Dean wishes he'd started younger. These days, showing up at this kind of bar in his battered work boots and faded flannel shirt, all 30-something and broad-shouldered, it's pretty impossible to get what he's after. Maybe, he thinks, if he'd been able to pick up on signs, follow the trails of reputation laid in small towns across the country, it would have been a seventeen-year-old Dean Winchester walking through the door of the local gay bar, and the older guys would've given him what he was looking for. Yeah, smooth-cheeked with high spots of color: Dean can't help but imagine how easy it would've been.
The tile is damp under his knees, water from the ancient toilets soaking across the floor and into the denim of his jeans. The guy he has up against the flaking wall is younger, the kind of build he's heard people call lithe, and maybe he isn't going to take the wheel, but he was the first guy to approach Dean. And with only one night to himself to spare, Dean can't afford to be picky.
"Jesus, your fucking mouth," the guy (Chris? Dean's pretty sure it's Chris) moans, banging his head against the wall so hard the male-silhouette prints shudder in their frames.
This isn't something he's made a habit of. This is a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of occurrence, when the women aren't enough, when there's an itch Dean can't scratch with porn and a long jerk in the shower. Really, it's something he should do more often. It's fucking easy. Guys are easy. You walk in, you stand at the bar and order a beer, you look around the room and avoid the dance floor and try not to draw the attention of the men old enough to be your father (because, goddamn, even Dean can't be that messed up, can he?) and let someone walk up to you with an offer.
Sometimes the offer is just a drink and a chat. Dean's not interested in those; he's too short on time. Sometimes the offer is forthright: want to get out of here, where are you staying? Dean will take those except it's always your place, not mine. (Sam. Always in those places.) Sometimes the offer is a mouth, or something to put in his. Dean's all right with that too. Sometimes, when they see his fat, uncut dick pearling with thick drops of fluid, they ask if he has a condom, ask if they can ride it, if he wants to bend them over and give them (their eyes fall back to his cock, hungry) a little bit of that. And Dean, being Dean, can never say no.
The offer is never "let me fuck you." Dean is always hoping to hear that, and never does. He guesses he just doesn't look the type, the kind of guy with the urge to be filled up. Ridden. To be held underneath some other body. Not tied down or hit or any weird shit; Dean's a little wary of restraints these days anyway. Hell is still fresh in his head.
He'd just like, just once, not to be in charge of every fucking thing. He'd like to be fucked.
The guy, Chris (maybe), tugs at Dean's hair. Dean can close his eyes and imagine it turning from simple hair-pulling to adrenaline-fueled manhandling, being pushed back against the faux marble countertop with its puddles of water, maybe bent over it so he could watch himself being taken from behind in the bathroom mirror.
When maybe-Chris comes, Dean doesn't try to swallow. He's not a fan of the taste, so he just lets it trickle over his lips to run down his chin, dripping onto the wet floor. Their eyes meet for a moment, Dean's mouth still stuffed, the guy's dick flexing on his tongue. He knows the picture he makes. Knows guys get off on it. He pulls off, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looks away first. For all his bravado, Dean can't get the words out: Fuck me, Chris (if that's your name, anyway). Shove your fingers in me. Give me your dick once it's hard again.
Can't say it to save his life, never can. The words catch somewhere in his throat between his guilt and his stubbornness. Between "I don't deserve" and "I don't really need."
"Want me to blow you?" the guy asks, breathless and polite. Dean shrugs and struggles to his feet.
"It'd be nice," he says. Eyes and voice perfectly level.
While the stranger's mouth works over his thickening erection (a raised eyebrow from Chris, a giddy sense of ho, boy at the size of him), Dean lets his mind wander. He thinks about the last blowjob he'd gotten—a woman with red hair and too-sharp fingernails. The nails make him think of Rhonda from all those years ago. The pink satin, slick and cool on his balls and dick. The thrill of wondering, if she wants me dressed up like a woman, what else does she want? Does she want to fuck me like I'm a woman? The thought was enough to make him stain the front of those silky panties with a gob of precome, the stain spreading dark and wet as Rhonda giggled.
Rhonda hadn't fucked him, of course, not like he'd imagined. Didn't go anywhere near his ass, and why would she? Dean can't say the words at 30, and he definitely couldn't at 19, and ladies don't go exploring there unless told to do so.
"You're quiet," the guy says, popping the cock out of his mouth to speak. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Sorry. Just," Dean swallows, bracing his hands against the countertop behind him, "thinking."
Could-Be-Chris chuckles, swipes his tongue along the seam of Dean's balls. "Wow. Guess I'm not doing my job, huh?"
Dean ducks his head. "Nah, it's fine, it's—"
"Dude. Relax. Kidding." Chris returns to sucking, and Dean tries to concentrate on the sensations he's experiencing right now in this moment. But his mind drifts to other times and places, when he was as close to coming as he is now. He thinks especially about the purple plastic dildo, shiny and pearlescent, bought from a skeezy truck stop along with a bottle of lube that could, according to the label, turn frigid women into sex fiends. The toy and the bottle sit buried in the bottom of his duffle, wrapped in layers of socks and boxers. Dean's really glad Bobby and Sam kept his duffle after he died instead of throwing it away. And he's especially glad that they didn't open it, or if they did, that they haven't asked about the sex stuff. Nothing worse than dying and having your family find all your crazy shit.
The toy isn't something he brings out often; when does he have the time, the privacy? But a couple months ago: Sam out of their motel room tracking down some records, a spare hour to himself, Dean sprawled in the questionable bath tub with his prize, working it between his legs a bare inch, maybe an inch and a half before he was coming like a fucking fire hose.
Dean tips his head back, letting Chris work him down his throat, and thinks about that afternoon in the tub, the blunt head of the dildo behind his balls, the shrill cold of the porcelain against his back, the trickle of warm water running cooler and cooler from the shower head until he awoke from his fucked-out stupor, laying in a slowly filling tub of freezing water and come. He remembers the slow, stupid feeling spreading from his gut to his brain, the ease with which he had left the world behind for a few minutes. His mind starts slipping back into that place, shadowed with forgetfulness, and his balls tighten and his stomach and thighs clench. He bites his lip. He doesn't make a sound.
Chris is the swallowing type. He sighs in contentment when it's over and blinks up at Dean with a lazy grin.
"I'm sorry, this is terrible," he says, "but what did you say your name was again?"
Dean gives him a name, a fake one. They shake hands like businessmen, and then Dean is gone.
Dean's on the highway ten miles out from the motel where he and Sam are crashing when Castiel appears in the passenger seat with a low, "Hello Dean." Dean, for his part, manages to keep his jerk of the steering wheel to a minimum. He glares. Doesn't say hi back.
They drive, neither saying anything. Dean wonders if Cas just happened to show up after a blue-moon blowjob in the men's room, or if the angel knows exactly what he's been up to. He isn't sure what he dislikes more, the idea that these dicks could be watching him at any moment, or that Cas is dancing around the topic on purpose.
Finally the angel opens his mouth, still squinting through the windshield at the unfolding road in the distance, and says, "You lied to Sam. You remember Hell."
Damn straight he remembers. Dean isn't about to forget being tied to the rack, slick with blood and hoarse with screams for decades. Sam had tried to broach the subject. God, his face. He'd looked on the verge of tears when he grabbed Dean by the shoulder and asked, "Did they—was there rape?"
Was there rape. Dean couldn't find the words to answer. He didn't know how to tell his brother, yes, there was rape, and that even more horrifying than that, Dean had found himself wishing rape was all they had in store for him. Because compared to the impossible pain of being torn apart but still somehow aware, of being fed your own intestines, of being tricked into seeing visions of Sam and dad being tortured too, of waiting on the rack and wondering if the demons were going to rip a new hole in his body and fuck that instead—
Sam had conjured up the worst thing he could think of, and it wasn't even in the ballpark. So yeah, Dean didn't tell him the truth. "I don't know, Sammy. Like I said, a total blank."
And now some fucking angel is giving him shit for lying? Dean glares at Castiel, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to bark, "Yeah, I did. And if you were smart, you'd keep your mouth shut around him, got it?"
Castiel shrugs. "I have no intention of informing him. It's not as if he could understand."
Dean blinks. He was expecting a lecture, some heavenly self-righteousness. A niggling thought burrows in Dean's brain. Why is Cas dredging this up now? Pieces start clicking, fitting together to form a border if not a picture. "If you're worried I'm fucked up in the head because of Hell, yeah, I am. But this stuff," Dean jerks his thumb back at the bar they've left miles behind, "it ain't part of the new mess. It's an old mess. So don't go clutching your pearls."
Castiel frowns. "I wasn't." He sounds more confused than angry. He glances down at his shirtfront as if looking for a goddamn pearl necklace.
Dean snorts. "Then why are you here?"
The angel reaches over and touches the tips of his fingers to Dean's temple, and shit, that swarming feeling in his stomach, like being pulled into the undertow. In an eyeblink, they're standing outside in a field at dusk. The Impala sits parked and cool-ticking a few yards away. Dean spins in a circle but can see nothing of the Ohio countryside they'd been driving through.
"Ukraine," Cas says. "You are distracted when you drive."
"Wha—? You can't just—!"
"You might need me more than you think you will," Cas finally answers his first question. "It is a small thing, this desire of yours. Not impossible to provide."
Dean knows his mouth is hanging open, his tongue thick and stupid. He's not sure what this is or what it means until Castiel turns to his gaze to the horizon. "You will need time to consider, I suppose," the angel says, and it's only then that Dean realizes this—this is an offer. It's missing the bars and the wet glasses of beer, the raised brows and the licked lips, but it's an offer all the same.
Before Dean can work his throat to produce an answer, Cas places a hand on his forehead and he's in the motel parking lot, blinking in the Ohio daylight, leaning on the Impala when his knees fail him. If it was a dream, it sure felt real. Dean checks the soles of his boots, and there it is, the red-caked dirt from the Ukrainian field, dug deep into the grooves. He locks the car and lets himself into the motel room, thinking.
He considers for 24 hours.
He does other things, too, since they're between cases. Trashes evidence. Cleans the arsenal. Does laundry. Checks a P.O. Box, answers a few credit card offers. Wonders what fucking Cas would be like.
Dean spends the entire 24 hours decided: he can't. This whole thing with the angels and Hell and the seals is messed up enough. Seems selfish to complicate it further for such a little thing. He gets laid plenty. He should be happy with what he's got.
Hour 25: Sam leaves the motel room to get some food, or maybe meet up with Ruby, but Dean can't find it in him to bitch. Sam hasn't let Dean out of his sight much lately, and Dean's skin is crawling with his own rare need. Once the growl of the Impala's engine fades down the road, Dean climbs naked between the scratchy bedsheets with the purple dildo and the bottle of slick. The lube is cold on his inner thighs, warming quick on his fingers. Deep breaths. He's got time tonight and he intends to make it last.
He wonders, sometimes, if this is normal, if he should still want the clench and burn of release after what happened Downstairs. The first time he'd slept with someone after his resurrection, Oktoberfest with that pretty blonde, he was desperate for it, felt shitty for being so desperate too. But he wasn't ashamed enough to say no when she'd asked him to stay the night. It's not like sex is going to get him sent to Hell; he's banked plenty of sins besides.
Dean works his hand between his legs, his eyes drifting shut. The lights are off, and in the dark he can let his thoughts wander. The first time he'd tried this, nothing worked. He was too tense, too worried about Sam walking in, too freaked out at the idea of fucking it up, doing something wrong. He'd thought, okay, maybe I'm not cut out for this stuff, maybe that's why no one ever offers. But he kept at it, took his time, snuck a peek at articles on Sam's laptop and then cleared the browser history like Ash had taught him. Now it's easier. The first inch slides in, slow and full. Dean's mouth drops open, his legs spreading wider under the sheets.
His mind feels blank, but flashes come and go, and if he thinks of a name, a face, it doesn't really register. That's when the lights flicker back on and a cool wind blows through the motel room. Dean opens his eyes to find Castiel looming over his bed, eyes latched onto his face.
"What the hell!?"
"You called for me," Cas says.
Dean slips the toy out of himself, glad for the sheets and blankets covering him, but knowing somehow that Cas can see everything despite that. "No I didn't!" He sits up, an uncomfortable wetness cooling between his legs as he holds the sheets around his waist. "I didn't say a fucking thing!"
"Not in word, but in thought." Cas pauses, tips his head to the side one inch and regards Dean like animals regard the rest of the world. "You do not remember?"
Dean can feel his face burning red. Does he really need to spell it out for Cas? That he was fucking himself with a piece of plastic and, yeah, maybe thought about the angel while he did it, if only for a moment? But the words won't come. He clutches the sheets to himself and stays silent.
Castiel doesn't speak for a long time, and when he finally moves, it's to slip the heavy overcoat from his shoulders. Dean watches it fall to the floor, his head shaking back and forth.
"No, Cas—" he starts, but the angel doesn't stop disrobing. The necktie follows, and then the creased white shirt, the unremarkable belt, the loafers and slacks and socks. Dean watches it all and doesn't do anything to stop it.
When Cas puts one knee on the mattress, dipping it with his weight, Dean puts a hand out to halt his progress. But his fingers just tighten over the curve of Castiel's shoulder, holding, touching, not pushing away.
"Dean," Cas says. His slim hand comes up to cover Dean's. "It's all right." Cas lifts his other knee onto the bed, moving on all fours over Dean until he's looking down at him. Their bodies are aligned, though separated by the layers of sheets and blankets. Dean can't keep himself from looking at Castiel, the pale skin, the light dusting of hair on his chest. He looks so normal. His cock, too, is average, hardening into a slight curve under his flat belly. As Dean watches, a bead of fluid leaks from the tip. Still, Castiel's face remains unchanged, blank and calm as ever.
"Cas, stop." Dean grabs one of the limbs that cage him, Cas's left arm. "Just stop. I don't want some hyper-realistic blow-up doll, okay?"
Cas tips his head, his brow furrowing. "I don't understand. You do want this." He takes the corner of the bedsheet between his fingers and pulls it down Dean's hips, uncovering his trembling erection. "You've become very aroused at the thought."
"Damn it, Cas!" Dean yanks the sheet back up. His faces heats as he tries to find something to look at besides Castiel's cold stare. "It's not—I can't get off on it like this."
Cas sits back on his haunches, straddling Dean's legs beneath the covers, his hands resting on his own pale thighs. "You give others all that you can, even strange men and women," he says with something like wonder in his voice. "And you ask for nothing. It is my charge to keep you hopeful and whole. Why won't you accept this from me?"
"Because it's a chore for you! Because you're an angel and you don't get it. You don't even want this, so don't bother," Dean shouts, twisting in an attempt to wriggle out from under Castiel's weight. But Cas places one hand solidly on Dean's shoulder, the one with the scar, and pins him back to the mattress.
His blue eyes are wide, finally something in them, some feeling. Concern, maybe. Curiosity, certainly. "You don't think I would derive pleasure from this?" he asks. "Is that what you think?"
Dean barks a laugh, trying and failing to angle his hips away from Cas's. "You act like a robot, man. What am I supposed to—?" They slot together, erections rubbing on either side of the sheet. Dean breaks off, turns the side of his face into the thin pillow.
Castiel reaches for the sheet again, baring Dean once more. The slip-slide of the cheap cotton over his hips, his cock, his balls, down his thighs to his knees. Cas's gaze follows, watching as new skin is shown. Dean lays back, arms heavy weights at his sides, swallowing.
"I am not human, I know," Cas says. "But I am a living thing. I can feel. I felt something when I was chosen to join the attack on Hell. I felt something when I was the one to find you in the Pit. I felt something when I pieced your soul and your body back together, and I feel something now, seeing you stubbornly refuse me because you think I would not enjoy your body as much as you would enjoy this one. Perhaps the things I feel are not the same as human emotions, but they're no less real for it."
The bottle of lube and the purple plastic dildo still sit snugged between Dean's legs, making wet spots on the white sheets. Cas drags a fingertip through a smear of slickness high on Dean's inner thigh, rubs it between his thumb and forefinger to the sound of Dean's sharp intake of breath.
"So you do want to...?" Dean trails off, the words still caught. You do want to fuck me, put your dick in me, be inside me, sleep with me: he can't say any of it.
"Yes, of course." Cas's eyes fall to Dean's cock, bobbing heavy and dark against his stomach. He doesn't say anything, but Dean shifts under the inspection anyway.
"I'm big, I know," he says, giving the base of his erection a quick squeeze. "'s why most people just assume I'm going to top or whatever." The angel narrows his eyes, clearly not understanding. Dean clarifies. "They assume I'm the one who should be doing the fucking, not getting fucked."
Cas peers into his face. "Why? Doesn't your size cause them discomfort?"
A quick grin appears on Dean's face before being stifled. Castiel really doesn't know shit about humans. "Sometimes. But it also, um, reaches places other guys can't. And I don't really mind." A shrug.
Castiel seems to weigh this information before nodding. "They see you in a certain light, and you allow them to because you wish to please them. It's a defining quality of yours."
Dean doesn't have a response to that, so he doesn't give one. He takes a shuddering breath and opens his legs, spreading them on the bed so Cas can fit between them. The angel slips into the V he makes with ease, hands gentle on Dean's knees.
"Please don't feel you must practice such small deceptions with me," Cas says, guiding him wider. "I know you too well."
"Yeah, from reading my goddamn mind," Dean grumbles even as he lets his legs fall open. "You shouldn't do that. It's creepy."
"It's the only way I'll know how to proceed," Cas says, "unless you tell me exactly what you want." He lays himself over Dean's body, covering him all skin-warm and heartbeat-heavy. Stretches his legs along Dean's, his toes brushing his instep. "Would you be able to do that, Dean?"
Dean can't even get the words "fuck me" out, not even now when Cas knows how much he wants it, not even with Cas's dick shoving beneath his balls, hard and leaking. He presses the side of his face into the pillow and shakes his head.
"All right," Cas says, raking his fingernails over Dean's left nipple, eliciting a shiver. "Then I will maintain the connection with your thoughts. If I misinterpret them, you need only tell me."
"F-fair enough," Dean manages. He feels the plastic dildo rolling down the mattress, sticky against his calf. Cas ignores it, concentrating like a scientist on Dean's torso. His hands map the muscles and bones of Dean's ribcage.
"You trust me." It's not a question. And yeah, maybe he's only known Castiel for a few months, and maybe he doesn't know a lot about him, but Dean does know he's the one who saved him, who keeps saving him, who looks pained when Uriel sneers at the human race.
"Yeah," Dean says. "I do."
Cas finds the lube bottle under Dean's hip. "Wider," he says, nudging at Dean's thighs with his knee, and Dean spreads his legs even more: that exposed feeling Dean hates.
"Want to turn off the lights?" he asks, and Castiel says, "No. I don't." And that decides that.
It's quiet in the motel room. The angel works in silence, spreading lube on his fingers, placing his hand between Dean's legs to find his hole. Dean bites down on his tongue. He's never been loud during sex; best not to let too much slip. His eyes squeeze closed and his hands fist in the bedsheets at his sides.
Cas slips one finger in. "Keep your eyes open, Dean," he says, and even though it's a command, his voice is soft.
"Why?" Dean grits out.
Another finger, slip-stretch in and out, twisting like the dildo had. "Because you want to see," Cas says, "but you think you shouldn't." Dean whimpers at that—that and the twist of Cas's fingers, clever and searching. "You like that." Not said smugly, just matter-of-fact.
Dean nods, fighting to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head. He watches Cas crouched between his legs, fingering Dean with an intense scholarly look. "You should make noises, too," Cas adds. "Go ahead. I will make sure no one can hear you."
Those goddamn fingers twist again, and Dean chokes down a moan. "Not a screamer," he says, voice hoarse with control.
"Yes you are," Cas insists. "But you never let yourself."
Dean presses his lips into a thin line, determined not to let Cas win this round. But Cas isn't concerned with winning; he doesn't even know there's a game on. He just fucks Dean with his slim, uncalloused fingers, watching Dean's face closely, and says, "I understand. Your decision."
Dean's hips move of their own volition, hitching to meet Cas's fingers, rolling with their small thrusts. A thin, clear strand of fluid dribbles from Dean's cock and runs down the crease of his thigh. Cas's hands are warm and alive, and his fingers feel so much better than Dean's own or hard plastic. A whimper—pathetic—claws up Dean's throat, dying before it can leave his lips.
Castiel raises one brow as if to say See? and Dean grimaces. He doesn't know where to put his hands. They release the sheets and drift toward Cas's sharp hipbones and narrow waist, unsure.
"You may touch me," Cas says.
Dean sits up, one hand on Cas's hip, the other curling around the back of his neck. Their faces level, eyes meeting and holding, breaths mingling between them. Dean tries not to think. Tries very hard.
"Oh." Cas hears the thought anyway, Dean can see it on his face. "Yes, all right." He leans forward a scant inch and brushes his mouth over Dean's. A hot flush creeps up Dean's neck; how stupid he must look, too chicken-shit to even kiss a dude who's knuckle-deep in his ass.
"It's okay, don't," Cas repeats over and over, kissing Dean between words. His lips are dry, soft, his tongue tentative. He kisses Dean until Dean kisses back. It's weird, kissing a guy. Dean doesn't do that much; keeps things casual, maybe a peck at the most, when he cruises. But Cas kisses him familiarly, stubble scraping, not needing to breathe. Dean finally pulls back for air.
"Now?" Cas asks though he knows the answer.
"Yeah. Come on." Dean scratches his nails down Cas's shoulders, his back. "Come on."
Castiel must know that Dean means the main event, penetration, "get in me before I die" but he doesn't seem to be in a hurry. He combs his hand through the thick black curls at the base of Dean's cock, cups his balls in his palm and holds them, massages the pad of his thumb over Dean's slick hole.
"Quit messing around," Dean growls. "You know what I want, you bastard. Are you going to make me say it?"
"No," Cas says, blue eyes flicking up to Dean's for a moment. "You don't have to say anything." He bends to lick the tip of Dean's cock, eyes still on Dean. "But you want this to last."
Nothing Dean can say to that, so he shuts his trap. Wonders how Cas is shifting through his thoughts when it's all a jumble of one thing and then the opposite, push and pull. He must be good at translating Dean, because this touching, it feels good.
Cas hooks his arms underneath Dean's knees, rolls his legs back so his feet hang in the air, thighs open wide, ass displayed to his cool gaze. Dean's not sure about the position, something about it feels too vulnerable, and he's about to say something about it, but then Cas is lining up the head of his cock with Dean's hole and sliding in, and he's deep, going deeper than Dean ever thought possible. His muscles threaten to seize, but Cas plants himself in and over Dean, kissing him until his eyes close in bliss.
"Eyes open," Cas reminds him, whispering against his lips, and Dean looks up into Cas's face. His mouth is pink and wet. Dean grabs the back of Cas's head and brings him back down for another kiss, a sound between a cry and a moan swallowed between them. Cas cradles the back of his neck, keeping him steady.
"The sounds you could make," Cas says as he fucks into him, faster now, his hips finding a rhythm on the squeaking bed. Something old and hidden breaks inside Dean's chest, and it doesn't fucking matter who hears him now; he's gasping for breath, crying out wordless and fevered. Cas's cock slides in and out of him, easy, relaxed like floating. Dean's toes curl in the air.
"Cas," Dean groans. He throws his head back on the pillow and feels tears streaming from the corners of his eyes, soaking into his hairline. Crying—so fucking pathetic—but not from fear or sadness, just relief, sweet relief, and it's too good, too much.
Cas on top of him, holding him there in perfect balance, his lips parted as he watches Dean's face. Cas mouthing a kiss to Dean's neck, his collarbone, dipping his head to Dean's chest to kiss the pendant Sam gave him. Cas nuzzling his face over Dean's heart, his chin scraping over the black ink of his tattoo. Cas inside him.
The noises that pour from Dean are not human. He's by turns snarling and whimpering, grunting and pleading, moving in time with Cas's thrusts. He wants to come, and then Cas's hand is on his fat cock, stroking it the way Dean likes, thumb teasing the crown, spreading the wetness around the head. Dean snaps his hips, driving Cas deeper. He wants to come but he doesn't want this to end. He doesn't want to go back to real life. He wants this. He wants Cas.
Another hot flush of tears trickle into his hair. Cas is saying something, bent low to whisper in his ear, and it takes a moment for Dean to understand what he's saying: "Beautiful. So beautiful."
"Don't—" Dean chokes out. "Stay out of my head, goddammit."
"But it's true." Cas gives his cock a squeeze, his hand tight around its thick girth. That's what makes Dean come, Cas touching him inside and out. He rides it, long waves of electric pleasure coursing through his body, clenching at Cas's cock, hands buried in Cas's hair. White come coating his stomach, dripping down his flank. Cas sighs, a soft sound, and Dean knows he's close too, almost thinks they're linked now on a two-way mental street, and he can feel everything Cas feels for just a moment.
A split-second fantasy he's never had fulfilled: it's in and out of Dean's head in an instant. An old memory attached to it, the second-hand clothing store where their father bought their shoes and jeans. Sam complaining about having to buy used clothes, and the old woman stocking a shelf turning on him and saying, "It's not used, it's well-loved." A small difference. But that's what Dean wants to feel like now. Not used, but well-loved.
Cas lifts his head from Dean's chest, his hips still working a steady beat, in and out. He nods once, an almost-smile curling the corner of his mouth. He thrusts into Dean one last time, deep—"Oh," Dean rasps—and then pulls out, coming in large splashes over Dean's torso, aiming a few spurts onto his chest, the final strand dripping hot and sticky onto Dean's softening erection, which twitches, anointed.
Dean lays there panting. Cas kneels between his legs, cock still hard in his hand, still as death. He looks over Dean's body, sprawled across the bed and covered in come, with something like satisfaction on his face. Dean wonders if he'll fly away now, job well done. He doesn't. He stretches out beside Dean on the bed and curls around him, nudging him onto his side.
"I'm not the little spoon," Dean mumbles.
Castiel shushes him and presses against his back, their arms tangled over Dean's chest. "You enjoy being held," he says simply, and it's strange that this more embarrassing than anything else they've done, but Dean can't fight the blush. He buries his damp, hot face into the pillow and huffs.
"Don't tell anyone," he says.
"I don't plan to," Cas promises.
Castiel isn't there when Dean wakes up. His clothes are gone, the lube and sex toy are tidied away, even the sheets and Dean are clean and unsticky. It's almost like it never happened, and the thought makes Dean's stomach sink a little.
But later, after a hot shower and a shave, rummaging in his duffle for some clean boxers, he finds a slip of paper tucked beside the bottle of lube. The handwriting is jagged, more like hieroglyphics than English, but Dean can make out the words.
Anytime. Call and I'll come.
Dean grins, shakes his head, folds the paper into a tiny square and places it in his wallet for safe-keeping.