Author's Note: Sometimes we forget how to write, and why. And sometimes it takes something wonderful to remind us.
Dr. Dean Winchester would like people to know that "Dr." is his first name, and not a legal title binding him to any profession or degree achieved through scholarly means. As such, any advice he dispenses is for novelty purposes only, and it's your own damn fault if you stick that cucumber where he suggested and it becomes stuck.
Dean almost spills his wine with excitement when Castiel walks into the restaurant the next day. He feels foolish; despite Castiel's promise to meet him, some pathetic part of Dean had been anxious that he would not show.
"Dean," Castiel greets him. In an instant, Dean forgets that the other man has ever called him anything else. Propriety and titles are not necessary between them, a truth Dean knows with full certainty in that moment.
"Good afternoon, Castiel," Dean says with a small smile. "I trust you slept well."
"Wonderfully. I've never slept so soundly in all my life." Castiel grips his hat in his hands and turns it unconsciously, nervously.
"I'm delighted to hear that," Dean tells him, and gestures at a chair. Castiel pulls it out and sits at the table. "I took the liberty of ordering for you. The chef here is a friend."
"I appreciate that. Anna asked me to bring you a token of our thanks for your aid last night," Castiel tells him. There is a tiny smile on his lips as he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a small velvet bag. He hands it to Dean, who unties the red cord that cinches it closed.
Inside is a small silver tea spoon, the handle decorated with tiny swirls and flowers. On the back of the bowl the letters "C.N." are stamped in neat script.
"This is fine work," Dean muses, turning the spoon over in his hands. "Mrs. Novak was correct, you are quite gifted. You have my gratitude, but I mustn't accept. It's too extravagant for so insignificant a service."
"Please," Castiel says, leaning forward, and Dean finds himself looking up into Castiel's eyes for the first time since they've sat down to lunch. "I want you to have it."
They stare at each other in silence, and Dean finds himself absolutely unable to look away. The gravitational pull of Castiel's eyes is crushing and intense, and Dean loses himself in their undertow.
"If that's what you wish," Dean says faintly, not entirely sure where the words are coming from, "then it would be an honor to accept."
A waiter with grizzled grey hair clears his throat, and both men look up at him, startled. The old man pours wine into a glass for Castiel, who looks at the glass with mild distaste, but raises it to his lips and says nothing.
"Yes, well…" Dean settles back into his chair, still trying to clear his head from the heady gaze. "You've been married four months, now?" he asks lamely.
"Nearly five," Castiel replies, head bobbing. "Anna and I have… known each other quite some time, however. We were neighbors. Her family owned a general store, and mine ran the blacksmith's. Since I am the youngest and have considerable artistic talent, I apprenticed with a silversmith."
There is a long silence, as Castiel looks at Dean expectantly. The doctor exhales slowly, frowning as though he finds this information intriguing. But it has barely registered, because he is struggling to remember how to conduct a medical interview. His mind is working furiously, trying to pull the threads of his words back from where they had drifted into… into…
Dean has no blasted idea where they've gone.
"And had you tried to make love to Mrs. Novak?" Dean asks finally.
"Do you mean, the, uh…" Castiel's face reddens.
"Yes," Dean says quickly. "Sex. Make love. You haven't, then?"
"I've lain next to her in bed," Castiel offers. "Until she spoke with her mother, I didn't realize she wouldn't get pregnant simply by lying next to me."
"And you've gotten hard before, yes?" Dean asks, Castiel confirming it with a short nod. "But never experienced an orgasm."
"What is an – "
"The climax of sensation and ejaculation of semen," Dean tells him hurriedly, lowering his voice and leaning toward the silversmith.
"Yesterday was… the uh… first time," Castiel replies, squirming in his seat, spine curled into a rigid parenthesis. "Although I think I might have dreamed about it when I was younger."
"Completely natural," Dean assures him. "Now the matter of masturbation." At Castiel's confused expression, he explains, "Making yourself orgasm. Masturbating will be good practice for coupling with Mrs. Novak, but once you've learned it properly, it's best to not do it too frequently. It will drain your essence and stamina. A terrible habit to keep up."
"Do…" Castiel's throat bobs swiftly as he swallows. "Do you practice masturbation?"
Dean blinks a few times, then stutters, "Well. I mean. I… Yes. Occasionally. When the situation arises. I am as of yet unmarried, and male tension runs rather high."
"And how… often would you say the, er, situation arises?" Castiel looks flushed.
Dean looks at his glass of wine, suddenly wishing he'd finished it before Castiel had arrived. The conversation is far more intimate than he'd like. At least, intimate on his own account. He's become accustomed to delving into his patient's most private issues. "I'd say four to seven times a week on average."
"So you always touch yourself, then?" Castiel asks him weakly. "When you feel the urge?"
"Well, it depends on the situation," Dean replies, frowning.
"I see. And if you were in a restaurant, in the middle of the afternoon, with a friend?"
Dean's eyes fly up to Castiel's, and they stare at one another for a long, painfully silent moment. The smaller man fidgets with his silverware and finally averts his eyes, too uncomfortable to continue staring.
"What, right this moment?" Dean demands, too startled to stop the blush from creeping across his face.
Castiel nods and shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
There is a loud rushing sound in Dean's ears, like his blood, or the ocean, and his vision narrows down to his patient's lithe frame, bowed inward. He stands and motions for Castiel to follow him. He knows he ought to explain how men ought to think of cow intestines, or maggots, or taxes, but the rushing noise drowns out the soft arguments.
"Perfect opportunity to practice," Dean lies. They are standing in the linen closet, where Dean's chef friend has told them they may go to find some privacy. Bobby is an excellent cook, but knows very little of what Dean does for a living, and therefore had asked no questions when he'd been told Dean needed somewhere secluded for an emergency private consultation.
Mr. Novak stares at him with uncertainty, but the way his trousers are tented proves how little he cares about the lie.
"You should… do it yourself," Dean says with a short stammer, gesturing too quickly to be anything other than eager.
"You'll tell me if I do it wrong?" Castiel asks, removing his jacket and setting it on a pile of napkins. He unbuttons his trousers and drawers, and when he fishes out his cock, Dean feels his mouth go dry.
"I think you'll know for yourself if you do it wrong," Dean assures him, without meeting his eyes. For some reason, he can't bring himself to politely avert his eyes from where Cas is awkwardly stroking himself.
"It doesn't feel as good," Castiel tells him breathlessly.
"Often the case," Dean says automatically. The sight of Castiel's erection, of him touching himself, the desperation on his face, all sends Dean's body into a fit of sensation, starting with a tingling in his spine, to a nervous twitching in his fingers, to blood throbbing in his throat, belly, and groin. He wants to say something else, knows he ought to offer advice, at least try to keep this professional.
"You're doing splendidly."
"I can't do it," Castiel growls in frustration, and stopping. "Please, I'll practice later, can't you – "
Dean startles himself by launching himself across the tiny room and wrapping his hand around Castiel's prick.
"Like this," he breathes. "Do you feel it?"
"Yes," Castiel says, and looks up at him, face now scarlet. "I feel it. Better. Yes." They watch each other, both breathing hard, and Castiel grabs Dean's shoulders after a few seconds. He looks as though he may faint, and Dean slides an arm around him.
"You really ought to practice," Dean murmurs.
"Don't want to," Castiel whispers.
"I won't always be around to do it for you," Dean says, and suddenly realizes that in all his time giving genital massages to women, none of them have ever been as physically close to him as Castiel is in this moment.
"Shh." Castiel presses his forehead into Dean's throat.
"Practice on me, if you like," Dean blurts, his fist still pumping at Castiel's cock. The smaller man's hands move so quickly to tug at his trousers and drawers that Dean cannot stop the pleased noise that escapes him.
Hot hands delve deeply along the wiry hair on his belly, a quiver of excitement rolling up his stomach to his chest, clenching the muscles tightly. The hands map out Dean's swelling shaft, and Castiel trembles violently, knocking a stack of tablecloths to the floor and desperately pressing his face further into Dean's throat.
"Like this? Am I doing it right?" Castiel breathes and hiccups when Dean's fingers clamp down briefly on the head of his dick.
Dean nods frantically, adding, "Yes, like that." His hand falters as Castiel's hands curl up around and behind his testicles. "That's… very… " Castiel moans softly against his neck and Dean forgets what he was going to say.
Sliding his hands up to wrap around Dean's prick, Castiel begins to stroke him, too roughly, until Dean manages to grunt, "Gently."
"No, harder," Castiel growls back, driving his cock up into Dean's fist.
"You blasted…" Dean gasps and then hisses when Castiel's thumb crawls a slow massage up the underside of his cock.
"Why were you already aroused?" Castiel breathes. He chokes softly when Dean's fingers tighten briefly. "When I undid your trousers. Before I even –" His voice cuts off abruptly.
Dean feels something like terror twist its way up his insides. Quickly, and accusatorily, he stammers, "Well-why-you… Why were YOU?"
"You were talking about masturbating yourself," Castiel moans softly.
A growl works its way half up Dean's throat and then strangles there, his heart beating so wildly in his chest that he can barely breathe. He holds it in, chewing fiercely down on the inside of his cheek. The thing-that-is-like-terror turns dark, and begins to throb at the back of his mind, threatening to seep forward.
"Do you kiss Mrs. Novak?" The words come out garbled and strained, but Castiel deciphers them quickly.
"Sometimes," he breathes.
"You should…" The words are coming from somewhere Dean cannot stopper with manly reticence. Panic clenches the muscles in his belly, and he grips Castiel's rigid cock harder. "…Perhaps show me. Might need correcting."
He bows his head and meets Castiel's eyes. They are unfocused and glazed with arousal, and he squints in confusion for a moment. "You want me to…"
"Kiss me, Cas," Dean hisses, and Castiel tries to speak and gasp in one breath as he ejaculates onto Dean's shirt. He makes a soft, hoarse sobbing noise, and his grip on Dean goes slack. Dean cannot think as grief rips through him for stumbling on the path to his own release, but his hand continues to rub Castiel through the soft mewling and shuddering.
After a moment, Castiel shifts, and dry, slack lips press to Dean's jaw, trailing up to find his mouth by sense of touch alone.
Dean bends down into the kiss that Castiel presses to his mouth. For a moment, neither man moves, every inch of their bodies focused in on where they have joined together. Dean cannot move, as though Castiel's mouth has developed a gravitational pull; even his heart is straining up toward their mouths.
Castiel's teeth tug at Dean's lower lip briefly, and Dean's head suddenly feels hot and heavy.
"Oh fucking touch me, Cas," Dean gasps deeply against Cas's cheek, and the thin hand thrusts into action.
They struggle together as Dean seals their mouths together again, and Castiel squeezes the hand on Dean's sac lightly. It doesn't hurt, but it churns Dean's stomach, and he groans roughly, suddenly aware of how much he'd wanted this to happen, and how afraid he is now that it is.
"Please please," Castiel whispers against his face. "I want you to, please." Dean begins to quake, and bites on his own lip before catching Castiel's and biting down on it instead. He starts to grab Castiel's hand, to speed it up, but the other man shakes him off, and gasps against his mouth, "I can do it. I can do it, Dean. Let me do it to you."
Dean whimpers now; he can feel the tension mounting inside him. Castiel's words are so simplistic, so naïve, so crude, and so terribly, terribly effective. They bring Dean so close to completion that he can almost taste it.
"Let me do it to you," Castiel repeats, kissing him again, tongue slicking swiftly across Dean's teeth and gums.
It is not completion that Dean can taste. It is salt, and wine, and teeth. It is Castiel.
The orgasm seizes Dean so intensely that he loses his tightly-gripped control and cries aloud, squeezing his eyes shut. He crushes Castiel to him tightly, so that the smaller man moans a soft protest, but does not push away.
Then they're kissing again, Dean's tongue rubbing desperate and pleased over Castiel's. There are warm hands on his face, in his hair, crunching the starch in his collar, sliding back down to his softening penis, making him shudder and tug his hips away.
"Not after," he murmurs to Castiel. He brushes his palm over Castiel's messy groin, making him shiver. "See? Too sensitive."
"Was that alright?" Castiel whispers. "Did I do it right? Did you like it?"
"I liked it," Dean tells him, kissing him again. "You're marvelous at it."
"Really?" Castiel asks, hands inside of Dean's shirt, touching the skin of his stomach and ribs. He bends his face down to look at Dean's body.
"You're marvelous," Dean says, watching his patient explore his chest with long pale fingers. "Marvelous."