Diable en Boite
Title: Diable en Boite
Prompt/Summary: Written for salt_burn_porn for the prompt Jack-in-the-box. Castiel pops in on Dean unexpectedly, and Dean is delighted. Not that Dean was pining, or anything. Nope.
Characters: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 4,215
Disclaimer: Not real, not mine, no harm intended, please don't sue, I would starve and have to eat my cats and that would be very sad.
Warnings: PWP, m/m sex, and angst, because I am apparently incapable of writing happy sex. IDEK, okay? Spoilers through the first half of Season 6.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: Oh my God, what was I even thinking signing up for this? "You should expand your horizons," I told myself. "Push yourself out of your comfort zone," I added to that. What did I do? I signed up to write porn under a deadline. Actual porn, as opposed to a buttload of angst with a side-order of sex. /o\
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Uh, this is waaaaay more explicit than anything I have ever written before, in like, ever.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: I am sorry it takes so long to get to the actual porn. Dean wouldn't shut up. *shrug*
Neurotic Author's Note #4: Many thanks to pkwench who took time out of her busy day to glance over this and reassure me that I shouldn't metaphorically burn this and then maybe quit writing forever, and to elsewhere_kels for holding my hand while I whined at her about this story. ;)
:::ETA::: This story is now available in Russian, translated by the talented rahnieda_m. You can get it here.
It’s not that Dean doesn’t look forward to Cas’ visits, when he bothers to think about it at all. That’s really not it. Cas is his friend, is more than his friend if you count the whole gripped-you-tight-and-raised-you-from-perdition thing, although Dean isn’t quite sure where that actually goes on the whole friendship scale. Somewhere higher than ‘good friend,’ but maybe somewhere below ‘soulmates,’ if you can even quantify that, and he’s not sure that he even wants to try. It seems kind of rude, ungrateful, even, to try to fit that sort of thing to a scale. After all, Cas gave up more than any human being could ever hope to imagine -his grace and his brothers and all that-, and all because a couple of guys decided that Heaven was wrong. It’s kind of humbling, being the root cause of that, and it raises a whole bunch of vaguely uncomfortable questions and feelings. Dean doesn’t really like those feelings, so he tries not to think about it. And, yeah, sometimes it even works.
Mostly, though, he feels kind of confused about Castiel’s visits. When he bothers to think about them, which, you know, isn’t all that often. Not really, depending on your definition of ‘often.’ Sure, Cas is his friend, but he’s also an unimaginably powerful angel, and he’s fighting a war, which he never ceases to point out every single time he comes, just in case they forgot, or something. And Dean kind of feels bad about that too, because the truth is that he does forget, because when Cas isn’t around all he can really think of is that he kind of misses when Cas was just a little nerdy fallen angel in a rumpled trench coat who’d taken to riding in the back seat of the Impala with him and Sam. It was nice, having the three of them together: him, Cas and Sam, Team Free Will, all for one and one for all and all that crap. Except Cas is too busy to do that anymore, and when he does come he always seems kind of pissed off and… well, stressed. If angels can get stressed out, which Dean really isn’t very sure about.
And then there was that one time Castiel told him that he wished he could be here, with them, even though Sam’s a soulless robot and Dean’s kind of hanging onto his sanity by his fingernails and several bottles of bourbon. He was pretty sure they were having a moment, there, if Dean Winchester can be said to have moments, and he generally doesn’t think he does, although there were a few times with Lisa which he guesses might have counted, except that when he was still with her he was mostly too screwed up to enjoy much of it. He'd tried to make up for it with mind-blowing oral sex, but he was pretty sure she saw right through it ―even if she appreciated his efforts― because she's always been pretty perceptive... Anyway, moment. Or he might just have been imagining the moment, and wouldn’t that just take the cake?
So, long story short, Dean doesn’t even know what the hell anymore, and it’s not like he’s got anyone who can give him advice on how to deal with being lonely for a guy who was an angel, became almost human, was your friend, and now got promoted to being a bigger, better angel and is still sort of your friend except for how he’s never there anymore and only comes when he thinks you’ve got something of strategic importance in his war, and often in the same breath accuses you of being too self-centred because you’re worried about your brother who sacrificed his soul in order to save the world. He can’t talk about it with Bobby, because the very thought makes him shudder, and whereas he might maybe once upon a time have worked up the nerve to maybe broach the subject with Sam, there’s no way he’s risking that now. For one thing, he’s pretty sure that Replicant Sam would just tell him that he and Cas need to fuck and get it out of their systems, or something, like it’s no big deal that Dean is fucking pining for an angel of the Lord. Pining, fuck.
He needs a drink.
He’s in the process of pouring his third drink -or it might be his fourth, but he decides to err on the side of caution and call it his third, just in case he decides to have another, which would make it a nice round number- when a familiar displacement of air and the sensation of someone standing right behind his shoulder makes him jump and choke on his shot of Jack’s.
“Cas,” he wheezes, and is pretty proud that he can manage even that one syllable.
“Hello, Dean.”
He swallows, mops at his streaming eyes. “Yeah, the Jack-in-the-box thing. Haven’t missed that, at least.”
“I don’t follow.”
Dean motions in a vague circle with the hand that’s not holding his glass. “You know, pop-goes-the-weasel. You, and the poofing, or whatever. And the total disregard for personal space.”
“You are comparing me to a toy intended to startle children?”
Cas makes a face that’s perilously close to one of Sam’s bitchfaces, which makes Dean’s heart clench unexpectedly, homesick and really happy all at once, because time was he could count on seeing Cas make a face like that at least once a day.
“Uh… when you put it that way…”
But Cas doesn’t step away the way he usually does, and now that Dean isn’t choking on his whiskey anymore he finds he’s up close and personal with the angel’s very blue eyes, boring straight through him. He squirms under the scrutiny. The only other times Cas has ever been quite this far into his personal space, he was shoving him bodily up against one wall or another and reminding Dean very forcefully that there was no question of who might smite whom, if it came down to it. Traitorous as always, it’s right now that his dick decides that that is a really, really interesting thought, and perks up in order to better appreciate the proceedings. Apparently, he kind of likes being shoved against walls, not that he’s ever let himself think that far ahead before. Fuck. He manages not to close his eyes, but can’t quite help swallowing. At some point, he decides, he and Dean Jr. are going to have to have a long, serious talk about when it is and isn’t appropriate to… oh.
Cas’ hand is on his arm, now, and that has seriously short-circuited what feels like a bunch of very important wiring in Dean’s head and apparently re-wired it all to go straight to his dick, raising goosebumps all over his body on the way there. Dean swallows again, and makes a valiant attempt to rally himself.
“So, uh… what brings you, Cas?”
“You have repeatedly expressed the desire that I come more often.”
His mouth has gone dry, but Dean swallows again anyway. “So… no heavenly tactical nukes to worry about? No archangels about to make an appearance in order to smite us? You don’t have Crowley hidden under your trench coat, do you?” he’s babbling, but it’s better than anything else he’s thought of so far.
There’s a wry tilt to Castiel’s mouth, and the thought of just bending his head forward and licking it flits through Dean’s mind. “No.”
He tries to take a step backward, and the backs of his legs collide with the bed. He flails for balance, and ends up with a fistful of Castiel’s trench coat while his empty tumbler of whiskey falls -mercifully unbroken- to the carpeted floor, and seemingly by reflex Castiel’s other hand snakes out to catch him by the shoulder before he falls backward.
“You -you came just because I asked?”
“Yes, Dean.”
Castiel looks at once amused and exasperated, and at a few inches away the expression is doing really bad -or really good, depending on your perspective- things to Dean’s dick, which is straining so hard that he’s frankly a little shocked he hasn’t busted right through the zipper of his jeans. He can’t possibly be misinterpreting what’s going on, here. If this were anyone else, there would be no question at all about what’s going on. You don’t crowd into a guy’s space like that and shove your knee between his legs -and, oh, yeah, that’s definitely Cas’ knee far too close to somewhere that could end up awkward for everyone if this turns out not to be what Dean thinks it is- unless you intend something pretty serious. Except that this is Castiel he’s talking about, and he’s got to be the most repressed, clueless angel Dean has ever met, and since Dean has actually met a few and slept with one, that’s saying something.
He clutches a little harder at Cas’ trench coat. “Cas, are you -are we?”
Castiel makes an impatient noise in his throat, and Dean bucks slightly in his grip at the sound. “Did I misinterpret your interest?”
That’s it. “Fuck no,” he breathes, can’t help the grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth.
It’s not far, but Dean manages to lunge at Cas anyway, catching the lips he’s been fantasizing about in a kiss. It’s awkward at first -Cas’ lips are dry against his and, and Dean finds that he’s oddly hesitant still, after all this. Then Cas lets his lips part, allowing him access, and Dean twists his hand in the ever-present necktie and uses it as leverage to pull Cas toward him until they’re both sprawled o the bed. There’s a moment in which they have to scramble to sort themselves out, legs tangling together, hindered by the presence of the trench coat, and Dean almost laughs at the slightly shocked expression on Cas’ face when he pulls him in for another kiss, allowing himself to linger, now that he’s no longer in danger of falling on his face. He shoves his own thigh between Cas’ legs, finds exactly what he was hoping to find there, and suddenly there are far too many clothes separating him from the angel.
“This,” he murmurs against Cas’ lips, tugging the trench coat over his shoulders and down his arms, “Has to. Come off. Now!”
Obediently Cas wriggles to pull his arms out of the sleeves, breaking off the kiss with a small moan, and damn if that doesn’t make Dean want to just rip the rest of the fabric away. He kicks the coat to the floor, doesn’t bother to look to see where it lands. Cas’ lips are red from the kiss, slightly swollen, his hair sticking up a little wildly already, although they’ve barely started anything. He looks… wanton, Dean thinks breathlessly, heart hammering in his ribcage as his fingers fumble with the buttons of Cas’ dress shirt, and it’s all because of him. The shirt falls open, held in place only by the tie, and Dean leans in to suck at Cas’ neck, right by his Adam’s apple. He’s rewarded by a full-body shudder, and Cas tilts his head back to give him better access, groaning in a way that threatens to make Dean come in his pants like a horny teenager when Dean flicks experimentally at an exposed nipple with his fingernail, enjoying the way it hardens under his touch.
“You like that, huh?” he asks, working his teeth along Cas’ neck, wishing he could take the time to appreciate the sight of the red marks he’s leaving behind.
He rubs the pad of his thumb against the nipple, rolls it between his fingers, and is rewarded with a low moan of pleasure from Cas. Encouraged, he lowers his head, applies his tongue to the reddening surface, pulls back and blows gently, only to have Cas whine and buck a little beneath him, and the enormity of what he’s doing washes over him like a cold wave.
“Cas, are you… what are -is this okay?”
He remembers with sudden clarity having to explain the porn on television to Castiel in what may well be the most awkward ten minutes of their lives. Remembers -far too late, apparently- that Cas was a virgin, the last time he checked, and that in this of all things their relationship might definitely not be one of equals. It’s not like Cas is unwilling -God, does he ever seem willing- but this, this is one of those important, life-changing sorts of things. Dean's all for seizing the moment, but he doesn't know if Cas even knows what he's consenting to, and he pulls up, hands braced to either side of Cas' head, breathing hard.
“Cas?”
Castiel stares up at him, eyes wide and impossibly blue, and Dean sort of forgets how to breathe for a minute until Cas fucking growls at him and flips him easily onto his back. “Now, Dean Winchester,” he says, tugging at the hem of Dean's t-shirt, and Dean immediately lifts his arms to allow him to pull it off entirely, “is not the time to be second-guessing me. You are wearing entirely too many clothes.”
He half-expects Cas to just snap his fingers and make the clothes vanish, but apparently that's a misuse of heavenly-bestowed powers or something, because Cas' hands are at his belt, unbuckling it, fingers moving confidently along his fly, and the next thing Dean knows he's shimmying out of his jeans, and there's nothing left between his aching cock and the outside world except his boxers, damp from where he's been leaking against them for the past several minutes. It's hard with Cas straddling his thighs, but he manages to toe off his shoes so that his jeans slide the rest of the way off, puddling on the floor at the foot of the bed. Cas is staring at him with a look of intense fascination, as though Dean is the best thing he's seen in centuries. He palms Dean's cock through the thin cotton, his hands warm and confident, and it's Dean's turn to buck up against him, suddenly desperate for friction, and he fucking whines in a way that would be entirely humiliating if he was with anyone else right now.
“God, Cas, please...”
They're not even five minutes in and Cas already has him writhing and begging, and he's not sure how he ended up entirely naked while the angel still has most of his clothes, even if his shirt is open, tie hanging askew, and it's hotter than it has any right to be. His boxers are gone, and the feeling of soft fingers against the over-sensitised skin of his cock has his eyes rolling back in his head. Cas' tongue darts out over his lips, wetting them in a way that makes Dean feel like he might spontaneously combust at any second, and he reaches up, groping blindly until he's got a hold of part of Cas' shirt, and tries to pull him closer, to take back a little of the control he somehow lost here, because it's all a little too intense, having Cas looking at him like that while he takes him apart with just a few touches.
But Cas doesn't want to be yanked or pulled or tugged, and there is absolutely squat Dean can do about it. Instead he crawls up along Dean's body to whisper in his ear, breath hot and urgent, his voice a low growl that vibrates all the way down to Dean's toes.
“What do you want, Dean?”
He doesn't know what he wants, and that's the problem. He wants Sam back and he wants Cas back ―not that he ever had Cas to begin with― and he wants things to be how they were, except that that was a hot mess anyway. And right now all his wants is Cas to touch him and maybe never stop, because he doesn't remember the last time he's felt this alive, like electricity is running just below the surface of his skin. His mouth opens, throat working convulsively, but he can't manage much more than a strangled moan, and his hips lift toward Castiel, as though trying to answer for him since his brain appears to be off-line.
“You want this?” Cas asks, and he nods a little frantically.
“Cas...” he finds his voice. “Are you sure you ―oh, fuck!”
Dean bashes his head painfully against the headboard as Cas, who's been mouthing his way down his chest, suddenly bites on his nipple, not quite hard to break the skin but enough to hurt, and God it's fucking electrifying, and it's only because Cas is holding him down that he doesn't come right off the bed. His fingers grip at the bed, gathering fistfuls of sheets, and the next thing he knows is he's being enveloped in wet heat, Cas tongue working at the underside of his cock, hands pressing hard against Dean's hips to keep him still, and the last conscious thought he has is to wonder where the fuck Cas learned to do this. After that it's all hot and Cas and good and oh fucking Christ! in a permanent loop in his mind, until he's coming so hard that white flashes behind his eyes.
He regains his senses to find Cas lying beside him, trailing fingers along his chest and kissing gently behind his jaw, as though Dean might be the most precious, delicate thing he's ever laid hands on. Cas can destroy him without breaking a sweat, and the gentleness of the caress makes him shiver and his eyes sting, and he blinks hard, hoping Cas hasn't noticed, but of course Cas has.
“I thought you were a virgin,” he chokes out after a moment. It's the most acceptable compromise he can come up with. Otherwise the words that want to spill out are please don't leave me, and don't let go, ever, please, God, and he doesn't think he'd ever live that down.
Cas doesn't stop what he's doing, letting his hands drift possessively over Dean's body, and damn if that isn't making his dick twitch a little, and Dean isn't exactly twenty anymore, to have that kind of turnaround time. “Dean,” he growls, “don't assume that because I lack a small modicum of human experience, that it automatically follows that I don't know what I'm doing.”
Dean opens his mouth, then twitches and lets out a muted whimper as Cas does something really awesome with his hands. “No assuming. Got it.”
Cas draws him into his arms, hands caressing over his shoulders and down his back, pulling him so close that they're pressed together, chest to chest, Dean's thighs over Castiel's, and he can feel Cas' erection against the inside of his thigh, hard and hot and insistent. Dean's already starting to breathe hard again, blood roaring in his ears, and he never wants Cas to take his hands off him ever again: everything's a little too loud, a little too bright, a little too much, and he never wants it to stop. Before he even knows what he's doing he finds himself kissing Cas again as though his life depends on it, chasing his own slightly bitter taste in the angel's mouth, hands roaming down Cas' chest, fumbling with his belt buckle and zipper, slipping his hand down to wrap a hand around Castiel's length, hot and a little surprising, even if it's not nearly the first time Dean's had his hand on a guy's dick ―his own or someone else's. Cas' tongue flickers against his, and the angel moans into his mouth as Dean finally gets with the program and starts to stroke and twist and pull. He's getting hard again, incredibly enough, and no matter how hungrily he applies himself to kissing Cas and getting him off at the same time, it's not nearly enough, not nearly close enough.
“Cas... please... want you to...” he has to stop for air, isn't sure he remembers how to breathe. “Come on!”
It's like nothing he's ever experienced before. There have been a few times before, sure, some of them even pretty good when they weren't just quick-and-dirty in the men's room in some dive bar, and Dean has never been above switching it up, but this, this is Cas, and that makes everything different. He never does figure out how the angel manages to get his hands on lube without Dean's ever noticing, but within seconds he's beyond caring as Cas slips first one finger inside him, then two, never breaking off their kiss, and fuck if that thought doesn't make Dean's dick jump right from half-mast to full so fast it takes his breath away with a strangled moan.
Cas adds a third finger, and if Dean were still capable of coherent thought he'd be wondering just how the hell Cas knows how to move his fingers in that exact way to make him nearly bite off his own tongue. No one has ever taken this much care with him before, and soon he's clinging to Cas' shoulders with both hands, fingers digging in so hard that they would leave bruises on anyone else, each breath hitching and sobbing as Cas hits that same spot over and over, making his back arch with need.
“Fuck, Cas, please... Fucking... losing my mind... just fucking please!”
He whimpers at the sudden loss of sensation, but Cas just kisses him harder and lifts him up as though he weighs nothing at all, giving Dean all the room he could possibly want or need to position himself. He lets himself slide back down as soon as he feels the head of Castiel's cock nudging at him, as fast as he can manage, and Cas rolls his hips as soon as he feels Dean is settled, setting up a rhythm that's just short of punishingly fast. Dean's cock is trapped between them, the friction wonderful but not enough, and he lets his head fall back, eyes closed, seeing sparks every time Cas pushes against his prostate. Distantly he's aware that he's still talking, babbling pleas and nonsense and cursing and finally repeating Castiel's name like a mantra while the angel takes him apart, piece by piece, until he's nothing but a shivering mess, held together only by Cas' hands on his back, keeping him in place.
He feels Cas shudder under him, breaking the rhythm, the movement of his hips becoming erratic, a little more eager, and he tries to clench his muscles, moves down to meet him, urging him along until Cas climaxes with a sighing moan against his lips. He rides him through the aftershocks, still murmuring whatever incoherent nonsense pops into his head. Cas' hand wraps itself around his dick, and it only takes a couple of sure, twisting strokes before Dean is coming for the second time, so hard he thinks he might actually pass out.
Dean collapses forward into Cas' arms, limp and unresisting when the angel bears them both back down onto the bed. Sweat and come are beginning to cool on their skin, but Dean finds he cares surprisingly little about that. Castiel hooks his knee over Dean's legs, arms wrapped around Dean's shoulders, and Dean settles contentedly there, the warmth from Castiel's body going a long way to calm the tremors still running through him. It feels nice. It's been a long time, months, since he's been held. Not that this is cuddling, or anything. But even when he was with Lisa he didn't feel safe enough to do this.
He risks opening his eyes, finds Castiel looking back at him, and almost closes them again rather than face the scrutiny, but this is kind of big, and he owes it to Cas to grow a pair, man up, and own what they've just done. “Is this okay? I mean, are we―?”
Cas smirks. Outright smirks. “I assumed it was mutually satisfactory.”
“Mutually―” Dean sputters, then dissolves into laughter, burying his face in Cas' collarbone. “You're kind of an asshole, you know that? And pushy.”
“I believe that is an integral part of why you find me attractive, is it not?” Cas manages to tilt his head even while lying on a pillow, which takes some doing. “Am I wrong in thinking you want to pursue this?”
Dean shoves at him, wriggling until he gets more comfortable. “Just don't expect compliments or flowers or shit like that, okay?” It's as much of an admission as he's willing to give.
“I don't think flowers would survive the journey, and I don't require compliments.”
“Low-maintenance. I like that,” Dean mumbles, eyelids drooping.
“Dean.”
“Hmm?”
“Go to sleep.”
“Pushy.”
But for the first time in three and a half years, Dean sleeps through the night.
Prompt/Summary: Written for salt_burn_porn for the prompt Jack-in-the-box. Castiel pops in on Dean unexpectedly, and Dean is delighted. Not that Dean was pining, or anything. Nope.
Characters: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 4,215
Disclaimer: Not real, not mine, no harm intended, please don't sue, I would starve and have to eat my cats and that would be very sad.
Warnings: PWP, m/m sex, and angst, because I am apparently incapable of writing happy sex. IDEK, okay? Spoilers through the first half of Season 6.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: Oh my God, what was I even thinking signing up for this? "You should expand your horizons," I told myself. "Push yourself out of your comfort zone," I added to that. What did I do? I signed up to write porn under a deadline. Actual porn, as opposed to a buttload of angst with a side-order of sex. /o\
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Uh, this is waaaaay more explicit than anything I have ever written before, in like, ever.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: I am sorry it takes so long to get to the actual porn. Dean wouldn't shut up. *shrug*
Neurotic Author's Note #4: Many thanks to pkwench who took time out of her busy day to glance over this and reassure me that I shouldn't metaphorically burn this and then maybe quit writing forever, and to elsewhere_kels for holding my hand while I whined at her about this story. ;)
:::ETA::: This story is now available in Russian, translated by the talented rahnieda_m. You can get it here.
It’s not that Dean doesn’t look forward to Cas’ visits, when he bothers to think about it at all. That’s really not it. Cas is his friend, is more than his friend if you count the whole gripped-you-tight-and-raised-you-from-perdition thing, although Dean isn’t quite sure where that actually goes on the whole friendship scale. Somewhere higher than ‘good friend,’ but maybe somewhere below ‘soulmates,’ if you can even quantify that, and he’s not sure that he even wants to try. It seems kind of rude, ungrateful, even, to try to fit that sort of thing to a scale. After all, Cas gave up more than any human being could ever hope to imagine -his grace and his brothers and all that-, and all because a couple of guys decided that Heaven was wrong. It’s kind of humbling, being the root cause of that, and it raises a whole bunch of vaguely uncomfortable questions and feelings. Dean doesn’t really like those feelings, so he tries not to think about it. And, yeah, sometimes it even works.
Mostly, though, he feels kind of confused about Castiel’s visits. When he bothers to think about them, which, you know, isn’t all that often. Not really, depending on your definition of ‘often.’ Sure, Cas is his friend, but he’s also an unimaginably powerful angel, and he’s fighting a war, which he never ceases to point out every single time he comes, just in case they forgot, or something. And Dean kind of feels bad about that too, because the truth is that he does forget, because when Cas isn’t around all he can really think of is that he kind of misses when Cas was just a little nerdy fallen angel in a rumpled trench coat who’d taken to riding in the back seat of the Impala with him and Sam. It was nice, having the three of them together: him, Cas and Sam, Team Free Will, all for one and one for all and all that crap. Except Cas is too busy to do that anymore, and when he does come he always seems kind of pissed off and… well, stressed. If angels can get stressed out, which Dean really isn’t very sure about.
And then there was that one time Castiel told him that he wished he could be here, with them, even though Sam’s a soulless robot and Dean’s kind of hanging onto his sanity by his fingernails and several bottles of bourbon. He was pretty sure they were having a moment, there, if Dean Winchester can be said to have moments, and he generally doesn’t think he does, although there were a few times with Lisa which he guesses might have counted, except that when he was still with her he was mostly too screwed up to enjoy much of it. He'd tried to make up for it with mind-blowing oral sex, but he was pretty sure she saw right through it ―even if she appreciated his efforts― because she's always been pretty perceptive... Anyway, moment. Or he might just have been imagining the moment, and wouldn’t that just take the cake?
So, long story short, Dean doesn’t even know what the hell anymore, and it’s not like he’s got anyone who can give him advice on how to deal with being lonely for a guy who was an angel, became almost human, was your friend, and now got promoted to being a bigger, better angel and is still sort of your friend except for how he’s never there anymore and only comes when he thinks you’ve got something of strategic importance in his war, and often in the same breath accuses you of being too self-centred because you’re worried about your brother who sacrificed his soul in order to save the world. He can’t talk about it with Bobby, because the very thought makes him shudder, and whereas he might maybe once upon a time have worked up the nerve to maybe broach the subject with Sam, there’s no way he’s risking that now. For one thing, he’s pretty sure that Replicant Sam would just tell him that he and Cas need to fuck and get it out of their systems, or something, like it’s no big deal that Dean is fucking pining for an angel of the Lord. Pining, fuck.
He needs a drink.
He’s in the process of pouring his third drink -or it might be his fourth, but he decides to err on the side of caution and call it his third, just in case he decides to have another, which would make it a nice round number- when a familiar displacement of air and the sensation of someone standing right behind his shoulder makes him jump and choke on his shot of Jack’s.
“Cas,” he wheezes, and is pretty proud that he can manage even that one syllable.
“Hello, Dean.”
He swallows, mops at his streaming eyes. “Yeah, the Jack-in-the-box thing. Haven’t missed that, at least.”
“I don’t follow.”
Dean motions in a vague circle with the hand that’s not holding his glass. “You know, pop-goes-the-weasel. You, and the poofing, or whatever. And the total disregard for personal space.”
“You are comparing me to a toy intended to startle children?”
Cas makes a face that’s perilously close to one of Sam’s bitchfaces, which makes Dean’s heart clench unexpectedly, homesick and really happy all at once, because time was he could count on seeing Cas make a face like that at least once a day.
“Uh… when you put it that way…”
But Cas doesn’t step away the way he usually does, and now that Dean isn’t choking on his whiskey anymore he finds he’s up close and personal with the angel’s very blue eyes, boring straight through him. He squirms under the scrutiny. The only other times Cas has ever been quite this far into his personal space, he was shoving him bodily up against one wall or another and reminding Dean very forcefully that there was no question of who might smite whom, if it came down to it. Traitorous as always, it’s right now that his dick decides that that is a really, really interesting thought, and perks up in order to better appreciate the proceedings. Apparently, he kind of likes being shoved against walls, not that he’s ever let himself think that far ahead before. Fuck. He manages not to close his eyes, but can’t quite help swallowing. At some point, he decides, he and Dean Jr. are going to have to have a long, serious talk about when it is and isn’t appropriate to… oh.
Cas’ hand is on his arm, now, and that has seriously short-circuited what feels like a bunch of very important wiring in Dean’s head and apparently re-wired it all to go straight to his dick, raising goosebumps all over his body on the way there. Dean swallows again, and makes a valiant attempt to rally himself.
“So, uh… what brings you, Cas?”
“You have repeatedly expressed the desire that I come more often.”
His mouth has gone dry, but Dean swallows again anyway. “So… no heavenly tactical nukes to worry about? No archangels about to make an appearance in order to smite us? You don’t have Crowley hidden under your trench coat, do you?” he’s babbling, but it’s better than anything else he’s thought of so far.
There’s a wry tilt to Castiel’s mouth, and the thought of just bending his head forward and licking it flits through Dean’s mind. “No.”
He tries to take a step backward, and the backs of his legs collide with the bed. He flails for balance, and ends up with a fistful of Castiel’s trench coat while his empty tumbler of whiskey falls -mercifully unbroken- to the carpeted floor, and seemingly by reflex Castiel’s other hand snakes out to catch him by the shoulder before he falls backward.
“You -you came just because I asked?”
“Yes, Dean.”
Castiel looks at once amused and exasperated, and at a few inches away the expression is doing really bad -or really good, depending on your perspective- things to Dean’s dick, which is straining so hard that he’s frankly a little shocked he hasn’t busted right through the zipper of his jeans. He can’t possibly be misinterpreting what’s going on, here. If this were anyone else, there would be no question at all about what’s going on. You don’t crowd into a guy’s space like that and shove your knee between his legs -and, oh, yeah, that’s definitely Cas’ knee far too close to somewhere that could end up awkward for everyone if this turns out not to be what Dean thinks it is- unless you intend something pretty serious. Except that this is Castiel he’s talking about, and he’s got to be the most repressed, clueless angel Dean has ever met, and since Dean has actually met a few and slept with one, that’s saying something.
He clutches a little harder at Cas’ trench coat. “Cas, are you -are we?”
Castiel makes an impatient noise in his throat, and Dean bucks slightly in his grip at the sound. “Did I misinterpret your interest?”
That’s it. “Fuck no,” he breathes, can’t help the grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth.
It’s not far, but Dean manages to lunge at Cas anyway, catching the lips he’s been fantasizing about in a kiss. It’s awkward at first -Cas’ lips are dry against his and, and Dean finds that he’s oddly hesitant still, after all this. Then Cas lets his lips part, allowing him access, and Dean twists his hand in the ever-present necktie and uses it as leverage to pull Cas toward him until they’re both sprawled o the bed. There’s a moment in which they have to scramble to sort themselves out, legs tangling together, hindered by the presence of the trench coat, and Dean almost laughs at the slightly shocked expression on Cas’ face when he pulls him in for another kiss, allowing himself to linger, now that he’s no longer in danger of falling on his face. He shoves his own thigh between Cas’ legs, finds exactly what he was hoping to find there, and suddenly there are far too many clothes separating him from the angel.
“This,” he murmurs against Cas’ lips, tugging the trench coat over his shoulders and down his arms, “Has to. Come off. Now!”
Obediently Cas wriggles to pull his arms out of the sleeves, breaking off the kiss with a small moan, and damn if that doesn’t make Dean want to just rip the rest of the fabric away. He kicks the coat to the floor, doesn’t bother to look to see where it lands. Cas’ lips are red from the kiss, slightly swollen, his hair sticking up a little wildly already, although they’ve barely started anything. He looks… wanton, Dean thinks breathlessly, heart hammering in his ribcage as his fingers fumble with the buttons of Cas’ dress shirt, and it’s all because of him. The shirt falls open, held in place only by the tie, and Dean leans in to suck at Cas’ neck, right by his Adam’s apple. He’s rewarded by a full-body shudder, and Cas tilts his head back to give him better access, groaning in a way that threatens to make Dean come in his pants like a horny teenager when Dean flicks experimentally at an exposed nipple with his fingernail, enjoying the way it hardens under his touch.
“You like that, huh?” he asks, working his teeth along Cas’ neck, wishing he could take the time to appreciate the sight of the red marks he’s leaving behind.
He rubs the pad of his thumb against the nipple, rolls it between his fingers, and is rewarded with a low moan of pleasure from Cas. Encouraged, he lowers his head, applies his tongue to the reddening surface, pulls back and blows gently, only to have Cas whine and buck a little beneath him, and the enormity of what he’s doing washes over him like a cold wave.
“Cas, are you… what are -is this okay?”
He remembers with sudden clarity having to explain the porn on television to Castiel in what may well be the most awkward ten minutes of their lives. Remembers -far too late, apparently- that Cas was a virgin, the last time he checked, and that in this of all things their relationship might definitely not be one of equals. It’s not like Cas is unwilling -God, does he ever seem willing- but this, this is one of those important, life-changing sorts of things. Dean's all for seizing the moment, but he doesn't know if Cas even knows what he's consenting to, and he pulls up, hands braced to either side of Cas' head, breathing hard.
“Cas?”
Castiel stares up at him, eyes wide and impossibly blue, and Dean sort of forgets how to breathe for a minute until Cas fucking growls at him and flips him easily onto his back. “Now, Dean Winchester,” he says, tugging at the hem of Dean's t-shirt, and Dean immediately lifts his arms to allow him to pull it off entirely, “is not the time to be second-guessing me. You are wearing entirely too many clothes.”
He half-expects Cas to just snap his fingers and make the clothes vanish, but apparently that's a misuse of heavenly-bestowed powers or something, because Cas' hands are at his belt, unbuckling it, fingers moving confidently along his fly, and the next thing Dean knows he's shimmying out of his jeans, and there's nothing left between his aching cock and the outside world except his boxers, damp from where he's been leaking against them for the past several minutes. It's hard with Cas straddling his thighs, but he manages to toe off his shoes so that his jeans slide the rest of the way off, puddling on the floor at the foot of the bed. Cas is staring at him with a look of intense fascination, as though Dean is the best thing he's seen in centuries. He palms Dean's cock through the thin cotton, his hands warm and confident, and it's Dean's turn to buck up against him, suddenly desperate for friction, and he fucking whines in a way that would be entirely humiliating if he was with anyone else right now.
“God, Cas, please...”
They're not even five minutes in and Cas already has him writhing and begging, and he's not sure how he ended up entirely naked while the angel still has most of his clothes, even if his shirt is open, tie hanging askew, and it's hotter than it has any right to be. His boxers are gone, and the feeling of soft fingers against the over-sensitised skin of his cock has his eyes rolling back in his head. Cas' tongue darts out over his lips, wetting them in a way that makes Dean feel like he might spontaneously combust at any second, and he reaches up, groping blindly until he's got a hold of part of Cas' shirt, and tries to pull him closer, to take back a little of the control he somehow lost here, because it's all a little too intense, having Cas looking at him like that while he takes him apart with just a few touches.
But Cas doesn't want to be yanked or pulled or tugged, and there is absolutely squat Dean can do about it. Instead he crawls up along Dean's body to whisper in his ear, breath hot and urgent, his voice a low growl that vibrates all the way down to Dean's toes.
“What do you want, Dean?”
He doesn't know what he wants, and that's the problem. He wants Sam back and he wants Cas back ―not that he ever had Cas to begin with― and he wants things to be how they were, except that that was a hot mess anyway. And right now all his wants is Cas to touch him and maybe never stop, because he doesn't remember the last time he's felt this alive, like electricity is running just below the surface of his skin. His mouth opens, throat working convulsively, but he can't manage much more than a strangled moan, and his hips lift toward Castiel, as though trying to answer for him since his brain appears to be off-line.
“You want this?” Cas asks, and he nods a little frantically.
“Cas...” he finds his voice. “Are you sure you ―oh, fuck!”
Dean bashes his head painfully against the headboard as Cas, who's been mouthing his way down his chest, suddenly bites on his nipple, not quite hard to break the skin but enough to hurt, and God it's fucking electrifying, and it's only because Cas is holding him down that he doesn't come right off the bed. His fingers grip at the bed, gathering fistfuls of sheets, and the next thing he knows is he's being enveloped in wet heat, Cas tongue working at the underside of his cock, hands pressing hard against Dean's hips to keep him still, and the last conscious thought he has is to wonder where the fuck Cas learned to do this. After that it's all hot and Cas and good and oh fucking Christ! in a permanent loop in his mind, until he's coming so hard that white flashes behind his eyes.
He regains his senses to find Cas lying beside him, trailing fingers along his chest and kissing gently behind his jaw, as though Dean might be the most precious, delicate thing he's ever laid hands on. Cas can destroy him without breaking a sweat, and the gentleness of the caress makes him shiver and his eyes sting, and he blinks hard, hoping Cas hasn't noticed, but of course Cas has.
“I thought you were a virgin,” he chokes out after a moment. It's the most acceptable compromise he can come up with. Otherwise the words that want to spill out are please don't leave me, and don't let go, ever, please, God, and he doesn't think he'd ever live that down.
Cas doesn't stop what he's doing, letting his hands drift possessively over Dean's body, and damn if that isn't making his dick twitch a little, and Dean isn't exactly twenty anymore, to have that kind of turnaround time. “Dean,” he growls, “don't assume that because I lack a small modicum of human experience, that it automatically follows that I don't know what I'm doing.”
Dean opens his mouth, then twitches and lets out a muted whimper as Cas does something really awesome with his hands. “No assuming. Got it.”
Cas draws him into his arms, hands caressing over his shoulders and down his back, pulling him so close that they're pressed together, chest to chest, Dean's thighs over Castiel's, and he can feel Cas' erection against the inside of his thigh, hard and hot and insistent. Dean's already starting to breathe hard again, blood roaring in his ears, and he never wants Cas to take his hands off him ever again: everything's a little too loud, a little too bright, a little too much, and he never wants it to stop. Before he even knows what he's doing he finds himself kissing Cas again as though his life depends on it, chasing his own slightly bitter taste in the angel's mouth, hands roaming down Cas' chest, fumbling with his belt buckle and zipper, slipping his hand down to wrap a hand around Castiel's length, hot and a little surprising, even if it's not nearly the first time Dean's had his hand on a guy's dick ―his own or someone else's. Cas' tongue flickers against his, and the angel moans into his mouth as Dean finally gets with the program and starts to stroke and twist and pull. He's getting hard again, incredibly enough, and no matter how hungrily he applies himself to kissing Cas and getting him off at the same time, it's not nearly enough, not nearly close enough.
“Cas... please... want you to...” he has to stop for air, isn't sure he remembers how to breathe. “Come on!”
It's like nothing he's ever experienced before. There have been a few times before, sure, some of them even pretty good when they weren't just quick-and-dirty in the men's room in some dive bar, and Dean has never been above switching it up, but this, this is Cas, and that makes everything different. He never does figure out how the angel manages to get his hands on lube without Dean's ever noticing, but within seconds he's beyond caring as Cas slips first one finger inside him, then two, never breaking off their kiss, and fuck if that thought doesn't make Dean's dick jump right from half-mast to full so fast it takes his breath away with a strangled moan.
Cas adds a third finger, and if Dean were still capable of coherent thought he'd be wondering just how the hell Cas knows how to move his fingers in that exact way to make him nearly bite off his own tongue. No one has ever taken this much care with him before, and soon he's clinging to Cas' shoulders with both hands, fingers digging in so hard that they would leave bruises on anyone else, each breath hitching and sobbing as Cas hits that same spot over and over, making his back arch with need.
“Fuck, Cas, please... Fucking... losing my mind... just fucking please!”
He whimpers at the sudden loss of sensation, but Cas just kisses him harder and lifts him up as though he weighs nothing at all, giving Dean all the room he could possibly want or need to position himself. He lets himself slide back down as soon as he feels the head of Castiel's cock nudging at him, as fast as he can manage, and Cas rolls his hips as soon as he feels Dean is settled, setting up a rhythm that's just short of punishingly fast. Dean's cock is trapped between them, the friction wonderful but not enough, and he lets his head fall back, eyes closed, seeing sparks every time Cas pushes against his prostate. Distantly he's aware that he's still talking, babbling pleas and nonsense and cursing and finally repeating Castiel's name like a mantra while the angel takes him apart, piece by piece, until he's nothing but a shivering mess, held together only by Cas' hands on his back, keeping him in place.
He feels Cas shudder under him, breaking the rhythm, the movement of his hips becoming erratic, a little more eager, and he tries to clench his muscles, moves down to meet him, urging him along until Cas climaxes with a sighing moan against his lips. He rides him through the aftershocks, still murmuring whatever incoherent nonsense pops into his head. Cas' hand wraps itself around his dick, and it only takes a couple of sure, twisting strokes before Dean is coming for the second time, so hard he thinks he might actually pass out.
Dean collapses forward into Cas' arms, limp and unresisting when the angel bears them both back down onto the bed. Sweat and come are beginning to cool on their skin, but Dean finds he cares surprisingly little about that. Castiel hooks his knee over Dean's legs, arms wrapped around Dean's shoulders, and Dean settles contentedly there, the warmth from Castiel's body going a long way to calm the tremors still running through him. It feels nice. It's been a long time, months, since he's been held. Not that this is cuddling, or anything. But even when he was with Lisa he didn't feel safe enough to do this.
He risks opening his eyes, finds Castiel looking back at him, and almost closes them again rather than face the scrutiny, but this is kind of big, and he owes it to Cas to grow a pair, man up, and own what they've just done. “Is this okay? I mean, are we―?”
Cas smirks. Outright smirks. “I assumed it was mutually satisfactory.”
“Mutually―” Dean sputters, then dissolves into laughter, burying his face in Cas' collarbone. “You're kind of an asshole, you know that? And pushy.”
“I believe that is an integral part of why you find me attractive, is it not?” Cas manages to tilt his head even while lying on a pillow, which takes some doing. “Am I wrong in thinking you want to pursue this?”
Dean shoves at him, wriggling until he gets more comfortable. “Just don't expect compliments or flowers or shit like that, okay?” It's as much of an admission as he's willing to give.
“I don't think flowers would survive the journey, and I don't require compliments.”
“Low-maintenance. I like that,” Dean mumbles, eyelids drooping.
“Dean.”
“Hmm?”
“Go to sleep.”
“Pushy.”
But for the first time in three and a half years, Dean sleeps through the night.