Bedtime. Another night, another nondescript motel, neon sign buzzing angrily, trying to stay alive outside the window. Another set of two double beds, each one not quite big enough for two, but far too big for one alone. Sam's asleep in one. Dean's awake in the other. His arms are spread as though waiting for an imaginary partner to fall into them. There's nobody. He's alone.
He's thinking about monsters. Werewolves and spirits and vampires and demons and angels and people and a million other terrors without names. He's faced so many of them in his short time on this earth, seen even more in his too-long time in hell, and now he feels like an old man trapped in a young man's body -- one that isn't built for the experiences he's had, the memories he can't ever banish. Some days he almost wishes for it all to stop, to close his eyes and have the world halt under him. For sleep, or death, or something that could turn him from this burdened soul into a mindless, simplistic, foolish child again. To remember a time when pleasures were many and fears were few.
That respite came, finally, a few nights ago. For the first time in years, he felt nothing but want. He thought nothing at all. He existed for someone else's pleasure. God, that was refreshing. It was humiliating, sure. And probably really stupid, too. But it was good. He shut off, shut out the world, needed only Castiel's breath mingling with his and his hips riding high against him. And now, he wants it again.
Castiel. The very creature who has made his life ten thousand times more complicated. Dean should hate him, shouldn't want to offer him anything, but all he can think about is offering him everything. For that feeling is exactly what he needs, and it seems infinitely fair that Castiel, who's turned his life upside down, should be the one to offer him some relief from it all.
But that makes it giving, not taking, and Dean needs him to just take.
He sits up in bed, looks over at Sam -- all in shades of gray with his eyes closed and his lips pursed -- and rises to his feet. The motel carpet feels like stubble against his bare soles, and Dean remembers again Castiel's jaw, harsh and raw, perfect. Sanding him down to mindlessness with its rough scrape.
He pushes aside the window curtain. Eyes catch his.
Dean doesn't even bother to put on shoes, he's out the door so fast.
Castiel plays hide and seek with him, ducking behind the last car in the lot, then around the corner, and ending up in the skinny corridor next to humming ice machines and empty garbage cans. Cigarette butts are scattered a loose circle, like flecks of spilled pepper. This is the back end of the back end, the no-man's-land of a motel. Nobody ever comes out here. It's claustrophobic and abandoned.
Castiel waits for him to round the corner before pulling him in with a sharp tug of arms. His breath is warm and sour, and Dean's aware of how little Castiel eats and how little attention he pays to the care of his human body. Castiel's not human. That knowledge lights a match deep within Dean, and heat sparks through his stomach. He presses Castiel against the wall and kisses him hard, their lips folding over each other in a war for dominance, their tongues tangling. Castiel's hands lock around his waist. A sound rises up in his throat.
Dean doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to break the kiss, but he has to at least maintain some semblance of his pride. So he stumbles back, palms widespread on Castiel's chest, pushing him to arm's-length. He gasps for breath. It's like inhaling knives. He can feel each pull of cold air tearing his windpipe. Words are a long time coming.
"What is this?" he asks. "What are we doing?"
Castiel's silent. Dean takes the measure of him, quickly, in the dim pink light of the neon sign and the intermittent illumination of the sputtering bulb above them. Parted coat, wrinkled shirt. Quick breaths. Hands curled into half-fists, fingers trembling. Hard cock pressed against the front of his pants. Eyes and face stony. Only the flash of pink at his parted lips breaking the hardness of his visage. Every other second expelling another puff of visible breath into the freezing air.
"What do you want from me?" Dean says. He can hear the ache in his own voice.
Castiel remains silent.
Dean fists hands into Castiel's shirt, walks right up close to him. He can't feel his toes. The balls of his feet are scratched and torn from the uneven pavement. His chest feels like it's going to cave in. "I'll do it," he whispers. His eyes beg. "Whatever you want."
Castiel takes a long breath. "On your knees," he says.
Dean shudders all over, a ripple of movement that begins at the crown of his head and makes its way down his spine to his legs. Even his feet curl. He drops like a sandbag, and his hands get busy undoing Castiel's loosely hanging belt, the button and zipper, shucking Castiel's pants down to hang at his knees. He's ravenous. He can think of nothing but the taste and the feel and the power of Castiel in his mouth. He braces his hands on the angel's thighs, already anticipating how they'll quiver at the last moments.
He cups one hand around Castiel's balls, wraps another around the base of his cock, guiding it slowly away from his stomach and outward. Castiel jerks at first contact, then relaxes, groans slowly as Dean's hands move over him. Dean doesn't look up. This is his task. He has no thoughts but completing it. Finally, he's reduced to the unthinking, unburdened animal he's wanted for so long to be.
His lips stretch around the soft-silk skin, the head of Castiel's cock warm and flushed, slit just starting to leak. He laves his tongue around it, a quick massage, and Castiel catches his breath. One hand comes down to stroke Dean's hair, like a master might do to a pet. Dean is encouraged by the touch, and he runs the blade of his tongue just under the ridge, which makes Castiel seize up again.
His lips slake off and he fastens them now around the bulging vein on the underside, sliding with a slight sucking pressure up and down the shaft. Castiel's cock is hot beneath his lips, hard and needy, with just the edge of an elegant curve to point it toward heaven. Dean has to taste more. He sweeps his tongue up, base to tip, then again. A groan sounds above him. This one is less controlled. A bit of triumph crows in Dean's heart.
Tentatively he tastes the fuzzy, ugly scrunch of flesh that is Castiel's scrotum. He hears a thump, and looks up in time to see Castiel toss his head from one side to the other, thudding against the wall, his expression utterly tortured. With a smile, Dean flicks his tongue down to the underside of his sac, and watches for an indulgent moment as Cas' guard goes down long enough that he lets out a needy cry.
Then the hand in his hair pulls, hard, and Dean's brought back to his task. He takes Castiel's cock in his mouth now, fastening himself around the upper half of it as his hand takes firm hold of the lower. He imitates the rhythm that his own cock is demanding now, hard and painful against his sweatpants. A squeeze upward, washing his tongue across and down again, making it all one movement, one stroke in two halves. Hand and mouth in tandem.
He feels his jaw start to ache, ignores the urge to back away. Concentrates instead on the rising moans above him. His tongue catches salt and liquid. Pressure on his hair doubles, two fists now holding him steady as Castiel rises from the wall to fuck his mouth in a series of needy thrusts. Noises are coming more often, more urgently from the throat above him. Dean's lost in the rhythm, the rapture of being used, needed. He starts to moan himself. He's pushing his own hips forward into air, imagining the feel of a mouth wrapped around his cock as his is around Castiel's, pain and want jolting through him every time there is nothing there to catch him. He goes faster, wanting to urge Castiel through to the release that Dean himself will not have.
It comes, abruptly, with only the slightest feel of tightening beneath Dean's teasing fingers and a stiffening of Castiel's spine above him. Then he's flooded, inundated with loose watery fluid everywhere, filling his mouth. He forces a gulping swallow, and then there's more, and he wants nothing more to gag. He swallows again instead. The cry that Castiel gave at the moment of climax, the piercing wail and series of whimpers following it, reach his ears only now, as though delayed. It's still echoing in his eardrums even after Castiel has curled forward, trying to gulp in longer breaths than his system will let him take. The hand in Dean's hair goes slack.
Then up, pulling again, and Dean's being dragged upright. A head rush hits him and he thinks he's going to black out. He falls forward onto Castiel's shoulder, his knees wobbling. But Castiel isn't still. His hand pulls at the waistband of Dean's sweatpants and rips the whole front of them away with a tearing of cotton and thread. A hot hand drags him out of his boxers and strokes him urgently. Dean's brain sparks to dim life. Castiel's trying to return the favor. Make sure Dean gets off, too. He should be touched. He wants to smile. But all he can do is bury his head in Castiel's shoulder and hold on tight as fingers too hot to be human take his body apart, force him gasping and sputtering to a quick burst of orgasm, burning and tearing at his insides and then gone too soon. Dean cries out, muffles his voice in a tan mouthful of trenchcoat, and leans against Castiel, unable to speak or move, just whimper.
Castiel doesn't hold him. That would be wrong. That's not what they're doing this for.
"We should probably talk about this," Dean says, a mumble almost lost in the heavy breaths and churning of the ice machine beside them.
"Next time," Castiel says. "Next time we will."
His hand comes up to graze across Dean's cheek. Dean feels the wetness of his own come on Castiel's fingertips.
Then he's alone.