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The quad at Urbana looked like a beer commercial that got haunted. String lights looped between oaks. A cappella kids rehearsed somewhere near the library steps, their harmonies wobbling with cheap lager. Frat row pushed out a wall of bass that vibrated the sidewalk. Sam and Dean moved through it like they always did—part of the crowd, separate from it, weapons tucked under layers and eyes sharp.
They had come hunting a vengeful spirit rumored to stalk sophomore study groups. It hadn’t taken long to smell sulfur instead of old grief.
“Not a ghost,” Dean muttered as they rounded the Beta house and saw the door blown outward like something had kicked from inside.
“Yup,” Sam said, jaw tight. “Demon.”
Inside was the usual college wreckage: Solo cups, sectional sofa that had given up on life, a thrift-store painting at a perfect thirty-degree angle that offended Dean’s sense of geometry. There were also three kids shaking and sobbing in the kitchen, one of them bleeding from the nose, and a fourth zip-tied to a dining chair with black eyes and a grin you didn’t forget.
“You boys are a long way from Sunday School,” the demon sang, teeth pink. “You want in on the extra credit?”
Dean didn’t bother with a reply. Salt, holy water, Latin. The thing hurled knives with a flick of thought and slammed Dean into the fridge hard enough to bruise a rib. Sam got it into a devil’s trap with a silver serving tray and a scream, because Sam always found a way, and then the brothers tag-teamed the exorcism until the human underneath was sputtering and the room felt breathable again.
By the time they cut the zip ties and checked pulses, the campus cops were circling. One of the kids—barely old enough to grow a beard and wearing a hoodie that read FINALS ARE HELL—shoved a crumpled brown paper bag into Dean’s hand.
“I, uh—” the kid swallowed. “Thank you. For saving Evan. I made brownies for the party and… it seems dumb but—keep them? Please?”
Dean looked at Sam. Sam raised an eyebrow that said Are you for real right now?
“Sure, kid,” Dean said before the window of normalcy shut. “We’ll make sure they don’t go to waste.”
On the drive back, the Impala hummed like a lullaby. Dean drummed the wheel with his thumbs, careful of the ribs that were already sending up a steady ache. Sam sat angled toward him, the bag on the bench seat between them, its top folded twice.
“You’re actually keeping the brownies,” Sam said, the unbelieving younger-brother tone he had perfected at twelve.
“Souvenir,” Dean said. “Besides, I never had the college experience, remember? If I can’t get hazed in a basement, at least I can crash on a couch and eat something homemade.”
Sam snorted. “That’s… not what hazing is. Also, they’re probably… you know.”
“Weed brownies,” Dean said like it was obvious. “I can read the room, Sammy.”
“You do realize edibles hit harder than joints, right?”
Dean glanced over with the exact level of wounded pride Sam expected. “Been around the block. And I wasn’t gonna hog ’em. Just two. Maybe.”
The corner of Sam’s mouth kicked up. “Just leave me out of it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of corrupting the Stanford grad,” Dean said, because some jokes never retired.
By the time they rolled into the bunker, the adrenaline was ash in their veins and exhaustion was the thing with sharp teeth. The Men of Letters warding hummed underfoot. Fluorescents buzzed. Sam snagged a shower on autopilot and came back into the kitchen toweling his hair, clean and yawning.
“You doing your stoner coming-of-age film tonight?” he asked, eyeing the paper bag on the counter.
Dean flicked the bag’s folded lip. “Why not? I earned a night off.”
“Okay.” Sam clapped him lightly on the shoulder, eyes scanning for signs of worse damage and finding none. “I’m heading to bed. Don’t trash the library.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “Night, grandma.”
Sam paused in the doorway. “Hey. Good work out there.”
Dean nodded. “You too.”
Footsteps faded down the hallway, and the bunker went quiet in that way underground places do—like the world above had gone distant and slow.
Dean didn’t want to sit in the silence with a bag of brownies and a soundtrack of his own thoughts. Not tonight. Not after the demon’s laugh and the echo of a frat boy’s sob, and the way the devil’s trap chalk had crumbled under his boots like bone-dust, and—more than any of that—the itch that had been sitting under his skin since the first time an angel in a trench coat had walked into his life.
He found Cas by the map table, because of course he did. The angel wasn’t wearing the trench coat tonight—bunker-warmth had finally taught him there were other layers—but he had the same stillness, the same steady gravity that made the room feel anchored.
“Hey,” Dean said, paper bag dangling from two fingers. “Got a proposition.”
Castiel looked up, eyes the color of a new bruise in a night sky. “Hello, Dean. You are injured.”
“Bruised,” Dean said. “Fridge gave me a hug. I’ll live.” He lifted the bag. “College kid thank-you brownies. I was thinking movies in the man cave. Snacks. A little chemical help to take the edge off. You in?”
Cas’s mouth twitched. “I am an angel. It is… difficult for me to become intoxicated.”
“I’ve seen you drunk,” Dean said, leaning a hip against the table. “Took a lot, sure, but you got there.”
Cas tilted his head. “Are you planning to pour an entire liquor store down my throat?”
Dean grinned. “Nope. Brownies. Ten pieces in the bag. I’ll take two. You can take the rest.”
Cas blinked. “Dean.”
“Don’t make me be the only one having fun,” Dean said, lighter than the plea felt. “C’mon. Movies. Me making fun of movie cops. You pretending not to be amused. It’ll be great.”
Something softened around Cas’s eyes the way it did when Dean put his heart on the table without saying the words. “Very well,” he said. “I will… attempt to be affected.”
“That’s the spirit,” Dean said, and waved him along.
The man cave had gotten an upgrade over the years without losing the bones of what made it Dean’s: battered leather couch, oversized armchair perfect for falling asleep in after a bottle, the big screen that had seen more explosions than a Michael Bay reel, a shelf stacked with VHS tapes because some habits die hard, and a sound system Sam had bullied Dean into accepting and which Dean now adored.
Dean made a run through the kitchen first. When he came back, his arms were full: six-pack sweating; a bowl of popcorn the size of Nebraska; two bags of chips; a container of queso; half a pie from earlier; and the paper bag of brownies nestled on top like an illicit cherry.
Cas watched the procession with fond incomprehension. “Is all of that necessary?”
“Yes,” Dean said, setting everything down with the precision of a ritual. “Edible rule number one: always prep for the munchies.”
He flicked off the overheads until the room was mostly screen-glow and the lamp by the couch. He queued up the first movie (one of his favorites, violent and heartfelt and full of one-liners he could say along in his sleep) and then finally opened the bag.
The rush of cocoa and sugar hit like a memory. The brownies were thick and slightly underbaked in the middle; somebody had nailed texture. He cut them cleanly on a plate with a butter knife because he wasn’t an animal, then slid two squares onto a little paper napkin and shoved it at Cas.
“I thought you were taking two,” Cas said, eyeing the napkin and then the eight remaining brownies on the plate.
“I am,” Dean said, and popped one square into his mouth whole, forkless, moaning half for the taste and half for the bit. “Mmm. Kid can bake.”
Cas looked at the plate like it was a spellbook and then picked one up delicately. “It smells… pleasant.”
“Tastes better,” Dean said around a mouthful, and gestured for Cas to join him on the couch. “Come on, sit. Let the magic happen.”
They sat shoulder to shoulder, a careful inch between them that wasn’t cautious so much as habitual. Dean took his second brownie with more reverence than the first. Cas took his first with the concentration of a man reading a legal contract. Dean cracked open a beer. Cas took a water. Onscreen, the hero lit a cigarette and made eye contact with justice.
Fifteen minutes turned the edges of their day soft. The ache in Dean’s ribs fuzzed to a manageable throb. The colors on the screen looked richer, as if somebody had adjusted the saturation. Dean found himself laughing at a throwaway line he’d heard a hundred times and it felt like untying a knot he hadn’t known was there.
Cas relaxed by degrees. It wasn’t obvious unless you knew his tells. The angle of his shoulders shifted. His pupils went wide. His gaze dragged from the screen to Dean, then back, as if the movie were interesting but Dean was… something else.
“How you doing?” Dean asked, low, casual.
Cas considered. “I feel… warm.” His brow furrowed. “There is a buzzing in my fingers. My grace recognizes the substance and yet… yields to it.”
“Scientific angel words for ‘it’s working,’” Dean said, mouth quirking. “Good.”
Cas’s lips curved, small and real. “Good.”
They watched. Or, more accurately, the movie played while they watched each other in the negative space between scenes. Heat pooled under Dean’s skin, a heavy, lazy thing. The couch felt like it was molded around him. He took his flannel off. Rolled his sleeves. Popcorn salt clung to his fingers and he licked it off without thinking.
Cas had a jacket on—a comfortable one he’d adopted for bunker use—and a Henley underneath. He tugged at the collar once, twice. Then he exhaled and shrugged out of the jacket, folded it, and set it on the back of the couch like a man pretending he wasn’t performing a striptease for an audience of one.
Dean’s eyes went there because they wanted to. The throat. The notch at the base of it. The dark hair that always threatened order and, tonight, looked especially soft.
Onscreen, the hero said something about family and second chances that always punched Dean in the chest. Dean didn’t realize he’d leaned an inch closer until Cas’s head found his shoulder like it had a homing signal.
“Hey there, feathery,” Dean said, and it came out softer than he meant. He could feel the weight of Cas’s skull through his T-shirt, the heat of him. He could also feel the way his own pulse took an interest in the proximity.
Cas made a sound. “My head is heavy.”
“Yeah?” Dean said, and slid a hand up, almost joking, then not joking at all when his fingers sank into Cas’s hair. He had known it was soft. He had not known it would be this—this ridiculous. It slipped under his palm like water and silk, like it had been engineered by some lab for sensory pleasure. He combed back once, then again, and the little sigh Cas gave him hit somewhere low and electric.
“Don’t stop,” Cas murmured, eyes on the screen, easily the most suggestive thing Dean had ever heard said about basic grooming.
Dean’s mouth went a little dry. He wasn’t new to touching Cas. They were together; they’d already learned each other in all the broad strokes. But this—this slow roll, this high creeping in and painting everything warmer—made familiar things feel dangerously new.
He obeyed. He stroked. The heel of his palm found the curve of Cas’s skull; his fingers traced the line where hair gave way to skin. The sound he got for teasing just under Cas’s ear went on a list in his head titled Ways To Undo An Angel.
Cas’s hand, in turn, drifted to Dean’s knee. It was nothing. It was everything. The light pressure grounded him and set him adrift at the same time. The movie flickered. A gun fired. Dean swallowed and let his other hand wander in a way that pretended to be casual but wasn’t even fooling himself.
He started at Cas’s jaw, thumb skating along stubble that rasped sweet against skin. He followed the tendon down to the throat he’d been admiring, to the place where a pulse trampolined under his touch. Cas’s breath hitched. Dean’s thumb made a slow circle, then a slower one, heat coiling under his own sternum.
“I think,” Dean said, voice gone a shade rougher, “our collegiate baker might’ve been extra generous with the recipe.”
Cas’s eyes slid to him, pupils huge. “More than cannabis?”
“Feels like it,” Dean said. He knew the signs. The warmth that wasn’t just warm. The way sound became velvet and touch became the only thing that mattered. The sparkle at the edges of everything like a filter. “Rolls a little different. Body high. The—” He waved a hand. “The ‘everything is really nice if I can touch it’ high.”
Cas considered this like a scientist logging a result. Then, with that frankness that still knocked Dean sideways, he said, “I do not mind. So long as it is your hand on me.”
Dean’s hand paused at Cas’s throat. The words landed and something in Dean loosened like a knot untying. He hadn’t been worried, not exactly, but consent was a religion in his bones. Hearing it, clear as a bell, when his brain was starting to hum—it did things to him.
“Copy that,” Dean said, and the grin he gave was equal parts relief and hunger. “It’s my hand. It’ll stay my hand.”
He moved it, slow. Over sternum. Over the thin cotton of the Henley where heat radiated like a banked fire. He could feel every breath Cas took. He could feel, through fabric, the edges where muscle met bone, where softness met strength. Cas arched into it, just enough to say yes again without words.
The movie tried to reclaim attention for exactly three seconds while a car exploded beautifully. Dean didn’t care. He was busy discovering that the hollow at Cas’s collarbone was a pressure point for angelic noises. He pressed there and Cas made a sound that made Dean have to breathe through his teeth.
He didn’t realize he was half-hard until Cas turned his face just enough to speak into Dean’s shoulder and said, conversational as weather, “You are aroused.”
“Observant,” Dean managed, because he absolutely was, the tight denim of his jeans suddenly the least satisfying thing in the world.
Cas’s hand left Dean’s knee and found the top seam of Dean’s thigh as if it had been called. He didn’t grab. He rested. Weight and heat. Dean’s cock twitched against the constraint and his vision narrowed so hard he had to blink to widen it again.
“You sure you’re good?” Dean said, last-ditch, already knowing the answer.
Cas lifted his head an inch, enough to look at Dean properly. He was open in the way Dean had only ever seen him open when they were alone; it felt like standing at the edge of something holy. “Dean,” he said, and his voice was lower than it had any right to be. “I want to touch you.”
The laugh that broke out of Dean was half nerves, half joy. It startled both of them, bright and breathless, and then it gentled into a smile that found its own way, like water seeking a path. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Okay.”
Cas moved first.
There was no shyness in it, not anymore. The drugs had sanded the edges off hesitation and left only intent. Cas lifted himself off Dean’s shoulder and pivoted, twisting in one smooth, flexible motion that made Dean’s head go stupid with want. He put one hand on the back of the couch, as if steadying himself on a ship, and braced the other on Dean’s thigh, higher now. His eyes never left Dean’s.
He kissed him.
It was not their first kiss, and it still felt like the first all over again because chemicals and context had sharpened everything to a point. Cas’s mouth was warm and tasting of chocolate. The kiss started easy—one, two, press and part—and then tilted messier when Dean’s hand slid up from Cas’s chest to cradle his jaw and keep him close. Cas made a small noise and opened for him, and the lazy heat in Dean’s belly jumped to a steady flame.
The kiss sprawled, tongues slow and curious, the kind that traded breath and rewired synapses. Dean let himself sink into it. He tasted sugar and beer and the something that was Cas alone. He let his hand run from jaw to the back of Cas’s head again, threading through hair that felt indecently good. He swallowed Cas’s sigh and gave one back.
When they broke, it wasn’t because they wanted to. Oxygen is tyrannical that way. Cas’s nose brushed Dean’s. His pupils were blown. His lips looked kissed. Dean wanted to put him in his mouth. He wanted to put him everywhere.
“Dean,” Cas said, and Dean felt the word under his palm where it lay splayed over Cas’s sternum. The vibration lit up every nerve ending he had.
“Yeah,” Dean said, because sentences felt too big to wrangle. “I’m here.”
Cas’s gaze dropped to Dean’s mouth, then lower, and then lower still, to where denim was doing a bad job of hiding anything. He studied the problem like a puzzle with a reward at the end.
“Let me,” he said.
Dean’s pulse stumbled. “Cas—”
“I want to,” Cas said, and then—so polite you could die—“May I?”
Dean’s laugh came out strangled. He managed a nod that felt like giving permission and signing a treaty and landing on a planet, all at once. “Please,” he said, because good habits don’t stop being good just because you’re high.
Cas kissed him once more—quick and bright like punctuation—and then shifted.
If Dean had ever had doubts about those gymnastics teams back in the day, he would have filed them under obsolete here and now. Cas’s body flowed. He slid off the couch to the floor like smoke finding low ground, one knee down, the other leg folding under him. The sight of him there, framed by the flicker of the TV’s light, brought something to Dean’s throat he didn’t examine too closely.
Cas settled between Dean’s knees and looked up, chin tipped, waiting for the signal like Dean was the only one who could give it. Dean’s breath hitched. He spread his legs without meaning to, jeans tight, the bulge of his cock undeniable and throbbing with its own heartbeat.
He carded his hand into Cas’s hair again because he couldn’t not. Cas leaned into it like a cat. Dean’s other hand found the couch cushion and dug in.
Cas’s hands—beautiful, precise hands that had held blades and broken everything they needed to—came to rest on Dean’s thighs. He squeezed once, grounding. His thumbs stroked the seam of denim with a pressure that made Dean curse under his breath.
“You feel good under my hands,” Cas said, reverent and wrecked at the same time.
“Yeah?” Dean said, voice gone breathy. “Keep touching, then.”
Cas’s smile hit him like a hit of something purer than anything in the brownies. He slid his palms inward, over the stiff jut of denim, up to where the button anchored pressure. He looked up again, last check, and Dean nodded because that was the easiest decision he had ever made.
Cas unbuttoned him with deliberate slowness. The metal clink sounded loud in the room. The zipper followed, teeth sighing open. Relief skated out from Dean’s center and made his toes curl. He sucked in a breath when Cas’s knuckles brushed the heat beneath, even through fabric.
Cas’s pupils dilated further, which Dean hadn’t thought was possible. “You are—” Cas started, and seemed to decide adjectives were a waste of valuable time. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Dean’s boxer-briefs and paused again, an angel standing on the cliff of a mortal thing, asking.
Dean lifted his hips a fraction in answer. Cas drew the fabric down and Dean’s cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, the air on him almost obscene. Cool met hot in a way that made him shut his eyes for a second and breathe.
He opened them when Cas exhaled like the world had just been made.
Onscreen, the hero said a line Dean loved, and Dean didn’t hear it at all. The TV painted Cas in flicker—blue, then gold, then shadow. Cas’s mouth parted. His tongue wet his bottom lip like he could taste the future.
“Cas,” Dean said, because his voice needed to exist in the room, because this was already more intimate than most things that had ever happened to him, because saying the name made it real.
Cas’s fingers curled around the base of Dean’s cock. The grip was firm, learned from practice and guided tonight by a high that made every feedback loop perfect. He stroked once, slow, like he was greeting it. Dean bit back a noise and then didn’t bother, letting the groan come out of him unfiltered.
“Good?” Cas asked, watching Dean for the truth.
“Yeah,” Dean said, and then, honest to a fault even now, “So good I might say something stupid.”
Cas’s smile did that uneven thing Dean loved, the one he never showed anyone else. “You can say whatever you want.”
Dean huffed laughter that shook his shoulders. It spilled over into the air and pressed the moment lighter, brighter. The sound made Cas grin back, which made Dean laugh again, which made both of them breathe like they were teenagers whose bodies had just figured out how to want.
The brownies did their work, encircling them in warmth and soft focus. The movie kept playing to an audience of two who didn’t care about the plot anymore. Dean leaned back into the couch and let one hand fall to Cas’s cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth like a benediction.
Cas’s breath warmed the head of Dean’s cock. Screen-light flickered blue-gold across his cheekbones. The room narrowed to the circle of Dean’s knees, Cas between them on the rug like a prayer answered, and the hum under Dean’s skin turned into something with teeth and a name.
“Hold up,” Dean said, because he had to, because he wanted to remember this for more than the blur, and because consent wasn’t a box you ticked once and forgot. “We’re… elevated.” He smiled crookedly; it felt like his face didn’t remember how to do anything except want. “You good to keep going like this?”
Cas looked up through lashes absurdly dark for a being made of wings and noise, and that open, steady honesty that still killed Dean slowly was right there. “Yes,” he said, plain as air. “I am good. I want you.” Something wry ghosted his mouth. “Also, everything you are doing to my scalp is—very unfair.”
Dean’s laugh came out soft and wrecked. “I’ll keep that in my back pocket,” he said, and slid the hand in Cas’s hair a little lower, fingers curling at the nape, a touch to guide, not force. “You tap if anything’s too much.”
“I will,” Cas said, and then leaned in like a man arriving home.
The first slick pull of heat made Dean grunt, head knocking back into the couch. Cas took him like he knew him—which he did, by now—mouth opening over the head, tongue broad and sure, hand firm at the base to steady the weight. The drugs turned feeling up to eleven. Every nerve-ending lit. Every sound Dean made vibrated in his own chest like he’d swallowed a guitar string.
“Jesus,” he hissed, not meaning anything theological. His fingers clenched helplessly in Cas’s hair, not pulling, just anchoring himself to something that wasn’t dissolving under him. “That’s… yeah.”
Cas hummed as if in agreement, and the hum traveled; Dean felt it in places that had nothing to do with anatomy, the kind of echo that made the back of his neck go hot. Cas hollowed his cheeks, eased down, eased off, learned the rhythm of Dean’s hips when Dean forgot not to move. Saliva gathered and the sounds got messy; the couch, the rug, the bones of the room fell away until there was only the wet slide, the heat, the careful pressure of Cas’s fingers pressing down on the tendon along the underside like they were following a map.
“There you go,” Dean heard himself say, low and gone, voice sanded smooth. “That’s it, baby. Taking me so good.”
Cas made the kind of sound people made when they were given the exact praise they needed, and Dean felt his own control slip another notch. He breathed through it. He didn’t want to end here. He wanted to go slow and go hard and go until the edges of the night were worn soft from touch.
Cas bobbed, a steady pace that let sensation stack and stack. He shifted his left hand off Dean’s thigh, slid it to the couch next to Dean’s hip, and braced; the move pulled his shoulders broader, opened his throat. Dean’s stomach did a complicated thing, part arousal, part affection so chest-deep it hurt.
“Look at me,” he said, because he could, because he liked watching Cas hear and obey when he gave clean direction. Cas’s eyes tipped up while his mouth stayed stretched, lips glistening. That sight would stay with Dean if he lived to be a hundred: his angel looking up at him, pupils blown, cheeks hollowed around him, the TV throwing light over everything like stained glass.
“I’m close,” Dean warned, thumb stroking Cas’s jaw, his hand gentle in hair he wanted to tear at. “You want it—?”
Cas slid off with a soft pop and a breath that turned into a laugh at Dean’s strangled noise. “I want to savor you,” he said, almost prim, completely obscene on his knees like that, wiping the back of his wrist across his chin. “And I want you… later. Inside me.”
It hit Dean then—hard and sweet—what they hadn’t said out loud again since the first time they’d stumbled into the space where sex stopped being a thing they did and started being a thing they were. “No rubber?” he asked anyway, because you asked, you didn’t assume, not even when everything in you wanted to say yes and consequences be damned.
Cas’s eyes softened. He reached up and splayed his palm over Dean’s heart, thumb pressing briefly over Dean’s scar as though he could calm the hiccuping rabbit of Dean’s pulse by touching it. “We are only with each other,” he said, that bluntness that never failed to seduce Dean more surely than any dirty talk. “Besides… I want to feel you.”
Dean’s exhale came out shaky. “Yeah,” he said, throat thick and grateful. “Me too.”
Touch took the wheel after that. Cas bent, pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the head of Dean’s cock like a promise, then climbed the small distance back to the couch, bracketing Dean’s thighs with his own, faces close enough to blur. Dean kissed him in a way that tasted like salt and sugar and the slick ghost of himself. Cas moaned into his mouth, needy and unembarrassed.
“Switch,” Dean murmured. “Your turn.”
Cas’s answer was a noise somewhere between agreement and relief. He leaned into Dean’s hands like gravity was something he could choose.
Dean got his feet under him and stood, dragging Cas up by the hips. Cas went easily, pliant and strong, letting himself be manhandled without giving up one ounce of agency. Dean spun him gently and tipped him forward over the armrest, chest to the couch cushion, cheek against worn leather. The pose was unapologetically filthy; the fact that Cas settled into it like his body had been waiting for this angle all night set Dean’s synapses on fire.
“Comfortable?” Dean asked, one palm splayed in the small of Cas’s back to keep him there and feel him breathe.
“Yes,” Cas said, and then, because he was always earnest when Dean needed it, “Please.”
Dean smiled and leaned down, caught the back of Cas’s neck in his teeth lightly, a tease. “Won’t keep you waiting.”
Preparation didn’t have to be clinical. It could be worship. Dean cupped Cas’s ass in both hands and squeezed, thumbs pressing into the top of the curve, spreading him a little. The sight of him like that—open and trusting, the kind of vulnerable that only ever meant powerful in the right hands—made Dean swallow around a sound that felt too big for the room.
“I’m grabbing the good stuff,” he said, reluctant to take his hands off long enough to fetch what he needed. He straightened, reached down under the side table without looking; there were things he kept in the man cave like he kept them everywhere, because it was his room and he knew what he needed. His fingers closed around the bottle he wanted. He flipped the cap with a thumb, the clean scent of a good silicone lube cutting through popcorn and beer.
Cas shivered when Dean’s slick fingers slid down, not cold, just different from the bunker-warmth. He made himself start slow even though the world was tugging at him like a tide. One finger, just pressure first, circling, teasing the tense ring of muscle until it softened. Cas’s breath changed. Dean’s hand on his back felt the shift; he soothed a palm down to Cas’s hip and squeezed there, grounding.
“Talk to me,” he said, because words mattered when your brain was singing and your body was hungry. “Good? Too much?”
“Good,” Cas stuttered, voice already gone to smoke. “Better than good.”
Dean pressed the tip in and waited, then eased deeper by degrees, the lube making everything glide. Cas exhaled hard; the muscles around Dean’s finger fluttered and then welcomed. Dean stopped, flexed the finger, wiggled it until he heard the breath go out of Cas on a broken ah.
“There you are,” Dean said, and the fondness in his voice surprised him. Lust could be so tender. He crooked his finger, searching the way he always did, even though he knew the geography of Cas’s body by now like he knew the mile markers to every town he’d ever hunted in. He found what he was looking for by the jolt that travelled up Cas’s spine and the way Cas’s hips took his hand without shame.
“Dean,” Cas said on a gasp, head turning to bite leather. “There. Please.”
“Yeah, I’ve got you,” Dean said, and kept the pressure there until Cas trembled. He slid the finger out and in, added a second beside it, the stretch a sweet burn that made Cas push back to take it. Dean groaned, the sound of it pulled out of him. “You get so tight for me. Every time.”
“Yes,” Cas said, almost desperate, as if tightening were a choice he made so Dean could have this. “Only for you.”
Dean’s vision went wet around the edges for a second. He blinked it away; affection could undo him later, in the dark when the chemicals slid down to a hum. Now he had a job. He curled his fingers, stroked Cas open from the inside with care and want, added slick when he needed to, kept his other hand firm on Cas’s hip because he knew Cas liked to be held there, liked to feel what had him.
The drug-buzz turned the sensory map weird and wonderful. Dean could feel Cas’s breath through the line of his arm, could feel the slight give of the couch under Cas’s chest, could feel the way Cas’s thighs trembled where they pressed into the couch cushion. He could also feel his own control slipping, not in a way that worried him—he clung to the bones of himself like a climber—but in a way that made every choice hotter.
“Touch yourself,” he said when Cas moaned and ground down on his hand, chasing relief. “I want to watch you fall apart on my fingers.”
Cas’s hand slid between his own body and the couch cushions with a snarl of leather; he was sculpture when he reached for himself, all clean lines and intent become action. He stroked himself like a man who knew exactly what he needed. Dean couldn’t see the whole of it from this angle, but he could see the flex of forearm tendons, the way shoulder blades V’d under thin cotton, the way breath stuttered and then caught like an engine turning over to speed. The sounds he made slayed Dean. The little bitten-off sighs. The wrecked ah when Dean curled his fingers just so.
“Good boy,” Dean murmured without thinking, heat licking up his spine at the way Cas jerked at the praise. “You like that? Like me opening you up?”
“Yes,” Cas managed, wrecked and proud of it. “I like… when you make room for yourself in me.”
Dean thought he might die from how much he loved this man. “Then take three for me,” he said, voice rough. “Let me make sure you can handle what you’re asking for.”
Cas made a noise that might have been a whimper in another mouth. “Dean.”
Dean went slow anyway, because slow mattered first. Two was a stretch that made Cas sweat; three made Cas grasp at the couch with his free hand and breathe like he’d been running. Dean gentled him through it, stroked Cas’s lower back with palm and lip, murmured nonsense and filth and everything in between until the tight band of muscle yielded and Cas’s mouth fell open.
“Please,” Cas whispered, wrecked and reverent. “Dean, please, I’m—”
“Close?” Dean finished, working him just-so with a rhythm that didn’t exist in any song but the one of Cas’s body. “You want to come on my hand like this?”
Cas’s response dissolved into sound. Dean felt it happen before he heard it—the change in tension and timing, the belly-flutter that meant a body giving up to pleasure. Cas groaned into the couch, hips jerking helplessly; his hand sped up and then stuttered; Dean crooked his fingers and held them there, pressing that spot inside, and Cas broke.
He came messy, the slick, warm rush pooling against his stomach and the couch back, his thighs trembling, his breath knocked out of him. Dean stroked him through it, unbelievably gentle with the hand that had been rough a second ago, thumb drawing circles on a hipbone, lips against the side of Cas’s neck soothing heat into him.
“That’s my angel,” he murmured, chest buzzing with pride so big it bordered on ridiculous. “That’s it. God, you’re… fuck.”
Cas shivered and pushed back against Dean’s hand with shaky little aftershocks that made heat crawl into Dean’s teeth. “Dean,” he said hoarsely, as if the word was both plea and thanks. “Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, kissing the back of his neck, pulling carefully out, slick still on his fingers. He wiped quickly on a towel he’d thrown over the armrest earlier because he was a grown man with a system, then pressed both hands to Cas’s hips and eased him upright, out of the slouch of after-orgasm so he didn’t cramp. “You okay? Too much?”
Cas laughed, breathless and stunned, honestly adorable. “You have turned me into jelly.”
Dean grinned into his hair. “Hell of a culinary achievement.”
Cas twisted, soft-kneed and loose, and grabbed the back of Dean’s neck with one hand, pulling him down into a kiss that was sloppy and grateful. Dean took it, fed it, let it turn as dirty as Cas wanted, teeth catching lower lip, tongues slick and sweet, the taste of Cas’s own salt a pulse under everything.
“I want you,” Cas said against his mouth, forehead pressed to Dean’s. “I want you now.”
“You’ve got me,” Dean said, and meant it deeper than the sex; the drugs were good at knocking the polish off the truth. He breathed in, breathed out, and let his hand slide between their bodies to his own cock. He was still iron-hard, the kind of ache you could hang a coat on, the head wet and slicked with precum and Cas’s spit. He stroked himself once because he had to, then lined up.
“Over the armrest first,” Dean said, deciding for both of them because he loved deciding, especially for Cas when Cas wanted that. “I want you folded under me.”
Cas’s eyes went soft and hungry at the same time. “Yes.”
Dean guided. Cas went down like water, hands flat on the couch back, chest lowered just enough that the angle was perfect. Dean stepped in close, notching the head of his cock against the slick heat and waiting a heartbeat, two, until he felt the give.
“Breathe,” he said, and pushed.
It never got old, the way Cas opened for him. The first inch, the tight pull, the way everything in Dean’s body wanted to lock his knees and groan. He did groan, helplessly, when he sank halfway and had to stop, palms sliding up Cas’s sides because he needed to touch as much of him as he could. Cas breathed, like he’d been ordered, heartbeat rabbiting under skin. Dean pressed in slow and steady until he bottomed out, hip to ass, pressure sweet and perfect where his balls met the warm skin of Cas’s taint.
They stayed there. It felt like forever. It was probably five seconds. The MDMA made time syrup-thick and kind. Dean’s eyes closed on their own. He breathed into the place where Cas’s shoulder met his spine, his mouth open on skin, tasting sweat. Cas made the kind of noise that rearranged Dean’s internal organs.
“Fuck,” Dean said, because language was a small boat on a big sea. “Cas.”
“Dean,” Cas echoed, reverent, like he was using the word to mean I am here and you are here and this is right in every way that matters.
Dean moved.
The first pulls were shallow, a slide to test the edges, to check if Cas was going to curse him out for impatience. He didn’t. He pushed back, tiny, greedy motions that said more. Dean’s control came back not as brakes but as clarity. He set a pace that wasn’t lazy and wasn’t frantic—grounded, the kind of rhythm built to carry them a long way.
“Harder,” Cas said when he could form words, immediately undercutting Dean’s noble intentions. “Please.”
Dean huffed a laugh that shook. “Of course you want it rough.” He gripped Cas’s hips harder, hiked one foot a fraction to change the angle, and thrust deeper. The sound Cas made at that—broken, grateful—made Dean curse and do it again.
The couch arm creaked, but it was bunker-solid; they could have moved the building with less noise. Dean found a groove. He fucked Cas like he’d wanted to for a week of wanting—thrusts deep enough to make leather complain, hips rolling to grind the head of his cock over the spot inside that made Cas see stars. Cas’s hands scrambled for purchase and found it on the couch back and then on Dean’s wrist when Dean curled an arm over his chest and anchored him mid-thrust, palm flat against sternum, feeling the rapid punch of Cas’s heart under bone.
“God, listen to you,” Dean said, and only realized after that he was the one making more noise, his own breath turning into something like a growl every third thrust. “Taking me like you were built for it.”
Cas’s laugh came out delirious. “I was rebuilt,” he managed, and then lost the thread when Dean changed the angle a hair and hammered into that new exact place. “Dean—”
“Yeah,” Dean said, teeth in his lower lip, eyes clenched for a second against the sharp, sweet burn of how good it was. “I’ve got you, baby.”
He didn’t last. He didn’t intend to. He wanted to give Cas what he wanted and what he wanted now was to be used until Dean broke right over that line. Sweat slicked their skins and the high made the drag between them feel like velvet and fire both. Dean’s balls drew tight, the warning a hot rope up his spine.
“I’m there,” he said, voice gone to gravel. “Cas, I’m—fuck.”
“Come,” Cas said, emphatic and filthy, head arched back, throat bared. “Dean, come in me.”
The permission ripped whatever was left of Dean’s control. He shoved in deep, ground hard, and came so hard his vision blurred out at the edges. He groaned into Cas’s shoulder like he was giving up something louder to keep quiet the sound that wanted to rattle the bunker. Heat spilled, relentless, the kind that made his toes curl; his body shook with it. He stayed inside as he came, rolling through the aftershocks with small involuntary thrusts that dragged pleasure out longer than physics should allow.
He slumped over Cas’s back, chest heaving, breath a series of rough laughs he couldn’t stop. Cas laughed too, breathless and drunk on the way Dean lost it, twisting his head to catch Dean’s temple with his mouth.
There was a world where Dean stayed right there and fell asleep, wrapped around Cas’s back like he was trying to keep him, cock softening where he was still buried in heat. This was not that world. The brownies and whatever extra love letter the kid had put in them made Dean feel like a live wire. His body wanted motion and touch and more.
“Don’t go far,” he murmured against Cas’s skin, kissing between shoulder blades, pulling out carefully. He caught the flush of wet at Cas’s hole with his fingers and stroked there, tender, feeling possessive in a way that didn’t scare him. “You okay?”
Cas made a small, satisfied sound that was ninety percent purr. “My legs may never work again.”
“We’ll file a workers’ comp claim,” Dean said, wiping his hand, then leaning to kiss a line down Cas’s spine just because he could. “Stretch your back. Then get on all fours.”
Cas obeyed, slow and delicious, shifting up onto hands and knees, elbows locked, back curved. Dean stepped back a half pace and took him in—the red bloom of color high on his cheekbones, the way sweat had stuck short hairs to the nape of his neck, the pink around his hole, the way his thighs were already splayed shamelessly. Dean’s mouth went dry.
“You look obscene,” he said, admiration wrapped in filth, the compliment he meant. “C’mon. Hands behind your back.”
Cas did it imperfectly, wrists crossed over the small of his back, trusting Dean completely to hold him up or pin him or let him go. Dean’s cock, still wet and sensitive, twitched like it hadn’t gotten the memo it was supposed to be down for the count. Then it got the memo. The MDMA had a way of smoothing the lag between want and body.
Dean slid one big hand over Cas’s crossed wrists and held them there, not crushing, just certain. With the other, he palmed Cas’s ass and squeezed, spreading him again with his thumb, brief pressure to test how much slick was left.
“What do you say?” he asked lazily, because he liked the way Cas’s mouth formed the words when he had to work for them.
“Please,” Cas said, immediate. “Dean, please.”
“For what?”
“For you,” Cas said, free hand flexing and then curling tight again under Dean’s grip as if his body wanted to reach and Dean’s hand said no. “For you to—use me.”
Dean made a sound completely involuntary and absolutely filthy. “Ask nicer,” he said, because he was a bastard and because being asked nicely by Cas did things to his brain.
“Dean.” Cas tipped his head forward, voice shaking into a thing that sounded like begging. “Please, fuck me. Hard.”
“There we go,” Dean said, smiling, and slid in again with a push that made both of them gasp.
This angle was less civilized, more leverage. Dean set a punishing rhythm because Cas had asked for it and because giving Cas what he asked for was becoming one of Dean’s favorite hobbies. The slap of skin to skin, the creak of couch, the little grunt every time Dean bottomed out—the room turned into a metronome pounding blood.
“Tell me you like it,” Dean ordered, and Cas did, unembarrassed, voice breaking on yes and more and Dean, yes in a way that made Dean feel invincible. He fisted Cas’s wrists and brought them higher up his back and Cas arched like a bow, the line of him from hands to the hump of his ass obscene and perfect. Dean’s mouth watered. He leaned over, teeth catching Cas’s shoulder. He bit. Not hard enough to bruise deep, hard enough to mark. Cas gasped and clenched around him like a fist.
“That’s it,” Dean said, hips punishing, words sweet. “Take it. You’re doing so good for me, baby. You were made for my cock.”
Cas’s laugh hiccuped. “That’s not how… angelic creation works.”
“Funny,” Dean said, merciless, and fucked him through another clench.
Cas came for the second time with a messy, wracked sound, hands useless under Dean’s grip, body shaking. He plastered the couch back with more of himself. Dean swore; the way Cas pulsed around him dragged pleasure up Dean’s spine with mean little teeth. His own orgasm hadn’t recovered enough to be imminent, but the drug-glow made the sensation rideable. He fucked Cas through it, let him collapse onto his forearms, let his own grip on wrists soften into a cradle, kept moving until Cas’s whimper turned into a hungry little push-back that said More, not Stop.
“Good boy,” Dean said again, because he was weak in the face of cause and effect, and saw the tremor that rippled through Cas’s whole body in response. “Get on the floor.”
Cas sagged to the rug without protest, face turned to Dean, eyes wild-happy and soft, hair a mess. Dean pulled him by the hips toward the clear space in front of the couch, using strength because Cas liked to be moved. He folded a throw pillow under Cas’s head, because the rug was not a bed and Dean wasn’t a monster.
“On your stomach,” Dean said. “Hands over your head.”
Cas did it with a grace that shouldn’t belong to a man as wrecked as he looked. Dean straddled the backs of his thighs and took a second to just… memorize. The long line of spine. The way shoulder blades shrugged when Cas shifted his arms. The faint, fading marks Dean’s mouth had left. Dean’s hands shook a little and he told himself it was the combination of high and lust and not the way love had started living in his knuckles.
He slid in again, groaning at the way this angle felt—narrower, somehow hotter, the heat of Cas’s body trapped between them. He gathered Cas’s wrists in one hand, pinned them lightly to the rug above his head, and used the other to brace by Cas’s ribs so he didn’t crush him. Then he set a slower rhythm that hit deeper, grinding, the base of his cock dragging over tender skin every thrust.
Cas’s noises turned muffled with his mouth against the pillow. Dean didn’t like that. “Let me hear you,” he said, and slid his hand under Cas’s cheek, tilting his head to the side. Cas made a sound like relief and wreckage at once.
“Dean,” he said, voice hoarse and filthy. “I can feel you everywhere.”
“Good,” Dean said, and brought his free hand down to the curve where ass met thigh, palm open. He smacked, not hard, a bright sting of sound more than bite. Cas jerked and moaned. Dean did it again, harder, and watched the flush bloom under his hand. “That feel good?”
“Yes,” Cas said, the s forming around a breath that sounded like praise. “Oh—yes.”
Dean alternated—spanking into those perfect cheeks until his palm stung, then soothing with a rub, then fucking in deep and slow, the combination turning Cas boneless and then wound-tight again. He was learning Cas’s tells the way he had learned every other part of him; the set of his shoulders right before he went, the complaining little roll of his hips when too much turned into not enough.
“Hand,” Dean said when the roll became plaintive. “Get yourself.”
Cas’s hand went obediently to his cock and Dean lost the last scrap of composure he’d been pretending to have. He folded over Cas’s back, chest to shoulder blades, mouth to Cas’s ear. “Make yourself come while I’m inside you,” he growled. “I want to feel you milk me.”
Cas swore. Angels swearing sounded like prayers. He jerked himself fast, thighs quivering. Dean’s pace faltered, then steadied. He felt the exact second the wave took Cas again—the shudder and then the clench—felt it around his cock like a fist. He groaned helplessly against Cas’s neck and held still to let the rhythm of Cas’s orgasm wring him. Cas cried out, the sound unpretty and perfect, spilling on the rug, body shaking.
Dean managed to not go right then. He breathed in the smell of Cas and sweat and candy-sweet weed and his own skin; he breathed out and moved again, relentless. The high sent him sailing past the edge where he should have been done; he rode the afterglow into new heat.
“On your back,” he rasped, hauling Cas over with a strength born of wanting. Cas ended up sprawled, hair wild, chest heaving, eyes dazed. He didn’t look human at all; he looked like something that had chosen to be human tonight and could choose otherwise but wouldn’t, not for this.
Dean hooked Cas’s knees, shoved them up, and shouldered his legs so Cas’s ankles landed on his shoulders. The position was the filthiest yet—open, obscene, intimate. Cas’s face flushed darker; his hands flew to Dean’s forearms like he needed something to hold onto.
“Watch me,” Dean said, and pushed into him again.
Cas did. He watched like a student and a lover and a man drowning. Dean fucked him like he was writing a last stanza, hips snapping, then grinding, keeping eye contact even when it felt impossible. He reached to palm Cas’s throat lightly, thumb at the hinge of jaw, not choking, just claiming. Cas groaned, eyes fluttering, then locked again on Dean.
“I love you,” Cas said, like he hadn’t meant to and it was the only thing he could say. The high stripped his filter bare.
Dean’s whole body stuttered. Heat and tenderness slammed into him hard enough to wobble his knees. “I know,” he said, because he did, because the words didn’t scare him anymore; they built him. “I love you. I love you, Cas.”
Cas made a sound that might have been a sob; it turned into a laugh, which turned into another sob, which turned into a moan when Dean drove home and drove home again and again.
Dean felt his orgasm gather with intent this time—a deep pull from the base of his spine, a throb at the root of his cock that tightened everything. He chased it, let it chase him back, held Cas’s gaze like a lifeline.
“Gonna fill you up,” he said, and then laughed at his own stupidity, because technically he already had. “Again.”
“Yes,” Cas said, shaking, the word wrecked around a grin that split his whole face. “Dean, yes, please.”
That did it. Dean broke open. He shoved deep and stayed, lips peeling back from his teeth, and came with a shout he swallowed in Cas’s mouth when Cas dragged him down into a kiss that was all teeth and joy. The rush went on and on, spiking and tapering, his body emptying everything he had left into Cas’s heat, the slick in Cas’s body turning lush and filthy and perfect.
He shook through the aftershocks, sweat hanging at his temples, chest rubbing Cas’s chest, both of them gasping into each other’s mouths. He rode the small involuntary shoves of his hips until there weren’t any left, then lay there, propped on elbows so he wasn’t crushing Cas, forehead against Cas’s, both of them smiling like idiots because what else did you do when the night turned out like this.
They lay like that until oxygen and common sense came back. Dean slid out, slow and tender. He watched the way slick followed him, the obscene wet glint, and he couldn’t resist thumbing Cas open one more time, not pushing in, just touching. Cas shivered and swatted half-heartedly at his wrist.
“You are a menace,” he said, voice gone to gravel.
“You like it,” Dean said, entirely too pleased with himself and incapable of hiding it.
Cas’s smile softened into something dangerous. “I do.”
Afterglow turned heavy and domestic like it always did with them. Dean snagged the towel again and did the clean-up quietly, efficient and kind, because sex didn’t stop at the ending. Cas watched him like a man being told a story he knew by heart. He let Dean wipe him off, let Dean handle him when he was too oversensitive to do it himself. He let Dean tug him up and over and onto the couch like he weighed nothing.
“Hydrate,” Dean ordered, pressing a cold water bottle into Cas’s hand. Cas drank like a good soldier and then let his head fall back onto the cushion with a groan that was pure contentment.
Dean drank, too. Water tasted like the best thing he’d ever had, which was ridiculous and true. His throat felt raw from laughing and swearing. His ribs ached in that good way on top of the bruise from earlier; he only noticed it now that his body had stopped yelling other things.
The movie was still running, bless its little heart. Some climactic score swelled. Dean stared at it and could not have told you what the plot was to save his life. He caught Cas looking the same direction with an expression that said he was also not seeing anything.
“Pause?” Dean said.
Cas blinked. “Pause,” he agreed gravely.
Dean fumbled for the remote where it had fallen between couch cushions and found it by feel like the lucky bastard he was. He hit pause. The bunker sighed; the sound system hissed into a quiet like a sea pulling back from shore.
Munchies arrived like a friend late to a party and very apologetic. Dean laughed helplessly when his stomach growled loud enough to echo.
“I built us a snack mountain for a reason,” he said, reaching blind for the popcorn bowl and dragging it into his lap. He shoved a handful into his mouth and made a noise poetic critics would describe as obscene. “Oh my God.”
Cas reached over without looking and took a chip. He put it in his mouth like he was performing an experiment and then made a small, stunned sound of joy. “This is… very good.”
“Drugs: making Doritos into a cathedral since 1974,” Dean said, solemn, then snorted at himself and almost choked on a kernel. Cas patted his back, very seriously, as if he might Heimlich him at any second.
They ate like the recently rescued, hands bumping into the same bowl, trading bites without thinking. Dean opened the queso with his teeth and Cas laughed at him, then dipped a chip and fed it to him because apparently they were that couple now. Dean accepted it and hummed like a decadent monster.
Somewhere in the middle of the popcorn, Dean’s phone buzzed, vibrating a little tickle against the cushions. He fished it out. A text from Sam: a meme of two raccoons looking scandalized under a caption that read WHEN YOU HEAR WEIRD NOISES IN THE VENT BUT REMEMBER YOU LIVE WITH DEAN.
Dean barked a laugh that hurt his ribs. He angled the screen at Cas. Cas looked, blinked, and then laughed too, sounding weirdly delighted.
“I am pleased your brother has learned to use the raccoon meme vernacular,” he said gravely, which made Dean laugh harder.
Dean thumbed a reply—🦝🦝❤️🔇—and then turned the screen facedown on the armrest. “He can survive one night,” he said. “He’s a big boy.”
Cas’s smile turned soft. He scooted down on the couch until he could wedge himself into Dean’s side the way he always fit, warm and solid and a little too large for the available space. Dean threw the emergency throw blanket over both of them without thinking; it smelled like fabric softener and bunker.
“Favorite part?” Cas asked, surprising him.
“Of the movie?” Dean asked, grinning because the TV had frozen on a mid-explosion frame.
“Of tonight,” Cas said, eyes flicking up from under lashes, sober and devout about it in the way only he could be.
Dean thought, which was harder than usual and better, because the high had pulled all the shame and hedging out of his head and left only the bones of what was true. “Hearing you,” he said, slow, tasting the words. “Every time. Like… the way you ask. And the way you don’t.” He huffed a laugh at himself, then sobered. “Saying it. Saying you loved me. I don’t know. All of it.”
Cas smiled with his whole face, like the words were a gift he’d been waiting for and had gotten to unwrap in private right here on Dean’s couch. “For me,” he said, “the way you asked. Each time. Every step. And the way you—held me down and then held me up.”
Dean’s chest did something complicated and painful. He covered it with bullshit, because some instincts didn’t vanish even on MDMA. “Also the Doritos,” he said gravely.
Cas tilted his head. “And the Doritos,” he agreed.
They lay there, warm and spoiled and honest, and watched the paused frame like it might teach them something. After a while, Dean’s eyes drooped; after a while longer, Cas’s did too. Sleep prowled the edges. The high hummed down, still soft, still kind, the afterglow turning the room into a thing they could float in.
Dean cracked one eye open with a thought. “We, uh,” he said, voice almost asleep already. “We never finished the movie.”
Cas’s answering hum was halfway to a snore and pleased. “We will,” he said, words slurred and certain. “Someday.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, draping an arm over Cas’s shoulder and pulling him tighter. He pressed his mouth to Cas’s temple without ceremony. “Someday.”
The TV froze the explosion forever. The snack mountain slumped honorable and half-defeated on the table. In the man cave, under a throw blanket that had seen more naps than battles, Dean and Cas fell asleep, smiling like idiots, happy and high and wrecked and full, their so-called movie marathon having turned—predictably, gloriously—into a legendary bunker sexathon, with a promise they would actually finish the film… someday.
—The End—