Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Impala is parked in front of an old, abandoned drive-in, less than thirty minutes from the bunker. The wind moves through the tall grass, and a few insects hover against the windshield before flying away. No movie playing on the cracked screen—just the summer night stretched across the sky like a blanket of indigo and gold.

Dean still has his hands on the steering wheel, staring blankly ahead. He’s drunk enough, but not enough to clear his head. There’s no getting out of this confusion. He’s restless and doesn’t even know why—or rather, he knows too well, but prefers not to give it a name. That reason is sitting next to him.

Castiel is still, contemplative, as if there are things written in the sky only he can read. Yet there’s something in his breathing, in the way he holds his hands, that makes him more human. Maybe too human. He feels the need to speak, but it’s like something wraps around his throat— like an invisible hand. He tries to push through it, to find the right words in a language that’s usually so simple, far simpler than Enochian, but now impossibly complex.

“I really like having sex with you,” he says, softly, like he's commenting on the weather or how it hasn’t rained in a while.

Dean avoids looking at him, runs a hand down his face. Fuck. Even Castiel wants to talk now. As if Sam’s Dr. Phil crap wasn’t enough.

“It’s just that… I don’t think it’s only sex,” Castiel adds, tilting his head slightly, trying to catch Dean’s eyes in the dim light of the car.

Dean scratches his head, sighs. He hopes his body language makes it clear he’s not interested in this conversation. “But it is just sex, Cas,” he replies, forcing a smile despite the discomfort.

“Not for me. I feel really good things when it happens.”

“It’s just fun,” Dean shrugs. “Like in those pornos, with the pizza guy and the babysitter. A physical need. It’s a release. That’s all.”

A heavy silence falls between them. Castiel doesn’t look offended. He doesn’t tense up. But something dims in his eyes.

“If it’s just a release for you… why do you look so involved? You tremble when you’re inside me.”

Dean doesn’t respond. He stares at the dashboard, jaw tight. He wants to vanish.

“When I’m inside you,” Castiel continues, “you look at me like you’re happy. Truly happy. Even if you pretend otherwise.” He’s thinking out loud now, but his heart is racing.

“Cas, I don’t want to talk—” Dean cuts himself off. Castiel has placed a hand on his thigh. A calm, intimate touch. Innocently provocative, like only he can be. He leans in and kisses Dean just below the ear. Dean flinches and hates himself for it. He wishes he didn’t react, that his legs wouldn’t tremble, that Castiel’s scent didn’t overwhelm him. He closes his eyes, shame washing over him.

He leans his seat back, sighs. Fine. Let it happen. He doesn’t have the strength to stop it, even though he already knows how he’ll feel later—like an asshole. Like someone who takes, who uses. Like a son of a bitch, like his father.

Castiel leans down and kisses him over the jeans, just above the crotch. Dean doesn’t stop him. Says nothing. Just lets it happen. Castiel unbuttons his jeans, moves lower, and takes him in his mouth with a disarming naturalness. Dean never thought innocence could be so sensual.

He exhales, tilts his head back against the seat. Castiel does it slowly. Focused. It’s not a performance. It’s care. He’s learned what Dean likes—not just what, but how. The pace of his pleasure, the movements to linger on and the ones to barely touch. Dean doesn’t moan. Doesn’t speak. He forces himself to make no sound beyond breathing. Until even breathing gets too heavy. His hand slips into Castiel’s dark hair. He could grab it, guide the rhythm. He could thrust, take, not give a fuck. But instead, he just strokes his head. To encourage. To praise. To feel like less of a jerk when he comes in his throat. Castiel lets out a low, barely audible sound. Almost shy.

Then he sits back up with a composure Dean’s never seen—not even in the most experienced hookers he’s spent half his life with. Castiel wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then turns to Dean with an intense look.

“I think you like me now.”

Dean looks at him, pupils still blown wide, breath still fast. When the pleasure fades, the shame that had floated away like a balloon crashes down again. He wants to be alone. Wants to protect himself—and hurt back.

“You swallowed. Of course I like you,” he snaps, wanting it to sound mean, humiliating. A way to say: back off. Be quiet. Be content.

Castiel doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t move. He just stares.

“Do you love me now?”

Dean blinks, grimaces. “What?”

“Do you love me—now that I did that?”

“Christ, Cas...” Dean rubs his face. “Listen, that’s not how it works with humans. You can’t just say shit like that.”

“I don’t know how it works,” Castiel replies, calm as ever, “but I want to learn. With you. But I know that every time we finish, you get sarcastic. You shut down. You pretend it meant nothing. And I... I feel bad. Used.”

Dean turns to him, voice rough. He’s getting angry—because anger is simple, it gives him back a sense of control. “Used? I never forced you into anything! You’re the one who took it like a fucking pornstar!”

“I’m not talking about coercion. I’m talking about absence. A deep void. About how you leave right after. How you say things to erase what was just there.”

Dean glares at him, furious. He wants to say something easy, like: I’m not good at this. Please, give me time. Please, leave me alone. But instead, he remembers what Cas said once, in bed, under the messy sheets. He had whispered: “You’re beautiful, Dean. You’re light.”

Dean doesn’t know what to do with words like that. He stores them somewhere in his head, in a pocket he never opens. Like letters he refuses to read.

“I’m not the affectionate type. You know that by now,” he mutters, defensive.

“I’m not asking for affection, Dean. I’m asking for truth.”

Dean scoffs, looks out the window, his green eyes fixed on the desolate landscape. His knee trembles slightly.

Castiel studies him for a moment, trying to figure out how to reach him. Because in moments like this, all he wants is closeness. He doesn’t know exactly what or how—but he knows that if Dean just put an arm around him, or ran his fingers through his hair, everything would be better. He feels the need to show that he’s serious:

“I watched some porn. To learn how to do it better. If you like it… I can learn things to make you happy.”

Dean turns sharply. Stares.

“You did what?” He doesn’t even know if he feels flattered, guilty, panicked, or amused.

Castiel nods, serious. “I wanted to learn. I want to give you pleasure, Dean.”

Dean’s heart tightens. He wants to laugh—but can’t. Because Castiel is sincere. Completely unguarded. Disarming. He makes even the most carnal desire feel pure.

“You’re nuts,” Dean murmurs. “Cas, you’re... you’re something good. A creature made of light. And I’m just… I’m just me.”

Cas looks at him with that calm you can’t buy or learn. “I like you. Just as you are.”

Dean closes his eyes for a second. He knows he’s about to ruin everything. Like always. Destruction is what he knows. He’s faced vampires, demons, leviathans, witches, werewolves, and every other monster in the world—but nothing terrifies him like Castiel’s blue eyes.

“Well, that’s your problem.”

Castiel lowers his head, looks down. And this time, yes, he looks hurt.

“When you do that... I feel stupid.”

Dean swallows hard. Wants to say: I’m sorry. But that’s too much.

“Maybe you are…” he says instead, with a little laugh and a crooked smirk, gripping the steering wheel again.

He leans forward. He hears the sound of wings as Castiel disappears. The seat is now empty. And Dean just sits there. Staring at the broken screen.

He starts the engine. The truth is—he’s the only stupid here.

Chapter Text

There’s a certain suspended atmosphere hanging over the bunker—the kind that creeps in on days when the world isn’t ending, but still feels unbearably heavy. Everything is still, and thoughts buzz inside the skull like wasps, desperate to sting. In moments like this, when silence fills the endless halls and rooms, Dean turns to simple tasks.

Now he’s in the kitchen, hunched over the ironing board, sleeves rolled up, the iron gliding over a checkered flannel shirt. The hum of the washing machine pulses in the background like a second heartbeat. The smell of detergent mixes with that of a forgotten coffee, cold now, sitting on the table.

Taking care of others is carved into Dean’s DNA, just like killing monsters. In quiet moments, he can’t ignore that need. It’s instinctual. Folded clothes in drawers, clean bathrooms, stocked pantry. These come even before polishing the Impala or blasting Zeppelin while cleaning his guns.

It’s Sunday, and Sam is out on a hunt with Heileen. Dean has rotated the wardrobe for summer and tackled laundry—for himself, for Sam… and for Castiel. The angel’s coat is laid out carefully before him on the board. Dean moves the iron across the fabric with reverence, slowly, like a ritual.

Castiel, wearing only his suit, watches from the doorway. He’s been there for a while. He doesn’t speak at first. His eyes follow each movement, as if trying to carve them into memory. He doesn’t quite understand this side of Dean. Sometimes he wishes it didn’t exist. He wishes Dean could be selfish, reckless, indulging in time spent just for himself—not always sacrificing, especially in the little things.

But then he can’t help admitting he loves this part of Dean. Where strength and care and fragility blur together. In that space, he sees the boy Dean once was. The one who had no time to play, who had to shoot, change diapers, cook, show up. A good soldier. Probably Dean can't imagine they are a lot alike.

“You’re very good at running a household,” Castiel finally says, his low voice grounding but gentle.

“Shit, Cas! You trying to give me a heart attack?” Dean jumps slightly. “You spying on me now?”

“I didn’t mean to spy. If you prefer, I can come back later.”

“No, Cas. Stay. Really…” Dean mutters, avoiding his eyes.

“Dean, I think you’re very good at what you do. You’re capable, and you take care of the people you love.”

“Thanks, Cas. That’s… something I really would’ve wanted to hear from my old man,” Dean says, eyes on the iron as he presses the coat’s sleeves. “But he didn’t give a damn. I used to cook for Sam, pack his school bag, iron our clothes—including Dad’s FBI suit. I’d pull his boots off when he passed out drunk with them still on. After a while, I just stopped hoping he’d notice. I guess it was expected of me. Part of the package.”

Castiel stays silent, trying—and failing—to catch Dean’s eye. Hearing him talk like this stirs something inside him. A faster heartbeat. A growing urge to be close, to touch his face. Human things. Things an angel shouldn’t even contemplate. But around Dean, they feel ordinary.

He takes a few quiet steps closer.

“Show me how to iron,” he says, tilting his head.

“Why? You wanna be a domestic angel now?”

“You shouldn’t always have to do it alone,” Castiel replies, his gaze fixed on Dean’s hands. One on the iron, the other gently pulling the fabric taut.

“Cas, I can handle it… It’s fine…” Dean mumbles, still not looking at him.

“If we lived together, we could take turns. Or I could do it, since you’ve done it long enough,” Castiel adds simply.

Dean freezes. His eyes close briefly, as if the words have gotten under his skin.

They say nothing for a moment.

Then Dean hands him the iron, a soft smile barely touching his lips.

“All yours, big guy. Just don’t press too hard, or you’ll burn it.”

Castiel takes the iron with clumsy movements. Dean steps beside him, placing his hand over Castiel’s on the handle. It’s a small, mundane touch—but to Dean, it feels like impact. A crash. Because his guardian angel, his best friend, keeps falling deeper and deeper into emotions Dean didn’t think he could feel anymore.

He shows him how to move it, how to guide the iron across the coat sleeve.

“No need to go full exorcism. It’s a coat, not a demon.”

Castiel smiles. He’s starting to understand humor better these days. Dean is funny. Except when he jokes to hide pain or deflect something he doesn’t want to face.

“You’re really good at this. It’s like you were born to iron. You should make videos. Nude ironing. You’d be a global hit,” Dean teases, a little cheeky, with an adorable grin and a smug look.

Castiel struggles to keep up. Was that a compliment? Or just a joke?

“You think about sex when you watch me iron?” Castiel asks, disarmingly curious.

Dean runs his hands over his face. Somewhere between those freckles, he’s blushing.

“Well… maybe a little…” he scratches the back of his head. “I mean—I’d happily get bent over by a handsome man helping me do chores.” He starts awkward, but then bites his lip and meets Castiel’s eyes.

Castiel freezes. His gaze lifts slowly. He swallows.

“I’m not a man, Dean.” He doesn’t know why, but he needs to remind him.

Dean looks at him. Doesn’t move. Then he smiles—a smile that lands softly, something more than irony. There’s tenderness there. Kinship. Want.

“Even better,” he whispers, stepping closer. He touches Castiel’s chest. Castiel holds his breath. Then, with a slow but decisive motion, Dean grabs his tie and pulls him in.

Castiel lets himself be drawn forward, mesmerized. There’s something boyish in Dean’s gesture, a warmth that spreads under Castiel’s skin. Like a teenager dragging his first crush into a secret. The fabric tightens between them. Castiel follows silently, never looking away.

And then they’re in Dean’s room. The bed made military-tight. Guns on the nightstand. Headphones tangled on the sheets. Dean pushes Castiel to sit, releasing the tie with sensual precision.

Castiel swallows again, throat dry, staring at their shoes.

“I wasn’t joking before,” Dean says, kneeling between his legs. The movement is intimate, and for a moment he holds his breath. He doesn’t think about what it means—or maybe he does—but he doesn’t stop. His hands settle on Castiel’s knees.

“You really like domestic help,” Castiel observes, pulse quickening as Dean lowers his zipper.

“You have no idea,” Dean murmurs, grinning slyly, sliding a hand past the waistband of his boxers.

Castiel tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling. He would iron mountains of laundry for millennia in exchange for a moment like this.

Chapter Text

Dean shoves a forkful of bacon into his mouth, still bleary-eyed with sleep. Across the table, Sam is reading the newspaper while having his usual breakfast: cereal and soy milk. The bunker is wrapped in the quiet of a lazy Sunday morning.

Dean has his phone in hand, idly scrolling through the screen, trying to reconnect his brain after a solid, much-needed sleep. But it’s never quite enough—not after taking down an entire nest of vampires they’d been hunting for almost a month.

A notification slides across the screen. A cheery bloop announces a new match on Match-Heart, the dating app. Dean smiles to himself, chewing. He's curious to see who the algorithm paired him with. Not that he actually talks to many people on there, but it’s always a nice ego boost. And Dean’s self-esteem? Fragile, at best. Wildly inconsistent.

“What the hell?” Dean blurts out, frowning at his phone.

Sam looks up from the newspaper.

“What the fuck is this?” Dean growls, turning the screen toward his brother.

“Lemme see…” Sam reaches across the table and grabs the phone. “Well, looks like you just matched with... Castiel.”

“Exactly! Why the fuck did I just match with Cas? What the hell is Cas doing on a dating app?” Dean snaps, pointing a finger accusingly at his younger brother.

Sam scrolls down and reads out loud from Castiel’s profile: “Cas, forty-five, I love pizza and dominant but sensitive men.” Dean glares at him like he’s trying to incinerate the entire room with his eyes.

“I made it,” Sam says, casually going back to his paper like it’s no big deal.

“You what?” Dean’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists.

“I made him a profile. He needed a little... social outreach. Especially considering that you’ve been treating him like crap for months and he’s been looking at you like you dropkicked his heart.”

“Sam, who gave you the right to meddle?” Dean slams a fist onto the table.

“Castiel did. He asked for some advice. Turns out, one: he’s also my friend. Two: he’s an adult—millions of years old, actually. I even took the pictures. The one with the tea mug? Super cute.” Sam smirks in that way Dean hates.

“So now Castiel’s on a dating app!” Dean throws his hands up, eyes wide.

“Exactly. And the universe says you two are 97% compatible. Maybe ask him out before someone else does.”

“Fuck you, Sam! This is insane. Cas can’t just start going out with random people!”

“What, you afraid someone’s gonna take his virtue?” Sam doesn’t even glance up from the paper. “Cas can vaporize someone with a stare if they step out of line. Relax.”

“That’s not the point!” Dean barks. “It’s not that I’m worried he’ll get hurt. I mean, look at that photo! Who the hell would want to message a guy who looks like he just got interrogated by the CIA? No one’s gonna write him unless it’s to— I don’t know, mock him or something.”

“Dean…” Sam lowers the newspaper again and stares straight at him. “Are you being serious right now?”

“Of course I am,” Dean lies through his teeth. “Cas is… he’s not even hot. And he looks like an idiot!”

“How old are you, twelve?” Sam scoffs, folds the paper, and leaves Dean alone in the kitchen.

Dean runs a hand over his face. He thinks back to the photos—Castiel holding a tea mug, looking a little lost. Shirt collar crooked. Those big blue eyes, warm and soft. Too pure for the internet.

Dean stands up. Heavy steps take him toward the library, maybe subconsciously searching for a spell to banish dating apps from existence. And there he is: Castiel, seated at one of the wooden desks, phone in hand, staring at it like it’s some kind of forbidden tome.

“Hey, Cas… Can we talk for a sec?” Dean says, sitting next to him.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel doesn’t look up, focused on his phone that keeps buzzing and chiming. Notifications. Lots of them. Too many.

“Sam told me he set you up on this app. Maybe it was a joke…” Dean offers, trying hard to sound calm.

“It wasn’t,” Castiel replies softly, still looking at the screen.

Dean rubs his face. “Cas, listen. People out there can be real assholes. I just don’t think it’s the right place for someone like you.”

“What is someone like me?” Castiel looks up and meets Dean’s eyes. He’s innocent. Curious.

“Well… you’re you! And you’re not exactly great with flirting and all that crap…” Dean stalls. “But that’s not the point! Did you even think about Jack? Or Claire? What would they think if they heard you were on something like this, huh?”

Castiel stares at him, tilting his head.

“You’re angry, Dean,” he says plainly, seeing right through him.

Dean clenches his fists. That’s what pisses him off the most—Cas can tell. Dean’s only rule for dealing with Cas has always been: never let him know you care. Ever.

“Castiel, this is objectively a bad idea. You can’t waste time like this. No one on there wants to actually get to know you. They won’t understand you. Best case scenario? They laugh at you,” Dean says, trying to sound reasonable.

“That’s not true.” Castiel’s calm voice cuts through his argument like a blade. “There are many people—many men—who seem genuinely excited to meet me.”

Another notification breaks the silence forming between them.

“Oh yeah?” Dean asks, incredulous. “And what kind of messages are you getting?”

“I was going to ask you about that, actually.” Castiel hands over the phone with no hesitation. “They keep sending me photos like these. I don’t understand why.”

He looks puzzled as Dean scrolls through the chats. Blurry, poorly lit photos—carefully angled dick pics.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean blurts out.

“Why do they do that? What am I supposed to say in response?” Castiel asks, genuinely confused.

“I—I don’t know, Cas. I don’t know…” Dean hands the phone back, jaw clenched. He wants to break something. It’s getting harder to hold it in.

“And then…” Castiel opens a message. “Listen to what they write to me: ‘Bring that sweet ass over here, I’ll fuck you till you cry,’ ‘Wanna come on your face while you look at me with those baby blues,’ ‘I bet under that whole suburban dad vibe, you’re a cock-hungry slut.’”
He pauses, brows knit. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Okay…” Dean inhales deeply and holds out his hand. “Give me the phone.”

Castiel hands it over gently. Dean pretends to think, expression dark. Then he stands. His legs are shaking from sheer rage.

Another fucking notification.

In a flash, he drops the phone to the floor. Two solid stomps with the heel of his boot, and the screen shatters. The circuits inside scatter like shrapnel across the hardwood floor.

“Problem solved,” Dean mutters, letting out a tight, humorless laugh.

“That was my phone,” Castiel says, arms crossed, brow slightly furrowed.

“You don’t need that crap,” Dean insists, waving a finger like it’s law.

Silence. Castiel’s eyes are fixed on the floor, on one of the tiny screws glinting in the light. He folds his arms over his chest.

“Look…” Dean exhales sharply, suddenly feeling like just another impulsive asshole. “I’ll get you a new phone, okay? But I don’t want you downloading that fucking app again. I swear, Cas. I don’t want to hear about it. I’m deleting it, too. I hate that shit. I hate those fucking people.”

Castiel steps closer, narrowing the space between them. He reaches up, about to touch Dean’s face, but Dean grabs his wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make a point.

In the silence, Dean can hear his own heartbeat hammering in his chest.

“You don’t belong to anyone else. Got it?” he whispers.

Castiel nods, searching Dean’s green eyes with his own.

Then Dean cups his face in both hands.

He kisses him—and all he can think about is how goddamn gorgeous Cas looked in those stupid fucking photos.

Chapter Text

Dean was sprawled out on the leather couch in his bunker’s new man cave like he was the only guy on Earth who knew how to enjoy life.
The flickering lights from the giant TV screen danced across his face, changing constantly with each explosion and flash of gunfire. He was on his second beer, watching a loud, testosterone-fueled movie full of shootouts, biceps, and lines dripping with toxic masculinity that made him laugh like a teenager. His boots were kicked up on the coffee table. Nearby sat the pool table, and overlooking the room, a Led Zeppelin poster kept watch.

Cas, who after all these years still hadn’t learned the value of knocking, suddenly appeared beside the couch.
His bright blue eyes widened, drawn to the massive explosion on the screen. Then they drifted to the half-empty beer bottle in Dean’s hand, and the bourbon left abandoned on the pool table, surrounded by balls scattered in no particular order.

“Dean...” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the deafening surround sound.

Dean turned toward him without bothering to lower the volume.
“Cas! You seeing this? The deluxe bunker life, man! Finally got myself a damn game room!” he said proudly, taking another sip of beer.

“Dean, I need to speak with you. There are updates about the mission in Duluth—” Cas started, stepping forward until he blocked the screen.

“Later! And get outta the way! Statham’s about to blow a chopper up with a bazooka!” Dean shot back, gesturing impatiently for Cas to move.

Cas sighed through his nose and stepped aside.
He would never understand what humans found so compelling in these films — the noise, the chaos, the explosions. He decided to wait, standing, clutching the folder of documents Sam had compiled.

“Don’t just stand there like a lamppost, man. Sit.” Dean patted the couch, barely touching the leather.

Cas sat down stiffly, placing the folder on the table. Back straight, hands on his knees. He waited, letting the film’s machismo-filled scenes flash over his eyes. And yet, more than the screen, he noticed Dean’s scent.
Musk, beer, skin, and gasoline.
He didn’t know why, but it was his favorite smell on all of Earth.

Then Dean said something — something that made Cas turn his head from the TV.

“Now the room’s perfect. Got all my toys in place.”

Cas didn’t know why that sentence made his stomach twist. He looked at Dean.
It was like those words crawled inside him and scratched at something tender.
Being a toy meant not being taken seriously. Meant being replaceable.
And yet… to be considered one of Dean’s favorite things — it also filled him with a strange warmth.
There was something cocky, dirty, and wrong in what Dean had said.
So why had it pleased him?

“I’m not a toy.” Cas said quietly.

“If you say so.” Dean replied with a smug grin, stretching out like a king on his throne.
He looked around, arms outstretched. “Couch, big-ass screen, pool table, booze… and now you. I'd say this is pretty damn close to paradise.”

Cas shook his head. He was offended — maybe even angry — but still, something magnetic kept him glued to the couch. Their thighs almost touched.

“We’ll talk about serious stuff later, alright?” Dean said, a little softer this time.

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“You bored?” Dean asked, chewing on his bottom lip as he watched Cas’s profile.

“I enjoy films and, generally, human forms of entertainment. But this... isn’t exactly my genre.” Cas muttered, keeping his eyes forward.

“Then make yourself useful.” Dean said, deciding to push it further.
He snapped his fingers, casually, as if he were asking for the remote. Then he pointed to the crotch of his jeans, flashing a cocky smirk.

Cas didn’t move at first.
The rapid-fire sounds of a machine gun echoed from the TV.
He wasn’t sure what he felt. He loved Dean deeply — and yet, maybe he hated him a little, too.
Still, he moved.
He stood, only to kneel between Dean’s legs.

Sometimes it felt like he was on autopilot. He wasn’t embarrassed anymore to do these things — it was like all boundaries between them had vanished.
He gently unzipped Dean’s jeans, savoring the soft touch of Dean’s fingers threading through his hair.

They didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.
Cas looked up at him as he took him deep into his mouth — the way Dean liked.
All the way. Until it hurt.

Dean leaned back, one hand braced behind his head like a king, the other buried in Cas’s hair, gently guiding him.

Cas couldn’t stop the thoughts from flooding his head: If I’m just being used, a tool for pleasure… why does it make me feel so alive? So wanted?

Dean didn’t watch him much — not because he was more interested in the damn movie.
But because if he looked too long, he’d lose it too fast.
He didn’t want to come off like some horny kid with a crush.

But when he did come, he did it on Cas’s face — savoring the image of that sweet face, messed up and wet with him.
Defiled and still beautiful.

Later, Dean was still on the couch — jeans pushed down, T-shirt tossed somewhere nearby.
Castiel, completely naked, straddled him, moving like a man possessed.
The movie still played in the background — chaotic scenes of urban warfare and mindless gunfire.
But none of that existed anymore.
There was only Cas, riding him hard, desperate, relentless. Clinging to Dean’s shoulders, grinding on his hips like he couldn’t get close enough.

They kissed from time to time, but Cas kept pulling back just to breathe.

Goddamn, you're beautiful.
Dean wanted to say it — it burned in his throat — but the words wouldn’t come.

“Dean… I can’t…” Cas panted, moving even faster.
“I can’t stop.”
There was something devastatingly sexy and broken in his voice, in that whimper.

Dean just hoped Sam couldn’t hear them. Hopefully he was out buying salad or buried in his books in the library.

“Thank fuck for that,” Dean grunted, throwing his head back against the couch, fingers digging into Cas’s hips.

Cas moaned again, the sound sharp, cracking on the edge — and suddenly, the air in the room shifted.

A breeze. A low flutter.

Dean shivered, the most intense, good kind of shiver, crawling down his spine. Goosebumps bloomed across his skin.
And when he looked up — Jesus — he almost lost it right then and there.

The shadow on the wall told him everything:
Cas had spread his wings.

They were black. Huge. Alive.
They moved with him — with his rhythm, his tremors, his pleasure.
They weren’t just wings — they were lungs. Of power. Of pure desire.

But more than anything, they moved air.
Dean gripped Cas’s hips tighter, as if afraid he might literally lift off.
Cas’s eyes were shut, mouth open in a silent cry of ecstasy.

Then a loud bang snapped Dean’s gaze to the side.
The wind from Cas’s wings had knocked the Led Zeppelin poster right off the wall.

Next was the TV — Dean’s brand-new, pride-and-joy flat-screen — rocking on its stand, then toppling with a crash of splintered plastic and shattered dreams.

For a split second, Dean considered swearing out loud.
But then Cas clenched around him — tight, impossibly tight — and he lost all ability to care.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” Cas gasped, trying to slow down.
“You make me feel so good — I can’t control them… I’m sorry…”

It wasn’t his words.
It was the way he looked at him.

Dean swallowed hard. Everything froze, then moved in slow motion.
Those wide, heartbreakingly human blue eyes. That wild mess of dark hair.
An angel’s soul — all his grace — right there, just for him.
It was almost too much.

Cas’s voice was cracking.
Did he really think Dean gave a shit about a TV right now?

Dean didn’t say anything.
He just pulled him close with both arms, holding him tight.
Buried his face in the crook of Cas’s neck and started thrusting up into him.

Hard.
Rough.
Making Cas cry out loud.

He wanted to wreck him — to make him sob from pleasure.
Cas’s moans turned soft and broken, unbearably tender.
Dean’s turned into something deep, guttural, and raw.

They didn’t look at each other anymore. They felt.
Holding on, tighter and tighter, all the way through the orgasm.

“Fuck the TV.” Dean muttered, head tilted back against the couch.
He loved this kind of exhaustion.
Cas smiled faintly, his wings trembling once before folding back in with a soft, rustling sound — like they’d never been there.

Dean could only trace them with his eyes.

Those wings were his.
Like everything about Castiel was his.

“Forgive me. I’ll buy you a new television.”

There’s no TV in the world that puts on a show like you do.
Dean thought it — felt it in his chest — but didn’t say it.
Instead, he gave Cas a light slap on the cheek.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Drop it, Cas.”

Chapter Text

Dean stares at himself in the mirror, adjusts his sheriff’s hat tilted slightly to the left, and gives himself a smug little grin. He’s always dreamed of being the hero in a Western movie—the kind of guy who walks into the saloon and makes the whole place fall silent, everyone hanging on his every word.

He checks himself out. Leather jacket with a shiny gold star pinned over his heart, dark shirt buttoned up to the neck, chunky belt buckle, tight jeans tucked into boots—spurs and all (fake, of course, wouldn’t want to scratch up the bunker’s floor). He’s a vision. Downright virile. He even polished the damn buckle. No Western has ever had a hotter sheriff, and he knows it. He’s even rocking a double holster—with two unloaded pistols.

“Sheriff Bang Bang Dean…” he murmurs to his reflection, convinced he’s alone. “No offense, Clint, but I’ve got way more sex appeal.”

The plan is simple: free weekend, empty bunker—Sam’s off with Heileen hunting werewolves—Western movie marathon, beer, and… themed games. Erotic themed games, to be specific. Cowboy games, in particular. Cowboy sex games. With Cas.

Dean smirks, thinking about the ridiculous outfit he ordered online for Castiel. He can still see the way Sam rolled his eyes when he tore the package open a few nights ago.

Castiel clears his throat and taps lightly on the open doorframe. The moment Dean sees him, he swears his jaw might actually hit the floor like in a cartoon.

Cas leans on the frame with fake nonchalance, dressed—or barely—in the outfit of Bandit Cas. Dark cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes, a red bandana tied around his neck, an open plaid shirt (Dean’s, of course), and… well, let’s call them shorts, though that’s generous. They’re more like cut-off jean hot pants, frayed at the edges, so short the fake holsters hang lower than the fabric itself. And, of course, boots up to his knees to finish the look.

Dean forgets how to swallow. Castiel steps into the room, face neutral, like he’s wearing his regular trench coat instead of a pornographic Halloween costume.

“Well, well, look what we have here,” Dean says, sliding right into character. “Hot-shot Cassidy, the most wanted outlaw in all of Texas.” He grabs a half-finished beer off the dresser and circles Cas, letting out a low whistle.

“Dean, these pants are small. And tight. I’ve never seen anyone dressed like this. Are we sure the packaging wasn’t damaged?” Cas asks, in his sincere, slightly alien tone.

Dean’s eyes land on his ass. His eyebrows shoot up, his face pulls into an expression of pure appreciation, and all the blood in his body rushes south.

“They’re right,” he whispers. “They’re… perfect.” He can’t resist copping a feel, grabbing one of Cas’s cheeks. Cas immediately steps back.

“Weren’t we supposed to play the game first? Before intercourse?” he asks, serious and a little alarmed at the possible change in schedule. “I prepared. I even watched a cowboy movie.”

“Oh yeah? Which one? A Fistful of Dollars?”

“Brokeback Mountain. Director’s cut.”

Dean doesn’t flinch. He hates that sappy chick flick bullshit. Mostly because that movie made him cry like an idiot.

“Shut up, outlaw!” he barks, raising a hand to cut him off. “Say one more word and I’m cuffing you to the wall!”

“Is this part of the game? Are we playing?” Cas tilts his head, curious.

“Yeah, we’re playing,” Dean answers quickly. “Don’t play dumb with me, you no-good criminal.”

“Sheriff…” Cas steps closer, eyes locked onto Dean’s. “I’ve done something very, very bad.” His voice is low, focused, and it sends a hot shiver straight to Dean’s groin.

Dean grabs his face with one hand and shoves him against the wall. He presses up against him, hips aligned.

“Give me one good reason not to send you straight to the gallows, Hot-shot.”

Cas doesn’t answer, too distracted by Dean’s lips.

“Sorry, I’m thinking.”

“You don’t need to say anything smart. It’s just a fuck game, okay?”

“Because first, you have to interrogate me. Thoroughly.”

“Oh, you’ll feel it so thoroughly, you’ll regret ever setting foot in this town, cowboy.”

Dean leans back against the headboard with an excited sigh. Cas, still in those microscopic jean shorts, stands across the room watching him, like he’s waiting for his next command. Like he’s hesitating. Dean stares right back. His eyes wander down Cas’s thighs, over the open shirt, up to his slightly tousled hair. He can’t keep his mouth shut.

“If my wet dream had a face, it’d be yours. Fuck, I don’t know whether to arrest you or ask you to marry me,” he mutters with a sly grin. It just slips out—not that he’s ever actually thought about marrying Cas. Of course not. Obviously.

Cas steps closer, looking genuinely puzzled. “Those are not legally compatible actions.”

Dean laughs. “Get over here, dumbass. Sit on the sheriff’s lap,” he says, motioning him over with a flick of his hand. Castiel obeys, blue eyes fixed on him like he’s hypnotized, unbuckling his belt and tugging down both shorts and underwear.

“Alright. I understand now,” Cas says, recognizing the simpler, more instinctual language of sex with Dean. He climbs on top of him, straddling Dean’s lap, chest to chest. He can feel the heat of Dean’s erection against his skin—and his own, growing rapidly inside that ridiculous excuse for clothing.

“Like this?” he asks, never breaking eye contact.

“Almost,” Dean shakes his head. “I want you facing the other way.”

“Why?”

“It’s just… a different position. It’s hot. It’s called reverse cowgirl,” Dean explains, trying to stay patient even though he’s ready to burst. “You get on top, facing away from me. Come on,” he adds, whining like it’s the most important thing in the world and Cas is being cruel for denying him. He knows exactly what tone to use to get what he wants.

“Okay… but I’m not sure I understand what I’m agreeing to,” Cas says, thoughtful, a little hesitant—but he turns around slowly, settling into Dean’s lap, those shorts stretching tight with every little move. Dean has never seen anything that obscene, not even in the strip clubs he’s been to. That ass is fucking unreal.

“I’ll explain while we do it,” Dean cuts in, biting his lip as he pushes aside the fabric of those stupid hot pants. He wants them on. Seeing Cas like this makes him flush, makes him think that no one’s ever given him so much. No one’s ever cared enough to take his filthy little fantasies and love them—love him—for them.

“You prepped first, right?” he asks, brushing two fingers lightly over Cas’s entrance.

“I did as you told me,” Cas nods, looking toward the dresser, unaware of exactly what Dean is doing behind him—though by now he’s developed a certain intuition for these things. Guided by instinct, he starts to grind against Dean’s erection, rubbing himself slowly through the tight denim, not daring to do more.

“You’re something else. Jesus, I can’t even breathe…” Dean pants, lining himself up with Cas’s entrance.

“I’m supposed to sit down now, right?” Cas asks, glancing over his shoulder just enough to peek at him.

Dean nods feverishly, shutting his eyes for a second so he doesn’t come right then and there. Then he inhales, grabs Cas’s hips, and guides him slowly as he sinks down onto his cock.

Cas jolts at the intrusion, then moans loudly. “Oh… Dean…”

Dean growls with pleasure, watching the slow rhythm of Cas moving on him. “Now I see why they say you’re a legend of the West.”

“Am I satisfying you, Sheriff?” Cas’s voice sounds far away, his gaze a little hazy. Every moan that escapes him is pure want and wonder, like he can feel all of Dean’s pleasure inside him and doesn’t need to touch himself at all.

Dean’s gone. He watches Cas ride him, mouth hanging open just to breathe. He lands a smack on that perfect ass. Then another. And another. It makes Cas moan louder, move faster, more confidently.

“Sheriff… Dean… I’m about to—” Cas’s voice cracks. He leans forward, slowing down. Dean grips his hips to hold him in place. It doesn’t take a genius to realize Cas is coming in those damn shorts, fists clenched in the bedsheet.

It’s Dean’s cue. He thrusts up into him, hard, fucking through the tight, pulsing spasms of Cas’s orgasm, hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise.

“You were made for this. Take all of it. Fuck, you’re so sexy…” Dean keeps thrusting, cursing under his breath, his cock throbbing, his forehead damp with sweat. He comes inside him with a low, guttural sound—raw and primal—something he’d probably be embarrassed about if he had any clarity left. When it ends, he has no idea if it lasted thirty seconds or thirty years.

Eventually, he stops. He hadn’t realized he was still moving.

“Sheriff…” Cas is trembling, his hips still locked in Dean’s grasp.

“Talk to me, bandit…” Dean’s laugh is hoarse with pleasure. He’s still inside him. It’s gonna be a great weekend.

“I want a kiss,” Cas murmurs, looking back over his shoulder with eyes so bright and heartbreakingly sweet they nearly knock the wind out of Dean.

Dean shifts, careful not to hurt him, heart pounding in his chest. He lays Cas down beneath him. They’re still half-dressed, and it’s only Friday night.

He kisses him breathless. Then unpins the sheriff’s star from his own chest and fastens it above the pocket on Cas’s open shirt.

“I’m making you deputy.”

“Have I proven myself? Is this a reward?”

“It’s a way to keep you within reach whenever I want to fuck you.”

“Oh… Okay. That sounds wise. And… efficient.”

Dean shakes his head, pulls him closer, and gives him another sharp smack on the ass.

Chapter Text

Dean can’t even remember when that thought first wormed its way into his head. Maybe it was in some cheap porn he’d watched at nineteen, in a motel room with pay-per-view, drunk and drowning in shame, while Sammy was staying with Bobby and John was snoring in the next room.
Or maybe that thought—perverse, creeping—had come later, when he finally admitted to himself that he wanted men. But Castiel isn’t a man. The idea of doing that to him, to an angel, makes Dean feel wrong. That impossible creature, bright and loyal, looks at him with eyes full of devotion, and it’s been obvious for years that he’d do anything to make Dean happy. Dean isn’t used to being adored like this, and maybe, with all that devotion, with all those soft touches and tender looks, he’s losing his goddamn mind.
He’s been thinking about it too much, a door he never meant to open. It’s just too much. Too vulgar, even for him. Sure, he wants to see Cas wrecked with pleasure, wants to ruin him, wants to make him shake. But that—maybe that’s going too far. It’s about marking him, claiming him. Could Castiel really accept anything Dean has to give? Would he really stay, even after something like that?

They’ve been at it for a while, staring each other down. Dean has a piece of heaven pinned under him, driven into the mattress of a shitty motel bed. The empty room echoes with the wet slap of their bodies. Cas trembles beneath him, and Dean can’t tear his gaze away from this beautiful wreck of an angel. Ruined. That’s how he wants to see him—lips swollen and reddened from kisses, heartbeat tied completely to the touch of Dean’s hands. The rhythm is pounding, faster and faster, the same desperate pulse he feels in his own cock. Hard. Aching. No matter how deep he pushes inside, Cas keeps clinging to him like he’s terrified Dean might slip away.

And there it is—that fucking thought again. Or rather, it explodes in his mind, shameless, unstoppable.
He lifts up just enough to cradle Cas’s face in his hand, thumb resting against his jaw. He tilts his head, and maybe Cas is expecting a kiss, because he parts his lips. There’s trust there. Love.
Dean feels his breath catch in his throat, and for a moment he stops moving, overwhelmed by everything crashing through him. Guilt and desire—a dark, impossible desire he can’t smother.
They hang there for a second, gasping, like the moment before a fall.

Fuck.

Dean hates that he realizes he can’t stop. That he’s probably already decided, a long time ago.
He spits—hard, deliberate, quick—onto Cas’s parted lips. His eyes linger on the soft, pink skin streaked with his own saliva. That desecrated face, filthy with him, looks like something out of a wet dream.

For a long, unbearable moment, Cas stays perfectly still, not reacting. Then he blinks, big blue eyes going glassy, mouth still open in shock. When he finally speaks, his voice is a whisper.
“Did I… do something wrong?” he asks, not looking away. “Did I disappoint you?”

Dean feels like he’s falling apart, something twisting deep in his gut. He wants to rewind everything, go back a few seconds, keep that filthy idea to himself, undo the fucked-up thing he just did. He wants to pull Cas into his arms, apologize, pretend he never had a thought like that. But instead, hypnotized, he keeps staring at him and drags his thumb across Cas’s mouth, smearing his spit over his lips.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice comes out rough, low. He’s still buried inside Cas, and somehow he feels even harder, more desperate. “I’ve… I’ve wanted to do that for a while. It’s… it’s just a way to make you mine.”

That’s when Castiel flushes, like it’s not enough that they’re naked and locked together, but it has to be Dean’s words that make his cheeks burn.
“I didn’t know…” he murmurs, voice small. “I thought… you were angry with me.”

Dean swallows hard, everything too much.
“I’m not angry,” he rasps. “And I sure as hell don’t hate you. I hate myself because with you I just—lose it.”

Cas’s eyes light up, relief softening the shock. He lifts a hand to touch Dean’s face, gentle, grounding.
“If that’s what you want… then I want it too.” His gaze is steady, warm, and it hits Dean like a punch to the chest.

He doesn’t know if he should be ashamed or smiling. The need to fuck Cas splits him in two. He leans down and kisses him hard, until they’re both breathless.
“Cas, you have no idea what you do to me…” Dean growls, starting to move again. He thrusts. Deep. Deeper. So fucking deep it must hurt. And yet Cas moans, tipping his head back against the pillow, thighs locked tight around Dean’s hips, arms clutching him like he can’t stand to let him go.

Dean can’t pretend anymore that he has any control left, that he isn’t just a fucking animal. The sounds tearing out of his throat are raw, guttural, primal. Cas lets go too, a counterpoint of broken, helpless noises—softer moans, a little rough, heartbreakingly sweet. They shoot straight to Dean’s brain and down to his cock.

“Dean,” Cas whimpers, cupping his face with shaking hands, “please… do it again…”

His eyes are wet, his face wrecked with pleasure, hair a complete mess. Something inside Dean shatters—an old dam of discipline, guilt, shame. Like he never deserved something that was only his. But Cas is.

“Is this okay?” Dean’s voice cracks on the question.

Cas nods, eyes fluttering shut, breathing ragged.
“Yeah,” he whispers, waiting.

Dean spits again, this time onto Cas’s cheek. Cas doesn’t open his eyes, hands splayed on Dean’s chest like he can’t decide whether to pull him closer or push him away.

“There you are,” Dean pants, voice rough as gravel. “Look at you… so fucking beautiful. So dirty. All for me.”

Cas answers with a sound halfway between a sob and a moan. Dean has never been this hard. Cas’s irises vanish for a second behind heavy lids. Pleasure—blinding, consuming—rocks through him. Dean’s thrusting into him again, deeper, faster, like he’s giving up any pretense he can control this.

He kisses Cas hard, then drags his tongue over the spit on his cheek, claiming.

Cas can barely focus, orgasm building, breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He trembles—not with fear, never with Dean—but with raw, unstoppable pleasure. With devotion.

“You can… you can do anything you want to me,” Cas whispers, voice wrecked, searching Dean’s eyes. “Anything.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean growls, his thumb brushing Cas’s wet cheek. “Then I’ll show you exactly what that means.”

And he fucks him harder, deeper—every thrust a surrender to the thing he’s always been too ashamed to crave. And when Cas comes between them with a strangled cry, Dean thinks that maybe—for the first time—something really belongs to him.

Chapter Text

Dean breathes heavily against Castiel’s neck. He presses a soft kiss to his shoulder, tracing his side gently. He waits for both their breaths to even out. Cas’s body twitches slightly at every touch. It had been intense, and Dean feels like he’s not done yet. Damn, it’s been since he was nineteen that he stayed hard even after coming. What kind of effect do you have on me, Cas? he wonders silently, eyes sliding down to where they’re still joined.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks. He hates that part of himself that still worries, that after all these years thinks he’s somehow taking advantage. Cas likes having sex with him, right? He’s been around for millions of years and is more than capable of deciding if this is okay for him or not. So why the hell is he asking if he’s okay?

Cas turns his face slightly to look at him and nods. That same tender, slightly wounded expression is there. He needs to hear something kind, something important, something reassuring. They’ve both known for a long time that Dean can’t and won’t say those things. That little pout makes him feel guilty.

“Something wrong?” Dean asks, not pulling away, staying where he belongs. His place. His real place. Deep inside Cas, balls deep.

“You know damn well.” Castiel replies, his tone firm as his eyes flick briefly to the calendar on the wall. Dean follows his gaze and when he sees the date—February 14th—something inside him snaps shut.

“Wanted some chocolates?” he teases. He’s never been good at this stuff. Not like Sam, out at a nice dinner with Heileen.

Cas doesn’t even answer. The fact he’s still mad sparks something between Dean’s legs.

Castiel tries to pull away. Dean’s arm wraps around him, pulling him back. He makes himself felt more, deeper. Every vein in his cock is responding to that tight heat, now obscenely wet.

“I’m not done.”

Cas looks at him over his shoulder. He’s annoyed but stays still, lying on his side.

“I want to try something,” Dean says, shifting and pulling Cas’s body with him. Without coming out, he moves to sit up on the bed, back against the headboard, drawing Cas up onto him. Cas sits on top, legs on the same side. A tense sigh escapes Cas as he settles slowly down onto Dean’s pulsing erection.

“Ah…” Cas squeezes his eyes shut, one hand gripping the headboard, the other bracing on the mattress. His breath is ragged, more from embarrassment than pain. He feels so full it almost chokes him.

“Good boy,” Dean murmurs low, a triumphant grin tugging at his lips. Cas looks at him sideways, sore, with an expression somewhere between angry and surprised.

“Sit still, Cas. Like this. Don’t move.” Dean’s voice is rough. He’s followed orders his whole life and now, in this damn bed, it’s his turn.

Cas lets himself lean against him, molding to Dean’s body. His heart pounds with anticipation and desire, his skin burning. Every swallow echoes uncomfortably how deep Dean fills him. He can’t say no. He doesn’t know how—and doesn’t want to learn.

Dean reaches out and grabs the beer bottle he’d left on the nightstand. He lifts it calmly to his lips, like they’re doing nothing special. Like he’s not holding Cas open on his cock.

“I don’t get it…” Cas murmurs, voice low, with a slight edge of accusation. “Why… why do we stay like this…?”

Dean just chuckles, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Because I can,” he murmurs, fingers gently stroking Cas’s bare stomach. “With you, I can do anything. Keep me inside. Feel what I’m doing to you.”

Cas swallows a small whimper. The humiliation burns hotter than the soreness. Part of him wants to insult Dean, call him a jerk, a childish brat who acts tough only because he knows how Cas really feels. Yet another part of him, the one that doesn’t care about dignity or respect, puts Dean above everything—even when he acts like this.

Dean takes another long, satisfied sip of beer. Cas twists a little, trying to figure out how to stay still without going crazy from the insistent pressure inside him, pressing against his prostate. A mix of pleasure and pain, sharpened by anticipation and confusion over what’s happening. He’s turned on, feels his own erection pulsing—and is ashamed.

“Dean… it’s… it’s uncomfortable…” he protests in a breath, unable to fully hide a trace of pleasure in his voice.

“I don’t give a damn if it’s comfortable.” Dean grumbles, a low, almost amused tone. One hand trails up to brush a nipple before gripping Cas’s throat—not a threat, but pure possession. “You just stay here and be good while I finish my beer. It’s simple.”

Cas lowers his head. A flicker of modesty gives way to something darker lurking under his skin. A human desire. “Dean…” he moans, voice breaking.

“Oh, Christ, listen to you say my name,” Dean laughs, voice rough with want. “Shut up.”

Cas bites his lip but can’t help shifting his hips a few millimeters, seeking relief. Dean sighs like it’s the most boring thing in the world and slaps Cas’s bare thigh sharply. The sound echoes through the room and the empty bunker.

“I said don’t move.”

Cas jolts, a small whimper escaping, and stays still. His heart pounds like a drum—or better, a whole drum kit—like in that Led Zeppelin mixtape Dean gave him. He can’t believe Dean’s just sitting there behind him, drinking beer like it’s any normal Saturday night, not some moment where he’s burning hotter than hell.

He clears his throat, trying one last timid resistance: “You’re… you’re an asshole…”

Dean sets the bottle down, and when he speaks his voice is thick, full of a dark pride. “Maybe,” he admits softly. “But look at how you’re holding me inside you. You want me even though I’m an asshole.”

Cas closes his eyes. He doesn’t deny it. He can’t. And in that silence, while Dean holds him steady against himself, while the beer leaves a bitter smell in the air and the heat of their contact fills every thought, he realizes he’s happy Dean feels like a god. And that he chose to belong to him. Maybe, someday, there’ll be some sweet, important words—the admission that Dean loves him too. For now, he’ll stay good and enjoy it with him.

The silence grows heavy. Cas sits there, perched on Dean’s thighs, breathing unevenly. Every now and then his body tightens involuntarily around him, in a little tremble. Dean exhales, excited. He takes another sip of beer and leans back against the headboard, like he owns everything.

Then, without warning, he taps Cas’s side with an open palm. “Move,” he orders, calm but firm.

Cas blinks wide, tilting his neck slightly to look back over his shoulder. “W-what…?”

“I said move,” Dean repeats, slower this time, almost amused by Cas’s confusion. “Up and down. Slow. I want to feel you and watch you.”

Cas swallows. He feels uncertain, almost offended, like it’s too humiliating an order to just take at face value. “I don’t get it…” he starts, voice full of embarrassment.

“I didn’t ask you to get it,” Dean snaps, raising his hand again and landing another sharp smack on Cas’s ass. Cas jumps, a muffled whimper in his throat. “I told you to do it. Don’t make me say it twice.”

He stays still for a few more seconds, hoping Dean will get bored of this game. But Dean never gets bored, Cas knows that. Dean just takes another sip of beer, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Want me to explain it better?” he adds, voice rougher. “Lift those hips up, then down again. Make me come while I get comfortable. Clear now?”

Cas takes a deep breath, trembling. “Yes. It’s clear.” He murmurs in a faint voice. But he struggles to lift himself, feeling a deep burn as he slides upward, bracing on the headboard, pushing his feet against the mattress as best he can. He sinks slowly back down on Dean’s cock with an almost defeated moan.

Dean lets out a low, satisfied sigh. “Good boy, Cas. You’re really good at this.” He murmurs, running an open hand down Cas’s back. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

Cas repeats the motion, more hesitant than ever. Slow, awkward, like he’s not sure he’s doing it right. Every time he lowers himself, a little sound escapes his throat. He can’t hold back a whimper, a moan of discomfort tangled with arousal.

“I don’t… I don’t get why you like it…” he stammers, voice cracking. He wants to understand. Wants to learn how to give Dean pleasure. Wants Dean to feel powerful, no matter if he’s being an asshole. It’s Dean. The center of everything. The hero. The human he’s tied to. The most beautiful soul he’s ever held in his hands. Dean, John’s submissive, Dean who erases himself for Sam, Dean who wants nothing for himself but only to save others. Dean who deserves to feel strong and free.

“’Cause you seem made to sit on my cock,” Dean shoots back, a wicked smile tugging at his lips. “And ’cause you make me feel good.”

Cas swallows hard. He doesn’t realize he’s blushing all the way to his ears when Dean talks like that. He tries to pause, to rest for a second, but Dean smacks his ass again, louder this time.

“Don’t stop,” Dean growls softly. “Not till I say so.”

Cas bites his lip and starts moving again. Up and down, slow, filthy. Every now and then a sharper moan slips out because he knows Dean likes it. Dean hits him again, this time softer. His hand lingers, exploring.

“If… if you don’t stop… with those… spankings…” Cas tries to protest, voice breaking a bit.

Dean watches him with a lazy smile, breath smelling of beer, bottle still in hand. “What you gonna do, huh? Not talk to me anymore? Give me the silent treatment?”

Cas doesn’t answer. He just stares, moving, as if with his eyes he could show all the wreckage and love he feels when they’re like this together.

Dean swallows and lowers his gaze. He enjoys the sight, letting a low praise slip out, “God, you’re so fucking beautiful. You look pissed, and yet you’re still here making me happy.”

Cas keeps rising and falling, slower and slower, more exhausted, time stretching out. Neither of them really wants this to end. Every now and then he freezes mid-move, gasping, and Dean takes the chance to give another smack that makes him jump on his cock, stealing a choked moan.

“I can’t take it anymore…” Cas pants, voice trembling. “I like it but… it hurts…”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean taunts, setting the beer down on the nightstand and grabbing Cas’s hips hard, pulling him tight against himself. “Even like this?”

Cas nods, lips pressed tight, ashamed, whispering, “Yes, Dean… It’s too much…”

Dean’s breath grows heavier, a low growl vibrating against his back. “Christ, Cas… You have no idea how much it turns me on when you say that.”

Cas slides up again, his body tensing like a bowstring, then collapsing and clenching around him in a way that’s almost a spasm. He whines, a sound tender and desperate. “I can’t stop… It’s too much… Pleasure and pain… I don’t know what to do…”

“You know exactly what to do, you’re so good at this…” Dean murmurs, and there’s a strangely tender note beneath all that roughness. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had, Cas. Move. Take it.”

Cas obeys. His movements become smoother, more desperate, like the moans escaping his throat. Dean tightens his arms around Cas’s hips, resting his forehead against his chest. He breathes in his scent.

“Good boy,” Dean mumbles against his skin, almost overwhelmed. “Don’t stop. Keep going… Fuck, Cas…”

Cas arches his back, squeezing his eyes shut. Every move is a mix of pain and pleasure, a limit he never thought he could endure for so long. Still, when he pauses for a moment to catch his breath—

“I can’t… I can’t take it anymore,” Cas sobs, shaken by another tremor running through him. “Please, please… fuck me…”

And then Dean loses it. His arms clamp hard around Cas’s hips, holding him tight against himself, and finally he starts thrusting from below like he can’t hold back any longer. Every deep thrust tears a cry from Cas, who seems on the verge of tears from pain, pleasure, relief.

“Feel how I fuck you…” Dean growls, thrusting wildly, completely out of control. “Christ, Cas… you’re mine… all mine…”

Cas lets out a higher whimper, body taut as he lets himself be filled completely. “Dean…!” he cries, voice barely a breath.

The orgasm hits him suddenly, raw and violent pleasure that takes his breath away.
Dean groans loudly, almost a roar, staying pressed to him, thrusting again and again as he comes, like he never wants to stop.

When the pleasure starts to fade, Cas slumps against his chest, sweaty, undone. He tightens around him once more. He can’t tell if he’s happy or just too exhausted to care about feeling overwhelmed, used, degraded. He doesn’t understand what Dean does to him.

And Dean… feels satisfied like never before in his life. A god content with his kingdom.
He stays inside, welcomed, loved, his heavy palm resting on Cas’s side, fingers lazily stroking warm skin. He breathes deep, as if he can finally relax.

Dean only notices how much Cas is trembling when he loosens his grip on his hips. His hands glide over warm skin, hesitating for a moment before pulling away completely. There’s something much simpler he could say—something he’s been putting off for years, something Dean doesn’t want to say and hates hearing.

Cas still presses his face against Dean’s throat, as if he can’t separate himself. Or maybe as if he’s hiding. His breath is broken, almost a sob. For a moment, Dean fears he’ll speak forbidden things—feelings banished from their verbal language.

“Hey.” The voice comes low, steady. “Look at me.”

Cas lifts his sky-blue eyes, and in them there’s something shaken, something like need and belonging. And so much confusion. Like he doesn’t know where he ends and Dean begins.

“It’s okay,” Dean says. It’s a command, not a caress. “You understand? It’s okay.” He says it as if his will alone could make it true for both of them.

Cas doesn’t answer right away. His lips move, hesitate, and finally the voice comes low, more like a thought than a sentence.

“Sometimes it hurts, wanting you this much.” He whispers. An admission.

Dean closes his eyes for a moment. Hurting Cas is the thing he’s most ashamed of in the world. Yet he’s chosen to live with that shame—to be selfish for once.

Then he moves him gently, instinctively careful as he shifts him aside just enough to slide away. Cas makes a broken sound, gasping for something that’s neither pain nor pleasure, but surrender. Dean feels a shiver run down his spine, like he’s tearing him away from himself. It’s never easy to separate.

“Breathe,” he says, rougher than he wants. “Look at me. Breathe slow.”

Cas looks at him with half-lidded eyes. He’s so tired. His chest rises and falls in uneven bursts. He brushes a light touch over Dean’s face and searches for words to say something. But stays silent.

Dean swallows. He rests his forehead against Cas’s.

“You were amazing. You’re perfect for me.” The words burn in his throat. They’re the only thing he can allow himself.

Cas closes his eyes, letting that praise slip into his heart.

“Hey… Don’t move from here. I’m gonna order some pizzas. We’ll watch a movie—your pick,” Dean offers.

For a moment, he wishes he could say something simple, like Happy Valentine’s Day.

Cas nods. Maybe this is enough.

Chapter Text

Sam shoves it right under his nose during breakfast. A white envelope, stamped with the logo of a motel Dean only knows by reputation: the Golden Oak Inn & Spa. It’s cute, but definitely a little cliché—the kind of thing you’d see in a cheesy Christmas commercial. An in-room jacuzzi, some decorative fairy lights, a bottle of champagne included in the “romantic getaway” package.

A two-night stay, just to unplug. A Christmas gift from a thoughtful little brother—maybe also an apology for spending the holidays with Heileen for the first time.

They’re all in the kitchen. Sam leaning against the table, wearing a smug little grin as he waits for Dean’s reaction. Dean turning the envelope over in his hands. Jack watching them with bright-eyed excitement. And Cas… Cas sitting silently across from Dean, drinking black coffee like it holds the secrets of the universe.

“What the hell is this? Do I look like the kind of guy who gets foot massages and slaps a face mask on?” Dean asks, lifting his eyebrows, ready to tear down anything that doesn’t fit his macho image.

“You don’t have to get any massages if you don’t want to,” Sam says, undeterred. “It’s just a break. A chance to actually rest, you know? Maybe…with someone special.” He adds that last part while very obviously glancing at Cas.

Castiel keeps his eyes locked on the mug, like he’s determined not to react.

Dean glares at Sam like he wants to incinerate him. He hates when Sam has to spell it out—that he knows there’s something between Dean and Castiel. A secret is supposed to be a secret, right?

“Great idea! Met this blonde at the pub off Route 123. Crystal…” Dean says, slipping into a dreamy tone—because Crystal doesn’t even exist. “Huge tits, stripper tattoos, legs for days,” he adds, miming the shape of her with his hands. “Belly button piercing, killer laugh…Thanks, Sammy! Gonna be one hell of a Christmas!” He smacks Sam’s arm for good measure.

Cas doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Dean with those sapphire eyes—like he’s piercing right through him, judging him, and somehow making him feel stupidly important all at once.

“Hey, Rainman, pass the salt. These eggs taste like nothing,” Dean says, directing it at him. He does it on purpose. He wants to see if he can get a rise out of his unflappable angel. Wants to see him jealous.

Cas slams the salt shaker down in front of his plate with a sharp, deliberate motion. A small, passive-aggressive gesture that makes Dean’s chest spark with satisfaction. There’s something exhilarating about that silent anger, the way Castiel forces himself not to lose control. It’s sexy as hell when he pretends not to care.

Dean shoves the envelope into the pocket of his jeans. Making up Crystal was necessary. He just wants to protect his image as the alpha male, okay?

It’s obvious he’s going to take Castiel.

He finds him a few hours later, sitting in the bunker’s library. Cas has taken off his coat, and now he looks like a damn sexy lawyer in that dark suit, absorbed in some ancient Enochian text.

“Hey…so, you ready for our beauty retreat? Not that you need it…” Dean asks, leaning over the table with that cocky smile he only wears when they’re alone.

Cas sighs and keeps reading. Dean shuts the book in front of him. The angel lifts his gaze, both annoyed and a little wounded. Adorable.

“Thought you were taking Crystal,” Cas says, his voice edged with something almost acidic as he says her name.

“Called her earlier. She’s busy. Too bad!” Dean is definitely playing.

“I need to think about it,” Castiel mutters.

That’s new—Cas with actual dignity. Dean circles around the table, leaning against the back of a chair. He can’t help laughing. He loves that after all these years, Cas has learned to play hard to get.

“You got other plans?” Dean asks.

“Yeah…. I’m taking…Crystal …to Christmas Mass,” Cas says, meeting his eyes with an impressive scowl.

Dean bursts out laughing, and after a moment, Cas breaks too, smiling despite himself. Dean glances down the hall, making sure neither Jack nor Sam are around, before dropping a quick kiss onto Cas’s hair and bending over him for a fast hug from behind.

“You’re better than any trashy chick I ever hooked up with—or made up. You know that?” he murmurs into Cas’s ear.

Cas nods. “I know.”

Dean laughs again.

“I don’t really understand why you’re laughing, but…thank you,” Cas says, letting himself sink into the warmth of it, not moving away.

The room isn’t bad, for a motel. There’s actually a massive Christmas tree next to the jacuzzi, strung with colorful little lights that blink slowly, shifting hues. It smells like fresh laundry softener and cheap champagne. Dean drops the Impala’s keys on the nightstand, brushes snow off his jacket, and turns around with a sly smile.

“So…” Dean says, peeling off his coat with an infuriating slowness. He drapes it over the armchair, then gestures at the jacuzzi. “You know what this is?”

Cas stands in the middle of the room, looking around.
“It’s a tub… a very large tub,” he comments, staring at it like it’s some kind of biblical relic.

Dean sighs, pulling off his plaid shirt and then his t-shirt.
“It’s not just a tub, Cas.”

Cas tilts his head a little, watching him with curiosity. Dean kicks off his boots and pulls off his socks.

“It’s an invitation, dumbass,” Dean adds, shaking his head as he unbuckles his belt and pops the button on his jeans.

“An invitation to do what?” Castiel asks, still not moving an inch.

“What do you think, genius?” Dean rolls his eyes, the way he does when he wants Cas to feel a little stupid. “Go swimming with rubber ducks? It’s an invitation to get naked, Cas.” He sounds already a little exasperated as he pushes his boxers down too.

Castiel drops his gaze. The sight of Dean Winchester completely naked, just a meter away, short-circuits something in him. He clears his throat while Dean steps into the tub with a satisfied little groan.

“Dean…” Cas swallows, taking a tentative step forward. “I don’t…”

“Don’t make that face, okay? You’re really gonna leave me to bathe here alone like an idiot?” Dean grins, propping his forearms on the edge of the jacuzzi. He’s gorgeous—broad shoulders scattered with freckles, green eyes bright with pure want.

“I’ve never… taken this kind of bath before,” Cas says, hesitant.

“You’ll like it,” Dean says confidently, reaching for the bottle of champagne to fill two narrow glasses.

Castiel shrugs out of his trench coat and lays it carefully on the bed.

“Wait,” Dean says. “There’s something for you in my jacket pocket. A present. Go get it.”

Cas sighs. Dean is not exactly the gift-giving type, so he has no idea what to expect. He reaches into the inside pocket of Dean’s jacket, and what he pulls out is a red Santa hat with a fluffy white pom-pom.

“There. Your present,” Dean chuckles, clearly amused.

Cas holds it between his fingers like it’s something sacred. He looks at Dean with that wide-eyed incredulity that somehow makes him even more beautiful. “Thank you. It’s… for me?”

Dean wets his lips, watching him the way a man eyes a dessert he’s about to devour, while the hot water massages his skin.

“Yeah. But there’s a condition.”

Cas puts it on and turns towards Dean, uncertain. “What condition?”

“You wear it. Then you’re not wearing anything else.”

The silence that follows is almost comical. Cas opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He blinks, those clear blue eyes brimming with a kind of shy innocence that shoots straight through Dean’s nervous system and settles, hard, in his dick.

Dean takes a moment just to look at him. The way Cas’s expression is all tense, like even agreeing to a simple little game is too much for him. The way he’s breathing a little too fast. Every part of Castiel seems to promise that under all that embarrassment, there’s something wild, waiting to break free. And Dean loves corrupting this angel.

“Come on. Show me how you look when you get undressed,” Dean murmurs, voice low and rough.

Cas draws in a slow breath, then nods. There’s something solemn in the way he obeys that almost undoes Dean completely.

Castiel loosens his tie, then starts on the buttons of his shirt, one by one, slow. He keeps his gaze down, like he’s ashamed.

For the sheer hell of it, Dean starts whistling You Can Leave Your Hat On. Cas glares at him like he wants to incinerate him on the spot. Maybe he does not like Joe Cocker. Dean bites his lip as every button comes undone, revealing smooth skin stretched over compact muscle. Cas’s body is surprisingly toned. Yet by the way he moves, he seems almost unaware of it.

He steps out of his shoes, his socks. Dean’s eyes linger on those slim, tense ankles, desire tightening in his gut. He thinks about holding them in his hands, about opening Cas up. His gaze drifts over narrow hips, lovely little ass, the delicate line of his ribs, the small, cute nipples hard in the cool air.

When Cas is left in nothing but his boxers and the Santa hat, he clasps his hands in front of himself, like he thinks it’ll protect him from Dean’s hungry stare.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cas… Come here,” Dean whispers, voice thick with want. “Let’s take a bath.”

And Cas nods slowly, walking toward him.

The water is so hot it steals the breath from his lungs. When Cas dips a foot in, he jolts and glances back at Dean, like he’s about to ask permission to change his mind. Then he slides in fully, exhaling in a shaky rush of embarrassment, heat, and something that feels a lot like anticipation.

Dean steps closer and gently adjusts the Santa hat that’s slipped sideways on Cas’s head.
“Hey. Relax. It’s just hot water… and me.” He brushes a quick, almost affectionate kiss against Cas’s cheek.

“Come here,” he murmurs, more tender than commanding.

Castiel inches closer, hesitant, letting himself be drawn into a silent embrace.

“Let’s make a toast…” Dean suggests, picking up the two flutes resting on the edge of the jacuzzi. Cas watches them with wide eyes, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s supposed to do. He takes his, blushing, because he’s not used to this—this kind of attention from Dean. That’s the sort of thing that happens in movies, not to them.

Dean lifts his glass, smiling. “To our first Christmas fuck…with you wearing a Santa hat!”

Cas draws a slow breath and raises his glass with an awkward little gesture. Dean clinks them together with a soft, delicate sound.

For a while, they just stay like that, drinking in silence, wrapped around each other, lulled by the warmth and the low hum of bubbling water. Dean feels his heart pounding against his ribs. He keeps one arm snug around Cas’s shoulders, leans in, and presses a slow kiss to his temple—gentler than he usually lets himself be. Then he lowers his mouth to Cas’s throat.

At first, the kiss there is light, almost chaste. But Dean’s hands grow bolder: one trails up Cas’s chest, the other slides between his thighs, where the heat already feels feverish.

Cas tenses, arching back into him. After all these years, it’s almost automatic—pushing his ass out, rubbing back against Dean. He opens his eyes and looks over his shoulder at him. Dean gives him a slow smile, one that promises everything and nothing. Sweet nothing.

“You know I’ve got another present for you?”

Cas draws in a shaky breath, managing half a smile. “A…another one?”

“Mhm. A pretty big one.”

He takes Cas’s hand in his own, almost delicately, guiding it underwater until Cas’s fingers wrap around the hard length of his cock.

“This.”

Cas holds his breath, looking somewhere between scandalized and dazed, but his hand closes around Dean with that careful, loving caution, like he’s afraid of hurting him. Dean bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep a groan in.

“This is a gift you deserve every day” he whispers, voice unsteady. “Not just at Christmas.”

Cas swallows, his cheeks flushed deep red. “Dean…” he breathes, and begins to stroke him, slow and deliberate.

Dean exhales shakily.

Baby, I love your hand.

He wants to say it, but he keeps it to himself. Instead, he catches Cas’s mouth in a deeper kiss. This time it’s slow and hungry. Their tongues meet, chasing each other for breath, until Cas lets out a sound halfway between a sigh and a whimper.

“You okay?” Dean asks, quiet. “You wanna do this?”

And he knows a guy like him shouldn’t even have to ask—not after all these years. Not with Castiel. But asking still feels right. Maybe it’s just for the satisfaction of seeing Cas nod, a quick, almost desperate little motion because he can’t wait to be fucked.

Fuck, Cas. You’re perfect.

Dean draws back just enough to turn Cas to face him again. His hands slip to Cas’s hips, lifting him a little so he can settle him firmly on top of him, guiding his legs around Dean’s waist in the water that makes everything feel hotter, closer.

The Santa hat is crooked on Cas’s head, mussing his hair adorably.

Cas looks at him for a second, intense and soft, before leaning in to kiss him again. It’s a long kiss, and he muffles a shaky moan when Dean works his fingers inside him, pressing his back gently against the edge of the tub.

“Dean… ah—” Cas breaks on a little sob of air. That’s all the permission Dean needs. He lines himself up, seeking out that tight, perfect opening with the head of his cock.

It doesn’t matter how many times they’ve done this—sliding back together always feels like the best thing in the world.

When he starts to push in, Cas lets out a broken, needy sound, clutching at Dean’s shoulders. The heat of the water makes everything blurrier, more intimate. Dean shuts his eyes, bites Cas’s lower lip, and presses deeper.

“Fuck… you’re always so tight…” he rasps, voice already rough with need. “Don’t move. Let me give you all of it.”

Cas doesn’t answer—he hates and loves when Dean talks to him like that. His mouth is parted, his breathing ragged. When Dean pauses for a moment to let him catch his breath, Cas clings closer, trembling.

The movement is slow for a few minutes. Then it grows deeper, more deliberate. The water in the jacuzzi sloshes over the edges with every thrust. Cas tries to hold back the sounds, but a louder moan slips past his lips, and Dean feels it vibrate all the way into his bones.

Cas can’t think anymore. He can only feel. He has his hands braced on Dean’s shoulders, as if he’s terrified of losing his grip. His thighs tighten around Dean’s hips in a silent plea not to let go.

Dean loosens his hold just enough to slide him higher against the wet wall, the tiled edge hitting him at mid-chest. He takes a moment to really look at him. Skin slick and shining under the Christmas lights, dark hair plastered to his forehead, that stupid little Santa hat—he only put it on to make Dean smile, to turn him on—and his mouth, parted and flushed from kisses. His chest rising in shallow, desperate gasps.

He loves him. Fuck, he loves Cas so damn much.

He always will, even if he’ll never know how to say it.

The words get stuck in his throat, a weight he can’t cough up. So instead of telling him I love you, he fixes his gaze on him with something close to hunger—something rabid—and rasps out,

“Look at you… You’re such a whore…”

Cas’s eyes fly wide, lips trembling. “I’m not… I’m not a whore, Dean…” he stammers, staring at him, voice breaking as Dean starts thrusting harder. “I don’t want anything in return…”

He says it so submissively, but Dean knows he’s lying. Cas does want something in return: to be loved, to be chosen. The thought splinters something inside Dean, something he doesn’t want to feel. Something he tries to bury in the way he fucks him.

Another deep, punishing thrust, and Cas lets out a raw sound, biting down on Dean’s shoulder. In that moment, the little bulbs on the Christmas tree behind them start flickering. One by one, they blink out and flare back to life until a sudden spark blows the fuse.

The living room plunges into a trembling half-light.

Dean stops for a second, panting, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “Am I really that good?”

Cas shuts his eyes, cheeks flushed with shame and pleasure. “Yeah…”

Dean shakes his head, almost laughs, but the sound dies in his throat. He drags Cas back against him and starts moving again, this time more ravenous. He fucks him harder. He moves like he can’t help it, like there’s nothing left of him but this. Every thrust goes so deep Cas shudders, moaning in a voice that sounds almost broken.

He pulls the little hat off Cas’s head and tosses it aside, gripping his hair tight. He yanks his head back just to mouth at his neck, to bite him there.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had in my hands,” he breathes, voice thick with want.

And Cas wishes he had enough clarity to tell him he’s not a thing. But he can only gasp in ragged breaths, eyes fluttering shut.

Another thrust. And another. Sometimes it feels like too much. Cas has rarely seen humans do this this hard to each other. Maybe he is a thing, after all. And it would be ok if Dean wants him like this. He lets his forehead fall against Dean’s freckled shoulder, panting like he doesn’t remember how to breathe.

“Cas… hold me tighter. Stay with me…” Dean murmurs.

Cas lifts his arms and wraps them around Dean’s neck, clinging to him with a trust so raw, a surrender so complete, it almost undoes Dean. Tender and sweet.

Dean groans against his cheek and drives in harder, until Cas makes a strangled sound and holds onto him like he’s coming apart. Dean kisses his temple, comforting him—because for Cas it’s always so hard to let go to pleasure, as if he’s never truly allowed to touch heaven.

“So good…” Dean whispers. “You’re so fucking good. I’m gonna make you come, okay?”

Cas nods against his throat, unable to speak. He’s completely at Dean’s mercy. 

When Dean slides a hand between their bodies and starts stroking him, Cas tenses immediately. His body gives in almost without resistance. He trembles from head to toe, pressed so close it feels like they could melt into each other. He comes with a muffled cry, muscles seizing in an ecstasy that borders on pain.

Dean keeps moving even as Cas collapses, spent and shaking. He can’t stop anymore. Every thrust is deeper, rougher. He feels like a jackhammer, a predator, a man who’s lost every scrap of restraint. His hips slam forward again and again, making Cas’s back slap wetly against the tiles. The water quivers in frantic little waves around them.

“Cas…” His voice is shredded, thick with want and something darker. “Look at me. Fucking look at me.”

Cas forces his eyes open, tears spilling over his flushed cheeks, his lips trembling. He looks ruined. Beautiful. So fucking perfect like this—like he’d let Dean do anything.

“Please…” Cas gasps, his voice cracking. “Please, Dean…I need—I need you to come…inside me…”

Dean huffs a low, cruel laugh, fingers digging into his hips. “Yeah? You need me to fill you up that bad?” He snaps his hips forward, hard enough that Cas chokes on a sob. “You’re so desperate for it.”

Cas’s mouth falls open in a soundless cry. He clings tighter around Dean’s neck, shaking.

You’re mine, sweetheart. Mine. You don’t even know how much I fucking love you.

Dean slides a hand up Cas’s throat, thumb pressing just enough to feel his pulse racing. He holds him there—his body trembling under his hand.

“You gonna beg for it?” he rasps, voice dark and ragged. “Beg me to fill you up like the bitch you are.”

Cas’s eyes flutter shut, another tear sliding down his cheek. His voice is soft and wrecked. “I—I’m begging you… I love you… I’m not a bitch…”

Dean stares down at him, something molten and furious and tender tearing him apart inside. God, he loves him even more like this—when he tries so hard to hold onto some scrap of dignity. When he says I love you, even when Dean makes it impossible to love him.

“That so?” he growls, and his hand leaves Cas’s throat to cup his cheek—just for a heartbeat—then he slaps him across the face, not really hard, but hard enough that Cas cries out. His head jerks sideways, wet hair sticking to the tiles, and when he looks back, his eyes are huge and wet and shining.

“Look at me,” Dean snarls, voice shaking. “When I come inside you—you fucking look at me.”

Cas obeys. His lashes flutter, wet and clumped, eyes swimming with tears and a devotion so raw it almost hurts to see. He looks like he’d give up everything for being fucked in the ass by Dean Winchester.

“That’s it,” Dean breathes, leaning in so their foreheads press together, breaths mingling. “Take it. Take all of me, Cas. You’re so fucking good.”

The last thrusts are brutal, each one a claim. Dean feels himself coming apart, cock pulsing deep inside. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he’s hurting him—he feels Cas’s body tense, hears the choked little sob. But he can’t stop. He never could.

I’m coming inside you, babe. Fuck. My beautiful sweetheart.

He slams in one last time, burying himself as deep as he can, coming with a guttural sound that’s almost a sob. His balls flush tight against Cas’s skin. So fucking deep. So fucking his.

The pleasure blinds him—white light under his eyelids—while Cas clings to him, trembling so hard he feels like he might break in Dean’s hands.

He stays still, panting, with Cas still clinging to him. He holds him close as the last waves of pleasure ripple through them. Only then does he realize Cas is quietly crying, tears mixing with the water.
Dean brushes a hand over his face, his heart pounding in his throat. He presses a soft kiss to the corner of Cas’s mouth.

“Sorry…” he whispers, voice cracked. “Fuck… sorry. I… went too far.”

Cas breathes in slowly, still trembling. He searches for Dean’s mouth, pressing a gentle kiss as if to reassure him after the intensity of their sex. He says nothing but wraps his arms around Dean like he wants him to know he doesn’t hate him. That maybe, despite everything, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

After what feels like an eternity, Dean forces himself to move. He slips out of Cas’s hold, careful watching his expression. His mouth parts in a silent whimper.

“You okay?” Dean asks, helping him sit on the edge of the tub.

Cas nods, eyes still a little glazed. Dean steps out to grab the robes. He helps Cas wrap himself in the soft fabric. His legs tremble slightly, and when Dean notices, a flicker of shame tightens his chest.

He supports him to the bed. Cas sits, still shaking. “Hey…” Dean kneels in front of him, taking his hand, squeezing it gently.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… You know…I was too rough,” he murmurs. “It’s just—Christ. When you look at me like that… When you let me…” He stops, jaw clenched. “Fuck Cas, you turn me into a fucking animal.”

Cas closes his eyes, his chest rising slowly in what might be a soft laugh. When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper: “I know.”

Two words. Two knives. Dean lowers his head, sitting quietly on his knees before Cas. The angel strokes his hair with a patience Dean knows he doesn’t deserve.

“Dean…” Cas’s voice is low. “Close your eyes.”

Then he places something soft and delicate into Dean’s palm. It tickles almost.

“My gift to you.”

Dean opens his eyes, realizing there’s a feather resting in his hand. White as the moon and glowing with a light that feels alive.

“What…?” His voice breaks, something tightening in his throat. “What the hell does this mean, Cas…”

“It’s mine,” he confirms softly, solemnly. “You can carry it with you, if you want. Angel feathers last forever.”

Dean can’t speak. Can’t breathe. He holds it like it might break, like he’s not worthy of holding something so precious.

His heart pounds in his throat.

He knows he should say something. Thank him, at least.

He should—Christ, he should love him the way he deserves. But he can’t say those words. He just can’t.

He takes Cas’s hand and kisses it. He doesn’t even dare meet Cas’s eyes.

You’re a damn gift, Cas. And all I ever do is ruin you.

A bitter smile is burning on his lips.

Chapter Text

The bunker is silent. It’s three in the morning, and Dean knows he should be exhausted after hunting that Wendigo. But strangely, he isn’t—not with Castiel naked in his room, staring up at him in that way that’s somehow both pathetic and obscene. Kneeling like he’s praying, his face tilted slightly to the side, his eyes following every movement Dean makes around his own erection.

He’s hard again. Ready again. Only with Cas can he keep going all night, like he’s not already on the wrong side of thirty.

Dean plants himself in front of him, standing tall, spreading his strong thighs with an unabashed grin.

Cas curls his hands into his own legs, worrying his lower lip. There’s something in that waiting—something about the way his eyes shine with longing—that Dean can’t fucking stand. It goes straight under his skin, a blend of innocence and depravity, a living contradiction.

“I’m gonna fuck your mouth. Got that?” Dean doesn’t even know why he bothers asking. He already knows the answer. But it’s always worth it—seeing Cas nod so eager, so damn efficient. So desperate to please him.

Dean doesn’t understand it. Why the hell would an angel ever want his pleasure?

Castiel swallows, the movement of his throat too obvious to ignore. His face is flushed, breath uneven, gaze a little lost. Dean fucking adores that face. He dreams about it, and maybe—though he’d never admit it—he loves it.

He brushes the head of his cock along Cas’s cheek, like he’s taunting him.

Disrespecting him is easy and filthily beautiful. It feels like disrespecting some fragile part of himself, and Dean’s never been much good at valuing that.

Cas lets out a shaky sound, pressing his face into Dean’s cock. The contrast between those soft, fine features and the throbbing, veined hardness makes any porn Dean’s ever watched look like a bad joke.

He grips Cas by the nape and urges him lower. Cas drags his cheek across Dean’s balls with something almost like reverence, breathing in his scent, his hand sneaking between his own thighs to stroke himself with slow, uncertain fingers.

Dean has to tilt his head back and exhale, just to keep it together. When he looks down again, Cas is licking along the length of him, eyes shut like he’s savoring the taste of something rare and precious.

Dean slides a hand to Cas’s chin, fingers firm. He brings his other hand to the back of his head, burying it in his hair with a grip that leaves no doubt.

“Open your fuckin’ mouth.” He growls it low, smearing the tip against Cas’s parted lips.

Cas obeys with humiliating quickness. He parts that warm, pink mouth—an invitation Dean doesn’t deserve. But he’s too greedy to refuse it. Too pretty. Too welcoming.

Before he thrusts in, he rubs the head over Cas’s lips, smearing precome until they shine like goddamn lip gloss. A thin string of spit connects them.

“You like that, huh?” Dean breathes, chest heaving, pulse hammering.

Cas shudders, lifting his eyes as if it costs him something. “Y-yes, Dean…” he murmurs, uncertain, like he doesn’t understand it himself.

“Then open wide.”

Dean pushes inside, angling the tip against Cas’s cheek to test the depth. Cas doesn’t protest. He just looks up, sliding a hand to Dean’s waist while the other keeps stroking himself, unaware how obscene it all looks.

Then Dean gets serious. He pushes deeper, the head brushing the back of Cas’s throat, slipping past the tight ring that makes Cas swallow reflexively.

Cas flinches, turns his face aside, coughing once.

“You can do better than that,” Dean laughs, mean and breathless. But when he looks down, when he sees the tears pooling under those impossibly blue eyes, it almost stops his heart.

“S-sorry,” Cas whispers, voice hoarse. He closes his eyes and opens up again, pushing down further on Dean’s cock.

Dean inhales sharply, grabbing hold of Cas’s head with both hands. He thrusts in.

“Don’t fucking move. Don’t you dare move… fuck…” he snarls, hips rolling in small, hungry jolts. He feels the heat of Cas’s throat, the way it clenches around him, Cas’s broken breath vibrating in a pathetic little moan.

Dean pulls back just a moment. Cas gasps raggedly, coughing again. Saliva glistens down his chin.

“Look at this fucking mess… You’re my bitch…” Dean pants, rubbing himself over Cas’s cheek.

Castiel hates that word. It cuts right into something he still thinks is virtuous. Makes him feel wrong. And yet… the fact that he’s Dean’s, that he belongs to him, that he can serve him—God, it feels more right than anything ever has. Like the only reason he’s even on Earth is this cock stroking across his skin.

“Open up. Suck my cock. Take it all the way down,” Dean orders, voice rough with something he doesn’t name. He’s never talked to anyone else like this, not even the dirtiest of gas-station hookups. These filthy degradations—he only ever wants to give them to Cas.

He drags the tip across Cas’s cheek one more time, then slides it back in, slower, meaner.

“Fucking look at me. Don’t close those eyes. Look at me, bitch.” he snaps, louder now, commanding.

Cas obeys. He looks up, Dean’s cock buried so deep his vision blurs with tears. He can’t breathe, but it almost doesn’t matter. He could die like this, giving Dean pleasure. It’ true. He’s his bitch.

“Cas…” Dean hisses, voice fraying. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Cas moans around him, trembling so hard Dean feels it everywhere. He thrusts again, and again, until Cas’s throat convulses around him in a strangled gasp. He’s crying now, but his hand never stops moving between his thighs.

Dean withdraws, looking briefly up at the ceiling, fighting to steady himself. His legs are shaking. This is the best blowjob of his life.

“I’m gonna come all over your pretty face. Good?” he rasps, voice low and almost cruel.

Cas breathes in sharp, broken little gasps, eyes red, face streaked with tears, lips swollen and slick. He doesn’t answer right away—like he needs a second to find the nerve.

Then he wraps a hand around Dean’s cock, lifting it gently to press a soft kiss to the head. A gesture so tender it knocks the wind out of Dean. So sweet and unexpected, buried in all this filthy roughness.

Cas’s voice is faint, wrecked.

“Is that… is that your way of showing me what you feel?” he asks, those eyes so heartbreakingly blue they look like pieces of the sky.

No, Cas. You stupid whore. It’s my way of humiliating you, because you’re too pretty.

Some part of him wants to say it.

Instead, Dean goes silent for a second, head spinning, heart gnawing inside his ribs. He feels like the biggest bastard alive. The most loved and the most ruined.

He nods, rubbing Cas’s head in a quick, rough gesture like he’s afraid to be too soft.

“Yeah. If you want it, Dean…Yeah.”

Cas nods back, lowering his gaze to the floor. Maybe he’s still hoping that for Dean, it’s love. Like it is for him.

A low growl rumbles in Dean’s chest. He grips the base of his cock in one hand, tangles the other tight in Cas’s hair, jerking his head back so he has to look up. For a moment, he just rubs himself over Cas’s face. It’s Cas’s expression—shy and worshipful all at once—that finally snaps the last of Dean’s control.

“Open that pretty fuckin’ mouth. Look at me,” he snarls.

The first hot pulse splatters across Castiel’s cheek and eyelid, making him flinch. A shaky, helpless moan bubbles up from his raw throat. The second stripe streaks across his parted lips, down to his jaw. Another shot lands on his forehead, disappearing into his hair. The last, thick burst hits his eyelid, making it flutter closed with a wet, stunned blink.

Dean keeps coming, smearing him, legs unsteady, hand still fisted in Cas’s hair like he’s afraid to let go. For a second he thinks he’s going to collapse.

Cas doesn’t move. He stays kneeling, dazed, his nipples stiff, chest rising and falling like he’s still trying to understand something he knows he never will.

Dean spends a moment just looking at him, cock still half-hard, unwilling to let go of that sight. Some fucked-up part of him wants to grab his phone and film it—so he can watch every goddamn morning.

He collects some of his own come on the tip, bringing it to Cas’s lips. Cas swallows, shivering.

“Fuck, so fucking pretty,” Dean mutters, sliding his thumb into Cas’s mouth. “You’ve got no idea how good you look like this… Like you were made to take my cock.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He stays silent, kneeling in adoration, still hard, still confused.

“Touch your dick,” he orders, voice ragged. “I wanna watch you come for me. Only for me.”

Cas obeys, jerking himself a few times before he spills over his own hand, a tiny sob shuddering through him.

Dean wipes a hand over his face, trying to pull himself together.

“You suck me like you’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me,” Dean confesses, voice so raw with pleasure it almost sounds like sarcasm—but it isn’t.

Cas smiles, soft and radiant. He’s happy. Really, truly happy.

And Dean feels like he’s just confessed everything without meaning to.

Like this was the dirtiest—and the truest—moment of his entire life.

Chapter Text

The bunker is quiet except for a faint creak of pipes. Sam is out running to keep in shape, taking advantage of the nice spring weather. Good for him to have a physical outlet—after all, it’s been days since they had a case.

Dean sits at the desk, a Led Zeppelin vinyl playing Whole Lotta Love softly in the background. He’s cleaning a rifle and thinks maybe he could use some physical release too. He checks the time on his phone screen, calculating: Sam will be out for, what, forty minutes? Maybe ten more or ten less.

That’s enough time. And blood is already pulsing where it shouldn’t. Maybe it’s the song, full of sexual references. Maybe it’s the thought of him—those big blue eyes and lips parted like a forbidden flower. A flower that grows only in heaven.

There’s an undercurrent of shame and guilt—he could just jerk off like any other guy his age when afternoons are lonely and boring, when desire is a refuge and a distraction. But why settle for his own hand and mental porn when he can have the original, right there in his room, faster than a Prime delivery? Pulsing, compliant, adoring.

He licks his lips, scratches the inside of his thigh, and pushes his chair away from the desk. Yeah, fuck it.

“Castiel… I know you’re busy with that case. But I want you here. Now.” He’s not sure if it’s a command or a plea, but he bites his lower lip as he adds, “And… come here naked.”

For a few seconds, he thinks he’s just spoken to himself, like a crazy, obsessed, shamefully turned-on lunatic. Then the lights flicker out for a moment and the air pressure shifts slightly.

When the electric lights sputter back on, Dean looks toward the center of the room and whistles—two short notes. Like you’d do to a prostitute to make a lewd compliment before asking how much she wants for a fuck, or like you’d call a dog home to get a treat.

“Hey, Dean.” Castiel stands by the bed, naked as the day of creation. His eyes are downcast but bright—lit with a desire that should be forbidden for a Heaven’s soldier.

Dean twists his mouth into a bad-boy grin. A hungry wolf.

“Fuck, on-demand delivery service!” he says, pleased, not even standing up. A quick gesture beckons Castiel forward.

“You called, and I’m here for you.” Castiel says, with that pure, martyr-like, alien, lovesick tone. Maybe he should be ashamed. Instead, something stirs beneath the skin of Dean’s vessel.

Dean shakes his head but keeps the sly smile. He opens his belt, unbuttons his jeans halfway down his thighs, pulling his boxers down too. He’s already hard—hard enough to hurt.

“Come here. Get on. Let’s hurry the fuck up.” His voice is raspier than usual.

Castiel moves onto him slowly. Maybe on purpose. Maybe, after all this time, he’s learned that making Dean impatient makes him feel more important, more wanted.

He straddles Dean’s legs. The chair creaks but holds steady. He puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders, his ass brushing against Dean’s erection. Dean grabs his hips and settles him better on top.

“Look at you, Cas… You’ve got a body that… fuck, I bet your dad had some serious questions when he saw you all grown up.” Dean holds him firmly, breathing in his scent. Damn.

“If that’s a compliment, thank you, Dean.” Castiel smiles, awkward. But his expression changes suddenly when Dean smacks him sharply on the ass.

“Ouch…” he protests softly, not daring to pull away or resist. Cas wants to tell him to slow down. He wants to, but he can’t. Dean can have all of him. There’s no denying how tied he is to him. Spiritually and… carnally.

Dean kisses him, but it’s a bite disguised as a kiss. Something magnetic, something that makes them both breathe harder, like they’re running.

“You like that, huh?” Dean asks, grabbing both of Cas’s cheeks, pressing him close. Cas is turned on too; he likes being naked while Dean is dressed. He likes giving Dean control, likes making him feel like the king of the world because too many times he’s felt like nothing.

“Everything you like, I like.” Cas whispers against Dean’s lips, swaying on him, enjoying his hands. Even when they squeeze, strike, greedily explore, leaving marks. He takes them like a love letter never written, or maybe a letter of desire.

Dean pulls the lube from the desk drawer. He rubs two fingers with it and enters without asking. Cas tilts his head back, holding tighter to Dean’s shoulders, spreading his thighs more.

“You’re a show. A show that comes to me on command every time I want to fuck.” Dean says through clenched teeth. The veins on his cock pulse. Just having his fingers inside that tight heat makes him lose control. Cas moans as Dean twists his fingers relentlessly, fast and deep. It strips him of all dignity, makes him pant and tremble. Pleasure and pain crash into each other in a sharp clash deep inside his body.

“Why I like it... Even when you hurt me?” Castiel whines, pressing his forehead against Dean’s.

“Because you’re my slut.” Dean replies, pressing on that deep, intimate spot that makes Cas throb, that steals his ability to think.

Cas nods, not sure why he does it—maybe to show he’s ready, but it feels like saying yes.

I’m your slut.

He swallows hard. He knows he doesn’t like that word, that it doesn’t describe him. But he hears it often from Dean. And now he can’t even say no—not when Dean touches him like this, not with that voice whispering in his ear.

Dean’s fingers pull back. He grabs Cas’s hips firmly, adjusting him on his pelvis, just enough to guide him down. Slowly impaling him, making him his—the best feeling he’s ever had. Inch by inch, Cas sinks down onto Dean’s cock, all the way in.

“Ah…” he moans, rubbing his face against Dean’s, hands spread on his chest. “You’re so big inside me. It hurts.” Not a protest, just a statement.

“Shhhh… You’ve got this, fuck. I know you’ve got this.” Dean whispers in his ear. “Like we both know you’re made for my cock… Take it all.”

Cas moves slow, uncertain, breathing hard. His mouth is open but astonishingly silent.

Dean holds him steady, like he’s afraid Cas might fly away. Right now. At the best part. He guides him with a firm grip. Hands digging into flesh, mouth biting his neck. That creature is beautiful to fuck, to desecrate, and to love. Only Dean will never say it. Can’t, won’t, and doesn’t want to.

He moves his hand. A new smack, harder this time.
Cas’s ass pulses around Dean’s cock, tight as a fist, alive, burning hot.

“What did you expect? That I called you just to have dinner holding hands? To take you to some fucking movie? For a date?” Dean asks, furious, mocking. He doesn’t know which of them he wants to insult or tease more.

Castiel doesn’t stop moving on him, eyes closed.
“I’d really like that.” He admits, unable to connect his thoughts in this dance of sensations.

“You’re a fucking stupid slut…” Dean snaps, grabbing him by the throat.

He starts moving from underneath, going deeper. The chair creaks and the room echoes with the sound of their skin and breaths—human and angelic—chasing each other, not meant to blend.

Castiel knows it’s wrong, but he’s well aware he’ll never stop doing these things with Dean. The very same things Adam and Eve did—the real reason they were kicked out of Eden. Yeah, those things someone like him shouldn’t allow himself.

He loses rhythm, slowing down, trusting Dean’s steady thrusts. The pleasure rises fast, Dean’s hand still on his throat—not to squeeze, but to hold.

It’s all so hot and powerful. Something inside Cas breaks, in the sweetest way possible despite all that hardness and lack of tenderness. Once, he watched humans and sex seemed sweet, a need more than a sin. Making love, that’s what they say.

He’s not sure he and Dean are making love. With Dean, he doesn’t understand what they’re doing—he only knows he likes hearing him go crazy for him like this, even if there’s not much gentleness.

Dean bites his collarbone. That’s enough to shake him inside and make him come without any other stimulation. He soils Dean’s shirt, leaning his head back as his cock explodes and his eyes flood with blue light—iris and corneas glowing.

“Dean…” he manages, overwhelmed by orgasm. With every spasm, his muscles clamp around Dean’s cock—convulsing, wet, trembling. A tear slips down Cas’s cheek but it’s not sadness. It’s his love, with no place to go, no word to name it. Just that. After the orgasm, that feels too little.

Cas wants more. To hold, to kiss, to hold hands.

Dean lets out a hoarse sound in response to his spasms. He feels him moan and tremble—fuck, he feels it. He plunges in once more. And he comes too—angrily, fiercely, grinding Cas’s name between his teeth like it’s unpronounceable.

He holds Cas by the hips. Down. His. Fills him with his seed, like it means something. Survival. Reproduction. When it’s none of that.

They breathe together, body pressed to body. They let the seconds pass. Dean opens his eyes first. He looks at Cas and wants to scream. Wants to silence forever the voice inside saying give him more.

“One day, I’ll understand why the fuck you do this effect to me?” he bursts out, a nervous edge in his voice despite the peaceful calm after the orgasm.

Cas opens his eyes—blue like the sky reflecting in the sea or maybe the other way around.

“Maybe… It’s because I love you.”

Dean has been stabbed, bitten, attacked, and wounded by countless beasts and enemies. Yet no blow hurts like the one Castiel just dealt him. His silence is thick and tense as Cas gently strokes his face and kisses his forehead. He has chosen to be free, to have no defenses—and that is inconceivable to Dean.

Dean places his hands on Castiel’s hips and slips out of him with a quick, slippery, guilty movement. Cas’s moan is adorably filthy. If he hadn’t just said I love you, that sound alone would be enough to ignite Dean’s need to fuck him again and again.

“Get out.” Dean’s voice is steady, rough, harsh.

“Dean…” Cas tries to protest, still pressed against him, eyes wide with surprise.

“Are you deaf? You need to fucking disappear, damn it!” Dean stares into his eyes, doing his best to hide the knot tightening in his throat.

And he must be a damn good actor, because Castiel lowers his gaze and vanishes.

The lights go out for a fraction of a second before flickering back on with an electric hiss.

Dean is left alone—sweaty, exhausted, stiff.

His hands are empty, but his heart is so full it aches.

“Maybe…It’s because I love you.”

He will never forget that. It echoes through the quiet of the room and the silence of the shame.

Chapter Text

They’re doing it on the fucking floor. The cold, fucking floor of the bunker’s garage. Clothes scattered everywhere.

Dean’s chest pushes hard against Castiel’s back, rising and falling like a bellows. He’s breathing like he’s sprinting toward something. Like they’re fighting. Like nothing else matters but their naked bodies, lying on their sides on the floor, wedged between the Impala and one of the Men of Letters’ old bikes.
It feels like a porn scene, Dean thinks, grinning to himself—Cas can’t see it.

His hand grips Cas’s side like he owns him.

He does. Fuck, he does after so many years.

His to love. His to ruin.

A release, a refuge—everything.

He’s thrusting into him hard. Rough. Deep. Rhythmic. Cas’s usual soft, hesitant sounds have turned into sharp, breathless cries—and fuck, they make Dean feel powerful. Primal. Like some goddamn caveman.

It’s all Cas’s fault. Dean had been changing the Impala’s oil when he showed up, handed him a beer, looked at him with those wide blue eyes, licking his lips like he’d never seen Dean in a grease-stained mechanic’s suit before.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, his breath hot against Cas’s ear “You act like a bitch in heat.”

Cas doesn’t turn around like he usually does, looking for a kiss. He makes a small, wounded sound, and stays still.

“Dean, I don’t—”

“You don’t like being called what you are?” Dean is playing with the dirty words, the heavy ones that hurt—but during sex, they feel light. Like the two of them aren’t real, just a scene from a porno or an erotic dream.

He thrusts harder, because he’s convinced—by the way Cas jolts forward—that they’re both enjoying the game. That they’re both destroying themselves in the sex, like nothing else matters.

“Fuck…” Dean growls against the back of his neck. He bites into the soft flesh, rips a sound out of him—something between a whimper and a cry. Dean thinks he wants to record that sound, wants to hear it again and again.

He pushes in harder, like a predator, like a jackhammer. Their bodies shudder with waves of heat, in stark contrast to the cold floor beneath them.

“Dean…” Cas lays his hand over Dean’s, the one still gripping his waist “Please…Nicer…”

It’s a pathetic whisper, swallowed by the frantic sound of their bodies. The slap of skin against skin, the pounding of their hearts, the rhythm of their breathing.

Dean’s brain is off—he doesn’t register the meaning of the words. But the tone, that he feels. It’s desperate, needy, sweet. It goes straight to his cock. Dean slaps his ass. Hard.

“Oh, you like begging now, huh?”

Dean expands his chest, wraps an arm around his neck. He doesn’t squeeze. Buries his face in Cas’s hair. Fruity shampoo. The one from the bathroom in his room—because they shower together while Jack and Sam are watching TV or eating dinner.

Fuck. He wants to fuck him until the last breath of his goddamn life. And if Castiel’s gonna live millennia longer, Dean hopes he’ll spend every one of them feeling him inside every time he sits down.

“Dean… Please, just be nicer…” It's a small, weak, broken sigh.

Dean hits him again. Same buttock. But the force of his hand is greater. The skin is bright red. He wants to mark him. Spanking Castiel when they're in bed is one of the things he loves most in the world. Making him feel cornered, punished, ruined, outraged.

“You want it rough, Cas. Don't pretend otherwise,” he growls. “Your body is begging for it, even if your mouth has a nasty habit of lying.”

Cas gasps, his voice trembling. “Dean... please...”

It’s a game, okay. A dirty roleplay. Power play. Cool. And they’ve been doing it for over ten years—this isn’t new. Sure, it never stops being enticing. Dean smiles, biting his shoulder. Cas drives him crazy when he acts all difficult.

He growls, pulling Cas closer to him, fucking him in a punishing rhythm.

“Find yourself a fucking boyfriend if you want cuddles.”

He hits him again, in the same spot, now shamefully red. Pain, humiliation. Yet Cas's moans seem to say only one thing. Again. Harder.

“Fuck... I love your voice, these fucking moans you make drive me crazy...”

Cas's sounds are even higher pitched, broken. They are desperately sexy.

“Dean, please…”

Dean thrusts hard. It’s a fucking phenomenal fuck, one of the best they’ve ever had. He’s too caught up in it. He grabs Cas’s chin roughly, tilting his head just enough to see his face—mouth slightly open, eyes a little glossy. Damn he’s hot. He, who’s never had anything, now holds something so beautiful in his arms. And he can do whatever the hell he wants with him.

“Mine.” He growls, moving deeper than he can. They are one. He spanks him again, looking at his face sideways.

Cas just shakes his head, tears running down his cheeks. And then, he parts his lips.

“Dean… Stop…Just stop.”

Dean freezes. It’s like a shock. No—like a lightning strike, one that sears straight through his heart.

He pulls away from Castiel immediately, chest heaving with fast, guilty breaths.

“Cas, wait… Shit, I thought…”

He watches him sit up, scrambling for his clothes. Castiel doesn’t look at him. His hands are shaking as he pulls on his boxers and pants.

Dean drags his hands over his face.

“I didn’t know,” he mutters, a pathetic attempt at justification. The words catch in his throat.

Cas is putting on his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons. Dean reaches out, tries to touch his shoulder and Cas stands up like he’s been burned.

“No.”

That’s all he says, his hand is open. But it hits harder than a punch. Cas’s face is stone—frozen and unreadable—but his eyes are still red, his body trembling.

“Cas, hey… Let’s talk. I didn’t know. I didn’t understand…”

Dean’s voice cracks. He’s just a fucking idiot now, sitting naked on the cold floor of the garage. A bastard. Guilty. Oblivious.

“That’s not the point, Dean.” Cas’s voice shakes. He runs a hand down his face. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean stands abruptly, grabbing his mechanic’s coveralls and holding them over himself like a shield.

All at once, he’s ashamed to be made of flesh and bone. Cas looks at him, a sad smile flickering on his lips.

“I’m only staying for Jack. And for Sam. But this—” he gestures between them “—I can’t do this anymore, Dean. I’m sorry. Years have passed and nothing changed… This is not what I want.”

Dean nods. The bitterness twists his features. He wants to shut down, play the asshole, throw out a sarcastic line and reassert control—make Cas feel small.

But he doesn’t. He just watches him walk out of the garage.

And one sentence echoes in his head, over and over. Please, just be nicer.

He hasn’t seen Cas in a week.

Cas and Jack left to work a case with Jody and the girls, while Sam’s off enjoying a week in Seattle with Eileen. The bunker feels too big without them. Too quiet. There's nowhere for Dean to hide from himself. The silence presses in — heavy, suffocating.

He tries to convince himself that Cas is fine. That he’s just sulking. That this isn’t as bad as it feels. That he’ll come back, breath hitching against Dean’s mouth, forgiveness offered like he always does. Because, between them… It’s what he wanted. Maybe he was just angry when he said he wanted to end it.

But something’s different this time.

This time, Dean knows he crossed a line.

Days pass. Castiel and Jack are back, and everything feels surreal.
Cas ignores him—doesn’t look at him, doesn’t speak—and Dean doesn’t sleep. He can’t.

Trying to talk to him, to touch him, even to apologize... it all feels like mountains he can’t climb. Not anymore.

But what hurts most is Castiel’s absence. The rhythm of his breathing. His scent. The way he used to look at Dean. His words—comforting, soft like caresses, like the whisper of wings.

Sam and Jack have noticed. They keep exchanging awkward glances when they think Dean isn’t looking.

That morning, Jack lifts his head from his bowl of bright, sugary cereal. Dean is at the stove cooking bacon. Sam’s buried in the news on his laptop. Cas is nowhere in sight.

“Why is Cas mad at you?” Jack asks, plainly, like it’s nothing.

Dean tenses, the spatula clattering too hard against the skillet. He shoves the bacon onto a plate with a sharp flick of his wrist.

Sam looks up immediately, jaw tight. “Jack—”

“No, it’s okay,” Dean says, voice hoarse. He swallows, but it scrapes like broken glass. “Jack, sometimes... even in a family, people need space.”

Jack’s voice is quiet, not accusing—just honest. “I don’t think that’s it. Castiel’s different. He’s sad, but he’s angry too. Really angry. I’ve never seen him like this before.” He hesitates. “It’s like… like you broke something.”

Sam shuts the laptop slowly and folds his hands in front of him. “Dean. If you need to talk about what happened—”

Dean stares into his coffee, jaw clenched.

“I don’t need to talk,” he mutters. “It’s something I can’t fucking fix.”

Cas is in the main library, sitting alone at the long oak table. He’s not really reading—just sitting there, hands folded, gaze distant. Dean likes him like this: quiet, contemplative, alien and yet unconsciously gentle.

Dean plants his hands on the edge of the table to steady himself, because trying to talk to Cas feels harder than any heroic feat they’ve ever survived.

“Cas,” he says softly.

Cas doesn’t look up. “Don’t.”

Calm. Cold, like marble.

Dean clears his throat. “I want to talk.”

“I don’t.”

Dean takes a step forward. “I just want to explain.”

“You already did,” Cas replies, finally meeting his eyes—and they’re glassy, full of disappointment. “You said you thought I wanted it that way. You didn’t even consider asking.”

“That’s not fair, Cas. You’re crucifying me— we were both—”

“You never ask me anything,” Cas says, voice steady as he rises to his feet. “You decide. It’s a joke, or a game. And I go along with it because I want you. Because I trust you. And because I love you.”

Dean flinches.

Cas circles the table slowly, not moving toward him. “All these years, I believed I meant something to you, Dean. And I was a fool.”

Dean looks wrecked. “Cas, that’s not— you’re blowing this out of—”

“No.” The word cuts like an angel blade, clean and final. “I have nothing left, because all I ever wanted was you. And I never even had you. Not really. I never felt you close, not in the way that mattered to me.”

He pauses. “Sometimes I think I’m more human than you are.”

Dean opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“You don’t get to hurt me,” Cas says, stepping past him without a glance, “and then expect me to be the one who makes you feel better.”

He leaves the room without looking back. Dean’s never been more sure that it’s over.

It’s been months. Months of silence. Of half-spoken sentences. Of distances that don’t shrink, even when they’re in the same room. They live under the same roof. They fight side by side. But everything else has crumbled.

Now they’re gathered around the war room table with Sam and Jack.
The case is messy—unclear intel, a nest of vetala outside Tulsa. The air is thick with tension.

Jack is jotting down notes, asking questions with the wide-eyed curiosity of a kid on a field trip. Sam flips through old lore books, searching for protective spells.

Dean paces, shoulders tense. Everything about him screams control. Command.

“We hit from the north,” he says, uncapping a marker. “Clean and fast. Straight to the heart.” He draws sharp lines across the map, decisive.

Cas, arms folded tightly over his chest, doesn’t even glance up.
“That’s reckless,” he says, voice flat. “They’ll kill their victims the second we cross into their territory. There are tunnels underneath—we can take them, avoid the sentries. Minimize casualties.”

Dean spins around fast, his voice suddenly sharper, like a blade unsheathed. “Are you serious? You wanna take the long way around?”

Cas meets his eyes without flinching.
“Yes, Dean. I want to try and save lives—including ours.”

The room freezes. Sam looks away. Jack lowers his gaze. No one says a word.

Cas hasn’t spoken to Dean in months and now that… Challenge?

Dean’s jaw locks. He’s furious—but maybe not with Cas. Maybe not entirely.
“Fine. Your way, Chuckles” he growls, tossing the marker onto the table with a sharp flick of his wrist. “Fuck it.”

He storms out, boots hitting the floor too loud, too fast.

Cas remains still, eyes cast down, fists clenched tight at his sides. And they tremble.

They’ve been back from Tulsa for less than an hour. They made it out. Barely. And the wear of the fight still lives in their muscles, their bones.

Dean knows the truth of it: he came this close to dying. If Sam hadn’t gotten the drop on that vetala, hadn’t driven a blade into its back just in time—Dean would’ve bled out, a knife buried deep in his gut.

Cas saw it happen.

He lived that moment like a knife through his own chest.

And suddenly, the anger he’s been clinging to for months—it's not enough anymore to contain everything burning inside.

Dean pushes open the door to Cas’s room without even knocking.

Cas is there, sitting on the edge of the bed—the bed he never really learned how to sleep in. He looks up at Dean for a split second before casting his eyes to the floor.

Dean clears his throat. “I just... I wanted to say thanks.”

Cas does not even look at him

“For today. Even though you called me out in front of the others, your plan was—shit, it was solid. We made it out alive because of you.”

Dean’s voice is tight. Brittle. Like he’s choking just trying to breathe.

“Maybe I should’ve started calling you out a long time ago,” Cas murmurs, standing slowly.

Dean closes the space between them in two fast steps, like something inside him finally snaps. Like he can’t take it anymore. Like almost dying stripped him of all his armor.

His hands land on Cas’s shoulders, pushing him gently—desperately—against the wall. It’s not anger. It’s panic. It’s need. It’s the ache of months of silence and the terror of losing him again.

Dean touches him like he has to prove to himself Cas is real. Alive.

Their bodies barely brush, close but not quite connected. Dean’s heart pounds in his chest. Cas is breathing fast, caught off guard.

“I almost died today,” Dean whispers, his throat tight.

“I know,” Cas says, voice low. There’s pain in it. Sharp and raw.

Dean swallows hard. “But I couldn’t die today, Cas. I couldn’t. Not before I told you the one thing that actually matters.”

Cas doesn’t move.

Those blue eyes trace Dean’s face like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s terrified to look away. His gaze lands on Dean’s mouth and stays there, and Dean can hear the way Cas’s breath shakes as he tries to slow his own heartbeat.

“I fucking love you, Cas.”

Time stops.

Cas doesn’t breathe. His eyes go wide, like those words punched straight through every wall he’s ever built. It’s not a gentle confession—it’s a storm, a truth too big for Dean to hold in anymore. It tears everything else down with it.

“What?” Cas breathes.

Angels don’t dream. But if he could, this would be the dream.

Dean presses his forehead to Cas’s, hard, furious with himself for feeling this fragile. “I love you, Castiel. I’ve loved you for years, and I never said it. Because I’m a coward. I’m so full of shit, cause my dad was… I never told you…Because I figured you knew, and maybe you could see it even when I was too much of an asshole to show it right.”

He’s trembling now. “I get that you don’t want to be with me anymore. I do. I can accept it. I’ve been waiting for the moment you'd finally walk away. But—fuck—it hurts. It hurts so goddamn much.”

Dean’s voice cracks, and his green eyes burn.

Neither of them speaks for seconds that weight like years.

“Can you... can you say it again, please?” Cas whispers, lips parted, forehead still resting against Dean’s. He hates how much he needs it. How empty he feels without those words. Nice words of belonging.

Dean cups Cas’s face, like he’s holding something sacred. Like this is all that matters.

“I love you.”

Cas closes his eyes.

He lets the words in.

He wishes he had a soul to wrap around them, to hold them safe.

Instead, they pour into his grace like light, like warmth, like pain, and one single tear slips down his cheek—fast, silent.

A quiet sob shakes out of him, shattering everything he’s tried to hold together for months. And suddenly, that endless distance between them is just... gone.

Dean’s voice breaks again. “Can I kiss you, Cas?”

Cas nods, eyes still closed.

Dean kisses him.

Slow.

Deep.

Reverent.

Like a prayer.

Like a promise.

Dean moves slowly inside him, taking his time with every push and pull. His hips roll with a steady, deliberate rhythm—like he’s trying to memorize every sensation, every inch of Cas’s body, like he’s carving himself into him with every thrust.

Cas’s legs stay wrapped tight around Dean’s waist, heels pressing into his lower back like he needs him even deeper. Dean hadn’t expected that. God, they’d missed each other. Ten fucking months without this, and Cas was just as desperate as he was.

Cas’s lips are parted, soft little moans slipping out like honey, like he’s not even trying to hold them back—like he wants Dean to hear him. Naively shameless. Dean loves that—loves how Cas is always somewhere between innocence and obscenity.

Dean groans. “Fuck, Cas… have I ever told you how goddamn pretty you are like this?”

Cas blushes and shakes his head. Those big blue eyes flutter open to meet Dean’s, pupils blown wide. His lips tremble as another sound escapes—high-pitched and breathless. Eye contact and that sound—Dean short-circuits.

He smiles, brushing his thumb gently over Cas’s cheek. Presses a kiss to his forehead without even knowing why—just needing to.

Cas whimpers quietly, arching into his touch. “Dean…”

Dean leans down, their foreheads nearly touching. His breath is hot against Cas’s lips.

“You okay?”

Cas pants, “Yeah, Dean. I’m okay.”

Dean pushes in deeper, slower—softer—just to watch Cas fall apart again, his mouth open like he’s trying to let Dean inside even further. And Dean does. He pulls almost all the way out before sinking back in, full, deep. His balls slap against Cas’s skin. He hears himself groan—deep and rough—and exhales shakily.

He dips lower, kissing Cas’s jaw, then down his neck, whispering between kisses: “You’re perfect.” kiss “So good for me.” kiss “So fucking sweet, Cas…”

Cas lets out a trembling moan at the praise, arms wrapping tight around Dean’s neck, his hips rising to meet every thrust. “Dean—Dean…”

It’s like that’s all he can say. Just his name. And Dean’s cock twitches harder at the sound, buried deep in that impossibly tight heat.

He crashes their mouths together again—a deep, messy kiss, like he needs Cas’s breath just to survive. He feels Cas trembling underneath him, clinging so tight, so willing.

“You’re taking me so good,” Dean breathes against his lips. “Feeling you wrapped around me. So tight… baby, you’re making me lose my goddamn mind. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. You hear me, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

Cas’s moan breaks into something close to a sob—too full, too good, too much.

“I know it’s a lot,” Dean whispers, his voice rough, eyes shining. “Christ, I know, because it scares the shit out of me too. I love you. I love the way you sound, the way you move… the way you look at me like I’m worth something. Like I’m worth you. No one’s ever looked at me like that before.”

Cas cups Dean’s face in his hands, just to look at him—really look at him.

“I love you, Dean.”
It’s freeing to say it like this—eyes locked, breath against breath. It’s the truth.

His whole body trembles from how much he feels, from how deep it all runs. He tilts his head and brushes his lips against Dean’s cheek like a prayer. Dean’s thrusts are intense—they tear through him, lighting up his nerves like falling stars. Cas arches beneath him.

“Deeper, Dean… I want to feel you deeper…”
His voice breaks. He’s laughing and crying at the same time, completely wrecked—an angel undone by a man. His kind would scorn him. But Cas has never felt more victorious in his entire existence.

Dean jolts at the sound of his voice, his whole body shuddering, jaw clenched tight. He doesn’t want this to end. What they’re doing—it feels more real, more right, than anything else ever has. He grabs Cas’s thigh, hoisting his leg higher against his side, and drives in—slow, deep. Hard. Fucking hard.

“Jesus, Cas,” he growls, hand wrapping around Cas’s jaw. “You want it that deep? I’ll fill you so full you’ll still feel me tomorrow.”

Cas whimpers softly and nods. His eyes are shut, hands gripping Dean’s biceps like he’s the only thing holding him to earth. His face—beautiful, noble. Dean doesn’t know whether to spit on him or marry him.

“Fill me…” Cas breathes.

Dean has to close his eyes for a second, jaw clenched tight, heart thundering like it’s going to tear out of his chest.

Tears slip from the corners of Cas’s eyes. His face is flushed, trembling, lips swollen and glossy from all the kissing. He looks up at Dean with that look—adoring, ruined, his—pupils blown wide as he whispers, barely audible between broken moans:

“I’m your bitch…”

He’s gasping, out of his mind—saying it just to please Dean, to push him over the edge.

Dean freezes for half a second—his heart slamming hard against his ribs.

It’s his fault. He said that shit too many times, trying to be tough, trying to distance himself, because he’d been a coward for way too long. But he never meant it. Never thought of Cas like that.

He cups Cas’s face with both hands, the touch rough but the voice gentle—shaking.

“No, baby. Don’t say that.” Dean breathes hard against his cheek, still moving inside him. “You’re mine. My everything. My heaven, my goddamn home. You’re not my bitch—you’re my heart, Cas.”

Cas’s breath catches. He lets out the most beautiful sound Dean’s ever heard—somewhere between a sob and a moan—and his whole body tightens beneath him.

“I—Dean—I’m about to—”

“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers. “Come for me, Cas. While I’m inside you.”

And Cas does—with a broken gasp, a cry torn from deep inside. His whole body trembles under Dean as he comes, shattering completely, giving Dean everything. It’s too much, too good, too deep—and he gives it all without holding back.

That’s what undoes Dean.

He thrusts in deep—once, twice—and then he’s coming too, with a raw, guttural sound torn straight from his chest. It’s not even a moan—it’s feral, wild, like his soul cracked wide open and poured out into Cas.

He trembles, chest heaving for air, forehead pressed against Cas’s as his body empties—and fills—with something far too big to name. Too much. It always was.

Cas holds onto him, still shaking, still clenching from the aftershocks.

Dean doesn’t move—can’t move. He just stays, breathing with him. Holding him like something precious. Because after everything they’ve been through, he’s finally not afraid to admit that Cas is so fucking precious to him.

Chapter Text

The bunker kitchen was quiet in the still of the night, except for the sad crunching of Sam. In a hoodie and slippers, he was devouring a salad straight from the bowl after coming home late from a hunt. A ferocious werewolf, big and ridiculously fast. Jody had taken it down with perfect aim.

Dean came in whistling, greeting him with a nod. He looked in a good mood, wearing only a gray robe. His hair was messy, his face flushed, and his expression focused as he rifled through the pantry and fridge.

“What’re you looking for?” Sam asked, curious, with a half-smile.

“You know that bottle of champagne? The one Garth gave me for my birthday?” Dean said, distracted, scanning the different shelves.

“It’s on the bottom shelf of the pantry, on the right… Not there… there! Got it!” Sam said.

“Bingo!” Dean exclaimed, brandishing the bottle triumphantly.

Sam watched him fiddle around the kitchen some more, grabbing two mismatched glasses.

“Romantic evening?” Sam couldn’t hide a smirk.

Dean shook his head, heading toward the door. “If you wanna call it that, Julia Roberts… it’s just… a little toast!” he let slip.

“For what?”

Dean paused. Hesitated. Then he lifted one corner of his mouth. “Cas and me…”

“Dean, you think I don’t know? Even Jack noticed, and he’s got the mental age of five.”

“Oh…” Dean smiled, a little embarrassed.

“So, what are you celebrating? Some kind of anniversary?” Sam asked, trying to put him at ease.

“Not really. It’s just that Cas does things that could make the worst bad girls we’ve ever met look tame…” Dean let slip, winking.

“Okay, I don’t want the details!” Sam barked, running a hand through his hair.

Dean froze, embarrassed. “Fuck you, Sammy!” he grunted, disappearing down the hall with the bottle and glasses clinking in his hands.

Sam smiled to himself, shaking his head.

About time, he thought.

Dean barged through the door, not very gracefully, his hands full with the bottle and glasses. Castiel was sitting on the bed, wearing only the T-shirt Dean used as pajamas, soaked with his scent. The hem of the shirt brushed the tops of his thighs, making the legs Dean loved to open even more tempting.

His hair was messy, he was still full of him, of his seed, and he looked at Dean with wide, blue eyes. He had been waiting. Dean thought he looked beautiful like that—paused, on standby, just waiting for him to bring him to life, to become real, physical, wanting.

“There you are, exactly where I left you!” Dean said, moistening his lips.

“You brought champagne?” Cas asked, tilting his head with a hint of curiosity.

Dean nodded, his smirk never faltering, that knowing, seasoned actor kind of grin. He popped the cork and foam fizzed up to the neck of the bottle. Carefully, he poured the champagne into the two glasses and then made his way to Castiel on the bed.

“And what are we… celebrating?” Castiel asked softly, almost shyly.

Dean looked at him. His eyes traveled from Cas’s mouth to the line of his neck, then further down, to the smooth, inviting skin of his legs. It was like they were calling him.

“You,” Dean replied, serious for a moment. “Tonight… I just want to celebrate you.”

Cas exhaled, startled when Dean clinked their glasses together. He wished he wouldn’t blush, wished he wouldn’t feel so caught up in Dean’s words.

“To how much I’m gonna fuck you, baby…” Dean added, acting like an asshole as usual.

Castiel drank, finishing the glass without a pause. Dean chuckled and leaned in, sliding a hand behind the back of his neck. He pulled him close, kissing him with a slow, predatory, excruciating patience.

“Dean… I want you so much…” Cas whispered, resting his forehead against his.

“Oh, yeah?” Dean gasped, biting his bottom lip. “Show me how much…”

Dean had been slow at first—slow enough to watch Cas breathe, slow enough to feel every contraction of his muscles beneath his hands. He liked having him like this, liked observing every single detail: Cas lying there, flushed face, hair messy on the pillow, those damn blue eyes blinking. Those two wells of sky staring at Dean as if nothing else in the universe existed. Dean would never get used to that look, not even after all these years.

Feeling important, feeling powerful—wasn’t something he ever thought he’d experience in his life. Sometimes the words, the hands, John’s belt, resurfaced in his worst nightmares. He had a father who told him he was worthless. And now he had an angel looking at him as if he were everything.

Dean smiled, filing every image into a locked drawer in his mind, kept safe, protected, special. Only his. He kissed him and felt Cas moan against his lips, rubbing his thighs against Dean’s hips. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

Dean’s hips rocked slowly. “I’ve got a poem for you.”

Cas’s lips curved slightly in a smile. He was humanizing so much, maybe too much. And Dean loved it— Cas laughing at his stupid jokes, commenting on movies, making conversation in the car. Cas’s smile, hesitant, fucking delicate, and at the same time innocent and generous. There was a part of Dean that just wanted to make him laugh all day.

“I’d like to hear it,” Cas whispered, cupping Dean’s face in his hands, fighting both pleasure and pain to keep his eyes open, locked onto his.

“You’re sweeter than apple pie…” Dean began with a sigh, sinking deeper. He felt big, heavy, cock pulsing, mind foggy. Pleasure. Love. Maybe a dangerous combination for someone who’d lived on sacrifices and punches.

Cas threw his arms around his neck, breathing deeply, eyes closed. Dean brushed his lips against his earlobe. “…Tastier than honey…” he continued, his voice even huskier than usual.

Cas’s moan was unexpectedly abandoned, sharp. He moved into Dean’s thrusts, beneath his weight. Under him. Fuck, Dean loved having him under him. He swallowed, trying to stay focused and not come too soon.

Another thrust—slow, deep—and then the final, rhetorical and physical blow: “…and better than pussy.”

For a second, Cas stayed still, blinking like a broken doll. Then he exhaled, letting out a long, trembling sound, lifting his hips toward Dean with a deliberate motion.

“Thank you…” he murmured, running his hand over Dean’s chest as the rhythm of their bodies grew faster and harder.

That “thank you” hit Dean in the chest like a punch. It lit a fire in his hips, the desire to ruin him and come inside him. But there was something else too. It was always so intense with Cas, always so visceral, as if they were always meant to have each other this way, long before anything else—even the universe.

“Am I a good poet, Cas?” Dean asked, cocky, his cock so hard it hurt.

“Yes,” Cas gasped without hesitation. “You’re good at everything. You’re the best of men… Do what you want with me.”

Dean lowered his head, blowing out air, hips frozen. He needed to look away. He was just a human, throat dry, heart racing, in front of the love of his life. The one who had seen his soul and wanted him anyway.

“Watch yourself, Cas. Keep talking like that, and you won’t walk for a week.”

Cas’s gaze was steady. “I don’t care if it hurts me, Dean.”

I do, Dean wanted to say, but the words died in his chest. He didn’t want to take advantage of the gift he was receiving.

Dean swore under his breath, sitting back on his heels and with one fluid motion pulled Cas to sit on him. On his lap. He guided him until Cas straddled his thighs, knees hugging Dean’s hips.

“Sit here,” Dean said, low voice, eyes half-closed. “Feel me inside you.”

Cas bit his lip. His first movements were timid sways, hands gripping Dean’s shoulders, mouth open. Quiet. Fucking focused.

Dean’s hands settled on his hips, steady, guiding. “Yes… just like that. God, you… you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Cas’s rhythm grew more deliberate, movements bolder. Sighs became moans. Dean watched him, green eyes fixed on that celestial blue. “Fuck, you were made for me. For my cock.”

Cas’s breath hitched, and he leaned forward, foreheads touching. “Am I giving you pleasure?” he whispered, almost inaudible, shy, devastating. “I want to give you pleasure.”

Dean’s fingers dug into his hips with force. “Yes, fuck… You make me feel like a god.” Dean’s jaw was tight.

Cas smiled and moved harder, the bed banging lightly against the wall. Dean closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his head back. He was beautiful. Warm. Tight. Damn tight. When he opened them again, Cas was looking at him, eyes glistening.

Dean pulled him into a hungry, messy kiss, swallowing the low moan Cas gave him. When they pulled apart, their lips were shiny and swollen.

Cas’s voice was wrecked and dreamy. “Still better than pussy?”

Dean’s laugh was breathless. He held Cas’s hips tighter and thrust frantically into him, losing himself completely. “Yes,” he murmured, hoarse and convinced, “You’re absolutely the best fuck, fuck…”

Cas smiled too, then moved faster. He had no idea how sexy he looked, biting his lower lip and rocking on Dean, bare and uninhibited.

“If you keep this up, I’m gonna put a baby in you…” Dean teased, and yet those words hit Cas like a lightning bolt.

After the waves of orgasmic sensation start to fade, they rest. Cas has his head pressed against Dean’s chest, and Dean dozes, his breathing calm and deep, his heart slowing. Fucking satisfied. Happy.

“Dean, earlier you said something…” Cas’s voice is more serious than usual.

“I said a lot of things, Chuckles. I even dedicated a poem to you.” Dean mumbles, stroking his hair.

Cas lifts his face, pointing his chin at Dean’s chest. “Dean, you talked about having a baby with me.”

Dean rolls his eyes, running a hand over his face. “Cas, let’s not ruin this after-sex moment with weird talk. We can’t have a fucking baby and honestly, I wouldn’t even want one. Christ, we’ve got Jack, and the three of us can barely keep up with him! And I get that you’re like a fucking alien sometimes, but babies usually come from, biologically, a male and a female, and your vessel…”

“Dean, I know. Why are you alarmed?”

“I’m not alarmed, damn it. I just want you to stop with the weird talk. I said a dumb thing, a stupid thing that came out of my mouth because we were having sex…Really good sex, that’s all!” Dean pulls himself up, sitting against the headboard. He has a bad feeling.

“Dean, there’s something I’ve never told you, and I just want you to listen.” Cas murmurs, sitting next to him, his eyes downcast as if a weight presses on his wings. Like he’s ashamed of something.

Dean looks at him, and there’s that hollow feeling in his chest. He expects something bad—they know each other too well for it not to be.

“For angels, it doesn’t work like it does for humans. It’s not only a carnal process, it’s a spiritual process, and… it can happen that an angel’s grace and a human’s soul create life. It requires…Love.”

“Christ, Cas. Said like that, it sounds terrifying. Please, tell me paradise’s gynecologist gave you the birth control pill!” Dean jokes to lighten the tension.

Cas shakes his head, keeping his gaze low, penitent.

“It can only happen once. The grace doesn’t regenerate anymore for… that kind of function.” He sighs, sad.

Dean looks at him questioningly. “You already…?”

“Dean… In Purgatory, I… It was a little girl. She was a Nephilim like Jack. Today she would be eight, and I would have wanted to call her Sarah.” Cas hesitates, looking at Dean. Now Dean keeps his eyes down.

“She was mine?” he asks, fists clenched.

“Of course she was yours.” Cas swallows. “But when I was left alone… Purgatory’s power is…evil. She was weak, I was weak. I had her, but she was already dead.” Cas’s eyes are glistening.

They stay silent for minutes.

Dean looks toward the desk, staring absentmindedly at a Led Zeppelin record case. His jaw is clenched, fists trembling slightly.

“And why am I only finding out now?” rage poisons him, stiffening his body and his heart.

“Because you never told me you wanted a child…”

“That was dirty-talk, asshole. We weren’t painting a nursery.”

“I didn’t want to tell you because…”

“Because apparently it’s always better to lie to me, keep secrets, and make a fool of me! You never change!” Dean gets up, nervously getting dressed, grabbing Cas’s clothes scattered around to pull them onto his side of the bed.

“I didn’t want to tell you because you’d react like this!” Cas exclaims, shaking his head and starting, in turn, to get dressed with a mix of frustration and sadness.

“And how the fuck am I supposed to react? We had a little girl, who died. And I only find out after eight fucking years, just because I said stupid shit while I was fucking you?” Dean explodes, raising his voice. “Get out, or I’ll tear you apart, Cas.”

Cas wants to respond, but even his jaw is tight. He dresses with annoyed movements and leaves Dean’s room, slamming the door behind him.

The bunker library is drowned in tense silence, broken only by the sharp rustle of pages as Sam turns them. Dean is a caged lion, pacing, sitting, standing again. Now he’s on his feet, hands on his hips, rage burning in his eyes with nowhere to go.

He’s told Sam everything. Or rather, in the span of two days, Sam has dragged it out of him.

Sam clears his throat, eyes lowered on the heavy volume spread open before him. He’s been teaching himself Enochian, and just thinking about it makes Dean’s head pound.
“Dean… it’s not just physical. It says here that for a first-choir angel, conceiving a nephilim means losing a piece of their grace. It’s like tearing off part of their grace to fuse it with a fragment of the human’s soul. The human never notices—atoms, basically. But for the angel? It hurts. It hurts like hell.”

Dean exhales sharply, shaking his head, eyes fixed on nothing, hard and severe like the ones that so many times stared him down. John’s eyes.
“Eight years, Sam.” His voice vibrates, cracked with fury. “Eight years, and he never said a word. Not one. Christ, I looked at him every damn day and thought I knew him… Thought he’d changed. But no. Still keeping secrets.” He spins suddenly.

Sam chews the inside of his cheek, tense. “There’s more. Okay? The angel doesn’t choose. It’s like… it adapts to the human, to the intensity of the feelings between them.”

Dean drags a hand down his face. “And who the hell wrote this thing? Reads like some kind of mythologized Jane Austen. I didn’t wanna make a damn kid with Cas, and I swear to you it never even crossed my mind! Especially not in goddamn Purgatory!”

Sam shakes his head. “Mesopotamian prophets, Dean. Listen to this. When… when the child doesn’t survive, the wound stays inside the angel. It never really heals.”

Dean drops heavily into the chair beside him, snatching the book into his hands. He can’t make sense of the symbols on the page, but the fact that someone actually put into writing what Cas went through makes his knees weak, makes his eyes sting and burn.

Sam watches him carefully, breath held. “Maybe he thought he was protecting you. Or maybe he couldn’t even admit it to himself.”

“Protecting me?” Dean barks a laugh, joyless and raw. “I don’t need protecting. He should’ve told me right away, goddammit! He carried this—this shit—alone for eight fucking years, and I was right there. And I didn’t see it.” His jaw trembles, but Dean fists his hands tight, refusing to let himself break down in front of Sam.

Sam lowers his gaze, voice hushed. “Maybe because to him, you’re… everything. And losing even a sliver of your love, Dean—that would’ve been worse than any pain.”

Dean goes silent, breath rough and heavy.

Sam lays a hand on his shoulder, but Dean shrugs it off. His eyes shine, wet, but he doesn’t give in. “It’s not fair,” he mutters finally, voice hoarse, betraying more than he wants. “It’s not fair that he kept something like this from me. I can’t even look him in the eye anymore.”

The anger is there, thick and burning. But underneath, Sam sees it—sees the grief Dean is trying to bury under layers of pride, curses, and sharp edges.

The bunker’s garage smells like gasoline and brake grease. Dean is leaning against the Impala’s hood, head bowed, breathing deep like he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart. He’s been holding it all in for days, for hours. The words Sam read to him—written down in books older than empires—are still echoing in his head, ready to split him open. It’s too much. Too big. Too painful.

His hand finds the first wrench within reach and hurls it against the wall. The clang splits the silence, loud as a gunshot. Then another. And the hammer after that. He kicks over a box of bolts, sending them spilling across the floor, scattering like stray bullets. The quiet is broken, like his breathing.

He doesn’t notice the footsteps at first.

“Dean?”

The voice is hesitant, almost a whisper. Jack.

Jack, in an oversized blue hoodie, his face—usually so open, so guileless—etched now with something new. Worry.

Dean freezes, shoulders locking tight. He drags a hand down his face, but his eyes are already red, swollen, wet. He wants to hide. He doesn’t want Jack to see him like this—doesn’t want him to see him broken. He’s supposed to be the hero, the rock, the head of the family.

Jack steps closer, wide-eyed. “Dean, I heard the noise… are you okay?”

The words cut deeper than any blade. Dean whirls around, his face twisted, his voice raw and jagged as it rips out of his throat: “Do I look okay to you? Huh? What does it look like, kid?” He swipes his arm out and knocks over a half-empty oil can; the black liquid spills onto the concrete, spreading into a dark stain like blood.

“Spare me the baby talk, Jack. You don’t know what the hell I’ve got inside me. Just—leave me the hell alone!” The words are sharp, wounded, but unstoppable.

Jack swallows, shrinking back a step, fingers twisting in his sleeves. “I… I just wanted to help.”

“YOU CAN’T! NOBODY CAN DO A DAMN THING!” Dean roars, the sound ricocheting off the bare walls like hammer blows.

And somewhere in the wreckage of his head, he thinks about how Jack could have had a little sister to grow up with. Another nephilim. Someone of his kind. Someone special, the way Sam is for him.

The silence that follows hangs heavy, suffocating.

Jack stands there for a heartbeat, then shakes his head, hurt flashing in his eyes. He spins on his heel. Sneakers slap against the concrete, quick and determined, heading straight for the door.

It slams behind him, sharp and final.

And in that instant, all of Dean’s rage crumples in on itself, leaving only a hollow wreck inside him. He stares at the mess—tools scattered, oil bleeding across the floor, the door shut—and feels like he’s dying from the inside out.

“Jack…” he tries to call after him, his voice low, broken, almost a plea. He drags both hands over his face.

But the hallway outside is silent. Jack doesn’t come back.

“Son of a bitch…” Dean mutters through his teeth, hating himself more than anyone else ever could.

Dean is still in the garage, breath coming short and ragged. He’s crouched down, gathering the tools he threw, fumbling blindly like putting the mess back together outside might somehow tame the wreckage inside him.

The door slams open.

“Dean.”

Cas’s voice is low, tight. One of those tones that leaves no room for argument.

A bitter smile tugs at Dean’s lips. Touch Jack—his Jack, his kid—and Cas comes running. Ferocious, just like he used to be. Dean always did like that version of Castiel, the factory-default angel, sharp and unflinching. And yet… it’s the latest updates that he loves the most. The flaws, the softness, the humanity. Even now. Especially now.

Cas is standing stiff in the doorway, shoulders squared, eyes dark with disappointment, mouth a hard line. “You can’t yell at Jack like that. He told me everything. He was worried about you, and you gave him the worst of yourself. You can’t scare him like that. He’s… he’s like a child, Dean. You made him cry.”

Maybe they should just fight. Maybe that’s what Dean deserves. Sometimes all he wants is to be knocked down, torn apart—anything that might stop him from hurting the people he loves.

His jaw locks tight. He turns slowly, words slicing sharp and deliberate. “You care about Jack because he’s like a child, huh? What are you, his mom? You couldn’t even hold onto the one child we had.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Cas stiffens like the words hit him physically, like a punch to the chest. His lips part, but nothing comes out. His eyes glass over almost instantly, that trembling light inside them faltering like it might flicker out. It’s an old wound—Dean knows it too well—and he’s the one who ripped it open.

“Cas…” he tries, but the angel is already turning, already taking a step toward the door. His shoulders shake under the familiar trench coat.

“Don’t talk to me—” Cas’s voice breaks. “Not… not like that.”

Dean moves before he thinks, grabbing his wrist. “Cas, hey. Stop.”

Cas shakes his head, refuses to meet his eyes. Dean’s grip tightens, not in anger—not this time—but with urgency, with fear. “Hey.”

His voice softens, drops to something like a whisper. “Let’s make peace. I can’t do this anymore. My head’s too full… Cas, I can’t do this without you.”

Cas stills, chest rising in jerky breaths. Slowly, painfully, he turns back. His eyes are wet, his gaze searching Dean’s face like he’s trying to solve a riddle he’s never been meant to understand.

Dean swallows hard, the words catching in his throat. “I shouldn’t have said that. Not like that. But I can’t stop thinking about our little girl. You know me—the only thing I know how to show is anger, screwing things up. Don’t walk away. Not now.”

Cas draws in a long, shaky breath, as if gathering courage. And instead of answering, he steps in close, their foreheads nearly touching, breath mingling. His lips find Dean’s in the gentlest, most fragile kiss—trembling, but full of everything he can’t put into words. Sweet. Disarming. His hands brush against Dean’s clenched fists, coaxing them open.

“I’m sorry,” Cas murmurs when they part, foreheads still pressed together. “For everything.”

Dean shuts his eyes, a sound slipping out that’s closer to a sob than a sigh, and finally pulls Cas into his arms, holding on like he’ll never let go.

Dean is above Cas, his weight pressing him down and shielding him at the same time. Cas’s legs are wrapped around his hips, his arms locked tight around his neck, holding him close like he’s afraid Dean might slip away. Their breaths mingle, deep, uneven, rhythmic. The springs of Dean’s bed creak softly beneath them.

Dean has been moving inside him for a while now, not with force but with a tenderness that feels almost impossibly patient. Every thrust echoes through their embrace, every touch turns into a vow.

Dean’s green eyes are luminous, catching every flicker of expression on Cas’s face. And when they are close to pleasure—so close Dean can feel the pulse quickening—Cas’s eyes squeeze shut and his mouth parts in a silent moan. He trembles. His fingers dig hard into Dean’s bare shoulders.

“Cas,” Dean whispers against his mouth, slowing just enough to pause. “You okay?”

Cas keeps his eyes closed and nods.

He’s lying. Fuck, he’s lying. He’s hurting. Dean knows it—he feels it in the way Cas grips him inside, sees it in the way he fights for breath.

“If I’m hurting you, you gotta tell me. I—”

“No… it’s not you, Dean. It’s my grace.” Cas exhales, his hands flattening on Dean’s biceps, his chest rising in broken, uneven breaths.

“When you’re inside me, my grace… it reaches for you, Dean. Like it could… like it might be possible…” His voice fractures, and when he opens his eyes they’re wet. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop it. I don’t mean to. It’s just— I love you so much. I wish… I wish I could give you a child.”

Dean feels his heart split wide open. He stares down at him, breath caught, undone. He has never seen Cas so beautiful and so fragile at the same time. He runs a hand through Cas’s hair, presses his forehead against his. “Oh, Cas…” The words break out of him, ragged, and his own eyes burn. “Christ, you don’t know what you do to me. You don’t need to give me any kid. You’re already everything. You’re all I want.”

Cas sobs but pulls him closer, covering his lips with desperate little kisses, like he’s begging forgiveness. “I love you, Dean.”

Dean holds him tighter, thrusting into him with a rhythm slow and endless, where they can stay lost in each other. “I love you too, Cas. So much…”

His voice shakes, but he says it. He says it out loud.

They stay like that, fused together, Cas opening to him, Dean moving inside him gently, like he could fill that aching void with his love, with everything he has.

Dean dresses in silence: first the t-shirt, then the flannel, then jeans and boots. Cas sits up on the bed, clutching the sheet around himself, watching him with a shadow in his eyes.

“Where are you going?” he asks softly, his voice uncertain.

He’s still angry. He’ll always be angry, Cas thinks, lowering his gaze.

Dean stops, looks at him, and shakes his head with a half-cocked, asshole smile before stepping back toward him.

“Where the hell d’you think I’m going?” He leans down, presses a quick, rough kiss to Cas’s mouth. “Cas, I’m going to apologize to Jack.”

Cas lifts his gaze, offers him a small smile, and nods faintly. Then he sinks back against the pillow, following Dean with his eyes as he leaves, his heart just a little lighter. He hugs the sheet to his chest, one hand sliding down to his abdomen. A sigh escapes him, brief, almost startled.

Maybe, somewhere deep inside him, something is still pulsing.