.fic: A new country (Dean/Castiel) NC17
A new country (Dean/Castiel) NC17 | ~3150
Co-written as a bit of stumbled-upon porn/IM conversation between 22by7 and aesc because, well, what isn't hot about car sex? That's what I thought.
A new country
It could be that it's sweltering in here, or the fact he's been in a car for hours already and not driving and now it's messing with his head. Whatever it is, for a guy who doesn't go in for fate and destiny blah blah angel-talk, Dean stares vacantly across the car at Cas and thinks all of this - them, the car, an impromptu road trip - could be, well, meant to be. Kismet. Strangely, it isn't an entirely horrible thought to have.
Everything leads down to this one day, when he's slumped in the passenger seat of his car, bones liquefied by heat and no sleep, with weird, not-metal music playing - beamed in from some place Dean's pretty sure isn't broadcasting on the radio - on the Impala's stereo and an angel behind the wheel.
Part-angel, maybe; Dean's brain slides weirdly around the thought and he gives it up. Whatever Cas is playing, it sounds like something George Harrison would have listened to after he went seeking enlightenment, and that's about all the frame of reference Dean has for what the music is. It thrums and hums and pulses, in keys and with intonations Dean's American-bred ear can't quite place, let alone understand. Despite the not-understanding he tries to follow the music anyway, the eerie melody - Jesus Christ it better not be some crazy neo-hippie-goth-folk ‘experimental’ thing -- threaded through with the faint disbelief that, again, he's in the passenger seat and it’s Cas behind the wheel.
Castiel slouches in the driver's seat, one hand resting casually a few minutes from six-o'clock, other swaying out the open window, fingers idly combing through the breeze. It's dangerously close to that memory of Cas in another car, a battered truck, driving to the end of the world, but this Cas, his Cas… Castiel, thinks Dean, and watches as Cas gazes, fearless and steady, down the long ribbon of highway, mouth relaxed and shoulders even now just the tiniest bit straight and square. He doesn't falter as the Impala chews up and spits out the miles, hasn't faltered since they hit the end of Texas and spilled into New Mexico and the never-ending desert.
It’s the alertness of that gaze, the strange assurance as of something clear and sure, that has him hypnotized into that near-claustrophobic limbo between sleep and waking he's learned to hate. Only today he can't even be bothered to fight against it, and Cas's sturdy, jean-clad thigh is right there, the corner of his boot resting on the gas pedal. That and the deep drone playing as they roll up the highway, desert on both sides, is a reminder of how far he is from where he began. Still, it's not so bad, not with Cas so close. He lets himself go, SoCal and Sam and all the rest of it in the way-distant future, sagebrush and weird music, Cas's tuneless, foreign singing something to come back to eventually.
* * *
He wakes when the Impala slows and the tires crunch on gravel, sending a sharp jolt up through his boots. The noise he makes is supposed to be What's going on?, only it comes out in a sticky croak, abraded to nonsense by a dry throat.
"Gas for the car," Cas says, steering the Impala into the forecourt of a half-abandoned roadhouse, "and you need to eat."
What Dean needs to do is drink ten gallons of water or go skinny-dipping in the Arctic.
"Where are we? The left of the middle of nowhere?" They pretty much are; one glance tells Dean that, a tiny wooden shack of a place with two dangerous-looking gas pumps parked out front. They pull over, gravel pinging shrilly off the Impala's undercarriage, Castiel un-showy and totally confident at the wheel. Not, Dean realizes, that he would’ve entrusted him with the keys otherwise. The real epiphany, though, is that Dean feels all loose and hazy and happy. Which isn’t usually something you say after six hours in even the world’s most beautiful car on a New Mexico highway.
Cas cuts the engine but lets his freaky music play on through the last few bars, and, okay, Dean has to admit, it’s already growing on him, enough that he can tell it’s working itself towards a conclusion. In the meantime Dean stretches and rolls his shoulders, looks around. On the trail of the last notes’ fading out, Cas asks if he slept well and Dean grins. "Like a baby."
Castiel splits his lower lip in a sudden smile, unselfconscious and incredibly solid. Before he can stop himself Dean reaches to slide a thumb over Cas’s cheek. Just for a moment. Castiel blinks like he’s under water. Dean feels like he's underwater too, drunk with the endless thrum of the road and the hot day; with the Impala still under some dubious shade tucked in the side of the roadhouse, the heat only builds. Some of it settles in the sweat on Cas's forehead, the fine strands of his hair, a thin line of it tracking through the dust on his temple.
He's pretty dusty from driving with the window down, and a smidgen sunburned on his left arm. And very definitely windblown. It's a good look on him, especially in a soft, worn t-shirt and jeans - oddly better, because Cas still holds himself like he's about to be asked to stand to attention.
"So, uh." Dean rolls his neck, tries to pop a couple of vertebrae back into position. Cas lets Dean's hand stay where it's come to rest atop his own. "That the kind of stuff angels put on their roadtrip mixtapes?"
Cas stares at him for a full fifteen seconds before his eyes move in this little gleam of recognition, and he does this thing with his shoulders where he’s totally trying out a shrug. "Once I was in Lucknow. It was… I met a young man stands everyday outside the house of his favorite musician just to listen to him practicing early in the morning. The young man told me that he did not mind; that he felt honoured. Blessed."
"Music can do that, yeah," says Dean at last, and thinks of Cas driving through the night, an eternity from home, cocooned in music and dust.
"I can put the Led Zeppelin tape back in, but…" Dean’s about to tell Cas that it’s no big, in fact it’s totally fucking fine if listening to something he actually enjoys that Dean, gasp, doesn’t even know, makes it a little easier, except that’s too fucking patronizing, when Cas lifts his chin, eyes a little too bright. "I believe someone once decreed: driver picks the music."
Dean kisses him then, has to - aside from the tiny roadhouse they're in the middle of nowhere - and Cas tastes dusty and salty and coppery and maybe, just maybe they can make a bit of home in the borderland.
Cas expels a sound that could be relief, could be impatience, and lets Dean crowd him slowly against the open window. Dean braces an arm against the wheel, tilts Cas's face so he can lick up to his lips. The hot breeze whistles past their ears, carrying its own grace notes. Dean's expecting a hand on his shoulder or a hand on the back of his neck, but Cas strokes his fingers down the collar of Dean's t-shirt, insinuating them between the damp cotton and the sweat-slick skin of his chest. It makes Dean gasp right into Cas's waiting mouth and Cas swallows it down, gives back a greedy moan and some tongue, quick, teasing presses of his lips against Dean's that quickly melt back into Cas's usual seriousness.
It's probably too hot to be this close, with the sunlight and heat making him lightheaded. Or maybe it's only Cas, opening under him with a sigh, his breath and his fingers two sharp, clear things in a place in time where the ground ripples like the surface of a bird-skimmed pond, or an earthquake. Turbulence, or those moments back in the day when Castiel would zap him somewhere and the world went all weird.
Yet even their kisses are slow, viscous things, requiring effort to trade back and forth, pulling them down, the two of them sinking under the weight of the contact. Dean doesn't dare to break off, although he wants so much to pull his shirt up and off, have Cas's hands all over him. Cas adjusts, though, this time pushing his hands up under the hem of the shirt, long fingers dragging, slipping in the sweat, making Dean arch with wanting it, back still stiff, muscles trying to relax into Cas's hands.
Cas runs long lines up and down Dean's sides, his back, palms on his chest, the base of his spine, meaning to push Dean into him. The pleasure hurts, it's so good and so awkward, and he's leaning desperately into it, into Cas who's moaning low in his throat and insisting on going slow, his kisses paced to the slow burn of the day and the dull, heavy thump of Dean's pulse.
Eventually even Cas's breath runs out and they sit there for a moment, the Impala's engine ticking toward coolness and the stillness of the barren country around them. Cas's eyes are glossy with want and his mouth swollen, set in the quiet, pleased smile that still gets Dean in all sorts of ways.
Dean's grateful for the break because although he never wants this to end - god he doesn't - it’s probably a good time to catch up with his own breathing. For a long moment Cas watches him seriously, and just by looking he's able to take Dean apart, something going on in those hazy blue eyes Dean can't quite figure out, and he Knows Cas, capital-K and all. So he’s not prepared for when Castiel pushes the door open and gets out. For one wild moment Dean thinks, that's it, he's leaving, he's changed his mind, what did I do, what did we do - but Cas just takes two long strides down and yanks the door to the back seat open.
"Dean," Cas says, sliding in, loose-limbed and graceful and yeah, Dean can do that, totally - yeah, definitely, assuming he can get his body to cooperate, with Cas skinning out of his shirt. There are two Cas's, one in the back and one in the periphery of Dean's vision, the reflection in the Impala's rearview, a flicker and flash of tanned shoulder and neck, one dark and demanding blue eye. Between one drumbeat of want and lust and the next he's in the backseat, Cas's damp, slick torso twined around him, and they're kneeling awkwardly and Dean has no idea where to put his hands first, but who the hell cares, it's perfect.
So Dean lets Castiel arrange his body, which is pliant and trusting under his hands, just like it should be, if you think about it, if you remember that Castiel, Angel of the Lord, put Humpty Dumpty together again, but Dean's not that morbid. Not all the time. Right now, for example, he's okay with Cas grabbing him by the calves, easing him fully on the leather; more than okay with Cas climbing up his body on all fours in the - never cramped - confines of the car, bumping his head and apparently not giving a shit, and his eyes are already so wild, his mouth already so wet and red, leaning over him, that Dean spreads his knees so Cas can slip between them, raises his hips so Cas can unbuckle him one-handed and push his jeans down enough, just enough. Dean gasps with the sudden release of pressure, hips working, looking for some of that back.
It isn't much cooler with his jeans and boxers worked down a couple of inches, not with the suddenly humid air between them or with Cas licking a stripe up his palm - eyes on Dean the whole time, dark, foggy with their own heat - and then those long, wet fingers curve around his dick. There's some kind of beautiful hell in Dean's belly, heat and tension gathering, being pulled out of him when Cas starts to stroke him, and his breath, untethered, hot, words Dean can't understand. Some things transcend language, or at least language with words in it, because it’s impossible to miss the meaning of Cas making room to tuck himself down close and slide his lips sweet and soft over the head of Dean's cock.
Dean's hands scrabble for purchase: anything to keep him anchored, but nothing will do. He can feel everything - as if through that one juncture feeling is flowing both ways, so that through the shift and pull of Cas's sinews and bones he can already predict the rhythm Cas's mouth will move in, and through the muted bump of Cas's teeth hear some of the syllables housed deep in Cas's throat.
He wants to say something, to beg or to tell Cas how perfect this is, but his breathing locks up and all he can manage to say is what he can say with his body, offering up his hips, twisting his fingers helplessly in Cas's thick, fine hair, trying to wrestle his jeans down a bit more so Cas can - oh god yes, Cas's fingers slip inside to cup him, pressing carefully, knowingly, teasing his balls, rough-smooth in that intuitive way unique to him, and it's maybe echoes of heaven, the low, heartfelt moan in Cas's throat stroking his dick. And it's also, who even knows, some kind of crazy, too-visceral dream, his eyes stinging with sweat, looking down his body to see Cas's dark head bracketed between his knees, bare shoulders shining damp, mouth and tongue doing all sorts of wickedness.
The muscles in Dean's thighs clench in an inarticulate scream, a sustained note, when Cas swallows him almost to the root, getting the tip all the way to the back of his throat, and drives back off, and dips back down, almost fucking his own mouth on Dean's cock. There's something totally shameless about it, so much so that it uncurls back into unashamed, careless, totally dedicated to the giving of pleasure and, Jesus, to the taking, too, he hopes, if Cas's blunted moans are any indication. The next time Cas pulls off his tongue trails behind, flattened along the vein, and Dean knows he's ten seconds from coming on Cas's face, or, oh god, oh god, down his throat.
Cas stares up at him, tongue lingering under the head of Dean's cock, eyelashes flickering and mouth slick and stained red, and he breathes something that Dean can't catch, but it hooks him and hooks him hard, and he can't hold it back. Cas doesn't even bother to be graceful or clean about it, swallows what he can and lets the rest ooze back down Dean's dick and on his belly in strings of stickiness and heat. In the next moment he's crawling across Dean's stomach, lowering his mouth to Dean's, and sweet holy fuck, he tastes Cas and himself, mostly himself, Cas licking him and passing the two of them back and forth.
Dean draws back a little because he doesn’t want to a miss a second, he has to memorise this, and when Cas opens his mouth he's practically drooling come and saliva and holy god it must really have been a while. Even Cas's hand, reaching up to grip Dean's jaw to steady him, is wet, and Dean doesn't hesitate now to wrench that hand off his jaw, or to draw four fingers into his own mouth to suck dry, or to gather more up from his stomach and smear it on Cas's face, and Jesus why, Jesus this is wrong, this is so wrong, he's probably burning what's left of Cas's grace out as they lie in a heap, so fucking filthy, no better than animals, no better than, what did he call them... And then Dean notices how Castiel is staring at him, and a different terror thrills back into his heart. Cas pulls him into a vicious kiss and spits inside his mouth, and all Dean can do is meet his tongue with his own; block a sob, dodge a laugh.
He gets it, he gets it. They're in this together.
At last Cas breathes the kiss to a close, ending it with a nip and slow, meaningful lick across Dean's lower lip, and settles back on his heels. One way or another he makes being bent almost double under the Impala's low roof look beautiful and natural and dangerous, covered as he is with sweat and come and a few desperate, fading-red fingerprints where Dean has managed to make an impression on angelic invulnerability. His hands rest on Dean's thighs, stroking in a pattern that, along with the afternoon and some seriously strenuous sex, sends Dean fumbling towards sleep.
* * *
Dean's barely conscious enough to register Cas outside and walking, wearing the stained, gorgeous skin he hadn’t asked to keep, can’t change out of and has decided to finally own. With a bottle of water and an old flannel from the trunk, Cas leans over him. Dean doesn't know how he learned it, can't think all the way back to learning that the slight part of Castiel's lips, the dark sweep of his eyelashes, these are signs of naked affection. But he did, and Dean can only spare a moan when Cas pours some water into the cup of his palm and laves his face, his mouth, offers him a drink. Then Cas cleans him up efficiently, dabbing at the joint of his thighs, the flat of his belly, his chest, his face, and then surely himself, but by then Dean has curled up on the seat and is on his way to a dream where he wanders through an ancient city, busy with its own history. At noon when the faithful are called to prayer, the idea of the apocalypse impresses him only with its impossibility. If only, thinks Dean, and there’s a brush of a familiar hand against his.
The second time he wakes up his neck is sore and his spine doesn't want to snap back to straightness. Cas is still there, back in his dusty t-shirt and faded jeans, asking if Dean wants to eat. Which he does, Dean realizes. He has an actual appetite.
"I could eat," he says, and creaks and moans and crawls his way out of the backseat. The sun hits him like a two-by-four between the eyes and his muscles ache, and he still needs to drink a gallon of water, but he's good. All good, with Cas's shoulder bumping his and their shuffling footsteps kicking up the dust all the way to the roadhouse's door.
-end-
Co-written as a bit of stumbled-upon porn/IM conversation between 22by7 and aesc because, well, what isn't hot about car sex? That's what I thought.
A new country
It could be that it's sweltering in here, or the fact he's been in a car for hours already and not driving and now it's messing with his head. Whatever it is, for a guy who doesn't go in for fate and destiny blah blah angel-talk, Dean stares vacantly across the car at Cas and thinks all of this - them, the car, an impromptu road trip - could be, well, meant to be. Kismet. Strangely, it isn't an entirely horrible thought to have.
Everything leads down to this one day, when he's slumped in the passenger seat of his car, bones liquefied by heat and no sleep, with weird, not-metal music playing - beamed in from some place Dean's pretty sure isn't broadcasting on the radio - on the Impala's stereo and an angel behind the wheel.
Part-angel, maybe; Dean's brain slides weirdly around the thought and he gives it up. Whatever Cas is playing, it sounds like something George Harrison would have listened to after he went seeking enlightenment, and that's about all the frame of reference Dean has for what the music is. It thrums and hums and pulses, in keys and with intonations Dean's American-bred ear can't quite place, let alone understand. Despite the not-understanding he tries to follow the music anyway, the eerie melody - Jesus Christ it better not be some crazy neo-hippie-goth-folk ‘experimental’ thing -- threaded through with the faint disbelief that, again, he's in the passenger seat and it’s Cas behind the wheel.
Castiel slouches in the driver's seat, one hand resting casually a few minutes from six-o'clock, other swaying out the open window, fingers idly combing through the breeze. It's dangerously close to that memory of Cas in another car, a battered truck, driving to the end of the world, but this Cas, his Cas… Castiel, thinks Dean, and watches as Cas gazes, fearless and steady, down the long ribbon of highway, mouth relaxed and shoulders even now just the tiniest bit straight and square. He doesn't falter as the Impala chews up and spits out the miles, hasn't faltered since they hit the end of Texas and spilled into New Mexico and the never-ending desert.
It’s the alertness of that gaze, the strange assurance as of something clear and sure, that has him hypnotized into that near-claustrophobic limbo between sleep and waking he's learned to hate. Only today he can't even be bothered to fight against it, and Cas's sturdy, jean-clad thigh is right there, the corner of his boot resting on the gas pedal. That and the deep drone playing as they roll up the highway, desert on both sides, is a reminder of how far he is from where he began. Still, it's not so bad, not with Cas so close. He lets himself go, SoCal and Sam and all the rest of it in the way-distant future, sagebrush and weird music, Cas's tuneless, foreign singing something to come back to eventually.
* * *
He wakes when the Impala slows and the tires crunch on gravel, sending a sharp jolt up through his boots. The noise he makes is supposed to be What's going on?, only it comes out in a sticky croak, abraded to nonsense by a dry throat.
"Gas for the car," Cas says, steering the Impala into the forecourt of a half-abandoned roadhouse, "and you need to eat."
What Dean needs to do is drink ten gallons of water or go skinny-dipping in the Arctic.
"Where are we? The left of the middle of nowhere?" They pretty much are; one glance tells Dean that, a tiny wooden shack of a place with two dangerous-looking gas pumps parked out front. They pull over, gravel pinging shrilly off the Impala's undercarriage, Castiel un-showy and totally confident at the wheel. Not, Dean realizes, that he would’ve entrusted him with the keys otherwise. The real epiphany, though, is that Dean feels all loose and hazy and happy. Which isn’t usually something you say after six hours in even the world’s most beautiful car on a New Mexico highway.
Cas cuts the engine but lets his freaky music play on through the last few bars, and, okay, Dean has to admit, it’s already growing on him, enough that he can tell it’s working itself towards a conclusion. In the meantime Dean stretches and rolls his shoulders, looks around. On the trail of the last notes’ fading out, Cas asks if he slept well and Dean grins. "Like a baby."
Castiel splits his lower lip in a sudden smile, unselfconscious and incredibly solid. Before he can stop himself Dean reaches to slide a thumb over Cas’s cheek. Just for a moment. Castiel blinks like he’s under water. Dean feels like he's underwater too, drunk with the endless thrum of the road and the hot day; with the Impala still under some dubious shade tucked in the side of the roadhouse, the heat only builds. Some of it settles in the sweat on Cas's forehead, the fine strands of his hair, a thin line of it tracking through the dust on his temple.
He's pretty dusty from driving with the window down, and a smidgen sunburned on his left arm. And very definitely windblown. It's a good look on him, especially in a soft, worn t-shirt and jeans - oddly better, because Cas still holds himself like he's about to be asked to stand to attention.
"So, uh." Dean rolls his neck, tries to pop a couple of vertebrae back into position. Cas lets Dean's hand stay where it's come to rest atop his own. "That the kind of stuff angels put on their roadtrip mixtapes?"
Cas stares at him for a full fifteen seconds before his eyes move in this little gleam of recognition, and he does this thing with his shoulders where he’s totally trying out a shrug. "Once I was in Lucknow. It was… I met a young man stands everyday outside the house of his favorite musician just to listen to him practicing early in the morning. The young man told me that he did not mind; that he felt honoured. Blessed."
"Music can do that, yeah," says Dean at last, and thinks of Cas driving through the night, an eternity from home, cocooned in music and dust.
"I can put the Led Zeppelin tape back in, but…" Dean’s about to tell Cas that it’s no big, in fact it’s totally fucking fine if listening to something he actually enjoys that Dean, gasp, doesn’t even know, makes it a little easier, except that’s too fucking patronizing, when Cas lifts his chin, eyes a little too bright. "I believe someone once decreed: driver picks the music."
Dean kisses him then, has to - aside from the tiny roadhouse they're in the middle of nowhere - and Cas tastes dusty and salty and coppery and maybe, just maybe they can make a bit of home in the borderland.
Cas expels a sound that could be relief, could be impatience, and lets Dean crowd him slowly against the open window. Dean braces an arm against the wheel, tilts Cas's face so he can lick up to his lips. The hot breeze whistles past their ears, carrying its own grace notes. Dean's expecting a hand on his shoulder or a hand on the back of his neck, but Cas strokes his fingers down the collar of Dean's t-shirt, insinuating them between the damp cotton and the sweat-slick skin of his chest. It makes Dean gasp right into Cas's waiting mouth and Cas swallows it down, gives back a greedy moan and some tongue, quick, teasing presses of his lips against Dean's that quickly melt back into Cas's usual seriousness.
It's probably too hot to be this close, with the sunlight and heat making him lightheaded. Or maybe it's only Cas, opening under him with a sigh, his breath and his fingers two sharp, clear things in a place in time where the ground ripples like the surface of a bird-skimmed pond, or an earthquake. Turbulence, or those moments back in the day when Castiel would zap him somewhere and the world went all weird.
Yet even their kisses are slow, viscous things, requiring effort to trade back and forth, pulling them down, the two of them sinking under the weight of the contact. Dean doesn't dare to break off, although he wants so much to pull his shirt up and off, have Cas's hands all over him. Cas adjusts, though, this time pushing his hands up under the hem of the shirt, long fingers dragging, slipping in the sweat, making Dean arch with wanting it, back still stiff, muscles trying to relax into Cas's hands.
Cas runs long lines up and down Dean's sides, his back, palms on his chest, the base of his spine, meaning to push Dean into him. The pleasure hurts, it's so good and so awkward, and he's leaning desperately into it, into Cas who's moaning low in his throat and insisting on going slow, his kisses paced to the slow burn of the day and the dull, heavy thump of Dean's pulse.
Eventually even Cas's breath runs out and they sit there for a moment, the Impala's engine ticking toward coolness and the stillness of the barren country around them. Cas's eyes are glossy with want and his mouth swollen, set in the quiet, pleased smile that still gets Dean in all sorts of ways.
Dean's grateful for the break because although he never wants this to end - god he doesn't - it’s probably a good time to catch up with his own breathing. For a long moment Cas watches him seriously, and just by looking he's able to take Dean apart, something going on in those hazy blue eyes Dean can't quite figure out, and he Knows Cas, capital-K and all. So he’s not prepared for when Castiel pushes the door open and gets out. For one wild moment Dean thinks, that's it, he's leaving, he's changed his mind, what did I do, what did we do - but Cas just takes two long strides down and yanks the door to the back seat open.
"Dean," Cas says, sliding in, loose-limbed and graceful and yeah, Dean can do that, totally - yeah, definitely, assuming he can get his body to cooperate, with Cas skinning out of his shirt. There are two Cas's, one in the back and one in the periphery of Dean's vision, the reflection in the Impala's rearview, a flicker and flash of tanned shoulder and neck, one dark and demanding blue eye. Between one drumbeat of want and lust and the next he's in the backseat, Cas's damp, slick torso twined around him, and they're kneeling awkwardly and Dean has no idea where to put his hands first, but who the hell cares, it's perfect.
So Dean lets Castiel arrange his body, which is pliant and trusting under his hands, just like it should be, if you think about it, if you remember that Castiel, Angel of the Lord, put Humpty Dumpty together again, but Dean's not that morbid. Not all the time. Right now, for example, he's okay with Cas grabbing him by the calves, easing him fully on the leather; more than okay with Cas climbing up his body on all fours in the - never cramped - confines of the car, bumping his head and apparently not giving a shit, and his eyes are already so wild, his mouth already so wet and red, leaning over him, that Dean spreads his knees so Cas can slip between them, raises his hips so Cas can unbuckle him one-handed and push his jeans down enough, just enough. Dean gasps with the sudden release of pressure, hips working, looking for some of that back.
It isn't much cooler with his jeans and boxers worked down a couple of inches, not with the suddenly humid air between them or with Cas licking a stripe up his palm - eyes on Dean the whole time, dark, foggy with their own heat - and then those long, wet fingers curve around his dick. There's some kind of beautiful hell in Dean's belly, heat and tension gathering, being pulled out of him when Cas starts to stroke him, and his breath, untethered, hot, words Dean can't understand. Some things transcend language, or at least language with words in it, because it’s impossible to miss the meaning of Cas making room to tuck himself down close and slide his lips sweet and soft over the head of Dean's cock.
Dean's hands scrabble for purchase: anything to keep him anchored, but nothing will do. He can feel everything - as if through that one juncture feeling is flowing both ways, so that through the shift and pull of Cas's sinews and bones he can already predict the rhythm Cas's mouth will move in, and through the muted bump of Cas's teeth hear some of the syllables housed deep in Cas's throat.
He wants to say something, to beg or to tell Cas how perfect this is, but his breathing locks up and all he can manage to say is what he can say with his body, offering up his hips, twisting his fingers helplessly in Cas's thick, fine hair, trying to wrestle his jeans down a bit more so Cas can - oh god yes, Cas's fingers slip inside to cup him, pressing carefully, knowingly, teasing his balls, rough-smooth in that intuitive way unique to him, and it's maybe echoes of heaven, the low, heartfelt moan in Cas's throat stroking his dick. And it's also, who even knows, some kind of crazy, too-visceral dream, his eyes stinging with sweat, looking down his body to see Cas's dark head bracketed between his knees, bare shoulders shining damp, mouth and tongue doing all sorts of wickedness.
The muscles in Dean's thighs clench in an inarticulate scream, a sustained note, when Cas swallows him almost to the root, getting the tip all the way to the back of his throat, and drives back off, and dips back down, almost fucking his own mouth on Dean's cock. There's something totally shameless about it, so much so that it uncurls back into unashamed, careless, totally dedicated to the giving of pleasure and, Jesus, to the taking, too, he hopes, if Cas's blunted moans are any indication. The next time Cas pulls off his tongue trails behind, flattened along the vein, and Dean knows he's ten seconds from coming on Cas's face, or, oh god, oh god, down his throat.
Cas stares up at him, tongue lingering under the head of Dean's cock, eyelashes flickering and mouth slick and stained red, and he breathes something that Dean can't catch, but it hooks him and hooks him hard, and he can't hold it back. Cas doesn't even bother to be graceful or clean about it, swallows what he can and lets the rest ooze back down Dean's dick and on his belly in strings of stickiness and heat. In the next moment he's crawling across Dean's stomach, lowering his mouth to Dean's, and sweet holy fuck, he tastes Cas and himself, mostly himself, Cas licking him and passing the two of them back and forth.
Dean draws back a little because he doesn’t want to a miss a second, he has to memorise this, and when Cas opens his mouth he's practically drooling come and saliva and holy god it must really have been a while. Even Cas's hand, reaching up to grip Dean's jaw to steady him, is wet, and Dean doesn't hesitate now to wrench that hand off his jaw, or to draw four fingers into his own mouth to suck dry, or to gather more up from his stomach and smear it on Cas's face, and Jesus why, Jesus this is wrong, this is so wrong, he's probably burning what's left of Cas's grace out as they lie in a heap, so fucking filthy, no better than animals, no better than, what did he call them... And then Dean notices how Castiel is staring at him, and a different terror thrills back into his heart. Cas pulls him into a vicious kiss and spits inside his mouth, and all Dean can do is meet his tongue with his own; block a sob, dodge a laugh.
He gets it, he gets it. They're in this together.
At last Cas breathes the kiss to a close, ending it with a nip and slow, meaningful lick across Dean's lower lip, and settles back on his heels. One way or another he makes being bent almost double under the Impala's low roof look beautiful and natural and dangerous, covered as he is with sweat and come and a few desperate, fading-red fingerprints where Dean has managed to make an impression on angelic invulnerability. His hands rest on Dean's thighs, stroking in a pattern that, along with the afternoon and some seriously strenuous sex, sends Dean fumbling towards sleep.
* * *
Dean's barely conscious enough to register Cas outside and walking, wearing the stained, gorgeous skin he hadn’t asked to keep, can’t change out of and has decided to finally own. With a bottle of water and an old flannel from the trunk, Cas leans over him. Dean doesn't know how he learned it, can't think all the way back to learning that the slight part of Castiel's lips, the dark sweep of his eyelashes, these are signs of naked affection. But he did, and Dean can only spare a moan when Cas pours some water into the cup of his palm and laves his face, his mouth, offers him a drink. Then Cas cleans him up efficiently, dabbing at the joint of his thighs, the flat of his belly, his chest, his face, and then surely himself, but by then Dean has curled up on the seat and is on his way to a dream where he wanders through an ancient city, busy with its own history. At noon when the faithful are called to prayer, the idea of the apocalypse impresses him only with its impossibility. If only, thinks Dean, and there’s a brush of a familiar hand against his.
The second time he wakes up his neck is sore and his spine doesn't want to snap back to straightness. Cas is still there, back in his dusty t-shirt and faded jeans, asking if Dean wants to eat. Which he does, Dean realizes. He has an actual appetite.
"I could eat," he says, and creaks and moans and crawls his way out of the backseat. The sun hits him like a two-by-four between the eyes and his muscles ache, and he still needs to drink a gallon of water, but he's good. All good, with Cas's shoulder bumping his and their shuffling footsteps kicking up the dust all the way to the roadhouse's door.
-end-