“Are you fucking kidding me,” Dean gasps. He pulls Castiel’s jacket off with both hands and doesn’t even bother shutting the door behind him. No point anyway. He bites down on Castiel’s lip without being cute about it.
“Dean,” Castiel hisses, helpless. His hands hover uselessly out to the sides as Dean pushes him deeper into his bedroom.
“‘I love you?’” Dean accuses, squeezing Castiel’s hips with those rough beautiful hands so hard that it would probably bruise anyone else. “Just like that, in front of everyone,” he says. He shoves Castiel down, hard.
Castiel bounces a little on the bed, right against Dean’s chest, quickly descending down on his. He looks like he was the one that got hit by a truck, eyes wide open in the oncoming headlights. “Dean.”
“Don’t,” Dean growls, ripping Castiel’s shirt open. Buttons scatter to the floor. His skin is pale, smooth, unblemished beneath the cotton. Soft and pliant where his nails dig into it. “You couldn’t even look me in the eye, you coward.”
Castiel can’t deny it or defend himself.
“Your last words,” Dean adds, dangerously close to a sob. “Were going to be…”
He pulls back from Castiel’s face and pants into his mouth. His nose brushes against Castiel’s in a kiss of its own. His lashes are wet.
“I love you,” he whispers.
Castiel reaches up and wraps his arms around Dean’s neck, drawing him into a hug. He knows, intuitively, that Dean isn’t repeating his own words from before. He’s just stating a fact.
And quite a personal one, from the way his lip quivers. The kind of fact that’s unwavering, heartfelt and secret but truer all the same as the seconds tick by, which makes it that much harder to confess to somebody else.
All the breath in Castiel’s body leaves him at once, painfully. Dean doesn’t give him the chance to say anything else before he surges forward again and kisses him, wet lashes cool against his skin. He’s gentler with it than before. His hands, still tacky with dried blood, come up to loosen Castiel’s tie. It slithers limply in his grip, cool and silky, and Castiel gasps when the fabric slides across his nipple. Dean bunches it in his grip against his knitted-back-together side.
“The… door,” Castiel sighs.
Dean turns his head and kisses his cheek. His ear. The bolt of his jaw. Dragging his warm, slack mouth along the rough skin of his neck. “Doesn’t matter,” he tells him.
That’s his serious voice.
Castiel swallows hard. Dean licks a long line up the column of his throat.
“Just be with me,” Dean pleads. His hands go to Castiel’s belt. “God, I really thought I was going to lose you,” he laughs, a little hoarse.
“I really thought I was going to die,” Castiel confesses, just on the right side of hysterical. He lifts his hips up just enough that Dean can pull his pants down over the swell of his ass. Castiel hesitantly reaches up and runs one hand through Dean’s hair.
He walks his fingers down until he’s cradling Dean’s face. Their eyes catch, and hold.
Without another word, Castiel starts divesting Dean of his clothing. They kiss and they kiss and they kiss until their faces rub raw with stubble burn and their lips are red and wet.
The door stays ajar, and the sounds of their hushed and anguished moans echo like old ghosts through the halls.