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Dean fiddled through the entire AM and FM bands on the Impala’s radio, trying to seek out anything that resembled music to his ears.
Used car salesmen and wailing preachers seemed to lie in wait on every other station. Amid an endless refrain of new country. All hopes of heavy metal or classic rock abandoned after leaving the listening radius of the last populated area, Dean would have been happy to find some sports talk or even old country. But Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline eluded him just as deftly as Led Zeppelin on this dead stretch of Nebraska highway.
“Hey, Cas, get my tapes outta the glove box, will ya?”
“Do I have to?”
Dean gave him an arch look. “You don’t like my music, sugar pie?”
“I…” Cas fished around for words, his eyes roaming the ceiling. “I like you,” he finally supplied, looking very pleased with himself.
“Cop-out,” Dean grunted affectionately.
Blackest winter lay over the cornfields and creeks to either side of the road. Orion and his dogs wheeled overhead in a glittering frozen sky while the sullen yellow lights of distant farms served only to accentuate their isolation. But the engine’s rosy heat poured into the car, rattling the Legos in the vents and sounding better than any crackling fire.
Cas rode shotgun, slouched contentedly against the window, his hands balled up in the sleeves of his trenchcoat. Dean loved seeing him like that. Lazy and serene by his side. That cold fish posture of his had a tendency to melt away late at night when they were alone.
“All right, babe, you find something worth listening to,” Dean yawned, shoving the angel’s unresisting shoulder.
“Very well.”
He watched Cas turn the dial this way and that, sifting with great caution through the static as though endeavoring to crack a safe. Dean smiled to himself, wondering what the angel might choose.
Cas paused, latching onto a sudden fanfare of jazzy trumpets. “There,” he declared, sitting back.
A woman’s voice, rich and throaty, burst out over a toe-tapping Motown beat. It took Dean several moments to realize he was listening to the familiar lyrics of “Tainted Love.”
“Huh. I haven’t heard this version,” he said to himself, taking a liking to the 1960s flair. It suited the Impala’s vintage. He didn’t know how Cas had found it, but he couldn’t complain. After managing to catch the drift of the song’s curiously fast pace, he cranked it up and began to sing along.
“Once I ran to you (I ran!) Now I run from you—” he belted out over the soulful vocals in his hoarse baritone.
Cas scowled and stiffened like a leery cat. “Dean, why are you ruining it?”
“And you think love is to pray, well, I’m sorry, I don’t pray that way—” Dean shouted, tossing Cas a big, come-hither wink.
“Dean, if you are making fun of me—wait, what is that supposed to mean?”
“What?” Dean broke off, clearing his throat.
“That line about prayer.”
Dean blinked, shrugging. “Hell if I know. But I always thought it sounded kinda sexy.”
“You think that sounds sexual?” Cas frowned in concentration. “You think everything sounds sexual,” he muttered against the frosty glass in his best “the-things-I-have-to-put-up-with” tone.
Dean grinned. “It just sounds… subversive, y’know? Like it’s talking about the exact opposite of something religious. A ‘worship in the bedroom’ kinda thing.”
Cas stared at him as though he suspected Dean of being deliberately preposterous. “What does one worship in the bedroom?”
“Oh, dark, sinful, sticky pleasure, I imagine."
“I don’t think any of this means what you think it means,” Cas said with a sniff.
“Is that so? You sure you don’t wanna hear the way I pray, angel?”
“Very casually and blasphemously most of the time—”
“O Castiel, who art in my car and occasionally in my pants,” Dean began in an expansive, resounding voice. He eased off the accelerator until the Impala was merely coasting.
“Dean.”
“I give thanks for thy lips, which are my wine, and for thy ass, which is my bread.” He guided the Impala to the graveled shoulder of the highway.
“This is inappropriate.”
“I pledge myself to your service,” Dean continued, parking and killing the headlights. He allowed the car to idle, unwilling to give up the heat or music. Their few cubic feet of cheerful warmth stood out like an oasis there in the dark, frigid backcountry.
Cas rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, but the ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Dean slipped to the floor, wedging himself between the bench seat and the dash.
“And fall humbly… fall humbly to my knees before you in… veneration. Shit! I can’t really kneel, but you get the picture,” he finished, trying and failing to bend both legs into the small space. He gave Castiel an almost sheepish smile.
Cas looked down at the man crammed between his legs, chin resting flirtatiously on his knee. Dean knew he looked cute as hell, that he looked irresistible. He pushed one hand up the inside of Cas’ thigh, feeling a muscle twitch under the light fabric of his suit pants. “Whaddaya say, babe?”
“Oh, well, if you must,” Cas allowed with a sigh. It never failed to amuse Dean how hard Cas tried to remain aloof and nonchalant. But he saw how his eyes grew round, how his fingers twisted and clenched in anticipation by his sides.
“Castiel Most Awesome,” Dean teased, whining. “Is that all?” He ran his hand up the full length of his leg, palming at his crotch.
Cas gulped, looking so lost that Dean suddenly felt sorry for him. “Dean, I don’t know what you want me to do,” he whispered conspiratorially, as though someone might be watching their little scene and scoffing at him for forgetting his lines.
“I want you to play along, Cas. Be the god I’m worshipping.”
“I’m not. I’m not a god. I tried that once, it didn’t work out well—”
“It’s a game, hun. Just a game. Like that time I asked you to tie me up,” Dean reassured. “But I’ll knock it off if you want me to.”
“Oh. I see. It’s all right. I will be your god for the next few minutes,” Cas nodded like an agent accepting a mission.
“Few minutes? Give me some credit,” Dean mumbled.
“We are parked on the side of the road at one o’ clock in the morning, Dean. I think this is what people refer to as a ‘quickie,’” Cas expounded soberly.
Dean laughed. “You’re right. You’re right, of course.” He pawed between Cas’ legs more urgently, petting harder until Cas began to arch up into his touch. “All-Knowing Castiel,” he crooned, dragging his cheek over the angel’s clothed thigh.
“I… accept this tribute, human,” Cas choked out in the most unversed way imaginable. Dean loved him for it. “And look favorably upon you.”
“That’s the spirit,” Dean growled, unzipping Cas’ pants and fumbling past the bunched material of his shorts and tucked shirt. The sweet heat of his skin made Dean’s heart jump with elation. He stroked his hand loosely up Cas’ roused cock, never breaking eye contact. He scooted forward and bit casually at Cas’ exposed hipbone.
“Ngh,” Cas grunted, laying a damp palm on Dean’s head in a parody of benediction. “You are—you are the most worthy—of my devotees,” he gasped, tangling a hand in Dean’s short hair and gripping it rather hard as Dean went down on him.
Dean hummed happily from deep in his throat, savoring the breathy little noises he was wringing out of Castiel. Dean removed his fist entirely, sinking down over Cas’ erection as obscenely as possible. His hands he pressed into the soft flesh of Cas’ sides, kneading and pulling him further down in the seat until he slouched barely on the edge, legs splayed wide.
Dean worked Cas over with a quick and dirty urgency that soon had him panting, on the verge. Salty pre-come washed sharply over Dean’s tongue just as his own arousal began to intrude, too insistent to ignore. He withdrew from Cas’ cock, scrambling off the floor and unfastening his jeans. He threw himself over the angel, kissing him so hard it hurt. Cas kissed back, moaning against his reddened lips as he closed a hand around Dean’s aching dick and jerked him off eagerly. Dean did the same for Cas, lunging and rutting against him. He braced his free hand high on the door as they both bowed their bodies practically over the back of the seat, reaching desperately for that final needed push—
“Awh yeah,” Dean hissed, a litany of curses and praise falling from his lips even as his muscles locked and he spilled himself into Castiel’s hand.
He mouthed at the beading sweat on Cas’ neck, begging him to come. “Give me a sign, O Great One,” he huffed against Cas’ throat, stifling his own dizzy laughter. “Let me know you approve of this—this humble gift.”
Cas cried out, going rigid under Dean’s pressing weight. He arced his back, pulsing hot and wet over Dean’s tingling fingers. “Yes, Dean, yesss.”
Collapsing bonelessly over Cas’ chest, Dean gasped happily for breath. Steam had fogged the Impala’s windows, running down the glass in streaks. And Cas was looking at him in stunned wonder, like he did after every sex act, as though he would never stop regarding Dean as a rare and beautiful force of nature.
“Amen,” Dean concluded with a sly smile.