Notes: Written for Aithilin, who invented a game out of replacing names with kitchen appliances... which in turn somehow led to this story.

I do not own anything you recognise, no matter how much I might want to.

It's not poetic. In the back seat, clothes crumpled, draped over the front seat and fallen under into the foot space. It's sweaty and awkward, limbs constricted by the limited space and joints pressed too tightly against leather and metal. The roller for the window digs into his shoulder as he moves, pulling the angel onto his lap because it's the only position that seems to make any sense.

Thighs press either side of him, sweaty skin and hard muscle under his palms. Dean prays with his body, lips frantic against the angel's mouth, shoulder, arm - anything in front of his mouth for too long receives a kiss. The light from a nearby street lamp gives Castiel a false halo and makes it hard to see his face. Dean doesn't care, he doesn't want to risk seeing just a blank face; Not now, not when he's secretly praying for something more.

Hands fumble, neither of them have done this before and it takes a few moments before Dean figures out the right angle to do this without hurting his wrist. Castiel raises his hips, arches his back and pushes his lips against Dean's in a kiss that is way too perfect, curling his tongue in the exact way that Dean loves; Only there's an innocence behind it and he knows that it has to be an angel thing. Cas hasn't kissed anyone like this before. He's in Dean's head, searching through his mind for the way to move, the way to touch. He only knows what Dean knows, and Dean worries that the angel wont like what he sees hiding in the dark places.

The lube makes it easier. Even so, movements falter on both sides. Dean places his hands on Castiel's hips, pretending for a moment that the angel is a girl because it's easier to push and pull his hips if he pretends the girl just isn't used to being on top. He feels guilty about the thought when he feels Castiel's thighs squeeze his sides and rough, male hands place themselves against his shoulders. He wants to be here, Dean remembers, he wants this. He wants he body that sits on top of his, mouth open and panting as it figures out why humans get so hung up on the sex thing. He wants to touch the beauty and imagine it rubbing off on his skin, not thinking about how fucking an angel - a real, honest-to-God angel - has to be some kind of mortal sin.

The back seat squeaks and Dean prays. The words fall from his lips softly at first, gaining depth and volume as Castiel's hands clench and unclench against his shoulders, pushing him back against the car door, thighs squeezing and releasing. "Castiel, please... please..." It's a prayer. They both recognise it. This, of all things, is how he asks for salvation.

Castiel leans down, human form complaining loudly, to whisper into Dean's ear. He answers every word. "Yes, I'm here, you're safe..." Punctuating each soft sound with a roll of his hips, a physical reminder of his closeness. He's here and he's not letting go.

Afterwards, sticky, sweaty and tired, Dean pretends it didn't mean as much to him as it had and Castiel can see right through it. The angel doesn't say anything, just takes the torrent of joking blasphemy with a small frown and arms around the hunter's waist. Dean jokes because he doesn't know what else to do with his hands laying flat on the angel's back, half expecting Castiel to leave now that the comforting part is over. He doesn't know that Cas needs this as much as he does, doesn't realise the weight of this choice and what it means.

Dean takes his bruises and tallies them all up into a whole, imagining that he's not worthy of even this back seat rendezvous and wondering when the good luck will run out. Castiel looks at the cracks in him and the dark spots hiding behind the hunter's exterior and compares them to years of self sacrifice and a nobility that Dean pretends he doesn't have. He thinks it's beautiful, but he doesn't say a word.

The fog on the windows slowly fades as the atmosphere in the car cools down. Dean falls asleep slumped down against the door and wakes up alone, Castiel's tie draped across his chest. He gets dressed, nearly putting a foot through the window when he stuffs his feet back into his boots, and hesitates over the tie before shoving it into a pocket in his jeans. He thinks of it like a relic, a blessing. And though he knows he doesn't deserve it, he smiles.