It can be assumed that they didn't talk about it.
Not a word.
Not a syllable.
It wasn't as unbearable in the bunker as it had been when they were trapped in a motel together, the bunker was big enough to house the two of them without being confined in small spaces together.
There were also no more kisses. No touches, nothing more than lingering stares and purposefully not looking at each other when they were alone together.
Sam was blissfully unaware. He had enough to worry about, and their personal lives were not something for him to fret about.
Castiel's grace was becoming more scarce, barely enough to light his eyes, let alone finish healing his wound, so for the next two and a half weeks, he nursed his cuts with furrowed brows. He had never known a permanent pain like that before, and it scared the living hell out of him. When he wasn't busy researching or hunting, he was lamenting about how he was mortal now and became deathly afraid of any sort of mild pain. He didn't fear the life-threatening things, like werewolves or ghosts. He would jump in without a second thought, but small discomforts like cooking burns or paper cuts set him off in a way that neither Sam or Dean understood.
But they were getting sick of it when he laid in the middle of the kitchen floor after he had jabbed the tip of his finger against the knife he was cutting up toast with. It was a piteous amount of blood, but he stared at his finger for a ridiculously long time.

Dean had not brought home (figuratively, of course, the bunker is a restricted location) a girl since the night in Wyoming, a fact that didn't slip passed Sam as easily as Dean wanted it to.
"It's Cas," He answered with an indifferent shrug but continued before his brother's eyebrows could raise any higher.
"When we go out to drink, I'm so focused on getting him laid, that I don't score myself, I guess." Dean took a swig of beer, keeping his nonchalance at a low, but his heart was galloping in his chest.
Sam nodded in understanding, and they dropped the subject, thankfully.
If it wasn't hunting monsters or fixing cars, Dean Winchester was fantastic at repressing emotions and memories. If he didn't want to think about something, he wasn't going to.
This time, it wasn't so easy.
He had had dreams before, dreams of monsters dragging him to the bottom of a lake or killing Sam, a symphony of screams that backed his nightmares.
He had also had wet dreams before, and he liked those, but when he woke up hot and sweaty about the angel sleeping two doors down, he started having second thoughts.
And third thoughts
Fourths and fifths until he was flustered and confused, again.
Those were hard nights to get through.

When Castiel first fell, it was horrible. His grace was still sputtering and weak back then, and he didn't find his appetite for weeks, leaving his cheeks as hollow as his eyes. It was terrifying, but especially for Dean. Sam was nervous too, but it wasn't him that Cas screamed for in the middle of the night when the night terrors gripped him with their black hold. It wasn't just Sam that tore recklessly through the halls of the bunker to get to his room first, ripping the door open and holding down the thrashing angel who screamed like the hounds of hell were tearing him apart. Sometimes, in the dreams, they were.
It wasn't Sam that Castiel asked to stay for a moment longer, just until the fear was gone.
So it wasn't Sam that the fallen angel turned to when he had a question or was bored, it was Dean.
It was always Dean.
"Dean," a rasped voice asked from the corner of his room. The older Winchester flinched in surprise but didn't turn away from the television.
"What?" He took a sip of his beer.
"Does this look like it's healing correctly because it seems to be itching quite a lot," the angel asked.
Dean rolled his eyes and pivoted, ready to sneak a glance at the probably fine scab and give him a flippant answer about how he'd survive.
The words were lost on his lips, and all the moisture in his mouth was gone.
Castiel stood in his doorway, dripping wet. His hair stuck out in every direction, and a pale blue towel hung low on his hips. And by low, Dean could almost see everything the towel was trying to cover, from the end of his dark happy trail to wherever the deeply etched 'V' of his hips led to.
He obviously hadn't bothered drying off, from the way the water ran down his chest and over the tattoos that littered his chest and sides.
Cas has refused to get the anti demonic possession tattoo on his chest like the boys; instead, he had it on his side, about a foot lower than his armpit. He also opted for an anti angel possession tattoo, that one was bigger, and took up a good chunk of skin a few inches up and over the left side of his belly button. To anyone else, the tattoos seemed to be haphazardly thrown across his body, but Cas loved where he had them put.
And seeing the way they looked on his body, Dean sort of loved them too.
"Dean?" Cas asked again, snapping his attention away from his wet body.
"What?" He snapped, a bit more aggressive than he intended.
"Does it look like it's healing?"
Cas frowned down at his side and poked at the scab, pulling at the skin around it. The slight motion made Dean fear that his towel would fall off his body entirely.
He didn't know what he would do then.
Dean forced his eyes to the deep pink lines that marred the perfectly golden skin of Cas' torso and licked his lips.
"Yeah, Cas. It looks fine, it's healing fine, you're fine."
He stumbled over his words while combatting every instinct to get off the chair and do something.
But like a good soldier, he stayed put and watched the angel poke at the scar until he nodded in agreement.
"I guess you're right," he conceded.
"Is that all then?" Dean rasped out. He desperately wanted Cas to leave his room so he could continue being sexually frustrated by himself.
"Yes." He answered but stayed in the doorway, doing nothing, in particular, just looking around the room.
Dean bit his tongue to keep himself from barking a rude "get out" and waited for the angel to leave on his own time. It was like trying to train a middle-age dog something new, it was best to let them figure it out by themselves.
But the thing is, Cas didn't leave. He looked around the room and rocked on his heels before walking calmly into Dean's room and perching on the edge of his bed.
Dean watched with a clenched jaw, slowly but methodically grinding his teeth down to a stub.
Every rude word in his lexicon percolated on the tip of his anxious tongue, a piteous and truly pathetic counteraction to the stunning realization that he wasn't completely straight.
In a world of gods and monsters and angels, demons, and wendigos, something as trivial as sexuality shouldn't be as crucial to Dean as it was. But here he was, almost salivating after a nearly naked man on his bed, a man who he kissed all night long a few weeks prior, and still believed that there wasn't any part of him that was gay.
Castiel must have found something interesting because he stretched across the bed and pulled the Rubix cube from Dean's nightstand. Without a second thought, he flopped on his back and tried to figure it out.
Dean practically swallowed his tongue.
He would have hollered at Sam for getting his bed wet, but this sure as shit wasn't his brother stretched out across his bed in nothing but a towel and miles of tanned, taut skin.
John Winchester had so deeply ingrained that homosexuality was a sign of weakness and should be snuffed out, that Dean didn't give himself an option other than, be straight. And it wasn't like he never enjoyed the spoils of straight sex because he really truly honest to God did, but sometimes it wasn't a feminine body that caught his eye. He never entertained the idea, never consciously anyway. Whatever did or didn't happen in his dreams was not his fault.
Maybe it wasn't because he was attracted to men. Perhaps it wasn't the broad shoulders or the long column of a throat that pulled him, but the wings that once adorned those shoulders or the halting, rough laugh that came from that throat.
Maybe it didn't matter that the shining blue eyes that blinked up at him came from a man's body, perhaps it was just the eyes themselves.
Maybe it was just Cas.
Castiel had crossed his legs at the ankle, and Dean could almost reach them from the rigid spot he was in. His body was so clenched that his jaw ached.
He wasn't sure if he was forcing himself to do it or losing the battle to hold himself back, but a shaking hand reached out and touched Cas. It was just his foot and a harmless thing to poke at. The angel didn't seem to care and continued to get Dean's bed damp and fiddle with the hunk of plastic.
Dean traced the arch of his foot with one finger, circling an ankle, over a raised scar that must have been from Jimmy. He slid his quivering hand over the top of Cas' foot and up the backside of his calf.
Though these are simple enough actions, it took all the concentration in Dean's body. A parade of previous presidents could have marched through the room riding kangaroos, and Dean wouldn't have known.
Cas still played quietly with the toy as Dean came to a stop at the back of his knee, holding it securely in his grip.
"Cas," he murmured. The angel hummed back a disinterested response.
"Why are you still in my room?" He tried to make the words sound as least painful as possible, but it still didn't take the nature of them away.
Castiel thought for a second and rolled his head, so he was facing the hunter. His innocent blue eyes did something to Dean's stomach.
"Why are you holding on to my leg?"He countered.
Dean faltered.
He could lie, sure. He had no fucking idea what to say, but he could definitely lie. It was one thing that he was very good at.
But he couldn't. He couldn't make himself force out a lie, not at this moment.
"Because I don't think I could stop if I wanted to." He answered, his hand still curled around his knee.
"Do you want to stop?"
It was an innocent enough question, but Dean could already feel himself folding in on himself.
"Do you want me to stop?" He redirected, not wanting to answer it. Cas didn't seem to notice and sighed, going back to his puzzle.
"No."
Dean let out a breath of relief that he didn't know he was holding in.
His fingers continued their search but never traveling above the knee.
Somehow, he found himself no longer sitting in his desk chair, was completely forgotten playing in the background.
He was kneeling on the side of his bed, fingers tracing up the angel's arm. Over the pale veins in his wrist, up to his warm forearm, over the crease in his elbow, up his bicep, and onto his chest.
The whole time, Dean's heart raced in his ribcage, and he watched Castiel for any sign to stop, but he found none.
His fingers glanced over the protrusion of his collarbone and dusted over the hollow of his throat.
The angel's own nervous fidgeting with the toy slowed down. He slowly turned his head and watched Dean curiously.
"What?" Dean growled, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing," he whispered back, his voice still deeply hoarse. Dean could feel the vibration under his stilled fingers. It made him nervously bite his tongue.
"I'm just remembering," Castiel's eyes drifted down to Dean's lips. A sensation that he hadn't felt since he was in high school squirmed through him.
A God damn crush.
A gentle blush graced his cheeks when he remembered too, even though it just a night of chaste kisses and interlocked fingers like some sort of prudish virgins, he still liked the idea of just holding Cas for the night.
"Is that a good memory?" He tried, while his hand trailed up his jaw and swooped under his eye.
"Yes."
Dean was close now, closer than before, and he vibrated with anticipation. He was happy, at that moment, that Castiel was far more human than an angel, therefore not giving him more heightened senses to precept his anxiety.
Though all of this made him nervous and chew his nails down to the bed, he couldn't think of a place he'd rather be than kneeling on a cold floor worshiping an angel with his touch.
Ever so slowly, Dean brought his face closer to Cas' until there was no more room left to give.
This time, it wasn't really an introductory kiss anymore.
Their lips were like old souls that finally found one another, hungry for each other in a way that was new to both of them.
The Rubix cube was dropped and bounced off the bed, clacking hard on the wood floor, but neither seemed to even notice. Castiel's hands wound up Dean's shoulders until they landed at the back of his neck, where they circled around him, not letting him go.
Castiel tasted like mint toothpaste, and Listerine, along with the smell of his body wash, made Dean hungry in a way he hadn't felt in a long time.
Slowly, he rose from his kneeling position, the creak in his knees easily forgotten on this day as he found a better footing and ended up hovering over Cas, dangerously close to straddling him. His hands were planted on either side of Cas' neck.
Goosebumps raced down Cas' body, something that didn't go unnoticed by the hunter.
Everything about Castiel was cool, like a breeze or the other side of the pillow. It was reassuring, and a welcomed clash against the raging heat coursing through his own body, the touch of their lips was like two different atmospheric pressures colliding, and a tornado was imminent.
Dean collected what little courage he had left and ran his tongue along the seam of Cas' lips. The angel's grip on the back of his neck tightened before sliding free, running back down over a shoulder, and resting on his chest in one fluid movement. His other hand was busy running his finger along the shell of his ear.
Tentatively, the angel parted his lips in a sigh that set Dean's hands into fists in the blankets in his grip.
Who knew an exhale could be so god damn lewd.
Speaking of God, he might need to shut his eyes and ears because Dean had many ideas that he wanted to try out before the night was over.
Since Castiel was more human now than he had ever been, he found himself relinquishing under the weight of human instinct. When he was an angel, he never felt anything like this. Never excitement or hunger, just pure contentedness.
So he let himself be pulled in by the promise of temptation and instinct.
He pulled his fingers through Dean's short sandy hair, and with his other hand, he slowly slipped it under the neckline of his shirt and felt the strong, rolling muscles of his back.
Dean made a sound low in his throat that sounded remarkably close to a growl. Cas' stomach tightened as the sound filled his body.
Dean broke the kiss with his eyes sealed shut, the look on his face took the breath straight from the angel's lungs. He was so beautiful, the light of the lamp highlighting the strong lines of his nose, lighting up each freckle individually, making Cas want to kiss each one. His kiss reddened lips parted as he sucked in a breath. He looked like he was in pain, but better.
It made the angel squirm.
The serene moment snapped away, and Dean's lips gently traipsed down Castiel's jawline and under his ear. Dean exhaled his held breath down the back of Cas' neck, and he shivered. His reaction was met with a grin, which he also felt on his neck.
Hot, open-mouthed kisses worked their way down his throat, and he craned his neck back to allow Dean better access.
Dean grunted and moved his legs, he couldn't reach everything he wanted to. He threw a leg over Castiel's, straddling his upper thighs.
Happy with his decision that made Cas flush from head to toe, Dean traced the outline of Cas' protruding Adam's apple with the tip of his tongue.
Castiel let out a noise that was a cross of a hiccup and a moan. Dean took that noise as encouragement and continued his adventure downward.
The hollow of his throat was a good spot for the barest of kisses, just enough to feel the heat of his skin on his throat, enough to make him squirm.
Dean liked making people squirm, especially when they were underneath him.
The hunter took his time down his body, ignoring anything that might elicit a noise louder than what they were bartering for, considering that they weren't in the bunker alone.
Castiel gasped loudly and arched his back when Dean carefully dragged his teeth over Cas's good side.
Dean smiled against his skin and licked the slightest of scrapes that would be healed before the next sunrise.
The hunter licked and sucked and swirled his tongue, grazing with his teeth and teasing with his breaths.
Castiel was panting like a marathon runner, his fingers tangled deeply into Dean's hair as he explored his body with his tongue.
Cas could get used to this, and that revelation scared him in a way he didn't understand.
"Cas?" The deep voice echoing down the hallway made Dean's stomach drop clear to his feet.
He stood up so fast his head spun. He launched himself to the door and braced his shoulder against it as his brother passed his door to look in Cas' room, calling out his name the whole time.
Dean's heart pounded in his chest, making his whole body ache. Adrenaline ran rampant in him, along with the fear of getting caught by his brother.
Castiel watched him from the bed, braced up on his elbows with parted lips and wild hair.
"Dean," Sam rapped his knuckles on the door. Dean screwed his eyes shut and waited for Sam to continue.
"Have you seen Cas?"
Dean hesitated and glanced at the angel, clothed in only a towel, and sprawled across his bed with faint suck marks marring his stomach and chest, his own teeth imprinted on his sides.
"No." Dean lied, using the most nonchalant voice he had. "Maybe he went out," he offered the suggestion, and Sam grunted in response before walking back down the hall.
Dean let out a breath and slid down the door, resting his elbows on his knees, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Should I go see what he wants?" Cas piqued up from the bed.
No, don't leave. Stay, for the love of God, don't go. Dean thought to himself but shrugged instead. He desperately wanted the angel to stay so he could carry on with his experiments.
"You should probably put on pants first," Dean answered dryly. "And wipe that look of your face,"
"What look?" He frowned
Dean stood slowly and regarded the angel with heavy eyes, allowing to show just a bit of how he felt.
"The look that makes me think that you shouldn't leave this room,"
The frown smoothed out, but a faint blush alighted on his cheeks when he understood what he meant.
"Oh."
"Go get dressed," Dean said gruffly and walked out of his bedroom first, latching it shut and went to go stall Sam so it would like that Cas was just in the shower the whole time and not on Dean's bed, learning how to forget his name.
Oh god. Dean thought and ran a hand over his face. It was hard enough when he just knew the taste of Castiel's lips, now he had to ignore the fact that he knew what (almost) the rest of him tasted like too.
He wasn't going to sleep a wink that night.
-=-

Castiel walked into the kitchen ten minutes later, dressed and clean, a loose T-shirt and sweatpants and floppy hair that stuck out in all directions.
Dean had to look away, from his sex hair to the corded veins circling his arms, Dean had to say a prayer.
Cas gave a half-assed excuse to the younger Winchester about how he was in the shower and didn't hear him calling when Sam confronted him.
Liar, Dean thought. Lift up your shirt and show him the bite marks on your stomach that will last till morning.
But Dean just listened calmly from his perch at the table with a cup of coffee and a newspaper in his hand.