Warning signals went off in his head as her fingers gripped the blue silk; blood pounded in his ears and red filtered the edges of his vision. His fingers curled to make fists and the fingernails dug hard into his palms.

As her small frame tugged the angel off the stoop to stand on the hard ground directly in front of her, he could feel the skin of his palm break against his pressing nails, and he knew if he looked he'd find blood.

As soon as Dean's eyes took in the image of Meg's lips greedily pushing to Cas' and his ears registered the loud smack of her lips, he flung his eyes to the ground and used all of his willpower to keep himself from tearing her apart right then and there.

Beneath the rolling waves of hatred and anger, he also felt something else; a deep burning in the pit of his stomach. He realized he felt... well, for lack of a better word, hurt. The feeling expanded from his stomach and crawled up into his chest. The internal, emotional pain chafed against him, worse than physical pain; he pushed it down by filling his head with vivid, varied scenarios of the many ways he could kill Meg as soon as he got the chance.

He'd been devising which orifice to pour salt into first when Meg released the man, only a few moments having passed. All three of the men watched her strut down the road before Cas turned around to face the Winchesters. He glanced at Dean first, and Dean scrambled to hide the tortured expression on his face. Once his face settled into general disgust (it was the best he could manage), a pained look lit up Castiel's eyes.

"She sure is friendly," Dean pushed through his teeth, breaking the silence before disappearing through the doorway behind him. He threw another comment over his shoulder: "Maybe you'll get laid, after all." His own words cut through him like razors and he couldn't hide the pain on his face anymore. With his companions outside, still on the stoop, he barricaded himself in his room, his back pressed against the closed door. He stood like that for a few minutes, his eyes pinched shut and his body rigid. He listened for an approach of footsteps. Hearing none, he locked the door and collapsed face down on the bed, his face buried in his hands.

The groan that emanated from his chest wasn't exactly quiet, yet he thankfully still heard no approach of worried footsteps.

I dig Cas, he thought. He'd almost said it out loud, but stopped himself just in time. Even so, he tried to think it as quietly as possible. If Cas could see through his cards, who knows if he could really hear his thoughts or not? Even in his head, the thought didn't sit well. Years of womanizing and a life full of yearning for females didn't exactly agree with this sudden ideology.

He rolled over, lacing his fingers behind his head, deciding to sort through his thoughts.

A part of him had always known he'd had feelings for Cas, he now knew, full, more-than-friends feelings, and the sudden realization made his breath come short. It was so blatantly obvious. But another part of him, the bigger part, was freaking out in a totally non-positive way. What would Sammy think? What would everyone think? Then an even more uncomfortable question entered his mind: What would Cas think?

That thought released the flood gate – and the sheer pain of it knocked the air out of him.

The self-loathing that hit him could rival anyone's. How could he have thought for a minute, a second, that Cas would be into him. Castiel was an angel, a celestial fucking being, and Dean… was just Dean.

Scratch that. He wasn't just an ordinary guy, he was a bad guy, at that. He'd tortured souls both in hell and topside, and on top of that (as if that wasn't enough), he'd been a sex-crazed, thieving, liar all his life. He didn't anyone, let alone Cas.

Sitting up, smoothing his hair down with his hands, he made his decision. Obviously he had feelings for Cas. What else was just as obvious? He would never tell him.

Dean heaved himself up and headed for the kitchen, vowing to get drunk. Shouldn't be too difficult, he hadn't had a drink since he'd crashed. Five months of sobriety should be enough to ensure that a couple fifths would drown out his fucked up feelings.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Sorry it's so short, didn't have whole lot of time today, plus I wanted this section to kind of be on it's own without any other events. Like it? Leave me a review and I'll try to write another chapter as soon as I can, and hopefully a longer one. Thanks for reading, guys!