[FIC] End of Term for blue_fjords
Gift type: fanfiction
Title: End of Term
Author: dizzzylu
Recipient: blue_fjords
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: somewhat public sex
Spoilers: it's an AU, so no
Word Count: 4180
Summary: A quiet library. An impromptu dinner date. Sort of.
Author notes: For this prompt: Cas is a librarian. Dean is a grad student. Clandestine meetings. Glasses worn, and I will love you forever. Can be a very high rating. Happy ending!
(I made Cas a grad student, too. I hope that's okay with blue_fjords!)
Thank you to my wonderful, amazing beta and all my cheerleaders on Twitter ♥ ♥ ♥
As Dean steps through frosted glass doors, the difference between the weather outside and the library inside is night and day, and Dean has to take a moment to adjust to the lack of wind whistling in his ears. Snowflakes trapped in his hair melt almost instantly, dripping down down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. At the desk, Tessa offers him a cup of coffee, and though it tastes awful, Dean is grateful for its warmth, carefully wrapping his fingers around the Styrofoam cup. He waits there until the chill wears off, talking with Tessa about how their finals went, what their plans are for Christmas, and how their theses are progressing.
Eventually, though, the small talk gets old and Dean gets fidgety and Tessa grins, knowing. "He was shelving up on the fifth floor the last I saw," she says, taking his cup from him and leaning over the desk to accept a cool kiss on the cheek.
"Thanks, sweetheart," he says with an affectionate tug of her hair. Dean tries not to run to the stairs, but it's a close thing, and winds up taking most of the steps two at a time, pausing at the top to catch his breath. He has to remind himself that it's not like it's been years since he's seen Cas. He does, usually, wake up with Cas in the same bed as him, but it feels too long since they've truly been together, papers and finals and work getting in the way every time they try to carve out five minutes for themselves.
The fifth floor is dim, lit only by a handful of emergency lights and a half dozen table lamps in the back corner. It's there that Dean sees Cas; well, his hair, at least. The scattered peaks of it peeking over the back of the stuffed leather chair. Dean's chest feels warmer already, and his cheeks ache from his too-wide smile.
Cas doesn't look up as Dean approaches, the cap of his correcting pen caught between his teeth. On the table next to him are two stacks of papers, one taller than the other. A quick glance tells Dean which pile is graded and which isn't. He sighs.
"Hello Dean," Cas rumbles without looking up. He looks tired. Worse than, with dark circles under his eyes, thick stubble shading his jaw. His dark gray oxford, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, is wrinkled. His waistcoat, too. The only thing that doesn't look like he's been sleeping in it is the blood red tie.
To be honest, Dean is fairly certain he himself doesn't look much better.
The chair Cas has picked is barely big enough for two, so Dean drops into it, his bag and a book he grabbed from the shelf falling to the floor at his feet, and leans into Cas more than is necessary. He smells like books and dust. And a little like…"Ellen," Dean exhales, nose tucked under Cas' jaw.
"Not since I last checked," Cas retorts, voice dry. Eyes still on the paper he's grading, Cas turns his head enough to allow Dean to kiss the corner of his mouth. A small flicker of his tongue picks up the faint taste of bacon.
"I still don't understand how you rate delivery service," Dean grumps. "I am her nephew. Close enough to it, anyway." He rushes out the last part before Cas can correct him.
"I believe it's because I don't leer at her staff. Especially Jo." From next to the chair, Cas pulls out a take-out bag and hands it to Dean.
Dean scoffs into the bag, pleased to find extra fries and extra bacon; just the way he likes it. "Jo is like my little sister. I don't leer at her." He shifts his weight, leaning away from Cas to avoid his knowing look. "Anyway," he continues, clearing his throat, "What're you grading this time?"
Cas sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger. "Research papers for music history."
"Looks like he gave you the lot," say Dean, brows furrowed as he looks at the pile of ungraded papers on the table.
"We each got a third of the stack."
Dean whistles low. "Didn't realize there were so many music nerds around here." Cas shoots him a dirty look, but doesn't respond beyond that.
With Cas' focus back on the paper in his hand, Dean props his feet up on the low table in front of him and digs into his burger and fries, careful not to get any on Cas or his papers. For the first time in ages, Dean feels lighter, freer; his stress swept away with every accidental brush of Cas' arm against his own. He doesn't have to rush through his food as if it's nothing more than a power bar or piece of cardboard. And he intends on giving Ellen's cooking the worship it deserves, right on down to the last bite of apple pie, still warm in its container.
Cas, however, is still stiff against him, sitting perfectly straight with both feet planted on the ground, his spine a long, rigid line against the back of the chair. Even the crinkles around his eyes are tight, squinting behind his glasses in the low light.
Dean bumps his knee into Cas' and frowns when it doesn't move. He does it again, twice, and Cas flicks him with the pen.
"I don't have time to baby-sit," he says, writing a note in the margin. "Playtime has to wait."
Dean doesn't sulk. Much. He knows Cas still has a lot of work to do and a final yet to take, but he also knows that Cas can get stuck in his own head sometimes, too hung up on his responsibilities to allow himself even a little bit of fun.
Savoring the last bite of his pie with a low, pleased hum, Dean gathers up the garbage and dumps it in the trash can on the way to the bathroom. He studies himself in the mirror while he washes his hand, takes note of the rings under his eyes, his shaggy hair. His beard is growing in, too, thicker than Cas'. He rubs a palm over his jaw and the rasp of it sounds too loud in the empty room.
Cas is right where Dean left him, still rigid and unhappy and all Dean wants to do is take him by the shoulders and guide him home. Which is something Castiel would never allow. Not when he's in the middle of work. No, Dean is going to have to go about this in stages.
Luckily, Cas is finishing up the last page of the paper he's been working on since Dean showed up. Dean times his approach damn near perfectly, wrapping a hand around Cas' wrist before he can take a new paper from the pile and start all over again.
He sighs Dean's name, glaring at him through thick lashes and even thicker black frames. The looks says, 'back off', but his loosening wrist in Dean's hand disagrees. And when Dean plants a knee on either side of Cas' thighs and settles his weight comfortably, Cas' head falls back, his eyes slips shut, and his hands drop to Dean's thighs, fingers clutching tight behind the knees.
Dean's hands rise automatically to Cas' head, fingers spearing through soft, black hair. As if he's been waiting all night for the drag of Dean's fingertips over his scalp, Cas sighs, breath gusting cool into Dean's neck. Yet it still takes several steady, firm strokes to loosen up his neck and shoulders, his spine. Even his legs slacken after long minutes, the heels of his boots dragging against the carpet as his legs stretch out.
He makes sure to cover Cas' whole head, from the nape to the forehead and back again, down along the sides and behind the ears. Dean's movements are slow and steady, calming, and he thinks he can see the pulse in Cas' neck turning sluggish.
When he draws his fingernails down Cas' neck, Cas makes a soft, wet sound, something between a moan and a whimper, low in his throat, and his hips shift. The movement unseats Dean and he widens his knees, situates himself closer to Cas, and that's when he feels it; Cas' cock, hot and hard, through two layers of cotton and denim. Dean grins, wide and tired, settles himself more heavily in Cas' lap, and leans forward.
Cas tries to resist at first, palms flat on Dean's chest, but he's weak from Dean's attention and a lack of sleep, and he ends up chasing Dean's lips with his own as Dean breathes in the smell of Cas' skin. He drags his nose over Cas' closed eyes, his temples, the crest of his cheek. Follows the line of Cas' jaw with his teeth then his thumb, knuckles bumping against Cas' Adam's apple. He smells like the bacon cheeseburger he ate before, but also of books and pine-scented cleaner, and when Dean kisses him, he tastes just like himself, mouth wet and lush and familiar.
Dean wants to take his time here; after weeks of barely-there pecks to Cas' cheek while he gets an extra few minutes of sleep in the morning or soft, stale kisses in the middle of the night, kisses Dean can barely remember once he wakes up, they deserve slow. In a way, it feels like they're relearning each other again, their tongues slow and searching.
Dean's hands skim up and down Cas' forearms, brushing the hair against the grain, then smoothing it back down again. The muscles shiver under his palms; goose bumps appear. Dimly, Dean curses Cas' choice in shirts, wishing he could touch more of Cas' skin, tinted gold by the table lamp, but that will just have to wait.
Cas' hands are desperate too, though, from the way they move from Dean's chest to his shoulders, shoving at Dean's heavy leather jacket. It falls to the floor, forgotten, and then slim fingers are plucking open the buttons on Dean's overshirt, rushed and clumsy. Dean tries to help him, but Cas' kisses turn hungrier, sharper. His teeth nip at Dean's lips and behind his glasses, his eyes are unfocused, black-rimmed-blue. He frames Cas' face with his palms and holds him steady.
"Cas," he says, quiet. "Cas, Cas." He whispers it over and over, into Cas' ear, his cheek, the hollow of his throat, until Cas finally slows down, fingers tangling in the tails of Dean's open shirt. "Chill out, dude," Dean murmurs into the skin of his neck, over his pulse. "Just let me do this. I got you."
For a moment, Cas' fingers tighten impossibly, pulling Dean to him, and then he lets go, lets Dean get up on unsteady legs and nudge his coat aside with his foot. Cas' hands are tight fists on his thighs, rubbing at them in time with his deep, desperate breaths. A flush creeps up his neck, all the way to his cheeks, and behind his glasses, his eyes are dark and huge. The riot of his hair looks no different, though, even with Dean having worked his fingers through it thoroughly.
He looks delicious and Dean wants to retrace every inch of that skin with his mouth. Not yet. Not here.
Carefully, Dean drops to his knees, hands braced flat on Cas' thighs. He skims them up the denim to wrap around Cas' wrists and pull them out of the way, then higher still to the button and zipper, gently easing them open and down. Cas' new relaxed position provides some room to maneuver, but not enough, and Dean tugs on him, hands behind his calves, just under the knees.
"Lift," Dean says, with a swat to Cas' hip. He does, but only barely, and Dean works quickly to get them down enough to free Cas' cock.
"Cold, cold," Cas hisses, bare skin meeting unforgiving leather.
Dean slips his hands underneath, chuckling at the sliver of skin exposed between his jeans and the tails of his shirt. "Whiner," he teases, rubbing the cold away. His eyes, though, are focused on Cas' cock, red and hot and precome pearling at the tip. The curve of it is dangerously close to Cas' waistcoat, threatening to stain the silk, so Dean does the gentlemanly thing and wraps his lips around the tip, providing gentle suction as he sinks down, down.
It's been far too long since they've had time to do this. Even without finals hanging over them, their opposing schedules tend to throw a wrench in their sex life, anyway, but the added stress and all its crabby, teeth-gnashing tendencies makes everything worse. If Dean were to think back on it, he'd have to admit they've exchanged more insults than not in the last few weeks, despite them still ending up in the same bed every night. But now that they're here, together, and the end of the semester is just around the corner, it doesn't matter. In the long run, Dean knows, none of it will matter.
But Dean can't think. Not right now, not beyond Cas' cock in his mouth, his hands grabbing fistfuls of Dean's hair, his hips twitching with the need to move. Dean clutches at him, fingers digging into Cas' ass, and moans. Cas shudders and the vibration of it seems to skitter down Dean's back, too. Curling, dark and promising at the base of his spine. His cock strains against his zipper.
The taste of Cas is achingly familiar, salt-sour and heavy, with his blood thudding under the skin. Dean tries to take him in all at once right from the beginning, tries to bury his nose in the mess of dark curls at the base, but he's out of practice and pulls off almost at once, hands pinning Cas' hips when they try to chase his wet heat. Dean tongues his way down instead, using little kitten licks and pinching the skin between soft, damp lips.
Above him, Cas is chanting his name, a quiet murmur that sounds too loud on the empty floor. His hands fall to Dean shoulders, fingers clenching and unclenching in the loose material of Dean's overshirt. His feet cling, too, hooked behind Dean's thighs. If it weren't for Dean's hands on his hips, Cas would be doing a fine job of fucking himself into Dean's mouth. Dean grins and licks his lips.
He starts off slow, mouthing at the head with a light, teasing suction; pairing it with his tongue, swiping flat over the slit. Through the fan of his lashes, he can Cas' head arch back, then fall forward, chin hitting his chest. His eyes are darkened by shadows, but Dean can see they're open at least. His mouth, too, spilling out moans and curse words that would make a sailor blush. Dean rewards it with a long, deliberate slide down. On the way back up, his lets his teeth catch on the small bundle of nerves under the crown, a barely-there scrape that works a shudder through Cas' arms and legs.
Stretching his hands wide, Dean's thumbs rasp through Cas' pubic hair, pressing down the closer they get to the base of his cock. Dean knows how much Cas likes that, a palm low and flat on his pelvis. The firm, steady weight of it massaging the prostate from the outside. Dean kind of likes it, too, the scratch of the hair against his fingers, the way Cas heavy and pliant all at once. It isn't the same in the position, with only Dean's thumbs, but it's something, and Cas lets out a rough, "Fuck, fuck."
In his jeans, Dean's cock throbs in response, and he grinds the heel of his hand down the length of it; a steady pressure meant to hold himself off until Cas is done. Cas takes advantage of the freedom, though, his hips hitching crookedly. The crown, sticky with precome, bumps against the roof of Dean's mouth once, then again. Cas' fingers thread through Dean's hair, nails scraping hard against his scalp, to hold him in place. It's a little sooner than Dean had hoped for, but from the tightening of Cas' balls, the ragged, raspy filth spilling from his lips, Dean can tell he's close.
With his jaw loose and lips tight, Dean lets Cas set the rhythm. His feet fall from Dean's hips, heels digging into the floor for leverage, and his hips snap up, each thrust punctuated with a dirty grunt. Cas' fingers flex and open to the pace of his hips, joints tight and nails sharp, and each time Dean is pulled up, he gives an extra suckle at the head, the tip of his tongue teasing at the slit.
One of Dean's hands grips tight to Cas' jeans, bunched together about halfway down his thighs. The other thumbs at the waistband of his own jeans, fingers shaky. It takes a fair amount of concentration to ease the zipper over his cock, but once it's free and he has a hand around it, he groans. Cas isn't expecting it, if the sound of his shredded, "oh god, Dean" is anything to go by, and everything goes still; Cas' hips, Dean's head, even the air around them.
"Jesus fucking-- Dean," Cas rasps, voice wrecked. His hips move again, tiny thrusts as he comes, warm and bitter, over Dean's tongue. Dean lets himself go, cock smearing precome on his henley, to help work Cas through it. Cas' whole body trembles from his release and his hands fall from Dean's head to cup loose around his neck, thumbs tucked behind his ears. Dean continues to tongue at the over-sensitized skin after Cas is spent, legs and arms limp, but he keeps the pressure gentle. Eventually, though, it gets to be too much for Cas and he uses one hand, cradling Dean's skull, to pull him off. Looking up, Dean returns Cas' soft smile with a dirty grin of his own.
With Cas satisfied, Dean's attention turns back to himself, his cock wet and aching. At the first firm stroke, Dean's head drops to Cas' thigh, nose smashed against warm denim. Cas' cries still echo in his ears and his fingernails draw long, careful lines along Dean's scalp. The combination of it all, plus the fact that Cas is here, the spicy scent of him real and not a faint memory in Dean's head, is more than enough to push Dean over the edge after a handful of minutes. He tries not to get come on the couch, if only for Cas' sanity, but some things can't be helped. After, skin sticky and muscles trembling, Dean falls back on his heels, forehead dragging along the length of Cas' thigh, which is the perfect vantage point for him to see the mess, come streaking his thigh, the chair, and even the rug. Dean is helpless to hold in his chuckle.
Cas doesn't stop petting him until long after Dean's cock is soft, his breathing even, and Dean doesn't care to move, either. Despite the fact that they're both rather gross, that Tessa or another student could come up here at any moment -- maybe already have and turned tail once they saw (or heard) their obscene tableau -- Dean is happier than he's been in weeks. He thinks -- hopes -- maybe Cas is, too.
Of course, Cas being the more sensible of the two, and also the one who had far less work to do, comes to his senses first, tugging on Dean's ear to get his attention. "You need to clean up," he says, quiet. Behind his glasses, his eyes are bright blue again, warm and sparkling, and Christ, no matter how many times Dean sees them, he feels himself drowning in them every damn time.
On the table next to the chair is a stack of unused napkins that came with their dinner. They smell of bacon grease, but they're good enough for Dean to get his hand clean enough to pull his jeans back on and head to the bathroom for a proper washing. He comes back with warm wet paper towels for Cas, lets him clean himself up while Dean scrubs at the chair and rug. The chair comes clean easier than the rug, naturally. When he stands, Dean scrubs at the spot with his heel, wearing the nap thin. He vows to return tomorrow with coffee or oil or red wine, something to disguise the stain.
As Cas stands up, Dean sits down in his place, legs sprawled out in front of him. The toe of his boot taps against the table leg while he watches Cas pull himself back together; shirt tucked, waistcoat straight, tie tightened. His hand looks too pale against the scarlet silk, another sign that Cas has been spending too much time inside. Not that there's much either one of them could do about it, unfortunately.
Once he's done, Cas gives Dean a look as says, "I can't read in the dark, Dean." His eyebrows arch, expectant, and he waits for Dean to shift over, away from the table lamp and the stack of papers next to it.
"Reading time's over," Dean declares, tugging on one of Cas' wrists. He falls easier than Dean expects, landing with an 'oof', arm thrown over Dean's chest. For a moment, Cas fits himself to Dean's body; there's a sigh, a warm huff of breath over his lips, then Cas stiffens and opens his mouth to start his protests.
Dean stops him with a kiss. "No way, Cas," he says, squirming to reach the cell phone in his pocket without letting go of Cas' shoulders. "Look." He holds the phone open so Cas can watch him set the alarm for an hour from now.
"They don't pay me to sleep, Dean," says Cas. The effect of his glare is ruined at the end by his wide yawn.
"And you can't work if you're dead, Cas. Now just--" he kisses Cas again, deep and quiet, and guides him away, fitting him into the corner of the chair. Leaning down, he grabs his jacket and hooks a hand under Cas' knees, pulling them up into his lap; the jacket he uses to cover Cas. "You look like a five year old," Dean laughs, smoothing a thumb over Cas' pouting lower lip.
Cas replies, "I feel like a five year old," but the frown lines between his brows smooth out and his blinks grow longer and longer.
Carefully, Dean eases his glasses off, skims a hand through Cas' hair to make it all stick straight up. His knuckles brush against Cas' cheek on its way back down.
"You'd better wake me up," Cas grumps one last time.
Dean laughs, slumps in the chair a little so his feet can pull the coffee table closer. "I turned the phone up as loud as it can go, Cas. If you don't hear it, then I'll really be worried."
Cas sighs again, a contented little sound, and his head tips to the side, leaning against the leather. He spends another few minutes shifting around, until finally he's comfortable. After that, it doesn't take long for his breathing to even out.
Satisfied, Dean carefully angles himself toward Cas, feet propped up on the table once more. From this angle, he can watch the snow fall outside the wall of windows until he, too, falls asleep.
Title: End of Term
Author: dizzzylu
Recipient: blue_fjords
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: somewhat public sex
Spoilers: it's an AU, so no
Word Count: 4180
Summary: A quiet library. An impromptu dinner date. Sort of.
Author notes: For this prompt: Cas is a librarian. Dean is a grad student. Clandestine meetings. Glasses worn, and I will love you forever. Can be a very high rating. Happy ending!
(I made Cas a grad student, too. I hope that's okay with blue_fjords!)
Thank you to my wonderful, amazing beta and all my cheerleaders on Twitter ♥ ♥ ♥
As Dean steps through frosted glass doors, the difference between the weather outside and the library inside is night and day, and Dean has to take a moment to adjust to the lack of wind whistling in his ears. Snowflakes trapped in his hair melt almost instantly, dripping down down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. At the desk, Tessa offers him a cup of coffee, and though it tastes awful, Dean is grateful for its warmth, carefully wrapping his fingers around the Styrofoam cup. He waits there until the chill wears off, talking with Tessa about how their finals went, what their plans are for Christmas, and how their theses are progressing.
Eventually, though, the small talk gets old and Dean gets fidgety and Tessa grins, knowing. "He was shelving up on the fifth floor the last I saw," she says, taking his cup from him and leaning over the desk to accept a cool kiss on the cheek.
"Thanks, sweetheart," he says with an affectionate tug of her hair. Dean tries not to run to the stairs, but it's a close thing, and winds up taking most of the steps two at a time, pausing at the top to catch his breath. He has to remind himself that it's not like it's been years since he's seen Cas. He does, usually, wake up with Cas in the same bed as him, but it feels too long since they've truly been together, papers and finals and work getting in the way every time they try to carve out five minutes for themselves.
The fifth floor is dim, lit only by a handful of emergency lights and a half dozen table lamps in the back corner. It's there that Dean sees Cas; well, his hair, at least. The scattered peaks of it peeking over the back of the stuffed leather chair. Dean's chest feels warmer already, and his cheeks ache from his too-wide smile.
Cas doesn't look up as Dean approaches, the cap of his correcting pen caught between his teeth. On the table next to him are two stacks of papers, one taller than the other. A quick glance tells Dean which pile is graded and which isn't. He sighs.
"Hello Dean," Cas rumbles without looking up. He looks tired. Worse than, with dark circles under his eyes, thick stubble shading his jaw. His dark gray oxford, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, is wrinkled. His waistcoat, too. The only thing that doesn't look like he's been sleeping in it is the blood red tie.
To be honest, Dean is fairly certain he himself doesn't look much better.
The chair Cas has picked is barely big enough for two, so Dean drops into it, his bag and a book he grabbed from the shelf falling to the floor at his feet, and leans into Cas more than is necessary. He smells like books and dust. And a little like…"Ellen," Dean exhales, nose tucked under Cas' jaw.
"Not since I last checked," Cas retorts, voice dry. Eyes still on the paper he's grading, Cas turns his head enough to allow Dean to kiss the corner of his mouth. A small flicker of his tongue picks up the faint taste of bacon.
"I still don't understand how you rate delivery service," Dean grumps. "I am her nephew. Close enough to it, anyway." He rushes out the last part before Cas can correct him.
"I believe it's because I don't leer at her staff. Especially Jo." From next to the chair, Cas pulls out a take-out bag and hands it to Dean.
Dean scoffs into the bag, pleased to find extra fries and extra bacon; just the way he likes it. "Jo is like my little sister. I don't leer at her." He shifts his weight, leaning away from Cas to avoid his knowing look. "Anyway," he continues, clearing his throat, "What're you grading this time?"
Cas sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger. "Research papers for music history."
"Looks like he gave you the lot," say Dean, brows furrowed as he looks at the pile of ungraded papers on the table.
"We each got a third of the stack."
Dean whistles low. "Didn't realize there were so many music nerds around here." Cas shoots him a dirty look, but doesn't respond beyond that.
With Cas' focus back on the paper in his hand, Dean props his feet up on the low table in front of him and digs into his burger and fries, careful not to get any on Cas or his papers. For the first time in ages, Dean feels lighter, freer; his stress swept away with every accidental brush of Cas' arm against his own. He doesn't have to rush through his food as if it's nothing more than a power bar or piece of cardboard. And he intends on giving Ellen's cooking the worship it deserves, right on down to the last bite of apple pie, still warm in its container.
Cas, however, is still stiff against him, sitting perfectly straight with both feet planted on the ground, his spine a long, rigid line against the back of the chair. Even the crinkles around his eyes are tight, squinting behind his glasses in the low light.
Dean bumps his knee into Cas' and frowns when it doesn't move. He does it again, twice, and Cas flicks him with the pen.
"I don't have time to baby-sit," he says, writing a note in the margin. "Playtime has to wait."
Dean doesn't sulk. Much. He knows Cas still has a lot of work to do and a final yet to take, but he also knows that Cas can get stuck in his own head sometimes, too hung up on his responsibilities to allow himself even a little bit of fun.
Savoring the last bite of his pie with a low, pleased hum, Dean gathers up the garbage and dumps it in the trash can on the way to the bathroom. He studies himself in the mirror while he washes his hand, takes note of the rings under his eyes, his shaggy hair. His beard is growing in, too, thicker than Cas'. He rubs a palm over his jaw and the rasp of it sounds too loud in the empty room.
Cas is right where Dean left him, still rigid and unhappy and all Dean wants to do is take him by the shoulders and guide him home. Which is something Castiel would never allow. Not when he's in the middle of work. No, Dean is going to have to go about this in stages.
Luckily, Cas is finishing up the last page of the paper he's been working on since Dean showed up. Dean times his approach damn near perfectly, wrapping a hand around Cas' wrist before he can take a new paper from the pile and start all over again.
He sighs Dean's name, glaring at him through thick lashes and even thicker black frames. The looks says, 'back off', but his loosening wrist in Dean's hand disagrees. And when Dean plants a knee on either side of Cas' thighs and settles his weight comfortably, Cas' head falls back, his eyes slips shut, and his hands drop to Dean's thighs, fingers clutching tight behind the knees.
Dean's hands rise automatically to Cas' head, fingers spearing through soft, black hair. As if he's been waiting all night for the drag of Dean's fingertips over his scalp, Cas sighs, breath gusting cool into Dean's neck. Yet it still takes several steady, firm strokes to loosen up his neck and shoulders, his spine. Even his legs slacken after long minutes, the heels of his boots dragging against the carpet as his legs stretch out.
He makes sure to cover Cas' whole head, from the nape to the forehead and back again, down along the sides and behind the ears. Dean's movements are slow and steady, calming, and he thinks he can see the pulse in Cas' neck turning sluggish.
When he draws his fingernails down Cas' neck, Cas makes a soft, wet sound, something between a moan and a whimper, low in his throat, and his hips shift. The movement unseats Dean and he widens his knees, situates himself closer to Cas, and that's when he feels it; Cas' cock, hot and hard, through two layers of cotton and denim. Dean grins, wide and tired, settles himself more heavily in Cas' lap, and leans forward.
Cas tries to resist at first, palms flat on Dean's chest, but he's weak from Dean's attention and a lack of sleep, and he ends up chasing Dean's lips with his own as Dean breathes in the smell of Cas' skin. He drags his nose over Cas' closed eyes, his temples, the crest of his cheek. Follows the line of Cas' jaw with his teeth then his thumb, knuckles bumping against Cas' Adam's apple. He smells like the bacon cheeseburger he ate before, but also of books and pine-scented cleaner, and when Dean kisses him, he tastes just like himself, mouth wet and lush and familiar.
Dean wants to take his time here; after weeks of barely-there pecks to Cas' cheek while he gets an extra few minutes of sleep in the morning or soft, stale kisses in the middle of the night, kisses Dean can barely remember once he wakes up, they deserve slow. In a way, it feels like they're relearning each other again, their tongues slow and searching.
Dean's hands skim up and down Cas' forearms, brushing the hair against the grain, then smoothing it back down again. The muscles shiver under his palms; goose bumps appear. Dimly, Dean curses Cas' choice in shirts, wishing he could touch more of Cas' skin, tinted gold by the table lamp, but that will just have to wait.
Cas' hands are desperate too, though, from the way they move from Dean's chest to his shoulders, shoving at Dean's heavy leather jacket. It falls to the floor, forgotten, and then slim fingers are plucking open the buttons on Dean's overshirt, rushed and clumsy. Dean tries to help him, but Cas' kisses turn hungrier, sharper. His teeth nip at Dean's lips and behind his glasses, his eyes are unfocused, black-rimmed-blue. He frames Cas' face with his palms and holds him steady.
"Cas," he says, quiet. "Cas, Cas." He whispers it over and over, into Cas' ear, his cheek, the hollow of his throat, until Cas finally slows down, fingers tangling in the tails of Dean's open shirt. "Chill out, dude," Dean murmurs into the skin of his neck, over his pulse. "Just let me do this. I got you."
For a moment, Cas' fingers tighten impossibly, pulling Dean to him, and then he lets go, lets Dean get up on unsteady legs and nudge his coat aside with his foot. Cas' hands are tight fists on his thighs, rubbing at them in time with his deep, desperate breaths. A flush creeps up his neck, all the way to his cheeks, and behind his glasses, his eyes are dark and huge. The riot of his hair looks no different, though, even with Dean having worked his fingers through it thoroughly.
He looks delicious and Dean wants to retrace every inch of that skin with his mouth. Not yet. Not here.
Carefully, Dean drops to his knees, hands braced flat on Cas' thighs. He skims them up the denim to wrap around Cas' wrists and pull them out of the way, then higher still to the button and zipper, gently easing them open and down. Cas' new relaxed position provides some room to maneuver, but not enough, and Dean tugs on him, hands behind his calves, just under the knees.
"Lift," Dean says, with a swat to Cas' hip. He does, but only barely, and Dean works quickly to get them down enough to free Cas' cock.
"Cold, cold," Cas hisses, bare skin meeting unforgiving leather.
Dean slips his hands underneath, chuckling at the sliver of skin exposed between his jeans and the tails of his shirt. "Whiner," he teases, rubbing the cold away. His eyes, though, are focused on Cas' cock, red and hot and precome pearling at the tip. The curve of it is dangerously close to Cas' waistcoat, threatening to stain the silk, so Dean does the gentlemanly thing and wraps his lips around the tip, providing gentle suction as he sinks down, down.
It's been far too long since they've had time to do this. Even without finals hanging over them, their opposing schedules tend to throw a wrench in their sex life, anyway, but the added stress and all its crabby, teeth-gnashing tendencies makes everything worse. If Dean were to think back on it, he'd have to admit they've exchanged more insults than not in the last few weeks, despite them still ending up in the same bed every night. But now that they're here, together, and the end of the semester is just around the corner, it doesn't matter. In the long run, Dean knows, none of it will matter.
But Dean can't think. Not right now, not beyond Cas' cock in his mouth, his hands grabbing fistfuls of Dean's hair, his hips twitching with the need to move. Dean clutches at him, fingers digging into Cas' ass, and moans. Cas shudders and the vibration of it seems to skitter down Dean's back, too. Curling, dark and promising at the base of his spine. His cock strains against his zipper.
The taste of Cas is achingly familiar, salt-sour and heavy, with his blood thudding under the skin. Dean tries to take him in all at once right from the beginning, tries to bury his nose in the mess of dark curls at the base, but he's out of practice and pulls off almost at once, hands pinning Cas' hips when they try to chase his wet heat. Dean tongues his way down instead, using little kitten licks and pinching the skin between soft, damp lips.
Above him, Cas is chanting his name, a quiet murmur that sounds too loud on the empty floor. His hands fall to Dean shoulders, fingers clenching and unclenching in the loose material of Dean's overshirt. His feet cling, too, hooked behind Dean's thighs. If it weren't for Dean's hands on his hips, Cas would be doing a fine job of fucking himself into Dean's mouth. Dean grins and licks his lips.
He starts off slow, mouthing at the head with a light, teasing suction; pairing it with his tongue, swiping flat over the slit. Through the fan of his lashes, he can Cas' head arch back, then fall forward, chin hitting his chest. His eyes are darkened by shadows, but Dean can see they're open at least. His mouth, too, spilling out moans and curse words that would make a sailor blush. Dean rewards it with a long, deliberate slide down. On the way back up, his lets his teeth catch on the small bundle of nerves under the crown, a barely-there scrape that works a shudder through Cas' arms and legs.
Stretching his hands wide, Dean's thumbs rasp through Cas' pubic hair, pressing down the closer they get to the base of his cock. Dean knows how much Cas likes that, a palm low and flat on his pelvis. The firm, steady weight of it massaging the prostate from the outside. Dean kind of likes it, too, the scratch of the hair against his fingers, the way Cas heavy and pliant all at once. It isn't the same in the position, with only Dean's thumbs, but it's something, and Cas lets out a rough, "Fuck, fuck."
In his jeans, Dean's cock throbs in response, and he grinds the heel of his hand down the length of it; a steady pressure meant to hold himself off until Cas is done. Cas takes advantage of the freedom, though, his hips hitching crookedly. The crown, sticky with precome, bumps against the roof of Dean's mouth once, then again. Cas' fingers thread through Dean's hair, nails scraping hard against his scalp, to hold him in place. It's a little sooner than Dean had hoped for, but from the tightening of Cas' balls, the ragged, raspy filth spilling from his lips, Dean can tell he's close.
With his jaw loose and lips tight, Dean lets Cas set the rhythm. His feet fall from Dean's hips, heels digging into the floor for leverage, and his hips snap up, each thrust punctuated with a dirty grunt. Cas' fingers flex and open to the pace of his hips, joints tight and nails sharp, and each time Dean is pulled up, he gives an extra suckle at the head, the tip of his tongue teasing at the slit.
One of Dean's hands grips tight to Cas' jeans, bunched together about halfway down his thighs. The other thumbs at the waistband of his own jeans, fingers shaky. It takes a fair amount of concentration to ease the zipper over his cock, but once it's free and he has a hand around it, he groans. Cas isn't expecting it, if the sound of his shredded, "oh god, Dean" is anything to go by, and everything goes still; Cas' hips, Dean's head, even the air around them.
"Jesus fucking-- Dean," Cas rasps, voice wrecked. His hips move again, tiny thrusts as he comes, warm and bitter, over Dean's tongue. Dean lets himself go, cock smearing precome on his henley, to help work Cas through it. Cas' whole body trembles from his release and his hands fall from Dean's head to cup loose around his neck, thumbs tucked behind his ears. Dean continues to tongue at the over-sensitized skin after Cas is spent, legs and arms limp, but he keeps the pressure gentle. Eventually, though, it gets to be too much for Cas and he uses one hand, cradling Dean's skull, to pull him off. Looking up, Dean returns Cas' soft smile with a dirty grin of his own.
With Cas satisfied, Dean's attention turns back to himself, his cock wet and aching. At the first firm stroke, Dean's head drops to Cas' thigh, nose smashed against warm denim. Cas' cries still echo in his ears and his fingernails draw long, careful lines along Dean's scalp. The combination of it all, plus the fact that Cas is here, the spicy scent of him real and not a faint memory in Dean's head, is more than enough to push Dean over the edge after a handful of minutes. He tries not to get come on the couch, if only for Cas' sanity, but some things can't be helped. After, skin sticky and muscles trembling, Dean falls back on his heels, forehead dragging along the length of Cas' thigh, which is the perfect vantage point for him to see the mess, come streaking his thigh, the chair, and even the rug. Dean is helpless to hold in his chuckle.
Cas doesn't stop petting him until long after Dean's cock is soft, his breathing even, and Dean doesn't care to move, either. Despite the fact that they're both rather gross, that Tessa or another student could come up here at any moment -- maybe already have and turned tail once they saw (or heard) their obscene tableau -- Dean is happier than he's been in weeks. He thinks -- hopes -- maybe Cas is, too.
Of course, Cas being the more sensible of the two, and also the one who had far less work to do, comes to his senses first, tugging on Dean's ear to get his attention. "You need to clean up," he says, quiet. Behind his glasses, his eyes are bright blue again, warm and sparkling, and Christ, no matter how many times Dean sees them, he feels himself drowning in them every damn time.
On the table next to the chair is a stack of unused napkins that came with their dinner. They smell of bacon grease, but they're good enough for Dean to get his hand clean enough to pull his jeans back on and head to the bathroom for a proper washing. He comes back with warm wet paper towels for Cas, lets him clean himself up while Dean scrubs at the chair and rug. The chair comes clean easier than the rug, naturally. When he stands, Dean scrubs at the spot with his heel, wearing the nap thin. He vows to return tomorrow with coffee or oil or red wine, something to disguise the stain.
As Cas stands up, Dean sits down in his place, legs sprawled out in front of him. The toe of his boot taps against the table leg while he watches Cas pull himself back together; shirt tucked, waistcoat straight, tie tightened. His hand looks too pale against the scarlet silk, another sign that Cas has been spending too much time inside. Not that there's much either one of them could do about it, unfortunately.
Once he's done, Cas gives Dean a look as says, "I can't read in the dark, Dean." His eyebrows arch, expectant, and he waits for Dean to shift over, away from the table lamp and the stack of papers next to it.
"Reading time's over," Dean declares, tugging on one of Cas' wrists. He falls easier than Dean expects, landing with an 'oof', arm thrown over Dean's chest. For a moment, Cas fits himself to Dean's body; there's a sigh, a warm huff of breath over his lips, then Cas stiffens and opens his mouth to start his protests.
Dean stops him with a kiss. "No way, Cas," he says, squirming to reach the cell phone in his pocket without letting go of Cas' shoulders. "Look." He holds the phone open so Cas can watch him set the alarm for an hour from now.
"They don't pay me to sleep, Dean," says Cas. The effect of his glare is ruined at the end by his wide yawn.
"And you can't work if you're dead, Cas. Now just--" he kisses Cas again, deep and quiet, and guides him away, fitting him into the corner of the chair. Leaning down, he grabs his jacket and hooks a hand under Cas' knees, pulling them up into his lap; the jacket he uses to cover Cas. "You look like a five year old," Dean laughs, smoothing a thumb over Cas' pouting lower lip.
Cas replies, "I feel like a five year old," but the frown lines between his brows smooth out and his blinks grow longer and longer.
Carefully, Dean eases his glasses off, skims a hand through Cas' hair to make it all stick straight up. His knuckles brush against Cas' cheek on its way back down.
"You'd better wake me up," Cas grumps one last time.
Dean laughs, slumps in the chair a little so his feet can pull the coffee table closer. "I turned the phone up as loud as it can go, Cas. If you don't hear it, then I'll really be worried."
Cas sighs again, a contented little sound, and his head tips to the side, leaning against the leather. He spends another few minutes shifting around, until finally he's comfortable. After that, it doesn't take long for his breathing to even out.
Satisfied, Dean carefully angles himself toward Cas, feet propped up on the table once more. From this angle, he can watch the snow fall outside the wall of windows until he, too, falls asleep.