Archive of Our Own

The thing was, Dean thought muzzily, staring at the back of his eyelids, the thing was that he really would’ve rathered Sam just let him die.

Sure, dying in front of his baby brother would’ve been a real dick move, but he’s so fucking tired. He’s been dead before, and he’s pretty sure he won’t end up in Hell, and maybe drowning his sorrows in whatever version of the Matrix they got up in Heaven until he doesn’t know up from down is the best he’s ever gonna get out of his existence. It’s a shitty thought, but hey, it’s been a shitty life.

He really fucked up, though; they were going up against a bunch of clown vampires, and he went got himself impaled. Couldn’t even manage something quick, instead just ended up hanging on the wall like a discarded jacket. It’s embarrassing. 

He’s getting old, against all his expectations, and pretty much everyone he cares about is dead, so really what is the point in sticking around dirtside? Sam’ll be ok without him. He’s been fine without him before. He's got Eileen.

The door opens, but he doesn’t bother opening his eyes. It’s probably just a doctor. Maybe Sam, though hopefully Sam has left and is taking care of himself by now. He’s pretty sure it’s been hours, maybe days since they dragged him out of that barn.

Whoever it is hasn’t left; they’re just standing by the side of his bed, stock-still.

They’re also not breathing, now that Dean’s paying attention.

Yippee. 

If it’s another vampire, maybe they’ll have the courtesy to finish the job quickly this time.

He cracks open his eyes.

It’s Cas. It’s Cas.

Dean doesn’t know what his expression is doing right now, but it puts a terrified look on Castiel’s face, and he’s starting to move like he’s gonna run away, and he’s not allowed to leave.

Not again.

Despite all the painkillers and the lingering effects of the anaesthesia, Dean lurches forward and latches onto Castiel’s hand with a death grip.

He’s really here. 

Castiel looks a little like he might be sick, all washed out and pale, as he drops down into the chair by Dean’s bed. 

His voice is gentle though, “Hello, Dean.”

Dean chokes back a sob. He’s afraid to blink. He’s holding on way too hard, he knows that, and he can see the tips of both of their fingers turning white, but he’s not going to let go. Better that they get dragged down together than Dean get left behind again.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you, but I’m here now,” Castiel says, still in the low tone like Dean’s a frightened child. Maybe he is. “Jack fixed everything. I won’t leave again, not as long as you’ll have me.” 

As if Dean would ever ask him to leave. 

Castiel tilts his head, “I love you.”

Dean can feel his heart seize in his chest before it speeds up to a gallop. His vision goes dark around the edges, and he claws at his sternum, even as he tries to pull Castiel towards him. Castiel looks horrified, then he looks up and tries to back away as two medical workers appear, attempting to push him to the side.

Dean snarls as Castiel’s hand slips in his, digs his nails in, and tries to drag himself upright. His back is screaming at him that that was a bad idea. He lashes out at one of the workers frantically when he tries to untangle their hands, the heart monitor a hellish shriek in the background.

They give up, and Castiel crowds the head of the bed as Dean’s pushed back down. Something cool floods his arm, and he can feel as whatever it is forcibly calms him down. His head swims, and he goes limp, sweat sticking him to the sheets. Sam stares at him, white as a ghost, from the doorway.

*******

It’s weird how Cas being back seems to make things worse and better at the same time.

He’s not exactly itching to die now, but there’s a thick, dark fog over everything, choking him from the inside out, making his whole body feel heavy and slow. He’s still so tired. The feeling itself isn’t new, but the intensity is on a whole other level.

Most of the time these funks happened when he was on his own. No one to notice if he doesn’t speak for weeks, or can’t drag himself out of bed, or can’t keep down food. No one to bother with his issues.

Of course, once Castiel tells him that he’s picking up on all his emotions, he feels even worse. He feels like a literal human tar pit, dragging down all the people around him. He tries after that to lighten up. He’s not sure if it works, since Castiel never complains, but that doesn’t mean anything.

He can’t let go of Castiel’s hand though.

The doctors are annoyed with him. He can tell. They tell him his arm is never going to be the same, but with regular exercise and care, he could maintain most of its functionality.

Afterwards, Castiel sits by his bed, rubbing his thumb across the back of his hand, and speaks softly about how he’s so sorry he can’t heal him, but Jack fixed everything and he won’t need to hunt ever again, and it won’t matter if his hand isn’t the same. That Castiel will help him.

He tries to stay up, sure something will go wrong just as soon as he’s not paying attention, and he’s damn near certain Castiel knows he’s not actually sleeping. Even when he falls asleep out of pure exhaustion, he wakes up in a confused panic like he’s falling out of bed.

He wants to get out of here.

He’s not sure how long he’s been in the hospital, but one day, it’s Eileen who shows up instead of Sam. She’s got a bag full of clothes and soaps and things.

“Clothes for when you get out,” she says, “And the rest so you can pamper yourself a little.”

She gives him a very careful hug and then equally as carefully smacks the back of his head, “I’m glad you’re alive. Don’t scare us like that ever again.”

It’s hard to undress with one working hand, when said working hand is being used for the important task of holding onto Castiel, but Castiel manages to strip himself and Dean, and herds him into the shower. He sits on the little, hard plastic chair, already exhausted, and can’t muster up any embarrassment over having to be babied like this. He can’t even enjoy the fact Castiel is naked. The angel dumps what feels like an entire bottle of body wash on Dean’s shoulders to clean off the hospital smell. There’s a plastic patch over the hole in his back so it doesn’t get wet, and it crinkles annoyingly whenever he moves.

“They’re going to let you out soon,” Castiel says conversationally, industriously working the soap into a lather across Dean’s body. He’s been speaking very quietly recently, turning his voice into a low, gravelly rumble Dean can feel in his bones. Dean wants to wrap himself up in it and go to sleep.

He shrugs, and does his best to help Castiel out by jerkily running a washrag across himself. He watches the water puddle around his feet, sluggishly draining out of the shower pan.

“Do you know what you want to do when we leave?”

I want to stay with you , is what he wants to say, All the rest is gravy.

Castiel doesn’t sweat, near as he can figure, nor does he have any of the other bodily processes humans have to deal with. It’s not that he can’t get dirty, it’s that it usually requires outside intervention. Left to his own devices, the worst Dean has ever seen him get was a bit dusty, so it’s not like he really needs washing. Castiel goes inhumanly still as Dean clumsily swipes soap across the angel’s stomach, then leans a smidge closer, hovering over him.

Castiel’s hairy, hairier than he is, and it’s a little surprising. Dean’s far past denying that he’s thought about what Castiel would look like naked. He’s seen him naked before (the bee incident remains hilarious), but he’d always avoided looking (also, Castiel had been literally covered in bees; he wasn’t seeing much anyway). So, it’s a novelty to see him like this, all rangy and pale with his dark hair soaked in water. His vessel has belonged to him a long time, and he’s made it his own, fills it out in a way that seems like it’s a natural extension of himself despite its origin. As Dean strokes his washrag across the bottom of Castiel’s chest, the hair flattens and reveals a thin white scar. He thinks he remembers where this one came from. Castiel has a tendency to get stabbed.

Castiel hums, pushes Dean’s head forward gently so he can squeeze shampoo into his hair without endangering his eyes, “Well, if you have no preference, I have some ideas.”

He runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, “It’ll be a surprise. Won’t that be nice, Dean?”

Dean squeezes his fingers in acknowledgement. He guesses there really is no point in going back to the status quo. It’s too much to think about. He’s always been a hunter, and he’s not sure what to do in the wake of that loss of identity. At least Cas still seems to think he’s got more in him. He’s been led around by the nose since he can remember, by Dad, by Chuck, even by Sam if he’s being technical about it. Why not let Cas take the reins for now? Jack knows, the angel deserves his turn; Jack knows, at least Castiel has Dean’s best interests at heart.

Dean holds still as Castiel rinses him off, turns off the shower, and towels off his head, fluffing his hair into spikes.

He tries to think about how much he loves Castiel, hopes it’s transmitting properly through all the muck in his soul. He’s not sure if this bond is supposed to go both ways. Sometimes he thinks he can feel something , a flicker of heat in his chest, like drinking hot soup on a cold day. Maybe he’s imagining it. Maybe he’s blocking Castiel out with all the storm clouds in his head. It doesn’t really matter, though.

Castiel died for him, a declaration of love, his (not quite) final words. Dean has no reason to doubt him.

*******

Dean leans against Castiel’s shoulder, and doesn’t really care who sees. Castiel takes his weight with no complaint, steady as a pillar. His back twinges, and he carefully flexes his shoulders, trying to relieve it. His arm feels heavy and slightly numb. He’s not paying that much attention as Sam and Cas exchange platitudes.

They’re not going back to the bunker. That’s obvious.

“Let me know how things go?” Sam asks. He looks tired, but he’s smiling at least.

“Of course,” Castiel says, placidly.

“Alright,” Sam coughs, “You guys drive safe.” 

He looks at Dean pointedly, catching his wandering gaze, “I’ll see you later, Dean.”

Dean nods, forcing himself up straight as they head down the steps into the hospital parking lot. He watches Sam and Eileen wave goodbye as Castiel carefully navigates the Impala out, and waves with a limp hand back. They’ll see each other again soon enough. He hopes they get some rest. They shouldn’t worry too much about him and Cas.

*******

He drifts through the car ride, dozing off between hypnic jerks. Castiel has the radio on low, the cassette on repeat. When they stop, it’s in some little nowhere town, postcard perfect, with sweeping willows and the buzzing of insects over the burbling of a creek. The hotel Castiel’s picked used to be someone’s house once upon a time, a great big, old Victorian sliced up into guest rooms.

It’s cozy. The windows are cracked open, the slight summer breeze stirring the curtains, and the cicadas are going full blast outside. Everything’s done up in shades of rose and pale green. Dean forces his fingers to unlock, sliding sweatily free from Castiel’s, and he walks forward to collapse onto the floral bedspread.

“Your back,” Castiel warns him. He’s not wrong to. Dean curls up onto his side and kicks off his boots. Finally, he’s laying on an actual mattress, not that hospital monstrosity with its assortment of wedges.

He pats the covers in invitation. He hears Castiel shuffle around, then the bed dips as he crawls up. Dean scoots in closer and uses his stomach as a pillow. He sighs as Castiel lays a gentle hand on the back of his neck.

“You’re alright,” Castiel whispers, “You must be so tired. I’m here. I won’t leave you again. Rest now.”

Dean falls into restless dreams.

*******

His dreams are odd and hard to hold on to. He feels like he’s tangled up in something, but not in a “Oh God, I’m trapped” claustrophobic way. More in a “I fell in a giant yarn basket, and now I’m just chilling” way, all soft and lumpy. It’s weird.

He wakes up all at once, and he can’t remember where he is for one terrifying moment, before he realizes he’s still snug against Castiel’s side. His arm, though, is seizing up from when he tensed.

He rolls over onto his back and digs his thumb into the base of his palm, trying to encourage the tendons to relax a little.

“Is your arm hurting you?” Castiel asks, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He flexes his hand and grimaces. It’s stiff as hell, his muscles cramping, but it’s more annoying than it is painful.

“Let me help,” Castiel sits up straighter, holding out his other hand. Dean doesn’t waste a second to think about it, just plops his hand down into Castiel’s palm.

Castiel holds him like he’s delicate, like he’s worth something more than all the blood on his hands. He carefully coaxes Dean’s muscles to unwind, working from his palm all the way up to his shoulder, spending long minutes rubbing warmth right down to his bones.

Castiel slides his hands back down from his shoulder, cradling Dean’s hand between them, “Does that feel better?”

Dean nods, twitching his fingers against Castiel’s.

“Can I do anything else?”

Well, there’s an opening if Dean’s ever heard one.

He nods, urging Castiel to come closer. He keeps it up until Castiel is hovering over him, eyes locked on his. This close he can reach up and tuck two fingers into Castiel’s shirt collar, pull him just that bit closer, and crane his neck up to press a kiss to that beloved mouth. Castiel gasps just a bit, catching himself on his hands as he nearly tips over onto Dean in his eagerness.

Castiel licks into Dean’s mouth like he wants to map its contours with his tongue, which is a little overenthusiastic, but Dean is digging it. He sucks on Dean’s lower lip before pulling away with a smack! and starts nuzzling along Dean’s face, burying his face in his hair and then down into the hollow of his throat. He mouths at Dean’s jugular, and Dean shivers, pushing his cheek against the top of Castiel’s head. Castiel licks behind Dean’s ear, and Dean nearly flinches away. He lets out a noiseless snort of amusement, flopping his arm across Castiel’s back to tangle his fingers in the dark locks at the base of his skull. He gently tugs at the silken strands.

How far is Castiel wanting to go with this? Arousal flares between his hips and hums along his spine, raising goosebumps. He’s not opposed to taking this all the way. Castiel’s never seemed all that interested in sex before (aside from the future world, but, well, that’s a whole ball of wax Dean doesn’t like to think about), so Dean’s happy with whatever makes him happy.

Castiel is shifting, sliding down Dean’s body, grasping the hem of his shirt, and he looks up with a question on his face, ice blue a thin ring around blown pupils.

Yes!! Dean sits up and pulls his shirt off. His back doesn’t want to cooperate and spikes a line of pain across his shoulder, so Castiel has to step in and help, and then he fucking folds it and sets it on the end of the bed. 

Dean lies back down, but Castiel doesn’t do anything, just sits between his thighs and looks down at Dean. His eyes wander across his face, down to his collarbones, then trace a line down his chest to his stomach. Dean sucks it in; he knows he’s not at his best, but hey, he’s been in the hospital! He looks down at his body; he’s a little thin, yeah, he could use a little sun, but he’s looking pretty good for someone over forty and recently impaled.

Castiel must agree, leaning back down and laying a hand on Dean’s arm where he’d left his mark all those years ago. He thumbs around the curve of his bicep in a way Dean hesitates to call possessive, if only because he tends to associate possession with malice. Castiel is all softness.

Castiel rubs his other hand across Dean’s stomach, nails catching in his treasure trail, as he lifts up his captured arm to mouth at his wrist. He nibbles in between Dean’s thumb and forefinger, and Dean has to smother a laugh, huffing air out of his nose. Of course, that’s when Castiel decides to take Dean’s index and middle finger into his mouth, sucking lightly on the first two knuckles and looking smugly at his slightly stunned expression. Dean smirks back and curls those fingers against Castiel’s slick tongue.

Watching the angel between his thighs, still in his oversized coat, Dean feels all those long smothered feelings rise up in his gorge and catch in the back of his throat. Castiel is so handsome in the morning light. He’s wasted so much time. Castiel’s brow pinches faintly, and two dark wings fold out of the shadows behind him.

Wow. They’re not an outline on the wall, but two solid raven wings that quiver faintly over Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel’s been doing all the touching so far, so he should be able to cop a feel. It’s only fair.

Sinking his hand into Castiel’s wing is like sinking into a bath. He’s so soft and so warm. Dean cards his fingers through the little, fluffy feathers near the base of his wing, and feels all that heavy muscle press back against his palm. All those feathers start to fluff up; Castiel seems to shake himself, and arches his wings up and back, sending little air currents through the room.

At Castiel’s urging, he flips himself over, settling into the mattress nervously as Castiel hovers over his back. Dean tenses, then relaxes slowly as Castiel digs his thumbs into the knots along his spine. As he reaches the small of his back, above his jeans, Castiel brings his weight to bear, and Dean can feel his vertebrae pop back into place. He melts into the mattress. Floating absently in the wake of a good massage, he feels the itchy sort of tickle as Castiel brushes over the rebar scar. It’s healed over, but the skin hasn’t gotten with the program yet. It’s only recently stopped itching like hell. Castiel slides his hands carefully up and down Dean’s back, playing his fingers along his ribs like a xylophone. Even when he brings his mouth into the mix, it doesn’t really disturb the calm Dean’s fallen into.

While he’s got an inch or two on Cas, something about this has him feeling small, like he’s some minute creature cradled in cupped palms, infinitely cared for, or laying in the calm eye of a massive storm, the outside world hushed and remote. He’s all too aware that Castiel isn’t invulnerable, but, even knowing the limitations the angel is bound to respect, it feels like nothing can touch them here in this room. The feeling of perfect safety is almost better than the prospect of sex.

When he turns back over, he wonders if Cas will let him get in on the action now. Cas’s still fully dressed, trench coat and all. He tries to sit up.

Castiel pushes him (gently) back down, “I’m not done yet.”

Dean rolls his eyes good-naturedly. He stretches just to watch the interest flare in Castiel’s eyes as his muscles lengthen and he arches his back. Castiel dips back down to trail his lips down the line of his throat, while he traces over Dean’s tattoo, before he buries his face in Dean’s collar.

It’s weird that he has the brainpower to be analyzing this, but what Castiel is doing isn’t what Dean would call traditional foreplay exactly. Like, he clearly does get the idea of an erogenous zone, but he also just seems to be really, really into just touching Dean in general. All the licking is driving Dean a little bit insane. Castiel’s also petting him a lot, like he’s one of those cats that looks like an uncooked chicken.

Of course, this is about the time that Castiel stops snuffling along his collarbone, squeezes his chest double-handed, and latches onto his nipple. He plays with the other hardening nub with callused fingers as he gently pinches the other between his teeth, tongue darting over the peak.

Dean’s not had much attention paid to that part of his anatomy as a general rule. It’s not a knock on previous partners, just the reality that he’s usually the one in the driver’s seat. Castiel pins him down, settling across his body. With what little sense he has left, he can feel that Castiel isn’t hard, draped across his own erection as he is, but it hardly matters. Dean clutches at his back, fingers scraping across cotton, and grinds upwards against Castiel’s sharp hips. Each fangless nip at his chest like a direct line of heat to the cock still trapped in his pants.

Castiel slides down his body once he’s teased Dean into heaving madness, nipples puffy and slick, saliva cooling on his chest, and jabs his tongue into Dean’s belly button in a movement so jarring that Dean can’t smother the squeak he lets out. Castiel looks up at that, seemingly delighted.

When Castiel reaches his jeans, there’s no hesitation in peeling them off, along with his socks. The reality of the situation catches up a bit; Dean feels the flutter of nerves in his stomach. He knows Castiel would never intentionally hurt him, and he knows full well that the angel is attracted to him. 

But he is almost naked on the bed. Dean is incredibly hard, cock straining the fabric of his underwear and soaking through at the tip. Castiel apparently has no qualms of his own; he ducks down and sucks at the head of Dean’s cock through his underwear, the suction and texture combining to have Dean gasp and buck up against the angels’ mouth.

Yeah, the underwear needs to go.

Dean detaches Castiel from his pelvis and pushes his underwear down hurriedly, hurling it across the room.

Dean squirms as Castiel dives right back in, the sensation so much more intense without cloth in the way, as Castiel slides his lips in half-formed, wet kisses down his length. He tongues over the seam in his sac, pulling one ball, then the other into the warmth of his mouth. When that doesn’t garner the same overwhelmed reaction, he lifts his package out of the way, tongue sliding just behind his sac into unfamiliar territory.

And there’s this moment of instinctive panic, of “ Not there” , from memories Dean has done his best to bury, but before the thought can fully form, can develop into a flinch, Castiel is already moving away, kissing down his thigh and nibbling at the tender skin behind his knee. He carries on down to his foot, licking over his toes in an exploratory manner, which tickles like all hell , and Dean nearly kicks him right in the face. Castiel is not deterred by his narrowly avoided face kicking, and repeats the whole process on Dean’s other leg.

Dean really, really hopes that whatever plans Castiel has ends with him getting to come. His cock is rock hard against his stomach, twitching and jerking with each touch Castiel lays on his body, and it’s getting uncomfortable. He might just come from anything at this point, he’s so, so close.

He didn’t need to worry. Castiel crawls up the bed and deepthroats his cock in one long, delicious slide.

Dean’s cockhead glides across the slick inside of his cheek, then rubs over the ridges on the roof of his mouth, before Castiel hums a little noise Dean feels all the way up his shaft and sinks down to the root in one smooth motion, burying his nose in Dean’s stomach with a deep noise of satisfaction. And he swallows, his throat constricting in a massaging wave around the tip of Dean’s cock. Dean doesn’t stand a chance. He lurches upwards as best he can, clutching at Castiel’s hair, and comes with a silent cry as Castiel milks him dry with repeated swallows.

Castiel crawls up the bed and half-tucks Dean underneath him. The weight of his body is a comfort and a ward against the chill as sweat cools on Dean’s naked body.

Despite the fact that it’s morning, the room is full of strangely cast shadows, dim and warm. Dean eyes the ceiling from under Castiel’s chin, watching transparent umbral plumes shift over the plaster. He’s in no hurry to get up.

*******

By the time they leave the hotel room, it’s already mid-afternoon. His appetite has been off-and-on, but he’s hungry right now. 

They find a little cafe that serves burgers and sit out at a sidewalk table under an umbrella. As Dean picks through his food, Castiel reads over tourist pamphlets with intense focus. Beneath the table, their ankles are crossed, awareness leaking through the slivers of skin between pant leg and shoe.

“Is there anything you’d like to do?” Castiel asks casually, spreading open another pamphlet. 

Dean shrugs.

“There’s a lake nearby. The walk does not seem excessive,” Castiel leaves the sentence dangling.

Dean taps his boot against Castiel’s calf and nods almost absently, head tilted down towards the remains of his food. He pushes the basket of fries Castiel’s way. Castiel takes one, nibbles on it, like a mouse, and almost seems surprised.

Maybe he is surprised. Dean’s not exactly sure what sorts of things Castiel has actually tasted. He feels like he’s gotten Cas fries before, but maybe it had never overlapped when he was human. Maybe they were always shitty fries, lukewarm and limp, or stale, not ones with garlic and parmesan, fresh from the fryer.

He leaves the angel to the rest and sips on his drink, gaze wandering idly around the street.

*******

The afternoon sun is turning everything golden. Dean thanks Jack that the walk out to the lake is flat.

Someone had bothered to haul out sand to make a proper beach out towards the water. It’s small, but it’s likely enough for the locals. The area is well maintained, big, shady trees, soft grass, clean tables and chairs scattered around. They seem to be the only ones around though, even though it’s a nice day.

Dean sits down in one of the adirondack chairs with an inaudible groan and an audible click of his knees and looks out over the green-glass water. A heron pokes its way through the rushes nearby, disturbing some ducks. Castiel stands behind him, presence like gentle static electricity in the air.

A hand lands in his hair, “Was this too much?”

Dean shakes his head. He’s not tired exactly. Full, after the food, and a little drowsy in the summer heat, but it’s peaceful out here. He turns his face against the slight breeze coming off the lake. Castiel occupies himself with ruffling Dean’s hair. 

Dean lets his head fall back against the back of the chair, peering up at Castiel from under his eyelashes. The angel is looking down at him with a look of unbearable fondness that makes Dean’s chest feel funny.

Dean does some quick calculations in his head. The chair is wide enough for what he hopes to accomplish. He hauls himself up, pulling Castiel around and pushing him down into the chair, then he sits on his lap, leaning against his chest.

Castiel is frozen for a moment before he wraps his arms around Dean, curling lightly around his waist and hands resting on his outside upper thigh. He starts pressing kisses along Dean’s crown, lingering along the curve of his ear, and tilts Dean’s head enough to reach the edge of his jaw.

Dean lets out the smallest moan, and then stiffens up, the cause of his anxiety streaming from his fingertips to Castiel’s brain.

Castiel taps his thigh, smiling, “It’s alright. I would hear anyone coming. We’re alone.”

Reassured, Dean leans up for more kisses, slipping his tongue along the seam of Castiel’s lips until he gets the idea and opens up. Castiel doesn’t taste like anything, not even like all those fries he’d scarfed down, which is kind of interesting. Dean turns around in the seat to straddle Castiel’s thighs.

Dean nearly jumps right off the chair when Castiel slips his hand under his shirt, tracing lightly over his stomach. He stops, looking down at Castiel. Castiel doesn’t move his hand, but looks up hopefully, tilting his head.

Dean can’t help the quick look around the lakeside clearing. He trusts Castiel when he says they’re alone, but still, they’re right out in the open.

He nods, and starts trying to strip Cas.

Dean doesn’t let Cas distract him with his stupid, calloused thumb brushing circles over his stomach. Dean’s gonna at least get him shirtless, and he’s definitely returning the favor from earlier in some fashion.

Castiel sheds his coat, letting it crumple in the chair behind him, and Dean immediately starts unbuttoning his shirt, letting it fall as well. Dean shuffles just far enough on Castiel’s thighs to reach his fly, balancing awkwardly and nearly tipping right out of the chair as the angel manages to shimmy his clothes down far enough to free his cock.

Resettled and no longer in danger of falling over, they’re both staring down at Castiel’s cock, all soft and small, nestled in a froth of dark curls, and Dean is going to start giggling if he isn’t careful, which is not where he wanted the mood to go.

“I have to do it on purpose,” Castiel clarifies, sounding flustered.

Dean doesn’t want to make him nervous, so he frees his own cock, already hard and leaking, while Castiel directs his own erection to rise.

He wishes he had some lube, but their hotel isn’t the sort that stocks it, and while Castiel is incapable of feeling embarrassed, he isn’t, and needing to be escorted to the store so he can buy some without losing sight of the angel makes him feel weird. Maybe it’s childish.

Once Castiel is hard and flushed against his own length, it’s easy to compare. The angel’s cock is just a bit shorter than his own, maybe a hair thicker. The skin is a bit darker, and the glans is a brilliant scarlet compared to the blush spreading across Dean’s.

Dean cocks his own head, and he reaches behind Castiel to tap on his bare back, between his shoulder blades, in question.

“Oh, really?” Castiel sounds surprised, which doesn’t make much sense to Dean.

He nods, rolling his eyes, and taps again. He feels the ripple of feathers appearing underneath his fingers, spreading out from Castiel’s spine and up the two newly revealed appendages. Castiel shakes his wings out, splaying them against the back of the chair. Dean nods in satisfaction, and kisses Castiel as a reward.

Pulling back, Dean spits on his palm and scoots closer, taking his cock and Castiel’s in hand. The slick heads rub against each other, frenulum to frenulum, and Dean squeezes, chasing the sharpness of the pleasure that it creates. Spit’s not much of a lubricant, especially in the summer heat, so he moves slowly, carefully, relying more on pressure than movement.

He curls forward to rest his forehead against Castiel’s. Castiel is actually remembering to breathe, exhaling out little cool puffs of air against Dean’s lips. It’s a little awkward with the wings in the way, but Dean loops his other arm around Castiel’s back and holds him close as they rut together.

Dean pauses, and Castiel lets out a questioning moan.

The middle of Castiel’s back, right between his shoulder blades, is wet. It hadn’t been before, Dean would have felt it. Dean pulls Castiel down into his chest to get a better idea of what he’s working with. The downy fluff there is damp and dripping; Dean fingers it curiously, and whatever it is slicks his hand. Castiel groans into Dean’s collarbone; his wings flare out to the sides. It’s not a sexual noise exactly, Dean would say a little closer to the sort of noise a person makes when they’re getting a good massage. He’s arching his back against Dean’s hand, like a cat when you hit a real good spot, and fluttering his wings just a bit. It’s adorable.

He pulls his hand back, rubbing his fingers against his thumb, and takes a cautious sniff. It’s very slippery, and it doesn’t smell very strongly, something a little sweet, a little earthy, maybe like dried flowers if he really had to guess. He tastes it, flickering his tongue over a fingertip, and it doesn’t taste like anything. If it was dangerous, he figures Castiel would’ve stopped him before he licked it.

Castiel is staring up at him, looking a little bit concussed and a lot smitten. Dean flushes up to his hairline. He takes one of Castiel’s hands, smearing the oil on it and raising his eyebrow in question.

“It’s my wing oil,” Castiel sounds a little hoarse, and that is very flattering, “To keep my feathers healthy.”

Ok, so maybe he could have guessed that, but he always figured Castiel was, well, not a material being when it came down to it, so why would he need to oil up his feathers like a common duck? It’s not an unfair assumption to make about a literal angel. The guy described himself as a wavelength way back when.

Dean delves back in to cover his right hand with that lightly fragrant oil, then wraps it around their cocks, sliding them together in the grip of his fist. Castiel chokes on a whine, looking down at the pair of them, flushed heads peeking out between Dean’s fingers.

Castiel writhes against him, practically whimpering, and Dean really, really hopes he was right that they were the only ones out here, or else some poor hiker is getting a full show. It’s not going to stop him though. He digs in, licking and biting all along Castiel’s throat, pressing their hips close enough together that they might just merge into one being. The skin underneath his lips starts glimmering white-blue, like a welder’s torch, reflecting in Dean’s eyes. Castiel’s cock is twitching and leaking against his, almost enough to make the wing oil unnecessary. Dean drops his other hand down; he needs two thumbs to make it fair, circling lightly over their glandes and playing over their slits. He clamps down hard with his thighs when Castiel tries to buck, nearly unseating him. He sucks a line of bruises, all lit up from underneath, under the curve of Castiel’s jaw.

Arousal burning in his stomach, Dean crushes them together as he comes, painting lines of white up their stomachs. Castiel grabs the back of his neck and smothers his growling groan into Dean’s mouth as he peaks as well, flooding Dean’s hands with his come.

They catch their breaths in the afterglow, trading shaky kisses as they come down. The glow in Castiel’s throat slowly fades.

Castiel’s got a whole thing of wet wipes in his coat, which is handy because Dean really didn’t want to sacrifice his shirt. He mops up his hands and his stomach, tucking himself away in his jeans, before more tenderly cleaning up Cas and helping him up. He doesn’t let Cas get too far though, or retrieve his shirt and coat, just pulls him up into a hug and hides his head in his chest. Castiel indulges him, as he usually does. His hands are cleaner than Dean’s at least, so he rethreads his fingers in Dean’s hair.

Dean is tired. He’s getting old.

What a wonderful thing.

They do have a bit of a walk back to the hotel room though. No Angel Express anymore. That’s a little annoying.

“Do you want to head back?” Castiel asks, likely reading his mind.

Dean nods into his chest.

“Can I put my clothes back on then?” Castiel smiles against the crown of his head, teasing.

Dean huffs, but releases him, standing back and gathering himself as Castiel carefully buttons up. Before he pulled it on, Dean could see the big oil splotch on the back of the fabric where Castiel had inadvertently rubbed himself. Hopefully, it washes out.

At least, it didn’t get through to his coat. Castiel looks as pristine as always. He holds out his hand again.

“Let’s head back,” he says, hooking Dean’s fingers with his own.

Together , is the unspoken word.

Dean tucks himself under Castiel's arm, hitching his across the angel's waist, and they take off down the trail together.