Castiel was a saint.
That was Dean's only explanation. Staring blankly at the other man, he desperately scraped around his head, trying to come up with a response. Just a few words. Maybe an 'okay' would do, but nothing seemed to be wired right anymore, and he just stood, dumbfounded and silent.
"I said I accept your apology, Dean." Castiel tilted his head to one side, as if he couldn't comprehend that those words, that open forgiveness he was bestowing upon his companion, was nothing short of earth-shattering.
In a nutshell, Dean wasn't used to getting breaks. Anything convenient came with a price. It was one thing for Castiel to accept him back with open arms after he had left him in the dust. But this, getting him messed up in Crowley's company, watching him get insulted from everything from his drink to his country, there was no other explanation Dean could call to mind, nothing short of actual divinity, about how someone could just take a look at another's mountain of flaws, and push through them, like they weren't anything more hindering than a gust of wind.
"Dean?" Castiel was squinting at him. "Are you okay?"
"You, uh," Dean swiped a hand across his mouth. The humid air from the sea was making him sweat. "I was kind of expecting you to say something else."
"What else would I say?"
"Oh, you know, 'I never want to see you again, you dumb bastard,' or 'if I see you at my shop anymore I will personally see that your face gets smashed in with a crowbar.' You know, the usual stuff you say to people you're breaking it off with."
Castiel's confusion did not alleviate. "I don't understand. I'm not mad at you, Dean." He shrugged. "I mean I was, I suppose, but well, it was hardly your fault, how the night went."
"I could've bothered to stand up for you," Dean grumbled.
"You could've." Castiel responded. "I said as much. But I'm a romantic, Dean, I'm not stupid. If you started defending me in front of them, being blacklisted would probably have been the start of your problems." He touched Dean's arm gently, curling his fingers just above his elbow. Dean leaned into it, chest aching when he imagined what he would do without being able to simply exist besides Castiel. He hadn't realized how attached he'd grown until the possibility of loss came into his mind; as was typical of him – he noticed things like that too late. Except this time, it felt like he was being given an undeserved second chance. "Take me home, Mr. Winchester," Castiel murmured into Dean's ear, nodding not the way he had come with Gabriel and Balthazar hours ago, but in the opposite direction.
Where Dean lived.
Faintly, Dean realized he had actually gulped. Reaching up to pull at his collar only stirred the still air around them, and made him feel Castiel's breath touching down his neck. He shivered, but this time the weather wasn't what was making his body react.
"Yeah, sure." Dean said, feeling his fingers curl deeper into his shirt, Castiel's arm slipping into the crook of Dean's.
They walked down the road, arm in arm, the illumination from streetlights and the odd apartment window guiding the way. Sometimes Dean swore he could feel Castiel's lips against his ear or his cheek or his hairline, and other times Castiel caught Dean staring at him with dark, heated eyes. Dean honestly wondered how they would actually manage to make it home without falling all over one another. Lust was, after all, negligible until it was introduced; and Castiel's suggesting tone had left a fire scorching through Dean, so much so that he entertained the idea of being pressed up against the brick wall of an alley, being kissed and ravished by Castiel in some dirty, depraved way, and felt all the more desperate for it.
It actually came as quite a surprise when Dean's building came into view. It used to be an old mansion on the curves of the bay, later re-done and turned into single bedroom apartments; four floors and sixteen rooms worth. It had long lost its elegant luster after too many storms wore down the paint and a long line of landlords refused to fix it up, so it was lost to the bachelors of the city who preferred a cheap place to house their hobbies and the peculiar life that came when you were adrift between a family and a wife. Dean had met a few of his neighbors, and nearly all of them seemed identical to him; they all sat cooped up inside, perhaps with a job, or an irregular way to pay the rent. Sometimes you could make out another person was with them, sharing the night, but thankfully the walls were thick enough that nothing short of a band rehearsing would be clearly heard. Dean fished the key out of his pocket and reluctantly unlatched himself from Castiel. They were still close. Too close, and yet they still were forced to refrain from actually touching one another – it was a maddening feeling, and Dean fumbled clumsily with the lock, trying to get back some sort of composure.
They slipped inside; the foyer was a tiny room with a staircase and a set of mailboxes for the tenants. "Please tell me you're close," Castiel whispered again.
"Top floor." Castiel groaned in response, hastening towards the staircase, overcoat billowing out behind him as he hurried along.
Another door awaited them, and this time it seemed like the last thread of patience Castiel had been riding on was moments away from snapping apart. He loomed beside Dean, not that interested in the fact that the other's hands shook in an effort to both unlock his godforsaken door and obscenely curse both in his head and under his breath about why the contraptions were so damn small that you couldn't even see the damn things, shit! No, instead he seemed to be reappraising every square inch of Dean's face, his mouth slightly agape as if about to say something else that would set Dean's mind alight and his focus handicapped further.
The door mercifully opened with a small creak, and Dean let himself inside.
Castiel probably wouldn't have given Dean time to close and latch the thing back up, but thankfully, being slammed against the aperture, mouths pressed hotly together, Dean managed to get enough of his gray cells working to make sure that the room was bolted shut, and no one would be coming in for a surprise show.
After that, however, intelligent thoughts seemed to have shriveled up in his brain. Because Castiel was… Castiel was – oh Dean groaned, feeling his teeth bite into the red of the other man's lips. There was a sudden notion that as alluring and consuming the mere touch of Castiel's mouth to his was, he needed more. His hands went from the other's shoulder and began curling around the trench coat, slipping it off to a pile on the ground. One, two buttons on the suit jacket, and then that was gone as well.
They broke apart, and Castiel grasped at Dean's clothes. "Take them off," he commanded, low and feral and just this side of dangerous. And Dean found himself halfway done unbuttoning his dress shirt before feeling Castiel's hand on his tie, dragging him forward for another frenzied set of kisses. Castiel moved his hands to loosen the knot at Dean' throat, and shuddered when Dean's fingers pulled at his belt. There was the metallic clink as it came undone, and Castiel's hands stopped roaming, settling again on the now naked skin of Dean's waist, content there.
Their eyes met; a blue gaze on green, and Dean let a hand trail to Castiel's jaw, holding them in place. He smiled then, catching the flush on Castiel's cheek and the way his hair had quickly gone from brushed to out of control. The way he could see a sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat and every breath he took made his shoulders twitch.
This wasn't the first time he had been pushed against the door and kissed silly, without pause – it wasn't even the first time he had to wait on the edge of his seat to get home, the other person breathing down his neck in a way that made even walking a straight line an uphill battle. But being with Castiel gave him pause in a way that made his heart beat faster and his longing grow exponentially. Every intimate moment with Castiel felt like the last he would ever have the pleasure to keep. So the reverence of being able to hold him felt like some sort of miracle.
"Thank-you," Dean murmured, Castiel blinked and he could feel his lashes against the ridges of his finger. His mouth opened and Dean's thumb brushed his bottom lip.
"For what?" Dean swallowed.
"Letting me have this. Letting me have you, I mean." Castiel offered a subdued smile.
"That is a two way street, Dean. So, thank-you, as well." He leaned to kiss him again, not as flurried as before, no longer desperate, the action slipped into a slow burn as they moved; their mouths, their hands, halfway through getting Castiel out of his pants he realized they'd have to get to the bed at some point. He nudged the other man a bit as he walked the both of them in short, unhurried steps. Dean's bed was on the other side of the apartment, though when you found yourself nearly completely entwined movement on any sort of vertical plane was always more than a bit tricky. It turned almost into a dance: A step, a kiss, another piece of clothing dropping to the floor, fingers tangled in hair already damp from sweat and the dank summer weather. If one fumbled as they moved, the other was sure to catch them like it wasn't even second-nature, as if the pair of them had been born to help the other up.
It wasn't until they were at the foot of the bed that Castiel seemed… hesitant. "Something wrong?" Dean said as he kissed delicately down the side of Castiel's neck, careful to not leave any marks, hands on his bare chest.
Instead of bolting from the room like Dean feared he would, he let out a self-conscious huff, sounding misplaced from the rough chip of his voice. "Oh, you're going to laugh…" he carried off, sitting down at the edge of the bed, pulling Dean on top of him just like before, in Castiel's bedroom. This time they were both half naked already, and neither was quite so prudent.
And no one would be coming up the stairs.
"No, tell me," Dean prodded gently, now genuinely curious, especially after the tint of Castiel's cheek inexplicably darkened.
"I…" he shook his head. "I probably won't be very good at this," he admitted. Dean stilled.
"You're a virgin?" he asked. Castiel made another noise that parodied a laugh, kissing Dean's cheeks.
"No, not that. Almost, though. It's been a few years."
"Years?"
"I said that I don't make a habit of coming on to people," Castiel said. "You are, in all, just the second."
Dean remembered that line, when the wounds from Alastair and his buddies were still fresh on the other man. "Sure, but I thought…" he paused.
"What?"
Dean pressed down on Castiel, and he fell on his back, onto the bed. Dean continued the little kisses on Castiel's chest, looking up at the other man as he did so. "I thought that must have meant that other people came onto you; only two, Cas? Have you looked in a mirror at all? If my damned boss didn't show up I'd be more worried about a ton of girls coming by to pick you up – you're practically a Rudolph Valentino." He brushed a few dark strands from Castiel's forehead. "You're gorgeous."
It was rather amazing, watching how flustered a usually subdued man like Castiel could get. Dean wasn't too sure if Castiel had gone red from the onslaught of compliments – which were all true – or the fact that he had nothing more than underwear on, and Dean, slowly working his way down the other's stomach, was about to get those off, too. He let a few fingers brush against the bulge in the cotton, and Castiel gave a full-body shutter, closing his eyes.
"Like that?" Dean murmured, going back for more touches while he kissed Castiel's hips; the man was nearly shaking under him as his fingers teased him through the shorts.
Above him, he heard Castiel whimper.
"I'll take that as a yes," Dean said. He turned his head and drew back his hand, instead pressing open mouthed kisses there at Castiel's crotch. The other man made a strangled noise, as if not quite believing what he was seeing, feeling, and then Dean finally pried the shorts away with a sticky slide down his legs.
Dean paused.
"Huh." He said.
Castiel propped himself up on his elbows. "Something wrong?"
"Not wrong." He let his forefinger hover just above the edge of foreskin, the other hand resting on Castiel's leg. "Just wondered why you were wearing a turtleneck in July, that's all." And poor Castiel didn't even posses the ability to look miffed at that; not with Dean's idle explorations of his body. He caressed and teased – quite a few emigrated men were uncut anyway, so Dean wasn't exactly surprised; one reputable facet learned for men like Castiel was that they were always, always, more sensitive to touch.
For once Castiel had difficulty keeping eye contact. Ruddy-faced and shaking, he focused on Dean's hands, one wrapped around the very top of his thigh, thumb gently stroking back and forth against soft skin and light hairs there, dreadfully close to that particular spot of nerves, hot and hard and achingly sensitive with want, with the way Dean's eyes glinted in the low burn of the lamp, his teasing little touches and scorching kisses and the idea that maybe, after so long –
Dean touched him, then. Little pinpricks of contact right below the head – and Castiel threw himself back sharp enough to bang his skull on the wired headboard; unable to feel the pain as he howled a long string of foreign words to the ceiling.
When he was done – enough to breathe once more – Dean was panting, too.
Castiel's accent had been easily ignorable for a while, but in that instant, Dean was reminded with vigor that Castiel's first language was not English. It was one of the first times he had heard Castiel curse – really curse, and he could pick out most of the words – but such an interesting way he bunched them together just then! And there were some words that he couldn't make out. Ones that were probably spawned in whatever little village Castiel had lived in once, never going beyond a local scope. His mind tried to fill in the blank spaces, and every time the message's content got dirtier, specific, begging even. And Castiel's gruff, native inflection stuck out to such a potent degree that Dean doubted he'd be able to bear the other muttering the most innocent and systematic sentences without getting red in the face like he was now; shifting impatiently as his jaw clenched, toes curled into the bedspread.
"Dean," Castiel was leaning forward, a desperate look on his face. He grasped at the back of Dean's neck, legs twisting underneath the other man, trying to pull the two of them closer. "Dean, please."
And already Dean felt like the luckiest guy in the world. He let go of Castiel, gave him a few kisses to either soothe or worsen the ache of lust, and eased him back down. He nodded over to the nightstand table. "I need something from there." And he leaned up, over the other man's body, unwilling to leave the tangle of limbs and heat for even a moment, even as he moved so that his chest was at the same level of Castiel's head.
He eased one of the drawers open, rifled around, and just as his hand closed on a small jar of oil, Castiel had apparently decided to right revenge on the man who had teased him just moments ago.
In all the time they had spent together, Dean had never figured that Castiel's hands – getting full use from his trade as a tailor; cutting, measuring, writing and such, with a practiced grip that never wavered on the job – would amount to a hidden weapon. He felt them trail his abdomen with practiced control and gentleness, and as they wandered past the ticklish sections of his stomach, along the straining muscles of his back, the dip of his spine; massaging, touching, it was almost relaxing – the soothing touch of a lover helping the other get to sleep, perhaps. But somehow, even as his body arched at the touch without conscious thought, Dean was too enthralled in the motions to even remember how to moan.
The room became so hot he couldn't seem to breathe.
And then he felt the light scratches of Castiel's fingernails as they went down farther along his back, slipping into his underwear, pushing the shorts farther down his legs to grasp him, squeeze him.
Dean was left with two choices; fall off the bed, or settle back down with Castiel.
One hand left his ass and dragged him down until Dean could look Castiel in the eye again. Their kiss was a rough trail of heat in each other's mouths, Dean blindly scrabbling to get his shorts off the rest of the way. He now could feel every precious inch of Castiel, and as the other's arms wrapped around him once more, pulling him impossibly closer, he felt an odd sense of peace, buried under the rapid tides of his mind, mostly controlled by the overworked amount of sensations, the need to find release.
Still fisted in his right hand was the bottle.
Dean found a moment of solace, or at least a place to catch his breath, buried in the crook of Castiel's neck. "You know how this works, right?" He could feel Castiel's chest stutter as he sighed. He nodded, tracing along Dean's jaw line for a moment before letting him up, to sit between Castiel's thighs. Dean unscrewed the bottle while stubbornly trying to be unperturbed by the commands of his body; the way he had to keep to slow, steady breathing every time the skin of Castiel brushed his own. The room was quiescent once more; pale and dark from the night.
Castiel watched Dean with dark eyes. His fingers dipped into the golden colored liquid; it was slick, and gave off the wooden, spiced smell of myrrh. "May I ask you something?" he said. Dean looked up, saw the expression on Castiel's face as an understandable amount of nerves, so he nodded, absently sliding his fingers together.
"How many people have you been with?"
Dean felt something not unlike shame burn in his chest – it took him by surprise; usually he wore his badge of vice with pride. But looking at Castiel, it was different. Castiel himself, was just different. "Too many to count," Dean answered honestly.
Castiel glanced out towards the window. Dean had thankfully shut the curtains before he had left, as was his habit; soft hints of light came through, but hardly a shadow would be cast from the other side, should anyone walk by the window. "Just for the night, right?"
"As slick as I am, now's not the best time to be discussing every tryst I've had in my life," he tried to keep his voice even.
"Sorry," Castiel said at length.
Dean hesitated, then dimly wondered if Castiel thought he was even in the same hemisphere as the people he'd impulsively pick up at bars and clubs. He put a reassuring hand on Castiel's thigh. "I've been with a lot of people," he offered. "We have our fun, I kick them out after and that's it." He leaned up, kissing Castiel's parted lips. "But the ones I care about? The ones I want to stay by? I don't even need a full hand to count people like that." He smiled in an assuring way, hoping Castiel would be able to put two and two together.
"Okay," Castiel responded. He paused a moment, then nodded down at their bodies as a nonverbal instruction.
Dean adjusted himself and slide one finger inside.
The reaction was instantaneous. Castiel made a face near to a wince. "It's cold," he muttered, and Dean shrugged a shoulder in a helpless way.
"Most stuff is cold compared to the rest of you." But still he offered Castiel some reprieve, leaning up to catch his mouth again, not pulling away until he thought their lips felt near to bleeding, leaving Castiel with a beautiful contrast, between the white pallor of his skin – not so shy anymore – the darkness of his hair, and the luminescent glow of his eyes and lips further cemented the image of the other man as a work of art in Dean's head. How had Castiel been alone for so long? Looking like that – there was a languid groan falling from both their lips.
Dean leaned in closer, adding one more digit as Castiel bit on the inside of his cheek, trying to alleviate the burn of flesh, the anxiety that came with the territory. "But really though? Years?" he was more than a little incredulous, and a naked, desire-ridden Castiel was certainly one of those erotic delights Dean would keep tucked away in his mind forever; the way that Castiel was laying, open, trusting, worked over and just barely kept intelligent by the brush of a dulled ache; Dean considered it a miracle he had never gotten carried away.
Castiel gasped, rings of muscles quivered under Dean's touch and he smirked at the lucky find.
"Just one. That was… shit, when… when we first came here." Dean's expression became good-humored, and he slowly let his fingers slide out of him. He reached for the bottle again, pulse thundering furiously in his ears as he slicked the rest of himself. Castiel let his breathing steady as he waited, rustling against the sheets. "Well," he supplied in the humid air of Dean's apartment, "not everyone is as insatiable as you, Dean."
Dean's lips curled up, showing a quick flash of teeth. He tossed the bottle on the other end of the mattress. "Just so you know," he said, gripping Castiel's thighs, hovering over him. "I'm taking that as a challenge."
Their pace was unusually slow for someone like Dean. Not just the first few experimental thrusts; or the moments they curled together without moving, waiting to adjust; or even the long push-pulls where their bodies met, both comfortable and drawn out to house the spikes of pleasure they felt. The entirety of their love-making, even before they had fallen into bed, had extended into a long, linear stretch – this wasn't just one night's payoff; this sort of thing had been weeks, months, in the making, and Dean, until now, hadn't even realized it.
A quickened thrust had Castiel practically bowed from the bed, and Dean fell into him, kissing up his throat and swallowing half a string of foreign curses – still shivering when they came to his ears.
It had been years since Dean had something like this; someone he renowned and treated as a treasured person; where he went slowly, carefully, without the languidness that alcohol brought as an accomplice.
They moved faster, hands digging into one another in desperation as Castiel called out his name mixed with curses, falling from his mouth like it was the only prayer he knew. He felt Castiel's legs interlock together on his back and that was it; Castiel came with a final shout that Dean would never think of silencing, no matter who would hear.
Castiel looked up at him; dazed with pleasure, as if not believing that it had been that good, and – finally, finally, that had been the last spark before Dean's body ignited; colors burst from the back of his eyes and he collapsed, boneless, onto the splendor of Castiel's flesh.
They were entangled in silence and far-reaching breaths for quite a while after that.
"That was…" Castiel seemed to wrack his brain for the proper word, and Dean tried not to split his face in a self congratulatory grin. He moved just slight enough that Castiel wouldn't risk his ribcage being crushed during the night.
Whatever remained of the night.
"Maybe it'll come to you in the morning," Dean said helpfully. He went on his side, one arm going around Castiel's stomach. Castiel shifted himself, but didn't move away. He stared at the ceiling for a long time. Dean didn't mind, unwilling to talk again; everything seemed drained out of him now, so he merely kissed Castiel's temple as a way to say goodnight, letting his other hand run through thick, dark hair, now partly curled from the heat.
After Dean had stopped even that, fully asleep, Castiel turned his head towards him and smiled, watching him with fond eyes.
xxxx
Long ago, Dean had learned to function with only a few fitful hours of rest. But after so many years in the city where the only thing you found yourself waking up to was a car horn or a particularly large clap of thunder, drifting into a deeper sleep had been an allowed luxury.
Still, the old memories of his life before, where it was just him, his brother, and John, kept him in tune enough that when he awoke later that night, he knew it was for a particular reason.
It had to be a few hours short of dawn, for there were no moonbeams shining through the pulled curtain and shades – and the dim street lamps below hardly did anything but betray the window's shape. The sheets were tousled, warm.
But he was alone.
He curled his fingers into the bedspread, and heard something besides his own breathing in the dim room.
The creak of floorboards.
The gentle rustle of clothing.
"Cas?" he whispered. The sound ceased for a moment, but Dean, still more than half asleep, couldn't seem to dredge up his survival instincts that were so easily smothered by a warm bed and soft blankets. He'd be embarrassed, if he could remember it in the morning.
Slowly, Castiel's figure came into view. He was holding his shoes and socks in hand; his pants already on.
"What's the matter?" Dean said, voice muddled.
"I…" Castiel sent a flurried glance to the door, and then the clothing in his hands. "I thought maybe…" Dean sighed.
"Come back to bed, Cas." He blindly reached out for a corner of blanket, lifting it up in invitation. Castiel stood there; still uncertain, for a moment, before finally setting down his shoes and pulling off his trousers, standing just in his shorts. He had a weary smile on his face as he slipped under the covers besides Dean.
"Thank-you." He kissed Dean's sleep-warm cheek and let himself be enveloped, partly due to Dean's subconscious search for warmth against the cool weather that had descended during the night.
Dean didn't respond; may have not even heard Castiel as he drifted off. The whole thing passed like a dream, and in the morning Dean didn't even wonder why or how Castiel had gotten his underwear on in the middle of the night, or how all of his clothes seemed a little closer to the bed than before.
xxxx
For once Dean found himself awake at eight o' clock, on a Sunday, and not minding it one bit. The main difference was Castiel, still deep seated in his arms, though he was persistently trying to get Dean to release him.
"What's up?" he said, smiling. Castiel stilled at the look, paused, and then slowly smiled back. "It's early, still. You don't even work on Sundays, do you?"
"I have to go to church." Dean squinted at him for a moment, and then nodded his head towards the rest of the bed; the way they still laid entangled together. "We're like this… and the one thing on your mind is getting dressed and going to pray."
"Well, it's not the only thing on my mind." Castiel offered.
"Screw the church,"
"Don't say that."
Dean grunted before settling back down, taking his arms away so that Castiel could move.
He didn't.
"I never told Anna and Gabriel that I'd be gone for the night, either." He said.
"Anna said that you can take care of yourself."
"They might appreciate knowing I'm not dead in a ditch." Dean sighed, and sat up, sitting cross-legged on the bed and staring down at Castiel. He ran a hand down to touch his friend's cheek, hand scratching against stubble.
"You can't just waltz in there in yesterday's suit with scruff on your face," Dean said. "By the time you looked like you didn't just roll out of bed. With me," he added with emphasis, "The service would be half over."
"If you want me to stay you could just ask." Castiel said, slowly straightening to sit on the edge of the bed. He stared down at the clothes that were strewn around the floor, and realized that despite spending a night in Dean's own private abode, he hadn't bothered to take in the scenery that remained separate of, say, Dean himself. And maybe the bed.
It was bigger than Castiel's room if only because it only had the one room to claim as its own. There was the nightstand, and on one side of the bed there was a wardrobe and a dresser, fitted in the space between the two windows with drawn curtains. On the other side sat a table with three chairs, a pile of letters on them; the most decorative feature was a small Persian throw rug and a large armchair that looked like the most lived in part of the place. It was a little surprising, how minimalist Dean's apartment was. There was quite a lot of furniture, but everything remained closed off, like most of his belongings had been packed away somewhere else. On the far end of the room, by the exit door, and entrance to what was probably a washroom, was a modest kitchen setting that betrayed the moderate age of the building; a few cabinets hung above a gas stove, a sink, and the newest piece of technology; an icebox, which was snugly fit between the two, probably where another drawer had once been. There were no books, at least not lying out with the idea that Dean had been reading them; and beside for the white molding on the walls, the sides of the room were entirely devoid of decoration. It felt, aside from the piles of papers on what might have been Dean's makeshift desk, just a ramification of a living place – an example found in an advertisement, perhaps.
It felt, in some way, incredibly lonely. Especially when one took into account the owner of the home.
Dean didn't seem to notice Castiel's inspection of his room. He stood up, moved off the bed and stretched, muscles buzzing as they were drawn taught. Castiel watched him, and had risen to his feet so that when Dean righted himself, Castiel was right behind him, placing a careful kiss on the bronze flesh of his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Dean, much like Dean had done to him in the night.
"You want to stay for breakfast?" Dean asked; perhaps as his own method to keep Castiel there.
"I'd like that." Castiel said, nose still pressed against the skin, hands still on his stomach. When he moved away he wasn't expecting to get another deep-set, longing kiss from Dean, and when that happened he nearly fell back onto the bed in surprise.
It was alright, anyway. Dean caught him before he ever really lost his balance.
xxxx
Dean was content to putz around the kitchen completely nude, picking up scraps of clothing and either tossing them onto or near the bed – his – or folding them up and laying them on the back of the armchair – Castiel's – until he reached what would most sensibly be dubbed his kitchen; which all in all spanned roughly five feet across. "Coffee?" he asked.
Castiel, more modest, had slipped into his dress shirt and seemed to be contemplating whether putting on slacks would somehow be offensively too advanced compared to Dean's state of dress. "Please." He said, as he sat in one of the chairs placed around the table. Dean supposed he had come to the conclusion that, given what they had been doing just hours before, he was in no place to be embarrassed by baring his legs; especially not if Dean thoughtlessly bared… everything else.
He opened the cabinets and hummed in a thoughtful way, taking out a few things. He idly cut up an Italian roll, letting them toast on a skillet. "Hey, you like marmalade, right?" Castiel said that he did, lazily watching Dean amble over his morning routine as if he didn't have a guest; as their breakfast cooked, he went to slip on some lounge clothes, and when he opened his drawers to fetch them he thought with some amusement that Castiel might be recognize the majority of his outfits that he had mended by hand. He tossed open the curtains, finally, betraying the sunny streets of the city that were unprecedented, considering the heaviness of the air the night before. Dean caught the remnants of a storm that had passed in the form of puddles on the street, but they would be gone before lunch; the sun determined to shine through. Every once in a while he would glance over at Castiel, whose look hadn't strayed from whatever he happened to be doing. But it was more of an unconscious movement, and Dean hardly felt like he was being judged on any field by the other man. He only left Castiel's sight for the spare moments it took to wash his face in the bathroom. He looked surprisingly well rested – no bags or ashen complexion, and there was still that feeling of tranquility running through him, an odd sense, that. Dean never thought he kept himself too utterly busy, but it was as if he had been so preoccupied running around – in his head, if nowhere else – that he hadn't truly noticed in the first place.
When he stepped back into the room, he piled pieces of toast on a plate, then coffee and a few preserves of choice. He sat down next to Castiel and saw the other man preoccupied with something else; staring at the clump of mail he had on the table.
Castiel seemed to sense Dean looking, and distractedly reached for a coffee cup, he was curious no doubt, but was either refusing to ask Dean a question or was trying to find how to voice it. Dean glanced back to the letters. "They're from my brother," he supplied.
"Oh."
"He's in Venice, now." Castiel tilted his head, pursed his lips.
"Italy?"
"California."
"…I see. Yes, I remember now. Do you write back?"
"'Course. All the time. I got his two days ago, I just never got around to sitting down to reply."
"What's he doing there?" It was asked as a casual inquiry, less of an explanation for how the both of them ended up on opposite sides of the country; then again Castiel might have already known the basic premise of that, anyway.
"Right now? Looking for a job, I suppose. Jess – his wife – got, oh what was it…" he flipped through a few pages. "Okay, here. She's got a job watching kids for a while, plus being a bookkeeper."
"A bookkeeper? For finances?" Castiel bit into a slice of toast, the taste of oranges prevalent from the preserves.
"She's smart. Real smart I mean. He says that it was a neighbor she's working for – they're in an apartment down there – and the guy liked her enough to give her a job keeping order in his business. Some sort of realtor, I think. Sam, well, Sam's working, but he wants to go to a firm."
"As a lawyer?"
Dean smiled. "He's almost as smart as Jess." He set the papers down, and pushed them off to the side. Castiel's expression turned contemplative for a bit.
"What do you tell him?" he said finally, just as Dean was reaching for a jar of rhubarb and strawberry spread. He paused, fingers still outstretched. Castiel sipped his coffee, not appearing to notice Dean's hesitation.
"Whatever I'm up to, I guess," he mumbled halfheartedly. "Not a lot, really. My brother's the one pursuing a dream, after all. He has a family, he's in a place I've never seen – I'm just not that interesting."
"I think you're interesting," Castiel supplied, almost immediately. When Dean focused back on him he almost seemed embarrassed by how quick he ran to Dean's defense against himself.
"Don't worry," Dean teased. "You'll get to know me well enough to know I'm nothing to write…" he gestured at the letters, "Venice about." Castiel squinted.
"No," he said. "I don't think I ever will. You're many things, Dean, but I don't think you fit into the 'run of the mill' type. It's not… exciting enough for you." He blinked. "I mean there's hardly any bank heists in regular Joe work."
"…You pulling my leg?" Castiel shrugged.
"You don't know a man like Gabriel for thirty-odd years and not come out of it without some room for humor."
"I guess not," Though perhaps Gabriel's humorous side hadn't been shown to him yet. Dean fitted his hand under his chin and rested it on the tabletop. "Though for what it's worth, you're not so ordinary yourself, Cas."
"Well, I don't know about that."
"You have your own mystique about you, too. You know more about me than I do of you." Castiel gave him a subdued smirk.
"Then perhaps you'll just have to get to know me better."
"I can't wait."
xxxx
A/N: Well, this story just earned itself an M rating. No history lessons this time around, I'm afraid, unless I start with Rudolph Valentino, who was that era's Jensen Ackles, pre-crazy Tom Cruise, and Jesus, all rolled into one,or which ethnic populations weren't commonly circumcised in the early 20th century. Instead it's more of a personal confession about the… more memorable part of the chapter; you might have gathered, but this was my very first attempt at a sex scene. Ever. Yeah. So it's kind of more towards the soft-core side; part of it is more of my own writing preference, though if you wanted a more legitimate reason I could say that the narrative evokes a more time-sensitive style, and not that we didn't have crazy borderline pieces of media in the 1920s, but the focus on emotions and imagery versus the physical mechanics of sex – which really kind of boils down to 'insert tab A into slot B' scenario anyway no matter how you dress it – not that there's anything wrong with sex, but in this story every scene has a point – such as characterization, in this chapter's case.