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Cas is a silent sleeper. So silent, in fact, that it nearly gives Dean a heart attack when he wakes up, rolls over and out of nowhere is reminded that he is not alone in this bed. Despite the ensuing shock-shuffle, Cas remains knocked out. Dean wipes his now-damp palm over his face. After some consideration, he sneaks out to use the bathroom.

He makes his way downstairs—kitchen, coffee. He tries to be quiet. He’s been alone out here for so long that he has no clue at what volume he usually operates. Bear hefts himself down the stairs to join him. Outside, the sun rises. Dean listens for movement upstairs. But, nothing.

When getting dressed and ready for work can’t be postponed much longer, Dean tiptoes back to the bedroom. Cas is still asleep. Hasn’t moved an inch. Dean huffs. He grabs his work jeans, exchanges his pajama tee for a regular one. Downstairs—boots—outside. Bear trots along, tail wagging. Dean sniffles and rounds the property. He unlocks the garage, turns on the radio, and gets to work.


Dean didn’t hear anyone coming in, so the bare feet just being there in the corner of his eye make him bark, make him bang his head as his dumb body attempts to flinch upright. He rolls out from under the car carcass.

“Shit. Jesus.”

“I apologize.”

“You startled me.”

“That was not my intention. Did you hurt yourself?”

“No.” Dean accepts the offered cup of coffee. “Uh, thanks.”

Again, “I am sorry,” and Dean takes a first sip and it’s a) piping hot and b) holy shit.

He splutters. “Jesus!”

Castiel frowns, worried. His own cup is clasped in both of his hands. Jeans, an old-looking tee. Dean coughs. Dean’s heart rate feels unhealthy.

“Is it too weak?”

“It—no, Cas. Nope, not too weak at all.”

Cas’ frown softens with relief.

(They said some amount of cultural shock would be bound to happen, of course. They didn’t fucking tell him that sarcasm apparently doesn’t freaking exist in Europe.)

Dean’s cardiovascular system is about ready to leap straight out of his mouth by the time he’s finished the cup. He’ll have to give the guy a lesson or two about coffee unless Castiel would like to be widowed within the next months. Dean eyes him—cross-legged on the garage floor, a polite distance to Dean. His hair is not messy because he didn’t freaking turn in his sleep. Smushed against his skull, though. Could use a wash. Cas doesn’t seem to mind.

“You could have woken me. I would have gotten up together with you.”

“Eh, it’s fine. Figured you could use the rest.”

“Thank you.”

“You sleep well? You were out the second you laid down.”


“No, uh, I didn’t—I mean, it makes sense.” Dean gestures. “Long flight and all that. That shit is exhausting, I don’t blame you.”

“I am rested now. Thank you.” Blue eyes. Rough hands. Dean finds his eyes darting back up to Cas’ face at the sound of him, continuing to speak. “Do you need help?” Castiel nods to the jacked-up car behind them. “I admit my cooperation won’t exceed handing you materials and tools. Then again,” and Cas’ forehead wrinkles as he considers, “I fear my vocabulary might not suffice.”

Dean promises him that it’s fine, I got this, you go back to the house, get settled, get unpacked. Cas hesitates. He says he doesn’t understand—he says he already unpacked. “Settled, like…” Dean looks around. The wrenches lined up on the wall won’t give him a hint. “I don’t know, get used to being…here? I gotta get this one off and ready to go, first, but I can show you around later? We can drive into town if you’d like.”

Cas continues to look puzzled. He says, though, “Yes,” and, “I’ll be out of your way, then,” and Dean wants to hold him back and say no you idiot that’s not what I said, except that he did. He cringes, hands Cas his empty cup to take back to the house. “Call me if you need anything.”

Dean thanks him and watches him waddle away. Barefoot. Geez.

Bear gives a tired sigh from over in his bed in the corner. Dean tells him, “Same, bud.”

It’s awkward. Of course it’s awkward. Would be weirder if it wasn’t—a stranger, basically, moving in with him. Sleeping in his bed. Using his kitchen. Duh—he’s here to marry you, dumbass, isn’t the consolation or solution Dean would prefer, but it’s what he gets. He sighs, ruffles his hair. Scoots back under the car. At least he can bury himself in work for a while.

Noon, break. Dean beelines to the house, the fridge. He finds Cas in front of the TV, on the couch. Curious eyes to Dean. Dean pulls last night’s leftovers from the fridge and pops Cas’ share into the microwave, first.

“You hungry?”

Castiel nods, half-turned towards him. Ad break on the TV. Orange juice for breakfast. Cereal, kids.

They eat in busy silence. Dean’s exhaustion catches up to him. Oil, sweat—he clears his throat, wipes his face with a paper napkin. God, he didn’t even wash his hands.

“Your telephone rang.”

“Oh? Who was it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t pick up.”

“Uh, you can, though. You live here. You know that, right?” Dean tries a smile. Cas doesn’t reciprocate.

Says, “Hm,” instead and keeps eating.

Dean wants to tell him: it’s all right. You don’t have to worry, I’m a man of my word. There is no catch. Just, uh…me. My weird-ass hermit self you gotta deal with. Temporarily, at least.

Dean doesn’t tell him any of those things and gulps down a whole glass of milk instead.


With the day’s worth of labor behind him and a few hundred bucks richer, Dean finally relaxes. Behind the wheel, windows rolled down, blabbering—hell, it’s nice to have company. Feels like ages since Sammy moved out. Dad only calls sporadically and Bobby and Mom have enough on their plate (it’s not like Dean’s not fine or anything). Dean points out the various diners and which dishes he recommends. The little church and the synagogue, I don’t know if you’re a man of God, I gotta admit I ain’t, but I’m not judging; the fire department, the school.

“I wasn’t raised here so I can’t say much about that one,” he admits and Cas doesn’t contribute to his monologue, but he watches and listens. “Lots’a young families move out here in the last couple years. New development up north. Fancy-ass SUVs. Hate ’em.”

The sun crawls closer to the rooftops. Dean leaves the privileged decision for dinner to Cas—who says he’d like to try burgers, so Dean pulls them into the according drive-thru. Parking lot, mall. Dean unwraps his food and starts to eat. Cas is hesitant in the passenger seat.

“C’mon. It’ll get cold,” around Dean’s mouthful. Castiel proceeds to painstakingly unwrap his burger. He picks it up with both hands and rotates it to scrutinize it better. “It’s good,” helps Dean. “Best burger in town, trust me.”

Castiel frowns. Takes a bite, finally. He chews. He looks at the burger in his hands.

Dean wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “And?”

Castiel’s burger squishes in the testing squeeze of his hands. A sliced tomato falls out and onto the spread-out paper wrapping in Cas’ lap. Two cars over, a mother yanks at a bawling child’s arm.

“It’s like I imagined. And yet not at all.”

“Is that, uh…good?”

“I would think so, yes.”

Dean joke-whistles, smiles. Eats. In the corner of his eyes, Cas smiles back at him.

“My expectations so far have been exceeded in general.”

Dean nods in acknowledgement. They toast with their soda cups.

They finish their meals. Castiel puts actual effort into getting his hands clean while Dean just does a sporadic swipe. He pulls them out of the parking lot with his drink in one hand, sipping through the straw, eyes on the road. Busy intersection. He places his drink in the designated holder. The driver in front is distracted by their phone and Dean has to honk at them to move through the green light. He hears Cas slurping his drink.

“Gotta grab some supplies before we head home. That okay? You can stay in the car if you want.”

“I will accompany you.”

“Sure thing.”

Screws, oil. The supermarket is adjacent, so Dean decides to do a quick swipe of that as well. Milk, salt. Some junk, the candy he likes. Cas stays close to him like a duckling. Like Bear.

Dean gently elbows Cas’ arm. Cas blinks, surprised. Dean wriggles his eyebrows at him. Soft pop music. Artificial light.

“Pick what looks good to you. What do you like? Salty? Sweet? Sour?”

Cas’ eyes dart across the shelf. To the bag Dean pulls out and shakes for him to notice, back to the shelf. So, not a gummies type of guy. All right. More for Dean.

They end up with a decent amount of empty calories in colorful plastic wrappings. Of course they sell stuff like this where Castiel comes from, of course; but in America, everything is different, he says. Cas digs into the first bag before Dean can start the car. Cas chews slowly. A thorough taste test.

Dean steals a piece for himself, pops it into his mouth. The streetlights turn on. Dean buckles up, smacks his lips.


“I expected more…fruit. Less sugar.”

“Well,” scoffs Dean, inserting the key, chewing, “welcome to America.”


A quick back and forth of texts with Sam—yeah, he’s good, getting settled, sure you can come over, bring Jess if you want. Dean rubs his hair dry with his towel, still, when Cas rejoins him in the bedroom.

Just a towel on the guy and Dean tenses, surprised, but Cas beelines for the dresser, the two drawers Dean cleared for him. Dean hears him opening the latter, dropping his towel. Fabric; underwear.

Dean turns over his shoulder, begins, “Hey,” and Cas turns as well for being addressed, and. That’s definitely a t-shirt instead of a pair of underwear.


Dean corrects, “Uh,” and Cas supplies,

“I sleep naked. Unless it bothers you, of course.”

“I.” Mi casa es su casa, mi casa es su casa…! “I’m, that’s—fine.”

“I was hoping you would say that. I was very hot last night.” Cas takes a seat on his side of the bed. He begins to peel the sheets off to crawl underneath. His hair is still damp. He doesn’t seem to mind. “They say you Americans tend to be very prude. Please tell me if I make you uncomfortable in any way.”

“Uh—sure.” Dean blinks, whiplash. Cas and Cas Junior carefreely slip under the covers. Cas smells like Dean’s body wash, Dean’s shampoo—assimilated already. Dean clears his throat, fiddles with his phone. Raises it for Cas to see. “Uh, my brother was asking if—”


“Yeah. Uhm, they wanna meet you. His wife and him. Jess. If you’re up for it.”

“Of course.” Cas intertwines his fingers behind his head. His elbows point outwards. “It only makes sense for me to meet your family. I am looking forward to it.”

Dean mumbles, “Yeah,” and thumbs his phone on, off. Another look over his shoulder, to Cas. Who yawns, blinks. “Just, y’know. I wanted to ask you first.”

“Thank you.”

Cas proceeds to stretch. He sits up to pull his fresh shirt right off again, drops it onto the floor next to the bed. Oh, tattoos.


“Uh, what?”

“When will they come over?” repeats Cas, laying back down, bare-chested and his hair in soft, wet curls and those damn blue eyes, and. Jesus, Dean, calm down.

“I don’t…” Dean holds up his phone, kneads his towel. “We’re still, uh, figuring that out. Weekend, maybe,” and Cas hmms and curls in on himself, one arm under his head. Facing Dean. Closing his eyes.

Soft, “Okay,” and maybe Dean is a little prude. Maybe he is.

They go to sleep. No touching, no nothing. Again.

Sam had started it as a joke, like most things in Dean’s life are—you know, there are companies that, like, matchmake for you? Deliver them to your door and everything? Sam probably thought he was so freaking funny. Smart-ass. That’s what you get for confiding in your little brother.

Finding and starting relationships is not the tricky part for Dean—the upkeep is. And he wasn’t taking it too seriously when he filled out that online questionnaire, slightly inebriated, equally ashamed and excited to be buying into Sam’s bullshit at all, but…the concept has its obvious charms. Like purchasing a new toy. Dean’s got experience with sex workers. This felt a little bit like that, minus the tedious paperwork. It’s good they’re careful about participants. Then again, Dean probably isn’t such a great candidate himself.

They didn’t involve Castiel until way into the negotiations. When they finally let them exchange email contacts, that first video call… That had been fun. Thrilling, even. Reality, hitting home like a brick to Dean’s stomach—this is happening. Somehow, you are doing this.

Not serious at first, as said, but the longer he thought about it, actually started getting sucked into the process, it… Those people want to come here, live here. Dean hasn’t amounted to much in his life so far, so why not help one of those poor suckers out? The least he can do is be a decent person. And, well. His personal attempts on a life partner hadn’t been so swell. If those self-proclaimed ‘professionals’ can’t find him a good match, at least he’ll come out of this whole schtick with the diagnosis of Generally Incompatible Douchebag. He could live with that. Better than keeping up this tiring game of trial and freaking error.

Part of it is…hell, he’s just not cut for it. For being attentive and amazing and breathtaking—he likes to work and to hang out with a beer and pizza on Friday nights; he ain’t no gym guy, no matter how often he tries to convince himself. And the people who sign up for this shit on the other end of the line—Dean’s not fucking stupid, of course they’re in it for the visa, not for the partner. And that is—calming, in a way. Dean had to pay, sure (basically a mere deposit, but still), and there’s the risk of taking a maniac under your roof, but…Cas and him, right from the start, it had just…clicked.

Which is fucking stupid to say after, what, ten contacts in total before they flew Cas in? A bunch of weeks of emails, sporadic as fuck since Cas apparently had to travel to the nearest big city to get internet and PC access? Right now, sleepless in bed, Dean’s heart hammers up against his tongue at the memory of Cas’ mouth, pressing thin upon Dean finally blurting crap about so uh you don’t mind I’m a guy right and Cas typing, not saying, huddled in that tiny-ass internet café—I do not mind it, no. All a little sketchy. Other countries, other levels of discrimination against queer folk. Dean read up on it. Dean decided that no matter what, he’d like to help Cas get out of there, if that is what Cas wants. That fucking…‘savior’ bullshit. Their power dynamic is fucked. Comes with the game.

So Dean lies here, in his bed, with this basically-a-stranger who is butt-naked and sleeping like a baby. Like this is normal, to travel to a different continent to marry someone he barely even knows, and then—what? Work here? Settle down with Dean? Get the paperwork done and disappear to chase his very own American dream, whatever that may entail?

Dean rolls over (again). Sighs. Grumbles.

The whole not being alone in bed anymore sure turned out different from what he expected.


Cas enjoys taking Bear for walks; walks in general. Dean cringes, but Cas assures he doesn’t mind going by himself. He requires the solitude every now and then, he says. Cas, too, needs to acclimatize to this new closeness, after all.

Cas explains he was in his teens when he moved out to find work. He lived with relatives here and there, was used to close quarters and feeling isolated all at the same time, on the move a lot. No partners. “A few…coincidences took place, though,” he admits, discreetly, and Dean splutters a small laugh over his fifth beer and Cas can’t help but chuckle himself. Soft, by the fireplace. Bear is permanently rolled to his back so Cas’ toes can keep scratching his belly.

Cas’ eyes are slitted, his body loose with his beer-buzz. God, Dean wants to ask. He can’t move, though.

Up on the couch, feet stacked on the coffee table. Cas and he exchange another long, knowing glance, before Cas turns back to his drink, clears his throat around another light scoff.

“But nothing serious.” Another glance up at Dean. Cas sits on the floor by choice. Dean drags his thumb across the split label of his bottle. Cas mirrors it. “What about you?”

“Me?” Dean laughs. Laughs a little more as the question sinks in. He wipes at his mouth, back through his hair. Shifts, chuckles—Cas remains waiting, smiling. Dean scoffs. Mumbles, “I dunno,” like he’s young and shy all over again. Stomach full of butterflies and all that. Jesus. Okay, last drink for tonight. “I… There’s been people, of course. Been dating, on and off. Nothing really stuck, though.”

“I see.”

“You like girls at all? Or…?”

“I tried. A few times.” Cas eyes swim low. He blinks and thumbs the neck of his bottle. “But…it’s men, for me. I think.” Dean acknowledges. Cas’ eyes flick up to him. “Do you…?”

“Oh, I, I like everything. As said.”

“Right. You told me that already, didn’t you?”

“Think I did. Sorry, maybe I’m mixing stuff up. Getting late,” Dean says, swinging his almost-empty beer between them. Cas hums, nods. “But, yeah. I’m not picky. But I do like guys.”

“You must have stated it in your application if they connected you with me.”

“Guess I did.”

“So, you were looking for a husband,” concludes Cas, and Dean swallows and feels some color rising into his cheeks as he nods.

“I guess.”

Cas nods again. He reaches out to pet Bear for real, scratches behind the Saint Bernard’s floppy ear. Bear grunts with appreciation. Dean scoffs. Spoiled idiot.

Cas begins, “It’s all very odd, isn’t it?” and Dean nods. The firewood cracks. Bear’s tail wags absently. “I am glad to be here, though. Despite it all.”

“I’m glad about that, too.”

Cas looks at him.

Dean’s face heats further. More bottle fumbling. The beer must be warm from being clutched in his stupid hands for so long.

“Dean,” murmurs Cas, still stroking Dean’s dog, “we don’t have to have sex if you don’t want to.”

Dean opens his mouth. Thinks better of it. Closes it again.

He feels Cas’ eyes on him. Waiting. Giving him space. (Too much of it, really.)

“It’s—” Dean falters. Starts anew. “Look, I’m—I’d love to, actually,” and he just avoids looking at the guy, and that helps. Stares into the fire, gestures with his beer, elbows on knees. Dean’s stomach pools hot. Jesus, Sam, look what you fucking did. “But I just—I don’t want you to feel like you have to. Like, I didn’t have them fly you here just so we could—”



“Would you like to go upstairs?”

Dean manages to nod.

Awkward. God, godawfully awkward. He follows Cas up the stairs. Merely a week, you don’t even know him—hasn’t stopped you before—no; this is different.

In the bedroom, Cas turns so they can look at each other. Dean doesn’t close the door.

Cas is—handsome, hot, whatever you wanna call it. His face and his hands and his eyes and his body and—oh, a hug. He is hugging you. Hug him back, you idiot.

Cas feels as firm as he looks. Dean is taller. Dean knew as much.

“I am nervous as well.” Cas’ voice is muffled by Dean’s shoulder. Dean feels their hearts beating inside their pressed-closed chests. He hugs Cas tighter. Gets hugged tighter in return. “I appreciate that you care so much. You are a kind man.”

“Tryin’ my best,” jokes Dean, and then Cas pulls back and kisses Dean.

Straight-forward. Like it’s the right thing to do.

Dean’s eyes flutter. They kiss again.


Cas is the one who stops, hides his face against Dean’s neck. Dean feels him humming, squeezes him—wow. Oh, wow, he’s in a bad way for this one.

“That was nice,” says Cas.

Dean nods into Cas’ hair, swallows. Rubs Cas’ back. So many thoughts. His fantasies accumulate, his hopes and worries about how all this would play out, how it’d be, how Cas would be… It’s all such a mess. He has no clue where to start untangling.

Cas kneads at Dean’s back. Drags his hand lower until he can squeeze Dean’s ass. Pulls him in by the hips, crotch to crotch—makes Dean aware of how this is affecting both of them equally, and. Wow. Just…wow. This dude.

“We will take this as slow as we need to.”

“Heh… When did this turn into you, consoling me?” Dean gets a kiss as a reply. He hums. Gets felt up, still. “I’m not complaining,” he assures, and thank God, Cas kisses him into silence.

Groping. Kissing. God, the guy is chiseled. The back of Dean’s knees bumps the bed eventually and sinking down on it is not a bad idea at all. More kissing. Cas remains standing; Dean peers up with his fingers on the waistband of Cas’ jeans. Cas fixes him. His breath quickened; his chest moves with it. Two hands cupped around Dean’s head, thumbing his ears—God, you’re gonna marry this guy. Your to-be husband. A great kisser.

“Tell me what you want.”

Oh, Jesus. “Uh. You, shirtless?” Cas complies. “Wow. Yeah, that’ll do.”

Cas crowds between Dean’s legs and kneads at Dean’s traps under his t-shirt, slid into the already-ruined neckline—Dean is reeling. Licks his lip. Roams his hands up and down Cas’ jeans-clad thighs.

“What else?” (Cas doesn’t smile, speaks soft. Low.) “Tell me.”

“You, on me?”

Dean gets that one, too. Gets crawled over and kissed with Cas straddling him, pushing them together where it counts—Dean grunts, starstruck. Lets him. Licks into Cas’ mouth, tastes his breath. Feels the latter stuttering, feels Cas moving. Slow. Careful. Testing.

Dean cups the back of that neck. Gets his tee pushed high, gets hands feeling up his stomach, his chest. It’s been so long, doing this (mostly) sober. With the prospect of having the person stay the night—hell, the next eighty-or-so days, minimum. This. This is what he wants.

“You are beautiful.” Dean snickers in response. “I mean it. On the internet, and later, at the airport, I thought… I still can’t believe how lucky I am.” Dean laughs. “I mean it. Don’t laugh. I mean it.”

“Makin’ me blush like a schoolgirl, Cas,” mumbles Dean, delirious, and Cas smiles, finally, even if mischievous. Dean likes that.

Cas keeps driving his dick against Dean’s. Bows to get at Dean’s neck, sucks and bites a line down to his chest. Dean groans. Helps ridding himself of his tee, unbuckles his belt, lets Cas handle the fly of his jeans. Lays back, arms behind his head—Cas’ eyes flick to him in search of permission, which Dean grants. God, this guy’s hands. Dean hisses, sensitive already.

“Even here,” he hears. Dean’s stomach flinches with that first, full stroke. “You are not fair.”

“Come back here so I can kiss you.”

Cas does that. Keeps moving his hand and uses the other for balance. Dean groans into the kiss. Roams his hands—arms, shoulders, upper back, lower back, obliques.

“Can I?”

Cas nods. Dean works that button-fly open—no underwear.

“Fuck… How are you so hot?”

“It’s a natural reaction when—” Cas’ voice falters. His eyes roll. “—when…you do that.”

Dean snickers, wrings his hand. Catching up.

“You’re…God, Dean…!”

“Here, c’mon.” Dean’s available hand pushes into the back of Cas’ jeans and nudges him back into movement. “Let me feel you.”

Cas nods, rubs them together without any layers in the way. They withdraw their hands and Dean watches their cocks making out between them until Cas knocks their mouths together anew. Dean’s hands worship those shoulders. Those arms.

“Fuck,” he growls, “I’m so fucking glad you asked to go upstairs,” and Cas chuckles against his chin before he kisses Dean again.


After a moment of careful consideration, Castiel decides: “It could be weirder.”

“How?” Dean snorts. He throws Bear’s toy again. Bear takes off. Dean sips coffee. Cas’ knee is warm against his own.

“It just could. I am sure.” Cas’ turn to throw the toy. He throws farther than Dean. Dean pulls a face. “Arranged marriages is a very common practice all over the world. Actually, marriage out of love is a recent phenomenon. For many, it is a privilege.”

“Wow. Talk about romance.”

Cas frowns, confused. Dean throws Bear’s toy again. It hits the gatepost. Dean smirks with satisfaction. Cas sips his coffee, next to him.

Lunch; sandwiches. Dean likes the crusts off—Cas steals them off the cutting board.

“Hey, careful; I’m working here.”

Cas hugs him from behind. Clasps his hands in front of Dean’s lower stomach. Dean scoffs, throws him a look. Cas digs his chin into Dean’s shoulder. Dean keeps preparing their food.

“I can be romantic, if you prefer that.”

“Don’t strain yourself, buddy.”

“You don’t seem like a romantic man. You are…what do you Americans call it…macho.”

“More like mucho hungry. C’mon, Cuddles, time for grub.”

They eat. Cas keeps looking at Dean. Dean glares. Cas doesn’t care.

Cas lets Dean work in peace. No interference until after four, and it’s a nice day out, they could go somewhere, maybe. A hike. Castiel likes hikes. Town. A museum. Castiel brought home a flyer for some new exhibition.

Making out against the garage door is pretty fucking swell, too, though.

Dean hums. The metal is hot against his back. Cas holds his face cupped and licks into him. His jeans are so loose Dean can push his hand into the back without popping a single button.

Cas is hard. Dean is hard. What else is new.

Dean hums. Rubs up and down between Cas’ cheeks, through his pubes. Hot. Cas lets him. Kisses Dean’s chin, the side of his mouth, down his neck.

“Is this closer to your expectations?”

“Could get used to my workdays ending like this, not gonna lie.”

Cas hums. Dean feels him smile. Feels him rocking against his hand, rubbing his dick against Dean’s hip. Yeah. Yeah, meets Dean’s expectations all right. Dean closes his eyes in bliss and smiles along.

“Call me a douchebag all you want, but…I hoped it would be like this. That you’d be into it. Into me.”

Cas looks at him for that. God, those eyes. “Dean,” hears Dean, “in what possible universe would anyone not be into you?”

“You know what I mean.” (Dean is flattered nonetheless.) Dean cups Cas’ ass with the hand not currently inside Cas’ pants. “Like, this. All of this. The whole seedy mail order bride kinda deal. Screams ‘coercion’ to me, if you know what I mean.” They hold eye contact. “I’m not…you don’t feel forced to do any of this, right?”

Cas grabs Dean’s dick over his jeans. Unbroken eye contact.

“Would you like me to assemble a written statement, perhaps?”

“Hmmm. Sarcasm. You’re quick.”

“I might do it,” muses Cas, kneading. “Unless you prefer me repeating for the unforeseeable future that my efforts in courting you are very much born of my own desires. Urges, even.”

“God.” Dean groans. “God, I hate how hot it is to me when you talk like that.”

“I don’t blame you. High intellect is a very arousing quality in a person.”

Dean kisses the idiot. Swears he feels him chuckle, gets the heel of that hand grinding on his dick and firms his fingers in response, rubs hard and dry over the wrinkles of Cas’ asshole. God, he wants.

“I potentially could leave any time. I am aware of this. After all, vows don’t mean a thing anymore, these days,” murmurs Cas, drawing back. Dropping to his knees. Unbuckling Dean’s belt. “But I like it here. With you. It is quite entertaining.”

Cas has to pause his stupid little moment to wrap his lips around Dean’s dick and swallow it the fuck down.

Oh, holy fucking shit.

“Actually, I am starting to suspect that your worries stem from a diminished sense of self-worth, presumably derived from a complicated upbringing—”

“Oh my God, dude,” but thankfully, Cas has mercy and gets Dean back down his throat, and Dean can shudder against the metal front of his garage and feel his knees buckle in dignity.


“So.” Dean doesn’t look but he knows exactly what smug fucking face his little brother is making at him right now. “Things are good, huh?”

Dean interrupts his bread slicing action to cuff Sam. “Shut up.”

“You like him.”

“Turn off the oven or we’re eating bricks tonight.”

“Oh, you really like him.”

Dean glares. Sam does as he is told, at least, even if with a too-wide grin.

Dinner is nice. Jess is being the angel that she is, asking lots of questions while her no-good husband observes in amused silence. Cas replies politely, measured. Dean drinks but thinks to pay subliminal attention.

They cover all the curious stuff Dean already inquired about. Castiel explains his teaching background, his mostly self-taught English skills with the help of dictionaries and outdated novels. That it wasn’t easy, back home and he is aware it won’t be any easier over here, but there was no future where he came from. Enough of a clarity to make him jump into the unknown, he says.

Visa talk, mostly. Complicated, the bureaucracy behind it—Sam is a lawyer, you know; if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.

“I know, honey, it’s not your speciality, but you’re the closest thing we’ve got.”

Sam jokes, “Wow, thanks,” and puts his hand on Jess’ knee as she laughs, gives him a make-up smooch. Sam chuckles. Dean smiles.

“Your brother is very nice,” decides Cas, after. When their guests have left and only the dirty dishes remain. That half-finished bottle of wine is on its sure way to be eradicated for good. Cas’ hand on Dean’s knee, porch. A warm evening. Bear perks up for a flock of geese, crossing the sky above their heads.

Dean pretend-rolls his eyes. Sips his beer. “If he chooses to be, yeah.”

“You can be proud. You made it possible for him to receive the education he required to pursue his dream career. That is very noble.”

“Eh.” Dean waves it off. “Gave him a roof over his head and got his butt out of bed in the mornings. He did all the work himself, really.”

“You fed him. Supported him.”


“He was lucky to have you, Dean.” Cas smiles, rubs Dean’s leg. “To have a wonderful brother like that.”

The dishes are left for future-them. Bedroom, the scent of Cas’ skin, the wine. Cas chuckles, hums. Tipsier than Dean is. Not a hard thing to do.

Dean kisses down Cas’ chest while he undresses him. Cas groans in wise foresight as Dean sinks to his knees in front of him. Hands in Dean’s hair, holding, gasping—Cas steadies his stance and watches, enrapt. Dean takes his time.

A slow drag of his lips, his throat. No gagging. Upon checking, Cas’ mouth hangs open. This shit doesn’t get old.

Dean pulls off with a smile and strokes Cas instead. Spreads his spit. “My mouth? Or something else?”

A beat. “Your mouth.”

Dean hums. They both know what this entails.

A nice way to put it is that they both have to make up for lost time or something, but Dean fears they just might be super horny. Which is a-okay in his books, for sure. He’s got a feeling Cas shares the sentiment.

Dean puts his heart into it. The booze helps in dragging Cas’ orgasm out. Makes Cas work for it and he’s shaking when he finally shoots down Dean’s throat, his palms wet in Dean’s hair. Dean sucks him clean of every last drop. Cas groans and struggles but doesn’t ask for ‘stop’. He has, before; Dean knows he technically can.

Dean kisses Cas’ hip, Cas’ navel. Stupid-hard in his jeans and he finally takes himself out while Cas lays down on the bed. Dean strips, strokes himself. Grabs the lube from the nightstand, crawls over the dazed guy in his sheets. Theirs. Theirs.


“Stupid question.”

Dean laughs, kisses. Cas wrings his arms around him, clings to him. Lets Dean’s fingers push in easy to get him ready. Still soft from earlier today. Had been a nice morning. Early, but nice.

Dean withdraws his fingers to replace them with his cock. They both groan for the stretch. Cas urges, “No, no; keep going, please,” when Dean pauses in fear of hurting him. He bulls on with the permission and Cas’ body is so good to him, so open and hot and sucking at him. Dean grunts, steadies his knees. Humps, carefully, just to get moaned at to, “Yes, please,” so he obliges like the good guy he is.

It’s been—it’s been good with other people, before, of course. But, this—taking it slow, really getting to know each other, figure shit out together, it’s… It’s infuriating at times, yes, but mostly, it leaves Dean satisfied. Deeply. Letting Cas take the wheel, too, understanding and accepting that Cas can handle it, can handle Dean…! Trust. You call that ‘trust’, idiot.

Cas urges him on until Dean is revved up enough to pound him so hard even Cas doesn’t have to ask for more. Just gasps under the creak of the bedframe and the slap of their bodies, and when the pleasure finally coils and undulates deep inside Dean’s spine, he can just let go, let Cas feel it. Feel what it does to Dean, being kept like that; taken care of. Cas kisses him, craned neck. Makes Dean pull out and roll over, scoots low and between Dean’s legs. Dean groans, overwhelmed. Cas doesn’t get the message.

Cas lets go of Dean’s sack with a wet pop of his mouth before he nudges lower, laps straight across his hole. Sends Dean shivering and cursing; sends Dean’s fist into Cas’ hair, tight.

“Fuck… Fuck, fuck, Cas…!”

The bastard doesn’t even laugh. Doesn’t ask.

Dean drifts, thrums. His dick struggles to get hard again—Cas’ doesn’t, judging by the wet slapping sounds of him jerking himself. God, yes. Dean wants that.

Lube, knees, shuffle—Cas presses in without further warning, sends Dean groaning, curling. Sucks and bites to Dean’s bared throat, Dean’s lip.

“Fuck, fuck me, oh my God—!”

Cas does. Easy as that.

Dean eventually is left in the puddle of their combined mess, blinking half-alive. The moonlight plays pretty over the moving muscles in Cas’ back and legs as he disappears into the bathroom. He doesn’t close the door all the way. Dean hears him piss. The house is peaceful. Bear must be snoozing in his bed downstairs.

Dean huffs. Looks up at the ceiling. Jesus.

“Damn. I wouldn’t mind getting put to bed like that for, like. The rest of my fucking life.”

Cas returns and kisses Dean’s knuckles, slips back into bed. “That can be arranged.”

Dean chuckles, stupid. Pets the guy’s head, now nestled onto his chest. Dean kisses that still-sweaty forehead. Castiel hums. Cat with the cream.

He hates that Sam will have been right, but that’s about all the criticism Dean’s brain can come up with.