Author's Note: Fuck the police! Fuck writing seminars! Fuck that shirtless hot guy across the street washing his car!

Ooo yeah fuck him. You heard me, guy in fedora on a Vespa. I said fuck him. All night. Get on dat ass. DO IT TO IT.

Wait, where was I? Oh right. I never said this was going to often frequently, but I appreciate anyone who feels like reading my super slow updates (or favorites it, or leaves a comment, or tolerates reading through the entire chapter). But if it's any comfort, it's not like there's much plot for y'all to forget.

Today's update is brought to you by the letter MY GIRLFRIEND, the number IS FUCKING AWESOME, and the color AND IF ANYONE WHO TELLS HER OTHERWISE IS A COCKSUCKER.

Now, go forth, enjoy Dean being a terrible doctor, and Cas being anxious, forget your Season Seven woes, and try to ignore the typos and grammatical errors.

Anna perches on the bed next to her husband, a new nightgown with white lace around the collar in her hands. He is already in his nightclothes, stretched out under the covers and watching her finger the lace nervously.

"If I go change in another room," she says finally, not looking up from the nightgown, "would you be ready to… act as a husband by the time I return?"

Castiel's feet twist in the sheets behind her, and he mumbles his assent.

Glancing up at him, she nods and then swiftly leans forward, knocking their mouths together so hard that their teeth nearly clash together. She jumps to her feet and scurries out of the room.

Castiel looks up at the ceiling over the bed and moves one hand under the blankets. He touches his flaccid penis, and remembers how good it felt to have an orgasm. Anna could do that for him, like Dean did. He strokes himself, remembering how the doctor had rushed toward him in the closet, and held him so tightly in so many ways.

His eyes flutter for a moment, and his mouth goes lax as he remembers, member swelling against his fingers.

The door opens and Anna shuffles inside, closing it softly behind her. She pauses to blow out the candle, and then crosses to the bed, climbing under the blankets and shifting to the center of the bed. Castiel knows she'll wait for him to meet her there.

He drops his hand and rolls to face her, so that their noses touch. She kisses him, and the touch against his lips makes his penis grow longer, stiffer. His tongue thrusts into her mouth, and she gasps softly, pressing her small form against his.

"Oh, Castiel," she whispers, and he pauses. Her soft hand is quick to move between them, searching his nightclothes for his erection. When she finds it, she rubs it gently with the palm of her hand once, before wrapping her fingers around it. She rucks his nightclothes up around his hips and explores his cock with gentle, curious fingers.

He remembers Dean's firm, confident touch.

"Husband, let me be your wife," she murmurs, and strokes him once so effectively that his entire body shivers. His penis begins to go soft in her hands

"No, no," Castiel gasps and yanks out of her hands. She moves after him, and even in the dark he can see the concern and embarrassment on her face.

"Did I hurt you?" she asks, touching his shoulder. He jerks away from her again. "Please, Castiel, please don't. I'm sorry. I can learn to do it right."

His entire body is shaking, his hands trembling so hard that he can barely pull his nightclothes back down. "No," he mumbles. "No, no, no. It's just not right."

"Please," she begs again, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Please don't. Don't send me home. I love you. Tell me what to do. I can do it, just tell me." Her voice warbles perilously and she reaches out to tug at his sleeve.

He steps out of her reach as though she has burned him, and clutches at himself. He wants to tell her to calm down, that she's only making it worse for him, and it will take time. Instead, he runs out of the room to the guest bedroom, where he slams the door shut and crawls into the empty bed.

But the trembling does not stop. He feels sick inside, as though he has committed a horrible crime. For a moment, he wishes the doctor was there with him. He would know how to handle this situation. He could fix Castiel and this horrible marriage.

Castiel falls asleep with heavy, aching eyes, clutching the blankets to his chest.

Dean chases a pea around his plate with his fork as he listens to Samuel drone about profit margins and the rising cost of laudanum. He doesn't care about these things.

Although, since Castiel has come in to see him, Dean finds himself caring very little about anything else, from the fine scotch in his liquor cabinet, to the beautiful women who visit the Winchester practice. Not even the thought of Dean's favorite activity, monthly hunts with Samuel for the white-tailed deer that plague the farms surrounding the city, has swayed his attention.

"Dean." Sam's voice is loud, and irritated. Dean looks up from the pea to see his brother's face twisted like a petulant child's.

"Sam," Dean replies, putting his fork down. "I think I should retire for the evening."

"Were you listening to me?" Samuel demands. If his hair were plaited, Dean would have sworn up and down that his brother had transformed into a ten year-old little girl.

"No," Dean tells him, and takes a sip from his glass of wine. "Not even a little."

"I got a letter from Father this morning."

Dean stops drinking, but leaves the cup at his lips for a moment before pulling it away a few inches to stare at the dark red ripples of the wine. The time it would take a letter to reach them from California, John could have already died, or moved again, or started another family.

"… and you know I respect your mail, but I want to know where he is too, and the last time he wrote, you ignored the letter for two months."

"It's fine," Dean says distractedly, waving a hand. He glances up at Samuel, waiting to hear what was in the letter.

His brother obviously interprets the look correctly, because his face pinches and he mutters, "If you'd just read it for yourself, we could…" He stops and huffs in irritation, then straightens up. "He's asking for money again. His provisions are running out, and a group of ex-soldiers are trying to scare him off his land."

"Are we sending it to him?" Dean asks blandly, slumping in his chair and dropping his cup of wine to the table. He would rather be anywhere else right now.

Samuel looks at him helplessly for a moment. "I don't know. You know what I think about it already. But if you want to send him money, I won't try to stop you."

"He's your father too," Dean says sharply, then regrets it when Samuel cringes.

"He's my father within the limits of New England, and not wasting the money we earned on some fool dream," Samuel mutters under his breath.

Dean brings a hand to his face and rubs at his temple, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "And if they bury him in some field because we didn't help him, then he won't be anything to anyone."

Samuel says nothing. Getting to his feet, Dean drops his napkin on the peas. They no longer look appetizing, and he feels like giving up. He's tired of this argument with Sam, but even before their father had left, he'd been tired of every other argument.

"I'll send him fifty dollars in the morning." His brother's soft voice reaches him as he steps out of the dining room. Dean nods his thanks, and begins to climb the stairs to his bedroom.

When he gets to the landing, at the window that looks out across the river, he stops. There are snow flurries falling, melting as they touch the cobblestone outside. He's not sure why it happens, but suddenly Castiel is back in his mind.

The shock of what had happened in the restaurant has not faded. The desire had surprised Dean, but the fact that he'd acted upon those desires was absolutely bizarre.

He wonders if the urges of his heart are signs of a weakness, of the loss of his mind's virility. Has the stress of losing his father robbed him of his ability to make good decisions? Has Sam transferring his dissatisfaction from their only parent onto Dean broken his spirit? Has running the clinic without any other medical aid finally led him down a Godless heathen path to Hell?

Dean sighs wearily and decides he does not care. He looks away from the falling snow and resumes climbing the stairs to his bedroom. Once he is safely ensconced inside, in dressing gown and cap, he finds his day's mail on a tray by his bed. There is a packet of papers, a newsletter from some nonsensical doctor who'd cornered him at a conference, and begged until Dean had agreed to give him his address to be sent the man's scientific writings. He'd called himself a sexologist, or something peculiar like that.

The newsletter is always odd, but usually interesting.

Tonight, as Dean tucks himself into bed, he unseals the packet and begins to read. His mouth falls open and an embarrassed flush covers his face. He can't look away from the tiny print, and finds himself reading at an ungodly pace.

Sexology, indeed.

Castiel stands across the street from the clinic on nervous legs, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other. His breath comes out in short small puffs of steam in the cold air, chest so tight that he wonders how he's breathing at all. In the only window stands an extraordinarily tall man with mousy brown hair, who glances at him, and then at something inside the clinic.

Reminding himself that he must go inside and speak to Dr. Winchester, Castiel chews on the inside of his cheek and worries at the ripped seam of his glove. He paces once, twice, three times past the lamppost, before finally stepping out into the road, and darting across the street in front of a carriage. The driver shouts at him, but Castiel ignores him, stepping up to the clinic door and going inside.

The tall man looks up at him, alarm on his face. "You were nearly mown down," he says, astonished, looking out the window, where he believes Castiel to have nearly lost his life, then back up at the man himself.

"I move too quickly for that," Castiel replies.

The man takes this as some kind of assurance, and nods slowly. "I'm Samuel Winchester. Are you here to pick up your wife?"

"No." Castiel removes his gloves, careful not to snag the loose thread.

"Then, can I help you schedule an appointment for her?" Samuel smiles pleasantly at him. The smile is identical to Dean's, and Castiel wonders if they are brothers.

"No."

The smile falters for a moment, and a confused look crosses Samuel's face. "Then… how can I help you, Mister…?"

"Novak," Castiel tells him, unraveling the scarf from around his neck. "I'm here to have an emergency consultation with Dr. Winchester."

Utter bewilderment is all that's left on Samuel's face, and he looks uncertainly at a door with Dean's name on it. "I…"

"Is he with a patient?" Castiel asks.

"No, but –"

"Thank you," Castiel says, and moves to the door. It opens, and Dean steps out, a file in hand.

It immediately falls to the floor and Dean's face flushes. His eyes fly to Samuel, and then back to Castiel.

"Dean, I –" Samuel starts and then gives the doctor a confused look.

"Uh, Castiel," Dean says, clearing his throat. "You're… here for…"

Castiel looks at Sam expectantly.

There is a pause before Sam says slowly, "An… emergency consultation?"

Dean stoops to gather the scatter file papers, then waves Castiel inside, and nods to Samuel. "Shut down the office, would you?"

"What?" Samuel asks, confused.

"Go take an early lunch, lock the door behind you, and I'll handle this," Dean snaps. "For heaven's sake, just go."

He guides Castiel inside with one hand, and shuts the office door behind them with the other. As he walks around his large oak desk, Castiel looks around the office. There are diplomas on the wall behind the desk, from Harvard and Harvard Medical School, and a single painting of a large black stallion to his right. Oak shelves that match the desk line the walls, filled with books and anatomical models. There is a cabinet behind Dean's desk filled with glass bottles of all shapes and sizes, except for the lowest shelf, which houses a new, highly polished shotgun. Castiel can hear Samuel stand up and move around in the outer office.

"So, Castiel," Dean says slowly, sitting and gesturing to a chair. "Three days and you're already back. I take it things did not go well with Anna?"

Castiel unbuttons his coat and sets his things on the back of the chair before sitting down. "I did what you told me," he tells Dean. "I did not touch myself after we had lunch. Anna and I made plans to consummate our marriage last night. I sent Anna from the room to change, and I aroused myself. She returned, lay in the bed with me, and I thought about how good it had felt to achieve an orgasm in the restaurant with you. It was working. She kissed me, and then she touched my penis."

There is silence as Dean rubs his forehead. "And then…?" He trails off, waiting for Castiel to work up the nerve to speak.

"And then I panicked," Castiel says finally. There is a modicum of shame that runs through him, and he hunches over, feeling like perhaps it will staunch the unpleasant feeling. "When she touched me. It was as though her fingers were razors."

"Did you maintain your erection?" Dean asks him, lowering his hands. Castiel can feel those pale eyes on him, and he wants to curl in on himself in shame.

"No, I was scared. It went soft." He can hear the defensiveness in his own voice, and adds, "I ran out of the room. She cried all night. I could hear her through the walls."

The doctor sucks on his lower lip briefly, then licks the upper, and clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly deeper. "Well, then Castiel, I think we should try some training. Some exercises."

"Exercises?" Castiel echoes.

"Some things you can practice on your own, or with another, to maintain an erection." He gets to his feet, and goes to the cabinet. He opens it and pulls out a vial of oil, then walks back around the desk. "As well as a way for you to practice masturbation."

Castiel swallows, heavy, nervous, and nods. Masturbation. The word, still so new and cumbersome, crude and bluntly spoken, but now so loaded with memories of wondrous sensations, is enough to make the blood begin flooding to his cock.

"Stand up and pull your trousers and drawers down," Dean orders, opening the vial. "Bend forward and put your hands on the desk."

Getting to his feet, the silversmith does as he is told, letting his clothing pool around his ankles, shirt hanging low around his hips, and palms flat on the cool mahogany. The doctor closes in behind him, so that Castiel can feel hot breath on skin behind his ear.

"Move your feet farther apart."

Castiel does so, and a hand reaches around the front of his body, closing on his slowly swelling prick. The slickness of the oil on Dean's fingers makes Castiel shiver and rise up on his toes for a few seconds.

"Very good," Dean says softly in his ear. "Holding still when you're being touched so intimately is important, Castiel."

Unable to move his thick tongue, Castiel chokes out a soft noise. The hand is gliding over his member smoothly, and he risks a glance down. The sight of Dean's hand pumping him floods him with the memory of the first time he'd seen a train engine. He'd only been a child, dumb struck with terror at the iron monster, deafeningly loud, white steam billowing around his head, eye-level with the grinding pistons and rods.

He makes a pathetic noise and curls his hips forward, trying to get closer to the doctor's warm palm.

"You may feel some discomfort at first." The doctor's growls rumbles deep in Castiel's bones, his hot breath rolling down Castiel's neck in humid clouds, and the smaller man shivers involuntarily, unable to imagine Dean as anything other than a relentless steam engine now. "Do your best to stay aroused."

Two fingers, wet and slimy, slip into the crevice of Castiel's ass before finding his hole and pressing lightly against it. It feels like a gentle massage, and Castiel cannot help the soft moan he lets out. One finger pushes into him for a second, and it is uncomfortable, tight and unpleasant. The fingers circle his anus again and again, occasionally sliding up the stretch of skin behind his testicles, rubbing up into him gently, and Cas's back involuntarily curls at every stroke.

"Excellent," Dean breathes, his body now tightly pressed to Castiel's, hands still moving fluidly beneath his patient.

Castiel wants to demand how the doctor is able to keep up both motions, while Castiel himself can barely stand for how violently his knees are trembling. But his mouth isn't working. A strangled noise comes out of him, and Dean's lips are wet and shaking on the skin behind his ear.

"You're doing so well, Cas." Dean's voice is soft, and panting. "So very, very well." One of his fingers slips into Castiel again, and this time he can feel the muscles of his anus fluttering around it, so much less uncomfortable. "Can you feel that? Your body is ready."

The digit pushes further in, until Castiel can feel Dean's other fingers pressed against his body. For a moment the idea of Dean behind inside him is overwhelming; and the finger in his body wiggles. It does not hurt, but Castiel still cringes, concentration broken and wondering how this will help his Hysteria. The finger finds something firm to press against inside of him, and begins to rub against it.

It feels odd, tickling, and Castiel suddenly has to urinate.

"Stop," Castiel gasps, finally finding his tongue. "I… I need to relieve myself."

"No you don't," Dean says hotly against his throat. "Just wait for a moment. It will get better, I promise."

The finger pulls out, and slowly pushes back in, joined by a second. Castiel whines softly, shifting on his feet, until the hand on his erection stops pumping him and moves to his hip, to hold him still.

"Keep waiting," Dean says softly. "Remember to not move."

The intrusion feels so huge, so wide, more than Castiel can handle.

"Dean, what is the purpose of this?" Castiel whispers, closing his eyes and trying to not pull away from the thickness of the slick fingers.

"Touch your penis," Dean instructs him. Castiel moves one hand to his prick and strokes it lightly. "Again, harder." Obediently, Castiel grips himself tighter and strokes again.

The fingers inside him find the knot again, and begin to massage it. The urge to urinate is back, but the tickling warmth returns stronger as well, and Castiel whines softly, moving his hand faster on his erection.

Fluid is pouring from the tip of his penis thickly now, coating his hand, but not the semen he associates with orgasm. The fingers inside of him feel so good now that he can barely stand it, and holding still is no longer an option.

He bucks his hips back toward Dean, trying to get more of the intense pressure, his body shuddering with excitement.

Dean makes a noise of pure want, and Castiel can feel the doctor begin to rock his hips against Castiel's thigh. The thick length of his own penis presses against Castiel, and he opens his eyes. On the wall behind the doctor's desk, now at eye level with Castiel, is the diploma from Harvard Medical School.

No. Wait a moment. Castiel squints.

Harvelle Medical School. Harvelle?

"That's your prostate gland I'm manipulating," Dean whispers in his ear, and Cas forgets the diploma, closing his eyes again and stiffening his throat to keep from moaning. "I've read that sexual inverts use it to lie with one another, as a man would lie with his wife."

Castiel cannot hold the moan in any longer, and it comes out high and reedy as his body is wrenched into an orgasm. Waves of pleasure roll through him, and he can feel his body clamping down tightly on Dean's fingers, the gland inside him throbbing in time with his prick. He can feel his seed splashing wetly on his feet, on his legs, can hear it on the desk, warm on the palm of his hand.

"Perfect, Cas, so perfect," Dean gasps against Castiel's skin. "So marvelous. So perfect. Your body…" He thrusts his clothed erection against Castiel's hip again and Cas lets out a broken guttural sound. "Your grace…"

"Please," Castiel begs, cringing when Dean's fingers move slightly against his tender insides. "Please no more."

Slowly, carefully, Dean removes his fingers, holding Castiel tightly around his chest when the silversmith cringes.

When his fingers are fully removed, he tries to gather himself, and releases Cas, intending to take a step away. Instead, Castiel slowly sinks to his knees on the floor, and Dean tries to grab at him to prevent his descent. His patient pivots and leans his body against Dean's legs, pressing his face to the crease of his hip.

"Castiel," Dean gasps, as the nose of the other man brushes against his erection. "Are you well? Do you feel dizzy, or nauseous?"

All Castiel can manage is a soft dry sob, and whimpering, "Why do you make me feel this way?"

"Ah, Cas!" Dean puts his unsoiled hand on Castiel's head, which has begun to nuzzle against his cock. But when he doesn't pull Castiel away, Castiel presses a kiss to the firm length of flesh and Dean breathes, "No, you mustn't."

Castiel cannot stop himself from parting his lips and mouthing the erection he can feel through the trousers. He licks a long stripe up the fabric, then mouthing again near the head of Dean's penis.

Dean is whispering Castiel's new nickname over and over again, begging, pleading for him to… to… to what? Castiel can't tell. Stop? Keep going?

He wants, so fiercely, to keep going. The strength of the emotion takes him aback. He sucks sharply on the fabric in his mouth, and the hand on his head presses him tighter to the body in front of him.

And then, before Castiel can consider the consequences of these actions, Dean jerks his hips forward into Castiel's face and grunts. His body trembles, erection spasmodically twitching beneath warm, wet lips, and then stills.

They hold still for a long time, both panting softly. Fingers sift through Castiel's hair, making him pull away slightly, to tilt his head back and look up at the doctor. After another moment, Dean's eyes open with trepidation, and he looks down at the silversmith. They stare at one another.

Castiel swallows thickly, and realizes with a sinking pit in his stomach, that his life has become incomprehensibly more complicated.