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Christmas lights draped over Manhattan like strings of glittering ice. Dean could always tell a native New Yorker from the tourists because they never looked up and saw the magic in winter anymore, not that he was particularly syrupy like that. Being a cop always made him overly aware of his surroundings and the multitude of blinking lights throughout the winter season added to things that needed to be watched. Shoplifting, mugging, and armed robbery occupied his attention more often in the winter as people grew desperate for money and gifts. His shift that night consisted of quite a few domestic violence calls though. Couples fought more and more at the front half of the month as they scrambled to pay their bills despite one or both of them siphoning off money for drugs.
Dean trudged over a snow drift that spilled onto the sidewalk on his way home. The last blizzard had been a particularly bad one, which usually meant slower night shifts on his patrol, but life began returning to normal a few days before with the exception of those mountainous snow drifts left by street plows.
He lived in one of those old brownstones converted into apartments that reminded him of Henry James or Edith Wharton novels but reminded most tourists of Sex and The City. A couple of teenage girls once asked him if Carrie Bradshaw lived in his building as he was leaving for the gym. He considered moving into a less attractive address on the spot but really couldn't give up that place when push came to shove. Winchesters had owned that apartment since granddad Henry bought the place with his GI money when he came back from fighting the Second World War. His mother lived and died in that apartment.
The other reason why he couldn't sell the place greeted him with a grunt from the dining table as he came through the door.
"Well, hello to you too," said Dean as he shrugged out of his leather jacket and hung it on a brass hook. "How's the studying going?"
Sam chewed on a pencil, brows furrowed at his laptop screen. "Brutal."
"You'll pass those finals. Nothing to worry about," replied Dean as he rummaged through the refrigerator for a beer and leftovers.
"Really? Beer now? It'll be daylight soon."
Shrugging, Dean threw a flashy grin over his shoulder. "It's dinner for me. I'm gonna go to bed. See you later this afternoon."
"You need to get a girlfriend," Sam muttered. "All you do is work and sleep."
"Not everybody's as understanding as Jess about the insane hours we keep," Dean said with another shrug as he made his way to his bedroom. And anyway, it wasn't a girlfriend he needed, not that Sam knew it. Nobody did.
In the privacy of his bedroom, Dean nudged the door shut with his heel and put the Chinese food cartoon and beer bottle on his nightstand. The room seemed messy at first glance but there was, in fact, a rather meticulous sense of organization to the chaos. He kept that room a sanctuary where few entered. Not even the occasional men he experimented with over the years or the girlfriends he entertained for a few weeks at a time, but no more than that. Sam ventured into the room occasionally but otherwise Dean kept it for himself alone.
He peeled off his cop uniform, the many layers of black and Kevlar falling on the floor. Shedding the uniform every morning felt like shedding a persona. The policeman did his job and he was good at it but he never truly fit in with the other guys in the precinct. The reason stood tall in his walk-in closet--a rarity in Manhattan--and he strode naked into it searching for a Zeppelin shirt and jeans. A dark wood bookshelf loomed at one end of the closet where there weren't enough clothes to hang. Lining its shelves, Dean stored his prized books and had read many of them more than once.
"Damn waste of money," John Winchester had muttered to Dean on many occasions before he died. "Books ain't gonna save your ass when thugs try to mug you. What are you gonna do? Throw a book?"
Dean had glared at him. "Thugs like Cassie?"
The implication that John Winchester harbored racist ideas when Dean had a black girlfriend at the time had silenced him. John had pursed his lips and stormed out of the room. No, he never did admit a lack of fondness for black people or gay people before he died but he was the reason Dean never made a point to advertise his literacy or his bisexuality. If his own father didn't understand, then too many other people out there wouldn't understand and he simply didn't have the drive to live like a social crusader.
Those days were long since over though. Dean shook off the unpleasant memories as he plopped onto his bed and sat up against the headboard. He shoveled the cold Chinese leftovers into his mouth and washed it down with even colder beer. It restored him after the long night shift.
Opening his laptop showed a long list of unanswered emails. He just wasn't the letter writing kind of guy even though he had friends and old coworkers back in the Midwest. Just as he decided to go over to Netflix and marathon Dr. Sexy MD until he fell asleep, one email near the top attracted his attention. He clinked on it and a newsletter from the mailing list of his favorite contemporary author showed a colorful notice.
Meet Castiel Novak at an exclusive Barnes & Noble book signing on December 18 in New York City!
Dean nearly grabbed his laptop screen as if shaking someone by the shoulders. The third tier of his bookshelf contained every book Castiel Novak had published so far, many of them with worn and dog-eared pages from being read multiple times. His favorite author wrote about police and mysteries with gritty realism that Dean hadn't seen before, yet his prose echoed back to the masterful language of the antiquated American greats. Castiel wrote cop characters with depth and emotion that most people never understood they were capable of. In truth, Dean saw himself in those characters. It gave him a strange measure of hope that maybe he wasn't so weird like his father and others taught him to believe.
*****
Trading shifts proved easy enough for Dean, who agreed to work the night of Christmas Eve into Christmas Day. It wasn't such a big deal for him. There wasn't any family waiting on him besides Sam and he intended to be with Jess and her family. Of course he had invited Dean to come along but Dean had no interest in being a fifth wheel at a family gathering when he didn't really know the people. Once they got engaged, he supposed, then he would spend more time with the Moore clan.
The book signing was Dean's present to himself. He really didn't know why he was going but standing in front of the mirror on the back of his closet door showed a rather anxious man with green eyes, freckles, and purposefully messy hair. Hands smoothed over a gunmetal button down shirt and black dress slacks. He'd nearly burned the back of his shirt with the iron in both haste and inexperience. Was it too dressy? Dean twisted pieces of his hair this way and that, fully aware that he was acting like a teenage girl on her way to meet one of those British boy band kids. It made him reconsider his choice to go and stand in line for hours just to get a signature on a book. But he really, really wanted to meet the author. He rarely ever did anything for himself.
Before he could change his mind, he grabbed a black coat that cut around his knees and a green plaid scarf with gold and red accents. Maybe it was a little dressy and maybe the "other half" of his sexuality was a little more obvious but, again he reminded himself, it was a rare chance to do something just for him. So he grabbed his favorite book by Castiel Novak and rushed for the door.
"Woah! Where are you going, GQ?"
Damn. Sam had finished his finals and resolved to sit on the couch for at least three days. The doorknob felt cold and hard in Dean's hand as he glanced back at his brother.
"Can't explain. Gotta go. Late for a ... for a thing," he replied in a rush.
"A thing?" Sam's forehead lifted and scrunched in confusion. "I thought you had the night shift."
"I did. I traded. I'm going out with friends."
"Dean, you don't have friends."
"Shut up. I do too." With that, Dean breezed out of the apartment before Sam could worm the truth out of him and then insist on going along for personal entertainment.
The week before Christmas saw a fresh blanket of snow over Manhattan that did nothing to deter shoppers. Wind slashed cold bands across Dean's cheeks and forehead as he shrugged into his scarf and blended seamlessly with pedestrians rushing, strolling, and getting lost in every direction. He made his way into the busier part of the city without hailing a cab, choosing instead to save his money. New York was a walking city. He especially liked walking in the weeks before Christmas as well as the first weeks of spring thawing out the ground and the freezing faces of residents and tourists. Only in the dead of winter and the sweltering height of summer did Dean pony up the cash for taxis.
Below Times Square and below the Dance Academy, Dean made his way to East 17th near Broadway and Fifth Avenue. He passed the Flatiron Building where it stood in its oddly shaped corner design. At least beyond the hysteria of Times Square, Dean could hear himself think. It was nice, at least, that wherever he looked were green garlands strung with twinkling white lights and Christmas trees ranging from oddly arranged modern sculpture to traditional Victorian decoration.
Ahead, Dean noticed the Barnes & Noble building with a wide sprawling interior ideal for large book signings like that one. A clump of people outside the glass doors caught his attention, thinking maybe the line wouldn't be too long. He clutched the book in his hand and trotted across the street until he realized the clump of people outside stood at the end of a line that snaked through the entire store. Hundreds of people showed up to meet Castiel Novak. Okay, yeah, Dean knew he was one of the bestsellers but for some reason he didn't anticipate being watched by so many strangers while he met the single most important author he'd ever read.
Anxiety seized Dean as he approached the bookstore. Everyone had books clutched in their hands just like him. Most were the newest book released just before Black Friday, but some appeared to be older fans like him who chose titles more personal to them. Two women bundled in brightly colored hats, scarves, and gloves gossiped ahead of him in line but he pretended not to hear them.
"Stephen King wishes he had lines so long this far into his career," one of them sneered.
The other one nodded. "I heard King and Novak hate each other after that unfortunate business with releasing books on the same day. Novak outsold him and King never got over it."
"Well, he wouldn't, would he? Not with an ego like that."
"Exactly." The gossip switched tracks. "Did you hear that other little rumor about the character--what was his name--Perry?"
"No."
The mouthpiece leaned in and lowered her voice to a conspiratory level. "Well, they're saying Perry was based on his very special friend. You know what I mean. A man at, what, 38 like Novak is and not being married yet? Or having a girlfriend that we've seen in the papers?"
"Oh really," the other one hummed.
"Yep. I guess the guy Perry was to him broke his heart or something. Next thing you know, boom, Perry gets his throat slashed in the new book."
Dean wanted to roll his eyes but he pretended to thumb through his book instead. That right there was exactly why he never let anybody know that he enjoyed men as much as women. Granted he wasn't a celebrity but the other cops had wives and those wives were just as bad as those women in front of him about gossip. He'd never heard the rumor that Castiel Novak might be gay but he wasn't the kind to go cyber stalking people he didn't know either. He did that enough for his job. The books were what interests him. He never thought about what Castiel Novak did on weekends or what he liked to eat at restaurants. Rather smugly, he congratulated himself on being the sane one there in line to get a book autographed.
Once the line actually started moving, it didn't take too long to shuffle through the enormous numbers. On one hand, Dean was happy not to spend a whole afternoon standing in line, but on the other hand, moving that fast meant there would only be a few seconds to make an impression before a handler inevitably shoved him along. He didn't know if he liked that. The more he weaved through the bookshelves and penetrated deeper into the crowd, the more his stomach burned and flip-flopped. Was he nervous? That was ridiculous. He'd been on the security detail when the Pope came to New York the previous year and never once felt a drop of anxiety. But there he stood feeling a cold sweat coming on. Idiot.
By the time the line moved close enough to see a tall cardboard cutout of an advertisement for Castiel Novak's newest book, Dean took a deep breath and forced himself into the sort of focused calm in his work. He was determined not to come across like an idiot fan.
A few more people moved ahead and there he was. Dean froze. Castiel sat at a table between two female handlers with a Sharpie pen in his hand. The writer smiled thinly up at a female admirer as he handed back her book over the table. A thousand little details flooded Dean's mind all at once. A full mouth that could be expressive if it wasn't so clearly behind a reserved wall. A chin covered by a neat layer of dark stubble and even a little dent that made it look like an upside down heart. Blue eyes. Bright and full of twinkling ethereal light if the man ever laughed from his belly. Messy dark hair that wasn't purposeful like Dean's hair, yet wonderful and so very him. That was ridiculous. Dean didn't know the guy.
"Next, please," said a Barnes & Noble employee, and then Dean realized she meant him.
He licked his lips and stepped forward. The handler to Castiel's left outstretched her hand for the book and Dean handed it to her. She then passed it to the book's author as if he wasn't supposed to touch people directly. Was Dean supposed to say something? Were they supposed to make polite small talk or was Dean supposed to just be grateful to breathe great author air for a few seconds?
Blue eyes flashed up at him. Castiel smiled and Dean realized he kept himself tucked behind a safe wall of reserve just the way he did. For a moment, breath failed him.
"Hello...?"
"Hi. Dean." The words sputtered out like gunshots and Dean instantly hated himself.
"Hello, Dean," said Castiel.
"Hi. I said that." He chuckled at himself. What a moron. "I'm a cop." And he just kept getting better.
Castiel scribbled on the first page of his book with the Sharpie pen. "Oh, are you?" The tone changed from polite reserve to sincere interest. He was prone to a gravelly monotone but Dean sensed the slight shift.
"Yeah. I picked up one of your books back at the academy ten years ago and I've been reading them ever since," Dean said. Did that sound halfway intelligent? He didn't know.
Glancing up at him again, Castiel's full mouth twitched up into a pleased little smile. "And how do I do with writing your people, Dean?"
"Oh, friggin awesome. Really."
"Well, thank you. I appreciate that." He winked. Was he flirting?
Holy shit. Dean froze again.
"Thank you for coming," said the handler to Castiel's left as she handed the book back to Dean.
"Thanks."
Saying goodbye didn't sit well with Dean. He didn't understand it but he read little subtleties in Castiel that made him endearing. He liked the author. And if he wasn't crazy, he sensed one of those attractions with sparks flying and a magnetic pull. It didn't happen much, at least not for him, but it sure was an addicting sensation.
A hand cut across the air and Castiel silenced his handlers. "Wait." He met eyes with Dean as he reached for a bookmark from the pile of what looked like media materials. "I can't tell you how important to me it is that officers enjoy my writing." As he spoke, he scribbled something Dean couldn't see on the bookmark. "You came all the way out here today to see me. That certainly means something." He tilted his head quizzically as he snatched the book out of Dean's arm and stuffed the bookmark into it. He then slid the book back into its place, an oddly intimate act. "Thank you for coming, Dean."
Dean mumbled something that resembled a goodbye and his mouth lifted into a jerky awkward smile. He has no idea why the author thought he needed a bookmark. He never used those things. They were just a waste of paper when a person could just fold over the page corner.
Taking the quickest route outside again, the cold New York wind sliced through his clothes and shocked the breath out of his lungs. He wound his coat and scarf tighter around his body but it wasn't until he got to the next block that he stopped to look at the bookmark.
"Call me after 8 tonight at 212-555-3685. -Castiel"
Dean nearly walked straight into a woman carrying at least three shopping bags on each arm. She swore at him in the true spirit of Christmas and didn't even wait for him to apologize. If she knew the shock he'd just endured, she might have understood why he lost his senses. Maybe he hadn't been crazy after all when he sensed that briefest, most powerful magnetic attraction. Or maybe it was an author simply wanting to interview a primary source like a real New York City police officer. Dean couldn't be sure if he was happy or if he felt used.
*****
By the time darkness fell over his apartment, Sam left to go out with Jess but Dean couldn't seem to muster his appetite. He was actually nervous. How ridiculous! A man like him, a cop, someone who regularly faced the worst of humanity, I was actually nervous to make a simple phone call. Did he really want to do it? Did he actually want to find out if it was attraction or opportunity? He wasn't sure if he had the stomach for getting mixed up with another man. It just seemed like more trouble than it was worth.
Yet at precisely twelve minutes after eight that night, Dean entered the number into his phone. It took another three minutes to press send after berating himself for being a pussy.
"Hello?"
Dean cleared his throat. "Hi, um, is this Castiel Novak?"
"Hello, Dean." It sounded like a smile on the other end of the line. The smile sounded pleased as if he knew Dean would make the call.
"How'd you know it was me?"
"I remember your voice."
Dean hadn't realized his voice was memorable at all, especially by someone who met several hundred people in just a few hours. He licked his lips again, irritated with that sign of nervousness.
"You don't say much, do you?" he asked.
The writer chuckled. "I suppose not. I'm better at communicating in writing."
"Well, you're great at that." What the hell was happening here?
"Thank you. I just have a passion for the human experience, you could say. What's your passion, Dean?"
"I dunno," he answered honestly, leaning back on the couch.
"Not police work?"
"Oh, yeah, that could be called a passion, I guess." That wasn't at all like Dean and he started hating himself for it. He was the kind of guy to make the moves and seal the deal over a drink but something about Castiel had him rather unhinged.
"Are you married?"
"No." He decided to say it the way men did in the old days, which would let him know if Castiel read books from the previous century too. "I'm not the marrying kind."
Another smile. He swore he heard it. "I'm not the marrying kind either."
Okay. Dean found his footing again. He sat upright on the couch again, having understood where the conversation was going in that response. He could work with it. Castiel shifted in his mind from an intimidating person that he admired to someone he happened to meet and experienced an immediate attraction.
"So do you always leave your number on bookmarks?" His tone turned just a hair toward a husky level.
"That was the first time."
"Ever?"
"Ever."
"Wow." Dean wanted to ask why him but too much self-loathing out in the open wasn't an attractive quality. He didn't want to look like he was fishing for compliments.
"To be honest, I'm not usually like this. I mean I don't give out my private phone number to people I just met." He took a breath and Dean realized he was just as uncertain, which oddly relaxed him. "There's something about your presence, Dean, and it drew me in right away. I haven't felt anything in a rather long time. Last year I escaped a bad relationship that wasn't the bond I craved and I haven't felt the slightest tingle of emotion, good or bad, since then. Being drawn to you though ... I wanted to see what it was that pulled me in."
The silence clogging Dean's throat begged to be dislodged but he couldn't think of anything profound to say. All that came out was, "Me too."
"Good." It sounded like he exhaled after holding a tiny breath.
"I'm not good at this though," warned Dean quietly. "Hell, my brother doesn't even know I see dudes sometimes. This isn't ... I'm not...."
"You're not out, as they say," Castiel surmised.
"And I'm not gay. I'm a little of everything."
"Well, so am I."
"Yeah?"
Dean hadn't met anyone like him before, someone who was attracted to anyone and everyone no matter what gender they were. He actually smiled even though they were on the phone and couldn't see each other. The hope swelling in his chest made him just as nervous as it did inspiring excitement. He flipped back on the couch again, noticing the snow falling outside for the second time that week.
"Dean, I'm giving a Christmas party in a few days. I'd like you to come. We should see each other, don't you think?"
Days away seemed like an eternity all of a sudden but he agreed.
"Good. I'll text you the address. It's a cocktail party put on by my publisher, so I'm afraid there will be a lot of people. You won't know them, I'm sure, but it's okay because I won't know most of them either. It's a good chance for us to see each other without people guessing about us. I know you're not out to your family but I'm not out in public. My management advises against it."
"I hate to tell you, Cas, but people in the autograph line were talking about it. Something about Perry, you know, in the books being based on your real boyfriend. I mean ex."
Castiel laughed outright and Dean imagined lines crinkling around his blue eyes. "They're talking, are they? Well, it's not Perry I created from him. It was Arthur Carmichael. It's all right. People always talk and it doesn't really bother me."
"I dunno if I like this ex of yours," Dean teased in a flirtatious tone.
"I suspect I won't even remember his name in a few days," he flirted back.
*****
When Castiel invited Dean to his Christmas party, he expected it to be a dozen people or so in yet another overcrowded New York apartment. That was how it went for most people, especially when the noise complaints started rolling in and he'd have to go and break up the celebrations.
Walking into Castiel's apartment dropped Dean's jaw though. The author lived in a prewar building just off Park Avenue and Dean couldn't even see the end of the place from the front door. It just sprawled on and on despite being rather simple in decor and furniture. Tasteful and professional Christmas decorations adorned windows and doorways with natural evergreen, burgundy, and gold. He clearly made the kind of money that allowed him to hire people for decorations, or maybe his publisher spruced up the place since they were the ones who put on the party in the first place.
None of it mattered to Dean though. He might have changed his clothes four times but it was to impress Castiel, not his writing friends. As soon as he and Castiel saw each other in the foyer, they burst into laughter. No hello. No smooth lines. Laughter smashed apart any nervousness either man might have felt as soon as they realized they wore the same blue button down shirts under casual suit jackets.
"Did you watch me get dressed?" Castiel teased.
"No, I thought you watched me," replied Dean through a half-grin. "I oughta arrest you for that."
The party was of little interest to Dean. No party held his interest since the academy when they had a few keggers and enough girls to go around for all the cadets. He drank hot holiday drinks that he'd never tried before and admitted to enjoying the warmth spreading through his body. Weak alcohol content for sure but Dean was more of a straight up whiskey kind of a guy anyway. Still, the bartender and catering staff fed everyone and kept them nice and liquored up so they ponied up plenty of praise for the great author. He observed Castiel through a round of toasts made with flowery language and although the writer sipped from his glass and offered humble thanks, he never let the praise get inside too much. There was a certain level of insecurity inside that Dean recognized in himself. It kept both of them hungry for something, anything meaningful to prove their lives contributed to something bigger.
No one, of course, knew that it was technically their first date. Or maybe it wasn't. Dean wasn't sure if it was technically a date or if he was being evaluated by a rich man like deciding whether to buy a new car even though he probably already had five or six.
As the night wore on and Castiel sipped more of those hot holiday drinks, his inherent reserve dropped little by little. He openly regarded Dean from across the room with warm blue eyes and crinkles deepening around his face in the most attractive way when he offered up quiet smiles. Soon he began touching Dean in passing and Dean felt at ease enough to do the same. Still, no one seemed to notice. Or maybe everyone at that party already knew about Castiel's secret and it didn't matter to them. Dean couldn't imagine it not mattering though, even if he did relish in the little sparks passing between them with each touch. Too many people in Dean's life made him feel messed up for what he was, beginning with his father. It had to be the same way for Castiel too.
In those murky hours after midnight, people began stumbling to the door and fetching their coats from people in crisp white shirts and black vests. Dean wondered if he should go home too but part of him wanted to stay and drink up every minute that he could before the bubble burst. So he lingered. He waited out the people that he'd never met and most of whom were strangers to the author as well. He snacked on more Christmas cookies laid out on buffet tables placed between floor to ceiling windows in Castiel's formal living room.
"Dean."
The voice corkscrewed up his spine every time, more so when it spoke his name. He turned to Castiel and held a cookie in the palm of his hand.
"Have you enjoyed yourself tonight?"
"Parties aren't really my thing," he admitted.
"Mine either," Castiel agreed. "It's coming to an end though."
"Yeah, I should probably get going," said Dean reluctantly. "I had a really good time being with you though. You know. Just wanted you to know that."
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
Castiel hesitated. He bit his lower lip and glanced around the room at the catering staff cleaning up their messes. Looking back at Dean, his upper body drifted forward slightly and Dean's breath hitched in the moment. Then suddenly what he thought was an incoming kiss became a man grabbing his forearm.
"Come to my library. I wanted to show you something. I have a set of shackles used by the NYPD in 1890, which, I think, might be of interest to you."
"Yeah, okay. Sure."
Slightly confused but wondering if it was a ploy to get him alone, Dean followed Castiel through the sprawling apartment. The Christmas decorations continued even in the more private rooms, suggesting that maybe he'd done it himself after all.
The author's library brought to mind a private sanctuary in the spirit of Dean's much smaller bedroom back home. Castiel didn't bother to flip the light switch and left them in the glow of red and white Christmas lights wound through garland draped over his bookshelves. Sticking his hands in his pockets, Dean wandered and took in that private space. He wondered if the books he read were written on the laptop open on the desk. He wondered if they had other books in common on those shelves too. Most of all, he wondered just what the hell he was doing in Castiel Novak's apartment.
"Dean, I ... I'm not very good at this." He leaned back, sitting on the edge of his desk.
"That makes two of us." Dean shrugged in an attempt to make light of their mutual awkwardness despite their attraction. "I don't usually hang out with anyone more than a few weeks."
"Hmm." Castiel frowned.
"But," he said quickly, "I think that could change here. So lemme make this easier for us."
Without thinking--because if he thought about it, he'd wuss out--Dean bent forward and took Castiel's face in his hands. Their lips met at once, drawing a sharp gasp through Castiel's nose as Dean learned the new curves and lines of his mouth. He tasted warm and sweet like the many Christmas treats they had consumed at the party. Hands fed underneath the weight of Dean's jacket, exploring the width of his chest as well as the small of his back.
It pulled Dean closer until Castiel's legs had to open to make room for him. Pelvis pressed into pelvis as their kiss steadily lost its initial politeness. All too suddenly, they became intimately aware of each other's bodies. If he felt the outline of a potentially impressive pilar of flesh filling out in Castiel's dress pants, then he certainly felt the resistance of Dean's flesh against him too. It all progressed fast. Too fast. No, that wasn't accurate. Their embrace nearly exploded with desire but their touches we're loving and filled with mutual understanding of each other. It was fast, yes, but it was right and it was so good.
Castiel reached up and combed his fingers through Dean's hair. Breaking their kiss revealed wet, swollen lips on both of them and Dean nipped at the sweetness of the lower lip that man bit throughout the night. His hooded, darkened blue eyes bore into Dean's with the kind of intimate probing that made him want to shy away. He fought that urge though and held the strangely intimate gaze.
"My staff has Christmas Eve off," Castiel murmured dryly. "I'd like to have you here to myself. Alone. Completely alone. What do you think?"
Dean couldn't think, really. Fingertips reached between his legs and dragged up along the underside of his cock through his pants. A low, strangled groan left him but he tried to offer up an answer. "I'll figure out my schedule." If he worked Dean up that bad with just his fingertips, then it must have been real. He leaned into Castiel and tasted his jaw and his throat with enticing kisses. Feeling him hold back a groan of his own corkscrewed up Dean's spine just the way that voice did speaking his name.
A zipper sounded between them and it took a second for Dean to realize Castiel had tugged open his pants. The air shocked his skin once Castiel pulled his boxers low enough to free the length of his cock, flushed red, slick, and insistent on getting attention. He let it all happen, occasionally pulling tufts of Castiel's hair as they shared penetrating kisses.
"Look in my eyes," murmured the gravelly voice. "Let me see those green eyes."
Dean did his best to obey, feeling hazy and drunk with the need to rut against something until he came. Then he caught himself and realized it wasn't just the act he craved but the man with strangely innocent blue eyes looking back at him. It wasn't just a need to shoot a wad all over who happened to be there. Far from it. He touched Castiel's cheek as the realization settled over him, watching Castiel bend into his hand and kiss his palm. At the same time, he took hold of Dean's cock, giving it a slow tug. The jolt of raw ache made Dean's head toss back as he sucked in a sharp breath between ground teeth. Slow, torturously slow, Castiel's palm and fingers wound around his cock, drawing a tight path from base to the head and back again. With each pass, his thumb circled Dean's slit until he whimpered.
Still, he labored to keep his eyes fixed on Castiel's intent blue gaze. It was what he wanted and Dean he to admit that it made the entire moment less about the physical and more about looking into the soul. Fiery pleasure coiled around his lower spine. He couldn't control the way his hips began bucking into Castiel's warm hand. Subtle and irregular at first, it soon turned into steady fist fucking, as he called it before, yet loathed to lower their newfound bond to that kind of animalistic comparison. Every measure of private thought flowed through his mind but the one that stuck was an image of Castiel working himself the way he worked Dean at that moment.
Unable to resist, Dean quickly unzipped Castiel's neatly pressed pants and nearly ripped away his boxer-briefs. A wickedly thick erection sprang free and Dean moved in close until they stroked each other in the same rhythm. Low groans stifled in the author's personal library, never forgetting the catering staff cleaning up after the party on the other side of the apartment. If they were seen, though, Dean knew they were beyond the point of stopping for anyone.
"I want you," Dean panted in his ear, "on this desk. Now, Cas."
Castiel relished in being wanted, it seemed. His cock, heavy in Dean's hand, twitched and he groaned hungrily. But logic prevailed. "No need to rush. What will we look forward to at Christmas, hmm? Romance isn't dead for men like us."
"Isn't it?" Dean whispered.
He respected Castiel's wishes not to make the full trip around the sun, so to speak, and he didn't even feel the urge to complain about it. Something inside told him there would be more opportunities to be together and to enjoy the stolen glimpse of such a sudden profound bond there in the library. Ensuring that Castiel knew he understood, his kisses traveled along the line of his jaw to his flushed, bitten lips. Kisses found that passionate stride again as if they hadn't slowed to speak of their intentions. Dean decided to surrender instead of analyzing it. He felt something much more powerful than a quick lay happening between them--so powerful, in fact, that he wasn't opposed to letting Castiel meet Sam and Jess one day. The pair of them learned each other's secrets that night through each kiss, each intimate touch, and each breathy, stifled groan.
Delicious, sharper groans escaped Castiel's lips soon, each one cutting into Dean's spiral toward oblivion. His intense blue eyes went dull as his lids fluttered. Hips jerked and he all but forgot Dean as he leaned back, jaw falling open with the kind of pleasure that offered no sound. Dean kissed his exposed Adam's apple as hot sticky liquid splashed into his fist. Stroking Castiel through such intense tremors nearly dropped him to his knees.
But the very second Castiel's senses returned, his ankle hooked around Dean's leg and yanked him nearly flush against his body. A bouncing fist between them became the only movement as Castiel propelled Dean to keep their eyes together. Once in a while they nipped at each other's lips but soon Dean couldn't think of anything except hurdling toward the edge of the cliff. He nearly hit through his bottom lip and growled in the last tortuous moments as Castiel intently watched him.
The corkscrew ripped through his spine like fire where it had been a quiet tingle before. Keep quiet! Keep quiet! He ordered himself into failed silence through the eruption as he fucked Castiel's fist with abandon. If the catering staff heard him elsewhere in the apartment, they might have thought he was dying. Hell, even Dean thought he would die for a few seconds but that would have been a hell of a way to go.
Sucking in breath through ground teeth, slowly it subsided, and he fell into the man seated before him on the desk. "Oh man," he slurred hoarsely, his forehead resting on Castiel's forehead, "you sure you don't wanna get naked on this desk right now?"
Castiel's low laughter felt warm like all those hot Christmas drinks Dean had at the party. "You are quite tempting, Dean, but I find myself truly caring for you. I did when I first saw you at the bookstore and I don't want to rush through all the little gifts a new bond has to offer."
Pulling back a bit, Dean nodded and stuffed his eyes. It moved him. He wasn't used to being moved, not a man with his kind of bloody history.
"I do want you, Dean," he assured.
The cop let himself smile from the heart rather than the ego. "Good to know."
"But I want all of you." He kissed Dean's forehead. "That includes your bad habits, bad days, uncertainties, your work, your ego, joys, desires...." He kissed Dean's nose and lips. "Your body. All of you."
"We only met today," Dean whispered.
"Yes, but certainty is the one true language of the soul. Don't you think?" A hopeful yet tiny smile brightened his eyes.