Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Yeah, yeah, just give me a sec," Dean calls from the bathroom as Sam pounds on the door.

"You've been in there for like an hour, dude. We have to go." Sam's voice moves away, muffled by the door, and Dean hopes he didn't hear the squeak of a moan that just escaped him.

"I know, I know, just—"

Dean's in a bad way. He's jerked off twice already this morning and each time he's right back to where he began—hard up. The first time he jacked off was just because. A quick yank in the shower over morning wood and half-remembered dreams of a firm body and something feathery. But his boner came right back. Sprung up again in the two minutes it took to use the shampoo. He took care of it again, trying out longer strokes this time, a little ball-touch action, really working it out of his system. He felt good as he came, good enough to groan a little bit, and afterward there was a nice, warm burn low in his gut. But as soon as he started toweling off, his body was back in business.

"The fuck?" Dean mutters as he wills it down. He zips up around it with his lip between his teeth, then pushes on his crotch like a thirteen-year-old in biology class, but there's nothing doing. It doesn't take long for it to start to hurt. "Motherfucker," he spits as that warm burn in his gut twinges hard, like somebody kicked him in the nads, and he accidentally squeezes half the toothpaste out of the tube.

"Dean? You okay in there?" His voice is closer this time. Dean can picture him, ear to the door.

"Yeah, Sammy, yeah. Just got a minor situation with the, ah, toothpaste here."

The pain didn't kill his boner. It's just as hard as it was before, and it aches. In fact, the longer Dean ignores it as he tries to scrape up the toothpaste mess, the worse it aches. He could try one more time, he thinks. He feels ready to burst anyway, it shouldn't take long. He just needs this gone, needs the damn thing to go away like it should. Wincing, Dean whips it out again and jacks himself fast, leaning over the sink. "Come on, come on, come on," he pleads through clenched teeth. Something's going on here, something definitely not natural, but he's not sure how much this new sharing-and-caring policy with Sam really covers. There's some shit you just don't want to know about your brother.

It should not feel as good as it does when he comes. A gross, desperate jerk like that should not feel the same as a forty-five-minute workout.

"Dean, are you—?" And that's officially Sam's weirded-out voice.

Dean stows his junk as fast as possible, rinses his hands and the sink, and yanks open the door fully aware he's a flushed wreck. "We have a problem."

Sam gives him a skeptical once-over. "A real problem or a personal problem?"

"Both," Dean snaps, and cringes as the first perk of arousal hits him. "I can't," he gestures at his crotch, "You know, make it stop."

Sam makes a good effort to hold in his laughter, turning red in the process, but it bursts out of him anyway. "Dean, I know you know how to take care of that."

"Yeah, I tried three times already, okay? No dice. It just . . . keeps coming back." If Dean could just curl up and die now, he would. He'd rather be decapitating Purgatory's uglies than telling his brother about his boner problems. But he can't go work a case like this. They've got a lead on the next tablet and they're supposed to go play insurance agents today. Popping a chubby in his suit pants over coffee with a grieving grandma of a widow is wrong on so many levels.

He squeezes and unsqueezes his hands into fists, fighting back what he knows is coming anyway.

"Wait, you mean three times in under an hour?" Sam asks, forehead wrinkling in concern and pointing a thumb at the bathroom.

"Yes!"

"That's not normal."

"I know!"

"Well, okay, let's think about this. Where've we been, who've we talked to? We don't think there's any witchcraft going on in this case, and—"

"Sam," Dean cuts him off, screwing up his face as that pain kicks in again. "Sam, this is so not okay. It hurts. Like if I don't do something about it, my dick might fall off."

Sam's eyes widen. "It . . . really? Like, you're being forced to?"

Dean groans, pushing on his crotch again, just in case his dick does fall off. It feels stupid good. It should not feel that good. "Something like that, yeah."

"Huh," Sam pipes, intrigued now.

There's a stir of the air and suddenly Cas is there.

"Jesus Christ," Dean splutters, doubling over and dropping onto one of the beds, elbows on knees and head in his hands. A visit from their friendly neighborhood angel is really not what he needs right now. What he needs is a tranquilizer dart. Or to come his brains out. Whatever. Just to make this stop.

"I thought you would be investigating by now," Cas rumbles at Sam, looking confused. Sam, hands on his hips, nods at Dean. Dean sighs and looks up with an abbreviated wave.

"Hey, Cas."

Cas cocks his head. "What's the matter?"

Dean really, really doesn't want to explain.

"He's having, uh, a reaction. We're not sure to what yet."

The pain pushes through him, bright and stabby. Dean rolls sideways on the bed, cupping his balls. "This is not okay!" he yells. All he can think about is how awesome that last release felt, how thrilling the pressure of his own touch is. He can feel his dick twitch in his palm. He's about two seconds away from ripping into his fly again.

"He's . . . " Sam stops, choosing his words carefully. "He's got an arousal problem. It's painful, apparently."

Dean send a frustrated moan into the mattress. "You guys have to go. I can't— I have to— Christ, this sucks."

"Maybe I can help," Cas says.

Sam snorts, but Dean's dick almost jumps. And fuck it hurts. He's tense all over from trying to hold this thing off, and the pain is spreading. He forces himself upright and notices the way his muscles tremble.

"Tell you what," Sam says, still vaguely amused and suddenly in a hurry. "I'll give Mrs. Wheeler a call to reschedule our appointment then head back to the museum. Maybe something we looked at there yesterday can give us a clue as to what's, um, up."

Dean groans in misery simultaneously at Sam's joke and the next roll of pain. He's broken out in a sweat and can feel it soaking through his good shirt under his arms, gathering along his forehead. He hurts, everywhere. But maybe a little angel dust will do the trick.

The motel room door closes behind Sam and Dean sends a pitiful look up at Cas. "You can whammy this away?" he asks, voice a dry scrape.

Cas frowns in concentration and steps forward, pressing two fingers to Dean's forehead in a way he hasn't in forever. Dean closes his eyes and waits for that cool, heavenly feeling to sweep through him.

It doesn't.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas is saying before Dean even opens his eyes. "Whatever it is, it's powerful. Its hold on you is strong."

Dean wants to sob. He might be sobbing, actually. He also wants to unbutton his damn shirt and climb out of these clothes, but he can't seem to uncup his hands from his crotch anymore. He realizes too late that's because he's already massaging the heel of one hand into his hard on. It feels too good to knock it off. "Fuck," he bites out. "Cas, you gotta go. I . . . have a thing I have to do."

But Cas doesn't budge. "Clearly you need help. I might still be of some assistance."

Dean glances up at Cas, taking in his just-open collar and crooked tie, full lips and mussed hair. He can't shut down what those things do to him, have been doing to him more and more lately, ever since Cas got back and cleaned himself up. And it's worse when Cas looks at him like this, all worried, wanting eyes. Dean's head spins. His balls tighten.

"Cas, did you just offer to get me off?" He has to ask it with his eyes closed. He cracks one eyelid just enough to see Cas shrug.

"If this problem continues, you can't keep dealing with it alone. You'll die of exhaustion or exertion, whichever comes first."

Dean hadn't thought that far ahead, and he has a point. But for all Dean knows Cas is still an angelic virgin.

"It's hardly a chore, Dean," Cas adds, his voice a nice, soft, sexy kind of low.

And fuck it. They've been through a lot of firsts together over the years—first man rescued from Hell, first angel with free will, first escape from Purgatory—why not this one too?

Still, "This is not how I wanted this to go," Dean mutters under his breath. He doesn't let himself think about it a lot, but there's always been a thing with Cas. For years it was just another thing he shoved down deep, stuffed away in that emotional locker inside. Wasn't worth thinking about, more trouble in the long run, etc.

But since Purgatory? Dean doesn't know. It's like the locker sprung open. Shit just keeps tumbling out, and he's trying to let it. This wasn't something he'd wrapped his head around yet, but it was on the list. He'll just have to shove it away for a little while longer to get through this.

"Yeah, okay," he says louder, "c'mere." He manages to let go with one hand long enough to flick his fingers in the universal sign for closer.

Cas shucks his overcoat as he comes forward, tossing it on the neighboring bed. Dean's a wreck. Pain and pleasure spiral through him so fast and hard his hands shake as he tries to undo his pants. Cas takes over for him without a word, and Dean's not freaking out about letting another guy touch his dick, he's not. He's just weirded out that it's Cas, an angel who probably doesn't know a handjob from—

"Shit, oh shit, Cas. Jesus, don't stop."

Dean falls back on the bed the second Cas gets a hand on him, every too-tense muscle in his body giving way at the same time. It's gotta be awkward—Dean splayed out on his back, his cock hardly out of his pants as Cas leans over, fisting him—but he can't care. There's nothing, nothing other than the searing hot wash of arousal, the thrill of touch, the perfect strong strokes of Cas's hand. He feels the bed sag, feels movement down his chest, and opens his eyes to see Cas kneeling around his legs, his free hand deftly undoing the buttons on Dean's shirt. Dean groans at that, at the slide of thumb over the head of his cock, at the sight and feel of Cas pushing his shirt off to the sides, out of the way.

And then he comes, hips twisting and hands gripping the bedclothes as he shoots up his belly where his shirt just was. He clenches his jaw and lifts his chin and rides through the extraordinarily awesome orgasm. Cas is the last thing he sees as his eyes roll back in his head, Cas with his mouth open and blue eyes fixed wide on Dean's dick as it spills against his body.

It's possible he passed out. Or blacked out. Either way when he opens his eyes and sits up, all he can think is again, do that again. His body already agrees. "You've gotta be kidding me," he says, staring down at his lap.

"How are you feeling?"

Dean jumps sideways before remembering it's just Cas. He yanks his pants better into place indignantly and glares at the angel seated on the edge of the other bed.

"Horny." Dean grumbles, only half regretting it. It's not like it's not true. He doesn't know how it can be true, especially after coming as hard as he just did, but it is.

"Do you need . . . "

A flash of what just took place hits Dean, and that burn picks up again, sweet and enticing. His mouth practically waters, even as his conscience cringes. He never thought he could hate wanting to have sex, but voila! "I think I have a couple minutes."

Cas nods. "You're being compelled to do this, Dean. There isn't shame in what you can't control." He says that second part absently, like his thoughts slipped somewhere else for a second. And he seems to be puzzling something else out when he adds, "You don't have a choice."

Dean studies Cas for a second, not quite sure why the conversation took this turn, and wonders if he's missing something. But then Cas sorta snaps back to, looking right at Dean, so Dean just tackles the issues at hand, so to speak. "Yeah, I know. And that sucks, trust me, but it sucks more that I had to drag you into it."

"I think we've been through worse together." A wry smile twists at Cas's lips.

Dean laughs at that, loudly and freely. His joy is cut short by a punch of pain, though, and he ends up coughing. "Aw, fuck." He can feel it, that painful insistence. It's building strong already. "That was fast."

"The need is back?" Cas straightens up, on alert.

"Yeah," Dean hisses. "It's—" He has to pant a couple times to catch his breath. He digs his fingers into the rumpled bedspread to keep from touching himself. The pain kicks up a notch, but that pleasure-burn is still there below it, beckoning him. "What the fuck," he spits. "It's stronger now. Cas, I don't think I can w—"

"It's alright," Cas says, and he's already on his feet, but hanging back, uncertain. "Tell me what you need."

Dean needs Cas's voice to not sound so much like sex, and he needs his pants off pronto. The two seem to be related, but he doesn't have time to think about that.

"Lube," he half jokes as he pushes his trousers off his hips. "There's probably some in—" But he can't finish the thought as a surge of solid, aching want barrels through him. "Oh God, never mind, just come here. Please, come here."

He grabs for Cas, catching his wrist and tugging him onto the bed where Dean's propped against the headboard. Dean doesn't even think about it, he just guides Cas's hand back to where it was, wrapping Cas's fingers around his dick. The angle is bad but he can't keep himself from thrusting into his fist as the pain gives way to pleasure only. Cas shifts his hand and his weight so he's straddling Dean again, hovering above him. Only this time they're eye to eye—Dean can look at Cas's hand on him or he can look into Cas's eyes. Both are too much.

The build takes longer this time, and Dean winds up growling out a string of dirty things he doesn't mean to, because that's what happens when you're on the brink of orgasm for eons. He pulls and shoves at Cas too. Drags him closer by a belt loop until Cas inches forward on his knees to settle between Dean's legs. Pushes Cas back to shove off that stupid suit jacket. Claws at his chest and catches his tie to yank him near again.

And that's how they are when Dean comes—Cas leaning in close, Dean's fist wrapped in Cas's tie, his legs bent up and around Cas's thighs. It rushes over him tidal-wave hard, and Cas's fingers feed the warm slick from tip to shaft as Dean's brain tumbles.

It halts eventually, and Dean's vision begins to go black at the edges. He feels himself sink, but he fights it, trying to stay here, stay now. Cas has stopped touching him, both of them are breathing easier. But then, as Cas begins to move away, it's back. The perk of interest, the feel-good burn. Dean whimpers, almost wishing he would've let himself pass out.

"Don't go," Dean pleads and grips Cas's tie and locks his legs, keeping Cas near, because it's over but it's also just beginning. "Don't leave," he bites out as the first shock of retaliatory pain kicks in.

Over, he just wants this over. Away. Gone. Fucking done.

"I'm here, Dean," Cas whispers, lips somewhere near his ear as his hand softly scoops into place once more. "I'm here."

Dean nods. And they go again.

They go again. And again. Cas doesn't seem to mind the semen on his fingers, or the way Dean clutches at his shoulders, his arms, his clothes. He stays calm, moves as Dean directs or demonstrates, and never once flinches or laughs or complains.

They keep going.

When they stop for too long—too long being anywhere from thirty seconds to five minutes—it gets painful. If they stop for longer than that it gets really painful. Unless Dean conks out. Sometimes he lets himself, and sometimes Cas makes him, just to give his body a break from the endorphins. Dean's communicated most of how it seems to be working to Cas, not that the pattern's hard to pick up on, but what he doesn't tell him is that the good, warm, glowy feeling flares up every time he looks at or even thinks about Cas. And if that feeling isn't paid attention to, that's when pain kicks in. Dean's pretty sure somebody once did an experiment like this with dogs and drooling, or maybe it was rats and food. Sam would know.

Cas drags him over to the bathroom, forces him to rinse off and drink some water. In exchange, Dean gets Cas to bring him off in front of the giant mirror there, hands braced on the counter with Cas behind him. And, because he's a kinky bastard sometimes, he watches as Cas watches him come.

Dean's just hit the bed again when there's a knock at the door and the sound of a key in the lock. He flies up and claps himself against the back of door before it opens more than an inch.

"Dean?"

"You are NOT coming in, Sammy," Dean threatens, holding the door fast. Cas comes out of the bathroom, wiping his hands on a towel. His tie is off, his collar open, sleeves rolled up. So of course Dean's dick kicks into gear. He feels flushed all over already. 

"No, no, trust me, I don't want to. I just wanted to tell you guys what I found, but I forgot my phone. Let go of the door, Dean. I won't open it more."

Dean plops onto what was Sam's bed and pulls a pillow over his lap, acutely aware he may not make it through this conversation without Cas's, well, help. "You have three minutes, Sam." 

Cas tilts his head in silent question at Dean. Dean flicks a look to the door, and shakes his head. Cas puts down the towel and crosses the room, taking a seat at the end of the bed but keeping a respectable distance from Dean and, thankfully, staying out of his direct eye line.

"So I went back to the museum," Sam says through the crack in the door.

"And?" 

"And remember that thing you showed me when we were in storage—the rhino horn?"

"Yeah," Dean answers tightly as the first spark of pain hits. He shifts the pillow uncomfortably.

"Did you even read the card?" 

"I read the part that said 'rhino horn.'" He's pretty sure he hears Sam facepalm. 

"Yeah, well, it's called the Horn of a Hundred Loves," Sam continues, and Dean snorts. "Lame, I know, but it was part of an ancient fertility rite. The tribes-people believed it would, uh, keep you going, you know, like a hundred times."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up and he risks sharing a quick look with Cas. "Then why isn't everybody on the museum staff trying to boink each other's brains out?"  

"Because curators use gloves, Dean" Sam deadpans.

"Sam—" Dean warns. The stay on topic swallowed by a roll of arousal. He holds the pillow down tighter to keep from touching himself.

"Anyway, the thing about rhinoceros horn being an aphrodisiac is a myth, but from what I can tell this Horn of a Hundred Loves wasn't supposed to work like this in the fertility rite," Sam explains. "Not so fast and, uh, painful, I mean. And it wasn't specifically programmed for one hundred times, obviously. That part came with the, um, curse."

"Curse!?" Dean squawks as his whole body tenses with another one of those unbelievable waves of pleasure, followed by the wash of pain. The room spins and he clings to his grip on reality. Curse. Curse makes sense. Cursed object, museum of ancient religious artifacts. Dean shoulda seen that one coming. No pun intended. "Yeah, okay, curse. How'd that happen?"

He hears Sam shuffle in excitement. "So get this, the horn is black rhino, from Ke—"

Cas touches Dean's arm—he's sitting closer now—and drops a pointed look to Dean's hands clamped around the pillow. Dean bites his lip and shakes his head even though his body is screaming. He hasn't made himself wait, hasn't tried to hold back this long for hours. But he can't. Not yet. "SparkNotes version, Sammy," he grunts.

"Oh. Right. Uh, Western corruption of ancient African religious practice? Think recipe for Victorian-age Viagra."

Dean collapses sideways and huffs into Cas's neck, dizzy with lust and laughter and distraction. It quickly turns into a stifled moan against slicing pain.

"Only, it backfired. In the lasting-over-four-hours way. The cursed version sounds more like torture, really."

"Tell me about it," Dean rasps. Cas hooks his chin over Dean's head, runs a hand through his hair in comfort. It only makes the want inside Dean burn brighter, but at least that blocks out the stabbing agony for a second.  "Okay," he breathes. "Okay, so, I have to come a hundred times is what you're saying. I did three this morning but I . . . " Thinking is hard. Words are hard. Dean is hard. "I don't know how many now."

"Fifteen," Cas says. 

"Seriously?" Dean perks up for a second, stupidly proud. "Alright, so that's—" Math is also hard. "Eighteen? Just . . . Jesus fuck—" He doubles over fast, landing squarely in Cas's lap. 

"Dean?" Sam calls, concern all over his voice. 

Dean pushes on the pillow, his hips nudging up even without his consent. It's no longer just a feeling inside him, it's a thing. It's shredding at his nerves. It's all he can think about. He groans deep as the pain churns into pleasure again.

Sam makes a strangled noise. "Oh God, no, never mind, I get it."

"Sam, it may be quite some more time," Cas says patiently, reasonably, like he isn't watching Dean hump a pillow in the middle of a sex-curse meltdown. 

"Yeah, hey, no problem. Don't  worry about me, I'm good. I'm— You guys just, uh, fix Dean. I'll check back?" 

Cas looks at Dean and frowns. Dean lets him get up, promptly sinking into the pool of warmth he leaves behind. Cas grabs Sam's cell from the nightstand and walks it to the door. "We'll call you when it's over."

Dean vaguely hears Sam say thanks and wish them luck. 

And then Cas is back, close, on the bed. Dean forgets the pillow and climbs into his lap. "Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop," he chants, eyes closed and hands clutching. Cas gathers Dean close and in two seconds has a miraculously lubed hand around him. "Sonofbitch, don't stop" Dean curses in relief, rocking into Cas's body, fucking his hand, "Never stop."

It isn't long until he comes, still wrapped around Cas. He blacks out almost immediately, of course.

Dean sits up when he comes to. He rubs at his eyes and decides he feels, well, sticky, but also almost normal. Not that it'll last long.

"Nineteen," comes Cas's voice from behind and beside him. Dean turns to see him propped against the headboard, legs outstretched.

"Dude, please don't count. Not out loud, anyway."

Cas shrugs. "Sorry. I won't."

Dean scoots back and sinks lazily next to him. Their shoulders press together and Dean's sex-Spidey sense begins to tingle. "A hundred times," he mopes.

"We do have our work cut out for us."

Dean snorts. He looks down at his hands, over at Cas's stockinged feet. He doesn't want to think about the creeping memory of euphoria, the sneaky thing that whispers again, again inside him. But he can't not.

Cas feels good. Being near Cas feels good. But Dean feels miserable. He'd been hoping it was almost over. Now there's no end in sight. It's already been a couple hours, and how his dick hasn't fallen off yet he has no idea but suspects there might be angel mojo involved.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm awesome. But eighty more?" He shakes his head and looks at his hands again, "I don't think I can—"

"Dean," Cas stops him short, putting a hand to Dean's face. Dean catches a musky, salty scent—Cas's fingers smell like sex, like Dean. "Do you trust me?"

Dean looks up, brow furrowed almost to a glare. "How can you even ask—" But Cas cuts him off again, this time with a shake of his head.

"Just answer."

Things are getting messy inside Dean as the yes-good-want-reward feeling vies with the punishing fuck-or-die pain, but in there somewhere are his actual emotions. They're in that damn locker. His voice cracks. "Yeah, okay? Yeah, 'course I do."

Cas presses his forehead to Dean's then, cupping a hand around the back of his neck. "Then trust me when I say that we will see you through this," he says. "You've conquered many worse foes."

Dean nods because Cas is right, but a swirl of insatiable want leaves him with doubts. He can't stuff this down or hold it back, and it hurts him when he tries. It's physical, not emotional. It's here and it's now and it's biting into parts of him he thought he knew, tearing off chunks of his confidence and pride. But Cas has faith in him, and he has faith in Cas. Cas pulled him out of Hell. He can pull Dean out of this too.

Without a word, Cas shifts into place behind Dean and Dean lets himself be handled, lets Cas bracket him with his legs, wrap his arms around Dean's sides. He lets Cas's hands soothe him, lets one hand smooth up to press him back against Cas's chest and the other travel lower, blunt nails carding lightly through scruff before they find skin.

Dean's breath hitches.

Cas idly strokes along the insides of Dean's parted thighs, barely brushing his erection with the backs of his hands. The want in Dean roars.

He rolls his hips instinctually, breathes out Cas's name. His hands seize into fists around the bedcovers and his head twists, forehead pressing into Cas's neck. He's about to beg, but Cas doesn't make him. Warm fingers crawl into place over and around Dean's cock. "Oh God," he groans, hips pushing down, back arching. "Just like that," he says when he settles back down, "Just like that, Cas, yes."

Dean can't hold still as Cas works him. His hands reach up behind his head to touch Cas's face, his shoulders, or drag along his forearms. His hips writhe, heels dig into the bed. The word ecstasy rolls around in his brain and he knows it's stupid but also that it's true.

Something's different this time. And not just because Cas is the one who's initiated it, or because he's teasing, taking his time. Something's changed. Something's more serious now. It's in the air between them, in way they touch each other. Dean can hear it the way he calls out Cas's name. This morning he said it just because of the sensory overload, or as a warning of impending orgasm. But now each time he says Cas's name it's a little needier, a little dirtier.

Cas slips his hand around Dean's sac, his other hand still giving his hard-on soft, slow attention, and Dean loses his breath. He peels forward—suddenly too hot to stay in place—and plants his hands on Cas's upraised knees like he's the captain of the goddamn Enterprise. It feels so fucking good.

He digs his fingers into Cas's knees and grits his teeth. He wants to order his body to come, demand it get him there now, command it to shove him off this cliff he's standing on. Instead he hears himself say, "Cas, please. Please, Cas. Please."

It works.

Dean smashes back into Cas as he comes, moaning loud and unashamed as Cas cups his cock to his abdomen and lets it paint up his stomach.

Cas kisses him then. Not his shoulder or his throat but his mouth. Dean's coming in Cas's hand for the twentieth time, groaning through it, and Cas is right there, bearing it with him. And then he just covers Dean's mouth with his, tilts his head and seals his open mouth over Dean's. Not to stop him, but as though he wants to pull the sound from Dean's lips into his lungs, wants Dean's sound inside him. And, fuck, that thought's enough to send Dean off again, spiraling back into arousal so soon after release.

Their tongues push together and tangle for a moment before Cas slinks out from behind Dean. Dean falls back into the pillows as Cas shifts into place above him. He kisses his way down Dean's neck, chest, stomach. He doesn't seek out the splotches of come, but he doesn't avoid them either. Dean's knees draw up, hands fly to Cas's hair. He squeezes his eyes tight against his dimming vision, trying hard to hold on this time. He's pretty sure he wants what comes next as much as the monster curse is making him want it.

Cas pauses before he does it, though, poised to ask permission, get confirmation that this is okay. His mouth hovers just above Dean's cock and there's no answer other than yes. Except maybe, "Fuck yes," which is what Dean says. Cas sinks down on him then. He laps at Dean's semi-soft cock, lapping until it's full and tight again. All of Dean's veins are on fire. Cas licks and pulls and sucks him off in a way that leaves Dean grasping at Cas's collar, his knees bending and kicking as he gives himself over to the soft, hot, wet attention of Cas's mouth. And he calls Cas's name, begging and encouraging Cas, yes until he comes.  

He drags Cas up to kiss him when he's done, Cas barely having time to wipe that stripe of come from his chin with his sleeve before Dean's got his tongue back in his mouth. It's not really a conscious decision to start pulling Cas's clothes off, but Dean doesn't stop himself. Elation is coursing through him. There's no pain because there's no stopping—Dean's curse is getting exactly what it wants as Cas kisses and caresses him.

It's when Dean begins rutting against Cas's thigh that it finally hits him that what they're doing—what they've been doing—is having sex. Really one-sided sex, but still. Sex. And now? Well, blowjobs and nudity are pretty above and beyond the call of help-your-hard-up-friend duty.

Cas wasn't supposed to— He didn't need to—

Dean didn't know this would happen, didn't know it could happen. Cas didn't have to do any of that, do this. But he did, he is. For Dean.

Between them, they get Cas naked without leaving the bed, and it's only then Dean realizes Cas is hard too. His cock is heavy and red and ready enough to be leaking. A flash of panic hits Dean, because Cas isn't supposed to do that, be that, either. But he is. Because of Dean.

Dean lets out a shocked cry, half because Cas's thigh is back—pressing awesomely up and in against Dean, his own cock hot and heavy at Dean's hip—and half because he gets it, gets what's different now.

Cas wants this, wants him. Maybe he's always wanted him.

Any other time Dean would go down on him so fast. He'd return the favor, repay Cas for all of this, everything he's done. That's just manners. But it's more than that. Dean wants it too. He wants it. He, him, himself. Not the curse. His mouth waters at just the thought. But the curse makes him crave release, not offer it. He can't stop right now, he can't concentrate long enough, so instead he says, "Fuck me, Cas. Please, fuck me. I'll make it good. I'll make it—" He clenches his teeth as the curse demands more, flaring through him. "It's the only way I can get you to— I want you to— I want you," he says out loud.

It's the truth, and he doesn't regret it.

Cas doesn't ask if he's sure. He doesn't stop to fret or reveal some awkward lack of experience. He only gives a throaty and turned-on groan—Dean feels it against his neck—sucks a kiss from Dean's mouth, and goes to grab the lube.

Dean comes with Cas's wet fingers inside him and reverent fascination written all over that wide, blue-eyed stare—he's almost not sure which one set him off first. Cas keeps going, at Dean's insistence, circling, stretching until he slides clean into him, stuttering Dean's name and digging his fingers into his flesh, face screwed up like a sin. Dean smoothes the creases from Cas's forehead with his thumbs; kisses his cheekbone, his eyebrow, his bottom lip; and tells him to move.

Cas proceeds to fuck him into the mattress, which is how Dean comes the good ol' fashioned way, knees to his shoulders and cupping his junk out of the way as he begs Cas not to stop, never to stop.

Dean comes in the sheets, in the grooves of Cas's hips. He comes with their cocks in his fist, in Cas's fist. He comes without being touched. He comes against the small dip of Cas's lower back. He comes when Cas tells him to, voice raspy and reassuring. He comes in the shower, barely still standing. He comes with Cas inside him. He comes inside Cas, once. He comes hard, sometimes slowly, sometimes a quick hot surprise. He doesn't count how many times he comes. He comes with Cas's name and cuss words falling from his mouth, with his lip between his teeth, with his face buried in Cas's neck. He comes on his knees. He comes between Cas's thighs.

Every time he comes it's the best sex Dean has ever had and he hates that about it, hates that he has a curse to thank for that. But Cas just rolls his body with Dean's—patient and steady and willing—and makes him come again.

Maybe, Dean thinks, they're making up for lost time. Making up for the hundred times they should've done it. A hundred times in four or five years? They could've done that. Easy.

They go and go and then they go again. But Cas makes them stop sometimes.

He forces Dean to rest and runs warm, damp cloths over their bodies while he does, or coaxes Dean into the shower. He makes Dean eat a couple of Sam's granola bars. He insists Dean drink more water.

Together they try to keep the pain at bay. They don't always manage. Cas never apologizes when it arrives, when the need shouts inside Dean until his muscles seize, but he also never purposefully keeps Dean waiting. He just climbs across the bed, up into Dean's personal space, and again they go.

Dean's brain feels sloppy, soupy even. His movements are numbly uncoordinated from the marathon of hormones. Too much dopamine. He's sorta drunk on it. He can't see straight, let alone think straight. He doesn't remember why that's a problem, or if it's a problem. It seems like a thing that should be a problem.

He spreads his palms on the cool plaster of the wall, rolls his cheek against it too. He's on his knees and Cas is under him, in front of him, his mouth—his mouth is really good. Too good, too too good. Awesome, even. Dean's thighs shake. He tries to think about something else. He doesn't want to come already, or does he? He tries to think.

The lamp is on so it must be late. He doesn't know how long the lamp has been on, though, so he doesn't know if it's early-late or late-late. But it's warm yellow light. It's pretty light. Dean looks down to see Cas looking up at him. He looks pretty in the light.

Cas has Dean in his grip, hanging heavy just above his red, red mouth. "Come on, Dean," he growls, tugging Dean's cock closer and circling it with his tongue.

Dean half sobs with how good it is as Cas takes him in again, and he can't stop his hips from blindly fucking forward. It's really important he comes, he remembers. He pushes, once, twice, three times and then— "Shit." He pulls away. "Shit shit shit, Cas."

He comes on Cas's chest, fists and forehead pressed to the wall. When it's over, he slides down and slumps against Cas's side. His thighs still shake.

He's tired, he aches, and this isn't fun anymore—if it ever was—but he still feels it. The scorching want is still there, maybe even hotter now. He doesn't want it there anymore.

Cas strokes behind his ear, kisses the crown of his head.

It could be anybody here, but Dean's glad it's not. Cas is good for him. Having him back is good for Dean. He needs Cas, not just in case of sex-curse emergencies, but just because he does. Dean was always confused and scared but kinda flattered by the fact that Cas followed him around, that Cas chose him—even if he didn't really, not at first. But then he did. He did, he chose Dean, and Dean loves that about him.

Cas chose Dean, and that's really good now, because Dean needs him.

Dean wraps an arm around Cas's middle and passes out.

Clarity comes back with the pain. It cuts through Dean sharp and clear, crystal shards of it, slicing. He fumbles for Cas before his eyes are even open, kissing and pulling him closer. The pain is a sharp presence, but it doesn't deter Dean from begging a little bit for Cas to fuck him, or from getting greedy and helping guide him in. He expects the pain to be replaced by pressure and pleasure when Cas slides into him, and although the pleasure's there—the tug and stretch of Dean's well-used body around Cas's cock, the weight and warmth of him inside Dean, it's all fucking unbelievable—it's there along with the pain.

"Come on, Cas," Dean urges, biting at Cas's earlobe, "Come on you gotta fuck this thing outta me."

He feels Cas tremble at that and it gives him an idea. Dean fights the pain by concentrating on Cas. He nips at Cas's jaw and bucks his hips up to feel him, to make him feel. He moans and encourages, sucks at Cas's collarbone, digs his fingers into Cas's ass—does everything he can think of to make it so, so good for Cas. It's maybe the longest Dean has lasted the whole day.

With Cas braced above him, Dean's got himself in hand. He's rock solid and it's awesome, but also unfair. The slash of pain is still there. "God, Cas. God, I want to be hard for you, because'a you," he confesses.

Honesty isn't part of the curse, Dean's just lost his grip on that locker door. And it's pretty much guaranteed to turn Cas on.

"Want you to do this to me," Dean pants, gripping his cock tight. "Not just help clean up some ugly curse's mess. It'll be better then," he promises, lips pressing the words into Cas's skin. "It'll be for real. I'll be so hard for you. I'll be this hard for you." He wrests Cas's hand from its grip on the sheets and wraps it around him, moving it up and down his shaft as Cas collapses forward, folding Dean in half and fucking deep.

"Dean," Cas calls warningly, but he's already coming, fingers clenched hard around Dean's cock, hips pushing short and fast and fierce inside him. Dean shouts because he's hitting the right spot, over and over—and Dean can't tell anymore, can't tell the difference between pleasure and pain. It all cuts through him, slicing clean, and at last Dean comes too, revels in the release, right before Cas goes lax, falling loose and heavy on top of him.

"I'll hold you to that," Cas says, still panting, and Dean nods, holding his breath against the pain that hasn't gone away.

"You better."

Cas nuzzles contentedly at Dean, a hand on his chest. "Your heart, Dean. Do you feel that?"

Dean feels it alright. It's about to punch out of his chest. "I'm fine," he says, guiding Cas's hand away. He's not fine. The pain is impatient. And he's hard again, too. Agonizingly hard, actually.

Cas shifts and pulls out of Dean—an awesome, awful pain; Dean rolls his lips and hates himself for savoring it. He settles on his side, facing Dean, his fingertips reaching to gently play over the crown of Dean's cock, readying for next time without Dean even having to ask. Dean winces. Cas thinks he's doing what he can to keep the needy pain away, Dean knows, but this time is different. This time—

"Cas, what number we on?"

Cas kisses the corner of Dean's jaw, nips at his lips, fingers still roaming. "Ninety-six. That was ninety-five."

Dean's cock twitches happily at Cas's attention, but even that feels like a stab to the spine.

"Goddamn, it hurts. Stop, stop, for a second." He grabs Cas's wrist tight and Cas's eyes widen.

"I'm hurting you?"

"No, not you."

Cas's eyes narrow. "What's wrong?" He puts a hand to Dean's chest again. Dean covers it with his own, makes Cas's thumb rub rough over his nipple. That hurts too but he can't have it any other way. "Your heartbeat is too fast. Tell me what's wrong, Dean," he orders, going full-on angel of the Lord.

"The curse, it's like, I don't know, confusing the good with the bad. Everything that feels good feels so good it hurts. Everything is—" Dean belatedly realizes he's gripping his own dick again, pulling on it. He can't help it. The last however-many hours have programmed into him—into both of them—that this is the solution, that if he can get to the pleasure, the pain will stop. But now that's not true. Now he can't feel the difference.

Cas frowns. He sits up but Dean grabs his arm before he gets too far away. "No, Cas, no, don't leave. You gotta give me more, not less. Give me more, Cas. I can't wait. I can't do it. You gotta get this outta me. C'mon we're close."

Cas looks at him warily, and Dean can see him putting pieces together. "It's been getting harder to make you come. Taking longer." He lets that sink in for Dean. "This isn't going to be easy."

Dean maneuvers over to Cas, climbing into his lap again, pressing close and wrapping Cas's arms around him. "I don't think you and I know what easy looks like, Cas." He kisses him, surprised and relieved almost to the point of tears to find that this, at least, is still good and warm and painless. "We're used to doing things the hard way."

There's a big difference between the good, fun pain of a bite to a hypersensitive nipple or a quick smack on the ass and this. This is a step away from the soul-howling kind of pain Dean's already all too familiar with.

He's not numb from the pain. It's the opposite. His every nerve is flayed. He may as well not have skin. And yet, the brush of a hand down his arm, lips against his neck, the firm press of Cas's body—glorious, all of it.

His brain's drowning in endorphins. He's pretty sure Cas is keeping him from having a heart attack by sheer force of angelic will.

Dean is so close to coming. Cas is laid out below him, panting and gripping and rasping out yes's and more's and oh, Dean's that sound way dirtier than they are. It's taken forever to get Dean here, but he's on the brink, just a little more friction, just a little harder, and—

"Sonofabitch." Dean grimaces as he comes. His hands white-knuckle fisting the sheets as he pulses against Cas's hip. He wants to tell him, to tell him—something, anything. Words don't come until it's over, though, and then they're not the ones he'd meant.

"It's trying to kill me," he says, ducking his head against Cas's shoulder.

"Yes, it is."

Dean snorts. "Don't sugarcoat it, Cas. "

The curse digs its fangs into Dean, its poison pumping into his blood, strangling thought, movement. Dean keeps his teeth clenched, his words to himself except the occasional cuss. There's nothing good to say. Want doesn't exist anymore. It's only need. The only desire Dean knows right now is the desire to make the pain stop.

They go. And go again.

Dean can't hold himself up, can't help, can't do anything.

"Look at me, Dean." Cas taps his cheek. "Look at me. It's the last time. You need to stay with me, Dean."

Dean looks at him. He can do that, at least. He looks right into Cas's eyes.

"We're finishing this thing, Dean. It'll be done. You just have to stay with me."

"S'not the last," he tells Cas.

"It is. This is the final time," Cas reassures him.

Dean shakes his head no. Cas isn't understanding.

"It won't be the last. I want— The want part won't go away, okay? The wanting you part," he adds when Cas's eyebrows crinkle.

Dean's near-delirious again. He's losing his grip on where and what and when. The last few years, the last few hours—it's all just a blur. Sex and pain and the apocalypse, Purgatory and pure and pleasure and Cas, always Cas. So he has to say the important stuff. The stuff Cas should know before it's over. Before Dean locks it away again.

"You said I didn't have a choice 'bout this, and I didn't. But if I did, I'd choose you, okay? You chose me, a long time ago, but I chose you back." His brain skips through pain-addled memories—empty months without Cas, the way his world crumbled every time Cas's marbles skittered all over the floor, that whirlwind door out of Purgatory, the you can't save everyone lesson that's only starting to sink in. He hates and loves all of them. "Maybe, maybe you didn't know, but I did."

Cas's eyes go soft. "I knew, Dean," he says. He leans down to kiss him, thorough and smooth, then rests his forehead against Dean's. "I know you chose me. 'Cursed or not,'" he quips, and smiles. "Now I can say the same to you."

Dean huffs. It hurts. He remembers that too. "I'd rather have you."

"You have me, Dean."

Cas licks his way into another kiss even as his fingers curl around Dean's cock.

Ache and need and ecstasy surge through Dean. He squeezes his eyes shut and anchors himself to that kiss, to the touch of Cas's mouth, to Cas's lips and tongue and love. The storm kicks up inside Dean as Cas coaxes his body on, slips a long finger of his other hand low and slides it over the hot, loose muscle it finds there. Dean convulses. He hears Cas shush and soothe, feels his hands pause to spread Dean open before returning to their work.

Cas dips and drags that one slick, smart finger in and around the rim of Dean's body, knowing exactly what to do to tease. Dean twitches and squirms at every touch. It's jagged bolts of pain, flashes of fuck, good. But in minutes he's already begging.

"In, in, in," he pleads, rocking his hips in hopes of making Cas's fingers slide home.

They do. And Dean is lost.

He clutches at Cas's shoulders, claws at his own skin. Pain rages, his nerves flash. Cas's fist, Cas's fingers fuck him deep and fast, pushing and pulling him closer and closer. Dean can feel the curse lash out.

Pleasure crashes over him, and he moans, suddenly wanting more and more, for Cas never to stop, for this never to end. He whimpers because it has to, it has to end, but he doesn't— How can he—

"I've got you, Dean." Cas's voice is close, heated and rough. "Trust me."

Dean almost panics when he feels Cas move, but he tries to trust, he does. He's rewarded with searing wet heat surrounding his cock.

It's better. It's the best. The curse clamors.

"Oh, God. Oh, fuck."

Dean cocks his hips, grabs Cas's hair, and tries to keep breathing. He fights.

Cas's clever fingers haven't stopped, Cas's mouth is strong and sure. He strokes over that lightning spot inside Dean, sucks hollow-cheeked on Dean's full, aching cock. Dean pours himself into Cas's hands, melts into his trustworthy hold. He has Dean in every way possible.

So fuck the curse. Fuck the pain. Fuck it all. This need is fake, this want isn't real. None of it is his or any part of him. Dean has something he wants a hundred times more. Dean has Cas.

He feels it crest, feels the last grip of pleasure-pain. He shouts at Cas, shouts a string of cusses and comes so hard, the release blinding inside him as the curse's hold on him snaps.

He comes till he's spent, his nerves sizzling and body spasming.

He comes till there's nothing, no need, no want, no pain. No demand.

He comes till it's gone, till his pounding heart slows and his breaths even out.

He comes till Cas kisses him and tells him it's done.

Cas's kiss is smooth, but it comes with a scrape of stubble Dean hadn't noticed before. He smiles at that between short quick kisses, the kind that happen with the occasional tip of tongue.

He's showered and dressed and about to go—really, he is—when Cas catches his bottom lip between his tongue and teeth and sneaks into Dean's mouth. Dean hums and catches a finger in Cas's belt loop, pulling their bodies together again.

It feels really good to want this. And Dean lets himself have it.

"Hey," Sam's voice brings them to a record-scratch stop. Dean pops his head out for a glance at Sam from over Cas's shoulder. "We getting a move on or what?" he asks from the doorway, ticking his head in the direction of the parking lot.

Dean flicks a look at Cas and rolls his eyes. Cas smiles indulgently. Just for that, Dean kisses him once more before hefting his duffle off the bed and heading out of the room after Sam. Cas follows at his heels.

"So are you taking off, or . . . " Dean chucks a thumb at the Impala.

"I'll meet you at your destination."

Dean just kind of glazes over there for a second, watching Cas as he squints against the sunlight, all angeled up.

He's giddy, so shoot him.

"Yeah, yeah okay. We're headed to—" He blanks. In fact, he's not sure he knows. "Hey Sammy, where we headed?" he calls back over his shoulder, eyes never leaving Cas.

"Topeka," Sam shouts back, bent over as he rummages in the car.

"Topeka," Dean tells Cas with a smile. He feels like he's fifteen and setting up his first date.

"I'll see you there."

Dean moves in with a grin. "I'll hold you to that."

Cas kisses him again, this time with an edge, to remind Dean of all his dirty promises. "You'd better."

And with that, he flutters away, leaving Dean flushed and full of want in the good way. He turns around with a happy sigh that quickly switches to a frown at Sam's sappy, knowing grin, and lifts his duffle to shove it in the trunk. Something new catches his eye, though, and he stops.

"Is that what I think it is?" He points to what looks like an old, metal tackle box painted black with white sigils on it.

"Curse box, yeah." Sam answers.

"We had one of those lying around?"

"No, I made it."

Dean looks up at his brother, his heart beating with sudden, ridiculous pride. "You made that?"

Sam shrugs, turns down the corners of his mouth like it's no big deal as he swings the passenger side door open. "I had a day off."

Dean chuckles.

"Anyway, we don't know how to destroy it yet, so I figured this was the next best thing."

"Wait, so you're saying you already stole the rhino thing? It's already in there?"

"You were busy for a really long time, Dean" Sam says and ducks into the car.

Dean dumps his duffle bag on the opposite side of the trunk. Not that he doesn't trust Sam's work or anything, just—

He shivers.

A hundred loves, he thinks, taking one last look. He thinks of Cas's low laugh, of his smart fingers, his steady, solid presence at Dean's side.

A hundred? He'll take a thousand more.

He slams the trunk shut.