In the relatively not distant past the idea of having sex with Cas would make Dean's entire being shudder. Would make him excited and afraid. Would make him wonder, most of all. How it is to kiss him, taste him, feel every single pore of Cas's skin beneath his hand. Would put a body into the always terrifyingly fascinating question of how it's like to fuck a man – for a while now Cas ghosted in those fantasies, star number one. But now that's it's about to happen: in this state, in these circumstances, in this context – surprisingly (or unsurprisingly, Dean's mind supplies), Dean feels nothing. He's being goddamn pragmatic about this (so is Cas, removing his clothes with eerie casualness while Dean still ponders). What he thinks is about that if anyone, Cas included, thinks Dean stashes lube in a drawer near the bed, or anywhere for that matter, they're wrong. But the panic is shredded away from him like layers of old skin, old life. It all seems so natural and businesslike – the very fact that it has to happen. The eternal what if is missing as if it was never there. Means to an end – he concludes yet another time and bitterly supposes that his and Cas's idea of a proper end to this are two different things. This is a matter they certainly need to discuss, but not now – not to ruin the mood. Or, to be honest: the lack of it. He undresses rather inelegantly, all tired, frustrated movements, as if he were doing chores, not preparing for pleasure.
"There," he announces when he's ready and that's pretty much it, a moment later Cas's hands are all over him, diligent, professional, knowing what they're doing all too well. Like it's the hundredth time they do it. It's not and it's quite sad. Dean dared to expect something else in his dreams. Real, not alien and foreign passion (this is artificial). Tenderness. Kisses. But they don't waste time on niceties. With every touch the need pooling low inside of him rises and entangles him. Not him – his body. He, on the other hand, is detached and Cas seems to have very thin strings connecting him to the experience as well.
That all changes when Dean touches Cas's stomach.
He rises into flames like bonfire, and so does Cas if his gasp followed by a needy groan is any indicator. His hands won't leave that soft spot of flesh now, he promises to himself. Dean's fingers curl, they want to scratch into the insides of Cas's belly where a wreath of intestines and a veil of grace keep his lovely blade so safe in this perfect place. It's marvelous, he thinks, the hideous contamination of two things he love and he wants it to stay like that forever. Scraping at Cas's skin lightly, he moans, voice swollen with rabid need.
"Jesus, Cas, (I'm sorry about this, buddy, his heart cries, the leftover good part of it at least)" he whines and scratches Cas like a small, but very determined animal.
"There, there, Dean," Cas comforts him, his voice on fire; his hands heavy stones, pinning Dean down, unwrapping him like a sacred gift. "I knew that would comfort you," he says.
"It doesn't comfort me," Dean snaps because this is the last fucking thing it does, actually. It just makes need and misery form one ugly bile of hopelessness. It brings his body peace, rubs his want and body in all the right places – a blink of the so wanted contact while still keeping his mind at bay because there is soft, holy and powerful flesh separating him from touching it, not letting take over him. But knowing what it will do to Cas – it almost hurts like a motherfucker. Almost is what makes him hate himself even more. Nothing inside screams take it out, don't do this. Everything should. "This is as far as I'll let you", Cas warns.
Nonono, Dean thinks. No.