Chapter Text
December 9, 2017
Well, there was at least one good thing about going on a hunt with just Cas—Dean could set him on research duty all by himself and he wouldn’t make that pissy bitchface at him for it like Sam did.
But that was the only good thing. He was terrible for conversation, constantly turned up the thermostat when Dean wasn’t looking, minced around the room stark naked, and was—making Dean—think things he shouldn’t.
He hadn’t been lying when he said he felt a bit tired, so he wanted to take a quick shower and then nap for an hour before going back to business. He just…hadn’t said why. And the reason was because he really, really needed to get away from Cas right now, but he couldn’t justify going out and driving around because they still had work to do and it was friggin’ cold out there, and besides, using a nap as an excuse was much more appealing. Even if he was in the same room as Cas, he wouldn’t be aware of Cas.
Aware of the fact that they were alone.
Dean had to catch himself from slamming the door to the bathroom, otherwise Cas might go and get all Concerned that Dean was mad and start asking questions.
It had so not been Dean’s idea to investigate the idiotic rumors of the haunted warehouse down in Ohio. No, Dean had said it sounded like crap, but Sam, in his infinite wisdom, had declared they were going just in case. So they had, and yes, they’d investigated, and Sam had decided that he needed to go check out a weird noise he’d heard up in the rafters, so he of the college degree had climbed up a rickety and rusted set of stairs to check it out.
Dean really didn’t think it took a college degree to remember that you were a giant, and that very old, rusted things sometimes gave way when heavy weights were placed on them.
When the source of the noise had flown right at his face—oh, the case of the warehouse haunted by the ghosts of bitchy pigeons, awesome, Sam—he’d stumbled backwards and the shaky catwalk he’d been on had decided it had had enough. The whole thing hadn’t collapsed on him, luckily, but it had essentially snapped in half and he’d gone down, flailing like a spaz, and even Dean had heard that absolutely sickening crack when he’d hit the cement floor left-leg-first.
He absolutely could not believe that his stupid kid brother had gotten a compound fracture on a dud hunt.
The doctor had thrown around a bunch of big words, of course, telling him exactly where he’d broken it and how long he’d be laid up, but fuck that—Sam had a broken leg and was immobile for six weeks. That was the long and short of it, and it was stupid because Sam was stupid. Only funny thing to come out of this was that Cas had been doing his ample best to bubble-wrap Sam and keep him in a box for the duration of his cast-wearing days. But even that wasn’t funny anymore, because now Sam wasn’t stuck with the little bastard. Dean was. Thanks, Sam.
Oh yes. Thank you so much, Sam. Sam had been the one to tell Dean that Bobby’d found a new case, and Sam had been the one to suggest that he go check it out. And most of all, Sam had been the one to suggest that he take Cas with him. Dean wasn’t stupid—he knew Sam was doing it to get that fussy moron away from him, because he really didn’t think the bubble wrap part of Cas’s care-taking was amusing at all (because he had no sense of humor). But Dean had agreed—‘sides, he’d been sick of staring at Sam’s worthless ass for three weeks. He wanted to get out of the house anyway, and a case sounded good. At the time, he hadn’t thought anything of it—he and Sam had taken Cas on hunts before, and Bobby himself had dragged Cas along for a few as well, so he knew he was a decent sub-hunter when it came to duo-hunting. It’d been five years—he was getting damn good, was the truth, and at a surprisingly fast pace.
Prepping for the hunt had been uneventful. Packing up to head out had been routine. The drive to Indiana had been positively boring. And then Dean had pulled into the parking lot of his hotel of choice. He’d just pulled the keys out of the ignition when it had hit him.
Cas. Oh, fuck.
Cas.
He’d stared in horror at Cas, who had just looked back, confused.
He—no. He could not do that. There was no way in hell he could go in there with Cas in tow and ask for a hotel room. For one hotel room. Where they would both be sleeping for up to a week.
Alone.
The last word had popped into his head unbidden, and at that he’d ordered Cas to stay the fuck where he was and not move an inch. Upon being given such a direct order, Cas had obeyed, sitting patiently while Dean had shakily gone into the front desk and asked for one room, almost stumbling over asking for a double, because fuck, what if the guy checking them in spotted the dude sitting in the seat out in the Impala? Why hadn’t he told Cas to duck down or something?
It was one thing to be smirked at and accused of all that gay shit that wasn’t true when he checked into a room with his brother, ‘cause he was just his brother and he knew better so he didn’t care. But not with Cas. Never with Cas. Because—because—
Because he did stuff with Cas.
He’d rushed Cas into the hotel room as quickly as possible, throwing some bags at him and telling him to get his ass inside before running in and praying to whatever powers there were that nobody saw them. Right then, he should’ve known that this was gonna be a bad deal. He should’ve called it quits, despite the fact that he never called it quits on a hunt. But…well, they’d settled in and started researching and going around asking questions and Dean had gotten focused. He’d buried himself in business and he’d been able to ignore any nasty insinuations his stupid traitor brain might try to make.
The first day, anyway.
That night, he’d gotten ready for bed, flopping down on his own and getting under the blankets just as Cas came wandering out after his two-hour shower—something he always did when he’d come with Sam and Dean on hunts, taking advantage of endless hot water without Bobby hollering at him for wasting it. Dean had glanced up and seen him—
And what the fuck was that?! His stomach had twisted, little sparks of heat there, just at the sight of Cas with a towel around his waist and nothing else, his bare chest still a little wet, his hair standing up in wet spikes, and there it had happened again, that one thought.
Alone. Just me and Cas. All alone.
He’d immediately rolled over and wrapped himself up tightly in his sheets and blankets, squeezing his eyes shut and willing himself to fall asleep as quickly as possible. He hadn’t, of course—and fuck everything, he’d woken up hard the next morning. And fuck everything with a side of in-the-eye-socket, Cas had been awake before him, puttering around the room doing God knew what. So Dean had been forced to just sit there and pretend to be asleep until his hard-on had subsided. He’d immediately thrown himself back into the case, because when he was working, he wasn’t thinking stupid shit like that.
But he couldn’t work on the case 24/7. Every time they had even a minute of downtime, his mind circled right back around to the same goddamn thing—and every goddamn time, there was that tiny flutter in his stomach and he’d find himself glancing surreptitiously at Cas and some deranged part of him would immediately think, Hey, wouldn’t it be great to tap that? All alone, Dean!
Jerking himself back to the present, Dean angrily shucked his clothes and set them on the toilet tank after turning on the shower and waiting for it to heat up.
That thought and those ideas kept creeping up on him and it was driving him batshit. So what if they were alone. It wasn’t like they’d never been alone before. There had been times when Bobby and Sam were out running errands and Cas and Dean were back at home base. Did anything happen then? No. Okay, it did that one time, back in the early days when they kind of made out in the backseat of the Impala. But that didn’t count! Everything had been…new and crap, and it had been an accident as much as anything. And anyway, they’d stopped as soon as Dean had heard Bobby’s truck pull into the driveway (stopped, meaning Dean nearly threw himself through the back windshield trying to get away from Cas). He’d never had this insane urge like this ever.
That’s ‘cause there was always a risk of getting caught.
He yanked the shower curtain back and jumped in, growling irritably to himself.
Really, Dean was pretty sure he knew exactly what was going on. He was entering his fifth year of what was essentially celibacy. Yeah, he and Cas…fooled around sometimes, and Cas could give a pretty good handjob when Dean let him, but that was just it—it was a handjob. It wasn’t sex. And since he wasn’t actually having sex, he was getting teased something fierce. He’d get lots of kissing and rolling around on a bed and get touched and touch back and then…nothing. Just some mutual jerking-off. And it didn’t happen very often to begin with.
Jesus, he was so fucking horny and couldn’t do a goddamn thing about it.
He scrubbed fiercely at his hair, scowling. It really wasn’t helping the hunt, going through it in this weird mood. He just—dammit, he really missed sex sometimes, and he just happened to be missing it now. But what could he do? Go out and pick up some chick? Pfft—no.
He huffed, shaking his head a little bit as he rinsed the suds out of his hair and feeling a little stupid. He could just do what he always did when he got all hot and bothered and had no outlet—and may as well do it here.
Dean ignored the mild discomfort he felt, knowing he was about to crack one off with Cas out there, but he didn’t know about it and never would. Door was locked, and Cas was researching. He’d beat it if he wanted to—done it enough times with Sam only one wall away from him, anyway. Hell, once did it right there with him in the room when Sam was asleep. If Sam couldn’t stop him, he sure as fuck wasn’t gonna let Cas stop him either. He needed to stop thinking these things, so he’d just…relieve the pressure a bit.
He closed his eyes as he started soaping up his washcloth, scrubbing his body down and leaning against the tile. A brunette was the first thing that popped into his head, green eyes, and she was a c-cup if he ever saw one. That’d do it.
Dean took his time pulling her shirt off. Mmm—soft and slender, just how he loved it, and her bra was pink with little lacy edges. She had a coy smile, and he liked that, too. Oh, so she wanted to take the bra off for him? He was not about to deny a lady. Oh yeah, her tits—sweet handfuls of perfection, that’s what they were, and Dean reached down to help his boner along the rest of the way, loosely stroking himself until he was completely hard. Now the fun could begin.
Leaning his head back, he could almost feel the way her fingers slid up under his shirt, taking the fabric with them, and the way her tits pressed against his bare chest when she stepped into his arms, her nipples hard and just begging to be teased. He was already reaching up to cup her boobs, and he heard her sigh. Oh, bed? Yep, that sounded good. He was on his back and she was draped across him, kissing every single sweet spot he loved, her fingers resting in the grooves of his ribs, and he reached down to twine his fingers her messy hair when she kissed right at the top of his jeans. She didn’t waste any time down there, though, already coming back up to suck softly at his pulse point on his neck, and his grip on his prick tightened, the soap on his fingers slick and the water hot.
Mmm—good, she was good, and he could almost feel the way she licked behind his ear, and he loved the way she tasted when she kissed him again with lips that were a little chapped as he forced his hands inside her jeans, gripping tightly at that sweet ass, soft fingers stroking up his sides and touching his ribs, and he ground against his hard-on and—
His eyes flew open. For a single second, he sat there, horrified that his imaginary chick had a dick. And then he realized what had happened.
Goddammit, Cas!
Angrily, he reached for the soap again, working up a fresh lather.
This was not the first time his fantasies had been invaded by that fucking angel. Far from it—which was a horrible fact of his life now. First time it had happened, his boner had shriveled up so fast he’d wondered if he’d ever get it up again. But no, since then he’d—he’d come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t help but think of Cas sometimes, because he really could give a good handjob and knew every single thing Dean liked down there, and it was all Dean was getting these days anyway, so it wasn’t like it was his fault.
But he didn’t want to think of Cas right now! Cas was the whole reason he was jerking off in the shower in the first place, because he was so hard up for sex that he was thinking about—doing stuff with him in a hotel room! He wanted to go back to Tracy—he’d just decided she was a Tracy. Shutting his eyes again, he tried to recapture the mood, but the second she opened her eyes he knew it was ruined—because her eyes were blue.
Growling, his hand still on his cock, he briefly pondered just giving up and getting out and going back out there to sleep it off. But no, he had a nasty feeling about what would happen if he did that—that he’d go to bed and have a fucking wet dream in the same room as Cas, and he just knew Cas would be in it. It was bad enough he’d had a wet dream about—about Cas once or twice (and they involved way, way more than he wanted to think about ever doing with that fucking dude). But to have one right there next to Cas, with Cas awake and hearing all of the happy noises he’d undoubtedly be making? Not happening.
Dean needed to get off. And he couldn’t get off to Tracy. He could do his best, but just knew that no matter what she’d just keep turning into Cas.
Fine. Fine. Cas wanted to keep intruding on his private time? Okay—if that’s the way he wanted it, he’d give it to him. And—maybe it’d calm him down. The tiny part of him that kept hinting that he wasn’t just horny, but that he was actually friggin’—was friggin’ horny for that dude out there (and that, as always, sounded like Sam) suggested it might help. Fuck you, he thought, setting the soap down and grabbing himself again.
Tracy was Cas now and she had turned into Cas way, way too easily. He shrugged that off, swallowing hard, concentrating on the half-lidded blue eyes he could see above him. Cas’s mouth was on his, hot and insistent. Stupid angel was so damned pushy in bed sometimes, even in his damned head. His hands were warm, skimming up his sides, and his mouth followed his fingers, kissing every single spot that Tracy had kissed, and Dean was disgruntled to realize that that no, that was not the case—it had always been Cas kissing him in the first place and he knew it.
His fist moved faster when he turned the tables in his mind’s eye; Cas beneath him, flushed with his lips parted, and watching eagerly as Dean unzipped his jeans for him, and he was wriggling out of them, and somehow things fast-forwarded a little and now Cas was pushing Dean’s own pants off of his hips. Why was he always in such a hurry? Holding it off, he could feel one of Cas’s hands in his hair as Dean licked and nibbled across his skinny chest, all the way down to his soft stomach, and he sucked the skin there hard enough to leave a mark, and Cas liked it. He could tell, because he could hear those little noises he made. Back up he went, and when he pressed his body down against Cas, rubbing his hips against him and breathing against his hammering pulse, Cas moaned his name.
Dean could feel his heart beating harder, and the fingers on his free hand flexed against the tile of the shower when Cas’s skilled fingers were suddenly slipping beneath his shorts, and he timed it so well, timed his pumping fist with Dean’s thrusts, just like he always did because Cas was the fastest goddamned learner Dean had ever been with. He turned his head to the side, the steam of the shower almost like Cas’s hot breath against his neck, and he could hear Cas groan when Dean reached into his boxers and seized him in return.
He kept his hand moving in reality and his fantasy, panting now, and he could almost feel it, so much hot skin against his, Cas against him, both of them thrusting in time, Cas’s fingers digging into his shoulder, and he didn’t care anymore because it was Cas, and he could feel his balls tightening and, jerking hard and fast, he pictured it as clearly as he could—Cas, rapturous and shaking, moving under him, and then he opened his eyes and looked at him.
Dean came with a grunt, gritting his teeth as he kept going, drawing it out as long as he could, seeing him, seeing Cas, feeling Cas, fuck, fuck yes—
Seconds later, he was leaning against the shower wall, his eyes still closed, breathing heavily, letting the shower spray wash away all evidence of his Alone Time. God…
He allowed himself a couple minutes to just enjoy the post-orgasmic looseness, the way his knees felt a little trembly, the way his eyes wouldn’t open, the way everything was just…relaxed, and all of the tension oozed out of him and he was blissfully calm and had not a single desire to get his hands on Cas or anything else. He sucked in a breath and let it out in a long exhale, savoring how, for the moment, everything was great.
Dean knew it wouldn’t last, though, so he heaved himself away from the wall and rubbed himself down briefly, making sure he had no trace of his little flute solo left on him, and then slammed the water off, grabbing a towel as he stepped out of the tub. He dried off quickly and then got dressed in his old clothes before rubbing fiercely at his hair, knowing it was now sticking up in all kinds of little wet points but way beyond caring. Then he grabbed the doorknob, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the motel room.
Looking at Cas so soon after fucking masturbating to him was not in the cards, so he didn’t, taking great pains to make sure he wasn’t even in his peripheral vision. He just charged over to his bed and flopped down onto it, not bothering to get under the covers. He was a little concerned Cas would try to talk to him, but his concerns turned out to be unwarranted—Cas said nothing, just kept at whatever he was doing on his computer, his fingers slow on the keys like they always were. Dean shifted around in bed, trying to get more comfortable, his eyes determinedly closed.
Okay. That was better. He was…calmer. No sick urges to jump Cas, no pent-up horny, just…yeah. He had a handle on it. And if later on it happened again, he would just…do it again, he supposed. But it wasn’t gonna happen again, dammit. He wouldn’t let it.
A thump sounded at the foot of the bed, and despite the fact that he’d not wanted to look, he couldn’t help it—he cracked open one eye and glanced down, and then both eyes were open and he just stared.
Cas was digging around in the mini-fridge. Bent over, his ass waving in the air, digging around in the mini-fridge.
He sat up shortly after, kicking it closed with one foot, and then strolled over to his bed and bent over again, his shirt riding up as he did, and Dean’s mouth went suddenly dry as he was afforded a look at the bare flesh of the small of his back as well as his firm ass now. He pulled his bag out from where he’d stashed it and came back with those stupid allergy pills he was always taking, and he tucked the bag back under the bed as he twisted the cap off of the bottle of water he had in his hand so he could take his medicine. Then he just easily crossed the room and sat back down, stretching his neck a little by leaning his head back, exposing the line of his throat as he popped his neck, and then he tossed down his allergy meds and washed them down with a swig of water. And then he saw Cas’s tongue slip out and lick across his lips as he set his drink down on the table, completely unaware of Dean watching him the whole time.
Dean buried his face in his pillow, his eyes squeezed shut.
He was gonna kill that stupid fucking angel.