Dean/Castiel Fic: Voluntary Offerings
Title: Voluntary Offerings
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dean travels west with Castiel to prevent the breaking of another seal. He meets some of Castiel's "brothers," and has a run-in with his own brother, who is traveling with Ruby.
Notes: This is a continuation of Bad Things With You, but it can be read as a stand alone, too.
They cross the border into New Mexico around three o'clock in the afternoon, and the last, too-long stint in the midwest feels like a bad dream already. Dean has a piece of strawberry licorice hanging from his mouth, and it's flapping against the highway wind, almost hitting his cheek. They stopped at an ancient candy shop in Dodge City, and Dean filled a plastic bag with seventeen dollars worth of multicolored candy weight. Castiel is in the passenger seat beside him, rummaging through the bag like he doesn't know where to begin.
"You have to try them all," Dean shouts over the music. He got fifteen seconds into "Love is a Battlefield" before he realized it wasn't the Heart song he thought it was, and now it's too late. He's in a startlingly good mood, drumming on the car door with his elbow poked out the window, and he thinks it's something to do with the fact that he never gets an excuse to head out west. Also, he likes introducing Castiel to things, like they're in some goofy-ass fish out of water comedy and not just on the precipice of another goddamn apocalypse. He's thinking that if things go right in Las Cruces, Castiel's next lesson will be Vegas.
"Most of these don't taste good," Castiel says. He's got half a circus peanut pinched between his fingers.
"What! Maybe your vessel's got some kind of deformed tongue." A joke at his own expense that there's no point in actually making sits in the back of Dean's throat: you'd know, pervert. His experiences with the tongue in question have been pretty fucking satisfactory so far.
"Try this," he says, fishing through the bag until he comes up with a chocolate covered peanut. Castiel eats it and shrugs.
"It tastes like dust," he says.
"You're crazy," Dean says, though he kind of knows what he means. He reaches into the bag and eats a random handful -- mostly jelly beans and gummi bears, plus a stray M&M -- and slaps Castiel's leg. Castiel stares at him like he's a little offended.
"It's fucking hot down here," Dean says.
"Down where?" Castiel asks. His eyes flick to Dean's lap, and Dean laughs so hard he almost drives off the road.
"I mean here in the, like, southwest, you deviant. New Mexico. The temperature, you know, of the state. It's hot." Castiel just stares at him, either confused or annoyed. It's hard to tell. Maybe both.
"You're sweating," Dean says. "Might want to take off that coat."
Castiel looks down at himself like he forgot he was there. His hair is damp at his temples and along his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed, lips fat and pink from the heat. Dean watches out of the corner of his eye as he slides the coat off and undoes a couple of buttons on his shirt.
"You think we'll be in Las Cruces by dinnertime?" Dean asks.
"We should be."
"Great." Dean grins at him wickedly. "Tacos."
Castiel actually smiles back, which is something that he's learning to do.
"Maybe some tequila, too," Dean says. He figures that if they're gonna jerk each other off in hotel rooms, there's no real danger in adding a drunken angel experiment to his agenda.
When they're in the car, surrounded by the friendly banality of road signs and listening to the radio too loud, it's easy for Dean to forget pretty much everything, the whole bewildering burden of his life. Driving so long has lifted his spirits, and he stays hungry no matter how much candy he eats, burning up the best kind of energy. He doesn't want to think about what will happen when they arrive or why they're even headed in this direction. Castiel won't tell him until he's ready, anyway. It doesn't bother Dean so much anymore, just reminds him of the days when he hunted with his father. Shoot first, find out why later. He could only hunt this way with someone he trusts, and it still makes him queasy, but he's finally come to trust the angel.
"These are good," Castiel says, and Dean turns to see him picking through the jelly beans and eating only the black licorice ones.
"They're all yours," he says.
The sun is going down fast by the time they reach the Las Cruces city limits. The town is flat and paved with squat buildings, the sky netted by power lines. Mountains jut up behind it like a fortress on the horizon.
"What are those called?" Dean asks, pointing.
"The Organ Mountains," Castiel says.
“Sweet. Is that some kinda -- Donner party reference?" It was one of the few history lessons Dean paid attention to, though he still has no clue where the Donner party incident actually took place, just remembers the gore.
Castiel frowns at him, and Dean isn't sure if he knows what he's talking about. Probably not.
"They look like a church organ," Castiel says, nodding to them. "Don't you think?"
"Oh." Dean looks again, notices the almost tubular peaks and the weird, rising symmetry. "Sure."
They find a motel with a pink vacancy sign that glows warm against the darkening sky. Dean gives Castiel a key and walks across the street to a liquor store, buys a bottle of tequila. Probably a bad idea, but still safer than what he really wants to do. The shower is running when he gets back, and he strips down to his undershirt and boxer shorts, does a few shots while he waits his turn. His heel starts jiggling against the stubby motel carpet, and he realizes he's sitting here waiting for Castiel to walk out naked and push him back onto the bed and oh God, how the hell did things get like this? He does another shot.
Thirty minutes later, he's pounding on the bathroom door.
"Did you fall asleep in there?" he shouts. He pushes the door open when he gets no response, and his heart does that thing that feels like every way this could possibly go bad happening all at once, running through his mind on fast forward.
"Dude," he says when he's standing outside the shower curtain and wondering if he should get his gun, steam billowing around him. "Are you okay?"
No answer. Dean licks his lips and asks somebody somewhere -- not God, not necessarily -- to not let this crumble around him, too. He throws the shower curtain back and braces himself, but there's nothing there. No wilted angel, fallen because of him. Nothing.
Dean turns off the water and storms back into the motel room, his heartbeat angry and hard in the hollow of his throat.
"Hey," he says sharply, and he can't batter down the inclination to shout his brother's name through the room. Old habits and all.
He opens the motel room door and looks around outside. The parking lot is quiet, nothing but the occasional car passing by on the street. The organ-shaped mountains watch him reproachfully, still reflecting the last of the pinkish sunset while the rest of the town dims out. He thinks about screaming Castiel's name, but he knows it won't do any good. He's either left, like he used to do all the time, gone in a blink, or someone took him. Dean locks the motel room door and sits on the bed, holds his gun in his hands. He glances at the tequila bottle, but he doesn't want another drink. His stomach is pitching all over the place. That candy was such a bad fucking idea.
"Hey," he says again, barely audible now. If this keeps happening to him.
He puts the gun away.
An hour later, he's getting ready to either go find some real food or break all of the furniture in the room when the door unlocks with a hard click. Dean watches the deadbolt snap open and he springs off the bed, weaponless and wide-eyed. Castiel walks in and barely looks at him before he turns to lock the door again. His hair is wet and he's wearing the trench coat.
"What the fuck!" Dean shouts, and he tells himself to dial it down. Somebody might call the cops. Castiel looks at him with grave sympathy.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I was called away."
"By who?" Dean spits, but he doesn't expect an answer. Castiel takes the coat off like a concession and folds it carefully over the back of a chair with ripped upholstery.
"I didn't mean to upset you," Castiel says, and that's a sucker punch that rips through Dean so quick he almost buckles. "But you were --"
"I don't give a fuck what you do," Dean says, raising his shoulders as if he can't believe the nerve. "Just, I'm -- fucking hungry -- and -- starving to death in here and --"
He makes himself stop talking. Castiel looks pathetic with his hair wet and messy, his tie crooked as usual. He still hasn't figured out how to knot it properly. Dean isn't sure why he wears it. Maybe it's some sort of comfort for his vessel, a familiar artifact.
"I'm gonna go eat," Dean says, hurrying past him to the door. "Do whatever you want."
He's too pissed off and fucked up to go near his car, so he walks down the road with his hands in his pockets until he comes across a crowded cantina with lights strung on its patio. He looks back to see Castiel trailing him. He's put the coat back on.
"You coming in or are you just stalking me?" he shouts. Castiel takes his time walking to the restaurant's front steps, and he looks up at Dean, the bags under his eyes heavier than usual. He always seems so tired.
"I'm coming with you," he says, so gentle that Dean feels insulted.
They sit at the bar. Dean eats a basket of tortilla chips in under three minutes and asks for another. He tells Castiel he should order everything extra spicy.
"To get the full experience," he says. He's drinking beer, already feels like he's riddled with bullet holes and doesn't need to continue with tequila tonight. He orders a big, girly fishbowl of a margarita for Castiel, who regards it skeptically.
"You're not going to tell me why we're here?" Dean asks, loud over the frantic music playing on the cantina's loudspeakers. Castiel takes a sip of his drink and makes a face, then licks some of the salt from the rim of the glass. He seems pleasantly surprised by the familiar flavor, and Dean watches him lick the glass again, and again. His hand shakes when he reaches for his beer.
"I guess I'll take that as a no," he grumbles. Their food arrives on steaming plates covered with cheese. Castiel's shoulders sag at the sight of it.
"This is a dangerous place," he says. Dean looks around the cantina, but most of the people here look like cheerful locals or cheesy tourists.
"What, you think the food's that bad?" he asks.
"Las Cruces," Castiel says. "It has a unique history."
"Yeah, well. What doesn't? You going to fill me in?"
Castiel gives him a curious look. Dean hates the feeling of someone trying to figure him out, though Castiel has a pretty good excuse.
"Later," is all he says. He picks up a fork and pokes through his food cautiously.
"Sure, later, fine, why the fuck not?" Dean is speaking mostly to his plate. "Not like I'm in a hurry."
He's still getting used to the idea that he doesn't have to live every minute of his life like he's working toward a deadline. Considering that angels have arrived and an apocalypse is on the way, it's not very easy to accept. Hell is a constant threat at the edges of his subconscious, like part of him is still there and if he turns his head the wrong way he'll see everything and become trapped again. He's afraid all the time that the things he's struggling not to remember will rush back in when Castiel leaves. Even if they somehow survive the coming war, it's not like he's going to haunt Dean's footsteps forever.
They walk back to the motel in the dark. Dean is anxious and sleepy and a little drunk. Castiel's eyes are darting around like he's expecting an ambush. Arriving at their damp first floor motel room is a profound relief, and Dean can't shake the feeling that they were chased. Castiel watches him bolt the door, then falls to a seat on his bed as if he's deep in thought.
"I'm gonna clean up," Dean says. Castiel gives him a searching look that makes him want to ask what the hell he wants, but instead he just goes into the bathroom and shuts the door hard behind him.
Dean laughs at himself before climbing into the shower, because he actually pauses for a moment, thinking he might get sucked up into oblivion the way Castiel did when he was in here. But that's not right. He's not the one who leaves. He stands under the hot water and lets out his breath in a long sigh. The truth is, he wants company, even now. He's gotten weird about being alone. Or maybe he was always weird about it, even before the nursery fire, before everyone started dying.
His shower only lasts long enough for a quick shampoo and a cursory soap and rinse of everything that needs it. He tells himself it's out of habit -- the ability to shower as quickly as possible was a virtue in his father's eyes -- and not because he wants to make sure Castiel hasn't disappeared again. He dries off fast and doesn't bother to dress, just wraps the towel around his waist and throws the door open.
Castiel is still sitting in the same spot, still staring off into space like he's been hypnotized. Dean is going to offer some smartass remark, but why bother. He can't be riled. He's not Sam. Dean puts on clean boxers and crawls into his own bed, flips the light off and turns toward the wall.
"Dean," Castiel says quietly, and it hits Dean like a lullaby through the humid silence of the room.
"What?"
"Would you like to know why we're here?"
Dean leans up and looks over his shoulder at Castiel. The room is dark, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust.
"Dude, will you lose the fucking coat?" he says, rolling onto his back. Castiel takes it off, then the tie, then the shirt, pants, socks, shoes. He stands in his underwear for awhile before plucking Dean's dirty t-shirt off the floor and putting it on.
"You have a thing about clothes," Dean says as he walks to the bed. "I don't know if you've noticed."
"I need contact with familiar things," Castiel says, his soft voice a little tight. "It's hard for me to maintain this form here."
"Why?"
"Because my brothers have gathered here. They're like a force, pulling me always toward them."
Dean knows a little something about that. Castiel sits beside him on the bed, and Dean is flooded with stupid happiness. He needs contact, too.
"That's what happened earlier," Castiel says. "I broke out of this form before I left the motel room, and I was afraid I might have hurt you. It was good that you were away."
"But when I'm gone, that's when you go all supernova?"
"When they're near," Castiel says. "Or. When I'm not close to you."
Dean takes that in like a quake through his chest, and his hands twitch on the bedspread. He feels a little hollow and indistinct himself. It's like withdrawal, and it's not exactly a comfort to learn that Castiel is experiencing it, too. Except that it kind of is.
"So tell me about Las Cruces," Dean says, before they can do something stupid like grab hold of each other. Castiel climbs over Dean and sits on the mattress with his back propped against the wall. Dean wants to ask him what fatigue feels like when it's brand new.
"This town has a history of demonic residency," Castiel says. "Like much of the southwestern part of your country."
"That's news to me."
"In 1862, a hunter named Albert Jennings Fountain settled here with his wife. He had lived in New York and California, and came to the southwest when he enlisted in the Union Army. After marrying, he was determined to clear his wife's hometown of Mesilla of the demons that had overrun it in her childhood. They thrived on the anxiety that many people suffered in the lawless settlements near the border. Fountain was a lawyer, fluent in Spanish, and he was determined to bring order where there had previously been chaos. Many demons tried to kill him, but none succeeded until they became organized around a particular leader. One night, when Fountain was on his way home from a hunt with his eight-year-old son, they caught up with him near Las Cruces and killed him. It required the creation of a seal."
"Wait, wait." Dean shakes his head. "I thought these seals were -- God-type -- things. How could a demon create one?"
"A demon cannot. An angel, however, can."
"But --"
"There was a fallen angel among the posse that killed Fountain.”
Dean had just begun to sink comfortably into the blankets, like Castiel was telling him a bedtime story, but his heart rate starts climbing at the mention of a fall. He sits up and leans forward, folds his arms over his knees.
"This angel had possessed a U.S. Marshal named Oliver Lee," Castiel says. "He was obsessed with understanding how Fountain had managed to survive as long as he had. His theory was that it had something to do with Fountain's weapon of choice, which was a particular Winchester rifle he'd purchased in California." Castiel tilts his head. "Do you know anything about your family history?"
"Oh, sure. They're all dead except for me and Sam. What more do I need to know?"
He didn't mean to say it like that, or at all. Castiel flinches like he's going to reach for him, then settles back against the wall.
"So now what?" Dean asks when Castiel doesn't continue. "Lilith is trying to break this seal that the fallen angel created when Fountain died?"
"Yes," Castiel says. "But it's complicated by several factors. Fountain did not die alone. His son, Henry, was also killed by the posse that came for him. Their bodies, and Fountain's rifle, were never found."
"So?"
"This was the only seal created by a fallen angel. Precautions were taken afterward to ensure that it would never happen again. These precautions make it difficult for my brothers and I to protect this particular seal. We have determined its physical location, but we do not know if there are other components scattered elsewhere. The rifle, for example, or the bones of Fountain and his son."
"What is the seal, exactly?" Dean asks. "Like, a big stamp sitting out there in the desert? What does it look like?"
"It would not be visible to you or any other human."
"Of course. So where do I fit in, exactly?"
Castiel straightens his shoulders against the wall. Dean's eyes have fully adjusted now, and he thinks about how they must look, a couple of grown men sitting in their underwear, as close as they can get without touching.
"Your brother will be here soon," Castiel says. "I need you to accompany him and the demon he travels with to locate the physical artifacts that may have been involved in the creation of the seal. The bones of Albert and Henry Fountain, and the rifle."
"Terrific," Dean grunts. The wild excitement that ripped through him upon learning that Sammy is on his way dulls to resentment at the mention of Ruby. "How the hell am I supposed to find bodies that have been missing for over a hundred years?"
"I can help you with that," Castiel says.
"Then why can't you just do it yourself?"
"Because, Dean. We need you to reclaim these things from your brother. I can't touch them. This seal is incredibly dangerous to my brothers and I. Anything to do with the fallen always is."
"What do Sam and Ruby want with some dead hunter's bones?" Dean asks, though he's pretty sure he doesn't want to hear the answer.
Castiel cocks his head like he's trying to decide if Dean can handle the truth. Dean narrows his eyes, pretends that he can.
"Anything to do with a fallen angel's work is a very powerful tool for demons," he says. "Especially accursed artifacts."
"Sam's not a demon," Dean says, the words burning up his throat before he can stuff them down.
"I know that. Sam is something else entirely."
Dean sniffs irritably and lies back on his pillow, rolls over and smashes his eyes shut. Castiel gets the message and climbs off the bed. Dean listens to him brush his vessel's teeth before he gets under his own blankets. The room is freezing, which doesn't make any sense, and Castiel's news about Sam and the seal gnaw hard at Dean, keeping him awake. He's not sure he really understands what's going on here, but he's gotten used to feeling that way since Castiel pulled him out of hell.
When he finally sleeps, he returns as usual, burns and screams and tries to shut his eyes but can't. He fights through the nightmares, has gotten good at that, and finds himself in the motel room with Castiel, who is standing near the door and looking at him like they're both going to die and soon.
"I'm sorry," Castiel says. "They want me back."
"Wait!" Dean shouts when he reaches for the door, because he's dreaming and in here he's got no pride. "Don't go."
"I can't stay here with you, Dean. It's killing me."
It's killing me, I can't stay. Sam said that once.
"I'll die if you go," Dean tells him. In the dream, it's so clearly true.
"You're already dead," Castiel says, as if he regrets this very much, and the walls burst into flame.
Dean wakes up fast and hard, breathing in gulps like there is real fire here, sucking the air from the room. Castiel is standing near the bed, his mouth open, arms outstretched but frozen.
"You're alright," he says, flat like he doesn't believe it.
"You lie a lot, for an angel," Dean says. He puts his head in his hands and breathes deep, clean dry southwestern air, tempered by the motel room stink that is the same in every city, which he's come to appreciate.
"Dean," Castiel says, and Dean can hear the question in his name, because Castiel is learning to speak the language of names that he and Sam maybe invented. Do you want me to, should I, is it worth it? Because suddenly it's up to him.
Dean looks up and gives him his answer without saying anything. He wonders what happened to Castiel's vessel when he "broke" from this form earlier. Why wasn't he left behind in the shower, shivering and disoriented and asking Dean what happened? Dean would have been so goddamn happy to lift him up and get him warm and put his arm around the shoulders of someone uncomplicated for awhile. Only, who the fuck is he kidding. It's not like the guy is going to come away from this thing without serious damage. Nobody who gets near him does.
There's a thunderclap outside, which seems weird. The skies were clear when they walked back from the restaurant, like clouds are only a rumor in this part of the country. Castiel looks up at the ceiling, and Dean snorts.
"Don't tell me," he says. "That's God speaking to you."
Castiel makes a face that for a second is plainly human. Still, there is something about the way he turns his head that is worth noticing, different. Graceful isn't the right word.
"It's thunder," he says, as if Dean is an incredible idiot. Dean grins huge, like get over here, and Castiel somehow understands. He sits beside Dean and touches his forehead, just cautiously. Dean holds his breath, lets his bones liquefy when Castiel's fingers finally slide into his hair.
"You're alright," Castiel says again, and Dean feels the words shoot through him, rolling over his skin and finding their way down to his dick, like he said something really filthy, like you want to be fucked hard, don't you, like he would ever say that.
"Yeah," Dean exhales. He leans back onto the bed and pulls Castiel with him, on top of him, and God it's good to be crushed under the weight of someone else. Dean shuts his eyes and lets Castiel kiss his face like he'll break if he's not careful. Every time his lips touch Dean's skin it's like a tongue sliding slow over his balls, and he's pretty sure he'd die if they did anything more than touch, but it would be one motherfucker of a good death. His heart is hammering, and this is so dangerous he doesn't even know how to start thinking about everything that could go wrong, but at the moment it's just awesome, like a box of matches in a warehouse full of fireworks, like water that is just beginning to boil around him, and he's been so cold.
"Say something," Dean begs, his voice cracked apart. Castiel is licking his neck soft and hot and over and over, like he's trying to get to the candy center of his pulse.
"What do you want me to say?" Their laps drag together when he shifts, and Dean groans shamelessly, jerks his hips.
"Nothing," he huffs. "Something. I don't know."
He's always liked girls who say a lot of blasphemous shit they'll regret during sex. The dirtier the better. God, that big cock makes me so wet. That's a favorite, a classic. He wants to know what he does to Castiel, how he could possibly affect him at all.
Castiel leans up onto his elbows and smooths his hands down the sides of Dean's face. Dean could look at him like this for a long time, his whole body pulsing, Castiel heavy and warm and watching him like he's everything that is hanging in the balance.
"It was hard to be away from you," he says.
Dean kisses him, loud and wet and kind of frantic, his hands shaking as he pushes his t-shirt up to touch the skin at the base of his back, which is just beginning to dampen with sweat. He wants to see him naked and suck his cock and he's going to come just thinking about it. He laughs into Castiel's mouth, because he'll probably sleep for two days when they're finished, like the first time, and they'll miss the apocalypse if they keep this up. It's not a worrisome prospect at the moment.
"Why are you laughing?" Castiel asks. He pushes himself all the way up, hands flat on the mattress, his lap still pressed tight against Dean's. He's hard on Dean's thigh, hot through the thin fabric of his borrowed boxer shorts, and Dean is so wound up that if anyone who wasn't sent by God touched him they'd be electrocuted.
"Dude, admit it," Dean says. "This is kind of hilarious."
Castiel doesn't get it, so Dean just flips him over and straddles him. He's breathing hard and disoriented, and Dean likes him this way. He might know about seals and God and heaven and the end of the world, but Dean is the expert on what they're about to do. Though actually he's never done this with another guy, or at least hasn't come anywhere close since he was a kid and he decided it wasn't going to be this way.
“Do you know everything about me?” Dean asks. Castiel is holding his hips too tight, and it's becoming clear that he doesn't like not being in control, which is really kind of okay with Dean.
“Sometimes you surprise me,” Castiel says, and Dean kisses him for that, until he gets flipped onto his back, so fast he forgets how to breathe. He laughs again, a warm, jittery sensation starting in his stomach and shaking through his bones. This is better every time.
Castiel slides Dean's boxers down with a lack of urgency that makes him curse and squirm. His knees are locked around Dean's side, keeping him in place. Thunder rocks through the sky again, and the lamp on the bedside table vibrates with the sound. Dean waits for lightening to split the ceiling and rain down around them, and hisses encouragement when Castiel wraps one uncertain hand around him. He feels invincible and iconoclastic and ignited, made for this. Or remade. It occurs to him, just before he comes, teeth clenched and muscles tight, that they might be getting away with this because Castiel has already fallen. He could be working alone, lying about everything. Maybe he heard rumors of Dean from his demon buddies and decided to save him because he wanted him for himself. Out of his mind with his orgasm, Dean kind of likes the idea. He wraps his arms and legs around Castiel and gets him as close as he can, spilled dry and still moaning against his neck.
“God,” he breathes, because he can't think of a better word. Castiel licks his jaw and slides along his leg, still hard. Dean tries to catch his breath but then just pushes it back into Castiel's mouth, gives it away again.
“Say something.” Dean needs to hear it all the time, you're alright, you're alright, you're alright, even when it's a lie, especially then.
Castiel sits up on his knees, and for a moment Dean is afraid he's pissed him off. It's happened before. He doesn't like being ordered around.
“Please,” Dean says. Lightening flashes from behind the room's heavy drapes.
Castiel runs two fingers soft across Dean's lips, and Dean opens his mouth like he was asked, licks at the fingerprints that don't belong to him.
“You're -” Castiel starts to say, but Dean loses his nerve, doesn't want to know, so he sucks on Castiel's finger until he goes incoherent.
“Here,” Dean says. He sits up and pulls down the boxers that were stretched tight over Castiel's erection, tries not to stare. “I'll show you something.”
Castiel's thighs are shaking at Dean's sides, and when Dean's tongue slides from between his lips, even before it's met the head of Castiel's cock, he pitches forward with a swallowed exclamation and braces himself against Dean's shoulders. Dean licks him just once, his own dick twitching as his tongue swipes across the fat, silky head, and he stops to glance up at Castiel's face. His eyes are pinched tight, shoulders tense like he's trying not to sneeze.
“Tell me,” Dean says, his heartbeat too loud to be distinguished from the storm that has begun outside. He doesn't know what he's asking for. He's hard and needy again, shaking, and only pretending that he's calling the shots, that either of them are. This is totally off the fucking rails. Castiel opens one eye, and exhales achingly when Dean licks his lips.
“Show me,” Castiel says, his voice half-buried, cheeks blurred with pink.
“What do you want?” Dean asks. He moves his hips, fake unintentional brush of his cock against Castiel's trembling leg.
“Your - mouth,” Castiel chokes the words out, his eyes going watery. Dean smiles quick before drawing his tongue along the underside of his cock, too slow to finish him off, and Castiel's nails bite into his shoulders.
“Yeah?” Dean says, his lips not an inch from the leaking head. He's close to something that feels like heatstroke, and he wants Castiel's cock down his throat so bad he can't remember ever wanting anything else, but it's going to be over too fast.
Castiel nods, his eyes shut, and touches Dean's ear, which is close enough to begging. Dean gives in and takes him into his mouth, moans with dumb satisfaction at the warm weight on his tongue. Castiel gasps, and there's a flash of something that isn't lightening, but then it's done, come pumping hot down Dean's throat, and Castiel is still inside his vessel, or maybe for a second it's just the vessel looking back at Dean, heavy-lidded, because he smiles with a clumsiness Dean has never known the angel to be capable of and takes hold of Dean's dick expertly, pumps him until the kind of second-act orgasm that always hurts a little buckles out of him.
They collapse together and listen to the rain beat the motel roof, breathing onto each other's skin in the dark. Dean curls his arms around the man who is drooling a little onto his neck, and he can't decide who he wants to wake up to, but when Castiel rolls onto his side and gives him his familiar impervious gaze, he's glad to recognize the angel. Dean kisses him, still so hungry, and he's worried for a moment that he's saying it out loud: stay with me, don't go. Castiel pushes lazy fingers through Dean's hair, then slides down to sigh onto his shoulder, deflates.
“It's raining,” Dean says, like this is a sign that needs interpreting. Castiel ignores the observation and continues rubbing his hand down Dean's chest, pausing over the shape of his ribs like he's looking for something hidden between them.
“This is bad,” Dean says. He's wide awake and he can't help it. “This has got to be at least sort of bad. What we're doing.”
“Humans were designed to take comfort in each other,” Castiel mumbles, rolling heavier onto Dean's side. “And it's a great comfort to my vessel, being close like this, close to you.”
Dean snorts, because, what a cop out.
“How about you?” he asks. Castiel's breathing stops for a just a moment.
“Yes,” he says. It isn't a real answer, and Dean expected as much. “But that is less important.”
“Mmm,” Dean says dismissively. He sits up and gropes for the blankets, though he's still sweating and the room is warm. He wants to ask Castiel what it feels like to be wrapped in cheap motel sheets and pulled into someone's arms when you have no frame of reference, but it's a question he could answer himself. Dean only knows that he's wanted it for much longer, from someone else who couldn't give it, someone who, when he finally went bad, didn't do it for him.
“I don't want to ruin everything for you,” Dean says, and he's not sure who he's talking to. Castiel is asleep, his breath steady and warm on Dean's collarbone. Dean puts his nose in Castiel's hair and sucks in that motel shampoo smell, so much better when it's this close. He wraps him up tighter, for the benefit of the vessel, or the angel, or himself.
*
Continued
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dean travels west with Castiel to prevent the breaking of another seal. He meets some of Castiel's "brothers," and has a run-in with his own brother, who is traveling with Ruby.
Notes: This is a continuation of Bad Things With You, but it can be read as a stand alone, too.
They cross the border into New Mexico around three o'clock in the afternoon, and the last, too-long stint in the midwest feels like a bad dream already. Dean has a piece of strawberry licorice hanging from his mouth, and it's flapping against the highway wind, almost hitting his cheek. They stopped at an ancient candy shop in Dodge City, and Dean filled a plastic bag with seventeen dollars worth of multicolored candy weight. Castiel is in the passenger seat beside him, rummaging through the bag like he doesn't know where to begin.
"You have to try them all," Dean shouts over the music. He got fifteen seconds into "Love is a Battlefield" before he realized it wasn't the Heart song he thought it was, and now it's too late. He's in a startlingly good mood, drumming on the car door with his elbow poked out the window, and he thinks it's something to do with the fact that he never gets an excuse to head out west. Also, he likes introducing Castiel to things, like they're in some goofy-ass fish out of water comedy and not just on the precipice of another goddamn apocalypse. He's thinking that if things go right in Las Cruces, Castiel's next lesson will be Vegas.
"Most of these don't taste good," Castiel says. He's got half a circus peanut pinched between his fingers.
"What! Maybe your vessel's got some kind of deformed tongue." A joke at his own expense that there's no point in actually making sits in the back of Dean's throat: you'd know, pervert. His experiences with the tongue in question have been pretty fucking satisfactory so far.
"Try this," he says, fishing through the bag until he comes up with a chocolate covered peanut. Castiel eats it and shrugs.
"It tastes like dust," he says.
"You're crazy," Dean says, though he kind of knows what he means. He reaches into the bag and eats a random handful -- mostly jelly beans and gummi bears, plus a stray M&M -- and slaps Castiel's leg. Castiel stares at him like he's a little offended.
"It's fucking hot down here," Dean says.
"Down where?" Castiel asks. His eyes flick to Dean's lap, and Dean laughs so hard he almost drives off the road.
"I mean here in the, like, southwest, you deviant. New Mexico. The temperature, you know, of the state. It's hot." Castiel just stares at him, either confused or annoyed. It's hard to tell. Maybe both.
"You're sweating," Dean says. "Might want to take off that coat."
Castiel looks down at himself like he forgot he was there. His hair is damp at his temples and along his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed, lips fat and pink from the heat. Dean watches out of the corner of his eye as he slides the coat off and undoes a couple of buttons on his shirt.
"You think we'll be in Las Cruces by dinnertime?" Dean asks.
"We should be."
"Great." Dean grins at him wickedly. "Tacos."
Castiel actually smiles back, which is something that he's learning to do.
"Maybe some tequila, too," Dean says. He figures that if they're gonna jerk each other off in hotel rooms, there's no real danger in adding a drunken angel experiment to his agenda.
When they're in the car, surrounded by the friendly banality of road signs and listening to the radio too loud, it's easy for Dean to forget pretty much everything, the whole bewildering burden of his life. Driving so long has lifted his spirits, and he stays hungry no matter how much candy he eats, burning up the best kind of energy. He doesn't want to think about what will happen when they arrive or why they're even headed in this direction. Castiel won't tell him until he's ready, anyway. It doesn't bother Dean so much anymore, just reminds him of the days when he hunted with his father. Shoot first, find out why later. He could only hunt this way with someone he trusts, and it still makes him queasy, but he's finally come to trust the angel.
"These are good," Castiel says, and Dean turns to see him picking through the jelly beans and eating only the black licorice ones.
"They're all yours," he says.
The sun is going down fast by the time they reach the Las Cruces city limits. The town is flat and paved with squat buildings, the sky netted by power lines. Mountains jut up behind it like a fortress on the horizon.
"What are those called?" Dean asks, pointing.
"The Organ Mountains," Castiel says.
“Sweet. Is that some kinda -- Donner party reference?" It was one of the few history lessons Dean paid attention to, though he still has no clue where the Donner party incident actually took place, just remembers the gore.
Castiel frowns at him, and Dean isn't sure if he knows what he's talking about. Probably not.
"They look like a church organ," Castiel says, nodding to them. "Don't you think?"
"Oh." Dean looks again, notices the almost tubular peaks and the weird, rising symmetry. "Sure."
They find a motel with a pink vacancy sign that glows warm against the darkening sky. Dean gives Castiel a key and walks across the street to a liquor store, buys a bottle of tequila. Probably a bad idea, but still safer than what he really wants to do. The shower is running when he gets back, and he strips down to his undershirt and boxer shorts, does a few shots while he waits his turn. His heel starts jiggling against the stubby motel carpet, and he realizes he's sitting here waiting for Castiel to walk out naked and push him back onto the bed and oh God, how the hell did things get like this? He does another shot.
Thirty minutes later, he's pounding on the bathroom door.
"Did you fall asleep in there?" he shouts. He pushes the door open when he gets no response, and his heart does that thing that feels like every way this could possibly go bad happening all at once, running through his mind on fast forward.
"Dude," he says when he's standing outside the shower curtain and wondering if he should get his gun, steam billowing around him. "Are you okay?"
No answer. Dean licks his lips and asks somebody somewhere -- not God, not necessarily -- to not let this crumble around him, too. He throws the shower curtain back and braces himself, but there's nothing there. No wilted angel, fallen because of him. Nothing.
Dean turns off the water and storms back into the motel room, his heartbeat angry and hard in the hollow of his throat.
"Hey," he says sharply, and he can't batter down the inclination to shout his brother's name through the room. Old habits and all.
He opens the motel room door and looks around outside. The parking lot is quiet, nothing but the occasional car passing by on the street. The organ-shaped mountains watch him reproachfully, still reflecting the last of the pinkish sunset while the rest of the town dims out. He thinks about screaming Castiel's name, but he knows it won't do any good. He's either left, like he used to do all the time, gone in a blink, or someone took him. Dean locks the motel room door and sits on the bed, holds his gun in his hands. He glances at the tequila bottle, but he doesn't want another drink. His stomach is pitching all over the place. That candy was such a bad fucking idea.
"Hey," he says again, barely audible now. If this keeps happening to him.
He puts the gun away.
An hour later, he's getting ready to either go find some real food or break all of the furniture in the room when the door unlocks with a hard click. Dean watches the deadbolt snap open and he springs off the bed, weaponless and wide-eyed. Castiel walks in and barely looks at him before he turns to lock the door again. His hair is wet and he's wearing the trench coat.
"What the fuck!" Dean shouts, and he tells himself to dial it down. Somebody might call the cops. Castiel looks at him with grave sympathy.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I was called away."
"By who?" Dean spits, but he doesn't expect an answer. Castiel takes the coat off like a concession and folds it carefully over the back of a chair with ripped upholstery.
"I didn't mean to upset you," Castiel says, and that's a sucker punch that rips through Dean so quick he almost buckles. "But you were --"
"I don't give a fuck what you do," Dean says, raising his shoulders as if he can't believe the nerve. "Just, I'm -- fucking hungry -- and -- starving to death in here and --"
He makes himself stop talking. Castiel looks pathetic with his hair wet and messy, his tie crooked as usual. He still hasn't figured out how to knot it properly. Dean isn't sure why he wears it. Maybe it's some sort of comfort for his vessel, a familiar artifact.
"I'm gonna go eat," Dean says, hurrying past him to the door. "Do whatever you want."
He's too pissed off and fucked up to go near his car, so he walks down the road with his hands in his pockets until he comes across a crowded cantina with lights strung on its patio. He looks back to see Castiel trailing him. He's put the coat back on.
"You coming in or are you just stalking me?" he shouts. Castiel takes his time walking to the restaurant's front steps, and he looks up at Dean, the bags under his eyes heavier than usual. He always seems so tired.
"I'm coming with you," he says, so gentle that Dean feels insulted.
They sit at the bar. Dean eats a basket of tortilla chips in under three minutes and asks for another. He tells Castiel he should order everything extra spicy.
"To get the full experience," he says. He's drinking beer, already feels like he's riddled with bullet holes and doesn't need to continue with tequila tonight. He orders a big, girly fishbowl of a margarita for Castiel, who regards it skeptically.
"You're not going to tell me why we're here?" Dean asks, loud over the frantic music playing on the cantina's loudspeakers. Castiel takes a sip of his drink and makes a face, then licks some of the salt from the rim of the glass. He seems pleasantly surprised by the familiar flavor, and Dean watches him lick the glass again, and again. His hand shakes when he reaches for his beer.
"I guess I'll take that as a no," he grumbles. Their food arrives on steaming plates covered with cheese. Castiel's shoulders sag at the sight of it.
"This is a dangerous place," he says. Dean looks around the cantina, but most of the people here look like cheerful locals or cheesy tourists.
"What, you think the food's that bad?" he asks.
"Las Cruces," Castiel says. "It has a unique history."
"Yeah, well. What doesn't? You going to fill me in?"
Castiel gives him a curious look. Dean hates the feeling of someone trying to figure him out, though Castiel has a pretty good excuse.
"Later," is all he says. He picks up a fork and pokes through his food cautiously.
"Sure, later, fine, why the fuck not?" Dean is speaking mostly to his plate. "Not like I'm in a hurry."
He's still getting used to the idea that he doesn't have to live every minute of his life like he's working toward a deadline. Considering that angels have arrived and an apocalypse is on the way, it's not very easy to accept. Hell is a constant threat at the edges of his subconscious, like part of him is still there and if he turns his head the wrong way he'll see everything and become trapped again. He's afraid all the time that the things he's struggling not to remember will rush back in when Castiel leaves. Even if they somehow survive the coming war, it's not like he's going to haunt Dean's footsteps forever.
They walk back to the motel in the dark. Dean is anxious and sleepy and a little drunk. Castiel's eyes are darting around like he's expecting an ambush. Arriving at their damp first floor motel room is a profound relief, and Dean can't shake the feeling that they were chased. Castiel watches him bolt the door, then falls to a seat on his bed as if he's deep in thought.
"I'm gonna clean up," Dean says. Castiel gives him a searching look that makes him want to ask what the hell he wants, but instead he just goes into the bathroom and shuts the door hard behind him.
Dean laughs at himself before climbing into the shower, because he actually pauses for a moment, thinking he might get sucked up into oblivion the way Castiel did when he was in here. But that's not right. He's not the one who leaves. He stands under the hot water and lets out his breath in a long sigh. The truth is, he wants company, even now. He's gotten weird about being alone. Or maybe he was always weird about it, even before the nursery fire, before everyone started dying.
His shower only lasts long enough for a quick shampoo and a cursory soap and rinse of everything that needs it. He tells himself it's out of habit -- the ability to shower as quickly as possible was a virtue in his father's eyes -- and not because he wants to make sure Castiel hasn't disappeared again. He dries off fast and doesn't bother to dress, just wraps the towel around his waist and throws the door open.
Castiel is still sitting in the same spot, still staring off into space like he's been hypnotized. Dean is going to offer some smartass remark, but why bother. He can't be riled. He's not Sam. Dean puts on clean boxers and crawls into his own bed, flips the light off and turns toward the wall.
"Dean," Castiel says quietly, and it hits Dean like a lullaby through the humid silence of the room.
"What?"
"Would you like to know why we're here?"
Dean leans up and looks over his shoulder at Castiel. The room is dark, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust.
"Dude, will you lose the fucking coat?" he says, rolling onto his back. Castiel takes it off, then the tie, then the shirt, pants, socks, shoes. He stands in his underwear for awhile before plucking Dean's dirty t-shirt off the floor and putting it on.
"You have a thing about clothes," Dean says as he walks to the bed. "I don't know if you've noticed."
"I need contact with familiar things," Castiel says, his soft voice a little tight. "It's hard for me to maintain this form here."
"Why?"
"Because my brothers have gathered here. They're like a force, pulling me always toward them."
Dean knows a little something about that. Castiel sits beside him on the bed, and Dean is flooded with stupid happiness. He needs contact, too.
"That's what happened earlier," Castiel says. "I broke out of this form before I left the motel room, and I was afraid I might have hurt you. It was good that you were away."
"But when I'm gone, that's when you go all supernova?"
"When they're near," Castiel says. "Or. When I'm not close to you."
Dean takes that in like a quake through his chest, and his hands twitch on the bedspread. He feels a little hollow and indistinct himself. It's like withdrawal, and it's not exactly a comfort to learn that Castiel is experiencing it, too. Except that it kind of is.
"So tell me about Las Cruces," Dean says, before they can do something stupid like grab hold of each other. Castiel climbs over Dean and sits on the mattress with his back propped against the wall. Dean wants to ask him what fatigue feels like when it's brand new.
"This town has a history of demonic residency," Castiel says. "Like much of the southwestern part of your country."
"That's news to me."
"In 1862, a hunter named Albert Jennings Fountain settled here with his wife. He had lived in New York and California, and came to the southwest when he enlisted in the Union Army. After marrying, he was determined to clear his wife's hometown of Mesilla of the demons that had overrun it in her childhood. They thrived on the anxiety that many people suffered in the lawless settlements near the border. Fountain was a lawyer, fluent in Spanish, and he was determined to bring order where there had previously been chaos. Many demons tried to kill him, but none succeeded until they became organized around a particular leader. One night, when Fountain was on his way home from a hunt with his eight-year-old son, they caught up with him near Las Cruces and killed him. It required the creation of a seal."
"Wait, wait." Dean shakes his head. "I thought these seals were -- God-type -- things. How could a demon create one?"
"A demon cannot. An angel, however, can."
"But --"
"There was a fallen angel among the posse that killed Fountain.”
Dean had just begun to sink comfortably into the blankets, like Castiel was telling him a bedtime story, but his heart rate starts climbing at the mention of a fall. He sits up and leans forward, folds his arms over his knees.
"This angel had possessed a U.S. Marshal named Oliver Lee," Castiel says. "He was obsessed with understanding how Fountain had managed to survive as long as he had. His theory was that it had something to do with Fountain's weapon of choice, which was a particular Winchester rifle he'd purchased in California." Castiel tilts his head. "Do you know anything about your family history?"
"Oh, sure. They're all dead except for me and Sam. What more do I need to know?"
He didn't mean to say it like that, or at all. Castiel flinches like he's going to reach for him, then settles back against the wall.
"So now what?" Dean asks when Castiel doesn't continue. "Lilith is trying to break this seal that the fallen angel created when Fountain died?"
"Yes," Castiel says. "But it's complicated by several factors. Fountain did not die alone. His son, Henry, was also killed by the posse that came for him. Their bodies, and Fountain's rifle, were never found."
"So?"
"This was the only seal created by a fallen angel. Precautions were taken afterward to ensure that it would never happen again. These precautions make it difficult for my brothers and I to protect this particular seal. We have determined its physical location, but we do not know if there are other components scattered elsewhere. The rifle, for example, or the bones of Fountain and his son."
"What is the seal, exactly?" Dean asks. "Like, a big stamp sitting out there in the desert? What does it look like?"
"It would not be visible to you or any other human."
"Of course. So where do I fit in, exactly?"
Castiel straightens his shoulders against the wall. Dean's eyes have fully adjusted now, and he thinks about how they must look, a couple of grown men sitting in their underwear, as close as they can get without touching.
"Your brother will be here soon," Castiel says. "I need you to accompany him and the demon he travels with to locate the physical artifacts that may have been involved in the creation of the seal. The bones of Albert and Henry Fountain, and the rifle."
"Terrific," Dean grunts. The wild excitement that ripped through him upon learning that Sammy is on his way dulls to resentment at the mention of Ruby. "How the hell am I supposed to find bodies that have been missing for over a hundred years?"
"I can help you with that," Castiel says.
"Then why can't you just do it yourself?"
"Because, Dean. We need you to reclaim these things from your brother. I can't touch them. This seal is incredibly dangerous to my brothers and I. Anything to do with the fallen always is."
"What do Sam and Ruby want with some dead hunter's bones?" Dean asks, though he's pretty sure he doesn't want to hear the answer.
Castiel cocks his head like he's trying to decide if Dean can handle the truth. Dean narrows his eyes, pretends that he can.
"Anything to do with a fallen angel's work is a very powerful tool for demons," he says. "Especially accursed artifacts."
"Sam's not a demon," Dean says, the words burning up his throat before he can stuff them down.
"I know that. Sam is something else entirely."
Dean sniffs irritably and lies back on his pillow, rolls over and smashes his eyes shut. Castiel gets the message and climbs off the bed. Dean listens to him brush his vessel's teeth before he gets under his own blankets. The room is freezing, which doesn't make any sense, and Castiel's news about Sam and the seal gnaw hard at Dean, keeping him awake. He's not sure he really understands what's going on here, but he's gotten used to feeling that way since Castiel pulled him out of hell.
When he finally sleeps, he returns as usual, burns and screams and tries to shut his eyes but can't. He fights through the nightmares, has gotten good at that, and finds himself in the motel room with Castiel, who is standing near the door and looking at him like they're both going to die and soon.
"I'm sorry," Castiel says. "They want me back."
"Wait!" Dean shouts when he reaches for the door, because he's dreaming and in here he's got no pride. "Don't go."
"I can't stay here with you, Dean. It's killing me."
It's killing me, I can't stay. Sam said that once.
"I'll die if you go," Dean tells him. In the dream, it's so clearly true.
"You're already dead," Castiel says, as if he regrets this very much, and the walls burst into flame.
Dean wakes up fast and hard, breathing in gulps like there is real fire here, sucking the air from the room. Castiel is standing near the bed, his mouth open, arms outstretched but frozen.
"You're alright," he says, flat like he doesn't believe it.
"You lie a lot, for an angel," Dean says. He puts his head in his hands and breathes deep, clean dry southwestern air, tempered by the motel room stink that is the same in every city, which he's come to appreciate.
"Dean," Castiel says, and Dean can hear the question in his name, because Castiel is learning to speak the language of names that he and Sam maybe invented. Do you want me to, should I, is it worth it? Because suddenly it's up to him.
Dean looks up and gives him his answer without saying anything. He wonders what happened to Castiel's vessel when he "broke" from this form earlier. Why wasn't he left behind in the shower, shivering and disoriented and asking Dean what happened? Dean would have been so goddamn happy to lift him up and get him warm and put his arm around the shoulders of someone uncomplicated for awhile. Only, who the fuck is he kidding. It's not like the guy is going to come away from this thing without serious damage. Nobody who gets near him does.
There's a thunderclap outside, which seems weird. The skies were clear when they walked back from the restaurant, like clouds are only a rumor in this part of the country. Castiel looks up at the ceiling, and Dean snorts.
"Don't tell me," he says. "That's God speaking to you."
Castiel makes a face that for a second is plainly human. Still, there is something about the way he turns his head that is worth noticing, different. Graceful isn't the right word.
"It's thunder," he says, as if Dean is an incredible idiot. Dean grins huge, like get over here, and Castiel somehow understands. He sits beside Dean and touches his forehead, just cautiously. Dean holds his breath, lets his bones liquefy when Castiel's fingers finally slide into his hair.
"You're alright," Castiel says again, and Dean feels the words shoot through him, rolling over his skin and finding their way down to his dick, like he said something really filthy, like you want to be fucked hard, don't you, like he would ever say that.
"Yeah," Dean exhales. He leans back onto the bed and pulls Castiel with him, on top of him, and God it's good to be crushed under the weight of someone else. Dean shuts his eyes and lets Castiel kiss his face like he'll break if he's not careful. Every time his lips touch Dean's skin it's like a tongue sliding slow over his balls, and he's pretty sure he'd die if they did anything more than touch, but it would be one motherfucker of a good death. His heart is hammering, and this is so dangerous he doesn't even know how to start thinking about everything that could go wrong, but at the moment it's just awesome, like a box of matches in a warehouse full of fireworks, like water that is just beginning to boil around him, and he's been so cold.
"Say something," Dean begs, his voice cracked apart. Castiel is licking his neck soft and hot and over and over, like he's trying to get to the candy center of his pulse.
"What do you want me to say?" Their laps drag together when he shifts, and Dean groans shamelessly, jerks his hips.
"Nothing," he huffs. "Something. I don't know."
He's always liked girls who say a lot of blasphemous shit they'll regret during sex. The dirtier the better. God, that big cock makes me so wet. That's a favorite, a classic. He wants to know what he does to Castiel, how he could possibly affect him at all.
Castiel leans up onto his elbows and smooths his hands down the sides of Dean's face. Dean could look at him like this for a long time, his whole body pulsing, Castiel heavy and warm and watching him like he's everything that is hanging in the balance.
"It was hard to be away from you," he says.
Dean kisses him, loud and wet and kind of frantic, his hands shaking as he pushes his t-shirt up to touch the skin at the base of his back, which is just beginning to dampen with sweat. He wants to see him naked and suck his cock and he's going to come just thinking about it. He laughs into Castiel's mouth, because he'll probably sleep for two days when they're finished, like the first time, and they'll miss the apocalypse if they keep this up. It's not a worrisome prospect at the moment.
"Why are you laughing?" Castiel asks. He pushes himself all the way up, hands flat on the mattress, his lap still pressed tight against Dean's. He's hard on Dean's thigh, hot through the thin fabric of his borrowed boxer shorts, and Dean is so wound up that if anyone who wasn't sent by God touched him they'd be electrocuted.
"Dude, admit it," Dean says. "This is kind of hilarious."
Castiel doesn't get it, so Dean just flips him over and straddles him. He's breathing hard and disoriented, and Dean likes him this way. He might know about seals and God and heaven and the end of the world, but Dean is the expert on what they're about to do. Though actually he's never done this with another guy, or at least hasn't come anywhere close since he was a kid and he decided it wasn't going to be this way.
“Do you know everything about me?” Dean asks. Castiel is holding his hips too tight, and it's becoming clear that he doesn't like not being in control, which is really kind of okay with Dean.
“Sometimes you surprise me,” Castiel says, and Dean kisses him for that, until he gets flipped onto his back, so fast he forgets how to breathe. He laughs again, a warm, jittery sensation starting in his stomach and shaking through his bones. This is better every time.
Castiel slides Dean's boxers down with a lack of urgency that makes him curse and squirm. His knees are locked around Dean's side, keeping him in place. Thunder rocks through the sky again, and the lamp on the bedside table vibrates with the sound. Dean waits for lightening to split the ceiling and rain down around them, and hisses encouragement when Castiel wraps one uncertain hand around him. He feels invincible and iconoclastic and ignited, made for this. Or remade. It occurs to him, just before he comes, teeth clenched and muscles tight, that they might be getting away with this because Castiel has already fallen. He could be working alone, lying about everything. Maybe he heard rumors of Dean from his demon buddies and decided to save him because he wanted him for himself. Out of his mind with his orgasm, Dean kind of likes the idea. He wraps his arms and legs around Castiel and gets him as close as he can, spilled dry and still moaning against his neck.
“God,” he breathes, because he can't think of a better word. Castiel licks his jaw and slides along his leg, still hard. Dean tries to catch his breath but then just pushes it back into Castiel's mouth, gives it away again.
“Say something.” Dean needs to hear it all the time, you're alright, you're alright, you're alright, even when it's a lie, especially then.
Castiel sits up on his knees, and for a moment Dean is afraid he's pissed him off. It's happened before. He doesn't like being ordered around.
“Please,” Dean says. Lightening flashes from behind the room's heavy drapes.
Castiel runs two fingers soft across Dean's lips, and Dean opens his mouth like he was asked, licks at the fingerprints that don't belong to him.
“You're -” Castiel starts to say, but Dean loses his nerve, doesn't want to know, so he sucks on Castiel's finger until he goes incoherent.
“Here,” Dean says. He sits up and pulls down the boxers that were stretched tight over Castiel's erection, tries not to stare. “I'll show you something.”
Castiel's thighs are shaking at Dean's sides, and when Dean's tongue slides from between his lips, even before it's met the head of Castiel's cock, he pitches forward with a swallowed exclamation and braces himself against Dean's shoulders. Dean licks him just once, his own dick twitching as his tongue swipes across the fat, silky head, and he stops to glance up at Castiel's face. His eyes are pinched tight, shoulders tense like he's trying not to sneeze.
“Tell me,” Dean says, his heartbeat too loud to be distinguished from the storm that has begun outside. He doesn't know what he's asking for. He's hard and needy again, shaking, and only pretending that he's calling the shots, that either of them are. This is totally off the fucking rails. Castiel opens one eye, and exhales achingly when Dean licks his lips.
“Show me,” Castiel says, his voice half-buried, cheeks blurred with pink.
“What do you want?” Dean asks. He moves his hips, fake unintentional brush of his cock against Castiel's trembling leg.
“Your - mouth,” Castiel chokes the words out, his eyes going watery. Dean smiles quick before drawing his tongue along the underside of his cock, too slow to finish him off, and Castiel's nails bite into his shoulders.
“Yeah?” Dean says, his lips not an inch from the leaking head. He's close to something that feels like heatstroke, and he wants Castiel's cock down his throat so bad he can't remember ever wanting anything else, but it's going to be over too fast.
Castiel nods, his eyes shut, and touches Dean's ear, which is close enough to begging. Dean gives in and takes him into his mouth, moans with dumb satisfaction at the warm weight on his tongue. Castiel gasps, and there's a flash of something that isn't lightening, but then it's done, come pumping hot down Dean's throat, and Castiel is still inside his vessel, or maybe for a second it's just the vessel looking back at Dean, heavy-lidded, because he smiles with a clumsiness Dean has never known the angel to be capable of and takes hold of Dean's dick expertly, pumps him until the kind of second-act orgasm that always hurts a little buckles out of him.
They collapse together and listen to the rain beat the motel roof, breathing onto each other's skin in the dark. Dean curls his arms around the man who is drooling a little onto his neck, and he can't decide who he wants to wake up to, but when Castiel rolls onto his side and gives him his familiar impervious gaze, he's glad to recognize the angel. Dean kisses him, still so hungry, and he's worried for a moment that he's saying it out loud: stay with me, don't go. Castiel pushes lazy fingers through Dean's hair, then slides down to sigh onto his shoulder, deflates.
“It's raining,” Dean says, like this is a sign that needs interpreting. Castiel ignores the observation and continues rubbing his hand down Dean's chest, pausing over the shape of his ribs like he's looking for something hidden between them.
“This is bad,” Dean says. He's wide awake and he can't help it. “This has got to be at least sort of bad. What we're doing.”
“Humans were designed to take comfort in each other,” Castiel mumbles, rolling heavier onto Dean's side. “And it's a great comfort to my vessel, being close like this, close to you.”
Dean snorts, because, what a cop out.
“How about you?” he asks. Castiel's breathing stops for a just a moment.
“Yes,” he says. It isn't a real answer, and Dean expected as much. “But that is less important.”
“Mmm,” Dean says dismissively. He sits up and gropes for the blankets, though he's still sweating and the room is warm. He wants to ask Castiel what it feels like to be wrapped in cheap motel sheets and pulled into someone's arms when you have no frame of reference, but it's a question he could answer himself. Dean only knows that he's wanted it for much longer, from someone else who couldn't give it, someone who, when he finally went bad, didn't do it for him.
“I don't want to ruin everything for you,” Dean says, and he's not sure who he's talking to. Castiel is asleep, his breath steady and warm on Dean's collarbone. Dean puts his nose in Castiel's hair and sucks in that motel shampoo smell, so much better when it's this close. He wraps him up tighter, for the benefit of the vessel, or the angel, or himself.
*
Continued