Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Go on, get outta here!” Dean flails his arms about as he runs toward the Impala, throaty baritone hurling curses at the objects of his ire. “Sonofabitch!” His voice drops to a soothing purr. “Baby, what did they do to you?” Scowling, Dean caresses the metal hood, then takes a slow circle around her, examining the still-gleaming black exterior for any evidence of foul play. “Stupid flying shit machines.”

“Dean.”

The swish of a dingy old trench coat rustling in the breeze punctuates his name, which, on the angel’s lips, sounds like some weird-ass mutant hybrid of a reprimand, a plea, and a question. Cas somehow conveys volumes in that single syllable, all wrapped up in the leather and lace of a sex growl.

“What?” If his answer comes across as a little exasperated? Well, of course it does. Dean parked Baby in this spot specifically to avoid this situation.

“Baby appears to be unharmed. Is this sustained rage really an appropriate response?”

Seriously? Feathery motherfucker thinks he can rationalize this shit? Dean looks over his shoulder to where Cas has stopped behind him, and levels an icy glare that he hopes bores right into the center of the angel’s grace. For several long moments, they’re in stasis, green eyes defiantly locked on blue. Sam likes to say it’s eye-fucking, but right now, it feels more like a game of chicken, and Dean’s a stubborn motherfucker. He’s not gonna break, dammit. He’s not gonna look away first.

Cas squints, drawing Dean’s focus to the lush, dark lashes framing those cerulean eyes. Fuck. The head tilt. Dean’s a sucker for that goddamn head tilt. He clenches his jaw so tight his teeth hurt, and Cas’ll definitely give him shit when he notices it. The angel’s lips quirk up in the tiniest suggestion of a smile.

Dean licks his lips, realizing half a second too late that he’d shifted his gaze to Cas’ mouth in the process. Dammit. 0 for infinity on that one, Winchester. Oh well. Maybe next time. So he huffs out quick breath, dropping his mouth open and shaking his head to loosen things up, and then squares his shoulders.

“Y’ready to get breakfast?” He asks, voice falsely bright, and rubs his palms together. “Think I saw a diner on the way into town last night.”

Cas peers at him for a few more moments, maybe an eon or two, and then walks to the passenger side of the car and gets in.

The sound of the door slamming shut startles two ravens from their perch atop the fence at the corner of the parking lot. They flap away, cawing noisily, their shadows reflecting in the gleaming metal as they pass overhead. Dean holds his breath, sending out a silent prayer to the universe that Baby remains unharmed.

Splat.

Staring in dismay at the glob of cloudy white now dribbling down his shoulder, Dean just grunts forlornly.

“Goddamn menace, is what they are,” Dean mumbles to himself, though he knows the angel can hear him.

At least Cas has the decency not to say anything when Dean slumps into the driver seat and closes the door, a bit more forcefully than he probably should. Instead, he rifles through the interior pockets of his coat and pulls out a wrinkled napkin, which he holds out toward Dean, a silent peace offering. With an eyeball and frustrated huff, Dean grabs it from Cas’ hand. Starting from the lowest dribble, he carefully wipes up his sleeve, collecting all the crap, which, thankfully, doesn’t seem to have penetrated into the leather. 

“Uh, thanks,” Dean crumples the soiled napkin and holds it in front of his face, then tosses it into an empty Gas ’n Sip coffee cup in the console. “Don’t let me forget to toss that at the diner, you here?” His voice is gruff, so much so that Cas flinches. Dean clears his throat, then continues, a little more subdued, “Last thing we need is birdshit stinking up my Baby’s interior.” 

“Of course, Dean.”

…

The short drive to the diner is quiet. Dean isn’t in the mood for music, and Cas has learned his lesson about messing with the radio without the driver’s expression consent. Completely still, the angel just stares off into the distance, head tilted approximately seven degrees to the left. Dean’s not sure what Castiel actually does when he gets like that, if he’s listening to angel radio, meditating, reciting an epic poetry in his head…yeah, it’s weird, inasmuch as Cas’ little quirks are weird, but over the years it’s just become a thing that he does. Dean drives; Sam bitches; and Cas stares, unmoving, out into the distance of whatever patch of Americana they happen to be passing through. 

Not that Dean pays attention to that stuff, of course. 

Dean taps an awkward little drum solo against the steering wheel and scans the horizon for the breakfast place. 

Try our award-winning apple pie waffle! 

The sign, lit up like a beacon, has Dean imagining his first bite as they pull into the parking lot. Yes, an award-winning apple pie waffle sounds just about perfect. Throw in a side of bacon, and it’s just what he needs to improve this shit (ha!) day.

He backs Baby into a spot as far from any potential sky-pest perches as possible, and makes sure to grab the birdshit cup before he locks up.

As soon as they’re both out of the car, Cas starts up, talking as if he’d just pressed pause on a conversation while they were riding.

“I don’t think you understand just how wise ravens are.” His gravelly voice is slightly less monotone than usual. Which, for Cas, is practically the equivalent of shouting. 

“Whatever you say, Cas.” 

“But they frolic, Dean,” Cas says, all earnest and eager. “They have been known to use tools, and they remember human faces, and they frolic! Corvids are not just ‘stupid flying shit machines.’” 

Dean shakes his head in exasperation, and not because Cas looks adorable when he makes those exaggerated air quotes with his fingers. “Can we just drop it? I don’t wanna think about bird shit while I’m eatin’.” He winks at Cas, just to ruffle the angel’s feathers. In a completely platonic, brotherly way, of course. 

Cas glares, starts to speak, but swallows whatever he was going to say. It’s a subtle thing, really, an infinitesimal shift of his jaw. Someone would have to be paying extra close attention to even notice it. Shut up.

Their shoulders brush as Cas edges past him in the vestibule with an annoyed huff and a roll of his eyes. He stalks toward an available booth, trench coat flapping behind him, while Dean heads for the restroom. Tossing the cup into the bin at the door, he goes to examine the damage to his coat in the mirror. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem any worse for wear. And it’s not like it hasn’t seen its share of gross things over the years. What’s a little birdshit in the face of monster guts, after all, Dean thinks to himself as he gives his hands a quick but thorough wash. 

…

Cas doesn’t look up from his menu when Dean slides into the booth across from him. His brows knit together to create a deep furrow as he studies, like he hasn’t been in a thousand diners just like this one, like this menu contains the secret to eternal happiness or something. It’s not adorable or anything.

Leaning back against weathered red vinyl, Dean reaches for his coffee. Because of course Cas has already ordered it for him.  Dean takes a long sip, closing his eyes as the hot liquid soothes its way down his throat. He already feels more human—more energized, alive—just at the sensation, the muscle memory of it, even though he knows it’s placebo at this point. A satisfied moan escapes his lips, and he doesn’t even try to hold back. The coffee is sweet, the bitterness countered by enough sugar to send a kid into space, because Cas knows how Dean likes it. Not how Dean says he likes his coffee—black and bitter, like my soul—but how he really likes it. Cas is good like that, in a way that Sammy isn’t, at…at noticing things that nobody else does. If Dean stops to think about it, it can be overwhelming. So he doesn’t. 

“Thanks, man. This is perfect,” he says as he takes another drink. Dean turns and catches the eye of the lone waitress, currently delivering an order a couple tables away. She flashes a bright smile and nods their way. “You almost ready to order?” he asks, returning his attention to where Cas is still scrutinizing the plastic-covered menu. He gets only a grunt in response.

It’s…well, it’s not like it’s unprecedented for Cas to be grumpy in the mornings, but he seemed fine at the motel. Dean shrugs it off. Angels, man.

“Hey there, handsome,” the waitress—Angela, the name tag reads—greets him like an old friend, squeezing his shoulder familiarly as she walks up behind him. “Are you two ready to order?” Her hair, a little lighter red than Charlie’s, is piled up on top of her head, with a couple of errant curls framing her face. Dean turns on the charm, sweeping his eyes up her body just slow enough to pinken her cheeks, and grins. “Mornin’, sweetheart,” he purrs, “and I think so. Cas?” 

This time, Cas very pointedly doesn’t reply. Not even a huff. Weird.

“Guess I get to go first.” Dean waggles his eyebrows suggestively, pleased with the soft smile that toys at the corner of Angela’s lips in response. “I’ll have the apple pie waffle and a side of bacon, please, darlin’.” She makes a point to brush dainty, soft fingers against his hand as she takes the menu from Dean’s hands.

“How ‘bout for you, sugar?” Angela turns her body slightly toward Cas, though her shining, hazel eyes stay locked on Dean.

“Wheat toast, please.” Cas sets his menu down on the scratched formica table and slides it toward the end. He doesn’t look at her at all. He’s not looking at anything, really, as best as Dean can figure. He’s looking in Dean’s direction, but refusing to look Dean in the face. 

“Comin’ right up, boys,” Angela doesn’t bat an eye at Cas’ order, but then again, there’s no reason for her to know it’s weird. Dean frowns, narrowing his eyes as he watches Cas turn to look out the window, suddenly so caught up Cas’ strange behavior that he doesn’t even think to keep flirting as the waitress walks away. 

“Cas,” Dean begins, his voice coming out shakier than it should for some reason, “you okay?” For what feels like eternity, he waits for a response, watching as Cas continues to look a thousand yards past something out the window. The angel’s jaw tenses and releases once, twice, and then a third time, but still, he says nothing. Fuck. He’s upset. Dean hates to see his ang—his friend upset. For a fleeting second, the image of Dean kissing his way along Cas’ jaw floods Dean’s senses, overwhelming him. Dean shakes it off.

“Cas,” he continues, “talk to me, buddy. What’s wrong?”

 Cas takes in a long, drawn-out breath, then swallows, slow and deliberate. Dean is transfixed as he watches the angel’s throat, how his Adam’s apple bobs. Fuck, he’s pretty. Dean’s still staring at Cas’ neck when he turns to look at Dean again.

“Dean…I—“ he looks and sounds flustered, and Dean has to bite back his grin at how cute it is. Cas takes another deep breath, another thick swallow that makes Little Dean wanna say hello, and starts over. “I seriously think you need to reconsider your opinion about ravens. Corvids deserve our respect. I’d like to show you a video that I think will prove enlightening.”

Dean feels…something tugging inside him, a pressure deep in his chest that somehow reaches all the way up to pull the corners of his lips into a soft smile. In that moment, something clicks. Years of dancing around each other and avoiding what he feels and what he wants have led to this moment, right here, and it’s all because a bird shat near his car. 

“Okay, angel,” he murmurs. “Enlighten me.” 

Chapter Text

It’s a subtle thing, really. A shift in the atmosphere. A ripple of…of something. Just what that something is, however, Castiel can’t quite place. He pauses, mid-thought. Dean’s watching him from across the table, the look on his face impenetrable. There’s a softness to those golden green eyes that rarely lets itself be known, and the corner of Dean’s mouth wavers, as though the muscles aren’t certain whether or not they’re allowed to position themselves into a smile.

It’s mesmerizing.

Castiel swallows back a sudden fluttering of nervous energy, and then proceeds. “I seriously think you need to reconsider your opinion about ravens. Corvids deserve our respect. I’d like to show you a video that I think will prove enlightening.” He remembers that he has visual aids to assist in his argument, and reaches deep into his coat pocket to collect his phone.

“Okay, angel, enlighten me.”

Dean’s voice is honey-smooth, and it intensifies that fluttering sensation in Castiel’s solar plexus. Castiel’s breath hitches, and suddenly, his tongue feels much too heavy in his throat. Once again, he finds himself baffled by the minutiae of his vessel’s physiological responses to unremarkable stimulae. There’s no reason the sound of a human voice should elevate his heart rate, and yet, the velvety timbre of Dean’s command does just that.

He pauses again, his head cocked slightly to the side, and stares at the hunter, trying to suss out just what it is about his particular assemblage of molecules that leaves Castiel so…so unsure about what should have been irreproachable certainty. Why this set of molecules lit a fire within Castiel’s very essence, transforming angelic perfection (in the form of full, unquestioning obedience) into a fallen, volatile individual.

Baffling. Utterly baffling.

“You gonna show me something, Cas?” Dean leans forward, resting his elbows onto the table and clasping his hands together. “Make me appreciate these flying poop machines?”

Castiel bristles at Dean’s crass dismissal. Ravens, like all members of the corvidae family of oscine passerines, are resourceful and intelligent, so much more than where and how they defecate. He cannot rein in the impulse to roll his eyes as a gesture of frustration, nor does he have the desire to do so. The more time he’s spent among the humans, the less interested he is in expending energy to maintain a disinterested facade. Likewise, and Castiel has to admit that the correlation has not gone unnoticed, the more time he’s spent around Dean, the more likely it is that he needs to feign disinterest. Something about this human, this Righteous Man, the Sword of Michael…something about Dean Winchester, in particular, makes Castiel want to feel. 

To react. To rebel against his maker, even.

“Dean,” he growls as he levels a stern gaze at the human, “they are not just ‘flying poop machines.’ You should show these creatures their due respect.”

Dean chuckles and leans back in his seat. As he does so, the hunter’s knees brush against Castiel’s own, and the simple, unexpected touch sends a jolt of heat flaring up Castiel’s spine.

“As I was saying,” Castiel continues, suddenly all too aware of the plumpness of Dean’s lips, courtesy of Dean’s pink tongue darting out between them, “they are remarkable, intelligent,  and social creatures.” The fluttering seems to be spreading from his center out to his extremities now, and once again, Castiel is stymied by human physiology. It seems that something has triggered his vessel’s hypothalamus to activate his sympathetic nervous system, readying it for “fight or flight.” He shakes his head and takes a few slow, deliberate breaths, hoping to tame the vessel’s adrenal response enough to counter the sudden profuse perspiration and shortness of breath now accompanying the rapid heartbeat.

Something about Dean Winchester always makes his control over his human vessel just a bit more tenuous. This time, when he glances at Dean’s lips, he can feel the rhythmic pulsing of blood rushing into his penis. Castiel looks down, considers his still-thickening erection with what should be a detached curiosity. Like with the pizza man, he vaguely recalls. Only, as he’s come to expect with most of his encounters with Dean Winchester, he can’t quite seem to keep that angelic detachment. Instead, his mind clouds with the image of Dean licking his lips, and Castiel is suddenly overcome with an intense desire to feel those lips on his skin, which now feels warm and flushed all over.

Yes, much like watching the pizza man, he concludes, except that this time everything is happening much more rapidly. There’s a heat bubbling beneath the surface of his skin, coiling around his spine, as if his very essence is struggling to escape the confines of its vessel. Beneath multiple layers of clothing, he can feel moisture start to pool at the dip in his lower back, his vessel’s physiological response to the release of adrenaline. He’s perspiring enough that he can feel it seeping through his shirt, the threadbare suit jacket; even the rumpled trench coat—which is an actual garment, and not, as Dean had suggested yesterday, a “security blanket with sleeves”—has become damp with it.

Another featherlight brush against his knee, and Castiel’s breath hitches in his throat. The atmosphere sizzles around them, the air gone hot and heavy against his skin, and he’s not sure why. Across the table, Dean chews at that bottom lip as the fingertips of his right hand idly tap out part of the drum intro to “Rock and Roll” against the worn, metal-covered edge of the table. His eyes flicker down for a moment, toward Castiel’s mouth, it seems, before he turns his head entirely to gaze out the window.

Castiel watches his the slow bob of the hunter’s adam’s apple in profile as Dean swallows, and suddenly he’s overcome with the desire to feel it, to push some part of himself deep into Dean’s throat. He doesn’t even realize that he’s mirroring Dean, swallowing just as thick and heavy, until Dean turns back to face him, and suddenly he’s pinned in place by the full weight of Dean’s gaze.

“Cas.” It comes out low and broken, that gravelly voice that’s as much a part of Castiel’s being as his vessel. “Cas, tell me you’re feelin’ it too, man,” Dean pleads.

Castiel slides his tongue over the chapped edge of his lower lip. He knows he needs to answer Dean, but for some reason, he can’t quite remember the steps involved to make his vessel speak. Instead, he nods, wide-eyed and mute, a frisson of…of something spreading through his cells like wildfire.

Dean slides a strong hand across the chipped formica table, palm up and open, as open as those golden-green eyes boring straight into the core Castiel’s being. “You…uh, you wanna,” Dean begins, shy and almost hesitant, “you wanna get outta here?”

Hesitant, Castiel reaches forward, lets his own hand, disturbingly moist with perspiration, take gentle hold of Dean’s. And just like that, he remembers the intricate processes necessary for human speech, enough to breathe out a response, soft and surer than any words uttered by any vessel he’d ever occupied in these long millennia. “Yes, Dean.”

Chapter Text

His heart is pounding so forcefully in his chest, the blood rushing rhythmically on the inside of his skull so loud, that for a long moment, Dean worries, remembering the dude whose heart exploded on that one case. Wouldn’t that be just his luck, to fucking explode with need before he even gets his mouth on Cas?

Keeping a firm grasp on Castiel’s hand, Dean throws some crumpled bills onto the table and stands up, tugging a bit less than gently on the angel’s hand. “C’mon.” He’s rewarded by a gummy, if uncertain, smile, Castiel’s eyes crinkling as he stares at where they’re connected. Which, y’know, is good and all, but he’s still just sitting there. “Cas,” Dean says, in an utterly manly tone that is absolutely nothing whatsoever like whining. “Let’s go!”

It’s enough to break Cas free of his reverie. He shakes his head, those icy blue eyes slightly glassy and unfocused, then blinks a couple times. When he looks up, though, he levels a piercing gaze right through Dean, once again watching him with laser-sharp focus. “Of course,” Cas murmurs as he stands, squeezing Dean’s palm with those long, slender fingers, “let’s go.”

Dean’s mesmerized by the intensity of it, of those blue eyes looking deep inside him, at the tingle of Castiel’s palm against his own, so mesmerized that now he’s the one that forgets how to move. That is, until he feels the heat of Castiel’s breath against the hinge of his jaw, ghosting against his ear, as the angel leans in to whisper, “Are you okay with this?”

Okay with this? Hell yeah, he’s okay with it. The thought barely has time to flitter through his mind before Dean is moving, pulling his angel—his angel!—toward the fingerprint-smudged glass door.

Sonofabitch.

The feathery motherfuckers are taunting him. Two of them, standing right fucking there on poor Baby’s roof. Goddamn flying vermin better not be scratching up the paint. Motherfucker. 

“Dean.” Cas rumbles, his voice part warning, part admonition as he tightens his grip around Dean’s hand. “I’ve told you, they’re very intelligent creatures and deserve to be treated with respect. Look.” Cas gestures toward the Impala with his hand still clasped in Dean’s, so it would probably look like they’re dancing or something to an outside observer. Dean thinks that should bother him, but it doesn’t. He looks to where Cas is pointing, and notices something shiny between the feet of the two birds.

“What the…” Dean scowls, doing his own version of the Cas head-tilt as he takes in the object glimmering in the sunlight. “Is that a quarter?”

“I believe it’s an offering,” Cas begins, “an apology, perhaps, for what happened this morning.” He turns his attention back to the ravens, nodding solemnly as speaks. “Your kindness is noted. Thank you.”

“Wait a minute…so you’re tellin’ me they’re paying me off for the poop?” Dean can’t keep the incredulity out of his voice, even if it does make Castiel squint at him. Damn, Cas is cute when he squints.

“Don’t be crass.”

Dean grins and bumps his shoulder against Cas’. “Okay, angel,” he murmurs, and fuck if his heart does go a little melty at the soft smile that spreads across Castiel’s face. Without thinking, Dean brings Castiel’s hand up to his face, brushes his lips against the rough skin of Cas’ knuckles like he’s done it thousands of times before. “Maybe they’re not so bad.”

Cas nods at him, all wide-eyed, and it’s only partly because the kiss has surprised him. When he nods the second time, it’s in the direction of the birds. “Oh yeah,” Dean stammers, “uh, apology accepted. Just…um, just mind the finish. Baby’s not keen on poop. Or…or talons either.” He resolutely ignores the way Castiel rolls his eyes, because a man’s got limits, and Baby’s precious, okay?

Sarcastic angel aside, what Dean says apparently meets with the birds’ approval—what the fuck even his his life? Dean can’t help but wonder—and with a squawk and ruffle of feathers, they take flight. They quickly cover the remaining distance, hands still clasped between them. As Dean slides the quarter off the roof, he does a surreptitious damage check. Well, what he thought was surreptitious, anyway.

“Dean.” He doesn’t even have to look toward Cas to know he’s making that irritated face, and fuck does Dean need to kiss him stupid.

He pockets the quarter and turns to rest his back against the driver’s door, grinning like a goddamn fool when he sees Cas watching him. Dean feels like a kid again, all butterflies in his stomach and giddy at the heat from Castiel’s hand in his. His cheeks flush, and he ducks his head to hide the blush, looking back up through his lashes as though Castiel is the sun, and Dean will implode if he looks at him directly. “Heya, Cas,” he says, tugging his lower lip between his teeth, suddenly bashful like a some sort of blushing virgin.

“Yes, Dean?” Cas crowds into his space, so close that Dean can feel the heat radiating off his body, but not quite touching, not giving Dean everything he wants yet. He’s so close, so close, and still holding back, and Dean’s gonna combust if he doesn’t close that gap.

The moment hangs in the ether, the two of them millimeters apart and hungry for more, but neither brooking the distance, and it stretches out for eons before Dean remembers he can move, can coax his head back up to look directly at Cas.

Cas is so close it takes a few blinks for Dean’s eyes to focus on him, to see that familiar tilt of his head, the squint of those sapphire eyes, the tiny part of those plush pink lips.  To realize that Cas is waiting, suspended in eternity, just waiting for him. Eyes glued to Castiel’s mouth, Dean licks his lips, and wraps his free hand around the angel’s neck, closing that distance for good.

As far as first kisses go, it’s pretty damn tame. Dry and soft, just a delicate press of lips to lips for the most fleeting, blink and you miss it, of moments. Nothing to write home about, and yet…it’s everything. In that moment, Dean’s entire world shifts approximately 7 degrees off its axis. When he opens his eyes, all he can see or think or feel is Cas. Blue eyes sparkling at him, the warmth of his breath heating Dean’s skin, the solid pressure of his body against Dean’s. “Let’s go back to the motel.”

Cas just smiles in response.

Somehow during breakfast, they musta got stuck in a weird time loop, because it takes at least 300 times longer to get back to the damn motel than it took to get there.

Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but Dean’s a little on edge, and has been since Cas shifted slightly in the passenger seat and rested his hand on the top of Dean’s thigh. Dean can feel the hot press of each point of contact—Cas’ broad palm, the length of each digit—even through thick denim, and it sends tiny jolts of electricity up and down his body. His whole body is alight with it, with the dull thrum of arousal simmering just beneath his skin, and all from what? A G-rated kiss and hand on his goddamn knee? It’s ridiculous, is what it is, but apparently Dean’s body doesn’t give a rat’s ass about how a grown-ass man is supposed to be able to control himself. 

Fuck. 

His eyes glued to the road, Dean swallows, his tongue thick and heavy in his throat, and reaches to turn the radio up louder, for no other reason than to give his shaky hands (and mind) something to do. 

Made a meal outta me, and come back for more
Had to cool me down to take another round
Now, I'm back in the ring to take another swing
That the walls were shaking, the Earth was quaking
My mind was aching, and we were making it  

Baby rattles with the sound of it, speakers humming strains of electric guitar, and Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel to release some of the nervous energy pulsing through his body. He can feel Castiel’s gaze on him, hot and heavy and intense, but he can’t return it. Knows he’ll incinerate if he even dares to glance over at him, and then Baby’s interior would be ruined and he can’t have that now, can he? 

Dean gulps an awkward breath of air and then let’s go, singing along loud off-key at the chorus. “You shook me alllll night long,” he starts, finally daring to dart his eyes toward Cas, who’s just staring at him all delighted, like he’s a basket full of kittens and pie, “yeah you, shook me all night loooong!” Dean grins back, can’t help but grin back at the soft smile toying at the corner of those beautiful lips, and finally has the balls to rest his own hand over Castiel’s. 

The ride goes a lot faster after that. Just that small gesture—bringing his palm to slide against the back of Cas’ hand, slipping his fingers between Cas’—soothes the butterflies dancing in his gut, grounds and steadies him, even as it turns the simmer of arousal up closer to a boil. Cas is squeezing the muscle of his thigh now, just a gentle, kneading pressure, but it shoots sparks straight to Dean’s dick, which is starting to get really interested in the proceedings, especially when Cas lets his pinky graze along Dean’s inner thigh.

Dean may break a couple of traffic laws after that.

Let it be known that Dean Winchester, ladies’ man extraordinaire, is one smooth motherfucker.

Well, usually.

Apparently Cas is his exception in more ways than one.

Pulling into the parking lot, Dean maneuvers Baby away from any possible perches for feathered poop-machines (intelligent or not, their shit is corrosive), and then…well, fuck. He freezes. Because this ain’t someone he picked up at a bar, a one-night stand to love and leave. It’s Cas, so the stakes are higher. Shitfuckmotherfuckingsonofabitch.

“Um,” Dean says, decidedly not smooth or suave, as he chews nervously on the inside of his cheek. He peeks over at Cas out of the corner of his eye, and the angel’s still got that damn adorable awed expression on his face and it makes Dean’s cheeks heat up.

“You’re nervous,” Cas observes, and when Dean raises his head to meet that ancient gaze, it hits him in the gut. Cas has been around since before time was a thing, and somehow, some way, he’s here, and wants Dean. It’s a heady feeling, intoxicating…nerve-wracking and terrifying, if Dean’s honest with himself, because how the fuck is a mess of a man like him supposed to live up to the expectations of a fucking angel?

Dean feels the flush spreading across his face, from his cheeks to the tops of his ears, and there’s never an apocalypse to swallow him up when he needs it.

“Well,” he clears his throat, swallowing awkwardly around a tongue too big for his mouth, “it’s just…well, different, y’know?” Dean scrubs his left hand through his hair, scratching idly at the back of his head. “It’s…it means some—“

Cas cuts him off, swallowing whatever the fuck else he was struggling to sputter out as the angel takes possession of Dean’s mouth with his lips, his teeth, his tongue. It’s primal, the force of however many thousands of years of sheer want hitting like a tidal wave, and it’s all Dean can do to hang on for the ride. A feral growl echoes through the car, and Dean isn’t sure if it’s coming from him or Cas or both of them, because Cas. Cas is holding him, kissing him, tongue thrusting into his mouth to a rhythm Dean mimics with the roll of his hips, seeking out friction as his dick twitches in the tight confines of his jeans.

“I believe we need privacy for what I want to do to you.”

There’s a rustle of wingbeats, ozone flooding Dean’s senses, and a dizzying moment later, they’re back in the room. Cas crowds into him, personal space be damned, thank fuck, and Dean doesn’t care a single lick about how the bolt of the chain lock is digging into his back because Cas is mouthing wet kisses up Dean’s neck, teeth grazing the skin straining against the tendon, and Dean’s legs may have turned into jelly. But who cares, that’s abso-fucking-lutely okay because Dean doesn’t need his legs with Cas sliding calloused hands down Dean’s sides, gripping his hips and urging Dean up up up. And Dean just goes with it, lets himself be manhandled, lets Cas move him where he wants him until Cas has him pinned to the door with his legs wrapped around Cas’ waist, his head thrown back for easier access to his neck.

He’s never been in this position before, at least not from this side of things, never felt small like this, but fuck if he don’t love it. He hooks his ankles at the small of Castiel’s back grabs hold of his face so that he can drink his fill from those perfect lips. He slides his tongue over that plump bottom lip, slick with spit but still slightly rough, and maybe he moans just a little when Cas opens up for him, welcomes Dean’s tongue to probe and explore and lay claim to what’s his. 

Because that right there is a fundamental truth, even if neither of them have spoken it aloud. Castiel is his just as fucking much as Dean is Castiel’s. 

Dean cards his fingers through Castiel’s hair, lightly scratching along his scalp, and it draws the most beautiful moan from deep inside his angel’s chest. Dean wants to live in that sound, wants to spend the rest of his days making Cas moan and grunt, pleasure-drunk and shouting his name. 

“Wanna feel you,” he pants against the shell of Castiel’s ear, “bed. Now.”

And holy motherfucking goddamn fuck! If Cas manhandling him up against the wall made his dick perk up, Cas carrying him to the bed like he’s made of helium makes it goddamn throb, Jesus fuck.

“I don’t have the patience to draw this out any longer, Dean,” Cas says, his eyes gone all dark and predatory as he tosses Dean down onto the creaky old bed. And yeah, it ain’t the most comfortable of landing spots, and Dean’s not as young as he used to be, but how is Dean supposed to be bothered with that sort of thing when Cas is looming over him, all primal and sex growly?

“Okay.” Dean gulps as he watches Castiel, Angel of the MotherFucking Lord, rip off his holy tax accountant suit, buttons from the rumpled white shirt flying all over the place. “Fuck, Cas,” he stammers, struggling to take in all that newly bared skin, “Fuck.”

“I’d be amenable to that,” the angel replies, eyes dancing, a wicked smile curling his lips. 

Cas stalks toward the bed, and Dean needs more eyes. Yeah, definitely needs more eyes because he can’t look everywhere at once, can’t take in the slight swell of Castiel’s chest at the same time as he watches the muscles in his stomach stretch and flex beneath smooth skin as he moves, as blue eyes pin him with a look of absolute hunger. It’s too much to take in, and Dean has to remind himself to breathe, Jesus H Christ, because he’s the luckiest sonofabitch to ever walk the face of the earth to have a sex god looking at him like that.

“Take off your shirt, Dean,” he demands, and Dean scrambles to obey, only his hands are clumsy and shaky and don’t quite remember how they’re supposed to move. But then Castiel is there, kneeling above him, straddling his lap, and it’s okay—of course, it is—because Cas is kissing him, sweet and soft, like he’s something precious. It hardly even registers when Cas slides his coat down his shoulders, pushes the hem of his old henley up along his ribcage.

“Lift.” Transfixed, Dean raises his arms over his head, overwhelmed and obedient, so that Cas can slip his shirt the rest of the way off. All he wants in this moment is to feel that perfect golden skin against his own, to get another taste of those perfect, salt-sweet lips. 

“Cas,” he whines, sliding his palms up the planes of Castiel’s back, groaning as the muscles ripple at his touch. The skin beneath his hands is hot, hot enough that Dean wonders if it’s an angel thing, but only for a second or three because when Cas grinds down against his crotch, all thought abandons ship, leaving nothing but a litany of Cas Cas Cas running through Dean’s brain and out of his mouth like a prayer.

They’re both still wearing too many clothes to feel that much, but even so, knowing that vague hot bulge rubbing against him is Cas, hot and hard because of him? It’s a goddamn rush.

“More, need more,” Dean chants, biting the words into the flesh of Castiel’s neck, his own skin on fire at the burn of Cas’ stubble dragging against his cheek. “Please, Cas, fuck.”

It’s different. Cas is not a small man, and it’s different from what Dean’s used to. So different to have that extra weight in his lap, to have another hard-on grinding against his own, to feel the friction of Castiel’s chest hair dragging against his own, but fuck if it’s not incredible. Dean’s trembling, feels like he’s gonna vibrate out of his skin at any moment, his whole world condensed down to the press of Cas’ body against his, the sea-salt taste of his skin under Dean’s tongue.

Just this once, Dean thinks, it’s okay to let go, to lose himself in sensation, to the thousands of pinprick stings of Cas tugging on his hair, to the damp heat of Cas’ mouth against the hinge of his jaw, to the squeeze of those powerful thighs against his own. He lets himself get lost in the moment, and soon he’s floating in it, completely surrounded and protected in the warmth of his angel. At last. Cas has got him, and it’s okay to let himself go.

He’s only vaguely aware of it as Cas untangles his fingers from Dean’s hair, slides his hands down to his shoulders and pushes, Dean’s own arms wrapped tight around Cas’ middle, clinging to him like one of those sloths in the nature documentaries Cas loves so much. It’s not like Cas minds, if the breathy sighs and Enochian words mumbled against Dean’s mouth are any indication.

Dean can’t remember the last time making out had him this riled up, ready to burst; it’s got to have been at least a couple decades. But this? This is something different, something special; it’s Cas and him and Dean didn’t think this was even in the realm of possibilities for a fuckup like him, let alone something Cas would want to, and it’s got him twisted up all taut like a guitar string pulled too tight. He bends his knees and plants his feet on the bed, graveyard muddied boots and all, and Cas settles into that space between his legs like it was made for him, like this is where he’s always belonged. And, if Dean stops to consider it, he’s pretty sure it is.

Cas kisses him breathless, plunging his tongue into Dean’s mouth and exploring, the tip sliding along the roof of his mouth, then teasing the flat of Dean’s tongue. It’s rough and aggressive and Dean loves it, loves the way Cas is owning him, staking claim on every part of Dean that he can touch. Wants Cas to mark him up, to fucking ruin him. Holy shit, he realizes, he wants to be owned. 

Dean Winchester, Property of Castiel, Former Angel of the Lord. He’ll tattoo it right on his ass, if it means getting to keep Cas. 

As Cas lavishes his throat with open-mouthed kisses and nips, Dean rocks his hips up, seeking out more friction against the hard line of flesh in Cas’ trousers. He claws parallel furrows down either side of Castiel’s spine, grunting his delight at the way Cas arches into it, eyes fluttering closed and purring like a kitten.

Dean wants to spend the rest of eternity finding new ways to pull those sounds from Castiel’s lips.

“Dean,” Cas grumbles against that spot at Dean’s ear, sounding like he gargled with gravel after choking on cock and damn if that ain’t an image worth exploring in much more detail sooner rather than later. But right now? Now Dean just needs to get his grubby mitts on what Cas is packing under those rumpled suit pants. Like, yesterday.

Somehow, thank whatever stars aligned to make it happen, he manages to fumble his way through undoing Cas’ belt and the button of his pants with a single, sweaty hand, because fuck if he’s gonna stop touching bare skin for even a moment if he don’t have to. Cas hisses in relief when Dean gets his zipper down, because he’s hard enough to pound nails. Goddamn, Dean wants to get his lips around that cock, wants it so bad he’s mouth’s watering.

“Oh fuck.” Cas stutters, his whole body trembling, when Dean gets his hand around Cas’ cock, slides the pad of his thumb across the slit, down the cleft to massage his frenulum. And, yeah, maybe blowjobs will have to wait because hearing Cas swear has Little Dean ready to shoot off. There’s always next time, right? 

Next time.

Dean tries not to squeal like girl at the prospect of a next time, of so many more times, with Cas. Instead, he whines like a girl, “Cas, touch me.” Sue him. He’s got a handful of angel cock leaking over his fist, and the weight of the cock’s owner pushing him down into the cheap motel mattress, and he can’t be bothered to care about stupid shit right now. Especially not with Cas working to get his jeans undone. He lets his eyes close and just gives himself over to sensation, to the head of the goddamn moment.

It hardly registers when Cas mutters under his breath in frustration, because apparently jeans are too complicated for a horny angel of the lord, or when the jeans rip because Cas is an impatient son of a bitch. No, Dean’s too busy jacking Cas off, committing the shape of his cock to memory, how the velvet-soft skin slides over the rigid shaft with each upstroke, the way Cas gasps when Dean drags his thumb over the head.

“I fear my stamina is going to leave something to be desired,” Cas manages to breathe against his ear, and clearly Dean needs to ramp up his game if Cas can still talk in sentences. He grips him tighter, turning his head to swallow the broken moan that spills from that gorgeous mouth. And then Cas shifts his hips just so, and Dean’s cock slides up against Cas’ for the first time, and holy mother of fuck. 

Stamina?  Never met her. 

Dean opens his hand just enough to get a hold of them both, and soon they’re just rutting together, artless and wild and frantic. Cas wraps one of his large hands around them, too, and fuck fuck fuck Dean’s gonna explode. He doesn’t care how pathetic he must sound, whining and whimpering into Cas’ mouth. He doesn’t care that he’s still got his stupid boots on. All that matters is the man on top of him, grinding against him, kissing him stupid and whispering thinks like beautiful and love and perfect into Dean’s mouth, and then Dean’s coming, shooting hot and wet between them, the muscles of his abdomen clenching and twitching as he just keeps coming, like a goddamn teenager, but that’s okay because it sets Cas off, too, and then they’re both shaking with it, wet and messy and oversensitive but still desperate for it, for each other, unwilling to separate.

At least, not until mess between them starts to cool.

“This is unpleasant,” Cas is squinting his displeasure, his voice its usual dry growl, which is all the more hysterical because he’s still breathless from the makeout session. Dean can’t help it; he barks out a laugh, unguarded and joyful, and then leans up to plant a wet kiss on Castiel’s disgruntled lips.

“What on earth could be the purpose for semen coagulating like that? It seems like a flaw in the design.”

Dean’s still giggling as he pushes Cas onto his back, and curls up on side next to him. “That’s a question for your dad, not me.”

Cas glares at him, “Could we not bring my father into the conversation right now? I’ve never understood humanity’s insistence on invoking his name while fornicating.”

“We need to work on your afterglow talk, angel.” 

Cas tilts his head, considering. “You’re…open to doing this again?” 

Dean reaches up and kisses the worry off Cas’ face. “Yes, Cas. For as long as you’ll have me.”