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Dean stumbles back into the motel room just before dawn, aching all over and still drenched with the scent of flowers, and he can't get the smile off his face.
“Like a fucking pretzel,” he mutters happily, shaking his head as he toes off his shoes and collapses onto the bed. “Awesome.”
* * *
“So I guess that she was real grateful for your help, then?” grumbles Sam, when Dean finally wakes up. Dean has a feeling that he ought to say something sarcastic, but he's in too much of a good mood.
“Yes,” he says instead, smugly. “I saved her a whole lot of money by fixing the engine for her, and she was very grateful. I rock.”
“You reek,” replies Sam, looking unimpressed. “Man, what is that perfume?”
Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well, that's what happens when you have sex with a real live girl, Sam, instead of your good right hand. You come back smelling like girl.” He stretches out happily in the bed. “She was lovely, he adds, reminiscently. “I mean, she was unbelievably flexible, Sam. Seriously flexible. And...”
“Dude. I so do not want to know. C'mon, we're running late – get your ass in the bathroom already, so we can get up and go.”
“You're just jealous,” says Dean, forgivingly. “Because she liked me better'n you.” He shrugs. “Can't help my animal magnetism, Sammy. This is just how the good lord made me.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Up. Now,” he snaps, and Dean grumblingly complies.
* * *
It starts off slow, so slow that at first Dean doesn't even notice anything's changed.
Sure, he knows he's getting noticed, can feel eyes following him appreciatively – but that's not exactly news-worthy. The way the redhead winks at him while they're at a stop light, or the wolf whistles from the bus load of college girls – that's just a pleasant start to the day, not some kind of cluestick that he's entering into the world of weird. And if Sam's a bit quieter than usual, well, they've neither of them had any caffeine yet, and Dean's never at his most observant before breakfast. It's no big deal.
“More coffee, honey?” says the waitress as he drenches his pancakes in maple syrup, and that's about as unremarkable as you can get, right? He smiles at her, and if she blushes and dimples at him like a woman half her age, well, that's business as usual if you're Dean Winchester. He doesn't think anything of it.
It's when she dives forward and tries to lick maple syrup off his thumb, and has to be removed by her shocked-looking husband, that Dean gets the first faint inkling that there may be something weird going on. But he still doesn't get it.
“What the hell, dude?” he says to Sammy, blankly, watching the waitress – Jennifer, or Jane, something like that, he can't remember exactly what the word was embroidered on her gingham apron – yelling at her husband as he drags her through into the kitchen. He can still see them through the glass panel on the door. The husband is waving his hands around and saying something-or-other that probably pretty much boils down to: “What the hell, dude?”
“That was – uh – new,” says Sam. He looks kind of red. Probably embarrassed on Dean's behalf, and Dean doesn't blame him.
“HRT out of whack, maybe?” Dean hazards, munching on his pancakes. He closes his eyes in a moment of pure culinary bliss. “Mmm. Great food, though.”
“Yeah, I – yeah. Um,” says Sam, setting his fork down and staring quite hard at the Formica tabletop, with a most peculiar expression on his face. “Um. I need – I'm just going to the john,” he says, and gets up from the table kind of awkwardly, clutching his newspaper in front of him.
“'Kay,” says Dean, eyeing his bacon covetously. “You going to finish this?”
“Help yourself,” says Sam, without looking back, and Dean does.
He's just polished off the last of Sammy's bacon, and is contemplating another cup of coffee, when a sweet-faced girl scout shows up next to their booth. She's got rosy cheeks and blonde braids bouncing down around her shoulders, and a dusting of freckles on her nose, and she looks wholesome enough to be on the front of a cereal packet or something. A wonderful thought occurs to Dean.
“Are you selling cookies?” he asks her, hopefully. “'Cause I'd definitely buy a box of Thin Mints, sweetheart. Maybe two, actually, because – mmmph!”
Her lip gloss tastes like candy apples. And it's not that Dean's never had this particular fantasy, because, hello, guy – but, seriously, the kid can't be more than sixteen, and that means that he's nearly twice her age, which is just wrong. “Help?” he says, flailing a little and trying to hold her off without actually, you know, holding any bits of her that are inappropriate for a grown man to be grabbing hold of outside of his fevered imagination, or pay-per-view porn. Pollyanna's pretty damn determined to get him in a lip-lock, though. “Seriously – help? Somebody? Anybody? Bueller?”
He thinks it's her parents that peel her off him, and the Mom's giving him this look while they do so – but not a get-your-filthy-paws-off-my-sweet-virgin-daughter-you-reprobate kind of look, which he'd totally understand; no, this is more of an I-want-to-lick-chocolate-sauce-off-of-every-inch-of-your-naked-body-and-ride-you-like-a-pony-in-the-middle-of-this-diner-while-my-husband-watches kind of look. And Dean isn't at all sure what to make of the way that her husband's licking his lips while looking at him either. It's creepy. Definitely creepy.
He's still gaping when Sam emerges from the john, and he actually jumps when Sam touches his shoulder.
“Let's go,” says Dean, scrambling to his feet and reaching for his wallet. “This place is seriously freaking me out.”
* * *
After Sam's third pee break in as many hours, Dean's starting to worry.
“Seriously – you want to swing by a drug store, or something?” he says, watching Sam walk back towards the car. “'Cause this ain't normal, Sammy.”
Sam swallows. He's walking kind of gingerly, like he thinks maybe he's sprained something. “This – yeah, this ain't exactly normal, Dean,” he agrees, halting outside the car and chewing his bottom lip. “You know – I think maybe I should ride in the back.”
Dean's jaw drops. Actually drops. “Did I – what, was it something I said?” says Dean, feeling completely discombobulated. “Are you pissed about something? Is this some girly passive-aggressive shit, Sam? Is it because I said you looked like a bitch in that shirt? 'Cause I'm not sorry, Sam. You do look like a little bitch in that shirt, and it's my brotherly duty to let you know these things. Flowery patterns are not manly.”
“No! No, I just think it would be – better – if I travelled in the back for once. That's all. Change of scenery, you know? Nothing to worry about,” says Sam, and he slides into the back. “We're cool. It's all cool. And it's paisley, not flowers.”
“Which is so much more manly,” says Dean, waiting for Sam to stop messing around and get into his rightful place. But he doesn't. Dean blinks at the empty seat next to him, and then peers at Sam in the rear-view mirror with an expression of bafflement. “But – you ain't got enough leg room back there for your stupid Gigantor legs,” he points out, helplessly.
Sam grits his teeth. “It's fine. Just shut up and drive,” he says.
So Dean does.
* * *
Dean goes in to pay for the gas, while Sam makes another dash for the men's room. Dean's starting to think his little brother has something seriously wrong with him, and he's going to damn well drive the argumentative little fucker to a hospital if he's still like this tomorrow. He wanders down the aisle and picks out half a dozen candy bars – got to make sure there's always an emergency supply of food in the car, after all – and a copy of 'Busty Asian Beauties' because, hell, why not, and then makes his way to the cash desk.
And it's just his luck that there's a freaking nun there, peering at the rows of cans in the big refrigerator – probably trying to choose between Diet Coke and Pepsi Max, or something. Dean swallows, and tries to hide his porn. The big biker-looking guy behind the counter, who has a tattoo of the Virgin Mary on his chest and a gold crucifix around his neck, looks at Dean, and then at the porn, and then at the nun, and then pointedly back at Dean, and Dean gives a guilty, helpless little grin and a half-shrug, as if to say 'What can you do? Penis!'
He's handed over the money and the guy has blessedly stuffed the porn and the candy in a paper bag for him when the nun comes along, trying to balance five cans of drink on top of each other, and Dean dives in to help her.
“Let me get that, ma'am,” he says, real polite, and relieves her of the cans, and transfers them to the counter for her.
“What a helpful young man you are!” she says, and he feels kind of virtuous in spite of his secret stash of porn and candy.
He totally isn't expecting her to squeeze his ass.
He drops the drinks.
* * *
They get lunch from a McDonald's Drive Thru, because burgers are always appropriate, and because Dean's not feeling real confident about being around people just now. Sam doesn't say anything.
* * *
When they check in to the Vincent Motel, the guy behind the desk cannot take his eyes off of Dean.
”Anything you need,” he says again, his gaze flickering jitterbug-fast from Dean's eyes to his lips to his crotch and back to his lips. Dean is starting to get kind of a bad feeling about this day.
“That's mighty kind of you,” he says, smiling a friendly and firmly heterosexual smile. And then he jumps a little when the guy hands him the keys, and takes the opportunity to stroke his wrist.
“The beds are real comfortable,” says the guy – who, Jesus, must be Dad's age, and totally does not look like a fairy, but from the serious eyefucking he's busy giving Dean right now it's pretty clear that he'd like to help demonstrate just how comfortable the beds are.
“That's great, man,” says Dean, backing away.
“I've got Magic Fingers,” adds the guy, and Dean perks up a little. “I could show you,” he adds, and Dean's just about to say that he's an old hand with the Magic Fingers, thanks, when the guy makes a gesture that pretty much abandons double entendres and just goes straight for the internationally recognised sign language instead.
“No!” says Dean, ducking out of the office as fast as his legs will carry him. “Gross!”
Sam's watching him with an expression that Dean has no idea how the hell to interpret as he strides towards the car. “Room 18,” he says, grabbing one of the bags and giving a little shake, like a dog coming out of the sea. “Dude was totally hitting on me,” he adds, indignantly.
“What, that guy?” asks Sam, glancing back at the office. Dean nods, pulling a face, and Dean's expression darkens. “I'll show him not to...” Sam growls, and Dean has to grab at Sam's jacket to stop him from heading over there and opening up a can of whoop-ass.
“Jeez! Chill! says Dean, staring. “I'm not a freaking damsel in distress here, okay? Just left me feeling kind of – dirty. But, y'know, whatever. It's fine.”
Sam bites his lip, shifting uncomfortably. Dean reckons he's pretty antsy from sitting all cramped up in the back seat like that, but it's his own damn fault. Freak. But then he remembers all the pee breaks, and his look-after-Sammy instincts kick in. “You okay?” he asks, and presses his palm to Sam's forehead. Sam just about jumps right out of his skin. “You don't feel feverish,” he says, critically, and Sam practically wrenches himself back.
“I'm fine!” he snaps. “I'm just – I'm fine. Perfectly normal. Everything's just – normal.” He's looking flushed and he's breathing hard, which doesn't strike Dean as all that normal, but what the fuck ever.
“Okay,” says Dean, shrugging. “Please yourself, freak.” He unlocks the door and drops the bag, glancing around assessingly. It's not such a bad room. Not great, but not bad. Maybe seven out of ten. The curtains and the bedclothes are patterned with sunflowers, and there's some picture of a chair on the wall that looks like it was painted by a kid, but it's all pretty clean. “Ah – now that's what I'm talking about!” he says, and crosses the room to the mini bar. He bends down and peers inside, and Sam makes a small, stifled sound of distress behind him. Dean glances back over his shoulder, a question in his eyes, and Sam swallows.
“I'm just – I think I”m going to have a shower,” says Sam, urgently. “Right now.” And he all but throws himself into the bathroom, leaving Dean blinking behind him.
“Oookay then,” says Dean, bemusedly. “You do that, Sammy.”
* * *
Sam's in the shower a good long while, so Dean takes advantage of the opportunity to have a little alone time with the Magic Fingers – and, man, that is some pleasant relaxation right there. He's sprawled out barefoot and practically purring when Sam emerges from the bathroom with a pale green towel wrapped precariously around his hips, and then stops short on the threshold like he's just walked into an invisible barrier. Dean glares. “Don't give me that look, Captain Judgypants,” he mutters, dragging himself away from the Magic Fingers with some reluctance. “Man, you took long enough! I thought you'd maybe melted under all that water or something, like the Wicked Witch of the West.” Dean laughs to himself as he bends over and rummages in a bag for his toothbrush. “Surrender, Dorothy!” He pads into the bathroom, pulling his shirt off over his head, oblivious to the small, broken noise that Sam makes behind him.
* * *
When Dean walks out of the bathroom some time later, Sam is already lying in bed with his face buried in the pillow. Dean shrugs and crosses the room to yank a t-shirt and a clean pair of shorts out of the bag. Behind him, Sam makes another little strangled sound of distress, and Dean jerks up and turns around, peering into the shadows of the other bed. “You awake, Sammy?” he whispers. “You okay, man?” But there's no reply, and Dean figures it's bad dreams. God knows they both got plenty of those between them. He hunkers back down and digs out a t-shirt, and then heads over to his own bed, towelling himself dry, absently. They made good time today; tomorrow should see them reaching the site of the possibly-vampire nest. It's been a little bit on the weird side a few times, but overall not a bad day. Dean climbs into bed, clicks off the bedside light, and just about jumps out of his skin when he realises that there's somebody else in bed with him.
“You smell like flowers,” observes Castiel, calmly. Once Dean's stopped almost-having-a-heart-attack he comes within a hair's breadth of punching the guy.
“What the fuck?” he hisses, outraged. “You are in my bed, man! That is not cool!” He reaches back over and switches the light on again, and treats Castiel to his fiercest glare.
Castiel looks down with an expression of mild surprise, as if bemused to discover that he is tucked underneath the covers with Dean, and his brow crumples into a frown. He looks at Dean, and then inhales more carefully, like one of those wine expert guys snuffling at a glass of Chateau d'Expensif. “You smell like ancient flowers,” says Castiel, sounding thoroughly intrigued. “Who have you been with?”
“Sam! I've just been with Sam all day – and can you please get your heavenly ass the hell out of my bed already? This is creeping me out, Cas, and it's been kind of a trying day for creepy stalker vibes already.”
“You lay with something inhuman,” says Castiel, nodding slowly to himself. “Something ancient.”
“Did not!” protests Dean, suddenly twelve years old. “I only went with one person this week, and she was totally human, and totally not ancient. She was a really hot chick. And young – we're not talking any cougar action here, just a regular babe.” Castiel simply looks at him, with an expression that's somewhere between disappointed teacher and 'I told you so.' Dean swallows. “She was!” he insists. “She was a hot human chick!” Castiel keeps looking at him. “She...she wasn't young?” says Dean, unhappily, and Castiel shakes his head. “Or human?”
“Dean, I would venture to say that you lay down with a – well, people have termed them goddesses. Which is misleading, of course, because all those deities are on a level far below God, but we shall let it stand for now.”
Dean perks up a bit. “I slept with a goddess?” he says. “A goddess had the hots for me?” He considers this, and then shrugs. “What am I saying – of course she did! I mean, she's only human, right! Or, well – not. Heh. Man, I'm good.” He looks thoughtful and sniffs at the air, but all he can detect is soap and a faint whiff of dirty laundry. “How did you know?”
Castiel looks down, and then glances sideways at Dean. “She marked you,” he says, carefully.
“She what?” Dean didn't notice anything unusual in the shower. He'd definitely have noticed a new scar, now that he's sporting so much baby-smooth skin.
Sam sits up in bed and glowers across the room. “Everybody wants to fuck you, Dean!” he snaps. “Okay? You're giving off these – I don't know, these crazy pheromones, or something. She's infected you with this, this, whatever-it-is, and now everybody wants to jump your bones. Waitresses. Girl scouts. Hotel check in guys. Nuns. Everybody.”
Dean blinks. “What?”
“You're walking around with a glowing neon “Take Me Now, Big Boy” sign above your head, Dean.”
“I – what?” Dean is not at his most articulate, it must be said. “How do you – oh, no fucking way, man! You too?”
“Yes. Yes, fine. Me too. Everyone. You are a sex bomb. Congratulations. I think I've got callouses on my dick.” Sam sounds royally pissed off. “Happy now?”
“No! Not happy! Ew! I did not ever need to hear that, Sam! Jesus, you mean every time – and you – Jesus!”
“Believe me when I tell you that the feeling is mutual,” Sam says with asperity. “You think this has been a good day for me? This has not been a good day for me, Dean.”
“Jesus!”
“I wish you wouldn't take the Lord's name in vain,” says Castiel. He sounds disappointed all over again, and when Dean darts a skittish glance over at his friendly neighbourhood angel, he's pretty damn sure that Castiel has scooted closer on the bed.
“Okay,” he says warily, “No taking the Lord's name in vain. Check.” He swallows. “So how do we fix this?”
Castiel scoots in a little closer, closing his eyes and inhaling carefully. “I'm not entirely sure,” he says. “I need to know which one did this to you. I think – no. Can I...” and he's a lot closer now, and Dean's sitting real stiff and jumpy with his back against the headboard and his eyes bulging as Castiel scrambles over and sits on his lap. “I mean no offense,” Castiel says politely, like that makes a difference.
“Oh my God,” says Sam, from the other side of the room. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Samuel, I would take it as a kindness if you too refrained from taking the Lord's name in vain,” says Castiel, and then he leans right in and presses his nose into Dean's collarbone and inhales. Dean's head tips back onto the headboard and he stares up at the ceiling, wide-eyed and totally freaking the fuck out. “That's – I nearly have it. If you hasn't bathed so recently...hmm. Perhaps – let me try something.” And Castiel licks Dean's throat. Dean makes a shocked sound, a startled hiss of indrawn breath, and he hears it echoed from the other bed.
“What the – is this, like Angelic Candid Camera or something? Seriously? Are you going to bust out the Barry White in a minute?” asks Dean in a quavering voice, trying hard to focus on being freaked out and pissed off, rather than being turned on. Because this is, unexpectedly, a turn on. Who the hell knew?
“No,” says Castiel, and his tone is almost irritable. He sits back on his haunches and closes his eyes, an expression of deep concentration on his face, and then he scowls. “It's not enough. Forgive me, Dean, I must beg your indulgence just a little longer,” says the angel, and that's all the warning Dean gets before Castiel is swooping in close, cupping Dean's jaw with both hands and tipping his head back and kissing him, a warm, wet, deceptively human-feeling tongue darting in between Dean's parted lips and licking around their inner edges as if trying to chase the last tantalising trace of flavour before slipping in deeper and exploring the recesses of Dean's mouth. Dean makes a startled, helpless little sound and bucks up against Castiel in spite of himself – and, fuck, this is wrong, is what it is, but it's also quite appallingly hot.
“I can't – I don't think – fuck, I'm going to go have another shower,” says Sam, his voice ragged as he scrambles out of bed. “A long, cold shower. I can't handle this. This is messed up Dean. Fix it, already.”
Dean pretty much agrees, but on the other hand, he's never been one to object to new experiences in the sack. Although, granted, those experiences have always involved people with breasts up until now. And, you know, their own bodies, not borrowed ones. He closes his eyes and concentrates on keeping his hands clenched in the sheets underneath him, rather than reaching up to grab hold of Castiel. They aren't making out. This is like – it's like when you go to the doctor and he grabs your balls and tells you to cough. That's not like he's groping you. He's a professional, doing – well, whatever the fuck it is that he's doing, that definitely isn't groping. And this is just Castiel doing his angel thing.
With tongue.
Fuck. Dean is so going back to hell.
“Chili and chocolate and tequila, and pollen caught on butterfly wings. Xochiquetzal,” says Castiel, sounding very pleased with himself. Or at least as pleased with himself as Dean has heard him sound. “Yes. We can deal with that.” And he leans in again and presses his mouth to Dean's lips, but this time instead of kissing him he just breathes in, like he's giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Only – it isn't air that Dean feels himself breathing in. It's something else. It feels like light somehow. Like music vibrating on his tongue and sliding inside, through skin and blood and bones. It's overwhelming. Dean closes his eyes and just lets it roll through him, and he's shivering, feeling like all his nerve endings are lighting up at once – and, yes, fine, he's hard, and he's been hard for a while now, and even though there's no nakedness, or grinding, or, well, pretty much anything that Dean associates with sex other than being right in somebody else's personal space and in bed, this is still so fucking intense that he's afraid he's going to come anyway, without so much as a hand on his dick.
Castiel leans back and looks at him with his head slightly tilted and a very serious expression. “Does that feel better?” he asks, with honest curiosity that's so thoroughly out of place that Dean chokes out a laugh.
“Better than what?” he says. “Better than a blow job?” Oh, fuck, that was his outside voice. He cracks open his own eyes and looks into Castiel's astonished blue ones, and tries for an apologetic grin. “That was – uh – that was quite intense, Cas,” he manages. “Ha. Angel CPR, hey? That's – uh – quite something. Um.” And Castiel's eyes drop down for a moment, like he's only just registering the fact that Dean's hard, and kind of rocking helplessly up against him. He looks up again, through his eyelashes, and Dean has no idea what to make of that expression. No idea at all.
And then Castiel bites his lip in a disarmingly human gesture, and leans in again, more tentatively this time – and, shockingly, kisses Dean one more. And this time there's nothing professional or impersonal about it at all. This time they're definitely making out.
When he breaks it off this time, the angel is definitely blushing. “For luck,” he says, looking away and then looking back at Dean like he can't quite stand to lose the sight of him. Then he frowns. “And next time, be more careful about sharing yourself with strangers. Anything could have happened.”
Then Castiel is gone, as if he'd never been there, and Dean is left with a raging erection and a head full of questions and half-formed ideas. “Hey, I used a condom, damn it,” Dean mutters defensively. “I didn't know I was supposed to watch out for magical STDs, for fuck's sakes!” He looks around the room, half-hoping that Castiel will reappear and half dreading it. Nothing. Castiel – who saved him from the pit, and stood against the rest of the angels, and who just kissed him like – like – Dean has no words for what that was like. He shivers, just thinking about it. “Man, I am so screwed,” he says to himself, sliding his hand down into his shorts.
FINIS