Ok, so there's a move called 'White Palace' where a younger man with a dead wife meets an older White Palace waitress and they start sleeping together. Young uptight guy and older bit of rough...this is where my mind went as soon as Dean said 'White Castle' in 'My bloody valentine'. Consequently some of the lines are the same, and so far so's the plot, bar a few changes.

Castiel is late, rushing through evening traffic with his tie undone and fifty burgers slowly seeping their juices into the upholstery of his car. The food is for Sam's bachelor party, though he doesn't know Sam that well anymore.

He takes the long white boxes into the hall where a large canvas screen is already set up. A slide projector shines out pictures of all of them, all Sam's college buddies, one by one. Castiel sets the boxes on a trestle table and swiftly moves away from the stench of White Castle. The other guys are wearing tuxes just like his, though Castiel is the neatest, obsessively so. A stripper, already topless and clad in just her short skirt and heels, is caught in the arms of Zachariah, one of Sam's old fraternity brothers. The room is smoky and dark, there's alcohol, which Castiel doesn't touch, and the burgers, which he doesn't want.

"Hey, Cas?" A lanky blond guy shakes an empty burger container. "Some of these are empty...there's like...twelve empty boxes."

"Oh leave it, come on." Sam's watching the stripper, the images of his friends, youthful and happy that are projected on the screen.

"No" Castiel gathers up the empties. "I'll go back."


"It's the principle." He says shortly, already finding his car keys in his pocket.

He drives back to the White Castle, parking at the curb and pushing open the door. Inside a long line stretches around the counter, steam and the scent of frying fills the air and in the kitchen voices rise and fall in the familiar pattern of ordering and pickups.

At the cash register a man maybe ten years older than Castiel is scribbling orders. His waist apron is stained, his shirt faded and dampened with steam and sweat. His brown hair is messy, his face tired and resigned to the eternal cue of straggling drunks, harassed mothers and teenagers. His dark green eyes fix on Castiel, the only man in the entire place wearing a tux.

Castiel cuts the line and dumps the boxes on the counter, ignoring the angry calls from the back of the cue.

"And your problem is?" The server's gone back to his shorthand list of orders, counting change with one hand and scribbling with the other.

"These boxes are empty, in an order of fifty you gave me twelve empty boxes." Castiel slides one across for his inspection. "I'd like the remainder, please."

"And how do I know you didn't just gobble 'em down outside?" He folds the slips of paper deftly and slides them over a metal spike. The register drawer bangs shut as he thrusts his hip against it, turning to face Castiel fully. A name badge pinned to his chest shows his name. Dean.

"Because I don't gobble" clipped tones emphasising every word. "and I don't lie". The older man's tired face shifts from a smile to a scowl and back again, like he isn't sure whether he's entertained or pissed off.

"I'll get you the other burgers." He says eventually, scribbling another order and adding it to the pile.

"Thank you Dean" It's the way he says it, all together like he's been using his name for years, that makes Dean look up.

"That's my job, Next!" he flips his attention to the next person in line. Castiel waits by the side, watching the cars pass by through the darkened window. Eventually a cardboard carton nudges his elbow. Dean presses the burgers into his hands, burnt and stained skin meeting clean nails and pale fingers.

Castiel nods in acceptance and leaves.

The other men are gathered around the screen, dividing their attentions between it and the stripper. Castiel deposits the newly filled boxes next to the pile of ravaged cardboard and takes a seat.

In the darkness of the room he feel wrapped and safe, there are people around, people to distract him from his own dire imaginings. No sooner has he thought it than the picture of the screen changes. It show him as a college student. A good memory.

The screen shifts again. The white of Anna's skin exudes light, brightening the room with a halo of reflected brilliance.

Sam swears quietly and goes to change the slide, tipping over three glasses. Anna remains projected on the wall, as beautiful as they day they married.

The screen goes dark.

"I'm so sorry Cas" Sam is drunk and sloppy as he tries to make amends. "I'm so...someone get him a drink."

"I don't drink Sam" Castiel reminds him gently.

"Well you should" Sam explodes, slapping him on the back. "God...it's been two years and you're still miserable – live a little!" Castiel shrugs him off, he doesn't want to deal with this tonight.

"I'm going home." He says quietly, ducking out and ignoring Sam's shout of, "Go get laid, you deserve it!" He has no idea why he considers Sam a friend, mostly he's a semi-welcome distraction.

Drive back to his steel and glass lakeside home he passes a bar, the kind with flashing neon legs kicking in the air, pink and massive. Metal signs advertising beer cover the outside. He continues for almost exactly four minutes before turning the car around and driving back.

Inside the bar is much like the bachelor party, except there are fewer men watching more naked women. There's less smoke and a great deal less forced joviality, so it's an improvement.

Castiel orders his first drink since Anna died, two years ago. Double scotch.

He's on his fifth when he realises that there's one set of eyes not trained on the woman grinding against the pole on the heavily lit stage. Two seats away, the server from the burger restaurant is looking at him through the gloom. Castiel really hopes he doesn't recognise him.

"I know you?" his voice slurs but only a little, rougher and less practically disinterested.

"I don't think so" Castiel gets up, tossing money onto the bar. His legs feel heavy, the heat of the alcohol blending across his groin and stomach in a pleasant bottomless haze. His hands are freezing.

"I met you at work." Dean thumps the bar. "Hey, drink for my friend here." The long suffering barman measures out another scotch. Castiel waves off Dean's offer of crumpled bills.

"I'll get it" he says, placatingly. Dean frowns.

"No, my order, my money. Here" he passes the drink over. "Pass the peace pipe or whatever."

From his other hand Dean takes a pull on a cigarette. He looks different out of his yellow and red T-shirt, nubby flannel shirt and jeans adding to the strength and solidity of his frame. "What'r you doing here anyway? Hole like this."

"I wanted a drink."

"Well, face like yours, keep your guard up." He calls to the barman again. "Hey Jimmy, isn't he a pretty face?"

Castiel feels a blush in his cheeks, uncomfortable tension in his stomach. The alcohol is no longer liberating but disorientating. The blurry shapes of the women cavorting, the men watching in darkness and stillness – bleed together. He feels sick.

"What?" he blinks, stupidly.

"I said, you got a wife?" Dean downs his shot, he's moved up a few seats, now directly beside him, a worried hand on his knee. "You don't look so great."

"My wife's gone" Castiel mumurs, the weight of it sinking through the liquor, burning on it's way.

"She leave you?" Dean smirks, he's baiting him, making him uncomfortable on purpose. Castiel shakes his head.

"I'm going to go..."

"Awww, wait..."

"Get your hand off my thigh." Castiel's unease and confusion is evident in his slurring voice.

"My hand's not on your thigh." Dean drawls, finishing his cigarette whilst his hand, strong and broad, cups Castiel's groin through the thin fabric of his pants. The younger man's eyes flutter closed for a second. Then he eases away from Dean's touch and his speculative eyes. Striding hazily away down the length of the bar.

"Sorry 'bout your lady dumping ya" Dean rattles, accepting another shot from the barman. Castiel freezes.

"She didn't exactly dump me."

"Oh yeah?"

"She died." Castiel leans heavily on the bar.

Dean laughs, sudden and rough. "How?"

"Her car, flipped over." Castiel grinds out.

Dean laughs again, drunk and out of control and hurting somehow.

"I'm sorry...I don't know why I'm..." again he laughs. "your wife died!"

"Maybe no one's ever died on you before." Castiel snarls.

"No..." Dean's laugh dies. "Ben died."

"That your friend?" Castiel can't keep the bitterness from his voice.

"No. Ben was my son, near enough anyway."

Castiel is stunned, even through the alcohol. All he can manage is, "Goodbye."

He reaches his car and is just fumbling the keys when Dean comes up behind him.

"You're drunk" he points out. "You want to come to mine? Sober up a little?"

Castiel shakes his head fiercely.

"How about giving me a ride then? I missed my bus." Dean senses the younger man giving a little. "it's not far."

Castiel relents, letting Dean into the car. He weaves his way dangerously through the backstreets, following Dean's directions, eventually they end up at a bungalow with a porch on the front, swathed in plastic grass. Castiel hits Dean's mail box. They both climb out, Castiel stumbling and landing on the lawn. Dean grasps his hand and drags him upright, swaying as he does so.

"Come on, you're too drunk to drive anymore." He makes his way up the porch steps "Don't slip on the astro-turf." He barks a laugh. Castiel follows.

Inside the bungalow is messy and stale smelling, like Dean hasn't done more than wake up and bed down here for a while. Next to the door a sign reads 'Same Shit, Different Day' there are beer bottles on the coffee table and a dull brown couch.

In the kitchenette Dean crashes around in search of coffee. He reappears in the doorway, shaking an empty coffee can.

"I'm out" he grins "fix you a drink instead?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I'm already too drunk..."

"Well if you can't drive you might as well drink." He hesitates. "and the couch..it, uh, opens up into a bed. So you could..." Castiel slumps onto the couch, already a third passed out. Dean tuts somewhere overhead, heaping a scratchy blanket onto the comatose figure.

Castiel dreams of Anna. She's light and beautiful as ever, delicate and pale. Her limbs feel silken and warm next to his. For the first time in the last two years he feels complete, loved. Her hand strokes the hair from his face.

"Anna...you're so beautiful..." she kisses him sweetly on the mouth.

Her lips move to his cheek, his jaw, down his neck. Once they reach his chest they become strangely demanding, moving lower, hungrier. He has never known Anna like this, base and lustful.

A glorious feeling spreads over his cock, hot, wet, depth that teases every inch of him. Anna sighs her pleasure against his skin, their airy bedroom a backdrop to their reunion.

He wakes up.

The soft light room dissolves into a dingy pre-dawn living space, smelling of beer and unwashed laundry. Anna disappears, her softness and sweet face whisking away like smoke in a harsh blast of air.

The mouth on his cock doesn't go anywhere.

A gasp drags at his throat, a wrecked and distraught sound. Dean's head bobs up and down again and Castiel feels heat and wet and the dry scrape of his lips beneath a coating of saliva. He tries to move, to move away, to get out. Because he doesn't want this, has never wanted this.

Strong hands push his hips down, crushing them into the couch. Dean moans around the weight of the flesh passing through his lips, pressing into his throat. It hums like a snarl along Castiel's raw nerves. He whimpers, hands seeking anything to hold on to, to push away from the sensations ripping his lower half into pieces. Dean's fingers move under him, roughly thumbing Castiel's entrance. His hips jerk upwards, away from the intrusion, slamming himself back through Dean's slick lips with a grunt. Teeth scrape him and he can only moan shakily.

Castiel can't fight both Dean and the treacherous impulses of his body. He turns his face from Dean's dark head for a moment, before being drawn back to the sights, the sounds, of his actions.

Dean's head moves faster, motions that would seem greedy, obscenely ugly, but Castiel's already whiting out in flickers, unable to move, to breathe. Dean's tongue works every part of him, tasting his head, teasing the uncut skin there. Abandoning them to open himself wider, deep throating with a restrained groan.

Castiel realises he's swallowing in time with the movements of Dean's throat around him. Licking around his own mouth, hands clenching in the couch cushions. He can't think beyond the wet, scorching convulsions of such tender liquid flesh. He sobs out a sound, brokenly, heaving his hips upwards against the restraining pressure. Two of Dean's fingers, slicked inadequately with saliva, push unexpectedly through his entrance. His cry of pain is barely born when they strike his prostate, cutting off any other sensation. Dean's mouth and his fingers – the world narrows to those things and those things only. Castiel squirms in his own sweat, body twitching, bucking without his control. He slams against the rough fingers, fetching up against Dean's grasping, hungry throat.

"God...don't..." one last denial, one last attempt to stop it. He breaks, shattering in waves of hot come, headed straight into a strangers mouth. Dean groans shakily, fingers still working as he quickly licks Castiel clean. Shuddering on the couch, sweaty skin feeling more chilled by the second, Castiel nearly curses as Dean's mouth frames his hole, tongue driving in alongside his fingers.

"Fu...oh, no...nu-uh" he moves away from the flicking pressure, the wet stirring that feels alien and ecstatic. But then his own hand finds his valiantly twitching cock, stroking the tender skin in time with the laves of Dean's tongue.

Dean pulls away abruptly, shoving his jeans down with one swift motion, Castiel is too boneless to move, or even register the change until Dean is on him, nudging his legs opn, throwing them up against Castiel's chest, exposing him. One hard thrust splits him open, reaching far, far up inside and brushing a part of him that burns with heat and makes light pulse behind his tightly squeezed eyelids. Dean takes a long shaking breath, expelling a guttural moan. A rough hand rubs Castiel's jaw.

"Look at me" he grows, throat fucked out and raw. "Look...at..." Castiel looks, eyes opening to Dean.

His hips press Castiel down into the sagging cushion, his weight almost unbearable.

"So pretty..." he gasps, mouth wrenching a kiss from Castiel that tastes of semen and salt tears that Castiel doesn't remember letting go of. "You're so...fucking..." Castiel turns his face away even as he cries out in pleasure, Dean drives further into the tight heat that's strangling him, losing his rhythm.

"Please..." Dean's voice cracks, desperate pushes betraying his nearness to the edge. "Don't do that..."

Castiel realises Dean wants to see him come, watch him strain and quake under his heated body. A lance of insane arousal goes through him, followed by shame. He turns his head back to Dean, eyes meeting his as Dean's hand pumps his neglected dick to a punishing rhythm.

"Don't..." and he's gone, gasping out his orgasm as the older man spurts inside of him, thrusting hard and collapsing against him.

Ten minutes later the older man is asleep, comatose with drink. Castiel stares at the ceiling, trapped and aching with shame and fear. He feels very young all of a sudden.

He wakes up with Dean on his side next to him, wriggling out from under the blanket he fastens his pants, fumbling his shirt buttons. Dean sleeps on, mumbling slightly in his sleep, slumber mussed and almost angelic with his soft mouth and almost feminine cheekbones. Castiel breaks the thought. Reluctant to just walk out without having it out with him first, he explores Dean's home.

In a drawer by his messy bed Castiel finds an old rosary, a picture of a dark haired boy who might be Ben and some dog tags belonging to John Winchester. The next drawer down holds a utilitarian sex toy, something Castiel has never seen in real life. There's lubricant next to it. Castiel briefly imagines it in use, Dean's back bunching and flexing as he holds himself over the latex cock, thrusting down with a groan only to rise up again. He rubs his finger over the head.

Dean coughs from the doorway.

"You're still here." Dean sounds pleased but surprised.

"Yes" Castiel's voice nearly cracks despite himself. He stands up, dropping the cylinder to the bed. Dean raises his eyebrows but doesn't mention it.

"Well" Dean stretches, and for an older man he's still in good shape, just roughened, coarser than Castiel with his smooth, pale, body. "Hope you had a good time...you needed it"

So Dean saw it as doing him a favour. Castiel regretted not leaving before. Without a word he picked up his suit jacket, striding to the door.

"What's your name?" Dean asks, unconcerned by the hasty exit.

"Castiel" he replies, shortly, hand already on the door.

"Thought you might be about to surprise me there, Cas" Dean mutters with a touch of regret. Castiel lets the door close behind him.

That day he visits Anna's grave. He rakes the leaves away from it, tends the struggling flowers that grow there.

Look at me...

He eats an apple on his own in his living room, an aria playing quietly in the background.

So pretty...

He's hard, he realises after a while, almost surprised.

He goes out to his car and drives to the edges of the city, circling, he passes the park, downtown shopping district and city hall. He ends up outside the White Castle, watching Dean through the window, scratching out order, pushing his hair out of his sun beaten, lightly lined face.

He shudders to himself. Aching.

That night he finds his way back to Dean's bungalow. He knocks, waiting as Dean crosses to the door in his work socked feet. He opens the front door but not the screen.

"Well I didn't think I'd see you again" Dean leans against the wall behind his screen door, beer dangling from his fingers. "You ran out of here rabbit quick this morning."

Castiel feels himself flush, fluttering in his chest alerting him to the nerves this man wreaks in him.

"I brought you another mail box" he feels foolish. "I hit the other one last night."

Dean seems to digest this, still looking at Castiel like he's trying to work out if he's going to jump him.

"I'm 43" he says instead. "44 in December"

"I'm 27" They stare at each other for a long moment. Dean's eyes tell him that he knows exactly why Castiel is here. He shoves open the screen door and pulls him inside.

Castiel ends up sprawled on Dean's tangled, smoke scented bed. He can only cling to the broader mans shoulders and back as he's fucked. There's no other word for it. It's needy, hard and raw, Dean grunting filthy compliments into Castiel's shoulder, Castiel begging, for what he can't decide – harder, deeper, more.

They settle side by side, both too breathless and slick with sweat to make conversation. Castiel feels sore, used but satiated in a way he can't remember ever being before.

Dean looks at him like he's precious, like he's still unsure how he got Castiel here and has no idea how he's going to keep him.