Why can't we not be sober?
Just want to start this over.
Why can't we sleep forever.
I just want to start this over.

I am just a worthless liar.
I am just an imbecile.
I will only complicate you.
Trust in me and fall as well.
I will find a center in you.
I will chew it up and leave,
Trust me

- "Sober," Tool

A chill steals over Dean in the middle of the night, unpleasant after the comfortable blaze of heat that has blanketed him since sleep overtook him. When he feels that warmth again sometime later with his outstretched hand, sequestered as far away on the bed as it can get from him, he's drawn to it. Dragging that comforting presence back to his side and twining around it, keeping it from escaping again, he's jolted awake by a hand stroking over his hair and a low chuff of air that sounds like laughter. His mind starts piecing together facts from there.

Cas got up in the night.

Cas got up in the night, and just got back into bed, and tried to give Dean space again.

Cas gave Dean space, and Dean then apparently slid all the way across the bed and right into Cas's space, to the point where they are both now on the very edge of the bed. He can feel the swell of a bicep beneath his head, the curve of a hip against his groin, a thigh trapped beneath his, where he's thrown his leg over Castiel's, and the smooth skin of Castiel's stomach against his forearm where he's managed to slide his hand into Cas's open shirt and beneath his undershirt, holding him close with a hand curled possessively against his ribs. And it's too much to hope Cas didn't notice, either, because the hand attached to the arm that Dean has decided to hold hostage pauses in slowly trailing through Dean's hair, and he can feel Castiel's silent laugh again as Dean goes completely stiff against him, suddenly alert.

"Please don't stop on my account, Dean. Apart from worrying that if you startle you're going to push me off the bed, I'm quite happy this way."

"Yeah, I bet you are." Dean grumbles quietly in return, but he doesn't pull away. After a long moment of waiting to see what Dean's reaction will be, Cas shifts slightly in his grasp, turning to allow himself to drape his free arm over Dean's waist, hesitant as if Dean will topple him off the bed after all. Dean squeezes his eyes shut tighter, and sighs. "How are you not hung over as hell and unconscious so I don't have to explain this?"

"Orange juice mixed with a little baking soda, B12, Thiamin, and a crushed Zantac and then a slice of bread with honey." Dean cracks one eye open to peer at Castiel questioningly, somehow unsurprised that he's being stared at wonderingly from six inches away, close enough that even in the cocooning dark of the bedroom he can see Cas's lips quirk faintly before he continues, his voice a murmur. "You asked. It works. It works best if you catch it before the headache, though."

"Figures." Cas arches an brow at that, and Dean shrugs, closing his eyes again and smirking. "Doctor recommended hangover cure when I don't need it and was banking on the distraction in the morning."

"We are not good at mornings. But we're both awake now. And I want. . ." Dean doesn't get much warning, just a tightening of Cas's arm around him, before he's suddenly on his back in the middle of the bed, Castiel's elbows planted into the mattress on either side of him, and his blunt chin resting on his folded hands on Dean's chest. Dean tenses instinctively, fight or flight instinct kicking in the moment he finds himself gently pinned, and Cas drops his head down, pressing a kiss against Dean's sternum through his t-shirt, trying to soothe him, and his words are a broken whisper. "Yesterday, I thought. . . I don't understand what I keep doing wrong, Dean. I just. . ."

And there he goes again, with the confused stare and the furrowed brow.

Dean rubs his eyes and then nudges Cas, and once again that's all the incentive Cas needs to let him go, to free him up. He's treating Dean like he's some sort of skittish colt, and Dean grits his teeth, following Cas through the motion until they're on the opposite end of the bed from where they started, using his body weight to essentially tackle Cas into the mattress, hands pinning Cas's wrists by his sides. Not that he needs to. Even in the dark room, Dean can see Cas's eyes widen, feel the Alpha's body go pliant under him, and considering this leaves Dean astride him, it's fairly obvious that he doesn't mind.

Dean resists the urge to grind down, to see how quickly he can snap Castiel's careful grip on control by teasing the stiffening erection beneath him. Bringing his face in close to Cas's, eyes narrowed, he isn't sure why they're whispering but he doesn't want to stop now. "You haven't done a damn thing wrong, Cas, except get tied up in my shit. . ."

"Did you ever consider that I don't mind being 'tied up in your shit,' Dean?" And okay. Maybe Dean shouldn't laugh at that, but it's Former-Priest-Cas and he still sounds awkward trying to parrot Dean's profanity back at him. More than that. . . Dean's got an Alpha letting himself be pinned by an Omega and saying anything at all about being tied up. That deserves a leer and a brow waggle, and he's pretty sure he just made Cas blush again and it's fucking awesome when he stammers. ". . . You know what I meant, Dean."

"Really I don't." Dean shrugs, smirking, but it's as if the laugh has decompressed him, chased away the anxiousness, and for the first time in days he feels like himself. "Because there's tied up. . ." Dean's fingers tighten around Cas's wrists, pressing them deeper into the mattress indicatively. "And then there's tied up. . ." Dean releases him and sits up smoothly, rocking back against Castiel's erection, drawing a surprised hiss from the Alpha beneath him. Cas's hands knot into the sheets to keep them down, keep them still, and Dean rolls against him again to test his resolve, shifting to focus the friction where he wants it. Castiel bites down on his own lower lip and his eyes slam shut as he braces his heels into the bed and drives up against Dean's jean-clad ass reflexively. And there are those instincts. Dean knew he could coax them out of Cas, even if Castiel is still desperately fisting his hands in the covers and trying not to take over.

He shouldn't be teasing. He shouldn't be undulating his hips slowly, riding the hard ridge of Castiel's trapped erection, letting himself become slick and hard and aching. He knows the friction has to border on pain for Castiel with this many layers of clothing between them and with how Dean's pressed back against him to keep him prone and restrained against the bed, but Cas's pupils are blown wide, his body reacting instinctively, and Dean doesn't stop. He doesn't want to stop. Dean shouldn't be contemplating taking it farther. . . But he is.

There's no sudden snap of arousal this time, nothing to ring the warning bells, to jolt him out of the moment. It's been building between them, sinking into his skin, and now it's sleepy entwined limbs and slow and sinuous movement and soft mattresses. It's Dean's tongue lapping against Castiel's bottom lip as he folds himself in half to encourage Cas to release it from the bruising pressure of his teeth, coaxing his mouth open for a kiss. It's how one of Castiel's hands now seems to hover at his waist, at his hip, desperate to touch him and afraid he'll stop if he does, but the other can cup his cheek and tilt his head to deepen the kiss without hesitation at all, until Dean changes rhythm unexpectedly and he breaks the kiss to drive his head back into the pillow, tilted back, unable to bite down on a moan.

"Please, Dean. . ." Cas's hoarse plea tastes beautiful, dragged from him with a slow grind, a teasing rotation of his hips that Dean knows would knot them, if Cas were buried inside of Dean now instead of rutting into the clothes between them. That should terrify the hell out of him, remind him of everything that's ever been done to him, of the fact that the only experiences he's had with Alphas have been bad experiences ultimately; degrading and humiliating and violent. But the noises he's wringing from Castiel sound like prayer, beautiful and worshipful, and there's raw need in his expression and awe in his stare. That's a kind of power Dean hasn't ever felt before and he's drunk on it now, kissing Castiel off-center, keeping his lips at the corner of Cas's mouth, dragging down the curve of his cheek to Cas's ear and staying close to ensure he doesn't miss any of it. "God, Dean. . ."

"What is it you want, Cas?" He knows now that Castiel hasn't done this before. Decades of celibacy, of denying himself physical release with another. . . and now he's trying desperately not to demand anything from Dean, to take whatever he's given without reaching for more. "You want to fuck me?" Dean has soaked through his jeans, wetter than he can ever recall being outside of his heats, and he knows Castiel can feel it now through the thin fabric of his slacks. Dean wishes he hadn't tipped them both into bed fully dressed when he got Cas home, or that Cas hadn't been so worried about being proper that he stayed that way when he climbed back in with him. He wants more, doesn't want the uncomfortable pull and slide of rough, wet fabric. "You want to knot me, Cas?"

Everything about Castiel at that point screams yes. . . except his mouth. His head nods unconsciously, his body bows beneath Dean's, feet finding purchase again so he can fuck upwards uselessly, his eyes slide shut in pleasure at the idea, and his hands grasp possessively at Dean's hips finally; but before Dean can flinch, before he can question his own wants, Castiel's mind and the voice contradict his body. "I want to taste you. . ."

And that is the single hottest fucking thing Dean Winchester has ever heard in his life; not a plea, or a prayer, or asking permission. Castiel wantsand Dean buries his face against Cas's neck to try and muffle the answering moan. Dean can have that, without fear or bad memories, but he shouldn't want it so badly, want Cas so badly that he doesn't even completely register that he's been displaced from his perch atop Castiel until his head hits the pillow, until Cas is tugging impatiently at his clothing, peeling Dean's t-shirt off over his head. "I want to see you, Dean. Please."

It's like he all at once gave Castiel permission to be demanding, to want and desire and take, and he lifts himself off the bed slightly to let Castiel peel his jeans and boxers off of him in one go. There's a moment of fear when Castiel shucks his own clothing impatiently and they're suddenly skin-to-skin, that Cas isn't going to stop himself, that he's going to try and slam Dean face-first into the mattress and just take what he wants and just use. That's all Dean is to an Alpha, after all, the old voice of self-loathing whispers inside his head—he's the universal fucktoy, a thing, an object with a sole purpose. Objects are used and put away.

Then a tongue is trailing along the vein of Dean's cock and he suddenly melts, short-circuited, the defensive fists he'd unconsciously been prepared to fight with go slack as he falls back onto the pillow in time for Castiel to kitten-lick the head of his cock, tasting the precum beading at the slit. It's not a porn-quality blow job; intellectually Dean knows that Cas has no real technique yet, but it's still better than anything Dean's ever had. Because this is more than some quick blow job in a cheap hotel under an assumed name. Because he isn't trying to keep his knees together so he doesn't give himself away with his arousal, or just get a condom to disguise his lack of a knot. Because Castiel's enthusiasm is unfeigned, and Dean isn't required to be anything other than himself.

Cas chases the taste of Dean's slick across his skin to its source without shame or hesitation and drags his tongue across Dean's hole, and Deanshould be ashamed, because he's not entirely certain any more what noises are coming out of his mouth. He finds himself spreading wider, wanton and uncaring as Cas devotes himself to trying to find out what makes Dean moan his name, what makes him buck off of the bed, and eventually lands on sliding two fingers into Dean, pumping them slowly while hollowing his cheeks around Dean's cock and sucking, his thumb rubbing circles against Dean's perineum. He can't hold it in any longer, can't hold back, and it's complete lack of control, surrender of it, and he attempts to twist away from the sensation even as he helplessly reaches for it, fingers knotting into Castiel's hair as he spills into his mouth, clenching down around his fingers and crying out wordlessly before slumping back into the bed, boneless.

Castiel could ask pretty much anything out of him in that moment, and Dean wouldn't even think to say no. He can feel the hard press of Castiel's cock against his stomach as he pulls Dean back into his arms, and he's sated and spent and emotionally drained, but it takes Cas locking his arms around Dean's back, keeping him still, for Dean to stop trying to turn away, to present himself the way everything tells him an Omega is supposed to, to let Castiel have him. "Dean. . . no. No, please just. . ."

Cas tugs him closer, but not for his own relief as he directs Dean's head onto his shoulder, pressing a gentle kiss to Dean's temple as his hands stroke over Dean's back, his sides, his hair, and it's not until Dean feels the tears dripping from his chin to the arm locked around him that he understands he's crying.

Cas presses his lips over Dean's eyelids in turn, against his cheekbone, lips to the hinge of his jaw to remove the evidence of Dean's silent breakdown. ". . .Just stay. Just be here in the morning. Please."

xXx

The dawn is gray and muted, a dim, dismal thing, and Dean is sprawled across Castiel's bed, his head resting on his arm, one leg bent at the knee and the air conditioning cold against his bare skin as he stares blankly up at the popcorn ceiling, letting his eyes find nonexistent shapes and patterns in the texture. He woke lazily, as if he hadn't quite decided on consciousness, and he's not used to that. It's the second day in a row his sleep was unaided by alcohol but uninterrupted by nightmares.

It was certainly interrupted, though.

And his mind doesn't want to wrap around that entirely.

He could hear Castiel moving in the living area earlier, but now there's silence through the open bedroom door, and somehow he knows if he raised his head he'd be staring right back at Castiel. "Feelin' a little overexposed already, without the gawking."

"Do you have any idea what you look like right now, like that?" Castiel is shaking his head as he finally breaks out of his trance and walks into the room, and the bed dips as he perches on the edge. Dean can hear the sound of Cas setting coffee mugs down on the nightstand, but he doesn't turn to put Cas in his peripheral view as he continues staring at the ceiling.

"You really want me to guess, Cas? Because I'm thinking opinions are gonna vary here."

"Renaissance painters would beg to have you just like that before them. It makes me wish I had a single artistic bone in my body. But you're not covering up, and you must know how beautiful you are, so I assume you're not talking about physical exposure."

Dean squints, trying to pick apart Castiel's words, looking for mockery. . . and he's pretty sure he'd be better off with Cas making fun of him than meaning all that flowery shit seriously. "How much of all what we did last night was new for you, Cas?"

Castiel stretches out beside him on the bed, elbow braced and head propped on his fist, looking down at Dean, and now Dean can see him there. At some point he tugged boxers on. . . probably in case someone decided to press their nose to his window like Dean did yesterday. . . but otherwise there's a lot of bare skin on display that the world would be better off not knowing their priests had under their frumpy robes. No one would be able to keep pure thoughts. Even in this state, Dean can't help but let his head roll to the side, taking in the view. He'd been a little distracted last night from enjoying the sights.

"Everything but the kissing. Was I. . .?" Color creeps across Castiel's cheeks along with his sudden uncertainty. "I mean, you seemed to enjoy it."

Dean rolls his eyes, reaches across the bed, and punches Cas in the shoulder, rocking him in his place and knocking his elbow out from underneath him. "You were fucking amazing, don't get off topic." Cas smiles to himself, ducking his head into the pillow beneath him for a moment, before raising back up onto his propped position and schooling himself back into his attentive-listening expression. "The point is the entire breaking down like a fucking pansy bawling shit? That's not normal."

"As I recall, I spent yesterday afternoon and evening crying into a bottle of whisky in the back of a church until you found me." Castiel points out dryly, and Dean rolls his eyes, and he folds his other arm behind his head as well now.

"You had a really shitty day, Cas, through no fault of your own."

Castiel plants a hand on the bed beside Dean, leaning over him, and there's nowhere to escape the scrutiny on him now, intelligent blue eyes that know too much. "Dean, even in the very short time I have known you, I think it's more than fair to say you've had several. . . very 'shitty' no fault of your own. And I get the distinct feeling that this past week has not been anomalous of your life experiences. Again, through no fault of your own."

"You don't know that." Dean bites out bitterly, and he'd sit up and move away except he'd knock heads with Cas doing so at this point, and the Alpha doesn't seem to have any intentions of moving out of the way. "Dude, you've got a fucking romanticized idea of me being some. . . some. . . I'm just a highschool dropout, a fuckup nut-job with. . ."

It's hard to insult himself with Castiel's tongue in his mouth. Which is probably why Cas kissed him. He kisses him to breathlessness, slow and deep but without the need to drive it into being anything more than a kiss. As much as last night was a new experience in some ways, this is too: because who the fuck kisses without it being about sex, about getting into someone's (currently metaphorical) pants?

Cas, apparently. And he's good at it. It's easy to lose track of time, and of his train of thought, with Cas apparently just basking in the intimacy of mapping out Dean's mouth beneath his, trying to pour himself into Dean's soul through the press of his lips and teasing of his tongue.

When they break for breath, Cas rests his forehead against Dean's, eyes closed, and traces his fingertips across Dean's slack lips. "I would punchyou in the shoulder for questioning yourself, but I like that better."

Dean's pretty sure he manages a vowel sound or two, and he can feel Cas smile against his skin as he rests his head on Dean's chest, and that's a pretty fucking amazing thing too, feeling Cas smile. It doesn't last long though. Something seems to settle over Cas, weighty and melancholy, and he rolls onto his back, mirroring Dean on the bed, staring at the motionless ceiling fan. "Do remember before you speak ill of yourself that you're talking to a disgraced priest, dishonorably discharged soldier, and now potentially unemployed doctor." Cas drags a hand down his face, resting his palm over his eyes, and continues. "And worse, too. But I. . ." He shakes his head slightly, and hitches a breath. "I am getting 'off topic.' The point remains that last night was none of that. This is about you being ashamed of being an Omega."

Dean grimaces and closes his eyes, offering no answer.

"That attack. It wasn't the first time." Dean's silence acts as confirmation for what Castiel already knows, and he inches across the bed to Dean, carefully slipping his arm beneath Dean's head, a loose facsimile of a prone embrace.

"Don't want to talk about it, Cas." Dean finally growls, low and forbidding, and Castiel sighs quietly and pulls Dean closer, wrapping him in tighter now that he knows Dean won't fight him on the nearness.

"That seems. . . fair. I'm not exactly disclosing every dark moment of my life, either. Though I think for you. . . I think I would, if you needed me to. But I just wish. . . Dean, there is no shame to how you were born. Nothing that they wrote on your car, none of the things they've said to you or called you over the years defines you. You are a miracle, Dean."

Last night, laughter had been a balm, healing: this time, the bitter scoff, the low, scornful laugh, is anything but. "First time anyone's ever called me that before."

"That doesn't make it any less true." Castiel bites back sharply, before forcing himself to calm. He can't attack pain, no matter how much it feels as if he is stepping into the middle of an ongoing internal battle: it doesn't work that way. People see a priest, a chaplain, and they see the robes and the rituals. He has never had a parish per say, has never been that kind of priest. The truth is, more often than not, he was just a listening ear to people, regardless of their denomination, in the worst of places, deployed, away from their families for years at a time, caught in a war and surrounded by violence and doubt and death.

Trailing his hand up and down Dean's spine, slow and soothing, he waits until Dean relaxes against him. And then he waits longer, tracing fingers along his skin in patterns and shapes while Dean returns the favor, learning the nobs of his spine with curious fingertips, and it feels right, slow and intimate and lazy, and he wishes they never had to leave the bed. Wishes Dean could forget what's ahead of him for longer. He gets the feeling that Dean has never really let himself be held before, and any moment he could remember that he 'shouldn't' want that. "I told you already that I was drawn to your strength, your character. And being an Omega. . . that doesn't change that, Dean. Perhaps it makes you even more remarkable."

He has no idea if Dean is even listening, but he hopes he is. Dean is slowly laving his neck with his tongue and lips now, gentle bites and low, sucking kisses that may or may not leave marks. Castiel wouldn't be ashamed if they did. He has no particular reason to hide this relationship, and any marks. . . they are something that will stay, even if Dean disappears on him again in moments. Some sign that this was real. Closing his eyes and baring his neck to Dean feels entirely natural, and old-fashioned ideals be damned.

"The idea that there's something shameful about intersexuality is. . .is ludicrous, Dean. Humanity is not the first species for this to occur in: to call it unnatural is to ignore nature. It is a miracle, a blessing. You are the epitome of life-giving, with . . ." With a sudden push of his greater mass and strength, Dean claps a hand over Castiel's mouth, muffling his words into silence and rolling him onto his back, pinning him once more to the mattress.

Both dark eyebrows raise at that reaction and while there's a question in Cas's eyes there's also a considerable amount of humor in the face of Dean's immediate chastising flick of Cas's nose once he's quiet. He can accept ridiculousness more than he can self-loathing, and he has seen Dean fall back on a joke already more than once. This is good. This is progress. "Okay. Doctor talk? Officially not as sexy as Priest talk. Blending them? Frikkin' terrifying. Do me a favor and never medically describe me to me."

Behind Dean's hand, Castiel laughs quietly and waits for permission to speak, settling back into the pillows and offering the bare quirk of his lips, a shy smile.

"You find the 'priest talk' . . .sexy?"

"I. . . a little?" He's curled up in bed with a priest, if Cas's drunken rambling last night was right. Maybe not a real one any more, but. . . Dean groans, and faceplants onto the pillow next to Cas, and his voice is muffled. "I'm going to hell."

"Doubtful." Cas remarks calmly, and putting his back to the headboard, stretching his legs out before him and crossing them at the ankle, he retrieves his coffee at last. There's one more thing he needs to know, one more fear he's clinging to after the last few days that he can't brush aside, and his heart's in his throat even asking this, knowing how much of an inexperienced idiot he must sound. "Dean. . . We're. . . something, right? Us, you and me? This is something. Last night meant. . . a great deal to me, and I understand if it doesn't mean the same to you, but. . ."

Dean is going to have to leave soon. John Winchester's funeral, his familial obligations, even fixing his car. . .these are all things that intellectually Castiel knows will demand Dean's time for the rest of the time he is in Lawrence. And then he will leave. They were, from the start, never going to be anything longer than that. Even if everything had gone smoothly from the moment Dean left him captivated at the bar, they would have had a definitive expiration date. Castiel knows he's been a fool for hoping for something else.

"This just a ploy to get me back in bed with you later, Cas, so you can actually get off yourself next time?" Dean asks in a slow, teasing drawl. He raises his head just in time to see Cas's face fall, before the reaction is hidden as he takes a gulp of his coffee and assumes a carefully controlled expression, and even then he falls into looking away from Dean. Especially after knowing Dean's fears, knowing how Dean has been abused, the quip makes him cringe to be thought of that way. He wants Dean. It had been hard enough holding back last night, but it was worth it, he will cherish every minute. And he thought he'd made some headway, thought he had helped. Thought maybe Dean might trust him a little.

"I told you there were no obligations of. . . of 'returned favors,' Dean." Cas sighs, moving to drop his feet to the floor and preparing to stand from the bed. Dean's hand catches his wrist, keeps him from pushing up, and rather than pull Cas and his coffee back down onto the bed, Dean rolls upright and joins him at the edge, blinking in surprise. "Cas?"

"I should let you get dressed. You have things to do today, and I. . ." Have absolutely nothing to do today. No bus to catch. No consults to give. No work to go to. ". . . I should let you get back to your family. I'm sorry that I worried you yesterday. And. . . and thank you, for last night. And for this morning."

That was the single most dejected perfectly pitched to be polite and unassuming bullshit Dean has ever heard in his life. With a sigh, Dean drops his chin onto Cas's shoulder from behind and closes his eyes, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. "Cas, just. . . just shut up and get some clothes on. We're going to breakfast. And if at the end of the day you still want anything to do with me, we'll talk."

They'd talk anyway. Dean doesn't know what the hell is going on here between them, but it's. . . new. And Cas has more than earned this much. Leaving the thunderstruck Alpha on the bed, staring questions at his back, he collects his phone from the nightstand and turns to face Cas, reaching out and catching his hand in his, wrapping his fingers around the phone with his lip caught between his teeth. There's no way this is coming off as nonchalant. "And could you program your number in my phone while you're at it? I. . . uh. I lost your number."