Summary: Castiel is alive--which is fantastic, but with it comes the realization that Castiel is very much /alive/ and five feet from Dean at all hours. In an effort to distance himself emotionally and also to investigate a spur-of-the-moment case, Dean finds himself in the awkwardest sexual situation of his life--getting cockblocked by the ghost of a nun in the back of a sex shop in coastal Florida.
Except, as soon as he gets back to the motel, Castiel can't keep his hands to himself--and frankly, neither can Dean. In a series of events that he can barely keep track of, Dean juggles an obnoxiously horny store clerk, Castiel's apparent long-term love affair with Dean's everything, and a ghost that refuses to leave the three of them alone. Now, if only Dean could answer the question--how is it all connected, and why now, of all times, does he finally realize that he's in love with his best friend?
Excerpt: Shower shuttered and toweled dry for the most part, Dean peeks from around the bathroom door, looking for any sign of Castiel. He finds nothing, save for a freshly laundered pair of jeans and a t-shirt about three washes away from falling apart, and a pair of briefs with a hole near the waistband. Wherever Castiel went, he didn't travel far, considering he left the room door cracked. Great, now someone can murder me when I’m naked, Dean thinks, thumping his head against the doorframe. Did God raise you in a barn?
In relative silence, Dean dresses himself, save for his socks and deodorant. Those, he can find later, after he figures out what’s for breakfast and where Castiel is. The latter of which, currently sits in a plastic lawn chair outside of their room, dressed in his suit jacket and button-down, his coat hanging behind the door. Blue eyes look up at him as he steps foot onto the concrete walkway, indifferent to the world, but still with a question there, lingering, begging for an answer.
“You’re up late,” Castiel says by way of conversation. He motions to the chair beside him; rather than appease him, Dean sits atop the front bumper of the Impala, two feet from Castiel’s patterned socks. His socks, that Castiel stole two months ago, and that Dean swore that Sam somehow lost in the washing machine. In his hands, he holds a paper cup, coffee steaming despite the humidity hanging in the air. Another scorcher. “You’re normally an early riser.”
Briefly, Dean looks over his shoulder at the clock on the nightstand. Nearly nine in the morning—as if in acknowledgement, his stomach growls, angrily twisting at itself. “Yeah, well, someone kept me up half the night,” he says, low. Not unkindly, but… torn, masking a deep-seated fear of whatever this is. Lust, love, an accident—whatever the reason, it weighs on him, pressing down on his shoulders. “Normally, I’m the one sneaking out the morning after.”
Castiel presses his cup to his lips, a brow raised. “Were you thinking of running?”
“What?” Dean scoffs. “No. God, no, I’m just…” He palms his face, praying that the words will eventually come to him. “Cas, what does this…” He motions to the room and the bed beyond the door. “Does this mean anything?”
“If you want it to,” Castiel says, noncommittal. “If you don’t, then we can continue on as we were.”
Dean mulls that over, biting his thumbnail. “But what do—what do you want?” he asks before he can stop himself. At that, Castiel lowers his cup, his eyes softer now, enough of an answer that Dean’s chest clenches. “Friends don’t just… fall into bed with each other.”
“Which is a shame,” Castiel tacks on. “You’re remarkable in bed, anyone would be lucky to—”
“Okay, okay.” Dean hides the flush rising to his face. Remarkable—an ego boost on top of humiliation. “Just—I don’t… sleep with friends, man.”
“But you slept with me.”
A whole fucking lot. “C’mon, level with me.”
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