Chapter Text
Stop thinking, Dean.
It's all give and take after that.
Cas gives Dean's shirt a tug, and Dean takes Cas' (Dean's) shirt right over his head.
Cas gives Dean's stomach a tender palming, Dean takes the small of Cas' incredible back and pulls them close.
Cas gives Dean's lips a gentle stroke, and Dean takes Cas' finger into his mouth.
"Oh," the Angel gasps. "You can — you can do that again, if you like."
Dean likes. He takes two fingers and Cas gives him this dark, lusty look.
The rest of their clothes continue off this way, piece by piece, without hurry. Cas seems determined to control the pace so he can track Dean's skin with those soulful eyes. Dean has no problem going slow, no issues with allowing each of them time to look their fill. No issues with giving control if Cas wants to take it.
It all slides in place when Dean's reality and Dean's subconsciousness cross over. He's here, and so is Cas, and there isn't a stitch of clothing between them. Dean isn't sure how it happened, and it scares him a little. He's pushed hard against any hopes and dreams of getting to feel the physicality of the Angel's love. Sam was — is right. It wasn't — isn't healthy.
It's just so much skin. Like, a lot of skin. Cas' surprisingly muscled chest, soft and curly and inked. Cas' rock-hard firm belly, quivering as he inhales and exhales. Cas' long legs and long arms and damn but he has a nice, long dick —
Dean's own sense of vulnerability goes through the fucking roof.
Castiel frowns in the old way, mouth falling open slightly.
"Dean," he whispers. It's literally one word. One word that has Dean searching for a place to brace his hand that isn't the warm heat of someone who died on him, more than once.
He finds the bed, and Cas steps close in that too-close way that used to be awkward but isn't any more. Instead, it's calming, it's protective, it's —
"We can —"
"No!" Dean hisses. He's not some weak asshat. He's not rigid in his morals, not anymore. It's been a long journey, more than a decade, and he and Cas have been through so much in that span, that and this thing happening between them is easier than falling into bed at the end of a tiring day.
So he does. He Nestea-plunges into Cas' old-fashioned furniture with it's thick, giving, plush mattress. And he smiles because, isn’t that a whole lot like Castiel now?
His Angel looks down from beside the bed, one eyebrow cocked and one side of his stupid face sporting an amused grin. God, he must be so fucking confused right now, with all the mixed signals Dean is giving.
But Castiel just takes it like he always does. Honestly. Candidly. Simply.
"You love me," he repeats back, and oh, he's just so fucking beautiful, standing there with all that — beauty.
Dean laughs and decides what the hell!
In a blink, they're tangled up in each other, sideways, horizontally. Cas digs an arm under Dean's waist, runs both hands from Dean's shoulders to his ass, takes great, grasping handfuls, and smiles.
Dean opens his mouth to say something, anything, because his Angel is literally closer than sin, with his chest against Dean's and his mouth very close to being that way, but the thunder in the distance peals again and he stumbles.
"I —" he begins, but Cas cuts him off with a puff of air on Dean's lips.
"You don't have to say anything. Dean, I know!" And he squeezes Dean's ass and kisses him.
This kiss is exponentially hotter than the others. Maybe because of the approaching weather, rain starting up again and plinking sharply on the window. That and the combination of Cas' tongue in Dean's mouth, firm and a little more exploratory, and Angel fingers making little zinging trails up and down Dean's crack.
Whatever brain Dean has been powering off shorts out from sensory overload.
Cas seems wholly fixated on kneading and pulling and stretching Dean's cheeks apart. Like he can't get enough. Like he's afraid if he stops, Dean will disappear.
Oh. Wait. That's Dean who's thinking that.
A frustrated kind of moan comes from Cas, and he spreads his fingers wide and hauls Dean even closer. Yeah, there's a hot hard cock pressing against his own. A stab of pleasure cuts Dean open and demands all of his attention.
He moans, too.
The thunder growls and grumbles while they grind and kiss. The rumble increases in volume and length and Dean has gone dizzy with how fast and shallow he's breathing. He doesn't know what to concentrate on: the pulse of Cas' tongue and the desperate hungry open and close of his mouth; the searing pressure of Cas' hip bone and the not-so-strange flesh that throbs between them; or the careful and gentle way the tips of Cas' fingers dip between Dean's ass cheeks and stroke the sensitive pink forbidden zone.
"Cas," Dean groans against lips that aren't ready to part. There's a flash of lightning, and Dean opens his eyes. Castiel's gaze isn't just wanting. It's a white hot burn that would be terrifying if they weren't where they are right now.
It's as if Cas has flipped through the record collection of Dean's deepest, darkest, disgusting desires. And, yes, Dean knows he's being judgmental. He really should stop doing that. He should just accept that his desires are valid, and —
"You are important," the Angel purrs. It's dangerous, like a threat. Like if Dean doesn't straighten up and accept this as fact, Cas is going to get down right angry with him.
Not that turning his back to a being with god-like powers is smart, but when has Dean been the smart one? He just suddenly wants to be the little spoon. To have the long hot hardness of Cas sliding against his ass. It feels like he can do this now, like he must do this. Because, if he doesn't, he's going to go crazy with wondering what it would be like.
Cas exhales a shaky breath and wraps Dean up in those long arms and legs and holds him tight. He places kisses to the back of Dean's neck, to the point of his shoulder, making Dean shiver as he snugs back against the Angel.
Any other day, Dean might like to let Cas take him apart bit by bit, to keep running hands over his skin. Definitely to explore fingers teasing nipples for an entire day or two. But there's something building, something painful and impatient, like the storm as it slows down overhead.
Then Cas slips that big hand down the center of Dean's chest and doesn't stop until he's scratched gentle nails through the hair at Dean's crotch and circles the base of his dick and —
"Fuck!"
Cas shifts up on his elbow and leans over Dean's shoulder for an awkward slanted kiss. He slowly milks Dean's dick, licking into his mouth, until he's throttling him just below the crown and he says, "Can I make love to you? Dean?"
And fucking fuck, the way he says Dean's name?
"Yeah."
Lightning flashes and dies, and as Cas leans even further across Dean, crushing him as he reaches under the —
(Has Cas planned this? A little bottle of Astroglide under the pillow?)
— Dean swears he sees the candle on the dresser flicker, and then Cas is returning as the big spoon to Dean with his impossible warmth, and the flame grows higher.
Cas touches Dean's thigh, nudges it forward, rolling Dean slightly onto his stomach. Dean’s cock gets trapped, but it's a good kind of pressure. He mindlessly humps the sheets as he waits.
The slick point Cas strokes him with is not cold, is not a shock to the ol' horny-charged, undersexed system. It's gentle and warm and lovingly accepted, and Dean doesn't even notice when the storm announces itself with its noise and light. He's gone to the teasing of Cas' fingers.
And Dean thinks, what was it Cas had said? Something about wanting what he can't have?
You can have it, Dean thinks harder, heart pounding in his chest so irregularly that his bones shake with it. You've always had it. Even when I didn’t know it.
And inside his head, someone says, Stop thinking, Dean.
He smiles and cranks his neck around, reaches back to touch the flush of Castiel's beautiful face. There's that familiar surge of grace behind his eyes. Dean goes weak in the sheets for it.
He feels it then, the blunt spongy end of angel cock, the slightest stretch, and Cas drops his head against Dean's shoulder. The same shoulder. The bloody shoulder. The one anointed by the sacrificial angel he's in love with.
Dean's breathing gets away from him, and he's hyperventilating, emotion lodged so firmly in his throat that he's nearly drowning in it. He panics a little, not in a he-doesn't-want-to-do-this way, but in a he-doesn't-want-to-cry way. And then Castiel slides a firm hand low on his stomach to hold him steady.
Relax, he hears. Yeah, relax, he agrees with himself.
Cas breathes, Dean breathes, and Cas pushes in. And Dean feels as if the world is cracking open around him.
Rain and hail pummel the roof. The candle flares to the ceiling and the room lights up as if it's on fire. Behind him, Castiel trembles and stills, a low, mournful sound spilling from his lungs. Dean squeezes his eyes shut as pain rips through his lower half. And he's burning up, too, crying out.
It intensifies, then ebbs, then stops. All goes still and dark. All except the heated breathing of two lovers.
Finally.
Dean's chest is heaving as he leans back against Cas, back into the stretched-wide fullness of their completed connection. The thought of how monumental this moment is, is crushing; even with his wild imagination, he could never have guessed how crazy out of control he'd feel. There's a spot in his chest that hurts in a really, really good way. And he doesn't want anything to change.
Castiel mouths against the sweaty side of Dean's neck. I love you, he says. But not with his lips, not with his mouth, not with his worshiping- or his deadpan- or even his irritated- and annoyed-voice.
Cas is in his head, and Cas is in his ass, and Cas is turning him inside out with a hand crawling up the length of Dean's dick.
The candle puffs back to life as Cas begins fucking him, and yeah, so does Dean's pleasure. The slow, pulling drag of angel cock on a body part more sensitive than the tips of his calloused fucking fingers is more than he bargained for. His old ass body is going to break apart with this impending orgasm.
Castiel groans and the thunder matches it, drowning out the lovely sound of his sex-addled voice. It rings in the useless void of Dean's head as Cas pushes in and pulls out again, and again, and again. Gaining in speed and force and tightening a coil of incredible bliss as Cas' hand pulls on the aroused state of Dean's cock.
The Angel is clawing at Dean's chest now, hips slamming against Dean's ass. It ramps up to a point where Dean suddenly remembers that he's not the only one who's enjoying this.
Why is he so selfish?
Not selfish, a voice reminds him, a familiar voice that is out of breath, gasping for air, raised and pinched, like Cas is holding back. Holding back because he wants Dean to spill first.
And isn't that funny?
"Come on, Cas," Dean pleads (yes, he's begging. So sue him). "Come on, Sweetheart." He twists his arm and reaches behind them, slapping it onto the muscular thrusting of Castiel's amazing, powerful ass and keeping it there. The flexing of that ass turns him the fuck on, as if being fucked by his oldest best friend isn't enough to have him coming his brains out.
Sweetheart, Cas repeats, and that is what does it right there. Dean can no longer stop the train barreling down the track than he can plug up his feelings. He wails, and he comes, and god damn, the punch to his gut as he does takes him out of his own body.
Cas gets impossibly closer as he tightens and stills his fist, easing off so Dean can deal with the rush in his ears and the sting in his throat. On the back side of a shattering orgasm, Dean lifts his face to Castiel's, and sees the storm inside those eyes.
Thunder and lightning assault the windows with blinding light and deafening sound, vibrations shaking the house apart. Dean sees it as Cas fills with it, swells with the climax of the storm. It's all Dean can do to clutch at Cas' neck, the cords gone taut as he reaches his own peak.
Castiel cries out when he comes, and it's the most erotic thing Dean has ever heard. And damn if he doesn't immediately want for it to happen again, even as Cas spills his load, warm and thrilling and all Dean's.
As his Angel collapses, heavy against Dean's body, Dean thinks of his poor brother, subjected to the weather that he's pretty sure Cas cooked up to cover their sex sounds. He doesn't mean to, because he's sorta tapped out in Castiel's bed, stuffed full of Angel cock and spunk and not wanting to move anytime soon. But he laughs.
Cas lifts his head and tilts it. The candle has returned to a flicker, and it bathes his face in an unnecessary rosy afterglow, as if he isn't the sexiest goddamn bastard after a flush of endorphins. "I am happy that amused you, Dean Winchester."
And, oh man, Cas is using his full name.
"Sorry," he sobers. "I was just thinking about —"
"Sam is not here," Cas interrupts, sweat dripping from his forehead, down the side of his face.
Somehow, Dean is disappointed. He kinda wanted to gloat about his long-time-coming sexual conquest.
"Wait," Dean says, twisting carefully to be able to see Castiel better, not wanting to lose the still-hard cock in his ass. "Are you reading my mind?"
His lover — his lover! — cocks a brow and frowns. "There is no reading Dean Winchester's mind."
"Ha. Ha."
"There is, however," Cas continues, nuzzling into the hollow of Dean's cheek, "hearing your voice calling out in prayers. Weeping, alone in your bedroom, inconsolable, heartsore and lost. The strength of your belief in me, even when you thought I was gone, is a direct path between our bodies and souls and minds. And I will never stop hearing its echo."
Dean's mouth falls open. "You — you heard me?"
Castiel closes his eyes and shudders, forcing his pelvis closer and shifting his cock through the spunk. Dean feels it squelching at the back of his teeth.
"Of course I heard you, Dean. It kept me fed. It kept me quenched. It prevented me from losing myself, and it gave me the strength to escape." He speaks it against Dean's cheekbone.
This is news that Dean, in the useless state he's in, cannot understand.
"My prayers helped you to get out?"
Cas spreads his hands over Dean's chest, pulls him tight against the wetness of his hairy body. "No. Your love did."
And that, right there, is way too insane.
Dean tries to spin, tries to face Castiel and argue that there's no way that love could pull Cas from the Empty's clutches, not after the deal he made. But Cas holds him firm, and the way he overpowers Dean is heading toward a solid new kink.
Cas is fucking him again, long and slow and deep, pulling out only incrementally before seating himself again, grunting.
"The Empty is not a complex thing," Cas continues, words strong while his voice drops low and sultry. "It couldn't hold me once the idea that made me happy was returned in full."
Dean groans as Castiel rolls over him, squashing him fully against the cum-soaked mattress. A heavy hand grinds into the flat between his shoulder blades, and Cas presses down with the heel.
"Oh," Dean moans, muffled, into the pillow. There's no thunder or electricity this time. Only the filthy sound of skin on skin, the glow only on the inside, low in Dean's gut and in the heat between their bodies. He's spent, and there's no way his forty-some body is going to recover quickly enough for another round. But Cas? Cas is an Angel. He can do anything.
The hand on his back eases and fists his hair, turning his head to the side so Castiel can kiss the corner of his mouth.
"You saved me," he says, full of emotion. "You saved me, Dean. And now I'm going to fulfill all your hopes and dreams."
Dean groans as he considers this; his dreams consist of some pretty raunchy stuff. Most include Cas from before he died. Again. But some?
"Kinda creepy, dontcha think?" Dean teases. "Watching a man's private spank bank channel?"
Cas works both hands onto the small of Dean's back and flattens him, then thrusts a little harder. It hits something that pries an unmanly whimper out of him.
"Several of your dreams include me reading your thoughts so you don't have to speak them. We can stop to formalize a more permanent consent if you like."
"Hell no!" Dean shouts, throat raw. "You got my consent, Sweetheart! Keep doing what you're doing!"
Dean can almost feel the smug bastard smiling.
"Good. I consent as well. Some of it we will need to work out the logistics to, but -"
"Hold on," Dean whines as his eyes water with overstimulation. "You keeping a list of all my dirty desires?"
Cas confirms by slamming inside at such an angle that Dean feels his life force jostle.
"I have them catalogued in alphabetical order according to the balance of pleasure versus pain. I do not wish to cause you pain, Dean, unless the aftercare sufficiently outweighs it."
Another thrust. Another year off the top of Dean's lifespan.
He's gasping now. "Oh, you’re a Dirty Angel."
Castiel leans over him, mouth right up to the curve of his ear.
"Yes, and the only god I'm bound to is you, Dean."
The candle snuffs out. The bed creaks as Cas shifts back, pulls Dean's cheeks apart so he can see (in the dark) himself entering Dean's body.
Dean curls his fingers in the sheets and says a little prayer.
You want it? You got it, Sweetheart.
Epilogue
Ice is a good/bad thing. It's good for swelling. It's good for cold drinks. It's good for a lot more things of which Dean can't think of at the moment.
It's bad for the couch. Especially when it melts and leaks between the cushions.
Dean allows his head to fall back and listens for the sound of Cas in the hallway doing laundry. He's not exactly motivated to get up and grab another towel. Not when his boyfriend can just miracle it dry.
Castiel glides into the living space with a basket under his arm, gloriously shirtless and more domestic than Dean has ever seen him. He shoots a dry, unamused look across the room.
"Now you want me to use my grace."
Dean laughs and a splooge of hemorrhoid ointment oozes from his ass and onto his melting ice pack. He sucks in a breath and holds it , then shakes a finger at Cas.
"Listen here! I earned this pain in my ass, and you ain't taking it away from me!"
Castiel rolls his eyes and dumps the dried clothes in a heap on the floor.
"You are trying to get out of folding," he deadpans, eyes fond although his face is pissed.
"That's not —"
Dean's phone rings. It's Sam.
"Hey!" Dean says, a little brighter than he means to. He hasn't really planned what he's going to say yet. "What's up?"
"Dean." His brother sounds pissed. "Put your boyfriend on. I want to talk to him about a little thing called consent —"
Boyfriend? Oh, now. Cas is so much more than a boy.
"No can do, Sammy," Dean laughs, nervous and leaking a little more. "He's currently shoulder-deep in a mountain of clean towels."
Castiel rolls his eyes and drops the basket, then turns and walks that gorgeous ass out the back door, probably to stare at his beloved bees.
"What the hell happened after the fireworks? I turn around and I'm back at the bunker, and Eileen is sitting in a chair next to me, just as confused as I am!"
"Oh?" Dean hums and thinks Castiel handled more than one Winchester last night. "That's cute. You two work it out between the sheets?"
Sammy makes a noise like an angry elephant. "He can't just go teleporting us around whenever and wherever he pleases. There are other ways of handling it. Like asking, for instance!"
Dean snorts. "Wow. See I'd think getting laid would loosen you up!"
He can almost feel the red in Sam's eyes over the call. "I could say the same for you."
And, well, there's that cat out of the bag.
"You're just mad my forever hookup has a cock."
It's a little bit mean. Sammy splutters. "OK, stop! That's not what I —"
Dean sits back and lets himself feel the stretched, loose slack of his asshole. "Took quite the pounding from Cas last night."
Sam chokes. "For fucks —! I am hanging up now. Goodbye!"
"Don't call!" Dean rushes to say before he's gone. "We're going to be naked and sweaty and not answering the phone or the door!"
The line is dead.
"For a few days," Dean adds, smiling as he types out a text. "Maybe weeks."
I don't want to hear from you until there's a little Winchester on the way. Give my love to Eileen!
He immediately gets back: blocking you
"That'll teach me a lesson," he chuckles, tossing his phone on the coffee table and catching sight of the mug there. Castiel had delivered it thirty minutes ago when Dean sat down.
He draws in a deep breath and resigns himself to changing his shorts later. Cas has been a bit moody since they climbed out of the shower.
Is he having second thoughts?
Dean stands, grimaces, and stops by the kitchen to pour a cup for his new boyfriend, and follows him out the front door.
He sinks gingerly in the unmown grass next to Castiel, bumping their shoulders and knees and offering the coffee as a peace offering. Cas takes it without looking, lost somewhere in a place far, far away.
"You know," Dean begins, feeling sheepish now that the cockiness has worn off. "This mind reading thing doesn't go both ways. Gonna have to talk to me so I can keep up with the conversation."
Cas sighs and rests his free hand on Dean's knee, sipping from the mug in his other. "This world is dying," he responds, sixteen shades of melancholy.
Before Dean can ask what apocalypse is coming next, the Angel explains. "Because the bees are dying. Who's going to pollinate all the corn and soybeans and essential grains that feed Earth's people? Without the bees, it will be left to the butterflies, and we all know their fate is no brighter."
He squeezes Dean's knee. Dean rests his hand over the top and squeezes back.
"That what you want to do with retirement? Run a bee colony? Pollinate the world?"
Cas smiles, and oh, life is good. With Cas smiling, everything will be fine.
"Not just one colony. We'll need millions of them. Billions maybe."
Dean strokes the soft slope from Cas' thumb to forefinger, and does not think about where that finger has been and what it's done.
"Hate to tell you, Sweetheart, but this place ain't got room for a billion bee hives."
Cas' smile widens, and he finally, finally turns to look at Dean. There's an eternal sadness there that shouldn't be. Not anymore.
"I enjoy it when you call me Sweetheart."
Dean feels his eyebrows raise. So his Angel has a little kink of his own.
"Yeah? Well get used to it. And get used to slummin' it here with me, sitting in the jungle of our yard, watchin' the bees."
Cas pivots, leans over, and kisses him. "Are you going to help me plant native wildflowers and not make any vibrating noises to deter them or cause them to lose track of their flight paths?"
Dean kisses him back, with tongue. "I'll even help you make honey if it will keep you happy."
The horror that fills Cas' eyes is surprising. "Oh, no! Honey and bee bread is food for the larvae! We must never harvest the honey, Dean!"
He thinks about retirement. About how much work there is left to do on the house. He thinks about Cas writing a big ol' 'Honey Do' list, and his leg starts twitching as he thinks how much that's going to cost and how dead Sam is going to kill him.
Cas is looking at him now pityingly, like Dean has overextended himself and the Angel must nurse him back to health.
Dean smiles and says, "Let me guess. Stop thinking, Dean?"
Castiel beams, all sunshine, sunshine that will definitely help grow flowers and attract bees.
"Stop thinking, Dean," Cas echos.
Dean holds up his hands and laughs. The laugh gets caught in his chest, and he coughs. The cough rattles in his throat where it burns, dry and cracked. Cas frowns with that concern again, pulls him to his feet, and starts dragging him back into the house.
"What are we doing?" Dean asks, perking up as he wonders if Cas is about to reveal another one of Dean's sex dreams.
But Castiel helps him into a kitchen chair, after padding it with two seat cushions, and puts the kettle on the stove.
"What are we making?" Dean tries again. Cas' shoulders really are very strong and very wide.
Castiel busies himself collecting mugs and spoons and honey, of all things.
"We are having tea. Warm tea with honey does wonders on strained vocal cords, and you certainly overworked yours last night."
Dean chuckles and settles in, spreading his thighs apart and thinking he'd like to get Cas seated in his lap.
"So it's OK to use honey when it's in tea?"
Cas spins around, tilts his damn perfect head, and closes the distance between them. He leans in, presses his knuckles to Dean's thighs, and very obviously stares at Dean's crotch.
"Of course not." Those stunning blues slide back to pick up Dean's gaze. (He thinks he's the luckiest mother fucker in every universe.) "It is acceptable to use honey only as a healing substance to soothe vocal cords. Then when you're moaning and groaning and shouting around my name later, you'll be well ready."