Too much had happened. Too many people lost. Too much pain, too much hate. I'm just a man! Dean Winchester wanted to scream it to the world. To the universe. But he held it inside.

Then, there was Cas. Blue-eyed angel. He promised to love Dean, even when Dean could never love himself.

So it was inevitable, Dean supposed, that he'd find himself doing the thing (THE thing) he swore he'd never do.

On the front seat of the Impala.

Cas sat astride on his lap, with his hands on Dean's shoulders. Face to face. Chest to chest. Thing to...thing.

His breath fell over Dean like—well—feathers. Dean lifted his face to Cas', closed his eyes. Don't think about it, he told himself, as he felt the angel push his hands under his shirt and run them over his body.

Warm hands. With squared palms and strong fingers. A man's hands. But they ran reverently over his skin—worshiped him with their touch. Dean felt himself growing aroused. Hot damn. He'd never thought he'd get a hard-on for a guy.

Not a guy. Cas. Cas wasn't anything like a guy. He was an angel. So maybe—just maybe—getting it on with him wasn't wrong, or bad, or weird. It just was

Cas touched his lips to Dean's; Dean moaned slightly, letting his mouth drop open. When Cas' tongue tangled with Dean's, he grabbed the angel's hips and pressed his fingers in so deep he was sure he'd leave ten separate, fingertip-shaped bruises.

On his lap, the angel shifted, and Dean could feel his hard—don't think the word, don't say it, don't imagine it, just feel it—pressing alongside his own hard—I said, don't think it!—separated by their individual layers of clothing. That made him swell even more. He wanted to touch Cas. He lifted his hips to grind into him. He needed. To taste and feel and possess and be possessed and—


A sandalwood-scented breeze brushed Dean's cheeks just before he heard glass shattering. CRASHtinkleCRASHtinkle.


"What the…?" He opened his eyes to see Cas staring at him, blue eyes wide, black wings unfurled. And...hanging out the broken windows on either side of the Impala.


"My car!"

"Oh. I—I'm sorry, Dean." The angel said, his tone sorrowful. "When I get aroused, my wings get big."

Dean's erection deflated more rapidly that he could have imagined, but not fast enough, now that Baby's windows were broken. "What the fuck, Cas?"

"I—" Hoooooonk "Can you help me? My pinions are—" hooooonk—"apparently caught in the steering wheel."

"Sonovabitch!" He slid out from beneath the angel.

Cas fell face-first into the headrest, but the horn stopped blaring as he had room to get untangled.

Dean pushed Cas' wing out of the way with his forearm—ewww, not gonna touch that, aroused, big...I'm gonna hurl—and climbed out of the car on the passenger side. "Forget it, Cas. NOT gonna happen."

He stomped back into the bunker. Dammit. Forget sex with Cas. He'd have some pie, instead.

Sorry if you were expecting something slightly more provocative. But hey, there's pie. Never underestimate the soothing powers of a carb overload.