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Four Letter Word For Intercourse

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“Dean, that’s not fair,” Cas tells him the moment Dean reemerges from his bedroom.


“What?” Dean says, spreading his hands. Clearly, the only thing he’s gotten up to in his absence is an emergency bedroom cleaning. He’s absolutely innocent.


Cas’ eyes remain fixed on Dean’s chest, now freed from his dirty t-shirt. Or any shirt at all. Dean’s perky nipples have naturally responded to the cool air of his apartment, because why bother turning the heat up when the oven’s already pre-heating? Compared to Cas’ place, Dean’s home is downright cramped; things will warm up real soon.


“What?” Dean repeats, coming closer and grinning like the asshole he is.


Rooted to the spot, Cas watches Dean approach like he’s getting ready to be pounced on. Clearly, the growing bit of chub over Dean’s belly has been overlooked, or at least dismissed. Dean’s shoulders have to be a good distraction.


“You’re not actually going to cook like that,” Cas states, looking unsure.


“Course not.” Dean pulls open one of the cabinet doors and pulls out more of the necessary supplies, apron included. He ties on his favorite, the black one with the crowned spatula and the words Burger King. The strings itch against the small of his back, but it’s well worth it for the way Cas acts like a guy desperately trying not to stare down a chick’s dress. Fucking hilarious.


Sorely wishing he had a Kiss The Cook cliché hanging around, Dean sticks his older apron on the counter. The worn tan fabric still has most of the cooking conversions printed on it, all upside-down for easy reading. Cas studies it as he puts it on, only to get some unintended revenge on Dean as he blithely rolls up his sleeves.


“What first?” Cas asks, his eyes focused on Dean’s face with an obvious display of effort.


“Crust, then filling,” Dean says. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”


Normally, the first time sharing a cooking space is a bumping, nudging affair. Today is anything but, each of them too aware of the other’s position. Cas measures flour. Dean takes care of the actual mixing, pinching in butter and shortening by hand.


“Swear to god, my hands are clean,” Dean says when Cas watches just a little too intently. “The grease stains are kinda permanent at this point.”


Cas blinks a little. “I wasn’t worried.”


“Okay,” Dean says. “Okay, cool. Start spooning in the water.”


Cas complies, getting in Dean’s space only a little and yet somehow filling it up entirely. Dean mixes with a fork now, some of the dough still clinging to his fingers, and Cas keeps watching like he’s taking notes or something. Knowing Cas, he probably is.


“Get the plastic wrap ready,” Dean tells him, pointing toward the right drawer. As Cas goes to get it, Dean’s entire side goes cold, his bare skin missing the warm brush of Cas’ sweater.


Four dough bundles go into the fridge, and Dean pretends the scarceness inside is a mark of preparation, not stress. After setting a timer, Dean washes his hands off, interrupting Cas while the guy tries to rinse the bowl out, but being next to him again is good. Warm.


“Your turn,” Dean tells him, handing Cas his dishtowel. “Same thing I did, recipe is still on the counter.”


Cas frowns. “How many pies are we making? I thought you said three.”


“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding. “Three for me, three for you.”


“Dean, that’s six.”


“Three each.”


Cas narrows his eyes, more in confusion than in suspicion. “You know I celebrate with just my parents. There’s only three of us.”


“Yeah, and?” Dean asks. “It’s just me, Sam, and Bobby. One pie per person, that’s the human-to-dessert ratio.”


“You’re joking,” Cas says despite clearly knowing Dean isn’t.


“You don’t want to do three, just do the math.” Dean shrugs, immediately drawing Cas’ attention back to his bare shoulders. He grins at the resulting slackness to Cas’ expression. “One batch is four crusts. For me, that’s one double-crust and two single-crust, but you could go with two double-crust.”


After a long pause, Cas tears his eyes away to look between Dean and the recipe. He holds out the skirt of his apron, squinting as he reads the flaking numbers and letters of the fading conversions once printed there. Finally, he says, “I don’t want to do math.”


Dean grins. “Three pies?”


Cas sighs, like this could somehow be a bad thing. “Three pies.”


With a hand still damp from washing, Dean pulls Cas in by the hip. He kisses at a frown only to suck in a breath at Cas’ hand splayed across his bare back.


“I can do the math for you,” Dean offers, standing nose-to-nose.


Cas shakes his head slightly, forehead against Dean’s, brushing their noses together the way their lips should. “I asked you to teach me. I should do all of them.”


Dean rolls his eyes even as his feet shift closer. “This isn’t all of them. Strawberry rhubarb is Easter, cherry for the Fourth of July. So, uh.”


His hand gently exploring Dean’s spine, Cas nods. “We’ll make them as we go.”




Cas nods again, their faces so close the kiss might be an accident. Prying themselves apart is a trial in itself, but they manage eventually. Dean takes up a watching role this time, making himself obnoxious by watching over Cas’ shoulder, arms wrapped around his middle. He can even spoon in the water from there. He only lets go when it’s time to grab the plastic wrap, but he presses a kiss to the side of Cas’ neck before he goes.


“You’re trying to make me regret my decision in the car,” Cas mutters darkly as they load Round Two into the fridge.


“I thought you liked edging,” Dean says, completely innocent. Well, at least as innocent as anyone can be about edging.


It’s Cas’ turn to roll his eyes, that familiar full-body movement that shows off his neck and his disdain in equal measure. “What’s next?”


“The pecan and pumpkin can all bake together, so those. Make one filling, start the blind bake, make the other filling, pull out the blind bake, do the real bake. Easy.”


“Easy,” Cas repeats with an absolute lack of understanding in his eyes. “Why are we baking blindly?”


Dean blinks at him for a second. “Oh. ‘Cause the pumpkin filling can make the crust soggy. Cook the crust halfway first, stop the soggy problem. It’s called a blind bake.”


Cas nods along a bit better at that. They huddle around the stove, Dean nearly regretting his lack of shirt, Cas close along his back. Cas keeps watching like he’s actually interested in what Dean’s doing. Mostly, they don’t talk, Mostly, they don’t even need to.


“This is the filling for both pumpkin pies?” Cas checks after a comfortable silence, squinting down into the pot as Dean stirs.


“Yep.” The timer beeps. “Keep stirring.” Dean presses the wooden spoon into Cas’ hand before arranging Cas just where he wants him. Cas treats the poor excuse for manhandling as a matter of course.


Cas keeps watching him, the way Cas always keeps watching him. Like there’s something fascinating in a guy rolling out dough, sticking an upside-down plate on top of it, and using that to cut out a pair of perfect circles. Those go into the tins, Dean’s glass one and Cas’ grocery store aluminum stopgap. Dean weighs them down just so with baking parchment and a load of beans taking a detour on their path toward chili-hood. Into the oven those go, another timer gets set, and Dean can return to the important business of crowding Cas.


“Think you can keep an eye on two of these?” Dean asks.


“How do you do all of this by yourself?” Cas asks right back.


“Practice,” Dean says with a shrug. “But seriously, you ready?”


Cas nods, and Dean puts together the syrup for the pecan pie for him. Then that’s two more crusts rolled out and put into their tins, and Dean’s still got a couple minutes left to show off.


He pours in the pecans, and the pie he’ll be having with Sam and Bobby gets a perfunctory pattern, the pecans spiraling out from the center. The Cas pie, on the other hand, well. The Novaks are religious, right? And any idiot with even the semblance of fine motor control can make a cross. So he makes the cross, and maybe he fills the rest in by turning the pecans sideways and making them fan out like the cross is shining or some shit.


The timer beeps again. Wiping his hands on his apron, Dean grabs the oven mitts and Cas gets out of his way so Dean can pull out the crusts. The beans get set off to the side to be ignored, revealing a good half-bake beneath.


“Pouring time,” Dean announces. He makes sure to point to the right filling. “That one.”


It’s a basic enough skill to trust Cas over, but Cas still looks to him for approval. “This high?”


“Yeah, put a little more in the other one. Awesome.” Those two get set off to the side for a minute, and Dean carefully carries over the pecan pair one at a time. “Careful over these.”


Cas’ eyebrows fly up at the sight of the second one. He smiles at Dean so serenely, so completely, it’s a marvel the guy doesn’t burn himself.


“What?” Dean says. “We gotta tell them apart somehow.”


“The baking tins are different,” Cas says like the world’s most pragmatic smartass.


“Shut up and pour.”


Cas pours syrup over the pecans and Dean has to get a fork to poke around until the patterns are fixed.


“Shut up,” Dean repeats, not at all distracted by the blaze of Cas’ hand on his back.


“You’re much more artistic than I am,” Cas murmurs.


“Uh-huh. Says Mr. Sound Design over here.”


Cas tilts his head and makes a noise of consideration. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”


Dean just shrugs, going for the tin foil and covering up the pecan pies. True to form, he somehow gets sticky despite touching only the tin foil, but he doesn’t give into any unsanitary impulses until all four pies are in the oven and two corresponding timers are set. Then he gives in and licks his fingers. Hell, he grabs another spatula to scrape out the remains of pecan syrup.


Like a gentleman—like an idiot—he offers it to Cas first.


Cas, who goes ahead and sticks half the spatula head in his mouth in one go. While maintaining eye contact. The asshole doesn’t even need to play it up. Dean’s more than half expecting a porn parody out of the guy, but no, instead he gets this unthinking pseudo-innocence.


Dean’s reaction must show on his face, because Cas clearly sees it. Cas pops off instead of doubling down and, holy shit, he actually looks embarrassed. Dean offers him the sauce pan and a smirk.


Cas takes the sauce pan, but only to stick it in the sink.


“Hey, no, I’m washing,” Dean interrupts. “You’re on apple peeling duty.”


“Because you don’t want to,” Cas assumes.


“Hey, it’s a valuable skill.”


As it turns out, Cas’ ability to grumble silently isn’t constrained to just the library. Friggin’ hilarious, though.


Dean cleans what needs immediate cleaning, dries it all off, and gets the dry parts of the filling ready. And maybe he grins a little to himself the whole time. Because maybe, possibly, he can feel Cas’ eyes on his back. The hair on his nape prickles, and not just from the apron’s fabric against his neck. Maybe the apron string in the back is falling just right over his ass, too. This little bow and two long strings swaying as Dean hums Metallica to himself.


Drying his hands, Dean turns around. Does it count as catching Cas looking if Cas clearly lets himself be caught? Dean wipes a bit of dish soap foam off his elbow and leans back against the sink counter. He smiles, playing it cool in the face of Cas’ heat.


“Havin’ fun?” Dean asks.


“I’m learning a lot,” Cas answers delicately, seated at Dean’s tiny excuse for a table while he peels. Or, while he pauses mid-peel. His eyes linger low on Dean’s forearms.


Dean smiles wider. “Got any questions?”


“I can handle it.”


“I was thinking,” Dean says. “Wondering, I guess.”


To say Cas looks at him attentively would be like saying Dean’s fond of his car. “Yes?” Cas asks, clearly willing to be strung along.


“If I was baking in just an apron and the panties, would you want me in the frilly ones or the mesh-backed-”


Cas abandons the apple and slaps the peeler down on the table. His legs devour the distance between them. He grabs Dean by the head, slams Dean’s ass against the counter using only his own hips, and he kisses Dean with every ounce of patience Dean’s transformed into exasperation.


Dean melts. He clings, arms draped around Cas’ neck, mouth open to fading sweetness.


“You’re intolerable,” Cas growls against his lips. Even with two aprons bunching between their jeans, Cas’ bulge is an unmistakable hot pressure against Dean’s upper thigh.


Dean starts to say something—no idea what, probably something mouthy—but Cas yanks the hair on the crown of Dean’s head, and the noise that comes out instead has to be a pretty good summary.


“Do you want me to fuck you that hard?” Cas demands.


The question’s rhetorical, but Dean’s face still burns hotter than his scalp. “Uhh...”


Cas looks at him.


And Cas looks at him.


And, pulling in a hard, shaking breath, Cas releases him. Plants a hand on either side of Dean on the sink counter, caging Dean in, rallying his own restraint even as Dean refuses to let go of him.


“How much longer is this going to take?” Cas asks.


“Like an hour and a half.”


Cas gives in and groans his dismay directly into Dean’s shoulder. That much vibration, breath, and stubble against Dean’s skin is delicious beyond measure.


Holding shamelessly tight, Dean offers, “We can wrap up what we got and do the apple tomorrow morning?”


Forehead against Dean’s shoulder, Cas shakes his head only the smallest amount. “I don’t do mornings.”


“I can do the apple tomorrow morning?”


Cas presses a kiss against his skin before pulling back. “We finish what we’ve started, and then we stay in bed as long as possible. And I would want you in the mesh-backed pair if you were wearing the apron over them. If I don’t get to see the little bow in front, I’d want to see your ass, at least.”


“Yeah, okay,” Dean finds himself saying.


“You said something about Easter?” Cas prompts, leaving Dean by the sink to return to the apples. Dean follows automatically before rerouting to grab the cutting board.


“Easter is strawberry rhubarb and apple,” Dean says. “So. Something new for you to learn, I guess.”


Apple in one hand, peeler in the other, Cas doesn’t move. Just looks with those goddamn eyes of his. “So we should order the panties before then.”


“If you want,” Dean says with a little shrug, like it doesn’t matter. He quarters an apple, cuts the core out in practiced little triangles, and successfully doesn’t cut his fingers off.


“Dean,” Cas says. “I want what you want. That’s not the kind of discomfort I get off on.”


“Yeah, we should order them,” Dean mutters, reaching for the next apple.


Cas hands it to him, and then they both just kinda hold it together, getting sticky for no good reason. Cas quirks a smile, and Dean pretends not to melt.


“I’d like that,” Cas says, his expression open.


“Yeah, me too,” Dean says quietly, and Cas smiles.


They work in a new kind of silence after that, the background noise of Dean’s apartment a far cry from the muted sounds of the library. Passing traffic instead of distant voices. The hum of appliances instead of turning pages. Half a dozen times, Dean thinks to put some music on, but he never does.


When they cook the filling on the stove, it’s less a demonstration and more an excuse to cuddle. Cas wraps himself around Dean’s back, murmuring something about not wanting Dean to get cold. Chin hooked over Dean’s shoulder, Cas pretends to watch. Dean pretends to be focused on anything other than pressing his cheek against Cas’, than Cas’ hands riding his hips. Heat in front, heat in back, all with the scents of cinnamon, cloves, and sugar filling the air, riding high over pumpkin and apple. Dean doesn’t stir as often as he should, but nothing burns.


They have to separate so Dean can teach Cas how roll out a pie crust and lay it into a tin, but unnecessary contact remains the theme of the day. They communicate more by touching than by words, at least until Dean’s transferring the filling from sauce pan to the tins.


“That seems like too much,” Cas says.


“It’ll cook down,” Dean assures him. “Gotta go overboard to make it look even.” For his pie, Dean just cuts a couple slits in the top crust, but, hell, why not get fancy? “I’m gonna show you how to do a crisscross crust.”


“A what?” Cas asks, which is fair. That’s probably not the right name for it.


“When it’s all woven.”


Cas nods along and Dean shows him, cutting strips and laying them down. Folding them back, adding more, straightening them out again. Cas catches on pretty quick and can take over when the first timer goes off for the pecan pies. Dean grabs them, going a full five feet away from Cas, an aching distance. The pumpkin pair still need more time, like the little bitches they are, but the two pecan go on the cooling rack.


Dean comes back to add the finishing touches on the apple pie crusts, and Cas resumes his position behind Dean. This time, Cas slips both hands beneath the front of the apron, a furtive motion, as if he thinks Dean might somehow fail to notice the touch over his sides and stomach. Cas’ sweater scratches at Dean’s spine, but Dean sinks back against him anyway. At least, up until Cas says something that makes the boner against Dean’s ass wildly inappropriate.


“Are you trying to impress my parents?”


Dean chokes on his own spit. “What?”


“Drawing the cross in pecans, making the more complicated crust for mine,” Cas says. “You’re trying to make a good first impression.”


“It’s not like it’s hard, man. Just looks better.”


Cas hums skeptically.


Dean finishes up before the pumpkin pies do, so he just ends up standing there, wiping sugary hands on the chest of the apron and feeling Cas’ hands through the cloth. Cas tightens his hold. It’s almost a waste, not turning around to kiss him, but turning around would mean Cas letting go, would mean Dean getting a cold back.


Better to hold on. Better to lean into Cas the way Cas leans into him. Cheek against cheek. Breathing steady. Wanting, but calm.


Eyes closed, Dean’s not entirely sure which one of them started swaying first. It’s a hug’s best impression of a silent slow dance. Cas’ chest against his back. So fucking firm. Those arms wrapped around him. Dean’s brain goes somewhere low and ready, sleepy without being tired. The room narrows to the hands over his stomach, to the breath against his ear, to the slow grind between the cheeks of his ass.


The timer going off again startles Dean out of it, and yet his body’s strongest reaction is a slow blink.


“Are they ready?” Cas asks against his shoulder.


“Yeah, I should…”


Dean doesn’t move.


Cas doesn’t let go.


The timer keeps beeping.


Finally, annoyance overtakes inertia.


“Yeah, yeah, all right,” Dean mutters at the stupid timer, turning it off. He flicks on the oven light, opens the oven door, and has a look. He groans. “Five more minutes, I think.”


“That’s fine.” The low register of Cas’ voice is accompanied by the shifting sounds of cloth.


Closing the oven door, Dean straightens, looking back at Cas as Cas folds up his apron. Hesitant in his expression but not in his approach, Cas stands beside Dean and drops his folded apron onto the floor in front of the oven.


“You can watch.”


Dean pulls off his own apron. He folds it mess-side-in and puts it down on top of Castiel’s. His chest warm in the oven’s heat, his back freezing without Castiel against it, Dean kneels on top of the aprons. He keeps his eyes on the oven door, on the little glass window.


Fingers touch his hair, the top of his head.


“Do I need to get you a pillow?” Castiel asks.


Dean licks his lips and shakes his head.


Castiel tightens his grip on Dean’s hair. Not enough to hurt, just enough to hold. “What do you say, Dean?”


“Yes, Castiel,” Dean says, eyes fighting to stay open. “I mean, no, no pillow. I’m, I’m good.”


“Yes, you are,” Castiel agrees. He draws Dean to the side, pulls him in by the head. Maybe it should be embarrassing, hugging another man’s leg in his own kitchen, but none of that seems to register. Keeping one hand on the counter for balance, Castiel pets Dean’s hair. The urge to look up grows and grows, but Dean’s in control. Dean’s under control.


He looks only ahead.


“They’re ready,” he says some time later, and that’s when he finally looks up.


Standing above him, standing over him, Castiel looks down as if transfixed.


“They’re ready, Castiel,” Dean corrects himself.


“You’re mine,” Castiel says, as if that follows. As if it’s a thought he’s trying on for size, a daydream he’s afraid to mistake for reality. He tightens his fingers in Dean’s hair again, no longer petting. He tilts Dean’s head back even more, baring his throat to the heat of the oven.


Dean’s eyes flutter shut. Somehow, he keeps breathing, drawing in just enough air to keep his body singing.


“You’ve been mine for weeks,” Castiel realizes. “Haven’t you?”


That touches too close. Dean turns his face away, insofar as he’s able.


“I think I should mention that ‘James’ actually is my middle name,” Castiel adds.


Dean looks up at him. “Seriously.”




“Huh.” That strange, blank curtain falls back over his mind. It drapes across his thoughts, warming them. Slowing them. Adding weight and a sense of static electricity to every motion.


“You said the pies were done,” Castiel prompts.


“Right, yeah,” Dean says, not moving.


Castiel takes a step back. He fetches the oven mitts before helping Dean up. It can only have been minutes, but standing has turned strange. Being taller than Castiel, if only slightly, is even stranger. Ignoring it as best he can, Dean takes the pies out and turns up the oven temperature.


“That’ll be a couple minutes.”


Castiel eyes the room. The cramped excuse for a living room with Dean’s couch and awesome TV setup. The rest of the kitchenette with the cooling pecan and waiting apple pies. He looks back at Dean, biting his lip against a thought.


“What?” Dean asks.


“How long for the apple to bake?”


“Uh, forty-five minutes, maybe an hour? Probably an hour.”


Castiel nods thoughtfully before looking back at the couch. While it can fit three if they’re friendly, it’s hardly enough for two grown men to go horizontal on.


Dean clears his throat. “I mean, I could bring the timer into the bedroom. If you wanted.”


“I have a different idea,” Castiel says like he thinks there’s a chance of Dean saying no. Like Dean’s perky nipples are pebbled from the air and not Castiel’s proximity.


“I like your ideas,” Dean promises. “What is it?”


“If we have that much time, I’m going to teach you how to blow me,” Castiel tells him. “Get a condom and a pillow, and kneel in front of the sofa.”


“Still gotta stick them in the oven,” Dean points out, because pie still wins out over his dick. Without the handjob in the car, it might have been a different story, but Dean can ignore that.


“I can do that much.” Cas presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, only to pull away when Dean chases him for something deeper. Cas pushes Dean on the chest. “It beeps when the temperature is right, I can’t possibly mess that up. Now get the supplies and kneel.”


Cas does make a stupidly compelling point.


“Yeah, okay.” Dean still leans back in for one more actual kiss before doing as bid. He takes a tiny detour to empty out his jeans pockets—doesn’t want anything digging into his thigh when he kneels—and he snorts quietly to himself as he plugs his phone into its charger.


How’s the date going? Sam had texted a couple hours ago.


Dean leaves the phone on his bedside table without responding; too much Sam can only kill the mood. He goes through the drawer instead, shakes open an old box, and tears a pair of condoms off the strip. They’ll need both eventually, if not more.


He leaves the box out on his bed, along with the lube, only to nearly forget to bring the pillow. Reemerging back into the main room, he blinks at Cas’ back. “The dishes can wait, man.”


Cas looks placidly over his shoulder. “You’re not kneeling.” He nods toward the couch.


Involuntarily licking his lips, Dean goes where bid. He pushes back the coffee table and gets settled, going so far as to pull off his shoes. Looking over at Cas, catching that unfairly attractive profile, Dean fights down the urge to squirm.


“Kneeling,” Dean points out.


“Good,” Cas answers, still scrubbing, not looking. “Are you thinking about my cock?”


Dean swallows. Regardless of Cas’ calm, pragmatic tone, he is now. “Yeah.”


“Do you want it in your mouth?”




“I want you to think about it a little longer,” Cas says.


Folding his arms on the sofa cushions, Dean reminds himself that Cas is the desperate one here. He’s gotta be. He just was, no matter how quickly he put himself back together while Dean was in his bedroom. “What am I thinking about, exactly?”


“How deep you want to take me,” Cas says to the pots and pans. They clang their responses beneath rhythmic scrubbing. “Whether I should come in your mouth or pull off the condom to come on your chest. Whether I should thrust into your mouth or leave you in charge of the pace.”


The practical tone does nothing to negate Dean’s knee-jerk response to Castiel’s voice.


“Do you want me to instruct you, order you, or simply praise you in the right direction?” Castiel continues.


“You want me to help with the dishes?” Dean counters, already starting to stand up.


At that, Castiel whips a look in his direction. “Kneel,” he orders, and across the dividing counter between them, the command cracks Dean across the face.


Breathless, Dean sinks back down.


Castiel stares back at him as if, between the two of them, Dean is the creature of beauty. Instead of Castiel, strong and tall, his shoulders wide and clad in blue, his forearms bare and wet. “You’re going to wait for my cock like the good boy you are.”


Castiel pauses. Lets Dean hear the words before they’re even said.


“Do you understand, Dean?”


“Yes, Castiel,” Dean answers, sitting on his heels, hands flat atop the sofa seat.


Castiel doesn’t tell him where to look, so Dean keeps looking at him. Through the rest of the washing. Through the drawn out process of Castiel drying off his hands and forearms. Through, finally, finally, the oven beeping its readiness and Castiel putting the last two pies in.


“What do I set the timer for?” Castiel asks.


“Uh. Forty-five? Yeah.”


Nodding, Castiel sets the timer and leaves it on the counter with an authoritative click. He comes striding around into the living room portion of the room, moving with the efficient yet awkward gait of a man with a painful boner. Cool air prickles across Dean’s bare shoulders and back, or maybe that’s just the heat blazing up from inside of him.


With a gesture, Castiel orders Dean to shift back.


Dean does, hands on his thighs to intentionally frame his own semi.


Castiel sits in front of him. Makes himself comfortable, legs spread wide on either side of Dean. There’s so much in Castiel’s face, but it’s Castiel’s crotch Dean can’t look away from.


Jesus, that looks big.


That’s going in his mouth.


That’s going in his ass.


Castiel unbuckles his belt.


He unbuttons and unzips his fly.


He takes himself out. His dick. His balls.


Holy shit.


Dicks aren’t supposed to look hot.


Dicks are floppy, and embarrassing, and kind of weird. They’re good in porn the way weird things can be good in porn, in the heat of the moment, in the dubious judgment inherent to jacking off.


This dick is still hot.


Dean lifts a hand. Almost touches.


Looks up to Castiel, who nods with dark, dark eyes.


It’s just as hot to the touch, but even hotter is Castiel’s strained exhale at the contact.


Careful of his own rough palms and fingers, Dean wraps a hand around the base and another around the head. He works his thumb in circles over the slit, over the pre-come leaking out from a head even pinker than Castiel’s lips.


“Breathe,” Castiel reminds him in a low rumble.


Dean sucks in air and only grows dizzier.


“Are you okay?” Castiel asks.


Dean nods, the world still tilting.


Castiel cups his cheek. Takes hold of Dean by one wrist. “What’s wrong?”


Shaking his head, nuzzling into Castiel’s palm, Dean doesn’t relinquish his grip on Castiel’s dick for an instant. “Want you so fucking bad,” he grits out, his eyes shut tight.


“Give me the condom and you can have me,” Castiel promises. He leans forward and, low in his kneel, Dean has to crane back to meet him in the kiss. Dean shoves his tongue into Castiel’s mouth immediately, starts working one hand up and down that hot shaft, and Castiel clutches at him like Dean’s something unbreakable.


With a groan, Castiel puts an end to the kissing. He grabs at Dean’s wrist again. “Dean, if you’re not going to use your mouth, I want you where I can touch you.”


“I’m gonna, I’m gonna,” Dean swears. He reaches around, checks his pockets, and finally remembers the condoms on the coffee table. He starts to open one up before a fortunate flash of insight. “You gotta—I already got your spunk on my hands.”


Castiel responds by whipping off his sweater. Not exactly the solution Dean had in mind, but nothing to sneeze at either. The white cotton undershirt could stand to go too, though.


“Wipe your hands on me.”


Dean totally gropes him. He hadn’t thought there’d be that much to grope on anyone without boobs, but he was wrong and has happily learned his lesson.


Dean,” Castiel chastises in a growl.


“I’ll be good,” Dean answers, the only reaction he has left in him. “Let me be good, I’ll be good.”


“Condom,” Castiel reminds him.


Dean rolls it on him, and hell if that isn’t a distraction in its own right. The way the unlubricated latex clings to Castiel’s skin. It wrinkles up a little bit, and as Dean smooths the condom down, he smears more of Castiel’s pre-come down inside it. There’s this extra layer of motion, condom sliding over skin over the flesh beneath, a subtle difference from the feel of his own dick while jerking off. This shouldn’t be sexy, should only be a practicality, but something about the shift in shade, the heat, the responsiveness, it pings the part of Dean’s brain that wolf-whistles at pantyhose and stockings.


“Dean,” Castiel urges, but Dean keeps on looking, using only his hands. He opens his mouth a little, knows it’ll be a stretch, and incredulously feels himself salivate even more.


Dean leans forward and licks at latex-wrapped heat. The taste clings to his tongue as Dean works his way up to the tip, one hand holding Castiel steady at the base. With a groan, Castiel sinks back into the couch cushions, but he never stops looking down at Dean, chin resting on his chest.


Getting his mouth around the head is the first big thing. Literally. It takes two tries to even attempt it, and then it’s not as bad and just as big as Dean had thought. His lips stretch, he panics over his own teeth, and he pulls off with a sucking pop, and there. He’s done it. Started to do it.


Dean just sucked a dick.


“Go slow,” Castiel urges, hands stroking Dean’s forearms.


Dean gives it another try, enough to feel Castiel stiffen and twitch between his lips, against his tongue. He feels like he’s going fast, too fast, but Castiel keeps murmuring praise, a low “That’s it, that’s it” as wanting as it is gentle. Taking in just the head, Dean tries to swirl his tongue around the slit the same way he’d tongued at Castiel’s thumb the night before, but the empty tip of the condom makes it weird.


“Different angle,” Castiel orders, or maybe asks. The strain in the body beneath Dean’s hands makes it difficult to tell.


Dean tries moving his head around, feeling more like a choked chicken than anything sexy, but Castiel’s hand threads through his hair and tilts him. Doesn’t slam him down and make him swallow. Just moves him a little, pivots him, gets the head of Castiel’s dick against the roof of his mouth like it was fucking made to fit there, and Dean groans at how absurdly easy it just became.


Castiel groans for very different reasons, reasons Dean immediately reproduces. He tongues at the base of the head. He sucks, pulling with his mouth until it feels like he’s gagging himself. He has to pop off once or twice more, swallowing his spit and working his jaw, but the challenge, the heady musk, the incredible responsiveness, it all has him chubbing up way more than he would have thought possible.


Or maybe that’s just the sounds Castiel makes. The litany of “So good, such a good boy for me” and “Like that, like that.” The order of “Don’t forget your hands, use those too.” The hitching breaths. The tremble in Castiel’s thighs.


Using his hands is a fucking awesome idea. He tilts Castiel around inside his mouth, moving his head, really getting that tongue swirling action on, and Castiel sucks in a hard breath, his hips jerking beneath Dean’s forearms.


“Sorry, sorry,” Castiel apologies in a rush, petting Dean’s hair. “That was, do that.”


Stretching his mouth open wide, Dean tilts his head to the side, Castiel’s cockhead pressing up from the inside of his cheek. Managing eye contact, Dean raises his eyebrows.


Staring down at him wordlessly, Castiel touches himself through Dean’s cheek. The reverence in those fingertips. Dean closes his eyes against the sight but can’t deny the feeling.


He uses his hands even more, doing that following the mouth thing he’s always liked chicks to use on him. He touches down low, fondling Castiel’s balls where they peek out the slit of his underwear. That contrast, latex and skin, it has Dean sucking harder on reflex even before Cas spreads his legs wider.


“Press,” Cas gasps, so Dean presses with his tongue. Licks hard at that one spot until Cas’ grip on his forearm turns painful. “That too.”


Dean hums a question, unwilling to pull off now. He’s gonna make Cas come. He’s gonna make Cas come.


“Under my balls,” Cas manages to get out. “Press up there.” And then he says something that might be one big mumble or might be something like “perineum,” if that’s a word.


Dean presses, knuckling up against cotton and the covered cushion of pubic hair. Cas’ dick jerks in his mouth, fucking gets bigger in his mouth, holy shit.


Dean works at it and works at it, shifting to knuckle up through jeans and underwear both as Cas spreads his legs wider, and blunt pressure has to make up for the lack of dexterity. Cas gets harder and harder between his lips, over his tongue, Cas’ fucking pulse pounding in Dean’s mouth.


“I’m close, I’m, Dean, I’m-”


Dean pulls off.


Has to. Has to see.


He rears up. One hand going for Cas, his shoulder. One hand staying on Cas, his dick, stroking hard and fast through the condom.


“Come on me,” Dean demands, and Cas’ eyes snap shut.


Cas’ head snaps back.


His mouth stretches open, their hands entwined and jerking him fast. Each pull of Dean’s hand pulls a corresponding little “Ah” out of him, like a half-second clip of Cas climbing into a hot bath, but stuck on a loop. By the time Dean gets the condom off him, Cas is down to a weak little spurt, so Dean does the sensible thing and plants himself on top of Cas, his socks sliding on the floor, one arm around Cas’ neck.


He gets a hot splash around his navel, just that, but Cas clutches him close, reflexively rutting against Dean’s stomach until he hisses, sensitive dick hitting Dean’s jeans. Then Cas pushes him back, pushes him down off the couch and back onto the floor.


“Sorry,” Dean apologies reflexively, but Cas follows him down. Legs spread on either side of Dean’s, kneeling over Dean’s kneel. Cas hugging him tight, his arms strong, his back a tired slope.


Cas kissing the side of his neck. Slow kisses, but many, like he’d pepper them on if only he had the energy.


“Dean,” Cas rumbles against him. Into him. Cas sinks down fully, his back against the edge of the couch, his ass sliding down Dean’s thighs no matter how Dean tries to grab him there. Cas’ forehead stays against Dean’s shoulder, his hair tickling Dean’s neck.


“All that practice on your hand really paid off, huh?” Dean jokes weakly. Maybe he didn’t take Cas down deep or anything, but he still knows a good orgasm when he sees one. That’s gotta count for something, right? He eases Cas down the rest of the way to stroke the curve of his spine. “Cas?”


Cas lets out a grunt of a mumble.


“That was okay, right?” Dean checks.


Propping himself up with a forearm on Dean’s shoulder, Cas smooshes their foreheads together. He kisses Dean in lieu of a verbal answer. A long kiss. Almost long enough a kiss.


“Mouth feels kinda weird,” Dean admits against Cas’ lips. “Kinda stretched.”


Cas pulls back to look at him with heavy-lidded eyes. He rubs his thumb over Dean’s lower lip. “Gorgeous,” he says, as if this is the new name for Dean’s mouth. As if it’s been the real name all along, or some other fanciful, stupidly romantic bullshit that Dean wouldn’t be caught dead believing.


“Shut up,” Dean says instead, but he still kisses Cas’ thumb.

The couch is still too small for two grown men, but that somehow fails to matter. They clean themselves up with paper towels—rather, Dean cleans them both up with damp paper towels—and then there’s some creative sprawling. Dean ends up on the bottom, or maybe it’s more accurate to say Cas ends up on his lap. Because of course Cas wants to sit on his lap while Dean is hours away from his last orgasm and has his arms full of sexy.


Arms draped around each other, the coffee table pulled close for use as a footrest, they vaguely dose. Cas tucks his discarded sweater around Dean like a blanket. Dean gets a hand up Cas’ undershirt. The scent of apple pie grows and grows, and every time Dean considers grabbing a snack, Cas shifts against him, immediately reclaiming Dean’s full attention. Stroking Dean’s arms. Petting Dean’s hair. Pressing his mouth against whatever bits of Dean he can reach.


In return, Dean stretches out, lounging however gives Cas the most access. Whenever Dean rocks his hips up, Cas hums a negative as he continues his lethargic exploration.


“I can take my time fingering you open now,” Cas explains, having the sheer fucking balls and complete lack of shame to tell Dean this to his face. “I’ll be calm enough not to rush now.”


“A little rush ain’t bad.”


Cas shakes his head, his eyes as soft as the hint of his smile. Soft and heated, the molten metal of his intent. “I don’t want to rush. I want you coming as hard as possible, as long as possible, when I say you can.”


Dean should have a better comeback than licking his lips, but at least Cas seems to find that a captivating response.


Tearing his eyes away, Cas lets out a long groan and stretches, his ass and thighs grinding against Dean’s lap. Cas wraps an arm back around Dean’s shoulders. “It’s been too long since I’ve done this,” Cas confides.


“What? Fucked a guy to death?”


Smirking, Cas shakes his head again. He squeezes Dean, only to adjust the sweater draped around Dean’s neck like the best smelling scarf in the world. “Any of it. Had sex in person. Touched someone. Wanted to touch someone.”


Dean sneaks his hand higher up Cas’ shirt. “Good thing I’m hot.”




Dean unrepentantly thumbs Cas’ nipple. “What?”


“It’s not just because you’re ‘hot’,” Cas answers, and the fucker even takes his hand off Dean’s thigh to do the air quotes. But his hand comes back down on Dean’s bare stomach, so that’s fine.


“Right, I’m hot and I bring you coffee.”


Cas rolls his eyes, and this time, Dean gets to feel it, the full motion of Cas’ indulgent annoyance. “You’re more than a gorgeous man with a giant thermos, Dean.”


Dean’s instincts say to shove Cas off him. Dean’s dick says to keep him exactly where he is. His heart ran off somewhere making gibbering noises, so he settles for his brain’s response of a skeptical, “Uh-huh. ‘Cause you learned so much about me at the library.”


Cas gives him one hell of a side-eye. “Only that you stick to schedules, come prepared, and dedicate yourself wholly even to things you dislike. And that you reach out for help with a speed I frankly envy.”


The urge to push Cas off grows with each word, but the way Cas speaks them to Dean’s collarbones is a bit of a distraction. Not to mention the thumb Cas keeps brushing over them, or the fingers on Dean’s shoulder.


“So I’m a whiny bitch, that’s what you’re saying?”


Without the slightest change in expression, Castiel pinches the hell out of Dean’s nipple.


The first noise Dean makes shall not be repeated, but the second one is a prim “Ow.”


“I used to admire your confidence,” Castiel continues, rubbing the pain into something hot and tight. “Now that I know better, I admire your composure.” Another threatened tweak. “Mostly.”


“Yeah, I cover pretty well for being a mess,” Dean says, testing the waters for another pinch.


He gets an eye roll instead. “Dean, you’re talking to a man who destroyed his own social life for an entire year to listen to strangers orgasm.”


“Yeah, for research.”


Cas actually smiles at that, for some reason. “We’re all messes. We’re supposed to be. If there’s a single shortcut I could give you, it’s that one.”


“That everyone’s fucked?” Dean asks, eyebrows raised.


Shaking his head, Cas shifts over Dean’s lap again, maybe teasing Dean’s dick, maybe making himself more comfortable with his ass wedged between the couch arm and Dean’s thigh. “I used to think that, because we were made in God’s image, we were meant to be perfect. That we fell from grace by failing somewhere along the line. Any deviation from the righteous path meant damnation.” Visibly choosing his next words, Cas strokes his fingers over Dean’s shoulder.


“We are… fallible,” Cas says, his eyes fixed on some distant place beyond Dean’s skin. “The law of the universe isn’t perfection, it’s entropy. Pure creation, perfection, that’s beyond human limitations. All we can do is try to do our best in a world where it’s too easy to be our worst.


“What I’m trying to say is, everyone’s trying to unfuck themselves,” Cas concludes. “I don’t think I’m broken anymore. I think I came unassembled, without instructions, and missing the pieces I was meant to gather along the way, but I think it’s my job to create myself now. Not into perfection, but the best I can manage.”


Slowly, a gradual change, Cas’ eyes refocus on Dean’s collarbone. They lift to Dean’s face, and Cas quirks a small, self-conscious smile. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”


“For what it’s worth, man,” Dean says softly, “you would’ve been an awesome priest.”


Cas ducks his head a little.


“I mean, I’m glad you’re not,” Dean adds. “Way less hot monkey sex that way.”


With faint but downright mischievous smile, Cas replies, “If you can’t call me ‘Sir,’ I can hardly see you calling me ‘Father.’”


Dean shoves Cas off his lap.


At least, he tries, but Cas gets a foot planted on the floor and an arm around Dean’s neck, and maybe Dean doesn’t want to dump Cas onto his own legs, propped up as they are on the coffee table. That’s the only thing that saves Cas: the potential knee injury.


“Such a fucking rosebud,” Dean mutters against Cas’ shoulder. He’s shaking with silent laughter, the asshole.


“I’ll make it up to you,” Cas promises once they get settled into a slightly less clinging position. There’s some squirming involved, some cracking of backs, but Dean’s not so far gone as to suggest the floor just yet. Still, despite being only a couple hours away from his last orgasm, it feels so much longer. Especially when Cas traces Dean’s lips with two fingers.


Running on automatic, Dean licks them.


Cas pushes them into Dean’s mouth. Stares at Dean’s mouth with heavy-lidded eyes that speak more of satisfaction than lust.


With a sharp nip to Cas’ fingertips, Dean pulls off. “The blowjob was all right, yeah? I know I didn’t go deep, I didn’t wanna bite off more than I- okay, wrong expression,” he quickly amends at Cas’ horrified, wide-eyed blink.


“It was a lot better before you said that.”


“No, seriously.”


Again daring to touch Dean’s mouth, Cas looks at him very seriously indeed. “I’m glad neither of us choked you.”


“So it sucked,” Dean summarizes.


He sees the nipple pinch coming this time but does nothing to block it.


“Ow,” he says again.


“I look forward to you practicing,” Cas tells him, the diplomatic piece of shit.


“Uh-huh. Practice.”


“Yes,” Cas states firmly. “Because if someday, you can kiss my cock half as well as you kiss my mouth, I’ll be a very happy man.”


“Oh,” Dean says, abruptly more like five weeks removed from the last time he got his rocks off.


In the resulting make-out session, there’s a lot of squirming around and repositioning. Dean finally gets Cas under him only to get pulled down and wedged against the back of the couch. Dean’s legs stick out, Cas’ are bent at the knee, but their legs are intertwined and their heads are more or less on the same level, propped up on the couch arm only a little. Cas drapes his sweater back over Dean, and then it’s slow, lazy kisses until the apple pie timer goes off.


“How was that forty-five minutes?” Cas asks, like he’s never lost track of time making out before or something absurd like that.


Dean just groans while the timer beeps itself out. “Don’t wanna.”


“I thought you loved pie,” Cas says directly against his mouth. It comes out as more of a low buzz, but Dean gets the gist.


“It’s still gonna be like ten more minutes or some shit, just gotta monitor it now.”


Cas squeezes Dean’s hip, his fingers playing at a casual touch on Dean’s waistband. “I have an idea.”


“A sexy idea?”


Cas nods very seriously.


“A new sexy idea?” Dean asks. “Or just me kneeling in front of the oven again.”


“A half-new sexy idea,” Cas says, working his hand up Dean’s side like he’s got all day. Hell, the guy’s like half an hour away from an orgasm: he really does have all day to lie here and thumb Dean’s abused nipple. “You kneel in front of the oven...”


“Okay…” Could be five minutes, could be a full fifteen. Hell, even twenty.


“And I wait for you in your room,” Cas continues. “Naked.”


Dean bites his lip.


“What do you think?” Cas asks. As if Dean’s gonna be thinking with his dick pressed up against Cas’ thigh.


“Um… Maybe for Easter?”


Cas blinks.


“If that’s okay,” Dean adds.


“Of course.” In nodding, Cas rubs his head against the armrest, ruffling his hair even worse than Dean’s already done. “...Can I ask why not today?”


“Yeah, uh. It’s.” Dean licks his lips. “Okay, it’s not stupid, I just don’t want you stripping without me watching.”


“Oh,” Cas says, and that’s what has him turning red. “In that case.”


“I mean, we can do the same deal again,” Dean hurriedly points out. If he didn’t have to keep an eye on the oven, maybe he’d have Cas grab him by the back of the head, force Dean’s face against his crotch, and hold him there. Which is a mental image as amazing as it is out of the blue. And definitely not something he’s ready to ask for.


“Or,” Cas says, pulling back with a clear sense of purpose. He gets up stiffly, and a rush of cold air slaps Dean in his absence.


“Shit,” Dean says immediately, realizing just how long it’s been since the timer went off. He gets up a lot faster, shoving Cas’ sweater against that undershirt-clad chest as he passes. The blast of heat as he opens the oven door gets a sigh out of him, and not just from relief. “Okay, cool.”


He gestures Cas over, and Cas crouches next to him. Not even feigning the need for balance, Cas wraps one arm across Dean’s shoulders like he can’t imagine not touching Dean.


“See how the filling’s kinda bubbling a little?” Dean asks, pointing.


“That is much flatter than I remember.”


“Told you.”


Why that’s worth a kiss on the cheek, Dean will never know, but he ain’t complaining. “I’m deferring to your expertise for a reason, Dean.”


Dean clears his throat. “So, yeah. Five, ten more minutes. Ten minutes past bubbling’s usually good.”


“Good to know,” Cas says, no longer looking into the oven.


Dean closes the oven door.


Cas straightens up, but he keeps his hand on Dean’s shoulder exactly where it is, pressing down.


Somehow not falling on his face, Dean shifts down into a kneel, back onto the abandoned aprons. Cas squeezes his shoulder, a silent good boy.


“Am I waiting with you?” Cas asks.


“You really get off watching me on my knees, huh?”


“I just did, yes.”


Dean snorts. “Touche.” He licks his lips, looking up and up at Cas. “You sure you’re gonna be good for round two?”


“Round three,” Cas corrects. “And I’m sure my cock will recover before I wear out both hands.”


“Both hands?” Dean repeats, voice sneaking upward.


“Not at the same time, obviously.” Cas lifts his hand from Dean’s shoulder to press his thumb against Dean’s lips. To press there like he knows just how much he owns Dean’s mouth. "Although... that certainly is an idea." He withdraws his hand before Dean can get comfortable. “But I was saying. I have a compromise.”


“On what?”


Biting his lip, Cas puts a hand on the fridge for balance and steps out of his loafers, pulling his socks off as he does. With one long look at Dean, Cas pulls off his undershirt, revealing skin far paler than the tan of his face and hands would suggest. His happy trail barely makes it up to his navel, but that just means an uninterrupted view.


Cas folds his shirt. He drops it on top of his loafers and socks. His hands return to his fly.


“Are you getting naked in my kitchen?” Dean asks, eyes wide, brain imploding as two of his major drives conflict, warring over sex and sanitary cooking spaces.


“Almost,” Cas says.


“Hell yeah,” Dean answers.


Twitching a nervous smile down at Dean, Cas unzips his fly, drops his jeans, and steps out of them. He starts to bend down, but Dean picks them up for him. Hell, Dean fucking folds them before adding them to the clothes pile, and that’s him moving on automatic.


God, those thighs. The loose curl of hair, decorating the skin adorning that muscle. Holy shit, those thighs.


The boxers ain’t half bad either, and there’s something surreal as fuck about the thwarted need to see a cock he’s already had in his mouth.


Bending down for his clothes, seemingly unaware of the show he’s putting on, Cas exudes nerves far more than domination, but he still looks Dean full in the face when he straightens up.


“Like I said,” Cas tells him, “I’m going to wait in your bedroom. You’re finished out here whenever you decide to be.”


“You fucking asshole,” Dean says, not going anywhere. He sits up taller, if anything, moving his hands to make sure Cas has a clear line of sight at the bulge in Dean’s jeans.


“Whenever you’re ready,” Cas reminds him, and then he fucking goes to Dean’s bedroom and closes the door behind him without looking back.


An eternity of seven minutes later, Dean takes both pies out of the oven, turns the damn thing off, and tries to do basic inventory. Pies on the cooling rack, check. All the dirty crap, washed via Cas. Oven, definitely off. Spices, sugar, flour, so on; all put away. Oven, triple-checked to be off. Absolutely no chance of the fire alarm interrupting them.


The few steps to Dean’s bedroom have never felt longer, and he’s never taken them faster. He knocks like some kind of deranged idiot and pushes the door open in practically the same motion.


In the back of his mind—hell, in the forefront of his mind—he’d been expecting… something. A sexy tableau. Some kind of a show. Something. Anything.


Well, not anything.


Not the heart-stopping, adorable sight of Cas snuggled down under Dean’s covers.


“I got cold,” Cas says defensively.


Dean’s face breaks itself grinning. “That’s, that’s cool. I mean, okay, not, not temperature.”


“Shut up,” Cas tells him.


“I dunno, maybe I should get you earmuffs and a hot cocoa or something,” Dean says, pointing out the door even as he closes it behind him.


“You should come over here and warm me up.” Cas pushes back the covers to prove his point, and hell if that isn’t a compelling argument.


Dean shrugs like he needs more persuading, but he unzips his fly and kicks off his jeans before helping Cas pull down the sheets. Cas crawls back onto the bed after, and ain’t that a sight. So is the play of skin and muscle as Cas reaches for the box of condoms Dean had left out on the bed, plus the abandoned lube.


“Do you want to put a towel down?” Cas asks.


“Oh yeah, baby, talk linens to me.”


The resulting eye roll has to be one of Cas’ best, and that’s saying a lot.


“Yeah, I’ll grab one.”


Dean grabs two. More space for fooling around, right?


When Dean comes back, Cas takes the towels out of his hands, tosses them onto the bed, and drags Dean in for kissing. Arms wrapped around each other, bare chests getting acquainted, mouths fighting in a physical contest to say no, I missed you more.


One of them pushes the other back to the bed, but it keeps twisting, their path rotating, two comets orbiting around each other on the road to impact. The bed hits the back of Dean’s knees, and he goes down, trying to drag Cas with him. Planting both hands and one knee on the bed, Cas braces himself over Dean, a looming wall of nearly naked masculinity, and shit. Shit goddamn.


This is gonna be amazing.


“Time to be naked, Dean,” Cas orders. “Lift up.”


Leaning back on his elbows, his legs hanging off the side of the bed, Dean lifts.


And Cas, Cas doesn’t just push Dean’s boxer briefs down. Cas pulls them down, guides them down, moves with them. His mouth goes to Dean’s stomach, travels across one hip, switches to his opposite thigh, and presses a firm kiss above both Dean’s knees.


Now kneeling before Dean’s closed legs, Cas places a large, hot hand on each knee.


He looks Dean dead in the eyes.


And he pushes Dean’s legs apart.


Cas looks over him, across him. He keeps Dean’s legs spread despite Dean’s initial, involuntary twitch to close them. Cas looks and keeps looking, all the way back up to Dean’s face, even with Dean’s dick sticking up in the way, waving high and all in the desperation to be called on by teacher.


“Relax,” Cas urges, voice already lower than the gutter Dean’s lived in these past months.


“You relax,” Dean fires back, doing the exact opposite.


Rolling his eyes, Cas strokes his fingertips up and down the insides of Dean’s thighs. Those tiny trails of heat set off shivers, all of it entirely outside of Dean’s area of experience. Though Cas is the one kneeling for a change, it’s somehow a position of power on him, never mind that he’s doing it in the exact same spot Dean’s knelt for him over the phone.


“We can both relax,” Cas tells him like some kind of indulgent compromise when Dean’s the only one here who can barely breathe.


Cas just keeps stroking Dean’s thighs, up on the outside, down on the inside. Inhaling on the up. Exhaling on the down. Pulling in with anticipation. Letting out as, once again, Cas’ hands reverse their trajectory without touching Dean’s dick or balls or hole.


Their breathing syncs, Cas taking control of him down to his very lungs.


“Relax,” Cas repeats in a murmur. One hand still circling, he replaces the other with his mouth. Covering a much smaller range, he kisses and sucks at the inside of Dean’s thigh, seemingly oblivious to Dean’s leg hair beneath his lips and tongue. He lifts his eyes back to Dean’s, way too fucking up close and personal to Dean’s crotch to be eyeballing everything this intently. But then he bites and sucks Dean's thigh, tongue flicking over the flesh pinched between his teeth, and fuck.


Still propping himself up on his elbows, Dean clenches the towel with both hands as his foot jerks, involuntary.


“Good or bad?” Cas asks, lips buzzing against his skin.


“I, I dunno,” Dean answers even as he spreads his legs wider.


Cas goes and does it again. Slower. Longer. Harder. Builds it up from a light pull, to deep into hickey territory, and that’s Dean down, his back hitting the bed.


Fuck,” Dean swears, and it comes out as a shaking sigh.


Cas keeps up his goddamn exploration like he went and packed provisions for a five year mission to where no man has been before. Gets Dean spreading wider until it’s anyone’s guess why his legs are trembling: Cas’ mouth venturing higher, or the effort in giving him that access.


Gradually, Cas’ shoulder slips from against the side of Dean’s knee, to under it. Cas’ hair tickles Dean’s dick, just for a second—and then Cas is back down, starting over on the other leg.


“I swear to fucking god,” Dean starts, only for Cas to shut him up with a hand beneath his ass, making good use of Dean’s leg over his shoulder. Cas presses not against Dean’s hole, but above it, that space behind Dean’s balls, and Dean swears again, more breathlessly this time.


He gets a knuckle pushing there. Not opening up his hole, not intentionally toying with his balls. Just a firm piece of pressure that starts shifting around until Dean has a full-body twitch of do that again. It’s not as good as a finger to the prostate, but it’s sure as hell related. It’s the difference in sensation between wearing a rubber and going bare, dulled just enough to remind Dean of what he’s missing.


“Do you like that?” Cas checks, sounding just as wrecked and wondering as Dean’s trying not to feel, and Dean makes the mistake of opening his eyes and looking back at him.


A beast of anxiety, tied up and restrained by pleasure, rears up at the sight. At his own dick, hard and wanting so close to Cas’ mouth. To Cas’ attention everywhere else, to his unrelenting focus and uninterrupted staring.


Dean’s heart pounds the wrong way, and what comes out his mouth is, “You know I’m not a girl, right?”


Cas tilts his head. The stubble of his cheek scrapes against Dean’s inner thigh. “That’s a significant amount of your appeal, yes.”


“I mean…” He tries to prop himself up again, but looking at Cas just highlights the distance. “It’s not like you gotta get me wet or something. I got the lube right here and everything.”


“You don’t like this kind of foreplay,” Cas pieces together, squinting a little, except no, that’s wrong too.


“Feels good,” Dean reassures him. “Just… weird.”


“Weird like you need something else with it?” Cas asks, one hand going back to stroking Dean’s leg, the other paused near Dean’s backdoor.


“I dunno,” Dean says, but he pushes down into it. “No one’s ever… What?”


Cas shakes his head like a grin hadn’t just flashed across his face. “I’d assumed no one had.”


Heart shaking harder than the arms he’s propped up on, Dean cracks a joke instead of himself. “You got a virgin ass waiting for you, and you wanna go plant a flag on my legs?”


With a faint smirk, Cas ducks his head to suck at already reddened skin. Fuck. The way Cas flicks his tongue, god-fucking-damn. But the asshole keeps his eyes open, keeps looking at Dean and his dick and all of him, all the while being out of reach.  Dean having his knee over Cas’ shoulder doesn’t exactly count as grabbing hold of him, either. This isn’t some kind of leg-hug; it’s being splayed open for inspection. Indulgent and pleasurable, but still an inspection.


“What, you don’t like dicks once the underwear comes off?” Dean asks.


Cas shoots him that familiar look of determined exasperation. “You know how to ask nicely, Dean.”


“I’m just asking,” Dean says, all casual like his upper half isn’t cold and alone and fucking useless with Cas all the way down there. “I mean, if that’s your thing, more power to you, but seriously: not a girl. Not getting wet until you stick the lube in.”


Either Cas cocks his head to the side, or he simply lays it against Dean’s thigh. Either way, it’s one hell of a sight. “You need to relax to take a finger, let alone a cock.” With another one of those laser-focused scans up Dean’s body from dick to face, Cas narrows his eyes. Dean’s arousal can only tighten in response, but so does everything else.


“...This isn’t helping,” Cas realizes. “I’m making you more nervous.”


“Look, just—just come up here, okay?”


Cas doesn’t so much rise to his feet as push himself from floor to bed, climbing in directly on top of Dean. The more Dean moves back to give Cas space to settle, the more Cas follows, body as intent as his eyes.


Naturally, Dean has to flip them, and Cas goes down like someone who never wrestled in high school. After just one startled second, Cas pushes back, not with his hands, but with his hips. They exchange grapples and gropes, Dean’s dick riding along Cas’ thigh or against his boxers. Finally, fingers entwined, hands pinned to the bed on either side of Cas’ head, Dean gives a particularly slow thrust against Cas’ semi.


“Not disagreeing on the bulge thing being hot or anything, but you gonna keep those on all night?” Dean asks, aiming for coy, probably coming out desperate and whiny. There’s no fucking reason to go all clingy: yeah, Cas might not be going directly for Dean’s ass, but Cas is still only an hour out from a blowjob. Cas still wants him. It’s fine. It’s fine.


Pinned under Dean, Cas looks up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and asks, “Did you get tested after Thanksgiving?”


Dean frowns. “Midterms was before.”


Cas knocks his foot against Dean’s shin. “Did you get tested after you slept with that man from Paradise?”


“Oh,” Dean says like an idiot. Because before Aaron, it was a bunch of chicks over the summer while Dean was fucking his way through denial, and Dean hadn’t even thought of getting tested. “Yeah, no. I was careful and all, but okay, putting a hold on the direct dick contact.”


Cas nods up at him thoughtfully, the play of his muscles broadcasting his intentions. Cas tries to roll him, so Dean shoves him back down just to prove he can, and the look on Cas’ face.


“Oh,” Dean says, floored in an entirely different way. “You like a little manhandling, huh.”


It’s not a question.


Cas wets his lips. “Maybe,” he rasps.


Dean shoves Cas’ hands up higher, up under the pillows and against the base of the headboard. His dick gets some good pressure against Cas’ stomach, and they let out matching groans. Cas’ arms flex as he strains to move, but he’s going about it the entirely wrong way, straining to lift directly up instead of pulling his arms down and in first. All the effort can’t budge Dean in the slightest, can only show off Cas’ arms instead.


At least, Dean thinks that’s the aim, Cas showing off how fucking gorgeous he is, but then Dean looks down, looks at Cas’ flushed face and deep dark eyes, and fuck. Fuck, Cas doesn’t give a shit what he looks like right now.


“I can hold you down so easy,” Dean takes a risk and says. “Shit, I could just rub one out on you, couldn’t I? Cover your chest in my jizz.”


Making yet another one of those deliberately ineffectual struggles, Cas tilts his head back, baring his throat. “You want to mark your territory, Dean?”


“Is that the deal with the twelve million thigh hickeys I got now?” Dean asks right back, and there’s not a hint of apology in the way Cas outright grins, beaming up at Dean with his eyes unfocused and peering into horny recollections. Dean gives both of them another one of those dragging thrusts, rubbing his dick all over hot skin. “That’s why, huh? Am I your territory, Castiel?”


“You are,” Cas answers immediately, no time for hesitation or thought, and he keeps trying to talk even as Dean keeps trying to kiss him. Things like “I want you.” Stuff like “Give yourself to me.” Romantic, poetic bullshit like “Even your skin knows you’re mine.”


Dean kisses him hard at that. Goes after his ears and sucks on his neck, leaving Cas’ mouth free for talking. Strokes Cas’ arms more than restrains them. Keeps grinding down against his stomach.


“I want you looking at it,” Cas tells him. As Dean shifts, one of Cas’ arms gets free and immediately winds up around Dean’s shoulders. “I want—later, don’t go, stay here—I want you looking. When the doubt comes. Pull down your pants, look at those marks, and jerk off knowing I want you to.”


“Oh, fuck,” Dean groans into Cas’ neck.


Cas strokes his back with both hands now. “Will do you that for me, Dean? Will you think about me down between your legs, sucking on your skin?” He presses one palm into the small of Dean’s back, anchoring them even as he rides the wave of Dean’s hard thrust.


Shit, but that’s good. Easily too good if Cas keeps talking. “You gotta fuck me before I lose it.”


“I can fuck you after you lose it,” Cas says with absolute confidence.


“No, I want,” Dean starts to say, and Cas says “Okay” with his hand sliding down to Dean’s ass, middle finger guided down the spine to crack and hole. Dean makes a noise, and Cas makes a better noise.


“This is better,” Cas tells him. “Much more relaxed.” Cas presses a kiss to his cheek like punctuation, or maybe a simple reward. “Maybe you should stay on top.”


“Like, ride you?”


Cas grunts in the affirmative before giving a hard squeeze to Dean’s ass. “Sit up. Kneeling across my lap.”


“Again with the kneeling,” Dean pretends to complain, already obeying.


Cas sits up under him and pulls Dean back down to straddle his lap. Wrapping an arm around him, so solid and present, Cas nips at his collarbones. “I can open you up from here, as long as your legs can hold out.”


“I can hold out,” Dean promises thoughtlessly, his knees on two different towels, Cas’ boxers a warm interruption of cotton between swaths of skin.


“Where’s the lube?”




They strain to grab it together, only just managing it without getting off each other.


“You’re on lube and condom duty,” Cas informs him, holding one hand in the space between them. “I’m about to be very slippery.”


“Cool.” Dean kisses him. Gotta pass the time while the lube warms up. A good chunk of time, with a tongue in his mouth and hands in his hair. Cas tweaks his nipple again, but when arousal is up, pain is down. His body’s singing only one song, and every sensation gets rewritten into the chorus.


“Let me finger you,” Cas growls against his mouth, and that’s pretty great too.


Dean shares the lube, a generous amount. He kneels higher as Cas reaches down between his legs, as Cas’ wrist befriends Dean’s dick and balls, as Cas’ big, slick finger starts to circle Dean’s hole. Making sure not to drop the lube, Dean wraps both arms around Cas’ shoulders, holding on as wide circles grow smaller, tighter, closer… only to widen back up after the slightest direct pressure.


“Faster,” Dean mutters against his own arm, telling himself he’s too turned on to be embarrassed. He’s got Cas breathing in his ear, got Cas’ heartbeat pounding against his own chest.


“You’ll get faster when you’re ready for it.”


Dean drops his head against his own arm, against the side of Cas’ head, and he holds on tight.


Slowly, Cas works those tight circles back out, the pad of his finger dragging around and around Dean’s hole from the center outward, stretching his rim without ever entering. The first time Cas moves Dean back, pushes Dean out of their tight embrace, Dean nearly loses his arousal to abrupt panic, but Cas asks for more lube and gives more kisses. Enough kisses for them to last through the next round of fingering.


Dean’s thighs shake. Lube drips down their insides, drips down onto Cas’ lap, onto the towels. His hole opens as his body trembles. One wide fingertip, hooking inside and teasing him wider. Dean’s twitching motion downwards is half-thrust, half-exhaustion. Kneeling has never been so hard.


Another round of refreshing the lube, and Cas asks for it in both hands now. One hand back down Dean’s front. The other, around Dean’s back, his ass. A second finger. Two fingers, one from each side. Two fingers, tugging him open in two directions, opening him so damn fast, and then the first finger really gets in there, gets to the point where Dean’s ass drags it in on its own, and that finger starts pressing against the right area.


“You’re there, just a little bit more, more up? Up, yeah, there, it, there, fuck, Cas, god.”


Pressing wet kisses against Dean’s clavicle, Cas rumbles a deep hum and explores that tiny territory. The finger farther back keeps working in there, too, tightening the stretch, deepening the push, and Dean’s fucking riding him now, can’t stop it.


“Slow down,” Cas orders, and he bites Dean when he disobeys. “Save that for my cock.”


“Then put it in me,” Dean shoots back, totally not breathy.


“Mm, no,” Castiel says, like he’s getting that big a kick out of having Dean writhing in his lap, skewered from front and back. Which, well, fair. Realizing the sight he must make, Dean gets one hell of a guilty kick out of it too. Lube dripping down his legs, pre-come leaking out his dick and onto Cas, Castiel’s hands leaving shiny slick trails everywhere they touch…


From behind, Castiel starts fitting another finger in. He does that pulling motion from either side and starts dipping inside from the middle, pressing the other two fingers in there tighter. Tighter against his rim. Tighter against that hot spot, against the pleasure zone of prostate play.


Dean holds on so damn tight. Presses his cheek to Cas’ temple. Presses into the mouth against the crook of his neck. Shoves down on top of wide thighs and into thick fingers. Thrusts against an increasingly slick stomach.


One palm on Dean’s ass, the other against Dean’s balls, Castiel keeps his hands in place. Dean twists and threatens and whines. Castiel gives him nothing but pressure, but pressure’s one hell of a thing. Filling him up so good, and then, oh, and then finally moving. Thrusting into Dean, but not all at once. Two fingers in, one out. One ramming back in, stuffing so full, and then the other two almost out. In while out, out while in, filling him and emptying him, all at once.


Porn comes back to smack Dean between the eyes, a mental library sorting itself down to a few highly relevant clips. In and out, both at the same time, both in and out of his ass, and Dean lets out a noise he’s never heard before, a moan that has nothing to do with his prostate or even Castiel’s beautiful fucking hands, and everything to do with the realization that this must be what double penetration feels like.


“Oh shit, oh shit, ” Dean groans into Castiel’s neck. He twitches his legs wider, straddling Castiel’s lap, straddling legs spread to make space for Castiel’s thrusting hand. They could, fuck, with a dildo. Hell, with a vibrator. Have Castiel bend him over, shove the toy in, and himself after. Get rhythmically fucked into oblivion. Have Dean clutching at the sheets the way he’s clutching at Castiel’s shoulders. “We gotta, Cas, Castiel, we gotta, I need, fuck, please, I-”


“Put the condom on me,” Castiel interrupts, his hands mercifully, tortuously slowing. “Sit up tall.”


With that, Castiel pulls out one hand, and then the other. Thighs shaking, Dean tries to obey, needs to push on Castiel’s shoulders to manage it, the lube impossibly still in one hand. With a lot of squirming and rocking, they get Castiel’s boxers down to his thighs. Dean tears the condom packet open, nearly sticks it on Castiel backwards, and course-corrects just in time. They roll it down and slick him up, Dean pressing demanding kisses against Castiel’s slack mouth all the while.


“On top, are you sure?” Castiel asks, but Dean has him. Dean has him, has Castiel under his hands and under his thighs and between his legs, has Castiel lining his dick up against where Dean’s gone empty. Castiel rubbing the head, back and forth. Castiel breaching him, entering as easy as falling in. Uniform and wide in a way fingers working together can never be.


Dean cries out.


Castiel clenches slippery fingers around Dean’s ass, but he can’t hold on tight enough for a good grip. “Dean?”


“That was good, that was good,” Dean promises, sinking down lower. As slow as he can, legs trembling. He swallows hard, pulls Castiel tight against him. He needs to hold on. If that dick had felt huge in his mouth, that’s nothing compared to the reality of it in his ass.


“If it starts to burn, stop,” Castiel orders. “Even if you like it.”


“No, I’m good.”


“It means we need more lube,” Castiel continues.


Dean shakes his head. Risks letting go of a shoulder to grip at the back of Castiel’s head. Tugs on Castiel’s hair. Gets eye contact, up close and personal, with the man whose dick is currently up his ass.


“I mean it,” Dean swears, breathless. “I’m good.”


Castiel’s expression alters, changing from stern concern to something wondrous and wonderful.


“You are,” Castiel agrees. “My good boy.”


Dean’s ass squeezes all on its own, and it’s that—not any of Dean’s many conscious attempts—it’s that which finally breaks Castiel’s control. Castiel who rocks up, his hips, his dick, he, pushing, pushing up, sliding in, he, “Castiel.”


Castiel strokes his back, a soothing motion set in fast forward by the demands of a baser need. Castiel’s hips and legs move under Dean in tiny, desperate thrusts, and that’s Dean, that’s Dean all the way down, Castiel all the way in, so fucking far in, he’s in. They clutch at each other, Dean’s thighs trying to close around Castiel’s waist, Castiel trying to hold all of Dean’s back from head to ass.


“Go slow,” Castiel urges, and Dean tries. His legs shake too hard to lift up more than an inch, but the inch itself must have gone and taken a mile, because that much distance is suddenly huge beyond reckoning. Somehow not understanding that this is amazing, Dean’s dick drunkenly flops against Cas’ stomach.


“I gotta, uh.” Letting go of Castiel’s shoulder with one hand, Dean sits down even harder on Castiel’s dick, fucking impales himself. He groans and fists his dick, and for all he’s leaking pre-come faster than ever, his dick has lost its fucking mind and decided to ignore the fact that Dean is fully turned on.


“We should change position,” Castiel says. He starts on it without Dean, planting his feet, getting his thighs up. Dean leans his ass against those, slides down against those. The fullness is amazing; having his wilting boner on display, less so.


“Swear I’m into it,” Dean promises in a hurry, pumping himself ever faster. Pre-come, pre-come everywhere, like Dean’s ass is stealing all of Castiel’s jizz and funneling it out on his behalf.


“I’m blocking your blood flow,” Castiel says, jarringly smug.


“What?” Dean lifts his eyes from his jerking hand—from his kiss-mottled thighs—to Castiel’s proud smirk.


“My cock is blocking the blood for your erection,” Castiel explains with way too pleased of a glint in his eyes. Putting his weight on his arms, Castiel leans back, displaying his dirtied chest. “Do you know what that means?”


Dean immediately refuses to admit how sexy a look arrogance is on Castiel. “Yeah, yeah, you’re huge, congrats.”


“Do you know what that means?” Castiel asks again. He gives another one of those rolling thrusts, and Dean moves with him, riding the impact instead of getting hit by it. God, maybe he should get hit with it. He tries for that, and the whole length of Castiel’s cock goes sliding through him like nothing else ever has. This is what getting fucked is like, and getting fucked is amazing.


“Dean?” Castiel prompts, the single syllable broken into many by exertion.


“Tell me, can’t think,” Dean admits.


“I get to fuck you.” Castiel punctuates the profanity with a motion even more obscene. “And while I fuck you-”


“Oh god,” Dean gasps, still working his half-wilted dick.


“-I’m not letting you come, Dean. While I fuck you-”




“-I own your orgasms. Don’t I?”


Dean nods frantically, head bobbing faster than even his leg muscles tremble. “Yes, yes, Castiel.”


“Who owns your orgasm, Dean?”


“You.” It’s practically a sob.


“And if you want them back, what do you do?” Castiel asks, clearly leading somewhere Dean’s overloaded brain can’t follow.


“Keep them,” Dean begs. “They’re yours, I’m, keep me, Castiel, please, fuck me, own me-”


Castiel drags Dean forward, hauls him into a kiss. The angle’s wrong, too far, stretched long instead of wide, and Castiel’s dick falls out of his ass. Dean whines in protest, in apology.


“Put it back, put it in, Cas, you gotta, c’mon,” Dean pleads, reaching around and getting nowhere, his legs giving up on him.


“On your back,” Castiel orders, and he pours Dean over. “Put a pillow under your ass.”


Somehow, Dean manages to get the pillow under both his ass and the lube-wet towel. Castiel takes the tiny respite to finally kick his boxers all the way off. He comes back to Dean immediately after, crawling over him, caging Dean down against the bed, trapping him, owning him like it’s important Dean be owned, be kept.


Holding himself up on one arm, Castiel pushes more lube up Dean’s ass. The fucker grins at Dean’s gasp, at the way Dean’s legs clench around him at the cooler slickness. Dean gets his own back mere seconds later, clenching down as Castiel pushes back in.


The sound Castiel makes.


The sounds Jimmy made.


They’re all the same.


They’re right here, and real, and made for Dean.


“Fuck me, c’mon, I’m right here, what are you- yeah, god, yeah.


The rhythm drags low, pulling through Dean in a sharp counterpoint to earlier. Castiel remains above him, not against him. Dean can’t clutch at him from here, not with his arms. If Dean could fold in half to get Castiel closer, to have their torsos rubbing together again, his own dick against Castiel, fuck, he’d take up yoga to get that.


Castiel fucks into him with a slack mouth and barely open eyes, but he stares at Dean as if seeing a dream. He grabs at Dean’s dick too, follows the motion of Dean’s hand until the need for balance overwhelms him. Even the short break and change of position have Dean plumping back up, or maybe he’s just getting used to it. Maybe all he needs is to be fucked and fucked and fucked again, until his dick learns to share the attention.


He tells that to Castiel, and Castiel starts ramming into him, driving him farther and farther up the bed, until Castiel kneel-walks onto the ass-propping pillow and they have to stop again to reposition. Dean groans at the loss of that cock again, groans absolutely shamelessly because there is no shame. There is Castiel, frustrated in his need, blatant in his desire, Castiel’s attentiveness turned to determination, and it’s Dean’s, it’s all for Dean.


“I want it harder,” Dean tells him, actively feeling himself fail to be embarrassed. The shame’s gone, the embarrassment’s vanished; they’re both off somewhere, wherever Castiel banished Dean’s uncertainty to. “What’s the best position for hard?”


“Turn over,” Castiel orders, and Dean turns over. He presses his ass up against Castiel’s hands and then against Castiel’s dick and then around Castiel’s dick. They’re fucking, harder, harder, stopping for more lube, and harder again. Dean’s hands climb from the bed to the headboard. His dick waves, bouncing between his thighs and stomach as Castiel drives into him.


Castiel’s hands join Dean’s on the bedframe, Castiel’s hands cover his. Castiel sucks hard kisses against Dean’s shoulder blades, his balls slapping up behind Dean’s, so stupidly hot. Their skin, the friction, the sensation beneath, between, so hot. Not even adding lube can slow them down for long now, and Dean starts to get that strange inner tightness that has nothing to do with his dick.


Fuck,” he cries out, or something like that. Castiel’s dick gets huge in his ass, pulsing, except it’s Dean’s ass, he’s the one doing it, he’s coming around Castiel with his dick straining to keep up, his dick straining to get up. Which means, holy shit, he realizes as he comes down, as Castiel groans against his back, it means Dean’s got another orgasm left in him.


“I’m close,” Castiel gasps against Dean’s skin. “Do you want me to, I could, we, turn over?”


“What? Wha- Yeah.”


Castiel pulls out, Dean twists around and sinks down, but instead of yanking off the condom and coming all over Dean’s chest, Cas sinks down too. He spreads Dean’s legs like the putty they are, shoves back in, and goes to town for all of five seconds before his eyes, locked on Dean’s face, finally have to shut.


Hands clamped on Dean’s hips, cock buried in Dean’s ass, head thrown back, Castiel comes inside him.


Dean squeezes his ass for all he’s worth. Clenches, pulls with it, makes it as good and tight as he can, as hard as he can, watching enraptured as each of Castiel’s final thrusts punches a noise of out Castiel’s own chest.


Face shining with sweat, stomach shining with pre-come and dripped lube, Castiel pulls out before collapsing onto Dean. Not for kisses of the mouth, but the dubious pillow of Dean’s chest. Even with his dick poking Cas in the abs, Dean holds Castiel in place, gets hands in his damp hair.


After a wait Dean’s dick measures as an hour and his heart claims as a second, Castiel lifts his head and says, “Condom.”


A bewildering combination of sated, lust-drunk, and frustrated, Dean snickers incredulously. “Dude, it’s on your own dick, you can take it off yourself.”


Cas shakes his head. “New one. Where?” He looks around, but Dean just looks at him, the flush of his cheeks and lips and chest. “There, grab one and wear it.”


Dean blinks, but he’s not the kind of fool to turn down a blowjob from a beautiful man who claims to love giving them. He sits up a little stiffly while he’s about it, though, moving the ass-propping pillow back up against the headboard again, because he’s also not the kind of idiot who doesn’t watch his own blowjob.


Castiel is clearly of the same opinion about watching. Having tied off and discarded his own, Castiel’s eyes follow the condom’s path intently, and then he cozies on down to lie between Dean’s legs. “Should I draw it out or finish you off?” Castiel asks almost lazily, one hand pumping Dean through the condom.


“Finish,” Dean answers emphatically.


Castiel grins but quickly eases back on the teeth. His first kiss to Dean’s dick is all lips, an acclimatizing kind of pressure. He escalates quickly, the intensity of his mouth at odds with the slackness of his body, draped as he is across Dean’s bed in a post-coital slump.


Eyes closed, face relaxed, he sucks on Dean as if for his own benefit, but not the way people do in porn. Those actors pretend they’ve got a g-spot down the throat. They act like the push and pull of a dick in their mouth is as pleasurable against the lips as it is against a pussy or, as Dean now knows, a rim. They suck like it could satisfy their own need to come.


Cas, though. There’s nothing hurried about this, nothing rushed, only relentless. Cas sucks him like a comfort item. Like he’s tired and sated but still wants to play, and is therefore delighted and amused to do shit to Dean with his mouth. Cas blows him like he could do this in his sleep. Like Cas is prepared to do this in his sleep, willing to out-stubborn any dick in order to satisfy his pride.


Tilting his head, pressing the head of Dean’s dick up against the inside of his cheek, Castiel looks up at him, so calm, so pleased. Dean fights his own hips still, and Castiel’s lips stretch around him in a busy smile. Castiel slides a finger back up inside Dean’s sore ass, squelching lube and curling Dean’s toes.


Crooking his finger inside Dean, he swirls his tongue and bobs his head down. He does it again and again, curling his finger harder each time, beckoning orgasm closer and closer. It hurts in there, burns from overuse, and it’s that realization, that split second of taking stock of his own body, this is what does Dean in.


One arm a bar across Dean’s stomach, Cas goes down deep for him. Stays there with a brief choking sound that Dean can’t do anything about, his body locking up under Castiel’s commands, under his mouth, around his fingers.


Dean’s head thunks back against the headboard as the fireworks shake themselves out of his skin. Exhaustion grabs him by the feet and pulls him down, like sinking through a floor of pillows. Castiel pulls Dean down, too, gets him lying in bed. Both of them lying in bed, sweaty and breathing heavy on their damp towels.


Clean-up is a sluggish affair. Cas somehow does the majority of cleaning their bodies without getting out of bed, using the least gross towel. Dean gets up, ostensibly to chuck the condoms out, actually to see whether he can still stand. He checks his range of motion putting his boxer briefs back on, and he gets a lazy grin out of Cas by briefly modeling for him on the way back to bed.


They fall into each other. Dean pulls the sheets up over them. Cas cuddles close, encouraging Dean to do the same, so Dean climbs on top of him. He settles down low, his head beneath Castiel’s chin. Soft and warm, Castiel’s bare dick serves as an absolute distraction against Dean’s stomach, but somehow a relaxing one. 


Dean lies there. Lower half between Cas’ legs, the last of the lube slowly leaking out his ass and into his underwear. His cheek against Cas’ breastbone, his hands framing Cas’ ribs. Cas’ chest lifts and lowers him with their breathing. Cas tucks the blankets in around the back of Dean’s head. He pets Dean’s hair.


Out of habit, Dean gropes around for words… but he doesn’t need to.


There’s no more next minute to watch out for. No timer.


No library signs saying they can’t talk either.


Nothing forbidden, nothing mandatory. Only options.


Dean exhales long and slow. He closes his eyes. Listening. Breathing. That’s all he has to do.


He falls asleep, or something close to it. A couple times, he opens his eyes and they’ve moved around a little. Cas pressed up along his back, one arm around Dean’s chest, one leg slung over Dean’s hip. Cas on top of him, essentially faceplanted on the pillow.


Until Cas actually tries to move somewhere beyond the bed, Dean simply drifts. When that motion finally comes, Dean tightens his arm, because somehow they’ve switched around for Dean to be the big spoon.


“Where y’ goin’,” Dean grumbles against Cas’ back, not bothering to open his eyes.


“I’m grabbing something.”


“Nope,” Dean says, holding fast. “Stayin’ here.”


Cas makes a noise like an audible eye-roll but only strains away just a little before settling back down.


“Ha,” Dean says in triumph.


“No, I got it.”


Dean cracks an eye open, but Castiel’s nape tells him nothing, besides that Cas is maybe a week or two removed from his last haircut. With an aggrieved sigh and a sore ass, Dean props himself up on one arm to look over Cas’ shoulder at what he’s holding.


There’s no way Cas misses the way Dean freezes. No way in hell.


But instead of mockery, Dean gets an amazed little smile, directed back at him.


“You kept it,” Cas says, holding the stupid little End of Semester card he’d made for Dean.


“Shut up.”


“You kept it,” Cas repeats, grinning wider.


“No, seriously, shut up.”


Cas shakes his head. “No. I can talk to you as much as I want now.”


Dean ducks down, ineffectually trying to hide his face behind Cas while Cas rolls over. “Not if I fucking strangle you,” Dean threatens very seriously.


“I’m glad we have breathplay in common,” Cas answers, at least outwardly sincere.


Dean gapes long enough to know he’s lost the argument, but when he says “Put the card back,” Cas puts the card back. Cas even takes care to stand it up properly.


“...Thanks,” Dean says.


Cas frowns a little as he settles back into what can only be deemed a snuggle. “For what?” he asks, visibly confused at Dean’s confusion, like needling Dean where he’s vulnerable was never an option.


Dean shrugs with the shoulder he’s not lying on and puts on a smirk. “You gonna adjust my grade now?”


“That would be unethical,” Cas deadpans.




“You like my ass.”


“Lemme check,” Dean says, and he channels that shaky feeling in his chest into a bit of a grope. “Yeah, it’s a pretty good ass.”


Cas reciprocates the reach, keeping a light touch over Dean’s boxer briefs. “How are you feeling?”


Like he took the worst shit of his life but would totally do it again. “I mean, it hurts, but…”


Looking at him gently, his face mere inches away, Cas waits for Dean to finish a sentence he doesn’t have the words for.


“...I liked it,” Dean says lamely.


Cas smiles like poetry. Like a sunrise through a rainy morning, like a single flower unfurling in a yard of weeds or some shit. He puts the flutters back into Dean’s stomach, all of them, the jingle-jangle nerves of liking someone too much, and Cas doesn’t even know he’s doing it.


“I’m glad,” Cas murmurs, pulling Dean in with a hand on the small of his back, pressing himself in the rest of the way. Cas uses Dean’s arm as a pillow and folds his own arm between them, touching Dean’s chest with the back of his hand. “I’ve seldom found the preparation and aftermath worth it, personally.” Eyes closed, he presses his forehead to Dean’s. Their lips nearly touch as Cas whispers, “I’m glad I didn’t disappoint.”


Dean snorts at the idea. “Dude, worst case scenario, you talk me off. You don’t gotta worry there.”


Incrementally, so slightly it would be imperceptible if they weren’t so closely tangled together, Cas relaxes. “I suppose you’re right.”


Stroking Cas’ back, looking at the lightened lines in his forehead and around his eyes, Dean shouldn’t have to ask. He shouldn’t.


“So, uh,” Dean says. “You, how’re you doin’?”


“Happy,” Cas murmurs, low and warm. He tightens his arm around Dean. “We need to shower, but I don’t want to get up.”


“It’s a shower tub thing. Big enough for two to stand.”


Eyes closed, Cas hums but still throws a leg over Dean’s thigh.


“Should do something about dinner, too,” Dean adds.


Cas groans. “No more cooking.”


“Hell no. I meant, like, order something. Get a couple pizzas or something we can reheat as we go.”






Cas presses his smile to Dean’s lips. Dean shifts his own grin into kisses, and the wet sound of a languid make-out session takes over inside his head. The background noises of the apartment fade away. Humming appliances, passing traffic, all of it. There’s nothing but warm, shifting blankets; a hot, pressing body; and a mouth determined to adore his.


And then something thumps from below.


Dean pulls back the full three inches his new octopus of a bedpartner allows him.


Cas frowns up at him, Dean frowns back, and more thumps follow. Not the sound of something falling in the garage downstairs, no. This is much more off to the side, and rising. This is footsteps coming up the stairs, heavy ones. They sure as hell ain’t Bobby’s, and Bobby’s the only one with a key.


“Dean?” Cas whispers, but Dean’s already sliding across the bed to climb out the other side. The apartment front door audibly opens. “Dean.”


Faced with the option of his bathrobe hanging on the back of the door or grabbing a book—defense or weapon—Dean grabs a hardcover off his dresser. He whips open his bedroom door, aims, and throws in one motion—and nearly decks his asshole brother with it.


“What the fuck?” Sam yells, still bundled up in his Californian excuse for a winter jacket, the strap of a backpack over one shoulder.


“What the fuck!” Dean yells back.


“Should I call the police?” Cas calls from back in the bedroom, rifling naked through his own jeans.


“No!” Sam and Dean answer in unison.


“Sammy, what the fuck?” Dean restates, pulling his bedroom door mostly closed behind him.


“Dude, where are your clothes?” Sam yells like Dean's boxers don't count.


“Your flight’s tomorrow! You’re not supposed to be here!”


“Neither are you,” Sam shoots back, half-shielding his eyes. “You said the pie thing was at his place. Your car’s not even parked outside.”


“I’m parked in the garage, dumbass.” And the penny drops, not that it had much of a chance of floating away unscathed by gravity. Eyes narrowed, Dean points at Sam. “What’s in the backpack?”


“What?” Sam asks, face going lawyer blank.


Dean’s bedroom door opens, and Dean glances over his shoulder to be rewarded with the fantastic sight of Cas wearing his bathrobe. Fucking score .


“This is Sammy?” Cas asks.


“Yep,” Dean says the same second Sam corrects, “Sam.”


“Hello,” Cas says in the tone of voice most people use while meeting Sam, a timbre that translates any sentence into a poleaxed You are very tall.


“Hi, uh, Cas,” Sam says, turning red from so much more than the cold outside.


“What’s in the backpack?” Dean demands.


“Uh, my stuff?” Sam answers with the poise of a lawyer and the tone of a little brother.


Thing is, Sam’s not the only one who can lawyer. “Bobby gave you his key, so you left your shit with him. You fucking checked to make sure my car wasn’t here. What’s in the goddamn bag?”


With a full-body groan, Sam unslings the bag from his shoulder and tosses it across the narrow space of Dean’s living room. Dean leans to catch it, pulls something, and is kept upright through his swearing by his own personal Castiel, Sexy Bathrobe Edition (TM).


“You okay?” Sam asks, making the mistake of coming closer. Apparently, there’s a limit to how far the scents of freshly baked pie can mask the reek of sex. Or maybe it’s noticing the hickeys on Dean’s thighs that has Sam’s nose wrinkling. Serves the fucker right either way.


“Fine,” Dean grunts, definitely needing to sit down. Carefully. And not in front of Sam. He pushes through and unzips the bag. The first thing he pulls out is a big folded square of fabric, still sealed in plastic. “What the hell?” Pink, purple, and blue: not exactly Dean’s colors.


“It’s your flag,” Cas says, a warm rumble over Dean’s shoulder.


“Thought that was this one,” Dean says, numbly pulling out the next sealed fabric piece, this one rainbow.


“There’s a bi-specific one,” Cas explains.


Dean looks up at Sam.


Hands in the pocket of his coat, Sam shrugs.


Under the flags, there are fucking rainbow streamers. Under those, there’s the kind of horrifying crap Dean can only assume Sam got by mugging a bachelorette party: a bag of penis candy and a plastic dick necklace.


While Dean rifles through, Cas asks Sam, “Did you come early just to set this up? Changing your flight this close to Christmas must have been next to impossible.”


“I was already coming early,” Sam says, and Dean stops looking through the bag.




With another one of those It’s Not A Big Deal shrugs, Sam says, “Thanksgiving ended pretty badly, so I changed my flight then. Still sucked, but it was doable.”


“And you got all of this since Thursday night?” Cas asks.


“Yeah,” Sam says, sounding surprised. “How do you know that?” He looks between the two of them and answers himself. “Dean came out to you first, huh.”


“I am an openly gay gender studies professor,” Cas explains.


Sam says “Wait,” no doubt about to ask about the professor thing, but that’s when Dean gets to the bottom of the bag.


“I fucking knew it!” Dean brandishes the jar of rainbow glitter at Sam. “You were gonna glitter-bomb me!”


“You can use glitter for a lot of things,” Sam says with his stupid, lying face.


“This was going in a bucket over my door,” Dean accuses, pointing at the doorway Cas still stands in as Dean engineers the obvious prank out of the supplies. “All this crap was going in my room so I wouldn’t suspect anything until the glitter came down.”


“That’s pure conjecture,” Sam says.


Cas clears his throat. “I think I’ll just… shower. Unless I should head out.”


“What? No.” Dean grabs him by one terrycloth sleeve. “We’re getting food delivered.”


“I can go,” Sam says, scratching the side of his neck. “Not exactly the way I meant to surprise you.”


“No shit,” Dean says, not giving the bag back.


“Dean,” Cas says, and they look at each other.


After a second of enduring that steady gaze, Dean sighs. Cas faintly smiles, squeezes his shoulder, and abandons Dean for a shower.


“Sammy, look, hold on a sec,” Dean says as Cas goes.


“Dude, I know you’re about to go bang in the shower, I really don’t need to be here,” Sam says, zipping his coat back up.


“Just stay put so I can put on some pants.”


Sam actually cracks a grin. “Dean, we’re good. Seriously.”


“You want your crap back, sit down a minute.”


“It’s your crap now,” Sam says, but he sits on the couch. He’s still there when Dean reemerges from his bedroom, dressed in yesterday’s jeans and fresh top layers. Sam’s got the book Dean threw at him, one of the books from his classes. Damn thing opened mid-throw and changed trajectory. Probably for the best, but still on the embarrassing side.


“So what’s up?” Sam asks, shutting the book. Everything in his face and posture declares that he is Fine With It and absolutely determined to stay that way.


“This isn’t about Cas,” Dean starts, trying to pull his attention away from the sound of running water. He sits down on the coffee table, the better to face Sam. Not that sitting on a wooden surface is a particularly smart idea right now, but he succeeds without wincing. He could grab the abandoned pillow, still under the coffee table, but drawing attention to both the cushion and Dean's sore ass is hardly a smart course of action.


Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, Sam nods along. “No, I know. It’s not like one guy came out of nowhere and changed your sexuality for you. I got it.”


Dean holds up a hand.


Sam frowns a little, just around the edges. Like Sam would be more frustrated with Dean’s refusal to go along with whatever prepared scenario Sam already thought out for them, if Sam weren’t also trying to be supportive.


“I hate school,” Dean says.


Sam blinks.


“I’ve tried to like it,” Dean continues, “but I’m not gonna. It’s like sitting through mandatory training videos every fucking day with a bunch of kids half my age who still think getting drunk counts as getting wild and crazy.”


“I, what?” Sam says.


“I’m still doing it,” Dean adds. “Bobby’s right: there’s a lot of places that’ll want to see me with some kind of degree if I’m running the family business like, well. A business. So I should get that. Get more connections with that alumni network, see where that goes, all that. But it’s crap and I hate it, and I’m done pretending.”


A long, slow moment passes. Dean’s heart rattles silently in his throat as Sam studies his face in clear confusion.


“Do you need more help?” Sam asks at last.


“Dude, I literally have a professor for a study buddy.”


“Yeah, but not in your area. Maybe-”


Sam,” Dean interrupts. “I didn’t fucking say it was too hard. It’s… It’s not. I can do it. I’m doing it, it’s getting done. But I don’t like it. Okay?”


Sam frowns at him like, well. Like he was supposed to when Dean told him he was bi. “But if you’re good at it-”


“I’m good at pie,” Dean says, pointing to the half dozen examples of his handiwork still sitting on the cooling rack. “I am really, really good at pie, but you remember that pumpkin caramel bullshit I made for Thanksgiving?”


“Yeah, that was kinda nasty,” Sam agrees, still frowning, now frowning between Dean and the kitchenette.


“It came out fine. Bobby loved the shit out of it. But I don’t want caramel in my pumpkin, you get it? I’m just a pumpkin guy. And look, if caramel’s what we need for this to work, I’ll go and fucking make the caramel, but I’m not gonna keep pretending to be happy about it.”


Sam takes a moment to mull that over. He might be past the protest stage and into analysis, which means Dean ought to let him stew until Sam reaches the problem-solving stage.


“You get me?” Dean asks, just to be sure.


“Do you want to quit?” Sam asks.


“I want to get it done,” Dean says.


“Did you even want to start?” Sam continues, now with a growing note of betrayal. “Dean, you could have said something.”


“I’m saying it now. I told you, I’m gonna finish it, I wouldn’t waste all that money like that.”


Sam outright stares. “You think this is about the money?”


“This is employee training, Sam, it’s literally a business expense. How is that not about the money?”


Slowly, Sam leans back on the couch. He folds his arms and tilts his head and looks at Dean like he’s seeing a stranger. A person he’s sure he doesn’t know, instead of an assumption of a brother. As if to underscore his silence, the shower shuts off.


“Huh,” Sam says.


“What?” Dean dares to ask.


“I dunno,” Sam says, clearly meaning it. “I guess I just thought we were on the same page or something.”


“Yeah...” Dean looks away, staring through his own kitchen counters. “I wanted to be, y’know?”


“Yeah,” Sam says.


Dean looks at him.


“No, really,” Sam says. “You ever feel like we just don’t, I don’t know. Connect? Anymore?”


“Yeah.” His voice comes out too rough. He clears his throat and tries a second, even rougher “Yeah.”


Sam lets out this awkward little laugh. “I mean, I used to want to be you, but I feel like once I figured out who I am instead...” He shrugs. “Just didn’t click anymore.”


“You used to want to be me?” Dean asks, because there’s no way he heard that right.


Another one of those awkward laughs comes out of Sam, stronger this time. “Uh, yeah? Why do you think I spent so long trying to care about cars?”


They both start to grin, and then they just stare at each other.


“Oh,” Sam says.


“Huh,” Dean agrees.


From Dean’s bedroom come the muffled noises of Cas getting dressed. Quick shower, but then again, Dean wasn’t there to stretch it out for him.


“So, uh, good news,” Sam says. “You don’t have to pick me up from the airport tomorrow. So if you needed to sleep in or something…”


“Pretty much takes a forklift to get Cas out of bed in the morning, so, yeah, sleeping in would be good.”


Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “You sure you only asked him out today?”


“Friday,” Dean says with a shrug. “Got tired of waiting.”


“Well, uh. Congrats,” Sam says.




They listen to Cas finish dressing. It’s more or less complete silence as Cas cracks open Dean’s bedroom door.


“Hey,” Sam says, lifting a hand in an awkward wave.


“Hello,” Cas says.


Dean twists around to look at him. At wet hair and clinging jeans and one of Dean’s sweatshirts stretching across his shoulders. Damn. Congrats is right.


“Is Sam staying for pizza?” Cas asks.


Dean twists to look back at Sam. “Sammy? Beer, pizza? Watching whatever on TV? Unless you got plans with Bobby.”


Sam looks between the two of them before nodding. “No plans involving food.”


“Awesome.” Dean forces himself to stand without showing pain, but he’s a little stiff as he walks back to Cas, even more bow-legged than usual. “Grabbing my phone,” he says, ‘cause Cas seems to think Dean’s coming in for a hug.


“Of course,” Cas says, only barely making room. His hand snags on Dean’s hip, trailing there just out of Sam’s line of sight.


Dean grabs his phone off his bedside table. Listening to Cas getting settled in the living room, he moves the card back, standing it up just the way he likes it. As he dials his usual pizza place, the only one that’s figured out how to deliver to the garage’s side door, maybe he eavesdrops, too.


Even with the TV turned on to cover up their conversation, he hears something like Sam furtively saying, “Did you know he wanted to quit school?”


And hears Cas simply answer, “Yes.”


“And you’re okay with that? With your job and all.”


Dean misses the next bit as the pizza place picks up. By the time Dean’s ordered a large meatlover’s and a small veggie supreme, Cas is saying something like “Diversifying his schedule should help a little next semester, but it’s still his choice. I think he’ll perk up once his classes meet his ability level.”


“You talking about me?” Dean calls over, pocketing his phone and closing his bedroom door behind him. Sam definitely doesn’t need to see the state of the bed in there.


“You’re all we have in common,” Cas says bluntly. “I was saying you’re bored in class and insufficiently challenged.”


“That’s the excuse why I can’t take your classes now?” Dean teases with more panache than he truly feels, moving to sit down between his brother and his, his boyfriend? Are they boyfriends now? Or can Dean still make the argument for partners and pretend to be a cowboy? He sits down nice and careful, face turned toward Cas.


“No, because you’d sit in the front and mime blowjobs the entire time,” Cas answers.


Sam chokes his way into a laugh, a huge one that only gets worse when Dean flips them both off.


“I’m not that bad,” Dean says, daring to sling an arm around Cas’ shoulders.


“You would totally do that,” Sam says.


“You can shut up too.”


“Mm, no,” Cas says, making himself comfortable under Dean’s arm. “You’re too enjoyable to talk to.”


Sam makes a truly obnoxious “aww” noise.


Leaning against Cas, Dean kicks Sam on the ankle, but he’s grinning all the while. “Nah,” he says, shrugging his arm further around Cas. “Think I’m all talked out for now.”


“Seriously,” Sam says, passing Dean the remote. “That was more heart-to-heart than I usually get out of you in a decade.”


“That’s okay,” Cas says, and he smiles up at Dean in that soft, sincere way of his. “I’m willing to wait.”