Dean glared at his phone. He had two more rings before it ticked over to voicemail. He shouldn't pick up.

Sam was passed out next to him, taking up most of the couch. He'd wake up, if the phone kept ringing.

He shouldn't pick up.

He shouldn't, he shouldn't, he shouldn't, he shouldn't, he…

"Hey."

Goddamnit.

"Dean." The sandpapered-smooth voice seemed to luxuriate in the single word. Dean found his weak resolve crumbling by the second. "You know, for a minute there, I'd thought you wouldn't pick up. And we both know how unimpressed I would have been at that." There was a chuckle there, as dry, no doubt, as the scotch the caller was currently swilling.

"Yeah, sorry." Dean tried to laugh as well, but found it difficult to negotiate the irritatingly familiar lump in his throat. "I, uh… couldn't find my phone."

"Oh." The caller paused for a moment, letting Dean squirm in uncomfortable silence. "You're not still mad about what happened last week, are you? What I said?"

"No." Dean grunted, glaring at his shoes like a chastised child. "I just, uh… Like I said, I couldn't find my phone."

"Good." The other man muttered, leaving Dean to another long, agonising pause. "So what's new with you, Dean? Would you like to come over and have a scotch or two this evening? I've got some good money riding on the game tonight."

"No, I can't." Dean lied, knowing exactly what would happen if he went over there. "I have to look after Sam. He's ill."

It wasn't strictly untrue. Sam had been running himself ragged the last two weeks, since Bobby took ill. Sam usually only worked part time at the salvage yard, but he'd taken on two extra shifts to pick up the slack (if only so that Bobby would stop trying to soldier on and rest his stubborn ass). Between that, working at a bar and school, Sam was permanently exhausted, and Dean had to make sure he didn't pass out or stick his finger in a plug socket or do something equally sleep-deprived and stupid. It was as good an excuse as any.

"Shame…" Crowley simpered. "I won't push you though; I know how you get with your brother. Maybe next time, hmm?"

"Yeah…" Dean croaked, instantly cursing himself "Maybe."

"I'll see you around, Dean." Crowley spoke with the assured, predatory nature of a pack alpha. Dean sighed and let himself slump back against the couch… as much as he could manage, anyway, when Sam was sprawling himself across the majority of it.

Shit.

Shit, shit shit.

How was he supposed to kick this bad cycle of a whatever-the-hell-it-was he had with Crowley when deep down he knew he wanted the guy? It wasn't even like he found Crowley physically attractive.

Because he was totally not gay, so he wouldn't even find a guy attractive anyway. Ever. Shut up.

He'd made it this long. He'd made it almost a week without taking Crowley's calls. He'd have to ask, next time he saw Castiel, whether there was a certain way he could get Crowley to just leave him the hell alone. That sure would make everything easier.

"Dean?" Sam sat up on the couch, glancing around blearily. "What time is it?"

"It's eight thirty, Sammy." Dean sighed. "You've only been out for a half hour, don't worry."

"Oh, man…" Sam sighed, sitting up properly and running his hands through his hair. "This week is really doing a number on me… Shit, I was going to call Gabriel today… or did I do that already?"

"How should I know?" Dean tutted, kicking half-heartedly at Sam's foot as he stood and walked to the bathroom. "Go to sleep, you're tired."

"Yeah…" Sam must have been beyond tired if he wasn't putting up a fight. The kid had never been one to agree when Dean, or anyone, suggested he call it a night. "When's your next thing? Appointment?"

"With Castiel?" Dean stopped, turning back to look at Sam. "Why?"

"I just want to know. I have a date with Gabriel on Thursday, and…"

"Oh, no, don't want to hear it. Saturday morning, ok?"

"Thank you." Sam yawned, and stood up. "Hey, how's that going?"

"What?"

"The counselling. You've had two appointments now, right?"

"Yeah, but we've not really done anything yet. He says he's still 'building a profile', whatever that means."

"You like him?" Sam stretched, before catching the suspicious glare Dean shot at him. "What? I mean 'as a doctor'."

"I guess. He's… he's not like I was expecting. I was kind of… I was expecting more like those shrinkers we had to go see when we were kids. After the whole thing with Dad."

"Oh." Sam smirked. "I can see why you were so reluctant…"

"Well, he's not, so that's something. Anyway, shouldn't you be going to bed?"

"Yeah…" Sam grumbled, dragging his feet the arduous distance from couch to bedroom. Dean sighed and shook his head as he wandered into the bathroom, slapping on the shower.

Castiel hadn't been what he was expecting at all. He was young, Dean had found out at their second session. The same age as Dean, which had caused him to worry as he realised that meant Sam and Gabriel had to have a ridiculous age gap. He had pointed this out, and Castiel had mused on Dean's preoccupation with worrying about Sam. Dean had practically slammed his head into the desk.

As the water heated and steamed, Dean started pulling his shirt above his head. Castiel was… odd. He had a very subtle sense of humour, combined with something of an overload of manners, meaning that sometimes Dean wouldn't realise the man had told a joke until an hour after they'd parted ways. He was also oddly intense, and Dean supposed it was good to have a counsellor who focused on you like you were the sole object of importance in his world. It was probably supposed to be reassuring, or confidence-boosting or something. It kind of freaked Dean out a little bit, but it was oddly hypnotic at the same time.

"Odd" seemed like the best word to describe Castiel.

Dean scowled and finished undressing, getting in the shower. Freaking Crowley, phoning him up and making him think about shit.

(-*-)

How had it happened?

Castiel had been flicking absently through the stack of essays he had to mark. It wasn't pressingly urgent, but he had supposed he should get the irritating task out of the way and done with. He had wondered, not for the first time, if he shouldn't drop teaching all together and switch to being a full-time counsellor. He didn't mind the actual teaching side of things, but he couldn't stand marking, grading the students, seeing just how much his course meant to them in terms of time and effort.

It was depressing.

His phone had beeped in its irritating manner, and he had answered it immediately, his prayers for a distraction having apparently been answered.

"Good evening. Castiel DiAngelo speaking, who may I say is calling?"

"Castiel."

"Crowley." Castiel had balked instantly, marvelling at this proof that there was a god, and he was a bastard. "Good evening."

"How are you? I always find Wednesdays rather dull, don't you?"

"I'm actually marking papers right now…"

"Papers? You task-master." Crowley had heaved a dramatic sigh. "I make mine mark each others. Teaches understanding of protocol. And saves me a lot of time."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, I'm sure there is." He could hear the snide smirk in Crowley's voice. "But first and foremost, I have a rather expensive bottle of port that needs to be halved. Come over in the next half hour and we'll find something much more interesting to do than mark papers. See you then."

Crowley had hung up.

Castiel had been very aware that his brother would kill him. Gabriel had given up on being patient with Castiel and his unnamed hot-then-cold suitor. For two years or so, he had listened to Castiel complain about how Crowley would love and leave. Or, Castiel had thought bitterly, was pushed. But… this was just one night…

The papers would still be there tomorrow morning, he had thought.

And sure enough they were. His self esteem, self worth and power to remain as an individual, however, were absent.

Castiel grimaced at the papers, being the first thing he saw as he came in through the front door. That was how it had happened. It was the same way it had happened countless times before. It was how he was now tired, aching and slightly hung-over, feeling utterly ashamed of himself.

Castiel made himself some coffee and sat down to do his job. He had returned from his night at Crowley's, and he would work. He wouldn't shower, yet, or give himself breakfast. He would get on with his job with the sense of dirty shame that he had sentenced himself to. He shouldn't get back together with Crowley, he knew that. But he always did, because Crowley always gave him one more chance. And this time, he wouldn't push. He wouldn't stress any point, or suggest anything to move their relationship forward. He wouldn't do anything to make Crowley leave him.

As he corrected paragraph after paragraph of half recalled facts, Castiel absently wondered whether Gabriel was driving himself mad yet. It was his big dinner-date with Sam this evening… Castiel felt a pang of jealously as his stomach appealed for food. Gabriel's cooking was something marvellous. Castiel was pretty sure that, when he eventually let himself eat, it would be cornflakes. If he had milk.

(-*-)

Dean stared at the TV. It would probably have been more entertaining if he turned it on, but he knew there wasn't going to be anything on anyway, so he figured he'd save his legs and the electricity and just stare at the dark screen.

It was eleven pm. Sam went out for his big dinner date hours ago.

He hadn't heard anything from Crowley in days.

Not, Dean reminded himself, that he cared about Crowley. He didn't care about Crowley, he didn't want to see Crowley, and he certainly didn't want to end up in bed with Crowley like he always did.

He cared about Sam. He was caring about Sam, and why Sam hadn't gotten home yet, because Sam wasn't an adult and this "Gabriel" guy, whatever the fuck kind of name that was, was clearly being some sort of predator and was probably fucking his kid brother right now and oh Jesus Christ don't think about that.

Dean shook his head to snap himself out of it. Sam was an adult. He could take care of himself. Dean found a small, shy part of himself thinking that maybe he was only obsessing so much about Sam because he couldn't admit that he was lonely. And that he wanted Crowley.

"Fucking Sam." Dean growled, standing up. Once he'd stood up, he didn't really know what to do, so he stomped into his room. Of course, he thought, Sam would go and fall for some creepy old predator now, when he was supposed to be focusing on his studies and was only just getting over the chain of disastrous relationships he pushed himself into because he was still hurting over Jess' death. How could he make such a back-slide, thought Dean, as he took out his phone and dialled from memory.

How could he shy away from making any progress like that, thought Dean, as he waited for the person on the other end to pick up.

"Hey." He said, when the phone had finally been answered. "Listen, I know it's late, but I really need a drink. There's shit with Sam, and it's driving me crazy. Do you think I could swing by?"

"Of course." If Dean realised how menacingly smooth Crowley's voice was, he didn't make a point of it. "Come over as soon as you can."

Dean was already half way out the door, replaying his last few thoughts over and over, like a mantra. Constantly reminding himself that he was only doing this because he was angry at Sam.