Chapter Text
“You look like shit,” Sam says cheerfully as he comes into the kitchen, clapping a heavy hand onto Dean’s shoulder.
Dean takes a sip of coffee to conceal his scowl.
“Yeah well, at least I don’t wear plaid that looks like clown puke,” he says, harsher than anyone ever needs to be about plaid.
Sam raises his eyebrows as he heaves an entire pig’s worth of bacon onto his plate.
“Okay then,” he says.
Dean sighs, frowning at his mug. It’s an ugly old thing, something Cas decided he liked at Value Village and wanted to rehome. The handle is chipped and it’s painted in garish colors that Dean thinks is supposed to resemble some kind of exotic locale, but really just looks like-because Dean can never get enough of ragging on his brother’s wardrobe-one of Sam’s shirts got repurposed into a mug.
Better an ugly mug than all the actual stray cats Cas seems determined to start a cult with, at least. Someone has to be the voice of reason on that one, and Dean’ll step up if only because their giant underground layer is unsuitable for beings who can’t understand KEEP OUT signs or read labels on mystical powders that could paralyze a man’s nipple if inhaled. So in exchange for making all of Cas’ furry friends take shelter somewhere colder (but probably much safer, all things considered) Dean’s pretty much up ugly crap creek without a paddle, because now he feels compelled to let Cas buy whatever inanimate godawful crap he wants, along with leaving saucers of milk and cans of tuna out on the front step every night. Dean’s had to get creative with his deodorizing to keep the fish smell out of the bunker.
“Sorry,” Dean says, rubbing at his temples. “I’m tired as fuck.”
“I couldn’t tell,” Sam says, straight faced. He tucks into the eggs he piled alongside his bacon. “I thought those bags under your eyes were just for carrying groceries.”
Dean puts his forehead on the table and it makes a dull thunk. For weeks it’s felt like someone’s been actively pulling his eyelids closed, but once he actually manages to lie down, he finds himself unable to sleep. His sleep schedule is far from normal or healthy, and he’s gone through bouts of insomnia before, but this seems like an entirely new beast. His eyes literally itch.
“At this point I’m considering a medically induced coma, to be honest,” he grumbles as he continues to inhale coffee. If he can’t sleep, he wants to at least try to be as awake as possible.
“Have you talked to Cas?” Sam asks around a mouthful of egg. He waves a hand vaguely. “He’s not an angel anymore, but he might have some suggestions, at least.”
“I came to you because you’re supposed to be the au natural guru. Are you telling me granola and rabbit pellets ain’t gonna solve my problem?”
“You seem to know what you’re talking about,” Sam says sarcastically. “Sounds like you don’t need me at all.” He grabs his unfinished plate from the table and stands up, opening the fridge and grabbing the carton of orange juice Dean knows is at least half full. With a nod, he makes his exit carrying his breakfast spoils.
Dean waits until he can hear him padding down the hall and then yells, “Save some for the rest of us next time!” just as Cas walks into the kitchen, hair sticking up at weird angles and pajama bottoms bunching around his feet.
“Hol-y shit, Cas,” Dean whistles, looking at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “Up and at’em before 10AM? The world must be ending.”
“It already did,” Cas rumbles, voice still thick with sleep. Instead of getting a mug like a normal angel-turned-human, he grabs the entire carafe and starts drinking directly from it like it’s not still scalding hot. “I smelled food.”
“You did,” Dean says, trying to swallow around sudden dry mouth. “I think Sam may have scraped the bottom of the barrel for this batch, but I can whip up some more if you want.”
Cas blinks blearily at the coffee in the carafe. As a human, his facilities aren’t usually all the way up to date until he’s downed at least double the amount of coffee any single person should consume within an entire day.
“Yes,” he finally grunts.
Dean huffs a laugh as he stands up, returning to the counter where he left the egg carton out.
“You’re an impolite son of a bitch in the mornings,” he comments, cracking a couple eggs into the same bowl he used for the last batch. Cas stands much too close, watching him work. Dean finds himself staring at the loose threads trailing from Cas’ pajama bottoms more often than at the food in front of him.
“You look terrible,” Cas says, proving Dean’s point. Nimble fingers come up, just as impolite as the person they’re attached to, turning Dean’s head so that Cas can look at him straight on. His gaze searches Dean’s face, and one thumb briefly presses to the purple splotch below Dean’s right eye before the pressure is gone suddenly, Cas’ hand dropped back to the side. “Why do you look terrible?”
“Gee, Cas, I love you too,” Dean says sarcastically, but the funny little wibble in his stomach at those words cleanly reminds him that’s a phrase he definitely wants to stay away from, even jokingly.
Cas doesn’t answer, just watches him until Dean finally gives up and shrugs.
“I dunno,” he says, defeated. He whisks the eggs harder than he needs to. “Trouble sleeping, I guess.”
“Bad dreams?” Cas asks. His breath is warm on Dean’s cheek, and their kitchen certainly isn’t huge but it’s also not a cupboard under the stairs. There’s no reason for Cas to stand this close.
“No worse than usual,” Dean says gruffly as he dumps the eggs into the pan on the stove. He reaches out, flicking the dial back on. He grabs the spatula and starts stirring, mostly to give himself something to do.
“You got cursed by that witch last month,” Cas says. “Do you think there are any lingering side effects?”
“I certainly fuckin’ hope not. I still twitch sometimes when I see shiny objects.”
“Are you stressed?” Cas presses. “Worried? Sick?”
“I dunno, Cas, are you a doctor? Gonna grab my balls and ask me to cough?”
“I’m not going to grab your testicles.”
Dean stands there like a dumbass for a moment before saying, “Well… good.” He turns back to the stove. “Now stop hovering or you’re gonna get germs in the food.”
“It’s my food, isn’t it?” Cas asks, but he slinks back to the table, now watching Dean how a cat watches a bird flap around from its perch on the garden fence. Not that experience has taught him any different, but the weight of Cas’ stare is still heavy even with the distance between them. Dean tries to ignore it as he finishes up the eggs, ladling them onto a plate. He grabs an actual mug for Cas (this one, weirdly enough, decorated with the skyline of Las Vegas), and pours a generous amount of coffee into it. He brings both to the table and sets them in front of Cas, who actually smiles, even if it’s just a twist of the mouth. For a moment, Dean feels so incredibly out of place that the roof could cave in and he wouldn’t notice, too focused on the almost-smile on Cas’ face.
The scrape of the chair legs on the floor as Cas tucks himself into the table brings Dean out of his weird trance, and he shakes his head.
“Jesus,” he says, his voice wavering slightly. “I’m so tired I think I’m starting to see things.” He starts for the door, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m gonna go take twenty Benadryl and try to die for the next six hours.”
He’s at the entrance to the kitchen when Cas says from behind him, “Please don’t.”
Dean turns around, making eye contact with Cas, who finally seems properly awake. He regards Dean softly, and the way he’s carefully forking up his eggs suggests he’s taking great care with them, which is stupid, because they’re just eggs.
“-Die, I mean,” he corrects himself. “I suppose I can’t stop you from taking more than the recommended dose of cough medicine, even though you don’t have a cough.”
Dean is caught off guard by the comment, which is also stupid. He shakes it off, and hacks a cough for Cas’ benefit. He points at his throat and grimaces, making his voice raspy as he says, “It’s real bad, doc, I swear.”
“I’m sure it is,” Cas says mildly.
Dean salutes him with two fingers before finally making his exit, face hot as he walks down the hall.
***
A couple hours later, Dean hasn’t slept a wink. They were out of Benadryl, and despite his desperation, he’s not going to let himself behind the Impala’s wheel like this. He may not care so much about his own life, but he sure as hell loves that car and doesn’t want to see her driven into a ditch because he can’t keep his eyes open on the road.
He runs into Cas in the library, and when he asks after Sam, is informed that he went for a run.
“He would,” Dean scoffs.
Cas closes the volume he’s looking at and regards Dean closely. Under his scrutiny, Dean shifts awkwardly.
“What?” he eventually snaps, because Cas looking at him like that isn’t something he can handle for long amounts of time.
“Sam going for a run actually got me thinking,” he says.
“Oh, god, don’t tell me you want to go for a run too.”
“And I thought, maybe we can apply that principle elsewhere,” Cas continues, ignoring Dean’s interruption. “Physical activity is strenuous on the human body and liable to make your body more amenable to sleep, no matter what state of upheaval your mind may be facing.”
“What, so your plan is to tire me out?” Dean asks doubtfully.
“Yes,” Cas says simply.
“Okay…” Dean drums his fingers on the table. He doesn’t miss the glint in Cas’ eye. “So why does it feel like I just walked into a trap?”
“Well I was hoping to work on my hand-to-hand combat,” he says lightly, and Dean internally groans. Ever since falling, Cas has had a weird obsession with sparring. He’s quick as all get out and good on the offense, but his blocking still leaves much to desired, which means they both get at least a couple good (if pulled) punches on each other every session.
Dean has no problem teaching Cas human stuff, but he’d much rather it be human stuff that’s less… tension-laden. Thing is, he wouldn’t mind sticking his finger in an electric socket so much if he actually had a place to discharge.
“So basically, you want us to go to town on each other till I start counting sheep?”
“I think this arrangement could be mutually beneficial,” Cas agrees solemnly. A slight smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll go easy on you if you feel your sleep-deprived reflexes are too slow.”
Dean holds up two fingers. “Okay, one, game on.” He lowers his index finger, leaving only his middle one standing. “And two, fuck you.”
***
For the most part, the gym has remained unchanged since Sam and Dean first stumbled onto the bunker. Sam prefers to run and do his yoga crap outside, and Dean doesn’t touch any of this stuff with a ten foot pole if he can help it. Since moving in with them, Cas has shown at least a mild interest in the room, going so far as to dust it and actually put some 21st century padding down for sparring sessions, but that’s pretty much it.
Dean’s of the opinion that all gyms are terrible by virtue of the self-betterment that happens within, so it leaves him feeling like a real nut when he finds himself strangely endeared by the small potted plants Cas has added to the décor since the last time he was here. The bunker has proven fairly inhospitable to plants thanks to lack of natural light, and despite his similar lack of green thumb, even Dean can see the strain on the plants. The fact that Cas is at least trying, though, makes something warm bloom in his chest.
Cas chooses that moment to walk in front of him, shucking his shirt as he goes, and the warmth in Dean’s chest sinuously slithers to lower regions. Cas’ hair sticks up at odd angles, and Dean doesn’t miss the smirk that worms its way onto his face as he watches Dean watch him.
“So you’re skins, guess that makes me shirts,” Dean tries to joke, but his higher faculties are already on their way to frizzing out.
Cas shrugs. “Others wiser than me might say your shirt is just going to get in the way.”
Dean swallows. “Of the sparring,” he says, “Get in the way of the sparring, right?”
Cas’ gaze is piercing. “Of course,” he says. “What else would I be talking about?”
Dean simmers.
“Nothing,” he says, gritting his teeth and looking down. He pulls off his shirt as well, face flaming. He’s glad he’s wearing baggy pants for this.
He tries not to think about it so much anymore, the way Cas throws him. He used to dwell on it like it was a complex fucking mathematical equation that was going to solve the universe, but eventually, he gave up. Just kept his head down and kept on moving, content in the knowledge that even if said math equation isn’t solved, it’s at least been identified. Not named, because he has at least a semblance of self-preservation despite all evidence pointing to a complete lack of it.
Dean knows Cas is more aware of the situation than he lets on. Since becoming a full time human (no take backsies this time), Cas has developed a keen sense of selective comprehension. Basically, he keeps the idiot ball in his pocket at all times, in case he thinks letting on that he understands something isn’t going to play to his advantage.
It’s a pretty good trick, Dean has to admit as he and Cas start circling each other slowly, their feet whisping across the rundown blue mats. Not only strategically during hunts when enemies- often to their great, great detriment- underestimate Cas, but also because Dean is a sucker who apparently doesn’t mind being played if its Cas running the game. He’ll never admit out loud how often he’s made pancakes just because Cas sighs forlornly at the maple syrup they keep in the fridge.
“We never actually agreed,” Cas says, tone casual enough they may as well be talking about the weather, but eyes dark with intent, “Just how easy you’d like me to go on you.”
Dean scoffs, the sound coming out way too harsh to be anything other than protesting too much. He and Cas continue to circle around each other, and Dean has to manually remind his saliva glands to keep working because his mouth is stubbornly insistent on remaining dry. He still remembers that initial shock of seeing human Cas shirtless for the first time, choking on his sip of coffee at the kitchen table and accidentally blowing shitty Folger’s all over the research Sam had spread out there just minutes before. Getting yelled at by Sam at least gave him an opening during the ensuing chaos in which he could slink away to his room, like a raccoon who’s been chased away from the garbage cans in the middle of the night.
He hasn’t built up an immunity to Cas’ bare chest, not by any stretch of the imagination, but at least he’s stopped feeling personally victimized by Cas’ nipples. Well, maybe not the little freckle right above his right nip, but whatever, he’s not made of stone.
Dean licks his lips, paving the way for the smirk he lets slide onto his face. If Cas wants to play, Dean’ll go to bat.
“Don’t hold back on my account,” he drawls, bending his knees a little to really get the blood flowing.
“Only if you’re sure,” Cas says like he’s doing Dean a favor, coming around fast. Dean scoots out of the way.
“Oh, I’m positive.” As soon as the challenge is off his tongue, the tension in the room ratchets up another notch. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if the hairs on his arms were standing at attention.
Their circling slows, turning predatory.
“So… are we just gonna dance around each other all day or-” Dean starts, but is interrupted by Cas coming at him, quick enough Dean barely manages to get a forearm up in time.
Dean prefers punches to kicks, but Cas isn’t a stranger to either. Cas goes hard on the offense at first, moving the two of them across the mats as Dean blocks shot after shot. Cas gets a couple punches in that he always pulls at the last minute, just enough force to keep Dean on his toes.
The thought skates across Dean’s mind, just how in tune their bodies have to be for this. To keep that sense of urgency between them, and yet at the same time know that they’re pulling every punch, being watchful of each other’s movements in a way that, strangely enough, feels like they’re mutually taking care of each other. Him and Cas fall into step easily now, whether it’s breakfast, watching bad TV, or pulling punches.
“You know,” Cas says as he continues to run Dean off the mats. His chest is heaving, but his voice is annoyingly steady, “if you’d like to learn better coordination, I have heard rumors that dancing cures people of that cursed second left foot.”
Dean huffs a laugh, ducking a punch and using the window of opportunity to get on the offense, swinging big and slow just to get Cas off balance. When Cas steps back, stumbling slightly, Dean’s on him, bringing them back in the opposite direction.
“I don’t think it’s me that needs the ballroom lessons,” Dean says in between grunts. “You angels are always so talk the talk, but-” Cas lands a hit on his side and Dean exhales sharply. Cas doesn’t let up, grabbing his wrist and slipping behind him, trapping his hands behind his back. He leans in, breath ghosting along the shell of Dean’s ear. His torso is lined up along Dean’s back, a solid mass of heat against him.
“What?” Cas asks quietly, lips so close to Dean’s ear Dean gives an involuntarily shudder. Cas’ hands around his wrists tighten, just incrementally, and he shifts against Dean’s back, moving his chin so that it’s just barely nudging against where his neck meets his shoulder. “Go on, Dean. Finish your sentence.”
Dean turns his head slightly, can feel the atmosphere sizzling between them. The urge to thrust back and grind against Cas is a heady possibility, making his head swim.
“Walk the walk,” he gasps out, trying to think of England and divert the blood in his body any direction but south.
He can’t see it, but he can certainly feel Cas’ devilish smile as he lets him go, trailing his fingertips briefly against the small of Dean’s bare back.
“Feeling sleepy yet?” Cas asks, circling around him once more.
“Not exactly.” Yes. No. Suffice to say there’s a lot happening right now and Dean’s not really seeing sleep as an option at the moment.
“Well then, I guess we’ll have to keep going,” Cas says, smirk curling the corners of his mouth.
Dean tries not to sound breathless when he says, “Bring it on, sunshine.”
They go at it again, punching and jabbing and ducking and blocking, and Cas’ hands are all over him, his elbows, his stomach, his chest, his thighs. His hands are so big, Dean doesn’t know what to do when that firm grip curls its way around his bicep.
The sweat starts to gather, and they’re moving so in sync now, Dean can feel it in the glide of their bodies. It collects at the base of his spine, dwells in the divot just above Cas’ collarbone. The ends of Cas’ hair curl at his ears, and Dean longs to wrap a strand around his finger and tug.
The longer they go, the thicker the atmosphere becomes. Dean feels like he’s wading through it, adrenaline spiking through his system like jagged lightning as Cas draws inexorably closer. The breath is punching out of him now, both from physical exertion and otherwise. Dean notes when Cas takes one step slightly too far to the side, and takes his chance, sweeping Cas’ feet out from under him and pinning him to the mat, their torsos now flush pressed together. They breathe harshly, Dean’s hands flat on the mat on either side of Cas’ head as he stares down at him. He feels his lips part slightly, his tongue darting out unconsciously to lick them. Cas’ eyes follow the movement with laser like precision.
“You can say uncle any time,” Dean offers weakly, his dick begging him to rut against Cas’ hip till he comes. He swallows.
Cas’ pupils are dilated, his mouth wide and pink and inviting. He watches Dean with dark eyes, then thrusts his hips upwards, grinding into Dean’s, and Dean barely has time to think, holy shit, before he realizes he’s being countered and this time it’s Cas slamming him into the mat, on top of him so fast Dean’s dizzy with it.
Cas’ mouth is tantalizingly close to his when he murmurs, “And I extend the same courtesy to you, of course.” The smirk on his face grows. “Are you tired yet?”
“I…” Dean momentarily loses all ability to speak as he realizes that streak of heat in the crease of his thigh is Cas’ cock, radiating warmth that makes Dean’s mouth water. He can feel his higher faculties growing further and further away, like he’s pushed them off the high cliff he’s just led them to the top of. They’re echoing in his head, but just barely. All those years of rationalizing and repressing suddenly seem so unimportant in light of how Cas fits against him. That squeeze in his gut is primal, animalistic. Aching for the heat of Cas to fill him, consume him.
Overcome, he shifts under Cas, seeking friction. He can feel the shape of Cas’ dick run along the line of skin just above his sweats, and he exhales hard, biting back a moan that desperately wants to be ripped from him. His sweaty hands grapple for purchase on the rough mats beneath him, mostly to stop himself from latching onto Cas’ sweat-slick skin. He tries not to think how easy it would be to wrap his legs around Cas’ waist when they’re in a position like this, lining up their dicks, letting Cas thrust against him. Even with the layers of clothing between them right now, Dean’s willing to bet it wouldn’t take more than a couple strong thrusts for Cas to finish him off, Cas’ hands in his hair and tongue curling possessively against his own.
“Dean,” Cas says quietly, his voice catching at the end. It does little to hide Cas’ rapid breathing, the muscles in his arms and stomach jumping with effort—of holding himself back, Dean can only assume, as the thrill of that thought shoots snappily up his spine.
“Just-” Dean blinks rapidly, knowing if he looks Cas in the eye he’s going to lose it. His hand curls into a tight fist against the mat and he grits his teeth, trying to remind himself of how terrible an idea this is. His whole body is aflame. Even his toes are curling.
“Dean,” Cas grounds out again, and this time Dean doesn’t even think, just follows the order in Cas’ tone and meets his blown gaze, the blue almost completely obscured.
As soon as he does, he knows he’s a goner. Not that he wasn’t already, but this is him, flying over that cliff only preceded by his better judgement.
Greedily, he unballs his fist and curls first one hand around Cas’ waist, the skin searing his palm. Cas pushes forward, seemingly by instinct, and pleasure ricochets through Dean like a pinball, lighting him up from the inside out. Cas moves one hand to lay across the wrist Dean still has against the mat, securing him in place. Three of his absurdly long fingers slip up along his palm, and without thinking about, Dean curls his own fingers around them. Cas runs his thumb along the ridge of Dean’s curled knuckles, a small, reverent gesture that somehow manages to stand out despite the current, overwhelming haze of arousal coursing through his system.
He doesn’t have the coherence to say it right now, but he’s begging Cas with his eyes, begging for a hot mouth to capture his own. Really, they haven’t even done anything. This isn’t even dry humping. It’s also not the kind of shit they can exactly play off at this point, and Dean doesn’t even want to anymore, but he’s so fucking desperate for Cas, and Cas is staring directly at his mouth, and Dean’s so focused on that he doesn’t notice that Cas’ free hand has come to rest just under his jaw until its already there, his thumb pressing to the center of Dean’s lips. He watches as Cas focuses like the universe has shrunk down to contain only the two of them, as he drags his thumb down, the tip just catching on the slick inside of Dean’s bottom lip.
Dean swallows hard, but he can’t take it anymore. He needs something naked inside him, and barely has to cant his jaw up to catch the head of Cas’ thumb between his lips. Cas’ eyes widen, a harsh breath escaping him. Dean flicks his tongue against skin, inviting more of Cas in. His grip on Dean’s other hand tightens, and he slides his thumb forward, Dean circling it with his tongue. He thought he was salivating before, but feeling Cas inside him, even if it’s just a finger, is enough to make his eyes roll back in his head.
Cas shifts, sitting up more fully so that he’s closer to straddling Dean instead of pinning him, and at the shift, Dean feels their dicks once again brush tantalizingly close together. He groans around Cas’ thumb, his grip on Cas’ waist tightening, and in response, Cas gives another experimental thrust of his hips. This time Dean can’t hold back, and the groan that escapes him is guttural and needy, a sloppy thing that’s boiling up and over whether it has his permission of not. He feels like he’s getting fucked into a mattress and yet they both still have their pants on and yet he’s probably gonna end up coming like this, on the floor, on his back, dirty as sin and practically grovelling for anything Cas wants to give him.
His hand slides down from Cas’ waist to enthusiastically palm his ass. Cas bucks forward at that, pulling his thumb from Dean’s mouth where a strand of saliva still connects the two. Dean barely has time to register if he’s fucked up when he feels the tips of Cas’ index and middle fingers sliding past his lips, and he eagerly takes the extra girth and length, Cas’ slick thumb now pressing to the corner of Dean’s mouth.
Cas picks up the pace on top of him, timing the swivel of his hips to the thrust of his fingers into Dean’s mouth. Everywhere he’s got a hand, Dean holds on. With the angle he’s at it’s hard to contribute to the rhythm Cas has got, so he doubles down on the finger sucking, putting his tongue to work and trying to see past the stars so he can watch Cas come apart on top of him.
Not that he’s faring much better beneath. He’s trying to moan Cas’ name around his fingers, his dick throbbing every time Cas’ rubs against it. It’s another imperfect angle, but Dean certainly isn’t going to stop things so they can fuss around. He’s long past caring about the respectable orgasm he’s definitely not gonna get today, doesn’t even care if he ruins his pants, the gym mats. He’s gonna lose it right here, and he doesn’t care. Judging by the way the tension coils in his abdomen, this is going to be the kind of orgasm one doesn’t just get up and walk away from, but the mind-meltingly, desperate, jelly-legged, we’ve-been-waiting-for-years-to-do-this, nirvana-esque levels of bliss he’s not entirely sure he’s ever even experienced.
Cas properly threads their fingers together, and Dean’s about to say something that- unfortunately for everyone involved, he’s sure- is very true.
And then—
Sam calls his name. Clear as a goddamn bell.
Reality comes crashing back down like a fucking tactical strike. Dean feels about six different strands of his fight or flight instinct kick in, and he sure as hell is in no condition to fight at the moment.
Cas, following his lead-albeit with glazed eyes-, shimmies backwards, while Dean swears under his breath and trips over his own feet as he stands up, willing his achingly hard dick to stand in the exact opposite direction.
“Dean!” Sam calls again, his voice echoing down the hallway. “Cas!”
Cas is still sitting there looking like he just got struck by lightning, and Dean is hobbling around trying to find his discarded shirt and not jostle his currently very sensitive more than necessary.
In a voice that sounds like it belongs to someone who just yanked their hand from the cookie jar, Dean shouts back, “In here!”
There’s the sound of footsteps, and Dean still can’t find his shirt, and there’s the sound of the door opening, and Dean still can’t find his shirt, and-
“Uh, hi,” Sam says from the doorway, a little unsure.
“Um-” Dean, still very shirtless and still very erect, scurries over to the nearest weightlifting bench and sits, and because desperate times call for desperate measures, he crosses his legs, and crosses his arms over that. “Hi.”
Sam, though thankfully not sporting a raging boner at the moment, still manages to look almost as uncomfortable as Dean.
“Did I… uh. Interrupt?”
Dean shakes his head, probably overdoing it.
“Nope, no, nada. Cas was just. Helping me…” he casts his gaze around, searching for an excuse. He remembers he’s sitting on a weightlifting bench. “Pump-” (oh god don’t say pump) “-iron.”
Sam and Dean both turn to look, and definitely realize at the same time that the current weight on the bar is about twice the weight Dean could feasibly lift.
Dean clears his throat.
“Cas is a good spotter.”
“Yes,” Cas says mildly from where he’s still sitting on the floor, “I’m good at doing… that.”
Dean clears his throat again, trying to keep his voice contained to a normal volume and speed.
“What do you want, Sam?”
“I just… needed some help with this selkie research… Uh,” he shakes his head, backing away towards the door, “Doesn’t matter. It’s fine. I’ll leave you two to-”
“No!” Dean says, failing in his efforts and speaking way too loudly and quickly. His dick has calmed down enough he can safely stand now, most likely aided by the truckload of blood that has since traveled to his face. “I mean, sure, let me just-” he starts beelining for the door, “I just gotta- shower- WEIGHTLIFTING. From the weightlifting. Shower. Um.” Christ, he can’t even look Cas in the face. This is bad, this is why they never- why nothing ever-
He doesn’t even finish his sentence. He runs his ass to the shower, tail so firmly tucked between his legs he may as well not have one at all. The plan is to turn the shower onto the coldest setting, but while he’s retrieving a towel from the shelf, he finds himself betrayed by his own dick once more, which obviously still has Cas on the brain despite the incredibly debilitating humiliation it just suffered.
He keeps the water hot, soaping himself up before taking his cock in hand with a sigh. He presses his forehead to the wall and tries not to think as he gets himself off, not nearly enthusiastically as it would have happened a mere ten fucking minutes ago.
It’s better this way, he tries to tell himself. No, they can’t exactly play that off like it was nothing, that’s already been established; but if there’s anything Dean Winchester is good at, it’s avoidance. Because a roommate/best friend who you just kinda-almost-banged isn’t exactly going anywhere, but it’s a big bunker. Lots of nooks and crannies to sequester oneself away in.
Dean and Cas can’t be Dean and Cas for… reasons. Dean knows he had reasons. Had them laid out meticulously in case of an emergency like this, in fact. He’s kind of blanking on them right now, because they felt strangely inane (read: fucking ridiculous) when him and Cas were kinda-almost-him and Cas but he had reasons, dammit. Good ones.
He just needs to remember that.