Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
A/N: I started writing this for a friend on tumblr months ago but yeeah. Procrastination. Anyway, she wanted some domestic D/s with marking!kink. This is the result. (Thank you to Ali for the beta clean-up).

. . .

Dean pushed the key through the door and stepped into his home, squinting into the darkness for a moment before his hand went to the switch—sight unneeded to locate his goal, familiarity guiding his way. Normalcy hid, gently cushioned in every heartbeat and Dean smiled with the warmth it gave him. It felt comfortable, nice, even.

He wasn't sure how it came to this, that here he was, coming back from his grown-up work party, to his grown-up house which he paid for with his grown-up mortgage, taken out with his grown-up partner. That he knew he had a list of household tasks he had to carry out tonight before going to bed, and none of them involved calling up Carl from the take-out and marathoning Dr Sexy with a bottle of his good friend Johnny Walker until he fell asleep, sprawled out on the couch with pizza stains down his shirt.

It seemed that taking out the garbage and doing the dishes were more his scene these days. Somehow, somewhere along the line, Dean Winchester—irresponsible, loose-belted charmer of men and women alike—had become domesticated, and for the life of him, he couldn't remember how, or where, it had happened.

But he knew it had something to do with the man piling after him through the door, a little bit tipsy and lightly pinked with the bite of the cold.

Dean turned to look at him, something inside of him clenching and unclenching repeatedly at the tiny smile on those lips, the spark of happiness in his eyes, the red tip of his nose and how easy it was to reach out and touch.

He looked at Castiel like this, so content and natural next to him and it was suddenly all too simple to understand how he'd stripped himself of his old life, how he'd found something so much better in this man, and the whys and hows and ifs stopped mattering. He found Castiel's eyes and the questions died in his mind.

Dean never had to question this.

He smiled back at Castiel, light and genuine, and he didn't have to wait long until those coldness-chapped lips were pulled up a little higher, a little warmer. Dean felt his stomach swoop and drop like this was some teen movie and he'd just passed his crush in the school corridor or something, and dammit, the things this man did to him would be obnoxiously embarrassing if Dean could still summon up the urge to give a damn.

As it happened, though, Dean couldn't care much about those things anymore, couldn't find it in himself to blush out of some bruise to his manly pride, because they'd been doing this too long for those kinds of masks. Castiel knew everything there was to know, and sometimes Dean felt like improving and expanding upon himself just so he could show Castiel more. But that wasn't necessary either.

He never had to pretend with this man, never had to hide, and it was that buttered ease that had allowed them to sink into one and other's lives as easy as melting wax. Dean could never completely show his gratitude for that. Even if he managed to summon the words or the ways, he'd never garner the time. It had taken him this long already to even admit that much.

Dean shut the door behind them as Castiel moved to take his scarf off and loop it around the bannister while Dean locked up. He moved almost liquidly—even with the alcohol swirling in his system, Castiel seemed to breeze over the bare wooden floor, weaving himself around Dean but never leaving his personal space, never out of grabbing reach.

He was simply there, like he belonged, like it was second nature to shift a little to the left when Dean needed to get to the right, to move closer when Dean felt his heart beat for it, like it was reflex or some programmed code.

Dean was running a half formed quip about Castiel being part machine over his tongue before he realised he was dancing the same dance, moving just as effortlessly, seamlessly around Castiel as he took off his coat and the remarks died on his lips.

It was to be expected, though, when you'd lived together as long as they had. Five years they'd been happily inserted in each other's pockets, having known each other for six, and Dean still couldn't quite understand how he hadn't messed this up yet, but he thanked every imagined deity and mystical entity known to man on a daily basis for that fact.

Mostly though, he thought it had something to do with Castiel, with the impact the man had on Dean's like, the adhesive way he'd slotted so perfectly in a gap that had already been carved out for him without Dean's knowing.

Dean would never have been capable of something like this before Castiel, but there were so many things he was barren of then. He didn't like to think about the before-times much. They didn't ever seem to make a lot of sense, just a bunch of abstract ideas of days and sticky thoughts Dean couldn't really remember thinking.

Sometimes he'd think back to those years and it was like watching a movie and seeing the reel unfold before your eyes and maybe you could feel through sympathy, but none of those emotions, those experiences were ever yours. It was like another life, and maybe it was.

Maybe Castiel just had a bigger impact on him than he'd imagined.

"Remind me to give Jo her keys back tomorrow," Castiel said, placing the keys in question on the hall table, turning to look at Dean with an amused sort of exasperation playing in his eyes, "That woman does not know her limits."

Dean chuckled quietly, toeing off his shoes and kicking them shoddily into a row that Castiel insisted they needed to maintain, so they didn't dirty up the floor—despite the fact they didn't even have carpets downstairs, so what the hell they were supposed to be protecting, Dean still hadn't quite worked out. But it was Cas, so Dean did it anyway.

"She got pretty wasted, huh?"

Understatement, but it was hardly a rare occurrence for their friend to have one too many at work events, and tonight's was no exception. She didn't end up puking on anyone this time though, and Dean was counting that as a victory. Besides, he left in good faith that she was being taken care of. He smirked.

"Don't worry, Cas. I'm sure Anna got her home just fine." Dean said absently, but his tone was teasing and Dean didn't have to glance up to know Castiel was shooting him a 'look'; the huff of unimpressed air speaking volumes by itself. Dean couldn't help grinning.

From time to time, when it came to his little sister, Castiel could act like just as much of an over-protective big brother as Dean could, even if he protested otherwise. Dean had found some shade of irrational glee at poking at that particular soft point when it came to Anna's not-so-secret crush on Ms. Harvelle and her roguish ways. He couldn't help it really. Cas' glares were just too cute.

He was slowly building up a resistance to Dean's taunting though, and the weariness was shook off with an eye roll, but Dean's smile played on his lips much longer, and the affection swelling in his gut got the better of him.

Placing the door keys next to Jo's, Dean reached out and, taking advantage of his turned back, slipped his arms around Castiel's waist, burying his face in the junction of that tempting neck and shoulder. The gulf-inches between them were stifling, uncomfortable, and Dean wanted them gone, nudged a little closer, wound himself a little tighter, and breathed.

Castiel hummed, this quiet, placid noise, and curled back against him, his neck stretching long and enticing for Dean's explorations. The soft buzz of the wine in his system had smoothed out the usual awkwardness of Castiel's bony limbs into something formless, yielding and surprisingly graceful—and goddamn perfect against Dean's body.

Dean's hips stuttered forward in a lazy grind, nowhere near as fluid as Castiel but almost precise in its instinct, and varnished with a flavour of control that came just as effortlessly, just as pleasantly. Dean's lips glided up the ropey planes of Castiel's neck, feeling chilled little bumps blooming under his touch, but soon it gave away to teeth scraping lightly over the pale skin, evolving into gentle nipping, into bites.

Castiel mewled, his body twisting in an impossible undulation over Dean's crotch and the quiet growl that punched its way out of Dean's throat was no fault of his own, but Castiel didn't seem to mind it either way, just shivered in Dean's arms.

Dean's hands traced sure, idle paths over Castiel's lithe torso, his fingers migrating to his chest, circling purposefully over the pebbling little nubs he could feel through Castiel's shirt. He heard moans then, and they weren't the quiet things from before, but long, low siren sounds, dripping with sin and vulgarity, and Dean was sure he could freaking feel the blood in his body changing course and directing south.

Castiel's head fell back against Dean's shoulder, eyes closed like this was some kind of pain, mouth open in narcotic pleasures, a harshness roughening his breathing. The air around them was electric, dangerous and as familiar as the walls of their home. Dean wanted it to drag them under.

"Dean—Dean," Castiel was saying, and it took Dean a lot more effort to concentrate on the words than it should have, given how little time had passed, but if he frowned hard enough and focused on the cold metal of Castiel's belt buckle as his hands explored the man's shape, he could hear Castiel's stuttered sounds. "We—God—we've still got things to take c-care of. The garbage— "

Dean knew what he was talking about once the pieces of frayed language snapped through the quickly descending haze, but it was difficult for him to actually care with six foot of incredible-smelling accountant writhing against his all too eager body.

The drawback of this responsible, adult, domestic relationship they had going on though, was that those duties Dean had were just that. There was an order to doing these things, a balance that could effectively fuck everything else up if anything went out of line, if everything wasn't dotted at the Is and crossed at the Ts. Or so Castiel told him, and Dean knew his partner was too rigid in his ways to let something like that slip by. There was a plan, a schedule for everything. Including the trash.

The disposal guys came to do their thing at 6:30am and if the garbage wasn't taken out the night before, well then that would just mess up their sleeping pattern, Dean, and there would be no Saturday morning lie-ins because they'd have to take it out first thing in the morning instead, lest their garbage pile up for a week.

And okay, sometimes Dean saw Castiel's logic, but right now? It was a cockblocker worse than his little brother. (Who, incidentally, still managed to throw regular spanners into his sex life all the way from where he was shacked-up with his wife in California, but Dean was pretty sure Ruby was the one encouraging all those crappily-timed phone calls and pointless conversations, and he was definitely sure she knew exactly what she was doing, the maniacal friggin' hell spawn).

Nodding reluctantly against Castiel's neck, Dean let his hands slip over Castiel's cloth-covered cock, pleased by both the responding hardness he felt and the way Castiel quivered and melted just a little in his arms, as responsive as he'd always been.

The stinging urge to take him apart stabbed just that little bit harder, and Dean wanted to give into it, to say 'fuck you' to his goddamn chores and sink into the sweetness, the comfort of Castiel's scent, of his warmth, of his body. He could almost feel his blood pulse, itch, with need for it.

But Dean had a lot of practise in resistance, and his fingertips slid slowly up Castiel's chest again instead, tracing the tattoo of his heartbeat. Castiel sighed in simple pleasure, the breathless sort of sound Dean loved to draw from those plush, pink lips, but there would be much sweeter sounds following that one tonight, and Dean would claim each one.

"Why don't you go upstairs and get ready for me?" Dean murmured into Castiel's skin, his voice dropping low into a pull of ruined silk that spread pretty new colours over Castiel's neck; pink and red shades washing out over all of those inches of promising flesh. "I'll finish up down here."

This was the part Dean loved; the part where the mood shifted and the tone relaxed and tensed all at once, domestic familiarity swapping itself for another flavour, comfort and ease winding round into coils of excitement and tension and suddenly they weren't only a man and his partner, but something else, something deeper.

"Yes, sir," Castiel gasped out, smoothly falling into place alongside him, locking himself into easy obedience, even as his ass rolled back against Dean's cock, delicious and too tempting.

Grunting out his approval, Dean gave one last press of his lips to Castiel's nape before he was pulling away, his hand levying the curve of Castiel's ass with a sudden slap. A grin formed on Dean's lips at Castiel's ensuing yelp, but there was no innocence in that sound. Castiel knew exactly what he was doing.

"Go on then," Dean encouraged, finally disentangling himself from Castiel to make his way over to the door.

He watched with steady, greedy eyes as Castiel's own glinted over at him with something playful, and Dean could see a dare sparking in the irises, a challenge that could have easily blossomed into a wink but then Castiel was turning again and trotted off up the stairs, swaying only ever so slightly with his tipsy steps, and Dean never got the chance to check.

He totally could not be blamed then for the way he rushed through his night's tasks though; how he may have skipped a few corners, 'forgotten' certain things, because he really, really needed to get upstairs to Castiel like yesterday, and he wasn't about to let wrestling with the garbage bags slow him down.

For all the time Dean liked to spend on teasing Castiel's body, on drawing out his explorations and inflicting the sweetest, slowest torture, he really could be one impatient son of a bitch when tested on it.

He was almost positive that it was somehow Castiel's fault, though. The dude practically oozed promises of pleasure and gratification, and Dean was no saint. Resistance always came harder when Cas was around.

Which was why Dean felt entirely validated for his corner-cutting when he finally entered their bedroom to find Castiel looking impossibly equal parts demure and sinful; knelt naked at the foot of the bed, his head bowed and his hands clasped neatly behind his back like a fucking wet dream, like everything Dean had ever wanted wrapped up with a pretty pink bow a-top.

He looked beautiful like this, always looked beautiful like this; miles of smooth, pale skin curved into pretty shapes and shades of submission, the liberal smatterings of blotchy purple bruises and slowly fading marks littering his flesh. And it was all for Dean.

He moaned softly, unable to stop himself from palming his crotch through his pants, because again, really, he was no saint and Castiel was just too perfect. He wouldn't have been able to stay away even if he'd wanted to.

Incidentally, he didn't.

Dean stepped forward on surprisingly steady feet, walking in front of Castiel's carefully bent form. He could hear the tiny shift in his breath at their closeness and something in Dean sang at that, at knowing just how much Castiel was affected by this, just as effected as he was. The only difference was Castiel wore it loud and frank, not bothering to disguise anything.

Dean loved that about him. How open and honest he responded, how he left himself so raw and exposed and vulnerable, that it would be easy for some to be deceived into mistaking it for fragility.

But Dean wasn't so easily tricked and he could see the power in Castiel's body, knew the strength it took for the man to go to his knees like this, to peel the layers of control away and lay himself bare for another's scrutiny.

Castiel wouldn't hide in the comforts of his body or mind with Dean, didn't put on masks or shy away in ruses; everything he felt, thought, wanted was written in clear language over the scope of his body, in the patter of his breathing, the cadence of his cries.

Dean didn't even know for sure how much of that was choice and how much was just simply Castiel. Simply nature.

For all he knew, it wasn't even possible for Castiel to hide from him, but Dean liked that, loved how easy it was to see the strings he plucked, to see what threads could unravel him, could watch with his ears, with his touch and still see Castiel falling apart in his arms. Nothing was more beautiful than that.

Dean cupped the slope of Castiel's hard jaw and inclined his head to the side, watching with greedy, demanding eyes as Cas just tilted into it, melted like an ice cube sinking away into heat, and gave himself over to Dean.

It always went like this at the start; the little pieces Dean had earned eagerly relinquished bit by bit until this carefully controlled skin was shedding off his body, and all that was left behind was Castiel and his innate need to serve quivering and pleading for instruction and please I need- tell me what to do, Dean, please, tell me.

Dean had understood quickly, had accepted the reins gratefully placed in his fingers and he'd been so awed, so thankful to be allowed this, to be allowed to want and to have and not to have to provide excuses or arguments.

Castiel had given the opportunity to exist as himself, to feel as he felt and to take what he needed and there was no way Dean was ever going to not love him for that.

It was the same ease with which Castiel bared his neck for Dean now, the soft sigh he gave as Dean brushed a thumb along the stubble-flecked path of his cheek bone, the way it felt no more difficult than allowing his heart to beat in his chest.

It was home, and Dean could strip himself as bare as Castiel and reveal the filth under his skin, the past told through nightmares that still beat in his blood, every tarnished, crippled want inside of him that he kept hidden from the rest of the world, because Castiel wanted to see it all, already knew it and loved it, and wouldn't tell.

It was home, and Dean could smile.

He didn't smile right then though, but that was because he was distracted by the enticing colours painted over Castiel's neck, and a hunger flared in him with the memories of each one.

He could see the purples where he'd tightened his grip too hard, where he'd dragged Castiel about by his hips with rough hands, or where he'd pressed down and watched those blue eyes widen and flutter with the lack of oxygen.

He could see the reds where his teeth had dug in, where his nails had scratched and where love marks had bitten, possessive and claiming, where blood had been sucked to the surface.

Then there were the yellows and more pallid shades where old wounds faded and waned and gave canvas for new art, that whispered of the cycle they'd bolted themselves into, endless and vital.

Dean loved these marks, loved giving them and loved tracing them afterwards, kissing the sore expanses of each one and feeling Castiel tremble and moan underneath him for it. These marks said plain and clear exactly what Dean was thinking whenever they were outside the comfort of their four walls and left no room for negotiation. This one is mine; paws off.

Castiel wore them so prettily too, like badges of honour, like reminders of murmured promises, and Dean had caught him dozens of times standing in front of the bathroom mirror, tracing them with reverent eyes and gentle fingers. Castiel liked to be claimed just as much as Dean liked doing the claiming, and everything worked out just fine in that department.

The hard part came when they had to cover the marks up, when they had to shrink back into the skins of semi-respectable members of society and leave this part of themselves behind wrapped up in their still-warm bedsheets. To play pretend—like they'd done tonight.

Work events might have been pretty casual, and honestly, people would probably be more focused on Jo trying to perform a pole dancing routine without the pole, but still, Dean couldn't let Castiel walk around showing off his bruises and marks and looking for all the world like someone who'd been battered, not someone who'd found worship at another's feet.

It was sort of a conflict in Dean when he'd grudgingly made Cas make sure everything was covered and snugly hidden from view, because a part of Dean liked people seeing the evidence of his prowess, of what he was to Castiel splayed out all over his body. He liked the way they'd shy away from paying too much attention, because when someone had been so aggressively claimed, most people didn't really want to risk putting themselves in the way of that kind of intensity.

Watching the way their eyes would grow wide before they'd hastily divert themselves again made Dean thrum with satisfaction and gratification because good. Castiel wasn't theirs to look at. He might have been possessive and just a little bit of an asshole, but Castiel would smile that tiny, subtle twitch of lips, and Dean knew he wasn't the only one who enjoyed these displays.

Covering up then, kind of sucked, but it was necessary, and not without its charms. Dean had been enraptured, and vaguely aroused; watching Castiel float around the room, mingling with their friends and colleagues, only the two of them knowing what Castiel carried underneath the barrier of his clothes, knowing the thread of the secrets that kept them closely knit together, even on opposite sides of the room.

It had spread excitement through Dean, a thrumming sort of greed that flared whenever Castiel's tie loosened, whenever his collar threatened to slip and Dean had to pull him aside and straighten him out again, eyes firmly fixed on Castiel's as the room grew distant and quiet around them.

Buttons were done up, ties were tightened and cuffs straightened and there was a certain, quiet kind of pleasure in fixing Castiel's clothes for him. It was a subtle tone of possession, but it was possession and Dean had discovered that the warning-shock of glaring bruises wasn't necessary, because it was obvious to anyone who might have been looking at them exactly just who owned Castiel.

Even without the marks, no one could argue around that look in Castiel's eyes, that kind of devotion, and Dean felt a little lighter, a little unsteadier and a lot more humbled under its weight, knowing it was focused only on him.

It had made it pretty difficult to not give in and drag Castiel away to some dingy store closet and loosen those clothes all over again though, but Dean was used to being tempted in public these days.

More often than not, Castiel was a trap of temptations; all clandestine desires and things he never should have wanted wrapped up in a pretty, teasing package.

It was mostly under his own orders too, because Dean liked to play these games of patience with himself as well as with Castiel, but dammit, sometimes he wondered just which one of them truly was the masochist here.

There was a seriously cruel kind of self-flagellation in sitting around in his office all day, knowing Castiel was across the hall in his own; panties and stockings carefully concealed under his work clothes, the thick stretch of a plug keeping him fucked open for Dean, and just out of reach. It wasn't exactly torture, but it was something close.

Then again, holding the remote control to said plug tended to take the edge off somewhat, and Dean never shied away from reaping the rewards.

Castiel wore a plug most days now, because neither of them were great with patience when they got down to it, and messing around with lube and prep when they really just wanted to be naked and moving together added a taste of frustration neither of them quite appreciated.

It was easy enough to whisper soft orders to Castiel for him to leave the plug behind on the days where Dean felt like taking his time and fingering him open slow and tormenting instead.

Castiel's shivers and the way his eyes would darken into something cloudy and galvanised at the suggestions was enough for it to be more than worth the wait.

Looking at Castiel now, Dean didn't think for a second this would be one of those days at all. He couldn't tell if it was the hours of waiting already under their belts, or the insistent hum of the alcohol, but every inch of Castiel looked appealing and Dean wanted to taste them all at once.

He desperately hated the laws of physics for preventing him from doing just that.

Instead, he made do with sliding his hand up Castiel's cheek to the soft mess of his hair and pulling, dragging Castiel's head back until those bright eyes that were a little murkier now than when they'd started met his own, and Dean could hear the anticipation crackling in the hitches of Castiel's breathing.

"What do you want?" Dean asked, watching Castiel struggle to not sway in his grip, the way all of that sensation and energy was swelling up inside and slowly robbing him of his balance.

Castiel didn't hide what he was feeling when they were together like this, no, but he didn't talk much either.

That was okay.

That meant Dean was the one who got to coax those soft, gasped sounds and strained, begging words from him, and that was something he relished in.

It didn't seem that Castiel was feeling very shy today though, and again, Dean figured it was the wine; bringing candour alongside the pleasant flush coating Castiel's cheeks.

It was a good look for him, and either Castiel knew that, or he didn't care, but his eyes were fixed on Dean's, unwavering and sure, and fucking beautiful.

"Fuck me, please, sir."

The sound that wanted to leave Dean's mouth was little more than a growl, the primitive urge to possess and claim surging inside of him once more, but he swallowed it down and righted his jaw, feeling so suddenly exposed that for a moment, Castiel's gaze on him was just that little bit too heavy.

But he remembered himself, and remembered them, and he had no more need to hide from Castiel than Castiel did to hide from him. Here, they were free to be themselves, to live how they wanted, and right now, they wanted this.

Normally though, Dean would tease a little at this point; ask Castiel whether or not he thought he deserved his cock, talk in the filth about what a greedy little hole he had, make Castiel plead and beg for it before relenting, but Dean didn't feel much like playing these games today.

He'd been hard off and on again since the moment they'd stepped into the party tonight, and he didn't have much left in the way of composure.

Whatever remained was quickly crumbling and that was definitely Cas' fault.

"On your front."

The order was a grunted thing, strained with desire and impatience, the words cracking with the dryness of Dean's mouth, but if Castiel noticed, he didn't say, just waited for Dean to release his grip on his more-wild-than-usual hair, before turning over and scrambling into place.

He shifted onto his front, a single, long line of obedience spread out over their bed, and Dean felt himself maybe slip just a little closer to insanity at the sight of him

Castiel looked skittish; like six feet of soft skin draped over a mass of live-wire nerves, held back from sparking and igniting only by the blanket of Dean's will and his own desperate need to submit. Dean was sure that if he put his tongue to that body now, it would be like licking a battery.

For all that mess of energy twitching in his body and the jitteriness of his movements though, Castiel arranged himself exactly as ordered without problem, and Dean could already see where the hard edges of his limbs relaxed against the sheets and a slice of the strained tension was siphoning off.

Dean liked that he could do this for him, that Cas found a kind of relief in doing as Dean asked, in not having to worry about decision making, about responsibility. All Castiel had to worry about was obeying and feeling, and that seemed to suit him just fine.

Dean tugged his dress shirt over his head, because buttons were too complicated and he really didn't want to have to deal with the fiddly little bastards right now. His pants went pretty quickly as well, following his shirt promptly over his shoulder and Dean almost scrambled out of the rest of his clothes—glad that Castiel couldn't see him in all of his messy haste.

Cas would only make him pick it all up later, but right now Dean couldn't find the fucks to give anymore. Castiel was spread out, open and obscene in Dean's sheets and there might have been a man, a stronger, much better man, who could have resisted, but Dean was not him, wasn't even close. The barrier of his clothing was quickly gone, and then so was the time he was willing to spend on waiting, the remains of his tolerance a heap on the floor next to his boxers.

He crawled onto the bed and knelt between the divot of Castiel's thighs, a steadying hand soothing increasingly ragged breaths with gentle fingertips and the reassuring brush of a thumb over the curve of his lower back.

Castiel was so self sure, so unwaveringly confident—if quiet—outside of their bedroom, and it had shocked Dean the first few times, just how much Castiel relied on touch, on quiet words of approval, on the knowledge that he was good, that everything was okay.

But it was something small, and Dean could give it, was more than happy to because honestly, he found himself just a little bit more reassured as well, a little more relaxed with every brush of skin, with every reminder that for some—probably slightly messed up—reason, Castiel had chosen him, and he wouldn't be taking that choice back any time soon.

"Spread yourself," Dean murmured, a softened heat to his words, and he thought he heard Castiel stifle a moan, but he might have imagined it.

It was nothing important to wonder on though, not when Castiel reached behind himself as ordered and parted his cheeks for Dean, exposing the base of the plug keeping him stretched wide and full. It was lewd and fucking filthy and Dean loved it, loved seeing Castiel do this to himself, and God, he didn't even know how gorgeous he really was.

"Good boy," was all that came out, when a string of curses and vulgarities wanted to fall from his lips instead, but something told Dean that wasn't what Castiel needed tonight, and the low hum of satisfaction he received in return lent weight to that theory.

Fortunately, Dean could be more than accommodating when given the right motivation.

His fingers went for the plug, wasting no time on pleasantries as he eased it out, his dick hard and throbbing insistently in his boxers and he didn't need to check to know Castiel was much in the same state.

He was fluent in the language of this body, could read it like braille and Castiel had no hope of lying to him here.

Not that he was in the habit of lying anyway, but whenever he got it into his head to trick or play pretend within the shelter of their bedsheets, the words of his flesh gave him away, and Castiel didn't even bother trying anymore.

There was no point, and Dean had rarely been both so smug and so stupidly grateful at once, but then, they'd been doing this for five years. There was nothing rare about this left at all.

When the toy was pulled out, Castiel's hole was exposed for his viewing; pink and swollen, and shining with the wetness left behind by the lube he had slicked up into him earlier and Dean moaned with the sight of it, circling his fingers around the puffy rim.

Castiel shuddered and Dean could see where his muscles clenched down instinctively, how the pretty gape the plug left behind fluttered and tightened against the pressure, but a single firm slap to the curve of his ass had Castiel whimpering softly and relaxing once more.

Dean liked him when he was wound up this tight; practically vibrating with tension and ready to snap in two at the slightest touch, but he loved him best when he was soft and pliant in Dean's hold, when the tension had finally left his body and he'd submitted himself fully to all Dean chose to give him, when all that was left was a pile of limbs and boneless pleasure. Dean thought that was the best look for him of all.

He plunged two fingers into the tight, slick hole, watching intently as it quivered around him, as Castiel's hands fisted in the sheets and he moaned, high and needy, and Dean could admit this was entirely self indulgent.

Castiel didn't need prep, but there was something all too inviting about the way that rosy little opening clung to his fingers, looking sweet enough that Dean wanted to put his mouth to it. But not today.

Instead, he pumped his fingers a few times, taking care to hit the sensitive little swell of Castiel prostate, and then he was shivering, babbling stammered words that sounded close enough to pleas for Dean to want to respond, and after that point, he was pretty much gone.

Dean shucked out of his boxers; the tight pull of the fabric too restrictive against his too-hard cock, but there was no way he wasn't going to be affected by the look of Castiel like this; so wrecked and available and completely fucking pornographic.

He pressed forward then, because he could, because this was his and Castiel would take it, would cry and thank him for it, and as the head of Dean's swollen cock caught against Castiel's hole, Dean let his head fall back and yes, fuck, yes.

They moaned together as he pushed in, but moans soon gave away to gasps and grunt and growls, and it wasn't long before Dean was pulling out and slamming back in again, his eyes firmly fixed on where Castiel was spread, keeping himself open for Dean to watch, so he could see the hard length of his cock disappearing into that tiny, pink little hole.

There was something primitive and overwhelming in that, in the visual proof of the claim he had on Castiel's body, on Castiel, and Dean could feel the force of it rising in him; the concoctions of fierce possessiveness and the addictive, stubborn chemicals that screamed at him to take what was his flaring in his gut. It surged inside of him in waves, in currents, and he felt drunk with it, was all too happy to let it sweep him up in its hold.

Castiel's body was slippery underneath him, wet with sweat and anticipation, but his eyes were closed and his face framed almost like this was hurting, but his skin was covered in the proof of just how much hurt he could take, and Dean knew this wasn't anything of the sort.

Pretty shapes and colours that Dean wanted to trace with the tip of his tongue had bloomed in a blush over the small of Castiel's back, and the way he hummed and whimpered underneath him told Dean that Castiel was rapidly debasing with the feeling of weight pressing him down, keeping him still, taking the burdens of choice away.

It would have been all too easy for him to use the remnants of that choice to decide to float away instead, to drift away to that nonsense place where things were hazy and nothing needed logic or thought to work.

But Castiel's body was still perched how Dean wanted it, his hands still gripping at his own flesh and Dean knew well enough to know that Castiel was still very much present, very much aware, and he couldn't say that wasn't by his own design. Dean didn't want him going too far right now; he wanted Cas to feel every heartbeat of this.

Dean found security in this, safety in the way Castiel just opened for him, just let him into his body time after time, handed over all of his endless, injured trust like it was no big deal, like it hadn't even occurred to him to debate whether or not Dean deserved it, when Dean already knew just how shattering it would be for him to mess up, to make a mistake.

But they shared their flesh, and the breath in their lungs, and it felt like mistakes were miles away, it felt like they were rising, falling, untouchable.

He was thrusting wildly now, hips pounding forward into Castiel's tight heat, a hurried pressure ballooning at the core of him. Dean's eyes watched where Cas had stretched his neck, where his mouth had fallen open in silent pleasure, where those moans and mewls Dean was earning had died away into quietness on plush lips and an annoyed sort of dissatisfaction came broiling through Dean's blood. Those sounds were his, and Castiel didn't get to keep them hidden, didn't get to hold them back.

Dean growled, a stuttered, greedy thing, and seized Castiel's wrists before he'd even thought to, an unyielding grip tearing Castiel's hands from where they framed his ass, and pushing them down unforgivingly against the creased pillows.

Castiel flexed and moved under Dean, his panting shallowing out like this was too much, not enough, exactly what he wanted, but Dean didn't relent, just pounded forward, holding Castiel down in the freedom of his flesh, wanting him to find the relief under the cage of Dean's form.

Castiel had described it once that outside the barrier of their front door, he was drowning; his lungs crushing under the weight of decisions and control and practicality, but he'd found air with Dean, he could breathe in the safety offered by Dean's body, his hands, his whips. Dean didn't quite know what that all meant, but he knew it made Castiel happy. That was all he needed to know.

Castiel was rearing up now, head snapping back as his spine arched and sounds finally fell again, the curve of his eyelids fluttering in barely concealed pleasure as Dean drove into him, angling his thrusts in rhythms sure to reduce Castiel to skin and limitless nerves, to spread fire over every singed inch and Dean loved it because it meant he got to watch Castiel ignite, burn.

It also meant Dean got to be the one to put him back together again when they'd rode each other's bodies raw of feeling, and satiated their needs and all that was left was the tired, achy forms of simple lovers, of men who loved each other, and who'd found home in each other's warmth.

Now though, his body wasn't craving that kind of sweetness; only wanted to tear into Castiel, to force heated pleasure into his blood and feel the slick-slap of their skin where they moved like animals, bucking and grinding deliriously to seek out their mutual release.

Dean wanted to cover Castiel in new bruises, to leave marks that wouldn't be so easy to cover up, because practicality and sensibleness had long been tossed out of the window, and it was all he could think about to leave Castiel's body red-raw with bite marks and mottled bruises, high on his neck, on his wrists, where he'd have to watch Castiel struggle to hide them tomorrow with only slightly guilty, satisfied eyes.

Castiel was mumbling words that weren't language anymore, and his knees would have been buckling under him if Dean hadn't already pressed the length of his body down against the sheets, but Dean could also feel the way his muscles tensed and sagged like dizzying tides were tearing into him.

It only got worse when Dean realised he was the source of the flood and his teeth clamped down hard and ruthless on the back of Castiel's neck, sucking new colour onto soft, creamy skin, replacing the old marks as soon as they'd begun to fade.

Castiel always held these little reminders of ownership, these little signals for any onlookers to back off. They both preferred Castiel's body when it was painted in suffering like oil flecked over a canvas. Castiel lived to be the clay in his hands, and Dean did so love to create.

Castiel whined deep and urgent below him, and something in Dean roared, his hips picking up the pace until he was jackhammering deep and constant, aiming his thrusts and earning himself a string of begging obscenities and whimpers that just made Castiel all the more pretty, all the more alluring.

It was a messy circle, one that had Dean wanting to possess and Castiel wanting to be possessed and both of them doing all they could to make sure it happened, but the electricity shot deeper with each lap they took, the tension growing tauter, more brittle, just waiting to snap in two.

Bright, livid colours flared in front of Dean's eyes, endorphins dragging him down into confusion and lifting him high above caring all at once as his mind was pushed to the side and his body took over.

He felt alive, and charged with the violence of his own pleasure, and all he wanted was more; to move faster to fuck harder, to find release and comfort in Castiel's body and to go back for seconds afterwards.

Castiel was moving just as hard under him, grinding into the covers, and some nights, Dean would put a stop to that, would slap his ass cherry red and push down until he stopped, chastising, punishing words bring new obedience to Castiel's mind.

But tonight was not one of those nights, and the rigidity of their usual rules was the only thing keeping them from sinking through the cracks. There was no room to enforce anything more. Their bodies only wanted to feel, to breathe in ecstasy and let it claim them, and they scrambled together to get there.

"D-Dean," Castiel was stammering quietly, his voice pulled tight into a cracked whimper, and Dean could tell just how close he was getting.

He doubled his efforts, determined to leave him open and sore and ruined, fucking into him harder, mindlessly, in order to seal off Castiel's fate, and to feel the familiar satisfaction at being the one who got him there.

"Can—fuck—Can I-"

Castiel kept trying, kept babbling out the words that couldn't come, not with the assault of sensation and ecstasy raging inside of him, the bombardment of feeling attacking every last one of his senses, and Dean understood. Dean was right there with him.

"Yeah, fuck, Cas, come for me, come on, let me see you, show me..."

It was Dean's turn to babble now, and he didn't stop, just cursed out a string of expletives and encouragements, thrusting like it was his sole purpose. His nails dug tiny little crescent-grooves into Castiel's wrists, hands gripping tight enough to leave wounds, but his cries were loud, and high and needy and Dean could feel the way he pushed back against the pain, pushed into it. Dean's cock throbbed in sympathy, but there was no pity.

Dean knew Castiel liked it best when it hurt, and so did he.

The permission fell from Dean's lips, though, and with it Castiel was stiffening underneath him, all shudders and splintered desire, and he was coming with a cry, spilling onto sheets that Dean would have to wash in the morning, but he was damned if he was thinking about that right now.

All he could think about, could feel, was the rhythmic clenching of Castiel's hole, the silky, scorching muscles milking him in spasms as Castiel came hard on his cock, and fuck, fuck, that was it.

Dean barely managed three more pushes into Castiel's ass, slamming balls deep and selfish, his thighs burning with the frenzy of it, but it couldn't last, despite his efforts to the contrary.

It crept up behind him, catching him off guard, and then Dean was coming as well, filling Castiel in long steams of white fluid, his teeth grazing down Castiel's shoulder. He heard his name buzzing next to his ear; sighed out and grateful as Castiel went lax and content under him, moaning at the new wetness inside.

The room degraded into static around Dean, prickling at his skin, and the air felt too dense, too greasy to breathe, but breathing didn't seem important now.

He tried to open his eyes but the world titled off-course and swirled into a mix of nonsense and white noise, and being awake suddenly seemed like too much effort.

The thickness of sweet, treacled darkness invited him forward, and Dean sank into it happily, only distantly aware of the twitches of his hips and the protests of his muscles. The burn soon slipped his notice, though, and then infinity was at his fingertips.

. . .

When Dean came back to himself, somehow he'd managed to withdraw and slump at the side of Castiel's still juddering body, the sounds of their panting drawing him out from the clouds of his mind. Dean didn't remember moving at all.

He could only moan softly, a huffed laugh traded off for a small, tired smile in return and Castiel turned his face away from the pillow, only to close his eyes when he faced Dean.

For two people who'd been well-versed in insomnia before meeting, sleep sure as hell came easy to them after sex.

Dean didn't complain though, didn't have the energy left in him to even make a snarky comment or mumble out some acknowledgement for how fucking amazing that just was. Going by the pleasant, rosy glow settling on Castiel's cheeks, he was already very aware of that fact. Sometimes speech seemed too complicated, too silly to bother with when your bodies already pulsed so closely together.

They could have gotten closer though, and Dean scooted a little further towards the cooling heat where Castiel lay, uncaring of the wet spot, because he'd spent far too much time covered in far too many of Castiel's bodily fluids to get picky now.

Castiel sighed next to him and ducked his head into the hollow of Dean's neck, humming lightly when a soft kiss was dropped to his sweaty forehead.

It was still too hot to clamber under the blankets just yet, but somehow their bodies had already entwined without their consent once more, and Dean had no intention of correcting that.

Sleep was already calling out to him, drawing him forward into calculating claws that seemed far less sharp than they did a few years ago, and he was more than happy to comply. Castiel's breathing was quieting and his hair tickled at Dean's nose and the room stank of sweat and sex and Dean was in love with every beat of it. It was them, and it was perfect.

"We need to pick up some milk tomorrow," Castiel mumbled into his skin, or at least that's what Dean picked out of the slur of drunken sounds.

He smiled against damp hair, muttering some kind of ascent that went unheard as Castiel went loose next to him; signalling his departure from the conscious world, and the soft snores that filled the silence were Dean's only reply.

Dean huffed and nestled a bit closer, his fingers tracing idle little circles onto narrow hips, and he decided Castiel, as usual, definitely had the best idea.

His mind went pleasantly quiet and numb after that, but his last, lucid thought was that, really, domesticity was seriously kind of awesome.

Even if he did dream of garbage trucks.