A/N: I was inspired by something fuckyeahdestielwillneverdie on tumblr said, and, well, this was born. I hope you enjoy.
At the time, it seemed as good of an idea as any.
Granted, at the time he was about six drinks under with a few more to go.
But his drunken logic was impeccable. She was a babe and Cas was hopeless and the only way anything was going to get done was if he moved it along himself. Perfectly logical.
And he downs a few more shots before they scuttle-stumble out of the bar—because, logical as it may be, he's still not sure he won't back out without a little liquid courage. But, it's not gay if there's a chick in the middle, right? It's all for Cas's sake. God knows the guy's got no idea how to handle a woman. Dean's just... grease in the gears.
By the time they agree to leave, both Dean and the girl are less than steady on their feet. They both drape themselves on Cas, because he's the only one still standing straight and the whole night reeks of booze. And Dean feels warm and high and light and he likes it.
Cas walks them to the motel—because it's right next door and Dean is "far too intoxicated" to get behind the wheel.
Dean snorts at him. "'ve driven n'worse." He tries to push off of Cas's shoulder.
Cas has to readjust his grip on Dean's waist to keep him from puddling. The girl laughs through her nose. Dean knows she dropped her name at some point—Maggie or Margaret or Madison or some such. Normally, he's good with this kind of stuff but-
Cas's hand slips up his side before he steadies his grip.
-but maybe he's more drunk than he's willing to admit.
Unlocking the door to the motel room is infinitely more complicated than it was when he left. It takes a good thirty seconds of fumbling before Cas shifts him to the side and takes the key from his hand. From there, he nudges Dean into the room: a careful hand in the small of Dean's back.
The girl—Melissa?-keeps her arms draped around Cas's shoulders, mouthing at his neck. If Dean didn't know him so well he might have missed it, but he can see the tiniest of shivers shake the angel. Something predatory takes hold in those blue eyes and Dean can't help but feel a little proud.
He ignores the way that look sends tremors that go straight to his groin, chalking it up to alcohol poisoning. He makes it a point to turn his gaze on the brunette on Cas's arm—the way her waist curves down and her breasts swell up and her dress leaves nothing to the imagination. And Dean smiles like a wolf; he's dealt with her kind before.
Dean scoots back to make room, peeling the shirt from his back in a fluid movement. Cas hasn't moved. His eyes stay trained on Dean and the girl stays leeched to his throat.
"Well?" Dean asks, trying to fake a sobriety he certainly doesn't feel. "Gonna leave me on m'own?" The half-slung smirk is natural—even the booze can't hinder that. Cas deposits the girl on the bed and settles down beside her, sitting stiff and uncertain on one side. No one moves and, much to Dean's chagrin, the whole thing's a little bit awkward.
Of course, even he's never done this—well, not like this—before, and he's too drunk to really play it smooth. Because, two girls? Yeah, he's been there once or twice. But two guys? He's not even sure where to start.
It's for Cas, he reassures himself, who, per usual, is looking perplexed. He cocks his head to the side and looks to Dean.
"Dean, I am uncertain how-"
"Shaddap," he drawls, leaning forward. "Talk with your hands."
Deciding to lead by example, he straddles Michelle's thighs. She grins up at him, casting sideways glances at Cas. Her head falls to the side and she reaches out to cup Castiel's cheek, a smirk staining her lips.
"Oh, I dunno. I like it when he talks." Her thumb trails over his lip.
Dean's lips at her jaw pull her attention back, and he mouths his way across her neck. She bucks and laughs beneath him—a harsh, sudden sound that falls away into something more like moans. Between the stench of liquor bleeding off her skin and the echo of his own breath beating back in his face, kissing her is like drinking at the bar again.
He looks up to meet Cas's eyes, his mouth drifting from her collarbone to her side. One hand on the zipper, the other on her waist, he kisses and licks and nips his way down the slowly revealed flesh. She arches into his touch. He's at her hip before he realizes his eyes are still on Cas—before he realizes the way that Cas is leaned forward and taught, like a string, his eyes dark and intent and completely focused on Dean's mouth.
That's it, buddy. Pay attention.
Something about the way Cas is watching him rumbles all the way down his spine, and he grins against her stomach as he peels her out of the dress. He glances up.
"You jus' gonna watch or-" Mackenzie's already got it covered, though. Her hands dart out to snatch Castiel's tie and before Dean can so much as blink, her mouth is hot on his, her fingers working loose his collar. She pulls back for just an instant, catching Castiel's gaze and trailing her hand down an exposed patch of chest. "Like he said," she breathes, "talk with your hands." She moves his hands herself, catching them and guiding them to her hips.
"You ought to know," Cas starts, but never has the time to finish. Dean clamps a hand over his mouth and tries not to think about how the angel's lips are warm and wet under his fingers.
"Don't say n'ything stupid, Cas." The last thing they need is for Cas to go off on one of his absolution speeches and offend Michaela and screw the whole thing over. For a moment, they all sit unmoving-neither breaking eye contact-until Cas nods and Dean pulls his hand away.
And then Cas is like the rest of them—half skin and half dressed and drunk on something much stronger than whiskey. His hands look large and awkward against her ribs. They get in the way of Dean's—get tangled up in Dean's. They're a mess of limbs and mouths and want.
Dean can hear Cas panting to the side of him and he can't help but chuckle at the thought of an angel coming apart. The laugh gets cut short, however, by the brush of hands across his thigh, and damned if he knows who they belong to and damned if he even cares. All he knows is that his fingers keep getting lost trying to unbutton his jeans and he needs out of them now.
A second pair of hands falls in to help and Dean sighs—rolls his head back and closes his eyes. The button lets go, the zipper comes down, and it's not until he reaches out to catch the retreating wrists that he sees who they belong to.
Cas looks at him through half-lidded, opaque looking eyes and Dean wonders if the angel's ever felt anything even close to this and he can tell by the unsteadiness of his hands that the answer is no.
Dean lets go of Cas's wrists to shove his jeans down and looks up in time to see Cas following suit.
Mallory pulls herself upright, catching Castiel's lips and twining her arms around his neck. She kisses along his jaw while Dean paints her back with his mouth, his fingers exploring the valleys of her waist and stomach, the crests of her ribs. His hand bumps against another's in his exploration and after a moment's hesitation, the foreign hand settles down on top of his own.
It's calloused and large. Nothing like Megan's hands. But it's warm. It's gentle. And who is he to object to more skin, more touch, in a moment like this—with his libido so high he can hardly stand it.
Melanie's mouth detaches from Castiel's throat with a wet pop and she twists to capture Dean. One hand on his face and the other still splayed on Cas's chest, she lingers on his lips.
Dean's hand still lays on her ribs. Cas's hand is still on Dean's.
She pulls back from Dean. The look she gives him talks of all the kinds of things Dean likes to hear. A soft sigh and she sinks down into the pillows, looking up at the two of them—expectant.
Dean starts to slip his fingers under her bra when he realizes Castiel's gaze—thoughtful and focus—trained solely on him. He turns to Cas, mouth open to ask just what the idiot was waiting for, just in time to see something change in his eyes.
Cas leans across to press his lips to Dean's, and it's all Dean can do not to fall into it. The groan that splits from his lips is mostly involuntary and easily attributed to his drunken state. Just like the way he opens his teeth for Cas's tongue can be passed off as it's a goddamn orgy and he'd be doing it wrong if he didn't give Cas some attention. Any second, Cas will pull away and they'll get back to Millie all sprawled out and desperate and his brain and his hard-on will start making sense again.
But Cas doesn't pull back. What started as a one-sided surprise becomes a full on fight of tongue and teeth. Cas's fingers reach around to grip Dean's jaw and Dean loses his hands in the angel's tangle of hair. They drag each other closer, pull and push harder and, under the bridge of their mouths, Mandy is content-at first-in watching. She drags one hand up and down each of their thighs, her eyes on their lips—the way they fit into each other, move with each other. Maybe it strikes her that she is, after all, just a stranger amongst two people who know one another's souls. But if she even notices, she doesn't leave them.
Sober and inexperienced, Cas's hands travel Dean's chest in calculated slowness—each movement deliberate, exact. While Dean, more than experienced and drunk off his ass, fondles Cas's skin in clumsy swaths, his palms roving up and down his sides and plunging with Cas's hipbones into the waistband of his boxers.
A hitch in his breath. Cas jerks his mouth back from Dean's and stares, wide-eyed and intimate.
A smirk spreads sloppy all over Dean's face. He pushes Cas back so that his shoulders meet the mattress and straddles him. His hands look large against his ribs. Keeping his eyes—hazy with intoxication but darkened with want—right on Cas's, he lowers his mouth to the crook of Castiel's neck and sinks his teeth in.
And the sound Cas makes is sinful and Dean can't manage to focus on anything except drawing out that sound again—can't even hear the sound of protest Mindy makes when she loses their attention completely.
He slips his hands around to the small of Cas's back, running his nails over the skin there, feeling it goosebump under his touch. He trails his mouth along the curve of Cas's shoulder until the skin is soft and suppliant and bites down again. This time Cas moans louder and Dean bucks into the sound and the contact peels Cas's eyes open and drags out his breath in ragged gasps.
He grinds up against Dean, against that sensation, and gets lost in it.
Madeline or Margarine or whoever the hell she is fits herself against Dean's back in a desperate attempt at regaining their attention. Her hands travel Dean's chest. Her teeth clamp down on his ear. Dean hardly feels her. He pulls back, tugging Cas onto his lap and knocking her off in a single motion.
"What the hell?" She barks, indignant. But neither of them pay her any mind.
Dean's just drunk enough to not even bother asking questions. God knows, there are a hell of a lot of questions. But he's too busy looking for that heat, that tremor. He bites bruises into Cas's throat just to prove he can leave them—just to hear Cas groan and see his whole body shudder. If he rests his hands flat on Cas's chest, he can feel the way his lungs flutter up and down like a bird's.
And much as Dean's bragged about preferring partners with experience, he's never known what is was like to pull someone apart.
He's vaguely aware of the woman throwing her dress back on and huffing out the door, sure to slam it behind her. Of course, at this point, it hardly matters. What does matter is the taste of Cas's skin, he heat of his breath. Cas looks down at him, grinds down against his lap. He braces himself with hands on Dean's shoulders and throws his head back and revels in it.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean recognizes that drunk as he may be, Cas is sober. He recognizes that Castiel is an angel and he hardly has the right to touch him, much less—Cas pushes against him and all coherent thought falls apart.
And it happens to fast he doesn't realize how much he wants it until his mouth is on Cas's—until their lips move against each other, hot and hungry and slow. He doesn't notice how his hands drift up to cup Cas's jaws until they're already there, thumbs dragging through the stubble. Doesn't know how much he wants Cas's touch until the angel's arms wrap around him, fingers and palms flat, flush, and unafraid. They curl into Dean's hair and pull him closer.
And for someone so inexperienced, the man kisses like a god. He pays careful and individual attention to every corner of Dean's mouth: tasting his teeth, his tongue, his jaw. His fingers touch with reverence, worshiping every inch of skin they can reach; they drift down, following Dean's sides to trail over his thighs and Dean's gone. He shudders apart—makes a mess of his boxers. Falling against Cas's chest, he's engulfed in the ripe liquor reek of his own breath and the slick, husky musk of the angel's skin.
Cas bucks against him a handful more times, losing composure, losing control. He falls to pieces above Dean. For a while, they're nothing but sweat and breath and leftover passion.
Dean lays back, pulling Cas down with him. And Dean remembers again that Cas was never drunk.
And in a far away, quiet part of him, he realizes he was never drunk enough to do this on accident.
They sprawl out on the bed. Dean's legs get lost in Cas's; the two of them all tangled up and tired. He settles his head in the crook of Castiel's shoulder, sound asleep almost before his eyes are closed.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can feel something soft and warm close around him, but he's too buried in his dreams to think they might be wings.
Morning will be sticky and strange and awkward. He'll have to peel out of his boxers and sit through roar of the shower ignoring the throb of his hangover. At some point, he and Cas will have to stop awkwardly avoiding each other around breakfast and actually talk. Morning will be complicated.
But right now is very, very simple. And Dean feels warm and high and light. And he likes it.