Blue eyes stare darkly from beneath heavy lashes, jaw clenched and teeth grinding in protest to the helpless tug of want tearing at heart strings and primal urge.
"Cas...you should go." It's croaked out, he almost wishes Castiel won't hear it. Can't stop staring at him, remembering the taste of his spit, the drag of his teeth along his shoulders, the weight of his cock - thick and hard, nestled between his legs. Dean never knew want like this before, not since he first discovered that Sam liked making him bite pillows.
They'd fucked more times than was safe for either of them to be doing (three.) Dean isn't even staying in the same hotel as Sammy and that's a serious first. Even if him and Sam were to the point of throwing punches they'd still sleep in the same room. Now Dean's three hotels down on the cold dark woodland highway, staring down the angel that (unwillingly) graced his presence upon Dean.
The ambivalent angel nearly takes the hoarse order as personal rejection, and he can't help but drop his gaze, crestfallen, unconsciously shrinking back before he could even dredge up a response with enough fighting ammo to resist being sent away.
".. I don't want to." They both knew he should; it would save them the unyielding temptation that made the room thick with tension and rid him of the static buzz of noisy silence, but he could not turn away. Instead he plops himself down on a nearby chair, hands clasped in his lap, and bites his lip. Why did his heart feel so heavy for missing something so base and carnal? "I will go if Sam returns."
A brow arches on Dean, the tiniest flare of a smile creeping up the corner of his mouth. It's affectionate in the same way Dean used to smile when Sam would realize they were out of Lucky Charms as a kid. It makes Dean want to smudge away the confusion and ache Castiel was portraying with his fingers and mouth. Instead he only grunts, padding over to the fridge and grabbing two of his best beers. He hands one to the angel, careful not to let skin touch skin. Not that it matters, fire raced down his spine and the soft line of his dick anyway. It settled in his ballsack and made him suck down the brew with more enthusiasm than necessary. Anything to calm his nerves. He doesn't like feeling like this. It isn't Sam. He isn't supposed to feel anything like this if it isn't Sam. With Sammy it makes sense, Dean could explain it enough not to have doubt and shame crush him but Castiel? He can't explain his lust for Castiel. Not good enough for Dean's harsh inner-conscience.
"Sam won't be back Cas. This isn't even the same damn hotel room. He's staying in the hotel three blocks from here." It almost sounds hopeful. Like that's all the permission they need and he can make Castiel groan and yell as much as he wants. The edge of the bed never felt so lonely as he plops down on its surface.
"... oh." Castiel mutters lamely, weight of embarrassment intruding on his once blank emotional canvas as the elder hunter's clarification stings him like a stupefying slap. Of course Sam isn't coming back; this will be the second night Dean is occupying another hotel altogether. Another unbidden voice whispers guilt into his ear, painting a picture in his mind's eye of what his `interference' is doing to the brothers. Or, rather, what his mutual infatuation with Dean is doing, and it definitely is hurting more than it is helping -- if it is doing anything at all to begin with.
But somehow he can't shake off the unwarranted feeling, nagging and jeering. Tormenting. Head bowed (he can't bring himself to make eye contact for once, much too ridden with his own turmoil), he dimly registers accepting the bottle. "Thanks..." Of course he'll drink it because Dean gave it to him. Ridiculous. "...why don't you just go back there?"
Dean laughs harshly, pushing like gravel past his throat. He sounds like he has barely slept and for all the right reasons. Now there's an edge of tension and frustration to his voice, his old fire blazing back again. Except this isn't Sam. This is Castiel. The more Dean thinks that, the more he's reminded, the less it bugs him and while he by no means loves the angel (Dean doesn't love anyone, 'cept maybe Sam), he's coming to respect his obvious attachment to Castiel.
"I don't want to go back there Cas. Sam...it. It doesn't really feel like Sam understands me much these days. We're both on different grounds. His damn fault. Not yours," Dean adds quickly, easily reading the droop of feathered limbs. "Sam started this shit. It's just been different since I got back. I can't explain it. But I'd rather be here then there. I...can relate to you a little more than I used to. And I'm pretty sure it's vice versa." Dean dares a glance at the downtrodden eyes, tongue flicking over chapped lips before he takes another long pull of beer. The tension between them still clings and Dean wonders when the wire will snap and who's doing it will be. He'd do it now if Castiel would let him. Drop down to his knees, free Castiel of his confines and wipe that lost puppy look right off his face.
And a lost puppy Castiel is, complete with lush pouted lip stuck in a piteous downturn and volumous eyes rich with welled-up emotion that would never flow over. Damned if ever lets himself have what he wants... damned if he knows what he wants, but he knows what want entails, and it ties his stomach in knots when he finds himself setting cause and consequence on scales to weigh.
Angels should never have doubts, and they should never consider alternatives outside of their godfearing scope. Mottled wings spread shamelessly over everything in their span, sprawling wide out over the dingy hotel coir as if everything he graced will be blessed. But Castiel is merely a visitor in the world, a private messenger looking from the outside-in.
"Things changed for him after you died. And now that you're back, there is a gaping rift. You're not simply hunters anymore, you both are becoming aware of your destinies. They may be entwained, but..." There is no need to finish his sentence, he's preaching the same old mantra and now is not the time for somber reminders. Glugging down nearly half of his bottle, the overindulgent angel lapps at the flavor on his mouth and lets his eyes readjust their vigil on his beloved, reckless charge. "Perhaps I'm reading too much into something that isn't there, but I feel like I've made things messier for you personally, Sam or not."
Dean watches Castiel's throat work swallowing the beer, pupils blasted with hunger, glazed over with hopeless want. He's certain part of his insatiable appetite for angels comes from the blood he drank and the sex he'd indulged in.
More than a handful of nights ago Dean had met with Castiel, raged at him furiously about Sam's food habits out of late and bitching about the strength it gave him. In a fit of bitter resentment and desperation, Dean had latched onto Castiel's arm, flicked his tongue over the knife mark he'd made there and sucked like a baby. Now his world was a little brighter, his senses a little clearer, and Castiel's wings weren't just flickers of shadows.
"You hit the nail on the head. Thanks." Dean grumbles in response to the first statement. Guilt and loss well up in Dean's chest, push past the hormones in a brief display of weakness. The only reason he doesn't crumble is Castiel's weakened presence. Always the tough one, Dean isn't one to crumble when someone else clearly needs his strength. But the thought of his destiny, of the weight on his shoulders and the inescapable truth that he might have to one day take battle against his own sweet brother overwhelms Dean. Dean Winchester never cries. And Dean Winchester is also the biggest lier when it comes to his tears and strife.
Anger pushes forth at Castiel's discontent. "It's not your damn fault! Cut that shit out. You-you're...you're all I got right now Cas! You're keeping me tethered. Regardless of Sam, I wouldn't have a damn pinch of hope if it weren't for you!" Dean curses loudly after a moment of silence. He chugs the rest of his beer and blinks back frustration. He feels sick by his own heart-felt words, a fucking chick-flick in the making, but he'll be damned if he sees Castiel torn apart by this. He needs Castiel.
Dean's ardent outburst is enough though to recussitate and bolster Castiel, to haul his spirit out of the mire of roiling emotions that threatens to consume and decimate the susceptible heavenly host. In a blink, Thursday's angel brandishes fire in his eyes and a sternly set jaw to carry his brass words.
"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm not being everything I can be for you right now. It's not like me to lose my head like that... I'm here." I'm here, I'm here. He attempts to infect the plain admission with as much sincerity as possible in the hope it will soothe the frayed man. His own bleeding empathy will not allow him to turn his back on this man.
For one long moment, Dean stares wild-eyed at the angel. Like a frightened animal he watches the fire return to Castiel's eyes, and just like that, with the spark once again kindled, Dean's own resolution and determination barrels through him, shining with renewed vigor in his deep blue eyes.
"Don't worry about it..I've taken care of myself this long and done just fine. A few more minutes while you play make-believe mortal won't kill me," Dean mutters. They're both out of beer now, and against his better judgement, the bottle of Southern Comfort is pulled from the fridge and sucked down like sweet candy fire. This time, he doesn't shy away from Castiel's gaze, lets the intensity wash over him and savours it like it's the last damn good thing left on earth. He even leans out, arm extended with full bottle in hand. "Go ahead. I won't ask you to leave tonight." No matter what happens...Dean thinks to himself. If they're fucked and going to hell, if they barely stand a chance as it is, so fucking what. He'll damn well enjoy the fall. And with hesitance, he hopes Castiel will want the same.
There is nothing infinitely more gratifying for Castiel than watching Dean in these moments when he triumphs over any obstacle, any trial. He enjoys bearing witness to Dean's better moments and standing by when he needs him in his pitfalls. Either way, Castiel vows that, unless he were to be summoned away, he might as well tag along side the Winchesters; Dean is his to guard, afterall, and he might as well see whatever impending doom will befall them all through to completion. He might as well stand tall and flank, Dean between Heaven and Hell, stand firm despite which side wins and reigns... and if neither turns out victorious, he knows that he will go wherever Dean Winchester ends up. Because he knows, right now, that he wants that much. Until something else intersects his fate, Castiel knows he is content with his current position -- if not a little restless.
He understands that none of these feelings are permitted and all of them are foreign, but he's resolved to proceed on a wing and a prayer. Perhaps he will be reprimanded, but it's his choice who he will answer to now, and Castiel will not kowtow without knowing exactly who intends to exact righteousness upon him. Castiel will not be sorry for the wrong people, to the wrong people.
Thundercloud eyes swarm gem blue as he receives the bottle and tallies up another notch on his sin-list. "I won't betray your trust." He won't lay a finger on Dean, more so out of fear of his own ephemeral but valued existence. They had decided not to engage in sexual acts anymore. He will stick by that.
Some semblance of calm finally settles in the room now, the storm clouds blown over by a hazy starless night. There will be many more starless nights as far as Dean's concerned, but he'll take a little muddled air over hail and sleet any day.
Relaxation settles in his shoulders, the muscles dropping down beneath the tight blue tee shirt that paints his torso, right down to where his jeans hang loose on his hips, belted, knife sheathed, deadly. Prepared. It has been ages since he's known what kicking back in boxers feels like. He wishes he could do it now, wishes he could strip Castiel of any hindering fabric and spread himself across the angel - pin flesh and feather to the mattress. He doesn't need to fuck him. He just wants to feel him.
"God I wish I could touch you..." Dean grumbles before he remembers inside voices need to stay inside. A wince snaps across his features and he covers it up with a choking swallow of sticky cold amber. If luck is on his side, Castiel won't have heard him.
But of course Castiel, in all of his omnipotence, hears all. "No one is stopping you..." That lulling voice dares to supply encouragement, a voice somehow sweet and gritty at once. Mellifluent like an angel should be, with a gruff and husky bite. As if to prove his point, Castiel unfurls an arm, hand outstretched, palm upright, investing all of his earnestness into the gesture -- eyes open and vulnerable. "There's no iniquity in touching..." Lips twitch, flirting with the notion of a smile, albeit a meek one -- quite coy for someone so stalwart and steel willed.
And the hand stands there within easy reach of Dean, all he has to do is push his hand out, brush skin against skin, feel callous fingertips and hard knuckles. He knows the skin will be warm, kind of salty with the everlasting flavor of fading cleanliness. Like a shower taken early that morning, soap and shampoo layered over with grit and grime. Dean loves it. But regardless, he just stares at it, gaze flicking back and forth between those piercing blue eyes and the offer - no...the hand.
Another slug of Comfort wastes away more seconds before the bottle is set wearily on the bedside stand. As Dean crawls to the floor the first heady wave of intoxication washes over him, makes the color of the carpet blur (thank god, it's ugly) and make the rest of his stand-firm resolution ease off a dangerous amount. "No harm touching." Dean confirms, takes one dark look up at pale blue eyes before rubbing his cracked lips along the palm of the outstretched hand.
Teeth graze along the lines of fingers, nip at a perfectly manicured nail before sucking the whole length into his mouth. He washes the digit in alcohol sticky spit, lapping it clean as he presses firm kisses - possessive kisses, back along the palm. Castiel's palm. His Castiel's palm. Heaven be fucked twice over by the damned. It will not take Castiel away. Or Sam. Or anything else that belonged to him. Dean's sick of it.
Ever the curious cherubim, Castiel's head cocks sidewise to wonder at the man's glorious composition, the man who makes him question mortality, the man who Castiel can see himself irrevocably bound to when his world crashes and burns around him and everything pales in the light of Dean Winchester... where living begins and where living will end...
Castiel hisses at the sensory assault, the suction that reverberates from Dean's sinfully skilled mouth and runs like an electric current straight down to his epicentre: his restrained member. Teeth catch his bottom lip as his brow buckles, skin prickling hot as the hunter's lips and tongue tag-team. "Mmm... " He cooes his appreciation, head rolling just slightly in thrall as the brunet lights upon his palm. Castiel's other hand gently descends upon the man's head to affectionately stroke and pet.
Like a tamed beast Dean just growls at the attention, arches his back, legs spread wide in a semblance of utter submission. It's not something he shares with anyone but Sam. And only then because that's what Sam wants. What makes him happy. And Dean has learned (too quickly) to love and worship what Sam wants. Of course, Dean doesn't know if it's something an angel might find attractive, but he's hard pressed to find out. This is Dean's way of laying himself open and bare, as vulnerable as Castiel's eyes can shine.
Two fingers are lapped at, teeth grazing sharply, sucking both digits in until Dean can feel them brush against the back of his throat. A low moan pushes up in his throat, never escaping past the thick wet fingers lodged over his tongue. "Cas....let me. Dammit please let me." Dean begs hoarsely, kissing a sloppy path up under the cuff of shirt at Castiel's wrist, sucking in a breath of that suffocating smell. He doesn't stop the feline crawl until he's pressed between the angel's legs, face nuzzling like a dog in heat at the obvious erection hiding under layers of fabric.
The content of his plead is obvious enough. He's going to hell for this. Seducing a fuckin' angel in an alcohol-induced lull. But god he knows Castiel will taste good. Taste like safety. Like something wild and living and beautiful. He'll taste like hope and salt. Dean will taste God on Castiel's skin and will be able to sleep through the night knowing there's something other than hell in the world.
The instant Castiel catches wind of Dean's motives, his hands fly to the chair's arms, fingers digging into threadhbare fabric in a desperate attempt to anchor himself to the world, to the moment, to himself, as the hunter unleashes himself, raw and voracious, his mouth all over and his intention glaringly obvious even to an angel. He has to stop this. Now. Before they sink in too deep, before-- "Dean--" The betraying tremor in his tone distracts the already-distractable tutelary angel,
But there is no evident harm in this act, is there? Cheeks flushed, Castiel peers down, chin tilted, endearing confusion wrangling with his budding excitement. It's the unknown, the don't-know, that keeps him hanging on and on to Dean.
"... I can't believe you want to do this..."
Dean's fingers tremble as they fight against buttons and zippers, finally tugging the clothing aside and rubbing his face against the stiff length pressed against black briefs. Dean moans, sucking at the salty pre-com that has leaked a wet spot through the fabric. He pulls away, panting, a smirk waiting on his lips in answer to the distraught angel's words.
He shakes his head slowly, chuckling as he raises up on his knees, pulling the brief's aside and licking his lips at the pink cock that bobs out of it's prison, already smearing sticky fluid across Dean's cheek. Wet, rouged lips part, find the thick head and suck with a pleasing moan. Yessss.
Castiel tastes like everything Dean needs. With no regard to how quickly he knows Castiel might crumble, Dean sucks mercilessly; works him over with a fervor he'd barely graced on the angel's fingers. The weight of the dick in his mouth, the heady bitter taste and choking sensation that makes him dizzy is so familiar it calms his nerves like a sedative. Tonight, within the next few minutes if he's correct in judgement, he will make an angel sob. Dean's fairly certain it has to be a good sound. High as he is on the experience, Dean barely notices the vague fluttering at the back of his mind that insists he wants to do it again. And again. And again.
Castiel is certain there are no coherent words to justify this colossal experience. The instant his cock is enveloped in furnace-heat, Castiel's logic is defenestrated. In one fell swoop, the angel's resolve dissolves, reduced to nothing but a litany of whimpering cries and hosannahs from a broken, extinct language muffled into the back of his palm as the hunter works what Castiel would call a (twisted) miracle on his person.
Primal instinct that does not inherently belong to an angel pumped his hips into the hungry mouth. Feathers puff as those ominous arcs draw tight against his curved back as every fiber of his being narrows, concentrating wholly on the brand-new sensations laying siege upon his territory. "D--D--Dean--" He isn't quite sure what to say to herald his oncoming orgasm which seems mere seconds away, he's already teetering off the brink but is stubbornly holding fast, a clammy hand gripping tight to the man's shoulderblade as he allows his pelvis to rock into the up-down-up-down rhythm that he found... entrancing.
When Castiel comes, Dean's blood surges, an overwhelming tempo in his ears that only seems to heighten the cries he hears - oh god he hears it, but cannot for the life of him understand. He recognizes the language of course, with that coming a wave of arousal, but he can't place the words. He doesn't need to.
Castiel's come floods his mouth and he drinks it down, chokes on a gag once at the hot slippery liquid before allowing it to trickle down the back of his throat. Perfect. Couldn't be fucking possible but Castiel looks...perfect, when he thrashes in climax. It's unearthly. Nothing messy or real about it. Dean stares hard at the arched wings snapped to attention behind Castiel's back. Castiel's voice carries a lilting tone that cascades into low growls. Through it all, through the energy that slams into Dean's gut, hips rolling in desperate need of friction, Dean stays clamped on. He doesn't let go until Castiel is soft in his mouth, drained and throbbing still on his tongue.
With cock slipped free, Dean rolls his aching jaw, closes his eyes to the sharp burn at the back of his tongue. He doesn't notice until his head clears that his hands are tangled firmly with the angel's, Castiel's digits still moist from his spit. It's an amazingly possessive, powerful feeling. Dizzied by it, Dean lays his head on Castiel's lap, whipped to silence for once. No amount of wit and words can save him from this situation now and he knows it.
To Castiel his climax was like a crescendo in a symphony, the captivated audience teeming with escalating adrenaline as the motley union of melodies, forte climbing high and bombastic, ascended toward splendor. Castiel's climax peaked on the crest of absolute euphoria, blinding his vision to pure white as his body seized and rode out the ecstatic eruption with Dean latched on for the entire finale.
By the time clarity returns to the gasping seraph, Castiel's throat is scratchy and feathers scattered the carpeted battlefield. He soaks up the afterglow in well-deserved peace for the two of them, and just as Dean's head nestles into the dip of his lap, Castiel decides to make sure his charge is as accommodated as he can be for his efforts.
Unceremoniously heaving the man up with unnatural strength (and finesse), Castiel swooped the man like cargo transporting him to the bed where he carefully lays the precious bundle. And it's there that the sweet-tempered entity left Dean, (much to the hunter's protest) eclipsing his eyes with a palm in order to cast him into a resolutely sound sleep.
And for once, Castiel was not there in the morning -- but he did leave his trench coat behind.