Skim
Better than any heavy drink, better than any sleeping pill—the smell of Cas was better than anything at knocking Dean out instantly. Dean was grateful too, because if he didn't sleep and dream and feel the warmth of something clasped tightly to his chest, he may have just snuck out to grab a bottle. Even now, he could take a sip; something to ease the ache of knowing he was the dead weight here. He's glad that Cas didn't give him too hard of a time about it last night, not that Dean would have expected him to; but the guy would have had every right. No, Cas was seemingly content, but Dean couldn't help but dwell once more on the fact that he may never be able to open himself up to his friend the way Castiel opened up to him.
When they finally relaxed into bed, the man didn't even seem to hesitate—he just nuzzled up next to Dean, his head on Dean's shoulder and hand on his chest, as if that is what they always do and always will do. He made everything seem natural: just another day and Dean was envious of the simplicity. After his epic failure, he couldn't help but think—over think everything, even something as simple as sleeping. The natural scent from Cas's hair, however, eased his weary mind. The soothing tendrils danced up to him, a constant, sensual lullaby for his nose; he didn't have much time to think about anything at all.
Dean woke up to a harsh spear of sun jabbing directly into his eyes. He squints at the window, noticing that his blinds are slightly askew, causing gaps and slits of the outside to shine through. He slips himself from the sheets and the heavy limbs that were draped across him, grumbling across the room until he can reach out and straighten the mess. A dimness falls through the air and Dean turns back around, only to see the silhouette of Cas, spread out, his back against the bed and something tenting the sheets tight at his waist. Dean looks away, an old habit from his locker-room days and sharing a room with Sammy. He feels as if he would be scolded from above for even noticing such a thing. His next instinct is to throw a pillow at the man and tell him to put that thing away. Although, Cas probably wouldn't find the humor in that, now or later. Not like Sam did—but brothers should.
After the momentary heart attack, Dean peeks back at the bed from the corner of his eye. Cas is sound asleep, the occasional rattle of his breath and the raised sheets, being the only signs of life in the man. Dean slides closer, letting Cas's features focus through the dark. His long eyelashes dust his cheeks and his lips are parted slightly—outlined by the shaded stubble poking through his skin. He looks different this way, good, but different. Dean wonders if he has ever seen Castiel sleep before. In many ways, it seems like his friend never slept, he just was constantly going and Dean only caught him between his own periods of rest.
His eyes skim down the length of the man's body and stop on the rounded point, draped in bedding. He could do something about this. He could help Cas out; after all, he knows how good it can feel in the morning. It seems easier anyway, easier to release. When your muscles are relaxed and your mind is still warming up, there isn't much to stop all that blood from rushing from your head—pressure building below, without any real containment. He could do something, and he thinks he should. Cas is probably pretty eager after yesterday.
Dean slips softly back into bed, careful not to dip the mattress too much. He can't risk the guy waking up and hindering his plans. He inches closer and closer until the ozone of heat surrounding Cas is pulling Dean in. He floats his fingers under the cotton, gliding his knuckles on the underside of the sheets until he is just above Cas's hip. He hopes that he didn't tie the sweat pants too tight or that these were one of the pairs with a button in the front, for easy access. Dean traces a finger along the front seam, feeling the familiar, hard plastic of a button, just under Cas's rigid form. Dean pinches the circle, lifting it slightly so the sweats move away from Cas's body. He fidgets in subtle movements until the button finally releases its grip from the loop. Cas's cock seems to explode out through the slit, causing Dean to realize, Cas must be going commando under there.
Dean can't see himself grab onto the Castiel's base, but the image seems vivid in his head—his hand wrapping around an unfamiliar cock, and he begins to panic again. Sweat builds in his crevices and heavy breaths siphon out of his nose. Jesus! He screams inside his head, biting his tongue so the word doesn't bounce out of his mouth. The pressure starts to jostle Castiel, making the man stretch and tighten his limbs, pulling his chin into his chest and squirming in place. Dean knows that squirm—it's a happy squirm. He is doing alright, he is alright.
He glides his hand up Cas's shaft, feeling the rim of his tip catch on the edge of his fingers. Dean urges his thumb to slide across the top, grazing the void on the center of the head, hammering home that this is really happening. Cas's eyes shoot open with the touch. He jerks his head down, staring at the motion occurring beneath the sheets, then, diverting the look to Dean, a cocktail of confusion and concern mixing in his eyes—not the hungry pleasure that Dean was hoping for.
"Dean?" Cas asks, voice still rumbling with sleep.
"It's okay Cas . . . just relax." Dean chokes out, not sure if he is directing the waking man or himself.
"Dean, you really don't need to do this." Cas hisses, pulling himself up slightly, his expression aching more with every inch.
"But, I—I want to." Dean sputters, his tone, pleading for understanding.
Castiel narrows his eyes and knits his brows, "I don't expect you to do me any favors, Dean."
"I- I'm not trying to do you a fa- I just thought you might like me to. . . " Dean takes another stroke, gliding his thumb over Cas's tip once more.
Cas winces, clutching the edge of the pillow he is propped upon.
"Dean . . ." the words arc down from Cas's lips and Dean feels like a child being scolded for something. Cas is once again, going limp in his hand. The look on the man's face and the feel of him causes Dean to concede, letting go of the spongy shaft and rolling to his back with a huff.
"Fuck."
Cas rustles to his side, shifting the weight of his body onto his elbow, his other arm coming down, to touch his fingers together, picking at each of his nails.
"Dean, you didn't do anything wrong."
"I sure as hell didn't do anything right, did I?" Dean spits out, sending a piercing glance to Castiel.
He thought he was doing okay. A second ago, when Cas was asleep, he seemed happy enough. What the hell changed? Dean is frustrated and he finds he is even kind of frustrated with the man next to him. He knows he didn't grab too hard this time and he sure as hell didn't yank the crap out of him—so why did Cas practically tell him to stop? Did he think Dean couldn't do it? Did Cas know how nervous he was, so he didn't even want to let him try? Dean felt pitied and underestimated; two of his least favorite feelings.
"Dean. I just don't want you to feel pressured." Cas says meagerly, apparently sensing Dean's annoyance.
Dean discards the sheets and rips himself from Cas's side.
"I'm going to take a shower." he grumbles, before walking around the bed and into the bathroom.
Dean locks the door behind him and stands in the cold darkness, wondering if he still has a bottle stashed away in the hamper.