Work Text:
I'd swim across Lake Michigan
I'd sell my shoes
I'd give my body to be back again
In the rest of the room
To be alone with you
-Sufjan Stevens
--
It’s amazing what people would let you do to them for a couple of twenties.
Castiel stared up at the bulletin board posted in the main hallway of his college campus, scanning over flier after flier looking for a potential model for his new sculpture project. Most of them were perfectly adequate. The problem was most of them were just looking for a hands-off modeling position, posing for drawing or painting, but Castiel’s purposes required him to be a little more… tactile.
There was one that caught his eye, black paper with white text stipulating ‘nothing kinky unless you buy me dinner first’. Castiel smirked and copied the guy’s – Dean Winchester, apparently – name and number onto the palm of his hand, running a thumb over the ink before he turned away from the board.
He’d been hoping for a female model, but a male would work.
--
The first session with Dean was… less awkward than he imagined. The awkward bit was mostly his fault, though, because Dean was one of the most relaxed people he’d ever met. Beautiful, too, which Castiel wasn’t sure he was okay with. He was broad shouldered, a stocky build, but lean, with a soft stomach and defined hipbones.
And Castiel was about to have his hands all over him.
It wasn’t just the cut of his body that entranced him. Dean was covered in some of the most beautiful tattoos Castiel had ever seen, a bleeding sun that wrapped around his calf, meticulously detailed designs along his bicep, filled in with soft blues and greens that reflected in his bright, heavy-lidded eyes.
The most beautiful of those was a tattoo that went from his lower stomach, across his left side and to his back. It reminded Castiel of Van Gogh, the sheer amount of movement in the work, a mix of red and yellow and turquoise, flames licking around pliantly drawn figures, hands and arms entwined in each other or hoisted in the air. It was... dark, but beautiful, the stunning eddy of color and line weirdly soothing to look at. He’d never seen anything like it, and Castiel knew some amazingly talented painters.
And this was in ink, on skin.
“Dude, stop staring.” Dean grinned, sitting all too comfortably in only his well-worn blue jeans, rucked up to his knees, on top of the heavy wooden work desk. His toned arms were resting over his knees. Castiel squinted and turned, walking toward the sink and running the water until it was warm. He filled a bucket halfway full and placed it on the bench next to Dean, and then moved to collect the rest of his supplies.
A box of plaster bandages, a large jar of Vaseline.
Dean eyed them with a grin and a cocked eyebrow. Castiel felt his cheeks warm.
“You gunna buy me dinner, then?” he teased, and Castiel opened his mouth in a comical ‘O’ shape that just made Dean smirk harder.
“What?” Castiel asked.
“Sorry man, I’m kidding. I know how this works. Like getting a cast, right?”
“Sort of. It’s a bit more delicate of a process.”
“Whatever, man, have at it!” Dean leaned back, uncrossing his arms and baring his chest. He had another tattoo, something Castiel recognized as a pentagram, right over his heart. Castiel sucked in a breath and uncapped the Vaseline.
He started reciting old Catholic prayers in his head, just to keep his mind occupied.
Castiel dipped his hand into the aspic, warmed it between his fingers as Dean reached out to him. Castiel wrapped his long fingers around his wrist, moving his hand delicately up to his elbow, then his shoulder, spreading Vaseline evenly on his skin, soft and peppered with pale freckles where the ink didn’t obscure them. Castiel tried not to stare beyond where his fingers met Dean’s skin, but he eventually looked up, and Dean was staring at him. His expression was soft, his mouth slightly parted, eyes a bit dark but that might just be Castiel imagining things.
He tried a smile, and Dean grinned easily back.
“You done this before, Cas?” Dean asked, his voice husky. He felt the muscles of Dean’s arm tense under his fingers right before he pulled away, wiping his slick hands on his apron.
“Of course,” Castiel answered, reaching over to grab for a few pre-cut strips of plaster bandages. “I need you to reach forward,” Castiel extended his own free arm, palm up and fingers beckoning loosely, forefinger outstretched. “Like this.”
Dean mimicked him.
Castiel nodded and took a single bandage strip, dipping it in the warm water, folding it over once before pressing it to Dean’s skin. He smoothed it down with delicate fingers before moving to grab another. Castiel was wrapped up in the work, monotonous but soothing, trance broken only when Dean’s muscles started to twitch from the effort of keeping his arm elevated. Castiel couldn’t let him lower his arm, already half covered in the plaster wrap at the joint, so he reached out and placed his palm against the back of Dean’s hand, holding him steady.
“Thanks,” Dean mumbled, and Castiel smiled. Dean seemed pleased at that. “So what’s the project for?”
“It’s for myself. I mean, I’ll be graded on it, but it will be a part of my senior exhibition. I choose my subject matter.” Dean smiled, and Castiel’s chest warmed, smoothing the bandages already on his arm to make sure the end product would be even, checking that the seams were clean so Castiel wouldn’t be forced to cut him out of the cast when he was done.
“What’s your subject matter?” Dean asked, “You know, besides devilishly handsome follows such as myself.” Castiel smirked, feeling the small shudder Dean let out when he dragged his thumb across the inside of his elbow.
“Body dysphoria. I want to create casts of a number of body parts, and then warp them, add bulbous protrusions, paint them odd colors. Plaster casts make wonderful canvases.”
“That’s really cool, man,” Dean said, smiling. Castiel ran a thumb over the back of Dean’s wrist before he pulled away, neither of them saying a word about it.
Once Dean’s entire arm was casted, Castiel moved to his hand, using smaller strips of plaster to get around the difficult corners. It was a significantly more challenging process to keep the seams clean on such a small surface. Despite that, Castiel actually loved working on Dean’s hands. They were thick, a little calloused, but somehow delicate. He pressed his fingers into the center of Dean’s palm, smoothing the plaster a little longer than strictly necessary.
“I’m done. We have to wait a little for it to dry. I’ll get you something to rest your arm on.”
“Or you could hold it up,” Dean teased, shooting him a toothy grin that sent heat coursing straight through him. “If you want.”
Castiel stared at him, his head cocked for a moment before he pushed himself up onto the table to sit next to Dean, reaching out with his free hand to support Dean’s wrist. He was careful not to damage the still drying cast.
“So,” Dean said, Castiel back to smoothing the plaster as it dried, “I wanna hear more about your art.”
--
It took a few more sessions for Castiel to find the small tattoo across the inside of Dean’s foot.
It was a mirror of the pentagram above his heart, but scratchy, not nearly the quality. In fact, it looked like a prison tattoo, done with a broken ball point pen and sewing needles. Castiel ran a finger over it before reaching for a plaster bandage, thickening the already there cast in lieu of covering it up, wanting to look at it a little longer.
“It was my brother’s first tattoo,” Dean said, looking down at him fondly, reaching out to run his hand through Castiel’s unruly hair before pulling back again. Castiel missed the touch already. “We were fucking drunk, some ratty motel bathroom, and I don’t even remember why. I was eighteen, I think, so he must have been, what, fourteen at the time? Shit.” Dean ran his hand through his honey brown hair, eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Man, I miss him.”
“Where is he?” Castiel asked, running his hand along the inside of Dean’s thigh. Dean stared at him for a moment, breath catching in his throat before he continued.
“Stanford. Wants to be a big time lawyer, and he’ll do it, man, he’s brilliant. Still, he left me with the shop and it’s… lonely. Dad used to own it but he passed a couple years back.”
“Is that why you model for the university?” Castiel asked, reaching for another strip and dipping it slowly in the lukewarm water. “Because you’re lonely?” Dean shivered when he pressed the bandage to his skin, and Castiel rubbed his thumb over it until it warmed. Dean smiled.
“Sorta. It’s a way to get out, and the money isn’t bad. I mean, I meet a lot of people at the shop, but modeling is…” Dean looked at Castiel, a small grin on his lips. His full, pink lips. “Fun.”
“Yeah,” Castiel breathed, moving to complete the cast.
--
“Where is everyone, man? It’s like a ghost town in here,” Dean said, half his back covered in plaster and Vaseline, shivering despite the heating that funneled through the heavy, worn AC into the small room. Castiel smiled and trailed his fingers to the curve of his spine, across the beautiful artwork knit into his skin.
“Christmas holidays. Everyone is out of town, back at home with their families, I assume,” Castiel said, softly.
“Shit, it’s almost Christmas isn’t it?”
“A week.”
“Time gets away from you when you’re not in school anymore, no reason to count the days.” Dean reached back and teased the hair out of Castiel’s eyes. Castiel leaned into it and smiled, wishing it was more than just small touches here and there. Wished he had the courage to ask for more. He couldn’t, though, because sometimes Dean talked about pretty girls that would come into his tattoo shop, get tribal designs nestled in the curve of their spine.
Dean wasn’t interested in him. Castiel would be happy enough with his friendship. It was more than he had expected, anyway.
“So, what, staying at school for the holidays?” He asked, shivering as water dripped down his back, cooling. Castiel wiped it away with his thumb, the skin slick. “That’s kinda sad, man.”
Castiel bit his lip and nodded, smoothing another bandage against his skin.
“My family didn’t ask me to come home. Fairly certain they’re done with me,” Castiel told him. Dean went still, turning to look at him over his shoulder.
“Oh,” Dean breathed, “Sorry, Cas.”
“It’s fine. They’re kind of horrible,” Castiel smiled, focusing back on the cast. Dean bowed his head, and Castiel leaned over until his forehead was pressed against the clean base of his neck, hands still working idly. “They’re very traditional, wanted me to be a lawyer or a doctor. But I’ve always wanted this.” Castiel nudged Dean’s neck with his nose before pulling away, folding another plaster bandage between his fingers. “They were convinced art school would ruin me.”
“And did it?”
“Oh yes,” Castiel smiled.
“Good.”
He worked in near silence for a while, a small boom box in the corner playing Christmas carols that Castiel didn’t have the heart to switch off, despite the fact that he was already sick of them.
“Have I ever told you that I love your tattoos?” Castiel asked, running his fingers over the edge of the beautiful scene on Dean’s torso, a small section not covered in plaster. Dean shoulders shook when he laughed.
“Sammy’s improved since the foot tattoo. I did the sketches, and he… he’s got a gift for it. Even if it wasn’t what he wanted to do.”
“It looks like a painting,” Castiel told him gently, getting back to work.
They were done within the hour, Castiel putting away his apron and supplies while Dean pulled on his leather jacket. Castiel pulled a twenty out of his back pocket to hand to Dean, and Dean smiled strangely at him, eyeing the money warily instead of taking it the way he normally did.
“How are the other pieces comin’ along?” He asked, Castiel still holding out the twenty.
“I’ve finished sculpting the additions to the first two, your arm looks horrendous,” he smiled, and Dean returned it. “I was heading to the painting studio next to add another layer of fixative, maybe do a bit of color work if I have time.” Castiel started flipping the twenty between his fingers when Dean made no move to take it.
“Think I could watch? Unless that would bug you,” Dean said, raking his hand through his hair, Castiel watching the motion expectantly. Was Dean nervous? Dean was never nervous. “I’m really curious. I’ve only ever worked in pencils. And ink, obviously.” Castiel cocked his head to the side.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Castiel said, honestly a little nonplussed. “It’ll be a little boring. I don’t talk much while I paint.”
“S’ok,” Dean smiled, “You can just take me out for a beer after with that twenty.”
Castiel smiled and nodded, turning to lead them both into the painting studio.
--
Castiel kept looking over at Dean while he worked, but Dean just watched his hands, mixing paint, three parts pigment to one part medium with a thick, flat pallet knife. After a while, he lost himself in it, turning music on his phone to break the silence, an album by Sufjan Stevens he was currently obsessed with. After a few seconds he noticed Dean narrow his eyes and purse his lips, and Castiel turned aside to look directly at him, a thick, burnt orange dripping back onto the palette from his knife.
“Problem?” Castiel asked.
“No. It’s fine,” Dean answered, not meeting his eyes, “I mean, it’s kinda lame, dude. But it’s pretty, too. I guess.”
“What do you like?”
“Led Zeppelin, Kansas. Metallica.” Dean grinned, pulling his leather jacket closed, fingers fidgeting with the buttons. Castiel warmed at his smile but rolled his eyes, turning back toward his palette to continue working. “What?” Dean asked, a little defensively.
“Nothing, it just… it makes sense.” Castiel said, eying his small, well-mixed array of colors before leaning forward to the fixed plaster cast of Dean’s arm. He ran his fingertips over it, smoothing small bumps with his fingernails.
“How?”
“You know, leather jacket, tattoo parlor, total ladykiller. Of course you would be into classic rock.” He glanced back at Dean, but his eyes had gone a little hard, a little sad. Castiel bit his lip. “You’re more than that, too, you know. You love art, and your brother, and you’re funny.”
“You never laugh at my jokes,” Dean rolled his eyes, pulling his knees up to his chest, back against the wall beside Castiel’s work station.
“I don’t laugh at anything, shut up Dean. You’re funny,” Castiel told him firmly.
Dean just nodded.
Castiel picked a brush out of a jar of odorless turpentine. He should be better about changing that out, the liquid was already dark and foggy from his last session, but it would last a little longer and turpentine was expensive. Castiel wiped the brush on a paint splotched towel and chose a color, a dull green, moving to paint the tip of the finger on the plaster cast.
He worked quietly, worrying his chapped bottom lip between his teeth, Dean watching intently and tapping his fingers against his knee to the music.
“So you just… put down color? No planning? How do you do that?” Dean eventually asked, breaking the silence.
“I just have faith, Dean,” he said, overly serious and turning to raise an eyebrow at him. “Besides, if I fuck it up I can just paint over it.” Dean coughed out a laugh before his eyes flickered down to Castiel’s lips, a worried crease in his brow.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and walking toward Castiel, hand outstretched. Castiel gaped at him, darting his tongue out to taste a small bead of blood on his bottom lip. Dean smirked and reached out, wiping it away with his thumb. Castiel had to hold his breath. “That happen a lot?”
Castiel nodded, Dean’s knuckle brushing against his chin before he pulled away again. “In the winter, mostly,” he said. “It’s getting late.”
“Yeah, and you owe me a beer. I’ll help you clean up.”
--
Castiel was a lightweight, and Dean wasn’t.
That’s how they ended up walking with their shoulders nearly bumping together, down past the clubs on First Street. Castiel giggled excitedly every time he nearly tripped, Dean leaning over to scoop him up, teasing.
Castiel only barely had the strength of will not to kiss him every time their faces ended up only inches apart. Dean probably wouldn’t like that. If he kissed him.
“Hell, man. You only had three beers.”
“Your mother only had three beers,” Castiel quipped, smiling crookedly up at Dean until he saw his face fall. “Oh fuck, oh fuck I’m such an... a-assbutt – fuck I’m sorry.” Dean smiled sadly at him and reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder.
“Assbutt?”
“Shut up m’drunk.”
“You’re ridiculous is what you are.”
“Forgive me,” Castiel commanded. Dean smiled.
“I’m not mad. Just miss her a lot, is all. She was… ya know. She was beautiful.” Dean turned and pushed Castiel forward with a gentle nudge of his hand, leading him down another busy street, the club scene still going strong at two in the morning. “Died pretty badly. It was rough on my dad. We moved around a lot for a few years after that.” Castiel looked up at him, frowning. “Don’t gimme that sad look, it’s fine. Come on, I wanna show you somethin’.”
Dean dragged him down through crowds of people, smelling like weed and liquor, or just plain old cigarettes. Castiel wrinkled his nose, stumbling a bit and reaching out for Dean’s arm when he got too dizzy. Dean just pulled him closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and continuing on until the crowds of people dissipated.
“You don’t have’ta do that,” Castiel mumbled, shivering a little as he felt snow flurries licking at his skin.
“It’s fine, man, we’re here.”
Castiel looked up to see a small parlor, nestled between a used bookstore and a tea shop. It was a bit worn, but cozy, ads for cigarettes and painted designs on the windows and walls. Above the awning there was a sign that read ‘Devil’s Trap Tattoo’, and Dean grinned up at it, pride in his eyes.
“I want to paint it,” Castiel said, not thinking, and Dean snorted and nudged their shoulders together.
“You should. She needs a touch up,” Dean said, turning to look at him. Castiel stared back, cocking his head to the side.
“Really?”
“Hell yeah, it’d be awesome,” Dean grinned.
Castiel squinted at him, rocking a little on his feet before he reached out to cup both of his hands over Dean’s nose. Dean gaped at him with those stunning green, heavy lidded eyes.
“My hands are cold,” Castiel said, his heart thumping in his chest when he felt Dean’s warm breath against his palms.
“Yeah?”
“You’re warm.”
“You’re drunk.” Dean mumbled, nuzzling a little into his palms before pulling away. Castiel let his arms fall to his sides, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “Let’s get you home.”
“Yes,” Castiel said. “Okay.”
--
Dean cancelled their next session at the last minute because he’d finally landed a date with Lisa. Beautiful Lisa, funny Lisa. Apparently the two of them had been flirting since she’d first started going into the parlor a couple days ago for a multi-session tattoo.
Castiel tried to be happy, because Dean was happy. He liked it when Dean was happy.
Castiel sighed, adding a soft, warm blue to the underside of the plaster leg he was working on, veins of color that rose up in thick lumps along the smooth surface. Then he heard a knock at the glass faced door across the studio, and looked up, startled. Dean stood there, jacket tugged around him, red faced and smiling. Castiel rolled his eyes and pushed himself out of his seat, dropping his paintbrush into his fresh jar of turpentine.
“What are you doing here?” Castiel asked through the glass door, the thick layer of snow on the ground outside casting him in a soft light.
“I missed you, let me in I’m freezing my balls off!”
“You stood me up,” Castiel countered, crossing his arms in front of his chest, playing the jilted lover.
Dean pulled a face, pressing his hands up against the glass. “C’mon, baby, you know I gotta weakness. She was so pretty and niiiice. Lemme in. I’ll let you plaster cast my dick, I’ll shave it and everything.” Castiel tried not to blush, rolling his eyes.
“I don’t want a plaster cast of your dick, Dean.”
“C’mon, that’d be great. You could make it all gnarly, like a statement about STDs or some shit. Doesn’t that make your artist heart go all aflutter? I bet no one else will have a plaster dick in their exhibition.” Dean smiled and pressed his nose against the glass, his breath fogging it. Castiel found himself leaning up against the glass as well, just across from him. They’d be touching if not for the barrier. “Show your fundamentalist parents just how much art school ruined you.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“A sorry asshole. And freezing.”
Castiel sighed and let him in.
--
Castiel spent Christmas Eve alone in the studio, his hands and clothes filthy with paint. He cleaned up slowly, washing out his turpentine jar and refilling it with clean solution, meticulously raking the old, dried paint out of his paintbrushes with soap and his fingernails. His hands were sore when he finished, his wrist aching from working for so long.
He pulled on a thick pea coat, gloves, a scarf. Tried not to think about what his family was up to. If they missed him at all.
The streets were empty when he made his way back to the dorms, eventually finding himself staring up at the dark building with a cold emptiness in his chest. He sighed and turned away from it, walking down to the bar he and Dean had gone to a week ago.
It was closed, everywhere was closed.
Castiel just kept walking after that, only half aware of the direction he was headed in, eventually ending up in front of Dean’s tattoo parlor, the neon open sign blinking in the window.
Of all places to be open on Christmas Eve.
Castiel walked in, a little bell ringing to announce his arrival.
“I’ll be right out!” he heard Dean’s voice call out from the back room. Castiel smirked, an excited flutter warming his cheeks.
“It’s just me,” he said back, watching Dean round the corner into the main room, past a few sterile work stations. Dean was dressed in jeans that were slung low on his hips, and a fitted black tee with the cover of ‘Ten Years Gone’ screen printed to the front. Castiel admired the tattoos on his arms, like he always did. Perfect symmetry between heavy linework and splashes of color. Dean’s design and Sam’s hand, the effect was stunning.
“Cas?” Dean asked, walking up to him, frowning confusedly. “The hell are you doing here?”
“I,” Castiel gaped at him for a moment, “Want a tattoo?”
Dean grinned at him. “On Christmas Eve, you decided you wanted a tattoo.”
“Yes,” Castiel nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Where?”
“In here. You’re the only place open.”
“No, stupid. Where on your body?”
“Oh,” Castiel bit his lip, reaching down to the hem of his shirt and jacket. He lifted them both up to show his bare stomach, pointing at a spot just above his hipbone. “Here.” Dean stared at the spot for a moment, hyper focused, before reaching down to trail two fingers over the spot. Castiel tried not to shiver at the contact.
“Yeah, okay. Sure,” Dean said softly, his voice thick. “Take, uh… take your shirt off and take the last chair on the left.”
Castiel nodded and began to strip down, first his gloves, his scarf, his coat and finally his shirt, all tossed behind the desk in the waiting area before he moved to the station Dean had directed him to.
Dean stared at him once he was seated, eyes roving over him. “So uh, what do you want?” He asked, looking up at Castiel, his eyes dark.
“Draw me something. Anything. A Winchester original.”
“You’re gunna regret that,” Dean smiled, turning around to grab a small sketch pad. “Sam is way better at this.” Dean worked for a few minutes, Castiel caught up staring at his profile, long lashes and sharp nose. God, he was beautiful. And kind. And lonely on Christmas Eve just like he was.
“What are you really doing here?” Dean asked, staring at the drawing before moving to erase a small spot in the corner.
“I don’t know,” Castiel said, truthfully. “I didn’t want to go back to my empty dorm.”
“Yeah,” Dean breathed, turning the sketchbook to present his drawing to Castiel. It was nearly abstract, but Castiel could make out wings and a sword.
“It’s an angel,” Castiel said, reaching out to touch the drawing. It was lovely, that line work he had always admired in Dean’s tattoo’s… that had all been Dean. Sam was the color.
Two halves of a whole.
“Yeah. You’re named after an angel, right?” Dean pulled the notebook gently back. “Is it okay?”
“I love it,” Castiel told him. Dean smiled.
--
Dean transferred the drawing onto a thin piece of waxy paper before he turned back to Castiel. Reaching out, Dean ran a thumb over the spot on his stomach where he wanted the tattoo. Castiel bit his lip and shivered. Dean looked up at him, questioningly, and Castiel felt his cheeks warm.
He wanted to say sorry, but the word got caught in his throat.
Dean just moved to clean the spot, and Castiel had to hold his breath. Metallica was playing on the radio, nearly inaudible, and Castiel tried to focus on it.
“You okay?” Dean asked, running his knuckles gently over Castiel’s stomach again once he pulled the cotton swab away.
“Yes.” No. Castiel trembled, a near imperceptible groan behind his lips.
God damn it.
He expected Dean to laugh at him, or make a joke, or even pull away in disgust, but instead… he did it again, the backs of his fingers dragging along the skin until they settled at his naval. Castiel parted his lips and stared. Dean looked back up at him, watching him carefully.
“Alright, let’s get this show on the road.”
“Okay,” Castiel said, voice breathy.
Dean pulled away, transferring his line work to Castiel’s stomach via the waxy paper, taking his time, pressing it gently against his skin and rubbing at the edges with his thumbs. When he was finished, he set the paper aside, and turned back, hesitating a moment before ghosting his fingers along the sides of Castiel’s torso. Castiel let out a shaking breath, trying to keep calm.
“Gorgeous,” Dean said, his voice thick.
Castiel tried not to flinch when Dean pressed the tattoo gun against his skin. He expected pain, but after the first couple of seconds it dulled to something only mildly uncomfortable. That, and Dean kept reaching over to thumb at his hip, dragging it slowly along his oversensitive skin, which distracted him.
“Never really celebrated Christmas in my family. Not after my mom died,” Dean said when he was halfway through the tattoo, pulling away to wipe the excess ink from his skin. Castiel reached out and brushed his fingertips across Dean’s cheek, feeling empowered to touch him. Still unsure of what this was. Dean leaned into it. “Dad drank a lot at first, traveled a lot. It was just me, and Sammy, and a few shitty presents we picked up at gas stations for each other. I’m glad he’s got somthin’ better now.”
“And you?” Castiel asked. Dean smiled at him. A soft, sad smile before he lowered his head, brushing his nose against the skin of Castiel’s stomach. He was careful to avoid the unfinished tattoo.
“I got you,” Dean said, nearly inaudible against his skin. Castiel wound his fingers into Dean’s short hair, swallowing the nervous lump in his throat.
“My nose is cold,” Dean muttered, pressing harder against the soft skin of his stomach.
“Yeah?”
“You’re warm.”
--
Once the tattoo was done, Dean cleaned it carefully, and put a bandage over the spot. Then, slowly, he leaned down and pressed his lips into the space beside it. Castiel went warm, his breath hitching. Dean looked up at him, then, his expression serious, eyes lidded, nearly blown black.
“Cas?” Dean asked, eyes darting down toward his lips for a second. There was a breath of silence before Castiel sat slowly forward, Dean leaning in until their foreheads were touching. “Sorry I didn’t do this sooner,” he whispered, breath warm across his mouth. Castiel smiled, his heart thrumming wildly as he reached up to cup Dean’s face, tracing his warm cheeks with his thumbs. He felt Dean wrap his hands around his hips at the same time.
“Me too,” Castiel said, moving forward until their lips brushed, breath shallow and warm against his skin.
Instead of closing the space, Dean turned his head, kissing Castiel gently on the cheek, then over jaw and down into the hollow of his throat. Castiel gripped at him, mouth parted. Dean made his way back over his chin, and then kissed him softly at the corners of his mouth. Castiel shivered, his heart going so fast he couldn’t breathe properly. Dean pulled him forward until they were pressed flush, his arms tight around Castiel’s waist. Castiel threaded his fingers into his hair.
“Kiss me,” Castiel breathed, “Please.”
Dean brushed their lips together, the smallest kiss centered on his trembling lower lip, a gentle pull before Dean surged forward, locking them together, The taste of peppermint and heat passed between them. Castiel cupped the back of Dean's head, pulled him harder into the kiss, deepening it, darting out his tongue to wet the seam of Dean’s lips.
He opened to Castiel, a soft whine in the back of his throat.
Dean pulled him back out of the chair until they were both standing, Castiel starting to undress him, pushing his unsteady hands up under his t-shirt to feel Dean’s softly muscled stomach. Dean grinned against his lips and nudged him back so they could rid him of the shirt completely.
Once Dean was bare chested in front of him, Castiel leaned over, thumbs pressed into Dean’s hipbones while he dragged his teeth along that beautiful tattoo. Dean shivered beneath him, winding his hands into his hair.
“Fuck, Cas,” he breathed, and Castiel smiled, placing a soft kiss against his hip before standing straight up again. Dean pulled him forward until their bare chests were pressed together, heartbeats thrumming against each other’s warm skin. Castiel ran his fingers over the lean muscle of Dean’s arms, kissed his neck. “Wanted you so bad.”
Castiel felt his heart skip in his chest, groaning and kissing him again before Dean led them into the back room, a worn leather couch set up next to a kitchenette with a small coffee maker and microwave. Dean fell onto his back against the couch, Castiel laid down on top of him, bowed over a little awkwardly to keep his new tattoo from pressing to hard against Dean. He slotted their hips together until their cocks brushed, hard and wanting against the confines of their pants.
God, Dean felt so good, his hands running up and down his spine, beneath his waistband to cup his ass while Castiel rutted them together, teeth latched into the skin of Dean’s neck.
He felt pleasure pooling in his gut, hot and heady and overwhelming, Dean rolling his hips up to meet him, one hand down his pants, kneading his soft skin under his thick fingers, and the other twined into his mess of hair, nosing his cheek and pressing soft kisses against his skin, breathy moans barely audible against the rustling of fabric. Castiel whispered Dean’s name, needily, Dean turning his head to steal it from Castiel’s mouth. Kissing Dean was intoxicating.
“Gunna come like this, baby?” Dean asked, pressing a kiss into his collarbone, out of breath. “You want more? I’ll give you more.”
Castiel just let out a small whimper, rolling his hips again, right on the edge of pleasure. Dean was offering him more but this was all he wanted, to touch him, feel him trembling beneath his fingertips, hear Dean groaning his name between fevered kisses. It was all he needed. Castiel chased it, burying his nose in the hollow of Dean’s throat, latching his arms tight around his waist.
“Beautiful, so hot Cas, fuck, ah - you’re messing me up,” Dean muttered, moving the hand that was cupping Castiel’s ass down further, his finger pressing up against Castiel’s hole, that tight ring of muscle clenching reflexively. Oh fuck, oh fuck. Heat coursed through him, a wave of pleasure that reached the tips of his fingers. Castiel all out moaned, his hips stuttering, canting forward as Dean teased him, sending sparks of heat to pool in his stomach.
“M’close Dean,” Castiel whimpered, rolling his hips faster. “I can’t…”
“It’s okay,” Dean whispered, kissing him, fevered, “Let go.”
Castiel whimpered, nestling his face into the crook of Dean's neck. He felt that fire burst in his abdomen, Dean pressing a finger in up to the knuckle while he chased his climax, near sobbing against Dean’s skin. Felt good, felt perfect, all heat, spilling out of him, making his muscles tighten, then lax. Dean was still hard, he could feel him, still rolling his hips, wringing every last burst of pleasure from him.
Castiel came down, slowly, kissing a line up Dean’s neck before pushing himself shakily to his knees, straddling Dean’s legs as he reached down to unzip Dean’s fly. He palmed Dean's cock through his boxers. Dean’s chest trembled, breathing shallow, and he stared up at him, those green eyes blown dangerously black, and a blush creeping up his cheeks. His lips parted as if to say something, but with a practiced flick of his wrist Castiel freed him from his boxers, leaned down, and put his lips around the head of Dean’s cock.
Dean wound his hand into Castiel’s hair as Castiel took him down, opening his throat and humming.
“Oh fuck, you’re perfect,” Dean moaned, his fingers tightening almost painfully as Castiel hollowed his cheeks and pulled up, swirling his tongue over the tip. Dean tasted amazing, and Castiel braced his hands against his hips as he took him down again, loving the way Dean writhed and panted beneath him.
“Cas, Cas fuck I’m gunna –“ Castiel sucked harder and Dean fucked up into Castiel’s throat, groaning, a warm salty flavor filling his mouth. Dean’s hand carded gently through his hair. “Fuck,” he breathed, whimpering as Castiel took him down to the hilt, lips pressed up against the base, swallowing and working his tongue along the underside of his softening cock. “Fuck, I can’t believe you did that, fuck, fuck, so perfect, baby,” Dean mumbled, a string of blissed out praises while Castiel lapped at him, making sure to prolong the pleasure, Dean trembling beneath his hands.
When he was finished, Dean's body going still and pliant, Castiel kissed him right below his naval, Dean reaching out and pulling him up against his chest. Dean kissed him. It was sweet, and soft, and unrushed, Castiel whimpering happily into it, unable to help himself.
Dean wrapped his arms around his waist, ran the tips of his fingers down his spine, kissed his neck as Castiel closed his eyes. “Could fall in love with you, Cas,” he said against his cheek, laying a kiss there.
“Merry Christmas, Dean.” Castiel answered quietly.
--
A few months later, Castiel stood in front of Dean’s tattoo parlor in a light jacket, the weather mild and sweet. He stared at the bare, concrete wall with a Tupperware container of premixed paints in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. There was another long handled brush tucked behind his ear.
“Figured out what you wanna paint, yet?” Dean asked, placing his palm against the curve of his back. Castiel grinned and leaned into it.
“Sort of,” he said, imaging scenes, wisps of bright color entwined with careful line work, his take on the combined art of Dean and his brother. He thought it would be appropriate for the shop they’d once shared.
“Just gunna wing it?” Dean asked, leaning over to kiss his cheek.
“Yeah, I think it’s worked so far,” Castiel said, squinting at the wall. “Besides, if I fuck it up I can just paint over it.” He saw Dean grin out of the corner of his eyes.
“I can’t wait.”