Title: Dollar in the Jukebox
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel
Word count: 7.5k
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Tags: Alternate Universe: Canon, Detective Castiel, Hunter Dean, Car Chases, Arson, Handcuffs, Fight Sex, Shower Sex, Dean POV, Bottom!Dean, Snowed In (Again), Porn With Plot

Sequel to Bullets in the Gun. Cross-posted to archiveofourown dot org.

"This," Sam says, hands braced on the dash, "this is why—"

One of the cruisers behind them revs its engine, the sudden roar giving Dean just enough time to swing out before it lunges. The heavy front grill hits the Impala's back bumper square on instead of clipping the corner, and they don't spin, but the impact knocks his teeth together and shakes the wheel in his hands. "Fucking goddamn it to fuck! Shit!"

"This is why we don't take the cops on roadtrips, Dean!" Sam yells in his ear, one hand up shooting up to brace against the roof as they bounce in and out of a ditch. "This is why we leave them nice and tied up somewhere out of the way and torch the getaway car, Dean! You stupid—"

"How the hell was I supposed to know?" Dean yells back, fighting to keep the Impala on the road. It's solidly March and near sunset, rain pouring over the windshield like an upended ocean. The country roads under the Impala are soupy with mud and riddled with standing water, nothing but one bottomless, wheel-eating rut after the other. They're going to make it— there's a turnoff into shrubland Dean remembers where he can lose all these hick Smokie and the Bandit wannabes in two minutes flat— but first he has to fucking get them there. "How the hell was I supposed to know that he'd turn out to be some kind of, of obsessive asshole and start—"

The turn is suddenly there and Dean sends them careening into a white-knuckled, two-wheeled swerve, water flying wide, Sam yelping as he's slammed into the door opposite.

"Shit! Shitshitshitshit—"

It's too wild a ride to talk after that, too many screeching tires and narrow misses and fucking giant cottonwoods lying across their no-lane road. Sam's letting out a constant stream of panicked profanity, but Dean's got this, he's got this, and the lead between them and the cruisers is widening. Through treelines, over log bridges, through old barns, it's widening, widening, until the scream of sirens is fading into the distance and the scanner they have jerry-rigged is nothing but good ol' boys swearing blue streaks. When the sheriff gets on the line to scream, Dean guns it out of the ravine they've been snaking through with a savage grin of satisfaction. There's nothing quite like sticking it to the man, especially when the man has five squad cars and still can't do shit about him.

When sun's gone down and they've left the cruisers two counties behind them, he dares the highway. A few exits get them onto I-29 going north and they're slinking into Bobby's junkyard before midnight, smooth as anything. Sam catches Dean's grin out of the corner of his eye and glares, slugging him hard in the shoulder.

"Ow, what?" Dean complains.

"I fucking hate you," Sam hisses. "Hate you. Get me out of this car before I puke in your lap."

He helps Dean unscrew the license plates after they park all the same, and joins Dean in sad inspection of the Impala's dinged, scraped, muddied state. She fits right in with the wrecks, poor girl.

"Daddy's so sorry," Dean tells her, stroking the freezing metal hood. The rain hasn't reached Sioux Falls yet, though the sky looks cloudy enough.

"You realize it's your own damn fault, right?" Sam says.

Bobby agrees, going off the sympathetic glass of whiskey he has ready for Sam and the smack he has ready for Dean. "Ow," Dean mumbles, rubbing the back of his head. "But I—"

"Shut up, boy," Bobby says, craggy scowl even deeper than usual. "Watched the whole thing on local access. God knows you're boneheaded enough for three people, but even for you this is special."

Bobby taped the chase for them on honest-to-god VHS, like a dad with kids in the school play. He makes Dean sit and watch it on his crappy GoldStar while he putters around the kitchen, getting three Hungry Man dinners out of the freezer and into the microwave. Sam sits at the table with Dean, the better to mock him.

"And look, there he is!" Sam says about ten minutes in, pointing as though Dean could somehow miss Cas' stupid face when it fills the whole screen. "Your stalker. My stalker by extension. What the hell did you do?"

"Nothing," Dean lies, sulking into his beer. "Not a fucking thing." The clips they're showing are just long-range shots from behind a police cordon in some graveyard, probably that last salt and burn in Earling, but Castiel's strange intensity translates just fine. As the reporter keeps talking, the man's eyes lift briefly to bore into the camera and Dean's shoulders hunch against a shudder.

"— the same men who kidnapped Detective Novak in December, believed to be serial grave robbers," the reporter relays with ghoulish enthusiasm. Bobby snorts as he slides trays of soggy fried chicken and mashed potatoes in front of them and takes the third seat, angling the old Naugahyde chair towards the TV with a practiced thump.

"My favorite part's coming up," he says, taking a sip of the whiskey he still hasn't offered to Dean. "The one with the tree in the road. Your alignment's got to be a goddamn mess."

"Don't remind me," Dean mutters around a forkful of rubbery green beans, and all three of them groan as onscreen, the Impala's front end hits the trunk at fifty miles an hour.

By mutual agreement the Impala stays in the junkyard for the next couple weeks, even after Dean has put her to rights. They're all lying low, but since Sam pointedly devotes most of his time to the phonelines, Dean is the one stuck taking a series of shittier and shittier replacement wheels out to do the maintenance ganks Bobby has on backlog. Cas— Detective Novak seems to have a weird sixth sense when it comes to the Winchesters, but Dean's careful about it. Probably the most careful he's bothered to be in years.

Of course, then he has to burn down some national historic registry place to put down some Laura Ingles Wilder types gone very, very bad. It's big and loud, but Dean slips away thinking he got lucky, all through dodging rubberneckers and firetrucks and cutting across the state to quiet Lake Benson, Minnesota to bunk down for the night.

"Langhei Township just put out an APB on that ass-ugly Jeep you're driving," Sam says, with a frankly hurtful lack of urgency.

"Are you shitting me?" Dean says, phone to his ear, Burger King in a bag, exhausted and stinking like smoke. His motel room key is halfway in the lock. "Are you shitting me right now, Sam?"

"You could stay there and find out."

Dean's already done a one-eighty and is jogging towards the Jeep, parked at the bend of the horseshoe lot. It's not really that ugly; anyway, any car he's in gets a little better-looking by proximity. "Just find me a route this guy can't track, goddamn it."

John Winchester had very strong views on draft-dodgers and socialism, and Dean draws the line at hopping the border into Canada. Fucking Canada. That's what Cas has done to him.

He tells Sam to think of something better and skims along the coast of Lake Superior instead. He ditches the Jeep, takes a ferry to Michigan, and buys a junker in the foothills of the Porkies. He winds his way through the preserves, swinging south on deserted park roads and grabbing a room at a dingy backwoods place called Bingo's Motel. It has a neon stag leaping above its vacancy sign, and more importantly, a convenience store just down the road. The housefire is twenty miserable hours behind him, the Burger King a cold and unappetizing ball of congealed grease in the front seat. Dean gets cheap beer and the last tired, possibly expired chicken salad sandwich, which is really all he expects from the universe right now, and goes straight back to Bingo's.

He's pulling his $400 Grand Marquis into a parking spot at the far lonely end of the lot when Sam calls again.

"Are you in the U.P., by any chance?"

"Son of a bitch," Dean says.

"I'm going to take that as a yes. They found the Jeep near a ferry station and, quote, 'Michigan authorities have been notified.'"

"How did he fucking—?"

"I don't know, Dean," and what right does Sam have to sound so pissed at him? He's not the one stuck driving a fucking Marquis through bear country. "But you sure as hell better figure it out before you come anywhere near Sioux Falls again."

"Sam, I—"

"I'm serious. Fix this. And check the weather."

"Sam— oh, thanks buddy," Dean says as a dial tone interrupts him. "Don't know how I'd do it without you."

To add final insult to injury, as he crosses the icy parking lot, he notices it's starting to snow. The flakes are falling in lazy spirals, big ones, as soft and white as goosedown. They're getting thicker as he watches.

"Well, fuck me," Dean says, looking up at the low sky. "They're playing our song, Cas."

Flipping through static-filled channels to the weather station confirms what he'd already suspected, hearing Sam and seeing those snowflakes: he's screwed the pooch, big time, and a front's barrelling down from fucking Canada as nasty as anything Iowa ever threw at them. The Marquis is not a car built for snow, and he's out of cash for gas— the room took most of it and the beer mopped up the rest. The credit cards are a slim possibility, but not one he's willing to entertain if the state cops know he's here.

He can tell himself that logically, the best of a bunch of bad options is to stay put, hide out. The room's here, bought and paid for, and he's probably covered his tracks well enough to last through one night. The snow will slow anyone looking for him down to a crawl. He's fine. He's good.

He can tell himself that, and tries, but using cash and back roads and fucking snow hasn't stopped Castiel from finding him before. The storm sweeps in light and quiet as a lace veil, and Dean is only more and more on edge as the world outside dissolves in white.

He sits upright at the tiny kitchenette table until his back aches and both his legs are twitching. He gets up to pace but that only makes it worse, the room tightening in on him with each quick circuit until he wants to knock a hole in the wall or scream. He flops down on the hard-sprung bed and tries to concentrate on the television: Simpsons, CNN, Yo Soy Betty La Fea, anything. He can't focus. The beer he bought makes him queasy but he drinks it anyway, kicking back against the pillows in full view of the door with his gun on the pastel quilt next to him. He waits.

Nothing happens. Nothing continues to happen, an hour, two hours, three hours and six episodes of Dr. Sexy. It's midnight and the snow's at least a foot deep outside before his stomach starts to settle. It's half that again before he can slowly sit up and roll his head back with a long sigh of released tension.

"Listen, the cops would need snowshoes and a red-nosed reindeer to get through this crap," he tells Sam, cell signal crackling like popcorn on the stove. "I never thought I'd say this, but thank God for shitty Midwestern springtime."

"— you know— n't have happened if— burned the fucking car, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean mutters, rubbing his neck as he heads towards the bathroom. "Next time I'll take him to dinner first."


"What?" Dean echoes, pulling the door partly closed behind him. "I'll call when I'm heading out again. 'Night, Sam."

"Lock up. Check— windows open. Chair— door."

"You think I'm stupid or something?"

"—trick question?" Sam says mockingly, and hangs up.

It's late, after one in the morning, and Dean's feeling every minute of the two long, shitty days that got him here. What this clusterfuck of a getaway needs is a hot shower and the rest of the warm sixpack sitting on the kitchenette counter, in that order. He's still catching whiffs of gasoline from his shirt when he moves, and as he undresses he wads it and the rest of his clothes into the plastic bag from the co-op and ties it tightly closed; he might need to burn them, if Castiel keeps up this crusade he's on.

Is it weird that deep down, Dean finds it all a little flattering? He and Sam are small fry in the scheme of things, really, nothing to warrant the kind of interstate manhunt Castiel seems adept at orchestrating. The only real conclusion he can make is that it's personal for Cas, that he cares enough to throw everything and everyone he can at Dean, that he's so wound up about one night he's willing to keep it up for months. It's stupid, not to mention narcissistic as hell, but the idea brings a smile to Dean's face as he steps into the glass-walled shower. It's always nice to feel wanted.

He's been in there a while, soaped up and washed off and now trying to squeeze enough shampoo out of the tiny complimentary bottle to make a lather, when he catches the bathroom door easing open out of the corner of his eye.

He has half a second to think you have got to be fucking kidding me before the sound of a safety ratcheting back makes him spin under the scalding spray with his hands out. The shampoo bottle makes a loud clatter at the bottom of the shower.

"Hello, Dean," says the blurred figure standing in the doorway.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Dean says with reluctant admiration. "You're like the goddamn Terminator."

The clouded glass that separates them leaves Castiel's exact expression a mystery, but Dean can easily picture the determined scowl that must be there. "Get out of the shower. Slowly."

"But I'm rinsing," Dean says, eyes darting around the stall. His good knives and his guns are all in the trunk, save the backup piece in his duffel on the bed outside. There's the soap, still in its wrapper, and the shampoo bottle somewhere around his feet, and his own two hands. That's it, and somehow, he's got to make this work. His stomach twists, but it's more excitement than anything else. Dean always did prefer bullshitting to shootouts.

"Out," Castiel says coldly. "Now."

"Or you'll shoot me?" Dean asks, slowly dropping his hands. He leans back against the slick tile wall, tilting his head to see through the spray. "After all the good times, Cas?"

"If necessary," Castiel says, and his arms rise. He holds the gun in a stiff isosceles stance, like he's one of those cops who never uses one outside a shooting range. Won't stop Dean from dying if he does decide to shoot him, but it's something he might be able to work with it.

"My heart breaks," Dean drawls. "But, really. I'm going to be a few, why don't you grab a beer, put your feet up?"


"Just a minute, sweetheart. I promise," Dean says, starting to smile.

That does it, Castiel's foggy outline advancing on the shower and yanking the door open. Steam billows dramatically into the cooler bathroom, lending an air of noir to his ugly trenchcoat and crooked tie. He glares at Dean, blue eyes blazing in a face pink from cold or temper, and wow, Dean could kiss him. He really, really could.

"Hi there," he says, licking across his own bared teeth. "Is that your Berretta or are you just happy to see me?"

The hand holding the gun twitches. "Turn around," Castiel says evenly, "and put your hands on the wall."

He still sounds so calm. Dean's struck with the knife-edged need to just— fuck him up, pull him in and get his hands on him. Get him to that same incoherent, red-faced, gasping place he'd been in that hotel room in Iowa, pinned under Dean and so damn hot for it. He wonders if Castiel has any idea how hard it was to leave him sleeping in that bed and not kiss him awake instead, grab greedy handfuls of all that sleep-warm skin and keep him there until they were both too exhausted to think about leaving.

"Now," Castiel demands.

Dean smirks at him, not moving— not caring if Castiel reads exactly what he's thinking off his face. "Am I under arrest, officer?" he says, low and teasing.

Oh, Castiel reads him all right. "Yes," the man says, flush deepening. "For any number of crimes. We'll start with arson."

"You were there?" Dean marvels. He hadn't seen him anywhere, and he'd definitely been on the lookout. "Really?"

"Yes. Long enough to see you very deliberately light a museum of early American art on fire," Castiel says, stepping closer. The toes of his shiny black shoes knock into the lip of the shower. "Were they paying you? Is there insurance to collect?"

"No idea," Dean says honestly. He looks down, then stoops to grab the tiny shampoo bottle.

Castiel flinches back, the gun's muzzle following Dean's movements. "What are you doing?"

Dean shrugs, screwing off the cap and tapping the shampoo out on his palm directly. "My hair still smells like smoke. Only one way to fix that."

"Dean," Castiel says warningly.

Dean just grins, lifting his hands to his head. It's a gamble, turning away from him to soap up. He ducks back under the spray has to close his eyes as the suds slide down his face, heart tripping hard in his throat, and for a second there's only the sound of the water running and the cold draft from the open door.

Castiel could have brought backup. The whole police department, a SWAT team, the fucking feds. Dean doesn't think so, would like to think this is just between the two of them, but he doesn't know. Not until he hears the shower door bang into the wall and the sudden squeak of shoes on wet porcelain. The shower is still running but Castiel forces his way into the cramped stall, shoving Dean up against the wall and holding him there with his weight on his forearm across Dean's back.

"Aww, you did miss me," Dean says, delighted and a little breathless as he gets crushed against the tile.

"And you continue to exhibit absolutely no sense of self-preservation," Castiel says in his ear. The cold bite of the gun slides up Dean's thigh to his hip, drags up his ribs. "None. At all. Do you, Dean?"

"Nope," Dean admits with a gasp. "Shit. Is the safety back on that thing?"

"Hands on the wall," Castiel says darkly, and this time Dean flattens them to the tiles without protest.

Dean still has his eyes closed, last of the shampoo dripping down his cheeks, and there's something delicious about the wet drag of Castiel's clothes across his bare skin in that humid darkness. They're cold until the water gets to them, the snow outside clinging in odd places, and Castiel's lips are chilly where they skim up his shoulder.

"Your face is freezing," Dean murmurs, shivering under it. "Why don't we warm you up a bit and ahfuck," he says as Castiel bites at the muscle there with a slow scrape of teeth. "Fuck. Do that again."

"Hands," Castiel whispers roughly. Dean didn't even realize his palms had started to slip. He wants to touch Castiel, make him touch Dean more. Grab that gun and move it somewhere more sensitive. Castiel says, "You have the right to remain silent," and Dean laughs and pushes back into the press of his body. Yeah, self-preservation has never been one of his strongest urges.

"Got handcuffs for me, Cas?" he says, resting his forehead on the wall. Castiel's weight is forcing his chest against the tile but he doesn't do anything to stop Dean from grinding back into his inseam. "Oh, yeah, Miranda me up."

It's half a deliberate tease and half not a tease at all, Castiel's teeth on his skin and the soaked rub of his slacks against Dean's ass maddeningly good. The gun's warming barrel is dragging up and down the cut of his hip and it's definitely not helping. "No respect," Castiel growls, and rewards him with another bite just above the nape of his neck. Dean's mouth drops open on a groan.

"Haven't earned it, sweetheart," he says thickly, goading, "but Christ, you're welcome to try."

Castiel rewards him with another forceful shove into the wall, and this time he uses his whole body to keep him there. His suit and coat are thoroughly drenched now, and his belt buckle scrapes the small of Dean's back as he forces a leg between his. Dean's arms are folded under him and the air is thick with steam, harder and harder to breath as Castiel's free hand skids down to grip his thigh and urge his legs wider.

He remembers how surprised Castiel had seemed that first time, surprised he was doing this, surprised he was letting Dean do it to him. There's some of that here, in the rough, almost rushed way Castiel touches him, the rhythm he tries to set, wet wool chafing against Dean's balls and catching at the underside of his cock in hot gritty bursts of sensation. Dean's caught between spreading to feel it everywhere and going up on his toes to get away. As usual, greed wins, and Dean presses his cheek to the warm tile and lets Castiel move him where he likes. "Shit, yes," he moans, "like that, just like that, come on. Why the fuck aren't you getting naked?"

"Shut up," Castiel pants, mouth hot between Dean's shoulder blades, the gun an afterthought tucked up against his stomach. "Shut up and let me—"

"'M not resisting," Dean says on a laugh, and nearly chokes on it as Castiel's hand slides up his thigh to cup his dick. "Fuck, yeah. You can do whatever you want, officer."

"Would you stop that?" Castiel says, sounding irritable and out of breath. "You make it sound so— tawdry."

"Oh, you haven't seen tawdry yet," Dean promises, biting down on his lip as Castiel's fingers squeeze. "Shower's not that big. We could take this to the bed and really, God." The water isn't enough to make it smooth, and Dean can't help a hiss of not-quite-pain. At the sound, Castiel's hand drops away and Dean says hurriedly, "Hey, no, it's good—"

"Stay just like that," Castiel says, and there's a dull metallic clunk that echoes in the small space. Dean angles his head down and risks opening his eyes, to see the gun resting in the swirl of water around the drain.

"Really terrible muzzle discipline, there, Cas," he says with a slow grin, and plants his elbow in Castiel's stomach at the same time Castiel snaps a cuff around his wrist.

Castiel grunts at the impact but retaliates quickly, putting his body weight behind a yank at the handcuffs just as Dean is spinning to face him. They go down in a heap on the slippery floor of the stall, Dean just barely catching himself on the towel bar. He scrambles back, grabbing for the gun in the puddle next to Castiel's ankle, and when Castiel yanks at the cuff again he uses some kind of torquing move that nearly dislocates Dean's shoulder and pulls him sprawling over his legs.

"Fuck! C'mon, Cas, you know it's nothing personal—"

"Yes, nothing personal," Castiel agrees, right before he gets his other arm around Dean's neck and tries to choke him senseless.

The angle's all wrong for it, thank God, and Dean brute-forces his way out of Castiel's grip by slamming their shoulders into the wall until it gives. He gets one hand and one leg under him to lunge for the gun, fingers closing around the grip while Castiel does his best to break his elbow. "Fuck! Cas, you fucking—"

Dean tries to bring the gun around but it's like fighting in a fucking phonebooth, and there's a very confusing two or three seconds where they're both trying to get up and keep the other down at the same time, legs and arms everywhere, the glass wall rattling dangerously and Castiel's fucking coat tripping them both. Castiel twists and brings up his legs under Dean to knock him into his chest, arms tight around Dean's back, and Dean headbutts him in the teeth and doesn't wonder what his hands are doing back there until it's too late.

The snap of the second handcuff around his free wrist is crystal clear over the sound of the shower, and the second he hears it Dean rears back and strains as hard as he can against them. He doesn't get far, knees braced wide over Castiel's legs and the man's hand in a fist around the links of the cuff chain. There's no give in them, Dean's arms trapped behind his back, and he gapes down at Castiel in complete disbelief. In no universe was Cas supposed to win this.

In answer, Castiel gives him a bloodied, dire smile. "Nothing at all personal," he says.

"I could shoot you in the leg," Dean threatens, because the gun is still him his hand. Hard to aim at anything other than his own balls, yeah, but he has it.

"You could try," Castiel says smugly, entirely too satisfied with himself for a guy wearing a tie in the fucking shower. The hand that isn't on the handcuffs settles high and proprietary on Dean's thigh.

Dean could do it. Shift up, dig his barrel into the femoral artery and leave Castiel to bleed out in the motel shower. It wouldn't take more than two minutes if he hits it directly. There are lock picks in his duffel for the cuffs and Castiel's car waiting outside for the getaway. He'd be safe, then. Sam and Bobby would be safe.

"Better finish up," Dean says with a disgusted sigh, aimed mostly at himself. He drops the gun, and it splashes into the water around the drain with a very final thud. "Let me guess. Anything I say can be used against me in a court of law?"

Castiel makes no move to pick it up. His eyes are narrowing, that smug look turning introspective. He studies Dean's face for what feels like a long time.

"What?" Dean snaps at him, settling his weight on Castiel's bony knees. He hopes it hurts. "Can't remember the words?"

"I'm not going to arrest you," Castiel says. He sounds surprised about it.

Dean stares down at him. His face is more red than pink now, his eyes standing out in startling contrast and his hair plastered to his forehead from the water. A thin line of blood from a split lip leaks down his chin to drip on his white collared shirt.

"You're not?"

"No," Castiel says. "No, I don't think so."

His expression is still searching, but Dean has no idea what he's looking for. "Can't sit here all night," he says. "You have to pick something."

"Hm," Castiel says, eyes never leaving Dean's face. "To begin with, I think we should turn off the shower."

"Oh. Uh, good call," Dean says. He's just noticing how dizzily warm he is from the water and the fight, and he's not the one still fully dressed.

Castiel gives him a patient look. "Which means we need to stand up."

Easier said than done, thanks to the cuffs. Dean finally leans into the wall and sort of slides up, knees wobbling under him before he can straighten and turn to face the knob. Castiel pulls his legs back while Dean tries to knock it into the off position with his shoulder, which works about as well as expected.

"Fuck that's cold! Off, off off— Jesus, finally."

"Thank you for that," Castiel says, still on the floor and shielded from the icy spray by Dean's body.

"You're fucking welcome," Dean says, shivering badly. "Fuck. Are you going to get up or—?"

"Mmhm," Castiel comments from somewhere at waist-level, and a hand settles on the outside of Dean's calf.


Fingers skim up slowly, something else pressing between Dean's ankles. Dean looks down, sees Castiel's knee in his soaked black slacks between his feet. "Cas, what—?"

"Shut up for a moment, would you?" Castiel says, and tugs Dean's cuffed hands to the side so he can kiss the small of Dean's back. It's a soft thing, no teeth at all, and makes Dean freeze.

"Shutting up," Dean says, eyes wide and fixed on the tile in front of him. Castiel's wet hair brushes Dean's fingertips as he turns his head to kiss the outside of Dean's wrist, sore from pulling against the cuffs. "I'll shut up, I just. What are you—?"

"I've been thinking about this for weeks, you know," Castiel says. His voice has settled into a quiet growl that raises goosebumps up and down Dean's spine; they only get worse when Castiel's hands shift to cup his ass, thumbs rubbing back and forth into the crease of his thigh and ass. Dean can feel his breath like phantom touch, warm and intimate. "What I'd do when I caught you. I considered several options."

His thumbs dig in, spread him open, and Dean's fingers spasm into fists. "Y-yeah?"

"Most of them involved your near-immediate incarceration," Castiel says wryly.

"And the ones that didn't?" Dean asks. He's aiming for casual, but his voice shakes and ruins it. "Come on, Cas, you can tell me."

"None of them ended like this," Castiel murmurs. "I'd like to put my mouth on you. Is that acceptable?"

Dean swallows convulsively. "You want to," he says, strangled. "Uh, yeah, that's— very acceptable."

"Thank you," Castiel says, like Dean's doing him a fucking favor, and then he's pressing close and licking over Dean like he's been starving for a taste, tip of his tongue catching briefly on his rim with a slow hard flick and coming back for more when it makes Dean's hips jerk into his face.

"Fuck," Dean says on a muffled moan, trying to keep his legs steady under him. "Oh, fuck." His cheek is mashed into the wall again but he doesn't care. He just doesn't care, and Castiel licks over him again, longer, slower. "Fuck, like that, Cas. Please."

Castiel makes a noise like he appreciates that please, one calloused thumb rubbing over him, pausing to press in just a bit while he laps around it. Dean bucks back, hands clenching on nothing, and huffs out a disbelieving laugh at how goddamn good it is, how obscene Castiel's stubble feels scratching at his thighs and the inside curve of his ass. Castiel's tongue is hot and slick and pressing into him, curling against him— and then Castiel gets his thumb in to the first knuckle, hooks it and tugs, and his tongue steals in beside it.

"Fuck! Oh, Christ, oh," Dean babbles, "Yes, yeah—" Castiel groans against him and it lights off fireworks behind his eyes. "I have lube in my bag, I have—"

"So do I," Castiel growls, all gravel, and sinks his thumb in all the way.

Dean has to lock his knees when Castiel finds that aching spot inside him, rubs in tight little circles while pulling out and pushing in, his mouth riding every movement. Dean is panting against the tile now, eyes shut, fingers reaching blindly back for Castiel's hair and tangling in it, feeling Castiel's head bob in his grip. "You brought lube and a gun? You kinky fu-uck!" His voice rises and cracks on the last word, and he tries to drag Castiel closer. "Cas!"

"Shhh," Castiel says. "I don't want to attract any undue attention. Do you?"

How he expects Dean to answer with anything coherent when he's fucking him like his, with his tongue digging in around the push-pull of his thumb, the slow drag of it inside him— "I," Dean manages, and then Castiel shoves all the way in, fingers pressing up behind Dean's balls as he does and it's like taking a baseball bat to the gut. Dean makes a pathetic noise and loses a little more traction on the wall.

"Bed," Castiel says, ignoring Dean's protesting grunt as he eases free. "Now, Dean."

"Uh-huh," Dean slurs. "I'll be… just, a second. Just a— holy fuck—" Castiel's tongue fills the space left by his thumb, slick and easy and thicker than he would have expected. "Fuck."

Castiel draws away again slowly, like it's hard to make himself stop, and then he's somehow surprised Dean can't immediately follow, with his hands cuffed behind his back and every muscle in his stomach and thighs wound tight with arousal. He's so hard he can barely stand, let alone walk. In the end, Castiel grabs the chain of the handcuffs and just hauls him where he wants him, out of the shower and into the hotel bedroom.

"I believe you know the drill," Castiel says in his ear, an edge of dark humor coloring his voice.

"No headboards," Dean can't help but point out. He gives Castiel a slanting grin. "So how do you want me?"

"Knees," Castiel says succinctly, and gives him a final push towards the single bed. The sodden trench coat hits the floor a second later with an unpleasant squelch.

Dean's bag is right there on the nightstand, just waiting for him. It would take a far stealthier man to somehow fumble his lock picks out without Cas knowing exactly what he's doing, but he tries it anyway. Dean has just slipped fingers inside the front pocket when Castiel glances up in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt. He looks unimpressed, and Dean shrugs.

"You're very bad at following orders, aren't you?" Castiel asks. The fabric clings wetly to his chest, almost transparent, newly-bared skin gleaming in the low light as his fingers drop to the next set. "Get on the bed, Dean. Face down, on your knees."

The mental image strikes something inside him like flint on steel, burning in Dean's cheeks and cascading down his body in a rush of shame-tinged heat. "That's," he says, and licks his lips. "That's going to be hard with my hands like this," he says, fingertips brushing the thin bolt of the pick.

Castiel's gaze is direct and very dark as he peels off the dripping shirt, tosses it on the floor with the coat and his tie. "I'm sure you can handle it."

His slow, mean smile as he says it sends another stab of heat radiating through him. "You kinky fuck," Dean says again, and turns and kneels up on the fucking bed.

There's no graceful or gradual way to do it, hogtied like he is; Dean shuffles awkwardly towards the center and tries to bend, ends up falling flat on his face. He's still trying to get his knees back under him when the mattress dips behind him and Castiel is nudging between his legs, hands under his hips to urge them higher. He moves Dean where he wants him, then grabs the handcuff chain and pulls Dean's hands level with his ass. "Hold yourself open for me," he says, and Dean laughs breathlessly into the sheets.

"You're so fucking filthy, I knew it," he says, lightheaded with that strange combination of embarrassment and arousal. He digs his fingers into his asscheeks and pulls himself apart, because he can follow orders just fine when he wants to. For the right person.

Castiel inhales sharply, like he didn't think Dean would actually do it. Dean halfway expects his tongue back, but when Castiel's mouth touches him again it's to press biting kisses up the ridge of Dean's spine. Dean doesn't have time to decide if he's disappointed, because something cold and slick is dripping onto him. He flinches, and then lets out a stupid little, "Ah," as the first finger slips into him so easy Castiel actually swears. He crooks it deep, and Dean stops noticing anything else for a long, airless moment. The twinge in his back from the ridiculous angle disappears, the dull throb in his gut sharpening into something with claws and twisting mercilessly through him. Castiel slides out, immediately comes back with two and shocks a high, almost whimpered breath out of Dean.

"Yes, like that," Castiel says on a raw whisper, leaning over him. "I want to hear you— like that."

"Like that?" Dean gasps, breathing into the stretch until it mellows to a sweet ache. He's starting to understand what Castiel's asking him for, now. What he's been asking for this whole night. "You want to hear me say it's good? You want to hear me lose it, hear me beg?"

Castiel had begged so well, after all. Even now he says, "Yes," like he's fucking desperate, ready to beg Dean again. "Yes, yes, Dean, you're so—" He curls his fingers in as far as they'll go and moans right along with Dean when it makes him clench, the thick stretch of Castiel's knuckles pulling at his rim. Dean's knees slide recklessly wider in the sheets, eyes fluttering half-shut. The pillow under his head is wet from his hair. "Tell me," Castiel says. "Tell me, Dean."

Caught like this, the handcuffs, the possessive curve of Castiel's body over him, there's not much Dean can do but let Cas do what he wants. Give him exactly what he wants. "I want you to fuck me," Dean tells him, "Cas, I want—" The pads of Castiel's fingers rub firmly over him, this slow, thorough rhythm that has his eyes rolling back in his head as he arches into it. "Jesus fucking Christ, right there. Cas—"

Three fingers, fucking sloppy with lube, and after them Castiel's dick is a revelation, the way he presses in slow but unrelenting and fills Dean up past the point where his fingers could reach, solid and satisfying and God, exactly what he wants. Dean pretends the sheets are muffling the noises he's making and lets them break in his throat, choked and greedy.

"Dean," Castiel breathes, still trying to grind in deeper when their hips are flush. He's draped over Dean's back with one forearm braced on the sheets near his shoulder, other hand splayed over Dean's stomach. A quake moves through his body and Dean shudders with him. "Dean, Dean."

"I'm here," Dean rasps. Pinned between them, his fingers start to slip. He lets go with one hand, frames Castiel's dick with the other, so that Castiel is pushing through the tight vee of his middle and index fingers when his hips move in shallow hitches. Castiel's nails dig into his skin and he groans something low and profane between Dean's shoulder blades.

"I'm the one who's filthy?" Castiel asks him, rocking harder. "Dean, you're so—"

"Ah, fuck," Dean sighs out. "Just like that." Just like this, damp skin and shallow thrusts that keep him close, the only warmth in the room where Castiel is touching him. "Just like that."

"I want to—" Castiel starts, sounding frustrated, and then he's shifting backwards, hands sliding under Dean's chest and shoulders to pull him with. Dean finds himself sitting in Castiel's lap, his arms bunched uncomfortably between them and body balanced awkwardly across his thighs. Castiel makes a pleased noise against the back of his neck, though, and wraps both of his arms around him, immediately setting his mouth on the throbbing mark he'd left earlier just under Dean's hairline. It sears like a brand.

"Oh," Dean mutters as he sinks down a final impossible inch, "damn." He lets his head drop back and his body bow, and the next thrust pries a dazed, "Christ, that's good," from his lips.

"Good," Castiel echoes. He moves more surely now, a steady pulse like waves cresting as each roll of his body flows into the next. "So good, Dean." One hand stays at Dean's waist, the other settling just under his throat, palm hot over his sternum. His breath is coming faster, forehead dropping down to rest in the crook of Dean's neck.

"Touch me?" Dean asks, fingers flexing uselessly between them, edges of the metal cuffs digging in hard. It's going to hurt like a son of a bitch the second Dean can feel anything else but Castiel and the steady, unrelenting pressure inside him, the barbed need building under his skin. "I can't— Cas, I need you to touch me."

"Where?" Castiel says, the fucking smartass, and the hand on his waist slides down to the flexing muscle just below his navel, taunting him.

"Here," Dean says, and though his shoulders are screaming at him he curls his bound hands around the base of Castiel's dick. It's worth it, hearing him fight for air, feeling his hips stutter as he thrusts through Dean's fingers, how slick and hot he is from the lube and Dean's body. "Swear to God, if you don't—"

"If I don't?" Castiel pants, hand shifting lower, the backs of his fingers brushing Dean like the worst kind of tease. "What will you do?"

"Cas!" Dean says frantically, arching back. "Come on, Cas, please."

That earns him a low noise of approval and the warmth of Castiel's palm surrounding him, the first pull focusing all the diffuse need in Dean's body into the sudden and overwhelming need to come. It's so good but Castiel isn't letting him get anywhere close. His fingers are loose around him, light touches and lingering strokes through the precome dripping from his slit, all around the crown and slicked back along his length. It's not enough. "Cas, come on," he says. "Can't you—" A hard pinch to the tip gets a yell out of Dean so loud he can feel his face flaming red, but it's not enough. "Cas!"

"Beg me," Castiel huffs against his jaw, "say it again, beg me for it."

Dean isn't playing it up anymore, not joking or teasing at all when he begs, "Let me come, please let me come—"

"Say it again," Castiel demands, already falling out of rhythm, and Dean keeps saying it with his head on Castiel's shoulder so he can hear it when Castiel's voice breaks, feel it everywhere when he comes with a full-body shudder and gets Dean's fingers absolutely filthy.

"Please," Dean says, high and desperate, so close he's shivering, legs shaking from the strain. "Oh fuck, oh, please—"

"Dean," Castiel moans back, still grinding into him, and then his hand is wrapped around Dean's dick, slicking over him in a rough fist. Dean shouts as he comes, everything in him molten and ablaze and alive. Castiel wrings it out of him and doesn't stop until Dean's whining outright, thrashing against the handcuffs and Castiel's hold on him, both of them winded.

He's still saying, "Please, please," long after he's wrung dry, Castiel's forehead pressed to the side of his face, arms locked vice-tight and warm around his stomach.

"Are you looking for something?" Castiel says sleepily, all trainwreck hair and squinty eyes in the rumpled mess of bedsheets.

He was busy while Dean was passed out. It couldn't have been that long, but after a couple minutes of increasingly exasperated searching, Dean still can't find his bag, his beer, or the Beretta. Hell, he can't even find his shoes, once he starts thinking about making a run for it in a towel.

Correctly interpreting Dean's sideways stare, Castiel smiles faintly and says, "Think of it as a precautionary measure. My last partner left without even saying goodbye, you know."

Dean reluctantly smiles back, and sits on the edge of the bed. His arms are sore and his wrists scraped raw, and he rubs gingerly at one as he shifts to face Castiel. "He did, huh? Sounds like a real dick move."

"It was," Castiel says, reaching out to take Dean's hand. He frowns at the abraded skin. "But despite knowing better, much better, there's… something about him."

Dean leans in on one arm, smile going rueful. "Yeah? What?"

"Something," Castiel says shortly, and tugs at Dean's hand. "I was enjoying this before you left," he says, propping up the edge of the comforter with a pointed look. "Come here."

In the end, Dean just doesn't have the will to talk himself out of it. He lays down and lets Castiel cover him, the dreamy heat under the blankets even better now that his body is so thoroughly chilled by the cold motel room.

"I'm not going to wake up with the cuffs back on?" he asks, as Castiel pulls Dean's arm around his waist and hooks a warm calf behind his knee.

"I am trying not to dwell on the future," Castiel grumbles, wriggling until they're chest to chest and his head fits snugly under Dean's chin. "I suggest you do the same."

Dean sighs, and drags him minutely closer. "I can do that."

"Good," Castiel says firmly, and to Dean's surprise, it's not hard at all to let himself forget a little longer.