I wrote this little one-shot for my friend Leslie's birthday.

It explains what are, to me, two of the greatest mysteries of the Supernatural world: why Dean recognised the name "Castiel" and how/why he got the teddy bear doctor badges we see in the episode with the wishing well.

And here is my overly-detailed, plot-riddled headcanon.

Pre-series, partial AU.

Enjoy!

The idea of teddy bears begins to seem hilarious.

Like, teddy bears, right—they're like bears, but they're not bears because bears are scary and teddy bears are so small and fluffy and you can tear their ears off and stuff—hilarious.

But then again, they're also kinda sad, if you think about it. They don't really have a choice in what you do to them. Like, when Dean was a kid, and Sam was an even younger kid, they used to beat the shit out of their only teddy bear (side note: would teddy bears shit stuffing?). Like, rip off its limbs and then sew them back on in weird or idiotically perverted places. But once they got older, they'd just stop sewing them back on. The teddy bear became this ugly little slug thing with mismatched buttons for eyes and no arms or legs or ears and no nose. And no one ever fixed it.

Fuck, man, that is tragic.

There are probably hundreds of teddy bears like that—no, thousands (whoa. Calm down, Dean. A thousand is a really big number, okay? Calm down). And no one ever fixes them, either!

That is deeply, profoundly wrong. Even wronger-er than the decision made by George Lucas to make Star Wars prequels. Capital W wrong.

There should be someone who fixes all the teddy bears. Like, if Santa and his creepy elf army can make them, someone should fix them.

Like a teddy bear doctor.

Teddy bears are people, too, right? And equality for everyone is what Dean supports. So if illegal immigrants and the homeless get free surgery for when their arms fall off, why shouldn't teddy bears?

Dean is seized with the incredible desire for social change. A new profession—screw this ghost hunting business, right? Let's all be teddy bear doctors.

…and then he remembers he's not qualified to be much of anything. A GED is hardly enough to gain a doctorate, even if it's in the healing of teddy bears.

But hey, man. Dean is higher than Alpha Centauri right now (and he's kind of ashamed of that because he has smoked one bowl, oh, my God, that is, like, nothing, what a lightweight, wow) and everything is possible to him.

After he's done laughing about the idea of teddy bears, and the idea of teddy bear doctors, and then just continuing laughing because he can't stop, not now, he regains some control of his limbs and manages to stumble over to his journal where he keeps a list of fake ID makers.

It takes him a while to find a suitable one, mostly because it's really hard to focus when the fucking letters keep fucking walking off the fucking page like little bugs or some shit, and then he just writes the address on his palm (which really tickles, and then he gets distracted for a few minutes trying to make it stop tickling) and tries really, really hard to make it out of the motel room and into his car.

Dad's been away for a few days, which is great, because Sam's still at college, and Dean has a few friends in Washington that know exactly what kind of tree Dean wants to interact with (hint: it ain't a sequoia). So they hooked him up, and while Dean holds down the fort and waits for John to finish up his little wendigo deal, he has a little fun.

There's been all sorts of drugs Dean has tried. He's never dumb enough to do them around Dad, or when they're hunting, but the second the motel door closes behind John? Out come the happy pills and the joints and yes, the cough syrup, and a few other less-than-pleasant experiences Dean doesn't exactly want to own up to. But he has fun, anyway.

From his monthly, secret phone calls to Dean, it seems like Sam is spending his college years… studying for exams. There are no parties he's going to, no sororities he's sneaking into after midnight. He's not doing anything Dean would do if the sensible, badass Winchester brother were at college. Kid always was an all-around loser.

That's why Dean is doing enough experimentin' for the both of them.

The only downside is that being high makes it kinda hard to drive.

Dad took the Impala, of course, so Dean needs to hotwire one of the cars in the hotel parking lot, which is also hard, because he keeps getting distracted by the way the light reflects off his ring and ha, who wrote those words on his hand? They had really awful handwriting, whoever they were—ooh, maybe that's an address—I wonder where that leads—and then he suddenly remembers what he's supposed to be doing, and after a few breathless moments of laughter at his own stupidity, succeeds in making the engine start.

Driving isn't exactly an easy task. Seattle isn't one of the cities Dean knows best; it also has lots of very bright lights and quite a lot of distracting architecture. Dean spends a good three minutes stalled at a red light laughing over the phallic nature of the Space Needle.

Nearly crashes a few times, too, but who can blame him? Road rage drivers are almost as hilarious as teddy bears. And the shiny lights of Seattle are so shiny.

Also, here's the thing about parallel parking: Dean can't. Not even when he's sober or clean or anything. Dad tried to teach him once and gave up, because Dean was so hopeless at it that John was worried he'd crash the car.

And the thing about the combination of Dean, marijuana, and parallel parking is that it literally cannot end well for anyone.

Dean ends up leaving the car at a horrible diagonal slant into the street—ah, fuck it, it's not mine, anyway—as a lost cause.

He's trying to make it to the doorway of the apartment building when he accidentally bumps into some chick. She gets handsy and then blushes all red and sends him a silly come-hither look and trails a hand down his arm, which makes him let out a stupid little giggle which turns into a hiccup because fuck, that tickles.

She sends him a look of disgust, only now interpreting the wideness of his pupils for what it really is, and strides away, heels clicking on the pavement like angry black beetles. Dean is mesmerized for a second or two, and then remembers what he's there for and resumes his journey towards the door.

There are stairs—Dean's oldest nemesis for when he's high or drunk or some weird combination of the two. Thankfully, there is a handrail, and a neatly labeled collection of buzzers at the top of the stairs by the otherwise passcode-locked door. He holds onto the handrail for dear life, imagining himself as an explorer hiking up Azkaban—no, no, that's from Harry Potter—Mount Doom—no, that isn't a real mountain—Everest, that's it. It's definitely cold enough. The happy buzz that kept him warm is slowly fading, leaving only the hiccups in its wake as he drags himself up to the door.

It takes him quite a while to make it to the buzzer, and longer still to track down the handwritten label that reads "Novak Services." Dean snorts, because that makes it sound a little bit like a different kind of service, but then he thinks that advertising a fake ID making system isn't exactly the sort of thing a good business would want, because cops are everywhere these days.

The button blinks at him, and Dean barks out a curse and stumbles back.

He peers at it, and it innocently stays still and inanimate.

"I'll teach you," he hisses, and with that threat, he decides to kill that motherfucking sassy door buzzer and presses it as hard as he can.

The metal is cold and feels like it's burning Dean's finger off, so he jerks his hand away and places his finger in his mouth, sucking on it like a petulant child. The situation begins to seem absurd, and he can't hold back his laugh, and then his hiccups come back, full-strength.

The speaker crackles, and a tired voice grates out, "Hello?"

Dean jumps, only pulling his finger out of his mouth in time to giggle and respond, "Hiiii."

A sigh that makes the speaker crackle again. Dean places his fingers over the metal and his grin only widens when it tickles his skin. "What do you want?"

"You gotta help me, man," Dean gasps out, trying as hard as he can to not laugh. "I gotta—I wanna be a doctor, and—can you—help me? Be a doctor?"

"Yeah, sure," the voice on the other end says blandly. "Come on up."

The door buzzes open and Dean shouts a, "Thanks!" right into the speaker before pushing his way into the building.

Fuck. More stairs.

He looks at the now-smudged lettering on his palm and squints at it from every angle he can before managing to decipher the number "3." Looks like Novak Services is on the third floor.

Dean groans and begins his trek up.

By the third floor, his lungs are on fire and Dean begins to compose an epic ode in his head that he decides he wants engraved on his headstone. Headstone, he thinks dimly. There's a few good puns in there, probably.

He finally lurches to a halt in front of door 307—Novak Services, here it is. He knocks, and the gravelly voice from the speaker calls out, "It's open."

Dean is surprised to find the guy sounds just as raspy in real life as he does over a shitty intercom connection. Hell, he probably does even more smoking than Dean does. And so what if Dean has always had a little bit of a thing for raspy voices—it's not his fault he's naturally drawn to people that sound like they do a lot of either smoking or screaming; he's bound to have more fun with them than the normal-voiced kind.

The door doesn't say which direction it opens in, and Dean tries to push it, and after a few tries, there is an exasperated huff from the inside of the apartment. "You have to pull," the guy explains.

Dean feels himself blush and hiccup and then he pulls the door toward himself. It's a lot lighter than it looks, but also a lot heavier, because he ends up crashing into it and giggling uncontrollably at how clumsy he is.

After a few seconds of this, the guy evidently gets fed up with Dean's antics. "Do you wanna be a doctor or not?" he snaps.

"Sorry, sorry," Dean stammers out meekly, finally making it into the apartment and closing the door behind him.

The whole place reeks of patchouli and pot, which, although not usually one of Dean's favourite combinations (as every good subscriber to the Martha Stewart Living catalogue knows, patchouli should always be left alone as a scent; never mix drugs with home scent improvement, kids. That is a tip to live by) is oddly appealing here. The apartment itself—at least the front hallway—is cluttered with papers and weird printing devices and scrapbook-type things probably filled with different kinds of IDs for the replication. There's also a few really pretty, shiny bongs and other low-brow drug paraphernalia, and Dean is about to reach out for one, mouth forming into a little, impressed "o", when—

"Don't touch that," the raspy voice says sharply, and Dean jumps, not having seen anyone. "Look to your left," the guy adds, and Dean does. There's a wide doorway he didn't notice when he walked in that leads to a living room-type place. It is, unbelievably, even more cluttered than the hallway, and therefore it takes Dean a few seconds to find the speaker.

When he does, his mouth falls open and he gives another loud hiccup.

There's a kid sitting at a desk, silvery half-moon glasses perched on his nose, and he's got a cigarette hanging loosely from his left hand as he scribbles on a paper with his right. He glances up at Dean and his blue (Jesus fucking CHRIST those are really really blue ah like the sky or the ocean or the cover of a shitty-ass romance novel with a topless babe being fucked by Fabio on the front) eyes narrow slightly, which is good, because before, they were so wide they almost looked like they didn't fit on his face.

Or maybe that was just the magnifying effect of the glasses.

Dean tries to take a step forward and almost trips over a stack of books with fancy gold-embossed titles. This makes him gasp out a giggle and clutch desperately at the nearest wall for support. "So you're gonna make me a doctor?" he slurs, sending the kid a too-wide grin.

The blue-eyed boy stubs out his cigarette and rifles a hand through his messy, dark hair that makes him look like he's been fucking all day. Dean can't help but wonder if he has been, and can't help his subsequent jealousy, which isn't too weird for him, since he's used to jumping attractive people the second he sees them.

But damn, this kid.

The kid in question sighs and sits back in his chair. "Have you been driving in this state?" he asks, gesturing vaguely in Dean's direction.

Dean snorts. "Washington? Hah—yeah—I mean—when my dad needs rest, he lets me drive—and—and—we were just in Arizona, so I had to drive us most of the way through Washington since he drove until we crossed the—the—stateline? Is that what it's called?"

"Yes," Blue-Eyes grates out. "That is what the line between states is called. No, I meant in this intoxicated state."

"Dude," Dean gasps, "there's a state called Intox—tox—toxIntoxicated? Sign me up—I wanna go there next. Hey, I thought we were in Washington."

"We are," comes the grave reply. "What the fuck are you on?"

Dean blinks. "I don't—um—pot?"

"Thought so." The kid waves Dean over, and Dean makes his stumbling way to the chair in front of the desk. "Now. What kind of doctor would you like to be, Mr.—?"

"Please," Dean drawls, flopping into the chair and leaning forward on his elbows, cupping his face in his hands, "Mr. Winchester is my dad. Call me Dean." He is immensely pleased with himself for finally getting a chance to use this line and can't stop his laughter.

The look he gets sends him shrinking back into himself and he thinks, If looks could kill, I'd be long salted and burned by now.

"Mr. Winchester," the boy drones, "I repeat. What kind of doctor would you like to be?"

Dean narrows his eyes and acquires a conspiratorial air. "So I was thinking," he begins.

"Well, don't hurt yourself," the kid says airily and leans back, staring at the ceiling. "But do continue."

Dean hiccups defensively. "I was thinkin'—teddy bears, right? An' someone—ears—doctor," he finishes, feeling as though he's just explained everything brilliantly.

A single raised eyebrow. "You… want to be a teddy bear doctor," the kid states flatly.

Dean nods and smiles ear-to-ear.

"I suppose that's possible," the kid sighs and clasps a pencil, beginning to sketch out a rectangular shape on the paper in front of him.

"Me'n'my brother Sam, too," Dean adds, fumbling inside his jacket and pulling out two snapshots that he always carries around in case of needing a fake ID made.

They are taken from him without even a glance at Dean.

Dean peers at the fast-moving pencil and the fingers holding it. "You have really nice hands," he blurts out, and the follow-up thought of I'd like them all over me makes him blush and giggle.

Finally, the kid pauses in his sketching and looks at Dean over the tops of his glasses with a frown. "…thank you."

"What's your name?" Dean presses, leaning onto the desk again.

The blue eyes return to the paper. "Castiel. It's supposed to be an angel name, but my parents screwed it up."

"Dude, badass," Dean enthuses, and is rewarded when a slight tinge of colour appears in Castiel's cheeks. "But—I'm too high to say a name with four—no, two—wait, no, hang on—three syllables, so I'm gonna call you Cas."

"I hate nicknames," Cas mutters absently, still sketching.

"Yeah, well, sucks," Dean says gleefully. "I like nicknames, and I like you."

He's high, so the filter between his brain and mouth is completely gone. And yeah, he likes Cas. Or, at the very least, his dick does, and it seems like that's what Dean's thinking with.

Cas sighs, slowly takes his glasses off, and looks Dean squarely in the eye. "Thank you. Okay, so returning to this teddy bear doctor business—"

"And you have really nice lips," Dean observes suddenly, reaching out with his left hand to trace along Cas's mouth with his fingertips.

Very, very calmly, Cas parts those lips a little and takes Dean's fingers into his mouth, so that they slide along the wet warmth of the inside of his lower lip and are scraped by his teeth. "Returning to the business," he says around Dean's fingers, and his teeth close and open on Dean's flesh, and his tongue is swirling around and Dean can feel it, and his lips suckle gently on the fingers, and Dean can't breathe. "Judging by the level of detail that'll be required to make these believable—I'm afraid they'll be rather pricey."

Dean finally finds words. "This is the most turned on I have ever been, ever," he says dumbly, and Cas's eyes flare just a little darker. He sets down his pencil and slides his right hand up the soft underside of Dean's left forearm, coaxing Dean's fingers out of that pretty mouth to press their palms together and lace their fingers tightly.

"Like I said, rather pricey," he continues dryly, as though nothing has happened, and that somehow makes it even hotter. "I'm not sure if a couple silly badges you got when you were high are worth this investment."

"How much?" Dean asks curiously, fingertips tingling a little.

Cas sighs. "Hundred and fifty, each." His tone lowers and his eyes darken. "Though I could be… persuaded to lower that to seventy," he says slowly, a tiny, dangerous smile revealing the teeth Dean had felt earlier.

It takes Dean a few seconds to decipher Cas's meaning, and when he does, his eyes widen. "You little whore," he accuses with a gleeful grin.

Cas's eyes flash. "I believe in this situation, you are the whore," he grates out, "Mr. Winchester."

This statement and the way it is said strikes Dean as amusing, and he can't hold back his quiet laugh, which eventually grows louder.

Cas releases Dean's hand. "Oh, shut up," he growls and shoves the desk to the left. It rolls away, and Dean blinks, not having realised it had wheels.

And then Castiel is in front of him, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him up into the hottest kiss of his life, all teeth and tongues and hungry little sounds and hands everywhere and Cas's slim, eager body rubbing up against him.

So here's the thing: Dean usually isn't the biggest fan of sex with men. It's been pretty boring every time he has had it.

Same thing with drunk-sex or stoned-sex; it's just all sloppy and unsatisfying.

But tonight? When Cas practically tears off his clothes, throws him up against a wall and makes Dean struggle and then bites him and hits this one spot that makes Dean's knees go weak, when Dean breaks free and all but throws Cas on the bed and finally gets him to gasp and cry out and moan and make every kind of beautiful sound imaginable and call Dean something other than "Mr. Winchester"—it's better than any drug, any liquor, anyone else Dean has ever been with. It's as though Cas is electric; everywhere he touches on Dean burns and makes Dean tremble and quiver with want, and when they are both spent and exhausted, limbs tangled together in the mint-green sheets, Dean falls asleep on Cas's chest and has the best dreams he's ever had.

He wakes up cold and alone.

The apartment is utterly silent apart from his own breathing: there are no machines whirring and making coffee, there are no pots clattering as Castiel moves around his kitchen.

No, Dean is wholly alone.

Which, he thinks, is kind of sad.

Because, stupid though it is, and he usually doesn't feel this or want this, he'd kind of really been looking forward to waking up next to Cas. Watching him move, all sleepy and pliant. Kissing him good morning. Spending some sober time together.

But that obviously isn't happening.

Dean groans, stretches, and sits up. Cas must actually be magic or something, because Dean has no trace of a hangover at all. Huh.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and sees his clothes in a neatly folded stack on the floor. There's a piece of what looks like a page from a hotel stationery notepad by it, covered in scrawly writing. He picks it up and reads:

Dean.

Good morning. Please don't touch anything in the fridge if you're hungry. It's all very expensive, not mine, and you'll probably only end up being allergic.

About the IDs—just leave seventy dollars (I'm feeling generous after last night, what can I say) on my desk and I'll have them ready in two days. They'll be in PO box 114 at the main post office in Seattle. Just ask for Novak Services or something—we've never had any trouble in the past on that front.

Have fun being a teddy bear doctor.

If you touch any of my drug-related things, I'll skin you alive.

Don't worry about locking the door—it locks itself after five minutes.

Have a nice day.

-Castiel

Dean's expression grows sour. He sets the note down and begins to tug on his clothes.

So Cas really was just looking for a quick lay. God, Dean had been right to call him a whore last night.

Well, fine.

Dean finishes getting dressed and strides out of the apartment after leaving the money on the desk, slamming the door behind him without a backward glance.

The gust of wind that this action creates sweeps through the apartment and flips over the note on the bed, revealing a back that Dean hadn't seen.

On it is written 206-555-7318. And in small, almost uncertain letters under it, Please.

It is three years later. Dean is 27. Dad is dead and it's just Sam with him now.

They're holed up in a motel in Michigan, having just worked a shapeshifter case. They ganked the son-of-a-bitch, no problem, and are now relaxing in front of the TV. Dean opens up Sam's laptop, trying to find the listings. The webpage is open on Google News, and Dean thinks hey, what's the harm in letting it refresh.

The headline midway down the page makes him freeze, mouth going dry.

Seattle Youth Killed in Drive-By Shooting.

With shaking hands, Dean clicks the link, chiding himself for his paranoia, because the odds—there are so many "youths" in Seattle—

But it's him.

Castiel James Novak, 23, was pronounced dead at 6:37 AM this morning after being shot and killed on impact when a stray bullet—

There's a picture of him: the blue eyes are hollow and the smile is melancholy. He looks much older than when Dean met him.

Dean stops reading. God. Cas was only 20 when they met. And now he's dead.

Dean feels sick.

Sam comes up behind him and peers at the screen. "Seattle? Who's that? Oh, did you find another case?"

Dean slams the laptop shut. "No, no—it's nothing."

He can't sleep that night. He knows he'd only have nightmares if he did.

It's almost seven years later. Dean is 30 and fresh out of Hell—he feels like he's 70.

He's sitting at a table, holding Sam's hand and with the medium-slash-cougar's hand splayed out across the burned print on his shoulder. His eyes are closed, and Pamela is chanting.

"I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your—Castiel?"

Dean's eyes fly open.

"No, sorry, Castiel, I don't scare easy," Pamela continues through gritted teeth.

"C-Castiel?" Dean repeats, utterly stunned.

"Its name—it's trying to make me turn back—"

Lights start to flicker and the TV starts to hiss, but Dean's mind is whirling for other reasons: Cas had said it was an angel's name his parents screwed up, but when Dean did some research, he could only find Cassiel or Kafziel. But angels aren't real, Dean knows, so what the hell is this thing that pulled him out of Perdition doing with Cas's name?

It's around a week after that, and Dean and Bobby are standing in a barn, surrounded by sigils and wards and every kind of weapon imaginable. They've been there for a few hours already, and Dean is getting jittery, both from impatience and from curiosity about this Castiel thing.

And finally, the roof begins to shake and the lights begin to flicker.

Dean's hand tightens on his gun and he takes a shaky breath.

The barn doors swing open, and a trench coat-wearing, dark-haired figure strides in.

Bobby raises his gun and aims, but Dean shouts out a strangled "Wait!" and drops his own.

The figure gets close enough to where Dean can see its face, and—

"Cas!" Dean gasps, taking a step closer.

A tiny, proud smile slides across Cas's face, and his eyes, still too blue, drag slowly up and down Dean's body. "Hello, Dean."

Dean closes the distance between them and wraps his arms as tight as he can around Cas, lifting him up off the ground with the intensity of the hug. "I thought I'd never see you again—I mean, Jesus fucking Christ, Cas—"

"Put me down," Cas growls into his ear.

"And then—then I read the obit in the papers—"

"I said, put me down!" Cas snaps and promptly bites Dean's ear hard, making arousal thrill through Dean's body, but mostly pain. He quickly sets Cas down and steps back, frowning, one hand moving to press against his injured ear.

"…ow," Dean pouts.

Cas huffs and crosses his arms. "You're not fucking supposed to hug angels, dumbass," he chides, blue eyes flashing. "We're warriors of God, not teddy bears. Speaking of which, how's the business?"

Dean's mouth falls open. "Angels?" he repeats.

"Yes, Dean, angels. How else do you think you got out of Hell?" Cas asks sweetly, moving forward to press his right hand to where the mark is on Dean's left shoulder. Electricity crackles through Dean's blood and he trembles. "I led the siege for 40 years to get you out," Cas continues, smile proud. "I rebuilt you. Baby, I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition."

Dean snorts, pulling away. "Ha. Nice try. Angels aren't real. And even if they were, you're not one. Come on, Cas. We had sex in Seattle seven years ago!"

A surprised sound from Bobby.

Cas fucking snarls, shoving Dean in the chest and making him stumble backward, pressed up against the desk. "And why didn't you call me?" he demands, and Dean whimpers quietly as Cas strides in close.

And fuck, if the predatory little smile on Cas's face isn't the hottest thing Dean has ever seen.

"Call you?" Dean repeats confusedly. "Did you even give me your—"

"I used to wait by the phone for days… but it never rang," Cas whispers, trailing a finger along Dean's jaw. Dean shivers and closes his eyes. "Can you imagine the torture that was?"

"Yeah, I can," Dean snaps, his eyes opening again to glare at Cas. "I was just on the rack in Hell."

"I know. I know." Cas just barely brushes his lips along Dean's stubbled cheek. "That's why I pulled you out."

"But… why?" Dean asks bemusedly. "To give me a second chance at calling you, or something?"

Cas smirks. "Hmmm, maybe."

Dean looks him up and down when Cas moves away. "Your tie is on backwards," he observes.

"Maybe you can fix it for me."

"Or just take it off," Dean suggests, wrapping his fist in the tie and using that to pull Cas in close again. "Along with everything else you're wearing."

Cas laughs. "Easy, tiger. Although it is nice to know your sex drive is the same sober as not. But we'd both get a little cold here. Also, I'm pretty sure you'd go back to Hell for fucking an angel of the Lord."

"If it's anything like last time, it'd totally be worth it," Dean says with an easy grin and a wink. He grows silent, eyebrows furrowing. "Look. I know—I know you think I'm a total airhead 'cause I was stoned when we met—but even I know angels aren't real."

Cas's eyes flash and he steps back. "Oh, really?" he says coldly.

Thunder booms and tangible energy crackles around them. Cas's lips curl up into a triumphant smile and Dean's eyes go huge, because as lightning flashes, huge, dark silhouettes of what are undeniably wings are cast onto the back wall of the barn, stretching out all the way across the entire space.

Wings. Cas has wings.

The lightning stops, and Cas almost seems to deflate. "Ha. There you go."

Dean finally blinks and closes his mouth. "But—didn't you die?" he asks confusedly.

Cas nods, eyes glowing and lips parted. "Drive-by shooting. And then I got brought up to Heaven and recruited for a garrison. Joined the Family. They—they gave me all this ancient knowledge, Dean, and—it's like I remember the creation of the Earth—the fall of Rome—Gandhi—and Rosa Parks—being an angel. All this power. All this knowledge. It's incredible." He sighs, growing serious again. "And then I got assigned to save you. Simple as that."

"But why you?" Dean asks, eyes wide, and Cas shrugs.

"I dunno. I guess God works in—"

"If you say 'mysterious ways'," Dean begins threateningly, "I will stab you in the face and no teddy bear doctor will be able to fix you once I'm done."

Cas just laughs, throws his arms around Dean's neck, and kisses him.

Bobby breaks them up a few seconds later, demanding to know what the hell an angel of the Lord is doing grinding on Dean like a horny teenager and just what is actually going on.

After explaining to Bobby, and explaining to Sam, and explaining to every other Goddamn nosy person that asks, Cas uses his new angel powers to whisk them away to a motel down the road from Bobby's house and, according to Cas once they've regained their breaths (even though Cas technically doesn't need to breathe anymore), the sex they have is literally indescribable in any language that has ever been spoken on the entire planet (he speaks them all now, apparently, so he should know).

And this time, Dean doesn't wake up alone.

And he knows he never will again.