Work Text:
Dean always swears that this is the last time, the absolute last fucking time that he goes hunting in a swamp. Stumbling through the knee-deep muck of the bayou, his jeans rapidly becoming sodden, boots encased in thick brown slime, Dean promises himself yet again that he is done. This is the last time. He doesn't care if the next swamp hides the Holy Grail, filled with beer brewed by Bacchus himself and balanced on the naked stomach of the most beautiful woman in the world — he'll pass.
No more swamps.
He doesn't even know what Cas is after, this time around. They'd been driving back North after an uneventful salt and burn; Dean was in a good mood, because the trip had given him an excuse to visit New Orleans, which was totally his kind of town. He was feeling nice and mellow after a night spent drinking really good beer and then eating a really cute waitress... What was her name? Emilie, Aurelie, something like that... Anyways, Dean must have been in an unusually good mood, because when Cas popped into the car and set a hand down firmly on his shoulder (right on top of that scar, Dean couldn't help but notice) and growled, "Dean, pull over. There's something you need to see," instead of questioning him further like Dean usually would, he'd just pulled the Impala to the side of the road and stepped out.
And followed his angel, while Cas led him deep into this... this swamp.
Now Dean's upper body is sticky and hot, while his feet are cold from the chilly swamp water. Sweat drips uncomfortably down his face, stinging his eyes, refusing to evaporate in the humid miasma. Mosquitos buzz and hover around Dean, that high-pitched whine setting his teeth on edge. He just knows that later tonight, his skin will be covered in itchy bug bites. Worse, his manly pride won't even let him ask Cas to fix such a minor irritation. He'll just have to itch himself to sleep, stewing in silent resentment.
And is there anything worse than wet denim, clinging to your skin, rubbing with every movement, weighing you down? Ugh. He'll probably have to burn this pair of jeans, again.
Damn it all.
"Cas!" He hollers. "Hey, Castiel!" The angel is a few strides ahead of him, marching through the swamp as if the dirt and water can't touch him. (It probably can't. Dean just knows that when they step onto dry land, his angel will be perfectly clean and dry. Which really isn't fair, it's not.) "Damn it, Cas, get your feathery ass back here and at least tell me what's going on! Why are we walking through a swamp?"
Cas stops, abruptly. (Too abruptly, inhuman, as if he's a puppet and someone has just pulled his strings back.) He turns around to face Dean, wearing his usual inscrutable expression. "It's a bayou, Dean."
"What?"
"In this part of your country, I believe the local lingo refers to this type of ecosystem as a 'bayou'." Dean can hear the quote marks he puts around the word. "It originated from a Native word, 'bayuk,' meaning small stream."
"God damn it, Cas..."
Castiel brusquely holds his hand up, silencing Dean. Dean automatically tenses, his hand going to the knife at his belt, senses alert.
At first he notices nothing unusual. The air is thick with the sounds of insects and birds; he sees motion everywhere, the flickering movements of spiders and bugs, but nothing large, nothing that would seem to be a threat. Then he sniffs the air, and realizes that the smell of the bayou has changed.
Before, the air was filled with the typical stench, the same unhealthy concoction of brackish water, rotting plant material, and general decay that Dean would expect in any swamp. But now a slight breeze kicks up, pushing away that smell and ushering in a fresh and pleasant scent. It smells like a mix of pine needles, newly-mown grass, cilantro, burnt sage, and a particularly pleasant brand of high-end women's shampoo. Sort of... clean and herbal-y.
The change makes the hairs rise on the back of Dean's neck. He turns back towards Cas and starts to take a large step, intending to stride (well, squelch) over to his angel's side and force Cas to specify the current threat. He pulls his right leg up out of the muck —
— and before Dean knows what's going on, he is lying facedown in the chilly, green water, mud and algae filling his mouth and nose. He panics and lashes out with both arms, trying to grab onto something solid, to drag himself upright. His arms meet resistance — not the roughness of a tree trunk, nor the sharpness of the prickly swampgrass, but rather some kind of powerful, slippery vine. Dean grabs onto it gracefully, hauling himself roughly back upright. He surfaces, gasping and coughing up swamp water, heaving in deep, glorious breaths of air.
It takes him a moment to realize that he can no longer move his arms. They are bound, something holding his wrists firmly in place, keeping his hands stretched high above his head. He looks up. Wrapped around each wrist is a thick, green vine that glistens with some sort of transparent ooze, circling each arm multiple times, keeping him immobilized.
Oh, shit.
Dean tries to struggle, and realizes that his ankles are equally bound. He flashes back to that other time — ten years ago in another swamp, a giant slug thing that had been menacing local highschool girls, and then the green tentacles that had bound him and ripped away his clothes, and... and...
Dean has done his best to forget that whole incident, but he's never quite been able to deny the memories of those slick vines coiling around his body, invading his mouth, forcing their way into every orifice. He still dreams of those tentacles, sometimes, and wakes up sticky and damp, unsure if he just had a wet dream or a nightmare.
And here he is again, trapped and bound, deep in the depths of some nameless swamp (sorry, bayou) where his body would never be found if something bad happened. But there's a difference, this time.
Dean has an angel on his side.
He turns his head to call for Cas, to ask him to get his smite on, or at the very least jump them back to the car. He turns his head, and feels his mouth drop open in shock.
Cas is on the same little rise of dry land where he stood when Dean called out to him before, but he's... he's...
Dean has never seen Cas without his trench coat, before. He's never seen him loosen his tie or remove his shoes, even when they're just hanging out in a motel room. He realizes that he's come to think of the uniform as a part of Cas, as integral as his pale skin and dark hair, not just a layer of clothing that can be removed.
As it is currently being removed.
The waving tentacles have already removed Castiel's coat and tie, leaving them discarded on the ground. (Incongruously, the coat has been neatly folded and set aside, the tie loosely draped on top.) As Dean watches in horror, the vines shove themselves roughly up into Castiel's shirt, sending buttons flying everywhere and pulling the cheap fabric back over his shoulders, exposing a smooth expanse of skin. Thin, probing tips struggle for a moment with the angel's belt before they pull it open, and then in a smooth motion unzip his fly. Soon Castiel's pants and boxers join his trenchcoat on the ground, puddled around his ankles as tentacles twine and wind themselves around his legs and thighs.
Dean cannot tear his eyes away from the sight of his uptight, determinedly innocent angel having his wrists and ankles firmly bound in coils of smooth, implacable tentacle, while other, thinner vines slip and slide over his pale chest and well-formed thighs, leaving trails of clear, viscous fluid everywhere they touch. Castiel's eyes are glazed over, his mouth open and slack, and Dean is close enough to make out the heaving of his chest as the angel takes several ragged, panting breaths.
Dean can only stare, as two thin, agile vines snake up his angel's chest and begin flicking and teasing and rubbing at his nipples, covering them with that weird, organic lubricant. His nipples peak up, the little nubs blushing a dark pink, filling out into rounded, perfect points that the tentacles continue to torment and tease. As they do this, Cas arches his back and lets out a quiet, helpless moan.
Dean has never heard his angel make a sound like that before — and thank goodness for that, because it goes straight to the base of Dean's dick. Drops of sweat spring up on Dean's forehead, and these ones aren't caused by the Louisiana heat.
Castiel's moan seems to signal something to the monster, because it steps up its game, gliding and writhing and caressing every inch of the angel's skin. The thick coils of vine pull Castiel's arms roughly behind his back, keeping his wrists bound together, tight and secure. Dean can tell that, even with angelic strength, there's no way Cas is getting out of that hold. (But he could still just bamf away... couldn't he?) Oddly, the angel doesn't seem to be struggling very much.
He lets out another one of those breathy, soft little moans, wringing a little gasp from Dean's own lips. The hunter can feel his legs and thighs trembling, and not only from the strain of keeping his own bound position. The thought of that sound being pulled from his angel's lips... He hadn't even thought that Cas was capable of making such a broken, vulnerable, wanting little noise.
He isn't jealous, no. Not at all. Jealous of what, a freaking tentacle monster? That's ridiculous.
Still, Dean is almost glad when one of the thickest vines raises itself up to Castiel's mouth, moving slowly and teasingly across those perfect, pink lips. He remembers this part, he knows what happens next. And Dean isn't wrong; the tentacle pushes itself into Castiel's mouth, past slack lips and perfect white teeth, twisting and thrusting deep into the angel's throat. Dean can see his adam's apple bob as he struggles to accept the vine, struggles to breathe, frantically sucking and mouthing at the tip and swallowing down gallons of that thick, clear ooze. (But Cas doesn't actually need to breathe, does he?)
If Dean is to be honest with himself, he'll admit that he has noticed Castiel's mouth. It would be difficult not to; the angel's vessel is blessed with marvelously thick, full lips that contrast beautifully with the dark stubble that covers the angel's cheeks and chin. If Dean is to be really honest with himself, he'll admit that he is a little bit fascinated by that contrast: the sensual, almost feminine mouth, soft and vulnerable, just begging to be touched, to be pushed into, to be stretched and wrapped around something long and thick... framed by the sharp, masculine chin, the haughty cheekbones and before-mentioned stubble that make his angel look so typically inscrutable, so tough.
Well, Cas isn't looking very tough now, as he struggles and writhes against the encircling vines, his mouth stretched open and filled, pink lips wrapped throughly around the thick green vine, cheeks hollowed as he frantically swallows and sucks. The tentacles have encircled his legs, and now they push the angel off his feet, pulling him over backward where a mass of writhing vines catches him and drags him down.
The tentacles around his ankles pull in opposite directions, yanking Castiel's legs roughly apart. Then they pull his feet up in the air, wide apart, and push backward, forcing his legs to bend at the knee.
The end result of these machinations: Dean's angel, bound up in coils of writhing tentacles, mouth firmly fucked, arms held tight behind his back, legs spread and lifted, and his flushed, bobbing pink prick and balls perfectly displayed. Tentacles slip down and spread apart the smooth, rounded curves of Castiel's ass (which is firm and shapely, not that Dean has noticed), revealing the angel's tight, puckered asshole, all laid out in the open for Dean's viewing pleasure. As if the tentacle monster has arranged it that way on purpose, as if it wanted Dean to see.
And it's wrong, Dean knows that it is wrong. Cas wouldn't want this. Dean remembers his discomfort at that brothel, the way he avoids touch. To see him brought down like this, stripped and bound and spread and fucked... it's just wrong.
Dean tries to close his eyes, to turn his head away... to not see. He doesn't think that Cas would want him to see the angel like this, so vulnerable. So... almost human, in this display of physicality. He closes his eyes, and turns his head to the side; but almost instantly, thick tentacles twist themselves around his neck and entangle themselves in his hair, yanking roughly and pulling until he is forced to turn his gaze back to the front.
Immediately Dean's attention is caught by the slender green vine that is winding its way slowly, almost sensually down the shaft of Castiel's cock. When it reaches the bottom, it encircles the base and squeezes, pulling slowly back upward, a ring of constricting pressure, while another tentacle rises up from below and begins to tease and caress his balls. Cas writhes and bucks his hips, desperately seeking more sensation, but the vines keep him firmly bound and the tentacle toying with his shaft only moves with him, continuing its slow climb back up toward his tip.
This time, when it reaches the top, a slick bead of precome seeps out and hangs there, just on the tip, shuddering delicately over the narrow opening. The tentacle stops and flicks its tip over the bead, once and then again, almost as if tasting. Almost as if... contemplating.
Whatever it's looking for, the vine must find it, because it once again swoops into motion. Now it begins working Castiel's cock in earnest, thick coils of it looping around, pumping and stroking, up and down. It's almost hypnotic, the synchronized hiding and revealing of the pretty, flushed pink flesh, stiff and hard and trembling, wet and absolutely dripping with the shiny, slick ooze that the tentacles exude. Dean couldn't look away now if he wanted to. (Which he does, because this is wrong. Goddammit.)
The angel's writhing and bucking only increases as the tentacle that was rubbing his balls drops down and snakes its way between the firmly separated cheeks of his ass. The tip of this vine is slender, almost finger-thin, and extremely agile. It slowly nudges its way around the puckered hole, dragging its protuberance across every tender ridge of flesh, every single fold of the delicate skin, leaving a trail of lubrication in its wake. Once, twice, thrice, it circles the outside of the angel's hole, teasing.
Tearing his glance away for a moment, Dean looks up to Castiel's face and sees that tears are streaming freely from the angel's eyes, running down his cheeks, their tracks rapidly disappearing amid the gleaming wetness of the tentacles' slime. The angel's mouth is moving, lips straining around his tentacle gag. Somehow Dean knows that he is begging, pleading. (For mercy? For all of this to stop? Or was it for... something else? For more?)
Dean looks back down just in time to see the tip of the tentacle push itself slowly but firmly inside, gliding through the token resistance offered by Castiel's well-lubricated ring as if were nothing. It thrusts inward and then thickens, penetrating the angel deeply, filling and stretching out his hole just as its twin has stretched and filled the angel's mouth.
Castiel is caught, bound, writhing, every inch of his skin teased and probed and touched, his cock surrounded, his mouth and hole filled and penetrated and stretched. His angelic tough-guy demeanor is completely stripped away. Dean has never seen him like this and never thought that he would; Castiel is so open, his body defenseless, his face revealing every sensation — though Dean cannot tell if it is pain or ecstasy. Dean's angel, now fallen, tied down in the dirt and fucked.
It's so unbelievably hot.
Dean pushes his head back against the vines, and moans. He's incredibly hard, his prick pushing up against the heaviness of his wet jeans. His breath hitches and he bucks his hips forward, just slightly, an abrupt motion, inadvertently seeking friction. Seeking more sensation.
The tentacles keeping him bound, making him look, have stayed quiet this whole time, apparently content to keep Dean still. But his abortive thrusting seems to get their attention, and suddenly it's like ten years ago all over again. The vines rip at his clothing, worming down into the waistband of his jeans and up the arms of his shirt, straining and pulling at the seams of the cheap fabric. Before he can even attempt to struggle, his shirt is lying in pieces on the ground, the remnants of his jeans piled on top, and his boxers are being yanked down and over his feet.
Dean shivers, not entirely from cold, as tentacles in seemingly endless quantities pull and prod and poke at his nipples, run their tips across his chest, and coil in terrifying loops around his neck. (This thing could kill him in an instant, could choke him to death without a second thought. Dean is helpless, and he doesn't like it one bit. Except in the way that he totally does...)
The vines binding his ankles curl up his legs, and then begin to stroke and lap at his balls and his cock. It feels... oh god, it feels good. It feels beyond good. Past events come rushing back, all of that helpless arousal and overwhelming sensation, being bound and violated and helplessly fucked. Dean can barely admit even to himself that he likes it, but his moans and the bucking of his hips reveal the fact.
Meanwhile, Dean watches Cas while the tentacle that's fucking his hole pulls back slightly, and another one slips up and pushes in alongside, stretching and slicking the muscle even further. And then the tentacles pull the angel's legs apart even wider, until they are stretched as wide as they can possibly get, with no hope of Cas being able to close them any time soon. No, he's going to stay that way, splayed out and held open, even as another tentacle slides in, and another. Soon enough there are four of them, writhing and pushing inside of the angel, taking turns fucking hard into the newly accommodating hole, taking Cas up to his absolute limit.
Dean is blinded, transported. Between the show being put on for him by his angel and the tentacles stroking and winding around his own cock, he barely has two thoughts to rub together in his mind. It's back to that helpless wanting, that mindless arousal that he remembers so well.
He doesn't even notice that the tentacles are moving, that they're moving him, dragging him closer to Cas, until he's a mere foot away. Close enough to pick out individual hairs again that pale skin, close enough to catch the glistening of every trail of slime across his angel's chest, close enough to detect the trembling of Castiel's thighs as the tentacles fuck him, and the pulsing of his cock as they work up and down that gorgeous, thick shaft.
Then Dean is there, pushed in between the angel's bound and parted legs, being shoved right up against Cas until their skin touches, until Dean's cock slides against the angel's slick thighs and he just about loses his mind. He can't tell if Cas is aware of him or not; at this point, the angel's eyes are rolled back in his head, and he's bucking and writhing blindly, mindlessly.
Dean can't gather up the mental fortitude to pull back, to resist, when it just feels so good. So necessary. He shoves up against Castiel's thigh again, and gasps at the feel of the slicked flesh dragging against his cock.
The tentacles surrounding his own prick give one last jerk and then slide off, while the four that are fucking Cas pull out of him with a wet pop. They remain just outside, teasing and caressing the rim of the angel's hole, keeping him loose and open. The vines underneath Cas shove him slightly upward and closer to Dean, and then before he knows what is happening, Dean's tip is inside.
Is inside of his angel. His cock. Inside.
And Cas is so lovely, writhing like that, so broken and helpless, his reserve so sullied, his holiness so defiled. Dean can't help but push forward in a quick and violent thrust that buries his shaft as far as it will go. Then everything is hot and wet and slippery, full of smooth, constricting pressure along every inch of his shaft, and waves of pleasure as the angel tenses and thrusts back, over and over again. And just like that, they're fucking.
His angel, riding Dean's cock, with tentacles touching and stroking them both everywhere. His angel, swallowing and gasping around the thick vine that fills his mouth; caught, suspended, held between that invasion on the one side and the rough, insistent penetration of Dean's cock, on the other. It is thoroughly profane, debased, wrong — and it is, at the same time, the most beautiful thing that Dean has ever seen.
It is somehow, despite all of the wrongness, almost sacred, the sensation, the connection so intense that it is almost holy. It takes Dean out of his skin, takes him out of his mind; he is not separate anymore. They are none of them separate — not him, not Cas, not even this goddamned tentacle monster.
They are one.
Dean throws back his head and comes, and comes and comes some more, and it isn't human, it's too intense, it shouldn't last this long, shouldn't feel this much, and still he's coming, just riding that wave for what must be minutes at most but surely feels like hours, and he can feel Cas coming too, from the inside, the tightening of his muscles in wave after wave, long after any sensible man would have fallen in a swoon, and the pulsing of the tentacles as they thicken and release, and it's worship, it's like singing hymns.
It goes on and on until Dean can't, he just can't anymore, and he hates to be the one to break this weird communion, but he can't help it because his muscles just give way completely, and his eyes roll back, and he passes the fuck out, still coming, right there on the ground.
******
When Dean wakes up, the sun has changed position.
He stretches and shifts, and finds that his arms and legs are trapped and tangled — not in tentacles or vines, this time, but in the warm, smooth arms of one lightly snoring angel. (Sleeping? Since when does Cas sleep? ...Oh, right. Since that, apparently.)
It seems that the angel has rested long enough to recover, because Dean's shifting jostles him awake. Cas cracks open one intensely blue eye, and Dean tries hard not to flinch away. He feels warm and comfortable, completely relaxed in a way that he hasn't allowed himself to be in very a long time — and he knows that any second, it'll all come crashing down. Because, any second now, Castiel will remember, will recall the things that were done to him, that Dean did to him, and then he'll freak out and... and what? Send Dean back to Hell? He hopes not, but it really wouldn't be worse than he deserves.
At the very least, the angel will disappear, flap off and never want to see him again. Not after that.
But the expected glare and smiting never comes. Cas just looks at Dean and smiles, actually smiles, in a way that Dean has never seen the angel do before. The angel has an expression of calm and bone-deep contentment; it changes his face. Makes him look softer, somehow — almost touchable.
Dean is terrified.
Cas reaches over to stroke his face, and Dean instinctively flinches away. As he does so, he notices the tentacle curled loosely, casually around Castiel's wrist. When Dean pulls back in horror, Cas frowns and strokes the vine, rubbing his hand over it lightly, like a normal person would rub a pet.
"Dean? Is something wrong? Are you okay?"
Dean is speechless. He stares at Cas, mouth gaping open. (Just like Castiel's mouth, when the... Oh god, no. He can't think about that.)
"I... you..." Words fail him, and Dean trails off again. Where to even begin? He can't name this — has never been able to name the thing between them, and now, with those memories burning so fresh in his head, the right words seem further away than ever before.
He has a feeling that those memories — his angel spread out, bound, naked and writhing — are going to be burning in his head for a very, very long time.
"Dean?" Now Cas is pulling out the patented angel head tilt. The gesture is so familiar, so Cas — like the Cas that Dean knew before this, before tentacle monsters — that it anchors Dean and allows him to speak.
"Cas..." His voice is scratchy and rough, but Dean notices that his skin is clean and smooth, free of scrapes and even bug bites. "...Why didn't you just jump youself away?"
Cas tilts his head even further. Just looking at him makes Dean's neck ache in sympathy.
"I mean, you could have, right? You could have just left? I hope you didn't stay because of me, I mean... I can take care of myself, Cas. You don't have to let yourself..."
"Dean." Cas interrupts, his standard low growl cutting neatly through Dean's dithering. "Why would I want to leave?"
Dean is struck speechless once again. He stares at Cas, slack-jawed. Does the angel somehow not understand...
"The whole point of my bringing you here was so that you could meet Matthew."
"M... Matthew?"
Cas gives a sort of awkward half-shrug. "Obviously that's not his real name, but it's the closest human translation. RYrrgl'sYb'tha language" — what the fuck was that noise that Cas just made — "doesn't actually involve sound, but rather a combination of touch and chemical signals. It's really rather fascinating."
"Matthew."
"Yes, Dean. My friend Matthew, who I wanted you to meet."
"You wanted me to... Holy fuck, Cas! You mean you actually... What, you know that thing? That... that tentacle monster?"
Cas strokes the tentacle wrapped around his wrist carefully, and narrows his eyes at Dean. "Matthew isn't a monster. Don't be rude."
"Oh my God. Cas, just... Oh my God. Oh my God. I don't believe this..."
"Please stop taking my Father's name in vain."
Dean pulls back, away from Cas, and Castiel's gaze softens, just a bit.
"Dean, is something wrong? I assumed that you would find conversing with Matthew as pleasing to your body as I do to my vessel, but perhaps I was wrong."
The angel frowns, and it's his "concerned about Dean" frown rather than his default scowl. "Perhaps I should have suspected something was wrong when you left our conversation so quickly. I should have stopped to check on you, but it is long since Matthew and I had a good chat, and I suppose that I became... caught up in the moment. I forgot that the RYrrgl'sYb'tha" — that weird noise again — "method of communication can be taxing for the standard human body. I apologize for that."
Dean is freaking out, thoroughly and intensely. "I... You..."
He rubs his eyes. They feel clear and refreshed; he doesn't even have the little pieces of dried goop that normally gather when he sleeps. To tell the truth, Dean's body feels amazing, in just about every possible way. It feels like he got a deep-tissue massage, and then took a long hot bath, and then covered himself with lotion. And then had about 10 orgasms, and slept for a whole day. In the face of all that relaxation and general sense of well-being, he can't bring himself to be as upset as he might otherwise be.
He's still pretty upset, though.
"So you and this... and Matthew are... you're friends?" His voice squeaks with incredulity.
"Yes, Dean. I've been friends with Matthew almost since I first descended to Earth and inhabited a vessel. I find that our conversations remind me a great deal of communion with my brothers and sisters, up above." He smiles again, and Dean freaks out a little more. He is not going to think about the implications of that the next time he meets another angel, he's really not. Really. "In some ways it's quite different, of course, but still, I find it soothing. I suppose you could say it reminds me of home. At any rate, I have missed Matthew; I have not had a chance to visit since inhabiting this vessel."
"Jesus Christ, Cas." The angel blinks, but even Dean's blasphemy seems to be unable to put a dent in his good mood. "I mean, dude. You said you were a virgin! What the hell, man, you lied to me?"
His accusation gets the angelic head tilt going again. "I have not lied. In what sense does any of this relate to intercourse between humans? The two acts have nothing in common."
"Okay, Cas." Dean can't keep the skepticism out of his voice.
"I have not lain with any human... Well. Not before we — " Castiel makes an uncomfortable gesture between himself and Dean, and then turns his face away. The angel seems to become smaller, to pull in on himself somehow.
Oh. Before... oh, holy fuck.
Now Dean feels like a total asshole. Way to go, Dean, smooth moves. That was his angel's first time, by Castiel's own definition, and here Dean is casting accusations and being a total dick. (Not like that's anything new.)
"I'm sorry, Dean." Castiel's voice is small. "Matthew thought that you would like to be included in our conversation, and I... I..." His voice trembles, and Dean feels it like a punch to the gut. He wraps his arms around Cas, around his shoulder and his chest, and pulls the angel close, trying to soothe him.
"Shh, Cas. It's okay. I enjoyed it, I did, I really loved it. It was really... intense, that's all. Just different, it took me by surprise. But I loved it." The angel uncurls a little, and pushes his head back against Dean's neck. Hardly knowing what he's doing, Dean tilts his chin down and brushes his lips against Castiel's ear.
"Good." The angel's voice is still quiet and small, but at least it isn't trembling as if he's about to cry. "Dean, I... I enjoy conversing with Matthew very much, but... I liked it even more, when you were there. I liked it when you were there very, very much."
"Yeah, Cas. I liked it too." Dean holds his angel close. His angel, who he will never be able to look at quite the same way again, knowing that he's been having filthy, perverted sex (by Dean's standards) with a freaking tentacle monster for... For what? For decades? Centuries? Millennia?
Dean gulps. He's never really had a problem with feeling inadequate, but after that... How could he possibly compare? What with his limited number of limbs, and all.
Still... He'll have to try. Because he knows that he's never, ever going to forget the feeling of fucking deep into Cas while the angel writhes beneath him, stretched and slick and warm, fevered flesh giving way eagerly to the insistent thrusting of his cock. And goddamn, if it's anywhere close to that, if it's even a tenth as good, then he wants to do it again. And again, and again...
Cas interrupts his reverie by twisting around in his arms and dipping in for a tentative, questioning kiss that lingers on Dean's lips like sunshine. Dean opens his eyes and looks deeply into the angel's blue ones, and smiles.
He'll never look at his angel the same way, and maybe that's a good thing. Maybe this will be okay.
Cas smiles back, and then he says, "We should get back on the road again. Samuel will be waiting." He pauses.
"Would you like to say goodbye to Matthew with me?"