It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Not at fucking all.
The air is cigarette flavored and there's too much damn glitter floating around. Castiel is trapped between a leather love seat and a blonde stripper named Chastity ("I've yet to inform you that your stage name is completely irrelevant to your occupation.") who is currently writhing on his lap and Castiel couldn't feel anymore unaroused.
As far as he can tell, this is all Gabriel's fucking fault because it shouldn't be written in their DNA that older brothers can torment their kid siblings by doing ungodly things to them, and in this case, waltzing in like he fucking owned the place and grabbing the first bump-and-grinder he sees by the arm, planting her on Castiel's lap, promising him a good time. Either Castiel's head wasn't screwed on tight enough to argue, or it might have been the alcohol accepting for him. Both, really.
Castiel looks past Chastity's shoulder and peers through the haze of sparkles and to the opposite side of the room, where a man is sitting on an equally lumpy loveseat, surrounded by ecdysiasts, his face looking just as uncomfortable as Castiel thinks his own does. The guy was among the party of men congratulating Gabriel on his last night as a single man, but unlike the rest, refuses to drink even an ounce of booze.
Castiel knows his type. Green eyes, tan skin, fit body Castiel is craving to touch underneath all that clothing.
And he likes it.
After awkwardly catching the man's eyes, Castiel recognizes him as the guy who occasionally visits Castiel's supervisor, Samuel Winchester Esquire, respectively, at their workplace, bringing him lunch like a maid or dropping him off at Adler Corporations like a damn chauffeur. The guy must be Sam's romantic partner of some sort, Castiel thinks. Or his sex slave, which makes him strangely jealous since this guy is nine kinds of hot, but alcohol has impairment on his vision so Castiel's not really sure about what he's seeing at all.
Plus, indulging in enough alcohol has that effect on Castiel that can make him sexually attracted to a fucking bowl of ice cream.
Chastity is getting more annoyed with the fact that Castiel isn't reacting the way she expects him to, and though she is a very pretty girl, Castiel admits, it's not his fault that he bats for the other team. And it's not something he's ashamed of either. Men are just generally more fun in bed, and if Castiel likes to take it a little rougher, that's his business and not Chastity's, who is wearing enough perfume to max out global warming and drown all the fucking penguins and unsink the Titanic.
Chastity pushes down on Castiel's uninterested crotch once more before Castiel thanks her politely and hands her a stack of Gabriel's twenties. She takes the bills, stuffs it in her rhinestoned bra, and then eases off of Castiel's thighs with a more than displeased look on her face. Castiel reaches for the glass of lukewarm beer on the table in front of him and prays to God someone roofied it because this is the goddamn worst bachelor party he's ever been to, and to be honest as of right now, he really wouldn't mind being dragged off into Wonderland by a serial killer wearing fishnets and Krueger's fedora.
Castiel could have sworn to all the angels in Heaven that he was getting married before any of his siblings, especially Gabriel (stupid fucking asshole of an older brother), just to avoid landing in these unpleasant situations, but instead got dumped and lost his permanent plus on to Michael's wedding, Luke's wedding, Alfie's wedding, and now Gabriel's wedding, must he go on? It's not like he hasn't tried to catch the goddamn bouquet of fucking daisies and daffodils either (God forbid sweaty hands and clumsy feet).
Then his hero swoops in to save the day.
The incessant beating of crappy music plus the excessive dose of alcohol is making Castiel's head throb and his vision blurs as he tries to find Gabriel through a haze of lopsided drunkenness. As Castiel tips over ungracefully, knees weak and hand-eye coordination worse than Lohan's, someone grabs his arm and steadies him, and Castiel finds himself squinting into two green eyes that make his intoxicated heart flutter.
It's hard to tell with the mirage of bouncing lights off sparkles, the liquor burning through his veins, the thumping music that almost blows his ears off, but Castiel can't make out what the guy is trying to say. His lips form words, but sound doesn't come out. It doesn't matter anyway. Castiel feels his stomach heave right before he empties out his dinner onto the guy's Chuck Taylor's. Then his vision black out.
Yeah. This was definitely not how he was supposed to meet his supposedly Prince Charming.
Dean might have sucked a dick or two in his life, but that doesn't necessarily mean he had feelings for the other dude.
Granted, he was still getting used to the whole bisexual thing, and loved to experiment, but that didn't mean he wanted to jump everything that had a pulse. Surely not Castiel Novak, if he remembers Sam telling him the name correctly, who was currently sprawled out on the passenger's seat of Dean's car, mumbling something about killing Gabriel in his sleep before vows were exchanged. And Dean, seeing as he had no other choice since just about every other guy at the strip club was more than a little tipsy, was giving Castiel, who was drunk off his perky ass, a ride back to Gabriel's house.
Proclaiming himself designated driver at his brother's friend's bachelor party seemed like a reasonable idea four hours ago, but now Dean's got a clingy drunk in his hands. No pun intended.
"It's been a long time." Castiel slurs, miraculously regaining consciousness and groping Dean's thighs just as he pulls the Impala into Gabriel's enormous driveway leading to a house larger than the continental United States. Ignoring the hand now thumbing his groin, Dean rechecks the address once, twice, because there's no way Sam could have been friends with a guy who owned a fucking playboy-looking mansion.
Then when Dean shuts the engine off and unlocks the car doors, this mysterious blue eyed beauty, and drunk, frankly, unbuckles his seat belt and reaches across the gear shift to pull Dean towards his mouth, hot hands trailing up and down his back, eager to get his shirt off.
"Woah." Dean manages to say, pulling away and evening out his shirt. The blue eyed man gets into his line of vision again and puts his hands right back to where they were, this time burying themselves under Dean's shirt, and Dean shivers. Castiel reaches in for another open mouthed kiss with too much tongue; he tastes like cheap beer and stale peanuts and the mint mouthwash Dean urged to him to swish between his cheeks to get rid of the acidy aftertaste.
Castiel's breathing is hot and heavy likes he's already aroused from just attempting to rub up on Dean, which Dean would find flattering if Castiel wasn't practically drop dead drunk.
But Dean's brain has its Closed sign facing the window and the Impala's windows fog up soon after. He finds himself kissing Castiel back while simultaneously trying to remove Castiel's hands away from sliding down to his chest, nipples, ass, anywhere the blue eyed man's hands and slender fingers seem to be fixated on at the moment.
Tongues sliding across one another, hands fisting in soft, silky, honey smelling hair, pants tightly straining for relief. Lip biting, fingers roaming, belts unbuckling.
Dean's conscience is tossing the Open/Close sign back and forth.
He should not be taking advantage of this guy who threw up on his shoes twenty minutes ago, pleads the angel on his right.
But Castiel's fucking hot as hell with blessed permanent sex hair and Dean can't leave him alone, whispers the devil on his left.
The housekeeper will take good care of Mr. Novak and make sure he keeps hydrated, the angel yells into Dean's ear.
You're already horny, haven't gotten laid in fucking forever. Might as well get it over with, the devil smirks.
Sam is probably waiting for you right now so get your friggin' tongue off of Castiel's tonsil and go rescue your darn brother and bring him back to the hotel, the angel snaps, mentally slapping Dean across the face with a rubber chicken.
It's all too much for Dean and he pulls away, Castiel following his mouth and making a noise of protest in the back of his throat, which does not make Dean's jeans way more uncomfortable than they already are.
"What's wrong?" The blue eyed man asks, hands still trapped beneath the fabric of Dean's ACDC shirt, and Dean has a vivid image of Castiel wearing the tee himself, the musky, pine tree, motor oil smell of Dean on Castiel's body, and, wow, Dean really needs to stop fantasizing.
"Castiel, right?" The man nods and Dean continues. "Look man, you're smashed as fuck and it'd be really, really selfish if I took advantage of that." But really, really satisfying.
Sweat makes Castiel's dark hair stick to his forehead and in the moonlight, he seems almost angelic. Dean swears under his breath that Castiel is going to be the death of him and prays silently that there will be a day in the near future where he can have his way with this blue eyed beauty without Castiel's drunken forwardness.
It takes Dean too, too much courage he's willing to give to take Castiel's hands from where they're nested like baby birds (but Castiel is a fucking vulture, looking like he wants to devour Dean to the bone) into Dean's stomach, and once they're free, Dean reaches across Castiel to open the passenger door.
Dean figures Castiel is sober enough to know that this night has been cut short and that Dean will see him at the wedding tomorrow and hopefully take him home then. Castiel narrows his sharp blue eyes at Dean, obviously not being able to read his mind, before staggering out and slamming the car door shut, stomping up the stairs and into the mansion.
The knob rattles.
Castiel doesn't say goodnight.
Author's notes:
-Castiel smells like honey because he watches the bees.
-Apologies for hardly any dialogue.
-Thank you for reading!