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“I’m gonna need you to run this by me again,” Dean says.
Castiel looks at him with a pained expression, which Dean meets stolidly, head-on. He’s fairly sure he had understood what Castiel had said the first time. That was the concerning part.
“Metatron told me the location of my grace. There was bribing involved – it’s not important. He hid it in what he claimed was the last place I would look—”
“Dude,” Sam interrupts. “Have a heart and don’t make the poor guy repeat it. You’ve got grace in your balls.”
Dean puts his head in his hands. He tries digging his nails into his cheek, hoping that the pain would wake him.
Nope.
It’s not that he’s never had thoughts involving Castiel and his dick before. He definitely has. Ranging from, damn, Cas probably saw me naked when he remade my body after hell to damn, Cas could be watching me jerk it right now and I’d never even know it. However mildly creepy, the latter thought had given him one of the best orgasms he’d had since… maybe forever, actually.
But. Context matters, and these are decidedly not the events he envisioned preceding his masturbatory fantasies.
He sighs. Looks up, sees Castiel staring dejectedly at the table, and Sam with an expression that strongly implies that he finds this whole situation fucking hilarious. Great. Good for him. Glad something good could come out of this shit show.
“Okay. This is, uh, this is a lot, Cas.”
“Dean, I won’t ask you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.” Castiel rises, drawing his coat further around him. “I’ll return to Metatron. If he could place it there without your knowledge, he must have the ability to extract it.”
“No. Hold up, man. It took you this long to find it. Who knows how much longer it’ll take to break Metatron again?”
He doesn’t add, you might not have the time. Cas is cagey in general when it comes to the grace that he’s been stealing from other angels, but from the little he has revealed, plus hints dropped by Crowley and Hannah, Dean gets the impression that it wasn’t exactly good for him. And maybe might be killing him. Hard to say, when Cas clammed up as soon as the subject arose.
“Just gimme a minute to digest this.”
Castiel nods. Dean tries to breathe, to calm himself, to… fuck. He could move to the top of a fricking mountain and meditate in solitude for months. That wouldn’t make the situation any better.
Then something occurs to him, and fuck, there definitely is a way that this could become worse. “You think you can get the grace out… naturally? Without, like, slicing my dick off with your angel blade?”
A look of horror crosses Castiel’s face, as if that possibility hadn’t even passed through his mind. Sam chokes back something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
“Of course. I wouldn’t have mentioned it to you if that was the price you had to pay.”
“Great.” One thing less to worry about.
Then Castiel continues. “My concern is, the process may require, some. Um. Contact.”
“‘Contact?’”
“Because of the sigils you wear to protect yourself from angels, I can’t call my grace forth as I might otherwise be able to. That’s also why I couldn’t sense it until Metatron told me. It seems so obvious now, but…” Castiel shakes his head. “I believe that my grace will be drawn to my essence. If it senses my presence, it will emerge.”
Oh.
“Can’t Dean just… like…” Sam makes a crude up-and-down motion with his fist. “…in a cup? And Cas, will your grace be weakened from all the other times that Dean has… you know…” the same stupid fucking gesture again, and Dean is going to send him back to the Cage himself if he doesn’t fucking quit while he’s ahead.
And the worst fucking part is that he was wondering that too.
He sighs and bites the bullet before Cas can interpret Sam’s interpretive dancing jerk-off. “Uh, I should probably tell you guys that I haven’t exactly been celibate.”
“Really? Dean, I am shocked—”
“Sammy, if you don’t shut up right fucking now, I will personally lock you in the dungeon until you wish that you were Lucifer’s meatsuit. Look, I’ve been around a bit since the angels fell. Especially when I was a demon. And, uh.” He closes his eyes and puts his head in his hands, again. “There were a few times when my judgment was clouded, and I didn’t exactly make the best decisions. AndImight’veusedholyoilaslube. Once or twice.”
He looks up. Even Sam is speechless at that one.
Castiel recovers first, but not before Dean has the thought that if he hadn’t earned a spot in Hell for corrupting Cas before this, there was definitely one waiting for him now. “I don’t believe that masturbation would have been an issue. The way that binding grace to a container works means that grace has to be specifically drawn out. It can’t leave a vessel casually, and it can’t be redirected without purpose. So your… ministrations wouldn’t have affected it in the same way as an angel summoning it would. And the holy oil…” Castiel looks helpless. “It’s not ideal, but again, it probably wouldn’t have had much of an effect without intent. Probably.”
“Well, I am so glad to have some good news.” More than anything, Dean wants to stand up and drink until he physically couldn’t anymore. Unfortunately, he fully recognizes that this is something that was probably better dealt with sober.
“Cas, what about the Mark?” asks Sam. “Will your grace have been affected by Dean having that? Or, on the other hand, has it been protecting Dean from feeling the full effects of the Mark?”
“I don’t know. I don’t believe my grace will have been affected. An angel’s grace is near incorruptible. If anything, it’s possible that it’s helped to reduce the Mark’s impact.” Castiel frowns. “It is a good question. Perhaps I should wait to retrieve it—”
“No,” Dean growls. “No. Dude, you have no idea how uncomfortable it is to think that I’m walking around with your juice in my balls.” He probably could’ve phrased that better. Hindsight’s 20/20. “If this is a problem we can fix, we’re fixing it. Now. Or as soon as you’re ready.”
There’s a moment of silence as Cas regards him, face inscrutable.
“You understand what this may entail?” Cas asks gently. There’s a softness to his eyes that Dean has only ever seen on the nights before the world was set to end. He turns away.
“Yes. Jesus, Cas. Dad gave me the talk a long time ago.” He looks at Sam who, to his credit, at least looked serious now. “Sammy, why dontcha get a motel room or something tonight.”
“It’s a big bunker—”
Dean tosses his wallet to Sam. “Go to a bar. Go get some. It’s on me.”
And bless his fricking torn-up soul, Sam leaves. Not after a long look that Dean wasn’t entirely sure how to decipher, and not after ordering them both to call him if anything went south (“Kinky, Sam—” “Shut it, Dean”). But Dean takes small victories where he gets them.
Because now, it’s just him and Cas. And holy fuck, he does not know where to begin with this one.
“Let me reiterate, Dean. I won’t ask you to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable in any way. If I’ve learned one thing from you, it’s that there’s always another way besides the obvious.”
“I know. But there’s not time.” There was never time. Not really. “Between Rowena and the Mark, we can’t afford to have you weakened. ‘Sides. I’ve never turned down a free handjob before, and I’m not about to start now.”
Castiel looks away, and if he’s blushing then Dean is just going to castrate himself and hope that works. He can deal with virgins – well, technically Cas isn’t a virgin anymore, but he’s probably never been with a dude before, so close enough. In any case, he can’t deal with blushing.
“We’ve made it this far—”
“Jesus, Cas, stop arguing. I’m gonna start to think that you just don’t want a guy.”
“What I want is unimportant. If I don’t retrieve my grace, I won’t be any worse off. If something goes wrong—”
“Then we deal. C’mon.” He stands and starts heading to his room, knowing Cas will follow.
Tries not to think too deeply about his words. What I want. Because maybe that meant he didn’t want to do this, and that would be fucked up and Dean would be fucked up for insisting he go through with it, and he wasn’t going to do that to Cas. Couldn’t do that. Fuck. Couldn’t they just have one fucking week where nothing like this happened?
Dean yanks off his jeans before his courage can fail him. For good measure, he takes off his shirt too before he sits on his bed. Might as well. Meanwhile, Cas hovers in the doorway.
“It’ll be easier if you’re next to me, you know.”
Yeah, Cas is definitely blushing. But at least he hurries over and sits down next to Dean. He doesn’t bother removing any of his clothes, which is… whatever.
Dean stares down at his magical crotch. “There’s no good way to do this, is there?”
“The best way is to not do it at all, if that’s how you feel.”
“I told you, cut it out. This is what we gotta do, so we’re doing it.”
He whips his dick out (and he never thought that phrase would accurately describe his actions, but here he fucking is) before Cas can protest again. “Okay. Hands or mouth?”
Cas blinks at him. Dean gives it a minute.
“Oh. Um. Hands? I expect that would be less… intimate.”
“Fine with me.”
They both stare at Dean’s dick in silence, like it’s their first sight of some monster never before battled. Dean sighs.
“Lemme just… get it started for you, all right?”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Just closes his eyes and begins. His mind flashes to one of his default fantasies, where it’s Castiel’s hand instead of his. He hopes that Cas can’t hear his thoughts.
His cock quickly becomes erect, the fantasy made more vivid by how fucking close Castiel is, how he knows that it’s going to come true in a minute. Even if it’s under fucked-up circumstances. Even if he’s gonna have to pretend like he isn’t really enjoying this all that much.
Dean swipes a finger over the head of his dick, smearing the bit of precome that’s started to leak out. And Cas moans, and the sound gets Dean to open his eyes quicker than that time he was camping out in the woods and a bear got to the deer hearts that were supposed to lure the werewolf out.
Castiel’s eyes are fixated on him. It takes all of Dean’s effort not to look down, to check if he’s… reacting to what he sees.
“I can feel it,” Cas says, voice strangled. “Dean, I… I know I offered my hands, but can I just…”
“Whatever you have to do,” and Castiel more or less falls off the bed and onto his knees in a way that somehow still manages to be graceful. He places his warm hands on Dean’s bare thighs and stares, almost reverent. Dean imagines a world where Cas is looking at him like that because of him, and not because of Metatron’s actions.
Still, Castiel hesitates. “May I use my mouth…?”
“Yes.” Simple. Don’t elaborate. Don’t say that this is something you’ve rarely dared to fantasize about.
Castiel leans forward, and then his lips are on Dean, delicately licking at his cock. Dean gasps almost at the same time that Cas does, though for different reasons – even through the overwhelming sensations of the situation, Dean can pick out the faint silver glow in Castiel’s eyes. It’s about grace, not about Dean, Dean reminds himself. The thought doesn’t make him any less hard, though maybe it should.
As one measures these things, it’s a pretty decent blowjob. Granted, the pacing is inconsistent, going from tentative to just about right to too fast. It’s a bit rougher than Dean would normally prefer.
But it’s Cas. Cas who’s swallowing him down like he doesn’t have a gag reflex (and fuck, he probably doesn’t); Cas who’s licking him like there’s no tomorrow, Cas whose hand is reaching out towards his balls, then hesitating, pausing, glancing up at Dean while his lips are still stretched around his cock, and fuck, if this isn’t every fantasy Dean’s ever had all wrapped up into one—
Even through the lust that’s overwhelming his brain, he recognizes that Castiel is asking for permission, and nods.
Castiel takes him in his hand slowly, carefully, almost reverently. The rough pads of his thumb rub Dean’s testicles. Castiel’s eyes are still locked on his, and it’s enough, it’s too much, really.
“Cas, I’m gonna—”
His hips buck up into Castiel’s lips and he’s coming like he’s never come before, like there are shooting stars shooting out of his dick or something. His eyes shut automatically at the moment of release but he forces them open, wants nothing more than to watch Castiel swallow him down.
Holy shit.
Cas is – he’s glowing, like quicksilver is swimming beneath his skin. He’s staring up at Dean with something like wonder in his eyes.
Castiel’s lips are obscenely red as he pulls away from Dean’s cock, tongue darting around the head to ensure that every last drop of come is swallowed.
“Dean,” he says brokenly, his voice even lower than usual. “Dean, I—”
The silver glow fades to a soft pulse. Castiel closes his eyes as he breaks off the sentence and leans his head against Dean’s knee. Dean automatically drops a hand to his hair.
“Everything alright?”
“Yes.” Cas takes a shuddering breath and nods, cheek still pressed against Dean’s leg. “Yes and no. I’ve gotten some back, but the essence is still with you. Dean, I – I need—”
“You can say it. Whatever it is.”
“I need you inside of me.”
Dean freezes. Cas stiffens in response and quickly pulls away from Dean’s knee, rocking back to sit on his heels. Dean’s hand lingers in the air a moment, abandoned, before he has the sense to drop it.
“If it’s too much – I can suffice with what I’ve got; I’m better than I’ve been in months—”
“No. Cas, no. It’s cool. Not my first rodeo.” He bites his lip. Tries to think of all those anonymous encounters in hotel rooms and grimy alleyways. Tries to pretend that this is just like that, a quick, meaningless fuck.
“Lube,” he says dumbly. He reaches over to his nightstand and pulls a tube from the drawer. “Okay. Uh. I can prepare you, if you want? Or you can do it yourself. Whatever’s easier.”
Castiel frowns as he climbs to his feet. The silver light is all but gone now, but there’s something different in the way he moves, something that reminds Dean of the warrior he first met.
“I don’t think lube is necessary. I’ve gotten enough grace back that the pain won’t affect me as it would a human. And any damage, I’ll be able to heal afterwards.”
“No. Nope. Trust me Cas, I’ve been on both ends and we’re using it. For me if nothing else,” he says quickly. “Trust me, dude. It’s better this way. Besides, I’m not as young as I used to be, and I could use a bit of time to, you know.”
He motions up and down. Cas stares at him blankly.
He sighs. “To get it up again.”
“Ah.” Castiel nods. “Very well. Though I could just use my grace to give you an erection, if this makes it more comfortable for you, then we can, of course, do it.”
He takes the lube from Dean and glances away. “I can do it myself. I don’t want to ask more of you than I absolutely have to.”
It’s fine, Dean almost says, but of course he doesn’t. He can’t. He just watches wordlessly as Castiel pulls off his shoes, socks, pants, boxers, all in a single move that’s far more graceful than it should be. And then as Cas experimentally squeezes a bit of lube onto his fingers, then dips his hand between his legs.
He quickly removes his gaze to the floor, then to the ceiling. To any sight but that of Castiel carefully finger-fucking himself for the first time (because god, how many times has he thought about that? How often did he think that he’d be the first one to stretch him, to enter him, to take it slow and make sure he was ready?)
His dick is getting hard again. Good to know he’s still got some stamina. He reaches for the abandoned lube and absentmindedly jerks himself a few times, trying not to pay attention to the sound of fingers against skin, of the soft noises Castiel makes.
“I think I’m ready,” Castiel finally says.
Dean risks looking at him. Slick lube shines on his fingers, and Dean resists the perverse desire to reach over and suck it off of him. His pupils look huge. Dean’s heard that desire can make that happen, but he’s never really noticed it before. Maybe he doesn’t normally think about eyes as often as he does Castiel’s.
He pushes the thought away. It’s a dumb thought. “How do you want to do this?”
Castiel hesitates, biting his lip in a painfully human gesture (and add that to the list of things that Castiel did that were way more hot than they had any right to be). “With me on top? If that’s permissible? I don’t know how exactly my physiology will respond to the return of my grace. There could be wings involved. It would be more comfortable—”
“Yeah, that’s fine, man. Don’t worry about it. Probably more comfortable if you set the pace, anyway.”
Dean lies back on his bed. Castiel hovers nearby for a moment and then climbs next to him, kneeling.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Dean says. He’s still hard. How could he not be, with Cas above him, in his shirt and tie and nothing else? When this is every fantasy he’s ever had about to come true?
Castiel positions himself above Dean. There’s a moment of hesitation when their eyes are locked together. It means something. Dean isn’t sure what.
Then Castiel is sinking down on him, agonizingly slow, and any thought that Dean might have had dissipates in the overwhelming sensation of heat, of skin, of Cas. He can’t help the sounds that leave him, and he can only hope that Castiel doesn’t think any less of him for it.
When Cas bottoms out, he pauses, eyes closed. Dean reaches up unthinkingly and rubs his hand over his side, thumb forming small, soothing circles. “Cas? Everything okay?”
“More than okay.” Castiel begins rolling his hips, lifting himself on and off of Dean. Slow at first – too slow – it takes all of Dean’s self-control not to thrust upwards.
But as Castiel relaxes, he picks up speed. Dean doesn’t even mean to arch up, to meet Castiel as he’s coming down, but it happens all the same.
Castiel moans, and it’s like something between them snaps. They’re moving in tandem now. Dean finds his hands on Castiel’s hips, fingers digging in deep enough to leave bruises. Castiel’s hands scramble over the plane of his chest, over his hips, his arms. Everywhere.
“Dean,” Castiel gasps. “Dean.”
“I’m here. I got you.” It’s true. For so long, Cas has been the one supporting him, defending him, protecting him. There’s never been much he could do for Cas when he was an angel, and god knows that Dean fucked up every chance he had to help him with humanity. He can do this for him. Even if it’s not just for him.
Dean comes with a shout, and it’s more intense even than when he emptied himself into Castiel’s mouth; it’s like there’s an electric current running between him and Cas, and Cas is throwing his head back and crying something in Enochian, and he’s glowing from within – not quicksilver this time, but like his bones are made of pure light, like he’s pure light.
The lights in the room shatter, but not before Dean sees the shadows of wings against the wall. They’ve changed; bones bending at angles that weren’t there the last time he saw them, spaces that feathers used to fill. They’re still beautiful.
And then there is the darkness.
A symphony of ragged breaths fills the room. Dean thinks he should say something. He doesn’t know what.
His nails have dug crescents into Castiel’s hips. He relaxes his grip and gently massages the marks, even though the tiny part of his brain that’s still functioning reminds him that such a gesture is entirely unnecessary, that Castiel can’t feel small pains anymore.
“I’m sorry about the lights,” Castiel says. “Just give me a moment and I’ll fix them.”
There’s a depth to his voice that Dean had missed. A reminder that Castiel can call forth lighting or part the seas.
He also sounds completely wrecked. Fucked out. Dean knows it’s probably just the shock of regaining his grace. Part of him is still arrogant enough to imagine that he made Cas sound like that.
“Take your time. No need to rush.”
Castiel hums and carefully pulls himself off Dean, to sit beside him. The bunker air feels cold, and somehow Dean feels empty, as if he was the one on the bottom, the one that got something out of this whole thing.
As Dean forces himself to sit up, the lights return. He glances at Castiel, and he knows he’s re-angeled. Something in the way he carries himself, the set of his shoulders. A light in his eyes.
Still, because he feels like he should, Dean asks, “You good now?”
Castiel nods. “Yes. Better than ever.”
Dean nods back, and tries to think of something to say. “That’s good.”
His eyes fall involuntarily. Down to that half of Castiel that’s still naked. And that’s definitely not his come staining Castiel’s shirt. Hot damn. Does bringing an angel of the Lord to orgasm mean that he’s more or less likely to end up back in Hell?
“I should probably leave?” Despite the words, Castiel doesn’t make any attempt at moving. Dean wants so badly to reach out to him, to pull him down. Secrets he’ll take to his grave again and again before he ever lets Sam know: he loves cuddling after sex.
Maybe that’s where his next words come from. God knows they don’t come from any reasonable, thinking part of him.
“Or you could stay.”
Shit.
“In the Bunker. You could stay in the Bunker.”
Castiel stares at him.
“Or in here. With me. If you want.” Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. “I mean. You’re probably tired, right? Because this is a lot. And you need to rest? And I have the best bed? And I’m tired too because that’s what happens after sex?”
Castiel stares at him, head tilted slightly, like he knows what each individual word means, but can’t comprehend the sentences.
“You could also go,” Dean says, in a voice far smaller than he thought he was ever capable of producing.
Castiel stares at him. He stares back, unable to think of any other blunders that would make this lovely situation even worse.
“You know,” Castiel says hesitantly, “It is possible to experience withdrawal from grace after having acted as a vessel. It may, perhaps, be beneficial for me to stay with you? At least for tonight. Possibly in the future as well. If it provides comfort to you.”
They stare at each other for a moment longer.
“Okay,” Dean says. “Yeah. I’m sure that’s it. Keep a dude’s grace in your balls, you’re bound to miss it when it’s gone.”
“Yes,” Castiel agrees, looking relieved. “Doubtlessly. So may I…?”
“Yeah. C’mon.” Dean scoots over and pulls the covers down. “Oh, and uh. You can take off the shirt. If you want. More comfortable and all.”
Castiel nods, and in a blink it’s off, and hol-lee shit, that was a good call on Dean’s part.
Cas clambers under the sheets. For a moment he just lies next to Dean, stiff as a board. Then, without warning, he turns and tugs Dean into his arms and lies with his head buried in Dean’s shoulder.
That’s weird. It’s also great. Dean finds absolutely no desire to object.
“Is this okay?” Castiel asks after a moment. “I think that I – I mean, my grace enjoys the closeness. And knowing that you’re safe.”
“It’s fine, Cas. I like i– I mean, I think it’s helping.”
“Good.” A pause. “Should I turn off the lights?”
“Yeah. That’d be great.”
The room goes dark, and there’s something about being hidden from sight that emboldens Dean to wrap one arm around Cas’s back, and to use the other to tangle his fingers in Castiel’s hair and stroke it. Never mind that “dark” is probably a relative term when it comes to a fully-powered angel who probably has, like, fifty eyes or something. Who knows.
He’s about to fall asleep, warm and content with his armful of Cas, when Castiel asks, “Should we let Sam know that we’re finished?”
“Nah. We can deal with him tomorrow.”
They can deal with a lot of things tomorrow. That’s as good a time as any to try to think about feelings, about how to admit to Cas that he’s a dirty liar who’s had feelings for him way longer than he was carrying his grace in his balls. Tonight is for sleep. And so he closes his eyes, and presses his cheek against Castiel’s forehead, and he sleeps.