Fic: With my eyes closed, you looked like someone else.
Title: With my eyes closed, you looked like someone else.
Author: tawg
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,248
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Misha Collins, with a side of unrequited Dean/Cas
Summary: Misha reminds Dean so much of Castiel. Set during The French Mistake
Notes: Written for blindfold-spn, round 5. Originally posted (f-locked post).
Dean is pretty sure he hates Misha. Hates his stupid name, and his stupid hair that starts to fall flat after an hour under the hot lights, hates his stupid laughing grin that doesn’t look at all like Cas (looks everything like the Cas of the future that never was, but that hadn’t been Cas either, not really). Hates this person who is almost, but not quite.
Sam is off scouring the set for some way to get home. Dean should be doing the same. Instead he’s glaring at Misha as he twats or tweets or whatever, glaring as Misha trades a joke with someone who isn’t Balthazar. That someone nods over at Dean, and when Misha follows his gaze, he drops his head close to Misha’s ear and says something that makes him laugh. That stupid fucking laugh that starts with a honk and quickly dissolves into breathy giggles. A happy, delighted sound that is the complete antithesis of everything Castiel should be.
And Dean is halfway through stalking over there and shoving fucking Misha up against a wall and punching him in the throat until he sounds fucking familiar, when a rectangle of white and black catches his eye. Misha, slipping his mobile phone into a trench coat that’s a little too clean and bright. It’s Castiel’s phone. The same make and model that Dean had bought at a mall with a faked credit card and punched prepaid vouchers into a handful of times. It’s the same phone, and the same coat, and when Dean is finally standing in front of Misha, it’s the same blue eyes looking up at him. Wrong expression, wrong countenance, but Dean would know those fucking eyes if they were in a jar and drenched in formalin.
Not-Balthazar has slithered off somewhere with an apologetic look, and Not-Cas’ smile is frozen on his face. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” Dean replies. “Can I talk to you?”
The smile falters, before being pulled painfully back into place. It’s the kind of baring of teeth a scared animal makes, and it looks wrongwrongwrong on Castiel’s face. “You haven’t set fire to my car again, have you?”
Dean pauses. “Why would I set fire to your car?”
“The first time, it was a joke.”
It takes Dean a while to get his head around the idea of a) a joke that not-funny, and b) the idea that car-burning had happened multiple times. Fake-him was a dick.
“I, uh,” Dean decides to just play the hand he’s be dealt. “I actually wanted to apologise to you about that.” Misha doesn’t look convinced. “Well, about those kinds of things.” Misha takes a small step back. “Well, maybe just in general.”
Misha is looking wary, and on his guard, and Dean perks up a little at the familiarity. “What’s going on?” Misha asks.
“I’ve just been hanging out with...” Dean draws a blank, so he makes a vague gesture to where the top of Sam’s head would be, and points in the general direction of Fake-Sam’s trailer.
“Jared?” Misha supplies.
“Yeah, right. Jared.” Misha tilts his head to one side, a confused and cautious look on his face, and it makes Dean ache because it’s so familiar. Because Castiel has been distant and difficult and Dean is just so out of his depth these days. “Look,” Dean says, rubbing his hands together. “I’m a dick, you’re kind of alright, let’s grab a beer?”
Misha gives Dean that deep, searching look, and Dean sags under it just a little, remembers it from Castiel’s first year on Earth, all angel and no understanding and looking at Dean like there was something important and indecipherable written on his fucking soul, something that would make the whole crazy mess make sense.
(And Dean had let Cas down on that score, surprising no one.)
“Sure,” Misha replies slowly, dragging the word out in his mouth, waiting to see if it’ll change shape and turn into the rejection that Dean is confident his fake-self, Jason or whatever, deserves. They’re both a little surprised when the acceptance hangs clean between them.
“Can we go to your trailer?” Dean asks. “I’m worried I’ll break my helicopter if we go back to mine.”
Misha snorts a laugh, ducking his head as if he can hide it. That laugh, smaller, a little sarcastic, the attempt to contain it. There’s Castiel in that noise, somewhere. They pass fake-Sam’s trailer on the way to Misha’s ‘humble abode’, and Dean darts inside to steal some beer. It’s fancy imported crap that he doesn’t trust at all, but Misha gives him an amused look, and the curve of his lips is too pronounced, too eager, and his eyes are too approving. His back is a little too straight - he hunches his shoulders forwards a little when he’s in character. Dean finds himself saving the expression anyway, filing it alongside Castiel’s sneaky look and his rare ‘I shouldn’t find this funny so I won’t let you know that I do’ face.
Misha starts picking at the label on his bottle after his second mouthful. Dean stares at his hands. Long fingers and large knuckles, and when Misha puts his bottle down to pull off the trench coat, shrugs out of his suit jacket and folds them neatly over the back of a wooden chair that looks hand carved, Dean tracks the movements of those hands carefully, the way they pull and grasp and tug and hold. The way Misha smooths a hand over the folded material, like he’s checking that he’s done it right through the feel of the fibres underneath his fingers. A lingering touch that is a painful mimicry of the way Castiel will drag his fingers along a piece of furniture, through lines drawn on concrete floors, through a dark stain that he can identify perfectly once his curling fingerprints are coated in tacky brown.
Dean makes it halfway though his beer before he presses himself into Misha’s space, presses mouth against mouth and presses his palm to the back of Misha’s head. His hair is thick with some kind of fancy actor product, but his face is clean of makeup, and he smells like Castiel smells - clean skin, light sweat, clothing that doesn’t quite need a wash. Dean has no knowledge of what Castiel tastes like, has no basis of comparison. He’s seen Castiel kiss. Misha’s mouth yields where Castiel’s had shown dominant, he tilts his head where Castiel had been immobile. He pulls back, and that, that is something that Dean can imagine Castiel doing all too clearly.
Misha gives Dean another of those long, searching looks, and Dean has to fist his hand in the bleached-white material of Misha’s shirt, of the costume, has to force himself to remember that this isn’t Castiel. This is a man, not an angel, not a vessel. This is someone with full lips, and eyes too blue to be real, playing a role without realising or intending it. Whatever he’s looking for, he seems to find it in Dean’s face, and that is so far from the script that Dean’s familiar with that he has no idea what to do with the amused expression working its way across Misha’s face, a face that Misha reclaims as his own with such open amusement.
“Really?” he asks.
“Shut up,” Dean replies, and pulls him close for another kiss. Pulls him close and yanks his shirt out of the way, gets his hand on skin that isn’t scarred because the man has never carved sigils into his flesh, because the angel would have been remade anew without the mar to his form. Misha shuts up. Misha shuts up, and returns Dean’s kisses, and makes noises high in his throat when Dean grabs his hip, grabs his ass, pulls his body close and presses their groins together.
Cas wouldn’t have made those noises.
Cas is a universe away, a soldier with no shore leave, a being of light and grace possessing the form of a stubborn man Dean has tried so hard to forget the name of.
Misha is here, and now, and when Dean looks at him through half-closed eyes... well.
The belt comes undone easily, the pants are shoved out of the way without any particular finesse. Dean has to look. Has to see the cock that his hand is wrapped around. Misha’s body is Castiel’s body (his vessel’s body), in this universe. They look the same, they are the same. Stretched out and writhing, erect and hefty, the strong lines of a shaft, the blushing pink of the head that Dean is running his palm across, the light dusting of dark pubic hair, neat and tidy and natural, spreading out to nothing across pale thighs, painting a thin arrow up his stomach towards his belly button. Dean shoves that white button up shirt out of the way, that horrible wonderful blue tie falling to one side, his chest smooth and unblemished except for the freckle above his right nipple, and Dean feels a painful wrench at how much that one little detail means to him. He drinks the sight in. That body of bones and angles, wispy and wiry, the complete opposite of Dean’s muscles and sunburn, the innocuous wrappings of an angel of the lord.
But when Dean’s eyes trail upwards, it’s Misha looking at him. Misha with that curious, ‘what next?’ expression, Misha who moves too much, and smiles too much - smiling now, lips pulling up on one side and a slice of white teeth showing. Dean pulls back further, grabbing Misha’s legs and twisting him, manhandling him until he’s flipped over onto his stomach. Pants and underwear (it looks like orange women’s underwear, but Dean’s memory waves a pair of satin panties at him before he can judge too harshly) bunched down around his thighs, shirt hiked up, that dark hair a mess of spikes and tangles and it’s finally starting to look a little right.
“Jen,” Misha says, spreading his knees wider, angling his hips. Dean pauses for a moment, but his dick is hard and this is as close as he’s going to get, and in an odd way that he knows makes no sense, it almost seems fair that Misha thinks he’s someone else. He looks over his shoulder at Dean, and flutters his eyelashes. “And I thought you didn’t like me.”
Dean lowers his gaze, stares down at Misha’s ass, puts his large hands on those narrow hips, slides one down and parts the cheeks gently. This is Castiel’s body. These are Castiel’s thighs, and Castiel’s ass, and Castiel’s hole all sweet and puckered and a dark colour that belonged somewhere in the family of pinks, that dark seductive pink that’s a cheek after a punch has landed, kiss-bruised lips, the notch between the legs of the first girl he’d slept with. Dean lifts his other hand, licks the pad of his thumb to make it slick, and then presses it against Misha’s opening, dragging it back and forth. Misha’s eyes close, and his mouth falls open. “I like you well enough.”
Dean leans close and spits between Misha’s cheeks, the sound of it making Misha jump (Cas wouldn’t jump), the press of spit slick fingers inside him making Misha cant his hips, making him spread his legs a little more and grind down against the cushions of the old couch in this crappy little trailer. The thrust of Dean’s fingers, made as wet as they can be with spit is still rough and ragged as he stretches Misha’s hole. Dean thinks he’d like Cas like this, spread out and rubbed raw, but Misha is human, Misha is making small noises that are a mix of pleasure and pain, and Dean slows the thrusting of his fingers, guilty and unsure.
Misha flails a hand at the coffee table. “The beer,” he says. “Use the beer.”
Dean’s dick twitches and he bites back a moan. “You’re a scary fucking genius,” he says, leaning over dangerously far to snag his bottle, the glass slippery with condensation and his other hand still inside Misha.
“I’m freaking awesome,” Misha agrees.
Dean takes a mouthful of beer, holds it in his mouth until it warms, and then carefully leans over, stretching Misha open with two fingers and dribbling the warm liquid down his ass crack. Dean once drank cheap bubby out of a girl’s pussy, and this seems like the same thing but completely flipped around. Misha makes a small breathy noise when Dean moves his fingers again, experimentally. Dean pours some more beer, straight from the bottle. Misha gasps at the cold liquid, and clenches around Dean’s fingers, which in retrospect wasn’t what Dean was aiming for. He leans down, pausing for a moment. It’s Castiel’s body. Castiel’s body and he’s going to dirty it up, and fuck it out, and he is never going to get this chance, not with the real thing. So he may as well take take take because it’s fucking on offer, with Misha gently rocking his hips below Dean, trying to fuck himself up on Dean’s fingers, open himself up.
Dean leans down, and licks at the puckered ring of muscle. Licks at it with long, rough strokes, like a cat cleaning itself. Misha makes a choked noise, and his hips stutter. Dean plants a hand in the middle of his back, pressing him down and holding him still as he licks and presses, as he gets Misha wet with spit and writhing with need. His face pressed into the cushions of the couch, and his mouth hanging open. “Jen. Jensen.”
Stupid fucking name, Dean thinks, and then the fumbles his jeans open with one hand, the other fucking his fingers in and out of Misha’s body, slick with spit and beer. Pale and sharp, and if he blocks out the words falling from Misha’s lips, it’s just him and Castiel, another shitty motel room, and a moment they never had.
The press in is rough, because spit and beer do not the greatest lube make. Dean moves slowly, and Misha sucks in gasping breaths, tilting his hips and trying to get his body into the right position, and if he doesn’t stop moving Dean is going to go insane. Eventually he presses all the way inside, needing little thrusts to get all the way to the hilt. Misha is tight, and wet, and so fucking hot around him. When Dean pulls out for the first time, Misha draws in a shuddery breath, and when Dean presses back in the weight of him against Misha’s back forces it out as a sharp exhale. More slow, easy thrusts, easing Misha into it because it’s been a long time since Dean’s done this, and his wants Castiel’s first time to not suck completely.
“Harder,” he says, his voice a little rough.
Dean presses back in firmly, pressing his face against bare back and bunched up shirt, dragging his stubble across a shoulder blade.
“Harder,” Cas says, his voice still not sounding right.
Dean thrusts a little harder, a little faster, his hands planted either side of Castiel’s ribcage. Cas grips the armrest of the couch, his long fingers digging in and he shifts beneath Dean, bracing his knees against the edge of a cushion.
“I said, harder.”
And then Cas is rolling his hips, a long fluid motion that has him fucking up onto Dean’s cock, making each of Dean’s thrusts deeper, faster.
“Oh god,” Dean says, locking his elbows and giving in to that primal, feral cry inside him to take and claim and own and, “Oh fuck.”
It’s rough, and hard, and fast. Skin becoming slick with sweat, the sounds of bodies slapping against one another, of two people panting, of Dean cursing and cracking apart with a mix of so good and finally, of Castiel’s voice getting more growl, tearing a little and finally sounding real. Dean grips Castiel’s hip and hauls him up onto his knees, a better angle for hard and fast, and when he hits something good inside Cas grunts and groans, short sharp noises that Dean presses out of him, that Dean creates and owns and collects. He licks at the skin between Castiel’s shoulder blades, bites there with sharp teeth, and then with focus, leaving a mark. Castiel’s dick is thick and wet in his hand, slick with precome and wet with spilled imported beer, and Dean jacks it hard and without mercy. Pulls him off hard and fast, to match the frantic pace of their fucking, too far gone for first time care and not caring at all, because this is how it should be. Hard and brutal and no punches pulled. It’s how it’s always been for them.
Cas is shaking, shaking and clenching and Dean fists the head of his cock over and over again, pulling at the swollen head, collecting the precome on his hand, making it slick and dirty, making it as wet as the bruise between Castiel’s shoulder blades that he keeps sucking hard kisses filled with teeth against. And then Dean is coming, coming hard and fast, gasping for air and his hips are snapping so fast it hurts, and he presses his face to Castiel’s skin, smelling the sweat and the sex and everything that defines them.
“Cas,” he whines through grit teeth as he spills over into that awkward angular body beneath him. “Cas.”
There’s a muffled laugh that’s so out of place it disorients Dean, but then Cas is coming, clenching around his cock and spilling over his fingers, and making a high, tight keening noise that’s smothered by cushions, drowned out as Dean slumps forward and presses him further into the old couch.
And then, still panting, still buried balls deep, Dean looks down and sees an amused, fucked out smile. Sees bright eyes watching him awkwardly from over a shoulder. “Is that was this is? Character work?”
Dean pulls back, sweaty and sore. Misha is spread before him, ruined and debauched, and not right at all. “You’re letting the team down,” he says as he pulls away, wipes his dick with his hand and then absently wipes his hand on Misha’s couch. “Cas would never let Dean take him on a crappy couch somewhere.”
Misha twists, shifting around until he’s on his back, looking up at Dean with one hand draped lazily above his head, the other on his stomach. Come on his costume and completely unashamed. “Castiel would let Dean take him anywhere,” he replies, his eyes still dark and aroused, his mouth moving in shapes of amusement. “And Dean would do the same.” He shifts, stretching languidly with a satisfied smile on his lips, like there’s something funny here. “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it?”
Dean tucks himself back into his pants, rights his clothes. He leaves Misha half-naked on his couch, ignores the confused look and the “Where are you going?” He runs into Sam almost as soon as he’s free of the trailer.
“What have you been doing?” Sam asks, his pissy face on and yeah, okay, Dean defiantly lost track of the goal here.
He can hear the door of Misha’s trailer open behind him, but he doesn’t turn. Just grabs Sam’s arm and drags him away, drags him back towards their own damn universe. “Nothing,” he says. “It was nothing.”
Author: tawg
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,248
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Misha Collins, with a side of unrequited Dean/Cas
Summary: Misha reminds Dean so much of Castiel. Set during The French Mistake
Notes: Written for blindfold-spn, round 5. Originally posted (f-locked post).
Dean is pretty sure he hates Misha. Hates his stupid name, and his stupid hair that starts to fall flat after an hour under the hot lights, hates his stupid laughing grin that doesn’t look at all like Cas (looks everything like the Cas of the future that never was, but that hadn’t been Cas either, not really). Hates this person who is almost, but not quite.
Sam is off scouring the set for some way to get home. Dean should be doing the same. Instead he’s glaring at Misha as he twats or tweets or whatever, glaring as Misha trades a joke with someone who isn’t Balthazar. That someone nods over at Dean, and when Misha follows his gaze, he drops his head close to Misha’s ear and says something that makes him laugh. That stupid fucking laugh that starts with a honk and quickly dissolves into breathy giggles. A happy, delighted sound that is the complete antithesis of everything Castiel should be.
And Dean is halfway through stalking over there and shoving fucking Misha up against a wall and punching him in the throat until he sounds fucking familiar, when a rectangle of white and black catches his eye. Misha, slipping his mobile phone into a trench coat that’s a little too clean and bright. It’s Castiel’s phone. The same make and model that Dean had bought at a mall with a faked credit card and punched prepaid vouchers into a handful of times. It’s the same phone, and the same coat, and when Dean is finally standing in front of Misha, it’s the same blue eyes looking up at him. Wrong expression, wrong countenance, but Dean would know those fucking eyes if they were in a jar and drenched in formalin.
Not-Balthazar has slithered off somewhere with an apologetic look, and Not-Cas’ smile is frozen on his face. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” Dean replies. “Can I talk to you?”
The smile falters, before being pulled painfully back into place. It’s the kind of baring of teeth a scared animal makes, and it looks wrongwrongwrong on Castiel’s face. “You haven’t set fire to my car again, have you?”
Dean pauses. “Why would I set fire to your car?”
“The first time, it was a joke.”
It takes Dean a while to get his head around the idea of a) a joke that not-funny, and b) the idea that car-burning had happened multiple times. Fake-him was a dick.
“I, uh,” Dean decides to just play the hand he’s be dealt. “I actually wanted to apologise to you about that.” Misha doesn’t look convinced. “Well, about those kinds of things.” Misha takes a small step back. “Well, maybe just in general.”
Misha is looking wary, and on his guard, and Dean perks up a little at the familiarity. “What’s going on?” Misha asks.
“I’ve just been hanging out with...” Dean draws a blank, so he makes a vague gesture to where the top of Sam’s head would be, and points in the general direction of Fake-Sam’s trailer.
“Jared?” Misha supplies.
“Yeah, right. Jared.” Misha tilts his head to one side, a confused and cautious look on his face, and it makes Dean ache because it’s so familiar. Because Castiel has been distant and difficult and Dean is just so out of his depth these days. “Look,” Dean says, rubbing his hands together. “I’m a dick, you’re kind of alright, let’s grab a beer?”
Misha gives Dean that deep, searching look, and Dean sags under it just a little, remembers it from Castiel’s first year on Earth, all angel and no understanding and looking at Dean like there was something important and indecipherable written on his fucking soul, something that would make the whole crazy mess make sense.
(And Dean had let Cas down on that score, surprising no one.)
“Sure,” Misha replies slowly, dragging the word out in his mouth, waiting to see if it’ll change shape and turn into the rejection that Dean is confident his fake-self, Jason or whatever, deserves. They’re both a little surprised when the acceptance hangs clean between them.
“Can we go to your trailer?” Dean asks. “I’m worried I’ll break my helicopter if we go back to mine.”
Misha snorts a laugh, ducking his head as if he can hide it. That laugh, smaller, a little sarcastic, the attempt to contain it. There’s Castiel in that noise, somewhere. They pass fake-Sam’s trailer on the way to Misha’s ‘humble abode’, and Dean darts inside to steal some beer. It’s fancy imported crap that he doesn’t trust at all, but Misha gives him an amused look, and the curve of his lips is too pronounced, too eager, and his eyes are too approving. His back is a little too straight - he hunches his shoulders forwards a little when he’s in character. Dean finds himself saving the expression anyway, filing it alongside Castiel’s sneaky look and his rare ‘I shouldn’t find this funny so I won’t let you know that I do’ face.
Misha starts picking at the label on his bottle after his second mouthful. Dean stares at his hands. Long fingers and large knuckles, and when Misha puts his bottle down to pull off the trench coat, shrugs out of his suit jacket and folds them neatly over the back of a wooden chair that looks hand carved, Dean tracks the movements of those hands carefully, the way they pull and grasp and tug and hold. The way Misha smooths a hand over the folded material, like he’s checking that he’s done it right through the feel of the fibres underneath his fingers. A lingering touch that is a painful mimicry of the way Castiel will drag his fingers along a piece of furniture, through lines drawn on concrete floors, through a dark stain that he can identify perfectly once his curling fingerprints are coated in tacky brown.
Dean makes it halfway though his beer before he presses himself into Misha’s space, presses mouth against mouth and presses his palm to the back of Misha’s head. His hair is thick with some kind of fancy actor product, but his face is clean of makeup, and he smells like Castiel smells - clean skin, light sweat, clothing that doesn’t quite need a wash. Dean has no knowledge of what Castiel tastes like, has no basis of comparison. He’s seen Castiel kiss. Misha’s mouth yields where Castiel’s had shown dominant, he tilts his head where Castiel had been immobile. He pulls back, and that, that is something that Dean can imagine Castiel doing all too clearly.
Misha gives Dean another of those long, searching looks, and Dean has to fist his hand in the bleached-white material of Misha’s shirt, of the costume, has to force himself to remember that this isn’t Castiel. This is a man, not an angel, not a vessel. This is someone with full lips, and eyes too blue to be real, playing a role without realising or intending it. Whatever he’s looking for, he seems to find it in Dean’s face, and that is so far from the script that Dean’s familiar with that he has no idea what to do with the amused expression working its way across Misha’s face, a face that Misha reclaims as his own with such open amusement.
“Really?” he asks.
“Shut up,” Dean replies, and pulls him close for another kiss. Pulls him close and yanks his shirt out of the way, gets his hand on skin that isn’t scarred because the man has never carved sigils into his flesh, because the angel would have been remade anew without the mar to his form. Misha shuts up. Misha shuts up, and returns Dean’s kisses, and makes noises high in his throat when Dean grabs his hip, grabs his ass, pulls his body close and presses their groins together.
Cas wouldn’t have made those noises.
Cas is a universe away, a soldier with no shore leave, a being of light and grace possessing the form of a stubborn man Dean has tried so hard to forget the name of.
Misha is here, and now, and when Dean looks at him through half-closed eyes... well.
The belt comes undone easily, the pants are shoved out of the way without any particular finesse. Dean has to look. Has to see the cock that his hand is wrapped around. Misha’s body is Castiel’s body (his vessel’s body), in this universe. They look the same, they are the same. Stretched out and writhing, erect and hefty, the strong lines of a shaft, the blushing pink of the head that Dean is running his palm across, the light dusting of dark pubic hair, neat and tidy and natural, spreading out to nothing across pale thighs, painting a thin arrow up his stomach towards his belly button. Dean shoves that white button up shirt out of the way, that horrible wonderful blue tie falling to one side, his chest smooth and unblemished except for the freckle above his right nipple, and Dean feels a painful wrench at how much that one little detail means to him. He drinks the sight in. That body of bones and angles, wispy and wiry, the complete opposite of Dean’s muscles and sunburn, the innocuous wrappings of an angel of the lord.
But when Dean’s eyes trail upwards, it’s Misha looking at him. Misha with that curious, ‘what next?’ expression, Misha who moves too much, and smiles too much - smiling now, lips pulling up on one side and a slice of white teeth showing. Dean pulls back further, grabbing Misha’s legs and twisting him, manhandling him until he’s flipped over onto his stomach. Pants and underwear (it looks like orange women’s underwear, but Dean’s memory waves a pair of satin panties at him before he can judge too harshly) bunched down around his thighs, shirt hiked up, that dark hair a mess of spikes and tangles and it’s finally starting to look a little right.
“Jen,” Misha says, spreading his knees wider, angling his hips. Dean pauses for a moment, but his dick is hard and this is as close as he’s going to get, and in an odd way that he knows makes no sense, it almost seems fair that Misha thinks he’s someone else. He looks over his shoulder at Dean, and flutters his eyelashes. “And I thought you didn’t like me.”
Dean lowers his gaze, stares down at Misha’s ass, puts his large hands on those narrow hips, slides one down and parts the cheeks gently. This is Castiel’s body. These are Castiel’s thighs, and Castiel’s ass, and Castiel’s hole all sweet and puckered and a dark colour that belonged somewhere in the family of pinks, that dark seductive pink that’s a cheek after a punch has landed, kiss-bruised lips, the notch between the legs of the first girl he’d slept with. Dean lifts his other hand, licks the pad of his thumb to make it slick, and then presses it against Misha’s opening, dragging it back and forth. Misha’s eyes close, and his mouth falls open. “I like you well enough.”
Dean leans close and spits between Misha’s cheeks, the sound of it making Misha jump (Cas wouldn’t jump), the press of spit slick fingers inside him making Misha cant his hips, making him spread his legs a little more and grind down against the cushions of the old couch in this crappy little trailer. The thrust of Dean’s fingers, made as wet as they can be with spit is still rough and ragged as he stretches Misha’s hole. Dean thinks he’d like Cas like this, spread out and rubbed raw, but Misha is human, Misha is making small noises that are a mix of pleasure and pain, and Dean slows the thrusting of his fingers, guilty and unsure.
Misha flails a hand at the coffee table. “The beer,” he says. “Use the beer.”
Dean’s dick twitches and he bites back a moan. “You’re a scary fucking genius,” he says, leaning over dangerously far to snag his bottle, the glass slippery with condensation and his other hand still inside Misha.
“I’m freaking awesome,” Misha agrees.
Dean takes a mouthful of beer, holds it in his mouth until it warms, and then carefully leans over, stretching Misha open with two fingers and dribbling the warm liquid down his ass crack. Dean once drank cheap bubby out of a girl’s pussy, and this seems like the same thing but completely flipped around. Misha makes a small breathy noise when Dean moves his fingers again, experimentally. Dean pours some more beer, straight from the bottle. Misha gasps at the cold liquid, and clenches around Dean’s fingers, which in retrospect wasn’t what Dean was aiming for. He leans down, pausing for a moment. It’s Castiel’s body. Castiel’s body and he’s going to dirty it up, and fuck it out, and he is never going to get this chance, not with the real thing. So he may as well take take take because it’s fucking on offer, with Misha gently rocking his hips below Dean, trying to fuck himself up on Dean’s fingers, open himself up.
Dean leans down, and licks at the puckered ring of muscle. Licks at it with long, rough strokes, like a cat cleaning itself. Misha makes a choked noise, and his hips stutter. Dean plants a hand in the middle of his back, pressing him down and holding him still as he licks and presses, as he gets Misha wet with spit and writhing with need. His face pressed into the cushions of the couch, and his mouth hanging open. “Jen. Jensen.”
Stupid fucking name, Dean thinks, and then the fumbles his jeans open with one hand, the other fucking his fingers in and out of Misha’s body, slick with spit and beer. Pale and sharp, and if he blocks out the words falling from Misha’s lips, it’s just him and Castiel, another shitty motel room, and a moment they never had.
The press in is rough, because spit and beer do not the greatest lube make. Dean moves slowly, and Misha sucks in gasping breaths, tilting his hips and trying to get his body into the right position, and if he doesn’t stop moving Dean is going to go insane. Eventually he presses all the way inside, needing little thrusts to get all the way to the hilt. Misha is tight, and wet, and so fucking hot around him. When Dean pulls out for the first time, Misha draws in a shuddery breath, and when Dean presses back in the weight of him against Misha’s back forces it out as a sharp exhale. More slow, easy thrusts, easing Misha into it because it’s been a long time since Dean’s done this, and his wants Castiel’s first time to not suck completely.
“Harder,” he says, his voice a little rough.
Dean presses back in firmly, pressing his face against bare back and bunched up shirt, dragging his stubble across a shoulder blade.
“Harder,” Cas says, his voice still not sounding right.
Dean thrusts a little harder, a little faster, his hands planted either side of Castiel’s ribcage. Cas grips the armrest of the couch, his long fingers digging in and he shifts beneath Dean, bracing his knees against the edge of a cushion.
“I said, harder.”
And then Cas is rolling his hips, a long fluid motion that has him fucking up onto Dean’s cock, making each of Dean’s thrusts deeper, faster.
“Oh god,” Dean says, locking his elbows and giving in to that primal, feral cry inside him to take and claim and own and, “Oh fuck.”
It’s rough, and hard, and fast. Skin becoming slick with sweat, the sounds of bodies slapping against one another, of two people panting, of Dean cursing and cracking apart with a mix of so good and finally, of Castiel’s voice getting more growl, tearing a little and finally sounding real. Dean grips Castiel’s hip and hauls him up onto his knees, a better angle for hard and fast, and when he hits something good inside Cas grunts and groans, short sharp noises that Dean presses out of him, that Dean creates and owns and collects. He licks at the skin between Castiel’s shoulder blades, bites there with sharp teeth, and then with focus, leaving a mark. Castiel’s dick is thick and wet in his hand, slick with precome and wet with spilled imported beer, and Dean jacks it hard and without mercy. Pulls him off hard and fast, to match the frantic pace of their fucking, too far gone for first time care and not caring at all, because this is how it should be. Hard and brutal and no punches pulled. It’s how it’s always been for them.
Cas is shaking, shaking and clenching and Dean fists the head of his cock over and over again, pulling at the swollen head, collecting the precome on his hand, making it slick and dirty, making it as wet as the bruise between Castiel’s shoulder blades that he keeps sucking hard kisses filled with teeth against. And then Dean is coming, coming hard and fast, gasping for air and his hips are snapping so fast it hurts, and he presses his face to Castiel’s skin, smelling the sweat and the sex and everything that defines them.
“Cas,” he whines through grit teeth as he spills over into that awkward angular body beneath him. “Cas.”
There’s a muffled laugh that’s so out of place it disorients Dean, but then Cas is coming, clenching around his cock and spilling over his fingers, and making a high, tight keening noise that’s smothered by cushions, drowned out as Dean slumps forward and presses him further into the old couch.
And then, still panting, still buried balls deep, Dean looks down and sees an amused, fucked out smile. Sees bright eyes watching him awkwardly from over a shoulder. “Is that was this is? Character work?”
Dean pulls back, sweaty and sore. Misha is spread before him, ruined and debauched, and not right at all. “You’re letting the team down,” he says as he pulls away, wipes his dick with his hand and then absently wipes his hand on Misha’s couch. “Cas would never let Dean take him on a crappy couch somewhere.”
Misha twists, shifting around until he’s on his back, looking up at Dean with one hand draped lazily above his head, the other on his stomach. Come on his costume and completely unashamed. “Castiel would let Dean take him anywhere,” he replies, his eyes still dark and aroused, his mouth moving in shapes of amusement. “And Dean would do the same.” He shifts, stretching languidly with a satisfied smile on his lips, like there’s something funny here. “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it?”
Dean tucks himself back into his pants, rights his clothes. He leaves Misha half-naked on his couch, ignores the confused look and the “Where are you going?” He runs into Sam almost as soon as he’s free of the trailer.
“What have you been doing?” Sam asks, his pissy face on and yeah, okay, Dean defiantly lost track of the goal here.
He can hear the door of Misha’s trailer open behind him, but he doesn’t turn. Just grabs Sam’s arm and drags him away, drags him back towards their own damn universe. “Nothing,” he says. “It was nothing.”