Dean turned from the worktable where he was wiping down and putting away his tools. It had been a slow but steady Saturday at his Uncle Bobby's shop, and he was almost sad to see the minute hand tick closer to five o'clock. He didn't always work weekends at Singer Salvage and Autobody, but Bobby was good to let Dean tinker and get greasy when he got the itch. Bobby had practically raised Dean and his brother Sam after their parents were gone. Everything Dean knew about cars he'd gleaned from the older man on hot summer afternoons in the rust-covered field out back, or on brittle winter mornings in the garage, their breaths puffing white halos of smoke around their heads.
"Customer," Bobby barked, jerking his thumb to the still-open bay doors before slamming his grimy office door behind him.
Dean rolled his eyes and waved a hand dismissively. "Grouchy old coot," he muttered, grinning. Bobby had never, and would never, change. He was a grumpy, sarcastic, beer drinking, tobacco-chewing bastard, and that was on a good day.
But he was the best-goddamned mechanic in the state of South Dakota and everyone damn well knew it.
The customer was silhouetted against the afternoon sun, standing next to what looked suspiciously like the fire chief's emergency response truck. When he saw Dean moving toward him, he stepped into the shade of the bay and Dean got his first look at him.
Most definitely not the fire chief.
Dean had known Chief Rufus Turner almost as long as he'd known Bobby, and were he being generous, Dean would classify him as being on the same level of lovable asshole as his surrogate uncle. This man, however, was someone Dean had never seen before. He was nearly as tall as Dean and lean, with mussed dark hair and piercing eyes, and he was wearing fireman's overalls, stained with soot and mud, flecks of dried foam around the hems of the legs.
Dean's eyes nearly bugged out of his head when the guy kicked off his boots and began shucking the dirty yellow coveralls right in front of him.
"Ahhh," he said, tongue-tied and swallowing hard. Smooth, Winchester. "Can I help you?"
The guy tossed him a ring of keys, hopping on one leg when his foot got caught in the opening of the coarse canvas pants. He kicked them free and peeled his plain white t-shirt over his head, dropping it to the ground.
Dean blinked. He was more muscular than he had first appeared, all tight and sinewy, his slim hips cut sharply by a hard ridge of bone jutting out above the waistband of a faded pair of low-slung jeans.
"Clanking noise," the guy said, tilting his head toward the hood of the truck, as his fingers went to work unbuttoning his fly. His words were muffled when he leaned into the front seat. "Rufus said you would know what that meant." He emerged again holding what appeared to be a set of clean clothes. His jeans were now slipping precariously low on those pretty hips, and Dean licked his lips self-consciously.
The man did a little wiggle and sway in time to the swing of the driver's door closing, and the jeans slid to his ankles. He kicked them in the same general direction as the other garments before gliding across the concrete, spinning around Dean with a grin as he beat a hasty exit toward the waiting area. "Bathroom?"
"Yeah," Dean said, mouth dry. He cleared his throat but the guy had winked and gone before he could lift a hand to point him in the right direction. Dean's eyes followed the firm round contour of his backside as he jogged through the open door, and he stared open-mouthed at the empty room, wondering what the fuck had just happened. He turned back to Rufus' truck, eyes falling to the pile of discarded fireman's gear.
And clothes. Discarded fireman's clothes. Dean swallowed again, remembering how the thin dark trail of hair low on the man's stomach had disappeared into—
"Why is there a naked guy in the waiting room," Ash asked.
"Fuck, Ash," Dean croaked, barely refraining from clutching his heart.
Ash shrugged, taking a long swig from the bottle of soda he was carrying. "Just seemed appropriate to clarify. I mean, I personally don't mind, dude's fine, and I don't even swing that way, not usually, except that one time when –"
"Okay, okay," Ash held up his hands. "You saw him first, I get it."
Dean reached up to rub at the headache suddenly blooming behind his right eye. "I didn't see anything."
"Oh man, then you missed out." Ash's grin was wide and he whistled appreciatively.
"Just shut up and pull the truck into bay number two," Dean ground out, shoving the keys at Ash before he said something Dean wouldn't be able to unhear, like describe the finer details of the fireman's anatomy. Had he really been naked? Like naked, naked, Dean wondered, wincing at the hot little spurt ofenvy in his gut.
He might have walked past the waiting room window to a couple of times while he waited for Ash to move the truck. The man was nowhere to be seen, presumably in the restroom.
Grumbling under his breath, Dean stalked to the pile of clothes on the floor and started folding them, setting them on the nearest workbench.
"Just what I need, a goddamn naked firefighter, as if I don't have enough to worry about, what with this goddamn birthday party, and Sam will never let me live it down if I get drunk and spazz all over him. I mean, really? Stripping all his clothes off in front of a goddamn stranger? Who does that." Dean was still muttering when he slammed the man's boots on the table, rattling the tools laid out on the surface.
"Who does what?" The voice at his elbow was entirely too deep and entirely too close and Dean jumped a foot.
The man raised his eyebrows, hair damp and messy, a wrinkled black cotton button down hanging open. Dean wholly and completely avoided looking at the man's lean, bare abdomen. Except to make sure his fly was buttoned. So one quick glance, but that was it.
The man smiled when he saw the tidy stack of clothing, fingers quickly working the buttons on his shirt. "Hey, thanks." He gathered the pieces up, tilting his head to study Dean curiously. His eyes, Dean discovered, were a bright, clear blue. He opened his mouth to speak.
A horn sounded from the parking lot and the guy was sauntering off again, tucking the neatly folded garments under an arm, stepping into the waning sunlight. "One of us will be back for the truck later," he called over his shoulder.
Dean was still staring, struck dumb again when the occupant of a shiny silver BMW leaned out of the driver's window and lifted his face (his face, oh God) for a long kiss hello.
"So he's wearing clothes now. Pity."
Dean didn't even bother hiding the need to clutch at his chest to keep his heart from jumping out of his throat. But his glare at Ash was hard and black, and he slammed the rest of his tools into the grooves in his toolbox, dropping the lid and clicking the lock shut tight. He gritted his teeth. "I'm going home."
Ash nodded, melancholy. "Yeah, man, it sucks don't it? All the good ones are taken."
Dean resisted the urge to scream.
"So tell me again about this handsome firefighter," Sam drawled, leaning into his brother's shoulders, long, gangly arms crossed atop the small table. They were seated at their favorite booth in The Roadhouse, celebrating Sammy's thirtieth birthday. Sam had known almost immediately that he was distracted, stupid bastard with his innate ability to mind read his older brother. He had liquored Dean up with a few shots of Jose and Jack, seasoned with a brief visit from Captain Morgan, and Dean's resolve had crumbled like a house of cards.
Which was a typical Saturday night scenario. Dean had no idea why he had no willpower when it came to Sam and his damn puppy dog eyes, but it had always been so.
"Don't wanna talk 'bout it," he mumbled around the rim of his glass. He narrowed his eyes, gaze bleary, trying to focus on the Cuervo logo on the bottle in front of him. It might be a good idea to make the switch to beer now. "And shouldn't you go sit on the other side? People'll think we're gay."
Sam laughed, taking Dean's shot from his hand and throwing it back. "No one thinks we're gay. At least not me. You, on the other hand, are obviously overcompensating." He wagged his eyebrows. "Besides, Jo will be right back. I think she might let me in her panties tonight."
Dean snorted, shaking his head and pointedly ignoring the overcompensating jab. Sam was the one with hair long enough to braid and a trail of enamored residents, nurses and doctors alike following him at all waking hours. "You're fucked then, cause Jo will eat you alive."
"Stop using my name in vain," Jo said, sliding into the booth across from them. "And I'm still not fucking you, Samuel Winchester. Give it up, already." She cocked her head. "Did you two sit there on the same side the whole time I was gone? Do you even care anymore how gay you look?"
Dean choked on his drink.
"Aw, come on, Jo," Sam whined reaching across the table to grab at her hand. He laughed when she twisted it violently but was unable to escape his giant man-paw. "It's my birthday!"
Jo rolled her eyes. "And you're so drunk you couldn't get it up if you tried. Besides," she grimaced, wrinkling her nose. "It'd be like sleeping with my brother."
Dean chuckled, blinking the water from his eyes. He inclined his head toward Sam. "I'm not so sure he cares."
"Gross, Dean," Sam managed before he staggered from the booth. "I'm going to go dance."
"Yeah, you do that," Dean grinned, watching his brother's too long limbs stumble over a hot young thing who was instantly charmed. Lucky fucker. It was the puppy dog eyes. Worked every time. He winced.
"I gotta pee. Jo, watch the table."
"Why do I have to watch the table," Jo complained, but she was still sitting there when Dean glanced back as he rounded the corner of the smoky hallway. In the men's room, he did his business, trying hard to focus on the hairline cracks that formed a snaky pattern down the wall behind the urinal, hoping he wouldn't topple over and embarrass himself. Ellen would never let him live it down if he passed out in her bathroom. Hell, she'd probably take photos and hang them on the wall behind the cash register. Ellen Harvelle was not only the proprietress of the Roadhouse and Jo's mom, she was the closest thing to a mother Dean and Sam had had since they were kids.
She was also the stubbornest, meanest, most foul-mouthed woman Dean had ever met. And he loved her like nobody's business. So did Sam. And Bobby, although none of them talked about that. Bobby had been pining after Ellen for as long as Dean could remember, and as far as he could tell, the old fart's pecker was going to fall off from disuse before he ever found the balls to ask the lady barkeep out on a date.
Ellen, while easily the smartest woman Dean knew, was oblivious to this vastly important, incredibly frustrating state of unrequited love. For years Dean had watched, exasperated, while Bobby had sat at Ellen's bar, making small talk, getting into one crazy lame ass argument after another before stomping home to eat ramen noodles or tomato soup alone in his kitchen.
Idiot, Dean smirked to himself. Aw, hell. Maybe one of these days Sam would finally loosen his tight ass and let Dean send Ellen a giant bouquet of roses or tulips, with a sappy handwritten poem signed: Love to see you naked, Bobby.
Dean's eyes trailed the cracks in the chipped blue paint to the ceiling and back to the stainless steel pipes of the urinal. The crazing reminded him of a river on a map and he wondered if the heavy porcelain piece was just going to fall from the concrete block wall some day, crash into the floor below. He glanced down at the tile and noted a pair of boots next to his.
"Oh," he jumped; he hadn't noticed anyone come in after him. When he looked up, he found two bright blue eyes gazing back.
"Hi." The firefighter grinned, shaking his dick enthusiastically before tucking himself back into his jeans. Dean absolutely did not sneak a peek.
But he recognized that happy trail.
He fumbled to do up his fly, flustered, and wished like hell he wasn't hopelessly drunk; he was probably going to say something idiotic.
"Where's the douchebag?" Christ, he winced; his tongue, as usual, was a hairsbreadth ahead of his brain.
The man laughed and the happy sound echoed off the metal walls of the adjacent stalls.
"Um, sorry," Dean muttered, turning hastily to the sink to wash his hands. He was surprised to find the firefighter crowding against him, one arm snaking in front of him to make a swipe at the liquid soap dispenser. They washed their hands companionably and Dean noted that the fireman's fingernails stubbornly held a little bit of dirt and grime too; he could never quite get his fingernails completely clean and although it was probably prejudiced, he couldn't help feeling a little suspicious of anyone who could.
Except Sam, of course. Sam was going to be a surgeon, already in his third year of residency, and Sammy's hands were always immaculate. As they should be.
Dean handed the guy a wad of paper towels.
He took them, eyes twinkling back at Dean in the mirror above the sink.
Their movements slowed, then stopped as they each dropped the damp paper into the wastebasket. Dean shifted from one foot to the next, mind suddenly blank of anything except, 'I've never seen eyes that color.' Yeah, he wasn't firing on all cylinders tonight.
He squeaked when the man suddenly turned into his personal space, and in two short steps had Dean backed up against the wall by the paper towel dispenser. He held him there, hips pinning him into place as his lips fastened on Dean's with unerring precision. He clearly hasn't had as much to drink as me, was Dean's last conscious thought, because the guy was sucking into his mouth, tongue tracing the contours of his teeth, swallowing Dean's surprised moan.
Dean rolled his hips up instinctively and the man hissed, grinding him harder into the chipped paint. He had Dean's cock trapped against his own, and increased the blessed friction of denim on denim with short, tiny thrusts, timing each slide to the whimpers that fell from Dean's lips.
"Fuck me," Dean breathed, seeing stars when his head banged against the concrete blocks. The handsome stranger nudged Dean's chin higher so he could suck at his neck, dragging his mouth along the edges of Dean's stubble. It made an unfamiliar rasping sound where it scraped against his teeth and Dean shivered. He nosed Dean's ear, his hips gentling, dropping one of Dean's wrists where he held it pinned against the wall (when did he do that, Dean wondered breathlessly). He exhaled long and hot and moist on Dean's neck and his tongue darted out to catch a stray bead of sweat. He lapped at the spot once, twice, before kissing Dean's throat softly, gently, then sucking the skin hard between his teeth. Dean groaned loud and long and goddammit, he was going to come in his pants. He could feel the blood pooling beneath the bite and he knew he was going to have one hell of a mark come morning. Please, Jesus, let me remember how I got it, Dean prayed.
"Wait," he shook his head, but his movements belied his words because he was nuzzling the man's soft, dark hair with his cheek, and their fingers had entwined at some point, the man's thumb stroking small circles on the back of Dean's had.
The man lifted his head and Dean blew out the breath he had been holding, long and slow. Christ. His eyes were nearly black, pupils blown, and his lips were a deep, rose red. Dean leaned forward and nipped at his full lower lip, head swimming with desire but also threaded through with something resembling affection. "I don't even know your name," he chuckled and squeezed the man's hand. And I'm drunk and I don't know what I'm doing, and I've never actually kissed a guy before. Except for Gabe, but that was mistletoe and Gabe's an ass—
"They call me the fireman," the man sang, slightly off key, and interrupting Dean's internal monologue.
Dean grinned and told himself to shut the fuck up.
The fireman kissed him, long and deep, encouraging audience participation when his tongue darted into Dean's mouth. Dean felt the same heady, needful buzz that had started this afternoon in the garage reappear with a vengeance, growing and expanding across his belly. He pushed gently against the hips aligned with his own, bringing his back off the wall as their lips broke apart. "Dean." He offered his name in a whisper against his cheek.
The man smiled and blinked those gorgeous eyes twice, rapidly. "Castiel," he said and good grief, Dean had forgotten how deep his voice was. It bumped along all of his nerve endings, waking up the sparse few who hadn't joined the party yet.
They stared at each other, smiling for a long moment before Castiel stepped back, releasing everything but Dean's hand. "You want to get out of here?"
Dean almost nodded and then he remembered. "Douchebag?"
Castiel laughed. "Dumped him."
Dean grinned and pushed into Castiel's personal space again. "Then let's get out of here." Oh shit. Ohshitohshitohshit. Dean had no idea what he was doing, but he was flying so high he couldn't be bothered to care.
They tumbled through the bathroom door, staggering together down the hall, and Dean wasn't entirely sure how they made it back to the booth seeing how neither seemed able to tear his eyes off the other. They stopped only long enough for Dean to sling back the rest of the liquid in the bottom of Sam's shot glass and grab the half-full bottle from the table. He gave Jo a saucy wink.
He jumped when Castiel fondled his ass.
Dean couldn't tell if Jo was ogling the hot guy beside him or trying to send Dean a message, with her mouth hanging open like that. He couldn't say as he blamed her; Castiel was smoking hot, all dark, messy hair (made messier by Dean's own hand) and taut little hips that moved so gracefully it almost made Dean cry. And then there were the sex eyes. And the sex voice. Although Jo hadn't heard that yet.
Nor will she, Dean thought grumpily, jerking Castiel by the hand and leading him between the tables. He pointedly ignored the raised eyebrows of the Roadhouse patrons. He hadn't been lying to himself earlier when he'd said he'd never kissed a man before. Dean Winchester didn't do guys.
Or at least he didn't before.
"Happy birthday, Sammy," he called to his brother, who was currently spinning around the dance floor with a starry-eyed blonde. He snickered when Sam blinked at him in shock, missing his cue and trampling the girl's foot.
In the parking lot, the two men stopped, drawn up short by the cool night air. "I didn't drive," Dean remembered sadly. Jo had been assigned DD status, since it was Sammy's birthday and Dean was having a "big gay freakout" as she had so eloquently put it.
"Oh," Castiel said, straightening. "Me neither." He shrugged and began to walk, tugging Dean's hand and pulling him behind him. "So we'll walk."
"Walk?" Dean's feet moved without his permission, seemingly as drawn to the man as the rest of Dean's anatomy was. "How far?"
Castiel squeezed his fingers, smiling over his shoulder. "Don't pout," he warned, seeing Dean's grumpy expression. He yanked hard on Dean's arm to draw him close, catching Dean's lower lip between his teeth in a sharp bite. "You're too fucking sexy the way it is."
Dean's head swam. Damn. He was normally the aggressor in a relationship, at least in a sexual one. He didn't have much experience of any other variety. He reached up and grabbed the back of Castiel's head when he started to pull away, neatly turning his face until it was positioned the way he liked, better for controlling the angle and the pressure of the kiss he planted on his mouth. Castiel hummed his approval, dropping his hands to Dean's hips and squeezing.
"So where are we going, cause I gotta tell you, that bush over there is looking mighty cozy," Castiel whispered in Dean's ear.
Dean took another swig of the tequila and held the bottle to Castiel's lips unsteadily. They both laughed when it dribbled from his chin.
"Again," he insisted, guiding Dean's hand back to his mouth. Dean carefully poured the liquor between the full lips, squirming when Cas turned and pressed into him for a kiss, part of the tequila transferring between them. Dean groaned as his cock jumped in approval.
"Fuck, yes," he murmured, swallowing, licking into Cas' mouth again, sucking every bit of tequila from the nooks and crannies of his cheeks.
Castiel growled, slamming their hips together and grinding his forehead against Dean's. "Bed. Now."
Dean huffed a laugh and thought frantically. "I can't do you a bed, but how do you feel about a cot in the back of the body shop?"
"Christ, cot, floor, sleeping bag. Just get flat and get ready because I want to fuck you at some point tonight."
Dean's stomach jumped with nervous excitement. He gave Castiel a quick kiss. "Come on then." He began to walk, purposefully keeping at least a foot between their bodies. "And stop touching me."
Cas snorted. "You started it."
"Uh, no. I didn't," Dean huffed, insulted.
"You were standing there half naked, looking like a goddamn Greek god. How was I supposed to resist that?" Cas grinned.
"I was taking a piss," Dean said incredulously. "You were the one who stripped down to your skivvies in the garage."
"Mmm," Cas murmured, swinging close with his next step, head dipping next to Dean's. "God, you looked amazing, all sweaty and dirty, and fuck, ten kinds of sexy." He licked at Dean's earlobe and Dean had to twist his head away, fighting to stay focused on walking. Right foot. Left foot. He thought he was doing pretty good until the world tilted and he realized he was swaying.
Castiel's hand grabbed Dean's hip and he squeezed the tight denim, steadying him. "I thought I was going to have to jerk off in the fucking bathroom, thinking about you standing right outside the door."
Dean swallowed. "Cas," he warned, pants achingly tight, the man's full name too much for his thick tongue. "Fucking bastard."
Castiel chuckled and leaned away again, providing some much-needed distance and Dean took a deep, cleansing breath. His head was still hazy and he wondered what the hell he was doing. He might be drunk off his ass, but he was still sober enough to realize this felt way different than your typical Saturday night special.
Singer Salvage loomed in front of them as they turned the last corner and Cas sighed in relief.
"Thank God." He quickened his step, grabbing Dean's hand.
Dean chuckled, letting him pull him along. He dug in his pocket for his keys; the front door key was apt to stick and his hands were trembling, not to mention he was horny as hell. It might take a few tries to get the door open.
Which needed to be done, like, yesterday, because Cas was now draped over his back as he bent over the doorknob, and he breathed into Dean's ear, rubbing his groin against his ass. "Hurry," he urged.
Dean slid the key home and turned the lock. He hadn't even reached for the light before Cas was slamming the door shut behind them and attacking Dean's mouth, kissing him hot and wet, tongue mimicking the roll of his hips, sinking into him with light strokes. His fingers edged under the hem of Dean's t-shirt, urging it up, pausing, rapt when Dean's nipples appeared. He aggressively pushed the shirt to Dean's elbows, and Dean's laughter was muffled, head caught in the neck hole. He gasped when Cas' mouth closed over one dusky pink nub and began to suck.
"Cas," Dean groaned, scrambling to remove the tee, the suffocating blindness enhancing the sensation of warm lips on his skin.
Cas's mouth grazed unhurriedly across his chest, ignoring Dean's pleas and the wild tugging at his ears. His fingers worked the buttons of Dean's fly free and he pushed the jeans off his hips.
Dean decided to stop fighting for control and let Cas take lead, since Christ almighty, he was doing a fantastic job. He wiggled a foot, shucking his jeans, hissing when Cas cupped his sex, squeezing him lightly.
"Are you hard for me, baby," Cas whispered against his chest, mouth beginning to skate lower, pebbling along the ridge of muscle in Dean's abdomen as he dropped to his knees.
Dean began to pant. "Yes. Yes," he breathed, willingly going when Cas pulled him down to the cold, waiting room floor, cots and blankets and other so-called niceties no longer mattering.
He lifted his hips at the urging of Cas' fingertips, letting him peel his boxers carefully back, Dean' cock bobbing free, slapping against his stomach. Cas smiled a wicked grin, and Dean groaned when he bent low to kiss the tip before pushing the boxers the rest of the way from Dean's legs.
Which was the point Dean realized he was lying ass naked on Bobby's waiting room floor and Cas was still entirely clothed.
"Cas," he whined, hands reaching, pulling. "Clothes."
Cas smiled again, mouthing kisses along Dean's inner thigh, hooking a knee over his shoulder. "Shut up, Dean," he growled. "Just lie back and enjoy the ride." Each kiss got closer and closer to the juncture of Dean's hip and thigh and Dean tensed, panting as he waited for Cas to touch him, or please Jesus, take him in his mouth. But Cas skirted the endgame each and every time, ducking away at the last moment, chuckling when Dean groaned his objection, batting his hands away if he tried to touch himself.
"For the love of Christ", Dean moaned, fingernails scraping against the cool linoleum tile floor. "At least take your goddamn clothes off, please."
Cas licked one long, wet strip up the underside of Dean's cock, pausing to tongue the head before sucking it between his lips in a sweet, open-mouthed kiss.
Dean nearly swallowed his tongue when their eyes met.
"Okay," Cas whispered, sitting up, gently replacing Dean's leg on the floor. Dean whimpered again, disliking the increasing distance between his cock and Cas' mouth, and his fuzzy, sex and alcohol-fueled brain tried to remember exactly why he had asked Cas to stop?
Then Cas began to unbutton his shirt, languid, slow pushes of the pearl buttons between neatly stitched holes, another inch of skin revealed in the opening vee with each one.
Now Dean remembered.
He reached a finger out to trail the dark line of hair when it appeared, pausing at the button of Cas' jeans. Their eyes held. Dean leveraged up on his left elbow and unbuttoned Cas' fly with one hand, thinking he could drown in a blue that deep. The corner of his mouth lifted when Cas' pupils blew even wider and his lips parted on a soft gasp when Dean's fingers dipped into the open fly and touched him. Bout fucking time, Dean smirked. This had been a one-sided party for long enough.
Cas raked the shirt from his arms and tossed it behind him. He let Dean push his jeans and boxers past his knees, wiggling his hips in assistance before lowering himself slowly against Dean's chest. They smiled into each other's mouths when their feet tangled as they tried to kick Cas' clothes aside. Dean sighed happily when finally, finally, their cocks slid together, slick and hot and perfect.
Cas moved against him, pumping his hips in an excruciatingly slow drag back and forth until Dean was clawing at his lower back, pressing them tighter and tighter together.
Cas panted against his neck, kissing him gently. "Do you have anything?"
Dean screwed his eyes shut as his stomach clenched and knotted around a feverish burst of sensation that was so good.
His reaction was delayed and Cas chuckled against his neck.
"Dean," he whispered again.
Dean shook his head. "I don't." He nearly cried. Holy mother of... Of all the nights to go out unprepared.
Cas sat up on his elbows, bracketing Dean's chest and smiling at him. "I have one. So we better make this good." He kissed Dean's lips, tacky and soft and already overworked. "You or me, handsome?"
Dean flushed, hoping his sex-charged skin was already so pink that in the dark, Cas wouldn't notice his discomfort. "I've never," he trailed off, swallowing the plain vanilla sex confession that threatened to babble forth. He felt around for the bottle of tequila and leaned up when he found it, taking a long swig, their jaws bumping when he swallowed.
"You've never? Ever?" Cas' eyes were huge in his face and he rocked back, kneeling between Dean's open knees.
Dean rubbed a palm across his eyes, mortified. "Sorry?" He shrugged up at Cas with a sheepish grin and passed him the bottle. Cas took his own long drink, then pushed Dean back to the floor, bending over to let some of the tequila dribble into Dean's navel. Dean squirmed at the warm slow trickle of liquid that escaped when his stomach muscles shook. One errant bead ran straight down his groin and Cas followed it, licking and sucking up what remained. Dean carded his fingers through his hair as his cocked twitched precariously near Cas' mouth.
He considered again how close he was to tears; as in, if Cas didn't touch him or suck him or goddammit, fuck him already, he was going to end up a blubbering, sobbing mess. "You," he whispered, writhing between Cas' arms, pushing his stomach higher, crashing up into those teasing, warm lips.
Cas licked his navel again, continuing down the same narrow, wet path as the drip of tequila, teasing the head of Dean's cock with one delicate swipe, then another. He shook his head sitting up and Dean's heart sank. Please sweet baby Jesus, don't say no.
"I don't think I'd last long enough to prep you, Dean," Cas said in that sex-rough voice, running a hand down slowly up Dean's thigh. "Not for your first time." He bent and kissed the inside of his knee and Dean's heart fluttered at the gentleness.
"Cas," he whispered, tugging at his arms.
Cas slid away, reaching for his jeans, pulling a wallet from the hip pocket. He produced a single foil-wrapped packet with a triumphant grin and crawled back between Dean's legs.
"I, on the other hand," he smirked, pausing to suck Dean down in one long swallow, drawing a hoarse shout from Dean's throat before he popped off and began to fist him, pumping slow and steady. "I don't need anything but your cock. Inside me. Right now."
He ripped into the foil with his teeth and Dean thought it quite possible he had never seen anything hotter in his entire fucking life. He had to close his eyes when Cas began to roll the condom into place, too close, too needy, near frantic in anticipation of the hot, tight heat of Cas surrounding him. He fought for control, hands automatically clinging to Cas' hips when he finally straddled him.
Cas let out a long, luscious groan when he lowered himself onto Dean. It was wrung from his lips along with a breathless sigh and Dean scrambled for his hand, needing more contact.
Dean fought to keep his eyes open, the pleasure too intense, too much. He was already so close. He stilled, letting Cas get used to the fullness, hips wanting to thrust and pump and posses. He fought back the urge to laugh; he had started this thinking he was letting Cas take the lead and here the man had handed him back the reins, only Dean didn't have a clue what he was doing.
His body did, though, and it begged for release. He exhaled in relief when Cas nodded, cheeks pink with exertion, lips parted.
"Now, Dean. Move," Cas ordered and that throaty growl was almost enough to send Dean over the edge all by itself.
Dean pulled almost all the way out, then slid home again, jaw clenched tight, brain scrambled; there were no words for how good this felt. He repeated the motion, loving like hell the breathless little gasps Cas was making, and the low-pitched keening groan dragged from his throat each time Dean was fully seated.
Then Cas began to move in earnest, dipping forward, angle shifting, crying out on a particularly nimble thrust and Dean knew he had found the secret. He hit it again and again, relentless, watching Cas fall apart above him. The firefighter's chest was flushed, a rosy pink glow that started at his hips, where he and Dean were intimately joined, rising until it colored his cheeks. His eyes were half-lidded, lower lip held delicately between his teeth, kiss-swollen and red. Dean strained his neck forward to meet his mouth, smiling when Cas kissed him, tongue messy and slick, uncoordinated and desperate.
"Dean," Cas moaned, rhythm beginning to stutter. He panted against Dean's stubbled cheek.
"Sit up, Cas," Dean whispered, urging him up. "I want to see you."
Cas obliged, but he was boneless, allowing Dean to position him exactly the way he wanted him. Dean reached between Cas' legs and began to pet him gently, fingers toying with his hardness, lightly dragging across the leaking tip. Cas cried out, the first hint of orgasm peaking and Dean fisted the base of his cock, withholding his release, and began to thrust his hips harder. He wanted to come with him, and he wasn't there yet.
"Dean," Cas begged, head falling back, hands scrambling for purchase, one finding Dean's fingers again and holding on, painfully tight.
Dean slammed into him, thighs burning, and there, he could feel it, vision blacking around the edges as the orgasm punched through him. He came with a shout, almost forgetting to release his death grip on Cas' cock. He pumped his hips in time to his fist, the movements not as pretty or as calculated as Cas' initial ones had been, but Cas didn't seem to mind, Dean's name falling from his lips in a long, sinfully hot drag of sound as he came over Dean's fingers.
Dean's smile widened, hand slick and wet and not caring two fucks about the mess when Cas collapsed on top of him in a heavy, exhausted heap.
He chuckled, letting go of Cas' hand in order to push the hair back from his sweaty forehead, softly kissing the smooth skin.
Cas blinked open his eyes.
"Hi," Dean whispered, grinning. He was damn near throbbing everywhere; even his bones felt liquid and warm.
Cas flushed even deeper and hid his face in Dean's neck. Dean was fascinated by it; the timidity was quite a change from the warrior of a few moments ago. "You okay," he asked softly.
Cas nodded, kissing Dean's lips in a chaste press of mouths, a tiny flick of tongue a gentle reminder of its former wickedness. It was sweet and almost reverent, and it made Dean's chest ache just a little.
"You are a god," Cas breathed into his ear, sliding off of Dean and wincing at the cold floor.
Dean laughed softly. "I think you have me confused with someone else. I'm just a mechanic." He stopped Cas' retreat with a hand on his hip, tucking him close into his side.
Cas groaned. "Oh fuck," he cringed playfully. "Don't remind me. I won't be able to get it up again for days."
Dean rolled over and threw an arm around his waist. "Days," he murmured, brushing Cas' lips with his. "Days?"
Cas snorted. "Ok, maybe hours. But meanwhile do not remind me of how incredible you look all hot and dirty and sweaty, and—" he had to stop, gasping, and thrust his tongue in Dean's mouth, kissing him deep.
Dean combed his fingers through his hair, pressing their bodies together knee to shoulder when Cas shivered. He ran his palm up and down his back, warming the rapidly cooling skin. "Ok, I'll pretend I'm always clean and tidy. Would that help?"
"It makes me wish we had a shower," Cas grimaced, glancing down. "We're sticky."
Dean yawned, head pillowed on one arm. "In a minute," he mumbled, eyes drifting closed. He blinked when he felt the soft press of fingertips on his dick. "Mmm, what are you up to down there?"
Cas chuckled. "Just making you more comfortable." He finished removing the condom and tied it off, tossing it expertly into a trashcan by the door.
Then he was back, warm and smooth against Dean's front, smelling like tequila and something else, spicy and familiar, but Dean was asleep before he could finish mulling over what that scent might be.
Dean woke up bleary eyed and shivering, ass frozen on the hard tile floor of the Singer Salvage and Autobody shop.
He was also completely alone.
He winced as he gingerly sat up, each movement threatening to split his head in two. He glanced around him, but there was no trace of the sexy firefighter he had fallen asleep beside. Cas. He blanched when his stomach lurched, and he grabbed for his jeans. The sun was beginning to peek over the edge of the treeline, the pink-hued dawn casting the waiting room a lovely shade of rose. Dean stood, swallowing back the bile that churned in his gut.
There wasn't even a goddamned note.
He locked the door behind him and began to walk home, stomach rolling, head aching, brain fuzzy; fast-fading memories a jumble of too-amazing sex and pretty blue eyes and an empty bottle of tequila.
Dean was left to wonder: Just how much of it was real?