ASKED FOR IT
"What the hell, Cas? What're you - "
"You have done something wrong," said Cas, calmly, almost meditatively. His hand smoothed over the dip of Dean's back. "Ergo, you ought to be punished."
Dean gaped. Or, well - he gaped at Cas's shoes, his stupid tax accountant shoes, because they were all he could see from this angle, draped like an errant schoolboy over Castiel's lap. "You can't be serious."
"The pizza man seemed to think he was justified."
"Cas. You. Are not. The pizza man."
"No, but I am your 'delivery boy', as you so quaintly put it, delivering... 'cans of whoop ass', I believe you said?"
"I'm sorry insulted your pride, or damaged your archangel cred, or whatever - "
"No," said Cas, very quietly. "You are not sorry." He raised his hand. "But you will be."
And Dean was. Oh, dear God, he was.