A/N: This is Part two of "I Dream of Deanie," a series of linked Destiel stories.

Part 1 is: "Can't Hold a Man's Dreams Against Him."

"Seriously, Cas," Dean took a sip of beer, pursing his lips around the neck of the bottle in a way that gave Castiel a number of interesting ideas. "I get that the height of the apocalypse, God missing, Lucifer on the loose, all that shit, was maybe not the time to get you laid. But now that all that shit's behind us, we can do this right. See that hot chick over there?" Dean gestured with the bottle towards a slim, buxom young woman with platinum blonde hair draped in curls around her heart shaped face. "She has been checking you out since we got here." He lifted the bottle once more.

"I'm not a library book, Dean," Castiel said with amusement. Since their hunt with the djinn, Dean had doubled down on his efforts to find Castiel temporary female companionship. Dean was baffled, and at times downright offended, by Castiel's unwillingness to cooperate.

"Library...book...what the fuck?" Dean choked on his beer, spilling drops that reeked of hops down his chin and onto his shirt. Castiel managed to repress a burst of laughter, but couldn't help but smile broadly. With an adorable, awkward squawk, Dean set the beer down and grabbed a napkin, cleaning himself up. He shot Castiel a glare. "Just, go! Give her your number, dammit!"

"No."

"What, she's not your type either?" Dean muttered something under his breath. He surely thought Castiel couldn't hear him, but his grace-enhanced ears made out every word of a tirade that included more swear words than sense. Tossing the napkin aside, Dean took another quick drink and gestured at the bartender to bring him another. "Alright." Dean slammed the bottle back on the table, shrugged to loosen his shoulders, and lifted his hands in an expressive, all-encompassing kind of gesture. "Cas. Dude. Let's talk taste. What floats your boat?"

"Water, usually," said Castiel calmly.

Dean groaned. "Fuck...you're doing it on purpose now, aren't you." It was an accusation, not a question.

Castiel quirked his head to one side. "Doing what on purpose, Dean?" he asked innocently. Oh, he was definitely doing it on purpose. The past month he'd discovered he liked nothing better than getting Dean flustered, especially when Dean was determined to be serious. Dean was rarely half so confident as he pretended to be. It was surprisingly easy to knock him off kilter, and the results were invariably adorable and endearing.

"What turns you on?" Dean tried again with a forced smile.

"I'm also not a light switch," observed Castiel.

"I know you know what I mean," scowled Dean. "Tall? Short? Thin? Fat? White? Black? Tits? Ass?"

There was an intensity in Dean's eyes, nearly black in the dimly lit bar, that gave Castiel pause. While he could give another flippant response, continue to pretend to be obtuse until Dean took the hint and let the topic drop, he'd seen that look once before. The dream the djinn had induced hadn't been real, but in Castiel's fantasy, Dean had given Castiel an identical look before filling him and spreading him open with three well-lubricated fingers. The mere memory sent heat searing through Castiel's body, caused his dick to twitch. He slipped his eyes shut in a slow blink, breathing meditatively, determined not to betray a hint of the slip in his self-control. He opened them again to find Dean watching him expectantly.

"None of those things matter to me, Dean," Castiel said firmly, when he was sure that he could answer with his usual neutral tone of voice.

"But something does!" Dean asserted triumphantly. "Great! What is it?" The look grew more avid, more intent. Castiel resisted the compelling urge to scan Dean's thoughts, even his surface ones. He'd promised not to do that anymore unless it was a life-or-death situation. It wasn't fair to intrude on Dean, no matter how much easier doing so would be than playing cat and mouse with Dean's hypothetical attraction to him.

"I do not wish to continue this conversation at this time," said Castiel in his most quelling tone of voice.

"Fine, fine, just, throw me a bone – is there a single damn person in this bar that you would accept a hook up with?" Dean asked with desperation.

Castiel stared into those amazing eyes, let his grace flare behind his own to highlight the clear blue in a way he was fairly sure was alluring, and delayed answering until Dean's jaw went slack, his pupils dilated, and his pulse quickened noticeably.

"There is one person in this bar whom I would consider an agreeable partner," Castiel said when he'd judged that the pause had been of sufficient length.

Dean swallowed.

Their waiter set down Dean's new beer, and he grabbed it and drained half the contents in one long gulp, breaking the intense eye contact. Castiel continued to stare, and was gratified to see Dean check out of the corner of his eyes to see if Castiel yet looked. When he realized that Castiel hadn't even blinked, Dean continued to deep throat the alcohol like a pro. He set it down, sighing.

"I'm gonna need another of these."

Castiel allowed himself a faint smile.

Seduction was much harder than humans made it look.

By the time they left the bar, Dean had drunk enough that his words were slurring. It worried Castiel. It wasn't like Dean to over indulge to such an extent, not these days. Listening to Dean ramble about how underappreciated some Led Zeppelin song was, Castiel made vague noises at appropriate moments in a way that he'd come to understand humans found important to conversation. They also masked his concern well, allowing him to steal glances at the hunter. Was this regression into binge drinking Castiel's fault? This evening marked the most clear he had been in his intentions, having found that extreme subtlety was completely lost on Dean.

With difficulty, Castiel steered the stumbling hunter onto the sidewalk so they could make the walk back to their motel. Waking up in the bunker the prior month, things had seemed so clear. Dean loved him, and Castiel certainly loved him back. The dream had demonstrated where things could go from there, on a physical level, and Castiel had optimistically hoped to see them engaging in pleasurable activities in the near future. As it turned out, for humans – or at least for Dean – things weren't so clear cut. It wasn't as if Castiel actually had a gender. He was an angel. He'd taken a male vessel, and for convenience sake thought of himself as male in his current incarnation, mostly because of the limits of the English language to encompass the idea that he wasn't male or female. Dean knew all of that. Dean, of course, was male, but the mechanics of making love to a female body and making love to a male body appeared quite similar to Castiel. If two people loved each other, regardless of their gender, he could think of no reason that emotional intimacy and physical intimacy could not be conjoined.

Dean Winchester's masculine inferiority complex apparently felt differently.

"I agree," Castiel said vaguely when he realized that Dean had paused, expecting some sort of response.

"You drunk?" demanded Dean.

"I have not imbibed enough liquor to be intoxicated," said Castiel. Dean looked at him blankly. "No, I'm not drunk."

"Crazy, then," said Dean. "Always were crazy, Cas."

Frowning, Castiel realized he must have missed something important. What was the last thing that Dean had said to him? He scanned back through his memories. 'It's like you don't even want to lose your virginity.' To which Castiel had said he agreed. He sighed.

"You've misunderstood me," Castiel said. "I'm not a virgin, Dean."

"Say what?" Dean said dumbly.

"I said, I am not a virgin," Castiel repeated. Dean froze in place. Glancing back at him, Castiel watched him sway slightly, staring at Castiel slack-jawed.

"You…did…with someone…" Dean spluttered. "Some chick…some stranger…somewhere…you didn't even tell me?"

"I did not think you would want to know," replied Castiel diplomatically. It wasn't exactly a lie. He had vowed to himself to never lie to Dean.

"Not want to know? Not want to know? Of course I want to fucking know! That's, like, huge! What'd ya think? Was it good? Was she hot?" Dean was grinning now, but the look seemed plastered on. Dean attempted a stumbling step forward, nearly pitched onto his face, and thought better of trying again.

Castiel met his eyes. These was not the circumstances under which he would have chosen to have this conversation, but with the moment upon him, he would not balk now. Dean swallowed, hard.

"It wasn't a woman, Dean," Castiel said.

Dean collapsed to his knees, leaned over and vomited in the road.

Not the reaction that Castiel had been hoping for.

Forcing himself upright, Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I think I drank too much," he said weakly.

"Yes," Castiel agreed. "Perhaps we should return to the motel so that you can rest."

"Great," said Dean. He didn't move. If Castiel was very lucky, Dean wouldn't remember any of this in the morning, and he could try again sometime over the next few days with a clean slate. "I don't think I can stand," Dean added a moment later.

Squatting down, Castiel managed to get Dean's limbs appropriately placed for a piggy back ride. With Castiel's strength, Dean's weight was nothing. Arms dangled limply over his shoulders, but Dean was rigid against his back. As they walked, though, Dean relaxed, molded his body to Castiel's, wrapped his arms loosely around Castiel's neck. Slumping forward, Dean lay his head on Castiel's shoulder.

"You're warm," Dean mumbled sleepily. "I like it." Seconds later, a faint snore caught at Dean's breathing, and Castiel could feel his chest rising and falling evenly.

He smiled. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Dean remembered the night.

They were sharing a motel room. Unusually, it was just the two of them. Sam had asked to be dropped off in Washington DC for a few days to do some research at the Library of Congress. It had sounded intriguing, and Castiel had wished to stay, but Dean didn't like cities and could not be persuaded, so Castiel had accompanied him to a small town in Maryland. John Winchester's old journal had suggested something supernatural might be going in Sabillasville, but so far they hadn't found any sign of it.

With Dean wrapped around his body – he really was holding on tightly, Castiel realized with amusement – there was no way that Castiel could reach his room key, so he used his grace to turn the tumblers in the lock and twist the door knob. It was nicer than many of the rooms that they had occupied, simple cream walls, plain crimson carpeting, clean white bedding and furniture in dark wood. There was only one bed, since Castiel didn't need to sleep. He tried to slide Dean off his back, but the hunter refused to let go, strong muscles embracing Castiel in a way he found quite distracting.

"Dean, we're back," Castiel said softly.

Tossing his head, Dean mumbled inarticulately, brushing Castiel's face with his hair. The feathery touch made his skin tingle, and the abrasion of Castiel's stubble against Dean's skin stole Castiel's breath. He sat them both down on the bed.

"You will rest better on the bed than on my back," Castiel tried again.

The only response was Dean's arms compressing Castiel's chest. He bit his lip against a soft moan as one of Dean's hands slid down, brushing Castiel's nipple through layers of clothing before grabbing at his waist.

Castiel sighed. "Very well. I suppose this works as well." Castiel leaned back, and Dean willingly accommodated the movement, lethargically rolling over so that he lay alongside Castiel's body, still tightly binding the angel in his arms.

It was going to be a long night.

Morning light streamed brightly into the room before Dean began to stir. Their position was even more compromising that it had been the night before. As Castiel prayed for patience and fortitude, Dean had snuggled – there was no other word for the series of coy shimmies that drew them closer and closer – Dean had snuggled up to Castiel's side, lay his head on Castiel's shoulder, and gotten his thigh lodged firmly between Castiel's leg. Every movement had been paired with whispered nonsense, much of which had been distinctly affectionate in tone despite the incomprehensibility of the words. After seven hours of such treatment, Castiel had begun to feel that his vessel was a prison, riddled with need. He longed for skin to touch skin. He yearned for those whispered endearments to say his name, to moan with desire. He craved, flat out starved, for Dean to nibble at his ear, lick along his jaw line, kiss him on the lips, ravage him with his tongue, rub his muscled leg against Castiel's aching erection.

The hunter's crotch was pressed hard to Castiel's hip, and Castiel couldn't help but feel the half-hard cock nudging him. It was all he could do not to whimper. Before the djinn dream, he had wanted Dean, but he hadn't fully understood what he wanted. Having experienced it once, the desire to repeat that incredible, intense joining had grown to unbelievable proportions. He'd managed to slake himself independently, taking advantage of times when Dean was in the shower to deal with his arousal as he imagined the hot water sluicing over every hard curve of Dean's body. There was no managing now. Dean's hips gave a lazy thrust against him, and Castiel shuddered, a needy sound escaping his lips despite all his efforts to the contrary.

"Oh."

Castiel closed his eyes in mortification.

"Well, this is awkward," Dean's voice was rough with sleep and the dryness alcohol always left. Dean's body went completely still, his hold on Castiel loosened, but he didn't move. He didn't move!

"Good morning, Dean," Castiel said with a calm he had never been so far from actually feeling.

"Hey, Cas," said Dean hesitantly. "Uh…how long…I mean…did anything…?"

Dean still hadn't moved. Castiel opened his eyes and turned his head to face him, simultaneously dreading and dreaming of what he would see. He was right to feel that precise combination, for, looking at Dean's expression, he could tell that Dean felt exactly the same way. His eyes were wide and frightened yet his pupils were softened with desire, rimmed in green made pale by the bright sunlight coming through the open curtains. Dean's muscles were rigid, yet he licked his lips nervously, tongue tracing the appealing line.

Over the past few years in Dean's company, Castiel had come to understand that the most frightening emotion of all was hope. Hope promised better things. Hope created vulnerability. Hope suggested a time of less pain, less frustration, less violence, which made the harsh reality that much harder to accept. Time and again, Castiel had allowed himself to hope only to find those hopes crumbling to dust when he was betrayed by his garrison and abandoned by his Father. He'd allowed himself to hope when he'd taken Dean to stop Sam from killing Lillith, when he'd listened to Anna, when he'd accompanied Sam, Dean, Ellen and Jo to Carthage, Missouri. Hope hurt.

Looking into Dean's eyes, Castiel felt hope flare so brightly within him that it burned more brightly than his arousal.

Lying alongside him, Dean shuddered.

"Come on, Cas, don't look at me like that," Dean's voice grew huskier.

"It's alright, Dean," Castiel replied with renewed serenity. He rolled onto his side, in so doing sliding Dean's hand to Castiel's waist, further entangling their legs. Their bodies were just far enough apart to not be touching at all, just close enough for Castiel to feel the warmth that Dean exuded, the heat he longed to be enfolded in. "You're allowed to want this."

Dean's breath hitched. His eyes slipped shut.

But he didn't move away.

"Fuck," Dean whispered. "Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck." His eyes flew open, met Castiel's, paralyzed him with intense green flecked with gold. Slowly, deliberately, as if fighting with himself, Dean edged forward until their lips met. It was a mere brush of rough, chapped, soft flesh against Castiel's mouth for an instant before drawing away again. It was more erotic than any full-on mouth-on-mouth tongue-on-tongue action could ever have felt. Castiel felt his face flush and his heart began to hammer in his chest as he wondered what was going to happen next. "Fuck, Cas. Fuck!"

The moment stretched out. Castiel didn't move a muscle, certain that all it would take to make Dean bolt was the slightest sign that Castiel was pulling away from him. He could see the battle being fought in Dean's head in every slight shift in his facial expression, the way his lips moved, quirking up and down, the way his eyes narrowed and widened, the way his brow tensed and released.

"Was…" Dean's voice broke dryly. He licked his lips again, his expression breaking into shock when he noticed that Castiel stared hungrily at the tongue tracing wetly over flesh. Another shudder ran through Dean's body. "Was that alright, Cas?"

"Yes, Dean," whispered Castiel. He could hardly speak for the blood pulsing through his veins, hardly hear over his racing heart. "It's all alright."

Dean was on top of Castiel, Dean was pressing him onto his back, Dean was desperately untucking his shirt and shoving a hand roughly over the skin of his chest, Dean's lips were on his, pressing hard as Dean's tongue forced open his mouth. It was so sudden, such a powerful onslaught, that Castiel gasped into Dean's throat. His entire body arched into Dean's touch as Dean palmed at Castiel's stomach, ribs, breasts. The movement brought their hips together, hardness meeting hardness through Castiel's slacks and Dean's jeans, and Dean broke away to throw his head back and groan loudly. He was back in an instant, biting and kissing along the line of Castiel's jaw, rubbing their stubbled cheeks together. The hand beneath Castiel's shirt found a nipple and toyed with it roughly. Growing more comfortable, Dean settled his hips onto Castiel's and began to roll them gently, grinding their erections together through layered cloth. Desperate noises of want leaked from Castiel's lips like a prayer, and he felt Dean shiver against him at each one.

"Who was he?" Dean snarled. He bit down hard on Castiel's neck and sucked so hard it hurt. Castiel cried out in pain, only to break into a pleasured moan when Dean's hips shifted and pressed Castiel's erection hard into Dean's thigh. He'd never dreamed the combination of opposing sensations would feel so amazing, and he was completely unable to muster the thought to understand Dean's question, much less form a coherent answer. "Who was the man who touched you like this?" Fingers twisted his nipple as Dean stopped sucking, switching to licking along Castiel's neck, moistening taut muscles and the hollow at his shoulder.

"Dean," Castiel moaned, lost to everything but the onslaught on his body. The first time had not prepared him for this. He remembered the contrast between the dream and the reality, the solid heat of Dean's actual body when they'd embraced for the first time so much more intense than the shadow of pleasure granted by the djinn-induced hallucination. This experience was to that hug what the hug had been to the dream, incalculably more intense, more arousing, more real.

"Fuck. If I'd known you liked this..." Dean trailed off. The violence of his movements subsided, the franticness behind them faded. Dean's hips went still. He withdrew his hand from Castiel's skin, ignoring Castiel's distressed whimper and the way Castiel rose from the mattress in a futile attempt to follow the heated touch. All the pressure withdrew, until Dean's hands were flat on the mattress on either side of Castiel's head, holding Dean above him, his legs straddling Castiel's hips. Castiel shook, moved almost to tears by the crushing sorrow on Dean's face. "Who was he, Cas?" Dean sounded lost, and Castiel thought his heart would break. It had been wrong of him to taunt Dean, to tease him. Castiel should have told Dean the truth from the beginning.

Castiel lifted his arms, brushing Dean's torso through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Dean's eyes slipped shut, breath whispered through his lips. Pulling the shirt up, Castiel gently traced each muscle, skimmed each scar, delighted in the feel of soft skin sheathing powerful muscles. Dean's head dropped limply, a sad, indescribable sound escaping from him.

"Please, just tell me," Dean whispered helplessly.

Curling one hand around Dean's waist, Castiel trailed the other over his shoulder to overlay the handprint seared into the flesh there. His grace surged in response, and he could feel Dean's soul reaching for him like a starving man weakly, desperately reaching for sustenance.

"It was you, Dean."

"What?" Dean breathed, confusion and amazement in equal parts in his voice. His expression was stunned. Gripping Dean more tightly, Castiel leaned up and kissed him. Dean's lips were still against his, but Castiel could feel the urgent flutter of his pulse.

"It was always you," Castiel said. He wrapped his arms around the trembling hunter, easing them onto the mattress. Tenderly, he threaded his fingers through Dean's soft hair, drawing him down but waiting for Dean to initiate another kiss. With his other hand, he gently massaged his way up Dean's spine, feeling the muscles twitch in response to every movement he made.

"I don't understand," said Dean, their lips so close they touched as he spoke.

"You never asked me what happened while I was under the influence of the djinn's poison," Castiel explained.

"No, man," Dean shook his head. "I know how personal that shit is, I would never…" The implication of Castiel's words hit Dean, transforming him from sad to wide-eyed in an instant.

"You're what happened," Castiel clarified, just in case Dean hadn't figured it out.

"You and I…" choked out Dean. "In a dream…"

"You know it's not exactly a dream," said Castiel.

"I know it's not exactly real," Dean countered.

There was a long, pregnant pause. Forbidden from reading Dean's mind, Castiel lost himself in Dean's eyes in an effort to determine what Dean was thinking. Many emotions had played over Dean's face since the previous evening – need, desire, lust, confusion, uncertainty, possessiveness – but Castiel liked the one he saw now best of all. It was the most alien to the beautiful hunter who had been to Hell and back, the most foreign to the righteous man who had given all he had to save those who would never know his name, the most precious and elusive feeling of all. It was the closest to the feeling wrapped warmly around Castiel's heart, whispering through his grace as he resisted the pull to join his essence with Dean's spectacular, radiant soul. In Dean's face, Castiel saw hope.

"I'd like it to be," Castiel said, feeling suddenly shy.

Neither of them moved. Finally, Dean nodded once, he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to Castiel's. Lips worked expertly against lips, confident now, no more hesitation, no more possessive frenzy. Castiel reached out with his tongue and met Dean's, hot and wet and slickly arousing. He wrapped his arms around Dean, pulled him closer, and Dean relaxed against him, body pliant. The kiss deepened as they traded breath and saliva. Eyes closed, Castiel let his fingers explore as Dean's began to do the same. Every hard plane and soft dip was subject to his searching inspection, until Dean was panting into Castiel's mouth, the hint of a deep, guttural sound accompanying each exhalation. Their bodies rubbed together rhythmically, creating friction in the contact of cloth on skin and muscle on muscle.

Abruptly, Dean sat up, tugging his shirt off. Bending back down, back arched up into Castiel's questing hands, Dean unbuttoned Castiel's shirt, pushing it back from his chest, growling in irritation when he discovered that Castiel wore an undershirt in addition to all his other layers. Castiel slipped his hands down to Dean's hips, teasing at the line of Dean's jeans. Dean seized both of Castiel's arms and pulled them away. "Sit up," he demanded. With a surprised whine, Castiel followed the command, and Dean roughly dragged off his trench coat, jacket, and dress shirt. His undershirt and tie went next, leaving Castiel bare chested. Dean's eyes raked him up and down as Castiel lay back. The hungry scrutiny brought color to Castiel's cheeks.

He didn't know if Dean had ever been with a man. He didn't know what Dean would think of him. He knew that Dean loved curves and breasts and soft skin. Castiel had none of those things, and though he could see the desire on Dean's face, he longed to know what the other man thought, if the appearance of Castiel's vessel was attractive to Dean. Not for the first time, Castiel wished that there had been a woman's form capable of containing his grace, but there was not a single such on Earth at the moment.

Perhaps some of Castiel's uncertainty communicated on his face, perhaps Dean sensed his worries, or perhaps Dean was just that perfect, for he broke off his assessment with another growl, placed calloused hands on Castiel's skin, and drew forward until his lips were at Castiel's ear. "You're beautiful, angel," he said, breath hot against Castiel's flesh, tantalizing as it stirred his hair. Dean nipped his ear, and Castiel bit his lip to hold back a broken half-sob of relief and pleasure. "So beautiful, and all mine." With languid movements, Dean lifted one leg from where it straddled Castiel, using his knee to encourage Castiel to spread his legs apart. Shifting his weight, he moved the other leg as well. Their crotches pressed together, and both moaned simultaneously at the intense feeling.

Words sprang to Castiel's lips, but he bit them back. Drunk on the heat of contact, he longed to declare himself, but he remembered how the dream Dean had responded, and he quelled his exclamation. Nothing would be worse than Dean stopping now. Dean didn't just rut his hips against Castiel, his whole body was involved, sliding up and down, rubbing their bare chests together. Every motion fueled the liquid heat that pooled inside of Castiel, eating every thought other than the frantic need to grow that feeling, nurture it, fill himself with heat and Dean. "Dean, I…" He couldn't find any other words, couldn't say the ones in his heart. He wrapped his legs around Dean's, twisting his hips up, intensifying the delicious electricity that spiked through his whole body each time Dean's jean-clad cock contacted his.

"Fuck, Cas," Dean mouthed against Castiel's shoulder blade. "Fuck, this is…" He forced an arm beneath Castiel's neck, the other gripped Castiel's side so hard it bruised. Castiel felt it, too, the need to somehow be even closer, to move and feel and glow as one. "Wait…" Castiel rose to meet Dean at every movement, urging the man atop him to go faster, to push against him harder.

"Don't wait," snapped Castiel harshly. Dean swallowed his words with a groan and responded to the encouragement, heaving into Castiel's body so hard the mattress springs squeaked in protest.

"Cas…"

"If you…stop now," Castiel gasped, "I swear to God…Dean…Winchester…I will…" The words choked off as the heat in his groin exploded, ripping a deep, animalistic sound from his lungs. Uncontrollably, he thrust hard into Dean, and felt as much as heard the cry that burst from Dean's lips. "Dean!" Arms convulsed around him as Dean stuttered in the smooth rhythm he'd maintained, jerking and twitching and rubbing and shattering atop him.

"Cas," Dean groaned. His body spasmed and he moaned, wantonly rubbing his chest against Castiel's. "Cas, son of a bitch…" Trembling with aftershocks of pleasure, Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean, losing one hand in his hair, the other resting on his waist, and held him close as he shuddered through his orgasm. Dean's skin was slick with sweat, hair damp. Where his face was pressed to Castiel's breast, Castiel could feel humid breath and tears on his skin. "That was…"

"Amazing," murmured Castiel. Castiel's hips gave an echoing twitch of agreement and Dean whimpered. "Perfect." He felt Dean's head rock against him, and realized he was shaking his head. Fear whispered at his wrung out mind. Had that not been good for Dean? Had his behavior been dissatisfactory? He tensed. With a faint groan ended by the audible sound of Dean's mouth clicking shut, Dean lifted himself on one elbow, allowing air to cool their overheated bodies. He looked up at Castiel's face, and Castiel gasped at the breathtaking view. Dean's hair clung to his forehead in damp swirls, his eyelids drooped over unfocused eyes, his lips were kissed full and red. The flush beneath his tan skin gave him a ruddy glow so enticing that Castiel felt a twitch in his pants, pushing his recently spent cock against the rapidly cooling come in his underwear.

"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean mumbled. The fear grew into a cold spike through his heart. Maybe Dean thought this had been a mistake. Castiel thought he could accept, with difficulty, that this might the first and last time they made love, but what if it changed things between them? What if it made Dean uncomfortable, if Dean thought he'd been taken advantage of, if… "That was embarrassing." Dean broke eye contact, biting his lip.

"Huh?" Castiel's anxious train of thought crashed to pieces, unable to incorporate Dean's declaration.

"Shit, man," Dean pulled further away and ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "I haven't…like that…I mean…we didn't even get our fucking pants off!"

All the tension released from Castiel's chest and he laughed, a chuckle rapidly growing into a full-on, belly-bursting, liberating surge of hilarity. He rolled over onto his side, hardly able to breath, unable to make out Dean's words though his tone communicated confusion, defensiveness, and growing frustration.

"I'm being serious here!" Dean exclaimed as Castiel finally stopped.

"I know. That's what makes it so adorable," Castiel rolled back to see the affronted look on Dean's face.

"Adorable?" echoed Dean, aghast.

"Completely, gorgeously, irresistibly adorable," confirmed Castiel, nodding, schooling his expression to mock seriousness.

"I am not adorable," huffed Dean.

"I don't think you get to decide that," Castiel said.

"You're adorable," muttered Dean mockingly. If he'd said it like he'd meant it, Castiel might have spared him further indignity, but that teasing, ridiculous, juvenile tone of voice rendered him cuter. Unable to resist, Castiel reached up and bopped his nose.

"Did you…you didn't…what the fuck, man?" Dean spluttered. Castiel broke into laughter again. For a moment, Dean continued protesting brokenly, but his shoulders bobbed, and he chuckled, and then he joined in Castiel's laughter, shaking so hard he collapsed beside Castiel, gasping.

When they both subsided, they lay on the bed facing each other. Castiel lost himself in light sparkling deep in green eyes, the way he felt like he could see all the way through to Dean's soul even though he wasn't probing with his grace. Dean reached out and cupped Castiel's cheek, and Castiel nuzzled into the gesture, losing himself in the pleasant, soothing feel of Dean gently tracing his cheek bone, the line of his jaw, massaging behind his ear.

"I really am sorry," said Dean gruffly, voice sending tingles down Castiel's spine.

"You have no cause to be," Castiel said. "But if you insist on feeling guilty, why don't we make a deal?" Dean nodded and waited expectantly for Castiel to continue. Coyly, his heart skipping, Castiel closed the space between them, passed a glancing kiss off Dean's lips, brushed their cheeks together, and whispered in Dean's ear, "promise me you'll make it up to me next time."

The low pitched, carnal, suggestive chuckle was forced out of Castiel as Dean grabbed him and instantly drew their bodies together. Dean made a deep, possessive noise, part growl, part grunt, wrapping his body around Castiel's.

"Fuck that's hot," Dean breathed against his neck. "Damn right, I promise. I'm gonna rock your world, Cas."

Castiel wiggled his arms free and slipped them around Dean, basking in the strength, heat and undeniable, heady reality of Dean's reciprocated desire. "I'm counting on it, Dean."

A/N: This story is now continued in "They're Good For Your Heart," third installment in the series "I Dream of Deanie."

On June 5th, 2015, I did a quick edit-and-clean-up run on this story and made some minor changes.