It takes him an embarrassingly long time to come back to normal awareness, and even then he decides he doesn't care that he's sticky. After a few false starts he manages purposeful movement, though, enough to take his weight off Dean's chest. He's pretty sure he hasn't felt this wrung out after sex since he was a teenager. He can't even be properly amused at the wet noises his body makes coming apart from Dean's.
"Have a good time?" Dean asks, lazy and kind of smug.
Misha—who is Misha again, thanks, but he's going to have to seriously examine some memories when he has two brain cells to rub together—tries to muster a death glare, but he's pretty sure he's failing, because Dean's smirking at him. "That was intense," he says, giving up on the death glare, and lets his head fall onto Dean's shoulder.
"I'm an experience," Dean says, shrugging with the shoulder Misha isn't leaning on. He sounds ridiculously pleased with himself. Misha pokes him in the ribs and says, "We should take a shower."
"Dude, you can't sit up," Dean says reasonably. After a pause he continues, "And I'm gonna be walking funny for a day or two."
"I can sit up," Misha says with what dignity he can scrape together. "I just don't want to."
"Either way, you can't shower while you're doing your best wet noodle impression."
"Yeah, yeah. Give me a second," Misha grumbles.
"One thousand one," Dean says promptly. Misha pokes him again, in a more sensitive spot this time, and Dean makes a desperately adorable eep noise and then looks mortified. "Cut it out," he orders.
"Don't wanna," Misha says, and goes for another poke, wringing out another eep. "I'm warning you," Dean says, mock-severe, and Misha puts on a resigned face. Dean nods, and is completely off-guard when Misha launches his real attack; they wrestle around for a few seconds until Dean gets hold of both Misha's hands and pins him down. Grinning, Dean says, "You do not get to tickle me, man. Even Sam doesn't get—"
Ah. Well. That puts a different spin on things. Into the ringing silence after Dean cuts himself off, Misha says innocently, "Even Sam doesn't get to tickle you?"
A few seconds pass, and then, "Fuck me gently," Dean says, in a tone of revelation. Misha quashes the urge to point out he already did that and hoists an inquiring eyebrow. "What'd I screw up?" Dean asks him, letting go of his hands. They spend a moment sitting up, Dean watching Misha warily like he's afraid he's going to bolt for the door. As if.
"You didn't screw up," Misha says. "You followed my leads just right. It's just...I already had my suspicions, so I was leading you in the wrong directions." Dean looks confused, and then the beginnings of pissed off. "Hey, no," Misha says. (Unlike Castiel, he did not learn everything he knows about human interaction from a man raised to be a soldier.) "This might be the coolest thing that's ever happened to me. Can you blame me for wanting to make sure it was true?"
Dean looks like he's trying desperately to be angry and not quite making it. "Dude," he says. "I thought you were a flake." He sounds bewildered.
"Bwa ha ha," Misha says, deadpan. "You've fallen into my evil trap." He makes an expansive gesture. "The more people think I'm a flake, the less they worry about me. It's protective coloration. You should see some of the sweaters I inflict on the world."
A beat, and then Dean exclaims, "Wait, you mean when I walked in the door—"
"Jensen hates scotch," Misha says apologetically. "You don't kiss like him either."
"You knew the whole time," Dean says.
"Yes."
"That's why you stopped before we, I mean before you…"
"Yes."
Dean thinks this over for a minute, and then says slowly, "I'm pretty sure I ought to be pissed."
"You can slug me if you want," Misha offers. "Totally worth it."
"I need pants for this," Dean announces, and swings his legs to the floor.
"If we're gonna get dressed we really should take a shower first."
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dean says quietly, "Cas wouldn't." He's staring at his feet.
"Cas wouldn't take a shower?" Misha asks, though he's pretty sure he knows what Dean means. "He doesn't really need to take a shower."
"Cas wouldn't," Dean repeats. "Especially not with me." He stands and walks over to his jeans, still in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed. It means he can't see Misha rolling his eyes, which is, all in all, probably a good thing. Misha carefully does not sound exasperated when he says, "Yeah, he really would. Trust me on this one."
"How the hell would you know?" Dean snaps, bending to snatch his pants from the floor.
"Look, Dean," Misha says, and Dean pauses for a second at the name. "Castiel is not like any part I've ever had. I have some problems with character bleed sometimes, but Castiel's different. I know things about him—I mean, things that weren't in the scripts."
"Like what?" Dean asks. Misha's pretty sure he doesn't mean to sound quite as curious as he does.
"When you guys watched It's a Wonderful Life, he was offended because of Clarence being silly," Misha says promptly. "Sam threw popcorn at him because he wouldn't stop bitching about it and Bobby threatened to tape his mouth shut." He summons Castiel—it's a little more difficult naked—and quotes, "We're created with wings, Dean, we don't have to earn them. And humans don't become angels." Dean's staring at him, so he must've gotten the annoyed protest right. "He liked Die Hard a lot better," Misha adds helpfully. "Kind of a weird double feature. What else?" He thinks it over for a few seconds. "He couldn't hustle pool because he was incapable of making it look natural when he lost. You taught him to count cards at blackjack and he made a couple hundred bucks before the place threw the two of you out. He was sick for three days after Pestilence even though you and Sam were fine, and he was a really whiny patient."
Dean has given up all pretense of getting dressed. He's just standing there, looking spooked and a little awed. Misha says, "So those are all things you know. Stuff you don't know's more interesting: he beat you up because he was terrified that Michael would kill him if you said yes. In 2014, he knew future-Dean was sending him into a trap." Misha pauses for effect. "And he would absolutely have sex with you. He just has no idea how to make an advance."
Dean continues to say nothing. Misha sighs and gets up, taking the jeans from Dean's hands and throwing them on the bed. "Come on," he says firmly. "We're taking a shower."