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Dean leans his head back against the windshield and stretches out one leg, curling his toes and savoring the cold metal feel of the Impala’s hood as he lightly strokes himself through his jeans. “Mmm, baby,” he whispers softly as he frees himself to the cool midnight air and adjusts his hips to better feel the engine vibrating all the right places. His Baby was better than a spin cycle, Dean knew. The rumble of the engine was pleasing for its sound as well as its vibration, which was harmonic but rough with the occasional jolt or stutter that spurred Dean on. There was something exciting in its unpredictability.
Lately, Dean tried his best not to think when the stress and tension from the job built up and his body demanded release. There was a time when he would have taken care of himself with matter-of-fact roughness and silence while Sam snored in the next bed… but now… ever since being pulled from Hell…. It was like there was a switch in his brain, a blessed one that could turn off the memories of being ripped apart and ripping apart, and this was the only way to press it. So he pressed it as often as he could and made it last for as long as he could.
At first, it had simply been sweet relief from all thought. As long as there was his hand and his cock and the vibration of Baby against sensitive flesh, there was nothing else. No past, no future, no heaven, no hell, not even a present, really. It was almost like Dean was able to forget that he existed at all. Then thoughts had come back, but not the ones Dean had expected.
Maybe it was because Castiel had been the one to pull him out of hell. Maybe it was some lingering after-effect of Cas’ handprint burnt into Dean’s arm, some fucked-up transference of Cas’ Grace manifesting itself when Dean was most at peace. The only time Dean experienced any level of peace. He liked to think that’s what it was… part of the continuing cosmic joke played on the Winchesters and not his own desires coming to the surface. Either way, images of dark hair, bluer-than-blue eyes, nothing-beneath-the-trenchcoat, and a voice deep like Baby’s purr had started flowing through his mind to replace the blessed nothingness.
A month ago Dean had started getting weird looks from Sam when his showers were taking three or four times as long as usual… every day… which he didn’t want to explain. Not that Sam was clueless and didn’t know what Dean was doing in there; it was more the coming up with a good lie for the everyday… sometimes twice a day, part. Dean couldn’t tell Sam the truth because that would mean admitting that he remembered Hell. "Revitalized! New lease on life! Live life to its fullest! I feel like a teenager again!" would be a good lie, but Dean wasn’t sure he could pull it off. Enough to fool anyone else? Sure. But to fool Sam, his Sammy, the most important person in Dean’s life? Sam, who had spent more time in Dean's company than anyone really ought to spend around one other person… no.
Still, it was the images of Castiel that made Dean decide he was no longer doing this anywhere near Sam and the motel room. It was weird, and fucked up, and wrong on so many levels… but for some reason he couldn’t look at Sam without feeling guilty that he’d just been doing that so nearby while thinking of Cas. Dean didn’t want to analyze why he felt guilty now when doing the same with thoughts of Hot Chick #3 from some porno did not.
So here he is, stretched out on the Impala in a clearing off a dirt road, surrounded by trees as he increases the pressure of his hand and strokes himself slowly, deliberately. He swirls a finger around his head on the upstroke, dips three fingers to gently cup his balls on the down stroke. He takes it slow, focusing on feeling, touch, the night air, the light breeze, the feeling of freedom from doing this out in the ‘open’. It’s secluded, he’s hidden from the view of the road should any cars come this way, yet outdoors which feels good in a way Dean can’t explain since coming back.
At first there is the lack of thought or memory that Dean craves. It is utter bliss. Dean sinks in to it, wishing it would last. It doesn’t. He finds himself imagining that the hand touching his cock is not his, that it belongs to someone whose hands are smooth, not callused. He switches and imagines that the cock in his hand is not his, but another. Intense blue eyes stare at him unforgivingly, the rumble of the engine is a low moan from someone with a deep voice. Dean can’t help it, he starts moving his hand faster, faster, harder, demanding more even against his own will. He doesn’t want this to end, he wants it to linger, wants to go back and get lost in the nothingness.
As Dean’s damn betraying hand rubs his flesh ever more roughly his callused fingers are dark stubble against soft skin. In his mind blue-blue eyes look up at him through dark lashes. A thought comes unbidden… does Cas even have ‘parts’? Not his host, not Jimmy, but actual Castiel in his true form, and why the hell is Dean pondering this now? For some reason, unlike all the other times Dean has done his damnedest to push the thoughts away, to get back to the nothing, to do anything, to think of anything but the angel, the male angel, this time Dean just lets go and goes with it. He imagines Castiel in his true form… glowing and beautiful and like Jimmy, with dark hair and blue eyes and that sexy stubble that will always be Cas, and yet not like Jimmy, because he is far more beautiful than any human will ever be and exudes such raw power and energy and then his wings unfold and Dean is lost, crying out to the glory that is “Cas-tiel…” torn from his lips like a prayer.
“Yes, Dean?” Cas' voice flows through him as the air stirs and flutters almost unnaturally against Dean's exposed, sensitive flesh. Oh shit. He freezes briefly before sitting up and shoving himself back inside his pants, shouting “What the hell, Cas?” followed closely by a terse “Sonofabitch!” when his zipper rubs a little too rough as he yanks it up.
“You called for me,” Castiel responds in his deep monotone.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes you did, Dean, I was summoned by your prayer.”
“Prayer?” Dean asks, incredulous. “I didn’t… I don’t pray, Cas.”
“You thought of me as you called my name aloud. Your thoughts transferred to me as prayer and I am here to answer. What do you require?”
Dean could think of a few answers for that but stuck with, “So I think of you and say your name and you have to show up?”
“I don’t have to come, but I will for you, Dean.” Cas responds while looking straight in Dean's eyes in that way of his that makes Dean squirm uncomfortably and, this time, blush a little. Especially given Cas’ unfortunate and, Dean is sure, unconscious choice of words. Wait… is he imagining the faintest blush and twitch of Cas’ mouth? But that would mean Cas understood the reference.
The next thing Dean knows, as if by magic (well, actually, literally by magic) Cas is there sitting on the hood of the Impala next to him and something is very, very strange because suddenly Dean can feel the cool (cool, what happened to the engine?) metal of the hood underneath his thighs and backside and the night breeze as it tickles across his chest. He doesn’t have to look to know that he’s naked and that Cas is, too.
Dean wants to run, wants to hide, wants to scream, but he doesn’t. Instead he finds himself reaching for Cas and falling once more back against the windshield as Cas follows him and their lips meet. It’s absurd, not to mention cliché, but Dean almost doesn’t suppress a laugh as his tongue finds Castiel’s and Cas really does taste like heaven. Like… burgers and fries and beer and pie. Not just any pie, Mary Winchester’s singular apple raisin with extra cinnamon made just for Dean. Perhaps it should be creepy or weird, but it’s not. The taste of Cas makes Dean feel loved, and whole, and unbroken.
Castiel shifts his weight to more or less straddle Dean while his lips move on to Dean’s chin, his jaw, down his neck… Cas’ tongue darts out to taste Dean’s nipple, tastes lower, trailing down his stomach… and then Dean’s fantasy comes true when stubble rubs against sensitive flesh as Cas moves to take Dean in his mouth while looking up with those blue-blue eyes. It has to be the sexiest thing Dean has ever seen and he feels himself make a noise low in the back of his throat, watching as he disappears into Cas’ mouth. The angel has no gag reflex, taking Dean in all the way, holding still for a second, and sucking as he pulls his head back. Cas rolls his tongue around Dean’s tip, using his teeth ever so slightly on the way back down as Dean sucks in a breath and uses all his willpower to still his hips.
Dean loses all sense of time as Castiel’s warm mouth pleasures him. It's as if Cas were inside his head knowing exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply, when to stop and when to resume, taking Dean to the edge of ecstasy but never pushing him over. It is exactly what Dean needs, what he'd been yearning for, what he’d been attempting to give himself the last month but had never truly succeeded. It’s heaven. It’s torture. It’s bliss and escape and mind-numbing and painful and Dean doesn’t want it to stop… until he thinks once more of Cas.
Dean uses all his strength to move muscles that feel like Jell-o, tangling a hand in Cas’ hair and tugging. Castiel obeys Dean’s silent command and withdraws, looking at Dean with questioning eyes. They watch each other for silent moments and Dean realizes, somewhere far back in his mind, that his body is utterly, totally relaxed as he lets his eyes wander over Castiel’s naked form. The angel is surprisingly muscular and toned, perhaps even more than Dean himself, with broad shoulders, a flat stomach, and a dusting of dark chest hair calling for Dean’s touch. He lets his eyes roam lower to another part of Cas that is also obviously, painfully calling to be touched. Even there, Cas is put together as perfectly as Dean had imagined. Thick and straining in a nest of dark curls, Dean smiles as he watches Cas twitch under his gaze. Dean’s eyes travels back up Castiel’s body to find himself being watched with what seems to be just as much admiration.
Dean smiles anew, more of a grin really, a decision made without thought. He answers Castiel’s unspoken question with the crook of one finger. Dean doesn’t wonder if Cas knows where this will lead, doesn’t worry about the mechanics, doesn’t care what it means. He just beckons and waits, not aware that he is holding his breath for Cas’ response. Will he hear a flutter and blink, left alone again in the dark?
Castiel’s smile at Dean’s gesture is almost a smirk and Dean breathes out low and easy as Cas stalks on all fours up the Impala’s hood, up Dean’s body to straddle him full-on this time. Dean can feel the hard length of Castiel's cock against the underside of his own and if he could think he would tell himself that this simple touch felt better than it had any right to. If Dean had known the hardness and softness of another man’s cock pressed against the underside of his would feel this damn good he would have done this long ago. Cas starts moving, rubbing them against each other… and Dean stops breathing.
When he remembers to breathe again it comes as a gasp when Castiel’s lips claim his and something like electricity seems to spark at first from Cas’ lips and then from everywhere they’re touching. Suddenly they are touching everywhere, Dean sitting up off the Impala, pushing his chest into Cas, grabbing Cas’ shoulder, his hip, digging the fingers of one hand into the back of Cas’ head while the other grabs Castiel by the ass and pulls, helping to grind them against one another. Cas is grabbing him as well, Dean realizes as he feels nails dig into his shoulder and Cas’ tongue push into his mouth.
Dean sucks on the tongue he’s offered and Cas groans, shifting more weight up onto his knees. Dean groans in return at the loss of contact but then feels Cas’ hand guiding him and Cas’ entrance against the head of his cock and he pushes his hips up as Cas pushes down and is lost to thought and sound and can only feel. He feels tight warmth envelop him, almost painful but not quite, and a strange tingle that can only be Castiel’s Grace. Somehow he also feels the tingle all about him, in the air to either side and behind, as if it’s just out of sight and touch and yet Dean can feel it, sense it, and it shuts out everything except the Impala underneath him and Cas above him. And then, once again, Cas begins to move.
It is slow at first and Dean has a brief flash of death-by-pleasure as he grabs Cas’ hips and helps guide his movement. Cas speeds up at Dean’s urging and as the ability to process sound returns Dean hears pleasure with almost every stroke, sometimes from himself, sometimes from Cas, sometimes from both of them. He hears Cas’ toes slip on the hood and a creak from the Impala as Cas rides him harder. Dean lowers himself to a full reclining position so he can adjust his legs, dig his heels in, and get leverage to drive up into Castiel.
Dean watches Cas’ mouth open to an ‘oh’ of pleasure when his hand clamps around the angel and begins to stroke him, matching the rhythm and force of their joined bodies. Dean runs his other hand along the angel’s chest, through that tickly-soft chest hair, finds a nipple and gives it a rub and a little squeeze as his other hand increases its pressure. It sends Castiel over the edge and he comes, milky fluid spilling over Dean’s hand as he yells out his pleasure in what might be Dean’s name but Dean can’t hear it because Castiel's tingle intensifies and is almost painful and amazing and unbearable and indescribable and Dean doesn't ever want it to stop and he is coming inside the angel, arcing his hips off the hood and he swears for a split-second the tingle had formed itself into the shape of wings surrounding him, enveloping him, hugging him. One breath later the sensation is gone and Dean hears – feels – a crack underneath. He looks away from Castiel’s eyes to see a large crack running all the way through Baby’s windshield and feels suddenly cold.
Dean looks back up but he already knows that Castiel is gone. He looks down at himself, still naked and with no clothes in sight. “Son of a bitch.”