"Say 'thank you very much'," Dean urged, nodding and wriggling his eyebrows. The angel squinted at him and tugged uncomfortably at the white velour jacket he was wearing.
"Why? What am I thanking you for?" Castiel asked, completely lost. The costume, the moussed-up hairstyle, the strange wide-legged poses Dean had demonstrated for the angel to take; they were all one giant reference Castiel did not understand. Dean groaned.
"Cas, come on. Just say it."
"Th-thank you very much," Cas responded, but his tone was far too polite. There wasn't an inch of sexuality in the phrase, not a smidgen of charisma. Dean wondered if there was truly anyone being in the history of the human race more unlike Castiel than Elvis Presley. Cas had none of the swagger; there was no roguish winking or gyrating hips with this one. Still, he looked the part well enough, with his startlingly blue eyes, pouting lips, and dark hair (which Dean had skillfully gelled up and back into a rockabilly sweep). Cas simply looked like a slimmed-down, tamer version of the King. Low-calorie Elvis. Elvis on Quaaludes, Dean thought, before reminding himself that chill pills had been the death of the King. Cas was Elvis without a sense of humor, at least, and while his charms were a far cry from Presley's legendary sex appeal, Dean couldn't bring himself to think of Cas as being totally unfuckable. After all, he'd fucked him twice last night.
"Well, kudos for trying," Dean sighed. Cas was wriggling around, antsy in his skin-tight outfit. Dean rolled his eyes and hoped the angel would be able to stay in his costume for the duration of the party.
It had been at Sam's request that they had even agreed to dress up in the first place, and Dean had only given in because he felt so sorry for the poor bastard. Sam's friend and sometimes-lover Jane had all but coerced him into not only attending the shindig, but agreeing to wear a costume to it. She had threatened to 'air his dirty laundry' if he refused, and while Dean was painfully curious as to what that might entail, Sam was equally adamant about keeping it from happening. So he had given in and acquiesced begrudgingly, muttering, "Fine, but no cross-dressing this year. Rocky Horror was a disaster last Halloween." Dean had to agree with him there.
Despite Jane's pushy attitude and fondness for teasing—or perhaps because of it—Dean actually approved of her. Dean had long maintained the opinion that Sam needed a woman who would loosen him up and convince him to have fun, as it seemed more likely that Sam was turning into the next Bobby Singer—growing surlier and more reclusive every year. Dean wondered what had been the final straw that had tipped his brother into the depths of grumpy-old-man-dom. He was the younger brother, by four years, but at thirty-three, Sam already had more in common with the elderly drunks who wandered into the bar where he sometimes worked weekends than the lively thirty-somethings who dropped in with their flashy clothes and their searches for "The One". Sam had tossed that old dream into the abyss of things he assumed could never happen for him. He was pleased to see that Dean and Castiel had fallen in love and he was delighted when the pair moved in together. But despite the dewy-eyed romantic Sam had been as a younger man, he now insisted that he simply didn't want the same things anymore. He told Dean he was content to be alone, to work simple jobs and eat simple meals, to rise and rest at the same hours of the day and evening. He was accepting of his lot in life, he said, and he would live out the rest of it as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. "I've been to Heaven and Hell; I've literally had the Devil inside me, Dean. I've watched so many people die, so many people I loved. I feel like we've lived our whole lives at top volume. I just want—I just want easy listening from here on out, you know?" And his face had looked so uncommonly old, so sorrowful and resigned, that Dean hadn't even had the heart to tease him for it.
"What is the point of this?" Cas was asking, a frustrated edge to his voice.
Fantastic. They hadn't even left the house yet and the angel was already bitching. "It's supposed to be a fun thing, Cas, I don't know. Humans are fucking weird, okay? We like to dress up as other humans and get plastered at an open bar. That's just what we do. It's how we cope with being mortal, or whatever," Dean explained quickly, rather surprised at the philosophical turn his words had taken. He was spending too much time reading Castiel's theology books over his shoulder. He made a mental note to watch more porn and less Lifetime channel.
"Who are you impersonating?" Cas inquired, appraising Dean's outfit.
"I'm Clint Eastwood! Blondie!" Dean exclaimed, arms outstretched. He beamed proudly, but the angel simply stared, not comprehending him at all. "From The Good The Bad and The Ugly?"
"I don't understand that reference, Dean."
"We watched that movie together last month, Cas!" Dean cried, disappointed. The angel looked a little regretful and his eyes darted away to focus pointlessly on the fridge door.
"I—I suppose I was not paying full attention to the film."
Dean sighed, his head hanging. He knew it, already, that Cas never truly watched the movies Dean excitedly picked out from the RedBox at the grocery store. The angel simply used these cinematic interludes as an excuse to have Dean sit still long enough to cuddle with him. He shuddered. What had happened to the old Dean—the cool, rough-edged, leather-collared Dean? There was a time when he'd been more or less a love-'em-and-leave-'em type, and nowadays he literally snuggled up to an actual angel several nights a week, with socked feet and homemade sweet tea in hand. Still, the world was different now, and his life had changed monumentally, so he supposed it was only fitting that the old Dean be shed away and replaced with a newer, softer version of himself. After all, the planet was a newer, softer place.
And he couldn't deny that he loved the sensation of the warm, attentive ex-soldier of Heaven pressed against him on the sofa, the angel threading lazy fingers through his hair and whispering, "When will the movie be over, Dean?" as though he couldn't wait another second to pull the hunter into bed with him. Dean's stomach flip-flopped at the thought. A year of this had made him a sucker, a bleeding heart—what would five years do to him? Ten?
Fuck. In fifteen years I'll be Mister Rogers, he thought, disturbed.
The angel slipped past him, his tight white pants making a weird squelching sound as he passed. Dean snorted. This was worth all the humiliation just to see Cas fidgeting with his crotch and armpits. Dean felt a little sorry for him, but the sentiment was overwhelmed by his amusement. Sam had often questioned Dean's 'obsession' with dressing Castiel up in various outfits. Dean had thought the word 'obsession' was a little strong; he preferred to think of it as a sort of hobby. Admittedly, it was perhaps a bit cruel, seeing as Cas would do almost anything Dean asked of him, regardless of embarrassment or discomfort. Dean tried not to take advantage of this too frequently, but he couldn't deny how fantastic it was having someone who was willing to indulge his most unspeakable fetishes.
And despite his contempt for the costume itself, Cas had thrown himself rather sportingly into this Elvis situation. Dean had found the angel actually using the Internet to research the singer, downloading videos of his music and reading his Wikipedia page. Dean didn't know whether to chalk it up to Cas's addiction to collecting pop culture knowledge (to remedy his cluelessness) or simply the angel's desire to make Dean happy. He supposed it was probably some of both.
Finally, Dean skipped up the kitchen step and swiped the cowboy hat from the table, settling it on his head. He gave Cas a wink and jingled the keys to the Impala. "Alright. Let's roll, Hound Dog."
Two hours into the party, Dean had already misplaced his hat and dropped his phone into a red Solo cup of lukewarm beer. Sam and Jane, who were perched on stools across the table from Dean and Cas, were neck-deep in a heated political debate, which sounded to be at least ninety-percent gibberish and heavily-veiled innuendo. Sam had finally found a girl with whom he could flirt via terms of the Justice System. God bless America, Dean thought, through the fog of intoxication in his brain. Meanwhile, beside him, Cas was fidgeting with his straw and continuing to gripe about his pants feeling 'claustrophobic' around the jewels. Needless to say, the party was playing out precisely as Dean had expected.
The one silver lining to the giant storm cloud of awkward small talk and sweaty leather stretched across his balls was, of course, the glorious open bar. With years of scrimping and living dollar-to-dollar under his belt, Dean was certainly well-equipped for a modest lifestyle. Even after paying the outrageous tuition for Cas's college classes, Dean had been frugal enough to keep a decent amount of money on hand for groceries, bills, and the staggering costs of renovating the cottage. Still, at the end of the day, Dean was only a simple mechanic, working eleven-hour shifts for an admittedly pathetic salary. Dean and Cas didn't exactly struggle financially, but they were strapped enough for Dean to feel positively giddy at the notion of ordering as many fancy, top-shelf drinks as his heart desired. (His liver did not share this sentiment, but Dean had grown used to ignoring it, and he'd accepted long ago that he would probably die young anyway. Again.)
Just after midnight, the host of the party took to the stage of the ballroom, microphone in one pudgy hand. He was a middle-aged, short, potbellied guy, unnaturally tanned and constantly checking and rechecking to make sure his toupee was in place. His name was Warren Fitzsimmons, and he was the local playboy and lumber tycoon. Warren owned at least a quarter of the businesses and real estate in the area, including the bar in which Sam and Jane worked. This party had been pulled together under the pretense of 'celebrating the success of the bar' but in reality it was essentially a flamboyant show of Warren's wealth. It was a celebration of Warren Fitzsimmons, more than anything, but Dean didn't care what the hell they were toasting to as long as the champagne was free. At the moment, though, no one was toasting anything; Warren tapped the mic, cleared his throat, and then announced in his booming tenor, "Alright, folks! We're kickin' off the karaoke!" There was a surge of cheers around the room, and Dean rolled his eyes. As if the night couldn't get any worse.
Surely enough, the first act to take the stage was a young woman dressed like Ke$ha, and Dean couldn't suppress a snort at just how perfectly she had fallen into the role. The girl was very obviously drunk, her electric-blue eye-makeup smearing down her cheek and across the bridge of her nose. She all but tripped up the steps to the stage, hiking up her fluorescent-pink tights on the way. The opening bars of "Free Fallin'" began to play from the speakers by the stage, and Dean groaned. "Aw, now this is just sacrilegious," he muttered, and Cas only quirked his head to the side, obviously not comprehending how karaoke would be considered a sin against God. But this garbled, weepy rendition of Tom Petty's hit was certainly a crime against humanity, if nothing else. Dean's face was twisted into an unrelenting cringe as he stared at the disaster onstage, half-expecting the floor to open up and suck her down into Hell.
"She seems to have some of the lyrics incorrect," Cas noted softly, watching the girl critically. Dean sighed and raised his hand for the busboy to bring him another shot.
"The words are on the screen," Dean muttered before gulping down the whiskey—or gin, maybe? He had gotten to the point at which all alcohol tasted the same. Besides, after multiple deaths and rebirths he'd noticed his taste buds were somewhat dulled. It was a small price to pay in the long run, really. "Here's a tip, Amy Winehouse: if you're too drunk to read, you're probably too drunk to sing in public," he remarked cattily.
Cas slurped at his drink, which was an unnatural shade of blue and smelled like an Icee. The angel's lips were turning purplish, and Dean found himself distracted by the idea of kissing them, just to find out what flavor it was.
Suddenly, the girl crumpled in a heap on the stage, her sequined skirt sliding up to show off her embarrassingly unsexy knickers. "I guess her Ke$ha costume is incomplete," Cas commented, deadpan. Dean snorted, and the song was thankfully cut short, as the girl began to cry openly and a burly bouncer-type guy carried her offstage. There was a painful silence that followed, and Cas, in his eternal blissful ignorance, took that exact moment to remark: "That was embarrassing."
There was a collective, sharp intake of breath around the room, and nearly everyone turned to stare at Castiel, who was obliviously stirring his drink and swinging his feet under the table. Dean nudged him, and as Cas looked up and noticed the attention he'd attracted, a spotlight clicked on and bathed the angel in what looked comically akin to Heaven's light. The angel swallowed awkwardly and shot desperate, pleading eyes at Dean. But the hunter simply shrugged helplessly and scooted away. "You're on your own, man," he mumbled. Cas looked betrayed.
There was a thump as Warren took the mic and proclaimed, "Looks like we have a volunteer, then!"
Cas looked around curiously and Dean's stomach dropped. The spotlight stayed in place. There were titters of agreement throughout the crowd and Warren waved his hand encouragingly. "Come on up, Elvis! Let's see what you can do!"
There was a glint of sweat along Castiel's hairline and the angel's eyes were wide with terror; Dean almost felt compelled to defend him, but before he could say a word, Cas had stood up and swiped a hand back over his swoopy hair. He was walking—no, swaggering—up to the stage with a sort of jaunty nonchalance Dean had never witnessed before. And when he reached the edge of the stage, he didn't take the stairs; instead, he gracefully hoisted himself up over the side. He smirked as he took the microphone from Warren (who was grinning so widely it was a wonder his face didn't split in half), looked out across the crowd of expectant faces, and winked.
"Did he just—was that a wink?" Sam muttered incredulously. Jane was nodding slowly.
"Sure looked like it," she replied in an undertone, fighting back a smile.
"Cas, what are you doing?" Dean whispered, as all eyes turned to him. They were fixated on the hunter now, because Cas was pointing right at him, one corner of his mouth turned up impishly. There is no way this can end well, Dean thought nervously. Cas whispered into Warren's ear and the playboy clapped his hands gleefully and scurried off the stage. The angel flourished the microphone in front of him and pulled up one side of his upper lip in an unmistakable Presley sneer. Dean's heart pounded in preemptive secondhand embarrassment. As the music started, Cas began to sway a little, and when his hips started rocking—no, gyrating—Dean's mouth fell open. He could feel the eyes of the crowd on him and his cheeks burned. The combination of tension and alcohol was making him dizzy, and he pleaded with himself to pull it together. Blondie would be so ashamed, he scolded inwardly.
But Cas was singing now, and not with the low, evenly-toned-and-disciplined voice Dean was used to hearing; no, this was an entirely new type of singing. "One night with you," the angel cooed into the mic, his voice whining and needy and raw. "Is what I'm now prayin' for." At this line, Dean could have sworn he saw Cas wink again, the smile stretching only infinitesimally, just enough for Dean to catch. "The things that we two could plan would make my dreams come true."
"Jesus, he really did do his homework, didn't he?" Jane whispered, making no attempt to hide her amusement now. She pushed another shot toward Dean, and he drank it down without a second thought. He was going to need it to get through this.
"Always lived a very quiet life," Cas broke into the bridge, his voice pitching and sailing with all the emotional pain of a broken soul. "I ain't never did no wrong." He stood still, clenching the microphone with both hands, fingers overlapping in a way that made Dean shift uncomfortably on his barstool. "Now I know that life without you—has been too lonely too long," Cas sang, all growls and plaintive pleading, his hips swinging emphatically. The crowd erupted into premature applause and scattered whoops and whistles. Cas merely smirked and stared intently, unbendingly, at Dean as he continued the song. He didn't miss a note or a beat, occasionally combing a hand back through his hair and biting his lip. Sam leaned across the table at one point to tap Dean's elbow, a worried expression on his face.
"Dude, you okay?"
Dean could only nod wordlessly, crossing his legs and sheepishly folding his hands over his lap. He'd never expected to be this turned on by karaoke. He knew, in some distant part of his mind, that he would reflect on this with disgust, but at the moment he had breezed right through embarrassment and straight into the dangerous territory of needing to fuck something fast. As Cas drew out the last, long note of the song, his back arched and his face twisted into what Dean knew to classify as an orgasm face, Jane slid him one last shot. Sam didn't try to stop her. Cas stood for a full minute or so onstage after the song ended, while the cheers exploded from every corner of the room. The angel soaked it up shamelessly, smiling and nodding at the attention in a way Dean was not accustomed to seeing. When the roar died down a little, Castiel raised the mic one last time to murmur, "Thank you ver' much," his eyes locked on Dean's face.
"You little bastard," Dean mumbled, torn between amusement and annoyance at being deceived.
Cas all but slithered offstage, with all the smooth sexuality of the King himself. Warren took the stage immediately to call up the next volunteer, and Cas slinked back to his barstool.
"Cas, that was fucking awesome!" Jane gushed. The angel shrugged, his face stoic once again.
"I need a drink. A large one," Cas replied roughly. Sam nodded vigorously and slipped away to the bar for a moment, during which Dean fought the urge to simultaneously kick and grope the angel beside him. So he settled on merely sitting in a sort of feverish heat, his hands twitching. Sam returned quickly with a pitcher of beer. The pitcher was only on the table for a split second before Cas snatched it up and sloppily chugged the entire thing.
"Damn, kid, slow down!" Jane said, shocked.
"Yeah, you don't have to stay in-character," Sam joked. "If you die on the toilet tonight, I can't guarantee I won't laugh at you a little bit."
"I'm not consuming any barbiturates," Cas responded stiffly, wiping the beer-'stache from his lip.
"Cas," Dean finally managed to murmur, and the angel turned to look at him. "I, uh, that was," Dean struggled to configure his thoughts into actual words in English. What his brain screamed was something along the lines of: KISS MY FUCKING MOUTH YOU STUPID BEAUTIFUL SON OF A BITCH, KISS ME AND THEN FUCK THE EVERLOVING HELL OUT OF ME BEFORE I COMBUST IN THE MIDDLE OF THIS STUPID-ASS PARTY.
What his mouth said was: "Left something in the car—somethin' important—it's a little heavy, I might need some help." There was a pause, and then—there it was; Castiel's eyes flitted down to Dean's lips just as his tongue flicked out to whet his own, and then they nearly stumbled to the floor in their haste to get out of the room, to get away from everyone because, well, it would have been terribly rude (and probably unsanitary) to have sex in the midst of the crowd.
"Should we go after them?" Jane asked, concerned. Sam shook his head vehemently.
"No! No. Trust me, you don't want to go there."
The night was crisp and cool, with snow falling unhurried from the pitch-dark sky. Dean and Cas managed to keep several inches separating their bodies until the heavy oak door was closed behind them, and it was just as well that they were already sweating, burning, because the cold air hit them like a razor on a sunburn, and then all propriety was abandoned. They tangled into each other's arms, lips buried against skin and teeth, their hands roving desperately for exposed flesh, but the pair was too thoroughly dressed. They more or less skated down the driveway of the mansion, slipping a little now and then on the icy ground. At last, they reached the Impala, but couldn't be bothered to open the doors, with Cas wedged between the frigid metal and the heat of Dean's body. "You know more about Elvis than you let on," Dean muttered in the angel's ear. Cas dug his fingers into Dean's shoulders.
"You enjoy Elvis more than you let on."
"Touche," the hunter replied, and reached around to open the door and shove Cas into the backseat.
He straddled the angel, the two of them pressed impossibly close in the limited space.
"Dean, I need you closer," Cas hissed, between gritted teeth. "But I, ugh, I can't remove this jacket!"
"I know, I know, I'm starting to really regret the whole costume thing. Be still," Dean snapped, the steam of his breath hot on the angel's cheek. He pressed forward, groaning involuntarily at the hard insistence of Castiel's erection, flush against his own. He pulled at the white velour jacket, tugging the sleeves down from Cas's arms. He could hear the fabric starting to tear, but he couldn't be bothered to give a single fuck about it, as Cas writhed and rutted against him. "Fuck, Cas, be patient," he rumbled, pushing the angel's hips back down into the seat. "I'm working on it."
"Not fast enough, Dean, I need you now."
Dean pulled back for a moment to survey the angel's face. His cheeks were flushed, his forehead damp so that the gelled-back curls were starting to lie tangled around his temples. He was panting, his eyes dark and cloudy. Cas resembled an addict pining for a kick. Lo and behold, Dean thought triumphantly, Cas is a slutty drunk. "Don't waste time. Take your clothes off," the angel demanded, low and unforgiving.
Dean complied without a word, taken aback by the authoritative note in Castiel's voice. He peeled off his own vest and shirt and began to unzip his jeans, only to have Cas take over impatiently.
"You are frustrating me on purpose," he growled, ripping the faded denim with ease.
"Dude!" Dean exclaimed. "There's a zipper!"
"And now there's not," Cas replied simply, and before Dean could protest his breath caught in his throat, as the angel's fingers tore away what little material remained between Dean's cock and the charged, chilly air. However, the jeans still restricted his range of motion, so Cas sighed and snapped his fingers. The pants vanished immediately and Dean sucked in a quick breath of shock, cold prickling across his bared skin.
"Where'd they go?" Dean asked, looking around helplessly for his lost pants.
"Athens."
"Greece or Georgia?"
"Greece."
"What? Why Athens? Why'd you mojo my pants to Greece?" Dean questioned, his arms outstretched. The angel shrugged and looked exasperated.
"First place I thought of. You are distracted," Cas noted, displeased. His fingers curled around Dean's cock and he began to slide calloused fingertips around the head.
"'Kay, you've got my attention," Dean grunted. He could see Castiel's teeth glinting in the dim moonlight when he smiled. The angel's fingers worked expertly up and down and circling, and Dean lurched into the sensation. Cas drove a thumb along the ridge of Dean's cock and delicately toyed with the silky tip, the come-slick slit. "God," he murmured brokenly. There was a tickling sort of burn that spread warmly down his spine as the angel pressed his lips lightly against the flushing skin of his neck.
He whispered, "It takes so little to restore your faith, Dean."
"I'm a full-blown believer these days," he replied headily, entwining his fingers into the angel's dark hair at the nape of his neck where the gel hadn't reached. "As long as you keep doing what you're doing, I'll believe in whatever god you want."
"There's only one I'm concerned about," Cas answered. Dean felt Castiel's cock twitch against his thigh and he disentangled one hand to unzip the tight white pants and slip inside. The angel let out a startled cry, throwing back his head. His face was contorted into a terrifyingly beautiful expression, mouth parted and letting out muted whines. Dean was paralyzed for a moment, entranced by the way Cas's chest heaved against his own, the human heart within his ribcage fluttering and skipping like a broken record. His eyes traced the recurve bow of the angel's lips, the straight sharp angle of his nose, and tightly knitted brows, pulling together as though to hold pinched the wave of sensory overload coursing forward. He was an oil painting, a marble statue come suddenly to violent life, and he was Dean's to move and bend and break as he pleased.
"Dean," Cas whimpered. "Please." Dean finally remembered to move his fingers. The angel moaned and lifted his hips to push earnestly into Dean's hand. "Keep doing—that." With a wave of Cas's hand the white pants disappeared as well, assumedly to Athens. The angel waited for Dean to react with surprise again.
But Dean was busy, licking two fingers of his other hand, then maneuvering them to press gentle fingertips against the angel's entrance. The pads of his fingers massaged soft, tiny circles around the tight muscles, and Dean thought as he had many times before that this was like the ringing of the doorbell before kicking down the front door. (He'd never been very good with metaphors.) Cas groaned and chewed his lip.
"This is what you want, right?" Dean asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The angel nodded and Dean saw his throat bob as he swallowed expectantly. "Tell me."
"I want it."
Dean slipped a finger inside carefully, and Cas sucked in a rattling breath. It was a tight fit, even just to the first knuckle, but the angel simply looked desperate for more, grinding downward even as his own body resisted. "And then what?" Dean pushed, his voice a filthy hiss.
The angel's words were garbled a little, slurred and drafted with vodka-breath. "I want you to fuck me, Dean. Do not be gentle."
"Are you sure?" Dean prompted, as two more fingers joined the first and Cas cried out. He worked Castiel open tenderly, lovingly, and began to feel the angel relaxing against his touch. Cas squirmed and failed to produce any coherent sound, nodding emphatically instead. Dean moved his fingers more deeply in, then hooked gently, brushing what Dean liked to cheekily refer to as "The Promise Land", and the angel gasped. He was stretching open easily now, hungry to accommodate more, more of Dean. It was intoxicating, the power.
"Dean," Cas whined.
"If you're sure you're sure," Dean replied, and pulled Castiel's hands up above his head. He rubbed the tip of his cock against the angel's entrance, spat into his palm, and slicked along the length. He felt a twinge of concern for Cas, even as the angel rocked into him longingly. This was going to hurt.
"You asked for it. You get it," Dean said gruffly, and pushed inside; with one forceful lurch he was completely encased. There was pain etched across the angel's face, being fucked open and dry. Dean leaned forward, nosing at Cas's chest and decorating his shoulders, neck, pearly collarbone with dark pink love bites, feeling the tightness around his cock pulse and contract. When he finally withdrew for a moment, Cas howled at the aching emptiness. It was a hurt, tortured sound, and Dean worried he might have done more damage than he'd expected. He bent to kiss the angel's chewed lips, softly, reassuringly, and he murmured, "Don't let me hurt you, Cas."
"I have felt deeper pain than this before, Dean. I—I want it to hurt," Cas replied quietly, his fingers twisting themselves idly behind Dean's back. The hunter gazed into blue eyes, turned shadowy grey in the darkness, and tried in vain to read his mind. But the angel's face was stony, resolute, and so Dean decided to take him for his word. He hoped Cas truly understood what he was pleading for. Dean shoved back in with determination, and the angel's head fell back against the seat, his fingernails tearing into Dean's shoulders. "Please, Dean, that. More."
So the hunter complied, lunging into him with such force that the car rattled, again and again. Cas began mumbling in Enochian, angling his hips to meet the crushing wave of Dean's thrusts, his eyes half-lidded as though he were drugged. (And with the amount of alcohol he consumed, it was really no surprise.) Dean's hip bones bored into the soft flesh of Castiel's thighs. He pushed deeper when Cas growled, "Come on." And the angel shrieked when Dean's cock hit that same, impossible wall inside him, a pressure point that sent electrifying jolts shivering through his limbs.
"That what you want?" Dean breathed, heavily panting at Castiel's ear, feeling Cas tremble with the overwhelming fullness, the too-much-not-enough sensation. Cas nodded weakly, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He was hardly breathing, now, high-pitched little wheezes breaking from his throat. "Yes, yes, yes," came his strained hiss. Dean trailed biting kisses along the angel's stubbly jaw and then dove for the dry pink lips, swallowing the angel's curses for himself, all the while pumping recklessly into him. He was striking the wall again and again, one hand white-knuckling the back of the seat to keep steady. "Almost," was the one understandable word that slipped through when Dean released the angel's mouth, and Dean wrapped his fingers around Castiel's cock. After just a few uneven, rough strokes, Cas shouted Dean's name and came hard, hot spunk spilling to pool between their stomachs. Dean watched Cas's elated face as he fucked into him a few moments more, numbly drilling toward his own orgasm, and then it was done. "Holy fuck," he moaned, shooting come into Cas, feeling the muscles of the angel's ass undulate complementarily against him. Cas was still vaguely rocking his hips, half-pleasure-half-agony painted in his now wide-opened eyes. Dean's head fell to rest on the angel's shoulder, and for a long minute neither dared to move or speak, so complete and encompassing was their shared contentment. Even the sticky mess between them felt rather nice, collecting in Castiel's navel and trickling out of him down the round of his ass, leaving drip-drop speckles on the seat. At last, Dean pulled himself out with a groan and began fumbling around for a towel or an old shirt or something to wipe himself off with. But the angel merely wriggled his fingers and the mess vanished, leaving Dean a little sticky but otherwise clean.
"Why don't you always do that?" Dean asked, bewildered and slightly offended. Cas shrugged.
"I like to watch you clean it up," he replied simply. Dean shook his head in disbelief, shivering a little.
"You're a pervy bastard, you know that?"
The angel cocked his head to the side and blinked wearily. A hiccup shook him and he looked momentarily shocked. Dean chuckled, his own head swimming. He couldn't remember how many shots he'd taken, but seeing as he'd lost count around six and Cas had been downing Grey Goose and beer like water in the Mojave, Dean figured it might not be wise for either of them to drive. Drunk sex was still definitely good sex, though, and he made a note of this in his addled head.
"Could you, uh, zap us home?" Dean asked, and the angel looked remorseful.
"I don't know. I could try." That did not sound promising.
"Well, don't strain yourself, Cas. I don't wanna end up in Siberia or something."
"I do feel a little—compromised," Cas admitted, regret layered in his tone. Dean clapped him sloppily on the shoulder.
"You drank, like, a swimming pool of booze; I think you've earned the right to be a little woozy."
The angel's bitten, fuchsia-toned lips curved into a smile. "I suppose we could sleep here."
Dean snorted. "No, man, I'm done with the sleeping-in-cars part of my life. That's over. Never again. Sam can drive us. But first of all—we need pants."
Cas let out an unexpected laugh, which was overtaken by another bout of hiccups. He winced at the uncomfortable feeling, but the pants returned, folded neatly on the seat. Dean began to wriggle back into the jeans, pleased to find that the zipper had been restored. On a whim, he kissed Cas on the forehead. The angel hiccupped again and looked every bit like an abandoned puppy. Dean chuckled and passed a fond hand across the angel's chest. "Okay, Elvis. Time to get back to Graceland."