Castiel lets himself back into his apartment. The lights send a warm glow over the pleasant interior, soft brown leather couches and antique area rugs flaring to life in a pattern of russet and cream. He likes this place, given the amount of time he spends at work, or with Balthazar at his modern apartment and in galleries...it's nice to come home to somewhere still and familiar.
He shrugs off his trench coat at the door, crosses the floor to locate a decanter and a fresh tumbler next to the book case. He pours himself a generous measure, slips out of his suit jacket and sprawls on the couch, head resting on a tapestry cushion. The scotch is good stuff, something he likes to spend his salary on, besides antique books and furniture. He lets the warmth of it, the flavour spread through his mouth and down through his body. He rubs one socked foot against his calf idly.
It's been one hell of a night.
Dean Winchester, after fifteen years. The man had no right to appear, full of apologies and good grace. There is no way in hell Castiel ought to forgive him. No justice that the pretty seventeen year old boy he'd wanted with such desperation all those years ago should have grown into a gorgeous, well matured man.
And yet he has, and Castiel has done what he thought he'd never get the chance to do.
He's forgiven Dean Winchester.
He's kissed Dean Winchester.
His eyes drift closed against the soft glow of the recessed lights. The room is warm and quiet, the traffic noise outside drowned out by the hiss of rain against the widows.
He lets his empty glass fall to the carpet. Scotch and champagne mix and course through his blood.
Dean Winchester's mouth on his.
His hands on his skin.
His body pressing up against him.
Dean.
A long breath hisses from his lips. He lets his body relax into the couch, one hand tugging his shirt free of his suit pants. Fifteen years and nothing's really changed. He still wants him so god damn much.
Balthazar. Think about Balthazar. His mind tells him. All the mornings waking up next to the slim blond man, listening to him talk about art, passion and accent wrapping the words up and making them so seductive. The places they've been together, galleries all over Europe, churches, monasteries and landmarks. The things they've done in hotel rooms along the way, caressing and touching each other, finding their own ways to mark and pleasure each other.
Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Beats out a tattoo over the light memories of streaming sun in Rome and heated sex in London hotels.
Dean in fifth period math, running a hand over Castiel's shoulder and complaining that he still doesn't understand simultaneous equations, breath smelling of illicit cigarettes and gum.
Dean throwing him down on the couch, pinning him and forcing him to submit to watching Die Hard for the fifth time, rather than whatever indie movie he'd picked that week.
Dean laughing. Dean singing out of tune as he fixed sandwiches for study sessions. Dean lying on Castiel's single bed, back at his parents' house. Castiel, younger and infatuated snagging cigarettes from Dean's lips because he's never been good with boundaries.
Balthazar carefully sticking nicotine patches onto him at age 20, when he finally decided to quit smoking.
Dean sleeping next to him when they crashed out after ten hours of bad movies and worse popcorn. ACDC still playing on Dean's tape deck, the sheets around him warn K-mart cotton and smelling of Dean himself, the warm body separated from his by pyjama pants and three inches of space.
Balthazar slipping between layers of Egyptian cotton, baring a mug of coffee and a sweet, open mouthed kiss.
Dean running up the stairs to his bedroom, thudding against the door and diving for Castiel's bed. 'Hey Cas! You coming out with me and Sam today?'
'Cas! Feel like playing hooky?"
"C'mon, you gonna lie there all day? What about baseball?" and if he stayed on the bed, book in hand and radio playing, Dean would nudge him over and lie next to him, complaining with a smile that Castiel wasted too much of summer on reading.
Balthazar taking him to the library of congress, putting aside his own coolness towards literature to treat Castiel to what was essentially the best day of his academic career.
Dean pressed against him in a closet, slurring 'I love you' into his first kiss. Their first kiss.
Castiel gathers his memories of Dean, faded and worn at the edges from so much handling. He lets Balthazar fade into the background, rubbing himself lazily through his slacks. It's been a long time since he allowed himself to think of Dean this way, allowed himself to think of Dean at all. There had been times though, once the initial sting of his betrayal had subsided, when he had let himself imagine Dean. Recreate the feel of so many lazy afternoons out on the grass, lying in the sun, overlaid with what he had experienced of Dean's kisses, of his body.
Balthazar, no matter how real, how perfect and loving and present he might be, had been usurped as Castiel's lover years before they'd even met. Unfair as it was, Castiel had loved Dean, wanted him, lost him and missed him. There wasn't enough of him left to give to someone else.
He lets his hand slide inside his slacks, his underwear. Sighing as he begins to work himself, lazily, through his collection of memories, the many Dean's – seventeen, sixteen, fifteen and further back.
For a while he can pretend he's a teenager again, lusting after his best friend and half hoping that he feels the same.
Then there's the new Dean, the only real one. Fifteen years on, broader, coarsened and softened through age into an adult. Dean has grown into his build, shoulders widening, frame gaining solidity until he nearly dwarfed Castiel's slender build.
Castiel's hand works urgently, his eyes closed as he remembers Dean from that evening.
Rented suit not hiding the bulk of a body that spent most of its time working. Small wrinkles forming creases by his eyes and mouth, tanned skin. The same green eyes he remembers, and the soft, almost feminine mouth that has somehow managed not to sour with age.
His hips twitch upwards and a whimper escapes him, despite his rigid control.
The way he looked, desperate for connection, for absolution. The way he felt underneath Castiel's hands, solid and warm. The way Castiel felt his heart thud the first time Dean called him 'Cas' again, the first time he saw Dean again, changed but not lessened in all that time.
Somehow all that bravado still thrumming away under the surface, enough shit eating cock sure attitude to walk into a roomful of strangers and find him there.
Still too fucking pretty for his own good, too god damn perfect to not touch, to not want to feel what he never got to feel as a teenager, Dean Winchester's naked back under his hands, bucking in...
He comes, stuttering his hips into his hand as he jerks his head up and his eyes fly open.
Letting his head fall back to the couch cushion with a frustrated sigh, Castiel acknowledges the fact that he has a problem, before he falls asleep. Alcohol and orgasm lulling him into dreamless slumber. Which is only fair, he dreams enough when he's awake, after all.
