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It’s not like Cas’ company is unwelcome. Dean’s grateful not to be cruising down this unlit country road by himself. It’s a new moon on a cloudy night, so all he can see is what is revealed by baby’s headlights. He’s hugging the curves slow and steady. It’s going to be nearly dawn by the time he gets where he’s going at any rate, so he feels no need to rush. It’s just that Cas is just sitting there, silent and unreadable, and it’s getting on Dean’s last nerve.
He’d fluttered in nearly half an hour ago, and aside from a greeting, he hadn’t said a single word since he arrived. At first it was fine. Dean just turned up the volume on the radio and drummed out the rhythm on the steering wheel. But now after a solid thirty minutes of awkward angelic silence, he’s getting annoyed.
“So Cas,” he starts, turning the radio down to a volume more conducive to conversation. He’s about to ask what the crap the angel is here for, since he rarely shows up unless something is royally fucked up, but Cas speaks first.
“I’d like to kiss you, Dean.”
Dean’s not sure he heard him right. He’s almost entirely sure he didn’t. He blinks a few times, wondering if perhaps he’s fallen asleep at the wheel and this is a dream he’s having while he’s on the good drugs in a hospital bed somewhere. He lets up on the accelerator a little, eases the car to a more manageable speed, and turns his head slightly to look at Cas for confirmation that he’s gone bat shit fucking crazy.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly. Did you just say you want to kiss me?” Dean asks, and he immediately regrets the derisive tone in his voice. Cas’s face is unreadable, but he confirms.
“That is what I said, Dean. I’ve thought about it, and I’d like to kiss you.”
“Oh,” Dean replies. But in his head he’s much wordier. Jesus Christ is this actually happening? Cas, the holy tax accountant of the lord, has thought about it, and he’d like to kiss me. What do I do? What the fuck do I do? Do I want to kiss him? Of course I want to kiss him? Look at those lips? Who wouldn’t want to kiss those lips? Wait, what? What the fuck was that? Shit, he’s talking again. Dean ceases his inner monologue and briefly tears his eyes off the road to glance at Cas. He’s staring at Dean, his usual unflappable calm broken by a note of what Dean is pretty sure reads as anticipation.
“Are you alright Dean? Did I say something wrong?” Cas’ voice carries a note of concern. He’s still so, so terrible at reading human interaction.
“No Cas, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. It’s just, you know, a lot to process.” Cas is silent for a few minutes after that. Shook Me All Night Long comes on the radio and Dean turns it off almost instinctively. That’s not the soundtrack he wants for this exact moment.
“So you don’t want to kiss me?” Cas asks. Goddamn this angel and his blunt ass awkwardness. Who fucking asks that?
“I never said that Cas. Just, I’m driving right now. Not exactly primo timing for this kind of thing.” There. Deflected. Smooth as fuck, Winchester.
“I see, so if you weren’t currently driving, you’d want to kiss me.” Fuck. Nope. Not deflected at all.
“I didn’t…I mean uh…Damnit Cas. I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it, I mean…” Lies. All lies. Dean Winchester is a lying, lying liar.
“I see.” Castiel replied, and the car went silent again.
Dean doesn’t understand how it’s possible. He takes incredibly good care of his baby. She doesn’t die on the roadside. She just doesn’t. He keeps her fluids topped up and replaces everything at the right intervals and he knows every sound she makes; every click and every bang and every whirr and buzz and roar and grumble and as far as he can tell, not a single fucking thing has been out of place with his baby at any point in the last few weeks. She’s at least a month away from needing an oil change at the rate he’s been driving, and the carburetor was just rebuilt last year and there’s no cracks in the head gasket and the spark plugs are new and there’s no way this side of hell there’s anything gone wrong with the electrical so why in the fuck is he stalled on the side of a fucking back road?
He makes as if to kick the tire in frustration but stops himself. He can’t be mad at his baby. It’s not her fault. He must have missed something. There’s a wire loose or some other tiny detail that he failed to catch. It’s Dean’s fault. He can’t take it out on his car. He checks the fuel gauge for the thousandth time, although he knows he just put gas in yesterday so it’s never been a viable guess as to what’s wrong, but everything he does right now is an exercise in futility anyway so why the fuck not? And of course there’s no cell reception. Why would his car die anywhere that he can actually call a tow truck? What kind of fucked up universe would be so kind as to give him that one break?
“I’m certain it’s nothing serious.” Cas offers helpfully. He’d forgotten he wasn’t alone on this dark country road.
“Oh, is that so? Did you become a holy mechanic since you last flapped your way down for a visit, Cas? Are you certain it’s nothing serious?” Dean’s being an asshole and he knows it, but he can’t be mad at baby and there’s no point in yelling at himself so Cas is the unfortunate easy target. Cas doesn’t flinch though, doesn’t balk when Dean yells at him. He just lets Dean yell until he apparently gets tired of listening to it.
“Shut up, Dean,” Cas rumbles, and Dean’s shocked into silence as much by Cas’ words as he is by Cas’ lips unexpectedly pressing against his and Cas’ tongue invading his mouth. It takes him a few seconds to process, to respond and his first thought is Abort, Abort!, so he pushes Cas away, fully aware that he’s a fucking angel, and if Dean moves him it’s because Cas lets him. But the second he draws a deep breath his brain is firing on all cylinders and it’s shouting at him to do it again, so he does. He’s barely separated himself from Cas when they’re crashing together again, and he’s backed Cas up against the side of the car that stranded them there, kissing him with all the pent up frustration he feels for his car channelled into something much more productive. Cas’ lips are rough and dry, and the stubble on his jaw grates against Dean’s own in a way he’s never experienced but can’t deny he likes. His hands find Cas’ hips as the angel’s hands grip tight fistfuls of Dean’s shirt. Dean’s insistent as he presses Cas against his car, not letting up for even a second as his tongue delves into the heat of Cas’ mouth. His hands grip Cas tight, pinning him with all the force he can muster and on anyone else his thumbs might leave bruises, but this is Cas, Cas, so it’s not going to be a problem.
One of Cas’s hands lets go its grip on Dean’s shirt and slides up to curve around the back of Dean’s neck. It barely rests there, not pulling Dean in forcefully but just touching. Dean welcomes the touch, leans in to it just so, and pulls away from the kiss. His breath is short and ragged and he realises he should have come up for air long ago.
“Is that what you had in mind, Cas?” He asks, willing his heart rate to slow and his breath to return to normal. It’s been a long time since just making out with someone has gotten him this worked up.
“I believe so,” Cas replies, and he looks so debauched with his lips red and swollen and that look on his face, so dark and determined, and Dean’s not sure if he should be turned on or terrified. “I also think I would like to continue,” he states plainly, and Dean can’t argue with that. He pulls Cas away from the car and opens the door to the back seat.
“Get in the car, Cas,” he says. Cas looks at him, perplexed. “I’m not doing this leaned up against a stalled car on the side of the road.” Cas complies, sliding across the seat as Dean climbs in behind him.
“What do you mean by this? What are we doing that you don’t want to do against the side of the car? Were we not just doing exactly that, kissing against the side of your stalled car?” Cas’ voice carries a hint of sarcasm, like he’s mocking Dean’s insistence on drawing this particular line. Dean freezes, arm still extended to the door handle, and he can tell Cas is looking at him with unblinking eyes while he waits for an answer.
“I really hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Dean admits and suddenly he’s panicking because yeah, what the fuck does he think is going to happen here? What does he even want to happen? He’s thought about Cas enough times that he’s got a whole spank-bank full of really graphic mental images, and he can almost picture what the angel would look like naked and writhing in the back seat of his car but he’s never, not for a second, considered that it might actually happen. And it petrifies him. “What do you want, Cas?” he asks, his voice shakier than he thought possible. He’s faced all kinds of terrifying things; ghosts and demons and rugaru and vetala, vampires and werewolves and frickin’ wendigos, shifters wearing his face, angry archangels with delusions withstanding, and the thing that lays his fear bare is a fucking seraph with blue eyes and kiss-bitten lips. This is the thing that’s going to end him.
Cas stares into his eyes, those blue orbs seeing into his very soul in a way only Cas has ever been able to, and he cocks his head to the side. Cas always does this when he’s questioning something, when he’s confused or dumbfounded. His eyes narrow and there’s a slight shift in the set of his jaw, and Dean knows exactly what that look means. How fucking stupid are you, it says, that you even have to ask that question? Dean feels his face flush, because yeah, it’s obvious. But it’s also the knowledge that Cas has thought about this very thing that drives the blood to his face. He nearly wilts under that stare. Dean feels like Cas is waiting for something, some kind of acknowledgement or assent, and he nods almost imperceptibly. It’s the tiniest of motions, just a slight inclination of his chin that says yeah, ok, come at me. It’s a challenge, an agreement and an invitation all rolled up in one, and Cas takes all three at face value and lunges at Dean, surging forward until their mouths crash together in an almost painfully fierce kiss and oh fuck Dean thinks, because this is exactly how he’s imagined it going down when he’s dared to dream.
Cas’ weight pins him half reclined against the door of the Impala. The seatbelt is digging in to his hip and his shoulder is wedged against the backrest at an awkward angle but all he’s really thinking about is the tongue that’s licking in to his mouth, trying to taste every bit of him and the hands that are roving over his chest like they can learn him by osmosis. He groans against Cas’ mouth. In another life Dean would be embarrassed by such a wanton show of desire. He’s always been predator, not prey, and it shouldn’t excite him this much to be attacked with all this aggressive lust but it does and he can’t help himself. His own hands come up to clutch at Cas, to push the bulk of that stupid trench coat off of Cas’ shoulders. He doesn’t get far; Cas’ elbows are bent and all he accomplishes is to pin Cas’ arms at his sides. The angel is forced to pull away and discard the garment in the foot well. Dean watches with rapt attention as long slender fingers unknot the rumpled tie he’s so used to seeing around that gorgeous throat, and he feels like he can’t even move as Cas removes his jacket, his shirt, revealing a bare chest that Dean has dreamed about so many times. The dreams don’t do it justice. He’s seeing it exposed before him for the very first time and all he can think is how much he wants to explore all of it with fingertips and lips and tongue. He wants to brush his thumbs across those pert nipples and see if Cas gasps when he does. Wants to drag his tongue along that collar bone, suck purple marks onto that neck and claim Cas as his own. Wants to touch and taste everything he can get his hands and mouth on.
Cas doesn’t give him the chance. He only gets a few brief seconds to drink in the gorgeous sight that’s laid out before his eyes, and then Cas is diving into him, cold fingers and warm palms pushing the hem of his tee-shirt up. He squirms at the chill touch, not entirely dignified but he can’t stop himself, and Cas hums out a small laugh against his throat as those hands slide up the side of his ribs, taking the shift with them. Dean’s forced to pull his shoulders away from the door awkwardly as the shirt is pulled over his head, and Cas ducks down to trap one of Dean’s nipples between his teeth, biting down just a little as his tongue laves over the nub and drags startled moans from Dean’s lips. Then Cas’ lips are leaving a trail of kisses up Dean’s chest, and he buries his face in Dean’s neck, teeth nipping at the tender skin, leaving faint stings and then soothing the reddened flesh with the warmth of his tongue.
How is Cas doing this? Dean doesn’t think the angel has any experience in this department but he’s somehow turning Dean into a quivering, whimpering mess of lust and desire, and they haven’t even done anything yet, not really. Every touch is lighting Dean’s blood on fire, every kiss leaves him gasping, wanting more. He’s used to being in control. The small part of his brain that isn’t fogged up by the intense want that’s gripping his consciousness tells him he should rally against this, but he crams that part into a tiny corner and locks the door on it because fuck you, brain, you’re not the boss of me. And then even that tiny part shuts the fuck up, because Cas’ lips are on his again, insistent and hungry, and Dean matches him for intensity because that’s something he can do even pinned in the back seat of his car. His own hands finally start to explore the glorious topography of Cas’ torso. He’s learning to love the little sounds that Cas makes at his touches, muffled slightly by the press of their mouths but no less delicious. He’s touching everything he can reach, and then suddenly his mind is blanked to all rational though as Cas drags a hand down between his legs and palms at Dean’s dick through his jeans. The moan that escapes his parted lips and is swallowed up by Cas’ hungry mouth starts somewhere low in his belly and simmers up to the surface, rumbling out before he even registers what’s happening.
“Jesus Christ Cas,” he groans out, eyes fluttering. Dean’s overwhelmed by the magnitude of the sensations he’s experiencing right now but he wants more, more, and he knows Cas will give it to him if he asks. He thinks he might not even have to ask, actually. Cas sees the desire displayed openly on his face and he sits up as much as he’s able in the tight confines of the back seat and goes to work freeing Dean of his pants. He manages the belt and the button and the fly, but there’s just not enough room to move properly and the jeans get stuck half way down Dean’s thighs. It’s an awkward scramble from there on out but Dean manages to shimmy enough, arching his hips off the seat so that Cas can work him out of jeans and boxer-briefs alike. And now he’s sprawled on the back seat of his car on a deserted country road on a pitch black night, wearing nothing but a smile as his angel perches above him with a look on his face that speaks of pure sin.
Cas takes a moment to divest himself of his own pants. It’s slightly less awkward than getting Dean’s jeans off simply because he’s more upright. Dean can’t help but gasp when his cock springs free, hard and swollen, the head glistening in evidence of how much he wants Dean, wants this. Dean swallows a ragged breath before reaching for Cas’ hips, pulling him close again and initiating another messy kiss and reaching between his angel’s legs to wrap his hand around the thick length of his erection. Cas growls low in his throat. Fuck, Dean thinks, why is that so fucking hot?
Cas is so incredibly responsive to the slow drag of skin on skin as Dean begins to move his hand carefully along the length of the angel’s substantial cock. He’s barely started but Cas’ hips are already jerking forward to chase the friction and every new thing Dean does, every twist, every touch brings new noises that Dean just can’t get enough of. He’s so focused on the pleasure he’s bringing Cas that he’s taken by surprise when Cas takes him in hand and matches his rhythm. It’s delicious, the paired rhythm of their hands and hips, moaning into each other’s mouths as they learn by touch. The rhythm changes so gradually that Dean scarcely notices the shift, isn’t even aware of it until Cas’s hand wanders away from his dick. There’s a teasingly light touch on his balls, and that’s good, that’s familiar, and then all of a sudden he feels Cas touching him elsewhere, experimentally sliding a finger across the tight ring of muscle nestled between his ass cheeks. Shock turns to acceptance turns to Yes oh holy mother of fuck yes as Cas nudges just the tip of one finger in, pushing just a little. Dean stops moving his hand on Cas’ cock, stops kissing, and Cas looks at his face like he’s expecting rejection or trepidation or fear but he finds only eyes blown wide with pleasure.
“Wait,” Dean says, and he pulls himself upright, immediately missing the touch. Dean leans over into the front seat, bare ass in the air and reaches for the glove box. It’s in here somewhere, he thinks, digging through road maps and napkins, and finally he finds a small bottle of lotion tucked in there for not quite exactly this occasion. “Ah, there it is,” he mumbles, tossing it backwards to Cas. Cas catches it with one hand, dropping it on the seat as he reaches up to palm Dean’s ass. He grips each cheek with a firm hand, pinning Dean against the seat-back even as he tries to return to the back seat.
“Stay like this,” Cas commands. Dean moans his assent, bracing his feet against the back seat as Cas slicks up a finger with the lotion, spreading Dean wide before pushing it in. Dean gasps at the stark contrast between the cold of the lotion and the hot burning stretch he feels as Cas works him open. It doesn’t take long before he’s used to the intrusion of one finger. His cock hangs heavy against the back of the seat and he’s not sure if the dizziness he’s battling is because his head is hanging low in the front seat or because he’s driven wild with lust by the angel that’s now got two fingers pushing into his ass with long, slow strokes.
Dean moans softly as Cas works in a third finger. It hurts, but god does he want more. He braces his feet as well as he can and tries to rock his hips backward, tries to fuck himself on Cas’ fingers. Cas holds him in place with his free hand, makes a low sound in his throat that Dean takes as a chastisement. He wants to push back anyway, to show that he won’t be controlled so easily but Cas brushes his fingers against his prostate and suddenly he can’t think of anything but the sparking pleasure that shoots through every single nerve in his body. The cry that escapes his lips is guttural and primal, and he doesn’t think he’s ever made quite that kind of noise before. Cas laughs though, deep and dark, and if Cas likes noises like that then Dean is going to make damn sure he makes them again and again and again.
Cas seems to have the same idea, because as soon as he’s worked in a fourth finger, he’s jabbing relentlessly at that sweet spot, and Dean loses the ability to form any kind of rational thought. His limbs are gelatinous and useless, and he can only communicate through whimpers and moans. Eventually it all dissolves in to one low endless keen, punctuated by little treble spikes as Cas’s free hand smacks his ass. Dean’s never been spanked before but he’s also never been worked open around slick fingers before either, and the only thought he can cling to as he drowns in the sea of endorphins coursing through his veins is that it may be the first time but it fucking better not be the last.
Cas seems to decide he’s had enough. He gets one last firm slap to the ass, harder than the others but still not exactly unwelcome, and then Cas is guiding him into the back seat again. Cas reclines himself on the seat, back awkwardly against the door on the driver’s side. Dean’s confused for a second but Cas takes him by the hips and brings him forward, settles him on Cas’ lap. Then he gets it.
It takes a couple tries to get himself situated but as soon as he’s got leverage, one knee on the bench seat, one leg on the floor, he fits Cas to his slick opening. Another moan drags from his lips as he slides down and bottoms out. Cas grins at him, his own breath already shallow and ragged though they’ve barely started, and his fingers bite into the meat of Dean’s thighs. He takes a second to get his bearings, to acclimatize himself to the incredible full feeling, but as soon as he starts to rock his hips the short thrusts don’t seem like enough and he wants more.
Dean braces his hands against the door behind Cas and uses the leverage to drive his hips down, bottoming out with force he didn’t think he had in him. The night air rings out with his cries as he takes Cas in up to the hilt, and Cas harmonizes with his own raw sounds, singing guttural moans with each thrust until Dean can’t tell where he ends and Cas begins. He thinks he might lose his mind if this continues, thinks he might never breathe normally again now that he knows what it’s like to moan against Cas’ mouth as he’s crawling towards the edge of orgasm.
Cas slips a hand between them to grasp Dean’s leaking cock. He tugs at it with short, rough strokes and it’s absolutely overwhelming. Dean can feel his climax approaching. He chases it frantically, slamming down on Cas with each thrust, spiralling closer and closer to the white-hot release that looms just out of his reach. Cas gets there first though, his hips jerking upwards as his cries take on a new note. There’s a harrowing quality to the way he bellows, his eyes wide and his head thrown back as he spills out into Dean.
“Oh Dean, Dean, Christ!!” he shouts, his fist tightening on Dean’s cock as he comes. Dean leans his head down, crashes their mouths together in a final bruising kiss. Cas’ orgasm crests, breaks over him like waves on the shore and just as it starts to recede, Dean follows him over the edge, breaking away from Cas’ lips to howl wordlessly as he paints white streaks across Cas’ belly and his own. He gives a few more shaky thrusts, grinding his hips against Cas before his legs give out.
Dean thinks he might fall asleep like this, though he’s in no way comfortable. But he’s fucked out and blissed out and moving is the furthest thing from his mind, so they stay collapsed on the back seat until Dean’s breathing has normalized and his heart is back down to a manageable beat. He pushes himself up slightly, cringing at how sticky he feels, and Cas smiles at him when their eyes meet.
“I seem to have marked you up,” he says fondly, raising a hand to caress the side of Dean’s neck where he knows there are tiny bite marks, even if he can’t see them. “I apologise.”
“I’m not complaining,” Dean replies. He casts his eyes around, searching for his shirt and when he finds it, he does a passable job of cleaning them up. Dressing in the back seat is just as difficult as undressing, he finds, but eventually he’s presentable enough to get out of the car and dig around in his duffel in the trunk for a clean shirt.
“Fuck,” he mutters as Cas joins him outside. He’s already back in the trench-coat, and aside from his hair looking even messier than usual he looks like nothing at all has happened. Dean’s not so lucky. He’s flushed and sweating even in the night air, and there are marks on his neck and his still-bared chest that serve as rather obvious evidence of what they’ve been up to. Cas doesn’t mention any of it. “We’re still stranded here,” Dean volunteers.
“Are we?” Cas replies, and Dean has no idea what he means so he gives him the most quizzical stare he can muster. “Why don’t you try the engine again, Dean?” If Cas knows something Dean doesn’t, his face isn’t giving any of it away. Dean slams the trunk a little harder than he means to and makes his way to the driver’s seat. He’s not expecting anything to be different. Somehow after decades of encountering all of the worst and least plausible things the world has ever suspected the existence of, he still manages to be cynical. So when he slides into the seat and turns the key, he’s a bit surprised to be rewarded with baby’s engine rumbling to life like nothing was ever wrong with her.
“I don’t understand,” he mumbles incredulously, fastening his seatbelt. “I didn’t fix anything…”
“It was never broken,” Cas says, and when Dean turns to look at him the look on his face is a mixture of smug pride and amusement. Dean narrows his eyes unkindly. “I believe you said it was inopportune timing. I simply made things more opportune.” He lays out flat hands like he’s offering his explanation on a platter, and all Dean can do is stare.
“You set this up?” He practically shouts. Cas doesn’t even have the grace to look remorseful.
“Are you complaining?” Cas asks, and he shakes his head. Dean replies with a shake of his head. He rests a reassuring hand on the angel’s knee as he eases the car into gear and pulls back onto the road. It’ll be well past sunrise before they meet up with Sam now. It still probably doesn’t make a difference.
“No, Cas, I don’t suppose I am.”