When Dean opens the door to the motel room, he doesn't expect to see Castiel standing inside. He really doesn't expect to see him covered, head to toe, in powdered sugar. It's all over the angel's face, dusting his coat, and streaked down his slacks. There are even sugary fingerprints on his tie.
There's a box of donuts open on Dean's bed. Castiel is holding one of them between forefinger and thumb, and when he turns to beam at Dean, he sheds a trail of white particles that spiral lazily to mix with the dust already catching sunlight. It's kinda beautiful.
Dean sucks in a breath. He must get some of that powder into his lungs, because his throat sure is dry when he swallows.
"You're a mess," he says, distracted but not unkind.
He shuts the door.
The case of beer is already forgotten by the time he sets it absently on the table. Sam is sitting there with some kind of amused expression frozen on his face. Dean ignores him.
Castiel offers the donut with a kind of excitement usually reserved for kids at Christmas. Dean shakes his head with a grin, stepping closer, swiping some of the powdered sugar from one khaki lapel.
"Have you eaten these before?" Castiel asks, his eyes shining as he takes a bite. Chewing, he sniffs at the donut, heedless of the fine white dust rocketing up his nose. "They're wonderful." His eyelids sink nearly closed when he takes another bite. The donut is gone in two more, and Castiel regards his sugary fingers with a furrowed brow. He rubs them together thoughtfully.
Then his tongue darts out to lick them.
Dean can't answer the question. His entire existence has narrowed to those little flicks of Castiel's tongue. There's sugar all over the angel's lips and suddenly, Dean wants to taste it. Never mind that powdered donuts aren't usually his thing.
"Sugar's for eating, not wearing," he says in his best stern voice, trying to distract himself. He's chubbing in his jeans like a goddamn teenager. It's just a stupid donut.
A donut and Cas, his brain reminds him. Then it feeds him a very memorable recent moment from a certain hot tub.
Fuck.
Now Dean has to move, or someone will see.
"Time to clean up," he says in a rush, shoving at Castiel's shoulders, forcing him toward the bathroom.
"Oh!" Castiel says with renewed excitement. "Will you help me, Dean? Like last time?"
Dean blinks. His first instinct is to protest, but his body is already making the decision, plopping his ass on a mattress and bending to loosen his boot laces. Apparently he's game.
Halfway through the second boot he remembers that there's a third observer in this little menagerie of theirs. He glances up.
Sam is watching the scene unfold with his mouth slightly agape.
"Not a word, Sammy." Dean pokes a finger at him.
Sam's jaw snaps shut.
The few steps to where Castiel stands waiting are difficult, but Dean makes it. The smile he receives is equal parts happiness and heat, and makes it easier to forget that Sam is still in the room. Dean's all about sharing his other conquests with his brother - like, all of them - but for some reason this ties his gut in anxious knots.
He steps forward, Castiel steps back. Dean fumbles for the doorknob without looking away from Castiel's face, and pulls the door shut. It's louder than he meant for it to be. Must be all the tile.
"I'll just be out here, then -"
- wait. What?
But then Dean's got an armful of sugary angel and yes, those lips are as sweet as he figured they'd be.
Sam is promptly forgotten. Castiel kisses like he'd like to eat Dean up too, and his sweet tongue finds its way between Dean's lips, seeking out the new flavor. He licks up into Dean's mouth and swallows the moan that tries to surface.
Caught between Castiel and the door, Dean wanders his tongue over every inch of the angel's mouth, darting it back toward his throat in a crude pantomime of what he hopes will happen -– maybe - And Castiel must agree, because the kiss turns absolutely filthy.
They're both panting for it. Even the one who doesn't need to breathe.
Little noises are born and lost between them.
Dean loses track of time eating at Castiel, one thumb pressing into the bolt of his jaw hard enough that a mere mortal's would bruise. Castiel just groans and leans in harder, adhering every powder-coated inch of himself to Dean.
Both their chests are heaving, pressing them closer, the soft snick of lips parting and meeting again drowned out by the rush of blood in Dean's ears. He catches Castiel's tongue, suckling hard. Castiel moans around it. They're pressed so tightly together that Dean's clothes are a loss, sugar stickier by the moment ground into every fiber. It billows up in little clouds every time he shifts his arms, seeking new ways to hold Castiel even tighter.
When the kiss breaks, Dean whines, then realizes that he's seeing spots.
Castiel gives him time to breathe, time he forgot he needed. He frantically sucks in some air, gasping, forehead meeting Castiel's as he pants and Castiel chuckles at him.
When Dean pulls back to look, he sees those blue eyes dark and sparkling. The angel is still laughing, a silent tremor in his chest that gains sound again when Dean pulls a face.
Well, there's one good way to shut him up.
They kiss until Dean can't taste anything but Castiel, and Castiel tastes like their co-mingled flavors. Dean can't even smell the sugar anymore. It's lost in the exotic ozone tang that settles into Castiel's clothes. Dean, his eyes firmly closed, focuses on taste and scent and on kissing Castiel until the angel sags in their embrace. For all his power, his body is a normal human weight. It feels right.
"Dean," Castiel mutters between kisses, "you will always be my favorite taste."
"Mmm... we, we gotta get you cleaned up," Dean replies absently. He's avoiding the way that innocuous statement made him feel. Castiel seems to realize it, too – there's a look in his eye for half a second – but then he glances around the small space of the bathroom. His face falls almost comically.
"This bathtub is too small," he mourns.
Dean grins.
"Just you wait," he says, scrubbing his fingers through Castiel's hair, rucking it up and making sugar fly. "How'd you get it in your hair - Never mind, look. We don't need a tub to have fun in here." He spins in a little circle, hands on Castiel's trim waist, trench coat bunching up as they move. Castiel looks a little stricken when Dean presses him against the door for one more kiss, expression blown wide open when they part.
Then Dean slides his hands up Castiel's chest, and the coat right off his shoulders.
He has to take a moment to admire the fact that Cas looks sharp as fuck in just his suit, aside from the sugar explosion streaking the black into some kind of zebra grays. Dean eyes him critically, ignoring his pleading dick for a moment. "Why don't you just wear this instead of the Columbo get-up?" he asks. Castiel looks, despite Dean's dislike for cliché, good enough to eat.
"I like the added layer," Castiel says, staring down at the coat in Dean's hand like he's afraid it will burn away to nothing. "It keeps me warm."
"You don't... I dunno, regulate that or something?" Dean folds the coat up and lays it reverentially on the closed toilet lid, almost missing the rueful twitch of Castiel's lips.
"There are more important uses of power," is all he says in reply.
Pale fingers find and begin to undo the buttons of the suit jacket, then the shirt.
He's got the damn thing all the way open before Dean twitches hard out of his strip-tease stupor. He turns, moves to the shower, realizing as he reaches for the knob that his hand is shaking. So he starts talking. He figures, hey, Castiel's never used one of these before. He might need to know how.
Dean ignores the way his voice is shaking, too.
"It's just like the tub, see?" he says, twisting the knob so violently the water gushes out, droplets striking up at his face and hands. "There's a, um, a knob for hot water, and -"
"I remember the knobs, Dean," Castiel purrs in his ear, draping a body that's far too hot to be real all across Dean's back. Arms entwine around him, sure hands smoothing over his chest, and Dean's breath hitches. Sweet breath curls over his ear. "Thank you for teaching me, though."
Dean can tell that Castiel is at the very least shirtless. Dean is suddenly as hard as the tile beneath his knees. There's no more room in his jeans and he wants them off, and not just because there's some major pinching going on. Castiel is pressing, grinding -
"Gotta stand up," Dean manages, and the angel deftly stands and pulls him up, spinning him so they're face to face. Dean catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, red-faced and wide-eyed, before Castiel is pulling the same move that Dean used earlier and running his hands under Dean's overshirt, sliding it off and to the floor. Dean skims his hands over Castiel's hips, taking in the shape of them - the dress slacks are loose, belt and zipper undone, and they slide threateningly down beneath his questing fingertips to reveal surprisingly billowy white cotton boxers. There's never a trace of those to be seen through the slacks, and either the slacks are just that thick, or angel mojo. Dean's always willing to believe in a little magic, especially when it's already been proven to exist.
Smiling, tongue peeking adorably through his teeth, Castiel rucks up Dean's t-shirt and takes that off, too. The amulet thumps back into place against Dean's chest. Castiel traces around it, along the lines of Dean's pecs, and the hunter's cock swells almost painfully to see those pale fingers splayed across his chest. Castiel must feel it move, since he draws back and looks down. His expression is a study in heat - Dean's face flushes crimson, now that he's the one on display.
Castiel's nimble fingers make short work of the button of Dean's jeans, yanks them unceremoniously down with his boxer briefs to take his hard length in hand, and all the rest of Dean's blood rushes south. That first shock of skin on skin has him gasping, a ragged intake of air that drags its way down his throat and echoes sharply in the confined space.
The sound dies away and Dean vaguely recognizes that there was a crash out in the room - but Sam's not shouting about zombies or anything, and Cas is kissing Dean again, mmph, none of the rest of it matters.
As yet forgotten, the shower head spits out gallon after gallon, and steam slowly fills the room. The two break from their kiss and find the air hazy. Castiel glances about, looking pleased. "Just like the baths of Caracalla," he murmurs, wafting a hand through the heavy air, bringing it to stroke softly down Dean's face. "In other cultures, people believed that tiny dragons created the steam, puffing it out from their nostrils because they were too small to breathe fire." He waves the hand away again, creating runnels in the steam.
Usually Dean loves the random facts that his angel spouts, but he can't really bring himself to care about them when he's hard enough to pound nails.
"Let's get under the water," he suggests, his voice rough, his shaking fingers gripping and tugging Castiel's pants and weird underwear down to pool around his ankles. The angel steps from them, and Dean watches the ripple of his muscles with a stark hunger. Jimmy Novak has a runner's body, and the way Castiel moves it just makes Dean want to lick, suck, bite and own every supple inch. As it is, his hands roam free over all that skin, relearning some places and discovering others.
The two of them tumble into the shower together, hands sliding slicker as the water soaks them, Dean's teeth catching over Castiel's throat. He latches on to the fluttering pulse point and sucks, pulling blood to the surface. Marking Cas as his.
Castiel moans his name, his hand smacking desperately into the plastic wall as he tries to stay upright - but Dean's got him, one strong arm around that pale waist, hips working, setting a fierce pace and forcing Castiel harder back against the cool plastic.
The change in temperature in and out of the water is a shock, but Dean barely notices each time it makes him shiver. He's too busy dropping to his knees, sliding his hands in silent praise over the planes of the angel's chest and abdomen as he goes. When he reaches Castiel's thighs, Dean digs his fingertips in a little to elicit a squirm as he studies the rock-hard cock bobbing, collecting spray right in front of his face. A good seven or eight inches spring from a base of dark curls, balls tucked up tight and ready, cut tip leaking precome down the shaft. It's a beautiful sight.
A whine of anticipation builds in Castiel's throat as Dean leans forward, slowly, to kiss the slit.
He parts his lips and slowly sucks the head into his mouth, smiling around his mouthful at Castiel's needy, delighted cry. Hips buck beneath Dean's hands, trying to shove Castiel's cock further into the cavern of his throat.
Dean is taking all he can, trying desperately not to choke or look like he's choking. He draws off and sinks down again, maintaining the barest of rhythms, focusing intently on moving his tongue and keeping his teeth covered. There's actually a lot that goes into giving a blowjob, a whole lot more than receiving. Dean had no friggin' clue. He sends up a silent prayer of thanks to all the girls he's gotten head from over the years who never complained, deep throated, and swallowed. God bless 'em.
He's grateful for the shower pounding down above them when his eyes begin to water. He doesn't want Castiel to think he's hurting - from the sounds Cas is making and the death grip he's got in Dean's hair, he seems to be having the time of his life. Dean relaxes, gets a little inventive with his suckling and swirling. The grip and keening grow more insistent with each new thing he tries.
"Dean," Castiel whines, and Dean encourages him with a muffled mm-hmm around his cock that translates up the angel's nerves as thrashing and a low moan.
Dean pulls back, swirling his tongue around the head, then with a split-second decision he plunges forward and takes the whole of Castiel's cock down into his throat. It's too big, it hurts, all of the muscles there protesting with violent spasms - Dean can't breathe at all, but he doesn't care. Castiel's whole body bucks off the wall, and he comes with a shriek in heavy hot splashes down Dean's throat.
The angel sinks against the wall, twitching and boneless, still pinned by Dean's hands. Dean draws off the softening, sensitive flesh as carefully as he can, pulls his hands from the home they've made on Castiel's thighs, and then falls to the floor of the shower to cough, and cough, until he's pretty sure he's hacked up a lung. His vision swims.
Hands find him beneath the spray. Shudders wrack Dean as he struggles for air, but Castiel soothes them away, healing him and easing him up into a kneeling position.
When Dean can look up, Castiel's face is a mess of concern and incomprehension. With a self-deprecating smile, Dean runs a shaky finger through the angel's dripping hair.
"Hey," he says softly. His voice is wrecked.
"Did I hurt you?" Castiel asks earnestly.
"No, no -" Note to self: don't laugh again, fucking ow. "That's actually kinda normal for beginners."
"You've never done this before?"
Dean laughs at that, a sharp bark of sound which, of course, hurts. Ridiculous. After a few hacking coughs he flips a recharged smile at his angel, and the way water drips off his nose.
"You're a first in so many ways, Cas," he says. The soft burr of his voice surprises him more than it should, because of course it would be Castiel - incomprehensible Castiel - who would inspire him to feel and say and do all of these completely uncharacteristic things.
The angel stands, feet squeaking as they turn and find purchase on the plastic, and holds his hands out for Dean to take. Dean allows himself to be hauled up, and suddenly they're face to face. It seems like the most natural thing in the world to slide a hand through that wet hair clinging to the back of Castiel's neck, to haul him in for a kiss.
Lips much hotter than the water they're standing in hungrily lay claim. Dean finds himself moaning, tongue-fucked by an angel of the Lord. He kisses with the same vengeance and fury that Dean has seen in his eyes when he's wielding his blade, or when Dean has been stupid and Cas has to tell him, "I can throw you back in."
It's a scary kind of beautiful.
Dean breaks the connection, has to, running his lips over the damp skin of Castiel's neck and nipping at the angel's ear with a growl. "You're too fucking good to me, Cas."
"Wha- what?" Castiel gasps, dazed, hands sliding everywhere they can reach on Dean. He turns his head with a soft noise, trying to suckle as Dean is - and in one gorgeous moment of reciprocity they're both pulling deep-colored hickeys out of each other's skin. Their hips jolt and buck together, Dean's cock still hard as steel and Castiel regaining quickly.
There's something innately hilarious about a supremely powerful immortal creature with the refract time of a teenager, and Dean chuckles into Castiel's mouth.
Cas makes a little harrumphing noise in return. Before Dean can pull back and ask him what that was about, the angel has thumped to his knees and is licking up the shaft of Dean's dick like it's his favorite candy.
For all Dean knows, it is.
"Cas, fuck, your fucking mouth," he babbles, trying not to fall the fuck over, fingers tangling in clumps of wet hair. Castiel hums his assent as he sucks the head and then the rest of the length deep into his throat. There's not even a hint of a gag reflex.
Dean can feel the edge approaching with embarrassing speed. "Cas, I'm gonna - I can't -"
Castiel pulls off with a soft little pop and looks up at Dean with those wide blue eyes, seemingly unconcerned with the water falling into and around them.
"Do you want to come?" he asks, his voice even rougher.
Dean can't help his whimper, nor the forward twitch of his hips. "Yes, damnit," he finally moans, when it's clear Cas won't suck him til he says it.
The next word, he can't put sound behind it, but he mouths it: "Please."
One strong hand cupping Dean's ass, Cas smiles up at him like a saint.
His fingers grip tighter, slide further - Dean slams back against the shower wall, propelled by the twin sensations of Castiel swallowing him down and a teasing fingertip circling his entrance. He'd touched himself there before, curiosity and the desire for a new way to get off driving him down, but this was nothing like that. This was sparks in his veins, the wet and heavy drag of Castiel's mouth around his cock feeling like a blanket of lightning around his entire body, each new wash of heat punctuated by sweet circling slides, each reaching a little further than the last.
This is – this is something new.
It's not just that he hasn't had a blowjob since Branson, and that was months back, because that was just some girl and this is Cas. This thing they've got building between them shouldn't feel as exciting as it does forbidden, he supposes, overwhelmed by the sensations slung about his hips.
But he's not about to stop, nor tell Cas to stop, not when he looks so pretty with his mouth stuffed full of Dean's cock. He's taking it like a pro, letting Dean buck forward as hard as he wants, and Dean would be lying if he said this wasn't the hottest fucking thing ever. He's never been able to be rough with his partners, to really let go, not like he can with this amazing angel who somehow wants him more than anything else.
This amazing angel who's doing something downright sinful with his tongue in time with the swirling, dipping pulses of his finger. Dean's making all kinds of noises now, a steady keen interspersed with yips and moans, absolutely animalistic. He's almost given up trying to stay upright.
"Cas, fuck, fuck, you're so - hnnngh." He yanks on Castiel's hair to try and tell him what he can't put into words. The angel's hum of approval sends flares of tingling heat all along Dean's nerves, out from his core to the tips of his fingers and toes.
He's close, then closer, balls drawing up tight against Castiel's chin.
There's a moment when Dean lingers on the very edge, the very cusp of coming, and it's like looking across at an expanse of pleasure so momentous he doesn't know if he'll survive - while rocketing toward it at top speed.
Then Castiel breaches his entrance with that fingertip at the same time he swallows around Dean's cock.
And, well, Dean is only human.
His vision grays out, his muscles lock, and he arches back with a cry that echoes around the tiny cubicle as he shakes and comes like a bullet train down his angel's throat. Castiel swallows around him, the soft pulses dragging Dean's orgasm out until he's just shaking, hips hitching, oversensitive.
He sags, slides, until his ass hits the shower floor and he's laughing up into the spray, into Castiel's mouth when the angel's salty lips find his.
"Was that good?" Castiel asks a moment later, into the corner of Dean's mouth.
Dean has to laugh, smoothing his hands over skin that's beginning to prune. "So fucking good, Cas," he says, sucking a bit on the angel's lower lip. He smiles up into that beaming face, those huge blue eyes for half a beat, then reaches behind Castiel to turn the water off. Even when everything is dripping into the stillness, they just sit there, bunched at the bottom of the tub like a couple of kids, staring at one another in dazed delight.
Then it gets cold. Dean's skin breaks out in gooseflesh and he shivers, violently, almost knocking into Castiel trying to duck in for another kiss. The angel eyes him, brow furrowed in confusion, and when Dean offers up a smile the rest of his body shivers even harder.
"We should get out," he says, and his teeth knock together. Traitors.
Toweling off has never been this much fun. They warm up quickly with Dean trying to see how many crazy configurations he can coax the angel's hair into and Cas dodging the towel with little playful growls, another one tucked around his waist.
Dean regards that once he notices. "Huh. Where'd you learn to do that?"
"Dean." Castiel snorts at him. "I've seen you and Sam do this many, many times."
Sam! Shit. "Uh, we were kind of loud, huh," Dean says sheepishly, changing the subject with a swipe of unsure fingers through his wet hair. The amulet, still hanging around his neck on its sodden black cord, suddenly weighs him down like it's his car around his neck.
Dean heaves in a sobering breath. He may be skilled in denial but even he can't deny this weight is everything that's ever been left unsung between him and his brother, between him and Castiel, between him and anyone ever.
The angel's chilly hand on his shoulder makes him jump, and he meets Castiel's eyes a little guiltily.
"Have you told Sam about any of this?" Cas asks softly, waving his other hand around the bathroom.
"Pfft. There are some things you don't tell your family, dude."
Castiel's brow furrows again at that. "You and Sam are not like other families," he says slowly, not like Dean is stupid, but like he's puzzling something out. "Your constant proximity requires creativity when you or he wish to -"
"Fuck someone?" Dean says wryly.
Castiel scowls, but then to Dean's surprise and delight, rolls his eyes. "In as many words, yes."
"Sammy's a grown man, he can handle it," Dean says.
He feels acutely awkward discussing his brother in the context of sex with the man who just sucked his cock. "Can we -" He gestures toward the door. "It's cold," he offers lamely. Castiel says nothing, but he's doing that eye-smile thing he does when he reaches for the door.
Dean's not surprised to find the room empty. However, as he pulls his black tee back over his head, he realizes he has no idea where to go from here.