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He knows what snow is, of course. Hell, he probably understands the thermal interactions required to create the clouds that produce snow (Dean dimly remembers learning about clouds in a high school class, but the only thing he’s retained is that actually, seriously, no fucking joke, the official name for storm clouds is “cumulonimbus”). Castiel is, as he’s so fond of mentioning, an angel of the Lord. He knows what snow is—but watching the childlike wonder on his face, Dean is suddenly as sure as he has ever been of anything that Cas has never actually seen it falling close up, like this, with human eyes. Has never watched giant, fluffy flakes tumble down to blanket the earth.
It’s a poorly-kept secret between Sam and Dean that Dean loves snow. He’s always loved it, as long as he can remember. It’s one of his first memories, even. Standing in the window at home, in Lawrence. It was Before Sam—Dean was maybe three years old, his small feet planted on the couch, shoes on and all (something he was almost never allowed to do), and his Mom’s arms were wrapped warmly around him from behind, her face pressed up close to his, soft and sweet-smelling. It started as tiny flakes fluttering down out of a slate sky, and Dean had stared upward trying to discern the moment when they separated from the uniform clouds above. Before he knew it the flakes had grown big and were coming down so quickly, in such multitudes, that he got a little dizzy and had to look back down, watch them blanket the browned grass in white so pure it was almost blue. He remembers the wonder reflected in his own face in the frost-encrusted window. Remembers what it felt like to be safe and warm and loved and, even more than that, so distantly, remembers what it felt like for safewarmloved to be the normal state of things. Dean has a dim sense that that might be one of the reasons he loves snow so much, that in some way it’s all tied up in the echo of those feelings, but he doesn’t look too closely at it.
Later, Mom bundled him up in a snowsuit so bulky he waddled and let him go outside with Dad to “help” shovel snow. He stayed outside long past the time she stuck her head out the door and called for him to come back in, Dad grinning easily and telling her to let him stay out, if he wanted. His smiles never came that easy, later. At some point, Dad finished shoveling, or maybe just gave up, and came over to where Dean was still muddling through the six inches of snow with the grim determination of an exhausted climber determined to reach the summit. He reached down and rested a hand—bare and red with the cold—against Dean’s hat, squishing down the pompom at its top, grinning. “I’m gonna teach you something, sport, but you gotta tell Mom it was your idea,” and then Dad, toppling backward into the snow and pulling Dean with him, on top of him. Dad, spreading his arms and legs out wide and moving them back and forth, then standing up carefully to show Dean what they’d made. Dean, in sudden understanding, detaching himself from his father and flinging himself backward, all flailing arms and legs. When Dad pulled him back up, laughing, what was left behind was more of a tiny snow hurricane than an angel. They grinned at each other, Dean loving the crinkles at the corner of his Dad’s eyes that signaled joy.
They trooped back inside, then, snow-encrusted and freezing and laughing, to Mom’s amused exasperation: “John, you’re COVERED! What did you do, roll in it?” And Dean, beaming, throwing his Dad shamelessly under the bus, “We made angels! Daddy showed me angels!” There was cocoa, later, and a hot bath, but Dean lets the memory slide away in favor of right now, in favor of the way the real angel in front of him has reached both hands out to catch some of the snowflakes. Maybe it’s that the wonder in his eyes reminds Dean of the reflection of his own 3-year-old eyes in the window, but he doesn’t have a single snarky thing to say. Doesn’t need to say anything, really, just watches, the corners of his lips quirking up silently.
It’s not a secret that he loves Cas, has loved him maybe from the very beginning. He is used to the many things Cas makes him feel. Dean is used to the suddenness with which the lust sometimes comes upon him. He’s used to the way a simple glance from Cas can wreck him, the way the quirk of an eyebrow can break him open and leave him wanting, the way the soft rumble of his indrawn breath can weaken Dean’s knees and twist a knot of need in his gut. Lust, adoration, affection, frustration, fury, want, need, desperation, a thousand others—they paint familiar landscapes across the quiet spaces inside Dean. This? This is different. It is at once quieter, softer, and impossibly bigger and louder, and maybe it’s a little surprising that after all this time there is still something so new to discover. At first he doesn’t have a word for it, but when he recognizes it as the same thing reflected in his mother’s eyes in that long-ago window, it comes to him. It is tenderness—the desire to nurture, to protect, to cradle close to him the wonder in Castiel’s eyes and keep it safe always. He thinks, a little dreamily, that he could maybe live in this moment forever, watching the angel of the Lord, who is catching snowflakes in his calloused palm with unconcealed delight, and that is when Sam shoves a handful of snow down the back of Dean’s shirt.
It is a marker of how wrapped up in Cas he has been, that Dean actually left his back to Sam for more than ten seconds when there’s snow on the ground. He should know better—does know better. Tenderness has been subsumed by a rush of adrenaline, not to mention the icy trickle happily wending its way down Dean’s spine and into his asscrack. Dean manfully refrains from jumping around and shrieking, instead reaching back to jerk the hem of his undershirt out of his jeans and giving it one hard shake to dislodge what remains of the snow. This is not, after all, his first rodeo. He can hear Sam, lumbering away, making that little snort-laugh sound which indicates that he’s particularly pleased with his latest round of douchebaggery. Dean whirls away from Cas, reaching down to scoop up his own handful of snow, molding it into the perfect projectile with the ease of long practice. He hefts the weight of the snowball in his hand and lets it fly. He doesn’t pull the force, because Sam is goddamn well asking for it, and his aim is as perfect as he knew it would be. The snowball explodes spectacularly upon contact with the back of Sam’s head, plastering his shaggy hair in snow that Dean dearly hopes will end up dripping under his collar, and then it’s on. In seconds, Dean has whipped two more snowballs at Sam, who escapes them by the simple expedient of flinging himself behind a tree.
A heartbeat later, an equally perfect snowball comes flying back at Dean. He was expecting it, waiting for it, and he ducks neatly, adrenaline not allowing him to remember the angel standing five feet behind him until he hears the splat of snow hitting exposed skin. His lips are already losing the battle against tugging themselves upward as he spins around, unable to resist making himself vulnerable to Sam because he’s sure it’s gotta be worth the risk, and he’s right. Sam is as familiar with the mechanics of good snowball construction as Dean is, and this one held together well. For a moment there’s just snow where Cas’s face should be, before intensely blue eyes appear in the midst of it. Dean thinks for half a second he’s going to be able to keep it together, and then Cas’s eyebrows appear, knitted together in confused consternation, and nope, he loses it. Dean laughs so hard he hits his knees, and when Cas clears the rest of his face by scrunching it up, he actually starts wheezing. He can hear Sam behind him, cackling madly, and Cas is looking at them like they have both gone completely around the bend. Dean knows he shouldn’t be laughing, because Castiel so clearly has no fucking clue what a snowball fight is or why the hell anyone would engage in one, and he thinks he might be able to get himself under control until a clump of snow detaches from Cas’s hair and drops onto his forehead, and the angel actually crosses his eyes to look upward at it. That does it. Dean is a goner.
He can’t remember the last time he laughed this hard, hard enough that there are honest-to-God tears in his eyes, and Sam is still losing his shit behind him. Dean bends forward, trying to catch his breath and failing miserably, and he must have forgotten that the angel has proved remarkably adaptive, or at least that vengeance is nowhere near off-limits for the heavenly host, because the snowball that catches him in the top of the head takes him completely by surprise. Dean freezes long enough that he can feel the cold seeping into his scalp and the trickle of melting snow which has somehow gotten into one of his goddamn ears, and then hears a heavy smack and a thud that he instantly understands is Sam getting knocked on his ass by the force and quantity of the snow that Cas has thrown at him. He runs one hand through his hair, knocking the remaining snow away before it gives brainfreeze a whole new meaning, and glances over his shoulder to find that he was wrong. Cas didn’t throw snow at Sam, he made what has to be two or three large branches worth of snow fall directly on his head. Dean snorts, totally without sympathy, and then it occurs to him that he is still right out in the open, directly between Sam and Cas, and that is practically suicidal. With a quick scan of the familiar terrain surrounding the bunker, Dean zeroes in on a bush about ten yards away, jumps back to his feet, and makes for it while Sam is still trying to dig himself out and Cas is appreciating his handiwork.
He makes it just in time, leaping over the bush, tucking, and rolling, just as a projectile whizzes over his head. He has no idea who threw it, but it had to be Cas, because a second later he hears Sam’s outraged voice, clearly directed at the angel.
“Cas, that is cheating!” Dean snorts again at the indignation in his voice, but he can’t fault the observation.
“He’s right, Cas, angel mojo is so not kosher for snowball fights,” Dean allows.
“As I was not given a prior accounting of rules, I cannot be held responsible for any inadvertent breaches of etiquette.” The angel’s voice is grave, and it’s such a juxtaposition against the total ridiculousness of the situation that Dean has to bite his own lip to keep from losing it again. He chances a peek over the top of the bush just in time to see Sam finally wallow his way out of the pile of snow Cas buried him in and whip another snowball at the angel. Dean has to admire his reckless disregard for life and limb, but it doesn’t prevent him from taking the opportunity to nail Sam directly in the chest while he's distracted, then duck back down.
“Are there,” the angel sounds remarkably calm, “any other rules I should be aware of? Traditions? Strictures?” Dean has the absurd urge to do something that would definitely not be giggling, and in his effort to control himself, very nearly takes the bait. He is half a second from standing up to respond, until a snowball whizzes past so close to his head he feels it graze his hair, and he hunkers back down.
“Nope, you seem to be getting the hang of it just fine,” Dean assures him gravely, and Sam pipes up, presumably tucked behind the pile of snow that probably makes a decent fort,
“Can the angel mojo, and it’s pretty much anything goes and every man for himself.”
“At some point,” Castiel says abstractly, “One of you will have to explain to me the purpose behind this ritual,” and it is so entirely, so perfectly Cas that Dean wishes he were close enough to kiss.
“It doesn’t really have a purpose apart from fun,” Sam says, “although I suppose from an anthropological standpoint, it could’ve been a way for young men to develop combat skills without risking real injury. A way to test their strength and ability to strategize,” and it is such a brainiac Sam thing to say, in the midst of a damn snowball fight no less, that Dean takes the risk of popping up long enough to whip a snowball at the shaggy hair he can see peeking out from between the apex of two branches.
It hits its mark beautifully and Dean crows with glee, “Anthropologize that, bitch!”
“That doesn’t even make sense, jerk!” Sam’s right, but Dean will die before he admits it, and he realizes he hasn’t actually thrown a single snowball at Cas—who is still standing out in the open, apparently totally devoid of any sense of self-preservation—and Dean has to remedy this, immediately. Half a second before Dean lets the snowball fly, Cas speaks again, as if he is still puzzling it out.
“In effect, then, it’s about establishing dominance?” There’s a brief twist of something deep in Dean’s gut that he resolutely ignores, because this is a snowball fight, for fuck’s sake, and the snowball leaves his hand before he can think better of it (which, let’s be honest, he probably wouldn’t have done anyway), and the snowball slams into the side of Cas’s head. Sam ignores the hit entirely in favor of responding, because for some reason Dean will never get, Sam not only thinks it makes sense to talk about anthropology during a snowball fight, he probably thinks it’s more fun that way.
“I mean, as much as any kind of combat situation is about that, yeah, I guess.” Sam doesn’t hear what Dean does when Cas speaks next, but then, Sam is not primed for it.
“I understand,” there is a kind of finality to the words that Dean recognizes, and this time the flash of heat inside him is stronger, more certain. He crouches a little more, finds a gap in the bushes through which he can see as Cas reaches up, almost casually, and swipes the melting snow off his face. His head turns toward the bush Dean is crouched behind, and with unerring accuracy his eyes find Dean’s through the mess of branches and dead leaves that should obscure his vision. Dean knows with absolute certainty that he ought to drop the snow in his hands instantly and surrender, but since when has he ever done what he ought?
Taking a deep breath and preparing for what amounts to a kamikaze strike, Dean pops up and (what the hell, if he’s going out he might as well do so in a blaze of glory) hurls the snowball toward Cas with every ounce of force he’s capable of.
It doesn’t even come close, but not because Dean’s aim was off. No, it misses so spectacularly because Castiel is no longer there. Dean knows, even before the hand closes around his bicep and jerks him to his feet, exactly where the angel has gone. The twisting heat low in Dean’s stomach solidifies, and he inhales a sharp breath through his nose.
Sam has not yet caught on to what is happening, but he figures it out in a hurry when the snowball he whipped toward Dean melts in midair, the water pattering harmlessly to the forest floor. His head pokes out from behind his fort, taking in the hand gripped tightly around Dean’s upper arm, the expressions on both of their faces. His eyes roll upward, long-suffering.
“Seriously, you guys? Now?” Dean doesn’t turn his head to look at the angel standing just slightly behind him. Cas’s eyes rest on him, weightier even than his hand. Dean gives Sam half a shrug with his free arm, then, indicating that there’s nothing he can do about it (never mind that he wouldn’t if he could).
A shudder rolls all the way down Dean’s back as Castiel leans in, his breath hot against Dean’s ear, and murmurs, “Get rid of him, or I will.” Dean does not, for a second, disbelieve Cas.
“Uh, yeah, Sam, you probably want to—“
For a guy who’s so smart, Sam can be remarkably dense sometimes.
“Dean, Cas, I love you guys, but there’s a time and a place—“
“Too late,” Cas growls in Dean’s ear, and then Sam is just gone, and Dean blinks stupidly at the place where his brother used to be. He wants to not care, because that growl does things to him, things he still doesn’t have words for, but it is Sam, after all, and he has to make sure.
“Uh. Cas. Where is Sam?”
“Manhattan,” Cas tells him serenely.
“You sent my little brother to New York?”
“Don’t be silly,” Cas says, and suddenly they are in motion, the only contact between them Cas’s hand still tight on Dean’s upper arm, guiding him. It’s an illusion, though, really, because if Dean tries to stop, the guiding hand will become a compelling one, even a dragging one. He learned that lesson the hard way. “Manhattan, Kansas.”
Dean has to fight the urge to laugh, and then goes ahead and does it anyway, because Cas just mojo-ed Sam into bumblefuck Kansas because it was the simplest expedient for getting him out of the way.
“Cas, are you kidding me?” He’s not, though, because after all this time, Cas is still terrible at jokes.
“Not remotely. It is only 140 miles. He can take a bus back, or I will fetch him when I’ve finished with you.” Dean does not mistake the ominous note in Castiel’s voice, and he thinks the fact that what is so clearly a threat can turn his knees to jelly and kick his heartbeat into overdrive is probably kind of fucked up, but what is a little more fucked up in a lifetime of it? He tries, one more time, because for fuck’s sake, what Cas just did was a whole new level.
“Dude. You can’t just zap Sam into the middle of nowhere so you can fu—“ Suddenly Cas’s hand is jerking Dean around, and there is a door at his back, and he is staring straight into blazing blue eyes that promise all sorts of things that probably shouldn’t make Dean (who, let’s face it, was already half hard) swell further.
“Is this really,” Castiel asks, and on the surface his voice is calm, clinically curious at best, but underneath there is a roiling ocean of intensity, “the hill that you would like to die on, at this moment?”
Dean reflects distantly that he maybe shouldn’t have taught Cas that particular colloquialism. He opens his mouth to respond, but then Cas’s body is suddenly there, pressed flush against Dean, trapping him against the door, and Dean doesn’t remember what hill he was about to die on, anyway. Sam? Sam who?
“That,” says Cas, just a hint of satisfaction in his gravelly voice, “is what I thought.”
They are moving again, the door opening, Cas’s hand on his bicep again the only contact between them, and Dean wonders abstractly whether Cas would still be doing this if he didn’t already know what being manhandled did to Dean. He can never quite sort out how much of what happens between them is because Cas knows that Dean wants it, and Cas wants Dean to have what he wants, and how much Cas simply wants. He has to let it go in a moment, because Cas is moving him so fast that he has to focus on the stairs so he doesn’t trip and go ass over teakettle. In actuality, he does not for an instant think that Cas would let him fall, but a man has to have some pride.
Especially when all of it is about to be stripped from him.
Cas lets go of Dean with two remaining stairs to go, pushes him, really, and Dean stumbles and catches himself, turning slowly to face the angel, who has taken the last two steps with slow deliberation. Cas does not stop when he hits the floor, just keeps moving toward Dean, speed suddenly abandoned in favor of slow, prowling intentness. Dean’s breath is coming short and quick, and it’s not from exertion. His cock is straining against his wet jeans, and he notices distantly that the warmth of the bunker’s air against his snow-chilled hands is almost painful. The pain doesn’t diminish the entirely different heat squirming through Dean’s gut and settling in his groin, but then, Dean has never minded a little pain.
He finds himself backing away from Cas without making a conscious decision to do so, because after so many years of putting himself in grave peril, it is really second nature to try to get out of the way of a predator. Even when he knows, deep down, he likes being this kind of prey.
Cas is in no hurry, apparently, tracking Dean with his eyes, moving inexorably forward toward him at exactly the same rate that Dean backs away, shrugging off the soaked trenchcoat as he comes. Dean knows how focused Castiel is when he lets the trenchcoat that he loves so deeply puddle into a heap on the floor, and his heartbeat kicks up another notch or two.
“Snowball fights seem,” Castiel says conversationally, “like a rather pointless way of establishing dominance. Especially,” his eyes darken a little, promise swirling within them, and Dean thinks of the stormclouds outside that are bringing the snow swirling down, and how they all seem to have condensed into Cas’s eyes, “when there are such simpler ways.”
Cumulonimbus, he thinks, and the thought startles him so much he very nearly laughs—and that? That would be a terrible mistake, just now. He manages to tamp down on the urge, to focus back on Castiel, who is not done waxing philosophical.
“Especially,” he says again, and now a slow smile spreads across his face, and Dean’s cock jerks a little, “when we both know that dominance has already been established.”
Dean has the sudden insight that this cat and mouse game, as compelling as he finds it, is not really for him. This part, just this one, is all for Castiel. He wants what comes next, yes, but maybe even more than that, he wants this anticipation. Wants to see the knowledge of what is coming in Dean’s eyes, and the knowledge that he can no more escape it than he can the blizzard blanketing the bunker.
Dean lets him have it (as if he could do anything else). Lets Cas see in his eyes the way the longing and dread are dancing with each other low in his belly. Lets him see what it does to Dean to, for once, be the hunted.
And that is all it takes. The nakedness of the needwantfear in his eyes tips them over some unseen edge, and Cas is in motion again. Dean has only a second to wonder if Cas sent Sam away so this could happen here, right in the middle of the library, where (despite the fact that the bunker is theirs and theirs alone right now), Dean will feel even more exposed. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because Cas is on him, both of his hands now gripping Dean’s biceps with force that is as likely as not to bruise. Dean will never say it, but a secret part of him that he suspects Castiel knows all too well hopes that it does. Cas’s hands bear Dean backward, slamming him into a bookshelf that rattles precariously.
“Careful,” Dean pants, “Sam will set us on fire if we damage the boo—“ Cas’s lips are at Dean’s ear, the predator in the growl never clearer than it is now.
“Dean.” Dean goes silent as if muted, and Cas pauses long enough to run his nose along the side of Dean’s face, inhaling deeply as if mesmerized by the scent of his prey. Then Cas’s lips are back against Dean’s ear, so that he can actually feel them moving against the whorls of flesh. “Shut. Up.” Castiel tells him, unnecessarily, and Dean kind of wishes he was still talking just so he could shut up again. “You answer,” Cas tells him with deceptive gentleness, “when I ask you a direct question. Otherwise, your opinions are not required.”
Dean is of two minds about this. Sort of. It depends on how one defines mind. His mind-mind thinks that is bullshit. His cock thinks it is awesome. Traitor, Dean thinks in its general direction, not for the first time.
He suddenly realizes, for the first time, as he feels a drop of water slide from the tip of Cas’s nose onto his own throat, that he and Cas are both dripping. Melted snow, mostly, and maybe Dean is sweating a little too, because Goddamn this is hot as fuck.
“Now,” Cas says, still up against Dean’s ear, and Dean can hear the smile in his voice, “you have a choice.”
Dean already knows what the choice is, and he hates having to make it, but Cas demands it of him every time.
“Are you going to do as you’re told, or am I going to have to make you?”
The answer changes, depending, and Dean never knows what it’s going to be before it happens. He’s running purely on instinct, now, and apparently sometimes he wants to submit (there was a time he could barely think that word. It doesn’t bother him so much anymore) and sometimes he wants to be forced.
Dean opens his mouth to answer, and nothing comes out. His throat clicks as he swallows past a nonexistent lump. His inability to speak tells both of them what today’s answer is. This time, when Cas smiles against Dean’s ear, he can feel how feral it is. “Oh, good,” he murmurs, and his normally gravelly voice is suddenly deceptively smooth, “I was so hoping that would be your answer.”
The hands are gone from his arms, replaced by one hand, still chilled, gripped tight around the back of Dean’s neck, propelling him forward with suddenness that almost knocks him off his feet—and then they are where Dean always knew they would end up, at the long table that dominates the room, and Cas’s hand on his neck slams him forward, down. Dean’s torso hits the table hard—not hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but close, and as he takes a second to gather himself, Cas is wrestling his jacket and flannel overshirt off of him, discarding them onto the floor. He doesn’t even bother with Dean’s t-shirt, and that in and of itself tells Dean more about the way this is going to go. One of Cas’s hands is back at the nape of his neck, pressing down, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to warn that it could, if Dean tries to rise.
He doesn’t.
There is a sound of sliding fabric, and for a second he thinks that Cas is undoing his pants, but it’s not quite right. Cas releases his neck, his lower body jerking forward to hold Dean against the table, and oh dear God Dean can feel the length of him, hot and hard, through his suit pants and Dean’s jeans, and Dean can feel himself leaking precome inside his boxers.
It’s not an intentional choice, but he realizes he’s about to try to press himself upright in the moment when it’s made impossible, when Cas’s hands come down to grasp each of Dean’s wrists with force that this time, Dean is certain will bruise. The sliding fabric noise is explained seconds later, when Cas brings Dean’s wrists together at the small of his back, crossing them. Before Dean can even wrap his mind around it, the length of the blue tie, wet from melted snow, is twisted around his wrists, once, twice, three times, and tied off.
Dean takes back everything he’s ever said about Cas not being a hunter, because the skill and speed with which he did that is unreal, and Dean is pretty damn sure he didn’t use any angel mojo, either. He tests the strength of the knots unnecessarily, because they’ve done this enough times for him to know that they will hold—and that is all it takes. He goes lax against the table, clenched muscles unbunching all at once, and hears a low hum of satisfaction from Cas behind him.
“Good boy,” Cas says, and there is no describing the twisting combination of pride and shame those words invoke. Yes, he is good, Cas says he is good, but no, because he is nobody’s good boy. His muscles briefly tighten again, fighting it out internally, and for the first time Cas lays a gentle hand on him, soothing, running lightly down his back in reassurance. It is the only reassurance Dean will get, but it is enough. He lets his body loosen again.
He is not done fighting yet, they both know it, but for now there is a moment of peace between them.
Cas takes full advantage of it. His lower half pulls back from Dean, leaving him bent forward across the table. Hands reach around underneath him, and what feels like half a second later, so fast he can’t be sure how it happened, his jeans are pooling around his ankles and the air of the bunker—much warmer than outside, but still cool—is brushing his legs. He feels gooseflesh pebble his skin, and knows it has nothing to do with the air temperature and everything to do with the way Cas’s eyes rest on him, as weighty as a touch.
A second later, a cold hand drags lightly up his thigh until it hits his boxers. Cas takes his time with these, tugging them down, lightly, until they rest around Dean’s thighs, leaving his ass upturned and bare, his cock lightly brushing the cool wood of the tabletop.
The pressure of his jeans around his ankles, his boxers around his thighs, grounds him, reminds him that even if Cas only tied his wrists, he’s restrained in more ways than one. He tries to spread his legs, testing his play, and finds that he has little. His cock leaks a little more at the discovery.
It won’t be long now, he thinks, and as if his thoughts have created reality, he hears the sound of a bottle clicking open behind him.
He should’ve connected the dots before now, but it doesn’t occur to him what the snow-chilled flesh of Castiel’s hands is going to feel like until one slick, freezing finger lightly presses against his hole. Dean makes a sound he will forever insist is not a squeak, and Cas chuckles.
“Cold?” He asks, and the question is so clearly rhetorical that Dean doesn’t even bother to pretend to answer. Then Cas is leaning forward, leaning down, his cock pressed against the side of Dean’s ass through his suit pants, the warm weight of him caging Dean’s body as his lips again slide over Dean’s ear. “And whose fault is that?”
Even if Dean were inclined to respond to that, to insist accurately, if pointlessly, that it had been Sam’s snowball that brought Cas into this, he couldn’t have, because suddenly the finger that has only been pressing lightly at him is buried inside, and it is freezing, and the sensation is at once not nearly enough and much too much. He feels his ass clench around the intruder, and Cas pulls back only long enough for the finger to be joined by another one. The fingers are slick enough (and God knows, Dean has been here often enough) that there is no real pain, but something about the pressure, the fullness, is always a little shocking. Add in the snow-chilled temperature of Cas’s skin and Dean is panting, taking in shallow, desperate little gasps, hips writhing against the table. He presses forward as if to escape the probing fingers, but they follow him, and all he succeeds in doing is rubbing his cock across the varnished surface of the table, leaving a streak of precome (neither the first nor the last) across it. He takes half a second to be grateful that at least Sam’s current research is at the other end of the table, because Sam’s indignance got so squeaky he practically went supersonic the last time one of them left jizz on his notes.
He knows logically that the heat of his body should be warming up Cas’s fingers rapidly, but it doesn’t seem to be happening, and he’s pretty sure that is angel mojo. He opens his mouth to protest, and then Cas’s fingers draw back and thrust forward again, pressing directly against his prostate, and whatever he was about to say is gone, along with all of the useless trivia he’s ever known and maybe even his own name. Instead what emerges is a deep grunt, the kind of sound he knows Castiel loves wringing out of him.
The fingers take up a steady rhythm, fucking Dean forward and back against the table, and Dean knows with a flash of insight that this has less to do with opening him up and more to do with the way the icy length of Cas’s fingers is making him shudder and gasp.
Dean knows, too, what Cas is waiting for, and he tries to bite it back but he loses every damn time, and this time is no different. It might be a minute or ten, but Cas’s fingers are no less icy by the time Dean’s gasps turn into little whimpers, and his whimpers take shape around the words he knows Cas wants to hear.
“C-Cas, please. Please.”
“Please what, Dean?” His voice is so calm, as if he were reading a magazine and not fucking Dean open on his frigid fingers
“You know what, you son of a bitch!”
“You should probably not say that about my Father,” Castiel tells him mildly, “and it doesn’t matter what I know, I will hear you say it or you will not have it.”
Dean makes a sound of such total frustration that Cas actually chuckles. Fucking sadist, Dean thinks, without malice, and then Cas’s fingers jab in a little further, deliberately rubbing a little more firmly against Dean’s prostate, and that’s all it takes.
“Please fuck me.”
Castiel does not require an engraved invitation. At some point, Dean has no idea when, Cas must have managed to get his pants unfastened, because the words have barely escaped Dean’s lips before Cas’s fingers are drawing out and his cock, slick and feeling as if it’s 1000 degrees in comparison to his icy fingers, drives in so fast and hard that he bottoms out. Dean can feel Cas’s groin pressed up against his ass, his hot length spearing him, and he damn near comes right then. With gargantuan effort, he fights it back, because he knows that Cas is going to fuck him whether or not he’s already come, and it will be so much sweeter if he hasn’t yet.
Cas gives him maybe 10 seconds to get used to the width of the cock breaching him, and then he starts to move. He rides Dean fast and hard, punching little grunts out of him with each thrust, and Dean is wriggling, hips writhing, not really trying to get away, but reminding himself that he can’t. The knowledge is so sweet he dares not really think too hard about what it means, just gives in and lets himself feel everything. And then Cas starts to talk, and he knows, he knows the way it absolutely wrecks Dean, and maybe that’s why he does it.
“I wish you could see yourself, bent over the table, ass in the air, taking my cock. Not because I made you, but because you begged for it. I wish you had any idea how pretty you look, how sweet the sounds you’re making are.”
Dean is pretty sure he can’t breathe, that he might actually have a heart attack, the way the rough voice caresses the filth that is pouring out of the mouth of a fucking angel of the Lord.
“You wanted this, didn’t you? Knew it would come to this when you ducked that snowball of Sam’s. Knew you’d end up with my cock in your ass.” It’s not true, actually, but what the fuck does that matter at this point, and Cas isn’t done yet, he’s still going, and it is destroying Dean.
“You ask for it, Dean, not just with your words but in a million other ways. You demand to be taken, to be fucked, to be put in your place. You need it, and Dean?”
Cas pauses, but not because he actually expects an answer. Dean is well beyond words, beyond anything but sensation, and Cas damn well knows it. “I will always give you what you need.”
He punctuates these words with the hardest thrust yet, and that does it. Dean shouts wordlessly, cock pulsing, ass clenching around Cas as he comes so hard he sees stars. He doesn’t have time to feel ridiculous for how fast he got there, because a second later the clench of his ass drags Cas over the precipice with him, emptying him into Dean’s ass.
They remain where they are, panting, letting their breathing slow bit by bit, and Dean stretches his shoulders, working the crimps out, and lifts his hands slightly, offering them up to Cas to be unbound. Cas leans forward, brushes a kiss across the sweaty skin at the back of Dean’s neck, and when Dean feels his smile, he knows what Cas is going to say before he does.
“Ah ah ah,” the angel tells him in smooth admonition, “I’m not done with you yet.”
~*~
Hours later, when Dean is lying naked and panting, fucked out, against Cas’s chest, half insensible with it, he remembers the storm in Castiel’s eyes, how it matches the blizzard outside. He wants to tell Cas about it, make him understand, but he can only produce one disjointed thought, a little slurred with bone-deep satisfaction.
“Cumulonimbus,” He tells Cas. The angel does not bother to ask, leaning down to brush a kiss across the top of Dean’s head with what Dean dimly realizes is tenderness. The rush of safewarmloved he feels is almost unbearable in its sweetness.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Cas tells him fondly, “we can have another snowball fight.”
Oh, God.