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obstinatrixTitle: Bring It On Home, 2 of 2
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
obstinatrix
Recipient:exmanhater in the Secret Angels IV exchange.
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Spoilers: General through S4 and 5, but nothing specific.
Word Count: 14,871
Notes/Prompt(s): This ended up as a sort of conglomeration of the prompts I was given, taking little bits from all of them. So in this fic you will find: matchmaking; Sam and Cas joining forces to influence Dean (sort of); lots of pining and longing on Cas’s part; vague rom-com action, and (hopefully) an edge of BAMF!Castiel.
Summary: Cas is beginning to display emotions. This wouldn’t be so bad, were it not for the fact that the emotions seem to be centring themselves on Dean. Dean is oblivious, of course; Sam, on the other hand, is not. Sam’s never tried his hand at matchmaking before, but it can’t be so hard, right?
Two
Turned out, Sam didn’t feel much like providing sanctuary. The look on his face, when Dean pulled open the car door, was murderous.
“What?” Dean demanded, belligerent in defeat.
“You know what,” Sam muttered, closing the lid of his laptop with immoderate force.
“Do not,” Dean lied, just to be contrary. Sam snorted. Dean pointedly ignored it in favour of starting the engine and pulling the car back onto the freeway with undue care.
“What the hell did you say to him?” Sam demanded, when they were halfway back to the motel.
“Oh, you’re talking to me now?”
“Don’t be a jerk.” Sam scowled. “Although it seems like that’s your default right now, or something. What the hell is your problem, Dean?”
“What problem?” Dean demanded. “I have no problem! No problems at all! None!” He spread his hands in clear indication of his carefree state.
“Hands on the wheel,” Sam snapped. “God, you are such an asshole. How are we even related?”
“A question I ask myself every day, Sammy boy,” Dean retorted, bitterly. “Cas must have been hangin’ out with you too much, since now he seems to think I have some of your Gay - “
“Dean, for cryin’ out loud!” Sam had That Look on his face, the one that made Dean suddenly very glad he was driving, since that was about the only time the Look didn’t end in violence. “I don’t have any Gay. You, on the other hand - “ He snorted. Again. Sam tended to overdo the snorting. “I don’t know why you’re such a freaking homophobe.”
Dean blinked. “Uh, what the fuck, Sam?”
“You’re denying that you’re a homophobe?”
“I’m denying that I’m gay,” Dean clarified, swinging the car around hard into the motel parking lot. Dean was about as far from gay as it was possible to get. Dean was a goddamn Casanova, and a fricking monk like Sam had no business making allegations like that, not when he’d watched Dean charming his way into several pairs of panties a week for most of his life.
Sam sucked his lips in, but didn’t say anything.
That was disturbing.
“Okay, that’s disturbing,” Dean said, turning the engine off. “You just gonna sit there?”
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know, Dean. You just gonna let Cas mope all over you while you indulge your socially retarded bigotry instead of just giving in to the fact that you’re completely gone on him?”
Dean blinked rapidly for a minute. “My what, now? I’m what?”
“You heard me,” Sam said, unfolding his ridiculously lanky self from the car, complete with laptop, and slamming the door. Dean followed, hastily, mind swimming under the onslaught of all this ridiculousness.
“Yeah, I heard you,” he conceded, “I just - I - what, now? What did he say to you?”
Sam shook his head, and started striding off in the direction of the motel, which was, just, completely unfair, since Sam at full stride required Dean to trot along behind like a little kid. Freakin’ Sasquatch. Like Dean didn’t feel small enough already tonight.
“Sam!” he bellowed, picking up his pace. “Sam!”
“He didn’t say anything, Dean,” Sam snapped back over his shoulder. “It was more the way he came out of the bar looking like he wanted to brain you.” He flailed the hand that wasn’t clutching the laptop. “And then he went all sad and slumpy, and then he vanished. It’s not rocket science, Dean. And since you’ve been in love with him for months, I really don’t get what your problem is.”
“In - ?” Okay, that was it. Dean darted forward, clutching at Sam’s shoulder, and spun him around. “Sammy, where is this even coming from? He’s - a guy. And I don’t - “
“You don’t let yourself have anything you want, Dean,” Sam said, softly, now. And, oh, man, his face had gone all sensitive, the puppy eyes coming out, and just. “You’re so used to judging yourself based on what you think other people want from you, what they’re gonna think of you, you can’t just - and the way you look at him - “ Sam broke off, face twisting as if he just couldn’t find the words, which was pretty remarkable for Sam. “I’ve never seen you look at anyone like that, Dean.”
Dean stared at him. “Sam...” He trailed off. Sam looked so earnest, so wide-eyed and pleading, and Dean had never been able to resist that look on Sammy’s face. Or on Cas’s, said some treacherous part of his brain. “Sam, I just - I mean, he’s a guy, for God’s sake.”
“He’s an angel,” Sam corrected, voice suddenly fierce. “He’s your angel; he pulled you out of hell, Dean. You’re here because of him. And everything he’s going through right now, he’s going through it for you. You already have his freaking handprint burned into your shoulder; you’re already closer to him than you’ve ever been to anyone but me in your whole damn life, but you’re so freaking scared to step out of your little macho box that the thought of what it would make you if you touched another guy’s dick is stopping you from getting it together with the only person I’ve ever seen you fall in love with.” Sam shook his head, slowly, just staring Dean down. Dean felt his eyes watering with the pressure of trying not to look away.
“We’re in the middle of the apocalypse,” Sam said, quietly. “Just - get some perspective, Dean, okay? Jesus.”
And, just like that, he extricated his shoulder from Dean’s stunned-slack fingers and walked away, leaving Dean alone and completely fucking confused in the empty parking lot.
“Bitch,” Dean muttered, under his breath. There was an empty beer bottle lying in the road; the weird hollow feeling in his ribcage told him it might be satisfying to give it a good kick.
In the event, it didn’t really seem to have much effect. The feeling was still there, tightening around his ribs, dark and intangible as smoke.
Fucking Sam. Dean hated feeling guilty.
*
The bitch of it was, of course, that once the idea was in his head, he couldn’t seem to stop needling at it, nudging at it like a really fucking inconvenient loose tooth. It was true, after all, that from the moment Cas had shown up, he’d somehow started to worm his way under Dean’s skin in a way that had surely only been possible because Cas had put that goddamn skin on him himself; gotten inside him where only Sam had ever been.
And - yeah, okay, so that thought sent his mind spinning off on tangents involving Cas being inside him in ways that Sam had most definitely never been, and his face might have scrunched up in an appropriate expression of anticipatory discomfort, but the truth of it was that he didn’t really - feel it.
And that was weird.
Cas just wasn’t like other people. Which, of course, was partly because he wasn’t a person at all; but maybe there was more to it than that. Possibly something to do with the way Dean’s heart clenched a little bit when Castiel showed up unexpectedly, or the way his stomach dipped when he didn’t show up as planned. The way that, when Cas looked at him, Dean sometimes felt like he was looking right through him and he didn’t even care - hell, he even wanted it, felt warmed all over by it like it was just Cas again, seeing right inside of him the way he always did, ‘cause Cas knew every part of him already. The way Dean’s pulse always skipped uncertainly when Cas looked unsure, or worried, or unhappy, as if he, Dean Winchester, hell-tarnished high-school dropout Dean Winchester, could actually do anything to protect a motherfucking Angel of the Lord.
And then, okay, there might have been the fact that Dean’s distaste for Cas’s habit of standing too close was as much about the troubling reaction it provoked as about any concern for what anyone else might think.
Dean thought about what Sam had said, about Cas stomping out of the bar all slumpy and sad. The feeling in his chest responded, as if on cue, with a little protective twitch of anxiety.
Fuck.
The bitch of Sam was that he was so frequently right. It was getting pretty old.
Cas had better have zapped back to his room, was all. Dean might have been feeling generous right now, but how long that would last was anyone’s guess.
He sighed heavily and set off to investigate, shoulders back and face set like flint.
*
Castiel had, it transpired, zapped back to his room.
Oh, it wasn’t as if he opened up at the first rap of Dean’s knuckles, all breezy smiles and rainbows and stars in his eyes; but Dean had hardly expected that. Apart from anything else, he’d probably have assumed some kind of possession around about the time the rainbows showed up. Still, Dean had spent the better part of his life scouting around for things that didn’t want to be found, and he knew when a room was empty. This one? Wasn’t.
“Cas.” He raised his voice a little, gruff and peremptory, but there was an apologetic note wavering in it. He tapped on the door again. “Come on, Cas, let me in. I only want to talk to you.”
The silence from within the room went on, heavy with that indefinable quality that made it unmistakably an inhabited stillness, shifting rhythmically like breathing. Dean sighed. “Cas. Please.” He paused, throat working; took a deep breath. “Look, I want - I came to, you know. Apologise.”
Silence. Dean chewed his lip, and contemplated other options. There was always busting in through the window, but he wasn’t sure how well Cas would take to that, and he didn’t really want to end the night with a black eye, or worse. Other than that -
“For what?”
Dean, caught unawares by the abrupt forward motion of the surface against which he had been half-leaning, pitched forward into the room, along with the door. He blinked down at the bland, unshined surface of Cas’s shoes for a moment. Then, slowly, he raised his eyes. “Huh?”
“Up.” Castiel’s grip was less than gentle, fingers digging strong and uncareful into his armpit as he hauled him to his feet. Dean allowed himself to be hauled. It didn’t feel as if he had much choice in the matter.
Castiel crossed his arms - God only knew who had taught him that - and raised an eyebrow. “You want to apologise for what, Dean?”
Dean sighed, eyes casting to and fro over the lurid banality of the motel room for something, anything to latch onto, something to make this easier, but there was nothing. Of course. With his eyes fixed upon the hideous paisley-patterned comforter, he got out, “Well, just - for - things. You know. For everything, Cas.”
Silence. Turn again, Winchester. Dean fumbled for the words, but it was kind of hard to think with Cas staring at him like that, his stance sceptical and his blue eyes steady and unyielding. Something leaped way deep in his gut, some tiny flare of heat. Dean didn’t want to go anywhere near all the issues there were under that. Especially not when Cas was waiting for his explanation, wearing a face that meant business.
Tentatively, he tried again. “It’s, uh. It’s come to my attention that I’ve been being kind of an ass.”
Cas tilted his head approvingly, the other eyebrow coming up to join the first. “Go on.”
Dean sighed. “Look, I never meant to make you uncomfortable, okay? I shouldn’t have teased you. I know how hard all this shit must be for you - well, no, all right: actually, I can’t even begin to understand how fucking difficult it must be, and I - “ He broke off, palms turned out in surrender. “Man, I suck at this. I just - I’m sorry, Cas. Hell, I know it’s hard enough to be human even when you were born that way, and you - “
“I’m falling,” Cas cut in. His voice was soft, but there was a certainty to it, some awful note of finality that made Dean’s stomach turn over, clenching in on itsef in sympathy. Castiel smiled, a tiny, wistful little thing that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I’m falling, Dean. Not the way Anna fell, but - “ He shook his head. “There is no other viable explanation. Angels do not need to - to shave, or shower, or satisfy the human urges of the flesh. We don’t have to - shouldn’t have to - put up with all the crap you people wade through on a daily basis, like - like table manners, and tiny little bottles of shampoo that don’t hold enough for a proper wash, and cold French fries, and - and ridiculous unrequited romantic impulses a thirteen-year-old girl would be ashamed of.”
Dean swallowed, thick and painful at the back of his throat. Cas’s eyes were on his, although Dean knew it must be costing him dearly to maintain that contact, even as his voice grew rough with frustration, ash over charcoal. He opened his mouth, but Cas shook his head; dropped his eyes, at last.
“Last week,” he went on, quietly, “when it rained so much - I was soaked.” His voice cracked, incredulous, offended. “The rain got - everywhere - inside my collar and all up and down my arms through my clothes and it felt disgusting. I hate being wet. And I hate that pain in the pit of my stomach like there are animals in there, wanting to be fed; it makes you ridiculous, Dean, to be hungry. To want. It’s not fair. But that - that’s the problem with being human, isn’t it?” Cas laughed softly, humorlessly. “Things are - confusing - and unpredictable - and this, all the ridiculous inconveniences and the stupid fucking feelings, are happening to me because of you, Dean; but when it comes down to it, you don’t want me, and I don’t want this, and -”
If anyone had asked Dean when it was that he moved, or why, he would have been hard-pressed to give an answer, beyond the fact that there was something open and naked in Cas’s face that he couldn’t stand; something raw in his voice that he couldn’t stop, and that this was somehow, suddenly, completely unacceptable. But the next thing he knew, Cas wasn’t talking any more - just staring at him, wide-eyed and unblinking, his lower lip just a little damp where Dean’s had caught it.
“What was that?” Cas asked, softly.
It was on the tip of Dean’s tongue - ridiculously, and totally inappropriately - to say a thimble, remembering that one summer in Maine when he was six years old and Dad had read them Peter Pan, back when he was still pretending to be an ordinary Dad, occasionally. But Cas was fucking pressed up against him, warm and solid and his fucking breath was on Dean’s fucking mouth, and “yeah, I - I got nothing,” Dean stammered.
“Ah,” said Castiel.
“Yeah,” said Dean. And then, right when he was considering how best to get his limbs untangled from the unnervingly right-feeling shape of Cas in his arms, his hands started pushing Cas’s stupid trench-coat off his shoulders, completely without Dean’s permission. Cas was breathing tight and shivery against Dean’s cheek, and there were goosepimples spreading like brushfire down his neck; and then Cas’s fingers were on the buttons of Dean’s overshirt and at that point it kind of became obvious what ‘this’ was; only the next second, Dean was on the bed with Cas on top of him, and there was so much going on, there wasn’t room for even a little bit of panic.
Not for the first time, Dean vaguely wished his repertoire of curses and exclamations consisted of a little more than base blasphemy, because holy fuck, he was sprawled on a bed with his hips pressed flush to an angel’s, and Jesus wept, he had no appropriate words for this. For a guy who’d only just discovered the primary function of his junk, Cas certainly didn’t seem to be holding back. Dean wasn’t much for deflowering virgins; had never really understood the fascination some guys had with prude chicks and their inexpert fumbling, but there was nothing hesitant about Cas right now, his hands slipping reckless and certain underneath Dean’s t-shirt, pushing it up and off. If this was what it was all about - the heady, adreno-junkie ratcheting of Castiel’s breath; the steady, impatient, wanton shifting of his hips - then maybe Dean could actually get behind that. With the value of ‘maybe’ in this context being: whenever I get over the fact that there’s anangel sucking on my neck.
“Whoah,” Dean managed, ducking out of range of Cas’s mouth, fingers curling instinctively around his elbows. “Slow down, cowboy. We’re not running in the Derby, here.”
Above him, Cas’s eyes were wide and curious, pupils blown black and spreading into the blue. Dean resolutely ignored the way his pulse leaped in his throat, thrumming palpably under his jaw, but something about the way Cas’s mouth quirked, corners of it twitching, told him his interest in proceedings hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Oh,” said Cas, and fucked if the Sex Voice didn’t have a goddamn additional Sex Register. Dean wouldn’t have thought it possible, before he’d ended up -
“What exactly are we doing here, Dean?”
fucking hell, in bed with a soldier of Heaven.
(Seriously. His kingdom for one little non-blasphemous fucking curse.)
“Uh,” said Dean. He smiled a little, shoulders twitching in a shrug. “I guess we’re committing some kinda mortal sin, huh?”
Castiel’s fingers - which had, up to this point, been tracing idle little circles on the exposed skin of Dean’s belly, mindless of the restraining pressure of Dean’s hands on his arms - paused in their ministrations. His eyes found Dean’s, inner corners of his eyebrows drawing together. It was not the look of someone who appreciated the joke, and Dean felt his stomach dip a little.
“You guess so, do you? A mortal sin?” Cas’s voice was low in the back of his throat, the pull of it curling around the clench of uncertainty in the pit of Dean’s stomach. “Do you commit this act with deliberate and complete consent, Dean? With full knowledge of the sin and its gravity?”
The nape of Dean’s neck prickled with sweat, now; his hands, on Cas’s elbows, felt oddly numb. The fact that the insistent pressure in his cock hadn’t abated in the slightest was only the tin hat on how fucked up this whole thing clearly was. “I - “
There had been words in him somewhere; apologies, coiled hesitant under his tongue. But in the moment between thought and speech, Cas moved like the grace of God, arms breaking free of Dean’s grip gone slack, pressing his hands up and over his head. His eyes burned blue fire into Dean’s, breath rough and quickening on Dean’s mouth, and Dean was absolutely not responsible for the way his lips parted on instinct, with Cas so close that he felt the formations of his words. “What is the sin, Dean?” Brief catch of teeth to Dean’s lower lip, unrelenting. “Say it.”
And fuck, holy fuck, there was really no avoiding it now; the carnality of this, Cas’s slick open mouth over his own; the heat of their cocks together through the barrier of fabric. “Sex,” Dean spat, raising his chin so that their lips brushed with the word. Sex in his mouth, on Cas’s, inside and between them. “We’re talking about sex, all right? I’m a big boy, Cas; I know a helluva lot more about it than you do, even if I’ve never done the dirty with a guy before.” He laughed harshly. “Or, you know. An angel.”
Cas raised his eyebrows, unmoving for a span of seconds. Then, without warning, he thrust downward from the pelvis, the spark of contact breaking sharply enough that Dean cried out. Cas caught the sound as if he had been waiting for it, swallowing it soft and certain; licked the echoes of it gently from Dean’s lower lip. “Sex,” Cas said, into the darkness between Dean’s parted lips, “is not an offence, Dean. Not like this.” His fingers traced the sharp promontory of Dean’s clavicle; the smooth curve of his shoulder.
“Oh, it isn’t?” Turned out speech was a little beyond Dean, and given that they hadn’t even fucking kissed properly, that was about four parts embarrassing and six parts really fucking interesting, even though it probably shouldn’t be. “So...God thinks gay interspecies sex is made of rainbows and kittens? Seriously?”
He was trying to be reasonable; honestly. He was. But Cas was shifting, now, damp open mouth retracing the path his fingers had tracked across the sensitive line of Dean’s collarbone, and Dean was finding it hard to breathe, let alone maintain a theological position.
“God,” Castiel said, sounding way calmer than he had any right to, “condemns sexual behaviour that results in injury to an innocent person. Adulterous fornication. Obsessive covetousness. Coerced congress.” His tongue curled into the dip between Dean’s chest and his shoulder; flicked at the soft skin at the juncture of arm and torso. “Sleeping with cheerleaders too intoxicated to exercise rational judgment. This - “ and okay, Dean shouldn’t be writhing quite this much because of how good Cas’s mouth felt skirting his armpit, for crying out loud “ - is none of those things. It will cause no injury.” He paused, raising his eyes to Dean’s. “Provided that you want it.”
There should, Dean was sure, have been more of a question there, about whether he really wanted to have it on his already-overburdened conscience that he’d taken an angel’s virginity; hell, about whether he really wanted to go there with a guy when he’d never in his life been tempted to so much as a circle-jerk. But Cas was so fucking - Cas - all spitslick lips and hair that cried out to be tugged; warm and wanting and dammit, Dean didn’t even care any more. Cas wanted this, Dean wasn’t going to protest. Whatever else he was, Cas was fucking hot, and Dean was more than capable of putting aside his difficulties for the sake of The Moment. Besides, Cas had a hell of a mouth on him, soft and pink as a chick’s, and the fact that nobody had molested it yet was a crime.
“Fuck, yes,” Dean ground out, rocking up slow against Cas, “I want it. Want, anything you want.” He meant it, too, in that moment, heat sluicing over him in the aftermath of his words like affirmation. Cas’s eyes darkened over him, flare of his pupils immediate and obvious and unmistakable, and that was just it, Cas’s body betraying him in ways he probably wasn’t even aware of. The strangled sound at the back of his throat; the way his breath quickened and the way Cas, unabashed, just let it: Dean wanted more of that, and he was pretty sure, suddenly, that he’d do anything to get it. So fucking sexy, Cas shivering finely just at the thought of being able to use Dean the way he wanted, and the fact that Dean had no idea what filth might be running through Cas’s mind should probably disturb him more than it did. For some reason, his body seemed to feel - viscerally, and with earnest, breathless emphasis - that this just made the whole damn situation hotter.
“Anything,” Cas breathed, in a voice like molasses, and Dean watched the word forming as if in slow motion; watched the subtle interplay of tongue and teeth and lips, all the intricate workings that ran behind so simple a thing as speech. Cas was sex-flushed already, the force of his wanting spreading pink and hot across his cheekbones, and Dean was stricken with the urge to see if he was one of those people who blushed deliciously all over. They were both wearing far too many fucking clothes, and Dean felt the barrier keenly, too much friction against his skin.
“Anything you want,” he repeated, shifting a little, “provided we get out of all this crap first, huh?” He tugged at the hem of Cas’s shirt. “Too hot in here already; I don’t want to die of heatstroke before I get off.” He felt a little flush of heat in his own face, then; hoped it wouldn’t visible. “Besides, I kind of want to actually touch you. You’ll like it. Promise.”
He’d expected, maybe, some kind of protest; possibly even a blank look or two, but apparently, Cas was down with the whole nakedness gig. He pulled himself up without a word, sitting back on Dean’s hips, and holy crap, it was just wrong how much Dean liked looking up at him like that, watching his fingers slip on buttons; more haste, less fucking speed, but his impatience was too gorgeous to interrupt. Three buttons unfastened, a fourth torn off, and Cas was hauling his shirt up over his head; the t-shirt followed, tossed to the floor like debris. His hair was a dark sheaf of spikes in the aftermath of his eagerness, and oh, yes, the flush went all the way down. His breath came quickly, chest heaving with it, eyes devil-dark and sex-wild on Dean’s. Dean bit his lip on a sound, and pulled him down.
Cas came willingly, hips rocking half-consciously against Dean’s as he moved. Dean steadied him, palming the smooth skin of his back, hands sliding upward to find purchase in the tousled mess of his hair. It was intoxicating, the way his skin leaped under every touch, breath skittering hot against Dean’s cheek, and Dean wanted more of it; wanted everything. He fisted his hands in Cas’s hair at the back of his head, where it was thickest, forcing their mouths together. “Like this,” he breathed; traced the seam of Cas’s lips with his tongue; took Cas’s whimper as invitation to curve inside. Cas squirmed against him, his mouth unpractised and wanting, and Dean rode a wave of heat upward, sucking Cas’s lower lip gently between both his own. That occasioned another whimper, a high-pitched sound that intensified as Dean flicked his tongue gently against Cas’s mouth; ended in a broken breath as Dean’s teeth closed sharp on softness.
“Fuck,” Dean panted, hands slipping out of Cas’s hair in search of other little sounds, the way his breath caught as Dean’s thumb brushed over a nipple; the way his hips thrust forward, sudden and fierce and desperate, as Dean’s hands ghosted under the waistband of his trousers. The whole of Cas trembled finely against him, mouth opening instinctively to Dean’s tongue, and it was hot as fuck, knowing that he was the first to do this; first to lick deep to the back of Cas’s mouth, first to receive Cas’s strengthening kisses as he learned them. Both of Cas’s hands were curled around Dean’s face, now, thumbs stroking over his jaw, fingers digging into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and Dean raised his chin to press deeper into the kiss, bucking involuntarily as Cas’s lips sealed over his tongue and sucked. Christ, he learned fast.
It should have been weird, really, the smooth hard planes of this body pressed to his own, but Dean’s skin was thrumming happily everywhere it touched Cas’s, completely unconcerned by the lack of curves. His cock strained urgently against the zipper of his jeans, demanding further contact, and Dean was far too sex-hazed by this juncture to question the fact that he really, really wanted to see Cas’s face when Dean thumbed the slickness from his dick. Cas, judging by the way he was grinding his hips downward with every press of his tongue, didn’t seem likely to object.
Dean was always quick with his fingers, but never more so than when the promise of sex stood as incentive, and he managed their fastenings easily: his own, first, Levi’s-simple, and then Cas’s, where disuse had made the zipper a little stiff. Beneath his hand, Cas was stiff, too, the heat of him shoving upward so insistently that the teeth of the zipper splayed the rest of the way open under its pressure. Cas groaned into Dean’s mouth, as if that sensation of relief was too much for him, and Dean closed his eyes tightly, grappling mentally for something to ward off a sudden crest of want. 4, 8, 12, 16; mental arithmetic wasn’t a strong point of Dean’s, and the counting let him steady himself enough to work Cas out of his pants and underwear without coming spontaneously in his fucking jeans. “I got you,” he murmured, nonsensical, instinctive, shoving trousers and underwear down over Cas’s hips; steadying him with one hand on the jut of his pelvis as he wriggled out of his own jeans and kicked them off. “C’mon, Cas; I got you. I got you. Fuck.”
The sudden heat of their cocks together forced the exclamation out of him; through a rush of arousal, he heard Cas cry out, and bit his lip on his own sounds, wanting to hear him, startled by discovery, ignorant of any kind of shame that might come with abandon. Cas was slick, fuck, leaking, the head of his cock slipping in its own wetness as he thrust down against Dean’s belly. It felt good, more than good, this sweat-sticky sliding of their bodies against each other, but this was Cas, Cas who put Dean back together, slicking little pulses of pre-come all over Dean’s stomach. This was Cas, who put Dean back together, and fuck, but Dean wanted desperately to take Cas apart.
Above him, Cas rose ecstatic, transcendent. His hands were bruisingly tight on the anchor of Dean’s pelvis, head thrown back as he fucked into the haven of his groin. Dean pulled up his knees, making a channel between pelvis and thigh into which Cas slid easily, mindless and sticky and quick. Words emerged, gravelled, half-heard between gasps.
It was in the back of Dean’s mind that he should make a move of some sort, soon; some kind of intervention whose end result would be Cas on his back, legs splayed to accommodate Dean between them. Somehow, though, it was difficult to find the right moment, Cas soft-eyed and transfixed above him, every sound he made too addictive, too captivating to interrupt. Cas was moving on instinct, now, on faith, mouth descending to lave the hollow of Dean’s throat, tonguing down to his nipple. Dean swallowed back a cry, fingers clenching too tight in Cas’s hair, hips jerking helplessly against him. Cas hummed deep and soft against his skin, a slow reverberation that crackled out in ripples like waves of heat from a fire, like he wanted this. Like he was learning Dean, loving the salt-sharp taste of him, and Dean forgot all his reasons for wanting to wrench back control of this; lost them to the sound of Cas’s pleasure in his creation; to the way he seemed to know Dean’s body and its triggers already.
“Holy fuck, Cas,” he rasped out, watching that mouth tongue shining trails down his chest. “Oh, fuck.” His stomach leaped to the scrape of Cas’s teeth. “Where - ?”
“I know you, Dean,” Cas said softly, licking a broad swipe of wet over the shallow dip between Dean’s hipbones; lowering his head to (fuck) nose at his hair. His thumbs traced the insides of Dean’s thighs, fine-scraped lines of want roiling in their wake, and Dean twisted, hips torquing, jolting at the touch. “My theoretical knowledge of you was already immense.” He rubbed his mouth slackly against the inside of Dean’s thigh, damp against the smooth skin, fucking tease. “It only remained to apply that knowledge practically.”
Dean was barely even surprised to discover, when he opened his mouth to speak, that he was struggling for breath, all concentration lost to that kiss-bitten mouth between his legs, the dark shock of Cas’s hair where Dean’s fingers had mussed it. “Oh, yeah?” The line of Cas’s jaw glistened damply, whether from his own saliva or from the slick mess of precome pooled on Dean’s stomach, Dean didn’t know, but his stomach seized up at the realisation, nonetheless. “So - how were you gonna apply it?”
For a long moment of stillness, Cas held his eyes. Dean felt himself blushing, the diffuse heat of that blue gaze spreading up his body in waves, but he couldn’t - physically couldn’t - look away. His fingers curled around the sharp line of Cas’s jaw, trailing through the wetness. Cas’s head tilted into the touch like a cat’s, nuzzling into Dean’s palm; tonguing rough and gentle at Dean’s fingertips, and Dean was absolutely fucking not responsible for the low groan that escaped him at that touch, especially not when Cas echoed it around his fingers. “Cas,” he managed, pointlessly and soft.
And then Cas was pulling away, last deft flick to the tips of Dean’s fingers as he spread Dean’s thighs with his palms, gently sure. Dean would have protested at that - because Jesus Christ, whatever reading material Cas had internalised, he was not a fucking girl, here - except that Cas’s mouth was on his balls before he had time to draw breath; behind them, a moment later, pushing Dean’s thighs up in search of better access, and holy - holy fuck.
“Holy fuck, Cas,” said Dean.
Dean realised, belatedly, that he’d given Cas kind of the perfect set up for a great line, right there, but apparently Cas hadn’t been putting in enough hours watching Casa Erotica, because all he said was “Dean”, and then nosed back a little further between Dean’s legs. And - that was - oh, man, that was just - unexpectedly fucking amazing, apparently, although he was damned if he knew what had possessed Cas to do it, lifting Dean by the hips, cradling the small of his back as he circled his tongue (his fucking tongue) around the core of him. Dean threw his head back, couldn’t help it; back arching up off the mattress, legs coming naturally to rest over Cas’s shoulders. On the one hand, the whole idea of what Cas was doing to him was like something out of a goddamn House of Horrors, dirty and wrong and probably seventy kinds of unhygienic; but, on the other, Dean was spreading like a five dollar whore for it, and that was embarrassing as hell, but it was also really really fucking good. Cas’s tongue was all - hot and slick and wet and strong and flexible, flickering back and forth over him, circling again and then pressing (jesuschristalmighty) inside of him, and yeah, Dean had nothing in his book on this. If it felt this good, this ridiculously, spine-meltingly, holy-crap-I’m-gonna-come-untouched good to have someone’s tongue in his fucking ass, then there was obviously a whole new world of sex that he shouldn’t have dismissed the way he had.
“Cas,” he managed, tugging on Cas’s hair, “Cas, Jesus - what are you - “ and there it was, the white rush of it coursing through his veins, muscles clenching in anticipation and “fuck, Cas, ‘mgonna, you gotta fucking stop.”
He was so close, so unexpectedly, skin-tinglingly close, that his body apparently didn’t expect Cas to actually obey Dean’s orders; clenched up in disappointment when Cas pulled away, and, yeah, probably that whining sound had actually come out of Dean’s mouth. When he managed to swallow the overwhelming sensation of being stranded on the edge of a precipice, he forced his eyes open; caught sight of Cas’s face, flushed and pleased and satisfied.
“I know you, Dean,” Cas said, and lowered Dean’s hips to the bed.
And it seemed only natural, after that, to submit to Cas’s divine and infallible judgment; to roll his hips up dreamily at the insistence of Cas’s fingers. He would have questioned it, maybe, ten minutes ago, before Cas melted his brain to mush, but now he was nothing but this breathless, wanting thing, everything in him straining towards Cas and the benediction of his hands. He was still Dean Winchester, goddammit, even if he couldn’t quite bite back a whimper as Cas breached him with fingers slicked from the leaking head of his cock; as Cas’s mouth brushed open and curious against the base of the shaft. His fingers were fisted, immovable, in Cas’s soft hair, clinging to sanity, and Cas moaned against him as he tugged; scissored his fingers; thrust them deep.
And - yeah, okay, if Cas wanted to lose his fucking virginity properly, he was going to have to stop drawing it out, because Dean? Wasn’t made of fucking stone. Apparently the whole prostate thing was, actually, everything it had been cracked up to be, Dean’s body spasming in reaction as Cas’s fingers found it. If Cas kept this up, Dean was gonna come like a fucking freight train, and he didn’t want to do it on his own.
“Cas - ” he fumbled for Cas’s wrist, tugging; pushed at the sweat-damp skin of his naked shoulders. Cas looked up at him, dark-eyed, uncomprehending, and Dean sighed, fumbling for the words. “You gotta stop - not stop-stop, but - oh, man -” He tugged at Cas’s shoulders: don’t make me fucking say it.
And then, yeah, apparently Cas got the general idea, thank fuck, because Dean really didn’t think he could force out the words want you to fuck me, even though his body was pretty clear on the matter. He let his thighs part as Cas’s hands directed, making room for him; pulled Cas’s face back to his by the back of the neck.
“Dean,” Cas murmured, loose and wavering, cock pressing bluntly (holy fuck, holy fuck what was he doing?) between Dean’s legs. And that - yeah, okay; Dean wasn’t interested in words right now, not with his whole body clenching and unclenching, wanting, wanting everything except words that he’d have to think about.
“Yeah,” he managed, hooking a leg over Cas’s waist, “yeah, I got you, Cas; just fucking - just, come on,” and he thrust up, taking Cas in, sheathing the head of him.
The sound Cas made was worth the minor discomfort, no fucking question. It burned, sure, because hey, a sizable thing in your ass basically wasn’t going to feel like anything other than an intrusion till it hit the happy spot, and Cas wasn’t there yet. But Cas was whimpering, low and constant in the back of his throat; a soft sound that got louder as Dean shifted, inching upward, taking Cas slow. Cas held himself very still, suddenly uncertain after all that knowing, but his whole body was shaking with the effort of it, and stillness wasn’t what either of them wanted right now. Dean pressed his heel into the small of Cas’s back; rocked his hips. “C’mon,” he wrenched out, screwed tight and breathless in his throat. “S’okay; c’mon, move. I want to feel you.”
And that, it seemed, was all Cas had been waiting for, or possibly more like all that he could take, because the next thing Dean knew was a strangled shout as Cas broke over him like a wave. He was flushed, relentless, hips pistoning rough and unschooled and it hurt, but the pinnacle of every stroke was that rush of starfire, spiralling out from the core of him, and Cas’s voice, uplifted, startled by the joy of it. There was no restraint in him, no years and years of caution born of jerking off with his brother eighteen inches away. There was only the wanting, the tumultuous thrusting of his hips; the keening rise and fall of his voice, licentious and good. Dean felt he could have come just from that, from the unbridled heat of him; except Cas was undoing him all over again, from the inside out, so he guessed they’d never know.
Except that - yeah, there was no way this was gonna be a one-time thing. Cas was close, now, Dean was sure of it; moaning in his ear and stuttering his hips, and Dean was so far beyond close, he would probably have been blind with it if he hadn’t needed so much to see this, to watch Cas’s face as he came. It was addictive, ridiculous; and trust the fucking Winchesters to end up this way, one brother high on demon blood and the other prostrate and helpless before fucking angel sex-noises, but he couldn’t help it. Cas was slamming into him, now, cries ratcheting high enough that the goddamn chick at the front desk probably knew the score by now, even without the staccato rapping of the headboard against the wall, and Dean didn’t even care. His muscles burned with effort, thighs aching with the effort of keeping them spread, wide and splayed around Cas’s body, but Cas was stilling, eyes screwing tight against some invisible force, and Dean half-expected him to explode in a blaze of glory, white light shooting from his eyes and his mouth and the pores of his fucking perfect skin. Except that, of course, the white light was only in Dean’s head as he seized up around Cas, and the only thing that pulsed out of Castiel was copious amounts of come, which - yes, okay, so Dean probably should have remembered about condoms. Even if Cas was, had been, would never be again, a virgin, and Dean had just come so hard he couldn’t fucking see.
Castiel came down slowly, his mouth open and slack on Dean’s shoulder as he struggled for breath, his skin sticky-slick against Dean’s. Dean gave him a second before he pushed at him limply with what remained of his strength, because, yes, thigh-burn; and Cas slipped out like something too spent ever to move again. Dean didn’t think this was too much of a problem, since he didn’t foresee himself moving for the next hundred years, either. He shifted, turned himself half onto his side; slung his leg over Cas’s in a move he would never admit to once the euphoria wore off. Breathed. Cas breathed with him, damp and human and hot against Dean’s mouth. Dean felt vaguely, idly, as if something should be said to mark the occasion; like he should reassure Cas, somehow, or congratulate him. Or - something, he should say something.
He opened his mouth, drowsy and sated and absolutely lacking in any inspiration.
“Fuck,” said Castiel against Dean’s cheek.
For a moment, Dean was stunned into silence. And then he was laughing, ridiculously, hysterically, because yeah, okay, yes, that just about covered it, and he didn’t exactly have anything to add.
Fuck.
*
In Sam’s experience, Dean was often pretty slow on the uptake, particularly where people’s feelings were involved. It wasn’t that Dean was shallow - hell, Sam knew better than anyone that Dean loved, if anything, too loyally and too hard; divided himself up for the people he cared about in a way both admirable and terrifying. But when it came to thinking about it - attempting to process any strong feeling less ingrained in Dean’s bones than look after Sammy - Dean was, frankly, less than useless. This whole Castiel business was a case in point, the two of them obviously so freakin’ meant for each other that Sam’s chest ached just watching the way they looked at each other, and yet, Dean? Yeah. Oblivious.
Fucking ridiculous, really.
So, no, Sam didn’t really expect Dean to find his way through the tangled morass of all these nasty feelings with any great speed, clear as Sam had been about his own thoughts on the matter. He had hope, of course, because Sam was a man of faith; he prayed that some of what he said might have penetrated Dean’s thick skull, but he wasn’t expecting miracles.
The sound of Cas screaming full pornosonic stereo through the wall, as far as Sam was concerned, kind of constituted a miracle.
For a good thirty seconds, he was too shocked to do anything except stare at the plaster-thin wall in the direction of the sound, eyes wide, half-hearted research attempt forgotten. It didn’t help that the sound just kept on - and on - and on.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam muttered, sympathetically, as the sound elapsed into a series of hiccoughing gasps. There was absolutely no mistaking what was happening, especially after Dean’s voice joined the chorus of serious happy noises. And that was kind of gross, but Sam was bigger than that. He could get over it. He’d done a full-on Pandarus job on these guys.
Evidently, Sam Winchester was a god among men.
He shook his head on a grin, turning his attention back to the laptop. Somehow, armed with this newfound knowledge of his monumental Yenta success, dragon lore seemed kind of irrelevant.
He navigated to Google, thought for a minute, and then ran a search for ‘coming out cards’.
There were ten pages of results. Next door, Cas was still screaming, and not in a way that promised speedy resolution.
Maybe he’d go look through them at leisure in the car.
*****
Author:
obstinatrixRecipient:
exmanhater in the Secret Angels IV exchange. Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Spoilers: General through S4 and 5, but nothing specific.
Word Count: 14,871
Notes/Prompt(s): This ended up as a sort of conglomeration of the prompts I was given, taking little bits from all of them. So in this fic you will find: matchmaking; Sam and Cas joining forces to influence Dean (sort of); lots of pining and longing on Cas’s part; vague rom-com action, and (hopefully) an edge of BAMF!Castiel.
Summary: Cas is beginning to display emotions. This wouldn’t be so bad, were it not for the fact that the emotions seem to be centring themselves on Dean. Dean is oblivious, of course; Sam, on the other hand, is not. Sam’s never tried his hand at matchmaking before, but it can’t be so hard, right?
Two
Turned out, Sam didn’t feel much like providing sanctuary. The look on his face, when Dean pulled open the car door, was murderous.
“What?” Dean demanded, belligerent in defeat.
“You know what,” Sam muttered, closing the lid of his laptop with immoderate force.
“Do not,” Dean lied, just to be contrary. Sam snorted. Dean pointedly ignored it in favour of starting the engine and pulling the car back onto the freeway with undue care.
“What the hell did you say to him?” Sam demanded, when they were halfway back to the motel.
“Oh, you’re talking to me now?”
“Don’t be a jerk.” Sam scowled. “Although it seems like that’s your default right now, or something. What the hell is your problem, Dean?”
“What problem?” Dean demanded. “I have no problem! No problems at all! None!” He spread his hands in clear indication of his carefree state.
“Hands on the wheel,” Sam snapped. “God, you are such an asshole. How are we even related?”
“A question I ask myself every day, Sammy boy,” Dean retorted, bitterly. “Cas must have been hangin’ out with you too much, since now he seems to think I have some of your Gay - “
“Dean, for cryin’ out loud!” Sam had That Look on his face, the one that made Dean suddenly very glad he was driving, since that was about the only time the Look didn’t end in violence. “I don’t have any Gay. You, on the other hand - “ He snorted. Again. Sam tended to overdo the snorting. “I don’t know why you’re such a freaking homophobe.”
Dean blinked. “Uh, what the fuck, Sam?”
“You’re denying that you’re a homophobe?”
“I’m denying that I’m gay,” Dean clarified, swinging the car around hard into the motel parking lot. Dean was about as far from gay as it was possible to get. Dean was a goddamn Casanova, and a fricking monk like Sam had no business making allegations like that, not when he’d watched Dean charming his way into several pairs of panties a week for most of his life.
Sam sucked his lips in, but didn’t say anything.
That was disturbing.
“Okay, that’s disturbing,” Dean said, turning the engine off. “You just gonna sit there?”
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know, Dean. You just gonna let Cas mope all over you while you indulge your socially retarded bigotry instead of just giving in to the fact that you’re completely gone on him?”
Dean blinked rapidly for a minute. “My what, now? I’m what?”
“You heard me,” Sam said, unfolding his ridiculously lanky self from the car, complete with laptop, and slamming the door. Dean followed, hastily, mind swimming under the onslaught of all this ridiculousness.
“Yeah, I heard you,” he conceded, “I just - I - what, now? What did he say to you?”
Sam shook his head, and started striding off in the direction of the motel, which was, just, completely unfair, since Sam at full stride required Dean to trot along behind like a little kid. Freakin’ Sasquatch. Like Dean didn’t feel small enough already tonight.
“Sam!” he bellowed, picking up his pace. “Sam!”
“He didn’t say anything, Dean,” Sam snapped back over his shoulder. “It was more the way he came out of the bar looking like he wanted to brain you.” He flailed the hand that wasn’t clutching the laptop. “And then he went all sad and slumpy, and then he vanished. It’s not rocket science, Dean. And since you’ve been in love with him for months, I really don’t get what your problem is.”
“In - ?” Okay, that was it. Dean darted forward, clutching at Sam’s shoulder, and spun him around. “Sammy, where is this even coming from? He’s - a guy. And I don’t - “
“You don’t let yourself have anything you want, Dean,” Sam said, softly, now. And, oh, man, his face had gone all sensitive, the puppy eyes coming out, and just. “You’re so used to judging yourself based on what you think other people want from you, what they’re gonna think of you, you can’t just - and the way you look at him - “ Sam broke off, face twisting as if he just couldn’t find the words, which was pretty remarkable for Sam. “I’ve never seen you look at anyone like that, Dean.”
Dean stared at him. “Sam...” He trailed off. Sam looked so earnest, so wide-eyed and pleading, and Dean had never been able to resist that look on Sammy’s face. Or on Cas’s, said some treacherous part of his brain. “Sam, I just - I mean, he’s a guy, for God’s sake.”
“He’s an angel,” Sam corrected, voice suddenly fierce. “He’s your angel; he pulled you out of hell, Dean. You’re here because of him. And everything he’s going through right now, he’s going through it for you. You already have his freaking handprint burned into your shoulder; you’re already closer to him than you’ve ever been to anyone but me in your whole damn life, but you’re so freaking scared to step out of your little macho box that the thought of what it would make you if you touched another guy’s dick is stopping you from getting it together with the only person I’ve ever seen you fall in love with.” Sam shook his head, slowly, just staring Dean down. Dean felt his eyes watering with the pressure of trying not to look away.
“We’re in the middle of the apocalypse,” Sam said, quietly. “Just - get some perspective, Dean, okay? Jesus.”
And, just like that, he extricated his shoulder from Dean’s stunned-slack fingers and walked away, leaving Dean alone and completely fucking confused in the empty parking lot.
“Bitch,” Dean muttered, under his breath. There was an empty beer bottle lying in the road; the weird hollow feeling in his ribcage told him it might be satisfying to give it a good kick.
In the event, it didn’t really seem to have much effect. The feeling was still there, tightening around his ribs, dark and intangible as smoke.
Fucking Sam. Dean hated feeling guilty.
*
The bitch of it was, of course, that once the idea was in his head, he couldn’t seem to stop needling at it, nudging at it like a really fucking inconvenient loose tooth. It was true, after all, that from the moment Cas had shown up, he’d somehow started to worm his way under Dean’s skin in a way that had surely only been possible because Cas had put that goddamn skin on him himself; gotten inside him where only Sam had ever been.
And - yeah, okay, so that thought sent his mind spinning off on tangents involving Cas being inside him in ways that Sam had most definitely never been, and his face might have scrunched up in an appropriate expression of anticipatory discomfort, but the truth of it was that he didn’t really - feel it.
And that was weird.
Cas just wasn’t like other people. Which, of course, was partly because he wasn’t a person at all; but maybe there was more to it than that. Possibly something to do with the way Dean’s heart clenched a little bit when Castiel showed up unexpectedly, or the way his stomach dipped when he didn’t show up as planned. The way that, when Cas looked at him, Dean sometimes felt like he was looking right through him and he didn’t even care - hell, he even wanted it, felt warmed all over by it like it was just Cas again, seeing right inside of him the way he always did, ‘cause Cas knew every part of him already. The way Dean’s pulse always skipped uncertainly when Cas looked unsure, or worried, or unhappy, as if he, Dean Winchester, hell-tarnished high-school dropout Dean Winchester, could actually do anything to protect a motherfucking Angel of the Lord.
And then, okay, there might have been the fact that Dean’s distaste for Cas’s habit of standing too close was as much about the troubling reaction it provoked as about any concern for what anyone else might think.
Dean thought about what Sam had said, about Cas stomping out of the bar all slumpy and sad. The feeling in his chest responded, as if on cue, with a little protective twitch of anxiety.
Fuck.
The bitch of Sam was that he was so frequently right. It was getting pretty old.
Cas had better have zapped back to his room, was all. Dean might have been feeling generous right now, but how long that would last was anyone’s guess.
He sighed heavily and set off to investigate, shoulders back and face set like flint.
*
Castiel had, it transpired, zapped back to his room.
Oh, it wasn’t as if he opened up at the first rap of Dean’s knuckles, all breezy smiles and rainbows and stars in his eyes; but Dean had hardly expected that. Apart from anything else, he’d probably have assumed some kind of possession around about the time the rainbows showed up. Still, Dean had spent the better part of his life scouting around for things that didn’t want to be found, and he knew when a room was empty. This one? Wasn’t.
“Cas.” He raised his voice a little, gruff and peremptory, but there was an apologetic note wavering in it. He tapped on the door again. “Come on, Cas, let me in. I only want to talk to you.”
The silence from within the room went on, heavy with that indefinable quality that made it unmistakably an inhabited stillness, shifting rhythmically like breathing. Dean sighed. “Cas. Please.” He paused, throat working; took a deep breath. “Look, I want - I came to, you know. Apologise.”
Silence. Dean chewed his lip, and contemplated other options. There was always busting in through the window, but he wasn’t sure how well Cas would take to that, and he didn’t really want to end the night with a black eye, or worse. Other than that -
“For what?”
Dean, caught unawares by the abrupt forward motion of the surface against which he had been half-leaning, pitched forward into the room, along with the door. He blinked down at the bland, unshined surface of Cas’s shoes for a moment. Then, slowly, he raised his eyes. “Huh?”
“Up.” Castiel’s grip was less than gentle, fingers digging strong and uncareful into his armpit as he hauled him to his feet. Dean allowed himself to be hauled. It didn’t feel as if he had much choice in the matter.
Castiel crossed his arms - God only knew who had taught him that - and raised an eyebrow. “You want to apologise for what, Dean?”
Dean sighed, eyes casting to and fro over the lurid banality of the motel room for something, anything to latch onto, something to make this easier, but there was nothing. Of course. With his eyes fixed upon the hideous paisley-patterned comforter, he got out, “Well, just - for - things. You know. For everything, Cas.”
Silence. Turn again, Winchester. Dean fumbled for the words, but it was kind of hard to think with Cas staring at him like that, his stance sceptical and his blue eyes steady and unyielding. Something leaped way deep in his gut, some tiny flare of heat. Dean didn’t want to go anywhere near all the issues there were under that. Especially not when Cas was waiting for his explanation, wearing a face that meant business.
Tentatively, he tried again. “It’s, uh. It’s come to my attention that I’ve been being kind of an ass.”
Cas tilted his head approvingly, the other eyebrow coming up to join the first. “Go on.”
Dean sighed. “Look, I never meant to make you uncomfortable, okay? I shouldn’t have teased you. I know how hard all this shit must be for you - well, no, all right: actually, I can’t even begin to understand how fucking difficult it must be, and I - “ He broke off, palms turned out in surrender. “Man, I suck at this. I just - I’m sorry, Cas. Hell, I know it’s hard enough to be human even when you were born that way, and you - “
“I’m falling,” Cas cut in. His voice was soft, but there was a certainty to it, some awful note of finality that made Dean’s stomach turn over, clenching in on itsef in sympathy. Castiel smiled, a tiny, wistful little thing that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I’m falling, Dean. Not the way Anna fell, but - “ He shook his head. “There is no other viable explanation. Angels do not need to - to shave, or shower, or satisfy the human urges of the flesh. We don’t have to - shouldn’t have to - put up with all the crap you people wade through on a daily basis, like - like table manners, and tiny little bottles of shampoo that don’t hold enough for a proper wash, and cold French fries, and - and ridiculous unrequited romantic impulses a thirteen-year-old girl would be ashamed of.”
Dean swallowed, thick and painful at the back of his throat. Cas’s eyes were on his, although Dean knew it must be costing him dearly to maintain that contact, even as his voice grew rough with frustration, ash over charcoal. He opened his mouth, but Cas shook his head; dropped his eyes, at last.
“Last week,” he went on, quietly, “when it rained so much - I was soaked.” His voice cracked, incredulous, offended. “The rain got - everywhere - inside my collar and all up and down my arms through my clothes and it felt disgusting. I hate being wet. And I hate that pain in the pit of my stomach like there are animals in there, wanting to be fed; it makes you ridiculous, Dean, to be hungry. To want. It’s not fair. But that - that’s the problem with being human, isn’t it?” Cas laughed softly, humorlessly. “Things are - confusing - and unpredictable - and this, all the ridiculous inconveniences and the stupid fucking feelings, are happening to me because of you, Dean; but when it comes down to it, you don’t want me, and I don’t want this, and -”
If anyone had asked Dean when it was that he moved, or why, he would have been hard-pressed to give an answer, beyond the fact that there was something open and naked in Cas’s face that he couldn’t stand; something raw in his voice that he couldn’t stop, and that this was somehow, suddenly, completely unacceptable. But the next thing he knew, Cas wasn’t talking any more - just staring at him, wide-eyed and unblinking, his lower lip just a little damp where Dean’s had caught it.
“What was that?” Cas asked, softly.
It was on the tip of Dean’s tongue - ridiculously, and totally inappropriately - to say a thimble, remembering that one summer in Maine when he was six years old and Dad had read them Peter Pan, back when he was still pretending to be an ordinary Dad, occasionally. But Cas was fucking pressed up against him, warm and solid and his fucking breath was on Dean’s fucking mouth, and “yeah, I - I got nothing,” Dean stammered.
“Ah,” said Castiel.
“Yeah,” said Dean. And then, right when he was considering how best to get his limbs untangled from the unnervingly right-feeling shape of Cas in his arms, his hands started pushing Cas’s stupid trench-coat off his shoulders, completely without Dean’s permission. Cas was breathing tight and shivery against Dean’s cheek, and there were goosepimples spreading like brushfire down his neck; and then Cas’s fingers were on the buttons of Dean’s overshirt and at that point it kind of became obvious what ‘this’ was; only the next second, Dean was on the bed with Cas on top of him, and there was so much going on, there wasn’t room for even a little bit of panic.
Not for the first time, Dean vaguely wished his repertoire of curses and exclamations consisted of a little more than base blasphemy, because holy fuck, he was sprawled on a bed with his hips pressed flush to an angel’s, and Jesus wept, he had no appropriate words for this. For a guy who’d only just discovered the primary function of his junk, Cas certainly didn’t seem to be holding back. Dean wasn’t much for deflowering virgins; had never really understood the fascination some guys had with prude chicks and their inexpert fumbling, but there was nothing hesitant about Cas right now, his hands slipping reckless and certain underneath Dean’s t-shirt, pushing it up and off. If this was what it was all about - the heady, adreno-junkie ratcheting of Castiel’s breath; the steady, impatient, wanton shifting of his hips - then maybe Dean could actually get behind that. With the value of ‘maybe’ in this context being: whenever I get over the fact that there’s anangel sucking on my neck.
“Whoah,” Dean managed, ducking out of range of Cas’s mouth, fingers curling instinctively around his elbows. “Slow down, cowboy. We’re not running in the Derby, here.”
Above him, Cas’s eyes were wide and curious, pupils blown black and spreading into the blue. Dean resolutely ignored the way his pulse leaped in his throat, thrumming palpably under his jaw, but something about the way Cas’s mouth quirked, corners of it twitching, told him his interest in proceedings hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Oh,” said Cas, and fucked if the Sex Voice didn’t have a goddamn additional Sex Register. Dean wouldn’t have thought it possible, before he’d ended up -
“What exactly are we doing here, Dean?”
fucking hell, in bed with a soldier of Heaven.
(Seriously. His kingdom for one little non-blasphemous fucking curse.)
“Uh,” said Dean. He smiled a little, shoulders twitching in a shrug. “I guess we’re committing some kinda mortal sin, huh?”
Castiel’s fingers - which had, up to this point, been tracing idle little circles on the exposed skin of Dean’s belly, mindless of the restraining pressure of Dean’s hands on his arms - paused in their ministrations. His eyes found Dean’s, inner corners of his eyebrows drawing together. It was not the look of someone who appreciated the joke, and Dean felt his stomach dip a little.
“You guess so, do you? A mortal sin?” Cas’s voice was low in the back of his throat, the pull of it curling around the clench of uncertainty in the pit of Dean’s stomach. “Do you commit this act with deliberate and complete consent, Dean? With full knowledge of the sin and its gravity?”
The nape of Dean’s neck prickled with sweat, now; his hands, on Cas’s elbows, felt oddly numb. The fact that the insistent pressure in his cock hadn’t abated in the slightest was only the tin hat on how fucked up this whole thing clearly was. “I - “
There had been words in him somewhere; apologies, coiled hesitant under his tongue. But in the moment between thought and speech, Cas moved like the grace of God, arms breaking free of Dean’s grip gone slack, pressing his hands up and over his head. His eyes burned blue fire into Dean’s, breath rough and quickening on Dean’s mouth, and Dean was absolutely not responsible for the way his lips parted on instinct, with Cas so close that he felt the formations of his words. “What is the sin, Dean?” Brief catch of teeth to Dean’s lower lip, unrelenting. “Say it.”
And fuck, holy fuck, there was really no avoiding it now; the carnality of this, Cas’s slick open mouth over his own; the heat of their cocks together through the barrier of fabric. “Sex,” Dean spat, raising his chin so that their lips brushed with the word. Sex in his mouth, on Cas’s, inside and between them. “We’re talking about sex, all right? I’m a big boy, Cas; I know a helluva lot more about it than you do, even if I’ve never done the dirty with a guy before.” He laughed harshly. “Or, you know. An angel.”
Cas raised his eyebrows, unmoving for a span of seconds. Then, without warning, he thrust downward from the pelvis, the spark of contact breaking sharply enough that Dean cried out. Cas caught the sound as if he had been waiting for it, swallowing it soft and certain; licked the echoes of it gently from Dean’s lower lip. “Sex,” Cas said, into the darkness between Dean’s parted lips, “is not an offence, Dean. Not like this.” His fingers traced the sharp promontory of Dean’s clavicle; the smooth curve of his shoulder.
“Oh, it isn’t?” Turned out speech was a little beyond Dean, and given that they hadn’t even fucking kissed properly, that was about four parts embarrassing and six parts really fucking interesting, even though it probably shouldn’t be. “So...God thinks gay interspecies sex is made of rainbows and kittens? Seriously?”
He was trying to be reasonable; honestly. He was. But Cas was shifting, now, damp open mouth retracing the path his fingers had tracked across the sensitive line of Dean’s collarbone, and Dean was finding it hard to breathe, let alone maintain a theological position.
“God,” Castiel said, sounding way calmer than he had any right to, “condemns sexual behaviour that results in injury to an innocent person. Adulterous fornication. Obsessive covetousness. Coerced congress.” His tongue curled into the dip between Dean’s chest and his shoulder; flicked at the soft skin at the juncture of arm and torso. “Sleeping with cheerleaders too intoxicated to exercise rational judgment. This - “ and okay, Dean shouldn’t be writhing quite this much because of how good Cas’s mouth felt skirting his armpit, for crying out loud “ - is none of those things. It will cause no injury.” He paused, raising his eyes to Dean’s. “Provided that you want it.”
There should, Dean was sure, have been more of a question there, about whether he really wanted to have it on his already-overburdened conscience that he’d taken an angel’s virginity; hell, about whether he really wanted to go there with a guy when he’d never in his life been tempted to so much as a circle-jerk. But Cas was so fucking - Cas - all spitslick lips and hair that cried out to be tugged; warm and wanting and dammit, Dean didn’t even care any more. Cas wanted this, Dean wasn’t going to protest. Whatever else he was, Cas was fucking hot, and Dean was more than capable of putting aside his difficulties for the sake of The Moment. Besides, Cas had a hell of a mouth on him, soft and pink as a chick’s, and the fact that nobody had molested it yet was a crime.
“Fuck, yes,” Dean ground out, rocking up slow against Cas, “I want it. Want, anything you want.” He meant it, too, in that moment, heat sluicing over him in the aftermath of his words like affirmation. Cas’s eyes darkened over him, flare of his pupils immediate and obvious and unmistakable, and that was just it, Cas’s body betraying him in ways he probably wasn’t even aware of. The strangled sound at the back of his throat; the way his breath quickened and the way Cas, unabashed, just let it: Dean wanted more of that, and he was pretty sure, suddenly, that he’d do anything to get it. So fucking sexy, Cas shivering finely just at the thought of being able to use Dean the way he wanted, and the fact that Dean had no idea what filth might be running through Cas’s mind should probably disturb him more than it did. For some reason, his body seemed to feel - viscerally, and with earnest, breathless emphasis - that this just made the whole damn situation hotter.
“Anything,” Cas breathed, in a voice like molasses, and Dean watched the word forming as if in slow motion; watched the subtle interplay of tongue and teeth and lips, all the intricate workings that ran behind so simple a thing as speech. Cas was sex-flushed already, the force of his wanting spreading pink and hot across his cheekbones, and Dean was stricken with the urge to see if he was one of those people who blushed deliciously all over. They were both wearing far too many fucking clothes, and Dean felt the barrier keenly, too much friction against his skin.
“Anything you want,” he repeated, shifting a little, “provided we get out of all this crap first, huh?” He tugged at the hem of Cas’s shirt. “Too hot in here already; I don’t want to die of heatstroke before I get off.” He felt a little flush of heat in his own face, then; hoped it wouldn’t visible. “Besides, I kind of want to actually touch you. You’ll like it. Promise.”
He’d expected, maybe, some kind of protest; possibly even a blank look or two, but apparently, Cas was down with the whole nakedness gig. He pulled himself up without a word, sitting back on Dean’s hips, and holy crap, it was just wrong how much Dean liked looking up at him like that, watching his fingers slip on buttons; more haste, less fucking speed, but his impatience was too gorgeous to interrupt. Three buttons unfastened, a fourth torn off, and Cas was hauling his shirt up over his head; the t-shirt followed, tossed to the floor like debris. His hair was a dark sheaf of spikes in the aftermath of his eagerness, and oh, yes, the flush went all the way down. His breath came quickly, chest heaving with it, eyes devil-dark and sex-wild on Dean’s. Dean bit his lip on a sound, and pulled him down.
Cas came willingly, hips rocking half-consciously against Dean’s as he moved. Dean steadied him, palming the smooth skin of his back, hands sliding upward to find purchase in the tousled mess of his hair. It was intoxicating, the way his skin leaped under every touch, breath skittering hot against Dean’s cheek, and Dean wanted more of it; wanted everything. He fisted his hands in Cas’s hair at the back of his head, where it was thickest, forcing their mouths together. “Like this,” he breathed; traced the seam of Cas’s lips with his tongue; took Cas’s whimper as invitation to curve inside. Cas squirmed against him, his mouth unpractised and wanting, and Dean rode a wave of heat upward, sucking Cas’s lower lip gently between both his own. That occasioned another whimper, a high-pitched sound that intensified as Dean flicked his tongue gently against Cas’s mouth; ended in a broken breath as Dean’s teeth closed sharp on softness.
“Fuck,” Dean panted, hands slipping out of Cas’s hair in search of other little sounds, the way his breath caught as Dean’s thumb brushed over a nipple; the way his hips thrust forward, sudden and fierce and desperate, as Dean’s hands ghosted under the waistband of his trousers. The whole of Cas trembled finely against him, mouth opening instinctively to Dean’s tongue, and it was hot as fuck, knowing that he was the first to do this; first to lick deep to the back of Cas’s mouth, first to receive Cas’s strengthening kisses as he learned them. Both of Cas’s hands were curled around Dean’s face, now, thumbs stroking over his jaw, fingers digging into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and Dean raised his chin to press deeper into the kiss, bucking involuntarily as Cas’s lips sealed over his tongue and sucked. Christ, he learned fast.
It should have been weird, really, the smooth hard planes of this body pressed to his own, but Dean’s skin was thrumming happily everywhere it touched Cas’s, completely unconcerned by the lack of curves. His cock strained urgently against the zipper of his jeans, demanding further contact, and Dean was far too sex-hazed by this juncture to question the fact that he really, really wanted to see Cas’s face when Dean thumbed the slickness from his dick. Cas, judging by the way he was grinding his hips downward with every press of his tongue, didn’t seem likely to object.
Dean was always quick with his fingers, but never more so than when the promise of sex stood as incentive, and he managed their fastenings easily: his own, first, Levi’s-simple, and then Cas’s, where disuse had made the zipper a little stiff. Beneath his hand, Cas was stiff, too, the heat of him shoving upward so insistently that the teeth of the zipper splayed the rest of the way open under its pressure. Cas groaned into Dean’s mouth, as if that sensation of relief was too much for him, and Dean closed his eyes tightly, grappling mentally for something to ward off a sudden crest of want. 4, 8, 12, 16; mental arithmetic wasn’t a strong point of Dean’s, and the counting let him steady himself enough to work Cas out of his pants and underwear without coming spontaneously in his fucking jeans. “I got you,” he murmured, nonsensical, instinctive, shoving trousers and underwear down over Cas’s hips; steadying him with one hand on the jut of his pelvis as he wriggled out of his own jeans and kicked them off. “C’mon, Cas; I got you. I got you. Fuck.”
The sudden heat of their cocks together forced the exclamation out of him; through a rush of arousal, he heard Cas cry out, and bit his lip on his own sounds, wanting to hear him, startled by discovery, ignorant of any kind of shame that might come with abandon. Cas was slick, fuck, leaking, the head of his cock slipping in its own wetness as he thrust down against Dean’s belly. It felt good, more than good, this sweat-sticky sliding of their bodies against each other, but this was Cas, Cas who put Dean back together, slicking little pulses of pre-come all over Dean’s stomach. This was Cas, who put Dean back together, and fuck, but Dean wanted desperately to take Cas apart.
Above him, Cas rose ecstatic, transcendent. His hands were bruisingly tight on the anchor of Dean’s pelvis, head thrown back as he fucked into the haven of his groin. Dean pulled up his knees, making a channel between pelvis and thigh into which Cas slid easily, mindless and sticky and quick. Words emerged, gravelled, half-heard between gasps.
It was in the back of Dean’s mind that he should make a move of some sort, soon; some kind of intervention whose end result would be Cas on his back, legs splayed to accommodate Dean between them. Somehow, though, it was difficult to find the right moment, Cas soft-eyed and transfixed above him, every sound he made too addictive, too captivating to interrupt. Cas was moving on instinct, now, on faith, mouth descending to lave the hollow of Dean’s throat, tonguing down to his nipple. Dean swallowed back a cry, fingers clenching too tight in Cas’s hair, hips jerking helplessly against him. Cas hummed deep and soft against his skin, a slow reverberation that crackled out in ripples like waves of heat from a fire, like he wanted this. Like he was learning Dean, loving the salt-sharp taste of him, and Dean forgot all his reasons for wanting to wrench back control of this; lost them to the sound of Cas’s pleasure in his creation; to the way he seemed to know Dean’s body and its triggers already.
“Holy fuck, Cas,” he rasped out, watching that mouth tongue shining trails down his chest. “Oh, fuck.” His stomach leaped to the scrape of Cas’s teeth. “Where - ?”
“I know you, Dean,” Cas said softly, licking a broad swipe of wet over the shallow dip between Dean’s hipbones; lowering his head to (fuck) nose at his hair. His thumbs traced the insides of Dean’s thighs, fine-scraped lines of want roiling in their wake, and Dean twisted, hips torquing, jolting at the touch. “My theoretical knowledge of you was already immense.” He rubbed his mouth slackly against the inside of Dean’s thigh, damp against the smooth skin, fucking tease. “It only remained to apply that knowledge practically.”
Dean was barely even surprised to discover, when he opened his mouth to speak, that he was struggling for breath, all concentration lost to that kiss-bitten mouth between his legs, the dark shock of Cas’s hair where Dean’s fingers had mussed it. “Oh, yeah?” The line of Cas’s jaw glistened damply, whether from his own saliva or from the slick mess of precome pooled on Dean’s stomach, Dean didn’t know, but his stomach seized up at the realisation, nonetheless. “So - how were you gonna apply it?”
For a long moment of stillness, Cas held his eyes. Dean felt himself blushing, the diffuse heat of that blue gaze spreading up his body in waves, but he couldn’t - physically couldn’t - look away. His fingers curled around the sharp line of Cas’s jaw, trailing through the wetness. Cas’s head tilted into the touch like a cat’s, nuzzling into Dean’s palm; tonguing rough and gentle at Dean’s fingertips, and Dean was absolutely fucking not responsible for the low groan that escaped him at that touch, especially not when Cas echoed it around his fingers. “Cas,” he managed, pointlessly and soft.
And then Cas was pulling away, last deft flick to the tips of Dean’s fingers as he spread Dean’s thighs with his palms, gently sure. Dean would have protested at that - because Jesus Christ, whatever reading material Cas had internalised, he was not a fucking girl, here - except that Cas’s mouth was on his balls before he had time to draw breath; behind them, a moment later, pushing Dean’s thighs up in search of better access, and holy - holy fuck.
“Holy fuck, Cas,” said Dean.
Dean realised, belatedly, that he’d given Cas kind of the perfect set up for a great line, right there, but apparently Cas hadn’t been putting in enough hours watching Casa Erotica, because all he said was “Dean”, and then nosed back a little further between Dean’s legs. And - that was - oh, man, that was just - unexpectedly fucking amazing, apparently, although he was damned if he knew what had possessed Cas to do it, lifting Dean by the hips, cradling the small of his back as he circled his tongue (his fucking tongue) around the core of him. Dean threw his head back, couldn’t help it; back arching up off the mattress, legs coming naturally to rest over Cas’s shoulders. On the one hand, the whole idea of what Cas was doing to him was like something out of a goddamn House of Horrors, dirty and wrong and probably seventy kinds of unhygienic; but, on the other, Dean was spreading like a five dollar whore for it, and that was embarrassing as hell, but it was also really really fucking good. Cas’s tongue was all - hot and slick and wet and strong and flexible, flickering back and forth over him, circling again and then pressing (jesuschristalmighty) inside of him, and yeah, Dean had nothing in his book on this. If it felt this good, this ridiculously, spine-meltingly, holy-crap-I’m-gonna-come-untouched good to have someone’s tongue in his fucking ass, then there was obviously a whole new world of sex that he shouldn’t have dismissed the way he had.
“Cas,” he managed, tugging on Cas’s hair, “Cas, Jesus - what are you - “ and there it was, the white rush of it coursing through his veins, muscles clenching in anticipation and “fuck, Cas, ‘mgonna, you gotta fucking stop.”
He was so close, so unexpectedly, skin-tinglingly close, that his body apparently didn’t expect Cas to actually obey Dean’s orders; clenched up in disappointment when Cas pulled away, and, yeah, probably that whining sound had actually come out of Dean’s mouth. When he managed to swallow the overwhelming sensation of being stranded on the edge of a precipice, he forced his eyes open; caught sight of Cas’s face, flushed and pleased and satisfied.
“I know you, Dean,” Cas said, and lowered Dean’s hips to the bed.
And it seemed only natural, after that, to submit to Cas’s divine and infallible judgment; to roll his hips up dreamily at the insistence of Cas’s fingers. He would have questioned it, maybe, ten minutes ago, before Cas melted his brain to mush, but now he was nothing but this breathless, wanting thing, everything in him straining towards Cas and the benediction of his hands. He was still Dean Winchester, goddammit, even if he couldn’t quite bite back a whimper as Cas breached him with fingers slicked from the leaking head of his cock; as Cas’s mouth brushed open and curious against the base of the shaft. His fingers were fisted, immovable, in Cas’s soft hair, clinging to sanity, and Cas moaned against him as he tugged; scissored his fingers; thrust them deep.
And - yeah, okay, if Cas wanted to lose his fucking virginity properly, he was going to have to stop drawing it out, because Dean? Wasn’t made of fucking stone. Apparently the whole prostate thing was, actually, everything it had been cracked up to be, Dean’s body spasming in reaction as Cas’s fingers found it. If Cas kept this up, Dean was gonna come like a fucking freight train, and he didn’t want to do it on his own.
“Cas - ” he fumbled for Cas’s wrist, tugging; pushed at the sweat-damp skin of his naked shoulders. Cas looked up at him, dark-eyed, uncomprehending, and Dean sighed, fumbling for the words. “You gotta stop - not stop-stop, but - oh, man -” He tugged at Cas’s shoulders: don’t make me fucking say it.
And then, yeah, apparently Cas got the general idea, thank fuck, because Dean really didn’t think he could force out the words want you to fuck me, even though his body was pretty clear on the matter. He let his thighs part as Cas’s hands directed, making room for him; pulled Cas’s face back to his by the back of the neck.
“Dean,” Cas murmured, loose and wavering, cock pressing bluntly (holy fuck, holy fuck what was he doing?) between Dean’s legs. And that - yeah, okay; Dean wasn’t interested in words right now, not with his whole body clenching and unclenching, wanting, wanting everything except words that he’d have to think about.
“Yeah,” he managed, hooking a leg over Cas’s waist, “yeah, I got you, Cas; just fucking - just, come on,” and he thrust up, taking Cas in, sheathing the head of him.
The sound Cas made was worth the minor discomfort, no fucking question. It burned, sure, because hey, a sizable thing in your ass basically wasn’t going to feel like anything other than an intrusion till it hit the happy spot, and Cas wasn’t there yet. But Cas was whimpering, low and constant in the back of his throat; a soft sound that got louder as Dean shifted, inching upward, taking Cas slow. Cas held himself very still, suddenly uncertain after all that knowing, but his whole body was shaking with the effort of it, and stillness wasn’t what either of them wanted right now. Dean pressed his heel into the small of Cas’s back; rocked his hips. “C’mon,” he wrenched out, screwed tight and breathless in his throat. “S’okay; c’mon, move. I want to feel you.”
And that, it seemed, was all Cas had been waiting for, or possibly more like all that he could take, because the next thing Dean knew was a strangled shout as Cas broke over him like a wave. He was flushed, relentless, hips pistoning rough and unschooled and it hurt, but the pinnacle of every stroke was that rush of starfire, spiralling out from the core of him, and Cas’s voice, uplifted, startled by the joy of it. There was no restraint in him, no years and years of caution born of jerking off with his brother eighteen inches away. There was only the wanting, the tumultuous thrusting of his hips; the keening rise and fall of his voice, licentious and good. Dean felt he could have come just from that, from the unbridled heat of him; except Cas was undoing him all over again, from the inside out, so he guessed they’d never know.
Except that - yeah, there was no way this was gonna be a one-time thing. Cas was close, now, Dean was sure of it; moaning in his ear and stuttering his hips, and Dean was so far beyond close, he would probably have been blind with it if he hadn’t needed so much to see this, to watch Cas’s face as he came. It was addictive, ridiculous; and trust the fucking Winchesters to end up this way, one brother high on demon blood and the other prostrate and helpless before fucking angel sex-noises, but he couldn’t help it. Cas was slamming into him, now, cries ratcheting high enough that the goddamn chick at the front desk probably knew the score by now, even without the staccato rapping of the headboard against the wall, and Dean didn’t even care. His muscles burned with effort, thighs aching with the effort of keeping them spread, wide and splayed around Cas’s body, but Cas was stilling, eyes screwing tight against some invisible force, and Dean half-expected him to explode in a blaze of glory, white light shooting from his eyes and his mouth and the pores of his fucking perfect skin. Except that, of course, the white light was only in Dean’s head as he seized up around Cas, and the only thing that pulsed out of Castiel was copious amounts of come, which - yes, okay, so Dean probably should have remembered about condoms. Even if Cas was, had been, would never be again, a virgin, and Dean had just come so hard he couldn’t fucking see.
Castiel came down slowly, his mouth open and slack on Dean’s shoulder as he struggled for breath, his skin sticky-slick against Dean’s. Dean gave him a second before he pushed at him limply with what remained of his strength, because, yes, thigh-burn; and Cas slipped out like something too spent ever to move again. Dean didn’t think this was too much of a problem, since he didn’t foresee himself moving for the next hundred years, either. He shifted, turned himself half onto his side; slung his leg over Cas’s in a move he would never admit to once the euphoria wore off. Breathed. Cas breathed with him, damp and human and hot against Dean’s mouth. Dean felt vaguely, idly, as if something should be said to mark the occasion; like he should reassure Cas, somehow, or congratulate him. Or - something, he should say something.
He opened his mouth, drowsy and sated and absolutely lacking in any inspiration.
“Fuck,” said Castiel against Dean’s cheek.
For a moment, Dean was stunned into silence. And then he was laughing, ridiculously, hysterically, because yeah, okay, yes, that just about covered it, and he didn’t exactly have anything to add.
Fuck.
*
In Sam’s experience, Dean was often pretty slow on the uptake, particularly where people’s feelings were involved. It wasn’t that Dean was shallow - hell, Sam knew better than anyone that Dean loved, if anything, too loyally and too hard; divided himself up for the people he cared about in a way both admirable and terrifying. But when it came to thinking about it - attempting to process any strong feeling less ingrained in Dean’s bones than look after Sammy - Dean was, frankly, less than useless. This whole Castiel business was a case in point, the two of them obviously so freakin’ meant for each other that Sam’s chest ached just watching the way they looked at each other, and yet, Dean? Yeah. Oblivious.
Fucking ridiculous, really.
So, no, Sam didn’t really expect Dean to find his way through the tangled morass of all these nasty feelings with any great speed, clear as Sam had been about his own thoughts on the matter. He had hope, of course, because Sam was a man of faith; he prayed that some of what he said might have penetrated Dean’s thick skull, but he wasn’t expecting miracles.
The sound of Cas screaming full pornosonic stereo through the wall, as far as Sam was concerned, kind of constituted a miracle.
For a good thirty seconds, he was too shocked to do anything except stare at the plaster-thin wall in the direction of the sound, eyes wide, half-hearted research attempt forgotten. It didn’t help that the sound just kept on - and on - and on.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam muttered, sympathetically, as the sound elapsed into a series of hiccoughing gasps. There was absolutely no mistaking what was happening, especially after Dean’s voice joined the chorus of serious happy noises. And that was kind of gross, but Sam was bigger than that. He could get over it. He’d done a full-on Pandarus job on these guys.
Evidently, Sam Winchester was a god among men.
He shook his head on a grin, turning his attention back to the laptop. Somehow, armed with this newfound knowledge of his monumental Yenta success, dragon lore seemed kind of irrelevant.
He navigated to Google, thought for a minute, and then ran a search for ‘coming out cards’.
There were ten pages of results. Next door, Cas was still screaming, and not in a way that promised speedy resolution.
Maybe he’d go look through them at leisure in the car.
*****
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2011-01-15 12:00 pm (UTC)I loved determined, confused and then angry Cas at his rebellious body. I loved understanding, determined and explaining it Sam. And I loved lecherous, confused, guilty and then out of his mind happy Dean. Seriously this is the way I love my Team Free Will.
Hugs fic and heads off to bookmark it. (coming out cards - bwah)
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Date: 2011-01-15 10:14 pm (UTC)Thank you so much, honey. This fic grew out of all proportion while I was writing it, and it's definitely one of my favourite of my own pieces, so I'm so glad you like it too.
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Date: 2011-01-15 01:00 pm (UTC)I adored this. Love the way that Cas is both new and unknowing but also, when pushed, completely overpowering and ancient.
Favourite lines:
a sleepy Dean was a languid, half-dressed tumble of boy, tousle-haired and soft, and the fact that this now made Castiel want, with a very definite sort of wanting
because GAH. oh god this image.. so hot. and i love that it's all peter pan-y which goes so well with the thimble comment later.
and also this bit:
It wasn’t that Dean was shallow - hell, Sam knew better than anyone that Dean loved, if anything, too loyally and too hard; divided himself up for the people he cared about in a way both admirable and terrifying. But when it came to thinking about it - attempting to process any strong feeling less ingrained in Dean’s bones than look after Sammy - Dean was, frankly, less than useless.
Because if that doesn't describe Dean Winchester to the atom, then nothing ever will. It's just perfect.
And of course this fic was by you! should have guessed :)
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Date: 2011-01-15 10:14 pm (UTC)I have yet to even attempt to tackle the comments on the original post (*cries* *grateful!* *but cries*) so idk, but thank you for commenting here anyway. :) And for picking out favourite lines! Especially because, yes, that part about Dean really does summarise him for me, and I'm glad that came across.
♥
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Date: 2011-01-15 02:26 pm (UTC)I AM PSYCHIC.
THE END.
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Date: 2011-01-15 10:15 pm (UTC):D
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Date: 2011-01-15 03:29 pm (UTC)If you ever want me to tell you how awesome your writing and characterization are, I'm gonna need you to dial the porn back from a rolling boil to a gentle simmer. Cos by the end of the sex, all I can come up with is OH MY GOD SO HOT. *wallows in brainless post-fanfic haze*
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Date: 2011-01-15 10:15 pm (UTC)Brainless haze is all good! Thank you, hon.
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Date: 2011-01-15 04:08 pm (UTC)I really loved your Dean-voice, he's very in character and his observations/thoughts are spot on, both funny and raw.
But that aside, this was the line that made me laugh out loud:
Evidently, Sam Winchester was a god among men.
Yes, Sam, you are, and now you get to hold that over Dean's head FOREVER. LOL! :D
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Date: 2011-01-15 10:15 pm (UTC)Thank you so much, hon!
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Date: 2011-01-16 03:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-17 08:57 am (UTC)Sam playing matchmaker
The scene in the bar where Cas tells Dean off
The perfect build-up of tension with Dean's jack-assery, shaving scenes, etc
The OMG SO HOT climax (pun intended) where that tension gets resolved in a very SATISFYING way...
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Date: 2011-01-17 09:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 12:10 am (UTC)I know I already told you on Twitter, but I figured it bears repeating. ♥♥♥
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Date: 2011-01-18 09:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-29 05:06 am (UTC)And then I was linked to some of your other stuff and loved those and I just flailed a little (a lot) when I found out who actually wrote this.
Basically you are amazing and I'm friending you so I don't miss anything. So you know. :):)
(Just- GUH everything about this fic. SO MUCH LOVE FOR EVERYTHING)
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Date: 2011-01-29 10:15 am (UTC)Thank you so much, hon!
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Date: 2011-02-17 12:27 pm (UTC)Cas is wonderful as well. I love seeing him all angeled up, not having an iota of patience for all this human bullshit he has to deal with. Cas as Cas should be (that's what I think at least).
And Sam was jut the right mixture between fed up with Dean and caring for him and of course wanting him to be happy etc. "We're in the middle of the apocaplypse, get some perspective" is probably one of my favourite lines from this, other than Cas's litte speech in the bar.
I'm really glad you put that comic little scene with Sam at the end there. It rounded the story off as well as distracting me from the mush you had melted my brain into with the hotness before and putting it on the path back to solid. ;)
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Date: 2011-02-17 12:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-17 06:18 pm (UTC)Awesome job!
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Date: 2011-03-17 08:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-22 04:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-22 09:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-20 06:40 pm (UTC)pornosonic stereo
LOLOL
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Date: 2011-05-20 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-05 03:55 pm (UTC)I've got a feeling I'll be re-reading this many a time.^^
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Date: 2011-06-05 03:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-01 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-01 09:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-10 11:06 am (UTC)Fucking eh.....
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Date: 2011-08-10 05:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-05 06:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 12:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-26 02:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-26 10:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-22 12:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-22 09:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-20 08:42 am (UTC)but that was brilliant. i've actually teared up a little in that happy way that you can't possibly actually put into words no matter how hard you gush... but, hot damn, you've broken me.
THIS IS WHY I SHIP DESTIEL. FOR FICS LIKE THIS, RIGHT HERE.
OMG. i love this so hard. prepare for friending and mem-ing.
alkfdhakfjhas.
<3
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Date: 2012-06-21 09:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-21 02:31 am (UTC)I Loved it SO Much<3
I Just truly Loved this Oh SO Much<3
This Has Been Added to My List Of Favorite Fics.
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Date: 2012-06-21 09:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-11 09:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-09 09:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-23 02:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-09 03:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2012-11-09 08:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-09 03:58 pm (UTC)