Chapter Text
Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
Dean’s eyes are rolled so far back in his own skull, he’s sure that he can see the misfiring neurons in his brain; like pretty pretty fireworks on the fourth of July.
He can feel his blood pumping, sluggish and lava hot in his veins.
He can taste the iron-rich, salty tang on the spray.
He’s gonna die like this.
He’s gonna die in a plush bathroom, one with toilet seat covers – toilet seat covers for fucks sake – in the middle of Portland, Oregon, and he hasn’t even seen the world’s largest bookshop yet.
Somewhere out there beyond the fuzziness that’s closing in on him, past the steam of the running shower he can hear a not-quite-rhythmic thud that his oxygen-starved brain takes a while to recognize as someone – possibly the fucking Gestapo by the sounds of it – banging on the motel room door.
Cas. Fuck, Cas.
The hand at his throat loosens, thumb that had been pressed over his windpipe letting up just enough that he can breathe again. The strong, lean body that has him shoved up against and pinned to the slick tiles of the shower wall begins to slowly pull away, the thick length of the dick in his ass withdrawing, and Dean manages a feeble whimper.
No. So close. No.
He scrambles for leverage against slippery damp skin, heels spurring and nails digging into firm flesh, desperation his driving motivation, forcing Cas back deep inside, back where he belongs, keeping and holding him there with the tight clench of muscle, guttural moan articulating his relief.
“Dean.” Castiel grinds out, all gritted teeth and black eyes, mindless now as he resumes fucking Dean; tight, driving thrusts that have him savoring the burn of obliteration at the back of his throat, and if this is how he dies, Dean’s glad that the inhuman noises Cas is pounding from his lungs will be his death rattle.
Cas. Fuck, Cas.
“Come for me, Dean.” It’s not a request. Castiel doesn’t request anything. Castiel demands. Castiel takes. Doesn’t need to put a hand on Dean’s dick to make his command a reality, and there’s something about it that never fails to wreck Dean, and so he obeys, helplessly, mindlessly; cock jerking between them as he comes, choking on his tongue, on a sob, on his own desire, until there’s nothing else left, but the perfect torture of it, the sin, the ruination.
Cas’s cock pulses slow and wet in Dean’s ass, lazily fucking in and out of his orgasm-loose, pliant body, until the banging on the door becomes too much for either one of them to bear.
This time when Cas pulls away, Dean lets him go, nothing but a bundle of nerves as he sinks to the bottom of the tub. Boneless and thoroughly fucked out.
“Jesus Christ, Dean.” Castiel mutters, shoving a hand through his hair, smoothing the unruly damp strands down. He looks torn between helping Dean recover from what may have been the petite mort of his lifetime and going to the door with a .45 in his hand.
“Better answer that, Cas.” Dean barely manages. His voice is scratchy, throat hoarse and he’s sure that there’s a necklace of bruises already forming, purple overlaid on yellow. He resists the urge to touch, to bring his hand up and wreck Castiel’s handiwork.
“Fuck.” Cas mutters, eyes still on Dean, stepping backwards out of the tub with a grace that shouldn’t be possible under normal circumstances, let alone after a killer orgasm.
“Don’t forget a towel.” Dean grits out after him.
***
By the time Dean’s limbs are cooperating enough to allow him to climb out of the tub, he’s sure that anyone from the neighboring rooms who was there to make a noise complaint will be long gone.
When faced with Cas’s charm or – in some of the dingier places they’ve stayed, the business end of a sawn-off – people usually back down pretty quickly.
But just to be on the safe side – theirs – Dean wraps a towel loosely around his waist before he steps out into the opulent room, plush carpet soft between his toes.
What he sees leaves him breathless in a completely different way to ten minutes before.
Cas is mostly dressed now, towel lying discarded on the California King – jeans zipped, but not buttoned, and a haphazardly thrown on shirt – and his hands are being cuffed behind his back by a burly-looking officer of the law, whilst another, more studious looking one stands nearby, reciting the Miranda rights in a bored tone.
His amber eyes flick over Dean, but don’t linger.
“The fuck?” Dean mutters, trying to tamp down the rising panic, clawing up his throat like a wild animal. “No.”
No.
No, they can’t have been caught. They’ve been so careful.
Dean’s mind spools through all of the people, the bodies, the carnage. There’s nothing. Two hundred and sixteen pints of blood spilled in the last eighteen months and there’s not a drop of it that can be traced back to them.
Neither of the officers make an attempt on Dean, so he pads further into the room, towards Cas. “What’s going on?” He’s addressing Castiel, but an answer from anyone will do at this stage.
Satisfied that Cas is sufficiently cuffed – which may be his second critical mistake today – the arresting officer turns his attention to Dean, coffee-brown eyes faintly appreciative of Dean’s half-nude form.
That’ll be his third.
“He’s being arrested for assault with a deadly weapon. It’s an offence that carries –“
Dean’s hit with the sudden urge to laugh hysterically in the officer’s face. These days, Cas doesn’t get out of bed for anything less than a homicide, and it’s not like he has ever needed a weapon – deadly or freakin’ otherwise – to hurt or kill someone.
The whole thing would be ridiculous if it weren’t for the fact that this is actually happening, and there’s a very real chance that Cas could go to prison.
Dean cannot let that happen. He’ll move Heaven and Hell to make sure that it doesn’t.
Better fucking listen to the cop then, eh?
“ – assault three. We’ll be taking him down to the station. If you want, Officer Taylor can wait here with you until you’re dressed and then give you a ride down there.”
Castiel lets out a low sound akin to a growl.
Possessive bastard. Officer Taylor better watch his back when Cas finally gets out.
If he gets out.
Shit.
First things first. A lawyer. They need a lawyer. Dean’s not opposed to going all medieval on the cops’ asses, but realistically, he’s not going to get far into a police station by himself, even with their entire arsenal of weapons that are kept in a trick compartment in the Impala’s trunk.
Which means doing things by the book; an indulgence which Dean hasn’t entertained in quite some time.
Lawyer.
Sammy.
“No, that’s alright.” Dean says, trying to appear like he has a clue, fist clenched in the knotted fabric at his hip. “I’ll need to get our attorney down here and then I’ll make my way to the station once I’ve briefed him.”
***
Sam picks up after four rings, slightly out of breath. “Dean.” He sounds relieved. It makes the space behind Dean’s ribs ache. “Long time no –“
“Speak. Yeah, I know. I’m a shit brother.” Dean doesn’t have time for the guilt trip that Sam is undoubtedly about to gift him with, can’t even spare the minutes it would take to hand over his baggage at the check-in desk. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch, dude. Things have been crazy.”
Crazy like three weeks ago in Cedar City, Utah where Castiel gutted a man like a fish? Or crazy like four months ago in Shelby, Montana where you both beat someone to death with claw hammers? Or crazy like –
Not helpful.
“My boyfriend has been arrested.”
There’s nothing but the faint crackle of static at the other end of the line for several long seconds. When Sam speaks again, it’s clear that he’s in lawyer mode. Dean’s thankful for it. He’s not sure he can field any of the questions that are almost certainly on the tip of Sam’s tongue right now. “Okay. For what?”
“Assault with a deadly weapon.”
“Okay.” Sam says again, this time a little more carefully. He’s treating Dean like a client. Good. They can deal with the actual fallout of this later. Or in true Winchester fashion, perhaps never. Perhaps just allude to it on special occasions. “Assault with a deadly weapon sounds scarier than it is. It means nothing. It’s usually a misdemeanor.”
Something in Dean’s chest lifts. A misdemeanor they can work with. As far as he’s aware, Cas has no priors, but then again, that doesn’t really count for much, because as far as Dean had been aware at one point, Cas was just a professor of English Lit.
“Which means no jail time?”
The infinitesimal hesitation before Sam answers is a heart-attack waiting to happen. “It depends. Where are you? Which state?”
“Oregon.”
“Gimme a minute.” There’s a rustling sound from Sam’s end of the line, the sound of muffled voices and papers shuffling. “Okay.”
If Sam says ‘okay’ one more time, when it so clearly isn’t, Dean’s gonna reach through the phone and slap his brother.
“Were you there when he was arrested?”
“Yeah.” Dean feels the familiar rush of heat to his cheeks at the reminder of exactly what they were doing. His hair is still damp. When he reaches up to his neck this time, he doesn’t stop himself from pressing down on the bruised skin. A semi-permanent reminder.
“Right.” – at least he didn’t say ‘okay’ – “What did the arresting officer say? Did he mention a specific charge?”
“Yeah, assault with a deadly weapon.” Dean mutters, more than a little frustrated. Either they’ve already been over this or Dean’s still in the bathroom, actually dead and this is all some weird Hell concocted just for him. “He read Cas his rights. Uhm. I dunno. Said something about assault three? I think?”
“Shit. That’s a felony they’ve charged him with. Probably a class C. Maybe a B.”
Well, fuck. “Speak English, Sammy.”
“Class C warrants about 5 years in prison, Class B is double that.”
Goddamn. Ten years. Ten fucking years.
And for what? For what essentially amounts to a whole lot of fuck all. For Christ’s sakes, Alastair served less than that and he nearly killed Dean.
The familiar sense of injustice begins to rear its ugly head; the sense of righteous anger that Castiel finally managed to get him to embrace rather than reject, bubbling away thick and hot in his gut, bitter and scorching.
“Dean.”
No, no, no, no.
This is not happening. Cannot be allowed to happen.
He is not losing Castiel over this bullshit.
“Dean. Has he got representation?”
Dean supposes he should be thankful for Sam not asking whether Cas is actually guilty. He wouldn’t know what to say. Maybe? Probably? Even if he’s not guilty of it this particular time, there’s another hundred instances stacked up that would be easy substitutes.
It doesn’t matter whether he’s guilty or not.
No?
“No.”
There’s movement from Sam’s end of the line. “Hang tight. I’m on my way.”
“It’s gotta be seven hundred miles at least. It’s gonna take you a damn day.”
It probably says a whole lot about Dean that he’s more concerned about the time constraints than he is about the inconvenience his brother is going through for him.
Nothing you don’t already know, Winchester.
“Six hundred and seventy-seven.” Sam corrects. “It’ll be ten hours if I floor it. Just… don’t do anything crazy in the interim.”
Crazy like –
“As if I would, Sammy.”