Dean cried silently. The walls in Bobby's house were thin and a solid four hours of sleep was the least he owed Sam and he'd be damned (again) if he was going to wake him up with his emotional bullshit.
Sam had said there was no accounting for taste, but Dean knew his brother was wrong. Tastes had birthplaces and histories. Growing up, he'd had a taste for bad girls, and that made sense. Bad girls were wild, experimental, and willing to hook up with a guy who was only in town for a few days. And on the road there were waitresses and strippers and there was even Busty Asian Beauties to help a man pass the time. But it had always been women. He hadn't had to think about it. It just was.
And now he was watching Dr. Sexy every week and trying to kiss his best friend. Dean blamed Hell. Drinking beer against the Impala he'd confessed to Sam how long he'd really been there, and how he'd broken after only 30 years. But he hadn't gone into detail about the tortures he'd endured or committed. His mouth couldn't even form the words. It was a whole second lifetime.
As a kid, when he thought of Hell he'd imagined pitchforks and fire. As a teen he'd pictured knives, beatings, or weird Hellraiser shit. God, he'd been naïve. Alistair had taken one look at him and seen his desperate masculinity and his daddy issues and had known exactly what would break him. He remembered the metallic sound of Alistair's belt releasing, and his soft mocking voice, "and I seem to find the happiness I seek…when we're out together, dancing cheek to cheek." He'd learned to hate and fear that song. Dean had a version by Frank Sinatra and he still couldn't bring himself to listen for more than a few seconds before the flashbacks started. His father had endured 100 years on the rack, but in less than a third of that Dean's cracked lips had formed the words, 'Sign me up.' No wonder Alistair called him 'Daddy's little girl.'
Tastes born in Hell didn't stay there. They were leaking into his life, contaminating everything they touched. He shoved the feelings down, but they bobbed up again when he least expected—planning a job, having a beer on the porch, leaning over Cas' shoulder to read a piece of lore. Sometimes he would realize he'd been staring at the angel, but still couldn't drag his eyes away. People had started to joke about it.
Fine. Let them yuk it up. If they had any idea what Dean was actually keeping a lid on then they'd know what a monster he'd become. Sometimes he wondered if it was just a matter of time before he lost control and tried to do something bad to Cas. If that was true, then he wasn't any different from a werewolf or a shifter. And that thought didn't exactly make for a happy hunting life. He and Sam had it tough with other hunters already—some jealous and itching to knock them down a peg, others suspicious of their loyalties. If the details about Dean's Hell-acquired tastes got out it could mean the difference between life and death. Not just for him, but for Sam. He needed to take steps.
For weeks now he'd refused to involve Cas in their work. It was too much—the heady rush when he arrived, the conversations with their eyes. Suddenly he'd be fantasizing and terrified that Cas would read his mind. The last two times he'd bolted, trying to hide what felt like the Chrysler building in his pants. And then there'd been that night in Kansas City when Cas had reached out his hand and come close to knowing more than was good for him. For either of them. Better to keep his distance until he got this problem sorted. And he needed to sort it soon because not having Cas around was grinding on his nerves. He missed the guy. That was normal, right? A guy was supposed to miss his best friend.
Even now, with as much booze in him as he could hold, Dean couldn't stop dwelling on the tilt of Cas' head, the stubble on his jaw. Even the rumpled coat, like a sexy Columbo. He tried reminding himself that he wasn't attracted to men. And when that did nothing to cool the heat in his shorts he reminded himself that Cas wasn't a man. Damn it, the guy wasn't even human. Just looking at him without his Jimmy Novak getup would burn the eyes out of you. Being attracted to him made no sense. It was like falling for the sunrise, or the Statue of Liberty, or the world's biggest ball of twine.
Tomorrow he would shove it all down inside and smile and fake his way through the day. But now, alone in the dark, he was too tired and too drunk. Dean imagined Cas, his lids heavy, his mouth open, wet, and gasping, his back arched, imagined pushing him to the edge between pleasure and pain and holding him there, watching him break apart. He shook his head and quickly pictured changing the oil in the Impala. Anything but gaping mouths and clutching hands and aw, fuck it. He closed his eyes and slipped a hand under the covers. Six minutes of mental horror porn, straight, with a guilt chaser. It was becoming a habit. He lost himself to the hated thoughts until he choked off a gasp with gritted teeth.
Dean used a dirty t-shirt to wipe the damning evidence from his hand. Sometimes, after working a job, he'd caught Cas looking at him with what he was pretty sure was regret. Dean couldn't blame him. He'd regret having dragged his sorry ass out of Hell too. He was supposed to be The Righteous Man, but there was nothing righteous about him. Nothing at all.
Castiel stepped away from a computer terminal in a library in Rockford, Connecticut and walked to the window. It was raining heavily in the parking lot outside. Around him people were reading, checking their phones, or tapping at their laptops, oblivious to his emotional upheaval. After cataloguing and researching his symptoms he had identified the issue with his vessel, and it wasn't good news. He looked out at the rain and rolled his eyes, an expression he had learned from Dean and his brother.
Sexual attraction. How embarrassing. Genesis 6:4 had spoken of this. Acting on his attraction would not result in the birth of nephilim, but his brothers and sisters would definitely frown upon it. Most of his siblings were suspicious of his interest in humanity and found his bond with Dean Winchester odd if not entirely distasteful. Uriel had once compared Dean to a chimpanzee flinging its feces. If his siblings discovered his interest in Dean had become carnal he'd never hear the end of it. Provided any of them still spoke to him, of course.
With this new information, so many things began to make sense. The pain of Dean's rebuke had been gutting him, and now he knew why. And in Kansas City, when Dean had spoken about the waitress, Nadine, that horrible feeling in his stomach had been jealousy, and it had impaired his ability to help the hunter, who even now persisted in his suffering. No wonder Dean was so petulant lately. Castiel had failed him.
Perhaps there was a lesson here. He had wanted to understand humanity and he was getting his wish. The intensity of sexual feelings, and the way they insinuated themselves into his interactions, made it difficult to concentrate. When Dean had talked about something being a 'turn on' he'd made the experience sound pleasant. Castiel was more than a little disappointed by the anxious need gnawing at his insides. If this was human arousal he'd pass. He wasn't used to this type of desire, or its physical manifestations. He was impressed by how well Sam and Dean managed to live and work with this affliction. They had even come to embrace it. There must be an element of masochism in that.
"Dean." The sound of his name on his lips pushed a cocktail of hormones through his bloodstream, like a drug to which he was already addicted. He curled his hands into tight fists and his nails cut tiny moons into his palms that healed even as they appeared.
The fluorescent light hitting the window bounced an image of his vessel back at him. Castiel tilted his head in thought. This arousal must be Jimmy Novack's doing.
Jimmy had been sexually active in his marriage to Amelia, but Castiel knew that did not preclude an interest in men. More than most of his brethren, he understood the range of human sexual attraction. He had read the Song of Songs, the Kama Sutra, and several of the True Blood novels. And despite his human vessel's chaste history, it was becoming apparent that Jimmy was attracted to Dean Winchester. Humans had been built for desire such as this. It was in Jimmy's nature to respond sexually.
He put a hand against the cool glass, seeing his own calculating gaze staring back at him. If he understood the origin of Jimmy's attraction perhaps he could nip it in the bud. He considered rousing Jimmy's soul to consciousness and interrogating him regarding Dean. But the flaw in that plan was that humans lied. Men especially, seemed reluctant to acknowledge their feelings for other men. And if he woke Jimmy and forced him to face these feelings, might they not become even more intrusive? Castiel nodded to himself. Better to let Jimmy lie dormant and investigate this on his own. Well, perhaps not entirely on his own. Sam Winchester was intelligent and observant. He would ask Sam.
"May I ask a question?"
Pacing the floor in Bobby Singer's kitchen, with his focus on a book, the tallest Winchester gasped to see Castiel standing in front of the fridge. He had shadows under his eyes and Sam wondered if angels had an equivalent of insomnia. He hadn't slept too well himself, worrying about Dean. His brother was off his game. Way off.
"Sure," Sam said. He closed the book and set it down, giving the angel his full attention. "What's up?"
"You and Dean met my vessel, Jimmy, while I was…away." Castiel settled into a kitchen chair and folded his hands on the table, as if he were about to say grace.
"Uh yeah. We did." Sam didn't love thinking about that time in his life, when he'd been drinking demon blood on a regular basis. And Ruby. Damn, the stuff they'd done together made him cringe and smile at the same time. It was better not to think about it. Focus on the now.
"What was your impression of him?"
Sam moved to the counter and poured himself a coffee, his back to the angel. "That's hard to say. We didn't really get to know the guy." If he was honest, neither he nor Dean had been very fond of Jimmy Novak. He was a civilian, and a liability. But Sam suspected that saying so might hurt Castiel's feelings. Or Jimmy's feelings. Somebody's.
"Did Jimmy like Dean? Did they bond?"
"Not really." Sam looked down at his coffee. "He just wanted to go home to his family." And hadn't that gone well? Jimmy's wife had been possessed by a demon, tried to kill his daughter, and ended up shooting him. Not the Winchester brothers' finest hour.
"So he and Dean didn't spend time together? Alone, maybe?"
Sam turned and tucked his hair behind an ear while the angel stared up at him.
"What are you getting at?" Sam knew a vessel had to consent to be possessed by an angel. Was Jimmy having regrets again? If Castiel was hoping Dean could intervene, then his timing couldn't be worse. Reliability wasn't his brother's strong suit at the moment.
"It's not important." Castiel's eyes swept across the table, preoccupied. "May I ask a question of a personal nature?"
"Sure." Sam slid into the chair opposite and leaned forward. "What do you want to know?' With Castiel it could be anything from how to treat frostbite to the human longing for transcendence. Sam liked that about him.
The angel looked pointedly at the salt and pepper. "You experience sexual attraction to others of your species."
Sam spluttered and coughed as coffee slid into his windpipe. "Uh, yeah." He pounded a fist on his chest and cleared his throat. "To women. Uh, human women."
"And Ruby." Castiel's face was neutral. He had no idea this was a sore spot. He was only trying to be comprehensive. Sam let it go.
"Yeah," he admitted. "And Ruby." In his own mind he'd thought of Ruby as a woman, even if she wasn't human. Heck, sometimes he'd thought of her as practically human. Human with a footnote, maybe. Clearly, that hadn't turned out so well.
"Yet you rarely unite sexually with others." Castiel fixed him in a stare and Sam wondered how Dean could stand to be on the receiving end of such intense scrutiny so often. "How do you do that?"
He squinted at the angel. "So what you're asking," he said, unsure whether to laugh or be offended, "is how I manage to be so unlucky with women?"
"In essence, yes." Castiel gestured with is hands as if he wanted to grasp his question but was unsure what shape it was. "You have so few relationships and rarely even forni—"
"I do just fine," Sam cut in. He was leaning toward offended but knew that was just his ego talking. Had it been so long since he'd had sex that even Castiel was impressed? Sam sighed. He needed to get out more.
"But how do you control your lust?" Castiel pulled a crumpled handful of papers from his coat. "I printed some information from the internet. About masturbation. If you could recommend a technique…."
"Did Dean put you up to this?" Sam reddened and crossed his arms. This was exactly the kind of thing his brother would think was hilarious, and he'd used his angel to deliver the punchlines. Classy. Dean was going to pay for this one.
Castiel looked at the papers and then back at Sam. "I sense you would prefer not to discuss this with me."
"Yeah." Sam nodded, trying not to take his annoyance at Dean out on Castiel. "I would prefer that."
"It is of no consequence. Thank you, Sam." And with a sound like someone shaking the dust off a tablecloth, he was gone.
Castiel was frightened. Extensive research had revealed the benefits of masturbation for controlling Jimmy's sexual urges and of visual stimuli to achieve effective release. After struggling with the ethics of doing so, he had searched Jimmy's memories, telling himself the intrusion was necessary in order to craft a fantasy scenario that Jimmy would find compelling. But the majority of his vessel's memories showed only a mix of gratitude and resentment toward Dean, and a few moments of indignant anger. No arousal. The logical conclusion was as unavoidable as it was disturbing. This attraction did not originate in Jimmy Novak.
Castiel appeared in front of the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C., and began walking north, past the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library. The late afternoon sun was warm on his skin, and as he walked he reviewed his own interactions with Dean, testing a new hypothesis. A breeze ruffled his hair and a woman jostled him with her purse as she hurried past. He stilled, focusing his energy on searching his feelings, as Darth Vader had told Luke Skywalker to do in The Empire Strikes Back.
He felt love. This was to be expected. Angels were created to love. The Ancient Greeks had four words for love: philia, love of friends; storge, familial love; eros, romantic love; and agape, which was unconditional love, such as that for God. Working through the list, Castiel easily acknowledged that he loved Dean as a friend. They had fought side by side. Dean had even described him as his best friend. When he searched his feelings toward Dean they were definitely friendly. He also felt familial love. Having an earthly vessel was often difficult, and Dean had been a touchstone amidst the chaos. Bobby had said that family didn't end with blood, and Dean had brought him into a circle that included Sam and Bobby. Given his estrangement from Heaven, Castiel valued being part of Dean's family more than the hunter could realize.
Perhaps there was an erotic element in his relationship with Dean. Their connection was intimate. He had embraced Dean's tattered soul in Hell and torn it free, clutching it to him as he battled his way out. He had carefully restored the man's body, placing each muscle and bone and sinew in its place, and each cluster of melatinized cells across his skin. Perhaps he didn't feel romantic love in the way that humans did, but given what he had sacrificed for Dean, he understood Genesis 2:24 a little better. He had left his heavenly family and cleaved to Dean. And now that he thought about it, he held no objections to becoming one flesh, although his familiarity with the specifics of that were theoretical, like the blueprints of a car he had never driven. But he already enjoyed pleasing Dean in their work together, and it stood to reason that he might enjoy pleasing him in other ways as well.
And when he searched his grace he could tell that these feelings—his feelings, it was clear to him now—had persistence. His feelings for Dean would easily outlast the hunter's own brief lifespan, and Castiel found that thought bittersweet.
And then the epiphany came to him, like protons smashing together. He spat out an Enochian word that wasn't used in polite conversation. Standing motionless on the bustling sidewalk, Castiel felt a stab of self-pity. He was in love with Dean Winchester, in every sense of the word. He thought of all he had learned about Dean and felt a weight of sadness settle into his chest. It was unlikely that this feeling would be mutual.
"Jerk!" Sam greeted Dean with a hard right to the bicep. He'd been waiting in the kitchen, thinking over his conversation with Castiel, and when he heard the Impala pull into the yard he'd even loosened up with a few practice swings. His connection was solid.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean set a bottle of whiskey and the large bag of takeout on the kitchen table and rubbed his arm, wincing. "What the hell, Sam?"
"That's for what you did to Cas."
"What did I do to Cas?" Dean actually looked scared and for a moment Sam wondered if he'd gotten his wires crossed and his brother hadn't planned today's humiliation.
"Don't play stupid with me." Sam pushed his jaw forward, but wondered if his uncertainty showed in his eyes.
"Seriously." Dean grabbed a bag of peas from the freezer and slapped it against his arm. "I have no clue what you're talkin' about." He nodded toward the takeout bag. "Burger and fries are mine. Got you a chicken salad thing. And you're welcome." Dean sat, nursing his arm as Sam unpacked the takeout. One-handed, Dean deftly pulled the burger from its wrappings and transferred it to his mouth.
Sam ignored the food and pushed himself to his full height so he could stare down at Dean, his long arms crossed in judgment. "So you didn't put him up to asking those questions?"
"Wuff guesshuns?" Dean asked.
Sam frowned and watched his brother chew with his mouth open. Was Dean this good at feigning ignorance? His confusion looked genuine. Scary genuine.
"Sexual questions, Dean. About dating, and lust, and, and," Sam lowered his voice, "masturbation." He rolled his eyes. "And how I'm so bad at hooking up with women."
Dean made his 'This is all very serious' face and Sam could tell he was trying not to laugh. His brother swallowed. "Did he now?"
"You know what? Screw you. You wanna pretend you didn't have a hand in it? Fine. I expect as much from you. But that was a shitty thing to do to Cas!" Sam grabbed his salad and stormed off to his bedroom.