Never had a man who can

Always had to do it for myself,

Never had a master plan,

That involved anybody else.

Who needs monogamy? When there's no doubt and you don't ask?

Who needs compromise?

All the good boys they don't cut it

All the nice boys Christian smiles...

Castiel's father is the preacher for their town. He attends services held by his father, goes to St. James's where everyone knows his father and he's been a member of the chorus, charitable society and chapel service since he was ten.

Castiel has about had his fucking fill of the lord.

The good reverend has no idea what demon has gotten inside of his son, but his good boy, his only son, has become a stranger to him. A volatile, angry young man with the moral compass of a street walker and the tastes of an inner city gutter rat. Michael Novak has no idea why his son has become so...crazed with hedonism - he just wishes it would stop – like a violent storm in midsummer, clearing to reveal the familiar blue sky.

Castiel doesn't share this opinion.

He's woken up. The first sixteen years of his life have been spent under his father's thumb, under the lords mighty thumb. He's finally slithered out from being crushed, from being held flush to toil bound earth, and he has discovered that he's a flexible being of flesh – as oddly sensuous of motion and thought as the serpent on the cover of his Father's bible, and now etched in dark ink around his wrist. One of his first experiments in body modification.

Between the age of sixteen and seventeen. The age of 'upset' to his father. Castiel has acquired the serpent, a bit of Chinese nonsense on the back of one shoulder and a small butterfly on the back of his foot (that one was owed to the second of his vices – drinking.)

Drinking had come along with the 'self mutilation' (and how melodramatic of his father to call it so). Castiel had a talent, quite unexplored, of getting people to sell him practically anything without ID, simply by making them very uncomfortable.

Drugs required no ID however, and from its humble beginnings in borrowed tokes and half tabs of someone's mothers valium passed around at a party – his drug habit had grown quite varied and extensive.

Castiel the chorister was gone, thank fuck for that. In the mirror now he saw only a skinny seventeen year old in faded jeans and a khaki vest with a canvas jacket over the top. Tattooed, pierced (left ear twice, navel once – and that had hurt like a son of a bitch) glassy eyed and pale under his scruff (abundant for such a young kid) and below his shaggy swatch of dark hair. He wasn't really going for 'attractive' if anything he was looking to turn people away. He wanted to look, if he had an aim at all – like someone who wasn't a preachers son.

He didn't want to act like one either.

It was his sharpness and sudden alterations in wardrobe that had led to his involvement with the so called 'sinners' an interesting bunch all told. He'd gotten into their liquor, their recreational drugs and heavy petting - and found it rather dull in the grand scheme of perversions and 'thou shalt not's'.

He was a little disappointed at the time.

Now though, now he's sunk lower even than they.

Or, soared higher...depending rather on your perspective.

He's known to the dropouts and burn outs as a 'head case'. To the casually sexed up and strung out school top set as 'a freak'. His father thinks he's a sinner, and Dean...

Well, he'll get to Dean.

A time for everything. And this is definitely Castiel's time.

To get things in order, first there came the new look, then the slow trickle of invites to new and interesting places from new and boring people, then the drinking, the drugs, the sex with some of the plainer girls – in spare bedrooms at parties, mainly fooling around, it was only later that he met the kind of girl who would go all the way after hopping the wall to the town park at night. Then there came boys – often stupid, or mean, selfish or unhappy – but they were defiantly a discovery. Castiel liked the things he did with them, a lot.

Then came his personal excursions. Nights spent sneaking out of his bedroom to go sleep on the beach, to swim naked in the sea come morning. He'd watch the sun set or rise, high out of his mind and contemplate the bloody ribbons of the suns slashes wrists on the water, the moon, high and cold like she'd driven him to it. Melodramatic, slightly hallucinatory things that half scared and half exhilarated him.

And on the seventh day of his own personal creation – something somewhere said 'let there be Dean'.

And Lo –

Dean Winchester was new to their high school. He had a father and a brother, the use of an old muscle car and a leather jacket.

Castiel's interest, lulled by the lack of anything new to take or experience or do – was instantly piqued.

Though no one else quite saw any potential in their new janitor.

But then, as Castiel had often thought as a child – people seldom really saw anything.

He didn't really plan his move on Dean. He never planned anything after all, neither was he a user of what some might call 'seduction techniques'. His propositions, both received and given, were mostly drunken things which involved either a hand sliding up the thigh of another, equally drunk person, or someone mouthing 'Hey, wanna do it?' against someone else's ear.

It was simple, direct, and involved the minimal understanding of human interactions.

Castiel excelled at it.

He also had no idea if Dean was gay, bi or in any way curious. Castiel didn't know if he was Dean's type, or if he was in any way attractive to Dean – or indeed to anyone else. He was a poor judge of people and the way in which people chose to telegraph themselves was a mystery to him.

However - he was, if anything could be said of him, unafraid of rejection, and ready to take a shot at just about anything or anyone.

Their school had a strict uniform policy, which Castiel frequently stretched to its limits, but in the base of it, his clothing was the same as everyone else's, at least in school hours. So it was that he approached Dean, busily swabbing the hall floors after the last period of the day. Castiel was wearing his school uniform - black slacks, white shirt, grey sweater vest and blazer. He was wearing his crucifix as usual – his mother had given it to him before her death, and he would never remove it, even for the sake of defiance against his father.

It would be inaccurate to say that Castiel propositioned Dean, or even that he approached him. It was after all Dean who made the first move. He stops mopping as Castiel walks towards him, well paced out black shoes ringing on the tiles. Castiel stopped and stared at him, looking at his shortish, brownish hair, his body in its overalls – strong and larger than life, the T-shirt underneath sticky with sweat.

Dean acknowledged the once over with one of his own, much more experienced and smoother. He was surprised at the kid's attention, obviously, he looked like the standard cookie cutter catholic school kid. But...Dean swallowed a mouthful of saliva that had come seemingly from nowhere, the kid was hot – probably nearly legal – and looking at him with interest.

Dean Winchester was a man who didn't know the meaning of the phrase 'looking a gift horse in the mouth'.

He was more of a 'take it and run' kind of guy.

"Look. At. your, uniform." Dean murmurs softly, letting each word drop from his lips like a breath of thick smoke, mopping the floor in slow easy motions as he does so. He's casual, he has deniability.

Castiel shifts nonchalantly from one foot to the other.

"They make us wear it."

Dean looks him over again.

"So would I." Moving into the open, desire uncurling like a fleshy flower – all thick scarlet tongues and rich, black stamens.

Dean is surprised that this doesn't elicit a blush. Not that he makes a habit of chatting up barely legal religious types, but he expected something. He's had a few closet cases in his twenty six years - a few churchgoing basket cases too. The blush was expected, especially in a boy this cream white and good looking.

Instead he looks at him contemplatively – not sexy or assuming, he's considering something.

"Really?" the kid says, rolling the idea around some more to see what it tastes like.

And just like that, Dean's hooked. He's just moved to town, Sam's just started school and they're in that wonderful stage in between the promise and the disappointment, where his father is still sober. He hates that his life runs like a fucking depressing clock – but his Dad's as regular as a timepiece's Swiss woodsman – popping up drunk at regular intervals. Marking off the time. So yeah, Dean really doesn't need the trouble. There are guys out there, more than a handful, who'd gladly have him for the night, maybe two. Who wouldn't need his name or cause him grief or land him in jail for statutory...but then, they couldn't hold a candle to this – the boy who's all dark on light, huge eyes and spooked deer speculation.

"Oh yeah." He says, and he lets it go breathy and rough and it's pretty much a sure thing that it's going to hook the kid.

The boy (Dean was right to peg him at seventeen – he's sure of it now) moves towards him, kind of graceful and careless at the same time, stopping an inch from him, black shoes haloed by the slowly receding mop puddle. His hand comes up, finds the tab of Dean's overalls, open to midway down his chest already, the dark blue canvas frayed and stained against the relatively clean white tee. He pulls the zipper down slowly, and the sound of a zipper has never been so obscene. The dark haired boy wets his lower lip, reaching up to push the overall from Dean's shoulders, and Dean just stands there and lets it happen – feels the smaller, warm hands strip the material from him until he's clad in the overalls only to the waist, his arms exposed in their short sleeves, sweat drying in the air.

The kid breaths out and in, unsteadily as his hands reach up again, trailing from the cotton of Dean's sweat dampened shoulders, all the way down his arms. One of his hands closes around Dean's wrist and then he's stepping forwards, closing the gap to press his face to the side of Dean's neck, standing on the tips of his wet shoes to reach. Dean feels him breathe in the scent of his skin, and the resultant sigh that follows is ragged, and wrecked, and slides straight down to his cock.

The tip of a slim, pink tongue – which Dean can picture in blinding Technicolor glory – reproduced and utilised in flat screen displayed pornography – licks gently at his jugular vein. Dean shivers – like a fucking virgin in the dark back seat of a car on prom night. The kid moans, just a little, a small sound of desire as his cloth covered body lines up against Dean's – not moving, not pressing, just resting, so that the layers of fabric brush softly.

That sound means Dean's misjudged him.

This isn't a kid suffering from lack of conviction. The boy is sure. So damn sure and gagging for it. So when Dean's hands come up to grab the kids waist, he can't exactly be blamed for responding to such an erotic advance.

The boy's mouth comes up to his viper quick, sucking the fullness of his lower lip into his mouth like a segment of fruit. Dean growls his surprise, the quick hot pressure of the boy's tongue and the soft sucking of his mouth on his lower lip, persistently returning, is intense if unrefined. It feels like being wanted, like being devoured.

The kiss is slow and deep and bracing as a shot of lighter fluid whisky, Dean takes the lead in things, and the kid matches him stroke for stroke, tongue toying with his, lips and teeth catching, shifting angle and pressing deeper until neither of them are exactly steady, but buzzing, jittery and hot with promise of more. Unified by that one thought – More of you. More. Now.

Dean pushes the kid back, snatching up his wrist and pulling his unresisting body along the corridor and to the closet at the end. Dean opens the door. It's a narrow space, walled on all sides by shelves of rags, solvents, paper towel bales and plastic sacks – but it'll do for what he has in mind, something quick and dirty and searing to work the edge off of his day. The kid steps in ahead of him, pressing himself to the back wall as Dean takes one last look up and down the deserted corridor, letting the door close at his back as he slips inside, darkness closing over them like a gloved fist.

Dean inches forwards through the dusty shadow of the closet, feeling the heat rolling off of the student's body before he feels the first brush of cloth meeting cloth – rough canvas on soft wool and cotton. He reaches and his hands find the narrow hips in front of him, seemingly carving them from the darkness. His fingers brush over full buttocks, hidden by neatly creased uniform pants. He presses in towards the cleft, rubbing firm fingers in to the flesh until he's rewarded with a whine, a plaintive cry for more attention. Dean presses his whole body against the slimmer one in front of him, feeling his partner's breath hitch and then flow in the shape of a word.

"Winchester..." it's expectant, shivering with need, with knowledge. Dean's hand wades through the darkness and touches the face, hovering moonlike beneath his own.

"You have a name?"

"Cas." It's not a name, not a real one – the full identity of the boy who'd approached him like a hunter coming out of the forest – sure and calm and ready. But Dean swallows it down anyway, sucking those three letters into himself along with the boy's lower lip, and his groan of pleasure.

Dean's already adjusted his opinion of Cas twice since meeting him, he'd thought him a curious religious boy – shy and reserved but ultimately wanting. But no one kissed like that, came to him like that, without knowing exactly what they wanted. Without a little experience. So Dean had thought him perhaps a little less naive, the kind of boy who had few options in terms of other boys and who had picked him out as one of his own.

The third time he has to re-evaluate, in the dark of the closet, comes when he's reaching up under the boys sweater and shirt, skating his hand over the planes of his flat, soft stomach in preparation for a dive under the waistband - and his finger encounters metal.

One ball of skin warm metal in the cavity of Cas's navel, the other just above, smaller but no less obvious. It's a plain piercing, gun metal grey and the cheapest – the only one Castiel could afford – but Dean's can't see it, only feel the hard, insistent nub of it. He tugs on it a little, just to check if it's real, the skin around it shifts with his movement, the piercing definitely genuine. Cas moans slightly, his head resting against Dean's shoulder, as Dean fondles the pierced skin.

"Holy shit." Is all Dean can say, breath running out of his control, straining his voice in surprise.

Cas takes his hand and pushes it down under the waistband of his slacks, moaning again as hot fingers come into contact with his sex, urgently awaiting attention.

After that Dean's mind goes off the rails. He can form no opinion of the boy who's arching against him, hands scrabbling urgently at Dean's fly before he gets inside and pumps his erection swiftly, competently, his other hand clutching Dean's shoulder for balance. Cas licks the line of Dean's jaw, nipping his way back to his mouth and filling him up with sounds of pleasure as he thrusts into Dean's hand, his own fingers busily rubbing and stroking Dean's own length.

Dean is no stranger to this, and he quickly picks up a pace that suits him, that Cas mirrors. Responding to every groan and grunt of pleasure, every husky yes and ugh and oh... that spills from his partners mouth. He redoubles his efforts every time he feels Cas buck or twitch, feeling himself stampeding for the edge, body already seizing up with it. Cas is a quick study, similarly adjusting to Dean's reactions, until he's rubbing his thumb over the head of Dean's prick so often that the older man's knees start to buckle, his vision whiting out in glorious waves of insensibility, his lower body flooding and pulsing with heat and good and tight...

Dean shoves the boy up against the back wall as he comes into Cas's hand. The shelves behind him shake, bottles fall and roll over to land on the floor. He can smell lemon pledge and dust and the hot musk of his own scent – the sweat of the boy plastered against him. Dean shoves his free hand down the back of Cas's uniform slacks, grasping a handful of resilient flesh, the roundness of the bare skin filling his palm perfectly. He squeezes and the boy groans, rubbing urgently into Dean's palm as he trembles all over, small pulses of fluid leaving him to coat Dean's palm messily and fill the closet anew with the scent of come and the sound of panting. Slowly the boy's former cries of pleasure, of release, lower themselves to soft rumbles of satisfaction and then just the heavy breathing of one who has exerted themselves most pleasantly. Dean leans heavily on the wall with one arm, freshly extracted from the boy's clothing, his other hand has seized on a handful of paper towels from the shelf, which he uses now to clean his palm and himself before passing them over to Cas to do the same.

They reorder themselves and Dean cracks the door open back into the sunlight of the early evening. The hall is still deserted, and the dark space they had made their own, and which had seemed both close and expansive when filled with their breath and sound and scent, was now merely a closet again, with a wad of slowly crusting tissue on the cement floor.

Cas closes the door and leans against it sleepily, Dean stands on his shaking legs, still alight with the warm hit of his orgasm. The boy is flushed by not overly expressive and Dean wonders why that bothers him, why he takes it personally that the boy who's clearly used him for a good time (fully reciprocal thought that was) seems not to be with him, in the warm sunny corridor, the floor now dried to mop streaks and dim reflections.

"Hey." Dean rubs his still slightly itching palm against his overalls. Cas looks at him as if only just now realising he's there. There are a few things Dean could say, That was really hot, You were pretty good, Do you do this a lot? But what actually comes out is – "Are you doing anything later?"

The boy (and Dean) is surprised by the question.

"I don't know yet." He answers, and Dean can tell it's not subterfuge or casualness – Cas genuinely hasn't thought of anything to do yet.

"Do you want to do something?"

Cas blinks at him as if they haven't just exchanged breathless hand jobs - as if he has no idea what Dean means.

"With me." Dean adds. "I have a car we could drive...somewhere, do...something."

Cas nibbles the edge of one lip, considering.

Dean wonders why the fuck he even asked. He's twenty six – this kid is seventeen. He could get fired, arrested and charged for doing anything with him. He's got Sam to deal with, his Dad to cope with and a job to keep, rent to pay.

So why can't you have a little fun? His brain asks. And Cas is fun.

"I'd like that." Cas says, his eyes looking Dean over again as if he hasn't already thoroughly sampled the merchandise, as if Dean is still a mystery to him. "Pick me up on the corner by the convenience store – Eleven tonight." He says it like it's a cordial arrangement between friends, and walks off without even attempting a kiss or even to flirt a little.

Dean picks up his mop and tries to shake off the intoxicated daze that the kid has washed over him.

He mops his way down towards the science building, whistling as he goes.

This was meant to be a short thing, but I can feel another epically long (at least for me) fic bubbling towards the surface. But until I decide to run with it, it might stay as a little bit of a porny serial – maybe another chapter or so. Lyrics at the top from Amy Studt – no idea why.