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“Legs off the table.” Dean growls, hearing a dull thump, followed by an exaggerated sigh.
He snaps his eyes up, to see none other than Castiel; he’s the only one brave to do so and the first one to break every goddamn rule Dean set. He stretches his body, making himself comfortable, ignoring Dean’s request, or order. That doesn’t matter, Cas won’t listen to him anyway.
“Why?” He asks, blue eyes piercing Dean’s. Not even a ‘hello Dean’. “You keep yours up all the time, don’t you think that’s a little hypocritical of you?”
“I am the leader.”
“Hm.” Cas hums, not really listening to his words.
Dean lowers his eyes again to the map of Kansas in front of him, trying to ignore the fallen angel before him. The recent supply run was a total bust, Croats almost got them and like if that wasn’t enough, one of his people broke his right hand. Even without the Host, angels and other gods and goddesses, his misfortune stayed with him. And apparently, it’s spreading to others.
Flipping through the notes Chuck left him, he tries to make sense of his shitty writing; they’re running low on toilet paper, which isn’t exactly surprising, not enough canned food and the second generator crashed two days ago and still, no one took care of it. Dean presses his fingers into his hairline. It’s all so fucked up, Chitaqua camp is a mess and his two-I-C is none existent. Well, if only Cas was less of a-
“You’re smoking this shit again?” The smell of a skunk fills his cabin, jarring his nostrils. It’ll take hours to air his cabin out, not to mention it’s freaking cold outside.
“You’re drinking.” Castiel breathes out a big, weed smoke. Completely unbothered, he points at a half empty bottle of Jack, Dean's been drinking the whole evening.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“How could I?” He raises his eyebrows looking into a void and inhales; his attention drifts away for a moment. “Anyway, apparently it works better for me, than drinking for you.”
Dean puts down the pencil, though slammed against the table sounds more accurate. “How’s that?” He asks coldly.
“You’re still angry and miserable, well so am I, but the main difference is, I’m relaxed and you’re not.” Castiel licks his lips, then goes on. “You should try.”
“You’re stoned, Cas, not relaxed.” Dean retorts, skeptically. “I’m not smoking this crap.”
“One could argue that’s practically the same thing. Though, I should mention that-”
“What are you even doing here?” He cuts in, being done with Cas and his philosophy blessed with weed. Christ, the whole room stinks like a skunk den and tomorrow morning, he has a briefing.
“Smoking?” Castiel grins at his own joke. “Didn’t get the memo I’m not welcome here anymore.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, no one ever said that.”
“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.”
“Okay, you know what? I’ve had enough of your smashed-sarcastic self.”
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, but the highest form of intelligence". Cas hums, then blows out a smoke ring, not giving a flying fuck.
“What?”
“Who. Oscar Wilde.”
Dean opens his mouth but shuts it quickly, his mind blank. Oscar Wilde. How should he even respond to it? This whole argument was pointless from the beginning. He drops his head and pushes the heels of his hands against his eyes, hard enough to see colorful sparks.
One year and three months since Detroit. One year since the angels left. Nine months since they formed Chitaqua. Five months since he and Cas-. No. Around four hundred and fifty days, if his calculations are right, since it all started. It felt like years, and ironically, incredibly fast. He should blame the apocalypse for his lost sense of time. Brutal monotony of reality seemed to move on in its own, strange pace. Every day was determined by the same routine, but rushed to make it through.
Dean releases the pressure on his eyes and opens them to see spots, dancing in his vision. His sight lies on Castiel, more precisely his legs, still resting on the table. Glancing up, Dean’s surprised to see his expression softened, instead of a sardonic, cynical smile, he looks almost carrying. Almost like he used to look before the whole orgy thing happened, before the drugs and excessive drinking. Almost like the angel, Dean used to call his friend.
“What happened to us?” Dean whispers, but apparently loud enough for Cas to acknowledge.
“Life” He sighs.
“That’s your answer for everything?”
“Maybe.” Cas hums, not offering any further explanations.
Sure. They can blame life for everything. It must be comforting, knowing that life is responsible for their mistakes. Except, he can’t. Every day he wakes up, he thinks about Sam, about the camp, about all the people he lost. It’s not life that decided for him not to say yes to Michael, that’s on him. As well as the whole Apocalypse. “And it is written, that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break.”
It was him, who looked at Castiel, with then, unknown drive. Gave himself a new itch, impossible to scratch like a mosquito bite.
Dean looks down at the map, then Chuck’s notes and map again, only to repeat everything three times more, before he realises, he has no idea what he just read. Dean considers taking another drink and begins the downfall, until he reaches the bottom of the bottle, but he drops this idea. He lifts his head up; sometimes, like now, he’s fucking consumed, green with envy that Cas know how to not care. Or at least pretends, he doesn’t. Not give a damn about who he slept with, who hates him or wants, what happens to him.
“Okay” Dean says, feeling disgusted with himself, yet a thrill of anticipation went through him. “I want to. Relax, I mean.”
Castiel freezes, slowly exhaling smoke. “You want to, I’ll cite your words, ‘smoke this shit’?” Dean can’t tell if he's mocking him right now. Knowing Cas, the answer is probably yes. “Fearless leader lets himself be seduced, lead onto the path of debauchery. All by me. Should I feel flatter?”
“Fuck off, you’re not seducing me.” Dean snaps at him, although the word seduce is acutely fitting. “If you want to act like a dick, you know where the doors are.”
“My apologies for acting like one.” Castiel takes his legs off the table. “Though I actually tried to seduce you.” Dean blinks, feeling his stomach clench. “I saw the way you looked at me.”
“It was envy.” Dean says hoarse, unable to take his eyes off him.
“If you say so. I won’t argue with our leader.” He hums, stopping besides Dean. “Hands up.”
“What-” But he can say anything, Cas uses a moment to swing his leg over him and settle on Dean’s laps. It happened so fast, that it’s almost disturbing how he managed to do that, while being stoned.
With a smug look on his face, Cas leans back, and props his elbows on the table behind him.
“You smell like piss.” Dean says, trying to ignore their current position. Even though Cas was sitting far from his crotch, almost on his knees, his dick didn’t seem to care. Anyway, now it’s too late for adjusting, so he can only hope he won’t spring up a boner now or any sooner.
“I smell like weed.” Castiel corrects him, then takes a short drag, he graciously breaths out not in his face. “You, on the other hand, smell nice, unless of course you’re drinking excessively. Here.” He offers his joint.
Dean waits three seconds, before accepting it, because fuck Cas and his powerplay. He’s not giving him that satisfaction (or at least he thinks he doesn’t). He raises his hand up, but hesitates. Bad idea. Yet, he folds under Cas’s sight. Maintaining eye contact, Dean carefully takes the joint in his fingers and brings it to his lips. It’s been over a decade since he did it, or smoked anything in general. Always preferred alcohol as his poison. Well, fuck it.
Trying to ignore weight on his thighs and spreading heat of another body, Dean inhales, but his throat immediately closes up. Coughing like a virgin on his first rodeo, he feels tears pushing their way out. Almost choked out his fucking lungs.
“Give me the.” Castiel sighs annoyed and grabs his smoke from his fingers. “You’re wasting my treat.”
“Fuck you.” Dean rasps through his clenched throat. “I’m suffocating and the only thing you care about is-”
Cas only rolls his eyes, ignoring Dean’s dramatic whining. He drags, and closing his eyes, he catches Dean’s jaw and forces it open by pressing fingers in his cheeks and tilting his head slightly to the side. It takes a moment, before Dean realises Cas joined their lips and slowly starts to blow smoke into his mouth. It takes another two moments, before Dean’s mind restores its consciousness and he pushes Cas away.
“You’re crazy.” He blinks, avoiding eye contact. They just kissed. Shotgunning or not, they just kissed.
“Stoned, slightly.” Castiel corrects him. “And you didn’t complain before.”
“Yes” Dean forces himself still, trying not to give a slightest impression, his dick seems interested in whatever the hell was going on. “But that was before we-” Before he shouted to Cas’s face that they should never have crossed that one line? That he regrets it all? Well they already did it. Milk is spilled, he earned that stupid itch, nothing can scratch away. And now it feels like if someone just scrape that spot with a fucking rake.
Pained expression flashes under Cas’s smug smile. “Okay.” He raises his hands in defeat and stands up, but before he can swing away, Dean catches his hips and pulls him back down. He’s not high enough to touch his ass, but apparently high enough, to drag him much closer - -
“You just doubled my treat.” Castiel looks at him, bewildered and sinks deeper on his thighs. “Oh, is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just so happy to see me?”
“I-” Dean gasps, like a fish thrown on the sand. Heat from Cas’s body is spreading up his legs, like an oil, hot and thick- fuck is that marijuana speaking?
“Don’t worry.” Cas slaps his thigh, right where straps of his holster are. “I know the answer is both.” He puts a joint to his mouth, but freezes. Grabbing Dean’s jaw, he catches his attention. “You’ve been drinking before, so let's try not to go too far, I’m not sober enough to handle your possible paranoia or any other side effects, okay?” His fingers brush slightly against his skin, and Dean only nods, incapable of saying anything.
Castiel inhales and still holding Dean’s face, he joins their lips. And what does Dean do? He just lets him. Fucking lets Cas do whatever he wants, because his thinking processes went down the moment Cas touched his face. Hot smoke prickles the roof of his mouth, but it's almost sweet, intoxicating. When they separate, there’s a moment of a strange clarity when Dean realises he’s been still holding onto Cas’s hips, except the anxiety never comes. Oh, well. Since Cas doesn’t mind, and judging by the look on his face, probably even enjoys it, then fuck it. It’s not like he has something better to do with his hands.
When Castiel kisses him again, a little bit of tongue slips in, just the tip, but that’s enough to break another wall in Dean’s mind, because when Cas pulls back, Dean leans after him. He looks at him, blue eyes hazy but somehow so intense and curious. Cas goes for another quick kiss, without any smoke and Dean leans again. Shit. It’s his turn to return the kiss, so he does.
Their lips crushed together, tongues sliding against each other, the joint’s long-forgotten, because fuck, they both know it was never about the weed. Dean digs his fingers deep into flesh around Cas’s hips, feeling sharp bones under his palm. He hears Cas groans against his mouth and rolls his body against Dean’s, giving him the friction right where it’s needed.
“Fuck” Dean gasps, feeling the overwhelming heat in his pelvis coiling up his spine.
“Celibacy’s been rough for you?” Castiel asks, still slightly rolling his hips and looking smug and fucking delighted. Of course he spotted Dean’s erection. “When was the last time you got laid, Dean?”
“Fuck off.” Dean tries to growl, but his voice gets lost in a moan, when Cas grinds harder against him.
Weed must be fully kicked in by now, because everything feels warm and hazy, yet Dean’s fully aware of his body, movements, denim texture under his palms and Cas straddling him.
“There are plenty of people in Chitaqua who would have sex with you, instead of me.” He goes on with delight, but Dean hears a strain of bitterness in his voice. “You got Emma, Jane, Benjamin, Linda…”
“Benjamin?” Who the fuck’s Benjanim?
“Ben, he broke his right wrist yesterday.” Oh. Something’s telling him, he should be more concerned that Chitaqua is growing into a brothel, and Dean probably would, if not other urgency growing in his pants. “I bet he would appreciate you giving him a hand, not metaphorically.”
“So do I.” Dean gasps, then throws his head back, when Castiel stops rolling his hips. Unaware, he moves his hands to close them around Cas’s belt and pull him closer.
“You want his help?” Ignoring Dean’s desperate attempts to feel the friction again, Cas leans back to the table and drinks what’s left of his whisky. Then, he flips the glass upside down and carefully places his joint there.
“No!” Dean chokes out and shakes his head, but Cas’s fingers catch his jaw again, firmly yet gently, keeping him in place. “No, no, no, not his help.”
“Whose help do you want, Dean?” Castiel asks again, pressing thumb on his lower lip, enough to slightly part them.
“You kinky son of a bitch.” Dean grins lazily and hot. “You know I want your help.” He licks the tip of Cas’s thumb. High on weed or his own horniness, he just unlocked a new level of flirting.
Castiel hums and pushes his finger past Dean’s teeths, so he can press it down on his tongue. “You could ask.” He says casually and using his free hand, he covers his own cock. Cas closes his eyes, and biting his lower lip, he skims fingers over strained denim of his jeans. Hearing his shaky, relieved breath, Dean whines loudly, tongue twitching under Cas’s thumb. “Hm?” He takes his hand off Dean’s face.
“Please” Dean blurts out, not caring anymore, how needy that sounded. “I want your help, only yours.” He bumps his forehead on his shoulder. “Want you so fucking bad.” Looking down, Dean sees Cas’s hand tremble against his own erection, so he goes on, moaning pleadingly without any shame and nibbing on the base of his neck.
Giving himself a last squeeze, Cas throws his head back, then he quickly stands up. Displeased noise comes out of Dean’s throat, before he can stop himself, hands dragging down Cas’s thighs trying to pull him closer again.
“Stand up.” Castiel asks with a hoarse voice, eyes red and wild. “Come on.”
Trying to ignore his still growing and aching cock, Dean forces himself up and clings on to Cas, connecting their bodies from knees to lips. Fuck him, but that joint worked surprisingly well on him, shutting up every part of his mind that screamed with shame. Dean rolls his hips slowly, groaning with satisfaction. Now, free from any self-loathing, it finally feels so good, so damn good that he feels every nerve ending sings with white-hot pleasure.
Effortlessly, Cas turns them around and surprisingly gently, pushes him against the table. They kiss again, less aggressive, more intense with mutual lust, bodies moving together, taking out of each other, what they need. Panting, Dean catches Cas’s hand and moves down to his lower abdomen, hoping he will guess what Dean wants. Low moan rips out of the bottom of his throat, when Castiel palms his cock, pressing middle finger on its head.
“Blue balls is my diagnosis.” Castiel murmurs, tracing Dean’s neck column with his teeth, nipping on sensitive skin. “Sexual frustration can increase your anger and uneven mood.”
“Please, Cas.” Dean almost whines, feeling fingers slide down and he mindlessly spreads his legs wider for him. “I already said I want you.”
“How?” Cas takes his hand away, leaving him even more aching. Instead, guides his fingers along Dean’s ribs, digging deep enough to cause slight pain, like if he was carving his presence into his flesh. Fucking marijuana.
“However you prefer.” Dean leans his head back, giving more space for Cas’s lips and tongue, torturing skin on hollow space between his collarbones. “Thought you didn’t care about the foreplay.”
“I make exceptions.” Cas pushes his hands under Dean’s coat, pulling it slowly off his shoulders. “So?”
“You're lucky I’m easy after weed.” Oh, he’s fucking enjoying himself. They let his coat fall on the floor, forgotten.
“Submissive’s the word I would use.” Castiel pushes his leg between Dean’s legs, drawing out a low moan out of him. “Although, that would make me dominant and you’re not nearly high enough for it.”
“Fuck you.” Dean snorts, not actually being annoyed. If he has to be honest with himself, he can’t remember the last time he felt so good. And he definitely wasn’t sober then. But that’s how the mechanism of addictions works, right? Shut up. Fully aware of everything but vaguely lightheaded, relaxed. Horny. “Want your hands.”
Cas immediately puts his hand between Dean’s cock and his thigh, making him moan softly. “Anything else?” He feels a thrill of anticipation, his thoughts going straight to his clenched ass.
Fuck me. “Take my jeans off already." Come out instead. Well, maybe he’s not high enough for it.
“Of course.” Cas grins. With gleaming eyes, he slowly drops to his knees, sliding his fingers over the back of his thighs.
Feeling his whole body shudder, Dean braced himself on the table behind him. First, and the last time they did it, it was rushed, messy, he was pressed against the doors of the bathroom, which were the cleanest part of the room, with a company of dead bodies behind the wall. It was hot, still very fast, wrong and almost animalistic. They didn’t face each other. Now, Cas seems to take his time, slowly untying Dean's boot with a raging erection in front of his face. That should feel wrong, right?
“It’s such a bad idea.” Dean hums low, drunk on the view of Castiel kneeling in front of him.
“If that comforts you” he looks up and slides his fingers up, along the back of his thigh “humans are incapable of rationality, colloquially speaking. Though they like to think they can, it’s impossible to make decisions purely on objectivity, there is always an emotional component, unavoidable, but immensely fascinating.”
“I have no fucking idea what you just said.” Dean raises his foot, when Cas grabs his boot at the ankle, and tugs lightly. He doesn’t ask why he needs to take them off. Cas looks so damn good right now, so what must be, must be.
“I said…” Cas focuses on his other side, pulling up the hem of his jeans, to undo the shoestrings. “That you may think it’s a bad idea, because you’re in some strange emotional state, whereas it’s impossible not to be in one.”
“I’ll trust you with that one.” Dean automatically raises another foot, helping Cas remove his boot. He places both of them nicely near where his coat lies, abandoned. Strange emotional state. That’s non-specific. But that sounds better than envy mixed with lust, longing, hatred and misery. Let’s focus on the lust only.
“Good.” Castial starts to play with Dean’s gun holster, tracing straps around his inner thigh with his fingers, before he unclasps first two buckles on his leg. Now’s time for the better part.
Steadily, Cas puts his hands on Dean’s belt, and keeping eye contact, he unbuckles it. Then the button, zipper down, revealing the navy elastic of his boxer briefs. Dean holds his breath while Cas pulls his jeans down to his ankles, devouring his body with his eyes. They’re both so fuckin high. Goosebumps form on every part of his skin revealed to the chilly air; he can feel every muscle tense then relax into Cas’s touch, as he slides his hands up Dean’s legs, just to slip them under the hem of his underwear.
“You’re eager.” Castiel says, but before Dean has a chance to retort, he moves his hand to palm his erection and presses his thumb on the wet spot on his boxer briefs. So naturally, instead of fuck off, strangled groan comes out.
“Why?” Dean whines, barely holding himself from bucking his hips forward. Cas tilts his head slightly to the left, still pressing his thumb against his cock. “What the fuck do you want from me?”
“You know what.” Son of a bitch.
“Oh fuck, please, Cas.” Dean swallows back a moan. “Please, please, please, just fucking-” Cas shuts him up with a kiss; he stands up abruptly and lifts his ass to shove on the table. That was hot. No one ever picked him up like that.
Still kissing, Cas spreads his legs and enters the space between his knees like he belongs there, to shift Dean’s notes aside. He could fuck him like that. Though that idea is appealing, it’s floundering in the quicksand. Dean already pleaded for him, better not to strain his self-control.
He feels a warm hand on his chest, gently pushing him on his back. There goes his self-control.
“Cas” Dean rasps, not really wanting to stop. Leaning back on his elbows, seeing Cas between his legs “What if someone, ah fuck.”
“I locked the doors when I came here.” Castiel wraps one of his arms around his leg. “Didn’t you notice?”
“I-” Well, he didn’t. “You left my socks on.” Dean says instead, distracted by Cas’s fingers roaming free over sensitive skin on his inner thigh.
“I know.” Locking their eyes, Cas finally palms his cock again, but gives barely friction. “I wouldn’t let you, our fearless leader, catch a cold. Who would stand in for you?”
“I-” His voice gets lost in another moan, feeling his arms tremble under his weight.
“That’s a rhetorical question, Dean. You don’t answer those.” Cas circles his thumb over the tip of his cock, smearing precome under the navy cotton. “The real question is, why?”
Dean can’t answer that, not right now. Aside from being teased like crazy, they both know that Castiel wanted to be his second in command, but Dean never agreed. There’s too much to unpack, sobriety is far from his grasp, so he chooses the only option that’s left.
Leaning on his back, he rocks into Cas’s touch as he accepts his whorification. Surrender. Dean can hear Cas sucks in a breath; it’s not like any of them expected that. Three, very still and quiet seconds went by, before he could feel the heat of Cas’s mouth on his inner thigh, trailing kisses along the hem of his boxer briefs, fingers curling over his cock. He could definitely come like that, Dean thinks, second before Cas gently sinks his teeth into shivering and sensitive skin near his groin, waiting for his reaction. He could die like that, Dean rethinks. He knows that’s mostly weed speaking through him, but fuck that, he spreads his legs wider, giving Cas permission to do whatever he wants.
Writhing on the table, feeling something between pain and pleasure, Dean catches sight of Castiel, face pressed against his thigh, sucking mark onto its skin. There’s a strange satisfaction, when Cas pulls back, licking over the aching and tinglingly spot, knowing it will last for a couple of days, reminding him of this moment.
Cas crawls further, never losing his eyes, he pushes higher hem of his t-shirt and with his teeth, his fucking teeth, Cas catches the elastic of his boxer briefs. Dean bangs his head back on the table, heat spreading under his skin, face; somehow, it’s still surprising, bewildering even, to see him like that, so pornographic, so human, enjoying himself in the most physical way possible.
Just when he thinks it’s now, Castiel will strip his underwear, throw them away, he abruptly stops and opens his mouth, letting the elastic slap his abdomen with a loud clasp.
“Fuck, are you crazy?” Dean gasps, frustrated, jerking forward with anticipation.
“Changed my mind.” Cas goes back to kissing the join of his leg and hip. “Just don’t come too soon.” He looks up at Dean, something wild flickering in his eyes, before he kisses the base of cock.
Dean hisses as Castiel goes down and covers his face with his hand; cotton material stretched over his erection feels like sandpaper right now, and that’s not even exaggeration.
“Don’t-” Cas catches his forearm to move it aside. “-cover yourself. I want to see you.”
Dean mumbles something, but it gets lost, when Cas licks him through his boxer briefs. Low moan rips through him, back arches against his will, because fuck, he needs it, he wants it and weed made him so much more aware of it. He can hear Cas hums with satisfaction against him, vibration sending sparks down his spine. Then, he wraps his arms around Dean’s hips, hauls his ass closer to the edge of the table and throws his legs over his shoulders.
It’s almost too much; damp cotton, Cas’s tongue, the table, aching cock. Until this moment, Dean never knew what the word overindulgence really meant in Cas’s dictionary. He would use it to annoy Dean, describing another orgy, or any sexual intercourse at this point. A word he used interchangeably with debauchery when he felt profoundly high or amused, in addition to his, or his partner's pleasure. Now, exclusively reserved for him to experience.
“Marijuana has a positive influence on sexual pleasure.” Cas casually says, pushing his hand under Dean’s t-shirt, thumb brushes over his nipple; Dean catches his forearm with his fingers, hard enough to obstruct the blood flow.
“Mhh, talk dirty to me and I’ll crush your skull between my legs.” Dean pants, surprised to hear his voice.
“That’s a promise or a threat?” Cas goes on, quick fingers on his chest never stopping, distracting Dean’s mind, as he speaks.
But what Castiel doesn’t know, is that Dean actually finds it extremely hard not to do it; close his legs around Cas’s head, pull him even closer, feel him more, and more, until it’s physically impossible to bear. But for sake of his own future shame, because Cas seemed to never develop that feeling, Dean strains his will, to hold back.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Dean breathes out, feeling the tip of Cas’s tongue pushing against his cock’s slit. He digs his heels harder between Cas’s shoulderblades, when he pulls back. “Don’t stop.”
Obediently, Cas goes back to torturing his cock, yet against Dean’s whine, retrieves his hand from under his t-shirt, leaving his nipple mostly numb. Scraping nails over his ribs, belly, Cas slides them down his body, hips, outline of his erection, then even lower.
An intense wave of hot, new, but familiar pleasure rips through his lower abdomen, deep inside of him, before he even knew what caused that. Taking a shaky breath, Dean locates with difficulty the origin, which turns out to be Cas’s thumb, pressing firmly on his perineum. Moaning softly, he rolls his hips, chasing more pressure. Suddenly, he recognises the pleasant heat inside him; Cas tried, and fortunately, succeeded, to massage his prostate from the outside. That’s the itch, he’s been trying to scratch by himself, never fully satisfied.
“C’mon.” Dean murmurs. He reaches down his hand and threads his fingers through Cas’s hair, and pulls him closer gently, waiting for his reaction. Yeah, maybe he’s chasing the orgasm now, or rather the orgasm is chasing his mind, but it’s still Cas. Putting aside crazy orgies he had and probability he went through more kinks Dean ever thought there even was, he’s still his best friend. He can show him some respect. Oh fuck his mind; apparently it’s not the time to deliberate the ethics of fucking with a friend.
To his not big surprise, Castiel moans, pushing his head into Dean’s palm. Sure, he can do that.
Grabbing a handful of Cas’s hair, Dean pulls him closer, almost humping on his tongue. Oh, he’s close, he knows it; nerves stretched inside his body like strings, vibrating with pleasure whenever Cas decides to play them. He’s going to fucking die on that table tonight.
There is a single moment of clarity when Dean knows it coming, and it’s too late to stop it. Moving in strange synchronicity, he focuses on that though, not feeling the need to resist. Thumb on his perineum pushing orgasm out of him, ripping all the nerve-strings inside, all at once, almost blacking him out from the intensity.
It’s almost like an out of body experience; Dean can hear himself mumbling, his voice rough and breaking with every syllable, pleasure so goddamn real and substantial, and even fucking carnal at this point. If it wasn’t him right now, he would have thought, it’s a rather vivid, fever dream, but that's probably another side effect of marijuana.
Just when the overstimulation becomes painful, he lets go of Cas’s hair, making incoherent, pathetic noise, which thankfully, Cas understands. He kisses his hip once last time, before he leans back, giving Dean space to settle down his mind and wait for his thumping heart to slow.
Laying on the table, mostly alive, Dean thinks vaguely that Cas was right; now, when the adrenaline slowly wears off, cool air prickles his heated in arousal skin. “Fuck, that was almost poetic.” He mutters, basking in the afterglow, still feeling high, drunken on both it and weed.
“You were mumbling the short version of my name.” Castiel wonders, chair creaking under his weight. There is a short break, filled with a sound of him taking a considerable drag from his joint. “How poetic that could be?”
“Nah, no this- nevermind.” Dean closes his eyes, drifting away.
For a couple of minutes, filled with a smell of marijuana and even comfortable silence, which felt like forever, he lies down on the table calmly considering that some part of him indeed died with the orgasm. It was good, it was really good. He will miss it, and that’s the second certainty in his life, apart from death. That’s the fucking poetry he’s been referring to.
“Enjoying the view?” Dean slightly lifts up his head, just enough to get a clear sight of Cas between his legs.
“Very much.” He answers, before exhaling another weed smoke. That brings up the thought that his drug tolerance must be as high as Dean’s for alcohol. Why did he just think about it? “Was it good?”
Was it good? It was mind-fucking-blowing, if he has to be honest. So intense, and Cas didn’t even undress him properly. That’s either another side effect, or, but that’s more intimidating, Cas is actually that good. “I’ll tell you after you suck my dick unclothed.” Dean smiles lazily, arousal still coiling down his spine; it’s his turn.
Without hurry, Dean gets up to his elbows, then straightens his body up and tries to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of his come soaking through already damp boxer briefs. “Um, sorry.” He says, seeing single strands of dark hair, tangled around his fingers.
“No need for an apology.” Cas offers, thoughtfully. “It was yours to take.”
Dean hums and takes a joint from Cas’s fingers, drags, then leaves it on the flipped whiskey glass, where it laid before. With something far from elegance, he pushes himself off the table, and under the curious look of blue eyes, he slides down to his knees, settling between Cas’s legs.
And Castiel doesn’t stop him; he watches him, as Dean carefully, but with strange determination, searches for his belt. “Have you ever done this before?” He asks, cradling the side of his face, fingertips carefully threading through his hairline.
“No” Slips out, and Dean’s sure weed did something to his honesty, because he never planned to discuss that. Or maybe it's an erection at his eye-level?
Something, he can’t picture yet, shifted in Cas’s expression. Or maybe he’s hallucinating. “I assume you lied to me the first time as well?”
“Yes” Dean answers, this time certain, Cas’s expression somehow changed. It’s not pity, but dangerously close, blending. He gently pushed his hands off his belt, leaving Dean just to sit on his heels, between his legs and look at him.
Silence falls between them; it’s not a moment of clarity, certainly not sudden sobriety, when he realises that Castiel likes to watch him. Why? He has no idea, but his brain, filled with alcohol and marijuana, suggests that maybe apart from having a pretty face, looking at him is purely an egoistic way of feeling contentment, a memory of raising him from perdition. Though, if not Dean, Cas would still be an angel, oblivious to all the pain and probably they would win the apocalypse.
“Cas” Dean breathes out. Tentatively, he puts his hand on the back of Cas’s calf, the other one on his knee. “Do you want me to…” He trails off, because he will do anything. He swallows. “I could, I could-”
“I want to fuck you.” Castiel breaks in, seeming almost surprised with his own words. Looks like not only Dean’s self-control got impaired from weed and hedonism.
“Do whatever you want.” He raises up at his knees, eager.
“No,” Cas says incredulously and blinks twice. “No, I’m not giving you this, another reason to hate me.” Shit, maybe he’s more sober than he thought.
“Cas” He tries to oppose.
“No, you’re not sober enough, I’m not nearly as high I should be for this”
“Shut up!” Castiel falls silent with an audible click of his teeth. “I’m probably gonna regret it either way, even more if we don’t-” He pants. “You have no idea, fuck, the last time I said no, I was, I was thinking about it, I-” Dean abruptly stops.
“Dean?” He can’t decide if Cas’s expression shifted to sheer terror or just curiosity.
“I got laid.” Dean spits out. “I fucked that guy we were, we met-”
“Wichita?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know you’re versatile." Cas says after a few seconds of complete silence. Dean laughs weakly at his words; he technically just came out, and that’s his reaction?
“I’m not.” Dean emphasizes the last word. He lets go of Cas’s calf, only now realizing he’s been holding onto it like his life depends on it. “C’mon.” Dean catches his belt again, this time to actually unbuckle it. “Since when you decline any sex offers?”
“I don’t” Castiel blinks. And as if he just realised what Dean was asking for, he stands, pulling him up with him. “Bed” He rasps, crowding his hands around Dean’s ass, fingers digging into its muscles.
“I don’t have one.” He responds unfocused, fighting with Cas’s thigh holster.
“Still?” Castiel sights into his neck, sending sparks down to his abdomen. Again? Dean doesn’t have time to deliberate whether his dick will wake up or not, because swearing, Cas turns him around and pushes on the table, which successfully shuts him up.
A short moment filled with anticipation and sounds of Cas wriggling out of his coat ends when he slams a bottle of lube and condom on the table. Yes, yes, yes.
“You always have a full arsenal on you?” Dean breaths out, tiling his head back, enough to see a glimpse of Cas’s bare forearm.
“Yes. Why not?” Of course. It’s not like Cas ever cared about what others think of him, because unlike Dean, he could go on with any label. He trails his fingers down Dean’s spine. “Are you sure?”
“Mhm” Dean hums, pushing his hips back to meet with Cas’s groin. Lube disappears from his peripheral vision; another knot of arousal ties inside him, hearing the click of the bottle cap. He’s glad, that’s the thought his mind decided to stick with. He’ll probably spend next morning thinking about how terribly things must have gone, that he almost begs for dick in his ass, but since it’t not the time nor place to do so-
Cas catches the elastic and pulls his boxer briefs down, exposing his prickling with anticipation skin. One, two squirts later, and he’s being slicked up with lube, from back bone to perineum, to stop on his rim. “Tell me when it's too much” Cas orders and without waiting for Dean's response, he pushes the first finger inside him.
“Fu- fuck” Dean mumbles against his hand, back arching. He tries to push back, but Cas’s palm lands immediately on his hip, keeping him still.
Ignoring pressure building in his abdomen, caused by the unmistakable direction of blood flow, he tries to relax his muscles clenched around Cas’s finger. It’s hard though, not to do the opposite, to feel that pleasant, slightly burning stretch. Because Castiel with only one finger can do much, much more than Dean with his three.
“Breath out” Cas directs, and as Dean does that, he pushes another digit in him.
Moaning obscenely loud, he scrapes the wooden surface of the table. That might have been just a little too fast, but felt too good. Cas waits a few seconds, before he starts to move his fingers again, to methodically open him up. His whole body begins to tremble, and maybe, maybe he should beg for getting fucked in the first place?
It’s strangely difficult, not to roll his hips back for more pressure, find his freaking male g-spot, get more friction. Difficult, and Cas clearly took a great effort to make it even harder for him.
By the third finger, Dean feels sweat gathering down his spine, t-shirt sticking to his skin, drops collecting on his forehead and under his nose. Cupid’s bow. What the fuck?
He whimpers, when Cas finally rotates his hand, brushes over that one spot inside him, making his legs tremble. “There” Dean mutters through gritted teeth.
All nerves, like strings, cobwebs of links, tied together inside of him, sending sparks to every possible part of his body, causing random shivers and goosebumps. It’s already beginning to be too much; the stretch, fingertips caressing, torturing, his prostate, and the fact it’s Cas and no one else. He’s going to die on that table once again. And probably start to resent this unlucky piece of furniture tomorrow morning through the briefing, as the memories will start to circling back to his mind. He moans again, focusing on Cas’s hand, spreading him open.
It’s impossible to grasp at reality, especially when Cas works his fingers in and out, even deeper with every time, rotates them and oh, oh fuck. Dean almost cries, because Cas, cruel son of a bitch put his thumb in his perineum, apparently deciding to stimulate his prostate from every god-damned angle possible.
Dean feels the material of his t-shirt slide up and Cas’s palm smooths over his heated skin. “You have no idea.” Cas murmurs. And he’s right, because in this place and this time, Dean can’t possibly imagine what Cas sees, moreover thinks.
Long fingers work him open with an effort to make him feel as good as it’s possible, with such strange care under every ruthless brush over his prostate. So many shattered pieces, that are mending into one, vague impression of how he must look right now, bend over the table, completely give up to Cas’s mercy. A single moan rips out of his throat at the thought alone.
The one thing he’s certain about, is that Cas is sexually attracted to him. That’s something he told Dean before they formed Chitaqua, after he had fallen. And that’s the only reason they don’t share a cabin. Provided that knowledge, Dean doesn’t want the jigsaw to fall in place.
One last push, brush over that sweet spot inside him, before Cas slips his fingers out, leaving him uncomfortably empty. Dean jerks his hips back absently, mourning the feeling of being filled up.
“Cas, please.” Dean mumbles against the hard surface of the table. In the corner of his eye, the condom laying beside his head disappears from his sight. “Please.”
Hazily, he hears the zipper of Cas’s jeans being pulled down, the package being ripped open, the lube, Cas slicking himself up. He’s going fucking insane again. “Breathe, Dean.”
“I'm trying.” He retorts and almost whines, feeling Cas’s dick prodding him, sliding up and down, circling around his rim, smudging the lube over his skin. “C’mon it’s your turn to take.”
Still teasing him, Cas threads fingers though his hair, tips brushing over his scalp. “Is this okay?” Dean hums in acknowledgment and Cas closes his fist, jerking his head back. Yes, yes, yes.
At an almost cruel pace, Cas pushes past his rim, slowly filling him up. “Oh god.” Dean mutters, feeling his eyes fall back, as Cas stretches him open. His legs tremble again, shivers are traveling down his spine and by the time Cas is fully in him, he’s painfully hard.
And when Cas bottoms out again, Dean almost laughs in relief; he’s grateful for the weed, because he doesn’t overthink anything for once, and fuck, he missed that feeling. Sober, he would never admit that, not even to himself. But now, he will experience once again what Cas learned from his fall.
Taking his time, Cas starts just by rolling his hips, enough for Dean to feel the hot pressure building in his abdomen, as intense as if he hasn’t already come once. “Please.” He hisses and sucks in a breath, when Cas kicks his leg, spreading his thighs even wider, head of his cock hitting his prostate. Like a lightbulb, adrenaline waves over him, lightning up every nerve ending. “C’mon, Cas, fuck me, just -”
Dean chokes on air and his own words, feeling Cas finally speed up, pulling out and thrusting back again, not missing his prostate for once. Moaning loud and fucking desperate, Dean digs fingers into a wooden surface under his face, trying to hold onto it, while getting his mind fucked away.
The first time, he heard words in his mind, shaping the poetry, now, those words can’t shape into anything coherent, coming too fast, like an avalanche, impossible to stop.
Shutting his eyes hard enough to see stars dancing in a sheer darkness in front of him, Dean moans helplessly; he’s fucking exhausted. Cas’s stamina is something else, maybe it’s the angel thing, not entirely human, but he’s ramming into him endlessly, bending reality and his consciousness.
“M’close.” Dean mutters, scraping the bare wood under his cheek.
“Again?” Dean mutters something fuck off alike, but Cas slides his hand off his hip to catch his cock, hard as if he didn’t come once already. He squeezes him lightly, but that’s more than enough to draw another whine. “Then come for me, Dean.”
Castiel jerks his head up, making his body bend, back arches a little more, and fuck, he’s hitting that spot again. Dean digs his fingernails into the hard surface of the table, which probably will leave visible scratches, but now, he’s rather occupied. Another broken sound escapes his mouth when Cas starts to circle his thumb around the tip of his cock. Wet, almost gross sounds, throbbing pulse, shivers through his body from sensory overload, and velocity, fucking velocity almost unbearable, on the edge of being physically impossible to take.
Dean vaguely thinks it's possible that Cas just discovered a new form of vertigo caused by angry sex, when he chokes on his own breath, coming for the second time this night. A hot wave of pleasure, surprisingly even more intense than the first time, washes over his body. His knees buckle under his weight, too fucking tired to hold his convulsing in orgasm body.
“Shit.” Cas mutters, leaving his head, that falls limply on the table, to put his palm on his stomach, the other one on his hip, and hold him up. “Did you faint?” He asks, slowing noticeably.
“Almost” Dean mutters against the hard wood. Barely conscious, he lays his cheek on his hand, and with definitely too much effort, he pushes back on Cas. “Don’t stop.”
Three seconds later, he feels Cas speeds up again, just this time doesn’t go to the almost impossible, frantic pace. Another word Dean hasn’t really known before - overstimulation. Everything around him seems to blur in one, surprisingly colorful background noise and that shouldn’t even make sense. He feels extremely raw down there, every muscle in his legs is burning with effort not to give in, body shivering and just now, Dean realises, he’s been making pathetic little sounds as Cas pushes in. Somebody, most likely the man whos fucking him right now, told him that realese of endorphins during orgasm feels similar to taking heroin. He never took that shit and doesn’t plan to, but hell, the high must be awesome.
Vaguely, Dean feels Cas’s falling off his rhythm; hand on his hip gripping deep into his flesh, before he abruptly stops. Short spasm of his body and hot breath against Dean’s back, followed by low, raspy groan, bring end to the endless fucking.
“Your fucking stamina.” Dean mutters, interrupting the silence. Oh, he’s more exhausted than he thought; if not for the hot body pressing him to the table, he would probably be laying unconscious on the floor.
“It’s not my stamina.” Cas sighs to his back and Dean can feel him swallow. “All of my existence I was deprived of that. And surprisingly, reaching an orgasm is more psychological than I thought.”
“You don’t know how to come?”
“Dean, I didn’t know how to urinate.”
“Uh, awkward.” Dean answers, distracted. For a second he mourns the emptiness when Cas pulls back. “M’sorry.” Hazily, he’s aware of movements around him, but extremely tough to think.
Dean feels his underwear being pulled up, but completely misses the moment Cas apparently cleaned him. Sure, he won’t complain. Then he’s on the couch. When? He couldn’t care less about it now. Laughing in face of his hunter nature, that has been carved into his body and mind, but rejected for physical pleasure-
“Dean.” He just realise Cas been talking to him. Oh. “You need to drink some water. Then you should sleep.” He was supposed to do something else.
“No, I have to, tomorrow I have a briefing-”
“Drink the water, Dean.” Cas is pushing a glass into his hands. “I’ll do your work.”
Dean must have made a strange or surprised face, because Cas inhaled sharply, visibly trying to choke something back. “You really think I don’t give a fuck?” Instead of giving him a simple answer, because there isn’t one, Dean just drops his gaze and takes a drink. Everything’s still a fucking backgroud noise, except a man staiyng in front of him, and those intense blue eyes.
Finishing his water, he doesn’t look up at Cas and when he’s finished, he weakly extends his hand. Hazily, he starts to feel pain in his ass, though that might be an exaggeration. Tingling is a much better adjective. Cas takes the glass, but hesitates for a moment.
“I do care, if you must know.” He says, oddly quiet. It might be the moment a very, weird ass post-nut clarity kicks in, because Dean suddenly feels those words. “I may not be human, but I care.” And he believes him.
Gently, he’s being pushed back, to fall on the coach. Lying there, he hazily sees Cas’s silhouette in the dim light, reorganising something on the table, before he sits on Dean’s chair. Cas fucked him into the oblivion. That feels good, too good to be real.
Exhaustion flows deep in his bones, crawling up his body, as he sinks into a dream.
That felt good, because he wasn’t sober.