“Hey! Hey, you can’t be in here,” Dean calls to the inmate who waltzes into the clinic, smug superiority leading the way while he supports another inmate around the shoulders. Disdainful eyes meet Dean's and ignore his statement completely. He continues over to an open bed, moving slowly to accommodate the shuffling gait of his slouching companion. Dean blocks their way, putting himself physically between them and the bed.
“Move, boy,” the man growls.
“I said, you can’t be in here. You need to go back to the waiting room.” Dean stands with arms loose at his sides, ready and almost spoiling for a fight. He’d love a reason to put the cocky prick in his place.
Dr. Shurley comes running over in a froth, panic and anxiety bubbling over. Gently tugging at Dean’s arm to move him, he babbles, “Um, they can stay. It’s fine, it’s fine. Let them do whatever they want.”
Dean scowls at him in a narrow-eyed demand. “Why?”
Shurley leans in close. “That’s Krushnic.”
Dean just raises his brow, waiting for more information. The doctor mouths, “Russian mob.”
Dean rolls his eyes. Shurley had moved him out of the way enough to allow the asshole to set his burden down. When he rolls the other man onto the hospital bed, Dean sees the reason for their visit. Vivid red streaks across the white linen turn the hideous orange clothing into a mottled brown.
Pursing his lips, Dean pulls on a pair of nitrile gloves and shoves the smarmy dick out of his way. He lifts the prison-issued shirt up to see the wound. It’s difficult to see the damage through the ink covering his skin. A quick glance verifies that there is very little skin on the man’s abdomen not covered in tattoos. He fights the itch to run his fingers over the lines. Focus, Dean. Stab wound.
As he works, he feels the heated glare from directly behind him. The tension is distracting, but he won’t give the satisfaction of responding to it. He hears muttered words in a language that must be Russian, based on the nattering of Dr. Shurley. Resolutely, he ignores it.
“Dovol’no!” The first word from his patient is a growling, rumbling command that makes Dean’s skin shiver into goose bumps. His eyes jump up to look at him. Thankfully, the man’s focus is on his friend; the irritated look is not for him. Dean is disgusted by that thought. Why the fuck should he care how this man looks at him? He’s an inmate, same as Dean. Flinching at that truth, Dean sets his jaw. He’s been locked up for less than two weeks and it still rankles whenever he remembers.
“Pust' prekrasnyy doktor rabotayet v mire.” The words don’t mean anything to Dean, but the tone does. Innuendo and desire, thick and syrupy, drip from every rounded syllable. He can feel it wrapping around his spine and grabbing hold. Red flags wave in his mind, refusing to be ignored. Continuing his repair, Dean allows his eyes to look up again. Searing blue flames meet and hold him - more intense, more dangerous than real fire.
He returns his attention to his work, glad for the reasonable excuse to break the circuit. Dean takes in small details of his patient with furtive glances. Shockingly black hair, tan skin, wide lips, too pink for such a strong face. And blue. Eyes so clear and blue that Dean comes back to them over and over again, just to be sure that they are real.
‘What the ever-loving hell, Winchester,’ he chastises himself. He’s never looked at another man with any kind of interest other than friend or enemy. Suddenly, he can’t keep his eyes to himself?
“I’m not a doctor,” Dean says quietly.
“You speak Russian?” his patient is happily surprised. Dean wishes he could say yes to keep that pleased look on his face.
“No,” he admits, “but the word doctor jumped out at me. I’m not. I’m a combat medic. Or, I was.”
Scrutiny is the man’s only response for minutes.
“What is your name, medic?” Dean could listen to his accent for hours, the way it softens every harsh sound even while his voice grumbles and groans like thunder.
“Winchester. Dean Winchester.” Dean is suturing now, and he can’t help but show off his nimble technique. His fingers fly in complicated knots, and his stitches are precise and tight. He knows that his patient is watching. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of Dean since he sat down to work on him.
“I have not seen you before.”
“It’s a large prison.”
“Mmm. You are new.” It isn’t a question. The intelligence in his eyes is overt and obvious. It isn’t a surprise that this man holds such power in this corrupt system.
“And who are you?”
A quirk of the lips before he hedges, “That is a very complicated answer.”
Dean grins. “How about we start with a name?”
“Krushnic. Dmitri Castiel Krushnic.”
“That’s a mouthful,” Dean teases.
“Oh, so much more than a mouthful,” he promises, leering down at Dean.
Dean’s mouth drops and his face flushes crimson. He is a tremendous flirt, has been since puberty, but he's at a loss for how to respond to a man flirting with him. He tries to apologize, tries to say something, but visions of him on his knees in front of Krushnic are blocking his ability to speak. Prickling heat leaves his face and creeps down his neck.
“You can call me Castiel. That’s much easier to take, no?”
Dean clears his throat and nods. “Sure. Castiel.”
Dean cleans and bandages his skin efficiently, reciting all of the care steps he needs to be aware of. It’s a formality and they both know it. It’s obvious from the scars littered about his torso that Castiel has been stabbed before. Although, this time it will hardly scar. Dean has made sure of it.
Castiel’s fingers smooth over the bandage, letting Dean get a good look at the multiple tattoos covering them. Each finger has a ring with a specific symbol as the centerpiece, everything from a single dot to a miniature version of St. Basil’s Cathedral. They are beautiful, and most likely hold great significance. They look like a code, and Dean wants to break it.
Castiel’s friend returns to the other side of the bed with a fresh orange pull-over. Castiel gingerly lifts the ruined one over his head and replaces it. Dean barely has a chance to glimpse the ink covering the hard lines of muscle before it is hidden again. He stands, looming over Dean now on the rolling stool. Dean stands as well, needing to level the playing field.
“Questions?” Dean asks as a kind dismissal, equal parts dejected and thrilled to be rid of the man wreaking havoc on his brain.
Castiel stands too close, and Dean feels his proximity like a physical force. His eyes drag down Dean’s body, slow and sure. “I know where to find you if I think of anything. Thank you, Dean.”
At dinner that night, Dean receives the first gift. He is pulled forward to the front of the line and given the best portions of the barely passable meal. The best part though, is the special dessert that is waiting on him. With a matronly pat on the cheek, the proud cook hands him the Sharlotka, a lovely apple cake that smells like heaven. “It is my mother’s recipe, straight from St. Petersburg. Mr. Krushnic thought that you would like it.”
He’s not wrong. Dean sits down in his customary place, and all conversation stops.
“Where did you get that? I didn’t see that on the line,” Benny complains. He tries to dip his fork into the delectable treat and Dean smacks the back of his hand harshly.
“It’s a thank you gift, and I’ll thank you to keep your mitts off of it.”
“You’re not going to share?” he asks in disbelief.
“Hell, no.” Dean puts the first forkful into his mouth and moans around it. His eyes close and his head tips back. “This is magical,” he sighs. “I think I want to move to Russia. I’ll eat this every day.”
“Russia?” Garth questions skeptically. “Why are you getting a thank you from Russia?”
“Patient in the clinic,” Dean comments, not looking up from the treat. He misses the wary looks passed between his roommate and new friends.
Benny nudges his arm. “Be careful, brother. You don’t ever want to get yourself in debt to the Russians.”
From across the cafeteria, Castiel watches Dean, pleased that he is getting so much enjoyment from his simple gift. The cake is delicious, but his gorgeous medic reacts as if he’s been given something precious. He’s already planning the menu for tomorrow. He thinks that Medovik sounds like an excellent choice. Twenty delicate alternating layers of honeyed cake and sweet cream. His licks his lips. He can’t wait to watch Dean devour it.
Dean receives his paycheck and new schedule from the clinic, shocked to see that his hours have been changed. He somehow leapfrogged past all of the other medical staff with years of seniority, and he has been given the coveted daytime shift. After blinking back his confusion, he double-checks with Dr. Shurley and the job officer. It’s not a mistake.
When he cashes the check, he tries to put some of it towards his commissary account, which he knows is running on fumes. They wouldn’t take his money. “Your account is fully-funded,” the worker explains.
“I haven’t put anything in it,” Dean argues. “There’s no way there’s more than ten dollars left."
Scowling at the computer, he checks again and confirms, “Son, you could buy out the entire commissary and still not hit your limit. It’s taken care of. So, what’ll it be today?”
Dean fills out the requisition form quickly, stocking up on toiletries and a few snacks. The worker tries to encourage him to ask for more, but he refuses. In case this is a clerical error, he doesn’t want to overspend. On his way back to his cell, the small bag is heavy in his hands. He already knows it’s not an error. He knows exactly where these favors are coming from, and the thought has his stomach clenching. He needs to put a stop to it; Benny’s words of warning are still fresh in his mind.
At dinner the following night, his resolve crumbles when he sees the dessert Mrs. Morozov presents. He drools all the way through his meal, and again refuses to share even a taste with those around him. Sticky honey gushes from the edges of each bite, and he has to lick his lips repeatedly to collect every drop. He feels eyes on him throughout the meal, but he refuses to look up until he is ready to leave the dining hall. When he does finally look, the heavy weight of lust in Krushnic’s eyes turns his knees wobbly. He nods his head in thanks and hurries away.
The final straw is the mp3 player and headphones that sit on his pillow the next afternoon. They aren’t allowed phones, so he doesn’t have any of his music. He has a vague notion that he mentioned how much he missed music to Dr. Shurley at some point this week, but he didn’t do it in front of Krushnic or any of his men. When Dean flips through the device, he finds literally hundreds of albums pre-loaded. There are so many that Dean can’t seem to find a single one of his favorites that is missing. There is grateful and then there is invasive; Castiel just crossed that line.
It takes him much longer than it should to suss out Castiel’s room. Once he’s managed to get on the right hall of the correct level, he’s forced to wade through two more checkpoints. Most of Krushnic’s soldiers get by on feigned ignorance. They give their stone-faced glares and repeat the phrase, “Ya ne govoryu po angliyski” so many times that even Dean has memorized it. He’ll be damned if he believes that none of these men speaks English. Mrs. Morozov taught him a few key words in Russian when he went back to thank her tonight, and he is grateful for the lesson. He asks to speak with Mr. Krushnic, and adds a pleading, “Pozhaluysta?”. Apparently, adding please works on even hardened criminals.
At the door to the cell, which is swung wide open and crowded by rough men with suspicious eyes, the asshole from the clinic pushes through and yells at him in Russian. His hand gestures are menacing and dismissive, but Dean refuses to flinch. He’s had ten year-olds screaming at him while waving bazookas in his face; this prick doesn’t scare him in the least. Instead, Dean folds his arms over his chest and waits for him to take a breath.
“You done?” he snarks. Several of the men snicker. Yeah, they don’t speak a word of English.
“Send him in.” The imperious tone halts the laughter and parts the sea of thugs immediately. They scatter like sparrows, and soon it is just Dean and Castiel. He walks into the cell, noticing that the other bed is leaned against the wall. Krushnic lives alone. In a prison this overcrowded, that says everything that needs to be said about his importance and his reach. The man turns in his chair, but doesn’t get up. He does give Dean a beatific smile. “I didn’t know you made house calls, doc.”
“I’m not a -”
“Doctor. I remember.” His head tilts to the side and his eyes narrow. “It is a term of respect for combat medics, though, yes?”
Dean is stunned. “Uh, yeah. It is.”
“So then, it is appropriate.”
Dean concedes with a nod. This man either has encyclopedic knowledge of obscure facts or he has been looking into Dean’s former life. Either option terrifies him.
“What can I do for you, Dean?”
“I came to say thank you.”
Castiel leans forward, his forearms on his knees. “You are very welcome.”
He takes a deep breath to steel his nerves, “But, it needs to stop.”
That is the kicker, isn’t it? Why shouldn’t he enjoy the few simple pleasures that he has in this horrific place? The price tag is what scares him. Nothing is free. “The special treatment is very nice, don’t get me wrong. Especially the desserts. That woman knows her way around a kitchen. I just...don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“And what would the wrong idea be?”
Dean feels the tension mounting. Castiel is not liking the direction Dean is taking, and it shows in his eyes which are growing colder by the second. Feeling no sense of true privacy, Dean lowers his voice. “I’m flattered by the interest, I really am. It’s just not ever going to happen.”
Castiel stares, taking Dean’s measure. “You think this is a seduction?”
Dean is starting to feel a little foolish. Did he misread the situation? “Isn’t it?”
The calculated smile that reaches his lips doesn’t touch his eyes in the slightest. “Of course not. You did excellent work patching me up, and I simply wanted to do something nice for you.”
Dean isn’t convinced, and with a furrowed brow, he asks, “Do you always go to such impressive lengths just to say thank you?”
Castiel stands slowly, erasing the distance between them in two easy steps. “What can I say? I’m a... very generous man.”
Dean feels the words like a caress and a promise. The timber of Castiel’s voice, cavernous deep, rattles through his bones. Dean almost steps back, but plants his feet instead. Fear and indecision are deadly weaknesses to show in front of a man like Krushnic.
Dean’s smile is no less false. “Then I apologize for the misunderstanding. I’m not used to being showered with gifts, and it took me by surprise. I hope we can be friends?”
“I would like that Dean.”
On the one month anniversary of his incarceration, Dean learns a devastating lesson.
In the year 2019, even in a morally and socially bankrupt place like federal prison, Dean cannot believe the bigoted filth that he is hearing coming from the showers. Even in Texas, where he grew up, racism had become archaic, an artifact of the past, an embarrassment to this generation. Here, though, the past is alive.
When he rounds the corner, the scene becomes bleaker. This is not just bigotry. It is generational hate fueled by ignorance. Four members of the Aryan Brotherhood have a skinny black man down on the tiled floor, taking turns stomping on him with their ratty black boots.
“Hey, fellas. What’s going on?” Dean asks just to make his presence known, and he puts on a carefully neutral smile. Cowardice often flees in front of witnesses, which is what Dean is banking on. The color of his skin should buy him a pass in their eyes, but he needs to tread lightly. He can’t get too cocky.
“This turd stole Alastair’s shower. We was teaching him a lesson,” one of the neo-Nazis confesses.
Dean looked around the room. There are at least ten open shower stalls. "Looks like there’s room enough. I’m sure it was just a harmless mistake. Right?...”
Dean looks down at the bruised man. “R-Reggie,” he answers.
“See? Reggie didn’t know the shower was taken. He knows now. It’s all good.” Dean offers a hand down to Reggie while keeping his eyes up and alert.
“What right do you have to interfere with our punishment?” A vile, nasal voice slithers into his ears. The whip-thin, gray haired ghoul of a man that steps forward has eyes so flat and dead that Dean might as well be looking into the abyss.
Dean holds his hands up in placating gesture. “I’m not trying to do anything but mediate. It looked like Reggie might be having some difficulty speaking for himself with a boot on his throat.”
As soon as he says the words, he knows he’s pushed the scale down a little too far into judgmental. He reads it in Alastair’s eyes. When the leader stiffens and straightens his back, his minions follow suite. Dean’s upheld hands shift slightly into a defensive posture. “Easy now, boys. I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Well, it sure looks like you caught some anyway,” a younger man steps up, chest puffed out. He lunges at Dean, body telegraphing the punch with more than enough warning to let Dean sidestep him. Growling impotently, his momentum carries him into the wall behind them. The next one, shirtless so that he can use his offensive ink as a threat, goes down with a single, well-placed right hook. Behind him, he can hear Reggie exacting vengeance on his attacker, allowing Dean to focus on the remaining two. The last minion gets a couple swings in, but Dean blocks effectively. Done with this nonsense, Dean sweeps his leg, getting him on the ground. When he gets up on hands and knees, Dean punts his head like a football, turning his lights out. Alastair is backing up, trying to fend Dean off. “You’ve made your point, boy. Take your colored friend and go.”
Dean closes the space between them, adrenaline preventing him from using proper rational thought. “Obviously I haven’t made enough of a point if you’re still using that kind of language.”
“You know who I am. This is a damn fool idea.” Alastair tries to save himself by pulling a power card, but Dean isn’t going to be cowed.
Dean hates this place. He hates the politics here, based as they are on who is more vicious, whose body count is higher. He feels helpless as an individual who can never hope to match the influence of a group, powerless and alone. He growls out his frustration as he swings, connecting with a satisfying crunch of bone. Blood sprays, coating his face as he follows through.
He looks down on Alastair, who is choking on the blood pouring from his nose. Satisfaction thrums through him for a heartbeat. Until the man laughs maniacally, red teeth making him look crazed and feral. “You’ve just signed your death sentence.”
Dean figures that if he’s already going to be condemned, one more kick won’t change anything. He relishes the pained groan that puts an end to the laughter before he guides Reggie to the clinic to be checked out.
“You did what?!” Benny screeches in their cell. He peeks out into the corridor and looks around. Coming back in, he whisper-yells, “Do you have a fucking death wish, Dean?”
“You didn’t see what they were doing to that poor guy. I couldn’t just walk away.”
Benny wipes a hand over his face, trying to get his panicky brain wrapped around the precarious situation his roommate is now in. “Alastair isn’t some low level guy, Winchester. He’s the head of the entire goddamned white supremacist element in here.”
“I know,” Dean sighs, laying back in his bed. Calm on the outside, the ramifications of his impulsive actions are starting to catch up to him. Paranoia is making his heart race, a cocktail of flight hormones pumping through his veins. Fuck. He can’t outrun this. A whole mob of hatemongering rednecks is going to be out for his head.
“This is bad. This is so horribly bad,” Benny wails.
“I get that,” Dean snaps. “I just don’t know what the hell I can do about it other than wait for them to come for me.”
Silence reigns for long drawn-out minutes. Benny breaks the quiet with some sage advice. “You need protection.”
“Obviously. I can’t take on a hundred of them by myself.”
“I’ll stand up for you, you know I will, but the two of us standing alone are still cannon fodder.”
Dean smiles sadly. “I appreciate that, but I’d never drag you into this shit show. I did this to myself.”
“Is Krushnic still showing his appreciation?” Benny knows how uncomfortable the Russian mobster makes his roommate, but he’s put himself in an untenable position.
“I thought you told me not to ever get into debt with the Russians,” Dean scoffs.
Benny levels his gaze. “That was before you single-handedly took on the neo-Nazis.”
“Does he wield more power than Alastair?”
“Infinitely more. He’s something like second in command to the entire Moscow mafia. There’s a name for it, but I can’t speak Russian for shit.”
Dean scowls. Castiel might just be his saving grace.
Dean’s posture and attitude are entirely different as he approaches Castiel’s guards this time. He is humble, quiet, and respectful. The dick he now knows as Bartholemew grins knowingly. “Here to beg for his help, are you?”
Dean keeps his eyes lowered, nodding as he swallows hard around his pride.
Enjoying every second of his embarrassment, the man leans in, “I can save you the trouble. There’s no way he’ll put himself in the middle of a war for your worthless -”
“Kak ty smeyesh' govorit' za menya!” Castiel’s voice booms from within the cell, making the men around Dean cringe in sympathy for their comrade. Bart looks ready to piss himself.
“Come in, Dean.” His voice is quieter, but carries no less authority for it. The men part around him, letting him make the journey alone. Twenty feet have never seemed so long. He stops a few feet inside the cell, hesitant to do anything to offend Castiel. He’s lounging in bed, book in hand, and still looks like the commander of the universe. Dean was stupid to have ever questioned this man’s power.
Castiel sighs and nods towards the chair. “Have a seat.”
Dean does as he’s been ordered, his eyes cast low. Castiel makes him sweat, refuses to instigate the conversation they both know he’s there for.
“I-I came to ask for your protection,” he admits, blunt and meek. He’s trying not to fidget, but his nerves are getting the better of him.
“Right to the point, hmm? No foreplay at all.” There’s an edge of humor there, but Dean isn’t reckless enough to grab hold of it. Not with the results of his last impetuous action still looming ominously. Not with his life at stake.
Dean clears his throat, trying to keep the misery out of his voice. “Sorry, I just didn’t want to waste too much of your time.”
He hums knowingly. “The last we spoke, you assured me that you not only didn’t need my help, but it wasn’t welcome either. Yes?”
Dean’s blinking back tears before they form, watching his last hope drift out of reach. After what he’s done, his enemies will mutilate him, use him as a warning for others. It will be a painful, merciless death. It appears that Castiel will be pulling up a front row seat to watch the entertainment. “You’re right. I did say that.”
He stands and makes his apologies, “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
Castiel makes a rude noise and barks at him, “For fuck’s sake. Sit down.”
He tosses his book aside, glaring. This mousy, scared version of his beautiful medic offends him. Seeing this strong man brought so low by the filth who are currently plotting revenge against him. The light is gone from his eyes, his brash humor abandoned.
“Explain how this came to be.”
Dean looks up then, the pitiful glimmer of hope he allows is enough to squeeze Castiel’s cynical heart. “I stumbled upon Alastair and three other men torturing a black man named Reggie in the showers today. They didn’t care for my interference.”
“That is all?” Castiel knows the whole story, just about everyone in the prison already knows, but he wants to hear it from Dean.
“Uh, no. I broke Alastair’s nose and kicked him in the ribs.”
“His men did not fight for him?”
“I neutralized them first.”
“Neutralized.” Castiel smirks. “I’ll bet.”
Dean can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He is weighing options, planning outcomes. “I can’t help but notice that you are not injured. You took on four men and walked away unscathed. Perhaps you don’t need my protection,” he suggests.
“I need the power of your name, of your organization. I can’t fight a hundred men on my own.”
Castiel smiles then, “I don’t doubt that you would try anyway.”
A quick quirk of his lips is all that Dean allows. “I know what I’m asking is too much. The risks that you will assume if you stand between me and Alastair are great, and I can’t offer you anything for compensation. I just...don’t know anyone else. I don’t have any other options, so I had to at least try.”
Castiel can appreciate the brutal honesty, the guileless desperation. This is a man with nothing to lose, and he wants nothing more than to sweep Dean up into the bosom of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. There are considerations, however. His is an organization that requires eternal devotion; there is no exit strategy. Dean cannot simply leave when his sentence is up. Castiel does not want to offer protection only to have to put a bullet in the man’s brain in a few short months.
Dean waits, gut twisting as the seconds pass. He’s never wanted to influence a decision so urgently, never prayed with such fervor. Please, his lips beg silently. His eyes close in supplication.
“I cannot offer you the protection of my organization,” Castiel states plainly.
Dean feels the agonizing fall to his doom, waiting now for the inexorable impact.
“However, I will offer you my personal protection.”
Dean sucks in a deep breath, replaying the last few seconds to be sure he heard Krushnic correctly. “You-you will?”
“Yes, Dean. What you did was admirable. I don’t wish to see you murdered for it.”
“But, you...What is the difference? You versus your organization? Don’t you represent them?”
“To offer their protection is to bring you in as a recruit. I don’t believe you’re ready to make a lifelong commitment to them, which is what they require.”
Honestly, if that was his only option, he’d have taken it in this moment. When all you can see is a certain excruciatingly painful death, you become willing to do things you’d never dream of otherwise.
“So then, what do you require?” Dean swallows hard, trying not to let him imagination run wild even while his heartbeat feels like it is shaking his bones. Up to this point, there have been none of Castiel’s typical lustful looks, so perhaps his intentions are not leaning the way Dean assumes.
The lascivious smile Krushnic gives him puts that notion to rest. His eyes coast over Dean’s body, taking stock of his new purchase. “What if I just offer you help out of the kindness of my heart?”
Dean’s face must give him away, because Castiel chuckles. “No, I wouldn’t believe that, either.”
“The truth is, I don’t know what I want from this arrangement. I’ve never offered anything of the sort. It is a … unique situation we find ourselves in. I promise that I will be your protector, your champion. I also promise that what I ask from you in return will never be something you can’t give. Is that fair?”
There are so many holes in that agreement that it looks like lace, but Dean is in no position to complain. The crushing burden is lifted. He breathes a free breath for the first time in hours, sighing in relief. “That’s more than fair.”
Castiel swings his feet over to the floor and stands. Their business concluded, Dean stands and offers his hand. The sly smile and shake of Krushnic’s head have him dropping it in confusion.
“In Russia, we seal our deals with a kiss.”
There it is. The panic returns, but Dean shoves it down. A kiss is nothing. He can do this. He nods curtly in agreement.
Castiel waits, tilts his head. “As the one receiving my favor and agreeing to this deal, you need to be the one to offer the kiss, Dean.”
Fuck. Passively letting a man kiss him is one thing. This is an entirely different one. Nervous, insecure energy makes him hesitate and waver. A shuffling step forward and an awkward stop. Castiel lifts a single brow, which carries a surprising wealth of communication. It is a demand, a challenge, and a good-natured tease all at once. Dean takes another step forward, until they are trading the same air. His breath shudders out of him while he gathers his courage and licks his lips. Gently, he cups the side of Castiel’s neck, his thumb resting on his stubbled cheek. Leaning in, he presses his lips firmly to the wide, soft pink ones of his protector. After a second or two, he purses them together to end the kiss, but incomprehensibly finds himself unwilling to step back. Instead, he goes back for another taste.
When they do part, Castiel licks his lips like he is chasing Dean's taste. With a soft look in his eyes, he praises, “Otlichno, myshka.”