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Cas wears sex well. Pink cheeked and panting, his hair made black from sweat, his pale skin glistening, his blue eyes taken over with something dark and deep, he looks like the sort of vision that would tempt a man to hell. Like something unholy, a demon of desire, so beautiful it must be inhuman. An incubus, come to sell sin to saints, snaring them with one heated look, one chaste kiss, the tantalizing promise of something more, and there wouldn’t be a man in this world holy enough to not buy. Or if there is, that man is certainly not Dean Winchester, no matter how righteous the angels keep telling him he's supposed to be.
Because Dean sure knows he ain’t holy enough to resist. Not that he’d tried especially hard in the first place. Actually, maybe he’s the unholy one in this situation, a filthy mudmonkey who’d brought an angel so low, debased him so thoroughly, tempted him into the pleasures of the flesh as surely as the serpent in the garden. Until he couldn’t help but bite down on that apple, sweet juice running down his chin, filled with knowledge that he could never unknow. Or maybe that’s just the dirty part of him that gets off on fucking a (mostly fallen) creature of God. He’ll feel guilty about it later, for finding some debased enjoyment in Cas’s slow descent from heaven when he’s seen how it tears the angel up inside, for knowing, that in the end, he’s the reason behind this torment too, but every step Cas takes away from heaven he takes towards Dean and there’s some dark, jealous part of him that craves that. He wishes it was only because he knows that Cas deserves better than his dickhead family. He’ll probably feel bad about that later too.
For now, he just enjoys the picture of Cas in the afterglow, luminous enough to make him think that a couple hundred years ago he could have been someone’s muse, a living work of art, painted in oils by the glow of moonlight and the warmth of candles, resplendent on beds of silks and velvets, instead of only being captured in snapshots of Dean’s imagination under cheap flickering motel fluorescents, that masterworks of this scene deserve to be hanging in museums. But then everyone’d get to see Cas like this and not just him.
His ribs still hitch, slowly, like a bellows, breath needing to be caught and steadied after the thorough ride he’d given Dean. There are red marks on his hips, where Dean had clenched too hard, pulling Cas down deeper onto him even as he snapped his own hips up, and he hopes they’ll bloom into fingerprint bruises that he can brush against tomorrow, hear Cas’s quiet intake of breath and know that only the two of them know the secret that’s hidden under that tax accountant suit.
He brushed his fingers up Cas’s sternum lightly and smiled when it startled a half-gasped chuckle out of him. Blue eyes flick up to meet his own while white teeth bite down on that full pink bottom lip.
“Stop that, you know I’m ticklish.” He makes sure to grumble, but it’s the joking sort of complaint that only comes hand in hand with hard won intimacy.
“Don’t worry. I’m planning on putting my fingers somewhere else.” It’s a bad line, which’s why Dean says it, because Cas likes all his lines, doesn’t know what a cheesy pickup is anyway, but what he really likes is knowing what Dean’s planning to do with him. Dean can rev him up all night just whispering hints of those plans in his ear, telling Cas all the filthy things he’s planning to do to him when they’re finally alone, away from whatever greasy spoon or dive bar they’re in, and Cas knows he’ll follow through on every one.
“Turn over.” He orders, and Cas does, with only a flick of his eyes to Dean. He admires the smooth lines of his shoulderblades even as he presses his hand down against the dip of Cas’s spine, where that pretty back meets an even prettier ass, in Dean’s opinion. He’s rolled up to balance on one elbow now, resting his head on his unoccupied hand and taking in the sight of Cas as he blinks up at him with a spark of suspicion, face turned to Dean, arms crossed under his cheek. Dean smirks and run his hand lower, pausing on the sweet curve of his ass and then continuing until he can tap two fingers against Cas’s inner thigh. Cas obeys Dean’s silent command, spreading his legs wide enough to reveal his fucked out hole.
“I wish you could see yourself,” Dean tells him, “you’re so sloppy wet with me. Can you feel it? Dripping out of you?”
“Yes.” Cas groans brokenly.
“Don’t worry, I know how you don’t like to make a mess.”
Cas only whimpers.
Dean gathers up his own come carefully with two fingers, and pushes it back into Cas’s swollen hole. He fucks Cas lethargically with those fingers, feeling the wet slide of himself inside. He wonders if the supernatural creatures they run into can sense this, can see him marking Cas. After all, Cas got to brand him, he thinks he should make sure he gets to show his devotion too. He makes sure to teasingly press against Cas’s prostate every third slide in or so until Cas is half-sobbing with it. Pressing forward into the scratchy motel sheets to escape from his too sensitive hole only to push himself backwards when that chafes his recently spent cock.
“You can add another one.” Cas gasps breathlessly and Dean chuckles at his not so subtle desperation.
“Mmmm yeah I know I can, you’re fucked wide open as a whore.” Cas arches needily in response, half from the curl of Dean's voice around the cruelly tender words and half from the additional finger Dean presses in with a wet sounding squelch.
Dean laughs, “You can even hear how dirty you are.”
He picks up his pace now, just to hear the noises his fingers make each time as he pushes himself further into Cas’s body and the sounds Cas makes in response. He’s hitting Cas’s prostate more often now and Cas claws the sheets as his cock starts to fill again, too soon after his previous orgasm. He’s shuddering with each press inwards, and Dean spreads his fingers, gliding against Cas’s walls and enjoying the scene in front of him.
“Please, please, please.” Cas repeating breathlessly now, his eyes wet, every word grunted out in pleasure-pain.
Dean obliges him and adds a fourth finger, every single stroke feeling like he’s rubbing himself into Cas, indelibly, Cas body bowing more and more sharply each second the sweet torture continues until every muscle in Cas seizes up and he comes, howling, onto the already soiled bedsheets.
Cas is completely out of it as Dean rolls him over, gently. He goes to the bathroom and wets a washcloth with warm water and he sets to cleaning up the beautiful mess he’s created. By the time he’s finished Cas is stirring back to himself. He presses a tender kiss to each of Cas’s teary eyes.
“Thank you.”
Dean lies down and pulls Cas to him.
“Go to sleep, angel.”