Chapter Text
Castiel was brought up in a kingdom where custom and protocol permeate practically every aspect of everyday life. In many ways that world is all he’s ever known, despite what he’s read in books and seen in the movies.
The first thing Lady Winchester does, when Castiel meets her, is to offer her hand. It is this act, more than the food, or the wide highways of St. Lebanon, or the lack of dynastic statues in the Republic’s architecture, that makes Castiel realize just how far into foreign territory he is.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Castiel of Hortus,” Lady Winchester says.
Castiel recovers quickly, and accepts the handshake. “The pleasure is mine, Lady of Winchester.”
“Mary,” she says, her smile well-practiced but warm. “Let’s start this on the right foot, shall we?”
Castiel had been ordered to read Naomi’s lengthy dossier on the way here. He even actually skimmed a couple of pages before he’d lost interest, and he recalls clearly that he’s supposed to stick to certain topics (obviously), terms and levels of familiarity as is befitting Castiel’s rank and that of the House of Winchester.
“I’m not supposed to use your given name,” Castiel says. “I’m quite sure the terms were specific on that front.”
“Well, if you’re particular about that sort of thing, I’m not the Lady of the House either,” she says. “That would be Sophia Winchester, who is very much alive, and whom I’m uninterested in usurping for the moment. By rank, better to refer to me as the Dame of Campbell.”
“But…” Castiel ignores the faint cough behind him – from Naomi, no doubt. “Didn’t you give up that heirship when you married Master John?”
“I think ‘Mary’ will do just fine,” Mistress Winchester says, with a little half-wink that for some odd reason seems familiar. “This is Kansas.”
“Yes,” Castiel says weakly. He takes in Mary’s face, her uniform, the chain of silver charms that hang from her wrists. The Mistress of Winchester is fair-haired and striking, her hair drawn in a loose style that Naomi would never approve of back in Michael’s court. “You do things differently here.”
“Indeed.” Mary’s eyes drift sideways, to the space above Castiel’s right shoulder. That look is meant for Naomi, and Castiel is struck by sudden and chilling awareness of the many discussions that must have taken place in getting both sides to agree to this.
This being the first private meeting between Castiel’s retinue and the Winchesters, the latter of whom picked this lavish hotel villa – with an armed guard outside, of course – where both sides are supposed to stay while they negotiate the wedding contract and, in Castiel’s case, get to know his future husband.
The makeshift receiving area they’re standing in is subdued and almost library-like – which would normally be a source of comfort to Castiel, but is instead giving him vivid flashbacks to young life in Michael’s court. Both sides are mostly staying to their sides of the room while trying to pretend they’re not staying to their sides of the room, and Castiel is disconsolate at the implication that it is his duty to bridge the divide.
“Where is your son?” Castiel asks. Mary’s gaze snaps to him, quick and assessing, so he continues, “If we can formalize this first meeting, then Naomi can send the dispatch to His Highness. It’s a lot to take in at once.”
“If you could give us half an hour,” Mary says. “Some persons who should be here aren’t yet.”
Naomi steps forward, appearing at Castiel’s elbow. “The groom isn’t here?”
“Sam is upstairs,” Mary says, with such terseness that Castiel’s now positive that she’s been exchanging blows with Naomi. “Just as we promised. But this is a big move for him, and I think he deserves some time to collect himself.”
“We had no control over the length of time your government took to pick your House for this arrangement.” Naomi is too professional to do anything but smile, though, and Castiel resists the urge to take a step away from her. “How shall we proceed?”
“I would like some coffee,” Castiel says. “I see some on the table over there.”
“Help yourself,” Mary says. “The sandwiches are pretty good.”
Castiel makes a clean break for the refreshments, nodding with approval when he sees that they brought out the good beans. One of the perks of being well-to-do, he figures. There’s a young man already there helping himself to some fruit, and he draws up to formal attention when Castiel approaches.
“Who are you affiliated with?” Castiel says. “Am I allowed to talk to you?”
“Oh, I’m, I’m with the Council,” the young man says. “Kevin Tran.”
“You’re too young to be running a country.” Castiel frowns. “I should stop talking. Wouldn’t do to start an international incident before lunch.”
“I’m not running the government alone. I’m in the…” Kevin pauses, perhaps trying to whittle down his job description into something Castiel will understand. “I assist the ministers. Like how you assist His Highness?”
“Is that what you were told about me?”
Kevin frowns. “Is that wrong?”
“Unbelievable.” Castiel glares at the tiny, impractical cups that they’re supposed to use. The set probably costs more than his entire project grant back at the University. The chinaware itself may be innocent, but it represents everything Castiel loathes about today.
Castiel’s wearing clothes that are stiff and uncomfortable and made by Michael’s personal tailor. Castiel is being bartered for an arrangement he doesn’t believe in. Castiel never considered getting married before, and even if he did he’d have had to jump through hoops to obtain Michael’s permission, so he’d always thought that if he ever wanted to be with someone he’d be perfectly content to live in sin.
(“See, Castiel, this is why it’s best it be you,” Naomi had said. “You have no obligations.”
“The University is an obligation—”
“You have no emotional obligations. You aren’t betraying anyone by committing to a marriage that will benefit the kingdom.”)
Castiel doesn’t count as anyone, apparently.
Though this is neither the time nor the place to be frustrated. After all, Castiel’s had weeks to be frustrated, during which he’d wrapped up his work and caught up on his reading on international relations and got started on his long-delayed research on the sex he will no doubt be expected to perform after his wedding.
It’s an odd thing, but Castiel thinks he can feel the imprint of Dean’s hands on his hips. It’s a phantom touch, but even if its presence is purely psychological, it’s still a comfort. Castiel had been right to ask that Dean not leave any physical marks, but some smaller, even more selfish part of Castiel wishes he’d allowed Dean to, if only so he will have something truly his to wear today.
It’s improper to think of another man as he’s waiting for his future husband. Castiel considers that, and then considers how relatively improper it would be to use one of table’s punch bowls as a coffee holder. Lesser of two evils?
The background murmuring increases in volume, cutting through Castiel’s thoughts. He looks up.
On one side of the receiving room there’s a winding staircase leading to the upper floor. A tall young man dressed in the silvers and blacks of the House of Winchester is descending it now. The locals watching him surreptitiously straighten their posture.
Here is the boy.
Here is Sam of Winchester, who – according to Naomi’s sanitized dossier – is a learned young man who’d recently started to follow his grandfather’s footsteps with the Men of Letters, though he has yet to achieve full initiation. Sam appears to recognize Castiel immediately, and approaches with steady, long strides.
He isn’t as young as he was in the photograph, which is a relief. Even so, the age difference between them is obvious, as is the way Sam’s uniform fits him poorly – too short in the leg and too taut across his shoulders. Sam’s hair has been combed, but it’s long about the ears and across his eyebrows, another mark of youthfulness.
After those long weeks of anxiety and frustration and anger, Castiel feels something inside him quietly sit down.
“Hello, Sam,” Castiel says. Everything they say at this point is going to be recorded, he knows. “I am Castiel of Hortus, and I’m pleased to meet you.”
Sam bows. Since there’s a lot of him to bow it takes a while, and when he comes back up there’s a visible nervous flex in his throat that makes Castiel feel like a heel.
“I’m pleased as well, sir,” Sam says quietly. “How are you… Um. I hope your journey went well?”
“Yes, thank you. Your country has many lovely sights. Perhaps I’ll have a better chance to see them up close in the future.” Sam stiffens at that, and Castiel internally curses his wording. “I’m about to have some tea, would you like to join me?”
Sam glances down at the tiny cups. His hands are even bigger than Castiel’s, and Castiel would laugh at the absurdity of it if he suspected that wouldn’t make Naomi metaphorically throw something at his head.
“Okay,” Sam says in a small voice.
“Okay,” Castiel echoes. They turn to the refreshments table.
It’s awkward. It was always going to be awkward, of course, and the only question was how that awkwardness would play out. Castiel has to be perfectly honest – when he was first told of this proposal his expectation had been that the other end of the bargain held a lecherous, elderly person.
It’s disconcerting to learn that the lecherous elderly person in this exchange is Castiel.
“How is the coffee?” Sam asks politely.
“Quite good, thank you,” Castiel says. “How’s yours?”
“Good, yeah.” Sam coughs under his breath.
The young man is unhappy. It’s painfully obvious how unhappy he is, just as it’s painfully obvious how determined he is to put on a good front. Did Sam volunteer for this? Did his parents? Did they fight for it, or were they a last choice? Were they encouraged to take it when none of the other Houses would volunteer? According to Naomi’s dossier the House of Winchester isn’t one of the most prominent families of the Republic. They have access to many resources due to their link to the Men of Letters, but Sam belongs to an estranged junior branch of the House, mainly due to the supposedly controversial marriage of Sam’s parents.
There has to be something this House is offering Michael.
What’s more important to the Winchesters, though, is what Michael is offering them.
Castiel doesn’t know the answer to either, because he’s not important enough to know.
He sighs and takes another slow sip of his drink. Every so often he glances over at Sam, who is trying his level best to retain his poker face, but it’s a long way before his skill will be polished.
“I’m a professor,” Castiel says. “At the Hortus University.”
Sam’s eyes are little startled when they jump to Castiel’s, but he nods slowly. “Yes, I’m aware of your peerage, sir.”
“No, no that. I don’t own Hortus, I’m a literal professor. I teach and do research in extended alchemy. I had the privilege of reading your grandfather’s papers, as well as many of the Men of Letters’ publications before the Wall came down.”
Sam’s face changes. Curiosity lights up his face, but he holds himself back, unwilling to say more than a careful, “Oh, I see.”
“I travelled across the Isles before that,” Castiel continues. “Mostly to collect samples and observe the work of my peers. I’ve always wanted to visit the Men of Letters as well, so to see their work first hand and ask some questions. Preferably difficult ones.”
Sam cracks a smile, but then quickly drops his gaze to the floor.
“Don’t call me ‘sir’,” Castiel says. “Please. ‘Castiel’ will do.”
“Okay,” Sam replies.
“May I call you Sam?”
Sam shrugs a little, nervous. “Yes. Sure, thank you.”
Why, Castiel wants to shout, why did they pick this boy for this? Castiel, at least, comes from a family that’s used each other for millennia. The Republic is supposed to be better than this – isn’t that why they split from the kingdom in the first place? Castiel may be an old bachelor but Sam is young and has his whole life ahead of him. Worse yet is how Sam cannot look him in the eye, as though he’d been trained for it or, worse yet, told perfectly legitimate horror stories on what to expect from his new husband.
Castiel was set to become the resident asshole here, but fate’s decided to deny him even that. Now Castiel has to take care of this boy, because Naomi and Michael sure as hell won’t.
“May we have the photograph now?” Castiel says loudly, turning to Naomi. “Or at least officially postpone it? Sam is tired and wishes to retire.”
“Master Winchester is travelling up now,” Naomi says. Mary’s a little ways off to one side of the room, talking with someone else. “Just a moment.”
“Your father is working today?” Castiel asks, turning back to Sam.
“Yes,” Sam says, a little too quickly. “He got called away suddenly, you know how it is. My – my brother is collecting him.”
“Yes, of course.”
Castiel must tell Sam as soon as possible that he doesn’t expect conjugal relations between them. He should also make clear in the contract that monogamy isn’t expected – goodness knows a young man like Sam shouldn’t attach himself to someone whose sexual experience is a wasteland. It’s true that up until very recently Castiel had been under the impression he didn’t care much for sex; the encounter with Dean proved that wrong, meaning that it’s possible that there could be other non-sexual things he might learn to enjoy.
Marriage could be that. Or a platonic companionship, at least. Castiel’s experience with such partners is limited but he knows friendship, and it had been easy – fantastically easy – to fall into something carnal and warm with Dean. It’s possible that Castiel may find something in between the two ends with Sam. The young man might have a lot to say if he had the leave to say it. Castiel can offer him his ear, and they’ll see where it goes from there.
“They’re here, sir,” Sam says. “Um. Castiel.”
Castiel tugs the lapel of his jacket, straightening the material. He moves automatically, placing himself at Sam’s side as he turns to receive his future father-in-law.
One thing is immediately clear – John of Winchester isn’t the diplomat of the family. He may be dressed in his colors and walking an acceptable pace towards Castiel, but his expression has none of Mary’s neutral aloofness, and is more likely that he had had to be dragged to this event, possibly by the young man currently shadowing him on his side. Mary’s taken up point on John’s other side, too, as though the two of them are prepared to tackle John if he tries to make a break for it.
Surely there has to be someone in this family who wants this marriage?
“Master Winchester,” Castiel says. Sam had bowed to him, so Castiel returns the custom and now bows to John. “I’m grateful for your presence, sir.”
“Sure you are,” John says. His scowl is impressive, but Castiel has been glared at by the best. “We welcome you, Castiel of….”
“Hortus,” Mary says.
“Hortus,” John echoes, with a deliberate press on the ‘s’ that, funnily enough, makes Castiel think of Zachariah.
Well, Castiel had a good run. More than ten years of independence (see: expulsion from court) in which he could do as he wished as long as what he wished would never come back as scandal to affect Michael. Castiel has studied, taught, traveled, starved and worked ‘til blisters broke his fingertips, and he is glad for every single moment. Castiel’s memories are a kaleidoscope of color, and he also has the bone-deep satisfaction of capping that off with a roll in the hay with a continental stranger.
Castiel knows he shouldn’t be thinking about that right now, but it makes sense that he is. He’s standing beside his future husband and facing off his future father-in-law, and he’s expected to fight for the privilege to stand where he is. It’s ridiculous, but many things about Castiel’s life are, and so what if he finds comfort in the vibrant memory of that secret act of rebellion. It’s a reminder of his own humanity, and that joy can be found in unexpected places, and that even at his age there’s still potential to be open to new experiences.
But Castiel really must stop thinking about it, because it’s clouding his brain and affecting his eyes – so much so that the man standing next to John looks eerily similar to Dean.
What’s funny, though, is that Sam’s brother is also named Dean; Castiel had found that coincidence amusing when he’d read Naomi’s dossier. This man is a little taller than Castiel’s Dean, though, and has combed-down hair and a clean-shaven face. That said, the breadth of his shoulders is similar, as does the impressive way he fills out his black and silver uniform, hunter stripes cutting dramatic lines across his cuffs.
“My other son,” John says. “Dean of Winchester.”
Dean of Winchester is staring at Castiel. If Castiel is reading his expression at all accurately, Dean’s face is one of mild horror.
The illusion doesn’t fade. That is Dean’s face.
Castiel feels his own face freeze up.
What.
Dean bows. The motion is quick and perfunctory – different from the ceremony of Sam’s deep bow. Then he nods once and licks his lips – Castiel knows that move – and then adjusts his eyeline to look at something over Castiel’s shoulder.
“So now we’re all here,” Mary says, stepping forward to take John’s arm. “Let’s take that photograph.”
There is – movement. Castiel barely notices it for the roaring in his head, that little mental voice going now isn’t that funny? over and over in his head and getting a little more hysterical each time. Eventually he registers that he’s been manhandled into a small flock of bodies, Sam at his side and the Winchesters (and Dean) arranged around them, along with Naomi, Ion and Rachel who are representing Castiel’s family.
Assistants fuss over them, fixing hair and clothes and dabbing make-up in a blur of activity. Then the photographer raises her arm and announces, “Everyone focus on the red light, please!”
The machinegun-like clicking of the camera is frantic and ominous.
“All right, that’s enough excitement for one day,” Mary says. “You agree, Castiel?”
“Yes,” Castiel hears himself distantly. “Yes, of course.”
“We will come to you for lunch,” Naomi says. She gives Castiel a meaningful look.
Castiel blinks. “Ah, yes.” He turns to Sam.
Sam doesn’t hesitate here, at least, and leans towards Castiel expectantly. Castiel moves up to meet him, careful not to touch his future husband’s body, and presses a kiss to his cheek. Castiel’s treacherous eye drifts over to where Dean is standing at rapt attention by his mother’s side, and the burn in Castiel’s well-used ass – which had been barely noticeable all morning – gleefully decides to make itself known.
“Thank you,” Sam says when Castiel pulls back, but it’s barely audible.
The next few days feature Castiel and Sam’s official courtship, consisting of carefully-timed lunches and breakfasts and walks in the roof garden.
Sam is polite but restrained, though sometimes Castiel gets glimpses of the brilliant mind he’s chosen (or been instructed to) keep hidden. Usually this happens when Castiel talks about the University, or the retainers of his House, but as soon as Castiel thinks he may have found a topic to draw Sam out of his shell, Ion or Rachel would cough, reminding him that they aren’t married yet and some things are not to be shared with the House of Winchester.
Chaperones are a necessary part of the process, of course. Ion is there in Naomi’s stead, and Rachel is part of Castiel’s household.
Unfortunately, Sam’s escort is his brother, Dean.
The thing is, Castiel wants to develop some kind of rapport with Sam. He truly does, because Sam is as much a victim of circumstance as he is, and it would be nice to have someone to commiserate with.
But it’s difficult to focus on his future husband when Castiel’s brain keeps supplying unhelpful tangents such as: his brother knows what my penis tastes like.
Not that Dean’s made any sign that he’s perturbed by this situation. He hasn’t said more than two words to Castiel since their reintroduction, though he remains a solemn background presence during Castiel’s courtship meetings with Sam. Dean’s expression only gentles whenever Sam looks his way, his small nods to his younger brother made to encourage. Castiel only gets cool glares, if anything at all.
Perhaps Dean’s content to pretend that their encounter never happened.
Which is fine.
More than fine, it’s excellent, because it means that Dean doesn’t care about the serendipitous events that brought them back into each other’s orbit. They can go about their business and happily pretend to not know each other at all – technically that’s even true, because Castiel doesn’t know Dean. He barely recognizes this Dean, with his neat hair and impersonal smiles and sharp-pressed uniform. The warm, disheveled man Castiel met in the bar was perhaps some kind of mirage.
Besides, Dean’s presence doesn’t change anything. Castiel’s still getting married to Sam, still fated to be used as a propaganda icon. It doesn’t matter what Castiel had done with a stranger in his own time, and it doesn’t matter that that stranger is now to be his brother-in-law. It’s not as though Castiel had realistically hoped to see Dean again either; fantasies are fine, but Castiel has his limits when it comes to being selfish.
It would be nice to have someone he could talk to about this. Rachel would be discreet and agreeable to listen, but she’d also be judgmental, and Castiel’s feeling a little delicate at the moment.
Castiel’s taken by surprise, then, when Rachel breaks the topic anyway. It happens while they’re in one of the presentation rooms, waiting while Sam and his assistant set up the piano for his recital. Dean is, of course, hovering near Sam’s side, carrying Sam’s music books.
Castiel and Rachel are sitting in chairs set up for the recital’s small audience, Rachel close enough to Castiel that she can whisper to him safely, “Master Dean should stop procrastinating, what with the way he keeps shooting daggers at you.”
Bringing up his name has Castiel automatically looking at Dean, who happens to not be glaring at him at the moment. “What are you talking about?” Castiel says.
“You know what I’m talking about, you’ve noticed it well enough,” Rachel says. “He wants to speak to you but hasn’t found the right opportunity.”
Castiel does not panic. “What makes you say that?’
“He’s Sam’s older brother,” Rachel says in amusement. “You should know what that means.”
“Oh.” It takes a moment, and Castiel relaxes with understanding. “He is to Sam, as Anna is to me?”
“Well, obviously. As Master Sam’s brother, he is duty-bound to warn you to do right by him. Mistress Mary is all business, and Master John seems to prefer to pretend that this isn’t happening.” Rachel hums thoughtfully. “I’ll arrange something for you, don’t worry.”
“You don’t have to,” Castiel says weakly.
“It’ll do both of you good,” Rachel replies firmly. “Especially if it’ll get him stop looking like he wants to throw you out the nearest window.”
“Don’t say things like that,” Castiel says. He nods at Sam, who has sit down to start playing. “Let’s listen now.”
Rachel fulfills her threat, though. It takes another day for her to do it, meaning that by the time it happens Castiel has let his guard down, believing that conversation forgotten. It simply doesn’t occur to Castiel to suspect anything Dean-related when Rachel corners him outside his rooms just when he’s about to go down for dinner.
“Drop by the telephone room first,” Rachel tells Castiel. “I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”
“All right.” Castiel goes, because why wouldn’t he? Rachel holds his schedule and makes sure he’s wherever he’s supposed to be whenever he’s supposed to be there, and Castiel likes her enough that he’ll follow her instructions (which Naomi well knows, since she gave Rachel the position). If Rachel tells him to go the telephone room, then he’ll go to the telephone room.
Where, unfortunately, Dean is waiting. Alone.
Apparently both of them didn’t see this coming, because Dean appears as shocked to see him as it is the other way round. The door, on automatic hinges, clicks shut behind Castiel.
Dean breaks the silence with a heartwarming: “Aww shit. Where’s Rachel?”
Castiel recovers. “Rachel?”
“Hey, man, I don’t know your customs that well.” Dean shrugs, the movement breathtakingly casual, before he remembers himself and stands to attention. “She said I had to be here for an audience with you or something. No one briefed me on it but I figured I’d go along. Is she coming or not?
“I believe not,” Castiel says.
“Great!” Dean exclaims. “So what am I supposed to do? Kiss your hand or something?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Castiel snaps, which makes Dean visibly bristle. “Rachel called for this because you’re not being subtle. She noticed the threatening way you look at me, though her assumption is luckily a mistaken one. She thinks you’re looking out for your brother’s honor.”
Dean’s smile is slow and sarcastic. “Why do you assume she’s mistaken?”
“Excuse me?”
“Seems a perfect reason to me,” Dean says. “After all, you did cheat on my brother.”
Castiel scowls. “What?”
“You gonna run that act by me now?” Dean laughs. “You can comb your hair and talk fancy and play dress-up all you like, that don’t mean shit ‘cause I know you’re a liar and a cheat—”
“I did not cheat!” Castiel snaps. “I didn’t even know it was going to be your brother until—”
“Oh, you mean on your planet it’s totally okay to go out and pick up a stranger after you get engaged? See, we don’t do that here. And who knows what the fuck kind of disease you could be passing on to Sam.”
“I know to protect myself, as you are well aware,” Castiel hisses.
Dean flushes, but his expression is no less dangerous. “You are damn lucky I haven’t ratted you out.”
“I don’t care if you do,” Castiel says, scowling harder when Dean scoffs. “Do you think I care about this marriage? Do you think that I want it?”
“Look, man… Manny.” Dean sneers. “You’re the ones who came to us about this whole fucking charade—”
“Is that what your Council told you?” Castiel retorts. “And you trust them? I seem to recall that you don’t. Well, guess what, Dean – I’m as swept up in this as you brother is. The only reason I was picked is because I’m the most disposable of Michael’s family. You think he’d spare someone he actually needs?”
They’ve been circling each other in the small room since this argument started – Dean more than Castiel, in his restlessness and frustration – but now they’ve both stopped. Dean is breathing heavily, the heaving of his chest particularly prominent because there’s so much physical chest to heave beneath that form-fitting uniform. Not that Castiel wants to notice that on purpose.
At long last Dean says, “So you thought you’d go out for one last fuck?”
Castiel almost laughs. “First fuck, Dean. But doesn’t it make sense? For all I knew I was being married off to someone who wanted me face down and nothing else from our wedding night onward. I am angry and scared, and I decided to use the last of my freedom on something worthwhile.”
“Scared,” Dean echoes, startled. “You?”
“Yes.” Something inside Castiel shudders with relief at finally being able to say that out loud. “Judge all you like, Dean. I searched for something that I could have for myself. Something untouched by the kingdom, or Michael, or Naomi. That night was all mine, by my choice and on my own terms, and I will not be made to feel bad about it.”
Castiel stands his ground. Dean doesn’t move away either; he’s standing there measuring Castiel’s words and face, and although his frown is fading away he no doubt finds Castiel lacking. The relief of being honest may be tainted with bitterness, but Castiel will not back down.
“Jesus, Cas.” Dean shakes his head. “You could’ve got someone who hurt you.”
Castiel shrugs. “So what? I still would’ve learned something.”
“That’s fucked up,” Dean says quietly.
“Lucky me, then,” Castiel says. “I happened to find someone kind, patient, and generous. It is a memory worth treasuring.”
Dean swallows. “Yeah?”
“Of course,” Castiel replies sharply. “You might not think much of it because of all your experience, but I have none, and it was fantastic.”
“It’s not like you got anything to compare—”
“I liked it,” Castiel hisses. “I liked it, and it’s mine, and no one can take that away from me, not even you.”
Dean stares at him. Castiel has a faint feeling of victory, although he’s not entirely sure what they’re arguing about at this point. All he knows is that he can finally see the cracks in Dean’s professional performance of the past few days, and it sends jitters of excitement coursing through Castiel.
Then Dean moves. Castiel’s reflexes are reasonably good but he doesn’t see this one coming, doesn’t realize what’s about to happen until Dean’s hand is behind his neck and he’s being kissed. Dean Winchester has swooped in and is kissing him, and Castiel is shocked for all of two seconds before his body catches up on current events, sense memory of their night together commanding Castiel to part his lips and hold on for dear life.
Dean is everywhere, absolute and overwhelming. His mouth is a furnace for Castiel to breathe into, his body a wall for Castiel to climb. Their lips surge and press and sweep against each other, the kisses clumsier than the ones Castiel had before, yet deeper, more aching. Dean moves, pushing gently but firmly until there’s the press of wall against Castiel’s back where he’s shoved up against it.
This is what it feels like to be consumed, and all the frustration and restlessness of the past few days find their outlet, Castiel kissing back as frantically as he’s being kissed, and wrapping a leg around Dean’s thigh in gaining purchase.
That’s definitely arousal Castiel feels against his leg. Castiel’s shudders at the knowledge that that’s been inside him, and his ass clenches down in nostalgic eagerness for a repeat performance.
Someone screams.
Dean pulls away with a shocked, “Bluh”. Castiel blinks rapidly to clear his vision, and squints in the direction Dean is staring.
Kevin is in the open doorway, mouth open around the now-silent scream. He turns and runs.
“Fuck,” Dean snarls. Castiel flings his arms back against the wall, releasing Dean so that he can chase after the young man.
This gives Castiel a chance to breathe, to press a hand against his tender mouth and wonder what the hell he’d been thinking. This is precisely the line that Castiel doesn’t care to cross, and he’d just crossed it.
“You didn’t see anything,” Dean says. He’s returned to the room with Kevin caught in a hold, a hand clamped around his mouth. “Kev, you listening? You didn’t see anything ‘cause there was nothing to see.”
Shame warms Castiel’s face, but he forces himself to meet Kevin’s gaze. It isn’t anger he gets in return but sheer panic, Kevin’s eyes wide and darting around helplessly.
“I’m moving my hand now,” Dean says.
As soon as his mouth is free, Kevin blurts out, “I didn’t see anything!”
“Oh no,” Castiel says shakily.
“You guys were just talking!” Kevin exclaims. “I was looking for – for – nothing to see, didn’t see anything because there was nothing to see!”
“Calm down,” Dean orders.
Kevin does. He has to take a deep breath to do it, but he does. Dean loosens the rest of his hold and Kevin steps away, bouncing a little on his feet to resettle himself. He doesn’t look at Castiel. “Uh. Um, might want to make a move on, Dean. You’re kinda late.”
“Yeah.” Dean licks his lips. Castiel wishes he didn’t notice it. “Yeah, we better go.”
“Yes,” Kevin agrees, nodding rapidly.
Castiel doesn’t say anything. His legs feel week and unable to support the rest of him. Good thing there’s a wall at his back. A solid wall is comforting, especially when it feels like he’s about to fly apart.
“One more thing,” Dean says, sounding dangerously calm. “You stay away from me, Castiel.”
Castiel gasps. “You stay away from me,” he replies, voice shaking with anger. “You—you’re the one who—”
But Dean doesn’t even bother to acknowledge that. He just turns his back to Castiel and leaves with Kevin, closing the door as he goes.
Castiel gapes at the door, shaken and enraged and disgusted at himself. “How dare you,” he exclaims. “How dare you.”
It doesn’t satisfy.