The Game of God: Day 151 - part 1

The American Dream

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— Day 151 —

As he predicted, the serious gambling starts almost as soon as the midnight toasts are over, when everyone with better things to do (read: potentially get laid) wanders off to start making a serious effort in that direction, feeling the New Year high and ready to start it off making questionable decisions in a public setting. Also as predicted, any location with shitty lighting and adequate space is now Grand Central Station to indulge those decisions made with alcoholic assistance, or at least the semi-plausible excuse of it.

Tradition, he told Cas, and as it turns out, he’s a big fan of tradition; at this particular moment, in this particular goddamn alley, it just might be his favorite thing.

“Told you,” he murmurs against Cas’s lips as he pulls back dizzily to get a full breath, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest. The slight difference in their heights is new and weirdly fascinating; he barely has to lean at all, and Cas is right there, mouth reddened and swollen, pale cheeks splashed with hot color. Cas makes an annoyed sound, and Dean presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth to quiet him, stroking his thumb over one flushed cheekbone before licking a slow line over his jaw, enjoying the prickling roughness against his tongue. Tilting Cas’s head, he traces the shell of his ear with the tip of his tongue and feels Cas’s full-body shiver down to his bones. “It’s tradition.”

Tipping his head back, Cas laughs breathlessly. “Thank you for supplementing my education on human custom,” he says huskily, and Christ, that voice. “I appreciate enlightenment in whatever form it might take.”

Dean chuckles, catching the lobe of his ear and bearing down, and Cas’s breath catches, and beneath his coat, he feels Cas’s fingers digging into his back. Satisfied, he sucks it, tongue soothing over the indentation of his teeth in the warm skin. “Anytime.”

The alley’s just dark enough that he can plausibly pretend they’re alone right up until a moan from somewhere farther down the alley gets both their attention. Cas blinks, looking so startled that Dean starts to laugh before fingers tighten in his hair impatiently, just enough to sting, and Cas’s tongue makes him forget everything but the impossible heat of his mouth, the length of warm body pressed against him, Jesus, the sounds: wet and eager.

He wants all of them: the way Cas catches his breath when Dean does something he likes and the low, dark sound that vibrates against Dean’s lips when he does something Cas really likes and all the ones between. Cas’s poker face is fucking amazing, but he was right about where Cas’s tells come out; years of being an angel wearing a human body might have taught him to control his expression, but he’s had a lot less time actually living in one to figure out how to control it. Then again, maybe he never thought he needed to; when it comes to sex, showing what you want, what you like, is pretty much a feature, and Dean has visual evidence that Cas during sex is really okay with sharing that information as much as possible.

(He wonders if Theodore taught him that, and Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with him?)

He hears himself growl, easing a protective hand behind Cas’s head before shoving him flat against the brick, greedily swallowing the startled gasp and still wanting more. Biting Cas’s lip, he ducks his head to suck a kiss just below his jaw, tilting Cas’s head back to reveal the long stretch of his throat and trailing down the cool skin until he can feel Cas’s pulse throbbing headily against his lips. Cas’s breathing speeds up as he licks over it, feeling it jump against his tongue before sinking his teeth into the thin skin, and Cas stops breathing altogether, going still and quiet, and what do you know, Dean likes that, too. He likes it even better when he sucks a kiss into the wet skin and feels Cas’s low moan vibrating against his lips, a slur of sound that might be his name. Pulling back, he surveys the darkening blotch, thumb tracing over the indentations of his teeth as he slides his tongue into the drugging heat of Cas’s mouth.

It’s like being a teenager again, but not like he was, like he remembers it being: moving and school and hunting and taking care of Sam meant when he hit puberty, he already knew taking it slow would mean not getting anywhere at all. He doesn’t regret it, never has, but he’s not entirely sorry Cas thought he needed—whatever the hell they’re doing—and not just because that might have been kind of true.

(He’s not apprehensive, exactly; that’s not the right word.)

Cas’s partners are double digit at least (and in multiples), and he lost count of his own years ago, when he realized what those kinds of numbers probably meant for his future. Cas is his best friend and knows him better than anyone but Sam ever could or will, but that’s a two edged sword. Ideally, learning the less than positive shit should come after your partner’s invested enough not to run away screaming (to get a restraining order, a license for a gun, and a new home security system and not necessarily in that order: that’s called being realistic). Sure, there’s a different standard when it comes to another hunter, and even that one doesn’t apply when it comes to Cas, but that’s the entire goddamn problem.

If this fails, it won’t be because he’s a hunter, was a demon, was responsible for bringing on the Apocalypse, or for his felony indictments under multiple aliases and also being legally dead. Here, he’s legally alive at least, though wanted for faking his own death, along every crime in existence and possibly some they invented just for him.

(In no other world would one or more of those individually not be dealbreakers; this one, he can also be a joint homeowner with a steady job, a significant other, friends with which to eat barbecue, and what is technically a really big lawn that needs mowing (not by him, but whatever). It occurs to him that for all intents and purposes, he’s now officially living the American Dream.)

Pulling back to get a full breath, Dean makes himself face reality (and not wonder whether they should get a dog: why not?).

If this fails, it’ll be because he’s shitty at being a partner, and he doesn’t even have the advantage of being an awesome father figure to Cas’s semi-existent kid to compensate because Vera and Joe got dibs on Jeremy before he even existed here, fuck his life. (He won’t deny the sex helped (a lot), but he’s pretty sure Ben was what kept Lisa from kicking him out on his ass one month in.) Worse, he’s at a disadvantage when it comes to sex, and it’s not like he’s not willing to catch up (soon, please God), but that means that all he’s got going for him is that Cas knows less than he does about relationships and may not notice if he’s bad at it (read: when and how bad: let’s be realistic here), and Christ that’s a shitty thing to admit you’re grateful for, but he really doesn’t care.

(If Sam didn’t just facepalm and mutter something about Dean’s standards and emotional maturity, he’ll be really goddamn surprised. He hopes Sam was holding a pencil or something when he did it, though; payback’s a bitch, bitch, he’s being realistic here.)

On the other hand, if he can manage to make a disturbing number of people (and a few towns, Jesus Christ) believe he’s a competent leader, he can pull off ‘partner.’ What he needs here is—

“Why,” Cas murmurs, thumb sliding down his temple, “are you looking at the wall like that?”

Dean remembers the Merlin and Snuggie conversations and considers whether he actually wants to know (answer: hell yes). “How am I looking at it?”

“As if you’re planning best how to destroy it and salt the earth on which it stood should it defy your will,” he answers promptly, tugging Dean closer until he can feel the warm puff of Cas’s breath against his lips. “If you’re finished plotting its untimely demise, your attention would be appreciated.”

Dean’s helpless grin continues through the kiss, shoving up the back of Cas’s sweater and thermal and t-shirt (three layers, Jesus) to touch skin and suddenly nothing else matters but getting more of it and now.

Before he can start working in that direction (or remember how to care about the subzero temperature since being in a public alley with an unknown number of people stopped being a dealbreaker like four goddamn days ago; why the hell aren’t they at Alison’s again?), Cas jerks his gaze toward the mouth of the alley. Dean has just enough time to wonder what the hell (not like Cas has a problem with public performances) when he hears someone saying, “Dean? Cas? We got everything,” and remembers why they’re in this alley and not at Alison’s wearing a lot less clothes. He checked out the satisfactory state of the poker games, sent Vera and Amanda to the jeep to get a few bottles of Eldritch Horror and some ammunition, at which time he noticed there was an alley and since they were waiting anyway….yeah.

The only thing he doesn’t know is why the fuck he cared about poker in the first place. Leave the freezing roof, go back to Alison’s, that’s all he had to do, and yet, here they are.

(Drop the sweatshirt on the floor: he’s seeing a pattern here.)

“Dean?” A little closer now, and she’s enjoying herself, he can tell. “Cas? Anytime now: time’s a-wasting, and cocoa could be going to bed with its new owners even as we speak.”

“If we don’t answer….” He trails off, frowning down the alley at the next, much closer repetition of their names from the street, now hearing the unmistakable laughter in her voice. “I’m gonna get her for this.”

“Technically speaking,” Cas says, brushing his lips against Dean’s, a tease, “she’s following your orders at the moment.”

Amanda’s voice comes again, close enough that she must’ve just reached the mouth of the alley and they got maybe fifteen seconds before she finds them. Fuck it, Amanda is gonna find them, but she hasn’t yet.

“Come here.” Cupping Cas’s face, he tugs him into a kiss, memorizing the shape of his smile, laughing into his mouth when Cas’s hands slide into the back pockets of his jeans and pull him in. When Amanda finds them, her laughter echoing down the alley and getting the attention of probably everyone around them, he’s startled to realize he forgot all about her.

---

Dean’s gotta admit, he’s been waiting for this since he sat Cas down with a pack of cards and explained how to really play poker.

In retrospect, it shouldn’t have surprised him that Cas was shitty at it, not if he learned it while still an angel. While craps is you against the odds, poker is you against people, and Cas was probably still pretty sketchy on even being people himself back then, much less manipulating them for other than professional (ie: the Host’s) gain.

Unexpected benefit of two years and change of mortality and living in Chitaqua: Cas got over it, got a taste for it, and got really, really good at it. Translating that (kind of terrifying) skill to poker wasn’t hard once Dean explained that poker wasn’t about playing the hand you’re given, but playing everyone at the table so they won’t play theirs.

“Even if you cheat, the odds are always gonna be against you,” he explained, watching approvingly as Cas shuffled and stacked the deck at just barely below a blur so as not to incite suspicious (read: smart) people to call cheating. “So you don’t try to win with your hand; you just make sure everyone else thinks they’re gonna lose with theirs.”

Cas paused his shuffling, and he could almost see the click of enlightenment. “Oh.”

“Deal,” Dean told him with a grin. “And I’ll show you how you make them think just that.”

Slumped into the warm comfort of a broken-down sofa in one of the former bank offices, he watches in drowsy satisfaction as Cas calls the hand, laying his cards out with methodical precision on the battered remains of what he assumes was a kitchen table before it lost all its legs. The disbelieving eyes of the other seven players are just icing: delicious, delicious icing.

“I think,” Cas says after a perfectly timed pause, “that this hand is mine.”

“I don’t believe this,” Vera says, throwing down her cards as Cas collects his winnings, Anyi and Dina morosely consider their remaining stakes, and Amanda wisely realizing that keeping her silence on Cas’s improved poker game (and a surprisingly good bid, by the way, though not better than Joe’s) definitely won her hippofucker’s unfinished adventures. “What the hell did you teach him?”

“Your free dimebag days are done,” he answers, admitting nothing, but the pile on the floor beside Cas probably speaks for itself. Among the spoils are four bottles of currant wine, two of whiskey, a bottle of vanilla, three pairs of socks (one in its original packaging), two pounds of cheese, a jar of strawberry preserves, a double knit wool blanket, two lightbulbs in their original packaging (he checked), and to top it off, two tins of cocoa. Leaning against the couch between Dean’s legs, Cas tips his head back, solemn expression utterly perfect, and it’s a physical effort not to kiss him. “Let’s see what we got this time.”

Tea, nice; three and a half pounds of coffee, excellent; you really can’t go wrong with more socks, cool—oh. “Hold up.” Bracing a hand on Cas’s shoulder, he points. “What’s under those socks?”

Before his disbelieving eyes, Cas unearths a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, unopened, in packaging not unlike something a lot less than two years old and acquired before the borders closed. On closer inspection, that’s exactly what it is.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, ignoring the glares of the other players as he reverently unwraps it and finds two perfect cups inside, snug in their individual wrappers as the heartbreakingly delicious smell of chemically-created chocolate and peanut butter fills the air. Aware of Cas’s curious expression, he grins. “Dude, life just got, like, ten times more awesome. You can stop now,” he adds after a quick check of their booty, magnanimous in victory. “I think we’re good.”

“You get there’s literally nothing about using your boyfriend to get you shit that isn’t wrong,” Vera says bitterly as Cas eases their winnings over and climbs onto the couch beside him while Kara, one of Amanda’s students, begins to deal a new hand with a renewed spirit of hope. “Nothing,” she repeats, picking up her cards mutinously.

“Except the delicious peanut butter cup results; if that’s wrong, I don’t wanna be right.” Taking a bite, he tries not to moan: fuck, he missed processed sugar and artificial flavoring in delicious candy form. Grinning at Cas’s bewildered expression, he holds out the other half. “Try it. Depressingly, you’ll like it, and we’re probably never getting more of it, so enjoy it while it lasts.”

Ignoring Cas’s suspicious look, he sits up enough to push it between Cas’s parted lips, knowing it’s a mistake and unable to pretend to care when he sees the look on Cas’s face.

It’s only Vera’s “Seriously?” that tells him he’s been staring way too long, but Cas’s blissful expression isn’t something he sees enough to want to miss even once. Before he can think better of it, Dean wipes his thumb over the smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth and licks it clean, which is probably—definitely—really goddamn something.

“Well?” If his voice cracks, whatever.

Cas’s eyes fix on the second cup for a long, acquisitive moment before darting to Dean’s face, and that’s all the warning Dean gets on what other useful lessons Dean’s taught him.

“Please,” dragged out like whiskey over gravel, and Dean’s breaking the second one in half in a daze, unable to imagine looking away when Cas takes it from his fingers with his goddamn teeth.

“Again,” Vera states at some point. “Seriously?“

“Don’t say it,” Cas murmurs before he can open his mouth and point out the location of Amanda and how orgasms help mood because science. “Think of her expression when you tell her and Joe they’re in charge of Chitaqua for a week.”

Actually, that helps, yeah. “Fine,” he says, squeezing Cas’s knee before sinking back into the couch and finishing his half of the last peanut butter cup he may ever eat.

Tipping his head back, Dean lets the ongoing conversations wash through him, comfortable enough to fight to the death if someone tries to make him move. If his slump is getting more toward Cas, it’s just because he’s warm, a human-shaped space heater that makes him consider the feasibility of crawling into Cas’s lap and burying his face against his neck for completely platonic warmth-related purposes (and he hopes Vera asks so he can give that exact answer).

Then someone is touching his face with fucking frozen fingers, the sharp chill jerking him upright, blinking uncertainly. He reaches up to push it away, but his hand’s caught in a preternatural grip—hey Cas—and then abruptly he’s in a sitting position with no clear idea how he got there before Cas pulls him to his feet. It’s only because he’s standing right there that Dean doesn’t fall right over, black spots dancing before his eyes for a long moment before they clear and vaguely, he doesn’t think that’s a good sign.

“We have an early morning,” Cas announces lazily to the room at large, getting to his feet and somehow bringing Dean with him, arm sliding around his waist before he’s awake enough to stumble. “Before we go—Vera, if you have a minute? I’d like to go over a few things.”

At her nod, Cas leads Dean to a nearby corner, where Dean leans gratefully against the wall as normally as possible, wondering what the hell is wrong with him (honest to God, if this is a fever, he’s rounding up every brownie on the planet and introducing them to the words ‘extinction event’).

“How are you feeling?” Cas braces a hand just above Dean’s shoulder, screening him from the rest of the room as the long fingers touch his forehead, blue eyes unfocusing for a moment. “Headache, chills—”

“I’m fine,” he answers irritably, deciding he will be by sheer will if it kills him. “Just been a long day.”

“I agree.” One corner of his mouth quirks mischievously as he drops his hand. “It’s just under three digits,” he adds reassuringly. “You’re simply overtired, which isn’t surprising, as you didn’t sleep much last night.”

A fever at least would explain why his face feels hot; all that happened last night was some necessary late-night plumbing and a little fully-clothed making out after a shitty nightmare before dragging his ass out of bed an unholy two hours before dawn. For the last four nights, true, but whatever.

Vera materializes beside Cas, looking Dean over like he’s a roast that she can’t tell has finished cooking or not. To his horror, she actually starts to check his temperature before Cas clears his throat, but even so, he can see her fighting a smile.

“I warned you to take it easy tonight,” she says smugly. “It takes a while to get back your endurance—”

“Blah blah and oh, right, blah,” he interrupts, in case she doesn’t get how little he cares.

Annoyingly, her smile widens. “Get some sleep like a good boy and you’ll be fine.”

“It’s a party!” he protests, which is immediately followed by a jaw-cracking yawn. Fuck his life. “I don’t believe this.”

“We’ll be at Alison’s tonight,” Cas tells Vera. “You and Joseph are in command until dawn. Is there anything—”

“I’m standing right here,” Dean reminds them grimly, punctuated with another goddamn yawn, which makes Vera fucking laugh, because she’s like that. “We got that meeting—”

“Vera and Joseph can handle it,” Cas interrupts, rolling his eyes. “We’ll only be on the other side of Main if we’re needed.”

“I’ll check in afterward,” she assures them. “Verbal report okay?”

He’s tempted to tell her there’s a five page minimum, but he’s not actually sure where Alison keeps her laptop or notebooks and doesn’t want to. “Fine. Tell Alison…” that he’s being put to bed like a two year old; yeah, that’ll inspire confidence.

“Don’t worry; she mentioned earlier that you looked a little flushed and wanted me to remind you to take care of yourself,” Vera assures him, to his outrage. “Yeah, she said that’d annoy you. She won’t mind at all. Anything else?”

“Find out who’s taking over for Alison; probably Claudia, but double check. Also, find out if Ichabod needs any help with clean-up or their visitors tomorrow.” He fights down another yawn, trying to think of anything else he should add here. “Full meeting an hour before noon, and sex, drugs, and rock n’roll won’t be considered a good excuse to be late.”

“Got it.” Vera waits for his nod before skipping back a step, giving them a cheerful wave as she returns to the game. With a sigh, Dean pushes off the wall—no black spots this time—and gets Cas’s sleeve to haul him out the doorway and through the gambling lobby to the double doors that lead outside.

The hit of cold air helps clear his head a little; blinking, he takes in the number of people filling Third Street and glances at Cas. The memory of what happened the last time Cas was in a crowd in the street—the memory of how that guy looked at him—burns away the remaining drowsiness as they start toward the western side of the street.

“Christ,” he mutters, just avoiding a group hurrying by that seems to consist of frazzled-looking parents and sleepy kids, turning slightly to watch them take the alley exit to Fourth.

“Tony will probably need to open Fifth soon,” Cas observes, sliding out of the way of a couple of way too drunk women blocking traffic who seriously need to get a room already and no, he’s not looking, because he’s not that kind of guy and Cas is right here. Not looking much. “If he hasn’t already, that is.”

“Open Fifth?” Looking around again, he frowns. “About how many people now? Ballpark?”

“Nine and three quarters thousand people,” Cas answers, moving Dean and himself out of the way of another tired-looking group. “Possibly ten, excluding the children currently in the daycare of course.”

“You’re kidding.” Startled, he almost stumbles into a guy juggling three plastic cups who looks at them in surprise before focusing on Cas, and hell no. Muttering an apology, he closes a hand over Cas’s wrist and tugs him onto the sidewalk and speeds up their pace until they reach the faded orange and white striped roadblocks spaced along the width of the western side of the street. Waving at one of Tony’s people and the patrol team, on duty for guest-wrangling purposes (a thankless job if there ever was one from the looks of the cranky looking people coming in) Dean waits for the nod of recognition before going around the roadblock and starting the cold, dark trek toward Main.

“Okay,” he says as the noise noticeably drops in proportion to the lack of light, reluctantly letting go of Cas’s wrist and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Say that again?”

“Nine and a three-quarters to ten thousand people, excluding children under twelve,” Cas repeats obediently. “On our way back from Sixth, I noted that Fifth had several stray groups and Fourth was becoming more crowded. Despite that, Third is still two-thirds full from street occupation.”

Dean stares at his profile. “You do this for fun, don’t you?”

“Your expression at the meeting earlier was very funny when I elucidated on street capacity,” Cas confirms. “I’ve paid attention in anticipation of you asking so I could see it again.” He flickers a glance at Dean, blue eyes bright. “Do you want the rest?”

Christ. “Impress me.”

“Fourth has no publicly accessible buildings—though I doubt that’s stopped anyone who wanted to get out of the cold or desired privacy—but does have the attraction of a bonfire and most of the vendors and alcohol, so it should be more attractive than Third if one wants to be outside right now. As Third still has a large number of people in the streets despite the lack of amenities, that means the publicly-accessible buildings are almost full and probably all of the others that aren’t actively falling down and that Fourth is close to or has reached maximum capacity in regard to human comfort levels regarding personal space. Without an exact headcount, I can’t be certain of the numbers, but human behavior when it comes to space is very predictable, so I can make an estimate.”

Before he can pretend he’s not impressed (or wonder uneasily if that’s supposed to be hot), he’s interrupted by another goddamn yawn and seriously? “Ugh. What the hell?”

“If it’s any consolation,” Cas says as Main Street’s roadblocks come into view, “I nearly fell asleep with you on the couch before I realized what was happening.”

Dean starts to say it is—it’s not like Cas is getting any more sleep than he is—when it hits him; Cas really isn’t getting more sleep than he is. Literally. “Because you’re up with me every night.”

“It’s like watching late night network television when one lacks basic cable,” Cas muses. “Without commercial interruption, and realizing that you miss that very, very much. While I never had any desire to buy a Swiffle or needed super-absorbent sanitary products, it was interesting to watch someone being unnaturally enthusiastic about the ability of a tampon to absorb a cup of blue liquid while never actually stating why one would have excess blue liquid in need of being absorbed.” He makes a face. “Google was more forthcoming on the actual purpose, and the sheer number of inaccuracies…. For one, the so-called liquid it’s supposed to absorb is actually—”

“Don’t want to know and wait, you’re saying I’m boring?” The look on Cas’s face says he walked right into that one, and fights back a snarl: time to return to the goddamn subject. “Like I was saying, you don’t have to stay up with me—except right, you actually do, don’t you?” Cas hesitates, and yeah, that’s what he thought. “Like almost falling asleep back there. It’s not just—an urge or whatever it was before we redid the wards on the cabin. You have to.”

Cas makes a face. “I wouldn’t say ‘have to’ so much as ‘highly recommended.’ Then again, I haven’t been terribly interested in testing it, since the company certainly provides motivation to—”

“Cas.”

“I also have to eat and drink, breathe, sleep, and regularly excrete waste,” Cas says, nose wrinkling reflexively on the last, because he’s just still not over that. “None of those things are or ever have been under my control since I became mortal, so why you think this—of all things—should be an issue worthy of discussion escapes me.”

“Maybe those are normal and me doing—that—to you isn’t!”

“The human body isn’t normal to me, for value of normal when my incorporeal form is the only standard by which I have to judge,” Cas answers evenly, but he winces anyway; he really could have put that better. “If you wish, I can test it when we return to Chitaqua, but it’s not particularly high on my priority list at the moment. In any case, there are some advantages, not least of which is that you’re now unable to surreptitiously leave the camp alone without my knowledge while I’m sleeping. Which your history indicates is a genuine concern.”

Dean forces himself to smile as they reach the roadblock, waving to those on duty, who are bundled in coats and looking miserable as they wave forlornly back. As soon as they’re past them, he starts to pick up where they left off and belatedly realizes something else. “You knew something was different now, though.” Cas’s expression says yeah, he did. “When were you gonna get around to telling me?”

He regrets it the minute he says it; Cas tenses so fast that Dean can almost hear the muscles snap as Cas’s spine redefines ‘straight’ for the masses (read: Dean). Sure, it may be invisible to anyone else, but he can see it and knows exactly what it means.

“I mean,” he corrects himself—way too late, yeah, but he’s hoping Cas will grade for effort, “I was just wondering when you found out,” Oh God, no, not better. “Look, I wasn’t saying you were hiding it—”

“My relief can’t be measured by any known metric, being beyond human comprehension,” Cas says in his critically acclaimed performance of ‘guy who’s relieved,’ “but take as a given that it can only be expressed on a quantum scale.”

It occurs to him at this moment that if nothing else, Cas has really raised his standards when it comes to arguments. Shouting, screaming, slamming doors, punching walls, stomping around with mandatory profanity is for amateurs. As far as he’s concerned, if you’re pissed enough to need to express it, you should put some effort in it, challenge yourself a little, multitask that shit and educate your audience while you’re at it. If you can’t do it with obscure historical references, math from the future, King James, graph theory, or physics (sometimes in combination), you just aren’t trying.

(Quantum, for those who don’t live like this (sometimes, he wonders what that’s like), is basically ‘small as you can get and still exist.’ Also, there are quarks named ‘top’ and ‘bottom,’ and he’s still trying to work out if Cas was just sharing information so Dean can ace the next theoretical physics exam that comes his way or trying a surprisingly original pick-up line; it could go either way.)

So maybe he should just ask the only question he actually cares about already and get this over with (that way, he also doesn’t have to admit he’d kill that fucking test). “It doesn’t bother you?”

Cas makes him wait until the porch steps of Alison’s building come into view before gracing Dean with his attention. “No.”

“Okay.” He considers leaving it at that, but— “You get that was months ago, right?”

“What?”

“Leaving the camp while you were asleep.” Jogging up the stairs, he opens the door and steps over the salt line, waiting for Cas to come inside before shutting it firmly behind him and herding him toward the hall and their room. “Three times, Cas, almost five months ago. Get over it already.”

When Cas flips on the lights to their room, he makes a point of looking back just so Dean can see him roll his eyes in eloquent acknowledgment he just dodged one hell of a bullet, and he grins back, satisfied.

Yawning, Dean pulls off his coat and tosses it toward the chair before dropping on the bed and gets as far as thinking about undressing before giving up and falling back onto the unbelievable comfort of the mattress. Stretching, he yawns again, not fighting it anymore, because yeah, he’s exhausted, but it’s the good kind, the kind where there’s a reason for it that’s not ‘because goddamn fever.’ Vaguely, he hopes that Vera or Amanda gets their gambling spoils for them; maybe a tin of cocoa could be sacrificed for this mattress.

He’s mostly drifting on a sea of sleepy procrastination when a thump penetrates, waking him up enough to remind him that sleeping in his clothes is fine but he’s got to at least remove his boots. Sighing, he pushes up on an elbow just in time to see Cas peeling off his thermal shirt, leaving him in only a t-shirt, and stops short.

The thing is, Cas wasn’t entirely wrong; it’s just the word he was looking for wasn’t ‘apprehensive.’ He’s not apprehensive, but if he had a gun to his head, he’d admit that if a word was really needed here (he doesn’t think so, but whatever), he’d go with something closer to ‘surprised,’ and for the record, he wouldn’t mind a few more like this one. Apprehensive, fuck that, but if there were two guns (and he was unarmed, tied to a chair, and someone had a gun to Cas’s head as well), another word he wouldn’t argue with is ‘adjusting.’

Adjusting: totally different thing.

When he looks at Cas now—which even he’s got to admit he was doing way more than any reasonable explanation could cover before (that’s why he had several of ‘em just in case)—he’s adjusting to the fact that he does it (and enjoys it) for several reasons. Adjustment takes repetition, so to do this right, he’s looking (and enjoying) a lot and by that he means ‘all the time.’ Especially times like this.

Settling back, he watches Cas reach for the hem of the t-shirt, skimming it over his head along with the almost-normal he wears for human consumption, all the ways that he’s learned to pass for human on a glance discarded with the thin cotton he folds over the back of the chair. Straightening, he tips his head back with an abbreviated shrug like he’s shaking free of public Cas before reaching back to rub the back of his neck, head bent forward and face hidden behind a fall of dark hair. It’s always cool to watch the transition, Cas going from a visitor in a too-small human-suit to living inside his skin.

He can’t pick out most of the differences anymore, he’s too used to them, but the energy is unmistakable, unfolding itself from wherever Cas hides it in plain sight and rushing along every muscle like live current after the flick of a switch. It took him a while to realize the most anyone else ever saw was the barest edges of it, restlessness, fidgeting, Cas unable to keep still like a hyperactive toddler on a two day sugar rush and no, no, it’s not like that. That’s like a shock of static when you rub your feet against the rug and miss the contained nuclear detonation in progress a few feet away.

Adjustment: Dean can now fully appreciate the view—what did Cas call it?—right, on the aesthetic level. That would be really fucking good, if anyone asks, and if they do, he’d have to wonder what the fuck is wrong with their eyes because come on. Months of regular, enforced eating, and Cas has officially escaped ‘gaunt’—a good look for anyone and Cas does amazing things with it—and almost radiates good health, sharp bones less prominent, softened, drawing attention to the stretch of defined muscle across his back and arms. Taking the scenic route downward, Dean notes the narrow waist and the sharp bones of his hips where the denim’s clinging for dear life—that should be illegal outside controlled conditions, Jesus—the long thighs hidden by the too-large jeans down to the bare feet peering out from the white-frayed hem.

Dropping into a boneless, soundless crouch, Cas unzips his bag, balanced on the balls of his feet so effortlessly it looks like he could do it forever (Dean tried that, one minute, maybe two, before he fell over). Finding the t-shirt and sweatpants on the first try and setting them on the chair, he zips the bag back up before smoothly straightening, and Dean’s enjoying the show so much that it doesn’t hit him what’s coming until Cas unbuttons his jeans one-handed and they crumple to the floor.

Adjustment is awesome, he thinks in the tiny corner of his mind not otherwise occupied with real life in slow-motion as Cas slides the thermals down his legs in the time it takes at least one major civilization to rise and fall. Dean’s a guy and checking out another guy’s dick comes standard (if it’s there, why not), but it’s one thing to take it in for vague compare and contrast purposes (mostly) and a really different thing to do it with the intention of personally getting acquainted with it (and adding a little realism to certain shower-related activities, just to check for any unforeseen complications for dealing with purposes. He’s glad to report there have been none, but it never hurts to be sure. Repetition is useful like that).

The faded grey boxer-briefs, stretched elastic hanging below Cas’s hips (he assumes magic is all that’s keeping them there: evil magic) are too loose to do anything but tease, but body memory helpfully replays the feel of Cas’s cock rubbing against his own (because it’s sadistic like that) and there we go.

You’re curious, Cas told him on Christmas Eve, and that was true, a lot like snow isn’t known to be very warm. Now—now he may need Cas’s mental thesaurus to give him the word for this, because he’s kind of tapped for vocabulary and education is never wasted. Apprehension, no: anticipation, fuck yeah, building more every day, thinking about what he knows in theory and what he can guess, and there’s nothing he doesn’t want to try at least once (and most he already knows he’ll like).

(The memory of that casual strength, I have no objection to touching you, the fingers tight around his wrists, guiding them to the hem of his shirts, Take them off for me, the way Cas looked at him. He wanted Cas to look at him like he looked at people that he wanted, but pushed into the couch by the weight of Cas’s body, he learned just how wrong he was; he wants how Cas looked at him that night, like Dean was the only thing he wanted, that he’d ever want.)

As Cas slides into his sweatpants in a single efficient movement, Dean drops (hopefully soundlessly) back onto the bed, because the line between teasing himself and torture is becoming narrower by the day. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, already knowing it’s too late to try and will his cock into giving the fuck up; there’s a reason the only time he thinks of Christmas Eve is when he’s safely in the shower with the water on (hot or cold at that point he doesn’t even care) and even then tries not to (if he can help it, and sometimes, he can’t). Three minutes (at best), he’s shaking against the tile, still half-hard and more frustrated than relieved, trying to convince himself he imagined that look because then, just maybe, he’ll stop wanting something that doesn’t even exist.

He’s trying to find the motivation to sit up—maybe even remove his boots before going to sleep, but no promises there—when the lights go out. Startled, he opens his eyes in time for the gentler flare of light from the lamp beside the bed in his peripheral vision, and abruptly, Cas appears in front of him, depressingly fully dressed for bed.

“Do you plan to fall asleep there?” Cas asks politely, like Dean’s done this so many times that his history makes it a genuine concern, Jesus Christ, that was three times almost five months ago, let it the fuck go.

He lifts a hand enough to gesture vaguely: eh, why not?

“Along with the establishment of a daily routine consisting of regular meals and a set time to go to sleep, changing clothes before going to bed is a mandatory requirement to live like people,” Cas recites, eyes lingering on Dean’s footwear with a pained look. “While your explanation of the concept of ‘like people’ has been somewhat lacking, your utilization of the principles of classical conditioning was successful beyond belief despite the fact I was perfectly aware of what you were doing.”

Dean slow blinks his bewilderment that Cas would think he knows anything about Pavlov or a dog with a hardon for bells (or a cat that may or may not be in a goddamn box and a monkey that thinks its mom is made of wire, whatever). And if some people are wondering if you could call the cabin a really elaborate Skinner box, he’d have no idea what they were talking about.

“What’s the Latin word for ‘rat’ again?” he asks curiously, and that, friends, is how you level the fuck up. If you can’t do it with obscure references to twentieth century psychology experiments in ten words or less, you just aren’t trying.

Cas stares at him silently for a long moment then rolls his eyes, which Dean silently accepts as a win. “In any case…” His gaze drifts back down to Dean’s boot-clad feet with a pained expression. “I can’t let you go to bed like this, I mean that literally. Boots do not belong in bed when you plan to sleep.”

That’s all the warning he gets before Cas drops out of sight, and Dean pushes up on his elbows to stare blankly down the length of his body at Cas kneeling at his feet, holy shit.

“Uh.” The mattress feels real, but he has a history of vivid hallucinations that have a very unsettling habit to have more or less actually happened, so. “What?”

“Relax,” Cas tells him irritably, tugging Dean’s right foot into his lap and with it two-thirds of Dean’s ability to deal with this rationally.

“I’ll take care of it.”

He knows Cas isn’t actually fucking with him via weaponized sexual attraction (though not like he’s above it or anything), but fucking with him via being super helpful, which are two very, very different things. This is Cas (who also maybe should learn about the word ‘adjustment’) utterly oblivious to how the same action reads a lot different with a change of context, or the fact he’s inventing entirely new kinks that Dean just didn’t know could even exist. Like, say, casually removing your partner’s boots as foreplay: that’s a thing? Why is that a thing? Because, by the way, that just became a thing.

“In ancient times, the customs regarding hospitality included removing the footwear and then washing the feet of guests,” Cas tells him conversationally, removing the first boot with so little effort that Dean’s socked foot doesn’t even know it’s free before he’s already removing the other one. “On their arrival, before dinner—in ancient Rome, socks might be offered to counteract the chill of the dining room or before guests retired to their bed. There were practical reasons, of course; when the primary footwear was sandals or the streets lacked paving, it tended to be a matter of assuring one’s domicile was not tracked with dirt from the feet of the guests.”

This is actually happening. “They washed people’s feet when they showed up to hang out?”

“A slave might be appointed to perform the task.” Cas carefully sets Dean’s boots beside his own before reaching beneath the hem of his jeans. “However, when the visitor was a close friend or of high rank and great importance, the host might perform this small service themselves to show respect.”

Dean nods, mostly resigned to a bedtime story about socks (about. socks), though it’s not like this is the weirdest subject (Lucifer’s lack of a sex life is definitely in the top three), and anyway he’s actually kind of interested (fuck his life). Like, who invented socks, anyway? Making an effort, he sits up, about to ask about that when he realizes he’s looking down at Cas (kneeling. On the floor) and the entirety of his attention is focused on the feel of Cas’s fingertips just above the sagging top of the sock, warm even through the layer of thermal underwear.

“In other times,” Cas is saying, oblivious to subtext, “a bath would be offered. That duty could fall to either the chatelaine or the daughters of the house.”

What the hell? “They—they bathed their guests?”

“Depending on the intimacy or rank of the guest, it might simply be ceremonial and she would supervise those servants or slaves assigned to the task.” Achingly slow, the sock slides down Dean’s leg, trailed by Cas’s fingers, and he catches his breath when they skim over the bare skin of his Achilles tendon. Almost absently, Cas’s other hand cups his heel, thumb braced just above the edge of the sock as it continues its endless journey off his foot. “If he was of high rank, however, she—or in some cases her eldest unmarried daughter—would perform the duty herself.” Holding the empty sock, Cas looks at Dean, all blue eyed innocence. “Personally.”

“Personally.” He hears the quiver in his voice and hastily clears his throat. “Uh, so—I’m guessing nine months later, surprise new member of the family?”

“In some cultures, a highly anticipated and hoped-for member,” Cas corrects him. Even though he knows it’s coming, that just makes it a—a highly anticipated shock when Cas eases the denim hem higher, fingers resting for a scorching moment against his calf, hot even through the thermal. “If male, the woman could be chosen as a concubine, having proven her fertility, and mother of the presumptive heir if no legal wives bore male issue. Sometimes, she might even become a wife, if she was intelligent and fortune favored her.” Dean sucks in a breath at the slide of Cas’s thumb down the back of his heel. “Even if the child were female, it could bring great honor and prosperity to the household. For the mother, that might take the form of a husband of rank and wealth. Women known to have pleased a king and proven their fertility were often sought after in court; taking such a one to wife assured their husband not only the probability of healthy offspring, but the favor of a king and guardianship of a child of royal blood and potentially half-sibling to the heir and future king, whether openly acknowledged by their father or not.”

“Huh.” That’s really all he’s got here.

“It was traditional that the most beautiful daughters of the King of Ethiopia were sent to the court of the King of Egypt for his harem. Their children might sit on the throne as consort or even sovereign in their own right should there be no heirs born of his legal wife.” Cas’s thumb skims the arch of his foot, trailing off as the sock pulls free of Dean’s toes. Hypnotized, he watches as Cas absently rolls them together before tossing them toward their boots without looking. “Harems were not uncommon in history, of course, though their occupants were far more often chosen for their high birth and political value, not their beauty or fecundity. During Mithridates’ conquest of Pontus, he took a concubine from every satrap, insurance against rebellion. His harem numbered in the thousands.”

His boot-and-sock work complete, Cas starts to move and stops short when Dean digs his bare heels into Cas’s lap. “Where are you going?”

“You should—”

“—get to bed, right.” Dean cocks his head. “Gonna finish or what?”

Cas flickers an uncertain glance to the bare feet in his lap, eyebrows knitting uncertainly before looking at Dean. “Finish—describing harems in Pontus during the reign of Mithridates?”

He thinks maybe it’s time to teach Cas the meaning of ‘context.’

“Yeah, that too.” Dean braces a hand on the mattress behind him and leans back, watching Cas go still, blue eyes dark; there we go. “Anytime you’re ready.”

Dean can feel the drag of his gaze from his face to his feet and all the way back. “Where would you like me to start?”

He shrugs. “Your pick.”

Cas rests his hands on Dean’s knees, ghosting against his jeans before sliding just behind Dean’s knees, and with a tug, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Breath trapped in his throat, Dean closes his hands over the edge of the mattress and doesn’t look away.

“I’ll start here,” Cas says, tilting his head. “Stand up.”

Dean obeys so fast he almost loses his balance, but Cas pushes off his heels and catches him before he can stumble, looking up at him with approving blue eyes. “Very good,” he says, sliding his hands up Dean’s thighs until he reaches the waist of the jeans. “Don’t move.”

Dazed, he manages to nod, breath catching as Cas’s fingers skim the skin just above the denim and come to a pause just over the top button.

“Mithridates had harems spread throughout Pontus,” Cas says, thumbing open the top button, “so wherever he went, he was assured of the attention he felt was his due.” Another button, Christ. “Some were left for years, even decades, between visits from their king. Their only company was the eunuchs that guarded them, their children on occasion…and each other, of course.”

Dean nods jerkily, mouth dry. “Of course.” A quick tug, and the remaining buttons part one by one before Cas guides the jeans down his legs, and Dean steps out of them at a touch. “What was it like? When you were there?”

Cas’s voice lowers huskily. “They felt no sense of neglect, no loss in the lack of their master’s attention. They enjoyed each other’s company far too much to look upon a potential visit from their king as anything other than an inconvenience, and to dance attendance on his person an unpleasant duty.”

Usually, this would be the stuff of Dean’s fantasy life, but that was before and this is now and right now, he can’t really focus on harems of hot women having sex with each other. Scrolling through his memory are hours spent indulging Sam’s obsession with the goddamn Classic Movie Channel, decadent scenes of marble floors and sunken baths and bottles of oil, naked bodies emerging hip-high from pools, pitchers of water pouring over wet skin.

Any other time, he’d ask what kind of mission required Cas be in Mithridates’ goddamn harem (and knowing what he knows now about the Host and sex, why the hell Cas got the job), but Cas wandering curiously around a harem of sexing women oiling each other in giant marble baths is pretty much the last thing on his mind when Cas is right in front of him.

“You may sit down now,” Cas tells him after helping him into the wash-soft sweatpants, and after a long moment, Dean’s brain catches up enough to remember what that is, dropping onto the edge of the bed like a sack of potatoes.

Easing himself off his heels, Cas looks up at him; it takes everything for Dean not to move, hands clenched in the quilt, watching as Cas smoothly stands up. Tipping his head back, Dean meets the blue eyes and lifts his arms without prompting, because no one ever said that when he picks a course of action he doesn’t know how to commit.

Cas smiles slowly. “Good.”

Never looking away, he bends down to grasp the hem of the sweater, gathering it in his hands as he slides it up Dean’s body inch by excruciating inch, and Dean’s arms are trembling by the time it’s tugged over his head and deliberately folded before being set on the chair. Returning, Cas eases the thermal up as well, and Dean just manages not to gasp at the skim of fingers on his bare arms as the thermal’s pulled free, folded, and placed on the chair.

Only a t-shirt left, and Dean fails at not shivering in anticipation as Cas comes back and hopes to God that Cas doesn’t take that the wrong way. Pausing between Dean’s knees, Cas looks at him before dropping into a crouch, and even though he sees it coming, he stills when Cas touches his cheek, palm shaping itself to his face. Without thinking, he turns into it, lips grazing the heel of Cas’s hand, and almost hears the snap. In the time it takes to inhale, Dean’s pressed into the mattress by the welcome weight of Cas’s body, and forgets to exhale—forgets to breathe—with Cas’s tongue buried in his mouth.

Tangling his fingers in Cas’s hair, Dean rides the rush: of getting this, getting Cas, the taste and feel of him, Jesus, arching helplessly when Cas’s thigh rides against his cock, hips pinned to the bed; he’s not going anywhere unless Cas lets him.

Then Cas pulls back with an obscenely wet sound, and oh fuck no. “Cas,” he starts, not giving a shit how desperate he sounds, trying to pull him back down and doesn’t even realize Cas moved until his wrists are pinned to the bed with effortless ease.

Licking dry lips, Dean wonders dazedly how shitty an impression it would make to come right now and how much control he has over that anyway (answer: not much).

“Don’t move,” Cas says, fingers flexing in emphasis, and somehow, Dean manages to nod agreement; right now, there’s pretty much nothing Cas could tell him to do that wouldn’t get the exact same response. Satisfied, Cas smiles down at him, slow and dark. “I’m not done yet.”

In a single easy stretch, Cas sits back on his heels, eyes trailing down Dean’s body for what feels like years before his eyes fix on the rucked-up hem of his t-shirt. Bracing a hand on the bed by Dean’s hip, he leans over, and Dean’s head hits the mattress at the feel of Cas’s mouth against the stretch of bare skin between t-shirt and sweatpants.

Staring up at the ceiling, Dean’s aware of nothing but the wet brush of Cas’s tongue, a hint of teeth before he sucks an endless kiss into the hypersensitive skin low on his belly that sparkles on the edge of pain before pulling back, licking soothingly before nosing the cotton higher and doing it again.

Forever: he didn’t know the meaning of the word until now, when Cas marks a deliberate trail from stomach to collar, the thin cotton vanishing entirely between Cas’s tongue in the hollow of his throat and sliding back into his mouth. He wants to touch Cas, but he doesn’t move his hands, because he wants Cas more than he’s ever wanted anyone or anything in his life.

Almost distantly, he feels Cas’s fingers lace through his against the mattress before losing himself in the endless, drugging kiss.