Chapter Text
Dean grabs a Red Bull, packs a duffel, leaves a note for Sam and Claire, and hits the road. No destination in mind other than somewhere Not The Bunker. Jack didn’t specify a timeline for whatever he has planned, but Dean knows that if he stays here and waits around, he’ll lose it. Whatever he still has left to lose, anyway. Pre-dawn in rural Kansas isn't exactly rush hour, and he doesn't see a car for a hundred miles.
There’s a diner in Salina that makes a good plate of biscuits and gravy, so Dean waits in their parking lot until they open at 6:00. The waitress has to be in her 70’s, and she pats Dean’s hand after she takes his order: the biscuits, and a fruit cup. He meant what he said to Jack about taking care of himself, even if some honeydew and canned pineapple aren’t going to make much of a dent in the decades of burgers and beer he’s tossed back.
Dust motes swirl in the air when the sunrise creeps through the beat-up vinyl blinds. The waitress refills his coffee cup for the third time when she brings his food. In the meantime, he checks and rechecks his phone, switching it from vibrate to full-blast out of fear that he’s going to miss a call from Cas. But what if he wakes up in the middle of nowhere, like he always seems to do, and he can’t find a payphone? Are there even payphones anymore? Shit.
Hopefully Jack has thought of all that. Maybe he’ll get Cas a prepaid burner or something. Hell, he could even pick up more Cookie Crunch at the same time, right before he heads back to the infinite cosmos. The kid loves Cas, adores him, really. He wouldn’t leave him stranded. Not like Dean has, more than once. Fuck. God, what if Cas gets topside, takes one look at him and realizes what a goddamn piece of—wait a second.
“You're the most caring man on Earth.”
“Because you cared, I cared."
He can argue the case against himself all day long—judge, jury and executioner—but he can’t change what Cas thinks of him. And there was that kiss, on a dock that doesn’t exist anywhere but his own mind. He shakes his head, finishes the last of his coffee down to the grainy end, and stabs a piece of uninspiring cantaloupe like it’s wronged him personally. The waitress probably thinks he’s on the tailend of a bender, but he can’t be the first person to have had an argument with themselves at the crack of dawn in this diner.
“Anything else I can get for you, hon?” she asks, right on cue. “It’s a little early for pie, but you look like you could use a little something to perk you up.”
He’s about to ask the flavor of the day, when at his back, the bell above the door chimes. The waitress looks up.
“You can go on and take a seat anywhere. I’ll be with ya in just a second,” she says to the newcomer.
“Thank you,” they reply. That voice. Oh, god. Dean can’t bear to turn around, in case he’s wrong. “I’m actually here to meet a friend.”
He’s not wrong.
The sound of sensible shoes on the tile floor, the trademark swish of a coat. In a display of spot-on service industry intuition, the waitress makes herself scarce behind the counter. Then, across from him, Cas sits down, and he smiles. He never did enough of that before. Dean is going to see to it personally that he has more reasons to.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean drops his empty coffee cup, and it clatters on the formica tabletop. At least it’s plastic. Small mercies.
“Shit. Hi.”
Real smooth. Cas just keeps smiling, soft and unbearably fond. That’s new. Or maybe it isn’t? Maybe he’s always looked at him like that, and Dean just didn’t know what it meant. He wants to crawl across the table into Cas’ lap and kiss him until he stops thinking of how much time they’ve spent not kissing each other.
“Have you already eaten?” Cas asks.
“Uh, no,” Dean answers without thinking, except...that’s not right. For fuck’s sake. “I mean, sort of. Yeah, I have. Sorry.” Why is he apologizing? “Have you?”
Cas shakes his head. Dean’s got to find something other than his eyes to focus on (were they always that blue?), or he’s going to do something weird. Weirder than compulsively lying about breakfast. He grabs one of the menus stuffed behind the napkin dispenser like he doesn’t already know what’s on offer at every diner in middle America.
“Shit, you’re probably starving. You want pancakes or something?” He skims the menu, skipping over the bullshit options like oatmeal or shrimp and grits. Some things just shouldn’t be served more than fifty miles from the Carolina coast. “Gotta be honest, the biscuits weren’t great today. A little gluey. Maybe some bacon and eggs? Or, let’s see... I got the hash brown scramble once. It’s good. I think you’d like it. But, shit, you just space-warped back to Earth or whatever, you deserve caviar and top shelf scotch, not a plate of burnt toast and—”
“Dean.” Cas reaches across the table to lay a hand over his wrist, gentle.
No doubt the gesture is meant to settle him. But, since it’s the first point of real-life contact they’ve had since the night Cas got snatched, it feels a little like being tenderly electrocuted. He could lift a car right now, or have a panic attack. Maybe both. He’s versatile. Lifting his gaze from the menu’s omelet section takes only slightly less bravery than facing down demons and angels and Chuck.
“God, I love you,” he says on an exhale, the only thing he can think to say. The truest thing is probably the best place to begin anyway. “Should’ve told you before. Years ago.”
Cas smiles, crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
“I love you too,” he says, thumb sliding over Dean’s pulse point and then toward the center of his palm. The action activates enough nerve endings that he can practically feel his teeth buzz. “And if you wouldn’t mind...”
“Anything, man.” He means it.
“Tell me about the loaded hash brown scramble.”
Cas is throwing him a life preserver, and he’s sure as shit going to hang onto it. With Cas’ rapt attention, he dutifully reads off the listed ingredients and makes all the necessary recommendations regarding cheese type, white or wheat toast, bacon or sausage, the relative merits of over-easy vs. over-medium eggs. It takes long enough that he can feel some of the frenetic fight-or-flight energy draining away. Cas knows him so goddamn well.
The waitress returns, and Cas asks Dean to order on his behalf. She smiles at them like she’s picked up on something, and hell, of course she has. They’re not exactly being subtle here with their hands still linked on the tabletop.
While Cas’ food sizzles on the cooktop at the back of the diner, he fills Dean in on the events of his latest reincarnation in a low enough voice not to alarm the civilians present. Diplomacy, formal treaties, the ritual where he sacrificed his grace and restored heaven in the process. A new cosmic order that offers the possibility of real redemption, and a place for people to live out eternity with the ones they love rather than their hazily-remembered shadows.
“It’s as I always hoped, that there would be a way I could begin to repair what was lost, all the damage I did,” Cas says. “It’ll never be the same, of course, but—”
“It’s not the same, it’s better.”
The corner of Cas’ mouth lifts, a tacit admission that Dean is at least somewhat right. Dean can let it drop, for now.
“So, when you left, did you get to keep anything? Any heavenly souvenirs?”
“Nothing of value to anyone except for me,” Cas says, unfolding a paper napkin and smoothing it across his lap like someone taught him table manners between one apocalypse and another.
“What, did you snag a holy axe or something on your way out the door?”
“Jacob’s axe was destroyed in the Crusades of the mid-thirteenth century—oh. I see what you mean. They let me keep an encyclopedic knowledge of birdsong, both extant and extinct. And the dance language of the honey bee. And every memory of you formed with angelic senses.”
Dean shifts in his seat. “Like, the color of my aura, or something?”
“Hm, something like that,” Cas says, a warm, faraway look in his eyes.
The waitress delivers Cas’ food, and Dean watches him methodically demolish it. He can’t wait to cook for him when they get back home. With Cas occasionally humming his approval of the food, Dean’s mind spins off into a sepia-toned domestic fantasy of flipping pancakes at the stove and humming along to the radio as Cas washes the dishes. Except, in the fantasy, they’re not in the windowless kitchen of the bunker, they’re somewhere else. Somewhere decidedly above ground and most importantly, their own.
“You’re staring,” Cas says, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin when his plate is nearly polished clean. “I don’t mind, of course. That would be hypocritical.”
Dean laughs and scrubs a hand over his face, but he can’t manage to summon any real embarrassment. Cas has been staring at him since 2008, so he's earned the right.
“Yeah, uh, it never bothered me as much as I said it did. Kind of drove me nuts when you weren’t looking at me, to be honest.”
Cas stirs sugar into his tea, gaze still trained on Dean.
“You should know, the way I look at you isn’t the way I ever have or ever will look at anyone else.”
“Jesus.” Dean lets out a stuttering breath. “Were you always this smooth?”
Cas laughs softly, shaking his head. He takes a sip, adds creamer, and stirs again.
“How I feel about you—it’s something I’ve been keeping to myself for a long time. I’ve had a chance to give it a lot of thought.”
“You’ve got the jump on me there. I mean, it’s not that I haven’t thought about it. The you-and-me thing. God, I’ve thought about it. It just always seemed like something that could only happen to a version of me living two universes to the left, you know what I mean?”
“I do,” Cas says, and there's an ache behind his eyes that looks like it predates the cretaceous period.
“So, yeah. Things like this”—he gestures at the space between them—“Impossible stuff that I want but don’t ever get...I learned a long time ago to shut all that down. Stuff it in a box in my brain. There’s plenty of shit in there. A recliner with springs that don’t dig into my ass. A beach vacation. And, you know. You.”
“You deserve to want things, Dean. And to get them.”
Dean laughs, and nudges Cas' foot underneath the table. “Pot, kettle.”
“Fair enough. Well, you already have me, and buying you a recliner is an attainable goal,” Cas says, ticking each off on his fingers. “And we should go to the beach.”
“What?” Sure, there’s an overstuffed, leather La-Z-Boy he’s had his eye on at the furniture shop in Smith Center, but a vacation?
"Why not? You told Jack you’d retire, and I assume you meant it.”
He’s forwarded the last six or seven hunts to people who don’t remember the Clinton administration, and it’s starting to sink in. He’s out. For good this time. "I meant it. What the hell, let’s go to the beach."
*
Outside, Cas crowds him against the driver’s side door of the Impala and kisses him so good that he doesn’t notice his keys going missing. Dean can’t be blamed that a strong hand on the nape of his neck makes him a little absentminded, not to mention the feeling of Cas’ bottom lip under his tongue. Before he clocks what’s happening, Cas is steering him over to the passenger side and opening the door for him like he’s the gentlemanly prom date Dean never got the chance to be. Cas stashes his trench coat in the backseat and rolls his sleeves up to the elbow before settling in behind the wheel, and he looks so good that Dean can’t bring himself to object.
After a brief speakerphone call with Sam that ends in a lovingly condescending “congratulations, and about goddamn time,” they drive south. They kiss at every stop for gas, and Dean feels drunk on Cas’ proximity as corn fields give way to wheat and then cotton. Being awake for nearly 36 hours catches up to him somewhere near Oklahoma City, and he falls asleep with Cas’ hand on his thigh.
He doesn’t wake up until the afternoon traffic outside Dallas slows to a stuttering crawl. Cas smiles adoringly at him, despite the non-negligible amount of sleep-drool on his chin. Cas takes the next exit and pulls up to a roadside taco truck that sits at suburbia’s uneasy border with cattle country, where there's a smattering of picnic tables situated underneath the patchy shade of a live oak tree. Cas orders one of every $2 taco on the menu, and he attempts in vain to trade the tripe and tongue ones for some of Dean’s order of chorizo enchiladas. Dean might be in love with him, but there are limits.
The motel down the road has only a couple of cars out front, and the air conditioner in the office lets out a mechanical death rattle as it fights a losing battle with the Texas heat.
“Single or double?” the older guy at the counter asks, not looking up from the crossword he’s got folded open on the desk.
“Uh, doub—I mean, single.” That’s going to take some getting used to.
“Alright. Congrats. Or, I’m sorry? Guess it depends on your situation,” he says in a shrugging drawl. “Hey, you happen to know what casino is next to the Venetian in Vegas? It’s 34 across. Four letters.”
Dean thinks of the last time he was in Vegas, a surreal weekend back in ‘99. He and John had dealt with the ghost of a blackjack dealer causing trouble at the Tropicana while Sam was finishing out the last couple weeks of his junior year in Albuquerque. Once John was asleep, Dean had wandered up and down the strip and ended up watching the light show at the Bellagio fountain four times in a row as the crowds passed him by.
“I think it’s the Wynn.”
“I’ll be damned.” The guy fills in the letters, and grins at him. “Just for that, I’ll upgrade ya to a jacuzzi suite.”
“You’ve got jacuzzi suites?” That’d be a first.
“Hell no, but thanks for the help with the crossword.”
Dean laughs, and passes over a credit card.
Back in the parking lot, he and Cas walk within hand-holding distance to the room at the end of the building. With the door closed and double locked, Cas unshoulders Dean’s duffel bag gently on the dresser, like it contains something more valuable than a half-used stick of Old Spice and a wardrobe befitting a backwoods survivalist.
If this was any other night in any other motel they’ve been in together during the last decade, Dean would be flipping on the tv from the double bed closest to the door or calling dibs on the shower. Instead, he lets Cas press him against the faded wallpaper and kiss him until the sun sets and the room slides into darkness.
Eventually, he pushes gently at Cas’ chest and steers him toward the bed, slapping a lightswitch on the way so he can see where he’s going. Cas sits down on cue when the backs of his knees hit the mattress, and Dean goes a little brain-dead at having Cas at eye-level with his crotch. Cas looks up at him, throat bobbing with a hard swallow.
“Dean—I—”
He starts working at Dean’s belt, but his fingers fumble with the buckle. Dean lays his hands over Cas’, then brings Cas’ palm up to his mouth to kiss.
“Nothing has to happen,” Dean says, and it’s the truth. He could happily kiss Cas for the next forty years as long as the water pressure in the bunker’s showers holds up. “There’s no rush.”
Cas huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “That’s not the issue. I’m not— uncertain. It’s the paradox of choice. I just want everything, all at once. ”
“‘Everything’ sounds about right to me.”
Dean starts in on the buttons of his own shirt, watching Cas watch him. He doesn’t make it a show, because this isn’t a performance. Even so, Cas’ gaze is like the barely-contained heat radiating from behind a closed oven door. The process of taking off the rest is as awkward as it always is, because there’s just no sexy way to take off socks. Cas still gives him flatteringly dumbfounded elevator eyes when he stands in front of him wearing just the skin he was born in.
The thing is, he knows what he looks like. A fluke of genetics has made people want to take him to bed since he could pass for eighteen. The way Cas is looking at him is both exactly like how everyone’s always looked at him and like no ever has. He pulls Cas to his feet, and while Cas takes care of his own shirt, Dean drops to his knees on the threadbare carpet to help him out of his pants. He’s a helpful person, after all. If he slides Cas’ belt free of the loops a little slower than absolutely required, who’s to know. He wants Cas to feel it.
He knows how to do this. He’s good at this. Or at least, something approximating this. Practically a pro. But then Cas cups the side of his face in his hand, and his palm is warm, and Dean realizes he doesn’t have a goddamn clue. Cas’ other hand settles in his hair, petting. Dean leans into it, shameless for possibly the first time in his life.
“Name one thing you want,” Dean says with his eyes closed, Cas’ blunt nails against his scalp. “I sure as shit ain’t gonna judge.”
Cas hums, considering. He traces his thumb over Dean's lower lip.
Dean smiles, nods. "I can do that."
He circles Cas' wrist, guiding his index and third fingers into his mouth. Cas gasps as he tongues between them. He's always been a little obsessed with these hands. Cas hums, like this is good, like Dean’s doing this right. Thank god.
He runs his hands up Cas’ thighs to tug on the hem of his boxers in a silent request, then leans back to watch him take them off. It takes Dean a minute to tear his eyes away from everything Cas has been hiding underneath layers straight off the clearance rack at Men’s Warehouse. When he does, Cas is smiling softly at him—a little proud and a little shy, which is fuckin’ crazy, considering what’s all on display here.
“Fuck yes. Jesus Christ,” Dean says, the best he can manage. He should win a medal for being so articulate with Cas’ hard dick just inches away.
Cas’ grip on his hair tightens when Dean presses a chaste (so to speak) kiss to the head of his cock. It may have been a minute since he’s done this, but some skills don’t fade. He licks his lips, then gets a hand on Cas’ ass to tug him forward. He has no idea if anyone has done this for Cas before. Has anyone’s been on their knees for him, learned what he tastes like, gotten him off? If they have, Dean’s going to be better. Cas won’t even remember them.
He takes Cas into his mouth, deep, tongue pressed to the underside, hollowing his cheeks to suck on the withdrawal. He sets a slow push-pull pace with one hand on the jut of Cas’ hip, the other on his ass, fucking Cas into his mouth.
Cas sways on his feet. Dean tightens his grip on his hips, holding him steady as he lets his upper lip catch on the crown of Cas’ cock on the next drag. Cas even tastes good, and Dean sucks at the slit just for more of it.
“That’s good, good , Dean,” Cas gasps.
Dean pulls off, and Cas groans a protest low enough to shake the earth.
“This’ll feel better laying down, promise,” Dean reassures him with a kiss to the hollow of his hip.
Cas offers him a hand up, then pulls him straight into a kiss. He gets both hands around the back of Dean’s head as if to keep him in place, like Dean’s a flight risk rather than actively trying to crawl inside his skin. Cas backs him toward the bed and then down, getting Dean flat on his back before straddling his chest. Not exactly what Dean meant about better laying down , but now that he considers it, Cas is a genius. Dean tugs him forward until Cas can brace himself on the shitty motel headboard, towering over him and back within dick-sucking distance. With a little tacit encouragement from Dean’s greedy hands on his ass, he starts to feed his cock into Dean’s mouth, careful and steady and generous, tipping Dean’s chin up to fix the angle until it’s all Dean can feel. His thumb skates over Dean’s cheekbone, fingers underneath his jaw as Dean takes it, again and again. Taking it is all he can do in this position, but from the sounds Cas is making, it must be enough.
“Perfect. That you’d let me...I never thought...god, Dean.” He rocks his hips in and out, an irresistible slide. “Can I just stay here awhile? Is that okay?”
Dean looks up at him, and Cas pulls back enough for him to nod without the risk of hurting him. He’d beg if he had to, for Cas to keep going. It doesn’t seem like Cas is going to make him beg. Maybe next time.
Cas gets a hand around the base of his dick, rubbing the head against Dean’s bottom lip, dragging it across his cheek before filling his mouth again. It’s filthy and possessive and Dean loves it.
“Let me do this for you too,” Cas eventually says on a gasp, as the rolls of his hips go uneven and his breathing turns shallow.
Dean barely hears him, his head gone fuzzy from endorphins and the almost unbearable force of how much he wants everything that’s happening.
Cas shifts down the bed, settling between Dean’s knees. He traces the tips of his fingers over Dean’s chest, stomach, and thighs in swirling patterns that feel purposeful, like there’s language in it. Dean snags one hand and kisses those fingers.
“You could put them inside me,” Dean says, his normal voice turned into a fucked-out drawl.
“Can I?” Cas says, disbelief coloring his voice but his touch trailing to the skin of Dean’s inner thighs anyway. “I didn’t want to ask for too much. But I...I very much want—”
Dean spreads his legs a little further, an open invite.
“In my duffel, there’s a pocket—you’ll need that first. And a towel. Then, you can just...” do anything you want to me, he almost says. "Just go slow.”
Cas nods, eyes huge like he’s being handed keys to the high castle instead of instructions for getting inside Dean’s ass.
For all that Cas’ cock has already been in his mouth, the sight of Cas' naked back as he roots in Dean’s bag still stops his breath for a moment. He wants to put his mouth on the knobs of Cas’ spine, drag his fingernails across the planes of muscle and bone and leave marks, a roadmap showing where he’s been.
Cas situates himself between Dean’s legs again, bottle in hand. Dean lifts his hips, and Cas carefully lays the towel out on the bed. He looks a little unsure, and fiddles with the cap of the lube as his gaze skitters over Dean’s body. Dean takes the bottle from him gently, Cas’ hand in his, then squeezes some onto Cas’ fingers. He guides their hands together to the junction of his thighs, and presses the slick pad of Cas’ index finger against his hole. Cas looks up from where his gaze is fixed on their joined hands, catching Dean’s eyes as he slips the tip of the finger inside.
Dean’s hands fly to Cas arms, gripping not to stop him but to keep him right where he is. Cas just looks at him, perfectly still, until Dean nods. He slides his finger further inside and twists it on the way back out, watching Dean’s face for whatever he’s always been able to see there. It’s been a long time since Dean’s had the chance to do this, what with the pending end of every universe. It hasn’t really seemed like the right time to treat himself. But now? He groans and shifts against the sheets, trying to get any bit of Cas further inside.
His vision goes a little hazy once a second finger joins the first, a gentle stretch that Cas gives him with more care than anyone has ever touched him with before. Dean rocks into it, greedy and so eager that he absolutely forgets to be self-conscious, the critic in his head going quiet as he gives himself over to how good this is. Cas works out just where to curl his fingers to get Dean’s back bowing off the bed. When he can manage to open his eyes, he sees Cas, brow furrowed, staring transfixed at where his fingers are working. It’s a patternless push-pull, circling and dipping just inside before filling him up again and again.
Once Cas has the hang of things, he leans forward to take Dean’s dick into his mouth. It’s hot and wet and overstimulating, and Dean does his best not to pull Cas’ hair too hard when he figures out how to sync up the rhythm of his mouth and fingers.
It occurs to Dean that there’s nowhere else he needs to be right now, and nobody who needs anything from him. That’s almost never happened before—when he’s been with someone, there’s always been a shortage of time or privacy or both. But here, with nowhere to go and no one to see, he doesn’t have a single job other than to withstand how good Cas’ fingers and mouth feel while he tries not to come too soon.
“Do you wanna fuck?” Dean slurs, an arm slung over his tired eyes. Should he be this relaxed? He feels a bit like he could fall asleep, but in a sexy, safe way, not in a bored way. Christ, he’ll never be bored of this, Cas could finger him and suck his dick until he’s pushing ninety in a retirement home.
Cas’ fingers still, and he pulls his mouth off Dean’s dick.
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” Cas asks, head tipped to the side, voice gone crater-deep.
“Huh, ‘spose you’re right. By all means, then...” he waves a hand magnanimously at his dick.
Cas chuckles, shaking his head, before diving back in.
After a minute or two, another sound joins the mix, slick and rhythmic. Dean peers down at Cas to see him jerking at his cock as he continues to work Dean over, ambidextrous multi-tasker that he is. Dean groans, tugging Cas closer by the hair until his dick is nudging the back of Cas’ throat. It’s rude, it’s demanding, but the way Cas’ fist on his dick speeds up is a pretty surefire sign Cas doesn’t mind. He pulls back on Cas’ hair to give him a break to get some air, which Cas does open-mouthed against his thigh, breaths coming in harsh, little pants. Dean rocks his hips down against Cas’ fingers, three now, and gets his hand on his own dick to take over for Cas.
Cas rises to his knees, fucking his fingers into Dean and fucking his own fist. They’re looking into each other’s eyes, and it’s never been like this, never been this good or this close or this (oh, god) meaningful , and then Cas comes. He spills all over Dean’s dick, come dripping off Dean’s fingers, and it’s too fucking hot, a sensory overload. With Cas’ come slicking the way, it’s impossible to hold back. He gets his ankles hooked around Cas’ ass, holding him in place until Dean’s gasping and coming too. Cas smiles down at him, then slips his fingers out of the clutch of Dean’s body. He gently dislodges the grip of Dean’s legs around his hips, and collapses on his back beside him.
Dean watches the fan spin overhead as he comes down, the blades making a quiet click on every tenth rotation or so. Cas drags the tip of a finger through the combined mess on Dean’s stomach, creating a cool, wet trail up to his chest, around each nipple, along his collarbone, and into the dip of his throat. Painting him. Dean shivers, and closes his eyes as Cas dabs at another pool of come and brings it to his cheek. It feels gorgeous. He feels gorgeous. Nobody’s told Cas that this is filthy, kinky shit—rubbing come into the skin of someone’s face, and Dean’s so goddamn glad.
The shower beckons eventually, and they both cram under the shitty, two-short nozzle to wash each other clean, kissing water from one another’s lips until shower sex starts sounding like a better idea than it ever, ever is.
Back in the bedroom, Dean flops down naked and spread-eagled on the bed to cool off. Even with his eyes shut, he can feel Cas staring from the doorway to the bathroom.
“Get on in,” Dean says, an unintentional double entendre that makes him grin, even though he definitely doesn’t have the energy for that right now. Maybe tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow. “If you keep staring like that I’m gonna start thinkin’ you have a crush on me.”
Cas sits down on the edge of the bed. He takes Dean’s hand in his and kisses the inside of his wrist and the center of his palm, like the incurable romantic he is. Dean soaks it up and doesn’t try to pretend otherwise.
“I’ve killed and been killed for you, so I think we’re a bit past the infatuation stage.”
“You’re not doing that anymore though,” Dean says, yawning. “You gotta stay alive so you can fuck me.”
“Hm, a tempting bargain. I accept.”
Dean reaches blindly for Cas, trying to tug him down with uncooperative limbs and failing in the effort. Cas takes mercy on him and helps, rearranging Dean’s arms and legs until they can both fit as well as a full size bed is ever going to let two six-foot-something men fit. After Cas pulls the scratchy sheets and violently pastel comforter over them both, Dean curls around him, his head on Cas’ chest and the steady thud of Cas’ heartbeat under his ear.
“Time to sleep, buddy,” Dean says, patting Cas’ finely-haired stomach. Such a nice stomach. All of Cas is nice, really. Man, he’s exhausted.
“Are you going to keep calling me buddy, now that we’re sleeping together?”
“I’ll probably keep calling you buddy even after we get married.”
“We’re getting married?”
“Probably. I dunno,” Dean mumbles. “I’m really fuckin’ tired. Ask me tomorrow.”
“I’ll do that,” Cas says, a smile in his voice.
*
Dean wakes to Cas pressing kisses to the back of his neck, one of his legs slotted between Dean’s, and his dick against Dean’s ass. Coffee would be good, but all in all, this isn’t a bad way to start the day. Dean arches back against him, and Cas hums against his skin.
“What time is it?” Dean asks, getting a hand on his own dick, hard and demanding like he didn’t just get off spectacularly last night. Sex with Cas is going to spoil him, calling that right now.
“Nearly eleven,” Cas murmurs against his skin.
“Uh, what?” Dean blinks his eyes open, peering at the alarm clock on the nightstand for confirmation.
“You’ve been asleep for almost twelve hours, yes. You needed it.”
“Shit, we missed check-out time. That crossword guy at the front desk is gonna be pissed.”
“I took care of that earlier,” Cas says, snaking a hand around Dean’s midsection to wrap around his dick, fingers wrapping around Dean’s. “Free late checkout. All it took was some help on the Friday puzzle. I wasn’t stationed in Europe during the Reformation, but the names of the popes from that era are common knowledge.”
“Right, common knowledge,” Dean quips, grinding back into him. “Keep talkin’ dirty about Catholicism, baby.”
Cas laughs softly, then rocks his hips against the cleft of Dean’s ass in time with the stroke of his hand. It’s a tease, and Dean wants more, but then his traitor stomach growls.
“Let’s feed you,” Cas says.
“Just a quick hand job first,” Dean bargains, reaching for the lube on the nightstand. “You can come on my ass, too.”
“So generous. Is this how it’s going to be from now on?”
Dean gets some lube on his hand and then passes the bottle over his shoulder to Cas.
“Pretty much. Just put some on your dick and go to town.”
The next time Cas’ dick rubs against his ass, it’s slick. Dean fists his cock, twisting his hand and matching Cas’ thrusts against him.
“Oh, I see,” Cas says, voice gone a little breathless. “That’s...” He shifts the angle a bit, until his dick is sliding between the tops of Dean’s thighs and nudging the back of his balls.
“Yeah, perfect, just like that, keep that going...”
Cas sucks a kiss on the back of his neck, the scrape of his teeth egging him on and oh, he isn’t going to last. Cas’ dick slides against his hole, just tagging the rim, and that bit of fleeting friction has Dean groaning and coming into his fist with Cas close behind.
With Cas panting against his skin, Dean rubs at the back of his neck where he can feel a bruise forming. Good. He wants those everywhere.
“Breakfast?” Cas asks.
“Breakfast tacos.”
*
In Galveston, Cas gives him turn-by-turn directions until he’s pulling into a sandy parking lot where land gives way to the Gulf. It’s a weekday in the off-season, and there are no other cars in sight.
“The beaches across the bay on the Bolivar Peninsula are more pristine, but I thought you might object to the ferry,” Cas says, like he needs to make excuses for the adequacy of the fucking ocean. “This beach is a favorite with the locals, at least according to TripAdvisor.com.”
“Cas, prior to this, the closest I’ve gotten to the beach was a motel swimming pool in Pensacola back in ‘92. And yeah, I draw the line at putting Baby on a boat, so this is perfect.”
“I’m glad. Shall we?”
“Yeah. Uh, skivvies will work, right?” Dean says, eyeing his own jeans and weather-inappropriate flannel. “Don’t exactly have any board shorts in the trunk.”
Cas shrugs, then strips off the t-shirt Dean loaned him this morning and shimmies out of his pants. Dean watches without bothering to pretend otherwise before he does the same.
It’s overcast, but Cas still insists that they apply the sunscreen he’d apparently picked up at a gas station somewhere along the drive.
“I can still take care of you in human ways,” Cas says quietly, by way of explanation. “I...need to do that at least, if you’ll let me.”
Dean nods, and stays still as Cas carefully rubs lotion across his back and behind his ears. SPF 50 feels just as holy as angel grace, coming from Cas’ hands. Dean repeats the process for him in turn, and if he’s especially thorough near the waistband of Cas’ boxers, who’s to know?
The sand is hot underfoot, so they rush to the edge of the beach where the waves are lapping at the shore. Stepping into the surf, he reaches for Cas’ hand when a wave nearly takes him out at the knees. Before long, they figure out how to brace for each impact together.
And that’s what they’ll keep on doing, always.