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He's asleep when Dean returns.
Light splashes into the room, across the bed and Castiel’s eyes, causing him to stir and blink.
There isn't a clock in Dean's room that can be read in the dark, but it doesn't matter. The cycle of days and nights would be undetectable from the depths of the Men of Letters’ bunker, except that Castiel now feels a circadian pull. It's likely late.
Dean is a brief silhouette, swallowed by darkness. Castiel hears him strip off layers, hears the dull thuds of boots hitting the floor, the clink of belt buckle. A few seconds more for shedding socks and a yawn, then Cas is jostled as Dean sinks to the bed and shuffles onto his side. Dean sighs. Castiel feels the shift as Dean rub at his eyes, feels the thump of his hand hitting the mattress, futile. Even after long days of driving and hunting and fighting, sleep still doesn’t come easily to Dean Winchester.
He sidles up along Dean’s back and runs a hand over the bend of his hip. Dean startles, says, “Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s fine,” Castiel replies, lips just brushing the crest of an ear. Dean smells of smoke and myrrh, the increasingly familiar scent of earthbound angels—his trip with Sam was successful, then. Castiel doesn’t ask how it went, what they learned.
It’s a new war, one Castiel hasn’t yet determined how to be part of, and one Dean would prefer he didn’t try to fight. He will though, maybe soon. If Castiel has learned anything the last few years it’s that humanity isn’t equivalent to weakness—as angels often assume, and as Dean should well know. Nevertheless, it’s taken him time to adjust, and Castiel understands he’s a target for the wrath of fallen Heaven. Remaining in the bunker while Sam and Dean risk their lives for information against Metatron is strategic, for now. But strategies change, and Castiel is slowly finding new strengths.
He leans up and pushes at Dean’s shoulder to make him lie flat. Dean gathers a pillow under his cheek as Castiel plants a knee and swings the other over the dip of Dean’s back. Balancing on Dean’s backside, he reaches through the dark to trace Dean’s shoulders. He runs cupped hands firmly up Dean’s arms and drags them back down, tracing each sleek muscle as he goes, complex precision and power. He kneads the muscles of Dean’s back, hoping to ease the tension from between his shoulder blades, all the skin he can't see smooth and warm under his hands.
"I'll give you twenty minutes to stop that," Dean threatens playfully as Castiel works his thumbs down the sides of Dean's spine.
Castiel smiles lightly, thumbs digging in at Dean’s lower back, where he knows his own back now twinges after too long in the Impala. Dean groans, face buried in his pillow from the muffled sound of it.
When they’d begun sharing Dean's bed, they didn't talk about it. Not after the first night, not after the first week, first month. And they didn’t talk about it after the first time Dean pushed his erection into Cas's thigh, a sleep reflex that quickly became deliberate rutting, both of them sighing greedily against each other's mouths until their lips caught and Dean rolled on top of Cas, held him down and humped until they both came, cocks straining, untouched. They still don't talk about it, except to say I want you and yes, fuck yes and yours, you know.
It’s far from pretending nothing has happened, though. They know. Others know. Castiel senses it in the lean of Dean's body, in the possessiveness of his kiss. And he knows all these things without relying on grace. He can know so much when he pays attention, and he wonders, occasionally, whether grace has always been just another word for intuition. Like now, he can sense that Dean needs—is craving—attention, affection, though he climbed into bed without asking for it.
And that’s something else Castiel has learned, is learning—how to strip Dean of his defenses. How to make him accept love, feel pleasure. It’s a worthwhile lesson.
He slides down Dean's legs, inching off to the side. "Hey—“ Dean protests, but when Castiel hooks his fingers into the elastic of Dean’s boxer briefs and tugs, Dean capitulates with an “Oh,” and tilts his hips so Castiel can pull them off.
Stripped of sight, Castiel feels his way along the outline of Dean’s bare body. Rather than straddling him again, he climbs between Dean’s parted knees, smoothing his hands up the backs of Dean’s thighs, over his ass. He brushes a thumb at the very base of Dean’s spine, where the cleft of his body begins—a statement of intent, a question without words.
Dean gives a surprised, uncertain little moan, muscles tightening.
Castiel leans forward to kiss the back Dean’s neck, running his middle finger the length of the firm crease of Dean’s ass. “Let me,” he whispers at Dean’s ear, voice caught low in his throat, “Let me. I want to, want you.”
He touches as Dean decides, finger fitted in place, petting gently, painting the idea of what he wants with just a fingertip. When Dean relaxes under his touch Castiel’s finger dips into his body heat. “M’kay,” Dean mumbles, and Castiel smiles, giving the top of Dean’s ear a peck before he pulls back.
He takes a second to suck his finger, wetting it in the warm rill of his tongue before pressing back between Dean’s cheeks, slick enough this time to press all the way down. Cas finds the hot point of muscle he’s looking for and feels it flutter under the pad of his finger. Carefully, every movement long and slow, unhurried in timeless dark, he caresses over, pets above and below, barely pushing, just soothing. Dean makes incredulous hummy, whimpery sounds and twists his hips under Cas’s touch.
Usually it’s Dean’s fingers against Castiel’s body, stroking tender and intimate until they’re inside, until he’s wide open and wanting, an ache so marvelous it can only be human. But Castiel isn’t the one in need tonight.
He begins to feel the tension wound tight around Dean unravel. He kisses the top of a hip, the dip of Dean’s spine, encouraging unseen knots to come undone. Castiel slips another finger beside the first, hurriedly licking it slicker before he does. He sweeps them up once, pulses them against that most sensitive spot. When he makes a pass with his two fingers spread open, pushing wide and skimming along either side, Dean mumbles an approval. Cas’s fingers circle and smooth, and little by little Dean lets go. Cas feels him slacken from toes to shoulders, until his whole body’s gone pliant.
After a few final, slow drags of his fingers, Castiel shifts, pressing the heels of his hands into Dean’s buttocks. He kneads gently, spreading Dean a little wider with each roll. He wishes he could see the pert rise of Dean’s ass, the peek exposed pink, but he’s also intrigued by this blindness. It’s like being without his grace—there’s still so much he can sense: touch, sound, taste, smell.
Taste, Castiel thinks, hands splayed over Dean, parting him. He shuffles back on the bed and leans down, mouth meeting skin just where he’d meant to. He presses the fat flat of his tongue into the furrow of Dean’s body and Dean destroys a moan.
“Ohhh, fuck. Fuck,” he grits out, pushing up to meet Castiel’s mouth. Castiel licks deeply, tongue passing over that small, hot hole. The second time Dean moans, Cas does too, swept away on the current of Dean’s pleasure. He gives up keeping Dean parted with his fingers and sweeps his arms under Dean’s thighs, spreading wide and tilting his hips. His hands slide up along Dean’s sides, but soon he’s raking fingers back down Dean’s ribs, hoisting him closer, sinking his face deeper, as Dean curses again.
It’s easy like this, easy to give, to respond. It’s so rare Dean allows anything to be easy. But moments like this, with Castiel, he does. It’s what Castiel has learned to give them both.
Dean tastes bitter and earthy. It mingles with the coarse musky scent of arousal, and Cas revels in it. Skating a hand up Dean’s back, he sucks a kiss into Dean, lips tight with a graze of tongue, then pulls away to take a playful bite of one butt cheek.
“Jesus, Cas. I thought— Jesus,” Dean pants, hips pushing into the mattress, short thrusts that mean he’s hard and seeking friction. It gives Castiel a prideful little thrill. He licks back into Dean’s body, this time flicking the stiff point of his tongue fast over Dean’s entrance.
Without warning, Dean pushes up onto his hands and knees. Castiel flows with the motion—a sway forward, a lean back onto his haunches—mouth slipping from Dean for only brief seconds. The new angle allows him to lick and suck more freely and he takes advantage, slicking every centimeter he can reach, remembering how good he feels when Dean gets him wet all over with the lube he uses on his fingers—that messy, wild feeling of ready want. His cock twitches at the thought.
The crux of muscle he’s been tending is slack now. On impulse, he presses his tongue at the center of the circle, slides inside. There’s a near-sob from Dean. One of his hands flails back, fumbling until blunt nails dig into the base of Castiel’s skull, trapping him right where he is—a silent yes there, yes that before falling away. Dean’s hole pulls at him, opening soft and loose and flexing hungrily, and Castiel feeds it, tongue stiff. He fucks in and out with slow pulls, making sure Dean feels every slick second.
By the sound of the unholy litany dropping from Dean’s mouth, he does.
Dean’s arms give out. Castiel feels the collapse as Dean sinks to his elbows, his chest planted flat to the bed. It’s Dean lying prostrate, but Castiel is the one at worship. Dean is his example, his protector and his peace. Cas is generous in his unspoken thanks and praise.
A heel comes up around Cas’s ribs, toes hooking over his back, coaxing him on. Castiel runs a hand up Dean’s spine, down the back of a thigh. On his knees with his ass propped up high, Dean’s cock hangs heavy. Cas pauses to lick his lips then sets about laying deep kisses—a turn of his tongue here, a delicate rake teeth there. The change distracts Dean enough for Castiel to reach up unnoticed and palm his cock.
Dean convulses. His whole body bounces and trembles as he tries to fuck into the strokes of Cas’s hand without losing the attention of his mouth. “Cas!” he wails, voice broken. “Fucking hell, fucking— Christ. Cas.”
Castiel didn’t know desire until he met Dean, but now—now that he’s subject to lust, to possessiveness, to carnality, all amplified by his humanity—just hearing his name tear from Dean’s throat like that is enough to fill his cock, make him throb with want. Knowing he can fulfill Dean’s desire makes Castiel desire Dean all the more. It’s a spiral Castiel doesn’t pretend to understand.
He strokes and kisses in counterpoint a few more times, then lifts his mouth away and straightens up. Castiel coaxes Dean up onto all fours again, hand under his chest, erection teasing against Dean’s ass through his boxers. “Come on, come up,” he whispers, voice grating in his throat. “Feel that?” he adds, lightly rubbing his hard dick against Dean.
Dean huffs a shaky laugh but does as directed. Cas feels him plant his palms on the mattress and push up, his back meeting Cas’s chest, warm. Dean rocks back into the cradle of Castiel’s hips, taunting Cas’s erection with the cleave of his ass. Castiel chuckles and leans down to kiss along Dean’s jaw line, reaches around to jack him slowly a few times as a reward. The firm flesh of Dean’s cock in his hand makes Castiel’s mouth water, but he puts off the thought in favor of the plan he already has in place.
Holding the rush of saliva under his tongue, he makes fast work of stripping off his boxers, then spreads Dean’s cheeks with his thumbs and deposits the spit there. Dean chokes out a surprised ah!, and Castiel leans over him again, sucking at his throat and eliciting more shocked, eager sounds as he aligns his cock along the wet cleft of Dean’s ass.
The dark, the heat of Dean’s body, the rough rush of their breath—for several long seconds Cas knows only this. The world, the war, the fury of Heaven on Earth, none of it exists. There’s just them, this, Dean.
“Dean,” Castiel gasps. His hips stutter in place even before his first short thrust, and he feels Dean shudder as he moves, sliding up and then down the slick and sensitive channel. After he regains some control, Castiel prods the blunt head of his cock against the ripe rim Dean’s body, not to seek entrance, just because he knows what it does to Dean, the feel of it, the potential for it.
Dean practically purrs.
“Fuck me, Cas. You gonna fuck me? C’mon, baby, fuck me. Want you in me.”
A hand finds Cas’s thigh, hasty and goading, and Castiel wrestles with the temptation to push in, to have Dean tight around his cock and come hard inside him so he can crawl back down and suck it out of him, lap up the mess as it slides out of Dean’s fucked-wide hole. But he bites his lip and resists. Another day, when he can see it, when he can watch Dean’s rim give up his come and see the shock and wonder on Dean’s face as Castiel leans down to clean it up.
For now, tonight, Castiel needs to exhaust him, needs to lead Dean to rest, so he searches with his fingers instead, feeling for that tender opening. He dips one finger into Dean’s body as he guides his cock under, slicking down along Dean’s taint, nudging his sac. Dean growls out a yes that doubles as a plea for more and Castiel obliges, adding a second finger. He drops kisses over Dean’s back, hot promises sealed into skin. He sucks at a vertebra, bites the meat of his shoulder, all the while working his fingers in and out, in and around.
“Oh, Cas. Please, Cas. Cas—” Dean chants, verging on frantic.
Castiel smiles against Dean’s skin. As an angel he’d put Dean together, healed his wounds with a touch, made him whole. Now, as a man, he takes him apart.
Dean likes constant pressure. Overstimulation. More than anyone should be able to handle is the way Dean wants it. And he bucks and thrashes when he gets it, like now. Castiel holds two fingers at just the right spot inside him, giving it the shortest of strokes, mostly gentle pressure—nudging, holding, nudging as Dean fucks back on his fingers. His other hand is wrapped around Dean’s cock, holding firm and steady as Dean pulls and pushes, writhes and curses. “Fuck, Cas, fuck. There, fuck yes, fucking love— Cas. Shit. Oh God. Shit—“
Dean comes.
Castiel wishes he could see the strain of Dean’s cock and its come, but it’s enough to feel it, sticky and hot on his palm. He feels the tight catch of Dean’s body in the grip of orgasm, hears the praiseful whimpers of his name, tastes the salt and musk as he bites one last kiss into Dean’s skin. He wonders if he can use Dean’s warm spill to slick his own cock, make himself come.
Dean collapses with a moan, leaving Cas to sit back on his heels. He thinks he makes out the shadow of Dean rolled onto his back, sprawled and sated. The image in his mind’s eye is clearer—Dean’s chest flushed, his cock resting on his thigh, thick but flaccid. He closes his eyes and reaches down, planning to take care of his own erection quickly and quietly, but a hand clasps hard at his knee, stopping him.
“Nuh-uh,” Dean admonishes. He tugs at Castiel’s knees, half his usual strength at best, until Cas is seated up around his lap. “Do it here,” he says, fumbling Cas’s hand into position around his own hard cock. “Wanna see you.”
Castiel shivers at his own touch, thighs flexing tight around Dean. “You can’t see me,” he reasons, but his hand is already working his shaft, thumb sweeping up over the crown at the top of his stroke.
There’s a rustle that must be Dean shaking his head. “Just come for me, baby. Come on me.”
He doesn’t argue. Head tilted back, his fingers still coated with Dean’s come, sticky but just slick enough, Cas jerks off. Maybe it’s foolish that the simple fact of knowing his body, of bringing pleasure to himself—or, better, to Dean—can fill him with a similar sense of infinite power as his absent grace, but it does. He replays Dean’s gruff, grateful curses at orgasm, the slow melt of Dean’s muscles under his hands, the confidence in Dean’s every kiss. Combined with the fast jack of his fist, the occasional spin of his thumb, and he’s close. Breath held, body seized tight along that razor’s edge of anticipation until—
“Yes,” he exhales. “Oh, Dean. Oh, yes.” It floods through him, fast and intoxicating. He leans forward and lets his come drop hot on Dean’s abdomen as he captures Dean’s mouth with his own—it’s a plunging, sloppy kiss, with Dean’s fingers gripping tight in his hair, Cas’s cock pulsing hard in his fist between them. He sags against Dean’s chest when he’s spent.
He’s not sure how long it takes him to escape the undertow of endorphins, but Dean’s breaths are already slow and deep when Castiel is aware again, his hands resting loosely on Cas’s back. Castiel doesn’t want to move. He could fall asleep right here, like this, listening to the steady beat of Dean’s heart. But then,
“You’re good for me, y’know,” Dean rumbles, his words sleep-slurred.
Castiel curls his smile into Dean’s warm skin. He’s good at a lot of things, getting better at others. But what he’s best at—what he knows absolutely, loves without question—is Dean.
“Yeah,” he says, settling a soft kiss against Dean’s sternum.
One of Dean’s hands slides limp off to the side as he lets out his first snore.
Castiel laughs quietly. “Yeah, I am.”
— end —