Prompt: DEAN AND CAS HAVE TO HAVE A QUICKIE BECAUSE SAM IS OUT. THEY BASICALLY THROW EACH OTHER AROUND THE ROOM FUCKING AGAINST EVERYTHING
Shits-and-giggles PWP drabble for my friend geargie on tumblr.
Destiel.
Castiel is always the one who moves first. Somehow, even with the Enochian sigils engraved in Sam's ribcage, Castiel knows when he's just far enough away that he won't hear anything, knows exactly the second he's gonna walk back into the hotel room.
So when Sam closes the book he's had his nose in for the last two hours, declares he's going to the grocery store for snacks and caffeine—adding, to Dean's delight, that he won't forget the pie this time—and walks out the door with the keys to the Impala, Dean doesn't move.
He doesn't twitch, doesn't blink, hell, he doesn't breathe. He just stares at Castiel as the angel tilts his head as if he's listening to something and waits, counting the seconds in his head.
One, two, three, four, f—
Dean grunts as he's shoved against a wall; Castiel swallows the sound, his lips pressed almost painfully into Dean's, needy and desperate. Dean gives into the kiss readily, tongue flicking out to press against the crease of Castiel's lips. The angel offers no resistance and their tongues dance, teeth nipping at skin, bruising, claiming.
Its not long before they're moving to the little table in the kitchenette, not long before the cheap plastic buckles and cracks under their combined weight. Then it's the counter, then the wall, then for some reason Castiel thinks its a good idea to bend Dean over the nightstand of all things and when that breaks with the angel's superhuman holy thrusting, they finallymove to the bed.
And when that breaks too, they decide to rut senselessly into the mattress instead of trying to move again.
It's a few hours before Sam returns, just enough time to put the room back into some semblance of order.
He doesn't seem to notice the faint sheen of sweat on Dean's brow, or the way Cas's tie is more askew than usual, his suit wrinkled like it was balled up in a washing machine all night.
The jig is up, though, when he dumps his load of bags on the kitchenette table and it breaks in half.