At nineteen, Dean Winchester knows he likes sex.
He knows he likes women and the occasional guy. He likes the way women smell and taste, their tits and ass, soft skin and pink pussies. It’s just that sometimes…sometimes he’d rather have hard muscle, another dick pressed against him, large hands that don’t hold back.
The ass stays the same. Dean does not discriminate against asses.
Dean doesn’t think about what his preferences say about him. He finds what he wants when he wants it. He knows he’s attractive; it’s not hard finding people who agree.
And then Dean meets Rhonda Hurley.
A couple of years older, Rhonda has perfectly curving hips and a mouth that could make a priest blush and run to confession. They don’t so much date as have sex in a variety of locations and positions. She does this thing with her tongue that never fails to make Dean weak in the knees.
Mostly naked, they make out on her bed. As much as Dean wants her completely undressed—really a lot—he can’t stop touching her, likes the feel of her panties beneath his hands, soft and smooth and slick.
“I love these on you,” he says, palming her ass through the fabric.
She nips at his lip and grins, pushes back against his hands. “Yeah? You like the way they feel?”
Rhonda pushes herself up until she’s hovering over him, grin turned a little bit wicked. She slides off the bed and Dean leans up on his elbows to watch her, hand wrapping around his dick as he appreciates the view.
Hooking her fingers in the elastic at her waist, Rhonda pauses. There’s a glint in her eye he’s not sure he likes. “I want to try something.”
Dean thinks of himself as a pretty open guy, and they’ve had fun so far. What can it hurt? Plus, he’s hard and horny and Rhonda’s legs lead to heaven and back. “Sure,” he says. “Anything you want, sweetheart.”
Rhonda smirks at him and slips out of the panties. Tosses them to him. “Put them on.”
Dean’s mouth drops open. He stares. “What?”
“You like ‘em so much, I think you should try them.”
Hands behind him, Dean pushes himself up until he’s sitting. His heart thuds beneath his ribs. “Are you suddenly under the impression I’m a chick? Unless you’ve been thinking my dick was actually pussy, in which case—”
Rhonda slaps his knee. Hard. She kneels on the bed, straddling his legs, forcing him to lie back down. He doesn’t think about why he isn’t running.
“Dean,” she says, voice soft, coaxing. “It’ll be hot. You’ll like it.” She leans in, tongue hot against his bottom lip when she kisses him. Her voice is firm when she pulls back, says, “Trust me.”
Dean looks at the panties, deceptively innocent against his thighs, feels the sudden ache to know burning in his gut.
He reaches for them.
Dean has never come so hard in his entire life.
It scares him.
He’ll never admit that to anyone.
Their dad finishes his business two days later. Gets a lead that takes them elsewhere.
Dean sees Rhonda one last time. They make out behind her work, Dean fingering the top of her panties just below her waistband.
Rhonda grins knowingly at him. Asks him if he wants them.
Dean blushes and hates it, says no and kisses her spearmint flavored smile. Leaves.
He refuses to think about it.
That particular plan works pretty well for Dean for about ten years. He sleeps with women, screws around with a handful of guys. Has fun, but never…goes there. Never gives in to that thing just below his skin, whispering for Dean to indulge it.
And then he dies and goes to Hell, gets brought back to life by Castiel. Discovers that those feelings he sometimes felt for the women he almost-dated? The ones that made him want to tell the truth, open up and let them in? Have a life outside of Dad and Sam and hunting? He can feel those for someone distinctly male in shape, too.
Castiel becomes Cas, becomes something totally new and different in Dean’s life, something separate from the fact that he is something new and different in Dean’s life.
It frightens Dean, but Castiel doesn’t let him hide from it.
Castiel makes him face a lot of things.
Castiel appears out of nowhere with a bag in his hands, holds it out to Dean. “These are for you.”
Dean grins, genuinely surprised, and takes the bag from him. “What?” he says. “For me, Cas? What’s the occasion?”
Castiel doesn’t answer, though, and by the time Dean has the bag open, he doesn’t need to.
A harmless scrap of satin and lace lies at the bottom of the bag, and Dean feels his entire world shift.
The thing is, Dean realizes later, tired and spent, the thing is…Castiel went out and bought the panties for him.
Castiel had figured out—somehow—that it was something Dean liked, something Dean wanted, and then he’d walked into a store and picked them out.
Residual excitement skitters beneath Dean’s skin like aftershocks from an earthquake.
Castiel had shifted through colors and fabrics and cuts, styles and trims and sizes, until he found something that made him think Dean. That made him pull out a pair and study them with that unique focus of his before approving his selection and paying for them.
He wonders briefly about where Castiel got the money before deciding that in the grand scheme of crazy shit Castiel surprises him with, that’s hardly important.
Or had some pretty saleswoman offered Castiel her opinion? The idea that there might be someone else out there who, because of Castiel’s unfortunate habit of over-sharing, knows that there is a guy named Dean who likes wearing women’s underwear leaves Dean feeling torn. He’s not sure if he’s freaked out some stranger knows his secret, his dirty little secret that only two other people—three, if you count his future self—know, or really fucking turned on.
He knows one thing, though. He knows the saleswomen were probably all over Cas, ready and willing to lend him a hand. That is, if he didn’t freak them out with all of his intense staring in a store selling lacy underthings first. But then…Castiel only really looks at Dean like that, so maybe there’s no need to worry.
Castiel shifts against him, Dean’s front pressed to his back, Dean’s arm tucked beneath his. “Dean,” Castiel says, “stop thinking so hard.”
Dean chuckles, feels his breath bounce off the back of Castiel’s neck. “First time anyone’s ever told me that.”
“They don’t know you like I do.”
The enormity of how true that is hits Dean like a ton of bricks.
“No,” he says. “They don’t.”
Dean falls asleep eventually, listening to the sound of Castiel’s breathing, feeling the thrum of Castiel’s heart under the palm of his hand.
The panties are gone from the floor when Dean wakes up in the morning.
He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed.
Dean doesn’t ask, and Castiel doesn’t tell.
Days go by. They make out in the back of the Impala after a Sam-less gas run, Castiel jerking him off while Dean clutches at him, trying to find skin. He’s not fast enough, Castiel rubbing against him, coming bright and hot and shaking in his pants as Dean watches in the dim light from a nearby streetlamp.
Pressed together in the backseat, sweaty temples touching, all of the knowledge of who they are and what they’re doing hangs between them.
Dean’s starting to get used to the weight of it.
If Dean hadn’t kissed Castiel, fueled by adrenaline and oh thank fuck we’re alive, he’s not sure they ever would have gotten past making eyes at each other, Castiel content with what they had. Not understanding they could have so much more.
Dean’s not sure what he had been expecting, exactly; he’d wondered how Castiel would react. Wanted to find out what Castiel tasted like, what he felt like beneath all of those clothes. Let himself imagine and fantasize.
He had not been expecting Castiel to respond so readily, so easily, not after his minor freak out at the brothel. But kissing Cas is like flipping a switch, like saying yes and giving the best kind of permission.
Castiel is eager against him, eager and intent, and Dean discovers that while Castiel may not have understood there could be more between them, he definitely understands how more works.
A week after Castiel hands him the bag, Dean’s relaxing in his motel, feet up and bare, nothing but jeans and a T-shirt. Sam’s a couple of doors down in his own room when Castiel joins him.
There’s an episode of Dr. Sexy, M.D. on and Castiel glances at the TV before he sheds his trench coat and suit jacket, hanging both over the back of a chair. The mattress dips when Castiel sits on the edge of it, and Dean feels pulled toward him by more than just gravity as Castiel bends to untie his shoes before slipping them off and scooting back to the pillows.
They watch for a while, drifting together like magnets, until Castiel reaches across Dean, takes the remote from him.
“Hey,” Dean says when Castiel very deliberately turns the TV off. “I was…watching…”
Stretching over Dean to deposit the remote on the nightstand, Castiel is so close Dean can feel Castiel’s breath on his cheek, can see the varied flecks of blue in Castiel’s eyes when he looks from the nightstand to Dean.
“Dean,” Castiel says, Dean’s gaze flickering to his lips. “Dr. Sexy can wait.”
“Yeah.” Dean swallows, his hands moving to Castiel’s waist. “I’ve seen that one anyway.”
Castiel likes kissing. It’s Dean’s discovery and he feels triumphant. Like an explorer who has found some brave new world full of danger and beauty and awesomeness.
He presses Dean back against the pillows now, hands on either side of Dean’s body, front warm against Dean, mouth hot and slick and demanding attention.
Dean gives it to him, can’t refuse. Could never refuse. Not when it’s Cas. Not when Cas has become so tied up in the man Dean is, the man Dean hopes to be. Castiel makes this better, makes him better. Makes everything better. More.
When Castiel kisses him, he means it.
Dean kisses back, tries to give as good as he gets, hands sliding down Castiel’s back, wrinkling his shirt even more. Judging by Castiel’s reaction, Dean’s pretty sure he succeeds. He can feel Castiel growing hard against him, hot even through the combined layers of their clothing.
Lips slip-sliding together, stubble a whisper-close rasp, Dean’s fingers tug at Castiel’s shirt where it’s tucked into the back of his pants. He pulls it free and slips his hands beneath, palms running over smooth, bare skin, fingers dipping down to tease just below the waistband of Castiel’s slacks.
Hips pushing against Dean, Castiel makes a noise of want against him, tiny and eager in the back of his throat. It resonates across Dean’s skin, down into his bones. Smiling when his mouth is otherwise occupied isn’t the easiest thing in the world, but Dean’s good at multitasking.
“Dean,” Castiel says, pulling away, “I want—”
Dean catches him by surprise, rolling them over until Castiel is the one pressed against the hastily straightened bedspread, Dean’s thighs bracketing his own. “Oh,” he says, “I know what you want.”
He knows what he wants, too. Castiel spread out beneath him, bending over him. Pinned and pinning, pushed and pushing. He wants Castiel any and every way he can get him, over and over, for as long as possible.
Castiel’s mouth opens under his, so easy, and Dean slides his tongue inside as his fingers work at Castiel’s belt, slipping—not entirely on accident—to brush against Castiel’s erection through his pants.
Clutching at Dean’s arms, Castiel pulls away. “Don’t tease.”
Dean looks at him, grins at him, asks, “Who’s teasing?” before leaning back in, taking Castiel’s mouth with his own.
He gets the belt undone, moves on to the button and zipper, pauses only to squeeze Cas through the layers, not a tease but a promise.
Castiel presses up into it, tongue delving deeper, and then Dean’s got the pants open and his fingers are slipping inside and—
Dean freezes, because that’s not…that’s…what he is feeling beneath his fingers is not the practical cotton he’s used to finding Castiel’s cock pushing against. It’s soft and thinner and different and, fuck, familiar. Dean recognizes that feeling from the women he’s slept with, recognizes it from the one night a week ago, his cock trapped behind satin and black lace.
Castiel’s mouth stills beneath his when Dean stops responding. “Dean?”
Dean pulls away, and Castiel blinks up at him in the dim light of the room, eyes gone dark, eyelids heavy. He’s kiss-bruised and breathless and, fuck, wearing those panties and Dean doesn’t…he doesn’t…
He doesn’t know what to do with himself. Doesn’t know what to do with Cas. If he should ask Castiel what he thinks he’s doing or get on his knees and thank some deity—one that isn’t Castiel’s father because, uh, awkward—for giving him this.
“Dean?” Castiel repeats, hands falling away.
He wants to ask where Castiel has been keeping them—oh god, in his pocket?—because he certainly hasn’t been wearing them since then. Dean knows he’s not always the sharpest crayon in the box, but that? That he would have noticed.
Except…except the last time they’d done this had been in the back of the Impala, a headlong rush of desperate mouths and grasping hands, clothes wrinkling under sweaty palms, and Dean had never actually gotten to any of Castiel’s skin, never gotten to really touch him there in the backseat. As far as he knows, maybe Castiel has been wearing them since—
Hands sliding away from the opening of Castiel’s pants, Dean presses them flat against the bed on either side of Castiel’s shoulders, balances there on hands and knees. Swallows and asks, “How long?”
Castiel licks his lip and Dean’s almost distracted by the pink glide of it.
“How long what?”
“How long have you been wearing them?”
“Since this morning.”
Dean’s fingers curl into the bedspread, involuntary. Castiel has been wearing them under his suit since morning. If Dean had followed his impulses at lunch and dragged Cas into that bathroom with him, then—
“I was curious.”
“You were curious?” Dean repeats. He doesn’t know what there is for Castiel to be curious about; they’re just panties. Sure, they’re something that do it—really do it—for Dean, but they’re not…they’re not. Not something that do it for everyone, and Dean’s really only into them when they’re on women or himself, not when, well, not when they’re on another man.
“Yes,” Castiel continues. “You enjoyed them so much, I…” He pauses, reaches for Dean’s hip with one hand, thumb caressing above the waistband of his jeans. His gaze is open and honest, not vulnerable. To Cas, this is just…them. “I wanted to know what they felt like. I thought maybe you would like this, too.”
Dean’s skin feels too tight, and he’s about to deny it, all of it, when he stops, caught suddenly by the image of Castiel spread across the sheets, naked save for a pair of black lace panties pulled tight over his dick, more intimate and obscene than if he were completely bared. A full-body shudder works him over and, Christ, he wants that. He wants to see that.
Maybe Castiel knows him better than he thought. If he knew to buy the panties, who knows what else he might have figured out before Dean.
Dean licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “You, uh. You might have something there.”
Because this isn’t just another man, isn’t some random guy Dean picked up; this is Castiel. Cas. The usual rules do not apply.
Castiel looks smug, too knowledgeable for his own good, for Dean’s own good. Dean leans down and kisses him, kisses and kisses until they’re both back to breathless, want urging him forward as nerves jitter him back.
“I want to see,” Dean says, lips brushing Castiel’s.
Pushing away from Dean, back into the pillows, Castiel looks up at him. Dean has no idea what he sees, no idea what might be showing on his face. Excitement, fear, desire; it could be all of those or none of them. Whatever it is, Castiel approves because it only takes a moment before his hands are moving away from Dean to tug at the tie around his neck.
Dean sits back on his heels and watches Castiel’s fingers—his clever, competent, knowing fingers—make quick work of the knot in his tie, pulling it lose and tossing it to the floor before moving to the buttons on his shirt. He gets halfway done and then Dean can’t just sit and watch anymore, he has to help. Has to speed up the process.
If they ever exchange gifts, Dean will be seriously surprised if Castiel isn’t one of those people who folds over tape, tries not to tear the paper, and acts like it’s just as much of a present as whatever’s inside. Dean? He likes to get to the good stuff.
Huffing out an amused breath, Castiel’s hands fall to his chest.
“You weren’t going fast enough,” Dean says. He ignores the way his hands are trembling.
Castiel perches up on his elbows. “I like to be thorough.”
Dean glances up from Castiel’s buttons to his eyes, sees a wicked glint of something flicker. Leans in to nip at Castiel’s lower lip.
“Undressing like that isn’t thorough,” Dean says, tugging Castiel’s shirttails free, undoing the last buttons. “It’s cruel.”
He slides his hands under the shirt, up Castiel’s sides, lets the feel of Castiel’s smooth skin, his lean torso, calm his nerves. This is familiar territory he’s mapping, a landscape they left only moments ago when Dean had slipped his hands in Castiel’s pants and found himself suddenly off the map. He sweeps his thumbs across Castiel’s nipples, and Castiel gasps, cock twitching so close to Dean’s own.
Hands sliding to Castiel’s shoulders, Dean coaxes the shirt over them and scoots back so Castiel can sit up.
Castiel pauses only to unbutton his cuffs, but then he’s shucking his shirt, tossing it to the floor after his tie.
Castiel isn’t built like the men Dean’s been attracted to, not the ones he’s had quick tumbles with or the ones that lasted for more than one night but less than a week. He’s smaller than Dean, for one. Slim. Rumpled and serious. Deceptively weak looking.
He does not scream For a Good Time Call…
Until you crack him open some, and then he just might whisper it.
Dean’s hands are drawn back to Castiel’s chest, his fingers following the hint of ribs below lean muscle as Castiel settles his shoulders against the bed. Castiel’s own hands slide past Dean’s to the waistband of his pants, and Dean stops touching to sit back and watch.
And wait, apparently, because Castiel doesn’t do anything.
“Well?” Dean says.
Castiel gives him a look. “You have to move, Dean.”
Dean frowns, looking down at Castiel, at himself, his knees on either side of Cas’ thighs. “Oh!” he says. “Right. Sorry.” He swings his leg over, moving until he’s kneeling beside Castiel
Bracing his shoulders and feet against the mattress, Castiel hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of his pants and lifts his ass off the bed, Dean unable to look away from the sinuous movement of Castiel’s chest, his back. Castiel slips his pants over his hips and down his thighs, pulls his knees up to get them off his legs, yanking off his socks in the process.
Dean keeps his eyes above the waist, watches Castiel watch him as his clothing is dropped out of sight. He focuses on what’s familiar, what’s so familiar Dean can barely remember what life was like without it, and then Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Opens them to really see.
Dean inhales sharply, a harsh sound in the charged silence that’s settling between them. “Cas,” he breathes. “Cas, I—”
It’s not what he expected.
His reaction’s not what he expected.
Dean palms his dick through his jeans, wants to palm Castiel’s instead. Wants to touch everything and everywhere. Tangle his fingers in Castiel’s already ruffled hair, dark against the stark white of the pillowcase, feel the grain of Cas’ stubble against his cheek, the smooth slope of Cas’ shoulders under his palms. To get his hands back on the hard planes of Cas’ chest, down his flat stomach to the black line of lace standing out stark against the pale skin below his navel.
He never knew he wanted this, never even suspected until his fingers found satin against Castiel’s cock.
Oh, he wants to feel that. Dean knows lace and satin against his skin, cupping his balls, encasing his cock. Knows that works for him, even if he doesn’t understand why. But this…oh, this…
He wants to trace Cas’ cock with his fingers, wants to feel it hot and unyielding through the lace, shape his hand over it and soak in that heat. Fit his mouth against it and taste what he can through the fabric.
There’s nothing stopping him.
He hardly knows where to begin.
Dean reaches out to touch, to follow the stretched lines of elastic where they cut across Castiel’s skin, leaving lace-shaped imprints as impermanent as the pillow creases Castiel collects when Dean convinces him to stay in bed long enough.
Castiel doesn’t move as Dean runs his fingers over the lace stretched across his nearest hip; he just watches Dean patiently, indulgently, hands relaxed against his stomach.
Dean follows the pattern inward, down to the crease of Castiel’s thigh, brushing against Castiel’s balls. A muscle in Castiel’s stomach twitches, and Dean grins, glances up at him.
“Cas,” he says, and stops, doesn’t know how to continue. It’s like all of the birthdays and Christmases he’s ever had finally living up to their potential.
He swallows, gets a hold of himself. Asks, finally, “How do they feel?”
Castiel blinks up at him. “You know how they feel, Dean.”
He does, can almost feel them against his dick, his balls, his ass. Phantom sensation that sends shivers up his spine. “Humor me, Cas.”
“Different good?” Dean traces the line of Castiel’s cock with on finger. “Or different bad?” His thumb drags around the damp spot where the head is trapped beneath the material.
That gets him a full-body shudder, Castiel’s hips curling upward, into Dean’s touch.
“Good, Dean, they are…” Castiel sighs, a rush of breath through his nose. “They are good. I can see why you like them.”
“Yeah?” It comes out breathy, weightless.
Castiel smiles at him, soft and fond and familiar. His fingers drift across his own skin to the dark line that stretches from hip to hip, skipping past to tangle with Dean’s where they move against him.
Two words and they feel like so much more than they are, so much more than Dean ever thought they could be.
Castiel tugs at Dean’s hand, pulls Dean toward him, up and over until they’re face to face, until Castiel can lean up and kiss him, noses tucked against each other as his hands slip to Dean’s hips, drawing him close.
His mouth is careful, coaxing, and Dean finds himself falling into it, every stroke of Castiel’s tongue, every move of his lips full of acceptance and reassurance and yes.
Knees on either side of Castiel, Dean’s hands slide across the naked skin spread beneath him, smooth and warm and unmarred, unmarked. A blank canvas offered up to Dean’s fingers and mouth, his teeth. Castiel arches into his touch, pushes against it, satin and denim rubbing together between them, getting in the way.
“Do you like this?” Castiel asks.
Dean pulls back enough to glance between them, down at his obviously hard cock. “You really have to ask that?”
Castiel shifts his hips, and Dean feels the roll of movement like he’s been cut adrift on open water.
Dean groans, pushes into it. “Yeah,” he says. “I do. You, uh. You were right about that.”
Castiel’s lips tip up in a smile, leaning heavily into a smirk.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Dean says. He reaches down, snaps the elastic against Castiel’s skin. As admonishments go, it’s less than effective; Castiel doesn’t even flinch.
“Of course not, Dean,” Castiel answers. He’s a goddamn liar, though, because there’s still that look in his eyes, that slight curve to his lips.
Dean leans forward and kisses it away, slick and gone in a flash as Castiel’s fingers flex against the strip of skin above Dean’s waistband.
They trade slow kisses against the rumpled bed, deep and lingering. Like each meeting of lips and tongue is the first and the best, meant to be savored and revisited later.
It’s like they’re learning each other again, pressed together as they are, walls tumbling with each movement.
Maybe they are.
Maybe they’ll always be learning each other, always surprising. Always finding some new way to look at the other and realize, fuck, this is it.
It scares Dean.
He won’t admit that to anyone, but he’s pretty sure Castiel already knows. Knows and understands because he knows and understands Dean. And when he doesn’t, he takes the time to try.
No one has ever really done that for Dean before, no one who wasn’t related to him anyway. It’s kind of a big fucking deal.
And here Castiel is, open and wanting and panting beneath him, caught between Dean and the bed, and he know—he knows—there is no place else either of them would want to be.
He grinds down against Castiel’s hips, their cocks rubbing together, and Castiel gasps against his mouth, hands fisting in Dean’s T-shirt before pushing it upward, pinkies trailing hot in its wake.
“Off,” Castiel says.
Dean likes it when Cas is reduced to one syllable commands. Off. More. Harder. Suck. Fuck.
Sitting back, Dean pulls his shirt up and over his head, throws it behind him as Castiel’s fingers find the button on his jeans, work it open before moving to the zipper.
Dean rises up on his knees to push jeans and underwear—boring, boring underwear—off his hips and down his thighs, dick bobbing free as he stands at the end of the bed, one hand against the mattress as he shifts his weight, discarding his pants.
He looks back at Castiel, propped up on his elbows and watching Dean with a hungry look, and grins, wraps a hand around his cock.
Castiel’s eyes follow the movement, tongue darting out across his bottom lip.
Dean’s hand makes the trip up and down his cock once before he releases it to join Castiel back on the bed. He nudges Castiel’s knees apart, makes himself a space there as he crawls between them until Castiel’s thighs are spread wide and Dean’s right where he wants to be, Castiel hard and right there.
He wants to press his face against the cut of Castiel’s hip, breathe deep. Nuzzle Castiel’s lace-covered balls, mouth at the trapped head of his dick.
From the rapid way Castiel’s chest is rising and falling, Dean knows Castiel wants that, too.
Hands slipping between Castiel’s thighs and the mattress, Dean goes with his gut and takes what he wants.
Castiel jerks against him when Dean moulds his mouth against his cock, sucking and licking. He groans and his hips jerk and his hands find Dean’s shoulders, his head, fingers pressing and gripping as Dean soaks the panties against his skin.
Dean pulls away, feels proud of himself. Pushing back against Castiel’s fingers, he runs his nose along Castiel’s length, presses his lips against the shaft, smells him and tastes him and, god, it’s good. Better than Dean thought it would be. Could be.
But that’s the way things go with Cas.
“Did you think about this?” he asks, looking up Castiel’s abdomen, his chest, to find Castiel looking back, eyes wide and pupils blown.
He can see Castiel’s throat work as he swallows. “What?”
“When you put these on this morning,” Dean elaborates. He rubs his cheek against Castiel, feels his stubble drag and catch against the lace. “Did you think about this? Think about what you did to me? Hope I’d do the same to you?”
“I—” Castiel’s eyes sweep closed, like it’s all too much even for him, as his fingers flex hard against Dean’s scalp. “Yes, all of it. I—”
The rest of the thought is lost in a groan as Dean dips back down to suck at Castiel through the fabric, lace and satin and the hint of Castiel against his tongue until that’s not enough, until he needs skin, nothing between them at all.
“Cas,” he says, moving away, moving up to nip at the jut of Castiel’s hip, to tongue at the pattern swirling over his skin. He wants to feel those panties against him again. “Fuck me.”
Castiel’s eyes snap open, on Dean like spotlights, like searchlights; Dean’s never felt so seen before, so known. His heart thunders in his chest, hard and heavy, and between one beat and the next, Castiel has him on his back.
Hands firm, Castiel presses Dean back against the sheets.
Stretching beneath him, Dean grins and makes sure they touch in all of the really interesting places, in all of the best ways, and watches Castiel’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, watches his tongue push against his bottom lip.
Castiel leans forward, so close Dean can almost taste him, lips a tease against the corner of his mouth when he says, “Yes, I can do that.”
Dean turns toward him, wants that mouth on his, not just near it, but Castiel pulls away, sitting back on his knees between Dean’s legs. He’s pale and flushed, nipples perky and cock hard. It’s a good look on him, and Dean’s grateful for the view until Castiel reaches for the panties to pull them off.
It’s as much of a surprise to Dean as it is to Castiel, who looks at him with eyes grown dark and hot. His hands move away from the panties, though, no question, and Dean’s grateful he doesn’t ask why. Isn’t sure he could explain how much he wants to feel them against his skin as Castiel pushes into him.
Dean swallows, rubs his palms against his thighs. “There’s stuff in my bag.”
“There usually is,” Castiel says, something like a smirk tilting his mouth to the side.
Dean watches him walk to the dresser where Dean tossed his bag the day before, watches him bend and rummage through it, the panties serving to both obscure and highlight the pale flesh of Castiel’s ass. Giving his dick a quick squeeze, Dean takes a deep breath, then another, tries to calm his thudding heart in the face of getting the things he asks for, the things he’s afraid to ask for.
“Hey,” he says, shifting against the bed, pushing and pulling at the sheets until the comforter is away from his ass. “It’s good to be prepared.”
When Castiel turns around, lube and condom in hand, the sheets are pushed to the end of the bed, well out of the way, and Dean’s got one hand wrapped loosely around his dick, the other teasing his balls.
Castiel stares at him, licks his lips, and Dean feels the weight of that gaze like he’s never felt anything else in his entire life, the only thing that comes close is the phantom feel of Castiel’s hand on his shoulder.
Cock straining obscenely at the front of the panties, Castiel stalks toward him. Dean fights the impulse to push himself farther back against the pillows, up the bed. He knows the fierce look of determination on Castiel’s face only means very, very good things for him. This is not the same Castiel who rubbed his neck nervously when Dean mentioned sex. It’s not the same Castiel who downed half a beer, looking terrified at the prospect of removing clothing and letting someone touch him.
This is a Castiel who saw something that he wanted, something he thought Dean wanted, and went for it.
A Castiel who knows exactly what he wants, who somehow knows exactly what Dean wants.
Dean’s terrified. Terrified and exhilarated.
This is how it feels to get everything you didn’t know you wanted, everything you didn’t know you were waiting for.
Tossing the supplies near Dean’s knees, Castiel kneels on the bed, running his hand up Dean’s calf, palm hot and soothing, maddening. He crawls between Dean’s legs, bends and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Dean’s knee, takes a moment to lick a stripe up Dean’s cock as Dean eagerly spreads his thighs for him.
His eyes sweep across Dean’s skin, and Dean wants Castiel closer, wants him closer now. He aches with the need for Castiel to touch him, to do more than stroke the hair on Dean’s thighs against the grain, watch Dean’s chest rise and fall.
“Cas,” Dean says, hand leaving his balls to trail over the hard curve of Castiel’s cock. A ripple of movement across Castiel’s stomach makes Dean grin. “You gonna just sit there and look or are you going to fuck me?”
Strong fingers wrap around Dean’s wrist, pulling his hand away and pressing it to the mattress. “I believe I can do both.”
Dean feels himself blush, which really shouldn’t be possible considering how hard he is.
Eyes never leaving Dean’s, Castiel plucks the bottle of lube from the sheets and pops the top, pours some into the palm of his hand. Closing it again, he drops the bottle and reaches for Dean’s cock, pushing Dean’s hand out of the way until Dean gets the picture and removes it completely to rest against the bed as though Castiel pressed it there himself.
“I have been thinking about this all day,” Castiel says. “I would appreciate it if you did not distract me now.”
Dean nods, his mouth suddenly dry. He can do that. For Cas, he can do that.
It’s as good as Castiel coming right out and telling him not to move.
He’ll never admit how much he likes it when Castiel takes control like that.
Castiel’s hand on Dean’s cock is maddening, slick and too light. Fingers playing across Dean’s shaft, Castiel sweeps a thumb across the head, presses just below before he lets go. He leans up and over Dean, his panty-covered cock brushing against Dean’s skin, to grab a pillow, shifting it under Dean’s hips when he lifts them.
Leaning back, Castiel looks at him. Dean doesn’t know what he’s looking for, what he sees, but he must be satisfied because he reaches for the lube again, re-slicking his fingers, and then he’s sliding one finger over Dean’s hole, sliding it in, and Dean’s legs fall farther open, inviting more.
He opens Dean up—one finger becoming two, two becoming three—and Dean loves it, loves every second of it. Loves the way Castiel takes his time, spreads him open and presses in. Pins Dean to the bed until they’re both a sweaty mess of limbs. He’s always been safe in Castiel’s hands, even if he didn’t realize it, and this is less of a freefall, more of a controlled landing.
Castiel stops, hands leaving Dean to reach for the panties, lower them out of the way.
“Wait,” Dean says, levering himself up on his elbows. “Let me.”
Nodding, Castiel lets him, Dean working the panties down until they’re around Castiel’s thighs, his cock bobbing free. Groping blindly, Dean finds the condom Castiel dropped, gets it open. His fingers tangle briefly with Castiel’s where they’re wrapped around Castiel’s cock before pulling both of their hands away to slide the condom down.
Dean gives him a parting squeeze before lying back, skin prickling with sweat and anticipation.
Castiel scoots forward, his knees bumping the back of Dean’s thighs as he moves Dean’s legs, spreading and lifting until he’s got Dean where he wants him, open and waiting, one leg cradled in his elbow.
Cock caught between them, hard and hot against Dean’s skin, Castiel lines up and presses forward, sliding in like he’s meant to be there, like they’re meant to fit together like this, two pieces of different puzzles that lock together anyway.
The panties are pressed between them, against Dean’s ass. Dean can feel them there, a band of fabric brushing his skin every time Castiel moves, shifts, thrusts in.
They drive him crazy. He’s worn those panties. Cas has tasted him through them. Castiel put them on earlier, wore them all day hoping—knowing—they would end up like this, pressed together and panting.
Dean groans and shudders beneath Castiel, his hands searching for purchase. He’s wanted this—fuck, he’s wanted this—he just never knew what to ask for before. Never knew he could ask.
Turns out he didn’t need to.
Castiel knows him better than anyone, knows him and likes him just the same. Likes him enough to disobey, to think for himself, to choose Dean over all else. Castiel figured him out, then took what he knew and used that knowledge for good, fuck, such good.
Dean reaches for him, and Castiel meets him halfway, fingers sliding together until they’re palm to slick palm, hot and perfect.
Moving against him, Castiel pushes Dean’s knee farther forward, pulling Dean’s hand in his until they’re both wrapped around Dean’s cock.
Dean pants, shifts his hips into their combined grasp, and curls his other leg around Castiel’s. With his free hand, he hooks his fingers in the panties’ elastic, knuckles pressed against Castiel’s thigh, and hangs on. Grounds himself in the tense and release of muscle with Castiel’s every thrust until he can’t take it anymore, until he’s squirming between their hands and Castiel’s cock, panties pressed against his skin.
Castiel thrusts against him and Dean rolls with it, goes with it, pushes back and presses forward, shakes and shouts and comes, eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming feeling of it all.
Castiel’s movements slow as he fucks Dean through it, his breathing harsh over the rush of blood in Dean’s ears, and Dean rocks with the motion.
Opening his eyes, Dean looks up to find Castiel focused entirely on him. Brow sweaty and bottom lip bitten, cheeks and chest flushed with exertion and arousal, Castiel is too tempting to resist, and Dean lets go of the panties, his cock, and reaches for him, needing him closer than he already is. “Cas,” he says, surprised by the sound of his own voice, dark and rough and wanting. “Come here.”
Castiel does. He lowers Dean’s leg, Dean settling it around Castiel’s hips, and releases Dean’s cock. Castiel’s mouth finds his, desperate and wet.
Hands moving over Castiel’s shoulders, down his back to cup his ass, words like fuck and Cas and yes falling out of Dean’s lips between kisses as Castiel picks up the pace. Dean could get hard again, he thinks, Castiel lighting him up from the inside out. Thinks he’d like that, for Cas to fuck him until he’s coming a second time, Cas pressed deep inside him.
Castiel groans against him, and Dean saves that thought for a rainy day because Castiel’s tucking his face into Dean’s sweaty neck and Dean knows he’s close, can feel it in the tightening of Castiel’s muscles beneath his hands, the way his movement becomes a little less perfect and a little more erratic.
Dean presses his face against Castiel, nose brushing Castiel’s hair, and whispers things into his ear, encouraging. He’s not sure what he says; what Cas does to him, how Cas makes him feel, how lucky he is that he’s got Cas.
How grateful he is that Cas wants to know, wants to feel. Wants to experience everything Dean has to offer.
Dean’s giving something away, he knows he is. He’s giving everything away, lips pressed to the shell of Castiel’s ear, but he can’t quite stop, doesn’t quite care, not when Cas is shuddering against him, coming apart inside him, clutching and panting and crying out.
Dean might as well be coming himself, it’s that good.
They trade lazy, relaxed kisses after, mouths used and lips heavy, Castiel pulling away to tongue the curve of Dean’s neck where his face was pressed earlier.
Dean’s coming to think of that spot as Cas’, as much as any of Dean is Cas’. As much as one side of the bed or the backseat of the Impala is his.
Cas is Cas, and Cas is his. And he is…he is Cas’, no ifs, ands, or buts.
Castiel had cleaned them up, peeled the panties off and tossed them on the floor, a scrap of delicate fabric in a sea of denim and cotton and sensible, worn sturdiness.
Dean has no idea what kind of shape the panties are in now, stretched tight as they were across Castiel’s thighs. He bets Castiel’s magical darning and mending skills will put them to rights, though. At least, he hopes they can, because this? This is something he could…he could…
Castiel’s tongue against his molars is distracting.
This is definitely something he could do again.
“You satisfy your curiosity?” Dean asks, their foreheads pressed together as they share air between them.
Skimming a palm across Dean’s skin, Castiel rests it at the crease of Dean’s thigh, thumb tucked beside Dean’s balls. His eyes are full of things Dean’s becoming less and less afraid to name. “That will take a very long time, I think.”