Dean hears it first as he’s heading toward his room for some shut-eye. A pained grunt, followed by a sharp hiss, and a muttered, “Fuck,” in a low, hoarse voice that can only belong to Cas. And, fine, maybe Dean’s a little paranoid, but the dude’s only been human for a month, okay, and he’s already proven himself to be clumsy without the weight of his wings, prone to injury, but he needs to make sure Cas is okay, right now.
Cas’s bedroom is just a few feet further down the hall. Dean hurries the last few steps and then, hesitating only briefly, taps his knuckles against the shut door. “Uh, Cas?” he asks, trying very hard not to sound worried. “You okay in there?”
There’s a long pause, and then Cas’s voice—strained, trembling only very slightly—“I’m fine, Dean. Thank you.”
There’s a muffled whimper, the sound Cas makes when he discovers something hurts when it really shouldn’t, and Dean reacts without thinking, just bursts into the room, heart hammering.
Of all the things he had expected—Cas hiding himself away, nursing his own injuries; Cas panicking; Cas bleeding or bruised or, or something—this is not it: Cas, frozen, pink flushed all the way up to the tips of his ears, pants undone and around his ankles, sitting propped up against the headboard of his bed, cock gripped tightly in one hand.
Dean stares at Cas, and Cas stares back at him as if terrified, eyes wide and mouth parted in shock, shoulders hunched in on himself.
“Um,” Dean says, because someone has to break the silence, and then he can’t think of anything else to say, so he just stares like a dumbass, because this is Cas, fucking ex-Angel of the Lord, jacking off in his bedroom. And, fuck, Dean can’t help but notice the flushed head of his cock, the lean, bare thighs, oh, god. Fuck. Dean clears his throat and feels his ears burning.
“I’ll, uh. Shit. Sorry. I’ll. Leave you to it. I guess,” Dean says. Cas’s cheeks are an alarming shade of red. His lips press together, then part again, as if he’s trying to work up the courage to say something. Dean is fixated on the movement, the ever-chapped lips bitten red, swollen—and, fuck, he wants to sooth away the ache with his own lips and tongue, he wants—he wants …
Dean finally forces his feet to move, and he’s just turning around to leave when Cas says, “Wait—Dean,” in a panicked voice. Reflexively, Dean turns back to him and resolutely looks anywhere but at him, anywhere but the pink cheeks and the head of his cock still peeking out from Cas’s white-knuckled fist.
Dean has to take a deep breath to keep his voice steady. “What?” he asks. He makes sure to look somewhere to the left of Castiel.
“I—I don’t—I’m not sure I’m—” and Dean has to look at him for this, because Cas is stuttering, tripping over his words, and he so rarely does that (not that him masturbating isn’t rare, not to the extent of Dean’s knowledge, which, admittedly, is limited in regards to angelic sexual behavior).
Cas can’t seem to go on. Dean tries his best to send him a smile that isn’t predatory. “C’mon, Cas,” he says. “Just—tell me. Okay?”
“I don’t think I’m doing this right,” Cas says, all in a rush. His eyes are wide, the whites almost feverishly bright. “I—it hurts, Dean, it’s—it’s not supposed to hurt.”
For a second, Dean just stands there, because, um, what the fuck. “Uh,” he says, finally. “Um. Okay. Uh. What do you mean, it—hurts?”
If at all possible, Cas’s cheeks turn even more red. “I—it chafes, it just hurts, Dean, I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong!”
Dean has to press his palms into his eyes until the world stops spinning. Okay. Okay. Right. Cas doesn’t know how to masturbate without hurting himself. Right. Awesome. There are videos online for that, right? Of course there are. Porn’s there for a reason. So all he has to do is, you know—get the laptop up and running, point Cas in the right direction, and take a very, very cold shower, because he’ll be thinking of Cas, head thrown back, flushed like he is now, sweat dampening his hair, oh, god, and one hand around himself, nice and slow and easy, and, fuck, maybe—he’d reach down, one finger brushing against the furl of muscle at his opening, fuck, okay, no, Dean, fuck, fuck, fuck (oh, god, though, Cas opening himself up and coming all over his stomach with his fingers still inside himself, fuck, no, bad Dean, bad-bad-bad Dean).
He shifts on his feet uneasily, cock trapped behind rough denim, because, god, that’s hot as fuck, the idea of Cas just—Cas orgasming (for the first time?), pupils blown with pleasure, back arching—
“Fuck,” Dean mutters. Okay. He’ll just. Give Cas a hand. Not a literal hand, no. That’d be too far. Just. Coaching him through it. He can do that. Yeah. Who knows what kind of nasty shit Cas would find on the internet? No fucking way is Dean, even inadvertently, exposing Cas to shit like, like—fuckin’ goatsie, or, or—or shit like that. Nope. Okay. Much safer, having Dean teach him the ropes. Just a friend helping a friend get off. In the totally platonic, non-sexual, non-romantic way.
“Dean?” Cas’s voice is wary. He’s not quite so red anymore; instead, he’s looking at Dean with his brow furrowed, puzzled, head tilting to one side as it always does, and he’s looking straight … at … Dean’s … crotch.
“I’ll be right back,” Dean blurts out. “I. Just. Stay here, okay? I’ll be back in a second. I’m gonna help, don’t worry. I just. Need to get some shit, alright?”
He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, just bursts out the door, shutting it quickly behind him, and presses the heel of his palm onto his swollen cock, pleading with it to just stay down, goddamnit. Cas just needs to learn how to jerk off without fuckin’ hurting himself, the dope, he doesn’t need to see how hot Dean finds him, no fucking way.
Lube, Dean thinks. Chafing. Too dry. Okay. Some dudes are just. Dry. Need a little extra help getting all slicked up. Fuck.
Dean has to reach inside his jeans to adjust himself. Lube. Tissues. Okay. He can do that. Just. Gotta get himself under control first.
Jesus Christ. He cannot fucking believe this is happening.
Keep it together, Winchester, he tells himself. It’s not like it’s going to mean anything to him.
There’s lube in his drawer—a fresh bottle, too, because the old bottle Dean kept with him in the car was like, five fucking years old. Tissues on his dresser. Good. Now he just. Needs to go back to Cas. Talk him through the process.
He knocks quietly on Cas’s door and says, “It’s me,” before he enters and shuts the door behind him. Locks it, too, for good measure. Dude’s not even moved from where he was sitting before, pants and boxers still tangled around his ankles, although his knees are pressed together and Cas’s arms are wound tightly around them.
“Dean,” Cas says, voice wavering briefly. “I just—you don’t have to help. If you don’t want to.”
“Do me a favor, Cas, and shut up,” Dean says. “Look. I’m—if anyone’s helping you out with this, I’d want it to be me, okay? So, don’t—just don’t with the whole selfless act thing. Just let me help.”
Castiel looks at him for a long time, eyes narrowed and creased with thought, and then, finally, he nods, a tiny jerk of his chin. “Okay,” he says.
“Good. I brought gifts.” In one hand, Dean holds up the lube; in the other, he holds up the bottle of tissues. “This,” he says, shaking the lube for emphasis, “is a godsend. You’re, um. The reason you’re chafing is because you’re too. Uh. Dry. Usually, guys, um, when they’re—aroused, they, um, they sort of—”
“I know how human anatomy works,” Cas says, sounding cross. “I understand the mechanics. Arousal triggers blood flow to the penis. The penis secretes a liquid that—”
“Okay, okay, enough with the science shit. Never say the word ‘penis’ like that to me ever again. Capisce?” Cas is glaring. “Capisce?”
Finally, Cas looks away. “Fine,” he says. “I ‘capisce’. I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
“Look, man, knowing the mechanics and actually knowing how to do it are two completely different things. Are you gonna let me help or not?”
Cas’s cheeks bloom with pink. “Yes,” he mutters.
“Good. Catch.” He tosses the lube at Cas and is thankful for his quick reflexes when he only just manages to catch it before it hits him square in the face.
“What’s this for?”
“It’s lube. Just. Squeeze some on your fingers.”
Cas, being Cas, does so only after great consideration; and then he looks at the gelatinous liquid, bends down to sniff it, and then, tentatively, sticks out his tongue as if he wants to taste it.”
“Dude! What the fuck. You don’t—just—no licking. Okay? It’s not for eating.”
Cas’s glare is thunderous. “I just wanted to try,” he snaps. “It’s not like you’ve told me what it’s for yet.”
“You put it on your dick, dumbass,” Dean says, and immediately wants to slap himself in the face. God. This is so entirely the opposite of arousing. This is just pathetic.
Castiel sighs, and, oh, that little fucker better not have just rolled his eyes at him—and then Dean’s brain short-circuits, because Cas brings his slick hand down to his half-hard cock and gingerly wraps his fingers around it. His breath fucking hitches.
Okay. That whole thing about this not being arousing? Fuck. Nope. It’s hot again.
But Cas is being too tentative, just sort of—rubbing his thumb against his length, like he’s not sure if it’s going to hurt or not.
“You might want to. Um. Tighten your fist a little. If it’s too loose, it’s not gonna, uh, you know, feel as good.”
“It hurt when I did that,” Cas says, frowning up at Dean, mouth a taut line.
“It hurt because your hand was dry and your dick was dry and you had too much friction,” Dean says, with what feels like infinite patience. God help him. “Lube helps. Believe me.”
Cas just curls his lip at that and continues his—his petting, if it could even be called that, fingers just slowly sliding around his cock, feather-light. It’ll take him fucking forever to get off that way, and Dean needs a cold shower, and he’s going to do something irredeemably stupid like come in his pants if he has to stand here watching Cas fondle himself for an hour.
“Dude, just—you’re doing it all wrong,” he says, impatient. “You gotta just—firm grip, man, just fondling yourself isn’t gonna cut it.”
“If I’m doing it so wrong, why don’t you do it for me?” Cas snarls.
“Fine!” Dean snaps. “I will!”
And then they both look at each other, and Dean realizes what he’s just said. Oh. Oh, fuck. He just. Okay. Wow. Fuck.
Cas takes a deep, shuddering breath. Then, haltingly, “I didn’t—you don’t have to—”
Dean clears his throat. “Nah. It’s. It’s, uh, okay. I don’t mind. Just. Move over a bit.”
He’s pink again, Dean notices as Cas drops his cock and shuffles over to one side of the bed. Dean sucks in air and lets it all out in a rush. He almost drops the tissue box when he tries to put it on the bedside table. Arranging himself next to Cas, propped up against the headboard with their shoulders touching, seems to take a millennium.
“What now?” Cas says after a few moments of awkward silence.
“Um,” Dean says. He hadn’t really thought that far ahead. Cas. Next to him. Half naked. And Dean is about to help him jerk off. And that’s … good. That’s really good. Cas asked him to. That’s even better. He gets to teach Cas how to take pleasure from his body, he’s going to hear him orgasm, they’re going to experience this together.
Warmth settles in his stomach. He’s going to make this good for Cas. He’s going to make it perfect for him.
“Your pants,” Dean says. “They’re just gonna get in the way. It’ll be easier if they’re all the way off. Shirt, too, while you're at it.”
Cas looks down at the pants tangled around his ankles and frowns, as if he doesn’t know why they’re there. It just takes a moment for him to kick them off, and the boxers follow a moment later. He’s wearing a gray t-shirt and nothing else, just a thin layer of lube on his cock, and a moment later even the shirt is gone. Dean wets his lips briefly, considering, and then allows his legs to fall open. “C’mere,” he says, gesturing between them. “Sit.”
Cas hesitates, eyes flickering between Dean’s face and his spread legs. “Dean,” he says in a low voice. “Are you sure you’re … okay with this?”
Dean can feel his heartbeat in his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I’m sure. ‘M not just doing this for you.”
“You—do you …?” Cas hesitates, and the rest of the question goes unsaid. His eyes are locked on Dean’s. Dean offers him a small smile.
“Yeah, I do, Cas. I want this. Now come sit.” He pats the bed.
Cas’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and then he’s shifting closer, awkwardly clambering over Dean in order to settle in the space between his spread legs. Once he’s settled, Dean coaxes him into leaning against him, back warm against the length of Dean’s chest, his head tucked securely in the space between Dean’s neck and shoulder. His hair tickles Dean’s jaw, but Dean hardly notices, focused only on the heat emanating from Cas, the way he feels pressed up against him. Dean lets out a shaky breath.
“Okay, Cas,” he says. He can’t help but run his palms along the outside of Castiel’s thighs, feeling the taut, lean muscle beneath his hands, the reflexive twitch in response to his touch. He slides his hands down until his palms are cradling the underside of Cas’s thighs near his knees. “Lift up,” he says, and Cas obeys almost instantly, muscles quivering as he raises his bent legs. Dean pulls gently at them until Cas gets the message and spreads his legs wide enough for Dean to drape Cas’s thighs over Dean’s knees.
Now his legs are held spread with Dean’s own, which frees up Dean’s hands. He massages small circles into Cas’s thigh with his thumbs, and then—before he can thinking twice about it—presses a lingering kiss to Cas’s temple.
Cas tenses immediately, legs quivering. “Shit, sorry,” Dean says. “Is that—is this okay?” He keeps his lips near Cas’s skin.
It takes Cas a moment to relax again. “Yes,” he said. “This is. This is good.” And he tilts his head just enough so that the tip of his nose can rub gently against the thin skin of Dean’s neck. Dean’s heart stutters and his chest tightens, and, god, this is better than anything he could have ever dreamt of, and he hasn’t even touched Cas yet, not really, not where it counts.
“Good,” Dean says finally, almost choking on the word. “Good. I’m glad.” He brings his hands up to Cas’s chest, the muscles sleek and angular beneath his palms. Cas’s cock is flushed red and hard, and still slick from the lube.
“Ready?” he asks, and Cas just says, “Dean,” exasperated, and Dean has to hide his smile against Cas’s temple.
He slides his hand down Castiel’s abdomen, stroking lightly across sensitive skin, loving the twitch and pull of Cas’s muscles as he tries to keep still. “Dean,” he says again, closer to a whine this time, and Dean reaches down just far enough to run his fingers gently across Cas’s swelling length, one finger slipping against the slit at the head of his cock, feeling wetness there. Cas takes a deep, shuddering breath, and manages to say, “How is this any different from what I was doing?”
Dean lowers his chin so that he can press his cheek to Castiel’s. “Just be patient, babe,” he chides, and he doesn’t even realize the pet name has slipped out until he feels, rather than hears, Castiel’s tiny huff of laughter.
“'Babe'?” Castiel asks, and Dean wraps his hand more securely around Castiel’s cock, squeezing briefly, just enough to make Cas groan. He doesn’t bother answering, just starts a slow, steady pace: base to tip, a swipe of the thumb across the slit, twist, back down to the root. Repeat. Castiel’s breath comes in shaky pants.
They’re quiet, the two of them. Dean watches his hand as he works Cas, feels smug when he sees pre-come bubbling at the tip of Castiel’s cock and realizes that, no, Cas isn’t dry, he just needs a little extra coaxing, that’s all. With each steady stroke, Dean spreads the pre-come along the length of his cock, squeezing briefly at the base now, hand a little firmer. He’s sure Cas can feel just how hard he is, his cock straining against its confines, hot against Castiel’s ass.
When Dean scrapes lightly at the underside of Castiel’s cock with his fingernails, Cas shudders all the way from his toes all the way up to the tips of his ears. His hands are clenched into fists, the sheets bunching up in his hold. “Okay?” Dean asks, nipping at Cas’s ear. “You good?”
“Yes,” Cas gasps. “Yes. Dean.” His hips jerk upward when Dean adds a ruthless twist of his wrist near the head of his cock, thumbing across the slit, collecting the liquid gathering there, slicking it back down over him. He’s trembling, hands flexing.
Dean traces his other hand back up to Castiel’s chest, rubs his thumb around his nipple in small circles, flicks lightly at the nub, sucks the lobe of Castiel’s ear into his mouth when he moans, breathy and high. His hips are starting to pulse in time with Dean’s strokes, tiny circular movements that inspire Dean to pick up the pace, just a little, not too much, now, because he wants this to last, god, there are so many things he wants to do to Cas, so many things he wants Cas to experience.
He’s been ignoring Castiel’s balls, but he reaches down now with his free hand and cups them, rolling them in his hand, grinning at the startled gasp and sharp jerk of Castiel’s hips. He keeps his right hand working at Cas’s cock, nice and steady, and with his left he explores, stroking over soft skin, squeezing gently, taking note of every time Castiel’s breath hitches and every time a shiver runs through his frame. He’s tempted to reach further, brush a finger across Castiel’s hole, see how he reacts to that, but he tells himself to be patient. He’ll get there.
“Dean,” Cas groans, tilting his head so that his lips are right against Dean’s collarbone. His warm breath ghosts against Dean’s skin, followed by a hot tongue, an eager mouth.
“Fuck, Cas,” Dean breathes. He rocks forward, grinds his denim-clad cock against Castiel’s ass, anything to alleviate the pressure. Cas nips at his collarbone, draws his tongue across the bite, soothes it with a kiss, and Dean can’t help but moan. “Feels so fucking good. Fuck.”
Cas lets go of the sheets, brings one shaky hand up to loop around the back of Dean’s head, fingers flexing against scalp. The other hand clutches at his own thigh, the tanned flesh turning white beneath the pressure of his fingers. His cock is slick with pre-come and lube, getting slicker with every pass of Dean’s hand, and, god, Dean can’t help himself. He pulls his hands away from Cas, ignoring his soft growl at the loss. “Just a sec, Cas,” Dean says. His heart is hammering. “Lube. Where’d you put the lube.”
He sees it a moment later, abandoned on the wrinkled bedspread, and he manages to scoop it up without straining too hard, smearing pre-come and lube all over the outside of the bottle. He’ll clean it off later. He pops the cap open, squeezes a generous dose across the fingers of his clean hand, and rubs his fingers together to warm the lube. “M’gonna try something, babe,” Dean says, and he keeps rocking up against Cas, can’t help it, needs to get out of these jeans, but he’s gotta take care of Cas first. “You don’t like it, you tell me to stop, okay?”
“Dean, just touch me,” Cas says, breathless.
Dean wastes no time in wrapping his right hand around Cas’s cock again, loose and easy, his palm just skimming over the sensitive flesh with every stroke. He doesn’t want to overwhelm him, not when this is so new to Cas (not when, not even an hour ago, Cas couldn’t masturbate without hurting himself).
Cas leans his head back until it’s resting on Dean’s shoulder, eyes closed, breath coming in soft pants. There’s a pink flush all the way down his chest.
Lube warm now, Dean reaches to roll Castiel’s balls in his hand, then further; and then, tentatively, he presses one slick finger to Castiel’s entrance, rubbing it gently across the furl of muscle.
Cas fucking whimpers, back arching, hips pushing up into the slick grasp of Dean’s hand. “Fuck,” he gasps, and, god, that’s hot, Castiel reduced to profanity because of him.
“Good?” Dean asks, because he has to make sure, and Castiel presses back against his cock, rolling his hips, until Dean groans, long and low.
“Yes,” Cas pants. “It’s good. Keep going.”
Abandoning Castiel’s cock for now, Dean uses his right hand instead to press Cas’s cock and balls against his stomach, up out of the way. He keeps his fingers rubbing across Cas’s entrance, applying just enough pressure for the muscle to start giving way before returning to making circles around the furl, getting it nice and slick, relaxed.
Restless, Cas tries to press himself down on Dean’s fingers, but Dean says, “Just be patient, Cas, don’t wanna hurt you.”
“I’m not fragile,” Cas says. “Dean, please.”
Dean sucks in a shaky breath, because Cas sounds so wrecked, so completely fucked-out, and he hasn’t even come yet, Dean hasn’t even gotten his fingers inside him yet, and, god, if this is what he sounds like now …
Carefully, Dean presses his middle finger against Cas’s hole, feels the muscle give way, and then his finger is in up the second knuckle and Cas is whimpering again, deep in his throat, chest and back slick with sweat—god, and Dean’s still fully dressed, he’s going to be dripping by the time this is over.
He pumps the finger a few times, just enough to give Cas a taste, then slips it out again, circles around the furled entrance, keeps it up just until Cas starts to protest, then pushes his finger back in all the way, god, and Cas is so hot and tight inside, and Dean’s cock throbs and spits out a burst of pre-come, and, fuck, his boxers are going to be soaked after this.
He takes his time, curling his finger, exploring Cas’s interior walls, loving the clench and pull of Cas’s muscles around him. Again, he slips his finger out, but he doesn’t leave Cas empty for long, presses two fingers in this time, nice and slow, so slick, so hot. He twists his hand deftly, hooking his fingers as he pulls on Cas’s rim, and Cas moans, “Dean, Dean,” just his name, as if that’s the only word he knows.
Dean loses himself in the slick twist and stretch of his fingers inside Cas, not even searching for his prostate, just stroking Cas’s inner walls and spreading out the lube, getting him nice and wet, open, until he can add a third finger—and Cas keens, scrabbling for a hold, cock spurting out pre-come onto his belly—and, god, Cas must feel so full, so good, he must love this, is only held back from fucking himself on Dean’s fingers by the solid weight of Dean’s hand pressing on his stomach.
Dean crooks his fingers, just so, needs to search for only a moment before he finds what he’s looking for; and then he’s stroking across the bundle of nerves, and Cas clamps down around his hand. “Dean,” Cas sobs, voice catching, hips circling, he must be so desperate, tremors wracking his frame.
“I got you, babe, I got you,” Dean murmurs, and he presses his fingers against Cas’s prostate, strokes hard, presses down against the bud until he can feel it pulsing under the pads of his fingers, until Cas’s breath is hitching on every inhale, hips jerking, back arching up and off Dean’s chest, Dean’s sweaty t-shirt sticking to his skin.
He’s so close, whimpering and writhing on Dean’s fingers, and Dean thinks he can make him come just like this, just with his fingers inside him, so he pulls away from his prostate and starts pumping his fingers in and out, easing up on his grip so that Cas can roll his hips into every thrust. Cas’s breath comes in short bursts, his grip on the back of Dean’s head is almost painful, but he’s almost there, so close Dean can almost taste it.
“That’s it, Cas, fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Dean says, presses his thumb against Cas’s swollen rim, feels the muscle give just briefly before his fingers jab against Cas’s prostate once, twice, three times, grinding against the small bud with that last touch, and then Cas is tensing, arching off Dean’s chest as his head falls back, and he spills all over his stomach and chest with a dry sob.
Dean works him through it, slowing his fingers until they’re just barely pulsing in and out of Cas’s entrance, so slick that there’s hardly any resistance when Dean scissors his fingers, opening Cas wider, just to hear the fucked-out whimper he makes every time Dean stretches his fingers apart.
Finally, Cas is shuddering from overstimulation, body jerking with the aftermaths of his orgasm. Reluctant, Dean swipes his fingers across Cas’s prostate one last time and is rewarded with a soft mewl before he finally pulls his fingers out with a slick pop. Cas hisses—he must feel so empty now, muscles clenching around an intrusion that’s no longer there—but Dean shushes him gently and draws his fingers lightly around Cas’s swollen rim, just to feel him shudder.
Cas is still struggling to catch his breath by the time Dean finally pulls his hand away and reaches for the tissues to clean them both off. It just takes a moment to mop up the come on Cas’s chest and stomach, and then he just tosses the used tissues into the wastebasket, hoping they meet their target. He’s painfully hard, and all he wants to is rut up against Cas until he comes, but this is for Cas, he reminds himself, not for him.
Still, he can’t help the reflexive twitch of his hips when Cas shifts against him, all that naked heat pressed against his groin, and Dean almost sobs with how good it feels, Cas’s hips rolling back onto his.
“You haven’t come yet,” Cas says, words slurred. “Want you to come, Dean. For me.”
Dean’s breath hitches. “Fuck, Cas,” he whispers, and Cas is twisting in his arms so they can finally, finally kiss, Cas’s mouth inexperienced and hot and wet against his. He nips at Cas’s bottom lip, pulls it into his mouth and suckles gently, hands coming up to cradle Cas’s jaw. Cas groans into his mouth and pulls free before lunging at him again, tongue sweeping into his mouth to catalogue taste and texture. Dean’s throbbing with want by now, god, he just—he needs to come, he needs to, so he pushes Cas away and rasps, “On your stomach.”
He scrambles for the lube as Cas stretches himself out on the bed, all long, tanned limbs and lean muscles, and, fuck, he’s gorgeous, he’s perfect, his angel, his Cas—
It takes just a minute to yank his jeans and boxers off, peel his shirt away from his sweat-slicked skin. He’s so hard the first touch of his hand to his cock makes him hiss through clenched teeth. He wrestles with the sticky container of lube for what feels like forever before he finally manages to pop the cap open. He doesn’t bother warming the lube, just slicks himself up, shivering at the chill, then crawls over to Cas. He positions himself over Cas on his hands and knees, slick cock nudging between Cas’s cheeks as he bears down. Cas groans, canting his hips back, and Dean presses his lips to his spine, his shoulder blades, the nape of his neck, anywhere he can reach.
He doesn’t bother lining himself up, just starts rolling his hips against Cas, cock slipping along the cleft of Cas’s ass. It’s so fucking good, Cas’s skin warm and slick, and even his shoulders are pink, and, god, the rippling muscles of Castiel’s back as he undulates back against Dean, the soft gasps being punched out of Cas every time the head of Dean’s cock catches on his rim. He came too recently to get it up again, Dean knows, but he’s enjoying it anyway, eyes closed, mouth open as he pants against the mattress.
With the next thrust, Dean’s cock catches and holds on his rim, sinking in just past the head, and Cas’s entire body seizes up, fingers clenching and unclenching. As soon as Dean pulls back, the head pops out, but this time he wraps his fingers around his cock and holds it steady as he pushes into Cas, slow and steady, and Cas gasps his name, tries to push himself up onto his knees so he has leverage, but Dean lowers himself on top of Cas, body stretched out atop his, and just rolls his hips into the tight, wet heat, and, god, he wishes he’d done this ages ago; his body was meant for this, he and Cas were meant to slot together so perfectly.
Every pulse of his hips drives Dean a little deeper into Cas’s body, until he’s just grinding against him, balls flush against Cas’s ass, Cas shaking and panting and moaning his name beneath him. He shifts the angle, just a little, and Cas practically wails as Dean drives into his prostate.
He’s too close to keep the pace steady, is just slamming into Cas over and over, cock nearly slipping out of Cas’s body every time he draws back, too far gone to be satisfied with just grinding up against him. He’s panting Cas’s name, interspersed with curses, and he can feel his balls tightening, drawing up, and, fuck, “Feel so good, Cas, so fucking good,” he moans, forehead resting against the nape of his neck.
“Dean,” Cas groans, “Dean, come for me, Dean,” and he just has enough presence of mind to realize that Cas might not enjoy getting come in his ass before his orgasm punches through him. He pulls out just in time, semen splashing onto Cas’s ass and dribbling down the sides of his cheeks.
The two of them lie there, panting, dripping in sweat, Dean plastered to Cas’s back, hardly caring that he’s smearing come all over his stomach and Cas’s ass. He buries his face in Cas’s neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and sex and Cas, and he doesn’t want to move, he never wants to have to move from this spot.
Finally, though, Cas shifts beneath him with a pained groan, and Dean realizes, somewhat guiltily, that his entire weight was pinning him to the mattress. With a grunt, Dean manages to push himself off and to the side, rolling onto his back. His heart is still beating rapidly, but it’s starting to slow, now. He should get a washcloth, because tissues just aren’t going to cut it, not with how sticky and gross the two of them are.
Groaning, Dean pushes himself to a sitting position. He’s going to be sore tomorrow, although he’s sure he’ll be a damn sight better than Cas, who’s still sprawled out on his stomach, looking as if he’s forgotten how to move. Dean looks him over with a soft smile. He’s pink from exertion, dark hair flattened to his skull in some areas and sticking straight out in others, and he’s still got come smeared across the swell of his ass, and, god, Dean could get used to a sight like this.
Wincing slightly at the soreness in his thighs, Dean manages to get to his feet, although he’s still somewhat unsteady. He’ll throw on his boxers, get a washcloth. Clean up the mess he made.
He’s just bending over to pick up his boxers when Cas says, “Dean? Where are you going?” There’s a faint note of alarm in his voice, and when Dean turns back to look at him, he’s propped up on his elbows, craning his head to look at him over his shoulder with wide blue eyes.
Dean pulls his boxers on before getting onto the bed on hands and knees, crawling over to Cas. “Just getting a washcloth,” he says, murmuring the words against Cas’s parted lips before kissing him, once, twice. “You’re kind of a mess.”
Cas flushes. “You’re not any better,” he says. Dean laughs and kisses him again, then presses his lips to the tip of his nose, his forehead.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Dean says.
He doesn’t run into Sam or Kevin in the hallway, which, okay, good, because he doesn’t want to have that conversation just yet. It takes him only a minute or so to get a washcloth and dampen it. He’s humming when he returns to Cas’s room.
Cas is lying on his side now, stretched out, head on a pillow. The entire bed seems to be one huge damp spot, some combination of lube and come and sweat. Cas looks like he’s out for the count, and when Dean nudges him into rolling over onto his stomach, he just mumbles an indistinctive series of syllables and then falls quiet again.
Dean takes his time wiping him clean, smoothing the cool washcloth across Castiel’s neck and shoulders, down his back, before finally mopping up his come and parting Cas's cheeks to dab at his slick entrance. He throws the washcloth in the waste basket because he can’t be bothered to bring it back to the bathroom and rinse it off.
Cas rolls himself onto his back when Dean is done, looking up at Dean through half-lidded, bleary eyes. “Will you stay?” he asks, and he says it like it’s no big deal, but Dean knows him well enough to know when he’s uncertain, when something means more to him than he says it does. Dean presses himself close and closes his lips over Cas’s. They kiss, slow and sweet, until Dean has to surface for air.
“Course I’m staying,” he says, and he settles down next to Cas. The dampness of the sheets is kind of disgusting, but he and Cas still reek of sex, so it’s not like they’re any better, really. They lie there together, separated by only a few inches, and Dean has almost drifted off into sleep when he feels the mattress dip beneath him and a warm weight settle against his chest.
Dean opens his eyes just enough to see that Cas has curled against him, head tucked beneath his chin.
“Is this—okay?” Cas asks. Dean can feel his lips move against his collarbone.
“Better than okay,” Dean murmurs, and he slips one arm around Cas’s waist, pulls him in impossibly closer, brushes his lips against the top of his head. “You know I—you know, right, Cas?”
There’s a long pause, silent except for Cas’s long, steady breaths. “I know,” he says finally, soft against Dean’s skin. “And you …?”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “I know.” He strokes Cas’s side, thumb sliding along his hipbone in long, soothing motions. They stay like that, intertwined, as their breathing evens out and their heartbeats slow, until sleep enfolds them.