“You had a full heat?”
“How many hours?”
“It was a little over two days, I think.”
“Closer to forty-eight hours or sixty?”
Castiel was sitting in the padded plastic chair of his doctor’s office, answering her clipped questions with increasing brusqueness. She hadn’t looked up from her clipboard since the moment she’d entered the room. She wasn’t an ideal GP – she was a woman, for one thing – but it wasn’t easy to find an omega specialist, not even in the city.
Doctors, the unhelpful part of his brain supplied. If I waltzed in twenty-five minutes late to a meeting, there’d be actual consequences.
“Closer to sixty.”
“Mated, I assume?” Not being a were herself, she couldn’t sense the minute differences in scent that marked a mated omega.
“No,” Castiel answered, too quickly. “Well, sort of.”
“Not mated-mated,” he clarified. “No blood bond. Just a short-term thing.”
“Hmm. Brave omega.”
Castiel chose not to respond to that, and she moved on to the next question.
“Did you experience any nesting instincts?”
She cocked an eyebrow at him over her clipboard like she knew he was lying, but Castiel had an impressive poker face. He could look angelically honest if he wanted to. He wasn’t going to admit to having nested. He had some pride.
She looked down at her clipboard once more. “Well, everything seems back to normal, as far as I can tell. Your pupils aren’t dilated, your heart rate’s fine, and your pheromones are running clean. A successful heat.”
“In other words, you don’t have any idea what happened.”
She shrugged, unperturbed by his rudeness. “We’ll get the lab to take some blood samples and run the regular tests, but it all looks perfectly normal, Mr. Novak. These things do happen sometimes. Maybe it was just time for you.”
Castiel didn’t bother to hide the disdain on his face. “ ‘Just time’? That’s the best you’ve got?”
She leaned back in her own chair, unruffled. “Mr. Novak, I know that omegas like you – ”
Castiel raised his own eyebrow, and she clarified: “ – omegas who work outside the home don’t like to hear this, but nothing’s 100% effective in these situations. The drugs aren’t perfect. Your body was probably just sick of the chemicals. It can happen.”
“Fine,” Castiel said, although it was anything but. “So how soon can I go back on my suppressants?”
She looked mildly surprised. “You just mated successfully. Are you sure you – ”
“It was a weekend thing, not a lifetime commitment. How soon can I go back on them? If I wanted to, I mean. I’m curious. Would they still work?”
“Well, you’ve had a full heat – it should be fine. I’d recommend dampeners to begin with, myself, but you can go back on suppressants immediately, if you choose.”
Castiel shook his head. “No dampeners. It has to be suppressants.”
“You’re aware of the risks.”
“I’m familiar with the side-effects, yes,” Castiel said, irritated. He resisted the urge to point out that he’d been living with them for over four years, as she could obviously see from his paperwork.
“Long-term risks, Mr. Novak. Omegas who take high dosages of suppressants without interruption, as you do, face significant challenges later on in life.”
Castiel was familiar with the risks; he’d heard it all from the specialists already. Besides, the risks had never seemed important: what did he care about fertility problems and heat incompatibility? Those worries were so far removed from the life he led, they were laughable.
But there was another voice in his head now, a small slender spiral of What about Dean?
“Listen, I’m not mated and I work outside the home. End of story.”
She shrugged. “Then I’ll refill your prescription.” She looked down at her charts. “Was there anything else today? Aside from the heat issues, how are you feeling?”
How are you feeling?
It wasn’t a hard question to answer.
Dean hadn’t been wrong: Castiel was feeling better, better than he’d felt in years. Without the hormones he felt stronger, more confident, less irritable. The muscle pains and the random headaches were gone. He felt ... clearer somehow, like his body was on his side, rather than working against him.
Even now, trapped in gridlock in a hot car in the smoggy, sweltering city, he wasn’t fighting nausea or desperately kicking back ibuprofen. He was just ... fine.
Three weeks ago, he’d slipped away from nest and mate (short-term mate, he reminded himself firmly) with no hormonal after-effects, as far as he could tell. Physically parting from Dean hadn’t felt great, because yes, alright, he had nested and being with Dean was wonderful, but his body wasn’t pining. He’d been afraid he might feel a little brain-addled afterwards, but the nesting instinct had passed and left only clear, sparkling sobriety in its wake.
In conclusion, Castiel felt great.
So no, he didn’t really want to go back on his suppressants.
But he’d picked them up from the pharmacy anyways.
He looked over to the passenger’s seat, where he’d dumped the expensive glass vials. They were clattering together loosely in their bag, gently audible over the radio and the engine noise. Not surprising, since his car’s engine was remarkably quiet – he drove a sensible, fuel-efficient import.
“How can you even tell if the damn thing’s running?” Dean had asked, feigning incredulity.
“Yes, it’s ridiculous,” Castiel had responded, dryly. “You can almost hear yourself think when you drive.”
Castiel turned on the AC – another feature the impractical Impala did not have – and relaxed as he inched his way forward through the rush hour traffic.
He slipped his phone out of his pocket. Six new e-mails, all from work. Those could wait until after dinner.
Going to be late, he texted. Stuck in traffic. He paused for a moment, then: Sure glad I don’t drive stick.
He rolled his eyes when he read the responding text, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling, just a little.
Could have fooled me.
“That you, Cas?” Dean shouted from the kitchen.
“Just burglars,” Castiel shouted back, over the television noise and the sounds of Dean making dinner.
The air smelled like basil and butter and garlic bread, but those were just the one-hit wonder notes of dinner cooking. Underneath those scents, pressed into the fabric and the furniture and the walls, was Dean – arboreal and low, all dark tundra and musk. Sunny, too, but heavy. Not overpowering, not aggressive, just present.
There was nothing Castiel could do to stop the happy flutter in his chest when he inhaled: Home, home, home.
The apartment was big, open-concept and airy, with more natural wood than he’d expected to see in a building this modern. Castiel loved everything about it, but his favourite part was that you could see straight through to the kitchen from the front door, which meant that the first thing he saw when he walked in was Dean standing at the stove, back to the room and sandy head bowed.
Without turning, Dean raised his arm in a distracted greeting, focused on the task in front of him.
Castiel supposed it was because he was still in the honeymoon phase of their ... whatever this was, but he always felt a warm thrill deep inside his chest when was able to look at Dean, really look at him.
He’d already changed out of his work clothes – Dean did reluctantly wear suits on occasion – into jeans and a raggedy old T-shirt. His broad shoulders were stooped over the stove, his hips tilted as he moved his weight from one leg to another, moving instinctively with the rhythm of his work. He was an intensely physical man, precise with his body and his hands. Even his bare feet were beautiful.
Castiel didn’t keep much from Dean, but he never shared how a small part of his brain remained continually awestruck that this man had stumbled into his life and decided to stay for a while.
“Oh, goddammit,” Dean muttered, fighting with something small and fidgety on his cutting board.
Castiel smiled. “Problems?”
“No!” Dean said, waving him away with his paring knife. “Stay out. I’ve got it.”
Dean was by no means a bad cook, but of the two of them, he was definitely less competent in the kitchen. This, Dean had informed him, was a challenge. Castiel was beginning to understand that Dean took challenges seriously, and Castiel let him, because Dean did impressive things when he rose to a challenge. It was entirely possible that he’d made it to executive on a dare. It must have been that alpha confidence – sometimes Dean did things just because he believed he could. And if perfecting lasagne or grilling the superlative steak was one of these things, Castiel wasn’t about to argue.
Castiel dumped his briefcase on the cluttered desk and draped his jacket on the back of the chair that Dean had taken to referring to as “your spot, Cas,” then shoved the sweating six-pack into the fridge.
Castiel had quickly learned that even though Dean was a whiskey snob, his definition of “beer” included unconscionable things like Bud Light and Coors. The lake house was stocked with home brews from Dean’s neighbour Bobby, but if there was ever going to be good beer in the apartment, Castiel had to be the one to buy it.
Castiel grabbed a bottle and shut the fridge, then moved to where Dean was chopping basil. Castiel wasn’t a short man – he was, in fact, tall – but he was shorter than Dean and he had to stretch up a bit to hook his chin over Dean’s shoulder.
“How was the doctor’s?” Dean asked, ruffling Castiel’s hair in a way Castiel would never admit he enjoyed. There was basil on Dean’s hand, and it was almost certainly now in Castiel’s hair.
“Fantastic,” Castiel said, letting himself snuggle a little more tightly into Dean’s shoulder, arms wrapping around Dean’s middle. “I love going to the doctor.” He slipped the neck of the bottle under Dean’s shirt, using the fabric to help him twist the top off. “She slut-shamed me and everything.”
“Honey.” Dean kissed his cheek, but clumsily; he’d gone back to stirring. “Well, that’s what you get for trying to sleep your way to the top.”
Castiel pressed the cold glass of the bottle to Dean’s stomach and Dean yelped. The muscles of his back flexed against Castiel’s chest. As punishment, Dean took the bottle from Cas’s fingers and took a swig before handing it back.
“What are you making?” Castiel asked, looking down into the pan. It smelled promising.
“It’s chicken – what’s it look like?” Dean squeezed some lemon into the sauce. He kissed Castiel’s cheek again, properly this time.
“Careful – you’re burning your onions,” said Castiel, back-seat chef.
“I’m not, I’m browning them.”
“Smells like you’re burning them. They shouldn’t be going crinkly like that.”
Dean swatted him away. “Make yourself useful, go get some plates.”
“So what are you going to do?” Dean asked, as they settled down to dinner at the clean end of the table. Books and papers and pieces of Dean’s latest projects were piled up on the other two-thirds of the table’s surface.
Castiel didn’t respond right away. He didn’t want to gum up the evening with a lot of Serious Emotional Conversation, but they couldn’t avoid this one forever. Dean hadn’t said anything, but they’d both known what his visit to the doctor could mean. No sense putting it off. Castiel put down his fork, and paused.
“I know that look. Out with it.” Dean’s words were teasing, but the tone was gentle.
Castiel wasn’t prevaricating – he was gathering his thoughts. He was recalcitrant by nature and cautious by habit, but there were very few things he kept from Dean. Their relationship had begun in a place where Castiel felt too vulnerable and humiliated to be anything but honest, and there was no sense in playing coy or cautious now. Dean had already seen him at his worst.
“I don’t know,” Castiel said, speaking slowly. “I feel better without them. But it might just be because I feel better with you. And I don’t want to be with you just because the headaches are gone.”
Dean’s face twisted, the way it did when Castiel’s honesty was a little more piercing than he expected. A pause, and then Dean grinned that brilliant smile, the too-bright one that meant he was going to take refuge in levity.
“You’re worried you’re taking advantage of me?”
“It sounds stupid when you say it like that,” Castiel replied, without bristling, “but yes. I only meant that there are a lot of reasons why I don’t want to go back on the suppressants, and not all of them are ... ”
“Winchester-centric? That’s fine. You don’t want to take them, then don’t. You do what you gotta do.”
“But this concerns you, too. Aren’t you even the slightest bit worried I might be staying with you for – ” Castiel grasped for words that Dean wouldn’t make sound ridiculous.
“For what, ulterior motives? Something other than my amazing ass? Nope. Gold-digging’s not your style.”
Castiel rolled his eyes. “I didn’t mean that, I just – So you’re not worried I’ll bail on my meds and you’ll be stuck with some grumpy, hormone-sick omega?”
“You think if you go off them I’ll feel pressured to mate you.” Dean said it in that tone he sometimes got in meetings, when he wanted to pare down to the bone of the conversation fast.
Castiel stopped short. In the three weeks they’d been dating, neither of them had mentioned the “m” word.
Dean was watching him intently. Outside of heat, Castiel usually had no problem meeting Dean’s gaze, but he dropped his eyes now.
Castiel knew that Dean had been waiting for him to bring up the subject in his own time, hadn’t wanted to pressure him. Dean hadn’t asked any of the obvious questions (Why hadn’t Castiel asked yet? Weren’t omegas the ones who wanted the security of the mating bond? What was wrong with Castiel, why not Castiel?) but just because Dean wasn’t asking didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about it. Why, Dean must be wondering, was Castiel silently digging in his heels on this?
“Would you feel pressured?”
Dean moved to rest his head on his hand, but his eyes stayed focused on Castiel’s face. “That’s not the question I thought you were going to ask me.”
Cas nodded. “I know.”
Please don’t ask. Please don’t make me answer.
“I know you’re worried about pressuring me, Cas – which is totally weird, by the way, it’s usually the other way around – but you’re not. I promise. You won’t make me feel guilty or unchivalrous or whatever.”
Castiel groaned. “Dean, I’m being serious!”
“So am I,” said Dean with a shrug, endlessly patient. “Just relax. You sort through your shit, take as much time as you need, and I’ll be here when you’re done.”
“It worries me that you’re not worried.”
“You worry too much,” he said, draining Castiel’s beer and heading to the fridge to grab two more.
Castiel tried very hard not to feel that Dean was dismissing him. Dean wasn’t, he knew. But he just thought everything was so ... so easy. It was his alpha confidence, that privileged bubble where he never considered worrying about these things, because he never had to. Or maybe Castiel was just being defensive again. Who knew.
“Seconds?” Dean asked.
Castiel turned to look where his alpha was standing in front of the stove. How was it, he wondered, that Dean could look equally at home in a board room and in the kitchen. Castiel smiled, and accepted the change in conversation.
“Sure. Hit me.”
After dinner, Castiel went to the bathroom, beer in hand. He lined the vials up on the counter next to the sink and unscrewed the caps. The formula was completely scentless.
“It doesn’t smell like anything. It’s strange. I’ve never understood it.”
“You don’t have to go off them,” Dean said, leaning against the doorframe behind him. His scent carried a touch of nervousness. He was clearly feeling apologetic, afraid he’d been too cavalier about this.
Dean never wavered from his official policy, which was that Castiel Did as Castiel Pleased, but Castiel knew Dean wasn’t keen on the hormones. Dean understood theoretically why an omega might choose to remain on hormones he or she was dating, but they weren’t necessary, not if ...
Not if you’re mated.
“I already am off them, technically,” Cas said mildly, running through the mental pros and cons list he’d been constructing over the past three weeks.
“Then there’s no reason you shouldn’t go back on, if you want to.”
That “if you want to” hung in the air. It wasn’t an accusation, Castiel knew: Dean was just being conscientious, making sure he knew all his options were open.
Castiel met Dean’s eyes through the mirror. “If I go back on them, you know it’s nothing to do with you, right?”
Dean ducked his head, the way he sometimes did when there was emotional honesty involved. There was a lot Castiel didn’t know about Dean yet, but he suspected that little gesture had something to do with the father. “Cas. You don’t have to be a slave to your heat for us to work. I want you to do what’s good for you.”
Castiel nodded. He knew Dean meant what he said.
Headaches or heat, headaches or heat?
You worry too much.
“Here,” said Dean with a frown, “you don’t have to decide tonight.”
Castiel smiled to see Dean looking so concerned, and realized he’d already made his decision. He’d made it days ago. He gathered the vials in one hand and unceremoniously dumped them down the sink. “They don’t have a long shelf life. No sense saving them,” he explained, as he began to rinse out the glass containers.
He put them back in the bag when he was done. “We can recycle those,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel.
Despite his bravado, he felt a little raw, all of a sudden. Dean was watching him, expression carefully neutral.
“Okay,” Dean said.
“Okay.” Dean gently pulled him in by the hips and kissed him.
Not light, not tentative – solid, affirmative. Dean was as tactile with his lips as he was with his hands, and he knew Castiel didn’t like butterfly teases when he was feeling ... well, like this. He kissed him like it wasn’t a regular Tuesday and they weren’t standing barefoot in the bathroom.
Castiel let the momentum of Dean’s body press him back into the counter, let the rhythm of Dean’s breathing become his own. Castiel wasn’t particularly small or light, but Dean tightened his hands behind Castiel’s thighs and hefted him onto the counter without a second’s hesitation.
Castiel spread his legs, let them relax around Dean’s hips as Dean’s hands settled low on his spine.
“Big decision. Not freaked out about it?”
“Give me some time to get used to it,” Castiel admitted, “but I think we’re alright.”
“I hoped you’d stay off them,” Dean breathed, “but if it doesn’t work out like you want it to, you go back on them and we’ll figure out something else.”
Castiel nodded. Dean made this so easy.
Dean pulled back a little, but his hips stayed anchored in the cradle of Castiel’s thighs. “I mean it, Cas,” he said, trying for stern.
“I know you do,” said Castiel, smiling, because he did. “I know.” With his legs still wrapped lazily around Dean’s hips, he stretched his shoulders; he hadn’t realized how tense they’d been since the doctor’s. “I think I’m going to go for a walk.”
“Sounds good,” said Dean, pulling back and giving him space. He recognized that look; Castiel needed some time with his own thoughts.
The walk calmed him down. Castiel was off his hormones officially now – he’d done it. It was fine. It wasn’t irreversible and he could always change his mind, but he’d committed. It was a half-step, a baby step. It was all, he reflected a little bitterly, he could do right now.
Recalling something his therapist had told him once, he tried to remember to feel good about the little victories, even the baby steps.
Night fell as he walked through the park. It was still only spring, but the city was like a heat sink and the evenings were already getting warm.
When he got back to Dean’s, he was once again at peace with the world. Shucking his coat and dropping his keys in the bowl, he was unsurprised to find Dean stretched out on the couch, beer forgotten on the table. Castiel wandered over. Dean had his official red pen out and was working his way through a report calling itself the Guidelines Implementability Appraisal. The couch was long and wide, but it wasn’t comfortable. Dean insisted that was the point: it prevented him from relaxing, kept him focused on work.
“How’s it going?”
Dean stirred. “Gross. Guidelines are gross. Appraisals are gross. ‘Implementability’ isn’t even a word. I swear to God, I thought I had people to do this for me. How you feeling?”
“Perfect. No, don’t get up.” Castiel flopped down over his legs. “You’re still working? It’s past nine.”
Castiel really did believe in maintaining a work-life balance, even if he had – up until recently – tended to spend upwards of eleven hours a day at work. But that was only because he didn’t have a life. It was actually Dean – the man with hobbies and interests and social activities – who got lost in projects and wouldn’t come up for air until days later.
It was hard to get Dean to admit to this.
It meant that Castiel had to be insistent about ground rules: they weren’t allowed to talk shop or do any work after nine.
“Ugh, you’re strict. Budge up, I’ll clear this away.”
“No, you keep doing what you’re doing,” said Castiel, changing position so that he could reach Dean’s jeans button. “Don’t let me disturb you.”
Dean raised an eyebrow as Castiel pulled the hem of Dean’s shirt up just high enough that he was able to kiss his navel.
“Cas ... ”
“Don’t mind me, get back to work,” Castiel insisted, pressing another kiss to the plane of Dean’s stomach.
At the other end of the couch, he could hear Dean settle back into his report.
He nipped at the skin that he’d revealed, careful at first, then a little sloppier, trailing kisses down and along Dean’s hipbones as one hand came up to rest, unassuming, on the denim of his crotch.
There was some interest stirring there, but that wasn’t what Castiel was going for, not yet. As his tongue laved Dean’s skin, he moved that hand down the crease to fondle Dean’s balls through the worn jeans, adding just a little more pressure than he himself would find pleasurable.
Dean let out a quiet groan. “Cas ...”
“Aren’t you working?” murmured Castiel, eyes closed, enjoying the texture of Dean’s flesh under his tongue. Dean was fit – Castiel had no idea how Dean managed to get in hours at the gym, but he did, somehow – but he wasn’t carved out of marble, and there was a little give to his stomach that Castiel found delightful.
Above him, he heard Dean sigh, then flip a page.
Slowly, because he was in no rush and he loved the smell of Dean when he was like this, his arousal beginning to gain speed but far away from peaking, he unzipped the other man’s jeans.
Dean wasn’t wearing any underwear, and he popped free of the confines of his pants with an audible sigh. Castiel continued to mouth the tender skin of his groin, inner thigh, and stomach as he pushed the soft denim out of his way, but he didn’t touch anything else, not yet. He was going to take his time with this.
Dean’s dick was dusky and straining but Castiel avoided it, planting kisses above and around while his hand squeezed his balls gently through his jeans.
Only when Dean had begun to regulate his breathing with obvious difficulty did Castiel slip a hand in and – mindful of the metal teeth of the zipper – scoop up Dean’s balls with his bare hand.
Dean’s cock jumped at the touch. It was good, but clearly not enough as Castiel began to rub them – gently at first, then more demanding as the cadence of Dean’s breath increased. The scratch of his red pen had stopped. Castiel trailed a finger delicately back down the soft, velvety skin, and then placed his first kiss at the base of Dean’s shaft.
Generally speaking, Dean was pretty good at this sort of thing – he certainly had more stamina and patience for games than Castiel did – but even pretending to be buried in his papers, he couldn’t help but buck his hips a little. Not much, because he was making an effort to stay focused, but enough that Castiel could tell this was getting to him.
He grinned, and moved his lips back up to Dean’s navel.
There was the noise of crumpling paper and a deep-throated groan of frustration.
That was the voice of a man dropping all pretence that he didn’t much care one way or another if his dick got sucked tonight. Castiel grinned, but continued his ministrations to Dean’s thighs and balls without looking up.
Castiel hadn’t brought a wealth of sexual experience or know-how to this relationship. It was safe to say that everything he knew about actively giving
another person pleasure was exclusively Dean-oriented. But this was alright, he figured, from a problem-solving perspective, because it meant that he didn’t worry about What turns alphas on? as much as What turns Dean on?, which meant that he was probably the world’s leading expert on What Dean Winchester Likes Re: Sex.
So he knew that Dean’s preferences were a little more complex than your standard “Tab A into Slot B” alpha fare. Dean liked Castiel’s hands in his hair. He liked Castiel pliant and he liked him demanding. He liked pressing Castiel into the sheets and he liked when Castiel did the same. And he liked when Castiel took initiative – encouraged it enthusiastically.
“Takes initiative” should be on my CV, Castiel thought.
Castiel wet the tip of Dean’s cock with a generous swirl of his tongue. The pre-come was bitter but Castiel didn’t swallow, just licked it around to leave the fat mushroom head glistening, then pulled away to admire his handiwork. A thin thread of saliva followed him for a moment, before it snapped against his chin. He blew gently and Dean’s cock shivered visibly.
“How’s it going up there?” Castiel asked, conversationally. He raised his head enough to see that Dean was clutching the couch cushion with one hand. His papers lay abandoned on his chest, and he was staring down at Castiel like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss him or strangle him.
It was a good look on Dean.
He let his lips ghost over the tip of Dean’s cock, press the gentlest kiss to the pretty red skin before they swallowed down – but barely, only centimetres, before they released him again.
“Cas!” Dean shifted underneath him, papers falling off him as he inched up just a little, just enough to change the angle.
“Dean. Help me out here.” Castiel swallowed the tip again, sealing his lips over it only briefly, and looked Dean dead in the eyes as he released it. Dean looked down the length of his body to Castiel, who was resolutely going no further than just the crown of his cock, and groaned.
“Cas, what the hell did I ever do to you – ”
“I need a hand,” Castiel insisted. He took the tip in his mouth again, but this time instead of sealing his lips around the fat head, he let it just rest on the bed of his tongue, wet and heavy and warm.
This time Dean got it. Adjusting his hips carefully, so that he didn’t dislodge Castiel’s frustratingly tenuous hold on his cock, he took a shaky hand and wrapped it around his shaft, fingers just brushing Castiel’s lips.
“This what you had in mind?” he murmured, as he began to stroke. On every stroke, Castiel dipped his head to follow Dean’s hand.
Castiel hummed in agreement as they began to work together.
The coordination made it impossible for Dean to speed up, and Castiel refused to slow down. He was setting an agonizingly inadequate pace, making Dean an instrument of his own torture.
“Fuck,” Dean whispered.
Castiel was trying to be careful about teeth, but he couldn’t help smiling.
For most of his adult life, Castiel had thought of sex – for himself, at least – as a regrettable biological impulse. Even though life with Dean was making him enthusiastically re-evaluate this, he sometimes forgot just how much Dean enjoyed sex. Dean enjoyed it obviously, without caveats or apologies. Dean was as honest and open about sex as he was everything else.
And it still sometimes blindsided Castiel that he was able to do this to Dean, make him whimper for it, make him bite his lip to keep from begging, like he was doing now.
It made him feel humble.
Castiel ran his nails over Dean’s thigh as he watched him through his eyelashes. His alpha was always beautiful, but he was especially beautiful like this: no show, no faking, just honest-to-God pleasure transmitting directly from his dick to the rest of his body.
Dean was getting close: his face was flushed, and his voice shuddered as he spoke. “Fuck, babe, you are such an asshole. This is – I can’t – ”
Cas popped off to murmur cheeky encouragement. “Yes, you can – go on,” he grinned, before ducking back to suck, massaging Dean’s balls with more urgency now, free hand settling on the purpling knot and pressing hard.
They were almost there; Dean’s hand was bumping against his chin with eagerness, and Dean’s hips couldn’t be reined in any longer.
“Jesus, Cas, I’m gonna – I’m gonna – ”
Castiel took pity on him at the last second, pulling off and whispering, “Okay,” and that was it – Dean pumped himself in fast, vigourous strokes, Castiel’s hands firm on his knot.
“Cas! Cas!” and he came with a groan and an arcing spurt.
Castiel caught most of it, but by the time Dean was done there was a hot stripe of come along his cheekbone and in his eyelashes, and a trickle down his lips.
Dean was panting, eyes shut, squeezing out the last tremours of his orgasm with a come-splashed hand. Eventually his hand stilled; he opened his eyes and choked out a surprised laugh. “Cas, honey, I’m sorry, I didn’t – ”
“S’okay,” interrupted Castiel with a grin, and brushed Dean’s trembling hands away. “Stay right where you are.” He slipped his lips around Dean’s cock and gently tongued the sensitive flesh, sloppy with come.
Castiel swallowed him loosely and gently, swirling his tongue in a lazy rhythm, guiding him through the sensitivity. He kept his jaw slack and his mouth loose – no pressure, no insistence, just comforting warmth and wetness.
Castiel felt Dean’s hands come in his hair as he nursed Dean’s cock. Fingers sticky with come began to stroke gently up the back of his neck, drawing out tingles wherever they touched.
Eventually, Castiel let Dean slide back to reality. With a gentle touch to Castiel’s jaw, to let him know to slip back and let go, Dean stretched with a groan. He stripped off his shirt, then pushed himself up onto one elbow and reached out with the other hand to bring Castiel up to him. Castiel rose easily, bracing his weight on an elbow and letting Dean settle him at his side, bare skin hot and flushed.
Dean kissed him messily, hand smearing the jizz on Castiel’s face. He used his shirt to clean off Cas’s cheek and jaw, then wiped his own hand. He kept kissing him, clean hand buried in Castiel’s hair, deep, full-mouthed kisses that were whole and lazy and solid.
“I hope you didn’t have any plans for that shirt,” murmured Castiel.
“You know,” said Dean absently, tossing it to the floor, “I think this is actually Sam’s?”
“I thought it was weird you had a Stanford shirt. I thought you went to Penn.”
“I did. There’s still basil in your hair.”
“There’s still come in my hair, now that you mention it.” Dean laughed and Castiel snuggled in tighter next to him, uncomfortable couch be damned.
“But you’re really feeling alright?” asked Dean, after a few moments of warm silence. Whether by accident or intent, his hand was resting against Castiel’s chest, just over his heart. Castiel could feel the heavy warmth of it against his breastbone.
Castiel grinned, because he was. “I feel great.”
That’s the problem.
Reluctant to move, but increasingly aware of the dangers of neck cricks, Castiel pushed himself off Dean and clambered to his feet. “Come on,” he said. “It’s Tuesday. No late nights tonight.”
Dean threw him a big pair of puppy eyes and looked helplessly at his report, which was now a collection of loose papers, crumpled and scattered over the floor.
“I’ll help you finish it tomorrow morning,” said Castiel, smiling. He reached out a hand and pulled Dean up. “Come on – bed for us.”