Dean had finally asked Sam to give him a bit of space, because he needed to think of a strategy. What should he, could he say to Castiel to express his regret? A shower, he thought. A shower is what I need.
He walked down the hall to the old, utilitarian bathroom, and turned both faucets. He let the water run for a while; the old plumbing took a bit of time to regulate temperatures. He felt the water run over his hand until it normalized. Dean liked his showers hot, just below scalding. He just didn't feel clean otherwise.
Dean turned toward the medicine cabinet and leaned in to examine his face in the mirror. He had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep. His lips were chapped from dehydration, and he felt his stomach grumble. He hadn't eaten in 24 hours at least. He thought he looked old, and felt even older. He brought his fingers up to his face to trace frown lines, scowl lines. All of his hurt and fear and pain was now permanently etched onto his face.
I'm all used up , he thought. I'm empty, just a husk. In my dream, I felt… vital. Alive. Because of him. Dean ran his hands through his hair, stopping at the crown of his head. He paused there, and then slowly, almost without noticing it, he pulled. Lightly at first, then harder, imagining Castiel's strong fingers instead of his own. He closed his eyes, and saw Cas' face smiling, glowing, looking down at him.
Do you want to know what kind of man you are, Dean Winchester? he heard Cas say. Then suddenly, the angel's eyes went black and his face twisted into a wicked grin. Dean's eyes flew open and he stumbled backwards, muffling a shout. The bathroom had filled with steam, a hot fog that now obscured the mirror. Goddamnit Dean, get it together.
Dean stripped off his shirt and threw it on the floor in disgust. He unbuckled his belt, slid his jeans and underwear down to the cold tile floor and stepped out of them. He hooked a thumb in his sock and stripped it off, holding the edge of the sink for support, and then repeated the gesture for its mate. He looked down at his body, slightly slick with condensation. Scarred, worn out, inside matching outside. He threw back the mildewy shower curtain and stepped into the old clawfoot tub, groaning under the hot water. At least the water pressure is good.
Dean let the water pour over his face and through his hair, and flow over his tired muscles. He grabbed the bottle of soap from its spot on the floor of the shower, clicked open the cap, and squirted a generous amount into his palm. He lathered it up between his hands and began to massage it into his skin. He started with his chest, moving in fast, circular motions, and then down his abdomen. Suddenly, he felt a dull ache in his shoulder and ran his hand up his arm to meet the pain. He looked down and realized that it was the exact spot where Castiel had left his handprint all those years ago, when he had pulled him out of Hell. He closed his eyes as he was overcome with emotions. Guilt, shame, and feelings of unworthiness danced and mingled with lust and adoration. He pressed his hand into his shoulder imagining that it was not his, but Castiel's. He squeezed the spot, and then let his hand move across his chest probingly. He kneaded and massaged his own muscles with soapy, amorous strokes. A small moan escaped his lips as he let both hands slide down his stomach and wrap around his waist, gripping his sides and pulling his hips forward ever so slightly.
Dean, do I frighten you? said Castiel's voice in his head.
"No, angel," Dean murmured under his breath. "Nothing frightens me when you're around." Dean's slick hands slowly found their way down to his groin and his breath caught when he realized that he was painfully hard. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, squeezing his eyes tight at the realization of what was happening, what was about to happen.
Is this not what you want, Dean?
"Dammit, angel, it's the only thing I want."
Dean wrapped his right hand around his member. Fuck, I am hard, he thought to himself. He started with long, slow strokes that sent lightning shooting up his spine. He shuddered. With his left hand he continued to massage the muscles of his abdomen and chest, and then let his hand slide his neck up to his hair, curling his fingers and pretending they were Cas'. Then his imagination shifted as his strokes became faster, more fervent. In his mind's eye he saw Castiel before him, shirtless, eyes aflame. Stretched out on either side of him were the giant, black wings from his dream, each magnificent feather radiating ethereal rainbow light that pulsed in rhythm with Dean's hand. Castiel had tears in his eyes and the most beatific expression, one that told Dean, without a doubt, that everything would be okay. Dean reached out and dove his fingers into the feathers of Cas' left wing and felt fireworks explode in his veins, and suddenly he was coming harder than he'd ever in his entire life, groaning and grasping at the plumbing for support as his knees buckled and his breath came out in ragged gasps.
Dean slid to the floor of the tub, endorphins coursing through his veins. He laughed as he cried, and his effusive tears of adoration and loneliness were washed down the drain until the water ran cold.