fic: The Justification of Old Dead Guys
Title: The Justification of Old Dead Guys
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Rating: NC-17
There are worse things than getting stuck at a library on a Friday evening, Dean tells himself, walking along the front counter to the desk where a man is standing scanning in items.
A slip of paper is in Dean’s hand, given to him by his co-worker Jo, who had sent him on this mission in the first place (“Take a day off, Dean, you need it. Call Sam, maybe? Or here! Go get me this book from the library.” She had said, and he listened because it was the anniversary of his parents death, the one day of the year where he had the potential to be even more of a dick than usual, and Jo had known this), and it says something about some dead guy named Ernest Hemmingway.
Sam would know who that is. And where to find his books. And how to talk to librarians.
“S’cuse me, where can I get this book?” He asks the worker as politely as he can, because he feels like it’s the right thing to do, but also because he wants to find the book as quickly as possible and get out of this hell hole.
The man, nametag proclaiming ‘Castiel’ in pretty scripted letters (really?) gives him a ‘I’m a nice person but I’m not going to put up with your shit, dude’ look and Dean feels a little better, respects the guy a little more. His lumpy tan sweater isn’t exactly helping his point system in Dean’s head, but oh well. He has nice hands. And his eyes are pretty great too. And wow, he can reach up and grab a book off a shelf for Dean any day.
And oh. Fuck.
“We have a big-text edition of that here, but Anna could help you get another, if you’d like.” Castiel nods his head towards a woman with red hair, shelving books a few yards over.
Dean reaches out and grabs the version Castiel has in his hands, running the side of his fingers over the other man’s purposefully, before nodding and saluting with the text.
“Thanks, man. I’ll compare.” And then he walks over to where the woman is, a certain sway in his step.
Anna is the one who checks him out (“Your library card is expired, sir, but you can renew it for two dollars.” And Dean blushes because he can just feel the disappointment flowing from Castiel), but as he walks out of the door he catches the other man staring at him, blue eyes obscenely blue and obscenely large, and then he pushes all of that crap out of his mind because he doesn’t have time for it.
~
Somehow Jo has mistaken Dean’s smile of relief for ‘yes, please send me to the library every single chance I get, because I just love books so much,’ and whenever she thinks he’s working too hard she tells him to go check out a book for her. One time he almost tells her where she can find her book if she doesn’t stop sending him to the damn library, but then Ellen comes out and just looks his way, and he’s out the door and driving his Impala towards the library at break-neck speed.
Every time he goes he has to ask Castiel for help, and every time Castiel sends him over to Anna.
Except for another time, when the man looks down at the slip of paper, coughs a laugh, and sends him over to find some guy named Gabriel.
Gabriel lectures him on proper library etiquette after he yells out a startled “Fuck no!” when the man hands him a book that has two men making out all raunchy on the cover.
That’s also the one time Castiel checks his book out, and he looks anywhere but at the other man until he grabs the book and leaves, neck burning as he hears him and Gabriel laugh at him.
He doesn’t talk to Jo for an entire week, but when she starts reading out a passage from the book (the most erotic passage from any book ever, Dean thinks), he begs for mercy and forgives her.
~Soon Dean’s going to the library just because; when he’s lonely or bored or there’s nothing on TV and he doesn’t have to work.
The place is actually kind of nice, and Dean especially likes the courtyard they have in the middle of the square that makes up the library itself. The bathrooms are clean and it’s quiet and Castiel almost always works.
Which doesn’t really mean anything, except, you know, it kind of does.
Because Dean has this thing where he sits at the computers and pretends to play spider solitaire, or sits in a chair and pretends to read some reference book, or sits on the bench by the bathrooms and across from the work station, and decidedly stares at the librarian until he catches Dean’s eye and gives him a small smile.
And it isn’t like Dean is some creepy asshole who likes stalking innocent librarians, or anything, because he doesn’t stalk Anna. Or Gabriel. Or that old lady at the help desk who talks really loudly on the phone.
It’s only Castiel, so he thinks he’s justified.
Until he’s staring at the other man so much that Gabriel walks over and lays a hand on his shoulder, mock whispers, “Why don’t you two just fuck already?”
And then Dean sort of panics for a second, because it’s been a long, long time since he’s fucked anyone, let alone a guy, and he doesn’t really want to fuck Castiel.
Not really.
Maybe lie him down on a bed gently and lick at his neck and push his nose into the space between his thigh and his dick and suck and suck until the skin grows red and angry, until the other man is clutching at his head and saying his name in his deep, gravelly voice, and-
Dean closes his eyes and breaths out a “Shit,” and Gabriel nods solemnly and walks back over to his area of the library.
~It isn’t long until Castiel catches onto his looks, his creepy (yes, creepy) stares.
But he doesn’t kick him out or berate him for being a douche or anything.
He gives him a book, tells him seriously that he needs to start reading if he’s going to be staying at the library all of the time, and walks away.
The book’s titled ‘Christine‘, the author Stephen King.
Dean shrugs his shoulders and starts reading.
The next day he goes into the library and sniffs out Castiel like a freaking bloodhound.
“Here’s your stupid book,” He says, scowling, “I had nightmares all last night.”
And when Castiel laughs at him, entire posture turning liquid and blissed out, Dean isn’t really angry anymore.
Just, you know, in love. Or something.
(Yeah, definitely ‘or something’.)
~They’ve become friends now, a month after the first time Dean walked into the library.
Castiel knows about his parents, about his brother, about Jo and Ellen and Ash and his job. He knows about the Impala the most, because Dean never shuts up about it, which Castiel finds just a little unhealthy but wisely chooses not to comment on it.
Dean knows about Castiel’s love of burgers (he approves), and his love of literature, and his family (who Dean thinks are a bag of dicks, but wisely doesn’t comment on it). He knows that Castiel used to work as something else before becoming a librarian, but the man doesn’t like talking about it so Dean doesn’t push.
He’s incredibly curious, though.
He grabs the opportunity to talk about it by the horns and pulls that bastard into the cattle-range the first chance he gets.
“There’s something that you regret doing, right?” Castiel asks him one day, as he and Dean are shelving books together. The question is small and spoken softly, so it takes Dean’s brain a while to process it.
When he does, he snorts, but not unkindly.
“Of course, dude. Everyone does.” He says, locking his eyes with the other man’s and feeling the confusion tug at his guts. They’ve spoken about serious stuff before, but it has always been Dean doing the talking and Castiel listening, and Dean wants to change that so badly that it’s almost like a physical pain. “Why?”
“I,” Castiel starts, but then immediately pauses, fingers pressing lightly along the spine of the book he’s currently shelving. Deans stares at the way the skin hugging the bones of his knuckles stretches to undo the wrinkles there and waits patiently for the man to continue; he has time, after all, considering his life has become one long wait for the man in front of him.
“I had orders from my squadron leader to demolish a town.” Castiel pauses again and takes the time to push the book into its proper slot, staring at the row of volumes in front of him as if they’d hold all of his troubles and trials within their pages. Dean’s eyes widen at the words but he doesn’t say anything, holds back the slight hysteria. Castiel, a soldier? The same Castiel that smiles kindly at children and scowls determinedly at teens (Or Gabriel) that use the library computers for porn? The same Castiel that looks at Dean like he’s something important, that doesn’t put up with his bullshit just because he does think of him that way?
Dean can’t really see him accepting orders to fire at someone, to kill someone he doesn’t even know.
Dean can’t really see him passing judgment like that.
“I went against them. A few people from my group were seriously injured. “ Castiel blows out a breath and then turns his head slightly to look at Dean, and Dean doesn’t know what’s happening but he sure as hell has never felt as completely destroyed as he’s feeling right now. He was right, of course, but doesn’t know how he came to be right. They’ve only known each other for a month, after all, and hell, Castiel could have been a blood-crazy psycho for all Dean knew.
But no, of course he wasn’t.
Castiel continues to look at him for a few moments, gaze bordering on a stare, and then he shrugs his shoulders in a little ‘oh well’ gesture. There’s something so broken about him, just from that one tiny motion, that Dean almost reaches out and covers the man’s thin, fragile fingers with his own.
Except they aren’t fragile, Dean thinks. Those fingers have pulled a trigger before. Those fingers have probably pressed into the wounds of comrades, of brothers-in-arms, and twitched and shook when they realized there was nothing that they could do to help.
“There was nothing I could do about the situation. I felt-“ Castiel’s mouth twitches into a scowl as he looks down at the floor, at the burgundy carpet that’s worn down in some places and stained in others, at the shine of his shoes.
“There’s something very shocking about how easy it can be to defy orders when you feel the need is justified.” Is all he says, finally, and the words are spoken so slowly and pronounced so carefully that Dean can swear the man has stated them a thousand times before.
Dean swallows and inhales a deep breath, the sick feeling not dissipating. He looks out of the window, down along the courtyard where he sees Anna corralling a few kids away from the standing fountain in the center of the cobblestone circle. On the side opposite them, Gabriel is sitting with his legs crossed, back against the brick, a book in one hand and a Styrofoam cup in the other.
He’s paying absolutely no attention to the kids on the other side of him, their clothes dripping wet and their faces contorted into expressions of joy from their laughter, entire existences lit up with it. From Dean’s vantage point he can see Anna’s frown blossom into a small smile when she thinks there’s no one looking.
“They were just people, weren’t they?” He asks Castiel, afraid to say something stupid but not wanting to leave the conversation where it was.
“There was no reason for you to invade.” He adds, when he sees the other man’s brows furrow.
“No,” Castiel says, answering him. He shakes his head slightly and steps away from the creaky cart, body half-turned towards the workroom. He takes one final, long look at Dean before he turns fully around and walks there, steps still light as ever (something else, though, something harsh and grating, making his movements slow).
Dean stares hard after him, wants to call out, you did the right thing, man, I would have done the same, his hand reaching towards the shelves involuntarily, and then he shakes it off, the entire conversation, the insanely tragic way that Castiel had retreated, and he walks out of the door and towards the Impala.
~When he gets home that night, he sits on the couch and nurses a beer, the TV on but muted; it’s the only light source in the room.
He thinks about calling Sam, telling him about Castiel and the way that he never gets what he deserves, the way his life has become one long waiting period for a man who more than likely will never return whatever it is he’s feeling.
In the end he falls asleep on the couch with the phone clutched in his hand.
When he wakes up the next afternoon there’s a kink in his neck and the imprint of the numbers one, four, seven, and eight on his cheek.
He goes to work feeling a little less cheerful than usual.
~Ultimately, Sam ends up calling him a few days after that.
Dean’s in the middle of mixing a drink for a pretty brunette who’s just on this side of jailbait, the flirting he’s sending her way only optimal because of how habitual it is for him, when Jo comes around the bar and tells him that Sam is on the phone.
He nods to her and winks half-heartedly at the brunette, and then he slips out from behind the counter and walks into the back room.
He picks up the phone and is greeted by the sound of his brother’s muffled laughter and Jess’ teasing voice, and he smiles genuinely for the first time in the past week (not because he hasn’t visited the library in that amount of time, of course not; he has a life).
“Hello?” He says into the receiver, and then Sam is saying hello back. The familiarity of it all leaves Dean drowned in relief.
Sam asks how he is, and he toys with the idea of telling him exactly what he’s going through, feeling some instinctual pull to the would-be solace of Sam’s reassurances. He doesn’t, though, just lies and says that he’s doing good. Says that it’s about time Sam comes and visits him. Calls Sam a bitch more than should be allowed, just because he can. Sam tells him that he’s called to tell him that he’s looking into getting a job at this apparently really large, really important firm that may or may not start with a ‘w’ (Dean doesn’t know, because he’s too busy being happy for his brother, because his brother is happy).
They’ve been talking for a good twenty minutes when Ellen comes in and raises her eyebrows at him, a hand-towel thrown over her shoulder.
He scowls at her and then says goodbye, tells them to be safe and to have a good night, and then sets the phone back on the hook.
“You wanna talk?” Ellen asks as they walk back up to the front, and the way she’s says it wouldn’t be classified as reluctant, but it’s definitely in that category.
“About what?” He asks back, wiping his palms on his jeans and stealing her towel before withdrawing to the other side of the bar once again.
She just looks at him with something close to disappointment and then walks to the back again.
~Dean would never admit it to anyone, but he has a “spot”.
His “spot” is a sort of “haven” which he goes to when he needs to think against a breeze and the smells of nature (the dirt, soft and grainy beneath his boots, the sickly-sweetness of the sap sticking to the bark on trees, the harsh scent of fresh air). There is a constant wind at his spot, probably something that has to do with the currents of the river near it, and Dean sometimes spends hours just watching the way it makes the grass dance.
He sometimes leans back and slits his eyes so that the only thing he can see is the green and brown from leaves swaying.
~Dean would never admit it to anyone, but he has a “spot” at the library too.
This spot is right on the edge of what he knows is Castiel’s section: the books on quilting and the magazines and the religious texts (sometimes the reference books too (but no, that’s only on Wednesdays)). He goes to this spot whenever he visits the library, because it’s the easiest way to look at the librarian without drawing a large amount of attention to himself.
It’s also the furthest from Gabriel, whose section is in the fiction area, with the smutty romance novels and the short stories, and that’s the second biggest plus.
After nine days of not going to the library, of sleeping like complete shit and waking up with stiff shoulders (walking around with stiff shoulders), of snapping at Jo and glaring at Ash and sometimes pissing customers off at work, Dean caves in and drives himself to the library.
He sits in his spot for almost three hours.
~Dean has a book on the Industrial Revolution (European) open in his lap. He has been on the same page for almost twenty minutes now, but he’s trying to rationalize it by arguing that the diagram of some machine that’s smack in the middle of the page is intensely interesting.
Then he realizes that he’s arguing with himself and he shakes his head sadly. So this is my life now, he thinks, sitting in this stupid freaking chair and pretending to read this stupid freaking book all because I’m waiting for some dude who doesn’t even know, let alone return, my slightly weird feelings towards him-
And then his thoughts say ‘fuck you, buddy,’ and scoot on off to some other part of his brain, because Castiel has just come around the corner of the bookshelf farthest away from him, books piled in his arms, fingers wrapped protectively around their covers and spines, and Dean feels his heart kick start but he does nothing about it.
Castiel’s wearing dark khaki pants, slightly wrinkled towards the bottom, and a navy sweater. They’re new clothes; Dean has never seen them before.
Some of Dean’s manly interest dies off when he replays that sentence in his head.
And then the rest of him dies off when Castiel turns his head in his direction, impossibly blue eyes landing right on Dean’s position, and Dean lifts his hand and waves a small, slightly nervous wave. He feels the corners of lips turn up and only hopes that it doesn’t look like a grimace.
Castiel looks surprised for a split second, just enough for Dean to notice, and then his mouth forms a smile and a breath makes his chest contract and Dean falls all over again. He has fallen a lot in these past couple of months, figuratively.
Dean looks down at the book in his lap in a fit of sudden embarrassment, shamefully burning its way through his veins and into his throat to lodge a little morsel of something between his heart and his words. Why has it taken him so long to come back, when he always knew somewhere that Castiel wouldn’t hold anything against him? When he knows that Castiel wouldn’t judge him harshly for any action (or any silence, in this case) he has done, because that’s just the kind of guy Castiel is?
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, and the nickname slips out so quickly that he doesn’t have time to bottle it up and push it back inside his mouth. A new wave of embarrassment washes over him, and this time he can feel the blush creeping up his neck, because that word, that ‘Cas’, is only to be used when he’s palming himself at night, on the couch, because there’s nothing exciting on TV. In his bed, because he has woken up from a wet dream, decidedly filthier than any wet dream he has had before.
In the shower, because he wants so badly that his chest constricts with it.
So of course he isn’t expecting the surprised grin, the little huff of a laugh, to come from the man.
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel answers, and the shocked delight that he feels at hearing the nickname fall from Dean’s lips colors his every letter.
“How’ve you been?” Dean asks, standing up and fidgeting slightly. He feels better when he’s standing up, like he’s not the one who’s inferior here.
Castiel nods and sets the books on one of the shelves, and the weight of them bows the wood a little bit, “I’ve been well.”
Dean nods back and clears his throat, reins in the impulse to rub the back of his neck, “Me too,” he says.
“That’s great.” Castiel replies, easily, darting his tongue out to lick his lips.
Dean almost dies.
“Uh,” He states, even though what he meant to say was ‘I’m sorry if my books are overdue, I’ve been really busy up at the Roadhouse and haven’t had time to read them,’, which, in reality, would probably have been worse.
Castiel smiles again, knowing playing in his eyes, and he opens his mouth to say something, the dark flesh making the most perfect ‘o’ Dean has ever seen in his life, when Anna comes around the corner and drags his attention away.
“Hi, Dean,” She says, when she notices that he’s standing there. She’s clutching a clipboard and her hair is back, the first time that he’s seen it that way, and he takes a moment to appreciate just how pretty she actually is; if Castiel wasn’t here, he’d definitely go for her.
Then again, if Castiel wasn’t here he wouldn’t even go to the library in the first place.
He nods his acknowledgement and tunes her out as she starts talking to Castiel about library stuff, and then nods his acknowledgement as he’s told that there is something important they need to attend to.
Dean doesn’t get Castiel’s smile, nor the little brush of their shoulders as he walks away, out of his head until two nights later when Cas calls him (“Your phone number is, um, under your contact information in the database, and, well,”) and asks him out for a drink.
Dean’s dressed and ready before he even hangs up the phone.
~Castiel, Librarian Extraordinaire, shelver of books that pity anyone who dares to look at an ounce of anything alcoholic, is the funniest drunk Dean has ever come across. And he has come across a lot of drunks, believe him.
Castiel, who Dean thought was a studious, kind person, is actually a real sarcastic asshole when he gets a few in him.
But that sentence is kind of misleading, actually.
Castiel is a real sarcastic asshole to everybody but Dean. No, Dean doesn’t get the jerk-esque comments about overcompensation or the size of one’s drink, oh no. Dean gets the witty snark and the compliments on the color of his eyes and the basic lap dance when the librarian leans over to grab his drink.
And Dean is a man who likes to be felt up at inopportune moments, he won’t lie, but not when the person doing the feeling up is wearing an argyle sweater and shiny black shoes and has hair that’s darker than brown but lighter than black, and fucking eyes that are so blue that it’s like he stole the color from seas and skies and other blue shit and decided to just stick it in his eyeballs.
“I’ll have another beer, stronger the better,” Dean yells over the catastrophe of the bar and the feeling of Castiel’s hip shifting against his own, taunt skin that’s soft and warm between the layers of his clothes, and if the word ‘beer’ comes out a little more obviously manly than he intended, who the hell cares? Everyone’s too drunk to see perfectly in front of him, his little gender crisis won’t register even on any of their social scales.
And somehow he has finally hit the bottom (except ‘hit’ is misleading too, because that’s too harsh of a word for the feeling that hums through his body as he drives Castiel back to his place, decidedly less drunk than the other man and therefore able to make all of the decisions).
~“You know you like Stephen King, Winchester! Don’t lie!” Gabriel yells through the wood, and somehow he has become even more annoying in his muffled state.
It’s seven thirty am on a Saturday, and Dean has fallen asleep on his couch again. Beside him is a full collection of all of Edgar Allen Poe’s works, little yellow sticky notes shooting out of the pages every so often from where Castiel had bookmarked them.
He woke up ten minutes ago to the sound of knocks (bangs, the asshole) on his door and the horrible cacophony of Gabriel “serenading” him with the chorus of Candy Man.
Needless to say, it isn’t the best wakeup call he has ever had.
Dean’s considering throwing the remote at the door when he hears a less-drugged-on-speed-and-pcp voice waft through the door.
It says, “Castiel will be there,” in a sing-song way, and Dean is sold before he’s even had time to think about it.
The library is hosting a ‘Stephen King Saturday’, which is apparently something they do every year when it gets to the first Saturday of October.
The set up is basically this: a few dingy old tables placed in the front room with all of the Stephen King books the library owns sitting prettily on the tabletops, posters from some outdated signing taped precariously on the walls, and a little cart pushed aside with a bowl of punch and some cookies balanced on top of it.
Overall, Dean thinks it’s the lamest fucking thing he has ever set eyes on.
And he’s about to tell Gabriel just how lame he thinks it is when Castiel steps out from the door adjacent to them, huffing out a soft laugh at whatever Anna has said to him.
It’s been a while since he’s seen or spoken to the man, and not by his choice. The Roadhouse gets really busy this time of year, for some reason, and now, since Jo has been doing more of the accounting stuff and less of the ‘give people their beer and grease’ stuff, he’s had to take extra shifts.
So it’s definitely not his fault when his heart kind of does a little jumpy thing in his chest and all of the breath leaves his lungs when the man smiles his trademark smile at him, walks over to them and starts talking to Gabriel, but stands decidedly closer to Dean.
It’s a few hours into the festival, or whatever the hell it is, the amount of people that are actually there kind of surprising him, when Dean leans out of the door to get away from some lady who keeps asking him questions. He sees Gabriel lay his hand on Castiel’s forearm out of the corner of his eye and he leans a little more outside of the door, watches as Gabriel points to what he knows is the storage room, face a little too composed.
Castiel nods and walks towards the room, and that’s when Gabriel sees him, face lighting up in a way that scares the living hell out of Dean.
“Winchester! C’mere a second.” And something makes Dean obey him. Maybe it’s because he’s high off the smell of old lady perfume, or maybe there was something in the punch, or maybe he’s just curious and Gabriel has this no-nonsense look on his face.
Whatever it is, it ends with Dean stumbling into Castiel in the low light coming from the light bulb hanging off of the ceiling of the storage room, Gabriel’s victorious laughter washing over them as he closes the door and locks it.
They stand in the quiet for a while, staring at each other in a shocked sort of silence, and then a growl forces its way out of Dean’s mouth.
“That little bastard tricked me!” Dean yells, and then winces when his voice echoes in the semi-large space.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean-“ Castiel starts, but then Dean glares at him so he shuts his mouth with a solid click.
Dean runs his fingers through his hair distractedly, pushes the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He can’t believe he got tricked by Gabriel, of all people.
Seriously, who knew that chucklehead had it in him to push them into a closet as if they were playing Seven Minutes in Fucking Heaven?
And to lock the door; man, that was just low.
“I know you’re attracted to me.” Castiel says bluntly, plainly, as if he’s saying that the call number on one of the books he processes is just a little off.
Dean freezes.
Well.
“Uh, not that-I mean, Cas, you’re a good guy and everything-and yeah so maybe your stupid sweaters are ugly as fuck but I still like you in them-and dude, no offense, but you can’t hold your alcohol for shit-so yeah anyway, maybe you are attractive, but that doesn’t mean I’m attracted to you.” Is what comes out of Dean’s mouth in response. It is quite possibly the worst verbal diarrhea he has ever had in his life, and that’s saying something.
Because there was that one time that Sam caught Dean with his dick in his hand, so close to coming that pre-come was dribbling all over his fingers, and he ended up reciting the different parts of an engine and the general frankness of the effect of alcohol on blood to Sam as his brother slammed the door with a strangled yelp that did absolutely nothing for Dean’s pride.
And maybe thinking about diarrhea and being hard isn’t the best thing to do when Castiel has moved closer, so close his breath fans out across the planes of his face, but he can’t help it.
He’s so fucked he can feel his ass tingle.
“I think you should kiss me now, Dean.” Castiel says, a whisper of nothing but breath that’s warm and smells like cookies and fruit punch, and Dean wants to say ‘No shit,’ but that would be wasting breath.
So he places one hand on the curve of the other man’s hip and moves the other to cup the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair that he finds there, and then he presses their lips together.
Right as their skin connects Castiel lets out a soft sigh, and Dean drinks it in, drinks everything in; the way that Castiel moves against him, closer and closer until they’re as close as they can be without having to pull away, the way that he opens his mouth only enough to allow Dean to slip his tongue along the outer edge of his lip, the way he sort of pushes his thigh in-between both of Dean’s legs and grinds.
“Oh God,” Dean moans, the other man’s arousal hard and hot against the length of his thigh, “We’re not going to dry hump in the middle of a storage room.”
But Castiel only lets out a small noise and licks at the top row of Dean’s teeth, their tongues tangling together, and growls out, “Yes we are.”
And then their erections are rubbing together through the fabric of their jeans, the friction pulling needy noises from their throats, and Dean has never unbuttoned both his pants and somebody else’s in such a short amount of time.
He breathes out the other man’s name, slow and somehow dirty, when he has them both in his hand. In reply Castiel thrusts shallowly against him, the head of his cock colliding with the dip in his thigh with each push, and Dean doesn’t know how, but this is honestly the hottest thing he has ever seen in his life.
Castiel has one hand wrapped around the biceps of Dean’s arm, hold so tight that Dean knows there’ll be a bruise there tomorrow, and the other pressed against the shelf behind him, holding up his weight. His hair is sticking up in crazy directions, his face is flushed a light shade of pink, his teeth biting at his lip, and he looks so fuckable that Dean’s cock grows just that much harder.
There’s always next time for that, Dean thinks, and then thrills at it, his breath becoming shallower and shallower with each of their balanced shoves, and he knows that neither of them are going to last long, not when he’s finally found a grip and pace that’s good for both of them.
In the end it’s Castiel that comes first, the little noise he makes as he does sounding both breathless and moany at the same time, and he licks a stripe across Dean’s neck as Dean continues to stroke himself.
He comes just as the other man begins to nibble on his bottom lip, tongue teasing the corner of his mouth, and as he catches his breath he wipes his hand on the back of Castiel’s jeans.
The other man snorts a complaint, boneless and sweaty against him, and he stays with his head resting in the space where Dean’s shoulder meets his neck, breathing evened out, until Dean reaches down and zips up both of their pants again.
Which, as Castiel pulls back with a satisfied sigh, is when Dean sees the keys poking out of his pocket.
“You’re all asswipes, the whole lot of you.” Dean states as Castiel opens the door, running his hand over his hair to fix it, and the jerk just laughs at him.
Gabriel is standing at the desk, keeping an eye on the front room, when they walk past him.
“I don’t know how anybody likes you, man.” Dean tells him, but it doesn’t sound as harsh as he wanted it to because Castiel is running his hand along his wrist.
“Oh, Dean,” Gabriel says sadly, and he spreads his arms wide, “People don’t like me; they worship me.”
Dean rolls his eyes so hard he thinks he might go blind.
“I’m not thanking you,” Dean calls in reply, hand on the small of Castiel’s back, leading them towards the exit.
“A shrine will do just fine.” Gabriel says, and Dean watches him wink at a younger girl who’s sitting at a table reading a magazine. He sees her go red and then shakes his head in pity; she doesn’t know what’s coming for her.
But then he looks at Castiel, who’s smiling lightly against the crowd of people around him, and his lips twitch upwards on their own accord.
~The first time Sam and Jess come to visit, they open the door to the sight of Castiel straddling Dean’s lap, head thrown back as Dean licks and nibbles and sucks on his neck.
Sam makes a strangled yelp and shuts the door.
He opens it again thirty seconds later, however, because this asshole named Gabriel who they met on the way up (“What do you mean? Hitting all of the buttons on the elevator is the best way to feel alive.”) has decided to follow them.
“I have just as much of a right to see Dean and Cas as you do, Sammy.” Gabriel says, flopping on the couch next to the two lovers (who’re thankfully separated now).
“It’s Sam,” Sam replies habitually, scowling at how this man knows who he is, “And no you don’t.”
Gabriel rolls his eyes and glances over at Dean, and the two share a look before Dean gets up and goes over to hug his brother.
“I’ve missed you, bro.” He says, as tough as he can, for Sam’s sake.
Sam pats him on the back and agrees, and then he looks over Dean’s shoulder and sees Castiel standing there awkwardly, his hands straight down at his sides, and he smiles brightly.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” He says, shaking the shorter man’s hand, and Castiel looks pleasantly surprised as he nods and says the same.
Gabriel flicks on the TV and flips channels as everyone introduces themselves and talks about sleeping arrangements.
And then he stops it at some special program channel and basks in the glory of all of their uncomfortable, mortified expressions as moans fill the air.
“Gabriel,” Dean growls out, reaching for the remote angrily, “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“Work? And miss this lovely little family reunion? I don’t think so.” He replies easily, and when he glances their way he sees Sam and Jess roll their eyes at him.
“Plus, this is much more fun than reading Nora Roberts’ new book.” He adds, once everyone has calmed down and some crime show is playing on the TV.
“Your choice of literature scares me, Gabriel.” Castiel states, and Dean nods his agreement.
“Hey, at least I don’t have ‘The Karma Sutra; Homoerotic Anal Edition’ on my personal record,” He shrugs, then looks over to where Sam is sitting and smiles lewdly at him, “Although that could change.”
Everybody groans.
Yes, Gabriel thinks, as he lifts Dean’s beer to his mouth and polishes it off, I’ve done a good job here.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Rating: NC-17
There are worse things than getting stuck at a library on a Friday evening, Dean tells himself, walking along the front counter to the desk where a man is standing scanning in items.
A slip of paper is in Dean’s hand, given to him by his co-worker Jo, who had sent him on this mission in the first place (“Take a day off, Dean, you need it. Call Sam, maybe? Or here! Go get me this book from the library.” She had said, and he listened because it was the anniversary of his parents death, the one day of the year where he had the potential to be even more of a dick than usual, and Jo had known this), and it says something about some dead guy named Ernest Hemmingway.
Sam would know who that is. And where to find his books. And how to talk to librarians.
“S’cuse me, where can I get this book?” He asks the worker as politely as he can, because he feels like it’s the right thing to do, but also because he wants to find the book as quickly as possible and get out of this hell hole.
The man, nametag proclaiming ‘Castiel’ in pretty scripted letters (really?) gives him a ‘I’m a nice person but I’m not going to put up with your shit, dude’ look and Dean feels a little better, respects the guy a little more. His lumpy tan sweater isn’t exactly helping his point system in Dean’s head, but oh well. He has nice hands. And his eyes are pretty great too. And wow, he can reach up and grab a book off a shelf for Dean any day.
And oh. Fuck.
“We have a big-text edition of that here, but Anna could help you get another, if you’d like.” Castiel nods his head towards a woman with red hair, shelving books a few yards over.
Dean reaches out and grabs the version Castiel has in his hands, running the side of his fingers over the other man’s purposefully, before nodding and saluting with the text.
“Thanks, man. I’ll compare.” And then he walks over to where the woman is, a certain sway in his step.
Anna is the one who checks him out (“Your library card is expired, sir, but you can renew it for two dollars.” And Dean blushes because he can just feel the disappointment flowing from Castiel), but as he walks out of the door he catches the other man staring at him, blue eyes obscenely blue and obscenely large, and then he pushes all of that crap out of his mind because he doesn’t have time for it.
~
Somehow Jo has mistaken Dean’s smile of relief for ‘yes, please send me to the library every single chance I get, because I just love books so much,’ and whenever she thinks he’s working too hard she tells him to go check out a book for her. One time he almost tells her where she can find her book if she doesn’t stop sending him to the damn library, but then Ellen comes out and just looks his way, and he’s out the door and driving his Impala towards the library at break-neck speed.
Every time he goes he has to ask Castiel for help, and every time Castiel sends him over to Anna.
Except for another time, when the man looks down at the slip of paper, coughs a laugh, and sends him over to find some guy named Gabriel.
Gabriel lectures him on proper library etiquette after he yells out a startled “Fuck no!” when the man hands him a book that has two men making out all raunchy on the cover.
That’s also the one time Castiel checks his book out, and he looks anywhere but at the other man until he grabs the book and leaves, neck burning as he hears him and Gabriel laugh at him.
He doesn’t talk to Jo for an entire week, but when she starts reading out a passage from the book (the most erotic passage from any book ever, Dean thinks), he begs for mercy and forgives her.
~Soon Dean’s going to the library just because; when he’s lonely or bored or there’s nothing on TV and he doesn’t have to work.
The place is actually kind of nice, and Dean especially likes the courtyard they have in the middle of the square that makes up the library itself. The bathrooms are clean and it’s quiet and Castiel almost always works.
Which doesn’t really mean anything, except, you know, it kind of does.
Because Dean has this thing where he sits at the computers and pretends to play spider solitaire, or sits in a chair and pretends to read some reference book, or sits on the bench by the bathrooms and across from the work station, and decidedly stares at the librarian until he catches Dean’s eye and gives him a small smile.
And it isn’t like Dean is some creepy asshole who likes stalking innocent librarians, or anything, because he doesn’t stalk Anna. Or Gabriel. Or that old lady at the help desk who talks really loudly on the phone.
It’s only Castiel, so he thinks he’s justified.
Until he’s staring at the other man so much that Gabriel walks over and lays a hand on his shoulder, mock whispers, “Why don’t you two just fuck already?”
And then Dean sort of panics for a second, because it’s been a long, long time since he’s fucked anyone, let alone a guy, and he doesn’t really want to fuck Castiel.
Not really.
Maybe lie him down on a bed gently and lick at his neck and push his nose into the space between his thigh and his dick and suck and suck until the skin grows red and angry, until the other man is clutching at his head and saying his name in his deep, gravelly voice, and-
Dean closes his eyes and breaths out a “Shit,” and Gabriel nods solemnly and walks back over to his area of the library.
~It isn’t long until Castiel catches onto his looks, his creepy (yes, creepy) stares.
But he doesn’t kick him out or berate him for being a douche or anything.
He gives him a book, tells him seriously that he needs to start reading if he’s going to be staying at the library all of the time, and walks away.
The book’s titled ‘Christine‘, the author Stephen King.
Dean shrugs his shoulders and starts reading.
The next day he goes into the library and sniffs out Castiel like a freaking bloodhound.
“Here’s your stupid book,” He says, scowling, “I had nightmares all last night.”
And when Castiel laughs at him, entire posture turning liquid and blissed out, Dean isn’t really angry anymore.
Just, you know, in love. Or something.
(Yeah, definitely ‘or something’.)
~They’ve become friends now, a month after the first time Dean walked into the library.
Castiel knows about his parents, about his brother, about Jo and Ellen and Ash and his job. He knows about the Impala the most, because Dean never shuts up about it, which Castiel finds just a little unhealthy but wisely chooses not to comment on it.
Dean knows about Castiel’s love of burgers (he approves), and his love of literature, and his family (who Dean thinks are a bag of dicks, but wisely doesn’t comment on it). He knows that Castiel used to work as something else before becoming a librarian, but the man doesn’t like talking about it so Dean doesn’t push.
He’s incredibly curious, though.
He grabs the opportunity to talk about it by the horns and pulls that bastard into the cattle-range the first chance he gets.
“There’s something that you regret doing, right?” Castiel asks him one day, as he and Dean are shelving books together. The question is small and spoken softly, so it takes Dean’s brain a while to process it.
When he does, he snorts, but not unkindly.
“Of course, dude. Everyone does.” He says, locking his eyes with the other man’s and feeling the confusion tug at his guts. They’ve spoken about serious stuff before, but it has always been Dean doing the talking and Castiel listening, and Dean wants to change that so badly that it’s almost like a physical pain. “Why?”
“I,” Castiel starts, but then immediately pauses, fingers pressing lightly along the spine of the book he’s currently shelving. Deans stares at the way the skin hugging the bones of his knuckles stretches to undo the wrinkles there and waits patiently for the man to continue; he has time, after all, considering his life has become one long wait for the man in front of him.
“I had orders from my squadron leader to demolish a town.” Castiel pauses again and takes the time to push the book into its proper slot, staring at the row of volumes in front of him as if they’d hold all of his troubles and trials within their pages. Dean’s eyes widen at the words but he doesn’t say anything, holds back the slight hysteria. Castiel, a soldier? The same Castiel that smiles kindly at children and scowls determinedly at teens (Or Gabriel) that use the library computers for porn? The same Castiel that looks at Dean like he’s something important, that doesn’t put up with his bullshit just because he does think of him that way?
Dean can’t really see him accepting orders to fire at someone, to kill someone he doesn’t even know.
Dean can’t really see him passing judgment like that.
“I went against them. A few people from my group were seriously injured. “ Castiel blows out a breath and then turns his head slightly to look at Dean, and Dean doesn’t know what’s happening but he sure as hell has never felt as completely destroyed as he’s feeling right now. He was right, of course, but doesn’t know how he came to be right. They’ve only known each other for a month, after all, and hell, Castiel could have been a blood-crazy psycho for all Dean knew.
But no, of course he wasn’t.
Castiel continues to look at him for a few moments, gaze bordering on a stare, and then he shrugs his shoulders in a little ‘oh well’ gesture. There’s something so broken about him, just from that one tiny motion, that Dean almost reaches out and covers the man’s thin, fragile fingers with his own.
Except they aren’t fragile, Dean thinks. Those fingers have pulled a trigger before. Those fingers have probably pressed into the wounds of comrades, of brothers-in-arms, and twitched and shook when they realized there was nothing that they could do to help.
“There was nothing I could do about the situation. I felt-“ Castiel’s mouth twitches into a scowl as he looks down at the floor, at the burgundy carpet that’s worn down in some places and stained in others, at the shine of his shoes.
“There’s something very shocking about how easy it can be to defy orders when you feel the need is justified.” Is all he says, finally, and the words are spoken so slowly and pronounced so carefully that Dean can swear the man has stated them a thousand times before.
Dean swallows and inhales a deep breath, the sick feeling not dissipating. He looks out of the window, down along the courtyard where he sees Anna corralling a few kids away from the standing fountain in the center of the cobblestone circle. On the side opposite them, Gabriel is sitting with his legs crossed, back against the brick, a book in one hand and a Styrofoam cup in the other.
He’s paying absolutely no attention to the kids on the other side of him, their clothes dripping wet and their faces contorted into expressions of joy from their laughter, entire existences lit up with it. From Dean’s vantage point he can see Anna’s frown blossom into a small smile when she thinks there’s no one looking.
“They were just people, weren’t they?” He asks Castiel, afraid to say something stupid but not wanting to leave the conversation where it was.
“There was no reason for you to invade.” He adds, when he sees the other man’s brows furrow.
“No,” Castiel says, answering him. He shakes his head slightly and steps away from the creaky cart, body half-turned towards the workroom. He takes one final, long look at Dean before he turns fully around and walks there, steps still light as ever (something else, though, something harsh and grating, making his movements slow).
Dean stares hard after him, wants to call out, you did the right thing, man, I would have done the same, his hand reaching towards the shelves involuntarily, and then he shakes it off, the entire conversation, the insanely tragic way that Castiel had retreated, and he walks out of the door and towards the Impala.
~When he gets home that night, he sits on the couch and nurses a beer, the TV on but muted; it’s the only light source in the room.
He thinks about calling Sam, telling him about Castiel and the way that he never gets what he deserves, the way his life has become one long waiting period for a man who more than likely will never return whatever it is he’s feeling.
In the end he falls asleep on the couch with the phone clutched in his hand.
When he wakes up the next afternoon there’s a kink in his neck and the imprint of the numbers one, four, seven, and eight on his cheek.
He goes to work feeling a little less cheerful than usual.
~Ultimately, Sam ends up calling him a few days after that.
Dean’s in the middle of mixing a drink for a pretty brunette who’s just on this side of jailbait, the flirting he’s sending her way only optimal because of how habitual it is for him, when Jo comes around the bar and tells him that Sam is on the phone.
He nods to her and winks half-heartedly at the brunette, and then he slips out from behind the counter and walks into the back room.
He picks up the phone and is greeted by the sound of his brother’s muffled laughter and Jess’ teasing voice, and he smiles genuinely for the first time in the past week (not because he hasn’t visited the library in that amount of time, of course not; he has a life).
“Hello?” He says into the receiver, and then Sam is saying hello back. The familiarity of it all leaves Dean drowned in relief.
Sam asks how he is, and he toys with the idea of telling him exactly what he’s going through, feeling some instinctual pull to the would-be solace of Sam’s reassurances. He doesn’t, though, just lies and says that he’s doing good. Says that it’s about time Sam comes and visits him. Calls Sam a bitch more than should be allowed, just because he can. Sam tells him that he’s called to tell him that he’s looking into getting a job at this apparently really large, really important firm that may or may not start with a ‘w’ (Dean doesn’t know, because he’s too busy being happy for his brother, because his brother is happy).
They’ve been talking for a good twenty minutes when Ellen comes in and raises her eyebrows at him, a hand-towel thrown over her shoulder.
He scowls at her and then says goodbye, tells them to be safe and to have a good night, and then sets the phone back on the hook.
“You wanna talk?” Ellen asks as they walk back up to the front, and the way she’s says it wouldn’t be classified as reluctant, but it’s definitely in that category.
“About what?” He asks back, wiping his palms on his jeans and stealing her towel before withdrawing to the other side of the bar once again.
She just looks at him with something close to disappointment and then walks to the back again.
~Dean would never admit it to anyone, but he has a “spot”.
His “spot” is a sort of “haven” which he goes to when he needs to think against a breeze and the smells of nature (the dirt, soft and grainy beneath his boots, the sickly-sweetness of the sap sticking to the bark on trees, the harsh scent of fresh air). There is a constant wind at his spot, probably something that has to do with the currents of the river near it, and Dean sometimes spends hours just watching the way it makes the grass dance.
He sometimes leans back and slits his eyes so that the only thing he can see is the green and brown from leaves swaying.
~Dean would never admit it to anyone, but he has a “spot” at the library too.
This spot is right on the edge of what he knows is Castiel’s section: the books on quilting and the magazines and the religious texts (sometimes the reference books too (but no, that’s only on Wednesdays)). He goes to this spot whenever he visits the library, because it’s the easiest way to look at the librarian without drawing a large amount of attention to himself.
It’s also the furthest from Gabriel, whose section is in the fiction area, with the smutty romance novels and the short stories, and that’s the second biggest plus.
After nine days of not going to the library, of sleeping like complete shit and waking up with stiff shoulders (walking around with stiff shoulders), of snapping at Jo and glaring at Ash and sometimes pissing customers off at work, Dean caves in and drives himself to the library.
He sits in his spot for almost three hours.
~Dean has a book on the Industrial Revolution (European) open in his lap. He has been on the same page for almost twenty minutes now, but he’s trying to rationalize it by arguing that the diagram of some machine that’s smack in the middle of the page is intensely interesting.
Then he realizes that he’s arguing with himself and he shakes his head sadly. So this is my life now, he thinks, sitting in this stupid freaking chair and pretending to read this stupid freaking book all because I’m waiting for some dude who doesn’t even know, let alone return, my slightly weird feelings towards him-
And then his thoughts say ‘fuck you, buddy,’ and scoot on off to some other part of his brain, because Castiel has just come around the corner of the bookshelf farthest away from him, books piled in his arms, fingers wrapped protectively around their covers and spines, and Dean feels his heart kick start but he does nothing about it.
Castiel’s wearing dark khaki pants, slightly wrinkled towards the bottom, and a navy sweater. They’re new clothes; Dean has never seen them before.
Some of Dean’s manly interest dies off when he replays that sentence in his head.
And then the rest of him dies off when Castiel turns his head in his direction, impossibly blue eyes landing right on Dean’s position, and Dean lifts his hand and waves a small, slightly nervous wave. He feels the corners of lips turn up and only hopes that it doesn’t look like a grimace.
Castiel looks surprised for a split second, just enough for Dean to notice, and then his mouth forms a smile and a breath makes his chest contract and Dean falls all over again. He has fallen a lot in these past couple of months, figuratively.
Dean looks down at the book in his lap in a fit of sudden embarrassment, shamefully burning its way through his veins and into his throat to lodge a little morsel of something between his heart and his words. Why has it taken him so long to come back, when he always knew somewhere that Castiel wouldn’t hold anything against him? When he knows that Castiel wouldn’t judge him harshly for any action (or any silence, in this case) he has done, because that’s just the kind of guy Castiel is?
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, and the nickname slips out so quickly that he doesn’t have time to bottle it up and push it back inside his mouth. A new wave of embarrassment washes over him, and this time he can feel the blush creeping up his neck, because that word, that ‘Cas’, is only to be used when he’s palming himself at night, on the couch, because there’s nothing exciting on TV. In his bed, because he has woken up from a wet dream, decidedly filthier than any wet dream he has had before.
In the shower, because he wants so badly that his chest constricts with it.
So of course he isn’t expecting the surprised grin, the little huff of a laugh, to come from the man.
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel answers, and the shocked delight that he feels at hearing the nickname fall from Dean’s lips colors his every letter.
“How’ve you been?” Dean asks, standing up and fidgeting slightly. He feels better when he’s standing up, like he’s not the one who’s inferior here.
Castiel nods and sets the books on one of the shelves, and the weight of them bows the wood a little bit, “I’ve been well.”
Dean nods back and clears his throat, reins in the impulse to rub the back of his neck, “Me too,” he says.
“That’s great.” Castiel replies, easily, darting his tongue out to lick his lips.
Dean almost dies.
“Uh,” He states, even though what he meant to say was ‘I’m sorry if my books are overdue, I’ve been really busy up at the Roadhouse and haven’t had time to read them,’, which, in reality, would probably have been worse.
Castiel smiles again, knowing playing in his eyes, and he opens his mouth to say something, the dark flesh making the most perfect ‘o’ Dean has ever seen in his life, when Anna comes around the corner and drags his attention away.
“Hi, Dean,” She says, when she notices that he’s standing there. She’s clutching a clipboard and her hair is back, the first time that he’s seen it that way, and he takes a moment to appreciate just how pretty she actually is; if Castiel wasn’t here, he’d definitely go for her.
Then again, if Castiel wasn’t here he wouldn’t even go to the library in the first place.
He nods his acknowledgement and tunes her out as she starts talking to Castiel about library stuff, and then nods his acknowledgement as he’s told that there is something important they need to attend to.
Dean doesn’t get Castiel’s smile, nor the little brush of their shoulders as he walks away, out of his head until two nights later when Cas calls him (“Your phone number is, um, under your contact information in the database, and, well,”) and asks him out for a drink.
Dean’s dressed and ready before he even hangs up the phone.
~Castiel, Librarian Extraordinaire, shelver of books that pity anyone who dares to look at an ounce of anything alcoholic, is the funniest drunk Dean has ever come across. And he has come across a lot of drunks, believe him.
Castiel, who Dean thought was a studious, kind person, is actually a real sarcastic asshole when he gets a few in him.
But that sentence is kind of misleading, actually.
Castiel is a real sarcastic asshole to everybody but Dean. No, Dean doesn’t get the jerk-esque comments about overcompensation or the size of one’s drink, oh no. Dean gets the witty snark and the compliments on the color of his eyes and the basic lap dance when the librarian leans over to grab his drink.
And Dean is a man who likes to be felt up at inopportune moments, he won’t lie, but not when the person doing the feeling up is wearing an argyle sweater and shiny black shoes and has hair that’s darker than brown but lighter than black, and fucking eyes that are so blue that it’s like he stole the color from seas and skies and other blue shit and decided to just stick it in his eyeballs.
“I’ll have another beer, stronger the better,” Dean yells over the catastrophe of the bar and the feeling of Castiel’s hip shifting against his own, taunt skin that’s soft and warm between the layers of his clothes, and if the word ‘beer’ comes out a little more obviously manly than he intended, who the hell cares? Everyone’s too drunk to see perfectly in front of him, his little gender crisis won’t register even on any of their social scales.
And somehow he has finally hit the bottom (except ‘hit’ is misleading too, because that’s too harsh of a word for the feeling that hums through his body as he drives Castiel back to his place, decidedly less drunk than the other man and therefore able to make all of the decisions).
~“You know you like Stephen King, Winchester! Don’t lie!” Gabriel yells through the wood, and somehow he has become even more annoying in his muffled state.
It’s seven thirty am on a Saturday, and Dean has fallen asleep on his couch again. Beside him is a full collection of all of Edgar Allen Poe’s works, little yellow sticky notes shooting out of the pages every so often from where Castiel had bookmarked them.
He woke up ten minutes ago to the sound of knocks (bangs, the asshole) on his door and the horrible cacophony of Gabriel “serenading” him with the chorus of Candy Man.
Needless to say, it isn’t the best wakeup call he has ever had.
Dean’s considering throwing the remote at the door when he hears a less-drugged-on-speed-and-pcp voice waft through the door.
It says, “Castiel will be there,” in a sing-song way, and Dean is sold before he’s even had time to think about it.
The library is hosting a ‘Stephen King Saturday’, which is apparently something they do every year when it gets to the first Saturday of October.
The set up is basically this: a few dingy old tables placed in the front room with all of the Stephen King books the library owns sitting prettily on the tabletops, posters from some outdated signing taped precariously on the walls, and a little cart pushed aside with a bowl of punch and some cookies balanced on top of it.
Overall, Dean thinks it’s the lamest fucking thing he has ever set eyes on.
And he’s about to tell Gabriel just how lame he thinks it is when Castiel steps out from the door adjacent to them, huffing out a soft laugh at whatever Anna has said to him.
It’s been a while since he’s seen or spoken to the man, and not by his choice. The Roadhouse gets really busy this time of year, for some reason, and now, since Jo has been doing more of the accounting stuff and less of the ‘give people their beer and grease’ stuff, he’s had to take extra shifts.
So it’s definitely not his fault when his heart kind of does a little jumpy thing in his chest and all of the breath leaves his lungs when the man smiles his trademark smile at him, walks over to them and starts talking to Gabriel, but stands decidedly closer to Dean.
It’s a few hours into the festival, or whatever the hell it is, the amount of people that are actually there kind of surprising him, when Dean leans out of the door to get away from some lady who keeps asking him questions. He sees Gabriel lay his hand on Castiel’s forearm out of the corner of his eye and he leans a little more outside of the door, watches as Gabriel points to what he knows is the storage room, face a little too composed.
Castiel nods and walks towards the room, and that’s when Gabriel sees him, face lighting up in a way that scares the living hell out of Dean.
“Winchester! C’mere a second.” And something makes Dean obey him. Maybe it’s because he’s high off the smell of old lady perfume, or maybe there was something in the punch, or maybe he’s just curious and Gabriel has this no-nonsense look on his face.
Whatever it is, it ends with Dean stumbling into Castiel in the low light coming from the light bulb hanging off of the ceiling of the storage room, Gabriel’s victorious laughter washing over them as he closes the door and locks it.
They stand in the quiet for a while, staring at each other in a shocked sort of silence, and then a growl forces its way out of Dean’s mouth.
“That little bastard tricked me!” Dean yells, and then winces when his voice echoes in the semi-large space.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean-“ Castiel starts, but then Dean glares at him so he shuts his mouth with a solid click.
Dean runs his fingers through his hair distractedly, pushes the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He can’t believe he got tricked by Gabriel, of all people.
Seriously, who knew that chucklehead had it in him to push them into a closet as if they were playing Seven Minutes in Fucking Heaven?
And to lock the door; man, that was just low.
“I know you’re attracted to me.” Castiel says bluntly, plainly, as if he’s saying that the call number on one of the books he processes is just a little off.
Dean freezes.
Well.
“Uh, not that-I mean, Cas, you’re a good guy and everything-and yeah so maybe your stupid sweaters are ugly as fuck but I still like you in them-and dude, no offense, but you can’t hold your alcohol for shit-so yeah anyway, maybe you are attractive, but that doesn’t mean I’m attracted to you.” Is what comes out of Dean’s mouth in response. It is quite possibly the worst verbal diarrhea he has ever had in his life, and that’s saying something.
Because there was that one time that Sam caught Dean with his dick in his hand, so close to coming that pre-come was dribbling all over his fingers, and he ended up reciting the different parts of an engine and the general frankness of the effect of alcohol on blood to Sam as his brother slammed the door with a strangled yelp that did absolutely nothing for Dean’s pride.
And maybe thinking about diarrhea and being hard isn’t the best thing to do when Castiel has moved closer, so close his breath fans out across the planes of his face, but he can’t help it.
He’s so fucked he can feel his ass tingle.
“I think you should kiss me now, Dean.” Castiel says, a whisper of nothing but breath that’s warm and smells like cookies and fruit punch, and Dean wants to say ‘No shit,’ but that would be wasting breath.
So he places one hand on the curve of the other man’s hip and moves the other to cup the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair that he finds there, and then he presses their lips together.
Right as their skin connects Castiel lets out a soft sigh, and Dean drinks it in, drinks everything in; the way that Castiel moves against him, closer and closer until they’re as close as they can be without having to pull away, the way that he opens his mouth only enough to allow Dean to slip his tongue along the outer edge of his lip, the way he sort of pushes his thigh in-between both of Dean’s legs and grinds.
“Oh God,” Dean moans, the other man’s arousal hard and hot against the length of his thigh, “We’re not going to dry hump in the middle of a storage room.”
But Castiel only lets out a small noise and licks at the top row of Dean’s teeth, their tongues tangling together, and growls out, “Yes we are.”
And then their erections are rubbing together through the fabric of their jeans, the friction pulling needy noises from their throats, and Dean has never unbuttoned both his pants and somebody else’s in such a short amount of time.
He breathes out the other man’s name, slow and somehow dirty, when he has them both in his hand. In reply Castiel thrusts shallowly against him, the head of his cock colliding with the dip in his thigh with each push, and Dean doesn’t know how, but this is honestly the hottest thing he has ever seen in his life.
Castiel has one hand wrapped around the biceps of Dean’s arm, hold so tight that Dean knows there’ll be a bruise there tomorrow, and the other pressed against the shelf behind him, holding up his weight. His hair is sticking up in crazy directions, his face is flushed a light shade of pink, his teeth biting at his lip, and he looks so fuckable that Dean’s cock grows just that much harder.
There’s always next time for that, Dean thinks, and then thrills at it, his breath becoming shallower and shallower with each of their balanced shoves, and he knows that neither of them are going to last long, not when he’s finally found a grip and pace that’s good for both of them.
In the end it’s Castiel that comes first, the little noise he makes as he does sounding both breathless and moany at the same time, and he licks a stripe across Dean’s neck as Dean continues to stroke himself.
He comes just as the other man begins to nibble on his bottom lip, tongue teasing the corner of his mouth, and as he catches his breath he wipes his hand on the back of Castiel’s jeans.
The other man snorts a complaint, boneless and sweaty against him, and he stays with his head resting in the space where Dean’s shoulder meets his neck, breathing evened out, until Dean reaches down and zips up both of their pants again.
Which, as Castiel pulls back with a satisfied sigh, is when Dean sees the keys poking out of his pocket.
“You’re all asswipes, the whole lot of you.” Dean states as Castiel opens the door, running his hand over his hair to fix it, and the jerk just laughs at him.
Gabriel is standing at the desk, keeping an eye on the front room, when they walk past him.
“I don’t know how anybody likes you, man.” Dean tells him, but it doesn’t sound as harsh as he wanted it to because Castiel is running his hand along his wrist.
“Oh, Dean,” Gabriel says sadly, and he spreads his arms wide, “People don’t like me; they worship me.”
Dean rolls his eyes so hard he thinks he might go blind.
“I’m not thanking you,” Dean calls in reply, hand on the small of Castiel’s back, leading them towards the exit.
“A shrine will do just fine.” Gabriel says, and Dean watches him wink at a younger girl who’s sitting at a table reading a magazine. He sees her go red and then shakes his head in pity; she doesn’t know what’s coming for her.
But then he looks at Castiel, who’s smiling lightly against the crowd of people around him, and his lips twitch upwards on their own accord.
~The first time Sam and Jess come to visit, they open the door to the sight of Castiel straddling Dean’s lap, head thrown back as Dean licks and nibbles and sucks on his neck.
Sam makes a strangled yelp and shuts the door.
He opens it again thirty seconds later, however, because this asshole named Gabriel who they met on the way up (“What do you mean? Hitting all of the buttons on the elevator is the best way to feel alive.”) has decided to follow them.
“I have just as much of a right to see Dean and Cas as you do, Sammy.” Gabriel says, flopping on the couch next to the two lovers (who’re thankfully separated now).
“It’s Sam,” Sam replies habitually, scowling at how this man knows who he is, “And no you don’t.”
Gabriel rolls his eyes and glances over at Dean, and the two share a look before Dean gets up and goes over to hug his brother.
“I’ve missed you, bro.” He says, as tough as he can, for Sam’s sake.
Sam pats him on the back and agrees, and then he looks over Dean’s shoulder and sees Castiel standing there awkwardly, his hands straight down at his sides, and he smiles brightly.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” He says, shaking the shorter man’s hand, and Castiel looks pleasantly surprised as he nods and says the same.
Gabriel flicks on the TV and flips channels as everyone introduces themselves and talks about sleeping arrangements.
And then he stops it at some special program channel and basks in the glory of all of their uncomfortable, mortified expressions as moans fill the air.
“Gabriel,” Dean growls out, reaching for the remote angrily, “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“Work? And miss this lovely little family reunion? I don’t think so.” He replies easily, and when he glances their way he sees Sam and Jess roll their eyes at him.
“Plus, this is much more fun than reading Nora Roberts’ new book.” He adds, once everyone has calmed down and some crime show is playing on the TV.
“Your choice of literature scares me, Gabriel.” Castiel states, and Dean nods his agreement.
“Hey, at least I don’t have ‘The Karma Sutra; Homoerotic Anal Edition’ on my personal record,” He shrugs, then looks over to where Sam is sitting and smiles lewdly at him, “Although that could change.”
Everybody groans.
Yes, Gabriel thinks, as he lifts Dean’s beer to his mouth and polishes it off, I’ve done a good job here.