Genre: Crack, Humor, PWP
Warnings: Explicit sex and language, and some wing kink.
A/N: Set right after The Real Ghostbusters (has some innacurate quoting from future episodes, though). And yes, that is the title, hopefully it'll make sense.
Summary: Chuck calls Dean about an edit Becky made to his propechy, Dean and Castiel unsuccesfully try to stop it from happening.
Chuck slams down the phone before the call goes through. Again. The last thing he wants to do is call Dean, especially after the crap he put him through at the convention, but the least he can do is give him a heads up. After all, maybe him and Sam can figure something out.
This time, he lets the call go through.
“Yeah?” Dean snaps, the connection making his voice sound tinny.
“Look, I’m really sorry to bother you again, but. Uh. Something might have happened,” Chuck blurts out, massaging his eyelids.
“I swear to God, Chuck, this better be about the Colt, or Crowley, or the Devil, or the end of the world—”
“Uh. No,” Chuck mumbles.
“Then WHAT,” Dean shouts. Chuck winces and holds the phone away from his ear.
“I was helping Becky out with her writing, letting her use my laptop, read some of my stuff. I think it took her mind off Sam, too, because—”
“That’s great, Chuck, you’re telling me this why?”
“She may have switched to writing stories about Dean slash Castiel instead of Dean slash Sam.”
There is only silence from Dean’s end.
“What, Chuck, why are you tell— ”
“And she may have written one into one of my chapters. And I can’t erase it. And it takes place tonight,” Chuck says in a rush. Silence again, but longer this time.
“Tonight when?” Dean says, his tone clipped.
“I dunno, man, when it’s dark. She’s not too clear on the exact time,” Chuck mutters, shuffling through pages.
Dean curses on the other end. “Thanks so much for the—” Chuck imagines him checking his watch. “Three hours’ notice. Can I at least read what she’s written, to, you know, stop it from ever happening?” Chuck flinches. Dean’s shouting by the end of his sentence.
“Yeah, yeah I forwarded it to Sam, I just thought you might want a heads up. It gets pretty graphic—”
Chuck hears the thunk of the cell phone falling and the scrape of a wooden chair on a hardwood floor. He can even hear the muffled sounds of Dean arguing with Sam.
“Give me your laptop,” Dean’s distant voice says through Chuck’s phone.
“What? No!,” shouts Sam, even more muted. Then the sounds of a fast but frantic scuffle.
“Dean! Hey! Why?!”
“Just for a second, Sam, Jesus Christ, stop pawing at me!” Footsteps, getting louder, and then Dean is on the line again.
“I will find you and I will kill you, Chuck,” Dean snarls, and then the line is dead.
Chuck stares at the phone in hands and at the papers strewn around his desk. He catches a line from one of them.
Dean lays back against Cas’s chest, the happiest he’s been in a long time. The apocalypse is upon them, Lucifer walks the earth, there’s a future where Sam says “yes” to the Devil, but here, now, Dean is exactly where he wants to be.
Bad writing aside, he’s glad that Dean can have this, if it even ends up happening. As awkward as it is gonna be to see Dean and Castiel again.
And if he lied a bit about not being able to erase it—well. If they don’t want it to happen, it won’t. He’s just giving them a little push. After all, you’d have to be stupid not to see that there’s something there; for God’s sake, he writes the intense stares and conflicting thoughts those two have.
Dean never read anything so fast in his life. Not even the time in high school he tried to get through Hamlet cover to cover during lunch before an English test. To top it off, he has to keep shoving Sam’s long arms away from the laptop and tilt the screen so he can’t read the frankly pornographic writing in front of him.
“Give me five minutes! Go—away—for five minutes!”
“What did Chuck say? What happened?” Sam splutters, having been smacked in the throat by Dean’s flailing arm.
“Then what are you reading?”
“Nothing, Sam, Jesus!”
But Sam finally pries the laptop away from him makes his way back to the bed he was sitting on. Dean slumps in his seat, waiting for the inevitable outburst…
“Are you reading slash fanfiction?”
“Are you seriousl—no! It’s Becky’s goddamn story, she wrote it into one of Chuck’s chapters and he can’t erase it. Like a fuckin’ prophecy,” Dean explains, getting up to snatch the laptop back.
“Says it happens tonight. Are you gonna try to avoid it?”
“What are you—of course I’m going to try to avoid it!” Dean splutters. How could you…what?”
Sam’s looking at him like he’s an idiot. Like he knows something he doesn’t. Dean hates that.
Dean glares at him, waiting for an explanation.
Sam sighs and looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. With a lurch, Dean remembers Cas making the same motion when asked about sex. He never did lose his virginity that night. Oh, God, it was starting. That goddamned prophecy is already set in motion if he’s thinking about Cas and sex in the same sentence. He realizes Sam looked up and is watching him.
“What, Sam, spit it out!” he snaps.
Sam stares at him for a second more, contemplating. “Well, I mean, it’s not exactly a secret,” he starts in a rush.
“What. Exactly. Isn’t a secret,” Dean says through clenched teeth.
Sam clears his throat. “Well, how you and Cas, uh. ‘More profound bond?’”
“More prof—what?! Cas is always saying stuff like that! You can’t possibly think—”
“Saying ‘stuff’ like what?”
Oh, great. Dean spins around to face a confused angel standing in front of the window. The setting sun makes shadows dance across his face, filling crevices Dean didn’t know were there. He winces internally. As screwed up as his family is, it’s nothing compared to Cas’s, and it shows on his face.
“Nothing, Cas. What’s up?” he asks quickly, before Sam can open his big mouth.
Cas blinks slowly at him and nods at Sam.
“Sam called me here,” he says gruffly. Ever serious.
Too late, then. Awesome. He shoots a you’re-gonna-get-it-later glare at Sam before explaining things to Cas.
“…So we’re gonna find some way to stop Becky’s chapter from happening. Soon. It says Sam calls you here—too late there, then—but then that me and you go try to track down Crowley together in the Impala. Which is freakin’ weird, dunno why you wouldn’t just go by yourself—”
“I must have missed something. What, exactly, are we stopping?” Cas asks. Dean conspicuously glances down at the laptop in his hands.
“Let me see it.”
“Woah there! No fuckin’ way,” Dean barks, snapping the laptop shut before Cas can reach him. He stares at him, arms outstretched, a puzzled look on his face.
Dean looks helplessly at Sam, shrugging his shoulders and mouthing you explain! Sam clears his throat and sidles to the front door, grabbing his jacket on the way.
“I think I’m gonna go for a walk, there’s a library down the road, maybe do some research…”
The slam of the door cuts of the rest of his sentence. That sonufabitch just bailed on him! It felt weirdly like the many times Dean brought a girl home and Sam made up any excuse to get the hell out of the house.
Dean coughs uncomfortably and refuses to meet Cas’s eyes. He really, really doesn’t want to go into detail about what exactly is becoming more and more plausible the longer Cas—the freakin’ virgin—stares at him with sex eyes.
He sighs. “Okay, Cas, c’mere.”
Castiel is surprised at the sudden tension in the room. His gaze shifts from the door just slammed behind Sam and Dean, who has a guilty blush spreading beneath the collar of his shirt. Not once had he seen Dean blush. He had privately thought him incapable of doing so. He’s avoiding his stare, which is also rather uncharacteristic. Especially since he’s stopped complaining about “personal space.” Given up, it would seem, because Castiel keeps forgetting that his captivation with Dean, his concern for him, doesn’t grant him nose-to-nose proximity to him.
“Okay, Cas, c’mere,” he finally mumbles at the floor. He hands the laptop out to him and Castiel takes it.
“How do I—”
Dean makes a frustrated noise and grabs it from him. Castiel hovers behind him as he slumps into one of the motel’s rickety chairs and taps at the keyboard for a few seconds.
“There,” he grunts, sliding out of the chair and gesturing towards the screen. “Read it, try not to ask questions.”
Castiel reads it. The flowery language and awkward details confuse him, but he understands the basics. A flush to match Dean’s creeps up the back of his neck.
“This doesn’t—ah—accurately describe thoughts, feelings…only actions?” he blurts out before he can stop himself. It’s a question, but he tries to make it sound like a statement. His feelings for Dean are complicated, overwhelmingly so, at best—he understands how love for God is different than brotherly love or romantic love, and he’s felt all but one before coming to Earth. Before saving Dean from Hell, rebuilding him, feeling as though he built part of himself into him as well. He knows he looks at him different than how he looks at Sam, or any other human, and he knows it’s because he has more of a bond with him, but love? According to his brothers and sisters, Meg, Crowley, Sam, Bobby, and now this badly-written prophecy, it is.
“Well if it does, you’re ‘head-over-heels in love’ with me, aren’t you?” Dean’s voice breaks through his thoughts, quoting the prophecy.
Castiel glances back at the screen. He has no idea how to answer that question. “Yes,” he tries, tentatively. Hopes it’s what Dean wants to hear.
“Yes it does, or yes you are?”
He says it casually, but Castiel can hear his heart pounding from a few feet in front of him. He’s continuing to avoid eye contact with him, otherwise Castiel would have some idea of what he was thinking. Dean’s face is like an open book.
But he can’t. And he’s…panicking. He’s fairly sure that’s the word for the distinctly human feeling that’s constricting his windpipe, speeding up his heart rate, making his palms perspire. He has no idea how to answer; in normal circumstances it would be the truth, bluntly, but he’s not sure himself if he’s in love with Dean or not. And he’s not going to let everyone else tell him if he is. He’s going to figure it out, by himself, right now.
And with that thought, he vanishes.
Dean hopes Cas can’t hear his heart pounding. Angel senses, or whatever. He knows enough not to make eye contact with him. He always feels like Cas can read his freakin’ mind when he stares at him.
He’s waiting in uncomfortable silence for Cas’s response and oh God what if it’s yes, yes to being in love with him? Never in a million years did he want a direct goddamn confrontation like this. If Cas was female, or human, the situation would be different. Dean would know exactly how to act on the increasingly distracting tension there always seems to be between them. Every damn time he’s alone with the guy—angel, he corrected himself—it turns into Staring Match of the Century. Not this time, though. He wasn’t having it. Cas would just have to tell him exactly—
And then, with a whoosh, he’s gone.
That feathery bastard. Dean grinds his teeth and plops down on the bed. Okay, new plan of action. Ignore the damn prophecy and go for a slice of much-needed pie from the diner they passed on the highway. He doubts Cas will reappear while he’s driving, anyway. He grabs his jacket and keys and slams the door on the way out.
Freakin’ angels, he thinks, squinting in the setting sun as he coasts down the freeway. This angel, specifically. He knows something’s there, hell, one of his well-honed skills is picking up women ’cause he can tell when they’re into him. Well, most of them are anyway, but still. The male thing might be throwing him off a bit, though. He was never all that good with guys, back when he went down that road for a while. When women got too clingy and emotional, too delicate, especially after a successful hunt, when Dean wanted it rougher than women could offer. Sam, bless him, never knew. Although, and Dean’s brow furrows with this thought, the whole implying-that-Dean-and-Cas-have-a-thing stunt he pulled today…he was going to have a discussion with him about that. One where Dean lies a lot about being attracted to a freakin’ angel. Damn angels. Dean realizes this is a recurring thought. You’d think angels would be saviors right about now, with the apocalypse looming in the near future, but they are all a pain in his ass. Especially the ones that disappear in the middle of conversations and turn up when he least expects—
“JESUS!” The car swerves and a sporty convertible honks loudly behind him. Dean’s stomach is in his throat and his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
“Cas, I told you, never in the car, seriously, man, I’m gonna crash if you do that!” His first reaction to Cas reappearing while he’s driving is to protect the Impala from any goddamn angel-caused accidents. His second is the gut-wrenching realization that they are fulfilling the prophecy, word-for-word.
“Sorry.” Dean glances to his side. Cas is staring at him, hair windswept, and Dean feels his stomach lurch again, for a different reason. He turns back to the road and tries not to feel Cas’s eyes boring into him.
He clears his throat. “We’re doing a really shitty job not being in the Impala together, yaknow—”
“I panicked,” Cas interrupts.
“You what?” He’s distracted, what with trying to drive with Cas right next to him, smelling like he just came back from flying over the ocean, his voice a little deeper than usual. Or maybe that was his imagination.
Cas begins to repeat himself. “I—”
“I didn’t know angels panicked,” Dean cuts him off. He’s avoiding the issue and he knows it.
“You made me,” Cas states, in his matter-of-fact way. Great. Issue revisited.
Dean feels his throat close up. “I did? Why?” He immediately regrets asking and for a wild moment considers turning into oncoming traffic so he can just die and not hear Cas explain how Dean is like a brother to him, or even worse, explain his feelings for him because God knows Dean doesn’t do discussions about feelings and if he disappears again so help him Dean will trap the bastard in holy fire for all of eternity—
Cas is interrupting his thoughts and Dean struggles to focus on what he’s saying.
“Wh—what?” Definitely not what he was expecting, but does not help stop his heart from beating out of his chest.
“Pull. Over.” Yes, his voice is definitely deeper and Dean feels another blush coming on except it’s his whole body and he really, really doesn’t want to make eye contact with the angel sitting next to him because he’ll know he’s turned on, Dean knows he’ll know.
So he keeps his eyes trained on the road and finds a shoulder to pull over on. It’s dark now and his headlights illuminate the trees in front of him, casting long shadows in the dirt. He turns the car off and it clicks as it cools down. There’s no excuse now, he’s gonna have to make eye contact. He can feel Cas’s eyes on him, see his khaki trenchcoat and dark, messy hair in his peripherals. On three, he tells himself. One…two…
Cas’s hand whips out, grabs his jacket and swings him around so they’re face to face, all in a split second. Dean’s hand instinctively flies to his wrist to push him away, but he finds himself staring into Cas’s eyes and seeing the look girls give him before pushing him onto a bed, or dropping to their knees in front of him, or running a hand up his thigh in shady bars, the look that says I want you here and now and hell if Dean isn’t gonna oblige. He’s got his hand gripping the back of Cas’s neck and his face inches away from his before he realizes what he’s about to do and now it’s too late because he feels Cas’s warm breath on his lips and Dean’s last thought is fuck the prophecy before his mouth finds Cas’s and he’s kissing a freakin’ angel.
Castiel has no idea what he has planned when he asks Dean to pull over. He just knows he wants to be looking him in the eye when he figures something out and Dean won’t have an excuse to watch the road if he’s not driving. He had forgotten about the prophecy until Dean brings up them being in the Impala together, but by now Castiel has realized that Chuck is lying to them about being able to erase it, for some reason. Only prophets can write prophecies, and only they can edit them.
It took less than an hour of flying over the ocean for him to realize that being alone didn’t clear up anything. If there was something to figure out, he’d figure it out with Dean. They were both skilled at being brutally honest with each other—Dean usually through actions more than words—and he needed to be with him to figure out how he felt.
He watches the back of Dean’s neck flush red and his hands clench and unclench the steering wheel. With a rush, Castiel remembers reading the description of what he’s seeing, and if he’s not mistaken—yes, Dean’s pulling over onto a dirt road now, matching the prophecy—he knows what comes next. He feels a deep stirring in his gut, a resounding yes to the question of whether or not he wanted the image in his head to become reality. A rush of heat floods through his body, leaving him dizzy and light-headed and he wonders dazedly if this is a normal human reaction.
He can’t stand it anymore; the silence inside the car is deafening and Dean’s gaze, directed pointedly away from him, is driving him crazy. He needs to see what he’s thinking, the play of emotions across his face, now. Well, Castiel thinks desperately, Dean responds well to actions rather than words. And he whirls around in his seat and seizes his jacket by the lapels.
Finally. He sees it all, Dean’s initial shock and struggle to push away and then slow understanding, a rush of heat darkening his eyes, dilating his pupils until there’s just a thin ring of bright green left around them. Castiel’s busy trying to analyze human biology, figure out what exactly his face means, when Dean’s hand is curling around the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair and feeling too good for the simple touch that it is. Dean’s face is inches away from his own and he can see the dusting of freckles across his nose that Dean pretends don’t exist, his long eyelashes, his mouth, parted slightly. He’s trying to memorize it all, in case this is the one and only time Dean will allow him to be this close, before he’s getting closer and his lips find Castiel’s in what his numb brain identifies as a kiss.
It takes a second for him to follow Dean’s lead, to snap out of the frozen shock he finds himself in and let his eyes slide shut and mouth go pliant against Dean’s. His grip loosens on his jacket and Dean’s hand leaves his wrist to slide around his waist, underneath his trenchcoat and jacket. Castiel gasps as his hand tightens in his hair and his nails run across his scalp, and finds Dean’s mouth open and hot against his, his tongue slipping into his mouth, sending a violent shiver down his spine. He follows as best as he can, sliding his tongue against Dean’s coming as naturally to him as any other human ritual, which is to say, not naturally at all. But he’s a fast learner and for once, Dean’s patient with him, guiding his tongue and maneuvering his head gently with the hand on his neck. He’s gasping as Dean’s mouth leaves his and trails down his neck, sucking on his pulse point and grazing his teeth against his Adam’s apple. His hands find Dean’s shoulders and wrap around them, wanting to be closer, to align their bodies at every plane and angle, to sink into him. The smell of the leather of Dean’s jacket and the seats of the Impala, Dean’s aftershave, his deodorant, his sweat, Dean’s faintly alcoholic taste from the last beer he drank lingering in his mouth—sensation rushes to his head, makes it hard for him to concentrate. He’s never felt like this, as either human or angel.
He realizes after it’s too late that his control on keeping his wings on a dimension imperceptible to humans is slipping. He’s jerking away from Dean, gulping in air, trying to seize a fragment of restraint, but suddenly finds himself surrounded by feathers, his wings crammed into the tiny interior of the Impala and colliding with the hood.
“Ow,” he mutters hoarsely.
Dean’s freaking out as Cas pulls away from him when a second ago he looked ready to climb into Dean’s lap. He’s about to ask if everything’s okay when he nearly swallows a handful of inky black feathers. Oh, shit, he thinks. Wings.
Cas says something above him, but all Dean can see is the stubble-grazed neck in front of him and feathers everywhere else, surrounding him, radiating heat. He ducks his head underneath a wing and finds his way out of endless black silkiness. He chokes on a laugh when he catches sight of Cas, hunched over with a pained, worried look on his face.
“Hey,” he gasps, still breathless from sucking face with the angel. “It’s okay. Do you, uh, need a second?”
Cas smiles at him and Dean pretends not to notice how his heart leaps.
“I have a better idea.”
His fingers are on Dean’s forehead before he can protest and all of a sudden he’s back at the motel with Cas in front of him, wings taking up half of the whole goddamn room.
“But what about the prophecy?” he splutters as Cas walks toward him, his wings stretching forward and enveloping him softly. He feels their pressure on his back, pushing him towards Cas and the hungry look in his eyes. “And the Impala?”
“I brought your car along,” Cas assures him. “It’s parked outside.” Dean’s tripping over his own feet as he’s pushed closer to Cas and his hands are scrambling to get a grip on his slick wings.
“I’m surprised at you, Dean,” he continues. “What ever happened to Team Free Will?” Cas is whispering by the end of his question, his mouth inches away from Dean’s. He’s distracted again, sliding his fingers through feathers and mesmerized by the way Cas’s mouth forms words. He leans forward, tugging on feathers as he does so, and catches Cas’s lips with his, feeling him groan softly and practically melt into him. Well. It looks like Dean has found an erogenous zone that happens to be as big as his freakin’ car. He grins against Cas’s mouth and explores his wings, running his hands down the peaks of them, tugging at the shorter, fluffy feathers at the top and sliding his fingers through the longer ones that drape down, sweeping the floor. Cas full-on moans into his mouth and twines his hands in his shirt, pulling Dean forward to press him flush against his smaller, slightly shorter body. Dean’s surrounded by the contrasting sharp angles of his body and the softness of his wings, but everything’s hot and frantic and all he wants is to feel Cas’s bare skin on his, now.
“This,” he gasps, breaking the kiss and tugging on Cas’s trenchcoat. “Off. Now.” He extracts his hands from Cas’s feathers and starts shucking off his own jacket and shirt. For a split second he wonders how exactly Cas is gonna do that, what with his massive wings and all, but he blinks and the trenchcoat is gone, folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Dean swallows. Cas is staring at him, open and a little nervous, not quite unlike the time he took him to the strip club.
“Hey.” He leans forward, cups Cas’s rough cheek in one hand and kisses him. “You okay?”
“Yes,” Cas whispers against his lips.
As if to prove a point, he runs his hands up Dean’s naked torso, dipping his fingers into the hollows of his collarbones, dancing across his ribs, dragging his nails down his back. He catches sight of the scar on Dean’s shoulder, his own handprint, and carefully, almost curiously fits his hand on it.
For a second Dean can’t breathe. He locks eyes with Cas, green meeting blue, the angel who dragged him out of Hell and built him back up from scratch gripping his shoulder like he did what feels like years ago, and it feels so incredibly right, like no matter what happens, this is where he belongs. Dean presses against him, breathing in his scent, still faintly salty from the ocean, but for the most part his own clean, pure smell, like ozone in the air before a storm. They’re cheek to cheek and Dean’s fumbling to get Cas’s tie loosened and his shirt off while toeing out of his own shoes and jeans.
“A little help?” he breathes into Cas’s ear, which ends in a choked gasp as he finds himself naked and pressed against an equally naked angel. Cas sucks in a deep breath and his hips jerk against Dean’s, cock hot and hard against his own and yeah, Dean’s gonna need more of that. He pushes Cas against the bed, watches the frame hit the backs of his knees and him falling back on his wings with a soft grunt. Dean slides between his legs, pressing down hard on his cock as he makes his way up his body, biting at his heaving chest, his ribs, his nipples. Cas is squirming above him, panting and red-faced, clawing at his shoulders.
“Dean,” he gasps, demanding.
Dean’s busy sucking at the place where Cas’s neck meets his shoulder, leaving a purple bruise. Mine, he thinks, pleased with himself.
He slides a hand between them, curls his fingers around both their cocks and strokes, as slowly as he possibly can. Cas shudders beneath him, his wings flexing and unflexing, knocking over the lamp on the bedside table. As many times as Dean’s had sex, it’s never like this, where every nerve is on fire and he’s hypersensitive to every touch; the feel of the tips of Cas’s wings brushing his back, sending shivers up his spine, Cas’s hands running up and down his arms, his sides, over his ass, his legs tangled between his own, his hips thrusting shallowly against his, his breath panting wetly in his ear.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, hoping Cas knows enough about sex—gay angel-on-human sex, he thinks wryly—to tell him. He feels his wings shifting, the strength of them as they push him off of Cas as if he was a ragdoll and lift Cas on top of him.
Oh, God, he’s fucking gorgeous, straddling his thighs, his hands gripping his shoulders for balance as his wings stretch out on either side of him. Moonlight streams in from the window and makes them shine, almost blue-black in the darkness. Dean takes a second to admit to himself that he has a serious kink for angel wings.
“I want—inside. You,” Cas says evenly, staring down at him. Dean swallows hard. Not quite the hesitant virgin he thought he’d be, then.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, okay.”
Castiel has never seen anything as beautiful as Dean stretched out beneath him, mouth swollen, eyes glassy, hair a little mussed from Castiel’s hands running through it, and a pink flush spread across his cheeks and neck. He’s looking at him in something like awe, mouth open slightly and panting, one corner turned up in a half-smile. Castiel sees his Adam’s apple bob when he tells him what he wants and he lays his hand on Castiel’s, pressed against his chest, and laces their fingers together when he tells him okay.
Castiel smiles and bends down to capture Dean’s mouth hungrily with his own. His cock is so hard it hurts and if Dean keeps stroking them, his calluses catching on velvet-soft skin and his wrist twisting on each excruciatingly slow downstroke, Castiel is going to come. He slides out of Dean’s grip and breaks the kiss to nip at his jaw, suck at the hollow of his neck, trace the tip of his tongue over a collarbone. Dean gasps above him when he closes his mouth around a nipple and sucks, hard. One of Dean’s hands—the one not idly playing with his cock—flies to Castiel’s head and cards his fingers through his hair.
Castiel looks down and bats Dean’s hand away. From all the times Dean snaps at Sam or Castiel to “blow him,” Castiel finally got around to looking it up. Actually, that was the time he looked everything up; watched a few videos, read some articles. He smiles to himself. It would be the prospect of having sex with Dean, not a girl from the strip club, that finally prompted him to do a little research.
He makes his way down Dean’s chest, dipping his fingers into the hollows between muscles and placing wet, open-mouthed kisses on the paths his fingers trace. Dean’s squirming by the time Castiel scrapes his teeth down the line of hair trailing from Dean’s bellybutton to his groin, carefully avoiding his cock, hard and leaking. Castiel memorizes everything from the smattering of scars across his chest to the way his erection curves to the left, following the sharp line leading to his hip.
He slides his hands under Dean’s thighs, presses the pads of his fingers onto his hipbones, and just breathes on his cock, feels the coarseness of hair on his chin and smells his arousal, sharp and hot.
“Cas—what—” Dean chokes out above him, as if unsure of whether or not Castiel knows where to go from here.
Castiel locks eyes with him as he lowers his mouth over the head of Dean’s cock, not sucking yet, just running his tongue over the slit and playing with his foreskin. Dean’s jaw drops and he moans, hand clenching in his hair, hips bucking uncontrollably.
He sucks lightly, swallowing his length slowly, relishing the taste of him, unmistakably male and human and Dean.
“Please, Cas, God—”
Castiel smiles around his mouthful and sucks, hard, his cheeks hollowing and tongue pressed into the throbbing vein on the underside of his cock. Dean’s coming undone above him, thrusting shallowly into his mouth, hands clenched in his hair and the sheets, a stream of curse words interspersed with Castiel’s name coming from his mouth. Castiel trails one hand from Dean’s hip to the small of his back. He’s a little unsure of himself and hopes Dean’s experience is enough for the both of them. Dean jerks slightly as Castiel’s finger brushes past his opening and Castiel pulls off of his cock with an obscene slurp.
“Sorry,” he says, his voice hoarse. He slides his fingers up Dean’s length, slick and velvet-soft.
“N—no,” Dean stutters. Castiel watches a drop of sweat trickle down from his behind his ear to pool at the hollow of his throat. “Keep going, fuck, don’t stop…” He fumbles in the bedside drawer next to the bed, pulls out a tube and presses it into Castiel’s hand.
“Do you know—?”
Castiel’s nodding as he sucks Dean’s cock back into his mouth.
“Just—ah—just use the rest of it,” Dean manages to choke out. He’s clearly fighting to keep his eyes open and fixed on Castiel, watching his lips slide up and down and his cheeks hollowing and filling with each thrust. Castiel’s hand is back at his entrance, one long, slick finger circling it before sliding inside him.
Dean lets out a slow breath, shifting a little to get used to the feeling of Cas inside him. The warm, delicious pressure surrounding his cock definitely helps. He bites his lip as Cas’s teeth graze the tip lightly and he prays that Cas doesn’t find that spot inside him on his first try, ’cause he don’t think he’ll last much longer if he does—
Cas’s finger crooks slightly, catching his prostate on a downward bob of his head and Dean bites his lip so hard that he tastes blood. White spots dance at the corners of his vision and his hand flies down to the base of his cock and squeezes, hard, to keep him from coming then and there. He pulls Cas off of him, swallows his soft, confused sounds in an open-mouthed kiss, tastes himself on his tongue. Dean’s shaking, gasping into Cas’s mouth and bearing down on his finger, wanting more.
He wonders if he said as much out loud because Cas slides another finger inside him , stretching him gently, massaging the tight muscle. Someone’s talking and it takes Dean a while to pull out of the haze he’s in to realize that it’s him.
“Now, Cas, please, fuck me, fuck me, please…”
In other circumstances, he would be embarrassed and praying that the walls aren’t paper thin like most motels, but all he cares about right now is Cas’s cock, inside him, as soon as possible. But Cas lines up a third finger and the stretch burns but it isn’t enough, isn’t nearly enough…
“I’m ready, c’mon, now, please!”
Cas stops fingering him and leans back to look at him, his usually chapped lips slick with spit and kiss-swollen, hair sticking up all over the place, wings trembling. Dean swallows past the lump in his throat and brushes his hand against Cas’s cheek.
“Now,” he whispers.
Cas lines himself up, lifting Dean’s legs effortlessly and crouching over him. Dean shoves a pillow under his hips and wraps his legs around him, feathers ticking his calves, and he’s slowly filled by Cas’s cock.
He watches his face; an angel losing his virginity right in front of him, to him. A strangled noise forces its way out of Cas’s throat and his eyes widen at the hot, impossibly tight pressure he’s sinking into.
Dean’s head falls back on the pillows and he moans as Cas pauses, fully sheathed inside him. He gets used to the full feeling, shifting his weight and feeling Cas’s thighs shaking with the effort of not thrusting into him wildly.
“You feel so good—Dean—” he gasps, sweat trickling down his brow.
“Move,” Dean groans.
Cas’s hips snap back before he’s plunging into him, the force of it driving Dean up the bed. He slams one hand against the headboard to keep himself from cracking his skull on it, ’cause he’s pretty sure Cas doesn’t have any kind of restraint anymore. His wings beat the air around them and rufflle Dean’s hair as they help him surge forward and back, taking Dean, claiming him. Electricity crackles in the room and Dean’s reminded of ozone again, and the sheer power of the creature on top of him, slamming into him. He wraps his legs tight around Cas’s waist, just trying to hold on as Cas loses it above him, unravels thread by thread. His hair’s plastered across his forehead, his mouth open and breath hitching with every thrust, eyes somehow still open and glittering darkly as he stares at Dean.
Dean brings him down for a kiss; well, more pressing his open mouth to Cas’s and breathing together, strangely quiet. The only noises are the creaking of the bed, the slap of flesh on flesh, the beating of Cas’s wings, and their harsh breathing. Something intense and sudden clutches at Dean’s heart and he can barely breathe for a moment, and yeah, he’s gonna have to figure out what, exactly, it is, but that can wait until later. Right now his body feels like it’s on fire and Cas is good, so good inside him. His cock is sliding between their bodies but Dean knows that if he touches it, he’ll come immediately, so he braces himself against the backboard with one hand while the other tugs on feathers, strokes them, buries itself in them. Cas squeezes his eyes shut and moans at that, his nails digging into Dean’s chest.
He hits the spot inside Dean on one particularly forceful stroke and it’s too much, he can’t hang on anymore; he cries out raggedly, almost a sob, and he’s coming, in long, hot strands across his and Cas’s stomachs. He tightens around Cas, whose gasp ends in a broken moan in his ear and he’s coming too, deep inside Dean. He flops bonelessly on top of him, forcing the air out of Dean’s lungs. He feels his wings splay out across them and tighten around him for a moment before they disappear again.
Dean’s fairly sure he just hugged by angel wings. He smiles into Cas’s damp hair and rolls him to the side so they don’t end up glued together. His softening cock slips out of him and Dean considers the pros and cons of getting up for a towel to clean up with, but before he can summon to energy to slide out of bed Cas twitches his fingers and their bodies are dry. Well, then. Benefits of sleeping with an angel.
Cas is still motionless next to him, panting into the sheets, eyes glazed over.
“Is it…always like that?” he croaks.
Dean laughs. “Only with you.” And by God if Cas doesn’t have him saying chick-flick one liners after sex. He fumbles for a blanket in the mess around them, is about to pull it over them, is like a second away from shielding the outside world from their naked, entwined bodies, and Sam chooses that exact moment to burst through the door.
“Oh, God,” Sam groans, slapping a hand over his eyes and backing out as fast as he came in. “I thought you’d be in the Impala!” he yells through the door.
“What’s going on?” Cas murmurs next to him, slipping his arms around Dean and pulling him closer.
Dean struggles to form words through his laughter. “It’s—it’s just Sam. Here, put these on.” He hands him a pair of underwear—not sure if they’re his or Cas’s—and slips on a pair himself. He throws on a shirt and throws the blanket over his and Cas’s bare legs. That should be good enough for Sam.
“Okay, we’re, uh, decent!” he calls out. There’s a long pause, as if Sam’s deciding whether or not to trust him, before the door cracks open and he peers through.
“I thought you’d be in the Impala,” he repeats flatly, leaning against the doorframe. “The prophecy?”
Dean shrugs. “Yeah, a little inaccurate there—”
“Yeah, just a little,” Sam snaps back at him, in full bitchface mode. “You’re not the one that had to see—”
“It’s a beautiful, natural act, Sam—”
“—Had to see my brother post-gay angel-on-human coitus—”
Cas interrupts. “Chuck lied about the prophecy,” he says, sitting up under the sheets, his side pressed to Dean’s. “I don’t know why. Only prophets can write or edit prophecy.”
“I’m going to find him and kill him,” Sam hisses, slamming the door on his way out. “And I’m getting a separate room!”
“He’ll be okay,” Cas says in his ear, sliding back down to stretch out on the bed.
“’Course he will,” Dean grins at him. “He’s just jealous.” He pauses. “Are…we gonna be okay?”
Cas looks at him and cocks his head. “Of course,” he says, as if he’s a little confused by the question. “I love you, Dean.”
Dean’s mouth goes dry and he can’t say it back, not yet, but he knows Cas understands from the way he looks at him, from how the corner of his mouth turns up slightly.
Dean lays back against Cas’s chest, the happiest he’s been in a long time. The apocalypse is upon them, Lucifer walks the earth, there’s a future where Sam says “yes” to the Devil, but here, now, Dean is exactly where he wants to be.