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annundrielPersonal Space Is Overrated
Dean/Castiel
NC-17
2775
No spoilers.
Some of Dean’s assumptions about Cas are wrong. He’s kind of okay with that.
Because there is a fit body underneath that trench coat and suit. Massive thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sdrohc_ratiug and olivelavonne.
Dean’s at the counter, paying the bill, when he suddenly feels someone standing right behind him. He knows it’s not Sam; he can see Sam still sitting in their booth, laptop open and—the world must really be ending—flirting with their waitress.
Plus, there’s really only one person who stands that close. One person who makes every nerve in his body stand at attention.
“Cas,” Dean says, ignoring the surprised look on the cashier’s face. “How many times do we need to talk about personal space?”
“Sorry, Dean,” Cas says, stepping around to Dean’s side. He doesn’t look it. “I forgot.”
Shoving his wallet in his back pocket, Dean turns to him. “You ever notice you kind of forget it a lot?”
Cas looks away, reaches out to toy with the knob on the toothpick dispenser. Which is…odd, as close to a nervous tick as he’s ever seen Cas get. Except for the night before they met with Raphael, the night Dean took Cas to…
Huh. There’s something, an answer or a question or both, niggling there at the back of Dean’s mind that he can’t quite put his finger on.
The cashier is watching them curiously, so Dean shrugs, pats Cas on the arm. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “There are worse things you could be doing.” He brushes past Cas on his way to the door, pausing on the other side to make sure Cas is behind him.
Cas hasn’t moved. Instead, he’s looking down at the spot Dean patted, a slight frown on his face.
“Hey,” Dean says, feeling a little defensive. “I don’t have cooties. You stand that close, you’re gonna get touched.”
But then Cas looks up at him, eyes so very blue in the light coming through the windows, concealing nothing, and Dean thinks, Well, fuck.
Stepping back through the door, Dean grabs the lapel of Cas’ coat and drags him out with him.
They make it across the parking lot, back to the motel room, Dean shutting the door behind him before he says, “Cas, what the he—”
Cas’ mouth is on his out of nowhere. It’s surprising and awkward as fuck—which is partly Dean’s fault, being caught off-guard and mid-word—but Jesus Christ if it doesn’t light him up from the inside out.
“Cas,” Dean says, voice thick when Cas finally lets him go. “What was—That was—”
Cas stops him with his mouth again, and Dean lets him. Dean more than lets him, he actively encourages it, and Cas groans against him as Dean pushes him back against the wall, fingers anchored in the lapels of Cas’ coat.
Cas’ fingers scramble at Dean’s hips, searching for something to hold onto, pulling Dean forward when they find his belt loops. Their hips collide, and Dean can feel Cas hard against him.
“Cas,” he says, in between sloppy kisses. “Do you really want this?”
Cas growls, and Dean feels it go all the way to his cock, a full-body charge like he’s stuck a fork in an electrical socket. “You have to ask?”
Dean groans, grinds his hips against Cas’. “I know,” he says. “I know. Stupid question. It’s just…this is pretty”—Cas’ hands on him are seriously distracting—“sudden.”
“Dean,” Cas says, voice gone deep and dark and rough as Dean’s lips find his throat, pulse pounding away beneath Cas’ skin. “I have…” He shudders between Dean and the wall. “I have wanted this for a…very long time.”
Pressing Cas against the wall, hands flat on his chest, Dean takes in the flush of Cas’ cheeks, the kiss-bruised fullness of his lips.
Fuck, he wants it. He wants it bad.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.” He forces himself to pull away long enough to shuck off his jacket and grab the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. If Sam doesn’t pay attention to it, that’s his own damn fault.
He turns back to Cas, and Cas leans forward, angling for Dean’s mouth. Dean goes with it, diving back in. It’s wet and slick and good.
Dean slides his hands beneath the lapels of Cas’ coat and jacket to slip them off Cas’ shoulders. There’s a brief moment of awkward struggle when Cas’ arms gets trapped, a noise of frustration slipping out from between Cas’ lips that makes Dean chuckle—mighty angel of the Lord can exorcise demons with his bare hands but he can’t get undressed—and then both pieces of clothing fall to the floor, pooling between Cas’ feet and the wall.
Cas leans back, his tie a dark line drawing Dean’s gaze downward to the place where Cas is hard, tenting the front of his slacks. Cas’ eyes on him are dark and hot, and Dean feels ready to combust any moment under the intensity of that look, the depth of that perception.
It makes him nervous, jittery. Excited. That familiar charge he feels under his skin when Cas looks at him amped up to eleven.
“Time to lose the clothes,” Dean says, breaking the silence that’s gathered between them. Fewer clothes might mean a more even footing. Castiel’s seen all of him—inside and out—and Dean would like to level that score.
Cas doesn’t move, though, simply stays where he is, waiting.
Dean sighs and steps back into Cas’ space, feels Cas hot all along the front of him, feels that heat seep into his skin and curl around the base of his spine. “Fine,” he says, hands on Cas’ hips. “Do I have to do everything?”
Tilting his head to the side, Cas brushes his lips against Dean’s, licks into his mouth hot and slow until Dean feels like his knees are going to give out. “No, Dean. Not everything,” Cas says when he pulls away. He’s barely breathless, the bastard, and there’s a wicked little glint in his eye, like he’s holding the secret of life, the universe, and everything back there, and Dean will only get a peek if he’s very, very lucky.
Oh god, Dean hopes he’s lucky.
“I’m simply…enjoying the moment.”
Feeling off balance, Dean tries to smirk, is pleased to find he still can. “Yeah?” he says. “How’s that going for you?”
Cas actually appears to consider this for a moment, hands sliding up Dean’s arms. His fingers toy with the edge of Dean’s sleeve, a little farther and Dean knows they’ll slide across the mark Castiel left on his shoulder. He shivers.
“It’s going…well,” Cas says, smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. “You gonna give me a hand here?”
Cas looks down at Dean’s hands where they’re cupping his hips. “You appear to be doing fine on your own. I would not wish to get in your way.”
“You’re just annoyed about getting caught in your coat.”
The pout that gets is priceless.
“Don’t worry,” Dean says, kissing it away. “I got this.”
Tugging at Cas’ shirt, Dean slips it out of Cas’ waistband. The fabric is skin-warm and wrinkled under his fingers, and Cas watches him as Dean pulls it loose.
Dean knows that look, recognizes it from other moments with different context. It’s deceptively passive, but if you know where to look—and Dean’s learning where—there’s expectation simmering just under the surface. Cas biding his time, waiting to pounce.
Shirt free, Dean feels smooth, hot skin against the tips of his fingers. He can’t help but slide his hand underneath, and Cas arches into his touch. He’s slimmer than Dean imagined with his body hidden under his slightly too-large clothes, his shoulders rounded like he’s carrying the weight of several worlds.
“Dean,” Cas says, hands finding Dean’s bare forearms, holding on. He sounds shaken, and Dean looks up from where he’s been watching the movement of his hands beneath the untucked shirt to find Cas’ eyes wide and wondering. He looks like no one’s ever undressed him before, ever touched him like this, ever—
Because they haven’t, Dean realizes. No one’s laid their palms on Cas’ naked skin, curled up with him beneath sheets and shared heat, grounded him in his body like this. It’s completely incongruous with the way Cas kissed him, but it also seems right, Cas some strange mix of otherworldly knowledge and earthly innocence.
“You like it when I touch you?” Dean asks, smiling.
Cas nods.
Dean slides his hands farther up, shirt bunching above them, obscuring the view of Cas’ chest and abdomen, smooth and flat beneath Dean’s hands, until his fingers brush Cas’ nipples.
“That’s why you stand so close, isn’t it? It’s not that you don’t understand personal space, you’re hoping I’ll touch you.”
He presses forward with his hips, and Cas gasps against him, heart thudding. Victory, Dean thinks.
Cas licks his lips. His voice when he speaks is rougher than usual. “I—Yes,” he says. “I wanted you to do…something.”
“Like I’m doing now?” Dean asks, rubbing a thumb over a nipple, making him shudder.
Cas doesn’t have to say yes for Dean to know the answer, not with the way Cas’ eyes are on him, the way he’s not quite managing to stay still. But he wants to hear it anyway.
“Yes.”
Hands moving down, Dean pulls away, and Cas makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a disappointed whimper. Dean grabs his tie and pulls him forward, mouth to mouth. “I’ll touch you all you want,” he says, pressing a quick kiss there. “After you lose the clothes.”
Taking a step back, then another, the tie slides free from his grasp, and Cas blinks at him from his spot against the wall. Well? Dean gestures.
Not looking away from Dean, Cas’ hands fly up to the knot in his tie, working it loose and pulling it from his neck. It lands on the floor with his outer layers. He has to look away then, down at his shirt as his fingers fumble with the buttons. Anticipation builds with each one undone, each patch of skin revealed, and Dean wants to step forward and lend a hand, speed up the process, but he also wants to see Cas do this himself.
Soon enough the shirt hangs open, revealing a pale, smooth stretch of skin down the center of Cas’ chest. Twisting his wrists, Cas gets the cuffs unbuttoned and shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, much more easily than before.
Dean is, well, surprised. He had no illusions about Cas being ripped, none of that hunter physique that Dean’s gotten used to the few times he’s indulged himself with hard stomachs and thighs instead of soft breasts and hips. He’d been painting Cas as softer under all of those clothes when he’d pictured this in his head. Even with the proof of touch providing a slightly different picture.
He’s anything but.
Cas looks up at Dean through his lashes. Dean’s not entirely sure who’s in control here anymore.
“Keep,” Dean starts, swallowing when he finds his throat’s gone dry. Tries again. “Keep going.”
Looking down, Cas toes off his shoes. His eyes back on Dean, Cas’ hands drop to his pants and he unfastens them. Hooking his fingers in the waistband, he slides slacks and underwear down his hips, over his cock, until they’re a pile on the floor, too.
And Dean is…Dean is struck. There isn’t an extra inch on Cas—Heh, Dean thinks. Except where it counts—or a hint of flab in sight. Instead, he’s well-proportioned, fit. Long and lean and, fuck, Dean wants.
He wants to get down on his knees and worship at the cut of that hip with his mouth, follow it with his lips and teeth and tongue to its inevitable destination. He wants to spread his hands on Cas’ skin, find all of the places his fingers fit best, press his mouth to every groove and dip and plane. Discover all of the ways they can tangle themselves together.
“What are you staring at, Dean?” Cas asks, a self-satisfied smile lurking at the corners of Cas’ mouth.
Dean looks up from Cas’ cock, flushed and hard, to Cas’ face. That glint is back, that knowing look. Dean licks his lips. “Uh. I, uh…”
“Very articulate.”
Maybe it’s the look on Cas’ face that does it, or the way Dean is straining against the front of his jeans, but Dean’s palms itch to touch and he can’t see a single reason not to, can see a dozen reasons why he should.
“Oh,” he says, “I’ll show you articulate.” And then he’s on Cas, pressing him naked and willing against the wall.
Cas groans, and Dean feels it reverberate through him.
“Dean,” Cas gasps—breathless, finally breathless—as his fingers scramble at Dean’s T-shirt. “Dean, you are wearing too much.”
Dean pulls back long enough to yank his shirt over his head, and then they’re chest to chest, Cas’ fingers against his skin, pressing hard and soft and hard again, and Dean’s hands are on him and they’re trading touches like they’re starved for it.
Cas’ hands trail down Dean’s back and up Dean’s arms, finding that mark on his shoulder and lingering there only to move away in search of more, in search of everything Dean has to give.
Dean presses Cas against the wall and he wants more. He wants this and he wants more and he wants all of it, everything, and he’s still got his goddamn jeans on.
He feels bad for a moment, grinding denim against Cas, but Cas distracts him with his mouth and tongue, and Dean grunts into it, stops touching Cas long enough to get his hands between them—his knuckles, the back of his hands, still brushing Cas’ belly, his cock—and undo his jeans.
Catching on quickly, Cas’ hands migrate to the small of his back, slide down to where Dean’s jeans hit, slipping beneath them to palm Dean’s ass, help push them down just far enough.
As soon as he’s free, Dean’s hands find Cas’ hips, pull them tight against him. Mouth to mouth and chest to chest. Cock to cock. Cas is hot and hard, muscles moving perfectly under skin that’s smooth and slick with sweat. Dean finds his groove against Cas’ hip and rocks against him, feels himself climbing toward that edge as Cas moves, mouth insistent and hands everywhere.
It doesn’t take long before Cas comes with a shout, shooting hot against Dean’s skin.
Dean groans, cock sliding against Cas, perfect and sweaty and everything Dean’s been itching for. Face tucked into the curve of Cas' neck, Dean nips and licks and kisses there until he's panting Cas' name. His last thought before he tumbles over the edge is that he can't wait to do this again.
When Dean has a better grasp of his senses, he finds himself plastered to Cas' front, face still pressed against his neck. Cas' arms are wrapped around him, hands calmly wandering back and forth, soothing.
He pulls back enough to see Cas’ face, and Cas blinks at him and smiles and Dean hates himself for thinking it’s like the sun rising and burning of fog and shadows, but it is and fuck anyone who thinks that’s a chick flick sentiment anyway. They don’t know him, and they don’t know Cas, and they’re not ever going to know this because this is theirs.
Dean kisses that smile, feels the way his own lips fit against it, until Cas’ back slips against the wall, and Dean realizes his jeans are digging uncomfortably into his thighs.
“Come on,” he says. “This’ll be better in a bed.” Pulling back, Dean looks down at the come on his skin, knows that it’s both of theirs. He catches Cas looking at the mess on his own belly, fingers curious against it.
Looking away, Dean leans down to unlace his boots. He notices Cas still has his socks on, and can’t help the burst of laughter that threatens to erupt.
Cas is naked and sweaty, hair sex-mussed, cheeks pink with stubble burn. There’s come on his stomach—his amazingly flat, amazingly touchable stomach—and he’s still wearing his Sunday dress socks.
It’s ridiculous, and kind of perfect.
Dean kicks off his shoes onto the pile of clothing, jeans and underwear following, and reaches down to rescue Cas’ tie. He opens the door a crack, hand sneaking out to hang the tie on the knob. When he turns around, Cas is staring at him, one eyebrow cocked.
“We’re sexiling Sam,” Dean explains.
Cas nods once. “Ah,” he says. “Right.” He pauses. “What?”
Dean grins. “Lose the socks, and I’ll show you.”
Dean/Castiel
NC-17
2775
No spoilers.
Some of Dean’s assumptions about Cas are wrong. He’s kind of okay with that.
Because there is a fit body underneath that trench coat and suit. Massive thanks to
sdrohc_ratiug and olivelavonne.Dean’s at the counter, paying the bill, when he suddenly feels someone standing right behind him. He knows it’s not Sam; he can see Sam still sitting in their booth, laptop open and—the world must really be ending—flirting with their waitress.
Plus, there’s really only one person who stands that close. One person who makes every nerve in his body stand at attention.
“Cas,” Dean says, ignoring the surprised look on the cashier’s face. “How many times do we need to talk about personal space?”
“Sorry, Dean,” Cas says, stepping around to Dean’s side. He doesn’t look it. “I forgot.”
Shoving his wallet in his back pocket, Dean turns to him. “You ever notice you kind of forget it a lot?”
Cas looks away, reaches out to toy with the knob on the toothpick dispenser. Which is…odd, as close to a nervous tick as he’s ever seen Cas get. Except for the night before they met with Raphael, the night Dean took Cas to…
Huh. There’s something, an answer or a question or both, niggling there at the back of Dean’s mind that he can’t quite put his finger on.
The cashier is watching them curiously, so Dean shrugs, pats Cas on the arm. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “There are worse things you could be doing.” He brushes past Cas on his way to the door, pausing on the other side to make sure Cas is behind him.
Cas hasn’t moved. Instead, he’s looking down at the spot Dean patted, a slight frown on his face.
“Hey,” Dean says, feeling a little defensive. “I don’t have cooties. You stand that close, you’re gonna get touched.”
But then Cas looks up at him, eyes so very blue in the light coming through the windows, concealing nothing, and Dean thinks, Well, fuck.
Stepping back through the door, Dean grabs the lapel of Cas’ coat and drags him out with him.
They make it across the parking lot, back to the motel room, Dean shutting the door behind him before he says, “Cas, what the he—”
Cas’ mouth is on his out of nowhere. It’s surprising and awkward as fuck—which is partly Dean’s fault, being caught off-guard and mid-word—but Jesus Christ if it doesn’t light him up from the inside out.
“Cas,” Dean says, voice thick when Cas finally lets him go. “What was—That was—”
Cas stops him with his mouth again, and Dean lets him. Dean more than lets him, he actively encourages it, and Cas groans against him as Dean pushes him back against the wall, fingers anchored in the lapels of Cas’ coat.
Cas’ fingers scramble at Dean’s hips, searching for something to hold onto, pulling Dean forward when they find his belt loops. Their hips collide, and Dean can feel Cas hard against him.
“Cas,” he says, in between sloppy kisses. “Do you really want this?”
Cas growls, and Dean feels it go all the way to his cock, a full-body charge like he’s stuck a fork in an electrical socket. “You have to ask?”
Dean groans, grinds his hips against Cas’. “I know,” he says. “I know. Stupid question. It’s just…this is pretty”—Cas’ hands on him are seriously distracting—“sudden.”
“Dean,” Cas says, voice gone deep and dark and rough as Dean’s lips find his throat, pulse pounding away beneath Cas’ skin. “I have…” He shudders between Dean and the wall. “I have wanted this for a…very long time.”
Pressing Cas against the wall, hands flat on his chest, Dean takes in the flush of Cas’ cheeks, the kiss-bruised fullness of his lips.
Fuck, he wants it. He wants it bad.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.” He forces himself to pull away long enough to shuck off his jacket and grab the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. If Sam doesn’t pay attention to it, that’s his own damn fault.
He turns back to Cas, and Cas leans forward, angling for Dean’s mouth. Dean goes with it, diving back in. It’s wet and slick and good.
Dean slides his hands beneath the lapels of Cas’ coat and jacket to slip them off Cas’ shoulders. There’s a brief moment of awkward struggle when Cas’ arms gets trapped, a noise of frustration slipping out from between Cas’ lips that makes Dean chuckle—mighty angel of the Lord can exorcise demons with his bare hands but he can’t get undressed—and then both pieces of clothing fall to the floor, pooling between Cas’ feet and the wall.
Cas leans back, his tie a dark line drawing Dean’s gaze downward to the place where Cas is hard, tenting the front of his slacks. Cas’ eyes on him are dark and hot, and Dean feels ready to combust any moment under the intensity of that look, the depth of that perception.
It makes him nervous, jittery. Excited. That familiar charge he feels under his skin when Cas looks at him amped up to eleven.
“Time to lose the clothes,” Dean says, breaking the silence that’s gathered between them. Fewer clothes might mean a more even footing. Castiel’s seen all of him—inside and out—and Dean would like to level that score.
Cas doesn’t move, though, simply stays where he is, waiting.
Dean sighs and steps back into Cas’ space, feels Cas hot all along the front of him, feels that heat seep into his skin and curl around the base of his spine. “Fine,” he says, hands on Cas’ hips. “Do I have to do everything?”
Tilting his head to the side, Cas brushes his lips against Dean’s, licks into his mouth hot and slow until Dean feels like his knees are going to give out. “No, Dean. Not everything,” Cas says when he pulls away. He’s barely breathless, the bastard, and there’s a wicked little glint in his eye, like he’s holding the secret of life, the universe, and everything back there, and Dean will only get a peek if he’s very, very lucky.
Oh god, Dean hopes he’s lucky.
“I’m simply…enjoying the moment.”
Feeling off balance, Dean tries to smirk, is pleased to find he still can. “Yeah?” he says. “How’s that going for you?”
Cas actually appears to consider this for a moment, hands sliding up Dean’s arms. His fingers toy with the edge of Dean’s sleeve, a little farther and Dean knows they’ll slide across the mark Castiel left on his shoulder. He shivers.
“It’s going…well,” Cas says, smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes. “You gonna give me a hand here?”
Cas looks down at Dean’s hands where they’re cupping his hips. “You appear to be doing fine on your own. I would not wish to get in your way.”
“You’re just annoyed about getting caught in your coat.”
The pout that gets is priceless.
“Don’t worry,” Dean says, kissing it away. “I got this.”
Tugging at Cas’ shirt, Dean slips it out of Cas’ waistband. The fabric is skin-warm and wrinkled under his fingers, and Cas watches him as Dean pulls it loose.
Dean knows that look, recognizes it from other moments with different context. It’s deceptively passive, but if you know where to look—and Dean’s learning where—there’s expectation simmering just under the surface. Cas biding his time, waiting to pounce.
Shirt free, Dean feels smooth, hot skin against the tips of his fingers. He can’t help but slide his hand underneath, and Cas arches into his touch. He’s slimmer than Dean imagined with his body hidden under his slightly too-large clothes, his shoulders rounded like he’s carrying the weight of several worlds.
“Dean,” Cas says, hands finding Dean’s bare forearms, holding on. He sounds shaken, and Dean looks up from where he’s been watching the movement of his hands beneath the untucked shirt to find Cas’ eyes wide and wondering. He looks like no one’s ever undressed him before, ever touched him like this, ever—
Because they haven’t, Dean realizes. No one’s laid their palms on Cas’ naked skin, curled up with him beneath sheets and shared heat, grounded him in his body like this. It’s completely incongruous with the way Cas kissed him, but it also seems right, Cas some strange mix of otherworldly knowledge and earthly innocence.
“You like it when I touch you?” Dean asks, smiling.
Cas nods.
Dean slides his hands farther up, shirt bunching above them, obscuring the view of Cas’ chest and abdomen, smooth and flat beneath Dean’s hands, until his fingers brush Cas’ nipples.
“That’s why you stand so close, isn’t it? It’s not that you don’t understand personal space, you’re hoping I’ll touch you.”
He presses forward with his hips, and Cas gasps against him, heart thudding. Victory, Dean thinks.
Cas licks his lips. His voice when he speaks is rougher than usual. “I—Yes,” he says. “I wanted you to do…something.”
“Like I’m doing now?” Dean asks, rubbing a thumb over a nipple, making him shudder.
Cas doesn’t have to say yes for Dean to know the answer, not with the way Cas’ eyes are on him, the way he’s not quite managing to stay still. But he wants to hear it anyway.
“Yes.”
Hands moving down, Dean pulls away, and Cas makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a disappointed whimper. Dean grabs his tie and pulls him forward, mouth to mouth. “I’ll touch you all you want,” he says, pressing a quick kiss there. “After you lose the clothes.”
Taking a step back, then another, the tie slides free from his grasp, and Cas blinks at him from his spot against the wall. Well? Dean gestures.
Not looking away from Dean, Cas’ hands fly up to the knot in his tie, working it loose and pulling it from his neck. It lands on the floor with his outer layers. He has to look away then, down at his shirt as his fingers fumble with the buttons. Anticipation builds with each one undone, each patch of skin revealed, and Dean wants to step forward and lend a hand, speed up the process, but he also wants to see Cas do this himself.
Soon enough the shirt hangs open, revealing a pale, smooth stretch of skin down the center of Cas’ chest. Twisting his wrists, Cas gets the cuffs unbuttoned and shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, much more easily than before.
Dean is, well, surprised. He had no illusions about Cas being ripped, none of that hunter physique that Dean’s gotten used to the few times he’s indulged himself with hard stomachs and thighs instead of soft breasts and hips. He’d been painting Cas as softer under all of those clothes when he’d pictured this in his head. Even with the proof of touch providing a slightly different picture.
He’s anything but.
Cas looks up at Dean through his lashes. Dean’s not entirely sure who’s in control here anymore.
“Keep,” Dean starts, swallowing when he finds his throat’s gone dry. Tries again. “Keep going.”
Looking down, Cas toes off his shoes. His eyes back on Dean, Cas’ hands drop to his pants and he unfastens them. Hooking his fingers in the waistband, he slides slacks and underwear down his hips, over his cock, until they’re a pile on the floor, too.
And Dean is…Dean is struck. There isn’t an extra inch on Cas—Heh, Dean thinks. Except where it counts—or a hint of flab in sight. Instead, he’s well-proportioned, fit. Long and lean and, fuck, Dean wants.
He wants to get down on his knees and worship at the cut of that hip with his mouth, follow it with his lips and teeth and tongue to its inevitable destination. He wants to spread his hands on Cas’ skin, find all of the places his fingers fit best, press his mouth to every groove and dip and plane. Discover all of the ways they can tangle themselves together.
“What are you staring at, Dean?” Cas asks, a self-satisfied smile lurking at the corners of Cas’ mouth.
Dean looks up from Cas’ cock, flushed and hard, to Cas’ face. That glint is back, that knowing look. Dean licks his lips. “Uh. I, uh…”
“Very articulate.”
Maybe it’s the look on Cas’ face that does it, or the way Dean is straining against the front of his jeans, but Dean’s palms itch to touch and he can’t see a single reason not to, can see a dozen reasons why he should.
“Oh,” he says, “I’ll show you articulate.” And then he’s on Cas, pressing him naked and willing against the wall.
Cas groans, and Dean feels it reverberate through him.
“Dean,” Cas gasps—breathless, finally breathless—as his fingers scramble at Dean’s T-shirt. “Dean, you are wearing too much.”
Dean pulls back long enough to yank his shirt over his head, and then they’re chest to chest, Cas’ fingers against his skin, pressing hard and soft and hard again, and Dean’s hands are on him and they’re trading touches like they’re starved for it.
Cas’ hands trail down Dean’s back and up Dean’s arms, finding that mark on his shoulder and lingering there only to move away in search of more, in search of everything Dean has to give.
Dean presses Cas against the wall and he wants more. He wants this and he wants more and he wants all of it, everything, and he’s still got his goddamn jeans on.
He feels bad for a moment, grinding denim against Cas, but Cas distracts him with his mouth and tongue, and Dean grunts into it, stops touching Cas long enough to get his hands between them—his knuckles, the back of his hands, still brushing Cas’ belly, his cock—and undo his jeans.
Catching on quickly, Cas’ hands migrate to the small of his back, slide down to where Dean’s jeans hit, slipping beneath them to palm Dean’s ass, help push them down just far enough.
As soon as he’s free, Dean’s hands find Cas’ hips, pull them tight against him. Mouth to mouth and chest to chest. Cock to cock. Cas is hot and hard, muscles moving perfectly under skin that’s smooth and slick with sweat. Dean finds his groove against Cas’ hip and rocks against him, feels himself climbing toward that edge as Cas moves, mouth insistent and hands everywhere.
It doesn’t take long before Cas comes with a shout, shooting hot against Dean’s skin.
Dean groans, cock sliding against Cas, perfect and sweaty and everything Dean’s been itching for. Face tucked into the curve of Cas' neck, Dean nips and licks and kisses there until he's panting Cas' name. His last thought before he tumbles over the edge is that he can't wait to do this again.
When Dean has a better grasp of his senses, he finds himself plastered to Cas' front, face still pressed against his neck. Cas' arms are wrapped around him, hands calmly wandering back and forth, soothing.
He pulls back enough to see Cas’ face, and Cas blinks at him and smiles and Dean hates himself for thinking it’s like the sun rising and burning of fog and shadows, but it is and fuck anyone who thinks that’s a chick flick sentiment anyway. They don’t know him, and they don’t know Cas, and they’re not ever going to know this because this is theirs.
Dean kisses that smile, feels the way his own lips fit against it, until Cas’ back slips against the wall, and Dean realizes his jeans are digging uncomfortably into his thighs.
“Come on,” he says. “This’ll be better in a bed.” Pulling back, Dean looks down at the come on his skin, knows that it’s both of theirs. He catches Cas looking at the mess on his own belly, fingers curious against it.
Looking away, Dean leans down to unlace his boots. He notices Cas still has his socks on, and can’t help the burst of laughter that threatens to erupt.
Cas is naked and sweaty, hair sex-mussed, cheeks pink with stubble burn. There’s come on his stomach—his amazingly flat, amazingly touchable stomach—and he’s still wearing his Sunday dress socks.
It’s ridiculous, and kind of perfect.
Dean kicks off his shoes onto the pile of clothing, jeans and underwear following, and reaches down to rescue Cas’ tie. He opens the door a crack, hand sneaking out to hang the tie on the knob. When he turns around, Cas is staring at him, one eyebrow cocked.
“We’re sexiling Sam,” Dean explains.
Cas nods once. “Ah,” he says. “Right.” He pauses. “What?”
Dean grins. “Lose the socks, and I’ll show you.”