#draft dump!

They're panties. They're tiny, white satin panties with lace rimming that digs a little-too-small into his belly and a high french cut that darts dangerously high up his hips. He can't quite remember why he's doing this, but they've been a distraction, all day. They call constant attention to the form and movement and shape of his vessel- the way his trousers gather and slide and ride when he walks and sits and shifts in space. He's almost adjusted, very nearly, every time and then suddenly he scoots over or takes a step the wrong way and he can't forget.

And no one knows. The waitress doesn't know. Sam doesn't know. Only him, only him and Dean know.

Castiel almost forgets why he's wearing the panties, and then he sees the way Dean almost smiles-almost-and he remembers.

Oh yes.