of who can act like they care less | NC-17 | dean/cas.
[of who can act like they care less.]
dean/cas, nc-17, 8,000+ words, unbeta'ed.
The point being, Castiel is always arguing with him over every little thing and it’s both ruining their semi-professional working relationship and driving him fucking crazy.
a/n: this has been sitting on my computer a while, i wanted to get rid of it before show starts back again on Friday. I started parts of it like way before 'Caged Heat' then finished it after 'Like A Virgin' so everything else aired after that is like neglected. whatever. pretty much i just wrote this for my own entertainment and wanted to make them stop fighting and start fucking. tralala.
---
The thing about working with your Ex is this: You have to see them every single day. On top of that, you have to be civil to each other and all that other workplace cooperation crap. Y'know so no one gets their asses fired.
Except, when you’re a hunter and your Ex is an angel of the lord and working together means trying to stop the world from coming to a literal end, the consequences of being uncooperative are pretty much imminent death and impending doom. Suffice to say, things get a little tenser than what would be considered normal under the circumstances.
Or so Dean assumes from what television has taught him.
Also, he’s not exactly comfortable grouping Castiel as an ‘Ex’ considering what little relationship they had was considerably less relationship-y and mostly involved nakedness.
The point being, Castiel is always arguing with him over every little thing and it’s both ruining their semi-professional working relationship and driving him fucking crazy.
--
It doesn’t exactly start after Sam gets his soul back, but that’s when Dean starts noticing it.
He’s still fuming that Cas spilled the damn beans to Sammy about his brief intermission as a soulless, puppy-killing, dick, several days later.
“I can not fucking believe you!” Dean shouts the next time he sees him.
Cas stands by the door, limbs hanging awkward at his sides, his expression unreadable.
“He had the right to know. You were not going to inform him,” Cas answers dryly.
“Do you not understand anything, you childish, self righteous, dick? If Sam remembers,” he pauses to catch a breath, “If Sam starts poking around, starts playing Nancy Drew lookin’ for clues about his time in the cage, he’s gonna be left a comatose, drooling vegetable!”
“I do not understand how lying to him was going to protect him from that. If anything, I did Sam a favor telling him what you wouldn’t.”
“You didn’t do anything but go behind my back just to piss me off! I should tear you a new one Cas, I really fucking should,” Dean breathes heavily feeling the adrenaline and anger course through him.
Cas steps forward, into Dean’s space, “I had nothing but Sam’s best intentions in mind and you should not ever think otherwise.”
Dean can see the very slight tells of Castiel’s anger, the downward curve of his mouth, the slow burn of righteous fury behind his borrowed eyes at Dean’s distrust.
He swallows, about to make another argument, but Cas beats him to it, says harsh, powerful, demanding, “And you forget Dean, that I stitched you back together with my very own grace, and I can unmake you just as easily. So do not threaten me if you do not mean it.”
Dean’s breathing heavily, simultaneously furious, frightened, and maybe a little turned on.
For a minute Dean’s pretty sure this is going to end in some pretty epic one-last-time-in-the-sack-angry-sexy-time type scenario.
He wonders if Castiel is going to hit him, kiss him, something, anything, but then the subject of their argument clambers in through the door, greasy paper take-out bag in hand, and Castiel is gone.
“Uh…” Sam says, “Did I interrupt something?”
Dean takes a moment to fully comprehend before shaking his head, putting a lid on his anger.
“N’aww Sammy,” he pastes on a grin, ”now, tell me you got pie.”
--
A witch with a hate-on for Sam dating back to the time he was a walking, talking, dick in a bad haircut, casts a curse on him in Columbus. Dean laughs for about half a day before, reluctantly, calling for Castiel.
“You called me from the battlefield for this?” Castiel frowns deeply, the second he arrives.
“Well, if you were so busy why the hell did you even show up?” Dean snaps.
“Your tone implied it was a matter of urgency.”
“Yeah, well,” Dean gestures towards the bed, pointing at Sam without further explanation.
“Contrary to your belief, there are things bigger than you Winchesters and your endless pit of problems.” Castiel argues back, tone even.
“Guys,” Sam tries, voice high pitched and whiney, because he’s an actual girl.
God that will never not be funny.
“Not now Sam!” both Dean and Castiel bark, not bothering to look away from each other.
“Okay, I’ll just continue not having a dick over here in silence…”
“And that’s different from any other day how?”
Castiel huffs, “I do not have time for this bickering.”
It takes three seconds for Samantha to become plain old Sam again, fully operating dude parts and all, and another two seconds for Cas to fly away without saying goodbye.
And all Dean can think is, hell, if I had a nickel for every time that happens.
--
Some arguments are petty.
Dean cranks the volume on the radio up to full blast, silently fuming.
Sam watches from the passenger seat with an amused smirk to rival his soulless counter part.
Castiel looks out the window in the backseat. The music plays for several seconds before Castiel flicks his wrist and it shuts off.
Dean violently reaches forward and turns it back on, nearly swerving into oncoming traffic as he looks back into the rearview.
“Why are you even here?” he complains.
Sam laughs.
Castiel switches the music off once again.
It's gonna be a long drive.
--
The three of them are in a diner in Tucson, grabbing a bite after a successful hunt. Dean isn’t sure how Cas managed to score shore leave, all he knows is he’s tired, his back aches, he’s covered in grave dirt, smells like dead ass, and really wants a fucking double bacon cheeseburger with extra onions, fuck you very much.
He doesn’t want to make small talk.
But apparently Samantha and Cas do, because all Dean can hear is them gabbing on and on in the background. And whatever fine, he can tune it out, because the waitress is placing his food in front of him and Dean’s rubbing his hands together greedily. He assumes their conversation goes something like this:
Blah, what sort of hair product do you use? Blah blah heaven is delightful this time of year, blah.
“Dean?” Castiel asks hesitantly. Like he’s expecting something, an answer to a question Dean wasn’t listening to in the first place, an opinion, a witty retort, something.
Dean blinks for a quick second, then plucks the tomato off his burger and tosses it onto Sam’s plate.
“Dude, I don’t even know, and frankly, I also kinda don’t care - just pass the ketchup,” he says palm out, waiting, popping a fry into his mouth with his free hand.
For a moment Cas looks like he might actually cry, and then Dean might have had to feel bad, but instead Cas opts for glaring at him angrily because apparently his very existence offends him these days.
“Not everything is about you Dean,” Cas says scornfully and disappears, and okay Dean’s a little confused. But maybe he should have been paying attention instead of being an asshole, he admits to himself.
“Dean,” Sam hisses, somehow managing to fit ‘what the hell is wrong with you?‘ and ‘you’re such an idiot’ and ‘be a little more sensitive, you asshole’ into one syllable.
Conveniently he does not explain what in the hell just happened.
“What?” Dean shrugs, “If Cas has got his panties in a wad, that’s his problem not mine,” he stretches across the table top to grab the red plastic squeeze bottle, “Besides, how hard is it to pass the freaking ketchup?”
“Dude,” Sam shakes his head, “I’ve got a feeling this is so not about ketchup.”
Dean frowns and throws a fry at him.
The bitchface he gets in return doesn’t help him feel any less like a dick.
--
“What the hell is going on with you and Cas?” Sam asks, all concern and curious freakin’ doe eyes in a motel room in Spokane.
Dean stops midway through peeling off his slimy ass shirt and gives Sam the stink eye.
“Nothing,” he denies, underlying tone clearly translating into ‘shut the hell up Samantha.’
To be quite honest, Dean’s not even entirely sure what’s going on with him and Cas. Why they can’t stop picking at each other. It’s slightly unsettling.
“Well,” says Sam, “you’re acting like a divorced couple arguing over who gets to keep the house in The Hamptons.”
“We are not!” Dean snaps back sharp and quick - maybe a little too quickly because Sam smirks. The little shit thinks he’s real fucking clever.
Dean flips him off and tosses his ghost slimed t-shirt back in his face, chuckling at the disgusted sound he gets in return as he heads into the bathroom for a shower. He frowns as soon as he shuts the door. Like hell he’s going to let Sam know that yeah, okay, fine, he’s sort of kinda right.
But he’s not going to discuss his and Castiel’s relationship status with Sammy ever. Never going to casually say over foofy cappuccinos, ‘So me and Cas were sort of boning each other and then after everything the dick got a promotion and went and fucked off back to heaven without any sort of closure at all and then I didn’t hear from him for an entire year. It sort of sucked.’
Dean turns on the shower and turns back to stare at his reflection in the chipped mirror over the ugly yellow sink. For a moment, now that he’s got Sam - the real, whole, Sam - back, he really lets the past year sink in. All the anger, the resentment, the feeling of being trapped in a life he couldn’t lead. Lisa and Ben and missing Sammy and not letting himself think about Castiel, trying not to miss him too.
He strips and climbs under the spray, letting his mind go blank, trying to think about anything but Cas.
It doesn’t work anymore.
Fuck.
--
They’re in Portland dealing with a pack of Daevas. Currently, Dean’s getting his ass handed to him by some possessed, skinny-jeaned-scarf-wearing, hipster kid, buying Sam some time to find the stupid altar the bitch is using to control the things and destroy it.
The kid slams him into the wall -again- (and Jesus where the hell is this scrawny Bambi legged undergrad getting all this strength anyways?) when Cas shows up with a gust of hot air.
“Why am I always having to rescue you?” Castiel sighs and slams the kid into the opposite wall.
Hah, Dean thinks, hurts don’t it?
Also, he resents Cas’ implication that he’s some sort of damsel in distress, the dick.
He pushes himself up, supporting his probably dislocated shoulder against his side.
“Uh yeah, I don’t recall calling for the feathered cavalry,” snarks Dean.
Castiel punches the demon kid in the face as it runs at him viciously and Dean winces because, damn, that probably would have caved the guy’s head in if Cas wasn’t restraining himself or using 45% angel power or whatever. Dean can only sympathize for so long however, because that’s when a dark shadow casts itself along the floor and Dean can feel a sharpness clawing at his back, tearing through his jacket as he jerks away.
“If I had left you to die at the hands of an amateur low ranking demon and it’s pets, I would have never heard the end of it,” Cas manages as he hefts the kid up, presses a palm to his forehead and burns the evil right out of him, banishing the daevas out of the room in a blinding white light.
“Pfft, I can hold my own,” Dean says lamely afterwards, as Cas steps forward and touches a hand to his sore shoulder, healing him, palm fitting along the mark he left there and it tingles even through Dean’s clothing.
“Dean,” Sam runs into the room, panic on his face, heaving for breath. Dean can see him visibly calm when he looks and sees Dean all right, sees Castiel standing beside him.
“I was worried I didn’t destroy the altar in time,” he explains, “Good thing Cas showed.”
In which Dean responds with an eye roll that actually physically hurts, “Yes let’s all thank fuck for Castiel! Who only shows up when he needs something for some super secret stealth mission for the angel brigade, or God forbid, I try to die!”
Whatever, maybe in some fucked up way, he just admitted that he misses Castiel with Sam standing right there. But he doesn’t care. Because the bastard surely must not miss him enough to hang around long enough to go grab a beer.
“I have left my duties, my command, to others coming here to help you Dean Winchester. I have no obligations or ulterior motives for being here,” Castiel grits out and, as per usual, he disappears before Dean can even think of a reply.
“Dude, this is getting ridiculous, sort out your issues,” Sam bitches as they make their way outside, as they pack the guns and supplies back into the trunk.
Dean ignores him, “Pass me the sawed-off will you?”
Sam hands it to him, but not without a heavy, melodramatic sigh. Girl.
“Dean. Before Cas burned the demon out of that poor kid, he gave him a broken nose.” Sam says, like it explains everything.
Dean shrugs, “Maybe he should have thought of that before choosing to wear scarves as a fashion statement.” He closes the trunk and moves to get behind the wheel, needing to get out of there, needing a goddamn beer or three.
“Dean,” Sam tries again, pulling out the good ol’ sharing and caring eyes, “I know you guys were,” he pauses, “you know, sort of together - Before. I’m not stupid.”
Dean goes wide-eyed. Every fiber of his body tenses into denial mode. He honestly thought Sam had no clue and had intended to keep it that way.
Sam walks to the passenger door, says staring at Dean from across the roof of the Impala, “I mean, there was a war going on, and you know, getting comfort where you can and everything I get it. I just never thought - with the way you’re acting now - well, I just never thought it was actually anything this serious. If I'd known - Well if I'd known I'd have never told you to go to Lisa.”
Forget the beer. Dean needs whiskey. Or tequila. Mostly he just needs to be drunk right the fuck now.
“No. We are not talking about this,” the creak and slam of his door punctuating his resolve to never have this conversation.
He jabs the keys into the ignition and her engine roars up, Sam folding himself into his seat as Dean starts to drive off.
Into the stifling silence Sam says earnestly, almost quiet, “Just talk to him man. He’s going through a lot.”
And that is just freakin’ peachy, Sam and Cas apparently talk about their feelings and personal issues and their goddamn freaking relationships behind Dean’s back while they braid each others hair and sing freakin’ Taylor Swift songs.
Wow. Excellent. Fucking perfect.
Dean cranks up Enter Sandman and hopes Sam takes the hint about shutting the hell up. Sometimes, very rarely, Dean misses Douchey-Sans-a-Soul Sam.
Right now?
Definitely one of those times.
It takes him until the end of Wherever I May Roam to calm down and decide that yeah, him and Cas?
They probably do need to talk.
--
Sam’s asleep when Dean sneaks out into the motel parking lot. He tugs his jacket up close, collar tight against the cold as he walks out towards where the Impala is parked. He needs a safe place to do this, talking about feelings. Pfft.
He lets out a deep breath against the twisting nerves in his gut and calls out for him. Closes his eyes and thinks Cas. Except when he cracks an eye open, Castiel isn’t there.
“Cas,” Dean shouts, looking up at the overcast night sky, “c’mon you feathery ass I know you can hear me!”
Castiel appears not two feet away, announcing himself with a long drawn out sigh - a habit he must have picked up from being BFF’s with Sam.
“What?”
“People usually say ‘hello’ when they first see each other Cas, I thought we talked about that.”
“Hello. Now what do you want?” Cas says impatiently.
It pains Dean a little that Cas thinks Dean only calls for him when he needs something, although yeah, okay, he hasn’t really done anything recently to disprove that particular behavior.
“Nothing - I,” Dean swallows, “I wanted to talk.”
“Talk?” Cas tilts his head, curious, an action that never failed to make Dean feel a warm rush of affection for him before. That still does if he’s honest with himself.
“Yeah, talk. I am capable of having a conversation every now and again y'know?”
Castiel gives him a disbelieving look.
“What about?” he asks.
“About this,” Dean gestures in between them, “us. Man, we’ve got to stop getting at each others throats, there’s got to be a way we can, I don’t know, be civil towards each other?”
“I am being civil Dean, you are the one that is always difficult.” Cas says, toneless.
Dean rolls his eyes, “Whatever, can we just, put everything behind us and drop the angry ex girlfriend act now?”
“I have never been your girlfriend Dean,” answers Cas, ever the literal bastard.
“Yeah, believe me, I know that,” Dean says sarcastic, “Look come on, I think we just, I don’t know, need closure so we can move on from whatever it was we were doing last year and-“
“Closure?”
“Yeah, because you up and left and we never formally ended our mutually benefit-y friendship, granted I was sort of a train wreck at the time, but whatever. Now come on, just cowboy up and say you’re sorry,” Dean makes a c’mon, hit me with your best shot, gesture and awaits an apology.
Of course, Castiel is a stubborn prick.
“I will not apologize, there is nothing to apologize for. You needed space and time to heal and had no intentions of denying your brother’s last wish. I respected that.”
Oh. Lisa. That’s what this is about. Cas is jealous.
“Christ Cas, you ever think that if you had maybe stuck around, I wouldn’t have went to Lisa? I had no one.”
“You would have only resented me for coming back from the dead when Sam could not.”
“What? I wouldn’t’ve,” Dean says quickly, even though yeah, that probably would have happened and then they’d be even more fucked up than they are now - in an even bigger mess.
“It does not matter what would or could have happened. Heaven called and I answered. You went to Lisa Braeden and you were safe. It was for the best.”
“It was not for the fucking best Cas! I was miserable and I never wanted you to leave!” he shouts and it’s like a fucking punch in the goddamn gut. It knocks the wind out of him, catches him off guard, like this isn’t something he’s known in the back of his mind ever since.
It’s the most honest he’s been with himself in years, and hell, may as well go for broke right?
But Cas, the bastard, just keeps on staring at him - doesn’t blink, doesn’t even move. He seems unfuckingchanged with Dean’s admission, and that’s the real kicker here. Spend a little time being hot shit upstairs and it’s back to square fucking one emotionally. An unfeeling dick with wings.
Dean turns his back, scrubs a hand down his face.
“What would you have had me do, Dean?” Cas says finally, voice careful and even, “I was needed.”
“Fuck them, I needed you!” Dean counters, the words like a fistfight, blows sharp and painful. Telling the truth the only way he knows how.
They share a look for a long moment before Dean breaks the silence.
“I needed you to stay,” he says again with less bite, more desperation; a poorly healed wound reopens and bleeds slowly.
He doesn’t hear Cas’ footfalls, too preoccupied with his own heavy breathing, with the buzzing silence punctuating his fucking feeling coated admonishment. A hand grabs his shoulder, a familiar yet slightly awkward and unpracticed gesture, a touch that lingers too long to not mean something.
And fuck his confusing ass life, he leans back into it.
“Dean,” Cas says, voice close and low and Dean can feel the rumble of it travel along his spine. He closes his eyes and for a second, the briefest of seconds, he’s positive one of them will give in.
“Dean,” Cas repeats, fingers tripping over skin, unsure where they touch at his neck, and Dean gathers up all the anger that’s been building, that he’s been storing inside, and brushes him off in the cadence. His shoulders rolling violently as he whips around to face Castiel, to sneer at him.
“After Sam,” he starts and restarts remembering how he promised himself to never say - to think - Sam and died in the same sentence ever again.
“You left,” Dean finishes harshly, tone radiating resentment; cutting past the layers of skin and muscle, straight down to the bare and vulnerable bone underneath. And the thing is, to Dean, that is the worst possible offence, the unbreakable rule: You don’t leave family behind.
He doesn’t say it again, but it’s written in the tense line of his shoulders, in the relentless, spitting fight of him, ‘you left me and I needed you the most’.
Castiel stares back at him for several beats, big blue eyes giving nothing away. Which is why Dean’s thrown for a mother fucking loop when Cas fists his jacket and pushes him back, back, until his hip collides with the hood of the Impala.
He sees anger flash across Cas’ face and for a second he’s sure Cas is going to Fight Club his insolent ass into a couple of broken ribs and a bruised face like he did once before, but instead, kisses him; a hard press of cool lips.
Before Dean can even think of shifting gears from fighting into fucking, Cas is pulling away. His brow furrowed in that familiar shade of annoyance before the air around them shifts and displaces and Castiel is gone.
In the aftermath, Dean is left reeling, confused and alone in the parking lot.
“Goddamnit,” he says, but there is no one around to listen.
--
The next time he sees Castiel is in Topeka nearly three weeks later.
Since Sam’s ditched the Robo Cop routine, he’s picked up that old nasty habit of being a nerd. Loosely translated: Sammy’s at the library geeking it up old school and Dean will never admit how much that tugs at his heartstrings.
The point being, they aren’t on a hunt so Dean is alone in the motel, sharing his down time with the creature comforts: Pizza, a six-pack, and a roll of quarters for the magic fingers. It isn’t long until Cas whammies himself unannounced into Dean’s personal space.
“Cas what in the hell-?” Dean starts but is interrupted.
“If you had wanted me to stay, why did you not ask that of me?” Cas says, no pussyfooting around.
And Dean’s flabbergasted, because honestly, he’d pretty much buried that little conversation underneath layers upon layers of freshly fertilized denial.
While he searches the recesses of his mind for something inoffensive to say, he notices it: The slump to Castiel’s shoulders, the downtrodden, completely assfucked beyond belief expression. He is as weary and rundown as Dean used to look on any given day during the Apocalypse That Almost Was and there is an echo of sadness behind his eyes. Heartbreakingly dejected like when he had lost faith in his Father. Like when he had lost faith in Dean.
The fight to stop the apocalypse may be over for him, for Sam, but it isn’t for Cas and Dean never fucking realized that Cas is running himself ragged.
How has Dean been such a goddamn selfish douchebag this whole entire time? So busy trying to save Sammy, so busy with his own fucked up abandonment issues, that he couldn’t even spare Cas five minutes of his time to listen.
“Jesus Cas,” he breathes, standing, stepping up to Cas. He reaches out but grabs nothing but air, hesitant.
“What the hell are they doing to you up there?”
Cas ignores him, tired eyes baring into him, and Dean thinks that all Cas has to show from his brief stint with humanity is how to be disappointed, how to feel grief and sadness.
“Did it ever occur to you,” Cas says slowly, sadly, “that had you asked it of me, I would have stayed.”
He looks away from Dean, and Dean follows the movement. The rustle of his coat, the hitching intake of breath, the click of Castiel’s throat as he swallows.
They both know Dean never would have asked. Too fucking prideful to ask for help.
They both know Castiel wouldn’t have stayed. Too loyal to leave his faith behind.
But somehow knowing - knowing that if Cas could make that choice, knowing that he would choose Dean - it means everything.
“I would much rather have stayed,” Cas adds, quiet, looking back to Dean, absolutely wrecked. And for the first time in all the time that they have known each other, Castiel looks small, vulnerable, not at all like the powerful, otherworldly, thing that he is.
Dean doesn’t know what to say, heavy with the weight of Cas’ words. Weighed down in that moment of stasis between wanting to reach out and touch and comfort and have, and wanting to run the fuck away.
He doesn’t get to make a choice, because that’s when Sam calls about the vengeful nerd spirits in the haunted ass library.
Perfect freaking timing as always Sammy.
--
Figures Sam would stumble head first into a hunt at the goddamn library of all places.
Sammy stays behind to deal with the clean up once they finally find the hairbrush that belonged to the psycho librarian from hell and burn the thing, and Dean and Cas head back to the motel. Dean had had enough books flung at his head for one evening thank you very much and did not want to hang around the things any longer.
What has Dean learned from this particular misadventure? Always pay your late fees.
Cas rides along with him in the Impala, sitting in the passenger side. They keep glancing at each other, quick sneaking looks, and there’s a silence between them that isn’t exactly awkward but still feels cloying and thick and Dean can’t seem to break through. The truth is exposed and he isn’t sure what to do with it.
It starts to rain as they pull into the parking lot, fat drops of it drumming a staccato rhythm on the roof of his baby. Dean pulls the keys out of the ignition and they sit there for a long moment in time, Dean still yearning to say something but not knowing how.
Cas looks at him, something behind his eyes exhausted and sad and he wanted to stay here with Dean.
It’s too much. He turns and exits the car, the creak of it filling this fucking never-ending quiet. He dodges the rain as he darts under cover where the roof of the motel hangs over the walkway up to the room. He doesn’t hear Cas follow him, but when he reaches the door he can feel a warmth at his side.
Dean hesitates, room key hovering outside the lock. What he thinks he wants to say is itching at him, and fuck it, but he’s never been good at resisting the urge to scratch at old wounds.
He curls his fist around the key and looks back over his shoulder at Cas.
“What you said earlier - Did you-?“ he swallows, darts his tongue out to wet suddenly dry lips and finds that he can’t get the rest of it out. Leaves the question hanging in the open air.
“I meant what I said,” says Castiel, always knowing what Dean means to say, what Dean needs to hear. Always knowing when to push and when to just let him be.
Dean turns around, back to the door of Room 302. Cas stands there in front of him, close enough to touch with his arms hung awkwardly at his sides. He’s swallowed up in that too big coat, hair wild and eyes bright and steady and trained on Dean. And right then, even with the rain beating down and their breaths coming in sharp puffs in the winter chill, he feels a warmth in his chest. A warmth that spreads and consumes like wildfire and before he can think he propels himself forward, fingers grabbing at Castiel’s damp collar.
Fuck it, he thinks, he’s never been good with words anyways.
It only takes a moment for Cas to touch a hand at Dean’s side, and then Dean is kissing him, dragging Cas forward and pressing their mouths together recklessly.
Cas’ fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket at the same time Dean wraps a hand around Cas’ neck, thumb tracing the line of his jaw, both trying to drag the other one nearer.
They kiss the only way they know how: quick, aggressive, desperate; like an argument. Sparring for the last word with each swipe of tongue, in each biting press of lips and teeth, both too full of stubborn pride to give in before the other.
Cas presses closer still, surges forward eagerly until Dean’s back hits the door. He groans, Cas’ knee slotting in between his own and Dean scrambles for purchase as the dam of his carefully concealed wanting is washed away with this one kiss. He holds on, fisting bunches of that damned coat as they kiss and kiss and kiss, bruising and insistent, Dean’s cock already pushing against his zipper as he remembers just how good they can be together.
The door opens behind him and he stumbles back across the threshold, would have fallen on his ass if Cas hadn’t had a hold on him, hands grasping his hips tight. Dean pushes at Cas’ coats, impatiently pulling at the fabric until they fall away, forgotten in a haphazard trail to the bed. Dean runs his hands up the skin-warmed cotton of Cas’ shirt, curls his hands around his shoulders and holds on tight.
They only break apart for air because Dean needs it, a necessity he’s never been regretful of until this thing with Cas. He sucks in a breath as Cas strips him of his own jacket, helps Dean peel off his t-shirt and lets the discarded clothing pool at their feet.
Dean un-tucks Cas’ shirt from his waist, sneaks a hand up underneath, rests it low on his stomach as he steps close, noses along his neck, the line of his jaw; just standing there leaning against each other. Dean pauses the race for a slow interlude as everything catches up to him. Everything Cas has ever done for him; rebelled and died and brought him back to life. He’s never had anyone - anyone besides Sammy - willing to sacrifice so much for him. Who wants to stick around through all of his fucked up issues.
It’s all too much, too heavy. Dean pushes it away, swallows it down, lightens the moment.
He slips his hands into Cas’ unruly hair, threads his fingers through the strands and tugs until Castiel pulls back to glare at him. He hates it, but Dean loves the look on his face so he can’t help it. He grins, reaches out for Cas’ tie and pulls him in, growls ‘c’mere’ against his swollen lips and it’s back on.
They kiss again, frantic, dirty, and wet as Dean makes quick work of Castiel’s belt. Strips the thing from Cas’ pants and walks him backward. Cas’ knees buckle once his calves hit the bed and Dean pushes him down, fueled by the fire licking hot and insistent in his veins, so incredibly turned on.
He needs this. He’s needed this for so long, and maybe Cas does too, he thinks as he sinks to his knees in the cheap shag carpet. He darts his tongue across his bottom lip, tugs it in between his teeth, wets it as he spreads Cas’ legs apart, hands sliding up from his knees, slow, along the inseam of his slacks, rubs his palm over the hardness waiting for him. He moans in the back of his own throat as Castiel rocks upwards into his hand, as he grinds the heel down, as he cups and squeezes.
He’d draw this out, tease, but Dean wants it too much, nothing but the snick of the zipper and the pulse of the blood in his ears the soundtrack to him tugging Cas free from his pants and underwear.
Cas’ cock is hard, the head flush and wet and begging to be sucked. Dean gives it a stroke, swipes his thumb across the moisture gathering there at the tip, brings it up to his own lips for a taste. He flicks his eyes up quick as he sucks the pad of his thumb into his mouth, up to Castiel’s face. Cas looks back at him, fuck, maybe into him, and says ‘Dean,’ like it’s the only word worth saying, and he’s leaning down to kiss Dean again, sloppy and urgent, Dean’s neck straining to meet him.
Dean pushes him back, restrains him with a look as he sinks back down, head disappearing into Cas’ lap, taking Cas into his mouth and sucking hard. Cas fucks up into his mouth, the head catching on the inside of Dean’s cheek, and it’s so fucking hot to watch Cas - composed, powerful, angel of the freakin’ Lord, Castiel - come apart like this for him. Only for him.
It’s messy and hot, so goddamn hot, as Dean works him. Bobs down as far as he can on Cas’ dick, coming back up and sucking hard on the head, over and over. He mouths along the underside, licks and sucks and it’s perfect.
Cas’ hand touches the back of his neck and Dean looks up. Sees Cas leaning back on the bed, bracing himself on one elbow, face lost in silent ecstasy, mouth open and eyes shut tight.
He loves how Cas tries to keep quiet, tries to keep it all in. How Cas lets out soft breathy moans and low barely there whispers of Dean’s name, how he stops from crying out with aborted breaths and bitten lips.
He’s straining against his own jeans now, throbbing and tenting the fly, uncomfortably wet inside the confines of his briefs. With one hand on Cas’ hip he braces himself, snaking the other down to fumble with the buttons of his jeans. He moans around Cas’ cock once he gets himself in hand, squeezes himself and jerks frantically, the slick of his own pre-come easing the way.
Cas must notice, because suddenly, suddenly, Dean’s being hauled off his knees, and then they’re on the bed, pressed together from head to toe, clothes and shoes and socks whammied away. Castiel is on top of him, rubbing his erection in abortive little thrusts along the spur of Dean’s hip, just looking down at him with those big blue eyes.
Always fucking looking at him and Dean laughs.
Castiel frowns, confused with this sudden shift in tone.
“What is so funny?” he says, voice hoarse, head tilted.
“Nothing,” Dean manages, still smiling as they rut against one another, “Just - what did I tell you about angel fu-ing my clothes away? It’s freaky.”
Smartly, Castiel’s response is to kiss him, tongue licking into his mouth and stealing his laughter, transforming it into a long drawn out moan as he fists Dean’s cock.
Castiel’s good at this, a little clumsy yeah, but for the whole handful of times they’ve done this, the handful of times Castiel’s even had sex, he’s good. A quick study. He jerks Dean in a tight grip, alternating between quick stripes and long slow tugs of Dean’s cock, reaching down to cup and roll his balls the way Dean taught him all those months ago, and Dean’s going crazy under his hand. He’s bucking and moaning and thrashing and babbling nonsensical pleas of ‘Cas, Cas, please, please, Cas.’
And he can’t take it anymore, he wants to come, needs it even. To come inside Castiel, wants to fuck him so bad it physically hurts. He flips them over, hovers above Cas and rubs his cock against his belly.
He bites at Cas’ neck, sucks a dark bruise on his collar to admire later and slips a hand down, down, pressing back behind Castiel’s heavy balls. Back to circle a finger around his opening. Cas presses back against him, his body sucking his finger inside and fuck, he’s so tight and hot and goddamn enticing. Dean’s cock throbs impatiently.
“Turn over,” Dean instructs sitting up on his knees, voice wrecked with lust.
Castiel does, propping himself up on his elbows, looking over his shoulder, always wanting to watch.
“Goddamn,” Dean says appreciatively, giving his dick a few slow tugs.
Cas shoots him a disapproving look at his blasphemous language.
He reaches out to touch, caresses the arching line of Castiel’s back, the valley of his spine, the graceful jut of shoulder blades. There’s something hovering in the air, something electric and charged and Dean imagines he’s touching Castiel’s wings.
He crawls down, nudges Cas’ legs apart further to fit in between, places a kiss to the small of Cas’ back as he brings his face level with Castiel’s ass. He palms a cheek, gropes and pats and massages indulgently, before he spreads them apart and touches the point of his tongue to that tight little ring.
Castiel shivers under him, actually goddamn shivers, and that only urges him onward. He licks, jabbing his tongue inside just so and sucks, getting Cas wet enough for his fingers. He pushes one in alongside his tongue, stretching him, pulls his mouth off entirely and fucks him with two. Watches his fingers disappear inside, in and out, Cas clenching hot and tight around him. He adds another and presses deep, Castiel jerking against him when Dean finds his prostate. Rubs over and over until Castiel let’s a rare loud moan escape past his lips.
Dean sits up, pulls out of Cas and stretches blindly across the bed to his duffle on the floor, nearly falling face first onto the carpet in the process. He finds it and dumps the contents, sifting through the mess of dirty clothes and candy bar wrappers and ammo until he finds his lube.
“Dean,” Cas prompts impatiently, and Dean says, “Yeah, Cas, yeah, just hold on,” as he uncaps the tube and slicks himself up hastily.
Cas turns back over, apparently wanting to do this face to face, and yeah, yeah, Dean wants that too. He lifts Cas’ legs, spreads them wide, hooks one high around his waist and Dean presses back up against him, fucks his cock into the tight crack of Cas’ ass and when Cas is shaking, panting his name quietly over and over, he lines himself up and finally, finally pushes inside. And it’s unlike anything Dean’s ever felt, it’s perfection, it’s the freakin’ paradise on Earth those other dick angels want so bad.
It’s so much better than he remembered it could ever be.
He bottoms out slowly and stills for a few short seconds, needing to feel Cas. To know he’s here and staying and Dean’s.
Cas urges him to move silently, commands it in the way he digs his heel into Dean’s back, rubs his cock up against Dean’s stomach, so he does what he’s been told. He pulls out and thrusts back inside, propping himself up with his hands for leverage, hovering above Cas and fucking him again and again, being swallowed up inside his heat.
“Oh fuck, yes,” he moans, building up a rhythm. Hard and fast and deep, hips pistoning quick, him and Cas moving together and making the bed creak, making the headboard scrape against the wall.
Cas is grappling for purchase, hands fisting the cheap sheets, roaming all along Dean’s back, his ass, his hair. When Dean finds his prostate again he thrashes, panting hard, head tossed back against the pillow. Dean leans down and scrapes his teeth along the exposed, elegant line of Castiel’s neck. Kisses and licks his collar bone as he fucks him hard through it.
Cas’ eyes shut tight and Dean watches him, watches him come undone, feels Castiel clench and come hard, untouched, unexpected, spilling between them.
“Cas, oh fuck, yeah, that’s it,” He says, slamming in harder, growing desperate.
His hips stutter and his rhythm falters and Cas slowly comes back from his orgasm underneath him.
“Dean,” Cas whispers, hands coming up to touch at his temple, to brush through his sweaty hair, to curl around Dean’s shoulders and bring him closer, to bring their foreheads together and Dean’s reminded of that first time. Of taking it slow and careful and guiding Cas through it, only now it’s Cas doing the same for him.
“Cas,” he whines, fucking into him fast, orgasm building and building but never quite reaching it’s crescendo.
Dean drops his forehead to Castiel’s shoulder, buries his face in the crook and Cas keeps saying his name, saying it like it’s a revelation, like it’s something sacred; like Dean’s something worth fighting for, something to be loved.
And they will never say it to each other in words, but yeah, maybe it’s true. Maybe here, like this, in this bed, in this motel room, this is how they can say it.
Cas fits his hand around the mark on Dean’s shoulder, fingers locking into place as he presses his grace into him. It bursts warm and bright along his spine, behind his eyelids, and it’s like something inside locks into place and Dean comes with a sob. He shoves deep and holds on, shaking as he comes and comes and comes, shooting every last drop of himself inside, orgasm washing over him in intense never ending waves.
Probably the best goddamn orgasm of his life. Jesus.
Together they catch their breaths in a pleasant silence, because wow. Wow.
Give him ten minutes; they’re definitely doing that again.
--
Afterwards, Dean’s dozing. Cas’ head is pillowed on his shoulder, and Dean’s hand fits easily on the small of his back, fingers mindlessly walking along the dip in his spine. And whatever, fine, it’s cuddling - a comfort he’d gotten used to with Lisa, but with Cas is somehow made better.
He’s overheated and cramped, muscle’s aching dully. It’d be sticky and disgusting, skin tacky with drying sweat and come, but luckily Cas’ mojo comes with complimentary cleaning services. The twinge in his knee is acting up; he’s not old by far, but definitely not young enough to be up all night fucking in increasingly complicated positions.
Cas shifts next to him, and man is he ever a sight. His hair rightfully sex tousled, pale skin marred with purpling bruises the exact perfect shape of Dean’s own mouth. He gave an angel a hickey. He grins proudly to himself.
“Dean,” Castiel says into the quiet.
“Yeah?”
“I killed my brothers yesterday,” Cas confesses bluntly and the sadness in his tone resonates, killing Dean’s post-coital buzz.
“Jesus,” Dean breathes, because what the hell else can he say?
Instead of spluttering through some shitty ‘my condolences’ speech, he splays a protective hand along Cas’ back. Dean let’s Castiel talk, it’s long been time for him to listen.
“It is not that,” Cas starts again slowly, “not that I have not killed before, but these were members of my old garrison and I suppose in human terms we - we grew up together in a sense. I was sad for it, but killing them - There was no other way.”
“Cas,” Dean tries, but all he can do is listen pathetically to the click of his own throat as he swallows.
Cas looks across the room, eyes focused on the doorway, Dean looks down at him, heart filled up with Castiel’s sorrow.
“Is this what I have become?” Castiel says with defeat, “No better than those before me, spilling blood instead of bringing peace.”
“Hey!” Dean nearly shouts, grabs Cas’ chin and forces him to look up, see the conviction burning bright in his eyes, “You're better than those dicks! So much better, so don’t you talk like that, Cas, don’t you dare!”
Castiel finally looks at him then, something like shame written there on his face and it fucking breaks Dean’s heart.
“Weren’t you the one that kicked my ass when I started giving up the last time? Because you may be all Man Of Steel underneath that nerdy little get-up you’re sporting, but I sure as hell can find a way to kick some sense into you myself. You can’t give up, man. Not now. Not after everything.”
Cas tries to look away again, but Dean holds him there, hand on his face. He can’t stop Castiel from averting his eyes though, and Dean watches him as he stares at a spot behind Dean’s ear.
“It is hard Dean, and I am tired.”
“Then let me share the goddamn load every once in a while, it’s what I’m fucking here for, you ass.”
“Is it?” Cas looks back at him then, up and into him. Eyes big and bright and searching.
Somehow Dean realizes that this conversation is more than just what it seems. It’s Dean saying that’s he’s sorry, that he’s willing to give them - whatever they are - a shot, that he’s all in if Cas is too.
So he better well say the right fucking thing for once.
“Yes,“ Dean says.
Castiel smiles a little, as much as he can manage in the midst of all his grief and Dean has to kiss him then, soft and sure and deep.
A knock on the door pulls them apart, Dean pushes himself up on his elbows to peer through the fogged up window. Even through the haze and the curtains, he recognizes the silhouette of his behemoth little brother.
“Seriously you guys,” whines Sam, disbelief lacing his slightly muffled voice, “I’m happy you’ve worked things out, but it’s fucking cold out here...”
Dean untangles himself from Castiel and the sheets, almost falling on his face. He finds his discarded briefs and somehow manages to pull them on, tugs his shirt over his head as a courtesy before padding across the carpet barefoot to open the door. He sticks his head out the crack and thinks hey rain stopped, before shooting Sam the smirk of a man thoroughly laid.
“Been waitin’ long Sammy?”
Of course Sam just makes the ‘my delicate sensibilities have been offended’ noise along with the winning eye-roll-pointed-disapproving-look combination.
“The Impala’s locked,” Sam starts, listing his hardships off with his fingers, “you have the keys, my wallet’s in my other hoodie, in my duffle, in the room, and it’s freaking 4 in the morning. I’ve been out here four hours Dean. Four.”
Dean looks back at Cas, propping himself up in the bed, swinging his legs around to stand and actually look for his clothes. It freaks Dean the hell out whenever he just whammies himself clothed again. That, and he never gets to enjoy the show as Cas pulls his pants up over that perfect ass.
“Four hours,” he smirks, “new record.”
“Ugh!” Sam groans, “You fucking owe me. You owe me, so many, many, things Dean.”
“What?” Dean turns back to the door, opening it fully once he deems Castiel decent enough not to scar Sam’s virgin eyes.
“Weren’t you the one being all supportive earlier? ‘Talk to Cas Dean!’,” he mimics, “Cuz,” he smiles, “we talked. We talked all right. Hell, we even kissed and made up. A few times actually.”
“Many, many things.” Sam repeats, recoiling at Dean’s lecherous grin. He brushes past Dean and into the room, escaping towards the bathroom and locking the door behind him.
Dean shakes his head, triumphant at the simple accomplishment of mortifying Sammy.
Castiel is dressed now, standing at the foot of the bed, composed and poised once more. Though Dean can see a rather large hickey peeking out over the collar of his shirt.
Awesome.
“I should be returning, my Lieutenants must be wondering why I have been gone for so long.”
“Lieutenants huh? So you’re some hotshot General up there, hey? That’s hot.” Dean says, stepping over and grabbing the collar of Cas’ trademark trench.
“Yes,” says Cas before he grabs the back of Dean’s neck and kisses him once again, this time hot and dirty and, fuck, where did he learn to do that with his tongue?
“I must really be leaving now Dean.”
“Just tell ‘em you had a hot date with The Dean Winchester. I’m sure they’ll understand. I mean, I have been known to rock a few worlds now and again. Loss of time is merely a side effect of my awesome sexual genius.”
Cas’ lips twitch up once again into that shade of a smile, and he presses an uncomfortably tender kiss to Dean’s forehead before he’s gone.
"Bye Cas," he says into the quiet, empty room.
He only hopes Cas’ next visit ashore comes sooner rather than later. Comes under better circumstances. He smiles wistfully and turns back towards the bed.
Dean’s peeling his t-shirt off again, settling back into the sheets that still smell a little like Cas, like ozone and earth and something else he can’t put his finger on, when Sam says tentative, voice childishly small from the bathroom,
“Can I come out now?”
Dean laughs.
end.
dean/cas, nc-17, 8,000+ words, unbeta'ed.
The point being, Castiel is always arguing with him over every little thing and it’s both ruining their semi-professional working relationship and driving him fucking crazy.
a/n: this has been sitting on my computer a while, i wanted to get rid of it before show starts back again on Friday. I started parts of it like way before 'Caged Heat' then finished it after 'Like A Virgin' so everything else aired after that is like neglected. whatever. pretty much i just wrote this for my own entertainment and wanted to make them stop fighting and start fucking. tralala.
---
The thing about working with your Ex is this: You have to see them every single day. On top of that, you have to be civil to each other and all that other workplace cooperation crap. Y'know so no one gets their asses fired.
Except, when you’re a hunter and your Ex is an angel of the lord and working together means trying to stop the world from coming to a literal end, the consequences of being uncooperative are pretty much imminent death and impending doom. Suffice to say, things get a little tenser than what would be considered normal under the circumstances.
Or so Dean assumes from what television has taught him.
Also, he’s not exactly comfortable grouping Castiel as an ‘Ex’ considering what little relationship they had was considerably less relationship-y and mostly involved nakedness.
The point being, Castiel is always arguing with him over every little thing and it’s both ruining their semi-professional working relationship and driving him fucking crazy.
--
It doesn’t exactly start after Sam gets his soul back, but that’s when Dean starts noticing it.
He’s still fuming that Cas spilled the damn beans to Sammy about his brief intermission as a soulless, puppy-killing, dick, several days later.
“I can not fucking believe you!” Dean shouts the next time he sees him.
Cas stands by the door, limbs hanging awkward at his sides, his expression unreadable.
“He had the right to know. You were not going to inform him,” Cas answers dryly.
“Do you not understand anything, you childish, self righteous, dick? If Sam remembers,” he pauses to catch a breath, “If Sam starts poking around, starts playing Nancy Drew lookin’ for clues about his time in the cage, he’s gonna be left a comatose, drooling vegetable!”
“I do not understand how lying to him was going to protect him from that. If anything, I did Sam a favor telling him what you wouldn’t.”
“You didn’t do anything but go behind my back just to piss me off! I should tear you a new one Cas, I really fucking should,” Dean breathes heavily feeling the adrenaline and anger course through him.
Cas steps forward, into Dean’s space, “I had nothing but Sam’s best intentions in mind and you should not ever think otherwise.”
Dean can see the very slight tells of Castiel’s anger, the downward curve of his mouth, the slow burn of righteous fury behind his borrowed eyes at Dean’s distrust.
He swallows, about to make another argument, but Cas beats him to it, says harsh, powerful, demanding, “And you forget Dean, that I stitched you back together with my very own grace, and I can unmake you just as easily. So do not threaten me if you do not mean it.”
Dean’s breathing heavily, simultaneously furious, frightened, and maybe a little turned on.
For a minute Dean’s pretty sure this is going to end in some pretty epic one-last-time-in-the-sack-angry-sexy-time type scenario.
He wonders if Castiel is going to hit him, kiss him, something, anything, but then the subject of their argument clambers in through the door, greasy paper take-out bag in hand, and Castiel is gone.
“Uh…” Sam says, “Did I interrupt something?”
Dean takes a moment to fully comprehend before shaking his head, putting a lid on his anger.
“N’aww Sammy,” he pastes on a grin, ”now, tell me you got pie.”
--
A witch with a hate-on for Sam dating back to the time he was a walking, talking, dick in a bad haircut, casts a curse on him in Columbus. Dean laughs for about half a day before, reluctantly, calling for Castiel.
“You called me from the battlefield for this?” Castiel frowns deeply, the second he arrives.
“Well, if you were so busy why the hell did you even show up?” Dean snaps.
“Your tone implied it was a matter of urgency.”
“Yeah, well,” Dean gestures towards the bed, pointing at Sam without further explanation.
“Contrary to your belief, there are things bigger than you Winchesters and your endless pit of problems.” Castiel argues back, tone even.
“Guys,” Sam tries, voice high pitched and whiney, because he’s an actual girl.
God that will never not be funny.
“Not now Sam!” both Dean and Castiel bark, not bothering to look away from each other.
“Okay, I’ll just continue not having a dick over here in silence…”
“And that’s different from any other day how?”
Castiel huffs, “I do not have time for this bickering.”
It takes three seconds for Samantha to become plain old Sam again, fully operating dude parts and all, and another two seconds for Cas to fly away without saying goodbye.
And all Dean can think is, hell, if I had a nickel for every time that happens.
--
Some arguments are petty.
Dean cranks the volume on the radio up to full blast, silently fuming.
Sam watches from the passenger seat with an amused smirk to rival his soulless counter part.
Castiel looks out the window in the backseat. The music plays for several seconds before Castiel flicks his wrist and it shuts off.
Dean violently reaches forward and turns it back on, nearly swerving into oncoming traffic as he looks back into the rearview.
“Why are you even here?” he complains.
Sam laughs.
Castiel switches the music off once again.
It's gonna be a long drive.
--
The three of them are in a diner in Tucson, grabbing a bite after a successful hunt. Dean isn’t sure how Cas managed to score shore leave, all he knows is he’s tired, his back aches, he’s covered in grave dirt, smells like dead ass, and really wants a fucking double bacon cheeseburger with extra onions, fuck you very much.
He doesn’t want to make small talk.
But apparently Samantha and Cas do, because all Dean can hear is them gabbing on and on in the background. And whatever fine, he can tune it out, because the waitress is placing his food in front of him and Dean’s rubbing his hands together greedily. He assumes their conversation goes something like this:
Blah, what sort of hair product do you use? Blah blah heaven is delightful this time of year, blah.
“Dean?” Castiel asks hesitantly. Like he’s expecting something, an answer to a question Dean wasn’t listening to in the first place, an opinion, a witty retort, something.
Dean blinks for a quick second, then plucks the tomato off his burger and tosses it onto Sam’s plate.
“Dude, I don’t even know, and frankly, I also kinda don’t care - just pass the ketchup,” he says palm out, waiting, popping a fry into his mouth with his free hand.
For a moment Cas looks like he might actually cry, and then Dean might have had to feel bad, but instead Cas opts for glaring at him angrily because apparently his very existence offends him these days.
“Not everything is about you Dean,” Cas says scornfully and disappears, and okay Dean’s a little confused. But maybe he should have been paying attention instead of being an asshole, he admits to himself.
“Dean,” Sam hisses, somehow managing to fit ‘what the hell is wrong with you?‘ and ‘you’re such an idiot’ and ‘be a little more sensitive, you asshole’ into one syllable.
Conveniently he does not explain what in the hell just happened.
“What?” Dean shrugs, “If Cas has got his panties in a wad, that’s his problem not mine,” he stretches across the table top to grab the red plastic squeeze bottle, “Besides, how hard is it to pass the freaking ketchup?”
“Dude,” Sam shakes his head, “I’ve got a feeling this is so not about ketchup.”
Dean frowns and throws a fry at him.
The bitchface he gets in return doesn’t help him feel any less like a dick.
--
“What the hell is going on with you and Cas?” Sam asks, all concern and curious freakin’ doe eyes in a motel room in Spokane.
Dean stops midway through peeling off his slimy ass shirt and gives Sam the stink eye.
“Nothing,” he denies, underlying tone clearly translating into ‘shut the hell up Samantha.’
To be quite honest, Dean’s not even entirely sure what’s going on with him and Cas. Why they can’t stop picking at each other. It’s slightly unsettling.
“Well,” says Sam, “you’re acting like a divorced couple arguing over who gets to keep the house in The Hamptons.”
“We are not!” Dean snaps back sharp and quick - maybe a little too quickly because Sam smirks. The little shit thinks he’s real fucking clever.
Dean flips him off and tosses his ghost slimed t-shirt back in his face, chuckling at the disgusted sound he gets in return as he heads into the bathroom for a shower. He frowns as soon as he shuts the door. Like hell he’s going to let Sam know that yeah, okay, fine, he’s sort of kinda right.
But he’s not going to discuss his and Castiel’s relationship status with Sammy ever. Never going to casually say over foofy cappuccinos, ‘So me and Cas were sort of boning each other and then after everything the dick got a promotion and went and fucked off back to heaven without any sort of closure at all and then I didn’t hear from him for an entire year. It sort of sucked.’
Dean turns on the shower and turns back to stare at his reflection in the chipped mirror over the ugly yellow sink. For a moment, now that he’s got Sam - the real, whole, Sam - back, he really lets the past year sink in. All the anger, the resentment, the feeling of being trapped in a life he couldn’t lead. Lisa and Ben and missing Sammy and not letting himself think about Castiel, trying not to miss him too.
He strips and climbs under the spray, letting his mind go blank, trying to think about anything but Cas.
It doesn’t work anymore.
Fuck.
--
They’re in Portland dealing with a pack of Daevas. Currently, Dean’s getting his ass handed to him by some possessed, skinny-jeaned-scarf-wearing, hipster kid, buying Sam some time to find the stupid altar the bitch is using to control the things and destroy it.
The kid slams him into the wall -again- (and Jesus where the hell is this scrawny Bambi legged undergrad getting all this strength anyways?) when Cas shows up with a gust of hot air.
“Why am I always having to rescue you?” Castiel sighs and slams the kid into the opposite wall.
Hah, Dean thinks, hurts don’t it?
Also, he resents Cas’ implication that he’s some sort of damsel in distress, the dick.
He pushes himself up, supporting his probably dislocated shoulder against his side.
“Uh yeah, I don’t recall calling for the feathered cavalry,” snarks Dean.
Castiel punches the demon kid in the face as it runs at him viciously and Dean winces because, damn, that probably would have caved the guy’s head in if Cas wasn’t restraining himself or using 45% angel power or whatever. Dean can only sympathize for so long however, because that’s when a dark shadow casts itself along the floor and Dean can feel a sharpness clawing at his back, tearing through his jacket as he jerks away.
“If I had left you to die at the hands of an amateur low ranking demon and it’s pets, I would have never heard the end of it,” Cas manages as he hefts the kid up, presses a palm to his forehead and burns the evil right out of him, banishing the daevas out of the room in a blinding white light.
“Pfft, I can hold my own,” Dean says lamely afterwards, as Cas steps forward and touches a hand to his sore shoulder, healing him, palm fitting along the mark he left there and it tingles even through Dean’s clothing.
“Dean,” Sam runs into the room, panic on his face, heaving for breath. Dean can see him visibly calm when he looks and sees Dean all right, sees Castiel standing beside him.
“I was worried I didn’t destroy the altar in time,” he explains, “Good thing Cas showed.”
In which Dean responds with an eye roll that actually physically hurts, “Yes let’s all thank fuck for Castiel! Who only shows up when he needs something for some super secret stealth mission for the angel brigade, or God forbid, I try to die!”
Whatever, maybe in some fucked up way, he just admitted that he misses Castiel with Sam standing right there. But he doesn’t care. Because the bastard surely must not miss him enough to hang around long enough to go grab a beer.
“I have left my duties, my command, to others coming here to help you Dean Winchester. I have no obligations or ulterior motives for being here,” Castiel grits out and, as per usual, he disappears before Dean can even think of a reply.
“Dude, this is getting ridiculous, sort out your issues,” Sam bitches as they make their way outside, as they pack the guns and supplies back into the trunk.
Dean ignores him, “Pass me the sawed-off will you?”
Sam hands it to him, but not without a heavy, melodramatic sigh. Girl.
“Dean. Before Cas burned the demon out of that poor kid, he gave him a broken nose.” Sam says, like it explains everything.
Dean shrugs, “Maybe he should have thought of that before choosing to wear scarves as a fashion statement.” He closes the trunk and moves to get behind the wheel, needing to get out of there, needing a goddamn beer or three.
“Dean,” Sam tries again, pulling out the good ol’ sharing and caring eyes, “I know you guys were,” he pauses, “you know, sort of together - Before. I’m not stupid.”
Dean goes wide-eyed. Every fiber of his body tenses into denial mode. He honestly thought Sam had no clue and had intended to keep it that way.
Sam walks to the passenger door, says staring at Dean from across the roof of the Impala, “I mean, there was a war going on, and you know, getting comfort where you can and everything I get it. I just never thought - with the way you’re acting now - well, I just never thought it was actually anything this serious. If I'd known - Well if I'd known I'd have never told you to go to Lisa.”
Forget the beer. Dean needs whiskey. Or tequila. Mostly he just needs to be drunk right the fuck now.
“No. We are not talking about this,” the creak and slam of his door punctuating his resolve to never have this conversation.
He jabs the keys into the ignition and her engine roars up, Sam folding himself into his seat as Dean starts to drive off.
Into the stifling silence Sam says earnestly, almost quiet, “Just talk to him man. He’s going through a lot.”
And that is just freakin’ peachy, Sam and Cas apparently talk about their feelings and personal issues and their goddamn freaking relationships behind Dean’s back while they braid each others hair and sing freakin’ Taylor Swift songs.
Wow. Excellent. Fucking perfect.
Dean cranks up Enter Sandman and hopes Sam takes the hint about shutting the hell up. Sometimes, very rarely, Dean misses Douchey-Sans-a-Soul Sam.
Right now?
Definitely one of those times.
It takes him until the end of Wherever I May Roam to calm down and decide that yeah, him and Cas?
They probably do need to talk.
--
Sam’s asleep when Dean sneaks out into the motel parking lot. He tugs his jacket up close, collar tight against the cold as he walks out towards where the Impala is parked. He needs a safe place to do this, talking about feelings. Pfft.
He lets out a deep breath against the twisting nerves in his gut and calls out for him. Closes his eyes and thinks Cas. Except when he cracks an eye open, Castiel isn’t there.
“Cas,” Dean shouts, looking up at the overcast night sky, “c’mon you feathery ass I know you can hear me!”
Castiel appears not two feet away, announcing himself with a long drawn out sigh - a habit he must have picked up from being BFF’s with Sam.
“What?”
“People usually say ‘hello’ when they first see each other Cas, I thought we talked about that.”
“Hello. Now what do you want?” Cas says impatiently.
It pains Dean a little that Cas thinks Dean only calls for him when he needs something, although yeah, okay, he hasn’t really done anything recently to disprove that particular behavior.
“Nothing - I,” Dean swallows, “I wanted to talk.”
“Talk?” Cas tilts his head, curious, an action that never failed to make Dean feel a warm rush of affection for him before. That still does if he’s honest with himself.
“Yeah, talk. I am capable of having a conversation every now and again y'know?”
Castiel gives him a disbelieving look.
“What about?” he asks.
“About this,” Dean gestures in between them, “us. Man, we’ve got to stop getting at each others throats, there’s got to be a way we can, I don’t know, be civil towards each other?”
“I am being civil Dean, you are the one that is always difficult.” Cas says, toneless.
Dean rolls his eyes, “Whatever, can we just, put everything behind us and drop the angry ex girlfriend act now?”
“I have never been your girlfriend Dean,” answers Cas, ever the literal bastard.
“Yeah, believe me, I know that,” Dean says sarcastic, “Look come on, I think we just, I don’t know, need closure so we can move on from whatever it was we were doing last year and-“
“Closure?”
“Yeah, because you up and left and we never formally ended our mutually benefit-y friendship, granted I was sort of a train wreck at the time, but whatever. Now come on, just cowboy up and say you’re sorry,” Dean makes a c’mon, hit me with your best shot, gesture and awaits an apology.
Of course, Castiel is a stubborn prick.
“I will not apologize, there is nothing to apologize for. You needed space and time to heal and had no intentions of denying your brother’s last wish. I respected that.”
Oh. Lisa. That’s what this is about. Cas is jealous.
“Christ Cas, you ever think that if you had maybe stuck around, I wouldn’t have went to Lisa? I had no one.”
“You would have only resented me for coming back from the dead when Sam could not.”
“What? I wouldn’t’ve,” Dean says quickly, even though yeah, that probably would have happened and then they’d be even more fucked up than they are now - in an even bigger mess.
“It does not matter what would or could have happened. Heaven called and I answered. You went to Lisa Braeden and you were safe. It was for the best.”
“It was not for the fucking best Cas! I was miserable and I never wanted you to leave!” he shouts and it’s like a fucking punch in the goddamn gut. It knocks the wind out of him, catches him off guard, like this isn’t something he’s known in the back of his mind ever since.
It’s the most honest he’s been with himself in years, and hell, may as well go for broke right?
But Cas, the bastard, just keeps on staring at him - doesn’t blink, doesn’t even move. He seems unfuckingchanged with Dean’s admission, and that’s the real kicker here. Spend a little time being hot shit upstairs and it’s back to square fucking one emotionally. An unfeeling dick with wings.
Dean turns his back, scrubs a hand down his face.
“What would you have had me do, Dean?” Cas says finally, voice careful and even, “I was needed.”
“Fuck them, I needed you!” Dean counters, the words like a fistfight, blows sharp and painful. Telling the truth the only way he knows how.
They share a look for a long moment before Dean breaks the silence.
“I needed you to stay,” he says again with less bite, more desperation; a poorly healed wound reopens and bleeds slowly.
He doesn’t hear Cas’ footfalls, too preoccupied with his own heavy breathing, with the buzzing silence punctuating his fucking feeling coated admonishment. A hand grabs his shoulder, a familiar yet slightly awkward and unpracticed gesture, a touch that lingers too long to not mean something.
And fuck his confusing ass life, he leans back into it.
“Dean,” Cas says, voice close and low and Dean can feel the rumble of it travel along his spine. He closes his eyes and for a second, the briefest of seconds, he’s positive one of them will give in.
“Dean,” Cas repeats, fingers tripping over skin, unsure where they touch at his neck, and Dean gathers up all the anger that’s been building, that he’s been storing inside, and brushes him off in the cadence. His shoulders rolling violently as he whips around to face Castiel, to sneer at him.
“After Sam,” he starts and restarts remembering how he promised himself to never say - to think - Sam and died in the same sentence ever again.
“You left,” Dean finishes harshly, tone radiating resentment; cutting past the layers of skin and muscle, straight down to the bare and vulnerable bone underneath. And the thing is, to Dean, that is the worst possible offence, the unbreakable rule: You don’t leave family behind.
He doesn’t say it again, but it’s written in the tense line of his shoulders, in the relentless, spitting fight of him, ‘you left me and I needed you the most’.
Castiel stares back at him for several beats, big blue eyes giving nothing away. Which is why Dean’s thrown for a mother fucking loop when Cas fists his jacket and pushes him back, back, until his hip collides with the hood of the Impala.
He sees anger flash across Cas’ face and for a second he’s sure Cas is going to Fight Club his insolent ass into a couple of broken ribs and a bruised face like he did once before, but instead, kisses him; a hard press of cool lips.
Before Dean can even think of shifting gears from fighting into fucking, Cas is pulling away. His brow furrowed in that familiar shade of annoyance before the air around them shifts and displaces and Castiel is gone.
In the aftermath, Dean is left reeling, confused and alone in the parking lot.
“Goddamnit,” he says, but there is no one around to listen.
--
The next time he sees Castiel is in Topeka nearly three weeks later.
Since Sam’s ditched the Robo Cop routine, he’s picked up that old nasty habit of being a nerd. Loosely translated: Sammy’s at the library geeking it up old school and Dean will never admit how much that tugs at his heartstrings.
The point being, they aren’t on a hunt so Dean is alone in the motel, sharing his down time with the creature comforts: Pizza, a six-pack, and a roll of quarters for the magic fingers. It isn’t long until Cas whammies himself unannounced into Dean’s personal space.
“Cas what in the hell-?” Dean starts but is interrupted.
“If you had wanted me to stay, why did you not ask that of me?” Cas says, no pussyfooting around.
And Dean’s flabbergasted, because honestly, he’d pretty much buried that little conversation underneath layers upon layers of freshly fertilized denial.
While he searches the recesses of his mind for something inoffensive to say, he notices it: The slump to Castiel’s shoulders, the downtrodden, completely assfucked beyond belief expression. He is as weary and rundown as Dean used to look on any given day during the Apocalypse That Almost Was and there is an echo of sadness behind his eyes. Heartbreakingly dejected like when he had lost faith in his Father. Like when he had lost faith in Dean.
The fight to stop the apocalypse may be over for him, for Sam, but it isn’t for Cas and Dean never fucking realized that Cas is running himself ragged.
How has Dean been such a goddamn selfish douchebag this whole entire time? So busy trying to save Sammy, so busy with his own fucked up abandonment issues, that he couldn’t even spare Cas five minutes of his time to listen.
“Jesus Cas,” he breathes, standing, stepping up to Cas. He reaches out but grabs nothing but air, hesitant.
“What the hell are they doing to you up there?”
Cas ignores him, tired eyes baring into him, and Dean thinks that all Cas has to show from his brief stint with humanity is how to be disappointed, how to feel grief and sadness.
“Did it ever occur to you,” Cas says slowly, sadly, “that had you asked it of me, I would have stayed.”
He looks away from Dean, and Dean follows the movement. The rustle of his coat, the hitching intake of breath, the click of Castiel’s throat as he swallows.
They both know Dean never would have asked. Too fucking prideful to ask for help.
They both know Castiel wouldn’t have stayed. Too loyal to leave his faith behind.
But somehow knowing - knowing that if Cas could make that choice, knowing that he would choose Dean - it means everything.
“I would much rather have stayed,” Cas adds, quiet, looking back to Dean, absolutely wrecked. And for the first time in all the time that they have known each other, Castiel looks small, vulnerable, not at all like the powerful, otherworldly, thing that he is.
Dean doesn’t know what to say, heavy with the weight of Cas’ words. Weighed down in that moment of stasis between wanting to reach out and touch and comfort and have, and wanting to run the fuck away.
He doesn’t get to make a choice, because that’s when Sam calls about the vengeful nerd spirits in the haunted ass library.
Perfect freaking timing as always Sammy.
--
Figures Sam would stumble head first into a hunt at the goddamn library of all places.
Sammy stays behind to deal with the clean up once they finally find the hairbrush that belonged to the psycho librarian from hell and burn the thing, and Dean and Cas head back to the motel. Dean had had enough books flung at his head for one evening thank you very much and did not want to hang around the things any longer.
What has Dean learned from this particular misadventure? Always pay your late fees.
Cas rides along with him in the Impala, sitting in the passenger side. They keep glancing at each other, quick sneaking looks, and there’s a silence between them that isn’t exactly awkward but still feels cloying and thick and Dean can’t seem to break through. The truth is exposed and he isn’t sure what to do with it.
It starts to rain as they pull into the parking lot, fat drops of it drumming a staccato rhythm on the roof of his baby. Dean pulls the keys out of the ignition and they sit there for a long moment in time, Dean still yearning to say something but not knowing how.
Cas looks at him, something behind his eyes exhausted and sad and he wanted to stay here with Dean.
It’s too much. He turns and exits the car, the creak of it filling this fucking never-ending quiet. He dodges the rain as he darts under cover where the roof of the motel hangs over the walkway up to the room. He doesn’t hear Cas follow him, but when he reaches the door he can feel a warmth at his side.
Dean hesitates, room key hovering outside the lock. What he thinks he wants to say is itching at him, and fuck it, but he’s never been good at resisting the urge to scratch at old wounds.
He curls his fist around the key and looks back over his shoulder at Cas.
“What you said earlier - Did you-?“ he swallows, darts his tongue out to wet suddenly dry lips and finds that he can’t get the rest of it out. Leaves the question hanging in the open air.
“I meant what I said,” says Castiel, always knowing what Dean means to say, what Dean needs to hear. Always knowing when to push and when to just let him be.
Dean turns around, back to the door of Room 302. Cas stands there in front of him, close enough to touch with his arms hung awkwardly at his sides. He’s swallowed up in that too big coat, hair wild and eyes bright and steady and trained on Dean. And right then, even with the rain beating down and their breaths coming in sharp puffs in the winter chill, he feels a warmth in his chest. A warmth that spreads and consumes like wildfire and before he can think he propels himself forward, fingers grabbing at Castiel’s damp collar.
Fuck it, he thinks, he’s never been good with words anyways.
It only takes a moment for Cas to touch a hand at Dean’s side, and then Dean is kissing him, dragging Cas forward and pressing their mouths together recklessly.
Cas’ fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket at the same time Dean wraps a hand around Cas’ neck, thumb tracing the line of his jaw, both trying to drag the other one nearer.
They kiss the only way they know how: quick, aggressive, desperate; like an argument. Sparring for the last word with each swipe of tongue, in each biting press of lips and teeth, both too full of stubborn pride to give in before the other.
Cas presses closer still, surges forward eagerly until Dean’s back hits the door. He groans, Cas’ knee slotting in between his own and Dean scrambles for purchase as the dam of his carefully concealed wanting is washed away with this one kiss. He holds on, fisting bunches of that damned coat as they kiss and kiss and kiss, bruising and insistent, Dean’s cock already pushing against his zipper as he remembers just how good they can be together.
The door opens behind him and he stumbles back across the threshold, would have fallen on his ass if Cas hadn’t had a hold on him, hands grasping his hips tight. Dean pushes at Cas’ coats, impatiently pulling at the fabric until they fall away, forgotten in a haphazard trail to the bed. Dean runs his hands up the skin-warmed cotton of Cas’ shirt, curls his hands around his shoulders and holds on tight.
They only break apart for air because Dean needs it, a necessity he’s never been regretful of until this thing with Cas. He sucks in a breath as Cas strips him of his own jacket, helps Dean peel off his t-shirt and lets the discarded clothing pool at their feet.
Dean un-tucks Cas’ shirt from his waist, sneaks a hand up underneath, rests it low on his stomach as he steps close, noses along his neck, the line of his jaw; just standing there leaning against each other. Dean pauses the race for a slow interlude as everything catches up to him. Everything Cas has ever done for him; rebelled and died and brought him back to life. He’s never had anyone - anyone besides Sammy - willing to sacrifice so much for him. Who wants to stick around through all of his fucked up issues.
It’s all too much, too heavy. Dean pushes it away, swallows it down, lightens the moment.
He slips his hands into Cas’ unruly hair, threads his fingers through the strands and tugs until Castiel pulls back to glare at him. He hates it, but Dean loves the look on his face so he can’t help it. He grins, reaches out for Cas’ tie and pulls him in, growls ‘c’mere’ against his swollen lips and it’s back on.
They kiss again, frantic, dirty, and wet as Dean makes quick work of Castiel’s belt. Strips the thing from Cas’ pants and walks him backward. Cas’ knees buckle once his calves hit the bed and Dean pushes him down, fueled by the fire licking hot and insistent in his veins, so incredibly turned on.
He needs this. He’s needed this for so long, and maybe Cas does too, he thinks as he sinks to his knees in the cheap shag carpet. He darts his tongue across his bottom lip, tugs it in between his teeth, wets it as he spreads Cas’ legs apart, hands sliding up from his knees, slow, along the inseam of his slacks, rubs his palm over the hardness waiting for him. He moans in the back of his own throat as Castiel rocks upwards into his hand, as he grinds the heel down, as he cups and squeezes.
He’d draw this out, tease, but Dean wants it too much, nothing but the snick of the zipper and the pulse of the blood in his ears the soundtrack to him tugging Cas free from his pants and underwear.
Cas’ cock is hard, the head flush and wet and begging to be sucked. Dean gives it a stroke, swipes his thumb across the moisture gathering there at the tip, brings it up to his own lips for a taste. He flicks his eyes up quick as he sucks the pad of his thumb into his mouth, up to Castiel’s face. Cas looks back at him, fuck, maybe into him, and says ‘Dean,’ like it’s the only word worth saying, and he’s leaning down to kiss Dean again, sloppy and urgent, Dean’s neck straining to meet him.
Dean pushes him back, restrains him with a look as he sinks back down, head disappearing into Cas’ lap, taking Cas into his mouth and sucking hard. Cas fucks up into his mouth, the head catching on the inside of Dean’s cheek, and it’s so fucking hot to watch Cas - composed, powerful, angel of the freakin’ Lord, Castiel - come apart like this for him. Only for him.
It’s messy and hot, so goddamn hot, as Dean works him. Bobs down as far as he can on Cas’ dick, coming back up and sucking hard on the head, over and over. He mouths along the underside, licks and sucks and it’s perfect.
Cas’ hand touches the back of his neck and Dean looks up. Sees Cas leaning back on the bed, bracing himself on one elbow, face lost in silent ecstasy, mouth open and eyes shut tight.
He loves how Cas tries to keep quiet, tries to keep it all in. How Cas lets out soft breathy moans and low barely there whispers of Dean’s name, how he stops from crying out with aborted breaths and bitten lips.
He’s straining against his own jeans now, throbbing and tenting the fly, uncomfortably wet inside the confines of his briefs. With one hand on Cas’ hip he braces himself, snaking the other down to fumble with the buttons of his jeans. He moans around Cas’ cock once he gets himself in hand, squeezes himself and jerks frantically, the slick of his own pre-come easing the way.
Cas must notice, because suddenly, suddenly, Dean’s being hauled off his knees, and then they’re on the bed, pressed together from head to toe, clothes and shoes and socks whammied away. Castiel is on top of him, rubbing his erection in abortive little thrusts along the spur of Dean’s hip, just looking down at him with those big blue eyes.
Always fucking looking at him and Dean laughs.
Castiel frowns, confused with this sudden shift in tone.
“What is so funny?” he says, voice hoarse, head tilted.
“Nothing,” Dean manages, still smiling as they rut against one another, “Just - what did I tell you about angel fu-ing my clothes away? It’s freaky.”
Smartly, Castiel’s response is to kiss him, tongue licking into his mouth and stealing his laughter, transforming it into a long drawn out moan as he fists Dean’s cock.
Castiel’s good at this, a little clumsy yeah, but for the whole handful of times they’ve done this, the handful of times Castiel’s even had sex, he’s good. A quick study. He jerks Dean in a tight grip, alternating between quick stripes and long slow tugs of Dean’s cock, reaching down to cup and roll his balls the way Dean taught him all those months ago, and Dean’s going crazy under his hand. He’s bucking and moaning and thrashing and babbling nonsensical pleas of ‘Cas, Cas, please, please, Cas.’
And he can’t take it anymore, he wants to come, needs it even. To come inside Castiel, wants to fuck him so bad it physically hurts. He flips them over, hovers above Cas and rubs his cock against his belly.
He bites at Cas’ neck, sucks a dark bruise on his collar to admire later and slips a hand down, down, pressing back behind Castiel’s heavy balls. Back to circle a finger around his opening. Cas presses back against him, his body sucking his finger inside and fuck, he’s so tight and hot and goddamn enticing. Dean’s cock throbs impatiently.
“Turn over,” Dean instructs sitting up on his knees, voice wrecked with lust.
Castiel does, propping himself up on his elbows, looking over his shoulder, always wanting to watch.
“Goddamn,” Dean says appreciatively, giving his dick a few slow tugs.
Cas shoots him a disapproving look at his blasphemous language.
He reaches out to touch, caresses the arching line of Castiel’s back, the valley of his spine, the graceful jut of shoulder blades. There’s something hovering in the air, something electric and charged and Dean imagines he’s touching Castiel’s wings.
He crawls down, nudges Cas’ legs apart further to fit in between, places a kiss to the small of Cas’ back as he brings his face level with Castiel’s ass. He palms a cheek, gropes and pats and massages indulgently, before he spreads them apart and touches the point of his tongue to that tight little ring.
Castiel shivers under him, actually goddamn shivers, and that only urges him onward. He licks, jabbing his tongue inside just so and sucks, getting Cas wet enough for his fingers. He pushes one in alongside his tongue, stretching him, pulls his mouth off entirely and fucks him with two. Watches his fingers disappear inside, in and out, Cas clenching hot and tight around him. He adds another and presses deep, Castiel jerking against him when Dean finds his prostate. Rubs over and over until Castiel let’s a rare loud moan escape past his lips.
Dean sits up, pulls out of Cas and stretches blindly across the bed to his duffle on the floor, nearly falling face first onto the carpet in the process. He finds it and dumps the contents, sifting through the mess of dirty clothes and candy bar wrappers and ammo until he finds his lube.
“Dean,” Cas prompts impatiently, and Dean says, “Yeah, Cas, yeah, just hold on,” as he uncaps the tube and slicks himself up hastily.
Cas turns back over, apparently wanting to do this face to face, and yeah, yeah, Dean wants that too. He lifts Cas’ legs, spreads them wide, hooks one high around his waist and Dean presses back up against him, fucks his cock into the tight crack of Cas’ ass and when Cas is shaking, panting his name quietly over and over, he lines himself up and finally, finally pushes inside. And it’s unlike anything Dean’s ever felt, it’s perfection, it’s the freakin’ paradise on Earth those other dick angels want so bad.
It’s so much better than he remembered it could ever be.
He bottoms out slowly and stills for a few short seconds, needing to feel Cas. To know he’s here and staying and Dean’s.
Cas urges him to move silently, commands it in the way he digs his heel into Dean’s back, rubs his cock up against Dean’s stomach, so he does what he’s been told. He pulls out and thrusts back inside, propping himself up with his hands for leverage, hovering above Cas and fucking him again and again, being swallowed up inside his heat.
“Oh fuck, yes,” he moans, building up a rhythm. Hard and fast and deep, hips pistoning quick, him and Cas moving together and making the bed creak, making the headboard scrape against the wall.
Cas is grappling for purchase, hands fisting the cheap sheets, roaming all along Dean’s back, his ass, his hair. When Dean finds his prostate again he thrashes, panting hard, head tossed back against the pillow. Dean leans down and scrapes his teeth along the exposed, elegant line of Castiel’s neck. Kisses and licks his collar bone as he fucks him hard through it.
Cas’ eyes shut tight and Dean watches him, watches him come undone, feels Castiel clench and come hard, untouched, unexpected, spilling between them.
“Cas, oh fuck, yeah, that’s it,” He says, slamming in harder, growing desperate.
His hips stutter and his rhythm falters and Cas slowly comes back from his orgasm underneath him.
“Dean,” Cas whispers, hands coming up to touch at his temple, to brush through his sweaty hair, to curl around Dean’s shoulders and bring him closer, to bring their foreheads together and Dean’s reminded of that first time. Of taking it slow and careful and guiding Cas through it, only now it’s Cas doing the same for him.
“Cas,” he whines, fucking into him fast, orgasm building and building but never quite reaching it’s crescendo.
Dean drops his forehead to Castiel’s shoulder, buries his face in the crook and Cas keeps saying his name, saying it like it’s a revelation, like it’s something sacred; like Dean’s something worth fighting for, something to be loved.
And they will never say it to each other in words, but yeah, maybe it’s true. Maybe here, like this, in this bed, in this motel room, this is how they can say it.
Cas fits his hand around the mark on Dean’s shoulder, fingers locking into place as he presses his grace into him. It bursts warm and bright along his spine, behind his eyelids, and it’s like something inside locks into place and Dean comes with a sob. He shoves deep and holds on, shaking as he comes and comes and comes, shooting every last drop of himself inside, orgasm washing over him in intense never ending waves.
Probably the best goddamn orgasm of his life. Jesus.
Together they catch their breaths in a pleasant silence, because wow. Wow.
Give him ten minutes; they’re definitely doing that again.
--
Afterwards, Dean’s dozing. Cas’ head is pillowed on his shoulder, and Dean’s hand fits easily on the small of his back, fingers mindlessly walking along the dip in his spine. And whatever, fine, it’s cuddling - a comfort he’d gotten used to with Lisa, but with Cas is somehow made better.
He’s overheated and cramped, muscle’s aching dully. It’d be sticky and disgusting, skin tacky with drying sweat and come, but luckily Cas’ mojo comes with complimentary cleaning services. The twinge in his knee is acting up; he’s not old by far, but definitely not young enough to be up all night fucking in increasingly complicated positions.
Cas shifts next to him, and man is he ever a sight. His hair rightfully sex tousled, pale skin marred with purpling bruises the exact perfect shape of Dean’s own mouth. He gave an angel a hickey. He grins proudly to himself.
“Dean,” Castiel says into the quiet.
“Yeah?”
“I killed my brothers yesterday,” Cas confesses bluntly and the sadness in his tone resonates, killing Dean’s post-coital buzz.
“Jesus,” Dean breathes, because what the hell else can he say?
Instead of spluttering through some shitty ‘my condolences’ speech, he splays a protective hand along Cas’ back. Dean let’s Castiel talk, it’s long been time for him to listen.
“It is not that,” Cas starts again slowly, “not that I have not killed before, but these were members of my old garrison and I suppose in human terms we - we grew up together in a sense. I was sad for it, but killing them - There was no other way.”
“Cas,” Dean tries, but all he can do is listen pathetically to the click of his own throat as he swallows.
Cas looks across the room, eyes focused on the doorway, Dean looks down at him, heart filled up with Castiel’s sorrow.
“Is this what I have become?” Castiel says with defeat, “No better than those before me, spilling blood instead of bringing peace.”
“Hey!” Dean nearly shouts, grabs Cas’ chin and forces him to look up, see the conviction burning bright in his eyes, “You're better than those dicks! So much better, so don’t you talk like that, Cas, don’t you dare!”
Castiel finally looks at him then, something like shame written there on his face and it fucking breaks Dean’s heart.
“Weren’t you the one that kicked my ass when I started giving up the last time? Because you may be all Man Of Steel underneath that nerdy little get-up you’re sporting, but I sure as hell can find a way to kick some sense into you myself. You can’t give up, man. Not now. Not after everything.”
Cas tries to look away again, but Dean holds him there, hand on his face. He can’t stop Castiel from averting his eyes though, and Dean watches him as he stares at a spot behind Dean’s ear.
“It is hard Dean, and I am tired.”
“Then let me share the goddamn load every once in a while, it’s what I’m fucking here for, you ass.”
“Is it?” Cas looks back at him then, up and into him. Eyes big and bright and searching.
Somehow Dean realizes that this conversation is more than just what it seems. It’s Dean saying that’s he’s sorry, that he’s willing to give them - whatever they are - a shot, that he’s all in if Cas is too.
So he better well say the right fucking thing for once.
“Yes,“ Dean says.
Castiel smiles a little, as much as he can manage in the midst of all his grief and Dean has to kiss him then, soft and sure and deep.
A knock on the door pulls them apart, Dean pushes himself up on his elbows to peer through the fogged up window. Even through the haze and the curtains, he recognizes the silhouette of his behemoth little brother.
“Seriously you guys,” whines Sam, disbelief lacing his slightly muffled voice, “I’m happy you’ve worked things out, but it’s fucking cold out here...”
Dean untangles himself from Castiel and the sheets, almost falling on his face. He finds his discarded briefs and somehow manages to pull them on, tugs his shirt over his head as a courtesy before padding across the carpet barefoot to open the door. He sticks his head out the crack and thinks hey rain stopped, before shooting Sam the smirk of a man thoroughly laid.
“Been waitin’ long Sammy?”
Of course Sam just makes the ‘my delicate sensibilities have been offended’ noise along with the winning eye-roll-pointed-disapproving-look combination.
“The Impala’s locked,” Sam starts, listing his hardships off with his fingers, “you have the keys, my wallet’s in my other hoodie, in my duffle, in the room, and it’s freaking 4 in the morning. I’ve been out here four hours Dean. Four.”
Dean looks back at Cas, propping himself up in the bed, swinging his legs around to stand and actually look for his clothes. It freaks Dean the hell out whenever he just whammies himself clothed again. That, and he never gets to enjoy the show as Cas pulls his pants up over that perfect ass.
“Four hours,” he smirks, “new record.”
“Ugh!” Sam groans, “You fucking owe me. You owe me, so many, many, things Dean.”
“What?” Dean turns back to the door, opening it fully once he deems Castiel decent enough not to scar Sam’s virgin eyes.
“Weren’t you the one being all supportive earlier? ‘Talk to Cas Dean!’,” he mimics, “Cuz,” he smiles, “we talked. We talked all right. Hell, we even kissed and made up. A few times actually.”
“Many, many things.” Sam repeats, recoiling at Dean’s lecherous grin. He brushes past Dean and into the room, escaping towards the bathroom and locking the door behind him.
Dean shakes his head, triumphant at the simple accomplishment of mortifying Sammy.
Castiel is dressed now, standing at the foot of the bed, composed and poised once more. Though Dean can see a rather large hickey peeking out over the collar of his shirt.
Awesome.
“I should be returning, my Lieutenants must be wondering why I have been gone for so long.”
“Lieutenants huh? So you’re some hotshot General up there, hey? That’s hot.” Dean says, stepping over and grabbing the collar of Cas’ trademark trench.
“Yes,” says Cas before he grabs the back of Dean’s neck and kisses him once again, this time hot and dirty and, fuck, where did he learn to do that with his tongue?
“I must really be leaving now Dean.”
“Just tell ‘em you had a hot date with The Dean Winchester. I’m sure they’ll understand. I mean, I have been known to rock a few worlds now and again. Loss of time is merely a side effect of my awesome sexual genius.”
Cas’ lips twitch up once again into that shade of a smile, and he presses an uncomfortably tender kiss to Dean’s forehead before he’s gone.
"Bye Cas," he says into the quiet, empty room.
He only hopes Cas’ next visit ashore comes sooner rather than later. Comes under better circumstances. He smiles wistfully and turns back towards the bed.
Dean’s peeling his t-shirt off again, settling back into the sheets that still smell a little like Cas, like ozone and earth and something else he can’t put his finger on, when Sam says tentative, voice childishly small from the bathroom,
“Can I come out now?”
Dean laughs.
end.