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Dean stared at the message for what felt like an eternity, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. He was distantly aware of the fact that Sam was turning words into sentences, and from the sound of his voice, frantic sentences, but still Dean’s eyes remained glued to his phone.
It was damn inconvenient to bring a cell phone on a hunt, now that Dean thought about it. Aside from the evident perks — being able to call in help, being able to locate one another if they were ever separated — they were obviously a hazard, both to Dean’s peace of mind and his physical safety.
Castiel was obviously having some kind of joke over on him. That explained it perfectly. Later on Dean would give the angel a punch on the shoulder for fucking with his head like that while he was on a hunt. But then, Dean tried to imagine Castiel making a joke, and he couldn’t do it. Grim-faced, stern, gravelly voiced Cas making a joke? A sexual joke? Cas was as serious as the plague and only marginally less deadly.
Sam shook Dean’s shoulders, leveling their faces. Given the fact that Sam was a giant, it took quite a bit of stooping on his part. “Dean! Come on! Stop playing Angry Birds and focus.”
Dean laughed, with some nervousness, and shoved his phone in his back pocket. He looked around the basement — honestly, it was always a basement, or a crawlspace, or some other dark, nasty place they had to crawl around in — and saw the sack of bones sitting in the corner. “Bitch,” Dean muttered, pushing Sam aside and pulling out his lighter, “Like you couldn't do this alone. Come on, Sammy, we saved the world, right? You're gonna shit yourself over a ghost?”
“Where were you five minutes ago?” Sam asked, “I told you those aren’t the bones we’re looking for.”
“You’re an expert on bones now,” Dean said, kneeling down beside the ruined sack. “Let’s light this bitch up and get back to the room. Striptease comes on Cinemax in an hour.”
“Those are male,” Sam said, shuffling around in the sack and pulling out a pelvic bone. Yes, most assuredly male, even Dean could see that. “Unless this girl fooled everyone, these aren't the bones we want.”
Dean rubbed his eyes. It had been a long night. Well, a long year, actually. Come to think of it, his entire life had been long and epically shitty. “We gotta find her bones then,” Dean grunted, standing up and bracing his hands on his knees. He felt like he was a thousand years old, filled with bones that were too creaky and pained to belong to a man barely into his thirties.
“Wait,” Sam said, aiming his flashlight around the basement. “Wait, man, do you hear that?”
All Dean could hear was his own breathing — and the fast beating of his heart in his ears thanks to Castiel’s random and entirely unexpected text message. “No,” he said, “We’re wasting time hanging around here. If you wanna—-”
And then Dean heard what Sam heard. It was a tiny noise, nothing that should have given either of them pause. And yet it did, because it sounded like scratching. Behind the walls. Mice, Dean thought, but he knew instantly that wasn’t the case. The hair stood up on the back of his neck, and his arms were covered with gooseflesh.
He was reminded of the time he and Sam had gotten arrested and he'd been about to be charged with murder. The spirit had wanted to lead him to her body, to show him how to help her. It was a strange kind of intuition, but it wasn’t one that Dean felt like ignoring. What he felt like ignoring was that text message, and the thought of Castiel waiting for a reply.
Dean moved towards the far wall, his steps light and careful. Sam moved with him, he could see him from the corner of his eye. Sometimes, when Dean thought too much about how lost he had been without his brother -- his whole, soul-filled, pain in the ass brother — he could feel himself wanting to reach out and touch Sam. His shoulder, his face, maybe just the back of his hand. Just to make sure he was solid and real. To make sure that he hadn’t vanshed into vapors in the night, or turned out to be nothing but a dream.
Of course Dean knew how stupid that was. And of course he knew that he wasn't the type to be overly sentimental or touchy-feely, but none of that mattered when it was Sam. Dean just wanted to keep himself wedged as tight against that wall as he could; the wall that separated Sam from his memories of the cage. If he could be the one thing that Sam understood as concrete and constant, a never changing force, then everything would be fine.
“It’s just like,” Dean started, but he never finished. Sam hadn't been with him when the spirit had led him to her body in Baltimore. And really, it didn’t matter. The sooner they handled this little problem, the sooner they could go back to the room and Dean could (face Castiel and see what the hell he was thinking) kick off his shoes, knock back some whiskey, and look at tits on Cinemax until he passed out.
They followed the scratching along the wall, and when they found the hollow spot neither of them were surprised. Too many years, too many basements, and too many spirits.
Too many.
****
“I’m here.”
Dean was standing in the parking lot of the motel, leaned against his Impala. He was looking up at the sky, while being aware that Castiel wouldn’t actually hover over his head, or appear out of a star, or any kind of weak biblical shit.
The neon lights were too bright, and his mouth was too dry. His hands felt too warm and wet in his pockets. He didn’t understand anything he was thinking or feeling. It was unusual. While Dean Winchester couldn’t be called the most “in-touch” with his feelings, he had always understood them. His motivations were clear and clean-cut and precise, and he responded to emotionally charged situations the same way; as a bulldozer. He had his shit in order, that was for sure. But now?
He had no clue what to do or how to feel, and he hated Castiel for making him doubt himself, for making him doubt him.
“Cas,” Dean whispered. He swallowed, tried to make himself sound stronger, not to sound so desperate or whatever pitiful, fragile thing that was catching in his throat. “Come on, man. I’m here.”
There was the familiar breeze of Castiel making one of his grand entrances. Honestly, Dean wondered how he ever could have been caught off guard when Castiel showed up. It was second nature now, that slight disturbance, as familiar and comfortable as breathing. Dean made no attempts to understand the implications of that.
“Dean,” Castiel said. His voice, always so gravelly and gruff, sounded almost meek. Dean wanted to tell him to stop being such a girl, but he couldn’t really speak at all. He just leaned there against his baby, watching the sky and waiting for Castiel to do or say something that would make things okay again.
“You received my message,” Cas said, warily. “I wasn’t sure that you had. I thought I must have... Well, those contraptions, I just don’t understand them. Humans are incredibly industrious, but some of your gadgets are frustrating.”
Dean pulled out his phone and thumbed through his messages. There were several texts from hunters around the area, and a missed call from Bobby (he really had to remember to return that one before the old cuss thought he and Sam were dead...again) and one from Castiel:
From: Cas
Received: Mon., 8:04 PM
I need you to fuck me.
Naturally, Dean had assumed Castiel didn’t even know the word fuck, let alone its more salacious meaning. This was the same man — well, angel — that had sat there watching porn, surprised both by his own arousal, and the knowledge that men didn't sit around watching porn together. This was the same man, who had struck out with a prostitute when mentioning her rocky relationship with her father. This was the same man who seemed flummoxed and uncomfortable in his own skin when the idea of sex was even mentioned.
Yet Cas had sent the message. He readily admitted to sending it, and the only thing he could think to mention was that cell phones were confusing to use. There was no question of was it inappropriate, there was no explanation for why he had done it, and there were no excuses for his sudden demand to be fucked.
No, Cas didn’t demand to be fucked. He didn’t want to be fucked. He needed to be fucked. And apparently the only person suited for the task was Dean Winchester, a guy who, quite frankly, perferred his angel cohort fully dressed and fully unaware of his sex drive.
“You’re quiet,” Cas said. His voice was right in Dean’s ear. He could feel his breath there. Dean flinched away, blindly shoving Castiel’s shoulder.
“Didn’t know I needed to say anything,” Dean muttered, rubbing at his ear. He could still feel Cas’ breath there, too warm. Strangely, Dean shivered. “I mean, what the hell am I supposed to say, Cas? You just... You can’t just text someone something like that and expect them to... What the hell is up with you, anyway?”
“Up with me?” Castiel asked. “I don’t understand what you mean. Was there something wrong with the message I sent you? Did I not use proper human punctuation?”
Punctuation? Cas had Dean all tangled up in knots, not sure which way was up, and he was worried about punctuation?
“I don't give a rat’s ass about punctuation,” Dean snapped, “You can’t just— Cas, you said you needed me to fuck you.”
“Yes,” Cas said. He didn’t sound meek any longer, and he didn’t sound apologetic. In fact, he sounded like a man who was discussing the weather, perfectly content and at ease. “Was that not how I should have worded it? I just... Dean, my entire existence here is emulation. I see, and I follow, to an extent. The proper words escape me, but I know I’ve heard others use that phrase before.”
“It’s not the phrase,” Dean said. He was growing steadily closer to shouting. Honestly, it was like talking to a child sometimes. In essence, that’s really all Castiel was. An overgrown child with major daddy issues who had no idea how things worked and what made people do the things they did or how emotionally and sexually charged a simple sentence could be.
“It’s not the phrase,” Dean repeated, visibly calming himself. He sighed and leaned his head back against the Impala. “It’s the way you just... Man, out of nowhere. I’m tryin' to be flattered here, Cas, but all I am is weirded out.”
“You should be flattered,” Cas said. Again, he had missed the entire point and insisted on being stubbornly ignorant. “I want it to be you.”
Dean felt his stomach flutter. Hell, it shouldn’t have been doing that. What the fuck was going on?
There were a million things to ask. A million things that Dean wanted to know, that he wanted to understand. All that he could think of was, “Why me?”
Castiel didn’t answer him, and Dean didn’t need an answer. It was him because that was all it could be. Castiel was as incapable of explaining as Dean was of understanding. For what seemed like forever, it had been he and Castiel in a kind of wrestle that was just as much a desperate clinging as it was a fight for control. He needed Castiel, in a way that was more than a little upsetting, and Castiel needed him.
Dean didn’t believe that need correlated into sex, but he had been wrong before. In fact, when it came to sex and making the right move, Dean had the worst track record in human history.
“I’m not very good with reading emotions,” Castiel said, once again close enough for Dean to feel his breath against him. This time Cas refused to be pushed away, and instead shifted closer to Dean when he tried. He could talk about personal space until he was blue in the face and Cas would never get the picture. “You look... Uneasy. Do you want me to leave?”
Yes, Dean meant to say, but instead he whispered, “No. No, that’s—- Stay.”
After that, there was nothing he could really do but close the short distance between their bodies and press his mouth to Castiel’s. Dean had expected — not that he’d done much thinking on the subject, really — that Castiel would kiss with a cute kind of earnest inexperience. Instead, Castiel dominated his mouth, quickly and easily, pinning Dean against the door of his Impala. Castiel’s tongue was quick and strong, flicking inside of Dean’s mouth with no rhythm.
As natural as breathing, that was what their relationship had become. Dean only had to call out to him, sometimes just whisper his name, and Cas was there. Cas, meanwhile, had only to look a certain way, had only to show just the barest hint of desperation in his blue eyes, and Dean was ready to move mountains for him.
So why, then, couldn’t this be as natural and as fluid? Why did they fumble against each other, both of them too hot and aching to grind and rut to bother with actually removing their clothes. Why did Dean stumble when he moved to open his Impala, and why did Castiel move with awkward, graceless steps to fall in after him and on top of him?
Whether unnatural or just something that needed a little getting used to, Dean was too far gone to care. He let his body do all of the thinking. He listened to his blood pound through his veins, he listened to his heart drum in his ears, and he tasted Castiel. He smelled him all over. He felt him, moving on top of him, ripping away his layers with animal savagery.
Cas was naked, and with a little maneuvering and a few whispered swears, Dean joined him. They lay in the backseat of the Impala, long limbs awkwardly splayed and tangled, Castiel straddling Dean’s thigh, and looked at one another.
Dean wanted to say something suave, maybe a little flirtatious -- after all, he had his reputation to think of, even if he was about to bang a guy — but all he could do was laugh, giddily and nervously, and shove his hand through his hair.
Apparently, Castiel found nothing funny about the situation. He leaned down, bracing his hands on Dean’s chest, and kissed him. The kiss was different than their first. There was no franticness, no sloppy tangling of their tongues. It was natural, perfect how their lips fit together and their tongues overlapped and their bodies melted closer.
Dean grapped Castiel’s ass, pulling him up to sit on his hips. He bucked and rubbed his cock against Cas’ rear. “You wanted to be fucked, yeah?” Dean panted. “Sorry, you needed it. Let’s skip the foreplay.”
Castiel gripped Dean's cock, spreading his thighs slightly and lowering himself. “Whoa whoa,” Dean said, despite his apparently impatience, “Just, uh, one second, okay? You, uh, yeah, you don’t wanna do that... Like that. I mean, I guess.”
“I don’t understand,” Castiel said, absently stroking Dean’s cock. Dean could feel his cockhead pressing up between Castiel’s asscheeks and he clenched his teeth. Anyone else, and Dean would have thought they were playing coy with him, but Cas honestly didn’t have a clue what he was doing, or how sexy he was being. “You don't want me to do this?”
Hell yes I want you to do it, Dean thought, but he said, “No, I mean yes, I— Look, it’s gonna hurt if you just— Cas, find my pants.”
“You’re worried about hurting me?” Castiel asked. “You could hurt this body, I imagine.” For a wonder, Castiel chuckled. “Though I think it’s experienced worse pain than this could ever hope to inflict.” On the emphasized word, Castiel squeezed Dean’s cock, forcing Dean to moan and buck against him.
Castiel had a point, there was really nothing Dean could do that would hurt him that badly. But at the same time, Dean wanted everything to go as smoothly as possible. He’d never been with a man before, but that didn’t mean he didn't understand basic anatomy. Inserting Rod A into Slot B was straightforward and simple enough, but when that Slot had a tendency to tear and bleed, Dean preferred to exercise some form of self-restraint.
His relationship with the angel was miraculous; he never thought he possessed self-restraint.
Taking his silence and inaction as a sign he wouldn’t go any further, Castiel handed Dean his pants. Dean fished around in his pockets, removing a condom and a small container of lube. “I use this, well, you know. Sometimes a guy spends one too many nights alone and—-” He realized Castiel didn’t care, and probably didn't even know what he small container was. Dean shut up and handed it to Cas, with explicit instructions of how it was supposed to be applied.
Before Cas lubed up his cock, Dean reached around him and slid on the condom.
“Like this?” Cas asked, stroking Dean’s cock slowly. His fist was a little too tight, but the pain mixed wonderfully with the pleasure and Dean had no complaints.
“Yeah,” Dean grunted, resting his head back and closing his eyes. “Yeah, just like that.”
After a few minutes, Dean was too hard to give a damn what he was doing or how much it might hurt Castiel. He still had the wherewithal to tell Castiel to use a little of the lube on himself. Judging by Castiel’s expression, the idea of pressing his own fingers into his body was a strange one. Considering he was inches away from riding Dean’s cock, he couldn’t understand his hesitance.
Castiel gasped when he pushed his fingers in. He bit his bottom lip and clutched at Dean's chest with his free hand. Dean watched him, feeling a sensation similar to being buzzed. Colors seemed to lose their brightness, and shapes seemed to soften and lose their sharp edges. He could only see Castiel, could only smell Castiel, and he smiled, massaging the inside of Cas’ thigh.
You’ve been such a pain in my ass, Dean thought, I mean it. Worse than Sammy sometimes. But it’s nothing different. You save my ass, you watch out for me, you make life complicated and pretty damn entertaining. Man, sometimes I love you.
Yeah, right. Dean would say that at the same time he admitted he loved chick flicks and spent his nights writing down his feelings in his journal.
Cas leaned forward, catching Dean’s lips between his teeth. Dean could hear Cas pounding his ass with his fingers, and he could only watch him and let his lips get bitten and sucked. His cock twitched, and he whispered to Cas, something a little too needy and hot.
The way Castiel felt inside wasn’t unusual. Sure, it was different than what Dean was used to, but it was anything but unpleasant. Castiel was tighter than Dean was accustomed to, and he moved his body with a little more power. And why not, this was a being that could raze cities to the ground in seconds and described himself as being “roughly the size of your Chrysler building”; of course he was going to fuck like a wildcat.
“Holy shit,” Dean gasped, gripping Cas’ hips. He eased his legs up, supporting Castiel’s back with his knees. The car was hot, and getting decidedly steamy. Dean knew it was going to smell like sex for a while, and if he didn’t air the Impala out a little Sam would definitely notice. Dean couldn’t be bothered to care about anything but the way Castiel fucked himself on top of him and the way his pale body looked arched, writhing and covered with sweat.
There wasn’t enough skin for Dean to grap and kiss and bruise with his mouth, he wanted every inch of it. Castiel shared his eagerness, sucking Dean’s throat, biting into his jaw, breathing him in deeply and unapologetically. Cas’ fingers shoved into Dean’s hair, gripping what little he could. His blunt nails curled against Dean’s scalp, his body slamming up and down wildly, with no apparent rhythm.
Time seemed to slow down for them. Dean pressed his face into Cas’ throat and wrapped his arms around his waist. His hands slipped over Cas’ back, soaked with sweat. He could feel Cas’ muscles shifting under his palms, and he moaned for no other reason than he felt so good all over him.
Castiel arched back, clutching Dean’s chest, squeezing his hips with his thighs. Dean took hold of Cas’ cock, stroking him quickly and sloppily, not thinking about anything but making him come, of feeling it all over him. If he’d been cognizant enough of how frenzied they both were for one another, Dean might have realized that this moment had been a long time coming, that they had been building up to it for years.
All of the heated looks, all of the punches they had thrown, all of the pain and joy and irritation they caused one another. All of it had been boiling just below the surface, in their blood, in their hearts, maybe even deeper than that. Cas had pulled him out of Hell, had disobeyed Heaven, had rebelled against his brothers; and no matter what he said, no matter what reasons he offered, Dean had always known that it had been for him.
Mankind, humanity, peace — all of those things had been convenient half-truths.
Do you love me, Cas?, Dean wondered.
He didn’t have the courage to ask, or maybe it was only that he didn’t care. He wanted more, he wanted to fuck Castiel until he was too sore to move. The last thing he wanted was to talk about love.
Castiel pushed up from Dean’s chest, grabbing Dean’s hand and leading it to his cock. It didn't take long for Castiel to come, shuddering around Dean, making a low, keening noise through his teeth. Dean squeezed around his cock, dragging his hand up slowly. Castiel gasped and panted, his hips wiggling and rocking from the friction. Dean's fingers eased back down, slipping under Castiel’s cock to massage and cup his balls.
Dean didn't want to think about the fact that a naked angel was perched on top of him, or that his stomach was covered in Castiel’s come. The night had moved too fast, and now there was no going back. Their relationship would be invariably changed, and going by Dean’s past sexual relationships, it would be a messy clusterfuck.
None of that mattered, not when Castiel was still rocking on top of him and Dean was so close to coming. He just needed a little more, just a little more of that amazing, breathtaking friction and he could—
“Fuck,” Dean growled, grasping Castiel’s ass tightly and slamming up into him. One pump of his hips, two, that was all it took. Dean thrashed under Castiel as he came, his hips rising and falling powerfully and with little concern for Castiel’s comfort.
Now was the part of their little backseat wrestling match that Dean hadn’t been looking forward to. The awkward silence, the shifting of their hot, sweaty bodies, the shifting of their eyes when they realized they couldn’t look at each other anymore, not the way they had. No, they couldn't be what they had been, and all because Cas had sent that fucking text message.
Dean couldn’t describe how it felt to lose what he and Cas had together; not just a comrade, but a friend, a brother. It was painful in a new, exquisite kind of way. What the hell had Cas been thinking? What had he been thinking?
“I have to go now,” Cas said. He leaned against Dean and kissed his forehead, cradling Dean’s jaw in his hands.
Had he just been used for sex? God, Dean felt so cheap. It was actually kind of awesome, if he were being honest. He hadn’t thought Castiel was the fuck-em-and-leave-em kind.
Dean looked up into Cas’ eyes, and saw that he wasn’t. Nothing had changed. All of Dean’s fear that things would be different, that the way they had been would be irreparably broken, were entirely ungrounded. No doubt things were different, but that didn’t mean the difference was bad, or that it wasn’t something they could learn to exist within.
“Cas,” Dean said, “You, uh, might wanna get dressed first.”
“This body serves me no purpose in Heaven,” Cas said, “Naked or dressed.” He smiled, tracing his lips across Dean’s face in a way that made Dean shiver. “Whenever I need this body to be treated well, I’ll come to you, Dean.”
“Oh, that’s— Man, just go.”
Dean closed his eyes, felt the familiar rush of air, and when he opened them, Castiel was gone. He was alone in the backseat of the Impala, naked, with his pants and boxers puddled around his ankles, and his boots still on. His car smelled like ass and sweat, and he could still feel Castiel’s lips on his face.
Goddammit, what was he going to do now?