Archive of Our Own

Dean finds the video by complete accident.

Not that he was looking for anything in particular—finding time to watch porn nowadays is few and far between, with how often they’re on the road—but the thumbnail amidst the black background catches his eye. Two well-built men stare at the camera with their arms around each other’s shoulders. An obvious promo shot, but something about one of them seems…

It couldn't be, Dean thinks, but clicks on the video anyway.

As far as he knows, Sam and Castiel won’t be back for another two hours or so; they’ve just gone on their weekly pantry restocking run, but getting to and from Hastings can be a hassle. Normally, Dean leads the charge with lists and itineraries for meal prep, but today, “sleeping” took priority. At least, from what Sam could tell, when he visited around nine and loudly announced he was going with or without him. Dean just waved him off and slept—or, waited, really.

Because as soon as the Impala left the garage, Dean locked the bedroom door and stripped out of his clothes. Headphones in and lube tossed to the side, Dean gives himself a quick, loose stroke before settling in, back propped up with pillows and the laptop sitting to his right. When the page finally loads—they really need to invest in better internet, especially so far underground—Dean reads the text in the description, Damon Plows Newcomer Maxim’s Tight Ass. Which, not exactly subtle, but when has porn ever been?

The video starts out almost as any other, with gratuitous kissing at the foot of the bed, hands roving over available skin. Damon, he assumes, based on how often the camera focuses on him at this point, rakes his fingers through Maxim’s hair and tilts his head backward, laving a string of kisses along his neck, up to his ear. At this angle, Dean can’t see Maxim’s face, but he can hear him, husky and deep and all kinds of sultry, all of it going straight to his cock. Hopefully this’ll last a while, he reasons, and briefly checks the length of the video.

Twenty-nine minutes—more than enough time.

“Thought about you,” Damon says, loud enough for the camera to pick up, just before he pets down Maxim’s back. He spanks Maxim, hard enough for Maxim to curse, hips visibly twitching against Damon’s own. “Thought about this cock all night. Can I blow you?”

With a heated breath, Maxim says, “Yes,” and Damon drops to his knees. The camera follows him, Maxim’s face still out of the shot; with this angle, Dean witnesses the absolute majesty of Maxim’s cock, thick and veiny, at least seven inches long, with a girth Dean would like to get his mouth around. He settles for watching Damon instead, wetting his hand with lube and beginning to tease the head of his cock while Damon takes Maxim into his mouth, working him over with his lips and tongue. Maxim holds onto him with one hand, finger tracing over his hairless scalp while Damon swallows him down, no trace of gag reflex in sight. All for the camera, purely for show, but Dean moans either way, parting his legs just enough for him to get a hand between them.

“You’re good at this,” Maxim rumbles from above. Damon grins around his cock and pulls off, slapping Maxim’s blood-flushed cock against his tongue. Saliva drips from his length and down Damon’s chin, and precome spurts from Maxim’s cock, dirtying the scene even further.

Dean grips the base of his cock and curses himself. Normally he isn’t this fast, but something about Maxim is so familiar, his voice tugging at his libido in all sorts of inappropriate ways. Fumbling, he manages to pour more lube onto his dry fingers before resuming his leisurely strokes, all while massaging his hole, just barely dipping in. Teasing—not until the main show starts, and then he can fully enjoy this the way he intends.

For the next few minutes, Damon continues to suck Maxim’s cock, the camera angle changing occasionally; sometimes it’s from behind, and sometimes it’s over Maxim’s shoulder. More often than not, Dean watches them from the side and marvels at how effortlessly Damon works him over, reducing Maxim to a whimpering, clingy mess. And just before Maxim comes—Dean can tell, from the way he breathes to the flex of his abs, thighs trembling under Damon’s fingers—Damon pulls off and stands, drawing Maxim into a kiss, and—

That’s not Maxim.

No, all Dean sees is Castiel locking lips with a stranger, body flushed deep pink with arousal and lips swollen from kisses. Before he can even think, he slams the pause button and just sits there, heart in his chest and blood rushing further north, but not too far.

So that’s why he’s familiar. So that’s why his cock is currently leaping in his grasp, begging for more friction. Like it always does when he’s alone and Castiel is the only thing on his mind.

Only now, his fantasies are reality—and his fantasies decidedly don’t involve him being a part of it. Scrolling down, Dean clicks the See More tab and reads through the tags—anal, bareback, and others he doesn’t entertain—before finding the approximate date of filming. 2013. When Castiel was alone. When Castiel was human, with no one at his side but himself.

Immediately, guilt plagues Dean, and his erection wilts. He caused this—If he never would’ve turned Castiel away, he would never be here right now. Briefly, he considers closing the window or shutting off hip laptop and giving up for the day, but he wants to know. Not just how this video ends, but about why Castiel did it in the first place. It’s a violation of privacy, but if Castiel was ashamed of anything he did, he never mentioned it, even when Dean probed during late night conversations around a bottle of whiskey.

Yes, Castiel stood on street corners. Yes, Castiel worked odd jobs. Yes, Castiel stocked shelves at the Gas-N-Sip. But no, Castiel never did porn—until now.

Against his own better judgment, Dean hits play again—and watches.

Maxim’s—Castiel’s—moan reverberates through Dean’s ears as soon as the video begins, only enhanced when Damon grabs him by the hips, forcing them together. Both of their cocks rut in the scant spaces between their bodies, and Castiel pants out obscenity after obscenity, especially when Damon takes them both in hand, using their precome to slick his grip. Dean does the same, lube and his own wetness guiding his stroke, cock hardening proudly.

“Get on your stomach,” Damon growls—and Castiel does, one knee up on the mattress and his other foot to the floor. Damon squats enough to really get between Castiel’s legs, and Castiel claws at the sheets the minute Damon’s tongue meets his skin, eyes rolling back in his head.

This shouldn’t be as hot as it is—but it is, and Dean bites his lip, sinking the first finger inside. Damon does as well, two fingers pushing in effortlessly as he licks between them, long tongue drawing out even filthier moans. Physically, Castiel shudders and pants, hips grinding into the bedding; Damon holds him still and plunges in deeper, rubbing against the spot Dean touches right now, and Castiel pants, biting the sheets. Involuntarily, Dean’s hips thrust up when Damon pulls out, his own cock positively weeping against his stomach and throbbing in his hold.

I’m not gonna make it, Dean thinks, and sinks in a second finger.

Damon gives Castiel’s ass a pat of encouragement, and Castiel scoots up the bed, spine arched deeply enough that Dean wonders if his back ached afterward. Meanwhile, Damon climbs onto the mattress, slapping the head of his cock against Castiel’s exposed rim, still wet from his mouth. “Bet your ass feels good,” he says. As corny a line as anything, but Dean follows along anyway. “You want that, my dick in your ass?”

“Yeah,” Castiel pants, and gets his wish. Damon pushes in as slowly as he can, and Castiel curses his way through it, knuckles white where he grips the linens. With barely any reprieve—never once has Dean ever seen porn accurately represent how long it takes for someone to get used to a cock in their ass—Damon begins to thrust, long and slow; Dean tries to match his pace with his fingers, head thrown back into the pillows.

Listening works better for this sometimes, but Dean can’t help but watch out of the corner of his eye, the way Castiel grapples for anything he can find, the way Damon drags him up to kneel and fucks Castiel like that, on his knees with his cock bobbing. Damon kisses Castiel’s neck while Castiel moans and holds on with one hand, the other fisting his visibly pulsing cock. Dean finds his prostate, and his foot slips on the covers, struggling to hold on. “Cas,” he says under his breath, eyes pinched shut. “Cas…”

Almost on cue, Castiel groans louder, frantic—Damon must’ve flipped him onto his back, because Dean can hear them now, skin against skin, Castiel moaning and begging for more. “Take it,” Damon says, again and again. Castiel cries out, and Dean bucks up, three fingers deep and right there, there—“Fuck, c’mon, baby—”

And Castiel does. Dean watches him with one eye open, watches come spurt onto his abdomen and up his chest, abs tightening, thighs trembling—and Dean follows seconds after, fisting the head of his cock even after he’s drained himself dry, body spasming with oversensitivity. The audio plays on, and fingers still in his ass, Dean listens to Damon come, the ardor of the moment now long passed.

It doesn’t feel wrong, afterward—but it doesn't feel right, either, and for a long few minutes, Dean just lays in bed, hands on his stomach, listening to the static in his ears and wondering where in his life he went wrong, to have to be subjected to this torment.

So Cas did porn six years ago, he thinks, blinking heavily at the ceiling. And I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him.

-+-

Looking at Castiel over dinner is more awkward than it should be. At least hot dogs or anything like that aren’t on the menu tonight, but still, he finds himself watching every time Castiel takes a bite of the Bolognese Dean painstakingly crafted, even though he doesn’t need to eat in the first place. Sam alternates between looking at his phone and attacking his plate like he hasn’t seen food in three weeks, and Castiel reads Lebanon’s local newspaper. Dean elects to watch Castiel, particularly the spot of sauce clinging to the corner of his mouth.

He wants to reach out and wipe it away—but he can’t, not with Sam here. And he has no idea whether or not Castiel would appreciate it.

After dinner, Sam helps dry the dishes while Dean washes, their nightly ritual quiet. Castiel remains at the table, the occasional clicks of electronic keystrokes breaking the silence. “I know you said you wanted to stay home for a few days,” Sam says, turning his dishrag to the dry side and wiping down a pot, “but I found something. Small,” he cuts in before Dean can interject, “and over in Pueblo. Straightforward, just a haunting that’s popped up in the last week. Probably won’t take more than a day or two.”

Colorado is close. Not as close as his own bed, but if it means he gets to see the sun again instead of cold, tan walls, he’s in. “What d’you say, Cas?” Dean calls out over his shoulder, unplugging the sink drain. “Wanna head into the desert for a bit?”

“Want is a strong word,” Castiel sighs. The newspaper rustles as he folds it back into place, setting it atop the kitchen table. “But yes, I’ll go.”

“Good.” Drying his hands, Dean pats Sam’s shoulder and tosses a paper towel into the trash can, barely making it over the rim. He catches Castiel’s eye for a passing second, and pointedly keeps his gaze neutral, not at all screaming I just watched you get your rocks off online and I liked it. “We’ll leave in the morning, scope out just where we need to dig. Sound good?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Sam leaves the kitchen, but not before ruffling Dean’s hair in passing. “See you guys in the morning.”

“Good night, Sam,” Castiel calls out from the table.

Silence falls in Sam’s absence, and only then does Dean realize that they’re alone—together. Staring at each other—Shit. “You still on for movie night tonight?” Dean asks by way of small talk and rubs the back of his neck.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Castiel says, the sincerity in his voice so utterly real, it hurts Dean just to hear it. Standing, he smooths out the wrinkles in his slacks, then meets Dean’s eye again. “Should I change?”

I’d like it if you were naked. “Get some pajamas,” Dean says. “C’mon, I’ll get some beer and we can get buzzed to High Plains Drifter. Meet you there in ten?”

Castiel nods, a small smile curling his lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

Of course he will. Dean has the sneaking suspicion he may need more alcohol for this.

-+-

“You got—stupid lips,” Dean hiccups, bumping Castiel’s shoulder a little too intentionally. Beside him, Castiel jostles on the couch, head lolling to the side. “Stupid lips.”

“Why are they stupid?” Castiel slurs, then touches his mouth.

Dean tracks the motion and leans in, then rears back, just buzzed enough to listen to his one remaining brain cell. “They’re just—look at them.” He reaches out, touching his fingers to Castiel’s stupidly full lips. His cock stirs, but doesn’t do much more than that; alcohol always makes him soft, and even with Castiel in the same room, he couldn’t get it up if he tried. “Look like you got stung by… a bee or somethin’.”

“That’s just my mouth,” Castiel sputters. Leather squeaks when he tries to tuck a leg underneath his thigh, his attempt ending with him slumping into Dean again, hair tickling Dean’s neck. “You, you have… stupid freckles. They’re distracting.”

Strange, but Dean has heard weirder. “You wanna—You should do somethin’ ‘bout it then.”

“Like what?” Castiel moves again, one of the empty bottles between them clattering to the floor. For once, Dean ignores the possibility of remnants staining the rug, and solely concentrates on Castiel straddling his lap in a tangle of limbs; Dean gets an elbow to his forehead for his trouble, but he ends up with a lapful of angel anyway, potential bruise be damned. “What would you like me to—me to do, Dean?”

A lot of things, Dean’s mind supplies, but the words don’t make it to his lips—thankfully. Rather than reply, he takes Castiel’s hips in hand, sneaking his thumb beneath the waistband and tugging, just enough to make it snap. Castiel looks down, brow furrowed. “Wanna make out?” Dean asks, tugging Castiel’s pants again. “Teach those—stupid lips a lesson.”

“I thought you wanted to watch the movie,” Castiel says, but leans in anyway. This close, Dean can feel his breath, can almost taste that fifth beer Castiel downed clinging to his tongue. “Or is this related to your cowboy fetish?”

“I don’t have a—a fetish,” Dean says. Maybe he does, but Castiel doesn’t need to know that—except he probably does, and Dean can’t bring himself to care. “Just ‘cause I like assless chaps don’t mean I got a fetish.”

Castiel just smirks at him. Really smirks, gaze absolutely lecherous. “I’ll have you know,” he stops, holding off a burp, “I’ve been told I have a good mouth. Very good mouth. The best, even.”

I bet you do. “Then prove it.”

Playfully, Dean pushes his shoulder—and Castiel kisses him, closed-mouthed and incredibly chaste, until Dean gets his hands in his hair and tugs. They lose track of time after that, Dean too entranced in the slick slide of Castiel’s lips against his to care that the movie is winding down and one of the beers is seeping into his pant leg. Castiel tilts Dean’s chin up with a single finger, and Dean follows him wherever he goes, clinging to whatever skin he can find. Namely, the sliver of warmth visible beneath the hem of Castiel’s shirt, exposing his hips.

They could go further, if either of them pushed. Dean could flip Castiel onto his back, or Castiel could shove him into the arm of the couch, and neither of them would probably mind. Dean opts to keep kissing Castiel, his hand trembling as he strokes up Castiel’s chest beneath his shirt, then back down, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his fingertips. Castiel rocks into him, huffing what could be a moan or a gasp; Dean breathes it in, letting Castiel’s presence settle the ever-present ache in his heart.

Only then does he sober up enough to fully understand just what he’s doing—and how aroused Castiel is as well, helped along by Dean’s wandering hand pressing over the growing swell in his sweatpants. His mouth dries, tongue thick. Castiel must sense it too, based on how far Dean leans away, and not just to breathe.

“You’re uncomfortable,” Castiel says, raspy, lips still gleaming from kisses.

If only he could lean back in. If only it wasn’t this awkward. “I—I’m fine,” Dean lies. He drops his hands, allowing Castiel to dismount and take up his abandoned spot on the couch, now gone cold from his absence. “We should probably… Movie’s over, anyway, and we gotta get packing.”

Castiel sighs, fidgets with his waistband. It’ll go down, Dean thinks, but still steals a quick glance, and blames the flush in his cheeks on Castiel’s lips. “Right,” Castiel says, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Right, I’m… I’m sorry, Dean. Maybe it was too forward.”

Swallowing, Dean looks down at his lap. “It’s okay,” he says, low, and stands, wincing from a twinge in his lower back. I’ll feel that tomorrow. “Just spur of the moment, happens to everyone.”

The glare Castiel gives him could cut glass. Dean just looks away, gathering up the bottles scattered around the room. “If you say so,” he hears Castiel say, and watches him leave with little more than a passing ‘good night.’ In the silence left behind, Dean just stands there and touches two fingers to his lip; he can still taste Castiel, stale beer and toothpaste and all, and he licks it away, savoring what he can. Because this—this won’t happen again. This can’t happen again.

But I want more.

-+-

Pueblo may be six hours from Lebanon, but a wreck southbound on I-25 keeps them parked for at least two hours in the worst heat of the day. There’s no use keeping the engine idling, especially while the authorities a few hundred feet ahead of them try to push the carcass of a horse off the interstate. Here, Dean sits with his bare feet up on the dashboard, and Sam reads a paperback in the passenger seat. Castiel texts occasionally, but mostly, all Dean hears from him is eight-bit trumpets and dramatic battle sequences, and the rapid-fire press of the A and B buttons on his Gameboy.

Despite the weather, it’s… nice, to sit in the quiet with his family for a while, with last night just a memory.

Traffic doesn't fully start moving until around four in the afternoon, and thankfully, the Motel 6 just inside of Pueblo has more than one room available. With their combined funds, they book adjoining rooms for a night, long enough for them to sleep and hopefully tackle the haunting first thing in the morning, before the sun reaches its zenith. Sam and Castiel take one room—on Castiel’s suggestion, which Dean pretends to not be hurt by—and Dean holes up in the other, basking in the cool breeze of the air conditioner.

“So the cemetery’s about twenty minutes from here,” Sam says after dinner and spins his laptop around, pushing it to Dean from across the motel table. “Supposedly, some of the old residents have just decided to start wandering around at night, and it’s freaking out people on the highway.”

“Any of them try to jump into backseats yet?” Dean asks. He disposes of their containers in the trash can by the door, and places Castiel’s in Sam’s mini fridge, just in case he decides he’s hungry in the middle of the night. If he even gets hungry. He may not need to eat, but he sure does a lot of it these days, especially if Dean cooks.

Dean doesn’t have a clue where he is now, but he has a sneaking suspicion he might be near the pool.

“No women in white yet,” Sam says, taking his laptop back. “But there’s a guy in a black suit that likes to hang out in the middle of the road. Couple people’ve swerved into a ditch, but no deaths yet.”

Dean nods along, stifling a yawn behind his fist. Almost nine, now—Castiel should be back any minute. “We’ll drive up there around five or so, get an early start. Any guess about what’s causing it?”

Sam shrugs. “Probably the same thing as all the others, these days. Figured Cas can give his blessing and we can get out of there, unless something else pops up.”

“Good deal,” Dean says through another yawn.

Digging up graves in the past has always been a hassle, and investigating cemeteries with little to no documentation has been proving a new threat within the last few months. The ones they can tackle, they handle it the old-fashioned way—places like this, off the main road and hidden deep in the desert, Castiel handles in an entirely different manner, by ousting every soul he can, harmless or not. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to do this very often. The last thing Dean wants is Castiel falling just when they’re finally starting to get a handle on the mess God dumped on them.

Dean leaves Sam around ten, and goes about his nightly routine, with one caveat: he locks the adjoining door behind him. Not that he plans to do anything tonight, but curiosity gets the best of him, and if Castiel found out what he was doing—he doesn’t know what might happen, and won’t think about it.

His laptop is still at home, and Sam’s is on the other side of the door. He settles for his phone instead, praying he has enough data to browse before he passes out for the night. He brings up the same website as last time, and types in Maxim’s name into the search bar, hoping that at least one video might surface, and not the same one he found last time.

No, dozens pop up instead, all of varying genders and one common denominator—Castiel. Sprawling out under the sheets in his briefs, Dean props a pillow up behind him and clicks on the first video he finds, featuring a woman he recognizes as Sofia Valverde. Volume silenced, he watches with the lights off and the curtains drawn. A door closes next door; Castiel must be back.

But Castiel is also here, kissing the beautiful woman in his lap, hands roving over her curves. Sofia’s curls cascade down her shoulders and tickle his chest, bouncing when she brushes them away from her face to allow a better view for the camera. Gently, Castiel caresses her breasts, thumbs circling her areolas; they’re larger than he typically sees in porn, but Castiel worships her, mouthing at her dark skin and closing his lips around her nipple, just to hear her shout.

Foreplay, Dean has always liked—watching it, less so, only because he can’t be there, and he can’t take his time with her himself. But Castiel makes it so much more interesting, just in the way he moves, how he spreads Sofia out on the mattress and blankets her, his arousal forgotten in favor of her pleasure. All the while, Sofia runs her fingers through Castiel’s hair, tugging just enough to make Castiel look at her, her dark eyes imploring, demanding.

And without words, Castiel does as he’s told, tracing his way down his belly with just his fingertips. He doesn’t touch her, not like she probably wants; Castiel continues his torment and kisses her hips, the patch of dark hair between her legs, the insides of her thighs—all for longer than necessary, and for longer than Dean could possibly stand. Sofia enjoys it anyway, and guides Castiel where she wants him, spreading her legs for him.

Beneath the blankets, Dean palms over his briefs—he’ll get off tomorrow, maybe, after they get home and he can have some time to himself—when Castiel kisses her clit, slowly at first, easing her into it. Castiel presses into her thighs, holding them open while she trembles, one of her hands still in his hair as he slides the flat of his tongue between her folds. Briefly, Dean wonders how long Castiel’s tongue is, how it’d feel on his cock.

Sofia says something to him, her mouth moving when Castiel flicks the tip of his tongue against her clit; whatever it is, it must be good, because Castiel dives in after that, alternating between soft, slow caresses and working his jaw into her, making a mess of them both. She comes once before he can get her fingers into her, and she closes her thighs around his head, her back arched high. For once, it isn’t faked, but entirely real, complete with shaking limbs and white knuckles.

Dean continues stroking himself—light, just to keep an interest—and watches Castiel finally pull up, chin slicked and shiny, only to rub two thick fingers over her slit, before sliding in and curling. The camera focuses on his hand for a while, thumb circling her clit while he draws his fingers in and out, drawing individual shudders from her oversensitive body. His tongue joins in shortly after, and he slides a third finger inside, all of the digits curled upward until one of her feet slips on the bed, hips bucking up and nearly shoving Castiel off.

If anything, it only spurs Castiel on, and Dean imagines Sofia calling out Maxim’s name when he sucks her clit, fingers moving faster now, with the intent of getting her off again and again. Against his better judgment, Dean gives into temptation and dips his hand into his briefs, legs parting as he strokes his cock, just hard enough to be leaking. On the screen, Sofia claws at Castiel through a second orgasm, and a sudden wetness gushes from around his fingers, soaking his chin and dripping onto his chest.

And Castiel doesn’t move away—he just plows forward, fucking her with his fingers and his tongue until she spasms, body a livewire in his grasp. A third orgasm follows, probably even louder than the second; Castiel chuckles and pulls away, only to lap away the soaking mess between her legs, coating her inner thighs. They kiss, anything but chaste, and she reaches over to grab a finger-sized vibrator from the nightstand, all while Castiel situates himself between her shuddering thighs.

Castiel’s cock, thick and hard in his grasp, slides into Sofia easily, sinking from tip to base while she rocks up into it, her acceptance so beautiful, so surreal. Dean bites his lip and fists himself in earnest, his attention locked onto how she places the vibrator to her clit, her hips meeting Castiel’s thrusts with ease. Again, he laps at a nipple, drawing a heavy moan from her lips, and with his other hand, he caresses her other breast, his broad hand barely fitting, but he handles her so gently, wanting what’s best for her.

Dean wonders if Castiel would treat him like that, if Castiel would love him with the same passion.

“Please,” Dean sees Sofia say, that one word repeating when Castiel straightens up, holding her thighs open. She shoves the vibrator against her clit harder as he picks up speed, and she comes again, eyes rolled back and toes curled in the air while she soaks the bed around his cock.

Even after he pulls out, Sofia still twitches, her hands shaking where she grabs for him, namely his biceps. Flushed and sweating, Castiel finishes himself off, coming thickly across her clit and everything in between—and he doesn’t push back in, like Dean expected. No, he licks his own spend off her skin, and Dean’s hand shakes, so hard that he drops the phone and comes, seeping between his fingers and onto his belly, most of it staining the front of his briefs.

The air conditioner kicks on, the noise blending in with the ringing in Dean’s ears. For a while, he just lies there, blinking at the ceiling while his hips shift, demanding more friction, even despite the oversensitivity. He has to change his underwear, wipe himself off, do something other than sit there, but thinking takes precedence, the cogs spinning in his mind fast enough to smoke.

No part of him should enjoy this as much as he does, but he does, even when the more rational side of his brain screams at him for violating Castiel’s privacy. I can’t keep doing this to myself, he thinks, and wipes his face with his dirtied hand—Oh, wonderful.

First, shower. Then, he’ll figure it out from there.

-+-

Eleven in the evening, and the night is still as hot as ever, the temperatures barely falling after the sun sets. Under the guise of raiding the vending machine for a midnight snack, Dean wanders into the laundry room, only to find Castiel sitting at the lone table with the lights off, illuminated by the electric blue of the Pepsi machine. Immediately, his face heats, but he ignores it and just stands by the doorway, eyes on Castiel, who stares right back.

“I can’t stand the quiet,” Castiel says. His pajama pants cover his bare feet when he stands, only held up by a thin string of elastic and a prayer. Arms folded around his chest, he looks almost… smaller, terrified in a way Dean can’t explain or understand. “I started thinking, and it kept spiraling, and—I came here.”

Dean gets it, really. Silence in the middle of the night is one of the things he fears the most, but never once has he sought out refuge in the middle of a room filled with artificial light and the steady hum of refrigeration. Whatever conversation he planned to have, he abandons in favor of leaning against the wall; Castiel joins him, idly fidgeting with a loose string in his pants pocket.

Quiet. Companionable silence, uninterrupted even by the cars passing on the highway. “You can stay with me, if you want,” Dean suggests, catching Castiel’s wide-eyed stare. “I got a queen, but it’ll fit two people. Just… I know what that’s like. Started having to run a fan at night, just so I could get some white noise.”

“I’ll have to do that,” Castiel hums. Ever so slightly, his hands unclench, softening. This is the opposite of the Castiel he saw online. This is Castiel, willingly vulnerable, the sexual bravado exchanged for emotional intimacy, and a gaze that lasts long after Dean looks away. “I’ll… Can you leave the TV on? Ours doesn’t work, and Sam fell asleep before I could ask him.”

Dean nods, nudging Castiel’s shoulder with his own. “Yeah, c’mon. I always sleep better with someone nearby anyway.” Don’t take it that way. Thankfully, the darkness masks his horror, and Castiel doesn’t seem to mind. As a distraction, he looks to the snack machine, and remembers why he came here in the first place. “Hey, you still got those quarters I gave you?”

-+-

Watching Castiel cleanse souls might as well be art, in Dean’s opinion. Under the light of the rising sun, Dean observes Castiel walk between the graves of Verde Cemetery, careful not to step on anyone’s head or feet in the process. From what Dean can tell, the three oldest graves are the most haunted, and Castiel sprinkles powdered holy oil over the plots and crosses himself, all while reciting a chant that neither Dean nor Sam can interpret.

Like the last three times, Sam stands by and takes mental notes, memorizing the recitation by sound alone. Dean, however, solely keeps his eye on Castiel, and the three apparitions standing not too far away. Just… standing there, posing no immediate threat to the angel about to torch their graves. Still, Dean’s skin crawls, and he rubs his arms, fighting off the early-morning desert chill.

“I hate that he has to do this,” Sam whispers as soon as Castiel claps the last of the powder off his hands. “You know it’s tearing him up.”

Dean swallows, tucking his hands beneath his biceps. “We’re gonna have to start taking individual hauntings,” he says. Digging the toe of his boot into the dirt, he glances over to Sam, then back to Castiel, a bright light now extending from his pointer finger.

With one word, the light extinguishes into a bright flash, encompassing the cemetery boundary and spilling into each grave. In the darkness, the three spirits spontaneously burst into flame, and their souls depart northward, disappearing into the abyss.

And Castiel collapses to his knees, spitting blood. “Hey, whoa, whoa,” Dean calls out and rushes to him, dragging him into his arms. “Hey, you’re okay, hear me? I got you.”

For a long few seconds, Castiel breathes through his mouth, every gasp watery and haggard, his weight sagging. Sam runs over and kneels at Castiel’s front, rocks skittering in his wake. “I can’t keep doing this,” he coughs into the back of his hand.

“We’re not gonna put you through this anymore,” Sam says and pats Castiel’s shoulder. “We’re gonna find another way, okay? There’s gotta be another conductor that isn’t your Grace.”

“It has to be performed by an angel, though,” Castiel complains, clearing his throat.

Which, gives Dean an idea. “So we find you a spark, and you still cast the spell.” This close, he can make out the pallor of Castiel’s cheeks and the dark circles marring the skin beneath his eyes. He just needs sleep, he reasons, and holds Castiel closer out of pure habit. Gratefully, Sam doesn’t say anything. “Can’t keep letting you do this to yourself, man. Gonna end up dead before we can help you.”

“I’d rather not die,” Castiel says, deadpan. Dean can’t help but laugh, despite the terror in his gut. Sam just shakes his head, patting Castiel’s arm. “Can we leave now?”

“Yeah,” Sam affirms, and helps Dean lift Castiel to his feet. “Should be breakfast about now, right, Dean?”

The sun begins to spill over the horizon, their cue to leave before the property owners start snooping around. Absently, Dean nods, his eyes solely on the sun, arm wrapped around Castiel’s waist. “Yeah,” he says, just as Castiel holds him in return, majority of his weight resting on Dean’s side. “Yeah, c’mon. Let’s get you two home.”

-+-

Castiel is still asleep when Dean returns from the Motel 6’s lobby, propped up on the headboard with his head lolling to the front. Arms full of microwaveable oatmeal and a Styrofoam bowl filled with mini M&Ms, Dean sets Castiel’s portion on the desk and joins him atop the mattress, spoon between his lips, careful not to jostle neither his food nor the bed.

For the better part of an hour, they sit in companionable silence, Castiel leaning on his shoulder with his hair tickling Dean’s neck. Dean alternates between popping chocolate pieces into his breakfast and watching the news. The television drones on in the background, the local meteorologist predicting highs in the low hundreds today, with rain nowhere in sight in the five day forecast. Hopefully they can leave soon and hit the road before checkout, before the worst of the afternoon heat arrives.

For once, Colorado has Kansas beat temperature-wise. He has no idea what that says about the rest of the world.

“I know, Cas,” Dean blurts amidst the silence, his mouth speaking before his mind can even comprehend just where he plans to go with this. Hand shaking, he pets Castiel’s thigh, eventually resting it atop Castiel’s knee. Minutely, Castiel stirs, but doesn’t speak. “What you did, when we weren’t together… It’s okay.”

Softly, Castiel lets out a breath, head listing onto Dean’s shoulder. Intentionally, probably, but Dean doesn’t push him off. “I needed money,” he says. He covers Dean’s wrist, fingertips digging into the frail skin underneath. “It didn’t pay much, but…” As much as he can, Castiel pulls back, swaying until he slams a hand on the headboard. “How did you—How do you know?”

Dean just blinks, gesturing openly with one hand. “It’s not like I was looking for it,” he explains, to Castiel’s furrowed brow. “Trust me, I’m not sitting in my room every day prowling the internet to see if my best friend is whipping his dick out.”

“I wasn’t just ‘whipping my dick out,’” Castiel accuses. “I didn’t…” He huffs out a sigh, then rubs the bridge of his nose and leans back, thumping against the headboard. “I had opportunities while I was human, yes. Many of them, I wasn’t capable of doing without a proper work history or a degree of some kind. You gave me identification, but beyond that… Nora recommended me to her friend in Idaho. I only did a few videos, just enough to pay for my apartment and food, and…”

“Did you enjoy it?” Again, Dean rubs Castiel’s thigh, easing the tension in his muscles. Strange as this conversation is, he has to know—if Castiel was just going through the motions, or if Castiel actually gave his all. “I mean, tons of people do porn just to pay the bills, but…” A sudden rush of guilt overcomes him, curdling his stomach. “Did anyone hurt you?”

“No,” Castiel sighs, and rests his head on Dean’s shoulder. “And yes, I enjoyed it. A little too much, to tell you the truth.” Smiling, he covers Dean’s hand with his own, lacing their fingers together. Heart racing, Dean grips him just as tightly, rubbing his thumb over Castiel’s skin. “What I did isn’t your fault. I made the decision, and I don’t regret it. What I do regret is not telling you sooner.”

“Would’ve saved me the heart attack,” Dean snorts. So Castiel did porn, and liked it—it’s not the end of the world. Except, the longer he holds Castiel’s hand, the more it begins to feel like it. “You remember the other night,” he starts, cheek to Castiel’s temple, “we got drunk and kinda…”

“You taunted me about my mouth, yes,” Castiel says. “And kissed me, repeatedly.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean nudges Castiel’s shoulder. “You make it sound so dirty. But… yeah, that.” With his free hand, he traces patterns in the leg of his jeans. “I found… one of them that morning. And I just kept thinking about it, and—”

“Did you enjoy it?” Castiel doesn’t pull away this time, probably too exhausted to bother—or, he could just be comfortable, with Dean, with his past, with… everything. “I don’t mind if you did.”

Hell yes, he enjoyed it, but admitting to it is another demon entirely. Face flushed, Dean clears his throat and prays Castiel doesn’t look at him. “Just wasn’t expecting to see you,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel, alright? One minute we’re having dinner, and the next time I see you, you’re… Since when do you work out?”

“I had downtime, when I wasn't working,” Castiel shrugs. “I had a gym membership for a few months, and I bulked up, as you’d call it.”

You’re telling me, Dean thinks. “Besides the point. I just… I’m getting used to it. I mean, not that I expected that you’d never have sex, but… Damn, that’s a hell of a way to start out.”

At his side, Castiel laughs, his entire body shaking with it. “I see why you enjoy it so much now. Just because it’s something I could live without doesn’t mean I want to. And if I had to be honest…” He stops, lifting his head enough to face Dean. Swallowing, Dean looks back at him, stomach twisting with just how open his expression is, how if he wanted… “If you asked me, I wouldn’t say no.”

Fuck. “Fuck,” Dean says in a rush, just before he takes Castiel’s face in hand and gives in, capturing Castiel’s lips in a kiss. Despite his exhaustion, Castiel returns the kiss, willingly falling onto his back when Dean pushes. With little effort, he pins one of Castiel’s legs open with a knee and grinds down, and Castiel groans into his mouth, nails raking through Dean’s hair just hard enough to sting—

“Come on,” Sam’s muffled voice breaks through, and with an abundance of annoyance, he bangs on the window, nearly startling Dean off the bed. Glaring over his shoulder, he finds Sam looking right at him—I left the curtains open—with an absolutely horrified expression on his face. “Pick up your phone, asshole.”

“Shit,” Dean hisses, long and low and mortified. Castiel pets his cheek after Sam disappears, foreheads resting together; in the shadows, Dean could lose himself in the blue of Castiel’s eyes and the heat of his kiss, the utter gentleness of his hands. “What does this mean, Cas? ‘Cause I got no clue, and Sam just saw, and—”

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” Castiel whispers. He tugs Dean into another kiss before pushing his shoulder. “Would you rather we talk later, or now?”

Now, his mind screams, I need to know now. Urgency is never the answer, though; the longer he has to think about it, the more he’ll be able to articulate it in the future—if he survives that long. “Tonight,” Dean sighs, hanging his head. “I’ll cook whatever you want, and we’ll talk. Deal?”

“That soup you made last winter, with the potatoes,” Castiel says. “That.”

Shaking his head, Dean sneaks in another kiss before rolling off of Castiel and back onto the mattress. “I’ll see what I can pull together.”

-+-

Dean is parked alongside a lone gas pump in the middle of nowhere when he panics. Or at least, as much as he can manage to do so internally, what with Sam watching his every move and Castiel asleep in the backseat. So far as Dean knows, he loves Castiel—desperately, deeply, with every breath in his body. As to what Castiel feels, that still remains a mystery, but Castiel’s proposition still rings in his ears. Whatever it means, Dean wants—needs—to find out, if anything, for his own sanity.

He can’t lose Castiel again, though—not after everything they’ve been through, not because of this.

The pump clanks noisily; pushing off the trunk, Dean removes the nozzle and replaces it into its holster. “How long’re you gonna stay pissed at me?” he asks Sam while screwing the cap back on. The sun beats down overhead, and sweat beads along his nape the longer he stands there, waiting for Sam to do something other than stare at the sky in exasperation.

“I’m not—I’m not pissed,” Sam says, finally looking back down and brushing his hair out of his face. “Trust me, I got a world of things I could be pissed about, but… This isn’t one of them, Dean. This is Cas, and I just… I don’t wanna see either of you get hurt. Even if you’re just—”

“It’s not just a fling with him,” Dean says, hushed. God forbid Castiel wake up to hear this. “I just… I really care about him, and it freaks me out and I’m trying not to fuck this up, but… What if it goes south? What if worse comes to worse, and one of us gets killed, and then what? I can’t—I don’t wanna go through that again. Not with him, not with you, not with…” Please don’t make me lose you two, he aches to say. “Why does love always feel like the end?”

To that, Sam just shrugs and shakes his head. “I wish it didn’t have to,” he mumbles. “Wish all of this didn’t feel like the end.”

-+-

Castiel sleeps for two days straight. Not that Dean expected any different—the last cemetery back in Idaho, Castiel didn’t wake up for twelve hours after the initial collapse—but Dean misses him all the same. Several times, both he and Sam check on him, mostly to see if he’s still breathing; Dean always stays longer, though, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking down at him, petting through his mussed hair. Never once do his eyes flutter, but he breathes, the only thing Dean cares about.

Despite the temporary respite, Sam is nowhere closer to finding a suitable replacement for the spell, and Dean would be climbing the walls if not for his temporary job as a dispatcher. As soon as something crosses their proverbial desk, he sends it to the next available hunter he can find, and spends the rest of his free time wandering the bunker, waiting for Castiel to wake up. So they can talk, he reasons—so Dean can figure out if just what he’s feeling is sudden lust or deep-seated love, only one of which he knows what to do with.

Nights don't come easier. Down the hall, Dean can hear Sam’s exhausted snores, and the quiet hum of the aging air conditioner, cycling on and off at regular intervals. No noise from Castiel, though. Lying on his side, Dean watches the insides of his eyelids, and waits. For a door opening, for voices, for—

Footsteps. Springing from bed, Dean grabs his robe and shrugs it on, following the sound of socked feet padding through the halls. No one else is home for the time being, and Sam walks lighter, from a life spent trying to avoid detection. Drained as he is, Castiel might as well be a moving target, his level of evasiveness next to none. After a minute of wandering and ducking into every room he passes, Dean finds Castiel in his room, curled up under his sheets, once again oblivious to the world.

Heart in his throat, Dean closes the door and shrugs off his robe, hanging it on the coat rack. “Idiot,” he huffs, not unkindly, before sliding back into bed, draping the blankets over his shoulders. In the dark, he takes in the softness of Castiel’s face when he rests, the regularly hard lines of his eyes soothed, his lips parted as he breathes. His hair stands in every direction, and Dean smooths it down, trailing his fingertips down Castiel’s chin. If anything, Castiel falls into Dean’s touch, even unconscious, a contented sigh escaping his lips.

Here, Castiel is at peace—here, Dean doesn’t think he can ever look away, even when he moves closer, draping an arm around Castiel’s waist. “You better wake up,” he whispers, his voice wavering despite his best attempts. “Or I’ll drag your ass back myself this time.”

Castiel rests. Dean just holds him closer, and prays he can sleep now, knowing Castiel is here with him, that Castiel is safe.

-+-

A certifiable stampede marches by around nine in the morning, startling Dean into a panic. Castiel’s hand is the only thing that keeps him from springing out of bed. “A hunting party came back an hour ago,” Castiel explains, removing his hand. “They’re not exactly the quietest of people.”

“Just how I like to be woken up,” Dean complains, blearily rubbing his eyes. “Blind panic—” Wait. Still fueled by adrenaline, Dean sits up to find Castiel reading in bed, one of Dean’s well-read paperbacks in his hands, sweatshirt slouching off his shoulder. “Cas, you’re—”

“Awake, yes,” Castiel says through a yawn. Dogearing his page, he places the book onto the nightstand and stretches his arms above his head, one foot twitching under the sheets. “I’ve recovered, I think. I don’t remember how I got here.”

“Ain’t complaining,” Dean says, patting Castiel’s knee over the sheets. “Not the first time someone’s sleepwalked in here, trust me. Found Sam in the gym talking to the punching bag one morning, pretty sure he doesn’t even know what happened.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I’d rather it not become a habit. Although…” He stops, placing his hand on the memory foam, watching it sink in. “I like your bed much better than my own.”

Laughing, he jostles Castiel’s shoulder. “Like a really good hug. Didn’t know how bad my back was ‘til I got this baby.”

“I can understand why.” Reaching over, Castiel flips on the nightstand lamp, immediately blinding Dean in the process. Too early for this. “I think my plans of us being alone today are effectively moot.”

Dean waggles his eyebrows, absently still aware of his hand on Castiel’s knee, now squeezing it tight. “You wanted to get me alone today?”

Castiel just gives him a look, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. Before Dean can react, Castiel shoves him into the mattress with barely a sound, one knee between his thighs, elbows bracketing his head. Even in the scant light between them, Dean can see the flush to Castiel’s cheeks, tinging the tips of his ears. “That was the intention,” he croons, and presses a feather-light kiss to Dean’s cheek, before moving down to his neck. Soft lips caress his skin, just as a hand creeps down the front of his shirt, settling over his stomach; biting his lip, Dean takes Castiel by the hair and tugs, anything to keep quiet. “Sam was out for his morning run, so I planned on kissing you until you told me to stop, but you’re… loud.”

Loud—loud. “Did you—the other night,” Dean hisses when Castiel pets over a clothed nipple, “did you hear me?”

“My hearing is more acute than you give me credit for,” Castiel hums. He slips his hand beneath Dean’s shirt, the first real touch of skin against skin Dean has had in days. “I could hear you straining to keep quiet, knowing that one of us could hear you.”

Tauntingly, Castiel thumbs his nipple, and Dean whines, hips bucking just from that alone. Thigh pressed closer, Dean grinds against it, panting hot breaths into Castiel’s throat. “Tell me about—the first guy you hooked up with,” he blurts, shame heating his face. They need to talk about this, desperately, but Dean can’t drag himself away, can’t stop thinking about anything but this: Castiel surrounding him, touching him, lips gliding against his own. “On set, what was—What was he like?”

Castiel doesn’t answer immediately, his attention more focused on falling onto his side. He drags Dean closer with little effort, groping his ass with one hand and tweaking a nipple with the other. His kisses taste like peppermint, the faintest hint of tea lingering on his tongue. “Kind,” he eventually says, guiding their hips together. Dean bites back a groan—quiet. “I told him before we started, that I’d never slept with a man before. I said, I’d been close a few times, but it never came to fruition.”

Dean remembers those times vividly, guilt burning in his gut. Nights after fights, after accusations and betrayals, all culminating with biting kisses and hands in places they shouldn’t be. They never got off, though, much as Dean is lament to admit it; anger always got the best of him, and most of the time, he finished himself off after Castiel flew away, out of pure spite. How Castiel ever felt about it, he never asked. Now, he might know.

“What’d he say?” Dean asks, arousal replaced with a sudden soberness he can’t remember ever feeling. Emptiness. Regret.

Still, Castiel kisses him. Slower, though, hesitation lingering in his touch. “That he’d take care of me,” he says, pulling his hand out of Dean’s shirt. “I felt so… alone, and ashamed after we finished. I wanted to call you when I got back to my motel room, but I couldn't bring up the nerve. The truth is…” He stops, eyes downcast. “I thought about you, when he fucked me. I imagined it was you, because I missed you, and I didn’t understand why every time I thought of you, my heart ached. And if I could just… pretend to be with you one more time, it made it worth it.”

Shit. Whatever erection Dean had now flags, his primary concern now shifting to Castiel. “You know I didn’t want to,” he says, palming Castiel’s cheek. “You know if I had my way, I never would’ve let you leave.”

Castiel shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. What’s done is done, and… I’d rather remember my time with you, if that’s alright.”

Swallowing, Dean nods and sidles closer; he smooths his hand down Castiel’s spine, feeling him soften all at once. “You can still tell me about it, if you want,” he suggests. More for curiosity’s sake, nothing more. “I always got time. Never really get to hear you talk about yourself, anyway.”

“I’m not that interesting,” Castiel deflects, but agrees. “Later. I wouldn’t be averse to more kissing.”

That, Dean can do. “Buckle up then, ‘cause I got plenty.”

-+-

Cooking for twenty people is apparently a three-man job, Castiel included. The minute his lips look less kiss-bitten and more presentable, Dean holes up in the kitchen, looking over recipes large enough to accommodate the sudden influx of people he sent out the day before, but who apparently decided it was time to come back for the day, all at the same time. “When was the last time we had barbecue?” Sam asks, spinning a thick binder around to reveal a recipe for Brunswick stew. “Like, real barbecue, not stuff out of a package.”

“Don’t think we’ve got enough time to cook a hog,” Dean says, but stores that away for another day. They should really invest in a smoker. “Doesn’t mean we can’t hit up a place for meat and do the sides ourselves. How’s that sound?”

“I’m game.” Too enthusiastically, Sam slaps the table, the metal clang reverberating off the walls. “Can you make this, too? I remember when we were kids, the waitress at that diner in El Paso felt so bad for us, she gave us an entire pot.”

“All we had to eat for three days,” Dean says, chuckling. Not that he’ll remind Sam that he barely got to eat any, but that was another time. “I’ll see what I can do.” He stops to write out a list of quantities of meat and sides he can’t pull together on his own: mostly hush puppies, but also coleslaw and baked beans, and whatever else Sam finds might be worth trying.

After Sam vanishes with their one legitimate credit card, Dean drags out whatever produce they have in the refrigerator and sets to work. Castiel joins him after a while, hair in place for once and clothes more or less presentable. It’s just a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, but Dean’s residual libido still wants to rip it off him right then and there. “Sam’s got us making barbeque,” he says, smacking a bag of frozen corn against the countertop. “Wanna help?”

Eyes bright, Castiel nods. “Tell me what you need me to do?”

“Start dicing onions.” Taking a knife from the cutting block, Dean hands it over, along with a cutting board. “Know you don’t gotta eat, but trust me, this is gonna be good. I make my own sauce and everything.”

“I can’t wait,” Castiel smiles, and kisses Dean from across the table, uncaring of anybody possibly walking by.

And for once, Dean can’t bring himself to either.

-+-

Dinner comes and goes with fanfare, leaving Dean to clean up the mess and pack up the remnants for another day, all with Castiel at his side. Down the hall, he can hear animated conversations from the library and clinking glasses, the last of their aging scotch probably being drained by twenty-year olds. For special occasions, he told Sam months ago, but apparently special occasions means whenever Sam deems fit.

“Feel like I’m missing out on the fun,” Dean grouses, elbow-deep in rinsing out the cast iron Dutch oven. With the dishrag draped over his shoulder, he dries it off and sets it aside with the remaining cookware. “Look,” he says, stopping to show Castiel his hands, “I got prunes for fingers, and what do they have?”

“Indigestion,” Castiel says in all seriousness. Dean just laughs. “I have a request, if you’re willing to drive a few miles.”

Interesting. “Up for anything, at this point,” he says with a nod. “Been stuck in this room all day, feel like I’m about to start climbing the walls.”

“You’re in luck.” Gently, Castiel pats Dean’s hip, catching his fingers in a beltloop to tug Dean closer, way into his personal space. “There aren’t any walls where we’re going.”

Dean has seen this porno before. Hell, he’s delivered this line before, and it still makes his knees buckle, cheeks flaring at the suggestion. Right now—Castiel wants him now. “I—Yeah, we can do that,” he says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Do I gotta—We need to bring anything?”

Low, Castiel hums and pulls Dean in, chest to chest. “Whatever you think we’ll need,” he says with a smile, and leaves, like taking Dean apart is an exact science, and he has it mastered to a T.

Either way, Dean scrambles out of the kitchen and winds his way through the bunker, out of the way of potential wandering eyes. Hiding in his room, he leans against the door and breathes, easing the sudden rush of adrenaline in his hands. Just the essentials, he reasons, rubbing his eyes. This isn’t a big deal, but somehow, it is. Sex is one thing, but with his best friend? With what feels like the real love of his life? His stomach tightens at the thought, heart in his throat.

It’s just Cas, he reasons. Castiel, angel of the lord, accidental pornstar, and guy apparently waiting on the other side of the door. “We don’t have to,” Castiel says, loud enough for Dean to hear above the blood rushing in his ears. With trembling fingers, Dean rubs between his eyes, brows pinched tight. “Was I too forward?”

“No, no.” Thumping his head, Dean curses himself. “No, I’m just—Get in here, dude. Ain’t talkin’ to you through the door.”

Steeling his nerves, Dean backs away enough for Castiel to let himself in. Door closed and in Castiel’s presence once again, he relaxes enough to sit on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. A hand settles on his shoulder, thumb tracing the curve of his neck; it’s such a simple touch, but Dean melts into it regardless. “I love you,” Dean says in one breath. “Have for way too damn long, and I’m… I’m tired of this, Cas. Whatever this is between us. There’s been way too many almosts, and I just…” Dropping his hands, he looks up at Castiel, eyes stinging. “I’m tired, man.”

“I know,” Castiel sighs, with both his body and his grace, it feels like. He joins Dean on the bed and leans against him, arm around Dean’s back. Probably to prop himself up, but mostly out of a need to comfort, based on how closely he holds himself. “But it never felt like the right time to discuss this with you. Our lives aren’t exactly easy at the moment.”

Unfortunately, Castiel is right. Dean can’t remember the last time the three of them had a break that lasted more than two days; typically, the night they make it home, Sam already has another case lined up, or Castiel hears word on dispatch about something halfway across the country. Dean mostly just ignores it all and tries to hide as much as he can, just to get a moment of peace. And in those moments, Castiel is always close, and always has been, for as long as he can remember.

“I wish it were easier,” Dean mumbles and palms Castiel’s thigh. He digs his fingers into the muscles, and Castiel opens for him, enough for Dean to feel just how tense he is. “Years, Cas. Just… pisses me off, knowing what we could’ve been doing. How much I…” He stops, bows his head. “I could’ve stopped hurting you, if I just listened. If we were…”

“We’ll always hurt each other, in some way.” Covering Dean’s hand, Castiel links their fingers together. “Love will always hurt.”

He shakes his head. “Shouldn’t have to. And I dream about this, I’ve thought about what it’d be like if I just told you, and… None of it felt like this. Like I’m losing my damn mind, like every time I look at you might be my last.”

Sighing, Castiel rests his head atop Dean’s shoulder. “I won’t give you any promises, but for as long as I’m able, I’ll be here. So long as I’m under my own power,” he says, squeezing Dean’s hand for emphasis and pressing his knuckles to his lips, “I’ll love you. All I’ve ever wanted is to love you, and stand by your side, but fate continually pulls us apart.”

God did, Dean muses. God kept them apart for fun, and ruined both his and Sam’s lives in the process. Repeatedly, until Dean could barely remember how to function without strings pulling him to his inevitable death.

Now, though—now, he can do whatever he wants. “C’mere,” he says before pulling Castiel in for a kiss, just to taste his lips again, his honeyed tongue as sweet as ever. “Promise I’m not freaking out anymore.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Castiel says. He pulls away before Dean can lean in, and instead takes Dean’s hand, urging him to stand. “Come with me, Dean.”

Heart caught in his throat, Dean nods, and follows.

-+-

Despite the midnight heat lingering in the air, Dean shivers the moment he steps out of the Impala, bag slung over his shoulder. Castiel follows from the passenger seat, carrying with him a blanket and a small pillow tucked under his arm. For Dean’s comfort, they both reason—not like it’s his fault for having a bad back, no matter how many massages Castiel gives him.

Given the chance, and Dean would’ve done this at home, on a supportive mattress and easy access to a shower. Considering home is overrun by people whose names he barely knows, he sides with Castiel instead, and follows him out into the middle of a barren field, left empty for the last few seasons and overgrown with grass. The further they tread, the farther away the Impala grows; Dean’s eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, the moon overhead their only guide.

“It’s a beautiful night,” Castiel says, coming to a stop in the middle of the field. Dean stops and rubs his hands together while Castiel spreads out the quilt atop the grass, fighting off the chill in his limbs. From nerves, he knows, but looking at Castiel doesn’t help, and neither does Castiel taking his hands and pulling him to his knees. For a brief moment, Castiel strokes Dean’s cheek before pulling him into a kiss, one Dean returns with some hesitation. “Dean…”

“I’m fine,” Dean sighs. He rests his forehead atop Castiel’s shoulder and palms Castiel’s thighs, purely looking for something to hold onto. “Swear to god, I’m not freaking out.”

“You kind of are,” Castiel says, but not unkindly. “Why are you so scared?”

“Not drunk, for one,” Dean huffs. “And I’m not… Shit, Cas, normally I’m pissed at you, or I’m shitfaced, and at least then, I got some kinda buffer where I don’t have to think about it, but…” Pulling back, he looks down at Castiel’s thigh, currently resting between Dean’s spread knees. “I’m not even buzzed, and I’m… Fuck, I’m happy, and I keep thinking I’m gonna fuck this up, and you’re gonna—”

Castiel shushes him with a kiss, this one hungrier, aiming to shut Dean up permanently. And despite his best interests, Dean just takes it and returns the favor, gripping Castiel’s coat in a failing attempt to pull it off. Castiel fares much easier, tugging Dean’s shirt up by the hem and pulling it over his shoulders. Here, exposed to the elements and Castiel’s touch, he gives in, guided by Castiel’s hands and his lips, all of which do wonders for Dean’s nerves.

“Stop thinking,” Castiel says, soft, barely a breath in his ear before he pulls away, leaving Dean leaning in for a kiss that never comes.

Instead, he watches Castiel stand, his body as fluid as ever. He shrugs his coat off first, leaving him solely in a black button-down and a pair of tenting jeans, both of which Dean wants to strip off him with his teeth. For days—no, probably years—he’s waited to get his hands on Castiel, and now Castiel is depriving him, this time intentionally.

Until he starts talking—then, Dean can’t take his eyes off his hands. “His name was Tomas,” Castiel says, eyes half-lidded as he undoes each button painstakingly slow. “I met him the day before, when we had a chemistry session. The producer wanted to see if we played off of each other well, and I couldn’t stop thinking about him all night. Not because I wanted him, but because of how kind he was, and how he kissed me when we were alone.”

Something sours in Dean’s gut, only to be replaced by lust when Castiel stops to stroke through Dean’s hair, tugging at the strands. Dean’s mouth waters, and faintly, he can smell Castiel’s arousal, can feel the heat pouring off of him—

“Are you listening?” Castiel asks, to which Dean nods. “You said you wanted to know what my first time was like.”

“Yeah.” Swallowing, Dean nuzzles his face against Castiel’s jeans, earning a soft huff. “Keep talking.”

Castiel hums for a brief second before resuming his story. Incrementally, Dean watches Castiel’s shirt come away, revealing his toned stomach and even more defined pecs. “I’d never let another man see me so vulnerable before,” Castiel rumbles, sliding his arms out of the sleeves. The shirt falls to the quilt in a heap, and tauntingly, he strokes down the length of his torso, past the dusting of hair on his chest and the trail leading down to his waistband.

Dean can’t help it—he mouths at the outline of Castiel’s cock and caresses the meat of his thighs, and Castiel lets him, holding him in place with an insistent hand. “The night before we filmed, he came over to my motel room, and we kissed while he undressed me, and he told me…” He stops to laugh, catching Dean’s attention. “He told me he loved me, which I knew was a lie, but I let myself believe it.”

“Hey.” Dean pats his thigh, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You still good?” Because if Castiel isn’t, he might actually die.

Slowly, Castiel nods and makes his way to his knees once again. Here, Dean kisses him freely, moaning with the feel of Castiel’s fingertips trailing down his spine. Breaking away, Castiel laves at a nipple before palming Dean’s ass, teasing him through the seam of his jeans. “Fuck,” Dean pants, lip between his teeth. They aren’t even naked yet, and he’s already close, just from Castiel’s tongue and his fingers, and—“Yes,” he moans, head tilted back as Castiel strokes over the hard ridge of his cock. “Yes, yes, Cas—”

“He didn’t kiss like you,” Castiel says into Dean’s throat. In the next second, he pushes Dean onto his back and pins his thighs open with his hands, sucking long, wet kisses to the front of his jeans. Fuck, he’s gonna… “He wasn’t as… submissive as you are. I feel like he wanted to prove a point. And, not that I didn’t enjoy it, but…” He stops to look Dean in the eye, all while unzipping Dean’s fly and tucking his thumbs into the waistband. “I’d rather fuck you, if that’s alright.”

“Fuck, yes,” Dean wheezes.

This is it—all these years of waiting, and he finally gets what he wants, in the form of Castiel impatiently ridding him of his jeans and leaving him bare. Castiel follows not too long after, less-than-gracefully kicking off his clothes, all while Dean stifles a laugh. “You could help,” Castiel huffs, but Dean just waves him off, more interested in watching Castiel’s cock bob every time he moves.

And really, he shouldn’t stare, but he can’t stop himself. The minute Castiel finally—after what feels like hours—gets his pants off, Dean pins him onto the quilt, kissing a wet trail down to the thatch of hair between his legs. Castiel sucks in a breath, but otherwise doesn’t fight him off, not when Dean takes his cock in hand and strokes, gathering up the precome already spilling over. “How do you like it?” Dean asks and traces the tip of his tongue up Castiel’s cock, just to feel him twitch. “’Cause I got a bad gag reflex, and—”

“Just this is fine,” Castiel says, sucking in a breath.

With that, Dean grins and takes Castiel’s cock into his mouth. Castiel heaves out a sigh at first contact, hips lifting on instinct; Dean holds him down and swallows what he can, stroking the rest with a tight fist. Without most of his sight, Dean concentrates on how thick he is, his girth just as impressive here as it was on camera. Castiel is just as responsive here too, panting and moaning at even the lightest of touches, his grip tightening where he fists Dean by the hair.

Specifically, Dean pays attention to the head, foreskin smoothed back while he laps at the slit, gathering precome on his tongue. He could get Castiel off like this, he thinks, mouthing up the length of his cock, and Castiel would probably let him, in any other instance. With reluctance, though, he pulls off and crawls up Castiel’s body, teasing his lips with another kiss. “Said you wanna fuck me,” Dean says and takes both of their cocks in hand, his gasp more of a whine. “Fuck—gonna make me do all the work?”

“I was enjoying that,” Castiel admits, delirious.

Somehow, he manages to sit up and push Dean back onto the quilt, despite the obvious state of arousal between his legs. “Looks like it hurts,” Dean taunts, and reaches for Castiel’s cock, sliding his fingertip along the slit—until Castiel shoves him away, pinning his hand high above his head in the grass. “Cas—”

“Touch me like that again, and I won’t do this,” he warns, and before Dean can ask what this is, Castiel pets over his hole, pushing in just enough to keep him alert. Rather than flinch, Dean bares his neck, unashamed of the noise he makes when Castiel licks a wet stripe up his throat. Distantly, he hears Castiel fumble with the duffel, eventually surfacing with the lube.

Then and only then, does Dean have an epiphany. Not too late, but certainly further along than he anticipated. “Did you—Fuck, hold on a second, did you get tested? After you got your Grace back.”

At that, Castiel lifts up, far enough for Dean to see his blown pupils and the faint blush painting his chest. “I’m not carrying anything that could harm you,” he says, kissing Dean’s collar. “But yes, I did. Once I recovered my Grace, I tied up a few loose ends, including picking up my last paycheck.”

“Good,” Dean sighs, chest deflating. “Good, just… What’d you do with all the money, anyway?”

Dean doesn’t get a direct answer, at least not right away. Rather, Castiel circles him with a wet finger and dips in, and a rush of heat burns through Dean; he gasps before he can stop himself, an apparent cue for Castiel to push in to the knuckle. God, even his fingers are thick, a second sliding slickly across his skin every time he pulls out, only to tease his rim again and again, a promise of more to come. Red-faced, Dean relaxes enough for Castiel to add another, the two just enough to get him off, if Castiel really tried.

But as much as Dean wants him to, he doesn’t. What he gets is another kiss and a steady stretch, all of which send a shudder through his body, cock bobbing in anticipation. “Bills,” Castiel rumbles, sucking marks along Dean’s throat. “I may have opened a savings account in case I had to buy a house—”

“Oh, talk domestic to me,” Dean laughs through a moan. “Been holdin’ out on us, huh?”

“It’s a rainy day fund, as you’d call it.” Castiel hides a kiss behind his ear, just as he pulls his fingers free to wet them again. A third drives in afterward, drawing a noise from Dean’s throat that he’ll be ashamed of later. “Wouldn’t it be nice? Think of it, a bedroom with natural light, and we could make love on the couch in the fall, with the windows open—”

“Voyeur,” Dean says, eyes pinched shut. Even then, he doesn’t know if that could be any worse than what they’re doing out here, where anyone could drive by and see them. The thrill of getting caught sends a shudder through him, and Dean clenches around Castiel’s fingers, earning a grin against his throat. “Cas—C’mon, not gonna last like this.”

“You don't have to,” Castiel says with an audible shrug. “Unless you think you’re ready?”

“Shit yes, been ready.” For emphasis, Dean props open a leg and rolls his hips, angling Castiel’s fingers right there—

And then they’re gone, leaving Dean empty and lamenting the loss. In haste, Castiel crowds him and turns Dean onto his stomach, Dean all too willing to be manhandled for once in his life. “Ass up,” Castiel instructs, and Dean complies, earning Castiel’s hum of approval. “At any point, if you aren’t comfortable—”

“I’ll let you know,” Dean huffs. Don’t start overthinking this now. Grabbing the abandoned pillow, he props it up under his arms and clings to it. “Just get in there, alright? Kept me waiting for—”

Castiel doesn't let him finish, and for once, Dean is grateful from having to admit how much he’s longed for this moment. Slowly, much too slowly, Castiel rubs the head of his slicked cock against Dean’s rim and pushes in; Dean struggles to breathe through it, the initial stretch always too much to process, but Castiel kisses his shoulder once he bottoms out, easing him back into his skin. “Thought you were big before,” Dean grunts and hugs the pillow tighter. “Think I underestimated.”

“So I’ve been told,” Castiel says, grinning into Dean’s skin. “How are your knees?”

Speaking of knees, Dean really misses his bed. “Think I got a few minutes before you gotta flip me over,” he says, arching his hips higher. “Gonna keep me waiting?”

“I’ve grown tired of it,” Castiel says, before pulling out and shoving back in. Dean can’t help it when his knees give out.

Not that it makes much of a difference anyway, with Castiel on top of him. Here, he can feel Castiel tower over him, feels his hands everywhere at once, holding his wrists, gripping his skin. Smothering a moan into the pillow, Dean ruts into the quilt while Castiel thrusts into him, teeth scraping his nape, breaths hot, presence inescapable. “Cas,” Dean pants, turning his face enough to catch the look in Castiel’s eye, completely unlike anything he ever saw online.

In fact, if he had to put a word to it, he might call it hedonistic, well past the point of lust. “Cas,” he repeats and reaches back, tangling his fingers in Castiel’s hair. “Cas, fuck, c’mon…”

What he wants is for Castiel to get closer, to fuck him like he means it—what he gets is Castiel pulling out, only to flip him onto his back and take him behind the ankle, before sliding back in, somehow even hotter than before. Dean drapes his other leg around Castiel’s waist and urges him closer, until Castiel lines up just right, grinding in slow, deep—methodical.

Intense.

“Kiss me,” Dean pleads and reaches for Castiel, tugging at his shoulder. And Castiel does without hesitation, his tongue doing absolutely filthy things to Dean’s libido. Breathless and begging, Dean fists himself, panting wordless pleas onto Castiel’s waiting lips. Castiel crowds him close, driving in faster now, and Dean holds on, muffling his shouts into Castiel’s sweat-sticky shoulder. “Please,” he moans. “More, there—oh shit, there, faster—”

The noise Castiel lets out, Dean can only describe as a snarl, his touch turning from sultry to possessive within a breath. Practically feral, he takes Dean by the hair and pulls, baring his throat. “Get in there,” Dean manages just before Castiel latches onto him, sucking mark after mark while Dean climbs. His hips ride Castiel’s rhythm like second nature, and his toes curl, heels thumping against Castiel’s spine. Closer, closer—

“Dean,” Castiel groans, and Dean feels him come more than hears him, grinding in as deeply as he can. And Dean lets go, toppling just seconds after, mouth agape and cock spilling thick between his fingers.

Above, the stars watch on, and all at once, Dean feels like one of them, his existence boiling down to this moment, lost in each other’s embrace, each other’s…

Love, he decides. This is love. I’m in love.

Even in the afterglow, Castiel continues to thrust, but slower now, languid and chasing the lasting high. Dean, however, can’t feel his legs, and thumping Castiel with his heel barely catches his attention. “Dude, I’m gonna pull something,” Dean complains through a laugh. He nips Castiel’s lip, red and swollen from kisses. “Liked that, huh?”

“I normally don’t get to enjoy this part,” Castiel says. Nuzzling Dean’s throat, he shifts enough to slip his cock free.

Only briefly does Dean lament the loss, his focus now centering on stretching his legs and ignoring the mess of lube and come coating his thighs. Still, Castiel stays close, peppering kisses along Dean’s jaw and down to his throat, nipping at the marks he left behind. He shivers when Castiel runs his hand down his side, palming over the tense muscles in his thighs and kneading them back to softness.

And really, Dean understands why Castiel enjoys this—why he himself does, after someone wrings him dry in every way possible. Touch is grounding, and Castiel keeps him tethered with just his hands. “Think I love you,” Dean says with a sigh, idly petting Castiel’s nape. “Know I do.”

“I know,” Castiel says, voice sex-rough. Dean’s cock gives a twitch at the sound, soft but still interested. For now, he ignores it and basks in Castiel’s kiss, in the steady pressure of Castiel’s fingers loosening his limbs, keeping him whole. “Love you too.”

-+-

Dean rolls the Impala into the garage after midnight, the engine ticking when he throws her into park, cooling from the short drive. For a few long moments, he just sits there with a hand in his lap, listening to Castiel breathe in the passenger seat, and his own heart pounding in his ears.

This shouldn't be this awkward, he thinks. Mornings after—or nights, rather—aren’t supposed to feel like a walk of shame, but he can’t help the guilt settling in, even with Castiel’s hand in his, where it’s been since they got back in the car.

“You regret this,” Castiel says, almost a question. In reality, Dean doesn’t—far from it—but in his heart, he can’t shake that the reason for all of this, for Castiel’s foray into life’s baser desires, was because of him. “Dean.” Unbuckling, Castiel turns to face him, one foot in the footwell. “What I did isn’t your responsibility. You know that.”

Slowly, mechanically, Dean nods. “Can’t help it, though.” He holds Castiel’s hand tighter, pressing his knuckles to his lips. “I mean, porn’s not… Porn shouldn’t be something to be ashamed of, but I’m still just… trying to wrap my head around it, I guess. I mean, you’re an angel, and you—”

“Defiled myself?” To that, Castiel shrugs. “As I see it, I enjoyed myself, and I consented to everything I ever did, as did my partners. Just because money changed hands doesn’t mean it should be something shameful.”

“I get that.” He does—really, he does, but convincing himself is another question entirely. “Trust me, but I just… What if I never told you to leave?” Sitting up straighter, Dean stretches an arm out atop the bench. “What if you never left, then what? It could’ve changed history, it could’ve…” A pause. “What if we never ended up here?”

Castiel narrows his eyes, and leans in before Dean can protest any further, planting a kiss square on his lips. “There are more realities in this universe than we can possibly fathom,” he says, “and in almost all of them, we find our way back to each other. One way or another, we’ll always end up here.”

Dean snorts. “Almost all of them?”

“You always have a choice,” Castiel says. “Right now, you could reject me, and this might be the one time we part ways.”

At that, he can’t help but laugh as he rests his forehead against Castiel’s. “Good thing that’s never gonna happen,” he says, and seals it with a kiss. “Just can’t get it out of my head, the world’s seen you with your dick out.”

Quietly, with just the edge of lust, Castiel whispers into his ear, “But you’re the only one that gets it.”

Dean swallows. “Guess I do,” he says, shivering, and shoves Castiel onto the bench. Might as well christen the Impala with another first while no one’s looking.