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“Dude, this is awesome! When did you get the mechanical bull?” Sam shouts over the music, arm wrapping around Dean’s neck and beer sloshing over the edge of his cup.
“Last week! I’d been planning on getting around to buying one eventually. Your bachelor party seemed like the perfect time to actually just pull the trigger on it,” Dean shouts back, mopping up Sam’s spill with a napkin before sneakily maneuvering Sam’s drink out of his hands an onto the bar top. “You wanna give it a shot?”
“Oh, god. I’m probably gonna last about three seconds,” Sam laughs before his eyes widen in horror at the maniacal glee on Dean’s face.
“Don’t be ashamed Sammy, plenty of dudes struggle. You know there are things you can do to help with that problem. Might I suggest a nice silicone-”
“Shut up, jerk! This is my bachelor party,” Sam whines, whipping out puppy dog eyes and a pouty lip. “I thought you were supposed to make it fun for me, not make fun of me.”
“Ugh, fine, fine, uncle! Just put the puppy dog eyes away,” Dean chuckles, catching Sam when he sways a little too far sideways. “Please tell me those don’t work on, Eileen.”
Dean says it to distract Sam while he swaps out his beer for water, but Sam answers as if it has been a real question.
“Nope. Not even once,” Sam sighs dopily.
“God, you’re so whipped. You know that,” Dean grouses, but he’s smiling. Because it’s really good to see Sam happy.
“You’re one to talk,” Sam shoots back before adding, “This beer tastes funny Dean, you should check with your distributors. I think they’re watering it down.”
“Will do, Sam. But uh, what did you mean-“
“I wanna ride the bull, Dean. Please! You said I could,” Sam whines, sounding so much like the snot-nosed kid he used to be that Dean’s chest aches and he relents.
He has to give Sam a leg up, rethinking the whole idea when Sam almost launches himself over the other side before he finds his balance.
Dean keeps an eye on him as he backs toward the control panel.
“You ready?” Dean hollers, drawing the attention of several of their drunk friends.
By the time Sam flicks his bangs out of his face and gives Dean a thumbs up, everyone has gathered around the small corral. Sam hadn’t really cared too much about archaic social rules, so the bachelor and bachelorette parties had been planned for two separate weekends ends and open to all their friends and family. Meaning the crowd is not small.
Dean takes one more second to pull out his phone and hit record before he presses the button for one of the gentler preprogrammed rides.
The mechanical animal moves slowly at first. Tilting and pitching manageably before it gains speed and force.
To his credit, Sam does last more than three seconds, though twelve is only slightly better (which Dean tells his phone lens).
Charlie begs for a turn next. She does better than Sam, lasting a full thirty seconds.
She's giggling when she pops up from the cushioned ground and shouts, "Whoooo! Suck it bitches, I am the queen!"
Charlie jogs the perimeter of the corral in a victory lap then slaps the rear of the stationary bull and asks if there's any brave souls who want to challenge her for the throne.
Several people take her up, but none of them outlast her.
Until they're all shocked when Garth steps into the ring. He scrambles up, limbs flying everywhere. Dean almost closes his eyes, but as the bull ramps up, he can't look away.
Because Garth is just grinning ear to ear as he lets his body jostle with the flow of the bull, gripping with his legs and leaning on the harder jerks.
He stays on for a full minute, and only appears to fall because he chooses to, saluting the crowd before rolling off the side.
There's silence for a moment and then everyone, even Charlie, is clamoring around him, hoisting him up and chanting "Garth, Garth, Garth!"
"It's all in the legs. We spent a summer in Florida and whew, I'll tell you this bull is a piece of cake compared to the alligators," Garth explains when they demand answers.
Dean's just about to begin wrapping the evening up, when Sam very loudly and drunkenly exclaims, "Your turn, Dean!"
"Nah, it’s getting late and we have to get you all home safe and sound so several spouses, and soon-to-be spouses, don't do me bodily harm," Dean tries to brush it off, but someone, Dean suspects Charlie, begins chanting his name and there's really no way Dean can get out of it.
His eyes naturally search for Cas in the crowd, even though he's been avoiding him all night. Because, yeah, fuck, Cas has on the button up he'd asked to borrow from Dean, his cheeks are flushed, apparently opting to block his grace from burning the alcohol from his system.
He looks good, he looks so fucking good, just like Dean knew he would.
Cas' blue meet his green and the angel gives him a small smile over the lip of his beer bottle, the smallest tilt of his head.
"Fine, fine! I'll go last," Dean groans, if only to get everyone to shut up. "So, any other takers? Donna? Cas?"
Donna shakes her head, pointing to her full margarita. And Cas, Cas just stares back at him with wild fear and something else that Dean doesn't have time to figure out as he's manhandled into the ring.
"Jesus! Fine, I'm going," Dean grunts. He hesitates with both hands on the mechanical beast. Takes a breath and then heaves himself onto it.
He's a little shocked at how familiar it feels. Because the last time he'd been on a mechanical bull, well the last time he'd been drunk and then spelled and hadn't recalled it at all, but the last time he remembered being on a mechanical bull had been the summer after he turned 25.
---
John had left in the middle of the night, following a lead about Azazel and not bothering to wake Dean. He'd found a note the next morning telling him to salt and burn the body and wait to hear back, or if he didn't call in the next five days to head to Bobby's.
Dean had cursed himself, had fallen back onto the motel bed and screamed into the pillow at his own stupidity. Because he'd messed up. He'd let himself get lazy one time and now his fake credit card was hundreds of miles away in the Impala's side door pocket and he had a measly twenty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents to live off of.
Which meant that (after identifying the ghost, digging up the remains, salting, and burning them) Dean's first stop was the local bar to try and make some money, hopefully by hustling pool and not sucking dick in the alley, but Dean was low on choices.
He'd almost broken down as he set foot into the bar, had almost given in and called John to admit his mistake and take whatever punishment awaited. Because all the pool tables were covered, no one even the slightest bit interested in it when it was 'Country' night.
But something stopped him. Some stubborn streak or some fear of this maybe being the final straw that made John see him as more of a liability than a help and leave him on his own for good.
So, he straightened his shoulders and put on his most charming smile and strutted in like he owned the joint. Like he didn't care about the holes in his jeans, or the dirt on his cuffs.
He was chatting up a potential trick when shouts from a corner drew both of their attention and they wandered over, moths to a flame.
"Alright folks, we're gonna take a break from rides to let some of our staff have a turn. Nikki, Jake, take it away."
Dean shoved his way through the crowd until he could see.
Two figures, dressed in green staff shirts, were pressed together on the center of the bull. They rocked sensually for a bit before the guy jumped up to his feet, grabbing at a ring and timing the jump so that he swung around to seat himself in the girl's lap. She giggled and grabbed at his thighs and Dean was transfixed. He watched their whole routine with rapture and awe. And when the song ended and the bull slowed and bills rained down into the ring for them to collect, a light bulb went off in Dean's head.
Later, when most of the patrons had left and he had a safety net of money in his pocket from alley men, he'd gone up to the MC with more confidence than he felt and asked if he could have a shot, had blatantly lied to the man's face and nodded when he'd been asked if he had experience.
His hands had trembled when he'd gone up to the bull that first time. But then he'd swung his leg over and something clicked.
He found the rhythm instantly; this was, after all, way easier than trying to pin down a werewolf to inject deadman's blood. Slowly he managed to get to his feet and imitate the moves of the couple he'd watched, slipping a few times but overall doing well, at least in his mind.
When the song ended, there had even been a few bills waiting for him.
Jake and Nikki had come up to him afterward, asked him if he wanted to come back.
And he had. He stayed the whole week, even though he really should have moved on, should have found a new case to work while waiting for John to call, but he didn't.
He stayed and he even made enough money to send a hefty roll of bills to Bobby to pass on to Sam, anonymously of course so Sam would accept it.
And it was the best week Dean can remember from that time of his life. Until he'd been performing one night, circling on the braided rope to slide down the backside of the bull, right into the hips of the man in front of him. And there, front and center when he looked into the crowd, was John. His face was granite but Dean could tell he was seething.
They'd left that night, Dean not even stopping to pick up the bills nor say goodbye to his friends.
He had a few bruises the next day and angry words ringing in his ears about selfishness and duty.
And the next time he’d gotten back onto a bull, he’d been cursed into nearly forgetting his own name.
---
Dean freezes, all of it washing over him as the bull begins slow jerks. And it's too much. So, he doesn't correct like he knows he should, like his body wants to do when it tilts. He lets himself be jelly and slide off onto the floor after just a few seconds.
Cas is next to him in an instant.
"Dean, are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Cas. Really," Dean says, waving him off, ears burning with embarrassment as most of the onlookers stare at him in confusion or concern.
Until Sam blurts, "It's okay, Dean. Really. Not being able to last longer than eight seconds is a common problem with men of your age. Nothing to be ashamed of."
Everyone starts laughing and the tension ebbs.
Dean takes that as his cue to start ordering Ubers, calling partners, and helping people gather their belongings.
Sam is the drunkest one, thankfully, because Dean knows how to handle the giant baby. He gets Sam's arm around his neck and helps him stumble to the door, waving to Cas and Charlie as they lean against her car and look up into the star-laden sky.
He laughs as Sam draws his attention away from the lovely sight by pawing at his shirt and gasping when he sees Eileen step out of their hybrid to open the door for Dean so he doesn't have to try and let go of the dead weight of Sam.
"Lookit 'er, Dean. 'm the luckie, luckest man in th'worl. So pretty and, and, and badash," Sam mumbles as Dean all but tosses him into the seat.
"And don't forget it," Eileen says, pulling his seat belt across his body and securing him in. Then she plants a kiss on his lips and Sam, his grown ass brother, actually starts sobbing.
And he doesn't feel a stab of jealousy as he watches Eileen shut the door and pull away, back to the home they share, doesn't feel loneliness settle around his shoulders and swallow him like an oversized coat.
He keeps telling himself that as he goes back into his bar, locking the door behind him and grabs a tray to collect the assortment of glasses lingering around.
"I am perfectly happy. I have my bar, I have my brother, I have my friends." He chants like a mantra, and because he can't help himself he adds, "I have Cas."
Because he isn't really sure what Cas is. They're more than friends, more than what Dean has with Charlie or even with Benny. But they're less than lovers. They're in limbo and that space between is as sweet as it is torturous.
Dean is just getting around to sweeping when he winds up near the bull; feels it's ridiculous button eyes stare at him as he sweeps the same spot.
"What are you looking at?" Dean barks at it, though he knows he's more angry with himself than the inanimate object.
Because something deep inside him wants to climb back up there.
Focus, Winchester. Finish sweeping and start the dishwasher and call it a night.
But he keeps glancing back at the bull. And then all of a sudden it hits him.
He owns this bar. There's no one here to see him if he fails. He can call the cleaning good enough and get on that bull if he damn well wants to.
And he really, really does.
So, Dean sets aside his broom, rolls up the sleeves of his black bar-tending button up, sticks his cowboy hat on his head, cues a slow program, and steps inside the ring.
It's more nerve-wracking than it should be and Dean nearly calls the whole thing off when he mistimes his first vault, careening over the side and onto the ground.
But he doesn't, he dusts himself off and waits for another opening.
He allows himself a cheer when he nails the mount on his second attempt.
Just like that he's back. It's a different bar, a different decade, a different bull, but it’s the same feeling of freedom.
He lets himself warm up with a few slides back to the edge of the bull's rear, sliding up into the horn of the fake saddle when the motion changes. Then he gets bolder, pistoning his hips until he's got enough momentum to push up to a crouch, and then to stand, rocking on the back of the machine like he's surfing.
He reaches up to pull down the rope he'd installed down from the rafter. A small part of him had always known he'd want to get back on, even if he'd justified the purchase by saying he might hire some entertainers like he'd seen way back when.
And then he's moving faster, twirling and spinning around the bull, flipping to face backward and forward as he enjoys the ride.
He finishes with what used to be his signature move. He stands and grabs the rope, swings himself in a wide arc like a dancer at a club might, one booted foot planted on the bucking bull, the other twined around the rope. And then he shoves off, managing a turn wide enough that he has time to untwist his leg and slide down the length of the bull, toss his hat into the ghost crowd and lower himself onto his back.
The bull slows to a stop, and he lets out a laugh, one that's deep and true and full of the joy he feels.
"I still got it," he tells the ceiling above him as he runs a hand through his sweaty hair, longer than it’s ever been now that he's semi-retired.
"Dean, what was that?" Cas whispers, voice full of wonder as his face comes into view above Dean.
"Ahhh!" Dean screams as he flails and falls off the bull. He quickly rights himself and tries to process what he's seeing.
Cas stands at the back of the bull, staring at him, holding Dean’s cowboy hat in his hands.
And if that doesn't do something in Dean's brain. Because when he used to perform this, he would do a solo and then toss his hat into the crowd and whoever caught it would win a ride with him.
Maybe it's the dim lighting, but Cas' eyes are fixed on him and dilated, his cheeks still rosy from alcohol and he looks hazy. Like his drunkenness is interfering with whatever keeps him on this plane and so now all his edges are soft and fuzzy.
Dean wants to touch him, wants to say something, wants to ask some question that's always on the tip of his tongue, but too dangerous to ever let out.
"I thought you went home with Charlie," he blurts instead.
"What? No, she was just asking me how stars were made. I came back in to offer to help with clean-up, but you were outside with Sam still and then I had to urinate. Very urgently. When I came back out you were, you were ..." Cas trails off, his eyes going back to the bull as he reaches a hand out to touch the fake hide. He's watching it with such longing and desire that Dean has the conflicting urge to be the metal beast and set it on fire. "I was too wary to try riding it earlier, but you made it look so easy, so beautiful. It was like you were dancing."
Dean shifts uncomfortably at the praise, at the direct force of Cas' affectionate gaze when he says it.
"I mean if you want- I can- If you want to-," Dean trips over his words, not really fully forming the thought.
But Cas gets what he's trying to say, understands Dean like no one else seems to.
"Would you teach me?"
Dean can't speak so he just nods.
He watches himself help Cas get seated onto the bull, hears himself tell Cas to grip with his legs and hold the horn while Dean goes back to the control panel and resets the same cycle he'd been on.
It's not until he's at the edge of the ring, watching for the perfect opening and launching into the air, that he comes back to himself.
Just in time to crash his hips into Cas' ass.
Cas lets out a squeak of surprise, that absolutely doesn't stir Dean's blood.
Keep it professional, Winchester. He's your best friend. Cas just asked you to teach him to do what you did. He didn't ask for a dance, he's a drunk celestial being and he does not want to jump your bones. Keep it in your pants, Dean berates himself, as if willpower alone could be enough to keep him from reacting as Cas settles back, presses himself along the entire length of Dean from the backs of their knees up to their shoulders.
And Cas' neck is right there, right in front of his lips. So close it would be easy to play it off as an accident, but Dean resists the temptation.
"Okay, now, um. This is going to be easier if I'm facing you, so I'm going to swing around on the rope. What I need you to do is scoot back as soon as I get up. Think you can do that?" Dean asks, shivering when Cas answers affirmatively and squeezes above his knee to let Dean know he's ready.
Dean has to rock into Cas to get enough momentum to stand with the next tilt. He can feel Cas following his movement as he arcs around and slides into the small space Cas managed to create, landing practically in Cas' lap.
Cas doesn't appear to be affected by the position at all, placing Dean's hat back on his head when he stops fidgeting.
It sobers the drunk lust that has been bubbling in Dean's veins and he takes a breath.
He readjusts their legs so that Cas' are on top of his and places his hands on Cas' hips, showing him how to feel when the bull was going to speed up, how to rock into it to get enough motion to stand.
Cas, it turns out, is just as much a natural at it as Dean was. After just a few explanations Cas tentatively asks Dean if he can try changing direction like Dean had earlier. He has one close moment where Dean thinks he's going to lose his grip on the rope, but then he’s arcing gracefully around Dean until he’s behind him. He slams into Dean’s back with more force than Dean had earlier, not quite as good at gauging the distance and speed.
But, god, if it doesn't do something to Dean as he reacts by falling forward, legs kicking back into Cas' and causing him to fall on top of Dean's back. Cas’ hands dig into Dean's hips to keep from falling off, neither one having a good grip so the movement of the bull causes Cas' pelvis to continue to bump into Dean’s ass.
Dean finally gets his knees locked right and manages to sit up. He’s just about to apologize for not warning Cas about slowing his approach when he registers a change in the haphazard bumping behind him.
He blinks and turns at his waist to look at Cas because he doesn’t trust what his brain is telling him, which is that there is a hard cock pressing into his backside.
Cas' face is full of anguish when he meets Dean's confused gaze and he's gasping his own apology, "I'm- I'm so sorry, Dean. I'll fix it, just give me a moment. The- It was too much and- I lost control of my grace for a second so-"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up!" Dean grabs the rope and swings to change direction again, needing to see Cas' eyes when he confronts him, and possibly because having Cas’ hips slide into his from behind one more time might send him over the edge.
"First, that was my fault, I forgot to warn you not to come in too hot. And secondly, what the fuck do you mean you lost control of your grace?"
Cas' eyes dart down to his crotch. His crotch where Cas definitely has a boner.
"Okay, still not sure what it has to do with your grace, but that," Dean waves vaguely toward Cas' groin. "That's normal. That's kind of what this is all about."
Cas still looks distressed, so Dean continues, trying to explain better, "You were right before, when you said it looked like a dance. And when you have a partner it’s sort of about teasing and playing and pushing boundaries. Nothing is too much as long as you’re safe. That's what makes it so fun."
"So, this," Cas mimics Dean's motion from before, "This is … okay?"
"Yes, Cas, it's totally fine. Is this?” Dean replies, gesturing toward the bulge in his own jeans.
Cas glances down at Dean’s crotch for a second before he jerks his gaze away. His eyes are wide and they flick downward as if he wants to look again but knows he shouldn’t, as if he’s surprised that Dean’s body has reacted the same way his has.
“So, what was the grace thing about?" Dean asks, letting himself place both hands high on Cas' thighs. For reassurance, of course.
"I, um, I may have been using my grace to keep myself from becoming erect, but with the alcohol and the bull and you, I just lost control for a moment."
The bull slows and finally stops, leaving Cas' words to hang in the air and stillness around them.
Dean stares at him, mouth hanging open. Because what did Cas mean?
"You used your grace to kill your boner?"
"Yes," Cas answers confidently.
"You were purposely not getting hard. You were- Riding on this bull with me was making you pop a boner?" Dean asks, the pieces of something there but still not connecting.
"Correct. Which I ‘unpopped’ with grace. Although, if I'm honest, I've been reducing and redirecting the natural flow of blood to my penis since I exited the bathroom and saw you riding on your own."
And the air quotes nearly distract Dean from the final twist, the final part that makes the whole picture come together.
"Cas," Dean breathes, "Do I make you- Do you find me- Do I turn you on?"
Now Cas is the one blinking at him in confusion, as if the answer to his question is far too obvious to even be asking it.
"Yes. But I try to regulate my body's amorous response to you because I know it makes you uncomfortable."
"When," Dean has to bite his knuckles to keep any semblance of calm, "When did I give you the impression that you being into me would make me uncomfortable?"
"Well, you have mentioned personal space several times. You’ve also rejected the attentions of Ketch, as well as the gorgon, Noah. You laugh every time you bring up Aaron and how he thought you were into him. And, though Benny has clearly indicated he'd be interested in a 'friends with benefits' relationship with you, you've never reciprocated or acted on those feelings," Cas finishes.
And damn, if those air quotes don't make Dean want to lean forward and kiss Cas. But he refrains, because Cas is staring at him with a strange sort of desperation.
"Cas," Dean murmurs, hands migrating towards his hips, thumbs looping into his belt, "There's one little flaw in your logic."
"My logic is not flawed, Dean. I have collected a lot of data to come to this conclusion, years of studying you and your interactions," Cas insists, almost offended at Dean's comment.
"Yeah, well, I'm telling you there's a flaw," Dean retorts, a small laugh leaving him as Cas' brows pinch and his mouth opens to argue. Dean beats him to the punch. "None of those guys were you, Cas"
The argument dies on Cas' lips, the indignation in his eyes extinguished.
"Oh," is all he says.
"Ask me, Cas," Dean encourages, his voice low and rough, "Ask me if I'm attracted to you. Ask me if you turn me on too. Ya know, for science and your data set and all."
Cas sucks in a breath, holds it longer than any human could. Dean waits. He waits and he tries not to listen to the doubting voice in his head whispering that Cas doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want the confession that Dean so desperately wants to give.
"Are you attracted to me, Dean? Do I ‘turn you on’?"
Dean knows he asked Cas to say the words, had written the script, but he's still not prepared to hear them rolling off Cas' tongue, soft and heavy with longing.
"Fuck. Yes, Cas," Dean practically whimpers back, his fingers twitching on Cas' hips, pulling him forward toward Dean's lap, needing him closer.
And Cas stares at him like he didn't know how Dean was going to respond, even after all that. Like Dean's admission is somehow still a surprise.
"Well, then," Cas states, slowly reaching a hand up and Dean thinks he might be going for his cheek. He lets his eyes flutter shut, waiting for a kiss. But Cas' hand keeps going, reaching further up until it curls around the brim of his hat.
Dean’s eyes flare open in confusion when he feels his hat move, his hands reflexively traveling up from Cas’ waist to the small of his back.
Cas waits until Dean meets his eyes and then he maintains eye contact as he lifts the hat off Dean’s head, twisting his wrist and smoothly flipping it to settle it onto his own.
“Cas that- When you do that- you can’t just- the hat- It means-"
Dean can't finish, his mind a mess and at war with itself as he tries to stomp the images of Cas in nothing but his hat, thrusting the same way he had moments earlier.
And Cas leans in, his eyes focused and intent as he whispers huskily “Did you think I wasn’t paying attention during our movie nights, Dean? Looks like I owe you a ride.”
Dean loses the ability to speak, so his body speaks for him. A desperate sound claws its way out of his mouth, his hips buck up into Cas’ thighs, his hands grasp at the fabric of Cas’ shirt, his face flushes with need and desire.
Now, now Cas will finally kiss me, Dean thinks, maybe even prays as he watches Cas zero in on his mouth.
“Can we start the bull again,” Cas asks Dean’s lips.
Dean blinks and tries not to feel disappointed, tries to prop up the crumbling inside him by reminding himself that it was silly to even think Cas could mean fucking Dean when he’d said he’d owed Dean a ride. Of course the angel would mean on the bull.
“Yeah, uh, yeah of course. Here let me just- Can you hold on to the rope or behind you while I-” Dean says as he lifts Cas’ thighs off his and scoots him back enough that he can swing his leg around and slide off the bull to walk over to the control board.
“Was that program okay or do you want something faster?” Dean asks, purely to give himself a second to regain his composure and readjust his dick where its straining uncomfortably in his pants, painfully hard at the thought of Cas wanting to give him a dance.
“A little faster I think,” Cas calls and Dean catches him readjusting himself too as he slides forward on the bull to give Dean space to mount.
Dean hits the right program and jogs to the edge of the ring. He motions Cas to swing the rope his way, not entirely trusting himself to be able to vault on at the higher speed. He hoists himself up and manages to swing so both feet hit the broadside of the steer, quickly climbing up it so he’s standing on the rump before using Cas’ shoulders to help himself slide on behind him.
As soon as Dean is seated Cas gets to work, all hesitation and trepidation gone, replaced by a mouth-watering confidence.
Cas reaches back to grab Dean’s thighs, running his hands down the length of them before pulling him into Cas by the knees, swirling his ass back against Dean’s erection.
Dean bites down a moan, opens his mouth to say something, but doesn’t get the chance as Cas reaches for the rope. All Dean can do is hold on to the bull and try not to vibrate out of his skin when Cas slides in behind him.
Warm hands run up his thighs again, not stopping this time but continuing a burning path up the front of his chest. Cas presses the slightest bit of pressure on him and Dean falls, leaning back with Cas, the bull still bucking his hips into Dean. His hands dig into the delicious meat of Cas’ thick thighs and Dean thinks this might be heaven.
Laying back beneath Dean, one of Cas’ hands trails back down to form a bruising grip on Dean’s hip, holding him tight against Cas’ body, the other trailing up to his neck.
And Dean had been close before, but now he feels like he’s about to explode, Cas’ fingers gently rubbing along the column of his throat before gripping more tightly as Dean squirms.
“Cas, please!” Dean gasps. He hasn’t come untouched in his pants since he was nineteen and Rhonda Hurley had made him try on her pink panties, but it’s Cas and he knows he’s just one touch away from embarrassing both of them.
Fuck, don’t come. Don’t come. Please let me not come right now, not until Cas is done. Fuck!
Cas stills behind him and Dean lets out a noise that is definitely not a mewl.
The fingers at his throat drift to the back of his head, tangling in his sweat-damp hair and pulling back, exposing the length of his neck for plush, chapped lips to press against his racing pulse.
And Dean gives in to the feeling of tipping, loses his grip on the reins of his pleasure. Only he doesn’t come. He gets all the way to the edge of that precipice, his body tense and waiting for release, but he doesn’t fall. The desire remains, his cock is still hard and needy in the confines of his jeans, but the desperation, the need for release is gone. He's still on that cliff but just a few steps back from the edge.
Holy fuck. HOLY FUCK! Did Cas just use his grace to-
Dean doesn’t have time to finish the thought because Cas is righting his pliable body and then the heat and support is gone from behind him. He doesn’t have to mourn the loss for long because Cas is back in front of him in the blink of an eye.
Both of Cas’ hands go to Dean’s shoulders as he drops himself in Dean’s lap, undulating his hips and eliciting shuddering gasps out of Dean. The bull gives a particularly good buck and then it’s Cas gasping as Dean’s erection rubs up into him.
Cas’ eyes are blown wide and dark and Dean’s mouth goes dry at the sight. Cas’ fingers curl between the buttons of Dean’s shirt, fingertips pressing teasingly against his hot skin. The angel quirks a brow and Dean nods his head enthusiastically, not having enough brain function to figure out what Cas is asking consent for but not able, or willing, to deny him anything.
Buttons fly off Dean’s shirt as Cas tears it open in one go. And Dean is right back at that edge, biting his lip and shaking with the effort it takes to wait.
A burning hand presses to his chest and Dean gapes as he watches Cas’ eyes glow heavenly blue.
Cas grins at him, not the grin of his friend, not the shy bashful smile of the humanized angel. No. This is the dark grin of a general, a master strategist, watching his battle plan succeed.
Dean groans, half pleasure and half frustration. He bucks from beneath Cas’ thighs, grinding himself up into Cas.
Cas growls a warning and Dean stills with a whimper, his head falling forward into Cas’ shoulder, his body trembling with the release it’s being denied as Cas’ arms go around his neck and he uses Dean’s shoulders to bounce in Dean’s lap.
The bull goes still, having completed its run. And Dean isn’t sure if he’s relieved or disappointed; sad that the sweet torture of Cas’ ‘ride’ is at an end, but hopeful that Cas will let Dean whisk him away to bed to make up for years of longing.
Neither one of them moves, both panting into the deafening silence of the empty bar.
Dean wants to say something, ask Cas if he was going to finish what he’d started, but the words shrivel on his tongue.
Because in the stillness, in the quiet, the bubble of this fantasy pops, and they’re not cowboys, Dean’s not a teacher or an entertainer, Cas isn’t a date he’s trying to impress.
It’s just him and Cas. Just the two of them staring at each other in the dimness.
“Cas, it’s stopped moving,” Dean murmurs, as if Cas not realizing the bull isn’t moving is the only reason he’s still in Dean’s lap.
“Hmmm” Cas acknowledges, eyes focused on his anti-possession tattoo and the jut of his collar bone above it, his arms still loosely wrapped around Dean’s neck.
“We should. Hm. Probably get off.”
“Not yet,” Cas rasps and Dean shudders at the command in it. He stays still, frozen as Cas’ moves and nudges Dean’s legs until he’s the one in Cas’ lap, remains pliable as hands pull the belt from Dean’s jeans, unzip him and reach inside. He lets out a lust filled hiss as Cas wriggles his hand in to feel him. Cas pulls him out, sliding the band of his boxers beneath his balls and then grips his dick, sending Dean into the stratosphere of pleasure before he can worry about the hygienics or logistics of it all.
There’s a brief moment where Dean doubts, wonders if they should be crossing this line. I mean, a little dry humping between friends who find each other attractive is one thing, but his cock in Cas’ hand? His precum leaking over those celestial fingers? That was more, that meant something.
Not to mention they are in a bar, his bar. On his mechanical bull that less than a couple of hours ago all his friends and family were riding.
Pros and cons flit through Dean’s head at lightning speed.
We’re alone, I locked the bar and everyone, minus the two of us, is at home sleeping off the party. But I do kind of have a responsibility to keep it professional, especially in my own establishment. I’ve kicked college kids out for doing less than what Cas and I have been doing. I’d be a hypocrite to let Cas go any further. But … fuck.
Cas squeezes him hard enough that Dean’s gasping and meeting his gaze
“Dean, I can hear you thinking."
"Yeah, well there's a, hmm, a lot to think about," Dean somehow manages as Cas appears to mindlessly swipe his thumb across Dean’s slit.
“Do you want me to stop?” The question is laced with self-doubt and Dean needs it gone immediately.
“No! No, that’s not what I meant. This, this is sexy as fuck, Cas. Probably the most turned on I’ve been in my life. But, but, I have no fucking clue how to get jizz out of faux hide and, and you know things are going to be different if we keep going, right. I can’t, I won’t be able to go back to how things were. Fuck, it might be selfish but I’m gonna want more, Cas.”
Cas sits up, spine straightening as he leans back from Dean. He cocks his head and squints, really looking at him, perhaps even reading his very soul. Dean squirms at the attention, biting his lip when the movement causes Cas to squeeze again.
“You think too much,” Cas finally declares. “I’ll clean everything with my grace when we’re done. And … I want things to be different, Dean. I want you to think of me every time you see this bull, every time you ride it from now on. When you pull those ropes down and roll your hips, I want you to be picturing me. Here. Making you come apart.”
And Dean doesn’t need any more convincing than that, especially not when Cas’ hand starts moving, stroking him again and tearing a moan out of his throat before catching it between their mouths. Cas times the draw of his hand with the rock of his hips and Dean is careening back toward that edge.
Despite the haze of mounting pleasure Dean can’t let go, can’t let himself give in even though Cas isn’t denying his orgasm with grace this time. Because Cas is doing all the work without getting anything in return and that’s really not fair. Cas gets to feel him while Dean is just here taking pleasure without giving. And he needs to know he’s giving Cas pleasure too, needs to know that Cas is right there with him drowning in it.
“Wait, uh, wait Cas. Don’t wanna come, don’ wanna come yet,” Dean manages as he gently pulls Cas’ hand away so he can fumble with Cas’ belt buckle and fly.
And then he’s staring at Cas’ hard cock, tenting his boxer briefs, dampening the fabric with his own pre-ejaculate. And this has to be a dream. This has to be the single hottest, most vivid, wet dream he’s had about Cas. He almost convinces himself it isn’t real until Cas grabs his wrist and places Dean’s hand on him. Dean rubs him through the fabric, savoring the noises Cas makes for a moment before he’s pulling Cas out, wrapping his bare hand around Cas’ equally hard cock and causing his angel, the actual biblical angel, to throw his head back and let out a sinful moan.
The sound freezes Dean, but it seems to spur Cas into action. He pushes Dean’s shoulder back roughly, making him lose his grip and balance, forcing him to grasp the lower edges of the fake body behind him with both hands to remain seated.
“Spit,” Cas demands, his palm in front of Dean’s face, his full weight pinning Dean down. Dean obeys, his legs circling around Cas’ hips to relieve the pain in his lower back at the extreme position.
Cas readjusts himself and wraps his saliva-slicked hand around both of them before he goes back to slow thrusts and Dean sees stars.
Cas’ eyes are hazy with concentration, with rapture. Words flow from his mouth. Not English but Enochian. Dean doesn’t know what they mean but the tone is praising and awe-filled.
Shadows flick behind Cas and Dean thinks Cas might have blown out the lights like he’d done the night they first met in that barn. But the lights are still on, it’s just shadows moving behind the angel.
No, Dean thinks between gasps of ecstasy, not shadows, wings.
Dean comes watching Cas’ shadow wings rock in time with his hips, feels fireworks and aftershocks in his veins as they flare at the now shattering lights when Cas follows a few moments later, gripping his shoulder tightly, the same one he had so long ago.
He worries he’s blacked out for a moment when the humming in his body slows, when he’s less overwhelmed by bliss, and he still can’t see a damn thing.
But it’s not him, Dean realizes when his eyes adjust. The bar is dark. The dim lights above the bull are out and, Dean notes with both alarm and twisted pride, so are the streetlights. The only bit of light illuminating the space is from the glow of the moon.
Cas lifts himself off where he’d flopped onto Dean, hand damp on his chest with their combined release. It stays there, near his thundering heart as Dean lifts himself as well.
The angel still appears to be dazed, so Dean takes on the task of tucking both of them back into their pants, though he doesn’t bother with zippers or buttons.
“Cas?” Dean checks in, rubbing his hands up and down Cas’ arms.
“Hmm? Oh, right,” Cas mumbles, lifting his hand from Dean’s chest.
Dean is struck by a sudden possessiveness and he halts Cas from where he’d probably been about to touch Dean’s face to clean them both up.
He doesn’t want to be clean, not just yet anyway. Not before he gets the chance to taste Cas.
Dean hums as his mouth wraps around Cas pointer and middle finger, as he tastes them.
Cas’ hand is yanked from his mouth much sooner than Dean would have liked, but fingers are replaced by lips and tongue so he’s not too upset.
They kiss like they’re not spent, like they’re touching for the first time, and not like they’d come so hard that Cas had blown out the lights and Dean had thought he’d gone blind.
They kiss until they’re both lightheaded for lack of air. Cas rests his forehead against Dean’s, the cowboy hat lost somewhere below them in the scramble of hands in hair and beneath fabric to clutch at bare skin.
“That was some fucking ride, Cas,” Dean wheezes when his lungs finally decide to function normally. He gestures to the ceiling and the dark front windows, “Can I, can I assume this means that it was as good for you as it was for me?”
“Dean, it was far more than just good,” Cas says with a fierceness that surprises Dean, ”that was …”
Cas cards his fingers through Dean’s hair and Dean’s content to wait for Cas to figure out what he wants to say.
“That was proof of the divine.”
“Really, Cas? You’re a bona fide ‘angel of the lord’, I feel like that’s more ‘proof of the divine’ than little ole me,” Dean chuckles, leaning into Cas’ touch.
Cas grabs his chin, forcing his face up, eyes flashing even in the dark.
“Dean, I am the product of a careless god who did not deserve his creation; I only learned to be more because of you. You eclipsed the god who created you: in beauty, in empathy, in love, in all things. You are proof that perfection can be borne from that which is profoundly flawed.”
Dean kisses him, doesn’t know how else to respond to those words.
“Come up to bed with me?” Dean begs.
“Of course, let me just get us cleaned up,” Cas murmurs, pressing a kiss to Dean’s forehead and the cooling mess between them is gone.
“Don’t suppose your grace will work on the lights, will it?” Dean jokes, feeling Cas smile in return.
“Unfortunately, no. But I can help you change them. Tomorrow of course,” Cas replies, nuzzling his nose against Dean, “Tonight, I have plans for you.”
“More?” Dean asks, baffled as Cas slides from the bull, reaching up to help Dean.
“Orgasm denial isn’t the only thing I can do with my grace,” Cas murmurs suggestively.
All thoughts of lights or clean up or what comes tomorrow flee Dean’s brain. The only thing he can focus on is Cas’ promising smile in the moonlight.
And though he’d suggested it, Cas is the one to lead him upstairs and drape him across his bed.
He's pretty sure they blow every bulb in the place, maybe even a few in the buildings next door, but it’s all worth it as Cas shows him exactly what he can do with his grace.
When Cas finally lets Dean collapse and nestle into his arms, Dean is spent and happy and profoundly content. He drifts off listening to his angel, the man he loves, whisper promises of a lifetime of happiness, for both of them. And, for the first time, Dean truly believes that good things do happen.