“Do you have it?” Those are the first words out of Dean’s mouth as he climbs out of the Impala. He’s not one for pleasantries, that’s for sure.
Arthur makes a face; he’s not asking for a bloody fanfare, but, “A 'hello' would be nice.”
Dean stops and looks at him as if Arthur is speaking a different language. Arthur doesn’t back down, smiling at Dean a little too politely for it to be truly polite, until Dean rolls his eyes with the dramatic flair of a teenager. “Hello, Ketch. Happy? Now come on, do you have it?”
It’s Arthur’s turn to roll his eyes. “No, I don’t have it, I came all this way from England just to tell you that.” He lifts up the bag he’s holding and practically throws it at Dean, who catches it with annoying ease. “Of course I have it.”
“Hmm,” is all Dean says, totally oblivious of Arthur’s frustration, and puts the bag on the bonnet of his car. He unzips it with an impatient jerk and starts to rummage through its contents.
Arthur walks over, casually leans against the side of the car, bordering on invading Dean’s personal space. Not that Dean notices. “It’s all there,” he says, even though he suspects Dean will check every item from the quite long list himself. “Delivered personally and in record time.”
He steels himself for a jab at what happened the last time, that unfortunate mishap with the Hyperbolic Pulse Generator stuck in the mail, but Dean just goes on squinting and frowning at the things in Arthur’s bag. Which is good; Arthur doesn’t need any more passive-aggressive disappointment than what Dean projected at him in that video call, even though it was absolutely undeserved. Arthur had risked life and limb getting that thing for them, and he held up his end of the bargain. Unlike someone who let Michael destroy it.
“Alright,” Dean says finally, straightening up. “You came through this time, Ketch.”
Arthur bristles, but Dean’s already got his back to him, walking around the car to open the boot and dump the bag inside, next to a big green duffel. “Glad I could be of service.” He follows Dean, curious, but before he can take a peek at what’s inside the duffel, Dean slams the boot shut. “What did you say these things were for again?”
“I didn’t.” Wonderful. Dean’s in an exceptionally good mood.
“You know, you asked for some incredibly rare, incredibly expensive ingredients and paraphernalia. It cost me a lot to get my hands on some of those items.”
A muscle jumps in Dean’s jaw, he’s clearly considering whether to answer or not. “I’m building something,” he says finally.
“And what might that be?”
A pause, a little too long. “Magic cuffs strong enough to hold an archangel, okay?”
“Oh.” It fits in with what Arthur brought him, at least. “Need a hand?”
“No,” Dean answers quite harshly, before trying to cover it up with, “I can do this on my own.”
“I’m sure you can.” Arthur knows a refusal when he sees one. “So, back to the bunker you go?”
“You’re a paragon of talkativeness today.”
“You’re a paragon of…” Dean breaks off, shaking his head. “I didn’t come here to talk, alright?”
“Oh, really? I haven't noticed.” Arthur walks back to his bike, opens a saddle bag, holds up a bottle. “How about a drink, then?”
Dean’s tongue darts out to lick his lips, and his eyes flit to the driver seat of his car, but then he nods. “Yeah, okay. I could use a drink.”
They’re parked near a vantage point, a picnic shelter with a slightly dilapidated roof overlooking the rocky valley below. Arthur moves toward the table, Dean following right behind, and they sit down, face to face, the table and the whisky between them.
Dean’s the first to reach for the bottle, taking a big gulp right away. He closes his eyes and makes a deep, satisfied grunt as it goes down, and drinks again. Arthur sits back and uses the opportunity to finally take a good, long proper look at the man opposite him.
He looks… well, knowing what Dean’s just been through, that he’s got an angry archangel trapped inside his mind, Arthur would like to say he looks horrible. But the stupid truth is that he looks just as breathtaking as ever—fair skin dotted with freckles, strong features, big eyes with lashes long enough to cast shadows in the crisp January light, and a mouth to die for.
Arthur knows he’s staring, but he can’t help it. Not that it matters, because Dean seems to be unaware of it, his attention on something else entirely, a faraway look in his eyes.
Clearing his throat to bring Dean back to the here and now, Arthur pries the bottle from Dean’s hand, their fingers brushing. He takes a swallow and sets the bottle down. “So, Dean,” he starts. “Tell me, how are you do—”
Dean snorts, shaking his head in disbelief, or maybe frustration. “Really, Ketch? You too?”
“You can’t blame people for asking.” Dean scoffs, a bitter grimace settling on his face, but Arthur carries on. “I’m sure everyone is dying to know how you’re doing it. I mean, keeping an archangel locked in your mind? That’s quite a feat.”
“Huh?” Dean frowns, and Arthur gets the feeling that he was expecting a different question. “Oh, okay.”
“How did you do it? How are you doing it?”
Dean shrugs, runs a hand through his hair, then drags it down his face. He looks tired, suddenly. “I don’t know. I just do what I can.”
“Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s clearly working.” Arthur raises the bottle. “Here’s to keeping that bugger locked up.”
“Yeah.” Dean doesn’t seem very victorious, though.
Arthur remembers those archangel cuffs Dean says he’s working on. “Have you figured out what to do next? A more long-term solution to the situation?”
Dean looks away, somewhere over Arthur’s shoulder. “I’m working on it.”
This would be a good time to say something like, I believe in you, or, I’m sure you’ll find a way, but Arthur remains silent. He’s already seen the Winchesters do the impossible, more than once, but counting on a win is not his style, and he reckons it isn’t Dean’s either. All that gets you is trouble when something goes wrong.
“I should get going,” Dean says abruptly, and starts to get up.
“Wait,” Arthur calls out, without really meaning to, hand reaching out to grab Dean’s arm.
Dean turns, looks at him, eyebrows up. “What now? I got things to do.”
“I’m sure you do,” Arthur agrees, voice calm and steady as he slowly rounds the table to stand next to Dean. And why the hell is he treating Dean like a skittish colt all of a sudden? He moves his hand from Dean’s arm, up, over a strong, perceptibly tense shoulder hidden underneath layers of clothing, down to the centre of Dean’s chest, and leaves it there, fingers spanned wide.
Like that time in the bunker showers, Dean stands there and lets himself be touched. That, at least, is a good sign.
“How about...” Arthur moves his fingers a little to the right, finds Dean’s nipple underneath his shirts. That sparks a reaction, just like he hoped it would; Dean’s breath hitches, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “How about we have some fun, for old times’ sake?”
A few beats go by as Dean considers the offer, and Arthur desperately wants to hear a Yes, because it’s been almost a year, and while he gets around a lot, nothing’s come even close to whatever it was they shared in that steamed up shower room.
He watches the emotions play out on Dean’s face, can practically see him thinking. He can also see how his chest starts to rise and fall faster, how colour rises in his cheeks, how the front of his jeans grows tighter.
Dean huffs and smiles back, tongue showing behind his teeth. “Sure. I won't say no to some fun.” And then he’s in Arthur’s space, both hands catching hold of Arthur’s face and pulling him in for a kiss that doesn’t start out slow; really, it doesn’t start at all, it’s just suddenly happening, Arthur caught in a landslide dragging him down so fast everything is a blur, a wonderful blur.
He grabs onto Dean’s arms, fingers digging in, holding on for dear life because Dean is on him like a wild animal, like the world is ending. Pushing Arthur back, sitting him down on the bench, crawling into his lap and grinding against his hard-on, without ever stopping the kiss. A cool hand slides under Arthur’s leather jacket and shirt, clawing down his back. Arthur bucks up, letting out a curse that comes out shaky, and palms Dean’s ass.
Dean moans into his mouth, breaking the kiss, resting his forehead against Arthur’s. “’S too cold out here for anything good. Imma introduce you to Baby’s backseat.” He stands up, and Arthur doesn’t like that, but it is cold for anything but a quick romp with their pants pulled down their thighs, and he wants more than that, he wants skin on skin, and time.
“Let’s go then,” he says, and they stride to the Impala, parked just off the back road. Arthur would ask if Dean’s fine with doing this out here in the open, but it’s very clear that they both are, so instead he kisses Dean again, slamming him against the side of the car.
“Mhmm,” Dean tries to say something, and starts to tug at the collar of Arthur’s jacket. Trying to get it off.
“Easier to lose some layers out here,” Dean explains. “Baby’s big, but she’s not that big.”
Arthur chuckles. “You should see what it’s like to ride a Citroën.”
“I’ve been to Hell already, thanks.”
They take off their jackets and overshirts and their boots, chucking them on the front seat and into the footwell, and by the time they’re settled on the backseat—where Dean spread out a blanket he apparently keeps just for this purpose—they’re both shivering a little from the cold. Inside, they keep bumping into each other and the car's interior as they pull off the rest of their clothes, but it's worth it, because once they're both fully naked, Dean straddles Arthur, head bent low to fit under the roof, going in for another kiss.
And then— “What's that?”
At least Dean doesn't play dumb. “This? Archangel kryptonite, I hope.”
There are intricate tattoos all over Dean's chest, crude and evidently fresh, the skin red and irritated. “Enochian sigils meant to power down angels,” Arthur carefully traces a finger along one line. “With some additional improvements, I see.”
Dean shrugs. “VIP version.”
“But why didn't you let a professional do it?” Because while it's certainly functional, it's also very homemade.
Another shrug, and Dean looks away. “Couldn't go to one, Sam wouldn't let me out of the bunker without surveillance the first few days after…” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “He says stuff like this isn't necessary, that he believes in the power of my will,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Like that's gonna be enough.”
“It never hurts to make precautions,” Arthur ventures, and Dean nods.
“Right. Now that that’s settled, can we get back to the fun, or do you have more questions?”
“None at the moment.”
Humming in approval, Dean leans forward and licks his way into Arthur’s mouth, and they trade kisses for a while, the magic of Dean’s soft, plush yet firm mouth quickly getting the mood back on track. Dean’s big hand finds its way between their bodies to take hold of their dicks, while Arthur opens the travel-size packet of lube Dean magically procured from somewhere and squeezes some of it on his fingers.
Dean jumps a little when Arthur rubs a fingertip over his hole, bumping his head against the roof. “Damn it!”
“I’m willing to trade places,” Arthur offers. He doesn’t bottom often, but he’d be perfectly willing to make an exception for Dean. “If you don’t want—”
“Oh, believe me, I want it,” Dean cuts him off, wriggling to position himself better, pushing down on Arthur’s finger eagerly. “Want you to fuck me good.”
A car rides by, horn blaring, some wanker yelling “Fucking faggots!” out the rolled down window. They give him the best fuck you they possibly can by not giving a damn.
Arthur works a finger inside Dean, then another, while Dean jerks them off and kisses him and nips at his earlobes, the underside of his jaw, his neck. “I’m ready,” he insists, but Arthur shakes his head, “One more,” and Dean laughs, “You’re always taking forever, aren’t you?”
“Matters of pleasure shouldn't be rushed.”
“Shouldn't take long enough for mountains to form around us either, though."
“Mind your tone,” Arthur gives Dean a slap, the crack of it loud and sharp in the enclosed space of the car, and Dean gasps and clenches around his fingers, hard, so Arthur does it again and gets the same reaction. Now that’s a valuable piece of information he’ll want to save for next time… because there has to be a next time, there’s no doubt about it in his mind.
“You gonna fuck me or spank me?”
“I’m wondering if I could do both.”
Dean laughs. “Not enough room for that to really work in here. Believe me.”
“Oh, do tell.”
A big, wide grin. “A girl’s gotta have her secrets.”
Arthur raises a curious eyebrow at that but refrains from commenting on it. “I think you’re ready.”
“I was born ready,” Dean drawls, and Arthur swears he knew those words were coming before they were spoken.
“Sure thing, cowboy.” He reluctantly withdraws his fingers while Dean rolls a condom down on him, and then there’s more bumping and cursing as they try to make things work, but while the Impala is a large car, it clearly isn’t large enough for two men their size trying to have sex in this position.
Arthur considers their options, realising he wants to see Dean's face when he comes again. “Lie down on your back,” he urges, and for a minute it looks as if Dean’s about to refuse, which is quite dumb because for someone who sucks cock like a pro, loves taking it up the ass and just referred to himself as a girl, surely missionary can’t be that much of a deal.
Luckily Dean must come to the same conclusion, because he lifts up and scoots over, lying down as he was told, back against the door to make space for Arthur to settle between his splayed legs. He’s holding himself open, hands under his knees, the grip of calloused fingers tight, and he’s got his head turned sideways, gaze sweeping over the car’s interior. Chewing on his bottom lip. Nervous, for some mysterious reason. “Come on,” he says, but he won’t meet Arthur's eyes.
Before this can get awkward, Arthur lines himself up and chooses to go all in—slamming inside in one rough thrust that makes Dean grunt in what is probably more pain than pleasure, but it does the trick of pulling him out of whatever headspace he's gotten himself into.
And it’s just as heavenly as the last time.
Arthur can’t help chuckling. Heavenly. Technically, he's sort of fucking an archangel.
“Hey,” Dean grumbles, heels digging into Arthur's lower back, urging him to move; a command impossible not to obey when it feels this good. Artur keeps a fast but steady pace, hands propped up against the door upholstery on either side of Dean’s head, which brings them into kissing distance again, and only now does Arthur’s brain catch up and he realises Dean didn't allow kisses the last time. He’s not going to wonder what spurred the change though, not with Dean’s tongue plunging deep into his mouth, hungry and demanding just like the rest of him.
It feels like Dean is touching him everywhere, hands travelling over Arthur’s body and raising gooseflesh wherever they go. And he’s leaning into every touch and caress Arthur gives back, like he’s touch-starved, like he’s committing every sensation to memory. He doesn’t even protest when Arthur slows down; he just drinks everything in, roving hands and hungry mouth and searching eyes—finally open, wide and dark, the green of his irises almost gone.
“Dean,” Arthur rasps.
“I’m here.” Dean pulls him even closer, wrapped around Arthur so tight it’s starting to impede their movements, but it doesn’t matter because Arthur can feel Dean’s heartbeat against his, and Dean’s dick, trapped between their bellies, is hot and hard, and suddenly spurting—no warning, only Dean arching his back and clenching around Arthur and dragging him over the edge too; there’s no fighting it.
Arthur resignedly waits for Dean to shove him off and get up, like he did the last time, but Dean doesn’t. He is full of surprises today.
They lie there, breathing, cooling off, Dean’s hand idly tracing vaguely familiar shapes over the canvas of Arthur’s back, Arthur running his fingers through Dean’s hair.
Dean stirs eventually, glancing at his wristwatch. “I need to get going.” But he doesn’t move, and more minutes go by before he shifts again. “I really gotta go,” he says, and finally moves, forcing Arthur to reluctantly lift up.
They start looking for their clothes, and Dean climbs over the backrest to the front seat, opening the glove compartment and pulling out wet wipes and hand sanitiser.
“What?” He challenges defensively at Arthur’s amused look. “Do you have any idea how many germs you can find at the skeevy places monsters usually hide in? Better to be ready.”
“No disagreement from me,” Arthur assures him quickly, and gratefully takes a wet wipe.
“Besides, I kinda need to look decent today,” Dean adds, as if he still thinks he needs to justify himself.
In Arthur’s opinion, Dean will never look completely decent; there’s always something a little indecent about him, even when he’s buried under all that Winchester flannel and hidden behind his patented scowl. Or covered in blood, for that matter. Maybe even especially when he's covered in blood.
They get dressed, and Arthur gets a front seat to the show of Dean building his walls up with every layer he puts on, posture stiffening, shoulders straightening, lips thinning into a determined line as he pops the collar of his jacket and shoves his hands into his pockets. He looks down, starts kicking at stones.
“Well,” Arthur says, just to break the increasingly heavy silence, although he doesn't follow up with anything else.
Dean kicks one more stone, watches it tumble over the edge of the cliff before he meets Arthur’s eyes. “Thanks, Ketch. For showing up and bringing me all that stuff.”
“And for the amazing sex, I'm sure.”
The corner of Dean's mouth twitches. “Yeah, you're welcome for that.”
They walk side by side to Arthur's bike, Dean stepping aside as Arthur pulls out the keys and puts them in ignition. “You've got a pretty sweet ride.”
“That I do.” Arthur looks at him. “How about the next time we meet, I let you take her out for a spin?”
“Sure, yeah.” Dean gives him a quick, tight smile, then looks away. “Next time.”
"Alright then." Arthur guns the engine, riding off and leaving Dean behind.
Next time can’t be here soon enough.