Dean took his time waking up. He opened one eye to take in the familiar setting of his now cluttered room – clothes were piled on the chair next to his dresser and papers littered his desk. He exhaled deeply before opening his other eye. Sitting up, he realized he had slept on top of the covers, all of his clothes remained from the day before. He bent to unlace his boots, letting the blood rush back into his toes.

A sudden realization hit him – a vague recollection of words uttered in semi-consciousness, and he hoped to hell that he'd been dreaming.

"I like it when you laugh?" he repeated with disbelief. Where had that come from? If he wasn't careful, Cas, a celestial being with barely any knowledge of human intimacy and closeness, well even he would think he was being totally gay. Which I'm not, Dean thought. Although the memory was becoming clearer and clearer in is mind – along with the time they'd spent together the day before repairing the Impala – he chose to hang onto the belief that he'd been dreaming. With his lethargy lately, he was bound to have some fucked up dreams – maybe even gay ones. Better stop overdoing it, he thought, laughing out loud.

Dean changed into fresh jeans and a clean shirt, pulling on a tee displaying one of his favorite bands.

Before exiting his room, he stuck his head out into the hall to insure that the angel hadn't been near and eavesdropping on his personal reveries. The coast was clear – he sighed in relief before trudging down the long hallway and into the kitchen.

…

Sam was stationed at the counter in the kitchen – a book laid out in front of him titled The Mythology of Angels. He leafed through it absentmindedly; doubting he'd find anything new.

Cas was in the kitchen in front of him. Dishes clinked as the trench-coated man unloaded dishes from the dishwasher. Hearing footsteps approaching from the hallway, Sam looked up to see Dean enter through the doorway across the room. Dean glanced at the angel bent in front of him – Castiel seemed oblivious of his appearance – busy filling the machine with powdered soap.

Dean quickly moved across the tiled floor and opened the fridge, his face reflective and tinged a little pink.

"Morning," Sam offered with a smile.

"It's noon," Cas corrected as he slammed the door of the washer closed.

Dean remained silent, his ears now matched his cheeks with the redness having claimed them as well.

"What's your problem, Dean?" Sam asked.

Dean cleared his throat when Sam said his name, his eyes finally leaving the milk and locking with Sam's. "Oh, nothing, just tired." Sam rolled his eyes before he returned them to his reading.

"Is it customary for humans to sleep for fourteen hours and still feel tired? I thought you two were used to the four-hours-a-night regimen," Cas inquired in his mono-tonal voice. "Yet I practically had to carry you to your bed last night."

Dean closed the fridge at last, forgetting his appetite apparently, his face now full on beet red.

"No one asked you to, Cas" he growled before stalking out of the room.

Cas looked at Sam questioningly. Sam just shrugged and shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine," he told him. Cas remained in the kitchen a moment longer before he left through a different doorway than Dean, no doubt off to inspect more of the bunker's artifacts and lore textbooks.

…

What the actual fuck, he thought. He'd totally just glanced at Cas' ass. It was just right there when he'd walked in, where else was he supposed to look? His eyes bored into the orange juice on the top shelf of the fridge, hoping Sammy hadn't seen him. He prayed the coldness of the fridge would cool his hot cheeks.

He was vaguely aware of Sam and Cas talking to each other but he focused on trying to force himself to take inventory of the fridge.

Sam's voice cut through his efforts: "What's your problem, Dean?" Dean glanced up at his brother – offered an excuse for his stressed state.

Cas spoke then, and Dean froze. "Is it customary for humans to sleep for fourteen hours and still be tired? I thought you two were used to the four-hours-a-night regimen. Yet I practically had to carry you to your room last night."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, letting the door of the fridge swing closed as his hands clasped into fists at his sides. His face burned.

"No one asked you to, Cas" he spat out before getting the hell out of there. Once he was out the kitchen door and out of sight he wrenched his hands to his face. He had to clench his teeth to keep from groaning in embarrassment. It hadn't been a dream then. Wonderful. He practically stomped back to his room and shrugged into his jacket. He marched outside after stuffing his feet into his boots – ready to do some very manual labor. Preferably with a hammer.

Author's Note:

Hey guys! Keep in mind the more reviews I get the more motivated I'll be to blow off my Biology homework and write some more. It's up to you guys :). Anyway I hope you're enjoying the plot so far, it's at a bit of a plateau right now but I promise I have something planned for the near future. Thank for reading!