Chapter Text
The club is Dante's, the room is the Cage, and Dean is only there because he hates himself. He's buzzdrunk from the shots he had at the upstairs bar, and dizzy from the heat. Ugly music thumps his bones, the juddering bassline overlaid with exactly the sort of discordant techno-trash he otherwise wouldn't stomach in a fit. The Cage smells of sweat, sex and spilled beer, the tight space full of half- and near-naked bodies gyrating against each other and – shit, is that guy actually naked? He is, and the two men sandwiching him on the dancefloor look pretty pleased about it. Dean, in his jeans and tee, is practically overdressed, and as he stands there, equal parts aroused and ashamed, he has a brief moment of clarity. Get out. Go home. Stop punishing yourself.
Almost, he does. But through the din and crush, he suddenly feels eyes on him, and when he finds their owner, he remembers why he came.
The guy is watching him from the far wall, tattooed arms crossed over his black shirt, a questioning smirk on his lips. He's tall and lean, with mussed dark hair and a stubbled jaw, and something in Dean goes weak as the rest of him thinks, Perfect. He returns the stare, chin lifted in a come-hither challenge, which does the trick nicely. The stranger straightens and heads towards him, cutting through the crowd like a shark. Up close, he's almost as tall as Dean, and when he stops, he leans in close – his mouth to Dean's ear, because it's too loud to be heard otherwise – and says, 'You look almost as bored as I feel.'
The stranger's voice is rough and warm, and goes straight to Dean's core. 'Something like that,' he replies, heart pounding.
The words do you want to get out of here? hang between them, the louder for being unspoken.
'I'm Castiel,' says the stranger.
'Dean,' says Dean, too startled to lie. He wasn't expecting anything so civil as a name; not even the upstairs at Dante's is that sort of place at this time of night, and the Cage never is. He tries to get the conversation back on track, back to the familiar, broken normalcy he needs more than wants, but Castiel's gaze is sharp and blue, and renders him stuttertongued. 'Do you, uh, want to? Go, I mean, I, we can –'
'We can go,' says Castiel, after a beat. 'Lead on.'
Obedient, Dean heads for the stairs, but doesn't turn to see if the stranger is following; partly because he's afraid to look, but mostly because there's no need. He can feel the other man's presence like an itch between his shoulders, and when he finally wends his way through the upstairs bar and out into the street, the cold air and comparative quiet hitting him like a slap to the face, Castiel is right beside him. Dean shivers, club sweat cooling on his skin, and wraps his arms around his stomach. He looks at Castiel, waiting for the other man's cue. Dante's doesn't bother with bouncers this late on a week night, which means they're alone, and Dean is acutely aware of just how many times he's been fucked in the alley outside the club, how many times he's been down on his knees with a stranger's cock in his mouth.
'Come on,' Castiel says, suddenly. 'I know a place near here.'
And just like that, he starts walking, leaving Dean to stare at him, completely off-balance but compelled to follow, caught in his wake like metal dragged after a magnet. Castiel has lean legs, narrow hips and a quick, impatient stride, and as they turn onto the main street, Dean is strangely hypnotised by the play of his shoulders. He shakes his head, forces himself to focus (run , a small voice whispers, you're off script, this is dangerous, run), and almost trips over his feet when Castiel says, without any apparent irony, 'Sorry, I thought it was – ah! No, here we are,' and ducks into a doorway.
Mystified, Dean follows him, and does a double-take when 'here' turns out to be a cozy, hole-in-the-wall place that's like the bastard offspring of a wine bar and a coffee shop, complete with dark wood panelling, red leather chairs and chalk boards advertising various types of alcoholic hot chocolate, which, what? That's a thing? He's so taken aback, he barely even registers being seated until suddenly, somehow, he's sitting across from Castiel in a circular booth and clutching a laminated drinks menu.
'What do you want?' Castiel asks, and Dean thinks, That is an excellent question.
Being a literal rather than existential query, however, what he actually says in response is, 'I'll try the, uh, hot chocolate with amaretto,' because why the hell not?
'Me, too,' says Castiel, and the suddenness of his smile – the joy of it, where it crinkles his eyes and brow and nose – is the cruellest sort of suckerpunch. Dean can't breathe; he's rooted to the spot. Oblivious, Castiel rises to order the drinks, and Dean just sits there, stomach churning at the prospect of how very, very bad this could go once the other shoe finally drops, because kind men who buy you hot chocolate don't frequent Dante's, and especially not the Cage, and that means Castiel is hiding something terrible, and oh, god, what if he drugs me, what if he's violent, what if he wants to tie me up, what if –
'Dean? Are you all right?'
Blue eyes blinking down at him; it's a miracle Dean doesn't flinch.
'Fine,' he croaks. 'I just, uh – I've never been here before, is all. Didn't even know this place existed.'
'Not many people do,' says Castiel, and smiles again, sliding back into his side of the booth. 'Or if they do, they don't always realise it's open late. Still, they seem to do pretty good business.'
Just then, a waitress arrives, the tray in her hands bearing two glass mugs that are, in fact, jam jars with welded-on handles. Dean reaches for his drink – it can't be drugged if she made it, right? – and takes a tentative sip. It's hot, but not so much that it burns his mouth, and the almond taste of amaretto is comforting and pleasant. There's a not-quite-awkward silence as he and Castiel drink, and then Dean blurts, 'Do you go to Dante's often?'
Castiel frowns, his mug held halfway to his lips. His elbows are braced on the table, and for the first time, Dean gets a proper look at his tattoos. Both sleeves feature thorny vines intertwined with plants and animals, but each arm is different: a red-gold dragon curls around his left wrist, its wings flaring up his forearm, while on the right, a spotted cat peeks out from behind a crumbling statue.
'Not often, no,' says Castiel, his tone oddly guarded. 'Why? Do you?'
Dean thinks of the Cage, and the alley; of all the times he's told himself he won't go back, and how he always does. 'Not often,' he echoes, softly.
'I didn't think so,' Castiel says. 'No offence, but you looked a little out of place in there.'
'Oh?' says Dean. His fingers tremble around the mug. 'How so?'
'Well, for one thing, you weren't dancing.' Castiel smiles a little, sipping his hot chocolate. 'And for another, you looked – well, a bit lost, frankly.'
'Lost.' He's trying so hard not to bristle, to keep his voice flat, but Jesus, that hurts more than it should. 'And you like lost things, I take it?'
'Not especially.' Castiel looks at him through long, dark lashes. 'But you interested me.'
I bet I did, Dean thinks. He gulps the last of his drink and puts the mug down before Castiel can see how his hands are shaking. 'Well, that was nice. Any thoughts as to what we might do next?'
'I have a few ideas,' says Castiel. Almost, he seems to hesitate, but his gaze never wavers. 'My apartment is two blocks over. We could –'
'Sure,' says Dean, and the word comes out in a rush of air. 'Sure, let's do that.'
Castiel's lips part, but he doesn't speak again. Just nods. Dean waits as he pays, then follows him back outside again, into air that's even colder now than before, and onto streets that are eerily quiet. They walk in silence, Dean a half-step behind. He's shivering with anticipation and no small degree of fear, but despite that, his arousal is mounting. It feels like forever since they left the club, and Castiel is beautiful enough that Dean could forgive him anything, so long as he also gives him what he needs.
'Here,' says Castiel suddenly, stopping outside an expensive block of apartments. Dean bites his lip, fighting the sudden urge to laugh as Castiel lets them into the lobby and presses the lift button. The doors slide open instantly, and Dean is somehow wholly unsurprised when Castiel takes them up to the very top floor, because of course he has the penthouse suite in a place like this. They step out into the hall, and all at once, the tension between them is so thick, it's almost choking. God, who is this guy? Dean was only out for a quick, hard fuck, and Castiel hasn't even touched him yet, but here he is, as eager and trusting as if he'd never learned better. He watches as Castiel unlocks his door; or rather, he watches Castiel's mouth, his expressive, chapped lips, and licks his own at the thought of licking them.
The lock clicks open. 'Here we are,' Castiel murmurs, reaching in to flick on the lights. Dean steps through and stands by the threshold, waiting as Castiel shuts the door.
They stare at each other, and Dean gulps, unable to look away. There's an intensity to Castiel's gaze that is at once both intimate and impersonal, and god, his eyes are so fucking blue, it's like he's drowning in them. He's breathing too fast, hands trembling by his sides, as braced as he can be for whatever type of aggressive kink has prompted a man this handsome, charming and seemingly well-off to frequent the Cage at Dante's, and oh, fuck, he's going to hurt me, he's going to change, he's –
Castiel slides a gentle hand up the side of Dean's face, and kisses him.
For an instant, Dean is so shocked, he almost forgets to breathe. And then it's like his blood is on fire: he kisses back fiercely, grabbing Castiel's waist and pulling him closer, gasping when the other man backs him against the door, their bodies flush. Dean runs his hands under Castiel's shirt, feeling the play of hard, lean muscle, panting with need as Castiel's fingers twine through his hair. Teeth graze his lips, and suddenly Castiel is trailing kisses down his throat, nipping the skin, stroking lightly up Dean's sides before grabbing his shirt and yanking it over his head. Castiel pauses, breathing heavily as he looks at Dean, hands sliding over his chest. Leaning in, he sets a mouth to Dean's nipple, teasing with tongue and teeth. Dean hisses with pleasure, head tipped back against the door, hands sliding blindly up Castiel's arms, needing as a matter of urgency to see just how far up those tattoos go, clutching at whatever fabric he can reach and pulling, desperate to get beneath it. Castiel lifts his head and lets him do it, and when the tee is gone, Dean actually groans, because Castiel's torso is one gorgeous artwork, stretching from collarbone to hip and spilling over his back.
'Oh, fuck, Cas,' he breathes, hands sliding reverently over inked ribs. It's such a glorious sight, he forgets what they are to each other, stepping close to mouth at his shoulder, wanting to taste as much of him as possible.
'Cas?' comes the soft inquiry.
Dean jerks back, a shocked blush spreading up his neck. 'Shit, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have – I didn't mean –'
Castiel looks puzzled. 'Hey. It's OK. It's just a name.' And then, with a smile that's equal parts shy and wicked, 'I think I like it.' He closes the distance between them, lips brushing provocatively against Dean's ear. 'Say it again.'
'Cas,' Dean whispers, and then they're kissing, hot and urgent as Cas pulls him further into the apartment, hands roaming possessively over Dean's back. They kick off their shoes and socks without breaking apart, which is something Dean's never managed before, and then Cas hauls him into a room illuminated by moonlight alone, the door swinging shut behind them. Dean is plunged into shadows, utterly blind as Cas spins him around. A mattress hits the backs of his knees, and he falls with Cas on top of him, pulse racing because this is it, this is the other shoe, and it's all going to go wrong –
Cas kisses him again, so passionately that Dean can't help but respond; he's shamefully hard, and as Cas slips a thigh between his legs, he ruts up against him, hands tracing the tattoos he can no longer see. Cas growls impatiently, reaching down to unzip Dean's fly, followed by his own; they wriggle upwards, shedding jeans and boxers like snakeskin, leaving them naked and pressed together. Dean gasps, back arching as Cas takes hold of him, thumbing precum along his shaft as he sucks his pulse-point, and oh, god, he wants to relax into it, wants to trust that this is really as good as it feels, but that's just madness. Isn't it? Cas slides down his body, hot kisses trailing from collar to chest to hip to thigh, and takes him in his mouth, tongue sliding artfully down his length. Dean whimpers, reflexively digging his fingers through that thick, dark hair, and thrusts into Cas's mouth, babbling as he squirms.
'Please, Cas, fuck, I don't, that's – oh, fuck, what are you – I –'
Cas gently bites his inner thigh, then pushes himself back up Dean's body, kissing him again. Dean is dizzier now than he was in the heat of the Cage, more lost than he's been in years, one hand clutching at Cas's back as the other grips him, sliding that slick, warm length against his fingers. Cas buries his face in Dean's shoulder, stubble scraping the tender skin as his breathing hitches.
'Wait,' he murmurs, and suddenly he's rolling onto one elbow, reaching across to the bedside table and fumbling with the drawer. Dean tenses, sweating and still as his eyes flick over the ceiling. He can see better now, the shape of the room a sketch in silver, charcoal, grey. Then Cas falls back, his grin bright in the gloom, and flourishes a condom and a bottle of lube.
'Right,' he murmurs, setting them down on the mattress. 'Now. Where were we?'
Something twists in Dean's chest. 'Here,' he rasps, and pulls Cas back down for a kiss, taking control for the sole purpose of ceding it. Dean writhes beneath him, urgent as he goads Cas with his body, hungry for more. Cas takes the hint; there's a noise as he flips the cap off the bottle of lube, a grunt as he shifts his weight again, and then a slick digit is pushing at Dean's entrance.
'Do it,' he pants, 'Jesus, Cas, do it, just do it –'
The finger slips into him, rolling expertly. Dean whimpers, pushing himself onto it, and a second follows, crooking against his sweet spot. Then a third, and he grips the sheets, his breathing rapid and ragged as he stares at Cas, who stares at him, into him, his gorgeous tattoos darkened into a swathe of shadow. Not looking away, Cas grabs the condom with his free hand and tears the foil with his teeth, reaching down to sheath himself in a single, fluid movement. He teases Dean a moment longer, then pulls out his fingers, smearing the excess lube on himself.
'Do it,' Dean says again, as Cas lines up between his raised knees, 'fuck, just fuck me –'
Cas pushes into him, deliberate and careful. His hands slide up the underside of Dean's thighs, then down to grip his hips. He bottoms out and pauses, looking down as though memorising the sight of Dean spread beneath him.
'Beautiful,' he murmurs, and before Dean can even process the word, Cas starts to fuck him, slowly at first, but with an escalating intensity that knocks the breath from his lungs. Dean is gasping, legs wrapped around Castiel's back as his hands clutch helplessly at the linen. The pleasure is so intense, he's only dimly aware of the fact that he's begging, oh god please yes, harder, please, please, the breathless words more prayer than plea. He'd forgotten, or made himself forget, that sex could be like this, that it didn't have to be quick and dirty and shameful; that a partner might lean down and kiss Dean's throat, as Cas does now, and mouth his own urgent litany, I've got you, Dean, come for me, come for me, while reaching down to stroke him in time with his thrusts. And only then, as Cas moves up to suck Dean's bottom lip, those blue eyes boring into him, does he realise Cas was never going to hurt him.
Dean lets out a sound that's half sob, half shout, and comes harder than he has in forever, his whole body shaking as Cas continues to fuck him through the aftershocks.
'Cas,' he pants, hands coming up to cup the other man's face, 'Cas, Cas, Cas –'
Castiel shudders and comes with a cry, head dropping down to press against Dean's shoulder. Dean rocks his hips as Cas continues to move, both of them shaking and breathing hard. Finally, Cas pulls out, sitting back on his heels as he removes the condom, knots the end and throws it away. He lies down alongside Dean, pulling him close for a kiss, and runs a hand across Dean's arm, his fingers splaying gently over the muscle.
'You're shivering,' Cas says. He almost sounds surprised. 'Do you want to get under the blankets?'
Just like that, the uncertainty is back, and with it comes the fear. Dean gulps. 'You don't have to – I can go, I can just –'
Cas strokes a thumb over his cheek. 'It's late. You're more than welcome to stay.'
'I –' He shuts his eyes, opens them again. He's overwhelmed, and something in him cracks. 'What is this? What do you want from me?'
Cas blinks at him, confused. 'I don't understand.'
Dean is shaking, and not just from cold. 'It's just, if there's something else, if you want to h-hurt me, if this a trick, I need to know now, I need to know what you want –'
'Dean.' Cas pulls away from him, horror in his voice. 'I'm not going to hurt you. God, I would never – why would you even ask that?' He sits up, turning on a bedside light, and in the sudden glow, his face is stiff with shock.
Dean curls up around his knees, looking at Cas in total incomprehension. 'You were in the Cage,' he says, stating the obvious. 'At Dante's. You said you'd been there before.'
'So?'
'So? ' Dean says, incredulous. 'So it's fucking Dante's, is what! How can you go there and not know what that means?'
Cas stares at him. 'But I don't go there, not like that – my brother runs the place, that's all. His office is in the basement level, and sometimes I grab a drink after I've been to see him, and I know it's a gay bar, obviously, but I don't see why you'd think –' His voice trails away, and he swallows sharply. 'It's not just a gay bar, is it.'
There's a hole in Dean's chest. He can't look at Cas, can't bear the sight of those beautiful tattoos, those piercing eyes. He stares at the sheets, and when he speaks again, it comes out flat and quiet.
'Dante's has a... a reputation. You go there if you want, you know, something quick, dirty, and downstairs, the Cage, is where you look if you like it rough, or if you don't care, and I thought, when you brought me here, you wanted something worse, or more control, and I didn't –' he forces himself to look at Cas, and it's unbearable, '– oh god, Cas, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry – I'm, I'll go, I –'
He rises as he speaks, stumbling out of the bed, grabbing his clothes, and suddenly his throat is tight with tears, because he's fucked everything up, again, and this is why he goes to Dante's in the first place, so he doesn't have to worry about hurting anyone, or making them deal with his baggage, which is both considerable and all his own fault –
A warm hand lands on his shoulder. Dean yelps, startled into dropping his clothes, and when he turns, Cas is standing there, an unreadable look on his face.
'I don't understand,' Cas says again, and something sparks in his eyes like he desperately needs to. 'What we just had, what we did – was that good for you?'
Dean is dumbstruck. 'Jesus, Cas, of course it was good. It was, I mean –' he fumbles for words, and finds only inadequacies, '– it was really damn good.'
'But you were in the Cage, too.'
Dean flinches, looks away. 'Yeah. Yeah, I was.'
'Because you like it rough?' Very gently, Cas reaches up and lifts his chin with a fingertip, forcing Dean to meet his gaze. 'Or because you didn't care?'
'I didn't care.' It comes out a croak, his throat is so tight. 'Don't care, I mean, I don't deserve –'
Castiel kisses him, a soft brush of lips, and Dean makes a noise like he's cut himself. 'What don't you deserve?' Another kiss. 'Tell me.'
'This,' Dean whispers. 'Cas, I'm not –' He shuts his eyes, unable to keep from leaning into Cas's touch, '– I fuck things up, I should go, I should –'
'Stay.' Cas cups his cheek and kisses him again, and when they pull apart, the look on Cas's face almost undoes him. 'Please, stay.'
Shakily, Dean says, 'OK.' And then, because it's becoming an issue, 'Can I, uh, clean myself up? I mean –'
Cas smiles. 'First door on the right.'
In a daze, Dean nods and goes. It's dark in the hall, but he doesn't have far to walk. The bathroom is spacious, almost bigger than his tiny, cramped kitchen, and covered in white tile. His heartbeat is so loud, he wonders he can't hear it echoing. He does what he came to do, then stands there, studiously avoiding his own reflection. What are you doing, Dean? He wants to stay, and that's why he should go. And yet he still walks back to the bedroom, where Cas has removed the sticky top sheet and is waiting under the covers. Drymouthed, Dean slides in beside him, every muscle tense. He looks at Cas, and his chest constricts.
'Are you sure –?'
'I'm sure.' Cas smiles. 'Lie down, Dean.'
He obeys; there's a click as the light turns off, and then a shift in the mattress as Cas presses up against him, tattooed skin warm against Dean's back, one arm curling over his chest. He can feel Cas breathing between his shoulders, followed by a gentle brush of lips against his neck.
'Sleep well,' Cas murmurs.
'Yeah,' says Dean. 'You too.'
It's surreal; impossibly so. He doesn't understand why Cas is being so kind – or so intimate, for that matter. It's not like they know each other; it's not like this is going somewhere. But it's been so long since anyone held Dean like this, and he's heartsick with pretending it's something he doesn't want. He went to Dante's because he hates himself, and ended up with Castiel, who makes him feel like maybe he shouldn't.
Wrapped in Cas's arms, Dean shuts his eyes, and somehow falls asleep.