When I got home from work
I wanna wrap myself around you
I wanna take you and squeeze you
'till the passion starts to rise.
I wanna take you to heaven
that would make my day complete
but you and me ain't movie stars
what we are is what we are
we share a bed some lovin' and t.v. yeah.
That's enough for a workin' man
what I am is what I am
and I tell you babe
well that's enough for me.
- "You and Me," Alice Cooper
He's so damn close he can almost taste it, now. The thrill of a job well done just out of reach, and he knows if he can just push a little harder he can mark down another win for himself. It's enough to ignore the creeping discomfort, if he can just get a grip on . . .
"Don't you got a husband to get back to or something, boy?"
The answer is instinctive, barely a thought given to the dismissal—his head's in the game.
"Boyfriend. And he's out crusading." The flat of a hand whacking the back of his head takes Dean out of the moment, ruining his easy symbiosis with the car, and he glares at Bobby as he pulls himself out from under the hood of his new favorite project.
The car is beautiful. A candy apple red 1968 Ford Mustang GT fastback, with a 390 cubic-inch V-8 engine and four-speed manual transmission. When she came to Dean she was a hunk of rusting metal. He's nursed her back to health, acid treated the rust, welded in metal plates to deal with the rusted-through panels, sanded, primed and painted her, and he's nearly finished the overhaul of her engine . . . and if he leaves now, someone else is going to finish putting in the parts he just got in for her, and he's not going to be able to see her go home.
"Jesus, Bobby, I'm almost done. I can do this."
"It ain't a question of if you can fix the car, if I didn't think you could fix a damn car I wouldn't let you work here. It may have escaped your notice, but it's the middle of January and you're sweating like the garage is a goddamn sauna. I think Benny's talking about standing out in the snow and taking a shower with the hose so Andrea doesn't carve him a new one, smelling you on him. You're a stubborn pain in the ass, Dean, but I've never seen you cut it this close."
Which is. . . well, yeah. That's true. Of course, back then Dean was still hiding who he was, or he thought he was. A few days after settling Cas in with him in Sioux Falls, he'd defiantly outed himself to the rest of the garage: Benny shrugged and said he'd known for years, and Garth. . . well, Garth tried to hug him for feeling comfortable enough with them to be honest finally. It was a little creepy. Now, though, he doesn't have to be quite so careful. He's got a long weekend planned, if he can just finish out the day. . .
Damnit, it's his project, he should be allowed to see it through.
"Stop being pigheaded. Go home. Call your 'boyfriend,' and tell him to get his ass back to the house." the title trips off Bobby's tongue in his faintly mocking acidic tones, earning him a scowl that he summarily ignores because Dean's never scared him any, and because nobody is quite as surly about seemingly not appreciating finding your mate than someone who lost theirs, and because for some reason he's decided he likes Cas. Probably because Cas practically petted his bookshelves, when they were introduced, or because he got his fill of gossip about the two of them from Ellen long before they showed up. "Enjoy your weekend. Spare all of us the details. And if you're going to sulk about the damn car I'll call up the customer and tell her it'll be early next week, before you head on out to California. Which is what you'd have done if you were thinking straight right now."
Dean's not exactly thinking straight, but that's not the point. The point is Bobby's not supposed to mention it. Years he's helped hide Dean, at Dean's request, and now he's going to give Dean hell for being out when he's about to go into Heat. Or in the first stages of it. He's not exactly sure. He is sweat-slick beneath his coveralls, pulse a little fast for himself, but he was distracted until Bobby interfered. (Bobby may be right but Dean's not going to tell him. . . which also makes Bobby right about the stubborn thing. Damnit. Dean's just being prickly and irritable and overly defensive again, and if he kicks up a fuss Bobby's going to point it out.)
In the end, Dean lets himself be chased out of work after all, because he's probably getting to the point where he's not the only person distracted, and Benny's a friend and that's all sorts of things he doesn't want to think about, effecting his Alpha coworker and friend that way.
Just six months past, Dean wouldn't have let anyone near him the whole day before his Heat hit. It still makes the back of his neck itch like he's being watched, once he's out of the safety of Bobby's place, but there's no one in the back seat and he's fine. He makes his way carefully through streets of ash-gray snow and black ice, and he makes it into the garage of the house, the door closing behind him, before he climbs back out of the car. He weaves through the boxes, in through the kitchen just to confirm what he already knows: of course Cas's pedestrian and public transportation riding self isn't back yet. If he'd just let Dean get him a car he'd be back by now. As it stands, Dean doesn't even have a distraction.
He's not going to call Cas, though. What the hell's he supposed to do, teleport back to the house? Calling him won't make him show up any faster. Turning the phone in his hands, he seeks out another distraction instead, speaking as soon as the phone picks up.
"So, do I have a nephew yet?"
"Dean." Jess laughs, faintly rueful, and Dean lets himself stop pacing, leaning against the kitchen is good. Distracting. Sam and Jess are good people, and with her ready to pop they're both home more often than not, now, so he's not interrupting anything. "I promise you, as soon as I go into labor I'll have Sam call."
"If you can hold on another couple weeks, the kid can have a damn fine birthday. Speaking from experience. . ." He lifts the lid on the crockpot stew that is probably going to end up lasting them a few days, and dumps a bit more pepper in, barely aware of the movement.
"If I am still pregnant in two weeks I am going to find you and hurt you for bribing this kid just to win a bet, and then I'm going to bill you for fitting my wedding dress." Jess threatens him, and he can hear her moving, hear Sam's voice near her. "It's for you, hon. . ." Jess hands the phone off with a bit more good-natured teasing, and suddenly he's got Sam on the line with him.
"How'd Cas's thing go? Is everything okay?"
"No clue. He's not back yet from meeting the pope or whatever it is he's up to." Dean and Sam may be the point men for their own legal crusade, but even after a few months the religious aspect is still a mystery to both of them. He knows that Cas was up before him, today, to take a bus to the Cathedral of St. Joseph, where the folks from the Vatican are there to take his statement about why he wants out of his vows (probably something to do with ignoring them for over half a year now and shacking up with an Omega; just a guess) and his exit-interview for Roman Catholicism or something, which may or may not involve Cas furiously throwing accusations of bigotry at them.
Dean has no clue. He just knows Cas isn't here right now, and that's not what he wants to focus on.
Something must have bled through in his voice, or Sam is just a terrifying mind-reader, because his voice softens and he moves, presumably away from Jess. "Are you okay?"
Damnit, how often does he need to tell everyone to stop worrying about him before they listen? Dean's fine. The court thing, it's distant right now—the Emancipation coming through two months ago had really been the high point. The Impala is finally in his name now. The water and electric bills are in his name. Half the mortgage on this place is in his name. He testified once more for a circuit court, toughing it out for Kevin and Chuck to follow his example, and he got hunted down for a television interview on their behalf that he sweated bullets through, but for the next month or so they're settled so Sam can have the kid and finally get hitched.
It's not all sunshine and roses. Not everyone took the news about his designation as easily as Bobby's place did. But the good's outweighing the bad right now.
"Antsy. Nothing you want to hear about, Sammy, promise." Dean draws the curtains on the kitchen windows, because he knows it'll bother him later, and then starts making the rounds to close the shades. Too hot, too many potential entrances, and maybe it's bothering him now. He's shedding the coveralls like a snake sheds its skin—too restrictive, it itches and sits wrong on him.
"Dean, I'm here for you. Anything you need, man." He doesn't understand Dean's cough of laughter, sudden and definitely at his expense. Sam of the big puppy eyes really, really not getting what's going on here, trying to make Dean feel better when he doesn't need it, is kind of hilarious right now.
"Dude, trust me. Not something you can help me with, and I really don't need that image right now. Talk nerdy to me, dude. Legalese me. Let me know what's going on with Charlie's Omega Dragnet or something. Tell me about . . ." No, he doesn't want to hear about the next breeding farm on the list to be taken down. Strapped down, forced, Omegas. . . he can't think about that right now. He's doing better now, he doesn't want that in his head. Drawing a deep breath, he redirects abruptly to happier thoughts. "How goes baby planning? You get the nursery done? What's going on with the wedding?"
"Are you. . . drunk?"
Dean pauses his pacing to thump his head against the door into the bathroom, closing his eyes. "This was not my best idea." Dean laughs again, palming the back of his neck, phone pressed to his ear. "I'm fine, Sammy. I'll be fine soon as Cas gets home. I was just looking for a distraction and this is not working." He pauses, hoping the significance there sinks in so Sam doesn't sit around worrying about him, but they might as well be speaking different languages with how much the message is just flying right past Sam. "I'll give Cas a call, see where he's at. You might want to consider this the Do Not Disturb for a couple days."
"Oh. . . Oh!" There he goes. A light bulb had to flick on in that big brain of his sometime. Dean's Heats are not something they talk about because that's just all kinds of awkward with your brother. "I'll text you if Jess goes into labor, okay?"
"You'll call me if Jess goes into labor." He is not missing his nephew being born.
"I am not calling you during again." Oh, yeah. He forgot how much that scarred Sam, when Dean called him during sex before the first trial. He smirks again reflexively, still proud of that revenge.
"You're already on the phone with me during, you prude." He is in Heat, he can feel it tugging at him, the bite of an ache and need. Goddamnit where is Cas? Screw the Catholic Church and all that stupid politicking, he should be here.
"Oh God, don't tell me that." Sam is giving the verbal equivalent of flailing, and that at least is hilarious.
"Yeah yeah. Tell the kid to hold on til my birthday. I'll call you in a couple days."
He disconnects on Sam and dives into the bathroom, dunking his head under a cold tap for a second. It's not what he needs. But what he needs is annoyingly absent, and he doesn't have a clue which of the boxes has the abandoned toys that got him through his heats before Cas. He doesn't want them, though. What's the point of having an Alpha if he's not around for this?
(That's not true. Cas is great to have around. He still can't cook for shit, but Dean isn't lonely any more. He likes this shared life, even if he ignored the sex—not that he wants to ignore the sex—but right now he's horny as hell and it's getting worse. He kicks his boxers off and flops onto the bed, a flushed and freckled starfish beneath the ceiling fan he flicks on, and he should be freezing right now . . . there's snow on the windowsills behind the curtains, and no fire going, and the covers are still pooled on the floor from this morning. . .but he's fever-hot and irritated.)
The phone rings twice before Cas picks up. "Hello, Dean."
Always the same. So damned formal.
"Cas. . ."
"It's through." Castiel sighs, whether relief or exhaustion, Dean can't tell. "As of today I am officially released from all vows and obligations to the Catholic church. I don't know how much the Cardinal is going to relate back to the Vatican, but they knew of your civil rights work . . ."
When did Cas get so damned chatty? He's got a nice voice, and Dean can feel himself reacting to it, the rolling cadences of his words. Almost without thinking about it, Dean coils a hand loosely around his cock, slow strokes as he makes himself picture the way Cas shapes his words, pink lips forming letters, the flick of his tongue, how they'd feel against his skin instead.
"What're you wearing?"
There Cas goes inconveniently clamming up already, and Dean can almost hear his mind turning this over, suddenly forming conclusions.
"You're in Heat." See, Cas knows the score right away. Smart man, Castiel. "It's not time yet."
"Dude, it doesn't work that way. There's not a friggin' timer. . ." Does he have to explain this every time? If he could plan this crap, figure it out down to the hour, doesn't Cas think he'd know too? It's not Dean's fault Cas took the extra day off from the clinic and then went to play with the damn church. Dean tilts his head to tuck the phone against his ear, held in place between the pillow and his shoulder, and uses his freed hand to slide down slowly. God, he's so slick already, and he can smell Cas in the room, in the pillows and blankets and the walls themselves, he swears. This is their place, and if he closes his eyes he can imagine its Cas's fingers. Not satisfying, just a tease. When did Cas become a tease? Has he said that before? "Suit and tie? Give me something to work with here, Cas."
"Dean, I'm on the bus. We're two stops away from. . ."
"That's nice. I'm naked on our bed fucking myself on my fingers trying to picture stripping you out of whatever the hell you're wearing, so throw me a frikkin' bone, here." He can hear Castiel's sudden intake of breath, his thick swallow, and he knows those sounds. He likes surprising them out of Cas, reminding Cas that regardless of who's Alpha, Dean's capable of taking what he wants.
"I am going to be arrested for public indecency." Dean opens his eyes just to roll them. One time being arrested, and Cas is afraid of it for every little thing now. No, this is like the goddamn stolen breakfast; why is it only the minor infractions that Cas fears?
"I know the local sheriff." He's going to get a crick in his neck holding the phone this way. He raises the hand around his cock to the phone, fumbling it briefly to put it on speaker, and his fingers catch just right for a moment accidentally, pulling at his rim, not quite the stretch he wants but closer, and he groans. He can hear the answering hiss of air from Castiel, knows he heard it, knows even from here he's having an effect with just his words, and god that feels powerful, which is still new to Dean when he's like this, at his most helpless (vulnerable not helpless, the voice in his head corrects, and it sounds a lot like Castiel).
"I'm in a clergy shirt and slacks, Dean. I dug it out of the boxes for this. . . I thought it would help me make the right impression with the Cardinal, and technically in his eyes I was still a priest until today . . ."
Clergy?
Oh shit, Cas is dressed up like the priest he was before he knew Dean, on a public bus being phone sexed, and that's ridiculously fucking hot. Or hot despite being ridiculous. He's probably bright red, shifting in his seat and aware of all eyes on him, prim little fuckable Father Castiel for the very last time, and Dean missed it this morning. He's been in town wearing that all day, pressed black shirt with just a peep of white at the collar, and Castiel should warn a guy before introducing random new kinks into his life. His hand speeds up, fingers scisorring as he tries to get the right stretch, and he can feel his toes curling. Yeah, that's good.
He's stopped imagining stripping Castiel out of his clothes, and started picturing unfastening him just enough to get what he needs, or pushing Cas to his knees and putting his mouth to good use (not enough) just to see Cas in that damn priest outfit looking up at him like he's praying as he swallows Dean down (he doesn't want to beg, he hates having to beg).
He's pretty sure he just moaned, potentially whimpered, and may have said some of that out loud. Any other time he might be embarrassed about that, but Cas is either off the bus and walking fast, or he's really into the sounds Dean makes. Probably both.
"What are you doing?" That's Castiel's bossier sex voice, dark and commanding and rough, demanding an answer out of Dean. Kinky son of a bitch, he is getting off on this. But it helps, Cas's voice is a link that keeps him from feeling like this isn't going to end, from being afraid. Maybe Cas knows that. It sounds like something Cas would know, something he'd have figured out in months of being there for Dean. This is the first time since they've met that he hasn't just been there. "Get up. On your knees, Dean."
God, that's a good voice. That's the kind of voice that comes with just the right amount of hair pulling, teeth dragging over Dean's skin, manhandling. Right now he has absolutely no reason to ignore the fact that there's a big part of his libido that gets off on that aggression and making Castiel lose his tight grip on it.
"Keep talking."
"I was planning to." Cas grumbles, as if he's annoyed Dean thinks he needs to be told. "I'm almost home, Dean." Cas's voice is gentle now, and that's not what Dean was looking for. He's in their house, safe, and he's not a goddamn child needing reassurance.
"You put me on my knees for a reason, Cas, or you just want the view when you get here?" Dean's got this. He's fine. Just more people stupidly worrying about him when they shouldn't. "Tell me what you want, Cas."
Because that's safer. If Dean starts talking about what he wants, that's begging, needy, and he doesn't want that. But he could stand to hear Cas that way right now.
"You."
"...Yeah, I got that you frikkin' sap." It's hard to get pissed at Cas when he does shit like this, and means it honestly. Even if it means he sucks at phone sex. "Talk."
"Lean forward. I want to know how wet you are, Dean. Use your fingers." God, he really hopes Cas is off the bus now, because there's no way he passing this off as anything but lust. Closing his eyes again, Dean lets his focus slip, Cas's voice and instructions washing over him.
"I want you stretched for my knot, Dean..." Yes, that's what he wants, Cas to fill up the empty spaces. It's a hazy sort of thought, not just about the sex, but maybe that's just them now, a tangled up mess of interlocking lives.
Dean has his face in Cas's pillow, breathing in harsh puffs of air, lower lip caught between his teeth because he doesn't trust himself to talk now, and fingers just aren't going to do the trick.
He distantly hears the door bang shut and lock, and Cas's voice in stereo as he stands in their bedroom doorway, eyes fixed on Dean, and Dean doesn't even have to get a good look at him to know how turned on Cas is by what he's seeing. "I'm here now."
"Yeah, I can see that. Hang up the goddamn phone." Cas is gorgeous, hair completely a mess from the trot from the bus stop, blue eyes bright, cheeks ruddy from arousal and the stinging South Dakota cold, chapped lips bitten and worried between his teeth while he was in public. His stupid little man-purse satchel carry bag whatever the hell it is hits the floor, and his coat and gloves and even his phone after that, and Dean pushes himself up again completely, up on the bed against all his instincts to present, because damn he was right about this outfit.
The unrelieved black is a really good look on Cas, trim lines of the neatly tucked shirt and slacks drawing attention to how broad his shoulders are, tapering down to a trim waist and the legs and ass of a long-distance runner. He wants Cas, and that's the driving instinct right now, but his eyes are caught by the starched white collar.
A collar.
He never really considered it before, and in this state of mind he's not really thinking clearly anyway, but Dean's sudden anger and barked order takes Cas aback, halting his approach.
"Come here." Dean's kneeling on the edge of the bed, now, demanding and furious, and he ignores Cas's look of confusion to yank the collar off of him. It's a thick plastic thing, fitting together in the back to present a seamless look, a white fabric tab all that shows with the shirt. Dean feels better once he's thrown it across the room, to land somewhere among their boxes. And then the starched straight black collar of the shirt bothers him, so he yanks that off Cas too and lets the clothes fall to the floor. Skin. Skin is much better. The black looked too much like Cas's stuffy family gatherings, anyway.
They don't own him. Not the church, not his family. Cas is free to do whatever the hell he wants.
"They fucking collared you, Cas." Dean doesn't understand the dawning look of wonder on Cas's face at Dean growling out the explanation of his anger, but he's on board with being pushed down onto the pillows, getting them on track finally. Cas strips the rest of the way on his own quickly after that, and then Dean has him; trapped with lips and legs and a hand in his hair and fucking finally (later he'll be able to laugh at his own pun) Cas sinks into him with a soft sigh like he's home.
He knows better than to make Dean wait at the start, and being away and listening to Dean struggling with that first unrelieved heat had to make him frantic, but even now somehow Cas manages to turn the first desperate fumbling fuck into making love. Arms slide under Dean's back, keeping him impossibly close, cherished and safe, and then Cas gets his hands on Dean's shoulders and pulls down as he fucks in, hard enough that Dean gasps into the kiss.
It's a rough pace, Cas's hips snapping bruising-hard because he knows that's what Dean needs this first time, needs a knot right now, but the arms around him cradle him close, and the friction of sweat slick skin and pressure and movement around Dean's cock trapped between them has him coming in an embarrassingly short time. By the time Cas's knot catches, tying them together, Dean's loose-limbed and pliable, drifting and relaxed enough that Cas's lips and hands and sex-wrecked voice are soothing, welcome, like he's floating in them.
Cas grinds his knot deeper, pressed hard against Dean's prostate as he spills into Dean again, and that feels good, so good, Dean's hips tipping up against the weight holding him down, seeking more unconsciously, and Cas nuzzles into his neck and stifles a deep groan against his skin. Dean's hand remembers it's connected to the rest of him and pets down Cas's back, fingers tripping over vertebra, sweeping over skin.
"Hi." Dean still sounds a little endorphin-drunk stupid, but he's okay with that right now, signaling that he's mostly capable of coherent conversation.
Cas hmms softly, mouthing at the hinge of Dean's jaw lazily, and then remembers he's supposed to respond when addressed. "Hello."
Cas is such a frikkin' dork. Dean hitches his leg higher around Cas's back, tightening around him enough to tease out another strangled moan from the Alpha, and that's nice enough that Dean can't help a soft chortle of amusement. It's another few moments before Cas finds his voice again, fond and wry and deep. "I am willing to concede you may have been right about me needing a car."
The chortle turns into a guffaw, despite himself. Oh, god, they're pathetic. "Gee, y'think, Cas?"
Cas hums again, nuzzling into Dean's shoulder, as though three days of sex or not ahead of them he's afraid he won't get enough time to frikkin' snuggle. "There was an elderly woman on the bus with me. When it became clear that I was... very aroused, she became visibly upset..."
Dean's outright laughing now, and he can't seem to stop despite the fact that Cas unconsciously bites into his shoulder, fingers pressing hard into his skin at the sensation of Dean laughing as they're knotted.
"The story is not that funny, Dean." Cas protests, breathless, and then he folds his arms across Dean's chest and eyes him as peevishly as he's able, given the satisfied look on his face. As if he's searching for some way to redeem himself from being laughed at, he diverts the topic. "It's freezing in here. Can you reach the blankets? ... Dean, what is so funny?"
They're so fucking domestic now, no wonder Bobby thinks he's being funny when he calls Cas Dean's husband.
So Dean kisses him because he can't explain that. Because the cardinal rule of happiness is not to talk about it, so you don't jinx it, and because Cas is sulking now, convinced he's the butt of a joke. Then he kisses Cas because Cas is just good to kiss, because they're both strung out on oxytocin and dopamine and the rightness of this, because Dean is warm, satisfyingly stretched full, and reveling in wringing breathless noises out of Cas, because Cas is a sap and unapologetically in love with him, because they're settled into this little house with it's three bedrooms pretending until they're ready that neither of them have plans for those empty rooms that involve a lot more moments like this to get there.
They'll talk about the church thing later, maybe, or wait a couple of days until Dean can try and wrap his head around the intricacies of the church politics. They'll eat stew, unpack a few more boxes, and inevitably be distracted into sex on couches and chairs that seem to have sprouted throw pillows like mushrooms over the last couple months because Cas nests, whether he wants to admit it or not. They'll spend the next three days indolently tangled in each other, soaking in each touch because they can and there's no one here to judge.
After a bit Dean drops an arm off the edge of the bed to try and grab the covers, knowing it's useless in their plans today but happy to wedge his knees against Cas's hips and roll them, pulling the blankets on over them as he does, a warm cocoon... and it's just them there.
No ghosts or memories allowed.