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The bar is densely packed, even for a Friday night, and Dean is already looking forward to hustling a few suckers at pool.
“I don’t understand why you requested my company if you knew you were going to be occupied all evening,” Castiel grumbles from behind him as they make their way to the bar, maneuvering themselves around the tables. He’s using his trademark scolding voice, making sure to convey just how reprehensible he finds Dean’s lack of thoughtfulness.
He didn’t even want to come here in the first place.
He was opposed to the idea from the start, scrunching up his nose in discontent when Dean forcibly closed the book he was reading and snatched it from his hands.
“C’mon, Cas, let’s hit the bar. Whaddya say?”
Castiel said “no”, clearly and repeatedly. He pointed out several legitimate reasons why he’d rather not go, but Dean chose to ignore them all in favor of jabbing his finger at him and smiling that wide, disarming smile he knew perfectly well most people found irresistible. He lost count of how many times it helped him get out of a speeding ticket, earned him a free drink, a pass to a place he wasn’t authorized to enter, not to mention all the one-night stands. His winning smile.
“We meet by the Impala in five,” he announced and disappeared down the corridor before Cas could protest.
And of course, five minutes later he found Castiel already waiting for him by the car, dressed in his usual black slacks, white shirt, and creeper coat vol. 2. He looked like a man resigned to his fate.
“We’ve talked about this, Cas. You need to go out some time. A few more weeks of stewing among all those dusty books and you’ll be accepted into Sam’s I-Only-Get-Turned-On-By-Old-Scripture Club.” He smirks at Cas, who looks anything but impressed. “Seriously, man, grab a drink and relax. I promise it’ll do you good.”
Castiel sighs, but obediently sits down on one of the two unoccupied bar stools.
“Come on, don’t sulk.” Dean beams at him, slapping him fondly on the shoulder. Ever since they figured out a way to get rid of the Mark of Cain, Dean is in a perpetually excellent mood, and sometimes he’s under the impression that Cas doesn’t know what to do with it. “I’m gonna go win us some green. Somebody’s gotta feed this family.”
“What am I supposed to do until you come back?” Cas asks petulantly.
“Order a drink. Talk to a stranger. Live a little.”
Dean winks at him, and with a final squeeze to his shoulder, he saunters off in the direction of the pool table.
It takes him almost half an hour to work his magic, expertly underplaying his skills and wrapping the poor bastards who go up against him around his finger. He’s enjoying himself so much that sometime between the first and second round he forgets to steal quick glances towards the bar, where Cas is still nursing what Dean knows for sure is his first beer. He gets lost in the game, focusing on it so completely that when it ends, it feels like he’s just snapped awake from a trance.
Unruffled by the angry glare his last opponent sends him, Dean collects the money he’s won and makes a beeline for the bar.
He has no idea how to react when he sees that Castiel is not sitting alone anymore. Dean’s not even sure if he should be interrupting, since the stranger’s body langue betrays his intentions quite clearly. Dean knows that stance; he’s used that stance. It’s outright predatory, and it says ‘I want to drag you somewhere at least semi-private and fuck you silly’.
He stops halfway to the bar and just gapes at them. This is… new. Mostly because the stranger Castiel is with is male, but also because Dean honestly didn’t expect Cas to take his words to heart and actually strike up a conversation with somebody.
Just as he’s entertaining the thought of retreating and watching from the sidelines for a while, Cas spots him and waves, leaving Dean no choice but to join them. For some reason, Dean feels his good mood dissolve as he reluctantly walks over to them.
“Hello, Dean,” Cas greets him pleasantly, tipping his glass towards the stranger before bringing it to his lips. “This is Ian. He kindly offered to buy me a drink.”
Dean glowers at the guy sitting next to Cas. He’s average-looking, but evidently dressed to impress. A black shirt fits snugly on his broad shoulders and narrow waist, offset by blond, painstakingly stylized hair.
Dean immediately hates the guy. What a fucking poser.
“This is my friend, Dean,” Castiel continues, smiling at both of them. Dean forces a smile of his own and shakes Ian’s extended hand, perhaps a bit harder than strictly necessary.
“Nice to meet you,” he says without looking at the guy. ”Cas, you wanna go sit down at the table?”
“Actually, we were just about to move our conversation outside, right, Cas?” Ian cuts in.
Cas? Who the fuck does this guy think he is?
“Yes. Ian and I were discussing cars. We both agree that they are an amazing proof of human ingenuity.” Castiel’s eyes light up, like they always do when he’s talking about something that fascinates him. “Ian wanted to show me his vehicle. It’s a 1969 Mustang.”
Dean looks disbelievingly from Cas to Ian, knitting his eyebrows together in annoyance. Why would Cas talk to a complete stranger about cars of all things? He knows this is Dean’s area of expertise. He’s never asked about the inner workings of the Impala, and suddenly he wants to check out some random dude’s lousy ride? It doesn’t make a lick of sense to Dean, but one look at Castiel’s endearingly excited expression makes him play along nonetheless.
“So, you’re a fan of classic cars?” he asks Ian, silently gesturing for the bartender to bring him a beer.
“Dean owns a 1967 Chevrolet Impala,” Castiel interjects, gracing Dean with a small, knowing smile. The full name of the car rolls smoothly off his tongue, like he’s known it by heart forever, and his voice sounds almost... proud? Dean has always assumed Cas to be more or less indifferent towards his Baby, and this unexpected proof to the contrary causes a warm wave of affection to spread in his chest.
“A ’67 Impala, huh? That’s a sweet ride,” Ian admits, but his eyes bore into Dean with a strange mixture of irritation and hostility. “Personally, I’d rather go for a 1968 Chevrolet Camaro.”
What the fuck. Okay, Dean official wants to skin this dick alive and floss his teeth with his sinews.
“Well I’d rather not,” he grits out.
“I am sure both cars have their advantages,” Cas says in a very transparent and very ineffective attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere.
“You’re right, of course,” Ian nods, turning towards Cas and pointedly ignoring Dean glaring daggers at him. “So, can I show you my pride and joy? She’s parked right outside. I bet you haven’t seen another beauty like her.”
Dean feels a violent urge to puke, ideally all over Ian’s shoes.
“Of course,” Castiel agrees, sliding off the bar stool. “Would you like to come with us, Dean?” he adds innocently.
Jesus. Cas has no fucking clue this Ian person is hitting on him like a college student on the keyboard two hours before an essay is due.
“Maybe he can join us later,” Ian offers quickly, pulling Cas by the elbow.
Dean is seriously two seconds away from kicking this guy in the shin, but he gives them a tight-lipped smile and turns away to the bar, grabbing the beer he’s ordered.
“Have fun, Cas,” he says, trying and failing to keep the petulant whine out of his voice.
Castiel seems to hesitate for a moment, but then returns the smile so genuinely it makes Dean feel like a jerk. He puts his glass away next to Dean’s and follows Mr. Douche outside.
Dean sighs and takes a swig of his beer, dejectedly tapping his fingers against the counter. He knows he has no right or reason to act out, and Cas can hang out with whomever he damn well pleases, but this knowledge does nothing to quell the jealousy simmering low and ugly in Dean’s gut.
If only he’d known earlier Cas was so interested in cars. Dean is sure he could tell him much more on the topic than that dipshit Cas has just left with. Maybe he’d even open up Baby’s hood, show him the ropes... dammit, if Cas had been kind enough to let him know he was into this stuff, Dean would have been really stoked. He’d probably drag him to the bunker’s garage and show him how to take proper care of his (granted, abhorrent) Lincoln Continental, and how to check oil level, and the coolant, and tire pressure, and…
“Can I take this?”
The bartender’s voice jars Dean out of his thoughts, causing the image of Cas in full car mechanic gear (and where the hell did that come from) to disappear. It takes Dean a second to realize the bartender is pointing at Cas’s almost empty glass.
“Yeah, go ah— no, wait.“ On a hunch, Dean brings the glass to his nose and gives it a tentative whiff. Not quite satisfied, he downs the remaining liquid and takes a moment to taste it on his tongue. Should scotch and soda have this kind of salty flavor?
… fuck. There’s like an 80% chance there’s GHB in it. Fuck fuck fuck.
He all but jumps off his stool and darts out of the bar, eyes scanning for a ’69 Mustang in a blind panic. I’m gonna murder this motherfucker, he thinks. He’s dead already. A dead man walking.
He hovers around outside, fists clenched and blood pounding in his ears, until he spots a red Mustang in the far end of the bar’s small parking lot. There’s nobody standing next to it, and the windows are too fogged up to see inside.
Heart in his throat, Dean rushes over to the door on the driver’s side and bursts it open.
Soon-to-be-dead Ian jolts up in his seat guiltily, his hand stopping half way to the buttons on Cas’s shirt. They’re easily accessible, since Cas's coat is thrown over the backrest.
Dean doesn’t deign to offer any explanation, he just drags Ian out of the car and begins hitting him wherever he can reach.
Just as could be expected from somebody who renders his victims defenseless before actually hurting them, Ian can’t fight for shit. He doesn’t manage to block a single punch, and soon he’s lying on the ground in a messy, bloody heap that may or may not include a couple of his own teeth. Dean keeps beating him senseless, and only stops when he's sure the guy is out cold. He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself, absent-mindedly rubbing the spot where the Mark used to be, before he remembers about Castiel.
He runs around the front of the car and opens the passenger’s door. Cas stares up at him with wide eyes, frozen in his spot. The view of him sitting there disorientated and confused in only his shirt (he looks practically naked without that stupid coat) makes Dean want to walk back to where Ian lies and finish the job with a knife under the dickwad’s ribs.
“Jesus. Cas, you okay? No, don't— don't try to talk, it’s fine.” He leans over and puts both hands on Castiel's shoulders, a gesture meant to reassure Cas as much as Dean himself.
“That asshole roofied you. That fucking—” He cuts himself off and reaches over to retrieve Cas's coat. Without prompting, he takes hold of Cas's right arm and works it into the sleeve, then does the same to the left one.
“You're good. Okay. Come on, let's get you somewhere safe and comfortable. Can you...?”
Dean doesn't bother waiting for an answer and snakes his arm around Castiel’s waist, hauling him up and out of the car. At first he wobbles slightly under Cas’s weight, but manages to steady them soon enough.
They reach the Impala in record time, considering that it’s Dean who does all the muscle work for both of them. Cas is a heavy bastard, and his body weight is pressed warm and pliant against Dean’s side. In any other situation Dean would feel uneasy about such close proximity, but his inhibitions have always been known to mysteriously disappear whenever Cas was genuinely vulnerable, and not just stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the existence of Dean’s personal bubble.
Hey, no one can blame Dean for getting his hands all over the guy when he thought Cas just died on him. And Purgatory doesn’t count. Everything was different in that place. Survival required acting on your instincts, stripping away all those layers of human habits and mannerisms that only weighed you down. In Purgatory, everything was raw and simple. It was so very easy to obliterate the space between him and Cas then.
That simplicity resurfaces now, coaxed out of its hiding by the power of fright.
Dean tightens his grip on Castiel’s waist, guilt flaring in his gut like a bonfire. Granted, he intervened quickly enough, but he still can’t shake the dread that took hold of him the second he detected the drug. If something bad had happened, Dean would only have himself to blame. He dragged Cas to the bar practically against his will, promptly ditched him to hustle pool, and acted like a jackass towards the guy who kept Cas company while Dean was busy entertaining some giggly girls with his billiard tricks. Plus it didn’t even occur to him to give Cas the “keep your drink in sight at all times” talk. Cas was a guy. Okay, so maybe he was an attractive one and there was a chance somebody would want to drag him to bed. So maybe Dean didn’t think about it because he did all in his power not to view Castiel in this way. Yeah, okay. He fucked up.
His right arm begins to fall asleep, and fishing the car keys out of his pocket while supporting almost 170 pounds of limp meat is an acrobatic task, but at last Dean manages to wrench the Impala’s backdoor open and dump Cas across the seat. Then, without giving it much thought, he scrambles after him and closes the door behind them.
With some effort (and a lot of coat-tugging), he gets Cas to sit up propped against the backrest.
“Hey. I’m gonna look you over now, ‘kay?” he says quietly.
Castiel definitely looks a little out of it, but upon closer inspection Dean is relieved to see it’s harmless enough. His eyes are drooping and his movements are sluggish, but at least he’s not puking or hallucinating or going comatose.
Before the guilt and fear wash away far enough for Dean to become self-conscious again, he gently pulls at Cas’s sleeve, and the man practically folds, falling like a marionette with broken strings onto Dean’s shoulder.
Dean wraps his right arm around him, leaning back so that Castiel’s head can rest on his chest, and he heaves a long sigh.
“You’ll be fine, man,” he murmurs, his breath tousling Cas’s hair. “We’ll just have to wait until it wears off. It’s no big deal. You’re a tough dude, you’ll be alright.”
They sit in silence for a while, and Dean can’t help but notice that having somebody sleep against him is nice, even given the undoubtedly grim circumstances that led to it. The last time another person dozed off on him was what, with Lisa?
Except the way Cas feels pressed against him is nothing like it was with Lisa. Castiel is bigger, heavier, and there’s definitely no mistaking him for a petite girl.
It’s still nice, though. Different, but nice.
“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says honestly. It’s easy since he knows Castiel can’t hear him. “I was kind of a jerk to you tonight. Should’ve let you stay in the bunker with Sam, like you wanted. I just… I don’t know. I guess I haven’t seen a lot of you lately and wanted to fix that. Have us hang out again. Like, outside hunts and cases and all that.”
Dean runs his left hand over his face and sighs again.
“And then instead of actually hanging out, I left you long enough for that dirtbag to slip you a mickey. It was a dick move. I’m sorry,” he repeats.
He falls silent again, starting to rub idle circles into Castiel’s side and humming to himself as he gets lost in his own thoughts.
There’s something that bothers him about all this. The instinct to protect people, to shield them from harm in any way possible has always been hardwired into Dean, but there’s an elusive element to this situation that rings new and unfamiliar to him. There is another layer, buried somewhere he can’t reach. Dean knows protectiveness, concern, worry for others – for strangers, friends, and family alike. He knows the way it sits in him, how it plays out. What he feels right now is all that and more, and he worries his bottom lip until it finally hits him. Under protectiveness, concern, and worry, there lies possessiveness.
Dean shudders at the realization, instinctively tightening his grip on Castiel’s shoulder as if in confirmation. It’s a fierce, rapt sort of possessiveness; it’s anger bubbling up inside him, rage and ire and fury all molded into a white-hot sensation that seems to sear straight through his skull. It’s entirely different from the effects of the Mark, too. All the violence the Mark drew out of Dean was detached in a way, devoid of meaning or justification. It was overwhelming and overpowering, but distinctly non-human. A cold instinct to kill whoever and whenever, simply because he could. This is something else altogether.
Dean bites his lips nervously. This is the kind of anger that originates from emotion the Mark had never tapped into, and underlying it are feelings Dean is too scared to ponder on. The kind of feelings that made him go all medieval on Ian’s ass even though there was no Mark to fuel and direct his actions.
“Fuck it,” he mutters under his breath. “Fuck it. Tomorrow you probably won’t remember most of this anyway.”
He rests his chin on the top of Castiel’s head and drapes his left arm over him, wrapping him up entirely.
“Though you should,” he adds a bit bitterly. “Maybe next time you’d know better than to trust creepy strangers, Cas. And don’t you dare do something like this ever again.”
With each new word, Dean grows angrier and angrier, and envelops Cas tighter and tighter in his arms, until he’s practically clinging to him. He huffs a breath against Castiel’s temple, and then the words just spill, unbidden and unstoppable:
“If he did something to you I’d go out of my freaking mind.”
As soon as Dean says it, he feels Castiel stir. He freezes.
“Cas? You awake?”
“…mmmhmh.”
As inconspicuously as he can, Dean eases his hold on Castiel and loosens his arms. He’s relieved Cas is okay and coming round from the drug so soon, but also desperately hopes he’s still too spaced out to have registered the word vomit Dean’s just indulged in.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Good.”
Without any warning, Castiel sits up straight and looks over at Dean, whose jaw drops at the sight. Castiel’s gaze is completely lucid, blue eyes sharp and clear. There is not a single trace of daze or confusion in his expression, and shit there’s no way in hell the drug wore off so fast.
“Dean,” Cas says unsurely, and that one word sounds like an elaborate apology in his mouth.
Dean gapes at him.
“Dean,” Castiel repeats in the same uncertain tone. “You do know that I am an angel, right?”
Wait.
“And that I am therefore immune to sedative substances?”
Wait, what?
Dean struggles to say something, anything, but he’s left opening and closing his mouth in vain. Fuck, fuck, he’s just said all those stupid affectionate things, and Cas was totally conscious and listening the whole time, Jesus—
“I can also easily detect if a drink has been spiked with illegal narcotics. The one put in my glass was Gamma Hydroxybutyrate. Its molecules were impossible to miss in the mix.”
At last, Dean gets his voice back.
“Now wait just a fucking minute. Then why did you let me think you were— what the fuck is wrong with you, Cas, I thought you got fucking drugged!”
At least Castiel has the decency to look guilty, lowering his head and looking away.
“I am sorry, truly. I didn’t mean to worry you. I…”
And yes, he does look apologetic, even a little ashamed, but Dean’s not letting him off the hook. Bastard. No one tricks Dean Winchester into spilling his guts and goes unpunished.
“And what, Cas? You thought it would be funny to let me think you were comatose?”
“I wasn’t comatose, I just acted a little sluggish,” Cas says with that maddening meticulousness of his.
“For fuck’s sake, why?!” Dean yells. Cas flinches visibly.
“I didn’t mean to, at first. But when you showed up, you were convinced I was under the influence of narcotics, and it made you… it made you…” Cas stutters to a halt, and it’s unusual enough to make some of Dean’s anger ebb away.
“It made you softer,” he finishes after a moment. “I intended to tell you I was not affected, but the way you acted towards me was… you touched my shoulder and then wrapped your arm around my waist, and I thought… I found it enjoyable.”
Dean has never seen Castiel embarrassed before, so it takes him a second to realize that’s what’s happening here. Christ Almighty, Castiel is embarrassed.
“I realize now I should not have done that,” Cas continues, sounding genuinely contrite. “I upset you and I apologize for that. I will never do it again.”
“Even if you do, I won’t fall for it anymore,” Dean scoffs. It comes out a bit harsher than he intended, but goddammit, he’s the one wronged here. He has the right to be pissed.
Castiel just nods with resignation and purses his lips, leaning against the seat.
The silence that settles between them after that is heavy and uncomfortable. Dean wants nothing more than to climb over to the driver’s seat and just drive them home, where they can both go to their respective rooms and process this disaster of an evening alone, but something’s keeping him glued to his spot.
Faking drug stupor was shitty, no denying that, but it’s Castiel’s reasoning that has Dean hesitating. He knows there was no malice behind the deception. Cas did take advantage of him, yes, but to what end? To have Dean show concern for him. Out of the blue, the guilt of throwing Cas out of the bunker hits Dean like a vicious boomerang, and he sneaks a quick look at the man – angel – shit, Dean doesn’t even know anymore – sitting next to him, hands folded in his lap and face shadowed with regret. It seems unbelievable Cas would pretend to be drugged just to have Dean touch him, but Dean thinks that’s exactly what happened.
Oh god, all this because Castiel wanted Dean to touch him, and he knew Dean never would under normal circumstances. At least not like that.
Clearing his throat, Dean waits until Cas looks up to meet his eyes. He still needs to know one more thing.
“If you knew the guy was shady, why did you agree to go outside with him?”
If it’s at all possible, Castiel looks even more embarrassed than before.
“I knew Ian’s intentions towards me were vile, but I was genuinely interested in learning more about cars,” he says. “Of course I realized I would have to stop his advances at some point, but it seemed worth it.”
“Didn’t it occur to you that you’re already friends with a guy who knows a thing or two about cars?” Dean asks, feeling like a whiny kid but unable to help it.
“It did occur to me, and this is precisely the reason I did it,” Cas explains, sighing. “I considered consulting books, but I feared that dry knowledge wouldn’t be enough.”
“Enough for what?” Dean asks suspiciously.
“Enough to hold a conversation with you.”
Several excruciatingly long seconds pass before Dean catches the drift, and once he does, he has a sudden urge to take Castiel’s head in his hands and knock it against the car window a few times.
“You… moron,” he says helplessly. “You totally clueless son of a bitch. After all the shit we’ve been through, you think you need fucking conversation starters to talk to me?”
"No, not conversation starters. Rather the opposite."
Castiel averts his eyes and rubs his fingers over the back of his hand. The gesture is so human that Dean thinks he should be forgiven for forgetting Cas was immune to drugs. He’s become comfortable in a body that now belongs only to him, and it’s betraying his emotions in a way that used to be unthinkable.
“I admit I may have overthought it a little,” Castiel sighs. “It’s just that lately it has become more and more difficult for me to engage you in casual conversation without saying… certain things. Much too often do I find myself on the cusp of telling you something I would live to regret. I was hoping that preparing a wider range of neutral topics beforehand would help me refrain from making you uncomfortable.”
“Cas, I have no fucking idea what the hell you’re trying to say. If you want to tell me something, just do it.”
Dean steels himself and waits for whatever weird declaration or comment is about to come. He doesn’t doubt Castiel’s ability to make him about as comfortable as a nun in a sex shop – after all, it’s something Cas has excelled at since the moment they met.
Although he fully expects awkwardness, Dean’s more than a little curious. He examines Cas’s face in the faint light streaming through the car window from a faraway streetlamp, and wonders if he should be scared of whatever it is Castiel fought to keep secret from him. Knowing his luck, it’s not gonna be pretty.
Dean braces himself for the inevitable blow, but it still doesn’t prepare him for what comes next.
“I have long since decided it would be best to never voice those thoughts to you, but if you insist, then I will.” Castiel gives him an odd look, and then scoots closer on the seat, close enough for their knees to touch. He reaches out and takes Dean’s hand in his own, at which point Dean stops breathing.
Castiel leans over and fixes him with those baby blues, his breath tickling Dean’s cheek.
“Each time I see you, I want to tell you so many things, Dean,” he says quietly. “I never do, but I want to tell you everything. I want you to know how our first meeting looked like. No, not the one in the barn,” he adds seeing Dean’s expression. “The very first one. In the Pit.”
If it weren’t for Castiel’s firm grip, Dean’s hand would start trembling right about now.
“I want to explain every single prayer of yours that I haven’t answered. I want to tell you what really broke the connection in that crypt. I want to tell you how lovely it looks when your eyes crinkle as you laugh. I want you to know that when you cook, you sing too loud and off-key, and how much I enjoy it.”
As gently as if he were dealing with a spooked animal, Castiel reaches his free hand to lay it lightly on Dean’s left shoulder.
“I want to tell you that I regret having erased my handprint from your arm. Having relinquished the only claim I had on you.”
Dean makes an undignified sound in the back of his throat, much too loud within the confined space of the car.
“I want to tell you that even though I have lived for millennia, all of my biggest regrets are the times I failed you.”
“Every time I see you, I want to apologize for wronging you. I know I apologized already, part of me knows, but the other part wants to repeat those apologizes until the stars I watched being born go out.”
“I want to tell you I don’t understand any of this, but when you’re there, I feel like maybe I don’t have to.”
“I want to tell you how much I hate every time I have to leave you.”
“I want to beg you to be mine the way I am yours.”
“I want to tell you… Dean? Should I stop now?”
It takes a lot of effort for Dean to remember that yeah, life functions are good, and that he should probably try and force air into his lungs. His vision swims, his stomach twists into knots, but he’s unable to look away from Castiel's gaze. It weighs on him like something physical, intense enough to drown out everything else around them. When Castiel's hand moves from Dean's shoulder to his face and runs along his cheekbone, it's all Dean can do not to whimper. He doesn’t shy away, just watches with wide eyes and heart pounding wildly against his ribs.
“Cas,” he says at last, hating the way his voice wavers on that one simple word. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this sooner?”
“You don’t like dealing with this kind of sentiments,” Cas explains softly, as if having endless forbearance for Dean’s emotional constipation were natural. “I didn’t want to cause you any distress. Or drive you away. I just wanted to be able to stay.”
Dean swallows as it hits him once again, that sickening guilt of leaving Cas homeless and alone, the bunker’s door locked away from him without any explanation.
“I was so sure not telling you was the right thing to do,” Castiel says, crestfallen. “And I was wrong again. But I thought it’s what you’d prefer. ” His confusion is so genuine, almost childlike, and something in Dean snaps.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. I get the picture.”
Castiel nods and tries to move away, but Dean grabs his sleeve to hold him in place.
“Cas, one question. Are you 100% sure there’s not a single milligram of GHB affecting you?”
The familiar ‘what human nonsense is this?’ frown materializes as if on cue, but Castiel doesn’t fail to answer right away.
“Of course there isn’t. I thought we’ve already established that.”
“Good,” Dean nods. “Good. Just wanted to double-check that this next part will be consensual.”
“What p—”
Castiel’s voice is stolen from him by a very determined Dean Winchester and his very determined mouth. It’s odd, Dean thinks, that after all this time, after all the doubts, the anger, the denial and the confusion, when the deciding moment is finally here, he doesn’t hesitate for a second. His head is clear, not a single cloud of worry or uncertainty in sight. His heart is thumping faster than usual, his palms sweat a little where they fist into Castiel’s lapels, but when it comes down to it, Dean is as sure of what he’s doing as a human being can possibly be.
He’s going to kiss Castiel senseless, and Castiel is going to like it.
Castiel, that bloody idiot who spent the last two months living in the bunker, in permanent proximity, and never once let any of those feelings spill. He was walking around with the words pressed closely to his chest, not letting them fly free because he thought Dean might show him the door. Moreover, he consciously put himself in an uncomfortable position by hanging out with a guy he knew from the very beginning was a creepy fucking rapist. And he did it all so that he had something to fall back on when the words fluttered too violently in his hold, wildly enough that he was afraid he couldn’t keep them to himself anymore.
Learning all this should turn Dean’s brain into jello. He should be hit with a thunderstorm of mixed feelings, he should be shocked and confused and uneasy, but Dean feels none of that. All Dean does is want.
He slots their mouths and bodies together as closely as he can, hands clinging to the back of Castiel’s neck with newly discovered possessiveness. And it’s so much better knowing that he’s allowed now, that he can be greedy with impunity because Castiel is his.
A thrill shoots up Dean’s spine when Cas grips his waist with the same brand of possessiveness, thumbs digging into his sides. His tongue dives into Dean’s mouth and holy shit he’s not fucking around. There’s no hesitation there, no timidity; it’s claiming, is what it is. The kisses grow more and more haphazard, straying from their mouths to jaws and necks, quickly joined by wandering hands. Dean buries his nose in the crook of Castiel’s neck and inhales the lingering smell of ozone mixed with a leathery, human scent of the bunker and the Impala and home. The thought of somebody else getting to taste it on Cas’s skin makes anger coil in Dean’s stomach and blood boil in his veins. He knows it’s nonsensical in view of what Castiel has just confessed to him, but the jealousy still flares outside of his control.
They keep kissing messily, with no finesse and certainly no care for finesse. Somewhere along the way they go horizontal, Dean splayed on top of Cas across the backseat, with their limbs tangled and mouths searching blindly for any patch of bare skin among the rumpled clothes. Dean’s fingers dig into whatever they can find, the coat, the collar, the tie, tugging and pulling like a drowning man pulls at a life line.
“Dean,” Cas manages, cupping the back of Dean’s neck and trying to hold him still. He’s breathing hard, chest heaving so much Dean rises and falls with him (and hasn’t he always?).
“Dean, I want to tell you more.”
“Yeah, okay. Tell me,” Dean agrees frantically, busying himself with biting Castiel’s neck.
“I want— I want to tell you—”
Castiel groans as Dean begins enthusiastically sucking a hickey over his pulse point.
“The first time I fell asleep as a human, a-and— ah – and I had a dream in my sleep, it was about you.”
Dean soothes the fresh bruise with a laving kiss, admiring the way it stands out against Castiel’s tanned skin. He peels off Cas’s coat and begins to clumsily unbutton his shirt.
“Go on,” he murmurs against Castiel’s jaw while his shaking hands work on the buttons.
“I keep count of— aah, Dean, I-I keep count of all the times you— Dean—”
Whatever was supposed to come next dissolves into a low grunt when Dean decides he’s waited long enough and goes to town, starting to grind down onto Castiel in earnest. The last button finally yields and Dean runs both hands the entire length of Castiel’s naked chest, feeling the lean muscles flex beneath his fingertips.
“You keep count of what?” he asks, somewhat amazed he still has the ability to form coherent sentences.
“I keep count of all the times you prayed to me.” Castiel’s eyes don’t leave him for a single moment, alight with the same desire that stirs in Dean’s gut. “Do you know how many, Dean?”
Dean only whines in response, helplessly rocking his hips against Castiel’s.
“One thousand seven hundred ninety two prayers. A-and... oh, Dean, I— I remember them all.”
Dean didn’t think his kissing could get any more frantic, but it certainly does now.
Castiel remembers his prayers. All of them. Even the ones from Purgatory, the most desperate, vulnerable ones. He has them compartmentalized in that endless pit of angelic memory, every single “I need you” and “I miss you” and “Where are you” and “Hold on tight, I’ll find you”. They never talked about it after Purgatory – to put it more precisely, Dean never dared to ask. Until now. Now, he suddenly wants to know everything.
And so he keeps whispering words of encouragement, spurring Cas on, and Cas keeps feeding him half-groaned, half-moaned confessions that unleash something visceral in Dean. He drags his fingernails across Castiel’s shoulders so hard they’re leaving reddish traces in their wake. His hands begin to wander down to where he can feel a very pronounced bulge in Cas’s pants, but they don’t get far.
“Wait.”
Castiel sits upright, and gently but firmly shoves Dean off of himself. Before Dean can process this and get scared that he’s done something wrong, Castiel is back on him, straddling his hips and pressing Dean’s back against the backrest.
“Holy shit,” Dean whispers. The way Cas’s thighs part, wide and unashamed, is nothing short of pornographic, and yeah, Dean has been hot and bothered for the past ten minutes, but now there’s a good chance he’s gonna come in his pants like a 15-year-old.
And then Castiel’s hips begin to gyrate slowly, and Dean is certain. He’s gonna shoot his load any fucking second.
“Holy shit,” he breathes out again, staring up in awe at the angel in his lap. His fingers fumble with Cas’s fly in another attempt to reduce the number of layers between them, but Castiel stills his hands and brings them around his waist.
Dean makes an unhappy sound, but his protests are cut short when Cas kisses him again, much softer this time. The part of Dean’s brain that hasn’t shut down yet marvels at the contrast between the chaste meeting of lips and the borderline obscene way Cas’s hips grind down onto him in small circles.
“I’m not gonna— Cas, I’m—“
“It’s fine,” Castiel reassures him, fingers skittering over Dean’s jaw. “It’s fine. Let go whenever you want to.”
An explicit permission to come isn’t something Dean expected, but he finds himself weirdly grateful for it. Also, more than a little turned on.
Shit. Leave it to Castiel to press the buttons Dean didn’t even know he had.
“Jesus,” he mumbles, arms tightening around Castiel’s waist to pull him closer. When their erections press together as a result – Cas’s just as painful as his own by the feel of it – Dean has to dig his fingernails into Cas’s back to stave off the orgasm ready to crash over him. He doesn’t want this to rush past him so soon; he wants it to last.
“Tell me another one,” he demands harshly. Cas hums against his neck, as if in thought, and then:
“I cherish you.”
It’s so fucking cheesy, but Dean just groans in response and bucks up into Cas, hands fisting into the back of his shirt.
“Another one.”
“I ache for you.”
Dean bites into the flesh of Castiel’s half-bared shoulder and pushes his hips up again, desperate for more friction. Why the fuck are they still wearing clothes.
“Even when you’re with me, even now, I still ache for you.” Cas sounds just as wrecked as Dean feels, meeting each thrust with one of his own. All that clothed rutting is driving Dean insane, but instead of making attempt number three at undoing their zippers, he just smushes his face against Castiel’s chest and holds on.
“Another,” he mutters into the exposed skin. It’s so low he wouldn’t be surprised if Cas didn’t catch it, but of course he does. Stupid angelic superhearing.
“Y-your lips feel very soft against my sternum,” comes a stuttered reply, and among all those breath-taking confessions it’s so disarmingly Cas that Dean can’t help but give a short laugh. God, he can’t remember the last time he laughed so genuinely during sex.
“Duly noted,” he murmurs as he gets to work, lapping gently over that soft spot on Castiel’s chest, licking and kissing. Then, purely on a whim, he strays a bit to close his mouth over Cas’s nipple and sucks on it experimentally.
Castiel loses it.
He keens under the touch, throwing his head back and letting out a string of words Dean assumes must be in Enochian. His arms loop around Dean’s neck for leverage, and he starts to thrust against him frenziedly, all semblance of self-control lost.
“Dean, Dean, please, Dean—”
Dean has no idea what Castiel is asking of him, but he wants to give it to him so badly he can’t think straight. He pushes back with all his might, their hips knocking together almost painfully, and answers with equal nonsense, a chaotic stream of yeah, Cas, I got you, Cas, fuck, please, Cas—
They move like in a trace, kissing, clutching at each other, pressing and pushing as if they weren’t sure whether they want to melt into each other or hit each other. Castiel’s knees squeeze Dean’s sides so hard Dean knows he’s gonna have bruises there tomorrow, and the thought is enough to push him to the brink. A few more forceful grinds make warmth pool low in Dean’s stomach, and he’s so, so close—
Castiel curses loudly, and the profanity spit out from his angel’s mouth is what does Dean in. The wave of pleasure finally crashes over him, wetting his still zipped – seriously – pants and causing his back to arch off the seat. He twists his fingers into Castiel’s hair and pulls at it ruthlessly, hard enough that were Castiel completely human, it would be just on the wrong side of painful. As it is, it only makes Cas growl filthily into Dean’s ear and tip over the edge right after him.
Dean’s death grip on Cas’s hair loosens and he lets his hand drop to his side, the effort of holding it up almost too much now. He can’t remember the last time he felt so spent. A tiny voice in his head tries to mock him for getting his rocks off with clothes still on like a high schooler, but honestly? Dean couldn’t give two shits about it. Not with the bone-deep satisfaction that settles over him, with the afterglow and the image of Castiel’s face twisted in pleasure still behind his eyelids.
He’s exhausted, he has pants full of jizz, and everything is right.
Castiel slumps forward, his warm weight covering Dean like a blanket. He rests his forehead against Dean’s collarbone and exhales shakily, tickling and hot on Dean’s skin.
They take their time to recover, allowing the irregular breathing to even out and the trembling limbs to go slack. After a minute or so, Dean brings his hand back up to Cas’s hair and slowly rakes his fingers through the sticky, sweaty mess of it.
“Sorry about almost scalping you, man,” he murmurs apologetically. “Heat of the moment.”
“You never learn, Dean. This whole thing happened because you forgot I’m an angel, yet here you are doing it again.” There’s no real snark in Cas’s voice, just amusement and maybe a tiny hint of fondness. “And I very much enjoyed you doing this to my hair. Besides, I believe I gave you as good as I got,” he adds, stroking a finger along the curve of Dean’s hip. “Do you want me to heal it?”
“The bruises? No. Leave’em.”
If Dean’s being honest with himself, the thought of having tangible evidence of their car quickie for the next week or so is insanely appealing to him.
“Although you might wanna take advantage of your angel magic to clean us up. It’s starting to feel kinda gross and sticky. Brings me back to my teenage days.” Dean grins, tipping his head back against the seat and letting his eyes slide shut in contentment.
The next second the inside of his jeans is pleasantly dry.
“Thanks,” he whispers into Castiel’s ear, shifting to snake his left arm around him.
“Anytime, Dean Winchester.”
They fall silent again, each of them finding a grounding point of contact to latch onto. For Dean, it’s Cas’s hair as he cards his fingers through it; for Cas, it’s the soft, slightly reddened spot on Dean’s neck as he nuzzles his lips against it. The touches are very unlike the wild groping from a few minutes ago, soft and almost shy, but Dean enjoys them all the same. It’s thrilling in a different, but immensely satisfying way.
Time passes, and as much as Dean loves having Cas all over him, he’s only human.
“Cas.”
“Hmm?”
“I can’t feel my legs. You gotta scoot.”
Castiel hums in understanding and shuffles over to the right, moving to sit next to Dean.
Dean’s body sags in relief, but part of him is disappointed, already missing the warmth. It would seem Cas can tell, because he moves closer and slots himself against Dean’s flank, body hot like a furnace. Dean’s eyelids begin to droop, and he’s very much tempted to doze off with that delicious heat next to him, but… But.
Even though he’s still floating on cloud nine, Dean knows a serious talk is in order. More importantly, this time it’s not something he can just skip to avoid dealing with shit like he always does. Castiel isn’t some random hookup to screw today and forget tomorrow. It’s Cas. There’s no room for mistakes here. Everything their relationship was has just been overturned, and that leaves them with the painful task of establishing new ground rules.
Dean cranes his neck to meet Castiel’s eyes, heart skipping a beat when he finds them so full of affection it’s almost unbearable to watch.
He swallows nervously.
“So. About that.”
“About what?”
He’s not gonna make it easy for Dean, the little bastard.
“About what we just did, Cas.”
“Yes. That was very enjoyable.”
Dean’s lips stretch into a smile, and he feels the tension in his shoulders dissipate just the tiniest bit.
“It was, yeah,” he allows.
“We should do it again,” Castiel says matter-of-factly.
This time Dean can’t help but laugh out loud. It sounds so easy when Cas says it. It was hot as fuck, so let’s make a habit of it. Simple.
“I’d like that,” Dean agrees. “A lot.” He hesitates for a moment, but then places his hand on Cas’s knee and looks up to gauge his reaction.
The blue eyes study him curiously, still with that warm look that makes Dean flush like an idiot. Then, a hand lands on Dean’s own and stays there, the touch firm and heavy.
“There is something you wish to discuss.”
It’s not a question.
“Yeah, there is. I just. I don’t…” Dean flounders, he knows he is, but he has to get this out there, in the open. He’d like nothing more than to let it go unsaid, but he can’t. If the last few years of his life have taught him anything, it’s that sometimes chick flick moments are simply necessary.
“What are we now, Cas?” he asks at last.
“What do you want us to be?”
“Don’t pass the buck to me, man.”
Castiel frowns, but doesn’t let go of Dean’s hand.
“I thought I made myself rather clear just now,” he says, a hint of reproach in his voice. “What I told you doesn’t leave much room for interpretation. I do not expect similar outspokenness from you, but I am left to wonder what else there is for me to say.”
That shuts Dean up in a flash.
He was so damn focused on himself it didn’t even occur to him Cas might want to hear something in return. Okay, he might have let some sentimental crap slip when he thought Cas wasn’t listening, but it was nothing beyond what a good friend would say. Certainly not a declaration of love, not by any stretch of imagination.
Once the L-word pops into Dean’s head, he knows he’s a goner. That’s it. Dean Winchester over.
He twines their fingers tighter and brings Castiel’s hand to his lips.
“Cas, you know I’m shit with words.”
He lays a soft kiss to Castiel’s knuckle.
“And even if I weren’t, I still suck at dealing with the mushy stuff.”
A kiss to the next knuckle.
“But, uh. Me too.”
The third knuckle.
“Like, not word for word what you said, but the sentiment, y’know? Me too. And, uh—”
And the last knuckle.
“I can’t tell you, cause I just don’t do that, but I’ll show you.”
He flips over Cas’s hand and places one final kiss to his palm. He’s painfully aware of how insufficient this is in comparison to all those beautiful words Castiel has offered him, but at the same time he desperately hopes that somehow it’ll be enough.
When he looks up, he thinks it might just be so, because Castiel stares at him as if Dean has just been proclaimed the next Messiah. His eyes move from Dean’s face to their joined hands and back again, almost questioning, are you seeing what I’m seeing?
“Cas?”
The ceiling of the car flashes before Dean’s eyes, and he finds himself with his back pressed flat against the seat.
“Cas, we have just finished round one. I’m not a sex machine.”
“You said you were going to show me instead of talking,” Castiel chastises, sliding over Dean and straddling him like he did no more than five minutes earlier.
Dean huffs out a laugh and pushes half-heartedly at Castiel’s chest.
“Cas, I can’t show you anything from this position. Let me up.”
Cas pouts, but obediently lifts his hips. Dean wiggles out from under him and sits up, licking his lips while his eyes travel up and down Castiel’s body.
He knows what he's going to do. He knows what he wants to do. Even if he can't bring himself to say it, there are still many ways to show somebody you adore the shit out of them.
“Lie back.”
Castiel obliges again, no questions asked, and Dean gives him a wolfish grin. He scoots closer, nestling himself in the space between Cas’s legs. Then, without breaking eye contact, he leans down and nips at Castiel’s hipbone.
“Dean—”
“Shhh,” Dean shushes, lightly smacking Cas across the stomach. “I’m talking now. Just listen, would you?”
He deftly unzips Cas’s pants and slides them down to his knees before running a thumb along the crease of his inner thigh.
He’s done this before, but never like this. Never with a partner he actually wanted to be with. When he thinks back to the dark alleys behind dive bars and backseats of cars that drove away before he could clean himself up, he feels nothing. He needed money, they needed money, so he procured it and walked away without thinking about it twice. But now?
Now Dean looks at Castiel, at his fluttering sides, swollen lips, spread thighs and rapidly growing hard-on (the stamina this guy has, seriously), and it’s like all those past encounters didn’t happen. This is the first one that matters in any conceivable way. Dean had hated every single time he had to do it, even though he recognized it was necessary, but right here and now, on the backseat of his own car in some random bar’s parking lot, he wants nothing more than to blow his angel till he sees the stars he’s made of.
He might not be able to tell Castiel he aches for him too, but it doesn’t mean he can’t let him know.
He helps Cas shimmy out of his pants the rest of the way and positions himself more comfortably on the backseat. Propped on his elbows, he looks up into those depthless eyes and it only serves to reinforce his resolution: yes, indeed, Dean Winchester is about to give a blowjob. And it won’t be because he expects money in return, but because he really, really fucking wants to.
Ironically enough, it’s the moment Castiel chooses to push himself up and lift Dean’s chin, fingers grazing over the light stubble.
“Dean. I hope you know you don’t need to prove anything to me.”
Dean just snorts and kisses Castiel’s palm before swatting it away.
“Shut up and lie back down. If you have any more confessions to make, wait your turn.”
Castiel looks like he’s biting back a smile, but he flops down on the seat as instructed.
“When it’s my turn, I will tell you that I love the blunt way in which you speak,” he announces.
Dean rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too.
“You really wanna talk your way through this?” he asks.
“Why not?”
“Because apparently we’re taking turns, and now it’s mine.”
“I don’t see why we can’t do it simultaneously. There are still many things I wish for you to know, and if you’re not going to— DEAN.”
Of course, Castiel has somehow overlooked the fact that having your junk in somebody’s mouth is not conducive to holding a conversation – certainly not anything more complex than an odd profanity here or a monosyllable there.
Dean just grins smugly and swallows him deeper, his hands coming to rest over the sharp cut of Cas’s hipbones.
Though he makes valiant efforts to continue, Castiel doesn’t manage to get out a single complete sentence from this point onward. Dean might not have much of a technique – it never seemed to matter - but what he lacks in practice, he makes up in enthusiasm, uttering delighted, happy noises and working with eagerness that surprises even him. The sounds he wrings out of Castiel only drive him to move faster and faster, until his hair is being tugged at and his name stuttered out with increasing urgency.
Dean digs into the taut muscles beneath his fingertips and closes his eyes, focusing on the things he can’t say any other way. He faces them head-on, peculiar and imponderable as they are, and lets them overtake him.
“Dean,” Castiel chokes out, “Move away. Dean, I’m—“
While Dean truly appreciates the warning – and isn’t it a bit sad that even a fucking oblivious angel of the Lord is more considerate in this respect than most humans? – he has no intention of withdrawing. On the contrary, he considers slowing down and dragging it out so that Castiel lasts longer and they can keep doing this, because Dean is not done talking. He’s waited too long already, and if he’s fucked-up enough that a blowjob is the only way he can convey his feelings, then he at least wants to do it properly.
However, the decision is made for him when a few seconds later Castiel’s hips stutter in Dean’s hold and he comes without a sound, body arching up almost to a sitting position. A wet, warm heat fills Dean’s mouth, and he tastes it curiously with little licks and sweeps of his tongue. Castiel sighs above him, but before he can fall back, Dean draws him closer by the hips, winding his arms around Cas’s middle as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting him go yet. He keeps sucking, methodically cleaning Cas up until he registers a pained hiss. It’s only then that he pulls away, belatedly realizing Castiel must be oversensitive by now. He helps Cas put his slacks back on, tucks him away and lays his head in Cas’s lap.
A few moments pass without either of them speaking. Cas begins to gently stroke Dean’s hair, making him sigh in contentment. In response, Dean starts tracing his index finger along the small of Castiel’s back.
“Did you listen, Cas?” he asks quietly. “Was that clear enough?”
Two firm hands frame his head and tip it back so that their eyes meet.
“I did,” Castiel says. He dabs at the corner of Dean’s mouth and wipes away a stray drop of come, a gesture that makes Dean half-hard again. “And it was more than enough.”
Dean nods and smiles drowsily. That’s good news. After all, it’s nice to know that if he ever needs to remind Castiel how he feels about him, there's a viable option that doesn’t involve talking.
“’s good,” he mumbles. “Good.”
He swears he can hear Cas chuckle – except Castiel doesn’t chuckle, not ever. Even when he laughs, it’s mostly silent. There are only visible signs, like his lips twitching and little crow’s feet appearing in the corners of his eyes, and Dean really needs to try and make Cas laugh more often.
“Dean,” says Cas, cutting through his (infinitely embarrassing) daydreams. “I would love to stay like this with you, but based on my knowledge of human anatomy, sleeping on the backseat of a car in this position will not be beneficial for your spine.”
“Are you saying I’m old?” Dean asks, feigning a pout.
“No, I’m saying humanity has not yet reached the stage of evolution wherein the vertebral column is adapted to sleeping in vehicles.”
Maybe it’s the endorphins still coursing through his veins, or maybe the overall elation of being with Cas, here, and together, and like this, but a comment that would normally elicit no more than a snort from Dean now makes him bury his head in Castiel’s lap and just laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
This is so fucking ridiculous. Castiel is ridiculous. Castiel can make him feel jealous and possessive like no one ever has. He can anger him and surprise him. He can make him laugh and make him speechless. He can kiss him like Dean’s something fragile and manhandle him like Dean could take anything. He can slice his angel blade through a demon’s throat with deadly precision and the next second send Dean a text that ends with three rows of emoticons. He can give up everything he has and take anything he wants.
He can also drop his hand between Dean’s shoulder blades and ask him, voice laced with concern, are you alright, Dean? Your reaction to that statement seems somewhat disproportionate. And when Dean only laughs harder in response, he can add: but it’s alright. I like to hear you laugh.