Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 8 - The Prevarication of Ghostly Friends and Lovers
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Sarah’s not Ben’s girlfriend.
Yeah, she’s a girl and she’s a friend, but Ben already has a girlfriend, April. So, Sarah is just a friend who’s a girl.
Plus she’s dead so that kind of makes it impossible for her to be his girlfriend anyway.
But Ben likes her. He likes hanging out with her. She knows a lot. She doesn’t say much sometimes. Some days she talks and talks and talks and other days she doesn’t say a word at all. One day she was crying and Ben didn’t know what to do so he just stood there for a few minutes and then sat down next to her. She didn’t say anything, didn’t stop crying but she didn’t cry as loud. She disappeared for four days after that and when she came back she didn’t say anything about it.
Ben knew she was different right away. He could tell by her clothes. She dressed old. Not like old lady ‘old’ but like his social studies book ‘old’. She had at least two skirts on and some kind of apron. Her red hair went in matching braids down her back.
Sometimes he can tug on the braids. Sometimes he can touch her. But mostly he can’t. His hand just goes right through and it feels real cold and painful and he doesn’t like it. So he doesn’t try very often.
Ben likes Mr. Collins a lot because he’s Sarah’s brother. Sarah told him so. When Sarah talks, she talks a lot about him. She talks about how he used to bring her home sweets and how he taught her how to ride a pony. She had a real pony, she wasn’t making it up. Ben knows that she wouldn’t lie to him. Her pony’s name was Mabel and Sarah said her nose was the softest thing in the world and she got to feed her carrots and apples and brush her hair, but she had to stand on a stool to reach. Mr. Collins would help Sarah ride and taught her how to hold on. Mr. Collins would take Sarah on his horse sometimes and Sarah said they would go so fast that she would squeal.
Ben asked where Mr. Collins horse was now ‘cause he hadn’t seen one around and Sarah said it was a long, long time ago and he didn’t ride horses anymore.
Ben doesn’t know how Sarah got dead. He asked her once. He said it plain as day, ‘How didja get dead?’ She got real quiet and thought for a long time and she said she didn’t know.
What she actually said was, ‘I do not know exactly.’
She talks funny, just like Mr. Collins. Which makes sense, ‘cause they’re brother and sister.
Sarah likes to play in the forest which is fine with Ben because it’s totally cool and there’s tons of wicked stuff out there. And Sarah’s not a weird girl that doesn’t like bugs or other stuff. She’s just as interested as he is when they push a rock over and find stuff underneath.
Sarah knows stuff. Like his step-mom Pam knows stuff. That’s pretty cool too. Just this afternoon when Ben had handed over the blue paint chip to Chuck and told him that Mr. Collins had picked the color for his bedroom, he saw Sarah waving him over. He darted off to the forest and Sarah said they should go play in the woods because her brother wanted to talk to Dean.
She said her brother likes Dean and Ben figures that works out pretty well. Then he and Sarah can be friends and Dean and Mr. Collins can be friends. And maybe they can all go fishing sometime.
But Sarah also told him he has to be careful. She said to never wake her brother up if he’s sleeping. And if he says to go away, Sarah said you have to run as fast as you can and not look back.
He asked her why. He asked if she was afraid of her brother.
She said she wasn’t ever afraid of him. He would never, ever hurt her or hurt Ben. But she repeated, never wake him up if he is sleeping, and if he says to go away, run as fast as you can and don’t look back.
Which sounds reasonable to Ben. He doesn’t like being woken up either and if someone tells him to go away, he doesn’t want to be there anyway. He tells Sarah that and she smiles and nods.
And then they go find some stuff under some rocks and it’s a pretty cool afternoon.
***
Castiel is not Dean’s boyfriend.
They hardly know each other.
And yeah, they kissed and it was a fucking awesome kiss and given the chance Dean would do it again.
But they aren’t dating or anything so he’s not waiting around to hear from Castiel. It’s been two days but whatever.
Dean’s busy. He’s plenty busy.
Plus, Castiel had seemed a little freaked by the whole thing and Dean’s not pushy. So he’s working at the pub and not being pushy.
Sam ambles into the pub, all long limbs and lean grace and Dean lifts his head by way of greeting.
“Thought you were working tonight?” Dean asks in that way siblings have of cutting right to the matter.
“I am, but I thought I’d stop by and drop this off.”
Sam slides an envelope across the smooth bar top and Dean frowns as he finishes towel drying the mug he was working on.
“What is it?’
“Well, Dean, they have these things called letters and when you want someone to get one you drop it in a ‘mail box.’” He uses his fingers to make air quotes around the words.
Dean snaps the bar towel and Sam skillfully dodges it. He’s been dodging it for years. “Smart ass. I meant, why’dya bring it all the way here?”
“Dude, it was hand couriered. I had to sign for it.”
Dean picks it up and if his stomach does a little flop at the cursive script across the front the spells out his name, no one’s the wiser. He turns it over and it’s got a wax seal on it.
A real fucking wax seal. And that’s… well it’s kinda cool.
“Somethin’ you wanna share with the class, Mr. Winchester?” Sam waggles his eyebrows comically and Dean sneers back. He cracks the red wax seal right in half and slides the thick paper out.
Castiel has bad-ass cursive handwriting, all loopy curves and sharp strokes and if it wasn’t so surreal for Dean to be getting a letter and if it wasn’t from Castiel Collins, Dean would probably smirk. As it is, he reads the words carefully:
It would please me greatly if you would join me for dinner, tomorrow, the 17th, at 8pm. CC
“Fancy,” Sam says, clearly looking over the paper and reading it upside down. “‘CC’? Castiel Collins?”
“Keep your nose outta my stuff,” Dean says gruffly. It’s his big brother tone.
“So, you gotta hot date with Castiel Collins?”
“Shut up, Gigantor,” Dean says as he tries not to blush and carefully folds the paper and slides it in his back pocket.
“Oh my God, you are blushing. You like this guy?” Sam leans over across the bar. He was all for teasing Dean until he saw that Dean was maybe a bit shy and nervous about it.
“Look, he just came in once and I stopped off at his place. Ben was there.” Of course, Ben wasn’t really the reason that Dean stopped by, but there’s no need for Sam to know that.
“And now you have an invitation to dinner. You going?”
Dean grabs another beer mug and starts toweling it off, shrugging as though indifferent. “Maybe.”
“Oh, Jesus, you’re blushing again.” Sam laughs. “I’ll have to meet this guy, see what all the fuss is about. He makes Dean Winchester blush.”
Sam’s not quite fast enough this time and the bar towel snaps him in the shoulder. He makes a show of saying ‘ow’ and clutching his shoulder.
“Hey, uh, can I ask you something?” Dean says quietly.
Sam leans in and tries not to smile. “Is it about sex? Because I am a medical professional and can answer all your questions…”
Dean doesn’t snap the towel at him this time, just full on swats him over the head with it.
“… and anything you say will be held in the strictest confidence.” Sam continues quickly.
“Shut up, doofus.” Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “I’m serious.”
“Okay, okay, what?”
“Ben said Castiel has some kind of a sun allergy. You ever heard of anything like that?”
Sam’s thoughtful for a moment. “Solar urticaria is rare but not unheard of.”
“So, you really can be allergic to the sun?”
“Yeah. People get hives and can get a rash. It’s not exactly like a sunburn, that’s tissue damage by UV rays, but an allergy is a response to something the body considers a foreign invader. Like people who are allergic to flowers, their body thinks the pollen is invading and then floods itself with histamines to flush it out. The histamines are your immune system’s response to foreign pathogens. We experience those histamine reactions generally as hives, itchy or watery eyes, runny nose, the usual things you know as allergies.” Sam’s in full on doctor mode now, teasing forgotten.
“Is it serious?”
Sam ponders again. “Well, I don’t know much about it specifically but I imagine it’s like any allergic reaction. Some are mild, some are serious. Like people who have peanut allergies. They can be fatal. If he’s lived with it for a while, he probably knows his tolerances. You should have him stop by the hospital, I would love to talk to him about it.”
“You keep your pokey paws off him.” Dean finger points at Sam.
“Jealously green is an ugly, ugly color on you bro.” Sam pushes back from the bar stool. “So, you gonna say yes? To dinner?”
“None of your business.”
Sam holds up his hands. “Hey, I just wanna know if should send out a search party if you don’t come home.” Again, he waggles his eyebrows.
Dean shoos at him with the towel. “Go. Save lives. Or whatever shit you do over at that fancy hospital.”
Sam laughs as he leaves the pub.
Dean’s left wondering: how do you respond to a written invitation?
***
He thought about calling, but he found out Castiel doesn’t have a phone installed yet.
He thought about writing a note back, but as soon as he saw his chicken-scratch handwriting on lined paper he cringed. It looked lame next to the cream colored stationary and red wax seal.
He thought about going over there. But it seemed weird to go over there and say you were gonna show for dinner the next day. And then what? Just leave?
In the end, he ended up tracking down Chuck on the phone and asked if Chuck could pass along to Castiel that Dean would come to dinner. Chuck must’ve been distracted or something because he seemed confused and said that he already told Castiel that Dean was coming.
Dude was twitchy.
But as long as Castiel got the message, Dean figured it was fine.
The next day brings with it a set of nerves he hadn’t really expected. He didn’t want to do it, but he finally had to break down and ask Sam’s opinion on what to wear.
“Go naked, it’ll save time,” Sam calls from the den.
“Shut up and fucking help me. Jesus.”
“What am I? Fashion designer?”
“Don’t even joke, I saw you watching that show, what’s its name, the one with the clothes and the judging and Heidi Klum.”
“That show is about the competition! They have to make that shit in one day! And Heidi Klum, man.”
“Whatever, get over here and help me, goddamit.”
Which is how they end up in Dean’s bedroom standing in front of the closet.
“I dunno,” says Sam staring at Dean’s clothes. “It didn’t say to dress up did it?”
“You read it. It didn’t say anything.”
“What was he wearing the last time you went over?”
“Dunno,” replies Dean, although he remembers perfectly. “Like, jeans or something.”
Sam huffs. “Just pick a pair of pants and a shirt. This isn’t your first rodeo, cowboy.”
“I swear to God, if you don’t knock it off…”
“Seriously, Dean. He invited you to dinner. He likes you. He’s not gonna care what you’re wearing.”
Sam can tell Dean is nervous and that’s… well that’s pretty unusual. Dean doesn’t get nervous about dating. Dean’s gone on a pile of first dates. A handful of seconds. A few thirds. But he’s friendly with people all day long and can make conversation with pretty much anyone who comes into the pub.
Dean must really like this guy if he’s this nervous.
Sam takes pity on him and pulls a grey sweater from a shelf, a button down shirt to go under it and a pair of pants. Dean’s wardrobe is not big on variety, and nearly everything goes together. Except for the rock n roll t-shirts.
“Here,” he stuffs the clothing into Dean’s arms. “This is good.”
“Yeah?” Dean says, eyes wide and a little anxious.
“Yeah. It’ll look good.”
Dean hesitates a second. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem. Now, about that sex talk…”
Dean motions Sam out with a sock-clad foot. “And you’ve just overstayed your welcome. Beat it.” He toes the door to his room closed in Sam’s face.
“He’ll never marry you if you put out on the first date,” Sam calls through the door.
“I hate you.”
***
Castiel can’t cook.
He never had to before.
He invited Dean for dinner, so something must be done, but he can’t afford to have staff members in the house who could discover his… oddities.
He had expressed to Charles a desire to order in, but Charles was adamant that Castiel could cook, should cook, and would cook. Charles pressured the electrician into wiring the kitchen ahead of schedule, although they had to shut off the electricity to the rest of the main floor to handle the load.
Castiel felt a strange fondness at Charles’ assertions. In fact, Charles had stayed and helped him with the roast, potatoes and salad. Charles placed the bread on a serving platter and left Castiel with strict instructions to leave the roast in the pan to rest until it was ready to serve.
It was also thanks to Charles that they would be dining in the kitchen. He said the dining room was too big for two people and it would look weird.
Charles then carefully suggested that now would be a good time for Castiel to feed, before Dean arrived.
To which Castiel agreed. Castiel knows that Charles is somewhat disappointed when he heads down to the cellar and retrieves a blood bank bag. It was with a heavy heart that Charles left Castiel, even though he himself had plans to go out to a movie with Rebecca Collins.
At a quarter to eight, Castiel is nervous. Dean is coming to dinner. Dean with his green eyes and warm smile. Dean who lights up Castiel’s memory and fills him with longing.
Dean, who he is terrified he will end up hurting. Again.
He tries desperately not to think of Dean as he was, not to think of those last moments, hundreds of years ago. Blood pooling in Dean’s mouth, pale skin stretched over muscle and bone. Lines of pain etched into his face. Eyes glassy and bright and then… nothing.
He cannot think of that. This is his redemption. This is his chance to re-write the past and escape from its claws.
He learned well from his mistakes and does not intend to make them again.
***
Dean’s not nervous.
He told Sam twelve times that he wasn’t nervous.
Because he’s not.
Even as he says it to himself, he catches his hand shaking a little bit as he rings the doorbell. He wipes it off on his pants.
He doesn’t want to have sweaty hands. That would be bad. And embarrassing.
And anyway, there’s no reason for his hands to be sweaty because he is not nervous.
His nose twitches slightly and he can smell rain on the air. There’s a low rumble of thunder off in the distance. The weather called for a storm tonight, although, that’s hardly news at this time of year.
Castiel opens the door and Dean can feel his face automatically respond with a smile. Castiel is casually dressed in a dark blue button down shirt and slacks and Dean is stupidly glad that he’s similarly dressed in pants and a sweater.
“Hey, I hope I’m not late,” he says, but he knows he’s not. He even had to wait for ten minutes down at the end of the ridiculously long driveway that leads up to the old house. Longest ten minutes of his life.
“No, of course not. Please come in.”
There are no lights on in the hallway, but there are candles interspersed along the way, leading a pathway down with puddles of light that barely touch one another.
“I’m afraid we had to cut power to the rest of the main floor so that we could get the kitchen operational,” Castiel says by way of explanation. His voice surfs lightly on the dark, carrying easily across the space.
He’s relieved when Castiel brings him to the kitchen and he sees a small table set up for dinner. He had worried they would be eating in the dining room. He imagined them sitting ridiculously at opposite ends of a table that would take up the space of the room foolishly trying to make conversation across the expanse.
But instead, there is a small square table in the kitchen with worn chairs. It looks warm and… intimate.
He mentally wills away the flush that he can feel creep up his neck at the word.
Thankfully, Castiel has his back to him and is saying something about breakers and circuits. He only catches the last part which ends in Castiel offering him a drink and a seat while he serves dinner.
“Whatever you have is fine,” Dean says with a weird hand wave that he then tries to save by stuffing his hand back in his pocket. “Uh, you want some help?”
“I could not possibly allow you to assist. You are my guest.” He gestures for Dean to have a seat at one of the worn chairs at the table. Castiel grabs two beers from the fridge and sets them on the table.
Dean sits stiffly, not quite ready to relax while Castiel is still standing and at the counter. His back is to Dean as he cuts the roast, but he turns his head slightly, looking over his shoulder as he asks Dean about the pub.
“Do you work every day, or do you take days off?”
“Uh, pretty much every day. Even on my days off I tend to end up there, dropping something off or picking something up. Or something breaks. Or floods,” he says remembering last year when he tried to take a week off and ended up back at the pub, two hours later knee deep in sewage.
Ah, the glamorous life.
He cracks both beers open and takes a swig of one.
“You must be a renaissance man,” replies Castiel easily as he sets a plate down in front of Dean.
Dean smirks. “More like a jack of all trades and master of none.”
Castiel takes his seat opposite Dean and carefully places his napkin before proceeding. Dean watches him surreptitiously and copies his movements. He’s suddenly worried about his manners. Castiel’s so precise with his movements and Dean feels gangly and awkward. Castiel doesn’t appear to notice.
“I thought you said you weren’t much of a cook.”
Castiel gives him an almost shy smile. “I had some assistance. I must admit, it’s been an exceptionally long time since I’ve prepared food. Charles was a great help.”
“Chuck works for you now, I take it?”
“After a fashion. He manages a lot of odd ends for me.”
“I get the impression that writing doesn’t pay a lot of the bills. Must be a relief for him to have something else.”
“I believe he is starting to become more accustomed to my oddities. He’s been invaluable in the restoration of the house and in helping me acclimate to Collinsport.”
Dean asks him questions about the work on the house, about himself. Castiel talks about the house much more easily than about himself. When he does talk about himself or his past, he gets a faraway look in his eyes, as though he’s watching from a distance. Castiel’s blue eyes lose their intense focus for moments at a time, and his voice will take on an absentminded tone. Then, as though shaking himself loose from a cobweb memory, Castiel’s eyes will flick back to a point of convergence, looking at Dean like he’s the only thing in the world.
It’s pretty fucking hot, if Dean’s honest with himself. Every time it happens, Dean smiles automatically.
There is pie for dessert, though Castiel confesses he purchased it from Rufus’ bakery. Everyone in town knows Rufus has the best pie in the world. Rufus himself is a grizzly old guy that looks like he should be some kind of assassin, but when you stand next to him at the grocery store or the bank, he always smells faintly of vanilla and nutmeg.
Tonight’s pie is one of Rufus’ glorious creations. Lemon meringue. The meringue is piled so high, so delicately it seems like a loud noise will cause the whole thing to topple over. The lemon filing is so sharply colored yellow it almost hurts to look at it. Dean’s mouth is already watering as he watches Castiel cut slices and fight them out of the tray. Castiel gets some lemon filling on his thumb and stares at it in slight consternation for a moment before sucking it off. Dean’s watching him so closely he can see his mouth pucker slightly at the sweet-sour lemony goodness.
He’s pretty sure he’ll be dreaming of Castiel and pie for days if not weeks.
As Dean eats, he knows he’s making inappropriate sounds. He’s not going overboard with it. Subtle seduction, thy name is Dean Winchester. It’s not completely gratuitous, but it is suggestive. He could stop. He could tone it down, but he doesn’t. First, the pie really is that good. Rufus does not know how to make a bad pastry and his lemon filling is the best on the planet. Second, while Dean has been pretending to focus intently on his pie, he’s actually been watching Castiel and Castiel has pretty much stopped eating his dessert and is sitting there, with this fork midway to his mouth, his stare intently focused on Dean.
Dean looks up at him.
Castiel puts his fork down.
Dean swallows and sets his own fork aside.
They are like racers at the line, poised, tense, waiting for the gun to go off and give permission to send their bodies into action.
As with the kiss, he would never be sure which one of them moved first. It might have been something as simple as a twitch or a blink by himself or a slight head tilt or lip-parting by Castiel. All Dean knows is now.
Now they are standing hip to hip, pelvises crushed up against each other, and he thinks he heard his own chair topple over to the ground but he’s not about to turn around to check.
Now he’s got his hands sunk into Castiel’s dark hair and it’s silky and smooth and if it were just a bit longer, it would be the perfect length for him to grab onto. As it is, it’s a fraction too short and Dean’s fingertips end up sliding through with each attempt to clutch.
Now they are so close to kissing, lips not actually touching yet, and he’s not sure what’s stopping them. He can feel Castiel’s strong grip on his waist, warm breath on his own lips and he’s got a strange sense of deja-vu. He feels slightly dizzy with it, coupled with the anticipation. He desperately wants to move forward and at the same time, he wants to stay in this moment for a heart beat longer so that it will be perfectly clear when he thinks about it later.
Now they’re kissing. Lips and tongues sliding over each other. Dean’s pulling Castiel’s head closer, pressing his fingers deep into the base of the other man’s skull. Castiel’s hands are likely leaving bruises on Dean’s hips that Dean will look at with a smile for days as they fade. Castiel tastes like pie. Lemony and sharp, with a bit of meringue and Dean will never have lemon pie again without thinking of him, he’s sure of it.
He’s getting hard from just their kiss and he’d be embarrassed about it if he was the only one. He can feel Castiel pressing against him, hot and insistent. A little grunt escapes his throat and Castiel snaps his hips against Dean’s.
There’s a quick clap of thunder and the lights go out leaving them in darkness.
Dean laughs against Castiel’s lips. “Did we do that?” he jokes quietly.
He feels Castiel’s mouth curl up in a smile. “I wish I could say yes, but I’m pretty sure the storm cut the tentative wiring we had on the main floor.”
It’s fantastically intimate being in the dark with Castiel. Dean can hear the rain coming down hard and rhythmically. They are both slightly out of breath, warm puffs of air ghosting over each other’s skin, Castiel’s thumbs tracing small circles on Dean’s hip bones.
“What about upstairs?” Dean asks and it’s a shame his knowingly raised eyebrow and somewhat lascivious look is not visible in the dark.
“Upstairs might still have electricity.”
“We should go check.”
“Indeed we would be remiss if we did not.”
Dean laughs again. “Indeed.” he repeats.
Castiel intertwines his fingers with Dean’s and leads the way back to the hall in which the candles are still burning low. Dean blows them out as he passes, tendrils of smoke curling lazily upward. He feels pleasantly relaxed, a thin thread of anticipation running through his veins like a low level current. He follows closely, his other hand coming up to rest lightly on Castiel’s hip. Castiel pauses for a moment at the foot of the stairs and Dean is filled with the impulse to lean forward and place his lips at the top of his spine, where the bony vertebrae juts out slightly, so he does. Castiel turns his head, chin tucked to shoulder and Dean noses at his ear. Castiel smells warm and strangely familiar and Dean breathes in deep, blowing the breath out against Castiel’s neck.
The stairs are dark, no candles lit along their ascent, and none upstairs either. Castiel’s steps are sure and knowing, never once slow or hesitant. He must know the house well. At the top of the stairs Dean hears him flick a light switch and nothing happens.
He’s deliriously glad and if it wasn’t so utterly ridiculous for him to do so, he’s pretty sure he would giggle. “We should probably check your bedroom,” Dean says lowly, continuing the charade.
Castiel opens the door to his room and the smell of fresh paint wafts over Dean’s nostrils. Castiel drops Dean’s hand and his hip moves out of Dean’s grasp and for a split second Dean panics. He’s in the dark and he can’t see anything. He hears a rough scrape and a match flares to life and he can see Castiel lighting a small candle holder on the dresser.
“I mentioned this house is very similar to how I grew up,” Castiel says lowly as he shakes out the match. “I’m afraid I’m still not very used to electricity and tend to keep candles about. I find their light soothing.”
He says it like he’s a little embarrassed by it, his eyes casting downward as he speaks.
Dean steps toward him and they end up tangled around each other, hands, legs, lips. Dean pulls Castiel’s shirt out of the waistband and intends to work on the buttons but gets distracted when Castiel slides his own hands under Dean’s sweater and shirt and with a fast tug and pull, Dean’s arms are up above his own head so Castiel can yank both garments off. One of Dean’s hands gets caught in the cuff and he’s cursing and struggling to shake it free as Castiel is undoing his pants and pressing him backwards on to the bed. Dean falls, his breath escaping him in a huff as he lands ungracefully on the soft mattress and pushes his pants, shoes and socks off with frantic feet.
Holy fuck, Castiel got him down to his boxers in pretty much thirty seconds flat.
Impressive.
Dean shimmies upward on the bed as Castiel crawls on top of him and it’s completely ridiculous that Castiel is still entirely clothed, except for his shoes and socks and Dean can’t really say what happened to those. He wants to tell Castiel to get undressed, in fact he wants to help, but his mouth is otherwise occupied with Castiel’s tongue and lips and when Castiel slides his hand past the waistband of Dean’s boxers and starts to fist him slowly, all Dean can do is jerk his hips and groan at the sensation.
Castiel’s tongue is hot and insistent in Dean’s mouth and his hand is firm and steady and it’s hands down the best fucking hand job of his life. Dean can only thrust upward into Castiel’s grasp as Castiel’s long fingers move up and down his cock, thumb pressing into the slit, squeezing out precome and smoothing it down the shaft.
Castiel is licking at Dean’s jaw and his neck, pressing the tip of his tongue into the pulse point of Dean’s throat and Dean’s vaguely aware that his own hands are clutching the dark fabric of Castiel’s shirt, distorting the fibers and destroying the shape. He’s about one minute away from coming, from just this, and he’s trying to convey it but he’s lost the ability to form sentences. It’s like Castiel somehow knows every single one of his hot spots and is working his way through them all.
“Cas,” he moans, the shortened nickname rolling off his lips like he’s been using it forever, “I can’t… ungh…” Castiel twists his hand perfectly and Dean bucks up harder. “I’m gonna… I can’t… please…”
He hasn’t needed to come this bad from only someone’s hand since he was sixteen years old in the back of Impala. Castiel’s rocking his hips against Dean’s his hand steady and sure on Dean’s cock, fingers trailing down to run over Dean’s balls, his own erection pressing hotly against Dean’s thigh. Castiel’s intense gaze is focused solely on Dean, the blue of his iris’ nearly blown out by the black of his pupils.
“Wait..” he manages. “I need…I’m gonna,” he pants.
Castiel licks the tip of his tongue from the base of Dean’s neck up the side and to Dean’s ear. “I know. I want you to,” Castiel breathes into Dean’s ear. “I want to feel you in my hand, watch you.” He laps Dean’s ear lobe delicately and then pulls back to see his face again. “Do it,” he says lowly, his voice gravelly and deep. His tongue darts out to lick at Dean’s lip. “Do it so I can watch you.”
Dean’s breath hitches and his entire body snaps in a second of almost painful tension and then he’s coming hard in Castiel’s hand. Castiel’s eyes are precision-focused on him and Castiel’s other hand is under Dean’s head, keeping it from arching backward, keeping Dean’s face level with his own. Castiel’s deft fingers milk Dean past the point where he thought he was totally spent until his cock gives another hard twitch and Dean’s hips give one last thrust.
Dean’s out of breath like he’s been running and his hands are still fisted painfully in Castiel’s shirt. Castiel pulls his hand out of Dean’s boxers and, keeping his eyes on Dean’s, slides two of his come-covered fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean.
Dean uses his grip to yank Castiel down sharply and kiss him hard, bruisingly hard. He can taste himself and a faint trace of lemon too. With a pulse of strength and renewed arousal, he flips them over, bracketing Castiel’s hips with his thighs. He rocks his pelvis against Castiel’s erection a couple of times just to take in the feel of it.
“This shirt has pretty much had it,” he says as he pulls sharply and sends buttons flying. Castiel laughs and Dean grins at the sound. His fingers card through Dean’s hair as Dean mouths his way down Castiel’s chest, pausing to suck first at one nipple and then the other. Dean hovers over Castiel’s waist, tongue dipping into the other man’s belly button as his fingers work at the clasp and zipper of his pants. He gets them open, wiggles the pants and Castiel’s boxers over sharp hipbones, eases them carefully over Castiel’s hard length. Castiel gives a sigh of relief when Dean slides the fabric off. Dean kneels between his legs and runs his hands up and over the bones of Castiel’s pelvis, fingertips brushing lightly over the skin stretched tight. Dean meets his eyes as he leans down and flicks his tongue over the tip and Castiel hisses in pleasure. Castiel’s got one hand in Dean’s hair, but it’s careful, gentle. The other hand is fisted tightly in the bedspread, pulling at it as Dean’s mouth closes over the sensitive head.
Castiel is making rumbling, fucked out noises as Dean works him over with his tongue groaning out Dean’s name when Dean licks a long stripe up the underside and uses his fingers to massage his balls gently. Castiel’s begging now, and Dean loves every syllable that’s falling from his lips and he sucks harder at Castiel’s cock, as hard as he can. Castiel comes with a hoarse, intelligible shout, sending a hot pulse into Dean’s mouth that he swallows greedily.
Dean licks his way off, eyes holding Castiel’s gaze as he does. Castiel grabs one of Dean’s hands and yanks him forward, pulling him off balance and he falls on top of his chest with a soft ‘thwack.’ They shift and roll, slide and tug until they get under the covers, puffs of laughter escaping them. Castiel finally gets his shirt the rest of the way off and Dean shucks his boxers. Dean’s never been much for cuddling, and in fact generally only puts up with it instead of actively enjoying it. But as Castiel stretches out on his back and pulls him in, he finds himself going willingly, twining his legs with Castiel’s unconsciously, resting their upper bodies together.
“Next time we’ll have to get all our clothes off first, Cas,” Dean mumbles against Castiel’s neck. Castiel’s lips are against the top of his head and he can feel him smile.
“I guess we’ll just have to keep trying until we get it right,” Castiel says playfully.
Dean wants to say something clever and witty but his full belly and fucked out body are dragging him down into sleep.
Next Chapter - 9 - I'd Break the Back of Love For You
Sarah’s not Ben’s girlfriend.
Yeah, she’s a girl and she’s a friend, but Ben already has a girlfriend, April. So, Sarah is just a friend who’s a girl.
Plus she’s dead so that kind of makes it impossible for her to be his girlfriend anyway.
But Ben likes her. He likes hanging out with her. She knows a lot. She doesn’t say much sometimes. Some days she talks and talks and talks and other days she doesn’t say a word at all. One day she was crying and Ben didn’t know what to do so he just stood there for a few minutes and then sat down next to her. She didn’t say anything, didn’t stop crying but she didn’t cry as loud. She disappeared for four days after that and when she came back she didn’t say anything about it.
Ben knew she was different right away. He could tell by her clothes. She dressed old. Not like old lady ‘old’ but like his social studies book ‘old’. She had at least two skirts on and some kind of apron. Her red hair went in matching braids down her back.
Sometimes he can tug on the braids. Sometimes he can touch her. But mostly he can’t. His hand just goes right through and it feels real cold and painful and he doesn’t like it. So he doesn’t try very often.
Ben likes Mr. Collins a lot because he’s Sarah’s brother. Sarah told him so. When Sarah talks, she talks a lot about him. She talks about how he used to bring her home sweets and how he taught her how to ride a pony. She had a real pony, she wasn’t making it up. Ben knows that she wouldn’t lie to him. Her pony’s name was Mabel and Sarah said her nose was the softest thing in the world and she got to feed her carrots and apples and brush her hair, but she had to stand on a stool to reach. Mr. Collins would help Sarah ride and taught her how to hold on. Mr. Collins would take Sarah on his horse sometimes and Sarah said they would go so fast that she would squeal.
Ben asked where Mr. Collins horse was now ‘cause he hadn’t seen one around and Sarah said it was a long, long time ago and he didn’t ride horses anymore.
Ben doesn’t know how Sarah got dead. He asked her once. He said it plain as day, ‘How didja get dead?’ She got real quiet and thought for a long time and she said she didn’t know.
What she actually said was, ‘I do not know exactly.’
She talks funny, just like Mr. Collins. Which makes sense, ‘cause they’re brother and sister.
Sarah likes to play in the forest which is fine with Ben because it’s totally cool and there’s tons of wicked stuff out there. And Sarah’s not a weird girl that doesn’t like bugs or other stuff. She’s just as interested as he is when they push a rock over and find stuff underneath.
Sarah knows stuff. Like his step-mom Pam knows stuff. That’s pretty cool too. Just this afternoon when Ben had handed over the blue paint chip to Chuck and told him that Mr. Collins had picked the color for his bedroom, he saw Sarah waving him over. He darted off to the forest and Sarah said they should go play in the woods because her brother wanted to talk to Dean.
She said her brother likes Dean and Ben figures that works out pretty well. Then he and Sarah can be friends and Dean and Mr. Collins can be friends. And maybe they can all go fishing sometime.
But Sarah also told him he has to be careful. She said to never wake her brother up if he’s sleeping. And if he says to go away, Sarah said you have to run as fast as you can and not look back.
He asked her why. He asked if she was afraid of her brother.
She said she wasn’t ever afraid of him. He would never, ever hurt her or hurt Ben. But she repeated, never wake him up if he is sleeping, and if he says to go away, run as fast as you can and don’t look back.
Which sounds reasonable to Ben. He doesn’t like being woken up either and if someone tells him to go away, he doesn’t want to be there anyway. He tells Sarah that and she smiles and nods.
And then they go find some stuff under some rocks and it’s a pretty cool afternoon.
***
Castiel is not Dean’s boyfriend.
They hardly know each other.
And yeah, they kissed and it was a fucking awesome kiss and given the chance Dean would do it again.
But they aren’t dating or anything so he’s not waiting around to hear from Castiel. It’s been two days but whatever.
Dean’s busy. He’s plenty busy.
Plus, Castiel had seemed a little freaked by the whole thing and Dean’s not pushy. So he’s working at the pub and not being pushy.
Sam ambles into the pub, all long limbs and lean grace and Dean lifts his head by way of greeting.
“Thought you were working tonight?” Dean asks in that way siblings have of cutting right to the matter.
“I am, but I thought I’d stop by and drop this off.”
Sam slides an envelope across the smooth bar top and Dean frowns as he finishes towel drying the mug he was working on.
“What is it?’
“Well, Dean, they have these things called letters and when you want someone to get one you drop it in a ‘mail box.’” He uses his fingers to make air quotes around the words.
Dean snaps the bar towel and Sam skillfully dodges it. He’s been dodging it for years. “Smart ass. I meant, why’dya bring it all the way here?”
“Dude, it was hand couriered. I had to sign for it.”
Dean picks it up and if his stomach does a little flop at the cursive script across the front the spells out his name, no one’s the wiser. He turns it over and it’s got a wax seal on it.
A real fucking wax seal. And that’s… well it’s kinda cool.
“Somethin’ you wanna share with the class, Mr. Winchester?” Sam waggles his eyebrows comically and Dean sneers back. He cracks the red wax seal right in half and slides the thick paper out.
Castiel has bad-ass cursive handwriting, all loopy curves and sharp strokes and if it wasn’t so surreal for Dean to be getting a letter and if it wasn’t from Castiel Collins, Dean would probably smirk. As it is, he reads the words carefully:
It would please me greatly if you would join me for dinner, tomorrow, the 17th, at 8pm. CC
“Fancy,” Sam says, clearly looking over the paper and reading it upside down. “‘CC’? Castiel Collins?”
“Keep your nose outta my stuff,” Dean says gruffly. It’s his big brother tone.
“So, you gotta hot date with Castiel Collins?”
“Shut up, Gigantor,” Dean says as he tries not to blush and carefully folds the paper and slides it in his back pocket.
“Oh my God, you are blushing. You like this guy?” Sam leans over across the bar. He was all for teasing Dean until he saw that Dean was maybe a bit shy and nervous about it.
“Look, he just came in once and I stopped off at his place. Ben was there.” Of course, Ben wasn’t really the reason that Dean stopped by, but there’s no need for Sam to know that.
“And now you have an invitation to dinner. You going?”
Dean grabs another beer mug and starts toweling it off, shrugging as though indifferent. “Maybe.”
“Oh, Jesus, you’re blushing again.” Sam laughs. “I’ll have to meet this guy, see what all the fuss is about. He makes Dean Winchester blush.”
Sam’s not quite fast enough this time and the bar towel snaps him in the shoulder. He makes a show of saying ‘ow’ and clutching his shoulder.
“Hey, uh, can I ask you something?” Dean says quietly.
Sam leans in and tries not to smile. “Is it about sex? Because I am a medical professional and can answer all your questions…”
Dean doesn’t snap the towel at him this time, just full on swats him over the head with it.
“… and anything you say will be held in the strictest confidence.” Sam continues quickly.
“Shut up, doofus.” Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “I’m serious.”
“Okay, okay, what?”
“Ben said Castiel has some kind of a sun allergy. You ever heard of anything like that?”
Sam’s thoughtful for a moment. “Solar urticaria is rare but not unheard of.”
“So, you really can be allergic to the sun?”
“Yeah. People get hives and can get a rash. It’s not exactly like a sunburn, that’s tissue damage by UV rays, but an allergy is a response to something the body considers a foreign invader. Like people who are allergic to flowers, their body thinks the pollen is invading and then floods itself with histamines to flush it out. The histamines are your immune system’s response to foreign pathogens. We experience those histamine reactions generally as hives, itchy or watery eyes, runny nose, the usual things you know as allergies.” Sam’s in full on doctor mode now, teasing forgotten.
“Is it serious?”
Sam ponders again. “Well, I don’t know much about it specifically but I imagine it’s like any allergic reaction. Some are mild, some are serious. Like people who have peanut allergies. They can be fatal. If he’s lived with it for a while, he probably knows his tolerances. You should have him stop by the hospital, I would love to talk to him about it.”
“You keep your pokey paws off him.” Dean finger points at Sam.
“Jealously green is an ugly, ugly color on you bro.” Sam pushes back from the bar stool. “So, you gonna say yes? To dinner?”
“None of your business.”
Sam holds up his hands. “Hey, I just wanna know if should send out a search party if you don’t come home.” Again, he waggles his eyebrows.
Dean shoos at him with the towel. “Go. Save lives. Or whatever shit you do over at that fancy hospital.”
Sam laughs as he leaves the pub.
Dean’s left wondering: how do you respond to a written invitation?
***
He thought about calling, but he found out Castiel doesn’t have a phone installed yet.
He thought about writing a note back, but as soon as he saw his chicken-scratch handwriting on lined paper he cringed. It looked lame next to the cream colored stationary and red wax seal.
He thought about going over there. But it seemed weird to go over there and say you were gonna show for dinner the next day. And then what? Just leave?
In the end, he ended up tracking down Chuck on the phone and asked if Chuck could pass along to Castiel that Dean would come to dinner. Chuck must’ve been distracted or something because he seemed confused and said that he already told Castiel that Dean was coming.
Dude was twitchy.
But as long as Castiel got the message, Dean figured it was fine.
The next day brings with it a set of nerves he hadn’t really expected. He didn’t want to do it, but he finally had to break down and ask Sam’s opinion on what to wear.
“Go naked, it’ll save time,” Sam calls from the den.
“Shut up and fucking help me. Jesus.”
“What am I? Fashion designer?”
“Don’t even joke, I saw you watching that show, what’s its name, the one with the clothes and the judging and Heidi Klum.”
“That show is about the competition! They have to make that shit in one day! And Heidi Klum, man.”
“Whatever, get over here and help me, goddamit.”
Which is how they end up in Dean’s bedroom standing in front of the closet.
“I dunno,” says Sam staring at Dean’s clothes. “It didn’t say to dress up did it?”
“You read it. It didn’t say anything.”
“What was he wearing the last time you went over?”
“Dunno,” replies Dean, although he remembers perfectly. “Like, jeans or something.”
Sam huffs. “Just pick a pair of pants and a shirt. This isn’t your first rodeo, cowboy.”
“I swear to God, if you don’t knock it off…”
“Seriously, Dean. He invited you to dinner. He likes you. He’s not gonna care what you’re wearing.”
Sam can tell Dean is nervous and that’s… well that’s pretty unusual. Dean doesn’t get nervous about dating. Dean’s gone on a pile of first dates. A handful of seconds. A few thirds. But he’s friendly with people all day long and can make conversation with pretty much anyone who comes into the pub.
Dean must really like this guy if he’s this nervous.
Sam takes pity on him and pulls a grey sweater from a shelf, a button down shirt to go under it and a pair of pants. Dean’s wardrobe is not big on variety, and nearly everything goes together. Except for the rock n roll t-shirts.
“Here,” he stuffs the clothing into Dean’s arms. “This is good.”
“Yeah?” Dean says, eyes wide and a little anxious.
“Yeah. It’ll look good.”
Dean hesitates a second. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem. Now, about that sex talk…”
Dean motions Sam out with a sock-clad foot. “And you’ve just overstayed your welcome. Beat it.” He toes the door to his room closed in Sam’s face.
“He’ll never marry you if you put out on the first date,” Sam calls through the door.
“I hate you.”
***
Castiel can’t cook.
He never had to before.
He invited Dean for dinner, so something must be done, but he can’t afford to have staff members in the house who could discover his… oddities.
He had expressed to Charles a desire to order in, but Charles was adamant that Castiel could cook, should cook, and would cook. Charles pressured the electrician into wiring the kitchen ahead of schedule, although they had to shut off the electricity to the rest of the main floor to handle the load.
Castiel felt a strange fondness at Charles’ assertions. In fact, Charles had stayed and helped him with the roast, potatoes and salad. Charles placed the bread on a serving platter and left Castiel with strict instructions to leave the roast in the pan to rest until it was ready to serve.
It was also thanks to Charles that they would be dining in the kitchen. He said the dining room was too big for two people and it would look weird.
Charles then carefully suggested that now would be a good time for Castiel to feed, before Dean arrived.
To which Castiel agreed. Castiel knows that Charles is somewhat disappointed when he heads down to the cellar and retrieves a blood bank bag. It was with a heavy heart that Charles left Castiel, even though he himself had plans to go out to a movie with Rebecca Collins.
At a quarter to eight, Castiel is nervous. Dean is coming to dinner. Dean with his green eyes and warm smile. Dean who lights up Castiel’s memory and fills him with longing.
Dean, who he is terrified he will end up hurting. Again.
He tries desperately not to think of Dean as he was, not to think of those last moments, hundreds of years ago. Blood pooling in Dean’s mouth, pale skin stretched over muscle and bone. Lines of pain etched into his face. Eyes glassy and bright and then… nothing.
He cannot think of that. This is his redemption. This is his chance to re-write the past and escape from its claws.
He learned well from his mistakes and does not intend to make them again.
***
Dean’s not nervous.
He told Sam twelve times that he wasn’t nervous.
Because he’s not.
Even as he says it to himself, he catches his hand shaking a little bit as he rings the doorbell. He wipes it off on his pants.
He doesn’t want to have sweaty hands. That would be bad. And embarrassing.
And anyway, there’s no reason for his hands to be sweaty because he is not nervous.
His nose twitches slightly and he can smell rain on the air. There’s a low rumble of thunder off in the distance. The weather called for a storm tonight, although, that’s hardly news at this time of year.
Castiel opens the door and Dean can feel his face automatically respond with a smile. Castiel is casually dressed in a dark blue button down shirt and slacks and Dean is stupidly glad that he’s similarly dressed in pants and a sweater.
“Hey, I hope I’m not late,” he says, but he knows he’s not. He even had to wait for ten minutes down at the end of the ridiculously long driveway that leads up to the old house. Longest ten minutes of his life.
“No, of course not. Please come in.”
There are no lights on in the hallway, but there are candles interspersed along the way, leading a pathway down with puddles of light that barely touch one another.
“I’m afraid we had to cut power to the rest of the main floor so that we could get the kitchen operational,” Castiel says by way of explanation. His voice surfs lightly on the dark, carrying easily across the space.
He’s relieved when Castiel brings him to the kitchen and he sees a small table set up for dinner. He had worried they would be eating in the dining room. He imagined them sitting ridiculously at opposite ends of a table that would take up the space of the room foolishly trying to make conversation across the expanse.
But instead, there is a small square table in the kitchen with worn chairs. It looks warm and… intimate.
He mentally wills away the flush that he can feel creep up his neck at the word.
Thankfully, Castiel has his back to him and is saying something about breakers and circuits. He only catches the last part which ends in Castiel offering him a drink and a seat while he serves dinner.
“Whatever you have is fine,” Dean says with a weird hand wave that he then tries to save by stuffing his hand back in his pocket. “Uh, you want some help?”
“I could not possibly allow you to assist. You are my guest.” He gestures for Dean to have a seat at one of the worn chairs at the table. Castiel grabs two beers from the fridge and sets them on the table.
Dean sits stiffly, not quite ready to relax while Castiel is still standing and at the counter. His back is to Dean as he cuts the roast, but he turns his head slightly, looking over his shoulder as he asks Dean about the pub.
“Do you work every day, or do you take days off?”
“Uh, pretty much every day. Even on my days off I tend to end up there, dropping something off or picking something up. Or something breaks. Or floods,” he says remembering last year when he tried to take a week off and ended up back at the pub, two hours later knee deep in sewage.
Ah, the glamorous life.
He cracks both beers open and takes a swig of one.
“You must be a renaissance man,” replies Castiel easily as he sets a plate down in front of Dean.
Dean smirks. “More like a jack of all trades and master of none.”
Castiel takes his seat opposite Dean and carefully places his napkin before proceeding. Dean watches him surreptitiously and copies his movements. He’s suddenly worried about his manners. Castiel’s so precise with his movements and Dean feels gangly and awkward. Castiel doesn’t appear to notice.
“I thought you said you weren’t much of a cook.”
Castiel gives him an almost shy smile. “I had some assistance. I must admit, it’s been an exceptionally long time since I’ve prepared food. Charles was a great help.”
“Chuck works for you now, I take it?”
“After a fashion. He manages a lot of odd ends for me.”
“I get the impression that writing doesn’t pay a lot of the bills. Must be a relief for him to have something else.”
“I believe he is starting to become more accustomed to my oddities. He’s been invaluable in the restoration of the house and in helping me acclimate to Collinsport.”
Dean asks him questions about the work on the house, about himself. Castiel talks about the house much more easily than about himself. When he does talk about himself or his past, he gets a faraway look in his eyes, as though he’s watching from a distance. Castiel’s blue eyes lose their intense focus for moments at a time, and his voice will take on an absentminded tone. Then, as though shaking himself loose from a cobweb memory, Castiel’s eyes will flick back to a point of convergence, looking at Dean like he’s the only thing in the world.
It’s pretty fucking hot, if Dean’s honest with himself. Every time it happens, Dean smiles automatically.
There is pie for dessert, though Castiel confesses he purchased it from Rufus’ bakery. Everyone in town knows Rufus has the best pie in the world. Rufus himself is a grizzly old guy that looks like he should be some kind of assassin, but when you stand next to him at the grocery store or the bank, he always smells faintly of vanilla and nutmeg.
Tonight’s pie is one of Rufus’ glorious creations. Lemon meringue. The meringue is piled so high, so delicately it seems like a loud noise will cause the whole thing to topple over. The lemon filing is so sharply colored yellow it almost hurts to look at it. Dean’s mouth is already watering as he watches Castiel cut slices and fight them out of the tray. Castiel gets some lemon filling on his thumb and stares at it in slight consternation for a moment before sucking it off. Dean’s watching him so closely he can see his mouth pucker slightly at the sweet-sour lemony goodness.
He’s pretty sure he’ll be dreaming of Castiel and pie for days if not weeks.
As Dean eats, he knows he’s making inappropriate sounds. He’s not going overboard with it. Subtle seduction, thy name is Dean Winchester. It’s not completely gratuitous, but it is suggestive. He could stop. He could tone it down, but he doesn’t. First, the pie really is that good. Rufus does not know how to make a bad pastry and his lemon filling is the best on the planet. Second, while Dean has been pretending to focus intently on his pie, he’s actually been watching Castiel and Castiel has pretty much stopped eating his dessert and is sitting there, with this fork midway to his mouth, his stare intently focused on Dean.
Dean looks up at him.
Castiel puts his fork down.
Dean swallows and sets his own fork aside.
They are like racers at the line, poised, tense, waiting for the gun to go off and give permission to send their bodies into action.
As with the kiss, he would never be sure which one of them moved first. It might have been something as simple as a twitch or a blink by himself or a slight head tilt or lip-parting by Castiel. All Dean knows is now.
Now they are standing hip to hip, pelvises crushed up against each other, and he thinks he heard his own chair topple over to the ground but he’s not about to turn around to check.
Now he’s got his hands sunk into Castiel’s dark hair and it’s silky and smooth and if it were just a bit longer, it would be the perfect length for him to grab onto. As it is, it’s a fraction too short and Dean’s fingertips end up sliding through with each attempt to clutch.
Now they are so close to kissing, lips not actually touching yet, and he’s not sure what’s stopping them. He can feel Castiel’s strong grip on his waist, warm breath on his own lips and he’s got a strange sense of deja-vu. He feels slightly dizzy with it, coupled with the anticipation. He desperately wants to move forward and at the same time, he wants to stay in this moment for a heart beat longer so that it will be perfectly clear when he thinks about it later.
Now they’re kissing. Lips and tongues sliding over each other. Dean’s pulling Castiel’s head closer, pressing his fingers deep into the base of the other man’s skull. Castiel’s hands are likely leaving bruises on Dean’s hips that Dean will look at with a smile for days as they fade. Castiel tastes like pie. Lemony and sharp, with a bit of meringue and Dean will never have lemon pie again without thinking of him, he’s sure of it.
He’s getting hard from just their kiss and he’d be embarrassed about it if he was the only one. He can feel Castiel pressing against him, hot and insistent. A little grunt escapes his throat and Castiel snaps his hips against Dean’s.
There’s a quick clap of thunder and the lights go out leaving them in darkness.
Dean laughs against Castiel’s lips. “Did we do that?” he jokes quietly.
He feels Castiel’s mouth curl up in a smile. “I wish I could say yes, but I’m pretty sure the storm cut the tentative wiring we had on the main floor.”
It’s fantastically intimate being in the dark with Castiel. Dean can hear the rain coming down hard and rhythmically. They are both slightly out of breath, warm puffs of air ghosting over each other’s skin, Castiel’s thumbs tracing small circles on Dean’s hip bones.
“What about upstairs?” Dean asks and it’s a shame his knowingly raised eyebrow and somewhat lascivious look is not visible in the dark.
“Upstairs might still have electricity.”
“We should go check.”
“Indeed we would be remiss if we did not.”
Dean laughs again. “Indeed.” he repeats.
Castiel intertwines his fingers with Dean’s and leads the way back to the hall in which the candles are still burning low. Dean blows them out as he passes, tendrils of smoke curling lazily upward. He feels pleasantly relaxed, a thin thread of anticipation running through his veins like a low level current. He follows closely, his other hand coming up to rest lightly on Castiel’s hip. Castiel pauses for a moment at the foot of the stairs and Dean is filled with the impulse to lean forward and place his lips at the top of his spine, where the bony vertebrae juts out slightly, so he does. Castiel turns his head, chin tucked to shoulder and Dean noses at his ear. Castiel smells warm and strangely familiar and Dean breathes in deep, blowing the breath out against Castiel’s neck.
The stairs are dark, no candles lit along their ascent, and none upstairs either. Castiel’s steps are sure and knowing, never once slow or hesitant. He must know the house well. At the top of the stairs Dean hears him flick a light switch and nothing happens.
He’s deliriously glad and if it wasn’t so utterly ridiculous for him to do so, he’s pretty sure he would giggle. “We should probably check your bedroom,” Dean says lowly, continuing the charade.
Castiel opens the door to his room and the smell of fresh paint wafts over Dean’s nostrils. Castiel drops Dean’s hand and his hip moves out of Dean’s grasp and for a split second Dean panics. He’s in the dark and he can’t see anything. He hears a rough scrape and a match flares to life and he can see Castiel lighting a small candle holder on the dresser.
“I mentioned this house is very similar to how I grew up,” Castiel says lowly as he shakes out the match. “I’m afraid I’m still not very used to electricity and tend to keep candles about. I find their light soothing.”
He says it like he’s a little embarrassed by it, his eyes casting downward as he speaks.
Dean steps toward him and they end up tangled around each other, hands, legs, lips. Dean pulls Castiel’s shirt out of the waistband and intends to work on the buttons but gets distracted when Castiel slides his own hands under Dean’s sweater and shirt and with a fast tug and pull, Dean’s arms are up above his own head so Castiel can yank both garments off. One of Dean’s hands gets caught in the cuff and he’s cursing and struggling to shake it free as Castiel is undoing his pants and pressing him backwards on to the bed. Dean falls, his breath escaping him in a huff as he lands ungracefully on the soft mattress and pushes his pants, shoes and socks off with frantic feet.
Holy fuck, Castiel got him down to his boxers in pretty much thirty seconds flat.
Impressive.
Dean shimmies upward on the bed as Castiel crawls on top of him and it’s completely ridiculous that Castiel is still entirely clothed, except for his shoes and socks and Dean can’t really say what happened to those. He wants to tell Castiel to get undressed, in fact he wants to help, but his mouth is otherwise occupied with Castiel’s tongue and lips and when Castiel slides his hand past the waistband of Dean’s boxers and starts to fist him slowly, all Dean can do is jerk his hips and groan at the sensation.
Castiel’s tongue is hot and insistent in Dean’s mouth and his hand is firm and steady and it’s hands down the best fucking hand job of his life. Dean can only thrust upward into Castiel’s grasp as Castiel’s long fingers move up and down his cock, thumb pressing into the slit, squeezing out precome and smoothing it down the shaft.
Castiel is licking at Dean’s jaw and his neck, pressing the tip of his tongue into the pulse point of Dean’s throat and Dean’s vaguely aware that his own hands are clutching the dark fabric of Castiel’s shirt, distorting the fibers and destroying the shape. He’s about one minute away from coming, from just this, and he’s trying to convey it but he’s lost the ability to form sentences. It’s like Castiel somehow knows every single one of his hot spots and is working his way through them all.
“Cas,” he moans, the shortened nickname rolling off his lips like he’s been using it forever, “I can’t… ungh…” Castiel twists his hand perfectly and Dean bucks up harder. “I’m gonna… I can’t… please…”
He hasn’t needed to come this bad from only someone’s hand since he was sixteen years old in the back of Impala. Castiel’s rocking his hips against Dean’s his hand steady and sure on Dean’s cock, fingers trailing down to run over Dean’s balls, his own erection pressing hotly against Dean’s thigh. Castiel’s intense gaze is focused solely on Dean, the blue of his iris’ nearly blown out by the black of his pupils.
“Wait..” he manages. “I need…I’m gonna,” he pants.
Castiel licks the tip of his tongue from the base of Dean’s neck up the side and to Dean’s ear. “I know. I want you to,” Castiel breathes into Dean’s ear. “I want to feel you in my hand, watch you.” He laps Dean’s ear lobe delicately and then pulls back to see his face again. “Do it,” he says lowly, his voice gravelly and deep. His tongue darts out to lick at Dean’s lip. “Do it so I can watch you.”
Dean’s breath hitches and his entire body snaps in a second of almost painful tension and then he’s coming hard in Castiel’s hand. Castiel’s eyes are precision-focused on him and Castiel’s other hand is under Dean’s head, keeping it from arching backward, keeping Dean’s face level with his own. Castiel’s deft fingers milk Dean past the point where he thought he was totally spent until his cock gives another hard twitch and Dean’s hips give one last thrust.
Dean’s out of breath like he’s been running and his hands are still fisted painfully in Castiel’s shirt. Castiel pulls his hand out of Dean’s boxers and, keeping his eyes on Dean’s, slides two of his come-covered fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean.
Dean uses his grip to yank Castiel down sharply and kiss him hard, bruisingly hard. He can taste himself and a faint trace of lemon too. With a pulse of strength and renewed arousal, he flips them over, bracketing Castiel’s hips with his thighs. He rocks his pelvis against Castiel’s erection a couple of times just to take in the feel of it.
“This shirt has pretty much had it,” he says as he pulls sharply and sends buttons flying. Castiel laughs and Dean grins at the sound. His fingers card through Dean’s hair as Dean mouths his way down Castiel’s chest, pausing to suck first at one nipple and then the other. Dean hovers over Castiel’s waist, tongue dipping into the other man’s belly button as his fingers work at the clasp and zipper of his pants. He gets them open, wiggles the pants and Castiel’s boxers over sharp hipbones, eases them carefully over Castiel’s hard length. Castiel gives a sigh of relief when Dean slides the fabric off. Dean kneels between his legs and runs his hands up and over the bones of Castiel’s pelvis, fingertips brushing lightly over the skin stretched tight. Dean meets his eyes as he leans down and flicks his tongue over the tip and Castiel hisses in pleasure. Castiel’s got one hand in Dean’s hair, but it’s careful, gentle. The other hand is fisted tightly in the bedspread, pulling at it as Dean’s mouth closes over the sensitive head.
Castiel is making rumbling, fucked out noises as Dean works him over with his tongue groaning out Dean’s name when Dean licks a long stripe up the underside and uses his fingers to massage his balls gently. Castiel’s begging now, and Dean loves every syllable that’s falling from his lips and he sucks harder at Castiel’s cock, as hard as he can. Castiel comes with a hoarse, intelligible shout, sending a hot pulse into Dean’s mouth that he swallows greedily.
Dean licks his way off, eyes holding Castiel’s gaze as he does. Castiel grabs one of Dean’s hands and yanks him forward, pulling him off balance and he falls on top of his chest with a soft ‘thwack.’ They shift and roll, slide and tug until they get under the covers, puffs of laughter escaping them. Castiel finally gets his shirt the rest of the way off and Dean shucks his boxers. Dean’s never been much for cuddling, and in fact generally only puts up with it instead of actively enjoying it. But as Castiel stretches out on his back and pulls him in, he finds himself going willingly, twining his legs with Castiel’s unconsciously, resting their upper bodies together.
“Next time we’ll have to get all our clothes off first, Cas,” Dean mumbles against Castiel’s neck. Castiel’s lips are against the top of his head and he can feel him smile.
“I guess we’ll just have to keep trying until we get it right,” Castiel says playfully.
Dean wants to say something clever and witty but his full belly and fucked out body are dragging him down into sleep.
Next Chapter - 9 - I'd Break the Back of Love For You