Chapter Text
Dean Winchester’s body was supposed to be in Castiel’s trunk by now. It was supposed to be cold and lifeless and soaked in red, and on its way into the East River. But, instead, tonight, Dean Winchester’s body is naked, sweating, and on top of Castiel’s.
Instead, tonight, the same fingers that were supposed to pull the trigger on the bullet meant for Dean Winchester’s brain are between Dean’s lips, scraping their way down Dean’s back, smearing traces of eyeliner down Dean’s cheeks, burying into the skin on Dean’s ass. And Dean’s mouth should be filled with blood, but instead, it tastes like whiskey against Castiel’s tongue.
Maybe Castiel could do it right now. Maybe he could wrap his hands around Dean’s throat, strangle every single breath out of Dean’s chest. But Dean is hot, so fucking hot, and Castiel wants this, wants Dean, more than he’s wanted anything in months, years, his entire life. So Castiel lets himself sink further into the unfamiliar mattress, lets Dean unbutton his jeans and pull them down to his ankles, lets Dean’s hard cock run along his own.
Castiel decides he can always kill Dean later, much later, after they fuck. After they’ve both come, after they’re,both covered in each other, and Dean is drifting off to sleep beside him...
And Castiel won’t admit it to himself, won’t admit this is where he wanted to be, where he wanted to wind up, the moment he’d been given this assignment, or this job, whatever this is. This is what he wanted the minute he had started watching, stalking, Dean in bars and clubs where his band was playing. What he wanted, when he’d sat in the back of some smoky room, hiding in the shadows of cheap stage lights, while Dean sang some 1990s grunge rock cover song over the sound of five or ten different drunken conversations.
The orders Castiel had been given were simple, or they probably would be simple to most people. Off Dean Winchester in the easiest, cleanest way possible. Hide the body where it will never be found. At least not anytime soon. Make him a missing person, because he seems like the kind of person no one will really miss. Or the kind of person people expect to disappear. The orders Castiel had been given were to follow Dean Winchester night after night, until he could get close enough to him to make him a victim of an unsolved crime. The orders Castiel had been given didn’t involve ending up in Dean’s apartment, or in Dean’s bed.
But Dean’s black-lined green eyes and Dean’s tattoo-wrapped arms and the way Dean’s t-shirt had clung to his body during a song Castiel can’t even remember right now had led Castiel here. The drinks and the awkward small talk near the men’s bathroom after the band was done playing had led Castiel here even faster.
Dean had kissed him first, on the sidewalk under a broken streetlamp, next to Castiel’s parked car. Half-drunk and half out of his mind, Castiel had thrown his jacket onto the backseat before following Dean five or six blocks on foot to this red-brick apartment building. Buried in the pocket of that jacket was the Glock 22 that was supposed to end Dean Winchester’s life tonight but, after that kiss on the sidewalk under a broken streetlamp, Castiel knew he was destined to fail his mission.
They had been here, in Dean’s bedroom, maybe five minutes, maybe even less, before Castiel had stripped every inch of Dean bare. Before Castiel’s lips were running across the throat he should be slitting open right now. And Castiel wonders if Dean always this does, if Dean always takes someone home after playing a gig, someone who seems pathetic and lonely and lost, like Castiel knows he seems lately.
But right now, Castiel doesn’t care about any of that. Right now, Castiel doesn’t care about anything, as Dean slides backward, onto his knees between Castiel’s spread legs. And in the barely-there glare that slips in through slightly open blinds, the shadows fall across Dean’s skin, across the ink embedded across his shoulders and down his chest, and Castiel can’t look away, can’t look anywhere else.
Castiel pulls himself up until he’s sitting, his ankles wrapping around Dean’s body, locking Dean into place against him. He turns his face up to Dean’s, lets his tongue travel across the stubble on Dean’s chin before reaching Dean’s mouth. He kisses Dean, swallows down the saliva in Dean’s mouth, as his fingers trickle through the light trail of hair that leads down to Dean’s cock. Castiel circles his finger over the tip until it’s wet with precum, until a gasp escapes from Dean’s lungs. Castiel imagines that, maybe, it’s the same sound Dean might make while taking his last breath.
And Castiel knows he could do it right now, he could snap Dean’s neck, right here. Taste Dean’s death along his lips. But Dean moves forward just enough so that his hips are pressed against Castiel’s, and he pulls at the edges of Castiel’s shirt, pulling it up over Castiel’s head.
Castiel’s eyes lose focus as Dean pushes him back down onto the bed, and lies on top of him, every part of Dean’s body touching every part of Castiel’s. He can feel Dean breathing against him. He can feel Dean’s stomach dragging along his. And Castiel knows he should stop this, he knows he should remind himself of what he really came here to do, but he’s so fucking hard right now, so fucking lost in all the things he wants Dean to do to him right now, that all he wants to do is beg for Dean to be inside him, beg for Dean to fuck him harder than he’s ever been fucked in his life.
But Castiel can’t get the words out while Dean’s mouth is all over him. He can’t even think while Dean’s lips move from his neck to his chest, to his thighs. And just the anticipation of what Dean is going to do next, and the way Dean slips his hand through Castiel’s legs, and the way Dean smiles at him, is almost enough to send Castiel over the edge. But it’s when Dean sucks him down, when he feels himself against the back of Dean’s throat, that Castiel knows he’s completely lost his mind.
This would be the perfect opportunity. To take the pillow that’s behind his head, use it to smother Dean, face-down on the bed, face-down in Castiel’s hips. But Dean looks up at him, lips still wrapped tightly around him, and the only thing Castiel can do is mumble, “I think you should fuck me. I mean—I think you should fuck me if you want to.”
Dean’s mouth releases him, and he slips up onto the bed next to Castiel, letting his leg tangle over Castiel’s. Castiel can’t remember the last time he felt this much skin against his own, can’t remember the last time he felt anyone touch him like this, can’t even remember the last time someone kissed him.
He can feel Dean’s breath against his ear as Dean says, “I think so too.”
“Really?” Castiel pulls his head up slightly from the pillow. Maybe he should try not to sound so surprised. Maybe he should pretend not to be shocked that Dean Winchester, with his perfect blow-job lips and his disheveled hair and his sweat-covered warm body that Castiel is supposed to shoot or stab or something, wants to screw him.
“Yeah, really. From the minute I saw you in the crowd last weekend.” Dean lets out a quiet laugh into Castiel’s cheek. “Or you thought I didn’t notice that you keep showing up where I am?”
Shit, maybe Dean has already figured all of this out. Maybe Dean knows everything. Maybe Dean knows why he’s here, why he’s been following him. Castiel stares up at the ceiling, with its cracked paint, and he listens to muffled voices on the floor above them, and he tries to think of an explanation that doesn’t make him sound like some kind of psycho. Something that doesn’t make him sound like he’s ready to stick a knife through Dean’s chest. “Maybe I just like your band.”
“You don’t need to explain. You don’t need to say anything at all.” Dean’s fingers grip Castiel’s shoulder, push Castiel onto his side, run down Castiel’s spine. Castiel obliges with whatever Dean’s hands want, bending forward as Dean’s teeth scrape across his back. And there’s a pause in Dean’s touch, and Castiel can hear him opening and closing the drawer of his nightstand. He can hear the long-unfamiliar sound of Dean fumbling with a tube of something.
Castiel closes his eyes, lets himself fall forward onto the bed, buries his face in the mattress as Dean’s finger, wet with lube, slips inside him. He shifts his body, so he can let Dean go deeper within him, as Dean’s other hand reaches around Castiel’s legs, wrapping around him, jerking him off against the crumpled bedsheets.
And there’s almost something funny about this, about how he was supposed to murder Dean Winchester tonight, about how his entire career and his entire life depends on being able to get Dean out of the way. About how instead he’s lying here, grunting and moaning, from the feeling of Dean shoving him forward, from the feeling of Dean spreading him apart, from the feeling of Dean fucking him in the ass while the top of his head hits the wall.
This is all actually sort of hilarious. Sort of.
Castiel struggles to move against Dean’s body, but Dean holds his wrists down against the bed. For a fleeting second, as Castiel revels in the feeling of Dean using him, controlling him, Castiel wonders if maybe he’s the one who’s about to wind up dead. Dean bites lightly into Castiel’s shoulders, digging his nails into the veins that run along Castiel’s arm, his hips pounding against Castiel’s body so hard that Castiel can barely breathe.
Dean pulls back, slips out of Castiel. “No—don’t fucking stop, please,” Castiel’s voice is strained, as he speaks against the edge of the pillow.
“I’m not stopping. I just want you to turn around. I want to see your face while I fuck you.” Dean tugs at Castiel’s arms, and Castiel accommodates him, rolling back over onto his back.
Against the dark, Dean is all shadows, an outline of exposed skin, until he leans forward just enough for Castiel to see the traces of saliva on his lips, the way his tongue rests between his teeth. He spreads Castiel’s legs out on each side of him, tilts Castiel’s hips, and thrusts forward until Castiel can’t feel anything but Dean all along his insides.
Castiel reaches up, to Dean’s throat, runs his fingers along the arteries that lead up to Dean’s jaw, tightens his grip around him. This is his chance, probably the best chance he’ll get, to choke Dean, to steal the life out of him. And he knows he needs to do it, for his future, for the money, for everything. He knows, if he fails at this, maybe it’s the end for him. So he tries to convince himself, to destroy Dean Winchester right here, right now, right in the middle of fucking.
But Dean’s green eyes are wide open, and his disheveled hair is stuck to his forehead, and all Castiel can do is lift himself up enough to kiss Dean’s perfect-blow-job lips, his fingers falling away from Dean’s neck, down to Dean’s arms.
Castiel can feel it, the way Dean is close to breaking, the way Dean’s hands struggle to hold himself steady over Castiel, the way he gasps, in quickening rhythm with his body. And when Dean comes, he moans into Castiel’s mouth, and he trembles against Castiel as Castiel falls back onto the bed, pulling Dean down on top of him.
Dean was supposed to be nothing but a corpse right now, nothing but a pile of flesh filling with polluted water, nothing but the Man’s Body Discovered Floating in East River, report on the news two or three weeks from now. One of the floaters they find when the water starts to warm up in the Spring. The Key Witness in Niveus Pharmaceuticals Trial Found Murdered.
But Dean is still breathing. He’s breathing into Castiel’s kiss, tangling his fingers in Dean’s hair and pushing Dean down, pushing Dean’s head down, stopping when Dean’s lips brush against his cock. Castiel involuntarily squirms as Dean takes him in his mouth, as Dean sucks harder and harder. And Castiel holds Dean there, fingers spread over his scalp, as he grinds his body against Dean’s face.
Castiel wonders if anyone has ever choked to death on a dick. If anyone has ever suffocated someone in the middle of getting sucked off. But this feels too good, too fucking good, to smother Dean. It feels too fucking good to do anything but come harder than he thinks he’s ever come in his goddamn life.
It feels too fucking good to anything but watch as Dean sits up, swallowing, wiping cum off his lips onto his cheek. As Dean leans over him, reaches for a tissue, tries to clean himself, half-limp, in the dim light.
Castiel could ask to use the bathroom, go in the kitchen, rummage around until he finds a knife sharp enough to stick through Dean’s chest. He could wrap his body in these bedsheets, throw him in the dumpster they’d passed in the dark alley neighboring Dean’s building.
Too late for that. Right now, Dean Winchester is full of Castiel’s DNA. “Fuck,” Castiel mumbles, running his hands down his face. Right now, Dean Winchester’s body is nothing but evidence of Castiel’s impending guilt.
“What did I do wrong?” Dean pushes his hair from his forehead.
“What? Nothing.” Castiel runs his fingers along the crease inside his leg, still warm with Dean’s spit. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Okay, so what did you do wrong? You have someone to go home to? A husband or a wife or whatever?” Dean moves back slightly on the bed, into the glow of the window, and Castiel doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even blink. He pretends his eyes are all over Dean, all over every single inch of Dean, because he’s looking for a good place to cut, a good place to bleed out.
But really, he knows this isn’t happening tonight. Knows he can’t do it.
“I don’t have anyone.” Castiel lifts himself onto his elbows. “Do you?”
“I don’t think I would have brought you back here if I did.” Dean crawls over him, kisses him again, lays down on the bed next to him. “So, you have no one and I have no one. Stay here with me—we can do this all weekend. Don’t worry I’m not going to kill you. I’m not a murderer or anything, I promise.”
“What if I am?” Castiel turns to him, runs his finger down Dean’s mouth.
“I’ll take my chances.” Dean lets his lips fall open, sucks on the edge of Castiel’s fingertip, and says, “You don’t really look like a murderer anyway.”