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annundrielTime to Spare
Dean/Castiel
NC-17
3896
Set sometime after 5.02.
The majority of this was written prior to 5.02. Not a lot changed, but certain things did get more specific. The biggest difference between this and the original is the ending.
There is a line in here that I wrote and then thought sounded familiar. It's close to a line from Lucille Clifton's poem, "lucifer understanding at last."
Many, many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ginnith and sdrohc_ratiug. They have the patience of saints. I don't know what I'd do without them. And olivelavonne who calmly talks things out with me. Thank you, ladies!
Castiel can feel the heat from Dean’s body even through the layers of clothing that separate them. It’s an interesting feeling, Dean pressed hot and insistent against his front, the motel door cool and unyielding behind him. Anyone else and he would feel trapped, Castiel thinks, pinned down. Not with Dean. It’s a fleeting observation as Dean’s mouth on his pulls Castiel’s focus to all of the places their bodies connect.
Dean’s mouth is a temptation too great to resist and Castiel gives into it, eyes falling closed as lips and tongues and teeth slide together and apart. When Dean breaks away, Castiel can’t help but try to follow. He gets a puff of amused breath against his mouth in response.
“Looks like we’ve got some time on our hands,” Dean says, close enough Castiel can feel the shape of the words buzzing against his skin. The sound of Dean’s voice, thick with anticipation and want, curls desire tighter in the pit of Castiel’s stomach.
“Yes,” Castiel says. “It would appear that way.”
“We should probably take advantage of it.”
“I have no objections,” Castiel manages to get out before Dean’s kissing him again, hands sliding beneath outer layers of clothing, pressing want and desire into Castiel’s skin through the thin material of his shirt. Dean’s mouth on his derails any and all trains of thought, to the point Castiel can hardly process what’s going on because, yes, this. This is what he’s wanted since before he knew he could have it, since before he even knew what to ask for or what this feeling shuddering under his skin really was.
He kisses back, slick and messy, following Dean’s lead. His own hands are drawn to Dean’s hips, gripping and pulling him forward until the only things keeping them from getting physically closer are the clothes between them.
This is not the first time they’ve done this, found time and opportunity to explore the connection between them, indulge in the magnetic draw they feel to one another. Even on the run, the wrath of Heaven and Hell bearing down on them, there are these moments of breathless anticipation, of quiet humor, of friendship and of lust, where touches are shared and kisses exchanged. They are not many, but they are there, made more real by the uncertainty and doubt they both still suffer occasionally. It’s a delicate balance, but they’re finding their way.
Castiel already knows Dean’s body—raised him from Hell and made him whole—but now he’s learning what Dean likes, what will make Dean moan and writhe against him. Sliding his own hands back, down, he grips Dean’s ass.
One of Dean’s words, he thinks. One of many Dean finds it amusing to get him to say. Ass. Cock. Fuck. Dick. Dean has a whole list of creatively blue words. He humors Dean. He’s trying to learn the language, trying to bridge the gaps that remain between them. Though he’s not sure he understands Dean’s use of the word “dick” as an insult and for a part of the body. It’s probably a cultural thing.
Castiel pushes forward until he can feel Dean growing hard between them, his own body responding in kind. Dean moans into his mouth in response and Castiel can almost swear he feels the earth move, he feels it that far into his bones.
“Is that a roll of pennies from Heaven in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” Dean says as he slips away. His lips are pink and wet, eyes dark in the filtered afternoon light of the motel room.
Castiel knows it’s a joke. He’s heard variations of it before, but he’s in no mood for jokes now. “Very happy to see you,” he says, focusing on the way Dean grins at him before breathing his name, “Cas,” voice low and dark, breath hot against his skin as he noses at Castiel’s cheek, mouths at his jaw. His fingers begin pulling at Castiel’s tie and collar as he licks his way down until he’s sucking at the juncture where Castiel’s neck meets his shoulder.
Castiel groans into it, can’t stop himself. “Dean,” he says, breathless now. “Dean.” Releasing his hold on him, Castiel slides his hands up until he can push at Dean’s shoulders. “You are the expert,” he manages, “but I believe this works better with fewer clothes.”
Dean pulls himself away again and Castiel can tell it’s with reluctance. But he’s grinning as he pulls Castiel’s tie off and throws it to the side. “Fast learner,” he says, leaning in to nip at Castiel’s neck as he slides both trench coat and jacket from Castiel’s shoulders and down his arms until they’re a puddle in front of the door.
Castiel repeats the movement, divesting Dean of his jacket and pressing a kiss just shy of his mouth. “I had a good teacher,” he says, this time kissing him fully on the mouth. Dean chuckles into it for a moment before the rumble becomes a moan.
He’s panting a little by the time Castiel pulls away, eyes closed and color high. “Star pupil.” Dean opens his eyes, the corners of his mouth turn upward. He’s clearly pleased with himself and the current state of their tiny universe. Castiel can only guess what Dean sees in him, whatever it is in his own current state that makes Dean look like that, predatory and a little wild. Humor visible around the edges.
If Castiel is surprised by anything anymore—and he is, more often than he’d care to admit, especially when it comes to the Winchesters—it’s the ease with which he and Dean moved into this more physically intimate relationship. And the camaraderie he knows they both find there. This is more than release, than intercourse. It’s different than Dean’s love for his brother, and Castiel’s love for his Father.
It’s the two of them forging something new between them, something strong and good that’s held up every time Dean includes him in a joke, takes the time to explain a reference, asks his opinion on their next course of action. It’s reinforced in the way Sam doesn’t begrudge Castiel time with his brother. In the way Dean is aiding his search for God even though Castiel knows he doesn’t believe.
It’s not always easy and it’s rarely ever simple, but it’s what they have and it’s theirs.
Dean’s hands move possessively down Castiel’s torso to begin tugging at his shirt, pulling it from the waistband of his trousers. “C’mon, Cas,” he says. “Let’s see a little skin.” Shirttails hanging loose, Dean steps back to let Castiel at the buttons.
Dressing and undressing are still something of a novelty to him, but Castiel doesn’t let that stop him from enjoying the way Dean’s eyes follow his fingers greedily, like he’s never seen Castiel’s chest before and might never see it again. It’s attention Castiel enjoys. He’s learning to take his time.
Half-way down, Castiel stops, Dean still focused on his fingers. Castiel appreciates that, enjoys the way it makes him feel and revels in the chance to feel it, but...“You, too, Dean.” His voice feels heavy, thick in his throat.
Dean looks up, meets his eyes. Tongue darting over his lower lip, he winks. Before Castiel can do anything, Dean’s shrugging out of his flannel and pulling his t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion. Suddenly Castiel’s vision is filled with warm, tan, human skin, scar-marked and inked; chest and torso, arms and elbows, shoulders, joints that he himself has helped mold and shape.
“Now who’s behind?” Dean asks, turning toward the bed he only half-made that morning, moving the few steps it takes to reach it and take a seat at the side.
“Relative positions remain to be determined.” Castiel enjoys the way Dean flushes more at that, licks his lips and looks at him speculatively. He may not be human, but Castiel knows a thing or two about humans. And he knows more than that about Dean. Even more now.
Dean clears his throat and leans forward to untie his boots before toeing them off, his socks following. Castiel takes the opportunity to watch the smooth movement of muscle over his shoulders, under his skin. When Dean looks up again, he’s still watching, hands stalled in their unbuttoning.
“Hey,” Dean says, his expression softening in the late afternoon light. “Come here.”
Castiel does, stepping forward until he’s close enough for Dean to reach, until Dean’s hands are slipping under the loose fabric of his shirt, fingers finding his beltloops, thumbs flirting across the demarcation of fabric and skin. Dean tugs him forward until he’s standing between Dean’s parted knees, watching the top of Dean’s head as he releases Castiel, hands moving backward to rest against the dip of Castiel’s lower back. His own hands alight on Dean’s shoulders, palms soaking in the human heat of him.
Dean leans forward until his forehead rests against Castiel’s stomach, nose tickling through the cotton of his half-buttoned shirt. He rests like that for a minute, Castiel feeling every breath in and out as Dean seems to center himself. Finally, he tilts his head and looks up the plane of Castiel’s chest, his eyes warm and inviting, shades of light and dark alternating. His chin digs into the soft flesh above Castiel’s belt, not quite comfortably. Castiel shivers at the brush of warm breath that sneaks beneath his shirt, the slow sweep of Dean’s fingers against his back.
This is the man he is risking everything for, the friendship he doesn’t want to lose despite it all. Heaven is no longer open to him; cut off from everything he once knew, he is thankful that he has found this, the chance to fight and feel at the side of this man. It is enough. Almost.
“You good?” Dean asks, voice breaking the silence that’s settled over them.
“Yes,” Castiel says, such a small word to convey such meaning. Dean keeps calling them lucky sons of bitches, shrugging when Castiel and Sam frown at him. But he’s right, and Castiel is grateful for whatever has kept him alive, whatever is keeping the Winchesters safe.
Dean grins up at him, chin digging in a little more when he opens his mouth. “I bet,” he says, fingers sneaking beneath the waistband of Castiel’s trousers. “You could be better, though.” Dean’s look is wicked and knowing and Castiel finds himself blushing, a human reaction he has no control over, heat rising to his cheeks as Dean tips his face forward and down, nuzzling his stomach. “Seriously,” he adds, pressing a kiss against Castiel’s belly. “Time to lose the clothes.”
Castiel squeezes Dean’s shoulders briefly before returning to the buttons of his shirt. He can feel Dean’s breath against his fingers as he works, feels his own body react, and then Dean’s sitting back, moving to unfasten Castiel’s belt, leaning forward to press a kiss against the hardening flesh beneath his hands.
Castiel’s hands stutter on the buttons.
By the time the shirt is hanging open, his trousers are undone and Dean’s hand is wrapped around the base of his erection—his cock—while he licks and kisses the length of it. Castiel can’t help the whimper that escapes. He’s not too proud to beg.
“Dean,” he says.
That’s all he needs to say. The next moment Dean’s mouth is on him completely, taking Castiel down until his lips touch his hand, caressing and sucking until Castiel is lost, sure this is all he will ever need.
Too soon Dean’s sitting back again, one hand still wrapped loosely around Castiel, the other pressed hard against his own dick through his jeans. His lips are swollen and shiny. Castiel is about to protest when Dean interrupts him. “Good,” he says. “But not quite what I had in mind.”
Castiel’s heart beats quickly in his chest, blood pumping furiously. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, wills his pulse to slow before opening them again. “No?”
Dean strokes him twice. “Nuh uh,” he says inching forward to lick the crown of his cock once. “We’ve got the time. We’ve got the supplies. I can think of better things we can do with both.”
Castiel shivers, not entirely sure if it’s the ghost of Dean’s breath over his cock or what Dean might have in mind that causes it.
“Then by all means,” Castiel says, moving a fraction of a step back.
Dean stands and their bodies brush. But Dean just grins at him and steps to the side, over to the piles of clothing near the door. He bends down for his jacket and as he searches for one of the pockets, Castiel takes the moment to appreciate the beauty of his form again. The strong back and muscled thighs, the curved ass. Dean catches him staring when he turns around, but Castiel doesn’t care. He has always watched Dean. It used to make Dean uncomfortable, he’s sure, but in these circumstances Dean encourages it.
Castiel shrugs out of his shirt as Dean tosses the contents of his pocket to the bed. The condoms and lube bounce twice on the rumpled bedspread. He’s told Dean there are ways around those, but Dean seems to think he has something to prove and Castiel wants every messy, human detail.
Shirtless, trousers open, blood pounding in his veins, Castiel feels the weight of Dean’s gaze on his skin.
Then Dean’s hands are on him again, finally, chest to chest, bare skin to bare skin. Castiel presses into his palms, seeks Dean’s mouth with his own, luxuriates in the way Dean feels against him.
“Bed, Dean,” Castiel says, Dean’s breath coming in hot little pants against his cheek.
Dean nods against him, moving them until Castiel is prone on the mess of sheets, propped on his elbows. Dean grins at him as he pulls Castiel’s shoes and socks off. He pauses briefly to kiss the instep of one foot. Castiel flinches a little at the brief, tickling caress and Dean’s grin widens.
Lowering Castiel’s foot to the bed, Dean follows until he’s down on one knee and then lifts the other, presses a soft kiss to that instep, too. “Want to touch you everywhere,” he says.
Castiel shudders. His skin feels hot and too tight. He understands Dean’s sentiment, wants to repeat it himself, wants to study every angle of Dean, every curve and dip and dimple. Every scar and freckle.
But right now, he just wants to feel Dean over him.
“Dean,” he says, beckoning Dean with his eyes. “Maybe later.”
Dean slides a hand up Castiel’s calf, between fabric and skin, brushing the hair there back against the grain. He squeezes once before sliding his hand back out. “Yeah. Later.”
Then he turns his focus to removing Castiel’s pants. Hands pressed flat to the bed, Castiel lets him, watching as Dean stands back and removes his own.
Glorious before him, strong and alive, Dean is pulsing with energy and burning with intent.
Castiel can’t help but reach for him.
He comes readily, kneeling between Castiel’s thighs as they fall open for him until Dean is above him, smiling down.
“This is what you want?” Dean asks, hands smoothing up and down Castiel’s thighs.
Castiel frowns and transfers his weight to one elbow so he can wrap his other hand around the back of Dean’s neck and pull him down. Dean grunts and barely manages to keep his balance, one hand still on Castiel’s thigh, the other keeping his balance on the bed.
Castiel pours everything he can into the kiss—everything he feels and everything he’s learned, all of the ways he’s changed, all the ways Dean has changed him—lays himself bare and hopes that Dean understands.
Dean moans into it, meeting him every step of the way. They’re as much equals as they can be, struggling with expectation and disappointment and where they belong.
Here, together, they fit.
“Answer enough?” Castiel asks when he lets Dean go.
Dean swallows hard enough that Castiel can hear the effort. “Oh, yeah.”
He sits back on his knees and finds the lube where he dropped it on the covers. Popping it open, Dean pours some out, taking a moment to let it warm in his palm—a human consideration Castiel appreciates—before wrapping his hand around Castiel’s cock again and stroking. Castiel’s hips move into it and then Dean releases him, hand sneaking back, lower, until his fingers are pressing into him.
Castiel arches against him, instinctively searching for more, for a way to get closer.
Dean works him open carefully, eyes flitting between Castiel’s face, his flushed chest, back down to where his fingers slide in and out.
“Dean,” Castiel groans, eyes falling closed as Dean reaches that place in side him that makes him feel lit up, body zinging with pleasure he didn’t know was possible.
Dean’s fingers disappear then and Castiel opens his eyes to watch him scramble over the mussed bedspread for the condoms. He opens the package and gets one out, fingers slick on the foil. He pauses when he turns back, kneeling between Castiel’s legs.
Castiel doesn’t know exactly what Dean sees when he looks at him, but he can imagine. He’s seen Dean just the same, spread out and wanting beneath him, waiting for Castiel to make the next move, to kiss and take and give. He wasn’t all powerful before and he’s certainly not all powerful now, but he’s never felt less powerless than here with Dean.
“Fuck, Cas,” Dean breathes.
“Not quite.”
Dean laughs and fumbles the condom, grinning down happily at him. “Think you’re funny, don’t you? Didn’t know you were so funny.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Castiel watches Dean finally slip the condom on, bending at the waist to press a quick kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth.
“Smart mouth,” he whispers. He presses a kiss to the opposite corner. “Pretty mouth.” And then he’s sliding in, pushing until Castiel feels Dean inside him completely, pressing forward until Castiel isn’t sure where he ends and Dean begins.
Shifting, he lowers his elbows and lays back against the covers. Dean shifts, too, leaning back and pulling until Castiel’s ass is pressed snugly against him, hands gripping Castiel’s hips firmly.
Dean starts off slow and Castiel revels in every movement of muscle, every stretch of skin, the tightening of Dean’s fingers against him. There will be bruises there later that Dean’s hands and eyes will gravitate to. Castiel understands; he knows what it’s like to mark something yours, knows how it feels to look on that mark and think mine.
Castiel grips the sheets beneath him until it’s too much, until he can’t help but reach out and touch, pulling Dean out of the rhythm he’s established and down to Castiel’s mouth. He kisses him as hard as he can with Dean leaning over him so awkwardly. But then Dean’s shifting and kissing him back, quickening the pace, one hand planted firmly on the bed while the other sinks into Castiel’s hair.
Castiel wishes his hands could be everywhere, wants to feel as much as he possibly can here and now. Again and again.
They keep kissing until they can’t, until they’re both breathless with exertion and sharing air more than actually kissing, mouths open and panting against one another.
Then Dean’s groaning low in the back of his throat and coming inside him, shuddering apart with Castiel’s name on his lips. Castiel feels it happen, marvels at his chance to feel this, to feel and hear and taste and touch Dean. Here, elsewhere. Anywhere. He feels Dean tremble and surge within him and follows right after.
If the other angels knew such pleasure existed, there would be no peace in Heaven, he thinks, before collapsing with Dean in a tangle of sweaty limbs.
They remain like that for a while, skin cooling and breath slowing before Dean inches back. Castiel can’t help the small sound that escapes as Dean slips from his body. It catches Dean’s attention and he pauses, pressing a soft kiss to Castiel’s mouth. “Be right back,” he says and then he’s up, switching on the light in the bathroom.
Castiel watches him go then closes his eyes, listening to water run in the sink. He feels both tired and alive, a strange juxtaposition of feeling floating just beneath the surface of his skin. He wants to lay with Dean and do nothing, wants to move and experience everything.
Wants to have it all. It is both exhilarating and terrifying, the way he can get lost in this.
When he opens his eyes again, Dean is standing at the corner of the bed watching, condom disposed of, damp washcloth in hand. He isn’t so much watching Castiel as looking, taking him in. His face is fond, a look Castiel is becoming more and more familiar with.
“What?” he asks.
“You look relaxed.” Dean crawls onto the bed until he’s kneeling over him. “Happy.”
“Yes, Dean.”
“That’s good.” Dean wipes at Castiel’s torso with the damp cloth and grins up at him through his eyelashes. “Getting pretty used to this human thing, huh?”
Reaching out, Castiel takes Dean's other hand in his, squeezes once. “Thanks to you.” Someone or something put Castiel on this path; if not for Dean, he would be lost.
But Dean’s grin dims around the edges as he looks down at Castiel’s hand in his and then looks away. Castiel regrets it, likes Dean warm and happy and open, and doesn’t want to fight about things they can’t change. Beneath his fingers, he can feel Dean’s pulse beating fast under his skin. “Listen, Cas,” Dean says, tongue darting out nervously over his lips. “About that. I—”
Castiel lets go of Dean’s hand and sits up abruptly, palm covering Dean’s mouth. Dean blinks at him over his hand, mouth caught open in surprise. “Don’t, Dean,” Castiel says. They don’t apologize and they don’t make excuses. What happened, happened. What is, is. They’ve both made mistakes. They’re both at fault.
But that’s not what Castiel wants to dwell on, not now when they’re both still naked. Not now when they have a reprieve from the blood and the terror and the fighting.
When Dean just blinks at him again, Castiel uncovers his mouth. He rubs reassurance into Dean’s shoulders, fits his hand over the mark he left before, kisses Dean until he relaxes against him.
They break apart when Dean’s stomach growls. Dean smiles sheepishly at him. “I was thinking we could stay in,” he says, strangely tentative in the lengthening shadows of the room. “Order pizza and not tempt fate. Maybe expand your knowledge of reality TV.”
“Would we have to get dressed?”
Dean flashes his teeth in a wicked grin as he pushes up to get to the phone. “That’s the beauty of staying in, Cas: clothing optional.”
It’s as good a plan as any. And if it means more time alone with Dean—time when they can set aside the complications and have some space to breathe deep—Castiel is happy to go along with it. There will be time for the rest of the world in the morning.
Dean/Castiel
NC-17
3896
Set sometime after 5.02.
The majority of this was written prior to 5.02. Not a lot changed, but certain things did get more specific. The biggest difference between this and the original is the ending.
There is a line in here that I wrote and then thought sounded familiar. It's close to a line from Lucille Clifton's poem, "lucifer understanding at last."
Many, many thanks to
ginnith and sdrohc_ratiug. They have the patience of saints. I don't know what I'd do without them. And olivelavonne who calmly talks things out with me. Thank you, ladies!Castiel can feel the heat from Dean’s body even through the layers of clothing that separate them. It’s an interesting feeling, Dean pressed hot and insistent against his front, the motel door cool and unyielding behind him. Anyone else and he would feel trapped, Castiel thinks, pinned down. Not with Dean. It’s a fleeting observation as Dean’s mouth on his pulls Castiel’s focus to all of the places their bodies connect.
Dean’s mouth is a temptation too great to resist and Castiel gives into it, eyes falling closed as lips and tongues and teeth slide together and apart. When Dean breaks away, Castiel can’t help but try to follow. He gets a puff of amused breath against his mouth in response.
“Looks like we’ve got some time on our hands,” Dean says, close enough Castiel can feel the shape of the words buzzing against his skin. The sound of Dean’s voice, thick with anticipation and want, curls desire tighter in the pit of Castiel’s stomach.
“Yes,” Castiel says. “It would appear that way.”
“We should probably take advantage of it.”
“I have no objections,” Castiel manages to get out before Dean’s kissing him again, hands sliding beneath outer layers of clothing, pressing want and desire into Castiel’s skin through the thin material of his shirt. Dean’s mouth on his derails any and all trains of thought, to the point Castiel can hardly process what’s going on because, yes, this. This is what he’s wanted since before he knew he could have it, since before he even knew what to ask for or what this feeling shuddering under his skin really was.
He kisses back, slick and messy, following Dean’s lead. His own hands are drawn to Dean’s hips, gripping and pulling him forward until the only things keeping them from getting physically closer are the clothes between them.
This is not the first time they’ve done this, found time and opportunity to explore the connection between them, indulge in the magnetic draw they feel to one another. Even on the run, the wrath of Heaven and Hell bearing down on them, there are these moments of breathless anticipation, of quiet humor, of friendship and of lust, where touches are shared and kisses exchanged. They are not many, but they are there, made more real by the uncertainty and doubt they both still suffer occasionally. It’s a delicate balance, but they’re finding their way.
Castiel already knows Dean’s body—raised him from Hell and made him whole—but now he’s learning what Dean likes, what will make Dean moan and writhe against him. Sliding his own hands back, down, he grips Dean’s ass.
One of Dean’s words, he thinks. One of many Dean finds it amusing to get him to say. Ass. Cock. Fuck. Dick. Dean has a whole list of creatively blue words. He humors Dean. He’s trying to learn the language, trying to bridge the gaps that remain between them. Though he’s not sure he understands Dean’s use of the word “dick” as an insult and for a part of the body. It’s probably a cultural thing.
Castiel pushes forward until he can feel Dean growing hard between them, his own body responding in kind. Dean moans into his mouth in response and Castiel can almost swear he feels the earth move, he feels it that far into his bones.
“Is that a roll of pennies from Heaven in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” Dean says as he slips away. His lips are pink and wet, eyes dark in the filtered afternoon light of the motel room.
Castiel knows it’s a joke. He’s heard variations of it before, but he’s in no mood for jokes now. “Very happy to see you,” he says, focusing on the way Dean grins at him before breathing his name, “Cas,” voice low and dark, breath hot against his skin as he noses at Castiel’s cheek, mouths at his jaw. His fingers begin pulling at Castiel’s tie and collar as he licks his way down until he’s sucking at the juncture where Castiel’s neck meets his shoulder.
Castiel groans into it, can’t stop himself. “Dean,” he says, breathless now. “Dean.” Releasing his hold on him, Castiel slides his hands up until he can push at Dean’s shoulders. “You are the expert,” he manages, “but I believe this works better with fewer clothes.”
Dean pulls himself away again and Castiel can tell it’s with reluctance. But he’s grinning as he pulls Castiel’s tie off and throws it to the side. “Fast learner,” he says, leaning in to nip at Castiel’s neck as he slides both trench coat and jacket from Castiel’s shoulders and down his arms until they’re a puddle in front of the door.
Castiel repeats the movement, divesting Dean of his jacket and pressing a kiss just shy of his mouth. “I had a good teacher,” he says, this time kissing him fully on the mouth. Dean chuckles into it for a moment before the rumble becomes a moan.
He’s panting a little by the time Castiel pulls away, eyes closed and color high. “Star pupil.” Dean opens his eyes, the corners of his mouth turn upward. He’s clearly pleased with himself and the current state of their tiny universe. Castiel can only guess what Dean sees in him, whatever it is in his own current state that makes Dean look like that, predatory and a little wild. Humor visible around the edges.
If Castiel is surprised by anything anymore—and he is, more often than he’d care to admit, especially when it comes to the Winchesters—it’s the ease with which he and Dean moved into this more physically intimate relationship. And the camaraderie he knows they both find there. This is more than release, than intercourse. It’s different than Dean’s love for his brother, and Castiel’s love for his Father.
It’s the two of them forging something new between them, something strong and good that’s held up every time Dean includes him in a joke, takes the time to explain a reference, asks his opinion on their next course of action. It’s reinforced in the way Sam doesn’t begrudge Castiel time with his brother. In the way Dean is aiding his search for God even though Castiel knows he doesn’t believe.
It’s not always easy and it’s rarely ever simple, but it’s what they have and it’s theirs.
Dean’s hands move possessively down Castiel’s torso to begin tugging at his shirt, pulling it from the waistband of his trousers. “C’mon, Cas,” he says. “Let’s see a little skin.” Shirttails hanging loose, Dean steps back to let Castiel at the buttons.
Dressing and undressing are still something of a novelty to him, but Castiel doesn’t let that stop him from enjoying the way Dean’s eyes follow his fingers greedily, like he’s never seen Castiel’s chest before and might never see it again. It’s attention Castiel enjoys. He’s learning to take his time.
Half-way down, Castiel stops, Dean still focused on his fingers. Castiel appreciates that, enjoys the way it makes him feel and revels in the chance to feel it, but...“You, too, Dean.” His voice feels heavy, thick in his throat.
Dean looks up, meets his eyes. Tongue darting over his lower lip, he winks. Before Castiel can do anything, Dean’s shrugging out of his flannel and pulling his t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion. Suddenly Castiel’s vision is filled with warm, tan, human skin, scar-marked and inked; chest and torso, arms and elbows, shoulders, joints that he himself has helped mold and shape.
“Now who’s behind?” Dean asks, turning toward the bed he only half-made that morning, moving the few steps it takes to reach it and take a seat at the side.
“Relative positions remain to be determined.” Castiel enjoys the way Dean flushes more at that, licks his lips and looks at him speculatively. He may not be human, but Castiel knows a thing or two about humans. And he knows more than that about Dean. Even more now.
Dean clears his throat and leans forward to untie his boots before toeing them off, his socks following. Castiel takes the opportunity to watch the smooth movement of muscle over his shoulders, under his skin. When Dean looks up again, he’s still watching, hands stalled in their unbuttoning.
“Hey,” Dean says, his expression softening in the late afternoon light. “Come here.”
Castiel does, stepping forward until he’s close enough for Dean to reach, until Dean’s hands are slipping under the loose fabric of his shirt, fingers finding his beltloops, thumbs flirting across the demarcation of fabric and skin. Dean tugs him forward until he’s standing between Dean’s parted knees, watching the top of Dean’s head as he releases Castiel, hands moving backward to rest against the dip of Castiel’s lower back. His own hands alight on Dean’s shoulders, palms soaking in the human heat of him.
Dean leans forward until his forehead rests against Castiel’s stomach, nose tickling through the cotton of his half-buttoned shirt. He rests like that for a minute, Castiel feeling every breath in and out as Dean seems to center himself. Finally, he tilts his head and looks up the plane of Castiel’s chest, his eyes warm and inviting, shades of light and dark alternating. His chin digs into the soft flesh above Castiel’s belt, not quite comfortably. Castiel shivers at the brush of warm breath that sneaks beneath his shirt, the slow sweep of Dean’s fingers against his back.
This is the man he is risking everything for, the friendship he doesn’t want to lose despite it all. Heaven is no longer open to him; cut off from everything he once knew, he is thankful that he has found this, the chance to fight and feel at the side of this man. It is enough. Almost.
“You good?” Dean asks, voice breaking the silence that’s settled over them.
“Yes,” Castiel says, such a small word to convey such meaning. Dean keeps calling them lucky sons of bitches, shrugging when Castiel and Sam frown at him. But he’s right, and Castiel is grateful for whatever has kept him alive, whatever is keeping the Winchesters safe.
Dean grins up at him, chin digging in a little more when he opens his mouth. “I bet,” he says, fingers sneaking beneath the waistband of Castiel’s trousers. “You could be better, though.” Dean’s look is wicked and knowing and Castiel finds himself blushing, a human reaction he has no control over, heat rising to his cheeks as Dean tips his face forward and down, nuzzling his stomach. “Seriously,” he adds, pressing a kiss against Castiel’s belly. “Time to lose the clothes.”
Castiel squeezes Dean’s shoulders briefly before returning to the buttons of his shirt. He can feel Dean’s breath against his fingers as he works, feels his own body react, and then Dean’s sitting back, moving to unfasten Castiel’s belt, leaning forward to press a kiss against the hardening flesh beneath his hands.
Castiel’s hands stutter on the buttons.
By the time the shirt is hanging open, his trousers are undone and Dean’s hand is wrapped around the base of his erection—his cock—while he licks and kisses the length of it. Castiel can’t help the whimper that escapes. He’s not too proud to beg.
“Dean,” he says.
That’s all he needs to say. The next moment Dean’s mouth is on him completely, taking Castiel down until his lips touch his hand, caressing and sucking until Castiel is lost, sure this is all he will ever need.
Too soon Dean’s sitting back again, one hand still wrapped loosely around Castiel, the other pressed hard against his own dick through his jeans. His lips are swollen and shiny. Castiel is about to protest when Dean interrupts him. “Good,” he says. “But not quite what I had in mind.”
Castiel’s heart beats quickly in his chest, blood pumping furiously. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, wills his pulse to slow before opening them again. “No?”
Dean strokes him twice. “Nuh uh,” he says inching forward to lick the crown of his cock once. “We’ve got the time. We’ve got the supplies. I can think of better things we can do with both.”
Castiel shivers, not entirely sure if it’s the ghost of Dean’s breath over his cock or what Dean might have in mind that causes it.
“Then by all means,” Castiel says, moving a fraction of a step back.
Dean stands and their bodies brush. But Dean just grins at him and steps to the side, over to the piles of clothing near the door. He bends down for his jacket and as he searches for one of the pockets, Castiel takes the moment to appreciate the beauty of his form again. The strong back and muscled thighs, the curved ass. Dean catches him staring when he turns around, but Castiel doesn’t care. He has always watched Dean. It used to make Dean uncomfortable, he’s sure, but in these circumstances Dean encourages it.
Castiel shrugs out of his shirt as Dean tosses the contents of his pocket to the bed. The condoms and lube bounce twice on the rumpled bedspread. He’s told Dean there are ways around those, but Dean seems to think he has something to prove and Castiel wants every messy, human detail.
Shirtless, trousers open, blood pounding in his veins, Castiel feels the weight of Dean’s gaze on his skin.
Then Dean’s hands are on him again, finally, chest to chest, bare skin to bare skin. Castiel presses into his palms, seeks Dean’s mouth with his own, luxuriates in the way Dean feels against him.
“Bed, Dean,” Castiel says, Dean’s breath coming in hot little pants against his cheek.
Dean nods against him, moving them until Castiel is prone on the mess of sheets, propped on his elbows. Dean grins at him as he pulls Castiel’s shoes and socks off. He pauses briefly to kiss the instep of one foot. Castiel flinches a little at the brief, tickling caress and Dean’s grin widens.
Lowering Castiel’s foot to the bed, Dean follows until he’s down on one knee and then lifts the other, presses a soft kiss to that instep, too. “Want to touch you everywhere,” he says.
Castiel shudders. His skin feels hot and too tight. He understands Dean’s sentiment, wants to repeat it himself, wants to study every angle of Dean, every curve and dip and dimple. Every scar and freckle.
But right now, he just wants to feel Dean over him.
“Dean,” he says, beckoning Dean with his eyes. “Maybe later.”
Dean slides a hand up Castiel’s calf, between fabric and skin, brushing the hair there back against the grain. He squeezes once before sliding his hand back out. “Yeah. Later.”
Then he turns his focus to removing Castiel’s pants. Hands pressed flat to the bed, Castiel lets him, watching as Dean stands back and removes his own.
Glorious before him, strong and alive, Dean is pulsing with energy and burning with intent.
Castiel can’t help but reach for him.
He comes readily, kneeling between Castiel’s thighs as they fall open for him until Dean is above him, smiling down.
“This is what you want?” Dean asks, hands smoothing up and down Castiel’s thighs.
Castiel frowns and transfers his weight to one elbow so he can wrap his other hand around the back of Dean’s neck and pull him down. Dean grunts and barely manages to keep his balance, one hand still on Castiel’s thigh, the other keeping his balance on the bed.
Castiel pours everything he can into the kiss—everything he feels and everything he’s learned, all of the ways he’s changed, all the ways Dean has changed him—lays himself bare and hopes that Dean understands.
Dean moans into it, meeting him every step of the way. They’re as much equals as they can be, struggling with expectation and disappointment and where they belong.
Here, together, they fit.
“Answer enough?” Castiel asks when he lets Dean go.
Dean swallows hard enough that Castiel can hear the effort. “Oh, yeah.”
He sits back on his knees and finds the lube where he dropped it on the covers. Popping it open, Dean pours some out, taking a moment to let it warm in his palm—a human consideration Castiel appreciates—before wrapping his hand around Castiel’s cock again and stroking. Castiel’s hips move into it and then Dean releases him, hand sneaking back, lower, until his fingers are pressing into him.
Castiel arches against him, instinctively searching for more, for a way to get closer.
Dean works him open carefully, eyes flitting between Castiel’s face, his flushed chest, back down to where his fingers slide in and out.
“Dean,” Castiel groans, eyes falling closed as Dean reaches that place in side him that makes him feel lit up, body zinging with pleasure he didn’t know was possible.
Dean’s fingers disappear then and Castiel opens his eyes to watch him scramble over the mussed bedspread for the condoms. He opens the package and gets one out, fingers slick on the foil. He pauses when he turns back, kneeling between Castiel’s legs.
Castiel doesn’t know exactly what Dean sees when he looks at him, but he can imagine. He’s seen Dean just the same, spread out and wanting beneath him, waiting for Castiel to make the next move, to kiss and take and give. He wasn’t all powerful before and he’s certainly not all powerful now, but he’s never felt less powerless than here with Dean.
“Fuck, Cas,” Dean breathes.
“Not quite.”
Dean laughs and fumbles the condom, grinning down happily at him. “Think you’re funny, don’t you? Didn’t know you were so funny.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Castiel watches Dean finally slip the condom on, bending at the waist to press a quick kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth.
“Smart mouth,” he whispers. He presses a kiss to the opposite corner. “Pretty mouth.” And then he’s sliding in, pushing until Castiel feels Dean inside him completely, pressing forward until Castiel isn’t sure where he ends and Dean begins.
Shifting, he lowers his elbows and lays back against the covers. Dean shifts, too, leaning back and pulling until Castiel’s ass is pressed snugly against him, hands gripping Castiel’s hips firmly.
Dean starts off slow and Castiel revels in every movement of muscle, every stretch of skin, the tightening of Dean’s fingers against him. There will be bruises there later that Dean’s hands and eyes will gravitate to. Castiel understands; he knows what it’s like to mark something yours, knows how it feels to look on that mark and think mine.
Castiel grips the sheets beneath him until it’s too much, until he can’t help but reach out and touch, pulling Dean out of the rhythm he’s established and down to Castiel’s mouth. He kisses him as hard as he can with Dean leaning over him so awkwardly. But then Dean’s shifting and kissing him back, quickening the pace, one hand planted firmly on the bed while the other sinks into Castiel’s hair.
Castiel wishes his hands could be everywhere, wants to feel as much as he possibly can here and now. Again and again.
They keep kissing until they can’t, until they’re both breathless with exertion and sharing air more than actually kissing, mouths open and panting against one another.
Then Dean’s groaning low in the back of his throat and coming inside him, shuddering apart with Castiel’s name on his lips. Castiel feels it happen, marvels at his chance to feel this, to feel and hear and taste and touch Dean. Here, elsewhere. Anywhere. He feels Dean tremble and surge within him and follows right after.
If the other angels knew such pleasure existed, there would be no peace in Heaven, he thinks, before collapsing with Dean in a tangle of sweaty limbs.
They remain like that for a while, skin cooling and breath slowing before Dean inches back. Castiel can’t help the small sound that escapes as Dean slips from his body. It catches Dean’s attention and he pauses, pressing a soft kiss to Castiel’s mouth. “Be right back,” he says and then he’s up, switching on the light in the bathroom.
Castiel watches him go then closes his eyes, listening to water run in the sink. He feels both tired and alive, a strange juxtaposition of feeling floating just beneath the surface of his skin. He wants to lay with Dean and do nothing, wants to move and experience everything.
Wants to have it all. It is both exhilarating and terrifying, the way he can get lost in this.
When he opens his eyes again, Dean is standing at the corner of the bed watching, condom disposed of, damp washcloth in hand. He isn’t so much watching Castiel as looking, taking him in. His face is fond, a look Castiel is becoming more and more familiar with.
“What?” he asks.
“You look relaxed.” Dean crawls onto the bed until he’s kneeling over him. “Happy.”
“Yes, Dean.”
“That’s good.” Dean wipes at Castiel’s torso with the damp cloth and grins up at him through his eyelashes. “Getting pretty used to this human thing, huh?”
Reaching out, Castiel takes Dean's other hand in his, squeezes once. “Thanks to you.” Someone or something put Castiel on this path; if not for Dean, he would be lost.
But Dean’s grin dims around the edges as he looks down at Castiel’s hand in his and then looks away. Castiel regrets it, likes Dean warm and happy and open, and doesn’t want to fight about things they can’t change. Beneath his fingers, he can feel Dean’s pulse beating fast under his skin. “Listen, Cas,” Dean says, tongue darting out nervously over his lips. “About that. I—”
Castiel lets go of Dean’s hand and sits up abruptly, palm covering Dean’s mouth. Dean blinks at him over his hand, mouth caught open in surprise. “Don’t, Dean,” Castiel says. They don’t apologize and they don’t make excuses. What happened, happened. What is, is. They’ve both made mistakes. They’re both at fault.
But that’s not what Castiel wants to dwell on, not now when they’re both still naked. Not now when they have a reprieve from the blood and the terror and the fighting.
When Dean just blinks at him again, Castiel uncovers his mouth. He rubs reassurance into Dean’s shoulders, fits his hand over the mark he left before, kisses Dean until he relaxes against him.
They break apart when Dean’s stomach growls. Dean smiles sheepishly at him. “I was thinking we could stay in,” he says, strangely tentative in the lengthening shadows of the room. “Order pizza and not tempt fate. Maybe expand your knowledge of reality TV.”
“Would we have to get dressed?”
Dean flashes his teeth in a wicked grin as he pushes up to get to the phone. “That’s the beauty of staying in, Cas: clothing optional.”
It’s as good a plan as any. And if it means more time alone with Dean—time when they can set aside the complications and have some space to breathe deep—Castiel is happy to go along with it. There will be time for the rest of the world in the morning.
