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Shower times were Dean’s sacred times. There was no Sam, no apocalypse, no Purgatory. There were no monsters in the shower, there was just Dean.
He got to shut himself in. Shut out everything.
He didn’t get that any other time. Not even when he slept. When he slept he dreamt, and nightmares never followed far behind. All his life, everything his mind ever turned over could somehow become a nightmare come sleep time, and that wasn’t his time.
Shower time was Dean’s time.
He got naked, and that was maybe the most important part of all. No more fighting, no more being a hunter. Just his skin. This was the only time he ever got naked - not even sex could get all his clothes off. He had to keep a little bit of hunter on him then, too.
He picked open the button on his jeans, then pulled down the zipper, eyes shut. His shoes were already gone, left with Sammy out in the main part of their motel room. His socks found a corner of the bathroom as he flicked his toes, and his jeans followed.
His shirt got wrenched up over his head last, a thin smear of blood wrinkling over his cheek. He winced, but didn’t glance in the mirror. He didn’t want to see the damage.
The shower curtain was clammy and cold, and stuck to his forearm as he dragged it shut. He breathed slowly, a subtle grunt riding up his throat as he shifted his shoulders. He was bruised - but then again, he always was.
In the three weeks he’d spent out of Purgatory, he’d not been able to shut down at all. He was still on red alert, still jumping at the ticking of the pipes in the walls. Everything had teeth, shadows had smiles; his hand only fit around his knife.
The first splutter of cold water down his chest hit him like relief. It hurt, but it was a good hurt. It wasn’t dangerous, it was just freezing.
He darted out of the stream anyway, leaving a hand in it to measure the temperature. As soon as it was lukewarm, he slid underneath, closing his eyes and letting calm descend over him.
His showers had gotten shorter since getting topside. Without running water down there in Purgatory, it made these moment delicious. He had expected himself to savour it, standing there for hours, washing the dirt away, but each time he left the bathroom, Sam was surprised that there was still hot water left for him. Time passed strangely up here.
Dean appreciated hot water, but he never got comfortable enough to enjoy it.
He figured three weeks was long enough. He could enjoy it this time.
With a soft sigh, he reached up with one hand and curled it around the thick metal of the showerhead’s pipe, just for stability. His feet were set firm on the slippery tiles, and he peered downwards through wet eyelashes, water stinging his eyes.
He barely recognised his own body, sometimes. He was Dean Winchester, obviously, but he felt so disconnected.
Maybe a little reconnection might help.
With his free hand, he stroked flat down his stomach. His navel dipped softly as the heel of his palm passed it by, and as he scratched blunt nails through the thin barely-there trail of hair, he felt the first lift of human reaction.
He’d not felt that in what seemed like years. He’d lost his ability to react to touch so long ago, but now... it was back, and he smiled to himself, proud. Erections were still something to be proud of, even if he’d moved past them meaning anything. They was just for him, now.
His fingertips rested on his base, timid for reasons unknown.
Dean looked at himself, seeing the water running down his shaft, the heat of it becoming intermittent but still good. His invisible exhales clouded the air in front of his face, the puffs of his own breath rising like steam into his eyes.
Finally - finally, he felt another twitch. He ran his fingers down the silken skin, feeling every minuscule ripple between skin and flesh. His foreskin shifted as he thumbed it, twisting his hand under his cock until he was holding the whole thing gently, just letting it sit cupped on the thickest part of his fingers.
He liked its weight. It had a good girth, fatter in the middle; it was comfortably familiar. He slipped his thumb over the head, the pad nudging his foreskin back and forth over the slit.
He couldn’t help but sigh at that, carefully holding back a moan. All of a sudden it seemed like it hadn’t just been a long time, but forever. This felt new.
As he took a firm grip on the hard length, heat bursting like a flash in him, he bit down on his lip, his steadying hand on the shower pipe turning slightly. He didn’t tug himself, not yet. He just stood there, holding on, testing his squeezes. Short, then long, slow... hard, soft, quick.
When he did this, he didn’t think. There was nothing to think about. It was the kind of activity that emptied his mind, and all he could ever focus on was how it felt. There were no fantasies, there was just no room for them. He used to tell Sam there was a hot nurse that crossed his thoughts, or he would sit there staring at magazines, but he couldn’t think about the two things at once, not when he had his cock in his hand.
Huge surges flooded his gut, tense and hot. He let out a puff of air, a weak whimper escaping along with it as he started to pull.
He went slow. The hand on the pipe was cold and numb now, but right now he cared very little about any body part that wasn’t his cock. He squirmed, hips gyrating unconsciously, breath becoming nothing but hurried pants.
The heat in the shower was rich, filling. Steam was billowing around him, and inside of him, too.
He slid his feet apart, and the side of one bumped the edge of the shower tray, its tile still frigid. He wiggled his toes, getting a better balance. His hips bumped up, pushing his member into his fist, and with every sudden thrust came a swirl of energy in him, something that made him feel like part of the falling water, or part of the air. He moaned quietly, eyelids shut tight, their clench turning the grim light of the bathroom to warm red.
Sometimes he wished he could fantasise. There were so many things to enjoy, and he knew it would help him to love this act even more if he could think about something. But it was all about the pleasure, and with any fantasy there came too much potential to disappoint.
Women weren’t safe any more. Women in Dean’s life died or had to leave him; with women came heartbreak and loss. Women in pornography weren’t obtainable, and weren’t real. Women meant absence, for Dean. He didn’t want absence when he did this.
Blank. Blankness was all he saw, besides the insides of his eyelids, and the sparks in them that came from pleasure. He felt the need to keep going, pushing past that initial tenderness, the fear that it would go wrong, that he’d lose the flow part-way through. However much he felt, his visual remained empty.
But then, as he was leaning his free hand on the wall, his forehead against it, mouth open, lips wet, raw gasps breaking free and burning his throat - he saw colour.
Not orgasm. Just... colour.
Purgatory was empty of colour. It was muted, and the sounds came like a distant nightmare, like they were filtered through cotton - only explosions made it through; shouts, screams, twisted laughs. Whistles, fearful whispers, prayers. Dean heard those. He heard more than he’d ever heard in Hell.
The world up here was colourful. Seeing a flower for the first time three weeks ago had seemed like a fucking miracle to Dean. There wasn’t any life like that in Purgatory; it seemed too much like hope.
The colour behind Dean’s lids now wasn’t like the gorgeous blue bloom Dean had stood for a full minute staring at, touching, running his fingers under its waxen petals, the same way he now ran his fingers under his cockhead.
This colour was Heavenly. Like a garden of flowers. Powdered flame, fireworks, total consumption. It was separate from his pleasure, but given the disconnection he felt to his body, he thought nothing of it. The world up here brought back strange things, and maybe this was what physical touch had always given him. It had been so long he’d forgotten.
The sound of drips on the tiles and the splatter of water hitting the inside of the curtain all seemed to drown out, after a bit. He didn’t even notice, because it happened just as easily as falling asleep. His hand kept moving, and that was all he felt.
Dean didn’t need to feel disconnection, it wasn’t something happening by chance. He was choosing to feel that, and he only felt it because he’d forgotten how to feel. He didn’t understand his own body.
After losing Castiel down there in Purgatory and being spewed back up into the darkness, with only the now-absent Benny for company, he’d embraced being alone. Everyone he knew was dead. Castiel was gone. Sam had abandoned him for the whole year. Finding that out had been the last straw.
Dean just... abandoned himself.
Castiel sighed upon discovering this, a sad caress falling wetly down Dean’s bicep.
Castiel was trying not to look at his naked body, trying not to feel what Dean felt, but Dean was feeling things again at long last. Castiel knew this act was meant to be enjoyed, so he tried to let Dean enjoy it.
Castiel relaxed, let Dean stand for him. He let out a slow, broken moan that came from Dean’s mouth.
Dean’s eyes snapped open, removing his hand from his own bicep. His arm had been curled across his chest like an embrace, but now he swung it back to the wall, his mind frantic with that strange, spitting colour. Had he moaned aloud? Did Sam hear?
Still, he smiled to himself. He’d felt enough to lose control, and with that final satisfaction in the forefront of his mind, he squashed the first spray of orgasm from himself. His breaths ripped free in hushed shots, a frown between his eyebrows as thick sensation drew down his body, emptying his stresses over the wall before him.
He groaned a low note as it ended, tipping his face to the mould-damaged ceiling, letting the hot water gush down his stubbled throat.
He stood there for what felt like another damn eternity. He didn’t wash properly, but revelled in how he felt. Despite the definite singularity of his body behind the curtain, despite the knowledge that there was nobody else in the bathroom with him, he felt like he wasn’t alone. And not even in the creepy way.
In the... loved kind of way. Like somebody was curled around his back, pressing a soft kiss to his bare shoulder, nose buried against his neck. A hand splayed on his hip, their whole body pushed flush to his. Naked, maybe.
Comfort, was the word that sprung to mind, before Dean had even considered searching for a word. He’d found a part of himself under the shower spray, and as he turned off the water at last, going to grab his towel and dry off, he wondered what else he’d found, besides a boner.
He padded back into the bedroom, still thinking about it.
Sam peeked over the top of his laptop, his eyes looking shifty and somewhat suspicious as Dean eyed him back, but neither of them spoke.
If he’d moaned, Dean knew Sam had heard it. To be honest, he didn’t even care. That moan had been a thing of beauty. He smirked to himself as he got dressed into clean clothes.
He had unmitigated plans to repeat this, the very next time Sam was out. Maybe he’d moan a little louder.
☆
He’d been waiting all day. It wasn’t like usual, he wasn’t just charged. He’d felt something so fresh the last time he did this. He wanted to discover that over again, and he kicked his jeans off in order to do it.
He didn’t bother with a shower. He could try it out in the main room tonight, because there was nobody else here. He did it like this all the time, a few years back: as soon as Sam was out, Dean would have his hands down his pants.
But he wanted to be naked this time. The ‘hunter’ thing needed to go.
His muscles didn’t ache so much today, and the cut on his cheek had healed. He figured jerking off was good for his health, helped him heal faster. He was all set to help that healing process along some more, if that was indeed the case.
He sighed as he wriggled his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers, feeling a certain level of satisfaction as he bent down to remove them from his ankles and found his cock already pressing up to his tummy. He straightened and looked down at it, smirking as it plumped itself, a heavy twitch swaying it wholly.
Rolling his eyes up, Dean fell flat back onto the bed behind him. The mattress flopped, its heavy weight thumping back into the wall. Dean shifted backwards on his bare ass, arranging himself so his head was propped up on the pillow with a hand crooked against his hair.
He initiated gingerly again, not wanting to rush this. Sam should be gone at least half an hour; Dean had the chance to savour his alone time.
The air in the motel room was adequately warm - the last of the summer heat was lingering in the walls, and the air conditioner only trickled out a draft that didn’t even make it to the bed. Dean closed his eyes, not feeling his skin bristling at all, ease pumping in his veins.
The first touch of his hand against his hipbone got another throb, hot flesh tapping up excitedly against his abdomen. He ran his fingertips along the underside, mapping out the wrinkles, the raised veins that vanished the firmer he pressed down.
The edge of his thumb skimming his frenulum caused a tiny gasp to part his lips, a smile rising on one side of his mouth. He’d missed this.
Shifting his shoulders and swallowing, he settled down for a long session. He’d draw this one out as best he could.
His forefinger played around his cockhead, his thumb pulling his foreskin back as he explored. He wiggled the very tip of his pinkie into his slit, feeling a swoop in his hips as he bucked into the touch, another little sound breaking from his throat.
He was usually quiet when he did this to himself. Or, at least, that was how he remembered it. For what it was worth now, he liked making noise.
He gave himself a single stroke, the pads of his fingers gripping firmly, the warmth of his hand enshrouding his length for just a few seconds before he let go. A happy groan rattled in his throat, and he rolled onto his side, his free hand cupped under his cheek.
With his hand between his legs, he took hold again and tugged, this time more confidently, the curve of his thumb rasping dry over his cockhead and making him moan, buck, then do the same thing again. Flutters of pleasure started to built, the sensations making him want more.
There could have been a fear there - the impulse to stop niggled at him, and he didn’t know where that came from. He was relaxed, but he still felt nervous, like this was somehow a dirty thing to do, that maybe it wasn’t pleasure he was feeling, but pain.
He frowned and looked down at himself as he touched rhythmically now, watching his fist pull and twist, smooth liquid wetting his fingers as he moved them. That wasn’t pain, he told himself. That felt good, that was what touching was for.
This wasn’t wrong. This was natural, and he’d always enjoyed it, it only made sense that he would still love it after so long.
He had no idea why, but that little pep-talk let him relax. He shouldn’t need to work himself up to this. And yet...
Mouth open, he let out a quiet whimper, eyelashes flickering on the pillow as he turned his head into it. He sighed against the cotton, a second moan vibrating against his shoulder as it tumbled in his throat. The pre-come slicking his fingers was doing good things for his pace; he couldn’t stop now, nor slow - that was gorgeous, it made his insides tremble, his hips turning forwards.
He pushed into his hand, his other five fingers curling against his face. His wet gasps became surprisingly desperate as he moved for more, gyrating into his own grip, buttocks clenched up tight. The bed covers shifted under him, thin cloth folding between his toes as they tensed, his feet fidgeting as he used them as leverage to hump his fist.
“Auhh,” he burst out, letting go of his cock to roll onto his front, losing his grip on everything as he started humping the bed, cloth warm from his overheating skin. His hands were sticky as he rested his lips on them, his breath coming hard and fast as he screwed the cotton between his fingers.
Rough gasps accompanied his body’s movements, his hips forcing down, his member caught between the flat muscle of his tummy and the bed, heat spreading in pulses under his skin, making him buck harder.
It was good. He felt lost in it, like he’d entered a maze and every corner was getting him closer to the centre, no matter which turning he took. He didn’t need his hands, arousal by itself was doing just fine. Moving his hips was like sex; the mimicry was working for him.
He whimpered, not caring how pathetic he sounded. He was the only one here, and he was enjoying it. The sounds he made were unbridled, and plenty satisfactory, so if a low mewl broke over his curled tongue, he embraced it.
Dean shifted faster, gripping the bed clothes so hard his knuckles paled. His teeth were set on the skin of one hand, the thrusts of his hips making him leave tiny bite marks. He growled, eyes tight shut. The bed rocked, the mattress made to shiver under his wresting weight.
The next sound he made came out as a long, low groan, as his hips slowed to drag deep. The bed halted as he fucked it slowly, pushing - pushing himself into it. He could feel the pressure of it, and as he bucked back for another forward thrust, he let free another moan, “Deeaaan...”
His eyes snapped open, gasping in shock rather than pleasure.
That was weird. Moaning your own name while getting yourself off was... Yeah, that was weird.
Dean sat up slowly, fighting the desperate urge to start touching again. His heart was pounding so hard he felt it in his ears. His vision was blurry from having his eyes shut so tightly, but as he blinked, it cleared, and he turned to sit back, staring out at the empty motel room.
This was the kind of thing that got people kicked out of bed during sex. Dean put his dry hand across his mouth, touching his lips. They were plumped from arousal, and the heat of his cheeks bled into his hand as he ran his skin across it. He shook his head, feeling so very disoriented.
“Christo,” he said.
Nothing happened. No demons. He didn’t think he was being possessed until now. But he felt no danger. Just weirdness.
Dean let out a light chuckle, relaxing as he tossed his face back, brushing it off. “Fuck, man, you’re just out of it,” he told himself. “Pull it together.”
With a soft exhale, he put his hand back to his erection, rounding it with determined fingers and pulling it back to full stiffness. He eyed it, watching the reddened cloth-sore skin swell under his touch, until his length was so stiff it was determined to rest against his navel any time he let go for a moment.
He set his legs crooked either side of him, his back against the headboard of the bed, ass on the pillow. He watched his cockhead slip between his circled fingers, the shine on them from pre-come spread by the movements. He thumbed himself over and over, consciously holding back his nudging hips so he didn’t slip on the pillow.
Eventually he got into it, sighing as he let his head drop back to the wall, eyelids falling closed.
Another slow moan slid from his mouth, and he let it go, chasing it with another one, this time on purpose. He kept moaning, panting for breath, a frown creasing his forehead as he concentrated on how he sounded. Sometimes the vocalisations came out deep, other times weak and strained, breathy as the sound caught over a burst of air.
He didn’t even catch himself before a single rattling groan again came out as, “Oh... Dean...”
He squeezed firmly on his cock, jaw set as he tried very hard not to freak out.
“Is... is there someone there?” he asked, his shaking, lust-rough voice hitting the empty walls of the motel room. “Is someone... in me?”
All he heard was his heavy breath, which he bit on his lip to stop. Then, silence.
He breathed again, bumping his head on the wall, as he leaned back to stare blankly at the ceiling. “Jesus, Dean, you freak.”
Shaking his head dismissively, he started moving his hand once more. He purred, switching straight back into his rhythm, the heat flooding him from the hips outwards, curling his toes, tensing his fingers against the pillow.
He tipped his chin down to watch, somewhat pleased by the fact he was large enough that could only hold half his length in one fist, and his fingers only just overlapped around his width. He gritted his teeth and pushed out a fierce groan - he’d discovered a new indulgence in watching him touching himself which he’d never felt before.
“Yes,” he whispered, biting on his lower lip as he smiled. “Fuck, yes.”
Pre-come was shimmering over his hand now, wet squelches obvious and basal as he squeezed more fluid out. He made vocal sounds on each stroke, a millisecond of a word that would never be completed. Occasionally a small moan would spill downwards as he kept watching, his free hand moving to grip hard on his bare knee.
“...Dean―”
Dean flipped out. He jumped off the bed, furiously wiping his wet hand on his hip, eyes darting around the room as he searched for any kind of clue to what was happening. “I know... I know there’s someone here. Shit. Shit, I can...”
He panted, balling a fist against his lips, trying to ignore the way his cock was still pounding with need. He’d loved the way he’d said his name. He’d never heard it said like that - and for that matter, he’d never heard his own voice speak that way. He’d never said anyone’s name in that manner.
Loving. In a loving manner. It was like in the shower last night, when he’d felt arms around himself only to find they were his own.
Dean suffered a mild panic attack as he wondered if he was somehow having a kind of existential crisis. Maybe too much self-acceptance was a bad thing.
“No,” he sighed, exasperated, his voice shaking. “Dean... Dean, please don’t stop...”
Dean freaked the fuck out. He hurled himself back against the wall, mouth open ready to scream. Guns were no use now. He couldn’t be possessed, not by a demon. What the fuck was this?!
Closing his eyes, he curled a hand around his cock, stroking gently, experimentally. He smiled, a shivering breath gusting over his wet lips. He swallowed, a vibrating moan jarring in his chest.
With another gasp, he wrenched his hand off himself, heart hammering like a repeated gunshot. He didn’t know where to look, all he knew was to look anywhere but his cock. It seemed to like that, whatever it was.
“Dean, it’s me,” Dean said, forcefully.
Dean snarled to the room, focusing on nothing. “Yeah, and who’s me?”
“You don’t know?”
Dean shook his head. “You expect me to guess?”
Calm descended over him, like dipping his toes into a river, sun on his bare shoulders. A soft kiss lingered on his throat, tender as starlight.
Dean whimpered in something akin to fear, yet far from it. He was frightened, but he didn’t feel the need to run, nor disconnect himself from this... being.
He gulped, lowering his eyes and soaking up the soft press of invisible lips he felt on his Adam’s apple, the fingers he felt dragging on the heated skin of his shoulder.
“You really don’t know?”
Dean smirked nervously, feeling more settled now. He slumped against the wall, licking his lips. “I... maybe have a theory. If I’m wrong, please don’t kill me.”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t hurt you, Dean.”
Dean caressed his own clavicle, hoping the other guy could feel how softly he did it. “Cas?”
No reply came, but Dean didn’t need a reply. He let out a relief-sodden laugh, his knees going weak as he slid partially down the wall. “Cas... oh god, you’re alive. Thank god. Thank god.”
With a hand over his mouth, he smiled, kissing his fingers. “I thought I lost you.”
He sighed, relaxing completely as he swayed himself back to his feet and went to lie back down on the bed. This was still freaking weird, but he wasn’t scared.
“The hell are you doing inside me, man?” Dean asked as he got comfortable, but he didn’t get an answer. With a slow smile, he glanced down at his erection. “I... guess you liked this,” he muttered, talking to Cas easily now. “Me touching?”
Castiel still spoke no reply, but Dean felt his affirmation as his own hand was moved to his cock, fingers skimming the foreskin down, gentle enough to elicit a moaning gasp from Dean, unexpected.
“You ever... uh, ever done this before?” Dean asked breathlessly, guiding his touch to take his cock fully, pumping it until it hardened up properly, the skin taut enough to tug on his scrotum. “You ever touched someone else?”
Dean shook his head a little, and then he smiled, understanding.
“This is fuckin’ freaky, man, I hope you know that,” Dean laughed, nibbling on his lower lip as he started at the ceiling. Joy was still riling him up, feeling total exhilaration at finding Castiel alive, with him - and not only that, he seemed happy.
The two of them had never touched like this, not sexually. Dean kind of wanted to, and he figured that now Cas was in his head, he must know what Dean wanted. Maybe that was why Cas was letting this happen. Perhaps he wanted to touch, too.
Or, as Dean started to realise, as he thumbed his raphe and bucked once into his hand, enthusiastically - maybe Cas really did like touching. This had to be so very new for him.
“You ever touch yourself?” Dean asked, empty air, purely out of curiosity.
He shook his head, touching his inner thigh with his fingertips.
“Want me to show you, or... you wanna do it?” Dean asked, blushing slightly. This was all manner of impractical - Dean-time was fucking private, and he had a very real awareness that this was already changing everything about the way he and Castiel interacted. But beyond the desperate need to get himself off, he didn’t want to care. He wanted Cas, Cas clearly wanted to finger Dean’s asshole - “Oh god, Cas―”
Dean curled his legs up against his chest, gasping hurriedly, eyes open wide as he pressed his thighs over his crotch, shock quaking in his body. “Shit, Cas, what the hell?!”
He just moaned, head lolling on the pillow. He slid his fingers between the crease of his thighs again, and Dean whimpered, feeling guilty as he let it happen.
The pucker of his hole shot rivers of pleasure through Dean’s nervous system as Castiel pressed it for him, fingertips massaging the rim.
“Cas... Cas, that’s really not a good... Oh, fuck,” he whispered, eyes rolling back. His toes were tensed cold, his hand gone still on his cock, far too distracted by what Cas was doing for him.
Cas bit his lower lip shyly, and Dean wrenched his hand out from between his legs, letting his thighs down so he could roll onto his side.
“You’re a fucking wacko, Cas,” Dean spat, angrily starting to fuck his hand, breath pushed fast from his mouth. “You’re really just curious, huh?”
Castiel squirmed in what was maybe embarrassment, maybe pleasure - Dean couldn’t tell, he just felt himself curling into a ball, a weak smile on his lips, and a delightfully guilty heat throbbed in his cock as another pulse of pre-come spread on his wrist.
“Fuck.” Dean grinned, slipping a fingertip into his slit and wiggling it gently.
Cas barked out a sudden sound, limbs splaying, angling his hips towards Dean’s hand for more. Dean obliged, playing with his frenulum, skittering his fingernails across his meaty thickness until Cas whimpered, his back arching.
Dean moaned, something in Castiel’s enjoyment of this making him love it more. This act had become so much more than self-satisfaction, or self-discovery, or comfort, and beyond physical pleasure of any kind. Dean realised what this was in the very moment he opened his mouth to ask, “Cas... is this...? Are we having sex right now?”
Castiel flushed with pleasure, arching so high into Dean’s hand that Dean had to lift himself on his feet, hand clutched around the base of his cock to stop himself coming there and then.
“Oh,” Dean breathed, falling back to the bed, letting Cas fuck his fist for him, hips lifting arrhythmically.
“Dean,” Cas moaned, putting a hand flat on Dean’s nipple. “Dean... Dean...”
“C’mon, Cas,” Dean chuckled, pinching the nipple and sensing Castiel’s shock at the feel of it. “My name’s not the only curse word out there.”
Castiel rolled his head, a weak groan riding up his throat. “Dean.”
Dean smiled, still loving how it came out so softly. Castiel was still riding upwards, Dean’s cock sliding in and out of his loose fist, wet nearer the head, fat and dry near the base. Castiel slid his hand from Dean’s nipple to his pubic hair, pulling it, making Dean frown as he smiled.
“The hell are you doing, Cas?” Dean asked, laughing as Castiel fingered his navel, then tickled Dean by accident.
“Want more,” Castiel forced out, straining Dean’s throat with his desperation. “Ohhh...”
“Hey,” Dean whispered, putting a soft kiss on the back of his hand, taking over his cock and leading the rhythm of his hand into something faster, grip tightening. “Cas, just lie back, let me...” He bit his lip, feeling a glow of satisfaction as he said, “Let me take care of you.”
Castiel collapsed with a low whine, and Dean felt him give over full control.
Having his body under his own command suddenly felt odd to Dean. He’d quite liked the way they’d moved in sync, at ease with each other, their minds two parts of the same body. Now, though, every time he spiked with pleasure, grunting as he spread pre-come over his cockhead, he knew Castiel was getting the good stuff too.
Dean tilted his head, wondering if the amazing sparks he’d felt as Castiel fingered his ass might translate the same way now. Experimentally, he lifted one thigh and let his wet hand slow its pace, sliding the other past, between his upper thighs, dipping into his perineum. There was a layer of sweat there that allowed him to slick his way through, the skin there almost hairless.
With a gasp, his fingertips found his mark, and he moaned, shifting his hand on his cock quickly again, gaze locked on it to let Castiel feast his eyes. Castiel was excited by watching, Dean couldn’t avoid his awareness of that.
“Dean,” Castiel muttered, sucking his lower lip. “Dean, I can feel...”
“That’s orgasm, Cas,” Dean told him, biting out the words over his pleasure. Heat was soaring in his gut, his hips moving automatically as he squeezed, fist locked by his base as he slid himself in and out of his tightened fingers. “We’re gonna come. Oh shit, gonna come.”
Castiel pushed a breathy moan over Dean’s lips, spreading Dean’s legs and forcing his hand away from his ass, instead going to take the head of Dean’s cock in his fist.
“What’re you―?” Dean managed, but then realised Cas was helping them both get off, holding the other end of his cock, pumping it together with Dean’s other fist.
Dean groaned a lengthy sound, eyes falling closed. “Cas... Oh, man. You wanna watch this?”
Castiel nodded, already opening his eyes and setting his focus entirely on Dean’s slit, angled towards his face. Dean smirked, opening his mouth.
Castiel frowned, confused, but poked his tongue out in any case.
Orgasm hit them both, sensation flipping in Dean’s gut like a cap flicked off a bottle, tumbling and breaking the pressure built at the base of his spine, and he called out earnestly, feeling Castiel spiralling madly off on a tangent, then hurtling right back as Dean settled.
Castiel frowned deeply, shutting Dean’s mouth and smacking his lips as he tasted the fluid on his tongue. Dean swallowed for him, laughing gleefully as he rolled over onto his front, slowly humping the bed as aftershocks thrummed in his spent muscles.
“You like that?” Dean murmured, nosing the pillow as his eyes slid shut.
Castiel nodded, nuzzling the pillow too, then Dean’s forearm. He put a little kiss on the back of his wrist, breathing out humid air, sighing as he let Dean spread out on the bed.
Dean felt twice as exhausted as usual - maybe it was the awareness of Castiel this time, because he certainly hadn’t felt this spent after last night. Castiel was practically purring, dragged-out moans of satisfaction rumbling from the back of his throat.
“Hey, uh,” Dean started, eyelids fluttering as he turned his words over his tongue. “When you get your own body back, or Jimmy’s or whatever―” He scoffed. “How we’re gonna do that is beyond me. But when that happens... You and me. We should do this again. Like, for real.”
Castiel pressed his nose deep into the pillow, a wide smile pulling his lips. Dean felt his happiness, and he realised after a moment that the smile was his own as well.
“Officially the weirdest sex I ever had,” Dean said. Castiel thrust his hips into the bed, probably in agreement or acknowledgement. Dean found it hard to tell, but he was pleased that Castiel was so enthusiastic about all of this.
“You wanna sleep?” Dean asked, lazily dragging one eye open, then shutting it again.
Castiel put a soft, soft kiss on Dean’s lips, which to Dean felt much like pouting. The blanket got pulled up over his shoulders, which was cold at first, but once Dean felt Castiel curl up beside-inside him, he felt warm all over.
Grinning, Dean chanced asking, “You a cuddler?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He wrapped an arm around himself, curled up, and closed his eyes. He was smiling, more satisfied than he thought possible after a session with just his hands.
The light turned itself off, and after a mild jolt of surprise, Dean realised Cas must still have his power.
“Handy,” he muttered. Castiel nuzzled him again, rubbing his toes together.
The variables were near infinite from this point onward; Dean sank into sleep with this thought on his mind. It was crazy, but he felt that same comfort. Castiel was giving him that.
Castiel slept too, with him. He wished he could watch over Dean, but while he was part of him and was unwilling to control Dean completely as a vessel, he would rather weaken himself with sleep than keep Dean awake forever.
At least this way, he could keep the nightmares at bay. Dean hadn’t even realised, but his nights since coming back from Purgatory had been nightmare-free.
Again, as Castiel allowed him sweet dreams, he wished Dean wasn’t so disconnected from himself. He would have noticed Castiel’s presence a lot sooner, otherwise. With any luck at all, his awareness of Castiel would help to change that separation.
Castiel swept Dean’s unconscious mind into oblivion, showing him the universe. They took each other’s hands and they fell through the stars, each of their bodies becoming the colour that Castiel had so vehemently been trying to give to Dean.
With a smile, as Castiel’s wings caressed the sea of light that was Dean’s dream-self, Dean considered that they'd have a lot of explaining to do, once Sam got back.
☆
Sam woke the next morning to the sound of Dean laughing, and he cracked open his eyes to see what was so funny.
Dean was standing to shuck on his jeans, grinning at apparently nothing. “You really never used a bathroom before? Christ, man, you gotta live a little. It’s ugly, but it’s human and therefore it has its merits.”
Sam figured he was still dreaming, but he sat up anyway, shooting Dean a very bewildered look.
Dean turned and grinned at Sam, tugging a shirt over his head. “Mornin’ Sammy.”
Sam frowned. “You look happy,” he accused.
Dean clucked his cheek, shooting Sam a hearty wink. Sam screwed up his face in confusion, but Dean just turned away, whistling You Shook Me All Night Long.
In Sam’s experience, that was the song Dean whistled when he’d gotten laid the previous night. Sam had not seen a single trace of a-lady-was-here around the motel, so he could only assume Dean had taken things into his own hands. Typical.
Sneering, Sam flopped back into bed.
“How about coffee?” Dean was prattling to himself from the kitchenette, microwaving last night’s uneaten dinner. “You’d love coffee, Cas, trust me.”
Sam sat up straight, bed covers falling off. “Dean?”
Dean glanced back to the beds, eyebrows raised. “Ye-huh?”
He took a moment to realise what Sam was gawking about, and mouthed an ‘Oh’ as the microwave beeped. “Cas is alive,” he said, casually.
Sam almost fell out of bed as he tried to stand up. “What?! When, how? Where is he?”
Dean pointed at his own face, smirking. He grinned as Sam stumbled up to him, staring wide-eyed. “Cas is joyridin’,” Dean said, looking awfully happy about that fact. “In more way than one,” he added.
Sam squinted, stunned and shocked and everything in between. “Oh my god,” he said.
Dean cackled, grabbing his take-out from the microwave and carrying it to the table. “Cas says hi,” he told Sam, giving him an upward nod.
Sam followed Dean to the table and sat down opposite from him. “Hi.”
“Hello, Sam.”
Sam gaped, recognising Castiel’s tone of voice from Dean’s mouth. “Holy shit.”
Dean stuffed a forkful of noodles into his mouth, nodding in agreement with Sam’s expression. “Thish ish gonna be fuckin’ weirb,” he said, with his mouth full.
“I’ll say,” Sam muttered.
Castiel tasted noodles for the first time, and yes, he agreed with Dean. ‘Fucking weird’ was probably the only way he could describe this. But as he caressed Dean’s thigh under the table, making him startle and blush, he supposed the oddness of the situation had definite benefits.
Castiel knew that as soon as Sam was in the shower, Dean would be stripping himself naked.
Castiel had exactly zero arguments to convince himself that that would be a bad idea. Dean, on the other hand, had about ten arguments fewer. They’d be damned if either of them knew where this was going.
Right now, they were both friggin’ ready for it. So what the hell?