Oscillation upon the pavement always means an affaire de coeur.
Dean stares at the business card in his hand, nothing legit, just stark black lettering on white, no business, no address: just a phone number and a name.
He's not sure why he kept it. Actually, that's not true. He knows exactly why he kept it. He kept it because they need contacts and who knows when a guy with a golem might come in handy. He certainly didn't keep it because Aaron was fighting a blush when he handed it over, soft, if you're ever in town implying far more than Dean wanted it to imply.
He's told himself that three times already.
As far as Sam knows, the card is filed away in their index, their own personal network, steadily built over these last few weeks--it's impressive, really, how many people they actually know, how many people they could count on if it came right down to it. In truth, Dean's got the card tucked into his wallet, not because he means to do anything with it--he doesn't, he really doesn't--but because...
Actually, he doesn't have a good answer for that.
He's not an idiot. He's far enough away from the obedient soldier of his youth to admit there are aspects of his personality he hasn't bothered examining--hasn't wanted to examine. He doesn't particularly want to examine them now, because that's a whole crisis just waiting to happen, but he's starting to get that it's not something he can ignore forever. Eventually it's going to come to a head. Probably explode in a cloud of angel feathers if he's honest.
And that's the crux of it, isn't it? Because Dean loves women. He loves everything about them. He loves the softness of their skin and the curve of their hips. He loves the way they smell and the way they taste and even though it's been years at this point--God, what is wrong with him?--that doesn't mean he wouldn't be perfectly willing to take one to bed, maybe work off some of this tension that's been eating at him practically since he got back from Pennsylvania.
Except, that's not what he wants at all.
What he wants he can't have, because sexual identity crisis aside, he's man enough to admit that, yeah, like it or not he's in love with the damned angel. Has been for years at this point. Which would be fine, really, if he could just get past the whole unrequited, unworthy business and actually move on with someone else. The problem is, he can't. Every girl he meets reminds him of what they're not. Aaron's the first person who's piqued his interest in Dean doesn't know how long.
And doesn't that just say everything Dean has spent the past few years trying not to say.
Because it's not just curiosity. It's not just Dean finally--finally--getting to a point where he might actually be ready to pull back that curtain and examine that part of himself. It's Dean wanting as close an approximation to the thing he wants but will never, ever have.
He's pretty sure that makes him an asshole.
Dean can't help but shake his head at that, because who the hell does he think he is? As if Aaron's sitting around pining after him or something. He's probably forgotten all about their moment--more real than Aaron first led Dean to believe if his card is any indication. Hell, he was probably only looking for a night, a quick, no-strings attached one night stand which is pretty much the Dean Winchester special so why the hell shouldn't Dean take advantage?
And Jesus, he can't believe he's actually trying to talk himself into having sex with some guy. Dean slips the card back into his wallet; tucks it into his back pocket before running a hand over his face and then through his hair. He lets out a shaky exhale, takes a final glance in the Letter's bathroom mirror, and then heads out to find Sam. They might not have a case, but there's still a whole base full of equipment to archive, not to mention Sam's drawing up plans for bringing in every single item they've got stowed away in storage lockers around the country. He just needs to settle down and get to work, focus on something other than his not-quite-so cut and dry sexuality. In a few days, he'll have forgotten all about it.
Naturally that's not what happens. A couple days turns into a couple of weeks, still no word from Cas--and Dean's not getting frantic with worry, he's really not--Aaron's card burning a hole in his wallet.
The idea of it has invaded his brain. It follows him everywhere. He thinks about it while he's sharpening swords. He thinks about it while he's inventorying the base's ammunition stores. He thinks about it in the shower. He thinks about it in bed, at night, hand moving over his cock, Aaron and Cas blurring into one, Dean's identity crisis apparently a leap of fucking faith because he comes harder than he has in years and then spends ten minutes imagining what it would be like to curl up next to Cas and have Cas spend the night watching over him.
He regrets that a lot, turning down Cas' offer. He wonders if it would have made a difference. If maybe then Cas would have stayed.
He thinks about it so much that he finds himself pulling out Aaron's card at least twice a day, staring at his damned number like it might give Dean the answer he's looking for. Because what is it, really? An offer to experiment with something he's pretty damned sure he wants to experiment with, with a guy who's easily the least threatening dude Dean's met in forever--golem aside--and who genuinely seems interested in Dean and attracted to Dean and...
He's so, so fucking screwed. He's also a complete fucking coward, not to mention a girl for wasting all this time angsting over it when he's always been a man of action.
He still waits until a case takes him--and not Sam, because they hardly need the both of them to deal with a cursed object---to New York before he calls.
It's been fucking months by that point.
Aaron, when Dean mentions who it is, goes absolutely silent. It's long enough that Dean's right back to doubting, to thinking this is the dumbest idea he's ever had and that he should probably just hang up and pretend it was a wrong number because what the hell was he thinking, anyway?
That, of course, is when Aaron says, "Dean, hey, hi. I didn't expect to hear from you. How are you?"
Which kind of trips Dean up long enough that he actually answers rather than hanging up--which is totally what he means to do because of all the bad ideas he's had in his life this one is easily the worst.
"I'm good... Good. You? How's life with the golem?"
He can't help but roll his eyes at that, because smooth Winchester, really fucking smooth.
Except, Aaron laughs, like Dean's the funniest person he's ever met and Dean, fucking girl that he is, can't quite help the flush of pride that runs through him at having made Aaron laugh.
"Is that why you're calling? Checking in to make sure my golem hasn't gone on a rampage?"
Now it's Dean's turn to laugh, talking to Aaron far easier than he thought it would be. He's still fighting the nervous flutter of his stomach, not to mention a building sense of guilt that he's pretty sure makes him the most desperate loser on the planet because Cas doesn't give a rat's ass who he fucks. Dean just wishes he did.
"Trust me, if your golem had gone on a rampage, I would have heard about it."
There's a lengthier pause this time, long enough that Dean's once again regretting pulling out Aaron's card. He feels like some blushing school girl on her prom night, which is so fucking stupid he doesn't even have words for it. He's Dean fucking Winchester for fuck's sake. He's made flirting an art form. He sure as hell doesn't get nervous propositioning someone.
If that is what he's doing here.
"So, this is a social call, then," Aaron says, and Dean can't help but notice he sounds pleased.
Apparently that's exactly what Dean's doing. He still manages to stammer his way through his reply.
"I was just... in town. Or close by, anyway, and you said I should call if..."
"Yeah? Good. No, that's awesome. You want to swing by? I can scrounge us up some beers, or we could go out, grab a bite?"
Dean thinks briefly of eating in some restaurant with Aaron, bacon cheeseburgers and fries and a couple of beers. It's way too close to a date--and Dean is not going there--so he shakes the image aside; tries to keep his tone even when he says, "I'll swing by."
He hangs up then, before he can back out because he's starting to think this isn't such a good idea after all. The only reason he doesn't call back and cancel, doesn't chicken out before he can even get in his car, is because he needs to know. He needs to understand if this is something he needs to examine or if this is just something he can get out of his system and be done with.
That doesn't stop him from nearly turning around twice on the drive.
He doesn't, though, pulling to a stop in front of Aaron's place a little over an hour after he called. The lights are on and he can see Aaron pacing around the living room. That makes him feel a little better, because maybe if Aaron's as nervous as he is they'll cancel each other out, or something.
He's so glad he's not doing this with Cas.
Which is the exact last thought he wants to have, because it's not like he would turn this down with Cas if the option existed. He doesn't, however, want Cas to see him like this: stumbling and awkward and completely out of his depth. Aaron's already seen that, and he seems to like Dean anyway, so... Besides, it's not like he's ever going to see the guy again. There is no way in hell Dean could do just one night with Cas.
He's still unaccountably nervous when he knocks on the door. Aaron answers far too quickly, but he still looks surprised, like he wasn't sure Dean was actually going to show. Dean offers a half smile. It's awkward and makes him feel like a complete idiot. When this became his life, Dean doesn't know.
"Hey man, come in," Aaron says, stepping aside. Dean follows him in, casting about for the golem, but it appears they're alone for the moment, so Dean doesn't bother asking. "I honestly wasn't sure you'd show."
"Yeah, well," Dean says, which doesn't actually answer anything, but Aaron seems to get it, because he chuckles, low and nervous and for some reason that makes Dean feel a little better. He's still a little off kilter, so far out of his depth he's surprised he hasn't started floundering.
"You want a beer or something?" Aaron asks, leading them to the couch. Dean's tempted to say yes, because he definitely wants something to drink, preferably several somethings, but he also wants a clear head. That and he's fairly certain he's gonna run if they don't get to it.
"Nah, man, I'm good," he says, glancing past Aaron to where he knows the bedroom is, which is about as unsubtle as it comes but is pretty much all Dean's capable of. As soon as he stops to actually think about what he's doing, this is all going to fall apart.
Aaron, when Dean glances back over, looks surprised, but not disappointed. There's something in his gaze--eyes entirely too wide, too innocent--that reminds Dean painfully of Cas and for one brief moment he thinks he's not actually going to be able to do this; that this has all been for nothing. That lasts just until Aaron smiles, stepping forward with an expression that is not at all innocent. Dean swallows, heavily.
"Gotta say, I kind of figured you'd be a cut to the chase kind of guy, but I figured you'd at least take off your coat."
Aaron's teasing him now. Dean gets that. He gets that this is meant to lighten the mood, a little banter to get things going. And he could reciprocate, say something funny and sexy--the kind of thing he'd say to a girl--but Aaron's advancing on him like he means to eat Dean and it's taking pretty much every ounce of Dean's strength not to dissolve into hysterics.
And he's not exactly prone to hysteria.
Aaron must see something of that in Dean's expression: thin edge of panic showing through because holy shit this is it, Dean's actually going to have sex with a guy and goodbye hetro card, goodbye macho image, goodbye ever pretending he has ever been anything other than 110% straight because this is the kind of thing you don't exactly come back from, overwhelming evidence that Dean is not the manly guy he's spent the better part of his life pretending he was.
"Okay, that's not reassuring," Aaron says, freezing just outside of Dean's personal space. "Are you okay? I mean, we don't have to..."
"No, I want to," Dean says before he can stop himself, because he might be freaking out about it but that doesn't mean he's going to turn tail and run, however much that seems like a really fucking good option. Dean Winchester is many things, but a coward isn't one of them.
Aaron, who's still staring at him like Dean's a specimen he can figure out, suddenly goes very still, his eyes growing impossibly wide and no, no, no, this is not at all what Dean wants because no matter what happens here they are not going to fucking talk about it.
"Jesus," Aaron says, and Dean feels the hysterical need to remind him he's Jewish. "This is your first time. With a guy, I mean."
It's not a question, so Dean doesn't answer it. He's done with talking, done with all this emotional chick-flick bullshit. He came here for a reason and he'll be damned if he lets his panic win.
He has half a second to register the widening of Aaron's eyes before Dean crashes into him, kiss messy and nowhere near coordinated--that's what he gets for charging in without thinking. Their teeth bump together and Aaron's beard--Jesus, he has a fucking beard--scratches against Dean's face and their noses are pressed painfully together and Dean's got his eyes scrunched so fucking tight it actually hurts.
In the history of kisses this is easily the worst of Dean's life. It lasts barely a second before Dean's pulling away, no idea what to do now because for as much as this is still just sex--as much as Dean is a fucking expert on the subject--he has absolutely no manual for this.
Absolutely no idea what to do about the fact that, for one brief moment before he closed his eyes, he saw not Aaron, but Castiel.
The thought triggers a new wave of guilt, though he has no idea who it's directed at. Aaron, for leading him on when Dean has absolutely no intention of this going further than a night? Or Cas, who Dean owes absolutely nothing to because it's not like he is ever going to stand a chance so who the hell is Cas to make him feel guilty for taking something he might actually need?
Dean still swallows before saying, "Look, I'm pretty sure I want to do this, but I can't make you any promises and this is probably the only time you will ever see me, so..." He trails off because he has no idea how to finish that. He's offering Aaron an out, because it's what he would want under these circumstances. Never let it be said that Dean isn't courteous in bed.
Aaron takes a minute to process that, and then he nods. "Okay. That's cool. Hell, more than I thought I'd get." He gestures over his shoulder, towards the bedroom and suddenly things are moving way too fast.
Dean lets them, mostly because it's easier to follow Aaron to the bedroom, easier to peel off his jacket and toe off his shoes than actually pause to think about this. He's decided to start operating on instinct, because that at least is something Dean's capable of. No thinking about exactly what this makes him. No thinking about Sam or his dad and what they would think of it. No thinking about Cas--definitely no thinking about Cas. No thinking period. Instead Dean focuses on getting one foot in front of the other, sliding into Aaron's space to reinitiate that kiss--better this time, much better--Dean going so far as to let his hands settle on Aaron's hips.
And this, this isn't so bad. It's nice, even. Aaron's a solid, warm mass against him, but he's still a little slight, not much bigger than the women Dean has been with. Sure, his hips are a little narrower, and his waist doesn't dip when Dean slides his hands up, and his beard is still scratching against Dean's cheek, but he doesn't mind it.
He doesn't even mind when Aaron gets his hands up between them and starts working on the buttons of Dean's shirt. It's still just bodies, just sex, Dean having always prided himself on his willingness to try anything. Surely that includes having sex with some nerdy little guy he's probably going to end up sharing a joint with after all of this is said and done.
Aaron somehow manages to break the kiss, lips catching just under Dean's jaw as he kisses his way down the line of Dean's throat. Christ, it's hot, scratch of stubble against his neck. Dean actually moans--feels a little embarrassed about it but he's well past the point of worrying about that now. He's achingly hard, harder than he's been in a long fucking time. He's thought about this and fantasized about this and a couple of times even worked up the courage to watch gay porn, but this, the feel of a guy's stubble against his skin, it's ten thousand times better than he was expecting.
Unbidden, Cas' unshaven cheeks from Purgatory flash through his mind. Dean shakes aside the image and focuses on getting Aaron's shirt up and over his head.
He's skinnier than Dean was expecting--skinnier than Dean, certainly, though softer, civilian life not exactly conducive to hard lines. That makes Dean feel a little better. He's not sure he could have handed sculpted abs and chiselled biceps. This, at least, feels a little real, Dean able to ghost his fingers around Aaron's waist without fully registering the maleness of his body.
Not that he's oblivious to it. Aaron's definitely sporting an erection--Dean can see it straining through his jeans--and twice now they've moved close enough together for it to dig into Dean's hip. The first time it happened Dean balked, though only a little and the thought was followed almost immediately by the desire to run his fingers along its length.
Christ, the things Dean didn't know about himself.
Aaron's not far behind in getting Dean's shirts off, and then he's bare chested, Dean momentarily overcome by a wave of self-consciousness when Aaron steps back to look.
The thing is, Dean knows, objectively, he's attractive. He knows people enjoy looking at him--he's certainly taken advantage of it more than once. He also knows he's got scars that defy explanation and a tattoo with a more complicated history than anything he wants to explain. He's glad, for perhaps the first time since it disappeared, that he no longer has Cas' hand print. He has no idea how he'd explain that, but more importantly, talking about Cas is not something he wants to do at the moment.
"You done?" he asks, sharper than he intended, biting edge of irritation creeping into his voice. Aaron glances up from where his gaze is raking over Dean's chest. He looks startled.
"Sorry," he says, offering a half smile. "You're just... Way out of my league."
"Trust me, I'm not," Dean says, and reaches for his jeans.
It's mostly to get things rolling again, because he doesn't want to do these awkward pauses. He doesn't want to talk and he doesn't want the time to think about what he's doing. He's achingly hard and more than ready to... Jesus, he doesn't even know how this is going to happen.
Aaron, who is either a fucking empath or just really on board the whole skipping to the sex portion of the evening, immediately reaches for his jeans. Dean's torn between wanting to watch and wanting to look away, his fingers fumbling as he pushes his own jeans down and over his hips. They pool neatly on the floor, Dean stepping out of them, left now only in his briefs and a pair of socks.
Aaron glances down once, licks his lips, and then practically flies out of his pants.
Dean wonders idly if Cas would simply mojo his clothes away. It would certainly save a lot of awkwardness.
"Come on," Aaron says when he's down to boxers--he's barefoot, has been since Dean arrived. He extends a hand, but Dean ignores it in favour of crossing to the bed, steps just a little slower, his breath coming just a little faster, his heart hammering in his chest.
And this is it, the moment of truth, the point of no return. He's no longer nervous, no longer on the verge of panicking and leaving--he's had his hands on a guy's ass, after all--but he is still feeling a little apprehensive, the gravity of what he's about to do striking him then.
"Cherry flavoured, or glow in the dark?" Aaron asks, the question so patently ridiculous Dean freezes, tension leaving him as he catches Aaron's eye across the bed, eyebrow lifting because...
"Condoms. The cherry ones are nice, but the glow in the dark ones make your cock look like a light saber."
Dean blinks, because are they actually having this conversation? He realizes then Aaron's holding up two condoms, bright blue foil in his left hand, bright red in his right. He spots the tube of lube next, sitting on Aaron's nightstand, the reality of this striking Dean hard, though when he tries to panic--wants to panic--he's met only with increasing want.
"I honestly have no idea," Dean says, crossing that final line by climbing onto Aaron's bed, not entirely sure if he should stay on his knees or lie on his back. While he's debating it, he slips his underwear off, and then his socks for good measure, feeling a good deal more naked than he usually does when he's not wearing clothes.
"Well, we'll just..." Aaron starts, but he freezes, eyes again growing wide when he catches sight of Dean who has finally decided to settle on his knees, ass in the air because the girls he's been with seem to like the position and the guys he's seen on his laptop seem to like it too and...
"What are you doing?" Aaron asks. Dean flushes. He's not really used to people questioning his prowess in bed. He's not delusional enough to think he's fantastic, but certainly no one's complained before.
Dean glances over his shoulder.
"Is this not good?" he grunts out, impatient, his arms shaking, despite his locked elbows. His entire body feels taut as a bowstring, tension and uncertainty and just plain awkwardness making this far less enjoyable than it was when they were just standing inside the doorway kissing.
He's not even really all that hard anymore.
"Oh," Aaron says. "Oh, you want... Yeah, okay. Okay. I'm... good with that. But, um..."
Dean's starting to feel out of his depth again. He's starting to feel a lot like there really is an instruction manual for this and he's gone and smoked the damned pages.
Aaron releases a breath--Dean can actually hear it--and then chuckles, new tension flooding Dean because he'll tolerate a lot but not being laughed at. He turns, meaning to get up and put his fucking clothes back on--maybe punch Aaron for good measure, because what the hell was he thinking anyway--when Aaron's hand lands on his shoulder.
Coincidentally, it's directly over the place where Cas' hand print used to live. Dean shivers.
"Sorry, I kind of forgot..." Aaron waves off however he was going to finish that sentence, though Dean can imagine. "But no rush, okay. We can kind of save that for a little bit later?"
He says it like it's a question, like maybe he's just as lost as Dean and, yeah, okay, that makes a good deal of sense. Foreplay Dean can handle. Foreplay Dean's good at. He has no idea why he assumed Aaron wouldn't be interested in it. Clearly he's been watching the wrong porn.
He lets Aaron manhandle him--and oh god, he likes that way more than he wants to--until he's settled on his side, Aaron pressed up against him, still wearing his boxers and they scratch against Dean's cock in a way that instantly renews his interest. It feels a little weird, a little too intense, a little too intimate having a guy so into his space. Aaron's hand comes around his waist, dragging him close until they're slotting together in a way Dean hasn't been with anyone who wasn't sporting a pair of c-cups.
Dean can't help the groan that escapes him.
Aaron chuckles, low and easy, and then scraps his teeth against Dean's Adam's apple, Dean tossing his head back to give him room. His hands are wandering over Dean's chest and down Dean's stomach, fingers mapping Dean's skin until he's a shivering mess, hips canting, cock grinding into the seam of Aaron's leg.
God, would it be like this with Cas, he wonders. Would Cas latch onto his pulse point and suck? Would Cas rock their hips together until Dean's cock was sliding against his own, the feel of it, the strength of it so fucking overwhelming he's pretty sure he could come from this alone.
There is no getting away from it now. Dean's about as straight as that rainbow slinky he keeps in the trunk of the Impala. Figures.
It's Dean who initiates the roll, tugging at Aaron's shoulders until he follows where Dean leads, Dean wanting to feel Aaron's weight pressing him into the mattress. Aaron isn't strong, but he could grab Dean by the wrists and hold him down and Dean would let him: would buck under him, writhing and moaning because apparently even though this is exactly what Dean has spent a lifetime running away from it is also exactly what Dean has spent a lifetime craving.
He spreads his legs a little, letting Aaron settle between them, Aaron a little frantic now, but in a way that is so fucking good Dean can't wrap his head around it. He wants to wrap his legs around Aaron's waist; feel Aaron stretching him open. Dean's never done this before--Hell doesn't fucking count and even if it did Dean's mostly suppressed those memories anyway--but that doesn't mean he hasn't experimented in the shower, fingers teasing at his hole, slipping inside until he was coming, shame-faced and weak with pleasure.
Except Aaron seems perfectly content to grind their hips together and suck on Dean's neck--God, he's going to have fucking marks and how the hell is he going to explain that to Sam? To fucking Cas, if Cas ever turns up again?
Not a thought he wants creeping in just now, so Dean pushes it away, along with Aaron's shoulders. Aaron lifts up to blink down at him, eyes glazed and jaw slack.
"You want me to stop?" he asks, sounding kind of desperate, but also perfectly willing if that's what Dean needs.
"I want you to get on with it," Dean says, tilting his pelvis to make his point and he's proud of how steadily he says it, how calmly he's able to keep Aaron's gaze.
Aaron blinks. He blinks a second time. "Oh," he says, and then he's scrambling, coming back with condoms and lube and Dean has half a second to feel just a little bit nervous before Aaron sets down both adjacent Dean's hip and reaches for Dean's leg.
There's no grace in his movements. He simply pushes Dean's leg up to his chest until Dean is half exposed and feeling more vulnerable than he has in a really long time.
It's arousing as all fuck.
But not as arousing as the feel of Aaron's fingers, ghosting across his ass. They're dry--Aaron hasn't broken out the lube yet--but Dean still pushes against them when they skirt his hole. He wants--oh god how he wants--them inside. He wants to feel Aaron stretching him and loosening him and then sliding into him and...
God, who knew he was such an unabashed slut.
And Aaron, bless him for being exactly what Dean probably needed at this juncture, doesn't keep him waiting. He withdraws long enough to retrieve the lube and pour it over his fingers, not bothering to warm it before he's back to sliding now lube-slick fingers against Dean's hole.
Dean flinches a little at the cold, but otherwise remains perfectly still. He's spread out across Aaron's mattress--damned sheets smell like stale pot smoke--one knee drawn to his chest, the other leg sprawled to the side, with Aaron between his legs, half leaned on the inside of Dean's thigh while he circles a finger around the entrance to Dean's body. He's painfully slow about it, watching with rapt attention, like it's the hottest thing he's ever seen. Dean can't bear to watch anymore, so he glances up at the ceiling, concentrating on the blank field of white so that he doesn't come before Aaron's even gotten inside of him.
It strikes him then that he's about to have another guy inside him.
That should probably make him nervous--about as nervous as he was on the drive here--but he's gotten to the point where there is only arousal and anticipation. When Aaron's first finger breaches him, it feels so fucking incredible--hot and forbidden and all kinds of dirty--that Dean arches off the bed, grinding down while bucking up until he's practically fucking himself on Aaron's finger.
"Jesus," he hears Aaron say.
Dean can't quite help the laughter that bubbles out of him, because he's fairly certain Aaron's golem would object to that. It cuts off just as abruptly, Aaron crooking his finger until all Dean can do is pant and groan.
"You are so fucking tight, man," Aaron says, sounding positively fascinated. He pulls back and adds a second finger.
And while this is nice--it really fucking is, amazing even--it's not at all what Dean wants. Dean doesn't want this slow, leisurely pace, care and attention not exactly something he's used to. He wants Aaron to take him apart, to rip into him so that he can't sit down in the morning.
"Fucking come on," Dean manages, though it takes several attempts before the words come out. "Get on with it."
It's pretty much the last thing Dean has ever imagined himself saying to anyone, let alone the guy who's got two fingers up his ass, but he's quickly growing impatient, cock dripping against his fucking stomach and while normally Dean wouldn't complain about slow and playful, that's not at all what he's looking for right now.
"Dude, you are nowhere near ready," Aaron says, scissoring his fingers, fucking them into Dean's body just a little bit rougher, a little bit deeper. It's enough that Dean's head falls back against the pillow, low moan slipping past his lips.
"Fucking hell," Dean chokes out, and then, "I'm fucking ready."
He probably isn't--Dean's a pretty considerate guy in bed and there's no way he would move to the main event if he thought his partner wasn't ready--but that doesn't stop him from impatiently pressing down, hard enough that Aaron gets the point and removes his hand. His fingers slip out with a wet pop, Dean left feeling disappointingly empty. He lets out a shaky breath and then glances down; watches Aaron shimmying out of his boxers, eyes instantly drawn to his cock.
"This is seriously a bad idea," Aaron says, but his hands are shaking and he definitely looks ready to go. Dean wraps a hand around the base of his cock; gives it a brief squeeze.
"Trust me, you're not going to break me," Dean says, licking his lips. Aaron's cock is long and slender and purple-tipped and Dean has never in his life wanted something in his mouth as badly as he wants Aaron's dick.
Jesus fucking Christ.
"Yeah, you say that, but..." Aaron says, but he's tearing into one of the condoms and unrolling it down his length, neon-fucking blue telling Dean he's chosen the glow in the dark one. Dean watches, rapt with attention, while Aaron gets it in place, then covers his dick in a liberal coat of lube.
There's an awkward moment of fumbling after that, Dean not entirely sure where Aaron wants him--and he's starting to get that this isn't something Aaron does all that often. He ends up on his back, legs spread wide, ankles thrown over Aaron's shoulders which is just about the most awkward, embarrassing thing he's ever done but damn it if Dean doesn't love every fucking second of it. He's flushed almost completely red, half from want, half from shame, his cock stiff against his belly, his entire body shaking with tension. Aaron doesn't really keep him waiting, as eager as apparently Dean is. He does take his time lining up, rubbing his tip against Dean's hole in slow circles until Dean's practically begging--not that he will ever fucking admit that.
Not that anyone will ever fucking hear about this period.
The first push--that first stretch--doesn't hurt anywhere near as much as Dean was expecting. It mostly feels a bit invasive, a bit too big for where it's trying to fit but there's something about that that makes Dean's toes curl, his breath catching as he waits for Aaron to get the tip inside. Above him, Aaron's got his eyes shut tight and he's cursing, arms shaking as he inches his way in, fighting the natural impulse to thrust so that he doesn't hurt Dean. Dean probably wouldn't mind much if he did, the sharp pull of Aaron stretching him combining nicely with the dull throb of pleasure that's pretty much short-circuiting Dean's nervous system. He feels like he's about to fall apart at the seams.
He wonders what Cas would be like in this moment. If he'd be slow and patient, or all untamed hurricane, holding Dean down and taking what he wanted until Dean surrendered. Cas, Dean thinks, he would have said yes to. He's not sure there was ever a time he would have been capable of resisting.
Aaron is all the way in now, holding perfectly still when all Dean really wants is for him to move. He must say something, though he can't hear a damned thing over the pounding in his ears, because a second later Aaron starts moving, shallow thrusts that set off new sparks of pleasure. Dean tries bucking against the sensation, but Aaron's holding tight to his hips--so tight Dean wouldn't be surprised if, come morning, he woke to find a ring of finger-shaped bruises against his skin.
Cas, Dean thinks, would burn him all over, fire and brimstone and light consuming him until there was nothing but ash.
Aaron's fucking him in earnest now, steady thrusts that grow increasingly more erratic the closer he gets orgasm. Dean's not far behind, hand flying across his dick, the image of Castiel etched in his brain. Cas' eyes are glowing blue as he pins Dean to the mattress, fucking him steadily and with so much power Dean shakes from it. His hands are gripping Dean by the shoulders, twin hand prints branded into his skin. At his back, two giant black wings unfurl, spanning out behind him until Dean is entirely surrounded, Cas on his skin and in his lungs and in his blood and sliding steadily in and out of his ass until Dean is coming and coming and coming.
It leaves him shattered against the rocks, no part of him whole, the entirety of his soul Cas' and Cas' alone.
Dean comes slowly back to himself.
He's dimly aware of Aaron moving: pulling out and sliding off the condom, tying its end before tossing it across the room, presumably towards the trash. He registers a displacement of weight as Aaron leaves the bed, and then is startled into full consciousness by the feel of a damp cloth hitting his chest. Dean blinks up at the ceiling until his vision stops swimming, and then glances over.
Aaron's grinning at him.
"So," he says, casual as fuck and entirely too coherent for someone post-coital. Dean glares at him.
"What?" Dean says, absently reaching for the cloth, using it to wipe at the come splashed across his stomach; then the sticky mess of lube between his legs. He feels wide open and well-fucked. It's not exactly something he's used to and old panic threatens to resurface. Dean forces it down.
Aaron sinks down onto the bed. He runs a lazy hand up Dean's leg, which is far less intrusive than Dean was expecting. "Who's Cas?"
Dean freezes at that, because of course he called Cas' name--why did he ever think he wouldn't. It's not something he wants to talk about and it's sure as hell not something he wants to explain. He wants to put it away and never look at it again because what fucking good is it going to do him? Except, there's something in the way Aaron is looking at him, soft and kind of understanding, like maybe he might actually get this, like maybe he's someone Dean can actually talk to about this.
He's still kind of cautious when he sits up; still feeling the dull ache of having just been fucked into a mattress. He shifts a little, trying to get comfortable before realizing that's probably not going to happen; ends up kind of curled on his side, half propped against the pillows.
"You actually want this story?" Dean still asks.
Aaron nods. Dean releases a breath.
"He's an angel." He pauses, watches confusion settle over Aaron's features. "A real one. Warrior of God, fluffy wings, halo, the whole nine yards."
Aaron's eyes grow wide.
"He's my angel," Dean continues, "And I'm pretty much going to hell for thinking about him the way that I do, so..."
Aaron gapes at him for several seconds, mouth opening and closing like a god-dammed fish. He looks, frankly, terrified, like the idea of angels existing is so far outside his comfort zone he's nowhere near ready to examine it, like owning a golem doesn't come close to preparing him for this.
Funnily, Dean kind of knows how he feels.
"So this," Dean continues, gesturing between them. "This is a thing I kind of needed to do, but it's not fair to you--it's not fair to anyone--getting tangled up with a guy who's pining over someone who isn't even corporeal, you know?"
"Right," Aaron says, like he's still stuck on angel, which, hey, Dean can't really blame him for.
"We good?" Dean still asks, because he might have just had some of the best sex of his life--and he's really going to have to examine that later because until now he was still kind of hoping this whole thing would be a bust and then he could go back to his normal life--women only, please--content he'd closed the door on this chapter of his life forever.
Clearly that's not going to happen.
"Yeah, we're cool," Aaron says. He traces a circle against Dean's hip, smile kind of soft, sympathetic like maybe he knows a thing or two about unrequited love. "You wanna stay the night, or..."
It's an open invitation, Dean can tell. If he said yes, Aaron would be perfectly happy to have him stay--hell, they'd probably even fuck again and Dean wouldn't exactly be opposed to that. The problem of course is that staying is too close to a promise Dean can't make. He shakes his head.
"I should get going. My brother's kind of expecting me."
Aaron nods, slipping away easily, like he wasn't really expecting another answer. A second later Dean's jeans come flying through the air. Dean catches them with one hand.
"But thanks, for everything," he says, flashing back to the last time he heard those words; realizing perhaps for the first time how much they were a goodbye.
He leaves Aaron's place not ten minutes later, Aaron's card still burning a hole in his wallet, but Dean's not ready to ditch it just yet--besides, they do need contacts, especially ones with golems at their command. He drives back to Sam with the radio off, only the purr of the engine to keep him company. He still hasn't fully processed what just happened, except that he feels, for perhaps the first time in his life, that he's on the cusp of something. There's something coming over the horizon, only instead of the usual dread and apprehension, Dean feels the electric tingle of anticipation. That, and the first tentative tendrils of hope.