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with an edge and charm

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It’s been two weeks since the party at Anna’s house, and Dean hasn’t called.

It was an unusual move for Cas, leaving his number in the first place. Hell, telling Dean his real name, or at least a shortened version of it, was an unusual move. He doesn’t want to think it was a bad move, though. That night…

He shivers, remembering the way Dean looked up at him from under his lashes, the stretch of his lips around Cas’ cock, the warmth of their bodies pressed together as they fell asleep. He’d gone to the party with the particular goal of finding someone to spend the night with, but he hadn’t been expecting someone quite like Dean.

It stings more than he cares to admit, to realize that perhaps Dean doesn’t remember their night with the same fondness. If he did, surely he would have called by now.

Cas has been busy, fortunately. As September draws to a close, his own workload becomes frighteningly heavy, and on top of that, the number of panicked e-mails from students increases exponentially as midterms draw near. He scrolls through another one, sighing, and suggests a time to meet in person. Being a teaching assistant is part of the deal as a graduate student, and most of the time it’s rewarding, but some of the time it just makes Cas want to scream.

After replying to three more messages, his inbox is empty, and he settles back with a sigh, glancing idly around his small apartment. There are mugs scattered everywhere, books piled on every possible surface, and he can’t remember the last time he saw his glasses. He rubs his forehead wearily and considers cleaning up so he’ll have a tidy workspace for the weekend ahead.

Or he could take a shower, pull on his tightest dark jeans and his favourite black v-neck shirt, paint his nails and smudge liner around his eyes and find someone else to lose himself in for the night.

It’s a tempting thought, certainly more tempting than a night of cleaning, but as he stands and digs through the mess on his desk for his bottle of nail polish, he pauses, shaking his head in dismay.

He doesn’t want anyone else. He just wants to see Dean again.

God, what is wrong with him? He thought he got over this kind of feeling years ago. This desire to spend more than a single night with the same person. He keeps himself distant, he doesn’t give out his name, he doesn’t leave his number…

Except that he did. And Dean hasn’t called.

“His loss,” he says to the empty apartment. He knows he made Dean feel good that night. There was no faking that level of enthusiasm, no hiding the noises he made when Cas touched him just right. He’s getting hard just thinking about it again.

Well, there’s a third option for the night. A way to scratch the itch that’s been burning beneath his skin for the past two weeks without having to feel guilty about using someone else to do so, and still avoid cleaning. It’s a win-win situation, really.

His apartment may be small and crappy, typical graduate student quarters, but the water pressure is fantastic and the temperature consistent. Cas strips down and steps into the shower, sighing with pleasure as the water courses over his body, easing muscles tired from long days sitting at his computer.

After a few minutes, his hands start to trail down his body, sliding over his torso with feather-light touches that make him tremble despite the warmth of the water. He traces the lines of his tattoos, remembering the undisguised admiration in Dean’s eyes as he gazed at Cas’ naked body, the reverence with which he stroked over these same lines of ink.

A small moan escapes his lips as Cas wraps one hand around his cock, bracing the other against the wall of the shower. He strokes himself slowly, teasing, not wanting this to be over too soon. He wants to take his time, the same way he wants the chance to take his time with Dean, to take him apart slowly and put him back together again, to see him fall to pieces under his touch.

Adjusting his position slightly, Cas lets go of the wall and reaches behind himself with his newly freed hand, lightly rubbing over his own hole. He moans again, grateful that he doesn’t share his apartment with anyone else and doesn’t have to worry about keeping quiet.

He wonders if Dean would want to touch him like this. Or if maybe he would like to watch as Cas got himself ready, then sunk down on Dean’s cock and rode him until they were both breathless and spent.

It’s a tantalizing thought, and Cas carefully increases the pressure at his rim as he thinks about it, not quite easing inside but just hovering on the edge as he strokes his cock with increasing speed. Yes, he can picture it perfectly, Dean’s eyes wide and his mouth slack with pleasure, his big hands gripping Cas’ hips, chasing their pleasure together--

A few seconds later, Cas comes with a low cry, the evidence of his release quickly washing away under the stream of water. He rests his head against the cool tile wall and gasps for air, legs suddenly weak.

If he thought this would help him push away his thoughts of Dean, he was wrong.

After quickly washing himself off, he turns off the water and wraps a towel around his hips. He wipes the condensation away from the mirror and examines himself critically. He looks good, he knows. He doesn’t have any worries there. He knows how to draw attention to himself, even if it’s mostly lust. That’s never been a problem for him.

Is that all Dean saw, though? The tattoos and the eyeliner and the nail polish, the wicked smirk and the deep rumble of his voice? It’s Cas’ armour, and he puts it on every time he goes out like a knight preparing for battle. He tells himself that it’s necessary, that it keeps him safe, but he also knows that he dreams of the day it won’t be needed any longer, the day he can cast it aside and just let himself be, the day he can wear it because he wants to and not because he thinks he has to.

His eyes are tired, so he spares a moment to hunt for his glasses, eventually finding them on top of the refrigerator. He swaps out his contact lenses and pushes the black frames up on his nose as he considers just going to bed, but then his phone beeps with a new message. His heart leaps in his chest, but it’s an e-mail, not a text, and he sighs as he reads over yet another message with questionable grammar, already mentally composing a response.

It’s not the way he hoped his Friday night would turn out, but it’s what he has, and he’ll have to be content with it.

***

Saturday morning passes in a blur of e-mail correspondence with students and professors and his own fellow graduate students. Lunch is a bowl of cereal and a large mug of coffee, eaten at his desk, the empty dishes joining the others scattered throughout the room when he finishes.

By early afternoon, he’s dreading the thought of his own research, but he knows it needs to be done. At least he doesn’t need to do any actual writing today. He fears anything he typed would be absolute rubbish at this point.

Cas curls up in his favourite battered armchair with his copy of The Letters of Abelard and Heloise, a pack of sticky-notes resting beside him to flag important passages as he reads. It’s more enjoyable material than he expected, and the afternoon passes quite pleasantly.

Just after six o’clock, his phone pings from across the room. Cas looks up and considers ignoring it. Surely the undergrads can wait a few more minutes, or until tomorrow…

But he takes his duties seriously, and he genuinely likes helping the younger students navigate the early years of their education, so he groans and gets up to check his phone. Surprisingly, it’s not an e-mail at all, but a text.

Hey, it’s Dean.

Cas nearly drops the phone in surprise. Two weeks of silence, and now this? Part of him is tempted to ignore it. It’s not even a particularly good or charming message.

But he remembers the slight hesitance with which Dean approached him that night, the way he stumbled over his initial words, flustered but pressing bravely forward. Maybe, just maybe, it took a lot of courage for Dean to send those three little words.

So Cas replies almost immediately. Hello, Dean.

What are you up to tonight?

Cas looks around at his mess of an apartment, the number of pages he has left to read, and thinks, fuck it.

Nothing at all.

Want to meet up?

Cas smiles. The faux casual tone is easy to see through, even via text.

I’d like that.

His smile fades as he looks around his apartment again. He never brings people here. He has no idea what Dean’s living situation is like, but he desperately hopes he lives alone and is willing to invite near-strangers over for no-strings-attached sex. He’s about to send another message, a way of explaining that he can’t host without sounding like a bad Craiglist ad, when Dean replies.

It’s an address, only a few blocks away, and a time. Eight o’clock.

See you then.

Cas puts the phone down and resists the urge to laugh triumphantly. He wonders why it took Dean this long to reach out to him, but he vows not to ask, not to reveal his own worries. Dean doesn’t want anxious, stressed, graduate student Castiel. He wants nonchalant, charming, authoritative Cas.

So that’s exactly what he’ll get.

***

Two hours later, showered and dressed to impress, Cas knocks firmly on the apartment door, double-checking the address Dean sent him.

The door opens, revealing Dean’s smiling face, and Cas slips into the persona he’s spent the last two years cultivating. “Good evening,” he practically purrs.

Dean’s gaze immediately drops to his lips, and Cas feels a thrill of victory run through him. Oh, Dean wants him, that much is clear. Cas doesn’t think they’ll be doing much talking tonight.

Though Dean did seem to like it when Cas talked to him, the last time they were together…

“Hey,” Dean replies after a long pause. “Uh, come on in.”

Cas takes a few seconds to look around. Dean’s apartment is small, about the same size as his own, but that’s where the similarities end. Everything is in its proper place, no dirty dishes or books lying around. Even the kitchen looks spotless.

He wonders if this is how Dean always lives, or if he cleaned up just for him. Both options are endearing in different ways.

“Do you want something to drink?” Dean offers, fiddling with the hem of his dark blue shirt.

He looks just as good as he did two weeks ago, and Cas thanks whatever forces control the universe that he didn’t lock the bathroom door that night.

“Not really,” he replies. “I don’t think you invited me over for a drink, Dean.”

He sees the way Dean’s eyes darken at the sound of his name, the way his throat moves as he swallows in anticipation. “No,” Dean murmurs. “I didn’t.”

“Well then,” Cas continues, letting his voice drop even lower, “I think you’d better show me to your bedroom. Unless you’d prefer the couch. Or the floor.”

Dean’s breath catches in his throat but he shakes his head, turning on his heel and pushing open the door closest to him. Cas follows quickly behind him, paying little attention to the decor other than to note that Dean’s bed is queen-sized.

Perfect.

“Have you been thinking about this, these past weeks?” he asks, reaching out to rest one hand against Dean’s chest. “Because I have.”

“Yes,” Dean answers, his eyes already slipping closed.

“Look at me,” Cas chides him gently. “Let me see those pretty green eyes.”

Dean opens his eyes again, and Cas smiles at him. “Good. Would you like to tell me what you were thinking about?”

Biting his lower lip, Dean looks away for a second, then meets Cas’ eyes again. “Too many things to list right now,” he says.

It startles a laugh from Cas. “Anywhere in particular you’d like to start?”

“Anywhere that lets me see those tattoos again.” Dean’s hands are already creeping up Cas’ torso as though seeking the lines of ink even through his shirt. His enthusiasm is intoxicating, and Cas can’t resist any longer.

He leans forward and captures Dean’s lips, swallowing his sigh of pleasure and matching it with his own. Dean practically melts into him, and Cas gracefully steers them towards the bed, gently pushing Dean onto it and crawling on top of them, keeping their mouths pressed together as much as possible.

It’s a flurry of hands tugging at clothes after that, until they’re both down to only their underwear, rutting greedily against each other as they continue to kiss. Mindful of Dean’s warning last time, Cas leaves no marks on that gorgeous neck of his, but presses them into his shoulders, his chest, his torso instead. Dean squirms under the attention, his breath coming hot and fast as he clutches at Cas’ shoulders, his nails digging into his flesh and likely leaving behind marks of his own.

It’s addictive, the feel of Dean’s skin against his own. That should worry Cas, should give him pause, should tell him to get out now while he still can, but he’s too lost in his pleasure to care. He needs to hear Dean moan his name again, needs to see his face as he comes.

And he thinks he knows exactly how to make that happen.

“Can I take these off?” he asks, fingertips dancing tantalizingly over the edge of Dean’s plaid boxers. Dean nods furiously, so Cas takes his time with it, slipping them down inch by inch until Dean is bare to his gaze, his cock straining up towards his stomach.

Dean is undeniably gorgeous. From the minute he pushed open that bathroom door, Cas wanted him. But it’s more than that, an appeal that goes far beyond the physical.

Cas is helpless against it.

“Roll over,” he instructs, and Dean does so with a fluid grace that only stokes the fire of Cas’ desire higher. He looks back towards Cas, his gaze questioning, so Cas runs a gentle hand down his back, soothing him.

He repeats the movement a few more times until he feels Dean relax under his touch, his head dropping forward slightly as he presses back against Cas’ hand, seeking more contact. Cas chuckles and presses a kiss to the base of Dean’s spine, allowing his hand to travel a little further this time until it’s stroking over the perfect swell of Dean’s ass.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he says reverently. “Can I touch you here, Dean?”

“God, yes.” Dean’s voice is slightly muffled by his position, but his answer is clear.

Cas continues to stroke him, dipping his finger between Dean’s cheeks and running it lightly over his hole. Dean shudders but stays silent, and Cas keeps his movements slow and gentle, like the prelude they are.

“Does it feel good?” he asks, though he’s fairly certain he knows the answer.

“Yes,” Dean sighs. “So good, Cas.”

“I know something that will feel even better,” Cas continues, leaning forward so Dean can feel the warmth of his breath on his skin. “Would you like that, Dean?”

Dean twists back to look at him again, his lips parted and eyes glittering in the low light of the bedroom. “Yes,” he says again, and he can’t disguise the pleading in his voice.

Cas holds his gaze for a second longer, then turns his head and licks a slow stripe across Dean’s entrance. Dean cries out, his hips shifting back, and Cas steadies him with a hand around his waist as he licks over him again.

He’s so beautifully responsive, so wonderfully vocal. His enjoyment fuels Cas’ own, his cock pressing heavily against the front of his boxers as he flicks his tongue over Dean’s hole again and again. He can’t make out all the words Dean is mumbling to himself, but he hears his own names a few times. He wants to hear it again and again.

He pulls away for a moment and Dean whines, a desperate, needy sound that goes straight to Cas’ cock. “I know,” he whispers, stroking his back again. “You were enjoying that, weren’t you?”

Dean just nods.

“Don’t worry,” Cas assures him. “I have no intention of stopping until the only word you can remember is my name.”

With that goal in mind, he re-applies himself to his task with renewed vigour. He sweeps his tongue over Dean’s entrance with varying speeds, never letting him get used to a rhythm, occasionally pressing further inside only to withdraw again. Dean is letting loose a steady stream of mumble curses, but he’s still too coherent for Cas’ liking.

So he reaches forward and wraps his free hand around Dean’s erection, stroking it in time with the movements of his mouth. Dean lets out a choked gasp, his head falling towards the pillow, too overcome with pleasure to hold it up any longer.

Taking his mouth away for a moment, Cas says, “Are you getting close, Dean? Are you going to come for me?”

Dean just groans. “Cas,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Cas, baby, please…”

Cas tries to ignore the thrill that courses through him at the endearment. It doesn’t mean anything in the heat of the moment. He returns to his ministrations, tightening his grip on Dean’s cock.

“Fuck,” Dean murmurs. “Gonna come, Cas, so close.”

He wants to respond, wants to encourage Dean, but his mouth is otherwise occupied. His tongue flicks out once, twice, three times more, and then Dean stiffens beneath him, Cas’ name tearing from his lips in a sob as he comes.

“So beautiful,” Cas murmurs, pressing small kisses down the length of Dean’s spine. “So good for me, Dean.”

Dean rolls over to face him, still panting, a few drops of his own come splattered across his stomach. He looks up at Cas, gratitude and contentment written plainly across his face.

The shift in Dean’s position means that his thigh is now pressed closely against Cas’ aching cock, and Cas presses forward slightly, seeking some relief. Dean looks down at him and licks his lips, a small movement that Cas nevertheless notices with a groan of pleasure. He ruts forward again, and then Dean’s hands are on his hips, urging Cas to swing one leg over his waist and bring their bodies into closer alignment.

“Let me--” Dean mutters, tugging at Cas’ boxers until his dick springs free. He immediately wraps his hand around him and Cas sighs, head dropping back at the sensation. Dean’s hand is warm and slightly callused and feels so good it only takes a few more minutes before he’s shuddering through his own orgasm.

He rolls off Dean and collapses on the bed beside him, his breathing still unsteady. Wordlessly, Dean passes him a handful of tissues, and he cleans himself up as best he can.

After a silence that hovers between comfortable and awkward, Cas rolls over to look at Dean again. His eyes are closed, and he wonders if he’s already asleep.

Cas knows when to take a hint. He starts to stand, but just as he’s swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Dean speaks.

“You can stay.”

It’s not exactly the warmest invitation Cas has ever received, but he can’t deny that it’s welcome nevertheless. He pauses, hesitant.

Dean opens his eyes and looks at him. “We can have that drink now.”

He shouldn’t. He should brush a careless kiss against Dean’s lips, make some vague promises, walk away with his jeans on and his shirt tossed over his shoulder, teasing Dean with one last glimpse of his tattooed body, whetting his appetite for more.

It’s what he usually does.

But instead he nods and lowers his body back onto the bed, propping himself up on one elbow as he looks down into Dean’s face, his freckles just barely visible in the dim light of the room.

“What’s your poison?” he asks, and Dean’s face breaks into a wide grin.

This might be a very bad decision, judging by the way Cas’ heart flutters in his chest at the sight of Dean’s smile. But somehow, he can’t find it in himself to regret his choice.