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Dean Winchester is not a saint.
It wouldn’t even really be all that much an exaggeration to say the very foundation of his identity revolves around killing things. It’s not his fault – that’s just the way John raised him.
Turns out having a sawed-off forced into your hand as a kid is one helluva formative experience. Who knew?
Ultimately though, it doesn’t matter whether or not the ends justify the means; when you eat, sleep, and breathe murder, Dean is pretty sure they take your name out of the hat.
Donning the mantle of hero from time to time is one thing. But sainthood?
Well, that's been out of the question from the moment Mary Winchester's body ignited on that nursery ceiling. Hell, even if it weren’t impossible based solely on the line of work decided for Dean at the tender age of four, by forty he's accumulated enough bad habits to ensure he never ascends.
Vices are largely how he's managed to make it this far.
From the bottom of an empty bottle to the eager heat of another person's body, it's easier to forget the horror show that is his life when he finds opportunities to dabble in the good stuff. Sure, he’s mellowed a bit since his wild oat days – back when he was determined to nail anyone that would have him and chasing every kind of high known to man – but a cocktail made with eighty-proof will still knock you directly on your ass.
Dean’s current opportunity to indulge only presented itself because Sam and his commune decided to drag Jack along for some kind of nerd symposium in Duluth for the weekend. Something about Star Wars, if he remembers correctly. Or maybe it was Star Trek… To be perfectly honest Dean was only half listening when Sam explained the whole thing. They're not going hunting and Eileen left an itinerary, so Dean figured active listening was optional.
Bottom line is the moment Sam’s bumper disappeared around the corner of the garage’s ramp it was like a switch flipped inside Dean. He went full hedonist before the smell of exhaust faded.
He drank whiskey with his bacon and pancake breakfast, jerked off in the library and sent the photographic evidence to Cas, then crawled back into bed until two.
With everyone out it seems a weirdly neurotic indulgence, but after his nap, Dean pounds a pot of coffee and embraces his inner Danny Tanner while gyrating his hips in time with the music pouring from the bunker's speakers.
The moment his last load of laundry gets tossed in the dryer Dean strips off his clothes and makes a bare-ass beeline for the showers. He emerges in a cloud of steam nearly half an hour later, forgoing a towel simply because he can.
If he wants to free-ball while he air-dries his plums, ain't nobody around to tell him he can't.
AC/DC echoes down the cavernous hallways and Dean can't help but shimmy a little, singing along to the lyrics as he makes his way back to his bedroom. He dons a pair of soft gray sweats and a black t-shirt, then air guitars his way down to the control room to switch off the intercom. That means music is no longer piped throughout the bunker, but Dean catches the distant echo of a riff carrying from the small system in his cave and, since that's exactly where he plans to spend the rest of his evening anyway, there’s no harsh to his mellow.
Unfortunately, he’s already sprawled out and situated in a recliner before he remembers to dig the party favors out from their hiding spot behind his headboard. He sighs louder than necessary and heaves himself back up, lumbering down the hall to retrieve them.
The wooden memento box that houses his stash is nearly thirty years old, but its age is less than apparent. Sam is apparently a decent craftsman because the cherry oak stain remains glossy, only the barest bit dulled by three decades worth of fingerprints. It was undoubtedly an assignment in one of the dozens of shop classes Sam had been subjected to throughout his academic career, but he'd been proud when Dean opened it. That was reason enough for him to cherish the silly thing.
Dean carries the whole thing back to his spot and once more collapses into the recliner. The box's hinges don't squeak when he lifts the lid. Nestled inside is a blue suede bag Cas gave him for Christmas a few years ago. Dean lifts the satchel out and unties it, fishing out a pack of rolling papers, a glass jar with a latching lid, a wooden grinder Dean himself made, and a black Bic.
Of his innumerable vices, this is the one Dean least often gets to indulge. While he would love to cap all his nights off with a joint and three fingers of whiskey, Sam would probably have a coronary. And since Dean doesn't need that on his conscience, he reserves his smoke sessions for the moments when Sam isn’t glued to his side, watching over Dean's shoulder in disapproval, judging him with his judgy little eyebrows. Although these days those moments aren’t nearly as infrequent as they used to be, it occasionally still requires some finagling.
Satisfied with the joint he manages to roll, Dean tucks everything back in the box and sets it aside on the table next to his chair. With Black Sabbath as his soundtrack, he sparks up.
The first pull of sweet citrusy smoke makes him cough when it settles in his lungs. It burns a bit, but in a good way. Like too much sun on summer-kissed skin. The second and third hits have tension leaching from Dean's jaw and shoulders, making him feel warm and languid from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. The fourth inhale sends his eyelids fluttering closed, so Dean tips his head back and blindly blows the fifth hit toward the ceiling, groaning in relief when he feels the high envelop him.
It slowly unfurls from the center of his chest, tendrils of soothing weight that somehow make him feel lighter. A few more drags and Dean can feel it behind his eyes like his brain is cocooned in a fuzzy blanket. All of his senses soften and blur around the edges, limbs heavy.
He drifts pleasantly for a while, luxuriating in the blissful buzz.
"Hello, Dean."
Jesus fucking– "Damnit, Cas."
Dean fumbles for his phone with his heart lodged in his throat, nearly burning himself in the process. He manages to turn the music down to a less offensive decibel then swings his head back around to where Cas fills the doorway.
"I thought you were with Claire? You scared the fuck outta me, man."
Cas slinks further into the room, eyes bright with laughter. "I'm sorry. I did try to text, but you were obviously otherwise engaged."
Huffing out a laugh as his pulse returns to a reasonable rhythm, Dean grins and reclines back like a mellow Sultan surveying his harem. "Sam said he told you about Duluth. Shoulda figured this is what I'd be doing."
Cas chuckles and steps out of his shoes, casting a look toward Dean that makes his toes curl. "You're right, of course. How could it possibly have slipped my mind that the light of my existence is an opportunistic pan-head."
Dean laughs so hard he chokes on smoke and has to wash away the burn with a swig of beer. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grin lopsided. "Pothead, sweetheart. The term is pothead."
"Semantics.” Perching on the arm of Dean's chair, Cas tucks his sock-clad feet under Dean's thigh and leans over him, his open palm settling warmly on Dean’s chest. “Are you enjoying yourself?"
Dean grins dopily and nods. "Time of my life." He levers himself up so he can lean into Cas' space, plants a lingering kiss on smiling lips, and drags the pad of his thumb over that smile when he asks, "How's Claire?"
Cas licks his lips like he's savoring the blend of Dean and smoke on them. "She's well, I think. She and Kaia seem happy, at least. Their new apartment is lovely."
Dean nods again as he relights the joint, then blows smoke out the side of his mouth. “She texted me a few pictures while you were painting. Looks decent. When we get out there again though, I wanna take a look at that bay window. It doesn't look like it's in right."
"Donna said the same," Cas says as he plucks the joint from between Dean's fingertips. "She was dragging Jody to the hardware store when I left."
Dean opens his mouth to respond but Cas lifts the joint to his lips and inhales, and Dean gets distracted watching him swallow the hit down. The dark stubble covering Cas’ throat makes his teeth itch.
"How was the drive?" he asks instead of launching himself at his boyfriend.
Ha. He still gets a thrill just thinking the word.
Cas takes another pull and holds the joint out. Once he's sure Dean won't burn his fingers Cas tugs him forward by the front of his shirt and fuses their mouths together. Dean parts his lips obediently, breathing in the smoke Cas exhales, chasing the taste around his mouth.
Cas is the first to pull away, but only to whisper, "I missed you,” in that grit and velvet way of his.
Three words, innocently uttered, solicit a surge of heat deep in Dean's veins that is anything but wholesome.
They've been playing house for over a year now, infatuated far longer than that, and in all that time nothing between them could ever truly be categorized as innocent.
Back in the early days, Dean assumed his feelings for Cas would settle into something stable over time, something less capable of decimating them both when triggered. For whatever reason, that never happened. He and Cas are just as likely to combust now as they were when they were still stealing orgasms on grimy motel sheets.
Even with Dean comfortably high and Cas well on his way, what exists between them is the epitome of volatility.
All it ever takes is a spark.
Dean catches his bottom lip between his teeth, can’t resist the urge to tease, "Did you miss me or did you miss my mouth?"
Cas, to his credit, appears to consider it. "How angry would you be were I to say both?"
"You know what," Dean starts, stubbing out what's left of the joint. He doesn't add anything to that though, just lets it hang there in the air an idle threat while he wrestles Cas into his lap.
He laughs and Dean revels in the sound.
"You’re cute when you're high," Cas tells him, lifting a thumb to lovingly trace the laugh lines around his mouth. "This lazy smile of yours is quite charming."
Dean's skin flushes warm. "You think I'm charming?"
Rolling his eyes, Cas pushes at Dean's chest and struggles to stand. "I think you're impossible."
"And cute -- don't forget cute!"
Once he’s on his feet, Cas crosses to where the stereo rests and turns the volume up several notches. He has to raise his voice considerably to throw, "Sorry, can't hear you," over his shoulder.
Dean lobs a pillow that smacks Cas in the back of the head, but he just laughs again and tosses it back. His smile is infectious, all gums and teeth and happiness. It makes something heavy swoop in Dean's gut.
He watches for a while as Cas sways to the music, entirely offbeat and too slow by half, but hypnotic nonetheless. His hips move in stuttered arcs and dips, wide shoulders straining the fabric of his henley with each roll. It's mesmerizing. So much so that Dean doesn't hear Cas talking to him until his body stops moving altogether.
His attention lifts to find Cas already looking at him, one eyebrow hiked in amusement.
"Would you care to join me for a shower?" he asks, his tone suggesting it's not the first time he's done so.
Dean shakes his head but moves to stand in front of Cas, immediately pulling him in by his belt loops and kissing him deeply. When they part, Dean nudges him toward the door. "Go. I'll roll up and meet you back here in twenty."
Cas steals one last kiss. "Make it fifteen," he murmurs before dragging himself away from Dean and down the hall.
Dean rolls another joint, then starts scrolling through his playlists in search of something to listen to while he and Cas hang out. He flicks past most of the older stuff, opting to find something they haven't listened to yet.
It's become a thing he and Cas do, usually when they're stoned.
Dean loves music and adores Cas, and he definitely does not hate getting high, so mixing all those things together seemed like a stroke of genius. Sure enough, from the moment Cas heard Zeppelin while stoned out of his mind, Dean knew he'd struck gold. When they smoked together that first time, holed up in some random motel room during an all-around shitty case in Colorado, it was the first unburdened smile Cas cracked since before he'd chosen Dean and their little family over returning to Heaven.
Ramble On played in the background while they sat side by side, passing a joint back and forth between them on a rickety queen-size. Dean vowed then and there to never stop searching for music that could bring that smile back.
Near the bottom of Dean's collection is a playlist Claire sent him. He recruited her early on when he'd come to the realization that his own musical archive – while awesome – was relatively limited. Not to mention that Cas had already heard all of it about a thousand times.
Dean reached out to those closest to them for suggestions. Claire quickly became a regular contributor, sending no less than one playlist every month. She always attaches a note when she forwards them but, much like Dean himself, Claire isn't exactly a wordsmith, so the note always just reads, "For Cas."
Dean doesn't recognize any of the songs on this particular list, though a few of the artists are familiar. He hits play and puts the phone down, and it's not long before he's banging his head to the beat of some pop/punk power ballad.
After relocating his stuff from beside the recliner to over by the couch, Dean opens a beer and leaves it on the end table on Cas' side. He turns out every light in the room except the one over the dartboard and is just folding himself onto the couch when Cas walks back through the door.
He's wearing Dean's pajama pants and one of Sam's old t-shirts, despite the fact that he has an entire dresser and half a closet-worth of his own clothes now, his damp hair nearly black, face flushed deliciously pink. Dean whistles appreciatively because he can and shoots Cas a wink, chuckling when Cas rolls his eyes.
"You really are incorrigible."
"Hey, you've been gone for eight days," Dean reminds him, hands outstretched in a ‘gimme’ gesture. "And you're wearing my pants."
Cas stands beside the couch, hovering just out of reach. He hooks both thumbs into the waist of the faded black sweats, pushing them indecently low. "Would you like them back?" he offers, one brow pointing toward the damp curl clinging to his forehead.
After a moment of serious deliberation, Dean waves him off. "Nah, sweetheart, you keep 'em." He tears his gaze away from the particularly tempting cut of Cas’ hip and forces it back to his face, winking lecherously. "I've never tried getting in my own pants and, gotta be honest, I kinda dig the challenge."
Cas snorts a laugh but leaves the pants on. He retrieves the beer Dean left for him and shrugs, raising the bottle to his lips. "If reality is anything at all like my dreams, I do not foresee it being a difficult task,” he announces calmly before taking a sip.
Dean gapes at him. "You dream about me seducing myself?"
"Mmm," Cas hums as he swallows. "With some degree of regularity."
"Huh."
Dean can’t help but think about it. What it would be like to suck himself off. To look down and see his own lips wrapped around his dick. Or look up and see his own eyes in the face sweating above him.
Would it be good or would it be too weird to be anything but bad? It’s sort of masturbating, isn’t it? “No one gets you off like you” and all that.
Of course, then it occurs to Dean he’s been giddily defiling a (former) Angel of the Lord for the last eighteen months, and that maybe means he’s the wrong one to contemplate the level of depravity associated with literally fucking oneself.
Although…
He’s understandably distracted and doesn't notice Cas moving closer until he's already straddling Dean’s lap, one knee on each side, half an inch too low for him to feel the confused-but-genuine interest his revelation has stirred.
"Do I ever turn me down?" Dean wonders aloud.
Cas' hands slip beneath his t-shirt, making Dean shiver. "Not as of yet," he says, using just his thumbs to firmly trace the indents of Dean's pelvis, pulling a moan out of him. "Most of the time you're desperate for him to take you."
Blushing hard, Dean closes his eyes and breathes out harshly through his nose, determined to control the way his body responds. He knows he won't be able to open his mouth without another moan spilling out, so he bites his lips together and opts for a grunt. Cas keeps talking, every word intensifying both the color in Dean's cheeks and the fire in his blood. While he recounts a particularly vivid dream in which Dean was spit-roasted on the hood of the Impala, Cas' hands continue to roam purposefully, mapping every inch of skin they come across.
Dean is so hard he could drill for diamonds, squirming in place just to do something but Cas never so much as glances at his tented sweats.
Suddenly, his hands go still in their tracks. "Dean."
Dean blinks until the haze clears. He can see Cas staring at the wall above his head, expression full of wonder. "What?" He looks too, just in case an interdimensional rift or something has opened up in the concrete.
There’s nothing.
"No, not that,” Cas huffs impatiently, hurrying to climb off.
He rushes to the stereo, open hands hovering over a speaker like he can catch the notes as they pour out. It’s not a song Dean recognizes, something dark but beautiful, haunting in its honest vulnerability yet still somehow upbeat enough to tempt Cas’ hips into motion.
"What is this?"
"Hang on." Dean checks the track info on his phone, reading it off for Cas. “You dig it?"
He doesn't respond, but the intensity of his smile renders a response unnecessary. The way his eyes flicker closed and his body moves unconsciously to the music says more than words could ever hope to.
When the song ends Dean restarts it. Cas shoots him a grateful look and Dean takes advantage of his momentary attention, holding up a joint with one eyebrow crooked in invitation. Cas nods, beckoning for Dean to join him in the open space between the entertainment center and the recliners.
Dancing has never been Dean's strong suit. He can slow dance with the best of them, but anything beyond that and he starts looking like someone whose limbs have never had to operate in concert. Here in their home though, with music and smoke and them thick in the air, Dean doesn't think twice about doing what Cas asks.
Their bodies slot together like broken glass, jagged pieces of a fractured whole. Cas drags Dean in impossibly closer, nuzzling at his neck while they move in time with the music. Goosebumps cascade down Dean's spine, making his breath hitch.
"If you wanna hit this you're gonna have to stop with the neck, sweetheart. Burn me once, shame on you…"
Cas' laugh is humid on Dean's skin. He draws back, fixing Dean with an amused look. "You said you weren't going to hold that against me anymore."
Dean shrugs and takes another drag before passing to Cas. He blows smoke out through his nose and says, "Doesn't mean I didn't learn my lesson."
Cas concedes with a smile and raises the joint to his lips. The song starts from the beginning as he exhales but he doesn't notice this time. Truthfully they're not even really dancing. They’re just wrapped around each other in the middle of the floor, trading smokey kisses and besotted smiles like a couple’a kids about to get booted from a high school dance for getting too handsy.
It’s funny to think about now, but there was a time when intimacy like this was far more frightening to Dean than any supernatural entity could ever hope to be.
The sex thing was always easy. He was good at it. Really good. Like, really, really good. Dare to even glance in the direction of his childhood though and Dean would bolt at the first available opportunity. Ask where he lives? Sure, but the truth ain’t out there no matter what Duchovny has to say and, oh, by the way, you’ll find your bed empty the second it stops rocking.
He may not run from a fight, supernatural or otherwise, but Dean ran from the intimacy thing for so long he nearly forgot how to stop. Even when he finally figured out how to just stand still, it wasn’t like all that fear just evaporated. It took time. Patience. Commitment.
Now though… now this thing between him and Cas flows easy as anything. Dean hardly even remembers what it felt like to fear it, to share everything inside himself with Cas and feel anything other than free.
When nothing remains of the joint save a resin-stained paper nub, Cas goes to deposit it into a beer cap. Rather than waiting for him to return, Dean slides up behind him and wraps his arms around Cas’ ribs, pulling him back against his chest. A pleased rumble vibrates through Cas as Dean drags his nose up the slope of his neck, his grip firm around Cas’ waist, keeping them pressed together while they sway in place.
Cas angles his head away and Dean scrapes his teeth over the spot where his pulse flutters beneath fragile skin. His cock twitches at the gasp Cas makes, one hand flying up to fist in Dean's hair.
"Do that again," he commands.
Dean happily obliges and eventually, Cas' skin turns hot and ruddy from clavicle to jaw. He whines when Dean nibbles too hard at a particularly sensitive spot, his hips jerking like he can’t decide between pulling away and grinding closer.
"I truly did miss your mouth," he pants, flipping around before Dean can protest.
He attacks Dean’s mouth like he's trying to prove his point, propelling them both toward the sofa. They’re little more than a horny tangle of appendages by the time they get there. Dean's knees buckle and they're both pitched over sideways. They kiss through laughter that dissolves into stuttered groans and soft sighs, Dean pinned to the cushions by the bulk of Cas’ weight. Rather than feeling confined or restrained, he basks in the solid heat of Cas pressing him down. He parts his thighs and hooks his legs around Cas' back to pull him closer still, frustrated by the layers of fabric between them.
"You should take your pants off," he suggests, already attempting to use his heels to accomplish just that.
With his face buried in Dean's neck, Cas shakes his head, and the way his stubble grazes Dean's throat makes him dizzy.
"So impatient," he tsks, tone playful. "Have you abandoned the last of your virtue, Dean?"
Making negligible progress with the pants situation, Dean relents and switches tactics. Cas’ t-shirt comes off with far less resistance. Dean whoops triumphantly and flings it away.
"You fell for a bad boy, sweetheart. Get over it."
"Fell indeed," Cas agrees as he pushes himself up on his elbows, gazing down at Dean like he's looking straight into the center of his soul. "For a bad boy with a righteous heart."
Cas radiates fondness and sincerity even while his eyes glitter with want and his erection jabs Dean in the thigh. It could be difficult to take him seriously right now, but Dean knows Cas reserves the majority of his warm and fuzzies for moments like this, when there are cracks in Dean's defenses and the words are more likely to slip through.
“You know the rules, Cas,” Dean sighs dramatically, fighting to keep his mouth from curling into a smile. “What rule did you just break?”
Cas struggles to rearrange his features into a mask of contrition. “Rule number two,” he intones seriously. “No mushy stuff until I have successfully melted your brain with at least one orgasm.”
Dean tries to nod sagely but he’s pretty sure he just comes off like a deranged bobblehead. “And what’s the punishment for breaking a rule, Castiel?”
Cas rolls his hips and goosebumps chase the crackle of heat that spiders out over Dean’s skin. “No sex in the champagne room?”
The laugh that tears out of Dean’s chest makes the whole couch shake. “I hate you,” he wheezes.
“You’re a liar,” Cas chuckles, soft and confident. “You love me, Dean Winchester, and everyone knows it.”
And the thing of it is, he’s right.
From god no-longer-above to the Queen of Hell herself, everybody who’s anybody knows Castiel has the eldest Winchester on lock. He liked it, so he went ahead and put a ring on it, end of discussion. It’s not a question anymore – something either side can snicker about behind their hands or weaponize to suit whatever fucked up agenda they’re enacting that day.
That Dean Winchester adores his fallen Angel bestie is now just a simple fact.
Dean clenches his thighs and uses them to pull Cas closer, throwing his arms around his neck, kissing him hard. He pulls back to find Cas’ gaze and holds it, cradling his jaw between cupped hands. “I do, y’know,” he all but whispers, summoning every molecule of sincerity buried inside him. “With every bone in my body.”
Cas' whole expression softens, but only for a split second. Then it morphs into a teasing grin as he pointedly aims his attention down toward where their bodies meet. “That one is not technically a bone.”
Dean wiggles his hips and eyebrows in sync for maximum comedic effect. “It loves you all the same though.”
“Impossible,” Cas tells him again, rolling his eyes even as he’s dipping his head to recapture Dean’s mouth.
And Dean… Dean will never tire of this.
Of Cas' body, dense and persistent above him. Begging to be let just that last little bit closer. Or the way Cas kisses as if he needs it to survive, like if he can't he'll simply wither away, ceasing to exist because he can't shove his tongue down Dean's throat and siphon the very breath from his lungs.
It's heady how he zeros in, a thousand individual strands of focus all coalescing around a single point.
Fixated.
On Dean.
On making him feel good. Making him feel loved.
Cas draws away and goes upon his knees, tapping Dean on the hip and growling, “Roll over for me.”
He does as instructed, stretching out on his belly with arms above his head, and lets his eyes fall closed. He goes boneless when Cas begins a meandering ascent from the basin of his spine to the nape of his neck, rucking Dean’s shirt up as he goes. Each brush of his mouth elicits a sound Dean doesn’t bother muffling. Cas works the t-shirt up over Dean’s head and down the length of his arms, securing the fabric around his wrists like a rope. He nuzzles at the side of Dean’s face and feathers kisses from temple to chin.
When he nips at his bottom lip, Dean’s heart thunders.
“Open your eyes, my love,” Castiel murmurs, one hand trailing down Dean’s flank while the other keeps his makeshift restraints in place.
When Dean obeys he finds Castiel staring at him, so close they practically share a single breath between them. His nose brushes Dean’s, so achingly tender compared to the look in his eyes.
A look that says Dean is about to get positively wrecked and enjoy every second of it.
“Remind me,” Castiel commands softly.
Dean swallows hard and licks his lips. He clears his throat, fighting the urge to fidget under the intensity of Castiel’s attention. “September,” he dutifully recites.
Castiel’s hand slips beneath the waistband of Dean's sweatpants, grabbing a handful of asscheek in a grip sure to bruise. “Good boy.”
Dean’s cock throbs. Castiel divests him of his sweats slowly, leaving a trail of damp bruises sucked into the distance between freckles he remaps with calculated unhurriedness. By the time he’s kissed his way back to the small of Dean’s back, he’s practically liquified. Between the weed and Castiel’s worshipful affection, Dean feels like he’s floating in a cozy cocoon, bones and sinew melted down to cosmic goo, just waiting for Castiel to remind him what shape he’s supposed to take.
Fingertips notch into the cut of one hip, urging Dean to lift his ass toward the ceiling while a splayed hand applies pressure between his shoulder blades, making sure his face stays pressed to the couch.
Castiel knees his thighs apart and jerks him backward, drapes himself over Dean’s back and drags his head to one side by a fistful of hair. “You’re devastating like this, Dean,” he extols, voice a raspy exhalation at the shell of his ear. “So willingly obedient.”
His free hand slithers down Dean’s twitching stomach to wrap around the erection hanging heavily between his legs, flushed angry red and drooling on the rough fabric.
“Desperate for me to take care of you.”
Dean whimpers, shifting restlessly beneath him. His movements are so restricted he only succeeds in frustrating himself more.
“C’mon, Cas,” he whines, attempting to use his toes to spur Castiel into action. “I’m dyin’ here.”
The fist in his hair tightens, enough to hurt. Castiel’s canines sink into the meat of his shoulder and Dean’s grateful for the pain. It satisfies him on some level, gives him what he wanted in a way he couldn’t articulate even if his brain weren’t currently made of jelly.
“Misbehavior will not expedite your orgasm,” Castiel chastises even as the hand on Dean’s cock starts moving – long, excruciatingly drawn-out pulls that are somehow both far too much stimulation and not nearly enough.
“You – fuck – you know me, sweetheart,” Dean gasps out, arching his spine the way he knows Castiel likes, grinding back against the steely bulge wedged into the space behind his balls. “Always did love playing with fire.”
Castiel’s response rumbles through his atoms, half acquiescence, half reprimand. “You’re a brat,” he corrects, twisting his fist around Dean’s dribbling head.
Dean shudders like a rundown shack in a hurricane, goosebumps erupting from the nape of his neck to race down his fingertips. That doesn’t stop him smirking when he challenges, "And what're you gonna do about it?"
There’s always a moment when they do this, where Cas bleeds over the nuanced line between guy-that-gets-off-on-controlling-his-partner’s-pleasure and bonafide Dom. It’s incredibly subtle – something Dean only learned to recognize because it invariably accompanies his own descent into that fuzzy/safe headspace – but it’s… intoxicating.
Castiel tires of Dean’s compulsory rebellions, exhausts his capacity to bear them with patience and demands compliance under the promise of punishment. Dean realizes they’re rapidly approaching that horizon when Castiel abandons his cock in favor of rearranging Dean’s legs, touch far more command than lovers’ request.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks once Dean’s ass is blowing in the breeze, knees spread as far as they can possibly go while tucked up under his belly.
He’s not, not really, but he can hold this position for a while. “I’m good.”
Castiel’s palm cracks against Dean’s ass hard enough to sting. His face flames, right asscheek buzzing even as Castiel rubs away the burn.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks again, each individual word its own carefully enunciated admonishment.
Dean gulps, tongue flicking out to moisten his bottom lip. “It pulls a little.”
Castiel hums his approval and adjusts Dean’s position. “Better?”
“Better.”
“Good,” Castiel says and then crawls off the sofa.
He stands where Dean can see him, one eyebrow held aloft, and slowly works his pants down over his hips. He’s only half-hard when he licks his palm and takes himself in hand, drinking in the sight Dean presents while he strokes himself lazily.
“If you could see yourself,” he breathes, sliding his other hand between his legs. "How captivating you are like this.”
Dean groans weakly and it sounds like Castiel’s name.
Castiel's eyes grow darker, blatantly ravenous now, and maybe it’s not the healthiest reaction but Dean’s arousal ratchets higher in response. Castiel produces a small vial of lube from who knows where and steps closer to the couch, attention snagged on Dean’s mouth as his fist slides up and down the length of his shaft.
“Perhaps I’ll let you suck my cock before taking your ass,” he muses aloud, the pad of his thumb swirling through the slickness seeping from his slit.
Dean’s mouth waters, recalling the tangy punch of come in the back of his throat.
Castiel kneels on the floor beside Dean’s head and sits back on his heels, nibbling his lip like he’s considering his options. “Your body must be aching by now,” he murmurs eventually, when Dean feels like he’s gonna tremble right out of his skin if Castiel doesn’t touch him soon. “So empty it’s becoming painful.”
“Empty,” Dean echoes, nearly cross-eyed with want.
Castiel laughs but it’s not a cruel sound. If anything it’s a warm rumble he simply can’t contain. “Okay,” he soothes, petting Dean’s hair away from his sweat-tacky forehead. “It’s alright. You’re doing so well, my love.”
Dean’s eyelids flutter closed, pride making his ribs feel too small a cage to contain his ballooning lungs. He feels the cushion beneath him dip, a shadow falling over him, and when he opens his eyes again Castiel is right there, his erection jutting up proud and thick toward the ink on his torso.
“Lift your head for me,” he directs, stuffing a pillow between Dean’s elbows when he complies. “How’s that? Too high?”
Dean shifts around a bit, getting comfortable. “S’okay.”
Castiel wedges himself against the arm of the couch with his thighs spread wide and his center of gravity low, almost straddling Dean’s face. He takes himself in hand once more, giving his length a few cursory tugs.
“Open your mouth for me, Dean.”
He does as he’s told, parts his lips and lets Castiel coax his way inside. His hips work slowly while Dean adjusts to the weight of him on his tongue. He tastes like soap and clean sweat, his skin blood-hot velvet over thick stone. Dean has to remind himself how to breathe with a cock partially blocking his airway, but once he does his enthusiasm increases tenfold.
Castiel very nearly punches a hole through the back of Dean’s skull when he finally nudges his way into the hot clutch of his throat. He throws his head back and groans, something blatantly erotic even though it’s in a language Dean can’t place, and his fingers twist tighter in Dean’s hair. He gags but Castiel adapts seamlessly, backing off just long enough for Dean to recover before burying himself once more.
Distracted as he is, Dean doesn’t notice what Castiel’s hands are up to until he feels fingertips dipping into the cleft of his ass. A single slick digit rubs at his hole, not seeking entry, just circling the knot of muscle, teasing it, making it flutter. A fresh wave of heat blooms up his spine.
He looks up at Castiel through the damp fringe of his lashes, finds him already staring back with heavily lidded eyes.
“Just like that,” Castiel croons, using the thumb on his free hand to wipe away the streak of moisture rolling down Dean’s cheek. “Good boy.”
Dean whines because he can’t help it. The pitiful sound is wrenched from somewhere inside him, some deep, dark recess he’s positive he doesn’t want to peer into. Castiel twitches on his tongue. Dean can almost taste the tension coiled tight beneath his skin, a lightning strike awaiting a target.
The fingertip massaging Dean’s asshole breeches his body, easing past his rim to swirl against his insides like one might stir a drink. He moans around his mouthful, long and low and loud, and Castiel goes rigid. He gasps Dean’s name just in time for his orgasm to spill down Dean’s throat in pulses.
He swallows every last drop, lapping the traces from Castiel’s skin until he hisses and pulls out of Dean’s mouth. He’s back on him just as quickly, plastering himself all along his side while he continues his methodical exploration of Dean’s insides.
A second finger nudges in beside the first. It’s not enough to feel full, not by a longshot, but it’s still so fucking good Dean arcs into it, back bowed like the shameless slut he dissolves into beneath Castiel’s ministrations. He doesn’t even care what he looks like right now, all spread out and begging for a mount – desperate and needy, ass thrust high, thighs slippery with his own jizz.
It doesn’t matter what he looks like, what pathetic, mewling sounds he makes. Castiel will take care of him.
Come hell or high water, Dean can bet his life on that.
Castiel gets three fingers inside him, crooks them just right and lights up Dean’s prostate. He gasps like he’s drowning and shoves his face into the pillow, muffling a helpless keen that tears from his throat when Castiel bites his shoulder.
“Let me hear you, my love,” Castiel orders softly, his lips never leaving Dean’s skin, fingers intent on their purpose.
Suddenly his stubble is like sandpaper between Dean’s shoulder blades, his tongue flicking out to trace the ladder of his vertebrae. Castiel leaves a smattering of kisses and teeth indentations down to the crest of Dean’s ass, no doubt a few bruises as well, and then – before Dean can brace himself – slips his fingers out and shoves his face between Dean’s cheeks.
Dean jolts and nearly brains himself on the arm of the couch, but Castiel grips his hips more securely and drags him back. He laves at Dean’s hole, alternating between long licks that sweep in delicate undulations and spears of his tongue that dip inside and make blood pound in Dean’s head.
A chant of pleasepleaseplease saturates the air, but it’s high and reedy, almost a mewl, and Dean doesn’t sound like that. Castiel’s mouth is busy weaving some kind of magic in Dean’s asshole so it can’t be him either. Dean would ask but when he tries all that comes out is a fresh chorus of broken pleading and that sort of definitively answers that.
Dean's bound hands fist in his own hair, the pain anchoring him back into his body a little. If he lifts his ass any higher he's going to snap his spine, but that doesn't stop him trying. He groans as Castiel slides two fingers back inside him, tracing the stretched skin around them with his tongue. He meanders downward, mouthing at Dean's sac and then licking a stripe from the base of his cock to just below the crown. It makes Dean shudder, a gurgle of approval bubbling in his throat. He can’t resist the urge to look down, to watch Castiel as he drags his slick lips up and down his length in time with the fingers he’s got up Dean’s ass, so deliberately unhurried it’s driving Dean completely insane.
It’s face-meltingly good because of course it is, it always is, Castiel is an amazing lay, but the way he takes Dean’s cockhead in his mouth and just sorta holds it there should be a goddamn crime. ‘Course then Castiel starts rolling his tongue like a wave against that one spot where glans meets shaft and Dean’s ready to exonerate on all charges.
Though he’s almost entirely human now, what little Grace remains stitched into Castiel’s molecules comes with certain perks.
Healing, for example. He heals a fraction faster than your typical human, though not as fast as he’d once been accustomed to.
Another of those random residual Grace-induced quirks is the leftover strength.
It’s nothing at all for Castiel to rearrange them on the sofa without warning, resettling them both before Dean’s brain catches up. The world tilts into a blur and suddenly he’s upright, staring down into azure pools of molten heat as Castiel grips him tightly by the hips with one hand and does delightfully wicked things to his ass with the other.
“Showoff,” Dean pants and loops his bound hands around Castiel’s neck.
“You love it.”
Of fucking course he does.
Castiel twists his wrist just so and a supernova explodes at the base of Dean’s spine, riding the percussive wave through each and every cell in his body. He doesn’t even consider muffling the shout of pleasure punched from his lungs.
“That’s it,” Castiel praises and does it again. “Stop holding back.”
“Fuck you,” Dean snaps.
Or, well, tries to snap. It comes out less snappy and more pleading, but he can’t honestly be assed to care. It accomplishes what it was meant to, anyway, because Castiel lines up and pushes inside in one smooth movement, bottoming out with a groan that sounds like it borders on pain.
Dean could cry, he’s so relieved. The empty feeling is gone, swiftly replaced by the kind of fullness he’s only ever felt with Castiel. It blooms out from the center of his body and makes his skin feel tight, perfect in a way that makes Dean tip his head back and moan shamelessly, unable to control the roll of his hips.
Castiel luxuriates in the sound and his grip on Dean’s hips sets a steady rhythm that’s easy on his knees but brutal on what’s left of his restraint. Dean can feel Castiel watching him, knows he loves to watch him fall apart, and preens despite the crimson stain crawling up his chest.
“Dean.”
His eyelids peel themselves apart blearily. Castiel’s expression is entirely unguarded, so blatantly in love Dean kind of wants to die.
Mostly because he knows what’s coming.
“I remain as in love with you today as all the days that came before it,” Castiel announces, none of the sting absent the sentiment despite the sounds of pleasure peppered throughout.
“Cas, c’mon,” Dean tries.
Castiel snaps his hips and, as far as speech deterrents go, it’s pretty damn effective.
“I have seen every dark corner, every fractured facet of your soul, and my love for you has only grown,” he continues as though Dean never interrupted, fucking into him all the while. “It will continue to do so for all the days ahead, and nothing you will ever do or say has the power to change that.”
Dean whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound dredged up from parts unknown. He hates how much he loves when Castiel does this, how he craves the tenderly honest conviction of these confessionals and the way they make him feel. Like he’s being galvanized back into his skin even as he wants to crawl out of it.
“I’ve got you,” Castiel promises, the wide splay of his hands sliding up the shallow curve of Dean’s waist and around, coming up to hook over his shoulders.
Boxing him in, but in the best possible way.
“Stop talking,” Dean groans, working himself up and down on Castiel’s cock. “Wait, no, keep talking. Fuck.”
Castiel presses his nose to Dean’s throat and speaks the words directly onto his skin, like he’s imprinting them there so every time Dean looks in a mirror he’ll see it and know who he belongs to.
“I chose you, Dean, and I will continue to choose you for as long as I have a choice.”
“Cas.”
He’s moving more deliberately now, working Dean’s body as only he can, fucking him hard and deep and bordering on too rough.
The way he knows Dean likes best.
Like he knows fresh, prickling heat is climbing up Dean's body, coiling every muscle it touches along the way. Like he can feel it as it curls around the edge of Dean's jaw and makes his scalp tingle.
“There is nothing but goodness inside you, my love.”
“Please, Cas.”
“I see it,” Castiel says, pedal to the metal now. “I see everything that you are and it’s… You -- you are so incredibly good, Dean. In all the ways that matter.”
“Stop.”
“Sharing my life with you, raising Jack and building a home…” Castiel pauses when his voice cracks, but clears his throat and continues undaunted, “I have never, will never, experience even a single moment of regret for any of it.”
“Stop. Please, jesus fuck, please stop,” Dean begs even as he grinds against Castiel desperately, vision bleary with moisture, his chewed-blunt nails leaving angry red half-moon welts across the back of Castiel’s neck.
“I am wildly, maddeningly, eternally in love with you,” Castiel tells him, palming the rounds of Dean’s ass bruisingly, pulling them apart, shoving his way deeper, pounding into him, relentlessly hurtling them both toward the finish line. “And I intend to spend the rest of time proving it.”
"Fuckfuckfuck. Cas."
Dean trembles and comes between them, spilling all over Castiel’s chest and stomach. He fucks Dean through it, slows his thrusts into a lazy roll that licks delicate flames up Dean's spine.
"Do you want to use your safeword?" he asks in little more than a hoarse whisper delivered right against Dean's ear.
Though his tongue is heavy Dean manages a slurred denial and tightens his grip around Cas’ neck, refusing to let him go. Cas shushes him gently, peppering kisses up over his chin in reassurance, and then tips them both sideways on the couch, dragging Dean under him as they go. Their lips slot together and Cas buries himself deep, draws back out and sinks inside with practiced patience.
Soon Dean's fucked out sighs twist into ragged pants and he burrows his face against Cas’ neck, planting half-formed kisses everywhere he can reach. He’s overstimulated and strung out, but willing to commit all manner of atrocities to stay right where he is.
"So good for me," Cas praises and clutches Dean’s hips harder, chasing that elusive second release.
When he finally blows his gasket Cas buries himself to the hilt, biting out what sounds like fragmented Enochian even to Dean’s untrained ear, and damn but if he could Dean would come again right then and there.
He tries to tell Cas as much but when he does it comes out in a heap that doesn’t even resemble actual speech, which just makes them both laugh.
“Sleep, my love,” Cas orders quietly, kissing Dean’s forehead and pushing sweaty strands back from his face. “I’ll take care of you.”
Dean is asleep before he can entertain the thought of arguing.
***
He wakes up on his stomach in his own bed, throat dry as the Sahara, knees throbbing dully. The clock on the nightstand reads just after three in the morning. Cas is snoring softly beside him, drooling on Dean’s pillow because his own is stuffed between his legs.
Gross, but insufferably adorable.
Dean struggles into a sitting position and swings his legs over the side of the bed, scrubbing his hands through his hair and down over his face. His phone lays dark on the nightstand, beside a bottle of water, a red Gatorade, and a plate with a note on it:
Finish at least one of these and take the pills before
you come back to bed.
I love you
(yes, still)
Cas
Dean smiles like an idiot and sets the note aside, then does as instructed and eats the two ibuprofen Cas laid out for him, chasing them with most of the Gatorade. Since he’s up he might as well take a piss, so he lumbers off the bed and heads out into the hall.
The bathroom light is already on when Dean steps inside, so bright it’s almost painful. He squints and reaches back for the switch, feeling around until he finds it and flips it down, plunging the room into darkness. There are still shadowy spots dancing in his vision by the time he finishes up, moving eerily in the mirror while he’s washing his hands.
He’s halfway back to the bedroom when the hair on the back of his neck stands up.
Freezing in the middle of the hallway, Dean strains his ears for anything out of the ordinary even as his gaze sweeps his immediate surroundings. Nothing jumps out at him, figuratively or otherwise, so he takes a few more steps.
A door creaks somewhere in the yawning darkness and Cas’ face flashes in Dean’s mind’s eye.
“No.”
He takes off like a shot, hurtling toward their bedroom with his heart lodged in his throat. The door is open when Dean gets there and he’s furious to discover he can’t remember whether or not he closed it behind him.
“Cas? Cas!”
He doesn’t respond and Dean can feel the panic rising in his chest. He nearly launches himself across the pitch black bedroom, up onto the bed on Cas’ side, relief pouring through him when he feels the solid lump beneath him.
“Cas, wake up, man,” Dean whisper-shouts, shaking him roughly with hands he’s embarrassed to admit are trembling ever-so-slightly.
The lump grunts, turning over under the blankets.
“C’mon, sunshine, up and at ‘em,” Dean prods, smiling despite the way his heart continues to race. “We gotta sweep the bunker, something feels wonky.”
A hand reaches out from beneath the blanket, feeling around for the lamp on the bedside table. It clicks on and when Dean’s vision adjusts he finds Cas has retreated back under the covers.
“Hey, Mr. I’d-do-anything-for-you-other-than-wake-up-before-I’m-ready, we got shit to do,” he tries again, this time tugging the blanket down, hoping it’ll jolt Cas awake.
Only that’s not what happens. Instead, Dean experiences a weird moment where his brain can’t make sense of what it’s seeing and just goes into reboot mode.
“Nick?”
The face sneering up at him twists into something far more sinister. “Guess again, sweetcheeks.”
Dean scrambles backwards and lands hard on the floor, knocking the breath out of himself.
“Aww, what’s a’matter, lover boy?” Lucifer taunts as he rises from the bed, stalking closer while Dean struggles to haul himself back. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“Where is he?” Dean gasps as soon as he’s able, glaring hard as his back collides with the wall.
Lucifer shrugs. “Dead. Dying. On his way to San Tropez. Does it matter?”
“Of course it fucking matters,” Dean roars, halfway to his feet, blood thundering in his head.
Lucifer raises a hand and Dean falls back to the floor, fully immobilized.
“Listen to me, you piece of shi--”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Lucifer tuts, wagging an obnoxious finger. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
Dean snarls.
“Oop! Y’know what, that’s my bad.” Lucifer winces like he’s capable of caring about tact or sensitivity or whatever-the-fuck he’s playing at. “It’s just so hard to keep them all straight, you know what I mean?”
“Where. Is. He.”
“We used to have so much fun, Dean,” Lucifer pouts, bottom lip pushed out dramatically and everything. “What happened to us? Did I stop doing the little things? Is that it?”
“What can I say,” Dean bites out, “I just wasn't that into you.”
Lucifer tips his head back when he laughs and Dean lunges for him, knocking into him hard enough they’re both sent ass over tea kettle. Lucifer gains the advantage while they grapple and pins Dean to the floor by his shoulders, his knees gouging into the muscles there.
His eyes flare red, mouth a thorny grin, and he levels a glowing palm directly at Dean’s face.
Dean goes rigid.
He still doesn’t know where Cas is. He can’t die not knowing.
His mind races, trying and failing to conjure a plan.
“Say hello to baby bro for me, would you?”
“Wait–”
Orange-red heat explodes in Dean’s face. He flinches away, knowing full-well it’s futile to try and hide from an Archangel’s smitey little ray of death. He’s about to bite it again, right here, right now – bareass naked on his bedroom floor – and there ain't a goddamn thing he can do about it.
***
“Dean!”
The fuck?
Dean flails, eyes flying open, and finds Cas' worried face swimming into focus. He latches onto him just to assure himself that Cas is real, but almost immediately withdraws like he's been burned.
His eyes narrow with suspicion. "Are you… you?"
Cas relaxes, which in turn makes Dean relax incrementally. "I’m me,” he promises.
"You sure?"
"Quite."
Dean isn't sure of anything right now, but if he's gonna figure out what the hell is happening, he has to start somewhere.
For instance… "Wanna tell me why I'm pinned to the floor?"
Cas smiles, small and strained but genuine. He slides off Dean's chest, instead kneeling beside him, and Dean notices for the first time that he's stark naked too.
"Was this, like, a sexy thing gone awry?" he asks, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders as he sits up.
"Unfortunately, no." Cas huffs, dragging a hand down his face, seeming to wipe away the fragile smile. "You were having another night terror."
Flashes of memory slam through Dean like a freight train, making his stomach roil.
“Oh.”
Cas heaves himself upright and offers a hand down, which Dean accepts gratefully. He feels unsteady once he’s on his own feet, like his axis has shifted just enough to throw his equilibrium off. Cas notices, but doesn’t move to assist. Instead, he goes to rifle through a dresser drawer while Dean sorta oscillates in the middle of the room with his junk out, rubbing his left asscheek where he’s relatively certain a bruise is already forming.
“Here.”
A bundle of fabric is pushed into Dean’s chest and he experiences a second of sheer blind panic where he thinks he’s just been handed his walking papers.
“Come to the kitchen with me?” Cas prods gently as he tugs his own sweatshirt down over his belly.
Dean nods, numb. “Okay.”
In the kitchen, Cas fills the kettle and puts it on the stove before ducking under the island to fish out the bottle of rye stashed there. He settles across from Dean at the table and pushes a rocks glass toward him, pouring out three fingers.
Dean blinks at it.
“Drink,” Cas instructs.
The whiskey burns on the way down, helping clear some of the fog in Dean’s head.
Neither of them speaks again for a long time. The silence isn’t exactly comfortable, but it isn’t strained either.
More just… loaded.
They stay that way until the kettle shrieks, shattering the silence, and Cas is off again. This time when he returns he’s carrying two teacups on delicate saucers, his eyebrows fixed in stern concentration so he doesn’t spill. Dean’s mouth ticks up.
“You don’t have to–”
Castiel cuts him off with a look.
The tea reminds Dean of yard clippings, like soggy grass and mulched dandelions, but he drinks it. He’s reluctant to admit it makes a difference, soothing some of his frayed nerves, but it does.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” Cas asks after a while.
Dean chews his bottom lip, Lucifer’s gut-churning smile taunting him from his memories. It’s blended in together with his grief over losing Cas to the Empty, that aching hollow in the center of Dean’s existence that vanished the second they got him back.
These periodic night terrors always make Dean feel like he’s one stiff breeze away from falling right back into that pit of despair.
“Same make, different model,” he says by way of explanation, gaze glued to the intricate blue filigree pattern on the ancient china cradled in his hands.
Cas understands immediately because, in addition to Enochian and a whole bunch of others, he’s fluent in Winchester. It takes him a beat to gather his thoughts -- Dean can see the gears turning -- but when he does and deigns to share them with the class, his tone is unshakable.
“There’s a pattern of freckles on the inside of your right thigh that looks exactly like the constellation Perseus.”
Dean snorts. “Really?”
Cas hums. “The morning after I fucked you for the first time, Jack came in without knocking and you panicked, fell out of bed, and ‘broke your ass bone’.”
“Hey! I was startled!”
“You and Eileen sneak off to watch The Fox and the Hound together because it makes you both cry and neither of you wants anyone else to see.”
Aw, hell.
“Okay, I get it, you’re not Satan!”
Cas chuckles warmly, eyes sparkling like the mischievous little shit he knows he is. “Just wanted you to be certain.”
Dean can feel his mouth curl into an actual smile, heart kicking up a ruckus for a new reason.
He’s not sure what he ever did to deserve Cas, but whatever it was must’ve been big. It doesn’t make sense otherwise.
“I’m fucking crazy about you, y’know that?” Dean announces, shaking his head in wonder.
Cas beams and attempts to hide it behind his teacup, color staining high on his cheekbones. “Well that is fortuitous, isn’t it?”
It’s so fucking endearing, much more so than it has any right to be, and Dean can’t help but fall a little harder.
“Alright,” he says suddenly, shoving himself to his feet. “That’s enough, let’s go.”
Cas’ head quirks to one side, like he’s considering the hand Dean holds out to him.
“Go where?”
Dean walks around to Cas’ side of the table and nudges him until he stands, then laces their fingers together and tugs.
“Back to bed,” he says, pulling Cas alongside him through the maze of hallways.
“Are you sure? We could go for a drive, or–”
Dean whirls around and crowds Cas up against the wall, cupping his jaw, kissing him desperately. Cas clings to his back, fingertips like talons where they dig into the wings of his shoulder blades. One of Dean’s legs slots between Cas’ thighs, brushing against the steadily-swelling bulge concealed under threadbare cotton.
Cas gasps and tears his mouth away, breathing raggedly while Dean scrapes his teeth on the edge of his jaw.
“Bedroom,” he pants, shoving both hands into Dean’s hair as he rocks against him. “Dean, the cameras–”
“Are off,” he assures, slipping a hand down the front of Cas’ pants, grinning when he bucks into his palm. “Don’t worry, sweetheart; no one gets to see you like this but me.”
Cas shivers, cock twitching in Dean’s grasp. His head falls back against the wall, face tilted toward the ceiling, so Dean sucks a bruise behind his ear and jerks him off in long, loose strokes, too slow to accomplish anything other than driving Cas crazy.
“More,” he moans, then pulls Dean’s mouth back to him.
Dean can’t get his own pants around his hips fast enough. In his haste, they end up pooled around his ankles, but they’re out of the way and that was the entire point, so mission accomplished!
Dean spits in his palm, wrinkling his nose even as he does it, then forgets to be grossed out when he manages to get a hand most of the way around both of their cocks. The noise Cas makes is perfectly indecent, the kind of sound porn stars only wish they could replicate. His hand wraps around Dean’s fist from the opposite side, and together they start to climb.
Cas reaches the peak first, coming with a cry that echoes in the empty hallway as he dribbles over their interlaced fingers. Dean isn’t far behind, dragged over the edge unexpectedly when Cas leans forward and sinks his teeth into Dean’s bottom lip.
They makeout lazily for a while, until the jizz on their hands gets too gross for Dean to tolerate. Cas seems to know exactly what he needs, though, because as soon as it starts to make Dean’s brain prickle Cas is ushering him toward the bathroom.
They wipe down with cool towels before Dean properly washes his hands, watching Cas watch him in the mirror. He cocks a brow questioningly.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
Dean turns around to meet Cas’ gaze and leans back against the sink, drying his hands. He tips his head toward the hall.
“Did that not feel alright to you?”
“Don’t,” Cas says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m serious, Dean.”
“Hey, sweetheart, look,” Dean says and unfolds himself, sweeping his hands down his body to illustrate. “I’m fine, okay? Better than. I feel good, man!”
Cas hesitates, deliberating, but dips his chin in acceptance. “If you’re sure.”
“I am,” Dean promises, holding out a scrubbed-pink hand. “Now come on, let’s go back to bed.”
Cas takes the proffered hand, following Dean out of the bathroom. This time they make it all the way back to the bedroom without anyone getting thrown up against any walls.
Dean stops in the doorway, offering Cas a reassuring smile when he looks back. “I’m right behind you,” he says, squeezing Cas’ hand before releasing it.
Cas takes a deep breath like he’s gearing up to argue, but he just nods once and tells Dean not to be long.
Once Cas is securely inside, Dean walks a little ways down the hall, head on the swivel the whole time. When he’s a safe distance away, he clears his throat and orders his thoughts.
He doesn’t want any confusion on this.
“Listen up, motherfuckers,” he starts, talking to no one and everyone all at once. “I don’t know if these… night terrors or whatever, if they’re just dreams or if there’s something else going on. But I want to be crystal fucking clear about something, in case somebody out there has it in their mind that they can come in here and take a single goddamn thing more from me. This is my house. You hear me? Cas is mine. You can’t fucking have him.”
Silence rings loud in Dean’s ears when he pauses to listen.
“Now, I’m gonna go back in that bedroom, and I’m gonna smoke another joint with the love of my life. And then who knows – maybe he’ll fuck me again if I ask real nice. Either way, we’re busy. So get bent. Over and out.”
Dean braces for impact, like a lightning bolt or oozy black tentacle is going to strike him down. Nothing happens. He blows out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and spins on his heel, yawning as he goes.
Cas is waiting for him in their bed, a lit joint already tucked between his lips. He meets Dean’s eye and smiles, the private one that makes Dean’s heart flutter.
This time when he closes the door, Dean makes sure to lock it behind him.