Chapter Text
The Impala is parked in front of an old, abandoned drive-in, less than thirty minutes from the bunker. The wind moves through the tall grass, and a few insects hover against the windshield before flying away. No movie playing on the cracked screen—just the summer night stretched across the sky like a blanket of indigo and gold.
Dean still has his hands on the steering wheel, staring blankly ahead. He’s drunk enough, but not enough to clear his head. There’s no getting out of this confusion. He’s restless and doesn’t even know why—or rather, he knows too well, but prefers not to give it a name. That reason is sitting next to him.
Castiel is still, contemplative, as if there are things written in the sky only he can read. Yet there’s something in his breathing, in the way he holds his hands, that makes him more human. Maybe too human. He feels the need to speak, but it’s like something wraps around his throat— like an invisible hand. He tries to push through it, to find the right words in a language that’s usually so simple, far simpler than Enochian, but now impossibly complex.
“I really like having sex with you,” he says, softly, like he's commenting on the weather or how it hasn’t rained in a while.
Dean avoids looking at him, runs a hand down his face. Fuck. Even Castiel wants to talk now. As if Sam’s Dr. Phil crap wasn’t enough.
“It’s just that… I don’t think it’s only sex,” Castiel adds, tilting his head slightly, trying to catch Dean’s eyes in the dim light of the car.
Dean scratches his head, sighs. He hopes his body language makes it clear he’s not interested in this conversation. “But it is just sex, Cas,” he replies, forcing a smile despite the discomfort.
“Not for me. I feel really good things when it happens.”
“It’s just fun,” Dean shrugs. “Like in those pornos, with the pizza guy and the babysitter. A physical need. It’s a release. That’s all.”
A heavy silence falls between them. Castiel doesn’t look offended. He doesn’t tense up. But something dims in his eyes.
“If it’s just a release for you… why do you look so involved? You tremble when you’re inside me.”
Dean doesn’t respond. He stares at the dashboard, jaw tight. He wants to vanish.
“When I’m inside you,” Castiel continues, “you look at me like you’re happy. Truly happy. Even if you pretend otherwise.” He’s thinking out loud now, but his heart is racing.
“Cas, I don’t want to talk—” Dean cuts himself off. Castiel has placed a hand on his thigh. A calm, intimate touch. Innocently provocative, like only he can be. He leans in and kisses Dean just below the ear. Dean flinches and hates himself for it. He wishes he didn’t react, that his legs wouldn’t tremble, that Castiel’s scent didn’t overwhelm him. He closes his eyes, shame washing over him.
He leans his seat back, sighs. Fine. Let it happen. He doesn’t have the strength to stop it, even though he already knows how he’ll feel later—like an asshole. Like someone who takes, who uses. Like a son of a bitch, like his father.
Castiel leans down and kisses him over the jeans, just above the crotch. Dean doesn’t stop him. Says nothing. Just lets it happen. Castiel unbuttons his jeans, moves lower, and takes him in his mouth with a disarming naturalness. Dean never thought innocence could be so sensual.
He exhales, tilts his head back against the seat. Castiel does it slowly. Focused. It’s not a performance. It’s care. He’s learned what Dean likes—not just what, but how. The pace of his pleasure, the movements to linger on and the ones to barely touch. Dean doesn’t moan. Doesn’t speak. He forces himself to make no sound beyond breathing. Until even breathing gets too heavy. His hand slips into Castiel’s dark hair. He could grab it, guide the rhythm. He could thrust, take, not give a fuck. But instead, he just strokes his head. To encourage. To praise. To feel like less of a jerk when he comes in his throat. Castiel lets out a low, barely audible sound. Almost shy.
Then he sits back up with a composure Dean’s never seen—not even in the most experienced hookers he’s spent half his life with. Castiel wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then turns to Dean with an intense look.
“I think you like me now.”
Dean looks at him, pupils still blown wide, breath still fast. When the pleasure fades, the shame that had floated away like a balloon crashes down again. He wants to be alone. Wants to protect himself—and hurt back.
“You swallowed. Of course I like you,” he snaps, wanting it to sound mean, humiliating. A way to say: back off. Be quiet. Be content.
Castiel doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t move. He just stares.
“Do you love me now?”
Dean blinks, grimaces. “What?”
“Do you love me—now that I did that?”
“Christ, Cas...” Dean rubs his face. “Listen, that’s not how it works with humans. You can’t just say shit like that.”
“I don’t know how it works,” Castiel replies, calm as ever, “but I want to learn. With you. But I know that every time we finish, you get sarcastic. You shut down. You pretend it meant nothing. And I... I feel bad. Used.”
Dean turns to him, voice rough. He’s getting angry—because anger is simple, it gives him back a sense of control. “Used? I never forced you into anything! You’re the one who took it like a fucking pornstar!”
“I’m not talking about coercion. I’m talking about absence. A deep void. About how you leave right after. How you say things to erase what was just there.”
Dean glares at him, furious. He wants to say something easy, like: I’m not good at this. Please, give me time. Please, leave me alone. But instead, he remembers what Cas said once, in bed, under the messy sheets. He had whispered: “You’re beautiful, Dean. You’re light.”
Dean doesn’t know what to do with words like that. He stores them somewhere in his head, in a pocket he never opens. Like letters he refuses to read.
“I’m not the affectionate type. You know that by now,” he mutters, defensive.
“I’m not asking for affection, Dean. I’m asking for truth.”
Dean scoffs, looks out the window, his green eyes fixed on the desolate landscape. His knee trembles slightly.
Castiel studies him for a moment, trying to figure out how to reach him. Because in moments like this, all he wants is closeness. He doesn’t know exactly what or how—but he knows that if Dean just put an arm around him, or ran his fingers through his hair, everything would be better. He feels the need to show that he’s serious:
“I watched some porn. To learn how to do it better. If you like it… I can learn things to make you happy.”
Dean turns sharply. Stares.
“You did what?” He doesn’t even know if he feels flattered, guilty, panicked, or amused.
Castiel nods, serious. “I wanted to learn. I want to give you pleasure, Dean.”
Dean’s heart tightens. He wants to laugh—but can’t. Because Castiel is sincere. Completely unguarded. Disarming. He makes even the most carnal desire feel pure.
“You’re nuts,” Dean murmurs. “Cas, you’re... you’re something good. A creature made of light. And I’m just… I’m just me.”
Cas looks at him with that calm you can’t buy or learn. “I like you. Just as you are.”
Dean closes his eyes for a second. He knows he’s about to ruin everything. Like always. Destruction is what he knows. He’s faced vampires, demons, leviathans, witches, werewolves, and every other monster in the world—but nothing terrifies him like Castiel’s blue eyes.
“Well, that’s your problem.”
Castiel lowers his head, looks down. And this time, yes, he looks hurt.
“When you do that... I feel stupid.”
Dean swallows hard. Wants to say: I’m sorry. But that’s too much.
“Maybe you are…” he says instead, with a little laugh and a crooked smirk, gripping the steering wheel again.
He leans forward. He hears the sound of wings as Castiel disappears. The seat is now empty. And Dean just sits there. Staring at the broken screen.
He starts the engine. The truth is—he’s the only stupid here.