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Lisa, in her infinite wisdom and terrible sense of irony, is throwing a party.
Not a party for the kids this one, oh no — the kids are strictly not invited and so Claire and Ben are spending an evening with Mrs. C and Gabe, which sounds like a recipe for either mutiny or knitting.
No, this party is one of those adults-only parties that Dean’s heard so much about since becoming a (responsible) parent, but rarely attended because… well, he’s a (responsible) parent who knows like five adults. None of whom really know how to part-ay.
It’s a themed party too, which is where the charm really lies for Dean. Because Halloween is fun and all, but a mandatory theme at an adults-only party with mandatory, “on-pain-of-revealing-your-deepest-darkest-secrets-Winchester” attendance is where it’s at.
Especially when that theme is gangsters and flappers. It might be Doctor Matt’s birthday milestone, but if Dean plays his cards right with Cas, the birthday boy won’t be the only one getting spanked forty times tonight.
The only problem for Dean is what to wear — does he go in a dress with a sequin fringe, high heels, and a nicely-done smokey eye a la Queen of the Mob Virginia Hill, or does he opt for a pin-striped suit and suspenders? (A la King of the not-Mafia, Castiel Novak).
He hovers in front of both options laid out for him on the California King.
The dress is from a local boutique because Mrs. C doesn’t do things by halves, and the suit is from Cas, because neither does Dean’s husband.
Dean’s already seen what Cas is wearing, and honestly, it’s probably for the best that he’s meeting Dean at the party after he’s done at work, because there’s no way they’d get out the (bedroom) door if he was here right now all suited and booted.
(A Peaky Blinders fetish come to life. Except Cas actually has the moxy and credentials to back it up.)
Fuck.
Dean’s tempted to palm himself in his sweats, whip his dick out, and take the edge off, but just as he’s about to action his magnificent plan, codename: ‘no fucking sexy husband in Lisa’s bathroom’, Mrs. C pokes her head round the bedroom doorframe. She’s halfway through asking Dean if he’s ready to leave because the car is waiting, but trails off when she sees him standing there half-naked, staring studiously at the bed.
“Can’t decide what to wear?” She asks, venturing across the threshold and joining him in contemplating the options. “You would look good in the dress,” she hums thoughtfully ‘cause this is serious business. “But, the suit makes more of a statement.”
“Yeah?” Dean asks, voice a little thick, still in the throes of imagining Cas in his own suit. “What statement is that?”
“That you two are equals.” She pats Dean on the bare shoulder, all motherly and you’re-lucky-you’re-pretty like. “I know you like to think of yourself as his ‘kept-wife’ or ‘queen’ or what have you, but you’re partners and you built what you have now together. You’re not his moll, you’re his husband.”
Dean chews that over for a minute, loosely wondering how many newly acquired gangster points he would forfeit if he burst into tears on his housekeeper’s shoulder.
“Okay,” he says, after a long moment of what he hopes comes across as deep, brooding consideration, rather than an attempt at fighting back the urge to sob like that dude from Dawson’s Creek. “Looks like the decision has been made. Gangster it is.”
***
The party — as the kids would (most definitely not) say — is poppin’.
Credit to Lisa, it’s a good party with plenty of alcohol and no inhibitions. It’s the PTA circle cutting loose and not tearing someone to shreds because their autumn leaves cookies have the wrong-shade-of-red icing. People are laughing, dancing, shrieking (and not with horror at Dean’s baked goods).
It’s fun.
The large house has been converted to a Gatsby-esque mansion and as Dean wanders around with a plastic machine gun over his shoulder — while his husband is caught up at the docks dealing with the real thing — he takes in the sleek Art Deco ambiance.
In the entryway, there are empty frame boards with the word WANTED printed at the bottom, and Dean watches as a dude with a stick-on mustache gets his photo taken in one by his girlfriend. Satisfied she's got the perfect mugshot, she squeals, “Do me, do me!” and hands him the camera. He catches her around the waist before she can get her criminal portrait done, and he kisses her until she melts in his arms.
Aw. It's kind of sweet.
Until it's... not. Things start getting heated pretty quickly, and it's just as the tensile strength of Lisa's Ikea hallway table is about to be put to the test that Dean decides to exit stage right. With haste. Lots and lots of haste.
Needing to get the crooned "I'll do you, all right" bleached from his brain, Dean makes a beeline for the alcohol.
He pushes through the throng of bodies in the living room, winking in any direction he feels an admiring look or touch coming from, and makes it to the kitchen in one piece. Aside from a dude in an ill-fitting felt trilby staring down at his phone, Dean’s alone. He lays the gun down on the nearest available space, knocking into some half-empty plastic champagne glasses (classy classy), and is about to retrieve his own cell from the inside pocket of his double-breasted suit jacket, when someone else enters the kitchen.
Holy fuck.
Dean’s seen his husband in a suit before. That ball they went to, their wedding day… but there’s just something about him right here, right now, in a charcoal pin-striped waistcoat and trousers combo, rolled up broadcloth shirt sleeves, and a black satin necktie that really cranks Dean’s gears.
Really really cranks Dean’s gears.
And the hat — oh, fuck, the hat! The black fedora that makes his eyes look extra blue and the grayscale in his visible tattoos extra black.
The whole ensemble fits him so well that it’s obviously tailored. Dean had imagined how good it would look on Cas when he was shown the outfit this morning, but his imagination has nothing — not a goddamn thing — on the reality.
However, there is one key piece of the costume missing and so Dean manages to croak out an extra dry-’cause-he’s-extra-thirsty: “Where’s your suit jacket?”
Cas tsks, annoyed. “I got blood on it.”
The other guy in the room, the one Dean had completely forgotten about for obvious reasons, snorts a laugh. “Good one, dude,” he says with a wide grin. “Really rolling with the gangster theme, huh?”
Cas’ eyes catch and hold Dean’s. His lips twitch against a smile. “Something like that,” he says. To Dean, he adds, “You look good.”
“Yeah?” Dean barely resists doing a little twirl to show off. “You think the gangster look is for me?”
Cas closes the gap between them, advancing on Dean until they’re breathing the same air and Dean can feel the heat from his body. “I do,” he murmurs, bringing his hand up to Dean’s neck and pulling him into a kiss, slow and thorough. At least, that’s how it starts, because it quickly devolves into Cas holding him in place, and aggressively staking his claim on Dean with wet, open-mouthed kisses, and a thick thigh wedged between Dean’s.
Desire shoots through Dean, white-hot and insistent, and he’s just about to go for the buttons on Cas’ pants, when his husband pulls away, dark-eyed and pink-mouthed. Dean clutches at his back, trying to bring them closer together again, but Cas does his little arrogant smirk and Dean hates him. Hates the fucking tease. “I guess you look okay, too,” Dean reluctantly admits, voice hoarse.
Sometime between Cas tongue-fucking Dean against Lisa’s kitchen cabinets and now, the other dude has scarpered, leaving Cas to freely molest Dean as he talks, running his palms over the suspenders. “Our shipment was intercepted,” he tells Dean, straightening his own blue tie around Dean’s neck. “There are eight bodies at the warehouse, and I need your help getting information out of the only one still breathing before he dies.” His hands glide down the ladder of Dean's spine and underneath the waistband of Dean’s borrowed pants.
Dean wants to set up camp in the expression on Cas’ face when his fingertips find lace.
“So, we have to leave right now?” Dean asks, pretending not to notice how Cas has gone completely still. “What a shame.” He glances over Cas’ broad shoulder into the living room where people are dancing to a remix of Bang Bang by Nancy Sinatra. Some of them are waving plastic guns in the air, shooting in time with the hyped-up chorus, and Dean sighs dramatically. “There were so many things Lisa had planned,” he sticks his bottom lip out in a pout, feigning forlornness at the prospect of missing a game of Mafia. Though, admittedly, it would’ve been fun to be one of the Mafiosi so he could metaphorically murder Lynn Harper for being such a buttface at the under-the-sea fundraiser.
“Why—” Cas starts, and it’s a false one, so he clears his throat, and tries again. Fingers digging into the meat of Dean’s ass, he says, “Why are you wearing panties?”
“Why not?” Dean counters. “Probably not very historically accurate, but neither is this,” he reaches blindly out to the side for the fake submachine gun.
“Mm,” Cas says, and Dean’s pulse jumps as if tethered to the rumble in his husband’s vocal cords. “Technically, the Thompson submachine gun was invented in the early twenties while women were still wearing underwear that required ironing. I think lingerie didn’t exist in its current form—” Cas twists his forefinger in the lace, dragging the scratchy fabric across Dean’s skin. “ —Until the seventies.”
“The more you know,” Dean manages around the tightness in his throat, getting played at his own stupid sexy game.
“They’re anachronistic,” Cas murmurs, eyes dark and focused on Dean. “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to remove them.”
“This before or after I’m due to torture some poor schmuck to death?”
“Oh, we have to take care of it immediately.”
***
Dean would be lying if he said that he didn’t imagine himself in this exact position in his little Peaky Blinders fantasy — bent over Lisa’s tiny downstairs bathroom sink as Cas pounds into him from behind. Outside, the music has changed to something fast and rap-like, so it’s got a good beat for Cas to metronome his dead-aim thrusts to.
Cas tightens his fist in Dean’s hair. His other hand, tangled in the broken strings of lace, yanks the man-made hole in the panties wider — with a satisfyingly loud rip in the muted-music, breathy quiet — so he can get his cock deeper.
Dean moans as Cas’ hips smack against the already-pinkened skin of his exposed ass.
The now-wrecked panties were a compromise; a little nod to Dean’s moll tendencies beneath the suit he wears to match up to Cas, but with the way his suit trousers are trapped around the outward curve of his knees, preventing him from really whoring it up for Cas like he wants to, he wishes he’d worn the fucking dress. Easy access.
It’s not slowing Cas down though. He jerks Dean’s head back, exposing the line of his throat, the dip of his collarbone. Bowing forward, touching his clothed chest to Dean’s naked back, Cas pants in Dean’s ear, whispers, “Fuck, fuck,” as he does just that, still fully dressed, his trousers and boxer briefs shoved down just far enough to get his cock out. It’s hot, so fucking hot that Cas is still fully clothed — can’t even bear to not be inside Dean for the time it would take to get undressed.
The soft, expensive material of Cas’s pants is a stark contrast to the hard, stinging slap of skin on skin, the scratch of lace, and it has Dean struggling to form a coherent thought. Gripping the rim of the sink with white knuckles, Dean grunts his way through each violent thrust of Cas’ hips, fighting the urge to come. His dick — trapped close to his skin by the confines of the panties — smears precome over his stomach, and he manages to choke out an approximation of his husband’s name.
Releasing the destroyed panties in favor of mauling bruises over his name in Dean’s skin, Cas grinds in slow and deep, fucking Dean exactly how he needs to be able to come without a hand on him, every soul-deep drive of Cas’ cock lighting him up from the inside. His whole body shudders and his eyes slip shut. “Please, Cas, c’mon.”
Too gone to tease this out like he normally does, Cas drags him back sharply and Dean has nowhere to go, no choice but to take his husband as deep as he can shove himself in. The hand in Dean’s hair slips down and around to his throat, squeezing his windpipe, and Dean swallows hard while he still can, orgasm rushing up on him like a freight train as Cas screws himself inside Dean’s body, fucking all sense and articulacy out of him, reducing him to whimpers and wordless sounds.
“You know,” Cas growls into Dean’s neck as his thrusts begin to lose their rhythm. “You know what you do to me, don’t you?”
Oh, fuck.
Dean’s thigh muscles are quivering, and he’s barely able to remain standing as he comes with a muffled shout, spilling against his stomach and Lisa’s nice clean porcelain sink. Cas is right behind him, groaning deep from his chest and burying himself as deep as he can in Dean’s ass, balls flush against Dean’s perineum. He comes for what feels like ages, pinning Dean in place, and Dean reaches back to grab a fistful of Cas’ hair — his hat long since knocked to the floor — and while the angle is awkward and doesn’t allow them to truly kiss, it’s not like Dean is capable of much more than breathing into Cas’ mouth with hiccuping gasps anyways.
“D’you reckon that dude will have died yet?” Dean asks after a long moment, once he’s no longer at immediate risk of going into cardiac arrest. Cas slips out of him on the tacky slide of lube and come, and Dean grimaces. He might not have thought this plan through beyond the ‘getting fucked’ part.
“If he has, then I’m sure we can find someone else for you to torture the information out of,” Cas says, tucking himself back in and rebuttoning his pants. Then he reaches down for Dean’s pants and draws them up his thighs. “Turn around,” he orders, and Dean obeys — too fucked out to argue or put up any sort of resistance to being redressed like a child.
Cas tucks Dean’s shirt back into his buttoned pants, the backs of his fingers coming into contact with sticky lace. Dean grins and curves his hand around the nape of Cas’ neck. “You’re so good to me, baby. Givin’ me a good seein’ to and making sure I have enough people to torture.” Cas slides the suspenders back up Dean’s arms, fussing them back into place on Dean’s shoulders. “It’s pretty good this, being an actual gangster.”
“Mm,” Cas says, apparently satisfied that Dean can now pass for someone who doesn’t look freshly fucked. He spreads his hands out on Dean’s lower back, the tips of a few of his fingers slipping down beneath the waist of his pants and right into the danger zone all over again. Which really doesn’t help with the whole not looking freshly fucked thing. They kiss slow and deep, with warm moans and heads tipped in opposite directions. It’s a lover’s kiss and it leaves Dean weak in the knees all over again.
When they break apart, Cas presses his forehead against Dean’s, and, putting his recently (reluctantly) acquired Goodfellas knowledge to use, he quotes, “‘Better than being President of the United States’.”
“More fun, too,” Dean adds. “Plus, I guarantee that I look way better in sexy lingerie than any of the first ladies.”
“... Or presidents.”