Castiel afflicted. Castiel, afflicted.

It’s one of those long golden summer evenings, the sun making love to the horizon for hours and kissing over Cassie and Dean where they’re laid out on her bed. Dean’s been “rambling on” about his favorite album, Led Zeppelin II, and Cassie is tuned in to the sound of his voice than the words themselves. She likes Dean. She likes him a lot. It’s been kind of freaking her out lately, that they’ve gotten so close so quickly. She’s thought about pumping the brakes a few times, taking a day or two without seeing each other, but then he comes over, and he’s so softly happy to see her that she couldn’t bear telling him to go. 

And Dean is soft. He’s sweet. She’s seen him put up the machismo act, and she’s made it known she won’t stand for it when it’s just them together, and he rolled over on it pretty quick - and from how they argue sometimes, that’s notable. It’s like he was waiting for an excuse. He’s talked a bit about his dad, and a lot about his brother, and Cassie’s pretty sure he doesn’t get too many excuses. Call it journalistic intuition. He’s been lonely for a long time. So has she. 

There’s not many chances to meet new people in Cape Girardeau, outside of college students, and there’s only so many times Cassie can pretend to be interested in someone’s major. Dean’s been everywhere, seen everything, road tripping with his dad, and while Cassie has no desire to join the Kerouacs of the world, she likes how Dean talks about it. When Dean talks about a place, he talks about the people. He hasn’t bothered with the Grand Canyon, or the Hollywood Sign, or the Hoover Dam, but he can tell you the best burger joint on any given stretch of highway without pause for thought, and which the middle aged waitress gave him an extra set of fries to-go because he reminded her of an old flame. 

She wonders how Dean’s going to talk about her when they break up, and she doesn’t like the thought, so she reaches for a distraction.

She kisses him mid-word, and he flusters from it, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. 

“What was that for?”

“You’re cute.”

“I’m not-”

“If you say you’re ‘not cute, you’re handsome’ again, I’m kicking you in the shins. Take a compliment.”

Dean holds his hands up and rolls his eyes, but Cassie can see his shy smile, so she takes it up a notch. She kicks a leg over him, and traces his features as she narrates: “Cute cheeks, cute nose, cute eye-bags.”

Dean snorts. “Who has cute eyebags?”

“You do,” Cassie counters, because she can roll her eyes too, “Now shut up, I’m talking. Cute ears. Beautiful mouth.”

She traces it slowly with her thumb, and presses in when Dean lets it hang open. His eyes go glassy, and Cassie wonders how he’d look sucking on her strap. He looks like he’s going through a religious experience when she lets him eat her out after all, and he doesn’t always look for a return on the favor. Will he get weird about it, if she asks? If they were in front of someone, almost certainly, but they’re not in front of anyone. They’re just Cassie-and-Dean. 

“Dean,” she says, and his eyelashes flutter to refocus on her, “If I show you something, can you promise not to get weird about it? It’s a little…out there.”

She presses her thumb down on his tongue for a moment longer, anxious of the answer, but when she lets him go, he says, “Promise,” immediately, then adds as she goes to her bottom drawer, “I’ve seen plenty ‘out there’.”

“Yeah, well,” Cassie says, now kind of wanting to shock him, “You seen this?”

She holds up her harness, and the accompanying deep red dildo, long, with a few fake veins running up the sides. She sticks her chin up, pretending her heart isn’t hammering in her chest from nerves. Dean’s eyes have gone huge, doing a double-take from the dildo to her face and back again. He takes a deep breath, then points at it decisively.

“You are not putting that thing up my ass.”

Cassie scoffs, glad for the diffusion of tension. “I wasn’t offering it up your ass!” She takes it to the bed, and the way Dean can’t stop staring at it with trepidation is a little funny, a little hot. “I was thinking, maybe you lick it a few times.”