They don’t know what to call it. They’re not fucking. But they’re not making love.

Dean thrusts once, testing, and Castiel moves with him as an answer. Yes, this. Yes, it’s okay. Yes, I want you. Yes. Yes. Yes. 

They’ve done this three times before. All of them messy, all of them quick. Like a flash of embarrassment. There, then it’s—whatever it is—gone, slinking away to the back of their minds until they yank it back out, wrestling, and it wins. It always wins.

It’s one of those nights where they’re very aware of this thing between them. Both holding it in their hands, trading it back and forth. Letting it slip through their fingers like sand, a palm underneath to catch the grains. 

Buttons undone with a careful slowness, a question in the air. Breathy kisses shared. Pausing, foreheads together, swallowing hard. Something unsaid.

Here they are again. Only this time, it’s different.

“Don’t,” Dean whispers when Cas meets his hips again, when Cas clenches around him. Castiel freezes, back tensing. 

“You don’t—?”

“No, it’s not that,” Dean says, soft. Fingers trailing up Cas’ spine, back down, then swerving to cup his hip, thumb spreading across the skin there. “Just let me.”

“Dean—”

“I want to.”

So Castiel relaxes, closing his eyes, tipping his head back when Dean wraps a hand around him, a broken sound out of his mouth when Dean bucks and glides over the head at the same time. He does it again, this time moaning back when Cas does, head dropping to his back, lips against him in something of a sloppy kiss.

Cas’ eyes flutter open, sees the one arm Dean’s supporting himself with, sees the wrinkles at his wrist and wants to hold his tongue at the pulse point. He doesn’t, though. Instead, Cas moves his own hand, fingertips brushing the heel. Slides under Dean’s, and holds tight when Dean interlocks their fingers, squeezing hard.

Soon enough, there is the quiet groan that means Dean is close, hand stroking Cas faster, and Castiel realizes that Dean’s trying to get him to come first. 

“Dean, wait.”

“What’s wrong?” Dean breathes, ragged, and Castiel wants to bury his mouth in that noise. 

“Please,” Cas answers. “I want—I want—with you. Please.”

And Dean halts for a second, stops, like that’s something they shouldn’t do. Like it’s going too far, too fast. Then his grip tightens again, rocking forward, Cas saying his name—“Dean. Dean.” Then they’re both shuddering—Castiel arching, Dean leaning to smother himself into Cas’ shoulder. 

———

After, Castiel rests his head on Dean’s chest, Dean throwing an arm over him. Cas holds Dean’s hand and brings it up to brush against his mouth. They watch the wind blow away leaves off the tree outside the window. They watch the curtains billowing and Dean pulls a blanket over them. They watch the numbers of the clock on the bedside table change. A three turns into a five. A five turns into a seven. A seven turns into a forty-three. 

“Dean.”

“Shhh,” Dean says, pressing fingers to his mouth. “Cas.”

“You don’t want me to say it?”  

The muted thump of hearts. Dean closes his eyes and exhales. Castiel feels breath ripple through his hair. 

“No.” So hushed, he can barely hear it. Cas looks up at him and the man holds his gaze, apologetic and sad. Scared. Wanting, but not letting himself have it. Castiel blinks twice before reaching to kiss him, and Dean kisses back, Sorry sorry sorry. Can’t say. I can’t say, Cas. Sorry.

“No,” Dean says again. “You’ll ruin me.” 

Castiel doesn’t say it. But he curls himself against Dean, keeps their hands close together, and Dean thinks that maybe—just once—he’ll let Cas try and prove him wrong.