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Dean is very, very drunk. He hasn't seen Charlie or Garth for the past three—or maybe four—songs, but it's okay because he has a new friend. His name is something short like Matt or Cal, but the music's too loud, and Dean's not interested in asking him to reintroduce himself, not when MattCal's hungry blue eyes keep dropping to his lips like he wants to eat him alive. Judging by his honest-to-god paisley tie, he doesn't belong in a place like this. Even in a sea of bodies writhing to heavy bass, his hands are glued to Dean's waist. The perfect gentleman.
But Dean's celebrating getting a cushy work study position—say hello to the Fall semester TA for History of Cinema II, courtesy of Professor Visyak's glowing recommendation—and Sam's full-ride to Stanford law, so he's looking for a little more than dancing. The next time someone nudges his back, he "trips" into Cal's—not Matt; his name definitely started with a C or a K—chest. Cal's arms are like iron bands around his waist, and Dean nearly melts at the flex of his muscles under his white button-down as he works to keep them both from stumbling into anyone else.
"Sorry," he yells into his ear, but judging by the smirk on Cal's face, he knows what game Dean's playing.
Fuck it.
Dean kisses him, and it's as good as he hoped. The gentleman schtick disappears in a blink as Cal takes control. He grabs the back of Dean's head to hold him in place, and the arm that's still wrapped around his waist tightens, sealing them together from chests to knees. The alcohol makes it messy, and desire makes it rough with the bite of teeth and scatch of stubble. Dean can't catch his breath; his heart thumps frantically in his chest, and the room spins dangerously around them.
"Do you want to get out of here?" Cal asks in his ear. His voice rumbels static-rough with lust and the strain of the music.
Dean just nods and follows Cal's broad shoulders through the crowd and out into the night air. The door slams behind them, and the music dulls to a faint hum. It's still summer, so even though the sun has long set, the night is balmy. Still, he takes a second to enjoy a breath free of the humidity of bodies and contraband smoke. The giddy peace is broken by a familiar groan and unfortunately also familiar wretching.
"Fuck." Dean pulls away from Cal and follows the sound.
Sure enough, Charlie is in the tiny alleyway throwing up into a pile of trashbags. Thankfully, she's not alone. A short leather-clad woman holds her hair away from her face, but she's leaning away from the display with a wrinkled nose.
"Charles," Dean says, exasperated and fond. "I told you no more jello shots."
"But they tasted like peach rings."
"I bet they did," he grumbles.
Cal is still standing behind him, awkward and unsure now. "You probably want to get your friend home."
"Clarence? Is that you?" the short chick calls.
Before Dean can ask, Clarence—apparently—says, "It's a dumb joke that only Meg finds funny."
"Got it." He doesn't. "But yeah. Gotta get Charlie home safe."
It really shouldn't be as disappointing as it is. Stupidly, Dean considers asking for maybe-Cal's number, but then Charlie starts wretching again, so he swaps places with Meg instead. By the time Charlie's upright, they're alone in the alley.
"Sorry to be a cockblock," Charlie groans. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm going to dream about Meg."
"Alright, Romeo. Let's get an Uber."
If he dreams about blue eyes, that's his own business.
Dean was supposed to meet Professor Novak a week before classes started. Of course, he got food poisoning and spent half the day at Urgent Care instead. Then they moved the meeting to the Saturday before their first class, but the all-faculty meeting ran long and butted up against the professor's meeting with the dean. So they gave up on meeting before the first class, which is fine.
Dean knows the syllabus like the back of his hand, and he's ready to answer any questions the students might have about it, and he doesn't need to know Professor Novak to know the material. He just has to deal with the anxiety of meeting his boss, starting a new job, and attending the first class of a new semester all in one single hour and a half block. It's not a big deal, which is why he arrived fifteen minutes early and proceeded to chew his thumbnails into the quick.
He's lucky enough to have his own desk that's off to the side and gives him a good view of the entire room. It means there's nothing in the way when Cal walks through the door and makes eye contact with him. His vaguely distant, distracted look sharpens into pure, priceless shock. His jaw goes slack, and he nearly trips over his own feet. The few students that have already arrived sit up straighter, clearly hoping to make a good impression on the professor who's pointedly not looking at them. And he is the professor. It's obvious from the way he's dressed to the briefcase he's carrying to the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of his eyes.
Fuck.
Ignoring the overeager students, he walks straight to Dean, and Dean's left to stare up the long line of his stupidly familiar white button down—this time topped off with a plain blue tie—and remember exactly what it feels like under his hands.
"You're my TA," he says. Apparently, his voice is just always that gravelly.
Dean nods. Not Cal. Cas. Castiel Novak, Film Studies Professor. "I didn't realize…"
"Of course not. How old are you?"
He sounds angry, and Dean can see his job slipping away. Dean's mouth is so dry that his throat clicks when he swallows. "Twenty-six. I didn't start college right away."
Cas squints at him like what he's said is coming out of left field. "That's not what I was— I don't mind that you started school late, I was concerned because of…" He snaps his mouth shut again. "Would you like me to withdraw my request for a TA? I can have you transferred to a comparable position with a different professor. It won't reflect poorly on you." He fiddles with the end of his tie, the only tell that he's not just feeling annoyed or inconvenienced. The only indicator that maybe he's as nervous as Dean.
"I mean, we can just… You know, do a fresh start. Now."
Cas considers him for a long moment, and the weight of his assessing gaze is so different than it was at the club but still sends a shiver of interest across Dean's skin. Apparently finding what he was looking for, he drops a stack of papers onto Dean's desk. "If you change your mind, let me know. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."
With that done, he turns to introduce himself to the class, and Dean sags against the back of his chair.
His relief is short-lived, though, because the problem with having a seat that gives him a perfect view of the students is that most of the time, he gets an eyeful of Cas's back. Which normally would be great—the guy has a truly perfect ass, and his shirt stretches obscenely across his shoulders when he starts talking with his hands—but it's fucking distracting. A summary of a course syllabus should not be making Dean squirm in his seat.
It only gets worse when Cas turns to grab the papers he'd left on Dean's desk. In an instant, the excited professor routine drops into something dark and way too familiar. Quiet enough that none of the students could hope to hear, he says," You really shouldn't chew on pens."
Dean freezes, suddenly aware of the smooth plastic of his pen cap wresting against the tip of his tongue. Slowly, he slides it away from his mouth. Cas closes his eyes, and his hands flex on the stack of papers.
"Sorry," Dean says. He wishes he meant it more.
Without opening his eyes, Cas smirks. "I'm sure you are." Then he pastes on his professor mask again and turns to start handing out the assignment.
It's obscene how his fingers slip between the pages, and it's clear that at least six students are thinking the same thing because they gaze up at Cas with stars in their eyes. When Cas smiles at them, it's hardly more than an uptick at the corners of his mouth, polite and professional. It still makes something like jealousy swirl in Dean's stomach.
Yeah, he is so screwed.
It's the Friday before Thanksgiving, and Dean has never been more excited to drive into downtown traffic. He usually takes the subway to class because it's easier and cheaper than parking on campus, but Sam's flight is touching down in less than an hour, so he's booking it from his last class straight to the airport. This morning, he parked Baby in the furthest corner of the day pass lot, and while he'd normally have tunnel vision for her, he can't ignore the golden monstrosity parked a few spots away with a familiar mess of dark hair under its popped hood.
"Car trouble?" Dean calls. He can make casual conversation with Cas. He's had tons of practice for the past two months and change. It definitely doesn't still make him flush hot and think highly inappropriate things.
Cas is a mess. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his tie is missing, and his shirt is unbuttoned enough to show a sliver of pale skin. It might be the crisp fall air or frustration, but his cheeks are flushed. "Yes," he sighs. "It won't turn over, and I don't know what I'm doing, and I have a flight in—" He check his watch. "—two hours."
Dean should keep walking straight to his car and drive away. It's not his problem, and the less time he spends with Cas, the better. Cas can get an Uber or a taxi, or he can change his tickets to a later flight. But ride shares to and from the airport are exorbitant, and who knows if the later flights even have open seats?
"I'm headed to the airport, too," he says before he can chicken out.
At first, Cas doesn't say anthing. He looks between the engine and Dean, and it seems like he's doing the same calculations Dean has already gone through because finally he slams the hood shut and says, "Thank you. Let me get my suitcase."
They're quiet as the suitcase is moved into Dean's car and as they pull out of the parking lot. Robert Plant's is the only voice to break the silence as they weave through afternoon traffic and onto the highway. It's not awkward, per se, but it's not the comfortable silence shared between friends, either.
"Are you visiting family?" Dean finally asks when he can't stand it anymore.
Cas startles, like he expected the entire ride to be made in total silence. "Yes, my sister, Anna. We try to see each other once a year." He goes back to staring out the window.
Dean rolls his eyes, but Cas doesn't see it.
What am I? An Uber driver?
With an overexaggerated deep voice, Dean says, "What about you, Dean? Thanks for asking, Cas. I'm picking my little brother up. Oh, that's a nice thing to do for a sibling. Where's he flying—"
"Dean," Cas interrupts, long-suffering.
"Yes, Cas?" He smiles broadly just to watch Cas squint harder at him.
He shakes his head, starts to turn back toward the window, then sighs. There's a battle happening on his face, and Dean almost feels bad about causing whatever crisis he's having.
"I don't know how to do this," he says, still not looking at Dean. "I'm trying to keep this purely professional. I don't want to— I won't make you uncomfortable."
"I'm not uncomfortable."
"I appreciate that, but—"
"No, no, no. I'm a big boy. I'd let you know if you were crossing my boundaries or whatever. I'm the one who offered you the ride." And he's even smart enough to not make the obvious joke.
Cas is quiet for so long that Dean is starting to accept that they're not going to say anything else until they arrive at the airport, but he finally says, "You said you're picking up your little brother?"
So he tells Cas about Sam who's going into Family Law and learns that Cas's sister, Anna, is an artist in Arizona who likes peyote and welding abstract sculptures. Neither of them mention parents, and neither of them pushes. Cas isn't an idiot. He had to have done the math of absent, shitty father plus older brother who started college late and come up with the sob story that Dean's not filling in, but it doesn't change a thing about how he talks to Dean. Not like it usually does with people.
The rest of the drive goes by too fast, and when they're in the long line of cars in the drop off/pickup lane, Dean definitely doesn't think about grabbing Cas by the collar and kissing him long and hard against the passenger window.
Three weeks pass—one on break from school, two in the harried frenzy that happens between Thanksgiving and finals—and while Dean and Cas aren't quite friends, sometimes they linger after class to catch up on their lives. They learn things about each other like how Cas wants to move out of the city so he can keep bees and how Dean wants a cat, even though he's allergic.
They never see each other outside of class, so it's a shock to find Cas standing on the subway platform late Wednesday evening. Dean lost track of time while studying for his Physics exam; it's the last core credit he needs, and it's kicking his ass. Judging by the slightly askew tie and blue smudges under his eyes, Cas isn't faring much better.
"Working late?" Dean asks as he sidles up into the empty space beside him.
Cas perks up at the familiar face, but his smile is hardly more than a slant. "I'm beginning to regret extending my office hours for the end of the semester."
"Are people actually showing up?" They'd talked about it before Cas announced it, and Dean had been firmly in the "you'll be wasting your time for no good reason" camp. He still is, really, and when Cas looks away and doesn't answer, he knows he was right. "What'd I tell ya? If there's one thing I know, it's undergrads."
Sure, this is Dean's first semester TAing, but he's not unaware of how most undergrads approach their classes, especially electives. Besides, Cas had admitted that this course was his first undergrad offering. Fancypants had only worked with grad students up until now.
"Smugness is very unbecoming."
The platform is filling up fast, and Dean lets the crowd push him closer to Cas. "Is it really?"
They're close enough that he sees the exact moment Cas thinks about kissing him. His eyes dip—not quite to his mouth—before finding Dean's again, and it's not so much that he's looking at Dean's eyes, it's that he's not looking at his lips.
"You are an unmitigated nightmare." He sounds so fond that it makes Dean blink.
Before he can process whatever is going on in his chest or his head, the train pulls up with a hiss of hydraulics. Cas is a gentleman and gestures for him to step into the car first, but he follows close behind. There are no seats available, so Dean slots in at the end of one of the benches, his back against the wall of the car and his hand on the end pole of the bench. Cas faces him, but he's slow to grab the hanging handle, which is quickly taken by some other commuter. Tentatively he grabs the same pole Dean's holding onto.
"Is it always this crowded on friggin' Wednesdays?" Dean asks, just to say something.
Cas's focus doesn't waver from where he's boring a hole into the wall over Dean's shoulder. "I believe there's some sort of conference this week."
His tie is still askew, and of course, it's paisley just like the one he'd worn the night they met. Hell, maybe it's the same one. How many paisley ties can one man own? Dean wants to reach out and fix it. Whether that would mean tightening the knot or slipping it loose, he's not sure.
The train takes a turn, and because apparently all the out-of-towners don't know how to ride a subway, everyone shifts suddenly. A guy crashes into Cas's back, and even with his grip on the pole, he slams into Dean. They're pressed together in a firm, harsh line. They're breathing each other's air, and Cas is actually looking at him with wide, scared eyes. Dean can feel Cas's hand braced against the wall next to his hip. If he shifted his weight, he could…
The passengers straighten, and Cas retreats. His knuckles have gone white, and he's flushed red from the tips of ears to the top of his shirt collar. Dean would kill to find out how far down it goes.
They've hardly reached equilibrium when the train turns again. Dean sees it coming, so he stupidly lets go of the pole like he'll be able to hold Cas upright. Instead, Cas sees the hand coming toward him just as the guy behind him slams into him again, and between one blink and the next, Dean is flat against the wall, his arm pinned next to his head by Cas's firm grip on his wrist.
He turns his head to confirm what he's feeling, and he finds Cas's nose, his slack mouth, his dark eyes. His hair—always messy—is falling over his forehead. And he's looking, too. Dean wonders if he looks as debauched just from being so close. His wrist throbs.
"Cas," he breathes, barely more than his mouth miming the word. The movement draws Cas's razor-sharp attention. "My arm?"
Cas blinks as the words process syrup slow, then he drops Dean's wrist like it burned him. "I'm so—"
"Shut up." He grabs the lapels of Cas's jacket just as the idiot behind him manages to right himself, and he uses the space to spin them so that it's Cas's back against the metal of the train car for once. Cas is hard against his hip, and Dean's right there with him. He leans closer. Cas looks… Cas looks… Enraptured. Horny. Hungry.
Overhead, there's an announcement for the next stop. Dean's stop. Below them, the train begins to slow.
"Your tie's loose," he says. He makes himself look at it as he brings both hands up to fix it.
The train stops, and Dean forces his way through the crush of bodies to the door. He doesn't look back, and he definitely doesn't think about Cas's grip on his wrist later while in the shower.
"Why did I make the final 8 pages for undergrads?" Cas groans. He's buried behind a stack of papers with his head on the desk.
Out in the hallway, there's the steady hum of the janitor vacuuming. Inside Cas's office, there's a birthday cake candle—courtesy of Cas's friend's kid—that's trying to overpower the dregs of Chinese takeout that are in the trashcan by the door.
Dean is laying on the couch using his knee as a desk. He thought ahead and brought a red felt pen instead of ballpoint. He's gotten through a whopping three essays while Cas has cleared at least twice that. They're not even halfway done.
"I—"
"Don't say it."
"—told you so."
Cas groans wordlessly, and Dean laughs. He finishes off the essay he's grading—a surprisingly well-written analysis comparing The Creature from the Black Lagoon and The Shape of Water's portrayals of creatures from a kid named Lucas that Dean's pretty sure didn't speak a single time in class—and tosses it onto his meagre "graded" pile.
"Come on, Cas. Pick up the pace, or we'll be here all night."
Technically, Cas has another five days to submit final grades, but he's a good guy who wants to give students time to review their grade before they're locked in. Judging by the state of his office hours leading up to the last class, some of them are going to abuse that fact, but Dean has already said his piece on the situation. Cas is once again not listening to him.
Dean grabs another essay and is grateful that this student was an underachiever. He flips through quickly. "Four pages. Seriously?"
Cas's hand appears over the stack, and he makes a grabby motion. "Please, give it to me."
"No, it's mine. I found it."
Tossled dark hair and disgruntled, squinting blue eyes appear from where he'd been hiding. "Dean."
"Cas."
When he doesn't argue further, Dean settles into Michael Wheeler's sparse essay titled An American Werewolf in London, which yeah, that's the title of the movie. A shadow falling across him is the only warning he gets before Cas is grabbing for the paper. Dean flings his arm wide to keep it out of reach, but when Cas changes directions to follow, he goes off balance and has to catch himself with a knee on the couch.
Gotcha.
Dean flings the paper behind his head, and Cas, sweet tunnel-visioned Cas, follows it again, only to realize too late that it's fallen into the space between the wall and the arm of the couch. With one hand braced on that arm, his face is perfectly level with Dean's, and he takes in Dean's smug smile with a disbelieving look.
"Hiya, Cas." As accomplished as Dean feels, he expects Cas to pull away with a grumble of frustration. It's all part of their little game. He's not sure what the rules are, really, and he's even less sure what the end result is going to be, but he knows that he enjoys every second that it keeps Cas's focus on him and him alone.
"You minx," Cas says like a curse, but he's smiling now, too.
"Who talks like that? God, you're so old." He's not even forty, but considering Dean's not even thirty…
Suddenly serious, Cas drops his forehead against Dean's. It's the most skin-to-skin contact they've had in months. His other hand comes up to cup Dean's face; his fingertips are in Dean's hair, his thumb stroking the soft skin under Dean's eyes, and Dean could cry at how sweet it is.
"Dean," Cas says differently than he has before. It's tender and affectionate, and it's definitely a question.
In answer, Dean tips his head up, careful not to let Cas's hand fall away. The frantic, drunken kisses all those months ago had been electric. They'd been good enough to have Dean dreaming about them. This kiss, though? This kiss has Dean's entire body coming to life from the top of his head to the tips of his curling toes. It's like he's slipping into a hot tub. Cas kisses the same way he does everything, with single-minded perfect attention to detail. It's clear Cas remembers some of the stuff he likes, too, because he's quick to nip at Dean's bottom lip, and he smiles at the way it makes him go boneless.
The moment Dean touches Cas's waist, it all grinds to a halt. Cas lets out a disappointed huff as he wrenches himself away from Dean's mouth.
"If you apologize," Dean says, embarrassingly breathless, "I'm going to kick you in the balls."
"I'm not…" Cas closes his eyes tight, like looking at Dean is too much. "Just… Five more days, and you won't be my TA anymore."
This is what the game was for, he decides. He can't help but push a little more, though. "And then?"
Cas rolls his eyes, but when he sees Dean's mischeivous smile, even the playful frustration melts away. "Then I'm going to ask you to go to dinner with me, and it'll take at least two broken reservations before we make it to the restaurant."
"Reservations? Fancy."
"I was being hyperbolic."
"Oh, so you think I'm a cheap date?"
Cas's hips twitch in an aborted thrust, and he practically leaps to his feet. "I need to—" He firmly sits back in his chair with an entire room and desk between them. "In the interest of protecting my sanity, we are staying at least six feet away from each other for the rest of the day, and you're not allowed to make any snarky quips."
Dean has to move the couch to get Michael's essay back, but it's worth it for the way Cas pretends not to watch him. He's waited four months. What's another five days?
It turns out, four months of will-they-won't-they is nothing compared to a five day countdown to a sure thing. Dean can't remember being so consantly horny since he was a teenager, and at least then he had the excuse of it all being brand new sensations. Now, he's popping a boner because he thinks about the time Cas smudged some ink across his forehead when he was stressing over a lesson plan for the next semester.
He's sitting at home with his phone open to D2L, and he's not even looking at his own grades. No, he's sitting on the History of Cinema II homepage waiting for Cas to post that all grades are finalized and tell everyone to have a great winter break and that he hopes to see them in more film classes and blah blah blah. Because that post means he is officially no longer Cas's TA.
The page refreshes for the tenth time, and finally, a new post appears. He sees the word "finalized" in the post title and swaps over to his phone app.
To his credit, Cas answers on the first ring.
"Are you at home?" Dean asks.
"Yes—"
"Send me the address." He hangs up before Cas can say anything else.
He knows vaguely where Cas lives because he knows what direction his stop is in, so he's already headed to the right station before he receives the address. Nervous energy has him practically skipping down the sidewalk then bouncing on the balls of his feet as he stands in the subway car. It carries him down unfamiliar streets until he finds himself at the door of one half of a duplex with a flowerbox under the front window. The flowers are wilted because of the weather, but staked into the dark dirt is a metal bee holding a sparkling pride flag.
The door flies open before he can knock, and Cas is standing in front of him, dressed down in sweatpants and a faded University of Chicago tee-shirt. Dean crashes into him without a second thought. Distantly, he's aware of the door closing and stumbling down a hallway into a bedroom, but all he can concentrate on is Cas. Cas's mouth hot and insistent against his own. Cas's hands sliding under his shirt to palm at the tender skin of his stomach. Cas's cock hard and straining.
"Strip," Cas bites against his mouth, and Dean hurries to obey.
His jacket lands with a dull thud on the carpet, and he scrambles to kick off his shoes because Cas is fighting with the button of his jeans, and God, he should've worn sweatpants, too, because it would be so much easier.
The last stitch of clothing hits the ground, and they're finally standing bare before each other. Cas is everything Dean dreamed. He has a dusting of dark, curly hair across his chest and thick runner thighs because he has his life together enough to run regularly. They flex as he walks closer, and Dean doesn't know where to look until he sees the way Cas is gazing at him adoringly. Yeah, he could get used to that.
Cas kisses him languidly. They have all the time in the world, after all. He guides him backwards to the bed and follows him onto the mattress. They're miles of bare, hot, needy skin that slide against each other.
"You're perfect," Cas says into his temple. "So beautiful."
He starts a trail of feather-light kisses down Dean's neck then his torso toward Dean's straining cock. Dean stops him before he gets too close. "Sweetheart, I'm not gonna last if you do that."
For once, it's Cas smiling wickedly before he laps at the head of Dean's cock once, twice, three times. When Dean's eyes flutter, Cas grips his cock tight at the base and tugs at his balls, just this side of too rough, and Dean is able to breathe again without worrying that he's going to embarrass himself.
"Cas, comere," he begs because he's not above begging.
Instead, the bastard sucks a mark into Dean's inner thigh. "No," he says, "I've been thinking about this for months, and you've been torturing me. It's my turn."
He settles low between Dean's spread thighs, his hands holding him wide open. He doesn't ease into it at all, just dives in with a firm, rough slide of his tongue across Dean's hole, and Dean arches into the feeling. One of his hands tangles in the sheets tightly enough he might tear it, the other sinks into Cas's hair, caught between pushing him away and holding him there forever. Cas's tongue circles his rim for a long, tantalizing moment before flattening against it in a broad swipe. He laps at it until Dean's begging then spears him open. His hands slide further up Dean's thighs until he can hook one thumb into Dean's hole and spread it so that his tongue can reach further.
Dean's a puddle of pleasure. Sounds fall from his mouth that might be Cas and fuck and please, but he's not sure because the only thing he knows is that he needs this to never stop.
There's a click of a lube cap—at least Dean can recognize that sound—and Cas's tongue is replaced by a lube-slick finger that quickly becomes two. Cas's wicked mouth latches onto Dean's balls, and even though his dick is being neglected, it's weeping onto the heaving plane of his stomach. In the swirl of mindless pleasure, he's distantly aware of Cas stretching him open far beyond what he really needs, but he can't find the words to rush Cas along.
Finally, Cas is satisfied, and he slides up the length of him while leaving a trail of kisses harsh enough to bloom red across his skin. He never wants them to fade, or maybe he wants Cas to refresh them every day.
Cas kisses him soft and sweet. "Do you want to turn over for me, baby?"
Dean wants whatever Cas wants, so he lets himself be guided over onto hands and knees. Cas presses firmly on the back of his neck, and he fold his arms and lets his head lay on them so that his ass in the air. It's an offering that Cas accepts with a filthy, wet slide. It only slows when he gets deeper than his fingers could reach, and then he starts rocking, slowly working the last few inches of his cock into Dean. As he does, he buries his face in Dean's neck so that his breath whispers across his sensitive skin and makes him shiver.
"So fucking perfect for me," he grunts between thrusts. "I knew you would be, that first night. Wanted to take you home and fuck you just like this."
Dean doesn't think they would have made it to the bedroom. He imagines them tumbling into Cas's house and being so desperate for each other that Dean gets bent over the back of the couch. Hell, he still wants to do that.
Cas's hips finally meet Dean's ass, and he stills so that Dean can feel just how full he is. He moans shakily into the sheets that he's wrinkled in his hands and pulses around Cas just to feel his grip tighten to near-bruising. Cas breathes shakily against his shoulder before he pulls out tortuously slow. He fucks back in harsh and driving, and Dean's helpless to do anything but whimper at the feeling.
"And that fucking pen," Cas bites into the back of his neck. "Did you do it on purpose?"
Dean shakes his head, but he can't find the words to deny it. He can feel Cas's smile against his skin.
He stops mid-thrust with his cockhead kissing Dean's prostate. "No?" he asks. He thrusts shallowly, little more than a rub back and forth across the spot that makes Dean see stars. He's distantly aware of their hands tangling together as Cas keeps him from flying off the handle. "You were just that desperate to have something in your mouth," Cas continues, and at least there's a waver in his voice to show he's affected, too. "All I wanted was to get you on your knees. Next time."
Tenderly, he kisses right behind Dean's ear, and that brings Dean back enough for him to turn his head so their lips can meet. Words light as bubbles swell in Dean's chest. Too much, too soon, but God, he's never felt like this before.
Cas pulls away with one last scrape of his teeth before beginning a racing, driving rhythm, drilling Dean into the mattress. He skates across Dean's prostate, but it's not the focus. Instead, he wraps a hand around Dean's neglected dick and strokes it in time with his thrusts. He pins Dean's wrist next to his head, and that harsh, restricting point of contact is enough to have him coming in long, rolling, overwhelming pulses.
Above him, Cas doesn't stop, but his rhyhtm falters. It doesn't take long before his hands tighten on Dean's overheated skin, and he's coming inside of Dean. At the very end, he pulls out so that the last few drops of his come land on Dean's hole. Kinky bastard.
Dean sags into the mattress, and Cas follows him down, wrapping around him gently. His fingertips ghost across Dean's skin like now that he's allowed to, he doesn't want to stop touching him. Or maybe Dean's projecting how he feels as he traps one of Cas's hands in his own.
"I know I said we wouldn't make our reservations," Cas says, "but I would like to have dinner with you." He has the audacity to sound nervous, like Dean's going to turn him down.
Dean rolls over so they can see each other, but he doesn't drop Cas's hand. "I'm okay with takeout this time, but you're gonna have to step up your game if you want to keep me around. I may be easy, but I'm not that easy."
There's a war of fondness and exasperation on Cas's face. It's so much better than the uncertainty that had been there, especially when he groans and kisses Dean. "An absolute menace," he says against his lips, but it sounds like three different words that neither of them are ready for.
Yet.