Chapter Text
Friday evening, Dean opens the motel door and the man waiting outside slaps the palm of his hand against his forehead. Dean falls to his knees feeling like he’s been dunked in cold water. A dizzying flurry of knowledge from the future spins around his head.
“What the fuck,” he gasps as the man– Castiel, he now knows– helps him to his feet.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d believe me if I told you,” Castiel grimaces, deposits him on the edge of the motel bed. “I needed to get you up to speed.”
“Holy shit, you’re an angel?” Dean looks up at him cross-eyed, still stuck on a sickening tilt-a-whirl of a life he hasn’t yet lived.
“I’m here to ensure your safety while your future self deals with the problem at hand,” Castiel tells him, sitting sideways on the rickety motel chair. He looks confident, sure of himself. “He would have come himself but, and I quote, ‘Fuck No.’”
Dean searches his new memories for more information and comes up with a smarmy looking face monologuing about the butterfly effect. “Some guy named… Crowley?”
Castiel smiles, tightly. “He isn’t often a threat anymore, but sometimes he can be rather inconvenient."
“Is he coming here?” Dean asks, standing up and reaching for the gun shoved in his waistband.
Castiel shakes his head, exuding the type of calm, collected energy that normally makes Dean sit up and bark. “No, we’re in a— think of it as a bubble. It exists outside of your normal timeline. We’re hidden. You won’t even remember this happened.”
“Oh,” Dean sits again. “Uh. I was just about to dig up a grave for this hunt–,”
“You don’t need to,” Castiel tells him. “None of this is exactly… real.”
Dean considers. “But are those people suffering? Even if it’ll get erased?”
Castiel seems to understand. He sighs and motions out the door. “Lead the way.”
What do angels think of queers? Dean wonders, washing grave dust off his face in the shitty, yellowing motel bathroom after a brutal hunt. Obviously he and this guy were friends in the future, so maybe it isn’t all hellfire and doom headed his way.
Castiel helped excavate the grave, smoothing the hours long process into a quick 15 minutes, but nothing would have stopped the ghost from throwing him into a nearby oak. Dean had nearly bit off his tongue when Cas grabbed his face to inspect him, hand on his jaw and one on his forehead. Then he fucking healed him. Insane. Could have used that from ages 9-25.
He trudges back into the main room to see Castiel sitting awkwardly at the edge of the bed, watching TV. Castiel avoids looking at him, which annoys him. His implanted memories seem to say that whenever Cas is avoiding him, it’s usually because he feels guilty about something. He wonders what it could possibly be, in the first few hours of their relationship.
“I’m going to the bar,” Dean announces, stripping off his shirt and digging through his duffle to find something new.
“I’ll come with you,” Castiel says, standing up quickly.
Dean laughs, scrubbing a hand through his hair and turning to the other man. “Yeah? Really?”
Castiel seems a little insulted. “Yes?”
“In that get-up?” Dean waves a hand at Castiel’s clothes, the trenchcoat and the suit. “They’ll think you’re a narc.”
“A– narc?” Castiel looks down at his clothes, brushing his hands down the lapels. Dean grins into his forearm, unwilling to share his enjoyment.
“You probably wouldn’t like this bar,” Dean tells him, slowly. He doesn’t actually know if he would or not but damn, he is pent up and he needs to get fucked. Castiel following him around like a mopey CPA chaperone would totally mess up his chances.
“I can easily partake in human… customs,” Castiel says. “I will come to this bar with you.”
Fine. God. Whatever. Dean mourns his evening’s plans. “Alright, but you gotta change.”
“I don’t have any other clothes than these,” Castiel sounds heated.
“You can’t like, magic them up?” Dean asks, waving an arm around as he pulls on his flannel.
“No.”
“Fine, just– go through my bag. I gotta brush my damn teeth,” Dean mumbles and heads back to the bathroom.
He can hear Castiel muttering and the sound of clothes shuffling around, and he can’t help but smile again to himself in the mirror. The guy’s grumpy demeanor is sort of charming and well, obviously, he’s hot. Dean’s had worse hunting buddies.
He steps back out into the main room and stops cold. Castiel had folded up his shirt and pants and jackets, laying them neatly on the table. Instead, he’s wearing Dean’s faded jeans– the one with the ripped knees– a black tshirt, one of his flannels and. And.
“Take that off,” Dean says viciously, stepping up and grabbing the collar of his dad’s leather jacket, pulling it off his shoulders.
It fits Castiel better than it fits him, since the guy has at least a decade and a half on him and probably 30 lbs. His shoulders fill it out better than Dean’s, it hits the right spot on his hips. He wants to rip Castiel apart, wants to punch his stupid, wide face until there’s nothing but pulp left. Castiel hurries to take it off, watching him with those wet eyes.
“Get it– off,” Dean hauls it out of his hands and folds it over his arm, backing up. “Not this, you don’t get to wear this.”
“Okay,” Castiel says, slowly. Stands stock still, wearing Dean’s clothes. “I won’t wear it.”
“Don’t touch it,” Dean says, placing it in his duffle bag. “Don’t even look at it.”
Castiel might roll his eyes, but Dean can’t really pay attention to that. The vision of this handsome, competent man wearing his dad’s jacket is burned into his retinas. It hurts his stomach.
The first drink goes down smooth and easy, Dean leaning on the bar and flashing a smile at the girl behind the counter. Castiel is sitting in a booth, watching all the people around them. Nursing a beer. They kind of look like working buddies, maybe they came to the bar after a shift at– Dean’s imagination fails him. Firefighters? Mechanics?
Dean wanders over, double fisting neat tequilas, and sits across from him. Looks him over, slow, because he can now. He’s got enough alcohol in him.
He’s got nice hands, Dean notes. Wide, square. Big. Neat trimmed nails. He gets the unwelcome thought of those big hands around his wrists. Tugging him into place. It warms him, curling in his stomach alongside the rum he’d shot when he first arrived. The flannel rolled up his forearms reveals dark, thick hair on his arms. Dean realizes he missed the chance of seeing the guy without his shirt on earlier, when he changed. When he tried on John’s jacket.
The memory hits him hard, blindsides him. Earlier it made him so angry, like he was watching someone commit sacrilege. Now though, now, it circles his throat, squeezes. Makes his mouth dry and sticky. He misses his dad, he misses Sammy. He misses having his family around and feeling like he had a clearly expounded purpose. He misses the brief moments of comfort he gets from his dad, like when John pats his head, scrubs a hand through his hair. Like when John, stumbling in drunk at night, used to pull the blankets up around Dean’s shoulders. Tucking him in. He feels sick.
“Uh,” Dean says. Then stops himself. Sips his tequila.
Castiel watches him, half smile on his mouth. “Yes?”
“So we’re… friends?” Dean asks. “In the future?”
Castiel’s face reddens and he nods, smoothes a hand over his hair. “I would like to think so.”
“Right,” Dean taps his fingers over the table. He’s running out of things to say, running out of excuses. Castiel doesn’t seem into it, but for some reason the aloof bit is kind of working for him. He flicks through the memories he'd been given like vinyls at the store, a brief colour and shape on the front to see if he's interested. He can't see any obvious memories of them fucking. A lot of fighting, erotically charged, which, yeah. Typical. It feels like it'd take eons to parse through all the memories in here though, so, there's always the chance they had a sneaky backseat handjob exchanged between friends. He can feel years of pent up longing that doesn't belong to him but sits well in his body, knows the empty spots to curl in. Dean likes that he’s older, that Castiel would look more at home working with his dad than hanging out in a bar with Dean. It makes him giddy like– look at me, I’m special. The same sort of feeling as when his dad tells him good job.
Alright. Enough of that. Time for another drink. He gets up, heading back to the bar and he catches the look. Castiel’s eyes sliding down his body in a way that no straight man’s would. Maybe the longing doesn't only go one way.
Okay. Fuck it. Dean’s gonna let his dick call the shots here.
“Should–,” Dean licks his lips, leans in. “Should we get out of here?”
He can’t stop thinking about it. Castiel’s strong hands, shoulders, arms. How he looked in John’s jacket. How his steady, wide palms cupped his face when he healed him. Castiel doesn’t really seem to get it, what they’re heading towards as they walk back to the motel. But maybe Dean can get something out of this little detour out of real life.
“Wanna put it on again?” Dean asks, relying heavily on the four drinks he’d chugged during their brief mission to the bar. Dean’s hands find the thick, cool leather of the jacket in his bag.
“Put what on?” Castiel asks, leaning close over his shoulder.
“The– uh,” Dean pulls the sleeve out. Maybe Castiel does get it a bit, because his eyes narrow. Lips open slightly.
“I–,” Castiel says, his hands clenching and relaxing. “Okay.”
Dean helps him put it on, smoothing his hands over the shoulders, fixing the cuffs to make sure they sit properly. Castiel stands up straighter, seems to understand the trust Dean is putting on him. Or maybe something about the jacket makes people want to– to step up. To fill John’s shoes.
“Looks good,” Dean says, voice hoarse.
“Thank you,” Castiel says, his hands following the path Dean’s took, like he was chasing after the warmth. Oh god, the smell of leather and old sweat clinging to the jacket, smoke from years of marlboros surrounds them. Smells like his dad.
“Will you–,” Dean closes his eyes, sways into him. Castiel’s capable hands hold his shoulders. Holds him upright, keeps him inches away from curling into his chest. Dean’s body is liquid, flowing towards Castiel. Want is hot through his blood, tugs in his gut.
“What do you need?” Castiel asks, his voice rough. Is that desire Dean can hear hidden in there?
There’s no way he’s going to get any of these words out of his mouth. He wants to hear Castiel’s smoky voice telling him– good boy, good man. Straightforward, easy. Guys say that all the time too him when they’re fucking. Dean’s said any number of weird, kinky things to men while they’ve been inside him. Peel back that first layer and he wants something else.
“Tell me how to make you feel good,” Dean says, making himself smaller so he can look up at Castiel through his eyelashes. It bubbles out of his mouth before he can even stop himself.
Castiel’s hands tighten on his arms, he looks guilty. Ashamed. Nervous? “I–”
Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he’s never had sex with a guy. Maybe Dean’s gonna have to walk him through it. Dean pitches forward, closing the last couple of inches, and rubs his face on Castiel’s. Rests his forehead on Castiel’s lips. Like he’s getting a little forehead kiss.
“You gotta,” Dean swallows. “Push me down on my knees. You can fuck my face, if you want.”
Castiel gasps. Pushes their foreheads together. “Dean?”
“Just do it, okay?” Dean tells him, trying to keep his courage up and the liquor in his gut as it threatens to spill out. Castiel’s hand sweeps up to the top of his head, gripping the hair at the crown. Finally, finally, Castiel begins to push him down.
Dean runs his hands across Castiel’s chest, to the waist of his pants. Uses the little give in Castiel’s grip to rub his face along the front of his crotch, mouths wet over the arousal he can feel. Castiel’s hips buck a little.
“Does that feel good?” Dean asks into the denim.
“Dean,” Castiel gasps. “More.”
“Yessir,” Dean slurs, fumbles with the zipper. Finally pulls him out. His dick is beautiful, thick, cut. Dean licks around the head, breathes his smell in. He puts his back into it, swallows him down and listens to Castiel’s reciprocating noises. Feels Castiel’s fingers touch the stretch of his lips, cups under his chin. Dean pulls off briefly, throat stinging.
“Can you tell me I’m good?” Dean asks, dipping back in to lick along the shaft.
“You are good, Dean,” Castiel tells him, weakly. “You’re so good.”
It’s nice, and Dean blinks against unexpected heat in his eyes. There’s something else he wants, something he rarely gets. Hard to tell what guys are going to be into it. But since none of this is real…
“Will you fuck me?” Dean asks. Castiel hauls him up, walks him back to the bed. “Will you– can you pretend it’s– ‘cause I was bein’ bad?”
Castiel pauses. Dean’s more drunk than he realized, watches everything sway around him.
“I jus’ wanna make it up to you,” Dean says, grabbing at Castiel’s arms, leans forward to put his face against the cool, waxy feeling of the jacket’s chest pocket. Breathes it in. “I jus’ wanna show you I can be useful.”
“You don't need to do this.” Castiel cups the back of his neck, presses tight against him. It might have been more convincing if Dean couldn't feel his hard dick insistent on his thigh. Castiel’s still into it, whether that’s Dean himself or the whole shebang remains to be seen.
“Fuck you,” Dean says back, unconvincingly. “Like you aren’t begging for it too.”
Castiel lets him go, begins peeling off the jacket–
“Uh, wait,” Dean focuses on his own hands, face burning red. “You can leave it on, okay?”
Castiel nods. Dean undoes his belt, shuffling his jeans off and turns around, kneels on the bed. The feeling of Castiel getting behind him, hard dick digging into his ass over his boxers, is dizzying. Made worse (better) by the cool touch of the edge of the jacket, brushing against his hips. Castiel’s hand runs soothingly down his back, under his shirt.
“You ever prepped someone before?” Dean asks, focusing on the gentle sensation of his fingertips rubbing circles into Dean’s lower back.
“No,” Castiel rumbles. Hooks his fingers in the waistband of Dean’s boxers and tugs them down, leaving them bunched up around his thighs. He palms his ass, kneading the skin just hard enough to be uncomfortable. Dean hates (loves) this part, the humiliation of being exposed and vulnerable like this. His dick is brushing against his t-shirt, leaving a wet spot. His body aches.
Castiel reaches in between his legs and holds his balls in the palm of his hand, reaches further to give his dick a couple of firm strokes. Dean trembles, trying not to let any sounds out, trying not to fall forward onto his elbows.
“There’s lube in my bag,” Dean pants. “Hasn't been that long since I got fucked so you don't have to be careful.”
Castiel says something Dean doesn't catch, too caught up on the sound of blood pumping in his ears. He’s gone, and then he's back, uncapping the tube and squirting the gel straight onto Dean’s crack. That gets a squeak out of Dean, the sudden cold, and he can hear Castiel chuckle. He’s coming up with a retort but then he feels the blunt head of Castiel’s dick pushing in, waiting for the give. Raw, no fingers, and well– Dean had asked for a punishment hadn't he?
It’s like fumbling around in high school, it's like fucking a guy who’s never had anything up his back door. He should tell him to stop but it’s working for Dean in a really twisted way and he’s going so, so slow. Dean drops down to his elbows, face pressed into the pillow and pants open mouth against the fabric. There’s only a moment of that gut-twisting bad bad too much heat-pressure and then Castiel does the same sort of healing thing as earlier and the pain is gone. He rubs a hand over Dean’s back, leans down and kisses his shoulder over his shirt.
“Sorry,” Castiel apologizes. “I didn’t realize you were uncomfortable.”
Dean just flashes him a thumbs up and buries his face back into the pillows. Yeah, this guy has definitely only fucked women before. It adds to the fantasy.
“S’ok,” Dean mumbles into the fabric.
The leather of the jacket creaks when Castiel runs a hand through his hair, petting him. He moves slowly, pulling almost all the way out and then pushing back in. Dean twists his fingers in the sheets, moans, and Castiel shushes him, gentle. Like you would an animal you’re giving medicine to.
It builds up in his chest, each time Castiel bottoms out and gives a little surprised huffing sound, like he never knew what pleasure was before this moment. Dean puts his own fingers in his mouth to try and avoid saying it. It leaks out anyways.
“Tell me s’for my own good,” he groans, burning with shame. It's what his dad says, when he leaves him. You gotta learn to be on your own, it’s for your own good.
“It’s– for your own good?” Castiel repeats, the question audible.
“But you won't leave, okay?” Dean’s babbling now, one too many tequilas in to be able to stop himself.
“I won't leave,” Castiel repeats, this time much more in earnest. That aches, but it's good. Dean sneaks a hand down and begins stroking himself. Castiel catches it, pulls his hand up onto his back. With more confidence, he says, “This is for your own good.”
Dean makes a noise he’s not proud of, doesn't fight Castiel’s warm grip around his wrist. Holding him in place. He leans heavier over Dean’s back, and fucks into him harder. It hurts just the right way, strain on his thighs and on his lower back. The sweaty feeling of being held open when he’s just a shade too tight. The wet drag inside him, lighting all his nerves up.
“Dean,” Castiel gasps. “I've thought about this for so long.”
Knew it. Dean clocked that one right.
“Yessir,” Dean agrees, dopey. For both himself and the Dean he’s going to be, whose memories he’s holding. Years of fantasizing finally coming true– and yet won't have come true by tomorrow. He shivers, closes his eyes and lets Castiel chase his pleasure in Dean’s body. It feels good, to be useful, to be used. The heat builds up steadily in his gut. Castiel releases his hand and Dean immediately begins getting himself off, gathering the fabric of the pillow into his mouth and sucking on it as Castiel’s thrusts grow harder, more erratic. Dean comes quietly, shaking. Castiel with a shout, collapsing onto his back and pinning him into the mess on the sheets. Dean rolls just far enough to get his head off the bed and vomits liquor onto the carpet.
He throws a towel on it and goes to the bathroom to clean himself up, and by the time he gets back Castiel has put the jacket back in his duffel. Thank god.
“So I’m guessing you and future me ain't done that before,” Dean says, giving the carpet a quick wipe down. Castiel is sitting awkwardly on the bed, dick tucked away.
“Was it that bad?” Castiel asks, cheeks pink. His hands are bunched up in the edge of the flannel.
Dean laughs because otherwise he might cry, the shame is rancid in his stomach. “You were good, don’t worry.”
Castiel looks like he knows Dean might be lying. Dean stands up, stretches. “Doesn't matter anyways right? This technically won't really happen?”
Castiel hesitantly nods, Dean zeros in on it. “‘Cause that's what you said, right? That none of this will really happen? The timeline’ll get worked out and this is like a kink–” terrible choice of words Dean, jesus “That’ll disappear?”
“It won’t have happened to you,” Castiel confirms.
Dean turns away, willing to ignore the other implication of that sentence. That it will still have happened for Castiel. He scratches the back of his head and pretends not to be watching him, sitting on the bed. It's awkward now, and Dean never sticks around with his hook ups after the deed has been done. Castiel’s thick arms look tempting though, it’d be nice to be held for a little while but Dean doesn't think he's brave enough to ask. Not after all that shit. God, they hadn't even kissed. Castiel’s gonna go back to the future knowing Dean’s a total slutty basket case. At least that’s a problem for later.
“Well–” Dean starts, and darkness falls over him.
Friday evening, Dean opens the motel door after he hears a knock. No one is there, even as he searches the bushes at the foot of the stairs. Probably just stupid kids, he decides.