Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Chapter 1

Ares, the Greek God of War—popularly known as plain old ‘Dean Winchester’, these days—has already lived forever and a day.

A thousand lives in a hundred different ways, he’s seen and done anything and everything he could ever think to want to try.

Everything, that is, except for the one thing he really wants.

But who needs love, when you’ve got forever?

That’s what Dean tells himself.

The rub with immortality is that it can become a little boring, a little stale, if you don’t kind of buy in to the idea of humanity, just a bit. Dean figured that out pretty quickly—seriously, clocked it less than a century past the day he turned twenty-five (and essentially stopped aging completely)—and he’s never forgotten it since. Just because being a god comes with certain perks, certain advantages (so maybe he doesn’t have to eat, shower, or sleep regularly), doesn’t mean Dean can’t understand that the best part of being on the mortal coil is getting to do what you want, and “have to” be damned. 

After all, humans are constantly fucking off their responsibilities to chase pleasure, and those pleasures are—however strangely—often nothing more than specific or elaborate versions of shit they have to do in order to stay alive. It’s always been that way, from 700 B.C. to the 21st Century, and who’s Dean to say they’re wrong for it?

Humans—they’ve cornered the market on self-indulgence. They call off work to sleep all day, they combat boredom and sadness with food, namely, options filled with excess sugar and fat. They imbibe perverted forms of natural substances, altering their brain chemistries (sometimes dangerously so) just to feel something, and—Dean’s personal favorite—they use their bodies to create pure ecstacy, manufacturing bliss from nothing except their own Creator-given nerve endings and hormones.

Despite enjoying many of the same indulgences, most gods Dean knows tend to believe that humans should be looked down upon and pitied. They believe that mortals need their blessing to thrive, to feel anything close to enlightenment, but Dean’s had an orgasm, and he patently disagrees. He’s shared his thoughts about it with the family, but the truth is, most of them like feeling superior and looking down on humanity, so no one’s been all that interested.

In Dean’s experience, gods distance themselves from the mortal coil and from the day-to-day demands of human minutiae on principle, making him an outlier. That probably explains why he doesn’t have any real immortal friends, save for his one sibling, Sam. Sam’s like him—he’s always appreciated humanity, all the way back to the days when he was wearing a female body and going by, “Athena.” These days, he’s seven feet tall and ultra-masculine in appearance, but like humans, gods aren’t always one thing or another.

Sam gets that—embraces it. Most of Dean’s other relatives just think he’s an idiot.

The fuck do they know, though? Squirreled away on mountaintops or deserted islands, or hell, the moon, those assholes are looking at centuries of nothing. Fuck being high, mighty, and above it all, Dean would damn well rather be in the thick of it, dropped carelessly amongst the human refuse, the yearning, teeming masses, and all of the messy, dirty, complicated stuff that comes with that.

At least it’s interesting. At least things change.

Plus, mortality makes these fuckers kinkier, Dean’s sure of it. It’s like the threat of death breathing down their necks makes them that much more desperate to feel and to fuck, to hurt each other in the name of pleasure, to get unapologetically rough and dirty where the stakes are low but they feel high. Feature or bug, Dean’s got no clue, but he’s relatively sure that the creator of the universe didn’t actually script that shit in.

It’s not really that serious, though, living as a human. Mostly, choosing to integrate with mortals means that Dean keeps an apartment and holds down a job. Goes to the grocery store and cooks himself meals. Works, showers, drinks, fucks—it means he enjoys all of the benefits of humanity, and equally, accepts all of the accompanying bullshit.

The hardest part of that package lies within the fact that he doesn’t age—meaning that every decade or so, Dean’s gotta reinvent himself. Switch up his government identity (birth details, mostly, he likes his name), change states (since he’s mostly settled in the U.S. of A., at least, for the previous century or so), and track down a new school that’s both looking to hire teachers, and won’t dig too deeply into the history of its applicants.

Disturbingly, that last requirement has nearly become a given in an increasingly under-educated and dystopian post-democratic America. But that’s another rant for another soapbox.

It’s worth it, though, Dean thinks. Ever since Kindergarten became a thing for school-aged youngsters, he’s been signing himself up to teach it. The kids that age are fresh, hopeful, not yet jaded and discouraged by the world. Hopping from North to South and East to West, Dean’s been all over North America, happily educating the youngest Americans using everything he knows. Not only how to count and spell, but the importance of being kind and harnessing their talents for good. 

…And yes, maybe undoing at least some of the bad parenting he stumbles across along the way, because kids shouldn’t have to shoulder their parents’ burdens. Freudian of him, sure, but if Dean can save a kid or two whose own worst enemy is going to be themselves, maybe he might have a shot at fixing his own damage in the process.

It probably sounds weird, the God of War teaching five-year-olds how to tell time and recognize seasons, but at the end of the day, the one human thing Dean can’t have—no matter how much he might want it—is a family. Sure, he could father some kids on a whim, anyone can, but then he really would be just like his dad. He spreads his seed, one of two things happens: either he’s cornered into kidnapping the child, leaving a mother devastated while he whisks the thing back to Mount Olympus, or he’s abandoning his progeny in the hopes that the poor sucker doesn’t inherit any of his more powerful genes. 

Dumb, but it’s not like he can, what? Settle down in suburbia? Hope the PTA doesn’t ask what fountain of youth he’s been drinking out of when his high school graduate son looks more like his younger brother?

Dean can just see it, now. “My brother, by the way, is also a god, but that’s another story, Susan.”

He can’t out himself. Can’t burden some poor chick with the knowledge that she fell for a god, that she’s going to age and die while the love of her life (duh) and maybe her child live on forever without her, and that’s before all the ethical shit. That entire mess is too complicated and fucked up for Dean to even seriously contemplate dabbling in or attempting to sort out.

Honestly, he’s fine with the mediocre substitute. Teaching is his calling.

It is lonely, though. Never being able to get close to someone, no matter what he feels for them. Knowing that in a handful of years, he’ll have to leave them behind forever. It is sad, having almost everyone he’s cared about grow old and die while he continues on, unchanged. Most of the people that Dean did allow himself to love and care for crossed his path so long ago that there aren’t even pictures or daguerreotypes of their faces for him to hold. They exist now only in his mind, features increasingly blurry and distant with time.

Most.

There is one person in particular—a guy Dean met in Paris in late spring of 1820—that could never fade away. What followed was something out of a romance novel, an adventure and affair he’s never come close to replicating in the years since. That short, fiery relationship featured some of the wildest, kinkiest, most incredible physical intimacy Dean’s ever experienced, and the memories haunt him. It keeps him up at night, thinking about a person and an emotional connection he’s never come close to finding again.

That summer in Paris left a mark. Physical, even, but forget the scar—Dean knows he’d still be caught up dreaming of those days without any kind of touchable, tangible souvenir to lead him.

He’d kill to have one of those, though. A real reminder, not just the handprint carved into his arm, but a picture, a newspaper article, a video clip—anything. Eighteen-twenty was only ten freaking years before the earliest cameras came into public use in France—Dean only wishes he knew back then to go and dig one up. To find Cas, track him down and capture his image the way he was then, so he could carry it with him forever.

It was way too late by the time Dean realized that was a possibility, and forever is turning out to be a lot longer than he anticipated. He was young back then, cocky and stupid. The day he walked out on Cas, he assumed that their fling would be the first of many like it. That Cas would be a notch in his bedpost, a blurry, unrecognizable face within half a year. He never imagined he’d still be pining after the guy and what they shared together two hundred years later, that’s for damn sure.

Very human of him, honestly. Especially to want something so pedestrian as a picture, when theoretically, he could pop down to the Underworld and find out where, exactly, Cas is. Depending on the answer, he could maybe even vist. But no, Dean wants a fuckin’ framed photo to carry around in his pocket.

Maybe the gods do sway the universe, because somewhere around 1890, Dean (sort of) got his wish. He was bumming around Northern Italy, checking out a market in Florence to celebrate finishing his tweaking of the Carcano*. Strolling along (hunting for ale), a random selling stand caught his eye. The proprietor happened to be offering all sorts of trinkets and canvas portraits, one of them standing out to Dean like a beacon—stopped him dead in his tracks.

At the time and in the middle of that Italian courtyard, Dean would have sworn on his mother’s reign that the subject was Cas. In fact, the image was so damn lifelike, if it wasn’t for the texture of the oils, he would’ve been hard-pressed to believe that he wasn’t looking at a capture of the real deal. 

Of course, time and distance allow for logic and balance. These days, Dean assumes that his memory, although typically infallible, was just seeing what it longed for because obviously, the alternative wasn’t a possibility. Especially considering the merchant’s ardent belief that the portrait was of “the real Michaelangelo,” which seemed like kind of an unstable thing to say, and Dean had scoffed outright.

While he didn’t know Michelangelo personally, the dude was basically a celebrity of his time. Plenty of portraits floating around, and that dude wasn’t anything special, least of all Cas-hot. Prodigy or not, Mickey-A was sporting a receding hairline and his beard was fuckin’ raggedy. Portrait guy—whoever the hell he was—looked unearthly. Spitting image of his Cas, right down to the dark, wild hair, the kind and endless blue eyes, and the well-groomed scruff.

Even though the seller was clearly a scammer—Michaelangelo, like fuck—Dean coughed up the coins to buy the painting on the spot. Sucker, maybe, but two hundred years later (with the help of a little God-given blessing), the thing is still traveling around with him.

Still reminds him of Cas.

Still makes his heart ache.

Whenever he moves, the painting is the last thing he packs and the first he unloads, wrapped up carefully and tucked neatly into the top of whichever box is holding his most treasured belongings. There aren’t many. It’s easy for Dean to move, really. He doesn’t have much, never seeing the point in hoarding possessions when he could have experiences. Plus, if he wants to keep teaching, he can’t really put down roots, so that mentality serves him.

It is what it is. Sacrifice is very human.

At the end of the day, it’s just Dean, a couple of boxes, and his Baby—a nineteen sixty-seven Chevrolet Impala he’s been driving since the day it came off the line (and will continue to do so until her frame falls apart and he’s left sitting in the middle of the road holding a steering wheel). Without friends, family, or a permanent base, Baby is Dean’s main constant. She takes him wherever he needs to go and provides him the semblance of a home when home isn’t something he has to run to.

And that’s fine.

Dean’s fine.

In fact, he and Baby just finished a major cross-country drive, all the way from Portland, Oregon down to New Orleans, Louisiana. Truthfully—besides the desperate help-wanted ads the public school system was sending out—Dean couldn’t say what drove him to The Big Easy. He’s never been much for humidity, Sam is all the way in southern California, and the thirty-eight-hour drive definitely wasn’t any kind of incentive, but off he went.

New Orleans just seemed…new.

Doesn’t matter—now that he’s here, it’s fine. He was able to grab a decent, furnished apartment in the Central Business District that his teaching salary will support, and since his place is just shy of the French Quarter, there’s plenty to do and see. Well, there’d be more to do and see if he had the money for it, but hell. At least he’s pretty. Someone’s always willing to buy him a drink and show him a good time, and that’s enough.

Sometimes, Dean curses himself for not being more proactive over the years regarding money and wealth-building. His contributions to the world persist into modern day, but Dean himself—his original name and everything that came after—has been largely forgotten, and he’s got nothing to fuckin’ show for it. Not a damn red cent.

He should’ve at least played the lottery. As he slams Baby’s trunk shut and shoulders his last box of possessions, he thinks about running down to the corner store and buying a handful of tickets. Why the hell not?!

Carrying the box up the stairs, Dean sets it down just inside the door of his new apartment before closing it behind him. He stretches, cracking his neck as he moves to open the French doors that lead out to his tiny balcony. Tiny might be an understatement. Dean’s feet barely fit in the box without him having to assume a ballet position, but fresh air is fresh air. He turns around—almost tripping over the step down—and surveys his new kingdom before rubbing his hands together and getting to work.

As he begins to sort out his things, the sounds of a street musician pumping out brassy jazz music (a saxophone, Dean thinks) filter in on a warm breeze, keeping him company. The breeze has the cheap curtains that came with the place fluttering, and the movement helps the tattered fabric masquerade as nicer than it really is. It’s calming, very zen. Dean’s into that kind of shit. Gotta appreciate the little things.

Naturally, he unpacks his usual box first, removing Cas’ look-alike portrait and placing it on the rickety TV stand where he can see it from anywhere in the room. For whatever reason—the vibe of the city, the music, maybe Cas’ face staring placidly back at him—the wind very abruptly goes out of his sails and doesn’t come back. Dean tries, but the energy he’s created makes him melancholy, and he ultimately decides to postpone the minutiae of unpacking for something more fun, because wallowing never did shit for anyone.

Plus, New Orleans has one thing that Dean knows for sure will perk him right up and make this stay worth his while—food. Even though he doesn’t technically need to eat, if someone pushed him to pick his favorite human indulgence, Dean would let them twist his arm clean off before he’d choose between food and sex. This is why he’s so sure that his snotty relatives have it all wrong—ain’t nothin’ about a superiority complex that beats a hot beignet and a blowjob, sorry, not sorry.

Abandoning his boxes to go in search of just that—either one, honestly, but food to start—Dean’s smartphone tells him that there are several local grocers within walking distance of his place. He zeroes in on one with a family name and ads on the website promising local offerings. Encouraged and thinking about both pastries and lobster mac and cheese, he heads that way.

As Dean steps through the heavy front door to his apartment building, that same soft, warm breeze flutters his hair and carries nostalgically familiar scents and sounds alike to his ears and nose. The combination of live oaks and florals, roasting coffee and baking bread, tobacco and stale beer inundate his senses, painfully familiar. One lungful and he can’t shake it off the way he normally does—can’t seem to get his brain to recognize that it’s two centuries later and the reason he’s hung up on a certain pinpoint era in time and space is long fucking gone. 

Fuck New Orleans. Why did he come here? 

Right. A job. In hindsight, Dean definitely should’ve contemplated more critically the repercussions of relocating to a place that could be accurately described as the United States of America’s “New France.” Should’ve considered what that would do to him and his weak, damaged psyche for more than four measly seconds (and the idea of hot donuts on tap). In his defense, though, going where the wind blows has never failed him in the past.

Really, Dean shouldn’t be surprised to discover that the city is so reminiscent of Paris—technically, he knew about the cultural influence going in. But it's not just the French infusion that’s tripping him up, it’s how specifically, how easily the reality of this place is mentally dragging him back a couple centuries, to the first time he visited France itself—during the hot, endless summer of 1820. 

Hands in his pockets, Dean’s melancholy as he strolls down the cracked sidewalk, working hard to keep himself and this thoughts grounded in the present. It was probably the handling of the portrait, the cherry on top of the mental-cue-sundae that threw and made him so stupidly emotional. It annoys Dean that he’s so easily swayed—he should throw that thing away. It isn’t him, anyhow. It isn’t Cas.

Cas is dead and dust by now. Hell, so are his freaking kids.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair before squaring his shoulders, taking a deep breath, and shrugging off the past like a hangover. Not that he knows what a hangover feels like, but one time he drained almost the entirety of a Scottish distillery’s backstock, the aftermath probably came close.

Anyway, what’s he got to complain about? So he doesn’t have a family or a partner, and he’s hung up on a French dude from the 19th Century who could talk dirty in like twenty languages and knew his way around a bullwhip. What he does have is a pretty face, a give ’em hell attitude, and a mass of willing hookups lined up around the block. More than that, he’s got a job he loves and the best damn classic car this side of the Atlantic. Ancient Greece could never.

Plus, he’s on his way to inhale more delicious food than the human body can rightfully handle, which is fine because his stomach is a magical bottomless pit.

Focus on the perks.

The grocery store turns out to be fancy. The kind of establishment boasting at least five different fresh food varieties and a “create-your-own” whatever station. From what Dean and his cart can see from the entrance, it’s got a giant salad bar, an enormous bakery case, and a crapload of both hot and premade options. There’s a bunch of seafood, including a lobster tank and what appears to be a massive cooler full of self-serve boiled crawfish. And that’s just what he can get a visual on. Beyond those offerings, there are stacks of produce rivaling the ones at the Grand Bazaar in Turkey, not that he’s checked in recently.

Food stuffs aside, there’s a whole section just for wine, and Dean veers immediately left to walk in-between the bottles. While whiskey and beer are generally his beverages of choice (and good whiskey is non-negotiable if he’s working towards anything approaching a buzz), over the years, Dean’s gained an appreciation for a nice glass of wine. It’ll be white tonight, since he’s thinking seafood, but he’s careful not to linger on the more expensive brands or anything French. Better not to look at what he can’t afford, and he definitely doesn’t need any more sense-based emotional triggers.

Soon, Dean and his several boxes of Franzia migrate into the main aisles, selecting root veggies to cover in butter and cheese, then adding some fruit to turn into pie. He gleefully selects a container of lobster mac & cheese from the premade section, some fresh-not-frozen shrimp with sauce, and a pound of ground beef to make into burgers. Then it’s off to the spice and baking aisles for staples, and over to the enormous chest freezer towards the rear of the store that practically runs the length.

Dean peruses the frozen offerings at a snail’s pace, reading packages and considering all sorts of various delicacies. Sliders, hot dogs wrapped in pastry dough, eight kinds of pizza novelties. Pizza, on a bagel, and you can have it any time! The Dean who survived the U.S. during the Depression and all of the rationing that came with it is seriously living.

The freezer he’s currently rummaging through is one of those waist-high ones with space to walk on either side. They say that kind of setup is to maximize traffic flow, but Dean knows it’s so the store can make you feel like you’re missing out on something if you don’t go all the way up one row and back down the other. The double aisle also allows for more accessibility to the various frozen items, and because of this, Dean is peripherally aware of various human beings moving and shopping around him. Reaching, grabbing items, doing their thing—none of these people have any idea what’s currently standing next to them, reading the back of a box of Hot Pockets.

So he can’t say that he thinks very much of it when he stops to examine a package of frozen beef patties (nearly out of reach in the center of the case) and someone else is there, hovering directly across from him. Dean does, however, jerk his hand away when the person reaches simultaneously for the same box, glancing up apologetically to find himself facing a truly impossible sight. One that feels like a physical punch to the gut, essentially causing him to bluescreen like an old IBM computer.

“Sorry, I—” is all he manages before his tongue goes numb and freezes in his mouth alongside the rest of his body. Appropriate, and reflective of the way the image in front of him is completely frozen in time.

“Apolog—” the maybe-mirage starts, but he also stops mid-sentence, his eyes going wide and face turning shocked and slack. It drains briefly of color, like a cartoon character who’s seen a ghost. It would be funny, if it wasn’t so impossible.

One look at that face—those kind blue eyes, that messy hair, those unchanged laugh lines—and Dean knows the feeling. Instantly, he’s two hundred years younger, standing in the middle of the Champs-Élysées with a familiar, warm hand tucked into his. He’s being dragged towards yet another art exhibition as little French-speaking girls wave bouquets of flowers in their direction and horse-drawn carriages clip-clop past down the cobbled street.

Cas was never afraid to be seen touching him. Homophobia was definitely around during that time period, but Paris in the hot months of 1820 was one big, happy-go-lucky, midsommar fling. If you weren’t too obtrusive, no one really gave a shit. The only people looking for trouble were the guards and the troops, and those fuckers were usually pretty busy trying to overthrow the Bourbon Monarchy. A couple of sightseeing gays? They mostly flew right under the radar.

‘Course, the stuff in the streets was only the tip of the iceberg compared to what went on behind closed doors, but that’s a whole other story.

How is this happening? Dean blinks and shakes his head—nothing is processing.

Cas should be dead. Cas should be dead two times over and then some. Dean should turn on his heel and walk right the fuck away from this definite mirage, before his obviously desperate and overly active imagination gets the better of him, because in no fucking universe is the person standing in front of him Castiel.

Except—it definitely is. Dean would know him anywhere, not only from the endless days spent mapping his body with fingers and lips, teeth and tongue, but simply because Cas is Cas. There was always a connection, an energy flowing between them, and just like that, in the too-bright, ugly fluorescent light of the supermarket frozen foods aisle, it all comes flooding back. The scar on Dean’s left shoulder (healed to the point where he allowed it and then left dormant for years), throbs as if it’s brand-spanking-new.

“Dean?” the man whispers.

If Dean was harboring any residual question or reservation as to whether he’s simply projecting his desperate and lonely bullcrap onto some poor, innocent stranger, the voice sends that shit all the way up in smoke. Ain’t nobody replicating Cas’ gravel-gargling dulcet tones by accident. 

“Dean—how?” 

A middle-aged woman with exceptionally frizzy hair navigates her cart around Cas and eyes the two of them suspiciously. Dean’s pretty sure she doesn’t suspect anything remotely approaching the truth, but this is the Bible Belt. Progressive city or not, two queer dudes having a moment in the middle of a supermarket is definitely not guaranteed to be a welcome sight.

Castiel follows his gaze, and seemingly, his train of thought, abruptly abandoning his cart to round the end of the freezer and grab Dean by the arm. Without a word about it, Dean finds himself being marched towards the giant sign advertising the restrooms, and he doesn’t argue. Even if he wanted to, what the fuck would he say?

There’s also the fact that even with a flannel separating his arm and Cas’ palm, Dean’s skin tingles, and that’s fucking distracting. Castiel has always had that kind of effect on him. Made him easy, stupid, desperate, but like, in a hot way. 

He lets himself be led.

Being this close to Cas again is almost unnerving. If Dean wasn’t a thousand years old, it definitely would be, but he’s seen a lot of weird things in his time. As the two of them walk, Dean leans over and sniffs him discretely, pleased and kind of floored to discover that Cas even smells like he did two hundred years ago. Clean and fresh and a little bit spicy, kind of the opposite of most people in 1820, honestly. Maybe that should’ve been some kind of clue, back then.

“Cas, I—”

“Shh,” Cas says, bypassing both bathrooms and dragging Dean straight through the double doors marked, “Employees Only.” They don’t lead anywhere special—just the stockroom area of the store, a sprawling, shelf-packed warehouse with administrative offices in a row off to one side. 

“Oooh, illicit,” Dean quips. “So sexy, all clandestine, what are we—”

“Tais-toi,” Castiel hisses as the doors swing shut behind them, and oh, yeah—this is definitely him. A true polyglot, Cas always used to spout random shit in other langauges—sometimes to piss Dean off, but mostly, it seemed like the guy genuinely forgot what language he was supposed to be speaking at any given time. While he’s not so talented himself, Dean’s natural gifts at least allow for him to catch the gist of whatever’s being said.

“Two hundred years and the first thing you wanna do is tell me to shut up?!”

Ignoring his complaints, Cas glances around, presumably checking for any prying eyes or ears. Finding none, he refocuses, turning the softest gaze Dean has seen in a very long time directly on him.

“Of course not,” he admonishes gently. “It’s just—I have no idea how this is possible, you being here, but clearly, we need to talk.”

“In English, if you don’t mind. And I would, but you keep—”

“This is not the place.” Insistently, Castiel places a hand on his shoulder, prompting a brief but fierce internal war in which Dean fights the urge to drop down onto his knees right there. It must show in his expression, because a smile flickers across Cas’ face and he shakes his head. “Time to go,” he says softly. “Sorry in advance for any vertigo.”

“Vertigo? Wha—” 

God, Cas is determined to keep him from getting a word in edgewise, but Dean is not expecting the room to spin, melt away, and then dissolve completely. Cas’ hand stays strong on his shoulder, but the floor disappears from under his feet and he realizes somewhat belatedly that this is magic—they’re flying, or maybe teleporting, something in that realm. 

As the blurred scenery slows and the world materializes back into focus, Dean’s feet find solid ground. That’s great, but it’s also sunny, and he finds himself winking and blinking in what he’s pretty damn sure is the opposite of a smooth and sexy way. In his defense, the grocery store is gone—gone—and they’re standing outside, underneath a grove of sun-patched trees, and this is all very confusing. Dean’s stomach turns a little but quickly rights itself, and he thinks that Cas looks kind of impressed.

“Apologies,” Cas says, withdrawing his hand and cradling it like he’s worried the touch was unwelcome. “I thought—well, I thought that if you’ve worked even half as hard as I have to conceal whatever your true nature and identity might be, blowing it in a very public way could be less than desirable. Your tempered reaction to that flight suggests I was correct in assuming you’re something more than simple monster or Fae? O mi sbaglio?”

“I see the years haven’t taught you anything approaching tact,” Dean says softly. At his sides, his balled up hands itch to touch—but does Cas want that?

As he watches, Castiel tips his head to the side, biting his lip and turning plush pink white under the pressure. He looks adorably amused, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He seems exactly the same, in the very best way.

“I see that you’re still a brat,” Cas replies. “Tact is just not saying true things.”

“Psh. Yeah, don’t wanna accidentally let being nice get in the way of spitting facts.”

“You should show me some respect,” Cas says, gravitating closer and closer, like it’s instinctual and he can’t help himself. In return, Dean’s already taken three steps forward before he realizes that he’s equally influenced by the apparent magnetism, which is less surprising than it should be.

“Maybe you should earn some,” Dean replies, but the words come out cracked and breathless and way less cocky than he intended, which is fine, because Castiel’s face lights up with delight in seeing how affected he is. He licks his lips, clearly choosing his next words carefully, and Dean tracks every minute movement of his mouth.

“No…significant other?” Cas asks cautiously, absently picking at his own fingernails.

There it is.

All bravado, Dean scoffs and raises an eyebrow in what he hopes reads as blatant invitation, and that’s all it takes—Castiel snaps. He reaches out and wraps a large, warm hand around the back of Dean’s neck, yanking him in determinedly and kissing him like they’re not a day past August of eighteen-twenty.

Dean melts. It’s been longer than he cares to admit since he’s been kissed in any kind of way that makes him want more, never mind a smacker landing remotely in the realm of “memorable,” but this is definitely both. Kissing Cas always felt like something special, something important, but those are kind of lame things to think about hooking up in general, never mind with some virtual stranger he knew for like, a day before the first time it happened.

At least—that was Dean’s stance on the matter back then, but if he’s learned anything over the last two hundred plus years, it’s the following: one, he’s an idiot. Two, life is way too short to lie about love, and three, even an immortal life span is effectually short in all the ways that matter.

So, whatever—fuck propriety. Dean doesn’t actually care what Cas is, or how he’s here, or even if there are weird cosmic forces pushing them together. He definitely doesn’t care about what society thinks of his emotional wants and needs. Right now, he just wants to touch the man in front of him, wants to feel something other than lonely.

Opening his mouth for Castiel’s tongue, Dean sighs around the eager kisses and works hard not to come off as too desperate. It’s difficult not to simply follow his baser instincts down into the dirt, to act on the desire to claw wildly at Castiel’s chest, to grab onto his body and dig nails into his skin, maybe scratch Cas open just to see if he bleeds.

Alright—maybe he cares a little bit, but is it so wrong to want something, some tangible proof that Cas is more than an elaborate mirage? Honestly, that would really be Dean’s luck.

Or, fuck luck, maybe his half-sister Eris’ kid, Atë—chick is a mess, always looking for trouble—invented this play out of boredom. The Pantheon does try that shit every couple of decades or so, pulling some dramatic prank or other invented antic to try and coerce Dean away from humanity and back into the fold. To send him running back to Mount Olympus with his tail between his legs, or whatever. 

Stuck on that possibility, Dean spends the next ten or twenty seconds wondering if Atë even has that kind of power before attempting to shove the intrusive thought aside. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds Cas tighter, kissing him furiously for several more seconds before worry gets the best of him and he mutters into his mouth, “You’re real, right, Cas? This isn’t some fucked up joke?”

“Not a joke,” Castiel replies, cupping the side of his face as he puts a few inches between them. He also can’t seem to suppress the urge to touch, reaching up and smoothing a lock of hair away from Dean’s forehead. “Togloltgüi. We have much to discuss, though. You—are you sure there’s no one…expecting you home?”

Dean scrunches up his face before looking down his nose at the bashful creature in his arms. His concern is cute, but Cas has to have a screw loose if he thinks Dean’s spent the last however long fostering lasting, long-term relationships. There’s a reason the two of them didn’t work out, he didn’t even stick around long enough to find out that they could.

“Cas, hello? Look, if I’m putting the pieces together correctly—and to be really fuckin’ honest, my brain’s got some warring priorities at the moment—I’m pretty damn sure you understand exactly why I walked away back then. None of that has changed, ‘cept—I mean, I told you about Sammy. He’s still around, of course. Not here, though, so it’s still just me, myself, and I, carting around the same, never-aging baggage. Only difference between now and then is that you know about it.” 

“It’s a big difference,” Castiel replies quickly but then adds, “there are other immortals,” more cautiously. “You never…?”

“Cas, more than half of those fuckers count as immediate family for me, and the rest are certified bags of dicks. How many immortals do you even know?”

“Not…many,” Castiel admits. “I’m not exactly known for fitting in amongst my—our—kind.”

“Huh. So, what are you, exactly?” Dean asks curiously. “And also—where the fuck are we?” He glances around, fully digesting their landing location for the first time. They’re standing in the middle of a large circular driveway, about a quarter of a mile from the immaculately-landscaped property’s gated entrance/exit. It’s a sprawling estate, and up a small stone walk to their left is the kind of monstrosity of a mansion Dean’s Dad would feel at home in.

Dean, on the other hand, couldn’t afford to rent a room here. Not on his teacher’s salary, that’s for damn sure. He whistles, making Castiel stir in his arms and pull away a little as if he means to head towards the house, but instead, he leans back in and kisses Dean for what feels like an endless period of time.

“Damn,” Dean says when Cas eventually moves on, thumb wiping at the corner of his mouth. “Hope whoever lives here doesn’t mind the show they’re getting from the living room.”

Castiel has entwined their hands to drag Dean along, and their arms are stretched between them when he pauses to glance back over his shoulder, looking at Dean strangely. “I live here,” he replies simply. “Willkommen.”

“You—”

“I’m The Immortal,” Castiel continues, leading Dean firmly up the front walk and without looking back this time. “Now you know. And you?”

“Wait—The Immortal? Like, Megan Thee Stallion, Thee Immortal? Dude, you’re fuckin’ legendary. Most people don’t think you’re still around. Something about—Pompeii? Or maybe it was the Shaanxi Earthquake.”

“And that’s how I like it,” Castiel murmurs, fishing in his pocket with his free hand and coming up with a solid iron keyring that looks like it should be unlocking an old-fashioned jail cell in a western movie. “Most people find me strange, off-putting. There was a time when I trusted others, when I tried to reach out and merge with humanity…”

“Ha,” Dean snorts. “Considering all the merging you and I did, I believe it.”

A smile flickers momentarily across Castiel’s face, but it’s quickly replaced by something vaguely sad. He fiddles with his keys. “Less of that than you might think, but you were, indeed, quite a bright spot in the timeline.”

Dean snaps his fingers. “They always called you, ‘The One with the Angelic Face,” he says, remembering. “So that’s true. Is that how you got your name? Shit, I didn’t drive you to this, did I?”

Rather patiently, Castiel answers all of his rapid-fire questions. “Yes, to the first, and no—my breaking point came perhaps eighty years ago. I was a long-term boarder at a hotel in Los Angeles. I thought that I’d finally made a friend, but when she discovered who—what—I was, she turned on me. Immediately.”

“The hotel’s occupants transformed into la muchedumbre—a mob, uniting in their fear for long enough to capture and hang me from the ceiling of the very ornate lobby before turning on each other. I had to pretend that I was dead until they dispersed in quiet shame. Then, I simply jumped down and walked away. I’ve been investing carefully for most of my life, so money was no issue—I bought this estate soon after leaving California, and I haven’t left. Well, save for the occasional supply run, and perhaps an infrequent walk in the park. Also Mardi Gras.”

By the end of the story, Dean’s jaw is hanging open, and he feels like dog shit for making light of Cas’ self-isolation. “They hung you?”

Castiel shrugs. “Humanity is complex,” he says, fitting first one key and then another into the lock, like he doesn’t know which of the many options opens his own front door. “They all contain multitudes.”

Shaking his head, Dean’s kind of at a loss for words. “That’s fucked up,” he says. “Really fucked up. Angry mob hung me from some rafters, I’d probably be hiding out, too. Actually, the old me would’ve barred the doors and burned the entire hotel to the ground with everyone in it, but thankfully, I’ve had some therapy. Not an excuse, but I am the God of War. ”

There’s a surprised look on Castiel’s face when he pauses what he’s doing with the door to glance back over his shoulder at Dean again. “Are you, really? It doesn’t suit you.”

“Nope,” Dean agrees, popping the p. “Took me more centuries than I’d like to admit to sort that shit out, but you’re damn right. I don’t uh—I don’t do that, anymore. Honestly, no one really gave a shit about me when I did, so it wasn’t all that hard to walk away from. Every now and then, some tourist in Rome tries praying to the Ares statue, asking for sponsorship to become the next Supreme Overlord of the Universe. Or, more commonly, some asshole names an athletic club after my government name and I get a little tingle. Either way, those things are easy enough to ignore.” 

He’s rambling and he knows it, but what if Castiel thinks he’s a major douchebag for abandoning his supposed raison d'être? Thankfully, Cas just turns around, cups the side of his face tenderly, and looks deeply into his eyes like he can see straight through to his soul. Hell, maybe he can. The lore’s shaky—who knows what The Immortal is really capable of? 

Dude’s basically a legend—like Batman.

“Dean,” Castiel says softly, visibly rolling the word around on his tongue as he considers the new information he’s been given. He seems to recognize that for all of Dean’s bluster, he’s still working on fully convincing himself that he did the right thing. “Non est ad astra mollis e terris via. You are whoever you say you are, my beloved.”

“I dunno.” Dean finds himself resisting the affirmation, because even though he knows that what Cas is saying is true, being Zeus’ son isn’t something one just shakes off or steps out of like a molted layer of skin. He clears his throat, avoiding Cas’ gaze while he searches for the right words to express how he feels.

“The summer you and I met, I was there, in France, chasing down the guillotine. Trying to—get it back or something, after I saw what Henry the VIII was doin’ with it. Far from the first time I was personally responsible for a weapon of mass destruction and murder, and I just thought…I don’t know. Creating weapons, antagonizing nations to war—I thought that following orders was what I was supposed to do. It’s the reason Zeus brought ‘Ares’ into existence, right? To help men destroy each other. To foster division, chaos, violence.”

Tears well in his eyes and Dean feels stupid, embarrassed at his easy display of emotion, but he can’t help it. This—Cas being here, alive, and someone he can innately confess these things to with a guarantee of some measure of understanding—well. It’s tough to re-cork a champagne bottle that’s still overflowing. 

“Dean, Dean,” Castiel coos, all up in his space but still holding onto his ancient keys, the corroded metal scratching roughly against the skin of Dean’s neck and jaw. “You’ve overcome so much. Believe it or not, I am well-acquainted with your father, and I understand very clearly what he’s put you and your siblings through. But dorogoy, you are not ‘Daddy's Blunt Instrument.’ Your name is Dean—uh… ”

“Winchester,” Dean supplies, “that’s what my identification says, anyway. Sam goes by the same. I know you already know him as my brother, but the truth is, he’s a lot more recognizable by his own government name, and that’s Athena.” 

Again, Castiel looks surprised. “Athena? The Goddess of Battle Strategy and Wisdom? Suddenly your relationship makes so much sense. Either way, I should like to catch up with Ath—Sam,” he corrects. “I used to parlay with them often, when I was in my renaissance era. I’ve always wondered what became of them.” 

“Nothing,” Dean says, happy for the change in topic. “He’s fine. Out in California, shacked up with Hephaestus. She goes by ‘Jess,’ these days, though, walks around lookin’ like a hot blond chick straight out of a porno. Good for him, right?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow playfully, and he bites his lower lip, regarding Dean very seriously. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “I’ve never much cared for blondes, even less for woman-shaped human beings. I prefer them tall and muscular, beautiful and bow-legged, if I’m being honest.” 

“Jess is really tall,” Dean says helpfully, and Castiel rolls his eyes, but wraps an arm around the back of Dean’s neck and tugs him close so that their chests are flush.

“So,” Cas says. “A former, reformed God of War, and an Immortal who renounces nearly all of the perks that come with it. Whatever will we do with all of our free time?”

“I teach Kindergarten,” Dean blurts out, staring down into Cas’ endless blue eyes and wondering how the hell this day took such a wild, kickass turn. “I was, uh…into theater and dancing for a while, but—teaching suited me better. Started in the arts programs, but districts kept chipping those away and I figured Kindergarten might be more sustainable. Useful. You know, trying to impart a little wisdom, or something. Very Sam of me, actually. Teaching kids to use their talents to help people instead of hurt them. Maybe undo some of what I've done to the world, at least karmically.” 

He clears his throat and continues, pretending to be serious and stern, to questionable effect. “Which—technically, I should be working on lesson plans for next week, but I can’t do that on an empty tummy, now can I? You interrupted me and my shopping, so it’s your fault if today’s kindergartners are tomorrow’s undereducated voters. Hey, wait—why were you grocery shopping, anyway? The Immortal doesn’t need to eat.”

To that, Castiel breaks into a wide smile. “Il piacere. Pleasure, Dean—you should know. I first learned about the joys of eating—of communing with humanity in every way, really—from a certain green-eyed miracle that came to me like an apparition and left just as quickly in the summer of eighteen-twenty.” 

Dean winces. “Ouch. So I’m probably also the reason you were trying to make friends in L.A., huh? I’m the reason you got Salem-Witch-Trial’ed.” 

Castiel deflates and looks up disapprovingly the scant few inches between them through the fan of his lashes. “You were always such the martyr,” he says. “Not everything is about you. Come,” he adds, grabbing Dean’s hand once more and pulling him towards the door. This time, he doesn’t bother with the keys, just waves his hand in the direction of the lock and mutters something under his breath in what sounds like Latin. As Dean watches in awe, the mechanism clicks and the door swings open.

“Let me show you what is about you, and the many things you’ve inspired,” Cas says.

The enormous, heavy wooden slab creaks as it reveals the foyer beyond, a vast room with marble flooring and forty-foot ceilings that arch high overhead. Dean whistles as he steps across the threshold, eyes wide and failing to take in everything because—even for a God—it’s impressive. Castiel’s taste is traditional, classy, and classic—expensive textures, dark woods, and a sparkling, shiny-ass chandelier the size of Zeus’ head presiding over all of it.

Cas flips lights on while Dean gapes, mostly at the mural sprawling across the ceiling, an almost exact replica of “The Creation of Adam” from the Sistine Chapel, with a couple of very distinct differences. One, Adam looks a hell of a lot like Cas, and two, God bears a striking, irrefutable resemblance to the face he sees in the mirror every morning. 

“Holy—”

“I didn’t know you were a god, then,” Castiel says almost defensively. “Clearly, it’s a bit heavy-handed knowing the full context, and I apologize for that.” He’s hovering over by a round table in the center of the room, casually placing his comically large, iron key ring into a crystal bowl that sits atop it, and he’s actually sincere in his apology, like that is what Dean must be reacting to.

“You had me painted on the ceiling. How? ”

Castiel tips his head to the side and just says, “Oh, Dean. Naību ni naranaide kudasai, you sweet, summer child. Take off your shoes and follow me.”

Obediently—Zeus help him—Dean kicks his boots off underneath the table next to Cas’ and hurries after him down the hall. Large, framed paintings adorn the walls, nearly all of them Renaissance-style, and it’s somewhat reminiscent of being inside the Louvre. Dean’s gaze dances around, soaking in everything and unable to shake the feeling that there’s some sort of revelation begging to be had. Some major piece of the puzzle that he’s only just missing. 

Dean reaches for it, but whatever it is stays barely out of reach on the tip of his tongue. 

He notes that the paintings are all neatly lit with individual lamps and carefully labeled with placards, but only with the titles of each piece, no mention of any artist. Weird oversight for such a meticulous and treasured collection, and again, Dean understands that he’s missing something.

Even Castiel keeps glancing back over his shoulder, expectant, as if Dean should definitely have something to say, but he can’t figure out what the hell that’s supposed to be. The hall is long and around halfway down, they pass a small, lit alcove carved into the wall. When Dean glances right to check out its contents, he finds himself essentially eye-level with a marble penis, one belonging to the life-size statue of a man tucked up on a pedestal, and—oh.

Oh.

“Cas,” Dean says warningly, but Castiel keeps walking, maybe even a little quicker. Suddenly, he cuts left into a room—a ballroom, Dean discovers when he follows, because ballrooms are a thing Cas has. It’s fancy, ultra-ornate and bigger than Dean’s entire apartment building, and he realizes pretty abruptly that the statue in the hall was only the beginning.

There are a bunch more statues in here scattered around the room, all holding different positions and varying poses. Every single effigy is naked and blatantly sharing one major similarity (at least—Dean hasn’t processed enough to consider anything more)—and that’s one goddamn familiar penis.

Dean, or, well, a marble, frozen version of him (and his dick) stares down from nearly ever direction as they pass. His stone likeness looks freaking possessed with that thousand-yard, iris-and-pupil-less stare they all seem to have. 

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Dean says. “All this time, and—”

“All this time,” Castiel echos lightly, reaching back without looking to find his hand and squeeze. 

“I can’t have made that much of an impression—”

At that, Cas does whirl around, his feet silent as his socks spin against the shiny ballroom floor. There’s a look of complete, perplexed wonder on his face. “Merde. You can’t be serious.”

Taking his hand back, Dean raises both arms like, why the hell wouldn’t I be?! Before he can get an actual word out, though, Cas is up in his face, all fire and fury and sexy as Dean’s wildest dreams. Fisting hands into the fabric of his shirt, Cas flays him open with his eyes, and not tracking the movement of his tongue across the inside of his lip isn’t an option.

“Hey there,” Dean says softly.

“Hey, yourself,” Castiel replies, amusement ticking up the side of his mouth. “Dean, you can’t be this dense. The paintings, the statues—I’m laying myself bare. I thought—the spark between us, it feels unchanged. If I’m wrong, if you haven’t been pining for me the way I’ve been—”

“I’ve been carrying around a painting that looks like you,” Dean blurts out, and Castiel blinks, visibly taken aback. Dean winces, used to being cooler than this, but cool clearly isn’t working here. To be fair, he’s not usually in a rich immortal’s ballroom surrounded by flawless replicas of his own dick. “Yeah,” he continues, scratching the back of his neck with one hand. “I, uh, picked it up in Florence. I was—you know what? Doesn’t matter what I was doing there, but I saw this painting from across the entire square and had to have it, obviously.”

“Qué?” Castiel asks, brow furrowed, and Dean definitely gets that one.

“Because it looked like you, dummy,” he replies. “Exactly like you, ‘cept, you know. You were supposed to be dead at the time, which…was a bummer.” A strange silence hangs between them, though Castiel’s smile widens, just a bit. “Uh, anyway, the guy was a scammer. Tried to convince me that it was a portrait of Michaelangelo—”

“Pffft.”

“Exc—did you just raspberry me?” Castiel folds his arms across his chest, lifts one shoulder carelessly. “Oh my Dad,” Dean says, the pieces all clicking together. “It is you. I know this trick—oldest one in the book for an immortal, huh? Do the deed, make a name for yourself, pass the buck and let your younger, eager protégée take the credit. Lot fuckin’ harder here in 2022 when fame’s instant and everything’s on TikTok, but I’m sure some of our people will figure it out. That painting—someone who knew the truth did it. That is you, and you’re—”

Dean pauses, glancing around the ballroom with new eyes, taking in the statues and the art with reverence and respect as Castiel raises an eyebrow at him, waiting. “You’re Michaelangelo.” 

“Was,” he replies. “That was a long time ago. Now, I’m just Castiel. Citizen of New Orleans. Recluse. Lover of the arts…and poetry.”

“Poetry?”

Castiel shrugs. “The man who most frequently inspires my muse is a sweet but fickle thing. Sometimes he demands paint, often marble, occasionally prose. There’s a fourth medium, but it’s not for polite company.”

Dean glances around. “None of that here.”

The skin adjacent to Castiel’s eyes crinkles, and it’s a perfect detail. Cas could look however he wants—he’s The Immortal, after all, he’s the guy. He’s got powers that keep Dean’s dad in line, whether Zeus admits it or not. He’s legendary, and apparently, he’s the dude Dean’s been pining over for two hundred years. He’s also secure enough to look like a regular, thirty-year-old man with laugh lines on his face, and he doesn’t seem to give a fuck about power.

The two of them have a lot more in common than Dean could have ever imagined.

So that’s fine.

“I was Charlie Chaplin,” he blurts out, third time in less than thirty minutes he’s experiencing verbal diarrhea. Castiel doesn’t look as surprised as Dean thinks he should, but he does look terribly excited about it, which leads Dean to very quickly realize his mistake. “Oh, no,” he warns. “Ain’t gonna be any fuckin’ tap dancing in our near future, and no, I will not demonstrate with a lamp. You’re not the only one who’s got a past, and there’s a reason I handed that shit off to Stan.”

“Stan?”

“My understudy. Fame wasn’t for me, didn’t like it much.”

“Ah,” Cas says softly. “You know, I had a similar experience as you did with my painting. I was never one for films, but I happened to catch ‘The Great Dictator*,’ when it hit theaters. I enjoyed it very much, though admittedly, I was distracted by the handsome man playing the lead. It was the mustache that ultimately threw me off—desorienterande. It does not suit you, but it hid your identity nicely.” 

“Yeah, but the flick was awesome, right? Fuck Hitler. Man, if I ever thought this country would go backward again the way that it has, maybe I would’ve stayed Charlie. Could’ve made more of an impact.” He sighs and shakes his head, glancing away. “Nope—none of that. Learned years ago that second-guessing the shit I’ve done never leads anywhere good. Plus, it got me into teaching—theater and now the little ones. Can’t regret that.” 

He sees Cas stepping forward in his peripheral vision, hand sliding warm and heavy up Dean’s chest as he speaks. “We all want to help one another, human beings are like that. We want to live by each other's happiness, not by each other's misery.” 

“Quoting my own movie at me, Cas?”

With a grin, Castiel replies, “I’ve seen it a few times. I did tell you that I tend towards the heavy-handed. Do you want to see the room specifically inspired by…Charlie?”

“Just Dean,” he grumbles. “C’mon, don’t make it weird, or I’ll tell you who else I’ve been.”

Castiel laughs against his cheek, breath puffing warm over his skin, and Dean shivers. He has to actively wrestle down the urge to push things further, because maybe Cas isn’t ready for that. It’d probably be weird to fuck in a room full of replicas of his penis, anyway.

Or would it?

“En dag. Someday,” Cas is saying. “Not today. Come.” Before Dean can argue—not that he would—Castiel’s leading him the rest of the way across the ballroom by the hand. They exit together through a set of double doors at the back, stepping into a dark, luxuriously decorated hall that’s similar to the one they first came down. This one has a set of stairs at the end, though, and Castiel takes them without hesitation.

“This place is a fuckin’ maze, do you know that? How much space does one guy need?”

Humming thoughtfully, Castiel shrugs, which means that—in addition to each ass cheek lifting in turn as he steps—the muscles in his back flex distractingly right at Dean’s sightline. “As I said, I don’t get out much. My home is my castle.” 

“Castle is the right word,” Dean mutters as they round a landing and start down yet another hall back in the direction they came, but Cas squeezes his hand.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says. “If you choose to stick around.”

It’s such an easy, open invitation, and Dean appreciates that Cas isn’t making assumptions, that he’s leaving all the options on the table—not that he wants a single one of ‘em. Heck, he’ll move in here tomorrow, if Cas says he’s welcome. Sure beats the second-floor walk-up that isn’t allowed air conditioning because the building is a historical treasure that can’t be modified for duct work. Dean might be a God, but hot is hot, especially in the American South.

“I can cook,” Dean offers, feeling like he needs to make clear that he can be useful. “Memory serves…you can’t.”

Castiel snorts. “Perhaps I learned over the last century.” Partway down the hall, he pauses outside a heavy wooden door with a golden star nailed to the top. It’s some kind of decoration, or maybe a ward, and Dean makes a mental note to ask about it later. Making eye contact with him, Cas raises an eyebrow.

“Well, did you?” Dean prods, standing way closer than is polite. 

“No,” Castiel replies with a grin, twisting the handle so the door swings open. “I did this instead.”

Sense memory is a hell of a thing. Stepping inside the room, all Dean can do is gape as his five are overwhelmed with nostalgic emotions related to what he’s seeing. Unexpectedly, the space behind the gold star door is a playroom, and an elaborate one, at that. More than half the size of the ballroom and filled with expensive, elite BDSM equipment from nearly wall-to-wall, the kind of stuff Dean’s only ever seen inside a freaking club, because who else can afford it?

Michelangelo, apparently.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Castiel opening up an armoire and fiddling with something inside. Soft music soon fills the air, and then he’s drowning. It’s eighteen-twenty in a stuffy little apartment above the Champs-Élysées, Dean’s on his belly, hands tied above his head, orgasm threatening to overtake him. His ass is throbbing from a recent spanking, and he’s edged practically to delirium, the kind of high these humans chase constantly but rarely achieve without a little help from psychoactive substances. 

The sound that threatens its way out from his throat is the least cool noise Dean could possibly make in that moment, but then again, it’s hardly the least dignified thing Cas has ever seen him do. His eyes have drifted closed—when did that happen?—but he can feel Cas hovering at his edges, sense the energy of a hand grazing the air just above his shoulder. Dean shivers.

“Cas…it’s been a while.”

The hand is touching his shoulder now, and Dean turns in place, coming face-to-face with eyes that have haunted his dreams for decades upon decades. Cas is so damn beautiful he’s almost difficult to look at directly. Kind of like the sun, but he’s just soft enough around the edges, so sincere and earnest in his expression, that Dean can’t bear to tear his own eyes away. 

“Of course. We don’t have to do anything,” Castiel says, ever the gentleman, and Dean snorts.

“Oh no,” he replies, shirking his flannel and undoing his belt before Cas can get any stupid ideas, like that he isn’t interested in getting strung up from the ceiling and railed until he can’t walk. “We’re doing things. I didn’t wait two hundred years to sit around and have tea.” 

“I like tea,” Castiel protests. “I’ll admit, though, I like the memory of you on your knees much more.” 

The song kicks up-tempo and Dean smiles, tongue pressing teasingly behind his teeth as he yanks his t-shirt over his head and loses his pants. 

“God or not, it takes a brave man to stand in front of a former lover wearing only his socks,” Cas observes, and Dean balks before he can stop himself from rising to the bait.

“I stepped off the stern of the Titanic, Cas, I don’t exactly have a ton of fears.”

“The Titanic has not seen you tied up with a bread dildo in your ass, crying and begging for the overstimulation to cease.”

“It’s what they used in Ancient Greece, Cas, I didn’t invent it—”

“You preferred it to the hand-crank vibrator, if I recall.”

Dean glares but pulls off each offending article of clothing one at a time, throwing them to the floor as he growls, “See you haven’t changed. Fine, then.” Somewhat smugly, he kicks his clothing aside and finds Cas’ gaze again, rather intentionally staring him down as he sinks slowly to his knees. Carefully tucking both hands at the small of his back, Dean innocently bites his lip and tips his head up to expose his neck. His cock is already hard, and he spreads his thighs so that Cas can’t possibly fail to notice. Then, he just…waits.

“Speaking of change—that is a piercing,” Castiel says, eyeing up his groin excitedly. “A Prince Albert, if I’m remembering correctly.”

“Tastes even better than it looks,” Dean quips, somehow managing a straight face.

“I never had any complaints.” Cas crosses both arms across his chest, lifting one hand to scratch thoughtfully at his chin. He’s suppressing a smirk, but terribly. “This room was built for you, you know,” he continues, and Dean doesn’t ask him to explain. He gets it, viscerally. Maybe he’s not an artist, painting Cas’ likeness onto ceilings and immortalizing his ass in marble, maybe he’s not rich enough to create a fantasy paradise Buck Adams would drool over, but he understands the compulsion all the same.

Plus, Cas has always been a show-your-work kind of guy.

In Paris, he was constantly searching for smaller-scale tributes to showcase his feelings. Sneaking out of bed hours before Dean would wake just to be first in line at the town bakery, because the fruit tarts Dean loved sold out well before the sun could fully rise in the sky. Of course, now that he knows Cas didn’t actually need to sleep, that explains how he pulled it off, but it’s the thought that counts.

Cas had lots of those thoughts. He’d walk Dean down to the Seine at sunset, just to see the pinks and oranges reflected in the water, reciting French poetry about how none of it could compare to Dean’s beauty while Dean’s face did its best to rival the sky. Once, Cas even convinced a group of monks selling illicitly-made beer as a 19th Century side hustle to name a particular batch, “Homme Juste,” meaning “Righteous Man,” as a tribute to him.

So, yeah, Cas has always been fond of demonstrating his affections through big, dramatic displays.

Dean gets that. He’s into the whole, “Acts of Service,” love language too, but on the other hand, he also kind of digs letting his body do the talking. Like right now, for instance. He’s pretty damn sure the statement he’s currently making by offering himself up naked on a silver platter is just as strong as all the artsy shit Cas has done for him, BDSM wonderland included.

Fingers grazing over his own stubble, Castiel hums. “Ti na káno? What to do, what to do? I don’t think I’ve ever been so entirely unprepared for such a spectacular opportunity. Perhaps we break in the Saint Andrew’s Cross? Or the spanking bench? The swing is always a tried and true. Or, perhaps we forgo the bells and whistles completely, and I leave you like this.”

He closes the space between them and sits down criss-cross applesauce a foot or so away from Dean like they’re a couple of kindergarteners headed to Circle Time, Jesus. For a long moment, Cas just stares and then adjusts his position, stretching both legs out and leaning nonchalantly back on his hands. If the bulge in his pants wasn’t so goddamn obvious, his little casual careless play might be believable, but Dean has eyes.

“I could look at you all day,” Castiel says, “Simplemente precioso. I could sit here, drinking you in, memorizing each freckle and muscle striation anew, and be perfectly, completely satisfied.”

“Yeah, I think you’re super pretty too,” Dean snarks, and maybe he’s a bit more sarcastic than necessary, but what can he say? He’s a violence diety with daddy issues, taking soft compliments has never been his forte. “So, you’re not gonna fuck me, then? Just wanna manage my expectations. I was the brains behind the Uzi, I’m not exactly known for temperance.”

Unexpectedly, Castiel surges forward and kisses him hard. If Dean wasn’t so strong and in possession of some kickass (read: supernatural) balance skills, he’d be ass-down on the floor, probably with a dislocated hip. As it is, his instincts are at war—half of him wants to grab onto Cas and never let go, the rest is adamantly determined to impress the guy with his unflappable self-control and restraint.

Hey, it’s been two hundred years—Dean’s pretty sure he’s entitled to a little lust.

“Sorry,” Castiel says breathlessly, gasping as he pulls away and helps steady Dean back onto his knees. He stays close, the edge of his button-down shirt rubbing against Dean’s chest and one hand cupping his face. “It’s just—očajan sam. This feels impossible, I find myself worrying that—that I might wake up.” 

“That’s some relatable shit,” Dean murmurs, temporarily breaking his patient, submissive, “ready” pose to nuzzle his nose against Cas’ scratchy chin. It’s worth it—Cas is radiating warmth and practically smells like sunshine. His presence is intoxicating, which Dean is doing his best to overlook in favor of being supportive. “It’s gotta help that you couldn’t possibly imagine dreaming me up this way. I’m an asshole, the brat to end all brats.”

“On the contrary,” Castiel replies, grabbing Dean firmly by both sides of his face, forcing eye contact. “You’re perfect, you’re exactly the way I remember you. More beautiful than if you’d stepped out of one of my paintings, more flawless than the replica haunting my dreams. Why would I want a marble statue come to life? A sentient piece of stone? I have always loved you for everything you seem to believe makes you less, Dean. Perfectus es ad me. ”

Rolling his eyes, Dean ducks his head, but Castiel hooks a finger underneath his chin and lifts it up. This is the part of their history Dean blocked out, just a little bit—the way Cas never lets him shirk away from blatant affection and praise. The way he insists Dean accept that he’s deserving of love, compliments, and kind words. To be fair, Dean never thought he’d see the guy again, so ‘processing and preparing to not be a complete dick when someone he likes acts nice to him’ wasn’t exactly on his “To Do” list. 

Whoops.

“Whatever,” Dean says, but his voice is low and husky, even after he clears his throat. He plasters on a grin. “Three things bringing in the chicks, Cas—the ‘do, the ride, and the self-deprecation.” 

His face only inches away, Castiel’s eyes narrow and he frowns. “I’m not a chick. I occupy a male-presenting body, but technically, I’m not anything. Tha mi dìreach.”

Dean sighs. “It was a joke, Cas.” 

Reaching down, Castiel cups Dean’s balls and starts rolling them around in his palm, raising an eyebrow at his poorly-stifled reaction. “Funny,” he says flatly. 

All the more determined to show Cas that he is unflappable, Dean gathers his wits and says, “Hey, remember the time we were out walking, after that Art Market—the one with all the naked people paintings?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Castiel says distractedly, now lazily stroking Dean’s cock, flipping the ring that passes through the head from one side to the other. “You’ve just described at least twenty percent of our outings and at least ninety percent of the art created during that time period.”  

“You’d remember this one,” Dean insists. “We were a little—uh, frisky walking home, and some asshole carriage driver took notice. Got off his horse and everything, came over just to call us names and wave his fist around.” 

“Oh, right.” Castiel’s eyes drift towards the ceiling and he smiles, nostalgic. “What I remember is staring at the Arc d’Triomphe in the distance, as it looked like a hat curving over his head, and thinking about the tourtière you’d made earlier. He was standing between me and it.”

Dean laughs, even as Cas’ hand twists over the head of his cock, sending lightning bolt frissons of pleasure all the way down to his toes. “Douchebag took a swing and you fuckin’ stole his fist right outta the air, then punched his lights out like you were goddamn Hercules. Sidebar—Herc? Total dick, completely over-hyped, but FYI he’s going by ‘Adam’ these days. Case you—anyway, that shit was epic—smooth as silk, almost no one around us even realized what happened. Asshole went face first, right into the sewage drain!” 

“The wealthy folks in the back of the carriage were so angry,” Castiel says, recalling the moment with a chuckle. “The husband chased us halfway down the street, yelling in French. “Scélérates! Dégénère! Ma femme!” He laughs again, hand stuttering on Dean’s cock as he shakes his head. “Homme pathétique,” he says with a snort. 

Cas’ laughter dies off and his hand slows, but a sincere smile creeps across his face. “I would have taken any amount of public ridicule to be with you, Dean. Even then, before I understood how empty life would be in your absence, I would have let them lock me in the stocks or even cut off my head.”

Dean blinks and shakes his head. “Would that work?! What—uh, I’m afraid to ask.”

Castiel frowns and tips his head to the side. “I have no idea,” he replies honestly. “No one’s ever come close to succeeding.” He looks down and honestly seems surprised to discover that he’s holding Dean’s dick. Only Cas could get away with that bullshit, but damn it, Dean finds his sincerity in all things endearing. “You’re naked,” he observes.

“Duh,” Dean replies. “Waiting for some direction, Sir.” 

Thoughtfully, Castiel runs his tongue over his lower lip and Dean yearns to chase it. “I know what I want,” he declares suddenly, decisively, rising to his feet and taking Dean’s hand, motioning for him to follow, which he does. “Over here,” Cas continues, tipping his head towards the far side of the playroom. 

They step carefully around various pieces of equipment and sex toys on display, Dean glancing briefly towards the enormous, blackout-curtain-framed windows to discover that the sun is nearly gone from the sky. It’s dusky and approaching dark, he has a million things he should be doing, and for the first time in decades, Dean couldn’t care less about any one of them. 

Castiel leads him to a squared-off wooden frame that’s about five feet wide and several inches taller than he is. Dean immediately recognizes the piece of equipment for what it is, despite never having used one himself. He and Cas were always sort of four-poster-and-whatever’s-handy types of people back in the day, and since then, he’s only dabbled. Being a god doesn’t mean he trusts some random motherfucker to tie his ass up—that’s how you get stuck in a jar for the better part of a year*. 

Hypothetically speaking.

He did deserve that.

“Suspension frame,” Castiel says, reaching up to finger the leather cuff chained to the top left corner. “It’s never been used. I admit, when I built this room, the practical application was almost entirely rooted in fantasy.”

“How much money do you have?!” Dean blurts out. “I can barely pay rent in the summer months, but you’re constructing adult content Disney World for shits and giggles!”

Laughing softly, Cas shrugs as he runs his fingers down the length of the frame. “I built it for you,” he says, echoing his earlier claim. “Whether fantasy or something more—perhaps, subconsciously, I knew that you were still out there, somewhere.” 

“You didn’t know that,” Dean protests. “Don’t try to B.S. a B.S.-er.” Even as he says that, the scarring on his bicep tingles, and reflexively, he lifts his hand to touch the edges. Maybe it’s that action that causes Castiel to acknowledge its presence for the first time. 

“May I?” he asks, ignoring Dean’s complaint in favor of wandering closer and jerking his chin at the mark. Dean nods, slowly removing his own hand. When he glances down, the scars appear redder today, more pronounced, and the tingling hasn’t stopped. In open fascination, Castiel fits his hand into the outline of shapes that embrace his fingers and palm perfectly. Almost against his will, Dean’s eyes drift closed and his head tips backward as he’s overwhelmed by the sheer power of the waves of energy coursing through his body.

“Holy shit, Cas, holy—” Dean swallows and struggles to keep control of himself.

“Do you remember the night we did this?” Castiel asks, and Dean nods, working hard to pull himself back to reality. He squeezes his eyes shut for a long second before blinking them open and attempting something resembling intelligible conversation.

“Is there…uh, something magic? In what you did?”

Lifting one shoulder and then dropping it, Castiel’s eyes never leave the raised outline of the scars curving around his fingers. “I don’t know,” he says plainly. “I didn’t intend for there to be, but…can you feel that?” He squeezes gently, and Dean’s pretty sure every hair on his body stands on end in response, plus his dick twitches against his thigh. “There’s some physical…connessione—a connection.”

“Yeah,” Dean says hoarsely. His cock has deflated a bit but it’s plumping back up quickly, ever since Castiel started touching his arm. “Yeah, Cas, I feel—something.”

“You could have healed it,” he says, and it’s not a question. “The scar.” Dean nods, too turned on at this point to play coy.

“Yeah.”

In response, Castiel hums softly, flexing his hand before sliding it down the length of Dean’s arm and wrapping careful fingers around his wrist. “I adore that you’ve been marked by me this entire time. Everyone who’s seen it—they would know. That you could never fully belong to them.”

Fully intoxicated by his presence, Dean can’t help but follow the urge to sway forward, stopping mere millimeters shy of Cas’ mouth. “Yeah, guess I’m pretty spoken for,” he murmurs. “Knew I wouldn’t ever get over you. Didn’t even try.”

“You thought you were doing the right thing. Saving me from heartbreak, from the pain of learning your true nature and eventually being left behind.” Castiel kisses him softly and then pulls back far enough to stare deeply into his eyes. “But what about you? You don’t think you deserve to be saved?” Dean snorts, but Castiel isn’t messing around. He tips his head to the side, imploring, and when Dean doesn’t answer, changes tack.

“Dorogoy, may I tie you up?” he asks.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Dean manages to wrestle his inner brat into submission for long enough to stand compliantly (and quietly) while Castiel secures each wrist and ankle into a restraint, namely because he really wants him to do it. The leather cuffs are attached by chain to each corner of the suspension frame, which leaves him essentially starfished and completely at Cas’ mercy. 

Definitely worse places to be, Dean thinks. The restraints themselves aren’t bad—there’s a bit of give on each line, just not enough to do much more with it than bend an elbow slightly, or shift the weight on either foot. Testing them, Dean hums his approval until Castiel catches his chin and forces him to pay attention.

“Safeword? Not that we likely need them, since both of us are virtually indestructible, but I suppose it’s still best practice.”

“Sure. Mine’s, ‘fuck me harder, Daddy’,” Dean quips, wiggling his eyebrows, and Castiel sighs.

“Paliópaido. I’d expect nothing less from one of Zeus’ children,” he mutters.

Grossed out—and nothing grosses him out—Dean makes a face. “Ew,” he says. “Red, bitch.”

“Oh, we’re doing the stoplight system? That’s fine, too.”

“I ain’t into them creepy-ass family love dynamics. Those stories you heard are hella exaggerated. Well, most of them are. Fine, some. Either way, that’s a quick-fuckin’ boner-killer for me, pal.” His dick is making him a liar, but maybe Cas won’t call him out on it.

As Dean steadfastly refuses to glance away, Cas’ own gaze darts down and then back up to his face in an instant. He bites back a smile—busted. “May I continue, or should we persist in discussing this lovely subject you’ve hunted, killed, and dragged home to the table?”

“Forgot what a dick you can be,” Dean mumbles, flexing his hands uselessly in the air. “Yeah, fine, green means go, as you were.”

“You’re beautiful,” Castiel says, his voice too sincere, too rough to match the banter of the last couple of minutes. Dean stiffens but doesn’t interrupt. “Everything about you—your body, of course, is unrivaled. The cut of your biceps, the curve of your hip. The perfect smattering of freckles across your broad, strong shoulders, the gold-flecked green of your incredible eyes. But your beauty isn’t limited to your near-flawless physical presence, it’s so much more.”

Fuck. Dean knows he’s hot, but it damn near kills him not to interrupt and undercut Cas’ compliments by saying something cocky. Thing is, he really does want to get laid at some point tonight, and not only is Cas just enough of an asshole to deny him for being a brat, he’s also entirely aware that Dean knows it.

Cas pauses for a second, probably testing him, but when Dean manages to keep his mouth shut, what he comes out with next is more impassioned and sentimental than ever. “It’s your attitude,” he says, “your humor, the crass jokes you enjoy so much. It’s the hope and affection in your eyes when you speak about the children you teach, or of Sam. It’s the scent of your hair, the sway in your walk, the nails you’ve bitten down and think I don’t notice. Everything you do radiates beauty—your intelligence, your courage, your willingness to trust and to try new things.” 

Dean knows that he’s probably flaming red. This wasn’t exactly what came to mind when Cas asked to tie him up, but he should’ve fuckin’ known. Not to mention, Cas suddenly speaking solely in English, without the random, interspersed world language drops? It can really only mean one thing: Cas wants to make damn sure Dean understands every word coming out of his mouth. No plausible deniability in this house, and Dean’s well-honed self-loathing and inferiority complexes both hate him for it.

He’s supposed to be saying something. Cas is just standing there, waiting, and Dean knows his blue balls aren’t getting any attention until he does.

“Okay,” he mutters gruffly. “If you say so.” He swallows and can’t quite meet Castiel’s eyes when he adds, “You know, takes one to know one. I dunno if you’ve looked in the mirror lately—”

Castiel clears his throat, and when Dean looks over reflexively, he simply raises his gaze in the direction of the Heavens. Following it, Dean finds himself blinking hazy-eyed and startled at his own reflection. Turns out, there’s a giant mirror covering the majority of the ceiling, including the area right above their heads, because of course, there is. Sexy Disney World—it’s all in the details.

His eyes find Cas’ in the mirror and Dean can’t help but grin. “You’re so fuckin’ literal,” he says. “You know, I used to think I hated that shit, but I missed it. So fuckin’ much.” The grin that spreads across Castiel’s face in response to that admission is a whole other thing Dean’s missed like crazy. He seriously craves seeing more of it, but the truth is, he’s also really hard and it’s starting to turn uncomfortable.

“Cas, you’re killing me,” he says bluntly. “At least take off your clothes so I have some spank material to bank.”

“Otålig pojke. I have a better idea,” Castiel retorts, striding forward confidently up into Dean’s space, placing a hand on each of his hips. Dean finds himself holding his breath, unsure in the best way of what’s going to happen next and genuinely surprised when Cas drops to his knees. 

“Oh, hell yes, sunshine—green. Fuckin’ super green, vert, verde, prásinos!” Dean looks down to see if he’s scoring any bonus points for the language switch, and finds Cas staring back up at him so sincerely it’s almost painful. 

Thankfully, Cas cracks a smile, but then nearly causes Dean to swallow his tongue when he says very plainly, “I want to worship you.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I want to worship you,” Castiel repeats. “You are, after all, a God, and I am your most faithful, most tireless and devoted disciple. It would be my greatest honor and privilege to exalt your glory and prostrate myself at your feet.”

Dean’s cock is definitely down, pulsing and blurting out a dribble of precum at simply hearing those words, never mind adding in Cas already working on the visual. Down on his knees, staring up with an expression full of earnest, bleeding desire. His mouth is slightly parted, lips soft, bright pink, and wet, and his blue eyes are wide and imploring.

Never one to miss a beat, he immediately takes notice to Dean’s very physical reaction, not hesitating to respond by leaning forward and tonguing at his slit. Swiping the pearling cum into his mouth, Cas’ eyes fall closed and he releases a moan of pleasure that pretty much ensures Dean is ruined for any sexual encounter not including that sound ever again.

“Cas—” That’s all he’s got. Mesmerized and speechless, Dean watches as those beautiful blue eyes crack open again when Cas leans in to lap around the crown of his cock some more. He’s thorough, cleaning up every bead and bubble which only makes Dean leak more—he’s been in worse vicious cycles.

“Utrolig. Incredible that I wasn’t imagining it,” Castiel murmurs. He licks his lips, chasing after any stray drops with relish. 

“Huh?” Dean grunts, semi-dazed. “Oh, the taste? No, yeah, that’s—”

“Honey,” Castiel supplies.

“Technically, it’s whatever sweet thing you find most desirable. Little gift from Aphrodite when we went our separate ways. You like?”

Castiel blinks up at him, awed. “Do I like that your semen tastes like dessert and desire?” Dean grins and makes an aborted shrug, the best he can do with his limited range of movement. For a minute, Castiel doesn’t answer, just places both of his hands on Dean’s thighs and pushes flat palms up over the sensitive skin, towards his stomach. The dragging friction making Dean twitch, forces him to bite down on his lip so that he doesn’t shove his hips forward or worse—beg.

At least, not yet. Cas has gotta work a little, first.

“Do I like that you exist in reality tasting as deliciously sweet as you look? No, not particularly,” Castiel says, cutting off a preemptively offended Dean and his already-open mouth before he can protest. He holds up a hand. “Its subjectivity holds the potential to bring the entire world to its knees. Cities, kingdoms have fallen for less. La religión es frágil. I can see it now—your worshippers will divide themselves into bitter factions, each entirely convinced that their own interpretation is not only correct, but superior. They’ll spill each other’s blood in your name, screaming battle cries which extoll the virtues of buttercream frosting over lemon pudding.”

“Lemon pudding?”

“Some of those people—traditori—will deserve to die for their sins,” Castiel replies very seriously. He pauses and drops his gaze to Dean’s cock, considering. It likes the attention, apparently, beading more precum at the tip in a way that turns Cas’ thoughtful stare lusty. He swipes a finger across the crown and then pops it into his mouth, eyes falling closed in bliss. 

Above him, Dean’s mentally back in 1820, coming down Cas’ throat for the third time in one afternoon because Castiel claims—repeatedly—that he can’t get enough. At least now he knows why.

“You’re gonna murder my theoretical followers for liking ice cream more than fruit pops?” 

Extracting his finger slowly from in-between his lips and then swiping his tongue dramatically over the tip of it, Castiel hums before answering. “I would follow you to the ends of the earth just to get on my knees at your feet only one time. It shouldn’t come as a shock that I would crusade against anyone who would offer you less. Worshipping incorrectly or in a lesser fashion than you deserve would be the greatest of all sins, by nature. Therefore, those deaths would be morally ambiguous at worst, perfectly just and righteous at best.”

“Oh, right,” Dean says. “Duh. So what happens to the jizz factions?”

“Guerra. War happens. Honey, of course, would emerge the clear and unrivaled champion, as I would be their unquestioned eminence, commander, and pontiff.”

“Pontiff?! Cas, that’s not even sexy, at least call yourself something that doesn’t remind people of stale crackers and the Vatican.”

“You’ll recall that I painted the Vatican, Dean,” Castiel replies, ignoring Dean’s point in favor of tracing patterns across his legs, probably connecting freckles into constellations. That was always a favorite pastime when they were in Paris—just them, a straw mattress, and the music from the street performers drifting in from below through an open window. Cas, sprawled across his belly, trying to recreate the Heavens point-for-point on Dean’s thighs.

Paradise, actually.

“As the axiomatic leader, I would sit at your right hand and do your bidding, ensure that you were properly worshipped, exalted, and feared. Honey would be the word on everyone’s lips.” By this point, Dean’s enthralled. He devours each and every word falling from Cas’ lips, torn between pure amusement and the vague desire to see if he can dig up some freaking worshippers to put this cockamamie plan into motion.

Really, what could be bad about him becoming Supreme Overlord of the Universe, or whatever? Worst case scenario, their group’s compound gets raided by the ATF and Dean has to teach Kindergarten as “Eddie Moscone” for a couple of decades. Best case, they accidentally install a new world order, Dean gets to sit on a throne, and his dad pops by to tell him that he’s not a worthless piece of crap for once.

Also, Cas on his knees—’nough said.

Obviously, Dean doesn’t say any of that out loud to Cas, but he does get the feeling that if he did, Cas wouldn’t think he was a complete freak for it.

He clears his throat, trying to keep things light. “I think you mean Dean,” he corrects, mostly teasing. “Dean would be the word on everyone’s lips.” 

Castiel looks up sharply, making unexpected eye contact with him and brandishing a stare that has his skin goose-pimpling at the sheer intensity of it. “Dean would be a Holy name. A powerful word that only the most devout and enlightened might enjoy the privilege of having in their mouths. Speaking a word like that should feel akin to spiritual revelation—more pleasurable than the throes of orgasm—most of your followers would be deemed wholly unworthy.” 

“Not you, I’m guessing,” Dean says, biting back a smile, and Cas cants his head slightly, visibly smug.

“Dean,” he rumbles, and the rich, intense depth of his voice reverberates through Dean’s head and chest, striking him all the way down to his soul. It also makes his dick twitch, but that’s pretty much a theme at this point. Cas is staring up at him with those wide, entreating eyes, his hands still braced with one on each thigh. “Spiritual revelation is the least of what I feel when I say your name. Doing so is a devotional so sublime, its significance could never be reduced to something so trivial as words, especially in only one human language.”

“Holy fuck, Cas.”

“Yes, that’s the idea. Adorare est honor, benedictio.” He shifts a little towards Dean’s cock, opening his mouth and then thinking better of it, which makes Dean keen. “As for the honey, it will make my plans for tonight that much more memorable, which is more than enough.”

Castiel rises up fully onto his knees, wrapping lithe fingers around the curve of Dean’s hips for what feels like the thousandth time tonight, holding him firmly in place as he noses into the crease of his groin. “I could drink you down until you’re bone-dry, over and over and over again. Wasting a single drop would be nothing short of sacrilege, and I am devout. Kneeling before you, an actual God, after all this time deifying you in my dreams—it is humbling. Glory, thy name is Dean.” 

Unable to help himself, Dean lets out a little snort. “Listen, Cas, not to bust your bubble or put you off, because trust and believe I want you to do whatever it is you’re about to do—but being a God ain’t all that.”

Mostly ignoring him, Castiel grasps the base of his cock and licks a stripe up the length of its side. Flicking the piercing with the tip of his tongue in a way that causes Dean to jerk and inhale sharply, he quips, “No?”

“Uh—I mean, I guess if you’re Zeus or Thee Yahweh, then the experience is probably closer to the fantasy, but us lesser Divine Assholes? It’s pretty damn lonely at the top. Even with people who love you hanging around—it’s tough. Me and Sam spent a few hundred years doin’ the family unit thing, but it got old. Siblings aren’t meant to live together forever, and now I see them a couple times a year.”

Castiel strokes his cock and hums noncommittally. “In fairness, Sam was your equal, not your subject.”

“I’m getting there, hold your horses. You know I’m like, not that popular. Lizzo’s got more followers than me. No one gives a fuck about the God of War anymore, and if they do, that’s—nobody I’d wanna hear from. Hell, even when I had some disciples back in the day, with tributes and statues and sacrifces and shit, they didn’t love me. They were just afraid of what I could do to them.”

Dean makes a face, remembering. “Nasty blood sacrifices and ugly-ass heaped brushwood altars… so many dead cattle, and nobody ever had the decency to grill ‘em up with onions and a bun. You’re right about the in-fighting, that’s for sure, but the glory—not so much.” Dean shakes his head and then has to try not choke on his own saliva as Castiel sucks him down without so much as a warning. Swirling a talented tongue around the shaft, he has Dean reflexively yanking on his restraints in no time flat.

To Dean’s dismay, it doesn’t last. Popping off of him with a wet slurp, Cas uses the edge of his thumb to clean the corner of his lips, and he looks patently unbothered doing it. Completely relaxed, he continues stroking Dean in an unhurried manner as he speaks.

“Those people were a product of their time. You said it yourself—they were praying to your image, not you. Worshipping a God for what they perceived might be done for them, not for love. I assure you—I am at your feet solely to glorify the being you are. The one you became despite your origins. I am here for you.”

“So far, not all that different from the time we spent together before you knew what I was,” Dean jokes, but Castiel’s eyes flicker up to connect with his, full of affection and sincerity. 

“Exactly,” he replies, and Dean really walked right into that one. “You’re not worthy of reverence because you happen to be the God of War. You are and should be the very pinnacle of your followers’ universe because you couldn’t possibly be anything else. I did not spend the last two hundred years pining away because you were something less than perfectly extraordinary—I never needed to know your title and lineage to understand that.”

Exhaling roughly, Dean clears his throat and tries not to sound too pathetic when he replies, “I mean, I could say the same thing about you.”

Still on his knees—and if that isn’t proof of superpowers, Dean doesn’t know what is—Castiel smiles slyly and raises his eyebrows. He squeezes the base of Dean’s cock and pulls his hand over the length of it with a twist at the head and some friction on his ring, leaving Dean to swallow a very determined whine.

“If you want to worship me, you’ll find that I have no objections.” Running nails up and down Dean’s thighs, he leans forward again and drags the flat of his tongue over the crown before opening wide and taking the whole thing deep. He hums with his lips closed so that the vibrations send waves of pleasure all throughout Dean’s body, and it’s thrilling.

Desperate to fidget, Dean flexes tingling toes against the cool wood pressing against his feet, wishing he could shove his fingers into the thick locks of Cas’ hair something fierce.

“I do get on my knees with the best of ‘em,” he says huskily.

Castiel pulls off of his cock slowly, lingering at the head where he licks and sucks until Dean is on the verge of forgetting his own name. Just as he’s about to warn the guy about the point of no return, Castiel releases him with a small laugh.

“Oh, Tro meg—believe me, I remember,” he says, pushing back onto his heels. 

“Remember...?” Right—he said some words. Torn between being thankful Cas isn’t pursuing the conversation and annoyed at being edged, Dean at least doesn’t have the chance to miss him. Cas stands but immediately presses in close, pushing their bodies flush together even as he’s disrobing. His shirt brushes Dean’s chest as he unbuttons and tugs it off, the leather of his belt slapping against Dean’s belly when Castiel works it free.

So close, yet so fuckin’ far. All Dean can do is stand there, watch the show, and enjoy whatever he’s allowed to feel. In this, at least, Castiel doesn’t seem interested in depriving him.

It’s almost overwhelming, being so close to Castiel again, to have so much of their skin touching. The concept of becoming physical—really physical, like Cas inside of him—with the sparking bursts of electricity already pulsing between them just standing there, is almost too much, no matter how badly Dean craves it. Now there’s a feeling gods don’t entertain often, and Dean himself hasn’t felt in ages—nervous.

Castiel leans forward for a kiss and Dean finds himself inhaling shakily as their lips brush. He grounds himself by talking stupid, because when in doubt, vamp.

“So. The Immortal, huh?” he asks, voice coming out low and rough. “You know, there are rumors—locker room talk that the stamina matches the lifespan.” He clears his throat and jerks one shoulder in an approximation of the shrug he can’t quite pull off at the moment. “You know,” Dean continues, wiggling his eyebrows cheekily. “Endless. I mean, I always thought you were above-average, but I gotta assume you were holding back—I know I was.”

Castiel opts to indicate his confusion by tipping his head to one side, still disrobing and pushing the last of his clothing away from his body. He stays impossibly close to Dean in the process, which is both distracting and encouraging. “In the immortal community, you mean? People talk about me?”

“Yeah,” Dean affirms. “Hell, yeah. Obviously, not about you, you—I’ve never heard the name ‘Castiel,’ tied to your identity—but you know how those assholes are. Half of ‘em think they can fuck their way to the top of Mount Olympus and—well, I mean, they’re not completely wrong. Wait—did you sleep with my half-brother’s wife?!”

Castiel pulls back swiftly, blinking wide-eyed up at Dean in what appears to be genuine bewilderment. “You are the son of Zeus. You’re going to have to be more specific, Precioso.”

Excited by the surfacing of this unbidden memory and it’s potential implications, Dean bounces on his feet a little. “Herc—Adam, I mean, but you would’ve known him as Hercules—had this fiance, Megara, right? Well, the two of them had this fight, or whatever. Yada yada, your standard domestic throwdown, but she was so pissed at whatever the argument was over, she ran off and fucked some other dude. Stay with me—this is where it gets interesting.”

Cas is busy kneading his ass cheeks and brushing dry fingers over his hole, but he’s listening dutifully while he does it, so Dean can’t exactly complain. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“So, Meg freaking claimed from day one that the dude she fucked was “The Immortal”. Told goddamn everyone who would listen. Personally, I always thought that drama queen was full of shit, just trying to piss off Herc—Adam—and make everyone else jealous in the process. You know what I’m saying? If they’re focused on her bagging a celebrity, then they’re not talking about how she acted in that whole mess. I mean, there’s cheating, and then there’s fucking The Immortal, am I right?” 

Dean starts to laugh and then cuts himself off swiftly when he registers the way Cas has stopped touching him. In fact, his entire body has gone completely stiff and his face is bright red. “Oh, shit,” he says, unable to stop himself from laughing again. “Oh my fucking Dad. It was you!”

 “Living for millions of years, you’re bound to have an unsavory indiscretion or three,” Castiel mumbles, hands frozen on Dean’s hips and eyes glued to his belly. 

“What were the other ones?!”

“I suppose I should be grateful she’s speaking well of me—”

“Well is an understatement, dude. Though, now that I know it was you, you yeah—the hype checks out. Meg’s still a bitch, though. Glad they fuckin’ split.”

“That is how I remember her, yes.”

“The stories she told me about you…”

“This is humiliating,” Castiel mumbles, dropping his face to bury it against Dean’s shoulder. “I wish I could say that they aren’t all true, but I suspect you would recognize a bald-faced lie when you see one.”

“Gods, I can’t wait to show up arm-in-arm with you at the next family reunion,” Dean declares happily. “It’s gonna be so fucked up, we’re gonna cause so much drama. It’ll be better than the new Kardashian show, or Dr. Sexy even, promise you that.”

Castiel’s head jerks up and Dean can practically see the gears turning in his mind as he processes the meaning of what’s been said. Once he does, his expression melts gratefully into something both soft and adoring.

“Indeed,” he replies, wrapping an arm around Dean’s torso to rest it gently against his back so that they’re finally, completely skin-on-skin. Leaning into the offer, Dean almost immediately forgets what he was talking about in favor of simply basking. This is too good—Cas, warm and real, is the stuff of dreams come to life. If Dean happened to be a chick-flick-moment kind of person, this is precisely the part where he’d get a little teary-eyed, despite himself.

Fortunately, he’s also incredibly turned on, and Cas’ dick sliding against his own makes it all too easy to put the emotional shit aside. “Cas, I dreamt about this,” he murmurs, wondering—as soon as the words are out of his mouth and impossible to take back—whether that should’ve remained an inside thought. 

Castiel’s hand wraps around the back of his neck as he undulates his hips, rocking up onto his toes to kiss Dean softly and fuck into the space between their stomachs. Cas has magic fuckin’ hips. “This, specifically?” he asks, and even in his lusty distraction, Dean finds the strength to roll his eyes.

“Dick.”

“That’s Sir Dick, to you,” Castiel corrects, using his free hand to stroke their cocks together for some time. “Signor Cazzo. ”

“That what Meg called you?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow, and he stops jerking them both to shift back and let his hands drag up and down over the planes of Dean’s chest, touching, touching—always touching. “You should show me some respect,” he says, and it’s clear that he’s trying really hard to sound pissed, but Cas was right—he’s honestly a terrible liar.

So, Dean just grins. “Whatever happened to worshipping me, baby? Armies extolling my virtues and gutting each other over my tasty jizz flavors? We giving up on that vision already?”

“You always did have a way with words,” Castiel says dryly and in disapproval. “But thank you for the reminder. Be quiet so I can find my center.”

“Get your sacrosanct on, darlin’.” 

Castiel huffs and steps away, circling around Dean to where he’s completely out of sight. Still strung up, Dean strains to hear, going so far as to crane his neck. Sound is virtually the only useful sense he can employ to snoop, because even with the ceiling mirror showing everything, from Dean’s vantage point, he can only make out the top of Cas’ head. Well, and maybe the curve of his ass.

He’s got a crazy nice ass.

“Bend over while you do that,” Dean calls out. “C’mon, I’m stuck here and at your mercy, least you could do is give me a good view.”

“As you wish, my Lord. Fiat voluntas tua.” Castiel’s tone borders on sarcastic, and Dean understands fully that he’s not really being worshipped, but hey—his nature is what it is. He’s a god by birthright, and he was built to seek adulation, so when someone gives it to him (however flippant and perverse), it feels…strangely right. Makes him stand up a little straighter and slip into the role of being more than just a broke, loser drifter who’ll be remembered most for all of his worst mistakes, ones that won’t even be credited directly to him.

Dean’s not even sure what’s worse, anymore—that, or being remembered for what a loser he became after ceasing to actively invent new ways for men to destroy each other.

…Or not being remembered at all.

Too heavy.

Fortunately, Cas is there to distract him, pressing up against Dean’s back with his warm body and thick cock sliding against his ass crack, and yeah, that’s what the fuck he signed up for tonight. For a second, Cas just lingers there, moving hands all over Dean’s torso, feeling him up. Briefly, there’s a flash of soft satin moving against his skin, but Dean ignores the sensation in favor of leaning back into Cas’ chest and dropping his head onto his shoulder, despite the strain that position puts on his neck.

It’s worth it.

“C’mon Cas, we could’ve been fucking ten times over by now, just—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Cas is apparently prepared for his bratty behavior to resurface. Before Dean can even quantify what’s happening, the intoxicating warmth of Cas’ body is gone, there’s fabric filling his mouth, and Cas is tying a knot at the back of his head that catches in his hair and pulls a little. 

“Owff,” he says around the gag.

Without responding, Castiel rounds on him looking smug, holding up what looks like a fuckin’ clown horn and waving it back and forth before pressing the bulb firmly into Dean’s palm. “Beep if you need to safeword,” he says, barely suppressing a smile. “Muito Sexy.”

When fuckin’ pigs fly. “Abfofuoofee foff,” Dean replies indignantly, and Cas must read his mind, because he raises a finger in warning.

“Drop it and I’ll release your bonds. We can and will stop,” he threatens. From experience, Dean knows that he isn’t kidding. Reluctantly, he fixes his grip on the stupid horn and mentally resolves to never use it and to kill Cas in his sleep.

“Hǎo de xuǎnzé. Good boy,” Castiel murmurs. He disappears from sight again, but the comforting warmth returns to Dean’s back and he figures he should just be grateful for that. Cas is the goddamn master of teasing and deprivation when he wants to be, and it’s starting to feel like these couple of centuries holding it all in have done a number on him.

Lips skate over the curve of his ear when Cas speaks again. “We have endless time to push our limits,” he says. “Right now, I just want to feel you. My body needs to be reassured that this is not a dream. Is that agreeable?”

Dean scoffs—well, sort of—and grunts what’s supposed to be interpreted as a ‘yes’.

“Honk once for—”

“Unngghhfff!” Dean protests.

“Kidding,” Castiel assures, hands skimming Dean’s rib cage as he laughs softly, face pressed just below the nape of his neck. “Uno scherzo. But do utilize it if you need me. Until then…” One of his hands glides over the curve of Dean’s shoulder, sinful lips following in a morse-code-trail. Cas blows over the wetness his mouth leaves behind, and it makes the hair on Dean’s arms stand up in earnest.

He moans a little. because it’s all he can really do, and Castiel squeezes his hip in reassurance. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown, Mein König. What it must be like to carry the burden of being the origin, the antecedent of War, itself. Not to even mention, the pure paradox of such ugly destruction and devastation bottled inside the most exquisite, delicate package—in retrospect, I should have known that such perfection could only belong to an Olympian.”

Despite his deeply-seeded mixed feelings about his heritage, Dean’s ego swells with satisfaction at the validation. He is proud of his family, has always wanted to honor his father’s legacy by creating a respectable one of his own, and while he knows he hasn’t exactly succeeded (at least, not as of late), Castiel talking like he’s worthy of the title strokes that sweet spot in a major way.

Cas is gently scratching nails up and down the length of his arms now, humming as he drops kisses seemingly randomly across Dean’s back. Just as he’s relaxing into it, the flat of Cas’ tongue drags up and over his trapezius, along the stretch of neck leading to his ear, and flicks against the lobe, where he bites down.

“Oooh,” Dean groans, moaning around what he’s figured out is Cas’ fuckin’ tie. He rocks on the balls of his feet and gets shushed for it.

“There’s so much I need to tell you,” Cas continues, his words rumbling through Dean’s chest. “The nights I spent lying awake, pining over a man I knew for mere months—a man I assumed was long dead by then. I thought for sure that I’d gone insane, that so many years alone had left an irreparable crack in my chassis and a desperation I’d accidentally filled with delusion. I feared that the barest hint of love and affection had poisoned my well, tricked me into thinking our encounter was more than what it surely could only have been—but the heart wants what it wants, and right or wrong, mine missed you all the same.”

“During those lonely nights, I would try to recall each and every freckle dotting the stretch of your lovely back, each striated muscle in your limbs, and the exact green shade of your eyes. Unfortunately, even my eidetic memory couldn’t quite capture the details—the pattern of your freckles, especially. The intricate and sublime design, of each constellation in all of its remarkable beauty. Truly, nothing since the creation of the cosmos themselves could compare to the work of art that is your body. I could spend all night mapping and baptizing every single one with my hands and my mouth.”

“Pleef dobt,” Dean mumbles, his dick purpling and angry in-between his legs.

“I’ll spare you,” Castiel agrees. “Someday, though.” He plasters himself to Dean’s back, and it’s all Dean can do not to melt into a puddle and wind up with a bunch of pulled muscles when Cas finally wraps a hand around his cock. 

“Mmm,” he moans, dropping his head to Cas’ shoulder and pushing his forehead impatiently against his stubbly jaw. Castiel strokes him firmly several times, and it’s such a relief that Dean’s knees wobble. “Hankoo.”

He sounds fucking ridiculous. Cas doesn’t seem to care, busy with his ministrations, whispering against his skin with unhidden joy.

“I can’t stop looking at you,” he murmurs. “When I say, Je veux adorer, that I want to worship your body, this is what I mean. To look upon you is to love you, and to accept that you are an exigent deity by nature, one that exists to be serviced. Your subjects, on their knees, will clamor to oblige, never feeling like they are close or have enough of you—that is both their burden and their blessing. Certainly, I would know, having carved your likeness from stone, painted your image onto countless mediums, even sculpted your visage from clay.”

“Cay?” 

“By all metrics, I am widely regarded as one of the best sculptors in recorded human history. In Michelangelo’s time, I was oft-referred to as, Il Divino, or ‘the divine one’, and no, the irony of being one of very few immortals who are no such thing is not lost on me. Divine talent, they say, and yet, I have never come close to replicating your perfection.” 

Privately, Dean disagrees—he saw those dicks, and they were pretty damn recognizable as the one he sees hanging between his thighs every single day.

He grunts and can feel Cas smile against his shoulder. “The planes and curves of your body are remarkable in a way that is beyond art, beyond science. “Perfecţiune. While a mathematical equation could calculate the faultless arch and dip of your lower back and ass, it could never begin to convey the enormity that the sheer, unparalleled beauty of the whole possesses.”

Internally, Dean bemoans the loss of an opportunity to make a joke about Cas calling his ass fat, but it’s there and gone as Castiel drops to his knees and pulls his cheeks apart. “Everything about your physical being is beyond reproach, perfect in even its flaws. But let me pay homage using my mouth for its intended purpose.”

The first swipe of Cas’ tongue is the opposite of teasing—firm and determined, licking over the full length of his rim before diving in. The hand on each of Dean’s cheeks kneads and squeezes as Castiel licks and sucks with the same energy he went down on him with—fuckin’ boundless. Dean only wishes he could do more than circle his hips and rock from heel to toe in response.

To be fair, though, if worship was more like this back when he was still trying to be a good little Olympian, he might’ve stuck around for longer. Might’ve been motivated to keep working at the Family Business instead of running off to find himself, or whatever.

Cas must’ve dug some lube out of the drawer alongside his tie and the stupid horn, because Dean hears the snap of a bottle cap right before a wet finger starts working its way inside of him. He doesn’t actually need prep—Dean’s only as human as he wants to be. In reality, he’s a god, and his body can do—essentially—anything he wants. If he told Cas the truth, though, then he wouldn’t get those thick, awesome fingers in his ass, and anyway, his mouth is full. 

He’ll let him in on the secret next time. Maybe.

To Dean’s delight, Castiel moves back around to finger him all the way open while holding him close, more tenderly than the situation calls for. He ruts their cocks together with languid swirls of his hips, even loosening the tie holding Dean’s left ankle so he can hike that thigh up around his own leg. Two, three fingers deep and Cas is kissing him around the gag, biting at his lip, holding him so tightly and possessively he’s making Phthonus look subtle. 

Despite himself, Dean can’t help but grin at the display, which ain’t easy when you’ve got a tie stuffed in your mouth. Cas really wants him. Cas has really been waiting for him all of this time, even with the belief, the practical fucking knowledge that the Dean he knew was long gone. The proof is sliding determinedly against his own cock, it’s all over the desperate expression on Castiel’s face. 

In a strange moment of breathless exhilaration, a high where he almost comes all over Cas’ belly just because he can, Dean even thinks he sees Cas’ eyes glow bright blue. It’s just a flash—there and gone, but he’s pretty damn sure.

When Cas deems him ready, he pulls his fingers out wholesale and leaves Dean to bitch and moan in complaint. “Hush,” he scolds. “I’m about to redefine adulation, to change the very way you view the acts of devotion and benediction, forevermore.” Seemingly as an afterthought, Castiel reaches up and releases the gag. “Seems blasphemous to prevent you from spreading the good word.” He steps back so that their only point of contact is his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I am ready to receive revelation,” he says sincerely, gaze locked with Dean’s. 

“What a friggin’ coincidence,” Dean replies, wiggling his eyebrows and his ass. “Me too.” 

Rolling his eyes, Castiel smacks his ass while rounding him in the frame one more time. “My Lord is testing me,” he mutters, “‘Do not fear, for God has come to test you, that the fear of him may be before you, that you may not sin’.”

“You may not sin unless it’s with me,” Dean amends. “Anyway, I’m not a ‘transgress and atone’ kind of god,” he adds, even as Cas’ fingers tease and test the give of his rim before he lines himself up. “I’m more of a, ‘put up your dukes, show me what you got,’ type of guy. You gonna show me what you’ve got, Cas?”

“Ut vis, Domine mi.” Castiel’s cock presses at his entrance and Dean barely suppresses the urge to shove back against it, to beg, to let Cas in on how affected he is by this whole thing. Instead, he wraps fingers around the taut chains holding his wrist restraints so that the tremor in his hands can’t be seen and tucks his face into his own shoulder.

Cas pauses before the head of his cock even pops past the rim, one big hand wrapping warm and comforting around Dean’s hip. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “This is—I am just so happy to have you back, Mezanmi.”

“I want you, Cas,” Dean reassures him, pressing back as much as he can. “C’mon, take me, show me how much you missed me, make me feel it—” The words are hardly out of his mouth before Cas is moving to comply, thick cock sliding smoothly past the soft resistance. He’s slick with lube and the push is easy with how ready Dean is for him. Cas is big but careful—even a human would have an easy time like this.

Swallowing a moan, Dean flexes his hips, focusing pointedly on the sensations and not the overwhelming realization that he’s not alone, that Cas is his—again. “That’s right, baby,” he encourages, masking emotion with bravado. “Show me.”

Those words seem to shove Castiel back into his own head, back to where he’s confident in both his role and his welcome. “Yes,” he replies, practically growling the words as he grabs Dean by the hair and pulls his head to one side. His teeth sink briefly, lightly, into the space below his ear as his hips bump against Dean’s ass. “C'est à la fois un honneur et une bénédiction.”

“Cas,” Dean grumbles. “If you don’t stop rambling in foreign languages and fu—” The last word gets punched out of his throat when Castiel pulls out and then slams back into him with vigor. “Oh yeah, that’s the stuff!” 

“Coklu görev yapabilirim,” Cas grunts, adjusting his one-handed grip on Dean’s side. “Your mistake in assuming I lack the capacity to do both.”

“I said, show me,” Dean retorts breathlessly. Alright, fine—it’s a problem, his deep-seated inability to turn off the brat. Even as Cas is pulling on his hair and grazing teeth over his neck and ramming his prostate without mercy, Dean’s fighting the urge to mouth off some more. “That all you got, old man?”

“Do you have a death wish?” Castiel asks incredulously, and Dean just laughs. “There’s immortality and then there’s this attitude. Keep it up and you may land yourself in a place beyond where even Zeus can help you.” 

Dean makes a face. “Dude, not a cool name-drop when we’re—you know.” 

Reaching both hands high above their heads, Castiel grabs onto the frame and uses it as leverage to fuck him deep, more languidly than he has been. “Sbalorditivo,” he purrs. “You look incredible like this, like you were made to take my cock.” He pauses, hips stuttering for the briefest moment. “Which would make me divine by association, I suppose.”

“You wish,” Dean manages, but the way Cas is moving, even his inner brat has to take a back seat and go along for the ride. His eyes fall closed and he moans, neglected cock bouncing and slapping against his stomach. He’s so desperate for contact at this point that the brief brush against the skin of his belly is less pain and more relief. It’s definitely not enough, though, and all the clenching in the world of his inner muscles doesn’t seem to be doing shit to make Cas care.

Nope, Cas is unbothered, swirling his pelvis while his teeth and tongue go exploring the flexing muscles of Dean’s back. God or not, a man can only take so much. His balls ache, his cock throbs, and he’s leaking like a damn faucet which is not even a thing his body typically does. In a fit of desperation, Dean caves.

“Please,” he hisses quietly, knees weak and thighs on fire. “Please, Sir.”

If nothing else, Castiel is a gracious master. Dean’s goddamn lucky he’s the God of War, and not one of those beings who loses their powers when they fall in love, or their hair gets cut, or they sprain their ankle. Fuck, he’d be so screwed. Cas would’ve had him on the ropes two hundred years ago, the first time he dangled a scarf and asked if he could tie Dean to the bed.

Good sex is definitely his weakness. Always has been. There was that one time with Aphrodite, back when she was supposed to be married to Heph—Jess, now—fuckin’ yikes. Now that Jess and Sam are a thing, Dean and the God of Crafts (or whatever) have worked through their issues, but her calling the whole fuckin’ family to come down and gawk at his naked ass trapped in a gold net—very uncool. Way more uncool than a little consensual adultery when the marriage was a sham, anyway.

Whatever, Jess was no saint.  

Point being—if Castiel wanted something from him, this would be the way to fuckin’ get it. He’s a happy slut for a good pounding, and if a satisfying hookup results in him handing over the keys to Mt. Olympus’ front door? Oh fuckin’ well. If Cas wanted him to promise to conquer the world in his name? Little edging, done. If he had some kind of vendetta against Zeus and tried to leverage a rimjob to handle it? One patricide, coming right up.

Look, Dean’s not proud, but nobody’s perfect. Hell, his dad tied his mom to her own fuckin’ chair and left her there. The two of them are still together, they worked through it, the world didn’t come to an end. Love is stupid and blind, and lust is worse. That’s Dean’s takeaway.

“Th-thank you,” he stutters, when Castiel wraps a hand around his cock and strokes firmly. “Thank you.” 

“Of course, Moy Korol',” Cas murmurs, breath warm against his ear before his lips skate along the curve of Dean’s neck. “My King, my Lord, Most Divine—I live to serve.” It’s in that moment, Castiel thrusting inside of him, one arm wrapped tight across his chest and the other generously tending to his cock, that Dean truly grasps the magnitude of his good fortune. Despite what Cas has been babbling about, he’s the blessed one.

“Anything for you,” Cas says, and Dean believes it.

It would never even cross Cas’ mind to manipulate him with the antics Dean grew up watching and experiencing from the Pantheon. That’s probably a chunk of the reason he fell for the guy so fast, way back when. It’s likely part of why he’s always felt free to love Cas so fully—Cas doesn’t want anything from him, never has.

Nothing except him, anyway, and thank fuck for that, because all these years later, that’s what Dean has left to give. It’s still jarring, though. That learning the truth about his family and identity didn’t make Cas want him more or less, and Dean realizes he’s never had someone give a shit about him for him, or really at all, outside of what they could use his name, his power, his access to get.

Not Cas. 

“May I come, Ca—Sir?” Dean asks hoarsely, and Castiel squeezes his dick in approval as he nods against his shoulder.

“I said, whatever you want,” he repeats. “We have so much time to do so many different things—come for me now, let me feel you lose control.” His free hand is running freely over the bones of Dean’s ribs, soothing, and it’s as if his mouth has a mind of its own—kissing, seeking, tasting, even as he speaks. Castiel strokes him swiftly, building a crescendo alongside his thrusts, and—as much as he can, standing with his limbs in four-points—Dean relaxes into it. 

He allows himself the full range of human experience, suspects that Cas is doing the same, as his chest feels slick against Dean’s back. 

“Unless—” Cas prompts, pausing in his ministrations and rhythm at the absolute worst time.

“Unless?” Dean echoes weakly, feeling as close to short of breath as he’ll ever allow himself to get. “Cas, please.”

Castiel squeezes his bicep reassuringly—right over his own handprint—while continuing to stroke him, and Dean’s eyes practically go crossed. “Unless you wish to control yourself while I finish, and then I reward you on my knees.”

Dean whines, he really can’t help it. Talk about an offer he can’t refuse. Mentally calculating the pros and cons, Dean lets another, more desperate noise escape from his throat before readjusting his grip on the chains, nodding, and replying, “Yeah, c’mon. Do it. I can do it.” 

“Other religions would be blessed beyond measure to worship half the deity you are,” Cas murmurs. He stops jerking Dean off to grab onto both hips and stabilize his thrusts, allowing him to move faster and stay deep. “Por naturaleza,” he continues, “by nature—when you could be cruel, you are kind. When context and history push you to be selfish, you give and give again. When anyone else in your position would abandon all hope and walk away, you press on, and when the world pushes you down, you stand back up. Whether you acknowledge the truth or not, you care so much, Dean.”

“Just trying to get my dick sucked,” Dean mumbles. His cheeks are on fire from lust and heat, the hard work of enduring Cas’ assault on his prostate without finishing, and now—thanks a lot, Cas—pure embarassment, fuck. 

Castiel grabs onto his left shoulder and leans back a little as he chases his own pleasure. Not that Dean’s suffering from it—on the contrary, his cock is twitching and pulsing, drooling all over itself and angrier than Dean thinks he’s ever seen it. It almost hurts to look at it, all purple and pleading. Give it two arms and some googly eyes and it’s Grimace, which is maybe the unsexiest thought Dean’s ever had.

It works, though—anthropomorphizing his penis as a purple burger mascot gets Dean through Cas’ hips slapping against his ass and the way he’s making sure to push every milimeter of his own cock fully into Dean’s body. Every thrust, every time, plus his hands are everywhere, and the noises he’s making—fuck. That soundtrack is permanent spank-bank material that Dean knows he’ll be pulling up to play when he needs a little shove over some proverbial edge.

“Gloria,” Castiel exclaims between gasps, his hips slamming and stuttering. “In…excelsis deo.” 

“A-fuckin’-men,” Dean grunts, thinking Grimace, Grimace, Grimace, as his prostate shoulders the majority of the impact of Cas chasing his orgasm. It’s hard not to give up and give in, especially when he feels the flood of hot wetness filling him up and the slick sounds of Cas fucking himself through it—Cas is right about one thing. If Dean wasn’t a fuckin’ god, no way he would’ve been able to hold out through all that.

“Cas—the things you do to me. Nobody else…” Dean trails off, shakes his head and drops his face into his own raised bicep, at a loss for words. His chest heaves and his cock aches, and despite all of that, he never, ever wants this moment to end. “I’ve never felt—” He winces when Cas pulls his dick out, but continues, even when his breath catches in his throat. “I missed you, man.”

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel says softly, careful to keep contact with his skin as he circles the frame one more time. It’s only his fingers trailing across Dean’s rib cage, but he appreciates it all the same. That bare touch keeps him from anxiety spiraling, half-in and half-out of subspace and overly emotional from the edging and the very physical need to come. “Omorfo agóri mou. Nothing compares to you. You deserve the world.”

As Castiel moves into his sightline, Dean’s careful to avoid locking eyes—no way he could deal with the intensity of that right now—he’s already a pathetic, sniffling disaster. Instead, he looks up and watches Cas in the mirror. He clocks the soft, tender smile, and the easy way Cas drops to his knees, messy head of hair dipping forward to swallow down his cock. 

Dean groans in relief, closing his eyes and relishing the sensations as Cas sucks him enthusiastically for a long minute. At some point, the music Cas put on when they came into the room had stopped, so it’s just the quiet, reverential air of the estate and their own hungry noises, the equipment and their bodies illuminated gently by the soft, recessed lighting.

Somewhat abruptly, Cas pulls off, and Dean makes the mistake of glancing down. He almost comes right there, seeing the trail of saliva and precum stretching between the plush bottom lip of Cas’ open mouth all the way to the tip of his cock. Reflexively, Dean’s arm jerks, brain telling him to press the heel of his hand into his groin, and his shoulder protests with a lightning bolt of pain.

“Fuck me,” Dean mutters, realizing his mistake when Castiel’s eyes dart up mischieviously. “Yeah, yeah,” he says before the guy can mouth off, but Cas just shrugs and holds eye contact while his pretty pink tongue darts out to catch the fluid pooling in Dean’s slit. His hips jerk in response, craving more.

“This was the right decision,” Cas says, almost conversationally. His hand wraps confidently around the base of Dean’s cock, caressing casually. “To waste the nectar of the Gods…”

“Haven’t we already deja’d this vu? Cas, I’m dying, here.”

“Garoto dramático, I thought you said that was a ‘fuckboy’ line.”

Dean barks a half-laugh, half-gasp as soft lips surround his cockhead with gentle but determined suction. “Fuck my face,” Cas demands around the mouthful, before hollowing his cheeks and taking Dean still deeper. “Mmm,” he adds, and it sounds like encouragement to Dean. 

Cas’ mouth is some kind of paradise—it’s hot and wet and his tongue is clearly endowed with magic. Not to mention, Cas doesn’t so much as flinch when Dean swirls his hips and shoves his cock most of the way down his throat. Fuckin’ hot. He just kneels there, hands grasping Dean’s thighs, taking whatever he’s given. He uses his tongue and bobs his head to the rhythm Dean sets, and that’s it—he’s a goner. 

After everything, even Dean’s Olympic stamina is no match for this build-up, for the sensations and heat mounting in his belly. For the blissful waves of rolling pleasure coursing through his veins, all the way down to the tips of his fingers and all ten of his toes. The scar on his bicep, in particular, feels like it’s been set aflame.

“Cas,” is all he can really articulate, and even that’s a struggle. His fingers flex against the chains as his pelvis moves of its own accord. Down at his feet, Castiel hums in satisfaction. The action causes some delicious vibrations on his dick, but Dean recognizes that it’s more than a cheap trick to get him to come. Cas honestly sounds like he’s the one getting blown, like he’s genuinely never been happier. 

That’s the last straw for Dean, the grain of sand that finally tips the scale. His orgasm kicks off and floods his body, vision fuzzing into black and knees barely keeping him upright as Castiel works him through the blinding pleasure, even skirting the razor’s edge of pain because it’s that fucking good. 

Dean sees his life flash before his eyes.

Paris, his shitty straw bed. The Seine reflecting the sunset and the first time he kissed Cas under a crumbling concrete arch with a picked sunflower—a gift—crushed between their chests. Every endless year before Cas came along—blood, violence, war, weapons, and regret. His father’s disappointed glare. The two hundred years after, where everything was a little greyer. Long, dark nights and rotely going through the motions of humanity. Classrooms full of kids reminding Dean of the family he couldn’t have. Empty hook-ups that never quite satisfied, and endless, painful longing. Loneliness. Sam, a million miles away. 

A tear leaks down Dean’s cheek as his cock pulses and Cas greedily sucks him dry. “Thank you,” he murmurs, near-delirious. “Th-thank you.”

“Je t’aime,” Castiel says, sounding just as lust-drunk. “Je suis amoureux de toi.”

As Dean’s wits return to him and the overwhelming waves of delectation dull to a more mild tingling in his limbs, Cas doesn’t stop. Still on his knees, he sucks the tip and licks every last drop of spend from Dean’s cock, clearly intending to keep going until Dean whines and swivels his hips away from the sensation overload. 

“Enough, su—sunshine,”  he pleads, exhaling hard to try and center himself. 

Almost reluctantly, Castiel gets to his feet, licking any remnants of Dean’s cum from his fingertips and his chin. “Spiritual revelation,” he declares smugly, either completely unaware or entirely too aware of Dean’s emotional epiphany and subsequent exhaustion. Dean’s too fuckin’ tired to try and deciper which one it is. “Jeg fortalte deg det. I told you so.”

Only when Cas decides that he’s completely clean—and is visibly disappointed that his spoils are gone—does he wipe his hands and reach up to begin untying the restraints. He’s terribly nonchalant about it, and Dean kind of appreciates that. Coherency isn’t really in the cards for him at the moment.

“Someday, in the Book of—what surname did you say you were going by, now?”

“Winchester,” Dean replies faintly. Cas looks goddamn beautiful, all rumpled and red-cheeked. Touchable, like he’s really here, not a figment of Dean’s imagination, after all. “Like the weapons manufacturer? Seemed fitting for the God of War, I guess.”

“The Book of Winchester,” Castiel affirms. “What we did here tonight will be written about and revered as gospel. La fel de important. As a holy act.” Despite himself, when his wrists are released, Dean practically falls into Castiel’s arms. He tells himself that it’s the soreness of his muscles, the instability that comes from holding one position for far too long that’s making him week. The truth is, though, holding Cas is the only thing he can even conceive of doing at the moment—the only action that makes sense.

“This is only the beginning, and in the beginning, God created man. Believe me when I say that I have been recreated, sculpted by your hand today. I am born anew, finding you once and for the first time, now, and always. Amen.” 

Apparently, Dean’s got nothing to worry about, because Castiel’s as sappy and into him as ever. He clings just as tightly as Dean, arms wrapped fiercely around his torso, his own around Cas’ neck. They stay like that for so long that Dean forgets that his ankles are still bound—at least, until he tries to move them.

“Fuck,” he says, surprised, glancing down over Cas’ arm at the offending cuff. “Lemme out.”

“Wenn du darauf bestehst, and only if you promise not to run away,” Castiel replies lightly as he crouches, but Dean hears the note of insecurity in his voice. He waits until Cas is standing again and he’s shaking out his legs in order to catch his eye and reply. 

“Wait ‘til you see my place,” Dean says. “You’ll never wonder if I’m going to leave here again, promise.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely.”

“For a hamster, sure. Anyway, I thought—maybe we could put some clothes on and go check out some more of your art. Or we can get to writing your new Bible, if that’s what you wanna do, you big freak. Or, hell, we can head back to the grocery store, get the shit I was buying for dinner, except you’re paying—I’ll cook us a feast.” 

Castiel looks hopeful, but unsure. “You would…really want to do those things? Avec moi?” 

Dean starts, physically jerking back. “Uh, duh. I wanna do freaking everything with you. This insecurity’s gotta go,” he adds. “I know it’s been two hundred years and all, but—neither of us broke things off because we wanted to. Doesn’t even matter, now. We’ve got the next two hundred to make it up to each other.”

He can almost see Castiel processing and then trying to decide what he wants to do next, pointer finger pressed pensively against his lips. “I think,” he says slowly, “that I’d like pick up where we left off.”

Raising an eyebrow, Dean glances around. “Isn’t that what we just did?”

Castiel smiles widely, bending down to pick up Dean’s jeans and toss them his way. “Ní go díreach. No. Put these on,” he says, finding his own clothing and pulling on pants as Dean obligingly complies with the demand.

“Grocery store, then?” he asks. “That first on the list?”

“Perhaps,” Castiel replies evasively, slipping his arms into his shirt. “But not here. After all, what I most desire is to lay with you in a real bed, listening to the traffic from several stories above the Champs-Élysées.” He stops buttoning to hold out a hand. “The place where you used to live in Paris is now a very lovely boutique hotel. Just say the word, and we’re there, immédiatement. ”

Dean’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “You mean, really pick up where we left off. Like—” 

“A part of me never really left. Not without you.” Cas’ eyes are boring into his soul, and something deep in Dean’s chest clicks into place—he can’t think of anything that sounds more perfect.

He pauses and then grins before slapping his hand into Cas’ palm to squeeze. “You just want to show off your room in the Louvre.”

“Perhaps,” Cas repeats, tipping his head to one side, thoughtful. “We could have sex there after the museum closes.” Dean snatches his hand back, abruptly motivated to speed up his dressing out of pure excitement. “Plus tard—after we see the sights. You owe me a kiss under the Arc, after all. You promised me, the night before you disappeared.” 

Stepping into his shoes somewhat guiltily, Dean holds out his hand again and Castiel takes it. “Ready when you are,” he says. “And, uh, sorry, again. About—that. Je t’aime aussi,” he adds clumsily, fucking up the cadence. He might understand other languages fine, but he hasn’t got the tongue on Cas—although, that probably goes without saying.

His face only inches away, Castiel still hasn’t taken his eyes off of Dean’s for even a second, and he’s practically beaming. “There’s absolutely nothing to apologize for. I would have and was planning to do the same, you simply beat me to the punch. Nou tou de koupab. Either way, you can make it up to me—to both of us—now.” 

"I'll have to call in sick from work." Dean hedges, but in his mind’s eye, he's already there. He can practically hear the sounds of Paris filtering in from beyond the window, can smell the familiar scents, and most importantly, can feel Cas in his arms while they experience all of it again, for the first time. "It's been decades since I took a vacation, though. I'm sure they'll manage without me."

This time, when they fly, Castiel kisses him on the mouth, and that’s how the two of them vanish into thin air. 

The house disappears behind them, like it was never there at all.

***