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Dean was walking down the street. The air was crisp, and his path covered in colourful, autumn leaves. He was on his way home from the park, where he had spent the best part of the day, looking for inspiration for his next painting. Despite the beautiful scenery, no artistic visions revealed themselves to him.
He should probably be half way done with this painting at this point, but Calvin was right; you couldn’t turn on creativity like a tap, you had to be in the right mood – and more often than not that mood just so happened to be last minute panic. Dean took a deep breath, enjoying the feeling of the cold air filling his lungs, and as he exhaled, he let his worries melt away. It will be all right, he thought to himself, as he saw his favourite café, Sue Casa, come into view on the next corner. Dean had started to frequent the place a couple of years ago; right when they first started up. They didn’t serve the best coffee in town, but it wasn’t bad either, and they made up for their average brew with a one of a kind atmosphere and friendly baristas. Friendly, and decidedly hot baristas. Dean caught sight of the man working the counter, and despite the brisk weather, he could feel warmth spread in his chest.
Dean’s smile was as bright as his yellow woollen scarf as he swung open the glass door and strode inside. He made his way up to the counter, loosened his scarf and leaned over the desk, all the while grinning expectantly at the barista.
“Hey, Cas.”
“Hello, Dean.”
Castiel Novak: the hottest guy in the galaxy. Possibly. Maybe. Well, at least in Dean’s galaxy. Dean couldn’t help it. Cas was muscular, not in the bulky way that comes from hours at the gym, but in a strong and natural way, from hard work at the family farm. Cas could probably carry a calf on his shoulders without even breaking a sweat. But despite his upbringing, Cas also had a special kind of style to him, one that especially made Dean want to rip off Cas’ clothes and suck him off right behind that very counter. Cause Cas might’ve grown up ‘in a barn’, but he was as hipster as they got; complete with a pair of ridiculously large, thick rimmed glasses framing his equal ridiculously handsome face. Now hipsters and metros were dime a dozen, but with Cas this whole vibe was different, he didn’t dress like that to be cool, he just fucking was. And even without the clothes, he looked like an angel. His hair was a rich, dark chocolate colour, and would almost appear black if the sun didn’t shine on it. Dean spent more hours thinking about that hair balled up in his fist than he would like to admit.
And his eyes, by God, those eyes were illegal. It would have been one thing if they had only been insanely blue, which they were, but Cas also had this… thing. This thing where he would stare into Dean’s eyes like he was staring into his soul, and it made Dean feel like they were starring in every single love song ever sung.
Dean bit his lip as he let his gaze fall to Cas’ lips, before quickly redeeming himself by clearing his throat.
“One cup of coffee, please, bl-“
Dean was cut off by Cas putting down a steaming cup of coffee on the counter in front of him.
“You’ve been coming in every day for as long as I’ve worked here, and you always order the same thing, Dean. I think I’ve got it down.”
“Thanks, babe.”
Dean winked and flashed his most charming smile, at which Cas chuckled. Was that a blush on his cheeks? Cas started to wipe over the counter with a cloth, although there was no need for it.
“You know, you should try to widen your horizon on the coffee. I can’t even make any cute messages on it.”
Dean swore he saw Cas smirk right then.
“Cas? Ca-… Is that Dean? Is that Dean you’re talking to?”
A blonde, with her hair in a messy bun, poked her head out from the back. That was Sue. She was the owner of the café: a bit weird, very passionate, and as kind as the day is long.
She walked over to them, arms full of sunflowers.
“Here are your sunflowers, Cas,” she put the flowers down in a heap on the counter, and Cas immediately started to sort them out.
Dean watched as Cas rolled the sleeves of his pale, blue Henley up. He watched Cas’ hands as they separated the flowers and placed them one by one in a vase. Those fingers… Dean knew very well that it was a completely ordinary action, but somehow Castiel made it mesmerising. Dean vaguely registered that Sue was talking to him, so he reluctantly directed his attention to her.
“Hm?”
“Yeah, Dean, look I talked to Misha and we’ll have another one of your paintings.”
“What? I mean great, but why? He hates my paintings.”
“Well, I kinda you know, persuaded him,” she said with a cunning smile.
“Oh my God, Sue, shut the front door.”
“I’m gonna’ be sick,” Cas chimed in, still neatly arranging the sunflowers.
Sue’s face fell. “What-why do you guys always assume-”
“Because it always is, you fucking pervert.” Dean pointed at her accusingly. “I want free lunch for this.”
“Thank God your bedroom is on the other side of the house.”
“Oh shut up,” she paused for a second, “at least Mish apprecia-“
Dean made gagging motions, and Cas giggled heartily behind the bouquet of yellow.
“Okay, okay. No more sex talk. So do you have any paintings ready?”
“Ugh, no, not really. I’ll have to whip some up pretty soon though, cause Sam moved out and now I have twice the rent to pay.”
“Oh no, poor baby, how are you holding up?”
Dean rolled his eyes.
“I’m older than you, Sue! And he just moved out, okay, it’s not like he’s dead.”
She gallantly ignored his first statement.
“I know, but still though, you’ve been living together with Sam practically forever.”
“Yeah, no it’s cool. I’ll just have to sell more paintings.”
“Have you thought about getting a new flatmate?”
“Yeah, I put an ad out in the paper, but there’s not exactly a queue forming,” Dean sighed resignedly.
After a few final adjustments, Cas placed the vase on the counter. The flowers lightened up the room considerably, although it might have been Cas’ evident enjoyment of them that made everything seem brighter. Dean couldn’t help but smile.
Castiel coughed softly, collecting himself, before speaking up with a feigned indifferent tone to his voice:
“How much is the rent?”
---
Dean was rummaging through his cupboard, hunting for just the right pencil.
God damn it, Dean, he thought to himself, throwing worn pencils and paintbrushes over his shoulder, swiping old tubes of paint and god-only-knows on the floor, all the while cursing his inability to simply walk past a craft supply store.
“Where the fuck are you!?” He yelled into the cupboard.
He drew his hand over his face, exasperated.
“Dean, I’m right here?”
Dean spun around, and took in the sight in front of him. Castiel drenched in sunlight, completely naked apart from his very flattering boxer briefs. Cas was standing in middle of Dean’s so called “artistic space”, also known as the open space between the kitchen and their beds. Cas had one drunken night named it ‘the Bermuda Triangle’ because Cas’ bed, Dean’s bed and their kitchen island (“That’s Bermuda!”) formed a triangle around it, and also because “it’s a total mess and you lose things all the time and no one really knows what is going on in there, just that it must be magic”.
“Are you doing this, or not?” Cas flung his arms out dramatically.
“I was just trying to find my favourite brush,” Dean started, but fell silent as his eyes travelled down Cas’ well chiselled, sun kissed chest. Dean bit his lip and imagined his hands running up and down Cas’ sides, his mouth on Cas’ skin, his tongue trailing downward; zeroing in on his groin... Dean cleared his throat.
“I might not be the artist here, but doesn’t this sort of activity usually require some… physical contact?”
Cas frowned.
“I uh, I’m doing this, just... Don’t move.”
He had to will his body to move, and it felt like time slowed down for every step he took towards Cas. Castiel, this wonder of a man, who somehow made Dean’s day better by his presence alone. Cas squared his shoulders, straightened his back, and looked Dean in the eyes. He seemed calm and collected, but Dean could sense a slight tremor in his breathing.
Cas couldn’t possibly be cold? It was a particularly warm evening for it being late September, especially in their corner flat, where huge windows covered most of the walls, and while they during winter were treacherously draughty, they let in a great deal of sunshine and consequently heat during the sunnier months. Despite the fact that Dean was only wearing a flimsy pyjama bottom, and actually felt quite hot, he still had to make sure Cas was okay.
“Are you cold, baby?” Cas shook his head. Suddenly Dean felt worried that Cas might have second thoughts about this.
“No, I’m just eager. I’ve never… I feel deeply honoured that you want to do this with me.”
Cas smiled reassuringly, and Dean let out a relieved sigh.
“Good. This,” he paused to lick his lips as he basked in the glorious moment that was Castiel like this; as good as naked, in front of him, ready for him, “this is exactly what I need.”
Cas opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it again, and settled for a hum of contentment.
“You ready?”
Cas nodded and let his tongue swipe across his lower lip, staring at Dean suggestively.
Dean tried his best to ignore it as he reached for the closest tube of paint, and focused instead on squeezing out a considerable amount of paint onto his palette. Dean had tried to woo Castiel even before he moved in with Dean, but apparently Cas had been painfully oblivious of this. Even after a year of them living together, Cas still knew nothing of how deep Dean’s affection for him truly laid. He had, however, surely picked up on Dean’s flirting. Cas didn’t mind Dean’s advances; he rather seemed to enjoy them, actually. Somehow Dean must have led Cas to believe that it was how flatmates were supposed to act towards each other, cause Cas had started to flirt back with full force.
Although Dean wanted nothing more than to floor Cas and fuck his brains out, he knew better than to make a pass at him and spoil this comradeship or friendship or whatever-the-fuck-it-was-ship that they had going on.
Dean took the paintbrush in hand, dipped it carefully in paint, and let the bristles run over Cas’ chest. As Dean created, truthfully, beautiful coloured patterns on Cas’ tanned skin, Cas kept up his intense gaze, letting out a warm puff of air whenever Dean refreshed the colour, and the cool paint touched Cas’ skin.
Dean lived vicariously through his paintbrush; let it run over every inch of skin his tongue wanted to touch. He’d seen Cas in his pants before; it was, after all, inevitable when living together, but it had only been by stealing quick glances, and never up close like this.
“Turn around, please.”
I’m a professional, Dean chanted over and over again in his head, this is not foreplay.
Dean thought of ice-baths and tofu burgers and doing his taxes, anything that might take his mind off Cas’ perfectly shaped back, or the thought of himself leaving red scratch marks all over it as Cas banged him roughly on the kitchen island.
A weaker-willed man might have already sported a solid erection, but Dean was disciplined, and a professional. A few stray thoughts wouldn’t crack him.
From time to time Cas would move, and Dean praised all the deities in the world for the chance to steady his human canvas by grabbing hold of him. This happened with an increased frequency the more time passed. Dean figured Cas was getting restless. Or maybe he was fidgety because he could sense the, quite frankly, obvious sexual tension between them, only waiting for the right moment to spin around and push up to Dean, smearing paint all over, kissing Dean passionately before guiding them both over to his bed, pushing Dean down on it before spreading Dean’s legs, fitting himself perfectly betw- NO. NONONO, absolutely not, Dean chastised himself.
Just as Dean chased away the last of his wildly inappropriate thoughts about his flatmate, Cas leant back towards Dean marginally, a faint sigh on his lips.
“This is very agreeable,” Cas said, tipping his head to the side, stretching.
Dean barely resisted the urge to kiss Cas’ bared neck. He let out a shaky breath.
“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” Dean said, his voice soft, “I’m almost done.”
Before he even finished his sentence, a wave of regret washed over him. Fuck, he shouldn’t have said that, he should have drawn this out for, well, an eternity or something.
“Oh,” Cas sounded vaguely disappointed, “I can’t wait to see your masterpiece.”
Dean chuckled.
“Well, it’s no Cembranelli.”
It was meant as a joke, but Dean’s words held an undertone of resentment.
Cembranelli was Cas’ favourite artist. Like Dean, he did most of his work in aquarelles, but apparently he did so a million times better. See, Castiel had a painting hanging over his bed, a painting of completely ordinary sunflowers, but it was somehow really, fucking important that it was a Cembranelli, and Cas had apparently been “stalking” the artist for “the perfect painting” or whatever to come along for years.
In Dean’s opinion, the guy wasn’t even that good of a painter. And it’s not because I’m jealous or anything, it’s just true.
Cas loved the painting though, so Dean didn’t say anything, but he secretly hated it. It was a symbol of how he, Dean, was not good enough. The painting hung proud on its spot over Cas’ bed, and it was the first thing Dean saw entering the room. In fact, one could see it from almost every single spot in their studio flat, apart from, thankfully, Dean’s own bed, which was parallel to Cas’, but placed almost on the other side of the room, next to the space deemed “living room”.
“Don’t say that, Dean. You’re incredibly talented. I love your paintings.”
Fucking sure, Cas, that’s probably why you have none of them over your bed.
Dean didn’t say anything, focusing in stead on the finishing touches of paint on Cas’ back.
A few moments later Dean called it quits.
“There,” he proclaimed as he stepped back, reluctantly.
Cas hastily headed to the hallway mirror, eager to see Dean’s work.
He came to an abrupt stop when catching a glimpse of his reflection. Cas wasn’t the type to gape, but this time he did.
“I’m speechless…”
Cas twisted and turned in front of the mirror, and all but pulled a muscle trying to get a better view of the art Dean had painted on Cas’ skin.
“This is… magnificent, Dean.”
Cas was admiring his own back in the mirror, only glancing up to send Dean astonished looks.
“I am so utterly impressed right now, I’m almost aroused.”
“So you like it?”
Dean had decided on painting wings on Castiel, two medium-sized, feathered wings in vibrant colours matching the yellowing leaves outside. They stretched over his upper back, curving slightly up towards Cas’ shoulder-joints, coloured softly to mimic Dean’s signature watercolour style, despite the fact that he’d used acrylics.
“I adore it, Dean. The wings are just perfect. I’m absolutely in love,” Cas murmured, and almost as an afterthought, added; “with them.”
---
That night Dean was still grumbling internally over that stupid Cembranelli dude who Cas was fucking obsessed with for no good reason.
Dean huffed to himself, and shifted to lie on his side, facing Cas’ side of the room. It was too dark to make out his bed, but Dean didn’t have to see it, he knew exactly where it was and how it looked like, and how Cas looked laying on it. Cas was probably asleep by now.
Dean had insisted on snapping a few photos of the body art he did on Cas, for the portfolio. Afterwards, Cas had gotten dressed and left to “run some errands”. He hadn’t returned until late, but had brought with him a good bottle of red wine, which they’d shared.
The moon shone in through the windows, throwing patterns of dim light on the floor of the otherwise dark flat.
Dean’s thoughts started to wander, and as per usual, they wandered, or more like hightailed it, straight to Castiel.
Those back muscles. Dean flopped over on his back again, and imagined running his hands over Cas’ back, as he ran one down his own front.
Dean always slept naked, which was very convenient when he fancied a quick wank. His cock was already hard when he wrapped his fingers around it.
He pulled on it, lazily at first, imagining Cas in front of him, like he had been earlier that day. This time, however, Cas would be audacious and not at all as well-behaved; while Dean was in the middle of painting, Cas would reach his hand back and palm Dean through his pyjama bottoms, turn his head to kiss Dean hungrily over his shoulder, and he would moan profanities as Dean touched him back. Cas’ own boxer-briefs would already be off, of course, so Dean could rut against Cas’ ass, forcing faint, but frustrated growls from the dark haired man. Dean stroked himself enthusiastically thinking about it. Fuck yes.
Dean would tease Cas by nibbling at his neck. He’d pump Cas’ cock just like he was pumping his own right now, alternating his pace; going from slow pulls to brisk jerks. Each stroke would elicit new sounds from Cas’ throat.
I’d make him beg for me.
Dean tipped his head back and cupped his balls with his free hand, squeezing them lightly as he imagined Cas beseeching him for release. His balls tightened satisfyingly.
Oh yeah, he’d promise to be so good for me.
Then Dean would finally comply with Cas’ pleas; he would get on his knees behind him, knead and spread Cas’ firm ass-cheeks, and as Dean traced his tongue over Cas’ rim, Cas would hiss his approval.
I’d make him so slick, Dean thought as he moaned inaudibly, I’d be able to slide right into him after.
He heard a soft mewl come from the darkness.
Dean immediately froze. Hold the fuck up, he thought to himself. Was that a real sound or did his vivid imagination conjure it up?
Another muffled moan, and Dean jumped back into action, stroking himself with renewed enthusiasm. Holy shit, it was Cas making these sounds! Dean prayed that Cas wouldn’t somehow hear Dean’s suddenly elevated heart rate.
It wasn’t the first time Dean had pulled one off thinking about his flatmate, at first Dean had felt a bit awkward about it, but those days were gone. So what if he had an occasional wank to the thought of his incredibly sexy flatmate ploughing him into the mattress? No big deal.
Dean timed his strokes with Cas’ gasps and sighs, biting his lip as to not make any noise of his own.
Neither was it the first time he overheard Cas giving himself some attention. Usually Cas liked to rub one out as he was in the shower. Even though the bathroom door missed its threshold, the walls were pretty well isolated, and they silenced most sounds. They did, however, a lousy job silencing Cas’ loud, husky moans. Dean didn’t mind at all.
This was definitely the first time they’ve both done it at the same time, nonetheless in the same room.
Cas’ moans started coming in close succession, and Dean rubbed himself faster as he pictured Cas laid naked on his bed, pleasuring himself. Unaware that Dean could hear every wonderful noise escaping his lips. Unaware that Dean was pushed closer to the edge by it and that Dean imagined that it was his own hands making Cas cry out like that.
Dean wanted nothing more than to be in Cas’ bed with him.
God, he wanted to feel Cas’ cock in his hands, feel every vein throb under his touch. Dean wanted to swallow it down until he gagged on it, have Cas fuck into his mouth while he just took it. He wanted to ride Cas’ cock with earnest, rolling his hips until Cas spilled deep inside him.
Dean’s dick twitched, beads of precome seeping from the slit and slicking up his hand. Combined with the imagery, it brought him so impossibly close. Dean let his jaw go slack, breathing hard as he pretended it was Cas’ hands on him, taking him apart. Dean thrust his hips up into his fist, fondling his balls with the other hand.
He spread his legs further, letting a finger ghost over his entrance as he thought of how glorious it would be to have Cas’ cock there, pressing up into him, filling him up. Dean pushed two fingers past the rim, clenching his teeth at the rough feel of his own, not-slick-enough fingers, before stifling a moan when he found his prostate and rubbed on it repeatedly.
Cas grew louder and more unabashed, clearly on the edge.
Dean fucked his own hand and ass frantically, desperately trying to keep himself from moaning, but when he heard Cas’ final, dirty mewls as Cas undoubtedly came all over his hand, Dean’s orgasm hit, and he couldn’t help but let slip a whimper as he came in hot, thick spurts timed perfectly with Cas’ groans.
The room fell completely silent, apart from Dean’s heavy panting.
How is Cas not out of breath after all his wailing!?
Dean only hoped Cas’ was too blissed out to hear him, as he laid there on the bed, heaving for breath, with come all over himself. He didn’t dare get up to clean himself off, in fear of rousing Cas.
His head was swimming, and his heart conflicted.
Dean wanted to march up to Castiel’s bed, get in next to him and spoon him forever and ever. He wanted to lie close to him and feel his heartbeat and smell his hair and all that sickly romantic stuff. The want was so tremendous that Dean had to grab the sheets to avoid himself from getting up. Dean knew it would just ruin everything, because even though Cas returned Dean’s flirtations, he had never given Dean any indication that he was genuinely attracted to him.
So maybe Dean might have been pushing the line of their whatever-it-was when he asked Cas to get undressed for his little art project, but jacking off to Cas jacking off, that was surely not platonic, no matter how much explaining he did, which reminded Dean of how fucking terrified he was that Cas might have heard him. He would probably be mortified over Dean’s audacity, he would definitely call off their “friendship”, if not merely kill Dean, or worse, move out.
Dean had just quelled his thoughts of distress, ensuring himself that everything was fine, and on his way to drift off to sleep, when he heard Cas speak softly from the other side of the room:
“Goodnight, Dean.”