Sticky with sweat and spit, Castiel throws his head back. He’s stuffed full, can feel the thrusts all the way up in his throat, drying up his mouth; the euphoria keeps his neck bared, plush lips and sharp teeth nipping and sucking across the expanse, insistent enough to be noticeable, but not enough to bruise. He doesn’t close his eyes, though, not for even a fraction of a second - it’s too dangerous, and no matter how much pleasure is zig-zagging through his frayed nerves, he can’t let his guard down. His balls draw tight, and he knows his partner isn’t too far behind. Slamming himself down in the man’s lap, Castiel threads his fingers through sandy hair before gripping it painfully, and then he stills. The man beneath him lets out a pained groan, the mixture of the grip on his scalp and the sensation of Castiel’s warm, wet body suddenly stopping surely frustrating him.
“Where.” Castiel’s voice sounds like diamonds cutting gravel, fucked out and raw. He lowers his chin, his eyes boring into the man he’s straddling, meeting his furrowed brow, pupils so big they swallow up the color of his irises. When the man doesn’t respond right away, Castiel squeezes his thighs together, the strength of them squishing the man’s ribs uncomfortably.
“Compton. South Wilmington,” the man finally grinds out. His voice is whisky-rough and pitched low with his arousal, trembling audibly. The flush on his cheeks highlights his freckles.
“And?” Castiel’s knees tighten.
The man sucks air through his teeth, but his cock throbs inside of Castiel’s body, warning him of the impending release. “West Manville. The FedEx warehouse. Friday night, eleven o’clock.”
“Good boy,” Castiel coos, his grip in the man’s hair lightening until it’s a caress, his thighs unclenching and his body rolling sinuously. “Now you may come.”
The man closes his eyes and tips his head back. He can’t hold onto Castiel, as his hands are cuffed behind the chair he’s seated on, so he plants his feet and starts fucking up into the man with wild abandon. The force of the thrusts make Castiel’s teeth clack until he clenches his jaw, reaching to start jerking himself off, no rhythm between them except their synchronizing breaths. He feels the man’s cock grow impossibly hard, feels it kick against his prostate, and then they both come at the same time, no noises passing between them as they ride out the waves. Castiel takes care to catch his release in his hand, even if some of it spatters onto his right hip, and as soon as he feels the dick inside him start to soften, he climbs off the man’s lap without preamble.
While the other man collects his breath, Castiel moves to the sink in the corner of the room, washing his hands with antibacterial soap. He dispenses two brown paper towels from the canister, dries his hands, wipes away the semen from his hip, and then tosses the soiled paper into the wastebasket below the sink. He grabs a washcloth, wetting it with cool water, and then returns to the bound man. He removes the condom, ties it off, and then cleans him perfunctorily, the touch almost clinical. Once they’re both clean Castiel moves towards the only other chair in the room, where his clothes are folded neatly.
As he’s getting dressed, it’s silent. Straightening his tie is the last thing he does after making sure his suit is straight and not rumpled, his eyes sliding over towards the other man. Stepping towards him, the pupils of the man’s eyes have finally receded enough to reveal the stunning green of his irises, the corner of his plush mouth pulled up in an inviting smirk.
“No cuddling?” the man asks, unerringly charming.
“I would rather shoot myself in the head,” Castiel says evenly. He reaches towards the man’s lap, ignoring the suggestive wiggle of his hips, and then pulls up the zipper of his jumpsuit up to his collarbones.
“Now that’s just cold, Novak. I thought we had something special.”
“We do, Winchester,” Castiel says idly. He pulls a small notepad out of the pocket of his blazer, a small pencil twirling between his fingers before he starts scribbling. He doesn’t look at Winchester. “We fuck, and you tell me all the sordid details of the man who killed you.” He snaps his notebook shut, pockets it and the pencil, and doesn’t even look at Winchester before turning on heel, dress shoes clacking on the concrete floors. He knocks on the door to the cell, waits for the guard to let him out, and then promptly pushes Dean Winchester out of his mind.
He has work to do.
Once the file is free from his hands, Castiel takes a step back, lacing his fingers behind his back. “His intel, as of yet, has all been proven accurate and timely.”
“They really did a number on him, huh?” Singer says, and though his words might be considered thoughtful on paper, his tone of voice lets it be known that he could care less what Winchester had gotten into during his crime lord days. “Can’t believe his noggin is that full o’ stuff.”
Castiel says nothing, merely watching Singer’s fingers where they hold the file he’s currently perusing.
“Well, whatever you’re doin’,” Singer says, closing the file and setting it down to rest his elbows on the desk and steeple his fingers. His wise eyes flash with pride as he regards Castiel, “keep doin’ it. We’ve been tryna pin Crowley for decades, and with every visit you take to Winchester, we’re one step closer to bringin’ ‘im down.” He scratches the side of his nose idly. “You’ve really done well, Novak.” Dropping his hands so they rest on the desk, he leans forward a bit, making sure Castiel meets his gaze. “You deserve everything comin’ to ya, boy. Ain’t seen talent and drive like yours in… well, ever.”
Castiel doesn’t smile, but he does nod his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Chief.”
“Now go back to your desk and do… whatever it is you do when you’re not at the prison or out handcuffing bad guys.”
Castiel allows the smallest of quirks to the corner of his lips. “Yes, Sir.”
If it weren’t for a one night stand four years ago, Castiel wouldn’t even know who Dean is. That one night stand had bled into a beautiful morning after, a domestic haze surrounding them as they smooched and ate pancakes, caught up in the good feelings, the endorphins, the amazing orgasms… And it all was abruptly interrupted by the front door being blasted in with C4, knocking them both off their feet and pelting them with debris.
Dean Winchester owed Fergus Crowley a debt, and the man came that morning to collect.
While Castiel was unconscious, Dean disappeared. He hadn’t seen who blasted into the house, his witness account stating that he’d stayed the night with a man named Michael Smith, who was now currently missing. Castiel had been let go, the officers trusting that a federal agent would be telling the truth to them, and Castiel had been wrought with worry. But when he looked up Michael Smith to inform next of kin that he’d been kidnapped, he found that Michael Smith didn’t exist.
At least, the man who called himself Michael Smith didn’t exist.
There are plenty of Michael Smiths in the United States. 30.9 thousand, give or take. None of them were the man Castiel had been absolutely smitten with. He may have asked his friend Charlie, the tech girl, to do some extra digging, but she also came up empty. There weren’t even fake documents forged with the name Michael Smith.
It was just an identity given for one night, and one night only.
Castiel hasn’t had a one night stand since. Not because he thinks they’re jinxed or anything (he does) but because he’d thrown himself into work. Michael Smith had been a blip on the radar, and a week after he’d been abducted, Crowley started getting bolder, started popping up on the radar more often than not. Castiel threw himself into his job, working his way up the ranks and through all the data they’d gathered about Crowley, and a year and a half ago, they’d caught a break in the case. Crowley had discarded one of his people, the body found in a dumpster. As the responding agent, Castiel had stayed with the body while he called for the coroner and a few other officers to comb over the scene.
He had looked down at the bloodied, mangled face, and had been rightly scared out of his mind when the eyes of the dead man opened, bloodshot and wide as saucers, a strangled scream ripping from his crushed throat.
The man was alive.
The man was Michael Smith.
The man was Dean Winchester.
After he’d been rehabilitated in the hospital, Dean stood trial for his transgressions. It turned out that he’d always been working for Crowley, even when he and Castiel slept together - a fact that was omitted from everyone and everything, neither Dean nor Castiel speaking of it to anyone, let alone each other when they were in contact - and he was just as guilty as the devil man. Murder, arson, kidnapping, theft, drug dealing, prostitution; the list felt endless, and Dean was cited guilty for all of them.
He was carted off to prison to serve consecutive life sentences. New York abolished the death penalty, so even though many felt as though Dean was a waste of space, all they could do was make sure he saw the same four walls day in, day out, and nothing else.
Two weeks after being incarcerated, he asked to see Castiel. Since Castiel is a federal agent, and the first responder to Dean’s almost dumpsite, it had seemed to make sense to most that he’d want to see Castiel. Thank him for saving his life, or something like that.
It was nothing like that.
Sitting across from one another, Dean had smiled in the exact same way Michael had ensnared Castiel all those years ago, and then revealed something big.
Crowley “killed” him because he knew too much. It was something Dean never mentioned in court; it was just the general assumption that Crowley is a bad guy, and killing people is sort of his thing, even if they were technically his employee. Everyone assumed that Dean had just been an unfortunate victim, cast aside when he became useless. But he told Castiel that it was no flick of the wrist, Crowley’s hit on him; Crowley wanted him dead because Dean had so much information crammed into his head, he was a human Crime Wiki, specifically for Fergus Crowley and All His Dealings. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Crowley realized that getting rid of Dean was safer than keeping him.
If only whoever had carried out the hit had been a little more thorough.
So, Dean, beautiful and charming and vindictive as hell, said he’d be willing to help Castiel put Crowley away for good. Castiel had told him it might take a bit to convince a judge to allow him some privileges in prison, but that was where things got interesting. That was where Dean shooed out all of the guards, except one Benny Lafitte, and then propositioned Castiel.
He had to be joking.
Dean was laying it all out: he and Castiel become regular fuck buddies. Every time Dean gives up any sort of info, he’s allowed to come. If he doesn’t give Castiel info, Castiel has all the power to blueball him and leave. Castiel had been, of course, unsure at first. Could Dean really be so base that all he wants in exchange for such incredible intel is a good lay? The more Castiel visited him, the more it seemed probable. Touch-starved, honey-mouth Dean Winchester is lucky he’s in solitary, or else he might be on the unpleasant end of the inmate hierarchy. Castiel knew it was power play, too; Dean offering himself up on a platter, allowing Castiel complete control over his body and mind in exchange for some dick.
It had been crude.
It had been unethical.
It had been too easy to agree.
For the past seven months Castiel and Dean have been meeting once a month, sometimes more, for their exchanging of events. Dean actually has a fairly decent cell; Castiel had been required to tell the warden that he’d be spending time with Dean, gleaning information, and as a reward for his good behavior, the warden had relocated Dean to a much nicer cell, outfitted with a decently comfortable bed, bookshelves, even a rug on the concrete floor. It wasn’t the Hilton, but it was leagues above what anyone else in the prison had. Dean behaved well for everyone. He was an upstanding citizen.
Aside from the drugs, sex, and murder.
No one’s perfect.
Benny Lafitte guards Dean’s cell every time Castiel comes to visit. He keeps people from getting curious, and has kept his lips sealed. Castiel wonders what favors Dean exchanged with Lafitte in order to ensure that he’s on duty every time Castiel comes for his conjugal visit, but Castiel figures he doesn’t really care. As long as things are taken care of, he goes in, fucks Dean, gets the information, and then gets out.
It’s been so lucrative.
Castiel has been called ‘psycho’ by several of his fellow agents, for many reasons. Agreeing to Dean’s deal definitely made Castiel a bit more aware of his… slightly sociopathic inclinations, but he always passes his psych evals with flying colors. Superiors, who rarely work with him, are none the wiser. In the field, things are vastly different. Castiel is known for being a calm, cool and collected agent in all situations, in all varying stress levels. His decision making is so swift, and sometimes so black and white, it leaves other agents uneasy. Like that one time he shot a hostage in the leg so he could shoot the burglar in the forehead. Or that one time he drove his car off a cliff into a lake, still inside, so he could dislodge the criminal trying to strangle him from the backseat. Or maybe even that one time he seduced a cougar, fingering her until she squirted, so he could collect DNA samples for the case against her secret, illegal brothel.
So Castiel, occasionally, does things off-book. He gets results, and sometimes slapped on the wrist, but he didn’t soar through the ranks by being a kiss-ass and a rule follower.
In any case, no one has a clue about the conjugal visits, and Castiel knows it’s a dangerous game to continue, but he’s not exactly gunning to call it quits. Dean, obviously, benefits from their escapades, but it’s also a way for Castiel to blow off extra steam, as well. He’s a bit more level-headed, now, with semi-frequent orgasms - less likely to injure or maim unsubs during apprehension.
Supervisory Special Agent Castiel James Novak will continue climbing the ranks, with a devil on his shoulder.