Implied sexual content warning.
Just in case.
Cas watched Dean until the tail end of his car had slid away. He missed him already. The further and further he got, the more he felt their bond tense, stretching to keep them connected. But there was nothing to do now. He would feel Dean in his heart, no matter how far he went. Turning his back, he went inside, unlocking the door clumsily with the heavy key ring from his belt loop. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the house, the smell of thick candles and cleaning product meeting his nose in a familiar sensation. He was home.
He went straight to his room and tossed his backpack inside. The lights jumped to life, revealing his little piece of heaven; a stained white carpet with a queen bed, still unmade as he'd left it. Two dressers packed with clothes that didn't fit but were too loved to throw away, accompanied by extra socks. A closet jammed with old sneakers and empty boxes. A desk covered in knick-knacks from every vacation he'd ever gone on, and his bookshelves, making the small room entirely too cramped. But it was his and he loved it.
The house was, of course, empty. His parents wouldn't be back until ten at least, and it was four thirty. He had a good amount of time to himself to settle back in. The old fridge had a lot of food in it, which was rare for them, and he happily sampled an apple and a beer. Usually he abhorred drinking but he wanted something to help loosen him up – otherwise meaning, he needed something to kill his nerves. Tomorrow his folks were both off. He would tell them then, at dinner preferably, about Dean. He felt his anxiety prickling and popped open the bear with a hiss. They already knew he was gay. How much worse could it get?
Floor creaking under his feet, he went back to his room and kicked off his socks and shoes, heading to the living room next. The thick, worn green couch welcomed him with open arms. He sank into its plush lap with a deep sigh of happiness. Home. The comfort of it made him scrunch his toes on the weird shag carpet and rest his arms on his thighs, both balancing either food or drink. He shut his eyes and breathed it in. Not too clean, not too dirty, and openly his. He'd missed home – even as lonely as it had become, becoming an only child and launching himself and his parents into the most difficult turmoil in his lifetime. He balanced his apple on his chest as he grabbed the TV remote from a stack of blankets and flicked it onto the movie channel. It was halfway through Captain America. He bit into his apple and let the flashes of war take him away.
After his experience with Martius, Castiel didn't think he would ever feel safe during sex again. I mean, he hadn't thought he'd ever get anymore, so it had been a scarring afterthought – but with Dean, the fear was real. And it reared its ugly head every time he remembered, however fondly, their make-out session where he'd confessed. He wanted to know Dean. His mind, his emotions, his needs and loves, his desires… and his body. Especially his body. Dean was so perfect, so handsome, Cas wanted to see him bare. He wanted to be close to the ripple of his chest – to be able to feel the heat from his stomach on his hands, to feel his entire body rise and fall with each breath he took.
How could he? Where would he find the bravery for that, now, after all that had happened? Dean's touch was like the butterfly touch before it landed, twice as careful and wary; then more firmly, fondly, determined to make its presence known. Martius's hands had been demanding. Possessively groping every inch of him, yanking him, smacking him… Castiel was ashamed to admit that even now, the thought turned him on. After each bite, came a kiss. After each smack, a jerk. Each hit, a ride he would beg for.
But just the thought of that night made that hot mess wash away, filling his insides with cold, clammy ice. Panic clogged his throat and made his hands shake. He took another long swallow of bitter beer. Flashes of Steve Rogers's jaw clenching and his blue eyes flickering with emotion distracted him from his own thoughts.
He wanted sex. He needed it. After starting, it was like a drug – stopping had withdrawals, and even after detox you always felt your mouth go dry at the idea of more. Starting again, sinking back into it, letting its poison ride you out. Now that he had Dean, now that he had such heavy, warm trust placed into his calloused hands… he had a possible candidate. A very possible one at that. Dean looked at him with such a deep, arousing ardor that it made him horny just thinking about it. His body filled with that familiar sluice. His muscles all flexed and relaxed, his sudden comfort lulling them into a rare mood. His waist begged to be stretched too, and he indulged it, sinking further down into the couch as he obliged its twist and pull. The roll of his hips roused something in his lower region that he couldn't ignore.
The movie was over anyway. He tore his eyes from the rolling credits and the empty beer was pushed onto an end table as he sat up. In a wink he was on his feet and they went from carpet to hallway hardwood in long strides. The apple core was dropped into a wastebasket by the kitchen door.
Cas went to the main bathroom, flicking on the lights. He stepped up to the shower tub and closed the drain in one swift motion. A bath. He wanted a bath. He felt the beer begin to make his thoughts sluggish. Rushing water filled his ears as he turned both handles until they slid in just the right places to create the perfect temperature, retreating to his room for fresh clothes to change into afterwards. Maybe this would help his nerves, too. A pair of boxers and a t-shirt clenched in his fist were placed onto the sink counter upon his return. He shut the door behind him and pulled a clean towel out of the closet, tossing it onto the counter as well. Then he knelt by the tub to test its temperature. His vertigo hardly swayed. His fingers sank into the river of tap. Lukewarm. Perfect.
When it was half full, he peeled off his clothes, throwing them aside, and stepped into the slowly-rising swirl. It pooled around his ankles in heat waves. First he lowered to sit, facing the rushing faucet, and then he lay back in the tub, arms on either sides. He shut his eyes. The familiar touch of the tub lining against his skin was akin to realizing your favorite thing in the house was left perfect, untouched - just so that when you returned after a long hard trip, it could be the first thing you enjoyed.
He let the heat seep into his sore muscles, stiff from stress, and took a minute to breathe in the steam coming off the water. He trusted Dean. He'd trust Dean with any emotion, any thought he had. But what he needed was to be able to trust someone with his body. He needed to know not everyone he wanted to make love to had to hurt him to get off.
Cas let his knees fall apart in the water, letting the water rush between his legs and fill all his cracks and crevices. He never felt like this. This perfect solidarity, this need rolling off him in waves…
It was Dean. He made him feel… like this. Safe. Wanted. Loved. Ready. His eyes alone were pillows you could easily fall into, his hands eager safety nets for any fall. Cas could just picture himself in those arms, sweaty, crying out for more, pleasure coursing through every inch of him – A throb to his pelvis brought to his attention that his eyes were not indeed open to watch the water level. He had drifted off.
When he blinked awake again, he was shocked to see the tip of his manhood breaking the surface of the water between his legs. The water level had risen quite a bit. He must've blinked out and back again. His entire body thrummed. It was a feeling he always enjoyed, being hard. His face flushed with scarlet, hooded eyes dilating, and he tried to swallow with his thick tongue as it lay dry in his mouth. The way he felt the force of these needs was a way he measured how long it had been since someone else had wanted to get him off. He also felt it measured how much he wished someone new would ache to get him off. It was undeniable who it was now. But though he wanted it, he knew not only that he wasn't ready, but that his ability to ask for it had driven away in an Impala. He reached down into the rippling waves and grasped his hilt. Then he gave himself what he ached for, and what he had done every time he'd felt this way since Martius had ruined his life. Except this time, a different name rolled off his lips when it was over, and it echoed down the half of his empty home, disrupting its perfect silence with groaning pleasure.