( He expected that stone-still reaction, not that he had much time to think about it. He forgets for long stints what Cas is actually like, the way he was during the few times Dean got to see him shoot his shot. Definitely not a virgin anymore, definitely not a statue, not an awkward fumbling blushing sub. In hindsight, he should have known better.
Now, it catches him off guard - hell of an understatement, frankly. A lightbulb pops like a gunshot in a way that makes him jolt, but before he can peel back to look there are hands locking him in and feet stepping him back. Dean's eyebrows shoot up even though his eyes stay closed, there's a sharply audible inhale through his nose, and... yeah, don't worry about the skill level, man. All his finely honed technical prowess goes blank when his hips hit the table.
It's Cas, first of all. Second of all, he's always been an absolute sucker for somebody that takes the reins once in a while during times like this. There's a buried lifetime in the back of his head, but even with those memories floating around this still feels brand friggin new. Like it's freaking junior prom, a little blood starts redirecting southward over the span of a half-dozen heartbeats.
But look, he's Dean Freaking Winchester. He adjusts, and after his long staggered pause he seems to almost melt into it. He finds his grove, he tilts his head. He furls fingers in the lapels of Cas's coat, fists tugging him into space he's already occupying. It feels like making out with a lightning rod, and he's not sure if it's because it's Cas, or if it's because it's Cas.
He might have wings now, but he still needs to breathe. It's with the grip he's got on Castiel's coat that he ultimately pushes him back a little -- the few inches it takes for him to be able to suck down a real breath. Maybe slow his hammering heart rate before his poor lifestyle choices kick in and give him a damn coronary right here on the spot. )
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Now, it catches him off guard - hell of an understatement, frankly. A lightbulb pops like a gunshot in a way that makes him jolt, but before he can peel back to look there are hands locking him in and feet stepping him back. Dean's eyebrows shoot up even though his eyes stay closed, there's a sharply audible inhale through his nose, and... yeah, don't worry about the skill level, man. All his finely honed technical prowess goes blank when his hips hit the table.
Wow. Um. Right. Yeah. Pizza man. Yep. That's. Okay.
Holy crap.
It's Cas, first of all. Second of all, he's always been an absolute sucker for somebody that takes the reins once in a while during times like this. There's a buried lifetime in the back of his head, but even with those memories floating around this still feels brand friggin new. Like it's freaking junior prom, a little blood starts redirecting southward over the span of a half-dozen heartbeats.
But look, he's Dean Freaking Winchester. He adjusts, and after his long staggered pause he seems to almost melt into it. He finds his grove, he tilts his head. He furls fingers in the lapels of Cas's coat, fists tugging him into space he's already occupying. It feels like making out with a lightning rod, and he's not sure if it's because it's Cas, or if it's because it's Cas.
He might have wings now, but he still needs to breathe. It's with the grip he's got on Castiel's coat that he ultimately pushes him back a little -- the few inches it takes for him to be able to suck down a real breath. Maybe slow his hammering heart rate before his poor lifestyle choices kick in and give him a damn coronary right here on the spot. )