Archive of Our Own

It takes a lot of effort to drink Bobby Singer out of house and home, but hell if they don't give it their best. Not that the man himself does much to put them off the idea—just makes sure he gets the best of what's left. What's he saving it for anyway? This very well could be the end of afters.

They don't start out thinking liver damage is the way to beat the Devil. It's just that, once Sam tries to skip out with an "Enjoy your hangovers" and Cas reveals that he could simply heal them all come morning, things get a little out of hand. Dean and Jo become the de facto leaders of morale, salvaging what's left of the mood the only way either of them know how: loud music, booze, and can-do attitudes.

Well, louder music, a lethal amount of booze, and almost nauseatingly blinding smiles. It's not that different from before, to be honest, but it works; though the hour drags on, no one makes a move for uneasy sleep. Dean and Jo's mania keeps the booze flowing and well-worn war stories keep the conversation doing the same. Cas especially, weirdo that he is, supplies an infinite amount of amusement. He and Bobby discuss Sumerian syntax, Sam gets to grill him about Biblical inaccuracies, Jo pierces his ear, and they finally figure out how to get him drunk, all to the tune of Zep II echoing through the barren night.

Jo has disappeared to raid Bobby's garage stash when Dean decides to correct her poor tutelage and teach Cas how to do real shots.

He realizes his mistake immediately. A definite problem, in the way that the two of them alone in close quarters is always dangerous. It's not the alcohol: Dean's tolerance is through the roof (to the point where yeah, even he's a little uncomfortable about it) and he's pretty good at controlling himself around hot guys at this point—even Cas, who tends to violate every norm Dean has carefully constructed for himself. It's not even the staccato beat of the thought looping through in his head, last night on Earth, last night on Earth, complete with the tantalizing echo of Cas's smite face and drenched hair.

No, what Dean didn't consider was the actual mechanics of teaching Cas to do proper tequila shots. Shot, salt, lime. Throat exposed, tongue tracing tendons, citrus-swollen lips around rinds. He definitely did not think this through.

"So..."

"No, no, hold on."

What he didn't consider was that Cas might take a while to pick it up. Heavenly battle strategist and he can't remember the order of three simple things. If Dean didn't know better, he'd think the angel was totally fucking with him—as is, he still kinda does, though he can't for the life of him find a non-wishful-thinking reason why.

Cas is standing too close again, par for the course. That's a losing battle Dean's never been sure he wanted to pick, but he didn't consider the distraction of Cas so focused on his body specifically: hands, neck, mouth. The fact that he hasn't offered a hands-on demonstration yet is a Herculean feat.

Instead he stares back. Fair's fair, and it's not like the dude isn't fascinating. Right now, Dean's focused on his ear, just a few inches from Dean's nose as he watches Dean pour salt on the side of his hand. Earlier Jo had convinced him to let her pierce it, though Cas warned her it might not last against his grace's automatic healing. Still, one needle poke later and he had an eerily bloodless piercing made by one of the studs from Jo's own ear.

Dean had watched with an eye roll in reserve as Jo tugged his shoulder until Cas lilted sideways enough for her to reach, but he couldn't bring himself to actually do it, the only thing brighter than that piece of silver her mischievous grin.

He doesn't know why it's so captivating an image, but it is. A single stud, the same glowing silver as an angel blade. Are Cas's ears sensitive? Well, apparently not, but could he, Dean doesn't know, suppress his grace or something so he could feel, the way he can to keep his ear pierced? If Dean leaned over and worried the stud with his teeth, bit around—

Shots. Right.

(Dean's starting to think he's the one drawing this out, to give himself time to get his shit together, like alcohol's ever helped anyone with that particular problem.)

"Alright, that one's for you." He passes Cas a full glass with the warning, "Don't drink it yet."

Cas nods solemnly and Dean turns back to cut up the rest of the lime. The sounds from the living room wander into the hallway, two pairs of footsteps on the stairs while Bobby yells up at them. Dean can't quite make it out, but he strains to anyway because the alternative is paying attention to Cas, something entirely too easy.

Slice. Slice. There are more than enough already, but he keeps cutting, lime after shiny lime. Sam yells down something incoherent; there's the unmistakable sound of Bobby cursing under his breath. While Dean is distracted, Cas reaches up and folds his fingers one by one over Dean's collar. The last one grazes Dean's neck, the tiniest glance of nail against his skin stopping him mid-exhale and breathless, but he doesn't move to do more, doesn't say anything, just stands there with his sex hair and his narrowed eyes—not even waiting, just... staring. Dean can't close his mouth all the way.

"Uh..." Without thinking, Dean swallows and turns his head, inadvertently pressing closer. "All good?"

"Yes." Cas removes his hand fingers first, the heel of his palm rocking back gently into Dean's chest in the process. "It's warm in here."

"There's a lotta people in the house," Dean says dumbly.

Cas nods. Finally out of distractions, Dean turns and beckons for Cas's hand, which he lays on top of Dean's half closed palm.

"No, you—" Dean almost laughs around the heart in his throat, squeezing Cas's fingers on reflex. "Come on, man, you know the drill."

Cas nods again and licks the arch of his hand. Dean really wishes he would look away at any point, but of course he doesn't.

"You're very good at this," Cas says as Dean pulls his hand over the sink and shakes salt over it. It's not what he said earlier, remarking on the futile waste of salt they could use tomorrow, to which Dean had pointed out the only thing they had more of in this house was booze and books, confirmed by Bobby's answering middle finger.

"Years of practice." Without any permission from his brain, Dean's mouth then adds, "You know, I can even do a shot without my hands. S'called—"

He manages to force his jaw shut before he can finish that particular sentence.

Cas's dark eyes narrow on his mouth before trailing up to meet Dean's. "I'd like to see that."

"Keep talking like that and you'll give a girl ideas," Dean says, sirens going off in his head as he does. Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with him? He shuts himself up again with another shot.

Thankfully, Cas doesn't respond, and Dean grimaces wordlessly at the ceiling the second he's out of sight, turning to grab his own glass. A thousand flirty foot-in-mouth disaster scenarios flit through his head and he shudders, mouth coated in coarse salt.

In all those scenarios, Dean didn't imagine what comes next. He's not expecting Cas's eyes to still be glued to his mouth when he turns back. He's not expecting Cas to pick up the lime wedge for him and linger when their fingers overlap. He's really not expecting it when Cas jolts forward, mouth first, and kisses Dean around the lime still caught in his lips.

On second thought, he probably should've seen that last one coming, if only because of the first two. And the collar thing. And how Cas is absolutely capable of keeping track of three steps.

Dean is frozen, mouth tingling and eyes fixed on the erotic smear of Cas's eyelashes against his cheekbones, for as long as it takes Cas's tongue to dart between the lime and Dean's bottom lip, which is actually not as long as its electrocuting insanity implies. He gets the wedge free no problem, the tip of his tongue barely brushing Dean's teeth, and leans back only enough to spit it on the floor. Dean is totally gonna get yelled at for that later, but holy shit does he not care right now. If he dies tomorrow, it will be with the memory of Cas's warm hands clapped over his ears and not the omen of Bobby lecturing about him being raised in a barn. Turns out some people are into that shit. Suck it, Singer.

The moment their mouths separate, awkwardness floods Dean's body, keeping him rooted to the floor. Not that he wants to run, but he wants to, but he doesn't want to, he just thinks he should. How did his hands get under Cas's jackets? He's so warm.

"Dean."

"Uh." Dean's never found the sound of his own name particularly sexy but Jesus, that voice could give anyone a complex. Still, his reflexes prevail and he claps Cas's shoulder as he strangles out, "Right. Guess someone's getting cut off—"

Cas touches his side, a coolness that rushes through him in stark contrast with the brand of Cas's body along his own, and says, "I am not inebriated," before crowding Dean against the counter, at which point the conversation ends.

The last time they were here was the second (third?) time they ever met, arguing about whether Lucifer exists or not in the silent moonlight of a dream. Everything was still and quiet, air thick with tension that made it hard to think of anything else. They'd been standing close enough for Dean to tell that Cas didn't breathe, something he'd chalked up at the time to freaky dream logic that turned out—like so many fucking things—to be true.

He's breathing now: short, wordless pants into Dean's open mouth that are simultaneously almost lost under "Thank You" blaring from the living room and ringing in Dean's ears. Crystal clear, high def, every random and unpracticed stutter. It's— Cas is desperate, Dean realizes, and it goes straight to his head, both as an ego trip (angel of the lord out of his mind for Dean) and literally: a dizziness that acts as the perfect excuse to haul him closer with fistfuls of button down.

Somewhere between the thoughts about how else not having to breathe might be utilized and the nerve endings in his scalp lighting up when Cas's fingers flex, Dean manages to remember where they are. He summons enough concentration to drag Cas out of sight of the thankfully empty living room by his lapel, along the length of the counter and past the fridge, which rattles slightly when they knock back into it. Cas is still attached to him like a lamprey, moving his unwavering attention to the underside of Dean's jaw, which is distracting enough that Dean doesn't notice how far they've slid until he's got the corner of the wall jammed along his spine.

It's a moot point when he realizes he can see over Cas's ear to the living room, now filling with people. Bobby and Ellen enter first in the midst of what can only be a decade-long debate, uninterrupted even by Sam squeezing between them to get to his laptop. None of them have noticed either Dean and Cas or their absence yet, but it's only a matter of time before someone comes looking for a drink or one of the million books Bobby has stashed everywhere.

"Shit, hey, feathers," Dean says under his breath, nudging the shoulder not currently digging into his own. "We've, uh— got an audience...?"

Cas doesn't bother to pull back more than it takes to say, "I'm aware," the sound conveniently contained by their bodies. He leads Dean further from the doorway until his back meets the door, the window's glass cool against his neck even through the ratty curtains. It takes a few tries, but eventually Dean gets his hands to stop trying to grope up under Cas's coat and push back enough to look Cas in the eye—just in time for him to remember he does not want to look Cas in the eye.

When Cas finally pulls back to his usual space-invader distance, Dean clears his throat and stares at everything but the angel standing on his toes. "So you..."

He doesn't have to look to know Cas is staring. At this point, he takes it for a given.

"Last night on Earth, huh?" Dean asks instead. His gaze is caught by the flash of silver in Cas's ear. He doesn't know what he was going to say, but a corny line he'd already tried now embarrassingly earnest is probably still the lesser of two evils.

"Yes." Cas nods and Dean finally looks back. His eyes are bright but lucid in contrast with the tequila fumes hanging over them. "I still don't understand what the sexualities of puppets have to do with anything, but I believe this counts as having occasion."

"Right, yeah, occasion." Dean's not totally following—though, when he parses the first bit, he has to suppress a wave of mortification—but he gets enough of the gist. "So..."

Dean has been plenty brave (or stupid, depending on who you ask) the past year, and he's gonna have to be even braver to stand a chance at getting through tomorrow, but maybe it's fine to spend some of that up front.

"How 'bout we get out of here?"

Cas nods again and that's it.

Tragically, Dean's keys are in his jacket in the living room full of people who would probably notice if they went missing without explanation, so he ducks out from between Cas and the door, takes a second to compose himself, and heads for the firing squad.

Only Ellen looks up, Bobby and Sam still arguing about something on Sam's laptop. She takes one look at Dean and raises her eyebrows at whatever she sees before turning back to the debate with a smirk. He leans over to grab his jacket from the sofa and steps back right into Cas, who must have followed him. He, of course, looks no more disheveled than usual, which Dean is envious of for a minute before he remembers what's waiting for him.

"Hey. Uh." Dean jerks his thumb back at the door. "Cas and I are goin' for a drive."

Sam finally looks up from his screen. "Why?"

"Just—"

"To have—" Cas starts.

Dean steps on his foot, ignoring the confused look Cas gives him in response. "Clear our heads. Kill time. Get away from you drunken yahoos, whatever. We're going."

"I bet," Jo tosses out as she walks in, grimy whiskey bottle in hand. She must have come in the front, walked all the way around the house because... right. "Wait, sorry, did you say coming or going?"

As if that wasn't bad enough, she delivers it with the worst knowing grin. Dean knows that face: he makes it at Sam basically every day. He also deeply hates it when it is aimed at him.

Pointing at her warningly, he starts dragging Cas backwards out of the room. "You know nothing."

"Oh, I know something." She cocks a hip and everything. See, this is why he hates younger siblings.

"What exactly do you know?" Sam asks.

Ellen and Bobby are definitely exchanging a capital-L look that says can you believe these children, but Dean has bigger things to worry about.

"She knows nothing," Dean repeats, drowned out by Jo waving him off with a cheery, "Don't worry about it."

It does nothing to wipe the suspicion from his face, but then two of Cas's fingers touch the very back of Dean's arm, right above his elbow, and it's hard to think about anything other than how quickly they can get alone.

"Sleep well, everyone," Cas says, less like a wish and more like a command. It's kind of sweet nevertheless. At least, Dean thinks it is. You know, quietly, to himself.

Jo's smiling lips are barely keeping in a laugh and Bobby is rolling his eyes, but thankfully Dean gets them out before anyone can say anything more.

Out on the back step, Dean pauses to make sure no one (read: Jo and Sam) tries to follow them or spy through the window or some shit. They definitely all know, or if they don't, they're gonna in a minute, soon as Jo drops another innuendo without him there to stop her. Dean probably should be more upset at that, but honestly he just thinks it's funny. The world's about to end, Lucifer walks the Earth, and Dean's friends still have time to make fun of him for getting laid.

Cas has stopped instinctively next to him, close enough for Dean to feel the difference between him on one side and the brisk November air on the other. He waits for the cold to shock him sober until Cas's hand grazes his, warm unlike the sharp rush of grace he must have sent through Dean earlier. Shit, that's what that was, wasn't it? Embarrassingly enough, he's been sober for the last several minutes and was too drunk on Cas to notice.

"I think they like me," Cas says with a short nod. When Dean raises an eyebrow at him, he clarifies, "The Harvelles."

Dean grins and Cas smiles back in his odd little way. It's one of his rarer expressions, halfway between guileless and robotic, awkward as all hell in the most normal circumstances, and it makes Dean's heart pang a bit. It's cute, is the thing, which shouldn't be a word that fits this grown man-shape holding a power that could wipe him from existence with a thought, but it does. It's endearing. Dean's endeared, alright? They're gonna die tomorrow, he can admit that to himself.

"Yeah, Marion, you definitely won 'em over with that little stunt back there." He hangs his arm around Cas's shoulder and pulls him through the stacks of cars. "At the very least, anyone who can drink Ellen under the table gets her respect. Maybe don't let Jo maim you," he reaches around to tweak Cas's ear, earning a small glare, "but yeah. They like you."

"That's good."

"Yeah." He doesn't know when Cas started caring whether people like him or not, but he agrees.

It's an unseasonably warm November, which for Sioux Falls means normal cold instead of subarctic. Dean pops his collar one-handedly as a wind skirts around the piles of cars, pulling Cas closer instinctively with an elbow around his bare neck. He realizes belatedly that it's kind of stupid, but by then Cas is awkwardly setting his own arm across Dean's lower back and Dean's not gonna jeopardize that, so there they go.

"Are we actually leaving?"

"Nah." The Impala's back in the garage where Dean left it after it got too cold to keep fiddling on fiddly things, but if they're at the point of breaking into Bobby's garage stash, he better move it. "Just making sure they won't come looking for us after that show."

"I waited until we were alone." Cas's voice is so sincere, Dean's glad he can't see the face that goes with.

"No, I know." He flushes, even warmer in the chilled air. "But you definitely didn't need me to teach you something you were doing ten minutes before, you know?"

"Yes, Dean. I know." He turns from studying the cars around them to give Dean a look, half confused and half offended, which is fair. "One person guiding another through a mundane task is often a form of flirtation, and there were no pool tables at hand." Dean's stomach definitely didn't jump at that. "I thought pretending not to understand would give you ample time to realize what I was doing and 'make a move' but I... grew impatient."

"Well, I never woulda guessed," Dean says, secretly pleased with himself for nothing. It's a fluttery feeling he's never gotten used to, multiplied by a billion simply for the straightforward way Cas says it. "Since when do you have moves?"

The light is still on when they reach the garage, a step stool under the shelf where whiskey hides behind engine oil. Dean thinks about turning it off, but the thought of dark, of the moths buzzing there now hanging around invisibly, makes him uneasy for some reason. He gets the car door open pretty quick.

"I've been watching television while you sleep in an effort to better understand humanity," Cas says as he ducks into the passenger side. He looks good. Dean likes seeing him over there, so he keeps looking, keys sitting uselessly in his hand. "Your conversational style especially is very referential. I imagine it would take years to understand everything you say." He tugs on Dean's shoulder until they're face to face and leans into his airspace. "Dean."

He dives in tongue first, not that Dean's gonna object. The doubt that's been building in the back of his head since they left the kitchen evaporates under Cas's hands, replaced by a slow burning fire and flat out excitement that momentarily possesses them both. Fun, he reminds himself, this is fun, that's all. He promised he wouldn't let Cas die a virgin, so whatever the angel wants, the angel gets.

"Yeah, I know, just—" Dean laughs once, bright and involuntary, and ducks the kiss Cas ends up pressing to his jaw. Fun. "Hold on a sec, Casanova. I'm gonna take us somewhere further out where no one'll bother us."

With Cas closer than necessary, hands to himself but body in the middle of the bench, Dean starts the car. He can feel Cas's eyes on him as real as the warmth of his body, tantalizingly close. He doesn't really need to, but he slings his arm across the back of the seat as he pulls out, fingers brushing Cas's far shoulder, just to see what happens.

(What happens is that Cas sets his hand on Dean's thigh, fingers gentle on his inseam, which Dean kind of had coming.)

"I don't see how this is any more private than where we were," Cas says when they come to a stop around one of the last stacks of cars, sheltered from the house but not quite out in the literal weeds of the field out back.

"Trust me," Dean yanks them into park, "anybody finds us out here, they've got only themselves to blame."

He manages to make it around to Cas's side before the angel gets too far, though that's absolutely because Cas, leaning against his door, lets him. He slips a bit at the very end when he half steps on a stray bottle, but he manages not to eat shit and lands with a cavalier elbow on the car's roof.

"Hey." He might be nervous.

The corner of Cas's mouth turns up barely. He's noticed. "Hello, Dean."

"Come here often?"

Cas squints, opens his mouth, closes it, and smiles with only his eyes. "That was flirtation, wasn't it?"

Dean laughs, taking Cas's face in his hands and relishing in the way Cas reaches up to hold his sleeves immediately. "You're getting the hang of it."

Despite the fact that Cas is staring blatantly at his mouth and swaying further into his space, Dean doesn't move in yet. This kiss feels important. It feels crucial that he nails this. He doesn't know why; it's not like if he uses a bit too much teeth, Cas will suddenly draw the line. Dude is very clear about what he wants right now, but it feels different, alone and fully facing each other, nothing between them but the breeze coming off the nearby grass. It feels significant.

Points of no return aren't usually a good thing for Dean, and he's not sure whether he's talking to Cas or himself when he asks, "You sure you wanna do this?"

Cas meets his eyes, puzzled, then serious. "Absolutely."

When Cas uses words like that, he means them the way a dictionary does: in this case, with zero restrictions, exceptions, or qualifications. Absolute like God's rule.

Still, Dean checks, "Cuz, I don't know all Heaven's rules, but sleeping with a human..."

"Dean." He sets his hand on the center of Dean's chest before covering the hand on his cheek. "I told you. I rebelled against Heaven for you. I have already fallen in every other way. I can't imagine one more will make a difference."

Cas leans in before Dean can even begin to process any of that, which is probably for the best. If he thinks about it any longer, it starts seeming a lot less like "just fun" and more like something Dean would worry about if they had more than maybe eighteen hours left in them.

The kiss is different: longer, for one, and decidedly more chaste, which (based on his experience thus far) he didn't know Cas was capable of. It's... sweet, lips touching lips. Cas's hand leaves Dean's after a moment and alights on his wrist, the other tucking itself under the edge of his jacket to settle on his waist. It's romantic, is what it is. He puts the pieces together to see he's being wooed and it's... not not working, he's slightly horrified to find.

Stifling that, Dean deepens the kiss until they're firmly back in his wheelhouse. This, Dean can do. With one hand still flat on the plane of Cas's stubbled jaw, the other slides to the back of his neck, carding through the strands of hair there as Dean tilts them both to just the right angle, mouth against open mouth, sharing air. The toes of their boots knock as they lean against each other, so close that Cas had to wrap his arm around Dean's back, having nowhere else to go. His other thumb is still flat against Dean's wrist, right at his pulse. Dean would worry about it giving him away if it weren't for the fact that Cas could tell anyway.

When Cas crowds forward again, Dean turns back against the passenger side door, dragging Cas with him—unnecessarily, it seems, as Cas won't let him go for a second, leaning in until they're standing in the same exact square foot of dirt. Cool metal on one side and warm angel on the other, Dean could probably be content to stand there forever, but there are better, more horizontal things they could be doing if he could just get a hand on the back door handle.

He manages to blindly grab it a couple of times, though it swings shut every time he can't get his arm past Cas enough to get it open all the way. He slides out from under Cas an inch, then another, before Cas pulls him back in.

They're all twisted up, their ankles wound together, and Dean is sliding sideways along the car when Cas pulls him back.

"Stop leaving," he says against Dean's lips.

"I'm not, I'm—" Every time Cas kisses his smile, it gets worse. "Hey. Not going anywhere. Just..."

Dean finally gets the door open and Vanna Whites at it. Though the specific reference is lost on Cas, the meaning is not, so Dean swallows the next joke on his lips and sits.

Feet in the gravel, he guides Cas over to stand between his legs. Cas has the same look of half concern he did when allaying Dean's... he wouldn't call them fears, but hesitancies a second ago, though, and studies Dean instead of diving in like he was hoping.

"Alright?"

"Yes." Cas leans into the hands on his hips, his own on Dean's shoulders. At this angle, Dean has to crane his head back out from under the roof to get a glimpse of Cas's face, painted orange by the lone lamppost. "But I have something to say first."

Dean is well versed in bad signs, but before he can titter uncoolly and dodge whatever capital-C conversation the angel's trying to start, Cas adds, "It's not bad."

"Think I'll be the judge of that," Dean mumbles somewhat sullenly, but he lets Cas set his knee in the scant space between Dean's legs and lean down 'til they're face to upturned face. It's unnervingly grounding. In the shadow of the car, Cas's eyes are a familiar blue, wide and dark and intent as he fills Dean's view.

"After overhearing your conversation with Jo—" Dean cringes. "—I asked her what other connotations 'last night on Earth' had, to be sure I wasn't misremembering."

Yeah, like they don't both know misremembering isn't something Cas is capable of. Dean really wishes they hadn't stopped kissing. "What'd she say?"

"The obvious carpe diem aspect, which I already got. The sexual connotations. She also said that some people use it as an excuse to 'say shit they've been meaning too but chickened out of when there was time for consequences.'"

He feels Cas's fingers flex against his jacket, which a moment later he recognizes as aborted air quotes. Dean would think it's adorable if he could hear past the blood rushing to his face. He's either gonna have to kill Jo or send her a fruit basket. Knife basket?

"Alright," he says, trying not to screw his eyes shut, "whatever it is, just say it."

"Tomorrow is likely to be the end of us all," Cas begins, almost like one of his Heavenly Plan speeches but with a new aching sincerity, "but know that I will do whatever I can to ensure you—and your brother, as well as all those you care for—make it out alive. You have my protection; you have my word."

His pinkie skims the edge of his own handprint beneath two layers of fabric, unerringly exact as it traces the ridge of the index finger. Dean doesn't know if it's the touch itself or that implication that zaps through him then, but something does, sharp and cool. Before he can wonder further, Cas dips down to press a kiss to his lips unlike any of the others they've traded tonight, simple and exact, like a stamp, a wax seal.

And then Cas is crawling his way into the backseat, Dean sliding back uselessly as his brain struggles to keep up with his dick. His back hits the opposite door as Cas gets a hand on the front bench to loom over him properly, eyes ravenous on Dean's body, his other hand on Dean's knee. The incidental but numerous places they are touching otherwise have nothing on this hot brand of intent.

Apparently blind to his own sexual prowess, Cas squints at the window behind Dean and says, "I don't think two adult men are supposed to fit in the back of this car like this."

"Never stopped me before," Dean quips, scrunching himself further into the corner. Cas isn't wrong. When he twists to get the door, he knees Dean concerningly near his dick and closes the door on his own coat and, almost, foot.

"But why would we come out here when there are perfectly fine beds—?"

"Not while other people are in the house, Cas, just—" He slides down against the leather and pulls Cas with him, one foot on the ground to make room. It's not much, but with a little rearranging, Cas gets his hands in the narrow spaces bordering Dean's head. "See? Not so bad."

To prove it, he hooks two fingers over the knot of Cas's tie and tugs him into a kiss more like their first. Cas follows all too easily, but Dean keeps pulling to feel the give as Cas presses ever closer, humming into him. Dean doesn't kiss many people who wear ties, oddly enough, and it's actually all manner of hot to have Cas at his fingertips like this. Unfathomable power condensed in a human body and it all follows where Dean leads.

Things always get physically hot in Baby's backseat, between the leather and the low ceiling and the fact that, yes, it is not built to hold two grown adults horizontally, but as neither of them remembered to take off their coats before climbing in, it's more uncomfortable than sexy.

The third time Cas gets his knee caught in his coat and slips headfirst into Dean's chin, Dean draws the line.

"Hey." Dean holds Cas back by the shoulders, both of them under his trench coat and panting. "Let's at least get the tarp off before we both overheat."

"I don't overheat. I don't heat at all," Cas says, but when Dean gets his hands on his shoulders under the fabric, he gets with the program pretty quick.

This is something Dean knows how to do. Nice and easy, he lets his thumbs graze Cas's neck as he pushes the fabric back. Next goes the suit jacket, although Cas pulls away with one arm still stuck to tug Dean's coat off, incidentally punching the door behind him when he gets stuck between the seats.

"You've got more layers, it's only fair."

"You have an odd idea of fair." Cas throws the last jacket into the front seat and leans over him again, kissing him deeply but quickly. "May I take your shoes off?"

Dean, having twisted to make sure shit didn't fall out of his pockets, jerks back to stare at him. "May you what?"

Cas's eyebrows are overwhelmingly earnest as he stares at Dean like he's an idiot. "I might not know much about being human, Dean, but even I know it would be hard to get your jeans off over your boots."

Something so blandly condescending should not be so sexy. Dean has problems, but what else is new?

"Great plan, love the enthusiasm," Dean manages to get out before his brain leaks out his ears, "but how about...?"

"Oh." Cas perks up when Dean tugs the end of his tie in demonstration. His gaze then drifts down Dean's face and across his chest, which feels overwhelmingly bare in his t-shirt and unbuttoned shirt. "Yes, that's a better idea."

As Dean slowly but deftly undoes Cas's tie, he isn't thinking about the skin it's uncovering, or even the cool feeling of the fabric between his fingers. He should be—at the very least, to make it good for Cas—but he's stuck inexplicably on the after. Cas probably can't tie a tie, so Dean will have to do it for him, fingers brushing his chin. He'll have to loosening the knot as soon as he's done, though: it's not Cas otherwise. His knuckles bump Cas's chest for real when the latter kisses his cheek, then his ear. For a second Dean swears he can feel the unnecessary heartbeat under his hand stutter.

Things begin to blur after that. Dean loses another shirt; Cas, a few more buttons. He does remove both Dean's boots and his pants with a solemn kiss to his ankle when he's done. He doesn't let Dean return the favor, too focused on getting back to his mouth, but Dean certainly isn't complaining. Who could, with such singular attention on them?

It's only when Dean's hand is a single twitch from Cas's dick, Cas's nose a centimeter from his, that he snaps out of that haze and remembers again what they're doing. Dean wants to deflect from how nervous he is. Because he's not nervous to fuck Cas, he is very excited and has no reservations about this, he tells himself. He's just... nervous, a feeling without source.

Maybe he could turn on some music, but no, the radio is still on the Lilith Fair college station that he definitely wasn't listening to on his beer run earlier. He could pick a tape, but then that's always gonna be the tape that was playing when he had sex with Cas, because he's gonna have sex with Cas, and what if—

That train of thought is derailed spectacularly when Cas finds that particular sensitive spot between his jaw and neck. Everything is white light for a moment. Some embarrassing sound surely leaves Dean's unguarded lips before Cas, mensch that he is, comes back to stopper it with his own mouth.

It's only a distraction for so long, though. Sex of any kind always is. Contrary to popular belief, Dean has a lot going on upstairs, and he can't helping thinking about all the ways he could fuck this up. Cas is a flighty son of a bitch, and although he endured all sorts of embarrassment at Dean's hands the last time they tried this "last night on Earth" thing, crippling humiliation has a lot higher stakes tonight. It would really suck to have to track him down wherever he flits off to when he's not hanging over Dean's shoulder before tomorrow happens.

His automatic kissing must not be up to par, as Cas pauses and leans back to look at him.

"You're hesitant."

"Uh..." Dean may have neglected to consider how Cas's tendency to see through him like cellophane might apply to this situation. "It's just... been a while. Especially with a dude."

"Oh." Cas seems to think it over for a moment. "I'll be gentle."

And that's that. Dean's inexplicable nerves dissipate into laughter with the feeling of a balloon being let loose in a cartoon—because yeah, this is Cas, basically his only friend and the lynchpin to them not all dying tomorrow, but it's also Cas, who rides around in this very backseat when he could fly anywhere with a thought and watches shitty network TV to understand Dean's shitty jokes.

He snorts, almost missing how pleased with himself Cas looks as he leans back in.

"Are you laughing at me?" Cas asks between kisses. It's a little dance: Dean grazes an eyetooth across the corner of Cas's lip, Cas does the same back to him, he tries something else, etc. It's cute, as is the intense focus on Cas's face when Dean looks again, all intently furrowed eyebrows.

"No," Dean lies with an easy grin. It's only partially a lie. He's laughing at the situation; it's just that the situation is mostly Cas. He's the main attraction, the moment, the air they're breathing. He's punchline and comedian and ringing laughter all in one.

Cas's eyes open already locked to his. "You are."

"Swear to God, man, I'm not. I just... It's fun."

"Fun?"

"Yeah, you heard of it?" Cas rolls his eyes at him, but Dean perseveres with a cheesy grin, wiggling closer. "No, come on, space man, let me show you this little Earth thing called 'fun'."

Cas makes a noise of displeasure and knocks their foreheads together, maybe on accident but Dean would guess not. This, unfortunately, has the opposite effect of making Dean laugh, loud, a gleeful bark that fills the car. He's still laughing as he sinks back down into the leather, arms around Cas's shoulders.

He only stops when Cas nips along his Adam's apple, breaking off into a low gasp. Cas grinds down into him, so hard it forces Dean to wrap a leg around his hip to keep them both from falling off the seat. In response, Cas grabs his ass to hold him closer, the press of him against Dean's hip hot and branding and arrhythmic, moving by instinct alone. It scratches an itch Dean's had so long he stopped feeling it, and so caught up in the sensation is he, fingers tight along the seams of Cas's shirt, that he moans without thinking, "Cas."

"I used to think your laughter was the most beautiful sound I've ever heard," Cas says into his collar, missing the bewildered and nervously horny look Dean shoots the ceiling as his leg hitches higher against Cas's side, "but I may have judged too quickly."

"Oh man, you really do like me, huh." Dean presses back into the hand that's slipped to his ass to cover up the bashful fear swimming in his chest. Still, Cas retreats enough to meet his eyes. "I mean, do you—? Uh."

Cas leans back further with every word, giving Dean a front row seat to his biceps straining against sleeves in Dean's blind grip. His mouth is a shining slash across his face, his eyes (in the shadow of the door, untouched by the sodium orange light above) are, wow, just, so fucking blue.

And, for the record, he still has a hand on Dean's ass.

"Do I what," Cas says rather than asks.

"Um." Dean squashes the snide voice in his head that suggests a scrap of notebook paper with yes/no checkboxes. "Do you like me?"

Cas genuinely thinks about it, which is oddly comforting, like his taking it seriously justifies Dean's nerves. Another boon for Dean's mental health: he doesn't think too long before nodding.

"Yes," Cas says, once Dean can breathe again. "I like you, Dean. Very much. More than I do anything else."

It's a bit much, but that's Cas in a nutshell. "Okay. Awesome."

"I don't think I've ever 'liked' something before you," he continues casually as he shuffles down Dean's legs, hands trailing down Dean's body in his wake. "Opinions aren't really something I'm supposed to have, but I do. I chose you over Heaven, after all."

"Uh—" Dean clears his throat, praying (well, very carefully not praying, but hoping fiercely) that he doesn't sound as eager as he feels. It's hard when Cas is somehow both all over him, hands proceeding like prairie fire, and utterly too far away. "Right. Cool."

Dean tries to sit up enough to kiss him into distraction, but Cas's hands harden over his hips, keeping him in place as his eyes snap unerringly to Dean's.

"You like this."

Play cool.

"Huh?"

"Praise," Cas says without so much as blinking, "in a sexual context. You find it... arousing?"

Baby's backseat is suddenly even less spacious than Dean thought. This confined—yes, the only place they're really touching is Cas's hands on his hips, not the point—this close, his awkward squirming is hyper noticeable.

"I mean..." God, does he really have to talk about it? He fumbles his way into sitting, discomfort sitting high on his shoulders. "Sort of? It's not, like, sexy, just—"

There's no way to finish that sentence without Dean having to then bury himself alive in the yard, but thankfully Cas interrupts.

"Because I could do that," he says as he leans infinitesimally closer. "I am... not unaccustomed to worship."

Dean's brain short circuits before he can fully process the thought, possibly to save him. Before he even figures it out, he clocks the barest hints of embarrassment in Cas's face: the tinge of pink on his cheekbones, the way his eyes flit away from Dean's for what feels like the first time all night. The hurricane in Dean's head goes still, then, like it did when they were in the beautiful room and Dean realized, suddenly, he would trust Cas with anything. And so, just like in that room, he nods, small and silent, and lets Cas do his crazy thing like always.

"I find your mundane habits... endearing." As Castiel speaks, his hands drift under Dean's shirt and down to the skin beneath his belt, teasing wildfire brushes. "I don't understand most of your jokes, but I like that you think they're funny, and when you laugh I remember why we're trying so hard to save this world."

Dean is suddenly profoundly aware of how in over his head he is. "Man, everything is zero to sixty with you, isn't it?"

"You can also be very irritating," is Cas's response, busy with his belt, but it's not any better when he follows it up with, "but I accept it as part of your charm. Your random bouts of enthusiasm are... nice."

"Oh, you think I'm cute," falls out of Dean's mouth without his permission.

Cas considers this. "Baby animals are considered cute. I suppose the comparison is not inaccurate."

"Hey!" Despite the intoxicating hands now wrapped around his thighs, Dean manages to find some disdain.

"In terms of scale. A less charitable simile would be that you're like a bug," Cas continues blithely, "but bugs have different cultural connotations. A baby animal is far more flattering."

"And that's what you're after? Flattering me?"

He hovers a micron from Dean's face, so close every nerve on his lips is lit up like a wildfire. Instead of kissing him, though, Cas stops and says against his cheek, "Well, someone has to."

Dean freezes: only for half a second, but long enough for Cas to notice, of course.

"Or at least," he amends slowly, "someone should."

"Alright, alright." Dean tilts his head into Cas's hand when it skims down the side of his neck, too sensitive and embarrassed for glancing touches right now. "You've already got in my pants, man, you can drop it."

"No. My life changed from the moment I first held your soul in hell. You owe me."

Dean would consider himself good at reading people—a professional even—but he has honestly no idea whether Cas is joking right now or not. It shouldn't be so thrilling, and yet, when Cas finally lets out the hint of a self-satisfied smile, Dean has to lurch up to kiss it. No one's ever been so happy to be played by an angel of the Lord.

"Well, you know what they say about flattery," he mumbles between them, keeping close as he lets Cas lower him back onto the bench seat, neck cradled in Cas's enormous palm.

The brief gap between them leaves Dean exposed to the shut windows' fall chill, but Cas's hand is as warm as his tongue in Dean's mouth, and Dean feels wonderfully bookended, stuck in the feeling. There's a promise of more in the way Cas's other hand travels lower and lower on his back, but Dean is happy to linger. He likes foreplay: the closeness, the anticipation. He doesn't get it a lot, and Cas doesn't know enough to think it's weird, how much Dean likes the soft stuff. He would probably take anything embarrassing Dean threw at him... A thought for later.

"I really don't," Cas breathes against his lips, like that makes any sense. When Dean looks at him in abject confusion, he adds, "Know what they say about flattery."

"Focus, buddy."

"If you insist."

Cas draws back an inch to fit his other hand to the center of Dean's arched back, palm along his spine as the tip of his nose traces featherlight patterns against Dean's cheek. Dean can't help shivering at that, stuck between turned on and ticklish, until Cas pulls back an extra centimeter to look him over in an unmistakable sweep. His face is as serious as it is when talking about the Apocalypse and God's Will.

"I've never seen anything as beautiful as you." Cas runs the side of his thumb down Dean's nose, barely grazing his lips, which part by reflex. Dean is too caught up in the heady buzzing in his ears to do anything other than by instinct, too enraptured to be embarrassed. "Nothing as stubborn or brave or caring."

"Dunno if that first one's really a compliment, but okay," Dean mumbles to hopefully mask the heat coming off his face. It's probably no use with Cas's angelic senses, let alone their proximity, but hey, points for trying.

"Having less desirable qualities doesn't detract from the fact that you're beautiful," Cas says, their foreheads almost touching. His hand slides to Dean's side, grounding. "Exactly as you are. Not as God made you, but—" A dark, almost imperceptible pause as his fingers flex. "As I did."

Dean shuts his eyes so no one sees how they roll back in his head. Shouldn't be sexy, shouldn't be sexy, runs through his mind like a half-hearted litany. Eyes shut, he can feel the thrum of power condensed in Cas's innocuous form, intangible but somehow heavy. Eyes open in the material plane isn't much better because Cas is giving him this look like he can see exactly how Dean feels, knows exactly how every molecule of him vibrates because he strung them together. He's glad now that one of his hands fell back onto the seat when Cas upended them again, free to clench out of sight while Cas studies his face.

As such, it takes Dean a moment to realize what Cas is actually doing: not watching for Dean's reaction but inspecting each inch with intense focus. If bugs under magnifying glasses feel like this, the idiom needs some updating, because it's not... bad. He shivers as Cas's fingertips skim along Dean's eyebrow before landing in four points on the outer arc of his eye socket. Cas's thumb hovers ticklishly against the middle of Dean's other cheek, but that's got nothing on the reverence of it. It should feel claustrophobic. Every well-trained nerve in Dean's body should be screaming at a cage over his face, should be at least trying to throw him off. But...

But. It's the look in Cas's eyes. It's the fact that they'll probably die in a few hours. It's the familiar cradle of Baby's leather that feels brand new under his hands. It's the solidity of that same hand shifting to his cheek, thumb pressed to his lips.

"Like I said," Cas says lowly, "beautiful."

Lightning flashes hot through Dean's veins, sending him arcing up into the body above him. This close, it's impossible to mistake how hard Cas is beneath his shapeless pants. Just from some kissing and barely any groping and a fair amount of sweet nothings that all came from him.

But not for long, if Dean has anything to say about it. His hands fumble down to ruck up the back of Cas's shirt, dragging him down into a kiss before finally pulling Cas down into him.

Cas bucks down into him with a cut off moan that's lost in Dean's mouth. It's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. It's instinct: Cas dropping almost all his weight on Dean, Dean lurching up into him full bodied. It doesn't matter if it's good or not, but it still very much is—something Cas seems to agree with as he shoves one hand under Dean's hips, pulling him forward as the other clenches in his hair.

"Dean," Cas chokes out against the hinge of his jaw. "Is this...?"

"Yeah, just—" Dean snakes a few fingers under the back belt loop of Cas's terrible slacks.

"Just?"

He guides them into something slow and steady, mouthing at where a groan rises up Cas's throat. Stubble abrades his lips and he relishes in the sting. "There."

Cas takes to instruction like a duck to fucking water: once Dean's hand returns to Cas's ass, he's off to the races, grinding down into Dean with unparalleled intensity. Every inch of contact vibrates through Dean's body, pinned between the wildfire conditions between their dicks and the wet heat of the mouth on his shoulder.

"Yeah, Cas," he breathes, barely thinking about the words before they fall out of his mouth, "just like that. You got it. S'good."

Dean doesn't notice Cas has frozen against him until he comes up for air and realizes it's still. He worries for an entire second until he actually looks at Cas's face; the heat there is almost frightening, equal parts piercing and shell shocked. He looks as surprised as Dean, which is what pushes Dean the extra inch to run his hand over Cas's hair.

"Right? This is," the words don't stick in his throat as much as he thought they would, "good. We're good."

Cas does something then that Dean's never seen him do before (and thus something he may have never done): he softens.

It's a funny look on him. Cas has always been intense, starting at sixty and never bothering with zero, but the way his face goes slack and intimate and warm is so nice that Dean wouldn't mind missing the occasional fire and brimstone look he likes so much if this is the alternative.

Cas's fingertips slide along the seams of the fingers of Dean's hand lying back against the leather. He opens his fingers, thinking if Cas wants a sappy first time then who is Dean to stop him, but Cas just keeps tracing lightly up and down the sides of Dean's fingers. It's the most PG thing they've done so far and yet it sends shivers through Dean's entire nervous system, the tiny catches of skin on skin electrifyingly simple. It's the kind of ticklish that isn't ticklish, only lingers prickly on the skin until he rubs his hands, and once Cas starts his third go around carefully following the outline of Dean's hand, Dean reaches up to actually hold on. Their fingers are laced together when Cas leans back down to kiss him.

As Cas works his way back down Dean's neck, Dean floats, weightless in the sensation. He's so hard it hurts, his head keeps bumping the window handle, and his mouth is probably still running, but none of it matters in this state. There's always been a part of him with an ear trained for the door, never fully able to let go with even the best of lays, but Cas is different. (He says that a lot, doesn't he? But it's true.) Dean trusts that Cas will keep them safe, and as much as it makes him sound like a damsel in distress, he does like it. Newsflash, but he likes being taken care of in whatever way he can get it.

"So good," he says unthinkingly to Baby's ceiling, "right there, sweetheart, there you go."

Every touch Cas suggests, Dean follows. He doesn't need angelic strength to make Dean putty in his hands, though it doesn't hurt as Cas sits back on his knees, hefting Dean closer until he's splayed across Cas's lap. Lost in the feeling, Dean almost doesn't even notice. That's all it's about anyway: making it good for Cas. Dean tells himself that when he drapes his arms over Cas's back, when he feels Cas pull back to look him in the eye and realizes his hand is down the back of Dean's boxers, jeans gone somewhere.

"Dean," is all Cas says, but that's all he's ever needed to say, isn't it?

"Yeah, okay, that's..." Dean succumbs like a house of cards when Cas starts pulling on the elastic, which catches on his dick until freed by an excruciatingly good tug. "Cas..."

Dean's free hand slips under Cas's shirt where Cas goes concave towards him. He finds himself being tugged in not through any physical pressure but by sheer magnetic want. They keep getting closer, closer, enough that he can only tilt his head for a sip of air when totally necessary.

When Cas said his name then, though, apparently it was with purpose—or at least, for a more specific reason than usual. 

"Can I," Cas starts again, and the answer is already yes. The feeling of his fingertips slowly but surely skating across the side of Dean's thighs is enough to make Dean's knees wobble against thin air. "I want..."

You've got it, Dean wants to say, some half hysterical parody of an old pop song. Anything you want.

He forgets it all when Cas's fingers redirect, drifting back up to rest barely in or along the cleft of his ass.

"This," Cas tells his chin.

Dean doesn't say anything, just jolts in place, neither into nor away from the touch. His first thought is, dumbly, that it's too bad the good lube in his duffel in Bobby's spare room. The stuff in the glove compartment's fine, but he can't remember how long ago he bought it, and Cas deserves—

"Is that okay?"

Cas's voice, taut and deep, brings him back to Earth in time to watch Cas lower his head without moving any other muscle to press an adamant kiss to Dean's chin.

Dean is good at denying himself what he wants. Hell, he's pretty good at denying Cas—it's kind of the basis of their whole relationship and, apparently, what Cas likes about him—but now that he knows what it's like to say yes to Cas, to himself, he can't convince himself to stop. Dean is good at denying himself. Turns out he's not so good at denying Cas.

"Yeah." The words have barely enough air behind them to get out, but get out they do. "Yeah, that's— Hang on."

It's a near thing, but Dean manages to twist up and around Cas to the glove compartment without falling off the seat. Cheap napkins and loose tapes, waitresses' phone numbers and Sam's spare chargers: he could've sworn there was lube in here somewhere. The shit kind, but it's better than nothing, and he really wants this.

"Dean."

He turns at the hand on his arm to see Cas, fucking glorious with his sex hair and unbuttoned shirt, with a bottle of lube in his hand.

A very familiar bottle.

"I took it from your bag while you were getting your jacket," Cas explains.

"My bag that's... Wait, when I was getting my jacket?"

Cas shrugs. Whatever he's about to say—if he even is about to say anything—is quickly usurped by the kiss Dean plants on him.

"That's so hot," he mutters as he manhandles Cas back onto the leather. Cas laughs in a quick burst between kisses, though whether it's at what Dean said or the fact that he can't seem to get a handle on the bottle between their bodies is anybody's guess. "Kinda feel like I should be offended you assumed I'd be such an easy lay, but I'll take the win, you know?"

"Not so much assumed as hoped," Cas admits. He has on the same little smile he did when they left the house.

Dean still fully has his dick out, but he ducks in to kiss Cas's cheek with a laugh anyway. It's a little weird, something so chaste in the middle of debauchery, but it's nice. Dean doesn't have a lot of nice in his life these days.

Their mouths drift toward each other like magnets, falling into a deep kiss, tongues and fully open mouths. A part of Dean wants to protest at the grossness, but it's quickly drowned out by the white hot feeling of Cas's hand, finally, around him, and nothing else exists.

Time slips sideways. One second the click of the bottle uncapping is ringing in Dean's ears like a gunshot and the next there are a combined three fingers in his ass, one of which is Cas's while the man in question gnaws at his chin. The rest of their clothes are gone and they're horizontal somehow, Dean spread over Cas like a sweaty blanket. The air in the car is thick enough to choke on, but Dean takes in lungfuls to stave off the imminent pulse of his own orgasm, the tiniest temperature difference enough to distract from the hot breath and hands on his skin.

Cas's finger twists at just the right angle to make Dean twitch against him, jolting a moan out of him that gets lost in Cas's shirt. God, Cas is still wearing his shirt, which should not be as hot as it is: and yet the sight of some is even better than all. Dean presses into the buttons cutting against his cheek and feels the cotton grow damp from his breath as Cas twists home again, replacing Dean's fingers completely with two of his own.

"Beautiful," he whispers into the hair over Dean's ear. "You feel... There aren't words."

"Then quit talking," Dean says before sealing their mouths together again.

This is the part Dean is good at: the shutting up and getting down and dirty. Not to brag, but he's really good at this. Sex, but specifically taking care of other people. He doesn't get off 'til they do, and all that, which goes doubly for Cas giving up his Earthly virtue alongside his Heavenly one. Dude's not losing his virginity to just anyone, no sir. Dean is dedicated to making this good enough that Cas doesn't regret throwing himself on Lucifer's sword alongside the rest of them tomorrow.

The problem is, Cas's idea of a good time seems to involve a hell of a lot of everything but fucking: it's all talking and touching with this guy, which happens to be the one thing Dean craves most, and so the one thing he can't afford to indulge in tonight. Cas is... Shit, he's gentle, and earnest, and all focused on Dean. It's very counterproductive.

This time, when Cas leans back—presumably to talk, again—Dean chases him, tracing the back of Cas's teeth with his tongue as Cas's fingers slip out of him. He gets a hand between them where Cas is hot and huge without the visual, the feeling of his dick in Dean's hand all-consuming. Larger than life. Unavoidably real.

As Cas arches into the touch, Dean reminds himself that this is about Cas, what Cas wants, what Cas needs, and so he retreats to teasing touches, perched on Cas's thighs.

(It might be a little self serving with how fucking incredible the sight of Cas spread out beneath him is, but Dean's never claimed to be a saint.)

"You just sit back, alright?" Dean makes sure his hand trailing down Cas's chest is as tantalizing as possible. He undoes the last few buttons of Cas's shirt when he reaches them, slow and steady, with Cas's wide eyes only on him. "And I'll... Let me give you what you want."

Cas nods and Dean gets to work. It's quiet. Now that he thinks about it, it's been quiet most of the time they've been out here but he didn't notice 'til now, which is kind of funny. Most of the time he hates silence, but that's not what this is. It's a conversation, in their eyes and in their hands.

Hi, Dean says as he picks one of Cas's hands off his hips and unbuttons his cuffs. Mind if I just?

Hello, Cas says back in his eyes and his willingness. Of course not.

Dean's reminded of that weekend in Maine, the last time they did this doomsday thing, when Cas let Dean fix his tie, mess with his clothes. Cas just lets him move him around like he couldn't pin Dean with a single pinkie. Cas lets his other arm be lifted, lets Dean slide his hands up Cas's sleeves to where he's warm in the crooks of his elbows. Lets Dean bring his clean hand to his mouth until Cas is pushing forward too, taking what he wants the way Dean's been begging for even as he was getting it.

Set free, Cas's hands return to their wandering of Dean's body, but slowly now, as if savoring it. Dean bends to kiss him again and they drift to palm his ass, half of his ribcage. It's easier like this to open himself the rest of the way, especially with Cas occupied elsewhere. It's easier in general. Almost too easy.

As he sinks down, Dean realizes then that he's never had sex with someone he already knew this well. The few times the two have ever overlapped—Cassie, Lee, even Lisa—it's always been sex first and ask questions later. It's actually hard to tell how well he knows Cas: sometimes he feels like he barely knows what Cas is, let alone who, and then two minutes later the guy looks at him and it's like looking in a mirror. But no matter what, Cas is important to him, and not even just when they're saving the world together. He likes Cas. He thinks he's... well, not cool, no one would argue that, although that light show he put on when they met was pretty badass. No, he's weird, and dorky, and he doesn't get any of Dean's jokes, and he's hot and loyal and somehow likes Dean, told Heaven to go fuck itself for him, shredded God's plan, and Dean probably could fall in love with him.

That last traitorous thought flits through his mind before he can catch it, distracted by the press of Cas's fingerprints on his hips, and smacks him upside the head. His timing is insane: way to realize you have severe feelings for a guy the exact same second his dick gets in you, Winchester.

He comes back to the present at Cas's groan, a low sound that is too full to be swallowed by the leather seats. It's an incredibly human sound, which is equal parts reassuring and concerning. Either way, it spurs Dean on, past the stretch, past the awkward bend of his neck to keep from hitting the roof as he gets up on his knees, chasing the sound again and again until it's replaced by a broken moan of, "Dean."

"Uh huh."

They're both so worked up already, Dean knows this isn't gonna take long, but he's still committed to making it as good as he can, so he takes one of Cas's hands off the blooming bruise on his hip and pins it to the seat, lacing their fingers together the way Cas wanted to earlier. Or maybe the way Dean wanted to. It's a bit of a blur.

The new angle gives Cas the room to buck up, throwing off Dean's careful rhythm and all the better for it. Dean's spare hand flies up to the roof where it gives him the leverage he needs to push himself down on Cas's cock. Or maybe it's up. Directions are meaningless at this point; he's left Earth's gravity and is trapped solely in Cas's. He has to keep his eyes on the foggy window or familiar beige ceiling to avoid fully losing it. Every touch is a gravity well, sucking him in: Cas's thighs meeting the back of his, Cas's other hand on his cheek, fingers brushing his suddenly sensitive earlobe, before dragging down the front of his throat with equal reverence.

When Cas loses even his own haphazard rhythm, Dean looks back down. His hair is everywhere, head thrown back as far as it can be against the seat, and his eyes are locked already on Dean's.

His first thought is to say something stupid like Hey or one of the usual witty rejoinders he's got saved up for times he catches Cas staring at him. His second thought is worse, an echo of the last real thing Cas said to him, but it's true. Cas is beautiful like this and Dean is struck totally stupid by it.

"Dean," Cas says again, and he realizes that he's stopped moving, literally dumbstruck like the dumbass he is. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm—" He ducks back down to kiss Cas again, who rears up on one elbow to meet him. "Are you?"

"I would be better if you moved again."

An awkward laugh jerks itself from Dean's throat and he does just that, rocking back against Cas's legs. He remembers to feel again: the fullness, the heat, the slip of sweat and lube. It's good—better than it has any right being with the four thousand year old virgin, but Dean's accepted by now that Cas is perpetually full of surprises.

Another jolt from below and his hand slips sweatily out of Cas's and down his arm, landing against the warm plane of his chest. It frees Cas to grab Dean's thigh with just enough force to see the white outline of his every finger, an inverse of the mark on Dean's shoulder.

It hits him then that he's really having sex with an angel. He'd thought about that night with Anna in those terms, but it has nothing on this: this is screwing around with cosmic forces, holy fuck, the whole nine. This is playing with holy fire matches, grace flickering at the edges of Cas's eyelids when he shuts them at Dean's touch.

Some sound must come out of him because Cas is suddenly rearing up, hands tight on the small of Dean's back as he sits them both up, face to face, mouth to mouth. He's counting the back of Dean's teeth even while driving up into him, leaving Dean scrambling to keep up.

Then Cas's hand aligns with the print on Dean's shoulder and everything goes white.

It's like nothing Dean has ever felt before. They snap together on a cosmic level, atom fitting to atom, meshing perfectly into one being, one consciousness, whatever. Briefly, he thinks it might be like what Cas pulling him out of Hell felt like before forgetting again. Cas's arousal sits alongside his own like a living thing, twin desires pulsing in tandem, something raw skin pink he recognizes as his own and a blinding red-white flame that can only be Cas. Dean can't quite explain it; it's both physical like he could reach out and grab it and still so much more, every sense at once. Dean's is centered deep in his core, the same place he feels it physically, but Cas's is everywhere, filling every cell: in his head like a haze of smoke, in his hands like a twitch, in his stomach like a hunger. Dean is having an out of body experience; Dean had never been more in tune with his own body. He tastes stars.

A bolt of something shoots through them. If Dean was capable of separating himself from whatever this is, he'd say it didn't come from him, but it does, it is, it's like an electric current in a flooded basement, coming from and going to everywhere all at once. In the material realm, someone gasps. Someone bangs their head on the roof and someone's teeth latch onto someone's neck.

"Shit," someone says. Is it Dean? "Holy shit, Cas, that—"

"Sorry," Cas pants against his lips. His hand is back on Dean's hip, about a good foot and a half from where Dean really needs it right now. "That was an accident."

"Hell of an accident." Dean fights to get his arm on the other side of Cas's to grab his hand and put it back, please, now. "Dude, that— Do it again."

"I don't know if I should," Cas says, still fucking him with the steady concentration one might expect of a heavenly soldier. "Melting your retinas with my true form might 'ruin the mood.'"

"That's—" Dean's head catches up to his ears and he laughs, maybe hysterically. "I think the mood's pretty solid, man. No worries there."

"Well..."

Cas's fingers skirt back up to his shoulder, tingling against the palm of the scar as they inch closer and closer to a perfect fit. Dean's no more ready for it now than he was before he knew what could be coming, but he wants it, craves that impossible intimacy, and then Cas gives it to him completely in a wave of awareness.

He falls deep into it. It's like a sensory deprivation tank with the absolute opposite effect. He's drifting in utter feeling, that of hands and lips but of desire and bliss too. Intimacy. Sensitivity. Concepts as sounds as physical touch. It's everything everywhere, on every level.

"Dean," comes a whisper in someone's ear, accompanied by some glowing sense, green bathwater warm and sparking gold. "Careful. Don't get lost."

It takes him a moment: Dean, which is him; careful, which is important.

Dean remembers himself enough to twitch, Cas's hand slipping off just enough for him to breathe deep. "Okay, okay, I'm gonna—"

It's a losing battle at this point, but if Dean's gonna come now, he's sure as hell gonna make sure Cas is right behind him. He squeezes everywhere, the damp skin of his shoulders, the heat of his dick. Cas's mouth rests over Dean's ear, too close and not close enough, and he shifts to hold Dean effortlessly upright with one hand on the small of his back.

"Can I touch you?"

"Really?" Dean has the wherewithal to lean back so Cas can see his raised eyebrow. He can count the pores on his face. "The hell have you been doing this whole time then?"

Cas leans forward and bites his bottom lip. "Don't do that."

His fingers skim over Dean's chest, always too far from where Dean really needs him but edging ever further into the slick territory between their bodies. Dean is considering goading him when Cas hefts him closer and the new angle makes Dean groan into his shoulder.

"Dean."

"Yeah, yeah, I just—"

He manages to catch Cas's hand and guide it to his dick, both squeezing out of relief and awe respectively. That's basically the end of that: Cas's mouth over his ear again, a constant stream of impossible adjectives and encouragements, and his strong fingers around Dean's dick, and that's it, game over.

The first thing Dean feels when he comes back to Earth is Cas's hand in the center of his back.

It's a nice hand, solid and careful. The hand that raised him from whatever. He counts one, two, three-four-five desk job soft fingerprints along his spine and ribs like the cables of a suspension bridge. The hand holds him up. It's a nice hand.

Other sensations come in one by one: Cas's legs under Dean's, his dick still incredibly hard in Dean's ass. He feels cold condensation under his palm where it's fallen to the window behind Cas. Cas is still breathing in his ear things that might be words (though not in any language Dean knows) but otherwise totally still. He's still hard, though. Like... very hard. Dean can feel the entire length of him pulse, and any other time he would be very interested in seeing where that could go, but they're on a deadline, tonight, and so.

"Okay," Dean breathes mostly to himself. Cas kisses his cheek and he takes his hand off the window to lay it on Cas's shoulder blade, grinning at the rough inhale he gets from Cas with the chill. "Alright, asshole, let's do this. C'mere."

Slipping his tongue into Cas's mouth, it only takes Dean a second's more urging to get Cas to start moving again. Their hips connect again and again and Cas's hand slips back up to the mark on Dean's shoulder, but the connection is less intense this time: almost hesitant, like he's holding back, all polite. On one hand, Dean doesn't want him to, both because that level of feeling is addicting and, somehow more importantly, he doesn't want Cas to feel like he has to restrain himself here. On the other—Dean shivers as a wave of alien want laps at the edge of his consciousness—any more right now might melt his brain, if not his entire corporeal form.

He's still grounded enough this time to feel simultaneously the press of Cas's whatever soul thing against his and the press of his dick inside Dean. Goosebumps erupt across his arms. He gets his mouth along Cas's jaw and just holds on, and there's something so good about it, about how Cas toes the line between considerate and intense, that almost makes Dean think he can get it up again already. Instead, he leans their foreheads together and starts to talk.

"There you go," he says, taking in the damp breath Cas lets out as his eyes slip shut again. "Come on, Cas, come on. You've got it. You're good."

"Dean," Cas says one last time, and the bathwater feeling is back just in time for a flash to tear through them like someone dropped a toaster in said bath. "I can't— Cover your eyes."

"Huh?"

Dean, of course, immediately opens his eyes and gets his answer: the flash—Cas about to come undone—is physical in the bright light flickering out of Cas... somewhere. Dean's brain says it's in his eyes, but that's not quite right, because when he looks, the light is somewhere else, always just out of his perception. Still, it's not hard (he remembers Anna in the barn) to see what Cas is getting at.

"Okay," Dean says, and he doesn't fight it when Cas lets the connection fall with his hand, slipping to the crook of Dean's elbow and holding him there. "You're good. Let go."

Dean doesn't actually cover his eyes, but he does shut them, and just in time too as it soon becomes a moot point. The light is so bright he can see the veins in his eyelids, so bright he almost misses the simultaneous rush of Cas's release inside him and the clench of Cas's arms around him. He almost wishes they were still connected, just to know what it's like: an angel's orgasm. Probably something technicolor. Something that feels like the Earth caving in. It doesn't not feel like that anyway.

It's a solid minute before either of them does more than breathe against each other. Then:

"Dean."

He bursts into laughter. He has no idea why; Cas doesn't say it in a particularly funny way (if anything, he sounds deep and rough and sated, enough to make Dean wonder if it's too soon for round two) and Dean's just remembered they're dying tomorrow. He's still laughing, though.

Cas shuts his eyes. "Why."

"Anyone ever tell you you say my name a lot?"

"I don't know who else would notice, so no." There's laughter in his eyes, though, when Dean leans back, that soothes the absence when Cas slips out of him. "Was that good?"

"Fucking awesome." It's not a lie, though he would've said it anyway. "Full debrief when I can feel my legs again, Jesus."

"Are you alright?"

"I'm great, pal. Aces. How about you?"

"I'm..."

Cas stops, thinking. Dean's too blissed out and too familiar, now, with Cas's particular weirdness to worry about it and instead takes stock of himself. Weirdly, nothing feels different. The rare times Dean's fooled around with guys have always left him stumbling out of their arms as soon as possible, and if he'd had to guess, he'd have thought it would be twenty times worse with someone he actually knew, but it's not. At most, he's a little sore and kind of thirsty. Otherwise...

"I don't know," Cas finally answers. His palm presses against the small of Dean's back absentmindedly and the soreness vanishes, so simply Dean's not sure Cas even knows he's doing it. "Is it normal to not want to let go of the other person?"

Dean tries not to feel too pleased before giving up, preening externally as well as internally. "S'probably endorphins, but I'll take it as a compliment."

"Alright."

He sounds adorably dopey for someone who five minutes ago had to cover Dean's eyes while fucking brains out lest he go blind. Dean bites down another smile and pats his face jokingly until Cas nuzzles into it. "Here, watch this."

It's too easy to maneuver them both until Cas is laid out against the bench again, Dean draped over him like a blanket. It's definitely for Cas's benefit, and nothing to do with how nice his hair feels under Dean's hands or his arms feel haltingly folded over Dean's back. Although, it is nice to not have to worry about suffocating the guy.

"Endorphins," Cas says with a hint of detached wonder. "Humanity makes some points."

Dean snorts against his neck, dissolving back into real laughter when Cas flinches away from the feeling reflexively. Endorphins is right; he feels like he would float away right now, if not for Cas's arms around him. Angelkind makes some points too, though, as Cas pulls him closer and the sweat and cum gluing them together disappears. Is that the healing thing too? God's got a weird definition, if this is included. Heh. Sexual healing.

Endorphins is right.

He suddenly wants to see Cas like this in a real bed. Would he still be clinging to Dean like his own personal blanket, or would he spread out bare against the sheets? Dude doesn't look much like an angel from the outside, but that... They'd have to live to find out, Dean thinks, and realizes something else.

"Hey. Cas." He pokes Cas's chest, ignoring the displeased grumble he gets in return. "You know that list includes you too, right?"

Cas's head tilts, knocking lightly against Dean's before he twists to look him in the eye. "What list?"

"The, uh, thing you said about tomorrow?" Dean digs his nose into Cas's cheek to keep himself out of sight.

There's a moment long enough for doubt to creep in before he says, "Oh. My vow?"

"Your—" This time Dean's the one trying to look at him, which is much easier. "What, are we angel married now? Give a guy some warning."

Cas smiles, the tiniest laugh escaping his mouth as his palm settles over the back of Dean's neck. "No, Dean. Not that kind of vow."

"Alright." He settles back down against Cas's shoulder. "Good. Cuz that might be a little too far for a first date, even for me."

As soon as his words catch up to him, he rushes out of one awkward truth straight into the arms of another, saying, "Just, when you said you'll do whatever to make sure everyone..." Dean neatly elides the adjective, "gets out alive tomorrow. Y'know. That includes you."

Cas blinks and blinks; Dean does not lean into the feeling of eyelashes brushing his cheek. "I see."

"So don't do anything stupid."

He might be imagining it, but for a split second Dean thinks he feels the arms around him tighten.

"The entire plan is stupid," Cas says, diplomatic as ever, "but I'll endeavor not to put myself in any unnecessary danger."

Dean knows as well as Cas that they both have a skewed sense of "necessary" risk when it comes to their own life, but he appreciates Cas saying it anyway. They're really not that different, when it comes down to it. Loyal, desperate to please a dad who checked out years ago, and perpetually ready to fall on whatever sword is closest. Probably the best Dean can hope for is their self-sacrificial tendencies canceling each other out more often than they exacerbate each other.

He didn't know he was missing it 'til he had it: someone who gets him, not one of the million faces he puts on daily, and stays. He settles back down against Cas's chest, listening to the heart beating under his ear. Tomorrow is gonna suck no matter what. Dean knows he should be terrified, and he is, just not as much as he should be. He wishes he could say it was the endorphins talking, but he knows it's not. It's the heartbeat in his ear, the guy it's attached to, and the words he says. That half thought comes back to haunt him: he could probably love Cas, given the chance.

Dean peels himself off Cas reluctantly, lest the thought run rampant. The chill outside makes itself known for the first time in a while. One of the seals on Baby's windows must be a little loose, because he feels a thin stream of air swirl through the cabin, raising more unpleasant goosebumps across his skin than were there a minute ago. Still, Dean can feel the heat radiating off his own body, and doubly so for Cas, so he sits up and surveys the wreckage of their clothes.

Cas acquiesces with a squint when Dean gestures for him to go first. It's a lot easier to get dressed one at a time, legroom being a precious resource, and Cas seems to get the appeal when it's his turn to sit back and watch. Dean's not too distracted to catch what might be the twitch of Cas's dick under his shapeless suit pants: plausible enough for Dean to wish he'd gone first. He thinks about turning the radio on, but... This is nice too.

Once Dean has his shirt on, flannel collar soft and worn against his neck, he shoves his feet back in his boots and opens the door without a word.

Cas takes the cue quickly enough, doing the same and stepping back out into the night, but before he follows, Dean's eye skips to the front seat again, where their coats are still slowly sliding to the floor in a tangle. On a whim he grabs the nearest bit of leather and throws himself from the car before he can overthink it.

When Dean hands Cas his own jacket, Cas doesn't say anything about not needing the warmth. He doesn't stare blankly at it. He just takes the jacket and puts it on over his stark white button down.

Fist around the other treasure from the front seat, Dean waits until the leather is settled on Cas's shoulders before saying, "Dropped this too."

The amulet falls easily around Cas's neck, landing with a hollow thud against his chest. Cas's eyes take a second to unlock from Dean's and actually see what it is, but when he does, they widen just enough to be noticeable.

"Oh." Its cord is caught on one unused button but neither of them goes to fix it.

"Take care of that," Dean says with a decisive point. He doesn't point out what it means that he's trusting Cas with such a big responsibility, lest Cas realizes how equally big it is that Dean put it on him. God, he watched Grease too many times as a kid, huh—he basically gave Cas his jacket and pin, what the fuck.

Oblivious to all this, Cas reaches up to wrap one hand around the charm, like it's something sacred. Technically it is, but Cas isn't looking at the amulet like it's a direct line to God. He's looking at Dean. "I will."

Dean nods once, jerky, and hops up on Baby's hood. Her metal is cool comfort beneath his thighs, the exact opposite of Cas's thigh against his when he joins them.

They stare at the stars for a moment. November in South Dakota fucking sucks, but out here in the sticks, on a cloudless night, it's really something. Hundreds of stars—Sam used to try to count as a kid—spread out like a map to something no human could ever understand. Maybe Cas could, Dean amends. Cas is probably older than every star added up.

Dean glances over at Cas, staring up at the stars with quiet contemplation, and looks: really looks, like he never lets himself do. It should be weird, Cas in stereotypical hunter gear, but it isn't. He's still Cas, straight backed and windswept and weirdly intense. Yeah, it's all more sex hair than his usual "just rolled out of an interdimensional tornado" look, and Dean can't look at his face anymore without mentally replaying the exact moment his orgasm shuddered through him, but he's still too Cas to mistake, a little alien dude sitting there in Dean's jacket and staring at the sky like he remembers every second of its creation. Even the amulet hangs oddly like how his tie always does. Even the earring—Dean forgot about that. He looks... right.

As if hearing this, Cas turns his perpetual squint from the stars to Dean's face and Dean thinks, I could get used to that, before realizing he already has. Maybe it's a good thing: getting used to something takes time, the last thing they have. All they have is now. For once, though, and despite the odds, now is pretty good.

For now, Cas's hand turns over in the scant space between them and closes around Dean's, careful but strong. For now, Dean tilts his head onto the unfamiliar surface of his own jacket on someone else's shoulder. The stars don't go anywhere and neither do they. For now.