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It’s well past midnight when Castiel hears it. At least, it’s well past midnight in Moline, Illinois, where Dean’s languishing in a dreary motel room. Castiel is half a world away. He might as well be in the next room for how clearly he hears it, though. He’s always been a little more attuned to Dean’s prayers than the other humans who’ve called out to him specifically. Sam’s prayed to him before and on occasion he’s even responded. But he’s never been able to resist the call when Dean Winchester has summoned him, even before their relationship evolved into whatever it is now. Castiel’s never thought to label it. There might not be a word for it, this bond between human and angel. It defies definition. But it works. At least he thinks it does.
Castiel wants to fly the moment he hears Dean call, but he hesitates. He thinks about delaying; it won’t do to let Dean get the idea that he can summon Castiel whenever the mood takes him, won’t do to let him think Castiel is at his beck and call. But he dismisses the idea. He’s not doing anything important; he doesn’t have anywhere else to be. So he flies on swift wings and alights in the doorway of the third floor motel room where Dean lies sleeping. That’s the first shock, but he quickly recognizes the truth of the situation. Dean wasn’t praying to Castiel, wasn’t calling out to him for help or companionship or any of the thousand other reasons Dean had prayed to Castiel in past. He was dreaming of Castiel.
Castiel stands in the doorway for a while. Dean’s definitely asleep. He’s sprawled out on the thin sheets, chest bare above the waistband of his grey boxer-briefs, one leg kicked free of the covers. He’s been restless from the looks of things. The other leg is tangled in the blankets but he’s barely covered at all. Dean twitches as Castiel stands watching and at first he thinks it might be a nightmare, that Dean’s mind called out to him for salvation because Castiel has saved his hide in the waking world more times than he can count. But Dean’s half-hard in his sleep, and it dawns on Castiel as the sleeping man lets out a breathy sound that just might be a moan. He knows exactly what Dean’s dreaming about.
There was a time that something like this might have startled the angel. Once, long ago, before they fell in to this arrangement, before the Pizza Man, before he’d dragged Dean out of hell, before all of it, he might have been perplexed by that realization. Human sexuality was beyond him, back then. Not anymore. Now it’s tantalizing, the knowledge that Dean wants him even when he’s not even awake to know it. Castiel glances around the room briefly. It’s a single, which means Sam’s got his own room for the night. He wonders if the brothers are doing that more regularly now, getting separate motel rooms. They never used to. Dean calls out to him sometimes when they’ve got a shared room and Sam goes out to find a library or check out a witness or something like that. Or he’ll go along with Dean when he’s hunting without Sam, and then it’s not about the sex. At least, it’s not onlyabout the sex. It’s the first time this has happened though.
He’s half way across the room, intent on shaking Dean awake, before he thinks better of it. Dean might be embarrassed, Castiel thinks. He’s always been a little skittish about what goes on inside his mind. Castiel was fairly certain he’d lump dreams into the same protected category. So he hatches a new plan, one a little bit closer to what Dean’s dreaming about. His hands work skilfully at the knot on his tie. He could just snap his fingers and whisk the clothing away with a thought, but he didn’t. Dean never likes it when he does that. Says it’s part of the foreplay. So even though Dean’s not watching, he does it the hard way. He leaves his trench coat and tie on the chair by the door and keeps his eyes on Dean as he slowly pops the buttons on his shirt. The air is warm on Castiel’s skin as the shirt slips from his shoulders and pools on the floor, a bright white ribbon against the dark of the carpets.
Castiel kicks off his shoes and socks, but leaves his pants on as he strides on silent feet to the foot of the bed. Dean’s silent in his sleep now but it’s obvious to look at him that he’s still dreaming. Castiel kneels between Dean’s legs splayed out across the bed and runs his hands gently up his bared thighs. Dean stirs, but he doesn’t wake. Castiel was counting on that. He leans down and presses his lips to the soft flesh of Dean’s stomach, letting them drag as he moves up his belly and across his ribs. The kisses are whisper-soft and gentle, but Dean is responsive even in his sleep. A soft hum emanates from Dean’s throat and he moves with Castiel’s kisses, writhing under the attention.
Castiel lets his lips press more firmly when he reaches Dean’s clavicle. His kisses are wet and persistent at the hollow at the base of Dean’s throat. He drags the flat of his tongue up the side of Dean’s neck, mouthing at his jaw for a moment before nipping at his ear lobe, exactly the way he knows would drive Dean wild if he was awake to respond to it. Even in his sleep he twitches, gasps. Castiel wonders if Dean’s dream is being influenced by the stimulation.
“Dean,” he whispers, pressing more kisses along the other side of Dean’s neck. “Wake up, Dean.” Castiel’s hand ghosts up the side of Dean’s ribs and he takes a nipple between thumb and forefinger. He rolls it around gently at first, but with increasing pressure, slowly dragging Dean out of his fantasy and in to reality. “You’ve been dreaming,” he murmurs, his breath hot against Dean’s neck. “It’s time to wake up.” He knows Dean’s awake before he sees his eyes fly open, because Dean’s hands come up to grip Castiel’s arms.
“What are you doin’ here Cas?” he implores, his voice raw and low like it always is when he first wakes. Even in the dark Castiel can see the flush across his cheeks. There’s a hitch in his breath that lets Castiel know his blood’s on fire. He knows what Dean wants.
“You were dreaming of me, Dean,” he murmurs against the stubble of Dean’s cheek before turning his face to kiss Dean on the mouth. Dean’s words carried a hint of protest, but his lips give up the lie. He’s not even a little bit upset to be woken up like this. “You know I always come when you call.” Dean taught him much about humour. He believes this one counts as a double entendre.
“I didn’t even know,” Dean starts, but Castiel stops whatever words were going to follow with his lips. He kisses Dean deeply and when he stops, Dean doesn’t bother to try to continue. Instead he slides his hands up Castiel’s arms and grips his shoulders. His hands are insistent as they pull Castiel back down. He savours the taste of Dean’s mouth, the softness of his lips, the intensity with which Dean kisses and touches, but it’s not what he has planned, so he lets Dean have it for a moment and then pulls away.
“What were you dreaming about, Dean?” Castiel knows already. He can see these things, though he tries not to intrude. He wants to hear Dean say it. Dean tenses as Castiel sinks back on to his knees and drags his hands agonizingly slow down his torso, grazing nipples with thumbs. Dean’s a little bit ticklish, so he squirms when Castiel’s fingertips dance across his ribs. He presses a little more firmly on the skin just above Dean’s hipbones. He knows Dean will kick and flail if he’s tickled there.
Castiel watches Dean’s face as he hooks the first two fingers of each hand under the waistband of his underwear. He’s ticklish there, too, but Castiel carefully avoids triggering that response. Dean plants his heels, lifts his hips just enough that Cas can twitch the shorts out from under him, and Cas moves his knees to one side of Dean’s thighs so he can toss them in a pile with his own shirt.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Castiel teases as he resituates himself between Dean’s legs and runs his palms up the solid muscle of his thighs. He’s so strong, Castiel thinks, but I can take him apart with just a touch. His fingers move across Dean’s hips, skirting close to Dean’s cock, now fully hard, but he doesn’t touch yet. He watches Dean’s face, makes sure he’s got his eye in the dark first and then as he wraps his hand around the shaft and begins to stroke slowly but firmly, he whispers. “Were you dreaming about this?” Dean moans, a low, wrecked noise escaping his throat. He’s never quiet when they’re together like this.
Castiel’s other hand moves soothingly over Dean’s stomach, his ribs, his hips. Dean won’t admit it, not with words, but he loves to be touched. He’s starved for it. So Castiel gives him every little bit of touch he can manage. He dances his fingers feather light across Dean’s belly. He grips Dean’s hip almost tight enough to bruise. He soothes and massages and presses and teases and never lets up for a second. Dean’s breath is coming short and ragged now, and Castiel is just getting started. It’s perfect. He’s beautiful like this.
“Did you dream about my hands on your body?” he whispers. His own voice is low and gravely, even more so than usual. “Or was it my mouth?” He’s taunting Dean, egging him on, he knows it, but it gets the hunter so wound up and it’s so much better when he finally reaches the point where he just can’t hold back any more, where he just lets go, and that’s where Castiel wants him tonight. He sinks down to flick his tongue across the tip of Dean’s cock without waiting for a response. He knows Dean won’t answer him, not yet. Dean’s hips jerk upwards at the new sensation, but Castiel holds him steady with bruising force. He’s in control here, and Dean knows it.
Castiel loves the sound he gets in response when his lips slide down the length of Dean’s hard shaft. It’s somewhere between a groan and a whimper. He wants to hear that sound over and over again, so he chases it. His tongue drags up the underside as he slides back up, flicks across the slit, swirls around the head, and then he’s taking as much of Dean’s length as he can fit into his mouth. He gets the result he’s looking for. Dean whines and whimpers, moans and groans, and he’s writhing on the sheets like he’s about to fall apart. Castiel knows he won’t though. Not yet. He’s far from done.
He pulls off of Dean’s cock and reaches a hand in to the pocket of his pants. There’s a little bottle stashed there and the second he flicks the cap open Dean knows what’s coming. He can feel the tensing of certain muscles, the relaxing of others as Dean shifts beneath him, lifts his legs slightly. Dean won’t say it yet, but this is what he wants.
“Did you dream of this, Dean?” Castiel asks as he teases a wet finger against the tightness of Dean’s hole. There’s a gasp and a twitch, but he relaxes almost instantly, and Castiel slips in. His motions are slow and gentle. Long teasing strokes bring more of those noises he loves, and soon he slips in a second finger. He grazes almost by accident against that little bundle of nerves. Dean cries out louder and it brings a smile to Castiel’s face. With his hands fisted in the sheets, his eyes wide and his lips parted to let those breathy moans and strangled whimpers tumble out, he’s unashamed and unbound and so incredibly free.
Castiel works in a third finger. Dean is whimpering almost constantly now, squirming on the bed as the slow drag of Castiel’s fingers teases him towards the edge. Castiel’s free hand words to unbuckle his belt and open his pants. He’s achingly hard now, just from touching Dean. Just from seeing him like this. Castiel loves him like this, when he’s desperate and needy, when he’s spread open and those filthy noises tumble from his lips with every breath. It’s amazing to Castiel that he can take such a strong, powerful man and reduce him almost to tears just with three fingers.
“What do you want, Dean?” Castiel growls, because he knows what he wants, and that’s to hear Dean say it. He’s never quiet when they come together like this, but it’s rarely words. Castiel loves to hear him say it, when he demands or begs or pleads. Dean chokes back a sob, and Castiel thinks he’s going to have to ask again, but he’s mistaken.
“Please Cas!” Dean cries. His voice is pitched higher than usual, and Cas loves it because he did that. “I want,” he breathes. He’s cut off by a full-body shudder as Cas presses against his prostate again. “Fuck me!” Now it’s Cas’s turn to gasp. Sometimes he forgets what it does to him to hear Dean like this. He wants to hear it again; wants to make him beg for it because he’s so beautiful when he’s desperate like this. But he never wants to deny Dean anything, not a single want, so tonight he won’t. His pants are off as fast as he can toss them and he hooks Dean’s legs around his waist.
The first push is gentle, slow, careful, but as soon as Castiel’s hips are pressed to Dean’s thighs, it becomes something else. There are times when Dean wants it soft and loving but the fire in his eyes tells Castiel that this isn’t’ one of those nights, and he obliges. He snaps his hips forward and sets a hard rhythm. They’re pressed together from hips to shoulders as he fucks Dean into the mattress, a tangle of sweat-slick limbs. Castiel mouths wet kisses at Dean’s throat, his shoulders, his jaw, and is rewarded with more of the sounds he loves to hear. He hears his own voice cry out as Dean bites at his shoulder maybe a little rougher than he meant to, but Castiel doesn’t mind. He loves it when Dean lets go like this.
It’s a whole new sound when Dean cries out in orgasm, his body tightening around Castiel in every way imaginable. It’s almost otherworldly, like nothing else he’s ever heard. Castiel lives for that sound. He rides Dean through it, thrusting hard and fast and deep as the man beneath him shudders in ecstasy, and he’s caught off guard when his own orgasm rips through him. The edges of his vision go white and the fire in his belly blazes and he’s fairly certain the noise he makes is a symphony with Dean’s cries.
Seconds or decades later when he regains his focus and neither of them is panting to catch their breath any longer, he moves across the room and begins to dress. Dean watches him stand with sleepy eyes but when Castiel reaches for his pants, he speaks up.
“Where do you think you’re going?” He admonishes, and Castiel’s honestly not sure. He feels like he’s supposed to leave. His shoulders shrug of their own accord and he drops the pants where he found them, climbs back in to bed. Dean’s arms are firm and strong as they wrap around him. The hunter falls asleep quickly and soon his eyes start to move behind his lids. He’s dreaming again. Castiel doesn't need to peer in and see what he’s dreaming of. He doesn’t always know what Dean wants, but right now, he knows it’s this.