Work Text:
Soundtrack: The Mating Game – bitter:sweet
This Sweet Charade
They’re at Star Trek trivia night at the Roadhouse (Jo’s idea, of course), when Castiel rushes in late, looking harried. Sweat beads on his forehead above hitched brows, and his lips turn down in a deep, concentrated frown. A couple other patrons turn to stare at their table at the arrival of stressed-alpha-stink, turning back to their tables only when they receive the collective stink-eye from Charlie, Benny, Jo, Dean and Ash.
“You okay, buddy?” asks Dean.
In an instant, Castiel’s expression shifts from anxious to something like revelation. His lips part and he breathes, “Dean.”
“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, “That’s me.” He shifts to look at the others, like they might have the answer to why the hell Cas is acting so weird. Don’t get him wrong – Cas is weird a solid 85% of the time, if not more. Dean’s known the guy since Cas was in college, and being that they’re both approaching thirty at warp speed, it’s been a while. But this is a different kind of weird. This is…unsettling.
“Dean, I need you to promise not to punch me,” Castiel says.
“Whhyyy?” Dean draws out the syllable, “If you say that, it means you’re about to say something that warrants a punching.”
“Just hear me out.”
“Okay?”
“I need a date to the office Christmas party,” Castiel says.
“And what, exactly, does that have to do with me?” asks Dean.
“Please,” Castiel says, “Please go with me.”
“What?” Dean says, “Why?”
It’s not that Cas isn’t handsome, because, well…he is. He’s got that look of an alpha that’s comfortable in his masculinity and doesn’t need alpha-geared protein shakes or razors or whatever shit gets marketed to alphas worried about not being ‘man’ enough. Plus, there are the blue eyes. So fucking blue. Bluer than any eyes that Dean has ever seen before. And the sex hair, and his smell, God, his smell.
But…
But that’s not how he and Castiel are. They’re just friends. They’ve always just been friends. Castiel has never shown any interest in Dean, or any interest in anybody, really.
“Every year,” Castiel gulps, “Every year Michael throws this stupid company Christmas party, and every year I’m expected to attend. Every year, I am allowed to bring a plus one, and every year, I don’t. This year – this year – Michael has threatened me. He says that if I don’t come to the stupid Christmas party with a stupid date, that he’s going to find a date for me. You know what Michael likes! He married Amara! Not that she isn’t lovely, but she is also terrifying. I’ll do anything, Dean.”
“Uh…”
“There’s an open bar and a free dinner,” Castiel adds.
“Do I have to wear a suit?” asks Dean.
“Yes,” Castiel replies, but adds quickly, “I’ll pay for a tux rental.”
Dean folds his arms over his chest and says, “All right. I’ll go. But you better make good on that free dinner.”
X
Nine Years Before
Castiel likes trying new things, and trying new things is what leads him to venture with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder into a hole-in-the-wall coffee joint called Demon’s Brew. He spotted the café out of the corner of his eye while driving back from his (unpaid – sigh) internship at a sister company to his brother’s. Castiel asked, of course, why he couldn’t simply intern at Michael’s company, and Michael replied that variety would do him good. Castiel wonders if the true reason wasn’t because Michael likes the scent of the young, cutthroat omega CEO of Darkness General, Inc., Amara.
With his shoulder to the door, Castiel lets himself into Demon’s Brew.
The aroma.
Good Lord in Heaven, the aroma.
Demon’s Brew smells of all the things that coffee shops do: freshly ground coffee beans and their subsequent murky brews; musty, well-loved furniture; sugary treats closed behind tidy glass domes – the aroma isn’t any of those things. The aroma is something far more intense, like leather and fine, age-old scotch.
Castiel makes eye contact with the omega barista behind the espresso machine and instantly he knows the source of the scent. Heat floods his cheeks. He doesn’t want to embarrass this omega with untoward advances. That isn’t the kind of alpha that Castiel is, no matter how intensely the omega smells as though he belongs to Castiel.
When Castiel looms closer to the counter, the smell deepens tenfold. Castiel breathes in to contain himself, tells himself to get a grip, but when he comes face to face with the omega barista, his control drops to his feet and clatters against the floor. He knows he’s blushing but there is nothing that he can do to stop it.
“You, uh, gonna order?” asks the barista.
Castiel licks his lips.
The barista is the most beautiful omega that Castiel has ever seen in his entire life. Long eyelashes fringe seaweed-green eyes, which peer at Castiel out of a young, freckled face. Castiel almost falls forward from the force of the smell and sight of this omega, but he is a young professional, goddamnit, and he won’t allow that to happen. He digs his fingernails into his palm and says, “Hello.”
“Hi,” the barista says. He smiles, and Castiel wants to think that the smile is just for him, but that would be arrogant.
So, Castiel takes a half-step back before he goes on, “Just a regular drip coffee, please.”
The omega’s smile falters, but he still answers, “Sure thing. Is that all for you?”
“Yes, thank you,” answers Castiel. He pays in cash with a ten dollar bill. The coffee isn’t even two dollars, but he still stuffs every cent of the remaining change into the tip jar.
When the barista hands Castiel his coffee in a paper to-go cup, Castiel thanks him again before finding the farthest corner from the front counter to set his laptop on.
He tries not to be obvious about scenting the air every couple of minutes.
X
Castiel returns to Demon’s Brew every day that he has the time. Occasionally, Amara allows him to work remotely and e-mail his spreadsheets from the café, which makes the internship somewhat tolerable as the days wear on.
The omega barista, Castiel learns, is named Dean.
Dean doesn’t work at Demon’s Brew every time that Castiel is there, but his residual scent is always there. Castiel finds in time that he also likes the other fulltime barista, another omega named Charlie Bradbury that likes to talk to Castiel about Star Wars. She has a lot of opinions about the direction that the fandom has driven the media, and Castiel always agrees with what she says. He never quite tells her this, and lets her talk for as long as she wants.
“I wish I could get Dean to get into it, but he keeps saying he's not 'into that nerd shit.' Liar. I totally saw him lusting after a Death Star lego set once,” says Charlie. She finishes pouring Castiel’s coffee and passes it to him from across the counter, and then eyes him. She says, “You have a thing for him, don’t you?”
Castiel’s heart beats faster. He coughs and asks, “Have a thing for whom?”
Charlie rolls her eyes and says, “Dean, stupid.”
Castiel flounders and tries not to panic. He says, “I haven’t been creepy, have I? I don’t want to be that kind of alpha, Charlie. Just because his scent is nice –”
“Just nice?”
“Divine, then,” Castiel corrects, “His scent is divine. But that doesn’t change my feelings. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable because I think that he smells good.”
“I don’t think you’ll make him uncomfortable,” Charlie says.
She sounds so reasonable, but Castiel has watched bad alpha behavior his entire life and knows that alphas emulate one another often without even thinking about it. Castiel’s good fortune to avoid that trap more often than not comes from the teachings of his obdurate omega mother and watching the slipshod treatment of his omega brother. Gabriel pretends that they don’t know that his daughter isn’t from a one night stand, but he told Castiel once about what happened. It was a tale as old as time: omega looks away from their drink, omega imbibes drink, omega finds themselves incapacitated and ready for the knotting. Gabriel happens to have garnered a daughter from one such encounter, and refuses to hear Castiel when he insists that it was rape.
Castiel takes a sip of his coffee. It scalds his tongue.
“I would rather be alone than make Dean uncomfortable,” he tells Charlie, at last.
X
Present Day
Dean buttons his black suit jacket over his middle and surveys the results in the mirror. Cas followed through with the whole tux rental thing, and after an irritating afternoon that Dean spent getting measured and pinched into off-the-rack pieces, he has to admit that the end result has him looking pretty damn good.
Dean winks at his reflection and runs some water from the faucet over his hands, using the moisture to smooth his hair into something somewhat classy looking. He knows this freaking Christmas party is a swank affair and he can’t go in looking like his usual self.
Sure, Dean’s a business owner, but he’s not on the same level as the businesspeople that go to Michael Novak’s company Christmas party. The guy is mated the CEO of Darkness General, for shit’s sake. Michael and Amara Novak are powerhouses, friggin’ legends. Dean, on the other hand – Dean just runs a tiny little coffee place called The Batcave that sells comic books and tabletop gaming supplies in addition their excellent fare.
Dean’s the little guy. Cas’ family? Not so much. If ever human beings embodied grandeur, it’s Castiel’s folks. Not that Dean has actually met any of them except for Gabriel, who stops by Batcave with his pup to play games and drink cocoa. Dean bases his opinion of Michael, Amara, and the occasional other Novak family members on Cas’ stories, most of which come out after Cas has knocked back a few beers and is willing to let loose about whatever shenanigans his day contained.
Knuckles rap against the door to Dean’s modest apartment. Dean hustles to answer it and finds Cas standing on his threshold, and –
Damn is about all Dean can say.
“Damn,” says Dean, “You look good, dude.”
Cas stands before him in a fitted tux of his own, the clothing highlighting the strong lines of his alpha body. He smells so damn good that Dean sneaks in a subtle whiff before letting Castiel inside the apartment and closing the door. He knows Cas isn’t into him – doesn’t like Dean’s scent – but Dean sure as hell loves the smell of Cas. As long as he doesn’t get caught inhaling too deeply, he’ll be fine.
“We can’t be long,” Cas says, “I think my driver might get in trouble.”
“Your driver?” repeats Dean.
“Yes,” sighs Castiel, “If I didn’t arrive at the party with the pomp that Michael prefers, he’d make fun of me, and I’m too tired to be made fun of, so we’re going to the party in a limousine. I hope that’s okay.”
In all honestly, Dean would have preferred to drive them himself, but he doesn’t say this. Cas looks stressed enough as it is, shuffling his feet and leaking the scent of uneasy alpha all over the front of Dean’s apartment. If they don’t get out of there soon, then the place will still stink like SAD CAS by the time that Dean manages to get home again, and that is not on his Christmas List, thank you very much.
“Let me grab my shoes,” Dean says, “The limo got booze in it?”
“Of course it does.”
“Great, because I’m gonna need a lot of that to get through tonight,” Dean replies.
He’s joking, of course, but Castiel takes the sentiment seriously. He appears in Dean’s bedroom, where Dean is tying his dress shoes onto his feet, and says, “Thank you again for agreeing to help me, Dean. It means the world. I will do anything to make this up to you. Anything at all.”
“Dude, chill,” Dean says. He stands with shoes secured on his feet and cuffs Cas in the arm, “You’re good. I was just messing with you.”
At the door, Dean slips his wallet, cell and keys into the pockets of his tailored slacks. The pockets aren’t as roomy as he’s used to, but they’ll have to do. At least he looks like a million bucks, if only for one evening.
Castiel jabs the elevator button and guides them outside to the front of the apartment building, where, sure enough, a sleek black limousine idles outside the front doors. Dean lets out a low whistle and runs his fingers over the side of it. It’s a nice-ass vehicle, if a little ostentatious.
Inside, Cas pours Dean a finger of whiskey. Dean takes it, grateful, and remarks, “I didn’t know this things had whiskey in them. Shit, should’ve been riding in limos this whole time.”
“I called and made sure the car would be supplied,” Castiel says.
“For me?” Dean manages weakly.
“For you,” confirms Cas.
The confession makes Dean feel a little stupid in the head. Cas did this because they are friends, not because he cares about Dean in any other capacity. Dean will never forget the first time that Castiel walked into Demon’s Brew, never forget the way that the wind whipped up his spice-and-pheromones alpha scent, and the way that, for just a moment, Castiel looked as though he might be thinking the same thing. It all went to shit as soon as Dean realized that Cas was and is repulsed by his smell.
By the time that the driver alerts Dean and Castiel that they have arrived at the Christmas party, Dean is ready bolt. He throws himself out of the limousine, away from the suffocating scent of Cas and how badly he’d love to be knotted by him, if only for just a night.
“Are you all right, Dean?” asks Castiel.
“Uh,” Dean says, “Yeah. Fine. Let’s do this thing, right?”
Shoulders brushing, Dean and Castiel walked into the marble-coated foyer of one of the classiest hotels in town. Michael – or whatever underling got stuck with the job – had to have reserved this joint months and months in advance, maybe even an entire year, to ensure that they would have the highest quality venue for their Christmas shindig. Dean whistles as they stride past hotel employees taking winter coats. Castiel slides his tan overcoat off of his shoulders and passes it to one of them, receiving a tag in return so that he can retrieve the coat at the end of the event.
The dinner and subsequent events are being held in a ballroom, and though Castiel assures Dean that the term “ballroom” is used loosely, the joint looks exactly as Dean imagined it would. A cavernous, romantically lit room dripping in classy Christmas décor, from evergreen garlands with red berries, to real, genuine article, pine Christmas wreaths that lent the entire room the scent of festivity.
“I think our place is over there,” Castiel says, pointing toward one of the round tables at the edges of the room.
Dean starts walking toward it, only to be intercepted by a dark haired pair of mates.
“Castiel, is this your date?” asks the alpha, a striking man not quite as tall as either Dean or Castiel. His height doesn’t stop him from radiating power and confidence. The omega half isn’t much different. Her cheekbones look sharp enough to cut glass, and there’s something unsettling about the way that her eyes rake over Dean’s tux.
Castiel wraps a protective arm around Dean and brushes his lips over Dean’s cheek. He says, “Yes, this is Dean. We met when I was still a lowly intern at Darkness, Amara. Dean, this is my brother Michael, and his mate Amara.”
“No shit?” Dean says, still thrown by the feel of Cas’ lips against his skin. God, the cash he would pay to feel that again, if only for the second it lasted.
Michael offers his hand, which Dean shakes, and says, “Pleased to meet you. Tell me, what brought this on? You’ve known each other for so long. It seems you would have figured out how well-matched you are before now.”
“Michael,” Castiel warns, but Dean holds up a hand to silence him.
“S’all right, Cas,” Dean grins, “We were just bein’ stupid, I guess. I always liked Cas’ scent, y’know, but I been sittin’ here thinking that he didn’t like the way I smelled. Turns out he does.” Dean takes advantage of the situation like the asshole he is and curls in close to Castiel’s alpha scent, which rolls off of him in protective waves at the predatory gleam in Michael’s eye. The guy is mated, for Christ’s sake. Why’s he looking at Dean like he wants to eat him? But then, Amara Novak has her eye on Dean in exactly the same capacity.
Can they smell the bisexuality on him? Is there something about the way Dean holds himself that screams ‘I like alphas and omegas in my bed’? God, he hopes not.
“Well,” Castiel interjects, “I think I just saw Lilith walk in. You should probably greet her. Dean, shall we?”
“Yup,” says Dean, thankful to escape the hungry look on Castiel’s brother’s face. Cas grabs Dean’s hand and, without preamble, drags him over to their table, which is situated nicely in the corner. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say that Cas is acting like an overprotective alpha mate, but – they aren’t like that, even if Dean gets to live out his fantasies for one night.
Castiel finds their place cards and pulls out Dean’s chair for him. Dean almost protests, but at the earnest look on Cas’ face he decides to plop down and let himself be high society for one night. This isn’t his world, but at least the food he’s getting while he’s here is going to be off the wall.
Nearly fifteen minutes pass before everyone in the room is seated at their tables and Michael takes the microphone at the front of the room to thank them all for being there. He announces a hefty Christmas bonus for all fulltime employees and cheers erupt, cheers eclipsed only by the roar of happiness at the announcement that dinner is served. As soon as Michael steps off of the stage, hotel employees flood the room with fancy-looking covered trays, wide enough to support the meals for each of the tables.
“I have the salmon for Mr. Novak,” says their server, “and the steak for Mr. Winchester. Is there anything else that I can get you?”
“I’m good,” says Dean, and the waiter looks startled that the only omega at the table piped up first, “What about you, Cas?”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
Dean’s mouth waters at the sight and smell of his plate. A juicy, marinated, choice-cut steak lies in a bed of mashed potatoes and greens, which have been roasted and salted. It smells so divine that he almost wants to cry, but instead digs into it with gusto.
Through a mouthful of potato, he asks, “S’there dessert, too?”
“I’m certain there is,” Castiel replies, “It wouldn’t be like Michael to skimp.”
Sure enough, though Dean polishes his plate off enough that it looks licked clean (okay, fine, he licked it), the wait staff comes around with their trays again and remove dirty dishes, only to replace each with a sweetly fragrant plate. A waiter dishes out a crème brûlée for Castiel, and places a plate of still-steaming blackberry pie, complete with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream (and some weird leaf garnish that Dean flicks away) before Dean.
“Is your brother psychic?” asks Dean, “This is like, the best meal I have ever had.”
“No, we had to put in our orders a week ago,” Cas replies, “I guessed what you would like. I suppose I guessed correctly.”
The words send Dean’s hand to his wineglass, and he tips wine down his throat. It’s probably some fancy-ass, expensive vintage, but he doesn’t actually give a shit. Wine all tastes the same to him. Scotch, on the other hand – there’s some real difference if the price is right. He mumbles, now a little fuzzy in the head, “You’re something else, Cas,” and claps him on the shoulder. The urge to kiss him makes Dean tingle, makes him reach forward.
“Dean?”
And it’s gone. Dean needs a drink, and he needs one bad. He stands up, his chair scraping against the floor. The others seated at the table all turn to look at Dean, so he says, “I’m gonna get a drink. You want anything, Cas?”
“I’m fine. Thank you, Dean.”
Since Cas doesn’t need anything, Dean decides that it’s better to stay at the bar to imbibe, rather than running back and forth between the bar and table. He starts with fancy drinks, things that have silly names and appear in front of him in even sillier colors (why is his drink electric blue? God only knows), until he’s good and messed up and the whole world appears fuzzy around the edges.
Dean still starts when he turns and finds that Michael has taken the seat beside him, and on his other side, Amara.
“Uh,” he says, intelligently, “Hey guys.”
“Hi,” Michael says, “My mate and I couldn’t help but notice that you’re a very attractive omega, Dean.”
“Thanks, I guess,” Dean says, clutching his drink tighter. He knocks back the rest and sways on his chair.
Amara rests a hand on his shoulder and urges him to sit down, a tight smile drawn across her lips. She says, “We have a connection. Can’t you feel it, Dean? We’re attracted to you.”
“To your body,” Michael says.
“And your soul,” finishes Amara.
“Um.”
“We have a proposition for you,” Michael says, “My mate and I would like to expand our bedroom play. Tell me, Dean, are you the kind of omega that likes other omegas also?”
“Yeah…I do,” Dean says. Why are they asking him that? They can’t be asking for what he thinks they are, right?
“Great,” grins Michael, “Then how would you like to come upstairs and –”
“Michael, what the hell are you doing?” demands Castiel.
Dean turns, taken aback by the sheer amount of alpha aggression that leaks from Cas’ every pore. His shoulders are hunched, tense, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides. He looks like he’s seconds away from all-out alpha rage. Dean should be worried, should be scared, should back off, but instead he slides off of the bar seat and wraps his arms around Castiel’s neck. Dean yanks Cas down so that his nose sits firmly in the crook of his neck. He doesn’t know why he does it. It’s instinct. Somewhere in the back of his too-fuzzy brain, he knows that his scent won’t help Cas. It will only repulse him.
But Castiel breathes deep and Dean lets him.
“Better?” Dean asks when he pulls away.
Castiel looks scent-drunk. He shakes himself out of his trance and squints at Dean, asking, “Are you intoxicated?”
“Yeah, I am that,” Dean says, “I’m gonna barf, probably.”
“Oh,” Castiel says, “Oh, dear. I have a hotel room. Maybe you should rest before I take you home.”
“Probably best.”
Dean lets Castiel manhandle him out of the ballroom. He doesn’t care how stupid he looks; he’s enjoying himself too much. Cas’ scent is all around him, no longer aggressive but soft and homey and gentle like a thick, warm blanket. As they make it to the elevator and Cas presses the ‘up’ button, Dean leans into Cas’ neck and takes a big, huffing whiff.
“Dean, what are you doing?” Castiel asks.
“Scentin’.”
“Why?”
“You smell good.”
Castiel cocks his head at that and asks, “I do?”
“Yeah, like home,” Dean mumbles. The part of his brain steered by logic and not instinct tells him that it is a bad idea to tell all these things to Cas. He should keep quiet, because Cas doesn’t want him. Castiel doesn’t like Dean’s scent. It’s been that way for almost ten years.
“I smell like home?” Cas manages weakly.
Dean nods. The elevator doors open and Cas ushers Dean inside. There, Dean feels even less inhibition. He lets himself half-collapse against Cas’ side and scents up a storm, breathing in that magical scent, remembering the time it kicked up from the open door of Demon’s Brew and overpowered even the strongest of coffee scents that soaked into the walls of the place. Nothing smells as good or strong as Cas does.
“Sorry I don’t smell as good,” Dean remembers to mumble.
“What?”
“I don’t smell as good,” Dean repeats, “I know you don’t like my smell. You’re just too polite to say so. One of the reasons I like you so much. Isn’t that stupid?”
Castiel whines low in his throat, a pained sound that makes Dean jerk to attention. He stares at Cas, who now smells all sad alpha more than anything else. He asks, “What? What did I do?”
“I don’t think your smell is bad,” Castiel says, “I love your smell, Dean. It’s the most lovely thing that I’ve ever scented in my whole life.”
The words are just serious enough to pull Dean partway out of his drunken haze. He narrows his eyes, searches Cas’ face for the lie, and finds nothing but those stupid, earnest blue eyes looking back. Dean says, “Why didn’t you tell me? I thought I repulsed you.”
“I didn’t want to – to be one of those alphas,” Cas says, “I didn’t want to come off as a knothead that just liked you because you smelled nice.”
“So you stayed quiet for nearly a decade?” Dean demands.
“I didn’t think, that is to say, I didn’t want –” Cas stammers. He looks terrified.
Dean frowns. He makes himself breathe, but just as he opens his mouth to speak, the elevator dings to inform them that they have reached their floor. Barfing sounds like a great idea at that moment. Dean stumbles out into the hallway ahead of Cas, and has to wait for Cas to manage to insert his key card in the hotel room door with his stupid, shaking hands.
When they stumble inside, Dean empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet. After a few more heaves, the room is noticeably silent, but when Dean clambers to his feet, he sees Castiel hovering just outside the bathroom door. He smells protective. Worried. The way that a mate should smell. But they’re not mates. Dean has to remember that.
Cas runs the tap and passes Dean a glass of water. Dean drinks under Castiel’s watchful eye. When he finishes and sets the empty glass on the granite countertop in the bathroom, Dean realizes just how bone-tired he is. He says, “I needa rest for a sec.”
“Of course, Dean,” Castiel agrees.
Dean lets Cas guide him to the bed, a queen-sized bed in the center of the room, stacked with plush pillows and dressed in warm bedding. He doesn’t complain when Cas strips off Dean’s suit jacket, or when he undoes his pressed slacks and crisp white shirt. Cas organizes each item, drapes them over the armchair by the glass doors that lead onto a balcony, and pulls off his own things.
Cas pulls the covers down the mattress and whips them over Dean, crawling in afterward. He leans over, and at first Dean thinks that Cas means to kiss him, but instead, Cas flicks off the lamp. He hesitates a moment in the dark, but after the space of a breath, Dean feels Cas drape his arm over Dean’s waist, and lets his head fall down on the same pillow as Dean’s.
“Cas?” Dean murmurs.
“Yes, Dean?”
“I’m glad that you don’t find my scent repulsive.”
Like that, peace settles over Dean’s shoulders. The smell of his alpha surrounds him, protective and loving, and while part of his brain insists that this is strange and not how his night was meant to go, omega instinct urges him to turn in Castiel’s arms, to scent him. Dean does just that, and buries his nose against Castiel’s chest.
Dean can worry about the rest in the morning.
X
Dean wakes warm and content, surrounded by the scent of his mate.
Wait, what?
Dean’s eyes burst open. He finds himself staring at a bare chest that he’s never before seen, but knows by smell alone. Cas smells like kitchen spice, the smell of being home for the holidays, and like he’s happy. Dean clears his throat and tries to back out of their embrace, but Cas’ arms tighten around his middle. He murmurs sleepily into Dean’s hair, “Mate.”
“Cas,” Dean says.
Cas snuffles and presses his nose deeper into Dean’s bedhead.
“Cas, buddy,” Dean tries again.
Something in Dean’s tone must do the trick, because Cas lifts his head and groans. His eyes are open now, just barely, and he squints down at Dean. He says, “What are we…?”
Dean licks his dry lips and says, “If I remember right, I got wasted, your brother and his mate tried to get me to join them for a threesome, you got real pissed, and we found out that you don’t actually hate my scent. And now we smell like mates. Am I missing anything?”
Cas rucks up his hair with his hand and props himself up with his elbow. He says, “That sounds accurate. What do we do about it?”
Dean thinks about. What does he want to do about this? He’s giddy beyond belief that he smells just as good to Cas as Cas smells to him. He’s wanted this for so long that he almost doesn’t know what to do with the power. He wants to kiss Cas, wants to scent that place right at the base of his neck where sweat gathers and aroma intensifies, wants to be knotted and wants to feel Cas’ teeth sink into his skin.
Dean doesn’t realize that his morning wood is right up against Cas’ thigh until he rubs forward a little and Cas whimpers. Pink flushes across Cas’ tan face, and Dean sucks in a breath.
This isn’t a typical finding-your-mate story. Most people become so overwrought by the smell of the one they’re meant to be with that they start fucking each other then and there, wherever that may be. Dean’s heard talk of grocery store matings where omegas end up knotted in the snack aisle, outdoor matings where the perpetrators roll around in grass and dandelions feeling each other up, or as reported last week on HowIMetMyMate.com, a mating that occurred at a Christmas tree farm wherein they ended up fucking into an actual Frasier fir and had to purchase when it got covered in come.
This isn’t a mating like those, frenzied and ferocious. Dean feels strangely in control, and he takes advantage of that. He eases Cas onto his back and follows, letting the blankets slide off of their bodies. Both of them already are just in their underwear, and Cas has morning wood as bad as Dean’s.
Dean straddles Castiel and leans down. He captures Cas’ mouth in his. It’s the best first kiss that he could have asked for, warm and long. Cas’ hands come up and settle in Dean’s hair, holding him close so that he can lick up into Dean’s mouth in tender strokes. It’s even better than Dean imagined, and hell, Dean has imagined this so many damn times.
He just didn’t think that it would ever come true.
Dean tests out a little roll of his hips against Cas’. Castiel growls, but it’s a growl of approval – no aggression in sight. He grips Dean’s hips and says, “Dean, are you sure?”
“Hell yeah,” Dean says, “We’re mates. I ain’t getting any younger, here.”
Castiel laughs, though the chuckling dies down when Dean ducks to pull Castiel’s boxers off his hips. Dean always forgets how big alpha cocks are until he’s staring one in the face, and Cas’ is among the bigger that he’s seen. He takes a moment to admire Castiel’s erection, how thick and long it looks, before he licks a long stripe up the side. Cas bucks against his mouth and says, “Dean!”
“What?”
“I just – what –”
“You never gotten a beej, Cas?”
Castiel blushes.
“You haven’t?” Dean exclaims, “Dude! We have got to fix that. But later. Not now. Right now, I wanna ride you.”
Against his ass, Dean’s boxer briefs are sticky and cold with slick. His body is more than ready right now, and Christ, Dean has been ready for this since Cas walked into Demon’s Brew nine years ago and made Dean soak through his work pants. He had to go in the back and change into a spare pair that he thankfully kept on him in case of coffee spills.
Dean slides back off of the bed and shimmies out of his underwear. The intake of breath that comes from his alpha makes the show all worth it. Cas sits up and scoots forward, reaching to pull Dean back into his arms. Dean climbs onto Cas’ lap and kisses him, takes handfuls of his messy hair and pushes his tongue inside Cas’ mouth.
Dean grinds down against Cas’ dick, lets his slick leak along Cas’ cock, and Cas whimpers.
Dean grins. He pecks a kiss to Cas’ cheek and says, “You want me to ride you?”
“Yes,” Cas says emphatically, “Please. Yes. Do that. I like that idea very much.”
Dean’s grin widens ever-larger. He takes Cas’ cock in hand – Christ, it is huge, almost too huge – and widens his legs to ease down on his erection. His ass burns as Cas’ alpha cock stretches him wide, but it’s a good burn. He gasps when at last he’s fully seated, whines at the feel of something so big and so alive inside of him.
Cas doesn’t have as much patience as Dean. He digs his fingers into Dean’s sides and guides him up, slides him halfway off his cock, and presses him back down. Dean swears that he sees sparks behind his eyes at the pleasure. He mewls and this time, replicates the motion without help.
“That’s it, Dean,” Castiel says, rocky voice so, so low, “Take my cock, my good omega.”
Dean can’t help but chuckle a little at that. He says, “Mmm. How does it feel, being my alpha toy?”
He makes his point by circling his hips down, fucking down faster on Castiel’s cock, letting the thickness and length stretch him to full. It’s so much and it’s so perfect, the feeling of slamming his body down on Cas over and over, of hearing skin hit skin and smelling the overpowering scent of happy, horny alpha.
“God, you’re amazing,” Dean says.
Cas throws his head back and groans. He holds onto Dean like a lifeline and lets him take charge. He says, “Faster, Dean. I’m almost – can I knot you?”
“You fuckin’ better knot me,” Dean says.
As Dean shifts, bouncing in Cas’ lap, he feels the knot grow. He feels Cas’ huge knot catch against his rim, bringing him down until he can’t pull off of Cas’ cock anymore. He can only wiggle, chasing his own orgasm as he hears a moan tear out of Cas and feels the subsequent hot splash of alpha come coating his insides. He tightens his grip on Cas, riding him in a low, dirty grind, and then orgasms between them without a single finger on his own dick.
It takes a few minutes for the high to wear off. He stares down at Cas’ bright blue eyes and breathes out, “Wow.”
“Wow, indeed.”
“So…what now?”
“Being that we’re occupied for the next half hour to forty five minutes, I’m not sure what you mean,” Castiel says.
Dean whacks Cas’ bare chest. He says, “Don’t be obtuse.”
Cas sighs, releases Dean’s hip to run a hand back through his hair. Dean sees bruises in the shape of Cas’ fingerprints in the meat of his hips, and it makes him horny all over again. He clenches up around Cas’ cock and drags another wave of orgasm out of him. Cas whimpers.
“Don’t play dirty, Dean Winchester.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not fair.”
Dean looks down at the face of Cas, of his mate – and smiles. Warmth floods him from the pit of his belly to the tips of his fingers, and he leans down to capture Cas’ mouth in a filthy, perfect kiss.
“I don’t know what happens next,” admits Castiel, “But whatever it is, I want to do it with you.”