A/N: My beautiful, wonderful readers. As a sun is to a flower, so you are to me. This chapter - this chapter has been an absolute nightmare. I was just watching season 4 with my siblings and we saw Monster at the End of This Book. Chuck (God?) puts it perfectly: "If I were psychic, do you think I'd be writing?" he demands. "Writing is hard." Now, usually writing comes fairly easy to me but when I come to an important part of the story that I want to get absolutely right, things get friggin' difficult. I actually wrote this chapter a day ago, scrapped the entire thing and started over to bring you what I ended up with here. I've read it over a few times and tweaked it but the second I post it I'm sure I'm going to decide it's all wrong and that I'm the worst writer that ever lived,* so... please review and let me know what you think.

I shall keep you in suspense no longer. Here is your chapter - hopefully it's not too horrific. *gulp*

*Actually, no one can top Chuck. "With determination, Dean lifted his finger and pushed the doorbell... with determination."

The weeks passed, a job came and went, motels changed. Cas made time for Dean and though it was usually at odd hours, those were the kind of hours Dean kept anyways. Ever since that night on the futon, Cas backed off on his own when things started to get heated, which was… kind of disappointing, since Dean was kind of… ready, now. These warm and fuzzy feelings he didn't want to acknowledge had been growing in his chest and digging their roots into him deep, and sometimes it was all he could do not to tackle Cas and spout girly poetry and violate him thoroughly.

But hey. Cas was calling the shots. Maybe he had doubts about jumping into the sack (or maybe he had doubts about Dean… but Dean didn't want to think about that). And honestly, the kissing and hand-holding and laying together and watching TV – it was kind of enough.

Sure, Dean still occasionally had crazy dreams about Cas giving him a once-over, but it was different now. They were less intense, less urgent. He had dreams about Cas taking him long and slow in the shower, steam and sweat and wet bodies; Dean jerking them off together in the Impala at night, the windows fogged up and the dense quiet broken by their noises. But they were much less frequent than before, and he didn't feel unsatisfied by what he and Cas had. Like he said, it was kind of enough.

All in all, life was pretty good; just about as good as it could get for a Winchester, really.

…..

"Another beer," Dean urged, gesturing to the bartender.

"Noooooo, I'm done," Sam groaned, sliding off the barstool. "Any more and I'll be seriously drunk."

"Saaaaam," Dean cajoled him. "You're barely even tipsy. We gotta drink to a job well done!"

Sam laughed and slid on his jacket. "We already did. C'mon, let's hit the hay."

"Nah, Sammy, you go on. I'm stayin'." Dean waved him away. "I'm not even buzzed yet."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "That's what you always say."

"Shuddup."

So Dean stayed at the bar alone for awhile. He hadn't been lying to Sammy, he was barely feeling it; just enough to make him a little warm, feel a little friendly, a little talkative. Nothing near tipsy. Probably because he was working on a bottle of beer instead of a fifth of Jack, but he didn't feel like getting legitimately drunk tonight.

There was a sweet little brunette thing at the other end of the bar making eyes at him. He was trying to ignore her but she had these – these fantastic tits, smooth and round and exposed by her lacy camisole, and it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't had sex since the last time he'd slept with Lisa.

So long, so long since he'd handled a nice rack like that one…

Play your cards right with Cas, and you might never fondle a breast ever again.

The thought struck terror into him like a bolt of lightning, and suddenly had to go for a walk, clear his head. It had been one thing to think about monogamy with Lisa. She had boobs. But Cas, Cas did not and though he had other things that Dean appreciated there was maybe nothing else in the whole wide world that Dean had appreciated for as long and as fervently as breasts. To never…. not even once….

He had a strange vision in his imagination, a picture of himself in a hospital bed, hooked up to a heart monitor, Sammy and Bobby sitting worried at his bedside. And then the doctor comes in with his charts, and he says to them gravely, "Well, he's in stable condition, and it looks like he's going to make it. But I'm afraid that… he may never touch a breast again." And Sammy weeps, and Bobby curses the sky and demands to know what kind of God would do this to their Dean.

Yup. I've officially had too much to drink. Time for a walk.

Of course, the second he slid off the barstool he had to piss like a racehorse, so he headed for the men's room. A couple minutes later he was zipping back up and he turned around, where lo and behold stood –

The little brunette.

"Hey," she greeted him, sidling up close. She smiled coyly, pressed those lovely melons against his chest.

"Hey, uh, I think you got the wrong idea," he warned her, stumbling backwards and finding himself against a stall door.

"Or maybe the right one," she murmured, sliding her hand up his arm. "I saw you looking." And her hand slid back down, took him by the wrist. "They're real, you know." And she placed his hand on her breast and kissed him.

Oh, they were real. So very, very real. And so were her lips…

Wait! No! BAD! He broke away, pushed her off of him. "I said wrong idea, sweetheart," he growled.

She scowled. "Screw you. If you don't want a girl, don't ogle her."

"I didn't mean to," he apologized. "You just have – very nice assets there." He chuckled nervously. "Very… prominent assets."

Suddenly, a deep, steely voice asked, "Am I interrupting something?"

Dean froze. He didn't even have to look, but he did anyways.

Cas looked furious.

The chick glared and stormed out of the bathroom.

Dean felt a sweat break out on his forehead. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, knowing instantly that it was the wrong thing to say.

Cas's glower deepened, and he answered. "Sam said you were at the bar. The bartender said you were in here. With a woman."

Shit. Dean rubbed his forehead. "Cas, I know it looks –"

"I'll tell you how it looks," he interrupted, stepping closer, his face thunder and his eyes lightning. "It looks sickening. If it were Lisa I could understand, but some – some gin-soaked whore in a men's bathroom?"

"Nothing happened," Dean insisted, beginning to panic. "I swear, Cas, nothing happened."

Cas stepped forward again, right into Dean's bubble. "Then why," he whispered, quiet and harsh, "do you have her lip gloss on your mouth?"

Shit shit shit. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. "She kissed me, but I pushed her away! I didn't kiss her back, Cas, you gotta believe me."

Cas grabbed him by the shoulder.

They were in the motel room.

He gazed at Dean, and beneath the boiling anger Dean could see all the hurt in those blue eyes. "Is this why you said 'low key'?" he snarled, shoving Dean so hard that he stumbled backwards into the wall. "Because I'm some kind of – compromise to you?" His breathing came hard and fast. "Kissing the angel is acceptable, as long as you don't have to fuck him."

"No!" Dean shouted, growing angry. "Christ, Cas, give me a chance to explain myself!"

"Then explain." Cas closed in again, trapped Dean against the wall, his teeth bared. "Tell me why. Tell the truth."

Dean took a deep breath. "That chick," he began slowly, "got the wrong idea, and I told her so. She kissed me, nothing more. You can go back and ask her if you want; she'll tell you the same thing."

Cas's eyes were locked on his, hard and searching.

"And the reason that I suggested we take things slow is because I've screwed up every other relationship I've been in." He swallowed. "And it is more important than anything to me that I not screw things up with you." He met Cas's gaze, refused to look away. "Now you tell me if I'm lyin'."

Cas stared for a long moment.

His adam's apple bobbed.

He turned his head away and pressed his lips together, closing his eyes.

"Cas."

He shook his head. "I'm not supposed to feel these kinds of emotions," he said bitterly, voice torn and rough. "Did you know that? I'm not supposed to be capable."

There was a sharp ache in Dean's chest and he said, "Cas."

"And you, you do it to me." An incredulous tone crept into his voice, and he turned back to Dean. "Thirty seconds with you and I'm a wildly swinging pendulum of pride and grief and jealousy and – love." The last word hitched before it fell from his lips, and he looked so damn chagrined and laid bare for having said it.

The aching pain intensified and stung in his eyes and all Dean could do was plead, "Cas."

Cas finally seemed to listen.

"It's only gonna get worse from here," he began shakily. "Okay? That's the truth. Tonight was just a – a sneak preview of the many ways I'm going to royally fuck up. But if, in spite of all that, you still wanna be with me…" Even as he felt that damn tickling behind his nose and telltale dampness in his eyes, he couldn't help but crack a self-conscious smile. "I'm yours, Cas. Full on, Jason Mraz yours."

And then he pulled up his sleeve, took Cas's right hand and slid it up to the perfectly fitting scar on his shoulder.

Cas watched, inhaled raggedly.

When Dean spoke again, his voice came out in a scratchy whisper. "I've always been yours."

Cas's bright blue eyes turned to his.

Electricity crackled in the air. Not like some dumbass metaphor, real frickin' electricity.

Slowly he moved closer, pressed into Dean, his hand grasping Dean's shoulder, heat radiating off of him and into Dean.

"Mine," he rasped. "Completely?"

"Yes," Dean breathed. "I mean it."

And Cas kissed him, hard and fervent, and Dean could feel all his fear and worry and need and he kissed back, slid his hand against his neck and kissed back I'm yours, I'm yours, let Cas's leg slide between his and pin him against the wall, kissed him so hard it almost hurt and groaned when Cas's tongue did that thing it was so good at doing.

"Dean," Cas gasped, "I'm yours too." He kissed him again, broke away for a second. "Wholly yours." When their mouths met again he rolled his hips against Dean's, and the rough friction felt so goddamn good –

Low key low key low key low key low key low key –

Fuck that.

Fuck me.

No seriously, fuck me.

Cas's fingers tightened on Dean's scar.

A minute and a half later, they were both naked. Forty minutes later, they finally made it to a bed. And it wasn't until the next morning that Dean realized that he'd said those last two words out loud.