Dean aches for it every time he looks at Cas, but has to contain himself whenever there's someone else around because of his internalized everything and the fear of other people knowing making it real, making it something other than what it is. And what it is is just him helping out his buddy, selflessly making his best friend happy, and selfishly making him stay. But other people won't see that. Other people won't understand. And he's too old and too tired and too not-touching-that to even begin to try and make them understand.
So whenever the urge gets too much, he'd say something like, “Cas, you, um, you seem kind of down, buddy.”
And Cas'll be like, “What? I'm perfectly fi–” but then he'll look up and see the full-blown pupils, the nervous lip licking, the twitching hand, the overwhelming lust threatening to take over Dean's body, and he'll go Oh. “Yeah, actually, I, um, I think I need to go lie down.”
And he'll drop whatever he's doing and get up and head to his room, knowing fully well that Dean will follow him there. Movie night with Jack will get abandoned. Dinners will get cold. Sam will be left hanging, important enochian translation now completely irrelevant in Castiel's horned up mind.
Dean, no less horned up, will count three excruciating seconds before making a shit excuse that “I, um, better check up on him.” and use all the strength in his body to keep himself from running after Cas.
Once they're finally safe behind closed doors, Dean will throw himself on top of Cas lying on the bed or Cas will push him up against the wall. And their lips will meet and finally, finally, life makes sense again. Dean's hands will find their way up to Cas' hair. Cas will grab him by the waist or the hips or, after a few heated minutes, he might brazenly grope Dean's ass to bring him closer.
And Dean won't torture himself thinking about what any of it means because his brain isn't working at the moment. He's making Cas happy and that's all that matters. That's all that exists. Cas and him. And Cas, and Cas, and Cas. Cas' tongue in his mouth, Cas' scent all around him, Cas' teeth worrying at his bottom lip, Cas' gutural groan when he dares lose just enough control to roll his hips. Cas' intense, saphyre eyes burning a Cas-shaped hole in his soul. Cas' five-o'clock shadow rasping against Dean's calloused hand.
“Cas... ” he moans, between kisses, and he'd wished he could say anything more coherent than that.
Cas is here. Cas will stay. Cas is happy. Dean is making him happy.
Cas is kissing and biting and nipping a trail down the column of Dean's throat. And somewhere between it sparkling shivers down Dean's spine and his lips autonomously deciding to chant Cas' name, Dean's brain illuminates with the idea that maybe, if good things do happen, if there will be peace when he's done... Then maybe Cas gets to make him happy too.
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