There is no pain, you are receding
A distant ship, smoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying
When I was a child I had a fever
My hands felt just like two balloons
Now I've got that feeling once again
I can't explain, you would not understand
This is not how I am
I have become comfortably numb

- "Comfortably Numb," Pink Floyd

It's a confusing night, overall. Dean spends it half convinced he's on some sort of strange first date, and half that he's in a closed hospital ward on psychiatric watch or something.

It's not that the signals are mixed: Castiel is pretty obviously into him and hasn't tried to deny it, but he's being so studiedly inoffensive that it's like Dean's still back in that damned hospital room while someone waits for him to cry. And yeah, in the hospital room he did break down, but now that everything is done he's just. . . numb. He can feel something scratching away beneath his skin, anger and shame and grief, but he can't let it out, or he won't.

Dean can't decide if he wants Castiel to make a move so he can punch him in the face and reaffirm everything he knows about the type of asshole that'd pick up a screwed up Omega, or if he wants Castiel to make a move so he can throw himself into something physical just so he doesn't have to think, but he's increasingly certain he wants the guy to make a move because that at least would be familiar.

And if Dean were to be honest about it, also because Castiel smells really fucking good, and there's something distracting about watching Castiel wrap plush lips around a fork that makes this guy eating pie almost as good as watching porn.

But Dean's not going to initiate anything, either.

It's not that he's some sort of shrinking violet of an Omega, waiting for some Alpha protector to come around and hide him from the big bad world, or tell him it's okay for him to enjoy sex. Fuck that, he doesn't need permission. He likes sex, when it's consensual and he gets to pick the partner. Yeah, usually he picks up women, because all of his equipment is working thank you very much, and there's just a hell of a lot less stigma buying condoms than pills. With the right condom on, most women wouldn't expect an alpha to knot anyway, and he's a one-night-stand king so no one asks questions and life passing as something he's not goes on smoothly. When he has other urges, he deals without, or take matters in his own hands. It's safer that way. He's not going to go set himself an appointment with some specialist just so he can get a goddamned birth control prescription that costs an arm and a leg every month. Clinics that do that sort of shit are usually protested anyway because God forbid some 'bitch' doesn't want to go forth and multiply for the good of the country and the world.

He doesn't need that shit aimed at him.

It's only three days a month that it's an issue that he needs to go chase something to scratch a different itch, and he's damned good at controlling himself and sweating it out miserably instead. Bobby Singer, saint of a boss and unofficial uncle that he is, somehow manages to make his 'three day weekend' every month something Benny and Garth and the others don't even suspect. If they do suspect, they don't care.

As a rule, he doesn't sleep with anyone while his heat makes him feel like he has no control. Control is one of the myriad Dean-Winchester-Issues, and he knows it. He hasn't ever needed Sammy bitching and rolling his eyes and teasing to know that. Sam means well, but he doesn't quite get it; when Dean's hulking Alpha baby brother walks in the room with his law degree and his unquestioned masculinity and an indecent foot taller than everyone around him, not a damn person tells him what to do. So when Dean tells him to back the fuck away from his radio, or drop a topic, or 'buy him some goddamn pie' he laughs to himself and flips his brother off but does what he's told because that's just Dean.

So yeah. This is a control issue, and he's in someone else's house, eating on someone else's dime, and this guy took care of his father, fought at Dean's side, has been seriously going out of his way for him, and slowly but surely Dean's wracking up a debt, but he doesn't know when to expect what he owes this guy to come into collection. This situation is outside of his control. Which is pretty fucking hilarious overall because. . . Cas let him pick dinner. Cas hasn't attempted to do anything, even treat Dean's injuries, without Dean's permission first. Cas handed him the remote control and folded himself into the far side of the couch, against the opposite arm, and if it weren't for the fact that the coffee table is holding his meal Dean's sure he'd be on the chair. And Cas is currently staring at him like he's a bug in a box while he flicks to the news to check and see if the hospital thing made it on there.

"Still staring, dude. And still creepy."

"You're anxious." Castiel counters, confused and concerned, bare feet just barely peeking out beneath the blanket pulled over him like he's an eighty-year-old grandpa doing the frikkin' crossword on a rainy Sunday or something, instead of the quiet badass Dean is starting to suspect him of being.

"Could have something to do with the staring." Now he has to worry about the fact that this guy apparently can read him.

Castiel frowns, brow creasing, but he deliberately tears his eyes away from Dean's face. Which would be more convincing if it didn't mean he was staring blankly in the opposite direction instead. Subtlety clearly is a lost art with Castiel. "I apologize. I just don't know what else I can do to make you comfortable. . ."

"Dude, I'm not going to be comfortable, okay? So just. . ."

"Why not?" It sounds like an honest question, and Dean can't tell if he's for real or not. Meanwhile, the 'not staring' thing seems to have lasted all of thirty seconds, except now Dean's staring back. Crap, it's contagious. Awareness of the fact that he's doing it doesn't stop him, though, and Dean's meeting Castiel's eyes when he continues eventually, filling the silence Dean has left him with low, reassuring words that wrap around Dean like rich velvet. He swears he can feel it like a slow drag over his skin, warm and soft and tactile, and he shivers despite himself. "You have nothing to fear from me, here, Dean."

"Who the hell said I was afraid of you?" Castiel doesn't exactly smile, but the corners of his lips soften, the blue eyes Dean's found himself staring into lighten, and Dean can tell he's amused. It stings him, but the more defensive he becomes, the more Castiel seems to brighten in the face of his ire. "What, you think I am? You weren't the only person holding your own in that fight, doctor." Cas agrees with a slow nod, not condescending, but no less pleased, as if he's thrilled Dean's arguing. "Look, I'm just waiting for the quid pro quo, here. No one goes through all this and doesn't expect something in return. You want something from me, and. . . "

Cas's expression closes off, as sudden and complete as it had in the hospital when he accused him of drinking all night and endangering his patients, and it's a small victory but Dean will take it. He's always had a gift for pissing people off, and he'd rather force this to a head one way or another. So when Castiel unfolds himself from the couch, Dean's braced for a fight, and instead gets a pissed off Alpha fussily folding his blanket and snatching up the trash of their meal, taking it towards the kitchen garbage.

"Tell me, Dean. The blonde girl at the bar, she's your family you said. You are close to her." Well that's not a direction Dean was expecting this to go. Is this guy expecting Dean to hook him up with Jo? Dean doesn't blame him, Jo's damned amazing and he heard him laughing and talking with her on his way up the stairs, but something sets his hackles on edge about it and he doesn't realize he's standing up until after he's on his feet.

"Closest thing I have to a little sister." Dean's words agree, but everything about his posture and tone is hostile, defensive, and he convinces himself that the hot spike of jealousy through his gut is just protectiveness. He's hardwired as a big brother: Jo slid in there neatly after Sammy on his list of priorities.

"If I bought her a drink. . ." Dean's knuckles whiten, hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he stares at the back of Castiel's head as the doctor stands in the kitchen, methodically rinsing out their cups at the sink. "Do you think I could get her to come back here and . . ."

"No." His growled response is definitely protective, and if this asshole thinks Dean's going to help him con Jo into anything for him. . .

"Because you believe she deserves better. You know she deserves better than to feel as if she's bought and paid for with a drink or a favor." There's something triumphant to Castiel's words, and he turns from the sink, his chin high and a righteous anger on his face to match Dean's own. Dean has Castiel by an inch or two of height and probably a decent amount of muscle, but at this moment you wouldn't have known it. Shoulders square, he prowls out of the kitchen, each step taking him closer to Dean until for the first time tonight he is invading Dean's personal space as if it's hisright to, eye to eye and practically nose to nose. "So why then would buying you a drink, or helping you when you need it, obligate you to me? I did it because I believed I should, not because I expected anything in return. Because you are a human being, Dean, and you have every right to be treated with respect too."

The sun is setting on this, the longest day of the year, and as it shines through the slatted miniblinds of Castiel's living-room window it bathes everything in molten gold, like it is attempting to preserve this moment for them somehow, trap them like insects in amber. Dean's frozen in place, only a breath between him and Castiel, for the first time in his life struck dumb. He doesn't have a ready comeback to blow this guy off, or a quip in his arsenal to throw him. He wets his lips nervously, looking for something to say, and Castiel's eyes are instantly drawn to the motion, watching Dean's tongue swipe across his top lip, bottom lip pulled between tight between his teeth and rolled back out moist and soft, a gesture so quick and so unconscious that Dean only realizes that he's doing it when it's under so much scrutiny.

Castiel is staring transfixed at his lips with eyes gone dark and wide, and this at least Dean knows. The temperature in the room seems to skyrocket, heat pooled in the insignificant space between them, pheromones thick enough that it feels there's barely room for air. He's prideful enough to be slightly embarrassed by how intimately aware he suddenly is of everything about this man in front of him. The curve of his jaw, the way his adam's apple bobs in his throat when he swallows, how close he is, the dark fan of his lashes and the way his breath catches, and the nearly predatory stare that is unwaveringly fixed on Dean's mouth and the slight tilt of his head that would slant their lips together if he just took one half step closer.

". . . You want to kiss me."

"Yes. I do." Arousal has taken Castiel's already deep voice and forced it into something that sounds painful, as if a human throat shouldn't be able to articulate something so raw. "Very much." Eyes sweeping back up, he seems to be searching Dean's face, and Dean has no idea what he sees there like this, but it isn't embarrassment that has a flush creeping across Castiel's cheeks this time, lust and wonder and finally something almost sad. "And you would let me." Castiel's breath skates along Dean's skin, a shaking exhalation as Cas gathers together the ragged shreds of his self-control, reluctantly closes his eyes to the vision before him, and with one deliberate step then another, puts three feet of distance between he and Dean. "Which is why I can't."

And on that confusing note, Castiel turns away and walks toward the couch, settling onto it again heavily and pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes, waiting until his heart stops racing, until the urge is controlled and instinct is carefully schooled by reason, to drop his hands and sigh. Picking up his blanket again, he flicks his gaze quickly up at Dean, before looking away to the television. "It has been a long day, Dean. You need rest, to recuperate."

The dying sunlight is finally deepening to red, a bloody tinge across the carpet, and though it's only just now dusk it's nearly nine o'clock. Still early for a night owl like Dean, but not so early that he couldn't justify it to himself with Sam's flight tomorrow. Still, he's caught in confusion, not entirely certain where the left turn was in his interactions with Castiel Novak, but aware that everything veered off track pretty abruptly there. Running a hand over his hair, he huffs quietly, looking down at his bare feet. "What, is that like doctor's orders or something?"

"More a friend's advice." Castiel stares up at him from the couch, hesitant and hopeful, as if the offer of friendship might be so offensive that Dean would slap him down. The sheer ridiculousness of it finally shatters the tension stretched between them, and Dean rolls his eyes towards the ceiling and shakes his head slightly, and he tries to pass it off as exasperation but he can feel the day catching up to him all at once again, crashing into him now that the potential for shoving it away, physically distracting himself, has been yanked back from him again, prickling at the corners of his eyes and stealing all the warmth from his body. "Yeah, okay. You're not wrong there I guess. I can crash on the couch, though, man. You don't need to give up your bed for. . ."

"You're taking the bed. That will be orders if I must. You have a broken rib, you've bruised your shoulder and your back, you have multiple contusions, and this couch isn't that comfortable." Holding up a hand to stall Dean's immediate retort, he continues. "It's fine enough for me. Go rest, Dean." And as if to put an end to the discussion, Castiel turns off the television and stretches out on the couch as best he's able, pulling the blanket over himself and turning his face in towards the cushions, freeing Dean from the weight of his gaze.

Dean finds himself staring, trying to figure him out, and he clears his throat before speaking, drawing Cas's eyes open again, looking up at him. "Why? I mean. . . you got in the fight or whatever because you think it's what any decent person would do, but why. . ." Why follow him out of the hospital? Why buy him the drink? Why not just kiss him? What the hell is it that Castiel is seeing when he stares at Dean? Because it's not just that Dean's attractive (hell, he knows he's hot) or that he's an Omega, because Cas is resisting physical attraction fairly hard, clearly. But news story or not, Dean still has to worry if this guy just pissed away a career and got himself into a world of trouble, over him, and he'd like to know why he thought it was worth it.

Castiel looks tired like this, the shadows settling into his face, an arm curled beneath his head and his body folded into the couch and shrouded beneath the blanket. "Because you fought back, Dean. You stood up, and I find that remarkable. You didn't sit back and let anything happen to you, in the bar or at the hospital or in the parking lot."

Dean stares down at him for a long moment, then shakes his head and slips through the darkening room towards the bedroom, closing the door behind him gently. He doesn't bother locking it. Because with one subtle word of emphasis he got an answer to both questions.

Castiel doesn't want Dean to let himself be kissed.

He wants Dean to want it, too.

Right now, though, all Dean really wants is for this day to be over. Sinking into Castiel's bed, Dean curls himself around a pillow and tries to will the world away. He doesn't want to dream tonight.

xXx

By some respects it's one of the worst days of Dean's life since Mary Winchester died and tore his entire world apart, drove his father off the deep end and left an infant Sammy with a preschooler as a parental figure.

It's one of the worst since the day after the first heat finally left him, his father's disgust and disappointment even before he trudged exhausted to his school and was overpowered and beaten and abused.

His father is dead, two innocents are dead with him, another young boy's chance at a normal life was destroyed, and he could have died fighting those guys and left Sam alone in the world, and he would have been raped, humiliated and beaten if he didn't fight.

He's an orphan, an outcast, and a freak. He should have had Cas bring him to the bar, should have at least gotten a bottle of Jack or something, should have chased nightmares away the way he always has (or has always tried to).

There's something else going on, though, and he doesn't understand it. Subconsciously, he knows that somehow, some way, everything is changing again. But this time he has no idea what to expect, and that terrifies him.

And yet, cocooned in Castiel's bed, he sleeps soundly.

xXx

He wakes to the smell of smoke and low cursing, and for half a moment he's four years old again and terrified, but no. No, that was a long time ago. Then he's just blearily confused, warm and comfortable and well rested and not hung-over, his nose pressed deeply into a pillow in an attempt to block out the smoke or wrap himself in the smell that clings to the fabric around him, trying to figure out where he is.

Cas's place. Cas's bed. Cas's scent. Apparently, Cas's cursing in the other room.

Castiel, the doctor. The doctor who was with him when his father. . .

The memory of the previous day hits him like a ton of bricks, bringing a depression crashing back in that he didn't know to miss. Moments later, the fire alarm goes off outside of the bedroom door and abruptly dies after loud footsteps, a crash, and an electronic warble. Rolling out of the bed quickly, Dean pads to the bedroom door and opens it, braced defensively by instinct, and he must have been out of it yesterday because he doesn't have his knife on him.

Just as well this time.

Cas is standing in front of the doorway with a broom upraised to the ceiling in his hands, a dead smoke-detector in pieces at his feet, and a sheepish expression chasing its way across his face as Dean shows up right in front of him. "Um. . . Good morning?"

". . . Not from the looks of it, Cas." Shaking his head slightly and forcing his posture to relax, Dean points at the broom. "If I try to walk past you and see what you've set on fire, am I gonna get hit with that?"

Cas drops his arms and the broom abruptly, as if he didn't notice he was still holding it aloft, before shaking himself out of it and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he strides back towards the kitchen, tucking the broom back into the pantry. "It's possible that I overcooked the eggs."

The 'eggs' are lumps of charcoal adhered to the bottom of the pan when Dean ambles into the kitchen, poking at it experimentally to see it crumble.

". . . Yeah, I'd say that's a 'possibility.'" Picking up the pan, Dean tips the offending experiment into Castiel's trash, shaking his head and biting back a laugh he shouldn't allow himself, but there's no way he can let this go without teasing. He doesn't know if he should be touched or a bit weirded out that the guy tried (and failed) to cook breakfast for him. "So, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say 'chef' was never among your previous professions?"

"I can usually accomplish TV dinners, frozen waffles, ramen, toast, and boiled eggs on bagged salads." Cas shuffles awkwardly, raising and dropping his shoulders in a faint shrug, and closes the laptop on the dining table that he had apparently gotten distracted with while supposedly cooking. "It was never an issue growing up. And then they served meals at seminary, then the mess hall in the Army, and then the cafeteria at the hospital. . ." Dean's staring at him, and he's not going to laugh because today is not a day he should be able to, no matter how damned amusing it is that a grown man who can stitch a human being back together has never learned to cook a basic meal. As if sensing Dean's train of thought, Cas gestures defensively at the living room. "There is a reason I have all of those take-out menus, Dean."

Dean snorts in agreement, the closest he can allow himself to a laugh, and turns in place to take in the layout of Cas's tiny kitchen. The clock on the oven says he has an hour and change before he needs to go get Sam. "Early shift today at the hospital?"

"Mid-morning shift, but an early bus." Dean turns to squint at him when he punctuates the answer with a jaw-cracking yawn, hiding it behind his hand and leaning against the pantry door.

"Did you sleep at all last night?"

"A bit." Dean makes a disbelieving sound, shaking his head slightly and moving across the kitchen to pull open Castiel's refrigerator door without a by-your-leave, taking in what he has to work with. He shouldn't have let Cas talk him into taking the bed. "By no fault of the couch's. I was thinking."

"When you do that alone on your couch all night in place of sleeping that's called 'brooding,' Cas. Or worrying. Are you worried?"

Cas shrugs, too falsely nonchalant to be believable, and Dean pauses with the rest of the carton of eggs in one hand and a half-gallon of milk in the other. "You are worried."

"A bit." Cas admits, and apparently morning conversation can be 'a bit' limited with Cas still exhausted. Stepping into the kitchen, Cas squeezes past Dean as he relocates in front of the stove, and takes a canister of coffee grinds from the counter beside him, filling up the carafe at the sink. It's close quarters, but Dean doesn't move away from the stove, and Cas is apparently single-mindedly fixed on producing caffeine for them both and pretending that it is perfectly normal to crowd shoulder to shoulder with Dean. "Nothing that happens today will be your fault . . ."

Dean scoffs, and Cas turns to face him, and now they're too close. There's no difference in space between them, but the eye contact makes it immediately more intimate, and Dean's right back to the kiss that wasn't. Castiel is too if Dean's reading him right, but he doesn't pull away and doesn't blink, and there's none of the sharper edge of tension of the night before. He shouldn't be getting this comfortable with the complete lack of personal space, or perpetual staring, or Cas's phone-sex voice. "Dean. Stop worrying."

Dean smirks faintly, and breaks the moment by gesturing behind Cas at the pantry, sinking back into the comfortable sense of camaraderie without letting himself question it. He does his best to mimic Cas's tone and voice and slings sarcasm back in place of Cas's earnestness. "'Castiel. Stop ordering me around.' Then make yourself useful and get me a mixing bowl, bread, and find me a pan you haven't ruined."

Somehow, Castiel rolling his eyes is one of the most amusing things Dean's seen in a long time. It involves his entire body, apparently, as he turns away to obey Dean's own orders. Hell, it's almost as good as Sam's bitchface as justification for why Dean's a deliberate pain in the ass, and immediately he's far more comfortable falling into cooking in someone else's kitchen, smirking to himself as he begins making French toast. He continues giving Castiel orders until he's got everything he needs, and concludes by telling him to stop staring at him and get dressed for work, without the bite of discomfort at the scrutiny this time.

It's not until the second slice of egg-soaked bread is sizzling in the pan that the thought of cooking up entire loaves of bread for Sam growing up turns into thoughts of picking Sam up at the airport, and from there into thoughts of funeral preparations and how his father would have sneered at Dean settling into a domestic routine with some alpha like a good little bitch, and the shit carved into the sides of his car that he would have to watch Sam's face as he read it when he picked him up in his baby. He doesn't know how long he's subsumed in those thoughts, as he mechanically flips the bread, but he stiffens when Castiel rests a hand on his shoulder to get his attention and pull him out of his thoughts.

"Dean? Are you okay?"

"I. . . need to make a phone call." Dean tears away from Castiel's comforting touch abruptly. Dumping the French toast onto a plate for him and shoving the plate and syrup into Castiel's hands, he ignores the look of outright worry on Castiel's face and strides past him to Cas's bedroom, grabbing his phone from the nightstand and jabbing at Ellen's entry. It takes five rings for her to answer.

"It's before seven in damn morning, if this is a fucking telemarketer so help me God I am going to hunt you down in your home and. . ."

"Ellen, it's me."

Ellen's sleepy tirade cuts off immediately. "Dean?"

"Yeah. Sorry. I know, you keep bar hours, and I didn't want to wake you. . ." Dean drags a hand over his face and drops to sit on Cas's bed. Ellen interrupts him before his apologies can continue, her voice softer than he's heard it in years of Winchester-style familial affection.

"Just tell me what you need, Dean."

xXx

The bed dips slightly as Cas lowers himself gingerly to sit beside Dean on the edge of it, as if Dean is going to bolt at his nearness, or take offense at the idea that Cas thinks he can invite himself into his own bed. Cell phone pressed between his palms, head bowed, Dean fights back a sharp swell of annoyance at being treated like some fragile frikkin' flower that is going to crumble at any minute.

Raising one hand, he presses his knuckles over the corners of his eyes without opening them, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm fine, Cas. I just needed a second to get some things sorted out."

Castiel doesn't agree, but he doesn't argue either. The silent non-judgmental treatment is going to piss Dean off, but he realizes everything is pissing him off, and that's not necessarily fair. Especially since the alternative is one or both of them talking, and he doesn't want that either.

"I brought you coffee." Cas finally says instead, and Dean raises his head and looks over to Cas, who is carefully attempting not to spill the offered mug despite the fact that his bed is so soft that it's like trying to perch on a cloud with a mug in each hand. He paints a ridiculous figure, black slacks and bare feet, a tie draped over his neck but left untied, white dress shirt with its collar left unbuttoned, holding a coffee out to Dean as a peace offering for the second day in a row. He looks wary and hopeful and strangely vulnerable for his rumpled state of half-dressed.

"We gotta stop meeting like this." Dean quips wryly, taking the coffee carefully, but Cas nods and catches his gaze, steadying his own mug in both hands.

"I wish we'd met in different circumstances." Cas agrees solemnly, and he's doing it again, staring at Dean as if he holds all of life's answers somehow if Cas could just tilt his head a little more to the side and get the right angle on it. "I'd like to . . ." blinking, Cas interrupts himself to look down at his coffee instead, weighing his words before starting again, and Dean gets the feeling whatever he was going to say, this isn't exactly it. "I would like the chance to see you again before you leave Lawrence."

And that's the crux of it. He's only here until the damn funeral is taken care of, his father finally laid to rest beside his mother again, and then he's getting the hell out of Lawrence. He has to. And that means the chances of he and Cas seeing each other after this are nil. Dean loves Ellen and Jo, but it's a hell of a lot easier for them to come to Sioux Falls than for him to drag ass to Kansas.

Cas just made enemies in this town on behalf of a guy he's probably never going to see again. And whatever is going on between them that has Dean wanting to lean into Cas's space even now just to leech his warmth and wrap himself in his smell, that makes him think Cas wouldn't miss one of his pillows if he stole it just to take that with him, that has them comfortably sharing space like they've known each other for a lot longer than a day . . . that's all temporary.

"I'm gonna be picking my brother up in just a bit. . ." Cas nods to himself before Dean even finishes speaking, and when he looks up at Dean again his face is carefully schooled understanding. It takes Dean a minute to catch it, but he knows by the time Cas is standing again that beneath all of that is rejection. And god fucking damnit there's a line between being 'understanding' and being apparently the sainted champion of all the downtrodden sob story Omegas in the world, and being a self-defeating idiot-and Castiel just crossed that line by not even letting Dean finish before slinking away, 'giving him space' and 'taking a let-down gracefully'.

Dean rolls his eyes, pushes himself to his feet and pads across the carpet to Castiel. That's it. He's done with the sympathy bullshit. Taking the coffee mug out of Castiel's hand as he stands next to the dresser picking socks out, Dean puts both their drinks down on the dresser, turns back to look into Castiel's confused eyes, and he has a point to prove, just to break the tension and counter Castiel's crestfallen demeanor. Taking the unknotted tie in each hand, he drags Castiel forward and uses the cant of his head to seal their lips together.

For a moment that feels a lot longer than it actually is, that's it. No response. Castiel has frozen in front of him like some sort of statue, unresponsive and shocked. Dean is about to step back, to snark or tease Cas, except there's a hand at the small of his back, locking him in place, and with a shuddered breath Castiel surges into the kiss. Dean's first coherent thought as Castiel yanks him closer, pressing their bodies together and stealing the gasp from Dean's lips is that there is no way in hell this guy is a virgin. And if he is, Dean wants to know what the hell the Catholic Church is teaching its priests, because holy fuck. Castiel kisses like it's the main event, licking his way into Dean's mouth with the taste of maple syrup and hot coffee and cinnamon, his other hand cupping the back of Dean's neck possessively.

The heat between them seems to come from nowhere, from humid panting breaths between kisses as one bleeds into the next. Dean fists his hand into Castiel's hair, pulling him back in again when he thinks he might stray off-task by trying to talk, blunt fingernails dragging against the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck. Dean's not sure when they moved, but what breath he managed to pull in is driven out of him again by the impact with the wall, making the cheap apartment-provided oil painting beside them wobble dangerously on its hook. Cas catches the hand at his back and threads their fingers together, pinning one of Dean's arms above him against the wall and he buries his face into the bend it creates between Dean's neck and shoulder, nosing the collar of the borrowed t-shirt out of the way to drag his stubble across Dean's skin, laying wet open-mouthed kisses onto skin that feel softer after the gentle abrasion.

Tugging at Castiel's hair in an attempt to drag his mouth back up, Dean slots his knee between Cas's thighs and rolls his hips instinctively, tearing a deep guttural moan from Cas's lips as their erections grind together. Even separated by dress slacks and soft pajama bottoms the friction of it is electric. Castiel's eyes are wide, as if he's shocked at himself as he tears himself away from Dean's tender skin to meet Dean's hooded gaze, and while he doesn't pull away he's still again save for his breathing. It's that stillness that eventually pulls Dean back to coherent thought, blinking in slow, shocked surprise.

What the hell was all of that?

Dean's heard of natural chemistry, of mating attraction, pheromone fog, whatever the hell people want to call it. He's seen the effect even the lingering traces of his heat can have on others, but he's a week off from that and this isn't about wanting something, anything to abate a need, it's about wanting Cas right the hell now. Castiel looks wrecked, pupils dilated until the color has almost been chased away and only a thin line of electric blue is left. Slack and parted lips kiss-bruised and pink, high points of color painting his cheeks and his chin, his jaw flush from the prickling drag of Dean's two-day stubble and his untidy is hair tousled by Dean's hands. He looks drugged, and Dean's pretty certain he's not the only one.

"That was. . ." It took Cas two tries to get that far with words, and he can't even find an end to the sentence. Dean knows how he feels.

"Yeah."

Closing his eyes, Cas leans in again, squeezing Dean's fingers between his own and grazing his lips over the arch of Dean's neck, a feather-light touch that sets nerve endings alight, dipping his tongue into the curve of Dean's clavicle like he can taste the chemicals between them pooling into the hollows of Dean's body. "I would very much like to see you again, Dean."

The fear drenches Dean suddenly, like ice dragged down his spine abruptly cooling overheated skin, and Castiel pulls back from him with wide eyes before he even has the chance to push at his shoulders, sensing the change of mood. He has no idea what is going on. He can feel slick on his upper thighs, trying to soak the borrowed clothes and ready him for his Alpha's knot, his body is rebelling against him, shutting down his higher brain functions and reducing him into a wanting, needy thing to be claimed and owned. And he can't be that. He won't be that.

He's here for his father's funeral. He killed his father yesterday, pulled the plug to end his life. He needs to remember that, needs to remember who he is, and he can't. . .

"Dean. . .?" Castiel's thumb brushes across his cheekbone lightly, his hand cupped to Dean's jaw, gentle against the bruises, and Dean rips away from his touch as if it burns him.

"You're going to miss your bus. I need to get dressed before Ellen gets here. Have to get Sam at the airport." Every word is true, but even in Dean's ears it rings of misdirection and denial. When he moves away, Cas lets him.

He doesn't let himself look back to see Cas's face crumple into confusion and dejection. Snatching up his clothes and phone, he ducks into the bathroom, leans against the closed door, and lets shame drag him down to sit on the tile with his head on his knees.

xXx

Castiel is long gone by the time Dean emerges again.

A phone number is penned neatly across a sheet of computer paper set in the middle of the table. No note, no written plea, just his name and phone number in careful block letters, as readable as the doctor's scrawl can make them. An offer, as inoffensive and unassuming as Castiel is able to make it, and Dean stares at the paper blankly as guilt rises up again and makes it hard to breathe, to swallow, to think.

Everything from breakfast has been tidly put away, and Dean can imagine Cas going through the motions of it all, right down to relocating Dean's cup of coffee to the table and putting a slice of the French toast saved for him on a paper plate, covered in saran-wrap, the syrup beside it. The blanket is folded on the couch, the bed is made, Dean's keys are positioned next to the meal, his shoes are lined up beside the door, the dishwasher is running, and everything of it speaks to Castiel stalling as long as he was able, trying to see if he'd emerge again, keeping himself busy waiting for Dean and refusing to press him into coming out.

Dragging his palms down his face, Dean slumps into the seat at Cas's table, and waits for Ellen to call.

xXx

When Castiel arrives at work, it's to a summons from Zachariah.

When he returns home again three hours and a long wait at a bus stop later, it's to an empty apartment where his phone number and name still wait on a piece of paper, exactly where he left them.