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annundrielSong of the Open Road
Dean/Castiel
2881
NC-17
No spoilers. Non-canon-related apocalypse.
The world's going to Hell. Tucked away in abandoned motel rooms, Dean doesn't care.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cautionzombies, who inadvertently inspired this. Many thanks to stellamaris99 for beta-ing and obstinatrix for looking it over. <33
Cas tastes like dust and the open road, like blood and sweat and tears, things angels should never taste like, gritty and rough under Dean’s tongue. Dean can barely remember what it was like before, if Cas was always this desperate and open beneath him or if this is something newer, something different. There was always heat, sparks lighting between them from the very first, always hands gripping and fingers slipping and teeth scraping against stubble, the two of them searching for purchase, for purpose as they tangle together beneath sheets that smell like the both of them, the harsh smell of bleach underneath.
The sheets aren’t so different now, a little less clean maybe, the rooms they’re in longer abandoned, and Dean takes comfort in the fact that some things don’t change. That he can pick the lock of room number twelve at the Sagebrush Motel and find bad carpet and worse wallpaper, questionable prints hanging above the headboards. Sam always takes a room two doors down, always winks and says he doesn’t want to hear what Dean and Cas get up to. That’s a difference Dean finds he likes. He’s never worried much about Sam hearing him before, but this thing with Cas? This thing is his; no one else gets to hear or see or touch.
Dean presses Cas to the threadbare sheets, unwilling to take the time to clean-up. He’s skin-hungry, touch-starved, wants Cas in him and around him and beside him after a long day of watching him in the rearview mirror, hair damp and mussed, cheeks flushed with too much time spent in the unforgiving sun. He kisses those reddened cheeks now; gentle touches of lips that make Cas sigh and shudder beneath him, fingers hard against the knobs of Dean’s spine. His breath is hot on Dean’s face, lips chapped. Dean soothes them with his tongue, slipping behind Cas’ teeth to draw him out to play.
Cas shifts against him, thighs parting to make space for Dean between them as he lets Dean in, soft and easy and sure as ever. Cas holds him close and kisses Dean like there’s nothing else in the world—in this one or the next—that he’d rather be doing. Like this is it and always will be it, world without end, amen. It never fails to make Dean’s skin tingle, his entire body tuning into Cas’, breathing and heart rate falling into step as they discover all of the ways they fit together.
Dean groans as Cas pulls him closer, fingers playing against the small of Dean’s back, sweeping down to sneak past the waistband of his jeans. The sound catches between them, reverberating until Dean isn’t sure who’s making it anymore, if it’s still his own voice trembling in the dry air or if it’s Cas who’s ringing like a bell, pure and moving for all of its roughness. Dean moves against him, hands on smooth, hot skin, fingers unconsciously tracing scars as he settles into the cradle of Cas’ hips, the possessive curve of his legs. Cas’ toes press against his calf and Dean grinds himself against the hard line of Cas’ cock as blood thunders through his veins.
That gets him a bite to the lip, blood spilling between them. Dean pulls away with a gasp to suck at the split. Cas’ tongue slips between his own lips, catching the small amount of red Dean’s left. There’s something wanton about it, wanton and innocent and every contradictory thing Cas has ever been. Dean leans back in, doesn’t mind the pain when it reminds him he’s alive, that they both are. That they may have failed the world, but they haven’t failed each other.
He presses his mouth to Cas’, presses his tongue to Cas’. Presses himself as close to Cas as possible when they’re still half-clothed, and it’s not enough, nowhere near. Dean pulls away again, mouths at Cas’ jaw, licks at the stubble leading to his throat. He pauses to suck at Cas’ Adam’s apple, moves down to nip at the jut of his collarbone. Cas’ fingers leave the curve of his ass, the dip of his spine, traveling upward to scritch through Dean’s hair, hold him close as Dean makes his way across Cas’ exposed skin, stopping to lap at a nipple, kiss the mole nearby. Cas sighs beneath him, chest rising and falling like the tide, and Dean smiles into his skin, hides his happiness safely away against Cas’ chest.
“Dean,” Cas says, voice thick. Dean pauses on his journey downward, brushes his nose against the line of Cas’ waistband. Looks up with a quirked eyebrow and a smirk. “Please, I want—”
“I know what you want, Cas.” He does, he always does. Dean knows what buttons to push and when to push them, knows when Cas wants to lead and when he needs to follow. There’s no one Dean knows more intimately now, except for Sam, but that will never be this and this will always be something Dean never knew he wanted until Cas appeared in his life knocking open doors and blowing out lights, kicking ass and taking names. Dean presses his face to the line of Cas’ cock, mouths at it through the soft denim of his no-longer-borrowed jeans. “I know exactly what you want.”
Cas’ hips jerk beneath him, rising into Dean’s touch. He’s eager and wanting and Dean loves it when Cas’ fingers tighten in his hair, when Cas pulls at him and pants and says, in that voice of his, please.
Sliding away, he reaches for Cas’ fly, fingers teasing as he pops the button, pulls at the zipper. “Get these off,” he says, knee-walking backwards to move off the bed, fingers already working his own jeans open. He doesn’t have to specify all of it; Cas is eager to comply, ready and wanting. He hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of his pants, his underwear, lifts his hips and pushes them off without Dean having to tell him twice.
He’s a sight to behold, long and lean and pale, cock hard and curving. There isn’t an extra inch on him anywhere—never has been, not even before times got tough—and Dean’s spent more than his fair share of time getting off against the jut of those hips, come painting Cas’ skin.
Licking his lips, Dean catches Cas’ eye, makes sure he’s watching—of course he is—before slipping his own jeans off, kicking them from his feet. Cas’ eyes burn against his skin and Dean’s heart hammers in his chest. He wants to crawl back on the bed, leave his mark all over that body, fit them together skin to skin. Kiss Cas until they’re writhing against the sheets, coming with the others’ name on their tongues, sweet as sugar, raw and rough. He thinks about it, seriously considers forgoing any plans he might have had for fucking Cas to rut against Cas’ hip instead, feel Cas’ cock hard against his own, but then Cas slides his legs a fraction farther open and Dean’s turning for his bag.
The lube’s easy to find, tucked among his meager belongings. It’s half-empty. The last time they used it, Cas had pressed Dean against the hood of the Impala, kicked his feet wide. Fucked him as the sun rode a hard line across the horizon, turning the world orange. He’d come with Cas inside him, Cas’ hand around his cock. Cas’ voice curling in the shell of his ear as he grunted and gasped and groaned Dean’s name. There’d been no one for miles to hear Dean howl.
He turns back to the bed to find Cas waiting, dark hair haloed against the white of the sheets, eyes hooded. He’s got one hand wrapped around his cock, fingers loose as he trails them up and down. “Dean,” he says, shifting invitingly. This time it’s Dean who doesn’t have to be told twice. He slides between Cas’ knees, right where he’s meant to be, and pops the lube open, pours some in his palm. Replaces Cas’ hand on his cock with his own. A gasp rises from between Cas’ parted lips, reminding Dean of all the good behind those teeth. He leans in, has to taste again, will never get tired of this.
Cas moves beneath him like something from a dream, impossible and bewitching. Bewitched. He’s beautiful in ways Dean didn’t think it was possible to be beautiful. It only makes sense that Cas isn’t human, that Cas didn’t begin human; Dean doesn’t think he’s ever felt this way about anything that started in the dirt.
Kissing Cas breathless, Dean lets go of Cas’ cock, hand slipping past his balls to brush against the hot skin between his legs, fingers dipping lower. Cas’ breath hitches in his chest and he turns his head away, eyelashes fluttering fast against his cheek. “Yes,” he breathes. “Dean.”
“Knew you wanted it,” Dean says, smirking. He nips at Cas’ jaw, sucks a mark below his ear, and slips away, rising up on his knees. He stops touching Cas long enough to make his fingers shiny and slick with lube and then he’s reaching between Cas’ thighs, pressing himself against the tight ring of muscle. Cas opens beneath him easily, relaxed and ready for him, and Dean feels like he’s a million miles above the Earth, weightless among the stars.
Cas moves into his touch, bends a knee and tilts his hips and urges Dean to give him more. He tangles fingers in the sheets and reaches for Dean’s wrist, twists it so Dean’s fingers are crooked just so, pressing into him just right until Cas’ mouth falls open and his eyes squeeze shut and Dean knows he should pull away, knows that if he wants to feel Cas come around his cock he should move back now, replace his fingers with his cock, but he can’t stop watching the transformation below him, the unconscious grace of Cas’ body as his muscles tighten in anticipation of the fall.
Lifting his free hand, Dean circles Cas’ cock and Cas comes with a cry like he’s dying. Like he’s being reborn, new and whole, different and unchanged. It makes the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end, makes his nipples tighten and his breath quicken and he can’t look away from the strips of come painting Cas’ stomach, can’t stop staring at the place where his fingers disappear inside of this body he’s come to know so well. Cas’ muscles clench and unclench around him and Dean would stay like this forever if he could, the two of them finding all of the different ways they can fit together.
Cas’ fingers uncurl from the sheets to slip through the mess on his skin and then up to his mouth. Those lips close around them, sucking them clean, and Dean groans, mouth suddenly dry. Cas watches him with starburst eyes like Dean is still their savior. Or maybe just Cas’, pulling him down from his tarnished ivory tower like some messed up fairy tale where everyone wins by losing. Dean’s heart breaks and reknits itself a thousand times over every time he looks at Cas.
“Cas,” he breathes, voice catching in his throat. “Cas, I—”
Fingers leaving his mouth with a slick sound, Cas swipes them across his stomach again before lifting them up, offering them to Dean. He used to fantasize about those fingers, those hands, back before everything. Before Cas was just Cas and not some angel in a human suit, before this thing between them turned from eyes lingering a fraction too long into something tangible. Dean had wrapped his hand around his cock and pressed his fingers to the handprint on his skin and gotten off thinking about Cas’ fingers and palms and every place they could touch him, every way Dean would let him if Cas just wanted to.
It had been like discovering porn all over again. He’d been a glutton, and when they’d finally slipped from strange allies to friends to everything, he’d stuffed himself like a kid in a candy store, knowing that in this case? He’d never get enough.
Dean leans forward, unable to resist, and takes Cas’ fingers into his mouth, works his tongue against them as he sucks them off, heart fluttering in time with Cas’ eyelashes. Cas moans, body flexing, and Dean hums in response, nips at the pads of Cas’ fingers before letting him go, pulling his hands away from Cas’ body, the tempting expanse of his skin. He finds the lube amongst the rolling folds of mussed sheets and pours more in the palm of his hand before wrapping it around his cock, slicking himself up with sure, steady strokes as he watches Cas watch him.
Cas licks his lips; they’re bitten and bright and Dean can still taste his own blood, iron mixing with the salt of Cas’ come, a strange new alchemy at the back of his tongue. He wants more of that and more of this and more of everything Cas has to offer, everything they both have to give.
“Fuck me, Dean,” Cas says and there’s no other command Dean would rather follow, no other voice he would rather hear lead.
“Yes, sir,” he says, Cas’ smirk lasting as long as it takes for the head of Dean’s cock to breach his entrance, slip inside his ass. Cas’ eyes fall closed and his head tips back, the line of his neck an invitation. He sighs, a pleased sound like someone lowering themselves into a hot bath at the end of a long day. It makes Dean feel powerful, that he can make Cas sound like this, that he can give this to Cas, but he doesn’t want soft right now, doesn’t want gentle. He wants Cas’ teeth and fingernails, wants to be left bitten and bruised, marked up. There’s no one around to prove to that Cas is his and he is Cas’, but Dean doesn’t care. This isn’t about other people, it never was; it’s the two of them together. Dean wants the marks on his skin for himself.
Let Sam smirk at them tomorrow, Dean doesn’t care.
Shifting his weight on his knees, Dean presses home, cock sinking balls deep in Cas’ ass. Cas groans, licking his lips, fingers searching for purchase in the sweat-damp sheets, debauched and perfect. Dean fits his hands beneath Cas’ knees, pulls them up, pulls Cas closer, changing the angle of his hips, and then he moves, begins to fuck him with slow, hard thrusts that make Cas gasp, make him bite his lips and turn his head, twist the sheets beneath them.
When Castiel reaches for him, Dean leans in, quickens his pace, lets go of Cas’ legs. Cas hooks them around Dean’s thighs, dragging Dean closer and knocking him off-balance. It makes Dean lose his rhythm, and he catches himself with hands on either side of Cas’ shoulders, Cas’ face suddenly close enough to kiss.
Cas’ fingers leave the bed to tangle in Dean’s hair, fingernails a sharp bite against Dean’s skin, and Dean closes the rest of the distance between them, hips working as he sucks on Cas’ bottom lip, worrying it gently between his teeth. Cas wraps his legs around him, back arching, body clenching, and all Dean needs is the hot clutch of Cas around him, the sureness of his fingers and the wicked knowledge of his tongue and Dean is coming, pulling away to burying his face in the sweet curve of Cas’ shoulder, Cas’ name caught between his skin and Dean’s teeth.
Dean doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to leave this dark, safe place that he’s found where all he can hear is their breathing, their rapidly beating hearts. Where all he can smell and taste is the two of them comingling until he isn’t sure where he stops and Cas starts and all that exists is bare skin and this connection that’s always been there in some form or another. Cas’ hands are always reluctant to leave him after, his movements always slow. More proof that this was never one sided, that skin longs for skin and Cas wants as much as Dean ever has.
He kisses Cas’ neck, chuckles at the rumbling purr it pulls from Cas’ chest, and tastes the salt of Cas’ skin on his lips, heady and earthy and so familiar Dean’s bones ache with it. This is the hardest part, the pulling away, moving on. He doesn’t want to leave the circle of Cas’ arms and legs, doesn’t want to wash Cas from his skin. He’d stay here forever if he could, making his life in dingy motel rooms, Cas in his bed and Sam at his side.
It’s what he’s always done, one way or another, world going to Hell or not. It’s what he’ll continue to do. There’s no rush now, though, no danger hurrying them on. He’ll stay here in Cas’ grasp awhile longer, breathe in the scent of his skin. Ignore the dust and the grit and the way the world is too quiet outside these four walls. He doesn’t need the world, only this.
Dean/Castiel
2881
NC-17
No spoilers. Non-canon-related apocalypse.
The world's going to Hell. Tucked away in abandoned motel rooms, Dean doesn't care.
For
cautionzombies, who inadvertently inspired this. Many thanks to stellamaris99 for beta-ing and obstinatrix for looking it over. <33Cas tastes like dust and the open road, like blood and sweat and tears, things angels should never taste like, gritty and rough under Dean’s tongue. Dean can barely remember what it was like before, if Cas was always this desperate and open beneath him or if this is something newer, something different. There was always heat, sparks lighting between them from the very first, always hands gripping and fingers slipping and teeth scraping against stubble, the two of them searching for purchase, for purpose as they tangle together beneath sheets that smell like the both of them, the harsh smell of bleach underneath.
The sheets aren’t so different now, a little less clean maybe, the rooms they’re in longer abandoned, and Dean takes comfort in the fact that some things don’t change. That he can pick the lock of room number twelve at the Sagebrush Motel and find bad carpet and worse wallpaper, questionable prints hanging above the headboards. Sam always takes a room two doors down, always winks and says he doesn’t want to hear what Dean and Cas get up to. That’s a difference Dean finds he likes. He’s never worried much about Sam hearing him before, but this thing with Cas? This thing is his; no one else gets to hear or see or touch.
Dean presses Cas to the threadbare sheets, unwilling to take the time to clean-up. He’s skin-hungry, touch-starved, wants Cas in him and around him and beside him after a long day of watching him in the rearview mirror, hair damp and mussed, cheeks flushed with too much time spent in the unforgiving sun. He kisses those reddened cheeks now; gentle touches of lips that make Cas sigh and shudder beneath him, fingers hard against the knobs of Dean’s spine. His breath is hot on Dean’s face, lips chapped. Dean soothes them with his tongue, slipping behind Cas’ teeth to draw him out to play.
Cas shifts against him, thighs parting to make space for Dean between them as he lets Dean in, soft and easy and sure as ever. Cas holds him close and kisses Dean like there’s nothing else in the world—in this one or the next—that he’d rather be doing. Like this is it and always will be it, world without end, amen. It never fails to make Dean’s skin tingle, his entire body tuning into Cas’, breathing and heart rate falling into step as they discover all of the ways they fit together.
Dean groans as Cas pulls him closer, fingers playing against the small of Dean’s back, sweeping down to sneak past the waistband of his jeans. The sound catches between them, reverberating until Dean isn’t sure who’s making it anymore, if it’s still his own voice trembling in the dry air or if it’s Cas who’s ringing like a bell, pure and moving for all of its roughness. Dean moves against him, hands on smooth, hot skin, fingers unconsciously tracing scars as he settles into the cradle of Cas’ hips, the possessive curve of his legs. Cas’ toes press against his calf and Dean grinds himself against the hard line of Cas’ cock as blood thunders through his veins.
That gets him a bite to the lip, blood spilling between them. Dean pulls away with a gasp to suck at the split. Cas’ tongue slips between his own lips, catching the small amount of red Dean’s left. There’s something wanton about it, wanton and innocent and every contradictory thing Cas has ever been. Dean leans back in, doesn’t mind the pain when it reminds him he’s alive, that they both are. That they may have failed the world, but they haven’t failed each other.
He presses his mouth to Cas’, presses his tongue to Cas’. Presses himself as close to Cas as possible when they’re still half-clothed, and it’s not enough, nowhere near. Dean pulls away again, mouths at Cas’ jaw, licks at the stubble leading to his throat. He pauses to suck at Cas’ Adam’s apple, moves down to nip at the jut of his collarbone. Cas’ fingers leave the curve of his ass, the dip of his spine, traveling upward to scritch through Dean’s hair, hold him close as Dean makes his way across Cas’ exposed skin, stopping to lap at a nipple, kiss the mole nearby. Cas sighs beneath him, chest rising and falling like the tide, and Dean smiles into his skin, hides his happiness safely away against Cas’ chest.
“Dean,” Cas says, voice thick. Dean pauses on his journey downward, brushes his nose against the line of Cas’ waistband. Looks up with a quirked eyebrow and a smirk. “Please, I want—”
“I know what you want, Cas.” He does, he always does. Dean knows what buttons to push and when to push them, knows when Cas wants to lead and when he needs to follow. There’s no one Dean knows more intimately now, except for Sam, but that will never be this and this will always be something Dean never knew he wanted until Cas appeared in his life knocking open doors and blowing out lights, kicking ass and taking names. Dean presses his face to the line of Cas’ cock, mouths at it through the soft denim of his no-longer-borrowed jeans. “I know exactly what you want.”
Cas’ hips jerk beneath him, rising into Dean’s touch. He’s eager and wanting and Dean loves it when Cas’ fingers tighten in his hair, when Cas pulls at him and pants and says, in that voice of his, please.
Sliding away, he reaches for Cas’ fly, fingers teasing as he pops the button, pulls at the zipper. “Get these off,” he says, knee-walking backwards to move off the bed, fingers already working his own jeans open. He doesn’t have to specify all of it; Cas is eager to comply, ready and wanting. He hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of his pants, his underwear, lifts his hips and pushes them off without Dean having to tell him twice.
He’s a sight to behold, long and lean and pale, cock hard and curving. There isn’t an extra inch on him anywhere—never has been, not even before times got tough—and Dean’s spent more than his fair share of time getting off against the jut of those hips, come painting Cas’ skin.
Licking his lips, Dean catches Cas’ eye, makes sure he’s watching—of course he is—before slipping his own jeans off, kicking them from his feet. Cas’ eyes burn against his skin and Dean’s heart hammers in his chest. He wants to crawl back on the bed, leave his mark all over that body, fit them together skin to skin. Kiss Cas until they’re writhing against the sheets, coming with the others’ name on their tongues, sweet as sugar, raw and rough. He thinks about it, seriously considers forgoing any plans he might have had for fucking Cas to rut against Cas’ hip instead, feel Cas’ cock hard against his own, but then Cas slides his legs a fraction farther open and Dean’s turning for his bag.
The lube’s easy to find, tucked among his meager belongings. It’s half-empty. The last time they used it, Cas had pressed Dean against the hood of the Impala, kicked his feet wide. Fucked him as the sun rode a hard line across the horizon, turning the world orange. He’d come with Cas inside him, Cas’ hand around his cock. Cas’ voice curling in the shell of his ear as he grunted and gasped and groaned Dean’s name. There’d been no one for miles to hear Dean howl.
He turns back to the bed to find Cas waiting, dark hair haloed against the white of the sheets, eyes hooded. He’s got one hand wrapped around his cock, fingers loose as he trails them up and down. “Dean,” he says, shifting invitingly. This time it’s Dean who doesn’t have to be told twice. He slides between Cas’ knees, right where he’s meant to be, and pops the lube open, pours some in his palm. Replaces Cas’ hand on his cock with his own. A gasp rises from between Cas’ parted lips, reminding Dean of all the good behind those teeth. He leans in, has to taste again, will never get tired of this.
Cas moves beneath him like something from a dream, impossible and bewitching. Bewitched. He’s beautiful in ways Dean didn’t think it was possible to be beautiful. It only makes sense that Cas isn’t human, that Cas didn’t begin human; Dean doesn’t think he’s ever felt this way about anything that started in the dirt.
Kissing Cas breathless, Dean lets go of Cas’ cock, hand slipping past his balls to brush against the hot skin between his legs, fingers dipping lower. Cas’ breath hitches in his chest and he turns his head away, eyelashes fluttering fast against his cheek. “Yes,” he breathes. “Dean.”
“Knew you wanted it,” Dean says, smirking. He nips at Cas’ jaw, sucks a mark below his ear, and slips away, rising up on his knees. He stops touching Cas long enough to make his fingers shiny and slick with lube and then he’s reaching between Cas’ thighs, pressing himself against the tight ring of muscle. Cas opens beneath him easily, relaxed and ready for him, and Dean feels like he’s a million miles above the Earth, weightless among the stars.
Cas moves into his touch, bends a knee and tilts his hips and urges Dean to give him more. He tangles fingers in the sheets and reaches for Dean’s wrist, twists it so Dean’s fingers are crooked just so, pressing into him just right until Cas’ mouth falls open and his eyes squeeze shut and Dean knows he should pull away, knows that if he wants to feel Cas come around his cock he should move back now, replace his fingers with his cock, but he can’t stop watching the transformation below him, the unconscious grace of Cas’ body as his muscles tighten in anticipation of the fall.
Lifting his free hand, Dean circles Cas’ cock and Cas comes with a cry like he’s dying. Like he’s being reborn, new and whole, different and unchanged. It makes the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stand on end, makes his nipples tighten and his breath quicken and he can’t look away from the strips of come painting Cas’ stomach, can’t stop staring at the place where his fingers disappear inside of this body he’s come to know so well. Cas’ muscles clench and unclench around him and Dean would stay like this forever if he could, the two of them finding all of the different ways they can fit together.
Cas’ fingers uncurl from the sheets to slip through the mess on his skin and then up to his mouth. Those lips close around them, sucking them clean, and Dean groans, mouth suddenly dry. Cas watches him with starburst eyes like Dean is still their savior. Or maybe just Cas’, pulling him down from his tarnished ivory tower like some messed up fairy tale where everyone wins by losing. Dean’s heart breaks and reknits itself a thousand times over every time he looks at Cas.
“Cas,” he breathes, voice catching in his throat. “Cas, I—”
Fingers leaving his mouth with a slick sound, Cas swipes them across his stomach again before lifting them up, offering them to Dean. He used to fantasize about those fingers, those hands, back before everything. Before Cas was just Cas and not some angel in a human suit, before this thing between them turned from eyes lingering a fraction too long into something tangible. Dean had wrapped his hand around his cock and pressed his fingers to the handprint on his skin and gotten off thinking about Cas’ fingers and palms and every place they could touch him, every way Dean would let him if Cas just wanted to.
It had been like discovering porn all over again. He’d been a glutton, and when they’d finally slipped from strange allies to friends to everything, he’d stuffed himself like a kid in a candy store, knowing that in this case? He’d never get enough.
Dean leans forward, unable to resist, and takes Cas’ fingers into his mouth, works his tongue against them as he sucks them off, heart fluttering in time with Cas’ eyelashes. Cas moans, body flexing, and Dean hums in response, nips at the pads of Cas’ fingers before letting him go, pulling his hands away from Cas’ body, the tempting expanse of his skin. He finds the lube amongst the rolling folds of mussed sheets and pours more in the palm of his hand before wrapping it around his cock, slicking himself up with sure, steady strokes as he watches Cas watch him.
Cas licks his lips; they’re bitten and bright and Dean can still taste his own blood, iron mixing with the salt of Cas’ come, a strange new alchemy at the back of his tongue. He wants more of that and more of this and more of everything Cas has to offer, everything they both have to give.
“Fuck me, Dean,” Cas says and there’s no other command Dean would rather follow, no other voice he would rather hear lead.
“Yes, sir,” he says, Cas’ smirk lasting as long as it takes for the head of Dean’s cock to breach his entrance, slip inside his ass. Cas’ eyes fall closed and his head tips back, the line of his neck an invitation. He sighs, a pleased sound like someone lowering themselves into a hot bath at the end of a long day. It makes Dean feel powerful, that he can make Cas sound like this, that he can give this to Cas, but he doesn’t want soft right now, doesn’t want gentle. He wants Cas’ teeth and fingernails, wants to be left bitten and bruised, marked up. There’s no one around to prove to that Cas is his and he is Cas’, but Dean doesn’t care. This isn’t about other people, it never was; it’s the two of them together. Dean wants the marks on his skin for himself.
Let Sam smirk at them tomorrow, Dean doesn’t care.
Shifting his weight on his knees, Dean presses home, cock sinking balls deep in Cas’ ass. Cas groans, licking his lips, fingers searching for purchase in the sweat-damp sheets, debauched and perfect. Dean fits his hands beneath Cas’ knees, pulls them up, pulls Cas closer, changing the angle of his hips, and then he moves, begins to fuck him with slow, hard thrusts that make Cas gasp, make him bite his lips and turn his head, twist the sheets beneath them.
When Castiel reaches for him, Dean leans in, quickens his pace, lets go of Cas’ legs. Cas hooks them around Dean’s thighs, dragging Dean closer and knocking him off-balance. It makes Dean lose his rhythm, and he catches himself with hands on either side of Cas’ shoulders, Cas’ face suddenly close enough to kiss.
Cas’ fingers leave the bed to tangle in Dean’s hair, fingernails a sharp bite against Dean’s skin, and Dean closes the rest of the distance between them, hips working as he sucks on Cas’ bottom lip, worrying it gently between his teeth. Cas wraps his legs around him, back arching, body clenching, and all Dean needs is the hot clutch of Cas around him, the sureness of his fingers and the wicked knowledge of his tongue and Dean is coming, pulling away to burying his face in the sweet curve of Cas’ shoulder, Cas’ name caught between his skin and Dean’s teeth.
Dean doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to leave this dark, safe place that he’s found where all he can hear is their breathing, their rapidly beating hearts. Where all he can smell and taste is the two of them comingling until he isn’t sure where he stops and Cas starts and all that exists is bare skin and this connection that’s always been there in some form or another. Cas’ hands are always reluctant to leave him after, his movements always slow. More proof that this was never one sided, that skin longs for skin and Cas wants as much as Dean ever has.
He kisses Cas’ neck, chuckles at the rumbling purr it pulls from Cas’ chest, and tastes the salt of Cas’ skin on his lips, heady and earthy and so familiar Dean’s bones ache with it. This is the hardest part, the pulling away, moving on. He doesn’t want to leave the circle of Cas’ arms and legs, doesn’t want to wash Cas from his skin. He’d stay here forever if he could, making his life in dingy motel rooms, Cas in his bed and Sam at his side.
It’s what he’s always done, one way or another, world going to Hell or not. It’s what he’ll continue to do. There’s no rush now, though, no danger hurrying them on. He’ll stay here in Cas’ grasp awhile longer, breathe in the scent of his skin. Ignore the dust and the grit and the way the world is too quiet outside these four walls. He doesn’t need the world, only this.
