Dean hasn’t been dwelling too much on Samuel and Crowley, he’s too dazed to think much beyond the fact the hulking great thing sharing the car with him is an empty facsimile of his brother, that it fed him to a vampire because it doesn’t have a soul and getting an inside man was expedient and logical, and fuck morals, fuck the collateral damage. His gut rolls queasily at what that collateral damage could have been, at how tempted he was as he pushed Lisa up against her bedroom wall, how he shoved Ben into the guard rail and how easy it might have been to just tip the kid over the top and down the stairwell before ripping into his neck. Dessert. It sends an icy chill of dread through him, and he raises the bottle in silent toast and drinks to Veritas, who made sure Lisa had enough brains about her to do what he should have had the guts to do himself after Sam – Sham – appeared out of the past.
He feels that familiar displacement of air whisper across the back of his neck, and he doesn’t turn around, just takes another swig of the liquor.
“You’re drinking excessively, Dean,” Castiel says, neutral as ever.
Dean rolls his eyes, huffs out morosely. “What the fuck do you care?”
There’s a brief silence before Castiel replies. “You need to be alert,” he offers carefully. “There’s no precedent for your brother. He might take risks with his safety. With your safety.”
Dean twists the dial from low up to simmer. “He already took risks with my safety, Cas, when he stood by and watched me get turned.” He glances over his shoulder, sees the angel standing stock still and impassive. “Where the fuck were you then?” he continues, a vicious snap. “No wait, don’t tell me. Looking for angelic weapons of mass destruction. If I’d had one of those at the time, would you have showed up then? And maybe snatched it out of my hand before flapping off back to the clouds and leaving me to that monster?”
Castiel’s eyes flick away and down, and he might even look guilty. “Dean—”
“Don’t Dean me, you sanctimonious sack of shit,” Dean barks aggressively, shooting to his feet and striding up close. “I needed help. Your help, since it turns out my brother is still the fucking antichrist because of you guys and your grand fucking Paradise-found plan. And where the hell do you get off teleporting out of here every time you’re needed, anyway?” He’s right up in Castiel’s face now, almost yelling. “My brother is soulless. Do you get it? He gave it up to save our asses, Cas, yours and mine, and the whole fucking planet. And it turns out Crowley has his soul, which means I’m on a demon’s payroll. So where the hell do you get off vanishing into thin air when he needs you to, when we, when I need you to… to. When I need… ”
He stops, and Castiel hasn’t moved, and his expression hasn’t shifted, he’s still just staring back at Dean, his eyes blank and unreadable. When he finally speaks, his tone is ill-tempered and acidic enough to set alarm bells ringing in the small part of Dean’s brain that’s still sober enough for rational thought.
“You need, Dean? What exactly is it that you need?”
Dean blinks at him for a moment, put on the spot by a question he wasn’t really expecting and can’t formulate an answer to because he has this odd feeling it might lead him to something he hasn’t quite managed to rationalize. He half turns, dips his head into his hand, and deflects. “Forget it, I don’t even know any more. And what the fuck is the point anyway? Profound bond my lily-white ass. A whole fucking year. You never came. What the fuck was that about? You got what you wanted and dumped me.” He glances back, huffs out in derision. “You coldhearted sonofabitch.”
As Dean finishes the sentence, the color drains from Castiel’s eyes and they turn slate-gray and steel-cold. He leans in closer and Dean stands his ground as Castiel speaks right into his ear, so close Dean can feel the angel’s breath mist his cheek and his lips ghost across the skin there.
“What the fuck is the point, anyway, Dean?” Castiel hisses. “A whole fucking year. You never called. What the fuck was that about? You got what you wanted and dumped me. You coldhearted sonofabitch.”
Dean swallows, double dares himself, and takes the low road. “Yeah, well you were busy playing Sheriff,” he baits childishly.
Castiel raises a fucking superior eyebrow. “And you were busy playing house.”
And this is just weird, and wrong, and Dean doesn’t know if it’s because he’s spent the last hour drowning his sorrows, but the atmosphere is suddenly charged with a tension he doesn’t really understand. He always has gone for the Tourette defense when he’s outmanned though, and he can’t change the habit of a lifetime, so he blurts it out, lacing it with a liberal spoonful of spite. “Jesus. Are you telling me you’ve been fucking sulking all this time?”
He rolls his eyes insolently, starts maneuvering past, shoves his shoulder in there moderately hard as he does, and his head suddenly spins as he is grabbed and swung around so violently his elbow makes a cracking sound. He slams up against the wall, and the motel room, everything around him, fades into the background as Castiel looms right into his no-fly zone.
The angel’s wrath is like a buzz of static Dean can feel on his own skin, and all over again it’s Cas telling him he should show him some fucking respect or he’ll throw him back in the Pit. And fuck, Dean doesn’t know if he’s about to get smited, smote, whatthefuckever. His blood is running icy cold, but his whole body is burning hot at the same time, and he’s more scared than he’s been since Alastair, but he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s afraid of what Castiel might do or afraid of what he might not do. The angel has his arm pinned against the wall, up above his head and out to the side, and his grip around Dean’s wrist is like iron. And there’s a long, stretched-out moment when Dean just stares back at Castiel, paralyzed, but then he takes the leap. He reaches up his other hand, and lays it on Castiel’s cheek, and he swallows, because his throat is thick and dry. “I’m calling you,” he whispers, suddenly giddy and dazed. “This is me calling you, Cas. Can you hear me?”
Castiel is frozen utterly still, but his eyes grow wide and flash something confused and devastated that Dean can’t quite decode. “Dean…” he murmurs, and he always has made Dean’s name sound like a caress.
And then Dean is engulfed, pressed into the wall and trapped there, and Castiel’s mouth is everywhere, soft and teasing, before his lips fit seamlessly to Dean’s so hard they bruise, his tongue forcing its way in, sweeping around. Then he’s gone, nipping his way down Dean’s jaw, teeth grazing the bone, sucking greedily at the skin of Dean’s neck. His thigh is pressed up against Dean’s crotch and it’s instinctive for Dean to rock his hips forward and grind down on it, or maybe he does it because he’s a little drunk, or maybe he does it because it’s Castiel. The friction sends sparks flying to both his brains, and it’s overwhelming, makes Dean feel faint, because it’s all shooting straight to his groin so fast he can feel his hands and feet cool down as the blood screeches to a halt, u-turns, and careers back in the other direction. His cock is screaming for mercy, uncomfortably hard, and how the fuck did that happen?, straining against his fly like it might chew its way out from inside his shorts as he moves his free hand around, buries it in Castiel’s hair, love your fucking hair, maybe even love you, pulls the angel in even closer, and rubs his chin on Castiel’s skull. It’s as much as he can do to summon up the presence of mind to remember his brother, who could walk in on this at any moment, and, “Cas,” he stutters out. “Sam. He’ll be… uh, fuck. Back. Any minute. He just—”
“Broke down,” Castiel licks out damply against Dean’s neck. “Your car just broke down, Dean. Seven miles from here. After taking a wrong turn. In an area with no cell phone coverage.”
“Universal soldier, he’s… fuck, Cas. He can run here, he’s stronger, faster, he—”
“Twisted his ankle in a ditch…”
“But he’ll get—”
“Wet. Soaked, in fact, if he doesn’t wait out the storm in the car.”
“It blew in from the east, suddenly and forcefully… it was a meteorological anomaly, Dean… Dean.”
And Castiel is on him again, swallowing his protests, pulling Dean’s bottom lip in between his teeth, and lapping at it for a few seconds before he thrusts his hips in abruptly, raising Dean up onto his toes. Dean can feel a rock-hard bulge pressed up against him, and his own cock twitches out to flirt with it shamelessly through his jeans, so that he sees stars, and hears his own heartbeat like a drumroll. He slams his head back against the wall, chokes out, “God,” and then Castiel has a hand pressed over his mouth, hard, like in the green room back then, and he can taste Castiel’s skin on the tip of his tongue.
“Don’t say our Father’s name while I’m doing this with you, Dean,” the angel breathes. “Or I will have to chastise you.”
Dean goggles at him, and Castiel moves his hand to Dean’s cheek, his face softening into such fondness that Dean can feel his own face split in a smile. “Where do you feel this, Dean?” Castiel murmurs. “Tell me where you feel this, how it feels…” He leans in again, more gentle now, rains featherlight kisses on Dean’s eyelids, lashes, cheeks, nose, chin, and rubs his stubbled jaw on Dean’s skin.
“Where do you think I feel it?” Dean gasps. “In my fucking pants, moron.”
Castiel’s tongue flicks in and out of Dean’s mouth as he speaks, leisurely passes in and around, tasting every part of him. Dean’s cock throbs needily, and he feels wrung out and used up already, has no clue where this even came from, is conscious only of wanting, wanting something he can’t even name, because he doesn’t understand it. “You’ve been holding out on me, you sly fucking dog,” he mumbles, and he parries back hectically with his own tongue. “Where did you learn to—”
“In here, Dean, it’s in here,” Castiel whispers, and he’s pulling Dean’s head down, pressing suddenly tender, chaste lips to his brow. “Sex lives in the brain, Dean. It’s more than just primal emotions and instinct.”
He kisses his way back down to that spot on Dean’s neck again, and his voice blows puffs of air against the wet trail his tongue leaves. His thumb eases its way into the corner of Dean’s mouth and Dean sucks on the pad of it as he spreads his legs wider, and all the while Castiel is moving his thigh, slight, circular movements that send heat scorching through Dean’s groin, and he’s speaking huskily into Dean’s neck.
“It’s bursts of electricity that light up regions of the upstairs brain, Dean, regions that control our most sophisticated forms of thought, that tell us how our bodies are feeling… tell me what this makes you feel.”
“Fuck. Fuck,” Dean manages to yelp out, as Castiel’s teeth dig so deep into his collarbone they might even draw blood. And then he feels Castiel laughing into his shoulder, feels the curl of the angel’s lips suddenly gentle and healing against the mark he just made, and it makes Dean feel weak, like his legs might buckle and he might slide down the wall if Castiel doesn’t keep holding him up. Castiel is smiling against my skin streaks right to his heart, and his chest aches with it as he realizes with an abrupt jolt of awareness that this was where it was always heading and he wasted it, threw it away. How is it I ever thought anything else could substitute for this?, he wonders, and, “Fuck, Cas,” he whispers. “Upstairs brain isn’t fucking working.”
And then Castiel’s face is right there again, and his eyes are all pupil, black like a demon’s, with only a faint ring of blue. “That’s the idea,” he rumbles, rubbing up against Dean. His eyelids flutter distractedly, his own face going lax and awestruck for a second, before he’s breathing words into Dean’s open, willing mouth. “But as I was saying… you make my upstairs brain feel angry, Dean. You make it feel helpless, and useless. And you frustrate me, and exasperate me, and irritate me, and infuriate me.” He walks his fingers up to the longer hair at the top of Dean’s head, grips it and knocks the back of Dean’s skull oh-so-gently against the wall. “Intensely,” he hisses, before his gaze goes liquid. “And you inspire me. And you make me want to be better than I am. For you.” His stare is steady, unblinking. “And now do you want to know how you make my downstairs brain feel, Dean?”
Shit, Dean can’t even find the word, can only remember it starts with y, and thank fucking God Castiel takes pity on him. “You make it feel hungry,” he purrs out seductively.
Dean’s voice comes out a few octaves higher up the scale than he expects. “Hungry?”
Castiel nods, and now it’s skirting fucking dangerous, it’s stop, now because it’s running out of control, and nothing will ever be the same again after this. But Christ, it’s grounding Dean like nothing has in a year, making him feel safe and secure for the first time since he woke up and found himself staring at his brother, and suddenly he understands what he wants, what the answer is.
“Hungry,” Castiel agrees. “Ravenous. Like it hasn’t eaten in centuries. And you make it feel like it wants to be inside you… make me feel like I want to be inside you. That’s how you make me feel. Now tell me, Dean. Tell me how you feel.”
Castiel leans in again, and his tongue dances against Dean’s, tags it and races away out of reach, darting around inside his mouth, agile, twisting, turning, so Dean can’t catch it with his own even though he chases after it. “You’re already inside me, Cas,” he mutters up against the angel’s lips. “Always have been, you stupid fucking idiot. Since day one. That’s how you make me feel. Fucking cocktease of the Lord.”
Castiel makes a muffled, satisfied, triumphant sound, and he lets Dean’s hand fall from where he had it trapped, reaches down for the hem of Dean’s tee and hauls it up and over his head with one sweep of his arm. He falls on his mark, plays his tongue over it, the edges still visible, the skin still faintly pink and puffy, and he tracks its boundary with kisses. All the time his hands are on Dean’s skin, restless, trailing up and down his sides, tracing each rib, tickling, kneading, clutching, pulling him even closer, starving, ravenous hands, because Castiel is hungry for this. Just the thought of it thrills Dean, and he finds he is clumsily tugging the trench down off his friend’s shoulders until Castiel snarls out impatiently, slapping his hand away.
Castiel shifts back fractionally, but his eyes still pin Dean to the wall. “Stay right there,” he rasps, and Dean nods dumbly, can’t even find the words to say he isn’t going anywhere until this is finished, whatever the fuck this is.
Castiel tears the trench off, throws it and steps back towards Dean, pulling the knot of his tie looser, and Dean’s hands reach up without conscious thought, fingers shaking and awkward on the buttons, until he gives up and pulls the shirt open so they skitter in all directions. He drags the cotton halfway down Castiel’s arms, and now they’re skin to skin, the hard, flat planes of Castiel’s chest warm against Dean’s as he kisses Dean so thoroughly Dean wonders if he might be trying to climb inside his mouth.
Dean starts running his hands up and down Castiel’s back, maps the curve of his shoulders, hard bone and muscle, the ridge of his spine, all the way down until his hands are grabbing a good handful of, fuck, angelic ass. He pulls Castiel in even tighter, wrapping one leg around the angel like the cockslut he just discovered he is, melting into him. He duels with Castiel’s tongue, and it’s all wet, hot, slippery perfection, and breathy gasps, and sounds that say nothing but mean everything, and he’s rubbing little Dean up against little Cas to get acquainted. The pressure catapults Dean into the stratosphere, tingling through every nerve ending and setting them alight, and he surges forward, flips them into reverse so he has Castiel pressed against the wall.
Castiel moans raggedly against Dean’s mouth, says his name, soft and frantic, and his eyes are closed, his cheeks pink. Dean sniggers right into the angel’s ear. “Not the big man now, Cas,” he breathes recklessly. “You’re so fucking whipped.”
He sinks to his knees, planting open-mouthed, sloppy kisses down his friend’s chest to his belly, bites into Castiel there and feels him shudder, feels Castiel’s hand playing over the short hair at his nape as he hikes along the happy trail. He’s unzipping Castiel now, easing the pants down, reaching in to wrap his hand around Castiel’s cock, slow, firm strokes like he uses on himself, coaxing it rigid, his thumb playing around the head, slicking through moist, pearly beads of pre-come there at the tip. “Up there in the clouds, pining away, when you could have had this,” he mocks gently, right up against the glans so that his voice hums across it, and Castiel squirms under him and lets out a sharp exhale. “You clueless fucking idiot.”
Dean hasn’t done this in years, doesn’t count what Alastair forced him into down in the Pit, but the johns he turned tricks for back in the day always told him he had cocksucking lips, and he damn well puts them to use now. He fastens them around the head, suckles it hard, trails his tongue across the tip, tastes salt there, flicks underneath to tease the frenulum before he swallows it whole. He feels it twitch against the back of his throat while he massages it with his tongue, seals a vacuum around it, moans against it, and from faraway he can hear Castiel making nonsense sounds of pleasure. He scrapes his teeth on the underside and jacks whatever he can’t fit in his mouth, palms his own aching hard-on through his jeans at the same time. He hears a strangled whine from above him, and then hands are either side of his face, forcing him to look up to where Castiel is staring down at him, looking puzzled, mystified, ecstatic, fucking wrecked with it.
Dean draws back slowly, so the head rests on his bottom lip, keeps his gaze fixed on blue. “You like me doing that,” he whispers. “I like doing it to you.”
He swirls his tongue around the tip again, relishes the silken smoothness, presses kisses there, probes the slit lazily, watches as Castiel’s jaw goes slack and his eyes glaze over. “You damn well come when I need you,” Dean breathes around it, before he deep-throats it again, and Castiel sags, loose and pliant, smacks one hand into the wall. Dean slurps his way back up and off, with an audible popping sound. “I don’t give a shit what you’re doing up there. Your kind started this mess. You owe me.”
With that, Dean is heaved up, twisted around so they’re back to where they were before, and Castiel’s breath is hitching as he kisses his way back to Dean’s mouth. He stops abruptly, licks his lips. “I can taste myself on your tongue,” he marvels faintly, and then he rests his forehead against Dean’s, gazes at him with huge, lust-fogged eyes, and smiles. “Whipped I may be, Dean, but I don’t owe you,” he says. “I own you. Never forget that. My mark isn’t just branded on your hide, it’s on your soul.” He reaches down, grinds the heel of his hand against Dean’s cock, and Dean hears himself bleat out a whimper that’s so fucking girly he knows he should be ashamed of himself, and then Castiel is unzipping him, grating out, “These, off. Now.”
It’s Castiel’s smiting voice, and Dean was always good at recognizing authority, so yes, fucking sir. His heart is racing, adrenaline sizzling through his veins as he toes off his boots obediently, slides his jeans and shorts down and kicks them away, and he feels the smooth, slick slide of Castiel’s cock against his. He reaches, frenzied, but Castiel snatches his arm up, the other one too, pins them both above his head, wrists held firm in one hand. And the angel is so fucking strong, and it’s the biggest turn-on Dean could ever imagine, this feeling of being pushed around, held down, manhandled. He’s let women tie him to the bed and take charge more than once but nothing compares to this feeling of being controlled by something that could turn him to dust if it wasn’t, Jesus, meandering clever fingers around his balls and up behind and—
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he squawks, because he suddenly remembers Castiel’s terrified expression at the whorehouse. But fuck that, because Castiel’s hand is playing about down there like he has a PhD in this and has spent every weekend since graduation writing learned fact-packed textbooks on how to turn Dean Winchester into a shivering, incoherent, inept fool who might just be a tad gay for his guardian angel. His fingers are exploring Dean, teasing, squeezing, fuck, watch the jewels, nudging just slightly there at the ring of muscle, unpleasant but hot-as-hell pressure, until Dean thinks he might scream with the want-this-right-fucking-now of it.
“I believe tab A goes into slot B,” Castiel says in his ear, and Dean almost laughs out loud at the memory of himself saying just that on his mission to get the angel laid. And right then Castiel pokes his tongue in there, and Dean thinks he might cry out with how scorching-searing-scalding hot it is to have an angel of the Lord’s tongue twirling around his ear drum.
The pressure is still there at his rim, more intent now. “Gonna need some, uh… Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.” Dean yelps as the questing finger goes knuckle deep, flops his forehead down onto Castiel’s shoulder. “L-lube,” he stammers, and it’s burning now, aching deeper, and Castiel is canting his head to kiss him through the sting of it, pressing in further until Dean pushes himself back, sucking in breath sharply as he does. “Bend it,” Dean hisses urgently. “Finger. Bend – other way! Fuck. The… the other way.”
And there it is, that white-hot detonation of rapture that blasts through the pain and has Dean making tiny, desperate, snuffling noises into Castiel’s shoulder. He can taste Castiel’s sweat, and he remembers somewhere in the back of his mind that his friend is a tough sonofabitch, so he sinks his teeth into the flesh there, tasting copper that makes him wonder if it might be like drinking demon blood in reverse. Castiel doesn’t even flinch, just croons softly into Dean’s ear in response, Enochian words Dean doesn’t understand but recognizes for the endearments they are, but still he is relentless, pumping his finger in and out as he opens Dean up, two fingers now, then three, rubbing insistently at that spot until Dean can’t control himself any longer. He gives into the sensations, the pleasure, the sheer bliss of it, sobbing out Castiel’s name as he shoots faster and harder than he has since he was a fourteen-year-old virgin hitting third base for the first time behind the gym at Omaha Northwest High School.
“I think we have lube now, Dean,” Castiel remarks dryly, and Dean doesn’t even have time to recover before the angel has his leg hooked up around his hip, and he’s sliding his cock through the mess Dean just made, blunt, slick hardness pressing in. The stuffed, full feeling is overwhelming, and Dean slams his head back against the wall again.
Castiel licks up the side of Dean’s neck as he nudges in, a millimeter at a time. “Do you need me to stop?” he whispers, and he’s still pushing. “I won’t do anything you don’t want…”
Dean can hear his own voice, shrill, babbling, barely recognizable. “No, fuck, no, don’t stop, keep – more, need more – God, Jesus fucking Christ, talk to me Cas, fuck. Say dirty things, for Christ’s sake, because – fuck. Are you in yet?”
Castiel is flexing his hips just barely, tiny rolling prods, and finally his belly is flush with Dean’s. “Tab A has found slot B, Dean,” he murmurs, as he bites at Dean’s neck again. “But no more blasphemy.”
Dean sags against him and Castiel holds him up, and Dean knows that if he just rocks himself forward and bears down, the head of Castiel’s cock is going to holy fucking Christ, because Castiel is thrusting, slow and calculated, and little Cas has zeroed in on the target like a heat-seeking intercontinental ballistic missile, and Dean’s insides are exploding again, shocky, euphoric bursts. He whimpers, “Holy fucking Christ,” and he’s vaguely aware of Castiel pulling his other leg up and around him. He wraps his thighs tight around the angel’s hips and holds on for dear life, because he’s just along for the ride now.
Castiel is moving faster now, and he pins Dean’s arms up and out, holds him suspended there while he drives in methodically. “I warned you, Dean,” he growls. “No more blasphemy.”
The angel pulls back, almost all the way out, and Dean feels an empty, desperate ache before Castiel rams back in. His eyes glint almost like he’s daring Dean to say it, and Dean is laughing around burning pain that’s so much pleasure he thinks he might die from it. He doesn’t break the angel’s stare. “Cas… holy fucking Chr—”
It’s all expanding in Dean’s groin, exponentially, and he thanks the actual Christ inside his head for a fast recovery time, because his own cock is swelling proudly erect again, rubbing its head up against Castiel’s belly like a friendly cat. “Holy fucking Chrysler building, Cas,” he pants. He leans forward and Castiel falls in to meet him, rewarding him with fervent, gentle kisses, smiling up against his lips.
“Since you mention it, Dean, I’m a masterpiece of Art Deco architecture,” Castiel says, and holy pillow talk, he’s using his fucking Batman voice as he flicks his tongue in to taunt Dean’s again. “A national historic landmark, in fact… one thousand forty seven feet tall, and my support structure…”
Dean mmmfs as he gets another brief but effective mouthful of angel tongue, stifles a yelp as Castiel pushes up sharply.
“Is solid steel, Dean.”
“Solid?” Dean echoes weakly, because that stroke opened up spaces where no man has boldly gone in his entire life. “Fuck. It is. I can f-f-feel that. Solid fucking steel, Cas, and… again, please, just – right there.” He can feel himself unraveling, aching, trembling around hard length. “It’s hard,” he croaks pathetically. “Hard as hell. Not rusty. At all. Not these skills… fucking mother of mercy, somebody help me…”
Castiel slides his hands up from Dean’s forearms, lays his palms flat against Dean’s, lacing their fingers together, and Dean can feel the wall surface abrading the notches of his spine as Castiel pushes him up against it. “Steel doesn’t rust, Dean,” he murmurs. “Neither does the brick cladding that makes me this hard.” He snaps his hips in again, and he’s curling his lips up. “That’s…” thrust “more…” thrust “than…” thrust “three million…” thrust “eight hundred…” thrust “thousand…” thrust “bricks, Dean…”
Castiel looks amused, and he’s fucking paying for that, Dean thinks, because what goes around comes around. “Rivets, did I mention my rivets?” he continues. “Almost four hundred thousand. I have eagles guarding my sixty-first floor, Dean…” thrust “And my crown…”
He pauses, lets go of Dean’s right hand and the arm flops down, dangling uselessly as Castiel works his fingers in between their bellies until he has a firm hold of Dean’s cock, up, twist around the head just like Dean did to him, and then down to the base, smooth sweat and come-soaked motion, so slow it’s already driving Dean crazy with need. “My crown is a cruciform groin vault.”
Dean knows his eyes widen, and Castiel nods, smiling wide now. “Yes, groin. Made up of seven terraced arches. Stainless steel cladding… ribbed…” snap-snap-snap of hips in swift succession “and riveted, in a sunburst pattern.”
Castiel stops smiling then, stills his hand on Dean’s cock, reaches back and presses hard and deliberately behind Dean’s balls, cutting off his orgasm at the pass. “Not yet,” he growls.
Dean hears himself make a panicked grunt of disbelief, and Castiel’s eyes flash with heat and hunger as he pushes up close and licks slow, deep, tongue-fucking thrusts in between Dean’s lips. “Don’t you want to hear about my most important architectural feature first, Dean?” he asks. His voice is dry-roasted, his eyes are glowing, the tip of his tongue is teasing his top lip, and the head of his cock is getting the fucking gold medal for prostate pounding and Dean is going to make the medal himself out of foil candy wrappers and string. Fuck, he’s building a podium and holding an awards ceremony, inviting foreign dignitaries, the fucking President, and Metallica are going to play the national fucking anthem while he hangs the medal around little Cas’s neck.
“Fuck… anything, Cas,” Dean groans, because he thinks tears might be welling in his eyes now as it all keeps building up just behind Castiel’s finger. He always laughed at old movies that cut to the champagne bottle overflowing, or the volcano erupting, or flowers bursting into bloom, but Chrysler, he’s about to cut to category-ten nuclear mushroom cloud of spurting climax at any second. “Tell me anything, just, I can’t… torture, it’s fucking torture… need to, please… Cas, let me… Chrysler, Cas. Fucking ChryslerChryslerChrysler—”
“My spire, Dean. My spire is one hundred eighty five feet long. Can you feel them? All one hundred eighty five feet?”
Castiel smiles, wide and white, and then he’s stroking Dean’s cock again, in time with his thrusts. And it’s starting low down in Dean’s belly, cinders sparking into wildfires that are going to burn whole neighborhoods to the ground, leaving hundreds homeless. Every single sperm left inside him is phoning the fire department right the fuck now, and Dean’s eyes drift closed on the cloudbusting high of it. Castiel is sliding in faster now, more erratic, his rhythm losing the mechanical precision of before, but his cock is still butting up against Dean’s prostate with unerring accuracy, and his own voice is stuttering against Dean’s shoulder. Dean floats his free hand up from his purple haze of pleasure, runs his fingers through Castiel’s hair, shivers and moans weakly as he crests and spills, clenching around Castiel, and his friend hammers in hard, once, twice, three times, before Dean feels a sloppy warmth pulse out inside him, and there’s less friction, and Castiel chokes out a low cry of garbled joy into his neck.
They freeze there for a minute or two, panting through the aftershocks in unison, and Dean sags, spent and exhausted. He winces as Castiel pulls out, feels himself being slid carefully down the wall to the floor. His ass is one humassive, dull, throbbing ache he’ll feel for days, and he shifts over slightly onto his right butt cheek to ease the pressure, wondering abstractedly if his soulless brother will notice if he snags one of the motel pillows to pad the driver’s seat.
Castiel is pulling his pants up, zipping his fly, and he lowers himself down. His hair is wild, bed hair, his cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkling, shirt torn half off and tie askew, hanging down his back.
“Gay sex is a good look for you,” Dean whispers, because he doesn’t have the energy to summon up his actual voice.
Castiel tilts his head, nods reflectively. “l’m whipped,” he confirms.
Dean yawns. “I’m owned. Say something in architecture.”
“Fenestration,” Castiel gravels back at him.
“You have a filthy fucking mouth, Cas,” Dean husks out wearily as his eyes drift closed. “And you’re a toppy bastard. I’m empty. I may never walk again. And I need a subscription to Architectural Digest magazine.”
“Consider it done,” the angel says placidly. “You do look tired, Dean. Worn out, in fact. Do you need assistance in getting to the bed?”
Dean cracks both eyelids, and Castiel is staring back, smug. “Fucking show-off,” Dean says. “You’re not that good.” Even so, he eyes himself critically, stark naked, teeth marks on his shoulders, red finger-shaped marks around his wrists that might just turn him on all over again, his lower belly sticky with semen, and his cock draped feebly across his thigh, out for the count even if it does give a heroic twitch at the thought of Castiel’s iron grip. “Where did any of that even come from?” he marvels.
“From day one, Dean,” Castiel says quietly. “From day one.” He sighs out, pinches the bridge of his nose, a very human gesture Dean knows the angel picked up from him, and it gives him a content feeling.
“I missed you,” Dean says suddenly, without even meaning to.
“And I you.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know, Dean.”
Dean swallows. “I needed this,” he says cautiously, and Castiel reaches out, grips his hand. He raises it to his lips, kisses Dean’s knuckles, and Dean shivers because the angel’s fingers and cock have just been up his ass but somehow this is so much more intimate.
“Dean, whatever happens…” Castiel pauses a beat. “Whatever happens, this, what we just did – is real. It has meaning for me.”
“For me too,” Dean races back, before he can talk himself out of it. “And when you say whatever happens, are you talking about regrettable things?”
Castiel doesn’t answer. They sit there, quiet, and Dean hears the rustle of fabric then, glances across to see Castiel reknotting his tie.
“So,” he offers. “Back to normal.”
Castiel shrugs. “I suppose so.” He narrows his eyes, rubs at his stubble, and Dean thinks of how it felt against his neck, wonders how it might feel against his cock.
“That said, tire pressure can be a tricky thing to master, Dean,” the angel muses then. “I mean… what are the odds that all four wheels on your car would deflate simultaneously, allowing it to sink several inches into the deep mud of the deserted track Sam turned onto by mistake?”
He slants his eyes at Dean, lifts his come-smeared hand to his mouth and runs the tip of his tongue across it experimentally. He curls his lips up in his usual half-smile at Dean’s tiny gasp, pushing up to stand. “I suggest we go much slower this time.”
Dean stares up, gulps dryly. “I’m going to need assistance getting to the bed, Cas.”