Archive of Our Own

The redhead at the bar wants to fuck Castiel. She lets her fingers brush against his as she pushes two glasses of whiskey toward him. She leans forward and smiles, strands of hair falling across the edges of her shirt, tiny hints of black lace visible underneath her white tank top as she shoves the folded bills Castiel had dropped in front of her into the pocket of her jeans.

Dean can’t hear a word coming out of her mouth, over the noise of a hundred conversations and the blaring 1980s music. But Dean doesn’t care what the bartender is saying, or what anyone else is saying, or about You spin me right round baby, right round, like a record baby, or whatever. All he cares about is that Castiel doesn’t even acknowledge what the bartender wants, and barely even acknowledges her. All Dean cares about is that Castiel turns away from the bartender, follows the narrow path of space between drunk and almost drunk bodies, and slides back into the seat across from him. “Have you heard from Sam at all?” Castiel raises his voice above the music.

“Yeah. Yeah—he’s fine. I told him to take a couple of days off—I told him that we could handle this. I think he could use the break.” Dean lifts his phone off the table just enough for the screen to flicker on. No new texts, no new anything. All day, and all night, Dean has been waiting for something to ruin this. Something to ruin being alone on this hunt with Castiel, being alone with Castiel in this shithole bar on Long Island, with nowhere else to go but the rundown motel they’ve been staying at for the past few days while tracking down a pair of ghouls.

But the ghouls are dead now. Dean had blown their heads off in the darkness of St. Charles Cemetery a few hours ago, and it’s too late to start the long drive back to Kansas. So, while a few drops of whiskey trickle down his throat, Dean tells himself that maybe tonight is the night he finally lets himself give in, lets himself say things he’s been holding back for too long.

He knows he’s just lying to himself. He knows that in a couple of hours he’ll be passed out on the stained sheets of no one’s bed, while Castiel watches some long-cancelled sitcom on a television that’s bolted to the wall. Dean knows that he’ll wake up sometime near the dawn, and he’ll watch Castiel as he paces, as he reads the phone book or the Bible or whatever else he can find in the dresser drawers. And then Dean will remind himself that he can never have Castiel, at least, not in the way he wants him.

Dean looks down into his glass, at the amber-colored liquid that reflects the hazy light above him. This is the last place in the world he wants to be right now. The last place he wants to be when Castiel is right here, and there’s no one looking for them, no one to kill, no one to hunt. He places his glass down in front of him, cupping it in his fingers. “I don’t even feel like drinking this. I’m fucking tired. This place sucks. Let’s just get out of here.”

“Whatever you want. The bartender keeps watching us. Do you think she’s a ghoul too?” Castiel rests his elbows on the table, bending forward toward Dean. “Or something like that?”

“No, I think she wants to suck your dick.” Dean pulls himself up from the table and doesn’t look at Castiel as they make their way to the door. Dean’s nerves are all on edge and he doesn’t even know why. Maybe it’s because Castiel had noticed the redhead after all, or maybe it’s because Castiel is oblivious, clueless to the desires of anyone around him. Dean finds his keys in his pocket, pushes the wooden door open into the glow of the streetlamps that line the parking lot.

From somewhere behind him, Castiel says, “I’m sorry, Dean. Was I supposed to say something to her? Or do something differently?”

“No, Cas. What you did was fine. Consider it a teachable moment. She wanted to take you home and bang you.” Dean follows the fading yellow lines on the pavement to the Impala, glances over at Castiel standing on the passenger side, trench coat all wrinkled, tie twisted backwards, and he tries to convince himself that there’s a chance Castiel might want something more than whatever this is with him. A chance that Castiel might want to spend tonight in his bed, against him, all tangled up with him.

The creaking of the Impala door breaks through Dean’s thoughts, and he turns the key in the ignition as Castiel slumps into the seat next to him. Castiel stays silent, doesn’t say anything about the bartender, doesn’t look at Dean.

As the tires roll out of the bar’s driveway onto the street, Dean turns to Castiel, and says, “Now that I told you that she wanted you, do you regret, you know, not doing something about it?”

“No.” Castiel rests his back against the seat. “I wouldn’t have wanted to do that.”

“What do you mean? You wouldn’t want that—sex, or whatever—in general, or you wouldn’t want it with her?” Dean steps on the brakes, watching the glare of the yellow light turn to red. “Sorry, man, we don’t need to talk about this if you don’t want to. I’m just tired, I don’t even know what the hell I’m saying.”

“I just meant with her.” Castiel’s response is quick, without thought.

“Okay.” The light turns to green, and Dean lets his foot fall against the gas pedal. He hates himself for what he’s about to do next, because he’s done it so many times, when he believes that there’s going to be some secret consummation of all of the things that have been between them for years now. Or, at least, all of the things Dean thinks have been between them for years.

But, tonight, they’re all alone. Tonight, there’s nothing in the world to stop them from falling for each other in a way they’ve never let themselves fall before.

The green-orange-red neon 7-11 sign next to the motel they checked into two days ago casts shadows along the blacktop as Dean pulls into a parking spot. They should have found a better place to stay, a nicer place to stay. This place is decaying, probably on the verge of being condemned, and there’s definitely something illegal going on between a group of people standing in the corner, under the darkness of a tree.

“You can go back to the room—I just have to get some stuff next door.” Dean searches for the ground underneath his feet as he shoves his keys into his pocket, climbing out of the Impala.

“I’ll go with you.” Castiel opens the passenger door.

“You don’t have to—I’m just getting, snacks, shit like that.” Dean doesn’t need Castiel there, doesn’t need to see him wasting money that’s not his on things they’ll never use, things bought in hopeless anticipation of a night that will probably never happen. “I’ll meet you back in the room. You have your key, right?”

“Whatever you want, Dean.” Castiel’s footsteps echo off the ground as he walks to the door labeled with a gold nailed-on number 12. It’s brown paint is peeling off in strips.

Dean stands alone, for five, maybe ten minutes, his mind on a constant loop of just how fucking stupid he is for thinking Castiel could ever want him. Castiel, angel of the lord. Castiel, divine, perfect, everything Dean knows he can never be. Everything Dean knows he doesn’t deserve.

The bells above the door jingle as Dean finds his way onto the brightly lit white tiles of the 7-11. The woman behind the cash register ignores him, focused on the pages of a magazine, the headline Have Better Sex Tonight scrawled across the cover. And Dean stands before a display of Diet Coke and Ruffles potato chips and he closes his eyes, tries to swallow down the things he feels that have been on the verge of breaking out of him lately.

He tries to swallow down his feelings for Castiel, tries not to think about all the things he wishes would happen when they’re alone like this. Sometimes, he doesn’t know how much longer he can do this. But then he reminds himself he’s held everything inside him, all of his fears and all of his nightmares, and all of the things he wishes he had in the middle of the night, for most of his life.

With the black plastic handles of a shopping basket between his fingers, Dean collects things he doesn’t need or want. A bottle of soda,  a package of beef jerky. A slice of apple pie in a crushed box. Crap beer, deodorant. Then, way too close to the cashier, Dean throws a purple tube of the first lube he sees and a box of condoms into the basket. He isn’t sure if he needs the condoms, angels probably can’t get STDs or whatever, but at least buying them makes him look responsible to the woman reading the Have Better Sex Tonight article. He isn’t sure why he cares.

The badge hanging off her shirt says Amanda, and she scans the lube first, rolling it in her fingers to find the bar code. Dean tries to distract himself, throws a package of gum and a candy bar on the counter, stares down at his phone. He almost prays for a text from Sam, telling him that they need to get back to the Bunker right away. It would make tonight easier. It would give Dean an excuse not to speak.

The beep of the scanner stops, and Dean finally looks back up, as he takes the bag from Amanda. When she says, “Have a good night,” Dean convinces himself she knows everything, everything he’s about to do, everything he wants tonight but will never actually have.

“Yeah, probably not.” The words come out of his mouth before he can stop himself. “I mean, thanks. You too. Sorry.”

Two teenagers pass him in the doorway as he leaves, laughing, and Dean tells himself they probably know everything too. All about how he’s maybe going to finally let Castiel know what he’s been keeping secret for too long, all about how Castiel is just going to reject him, about how Castiel doesn’t want the things Dean wants at all.

So, Dean stands in front of the gold-number 12, the key ring hanging off his finger, and he hesitates. Maybe he’s losing his mind, to even think Castiel would want to commit some kind of sin with him tonight. He stands there so long, the traffic from the nearby road blurs into nothing and he can feel his feet become unsteady underneath him.

The door creaks open and Castiel takes a step forward, stopping so close to Dean that Dean can feel him breathing. “Dean—I was going to come look for you—I got worried.”

“I’m okay.” Dean remembers when being this close to Castiel would have felt wrong. When he would have said something like personal space? When he would have taken a step backward from Castiel’s body. But, right now, being only inches from Castiel’s lips on the broken outskirts of some white-picket suburb feels close to perfect. Close to what Dean thinks Heaven would be like, if it was anything like it was supposed to be. “Cas—,” he starts to say something, something that he knows he needs to say, but he stops when Castiel steps backward.

“Sorry. I just thought it was taking you a long time.” Castiel sits back down on the edge of the mattress. The television is on, some late-night laugh-track low in the background. “I’ll turn this off, so you can go to sleep.”

“Just leave it.” Dean drops the paper bag on the ground, near the crumpled-up suit he’d worn yesterday, when he’d told some receptionist at the Nassau County Medical Examiner’s Office that he was FBI. The way Castiel had moved away from him, the way Castiel had seemed wary and unsure of being so close to him just now was all the confirmation that Dean needs to know his feelings aren’t allowed to escape his brain.

He lets his head fall into the pillow. It smells like some kind of perfume, and Dean wonders if it’s even been washed since the last person slept or fucked on it or whatever they did here. He can feel Castiel’s weight shift on the bed, and Castiel’s thigh brushes against his ankle. Dean pulls his legs away from Castiel because Dean doesn’t want to feel Castiel against him at all if he can’t feel the things he wants to right now.

Sleep has never come easy to Dean. He’s haunted by the cries of people he couldn’t save, the screams of too many people he’s let down. The preludes to his nightmares usually start as soon as he closes his eyes. Sometimes, images of Hell start to creep back into his mind. Sometimes, he relieves that moment Castiel let go of him at the gates of Purgatory all over again. But tonight, Dean can’t drift off into unconsciousness because he’s here, alone, with Castiel, and all he can do is think about what it would be like to kiss Castiel, to have Castiel as his, even if it’s a secret they lock behind the closed doors of this place forever.

For too long, Dean lies there, restlessly pulling the bed sheets over his head, the television droning on, the springs in the bed reacting to Castiel’s slightest move.

The moaning on the other side of the wall starts around 2:00 am. Dean knows because he looks at his watch the first time a woman’s voice calls out Oh God followed by Fuck me, fuck me as hard as you want. From behind Dean’s head, the wall shakes with the force of a headboard hitting it on the other side. A man’s voice follows, but it’s all muffled grunts through the sheetrock and wood.

“Shit, I don’t want to listen to this.” Dean rolls over, mumbles into the pillow. The banging against the wall just grows louder, faster. And Castiel is still sitting on the end of the bed, half focused on the television. His eyes meet Dean’s and then fall away.

“I hope they stop soon,” is all Castiel says. “So many humans call out to God like a prayer when they’re—.” He stops, as if he’s trying to think of the right words.

“Fucking?” Dean pulls himself up onto his elbows, moving further from the wall as it rattles behind him. “You can say it, Cas. I’m not going to judge you. And people do it as kind of a reflex, I think, when something feels good. They’re not really thinking—they aren’t really talking to God.”

“I know.” Castiel turns to Dean. “Do you ever do that? Do you ever say God’s name when you’re—.” Castiel looks away again, but he moves slightly up on the mattress closer to Dean, before he says it, “Fucking?”

“I try to keep God out of things generally, you know?” Dean sits up now, running his hand along the pulled-tight sheets, haphazardly touching Castiel’s fingers. “Especially fucking.”

Dean barely realizes that the once-distant moaning is louder now, or that the rhythm of the banging on the wall has grown faster, he barely realizes anything, except for Castiel, all blue eyes and wrinkled clothes, sitting less than a foot away from him on the bed. He isn’t sure what to say or how to say it, he isn’t even sure he should say anything because he’ll probably say something stupid. “You could be with that bartender right now, doing whatever. She was pretty hot, I guess. So why are you here?”

“I told you I had no interest in that.” Castiel’s fingertips cross over the veins on Dean’s hand. “I told you I no interest in that with her.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dean turns his wrist so that Castiel’s finger traces over his palm now. “You have someone in mind? Or she just wasn’t your type?”

“I don’t know. Why does it matter?” Castiel slides his hand away from Dean’s. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I was just doing that—touching you like that. It’s just been a long couple of days. Maybe I should go for a walk. Maybe I should leave and let you sleep.”

“I didn’t ask you to stop.” Dean reaches out, wraps his hand around Castiel’s. “And don’t leave—what the hell is wrong with you? Why the fuck would you leave?”

Castiel’s silence rings in Dean’s ears, drowning out the sound of fading ecstasy coming from beyond the wall. He’s so damn tired of it all right now. So damn tired of being in places like this, so damn tired of saving everyone but himself, so damn tired of denying himself he wants and everything he needs. So, he asks again, “Why would you leave me, Cas?”

“The last thing I want right now is to leave—but why didn’t you ask me to stop just now?” Castiel leans forward, pulling his legs up onto the bed, letting them tangle over Dean’s. “Didn’t you want me to stop?”

“No.” Dean tightens his grasp on Castiel. He can feel the air struggling to escape his lungs, the anxiety welling up inside him, reminding him that he’s probably leading himself into some pit of rejection. “We don’t need to stop. Not now, not here. This is the kind of place where you can do whatever you want, and nobody will ever know. So, what do you want, Cas? What do you want to do in a place like this?”

Dean isn’t sure he wants the answer. He lets Castiel’s hand fall back down on the bed, and he waits for Castiel to get up, for Castiel to walk out the door. Instead, Castiel lifts his fingers to Dean’s lips, opens Dean’s mouth just enough for his fingertips to run along Dean’s teeth, Dean’s tongue. “I want to hear what you say, I want to know what you sound like, I want to know what you feel like—”

“When I get fucked?” Dean doesn’t give him a chance to finish, he doesn’t give him a chance to say anything other than what Dean wants to hear.

Castiel exhales against Dean’s mouth. “Yes—but it’s my name I want you so say like a prayer, I want you to call out to me the way other people call out to God.”

His words run through Dean’s body, burn through Dean’s veins. They make Dean’s breath short in anticipation of something he’s imagined so many times. Something that had once seemed like an impossible fantasy, that Dean could only share with the walls of his bedroom. Some middle of the night escape, where he pretended that his own touch was Castiel’s.

And he wants nothing more than for Castiel’s name to pass through his lips, the way God’s name drifts through the wall in some kind of euphoric pronouncement. But Dean has learned to keep his own pleasure, his own satisfaction, a mumbled secret. “Anything you want, Cas.”

Dean lies back down on the mattress, it’s hard against his back but he lets himself sink into it anyway. And he knows the sheets are still covered in the scent of someone else’s sex, and the ceiling above them is covered in creeping water stains, but, right now, there’s nowhere else Dean wants to be. He tugs on the collar of Castiel’s trench coat, pulling Castiel down on top of him.

In the flickering blue light of the television, Dean’s tongue finds its way in between Castiel’s lips, and he breathes in the lingering taste of whiskey on Castiel’s breath. Castiel’s mouth reacts with an urgency that Dean never expected.

Dean has always thought if this moment ever happened, it would be awkward, messy, filled with imminent regret. But it isn’t any of those things. It’s like Dean has been searching for Castiel’s kiss forever, and he finally found it here, finally found what he needed, in the aftermath of some meaningless hunt in a meaningless place. And Dean is desperate now, aching for what he’s only allowed himself to have in half-forgotten dreams, or jerking off in the shower while the water rushed over him and washed away the evidence.

“Take off your clothes.” Dean opens his mouth against Castiel’s. “I mean—I want to watch you take off your clothes.”

Castiel slips backward, letting his feet land on the floor, and dragging Dean’s body with him until Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed. “I don’t want you to watch me, Dean, I want you to help me.” Castiel tilts his head back, loosens the tie that’s hanging around his neck, and lets it stumble into his hand.

Dean turns his eyes to Castiel’s, to the shadows their bodies create along the ceiling, but it’s all blacked out by the Castiel’s tie, the feeling of Castiel knotting the material somewhere in his hair, along the back of his head. And Dean can’t see anything now, but his face is buried against Castiel’s shirt, and Castiel’s coat brushes against his cheeks as it slides to the ground with a soft rumpling sound that’s shattering in Dean’s darkness. Castiel’s hands surround Dean’s, leading Dean’s fingers to the buttons on his shirt. Dean undoes each one slowly, letting his fingertips graze across Castiel’s almost exposed skin.

His vision obscured by the pitch back of Castiel’s tie, all Dean can think about is every inch of Castiel’s body under his touch. The outline of Castiel’s ribs, the trail of hair he follows down to the edge of Castiel’s pants. “Cas.” Dean’s voice is a broken moan, and he tilts his face up to Castiel’s.

Dean can feel Castiel kneel in between his legs, can feel Castiel’s lips touch his, but the way Castiel kisses him is still unexpected. And Dean can’t see Castiel, but he’s overwhelmed by the force of Castiel’s lips against his, and the way Castiel takes control of him, pushing him back up onto the bed, mouth never straying from Dean’s.

He can still feel the little sliver of Castiel’s skin, bare underneath Castiel’s unbuttoned shirt, against his fingers, as he searches Castiel’s body in the darkness. Castiel’s lips part from Dean’s just enough for him to mumble, “I want you to touch me, Dean—you can touch me wherever you want. Please.”

Right now, Dean can barely breathe, he can barely think, can barely control himself, as he slips his hand inside of Castiel’s pants. He can taste Castiel groan into his mouth, he can feel tiny drops of precum on the edge of Castiel’s skin, and he smears it along Castiel’s stomach. And even though all he can see is shadows through Castiel’s tie, Dean pulls at Castiel’s clothes, at his shirt, and his pants. Dean can hear them fall somewhere, along with Castiel’s shoes, maybe onto the bed beside them, maybe down onto the floor. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care, all that Dean cares about right now is that Castiel is his. That every inch of Castiel is his.

Castiel’s body should feel unfamiliar and new. Dean’s hands should fumble with confusion. He should feel some sort of fear that Castiel doesn’t want him, not like this. But, really, it feels like Castiel has been his for years. That he’s held Castiel like this a thousand times, that his hands already know every curve and indent of Castiel, even with his eyes shrouded in darkness.  

Dean runs his hands down Castiel’s stomach, and in between Castiel’s thighs. “Is this what you wanted, Cas?” He runs his finger along the tip of Castiel’s cock in circles.

“Yes.” Castiel’s response is quiet against Dean’s mouth, his teeth pull at Dean’s bottom lip. And Castiel is all bare skin against Dean’s t-shirt and jeans, giving in to Dean’s hands, breathing in Dean’s ear.

This is probably blasphemy. Castiel, angel of the lord, warrior of God, whatever, naked and writhing on top of Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester wrapping his hand around Castiel, slowly jerking him off. Castiel groaning down Dean’s throat.

Castiel’s hands are all over Dean now, running under Dean’s shirt, along Dean’s chest, fingers forcing apart Dean’s lips before his tongue follows. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t say anything, as he pulls Dean’s clothes from his body. He takes Dean’s shirt off first, tugging it off over Dean’s head, over the tie that still hides Dean’s sight. His mouth runs down Dean’s neck, and down Dean’s stomach, until he rests his head on Dean’s hips.

Dean is so fucking hard right now it almost hurts, so fucking hard that he’s sure there’s nothing in this world he’s ever needed or wanted more than he wants Castiel right now. His fingers find his way into Castiel’s hair, tugging at it, as Castiel unzips his jeans and starts sucking on his cock while the denim still hangs around his ankles.

 “Fuck, Cas—,” Dean’s digs his fingertips into the back of Castiel’s head, grinds his hips against Castiel’s mouth. The headboard hits the wall, and Dean wonders if those people on the other side can hear him, the same way he heard them.

Castiel’s mouth stops suddenly, pulling away, and Dean groans against the whine of the mattress springs. “Cas, Cas,” Dean starts to speak but Castiel’s tongue silences him, Castiel’s body presses against his.

And, in that moment, every single inch of Castiel is touching every single inch of Dean. Dean can’t remember ever feeling so perfect, and he can’t remember ever needing to get fucked so badly. He lifts his hand to his face pushing the tie off his eyes, up into his hair. “I need to see you, Cas.”

Castiel nods, knocking off Dean’s boots and jeans, and spreading Dean’s legs so he’s sitting in between them. Dean lets his eyes move from Castiel’s lips, down Castiel’s body, as Castiel turns away from him. “Do you still want me? Do you still want me when you can see it’s me that you’re with?”

Dean sits up, takes Castiel’s face into his hands. “Yeah, Cas. You’re fucking hot.” Dean pauses, exhales between Castiel’s lips. “And I want you because you’re—you, okay?” Unraveling the tie that’s still around his head, Dean drags it to Castiel’s wrists, knots it tightly around them. “I want you, and tonight you’re finally mine and I’m yours, okay? So—just stop talking.”

“What are you doing?” Castiel’s voice is a whisper in the now silent motel room. His nose brushes against Dean’s as he leans closer to him.

“I don’t know, just lie down.” Dean rests his hand on Castiel’s chest, starts to push him backward, until his head is on the edge of the bed, and his hands, all tied together, are resting on his stomach. Dean knows Castiel could break free from the knotted-up tie without effort. He knows Castiel is just letting him do this, but he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why Castiel would want him like this.

But Dean doesn’t want to question it, not right now, as he leans over Castiel’s body and kisses hm. Dean lets his hips press against Castiel’s, drags his own erection across Castiel’s. The sound that Castiel makes as their bodies move along one another is like nothing Dean has ever heard before. It’s satisfied and full of need, aching with guilt and newfound freedom, and Castiel raises his tied hands to his mouth, like he’s trying to muffle the sound, but it echoes off the broken walls anyway.

Dean pulls Castiel’s hands back down, runs his own fingers along Castiel’s lips, letting Castiel suck on his fingertips one by one. Then he runs his tongue down Castiel’s body, until his face is buried in between Castiel’s legs. And Castiel’s tied-up hands are running in Dean’s hair and along Dean’s face.

“Can I fuck you now? Please—Dean?” Castiel finally whispers.

“Don’t ask me, Cas.” Dean turns his eyes back up to Castiel. “Just tell me.”

Castiel’s hands twist and untie the material holding his wrists together, throwing it down beside them on the bed. He presses his hand into Dean’s shoulder, into the same flesh he once scarred with his own touch, directing Dean’s mouth back up to his. And, for a moment, Dean is overwhelmed. He can feel Castiel’s grace, the power that runs through Castiel’s veins, as Castiel kisses him, as Castiel’s lips form a trail of kisses down Dean’s throat and then back up to his mouth. Castiel’s fingers move down Dean’s back, to his ass, fingers slipping down, spreading him apart just enough for him to want more.

And Dean squirms against Castiel’s hand, as Castiel says, “I’m going to fuck you now, okay?”

Dean stops everything. Stops moving, kissing, thinking, maybe even breathing. He’s wanted to hear those words from Castiel for so long. He’s imagined what it would be like to have Castiel on top of him, underneath him. What it would be like to finally feel Castiel inside of him. He lets his feet slip back on the floor. He searches the floor, almost frantically, finds the box of lube, drops the tube on the bed next to Castiel.

Castiel’s eyes meet Dean’s for a second, and he starts to say something, but Dean interrupts. “Look, Cas, I’ve wanted this to happen for a long time—a real fucking long time—and, sometimes, I’d convince myself that there was a chance—”

“Dean, shut up and let me fuck you.” Castiel sits up just enough to reach out to Dean, to pull Dean forward on top of him. “Just like this.”

“Fuck, Cas—whatever you want.” Dean’s hands run down Castiel, wrapping his fingers around Castiel’s cock, almost trying to avoid eye contact as he opens the cap to the tube, as he climbs on top of Castiel.

And all Dean can do is meet Castiel’s gaze, as Castiel slowly enters him. Castiel does it carefully, like he’s nervous, like he’s afraid of ruining something. So Dean rocks his own body back and forth, shoves Castiel further up inside of him. Then he reaches down for Castiel’s mouth, bends forward over Castiel, his hands flat on the bed next to Castiel’s shoulders.

At first, this is nothing but chaos, Dean moving too quickly against Castiel, Castiel seeming to hold back, hesitantly thrusting against Dean. “Cas, it’s okay, I’m okay. I’ll be okay.” Dean kisses Castiel, through the unsteadiness of their bodies, his lips slipping off Castiel’s and down his chin, falling forward onto him.

Castiel pushes Dean back, so that Dean is sitting up over him again, and their bodies move in rhythm now, sort of like they’ve been meant to do this since Castiel dragged Dean out of the pits of Hell.

The headboard is rocking against the wall now, growing louder as their bodies move faster, and Castiel pushes himself up, onto his hands. And as his lips reach for Dean’s, he gasps against the air. Dean pulls back slightly, just to make Castiel want more, to force Castiel further up inside him, to thrust forward, while Castiel struggles to find Dean’s mouth.

“Dean,” Castiel says, inches from Dean. It sounds like an order, a demand that Dean obey him.

Dean reaches beside him, letting his own hips stay in place, so that all he can feel is Castiel against him, and he finds the tie that had covered his eyes and bound Castiel’s hands. He knots it around Castiel, gagging him, silencing him. “You said you wanted to hear what it sounds like when I get fucked. So you need to shut up, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes turn to Dean’s, and his hands reach down, and he runs his fingers down Dean’s stomach, in between Dean’s spread legs. He seems to tease Dean at first, his fingertip brushing along only the tip of Dean’s cock and then onto Dean’s thigh, and then slipping down to where their bodies are joined. “Cas—” is all Dean can manage to say, wracked with frustration, needing more from Castiel, needing to feel Castiel touch him.

He takes Castiel’s hand, folds Castiel’s fingers around his erection, fucking into Castiel’s hand while the sound of Castiel’s body grinding into his almost drowns out the sound of the bed hitting the wall. And Dean tries to hold on, to make this feeling last longer, but he can’t hold back any longer, can’t hold back when Castiel is breathing against the material of his tie, biting down.

And when Dean comes, when he finally feels release, all he can say is, “Cas, Cas—fuck, Cas” into the air, gripping onto Castiel’s wrists. And he turns away for a second, Castiel still inside him, still fucking him, because he’s almost embarrassed about how loud, how hard he came. He’s almost embarrassed about the way he’s covered himself and Castiel in warm liquid that drips down his own legs.

Castiel reaches up, pulls the tie from his mouth, down around his neck, and licks his fingers, slowly, until he stops suddenly, losing control. His body shakes against Dean’s, and his eyes flash with grace that brightens the room for a brief second, before fading back into the darkness.

He doesn’t say anything, as his body separates from Dean’s, and he lies back on the pillow, now covering his eyes with his hands. Dean just sits there watching Castiel, naked, trying to recover from all of this, until he says, “Cas, that was really fucking hot, okay?”

“I didn’t know that was going to happen—with my eyes. I’m sorry.” Castiel’s hand runs down his own body, wiping away the traces of Dean’s cum on his stomach.

“I liked it.” Dean lies down next to him. “Actually, I loved it, okay? So stop worrying or whatever the hell it is you’re doing right now.”

Castiel turns and kisses him again, this time letting Dean taste himself still all over his mouth, pulling Dean against him, “Okay. You sound good when you’re getting fucked.”

“Better than those people next door I guess, right?” Dean rolls over burying his face against Castiel.

“Much better.” Castiel puts his arm around Dean, pressing Dean’s back against his chest.

And in the silence of their bodies tangled together, the rumbling sound of the bed on the other side of wall begins again, and Dean pulls Castiel’s arms tighter around him. He’s never felt this good, so completely overcome by someone.

Dean leans back against Castiel’s shoulder, lets his lips run across Castiel’s chin. “You and I should go hunting together like this more often.”