Title: Every Time A Bell Rings
Chapter Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5077
Warnings/Tags: Post-Episode: s10e09 The Things We Left Behind, Winter Hiatus Fic, five times fic, Wings, Castiel in the Bunker, Porn With Plot, Fluff and Smut, Ridiculous
Summary: Five times Castiel got Dean dirty, and one time Dean returned the favor.
Notes: For Loethlin and the 2014 Dean/Cas Secret Santa Exchange. Prompt #1 -"You know how when angels die, they leave the burned out imprint of their wings? Evidence in Dean's bedroom shows he found out exactly why they call an orgasm 'la petite mort'" + a small slice (ha!) of prompt #2— pie. Takes place a few weeks after 10x09, which we are going to assume occurred on its airdate of December 9.
There's a weird, throat-catching smell in the air, faint but getting stronger as Sam emerges into the main library from the steps downstairs. Full laundry basket braced against a hip, he walks past the fireplace and along the east wall, lifting his head to take a curious sniff every few feet. The scent strengthens to an almost palpable haze hanging near the foyer, and Sam slows to a stop at the corner where he'd turn to go to the kitchen, frowning down the hallway.
Charlie, who's coming from the other direction, all but swallowed by her chunky sweater, slows to meet him at the archway. She cocks her head, eyebrows drawing together as she sees his expression. "Hey, what's up?"
"Do you smell…?" he starts.
"Something burning?" she says with a wrinkling nose, following his gaze. "Now that you mention it. But like, flowery-burning? Does that make sense?"
"That's what I was afraid of," Sam says, setting the basket on the closest table and starting towards the stairs. The smell is weirdly familiar, in a way that makes his chest tight with worry. "Hey, Dean?"
Charlie trots after him, slippers making clop-clop-clop noises on the stone floor. "Flowery and like, sweet. And kinda cinnamonish…?" She trails off. "Dean and Cas were making pie, though, right? Is flower pie a thing?"
"Dean?" Sam calls again, starting down the steps into the kitchen. "Hey, Dean, we smelled— whoa."
The kitchen is an ashy, spattered mess, broad streaks of flour on the tiles and something that looks like cherry filling dripping down the walls in thick lines. Pieces of browned pie crust are scattered across the floor, along with an upturned mixing bowl and a few feet away, a gooey whisk. The smell of smoke is so strong now it's making Sam's eyes water.
"Uh," Dean says from the top of a ladder, frozen in the motion of scrubbing the tail end of a long sooty streak off the ceiling. His apron is powdered white and liberally doused in red. "Hey, guys! Sorry. Me and Cas, we, uh, we had a little… accident." His queasy smile and the deliberately nonchalant way he drops his hands to rest on the ladder rung do nothing but crank up the alarm bells in Sam's head.
"Holy crap," Charlie says, craning her head back to gape at the dense black mark. "Don't you guys have smoke alarms? That fire must have been huge!"
"Nothing I couldn't handle," Dean says, grip relaxing a little on their dull orange kitchen sponge. Sam is exasperated for a second, because Dean couldn't have dug out a dishrag or something? Who knows what's been on this ceiling—
— and then the shape of the scorchmark, a little blurred by Dean's efforts but still distinct and horribly recognizable, suddenly snaps into focus and Sam goes cold.
"Seriously, though," Charlie says, oblivious, stepping towards the center of the room and turning slowly to follow the line of black as it arcs across the ceiling. "You at least have fire extinguishers, right? This isn't the Lebanon Shirtwaist Factory waiting to happen?"
Dean rolls his eyes and leans forward on his elbows, but before he can say anything Sam catches Charlie's arm and ducks his head to her ear.
"Get Claire, get to the garage, take any car you want, just get out of here," he whispers. "Act casual, but do it. I'll call you when it's safe, okay? Go now."
Charlie turns a little to squint at him. Sam hisses "Now," and Dean drops his head in his hands and groans.
"Sam, I didn't fucking— it's not what you think!"
Sam steps closer so he can draw Charlie behind him, keeping his body between her and whatever is standing at the top of that ladder. Not Dean. Dean would never… he wouldn't. The thing that is not Dean's sleeves are rolled up just enough that the mark peeks out, shiny and red against his skin. "Charlie," Sam says quietly.
"Going," she murmurs. She can't really understand, because Sam hasn't said anything about what happened while she was off in Oz and he's damn sure Dean hasn't, but as he risks a glance at her she's backing up the stairs with her hands out, eyes darting over the scene with growing wariness. Attagirl.
"Goddamnit," not-Dean says into his fingers. "Sam, I did not fucking kill Cas. Christ."
"Did another angel attack you?" Sam asks, willing to entertain the remote possibility that one managed to get through all their warding. Anything is better than the alternative. "Where is Cas? Is he hurt?"
"No, it just… he just… hell, I don't even know, one second he was fine and then bam."
"Did he hurt himself?" God, Sam hadn't even considered the possibility, what if there had been an accident—
"No, he did not hurt himself," Dean says through gritted teeth. "Sam. Cas is fine. Say it with me. Fine."
Sam points at the wingprint on the ceiling with raised eyebrows.
"He just got a little, uh. Dirty," Dean says. The last word comes out strangled, his face going blotchy red. "Otherwise, he seemed great. Uh, normal. He seemed normal."
"… you realize that explanation makes absolutely no sense, right?"
Dean makes a wordless noise of aggravation and chucks the sponge down into the flour-doused sink, starting down the ladder in stomps. "Yeah, I fucking realize—"
"Whoa, no," Sam says, the gun from the small of his back now in his hands and pointing at a spot just shy of Dean's boots. "No fast moves."
Dean rubs a hand over his face. "Oh my God, Sam, seriously!"
"Seriously, Dean. If Cas is fine, tell me what happened," Sam challenges him. "I don't have any evidence you're telling the truth."
Dean mutters something dark into his palm.
"We were making pie, okay? And then we started doing, uh. You know. Stuff," he says with obvious reluctance.
Sam stares at him. "Stuff."
"Yeah. And when I— he, um." Dean's looking at the red streaks on the wall like they're the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "He was really surprised, and I guess he… his grace might have. Because he was, uh, feeling so… good."
"I have literally no idea what you are trying to say to me right now," Sam says, and Dean throws his hands up.
"Oh, for— we were just kissing, I wasn't even touching him all that much and his wings did this, I don't know why! He doesn't know why, he says they're still there, they just—fucking hell, Sam, do I really have to keep talking?" he asks plaintively.
"You… and Cas?" Sam says. Kissing?
"And you… he… his wings did this from kissing? Just from kissing?"
Dean's face has gone completely carmine. "Oh my God, you want the blow-by-blow? You want the slow motion replay? There was cherry pie on his face, Sam, I couldn't help it—"
"Dean!" Sam yelps as the whole picture snaps into place. "We eat in here!"
"Pie! On his face!"
"Uh, guys?" Charlie calls tentatively.
Sam looks back over his shoulder at the stairs down into the kitchen area. From this angle, the ceiling cuts off the view of everything but Charlie's fuzzy slippers, hesitating on the top step. To her left are Claire's beat-up sneakers, one kicking idly at the air.
To her right stands a man with bare feet. He's wearing an old, ratty pair of Dean's jeans.
"Please tell me that's you, Cas," Sam says, barrel dropping.
"Um. Yes?" The angel sounds confused. He stoops into an awkward crouch, blinking in confusion as he sees the gun in Sam's hands. His hair spikes up in damp clumps, and the shirt he's wearing— also Dean's— sticks to his chest in a way that says he wasn't completely dry when he pulled it on. "I am me, the last I checked."
"And you're okay?" Sam asks, because even though he looks fine, there is an undeniable stretch of charcoal feathered across the room, in a pattern that suggests their owner was shoved bodily up against the fridge when… whatever… happened. Thanks for that, Dean.
A brief flicker of understanding and something like chagrin crosses Castiel's face. "I am unharmed, Sam," he says quietly.
"I can verify, Bravo Six," Charlie says, dropping down as well. "What's the situation, over?"
"And why does it smell like someone stuck potpourri in the microwave?" Claire complains, sneaker tapping impatiently. "I thought we were having pie."
Sam glances back at Dean as he thumbs the safety on. "You wanna take that one?" he says dryly.
"Oh, shut up," Dean grumbles, grabbing for the paper towels. "After dinner," he says more loudly, eyes darting up to the top of the stairs before he goes back to staring at the mess. "Speaking of, you three go set the table."
Charlie tilts her head. "Oka-ay? But what the heck—"
"Fine, jeez, we're going— Claire, help me find the placemats, will ya? Cas, you're helping," she says, when Castiel doesn't move immediately.
"Oh," he says. It looks like he's trying to catch Dean's eye, and when he can't he says, "All right," and leaves with them.
Sam considers the way his brother's ears are turning pink and says, "So. You and Cas, huh?" Dean throws him a glare like a dagger. It doesn't deter him in the slightest. "You and Cas," he repeats meditatively. "I take it this doesn't happen every time?"
"How the fuck would I know," Dean mutters, "this was the first— uh."
Sam looks down at the gleaming red cherries smeared across the floor and starts to grin.
"Shut the fuck up," Dean hisses.
"You have to admit, it's a little funny—"
"I said shut the fuck up!"
Sam is such shithead.
Charlie too, really, once she figures out what's going on. Dean sees it happen over dinner that night, because she's a smart cookie and Castiel doesn't know anything like subtlety or guile, or how to turn off the high-beam hearts in his eyes that are making it impossible for Dean not to squirm in his chair. That, and the fact that only one of them had a chance to change after their little misadventure in the kitchen. There's still soot under Dean's nails and smudges on his jeans.
When it does hit her, Charlie's eyes get all big, then narrow into tiny slits. "Cas, you helped make the pie today?"
"Yes, I did," Castiel says, eyes rising to meet Dean's across the table, then dropping to something a few inches lower. Dean licks his bottom lip clean without thinking about it and Castiel bites his.
"Looks like you had fun, if the kitchen's any indication," Charlie says knowingly.
"Mmhm," Castiel says absently, still looking at Dean's mouth. Sam makes a choking sound around his fork.
It only gets worse from there. Claire, thank the BVM and baby Jesus, seems more interested in her spaghetti and meatballs than the banter around the table, but Dean knows it's not going to take her long to catch on too.
One too many quips about cherries and comments like, "Was the pie as good as you thought it would be, Cas? I remember my first pie,", and Dean slams back the rest of his beer and says, "Okay, I'm just gonna—"
"I'll come with you," Castiel says instantly, setting his spoon down with a clatter, and Sam sniggers into his plate while Charlie bites her lip against a wide smile. Claire eyes her, then turns a narrow look on Dean.
"— take out the trash," Dean decides, because those bins are all the way out past the garage and it needs to get done anyway; he'd used a hell of a lot of paper towels today. "Before we start on the dishes."
"I'll help carry the bags," Castiel announces, taking his plate off to the kitchen with an eager bounce in his step. Sam snorts and Charlie ducks her head, chasing the last crumbs of one of the later, intact pies around her plate.
"What's so funny?" Claire asks suspiciously.
"This pie is just so great," Charlie says with a mean little smirk. "What's the secret, Dean?"
"It must be lo-o-ve," Sam sing-songs.
Dean's never making pie again. Especially not cherry.
"Oh, my God, you did it," Claire says suddenly. "You actually grew a pair and— oh, gross, in the kitchen?"
A hot, sick flare of panic makes Dean stutter out, "N-no?"
"You did," she accuses.
Shit. "I'm… look, Claire, I'm so—"
"It's okay," she mutters, looking down. "I knew it was coming. Castiel and I talked about this." All eyes at the table turn to her with varying degrees of disbelief, and she folds her arms and glares. "A while ago. So we really don't need to talk about it now."
Dean is stunned speechless, standing there with a sauce-smeared plate and his stomach doing backflips over the idea that Cas had talked to her, that he'd done it a while ago. Claire's only been here a few weeks, it'd have to have been almost as soon as she… wow. "Hey, kiddo," he says gently, "you know I—"
Claire holds up a hand. "I don't think you understand. We really, really do not need to talk about this, Dean. Ever."
"Okay," Dean says with a small smile.
"Dean?" Castiel calls from the kitchen. "Are you coming?"
Claire lifts up her plate. "And I'm not helping with the dishes, either," she says as Dean takes it.
"Not it," Charlie and Sam say in unison, both of them pushing away from the table.
"Have fun 'taking out the trash'," Sam adds, making completely unnecessary air quotes.
"Ew," Claire comments under her breath as she shoves her chair back, and then all three of them are gone, leaving the library table littered with dirty plates and crumpled napkins.
"Oh, thanks guys!" Dean yells after them. But he supposes he should be grateful.
When he carefully navigates down the steps to the kitchen, five plates, all their silverware, and the scraped-clean serving platter braced against his belt buckle, Castiel is already waiting next to a pile of neatly-tied garbage bags. The place is still a disaster and smells like a fire in a perfumery, but Dean catches Castiel's bright, expectant look, and just dumps the dishes in the sink to deal with later. His face is starting to heat again, damn it all; he's not fourteen.
"Okay, so— bags," Dean gets out, and grabs four or five and marches of determinedly towards the garage. "Let's go."
"Oh, um. Yes," he hears Castiel say, and then a quick rustling and steps coming after him— quicker while Castiel tries to catch up, slowing to match once he does.
They make a strange and silent parade through the bunker's cold, empty corridors, though Dean can feel Castiel's eyes on the back of his head like the press of hot coals. The walk is too short and too long; Dean's afraid to overthink this and at the same time his mind is racing, worse than it was during dinner. Worse than it was when Castiel had turned to him, a glossy smear of cherry across his chin, and said, Dean? Is something wrong?
It's funny, the things that can break you. Dean strides through the garage, flings the door open harder than he has to, throws his bags into the open dumpster they keep just outside, and turns back just in time to catch Castiel as he launches himself forward.
The first kiss only lands about halfway on his lips and knocks their teeth together, because Dean isn't expecting it. The second is full contact as he opens his arms and lets Castiel crowd into him, hands coming up to splay over Castiel's waist. The slide of Castiel's tongue against his lip is at once shy and sly, and Dean smiles as he eases back from the contact.
"We should maybe talk about this," he murmurs. Castiel actually shakes his head and goes back for another kiss, and Dean's left laughing quietly as he braces a hand on Castiel's chest and keeps him back. "Seriously, Cas."
Castiel looks close to pouting, but he allows the motion. "I don't want to talk about it," he says. "Not… yet."
"Yeah? Well, maybe I have questions." Dean takes a slow step forward, pushing Castiel backwards through the doorway, and hey, there's his baby. Her hood is at a pretty convenient height.
"Questions?" Castiel's calves hit the fender and he lets himself be pushed down on the car, one of his hands sliding up Dean's shirt to cup his neck. The other falls to the back of Dean's knee and rests there, faint heat through the denim.
"You told Claire," Dean says softly. How long have you been thinking about this?
"I did," Castiel replies, gaze steady even as his throat bobs nervously. Dean thinks he reads there, Maybe as long as you have.
And as it turns out, Dean doesn't really want to talk about it. Instead, he drags his thumb along Castiel's jawline, and when Castiel hums and turns into the caress, he leans down and kisses him again. Because he can, and because it feels so damn good. Castiel's mouth moves hot and sure against his, tongue sneaking briefly past Dean's teeth, and then again when Dean makes an encouraging noise and opens for him.
It's cold in the garage but warm in the space between them, even warmer as Castiel gets more confident in what he's doing. Dean's content to let him explore, to show him with murmurs and gasps what works, and maybe he's feeling a little guilty for earlier— for just taking, even though Castiel had clung to him, had arched and cried out his name when Dean sucked a dark, tender bruise just under his shirt collar. When they come up for air, his breath feathers over Dean's cheek in a hot sigh, and a shiver moves through his shoulders as Dean kisses the mark he'd left.
"Mmm, can we—" Dean starts, and Castiel's grip on his neck firms. He tugs until Dean eases forward and his weight presses Castiel flat against the Impala. "Been a while since I made out on my car," he laughs, one hand braced on the hood next to Castiel's head, the other sneaking up under his shirt. Dean's shirt, actually; an ugly scrap of plaid from an outlet mall outside Des Moines. It looks better on Cas.
"Is that what this is?" Castiel asks breathlessly, fingers still urging Dean closer even though there's nowhere to go. "Are we making out?"
"We sure as hell aren't praying the rosary," Dean says, and lets Castiel's impatient hands pull him down again.
If Dean had let himself think about it, he might have guessed Castiel could be like this. A little pushy, a little forceful. Maybe a lot forceful, Dean amends, as those hands mold over his back and arms cinch around his waist. "Dean," he moans, one of his knees drawing up. "Oh, that feels—"
"Yeah?" Dean says with a grin against his throat. "S'good?"
"Good, yes," Castiel says, and rolls his body upwards. His breath is starting to come in gasps, his hips twitching up into the press of Dean's leg between them.
"Whoa, hey," Dean says gently, lifting his head to catch Castiel's eye. "Slow down, sweetheart, there's no rush."
Castiel scowls up at him, pink flush blooming in his cheeks and staining wet lips. "I want—"
"I know what you want," Dean says, and can't quite stifle a yelp as Castiel starts to move more restlessly under him, hands straying into groping territory. "Loud and clear, okay? But— Cas!" Fingers bite deep into his ass and it gets him moving too, a sharp downward grind that makes Castiel's head drop back and his eyes squeeze shut.
"I think I'm…"
"Already?" Dean says breathlessly, does not mean to say out loud and Castiel aims a hazy glare at him before his eyes widen in surprise.
"Oh crap, wait," Dean says, tasting ozone.
The next thing he tastes is ash, but at least he got his eyes closed when he saw Castiel's flash white. The sting of the angel's orgasm cracks through both of them, rolling through Dean like syrup-slow lightning and tearing its way out in a jagged rush that leaves him gasping into Castiel's shoulder. "Fuck, fuck, holyshitfuck." Castiel's death-grip on Dean tightens, helpless noise breaking low in his throat as he shudders, shudders, and finally goes limp.
Well. That's the second time Dean's come in these jeans today.
"Sorry," Castiel husks, one palm dragging up the valley of Dean's spine under his jacket.
"Ngh," Dean grunts, eyes fluttering open. For a moment, all he sees is the black-on-skin pattern of feathers across his forearm. Then the black-on-black pattern of soot on glossy paint.
On the Impala's hood.
"Oh, my God," he says in blank horror. "You angel-jizzed on my car."
"I'm... I'm sure it washes off?" Castiel says, craning his head back and brushing his fingers through the dusty imprint of wings.
Dean grabs his wrist. "Don't, you'll scratch the paint!"
Castiel freezes mid-shift. "But—"
"No, just— oh, shit, it's on the concrete too," Dean says, peering over the edge. "Is this really going to happen every time?"
"I honestly do not know," Castiel says with a melancholic smile, brushing a hand over his chest. "Perhaps it reflects the weakened state of my grace. Perhaps my control is simply lacking. It was... an overwhelming experience."
He looks up at Dean then, licking over his pinked lips, and Dean lets out a rusty chuckle.
"Very," Castiel says, something raw and honest in his eyes. "Come here, Dean."
"This seems excessive," Castiel grumbles, but he widens his stance readily enough when Dean sinks to his knees in front of him.
"This is an experiment," Dean reminds him, tucking two fingers under Castiel's waistband and popping the button on his fly. "An experiment to see if we can actually have sex in the bunker, or if we're going to have to shack up in a tent in the woods or something."
"It's... January," Castiel says slowly.
Dean shrugs. "Snowpants can be hot."
Castiel looks like he's trying to imagine the appeal and not seeing it, so Dean gets a firmer grip on his belt loops and pulls Castiel's hips into his face. He looks up, takes the tab between his teeth and watches Castiel's eyes darken to the color of hurricane seas.
They're in Dean's bedroom, because Dean is done explaining ashy smudges and the smell of smoke in the pantry, or shooting range, or map room, or, fuck, across the entire back side of the West African mythology section. That'd been just plain stupid. They've pushed up the rug to expose the dark wood floor, and Castiel stands in the middle of a painted circle partially of his own devising, partially gleaned from glyphs and sigils in the raunchier Men of Letters personal journals. Those guys certainly weren't prudes, even if they couched everything in the driest of academic jargon.
Castiel breathes in sharply as Dean noses into the open vee of his jeans, hands settling carefully in his hair as Dean takes a moment to rub his cheek over the hard line there. When Castiel's hips buck, Dean rewards him with an open mouth and damp, hot breath through the cotton of his boxers.
"Oh," Castiel says quietly, eyelids sliding down. "That feels..."
Dean makes a little hum of agreement and wets the cloth with his tongue, letting saliva pool in his mouth before closing his lips around the head and sucking. Castiel's fingers tighten on his skull, and he hunches with a low moan.
They are getting better at this. Dean's getting better at knowing how close Castiel is, and Castiel's getting better about warning him. By the time Dean has his cock out of his pants and in his mouth, Castiel's hands are twisted in his hair and he's sobbing out every breath— but it's not until Dean presses a desperate hand to the base of his own dick and groans around him that he stammers out a warning. "D-Dean!"
Dean pulls back reluctantly, and keeps his hand moving slickly from base to tip, giving Castiel an easy, dirty grin when his dark eyes slip open to stare. "That's it, baby. You wanna come for me?"
Castiel gives him an irritated look that melts into shock, and then he's folding over Dean body like it's the only thing keeping him up. "Oh, oh, Dean—"
He comes all over Dean's shirt, though really, that one's Dean's fault. More unfortunately, his wings leave solid black stripes across the floor, bed and nightstand, completely obscuring the glyphs that were supposed to keep them in.
"Well, that didn't work," Dean observes, still on his knees.
"Hm?" Castiel has managed a mostly-controlled collapse into Dean's arms, body lax and smile blissful.
Dean kisses his temple. "Nothing. Let me know when you're ready for take two."
"It's too cold," Castiel chatters out, shoving Dean's pants down anyway and grabbing him with icy fingers.
"Fuck!" Dean yips out, curling up instinctively. "You could be a little nicer about it!"
Castiel pushes him back and sits on his legs, shoving Dean's shirt and jacket up so that his stomach is exposed. He tackles his is own pants and coat with bad-tempered jerks at the buttons. "I believe that if I am," he says, "you will take it as indication we might repeat this. Which we will not, Dean."
A few cramped, sticky minutes later, and Castiel proves it isn't actually too cold. Also, that the close quarters offered by a tent are even more unpleasant when filled with smoking imprints than the comparatively airy confines of the bunker.
"You know," Dean says, lifting a handful of warm water so that it sluices over Castiel's back. "If we're going to get dirty no matter what, we might as well do it in the bathroom."
"Agreed," Castiel says sleepily, drawing a wet line up Dean's leg. The bathtubs in the bunker aren't exactly gold and marble, but they're plenty wide, and the hot water just keeps coming. It steams gently in the cooler air as Dean reaches up to twist the tap off again, luxuriating in the added heat. Castiel is lying comfortably between Dean's thighs, with his chest to Dean's stomach and his legs curled under Dean's knee. There's still a little shampoo in his hair, and his eyes narrow to slits of bliss when Dean brings up another handful and works the water through.
Castiel's fingers slide back down to his hip, to the ticklish hollow there, then curve around swell of his ass, light pressure urging Dean to turn.
"Yeah?" Dean goes with the movement, hooking his ankle behind Castiel's calf and easing over on his side. The water sloshes around them, then settles. "Whadya want?"
A kiss, apparently, which Dean is more than happy to go along with. It's slow and aimless, Castiel's teeth dragging along Dean's lower lip in a way that makes pleasure curl lazily through his system.
"Dean," Castiel whispers, eventually. "Can I?"
"Mm?" Dean hums, not really wanting to open his eyes to find out what he means.
Soap-slick fingers trail along the base of his spine, slipping further down to ghost over his entrance, and Dean murmurs, "Oh, yeah." He twists until Castiel is all the way on his back and they're chest to chest, Dean's head settled on Castiel's shoulder, his legs falling open on either side of his.
Castiel takes a deep breath, chest rising under Dean's hand, but doesn't move. Dean pokes him in the stomach. "That was a yes," he hints, moving himself against Castiel's still fingers. "'Case you missed it."
Castiel lifts his other hand, then, and takes two handfuls of Dean's ass to squeeze and spread, and Dean's mouth drops open as he bows back into it. "Yes?"
"Mmhm," Dean murmurs, then, "oh shit, yeah," at the cautious brush of fingertips that turns into a kneading stroke.
Castiel doesn't actually come that time, though Dean does. Twice. In the name of scientific rigor and all that jazz, Dean mentally marks the bathroom down as needing— nay, deserving— another test. Many, many additional tests.
"If this is how it's going to be," Dean pants, "we're going to have to make each one count. So don't come, Cas."
"I won't," Castiel promises, even though he's shaking with strain, sweat gleaming on his face and his stomach trembling. His fingers are like steel bars on Dean's thighs, like he's forgotten what his strength can do to mere humanity. Dean shouldn't find that as hot as he does. "I won't, Dean, please—"
"I mean it," Dean groans, letting himself sink down a little more. Christ, this seemed much more manageable when it was just spit and lube and fingers. "Don't you dare— ah, fuck," he curses as he finally seats himself flush with Castiel's hips. "Shit."
Castiel makes a sharp, muffled keening noise as Dean's muscles spasm, trying to accommodate the thick length inside him, and Dean runs a soothing hand up his chest to his shoulder, turning it so the backs of his fingers brush his cheek. The dazed, stunned-stupid look in his eyes makes Dean's skin prickle with heat.
"You with me, Cas?" he asks, stroking Castiel's hair back from where it's plastered to his forehead.
Castiel bites his lip but smiles, small and real. "Yes, Dean."
Dean's pretty sure his answering smile is sappy as hell, but there's no one here to judge him. "Alright, then," he says, and gives an experimental swivel of his hips that drags in all kinds of interesting places. Castiel tries to catch a moan behind his teeth. "Ready?"
Dean still gets wing-ash all over his bed, along both legs where they end up wrapped around Castiel's waist and all over his hands as they claw at Castiel's back. Afterwards, he none-too-graciously smears it over every part of Castiel he can reach while Cas is too blissed-out to stop him. It makes for an awkward morning, when Charlie catches them making a break for the showers and accuses Dean of having a "hunka hunka burning love".
Yeah, it's a mess. Yeah, they're a mess. Dean's starting not to mind too much.
1. as usual, no links for ff dot net, what is this, the stone age? Google Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire (death cw)
2. Google Bravo Six too while you're at it