Cas is human now.
It hits Dean all over again at random moments. Walking into the Bunker's kitchen in the morning and finding the fallen angel eating cereal in his pajamas. (He likes the sweet cereals, Fruity Pebbles and Captain Crunch, much to Sam's disappointment and Dean's delight.) Passing Cas in the hall when he's just showered and smells like eucalyptus and tea tree instead of thunderstorms and heavenly power. Catching him with his readers on, squinting at the tiny print in some dusty old tome in the library because apparently his twenty/twenty vision went away with his grace.
Cas is human, therefore he does human things, eats and sleeps and bathes and spends an hour in the bathroom after having dairy. (He's started putting Sam's soy milk on his cereal but refuses to give up real cheese, saying some things are worth suffering for.) Dean knows all this, but for some reason, he's never thought about what else Cas might be doing with his new humanity in private.
That is, until the day he's walking past the former angel's room and hears a low groan. Of course, his first thought is that Cas is hurt, and his imagination conjures up every scenario from a stubbed toe to a broken neck. He dashes to the door which is slightly ajar, but skids to an abrupt halt, socks sliding on the linoleum, when he gets close enough to see through the crack into the room.
Cas is spread out on the bed, stark naked and touching himself.
Dean knows he should walk away as quickly and quietly as possible. Cas clearly doesn't realize that the door isn't shut all the way; he'd be mortified if he knew Dean had seen him. But Dean can't move. His feet are rooted to the spot, his eyes glued to the sight in front of him.
Cas is tan and muscled from his morning jogs with Sam. His pecs are well defined, and there's a freckle just to the right of his nipple that Dean desperately wants to kiss. His stomach is a little soft, a testament to his love of sugary cereal and Dean's homemade bacon cheeseburgers. Remembering how thin and hollowed-out he looked when they first found him after his Fall, Dean thinks this is a definite improvement. His gaze slides lower, following the treasure trail of soft, dark hair to where Cas' hand is wrapped around his hard cock.
It's not the biggest Dean's ever seen, even outside of porn, but it's not small either, and if there's one thing Dean has learned in his sexual adventures with men and toys, it's that bigger is not always better. Cas looks to be the perfect size to give a partner some Grade A fucking without needing tedious amounts of prep or causing undue discomfort the next day. He's long and smooth, flushed deep red, and glistening with pre-come at the tip. Dean's fingers unconsciously curl around empty air as he imagines what that would feel like in his own hand instead of Cas'. Would the skin be as velvety soft as it looks? Would it twitch and throb at Dean's touch? What would those beads of clear fluid dripping from the slit taste like?
This is clearly not Cas' first time. He knows what he likes. His long, strong fingers tease and stroke expertly. His thigh muscles twitch and tremble as he pleasures himself. Dean becomes aware that his own dick is tenting his sweatpants, creating a dark wet spot on the gray fabric, but he doesn't dare move even to press his hand against it. Cas' eyes are closed in bliss, but Dean is still afraid that the slightest sound or movement will draw his attention. He's stopped worrying about the fact that this is wrong. Now he just doesn't want to get caught before Cas comes. He needs to see Cas come.
Cas gives another quiet, desperate groan and lifts his hips, fucking the tight tunnel of his fist. He's close. He's so close, and Dean can feel it in his own gut, that swelling pressure like an overfilled water balloon. And then the balloon breaks, and Cas comes over his hand and stomach, stroking himself through it with a quietly moaned, "Oh, Dean."
Dean gasps. Did he just…
Still lost in the post-orgasm haze, Cas doesn't hear Dean's shocked inhale or his quickly fleeing footsteps.
Safe in his own room, leaning against the solid wood of his door, too desperate with need to even make it the few extra feet to his bed, Dean pushes down his sweatpants and finishes himself off with a few practiced strokes. He stares at the jizz spattering the floor between his feet in a daze, wondering what the fuck just happened.
~o0o~
It's not that Dean never noticed before that moment that Cas is an attractive man-shaped being. He is neither blind nor so deeply repressed as to actually delude himself into believing that he's straight. It's just that ever since That Moment, he can't stop noticing it.
The breadth of Cas' shoulders, the girth of his thighs, the perpetual shadow of stubble around his jaw, that damn nipple freckle when he walks from the shower back to his room wearing only a towel. The image of Cas spread out on that bed, coming with Dean's name on his lips, haunts Dean's dreams, and he wakes up hard enough to pound nails.
He makes a token attempt not to actively and consciously use what he saw to get himself off, but that resolution quickly falls by the wayside when he realizes that nothing else does it for him anymore. Not porn, not memories of the many men and women whose beds he's shared over the years, not even abstract fantasies of imaginary men who look almost but not quite like Cas. It's Cas or no joy.
Of course, the more he gets off on the memory of That Moment, wearing it thin and faded like his first stolen skin mag when he was fifteen, the harder it gets to look the real Cas in the eye. It gets so bad that Dean starts leaving the room as soon as Cas enters it.
Well, naturally, Cas notices that, and he starts giving Dean this kicked puppy look every time it happens. Dean knows he needs to fix this before Cas decides that Dean doesn't want him around anymore, but he has no idea how to fix it, so instead he spends day after miserable day tiptoeing around the Bunker, trying to predict Cas' movements and make his escape before Cas can even see him.
"Dude, did you and Cas have a fight?" Sam asks after about a week of this.
"What? N-no. Wh-why would you think that?" Dean feels he deserves an Oscar for that very convincing performance.
"Because you've barely spoken two words to him all week. And he keeps looking at you like you ran over his guinea pig. Wait. You didn't actually run over his guinea pig, right?"
"No! I would never harm a hair on Mr. Potato Head's head! What kind of soulless monster do you think I am?!"
"Okay, okay. Sorry. I just… I really thought that—" Sam gets this constipated look that either means he just ate half a burrito or he's working himself up to a Feelings Talk. Since there are no half-eaten burritos in sight, Dean knows it's the latter, and honestly, he would rather deal with the gas.
"What, Sam? Spit it out."
"Well, I kind of thought that… I mean, now that Cas is human, and you're not getting interrupted by another apocalypse every five minutes, I thought you guys might finally… y'know."
"What? Braid each other's hair while talking about our feelings? Or did you think we'd skip right to fucking it out on the hood of the Impala?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Must you be so crude about everything?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I meant, make sweet, tender love on the hood of the Impala." Which may or may not be a fantasy Dean has actually had. Multiple times.
The look of disgust on Sam's face almost makes this whole horrifying conversation worthwhile.
"So this isn't some kind of lovers' quarrel?"
"No, because we're not lovers." And there's no quarrel. Just me being a dumbass as usual.
"Okay, well, whatever's going on, you need to fix it before Cas decides he's not welcome here anymore."
"I know that, Sam. Can we drop the subject now please?"
~o0o~
Dean is angrily stuffing clothes into the washing machine (he's not really sure who he's angry at — Sam, himself, or both — but the anger is like a familiar old blanket and he's hanging onto it) when Cas comes in with a basket of laundry. They both freeze when they see each other. Cas eyes Dean warily.
Dean weighs his options. He can pretend he forgot something in his room and slink away, or he can stay and face his problems like an adult.
For quite possibly the first time in his life, he chooses Door Number Two.
"I've got some room. Do you want to combine a load?" There. That sounded totally normal. Casual, even.
"Thank you," Cas says a little stiffly. He steps up beside Dean to tip the contents of his basket into the machine, and their shoulders brush. Cas is wearing a long sleeved t-shirt, but the material is thin enough that Dean can feel the contours of his bicep and the warmth of his body right through that barrier. He unconsciously leans into the contact for a moment before remembering himself and politely sidestepping to give Cas space. The poor guy should be able to do his fucking laundry without Dean perving on him.
Except that was apparently not the right thing to do because Cas gives him that sad look again, and goddammit, Sam was right. That is exactly the look Cas would give Dean if Dean accidentally ran over Mr. Potato Head with the Impala.
"Dean, if I've done something to offend you, I wish you would at least tell me what it was so I can avoid repeating the mistake in the future."
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. "Cas, I'm not mad at you."
Cas puts his empty basket down on the floor and folds his arms. "Then why are you treating me like I've contracted a deadly, contagious disease?"
"Because I…" Fuck, he's gonna have to come clean. It's the only way to stop Cas blaming himself. "Okay, I swear I didn't mean to. I was just walking past and the door wasn't closed all the way, and I saw… and then I heard you say my name, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I avoided you, and I know it was stupid and immature, but I didn't know what else to do."
Maybe not the most articulate confession in history, but Cas understands exactly what Dean is talking about judging by the rising color in his cheeks and his quiet, "Oh."
Dean swallows and waits for Cas to grab his clothes back out of the machine and storm off to his room to pack his meager possessions and his guinea pig and get the hell out of the Bunker. He'll probably want to put three or four state lines between himself and Dean's creepy voyeurism.
Cas looks down at the floor for a moment, then back up to meet Dean's gaze head-on. "Did you like what you saw?" he asks coyly.
Sam might be the one who went to college, but never let it be said that Dean can't put two and two together and get four. "You… you kinky son of a bitch. You left the door open on purpose?"
Cas smirks. "I knew that Sam was out and wouldn't be back for some time."
He knew Dean was watching. He was putting on a show just for him. God, that makes it even hotter.
Cas steps a little closer to Dean. "I admit it was a challenge to keep my eyes closed and pretend I didn't know you were there, but it was so… thrilling knowing that you thought you were watching me illicitly. I intended to invite you in as soon as I had finished, but my orgasm was more intense than I anticipated, and you rushed off before I could recover my faculties. I thought perhaps I had miscalculated and you were displeased with what you saw." Cas' eyes search Dean's face uncertainly.
"No. God, no, Cas. You were… you were beautiful. I just didn't know that you were okay with me seeing you like that."
"But you said you heard me say your name."
"Well, yeah, but fantasizing about someone while you get yourself off and letting that person watch you getting yourself off aren't the same thing."
Cas tilts his head. "I see. Then I apologize for not making my intentions clearer. I never meant to cause you any distress. In the future, I will make sure to communicate my desire for you in ways that cannot be misconstrued." His eyes flick down to Dean's mouth. "Dean, I… I would very much like to kiss you now if that's alright."
"Fuck, yes."
They collide in a frantic, messy, desperate kiss. Cas backs Dean up against the washing machine, slams the lid down, then hoists Dean up on it. Dean scoots to the very edge and opens his legs for Cas to step between them. In between more hungry kisses, they manage to get their shirts off. They settle for just pushing pants and underwear more or less out of the way.
Cas spits in his palm, and for some reason, the vulgarity of the act reminds Dean viscerally that he's having sex with a former angel of the fucking Lord. The thought sends a shot of sacrilegious lust straight to his dick. He throws back his head and moans as Cas takes them both in one big, strong hand.
It's raw and dirty and brutally fast. They give up on kissing and just pant and grunt into each other's necks, mouths open and wet against skin. It seems that only minutes pass before Dean is teetering on the edge.
"Did you," Cas breaks off with a groan as Dean rocks his hips, sliding their cocks together in a counterpoint to the movement of Cas' hand. He rallies and tries again. "Did you think about what you saw that day in my room when you touched yourself?"
"Yeah. It was all I could think about. Nothing else worked."
"Good." The possessive growl gives Dean goosebumps and makes his cock twitch hard in Cas' sure grip. "Next time," Cas breathes directly into Dean's ear, "next time… it's my turn to watch."
And that's it. Dean comes like a fucking rocket, holding onto Cas for dear life lest the force of it propel him into the atmosphere. Cas isn't far behind, and he works them both through it until Dean is soft and overstimulated and has to bat Cas' hand away.
Dean looks down at their combined come dripping down his own chest and laughs. "You know, when I said we should combine a load, this wasn't what I meant, but I definitely ain't complaining."
Cas trails a finger almost reverently through the sticky mess, then sticks the finger in his mouth like he's sampling the frosting on a cake. His eyes flutter closed for a moment as he savors the taste of them together.
"Jesus Christ," Dean breathes, and if he was ten years younger, he'd be hard again just from watching that. Instead, he hauls his thoroughly fallen angel in for another kiss.
They trade languid kisses for a golden eternity in that dingy laundry room, Dean's legs still wrapped around Cas' waist, keeping him close even though Cas shows no sign of ever wanting to stop touching Dean. Dean can count on one hand the number of perfect moments in his life, but this one definitely makes the cut. At least until…
"Hey, Dean, did you start the washer yet? Can I throw a couple things in with your OH MY GOD, MY EYES!"