This is probably the last instalment, because random PWP is pretty much concluded, though I kight revisit the idea of weightloss!Dean later because I just read 'Good in Bed' by Jennifer Weiner and it's given me ideas.

Castiel is having trouble.

He's having trouble sleeping, working, paying attention when Dean is talking to him from his seat across the desk. He's in a near constant state of blood buzzing arousal and having Dean around makes it worse, taking care of it only makes it worse, like thorns growing again with vicious insidiousness every time he cuts away their creeping influence. He's insanely grateful for the desk between them as his eyes travel from the cut of Dean's cheekbone, to his lips, the slight curve of his cheek, the way his shirt is taut on his upper arms, broad with muscle sheathed in soft flesh. He rakes his eyes down the firm pectorals, to the slight rise just above the leather belt and almost too tight tailored pants.


"Mmm?" he looks up sharply to find Dean tapping the desk irritably.

"I said, I lost four and a half pounds...pony up the steak, I'm turning vegan here."

"I said five pounds." Castiel says absently, thinking of 58 year old Mrs. Almany, the time he'd slammed three fingers in his car door, Gabriel downing chocolate liquor and throwing up on his couch. None of it helping.

Dean sighs.

"So weigh me, took forever to walk here, maybe that last half just..." he makes a 'phft' disappearing motion with his hand.

Castiel motions him towards the scales.

"Shoes off." He reminds him, and Dean kicks them off obediently, then opens his belt and slides it free.

Castiel swallows. He should not, not, have power in the condition he's in. Read – helpless infatuated, mostly hard and in need of fresh masturbatory material for the period of time he intends to spend lube soaked and flat out in his office, immediately after Dean's appointment.

But his ethical brain is being distracted by the calculation of the last time he'd actually had sex, or naked contact with anyone. So he's free to do whatever he wants.

"Clothes too." He says, and Dean looks at him quizzically. "Do you want an accurate reading or not?" he sighs, feigning belligerence. "You can keep your underwear on."

Dean wavers. "I don't really want anyone to know..." he folds his arms uncomfortable across his stomach, in a self-conscious gesture at odds with his usual personality. Castiel feels another slight throb of blood at the idea that Dean is shy, he has no idea of the effect he has, of how much Castiel is fighting the temptation to do whatever he can to preserve Dean in this form. Approachable, comfortable and just a little warm and soft.

"Steak." Is what he says, pointedly. And it works. Dean sighs and unclasps his pants, stripping them down and taking off his socks as well. Castiel watches, even though Dean probably thinks he shouldn't, he can't help it, watching the small fold in Dean's stomach as he bends, soft and toned, the slow unbuttoning of his shirt, awkward and abashed, revealing skin that's starved of sun, but light brown and freckled by nature. Castiel twitches the seam of his pants to one side and moves to stand behind Dean as the other man takes his place on the scale, thanking God for that small mercy, though being exposed to Dean's boxer briefs, snug and black and skin tight, is surely something of the devils work.

Dean shifts from foot to foot uneasily, crossing and uncrossing his arms over the small curve of his belly, hunching his shoulders and frowning down at himself.

He can hear Castiel breathing.

He hears Castiel all the time now of course, the mental voice that accompanies his hand as he touches himself. He hears him tell him he's good, (Oh so good) or that he should hold back or move faster, touch here, or there and press harder. He feels phantom measuring tape tracing his damp skin, light hands fluttering over his waist and abdomen, but never quite touching.

Oh God damn it.

He closes his eyes and tries to fight his reaction to the other man's presence. Why tight underwear? Why today. Though of course 'tight' and 'loose' were relative and most of his stuff was too snug now anyway, despite the small amount of weight he'd lost.

"Ok...I'm going to take some measurements now." Castiel's voice comes clear and calm over his shoulder, and then cold tape touches his skin and Dean jumps without meaning to. A warm hand traces the spot where the tape touched.

"Sorry." Castiel's says softly.

Dean swallows and tries to imagine Sam, naked and covered in broccoli, doing the backstroke through some blue cheese dip sprinkled with drain hair.

Not. Fucking. Working.

Castiel returns the tape to his skin and it skims, hand warm and pliant, against the swell of his stomach and his waist. Dean sucks in a breath, chest tight and heart thumping like he's downed a pint of coffee. Tension headache swelling in his temples as he tries to think of anything but Castiel standing right behind him, looking at him and almost touching him.

"Ok that's..." Castiel peers over his shoulder and Dean turns his head a little the other way, relising belatedly that in checking the measuring tape Castiel is looking straight down his body.

Dean lets the breath out shakily. Hears Castiel's hitch behind him.

Dean can feel the line of his own erection, pressing into the soft but skin-tight cotton of his underwear, sealing the hot flesh against his thigh. He can feel it burning there, dampening and pressing out, up, anywhere for sensation. Dean bites his tongue, hard, but the pain doesn't drive the heat out of his veins, the gooseflesh from his skin.

He waits for Cas to bustle away with forced professionalism, leaving him embarrassed on the scales.

Castiel's fingers touch the vulnerable skin of his side, too smooth to be an accident. Dean swallows and doesn't move, feeling a crawling embarrassment over his body and shame for his lack of control.


The fingers trail down and Dean shivers.

"You'd let me know..."

They find the band of his underwear, one fingertip pressing into his flesh to slide beneath.

"If I was doing anything..." His voice catches, fingers sliding out of his underwear to brush down his abdomen, side of one long finger trailing the length of his cock.

"To make you uncomfortable." He finishes into dead silence.

Dean can hear himself breathing, harsh and excited by the one light touch of index finger, running over the topside of the plump cock resting on his thigh. Castiel's breath is on the back of his neck, light by quick, small panting puffs of air.

Cas moves his hand a little and trails the finger along him again, and this time, Dean shudders and a small moan escapes thinly. The doctor's hand turns and four fingertips massage his length, delicately moving from root to tip, pressing over into the head before working back with light, even pressure.

"Tell me what you want me to do." Castiel murmurs, making the hairs on the back of Dean's neck prickle.

One handed, clumsy and shaking, Dean drags down the waistband of his underwear, taking Cas's hand in his own and laying his fingers directly on the overheated skin of his cock. Castiel presses his face into the side of Dean's neck, hand closing around the rigid flesh briefly before he raises his hand, over Dean's shoulder, licking his palm in one quick move, and returning it to where Dean's underwear is bunched around his thighs.

Dean moans at the contact, Castiel buries his face in the hot skin of his neck, his other hand tugging his pants open and shoving them and his underwear down. Dean's body jerks as Castiel fumbles the back of his underwear over his buttocks and down his thighs a little, but he rocks back against the Doctor when he feels the press of his erection against his skin, rutting helplessly between his cheeks as Castiel strokes Dean's cock one handed.

Castiel's other palm cups the softness of Dean's belly, fingering the trail of hair and cradling the smooth warm flesh as he moans into the back of Dean's neck. His hand moves quickly, firmly and with a good deal of practice, the motion made easier by his position behind the other man. Dean's knees feel disconnected, his legs shaking with effort as Castiel rubs him harder and jerks behind him, spreading slickness up his cleft with a last thrust, spurting again against the small of his back, a harsh gasp and a cry stirring the hair at the nape of Dean's neck.

Castiel finishes him, looking over his shoulder, down Dean's flushed chest to where both his hands are touching him, one kneading his stomach, the other slipping up and down his cock to its own rhythm. Castiel rubs his spent cock against the swell of flesh before him, still wet with his release, watching Dean twitch in his hand and then pulse readily over his fingers with a short groan.

Panting, Dean leans a hand against the scale to keep upright, Castiel leaning against his back and breathing heavily as he strokes Dean back to softness.

"Cas..." Dean whimpers at the next touch, overly used and sensitive to the touch.

Castiel stops touching him and moves away for a second.

"Don't turn around." He says, when Dean starts to move. Dean stays facing the wall over the scales.

"What are we doing?" He asks hoarsely.

He hears cloth hitting the floor and shivers at the thought of Castiel, naked, then jumps as warm skin returns to press against his back. Castiel turns him and presses him to the wall, eyes fixed to Dean's as he slowly pushes his bunched underwear down to where Dean can slip his feet out of it.

"Anything." Castiel says, and kisses him, warm and wet and greedy, like he's wanted to for a long time. He breaks away to look Dean in the eye again. "And then, we get steak."