Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Castiel Novak shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his kind of thing. The crunching guitars, the rhythm of the drums that vibrates against the walls and the floor, the heat-and-alcohol-soaked bodies slamming against one another in the mosh pit. No, this isn’t his thing, not the kind of place he would ever willingly be found on a Saturday night.  

This is the kind of thing that Castiel had spent too many nights putting together, controlling, managing, miles and miles from home, while his own life fell apart. While his marriage crumbled into divorce papers and his kids forgot who he was. But, tonight, he’s not here to work. Not here to make sure some pop star doesn’t lose it on stage. He’s just here because he can be, because he’s a goddamn VIP now and he can do whatever he wants, go wherever he wants.

And wherever he wants is apparently this sold-out show in this too-small venue, where the biggest band on 66 Seals Management Company’s roster is playing an exclusive concert before the release of their tenth studio album. At least that’s what Castiel has been told. He never really paid much attention to Angel Sigils, except when there was some public-relations crisis involving lead singer Dean Winchester.

There were a couple of drunken backstage fights with opening acts. A couple of sex tapes. The whiskey-and-drug fueled orgy with a Canadian minor league baseball team. Castiel doesn’t know too many details, he’d tried to stay far away from all the controversies. Angel Sigils is managed by Fergus Crowley anyway, who makes a shitload more money than Castiel, and who people say could control Hell if it existed.

But Hell might be easier to control than Dean Winchester, who’s on stage flipping off someone in the crowd, sweat dripping from his hair and down his neck, moving his hips just enough to let everyone in the crowd imagine what he would look like fucking each one of them. Or maybe that’s just what Castiel is imagining right now. Sweat-covered Dean Winchester writhing underneath him, sweat-covered Dean Winchester giving into everything Castiel wants.

Castiel shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his kind of thing. But maybe it should be.

“This is the last song, are you going to the afterparty?” Bela Talbot doesn’t look up from her phone as she leans into Castiel’s ear, barely able to raise her voice above the music. She’s posting pictures to Angel Sigils’ Twitter account, Instagram account, swiping back and forth between the apps and scrolling through the comments.

“I don’t know.” Castiel wraps his fingers around the metal makeshift barrier that separates the stage from the pit. He isn’t sure why he doesn’t know what he’s doing after this. His other option is to go home to the empty apartment he’s been renting for the past few months and stare at the ceiling while trying to sleep.

“You should come.” She grips onto Castiel’s shoulder. “You could use some fun. It’s upstairs—VIP access only, you know. All paid for by Chuck fucking Shurley. Sometimes I’m not even sure that guy really exists.”

“Unfortunately, he does, I’ve met him. He doesn’t leave his office on the top floor very often. Usually only to fire someone important.” The president and CEO of 66 Seals doesn’t talk to Castiel much either. And Castiel has no desire to change that. Chuck Shurley is nothing but an asshole with a God complex.

“I guess a lowly social media manager like me isn’t good enough for Chuck to have a conversation with, right?” She’s still focused on her phone, the red haze of lights from the stage shining down on her face. “Anyway, every single comment on these pictures I posted is about wanting to fuck Dean Winchester.”

Castiel almost says something like, Yeah, I get it, but decides whatever fantasies he’s having right now are better left unspoken. So, he turns his eyes back up to the stage, to Dean Winchester sweating and banging his head and gritting his teeth before letting out a scream that’s maybe something close to what it sounds like when he comes.

The noise of the crowd doesn’t die down, not even a little, when the last shreds of guitar echo through Club Meteor. There’s still a roar of we love you, Dean, when the bright lights come on and the stage is nothing but deserted instruments and tangles of amplifier cords.

There’s only something close to quiet when the back doors open, and a rush of cool air from the lobby rushes in. Only a few fans linger on the beer-can-and-joint strewn floor, wandering around, maybe looking for a ride home, or someone to ride at home, something like that.

“So, you’re coming with me, right?” Bela pulls at the gold badge hanging around her neck. “It’s not every day I get to party with someone like Dean Winchester. My friends are jealous. Even my mom is jealous.”

Castiel slips his own phone from the pocket of his jeans. He’s not even used to being dressed like this at a concert. Usually, he’s working. Usually, he has on some neatly pressed suit and tie and trying to make sure nothing goes wrong. Usually, he has to act like a fucking professional. But the lack of text message notifications on his screen reminds him that no one needs him, and tonight, he can be whoever the hell he wants to be. Someone who goes to afterparties with Rock’s Most Notorious Bad Boy, or whatever the Spin magazine cover that’s framed in Crowley’s office had proclaimed Dean Winchester.

“Yeah, I’m coming with you.” Castiel glances down at his own All Access pass, hanging from a black lanyard adorned with the band’s pentagram logo. It’s the same symbol that so many people here tonight had tattooed into their skin. Going to parties with the talent was something Castiel tries to avoid. He’d always figured it was better not to witness the kinds of things that happen there.

Purple lights fill the stairwell leading up to a room identified only as The Lounge on a sign hanging crooked in front of it. Castiel stops somewhere midway, watching Bela’s heels as they continue up the stairs. She turns back to him, reaches her hand out toward him. “Come on, Cas. You deserve to have some fun. Let go for once.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Castiel wraps his fingers around the railing, pulling himself up another stair. He steps to the side, as someone he doesn’t know pushes by him, and waits for Bela to respond. From somewhere upstairs, there’s music playing. The electric guitars of the stage have been replaced by a thumping bass beat.

“It means you could use to have some fun. Are you going to deny that?” Her hair falls over her shoulder as she leans forward, and her silver earrings sparkle in the violet glow. “No? You’re not? So let’s go.”

Castiel knows she’s right. The past few months have been anything but easy. Meetings with divorce lawyers, court dates. A tour canceled by one of his biggest artists. It wasn’t Castiel’s fault that Ladyheart’s Vince Vincente had convinced himself he was possessed by the Devil, but the band couldn’t continue with a singer who was telling everyone Lucifer was living in his head.

At the top of the stairs, a man wearing a leather vest and hat lets Bela pass into the room without question, but motions to Castiel. “You on the list?” He’s holding a typewritten paper between his fingers.

“Cas Novak. I’m with the management company.” Castiel lifts his pass up from around his neck. “Do you need to see ID or something?”

“Nah man, I’ve heard about you. You just never show up at places like this.” He holds his hand out to Castiel. “I’m the Chief. Chuck Shurley hires me for all these events, to keep people in line.”

Castiel forces a nod and a smile. “I hope what you’ve heard hasn’t been too bad.”

“No, not at all.” The Chief steps aside to let Castiel pass. “But I can keep you in line later if you want. You know, you ain’t been had until you’ve been had by the Chief.”

Castiel doesn’t say no. It’s been a long time. It’s been so long that he can’t even remember what it’s like to be had by anyone. He could use it.

Dean Winchester is standing by the bar, doing shot after shot of something, a group of people surrounding him, cheering him on, doing whatever he wants them to do. Castiel knows one of them is Angel Sigil’s guitar player Benny Lafitte, who was the co-star of one of Dean’s leaked sex tapes. Another is actress Lisa Braeden, who Dean had a messy break u with over a year ago. Castiel isn’t sure why he remembers that.

“Fuck, he really is hot, isn’t he?” Bela is standing in a corner, her gaze lost on Dean.

Castiel finds himself more focused on the sweat still dripping off of Dean’s neck, the way his black shirt with the torn-off sleeves is clinging to his body, than anything else going on around him right now. “I think I need a drink,” is all he can think of to say to avoid answering Bela’s question.

The bartender says her name is Jo and she doesn’t wait for Castiel to order before passing him a glass full of amber-colored liquid. “You look like you could use this.”

“I definitely could.” Castiel lifts the glass to his lips, lets a sip pass down his throat. He stops himself from wincing as it runs through his insides. “That’s really strong.” He pours more of it into his mouth, letting it linger on his tongue before swallowing.

“Like I said, you look like you could use it.” She pours another glass for him and leaves it on the table. Castiel can’t even really remember the last time he had a drink, other than maybe a beer or two at some work dinner, to numb the feeling of the company he was forced to spend time with. But tonight seems like a good night to change that.

Glass in hand, Castiel turns back to Dean. He’s trying to do another shot, but someone is pulling him back. “Come on Dean.” Sam Winchester raises his voice over the music that Castiel realizes is being played by some DJ buried in the opposite corner of the room. “Enough.”

Sam doesn’t have the kind of reputation his older brother does. But he’d dropped out of law school at some point to become the drummer in Angel Sigils, leaving behind an almost-full scholarship at Stanford Law. Castiel remembers reading about it late at night in some article online while sleepless in another hotel bed and wondering what it would be like if he could just forget about his overpriced Cornell MBA and run off to be a rockstar.

“Cas, you actually came. Why?” Fergus Crowley taps Castiel on the shoulder with one hand, holding a glass of scotch in the other. “Why willingly subject yourself to this?”

“I needed to get out, I think.” Castiel struggles to pull his attention away from Dean. “And Bela made me.” He glances over at Bela, who seems to be stuck in a conversation with one of the interns who probably isn’t supposed to be here.

“Well, maybe you can convince Dean Winchester that he can’t back out of his interview on Happy Sunday America tomorrow morning? It’s promo for the new album release and he says he won’t do it, says the show sucks and everyone on it sucks too.” Crowley adjusts the collar of his suit jacket, lifts his scotch to his mouth.

“Well, he’s right, isn’t he?” Castiel leans back against the bar, where Jo slides him another drink. “Have you ever watched that show? The people are all fucking annoying. They smile too much.” Castiel replaces his empty glass with the full one.

“Yes, of course he’s right. But I need to go convince him to do the fucking interview.” Crowley pushes his way into the constantly changing circle of people that surround Dean. That circle quickly dissipates when Crowley pulls Dean away, into some booth on the other side of the room. From where Castiel is sitting, he can see only Dean’s smirk.

Castiel turns back to the bar, but Jo has moved on to serving Benny some blood-red cocktail. Feeling a little more than buzzed, Castiel finds his phone and places it down in front of him. Still no notifications, still no one looking for him. He opens up Twitter to the pictures Bela had posted on @angelsigils, clicks on them, zooms in on the veins on Dean Winchester’s neck, the way his lips brush against the microphone. Castiel closes his eyes, tries to deny to himself that he’s imagining what it would feel like to have those lips wrapped around his dick. He takes another sip of whiskey. Maybe if he gets drunk enough, he’ll forget all about being lonely and horny.

“I’m done with this shit.” Crowley drops his empty glass onto the table beside Castiel. “I can’t deal with this anymore.”

“No Happy Sunday America?” A wave of lightheadedness tells Castiel it’s time to stop drinking.

“He promised to show up. But everything is a goddamn fight. I’m not used to this. People fucking listen to me.” His British accent somehow becomes more apparent when he’s angry.

“I don’t think he listens to anyone.” Castiel pushes his glass away, the images on his phone screen now blurry. “So, good luck dealing with him tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you, Castiel.” Crowley ignores whatever the Chief is saying to him, disappears into the purple stairwell lights.

The music has died down now to classic rock being played through speakers somewhere overhead, and the room smells like cigarette smoke and weed and something else Castiel isn’t sure he’s ever smelled before. He picks up a napkin sitting in front of him, folds it until he can’t see the words Club Meteor written across it anymore. Swiping aside the pictures of sweaty Dean Winchester, he opens his text messages to the last thing Claire sent him. It just says, Sorry, Dad. I’m busy this weekend, maybe next weekend, I’ll let you know.

And Castiel knows it’s normal for a sixteen-year-old to want to go out with her friends instead of hanging out with her father, but it’s a reminder of why he’s here tonight, of why a bartender told him he looks like he needed a drink. He types okay, love you, and hovers over the heart emojis, struggling to decide what color to send. Claire hasn’t liked pink since she was in elementary school. Red seems too boring. He picks green and blue because he can’t decide between the two, and hits send, hoping there isn’t some meaning he doesn’t know about.

“Is someone sitting here?” It’s a voice Castiel has heard a lot of tonight. He turns to see Dean Winchester, strands of hair all scattered along his forehead, sweat still dripping on his neck. Castiel realizes maybe for the first time how warm it is in here, or maybe it’s just because Dean is standing next to him.

“No, go ahead.” Castiel slips further to the edge of his chair, trying to create space between himself and Dean.

Jo immediately returns, discarding the glass she had been wiping clean down at the other edge of the bar. “Anything you want.” She pushes blonde hair back from out of her face.

“I’m good, they cut me off.” Dean taps his hands on the table. “I’m supposed to be on TV tomorrow morning, I guess I can’t be too hungover.”

“I heard.” Castiel shifts in his seat again, this time his arm rubs against Dean’s tattooed skin. Castiel inhales sharply, trying to think of something, anything, to stop his mind from straying to too many things he’d like to be doing right now.

“Dean Winchester.” He holds his hand out to Castiel. “I’m the singer—.”

“I know.” Castiel considers having another one of those drinks. Maybe it would help him calm down, maybe it would stop him from embarrassing himself. “I’m Cas Novak, I’m—."

“You’re with 66 Seals, I know. Abbadon, Amara, Anael. You have a thing for managing singers with one name beginning with an A, I guess.” He sort-of smiles, his tattooed arm rubbing into Castiel’s again. “I’ve seen you around.”

“Ladyheart and Mark of Cain too.” Castiel isn’t sure if he’s only making things worse. He checks his phone, no response from Claire. No one needs him, not right now.

“Bad 80’s hair metal? Not your fault, I guess.” Dean turns his head toward the now-sparsely populated room. “So why are you still here? Crowley ask you to stay to keep an eye on me?”

“No.” Castiel finds himself watching Dean’s lips as he speaks, remembering the way they looked brushing against that microphone in Bela’s pictures. “I just have nowhere else to be.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling. Hey, didn’t you have a thing with Mick Davies from Men of Letters?” Dean leans closer to Castiel, eyes meeting Castiel’s and then moving down.

But Castiel really doesn’t want to talk about his post-divorce hookup with the singer of the British alternative metal band that ended almost as quickly as it had started. “I wouldn’t have really called it a thing. How did you know about that?”

“They played the same festival as us a few months ago, things get around, you know, if people want them to get around.” Dean shrugs, tongue running across his bottom lip. He slips forward on his chair, his leg dragging against Castiel’s. “But I’m good at keeping secrets.”

“Okay.” Castiel reaches for his empty glass, forces the last drop from the bottom into his throat.

“Look, you clearly don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here either. I have a condo not too far from here, overlooking Central Park. You want to be my excuse to leave tonight and I’ll be yours?” Dean is so close to Castiel now that Castiel can feel his breath, grazing across his own neck. “I need to get the fuck out of here, I need to get away from these people, before I have to go do this stupid interview tomorrow.”

Castiel looks back at his phone, vacant of notifications. He doesn’t have anywhere to be, doesn’t have anyone waiting for him at home. He doesn’t have a reason to deny himself anything Dean is willing to give him.

“Yeah, I do.” Castiel throws down a pile of cash onto the table for Jo. He isn’t even sure how much, he doesn’t care. He looks around to see who’s still here. Bela is still stuck with the intern who definitely wasn’t invited. Benny is still drinking his blood-red cocktail. Lisa Braeden is talking to the Chief.

No one is paying attention when Castiel follows Dean out of the room, into the purple glare of the stairwell. Castiel expects to stop himself somewhere on the stairs and turn around, expects the little voice inside his head to tell him he can’t do this, not with Dean. But the little voice inside his head is just telling him that he really, really wants to fuck Dean Winchester.

There’s a door in the back of Club Meteor that’s behind a black curtain. Castiel isn’t sure how Dean knows where it is, and he doesn’t ask, but it leads right into a dark alley. There’s a dumpster overflowing with beer cans and bottles, a couple of discarded signs from past concerts. A limo is already waiting, a man who quickly exits the driver’s seat and holds the back door open.

“Thanks, man.” Dean says to the driver, sliding into the backseat.  

“So, you must do this all the time, right?” Castiel sits down across from Dean, and Dean immediately switches sides so that they’re next to each other, reaching over to press the button that pulls up the divider separating them from the driver.

“Sneak out of parties to avoid people? Yeah, I do that all the time.” Dean leans his head back against the seat, and all Castiel can do is pray that he gets to run his mouth down Dean’s throat, that he gets to tear off Dean’s clothes, that he gets to feel Dean’s body all over his.

“No, take strangers home with you.” Castiel picks up an unopened bottle of champagne from the light-bordered table in front of him. On the label is some brand he’s never heard of. Probably something expensive the record company only gives to its favorite artists.

“Not really so much anymore.” Dean takes the champagne bottle, rolls it around in his hands, before shoving it back into the ice bucket in the center of the table. “I never drink this shit. Anyway, I just think it seems like you and I are maybe looking for the same thing.”

“Really, what’s that?” Castiel doesn’t believe that Dean Winchester could possibly want the same thing he wants right now.

Dean’s fingers are in Castiel’s hair now, pulling Castiel closer. And there are probably one hundred, or one thousand reasons, Castiel shouldn’t do this, but he lets Dean Winchester kiss him, lets his tongue slide between Dean Winchester’s lips. Castiel can still taste the whiskey in Dean’s mouth, and he lets his fingers grip Dean’s shoulder, digging into the black ink of the tattoo etched into his flesh.

“I guess I was right.” Dean runs his fingertips down Castiel’s face, kissing him again quickly as the limo slows to a stop on a neon-lit city street. This time it’s Dean who climbs out of the limo almost as soon as it stops, opening the door for Castiel.

“This building isn’t really me. It’s too much, you know. The record company hooked me up with it, so I just took it.” There’s a concierge who watches them as they pass by, probably because neither of them looks like they belong here. Probably because Dean is walking too close to him, probably because Dean walking almost against him, their hands almost touching.

There are too many buttons in the elevator, and Dean presses the button for the top floor. Castiel stares at his own reflection in the silver elevator doors, his disheveled hair, his jeans that are ripped at the knee, his faded black t-shirt. He would have tried to find something a little nicer if he’d known some rock star was going to invite him home.

Somewhere midway between the ground and the sky, Castiel says, “Why me?”

“Why not you?” Dean pushes Castiel up against the wall, holding Castiel’s wrists against the cold steel that surrounds them. He kisses Castiel again, presses his hips into Castiel’s. His hair is still hanging down into his face, brushing against Castiel’s cheek.

This is someone’s fantasy. Someone jerks off to the idea of running their mouth down Dean Winchester’s neck in an elevator, to the thought of his body crushed into theirs. And, right now, Castiel isn’t even sure any of this is real. Maybe he’s really passed out drunk at Club Meteor, maybe he’s having some alcohol-induced hallucination. Maybe he’s dead. He doesn’t even know anymore.

The elevator doors open into Dean’s living room. This isn’t like other rock-star apartments that Castiel has been to for dinners or meetings or whatever. There are no blown-up magazine-cover pictures of Dean on the walls, no platinum records displayed to remind everyone of his success. Just a Led Zeppelin poster that’s hanging slightly crooked above the couch, a television that’s much smaller than Castiel would have expected. There are two floor-to-ceiling windows, twinkling with the lights of the city.

“Nice place,” Castiel mumbles, as Dean’s hands move to his waist, and turn him around, and pull him closer.

“Yeah, I guess it’s fine.” Dean presses his forehead into Castiel’s, exhales against Castiel’s lips. “It’s better now, with you here.”

“You don’t even know me.” Castiel realizes his lips are almost touching Dean’s when he speaks, but he doesn’t do anything to stop it. He can feel a headache creeping in behind his eyes, and he isn’t sure if it’s all the whiskey he drank, or if it’s the rush of anxiety and shock and need running through him right now. He realizes he’s digging his nails into Dean’s bare arms, little indents in Dean’s flesh where his fingerprints sit.

“Okay. So, tell me something about you.” Dean’s hands move underneath Castiel’s t-shirt, tug at the waist of Castiel’s jeans.

Castiel tries not to embarrass himself. He tries to think of something to make himself sound interesting, tries to think of something that will make Dean Winchester want to be with him like this. But instead, he just says, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You mean you don’t know how to do this?” Dean’s fingers are still slipping under the button of Castiel’s pants.

“No, I know how to do this.” Castiel rests his hand on Dean’s, causing Dean to pause for a moment. “I don’t know what I’m doing with you.”

“I can answer that.” A small smile crosses Dean’s lips. “Anything you want to be doing.”

Castiel turns his eyes up to Dean’s, up to the strands of hair that no longer cling to his face with sweat, down to Dean’s lips that are wet with traces of saliva from whatever it was they were doing on the elevator. This is someone’s fantasy. Tonight, it’s Castiel’s.

He pulls at Dean’s t-shirt, tugging it up and over Dean’s head. And all Castiel can think right now is Fuck, he really is so goddamn hot, and he thinks he might lose his mind if he doesn’t have Dean right now. If he doesn’t have every inch of Dean Winchester against him. He drops Dean’s shirt onto the floor, gripping Dean by the waist, dragging Dean into him.

Dean doesn’t even try to resist. He lets Castiel take control of him, lets Castiel push him down onto the stark-white couch. He tilts his face up toward Castiel and starts to say something, but Castiel doesn’t want to hear it. Castiel doesn’t want to hear anything. His tongue fills Dean’s mouth, tangling his fingers in Dean’s hair. Dean rests his head against the back of the couch, giving in to the force of Castiel’s hands.

Castiel’s tongue trails down Dean’s throat, tasting the traces of sweat on Dean’s skin. What the hell are you doing? Castiel asks himself, but he doesn’t care about the answer. Because, for once, Castiel is doing what he wants. He’s kneeling on the couch, Dean’s hips in between his spread-apart legs. He’s sliding his fingers into Dean’s open mouth and moving his hand down Dean’s chest.

He reaches the edge of Dean’s pants, and his hand lingers there, knowing that if he goes any further, there’s no turning back. If he doesn’t stop himself now, he’s waking up next to Dean Winchester, lead singer of the biggest bands managed by 66 Seals, managed by Crowley. If he doesn’t stop himself now, and anyone ever finds out about this, he’s going to be out of a job in less time than it took him to crawl into bed with Dean.

Fuck it. Castiel has had a bad couple of months. A bad year. He could make up even more excuses to justify this to himself, but he can’t stand listening to his own thoughts anymore. So, he unbuttons Dean’s pants, pulls the zipper down. He slides back, his feet finding the floor just before taking Dean by the hand, pulling him off the couch.

Dean stands there, in the middle of his living room, hair hanging down over his face, jeans hanging open around his waist. He smiles at Castiel, the same crooked smile he gave from the stage, the same look in his wide-open green eyes that he gave the audience, challenging everyone to handle him, challenging everyone to fuck him. “You want to see my bedroom?”

“Yeah, yeah, I do.” Castiel is already following Dean down a long hallway by the time he gets the words out, following him past too many rooms and too many bathrooms for one person.

But Dean’s room is maybe the smallest of all, hidden off in the corner. There are piles of clothes on the floor, most of them black t-shirts, a couple of suits that Castiel couldn’t even afford to have hanging in his closet. On the dresser is the Grammy that Angel Sigils won a couple of years back for Best Rock Album. Castiel can’t remember the name of the album they’d won for, but he remembers Dean stumbling up the stage stairs drunk, thanking his father. Thanks John Winchester, for abandoning mom and me and Sam when I was four. Without you, I would probably have never been fucked up enough to write any of these songs. Castiel remembers the whole thing. It had been all over social media, maybe even some shitty cable television news stations. Chuck and Crowley were screaming at each other in the office the next morning, each blaming the other for letting Dean get on stage wasted out of his mind.

Next to the gold statue is a picture frame, a little boy with a blonde woman’s arm wrapped around him. Castiel has a million questions, like why Dean let his Grammy get so dusty, and whether the woman in the picture is Dean’s mother, but Dean is standing behind him, pulling his shirt off, kissing the back of his neck, pushing him forward until they’re standing in front of a full-length mirror that’s bolted to the wall.

Castiel looks away, down at the floor, because he’s afraid that if he looks at his reflection in the mirror, if he sees the way Dean’s hands are running down his stomach and into his pants, that little voice in his head that knows this is all wrong will wake up. But he loses control of all his thoughts and his reasons for anything when he feels Dean’s fingers slowly dragging his jeans down, circling the tip of his erection.

“You should watch, you look real fucking good making that face.” Dean’s lips brush across Castiel’s ear as he speaks.

“What face?” Castiel lets out a laugh, but it’s only to conceal the fear that maybe he looks ridiculous right now, maybe it’s obvious he doesn’t belong here with Dean.

“The one you make when I touch your cock.” Dean rests his palm firmly in between Castiel’s legs, and Castiel gasps into the air, lets his eyes roll back, lets his head tilt back onto Dean’s shoulder.

“Yeah, that face.” Dean’s mouth finds Castiel’s again while his hips grind into Castiel’s ass. “Lie down for me.”

Dean has a king-size bed but that’s the only thing close to extravagant about it. The dark gray sheets are unmade, tangled in a pile. There are three empty beer bottles on the nightstand. Castiel sinks into the mattress, kicking off his shoes with his feet. He pushes his jeans to his ankles, where his hands meet Dean’s, who finishes tugging them down onto the floor.

Standing over Castiel, Dean is all tattooed skin and messy hair. He runs his tongue across his bottom lip as he shakes his pants off his hips. And maybe Castiel should have expected this, but Dean Winchester is even fucking hotter naked than he is sweating and screaming on stage.

He drags his cock across Castiel’s, leaning over into a kiss that Castiel can barely reciprocate, the feeling of Dean against him is just too much. And when Dean reaches down in between their bodies, gripping his hand around both himself and Castiel at the same time, Castiel makes a sound he didn’t know he could even make. A sound that has never come out of him before. Like this was what he needed to survive, and he never even knew it.

Dean’s lips are relentless, and Castiel forgets he needs to breathe, forgets he needs anything other than Dean’s tongue in his mouth, forgets he needs anything other than Dean’s cock being jerked off against his own.

Forgets he needs anything other than Dean Winchester whispering, “I want you to fuck me,” in his ear.

Castiel’s eyes lose focus on the ceiling. He wonders again if he’s passed out at Club Meteor. Or dead. “Really?”

Dean releases his grip on their bodies, standing up just enough to rummage through the nightstand, dropping a condom and a purple tube of lube on the mattress next to Castiel’s arm. “Yeah, really.”

Sitting up, Castiel spreads his legs, pulls Dean in between them, pulls Dean on top of him again. Their legs entangle as Dean rolls back onto the mattress, fingers digging into Castiel’s shoulders, directing Castiel on top of him.

Suddenly, something changes, and Dean no longer looks reckless, he looks lost, pleading for something Castiel isn’t sure he can give him. His eyes are locked on Castiel’s, and he surrenders to every touch of Castiel’s hand. Castiel falls forward, into a kiss that traces down the veins in Dean’s neck, past the black ink on his chest, down through the trail of hair that leads to his cock.

Castiel takes Dean into his mouth all at once. Dean groans, hips hitching forward against Castiel’s face. He pulls at Castiel’s hair, holds Castiel’s head in place between his legs. Searching for the tube Dean had thrown on the bed, Castiel struggles against Dean’s grip to sit up. He inhales, and his lungs feel like they’re fighting for air, like he wants Dean so fucking much right now every nerve in his body might burst.

He slips a finger inside Dean, and Dean squirms, writhes on the bed, the light from the hall clinging to his body the same way the glow of the stage had done only a couple of hours ago. Castiel starts to slide another finger in, but Dean reaches down, grabs Castiel’s wrist. “I said I want you to fuck me. Fuck me already.”

Castiel nods, because he’s too goddamn excited to think of any kind of response. He’s never fumbled with a condom wrapper so much in his life, tearing the blue foil packet, throwing it down somewhere on the bed. He rolls the condom over himself, and the feeling of his own fingertips is almost enough to make him come right now.

Fucking a rock star is just like fucking anyone else, Castiel reminds himself. He’s already done this, once, when he fucked Mick Davies. Except Men of Letters only has maybe one hit song in the past ten years, and Dean Winchester was named Sexiest Rock Star Alive by People magazine last year. Castiel isn’t sure why he knows that.

“Cas, come on.” Dean reaches out, legs spreading apart even further. He rests his hand down on his own cock, like he’s aching for anyone, anything to touch him.

Castiel thrusts himself inside Dean, and Dean smiles, lifts his head off the bed, grinding his hips forward. Castiel almost can’t keep up. Dean fucks the same way he performs; chaotically, like he’s aching for anything anyone will give him. Like he’s ready to let himself belong completely to someone else.

Dean’s mouth searches for Castiel’s, meeting somewhere over their bodies. Castiel kisses Dean, but it’s a kiss that’s all messy and uneven, his lips landing on Dean’s chin and neck. His hands push Dean’s back onto the bed, holding them down, tangling his fingers in the beaded bracelets Dean is still wearing.

“Fuck, Cas, go harder,” Dean’s voice is breathless, and he moves all out of rhythm, his cock pushing up against Castiel’s stomach. “As hard as you want.”

Castiel’s hands grip onto Dean’s hips, shoving Dean against him while they fuck. He watches Dean’s body as the bed rattles underneath them, watches Dean close his eyes, arch his back off the bed. Watches every single little move Dean makes, his chest moving up and down as he breathes.

He gets too caught up in Dean, taking in every inch of Dean, and he realizes he’s completely still, hovering over Dean with their bodies still joined together. Dean pulls himself up, his hand resting on Castiel’s neck. “You need a break or something?” His eyes meet Castiel’s and refuse to look away.

“No, no I’m fine.” Castiel’s words are cut off by a kiss. It’s a slow, lingering kiss, that seems full of something that definitely shouldn’t exist between two people who don’t know each other. Dean’s gaze hasn’t left Castiel’s, not even when their bodies begin to move again, this time perfectly in sync with each other.

Sweat is dripping from Dean’s hair, down his face, and down his neck. He lifts his legs, causing Castiel to slip even deeper inside him, and against Castiel’s lips, he whispers, “Cas, Cas.”

Castiel knows he can’t hold out much longer. Knows that he’s about to lose it any second. He bites down on his lip trying to do anything, trying to feel anything, that will make him hold on just a few more minutes.

“Cas.” Dean moans Castiel’s name the same way he moans with his lips brushing against a microphone in front of hundreds of people who want nothing more than him.  He moans Castiel’s name in the way that makes people long for him. He moans Castiel’s name, and Castiel comes so hard he can hardly even remember what his name is.

“God—fuck.” Castiel puts his hands over his face, letting whatever words come to mind spill out of his mouth. He takes a step back onto the floor, still trying to figure out if this is all real, still trying to figure out how to breathe again.

But Dean, all naked and sweaty and spread out on the bed, runs his hands over his still-hard cock. He lifts his head. “Make me come.” It’s not a command. Dean’s words sound like begging, as if he thinks there’s some doubt in Castiel’s mind about what’s going to happen next.

Castiel drops to his knees, on the soft carpet beneath them, Dean’s legs surrounding him. He pulls himself in between Dean’s thighs. This time he swallows Dean down slowly, letting his lips pause along every inch, rolling Dean along his tongue, before taking him in completely against the back of his throat. But instead of writhing and squirming, Dean is still now, his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, panting and moaning and making little noises that make Castiel suck harder and harder, just to hear them more.

But when Dean comes, it’s quietly, his body quivering against Castiel, his fingers tightening their grasp on Castiel’s arm. Castiel stops, the taste of Dean trickling down his throat. His tongue licks away the traces of cum on Dean’s cock, before he rests his head on Dean’s leg. He stays there for a minute, or two, or maybe ten, listening to Dean breathe, feeling Dean’s fingers on his cheek and in his hair.

Finally, some kind of reality sinks back over Castiel. He shouldn’t be here. He knows he shouldn’t. But part of him doesn’t even care. “I should go clean up,” he mumbles.

“The bathroom’s right across the hall.” Dean pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Or are you sneaking out on me?”

Castiel shakes his head, uses the edge of the mattress to pull himself up, running his other hand across Dean’s stomach. “Do you want me to sneak out? Don’t you have to be on TV tomorrow morning?”

Dean laughs, turns his head into the twisted bedsheets beside him. “Yeah, so stay with me before I have to go deal with that bullshit. And Crowley. Unless, you know, you have somewhere else you need to be.”

“No, not at all.” Castiel lowers his voice, because it’s still almost too hard to admit.

The bathroom light is bright, and it reflects off the black-and-white alternating tiles. Keeping his eyes away from the mirror because he’s not ready to face himself, he throws the condom into the empty garbage pail and turns the faucet on. Water drips down his face and into his mouth, and he keeps telling himself, it’s okay, no one will ever know.

He finds Dean, still lying on the bed naked, his head on a pillow now. “Glad you’re back.” His hand pats the empty space next to him.

Castiel lies down, wrapping his arm over Dean’s chest. “Why would you want me to stay?”

“Why would I want you to leave?” Dean kisses him quickly, slipping closer on the bed until their bodies are touching. “That was fucking amazing.”

“Really?” Castiel can’t seem to hide his own shock tonight.

Dean just smiles, presses his finger to Castiel’s lips, and closes his eyes, leaving Castiel to his own thoughts. It’s so quiet up here, up so high above New York that he can’t hear the usual sirens, or watch the usual lights go by, like he can from his own fifth-floor apartment. There’s nothing but silence, nothing but Dean breathing in his ear.

There’s nothing, until the sound of his phone ringing startles him awake, Castiel doesn’t remember drifting off, can’t remember when he gave into unconsciousness, but he opens his eyes to sunlight and Dean still asleep beside him.

He stands up, realizing he never bothered to even put his boxers back on last night, and finds his phone in his jeans, still resting in front of the mirror. The screen says Chuck Shurley and Castiel almost drops it back down to the ground. It’s 11:00 am on a Sunday. He doesn’t know what the hell Chuck could want.

“Chuck—sorry, sorry, I was in the other room. I didn’t hear my phone.” Castiel rambles through excuses he doesn’t know he needs.

“Whatever, good morning. You’re the new manager of Angel Sigils.” Chuck’s voice is too loud. Castiel tries to lower the volume but it’s pointless, the sound of Chuck’s voice still hurts Castiel’s head. “Dean Winchester was a no-show at the studio for Happy Sunday America, and Crowley said he’s done with his bullshit, quit as their manager effective immediately. So, it’s all you now.”

“What—I can’t—they’re way bigger than any band I’ve ever managed. Why would you pick me?” Castiel’s feet drag along the carpet as he finds his way into the hallway, leaning against the wall. It’s cold against his bare skin.

“Don’t worry, you got this. I have faith in you.” There’s noise behind Chuck, maybe from a television or radio, but Castiel can’t tell what it is. “By the way, he has another interview set up for tonight. This one’s on Ashley Frank Tonight. Don’t let him miss it.”

“That awful reporter who just makes shit up half the time?” Castiel has only seen bits and pieces of the show, when it’s left on in hotel bars or lobbies of record label offices.

“Yeah, yeah. Make sure he handles himself okay.” The line goes quiet.

“I can’t—.” Castiel doesn’t bother finishing his sentence, there’s no one listening.

From somewhere in the bedroom, is Dean’s voice, quiet, tired, unsure. “Is everything okay, Cas?”

Castiel keeps his back along the wall, slipping against the door. Dean is sitting up in bed now. His hair is hanging down in his face, he’s rubbing his eyes. “No, you didn’t show up for your interview this morning. Crowley quit.”

“Good, he’s a pain in the ass.” Dean leans over, takes one of the beer bottles off his nightstand, staring down into it to see if there’s anything left. “No one gives a shit about Happy Sunday America anyway.”

“Right. I’m your new manager.” Castiel says, holding his phone down at his side, trying to ignore the fact that his clothes are still scattered all over the room.

“That’s awesome.” Dean drops the empty bottle back down on the bed and slides to the edge. He stands up, pulls Castiel against him. “So, let’s go take a shower, boss.”