Title: If It's Not Rough, It Isn't Fun
Spoilers: Highschool AU.
Warnings: plotting, masked!Castiel
Word Count: ~5,500
Summary: The Friday after that night, Dean still hasn't figured out the identity of the masked man who rocked his world. Now he and his friends are playing a prank on the drama department and Dean can't shake the feeling that he's stepping back onto the guy's turf, and he might not be too pleased to see him.
Notes: Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own.
"And after he's been hooked I'll play the one that's on his heart…woah woah -."
"Dude." Dean is broken out of his little reverie by the sound of his teammate and best friend's voice – Michael is watching him with a raised eyebrow and an amused smirk and Dean finds himself flushing, but rolls his shoulders and tilts his chin up towards the other teenager. "What are you singing?"
"Fucked if I know," Dean mutters, real irritation coloring his voice – damn song had been stuck in his head for days now and he can't even remember how it got there. He doesn't even know the damn song, let alone who sings it and it's really been getting on his nerves. "Sam must've been playing chick music again – can't get the damn thing outta my head."
"Whatever." A roll of his pale green eyes, the subject forgotten, and Dean slams shut his locker door after putting the rest of his books back – it's a fucking Friday, he's not going to worry about protecting his rep today. "Gabe, Crowley and I are thinkin' of pulling that prank on the drama department this weekend. You in?"
Unbidden, a flash of a white-and-black dramatic mask swirls in Dean's mind's eye and he blinks, flushing a darker color, his fists clenching just slightly at the feeling of suit cloth under his fingertips, the hot bite of a claiming kiss against his mouth – a dirty-rough voice growling in his ear, calling him names, ordering him around, a body fucking him into complete bliss.
He swallows, realizes Michael's still waiting for his answer. "Yeah, assumin' I got nothin' else goin' on," he says, straightening. So much for letting himself relax – the prank involves deep infiltration of the theatre studio's backstage area, and Dean shivers, feeling like somehow he's encroaching on someone else's turf.
Not that that ever bothered him before, but one does tend to have a certain change of outlook when a certain person who belongs in that turf can push him around, call him boy and fuck him until he can't think straight.
And knew his name.
It has been exactly four days since that night. Why the school scheduled that damn ball on a Monday night Dean will never know, but it had turned out to be the best night of Dean's life. He'd had fun, danced, drank, and then…
He still hasn't figured out who it was. It has to be someone at the school because it was a closed event, and the idea that someone would specifically sneak in just to fuck him from another school sent all sorts of creeped-out shivers up his spine. If anyone knows anything, though, they sure as Hell aren't giving themselves away. Dean feels like he's been playing a very complex and subtle game of cat and mouse, only this cat has invisible paws and doesn't care if Dean tries to run or not.
"Fuck that, man, I'm pickin' you up tonight. Be ready." Michael turns away and before Dean can protest, there's the harsh thump of something hitting his shoulder, and he turns around to see another kid stumbling.
"Watch it!" he mutters, reaching out a hand to steady the kid anyway – Dean's got some muscle on him and even a glancing hit can be enough to knock someone over. Especially this kid, who looks like he'd be one hundred-ten pounds dripping wet, with a shock of jet black hair and the brightest blue eyes Dean thinks he's ever seen.
"Sorry!" the kid says, grinning wide and flushing a little, a pretty pink stain along his cheeks. Dean licks his lips without thinking about his, fingers trailing down the other boy's arm instead of just letting go once he was sure he wouldn't fall over. "Wasn't looking where I was going. Sorry!" And then he's backing away, still smiling in that embarrassed way, and Dean licks his lips again.
God damn it.
Castiel's smile disappears when he turns back around, fingers digging in tight to his books. So, Dean will be in the auditorium tonight. With his friends, but it's easy enough to isolate someone in the mess of backstage and changing rooms the school is blessed with. Yes, shouldn't be trouble at all.
He smirks to himself as he walks out of the front doors of the school, towards his car and slips inside, ready to drive home and get himself ready. The way Dean had looked at him, as though seeing him for the first time – perhaps it was the first time all over again for Dean. A shock to his system had left him raw, reborn, perfect for the taking.
And Castiel intends to do just that; Dean is a lump of clay ready to be molded to Castiel's will, and he can't wait.
He hears Michael's car horn outside at eight at night, and takes a deep breath to steel himself. He feels shaky, lightheaded almost and his heart is beating a mile a minute. He doesn't know why – knows the man from that night probably doesn't haunt the damn place but, God damn it, he feels like a ghost to Dean. Appearing to play some kinky mind trick on Dean and then disappearing when he's done.
Dean wants more than anything in the world to find out who that man was. His body burns with the desire to know, to have, to take that again. Someone who's willing to just own him, treat him like he might break but they don't fucking care either way – someone who can wring Dean's pleasure from his very soul, make his body sing. It was the best sex of Dean's life and he gets a little flare of heat up his spine just thinking about it.
That sort of connection isn't something he wants to have just once. It's just getting there that's making him so messed up.
"Get the lead outta your ass, Winchester!" Michael yells as Dean leaves his house, running to the car and getting in. Gabriel is next to him in the back seat, Crowley up front, and he slams the door behind him as Michael peels away from his house. He feels their eyes on him and flushes, sinking down in the seat a little further, shoving his backpack into the foot well.
"What's crawled up your ass and died?" Crowley snipes, noting the silence coming from the youngest in their group, and Dean fixes a glare at him. "We interrupt your wanking time?"
"Go fuck yourself, Crowley," Dean snaps back, but is smiling now – easy banter, this he can deal with, as the tension in the car unravels and they all sink back into their usual hatred of each other. He leans forward between the two front seats and grins at the distasteful look Crowley puts on, pretending to brush Dean's presence off his shoulder. "I ain't seen that many people fallin' over themselves to get a piece of you."
"That reminds me," Crowley says, seemingly ignoring Dean's last retort and the younger boy falls back, grinning and fist bumping Gabriel. "A little birdy told me you were seen dancing with a hot little thing at the ball on Monday."
"You went to that thing?" Michael asks, glancing in the rear-view mirror and snorting. "Dude."
"Good thing I did," Dean says, maybe a little too loudly. That shaky feeling is coming back to him – stupid as it seems, he hadn't realized then how public that must have been, him dancing with the other guy, whoever it was. He can only hope that people assume it was a girl or no one cared enough to pay attention. "She was a demon, Mike, best fuckin' blowjob mouth on her in school, I swear."
"Other than yours," Michael snaps back with a laugh, earning a hit to the back of his head.
There is a pause. "I heard that you were seen with a guy," Gabriel says after a moment, almost too quietly to hear, but Crowley has bat hearing when it comes to gossip, and Dean speaks just a moment too slow for Dean to protect or cover it up.
"Oh, how delicious," Crowley says, turning around and fixing Dean with a sly smile. The boy is blushing, looking more scared than shocked. "A male, Winchester, your beer-goggles must have been absolutely blinding."
"A guy?" Michael asks, getting the picture, and he sounds like he's choking, but he doesn't sound angry or shocked or anything – he sounds like he's just heard the best fucking joke in his life. "You got – Dean, you got sucked off by a fucking guy, didn't you?"
"I…" Dean can't think of a single damn thing to say, but they're all looking at him like he's the funniest fucking thing they've ever seen and maybe, maybe , he can own it. He coughs. "Whatever, if any of you had done it you'd be singing fuckin' praises too."
Michael's still laughing, almost to the point where Dean's worried if he can still drive, and Crowley's joining in and not one of them looking like they're judging him. Gabriel's just smirking and shaking his head and he's looking at Dean in a way that Dean maybe thinks he's totally been there too which is why he's giving him the least amount of shit.
They don't need to know that it was him on his knees, begging to do the sucking, begging to be fucked. Whatever. Doesn't matter. He's got this.
Everything is set and ready. He can hear them coming a mile off – for something that will get them into trouble, they're not being very quiet about it. Maybe they don't care – maybe they can't care, but Castiel is relying on that. He loosely tangles his fingers with each other, gloved hands sliding easily along each other before he braces himself against the railing on the bridge suspended over the stage from the flies. There is only one real way in worth considering, and that is from the top door at the back of the auditorium. He will be able to see them coming a long way off, before they can see him.
He hears them stumbling around the corridor outside, and leaves the bridge in time for them to switch on the lights.
Time to play.
"Dude, shut up!" Michael hisses as he hauls in a gasoline container full of glue and firecrackers (how he expects that one to work Dean will never know, but whatever, he's not really here for the pranking part of the night.
"You shut up," Gabriel bites back, running down the main aisle to the stage and climbing onto it. "And hurry up, I think I saw Principle Adler's lights still on."
"Fuck," Crowley hisses. "He's meant to be vacationing this week."
"Really?" Dean asks, helping to lift more containers filled with things that, by the smell, Dean doesn't really want to know what's in them, and looking around. "Why is he here then?"
"Fucked if I know, dude has no life," Michael replies with a roll of his shoulders. "Okay, Dean, you stand guard. Let's get this shit done and be outta here." They all disappear into the darkness behind the stage, leaving Dean alone with no one but himself for company, and he sighs, taking the steps back up to the top two at a time until he reaches the door, and cracks it open to look down the corridor. There isn't anyone – there wouldn't be. Even if the Principle had seen their car, the drama department is pretty much as far away as they can physically get from his office and he's too far away to hear anything. Their real worry is a janitor might come along or something.
Dean swallows a little, feeling guilty. Michael's prank will probably be more messy than anything else. He shakes the thought off – not his problem.
"You look lonely."
Dean freezes, whirling around at the familiar voice, and his eyes widen when he sees the mask that has been haunting the back of his mind since that night. "Holy -." A gloved hand presses over his mouth, and the man cocks his head to one side. Dean can tell that he's smiling even without seeing his face.
"Hush now," the voice says, slightly muffled as fingers tighten over Dean's mouth, and the man presses closer. "What brings you here this time of night?"
Dean's absolutely frozen, can't talk anyway behind the smooth stretch of black material over his mouth – he's just staring, wide-eyed and almost pinned back against the door. He can see a flash of blue in the light, just peeking out of the slits of the mask, when the man turns his head.
There's the sound of one of the gasoline containers falling, then a muffled curse from Michael and Gabriel, and the masked man turns his head, taking a step away from Dean. "It looks like your friends are returning," he says, all smooth growl and Dean feels his knees shiver with the urge to give out. He wants more than anything in his life, for this man to take him away and find some dark, dirty corner and he just wants, more than anything, to know who this man is.
The masked man takes another step back and without thinking Dean's following, reaching out to try and grab him and pull him back. "Wait!" he demands, more breathless and pleading than he had meant to sound, but it makes the man stop. "Who are you?"
He can hear the bastard smirking. "Dean," he says with a sigh, shaking his head. "I like this game. Why would I stop playing?"
"What are you hiding from?" Dean demands, taking another step forward, glaring into the mask's eyes, growling at the defiant tilt of the shorter man's chin. "You…you think it's just okay to put on a mask and assume no one will find you? That you can do anything you want?"
"I don't think you're the person to lecture me on hiding, Mister Winchester," the man replies, that growl coming back full-force like a wolf cornering prey, and Dean feels his entire body shiver as he takes a step forward, hand flying out and curling around Dean's throat to press him back. The material of his glove feels smooth and soft against Dean's skin, saddle of his thumb and forefinger fitting perfectly in the curve below his larynx, and the hold is just hard enough to be threatening but Dean doesn't feel afraid. Knows, though he has no reason to, that this man won't hurt him. Actually trusts him, if you can believe it. "You, with all your bravado and reputation. I could destroy you with a word or a well-placed camera. I can bring you to your knees –" The hand releases Dean, strokes up the side of his face as the man presses closer, his voice softening, "with nothing more than a touch."
God help him, Dean feels like his heart is going to leap out of his throat, and he's hard, and he wants so badly, his fingers flexing by his sides and it feels like he can't fucking move.
"Why?" he has to ask, voice coming out shaky and weak. "Why all this? Why me?"
Just then, Michael and Gabriel and Crowley come back from backstage, and whatever the man might have said was lost. Dean can hear him smiling again. "Sorry, sweetheart," he says, leaning in close and letting his fingers trail over Dean's cheek before he's pulling away, black clothes helping him blend with the darkness of the auditorium. "Some other time, maybe."
"Dude!" He's gone, then, disappeared just like that, and Dean can't help but think that maybe this is some fucked-up hallucination that he can't shake. "You ready? Let's get the hell outta here!"
Dean follows Michael, Gabriel and Crowley as they run out of the auditorium and back to Michael's car, piling in and peeling away. They're laughing, telling each other what badasses they are and how much this is going to suck for Miss Barnes, the dramatic arts professor, but Dean is numb to their conversation – his body feels like it's on fire, and he can't shake the feeling that he's still being watched, though that's impossible.
When he gets home there is a piece of paper taped to his front door addressed to him and, with shaking hands, he opens it.
Tomorrow night, the auditorium, ten.
That's all it says, and Dean turns the paper around, front and back, just to be sure. "He was…" His hands are shaking again. "Fuck. Fuck."
He has to know who this guy is. He has to. His head feels like it's one fire and he trembles with the idea of finally learning the man's identity, or at least hearing the growl of his voice again, feeling the hard muscle and hidden strength in his hands as he pins Dean to the wall and fucks him senseless. He needs to know. He needs to.
It's Saturday night and the school is a ghost town. It would be at this time of night – Dean's pretty sure even the janitors have locked up and left behind he has to climb through the shaky window on the second floor outside of the arts department, over the skips behind the back of the school. It's shaky work but he manages to jiggle the lock open and slip inside.
When he enters, the auditorium looks empty, and he frowns, checking his watch. Alright, so he is technically early by a couple of minutes, but he'd never figured that the guy would be so punctual. He sighs, trotting down the middle aisle, content to wait on the stage for the mystery man to show up. Besides, sitting down will mean his legs don't have to support him and that's good because he feels like he's about to collapse.
As soon as he sits down he's almost blinded by a spotlight blinking on, and flinches, raising his hand to block out the light. "What the hell?" he yells out, a little shiver running up his spine when he realizes that the man is there.
"Hello, Dean." The man's voice comes on over a microphone so Dean's can't tell where he is, and the younger man gets to his feet, looking around and blinking at his eyes adjust to the bright light. "So kind of you to honor my note. And early to boot. You must be an eager little thing."
"Where are you?" Dean demands, turning around to try and get his bearing, see if the man is lurking in the wings of the stage or in the seats. His eyes finally adjust to the spotlight and he looks up, sees the edges of shoes in the middle aisle of the auditorium and his eyes widen.
"I see you've found me." Then, the microphone gets switched off and Dean hears a thump as it is tossed to the side. "Did you miss me, Dean?"
"How do you even know my name?" Dean demands, stepping closer to the edge of the stage. He can see a little better, now, the bottom of the man's slacks and a shock of hair on his head, and he realizes with a shaft of excitement that he must not be wearing the mask, relying on the darkness to conceal himself.
"We share a class," the man replies, taking a step down. "I see you every day, Dean Winchester – every single day, the way you flirt with all the girls but never ask them out or take them hope." Another step, a soft sigh then as the man tilts his head. "The way you keep looking at the guys when you think no one can see. You are good at hiding, Dean."
Dean is silent as those words sink in, and he feels himself flush, embarrassed and horrified. So he knows – well, of course he knows – but apparently Dean hasn't been as subtle as he had hoped. It's not like he's ashamed, he just…hangs out with the kinds of people who might be. Would treat him different. Call him a fag and actually mean it and use it with the intent to hurt him.
"Not good enough," he murmurs, looking down now as the man takes another step forward.
"Don't sell yourself short," he says. "I'm very good at watching."
"Yeah," Dean replies, snorting and forcing a smirk to his face. "You're a real Grade-A perv, you know that?"
"I don't hide what I am," comes the reply.
"Says the man in a mask."
There is a pause, then, and Dean has a brief moment to feel like he's won, before something moves – a small device with a little red dot on the top, blinking in the light, and then the spotlight shuts off with a click and the device joins the microphone on the floor. Dean can't see a damn thing. But he can hear – hear the soft footsteps approaching the stage, hear the man when he climbs up onto it and Dean reaches out, helping him up and helping the man find him. Then there is a hand in his hair – ungloved, callus-rough against his scalp – nails biting down and tugging at his hair to tilt his head forward, force their mouths together. The kiss is rough but unhurried – this man has nowhere to be now and Dean shivers with the knowledge that they have all the time in the world and this man is probably going to do his damnedest to take it.
Dean moans softly, arching his body into the lean muscle of the smaller man's, his own hands wrapping around the man's shoulders. It feels weird, nails digging into a t-shirt and slacks where he remembers a suit and the smooth slide of gloves against his skin. Weird but so nice too, like this man is more human, and Dean can run his fingers through his hair and taste his mouth and feel the warm pants of breath against his neck as they rut together.
His hair is soft, thick and sleek between his fingers as he grabs at the man's head and tugs back, growls his own demands against the man's lips. He feels a low rumble against his chest, realizes it's coming from the other man, before there is a forearm against his chest, a leg around the back of his and a blow to his shoulder that sends them both crashing down, the stranger between Dean's legs and over him, winding him so that Dean can't move.
"Naughty," the man chides, claiming another kiss from Dean's panting mouth, before he rolls Dean over, forcing him down on his chest and knees to the floor. "Poor baby, you really must have missed me when I was gone," he whispers, voice a low snarl in Dean's ear and it makes the younger boy shudder, his legs spreading as he feels deft, knowing fingers tease at the button and zip of his jeans, undoing them slowly and peeling his clothes just far enough to get them out of the way.
That thought – the thought that he isn't even free himself yet, just enough of him bared for the mystery man to use him – sends a dirty, hot little thrill through Dean, who just makes a soft sound of assent and spreads his legs wider.
"Please," he whispers, forgetting his anger, forgetting his desire to know who this man is, overwhelmed with just the urge to have, yes, so close and it feels like it's been forever but he just can't care anymore. He hears a bottle open and close and then there is a finger, cold and slick with lube, pressing against his ass, pushing inside without preamble and Dean hisses, clenching up, shivering, and this is really happening again.
"Tighter this time," the man notes and Dean flushes, ducking his head away. "Hoping for a repeat performance?"
Dean doesn't answer – merely circles his hips and forces them back, forces the finger deeper inside of him, hissing when it curls to drag along his insides. Feel so damn good already and they haven't even started yet, and Dean's trembling and there's sweat dampening his t-shirt to his back.
"So eager," the man whispers, adding another finger inside of Dean, twisting and scissoring them to stretch Dean further until the boy lets out a soft little moan, and then a third, tight grip of Dean sucking him in eagerly, his body so fucking desperate for it it's a wonder he's made it this long. "Little slut."
Dean moans, body clenching tight when the fingers withdraw. "Please," he begs, stretching his arms out above is head and arching back until he feels the promising bulge of the man's arousal against his ass. He's still clothed, naked skin brushing against the material of his pants and Dean hopes with a little savage growl that he gets lube all over the front of them and has just as bad of a walk of shame as Dean will have.
Then, he hears another zip and the ruffling of clothing and then there's pressure – finally – and Dean groans, forehead resting against the smooth surface of the stage as the man presses into him, blunt head of his cock forcing Dean's body to stretch and part around him, sealing tight around the flared head and sucking him in. Yes – every part of Dean is sighing in satisfaction and he's pushing back, forcing the man in faster than he would have normally let it go, but damn it all he needs, needs this like fucking air.
"Fuck," the man groans, hands clenching tight around Dean's hips and Dean can feel the weight of him pressed against his back, hair tickling the back of his neck and jut of his nose digging against Dean's spine, the warmth of his heavy and shaky breath against Dean's sweat-dampened shirt. God it feels good, knowing he's affected this man the same way, and he deliberately clenches tight around the stranger, forcing another shudder and soft groan out of him, before the man is pulling back and rutting forward again, deep – as deep as he can go – fat weight of his cock dragging along Dean's insides by far the best Goddamned feeling in the world.
"Come on," Dean snarls when he does nothing but shallow, short little thrusts – they feel good, yes, but Dean knows the power in this man, the grip of his hands on Dean's shoulders and the pistoning of his hips like he's trying to fuck the life out of Dean. "Come on, is that all you got?"
The man snarls at him, jaws opening to lock around the closest part of Dean he can bite – the meat of his shoulder, tense from bracing himself, and he just goes crazy – feels like the thrusts are reaching his throat, and the sharp point of pain makes Dean's body spasm, clench up suffocatingly tightly around the man as he thrusts forward, hard enough that even Dean's legs can't support him and he has to give up, flattening himself to the floor with only his hips raised for better access, and the man is still going and fuck, his cock isn't getting any friction aside from the blunt pressure of the floor and the inside of his underwear but it feels so fucking good he might not need anything and -.
"Dean." The voice snaps him back to the present, and Dean gives a short, bitten-back moan behind clenched teeth. "Do it. Come."
That's all it takes – fuck, Dean's pretty sure all this guy could tell him in the middle of a crowded street and he would be helpless to obey – as Dean locks up around him and screams. "Fuck!" It's intense, hitting him right between the eyes and ripped out of his entire body – vaguely he's aware of the man stilling behind him, gritting out a harsh profanity against the back of his neck and another sharp pain as he bites again, stifling his moan against Dean's flesh. It's warm and wet on the inside – he didn't wear a condom this time and Dean wonders why the sudden change – the lack of protection, the lack of a mask. Of anything. But it's so much more satisfying, hearing the soft, sated moan of the man on top of him without the barrier of a mask, and Dean lifts on hand, carding it through his sweaty hair as he comes down, still trembling from the aftershocks of such an intense orgasm.
When the man is done, he pulls out slowly – gently, not wanting to hurt Dean on the exit – but he doesn't go far. Dean doesn't hear him leave, merely put his clothes back on properly, and he heaves a tired breath, shoving himself up to his knees.
"Will you ever tell me?" he asks, wiping a hand across his face and turning around, knowing somehow that the man is still standing behind him, and then there is a hand, fingers loosely cupping his chin and tilting his face up, and the man kneels down in front of him.
He sighs, breath wafting over Dean's face, and presses a chaste kiss to the younger teen's forehead. "I'll see you on Monday, Dean," he says, before he leaves the stage and walks back up the middle aisle, taking the remote and microphone with him. As the door opens and closes at the top, the lights flicker on, so Dean will be able to clothe himself and make his way out without tripping over or killing himself.
"Damn it," he mutters, settling back down on his toes and wiping a hand over his face again. God fucking damn it.
Monday morning and Dean feels like a permanent rain cloud has settled over his head. He doesn't want to keep going around like this, jumping at every male that passes him by, wondering if they're him, and wondering if they'll give themselves away – tired of looking into every word or gesture around him, feeling like everyone is talking about him. Maybe they can see the bruises bitten into his back, or smell the come on him, or be able to tell that he got fucked in the ass and that's why he can't walk straight.
He's at his locker, finishes taking the books out he'll need, stuffing them into his backpack and shouldering it, when it suddenly closes, making him jump. It's that kid from before who had knocked into him, with bright sky-blue eyes and messy black hair, but he's not smiling this time and Dean can't think of a single time he hasn't seen the kid smiling, when he's noticing him there at all.
"Um, hey," he says, unable to meet the kid's focused expression for more than a second before he looks down at the ground, scratching the back of his head.
"That song you've had stuck in your head?" the kid – Dean thinks his name is Castiel or Cassiel or something like that – says, one corner of his mouth tilting up slightly. "It's called 'Poker Face'. I thought it suited the mask you were wearing that night. It's been stuck in my head too."
It takes a second for his words to sink in. "You…?" The kid grins wider, a predatory kind of smile that makes Dean shiver, and he turns around, unable to believe it. "You?"
"You seem shocked, Dean," the kid replies, smiling wide and cocking his head to one side. "I could slam you up against these lockers right now and prove it. I think by now you've memorized the feeling of my cock fucking you senseless."
"Jesus -." And then Castiel is kissing him – slamming him up against his locker and owning his mouth and Jesus fuck, that is definitely him. No one else could own Dean is such a way, so casually, like he's doing something as simple as collecting the morning paper, teeth biting sharply, tongue sliding in like he owns Dean's mouth and he fucking does. With his hand in Dean's hair, tugging back, one thigh slotting in easily between Dean's own legs – he fucking owns Dean.
"I'm done wearing a mask, Dean," Castiel rasps against his jaw when he pulls away, and Dean can feel eyes on him but Castiel doesn't seem to give a rat's ass and if he doesn't then fuck it. One hand strokes down the side of his face, hot and gentle at the same time and Dean finds himself leaning into the touch before he can help himself. "Are you?"
Dean swallows, and then all he can do is nod, but it's worth it for the pleased, proud look on Castiel's face, and he leans in for another kiss – this one more chaste but no less passionate, one of Dean's arms wrapping around Castiel's waist and tugging him close.
Dean is a little late for first period. And second period. And third – and then by that point he kind of decides to fuck the rest of the day. So does Castiel.
Who wants to bet that was just coincidence.