sound that might almost be a sob, and begins to move in earnest.
And Castiel can remember every disgusting thing he has ever thought, ever uttered, about this...this practice. But for the life of him he cannot call the feeling of Dean's body fetching against his, the boy's organ filling him and moving urgently, thick, inside of him – wrong. Neither can he term it ugly or base. Not when he feels his body begin to move with Dean's, when the only sounds he can produce are moans to match those of the young body atop his own, as he spreads wider and feels the deeper penetration draw more delicious sounds from Dean, as he himself whimpers and groans with each slick slide of him.
Dean begins to move with short abortive thrusts, the harsh, 'Huhn...huh...uh..." of his breath grounded in the inside of Castiel's shoulder. The priest raises his hips, thrusting back into the feel of the boys soft belly, rocking against his erection which aches more than it ever has, smearing wet, sticky trails against the soft youthful skin that touches him.
"Yes." Dean bucks into him and groans against his chest, then again, pained sounding "Ye-s" He moves jerkily and Castiel can feel him twitch inside of him, rubbing, nudging at the place inside of him that feels like someone's reaching into him and rubbing along every nerve. "Oh, Yes" Dean lurches again, hands clinging to him, one tangled in the priest's hair as he pulls their mouths together. Castiel's erection prods his stomach insistently, rubbing and twitching in its own slickness.
Castiel makes a noise, because it cannot have ever been a word, not like this. Hand sliding between his own shuddering abdomen and the contorted muscle's of Dean's stomach, to stroke himself, fingers rolling the skin and becoming sticky, smeared and wet as he pulls himself.
"Oh" Dean pants harshly and changes his angle, trying, impossibly to anchor himself deeper, even as Castiel arches into the new pressure, the new sensation of his most private nerves being battered with velvet soft hardness, slicked and effortless with lubricant. His hand clenches around himself and he makes a desperate sound, frustrated on the edge of release.
"Yes..." Dean's pace picks up, losing its careful rhythm as he comes apart, groaning, grunting the mindless word into the side of his neck as he loses himself. "Yes...yes...oh...yes..." and comes with a bone deep moan as he thrusts once more, as deep as he can get, knees digging sharply into the box spring and hips surging up as his empties himself.
Castiel feels the first hot dart of liquid inside of him and pulls himself hard, feeling his body tense around Dean's softening length as another short burst of warmth bathes the inside of his body. He comes over his trembling fingers, head falling back against the bed as Dean's body shudders and goes limp on top of him, sealing sweat and semen between their shaking bodies.
He cups the back of Dean's head gently, feeling him pant against his chest as he lies supine, trying to get his breath back. His arm encircles his sweating back, holding him close as they both come down, shushing gently against his damp hair.
He could say that he would regret this come the morning, or that as soon as he regains control over his shuddering body he will move away from Dean, clothe himself and seek absolution, no matter how harsh the penance, he will do it.
But to be absolved, one must first be sorry.
Castiel is not sorry. He cannot bring himself to curse an act which brought him so close to the boy he loves. He cannot now believe, as he has done all his life, that God would hate him for this act and this act alone.
Had he taken a random man, anonymously, in an alley, or in his own bed. Had he not loved and felt himself transcend the pleasure of the act itself, and feel closer to Dean than to any other person in creation. Had he not continued to feel beyond the lifespan of their copulation. Then he could have called it sin. Sinning by doing wrong as according to the laws of God.
He cannot, for all his training, all his pains and penance and prayers, see being taken by Dean as an act against God.
For that, and that alone, he might find it in himself to be apologetic for.