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Dean Winchester's bedroom at twenty-seven was unrecognisably different from his bedroom at even seventeen. The red and white posters of shields, cannons, and laurel wreaths would have been incomprehensible to his younger self. This room was that of neither a collector nor a fan. There was the group photo of a team, marked 2013-14 in a corner with a Sharpie, and a roster of penalties and disciplinary charges tacked on the fridge. Gone were the pictures pin-up girls, old articles on the care and upkeep of your vintage car, or the centrefolds ripped out from magazines. A red and white scarf lay on the floor where he had shed his clothes in the dark after a long day at work, and a grey sweatshirt marked AFC had been left draped over the back of a chair. The DVD shelf had fewer pulp movies and more plastic cases marked with "training." Nearly all the winter wear half-heaped out of the closet was the same shade of blue polyester, bearing the same kind of club insignia where the breast pocket should be. Dean Winchester was one "Bergkamp 10" jersey short of being called a fan. Rather, his flat reeked of someone several steps higher than "fan" in the estimate of actual fans.
Dean Winchester's flat bore unmistakable signs of "technical staff of Arsenal F. C." Second assistant coach to the first team, really, if you wanted to split a lot of hairs.
When Sam Skyped from his air-conditioned, plush leather and hardwood New York office at seven in the morning (London time), it should have been Dean's first clue that something was terribly wrong.
Ordinarily, their communication process was a complicated series of signals and deceptiveness. It was necessary, because Dean lived in London and his job made him keep long hours that began at the crack of dawn, and Sam's job left nearly no room for personal calls. Even if he was just a lawyer on retainer, it was the summer transfer window, a hectic time for the New York Red Bulls football soccer club. (Which was weird, because Dean had spent the last two years reverse-correcting himself on that one.)
Video chatting had become a staple in their lives. Dean usually started by sending a cautious text first (dude u onlyn?) to check. Upon receiving it, Sam would make some excuse to his colleagues ("My building manager's saying there's smoke coming out of my apartment," or "Excuse me, my brother's got a pigeon emergency he can't resolve,") and leave his office. Five minutes later, he'd scout out some empty cubicle in the office loo, hide in there, and call Dean back via Skype, hunched over and whispering into his phone.
Today? He was the one texting first, and when Dean logged on, Sam seemed to be in an office. His office. He even had his feet up on the table.
"What happened to you?" demanded Dean suspiciously. "Did the rest of your work guys take the night off, and you're the only one left?"
"No…?"
"Did you move all your office furniture back into your place or something?"
Sam gave this shifty sort of laugh that either meant he was hiding something, or else Dean had hit the nail on the head.
"Dude. I'm sure your salary is generous enough for you to buy new furniture for your—"
"Um." The shifty look had intensified into a scowl, and Sam was now burning a hole into the surface of his own desk. "Look, Dean, this was a bad idea. I mean, it must be bad timing, you're probably on your way to work anyway. I'm just going to catch up with you later, okay?" He switched out of the window before Dean could protest.
Weird. Definitely weird, and not suspicious at all.
Sam IMed a second later. How's Cas?
Dean wondered how he hadn't smelled a rat any earlier than that. He cautiously replied: All set to renew his contract, and left it that. So not suspicious of you, Sammy, he thought grimly. Then he immediately dialled Cas's number to check on the guy.
And it wasn't he had said an actual lie; he didn't have to feel guilty for stretching the truth a bit. If Cas stopped being so damn evasive on the subject, or if Dean acquired some mind-reading mojo powers, he could brain-scan Cas and learn for himself that the guy had every intention of renewing his contract after all.
Why the hell would he not? Castiel owed everything (his star status, his position as the top of the league, the fact that the Red Bulls were even resorting to sneaky methods to get to him) to Arsene Wenger. Before Arsene, he'd been a severely underrated supposed nobody, who'd bounced unhappily from the Seattle Sounders to Schalke 4, finally settling down at Montpellier. He'd played in three different leagues, and had rapidly adapted to three markedly different ways of playing the greatest game. He had nearly always been glued to the bench as well, coming on as an eleventh hour reserve whose brilliance was overshadowed by his tendency to try to play solo and play aggressively.
Castiel had probably never been in the starting XI line-up for a club until he met Arsene Wenger. He had never made the cover of a sports magazine, gotten a post-match interview, or had self-titled football gurus earnestly berate managers for not playing him in the starting XI. And maybe, as the years went on, for the first time he had not been overshadowed.
Of course, he was going to renew. It was a no brainer. Castiel loved it at London. He loved it at the Emirates. He loved Arsene. Well, at any rate, he definitely loved Dean. Or Dean loved him. Same difference. Castiel was a lot of things (moody, stiff, no concept of personal space, a teetotaller, fiercely loyal to the people he loved) but he was not ungrateful.
So why the fuck was the question of his contract renewal even a question. The matter had been broached a month ago, and the club had entertained three offers for him since then. Castiel had come to training, kept his head down, listened to anything Dean had to say with impassive, stony silence, and then gone back on the field, doing exactly as he'd been directed.
Ten tries and half an hour later, Dean was going to have to admit that Cas was not picking up. Knowing the defender's lifestyle habits as well as he did, Dean was certain the guy wasn't currently too hungover or too busy doing the walk of shame to answer the phone.
He had managed to convince himself that he was operating on pure paranoia just because Sam had called him from an office. He was leaving the flat when his phone rang in his hand. Caller ID said it was Balthazar, and Dean picked up with a sinking feeling.
"Winchester!" rang out that smarmy lizard left winger's voice. "Where are you?"
Dean glanced at the clock, thinking he was well within his rights to still be hanging around at home. Maybe he would reach the Emirates training ground fifteen minutes late, but he had a good excuse: the Mystery of Sam's, Er… Mysterious Call.
"Why?" he hedged instead, and Balthazar made an impatient sound.
"Cassie's missing."
"WHAT?"
The suspicious circumstances of Sam's call combined with the implications of the word "missing," throwing up all sorts dire scenarios in Dean's head. He was halfway through the plot of the Liam Neeson movie before he could choke out: "What do you mean he's missing? You mean he's been kidnapped by a wendigo? Because I could deal with you telling me that. It'd just mean you're crazy, and everything's fine."
Balthazar coughed discreetly. "No, I'm afraid it's exactly what is sounds like. I've been ringing him all morning, I even dropped by his flat to see if he wants a lift, but nothing."
Alien invasion would sound really comforting right around now. "Don't worry, I'm on it," Dean told him in a voice desperately trying to sound in-charge, and hung up.
As he drove the Impala on the wrong side of the road down to the Emirates, he took the unpleasant short cut. He called Crowley.
Fergus McLeod, Crowley to his enemies (and friends, if he had any of those), was a shark. He couldn't have been one of the best sports agents in England otherwise, but he had an uncanny knack of sensing weaknesses (probably before the clubs themselves realised it) and attacking with unrelenting viciousness. Dean bore the scars of One Who Has Tangled With Crowley from the time that their reserve fullback had wanted a surprisingly lucrative transfer to Chelsea. Crowley had seized on the fact that the fullback's nose had once been broken by his team-mate, and so the guy was so "abused" at the Emirates that it was best for him to go to Chelsea. Truthfully, the nose-breaking had happened because of a drunken fistfight (which the fullback himself had initiated), but the transfer fee had been hilariously low anyway.
In short, the guy should have been a sports lawyer.
"Hello, Dean Winchester," Crowley's dulcet voice growled. It was disconcerting.
Dean hugged the side of the road and hoped the open stretch didn't hide any traffic cameras in the sparse foliage, and spoke into his phone's speaker mode. "Crowley. Hey. Heard from Cas lately?"
"Winchester, how many times have I told you? Badgering my client is not going to make him sign a renewal any time sooner. He needs to think clearly about whether it's worth his time to stay at the Emirates…"
"Not that," Dean snapped, not wanting to think about the insinuation Crowley was feeding him. "I'm talking literally. Have you literally heard from Cas all day? Balthazar says he's MIA." He laughed like they were sharing a joke at Balthazar's paranoia, and he silently stuffed down his mental imaginings.
To his relief, Crowley was laughing too. It sounded like a laugh, but Crowley being happy could not possibly be a good thing. "Oh," said Crowley, chuckling like he knew a secret. "Oh. So you haven't heard about the Red Bulls offer."
Dean's heart sank and ripped through his chest, landing in the pit of his stomach like an anvil. "Of course I have," he snapped, trying to make it sound convincing.
"Good," said Crowley lightly, and Dean was unable to detect any sarcasm. Damn it, Crowley was definitely laughing at him then. "Good. I did wonder why you weren't going haywire about the contract renewal, but it makes sense now. Of course you've heard about the Red Bulls offer. You're a very up-to-date man, Winchester, and since your brother's drafted the deal…"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean cut in, "what were you saying about Cas?"
"Him? Well, the last I heard, he was seen leaving the Savoy with a group of Americans…"
It wasn't Dean's fault that Castiel wasn't picking up. Definitely not; he hadn't driven the guy to being incommunicado out of sheer awkwardness. All he'd done was take Cas drinking, since a pub was probably the only place they hadn't visited together. The tequila had kept coming, and Dean vividly remembered the part where he'd proposed a toast.
"To the star striker! May we keep you in the club forever, and not let those other bastards get their dirty hands on the prize!"
Amid the general roar of approval that had erupted around them, Dean had been acutely aware of how innuendo-laden that had sounded. So he changed the subject, seizing enthusiastically on the first safe topic that came to mind. It happened to be home. And not his flat "home," but Lawrence, Kansas "home." And Sam. It really was the same difference.
The next thing he remembered was being slumped against Cas in what looked like the hallway of Dean's building. Cas's hand felt warm, sending inexplicable shivers, as he groped through Dean's pocket for the door keys. It was a tight fit and the keys were wedged way down, entangled in the lint, and Cas's hand shoved in hard, bunching cloth, fingers dragging up Dean's thigh as he pulled out the key ring. Dean's face was pressed down against Cas's neck, Cas's breath heavy and hot against his cheek, his own laboured breathing come out in a stuttering barely-suppressed whine.
"Is that all I am to you?" Cas had asked quietly, steadily, and Dean had been too far gone that night to accurately remember what he had said after that. Probably something incoherent and along the lines of:
"You're the best! The best there is."
(He hadn't been drunk enough to forget that if Cas's hand had stayed in his jeans any longer, his 'friend' was going to be introduced to his boner.)
Dean didn't want to think that his drunken ramblings was the reason Cas was avoiding him. He was pretty sure that if the Board found out that he was the reason Castiel had not signed, there wouldn't be big enough pieces left of him to bury.
Finally, Dean called Arsene Wenger. He saw no way around it, and he needed to know if he was the only other one in the club to have heard the news. But the old man just listened impassively, sounding unconcerned over the airwaves between them.
"Aren't you the least bit worried that these guys are talking to Cas directly instead of the club?"
"It only means they aren't ready to make an offer."
"You mean it means they're fattening him up before they go for the kill!"
"Mr. Winchester, please," said Arsene so mildly that it was most certainly a rebuke. His thick French accent chewed up and spat the words, and Dean imagined that the man's face was still probably creased in its permanent frown, even over the phone. It was a quiet but firm reminder of who the assistant coach was, and who the manager was, who had nearly twenty years of unerring experience and who knew better. "Your faith is too little. I believe Castiel will do by the right in the end."
Dean privately thought Arsene could stand to have a lot less faith. Then again, all the great British men were old and insane. Case in point, Dumbledore.
Just as he was five minutes away from pulling into the training grounds, Dean's phone rang again. This time he snatched it off the dashboard.
"Cas?"
"Hello, Dean," came the gravelly voice with infuriating calm.
"Where the fuck are you? The whole world and its cousin is looking for you—"
"I am at home, Dean. Where else would I be?"
"Home," repeated Dean slowly. "Why aren't you at training?"
There was an awkward silence. Dean suppressed a groan. He should have known. "Look, I'm headed over to your place right now, so just stay put."
"Very well."
"Don't forget the Citroen ad film is being shot later today, and I don't care if you break your leg or your cat dies, you need to be there, come hell, high water, or Crowley. Got it?"
"Of course, Dean. I will see you soon."
Cas hung up with a quiet click, and Dean felt like something had been switched off inside him with it.
Forty-five minutes later, he was sitting on Cas's couch, being made Earl Grey tea, or whatever it was that Limeys served their guests nowadays. He would have thought of Cas as a guest, but the guy was thirty days and one pending contract short of that just then.
In fact, Dean would have gladly just kept his fingers pressed to the doorbell and remained out in the hallway, refusing to step inside the ridiculously expensive, well-furnished loft, until Cas broke down and offered all the explanations he wanted to hear. The only reason he had relented and not pursued that plan was because Cas had looked terrible. Just downright frightful: hair sticking up in unruly tufts and his eyes looking even bluer and suddenly darker because of how obviously little sleep he'd gotten. Dean had clenched his fingers into a fist to stifle the urge to run his hands through Cas's hair, smooth it down, and consented to be bribed with tea and small talk instead.
(If Cas even had any expertise with either.)
"Hey," he said without preamble, when Cas re-emerged from the kitchen, thrusting a Little Mermaid mug into Dean's hands. "Heard about you hearing from my brother."
Cas didn't sit down, hovering on his feet across from the sofa. He blinked blearily, looking hilariously underwhelming in a pair of soft cotton pyjama bottoms and a plain white shirt. Dean didn't lower his gaze, taking a tiny but loud slurp of his Earl Grey to show that the conversational ball was definitely in Cas's court. The tea tasted off, faintly… alcoholic, in fact, but he didn't bring it up.
"Sam Winchester and I have never properly met," said Cas at least, and Dean gave him his most unimpressed look.
"I didn't think you needed to sit in the same room with someone who's making you a buying offer." He didn't bring up that the Red Bulls weren't taking this offer lightly; after all, they were using their lawyer as a buffer merely because they knew his brother was close to Castiel worked at Arsenal. He tried to make the question sound casual as he asked it: "Was it worth peanuts? Their offer, basically."
Castiel sipped slowly at his funny tea. It was as if they were playing musical mugs, trying to avoid the topic. "It was a good one," he said when it was clear that Dean's gaze would let up. He didn't flinch under the cold narrowing of those hard green eyes.
"You're considering it," he said flatly.
The answering shrug wasn't good enough, and Dean took a long draught from the mug, definitely tasting the Jack Daniels mixed into the badly brewed tea this time. "You're actually fucking considering it."
Castiel didn't move, but Dean's hands curled around the mug, his shoulders trembling with the effort of reigning himself in. "They haven't made an official bid yet," Castiel was saying, but that meant shit to Dean. "But yes, if they do, I will accept. I have my ticket to New York, to meet with their representatives. I'm going to hear them out with they have to say."
"As long it's just listening, right?" Dean's cheerful, careless grin felt brittle on his face, but he desperately needed reassurance on that point. Castiel just shook his head, as if unable to make himself to mimic that maddeningly mirthless look.
"Crowley said you were looking for me. Is anything the matter?"
Oh, nothing. Nothing is clearly the matter. "Nah," he lied. "I was checking in. You got the memo about the shooting for the Citroen ad film being preponed right? At the stadium at one." He lowered the mug, looking straight at the player held up as Arsenal's star, and said very slowly: "You still coming to that, right? Citroen's had a good history with this club, and I wouldn't want their ad to star players who're just going to disappear the next day, y'know? They deserve a better deal than that."
He had the satisfaction of seeing Castiel look away, and he put down the mug, wanting to be sober and slowly getting drunk on whatever was mixed with the tea. He wanted to be sober to see every second of this sinking into Cas.
"Crowley," said Castiel softly, "felt… similarly. I had him call the Citroen representative. I didn't think it would be fair to go to the shooting after all."
*
When Kali, the thirty-percent-ergo-biggest stakeholder in the club, dropped by the training pitch later that day, Dean was instantly worried. His brain instantly jumped through all possibilities and misdemeanours, and for a panicked second wondered if she was here because he'd nearly taken Gabriel's head off with a football five minutes earlier.
A lot of dirty looks and muttered comments following him around ever since he'd arrived on the pitch meant that he was probably noticeably tetchy. He was certain that was no reason to have Kali delivered on his case as punishment, though. He tried his best to ignore her and stay on the sidelines, making notes while assistant manager Bould and coach Primorac sprinted across the field, dodging players in their training jerseys.
He kept his eyes trained on the iPad, pretending he couldn't see her standing next to him, sharp enough in her perfectly tailored cream Oscar de la Renta suit, sharp enough to cut diamond. "It's no good pretending you're not hyperventilating, Mr. Winchester," she said coolly. "You can stop pretending you're not aware of me."
Well, that ploy certainly failed. Lowering the iPad, Dean turned to look at her, plastering on his best professional boss-pleaser smile.
"You must have heard the rumour being circulated that the New York Red Bulls are planning to place an official bid for Castiel by the end of the day. I see you know it's not a rumour," she added, scowling, when she saw his jaw tighten. "Castiel is a very valuable asset to this team, as you know, Mr. Winchester, and the Red Bulls have had longer and more excruciating dry spells than the Gobi Desert. Any offer they make will be lucrative, because it'll be desperate."
"Yeah." Dean figured his best tactic was to stick to the monosyllables, until she told him what she was here for. Club owners didn't voluntarily come to chat with lowly second assistant coaches if they could help it.
"It's going to be a poor trade, because the transfer fee will not be worth the loss of the asset."
Something pricked Dean to hear her talk about Cas like he was something being traded on the stock market, but he knew he was being hypocritical. It was always about "buying" and "selling" players, and the only reason his hackles were raised was because… fine, because it was Cas.
"Please harbour no illusions, Mr. Winchester, about your future growth prospects here if we were to lose Castiel."
Dean started, staring at her, but Kali steadily looked back at him. Was that a threat? And what did she possibly expect from him about this? He mumbled something about not being up the food chain to have any control over transfer bids, but Kali pinned him under her glare, and the feeble protests withered.
"I'm not blind, Dean," she said with a touch of exasperated asperity. "I can see you exercise more control over Castiel than what better people can. Make him stay, Mr. Winchester, I don't care how."
Rounding off the patchiest work day of his life, Dean found himself heading home immediately after. Ostensibly, he'd told Bould that he was going to Castiel's, to attempt to figure things out, and Bould had grimaced and nodded, hand twitching as if he really wanted to just Dean's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Overt displays of affection among the older people at the club were very restrained; unless, of course, you were Arsene, who was a French Dumbledore and didn't count, and didn't think too lowly of burying his face in his assistant manager's shoulder when things got bad during an actual game. Arsene, to repeat, was the merciful exception in Dean's opinion.
Kali's words banged about the inside of his brain, her meaning unmistakable. The only way Castiel was staying in south London was through emotional blackmail if Dean asked. But the very fact that they were thrust into a standoff, where the certainty of Castiel leaving was concrete even more an bid for him could be officially made— it just went to show, didn't it?
Castiel had no qualms about leaving. Leaving the club, leaving London, leaving Dean.
That was why Dean Winchester, twenty-seven, was slumped over his kitchen table, nursing his third JD of the day. The phone lay inches away, dangerously close to the edge. It registered a call being made to Sam's number: an actual call, with all the applicable roaming charges, since Dean had been too drunk to go through the whole elaborate procedure. It wasn't as if he especially remembered what he had actually told his brother, but there was an e-mail in his inbox, filling in gaps which Dean didn't even want to think about.
Had no idea you felt that strongly about it. I don't know what to say. I promise I will bring it up with the boss, since it seems to matter that much to you. I really thought there was nothing going on. But Dean? Don't expect good news. Sometimes business is just that: business. Cheers, Sam.
*
"Dean Winchester."
This day, he thought, was going in circles. Like Groundhog Day? Maybe. That movie had been boring as fuck, but it made its point well. Castiel was standing in his doorway, still wearing pyjamas and what looked indoor slippers. But his eyes ablaze, mouth set in a grim slash, jaw clenched, and radiating pure concentrated fury like an Adidas ad. Dean faltered for an unmanned, weak second, staring dumbly at the visitor, feeling that his knees were seconds away from giving way under him.
A second later, they really did as Dean stumbled backwards, reeling, feeling his jaw swell and bruise under the force of Castiel's fist.
He opened his mouth to protest, his brain still fuzzy from the grip of all that JD, but the outrage in him felt clear. Outrage, he realised with a sickening feeling, that was nothing compared to the burning smoulder in Castiel's gaze.
"The Red Bulls called me, Dean," he spat out, striding into the flat, sending Dean involuntarily backing otherwise they'd be chest-to-chest, forced to look right into blue eyes. "How did you think I wouldn't find out?"
What the fuck are you on, Dean wanted to ask, because ignorance of the situation would make everything better. Unfortunately, he knew all too well what Castiel was talking about, and what was worse: Castiel knew too. It pretty much took away Dean's right to be pissed off about the smarting lip and to throw Castiel out.
"Cas, c'mon, that was—"
"That was what?" repeated Castiel viciously. "Necessary? Important? A good thing you were doing? They were very concerned that my own club would try to block a transfer like that, instead of being upfront and rejecting a bid."
Dean was very aware of standing, frozen, by the open door, mind wiped blank of anything he could say: excuses, platitudes, righteousness, nothing. Not even the truth. How the fuck had this become a big deal? How much had he even said to Sam about backing off this transfer, and how much had Sam relayed to his bosses? Oh fuck. If this were to hit the press, if Kali were to find out about this, she'd be gunning not just for his sacking, but also his head.
Some of the acute horror spreading through him must have telegraphed across his face, because Cas marginally softened. He took a careful step towards Dean, who held his ground. It was beneath him to flinch.
"Why," said Castiel quietly, giving Dean the chance to come clean with the truth.
"I thought you had more loyalty than this," he said. It was the half-truth at best, but the fire went out in Cas's gaze, as if this was what he wanted to hear. "To the club, to Arsene," Dean clarified, lying, so that they could be on the same page, and Castiel's eyes went cold again.
"That isn't good enough, Dean."
"Well, that's all there is to it," he replied stubbornly, and he would have crossed his arms and glared, but his lower face was now numb and instead the pain was still throbbing through his head. "After all," he added accusingly, "you hit me."
"You were a dick."
Dean blinked. Not because it was the first time he'd been called that (oh no, Sam had beaten him to that one centuries ago) but because it was curiously strange to hear the profanity roll off Castiel's tongue. It was fascinating and vaguely dirty at the same time, as if he was watching Cas twist cherry stems in his mouth.
"Well, that doesn't mean you gotta cross an ocean to get away from me!"
Cas looked away, lips pressing together. Dean thought he was stifling a laugh, but then he said heavily, "Why shouldn't I? I've been in England longer than I thought I would be, and it's given me everything it was going to give. I'm finished here."
Finished. The word clanged like steel traps closing. He couldn't be finished, not yet, there was far too much left.
"You should put ice on that," said Castiel evenly, "and I should be going."
"Don't." The words rasped out, near involuntarily. Castiel paused, cocking his head faintly.
"What?"
"Nothing," said Dean in a stronger voice, unable to bring himself to repeat that.
Castiel's mouth tightened again, but this time his blank blue eyes seemed to cloud with inexplicable sadness. "Very well. Goodbye, Dean," and this time he didn't wait as he turned to leave.
"Wait. Cas. Cas."
Standing in the crumbly doorway of the poorly-done flat, with his shoulders thrown back, eyes blazing, Castiel suddenly looked very tall. And Dean knew it really was finished, only the formalities were left, and barring a miracle or the apocalypse, Sam would bowl over Cas with his best impression of a enthusiastic puppy, and the Red Bulls would smirk quietly to themselves and backslap each other for a coup, and Cas would be gone. It was over. And there was no room for the half-truths or feelings or the crippling fear of rejection that had stayed with Dean from the minute Castiel walked into the locker room at Highbury, blinking at the newness, and shaking Dean's hand.
He crossed to the doorway, determinedly not to think, giving himself no room for fear. Castiel saw it coming, and it bolstered Dean to know that Cas didn't even try to stop, nearly welcoming it in fact. His fingers dragged roughly through Cas's hair, winding around the back of his neck, jerking up his head as Dean bent down to catch him in an open-mouthed kiss.
Castiel was frighteningly still for less than a second, and Dean's heart jumped into his throat, terrified he'd cocked it up in ways unfixable. Then he felt a bony hand curling against his cheek, and Cas's lips parted, moaning as he melted into the kiss. And just like that every barrier between them crumbled and crashed.
Dean didn't know how to stop now that he knew Cas was okay with this, more than okay, he wanted it as much. His hands yanked the T-shirt up, the flats of his palms thrilling against Cas's wiry sternum, sliding down Cas's back, down the ridiculously soft pyjamas to grip his arse. He pulled Cas tighter against him, nearly devouring him with urgency and endless want. His hips rocked against Cas, needing friction, to convey that if this didn't happen right now, right here, exploding like a blinding starburst, then he was probably going to die.
"No," murmured Cas, and Dean's heart broke and his groin screamed in protest. But Cas was already pulling back, hands still on Dean's face. "This is not how this should be."
"Like what, then? Slower?" He could do slow. He could kiss Cas for days, desire unabated and growing wilder; he could go as slowly as he was needed to kissing every inch of Cas's bare body until it wasn't enough for either of them.
"Slow has been every day we've known each other, Dean," said Cas, his lips quirked in a tiny smile that made Dean's breath catch. "But this can't happen like this."
"Why, goddamn it, not," Dean hissed, because his arousal was undeniable and to see Cas's reddened mouth was driving everything else out of his mind. Cas's fingers trembled lower down his face, pressing against where his knuckles had left the cut, but Dean shook his head, wildly, firmly. "I want you. I need this and I need you."
Later, he was mostly glad he hadn't done anything as embarrassingly mind-numbingly stupid such as mumble I love you, not because it wasn't true (it wasn't true anyway, and he strongly doubted Cas had even thought the words himself, so it'd just be pointless, and so there.) But as they lay amid the scattered sheets, cradling Cas against his chest, Cas's hands lazily stroking him as if the last five times hadn't been enough, Dean thought this was okay too.
No complications, no awkwardness, and he could rationalise himself out of heartbreak because there was no point getting maudlin. There was no love bullshit involved, and Cas was leaving. He would fly to New York, meet some people at America's worst soccer club, and sign the deal. This was as good a send-off as any, so.
And of course, the morning after, Castiel texts Wenger to say he was renewing his contract.
So, indeed, there they were, hungover and sans pants, and with three more years on his contract to go. Awkward. So, completely, deliciously, toe-curlingly, locker-rooms-are-not-off-limits akward.