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annundrielSteamrollered
Dean/Castiel
NC-17
3336
General spoilers for season six. Allusion to events in 6.07.
Castiel makes a change, and Dean makes a decision.
Writing season six Dean/Castiel is hard. Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
qthelights, and perfumaniac who GRIPPED ME TIGHT AND RAISED ME FROM PERDI—oh wait. ;)
Alone again.
Dean pushes the off button on the remote before tossing it onto the rumpled sheets. Not even reruns of Dr. Sexy can distract him from the fact that, once again, he doesn’t know where Sam is or what Sam’s up to.
It’s frustrating, and Dean’s chest feels tight with the emotion, his throat locked with his inability to do anything.
God damn it.
Sam, soulless, is off doing who knows what, and Lisa and Ben are…well. They’re safe. They’ll be safe.
It was never going to work out there anyway; Dean was never going to work out there, with them. He’s got too much baggage, too many ghosts and demons and brothers and angels haunting his every thought, his every move.
It wasn’t fair to them, Dean sees that now. Not to them or to himself.
But fair has only gotten Dean an empty motel room in some backwoods, podunk town, and the churning, itching need to get out of his own life, his own skin. You can’t blame him for wanting something else, though; he’s only human.
Dean sighs, rubs his hand over his face. God, he’s pathetic. Keep it together, Winchester.
Standing, Dean slips from beneath the sheets to pad to the bathroom. He shivers when his bare feet hit the linoleum and scratches at his thigh where the hem of his underwear cuts across, turns the sink faucet halfway between cold and hot.
The rush of the water fills Dean’s ears, and he stands there, looking in the mirror.
He doesn’t like what he sees.
He yanks the knob to cold and splashes his face; it feels a little like he’s waking up.
A little like he’s still asleep.
He doesn’t know why fate continues to screw him over. Even as a hunter, he’s always the one making the sacrifices, being left behind. Picking up the pieces when everyone else jumps ship, leaving him bailing.
Turning the water off, Dean reaches blindly for a towel. He straightens and dries his face, wonders what Cas is up to, how his civil war is treating him.
Wonders if Cas ever feels as alone and useless as Dean does.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says. “Castiel, I want—”
There’s a familiar sound of wings and displaced air in the other room and Dean bites back a smile even though the only one who can see it is his reflection.
“Cas,” he calls over his shoulder. He turns around, rubs his hands on the towel as he leaves the bathroom. “Able to take some time out of your busy schedule for—”
Dean pauses in the threshold, feet half on, half off the carpet.
“What happened to you?”
Cas’ suit is pressed and his tie is straight, his coat clean. There’s not a wrinkle in sight. His hair even looks combed.
It’s bizarre.
Cas blinks at him, head tilted to the side, more bird-like and strange, untouchable, than he was a year ago, back before everything went to hell—literally—and Heaven pulled Cas back in.
When Cas chose Heaven over Dean.
“Nothing, Dean,” Cas answers. “I have been busy—”
“Getting run over by a steamroller?”
That earns him a bemused frown.
It’s strange seeing Cas like this; he looks more like an authority figure—one with real authority—than Dean’s ever seen him, even if his suit is still a size too big.
It throws Dean a little; he can’t help but stare. Suddenly, he’s aware of exactly how little he’s wearing and how worn it is.
“The suit.” Dean gestures toward him with the towel. “What’s with the suit?
“Oh.” Cas looks down at himself like he’s forgotten what he’s wearing; before this, Dean would have guessed he had. “A change seemed…appropriate.”
“Appropriate, huh?” Dean says, tossing the towel back onto the counter behind him. He takes a step closer, then another, closing the distance between them, not thinking about what he’s doing until he’s toe to toe with Cas. It’s like his entire body is magnetized, his skin tingling more the closer he gets. His fingers itch, twitch; he wants to reach out, rumple Cas up, drag him back down to Earth where he at least seemed more human, more touchable.
“Appropriate for what?”
“My work—”
“Why’d you leave?”
Shit, that isn’t what he meant to say.
“Why didn’t you ask me not to?”
And that’s it, isn’t it? Why didn’t he?
The silence between them has been as much his fault as it has been Cas’. Dean has to take some of the blame. If he can admit everything else, he can admit…this.
It feels like they’re on the verge of something here, something that’s been looming in the distance for a while, that Dean wasn’t ready to face before, when he still thought that white picket fence life was for him.
If he was wrong about that, maybe he’s been wrong about other things, too.
“Cas,” he says, and, Christ, Cas’ eyes are very blue, and very big. There’s too much there, too much held in that gaze, and Dean has to look away, ends up staring at Cas’ tie, trading one blue for another.
It’s a little easier to handle. Except Dean can see the slight rise and fall of Cas’ chest as he breathes, and suddenly he’s aware—very, very aware—of the body just under that shirt, that suit, breathing and warm and, yes, wanted, so very wanted.
He’d laugh if he could; of course he had to lose everything to get what he…what he thought he wanted. Of course he had to lose that to get what he needed, to maybe finally have what he really, actually wanted, but wasn’t able to see through the rest of the grit clouding his vision.
This is how Dean’s life works.
Swallowing, Dean reaches out to touch, fingers wrapping around Cas’ newly pristine tie.
“Cas,” he tries again, fingering the tie. “Cas, I—”
—missed you.
—am sorry.
—didn’t know.
“Yes, Dean?” Cas whispers.
Dean stares back up at him, and can’t think of a single thing to say, can’t get his mouth to work. There’s too much and not enough and words never work and how can he ever—
Cas spares him the trouble of finishing, banishes the hard lump of inarticulated want and regret in Dean’s throat and chest by taking over Dean’s personal space, his mouth finding Dean’s like it was always meant to be there.
This—right here, right now—this is the punctuation they’ve been avoiding, the question they’ve been sidestepping from the beginning. The very beginning, if Dean’s honest, finally honest with himself; his body’s been clamoring for this, for Cas’ hard edges, the feel of Cas’ stubble against his own. He’s wondered what those hands, so strong and capable, would feel like on his skin, on his body.
It’s just one more of the many things Dean didn’t know, didn’t realize until now.
Fuck, he’s slow.
Dean remembers Lisa’s soft curves, her smell and her touch and her taste, remembers those were good, they were wonderful, but they weren’t…they weren’t this. They weren’t Cas solid and hot against him, lips firm and tongue tentative.
Oh, god, that’s Cas’ tongue. Dean groans, his fingers tangling in Cas’ tie, wrinkling it against his palm, and opens up at the sweep of Cas’ tongue across his bottom lip. He pulls Cas closer, and Cas’ hands find his shoulders, holding on, holding Dean steady as he kisses him.
Dean wants to say he isn’t the fucking girl in this scenario, doesn’t need Cas to hang on to him, except—fuck—he does, he really, really wants him to.
He doesn’t know where Cas learned how to kiss like this, isn’t sure if he wants to know. All he is sure of is that he doesn’t want Cas to stop, that he doesn’t want Cas to leave again.
“Dean?” Cas pants when he pulls away, and isn’t that a trip, that Cas sounds as breathless as Dean feels, looks as shaken.
“Ye—” Dean swallows, tries again. It’s distracting being this close, distracting having Cas’ breath brush against his face, the taste of Cas’ mouth lingering. “Yeah, Cas?”
“I’m sorry.”
Dean’s already racing heart plummets. “What?”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you called before, that I had no help to offer. I was…mistaken. Even with my duties, I should have—”
“Oh god, Cas, shut up,” Dean says, pressing a hand to Cas cheek, drawing his attention. The hair behind Cas’ ears tickles and Dean sinks his fingers deeper, feels the scrap of Cas’ stubble against his palm, and oh, oh, he can’t wait to feel it elsewhere, can’t wait to—“Shut up, shut up, shut up.” He leans forward, keeping his hold on Cas’ face, and kisses Cas lightly, repeats against his lips, “Just…shut up.”
He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t need to hear it. He just wants Cas to…wants Cas to…wants Cas.
Cas’ tie provides excellent leverage as Dean steps backward, not breaking contacting as he pulls Cas with him, as they half shuffle, half stumble into a wall. He wants this, god he wants this. He wants it here, and he wants it now, and he wants to feel Cas against him, wants to feel Cas holding him, pinning him, taking him. Wants to feel the wall at his back and Cas at his front, Cas around him and inside him and nothing but Cas, erasing everything else until it’s just the two of them and this moment between them.
There’s a chance for some good here, and Dean’s taking it.
Cas’ hands migrate from Dean’s shoulders, moving up Dean’s neck, down Dean’s chest, pressing against Dean like they already know him, and, fuck, maybe they already do.
“Cas,” Dean gasps when Cas’ fingers find a nipple through his T-shirt. “Cas.”
“Yes, Dean?” Cas’ nose is tucked against his, and they’re sharing air—one breath, two. Dean licks his lips, and he can feel Cas there, right there.
“Fuck me.”
Cas pulls back, and Dean blinks at him; Cas’ cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are bright, and Dean’s been so stupid, not noticing this before.
He never should have let Cas go.
“Are you sure?” Cas asks, his voice gone even deeper than usual. “I thought you wanted…What about your life, Dean?”
The chuckle that escapes is a little morbid, but Dean can’t help that. He tips his head until their foreheads are touching, shares what he’s doing his best to accept. “Cas,” he says, “news flash: this is my life.”
“And Lisa? Ben? If you could go back to them, if I could—”
Dean shakes his head, and Cas moves with him. “I’m never going to make them happy. And they’re…they’re never going to make me happy, not really. This”—he pulls Cas closer—“this is what I want.”
Cas’ fingers flex against him, one hand hot on his chest, the other on his hip. “Are you sure?”
The urge to roll his eyes is strong. “God, Cas, yes I’m fucking sure.” He shifts his weight, twists his hips, hooks a leg around Cas’ thigh, as high as he can get it, presses them as close as possible. Pulling back until the back of his head is against the wall, Dean watches Cas’ eyes widen, his lips part. “I feel pretty sure, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Cas says, licking his lips; Dean wants to follow that tongue. “Yes, you do.”
“Well then?” Dean asks, smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he grips Cas tighter. “What are you waiting for?”
Cas doesn’t answer, just leans in and takes Dean’s mouth with his own, hard and firm and demanding, unrelenting. There is nothing soft about this thing between them, not right now. Later, maybe, when the edge is taken off, when they’re spent, and their breaths are caught, when Dean has Cas naked and pressed against the sheets, his suit on the floor, then they’ll have time for soft, for more.
This is the start of something, not the end. Dean will make sure of it this time.
Mouth occupied, Dean hitches his hips, makes some space so he can reach between them, cup Cas’ cock with his hand. Cas hisses against him, teeth scrapping Dean’ lower lip, pulls away at the same time he pushes his hips forward, into Dean’s hand. Cas swallows, and Dean can hear his throat click. Leaning in, Dean presses his mouth against Cas’ Adam’s apple, presses that noise against his mouth, tastes it with his tongue. Cas’ pulse leaps beneath his lips, and Dean grins, noses at the collar of Cas’ shirt, squeezes Cas’ cock in his hand.
Cas moans, clutching at him.
“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says. “Come on. I want to feel you.”
Cas’ hands join his between them, desperate and fumbling, working his fly until it’s open, until Dean can get his hand inside, wrap his fingers around Cas, pull him out.
He’s hard in Dean’s hand, hard and hot and perfect, and Dean wants to feel that, wants to feel Cas, doesn’t know why they’re wasting time when they could be fucking already.
“Dean,” Cas breathes, voice shaky between them, his hands slipping under Dean’s shirt to find Dean’s hips, fingers edging beneath the waistband of Dean’s underwear, pushing them lower. “Dean. I want—I want—”
“Yeah, yeah, me too, Cas. Me, too.”
Cas slides his hands beneath Dean’s underwear, palms hot against Dean’s ass; they feel hot enough to mark him, leave Cas was here pressed into his skin like Cas’ handprint on his shoulder.
Letting go of Cas’ cock, Dean helps him pull the underwear down, out of the way. Cas gives him some space, and Dean bends, gets one foot free before Cas apparently decides that’s enough and crowds him back against the wall, their cocks brushing as Cas takes hold of Dean’s hips again.
They’re right there, right in each other’s space. Cas’ pupils are blown, his lips more full than usual, and Dean thinks, I did that, that’s because of me, and that’s…that’s something, something big. Cas may not be human, but Dean was wrong to call him a dick, wrong to think he doesn’t feel anymore because Cas is here, and Cas is with him, there’s no doubt about that.
Let me keep this, Dean thinks. Let me keep this, and that’s all, that’s all…
They breathe each other’s air for moments, a few beats and then they’re kissing again, mouths hungry, fingers desperate. Dean pulls Cas to him, sandwiches himself between Cas and the wall, blocking out everything else except this, Cas hot and hard and heavy against him, real and undeniable and there, completely present.
Dean’s hands clutch at Cas’ shoulders, at his coat, tugging at him as Cas’ hands slip around to the small of Dean’s back, pulling him close, tucking them together, Cas’ pants rough against Dean’s cock. Dean feels Cas’ hands slip farther downward, gliding across skin until there, oh god, there are Cas’ fingers dipping between his cheeks, pressing against him.
“Cas. Cas, oh fuck yes, fuck me, yes. Now. I want…I want…Cas, now.”
Cas lifts him like it’s nothing, and Dean’s sweat-soaked T-shirt catches against the wall, pulls tight at his throat.
Dean doesn’t care, he can’t care, there are so many other things to focus on, like the way his legs fit so perfectly around Cas’ waist, the way Cas’ hands grip him so tightly, so surely. Cas’ shoulders move beneath the layers of his shirt and jacket and coat, and Dean can feel them, wants to feel them without all of the clothing in the way, no barriers between them.
Next time, they are doing this naked.
Cas’ fingers press against him, and Dean doesn’t know what eases the way, finds he doesn’t really care; he just wants Cas in him, and in him now.
Cas opens Dean up, keeps him pinned against the wall as he does it, nothing keeping Dean there but Cas’ body, Cas’ strength.
Dean’s heart races from Cas’ fingers slipping inside of him, Cas’ mouth against his neck. From Cas lifting him so easily. It’s amazing how much that turns him on, how much he likes the fact that Cas can lift him and take him and use him if he wants to.
It should scare him, he thinks, but it doesn’t.
Cas’ fingers disappear, only to be replaced by the head of Cas’ cock, pushing against Dean’s entrance.
“Dean,” Cas starts, lips hard against Dean’s jaw. “Are you—”
Growling, Dean tightens his legs around Cas, hooks his arms more firmly over his shoulders. He threads his fingers in Cas’ hair and pulls Cas back, pulls Cas to look at him. “If you ask me if I’m sure, or if I’m okay, or anything else remotely stupid, I will punch you in the face.”
One of Cas’ eyebrows goes up, and his lips twitch, and Dean can’t help but smile at him, the bastard.
“I was going to ask if you were ready.”
Dean’s about to say yes, god yes, he’s never been so ready in his life, but before he can open his mouth, Cas is pushing inside, hips and chest moving against him, hands sure.
Dean groans, gasps Cas’ name, finds Cas’ mouth—that familiar, almost-smiling mouth—with his own, and hangs on.
They breathe together, move together, kiss and touch and moan together. They bite and lick and Dean’s trembling before he knows it, skin hot and limbs loose, hanging on to Cas like his life depends on it.
Cas hangs on just as tightly, hands hard and hips working, mouthing silent words into Dean’s skin that Dean can’t quite make out, that he can’t quite understand, until suddenly the pieces fall into place in his mind and he gets it, he understands what Cas is trying to say.
I’ll stay, Cas says. I’ll stay, I’ll stay, this time I’ll stay.
Dean believes him, wants him, will hold on as long as Cas lets him and then longer than that because there is no way, no way he is letting this go, not now, not ever.
Yes, Dean says. Please. Cas.
He comes with Cas’ mouth on his skin, with Cas’ hands on his waist, with Cas holding him up above the ground, dependable and steady.
Until Cas’ hips stutter, and his breath catches, and Cas is coming too, following Dean over, pressing Dean harder against the wall, the extra support needed.
It’s not the most comfortable position, his shirt twisted, his feet tingling, going numb, skin becoming chilled where Cas isn’t touching him, but Dean doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to untangle himself from Cas. He can admit, to himself at least, that he likes the way Cas’ body cradles his, holds him here.
A bed would be nice, though.
He’s not sure if he says something, or if Cas has the same thought, or even if Cas just…read his mind—and isn’t that a scary thought?—but Cas pulls away from the wall, arms still tight around Dean, slipping from him, tumbling them to the bed. He rolls onto his side next to Dean, and Dean almost misses his weight, the feel of Cas against him.
Reaching out, Dean wraps his fingers around Cas’ wrinkled, come-stained tie, grounding himself.
Cas looks down at Dean’s hand, at his tie, himself. His mouth turns rueful. “That did not last long.”
Dean shrugs against the sheets. “We’ll take our time next time.”
Cas quirks an eyebrow. “I meant the suit, Dean.”
Oh. Dean doesn’t blush. He doesn’t. He takes in Cas’ rumpled hair, his messy shirt, undone pants. “Well, I like it better this way,” he says, using Cas’ tie to tug him forward. Dean doesn’t know why he never realized how handy it was before.
Cas comes easily, humming consideration, settling against Dean. “Yes,” he says, “I believe I do, too.”
Dean/Castiel
NC-17
3336
General spoilers for season six. Allusion to events in 6.07.
Castiel makes a change, and Dean makes a decision.
Writing season six Dean/Castiel is hard. Many thanks to
qthelights, and perfumaniac who GRIPPED ME TIGHT AND RAISED ME FROM PERDI—oh wait. ;)Alone again.
Dean pushes the off button on the remote before tossing it onto the rumpled sheets. Not even reruns of Dr. Sexy can distract him from the fact that, once again, he doesn’t know where Sam is or what Sam’s up to.
It’s frustrating, and Dean’s chest feels tight with the emotion, his throat locked with his inability to do anything.
God damn it.
Sam, soulless, is off doing who knows what, and Lisa and Ben are…well. They’re safe. They’ll be safe.
It was never going to work out there anyway; Dean was never going to work out there, with them. He’s got too much baggage, too many ghosts and demons and brothers and angels haunting his every thought, his every move.
It wasn’t fair to them, Dean sees that now. Not to them or to himself.
But fair has only gotten Dean an empty motel room in some backwoods, podunk town, and the churning, itching need to get out of his own life, his own skin. You can’t blame him for wanting something else, though; he’s only human.
Dean sighs, rubs his hand over his face. God, he’s pathetic. Keep it together, Winchester.
Standing, Dean slips from beneath the sheets to pad to the bathroom. He shivers when his bare feet hit the linoleum and scratches at his thigh where the hem of his underwear cuts across, turns the sink faucet halfway between cold and hot.
The rush of the water fills Dean’s ears, and he stands there, looking in the mirror.
He doesn’t like what he sees.
He yanks the knob to cold and splashes his face; it feels a little like he’s waking up.
A little like he’s still asleep.
He doesn’t know why fate continues to screw him over. Even as a hunter, he’s always the one making the sacrifices, being left behind. Picking up the pieces when everyone else jumps ship, leaving him bailing.
Turning the water off, Dean reaches blindly for a towel. He straightens and dries his face, wonders what Cas is up to, how his civil war is treating him.
Wonders if Cas ever feels as alone and useless as Dean does.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says. “Castiel, I want—”
There’s a familiar sound of wings and displaced air in the other room and Dean bites back a smile even though the only one who can see it is his reflection.
“Cas,” he calls over his shoulder. He turns around, rubs his hands on the towel as he leaves the bathroom. “Able to take some time out of your busy schedule for—”
Dean pauses in the threshold, feet half on, half off the carpet.
“What happened to you?”
Cas’ suit is pressed and his tie is straight, his coat clean. There’s not a wrinkle in sight. His hair even looks combed.
It’s bizarre.
Cas blinks at him, head tilted to the side, more bird-like and strange, untouchable, than he was a year ago, back before everything went to hell—literally—and Heaven pulled Cas back in.
When Cas chose Heaven over Dean.
“Nothing, Dean,” Cas answers. “I have been busy—”
“Getting run over by a steamroller?”
That earns him a bemused frown.
It’s strange seeing Cas like this; he looks more like an authority figure—one with real authority—than Dean’s ever seen him, even if his suit is still a size too big.
It throws Dean a little; he can’t help but stare. Suddenly, he’s aware of exactly how little he’s wearing and how worn it is.
“The suit.” Dean gestures toward him with the towel. “What’s with the suit?
“Oh.” Cas looks down at himself like he’s forgotten what he’s wearing; before this, Dean would have guessed he had. “A change seemed…appropriate.”
“Appropriate, huh?” Dean says, tossing the towel back onto the counter behind him. He takes a step closer, then another, closing the distance between them, not thinking about what he’s doing until he’s toe to toe with Cas. It’s like his entire body is magnetized, his skin tingling more the closer he gets. His fingers itch, twitch; he wants to reach out, rumple Cas up, drag him back down to Earth where he at least seemed more human, more touchable.
“Appropriate for what?”
“My work—”
“Why’d you leave?”
Shit, that isn’t what he meant to say.
“Why didn’t you ask me not to?”
And that’s it, isn’t it? Why didn’t he?
The silence between them has been as much his fault as it has been Cas’. Dean has to take some of the blame. If he can admit everything else, he can admit…this.
It feels like they’re on the verge of something here, something that’s been looming in the distance for a while, that Dean wasn’t ready to face before, when he still thought that white picket fence life was for him.
If he was wrong about that, maybe he’s been wrong about other things, too.
“Cas,” he says, and, Christ, Cas’ eyes are very blue, and very big. There’s too much there, too much held in that gaze, and Dean has to look away, ends up staring at Cas’ tie, trading one blue for another.
It’s a little easier to handle. Except Dean can see the slight rise and fall of Cas’ chest as he breathes, and suddenly he’s aware—very, very aware—of the body just under that shirt, that suit, breathing and warm and, yes, wanted, so very wanted.
He’d laugh if he could; of course he had to lose everything to get what he…what he thought he wanted. Of course he had to lose that to get what he needed, to maybe finally have what he really, actually wanted, but wasn’t able to see through the rest of the grit clouding his vision.
This is how Dean’s life works.
Swallowing, Dean reaches out to touch, fingers wrapping around Cas’ newly pristine tie.
“Cas,” he tries again, fingering the tie. “Cas, I—”
—missed you.
—am sorry.
—didn’t know.
“Yes, Dean?” Cas whispers.
Dean stares back up at him, and can’t think of a single thing to say, can’t get his mouth to work. There’s too much and not enough and words never work and how can he ever—
Cas spares him the trouble of finishing, banishes the hard lump of inarticulated want and regret in Dean’s throat and chest by taking over Dean’s personal space, his mouth finding Dean’s like it was always meant to be there.
This—right here, right now—this is the punctuation they’ve been avoiding, the question they’ve been sidestepping from the beginning. The very beginning, if Dean’s honest, finally honest with himself; his body’s been clamoring for this, for Cas’ hard edges, the feel of Cas’ stubble against his own. He’s wondered what those hands, so strong and capable, would feel like on his skin, on his body.
It’s just one more of the many things Dean didn’t know, didn’t realize until now.
Fuck, he’s slow.
Dean remembers Lisa’s soft curves, her smell and her touch and her taste, remembers those were good, they were wonderful, but they weren’t…they weren’t this. They weren’t Cas solid and hot against him, lips firm and tongue tentative.
Oh, god, that’s Cas’ tongue. Dean groans, his fingers tangling in Cas’ tie, wrinkling it against his palm, and opens up at the sweep of Cas’ tongue across his bottom lip. He pulls Cas closer, and Cas’ hands find his shoulders, holding on, holding Dean steady as he kisses him.
Dean wants to say he isn’t the fucking girl in this scenario, doesn’t need Cas to hang on to him, except—fuck—he does, he really, really wants him to.
He doesn’t know where Cas learned how to kiss like this, isn’t sure if he wants to know. All he is sure of is that he doesn’t want Cas to stop, that he doesn’t want Cas to leave again.
“Dean?” Cas pants when he pulls away, and isn’t that a trip, that Cas sounds as breathless as Dean feels, looks as shaken.
“Ye—” Dean swallows, tries again. It’s distracting being this close, distracting having Cas’ breath brush against his face, the taste of Cas’ mouth lingering. “Yeah, Cas?”
“I’m sorry.”
Dean’s already racing heart plummets. “What?”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you called before, that I had no help to offer. I was…mistaken. Even with my duties, I should have—”
“Oh god, Cas, shut up,” Dean says, pressing a hand to Cas cheek, drawing his attention. The hair behind Cas’ ears tickles and Dean sinks his fingers deeper, feels the scrap of Cas’ stubble against his palm, and oh, oh, he can’t wait to feel it elsewhere, can’t wait to—“Shut up, shut up, shut up.” He leans forward, keeping his hold on Cas’ face, and kisses Cas lightly, repeats against his lips, “Just…shut up.”
He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t need to hear it. He just wants Cas to…wants Cas to…wants Cas.
Cas’ tie provides excellent leverage as Dean steps backward, not breaking contacting as he pulls Cas with him, as they half shuffle, half stumble into a wall. He wants this, god he wants this. He wants it here, and he wants it now, and he wants to feel Cas against him, wants to feel Cas holding him, pinning him, taking him. Wants to feel the wall at his back and Cas at his front, Cas around him and inside him and nothing but Cas, erasing everything else until it’s just the two of them and this moment between them.
There’s a chance for some good here, and Dean’s taking it.
Cas’ hands migrate from Dean’s shoulders, moving up Dean’s neck, down Dean’s chest, pressing against Dean like they already know him, and, fuck, maybe they already do.
“Cas,” Dean gasps when Cas’ fingers find a nipple through his T-shirt. “Cas.”
“Yes, Dean?” Cas’ nose is tucked against his, and they’re sharing air—one breath, two. Dean licks his lips, and he can feel Cas there, right there.
“Fuck me.”
Cas pulls back, and Dean blinks at him; Cas’ cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are bright, and Dean’s been so stupid, not noticing this before.
He never should have let Cas go.
“Are you sure?” Cas asks, his voice gone even deeper than usual. “I thought you wanted…What about your life, Dean?”
The chuckle that escapes is a little morbid, but Dean can’t help that. He tips his head until their foreheads are touching, shares what he’s doing his best to accept. “Cas,” he says, “news flash: this is my life.”
“And Lisa? Ben? If you could go back to them, if I could—”
Dean shakes his head, and Cas moves with him. “I’m never going to make them happy. And they’re…they’re never going to make me happy, not really. This”—he pulls Cas closer—“this is what I want.”
Cas’ fingers flex against him, one hand hot on his chest, the other on his hip. “Are you sure?”
The urge to roll his eyes is strong. “God, Cas, yes I’m fucking sure.” He shifts his weight, twists his hips, hooks a leg around Cas’ thigh, as high as he can get it, presses them as close as possible. Pulling back until the back of his head is against the wall, Dean watches Cas’ eyes widen, his lips part. “I feel pretty sure, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Cas says, licking his lips; Dean wants to follow that tongue. “Yes, you do.”
“Well then?” Dean asks, smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he grips Cas tighter. “What are you waiting for?”
Cas doesn’t answer, just leans in and takes Dean’s mouth with his own, hard and firm and demanding, unrelenting. There is nothing soft about this thing between them, not right now. Later, maybe, when the edge is taken off, when they’re spent, and their breaths are caught, when Dean has Cas naked and pressed against the sheets, his suit on the floor, then they’ll have time for soft, for more.
This is the start of something, not the end. Dean will make sure of it this time.
Mouth occupied, Dean hitches his hips, makes some space so he can reach between them, cup Cas’ cock with his hand. Cas hisses against him, teeth scrapping Dean’ lower lip, pulls away at the same time he pushes his hips forward, into Dean’s hand. Cas swallows, and Dean can hear his throat click. Leaning in, Dean presses his mouth against Cas’ Adam’s apple, presses that noise against his mouth, tastes it with his tongue. Cas’ pulse leaps beneath his lips, and Dean grins, noses at the collar of Cas’ shirt, squeezes Cas’ cock in his hand.
Cas moans, clutching at him.
“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says. “Come on. I want to feel you.”
Cas’ hands join his between them, desperate and fumbling, working his fly until it’s open, until Dean can get his hand inside, wrap his fingers around Cas, pull him out.
He’s hard in Dean’s hand, hard and hot and perfect, and Dean wants to feel that, wants to feel Cas, doesn’t know why they’re wasting time when they could be fucking already.
“Dean,” Cas breathes, voice shaky between them, his hands slipping under Dean’s shirt to find Dean’s hips, fingers edging beneath the waistband of Dean’s underwear, pushing them lower. “Dean. I want—I want—”
“Yeah, yeah, me too, Cas. Me, too.”
Cas slides his hands beneath Dean’s underwear, palms hot against Dean’s ass; they feel hot enough to mark him, leave Cas was here pressed into his skin like Cas’ handprint on his shoulder.
Letting go of Cas’ cock, Dean helps him pull the underwear down, out of the way. Cas gives him some space, and Dean bends, gets one foot free before Cas apparently decides that’s enough and crowds him back against the wall, their cocks brushing as Cas takes hold of Dean’s hips again.
They’re right there, right in each other’s space. Cas’ pupils are blown, his lips more full than usual, and Dean thinks, I did that, that’s because of me, and that’s…that’s something, something big. Cas may not be human, but Dean was wrong to call him a dick, wrong to think he doesn’t feel anymore because Cas is here, and Cas is with him, there’s no doubt about that.
Let me keep this, Dean thinks. Let me keep this, and that’s all, that’s all…
They breathe each other’s air for moments, a few beats and then they’re kissing again, mouths hungry, fingers desperate. Dean pulls Cas to him, sandwiches himself between Cas and the wall, blocking out everything else except this, Cas hot and hard and heavy against him, real and undeniable and there, completely present.
Dean’s hands clutch at Cas’ shoulders, at his coat, tugging at him as Cas’ hands slip around to the small of Dean’s back, pulling him close, tucking them together, Cas’ pants rough against Dean’s cock. Dean feels Cas’ hands slip farther downward, gliding across skin until there, oh god, there are Cas’ fingers dipping between his cheeks, pressing against him.
“Cas. Cas, oh fuck yes, fuck me, yes. Now. I want…I want…Cas, now.”
Cas lifts him like it’s nothing, and Dean’s sweat-soaked T-shirt catches against the wall, pulls tight at his throat.
Dean doesn’t care, he can’t care, there are so many other things to focus on, like the way his legs fit so perfectly around Cas’ waist, the way Cas’ hands grip him so tightly, so surely. Cas’ shoulders move beneath the layers of his shirt and jacket and coat, and Dean can feel them, wants to feel them without all of the clothing in the way, no barriers between them.
Next time, they are doing this naked.
Cas’ fingers press against him, and Dean doesn’t know what eases the way, finds he doesn’t really care; he just wants Cas in him, and in him now.
Cas opens Dean up, keeps him pinned against the wall as he does it, nothing keeping Dean there but Cas’ body, Cas’ strength.
Dean’s heart races from Cas’ fingers slipping inside of him, Cas’ mouth against his neck. From Cas lifting him so easily. It’s amazing how much that turns him on, how much he likes the fact that Cas can lift him and take him and use him if he wants to.
It should scare him, he thinks, but it doesn’t.
Cas’ fingers disappear, only to be replaced by the head of Cas’ cock, pushing against Dean’s entrance.
“Dean,” Cas starts, lips hard against Dean’s jaw. “Are you—”
Growling, Dean tightens his legs around Cas, hooks his arms more firmly over his shoulders. He threads his fingers in Cas’ hair and pulls Cas back, pulls Cas to look at him. “If you ask me if I’m sure, or if I’m okay, or anything else remotely stupid, I will punch you in the face.”
One of Cas’ eyebrows goes up, and his lips twitch, and Dean can’t help but smile at him, the bastard.
“I was going to ask if you were ready.”
Dean’s about to say yes, god yes, he’s never been so ready in his life, but before he can open his mouth, Cas is pushing inside, hips and chest moving against him, hands sure.
Dean groans, gasps Cas’ name, finds Cas’ mouth—that familiar, almost-smiling mouth—with his own, and hangs on.
They breathe together, move together, kiss and touch and moan together. They bite and lick and Dean’s trembling before he knows it, skin hot and limbs loose, hanging on to Cas like his life depends on it.
Cas hangs on just as tightly, hands hard and hips working, mouthing silent words into Dean’s skin that Dean can’t quite make out, that he can’t quite understand, until suddenly the pieces fall into place in his mind and he gets it, he understands what Cas is trying to say.
I’ll stay, Cas says. I’ll stay, I’ll stay, this time I’ll stay.
Dean believes him, wants him, will hold on as long as Cas lets him and then longer than that because there is no way, no way he is letting this go, not now, not ever.
Yes, Dean says. Please. Cas.
He comes with Cas’ mouth on his skin, with Cas’ hands on his waist, with Cas holding him up above the ground, dependable and steady.
Until Cas’ hips stutter, and his breath catches, and Cas is coming too, following Dean over, pressing Dean harder against the wall, the extra support needed.
It’s not the most comfortable position, his shirt twisted, his feet tingling, going numb, skin becoming chilled where Cas isn’t touching him, but Dean doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to untangle himself from Cas. He can admit, to himself at least, that he likes the way Cas’ body cradles his, holds him here.
A bed would be nice, though.
He’s not sure if he says something, or if Cas has the same thought, or even if Cas just…read his mind—and isn’t that a scary thought?—but Cas pulls away from the wall, arms still tight around Dean, slipping from him, tumbling them to the bed. He rolls onto his side next to Dean, and Dean almost misses his weight, the feel of Cas against him.
Reaching out, Dean wraps his fingers around Cas’ wrinkled, come-stained tie, grounding himself.
Cas looks down at Dean’s hand, at his tie, himself. His mouth turns rueful. “That did not last long.”
Dean shrugs against the sheets. “We’ll take our time next time.”
Cas quirks an eyebrow. “I meant the suit, Dean.”
Oh. Dean doesn’t blush. He doesn’t. He takes in Cas’ rumpled hair, his messy shirt, undone pants. “Well, I like it better this way,” he says, using Cas’ tie to tug him forward. Dean doesn’t know why he never realized how handy it was before.
Cas comes easily, humming consideration, settling against Dean. “Yes,” he says, “I believe I do, too.”
