Castiel hands Dean a pair of gloves. More like shoves them at him, but Dean takes them with a scowl, wishing the damn things would catch fire or spontaneously burst into flame. “What’re these for?” Dean asks, despite his brain fully knowing the answer.
“We haven’t cataloged anything down here,” Castiel says, shrugging his coat off. Hanging it on the rack by the door, he pulls a second pair of disposable gloves from his pocket and pulls them on, both piquing Dean’s interest and fully turning him off at the same time. Something about them reminds him of prostate exams. Seeing them on Castiel, though, leaves him confused and aroused. Castiel snaps his fingers. “Dean.”
“Right.” Shaking his head, Dean tugs on the gloves, the latex too tight around his fingers and loose around his wrists. At least they work. “Cataloging. Seriously, man, Sam can do this. Hell, get Jack down here, he’d love to get his hands on this shit.”
“Unfortunately, Jack is a bit preoccupied at the moment,” Castiel says with a huff. Right, because becoming God 2.0 requires Jack to lose all of his social connections in order to repopulate Heaven, or whatever he’s doing up there. Dean hopes he’s at least having fun. “Otherwise, he’d be down here with us.”
Us—Dean never had a chance getting out of this after all.
“Now, remember what I told you. Don’t touch anything with your hands—”
“And don't eat anything, got it.” Dean waves him off and heads for the first shelf. “Seriously, not a kid, Cas. I know how to go through boxes.”
Across the room, Castiel mumbles something that sounds entirely too sarcastic. Dean ignores him and sets about his task: figuring out just what’s in the basement storage so they can sell it off and get out of Lebanon, preferably sooner rather than later. The only problem, is that there’s two massive storage rooms, both of them about the size of a gymnasium, and most of the index cards categorizing them were all destroyed decades ago. Or, whenever Crowley wandered the halls years ago, probably looking for something to sabotage.
Most of the boxes on the first shelf, thankfully, are empty, save for broken shards of pottery and a knife that Dean plans to keep in his collection. With a handle made of black leather and a Damascus steel blade sharpened on both sides, he could very easily use it for protection—or slicing the Thanksgiving turkey, whichever comes first. “Got a knife and a broken vase,” Dean says and takes an index card from his pocket. Writing down the contents, he tapes the paper to the box and moves on.
The first hour moves leisurely, with the two of them calling out whatever they find—knives, amulets, a cursed salt and pepper shaker that Castiel immediately seals shut in an airtight bag—and jotting it down on cards. Nothing of interest, and nothing really worth selling except for the set of jade chinaware, until Dean finds a box. Nothing ornate, just a brown box reading Cohiba Sublimes with a República de Cuba import sticker slapped on the front.
“Cigar box,” Dean says. Marking it down, he leaves the card on the shelf and takes the box. “Hey, you think it’s got anything in it?”
Before giving Castiel the chance to answer, Dean opens the box and finds a mess of metallic powder inside, none of it looking in any way cigar-shaped. “Glitter bomb,” he jokes. Only, Castiel doesn’t take it lightly, and emerges from his corner in a frantic rush. Dean drops the box in a panic; most of the powder, he salvages by slamming the lid closed, but the rest flies either onto his shoes or in his face. Mostly his face—why he expected anything else is a mystery.
“Dean,” Castiel scolds and takes the box, only afterward checking on Dean. “Are you—”
“Priorities, man.” Yanking one of his gloves off, Dean spits glitter onto the floor and wipes his mouth. “Check me before you get the box, Jesus Christ.”
Castiel rolls his eyes, setting the box atop the shelf. “Forgive me for reacting,” he says. He taps Dean’s cheeks and checks his mouth, despite Dean’s complaints. “Show me your tongue.”
“Cas, come on—”
“What did it taste like?”
“Like I ate a box of confetti.” Dean pushes him away, desperate to keep the taste of latex out of his mouth. “Look, it’s probably some old timey joke. Trick the next guy who finds it into getting a mouthful of stripper dust. Can we just get on with it?” Brushing off his shoulders, he ignores the skeptical look Castiel throws at him. “Seriously, man.”
“Things aren’t just left here accidentally,” Castiel says, edging closer.
A shameful heat spreads up Dean’s chest, and his heart clenches, suddenly both enrapt and terrified. Over what, he doesn’t know, but the closer Castiel gets, the further the heat spreads, soon spiraling southward. Not the right time, Dean berates himself. That doesn’t stop him from grabbing the nearest shelf, knuckles white around the metal rack. The distance between them feels both too close and not close enough—and the minute Castiel touches his shoulder, Dean sees stars.
“Something’s—” Dean pants and looks up to the ceiling, heart in his throat. “Something’s in that box—”
Dean waits for the inevitable I told you so to fall from Castiel’s mouth, or something equally similar and degrading. Nothing comes—just Castiel’s palm to his throat, and his nose pressed to Dean’s neck, like smelling him will solve the problem. No, all Castiel says is, “Omega,” like Dean is supposed to understand what that means, and latches onto the spot beneath Dean’s ear with his lips.
And Dean frantically slams his heel into the shelf. “Shit, shit, Cas,” he wheezes and wrenches away. The pain is a welcome distraction, until the second wave of lust or whatever it is threatens to send him back into Castiel’s arms. Backed against the wall, he pinches his eyes shut. “Shit, something’s—why’m I so hot—”
“Listen to me,” Castiel says—whispers, probably, but to Dean, it might as well be a shout. An order. “Dean, whatever was in that box isn’t of this realm. This is angelic magic, something humans haven’t—”
“Faster, man,” Dean huffs. Unconsciously, he rubs the inside of his thighs, acutely aware of how tight his clothes fit and the hairs on his skin, and a sudden seeping wetness that reminds him of a woman when he reaches into her jeans—“Fuck, I think I’m—Why’m I wet—”
“Dean.” Castiel clasps Dean’s shoulders—and Dean moans, the pressure alone almost enough to set him off. “Dean, listen to me. Can you listen?”
“Hard,” Dean whines. Only by sheer force does he not rip into his sweats.
Castiel works his way closer, close enough that Dean can feel the heat rolling off him. The sudden scent of musk and cloves and something his hindbrain supplies as mate overwhelms him, beckoning for him to open his legs and let Castiel take. “This is a spell,” Castiel says, lips to Dean’s ear. Shuddering, Dean grapples with Castiel’s suit jacket in a vain attempt to yank him in. “There’s a biology that makes angels different from humans, only I didn't think anyone could create a spell to simulate the same effect in a human.”
“Little less talk.” Dean yanks Castiel’s sleeve. “Why is my ass wet, man—”
“Omega,” Castiel repeats, heat in his voice and a desperate edge in his tone. “You’re my omega—”
“Stop, just—“ With all of his strength, Dean shoves Castiel away. Only a step, but it makes all the difference. “Cas. Explain, now. Please, I’m losing my damn mind.”
Seconds pass, and all Dean hears is the sound of his own heart in his ears and Castiel’s labored breathing. Seconds, and no further movement. Dean’s heart calms just the slightest, and he opens his eyes to find Castiel leaning against the shelf, palms pressed to his eyes and a sizeable bulge in his slacks. At lease this isn’t only affecting Dean, then—or, maybe Dean is the catalyst, and Castiel can’t control himself.
“Angels are different than humans, in every sense,” Castiel says, lowering his hands. A faint red outlines his irises, bringing out the blue in his eyes more. “We’re not the creatures you knew from your Bible stories, nor the creatures you’ve come to know. Some of us are… different.”
Swallowing, Dean nods along. “Different how?”
“Breeding.” Castiel sucks in a breath. “Our senses are heightened, acute enough to even smell if someone’s lying, or amused, or—aroused. You wouldn't be able to sense it.”
Dean scoffs. “Trust me, I got eyes, man. I can tell if someone’s turned on.”
“But not like this.” Just looking at him, Dean can tell Castiel wants to move—wants to crowd Dean up against the wall and rail him, because of whatever’s in that box. Not because of a one-off kiss at the end of the world, or because Dean has been head over heels for Castiel for the better part of a decade. Just the box—the box, and nothing else. “Egg-bearing angels possess certain… attributes, to better prepare them for a mate—”
“So I’m leaking because I’ve got a uterus now?” Dean balks—and to his horror, Castiel doesn’t disagree. In a fit, Dean pulls his sweats open and checks to see if someone stole his cock in the last two minutes—still there, and still kicking. “Dude, that’s not—please make this make sense.” His face heats in shame. “Please—”
“It’s a spell,” Castiel reiterates. He takes a cautious step away from the shelf and heads in Dean’s direction, all while Dean backs up against the wall, chest heaving. “It’ll wear off. But until then, you’re essentially an… omega.”
Shaking his head, Dean palms his sweats again. “You keep saying that,” he breathes, hunching over. “Still don’t know what that means. Or why I’m—”
“Think of yourself as one of your former partners.” Under the fluorescent lights, Dean watches Castiel’s shadow advance, the tips of his boots just entering Dean’s vision. “You could feel when they were aroused, you could tell when you sank into them, how soft they were inside—”
“Okay, okay.” Standing, Dean sucks in a breath through his nose. “So I’m like—turned on, or whatever. Fine.” Really, it’s fine. His dick does the same thing, but not to this degree. “And so you’re what, the same, or—”
“The opposite.” To demonstrate, Castiel takes Dean’s hand and presses it to the tent in his pants, and Dean nearly swallows his tongue. Not only is Castiel more than turned on, but he’s huge, just like Dean has always fantasized. Dean can’t help but touch him, smoothing his hand over the heated cotton covering Castiel’s cock, feeling it twitch. “Alpha,” Castiel says.
“Alpha,” Dean repeats. “So you’ve got what, a monster cock or something?”
Castiel tilts his head to the side, baring his throat; Dean wants to sink his teeth into it and mark him for everyone to see. “I can show you,” he says, low, the timbre of his voice going straight to Dean’s cock. “But only if you’re willing. If not, we can find another way to reverse the—”
“No, yeah.” Vehemently, Dean nods. “Yeah, just—do we need lube, or—”
Rather than answer, Castiel bodily turns Dean around and shoves him up against the cinderblocks. Head turned, Dean struggles to look over his shoulder to even catch a glimpse of Castiel’s cock, or exactly what he’s planning on doing back there, all before Castiel shoves Dean’s sweats down to pool around his ankles. Stepping out of one side, Dean spreads his legs, tongue between his teeth while Castiel strokes his absolutely soaked cleft, the mess of it painting his balls and his inner thighs. Just like the girls he’s been with—and that only turns him on more.
“Tell me if it hurts,” Castiel says at his back. Palming Dean’s shoulder, Castiel rubs the head of his—massive—cock against Dean’s rim, wetting himself with Dean’s slick. Slick—Dean bites his lip. “I’ve never been with an omega.”
Whatever thought Dean had dies on his tongue the minute Castiel lines up and sinks in, just as easily as it’s always been with Dean on Castiel’s end. A moan caught in his throat, Dean claws at the wall, spasming around Castiel’s girth. No trace of pain—Castiel just fits, filling Dean in a way he always craved but never thought he’d find. Gripping Dean’s hip, Castiel rears back, slow and borderline taunting, before he shoves inside, a quick snap that leaves Dean breathless. Again, and again, until the mess of slick between his legs is a certifiable stream, leading to the hottest noises Dean has ever heard. Coming from him—coming from them.
Dean lets out a moan, his hand sliding down the wall. “Cas,” he pants and reaches back, palming the backs of Castiel’s slacks. If only they were naked, then Dean could enjoy this more, just by feeling Castiel’s skin against his own. “Cas, ‘s good, Cas…”
Teeth scrape across Dean’s nape, soothed by Castiel’s tongue tracing a wet spot over his trapezius. Something primal flares in Dean’s gut, the sudden need to be claimed, for Castiel to sink his teeth in. Gripping his cock, Dean pants and fucks into the circle of his fist, fingers slick with precome. And Castiel fucks into him with abandon, his breaths coming in hot, frenzied bursts, chasing a release that Dean knows is waiting. They won’t last long, not like this, while Castiel is manic and Dean is barely hanging onto his sanity.
Castiel continues to take, hands shoving Dean onto his cock well past what Dean thought he could ever manage. And Castiel wants more. “Let me,” Castiel begs, just as something thicker threatens to breach. “Let me in, let me—”
“Yeah,” Dean groans. Feet braced, he shoves back onto Castiel’s cock, and Castiel pulls him closer, onto the swollen flesh that Dean can’t see, but feels. His gut twists—his brain screams at him to let it happen. “Yeah, fuckin’—fuck me, c’mon—”
“Take it,” Castiel pants, “take my knot.”
And Dean does—and comes all over his fist and the wall as soon as it shoves inside, thick and hard and terrifyingly foreign. He clamps down around it anyway, and Castiel bites him, sinking his teeth into the meat of Dean’s shoulder while he comes. In all the other times Dean has felt a man come in him, he never experienced it like this, like both of their orgasms meld into one, robbing him of his sanity and his breath. The wave plateaus for a long few seconds—minutes, maybe, if he had to really guess—and Castiel works him through it, cock still shoved in deep with no sign of softening.
And more fascinating, is that Castiel keeps coming. Releasing his cock, Dean rubs his stomach with his come-slicked hand, just to feel if he’s imagining things. “Fuck,” he gasps, winded. “Fuck, what’s…”
Drawing back, Castiel kisses the bite he left behind, his tongue laving Grace across the wound. “My knot,” he says. “It keeps us from separating.”
“Figured that,” Dean huffs. He pats Castiel’s thigh, tugging at the fabric of his slacks. “You gonna get me pregnant, Cas?”
“Highly unlikely.” Gingerly, Castiel smooths his hands underneath Dean’s shirt, and Dean shivers, his cock giving an interested twitch. “You don’t have a uterus. The most I’ve done is fill you.”
“Hot,” Dean says—and means it. “Is this—did the curse break, or am I still…”
Castiel lets up on his kisses and sniffs behind Dean’s ear. Even without seeing his face, Dean knows that squint anywhere. “I still smell roses,” he says. “Did you put on any perfume?”
Dean laughs. “Not that I know of. So I just… smell like a fucking flower shop, great.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m the only one who can scent you.” Castiel kisses the mark he left behind. “It should go down in a few minutes.”
Great—a few more minutes with Castiel inside him would be amazing, if they were on a bed and not in a cold storage room. “Until we figure this out,” Dean starts, “you wanna fuck? In the bed. My knees are cramping.”
Softly, Castiel hums. “I’ll take you up on that.”
“Sam’s gone for a week,” Dean announces as he walks into the kitchen, cinching the belt of his robe tighter. Castiel looks up from his newspaper, sitting back in his seat. “So we’ve got a whole week alone to work this thing outta my system.”
“Did you call him?” Castiel asks. His eyes follow Dean wherever he moves, no longer circled in red, but the same blue Dean has come to know for so long.
“Called me,” Dean says. He flops into the chair opposite Castiel, propping his chin up on his steepled hands. “He was supposed to go up and see Jody next week anyway, but she called about a case and he went ahead and took off. Guess what’s terrorizing Sioux Falls this week?”
Castiel shrugs. “There could be a number of things,” he says. A mall grin flutters across his lips when Dean laughs.
“You gotta play along, man.” Under the table, Dean toes at Castiel’s socked ankle. “Bigfoot. All nine feet of him, supposedly yanking people out of bed in the middle of the night.”
“That doesn’t sound like sasquatch behavior,” Castiel says, a brow raised.
“Nope.” Leaning back, Dean folds his arms behind his head. “Told him you had me tied up in the basement, and he hopped in the car and left.”
“I hope you put it in less suggestive terms.”
Dean cracks a grin, one that sends Castiel’s eyes back into his head. “Anyway, he’s gone now. Which means,” and he leans forward, pointing a finger at Castiel, “what the fuck is going on? ‘Cause curses I get, but freaky—biology stuff, that’s a new one.”
“It’s a better outcome than I expected, considering.” Castiel folds his arms. “You could’ve been turned into a lizard, or exploded.”
“Or spent the rest of the week picking glitter outta my hair,” Dean huffs. “It’s just—freaking me out, man. One minute we’re fucking—organizing, and the next, you’ve got me pinned up against the wall like I’m in heat or something.”
A red flush spreads across Castiel’s face, peppering the tips of his ears. “You’re not in heat,” he says, serious as ever. Standing, he reaches across the table to cup Dean’s chin; all Dean can do is stare up into his eyes. “The most that’s happened is you’ve become… receptive, I would call it.”
“Probably saves me from using up all the lube,” Dean says. “Look, Cas, I’m… Not that it wasn’t great and all, because it was—” the best fucking thing ever “—but I’m not down for pity fucks just because of some curse.”
“You think I pity you?” Castiel narrows his eyes. He tips Dean’s chin upwards, until Dean fully meets his eyes. No trace of fear, no hurt—just an unbridled sense of devotion, something Dean will never deserve. “Dean, don’t think of this as pity. Think of this as, you have a need, and I can help fulfill it.”
Swallowing, Dean presses his knees together. Such a fucking girl. “I’m not gonna ask you for that,” he says, every bit ashamed. “I can handle it. It’ll probably wear off like all the others, you don’t need—”
“You’re right, I don’t need.” Castiel moves to stand at Dean’s side, still touching him, still keeping Dean in his orbit. Dean turns to him, wrapping his arms around himself. “I want. More than I’ve ever wanted in a long, long while.”
Fuck. So Castiel wants him—but not in the way Dean wants him. Castiel wants him for an outlet, meanwhile Dean wants whatever he can get. And if it’s sex, then he’ll take it, if it means that Castiel will touch him for longer than a fleeting second.
Pressing his thumb to Dean’s mouth, Castiel stands between Dean’s parted legs. Dean lets him in, the only thing he knows how to do, closing his lips around the digit. “Let me take care of you, Dean,” Castiel rumbles. “Will you let me?”
“Yeah,” Dean whispers.
Of course he will—why would Castiel think any different? A lot of reasons, probably. Standing, Dean sways into Castiel, drawn to his warmth and his guiding hands. The second Castiel kisses him, all the air leaves his lungs, and his body reacts in a way he never expected—total submission. They’re alone, after all, and no one else has the key. Sam won’t be back for days—barring a visit from a stray hunter or a demon with a vengeance, they’re alone.
Really, truly alone.
Castiel crowds Dean against the table, stainless steel jammed into the small of Dean’s back; Dean moans as Castiel presses up against him, all hard angles and scalding skin, and the faint bulge of something decidedly filthy grinding against the front of his robe. He tastes like red licorice and sugar, and Dean licks into his mouth, intent on hearing Castiel sigh. “I wanna see your cock,” Dean says—begs, practically—and reaches for Castiel’s belt.
Maneuvering an angel takes much less effort when they’re turned on, Dean finds. Spinning Castiel into the table, Dean slides Castiel’s belt from the loops and drops it to the floor. He kneels, ignoring how his knees ache on the hard tile, and unzips Castiel’s fly, yanking his slacks and his boxers down mid-thigh. Objectively, Castiel’s cock doesn’t look any different—maybe thicker than most, and longer than Dean’s by an inch or two, but it’s a dick. Fleshy, uncut and hardening with every passing second.
Aside from the base. Any other time, and Dean would swear Castiel needed a urologist. But touching it draws a groan from Castiel’s throat, and kissing it makes him hiss. “This your knot?” Dean asks, sly, laving his tongue over the swollen flesh. Castiel grabs him by the hair, not exactly tugging, but applying more pressure than necessary to keep Dean in place. “What’s it do?”
Lip between his teeth, Castiel lets out a breath through his nose. “It supposedly increases the likelihood that an omega will conceive,” he says, slow. “Though, I’ve always thought of it as a way to keep closer after orgasm.”
“So, cuddle time?” Dean laughs. Castiel agrees, petting through Dean’s hair. “You gonna choke me if I blow you?”
“I’ll try not to knot your mouth,” Castiel says. Not exactly a promise—Dean suspects if he wanted, Castiel would, but the older he gets, the worse his gag reflex becomes, and keeping a cock in his mouth for more than ten minutes is asking for trouble.
Dean takes his time at first, kissing trails up Castiel’s length, familiarizing himself with just how hot Castiel burns, and how he twitches when Dean ventures close to the head. Beneath his robe, a sudden wetness seeps from his hole, painting his thighs with the mess. They ruined the storage room earlier, and only by a miracle did he manage to wipe up the mess without any stains left behind. Dean has never been this wet in his life, not even after that night with Susanna and the weirdest dildo he’d ever seen.
And Castiel only makes it worse, from the heat in his eyes to the way his cock feels in his mouth. Briefly, Dean flicks his tongue beneath Castiel’s foreskin, only to be rewarded with a rush of precome and a moan that could shatter glass. Tauntingly, he gathers Castiel’s balls into his palm and rolls them, squeezing hard enough for Castiel to flinch; his cock hardens even further, and Dean pushes the foreskin back and closes his lips around the head.
And Castiel moans, deep and rough and everything Dean needs. Dean holds Castiel still with a palm to his hip, the other still fondling his sac while Dean bobs up and down his length. Not very far, not making a show of it. Something tells him Castiel wouldn't appreciate anything that doesn't immediately involve getting him off, impatient as he is. Besides, Dean’s not in his twenties anymore; maybe back then, he could deepthroat at his leisure, could spend all afternoon with a cock in his mouth without a worry in the world.
Now, he focuses solely on getting Castiel off while struggling not to touch himself in the process. He probably could—Castiel wouldn't mind, but this is more fun. Later, his tongue will ache and he’ll taste Castiel every time he licks his lips, but in the moment, he revels in everything Castiel gives him, and more.
“Dean,” Castiel pants. Looking up, Dean finds Castiel staring down at him. Not exactly the most flattering angle, but the heat in his eyes spurs Dean on, makes him want to try harder. His hand trembles where he holds Dean in place, his breaths hastening. “Dean, I need—”
I know, Dean thinks. Sinking further, his nose tickles the definite swell of Castiel’s knot, thick and throbbing and in desperate need of touch. Releasing his hold on Castiel’s sac, he massages Castiel’s knot, only for Castiel to buck. Barely, Dean manages to pull back before Castiel can choke him. Pulling off, Dean presses the flat of his tongue to Castiel’s slit. “Come on me,” he says. “Give it to me Cas, c’mon.”
Castiel tugs harder at Dean’s hair, to the point of pain, and Dean keeps on course, keeping up the pressure on Castiel’s knot while he sucks Castiel’s cock, cheeks hollowed and tongue teasing every vein it can find. His knot spasms in Dean’s palm, and Dean takes that as a cue to pull off, just in time for Castiel to groan and spill fat trails across his cheek and down his neck. For a long minute, Dean watches Castiel come, his muscles pulled taut and trembling in the throes of pleasure. All the while, an absolute mess of his spend drips down Dean’s throat, seeping into the collar and the front of his robe. Ruined—and Dean doesn’t mind in the slightest.
It takes another minute, but Castiel breathes again, legs weak and his breaths shuddering. Dean laps at the mess coating his lips, and Castiel shivers, his knot throbbing in Dean’s hand. Feeling it inside him is one thing—seeing it is an entirely different experience. Dusky and hot, Dean kisses it, only for more come to spurt from Castiel’s cock, painting Dean’s ear. “No one ever blow you before?” Dean asks. Above him, Castiel shakes his head, still at a loss for words. “Was that any good?”
“I think you underestimate your prowess,” Castiel says, and Dean laughs. “That was very good, Dean.”
“Glad to be of service,” he says with a grin. Standing, he sneaks in a kiss, and gasps when Castiel pulls him in to lick his spend from Dean’s skin. In his robe, his cock leaps, and a fresh rush of slick spills down his thighs. “Not to rain your parade, but I’m having a situation here—”
“I can smell you,” Castiel rumbles. He goes for Dean’s tie, and Dean shoves his hands away. “Dean—”
“Uh-uh.” Stepping back, Dean cinches his robe tighter. “Bed. If I’m gonna get fucked, I’m not screwing up my knees any more than I have to.”
And he leaves the room, with Castiel right on his heels, pants half-off and belt nowhere to be seen.
As nice as Dean’s bedding is, he can’t bear to have it stained on a regular day, let alone now. Stripping the sheets from the mattress, Dean grabs a towel from the hamper and spreads it across the bed, all while Castiel watches him from the doorway. A red ring tinges his irises, for reasons Dean doesn’t quite understand but also refuses to ask. Too much biology for one day, and not enough food.
One thing he has noticed, is that Castiel’s knot doesn’t last as long when it’s not in him. A few minutes left unattended, and Castiel already has his pants zipped like nothing happened. Nothing, save for the mess still spread across Dean’s skin. “So has it always been like that?” Dean asks, his back to Castiel as he strips out of his robe. Looking away is easier than having to watch Castiel’s eyes widen. “I mean, I know you’ve had sex before—”
“I can hide it,” Castiel says, strained. Fabric shifts from a few feet away, the definite sound of Castiel adjusting himself. “Humans wouldn’t… understand. I’m surprised you’re taking this as well as you are.”
Dean shrugs. “Some people are just vanilla,” he says, then weighs his options.
He could turn around and help Castiel undress, but the thought of looking at him makes him antsy in a way he shouldn't be. Because this is Castiel, his best friend, and Castiel shouldn't want to fuck him like he does—is. Crawling onto the bed seems to be the easier route. Crawling on the bed means he doesn't have to look at Castiel’s face, or try to wrestle him out of that coat he rarely takes off. Someday, Dean will drag him to Walmart and tell him to go to town, just so whenever they do this, he doesn’t have to unwrap Castiel like the world’s most annoying present.
His knees protest when he climbs onto the mattress, still aching from the kitchen floor. The memory foam cradles him, easing his muscles as he positions himself, ass in the air and arms wrapped around a pillow. A position he knows too well—and one Castiel can’t resist, based on the noise he makes. The bed dips, and gentle hands settle around his waist, trailing lower, to the tops of his thighs.
“You present yourself to me,” Castiel rumbles, kissing Dean’s tailbone, “like I’m supposed to refuse you.”
“Was kinda hoping you wouldn’t,” Dean chuckles. He wiggles his ass, earning a sharp press of dull nails into his skin. Between his legs, his cock twitches and throbs, no doubt visible to Castiel. “C’mon, I got you off. Think it’s time you return the favor.”
Castiel huffs a laugh. “Is that what you think?” he muses. The next kiss, Castiel’s tongue joins in, creeping down his cleft to where he’s slick and waiting. Where he shouldn't be soaked, but for once, Dean takes the curse as a blessing, if it means they don’t have to waste time with prep. Intimate or not, Dean is impatient on the best of days, and Castiel teasing him doesn’t make the situation any better. “I think I should make you wait.”
“Think you’re enough of an ass that you’d do it,” Dean laughs—then moans, sinking his teeth into his spare pillow.
Worst of all, Castiel holds him still. Tongue swiping over Dean’s hole, Castiel gathers up his slick like he plans on cleaning every inch of him. And he might—for all he knows, Castiel has a thirst he’s never been able to slake, and Dean is his only source of water in the desert. And Dean lets him, panting into the pillow while Castiel feeds him his tongue, stroking and prodding at his rim in an effort to dip inside. He drags his index finger through the mess and sinks in, and Dean practically caves, his body responding before his brain has a chance to catch up.
Of the scant few times anyone’s ever eaten him out—maybe twice, if he had to count—no one ever used their fingers. Just their tongue, and their hands, whenever they wanted to spank him red. Purely foreplay, with no intent on getting him off that way. But Castiel isn’t like them—Castiel lavishes him, prepping him with kisses and scalding licks while he curls his finger up into Dean’s prostate. “Cas,” he moans, clenching around Castiel’s finger. “Cas, please…”
A fresh rush of slick pours free, and Castiel devours it, spreading it across Dean’s cleft. He uses some of it to wet his middle finger and slides it alongside the other, both of them doing their damnedest to get Dean off before he can get his cock in there. “Don't,” he pants. “Don’t wanna come yet, Cas, c’mon—”
But Castiel doesn’t listen. If anything, he just sinks in a third and fourth, and Dean has the sneaking suspicion that if he wanted, Castiel could get his fist in there. Briefly, he wonders if this is what every woman he’s ever slept with has felt, after he took his time to warm them up, made them come on his tongue enough times to soak his face and everything between. Fucking them after that was easy—Dean now understands the appeal.
The wet noise of Castiel’s fingers fucking into him clenches his stomach, his balls tight where they hang; Castiel fondles them with his free hand, and Dean whines, torn between pulling away and falling into it. His tongue sweeps in alongside his fingers, wet and stiff and everything Dean needs. “Your decision,” Castiel begins. “You can come like this and you can come on my cock again, or I’ll take you here. Which sounds better?”
“Both,” Dean blurts. If Castiel fucks him now, then he can come sooner rather than later—but if Castiel gets him off, then he can sit back and work up to a second, especially if Castiel’s knot is involved. “The—first one,” he decides, face buried in the pillow. “Wanna feel your cock in me.”
Castiel gives a noise of approval before diving in, his fingers insistent and imploring. It doesn’t take him more than a minute before Dean feels the inevitable clench, the wave cresting and overtaking every one of his senses. He rides it for as long as he can, fabric between his teeth and his hand on his cock, and comes into his first, cock spasming and ass clenching. Castiel keeps up the pressure to his prostate, milking him long past the point of sensitivity, and Dean takes it, lip between his teeth, body riding Castiel’s rhythm.
Then Castiel vanishes, his weight disappearing from the bed. Flipping onto his back, Dean watches him undress, casting his coat and suit jacket to the floor. He unbuttons his shirt with the finesse of a drunken sailor, and somehow manages to get it off without ripping any seams. There’s nothing inherently sexy about it, but Dean can’t look away, enrapt at every inch of tanned skin and tight muscle. Castiel goes for his pants and underwear next, sliding both down his thighs—his thighs—and kicking them off onto the rug. His socks are the last to go—not that Dean sees anything other than Castiel’s cock.
And Castiel intends to give it to him. Kneeing his way between Dean’s legs, Castiel hoists Dean’s thighs around his waist, an elbow hooked around the back of Dean’s knee. Idly, he swipes the silken head of his cock against Dean’s rim, and Dean lets him in, relaxes while Castiel shoves in in one slick slide. The last time someone bent him like this, feet in the air and thighs spread wide, was almost ten years ago, and back then, he didn't worry about pulling a hamstring. But Castiel takes his mind off it, kissing his throat while he builds up a steady rhythm, one Dean adjusts to in no time flat.
Compared to the first time, Dean can actually feel Castiel’s cock, rather than all of his thoughts centering around getting off. Castiel snaps his hips, near punishing in intensity, and Dean rides it, arms around Castiel’s neck and his eyes rolled back in his head. “Fuck,” he hisses, head thrown back. “Fuck, ‘s good, Cas, so good—”
“Dean,” Castiel groans.
Sitting up, he wraps his arms around Dean’s thighs and spreads him wider, gaining more leverage. Not that he needs much, but it gives him a better view of just how hard Castiel is working, muscles flexed and straining with his every thrust. Idly, Dean pets his come-stained hand down Castiel’s chest, teasing a nipple with his thumb. In the dim lamplight, Dean watches him writhe, lips parted and brows pinched. “That good?” he asks, like Castiel will answer any different. “You like that?”
Castiel looks down at him through narrowed eyes. “Don’t tempt me,” he says. A smile curls the corners of his lips, barely there before it’s gone, replaced by a moan. “Dean—”
“Yeah.” Reaching up, Dean cups the back of Castiel’s neck and pulls him in, tasting the slick still clinging to his lips. Castiel drops Dean’s legs and slows his thrusts, favoring a deeper grind than the frantic rush. Faintly, Dean feels the edges of Castiel’s knot beginning to catch, and a rush of heat expands through his gut; his cock gives a feeble twitch, half-hard and more than willing to try again. “Taste good, Cas.”
“It’s you,” Castiel murmurs. He pulls back to suck a biting kiss to Dean’s throat, all teeth and heat.
Dean gets a hand around his cock before Castiel starts again, his rhythm punishing, rattling the headboard; throwing a hand back, Dean stops it from banging against the wall, all while he strips his cock. White hot fire zips through his veins, and his stomach swoops as Castiel’s knot grows, tugging his rim every time he pulls out, only to shove back in. At some point, it catches, and Dean instinctually clamps down around it, just in time for Castiel to bite the curve of his neck.
No one has ever come inside him before, not before earlier today. Lying there, he fists himself while Castiel’s thrusts slow, rough shoves that send his cock deeper as a certifiable torrent floods inside. If Dean had all the working parts, he suspects this is how Castiel would knock him up, with rough kisses and an even rougher fuck. The mess of it seeps around Castiel’s knot, wetting the towel with his spend and Dean’s slick.
All of it—the mess, Castiel’s bite, the scorching heat between them—sets Dean off a second time, come soaking his palm and dripping between his fingers. Unlike his other orgasms, this one sticks around longer, his lungs straining as he fights for air. For the longest time, he basks in the plateau, guided by Castiel’s knot and the lips kissing the wound to his throat. This feels like love, he thinks—a stronger love than he’s ever felt in his life. Not out of pity, but affection, adoration.
“Cas,” Dean whines, but why, he can’t say. Whatever the reason, Castiel kisses him and eases his fears, bringing him down from the high. “Love you,” he says, those two words foreign to his ears.
And to his shock and horror, Castiel says, “I know,” and cradles Dean’s face in his hands. “I love you too.”
Wait. Wait, what?
Over the last few months, Castiel has been working on a garden of sorts. Most of his pots sit on raised benches or hang from eyehooks in the beams of the glass ceiling, and a few trees sit along the sides, ranging from large bonsai to a lemon tree that only produces fruits the size of silver dollars. Most days, Dean can’t stand to even hang around because of the heat, despite the ceiling fans whirring and a mister running once every hour.
During the winter though, he sometimes sneaks away and sits at the iron table outside of the rooftop garden, overlooking the Kansas plains and the empty roads stretching out over the horizon. Today, he stands before Castiel’s massive fountain in the corner, decorated with water lilies and a few goldfish and an assortment of other plants, all sitting under a waterfall. How he got it up here, Dean suspects he didn't do it with pure human strength and ingenuity.
Outside of the greenhouse, snow falls in a flurry of small flakes, bathing everything in a white blanket. Inside, Dean pulls his robe tighter and stares down at the fish. In a way, he envies them for their innocence and the fact that they didn't fall in love with an angel at first sight.
Said angel eventually joins him after thirty minutes of searching. Why Castiel didn't look here first, Dean has no clue, but he’s here now, standing close enough that if Dean wanted, he could reach out and take his hand. He wants—but Castiel is something he can’t have.
“I found that in the subbasement,” Castiel explains. After they untangled and Dean ran off, Castiel stole his sweatpants and one of his Henley’s, both of them fitting entirely too well. “The fish, I rescued from a pet store.”
“They don’t need rescuing,” Dean says, then laughs, shaking his head. “Pretty sure I didn't teach you to steal, man.”
“You taught me numerous things,” Castiel says. He offers Dean a shy smile. “How are you feeling?”
Admittedly, in spite of the curse and the strain in his thighs, Dean feels… fine. Better than fine, actually, but something unpleasant sits in his chest, a thought he can’t quite shake. “I didn’t mean to tell you,” he says, then backtracks. “I mean, I was gonna say something at some point, but I just—didn't think it’d be today.” He stops and scrubs his face. “I had a speech and everything, and I just said it. During sex.”
“That’s a better time than any,” Castiel says, weirdly smug about it. “I knew, Dean.” He rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder, rubbing it through the fabric of his robe. “I’ve known for a while now.”
Sighing, Dean bows his head. “Then why didn't you tell me to get my head out of my ass?” he asks, barely audible to even his ears. “I’m—I didn’t wanna fuck it up, whatever this… thing is between us.”
“You kissed me five minutes before the world was supposed to end,” Castiel says in return. Not accusatory, but… tired. Sad in the way that Dean feels every day. “I was hoping that if we made it, we could talk about it, but… It’s been half a year, Dean, and we’ve danced around it. I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”
Wrong—unbelievably, completely wrong. And the fact that Castiel thinks that… ”No. No, no.” Dean turns on his heel and takes Castiel by the shoulder before he can talk himself out of it. “Look, that’s the last thing… I always wanted to, Cas. Trust me, if it wasn't for fucking… God and his whole shtick, I would’ve told you years ago. But I just—I’m not good at this stuff. Every time I try, I get burned, and… You're my best friend.” He drops his hands, cupping Castiel’s elbows. “You’re it for me. And not just ‘cause I’m old.”
Smiling, Castiel presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek. “I think I’m the only one who can talk about age here.”
“Yeah, yeah, you geezer,” Dean chuckles. “You get me, Cas. You’ve seen my bullshit and you’ve stuck around. You’re either the biggest idiot, or you’re actually in love with me.”
“Maybe some of both.” Again, Castiel kisses him, this time to the lips. “More of the latter.” Pulling free from Dean’s grasp, Castiel palms Dean’s cheeks, sweeping his thumbs under his eyes. “It was you, Dean. All along, it’s always been you. I’ve stuck by your side for the better part of my life, and I’ll stay here for as long as I’m able. I don’t care how many gray hairs you have, or how many scars are etched into your skin. What I care about is that you’re still here.
“We have the rest of our lives ahead of us.” Another kiss; this time, Dean returns it, his heart threatening to jump in his throat. “I’d rather spend my time with you than anyone else.”
Exhausted, Dean tucks his face in the curve of Castiel’s neck. “Sap,” he says, draping his arms around Castiel’s waist. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I’ve been told I’m incredibly attractive,” Castiel deadpans, and Dean snorts. “I’m not lying—”
“No, I know you’re not.” Dean pats between his shoulder blades, tugging slightly at his shirt. “Sure you’re not saying this to make me feel better?”
“I’ve been known to lie in the past,” Castiel says, “but I wouldn't, not about this. I’m tired of waiting.”
“I know.” Dean pulls Castiel in closer, inhaling the scent of him, cotton-soft. “Could’ve been doing this years ago.”
Castiel chuckles, quiet as ever. “It would’ve taken much more effort,” he says, and isn’t that the truth. “I don’t know how long this will last for, or if there’s anything we can do but wait it out, but it doesn’t seem to be hurting you at all.”
“It’s kinda fun, actually,” Dean admits, red-faced. “We could—Haven’t gotten to ride you yet.”
A hand skirts up Dean’s back, settling over his nape. “Then let’s go.”
Sometimes, Dean forgets who Castiel was, before they met. Leader of a garrison, commander of armies—meticulous, thorough, absolute in every sense. Apparently, that extends to the bedroom as well, and all Dean can do is hold on for dear life. For minutes—hours, maybe, Dean can’t exactly tell—Castiel takes his time kissing every inch of Dean’s skin, from his neck to his inner thighs, to his ankles, an area Dean never once thought to be erotic until Castiel got his hands on them.
And worst of all, Castiel refuses to touch his cock. Rather, he spends his time elsewhere, keeping his hands in decidedly tamer places. Meanwhile, Dean tugs at Castiel’s hair and sucks in air, shivering with every exhale. Typically, just being touched wouldn't be enough to get him off, but the anticipation does him in, along with Castiel quiet praises, soothing a persistent ache lingering in Dean’s heart.
“Please,” he whispers when Castiel creeps his way northward again. He kisses Dean with just as much tenderness, and Dean clings to him, every inch of him shaking with need. “Please, can’t—can’t take this. You’re gonna kill me—”
Castiel shushes him with another kiss, a smile curling his lips. “There’s a reason they call it la petite mort,” he says, a hand to Dean’s ribs. He hoists Dean’s thigh around up and around his hip, bringing their cocks flush. “It’s the bliss after release, the utter calm in that one second that for a brief second, you feel as if the world makes sense, as if you could live in that moment forever.”
“Oh, talk philosophical to me,” Dean groans.
Digging his fingers into the small of Castiel’s back, Dean smothers a moan in Castiel’s neck, sucking a mark into his sweating skin. Every inch of him is searing, too hot to touch but not enough to let go. Slowly, he works up a rhythm, swapping kisses with Castiel while he grinds into him; their cocks leak, smearing precome across their abs, and Dean’s thighs grow slicker, soaking Castiel’s where he pins Dean’s open.
“If you were in heat,” Castiel says between kisses, “I could take you every hour of the day, and it’d be the best fuck of your life every time.”
Dean’s cock spasms, balls drawn up near-painfully just from that one word. “Fuck,” he pants. “Fuck, you gotta get in me, man.”
Castiel chuckles. “Not yet,” he teases. “Or do you think you deserve it?”
“I deserve a fucking gold medal,” Dean whines. “Cas, ‘m serious, I’m like, this fucking close to blowing it.”
Low, Castiel hums and drops Dean’s leg to the mattress. Castiel’s mattress, because Dean’s room has too many distractions, and Castiel owns a collection of candles that fulfill Dean’s secret fantasy to be fucked either ritualistically or in the cheesy romance novel way that talks more of making love than being royally plowed. “We’ll have to take care of that then,” Castiel says.
And before Dean can even think about what that might mean, Castiel spreads Dean’s thighs and sinks three fingers into his hole. No preamble, no warning, just the soft warmth of his fingers curled into his prostate. Dean bites his forearm, clenching around Castiel while he fucks his fingers in, the wet noises of it filling the room. For once, Dean doesn’t care, so long as Castiel keeps it up. The higher he climbs, the louder he moans, and the thought of just why they’re here almost flies right out of his head. “Stop,” he begs, seizing Castiel’s wrist. “Stop, stop—”
“What is it?” Castiel pulls free, fingers coated with a glossy mess of slick; Dean’s cock twitches furiously. “Did I—”
“No.” Swallowing, Dean sucks in a breath. “No, just—get on your back. Don’t wanna come yet.”
Yes you do, his brain screams. Dean tunes it out by shoving Castiel down and straddling his waist. Sure, he’s been wet like this for most of the day, but having Castiel underneath him stokes the flames. He won’t last—but that doesn’t matter as long as Castiel is here, and that at some point, Castiel gets that knot into him again.
Rearing up, Dean takes Castiel’s cock from behind and rubs it against his rim; Castiel moans and grips his hips, a harsh breath escaping his lungs. “After we break this curse,” Dean asks, stroking his slick down Castiel’s length, “you gonna hide your knot? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, I think I’m developing a kink.”
Low, Castiel rumbles a laugh. “It might take more effort,” he says with a smirk. “Maybe on special occasions.”
I’m a slut, Dean thinks, then laughs. “Better be every day then, ‘cause I’m gonna need it.”
And he pushes down, his moan more of a strangled whine as Castiel slides into him, guided by slick and nothing else. Castiel bucks up and in that last inch, the barest edges of his knot beginning to inflate—and Dean comes on the spot, trapped between mortification and elation as he spills across Castiel’s stomach. “Fuck,” he wheezes, taking his cock in hand. Fisting the sheets beside Castiel’s head, he sucks in breath after breath, each exhale shuddering. “Fuck, too fast—”
“You did well,” Castiel praises. Dean bites Castiel’s lip without thinking, soothing it with a kiss; and Castiel skates his hand up Dean’s back, settling between his shoulders. “So good, Dean.”
“Fuck.” Head bowed, Dean relaxes and concentrates on breathing. Castiel’s cock refuses to soften, and barely, Castiel shifts his hips, just as impatient as Dean always is. “Now who’s waiting, huh?”
“I know the appeal of foreplay.” Castiel nips his throat, raking his teeth over his pulse point. “But I’m tired of watching.”
“Same,” Dean laughs. “Here, let me show you something.”
Sitting up, Dean sits back on his knees and places his hands on Castiel’s chest. Decades ago, he could do this on his feet for better leverage and give Castiel the view of a lifetime. If he tried that now, he might as well call the hospital in advance. As it is, his thighs strain as he lifts up, then shoves back down, taking Castiel’s cock in full. And Castiel gasps, fingers clenching and nails digging into Dean’s skin. There we go. “Just sit back,” Dean says, clenching around Castiel’s cock. “Feel that?”
Rather than reply, Castiel moans and grips Dean’s thighs. Keeping up a rhythm takes more effort than Dean thought, but he likes this, the closeness of it, the burn in his legs that keeps his grounded. Here, he can touch at his leisure, can lean over at kiss Castiel whenever he wants. And Castiel touches him in return, from his cock to his nipples, the dip of his throat, his tongue. Dean sucks a finger into his mouth, trapping the digit between his lips.
That unfamiliar red ring tinges the corner of Castiel’s eyes, growing deeper in color as his knot swells. “My omega,” Castiel gasps. Holding onto Dean’s hips, Castiel takes over, and Dean falls forward, elbows around Castiel’s head. His thighs thank him for the reprieve. Castiel makes up for the strain with kisses and his brutal pace, cock slick and pulsing and splitting Dean wide.
All too soon, his knot catches, and Castiel comes with a noiseless gasp; Dean basks in it, bearing down on his knot and working his come free. Castiel grinds in deeper almost mindlessly, and Dean strokes himself, content to watch Castiel come for as long as he can. He can come again later—right now, he wants this moment, Castiel’s slack lips against his own, Castiel’s breaths panting hot against his skin.
“Too good,” Castiel says, mouth dry, and all Dean can do is laugh.
“You’re tellin’ me,” Dean says. “Think you just topped my list.”
Castiel lifts a brow. “You have a list of sexual experiences?”
Nodding, Dean kisses Castiel’s forehead. “And you just took the top four.”
In the morning, Dean wakes to more hickeys than he can count and an unpleasant ache in his thighs. Not even Castiel spooned up against him can ease the tension, nor can the kisses Castiel peppers along his nape. “Fucking tired,” Dean groans and covers his face with his arm. “Time is it?”
“Eight,” Castiel says through a yawn. “I’ve been up for an hour.”
Dean drops his arm with a sigh. “Think I need another hour.”
Humming, Castiel continues his string of kisses with no sign of stopping. “The curse let up while you were asleep,” he says, to Dean’s interest. “I felt it snap, so to say. It seems it only lasted until seven.”
“Huh.” Looking over his shoulder, Dean squints at the vague shape of Castiel in the dark. “So that’s it? Twenty-four hours of freaky angel sex and we don’t even get morning quickie?”
Amused, Castiel kisses beneath Dean’s ear. “That can be arranged. I’d rather sleep, though, if you wouldn’t mind.”
And Dean smiles until his cheeks ache. From happiness, adoration—love, most of all. “Took the words right outta my mouth.”