Impatient wasn't the word for it.
No, impatient was standing too long in the grocery store or getting held up at the bank while someone counted out a transfer in small coin. Castiel wasn't impatient. He was irritated, yes, but that was more or less a given. The entire cabin smelt like curry (Jet Airways operated by United, Brussels to Dubai) and he had already mimed out the second safety briefing of the day, the woman in the third row wanted another Pepsi and somewhere a baby was wailing like a siren. But, he was also impossibly desperate to reach the ground because Air Captain Winchester had sidled up to him in the cockpit and said all silt and sand: hey, you got the international time? Airport code for I want your pretty ass. And then like nothing, a pat on the shoulder, a saucy wink, but slid into his palm a tiny airport map with the employees third floor bathroom circled in blue pen.
So Castiel served drinks, he made small-talk, he did what a good steward did in his navy sweater-vest and he did it all hard as a fucking rock. Desperate? Yeah, that was another shitty word.
Dean Winchester with his starched white uniform and captain's hat, the way he said jump and you said how high because he was freckles and green eyes and a dick you wanted to get down on your knees and suck in every country you touched down in. Yeah, he had it bad- always had, and fist sweaty-tight in his trouser pocket was the golden ticket. Bent over a fucking sink if that's how you want me, but goddamnit I'm going to get the whole hog half-price and duty free. Thank you for flying air-sadist, I have enjoyed accompanying your moral conflict this evening and wish you a pleasant onward journey.
Dean was having a problem.
Actually, he was having a small heart attack. Piloting was second nature, he could land controls down and blindfolded, but he could barely function when he was on board. Too cute in his down-size tight pants, bending over at inopportune times and rewiring Dean's brain to think cock first and dinner afterwards. Never wanted anything or anyone as bad, the smell of Castiel's cologne driving him slowly insane. Saw him once out of uniform and four hours later he called Sam whisky-liquored and ready to buy a ring. Never nursed anything so long; fucked a waitress in forty-eight different countries and the entirety of the continental United States, but alone in the shower and arching into his fist, it was Castiel and his stupid head-tilt, fuckable little face and god… He wanted to kiss him until he forgot how to breath.
"Can I get another Pepsi?"
"Cold this time."
"Yes, ma’am." But what he thought was, they're all cold you idiot.
"And my husband will have-"
"How did you know?"
"Lucky guess." And if he palmed down his cock for the thirtieth time in the canteena, nobody needed to know.
Dean was following the onscreen guide, a light hand on the control because the computer did most of the work. The most beautiful string of words in existence? Ladies and gentlemen if you could please secure your seatbelts and return your trays to their upright positions. It was like fucking Christmas, and a birthday, and an itch he couldn't scratch all blue-eyed and pretty-mouthed and explaining how all of the aircraft’s flotation devices could be found under the seat. A turn of the tongue, a shake of the head, a way of saying yes sir, no ma'am, please fuck me Captain- fuck. Land the plane you idiot. Firmer grip. Ease back. Relax. Three minutes, dumbass. Just land the goddamn plane.
It didn't occur to Dean that Castiel might not show up, or that he was probably knee-deep in a sexual harassment lawsuit so ugly he would need a new identity in Guam... No, he was too preoccupied. Cas' cock in hand, mouth, mind, licked and lapped and fisted until he was licking him up creamspunk and delicious. Breakfast in bed, massage-turned-fabulous, long walks in the park, gorgeous deep-tongued kisses that made him want to hang up his hat and stay grounded for the day because they would have a duvet so soft it was like a cloud. Eating caviar out of Cas' navel, licking the Parisian sweat from the crook of his neck. Yeah, all of that. Twice.
And all his brother had said was, "Jesus man, you've got it bad don't you?" Understatement of the fucking year. He had it so bad he was losing his mind in slow increments and he was just desperate enough to toss his hat to the wind for a chance at it- him- the whole deal. Jesus Christ. Just land the bloody plane!
Castiel could see the airport. He could practically feel the heavy weight of Dean crushing him against the sink, kissing in deep. So much for avoiding the stereotype: male, flight attendant, officially queerer than a three dollar bill. On another day it might have bothered him, but all he could do was swallow hard, ignore the nervous sweat on his brow and thank every passenger because it was second nature. Thank-you for flying Jet Airways, have a good evening. Thank-you for not being able to hear what’s going on in my head right now. You forgot your bag, madam. Sir, your hat. I bet he’s hung like a horse. Fuck.
Thirty minutes after landing Castiel was off the gangway with his emblazoned carry-on rolling behind him. Click-click-click because patented leather shoes sound so good on tile. Elevator one, security check, hallway, second hallway, security check, swipe-card, locker key and then stomach a stormy torrent of knots, he was sliding into the bathroom. Raking his hand through his hair Castiel stared at himself in the mirror; shadows under his eyes, had probably smelled better, crick in the neck, mustard stain on his left sleeve from a child he’d come entirely close to throttling. It was a joke, wasn’t it? It had to be.
Dean Winchester wasn’t about to throw away his career for- oh hell, and there he was.
Top three buttons already undone, a wild and frazzled look. So maybe they both knew it was crazy, maybe this was just going to be a laugh later. Drinks, dinner, maybe another time in a better place and Castiel wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved until he was crushed into the wall, Dean’s mouth on his. Eyes wide and then that husky croon he’d only imagined. “Didn’t think you’d come.” Kiss. “Didn’t think-” Lick up his cheek, teeth on his ear. “Fuck Cas, you-” Hand on his belt, another tangled in his hair.
There was a knock at the door and Dean tore away from the spit-wet skin of his throat long enough to holler occupied! before his hand was around Castiel’s dick and his teeth at his Adam’s apple. Waited long enough, watched Castiel’s pert little ass navigate the narrow isle planks, loved the way his doeish eyes blinked up at him all skyline and blue. Made him want a hundred things that all started with please and finished with more. Love at first flight, and if he was crazy it was worth the confused moan Castiel made, the pain-pleasure mix of his fast-jacked cock intermingled with the sink edge digging into his back. Dean didn’t waste time, never had, and he braced his knees, slid Castiel up the wall and together they wrangled him out of his sweater vest, split the collar of his pressed whites and loved the sound of the buttons skittering across the floor.
Dean sucked his left nipple- god, just as pretty as he’d thought. Pale, tight little body with that perfect kind of sex-flushed untouched pink that he drank down like wine. There was a purpling bruise underneath Castiel’s collar bone and Dean wanted to paint him up in a hundred more. Panting, rutting, sliding together and despite being mostly clothed and barely there it was already the best he’d ever had.
“Did you- can we-” Castiel made a strangled noise as Dean pushed him to a seat on the sink and pulled his pants to mid-thigh. “I don’t have any-” God! Fuck! He couldn’t think, speak. Dean’s perfectly bowed cocksuck lips were swallowing down his prick, tap-spout scraping uncomfortably against his spine. Wet and sloppy suction and then- Jesus fuck- the slimy slurp, the dribble of spittle, the way Dean’s tongue fucked the slit and made his thighs quiver. Already the phantom ached of being empty, wanted to be rammed and railed and stuffed so full it fucking burned. Fuck me, fuck me- fuck… Fuck!
Dean was riding a sprinter’s high and he was struggling to remember how to breath while trying to drink in the murky, day-unclean smell of Castiel’s cock. Memorized the underblue vein on the topside, the slight left-lean, that he was uncut making it better. Never would have called himself a cocksucker but Castiel brought out the best-worst in everything. He wanted to do it, wanted to do it well, maybe to reef him farther up, bury his face between his ass cheeks and lick his way straight to a gorgeous hell.
Mouthful of dick and he pulled back to breathe out, “Wanna lick you wide open, Cas.”
God, yes! Wanted it bad, wanted it fast, struggled because the angle was rotten and his pants were caught up around his shoes and the strain in his arms as he tried to brace himself was fever-pitch intensity of the most perfect kind. Tiny black briefs because of course, the man had class. Couldn’t spread his legs wide enough but that was fine, Dean was spreading him anyway, licking the rosebud pucker of his asshole and when he groaned the vibrato was tangible, visceral. All he could do was scrape his nails along Dean’s scalp, leave moon dents in his neck as he forced him closer, fucked his face in a shallow rotation.
Minutes, hours? Who fucking knew because Dean had lube in his jacket pocket and when he crawled back upward Castiel sucked the empty taste of himself from his tongue, lipped and lapped his way into a mouth that felt too eerily like home. Shudder because it was cold, moan like a broken thing because cold-hot heat and sticky lube and two fingers because time was of the essence but it burned so good.
Back up against the wall, rough glide, hard slide and Dean ripped open a condom packet with his teeth, managed it gracelessly but one-handedly. Sloppy lube-job trickling between his legs and then- oh Jesus fucking Christ. Dean’s cock, fat-wide and not as long as his own. Felt like the perfect fit, felt like it was tearing him up from the foundation. Sign me up frequent flyer, deeper, harder, take me off, up, land me sweet but never gentle. Dean was sweating, Castiel’s head was thrown back and already another two bruises were darkening- three, because it was as close to writing property-of that Dean could get. Thrust. Pump. Deep.
“Dean- hnng- fuck-!” Slam! when his head hit the mirror, gasped when he shifted the angle.
“Yeah, like that, yeah- yeah- yeah-” And if he wasn’t really saying anything, did it matter?
Tight hot heat, Castiel’s body took him so fucking good, made all the right noises, looked too pretty all lit up like in a flush. Came just like a lady, shuddering cascade of pink from toes to teeth and Dean squeezed his cockhead just to watch him come all over his lightly-haired belly. Clench, relax, squeeze and somewhere between coming and going Castiel’s hips took over, fucking back into and against him, fucking him as hard as he had and as good as he got. Little closer baby, little harder, little more. Ladies and gentlemen, we have achieved cruising altitude, gonna come blind in your squeeze-tight little fuckhole.
Yeah Cas, wanted you, want you, take- don’t- please- fuck, fuck you and how perfect it feels.
“Cas- shit-!” And his hips stuttered, lips whispered and he kissed out another hello-goodbye.
Castiel came down hard, eyes crossing before he touched back down, remembered the ground underneath his feet. They were in a bathroom, unbuttoned and peeled back but dressed and Dean’s softening prick was a feeling second only to itself, bloodfull and railing him. Remember, it’s just a quick fuck, swallow down the way you want to do it all again tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. With a bed and a sunbeam that pales behind his cocksure grin. You came, you saw, he conquered. Back to business as usual, or another job- maybe another continent. The worst thing about stupid decisions is knowing, doing it anyway and then dealing with the aftermath. He closed his eyes, sighed.
“Mmm, fuck.” Dean’s mouth chased his pulse, “Gotta do that again tonight.”
“Got a decent view from the hotel,” A kiss to the neck. “You, me, a bottle of good wine and room service all weekend,” A lazy thumb through the spunk cooling on his belly. “Maybe a shower?”
Second date, hotel and room service. Third, Italian food. Fourth, Paris. Fifth, sixth seventh, eight? God, yes. Dean’s was a relaxed and easy afterglow and Castiel blinked down dumbly. They’d just fucked in the employee’s toilet and reputationally and circumstantially, that meant- or should mean- goodbye.
He must have paused too long because Dean’s face fell, “Hey, uh- no pressure. I just thought- uh, yeah. No big deal, that’s probably a little forward for a second date.” Second- wait, what? Dean was already buttoning his pants and on what bloody planet was bathroom sex a first date in the first place!
That wasn’t… Jesus!
Stupid Dean Winchester and his stupid ideas and his stupid uniform and his stupid, stupid hotel.
“And a hotel stay is your typical second-date?” Not bitter but exasperatedly curious.
“Dunno, never actually had one.” Dean admitted. “But y’know,” He tried, “There’s this waffle house around the corner from here that makes killer crepes. Banana crème? To die for, I’m telling you.”
Inward sigh, quiet eye-roll. Maybe Dean actually wasn’t as suave out of uniform as he let on, all prowess until afters. Last boarding call, the stupidest thing you’ll probably ever do. But still, he looked so damn hopeful. God, he was going to say it, wasn’t he? Yeah he was.
“I supposed I could use a shower…”