..

Not So Starry-Eyed

..

They end up driving for a little longer than Dean planned. Nowhere seems like the right place for the conversation they're about to have, and Dean wonders how much of that is just him stalling. He doesn't know why he's stalling, but the notion that he is stalling is nagging in the back of his head.

Cas sits calmly in the passenger seat the entire time, enjoying the scenery and waiting for Dean to pick a spot to stop. He's infuriatingly patient.

I love you echoes in Dean's ears. He knows there's nothing to fear from Cas, but Dean is still nervous as hell.

"So what was the Empty like?" Dean asks, only to try and fill the silence. He can't cope with silence right now.

Cas looks over at him, his hands in his lap and confusion on his face. "Is… is that what you want to discuss?"

Why does Cas have to be like this? "Humor me, man," Dean insists, gripping the steering wheel a bit too tight.

"It was nothing," Cas replies evenly, gazing back out the window at the trees blurring past the window. "Endless nothing."

Dean rolls his eyes, more at himself than at Cas. He should've expected that answer. He's an idiot. He bites the bullet and finally stops the car.

They're on a wide bridge overlooking a river, the sun still in the east. Dean worries for a second about leaving the Impala in the road before he remembers that there's no one else on the planet, nobody left to drive by. They get out of the car and Cas goes over to the edge, his hands on the railing as he takes in the view. Dean leans against the rail next to him, propped on his elbows. Sunlight is glinting off the water as the river rushes beneath the bridge, frothing over the rocks below. The clouds painted against the sky are feathered and distant.

Strangely, Cas barely looks like himself any more. The trenchcoat is gone, as is the tie. Instead he's wearing a white button-down and he looks even more human than the last time he'd lost his grace. Dean supposes maybe it's because they both know it's permanent this time around.

Cas is the one who speaks first. "Dean, I want you to know that I don't want you to feel uncomfortable," he says, watching the river. "I know that you don't feel the same way I do, and I'm okay with that. I have no interest in pressuring you for anything."

Dean mulls this over for a minute. "Well, I appreciate that." He rubs his left thumb over the knuckles of his right hand as he tries to tangibly construct his thoughts. "Frankly, Cas, I don't really know how to do this."

Guilt ripples over Castiel's face. "I'm sorry."

"No, that's not—" Dean shakes his head. "I didn't mean to… This isn't your fault." He swallows, chastising himself for making it sound like there's any blame to be had. "I'm glad you told me."

"You are?"

Dean breathes unsteadily, stumbling over his words. "I-I mean, it's not just that I'm grateful that you saved me – although I am – but…" He trails off. He's desperately trying to figure out what to say and how to say it and the fact that his heart is thudding loudly in his ears is not helping. "You're my best friend," he says, although at this point the term doesn't even come close to describing them. "And we owe it to each other to be honest. Me especially, after everything you've done."

Cas is quiet, letting Dean ramble.

"I just…" Dean clamps his lips shut, his thoughts bottlenecking. "Did you only say that stuff because we were about to die?" For the first time since leaving the bunker, Dean actually meets Castiel's gaze.

At the implication that his confession might have been merely a means to an end, nothing more than a calculated strategic battle move, Cas is offended. His eyebrows snap into a frown, his eyes flashing a deeper shade of blue. "That doesn't mean it isn't true," he replies lowly.

Dean hangs his head momentarily, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm sorry, I felt like I had to ask," he backs down. "I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around it is all."

They both watch the river, the trees along the bank rustling in the breeze.

"How long have you been feeling like that?" The question jumps from Dean's chest before he has a chance to stop it, somehow both desperate for and dreading the answer.

"I've lost track."

Dean feels like a complete asshole. "Maybe we should have talked about this years ago."

"Maybe." Cas pauses, squinting into the sunlight. "You're not exactly the outwardly emotional type."

"Yeah, well, neither are you."

Cas laughs, and it's the best thing Dean has heard in days.

Dean smiles, relieved that the tension is beginning to dissipate. He doesn't think he could handle feeling awkward around Cas for much longer. The easiest way forward would be to keep joking, to eventually get to a point where they can forget Cas ever said anything (impossible), and to return to the way their friendship was before. But he also believes what he said, that he owes Castiel his honesty, and so he draws a deep breath and takes a risk.

"Cas, it's going to take me some time to really process this, okay?" he admits, running his fingers through his hair on the back of his head.

"I'm not expecting anything from you, Dean," Cas interjects.

Dean holds up a hand before Castiel can continue. He just needs to speak uninterrupted, without Cas's assumptions or protections. "All I mean," he says slowly, carefully, "is that I've never done this before." He meets Cas's eyes again, and strangely feels safer. "It's going to take me a minute to think it through."

Cas only looks perplexed. "Are you saying—?"

"I'm saying that I want to think it over." Dean can't make any promises right now. He can't. There's too many things hanging overhead. "I mean, right now, we've got so much on our plates with Chuck hunting us down and… It's just not the right time, you know? I don't want to make any kind of decision until we can sit back and breathe a little."

There's no response from Cas – he's still staring at Dean, still bewildered. He has no idea what the hell Dean's talking about.

"It wouldn't be fair to you," Dean adds, hoping that's enough to make himself clear.

Cas swallows. "It didn't occur to me that you'd… that you'd actually reciprocate."

"I don't know that I do," Dean is quick to say. He still needs an out. "But I don't know that I don't, either."

Cas's arm twitches, like he wants to reach out and touch Dean in some way, but he keeps his hands to himself. It dawns on Dean that the idea of Cas touching him in this moment doesn't alarm him. He still doesn't know if he wants that kind of closeness from Castiel, but at least he suddenly knows that it doesn't scare him.

"Dean," Cas says, his voice still a bit hoarse from his injury the day before. Dean's heart skips abruptly; he ignores it. "I am perfectly happy to continue our friendship unchanged. Please don't do something that will make you unhappy just because you think you owe me."

His throat goes dry and Dean senses a wave of… something wash over him. Relief, sadness, joy; he has no idea what it is. But that's the point. He needs the space to figure that out. "You deserve an answer, Cas," he insists. "A real answer. One that I've taken the time to consider."

The corners of Castiel's mouth tug upwards for a mere fraction of a second, a microexpression so small that Dean's not even sure he saw it.

"So, after we kick Chuck's ass, we'll talk again," Dean promises. "Is that okay with you?"

Cas nods immediately, surprise still written all over his face. As though he's never dreamed he'd get this far. "It's more than okay."

"All right." Dean nods, actually feeling comfortable leaving their conversation open-ended for the time being.

Cas turns back to watch the water rushing below their feet. "It's nice here."

"Yes it is," Dean agrees. Cas is right – the river is beautiful and calming, and with the sunlight warming his skin it's impossible not to enjoy just being here.

Really, Dean should be urging Cas back into the car so they can return home and get back to work. He knows that Sam and Jack are going through every book and artefact in the bunker, and that just the two of them isn't enough. Time is not on their side, and there's nobody left to help, so it's all hands on deck. After all, Chuck will not wait for them to be ready.

But surely a few minutes can't hurt.

It's a stressful, violent, terrifying few days.

Facing cosmic beings like archangels, Death, the Empty, and God himself has gotten old very fast, Dean decides. And despite the fact that he, Jack, Sam, and Cas are all working together, they've never been more lonely. Even when working cases solo, they always knew there were others – people in their corner to call on, to offer advice or expertise or an extra pair of hands. Now, outside the bunker, the world is void of help.

But they still win.

By their end of their fight, Lucifer, Michael, and some poor Reaper named Betty have all been killed quickly enough to give Dean whiplash. Jack brutally strips Chuck of his power and leaves him begging, screaming by the side of some remote lake. He's nothing more than one of his least favorite apes, bound to the dirt under his feet, and that suits them just fine.

Jack doesn't come home after that, but he brings the entire world back to life before he goes. After nearly a week on an empty planet, the mere existence of people is deafening. Dean is heartbroken to see Jack leave, but for the first time he's not afraid to let Jack out of his sight. Jack will be okay. So will the Winchesters.

When they return to the bunker, it feels empty without Jack, and yet it's more full of life than it's been in ages. Overjoyed to be home without yet another enemy knocking at the door, the three of them sit at the table in the library, drinking beer and laughing until the early hours of the morning. Sam videocalls Eileen, Donna, Jody, Bobby, and Charlie, one after the other. It's partly to make sure they're alive and safe, and partly to have them join in the celebration. This is a family night, and it's not complete without them.

Dean eventually falls into his bed sometime around dawn, more than a little drunk, and lays there in the dark. He's exhausted but he still can't sleep, completely unaccustomed to having nothing looming ahead – no new fights, no monsters, nothing in the entire pantheon of the world coming to try and devour them. There will still be cases, the occasional werewolf or vampire or djinn, but all of that seems trivial now, barely a blip on the radar. Tomorrow (or rather later today) he's going to wake up and he'll have nothing to do.

He's not sure if that scares or excites him.

With his mind whirling in circles, eddied by fear and hope and alcohol, he becomes acutely aware that Castiel's bedroom is only a few doors away down the hall. They gave Cas one of the extra guest rooms to make into his own now that he actually needs to sleep, and he passed out in a beer coma hours ago, much more of a lightweight than Dean or Sam. Dean can practically feel Cas's energy from where he lays, somehow so much more present now that he's not an angel anymore. Or maybe Dean's imagining that.

Yeah, he's definitely imagining it.

Dean tosses in bed, the sheets tangled around his legs. He's sure that Sam and Cas are both snoring away in their respective rooms, and he's annoyed that he can't seem to do the same. There's a lump in his pillow from the gun he keeps under it, bothering him for the first time. He yanks the pistol out from under the pillow and shoves it into the end table drawer by his bed, then drops his head back down and closes his eyes and wills himself to fall asleep.

Still nothing.

He huffs, turning over and gazing at the crack of light under his door from the hallway. With nothing else pressing, nothing else breathing down his neck, his mind wanders unchecked back to the bridge. Back to Cas's face, smiling in the sun.

He feels his heart knock against his ribs, a trickle of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He stares at the crack under the door and pictures the shadows of two feet appearing, imagines a soft knock from the other side and a whispered "Dean? Are you still up? "

But none of those things happen, and Dean forces his eyes shut again.

It would make sense, he thinks abruptly, the idea shocking into his brain like a clap of thunder. Cas is a hunter, and they always said that any partner would have to understand the hunter's life. Cas is his best friend, and he knows Dean better than anyone else apart from Sam. They're already close; would one step further really be that big of a change?

Yes, it would. He knows it would. Maybe it would be different if Cas had a female vessel, but he doesn't.

Do I really care?

The question jolts through him, and heat pools in his stomach. He gives up the fight for sleep, kicking the blankets aside, and sits on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees.

Out of seemingly nowhere, Dean can't shake the suspicion that he's waited far too long for… for this, whatever it is. Maybe he does find men attractive in the same way as women, but it's never occurred to him to explore or even acknowledge that. Or maybe Cas is just an exception to the rule. Or maybe it doesn't even matter, and Cas's gender is among the smallest of details.

Sam wasn't shocked, so why should Dean be?

With his heart thudding so loudly that Dean is sure it's audible several rooms away, Dean realizes that the only thing he really wants at this exact moment is to talk to Cas. Or maybe not even to talk. Just to see him. He's sure that once he sees Cas, all of this will make sense.

He stands and goes to the door, stepping out into the corridor in nothing but his t-shirt and boxers. His bare feet are freezing against the concrete floor. He shuts the door behind him as quietly as possible, instinctively trying to be discreet but not knowing why. It's a performance for no one other than himself. He glances over his shoulder to make sure Sam isn't nearby (even though there's no reason to think he would be) and walks toward Cas's room.

He's only a few steps away when he stops, feeling like his feet are glued to the floor. He stares at the solid oak door. His head is swimming.

What the hell is he thinking?

What is he going to do, burst into Cas's bedroom at five in the morning? To do what? Just to talk? Cuddle? What the hell is wrong with him? He's drunk and acting rashly, and it's not like he has any kind of plan. Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes at his stupidity, then scrapes his palms over his face and pulls his fingers through his hair. Gritting his teeth, he swallows any thoughts of seeing Cas right now and deftly turns on his heel to go back to his room. Which is where he should be.

In the dark once again, Dean yanks the pillow over his head with an irritated huff and he stays there until sleep finds him at last.

Dean wakes up sometime in the early afternoon with his head full of static and an intense craving for coffee. He rubs the gunk out of his eyes and shrugs on his robe, but once he sees the time on his alarm clock he thinks better of it and changes into real clothes. He doesn't bother with shoes, though – why should he? There will be no cases today, no reasons to rush out of the bunker with no warning. He leaves his room barefoot.

It's quiet in the bunker – extremely quiet. Just a few days ago, Dean would have found that alarming. Now, he finds it restful. Dean wanders through the library to see if Sam is there, even though there's nothing to research, nothing that Sam would be working on. He's nowhere to be found, and Dean instead discovers a note pinned under a whiskey tumbler on the table in Sam's messy scrawl:

Went to see some people. Back later.

Dean smiles to himself, certain that what Sam really means is that he's going to see Eileen for some much-needed alone time. After everything they've been through over the years, he knows Sam sure as hell deserves some happiness.

In the kitchen, Dean finds Cas doing the dishes, and damn, if it isn't one of the weirdest things he's ever seen. Cas is still not in his own clothes, instead wearing one of Sam's blue flannel shirts with a hole in the elbow. It's too big for him and hangs off his frame like it's melting around him. He's had to roll up the sleeves to keep them from getting wet in the sink. A former angel doing the dishes. Dean's pretty sure there's a punchline in there somewhere.

"Hey," he says, making a beeline for the coffee pot. "Since when do you do dishes?"

"Since I started eating," Cas replies, looking up for only a moment before he returns to his task. "We saved you breakfast." He points to the fridge with a soapy knife.

"Oh, thanks." Dean isn't hungry yet. He leans against the counter, watching Cas as he takes a long sip from his mug.

He stares just a bit too long, and Cas notices. "What?"

Dean gives himself a shake, clearing his throat. "Nothing, man. You just look funny," he says quickly. "We need to get you some clothes that actually fit."

"And that aren't covered in blood," Cas adds, scrubbing scrambled egg residue out of a frying pan.

"Yeah, I don't think any of that'll ever wash out." Dean takes another dragging gulp, feeling the coffee burn on the way down. He tries very, very hard not to think about Cas bleeding out on the floor with his neck ripped open almost to the bone, about how close they came to losing him for good. "We can get you a new trench coat. If you want."

Cas purses his mouth in thought as he rinses the pan. "I don't know. Maybe that's not me any more." He's barely audible over the running of the faucet.

Dean doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Something tugs at the pit of his stomach and he suddenly feels exactly like he did in the hallway just before dawn. Like there's a wall he's fast approaching and he's not bracing for the impact.

He drinks his coffee in slow, consciously measured gulps. If he's being obviously awkward, Cas doesn't acknowledge it. Dean almost wishes he would, because then at least they'd be talking about it without Dean having to be the one to start the conversation with no idea what to say. He pours himself a second cup from the pot.

Somehow, the fact that Cas isn't speaking – isn't even looking at him – is infuriating. Dean knows that after their talk on the bridge, Cas will not be the one to bring it up. He will let Dean initiate, whether it takes days or years or even if Dean never says a thing. He's exasperatingly, mind-bogglingly patient, a trait earned from a life already thousands of years long.

Dean is stuck, spinning his wheels in nothing but mud. He doesn't know what he thinks. He has no idea why he assumed last night that just seeing Cas would help to make heads or tails of what's going through his own head. Now that Cas is in front of him, everything makes even less sense than it did before.

He feels like a broken compass, whirling back and forth with no target in sight.

Cas is still standing at the sink, hands submerged in the dishwater, apparently completely ignorant of the fact that Dean is now flat-out staring at his back. Dean had never been able to see Cas's wings before, but mystifyingly, he can see they're no longer there. There's something different in the way Cas's body stands now, like his center of gravity has changed.

The full realization of everything that Castiel has lost hits Dean like a freight train, his coffee going cold in his hand despite the steam coming off the top. Everything that Cas has given up, has sacrificed, has fought for… and how short his life will be. He had expected to live for millenia – no, for hundreds of millenia – and however much time he has left now before he dies, even if it's just of old age, seems so little.

Everything goes quiet in Dean's head, and he sets his cup down on the counter. He's been thinking too much, he decides.

It takes only two steps to cross the space between them, and just as Cas looks up from the sink, Dean grabs his face and pulls him into a kiss.

Cas lets out a short, muffled noise of surprise. He freezes for only the briefest of seconds. Sudsy water splatters onto the floor, soaking into Dean's shirt as Cas's hands find his hips.

His lips part and Cas follows, deepening the kiss and sending shockwaves through Dean's chest. His shirt is pulled taut against his lower back as Cas bunches the fabric in his fists. Heat surges up from Dean's core, pulsing through his body like an earthquake.

The kiss is everything, all at once. Strange and familiar, electric and calming, unnerving and yet safe. Dean's fingertips dig into the nape of Cas's neck, and all he knows is he doesn't want this to end. He doesn't feel like he's spinning any more, his compass unwavering.

Cas draws back for just a moment. He swallows, his chest shuddering almost imperceptibly. "Are you—?"

"Yes," Dean breathes, and kisses him again.

Dizziness washes over him, from a lack of oxygen or sheer adrenaline he has no idea. Dean pulls Cas closer and then pushes him back against the counter as Cas's hand traces up his spine. Goosebumps course over Dean's skin, radiating outward from Cas's touch like ripples on a pond.

Dean recalls vaguely that he'd been confused and hesitant before this, but it already seems like a distant, fuzzy memory, not much more than a dream. He can't quite believe that he was ever uncertain, ever apprehensive. In fact, the only thing he can think about at this moment is wondering why the hell it's taken him this long.

His ears now roaring, all Dean can focus on is the sensation of Cas's body pressing up against him, the feeling of stubble scraping his chin and Cas's strong hands gripping him. Through the white noise, he hears a low, almost-growling moan and it takes Dean a moment to realize that it's coming from him. His hands find their way down to Cas's lower back, drawing him even closer than Dean previously thought possible.

When Cas pulls away again, Dean barely manages to stop himself from letting out an undignified whine. He's breathing heavily, his head still crackling with oxygen, and he feels drunk in the best way. So it takes a little too long for Dean to realize that Cas's eyes are not looking at him, but rather at something over his shoulder.

He turns, and in less than an instant feels his skin flush bright red, because Sam and Eileen are standing in the doorway.

Dean immediately yanks his hands away from Cas, and Cas clears his throat and straightens his shirt.

Sam is standing frozen with his eyes wide and jaw dropped, Eileen's duffle bag hanging from his shoulder. Eileen has her hands clamped over her mouth, desperately trying not to laugh but failing as she starts to snort through her fingers.

Stunned, Sam finally points to her. "Eileen's here," he says.

"I can see that," Dean snaps, clinging to whatever shred of dignity he's got left. "You ever hear of a knock?"

"It's the kitchen, Dean," Sam retorts.

Eileen completely loses the battle not to laugh and starts giggling like a schoolgirl, so much so that she has to shake her head and back away. "I'm gonna go back to the library," she manages to get out between cackles.

Sam shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Um… I think I'm going to let you two… talk," he stammers, then retreats and follows Eileen.

"Well, that was awkward," Cas states as soon as they're alone again. He's still leaning on the counter, but seems unperturbed.

"Yeah, just a bit," Dean says bitterly. He wasn't ready to share this with Sam. Not literally minutes after he'd figured it out for himself. Too late now, though. "I should go talk to him."

Cas frowns, puzzled. "Why?"

"I don't know, to – to explain, or…" Dean trails off. He has no idea what he's saying.

"I'm fairly certain that what we were just doing explains most of it," Cas replies evenly. He presses his lips together, not quite hiding a grin.

"Are you laughing?"

A chuckle bursts out of Cas's chest and he shrugs in the most human gesture Dean's ever seen him make. "It's a little funny," he says.

Dean huffs, not nearly as amused. But Cas is right; Sam already has a pretty good idea of what's going on and nothing Dean can say will lend anything to the situation. He doesn't really know what he'd say to Sam anyways. "So what now?" he asks instead.

"I think…" Cas speaks slowly, reaching over to grasp the front of Dean's shirt. He tugs Dean close again, his voice lowering in a way that makes Dean's skin tingle. "I think we should pick up where we left off."

Dean's heart is galloping in his chest again, a shaky breath working its way out of his lungs. He can feel every cell in his body, every atom, thrumming with electricity. But Sam was home and only a few rooms away now, and they are in the kitchen, after all. Dean swallows audibly, self-conscious and shy for the first time in years.

Cas reaches up and presses another kiss, quicker this time, to the corner of Dean's mouth. It's enough to make Dean relax, his shoulders falling as the tension sweeps away. "But maybe not here," Cas adds, briefly squeezing Dean's wrist before letting go.

He doesn't have to ask for clarification to know what Cas means. "Don't you have to finish?" Dean asks stupidly, gesturing to the sink.

"Sam can do the rest," Cas replies idly, brushing past Dean and heading for the hallway.

Dean has the sneaking suspicion that Cas isn't really astonished by any of this, that he's simply been waiting for Dean to catch up. So Dean does. He follows Cas out of the kitchen and down the hall.

When they reach Cas's room, Dean feels again like he's not bracing for a fast-approaching impact. But now, he knows he doesn't want to. He's not going to waste any more time.

As soon as the door to Cas's bedroom closes behind them, Dean is pressed up against the door and Cas's mouth finds his lips again. Cas drags the kiss out of him with a moan, hands ghosting down to the small of Dean's back and winding their way under his shirt. Dean flinches at the caress, only because he's not used to being touched there, caught off-balance and entirely focused on the way Cas is kissing him. It seems now that Dean has put the key in the ignition, Cas is the one driving.

He's suddenly very glad that Cas seems to have done away with the suit and trench coat. Under only a white t-shirt and a layer of flannel (in true hunter fashion), Cas feels abundantly more accessible.

Cas's lips pull away and leave a line of kisses down the side of Dean's neck, and Dean involuntarily makes a desperate noise in his throat when Cas's teeth graze his collarbone. Dean's mouth drops open and the back of his head hits the door a bit too hard, but he barely notices. The overriding sensation is the weight of Cas's body, the fingers tracing his hips below the belt line, the heat of Cas's breath as he buries an open-mouthed kiss into the dip where Dean's neck meets his chest.

Dean swears loudly and viciously when Cas rolls his hips into him. The action sends a searing pulse of electricity crashing through him, ricocheting from his groin through his chest and back again. Dean's fist curls against Cas's pectoral, tugging his shirt so ferociously that it nearly rips. The cloth chafes along Cas's neck and leaves a reddened line under his skin.

"God, how are you doing this?" Dean breathes out, his voice shaking.

Cas lifts his head, his lips pulling away from Dean for the first time since they came into the room. This makes Dean open his eyes, meeting Cas's gaze (and doesn't that just nearly take him out at the knees). A small, barely-detectable grin is sketched over Cas's face.

"It's working, then?" is all he says.

Cocky bastard.

Dean yanks him back in, already sick of not having Cas's mouth on him. He drags Cas's lower lip in between his teeth, tasting static. Cas grinds up on him again and Dean groans into the back of Cas's throat, the muscles in his shoulders going slack.

Abruptly, Cas's hand snakes behind him and into his jeans, thumbing past the waistband of his boxers in order to grab Dean's ass bare-skinned. His fingers dig possessively into the cheek, forcing Dean's pelvis to buck forward. Dean sucks an involuntary gasp through gritted teeth, his head falling onto Cas's shoulder, into the flushed crook of his neck. He's glad he didn't wear shoes this morning, because without them he and Cas are exactly the same height.

He can't quite believe that he ever wanted Cas to back out of his personal space. He can't believe that even just a few minutes ago, he still wasn't sure if he wanted this.

Cas seizes this opportunity to push Dean's shirt from his shoulders, prying it from Dean's torso like he's cracking open a geode. Flannel hits the floor at their feet. Cas peels the remaining t-shirt up and over Dean's head and tosses it. The air hits Dean's bare skin simultaneously too hot and too cold, making a shudder ripple through him as Cas's lips brush his jaw.

Suddenly Dean is pulled away from the door as Cas spins him, gripping him by the hips, and pitches him backward onto the bed. Dean's back hits the mattress and then Cas is on top of him, his mouth tracing down Dean's sternum.

Breathing hard, Dean is startlingly aware of the fact that he's already half naked while Cas is still fully clothed, and a glimmer of hesitancy tugs at the back of his head. With Cas's hands pinning Dean's wrists to the bed, somehow expertly pushing every one of Dean's buttons, he realizes that Cas has been playing this movie, running over this exact scenario in his head for years.

But for Dean it's still brand new. It's coming at him too fast. He does want it – he does – but his body is thrumming on an atomic level and he feels vulnerable in a way that he can't remember ever feeling before and everything begins to bottleneck.

Cas lets go of his wrists and deftly unbuckles Dean's belt, tugging at the zipper. And when his touch skims over Dean's very obvious hard-on, it's too much. Something akin to panic surges up from his gut.

"Wait, wait —" he stammers.

Cas jerks back like he's been electrocuted, on his feet and away in an instant. Fear and guilt color his face, his neck still flushed. "I-I'm sorry," he says.

Dean shakes his head, sitting up on the edge of the mattress with his bare feet on the floor, still half breathless. "I just… just need to pump the brakes for a second."

"You've changed your mind."

Cas doesn't say it like a question, but Dean knows it is. He's quick to counter. "No," he insists. "No. No, it's just… Fifteen minutes ago, this —" He gestures to the empty space between the two of them. "—wasn't a thing. And now, I… I don't know."

Cas rakes his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, looking at the floor. "I shouldn't have—" he starts, but Dean cuts him off again.

"Stop it. Would you just come back over here? You're making me nervous."

He hesitates, but finally returns to the bed and sits beside Dean, pointedly keeping his hands to himself.

"You don't have to be sorry," Dean says, because he can feel Cas desperately wanting to shout apologies until he's blue in the face. "I want to be here. Okay?"

Cas's mouth twitches, pressing into a thin line like he doesn't believe what he's hearing.

"Okay?" Dean repeats, more forceful this time.

It's a struggle, but Cas meets his eyes at last. "Okay."

Dean lets out a relieved huff, though his stomach is still doing backflips. "I just… I feel like we should take it a little slower."

Cas stares at him for so long, his expression utterly unreadable, that Dean's heart begins to beat off-rhythm. He eventually blurts out "Is it because I'm not—?" and stops himself before he finishes the question.

Dean doesn't know what Cas was intending to say – not quite human, not a woman, not enough for you – but whatever the unspoken ending, Dean knows the answer is no .

He exhales again, studying the wall. "It's because you're important," he says quietly, then awkwardly clears his throat, feeling much more naked than he actually is.

He's telling the truth. He's always been one to leap into quick flings and one-night stands without a second thought, finding a temporary nest in every roadside tavern. Wherever would keep him warm for a night, or even an hour or two. Wherever he could get a moment's touch without violence. But the only period in his life when he found something more, something he wanted to keep – with Lisa and Ben – he'd wanted to take his time. Cas is no different in that regard.

He pushes any thoughts of Lisa out of his head. As important as she was (and still is), she has no place here in Cas's bedroom.

"I mean, neither of us are exactly experienced here," Dean continues. A small laugh jumps out of his chest. "Although you could've fooled me."

A smile creeps back onto Cas's face like a sunrise, gradual and brilliant. "Slow," he echoes. "I can do that."