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System of Touch

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In the quiet of the night, Cas can hear the Impala from three blocks away. The low, rough purr of her engine echoing off the cluster of buildings until Dean slows to a stop in the parking lot. Cas peeks one eye open to look at the clock and sighs.

"Two-seventeen," Cas rumbles to Dean, who's trying to tiptoe around their loft's squeaky floorboards without much luck.

"I know," Dean sighs. He drops his keys on the dresser, his coat on the closet door knob. His jeans slide to the floor in a shush of soft fabric. "I'm sorry," he says, the bed dipping under his weight, a hand on either side of Cas' feet, then a knee, crawling their way up until Dean can straddle Cas' hips. Cas doesn't open his eyes, or otherwise acknowledge Dean's presence except to shift his legs to better balance Dean's weight. His knuckles bump Dean's thigh with the movement.

"Lucy wouldn't let Sam leave until some bullshit briefs were filed, and Jess is pulling a thirty-sixer." He reaches for Cas' hand, thumb digging into the meat of the palm, gentle yet firm. "Mags asked about you." He says it with a lilt at the end, an attempt to soften Cas up. "Said my cookies aren't as good as yours."

"Of course they aren't," Cas huffs, fidgety and restless. He tries to pull out of Dean's grip, but Dean's skin is warm and he knows all the places where Cas' hands knot up from mixing and kneading dough for hours and hours. Each steady press of Dean's thumbs weakens Cas' arm until he's so much putty in Dean's hands.

"I'm sorry I missed the meeting," Dean says, voice low and careful. "I really did want to be there."

"I know," Cas sighs. He rolls over, onto his back, Dean lifting himself up enough to give Cas room to move.

Dean automatically reaches for the other hand to work out those kinks, too, and asks, "Was it good?"

Cas exhales a shaky breath and sighs up a Dean, his green eyes dark and glittering in the sick yellow light from the street lamp. "It's amazing."


"Yeah," Cas nods, fingers flexing in Dean's hold. "The ovens are old and the cabinets and counters need refinishing, but it has soul. It feels right." He stirs, rolling his hips to adjust Dean's weight. The movement has Cas' cock nestled against Dean's ass and Dean knows it, shimmying his hips a little, one side of his mouth quirked up in a grin.

"Did you put a bid in?" he asks, moving the massage down to include Cas' wrist and forearm, fingers moving with quiet intent.

"Of course I did," Cas says on a sigh. Each press of Dean's fingers setting off little shockwaves, each one bumping into the last until Cas' skin feels alive. Electric.

"Did Pamela say what your chances are?" Dean's voice drops another register, a low hum that burrows into Cas, makes his hair stand on end. Makes it difficult for Cas to concentrate.

He licks his lips, hips hitching into Dean's weight. "She thinks they're good," he says, his voice thick and rough. Dean's hands move to Cas' waist, his fingertips hot through the thin cotton of Cas' shirt. "The owner seemed to like me. Said she was sorry she didn't get to meet you."

Dean makes a soft sound, fingers working their way under Cas' shirt. Cas is surprised to find his own palms rubbing up and down Dean's thighs, pausing slightly at the hips and knees. He pays more attention to pushing at Dean's leg hair, rubbing it against the grain, then smoothing it back down.

"I really am sorry," Dean says again, his hands hot as they flatten over Cas' belly, rub along his sides.

Impatient, Cas tugs at Dean's waist. It isn't enough force to move him much, but Dean is leaning forward enough to follow though. "Shut up and come here," Cas growls, kissing away Dean's pleased grin. He tastes like sugar and beer, Cas licking into him again and again until he gets to what's underneath, thick and heady.

Dean squirms against Cas, making soft, pleased noises low in his throat, chasing Cas' tongue and lips, scraping sharp teeth along Cas' jaw and neck. Cas' hands fall to Dean's back, palms flat over warm skin, and slip under his shirt, pushing, pushing until it's up and over, Dean rising above him all taut, perfect skin and smug smile.

"You too," he says, plucking at Cas' shirt, the hem frayed thin. It's an old shirt of Dean's, the collar stretched out from Dean pulling it aside to bite at Cas' collarbone. It's hard to worm out of it with Dean's bulk on top of him, but Cas doesn't want to lose that contact. Dean doesn't seem to want to, either, his eager hands pushing up, up, up. He falls forward before Cas is completely free, trailing wet kisses across Cas' chest, lick circles around one nipple, then the other. Cas arches into it, hissing between his teeth.

Cas' hands splay against Dean's back again, holding him close while Dean's tongue works its way back up, over skin and bone and stubble, to Cas' wanting mouth. Dean's legs, framing Cas' hips, open a fraction wider, bringing them closer, their cocks rubbing together through thin flannel and soft cotton. Cas needs the weight, the pressure, his hands slipping under the waistband of Dean's boxer briefs. His nails dig into firm flesh, fingers seeking.

Dean moans when they brush over his hole, his tongue held captive by Cas' mouth. Cas smiles and lets him go, nudging Dean's face away with his nose. "Get these off," he says with a pinch to Dean's ass. Dean's hips rock into Cas' a few times before he gets the hint.

While Dean rolls off to work his way out of his boxers, Cas rummages around in the nightstand drawer until his fingers find cool plastic. Dean's groan catches Cas' attention and he watches Dean straddle Cas hips again, lower, admiring the shift and flex of muscle under flawless skin, the hard curving line of Dean's cock, precome glistening at the tip.

Bottle forgotten, Cas strokes Dean a few times, sweeping his thumb over the head to spread the slick around. Dean gasps into it, his hips twitching in a battle to keep still while also needy for the tight heat of Cas' hand. The desperation makes Cas grin, a little smug, until Dean starts tugging at the sleeve of Cas' shirt.

"Off," Dean says, a petulant tone to his voice. The tiny little vee between his eyebrows a stark contrast to his panting mouth, the rosy flush in his chest and neck and face.

Cas wriggles underneath him until Dean rises up, but only enough for Cas to scoot up and lean against the headboard. The wood is cool on his back, even through his shirt, but Dean's hands are warm, his chest, too. A heat that seeps through to Cas' bones.

Dean closes the distance between them, knees snug against Cas' hips, kissing him dark and deep and dirty, his hand a heavy weight on Cas' cheek, keeping him grounded through long, breathless moments. Cas' own hands fall to Dean's waist, pulling him close until Cas can feel the wet smear of precome on his stomach, where Dean's free hand has pushed his shirt up.

A sharp nip to Dean's lip has him gasping and pulling back, giving Cas the room he needs to peel his shirt up over his head. Dean surges in a moment later, pressing close. The heat of his body is a nice contrast to the cold air of the loft, and Cas winds his arms around Dean to pull him closer, still. Skin to skin from belly to chest.

In between wet, lazy kisses, Cas' hands move lower, following the smooth curve of Dean's spine to the generous swell of his ass. He kneads the muscle, fingers teasing along the cleft, until Dean whimpers into Cas' mouth. Sounds Cas likes to drag out until Dean is rocking into Cas' hand, desperate and pushy.

Cas manages to locate the lube among their sheets and slicks up his fingers, dragging them over Dean's hole to hear the sweet little gasps he makes at the cool touch on his skin.

"Fucker," Dean growls, smiling, and bites at Cas' jaw, his earlobe. He rises up on his knees, though, giving Cas room to work.

The first press is always tough, no matter how long they've been doing this. Dean a tight hot clench fighting against Cas' easy pressure. He circles a fingertip around the rim, over and over, teasing it with light touches until Dean is panting, breathless, hips hitching in aborted little thrusts, seeking. That's when Cas can slide in, slow and careful, with one slim finger.

Once he's in, it's easier; Dean working himself open while Cas sucks at his nipples, using tongue and teeth to get them hard. It gives Dean something else to focus on, makes him indecisive and frustrated, so that he isn't paying attention when Cas adds a second finger.

Dean groans, long and low, the sound vibrating against Cas' lips on Dean's ribs, where he's working on an impressive bruise. The slide is easier, now. Hotter and deeper, smoother. His free hand falls to Dean's thigh to feel the muscle work. Dean's hands clutch at the headboard, the wood groaning under the force of it. The movement of Dean's hips broadens, and he's grinding himself into Cas, cock against cock through sticky flannel. Cas curses himself for not thinking ahead.

A third finger earns Cas a growled curse, Dean's mouth dropping open, his head falling forward. Dean is relaxed enough now, but Cas enjoys this, too. The intimacy of it. Of nuding Dean closer and closer with nothing more than his fingers, his voice dark and soothing in Dean's ear. And since Dean's the one who couldn't make it to the meeting with the realtor -- through mostly no fault of his own, Cas can admit -- it's Cas who's going to get what he wants tonight.

He does so with a hand on Dean's shoulder, giving him a firm push that has Dean tumbling onto his back, Cas' fingers slipping free with a slick pop. Dean looks up at Cas, dazed, with his legs bent up, open in an obscene sprawl around Cas' hips, his cock a flushed, hard line curving toward Dean's stomach.

Cas rises up onto his knees, free hand pushing at his pajama pants, slicking himself up with the other. The warm, firm grip feels good; Dean's dark eyes focused on the movement feels even better. He licks his lips once, twice, his feet bumping restlessly against Cas' hips and thighs, wanting.

Cas doesn't make him wait long; falls forward onto a palm to line himself up. Dean makes a choked off noise at the first touch, and Cas watches his cock slip into Dean in one slow, inexorable slide.

They both have to take a breath, then, giving themselves time to adjust, to find their bearings. Cas leans down to kiss Dean, distracting him from the discomfort while trying to calm his need to move. It mostly works, at least until Dean's hands grip Cas' hips, fingers digging into sweat-slick flesh.

Cas gives a few experimental thrusts of his hips, trying to read Dean's body to find the best angle to work from. Dean helps, too, by arching into it and locking his ankles together behind Cas' back. Together they find a rhythm they're both happy with, Cas clutching tight to Dean's bicep for leverage to work his hips hard and fast.

Too soon it breaks down, Dean grunting, struggling to keep his hips up, Cas' legs still tangled in his pajama pants, slipping in the sheets. Cas is barely paying attention when Dean's legs tighten and they tumble into a roll, ending with Cas on his back, blinking up at the ceiling, Dean rising tall and pale in the moonlight.

Cas clings to Dean's hips and plants his feet flat on the bed, thrusting up to meet Dean's rolling hips. It's easier this way, with Cas' bare toes curling in the sheets for purchase, Dean's hands gripping tight to Cas' sides, thighs and stomach muscles flexing under sweat-sheened skin.

Cas waits until he hears Dean start to beg, sweet little puffs of Cas' name that means Dean is close, but needs a little extra shove. Even then, Cas keeps his fingers loose around Dean's cock, the circle a little too big for the friction Dean needs, and the pulls too slow, waiting for the tiny furrow in Dean's brow to appear. The one hint of frustration that Cas secretly loves and Dean pretends doesn't exist.

They're a hot, sweaty mess when it finally happens, when Dean breaks and his brows draw together. His cock is a hot, sticky mess in Cas' hand, hard and flushed, and Cas tightens his grip, twists his wrist on the upstroke to hear Dean groan Cas and fuck and yes. His hands tighten on Cas' hips and he shoves himself down hard, Cas thumbing at the head, and he comes all over Cas' stomach in graceless jerks of his hips. Cas stills, watching himself work Dean through it, fingers slick-shiny. Once Dean is done, he collapses, just barely catching himself with his palms before he squishes Cas, and Cas helps roll them back, hitching one of Dean's legs onto his hips to make room for himself.

Dean is a blissed out wreck beneath Cas, his eyes dark and lidded, his mouth wet and parted. His cheeks are still red from exertion, his hair a sweaty mess sticking out in eighteen different directions, but he's happy and smiling up at Cas, and Cas nips at the sweet curve of his lips before he starts to move, dragging his stomach along the length of Dean's spent cock just to watch him jerk, to see his eyes go blurry and unfocused.

It only takes him a dozen or so thrusts before he's spilling over, coming inside Dean with a choked off moan. Dean manages to get into it, clenching around Cas until Cas can't hold himself up anymore and settles in a heap on Dean's chest. Dean's arms are warm where they wrap around Cas, his feet cold rubbing up and down Cas' calves, and there's a mess of come and lube in between them, slicking their stomachs. Dean wiggles his hips a little, huffing a laugh as he spreads it around.

It's usually the one thing Cas can't abide: falling asleep in their mess with the sheets a wreck around them, but he notes the deepening of Dean's breathing, and if Cas adjusts a little, it isn't so bad to nuzzle into Dean's chest, use his shoulder for a pillow, and doze until the sun comes up.