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Dean, he’s heard of places like this. He’d heard the pity in drunk old hunters’ voices as they talked about the sorry saps who fell for it. He’d heard the disgust as they talked about the ones who knew what was happening and who didn’t care.
They would think he was pathetic. He kinda thinks he’s pathetic, and even as he tells himself it’s just morbid curiosity—a shifter sex worker? That’s bonkers—he knows it’s a lie.
A silver dollar would do the trick, tell him what he needs to know.
But Dean, he wants more than a silver-dollar sureness. He wants to see it. Needs to see it. He stands there under the buzzing neon of a backalley bar, and he pushes down the lump in his throat, wondering if the shifter is gonna change right in front of him.
But she just smiles, pockets the picture and the cash and leads him around a corner to the motel where she does her business.
“Gotta say,” she croons as she shoulders open a door on the second floor. “I don’t usually get this kind of request from guys like you. It’s usually dudes who live in their mother’s basement wanting a night with Scarlett Johansson.”
“Can you do it or not?” Dean says, and it comes out gruffer, rougher than he means.
He doesn’t want to scare her off. He needs this.
She scoffs and drops her ratty coat to the ratty carpet.
“Of course, I can,” she says. “What’s your name again?”
“Dean,” he tells her, his own name feeling foreign in his mouth.
She grins at him like a cat.
“Wait here, Dean.”
Then, she dips into the bathroom.
Dean stands there and tries to breathe. Tells himself this is a bad fucking idea. Tells himself this is the only way he’ll ever see…
After a moment, the bathroom door opens up again, and out walks Cas.
He’s wearing a smile that sits unfamiliar on his face, but he’s got the trenchcoat, he’s got the hair, he’s got the long fingers and electric eyes, and Dean…Dean can’t breathe.
“Cas,” he chokes, frozen still where he stands by the foot of the bed.
“Hi, Dean,” Cas says, and it’s enough to shake him loose, unstick him from gaping and choking, and he flinches.
It’s wrong. This is so, so wrong.
His voice is wrong. His words are wrong.
But when he steps closer into Dean’s space, it’s enough to throw all of that out of the window. This is something he never let himself have.
His hands reach for the trenchcoat without Dean’s permission, and when they sink into the lapels of that damn thing, it’s all he can do to draw him forward, press their foreheads together, and breathe.
Cas’ hands find a home on his waist, under his jacket, under his flannel, pressed warm against the rapid trill of his heart.
Cas’ hands were never warm.
“Cas,” he chokes.
He can’t close his eyes. Cas’ eyes are exactly right, the rash of stubble, the pink of his lips.
“It’s okay,” Cas answers. He presses Dean gently backwards, until his knees hit the bed, and he collapses onto it, still clinging to Cas’ coat. “I’m gonna make you feel so good,” Cas purrs.
Dean flinches again, and this time, his eyes close.
“Could you, uh…could you not talk?” Dean asks.
He hates the way his voice trembles.
Cas hums in a soft agreement.
His lips press against Dean’s jaw, work down his neck.
He pushes Dean backwards still until he’s splayed out on the bed beneath the arc of Cas’ body.
Then, he lowers himself down, pressing them together collar to ankle.
Dean whimpers, and finally, finally, Cas’ lips brush against his own.
It’s nothing how he’d imagined it.
It’s all he’s ever going to get.
His hands scrabble up and tug the dress shirt out of Cas’ slacks, and Cas lets a soft sigh out against his lips.
They kiss for a long time, and Dean keeps his eyes open for every shaking second.
Eventually, Cas pulls back and strips Dean slowly, reverently. Runs his hands across every slope and valley that he had rebuilt and reclaimed.
When he swallows Dean down, just watching, just knowing that it’s Cas’ mouth enveloping him, Cas’ tongue lapping gently at the underside, it’s almost enough to send him over.
But then, Cas winks at him, and all Dean can do is groan, and put his head back, and try to forget what it is that he’s doing.
Cas shucks his trenchcoat off as he teases at Dean’s head. Loses the suit jacket and the dress shirt. Kicks out of his shoes. His pants.
Dean pulls him up and kisses him long and slow.
Finally, finally lets himself touch.
“I know you said you don’t wanna talk,” Cas interrupts.
His eyes are hungry on Dean’s lips.
His voice is wrong.
“But you want to bottom, right?”
Dean swallows. Thumbs across the red rash of Cas’ mouth.
“I want you inside of me,” Dean confirms.
John Winchester is rolling in his grave.
His son is having gay sex with a monster, and he’s practically begging to have Cas fuck him up the ass.
Cas grins at him, sharp and wrong, and slaps Dean’s ass.
Dean jolts.
“Then roll over, big boy,” Cas growls.
That was how he’d imagined this night going. Doing it doggy-style with a shifter sex worker wearing Cas’ face. The guilt. The shame.
But…but his voice had been almost right, just then. The words were still wrong, and Dean’d have probably shit his pants if Cas had ever said that to him for real.
But the growl of it had been almost right enough that Dean suddenly doesn’t want to turn away from him. He doesn’t want to get fucked by Cas.
He—roll, Johnny, roll—he wants to make love to Cas.
“Can we do it like this?” Dean whispers.
His fingers leave streaks of yellow where they dig into Cas’ arm, and Cas glances down at it. Dean realizes suddenly that he’s holding Cas exactly how he’d held Dean, how he’d said goodbye.
Cas looks up at him, and the sharpness in his eyes softens.
He nods and leans down to kiss him gently.
Cas opens him slowly, presses into him just the same, and the pace he sets with his hips is languorous and perfect.
Cas presses his lips against the juncture of Dean’s neck, and Dean feels surrounded by Cas, inside and out, through and through.
He begins to cry. Hot, angry tears roll down his cheeks, but when Cas tries to pull away to check on the heaving breaths tearing through Dean, all Dean can do is clutch him closer, roll his hips, dig his fingers into the soft of his ass.
“Don’t stop,” Dean says. It sounds like begging. “Please. Don’t stop.” It is begging.
He doesn’t have it in him to care.
He’s lost everything. What’s a little pride to compare with that?
Cas doesn’t stop. Instead, he tips his chin up to meet Dean’s and presses their lips back together, their tongues moving in tandem while Dean’s breath trembles through him.
Cas is gone.
Cas is gone.
Cas is rolling into him, rolling through him, dragging Dean along like a boat on the ocean.
Dean lets him. Comes silently, still crying.
And when Cas pulls out of him, slow enough so that Dean can feel every inch, it’s worse than dying.
This was stupid. He’s so stupid.
Cas collapses onto the empty side of the bed beside him.
“I love you, too,” Dean tells him, regardless of how stupid he is, staring over at Cas with tears in his eyes. Cas goes stiff and opens his mouth, like he wants to refute it, but Dean knows. He knows it’s not real. He knows he’s not staring at Cas. “I know,” Dean interrupts. “I just…I needed to tell him. At least once.”
Then, Dean pushes himself out of the bed and redresses. He doesn’t clean himself up. He deserves to sit in the filth of what he’d just done.
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Dean whispers, once he’s got his boots laced up.
Cas glances up at him, still stretched out across the bed. He doesn’t have his tattoos.
Dean doesn’t know why he would. The pictures didn’t show them. He bends down to the shifter’s coat and pulls the picture of Cas from her pocket.
“I love you,” Dean says again, looking between the photo and Cas on the bed.
Cas gives him a soft smile.
“I’ll be here,” Cas says. His voice is wrong. “If you need me.”
That, however, is right.
Cas was always there when Dean needed him.
Dean tucks the photo back into his wallet and crosses the room to Cas. Bends down to kiss him one last time.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“Goodbye, Dean,” Cas whispers back.
Dean flinches.
“Goodbye, Cas.”