It’s Dean’s idea, so he’s pretty sure right up until it happens that it’s all gonna go up in flames. Cas is gonna flip out and try to kill him, or he’s gonna do something wrong and they’ll just end up laughing at each other, or—
Well, it doesn’t go up in flames.
The line of Cas’ throat gleams in the light from Dean’s bedside lamp. His eyes are dark already; the muscles in his arms stand out as he props himself up on his elbows. “Go ahead,” he says.
Dean drags his gaze away from the cut of Cas’ hipbones rising above the waistband of borrowed jeans. “I, uh.”
Cas huffs an irritated breath. “You started it,” he points out.
And okay, that’s true, sort of.
Cas technically started it by being the one to crinkle his forehead and stare at Dean when Dean clasped his shoulder and didn’t let go. He’d drift at mealtimes, his thumb stroking the handle of his fork, and he wouldn’t come back to them until Dean kicked him under the table. Dean would find him curled on the bunker couch, his breathing slow, his forehead pressed against his denim-clad knees.
“I gotcha,” Dean says, regrouping. “Hang on, just—keep still.”
“I have been,” Cas says, heaving a sigh. “I agreed to this. I want to do it.”
Dean doesn’t answer. Cas’ nipples are pink, peaked with the slight chill in the air. Dean pulls himself up the length of Cas’ body, thighs around Cas’ waist, and leans down. He drags his teeth against one, then the other, grins around the faint salt taste of skin when Cas sucks in a sharp breath. He sounds startled.
“This okay?” Dean curls his fingers against the taut stretch of Cas’ stomach. It’s quivering, almost undetectable.
Dean wants this to work, badly. More badly than he really wants to let himself acknowledge. He wants Cas to let go, to see him pant and squirm and kiss him like everything’s gonna be okay. They’re so damn close, something in him is gonna snap if he sees Cas lose the thread halfway through their tentative, teenagerish attempts at doing this again.
“Dean,” he’d said, little V of confusion between his brows, “of course I want you.”
“What gives?” Dean had said, being kind of a dick because he’s kind of a dick. “You don’t wanna do this, fine. Just tell me.”
Cas’ expression flickered, a split-second of darkness and irritation. “What gives is that I can’t feel you,” he gritted out. “All the things I used to, I can’t—imagine going blind and trying to watch a movie. Some of it’s still there, but it’s not the same.”
“I’m right here, man.”
“But I can’t—” Cas had closed his eyes, pressed his knuckles to his temple. “Your soul. I miss it, and I never even got to—to touch you when I could—”
Oh, shit, Dean had thought, I’ve gotta figure out how to fix this.
That’s where Dean got this weird plan in the first place.
“Yeah,” Cas says now, breathless. “Okay so far. Don’t stop there.”
Dean’s resolved to be careful. He drops an open-mouthed kiss to Cas’ collarbone, slides his nose against the darkening stubble of his throat and jaw, traces the angle of his hipbone with the tips of two fingers. Cas’ skin is warm, shifting subtly under his palms, responsive.
He can tell the exact damn second when he loses Cas. Cas stills, his breathing slows. When Dean looks up, his fingers hooked through Cas’ waistband, Cas’ eyes are open but he’s not looking at anything. He’s staring through the ceiling.
Dean clears his throat and sits up. It’s just one of Sam’s old scarves, dark blue and ratty, and Cas gives him a small smile when he tips Cas’ head up to tie it around his eyes.
“Hey, so.” Dean swallows, feeling like an idiot. Cas’ face moves to track his voice, and the churning in his gut settles. “Just… I dunno, try and focus on how it feels, y’know? In your body, when I touch you, okay?”
Cas licks his lips. Under the strip of cloth, his mouth stands out red and tempting. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Dean says. Cas’ lap is an easy seat; he plants himself there, fits their mouths together, and he feels it deep in his chest when Cas groans and responds. When Cas sighs into his open mouth, shifting his hips, and relaxes back against his pillow.
Dean takes that as permission. “I’m here,” he says into the corner of Cas’ mouth. Cas’ fingers flutter where he’s touching Dean’s thigh. “I’m here,” Dean says again, bending to his work.
He keeps talking as he goes, stroking Cas’ ribcage, the muscle of his thigh, the rise and fall of his chest. “Pay attention,” he murmurs when he closes his teeth around Cas’ nipple. “How does that feel?”
“It…” Cas pauses, and Dean would bet cash money that he’s frowning, looking irritated. “It hurts, but it’s not—not bad. I’m not sure why.”
“Mmhmm.” Dean drags his knuckles against the slow beginnings of an erection starting in Cas’ jeans. “Human bodies are friggin’ weird, y’know.”
The way Cas’ breath trips over itself seems to agree with him. “That,” he says, “definitely feels good.”
Dean grins and thumbs Cas’ jeans open. “Welcome to your dick,” he says.
It’s more intoxicating than slamming back shots, better than the strongest weed on the planet. Cas whines, rough and demanding, and arches into the tentative curl of Dean’s fingers. His dick is filling, blood-warm and almost escaping the fly of his boxers.
Cas makes a harsh sound, sucking in one long breath. “Dean. Fuck.”
“Yeah, hopefully,” Dean says, rubbing his mouth against the sweat collecting at Cas’ temple. Good, simple, human. “This okay? You feelin’ it?” He slips his hand into Cas’ underwear and scrapes his nails, careful, along the smooth weight of Cas’ half-erection.
“Dean,” Cas says again, deadly fucking serious, and he sits up to practically smash his face into Dean’s, all hot breath and sharp teeth and clumsy searching, and Jesus, it’s inelegant and ridiculous and Cas practically bites Dean’s nose off and Dean just moans, rolls his hips into Cas’, and kisses him back.
Things go pretty damn okay after that. Dean wrestles out of his T-shirt, hauls Cas out of his pants and his boxers and doesn’t even bother with Cas’ socks. He looks like a drunk teenager as he struggles out of his own jeans, but Cas can’t see, and all he can see is Cas’ dick flushed and gorgeous, hard and waiting, making Dean’s whole body itch with the things he wants to do to it.
“Hey, so.” He buries his face in the crook of Cas’ neck and shoulder and sucks a careful bruise into the tanned skin. “So, shit, I don’t know what you wanted to—”
Cas’ voice is so low it practically creaks. “You. Don’t let me lose you, okay?”
“Okay,” Dean promises, “okay.” He didn’t know what to prepare for, so he prepared for everything. Hey, thanks, yesterday Dean, he sends up as he ferrets the embarrassing little tube of lube out of the bedside table.
His fingers are cold, and he bites back a yelp that makes Cas stiffen, grabbing for Dean’s wrist. “What are you—”
“Cas,” Dean breathes, rocking into the tentative pressure of his own finger, to the first knuckle and then the second. “You can do this next time, okay?”
“Oh.” Cas sounds awed, and his chin tips up, precome slicking its way down his dick. “Yes. I want to open you up for me.”
Jesus. “Like you’re not,” Dean says, and when he sinks down onto the second finger he’s already wishing it was Cas. Already thinking about long fingers, big and capable and deadly, stroking deftly at his prostate, making him whimper and resist the impulse to beg.
Cas’ tongue darts out to moisten his lips again. “I’ll be gentle.”
Dean almost laughs, but the crook of his fingers inside is making everything spark white-hot in his vision. “I know, Cas. Next time, man, I mean it.”
He’s impatient as hell, working at himself maybe too fast, three fingers a breathless stretch, all his attention fixed to the angle of Cas’ jaw, the way Cas keeps moving restlessly against the comforter like he literally can’t wait to get this show on the road. When Dean rolls the condom on, Cas makes a guttural sound that shouldn’t, should goddamn not be sexy.
It sucks all the purpose out of Dean’s muscles and he swallows hard.
“Okay,” Dean says, pretending like he’s still got control over this situation. “Just, ah, say the word if you’re not digging it.”
“What’s the word,” Cas says flatly, “for put me inside you before I fall apart?”
Dean’s scrambling into place, his fist around the base of Cas’ erection, coarse hairs scratching at his hand, before he can answer. “That was it,” he says, and he guides Cas’ dick in.
Cas’ spine curves. His hips lift. He slides home, just like that.
“Ah, Dean.” Cas’ voice is threadbare. Desperate.
Dean’s barely better off. He moves from side to side, testing, stretched and panting and full. “Got you,” he gasps. The pain’s distant, fading fast, and better than that is the surety of Cas’ thighs flush against his ass, the so-good-it-hurts strain of his own dick against the curve of his belly.
“I—” Cas’ throat works. When he sinks back against the memory foam, Dean goes with him, chasing the heavy solidity that is Cas inside him.
“Got you,” Dean repeats. For a passing second, he wishes he could see Cas’ eyes. He swipes his thumb across the swell of Cas’ bottom lip instead and leaves it there to feel the flutter of warm breath.
“Fuck,” Cas says one more time, heartfelt. “You feel—”
He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t need to. Dean rolls his hips and Cas moans, all scratchy gravel from the back of his throat. Cas’ hands flex against the sheets and then he reaches for Dean, palm uncertain against the meat of Dean’s thigh until Dean grabs his hand and squeezes.
“Like I said.” Dean laces their fingers together. He grips hard.
There’s the leverage he needs. Dean draws a shuddering inhale, hangs on tight to Cas’ hand, and digs his toes into the sheets while he works himself on the perfect length of Cas’ dick. Cas is all tension and parted lips under him, every breath a rattling wheeze. He rocks unevenly into Dean; the angle is sort of weird, the rhythm is fucked, and Dean bites his lip and throws his head back and fucking loves it.
They move together, uncertain until they’re not, until the plump head of Cas’ dick drags its way across the bundle of nerves that makes Dean arch and whine. Until Cas drags Dean down closer, kissing him wide open and eager, and their bare chests brush and Dean’s nipples catch against Cas’ and he braces himself until all they’re doing is rolling their hips together, tiny movements that send fireworks, pure unbearable lightning, skittering up and down every damn vein in Dean’s body.
“I can,” Cas says, his fingers twisting tight in Dean’s hair, “I can feel it.”
“Mmph?” Dean bites Cas’ lip, sucks on his tongue, and wonders how soon he can get his hand around his dick.
“Your soul,” Cas says, sounding like he’s about to cry. Dean’s never even seen this guy cry.
Dean slows for a moment—only a moment, because Cas tightens his grip on Dean’s hand and he can’t, can’t resist Cas’ need. “That’s not,” he manages, “it’s just sex, I don’t—”
“No.” Cas is fierce, certain. “It’s leaking out of your skin. Can’t you see it?”
“It’s beautiful,” Cas assures him, and kisses him.
Soon, embarrassingly soon, Dean’s bucking up into his own palm, Cas’ mouth open against his cheek. He’s close, teeth digging into his lip, but it’s not until the deep pulse of Cas coming inside him that he feels the orgasm pulling its way out of him. It’s raw and nearly painful, come spilling too-hot into his fist and Cas nuzzling blindly at his throat, his collarbone, his swollen mouth.
For a horrible and long moment after, Cas is still. Dean’s so sure he’s gone again, slipping into his own world of disconnected grief—until Cas smiles, a crooked little thing. It makes Dean’s heart slam into his chest.
“Thank you,” Cas tells him.
“Whoa.” Dean yanks the blindfold away and Cas’ eyelashes flutter, dark sweeps against his cheeks, until his eyes open. Some anxiety Dean hadn’t even noticed quells at the wide black pupils and the ring of bright blue fixed on his face. “Don’t thank me.”
“Too late.” Cas runs gentle fingers through Dean’s sweaty hair. “Don’t move.”
Dean pulls a face. “I have to.”
Cas hums under his breath. “Fine,” he says, “as long as you come back.”
The thrum of his heart subsiding into a nearly foreign contentment, Dean presses the pad of his thumb to the bridge of Cas’ nose between his eyes. “Same to you.”