Author's Note: Well, I didn't want to post this before I'd finished it, but I feel extraordinarily celebratory today.

So all y'all bitches are gonna celebrate with me! Get out your fuckin' party hats! And then get in the kitchen and make me a cake.

You know what I like? As of seven months ago, Supernatural. Also, sexologists of the Victorian era. Those guys were RIDICULOUS and wrong waaaay more often than they were right. But they were also groundbreakers and pioneers. Good on 'em for that. Anyway, these two loves got fumbled up in my head, and a few weeks ago I barfed this story out onto my keyboard.

WARNING: The stuff you read in this story does not represent modern scientific theories (or my own theories) on the way human bodies and sexuality work. Do not take Dean's advice. This spawns from a time when the female sex drive was considered to be a psychological disorder, and gay men were thought to be male bodies inhabited by female souls.

It is not the thin, nervous young woman who catches Dean's eye outside of his office on that cold Wednesday. She is rather pretty, and Dean would be the first to admit it. Although he would also admit that her nose is a little narrow, and her hair is a touch too red, and her neck looks like as though her head is balanced precariously atop it. Still, she has a gentle smile and enough life in her eyes to warm the cockles of any man's heart.

"Ah, Dr. Winchester?" She darts forward, skirts rustling around her ankles, and pulling her shawl closer around herself. "You are the physician, aren't you?"

"Yes," he replies with a confused smile, raising a hand to tip his hat at the young woman. It is not often he is recognized in the streets, let alone by someone he has never met.

"And you… you diagnose…" Her large eyes fill with tears, and he immediately reaches for the handkerchief in his breast pocket. She accepts it and dabs at the tears, which sparkle in a rather fetching way in the fading evening light. "You cure Hysteria, don't you?"

"That's a delicate matter to be discussing on the street, Miss…"

"Mrs. Novak," she sniffles into his hankie. It is silk, and he can't help but feel a pang for its loss. "Anna Novak."

"Mrs. Novak," he repeats with a forced smile.

Dean doesn't like to have discussions with patients. The sign over his practice's door reads "Winchester and Sons" for a reason. Dean gives physicals, diagnoses, treats, and writes prescriptions. That's it. It's his brother Samuel who interacts with patients, gathering personal information and symptoms, handling legal issues, working out payment plans and – on the rare occasion it is needed – dispensing emotional counsel after their treatment.

Dean privately refers to it as Inane Verbal Ejaculate Time with Sam.

He clears his throat and says, "If you believe yourself to be suffering from the affliction, you should make an appointment during office hours. And please don't worry yourself, the discretion of my clinic is –"

"No," she interrupts loudly, and he closes his mouth. "It's… not for me. It's for my husband." She gestures to the man standing quietly behind her. He's half in the shadows, his top hat tilted forward to obscure his face.

"Your… husband?" Dean echoes her, confused.

The man removes the hat from his dark hair and holds it front of his chest, inclining his head in a nod. His eyes are a piercing blue, and his expression is so solemn that it looks as though his face had been chiseled out of stone. He says nothing, simply stares at Dean expectantly

"Yes, well, I suppose I could… have a look. Or something like that," Dean says lamely, unable to look away from the man, who is now staring back at him.

No, it is not the pretty redheaded woman with tears in her eyes and trembling lips who catches Dean's eye.

It is her silent husband.

"We've been married four months," Anna informs Dean as he ushers them into an examination room. "Before we moved to Boston, we lived in Poughkeepsie, which is where we grew up. My parents lived there their whole lives, and I just knew we needed to leave or we'd just wither away like they did. And my Castiel makes the prettiest baubles out of silver, rings and bracelets and the like, so we knew we could make it alright here. Friends were difficult to find at first because…"

Dean rubs at his temples, trying not to think about how horrible this woman is. He feels an inordinate amount of pity for the man; Castiel was it? What sort of a name is that?

He glances at the man and once more finds himself unable to tear his eyes away. The man is watching him closely, and Dean swallows. This appointment is ridiculous, and he wishes he hadn't let them in, but they seem strangely confused about Hysteria. Moreover, he has no desire to humiliate them both by asking them to return during hours when other patients could see them.

"Mrs. Novak," he intones, and finally averts his eyes from Castiel's to look at her. She stops and absently wrings her gloves in her hands. "I've asked you both inside because I wanted to explain that you've made an awkward mistake. Hysteria is a disorder that befalls women. It simply doesn't affect men."

The woman crosses her arms indignantly and twists her mouth. "Dr. Winchester, I am shocked that a learned man like yourself is so adverse to aiding an ailing patient, even if he suffers from something rare and socially embarrassing. It is thoughts like that which destroy the noble profession of medicine and medical science. Why I –"

"Alright!" he explodes, holding his hands up, and sitting in a chair. Listening to the blasted woman blather on is not something he wants to do tonight. He gestures to the examination table and another chair. "Sit down. Tell me why you think your husband is the first recorded male to suffer Hysteria."

Anna settles herself into the chair as her husband carefully lifts himself to sit on the table. She smoothes her skirts and straightens her spine.

"As I said, we've been married four months," she says. "In that time there has been…" she glances uncomfortably at the door, then at her husband, "… no consummation of the marriage. He is never aroused in bed, but becomes extraordinarily excited in inappropriate places. He becomes so worked up that he hyperventilates, and sometimes ends up going days without sleeping."

She looks anxious. Meanwhile, Castiel looks almost bored, as though he hasn't even been listening to his wife. Dean nods thoughtfully.

"Very well, Mrs. Novak, would you be so kind as to step into the waiting room? I'll need to speak to your husband alone."

She stands and pats her husband's knee gently before opening the door and going out into the waiting room.

"Castiel, was it?" Dean asks, getting to his feet and holding his hand out. When Castiel accepts it, his grip is warm, and firm, firmer than he'd expected.

"Yes." His voice nearly makes Dean jump out of his skin. It's low and gravelly.

"I want to level with you," Dean tells him. "Female hysteria has to do with a woman becoming too wound up. It's generally cured with either extreme bed rest or sexual relief provided by her husband." Castiel says nothing, watching him quietly. "It doesn't happen to men."

Dean expects t this to create some sort of embarrassment or well, really, ANY reaction from the man, but he continues to sit on the table, expressionless. So the doctor clears his throat and speaks again.

"What I'm trying to tell you is: you need to make love to your wife. It's how the human race reproduces, and it's what you are expected to do."

The silence in the room is suddenly oppressive, and Castiel swallows audibly.

"I… don't understand," he admits. Dean gives him a puzzled expression. "What she wants from me. Or what you're telling me."

Dean's jaw sets. This is not what he had in mind for his evening; the bottle of scotch his maid will have set out is calling for him to come home. "She wants you to achieve an erection with your penis and put it into her vagina," he says shortly.

"An erection?" Castiel frowns at him.

"When your penis becomes hard," Dean snaps. He does not generally work with men, and it boggles his mind that one of his own could be so dense about this sort of thing. The man must have grown up incredibly sheltered.

The uncomprehending expression turns into a look of impatience. "Obviously I can't control when that happens," Castiel tells him shortly. "She's not around when it does."

Where is Sam when Dean needs him?

"My advice is to physically manipulate yourself when she is around, in order to achieve full arousal," Dean tells him stiffly. "Or, if that is too awkward, maintain sexual thoughts."

"I…" A look somewhere between frustration and anger passes across Castiel's face. "I don't understand any of this. What do you mean manipulate myself? What sexual thoughts? Thinking about what sex will be like with her? Nothing happens when I do that."

Dean puts a hand on his lower back and presses gently into the stiff muscle. He really wants to go home. The carriage he'd seen in the street is undoubtedly gone by now, which means he'll have to walk the seven blocks home in the cold, and it's already been a long day.

"Very well. Let's presume you have Hysteria then, shall we?" he says, and moves forward to the examination table. "I prescribe genital massage for this type of situation, and since your wife is incapable, your physician will administer. Take off your trousers and drawers."

Obediently, face still somber, Castiel unbuttons his trousers and drawers, and stands, sliding them to the floor. He steps out of them and picks them up to rest them on the examination table again. When he sits back down, Dean opens a cabinet and removes a bottle of oil, and pours some into the palm of his hand.

As he approaches Castiel, the man's adam's apple bobs, and his jaw flexes. His cock is already half hard, and it twitches once when Dean reaches for it.

"Will this hurt, Doctor?" Castiel asks, voice tight.

Dean says nothing, gently smearing the oil over his genitals.

The speed of Castiel's breath increases, and Dean lifts his clean hand to press against the other man's throat, checking his pulse. Castiel's blood pounds heavily against the thin skin of his throat, against the pads of Dean's fingers, and for a few moments, as their skin touches, Dean forgets that he's supposed to count.

"Is it normal?" Castiel asks him thickly.

"What?" Dean squints at him for a moment.

"My pulse. Is it normal?"

"Yes," Dean replies, lowering his hand. It's a lie, he hasn't checked, but he can see just by looking at his patient that the man has an increased heart rate. He looks down at Castiel's cock, now jutting up between his thighs from the nest of dark hair that climbs up his belly to his ribs.

His fingers press to the tip of Castiel's penis, the head slick with pre-ejaculate. There is soft noise of surprise and the penis jumps beneath his fingers.

"I… that didn't hurt," Castiel mumbles quickly. "It…" He trails off as Dean begins to spread the oil over the thin, soft skin of his shaft.

"Just relax," Dean instructs him, "and pay attention. This is something you can learn to do on your own."

"On m…" The smaller man's voice hitches and his mouth remains open, his shoulders tensing forward. His gaze flies to Dean's face, but Dean is focused on his erection.

He grips the cock around the base and rubs the oil into the skin with his thumb. When he tightens his fist and begins slowly pulling at Castiel, the smaller man nearly leaps into the air.

One of his hands snatches at the doctor's lapel, and he gasps, jerking them tightly together.

"Relax," Dean repeats, and puts his hand over Castiel's.

"N-no, you… mmm." Castiel squeezes his eyes close and presses his mouth tightly into a thin line, shaking hard.

The pit of Dean's belly coils helplessly as he masturbates Castiel, perspiration beading along his upper lip and the nape of his neck. He wants to yank away from the hand on his lapel, to stop the fingers from stretching the fine wool.

Yet he allows Castiel to draw him closer, until there is a face pressed into the starched cotton of his shirt.

"Doctor," Castiel growls into his shirt.

"Dean," he mumbles back, not sure why he's allowing a patient to use his first name.

"Yes." Castiel mutters something incoherent after it, his shoulders shaking violently.

"There's a good man," Dean breathes, and tugs faster on Castiel's cock. He can feel the length of his own cock along his thigh now, tugging at the restraint of his silk drawers and wool trousers. This arousal is a singular event, and he tries immediately to push it as far from his mind as he can. "Come on then. You're close now, aren't you? Relax, Cas, let it happen. Good man."

Castiel doubles over and makes a choking noise, chest heaving deeply. Jism floods over Dean's fingers, and he carefully catches it, preventing it from spilling onto Castiel's legs. He begins to step away from his patient, who is panting lightly. The fingers on his lapel tighten.

"Dean," Castiel says. He lifts his face to catch Dean's eyes with his own, and they look at each other for a very, very long moment.

Those eyes are not so blue now that they're only inches away, and Castiel's face isn't so round, his mouth not so pink and sweetly solemn, his nose not so gently upturned, his eyebrows not so soft and feathery, the worried line creased into his not-so-very soft skin not nearly so tenderly endearing.

Dr. Winchester, not Dean.

The correction nearly leaves Dean's mouth as they stare at one another. He is suddenly scared of the way he can't look away from Castiel's not-so-very beautiful face, and craves the anonymity that his professional title provides. He pats Castiel's hand gently and pulls back again.

"That was… what I'm meant to do with Anna?" Castiel asks uncertainly.

"Into her, rather than onto her," Dean says, displaying the semen on his fingers for Castiel to see. "But yes. This is semen, and it will impregnate her." For a moment, as Dean looks at his hand, and can see – in his blurry peripheral vision – Castiel sitting half naked on the table, he is dizzy.

"And I… I've done it with you instead of her," Castiel says, his voice going faint. "Here. Just now." Dean tries to focus his eyes on the other man, and sees his face with a terrified and overwhelmed expression etched into it.

"Well… it's… not so simple," Dean stammers, then trails off as the dizziness hits him again, washing over him like nausea. He stops moving, pressing his clean hand to his forehead and closing his eyes. He reminds himself it was not like sex. They are two men. He is a doctor. It was no different than when he performs a genital massage on a woman.

But if that's true, why is his damnable prick still hard?

"Are you well?" Castiel asks behind him, concern in his voice.

"It has been an extraordinarily long day," Dean replies, the excuse sounding flimsy as he tries to ignore the discomfort his member is still causing him. "It is catching up with me."

"Thank you, then," Castiel says awkwardly, and Dean opens his eyes to reach for a clean cloth to wipe his hand. "For seeing me."

"Think nothing of it," Dean dismisses the gratitude with a short gesture. "Parents ought to teach these things to their children, but sometimes extra steps must be taken to ensure procreation occurs."

He turns back to Castiel, who has slid off the table and is pulling his drawers and trousers back up. Or rather, he was, as he has stopped and has an expression of complete failure on his face.

"I… I'm afraid I'm somewhat lacking," Castiel says slowly, and begins to button his trousers. "In my education of my own body. And hers as well, I suspect."

Dean watches him. The pressure in his groin tells him to push this man away and pretend this whole thing has never happened. Yet, he finds himself blurting, "If you'd like, tomorrow is my day off, and I could offer you a short lesson over lunch. So that perhaps you can teach your own children properly."

"I don't know if I would be able to accept such a generous offer after I have embarrassed myself here," Castiel tells him with a hopeful smile.

"Castiel?" Anna's worried voice calls from the waiting room. "Dr. Winchester?"

"You haven't embarrassed yourself," Dean says, putting a hand on the doorknob. Their eyes meet. "Lunch would be my pleasure."