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Bingo
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There wasn't time to get Castiel new clothes, after he lost his grace. They were immediately facing the next round of Chuck's attacks, and dealing with Michael and Lucifer in the same room, and then their little family was reeling from Jack's departure and adjusting to newfound real freedom. So for the first few weeks, Cas wears extra pieces of clothing that Sam and Dean have lying around.
After being dragged back out of the Empty, graceless and profusely bleeding, his own clothes were no longer in any condition to be used and had to be thrown out. Even the trenchcoat was tossed when no amount of scrubbing and rinsing would get the blood out of its seams. Dean offers to get Cas a new one, but surprisingly Cas declines the offer. "I think I'd like to find something different," he says instead.
Dean thinks he understands it. Cas is human, and trying to figure out what that means for him. As an angel, he'd just kept what Jimmy had worn before he gave up his vessel, and during his first brief stint as a human he'd not had any real options, or time to even try to figure out what he liked.
Once the Empty spat him back out like an offending watermelon seed, Cas got one or two clothing items from Dean, but he mostly wears castoffs from Sam. Wearing Dean's clothes feels too quick, too intimate for where they are right now, whatever label-less thing they have.
He looks ridiculous, really, in Sam's clothes.
Everything is too long, too wide, and seems to swallow Cas whole. Even Jimmy's clothes had been too big on him, oddly, the suit and coat wearing Cas more than the other way round, but that was nothing compared to Sam's things. He has to roll up the sleeves on all the shirts in order to use his hands, and the pants bunch up around the ankles. He looks like he's wearing a plaid flannel tent.
And so, nearly two weeks after Chuck's demotion, Dean can't take it anymore.
Sam is sprawled out on the couch in the TV room, deep in a rewatch of the entire Tarantino canon with Eileen's feet propped on his lap, and that's where Dean leaves them as he pushes Cas out the door.
They drive to Hastings, just a hop-skip-jump into Nebraska, for the closest Wal-Mart. Dean's not the most helpful shopper under the best of circumstances and he still feels a bit unsure of how to carry himself around Cas in public, second-guessing every motion and glance and hyper-aware of anyone else that might walk past, so he shoves Cas in the general direction of the men's clothing and wanders the aisles on his own.
He pauses in the hunting section for long enough to pick out a knife for Cas. It's not anything special as far as a hunter's arsenal is concerned — Wal-Mart doesn't exactly carry their typical grade of weapons — but it's quality steel with a blade that pivots into its handle and a clip to attach it to a belt or a pocket. It's similar to the one Dean carries for minor tasks, like cutting rope or slicing his hand for a sigil.
Dean meanders through the Home department and picks up a few things he thinks they might need at the bunker — extra bedsheets, since he has a feeling Jody and the girls will start visiting more frequently, and a What About Bob? poster to send to Claire as a joke. He chuckles to himself, predicting that she'll send him a Waterboy poster in response.
He's just beginning to wonder if he should check on Cas when his phone pings and a text pops up on the screen: I'm ready.
He half hopes that Cas decides to wear whatever he's chosen out of the store, but when they meet back up Cas has changed back into Sam's poorly fitted hand-me-downs. At the very least, Dean thinks, Cas is far from the worst-dressed person to ever wander into a Wal-Mart.
"Find anything you like?" he asks.
Cas dumps a comically large armful of clothing into the cart in response.
"Well, okay then. I guess you'll have to finally start using the dresser in your room."
When they finish loading up the car, the cache of weapons in the Impala's trunk is completely buried under a rustling layer of plastic bags. Cas shuts the trunk and, in a moment of sudden swooping courage, Dean glances around the parking lot and kisses Cas on the mouth.
It's quick and nothing to lose his mind over, barely a peck. But Cas's face lights up with surprise and delight, and something is knocked loose in Dean's chest at the sight of it. He feels daring, even if he did have to check to see if there was anyone watching. After all, Dean is trying to figure out what this means for himself, too.
I could get used to this, he thinks, then feels absurd and ducks his head and slides into the driver's seat.
They drive the hour back to the bunker under a rapidly setting sun, the windshield blazing in orange and purple. Dean plays music, but not so loudly that they can't talk. The conversation is effortless, not punctuated by thorny silences or grasping at straws, and somewhere in the back of Dean's head is the thought that it should be more awkward than this, that surely it can't still be this easy.
But it is.
Dean is certain that at some point Cas is going to want to have a straightforward discussion about what this change means for them — if they're boyfriends, or partners, or if they want a label at all, and where the boundaries lie and what those are and what exactly they want from each other — but for now, it's just easy.
The sky is all blue and fading violet above Lebanon when Dean turns the Impala down the tunnel to the bunker's garage and parks in the usual spot. Loaded with a truly ludicrous number of shopping bags on each arm, they squeeze through the door to the bunker and dump everything onto the map table in the war room.
Dean reaches for the bags containing the bedsheets to take them to the linen closet, but it's Cas's turn to catch him off guard. Without warning, Cas loops a hand around the back of Dean's neck and kisses him again, longer and deeper and enough to make Dean's toes curl in his boots. An alarm bell goes off somewhere in him — that this isn't private enough, that Sam could walk in at any second, that one kiss in public per day is already almost more than he can handle — but the alarm quiets as Cas's fingers wind into the hair at the nape of Dean's neck.
When Cas steps back, leaving Dean halfway breathless and staring hungrily at his lips, all he says is, "So. Dinner?"
Dean clears his throat, fingertips tingling, and manages a hoarse, "Um. Yeah, I'll get something started."
"I'm going to go put these away." Cas smiles at Dean, like he knows exactly what he just did, and takes the bags of clothes from the table.
He disappears into the corridor and Dean just stands there by the map table for a minute, hair prickling where Cas tugged on it, until he manages to give himself a shake and re-orient the room around him. Don't panic, don't panic, he chants in his head. Don't fucking panic. He takes the bedsheets out of the bags, walks down the opposite hall to the linen closet, then drops the movie poster onto the desk in his bedroom.
It's not that he thinks he has any real reason to be afraid of Cas, or anything involving Cas. But Dean's just… not used to this. To anything beyond superficiality. And it's not because Cas is a man — not only because of that, anyways. Dean doesn't have a long history of connecting with anybody in this way, and hell, he'd even had his fair share of vulnerability issues with Lisa.
Jesus, why can't you just TALK to me?! he remembers her snapping one night when he'd woken up screaming and still wouldn't tell her why, not in any kind of detail. The discussion had scared him more than the nightmares, though he knew Lisa wouldn't have reacted badly. The words had piled up in his throat with nowhere to go.
But, logically, there should be even less reason to panic where Cas is concerned. Cas has a deeper understanding of Dean's history, of Dean's inner workings and the various emotional labyrinths his brain seems to construct at the slightest hair trigger, than anybody else on the planet. And if Dean's honest with himself, that confounds him more than anything — that Cas has seen all of it, all of him, and somehow still considers Dean worth his time.
Fuck. This is exactly why Cas is going to want to talk at some point.
Don't panic, don't panic. Just don't fucking panic.
To distract himself, Dean unfurls the What About Bob? poster and tries to picture Claire's face when she opens it. It makes him laugh, even if his body's still crackling with too much energy in every cell, and it's enough to steady him for the moment.
Dinner. Right. He can do that. Doing things is so much easier than thinking.
He closes his bedroom door and swings by the TV room, where Sam and Eileen are still on the couch. Now, though, Eileen is snoring on Sam's shoulder with his long arm draped around her like the safety bar on a roller coaster. Sam is awake, feet on the coffee table, fully enthralled by the movie. On the floor in front of the TV is Miracle, sleeping with his tongue out and his paws twitching in a dream.
"What'd you hear?" says the TV.
"He beats German soldiers with a club."
"He bashes their brains in with a baseball bat is what he does. Now, Werner, I'm gonna ask you one last goddamn time, and if you still respectfully refuse, I'm calling the Bear Jew over, and he's gonna take that big bat o' his, and he's gonna beat your ass to death with it."
Dean snorts and steps into the room. "This is a weird choice," he remarks.
Sam grins over his shoulder, remaining still so as not to disturb Eileen. "What, you don't like Inglourious Basterds?"
"Sure I do, but it ain't exactly a date night kinda movie."
"Eileen loves this movie," Sam protests, though his words are punctuated by another snore.
"Yeah, clearly," Dean says, raising an eyebrow at her.
"Hey, Donny! Got us a German here who wants to die for his country. Oblige him."
"Anyways," Dean continues, "I just wanted to see if you guys are hungry."
Sam shakes his head, distracted by the Nazi getting clubbed to death onscreen. "No, thanks, we already ate."
"Alright, well, enjoy your little weird violent romantic evening," Dean concedes, and leaves them to it.
Criticisms of his taste in cinema aside, Dean's happy Sam is doing something lazy and unhealthy just because he wants to. The only times he's ever seen Sam spend all day in his room, foregoing exercise and healthy meals, have all been under an oppressive blanket of depression and guilt. He's never seen Sam lounge around all day watching movie after movie, subsisting mainly on popcorn and pizza just for fun. It's a welcome change, and further proof that Eileen is good for Sam in more ways than one.
In the kitchen, Dean still makes enough mac and cheese for four people, resigning to just save the leftovers for whoever wants them tomorrow (or for a midnight snack later). It's a simple enough recipe, but Dean still takes pride in doing it well — none of that Kraft crap. He slides the tray into the oven and is just opening the fridge to get a drink when he hears Cas walk into the kitchen behind him.
"Hey, man, you want a beer?" Dean asks over his shoulder, already grabbing a second bottle from the shelf.
"Sure."
He shuts the fridge, turns, and stops short.
The plaid flannel tent is gone. Cas is standing in front of him, an arm's length away, in his own clothes. A soft dark blue henley, with the sleeves a shade lighter, and straight-leg jeans that actually fit. He seems taller, somehow, and broader. He's standing straighter — or maybe the suit and trenchcoat and oversized clothes had just made him look hunched-over and without them the optical illusion is gone.
He's bigger than I thought, is the only ridiculous thing in Dean's head.
"Dean?" Cas prompts, hand held out. "The beer?"
Dean abruptly realizes he's staring, and flushes. "Right. Sorry." He gives it to Cas, then opens his own. "You look different."
Cas hooks the fingers of one hand into his pocket as he takes a sip, his Adam's apple catching Dean's attention for a moment when he swallows. "Good different?" he asks.
"Yeah," is all Dean can say.
He sees Cas's eyes drop noticeably to his mouth, his chest, and back up. "Good," Cas replies airily, shifting his weight to one hip. "I was getting sick of Sam's things."
"You could have borrowed more of mine."
The corner of Cas's mouth twitches to the side, like he's about to laugh. "You didn't offer."
"You didn't ask," Dean fires back.
At that, Cas does laugh — a heavy, belly-aching kind of laugh that has Dean wondering what's so damn funny until he says, "Well, that about sums us up, doesn't it?"
Dean tilts his head, dragging a long gulp of beer. "Fair enough."
"Are Sam and Eileen eating too?" Cas asks as he goes to the table and sits down. He's got the knife Dean bought for him clipped into his back pocket, Dean notices.
"Nah, they're watching gory movies and Eileen's already passed out in a pizza coma," Dean replies with a flap of his hand, leaning on the counter.
"So it's just you and me, then," Cas says, propping an elbow on the tabletop to rest his chin in his palm. He gazes at Dean from where he sits, unwavering.
Dean shifts, averting, and wonders at how infuriatingly at ease Cas is with all of this. "Well, mac and cheese is in the oven; it'll be ready in a bit," he says, for lack of a better line. When he looks back up, Cas is still staring at him. "What're you looking at?"
Cas doesn't respond directly, nor does he look away. He shrugs one shoulder and asks, "Does it make you uncomfortable?"
Dean opens his mouth to say something along the lines of Yes, you fucking dumbass, now quit it. The words catch in his throat. "You asshole," he says instead.
There's a strange sort of fond smile that spreads over Cas's face, and Dean doesn't understand it. Cas sits there, waiting.
Waiting. For what?
The notion lodges in Dean's brain like a grappling hook: Cas is waiting. He's a billion years old and mind-bogglingly patient, sitting at the kitchen table with a beer in hand, and he's just… waiting.
Dean knows if he asks what Cas is waiting for that Cas will tell him, unabashed and honest and bafflingly straightforward, but he's not sure he wants to ask. Not yet.
Not yet.
He's said those exact words to Cas at least a dozen times since his return from the Empty. Cas is waiting, because Dean told him to.
Cas is offering, but Dean still has to ask.
This is stupid.
His brain is still shouting at him that Sam and Eileen are in the other room, but Dean seems to be the only person hung up on anything, so he tries his best to shove the fear to the back of his head.
This is so stupid, to keep waiting. He's done waiting. He's asking.
"Come here," he says, placing his drink on the counter behind him and scrambling for the same courage he'd found in the Wal-Mart parking lot.
A brief shadow of surprise flits over Cas's face, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared. He does as he's asked, and stands back up from the table.
As Cas crosses the kitchen toward him, Dean feels an odd sort of — not calm, exactly, but maybe acceptance — spread through him. He's tired of simultaneously wanting and resisting, fighting for and fighting against. He's not even really sure what he's been fighting against this whole time, anyways — that things won't turn out as well as Cas thinks they will, or that he won't be okay after the line's been crossed, or that he'll change his mind and end up making everything worse.
But ambiguity is not his friend, and Dean either wants this or he doesn't. And he knows he does. There's no use twisting himself into tighter and tighter knots over things that haven't even happened yet. All he can do is let them happen.
The lines of Cas's face are like cuneiform, ancient and indecipherable, a clear message to something that no longer exists to read it. Eyes a brilliant cornflower blue and close enough to drown in. Dean fights every instinct he has to look away, and instead pulls Cas closer by the front of his shirt.
A shiver courses up Dean's spine as he meets Cas's mouth; he can feel a humming — subaudible, subatomic — radiating from Cas's body like an oncoming earthquake. Cas's hand comes up to find the corner of Dean's jaw, the shell of his ear. His thumb on Dean's pulse as it quickens.
It's not the first time they've kissed like this, with their surroundings fading to grey. But something's shifted, and they both know it.
"Tell me what you want, Dean," Cas murmurs against Dean's lips.
The answer is suddenly, incredibly, miraculously easy. "I want to go to your room."
"Now?" asks Cas. There's no surprise or shock in his tone; he's only confirming.
"Now." Dean nods, their noses bumping. No more waiting. No more saying not yet.
Cas smiles, and kisses him again, and hauls Dean away from the counter and out of the kitchen and, stumbling, down the corridor.
It's hard, Dean realizes after Cas's bedroom door closes behind them, to get undressed without breaking contact. Even in the brief moments where they have to separate in order to pull shirts over their heads or toe off their shoes, they're already reaching for each other to close the gap. Cas's new shirt and jeans wind up in a pile on the floor, and Dean bursts into an abrupt fit of laughter and buries his face in Cas's collarbone.
Cas's fingers card through the stubble of Dean's hair, his other hand palming Dean's bare hip. "What are you laughing at?"
"Nothing, you just—" Dean chuckles, lifting his gaze to meet Cas's again. "You only got to wear your new stuff for like ten minutes."
A wry smile tugs at Cas's mouth, and Dean wants to swallow it whole. "Well, if I'd known this was happening I wouldn't have gotten dressed at all."
"If I'd known this was happening, I wouldn't have bothered with dinner," Dean retorts with a grin that fades only a moment later. "Shit."
Cas blinks, arching an eyebrow. "You left the oven on, didn't you?"
Dean groans. His head drops in embarrassment. "Yeah, fuck, I did. I — I gotta—"
"Then go already," Cas says, and gives Dean a shove.
Dean weighs the pros and cons of getting dressed again: the risk of Sam or Eileen catching him in the hallway in a questionable lack of clothing versus the ease of already being practically naked when he gets back, and decides the risk is worth it. He grabs Cas's robe from the hook on the wall and, with one final appreciative glance at Cas, stalks out to the hallway.
Cinching the robe around his hips, Dean walks as quickly and quietly as he can. Fortunately, when he slinks past the open door to the TV room, Sam is entirely focused on the rapid gunfire and bloodcurdling screams coming from the movie, and Dean is able to slip by unnoticed.
In the kitchen, he manages not to burn himself as he yanks out the mac and cheese tray and sets it atop the stove to cool, then shuts off the oven. He dumps the remainders of his and Cas's beers down the sink, stuffing the empty bottles into the trash.
He's not a hundred percent certain why exactly he's so hell-bent on hiding this from Sam and Eileen. For fuck's sake, they already know — they'd walked in on Cas and Dean kissing in the kitchen weeks ago. But Dean's just stuck on this track, this hide everything, tell no one, keep it secret track with no exit in sight. It's not like Sam cares, not really, but… Dean does. Even if it's already out there, he still wants to keep it for himself a while longer. Even if other people are comfortable seeing it, he's not sure he's comfortable showing them.
Tonight might be a step in the right direction, though.
Halfway down the hall to Cas's room, Dean stops short and backtracks to his own bedroom. They'd gone to Cas's because it was further away from the TV room and there was less of a chance of being heard, and Dean's only just realized that Cas's room doesn't have everything they need. It's not like they require a lot of bells and whistles, but there is one thing, and Dean rummages through his bedside table to find it. He tucks the small bottle of lube into his robe pocket, his heart skipping in his chest as it fully sinks in that he really is about to do this.
Amazingly, he thinks as he walks back down the corridor, it doesn't scare him nearly as much as he thought it would.
When he slips back into Cas's room, he finds Cas lying on the bed, arms crossed over his bare chest and staring up at the ceiling with a distinctly irritated expression that's immediately swept away by relief.
"You came back," he says.
"You don't have to sound so surprised," Dean retorts, untying the robe. His hands shake only slightly, and he's proud of himself for that.
Cas sits up on the edge of the mattress, reaches out and tugs Dean close. "I was starting to worry you'd changed your mind," he confesses, breath ghosting over Dean's chest. His palms course up Dean's sides, along the wings of his ribs.
"I was only gone for one minute."
"It was twelve," Cas counters as he leaves a trail of kisses across Dean's chest, mapping paths from freckle to freckle.
Dean can't help but snort, squeezing Cas's shoulders. "Are you always this cling—" The final syllable lodges in his throat as Cas's tongue catches on his nipple.
Cas grins up at him, seeming to congratulate himself for discovering one of Dean's sensitive spots, and reaches up to tug the other one.
"Fuck," Dean chokes out, and Cas loops an arm around Dean's back, slipping underneath the bathrobe, and yanks him down into a messy sliding kiss of tongue and teeth.
"Maybe I'm just finally letting my impatience get the better of me." Cas's voice rumbles over Dean's skin when he breaks for breath, raising gooseflesh in the shape of handprints wherever he touches. He pulls Dean down to the mattress and rolls on top of him, his body a solid line of weight across Dean's chest as he slots their mouths together again.
Dean's legs bracket Cas's hips and he gasps when Cas grinds downward, sending a jolt of electricity tearing through Dean's core. His hand flutters up Cas's flank for a moment and finds a place on Cas's neck, fingers digging into his nape and trying to pull him, somehow, closer.
Without breaking the kiss, Cas reaches up and tangles his fingers with Dean's, pinning his wrist to the bed for a moment before working the robe off his shoulders, arms out of the sleeves. Dean nips at Cas's jaw, relishing in the graze of stubble and the flush beneath Cas's skin.
Cas rolls his hips again, and Dean can't help the sound that leaves his mouth. Slowly, Cas begins working his way down, sucking on Dean's nipple again for a moment before continuing lower.
"Would this be different?" Dean blurts out suddenly, the moment the thought occurs to him. "If you still had your grace?" His heart is fucking pounding; he can barely hear his own voice.
Cas lifts his head, regarding Dean with a mildly perplexed expression. "What do you mean?" he asks as his touch roams across Dean's stomach, his sides, his hips.
"I — I don't know, I mean…" Dean stammers, struggling to find the words. "Would you even want to do this, if you weren't human?"
A soft smile crosses Cas's face, and his hand dips low, brushing the hair between Dean's legs. "I'm sure the experience would be different in many ways," he says, wrapping his fingers around the shaft of Dean's erection. Dean sucks in a breath, his head falling back at the flash of pleasure that rockets through him when Cas moves his grip up to the head and down again. "But I can't imagine not wanting to do this."
Cas chooses that moment to take Dean into his mouth and bury him to the back of his throat.
"Shit," Dean gasps, and his hips try to leave the bed. His hand fists at the sheets, the robe still pinned beneath him, and finally finds the top of Cas's head, fingers winding into his hair.
Cas hums around him, and Dean nearly loses it then and there.
Then, Cas does something with his tongue that makes him arch up and stutter out, "Fuck — Cas, I — stop, stop, stop —"
Instantly, Cas's mouth is gone. "Are you all right?"
Dean pants, nodding at the ceiling as his muscles relax again, energy still crackling in every cell under his skin. He can feel sweat just beginning to pool between his collarbones. "Yeah, yeah, I — I just don't want to set off the fireworks too early, y'know?"
Cas takes him into his mouth one more time, swallows around him, making Dean groan and his fingers flex at his sides, before pulling off with an obscene sound.
"Cas, please —" Dean whines, a tone he'd be embarrassed by if he weren't so achingly turned on.
A thumb teases at the head of Dean's cock as Cas slides back up to kiss Dean's lips, his throat, the hollow of his jaw. "What do you want, Dean?" Cas whispers, sending a fiercely gratifying shiver down Dean's spine.
It's hard to concentrate with Cas's hand still on his cock, working up and down, and his voice in Dean's ear murmuring praises that Dean can barely register right now and won't remember later.
"Tell me what you want," Cas repeats, teeth grazing Dean's earlobe.
Breathless, Dean tries, but the words catch low in his throat. Instead, he reaches out with one hand and fumbles for the pocket of the bathrobe until he manages to grab the small bottle of lube. When he presses it into Cas's palm, Cas's eyes blow wide, darkening even in the dim lighting of the bedside lamp.
"Yeah?" Cas asks, confirming. Dean should have known that Cas would want to check in every few steps.
Dean nods, running his fingers up the side of Cas's ribs, over the Enochian tattoo he'd nearly forgotten Cas had. "I trust you," he says.
A smile lights up Cas's face — gratitude and awe — and he uncaps the bottle.
Dean's heart quickens at the sight of Cas squirting lube onto his fingers, excitement and anxiety spiking in his stomach in equal measure. Want cascades through him, he's bloody with it, but somehow he can't quite bring himself to look up at Cas while he does this. So Dean follows his gut instinct, and rolls onto his stomach.
He's used to this — to partners using him to get off however they want. He's okay with it, really; he even prefers it. The burden of choice, of ordering around another person, is squarely in the other's lap and it lets Dean just go along for the ride. His highest highs have invariably been at another's direction. He's always taken pleasure in making others happy, in doing whatever they want, and it's always better when he knows they won't leave in the morning. Cas won't leave in the morning.
He wants to be used by Cas, because Cas isn't going to use him like a weapon, to hurt or to break, or as a means to an end. Cas will use him like a potter uses a wheel, taking something raw and ugly and unrefined and molding it into something better. Dean shakes the thought from his head — he's getting dangerously close to a Ghost reference. Which, yeah, it's Swayze, but still.
Pressing a kiss to Dean's shoulder blade, Cas sinks a slick finger into him, knuckle-deep, and Dean cries out and grips the headboard.
"You're so beautiful," Cas says with just a hint of a growl, trailing kisses across Dean's shoulders, the nape of his neck. "You have no idea."
Somewhere in the recesses of Dean's mind, he instinctively wants to protest, but instead Cas adds a second finger and Dean sees white as Cas works him open.
By the time Cas is up to three fingers, Dean is rutting helplessly against the mattress, desperate for any kind of friction, and Cas is hitting his prostate on every other thrust. He twists his hand slightly and Dean releases a string of swears into the pillows.
Cas lays his free hand across the small of Dean's back, abruptly cool against the searing heat of Dean's skin. And just like that, his fingers are gone and Dean groans, left empty and yearning.
"Turn over," Cas sighs into Dean's ear. "I want to see you."
Dean steels his nerves, and does as he's told, turning once again onto his back — he wants to give everything to Cas, all of himself, but he hesitates for just half a second, and it's enough for Cas to notice. Cas stills between his legs, pelvis flush to Dean's ass, and a shadow of worry settles in the creases of his face. His palm brushes soothingly up the inside of Dean's thigh.
He shifts, feeling awkward beneath Cas's gaze, and swallows nervously. Benny had never asked for eye contact, had never asked him to actually face what they were doing. Dean doesn't quite know what to do with this kind of attention.
"Are you sure you want this?" Cas presses, voice probably much calmer than he's feeling, if his expression is anything to go by.
Dean flashes him a lopsided grin, hoping it's enough to put Cas at ease. "Little late for that now, don't you think?"
He's joking, purely out of reflex, but Cas doesn't take it in jest. His frown deepens.
"No, never," he answers resolutely. "I'm not interested in doing anything you're uncomfortable with."
Dean blinks, and a swell of emotion surges up somewhere inside his chest. Cas means it — he really would back out right this second if Dean requested it. Abruptly Dean feels safer, more cared for and more loved than he has in years. Or — ever, really, now that he's thinking about it.
He reaches up and pulls Cas down into a crushing kiss, wanting nothing more than to chase away the worry.
"Yeah," he says when he finally draws back, palm cupping Cas's jaw. "Yes, I'm sure. I'm just— It's a lot, is all."
Cas studies his face, blue eyes evaluating but not probing. "Is it because this is your first time with a man?"
Dean pauses. Takes a breath. "It's not. My first."
A soft, blissed-out smile takes over Cas's features, erasing any traces of worry. The backs of his fingers lightly brush Dean's cheek. "Thank you for telling me," is all he says.
Dean blinks, then huffs and rolls his eyes. "You knew already, didn't you?"
The smile on Cas's face only widens. "I did," he replies, and sinks down and kisses Dean, slow and deep.
It should make Dean feel more exposed, less secure, that the thing he's kept buried under lock and key almost his entire life is out there, already known. It should make him feel scared, it should make him want to run for the hills. But it's Cas.
Cas had, without any demands, given him the opportunity to maintain the lie, and Dean chose to be open, and he'd chosen on his own.
He had always told himself that his thing with Benny was a matter of desperation and convenience — brothers in arms unable to turn to anyone but each other. That whatever happens in Purgatory stays in Purgatory. And that the handful of encounters he'd had as a much, much younger man were just… exploratory. He was a kid, figuring shit out, and that was all. He's only now starting to think that maybe they weren't just exploratory or just convenient or just desperate — maybe they were just his. Maybe they were the things that built him.
It's then that Cas reaches down between them, lines himself up and slides inside slowly. Dean arches up against him, pressing his face into Cas's neck and locking his arms around Cas's shoulders. Dean's mouth falls open, breath hot against Cas's chest, reveling in the stretch and slow burn as Cas drives into him.
The sound that Cas makes when he bottoms out is almost too much for Dean, and he has to clamp his teeth on the inside of his cheek to keep from coming on the spot. For a long moment, Cas stays like that, buried in Dean as deep as he'll go and shaking with the effort of holding still, as though he thinks he'll break some kind of spell if he moves.
"Cas — Cas, please —" Dean pants, fingers digging into Cas's shoulders hard enough to leave imprints. He cants his hips upward, begging Cas to just fucking move, God, please —
One of Cas's hands circles up behind Dean's head, grips him by the hair, and he pulls out only to slam back in and make Dean nearly bite off his tongue.
It doesn't take long for Cas to find a rhythm — relentless, but just slow enough for Dean to feel every thrust, the drag and burn, piercing to his core, and the shocks that ripple through him each time Cas grazes his prostate. The edges of his vision blur, the room fading from the background.
His hands scrabble at Cas's back, until Cas takes both Dean's wrists in one hand and pins them back over his head. His other hand reaches down and winds underneath Dean's leg, behind the knee, and folds it up toward Dean's chest, easily as an afterthought, and with a strong arm he keeps it there.
The change in angle allows Cas to push even deeper, and Dean's groan is muffled by Cas's lips finding his own again. The kiss is messy, dirty, Cas's lower lip catching in Dean's teeth.
His orgasm sneaks up on him, crashing over him like a tidal wave between Cas's thrusts, spilling across his own stomach. He cries out with the force of it, savoring the all-encompassing feeling of Cas holding him through it, of being surrounded so completely.
Cas doesn't stop, his breath growing more ragged by the second. He sighs Dean's name into his mouth and Dean clenches around him, making Cas's eyes slip closed at the sensation. Sweat beads across Cas's forehead and his grip on Dean's wrists tightens. Dean can't move, and doesn't want to.
Finally, Cas's hips stutter and lock. He comes undone with a groan and collapses, trembling and still pressed deep inside, onto Dean's chest.
For a long minute, the only sound is their joint breathing, gradually evening out in tandem. Dean's entire body feels boneless and heavy, and he barely notices when Cas releases his leg and lets it lower back onto the bed. He lets go of Dean's wrists, too, carding his fingers through Dean's sweat-damp hair, lazy and replete.
His brain still hazy with static, Dean can't quite believe that they've made it here, to this moment. He wraps an arm around Cas's shoulders, enjoying the weight of Cas on top of him and intentionally delaying the inevitable separation.
Cas sighs once, slow and content. He lifts his head and kisses Dean gently on the mouth, the cheek, the forehead, and then shifts and accidentally slips out of him with an embarrassing noise that makes them both laugh.
Dean feels empty, but not unpleasantly so. "Well, I'm gonna be sore tomorrow," he remarks.
Cas chuckles, sleepily mouthing at Dean's neck. "Was it worth it?"
Dean winds his fingers into the hair on the back of Cas's head, heavy-eyed and smiling at the ceiling. "Hell yeah."
"Good," Cas says, planting one last kiss on Dean's lips before sliding off him.
Before Dean can regret the loss of Cas's crushing, comforting weight, Cas wraps his arms solidly around him and pulls him close. "I hope you know," Cas continues, voice barely louder than a whisper, "how lucky I am, to have you like this."
Dean swallows the old instinct to argue against any implication of his own worth. If anything in his life was going to make him feel worthy, surely this should be it. "Did you always know this was going to happen?" he asks instead.
Cas meets his gaze, blue eyes still dark, palm brushing over Dean's jaw, down his arm. "No," Cas replies honestly. "Not until quite recently. But once I did, it was easy to wait for you."
Dean's not great with his words, and he doesn't exactly know what to say to that. But he can feel his soul pulse in his chest, just as surely as his heart, and he knows that Cas doesn't have to wait any more. Neither of them do. Dean understands precisely what Cas means when he talks about being lucky.
Unwilling to let this go now that he has it, Dean burrows further into Cas's hold, and closes his eyes.
Dean sleeps the whole night through. When he wakes in the morning, he returns to consciousness slowly, Cas's arms heavy where they're still entwined, his face nestled into Dean's shoulder. Dean doesn't open his eyes immediately, content to lie still for a little while longer with Cas's breath tickling his neck.
Throughout Dean's life, silence only ever brought something nasty lurking in the shadows, or came on the heels of a bloodbath. He filled the spaces in between hunts with loud music and classic movies and chatter, jokes — forced or genuine, it didn't matter — and anything else to occupy his mind when he couldn't bear to be alone with himself. Here and now, this quiet, this perfect silence is nothing but safety, calm and comfort, and Dean isn't ready to give it up quite yet.
Eventually, though, the feeling of his skin still sticking to Cas's creeps in, and his mouth is clammy with morning breath. Dean draws a deep, slow inhale and turns his head to kiss Cas on the cheek before gently untangling himself from Cas's embrace.
Cas frowns, eyes still closed, and makes a noise of protest low in his throat. His arm cinches tighter.
"I gotta go shower," Dean says softly.
"You smell fine," Cas mumbles, still half-asleep. "Stay."
A light chuckle works its way up from Dean's chest, and he leans back down to kiss Cas on the mouth, lingering before he pulls away.
Cas huffs through his nose. "Okay, your breath does stink," he admits, and releases him.
"Coffee'll be ready by the time you're up," Dean promises as he slides out of bed.
Cas only rolls over and drapes an arm over his eyes, clearly much more interested in going back to sleep. Dean grabs Cas's robe from the floor, where it had been kicked off the bed at some point during the night, and slips out into the hallway to head for the bathroom.
He was right the night before — he is sore, but not as much as he expected. As he steps into the shower and scrubs his skin under the steaming spray, Dean can still feel the phantom touches of Cas's hands and mouth, fingers gripping his hips and stretching him open. He kind of hopes the sensation will last.
Shower-damp and wrapped again in the robe, Dean makes his way to the kitchen after and sets the coffee pot brewing, as he promised.
He opens the fridge to find the mac and cheese wrapped and sitting on a shelf, untouched. Sam or Eileen must have put it fully away at some point last night. He moves it to the side and digs out the carton of eggs and the packet of bacon, stomach rumbling loud enough to remind him that he'd never actually eaten dinner. He gets a rudimentary breakfast spread together, humming absentmindedly to himself in the quiet of the kitchen.
He pours himself a steaming cup of coffee from the fresh pot, and half a second later nearly drops it on the floor when he looks up and notices Sam leaning on the doorframe. "Fuck!"
"Hi," Sam greets him with a smirk when Dean jumps.
"Damn it, Sam," Dean spits, cursing Sam's ability to move silently despite his ridiculous stature. "Don't scare a man before breakfast. The hell's wrong with you?"
Sam's smile only grows into an ear-to-ear grin that can only be described as shit-eating. "Caught you flinching," he taunts, adopting a lilting accent that sounds only vaguely German-esque.
Dean makes a face. "You know, just because you've seen Inglourious Basterds a million times, it doesn't mean your impression of Hans Landa is a good one."
Sam shrugs with one shoulder, still grinning, but drops the accent. "Eileen disagrees."
"Oh, sure, trust the Deaf chick to judge your Austrian accent," Dean deadpans.
Rather than firing back at Dean's dig at his girlfriend, Sam deftly switches tracks. "What were you doing in Cas's room?"
Dean chokes on his coffee. "What?"
"You heard me."
"None of your damn business."
The smile splitting Sam's face in two goes absolutely nowhere. "Yeah? You spend the night?"
Dean can feel the tips of his ears turning red, an all-too-obvious flush creeping up his neck. "Sam, I swear to—"
And then Sam's piss-poor Austrian accent is back. "That's a bingo!"
"You just say 'bingo'!" Dean snaps, glowering. He replies with the proper quote from the movie, but his irritation is genuine, and all he wants to do is punch Sam in the jaw.
Sam only laughs at him, thoroughly enjoying Dean's discomfort. "C'mon, why can't—"
Dean cuts him off sharply. "Sam, I'm not going to talk about this with you."
"Right," Sam says smugly. "And you're not wearing Cas's robe."
Fuck.
The panic is back, twisting in his gut and sending spikes of anxiety inward. Not yet, not yet, not yet. This is mine. I don't want to share this yet.
Something about Dean's expression must tip Sam off that his unease is deeper than mere embarrassment, because the self-satisfied smirk finally vanishes. He opens his mouth again, but whether he's about to apologize for pressing or attempt to backtrack, he's interrupted by Cas striding into the kitchen from the other door, dressed but yawning and already heading for the coffee pot.
Sam clears his throat, glancing between them with something like guilt flickering over his face. "I'll, uh— I'll leave you guys to it."
Cas blinks in confusion, instantly picking up on the tension, and frowns over his coffee mug as Sam disappears down the corridor. The moment he's out of sight, Cas turns his attention to Dean. "What's the matter?"
Dean clears his throat, focusing a little too intently on unwrapping the bacon. "Nothing," he says, clipped. "You hungry?"
"Dean."
Cas sees straight through him, and — stupid, stupid — Dean should have known that he would. He braces his hands on the counter and lets out a long breath, chastising himself for being so worked up over nothing. It is nothing. He knows it is.
"Sam knows about us," Dean relents, not quite able to meet Cas's eye when he says it.
The frown line between Cas's brows only deepens. "...Yes?" he says carefully, perplexed more than anything else. "He's known for a while, Dean."
"Did you tell him?"
Cas tilts his head slightly to the side, studying. "I didn't have to," he replies gently.
"I meant about last night."
"No, I didn't," Cas says, circling around the counter to stand beside Dean. "But Sam's not an idiot, and this is a small bunker." He pauses to set his mug down next to the plate of uncooked bacon, then takes Dean's hand in his and brings it up to brush a kiss onto Dean's knuckles. "Does it really upset you that much?"
Dean struggles with his response, because he knows it shouldn't bother him — after all, Sam and Eileen aren't exactly subtle themselves (and Eileen has no idea how loud she is) — but he can't help it.
Keep it secret, tell no one, hide everything. He's still stuck on that track, somehow, and he wants to smack himself upside the head for thinking he'd be able to change that overnight. "Force of habit," he manages to grunt out as an answer.
Cas is quiet for a moment, his thumb rubbing over Dean's forefinger. "Do you think Sam and Eileen deserve to be happy?" he asks, and it's enough of a change in subject matter to make Dean blink and frown, shaken momentarily from his inward-facing criticisms.
"Huh?"
"Sam and Eileen," Cas repeats. "Do you think they deserve what they have together? Do you think they deserve even more?"
"Um. Yeah — Yes. Of course," is Dean's stuttered response.
Cas nods, almost to himself. "They deserve every happiness," he says in agreement, squeezing Dean's fingers. "Which begs the question, why don't you think you deserve the same thing?"
Dean swallows, his lungs hitching on his next inhale. Leave it to Cas to strike at the heart of the issue. Fucking bull's eye.
"Do you trust me?" Cas asks, voice dropping in a way that makes heat coil in the pit of Dean's stomach.
Dean nods, fingertips prickling as though Cas just shot him through with grace.
Cas steps closer, crowding into Dean's space, and reaches up with his other hand to cup Dean's cheek. "Then please trust me when I tell you that you do deserve it. You deserve everything you want — more, even — and not because you've earned it. You don't need to earn anything. You deserve it just because you're you."
Dean is left dizzy, like he's been spun around and turned inside out, but his anxiety is dissipating like water down a storm drain. He feels lighter, and even if he wouldn't believe his own voice telling him the same thing, he does believe it when Cas says it.
He plants a wordless kiss on Cas's mouth, and he thinks he might not care if Sam were to walk in this time.
"I still don't get how you can read my mind without your angel mojo," Dean jokes when he pulls back.
Cas laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Don't worry," he says, and kisses Dean on the temple. "I'm sure you're still a mystery to some people."
NOTE: This fic is tied in to my other works: Hell Or High Water, Candlelight, Unchained Reaction, Pie Crust, The Matador, and Mystery Of The Quotient.