Castiel rolls his eyes and reaches for another thumbtack. “Not like this.”

“Sure you do,” Dean purrs. “Having a personal office, being able to tell everyone else to get out, asking for a ‘private discussion’ with me...”

“And what if I did just want a private discussion?” Castiel shrugs Dean’s chin off his shoulder and turns around as the hunter's arms slip away from his waist. He eyes Dean critically for a moment, then relaxes minutely and rests his hips back on the low bookshelf beneath the photos. He tugs the hunter in close by the open front of his jacket. “What then?”

Dean hums and reaches out to ease a wrinkle from the lapel of Castiel’s coat. “Guess I’d ask what about, sir,” he says, his eyes flicking up to meet the angel’s with a challenging glint.

Castiel looks at him for a moment, then lifts his chin a fraction of an inch. “It’s come to my attention that there are weaknesses within what I thought were my strongest resources.”

“What?” Dean tilts back slightly as his eyes twitch narrower. If there’s upset within Castiel’s ranks, there’s not much he himself can do about it. Cas is more than capable of handling it, he knows, but it still doesn’t make him happy. “Trouble in paradise? Nobody’s double-agenting on you, are they?”

Castiel’s lips nudge into a brief frown. “No, nothing like that. But weakness exists, nonetheless.” He suddenly shifts forward, driving Dean a step back, and then another and another as he advances the few feet toward the side of the wide wooden desk at the near side of the room. Dean’s hip bumps the edge at the last step, and Castiel squares himself up in front of him again, never breaking eye contact.

“Alright, you’re giving me all sorts of mixed signals here,” Dean complains, blindly pushing a few papers away from behind the seat of his jeans. “Am I supposed to actually be worried about something going wrong, or are you messing with me?”

The angel inclines his head again, regarding him for a beat. “I believe you’re supposed to address me with respect,” he says lowly.

...Oh. Oh. “I can get on board with that. Uh, Commander.” Dean’s mouth twitches upward. 

"Lie down."

There are several directions this could go, and Dean can't say he'd be disappointed by any one of them. He fights a grin and leans back, sending a few reports fluttering to the floor as he lays flat and adjusts on the hardwood desk top. Cas is still standing between his overhanging knees at the end of the desk, and Dean's getting all sorts of ideas while the angel studies him for a moment. But then Castiel moves, his fingers trailing along the edge of the wood as he walks up toward Dean's head. He comes to a stop at the opposite end of the desk, looming upside-down in Dean's vision.

"Arms over your head," Castiel says seriously. 

A little thrill rushes from the base of Dean's skull out into his limbs. "Alright..." he says, biting back a grin and sliding his forearms into place above his head.

"'Alright' what?"

"Alright, sir," Dean corrects. He's practically squirming already, and he takes a deep breath and tries to stop his body from flexing with nervous energy.

Castiel places one hand in a loose grip around Dean's upturned wrist, his thumb rubbing soft ovals over the pulse. "How does your willpower feel today?"

Dean's gaze drifts to the angle where the wall meets the ceiling as he takes a few seconds to think about it. Cas prefers honest answers, and Dean has suspected for a while that questions like this are subversive attempts to get him to examine himself and how he really feels. Sneaky bastard. After a brief moment, he twists his lips up in irritation at himself. He knows what he wants to say, but the fact that he can't stop curling his toes where his feet dangle over the far edge of the desk tells him otherwise.

"Uh... Maybe not one hundred percent. Commander," he says sheepishly. And sheepish is definitely not something he's usually comfortable being, but somehow Cas manages to make him into things he'd never want to be in front of anyone else. It's sort of terrifying if he thinks about it for too long, so he refocuses on Castiel's face and the way his stomach flips at the next question.

"And you know the safeword?"

Hell yeah, he does. He's got a love-hate relationship with that word. It's blessed relief when things get overwhelming, but then again, it always marks the end of something thrilling. He nods, and wonders if Cas intends to drive him to using it or not. 

The acknowledging dip of Castiel's chin doesn't give any indication one way or the other. Dean's vision is then filled with Cas' white dress shirt as the angel leans over him and methodically parts the open edges of his jacket and overshirt, exposing as much of the underlying t-shirt as possible. The collars are tugged away from his neck as well, opening his collarbones, shoulders, even a few scant inches of his upper arms. 

"I choose to believe you're one of my most reliable assets, Dean." Castiel smoothes his hands over Dean's worn-thin tee, flattening the wrinkles from his chest and stomach. "But I need to be assured that you couldn't be persuaded to work against me. If you can maintain your resolve for..." Cas considers for a beat, "...ten minutes, my concerns may be alleviated."

Then Castiel pauses, his eyes focused on Dean's. He's giving him the opportunity to back out, even though ten minutes is a pretty minor challenge, Dean thinks. But then again, Dean did basically say he wasn't quite up for anything too intense. So Cas wants this to be easy, low-stakes, just for fun – and Dean is totally in. They could use a little leisurely play with the pace they've been keeping lately. So Dean nods once. 

"I will, sir."

Cas cocks his head. "We'll see."

And then Castiel is gripping Dean's one wrist in place above his head and spidering quick fingers up the side of his ribs. Dean clamps his mouth shut, but can't help squirming when Cas hits an extra-ticklish spot. His unpinned arm struggles to stay up in mirror of the other as he twitches on the desktop and forcibly swallows the chuckles that keep crawling up his throat.

"What type of car do you drive, Dean?"

Okay, so that's how Cas is going to play it. It's how they add an extra layer to games like this - "Impala" is what one person tries to get the other to say, as if it's valuable information they're trying to unearth. Different from the safeword, it gives them something to hold back, and eventually give without necessarily ending the exchange. Sometimes it carries an added prize for the one who extracts it, but they didn't talk about that today so Castiel is simply going for the satisfaction of drawing it out of Dean. And there's no way Dean's giving it to him – his loyalty is at stake here.

"A big black one," Dean grits out, half-baring his teeth in a forced grin. He grunts and his boot heels thud against the side of the desk when Cas tweaks firmly at his lower ribs.

"I know you're very proud of it. I'm sure you know more than its color. How about its engine, then? Its zero-to-sixty?"

"F-faster than you." That earns Dean a few squeezes to his hip, and he bucks up with a snort. Castiel's fingers then skitter along the low-slung waist of his jeans, sneaking under the hem of his tee, and Dean whines through his nose and his free hand grabs at his own wrist right alongside Castiel's immovable grip. Holding onto something makes it slightly less difficult to keep himself from swatting at Cas' tickling hand, which would bring down a stern look and a worse treatment than he's already getting.

"You're being incredibly disrespectful, Dean."

"Faster than you, Commander," Dean retorts, then breaks into startled giggles when Cas suddenly switches which arm he's pinning and tickles up Dean's other side into his armpit. Dean's elbows jerk but manage to keep out of the way. 

"Year, make, and model of your vehicle," Cas intones.

Dean writhes, tipping his head back as he giggles. "Y-you wanna know about my ri-hihide?"

"In detail." Castiel ups the pace slightly, his fingertips massaging into Dean's uppermost ribs.

"He– he's about five foot eleven," Dean grins. "Square jahahaw, sexy s-stubble– AHahahaha!"

"Your car, Winchester," Cas says dourly, but there's a hint of amusement tugging at the side of his mouth. He pulls Dean's arm up further, stretching out his side as he works his way down his ribcage toward his stomach. 

Dean's laughter jumps, then spirals into manic giggles when Cas spiders over his belly. He arches and twists against the desk, his knees jerking partway up, and God, this is fun. Castiel knows exactly how to tickle him to make him merely squirmy and breathless, but also knows how to drive Dean to nearly lose his mind in hysterics. Right now it's a perfect happy medium between the two, and Dean revels in the warring desires for it to both stop and continue forever. He doesn't think he could ever bring himself to ask for this, but whenever Cas takes the initiative to make him bubble over with laughter, Dean feels like he's won the lottery. 

"There's a species of African antelope that's relevant to this conversation, I believe," Castiel says. 

"You beliehehieve wrongly, Commahander," Dean chokes out. Cas' fingers have been edging lower on his abdomen, but Dean is totally unprepared when the angel abruptly releases his wrist and slips both hands into the pockets of his jeans and ruthlessly attacks the joints of his hips. Dean cackles and instantly breaks form, grabbing frantically at Castiel's hands and attempting to fold up on himself. It's complicated by how Castiel is bent over him, and all he really succeeds in doing is kneeing one of Cas' arms and headbutting the solid torso above his face. 

"Tell me your car's model, Dean," Castiel demands again. But there's no way Dean could even hope to speak with the way he's laughing so desperately. Cas has definitely kicked things up into that "losing his mind" territory, and it doesn't take long until Dean is wheezing with hoarse laughter. 

His thrashing weakens considerably when Castiel finally backs off a little to let him catch his breath. He still holds onto Cas' wrists where they disappear into his pockets, since the relentless fingers are still wriggling enough to keep him roughly hiccuping with giggles. 

"Are you ready to tell me about your car?"

"N-no sir," Dean manages to answer, and is somewhat proud of himself for it. He doesn't think he could take another round to the hips like that, though. He seizes up when Castiel's hands suddenly move, but they're being withdrawn, and Dean lets them slide from his loose grip as they drag up his chest. There are a few stray presses into his ribs, which make Dean twitch and chuckle, but the hands come to rest innocuously on his shoulders.

He takes a deep breath and brings his own fingers up to wipe the dampness from his eyes before blinking up at a still-upside-down Castiel.

"Ten minutes done already?"

Cas nods. "You did very well. I'm pleased to have assurance of your trustworthiness." A small teasing grin blooms on his face, and Dean huffs harmlessly at it.