Archive of Our Own ^beta

Logic dictates that if there is a Heaven then there must also be a Hell.

And whilst Dean’s version of Heaven is a bottle of Jagermeister shared between himself and a beautiful, naked, willing person; male, female it doesn’t matter, that’s not currently where he is.

Tonight he is in Hell. A.K.A. a high school reunion that Sammy had insisted he attended with him for morale support or some such shit. Unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on the viewpoint – Dean hasn’t changed a lot since his senior year at Truman High and therefore a lot of the people he graduated (yes, he totally graduated) with are here tonight and glaring daggers at him.

So okay, maybe he was a bit of a prick in a high school.

In fact, scratch that, because he was definitely a complete prick in high school. Their dad’s job meant that they generally weren’t in any one place for too long, and Dean took full advantage of it. Jumping from one bed to another to another – often in the same night – wasn’t such a big deal when he knew that he was leaving town before the end of the semester.

No repercussions, no consequences.

Except now, the bill is about to come due. With fucking interest.

 

***

 

The only real light outside the school is a small motion detector above the green fire door, but Dean can still see the rough shapes of people by the bleachers making out and he tries so hard not to roll his eyes at the cliché. Even under pain of death he wouldn’t admit that he sort of wishes that he was doing it himself.

When in Rome and all that.

He’s outside, leaning against the red-brick of the gymnasium building, in search of a bit of peace and goddamn solitude after the most recent barrage of abuse from a woman he’s pretty sure he screwed way back when, and at this point, he’s kind of had enough. His cheek is still stinging from the slap and his ears ache from the long-winded rant about him being an asshole, which actually isn’t all that unfair.

In fact, it’s one of his defining characteristics and he refuses to be a hypocrite and switch to good guy now. If he’s going to Hell – and as already previously established, he’s already there – then he’s goin’ honest.

Sammy is still inside reconnecting with his high school sweetheart – Jane or Jess or something – and Dean can’t really begrudge his brother that. This last year has been kind of tough for him and that’s the only reason that Dean gave in to the request of coming here tonight. That and the damn puppy-dog eyes.

He nearly trips over his own feet when the heavy fire escape door to his left groans open, and he’s caught between the simultaneous kneejerk reactions to either laugh at his own clumsiness or yell at the man standing in front of him in his smart pinstriped suit – which he undoubtedly ironed, unlike Dean who just lets the creases drop out through wear – leaning casually against the doorframe, flicker of orange flame lighting his features up in interesting ways as he dips the end of his cigarette into it.

The dude is handsome, like smokin’-hot-get-into-my-pants-now-handsome; pretty blue eyes, I-just-got-fucked dark hair and strong jaw and there’s no denying that Dean could definitely do with a decent lay to erase the bad taste in his mouth from the night so far.

He’s got absolutely nothing to lose and everything to gain.

“Hey,” he flashes his best smile, sticking his hand out between them, waiting for his new friend to take him up on the unspoken male agreement of the traditional handshake. “I’m Dean.”

However, instead of the expected fawning (Dean’s a damn fine looking dude, he knows it), the guy just glances down at the outstretched hand and then looks back up at Dean, somehow appearing at least four times as earnest as Dean ever achieves, even when he’s trying to get into somebody’s pants.

A pink tongue darts out and wets his lips and Dean does absolutely not sway minutely towards the mystery guy, magnetized, wondering what he tastes like. Nope, not at all.

And then he speaks and Dean is more than a little frightened that he’s going to fist his hands into the dude’s hair, yank his head to the side and go to town on his neck, just to hear that voice hitched on a moan that only he’s close enough to hear.

“No thanks.”

Dean’s brain takes a few precious seconds – where he’s sure that he’s standing there like a simpleton – to come back online, frantically trying to process a response that he’s had… well, never. “What?”

The other dude cocks an eyebrow as he sweeps his gaze over Dean, “I said, ‘No, thanks.’”

What a fucking douchebag.

“Oh. I’m sorry for talking to you. I’ll just call you ‘rude, judgmental prick’, ‘cause it seems to suit you. That okay with you?” Never let it be said that Dean isn’t a poster boy for maturity, because, really, he could’ve easily just laid the guy out.

Sammy would be proud. It’s all about development.

“Depends,” Rude Judgmental Prick replies, his expression unreadable as he pulls on the cigarette, inhaling deeply. “Would you prefer for me to just call you asshole? Because that definitely suits you.”

Dean scoffs. The fucking nerve. “I’m sure you’re the expert on assholes, after all your head’s so far up your own that it’s a wonder your back isn’t giving you trouble.”

Juvenile? Yes. Satisfying? Fuck yes.

The guy pulls his plump bottom lip between white teeth, clearly trying to suppress a smile, but failing.

“Keep talking Dean. Eventually you’re bound to say something intelligent. It’s the law of averages,” He gestures loosely with his wrist, breathing smoke out through his words, looking ridiculously cool; kind of like a better looking James Dean and Dean wonders if he’d ever look that cool smoking, before he realizes that he’s twenty eight years old and it’s not socially acceptable to blame that vice on peer pressure anymore. “You know, like the whole ‘put enough monkeys in a room with typewriters and eventually they’ll write Shakespeare’.”

Just who the fuck is this guy?

At this point, Dean’s pride is more than a little hurt and his new-found maturity is being severely tested, and right now it feels like this is only gonna end in one of two ways, neither of which are going to make Dean brother of the year, “Any specific reason you’re being a douchebag to me?”

“Didn’t know I was,” the other guy replies dispassionately, rolling the cigarette between his fingers.

“Bullshit. You’ve been rude from the fucking get-go. So I’ll ask again. What the fuck dude?”

There’s a small pause where RJP focuses on blowing smoke rings, seemingly fascinated with the way they form and dissipate, swept away on the chilly breeze of the October air.

Dean’s about to ask again, when the guy speaks, pitch low enough that Dean has to lean in to hear.

“Because you only started talking to me as a way to get into my pants.” He pulls away, breathing in another lungful of smoke, “Am I right? Tell me I’m wrong.”

Dean can’t. He can’t argue, because of course he’s right. He's that obvious and that shallow.

Silence falls over them again before the guy sighs heavily, in that way that people do when they’ve lost an internal battle with themselves. “We used to go to this school together, for the few months you attended. I believe you called me Cas, if that helps.”

For a second, it doesn’t help at all; his mind is frantically reaching for any trace of memory. And then it latches on to the image of sweater vests, coke-bottle glasses, painful awkwardness and a kid who never seemed comfortable in his own skin.

A complete one-eighty from the guy standing in front of him.

And then he remembers how he was kind of a dick to the kid. He’d had a crush on Dean and for a while they’d fooled around after games of D&D, but Dean never took him seriously or gave him more of his time than it took to reach orgasm. Essentially – like everyone else he encountered as a teenager – he used him and moved on when they left town.

He hasn’t thought about Castiel Novak in over ten years, but now that he has? Well shit.

“Yeah,” Dean’s voice comes out sounding strained. He clears his throat. “I remember you.”

“Well that’s something I suppose.”

It’s only then that Dean looks at the guy close enough to actually see. Look beyond the cool exterior and see the nervous 18-year-old underneath; the 18-year-old virgin who played Magic The Gathering and listened to Soft Cell unironically. The kid who evolved into the man in front of him; completely at peace with who he is, embracing the inner nerd.

It’s so incredibly sexy that Dean isn’t quite sure how to react, other than with complete honesty for a change.

“If it helps at all, I’m now a believer in the whole ‘revenge of the nerds’ thing, ‘cause you got seriously fuckin’ hot.”

Castiel gives him a wry smile, drops his cigarette to the floor and grinds it under the heel of his boot.

“And you look just the same.” He offers, nonchalance evident. “And act just the same too. Which is disappointing, but not entirely unexpected.”

And with that wonderful kick in the balls, Cas turns on his heel, the heavy fire door clunking shut behind him with a finality that Dean feels to his very bones, and he’s left standing under the crappy motion detector light, gaping like a fucking idiot and wishing he could go back in time to tell his younger self to get over whatever the fuck his issue with commitment was and just hold on to Cas and never fucking let go.

So much for no repercussions and no consequences.

 

***

 

As soon as Dean’s cheeseburger arrives, he’s digging in with the force of a man who hasn’t eaten in at least a fortnight, but the waitress smiles at him like he’s the fucking messiah so he can’t be as much of a pig as Charlie’s disgusted face is making out.

“You know you’re supposed to chew, right?”

Dean smiles sardonically through a mouthful of food. He needs some kind of recompense for the vast amount of chick flick moments that are about to befall him and this is the only real way he can retaliate. For the moment.

“So,” She continues, with a small smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “You gonna tell me what’s up with you? Sam phoned me yesterday and said that you’ve been PMSing ever since you saw a high-school sweetheart at the reunion the other night.”

Dean chokes. Bitch. He thumps his chest with his fist, reaching for his coke (no drinking on the job, and he’d deny the Irish Coffee before he left this morning until his dying day) and gulps a mouthful, trying to stifle the coughing.

“So is he dreamy?” Her smirk grows bigger. With Dean still incapacitated she carries on with the torture, “Do you wish you still had in his panties? His pretty little boy panties?”

A few nights after they'd met when Bobby hired her as the tech expert/accountant for the garage, Dean had found out the hard way that Charlie wasn’t into dick, when he’d hit on her. She not only managed to reject him, but also tell him exactly what his problem was. She was wrong of course; Dean Winchester was/is not completely emotionally stunted – maybe partially – and he can totally hold a decent conversation without trying to get into someone’s pants. He just prefers not to.

“Charlie,” He wheezes. “For fucks’ sake. Please shut the fuck up.”

“So, tell me all about this guy,” she flutters her eyelashes, “Is he the one who got away or something? Is that why you’re such an incredible asshole now? Because he ruined you for everyone? ‘Cause I’ve gotta tell you, if that’s the case then it makes a lot of sense.”

He rolls his eyes and takes another swig of his drink. “Sorry to break it to you, but I’ve always been an asshole. However, Castiel is also a dick.” He doesn’t want to examine the reasons for it too closely; in high school Cas was a quiet nerd who used the word copulate instead of sex and held doors open for people, and now… well now he’s the kind of guy that can run circles around Dean and it really shouldn’t be as hot as he finds it.

Charlie nods sagely. “Castiel, huh? Interesting name. Bet there aren’t too many of those wandering about.”

Dean blames a lack of sleep for how slow he is to catch onto his friend’s meaning, but when he does…

“Charlie, you fucking dare do anything on facebook to track this dude down and I swear I will tell Gilda about your weird frog fetish.” It’s hissed in a low and menacing manner, which probably isn’t intimidating at all, but he doesn’t have the money for a hitman and he’s – reluctantly – a little fond of Charlie.

She holds her hands up, face a picture of mock innocence, all wide eyes and mouth agape. “As if I would. Come on Dean, you know me.”

“That’s exactly the problem.”

A minute ticks by in silence as they both chew their food quietly.

“You like him don’t you?”

Dean fumbles with the answer. In the two years that he’s known Charlie, not once has he mentioned ever ‘liking’ someone, so she knows that this is a huge deal for Dean ‘hump-em-and-dump-em’ Winchester to admit to anything other than being the man-whore that he is.

“Maybe.” He hedges, “He’s fuckin’ gorgeous, and he sort of kicked my ass verbally the other night, which was interesting –“

“So you like how he challenged you?” At Dean’s nod she continues. “Didn’t just kow-tow to you because of your pretty face? Made you feel like a twat, which you are by the way, rather than looking at you like the sun shines out of your ass?”

He scowls at her, but they both know she’s right.

“We both know you’ve gotten away with murder as far as sex and conquests go, it’s unusual for you to be attracted to someone who isn’t going to make it easy for you.”

She’s telling him rather than asking, but being as she’s pretty much spot on, Dean doesn’t feel the need to stop her.

“Maybe it’s the natural progression,” She muses, sipping her coffee. “Maybe it’s time for you to settle down. After all, you are at that age...”

She trails off when she catches sight of Dean’s horrified expression.  He squeaks indignantly, “You’re only a couple of months younger than me!”

She nods again. “Yes, Dean. But I can say without a shadow of doubt that my emotional maturity is at least slightly above yours, so if I was lucky enough to stumble on my soulmate, I wouldn’t be having a mini panic attack.”

Dean scoffs. “Soulmate, my ass. I just wanna get laid is all.”

“Okay. So let’s just say that I take your totally transparent bullshit at face value. In a world of makebelieve, where you Dean Winchester are completely incapable of feelings. If this guy is just a casual fuck, then why are you so stuck on him, hmm? Because, according to Sam, there were quite a few disgruntled ex-fucks of yours at the reunion and you haven’t mentioned a single one of them. Just Castiel. So tell me, Dean. Just why is that?”

She’s right. Completely and utterly and there is fuck-all point in denying it, because the only person he’s apparently kidding is himself.

He’s spent the last few days rehashing and over-analyzing the conversation with Castiel and flitting back and forth between his memories of the guy in high school, and really, it seems to come down to one thing.

Dean likes the fact that Castiel called him out on his bullshit, didn’t go easy on him.

It makes Dean actually respect him.

And it’s not like Dean doesn’t respect anyone at all; There’s Sam, Bobby, Charlie and tons of others, but the people he’s slept with? Never enough to want to stick around or even say much more to them than, “Hi, my name’s Dean. Can I buy you a drink? Wanna fuck?” and not always in that order. The people he’s usually physically attracted to aren’t going to be winning any awards for services to humanity any time soon, but he has always been okay with that. Easy in and out with a minimum of fuss and no attachment, but now. Castiel.

Another minute passes by in silence as they both chew their food quietly, Dean sulking and Charlie looking inordinately pleased with herself, because Dean is that obvious that she just knows what he’s thinking about.

Charlie wipes her mouth with a paper napkin and tosses it onto her empty plate.

“You ready to go Dean-o?” She jerks her head towards the parking lot. “We should really get back; those cars aren’t going to fix themselves.”

Dean waves his hand dismissively as he chews on his final fry. “Yeah, yeah. Alright.”

She pulls a couple of bills from her wallet, throws the money down next to her empty plate and leans across the table, voice hushed, tone soft, “You know, you’re a better person than you give yourself credit for. You deserve somebody good. And if you can stop with this stupid jerk-façade-defense-so-you-never-have-to-get-close-to-anyone-mechanism then maybe you can show Castiel that too.”

No amount of chewing with his mouth open will ever make this chick flick moment okay.

 

***

 

Dean has a perfect view of the door from the back of The Roadhouse where he’s tending bar, so he sees Castiel as soon he strolls in, looking every inch the part of movie star with his dark sunglasses, tight black shirt and jeans, and leather jacket. He stops a few feet into the bar and glances around, apparently looking for someone.

Dean fights the urge to run. It’s too much of a coincidence for it to be… well a coincidence. Charlie is going to pay with fucking interest for whatever this is and his fingers are already reaching into the pocket of his jeans for his phone to let Gilda know about the amphibian thing.

Castiel slides onto a stool at the bar opposite Dean and then he’s looking at him –  into him – with his lips quirked in a small smile and his blue eyes bright and curious, and Dean straightaway feels completely on the back foot with this guy and it unnerves him as much as it excites him. Dean is a control freak; he needs to know what’s going to happen and when so that he can contain any incident that may arise. But Castiel Novak is an anomaly and he’s never been particularly smooth when faced with one of those.

“Hello Dean.”

Dean just glares.

Castiel leans forward, bracing his elbows on the bar and stares at Dean with a quiet intensity that makes Dean want to yank the other man forward by his shirt collar and kiss him until they’re both panting and needy.

Which is only a little warped, all things considered.

“What can I get for you?” Dean asks, plastering on a smile and reaching for a shot glass underneath the counter. Even if Castiel doesn’t want anything to drink, Dean has a feeling that he himself is going to need one.

“An apology and maybe a do-over?”

Yep. Whisky it is. He fills the glass with JD, downs the liquid in one and then refills it.

“Ah yes, of course.” Castiel murmurs more to himself than Dean. He sits back, keeping his gaze on Dean in a similar way to his guarded observation at the reunion. “I forgot that you have the emotional maturity of an inanimate object.”

“A toaster is the usual comparison,” Dean supplies, swallowing around his second shot of whisky, enjoying the burn as it slides down the back of his throat. Ellen would skin him alive if she knew that he was drinking on the job, but she’s not here and Castiel fucking Novak is, so Mazel tov.

Castiel seems to ponder this. As if he wants to give Dean the most accurate response that he can, which already seems like such a Cas thing to do that Dean has to force back a smile, lest he give himself away as someone who cares.

“I apologize for the other night,” Cas finally says, the sincerity coming into play again. “My ‘people skills’ are ‘rusty’” and he actually air quotes, which once again, is something that quite possibly hasn’t been cool since the nineties when Clarissa Explains It All was still airing.

And no, Dean did not watch that show; it was just background noise sometimes when he was helping Sammy with his homework. Not that he ever really helped; his brother has always been smarter than him, even at the age of nine.

Cas continues, “I was bitter about things that had happened in the past. Things that probably don’t even really matter anymore.”

It obviously matters if he’s been holding onto a grudge this long.

So – in a rare display of actual maturity – Dean decides to nut up and actually take some responsibility; it’s kind of time really, “Look man, I’m really sorry for being a jerk to you when we were younger. I wish I could tell you that I’ve grown the fuck up, but,” he gestures at their surroundings, “I clearly haven’t. Character growth isn’t really my thing. I’m always gonna be the self-loathing loser, who has trouble keeping it in his pants. It’s just the way it’s gotta be.”

Castiel tilts his head, studying Dean. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

Dean shrugs. “You were spot on the other night, man.”

“See, I’m going to have to disagree.” Castiel is studying him and Dean feels a little like a bug under a microscope. “Because I got an email from a friend of yours –“

Fucking Charlie.

“– and she updated me on the events in your life. Thought there were a few things I should know about you before I made a final decision.”

“Thought you already had,” Dean mumbles, bitterness at the memory of the door slamming closed in his face still branded into his memory, nice and fresh.

“I was a little pissed off.” Cas admits. “Understandably so, but like I said, I’ve since realized my mistake. Your friend went to great lengths to persuade me what a selfless, wonderful man you are and even if I didn’t believe what she’d written, to inspire devotion in another person like that… well I suppose you can’t be all bad. And if the things she wrote are true? Well then, you’re definitely not all bad.”

“Only mostly?” The words are unnecessarily sarcastic, the last line of his defense. This was so much easier when Cas was calling him out on being an asshole.

Cas manages a tiny smile, “well, you still broke my fragile teenage heart. But on the flip side, you did work 80 hour weeks so that your brother could afford to go to college instead of you, so I suppose it all evens itself out.”

Of course Charlie told him about that. Dean doesn’t count it as a sacrifice, because it wasn’t – it isn’t – a sacrifice to do anything for Sam. That would imply that he’d have to give up something he wanted, and all he’s ever wanted is for Sam to be happy.

It’s just logic.

“I take it back. You have changed. I was wrong about you and I’m sorry for that.”

Dean is more than a little stunned by the genuine, heart-felt apology that he certainly doesn’t deserve. He’s the no-good asshole in this story.

Cas continues, undeterred by the confused expression that Dean is no doubt wearing. “So the apologies are out of the way, and now it’s time for a do-over.”

Except, apparently he isn’t the no-good asshole. He's the lucky bastard who gets forgiven because he's got a good friend who believes in him.

“Hi, I’m Castiel.” Cas slides his warm palm into Dean’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Dean blinks once, twice, stupidly before getting with the program. He clears his throat. “Uh, Dean.”

“Ah,” Cas grins, and it’s like the sun has come out after a ten year eclipse, “I went to school with someone called Dean. Gave the most amazing blow jobs.”

It’s probably just as well that Dean has finished his whisky, because he may have just become a rom-com cliché by performing a hilarious spit-take. He can feel the blush spreading across his cheeks and he internally curses as Cas’s smile widens.

Bastard.

Two can play at this game.

“Well, I’m willing to bet that he’s learned a few tricks since high school. Ten years is a long time.”

“That it is.” Cas agrees, barely containing the appreciative gaze he graces Dean’s body with. “Any chance he’d be willing to put his money where his mouth is. Or where I want it to be?”

Dean smirks, challenge most certainly appreciated. “You’re on.”

Which is only part of the reason that when Castiel leans over the bar, not giving a fuck about the other patrons staring and presses his lips to Dean’s in a kiss that’s both sort–of familiar and foreign to Dean all at once, that he responds in kind, sliding his hands into Cas’s hair and tugging the silky strands between his fingers.

Cas’s lips are dry and warm and he tastes of mint and cinnamon, but there’s something inherently familiar about the way their tongues tangle together and when they part, breathless, Cas smiles warmly at Dean and murmurs. “My place isn’t far from here.”

 

***

 

It’s at the point when Cas’s shirt comes off and Dean’s unbuckling his own belt, fingers clumsy with lust, that Dean stutters to a standstill, rendered utterly useless by the sight of taut, lithe muscles and the goddamn glint of jewelry.

Castiel’s lazy smirk is coy and yet, the heat behind those blue eyes is so palpable that Dean suddenly feels like a lizard in the desert. Which is such a ridiculous analogy that it goes some way to proving his whole not-firing-on-all-cylinders-right-now thing.

“You have a nipple piercing?” He says stupidly, at a loss. Which in and of itself is hilarious, because Dean Winchester is never lost for words.

Except when faced with scorching hot guys with nipple piercings.

Cas glances down at the plain titanium barbell through his left nipple, as if confused by its existence, and then back up at Dean, amusement clear on his face. The face that – Dean has decided now that he’s not being an ass – is quite possibly the nicest face he’s ever seen.

“So I do.” Cas agrees with a small nod. “I was wondering what that was.”

Dean takes a moment to try and compose himself, because he’s not quite sure how he even got here and whether he should be thanking Charlie or throttling her.

He settles on the idea of sending her a goddamn fruit basket.

“Any other body mods I should know about?” Because he might have a heart attack if Cas has tattoos.

“Not yet.”

The answer is both relief and disappointment.

Castiel’s eyes are shining with mirth and his lips are curled in a mischievous smile and Dean realizes that he quite possibly hasn’t ever wanted someone as much as he does when Cas crooks his finger and almost growls, “Come here.”

There’s a grand total of zero reasons why Dean wouldn’t do as he’s told right now.

So he goes, crowding into Cas’ space, breathing in his musky scent, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck and jaw like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to do – which it kind of is – groaning when their erections rub together through the thin cotton of their boxers.

It’s too much and not enough; he needs Cas naked like yesterday and he’s about to make that happen when a hand grips his wrist, another pushes his shoulder and suddenly he’s falling backwards, landing on the bed with a low grunt. There’s no time for recovery though, because within seconds, Cas is crawling between Dean’s spread legs, kicking his boxers the rest of the way off, and then he’s leaning over Dean, body molding against his, and Dean can’t bring himself to care about anything except the way Cas’s heated skin feels against his own.

And then – in a move that is more than impressive – his own boxers are removed swiftly and efficiently by Cas’s dexterous hands, pushed down to his knees hurriedly, and they’re grinding against each other, Cas’s firm naked body pressing down against Dean, hips thrusting into his, hand tangled in his hair, twisting in the short strands almost to the point of pain, but it feels so fucking good that Dean can barely see straight.

And it’s then that Dean realizes he’s the one who’s going to get fucked tonight.

He’s strangely okay with it.

Cas pulls back, beautiful arc of his spine as he sits back on his heels, looking down at Dean with something akin to smugness, and he looks so fuckin’ hot that Dean can’t help the low whine in the back of his throat, “Cas… c’mon.”

It’s a hazy few seconds later that Dean lets out a feeble needy whimper – which he will deny forever – when Cas traces slippery chilly fingers down over his perineum to his entrance, pushing one lube-slicked finger slowly and carefully inside Dean, closely – and if Dean didn’t know any better, fondly – scanning Dean’s face for any signs that he doesn’t want this.

Which is almost laughable, ‘cause Dean doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything this badly before in his life.

Dean’s eyes flutter shut as a second finger is pushed in next to the first, and his breath hitches on the slight burn – after all, it’s been years since he’s bottomed – but when Cas crooks his fingers just right, brushing against the bundle of nerves, Dean arches his back against the feeling , his breath coming out as one long gasp, trying to remember how to communicate to Cas that if he doesn’t get inside him in the next ten seconds, he’s going to explode.

Cas seems to get the picture, because he eases his fingers out and Dean doesn’t really have much time to feel the loss because almost instantly, he hears the tearing of a condom wrapper, followed by the feeling of the blunt head of Cas’s cock against his hole.

“You can owe me the a blow job,” Cas breathes against Dean’s mouth as he pushes inside, slowly, far too slowly for Dean, who shifts his hips so that Cas ends up bottoming out far quicker than intended, gruff groan escaping his lips.

“Sure thing Cas,” Dean pants as Cas stills inside him, heart beating in triplicate, belying the false calmness to his words, “I’ll owe you whatever you want, just fuck me already.”

And that’s all it takes, because with a twisted, almost feral smile, Cas pulls out a couple of inches, before slamming back in, making Dean’s stomach muscles tense and his mouth open on a silent moan, breath forced from his lungs.

“Jesus, fuck.” Cas’s throat mangles the words, hips shoving, fingernails digging into the smooth skin over Dean’s hipbones hard enough to draw blood, but it’s just another exquisite agony adding to the pleasure as Cas builds momentum, thrusting harder and deeper with each motion.

Dean claws back at Castiel, nails catching and dragging over skin, desperate for purchase; to leave his mark as Cas fucks into him like an animal, relentless, and Dean wants to meet him thrust for thrust, to give as good as he’s getting, but he just hasn’t got the leverage, so he’s forced to take it how Cas wants to give it, which is just as frightening as it is utterly fucking hot.

Dean is not used to submitting, but Cas is making it surprisingly easy and his next words hit Dean and spread through his veins like fucking wildfire.

“Fuck Dean… wanted to do this… so fucking bad in high school…”

Cas’s mouth is hot and wet against the skin of Dean’s collarbone, breath heavy, low and guttural and there’s just no way on the fucking earth that Dean is going to last much longer, not with Cas’s teeth threatening to break skin as he suddenly bites down on the meat of Dean’s shoulder, each rough jab to his prostate edging him closer and closer to the precipice.

“Jesus…fucking Christ…Cas.”

He’s going to lose his fucking mind with the way that deceptively strong, firm body drives into him over and over again, hips bucking and twisting as he fucks the breath right out of him and Dean has never felt so utterly fucking owned in his entire life.

And then Cas wraps a hand around Dean’s cock, firm grip, stroking him hard and fast from base to tip and Dean feels his world tip on its axis and it’s all she fucking wrote, because his orgasm is right there under his skin, and it’s not gonna be a slow burner; it’s gonna be white-hot pleasure and pain, like it’s ripped right out of his soul, grinding his bones to dust and he’s pretty sure that as he comes, he lets out a sound like a wild animal caught in a trap, but it doesn’t matter because Cas is coming too, buried deep inside him, pulsing and he’s groaning, still thrusting, grinding against Dean until he’s finally spent and he collapses on top of Dean, exhausted.

Holy fuck.

Yep, this is definitely Heaven. Even without the Jagermeister.

 

***

 

Five years later.

 

Dean wakes up gracelessly, his face pushed into the curved hollow of Cas’s throat, arm draped across his chest and his leg secured between Cas’s firm thighs. It’s rather similar to cuddling, which Dean Winchester does not do, except he does now, because Cas totally owns his ass and has spent years working on what he refers to as Dean’s ‘crippling desire not to let anybody close’.

And so, yeah, he’s gotten used to the fact that he may be a massive pile of neuroses and daddy issue stereotypes, but to hear it from someone who works in a comic book store and is essentially a nerd for a living is downright galling. Even if said nerd is ridiculously sexy and can do wicked things with his tongue.

“Dean?” The deep timbre of Castiel’s voice gets to him at the best of times, but in the mornings when his voice is still laced with sleep and good dreams? Well, it’s pretty much up there among AC/DC and Led Zeppelin as his favorite things to listen to.

“Yeah Cas?” Dean mumbles into his boyfriend’s neck.

“You’re awake.” It’s not a question and Dean’s only just starting to notice how much Castiel likes telling Dean things rather than asking him.

“Nothing escapes you does it? I can see why you’re such an excellent Dungeon Master.”

He feels Castiel shake slightly as he huffs a laugh. “You said that last night when I was going down on you.”

Dean lifts his head up so that he can look at Cas’s face and damn the man is attractive. 

“Yeah, well.” Dean mutters intelligently, ignoring the feeling of Castiel staring at the side of his face intently as if the answers to all life’s mysteries are written in the curve of Dean’s cheekbones.  “I can’t be responsible for everything I say in the heat of the moment, now can I?”

The hand that is drawing small circles along Dean’s spine is way too distracting and Dean can feel the blood heating in his veins, cock twitching.

“So,” Castiel starts, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re telling me that I can’t have your Impala?”

Dean does look at Cas then, his eyes narrowed and disbelieving. “I did not say that.”

“Yes you did. You said and I quote: ‘Oh Jesus Cas, don’t stop please…. don’t ever stop. I’ll do anything. I’ll give you my baby, just don’t stop’.” Castiel is enjoying this far too much. “So, it’s time to pay the piper Dean Winchester.”

It seems to be a theme in his life since Cas re-entered it five years ago.

Dean removes his hand from Cas’s warm chest and cups the side of his face in a tender gesture before tapping his cheek lightly twice. “You are going nowhere near my car Cas.” And then he’s pushing himself away from the warmth of his boyfriend’s body and slipping from the bed. He pads across the bedroom, completely naked – not stopping to pick up items of clothing that he can see strewn about on the floor – and at the door of the ensuite bathroom, he turns and faces Cas, whose attention was clearly on his ass because he looks up into Dean’s eyes straight away, a slightly guilty expression on his face.

It’s all so domestic and perfect, and at one time Dean would have shied away from all this, but now, with the sheets pooled at Cas’s waist, weak morning sunlight streaming in through the window, bathing Cas’s body in an ethereal like glow, he can’t even begin to remember why.

“What time do we have to be ready for?”

Castiel’s face breaks out into a beatific smile. “The reunion doesn’t start until seven. Plenty of time for more sex?” It’s said hopefully and Dean can’t help but smile back, because damn, he is one lucky fucker and if going to a dumbass reunion once every few years is the price he has to pay, then he’s really not complaining.

* 

And if they spend most of their 15-year high school reunion making out behind the bleachers like teenagers, then so be it. They have a lot of time to make up for, after all.