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It had really just been Dean escalating and escalating things since Zachariah had gone and sent him to the future. He’d left with more than maybe good ol’ Zach had wanted him to see. Sure, they were all screwed six ways from Sunday—he already knew that. He was gonna throw himself on the pyre to try and save Sam, and everyone they loved who was still breathing was gonna follow him into the fire without hesitation. Fucking excellent. Whatever.
The other thing he’d gotten out of the trip was an answer to a question he’d been turning over in his head for a long while. 2014 had shown him a sad version of himself, jaded, hollowed out, running on fumes.
Cas had been a completely different person. Sarcastic. Nihilistic. Had fallen for him, human.
The future versions of them had… something. Kind of. Messy, toxic, way too desperate, but it was there. Somewhere between the orgies and the pills and the pointless violence, Dean had found proof. Proof that under all that angelic stillness and righteous distance, Cas could want him back. He felt a little bit like he was peaking at Castiel's hand of cards, but hey, can you blame a guy for taking advantage of what's offered to him?
And maybe that was why Dean had kept testing the waters ever since, tossing out bait in the form of smartass lines and leaning too close in motel rooms with plenty of space. Cas never bit. Never flinched either. Just watched him with that infuriating, steady patience, like he was waiting for Dean to say the thing out loud. What he himself had now confirmed after Cas had thrown him around the fucking alleyway.
Not that that had been very fun. Dean prides himself on being someone who likes a little rough play. But getting punched by what is essentially a bulldozer wearing an accountant pushed that boundary. But not so far that he hadn't had. Well. A reaction.
It had been a while, okay. And six feet of righteous angel throwing him around like he was a ragdoll? He might be the Michael Sword or whatever, but he wasn't a saint. By the time he'd been ping ponged across the grimy brick twice, he'd been rocking a semi. And it didn't help that Cas kept getting right up into his face, that he had been holding his body against the wall with his own. Dean wasn't a small guy; he'd lived his entire life as a professional monster hunter. He had never been held against a wall with just one arm gripping the front of his shirt. Even bleeding down the side of his head from the impacts he'd been keenly aware of every single boiling point of contact between them.
All Dean had wanted for months was for the angel to touch him like that. Well, maybe not exactly like that. But not too far off from this either. By the time Cas had finished making his point, that point being, fuck you, Dean, I did not rebel against heaven for you to be an idiot. Dean was putting active effort against moaning for a very different reason than what felt like a few cracked ribs.
Which is what brought him to now, the furthest he'd toed this particular line with the angel in a while. Bloody and six inches off the ground with a hand around his neck. He didn't feel like there was very much to lose. He had been about to sell his ass to an archangel, tantamount to suicide. Now in the alley with the real Cas, the one who still didn’t get Dean’s jokes and seemed baffled by the concept of a pick-up line, Dean couldn’t stop himself from pushing. From closing the gap and seeing how far he could take it. If the 2014 versions of them had crossed that line, then it was only a matter of when here, not if.
Cas lifts his knee up in between his legs to better hold Dean against the wall, and he doesn't really have the mental faculties to not grind down on it. Finally chase some friction.
If he was peeking at Castiel's cards, his own were spread on the table, all in.
At the moment of contact, he whined around the grip that Castiel had around his larynx. The sound he made was instinct, raw and low in his throat, muffled by the press of fingers against it. Seeing as Cas was about two inches away from his face, there really wasn't any chance to not notice the way the realization of what Dean had just done flooded his features. How everything was now paused, preternaturally still for half a second. Blue eyes went near-black, and for the first time in a long time, Dean thought maybe Cas wasn’t as oblivious as he pretended to be. Oil slick spreading over the ocean.
If Dean didn't know any better, he would have said that the angel looked hungry. Dean really, really, hoped he didn't know any better.
Dean was also very aware that the knee had not been moved away. Deciding that the worst that could happen was that he would become a smear now, instead of a smear later in the week, he ground down again. Slow, deliberate, making damn sure there was no mistaking it. The hand at his throat loosened while Cas tried to figure out what the fuck Dean was doing, and with that extra bit of airflow, Dean moaned, filthy, drawn-out, and let his eyes fall half-closed. He arches his back into the contact, so that anywhere that wasn't touching before sure as shit is touching now. Dean aches everywhere, the hot spike of pleasure cutting against the dull throb of the rest of his body is transcendent. Pleasure and pain were whiting out his brain. The sound he made poured into the scant inches between them, hot against Cas’s open mouth, and Dean watched him breathe it in. Christ, he was going to come in his jeans like a goddamn teenager.
The stillness that followed left him squirming, chasing half-finished pleasure, short-circuiting in his own head. That must’ve jolted Cas, because Dean saw the iron walls slam back into place, shoving all that raw, naked want down behind fury again. Except Cas’s gaze wasn’t all that interested in Dean’s eyes anymore. He was looking straight at his mouth.
Cas’s breath came harsh and deep, right into Dean’s face. Dean took them in like oxygen.
“You—” Cas rasped, tightening his grip on Dean’s shirt and shoving him harder against the wall, “—you insolent man.”
Dean pushes into the added contact. Cas moved his knee away, rude as hell, but when Dean was gearing up to call him on it, that's when the angel made up his mind. Cas’s free hand clamped onto Dean’s coat and shirt in furious handfuls. In one motion, he lifted and slammed Dean back against the brick, wrenching a rougher, less pleasant groan out of him.
And then Cas’s mouth was on his.
The impact was pure violence. Nothing neat about it, all heat and teeth and desperation, but oh. Oh. This is so much better than even Dean's best and most vivid fantasies of what this moment would be like. About ten minutes ago, Dean was gearing up to essentially kill himself; five minutes ago, Castiel was punching him in the face and breaking his ribs. Now? Now he was being kissed within an inch of his life, and he was going to give it as good as he got. After a split second 'oh shit' moment of clarity, he shoved right back, teeth clacking together, his own brand of force meeting Cas’s in the middle.
Cas didn't taste like anyone he'd ever kissed before. Usually, people had a bit of something on them— spit, sweat, toothpaste, gum, whatever they'd eaten last. Cas, on the other hand? He tasted like standing too close to a window during a thunderstorm, the ache in your teeth in the frozen dead of winter. There was spit and heat and all the bits that come with being tonsil deep in someone else, but Dean swore there was static electricity raising all of the fine hairs of his body to attention, could feel a current passing between them.
Dean finally remembered he had hands and brought them to grip Castiel's hips, sliding them underneath that damn trench coat and gripping where his shirt was tucked into belted slacks. Now Cas growled into the kiss and crashed the entire hard line of his body into Dean's. Castiel threaded his legs between Dean's, moved the grip on the shirt to shove underneath the hem and pressed his hot palm into the skin there.
With all of them touching Dean could feel on his hip that Castiel was just as affected by their actions as he was. He shifted their bodies so that when he lifted his ass off the brick and pressed it forward, he had their twin erections perfectly lined up. Ground them together in a sinuous line.
This contact seemed to ignite something in Cas, who chased the contact until they had a very steady rhythm. Dean moved his hands so that he had handfuls of Castiel's ass. Cas slid his hands around so one was pulling Dean forward by the small of his back. The other had slid further up his shirt, hand now covering his left pec, massaging the fat and muscle there.
Dean liked to consider himself a suave lover, been around the block a few times. Here he was being reduced to just pure sensation. As a passionate fan of dirty talk, he was just gasping, the only words he'd so far managed to get out being repetitions of "Fuck," and "Cas," and "More".
As they continue to grind into each other, heat blooms deep in his abdomen and builds, and builds. That static electricity feeling is mixing with the vertigo head-rush of arousal. Cas presses wet and sloppy kisses to the front of Dean's mouth, the corner, licks and bites his way down his jaw, and settles into the muscle that rests on the side of his neck, just below the ear. Cas's stubble rasps against his own. With Dean's head tilted back, Castiel sets to work biting and sucking a mark there, pinches the nipple that he's been caressing, lifts his thigh so Dean's whole dick gets the hot pressure he's been chasing.
"C'mon sweetheart, c'mon Cas." Dean groans, threads his fingers into Castiel's hair and grips tight, trying not to tip over the edge into the frenzied orgasm that is building.
A dog barking somewhere in the distance brings a sharp clarity to Dean. They are still in an alleyway. He pushes at Cas, though it pains him physically to do so. "Cas, we're in public." Cas does not stop. Dean pushes harder. "Cas, we can't do this here. We can't fuck in an alley."
Cas finally allows himself to be moved, when he leans back enough to look Dean in the eyes, Dean almost caves again right then and there. His hair is absolutely beyond saving, irises completely gone, to how dark his pupils are, mouth puffy, red and spit shiny. "Why?"
"Look, a kid could walk by or something. Not that I didn't like where this is going." Dean amends.
Castiel regards him, squints. "To be clear, it is the location that you are objecting to and not the activity."
Dean still has a handful of Cas's ass at this point, "Yeah." He squeezes it as punctuation.
Cas seems to find that satisfactory, because next thing he knows, his stomach is dropping out from beneath him and the world is spinning, fucker angel zapped him someplace.
"Cas, I fucking— I hate it when you do that." Dean doesn't even have a chance to get his bearings and look where Cas has dropped them before he's got an arm full of angel again. They go right back to where they were before, tongues down each other's throats, hands grabbing wherever they can find the most purchase. This time, Cas is shoving his hands under Dean's shirt insistently, but it's not working.
"Off, I want this off."
He's about to rip the shirt off of Dean, which is hot, but Dean actually likes this one. "Okay, buddy, hold on." He steps back, pulls off his coat and shirt, and tosses them to the side. With the few seconds he has, he takes in his surroundings. It's a bedroom, but not one he recognizes. "Cas, where the fuck are we?"
"France." Cas is clearly not really listening, his eyes now roving over Dean's torso. Dean feels bashful. Castiel yanked his ass out of hell, put his legos back together again, and probably knows more about Dean's body than Dean does. Indeed it looks like he is cataloguing as he goes, his eyes catch where Dean knows there is a scar in the shape of a hand print. Cas's hands have lost their fervent edge, now resting on Dean's hips, thumbs rubbing into the swell of fat that pokes over the jeans.
"Why are we in France?"
"No one will bother us here." Fair enough.
Castiel moves in and kisses him again, no longer feral and brutal. Now it's sensual, he's running the tip of his tongue along the roof of Dean's mouth in just the right way to drive him wild.
Dean takes to task, undoing Castiel's tie, pulling it loose and working his way down the buttons of his white shirt. When he gets to the bottom, he untucks the shirt and tries to slide the three layers off Cas, who pulls away just in time to get them all off.
Castiel had seen Dean naked before, had an advantage. This body is entirely Cas's now, Jimmy having passed on to heaven officially. No guilty conscience for Dean. Dean observes the miles of tanned skin that he had spent many a wet dream trying to imagine. There's a mole above his right nipple, and dark hair covers his chest. A line runs from his belly button, thickening and coiling as it goes down.
Cas walks them backwards, steps sure and deliberate, until the back of Dean’s knees hit the mattress. He went down hard, the bounce of the bed jolting a reminder through him—oh, right. He’d just been getting the shit kicked out of him. The pain, pushed down under adrenaline and heat, surged back to the surface all at once, sharp enough to make him wince.
He shoved lightly at Cas’s hands. “Hey, could you—mojo me or something? Pretty sure you cracked a few ribs.”
Instead of answering, Cas cupped Dean’s face, thumbs warm against his skin. One swiped across his cheek, smearing the blood that had been drying there. Then the swell of grace poured into him. Thick, molten, flooding from scalp to toes in a single, unbroken wave. It left Dean gasping, his body uncoiling from pain in a way that almost felt indecent.
“Were you seriously just gonna fuck me with blood running down my face?” Dean asked once he caught enough breath, angling for cheeky even as his voice was still rough.
“You did really piss me off,” Cas said, leaning down from where he stood between Dean’s legs to press a soft kiss to what was now an unsplit lip.
Dean smirked. “And now?”
“I believe I could use more convincing.”
Dean narrows his eyes at him. “Who the hell taught you to play coy?”
“You did,” Cas replied without hesitation.
Dean hooked his fingers into the angel’s belt loops, tugging him in until Cas was flush against his knees. Tilting his head back to keep eye contact, Dean worked the clasp on the belt, popped the button of his slacks, and let his palms settle flat against the front of Cas’s hips. His thumbs stroked deliberately up and down, skirting the heat straining against the undone zipper but never giving it the pressure they both knew Cas wanted.
Now that he's not bleeding or broken anymore, Dean is feeling pretty cocky, he's got a lapful of angel waiting to be debauched. The thought goes right to his own neglected dick, which hasn't gotten any friction since the alley either, back to full attention after having flagged a bit from the transporter beam act.
Dean's teasing is having the exact effect on Cas that he wants it to, his breath starting to come out in shorter and sharper bursts, mouth falling open in silent gasps. "C'mon sweetheart, you gotta ask for what you want," Dean says, pitching his voice low.
"Dean, please." Cas’s voice was gravel tumbling down a mountain, deep enough to echo somewhere in Dean’s spine. His hips twitched in tiny, helpless thrusts, trying to catch the pressure Dean kept dancing around.
"Please what?"
Cas’s pupils were blown wide, his focus pinned to Dean like there was nothing else in existence. “Touch me.”
That is all it takes for Dean to spring into action. In moments, he has the slacks pulled down, and they fall at Cas's ankles, where he steps out of them. There is a large wet spot darkening the front of Cas's boxers. Dean's mouth waters at the sight.
Dean’s grin went lazy and dangerous all at once. “See? Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He finally dragged his thumbs inward, pressing along the thick line of heat under the fabric. The reaction was immediate. Cas’s jaw went tight, breath catching in his throat like Dean had just flipped a breaker somewhere inside him.
“Yeah,” Dean murmured, watching every flicker of it, “that’s what I thought.”
He palmed Cas through the fabric, slow at first, just enough to make him push forward into the contact. Dean kept the pace maddening, alternating between firm strokes and sudden, deliberate pauses that made Cas groan low in his chest.
Dean hooked two fingers into the waistband, tugging it down just enough to get his hand under. The heat of bare skin under his palm made him suck in a sharp breath. Cas was burning.
“Jesus, you’re—” Dean cut himself off with a shake of his head, giving a slow, full stroke that had Cas’s hands curling.
Cas’s hips rolled forward, the movement uncharacteristically desperate. Dean let him, tightening his grip just enough to keep him there, to make sure he felt it. Cas made a sound that was half a growl, half a moan, eyes locked on Dean’s like he couldn’t look anywhere else.
“Yeah,” Dean said, voice going low and rough. “I got you.”
Dean’s grin turned slow and deliberate as he slid his hands back to the waistband, pushing fabric down enough to free him all the way. Castiel's cock springs out, dark and leaking, bobbing against his lower stomach. Fuck.
The heat of bare skin under his palm made Dean’s mouth water. “Jesus, you’re hot all over,” he muttered, like it was a private confession. He wrapped his hand around him, giving the first stroke torturously slow, enough to make Cas’s hips jerk forward.
Dean kept it measured, alternating between long, steady pulls and sudden pauses that made Cas’s breath catch. “That what you wanted, sweetheart?” he asked, voice dipping low.
Cas’s answer came in the form of a deep, broken groan, his head tipping back, throat working.
Dean tightened his grip just slightly, letting his thumb drag over the head on every upstroke. “I've got you, I've got you.”
He kept the pace slow for as long as he could stand it, watching Cas unravel, hips twitching, jaw slack, breath coming in short, rough bursts.
"Fuck Cas, you're beautiful. I can't wait to get my mouth on you." Dean licked his lips, biting down on the bottom one as he glanced back up. What he saw made his pulse jump. Cas looked wrecked, pupils blown, chest rising and falling in sharp pulls. His hands, though, hung loose at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to move.
That wouldn’t do.
“C’mon, baby,” Dean coaxed, voice low and coaxing. “You don’t have to be gentle. Grab me. It’s okay.”
Cas still didn’t move.
Fine. Dean would make him.
He bent forward, mouthing at the hard line of Cas’s stomach, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses as he worked lower. He sucked at the skin, letting his tongue drag, teeth grazing deliberately. When he got just above where his hands were working, he bit down, not enough to bruise deep, but enough to make the point.
At the sharp nip, Cas’s restraint cracked. One hand came up and tangled in Dean’s hair, fingers fisting tight. The sudden pull wrenched a groan out of Dean’s throat, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Yeah,” he panted, grinning against Cas’s skin, “like that.”
Cas yanked harder, and Dean’s groan broke into something ragged, heat shooting low in his belly. Dean let the pull in his hair guide him, tilting his head so his mouth could trace lower. Every inch he covered, he took his time, slow licks, lingering kisses, the occasional scrape of teeth, making Cas’s grip tighten with each pass.
“Mm, that’s it,” Dean murmured against his skin, lips brushing heat with every word. He could feel Cas’s knuckles pressing into his scalp, the slight tremor in them betraying just how hard he was working to keep control.
Dean wasn’t about to let him.
He opened his mouth over the line of muscle just above Cas’s hip, sucking hard, letting his tongue flick against sensitive skin until Cas made a sound deep in his chest, half a growl, half a groan. The hand in his hair tightened, not just pulling but holding him there, a silent command Dean was all too happy to obey.
Dean hummed low in approval, the vibration making Cas’s hips twitch forward. He gave another sharp nip, and Cas’s restraint finally broke, his other hand came up, gripping Dean’s shoulder like he needed to anchor himself.
“That’s it,” Dean said, grinning up at him through his lashes, lips still wet. “Don’t hold back on me, Cas.”
And this time, when Cas pulled, it wasn’t tentative, it was possessive, dragging Dean exactly where he wanted him.
Happy that Cas is with the program, Dean finally leans down and presses a wet kiss to the head of Cas's dick, licks the slit and smears the pre-come, tastes him. If Castiel's mouth was nothing like anything Dean had tasted before, his come was all human, warm, salty, grounding, and it was comforting, almost. Dean licks a slow stripe along the underside before taking him fully, swallowing carefully, deliberately, letting every inch slide over his tongue. He takes his time. Every twitch of Cas’s jaw, every sharp inhale, every microsecond delay, proof he's edging close and closer to release.
Cas’s hand tightens in his hair again, not hard enough to move him, just enough to make a statement. Dean pulls back with a wet pop, glances up through his lashes, catches the set of Cas’s mouth, taut and razor-thin with control. He grinned.
Cas’s breathing goes ragged.
Dean keeps working him, deliberately uneven, never giving him the same rhythm twice in a row. Every time Cas starts to find a pattern, Dean changes it, chasing the reaction instead of the result. It’s a game now, and Dean’s winning, Cas’s knuckles are white, his chest is heaving, his lips are parted like he’s trying to drag in more air than the room’s got.
Then Cas says his name. Not “Dean” the way you’d call across a room, Dean like it’s been pulled out of him, low and raw and threaded with warning. Dean doesn't want this to end here. The tension rolling through Cas’s shoulders is a coiled spring, and Dean’s been in enough bar fights to know when something’s about to blow. He stops right as he's got Cas on the edge, probably a little rude, but he hadn't quite gotten over being thrown against a chain link fence.
Plus, he hasn't even gotten his jeans off yet.
“Cas,” Dean warns, or maybe invites; hell if he knows anymore.
That’s when Cas moves. No hesitation, no build-up. One second Dean’s sitting, the next he’s flat on his back against the mattress, Cas over him, knees bracketing his hips. The sudden shift knocks the breath out of him, but before he can get it back, Cas is there, popping open the metal button of his jeans and pulling off the denim and briefs underneath together. Dean has to lift his ass up and wiggle a little bit to help, but then they are both finally naked.
Cas isn’t touching him yet, not really, but Dean’s whole body is lit up like he is.
And then, finally, Cas drops his full weight forward, chest to chest, pinning Dean completely. It’s not rough like before. It’s worse. It’s controlled. All that strength, all that need, harnessed and focused right on him. His hand comes up, slides into Dean’s hair, and the grip is firm enough that Dean can feel every heartbeat in the base of his skull. With Dean's neck exposed again, Cas goes back in on sucking bruises there, punctuating the action with bites and licks before moving on to a new area. His neck is gonna be fucked to look at later, but Dean absolutely cannot be assed right now. He can stop the apocalypse with angel hickies. Probably.
The hand is released from his hair and Dean feels the weight of that palm settle, steady and absolute, right over the scar. Right over the first thing Cas ever gave him. For a second, the whole mood shifts, Dean swears he can feel the heat of it sinking in, like Cas is branding him all over again.
“Feeling possessive? You like marking me up?” Dean rasps, rolls his hips forward so that they're grinding together, wet aching heat catching between them.
Cas stills, his breath dragging slow across Dean’s throat. When he speaks, it’s quiet, but there’s nothing soft in it, “I would not have you be anyone elses.”
The words punch straight through Dean’s chest. His hand twitches, like he should push Cas off, but he doesn’t. Can’t. Cas presses harder into the scar, grounding him, pinning him in ways Dean doesn’t even have words for.
“I would have you be mine,” Cas says again, and then his mouth is back on Dean’s skin, deliberate and consuming, like he’s making damn sure no one could ever mistake it. "Not as a vessel, as an alter, so that I may lay worship upon you."
Dean’s breath catches hard at that, the words so far left field they might as well have dropped straight out of Heaven. Worship. Christ.
He tries for a laugh, but it dies against Cas’s mouth as teeth scrape his jaw. “That’s—you’re outta your damn mind,” Dean manages, but it comes out ragged, closer to a prayer than a protest. Cas doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t ease up. His lips drag hot down the line of Dean’s throat, words pressed into his pulse like a vow.
Dean’s hands, half out of instinct and half out of need, find their way to Cas’s back, warm where Dean’s palms press flat. He can feel muscle shifting under his touch, every micro-movement telegraphing intent before Cas acts on it. He slid his thumbs along the curve of Cas’s hips, occasionally brushing over sensitive spots without fully committing, making him tilt forward, pressing closer, groaning quietly.
It's Dean's turn to beg now, as enthusiastic as he was with the grind of their dicks together, he needed a little more, ah, deliberate attention. "Cas, touch me, please."
When the contact comes, it’s full, deliberate. No gaps, no escape routes. Cas wraps his big, hot hands around both of them at once. The lack of lube is a non-issue, it seems, as there is a slick wetness emanating from Cas's palm, angel mojo something, Dean doesn't care. Dean’s spine curves up into it automatically, a reflex as old as wanting. Fuck how he wants. Cas follows the motion like it’s choreographed, pressing him right back into the bed. The rhythm that starts isn’t hurried; it’s steady, relentless, the kind of pace that says Cas could keep this going for hours if he wanted to. He alternates their rhythm in a way that leaves Dean gasping. When Cas's thumb presses underneath the head of Dean's dick and adds pressure, he all but screams.
Dean hooks an ankle behind Cas’s knee without thinking, pulling him that extra inch closer. His chest is tight, his breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan, every second like this feels like it’s feeding something he hadn’t realized was starving.
Cas’s eyes are still locked on his, the rest of him working like some perfectly-tuned machine, and Dean realizes he’s been outmaneuvered. He started this game, sure, but Cas is ending it, and he’s doing it without a single wasted move. Castiel, heaven's strategist, has Dean right where he wants him.
His eyes flick down to Dean’s mouth and back again, like he’s trying not to look but can’t help it. The rhythm stutters for a heartbeat, and Dean knows they're getting close to the edge.
Dean grins, tilting his head just enough to be cocky about it. “C’mon, sweetheart" He pushes his hips up to meet Castiel's thrusting halfway. It’s the spark to dry kindling. Then he’s there, mouth crushing against Dean’s with a force that steals the air right out of him. No hesitation, no strategy now, just heat and want and the kind of single-minded urgency that makes Dean’s pulse trip over itself.
Cas grinds down hard, enough to drag a broken sound out of Dean, then shifts just enough to shove his knee between Dean’s legs. The friction is brutal, direct, and Dean gasps, arching helplessly against him. His weight pins Dean hard into the mattress, every movement rougher, less measured. His breathing is ragged against Dean’s mouth, his hands restless, gripping and sliding like he can’t decide where to anchor himself. It’s messy now, fractured. Dean fists a hand in the back of Cas’s hair, pulling him closer still, even though there’s no space left.
“Cas—” It comes out wrecked, plea tangled with curse.
Cas lowers his mouth to Dean’s ear, voice raw. “Say it.” His grip on Dean’s tightens, desperate. “Say you’re mine.”
Dean’s defiance flickers for half a second before it melts under the sheer force of Cas’s body bearing him down. His hips buck, chasing the rhythm Cas sets, grinding wet heat against him, helpless to it. “Yours,” he grits out, jaw tight, chest shuddering. “Fuck, Cas, I’m yours.”
All movement stops, and Dean is left open mouthed and on edge. Cas sits back, separates their bodies, and then flips Dean over on his front.
The sudden loss of contact rips a frustrated noise out of Dean, but he doesn’t have time to form words. Cas’s hands are on him, strong and unyielding, forcing him down into the mattress. Dean’s cheek scrapes the sheets, his arms wrenched above his head, wrists caught in one fist like they’re nothing.
“Cas, what the hell—” Dean’s cut off by the sharp press of a knee between his thighs, spreading him open. The sheer strength of it leaves no room for argument. He’s exposed, panting, cock aching against the bed.
Cas leans over him, breath hot against Dean’s ear. “I am going to fuck you now.” The words are quiet, guttural, more confession than explanation. His free hand slides down Dean’s spine, rough and reverent, fingertips pressing into every vertebra like he’s mapping him out by touch alone, following a path he laid himself.
Dean shudders, torn between cursing him out and giving in, and when Cas pulls him up onto his knees with one hand, his mouth betrays him. A gasp instead of a snarl. A plea instead of protest.
Cas grinds down against him from behind, the thick, hard press of him undeniable. 'Yours,' Dean had said, and Cas is taking it literally, staking the claim in every rough, deliberate movement, every scrape of teeth against Dean’s neck, every punishing thrust of his hips that hasn’t even breached him yet.
The tension crackles in the air, feral and electric. Dean claws at the sheets, every nerve lit up. When the first slick finger is pushed inside of him Dean presses his face into the mattress, tries to muffle the keening whine that is coming out of him. Where the fuck did Cas learn how to do this?
Dean’s stomach knots, every nerve ending on fire as Cas works him open, teasing and stretching with deliberate, measured pressure. His hands scrabble over the sheets, trying to anchor himself, trying not to lose his voice entirely, but the sounds that escape are helpless, raw.
Cas’s mouth drags down his spine, teeth grazing, tongue tracing the taut muscles, as if memorizing every inch of him. The tops of his shoulders and blades of his back getting marked up like his neck was. Adding fingers that curl expertly, pressing just so against Dean’s prostate, coaxing shuddering, broken moans from deep in his chest.
“That’s it,” Dean’s voice breaks into a keening whine, muffled against the mattress, hips bucking instinctively, half command, half plea, repeats it over and over. Every push, every curl, every press is deliberate, worshipful, claiming him as completely as if he could carve Dean’s name into his flesh.
Dean’s knees quake, chest pressing into the mattress, the slick friction and the precision of Cas’s fingers driving him higher, closer, until he’s trembling, whimpering, every moan caught in his throat as the waves of pleasure rip through him.
When the fingers are removed Dean’s chest heaves against the mattress, every muscle taut, waiting, knows what coming.
Then Cas pushes in. No easing, just one deep, relentless thrust that knocks the breath out of Dean in a ragged shout. The burn is sharp, but it’s swallowed instantly by the raw pulse of heat that floods him.
“Fuck—Cas!” Dean claws at the sheets, nails about tearing through fabric, back arching as Cas buries himself to the hilt. Every inch of him feels claimed, split wide open and filled.
Cas groans low in his throat, hips grinding down, holding deep for a beat before pulling back and slamming in again. His rhythm is merciless, every thrust a brand, driving Dean into the bed hard enough the frame rattles.
Dean can’t catch his breath, caught between the sting and the overwhelming pleasure. Every thrust drags a sound out of him, curses and broken pleas, his cock grinding helplessly into the air with each shove. “Harder, fuck yeah. Don’t stop—”
Cas doesn’t. He snarls against Dean’s neck, teeth sinking in hard enough to bruise, to mark, to make it clear to anyone who might look that Dean Winchester belongs to him.
The angle shifts, deeper, rougher, until Dean’s shouting into the mattress, body trembling under the onslaught. Cas is everywhere, his weight crushing, his hands branding, his cock splitting Dean apart and making him feel whole all at once.
“Mine,” Cas growls, the word shaking through both of them as his thrusts turn frantic, ragged, each one harder than the last. Dean’s whole body bows up, every nerve lit. When Cas reaches an arm around to grip at Dean's neglected cock his vision whites out, breaks apart with a choked cry, coming undone against the sheets. Pleasure and sensation leaving him blind and gasping.
Cas’s hips snapped forward sharply, chest pressing into Dean’s, and a low, guttural sound tore from his throat. His thrust are beginning to loose any rhythm, Dean presses back against them, “Come on, angel,” Dean murmured, voice low and rough, spent. “You can let go. I’ve got you.” Cas growls, his thrusts turn frantic, ragged, each one harder than the last. Cas follows him down, pounding through the aftershocks, chasing his own release until he spills with a guttural sound, hips grinding deep as if he could carve his claim into Dean’s very core.
Their bodies shuddered together, every muscle clenching, every gasp and groan drawn out as they held each other steady, grounded, worshiped. Castiel kisses down Dean's spine while he pulls out, and Dean aches at the loss. He turns over on the bed, and Cas follows him down. Dean let his forehead rest against Cas’s, chest rising and falling as he dragged in ragged breaths, kisses him sweetly.
The warmth of Cas pressed to him, the slight tremor in his hands and hips, made Dean grin despite the exhaustion. They bask together.
“That good sweetheart?” Dean murmured, voice rough but soft, brushing a thumb along the side of Cas’s jaw. Cas’s pupils flickered up at him, a tiny, tired smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Dean shifted just enough to run his hands down Cas’s sides, teasing without pressure, feeling the muscles relax under his touch.
Cas smears his hand through the come that was left on Dean's chest, brings it to his mouth, licking it clean with slow, deliberate care. Dean’s eyes go wide, chest tightening, pulse spiking. And fuck if that's not the hottest thing he's ever seen.
Dean swallowed hard, eyes tracing the slick shine of Cas’s lips, the subtle flex of his jaw, every motion dripping with intent. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop the low groan that slipped past his teeth.
Dean’s grin turned wicked as he leaned closer, brushing his lips against Cas’s temple. “You’re something else,” he murmured, voice rough with awe.
Cas’s only answer was a slow, deliberate lick over his palm again, eyes half-lidded, and Dean’s chest tightened further. Dean's dick made a valiant effort to twitch back into interest at the sight, but after the whirlwind of the day's events was ultimately in vain.
Dean shifted slightly, letting his hand rest against Cas’s side, fingers brushing over the hard planes of his back. The heat between them still lingered, but now it was tempered by a slow, steady pulse, the tension melting into something softer.
They're all probably going to be dead within the week. He'd just gotten the piss beat out of him. The angel whose buttons he's been pressing for a year is finally lying full body on top of him, warm, pliant, still humming with afterglow.
Cas stirred slightly, head tilting up just enough to catch Dean’s gaze, lips curving in a tired, half-smile. Dean grinned back, hand trailing along Cas’s spine, memorizing the warmth, the strength, the way every muscle relaxed into him.
Even with the looming chaos outside, even with the bruises, the blood, the days of fighting and surviving stacked behind them, Dean let himself savor the quiet, reckless comfort of it. The horror and pleasure of being wanted.
After a few more beats of stillness, Dean let out a low groan and pushed at Cas gently, just enough to create space. The wet spot he had made in the mattress with his own cum, plus what Cas had left, was started to settle into a tacky, uncomfortable mess between them, and Dean couldn’t help but grimace a little at the sensation.
"This place have a bathroom? We gotta clean this up," he muttered, voice rough but amused.
Cas just waved a hand, the mess vanished in an instant, leaving nothing but the lingering warmth and scent of them tangled together.
Dean blinked, mouth half-open, then grinned. “Hell yeah.”
With the obstacle gone, they settled back into each other, pillow-soft and pliant. Dean rested his cheek against Cas’s shoulder, letting his fingers trace idle patterns along the angel’s spine. Cas hummed softly, tilting his head toward Dean, lips brushing over his temple.
They should probably talk about this, but again, dead within the week. Why try to put a label on what is essentially expired goods? “Hey Cas—” Dean began, voice low and teasing.
“No,” Cas grumbled into Dean’s hair, cutting him off before he could finish.
Dean chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his neck. “You don't even know what I was going to say.”
“Dean,” Cas said, voice dragging with fatigue and just a hint of exasperation, “I just stopped you from giving your body over to Michael, I threw you around an alley, and we’ve now consummated a relationship. I would like to rest.” Eugh, consummated, doesn't even let his brain touch the content of the last part of that sentence.
Dean glanced up at him and stifled a laugh. Cas’s hair was sex-mussed beyond belief, there were still bright red spots of blush on the high points of his cheeks, and he was squinting at Dean like he’d just survived a battle on all fronts.
“I didn’t think angels slept,” Dean said, smirking.
“You make the impossible seem possible,” Cas said, eyes flashing briefly, sharp even in exhaustion.
"Oh yeah?"
Cas huffed a small, amused sigh, resting back against him. “You are also insufferable.” Cas wrapped himself around him, arms and legs curling possessively, weight warm and grounding. Dean let out a low chuckle, tilting his head to press another kiss to Cas’s neck, and for once, he found himself content, really, truly content, to just be held.
The chaos outside, the bruises, the adrenaline, they all faded into the background. No Lucifer or Michael or Sammy guzzling demon blood, no apocalypses. Dean lets his eyes fall closed, content and comfortable for the first time in, well, longer than he would like to admit to himself.
____________________
When he wakes up, he’s alone. A little shimmy reveals that his clothes are back on, a deep satisfying ache in his lower back. It also reveals a handcuff around his wrist.
“Damn, Cas,” Dean mutters, rubbing his eyes into focus with his free hand and rolling over. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
His gaze sweeps the room. He is not in France anymore, Toto.
Instead, he’s handcuffed to the bed in Bobby’s panic room, and Sam is sitting nearby with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face, mop of hair shifting as he shakes his head.
“Cas dropped you off,” Sam says. “Said you tried giving yourself up to Michael.”
The absolute last thing that Dean wanted to see first thing in the morning, after the night he'd had, was his fucking brother. And where the hell was Cas anyway?
"Cas made— a very convincing case against that plan." Dean is desperately hoping that the collar of his coat is covering whatever damage Cas did to his neck.
From the look Sam’s giving him, it’s not. “Yeah," Sam says, voice dripping with amusement. "I can see that.”
Dean throws him a glare, feeling the blush blooming across his cheeks. “Man, fuck you.” Sam just laughs and laughs.