Chapter Text
The inside of the bar is dark and dusty, lit only by dim yellow lights that cast cones of murky light over the booths along the walls. The hardwood floor under his feet is scarred with many years of wear, scratched and scuffed by heels and chair legs over time. As he stomps the snow off his shoes, his eye is drawn to the center of the room where the rectangular bar is draped with plastic garland made to look like the boughs of an evergreen. Strung along the bottom edge of the bar, Christmas lights flash sluggishly in hues of red and green, and it’s this little island of hope that Castiel makes his way towards after the door of the bar swings shut again, bell chiming softly behind him.
There are a few others in the bar: a grizzled trucker nursing a beer by himself in the corner, a pair of young women laughing noisily on the other side, a field of empty shot glasses cluttering the table between them. Castiel ignores them and the few other patrons, winding his way through the scattered tables and tall chairs to slide into a stool at the corner of the bar. He can’t see the bartender anywhere, so Castiel takes the time to unwind his scarf from around his neck and unbutton his coat, shoving the scarf into the sleeve and folding it carefully on the empty seat next to him.
He braces his hands on the bar in front of him, breathing in the old smells of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, his eyes trailing over dusty liquor bottles lined up behind the bar. The building is old and not exactly well-maintained, a dive by anyone’s standards. He still doesn’t know what made him stop, why this lonely building with its flickering sign had called out to him out of so many others he’d passed on his way home. It’s not the sort of place that he’d normally frequent but he finds it comforting in its unfamiliarity, so unlike the bright lights and new furniture and pristine rooms of his father’s house.
It’s exactly what he needs.
A tall man appears from the other side of the bar, his hands busy in front of his chest as he polishes a hi-ball glass clean. He pauses when he spots Castiel, a welcoming smile curling on full lips before he makes his way over.
“Hey, Merry Christmas,” he says over the inane chorus of “Jingle Bells” piping out of the speakers and Castiel manages to hold back his snort, but only barely. “What can I getcha?”
Castiel’s eyes flicker over the bottles lined up behind the bartender. “Something strong. Something… not festive.”
The man’s grin broadens, the lines deepening around his eyes. He sets the newly-dried hi-ball glass on the bar in front of Castiel and pulls a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black off the shelf behind him, twisting off the cap at Castiel’s approving nod. “You like it neat or on the rocks?”
“Neat,” Castiel guesses, less because he has a preference than because he wants to feel the warm burn without the coolness of ice, without water to dilute it. The bartender hums his approval and pours a finger of smooth, amber liquid into the glass, pushing it further towards Castiel with his knuckles.
The glass is warm and so is the whiskey when Castiel tips it back, a larger swallow than he perhaps should have taken, followed by another until the glass is empty. When he places the glass down on the bar, the bartender’s eyebrows are raised, an expression of mixed respect, amusement and concern on his face.
“Rough night?” the man asks mildly, tipping the bottle again to pour Castiel another glass without being asked, two fingers this time.
“Understatement,” Castiel replies, nodding his thanks as he raises the glass to his lips again. This time he takes a more appropriately-sized sip, licking his lips to chase the moisture there as he sets his glass back on the bar between his hands. When he looks back up the bartender is watching him, his eyes tracking the movement of Castiel’s tongue between his lips, down to his fingers where they toy with the tumbler in his hand.
The man shifts, tearing his eyes away to wipe absently at the bar under his hands. “I get it,” he says. “Holidays are tough. We get a lot of seasonal drinkers in here.”
Castiel frowns up at the bartender, who seems to get the message that Castiel is not interested in empty platitudes. He smiles again, this time closed-lipped, almost apologetic, and makes to turn away, when Castiel finds his mouth moving without his consent.
“Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you had been born into a different family?”
He doesn’t know what makes him say it, and he regrets it almost the moment the words are out of his mouth. The man freezes, the muscles of his back and shoulders tensing under his t-shirt. He turns slowly back towards Castiel, his face frozen in an expression of shock, tension in the line of his jaw, in the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. He’s silent for a moment and Castiel is moments away from apologizing when the man slings the rag over his shoulder and reaches automatically to pull a second glass from the rack beside him.
“Dude, you have no idea,” he says grimly as he pours himself a glass of whiskey to match Castiel’s. He tips back a generous sip and leans his forearms against the bar, his eyes fixing on Castiel’s face. They are light in color—green or hazel maybe, that much is clear even in the dimly-lit bar, even in the muddled flashing of the Christmas lights—and framed by long thick lashes. “All right,” he says, waving one hand in Castiel’s direction. “Hit me.”
Castiel blinks. “What?”
“Sounds like you got something you need to get off your chest, so—” the man raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Hit me.”
Castiel glances away then back, swallowing. “You don’t want to hear this.” He shakes his head. “Please, forget I said anything.”
“Hey, don’t tell me what to do.” The bartender grins, his expression softening the words. “Listening to your problems has gotta be better than moping about mine. So let’s have it.”
Castiel’s mouth twists humorlessly. He should swallow down the words rising in the back of his throat like bile, decline this strange bartender’s offer, finish his whiskey and flee back to his parents’ house with his tail between his legs. He stares at the bartender and the bartender stares back, waiting, something like a challenge in his expression. Castiel brings his glass to his lips, taking a sip while the man across from him does the same, their eyes locked together. Castiel clears his throat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I was supposed to be at my parents’ house for dinner tonight. It’s a family tradition. My brothers all came from out of town for the event.”
“Big family?”
Castiel nods. “I have three older brothers and a younger sister.” The man whistles, impressed and Castiel grimaces, nods his agreement. “They were all there, along with my eldest brother’s wife and their daughter. I have always been somewhat of a disappointment to my family, having decided to pursue a teaching degree rather than a Masters in Business like my brothers.”
“Black sheep,” the man says, grinning. “I like it. I’m guessing your parents don’t though.”
Castiel laughs humorlessly. “No.” He hesitates, but then goes on, the whiskey singing through his veins and warming him from the inside, making him brave (or perhaps foolhardy, given the type of place he is currently sitting in). “And there is also the matter of my sexuality which is more fluid than my parents would prefer.” He sets his jaw, staring determinedly back across the bar at the bartender, daring him to say something derogatory.
The man blinks, startled, his mouth opening and closing once, twice. He shuffles a hand through the short spikes of his light brown hair, blowing out a considering breath, and then he says, “Yeah. I know how that goes,” and it’s Castiel’s turn to blink in surprise.
“Anyway go on,” the man says, pulling a bowl of nuts from under the bar and taking a handful before pushing it towards Castiel.
The door of the bar chimes and Castiel turns to look over his shoulder; the truck driver from the corner is leaving. The man flicks his fingers in goodbye towards the bartender and Castiel turns back in time to see the bartender wave back. Castiel scans the bowl of nuts, picking out a cashew and popping it into his mouth.
“From the moment I walked in the door my mother had begun making underhanded comments about my job, comparing me to my much richer, much more successful siblings. Then over dinner my sister made the mistake of mentioning my last relationship, which happened to be with a man—” he cuts himself off, waving a dismissive hand. “And that was the start of a huge screaming fight which resulted in my niece crying, my sister Hael running to hide in her room, and me storming out halfway through dinner.”
“Dude,” the bartender says, voice low and hushed.
Castiel nods sharply. “Yes. Needless to say it wasn’t the best Christmas Eve in recent memory.” He rubs one hand over the back of his neck. “I like my job. I am comfortable with my orientation. I fail to see why my family cannot accept me for my choices and love me in spite of them.”
The bartender makes a discontented noise, reaching for his glass. “Man, fuck ‘em.” His face twists momentarily, his eyes distant, and Castiel knows instinctively that he’s remembering. He shakes his head and extends his glass for a toast, which Castiel returns after a moment of confusion, raising his own glass until they clink together softly. “They shouldn’t have to love you ‘in spite’ of anything. There’s nothing to be ‘in spite’ of.”
They both tip back their glasses and Castiel swallows too much, coughs. The bartender reaches, laughing, to pound him on the back, letting his big, warm palm linger on Castiel’s shoulder before he pulls it back.
“Thank you,” Castiel says, when he can breathe again.
“Dean,” the man offers, extending his hand between them. He waits patiently while Castiel considers the broad, square palm, finally reaching to shake hands with the man. His grip is firm and dry, the fingers calloused.
“Castiel,” he replies and Dean grins.
“Well, Castiel,” Dean says, “sounds like you need somethin’ to turn your night around. How do you feel about pool?”
Castiel is not drunk. He isn't. But the warm fuzzy tingle spreading through his chest and out towards his fingertips is pleasant, as is the easy atmosphere in the bar, the deep, happy sound of Dean's laugh. The last of the patrons had trickled out over the course of the last half hour, leaving Castiel and Dean alone in the bar, and he lets the warmth of the whiskey and the ease of Dean's company soothe the tension that had gathered between his shoulder blades over the course of his evening with his family. He doesn't even mind the Christmas music streaming out of the speakers anymore, even though it's still just as inane and pointless as before, and he likes it even better when Dean starts to sing along, no doubt bolstered by his own second glass of whiskey, the last sips slipping around the inside of the glass as it dangles from his fingers.
"But baby it's bad, out there," he sings, leaning in to sing close to Castiel's ear as Castiel lines up his shot, Dean’s breath tickling at the hairs on the back of Castiel's neck and sending a shiver of sensation rippling down his spine. Castiel shoots, and the ball he'd been aiming at just misses the pocket. He turns to glare at his companion who smirks unashamedly and moves to line up his own next shot.
"You know this song isn't as romantic as it seems," Castiel retorts.
Dean's brow furrows and he straightens over the table. "What? What do you mean?"
Castiel, glancing upwards as he clasps his hands around his cue. "The man in the song is trying to coerce the woman into staying, presumably for a sexual encounter, in spite of the woman's continued protests. He’s very adamant. Not to mention the line 'what's in my drink', which implies he's spiked her drink without her permission."
Dean gapes, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as the song plays on, unaccompanied, in the background. "Well geez, Cas," he says. "Thanks for ruining a classic for me."
Castiel shrugs. "I'm sorry to disillusion you."
"Well we can't listen to this shit now," Dean says, leaning his pool cue on the table and disappearing through the swinging doors into the kitchen without another word. Castiel blinks after him, confused, and hears the music switch off, replaced by the somewhat familiar electric guitar of AC/DC's "Thunderstruck". Dean turns it up a few notches and comes skidding back out from behind the doors, a wide grin splitting his face.
"Really?" Castiel asks, deadpan, and Dean waggles his eyebrows.
"Well, you were being a Grinch about it anyway; figured I should switch off the holiday tunes before you steal the rest of Christmas." He nudges Castiel with his elbow on the way past and repositions himself over the table, leaning down and stretching out to make his shot. His tongue pokes out between his lips as he concentrates, his shirts riding up over the waistband of his jeans and the black apron tied around his hips to expose a sliver of back and hip. He uses a closed bridge, sliding the pool cue through the circle of his finger, the muscles of his back standing out under his t-shirt as he stretches. Castiel stares, his mouth and throat suddenly dry and he swallows with effort.
Dean takes his shot, the cue ball making contact with the solid blue two-ball with a crack. The ball drops smoothly into the pocket Dean was aiming for and Dean straightens with a grin.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, thunderstruck!" he half-sings, half-yells along with the song, miming over his cue like the strings of a guitar and Castiel can't help his huff of laughter which only makes Dean smile wider.
He's beautiful, even in the dirty light of the lamps dangling over the table, the sickly red and green flashing of the Christmas lights festooned haphazardly around the place. He’s beautiful and charming and full of life, and it makes no sense why he would be here alone on a holiday when by all rights he should be curling up with a partner just as beautiful as he, or maybe even a family.
"Why are you here?" Castiel blurts out as Dean lines up his next shot. The bartender pauses, raising his eyebrows over the cue and the stretch of green between them. "I mean," Castiel hastens to clarify, "why are you here in this bar on Christmas Eve?"
Dean's shoulders stiffen under his t-shirt and he shrugs, his gaze returning to the cue. "Someone's gotta work Christmas Eve, Cas." He licks his lips, concentrating on the ball, and Castiel follows the motion hungrily. Dean makes the shot, curses when the ball misses the pocket slightly and ricochets back to the other side of the table. "Ellen—she's the lady who own's the place—she and her daughter Jo are hanging out tonight, some family tradition or something, so they're both out. My brother's busy with his girlfriend tonight, spending a cozy night in or something sappy like that, probably feeding each other fuckin' fruitcake with their fingers. Tracy's gone home for the holidays and even Ash has something going on tonight." He smiles but this time it's empty, lacking the earlier warmth. "Someone's gotta do it and I didn't have anywhere better to be, so I volunteered."
He's lonely, Castiel realizes with a shock—this beautiful, charismatic man is lonely on Christmas Eve, just like he is.
"I'm glad it was you," he blurts, and wishes instantly to take it back when Dean looks up, startled, blinking wide eyes as he stares at Castiel across the table. Something passes over Dean’s face, something open and vulnerable but he recovers quickly, plastering on a salacious grin.
"Well yeah, otherwise you'd be drinking alone," he says with a wink, and raises his glass in salute.
Castiel lifts his own glass, inclining his head in silent agreement and takes a long sip of whiskey, letting the burn of it distract him from his thoughts.
They finish their game, Dean teasing Castiel the entire time, singing along through it all. Halfway through, Dean looks up at the clock ticking sluggishly away on the wall opposite them and realizes that it’s been Christmas for two hours, and disappears into the kitchen. He procures a dilapidated Santa hat from somewhere and tugs it down over Castiel's head, ignoring his protesting scowl, positioning a pair of reindeer antlers amongst the spikes of his own hair. He laughs at the face Castiel makes and bumps his shoulder against Castiel's, and Castiel forgets to protest. Dean wins the game when there are still three of Castiel's stripes on the table but Castiel can't even begin to care, too amused with Dean's exaggerated celebration at his win.
Dean makes his way back to the bar, coming up with a coke for himself and a beer for Castiel. "Gotta drive home tonight, Cas, and I can't be drinking too much on the job." He clinks the can of his soda dully with Castiel's beer bottle and tips it back, and Castiel watches his throat work as he swallows.
"Hey look," Dean says suddenly, jerking his head up towards the ceiling and bouncing his eyebrows suggestively. "Mistletoe."
Castiel follows Dean's glance, looking up to see that they are indeed standing beneath a sprig of what looks like plastic mistletoe taped to the lampshade above them. He looks back down to find Dean smirking at him teasingly. He’s clearly joking; he doesn’t actually think that Castiel will kiss him, but Castiel can’t help the way his eyes drop to Dean’s mouth, tracing the full curve of his bottom lip and the perfect bow of the top one. He drags his gaze back to Dean’s eyes and sees them darken perceptibly, and Dean’s tongue slips out to moisten his bottom lip, the atmosphere between them changing into something else, something heady and hot and needy.
For once, Castiel doesn’t let himself think. Instead, he leans in and kisses Dean.
Dean makes a muffled sound of surprise against Castiel's lips but then he's kissing back, leaning into the press of Castiel's mouth. It's soft at first, a chaste press of lips, but then Dean steps in closer, letting their chests brush together, and he parts his lips for Castiel's tongue with a sigh. Castiel's free hand comes up to curl around the back of Dean's neck, tugging him in closer and firmer, and Dean's slips around to curl around Castiel's hip. The kiss tastes like whiskey, smoky and heady and warm, and Dean groans into Castiel's mouth.
He pulls back abruptly, tugging the beer bottle out of Castiel's hand and setting it on the nearest table and then he's back, cupping Castiel's face between his broad palms and pushing in tight. Castiel's hands slip around Dean's waist, sliding under his shirts to skim up the curve of his back, fingers trailing over the taut lines of muscle on either side of his spine as Dean licks back into Castiel's mouth. Castiel sucks on Dean's tongue and Dean groans, the sound sending heat rushing down to pool in Castiel's groin, his cock growing hard and heavy between his legs. Dean backs him into the pool table, pinning him there with his hips, and Castiel pulls him in tighter, nipping at his bottom lip as Dean tugs off Castiel's Santa hat and fists a hand tight in his hair.
All too soon, Dean gentles the kiss, sucking short, gentle kisses to Castiel's lower lip before pulling back. Castiel loosens his grip around Dean's waist, prepared to let him go, but Dean stays close, their hips pressed together as he leans back just far enough that he can look down into Castiel's face.
"Shit, Cas," he says, letting the fingertips of one hand trail down Castiel's chest, the other carding gently through the hair at the back of Castiel's skull. "This might be a little forward but you kissed me first, so what the hell—you want to come back to my place?"
"Yes," Castiel says instantly, and he leans in to press a kiss under the angle of Dean's jaw, feeling him swallow against his lips.
"Okay," Dean says, and Castiel smiles to hear his voice come out a little shaky. "But I gotta shut this place down first before we do anything, so I'm gonna need you to quit doing that for a sec."
Castiel pulls back from kissing down Dean’s throat, his lips quirking up into a smirk. Dean groans and kisses him again on the lips before pulling away.
"C'mon, Casanova," Dean says, fitting his fingers around Castiel's wrist and tugging him upright, "help me shut this place down so we can get back to my place and get naked."
Castiel picks up chairs, turning them upside down on the tables so that Dean can sweep around them. He wipes down the bar while Dean counts cash, smiling fondly as Dean nods his head unconsciously to the beat of the classic rock music still blaring through the speakers, the reindeer antlers still sitting—now slightly askew—on his head. Finally, Dean deposits the cash in the safe in the office, switching off the music on his way back through and pulling on a scuffed leather jacket.
"Ready?" he asks as he reaches behind the bar to shut off the Christmas lights.
Castiel grins. "Are you?" He looks pointedly up at Dean's head where the antlers are still perched, jingling merrily with Dean’s every movement. Dean scowls and yanks them off, tossing them down on the bar to be dealt with later.
"Yeah okay, laugh it up," he grumbles, a flush rising in his cheeks and Castiel huffs a laugh.
"You shouldn't drive," Dean says, his voice low, "you can drive over with me. Then I can drop you off here tomorrow or you can get a cab back or whatever."
"Is my car going to be okay here for now?"
Dean scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. "No problem. I've left my baby here a few times myself and she's never gotten a scratch."
Castiel follows Dean out the door, pausing as he shuts off the lights and locks the door behind him. Dean leads him to a long, sleek black car, the parts not covered by a thin layer of fluffy snow shining under the light of the nearby streetlamp.
"This is an old car," Castiel notes once they're both inside, the windows brushed off and the heater running full blast. Dean blows into his cupped hands to warm them, then reaches to put the car in drive.
"Yeah, '67. It was my dad's before he. You know." He grimaces, reaching to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. "She's been through her share but I keep her purring like a kitten."
Castiel runs his fingers over the leather seat between them. "It's very nice," he comments. "You've done a good job." Dean grunts in acknowledgement, reaching to flick on the radio, and Castiel stifles a smile when more classic rock fills the inside of the car. He keeps his hands to himself, folded loosely in his lap, watching the snowy town of Sioux Falls drift by as Dean drives.
Finally, Dean makes a last turn and parks in the lot of a squat apartment building. It's a bit run down, and Dean looks embarrassed as he unlocks the outer door and leads Castiel up the raggedly carpeted stairs to the third floor where he stops outside of the door marked 308.
Inside the apartment, Castiel is surprised to find that while the floors and carpets are old and dated, they are immaculately clean. The appliances too are dingy with age but sparkling clean, and everything is tucked neatly in its place, aside from a tattered copy of Cat's Cradle resting on the arm of the an older brown couch and a couple of DVDs left in a pile on the floor in front of the modest entertainment unit. There's a little artificial Christmas tree in the corner, one of those small four-foot ones, and it's draped in ornaments with a small collection of wrapped presents underneath.
When he turns around he finds Dean watching him. "What?" Dean asks, when he sees his smile.
"You have a nice home," Castiel says, looking around.
Dean shrugs. "It's not much, but I get by."
Castiel nods his agreement. "I can't afford much more on my salary," he says. "My parents offered to buy me a house, but I didn't want their help, particularly when the help came with... conditions."
“Hey, I get that. I wouldn’t want it with strings attached either.” Dean nods appreciatively. "So uh. Can I get you a beer or something? Coffee?"
"Coffee would be nice," Castiel agrees, following Dean into the kitchen.
The coffee is good, rich and dark and warm after the chilly drive to Dean's apartment. Castiel sits beside Dean on his worn couch, their thighs brushing as they sip at the hot liquid. Dean is warm against his side and Castiel is hyper aware of him, the tight curl of interest low in his belly stirring every time Dean's shifting causes his arm to brush against Castiel's.
"So what are going to do tomorrow?" Dean asks. "I guess you're not gonna want to go back to your parents' house for Christmas dinner."
Castiel frowns. "I'm not sure. I'll be expected, but I'm not inclined to spend any more time with them any time soon." His jaw tenses as he stares down at the coffee mug clasped between his hands. He doesn't want to think about his family or what he will do tomorrow so he changes the subject. "Do you have Christmas plans?"
Dean nods. "Yup. Ellen goes all-out on Christmas. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, the whole nine." He looks up at Castiel and grins. "Pie."
"And your brother? Will he be there?" Dean had implied that his father had passed away, and he wants to ask about Dean's mother, but decides against it.
"Yeah, and his girlfriend. And Bobby—he's kinda like my surrogate dad—and Ellen's daughter Jo and her sorta adopted-brother Ash, plus Jo’s girlfriend. It's a big party. We usually all drink too much eggnog and eat so much we can't move and wind up crashing all over Bobby's house.”
Castiel smiles wistfully. "It sounds very nice."
Dean's lips curl into an answering smile. "Yeah. Hey, we don't have to talk about Christmas. Don't wanna, like. Rub it in." He hesitates for a moment and then smooths his palm down Castiel's thigh, the touch sparking warmth in Castiel's belly. "I know what it's like to have shitty Christmases too. Before I got lucky with all this extended family, we spent most of our Christmases on the road, just me and my dad and my brother, after mom died. It sucked."
Castiel nods, looking down at Dean's hand, warm and heavy where it splays across his thigh, and back up at Dean. There is a spray of freckles scattered across Dean's cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and far from lessening his appeal, they actually make him more attractive. Dean is watching his face, and as Castiel stares back at him, his eyes—which are green, Castiel notes—darken visibly. He licks his lips, and then tension between them ratchets up until Castiel leans in a few inches, closing the gap between them. Dean leans in to meet him, their lips brushing softly and then hungrily when Castiel parts his lips. He's very aware of Dean's hand on his leg, even more so when Dean slips it up a few inches, his little finger sliding dangerously, tantalizingly close to the crease of Castiel's thigh.
For the second time that evening Dean pulls away to take Castiel's drink from his hand and set it on the side table behind him. When he returns, he grins, reaching to tug at Castiel's hip until Castiel swings his leg over Dean's lap to straddle him. Dean's hands trace warm paths up Castiel's thighs, over the cut of his hips and the curve of his ribs and up to his neck, pulling him down into a searing kiss. Castiel groans and opens for Dean's tongue, meeting it with his own and swiping over the full soft flesh of Dean's bottom lip. He rocks his hips into Dean's, gasping into Dean's mouth when he feels his growing erection brush against the hard line of Dean's own. He braces his hands on the back of the couch and grinds down, swallowing the sound Dean makes and repeating the motion just to hear it again.
"Fuck, Cas, that’s good," Dean says, his hips jerking up to meet the roll of Castiel's. Castiel hums his agreement, turning his head to kiss down the line of Dean's jaw and suck gently at his throat.
"Whoa, take it easy there," Dean manages to choke out, the arch of his neck as his head falls back against the back of the couch belying his words, "I gotta see my family tomorrow, man."
"No marks, then," Castiel says, easing up to nibble at his ear instead.
Dean gasps, his hands tightening in Castiel's hair. "I didn't say no marks. You can mark me, just not where anyone can see."
"Okay." Castiel reaches for the hem of Dean's shirt and Dean arches off the back of the couch to let him pull it over his head and toss it to the side. Castiel lets his eyes rake over Dean's body, trailing his hands down over Dean's broad, muscled shoulders to the tight chest and the slight softness over the waistband of his jeans. There are freckles over his shoulders and chest too, and he has a tattoo on his left pectoral, a pentagram encircled by fire. He's beautiful, skin golden and lovely in the soft light of the lamp at the side of the couch, and Castiel drops his mouth to suck biting kisses from his shoulder across the line of his collarbone to tongue at the hollow of his throat.
"Cas," Dean groans, and Castiel looks up, meeting his lust-darkened eyes. Dean surges up into a kiss, capturing Castiel's mouth again and his hands slip down out of Castiel's hair to tug him in close, squeezing his ass and pulling until their hips are crushed together, the hard lines of their erections rocking together through Castiel's dress pants and the denim of Dean's jeans.
"Dean," Castiel manages between kisses, unable to stop the motion of his hips. He curls one hand around the back of Dean's head, his fingers tightening in Dean's hair, making the man beneath him groan sinfully. "Dean—"
"Yeah Cas?" Dean says, his voice low and hungry, slipping his tongue along Castiel's lower lip.
"Where's your bedroom?" Castiel asks and Dean stops kissing Castiel to grin up at him.
Castiel slips off Dean's lap, pausing to adjust himself in his pants and then follows a still-shirtless Dean around the corner to a short hallway and then into his bedroom. His bed is immaculately made, the room neat and tidy like the rest of the house with only a pile of old paperbacks and an empty beer bottle beside the bed to disrupt it. There's a framed photograph on the table beside the bed of a blonde woman with a warm smile on full lips—Dean's lips.
He doesn't get much time to inspect the picture of the woman who must be Dean’s mother or to look around the rest of the room because Dean backs him into the wall beside the door, pinning him there with his hips to kiss him hard. Castiel squeezes his hands between them to undo his tie and work the buttons of his shirt while Dean hurries to help, starting at the bottom until they meet in the middle. The tie slips from Castiel’s fingers to flutter to the ground in a coil of red silk. Dean pushes the shirt over Castiel's shoulders and tugs it off his arms and then his hands are back, slipping up Castiel's sides to thumb at his nipples and then up to his neck again.
Castiel growls and pushes away from the wall, backing Dean towards the bed and pushing him down onto it. Dean laughs, reaching for his own belt buckle and flicking it open, as Castiel unzips his own pants, shoving them down around his ankles and stepping out of them. Dean's eyes stay fixed to Castiel's as he undoes his jeans, working them slowly down his hips and Castiel swallows, his cock twitching inside his boxer briefs, and steps forward to help. He drags Dean’s jeans down his thighs and off his legs, hooking a finger in first one sock, then the other. He climbs up on the bed, working his way up to settle over Dean’s thighs and stops when his eyes fall on Dean’s boxers, tented with his arousal, and he snorts out a surprised laugh: Dean’s boxers are dark green and adorned with images of brightly colored Christmas-tree ornaments, the words “Nice Balls” spelled out underneath the waistband.
“Hey! That’s not exactly great for the ego, you know,” Dean protests, but he’s grinning too.
Castiel huffs another laugh and bends to press a kiss to Dean’s stomach under his belly button and over his boxers, relishing the fine tremble of the muscles under his lips as he does. Dean’s breath catches and he reaches to comb his fingers through Castiel’s hair. He lets it go on for a few minutes, Castiel’s fingers slipping teasingly under the waistband of Dean’s boxers as he kisses along the sensitive flesh, and then Dean tugs gently on his hair.
“Get up here,” he says, his voice low and rough and Castiel obliges, crawling up Dean’s body and settling in over him and capturing his lips in a kiss. Dean coils his arms tight around him, pulling him in close to kiss him thoroughly and Castiel presses Dean into the mattress, kissing back hard and rocking their hips together.
Dean growls low in his throat and rolls them over until he’s hovering over Castiel. He grins salaciously and slips down Castiel’s body, dropping kisses on his torso on the way down, curling his fingers in the waistband of Castiel’s boxers. Castiel lifts his hips to let Dean pull his boxers off and away, his cock bobbing against his stomach once it’s freed.
Dean fumbles in the nightstand and produces a condom, rolling it down slowly over Castiel’s erection by touch, his eyes trained on Castiel’s. He pumps his fist a few times and positions Castiel’s cock with his hand curled around the base, then parts his lips over the head, sliding down to meet his fist. Castiel groans as Dean sucks him down, the warm heat of his mouth and throat combining with the sinful picture of Dean’s full lips parted around his cock to send him dangerously close to orgasm far too quickly. He places one hand on the back of Dean’s head, slipping his fingers into Dean’s hair, and Dean hums his approval, the vibration making Castiel gasp, his hips jerking at the sensation. Dean presses his hips down into the mattress and Castiel fights the jerk of his hips as Dean works his mouth up and down Castiel’s shaft, pulling off to kiss down the length and lick at his balls, returning to suckle at the head before moving his hand and swallowing him all the way down.
“Dean—fuck—” Castiel chokes out, his hand closing tighter in Dean’s hair, the other fisted tight in the sheets beside his hip and he drops his head back, biting his lip hard to hold back against the curling heat tightening his balls and pooling at the base of his spine. When he looks back down at Dean, Dean’s eyes are hooded and dark, creased in a devious smile as he bobs his head up and down Castiel’s cock. He slips his free hand down, caressing Castiel’s balls on the way by and nudges gently at the space behind, his fingers trailing lower to skim over Castiel’s hole. He looks up again and his eyes turn questioning and Castiel nods hurriedly.
“Do it,” he grunts, and Dean pulls off his erection long enough to smirk and suck his own finger into his mouth to get it wet, and then he’s back, mouth sliding down Castiel’s erection while his finger slips past Castiel’s rim.
Castiel groans, fighting the urge to buck his hips as Dean fingers him, his lips tight around Castiel’s cock as he sucks. He has to close his eyes, his hips rocking back against Dean’s finger and Dean’s mouth sliding up and down his length, and when Dean works a second finger into him and starts rubbing his prostate, pulling back to suck hard on the head, Castiel comes. Dean works him through his orgasm with his mouth and hands, and he doesn’t stop the motion of his fingers until Castiel slumps, gasping back on the bed.
“Good?” Dean asks when he finally pulls off, his voice raw and rough, and Castiel manages a fervent nod.
“So good, Dean,” Castiel says between shaky breaths and Dean chuckles, ducking his head to press a soft kiss to Castiel’s hip bone. He eases the condom off of Castiel’s softening dick and ties it off, tossing it into the nearby trashcan.
“Awesome.” He straightens up, kneeling over Castiel and reaches under the waistband of his boxers to pull out his cock, hard and leaking and dark with his arousal. He starts to stroke but Castiel shakes his head, reaching to grasp Dean’s hip; while the sight of Dean jerking off over him is gorgeous, breathtaking, that’s not what he wants right now.
Dean reluctantly stops the motion of his hand, and he groans when Castiel shuffles, turning over on his stomach and canting his hips up in invitation. He trails his free hand down from Castiel’s shoulder down the curve of his back to cup his ass, his thumb flirting with the crease and Castiel pushes upward into his hand.
“Cas—” Dean chokes out. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re hot, you know that?”
Castiel turns to look over his shoulder. “Dean, please,” he says and Dean’s eyes flutter shut, his hand squeezing tight around the base of his cock.
He fumbles in the nightstand again, coming up with a bottle of lube and a condom. He slicks his fingers and slips them back inside Castiel, and Castiel sighs happily as Dean fills him, pushing back against them. Dean works him open slowly and with a gentleness Castiel hadn’t expected and then he sits back to shuck his boxers and rolls the condom over his erection, slicking himself up with more lube and guiding his cock to Castiel’s entrance. Castiel is loose and open from his orgasm and Dean’s careful preparations and Dean eases slowly inside, the blunt press of Dean’s cock filling him inch by inch until he’s fully seated, hips pressed tight against Castiel’s ass. Dean breathes raggedly, pressing shaky kisses to Castiel’s shoulder and Castiel hums happily at the warm weight of Dean covering him from shoulder to ankle, the thickness of Dean’s cock filling him up.
“You okay?” Dean asks shakily, his lips moving against the back of Castiel’s neck and Castiel turns his head, stretching awkwardly to kiss Dean over his shoulder.
“Yes,” Castiel promises. “Better than okay.” He rocks his hips back, taking Dean in deeper, swallowing Dean’s gasp. Dean kisses down the bolt of his jaw, nuzzling into his hair as he settles down on his elbows, big hands sliding up on either side of Castiel’s arms.
Dean moves slowly at first in gentle rolls of his hips, his harsh breath tickling the hair at the back of Castiel’s neck. It’s been a while since Castiel has had anyone inside him and it feels so good, Dean’s cock working slowly in and out of him, the drag just right, tagging against his prostate. He fumbles for Dean’s hands, lacing their fingers together and for a moment Dean goes still above him and he wonders if he’s done something wrong, but then Dean groans, dropping a kiss to the back of his neck and fucking in harder on his next thrust.
“Cas,” he breathes, “Cas, fuck, you feel amazing.”
Castiel hums, rolling his hips up to meet Dean’s thrusts, and his spent cock twitches beneath him as the head of Dean’s dick nails his prostate, sending sparks of pleasure rippling through him. Dean’s breath washes warm and ragged over the back of his neck, his mouth hot and wet against Castiel’s skin.
The motion of Dean’s hips stutters, his thrusts growing erratic. “Not gonna last,” he pants, his hips speeding up, “gonna come,” and Castiel pushes up to take it, groaning into the mattress.
“Yes, Dean, I want you to come inside me,” he gasps out, “please,” and that’s it. Dean chokes out a startled gasp, pressing his forehead to the space between Castiel’s shoulders and he comes, his fingers tightening where they’re laced between Castiel’s, thrusting in one last time before he slumps, warm and heavy and spent over Castiel’s body.
He lays there for a minute, catching his breath and Castiel waits, presses a kiss to the back of Dean’s hand. Finally Dean levers himself up with a groan, slipping out of Castiel’s body and stands to clean himself up and dispose of the used condom. Castiel worms his way under the blankets, hoping he’s not going to be asked to leave, and he’s rewarded when Dean pads back into the bedroom, naked and glorious, shutting off the light on his way by and easing his way under the covers with Castiel, curling in close.
“Stay,” Dean says gruffly once he’s wrapped in tight around Castiel’s sex-warm body and Castiel smiles.
“All right,” he replies. Their lips find each other in the dark and they exchange soft kisses before parting slightly, their legs still tangled together and Dean’s head tucked into the curve of Castiel’s neck.
“Dean?” Castiel asks after a few moments of quiet and Dean shifts back to look up at him, just visible in the near dark of the room.
“Hmm?”
“Merry Christmas.”
Dean snorts, but Castiel feels his smile when he leans back in to kiss Castiel’s collarbone.
“Merry Christmas, Cas. Now get some sleep, jackass. I want a round two in the morning.”
Castiel huffs a laugh, and closes his eyes.