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The motel they’re staying in turns out to be rickety and clearly could have used a paint job a few years ago. Vines scratch at the house’s foundation, though they’ve gone brown and shriveled with fall’s arrival. It’s cold inside – Sam packed two hoodies, and he keeps offering one to Dean, who keeps refusing out of pride only – and on a hill so isolated from almost anything else, and Dean’s pretty sure anybody besides them would call it creepy.
It’s awesome. They stayed in shitty motels for years, shitty and samey. This has character! Dean always thought that counted for a lot.
“This is great,” he tells Sam, grinning all the way, when they walk through the hallways on the way to their rooms. A gust of wind blows in from the window at the end of the hall; the glass and hinges rattle, and Dean thinks he’ll hear it all night in his room.
This has gotta be the best motel they’ve stayed at in years.
Both Dean and Cas crawl into bed in sweatpants. Dean lent his to Cas a few weeks back, and he has yet to get them back. They’re starting to fray by Castiel’s feet because he doesn’t give a shit about rolling them up, and they drape off his (pretty awesome) ass, but Dean appreciates them more than he ever did on himself.
“How did I do?” Cas asks into Dean’s neck.
“Hmm?” It was a long day, way too many interviews and research, and Dean’s already half-asleep.
“With the interviews.”
Cas is – well, he’s graduated past the stage where he was holding his badge upside-down, but he ain’t a natural. He stares a lot, while he hangs back and waits for Sam and Dean to ask the questions. In most of the interviews, his interaction with the people being interviewed is them casting vaguely worried glances in his direction every now and then.
“Good, yeah,” Dean says, hoping the tiredness in his voice covers up the hesitation in it. “Great.”
The uneasiness in his chest ebbs away, bit by bit, when he feels the shock of Castiel’s hands there, cold, going warm the longer they’re there. There are still nightmares and dark pockets that gnaw at him, but sleep comes easier to him these days.
Five-thirty AM isn’t an hour Dean used to see very often from either side, but the numbers on the digital clock glow 5:34 when he wakes up. It’s gray outside, and biting cold in the room.
“I’m up too,” Cas grumbles from behind him, and Dean totally doesn’t jump a little bit. The guy still manages to sneak up on him when they’re in the same bed. Cas has always driven him too crazy, been too dangerous, but Dean could never stay away if he tried. He was the one who kept telling him come back, come back, stay with me, in actions if not in words.
Not that he minds. “Yeah,” Dean says, exhaling and rubbing backwards. Even through two thick layers of cloth, he feels the line of Castiel’s half-erection. Life’s gotten so much better – pretty fucking incredible – ever since they decided to stop ignoring each other every morning to go jerk off in the shower. “You are.”
“You’re terrible.” His voice is syrup-slow in the mornings, every syllable stretched, and it only makes him more appealing. Dean’s happy sex pushes both of them to the place where they can only communicate through half-gasps and grappling or clasped hands, because Cas talking with that voice when they’re cock on cock would be game over, man.
“Nah.” Dean turns around so that he’s facing Cas and grins, mostly teeth, but it’s genuine and warm and he feels it crinkling the corners of his eyes and his mouth alike. “G’morning.”
“Yes,” Cas says, as he slots his thigh in between Dean’s. It’s easy to shiver when it’s this cold and every move Cas makes is so warm, so solid in this bed and in between his legs, that it shocks him. “Very good.”
Cas starting to understand double entendres is entirely terrifying.
Dean rides their thighs together. By now, he’s getting used to the motions of it, the way hardness feels on hardness, only every time the angle changes or Cas’ wet cockhead bumps his own and they both shudder a breath out between them, it’s brand new, and not just because he’s not used to waking up with another guy. Not used to waking up with anyone, these past few years, but Cas is real and hasn’t left whether he’s nestled against his back or front.
They do something that resembles kissing, but their version is sloppy and off the mark, like they have to take the fact that they stayed so far away so carefully for so long and explode it until they’re everywhere, all over each other. Dean’s lips burn from Castiel’s ever-present stubble, going puffed up big and pinker than usual, and he loves it.
But it doesn’t stop him from sliding down, nuzzling those thighs of Cas, his teeth in the skin just above and below his bellybutton. Cas bites his own lip, fierce and not shy, and it makes Dean woozy and warms his cheeks just looking at it.
“Can I try this?” Dean asks.
“Yeah.” It’s not Castiel’s usual clipped, composed yes. Dean’s heard him say yeah before, but not like this, not where the words zig-zag right to his belly and fill him up on them alone.
Dean never did this much. When he was practically still a kid – even if he never really was – big burly bikers used to whistle at him, or toss out words that stuck to him like so many darts. Shit like that was what made him ignore the real, piercing looks from other men for years. Even after he accepted that about himself, even after he started looking back and touching back in seedy bar bathrooms while he tried to breathe normally, not like there was much opportunity anyway with Sam and Dad almost always around. Yeah, he knows what it’s like to sink to your knees on tile (hurts like a bitch), but messy handjobs had always been easier; this is still almost new.
He goes slow, then, hands lightly on Castiel’s hips so they doesn’t thrust forward too quickly. His dick is fat and long, so much that Dean grunts as he tries to fit his mouth around it.
It takes Castiel’s hands a frighteningly short amount of time to land in Dean’s hair, but he doesn’t tug, he isn’t rough. (Thinking about saying it out loud twists Dean’s stomach into knots that any evil bloodsucker never could, but he wouldn’t mind it if Cas was.) His fingers stay there, another warm reminder against Dean’s scalp, gone still but firm. They twitch when Dean runs his tongue down a vein or slides up until he takes almost all of Cas inside his mouth.
Dean lets his eyes move up then, too, until he can see Cas. Half the fun of going down on people has always been watching them shake apart, feeling it in his teeth and on his tongue through the next day, and with Cas it’s a fucking smorgasbord. His eyes keep moving between fluttering shut and staring right back down at Dean, so wide. He’s got messy hair and his skin is blotched red, while his throat and chest shove concave and convex. Dude’s wrecked.
All of him is so close to breaking, and Dean wants it so bad he tastes it through the salt and spit in his mouth.
“C’mon, Cas,” Dean says, then ducks in to lick across the head. Not that he needs any help getting wetter right now; the sharp burst of it is obvious. At some point his hands slipped down from Castiel’s hips to his butt, so close to the cleft in his ass, but they haven’t done anything like that yet and Dean’s happy to wait. Dean would laugh over that, because patient is the last word to describe either him or Cas, if he didn’t have a dick in his mouth.
Cas shudders out his name, fingers spearing his hair harder. He doesn’t say anything else before he’s gushing hot and so much into Dean’s mouth, enough of it so that Dean has to pull off. It streaks across his cheek and chin and drools slow and wet onto his neck, and Dean can’t even pretend to mind at the moment.
While Cas lolls back onto the sheets, hands moving off Dean’s head to flop onto the pillow behind his head – he looks so fucking long and good like that, his lines stark against the sheets, the spurs of his hipbones and the thickness of his thighs sticking out – Dean slides up his body, lips and tongue following his hands.
“Do you need help with that,” Cas half-asks, half-gasps, moving his thigh in just the slightest bit until it rubs against Dean’s cock, stiff and leaking and too ignored until now. Fucker doesn’t even bother to open his eyes, though.
“Wouldn’t say no if you’re offering.” Dean grins as Cas finally bothers to open his eyes; they go comically wide when he sees the mess on Dean’s cheeks.
It’s Dean’s turn to shut his eyes when he feels Cas grope downward, trailing his thick fingers along the inside of his still-clothed thighs and over the slight bulge of his belly. He’s still warm, edging toward hot now, like his orgasm cranked up the furnace inside him.
Dean feels fingers at his face, too, and his damn instinct for touch means he leans into the warm flex of them against his face just in time for them to slide away. He opens his eyes again just in time to see Cas’ fingers, coated in his own come, and – oh.
Oh. Dean feels the warmth and slickness of it around his dick, enough of it to drip off, and the noises he’s making are suddenly torn from his mouth, chest, gut. It’s raw and filthy – figures, Cas probably has no boundaries at all when it comes to that kind of thing, and that only blitzes another wave of heat through him – and so right he wants to gobble it up.
“You got some imagination,” Dean shoves out, eyes tracking the movement of Castiel’s wet fist. Cas only fucking smirks in response to that, the jackass, even if his heavy breath betrays his composure.
They kiss then, because Dean can’t not duck his head and suck on Castiel’s tongue, nibble his lips until Cas goes harder, faster, all that concentration poured right into Dean’s cock and mouth alone. It’s terrifying, but somewhere along the way, he got really lucky.
Dean groans when he comes, loud enough that he’s worried he’s going to rattle the foundations of the motel. He’s never been loud in bed, too concentrated on the other person to let it out, but he’s getting there. He feels like he’s going to get there, like he has time now, and opportunity.
Must be the orgasm making him think all kinds of crazy shit. Cas holds his fingers up to Dean’s mouth, even slicker with both of them now, and grunts in satisfaction when Dean’s mouth automatically opens to suck them down, tongue swirling around every little ridge on his fingers.
“That was awesome,” Dean gasps, breath still ragged, when Cas pulls his fingers away from his lips.
“Yeah,” is all Cas, for all his self-control, can get out. Dean falls asleep again promptly, way too much of a grin on his face at the sound of that yeah on Castiel’s lips, all rough and thick like the fog in the morning, stretching as far as they can see, beautiful in its way.
They wake up again at the much more reasonable hour of seven. Dean feels awfully gross and sticky, the sides of his mouth gone tacky with – with the fact that he’s got jizz, Castiel’s and his own, smeared all over it, yeah. The bathroom in the motel is cramped and the water pressure sucks. Funny what he’s gotten used to.
“Get up, sleepyhead,” Dean calls out to the mop of dark hair he can see poking out from under the blanket when he gets back in the main room. “Long day ahead of us.” He gets a grumble in return, but Cas sits up soon after. The guy will never stop looking like the threat of smiting is super-imminent, his eyes that same terrifying placid blue, even with his hair in chaos and pillowcase creases smooshing his cheek.
A couple of days ago, they’d gone to get some new interview clothes; their old ones were starting to wear out and they’d never fit great to begin with. It had been a long trek through several stores, featuring a lot of glaring by Cas, Dean trying on half of what the stores had in stock, and at least two Macklemore references by Sam. (Neither Dean nor Castiel understood them. The comments about wearing “grandad’s clothes” did not go over well.)
In the end, though, they’d come up with some pretty sweet threads. Dean’s grin is wild and he knows it as he slips them on while Cas takes his turn in the shower; the only thing that sucks at the moment is that he didn’t think to go in there together. He smoothes down his new suspenders and pulls on thick black corduroys. When he was a punk-ass kid in high school, he used to make fun of the kids who wore corduroys every day – nerds, rich kids, all he knew was that they weren’t him – and now he’s practically gonna buzz out of them he’s so happy when he buttons up the fly.
And then Cas comes out of the bathroom fully dressed.
Cas, who hadn’t tried on anything in the store so Dean hadn’t seen, looking delectable in navy slacks and a fucking sweatervest and pulling on the glasses Dean had tossed at him when he picked out the sweatervest. Might as well go for the full-on dork effect, right? Only, well, the final effect on Dean isn’t so much thinking that Cas looks like a dork. Not at all.
“This is alright,” Cas says, but there’s already a small smile on his face. Dean can only answer him by bringing their lips together, their tongues, even their hands until their palms kiss too. The rim of Castiel’s glasses digs into his face and when he dislodges one of his hands long enough to slide down to Castiel’s waist, the fabric scratches his rough palm, and it’s awesome.
They all but crash back onto the bed, getting swallowed up in the sheets and the chill of the air, and Dean sucks in every breath he can from in between Castiel’s lips. Sometimes it’s from Castiel’s mouth and that’s even better. The two of them can’t stop running their hands along their clothes. Dean knows what it’s like to explore someone, but it’s only been with Cas that they’ve spent whole hours doing nothing more than sliding hands all over each other, somehow aching and longing even when they’re pressed forehead to forehead.
Cas’ glasses are actually fogged up when they pull back, and all Dean can think is that if there was suddenly an outcry for gay librarian porn, he’d totally get it now.
“We’ve got a case,” Cas says, so abrupt that Dean laughs, even when Castiel’s fingers slip under his suspenders to run up and down. He’s so slow with it, like he’s trying to catalogue every fiber. Dean still isn’t used to being pinned under Cas’ endlessly blue gaze, itchy and straining toward him even when he’s right there.
“Yeah,” is all Dean can respond with, letting Cas hook his fingers and pull him up and off the bed. “Damn,” he says to Castiel’s surprised face at that. “You working out when I’m not there, Cas?”
“No, only running.” Cas pauses. “It might make me stronger. Maybe I should.”
“Think you got that covered.” Dean grins, rubbing his hands over Castiel’s biceps. So much of him is corded muscle, easy lines Dean thought about but could never touch.
Cas has kind of a weird look on his face, but Dean forgets about it on his way out the door. He’s gotta meet Sam, there’s a huge greasy breakfast waiting at a diner for all of them, and then there’s some nasties to gank – before they can come back to the motel to tumble together again. Gonna be a great day.
The beach is all but empty, just the three of them walking across it, way out of place in their new clothes. The perfect white sand scratches up their shoes. An umbrella pokes out of the white sand in the distance, but it’s drooped sadly on the ground.
“When’s the last time we were on the beach?” Sam asks, laughing.
Dean remembers a couple of times when they got dragged along on cases in coast towns just like this one, the air stinking of salt and dead seaweed. They’d stuff themselves with taffy until they had to do target practice after Dad had finished his salt-and-burn; he’d yell at them about getting out of shape if they missed.
Of course the next time they ended up on a beach, the day was dreary with swollen clouds, and both him and Sam had been to Hell and back, and he was with his – the guy he was currently sleeping with, who happens to be a fallen angel. It’d be stranger if things weren’t that weird.
He rolls his fingers over the pearl in his pocket. They’ve been meeting with local folks for a few days now, to little avail. The best information they got was from an old woman who practically got into a staring contest with an otherwise silent Cas. Fuckin’ creepy. “Beaches are long-abandoned,” she’d told them. “No one stays on there too long in this weather. And there are stories.”
“Stories?” Dean had asked.
“Old wives’ tales that things came out of the water at night. Looking for something.”
Yeah, that’d be enough. “Thanks,” Dean had said, glad that Cas all but wrenched his stare away from the woman and he didn’t have to drag him out of the room.
Dean laughs, and reaches down into the water to flick it at Sam’s ridiculous hair. He leaps away, but he’s laughing too. “Years, I think,” he says. “Way more hot chicks at those beaches, too. Cas, you ever go to the beach?”
“When I was searching for God,” Cas responds, looking as glum as the clouds. Shit. “My footprints were often the only ones that had ever crossed those beaches. They’re still out there, somewhere.”
Dean wants to grin and tell him that the Impala could get him anywhere, but there are things he can never do for Cas. Hell, most of the time he feels like all he’s got for the guy is a nothing-but-human body he can wrap himself around until it’s time for him to leave again.
“Man –” he starts to say, instead, not sure what words to use exactly, but he’s gotta do something, when the beach – it rumbles. The skies have gone from gray and dreary to thick, angry-looking V-shapes arcing through the sky above their heads.
He puts a hand in his pocket. The pearl’s gone.