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Summary
Oh god. By the time Dean is visualizing, compulsively, the last good fuck he had, he knows that he’s made a mistake. Within the next mile of walking, he can’t even delude himself into ignoring it anymore; he can feel a trickle of moisture running down the inside of his thigh. Oh god.
Castiel has had plenty of time to get used to the idiosyncrasies of his symptoms, but the way his focus shifts towards this particular scent that reaches him on the barest breeze -- it’s somehow different.
And somehow he knows, automatically, that it’s not happy-heat-mate but scared and sick and alone.