This is set in season 6, I guess not too long after "Caged Heat." This has a lot of sexual content and a lot of foul language. I haven't written too much smut in a long time so this won't be what it could have been in better hands.

I own nothing on Supernatural. It's just a work of fiction.

xxxxx

Today had been a really, really shitty day. Yeah, that nest of vamps had had it worse, but they were too busy being dust bunnies to vent their angst. Dean was still around, and still seriously pissed off.

Oh, it had been fun for the brother formerly known as Sam Winchester - he'd been able to kill and taunt and have a big, sick grin on his face that was currently making Dean down quite a few shots in an attempt to forget. Bobby had immediately known to get Sam the fuck away from Dean before Dean put Sam in traction "for his own good" - and no matter how bad-ass Sam thought he was now that little things like a conscience had been dumped in the trash, Dean could still do it.

Dean had enjoyed hunts since before he could drive, before he could shave, before he could find his dad's stash of porn magazines. He loved the thrill of the chase, he loved the fight, he loved the moment of the kill. Morality, a life is a life, this used to be a person sometime in 1958 and how dare you...Dean didn't want to hear it. The sensation had never been quite the same after he'd been sent to Hell and had seen the true horrors of torture and begging for a death that never came, but it still got him through most days.

He didn't think he could ever find a home in even those sensations again after today, not after his no-soul bro had practically bathed in the blood of the undead, the screams of eternal blackness. Not after Sam had looked so...content at the mindless violence and agony.

Dean downed his last shot fast enough to make his head spin and spin and spin, allowing himself to have this last simple pleasure before Bobby called to say hey idjit, Sam needs a new liver, Sam stole another of your vices like he used to steal your last five bucks.

After trying to toss his money at the bartender like a boss, knowing he probably looked more like Richie Rich gone slumming, Dean staggered into the cool night air, taking a deep breath. He couldn't really walk, but it was a close approximation.

What happened next was an accident. It was not a fucking cry for help. It was not an unconscious manifestation of self-loathing, or whatever other gibberish he used to skim in Sam's old headshrinker books. He was drunk off his ass. He didn't see the truck barreling toward him. He didn't hear the horn. He might have sensed Lucifer cheering and cartwheeling at the thought of their reunion, but that was about it.

All he could remember was two very familiar fingers pressing into his forehead, and a momentary blackness.

xxxx

Dean staggered backwards against the cheap carpet in his least favorite dive. He was back in his hotel room, his stomach lurching from the terrors of teleportation. He was incredibly angry and irritated and felt judged and weak and didn't care about pushing any of that down like he had to do every single day.

"I told you not to zap me!" he half-shouted, half-spat at Castiel, still too blitzed to completely focus on the angel studying him, arms crossed like he'd just genied out of a bottle.

He had sort of expected Cas to shoot him a glare, or a wounded look, or maybe even sigh in exasperation at the stupid human.

Shove to wall, elbow to throat - not quite what he'd had in mind.

"I. SAVED. YOUR. LIFE." Castiel intoned, every syllable quaking with the power of the Lord, each word accompanied by a steady thumping of Dean's head against the wall. "Show. Gratitude." More thumps.

That impossibly furious stare and unbelievably warm, heavy breathing sent a jolt through Dean's body, thoroughly dismantling him in ways he never quite understood, and never hated as much as he thought he should.

"Uh...thanks for sobering me up," Dean muttered, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Cas wasn't laughing, and he wasn't moving. He still clung to Dean's throat, just enough to hold him in place, as if he had no idea what Dean would do to himself if he were free.

"Do you think I should be amused at your death wish, Dean? Do you know how lucky you are that I was there?"

That I'm always there was left unspoken.

The urge to dig deep coursed through Dean, to hurt Cas, knowing Cas was the easiest target of everyone who looked down on him, cause Cas didn't really look down on him, Cas cared, Cas somehow still cared, hadn't given up on Dean the way everyone with half a brain in their head had done. He could break Cas, easy. Truth was he was pretty sure he already had.

He screwed his eyes shut, flashing back to a particularly bitter argument with soul-free Sam.

"He's your goddamn puppy. You make him feel like shit for licking your face and chasing your leg, but he'd better never wag his tail at anyone else."

It had felt like a sucker-punch, probably because Dean had immediately known just how true it was.

As he choked the memories away, he remembered he was speaking to his friend, his savior, his truth.

"I...It's Sammy. He's gone, and I hate it more every day. I hate that...that...corpse more every damn day. I got hammered cause that's all I could do. I'm sorry, Cas."

Cas' features softened, as they always did when Dean showed his underbelly. He let Dean go, let him take in a sharp breath, stop the carousel in his head.

"I wish I could share more of your burden. I wish I were not so preoccupied with my own battles."

Now Dean felt like shit, even more than usual. He only knew sketches of what Cas was going through, and was almost grateful Cas kept them in the dark. He wanted to be there for Cas, but he had so much else going on, and he was afraid. Afraid of the war in Heaven, afraid of what he became when he was too close to Cas. He was afraid of seeing, of knowing Castiel the warrior, the destroyer. It was easier this way, when they were separated, had their own baggage to carry.

Or it was supposed to be, anyway.

Now they were back to the awkward stares. When Cas had first shown up, they'd studied each other because they had no idea what to say, how to react. They spoke different languages. Now, the stares were to avoid the increasingly clear knowledge that their language was one.

"I'm here for ya, Cas," Dean grunted, looking for a way out of those eyes.

Alcohol still clouded his mind enough to help him decide what to do. Angels were all up in foreheads, so instead of using the magic fingers (Dean coughed a little at the resulting mental image), he could just kiss Cas on the forehead. You usually don't kiss your buddies on the forehead, unless it's a drinking game, but Cas wasn't the typical buddy anyway. He'd get it.

"Dean?"

Dean chose to ignore that, and ignore the low rumble in him at the strange pleading in that word.

Dean tripped forward. Before either man had time to react, Dean pressed his lips to Cas' forehead, letting them linger just a fraction of a second too long. He'd never been this close. He'd leaned in a few - OK, more than a few - times when drunk, staring at those lips, but never more than stare.

This wasn't supposed to be intimate. Not that kind of intimate, anyway. Dean told himself he was just being a perv, snap out of it. He knew Cas would blush, or tilt his head and look puzzled, maybe want to study him.

Unbreakable hands suddenly knotted in his leather jacket, slamming him against the wall again. He heard before he saw.

"WHY?"

Dean thought of chuckling, assuming Cas was having one of those harp-hugger moments and needed a diagram on human behavior.

The chuckle caught in his throat as the image of Cas as a suddenly roused god was branded into his brain, his normal weary and confused visage inflamed by neon signs declaring that he wanted nothing less than to fuck Dean straight through the wall.

Dean heard himself gasping, and staring at those lips again. This wasn't what he'd had in mind. He was rock hard, aching for more, but this wasn't some big plot to gay up the angel. He'd swear it on his Baby, and that was a serious promise. He just had to get himself together. He knew Cas didn't react this way. Not his Cas. OK, there was the porn, and Meg...

I'm gonna wipe the taste of that bitch out of his mouth.

It was the moment Dean realized he sounded like a Rock of Love contestant that he knew he was too far gone.

"Sorry, Baby," Dean whispered before he grabbed a handful of messy brown hair and smashed his very hungry mouth against those angelic lips, deluding himself that blunt force and possible dental work made this seem less fated, less...completing, like he could die tomorrow and not leave with as much of an ache.

Stubble scraped against stubble as Dean delighted in the moans and whimpers he was causing, only to quickly realize the sounds were his own. Cas was calmly competent, adjusting to and redirecting this first kiss, need and strangled desire eased and teased into slow, plaintive kisses, Cas' tongue precision lasering between his lips and conquering his mouth.

Who taught you how to kiss?

Cas put one hand on Dean's temple, the other tracing down his arm, whispering patterns where the handprint had once been.

The question answered itself.

Sometimes Dean had wondered why the handprint was gone, but as he sensed Cas' husky, flat affirmation rolling in his mind, as he sank his teeth into Cas' flushed lower lip, he knew why - they didn't need a physical marking now. They never really had.

This revelation shook him to the core, blended in with the sloppy sounds of Cas sucking on his tongue, the itchy ticklishness of Cas' trenchcoat brushing against his treasure trail as Cas lifted the shirt off, leather jacket zapped over to the chair, sprawled out, the way Dean had sprawled out his thighs that one night he'd been drunk on a fresh kill and had practically presented himself to Cas in a diner, Cas blushing then like he was now, Dean ending that night in a bathroom stall with a rotting door, jeans around his ankles, just like they were now, lower lip bloody as he'd jerked off to the fantasy of Cas pounding him over the sink, moaning and panting in the mirror, turning to ash any dumbasses who barged in on the buttfucking.

Dean's boots were now magically separated from his body along with the rest of his duds, everything suddenly laid out in a perfect pile like Cas was a pervy Mary Poppins. Dean was completely exposed, and Cas barely had a ruffle in his faded white shirt. Dean felt weak and dizzy and somehow stronger than he'd ever been, and part of him fucking hated that, part of him loved it, loved knowing he didn't have to dominate, that this was some soul deep fate he'd never understand and didn't care about understanding.

He bit at Cas' chin, his neck, fixating on that perpetually uneven stubble. He bit and suckled and tasted until he heard the cries and the pleas for more.

I've defiled an angel, he shuddered, knowing he'd burn for it but treasuring every minute.

If that wasn't enough for sweet release, Cas studiously ran a thumb over his leaking cock, index finger grazing the piss slit, quizzically bringing said fingers up to his own mouth, tasting Dean. When Cas took him in hand, slowly, obscenely pumping him, Dean's voice cracked, his body broke, his knees gave out. He crumbled into Cas' arms, staining that cheap suit with volley after volley, a burst dam.

Soothing in his mind, a hum in his ear, comforting him through the tremors. He'd never crashed this way, and he knew it wasn't just the aftereffects of the booze. As he watched Cas lick the cum off his fingers like melted chocolate, knowing Cas was so desperate for any taste of him, he began to feel the blood between his legs again, heard the smack of his half-hardness against Cas' trousers, the fat cock barely contained by those trousers at the moment. Dean blinked a memory of Cas watching porn, how he'd tried to pretend that was the first time he'd stared at Cas' crotch, how he'd told himself at least he had a reason now, some flimsy excuse for wanting to tear that half-busted fly open with his teeth. Dean wondered if Cas wore underwear, or if he'd junked it as some silly human concept. He'd spent way too much time thinking about that underwear.

"White cotton Fruit of the Loom briefs," Cas answered, matter-of-factly, all while tracing intense circles around Dean's possession tattoo, like he was trying to send some message. That Cas could articulate Jimmy Novak's nuthuggers while ogling Dean like he was fitting him for a collar and leash shot a warm feeling through Dean, both lust and...

He chose to focus on the lust, sending buttons flying through the air as no one mourned the remains of Cas' shirt, Dean frantically groping the trim stomach, feeling his way across the toned pecs, flat coat of dark hair soft between his fingers.

As he tugged at his leaking hose and tore Cas' beat up leather belt out of the loops, he knew this was going too fast, but he couldn't keep this slow. Sam never stayed gone for long, now he might kick in the door with a fucking chainsaw in one hand and somebody's head in the other, and what if Bobby walked in, and what if Cas figured out how much Dean needed this, needed him, pined for him, always, hated him cause of it, cried for him, came hard for him, harder every time.

He pressed his nose against those briefs, smiling against the clean, pristine, Heaven-starched fabric as his tongue lathed a damp outline of shaft and head. He pulled them down sharp and fast, needing to feel that slap against his cheek. He fought back the fucked up chick flick wish that Cas not realize he had so much more experience at giving head than he did at kissing.

As he began the slow but sure process to deep throat, Cas looked down at him, still half-dressed, jacket and shirt wafting with the air conditioning. Cas slowly urged him forward, like he'd done this all his existence, like he was a god, Dean his loyal subject. Made Dean nervous, made him more eager to please. He tugged on Cas' low hangers, increasingly tight and high, wanting to remind Cas who was in charge. All he got in return was those impossibly delicate yet direct hands tight in his hair, guiding him, whispering to him, telling him how hot he was, how beautiful he was, how his lips were made for this, how Cas was gonna beam him up and take him home and never let him be hurt again. How Cas was the one who could hurt him most, and Dean loved him for it.

Dean choked slightly at that word, spit sliding off his chin, nails scraping Cas' surprisingly contoured thighs. Couldn't be love. Awe, maybe, weird kink, but not love. He was drunk, horny, depressed, weak, desperate...

And madly in love with Cas.

Any more deep thoughts were cut off by a hiss, a dirty growl that told Dean Cas was close. He kept eye contact at all times, taking that perfectly proportioned dick in one hand, rolling his balls in another, taking long swipes up the shaft, middle finger teasing Cas' entrance, that locked down hole home to every treasure Dean ever wanted.

A sharp shove of that finger, one last sleazy grin. It was all he took to keep a steady beat on his own erection. He wasn't gonna come until after Cas.

"Gimme the money shot, Cas. C'mon, baby. I earned it."

Cas looked straight ahead, scared to meet Dean's eyes, blue eyes on fire as white lightning coursed through his body, gave Dean a jolt. Dean shut his eyes, opened his mouth, took all that hot cream, made himself the best porn star ever as he felt every last spurt hot against his face, sliding down his neck, his throat.

He managed to wipe the essence out of his eyes enough to stare Cas down again, lock him in place.

"Made you feel good?"

Part taunt, part hopeful.

Cas seemed alien, distant.

"Be quiet."

Fingers to forehead again, another zap, and suddenly Dean screamed, guttural groan, disbelief as he spilled all over the carpet, seed he wasn't even sure he had left in him.

Last thing he remembered was being carried in Cas' arms.

Not a bad way to go.

xxxx

Tangled bedsheets. Tongue. Roof. Mouth. Fuckin' hangovers.

Dean wished he could say he didn't remember what he'd done with Cas, but he did. He wished he had some regret over possibly ruining a friendship, but he didn't. There'd never been any labels with Cas, never would be. Only regret he had - confirmed when he saw those soft, sad blue eyes watching over him from a chair mere mortals would die in after about 5 minutes - was that their first time wasn't sweeter, nicer, laying in each other's arms on a lazy day.

He winced, holding his head in his hands, pretended he hadn't just had those thoughts.

"How long I been out, Cas?" he rushed, trying to change the conversation before it had even started.

"Approximately 9 hours, 23 minutes, 8 seconds. Bobby left a message, saying he would be 'dumping' Sam on you again by noon."

Dean nodded, tried to pretend he was relieved, happy to have a routine to get back to, an excuse to run away from last night. Told himself he didn't want to talk about how good it felt and how dirty and hot it was and how the next time they'd really take their time, make it count.

He began making his way to the shower, telling himself not to be disappointed that Cas didn't want to talk about what had happened, talk about...feelings, talk about how this meant they were superbonded for all time and space. Hell, they could even discuss pornos.

Instead, Cas was cool, calm, collected, even fixing his own tie. That last part probably upset Dean the most, if he could admit to being upset.

"Cas..." he heard himself saying, almost pleading.

Suddenly Cas was in front of him, thumb on his mouth, flicker of sorrow and longing telling Dean that this was as screwed up and painful for him as it was for Dean, and that if not for their private wars, he'd do it all over again, all day every day.

"Goodbye, Dean," he stated, allowing himself to press a tender kiss to Dean's forehead before he disappeared.

Dean stared at where Cas had just been, took in the last of the ozone warmth, swallowed hard.

"Bye Cas."