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[ Dean is making this brief for a variety of reasons. But he sadly doesn't care enough to make this anything but video - audio and text just seem like far too much effort, and so Dean can be seen boozing it up with a half empty bottle of whiskey he received from the gods.

Someone's been drunk a lot lately.

Big fuckin' deal. ]

So, I kind of happen to have an angel buddy who's in need of a lay. Anyone want to lend a hand?

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[ Dean's anxiety practically hummed off him, under that confused undercurrent of need. It was loud, like electrostatic, and when Castiel responded to his touches the way that - well, the way that a lover might - that anxiety sort of screamed into the abyss like nervous feedback, as though to say i'm scared i'm scared i'm scared. But if anything, Dean seemed almost more frightened when they let go of each other, when he had to choose where to put his hands again. The angel tried to smile at him reassuringly, tried to compel the feeling of nothing has changed, just the same as he had the other night, but they both knew that it would be a lie.

And so he stepped around Dean carefully, went to fetch the bottle that had tumbled on the ground, and returned to his friend's side, letting his fingers brush against Dean's shoulder. It was the slightest warning, before they found themselves back in their apartment, and Castiel released him once more, as though they hadn't been touching at all.

Touch seemed to be the trigger here, the spring on the door of a tiger cage from which all hell would break loose if they let it, and as much as Cas wanted - and he did want, even if he didn't know specifically what that would lead to - he also knew that he couldn't piece Dean back together if it all went wrong. He wouldn't even know how to start. He reached for the front of Dean's jacket, as he had the previous night, to help him out of it, still holding his whiskey in the other. ]

Bed, [ he insisted. ] Without me, this time.

[ Dean didn't want his worries to be so loud. He didn't want any part of him to be loud - that was what the booze was for. To soften the blows of every inch, to take him down incrementally, notch by notch. He was meant to be hidden inside of himself, furiously silent within his fears and dampened until there was nothing left. Because he was always so much, always too much, always a rampant wash of fear and need and desire all bundled up and left shouting for something more. Dean was always fighting for the things he lost, his innards always screaming for it, and this was no different. He just wished Cas couldn't see as much as he could, wished he didn't look as hard.

But his palms suddenly felt empty and his fingers suddenly felt as if they enclosing around nothing but air and he swallowed, looked down at the grass under his feet an wondered why there was always such loss. He didn't have long to contemplate though before Cas was returning with his liquor and tapping his shoulder. Dean looked up abruptly, halfway figuring Cas would say something, but instead they were transported in an instant and his stomach swam, the sudden snap-of-finger movement enough to make the world sway precariously.

Dean grumbled low in his throat and rubbed his nose, adjusting, irritable, trying to settle himself as he took a step and sighed, heading for the couch.

Cas stopped him in his tracks though, fingers for his jacket, and Dean just about batted him off- ] Dude, i'm not incompetent. [ But it was soft and Dean wasn't frustrated enough to make the words any harder than they needed to be. There was still something about being helped when he was sure his internal world was crumbling, and yet he wanted to hide, was desperate for it. He wriggled his shoulders, tried to make the whole process a smooth one, and did his best to ignore the idea of a bed with or without Cas. Because that wasn't important, it didn't matter, it meant nothing. But ducking his face only proved his measured confusion, his irritability of the unknown, of the fact that he knew that he wanted he just couldn't find a way to grasp for it. ]

You've still got the couch.

Where I will be, if you need me.

[ The words were firm, and so were Castiel's hands, lifting the coat off Dean's shoulders and folding it over his arm. He handed him the bottle of alcohol, but his expression softened as he did it. The night after their game of Twister, Dean hadn't touched a single drop after going to bed, and he doubted this night would be any different.

Any physical contact he made was brief and utilitarian, but it still sang of his undying affection, love measured in small touches and the will to protect Dean, enshroud him in his winged safety. Something had changed. Dean saw him, because Castiel couldn't hide it, and whatever was seen in him, Dean had started to look into himself for its twin. If he hadn't found something there, then they wouldn't still be talking. Cas would have been banished from the apartment with an angel sigil, or something far worse. Dean would at least be asking: "What the fuck is going on with you, man?"

His eyes flicked up again.

And he was wrong. Dean didn't need his mother. He just needed something, someone, a reason to make the fight worth it. ]

Okay?

[ Dean felt like a weed, a desperate one, reaching for any ounce of affection being offered. Felt like he was twining rampantly and without restraint, as if he was seconds away from being cut down all over again. He was his own terrors, his own fears flying free and there was something traumatic about that, something he wanted to shun away, to ignore and hide beneath. He wasn't supposed to want this, he wasn't supposed to want any of this and he was desperate to get away just as badly as he wanted to sink beneath, to take it for his very own.

But it was wrong, wasn't it? It wasn't him? Right? Dean didn't know, couldn't comprehend, couldn't figure it the hell out and it left him feeling empty and confused, peeled back and disregarded, like he was picking up the remnants of whatever he could find just so he could hold it close while he tried to sleep.

Cas took his jacket and gave him back his booze and all Dean could do was stare at it like it was meant to be an offering that didn't quite fit. He just didn't want to drink anymore and his stomach near automatically soured before he glanced back up at Cas, expression tinged with apology, regret, all the things he was trying to remove from his palms just so he didn't have to feel them for another moment. Dean hurt and he was chasing it down, running after the pain and holding tight because it was what he knew, it was what made sense. Made more sense than this, at least. ]

Okay.

[ Except Dean didn't want to go to bed, and even as he stared off towards his bedroom, his nose wrinkled in distaste of the idea of sleeping, of caving to this. He was still fully functional, still ready for more, still ready for something he couldn't pinpoint, but he forced himself despite it all, tried to navigate around Cas with his own fingers left ruffling his hair this time. ]

Dean--

[ It was sort of automatic, a whim that made him reach out across Dean's path, so that he caught the other man across the hips with his arm. Castiel tilted his head in toward his shoulder as he swung back into Dean's field of view, looking him right in the eye. ]

About our conversation, earlier.

[ It was hard not to bite his lip, or slow down. Castiel didn't want to delay Dean getting to bed, but he felt like it was important to get these words out, for there to be absolutely no question between them. The last time, Dean had gone to bed thinking that he needed to fix Cas, and look at where that had led them? He couldn't let that happen this time, and so he forced himself to keep on speaking, drove through the words. ]

My...problems with my autonomic control aren't yours to worry about, or advise me on. As are the issues of my love life, or lack of it. If I wish to court anyone, I will do so, but unless I elect to involve you on my own terms, you have no responsibility to...to lend yourself in any way toward my happiness, gratuitous or otherwise.

Um. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I don't... [ Don't say it, Cas. ] I don't need you to lend me a hand any more. With my masturbatory issues.

[ Dean froze upon contact, distracted wholly by the arm around his waist, staring down at it as if it was doing by far more than just keeping him from walking forward. If anything, Dean was by far more distanced by that than Cas' words, his expression, his anything, just staring at the precarious gesture as if he could make it mean more than what it already did. It didn't help matters that he could have walked around, could have pried Cas' hand away, could have done anything to navigate himself from the situation because he just could have, but he stayed put like he'd been rooted to the spot, just staring.

Just listening.

And no, the words did not help.

Cas managed to speak and Dean refused to look up. He acted as if he was being punished, head hung, gaze cast down low, still staring at Cas' arm as if it might reach up and smack him to further impress upon the point his words were trying to make. That it wasn't Dean's business who Cas fucked - it wasn't - and that it wasn't Dean's business to find him someone to fuck - it wasn't. Dean knew that, in some regard, but he also felt a taut responsibility to distance himself in every way imaginable. If he could put someone else in his place perhaps it wouldn't hurt as much, if he could fill that gap with the idea of another body, then maybe that body wouldn't be his own. He didn't know, but he wanted to shove someone into Cas' arms that wasn't the shadow of himself and he wanted it to make sense. He wanted to give Cas someone so he didn't have to give himself into the idea of potential failure, of loss and demise, and he blinked hard, trying to forget, trying not to feel. ]

I got it.

[ Dean lifted a hand to try to quash any more words, fingers spread as if he could capture the wisps of words in invisible webbing. He could feel his heart crashing, could feel a steady ache that he couldn't parse, and he still managed to clear his throat and try to look neutral. Try to look like he wasn't dying somewhere dank on the inside. ]

I'll keep my hands out of it.

Okay. Okay, thank you.

[ His hand stayed in place for just a moment, fingers curled in, and then Castiel turned his body away, opening up like the turning door in a stadium to give Dean room to step past him. He felt like he'd lost something, in some way, as Dean stepped away, but retreating was the best option all things considered, having the space of a wall and a door between them was wise, even if it wouldn't last for long.

Castiel would wait until he heard Dean's breathing settle into sleep, and then he'd be back in there, in the corner, watching him sleep through until morning. It was a bad habit that was even harder to break now he knew why he was doing it. ]

Goodnight. [ He called after him, before retreating to the couch, making out like that was where he planned to stay. ]

Yeah.

[ Dean didn't offer more than that because he couldn't, because the words wouldn't come. They hurt too much, ached somewhere strange and misplaced and Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, nervous and unsure. He felt lost, like he'd done something not only wrong but idiotic, as if he couldn't find where he was meant to be in any of his decisions. Had he just been drunk, stupid, unsure, trying too hard? That was it, wasn't it? That he wanted something for Cas that he couldn't have himself - he was trying to help a friend. He was trying to help.

Cas moved away and so Dean moved in tandem, walked away and felt the feet stretch between them, the pull and tug of their existence constantly caught between what was supposed to be and what wasn't and Dean refused to glance over his shoulder as he made his way to his bedroom and tripped the door halfway shut behind him. It felt wrong to close it entirely, felt strange to cut Cas off, and so he didn't, instead simply toppling into bed, stuffing a pillow beneath his cheek and turning his face away from everything he could deign to see. He hid from it all, hid from himself, and refused to come unwound even now. Instead he bound himself tighter, strained muscles and squeezed his eyes shut tight and refused to see anything in the darkness of it, refused to see what he told himself wasn't there.

And eventually he fell asleep. It took awhile but it always did, pent up on energy and nerves and his own failures streaking across his mind until there was none of him left, until that was all of him that was there to begin with. ]

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