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Dean grimaces as he steps in something left to rot in the back alley between a couple of sad apartment buildings; an unfortunate consequence of the 90s, all stained concrete and vague aura of mould, slumped together as if commiserating the equally dreary weather. They're meant to be scouring it for clues in the latest monster shit-show of a case, it's not going well. People keep dying. Sam has been weird, distant, flat. Dean knows hell fucked him up good, irreparably even, he can't imagine what being in the cage with Lucifer could have done, has been trying to wrap his head around it. Thing is, where the pit tore him open like a badly healed wound, it feels like Lucifer's cage sharpened Sam into something scary. Something wrong. Something in the 'its all about to blow up in our faces' category of wrong. Or maybe his instincts are just out of wack, a year on the bench and he's lost his edge. God, it's like stumbling in the dark in an unfamiliar room, like the first time Dad put a gun in his hands, the silence the night after Sam left for college, that horrible fucking drive to Lisa's trying to hold it together long enough to fall apart with a soft landing, because Sam was dead. And now Sammy's back, and he still feels so fucking lonely. He hadn't even meant to pray, hadn't realised he was doing it until he wasn't alone in baby anymore. Angel riding shotgun. Now they're standing in an alley and all Dean can think about is that Cas left him too.
"Been busy, huh?"
"Yes." Cas says, all severe and untouchable, squinting suspiciously at a pile of black plastic trash bags as if the monster is going to burst its way out of them any second. "What are you looking for?"
"Fucked if I know. We thought it was a werewolf but the lunar cycle is all wrong. We already cased the apartment," Dean nods to a window on the third floor, they all look the same from down here, dozens of dead black eyes reflecting a seventy five percent chance of rain. Wouldn't even know that a girl had her heart torn out in her kitchen not three days ago. "Sam thinks whatever did it climbed through the fire escape, window was unlatched."
"And, of course, they conveniently left evidence of their identity in this refuse."
Dean rolls his eyes. He starts the slow sweep of the alley, careful where he's stepping now, he hates cleaning shit out of the tread of his boots. Cas marches ahead of him, vigilant soldier, always. "I know its not some epic angel battle in the sixth dimension or whatever the hell you've been up to, but innocent people are being ripped to shreds, Cas."
"You would not be able to comprehend what I have been 'up to'," is all he gets in return, which. Well. He glares at Cas's back.
"You calling me stupid?"
It's Cas's turn to roll his eyes, Dean knows because he does it in that full bodied motion like he never learnt not to put his whole self into everything. "No."
"'Cause I know its big and bad, I get that. But just because something big is going down doesn't mean you get to just abandon everything else, normal people still need saving."
"You don't." Dean freezes, throat suddenly tight. He's waiting for it, for Cas to scrape him off the botttom of his shoe, you've had your chance to be saved, more than you deserve, so why are you still like this? Why am I even here? But instead Cas turns to him and says, "You don't 'get it', you could not possibly understand the scope of the war in heaven, there is no time to divert efforts to intervene in every small, human affair. I am trying to save the world, Dean, some sacrifices have to be made."
Cas isn't even looking at him, he's looking past him, already checked out, like Dean is an obligation he'd really rather not be dealing with. Some small, easy sacrifice. It's not even anger that curls his hands into fists, sharpens the blunt round of his tongue, it's more pathetic than that, a hot furl of hurt that makes him feel so fucking small.
"Right. Got it. Sorry for keeping you from the glory of battle. You can fuck off whenever you want, by the way, you're good at that." He watches with a sick satisfaction as the bite in his voice gets its teeth in Cas, the way his jaw clenches, the quick-thaw of his eyes from cold distance to electric irritation. Holds his breath as Cas assesses him, for just a second, like he might an enemy.
Then his gaze slides sideways, mapping his escape route, and Dean is left cold. Cas goes to brush past, trenchcoat flapping with every decisive stride and it grips him then, that Cas is walking away. Again. Dean lurches in front of him, forcing him to a halt.
"Where the hell are you going?" He barks, fully aware that he was the one who told Cas to leave and fully not giving a fuck.
They stare each other down, unstoppable force meet annoying yet easily movable object. Cas could blow through him like he's nothing, knock Dean aside, snap his fingers and make Dean explode into a thousand bloody shreds. Instead he glares, wild animal pacing behind the bars of its enclosure.
"Move." Cas says, commands even, in that gravel deep growl that he swears he can feel reverberating in his fingers and toes.
Dean leans right in and drawls, "You know what, tough guy? Make me."
His back hits concrete. He stares, wide eyed, as all five foot eleven inches of pissed off angel press him flat into the nearest wall, hands twisted into his flannel shirt, holding him in place. The air is thick between them, only the ragged sound of his breathing and the distant, unreality of the street permeate the silence. There's something in Cas's narrow glare, in the jackrabbit pace of his own heart, that echoes another alleyway, a year or a lifetime ago. Dean licks his lips, nervous habit, and Cas's eyes trace the trajectory of his tongue, always clocking the parts of Dean he's taken pains to keep hidden.
"You gonna hit me, or what?" Spills forth from his lips, cracking through the tense silence like a gunshot, and yeah, Dean knows it's fucked up that he kind of wants it, that violent proximity, but mostly all he can think about is the feeling of someone else's hands against his skin, any way he can get it.
Cas exhales, rough, warm, affected. "No." He says, and then they're kissing.
It isn't gentle. Its heady and desperate, a clash of lips and teeth that hurts more than it feels good, at least until Dean changes the angle, let's all of Cas's blunt inexperience move them in a frantic pace. And Cas is frantic, breathing harshly as he zeroes out even the scant remaining distance between them, crushing their lips together like it's their last moment on earth, world killer meteor seconds away from impact. Like he wants to climb inside Dean's skin but doesn't know how. The sound he makes, surprised, kind of offended, as Dean shoves his tongue past the barricade of his lips and slides it home into the cradle of his mouth, makes something squishy and soft curl up in Dean's chest. He has a moment of clarity, a single coherent thought of 'uh oh' raised like a red flag at the concerning fondness peeking through his arousal, before the tide swells back over and he's once again swept up.
Cas has decided that if tongue is a thing they're doing, he's the one in charge of operations and Dean just fucking let's him. Let's him lick into Dean's mouth, explore over his soft palate, the backs of his teeth, the bitten wall of his inner cheek. Has gone pliant and strangely calm as Cas grows more confident. Let's him hold his jaw open with one hand as he fucks his tongue in and out, Dean wet and ready for him. Let's him take Dean's tongue between his teeth and suck it, holds it so still and good for him to savor. Let's him do whatever the fuck he wants because it feels good. Because Dean's brain has left the building and all that's left is Cas.
How long they make out against the wall like teenagers, Dean doesn't know, all he knows is that when he comes back to himself, he's making these pathetic, choked off noises as he moves against Cas, helpless and half-hard. A hot flush of embarrassment threatens to break through the haze of fuck, yeah, good, that's so good. But Cas is watching him with rapt attention, cataloguing his every reaction even as he tangles their tongues together, unblinking and wholly focused. He wants to laugh, to chide, to teach; you're supposed to close your eyes. Instead he gasps, needy and breathless. Unclenches his hands from their death grip on the shoulders of Cas's trenchcoat, winds them through that wild thatch of hair, permanently windswept. It's softer than Dean expects, warmer. Dean's literally had sex with an angel before but he still expects them to be cold and hard like marble. Not Cas, he's all heat and thrumming life. His fingers tighten in Cas's hair, a bolt of white-hot want courses through him as Cas's hips twitch forward, and yeah, Dean's not the only one aching for it. Shoving a leg between Cas's thick thighs, he grins at the answering groan it elicits, surprised again, muffled as Cas turns to bite the sound into Dean's cheek, not even his jaw; the softer round of his face below his cheekbone. Dean shouldn't find it hot. He does. He hopes it leaves a mark.
The leisurely trail of Dean's hand down Cas's body is gonna be a frequent feature in future alone time sessions, he can already tell, dude is hiding nothing but honed muscle under all that trenchcoat, and the way he shudders into the touch, just from fingertips grazing over fabric, the tiny hitch of his breath as Dean lets them dip, just barely, at the waistband of his pants. So responsive. For Dean. It's enough to go to a guy's head, pun intented. There's a need in him to hear Cas moan again, to find that crack in his angelic armour and rip him wide open the way he does to Dean. He moves to palm at the tent straining beneath Cas's zipper, big and hard and hot, another of those noises rips free from Cas's throat like he can't stop it, fucking music to his ears. He squeezes, just once, and then his hand, wrenched away, slams into the wall beside his head.
Cas rears back, pupils blown wide, panting harshly. Silence stretches, a tenuous thing, as they stare at each other. God if Cas looks like that, Dean knows he must be a total mess. All slick red mouth, colour high on his cheekbones, hair like a small hurricane has gone through it. Undone. If there was a moment to take it back, this would be it, Cas with that dawning realisation of exactly where his tongue has been, Dean just now beginning to feel the rough concrete he's up against as the heat of the moment cools. They should pull away, get back to the case, the argument. Pretend like it never happened. Dean flexes his fingers, wrist still pinned in Cas's iron grip and makes a decision.
Lurching forward, Dean licks a stripe up Cas's neck and sticks his tongue right in Cas's ear. He makes that same, offended, kind of curious, definitely exasperated huff as when Dean introduced him to tongue, and again it softens something in him, makes him go giddy and stupid. To hide that damning warmth, from himself and definitely from Cas, Dean moans big and loud and showy, pornstars the world over would be proud, right in his ear, clutches at him and writhes, gets maybe one obnoxious "oh yeah, baby!" out before it gets him shoved back, laughing, into the wall. Back is that narrow eyed glare, the one that Dean can't help but respond to, the one that hides a twitch at the edge of Cas's lips, like he wants to smile but knows it'll only encourage Dean further. Dean smirks, cocks a challenging eyebrow just to see what Cas does, definitely doesn't whimper as Cas leans in and licks his revenge up the shell of his ear, sending hot little shivers down to where Dean is still achingly hard. Apparently that's all the encouragement Cas needs to leave a slick trail of spit over half of Dean's face; he holds Dean still with those big hands, and lathes his way up his temple, swipes a curious tongue over the delicate skin of Dean's eyelid, wets the fine hairs of his eyebrow before taking the brow between his teeth in a gentle nip that Dean would be ashamed to say he moans into if he had any brain function left. Trails his way down Dean's nose, circles his nostrils, once, twice, a third time, presses hard into the cupid's bow of his philtrum then completely bypassing where Dean wants him most, needs him, already open and panting for it, to hum appreciation over his cheekbone, tastes his skin like Famine himself is handing him a cheeseburger. It should be a turn off, should weird him out, Cas is basically licking his face like a dog, but there's something twisted in Dean, some wire crossed in the battlefield of his life, he's shaking at the contact, throat tight, body clenched, chest heaving with every trembling breath. More turned on than he's been in a long, long time. Finally, after making sure to suck at the point of Dean's chin and lick wide, flat strokes over the soft little pouch between jaw and adams apple, Cas plunges back into his mouth and pays the same avid attention to Dean's tongue. It surprises them both, the noise he makes when Cas kisses him properly. Wounded.
This time, when Cas pulls back, it's not a retreat, it's a general assessing the battlefield, cataloguing the damage he's done and finding it satisfactory. There's none of that startlement from earlier, no hesitation, Cas is firmly in control and he knows it as he pins Dean with a look of unmistakable command. Don't move. Dean nods, eager, sue him, he's always been a sucker for the assertive types in bed. But it's the gentle caress of Cas's thumb over his wrist just once before he lets it go, that convinces him. Dean is fucked. He's gone. He keeps his arm where Cas commanded it even as the rest of him threatens to melt into a stupid puddle at Cas's feet. Luckily, Cas doesn't notice the doped out smile on his face, too busy working open the button of Dean's jeans.
The second Cas gets a hand around him, it's like being struck by lightning. So hard it's amazing there's any blood left keeping him conscious, he watches, rapt, as the pink head of his cock disappears into the circle of Cas's thick fingers, a touch more exploratory than anything. Curious. Cas gets used to the weight of him in hand, rolling him around between his fingers, squeezing and caressing, head bent to watch while Dean trembles and tries to stay still. It's a sweet kind of torture, one Dean isn't all that interested in begging mercy from. He likes the attention, likes the way Cas unselfconsciously learns the shape of him like he does anything new, thorough, intent, sincere. A thick bead of precome wells up from the slit of his cock head, Cas makes an almost silent noise, the tiniest, imploring huff and swipes his thumb over it gently. Dean thunks his head back against the wall with a dazed, "Oh my fucking god."
"No," Cas says. The grip on him tightens, pumps him firmly once, root to tip, decisive, and then again as Dean whines at the back of his throat in encouragement. Cas leans back into his space, makes sure Dean's eyes are on his as he growls right into his gasping mouth, "God isn't here."
Swallowing down the moan it elicits, Cas jacks him in earnest, takes him apart with the same terrifying focus as he would an enemy. Dean scrabbles one-handed and helpless at his trenchcoat, gripping it tight and holding on for dear life, other hand clenching and unclenching where it stays by his head against the wall. Cas's touch is electric, lighting him up from the inside, almost on the edge of too dry without any lube, although that's not going to be a problem for long, the way Dean's leaking all over them, getting all wet like girl. And that's a thought that ignites something in him, almost as hot as the squeeze of Cas's fingers. Tongue claiming Dean's mouth with a vengeance, Cas doesn't even seem to mind that Dean's not kissing back just moaning, open mouthed and messy. The thing is, he's had some truly mind-blowing sex, and all things considered this is pretty tame, but there's something about it, something about Cas, that drives him fucking crazy. Has him rutting into the touch with every downstroke because it just feels so good he can't help it, has him making these fucked out noises he's never heard from himself before, high and desperate. Has him splay legged and entirely trusting that Cas will keep him from sliding down to his ass on the filthy alleyway ground. And he does, all solid weight and clever hands and unwavering intent. The rhythm changes, faster, more frantic, a subtle little twist on the upstroke, it lances through him in a bolt of toe curling heat. He buries his face in Cas's neck and begs.
"Shit, Cas, Cas, please— I need, ngh— fuck, please, please, pleasepleaseplease—"
"Dean," Cas says, just once, scraped out and absolutely ruined for a guy still fully clothed and untouched. And that does it. Dean's entire body spasms, lights up like a supernova, orgasm slamming into him at 80 miles an hour as he comes all over Cas's hand in hot spurts. He's trembling with the force of it, little ripples of sparks racing up and down his spine as Cas slows but doesn't stop, makes sure to milk him for all he's worth until Dean is a twitching, sobbing mess. The second he takes his hand away Dean slumps like a puppet with cut strings, limp weight. He doesn't know how long he basks in it, eyes squeezed closed, silence abated by the roaring of his blood in his ears. Relearns how to breath. But once that intense, too much feeling trickles away, the noise seeps back in. His own ragged breath, Cas's, the distant sound of traffic. It takes a moment for Dean to remember how to move. The heat of Cas is nice in the shivery aftermath, absurdly, Dean wants to wrap himself up in that trenchcoat, burrow in, make a home in there. Heavy, blissed out, he has to apply concerted effort to lock his knees and lean back off of Cas's chest, to try and gain some sense of control over his own limbs and dignity. A distant part of him knows he probably stinks of sweat and sex but he's not worried about that, all stupid and glowy. Tamping down the sudden urge to laugh, he thinks about how ridiculous he must look. Completely undone by a god damn hand job.
"Holy shit," he does not giggle, tipping his back to grin up at the impassive, grey sky. His arm is still locked into place by his head, which makes that weird, giddy feeling bubble up again. He goes to drop it onto Cas's shoulder but abruptly finds himself cold. Nothing there but empty air. He blinks in confusion.
Cas, wiping his hand down the thigh of his slacks and leaving a smear of— Jesus Christ— Dean's come behind, is backing away, all kiss swollen mouth, just-fucked hair and cornered animal eyes. Dean just had the better part of his brain function leak out of his dick, something is wrong, he can't begin to figure out what.
"Hey, where're you going?"
"I…" For the briefest second, Cas is looking right at Dean, and he's flayed open, agonised, starving.
"Cas," he breathes, paralyzed by the depth of naked need he sees written into that creased brow, those parted lips. No one has ever looked at him like that. He reaches out for it.
Cas take another step back and straightens, the soldier slams back into place, calm, cold, unfeeling. "I have to go."
"Wait—"
But Cas is gone, that whoosh-pop sound of angelic retreat loud in the ringing silence. It's not fair, the way everything tilts suddenly, off-balance. The way Dean feels strangely hollow, like Cas took some of him with him on his way out. God. He should have listened to that little 'uh oh' in the back of his mind before his brain shut off.
"Fuck," he says out loud, and then he tucks himself back into his jeans with shaky hands, before someone catches him with his dick out in an alleyway in broad daylight. What the fuck was that? What the hell did he just do? Shame curls, hot and thick, in his gut, like bile. He's suddenly too aware of himself, of his body, the places Cas touched him, the cold left in his absence. He can't stay here.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he lets out a long, steadying breath. And then he's putting the steel back into his spine, wrangling the mess of his mind into a semblance of focus. He gets it the fuck together because people are dying. Methodically, he checks over the alleyway, avoids the place where Cas had him all pinned like a bug under a microscope even as his eyes slide back to it every couple of minutes, fixated. He even climbs up the rusted fire escape and peers fruitlessly back into the room he and Sam already went through. Finds absolutely nothing. Of course. He doesn't want to go back to their motel, doesn't want to go back to Sam, and that catches him like a fist to the throat. It's Sammy. But it's not. It's walking down a staircase you've known your whole life and the last step is inexplicably missing. Dean can't do it. Can't try and sift through the riot of emotion brewing like a storm right beneath the surface, not under that cold, assessing gaze. He has to get the fuck away, just for a little bit.
Mind made up, Dean staggers out of the alleyway, almost hungover, raw like an exposed nerve, hot and itchy, aching in his knees and the backs of his eyes. The trembling line of his mouth. He avoids looking at of the people bustling up and down the street directly, can't help but feel like it's written all over his face. What's worse, coming all over the guy who literally saved you from hell or getting ditched immediately afterwards? The tiniest little part of him wants to think about what might have happened if Cas had stuck around. He very firmly tells it to shut up. Once he gets to baby, he flicks a quick text to Sam about hitting the nearest bar, and then he turns his phone all the way off and drives. And drives and drives and drives, hands gripping the wheel until they ache. It takes longer than he'd like to admit. Long enough that daylight is a distant memory. But finally he concedes, pulled to the side in some suburban neighbourhood he's circles past way too many times, that no angel is going to be dropping into his passenger seat for the second time today. Either Cas is busy almost getting killed, or he's ignoring Dean's prayers. Either way, he better go find that bar or Sam'll be suspicious.
Turning baby around, Dean doesn't see the lone figure illuminated by the glow of a streetlight, watching his steady retreat with intense, unrivaled focus. He isn't meant to. He drives away.