heavenonearth | (no subject)

(no subject)

[ getting to know sam winchester has been a pleasure.

he's young, but he's smart, and more than that he is engaging, and that is something that too many full-time, serious students sorely lack. castiel doesn't consider himself particularly entertaining, blames his lack of friends on it rather than his own introverted tendencies, but the point remains that his peers can be so terribly boring that it's all but mind numbing to spend time around them. research labs are enough to make him want to suck his own brains out with a straw, sometimes, and that's saying something, considering his threshold for entertainment is really rather low. and there are some of them who aren't so bad, really, but it isn't like the movies make it seem, that's for sure.

still, castiel is a graduate student. he's quiet and serious, so climbing the social ladder isn't terribly important to him, but even still, sam winchester is a breath of fresh air, smart and clever and funny, with a winning smile and an incredibly active mind. interacting with him is a privilege.

it had started as a tutoring job. sam had asked for a little help understanding his physics course, and someone had directed him to castiel, who had graciously, if uncertainly, agreed to do it. he doesn't fancy himself a teacher, and he certainly didn't think he'd be very good at it, though after a stiff and uncomfortable start, sam had begun to warm to him, and castiel found that he was glad of it. he'd worried that the gap in age might have been a deterrent, but sam is friendly and more mature than any undergrad he's ever known, and they get along well, swimmingly even now that castiel has begun to open to him more, unfolding himself bit by bit as their friendship develops into something more comfortable, something less about classes and more about simply spending time with one another.

they study together twice a week, on fridays and tuesdays. sam doesn't need much help with physics anymore, so castiel brings his own books and notes, works on whatever it is that he's writing or researching while sam buries himself in biology or organic chemistry. it's nice.

it's friday today, when castiel arrives at the little house sam rents off campus, and he tightens his overcoat against the brisk spring breeze as he moves quickly down the block; it's not far from the campus, so castiel always walks. he's rounding the corner when he feels his ~~shitty ancient~~ phone buzz in his pocket, and finds on it a quick message from sam: Picking up pizza, hope you like extra cheese. The garage door is unlocked, go ahead in, I'll be back soon. once castiel arrives, he finds the tiny one-car garage not only unlocked, but flung open wide, filled up by a broad but sleek black classic car that castiel doesn't recognize, loud music blaring from an old, dented radio resting on the workbench. the hood is up, but castiel can't see anything past it, can't see anyone until he's stepping inside the garage itself, dark brows drawn tight, his mouth a moue of disapproval. someone is bent over the engine, obscured by the raised hood of the car, and castiel is bewildered, confused - sam hadn't mentioned company. he certainly hadn't mentioned noisy company. he clears his throat. ]

Excuse me.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( that's what instincts are for, of course. for giving in and acting without thinking of the repercussions, for every little bit of conscience to be thrown out the window in favor of letting the true nature of desire take hold, bring in that which has been coveted for far too long. dean is far more likely to throw what little bit of a conscience he has in the backseat and forget about it entirely than to weigh his options, pick the best course of action – which means that when those fingers curl into the lapel of his jacket, it's far more than he'd ever thought to expect from this quiet, stoic little nerd, but he can't very well say he isn't pleased by it.

because, if he's honest, he's been wondering what it would take to get him to make a move. do something other than look at him like he has been for the better part of the past month, with eyes so wide that he's almost sure to be swallowed up by them if he chances keeping contact for too long, those longing little gaze that he's pretty sure cas himself doesn't realize he's giving. it's all too much, and too little, and of course he's going to be the one ending up making the first move, because it would be too much like something simple if the other were the one to set things in motion. to get the ball rolling. to do anything at all that would give rise to the tension that's been so slowly building between them.

again, he's never gentle by any means, but the touch of lips to lips is one that almost feels hesitant. at least in the sense of the initial contact, a brush of skin against skin that he nearly immediately seeks to deepen with the light press of his teeth, mouth falling open just enough to get a better taste than he's already gotten. it's a heady thing, to finally have something that he can't deny he's been thinking about off and on for long enough for it to count, like finally leveling out a race that had started off as a jog and has been kicked up to a sprint.

he feels that shiver, of course he does, and he doesn't bother hiding the way his lips curl into a grin, something he ends up accentuating with the slightest flick of his tongue as the other's arms come up, smooth over his shoulders and unconsciously drag him in closer. more like his body acts of its own accord, leaning in and in and in until he's just short of hovering over him, broad shoulders enough to hide the line of view from anyone that might be looking their way from his back. it's almost dizzying, really, to finally have this, even as small as it is – but he's never had qualms about taking what he wants before, and he sure as hell isn't about to start now. )

[ castiel is admittedly timid when it comes to pursuing his own romantic interests, but generally speaking that isn't a problem for him, because, generally speaking, he does not have romantic interests.

but dean has been a problem since the very start. dean, with his endearing freckles and his quicksilver smile and his excessive, maddening flirtations, dean with his strong hands and his kind heart, with his oil stained hands and loud opinions and wildly protective nature. more than anything, he is an inspiration to castiel, a role model, even if he knows he'll never achieve it, that he could never really be anything like dean, that does't stop him from admiring him, for looking up to him, and it certainly doesn't stop him falling for him.

regardless, once that initial hump is over and done with, once he's sure that dean isn't going to run screaming, or shrug him off - well, castiel has no problem pursuing what he wants. maybe it's the beer warm in his system, liquid courage, or maybe it's just that he's been wanting this for so long, but there's nothing timid about the way castiel responds to the kiss, the heat with which he returns it. his grip on the back of dean's jacket tightens, castiel's body shifting closer until they're all but flush, until he can feel the warmth of dean's body bleeding into him.

it's so good. castiel is lost in the feeling, his lips parting easily when dean presses for more, tongue sliding warm and curious against dean's, dipping into his mouth to taste him, a warm sound like a quiet moan rolling between their mouths. both hands loosen from dean's jacket to slide up and into his hair, thumbs gliding under his cheekbones, over his jawline. castiel is no longer thinking about the stars. he isn't dreaming about eta carinae or cygnus, the bright arm of the milky way or the meteors streaking overhead. his entire world is narrowed to leather and whiskey, to the taste of dean winchester in his mouth. ]

( it's a little uncanny, really, when he thinks about how different they are when it comes to pursuing what they want. dean winchester couldn't be timid even if he tried, could never be unsure no matter what sort of signals he might be getting from the focal point of his interest. his ego would never allow for it, and it's usually all he can do to keep the damn thing in check – which, really, doesn't happen very often and frequently results in one of those moments in which he makes himself an insufferable, obnoxious piece of garbage, but he can't very well say that it doesn't get him what he wants in the long run.

dean … knows he's a problem. an issue. knows that others find him attractive – both men and women, the bastard – and he would have been lying to himself and everyone else if he said that he didn't often use it to his advantage, that he didn't flirt just for the sake of doing so, to see where it gets him or how fidgety it can make the target. that charm, while it can be dialed down a bit is never fully off, and around someone like castiel it's been going nearly full force since the moment he'd walked into the garage and made himself a staple presence not only in sam's life, but his own.

it might be the beer in his system that has him pushing forward with his own intentions, but this one has never thought to do anything other than work to get what he wants, and right now, it's directly in front of him. pushing as close as he can get, finding courage with every passing moment and licking into his mouth with a streak of boldness that almost seems out of place – does seem out of place if he really thinks about it, for all he's been the quiet and unassuming little thing he's been expecting up until now. but even as surprising as it is, he likes it, shows as much with the almost-gentle, playful nip to the plush skin of his bottom lip, drinking in the soft sound that slips free as easily as he might have taken a sip from his beer.

it's quickly becoming intoxicating, kissing him, leaning lightly into the touch of hands to his face and along his jaw, the breaths catching and collecting in the back of his throat tasting of want and him, the low purr of his voice nothing but pleased as he pulls away just long enough to let one of those breaths go in a slow exhale, appreciative and just this side of awed. )

Damn.

( yeah, incredibly eloquent there, killer. he leans back in for another slow pull from those lips, easy and smooth and deep, the whole of his attention attuned to the reactions he's getting, the crackle and shimmer of a spark between them, the way every single molecule in their bodies seems perfectly angled toward one another. )

Yep … just like I thought.

[ kissing dean feels like something from a dream, like a fantasy realized, because.. well, he supposes that it is. he's thought about this so many times that it's embarrassing, too many times to count, but it's just as good as he'd hoped. dean is, unsurprisingly, a good kisser - a great kisser, his mouth soft and warm and inviting, and when dean pulls away castiel feels dizzy and confused, his chin tipping forward like he's following after, unable to understand where this good feeling has gone, and more importantly, why.

when his eyes lift up to find dean's, castiel's breath is rushing and his face is warm, his hands still caging in dean's face, thumbs smoothing just beneath his cheekbones. he's too damned good-looking for his own good, even so close, and in all this dimness. castiel is so frustratingly taken with him that he can hardly stand it, that just lying here looking up into his face is distracting, that he'd rather stare into dean's eyes than watch the meteors streaking overhead, or the beautiful swath of stars glittering in the belt of milky way above them.

he's got it so bad. it's a problem. ]

Huh?

[ he says, eloquently, his mind still reeling, his hands dropping from dean's face and down onto his shoulders, leather creaking beneath his fingers as he grasps loosely. ]

What do you mean?

[ because he's absolutely not suggesting that he's.. thought about this before.

is he?

castiel can't even entertain that idea. guys like dean don't think about guys like castiel, and while cas has certainly learned quite a lot about him, and gotten to know him well enough to see that dean isn't at all entirely the way he presents himself, that there's so much more to him than the tough guy playboy exterior. but the fact still stands that dean sleeps around, that he can get any girl that he wants, and castiel isn't.. exactly the desirable type, with his rumpled, ill-fitting clothes and his nose stuffed perpetually into a book. dean likes, you know, busty, flashy girls with short skirts and confidence, castiel isn't exactly, uh, his type. ]

( dean has never had an issue with self-confidence. he knows he's attractive, that he's a good kisser, that he can pick up on what someone likes or doesn't like quickly enough that it makes him more than just a proficient lover. that castiel is so attuned to him would have made all of this even simpler – had he been actually trying to make an impression instead of leaning so heavily on instinct, riding out every little sensation and chasing it down in hopes of more, essentially winging it like he has a habit of doing with every other aspect of his life.

he's never had a penchant for over-thinking things, for letting his thoughts get ahead of him and wait for the rest of his everything to catch up, and now is no exception. except … for maybe the fact that he's already found himself so caught up in the taste of castiel's mouth against his own that there's barely a coherent thought left in his head at all, the difference made between pushing forward and hanging back, taking everything for what it's worth or a slow crawl to an even slower build. and if the tug in the very middle of his chest that comes from the brush of thumbs over his cheekbones is any indication, there's something in him that wants to do right by this.

which means.

he can't let himself get away with anything he would normally pull.

which means –

ah, hell.

such eloquence for someone so intelligent, indeed, and it makes him huff out a small laugh as he pulls back just enough to focus on the confusion in blue eyes. he tries to think of when he'd first noticed how deep a blue they are, deep enough that the cliched phrase you could lose yourself in them is more true than he would care to admit, though he wouldn't ever think to say something like that aloud. ( because those sorts of things just don't cross his mind, he doesn't think like that, because it's something more along the lines of what his brother would come up with.

the sap.

dean rumbles a noncommittal response along the edge of castiel's jaw, tracing over the scratch of stubble with plush, kiss-swollen lips, a murmur over warm skin. he might not necessarily be his type when it comes down to it, but there's always been something about him, something that consistently draws him in and leaves him in awe, for reasons he can't even begin to touch on because he has no idea where they've even taken root.

he doesn't have to be his type. there's already been some intrinsic attraction set in place, something that dean can't even think of ignoring, and being this close, just short of pressing him into the grass with nothing but the weight of his body above him, there's no denying that he's drawn to him. inexplicably. )

What do you think I mean?

[ it's chilly out here, but being pressed so near to dean has warmed him up, their closeness spreading warm, tingling waves over his skin like crawling gooseflesh, and it climbs all up and down his spine, settling in his gut like fingers pulling at his insides.

from the first moment that they met, castiel would be lying to say that dean winchester doesn't have a profound impact on him. sure, he's devastatingly handsome, and sleek and charming and confident, and while all of that had flustered him at first, it's not what had him inevitably falling. in fact, dean had been a little more than frustrating, then, before castiel had really gotten to know him, learned the real meat of his character and the surprising warmth of his heart. nevertheless, it's been all sparks and heat from the get-go, castiel has been attracted to him since he first laid eyes on him - how could anyone not be? - but there's far more to it than that, now, there's something much deeper, a warm squeeze around his heart whenever dean is around, whenever he smiles at castiel in that lopsided way, whenever he's close enough that castiel can catch the leather and oil and spice scent of him.

it would be frightening if he hadn't felt it before - though it is still frightening in some ways, for that very reason. castiel can't deny that dean reminds him very much of meg. they have their differences, of course, but there are similarities enough that he can't escape the implication, nor the way that it makes his heart ache in a way it hasn't for years, in a way he'd thought he'd never know again. though of course that's foolish. meg took with her a part of his heart and soul, left behind a scar that hadn't healed right, and he'd buried it all easily enough drugs and drink, then after, in work and school but god if dean doesn't stir it all up like a boy kicking a bee's nest, brings back that bittersweet soreness with every smile, with warm hazel eyes. ]

I'm.. um-

[ he murmurs, searching, unable to put together the words, not confident enough to voice them, and utterly distracted by the drag of dean's warm mouth against his jaw. castiel's breath catches, his chin tipping up immediately to invite more, the hands in dean's jacket tightening, the press of dean's mouth and the weight of his body enough to warm him in a wave, blood rushing undeniably south. ]

Nevermind. I - we should go inside. It's cold.

[ it's a pale excuse to get dean inside, honestly, but castiel doesn't care. he's past the point of worrying about his transparency.

it only takes a few minutes to pack up his things, his book and charts and flashlights, the cooler that's all but picked clean, the blanket that he folds and tucks beneath his arm - and the trip back to the cabin is short and easy. but castiel is done waiting. the moment the door shuts behind them, castiel drops his canvas bag and reaches for dean, pressing into him and kissing him warm and hard, both hands sliding against his chest beneath his jacket. ]

( initially, of course, dean hadn't given much thought beyond some relentless teasing – both on sam's and castiel's parts – because there's always going to be something about being the antagonist, even when there's nothing really heated behind it, no malicious intent whatsoever. no, the teasing had been the whole of it at first, and it seems almost like the attraction and bond they have been building has been ramping itself up without his notice, just under the radar, far enough away that once he's realized it, if it had been a snake, it would have bitten him.

because castiel, as both of them have thought before, is not his type. but he's slowly beginning to realize that it isn't about a type of person that draws his attraction, it's very much the person themselves, and castiel has such a bit of magnetism to him that dean feels inexplicably drawn to him regardless of his type – there's a mystery to it, sure, there has to be, but he'll be damned if he's going to start thinking about it now. they've gotten closer, and closer over the past couple of months, and he maybe-kinda-sorta feels a bit bad for initially giving the guy such a hard time, even when it had all been in good fun.

( well, that's his story, at least. and you had better believe that he's sticking to it. )

there's so much still that he doesn't know about him, about his past, where he'd come from, when he's learned so much about where he wants to go; he's an enigma, of sorts, wrapped up in so many unanswered questions just by dint of the fact that they go unasked. he's never been much for poking and prodding when it comes to the personal affairs of others, especially when he figures that if castiel wants him to know, he'll tell him as much – but to eventually find out about that past of his, about meg and the drugs and the downward spiral that had left him barely more than the shell of a man … it won't be something he'll be expecting, if only for the fact that he seems so well-rounded. so well-adjusted, even if he still tends to be a bit awkward when it comes to things of a social nature. there's a part of him, still, that wants to draw him out a little, get him more used to opening up and generally just being more relaxed around people, but what's a guy to do when the shy little nerd he's just now starting to mack on is much more comfortable lying beneath the evening sky and rambling about stars?

… before making it abundantly clear that the decision to kiss him had been a good one, that is. ah, his mind is wandering, and there's time enough for that, later, now that castiel has mentioned going back inside. he hadn't noticed the chill to the air until it had been brought to his attention, and as they're packing up and readying to head back to the cabin, he has to admit that without the warmth of another body pressed up nice and snugly against his own, he's definitely a little chilly.

of course, that doesn't last long – not with the way castiel pulls him in close again the moment they're safely, warmly inside, fingers smoothing beneath the fabric of his jacket even as he's shrugging it off of broad shoulders. he doesn't see where it lands when it drops from his hand, but he can't quite bring himself to worry about it when the mouth pressed against his own is so damned inviting, warm and still kiss-bruised from moments before, enough to pull him in in its own right. more of that magnetism that he's beginning to all too willingly give himself over to, succumbing to it with a soft groan against castiel's lips as hands tug at beltloops, tug that warm body in a little bit closer.

there's enough time for talk later. right now, he can't quite be bothered to hold on to a single coherent thought – or, at the very least, any that don't directly involve a particular nerd with an obsession for stars. )

[ it feels safer, with the door clapped shut behind them. it's certainly warmer, and it has a cozy, intimate feel, like they're tucked away from the world in this tiny, private place just for themselves, free to kiss and touch and press near to one another without any worry of being seen, or interrupted.

it's a little slice of heaven. it's impossibly exciting. dean has been the object of his affections for so long now that castiel had all but given up on the idea of ever actually having him to himself, of ever feeling him, touching him, kissing him. it feels like being drunk, like there's a giddiness wriggling in his belly like a hundred butterflies, coursing through his veins like an electric current. it's been.. it's been a long time, since he's felt anything like this. meg's the only other person in this world that he's ever wanted so badly, that has made him feel alive simply by being nearby him, touching him.

so castiel doesn't have any fear anymore, doesn't have to hold back.

dean's jacket falls to the floor in a rustle, and castiel shrugs off his own as well, feels lighter for its loss. his hands are back on dean immediately after, settling onto his broad shoulders, sliding down his strong arms, over biceps and elbows and forearms, settling onto his wrists to pull him near, and nearer as he begins stepping backward toward the bed.

and all the while he is, of course, kissing dean. castiel kisses him like he's hungry for it, craving it, as if there's nothing more important in this moment than him, as if he couldn't survive even a moment without his mouth, the warmth of it, the sweet, slick slide of their tongues, the heady flavor of dean's mouth. it's exquisite, every moment of it, and castiel drinks it all in with greed, his head spinning and his blood singing. he can't hear anything beyond the quick rushing sound of their breaths, the pounding in his breast, and the good, pleasing noise of their kissing, soft, wet sounds that are just as good as the smooth feel of dean's mouth against his own. castiel is opening up with ease, kissing dean with real fervor and no shame, no more timidity or hesitation, only raw and open want and desire and complete, absolute devotion.

it's not long before his knees his the back of the bed, and he's tipping back to crawl onto it, hands up to dean's neck and jaw again while he kneels on the mattress and coaxes dean along with him. ]

( it's definitely one thing they have working in their favor – not that there seems to be anything actively working against it – but he has to admit that it does feel nicer to be inside, out of the chill that had been steadily creeping through him since before they had closed the distance between them. the air had been cool, yes, but there's nothing that drives it back more quickly than the press of two bodies against one another, the building heat that comes from kisses beginning as innocent and evolving into something so much more.

now, he's never put too much thought into actively pursuing the affections of the resident nerd that has taken up space in both his brother's and his life, but now that it's been brought around and he's seen the proverbial light, he … well. there's not much he can say in the way of real regret when it comes to the thought that sam would probably be flipping his shit if he knew what was happening, not when it feels so good to have castiel against him, the taste of him on the back of his tongue like something heady. addictive. the sort of thing that he could find himself getting used to, to wanting and needing more than he has any real right to, and while he might not be quite as overwhelmed by it as the other seems to be, it's still something that he's going to need time to process. for the whole of him to catch up with the actions of his body, the way his hands slide over the curve of his shoulders, up either side of his neck to hold him right where he is, to taste more of him, like he can't quite get enough.

sorry, sam. he'll just … have to make it up to you, sometime. when you actually know what's happening and have stopped hating your brother long enough for him to make it up to you.

he doesn't quite realize when they're moving until he registers the motion itself, the fact that his legs are working under their own power – which may or may not mean that he rest of him is on autopilot, that his brain has entirely shut down in favor of letting instinct take over. castiel is pulling at him, and he can't think to do anything but go along with it, to push in close and closer until the other's knees bump into the edge of the mattress. until he's kneeling and pulling him closer still, and dean doesn't stop himself from following, from all but crawling on top of that lithe body, knees bracketing castiel's thighs on either side with the smallest encouragement to lie back. the slightest, almost-not nudge as he breaks the kiss long enough to bury his face in the side of his neck, long enough to coax a mark to life just beneath the edge of his jaw, a bruise that is just as likely to fade by morning as it is to linger for a bit longer.

full realization comes to him once he's fully seated in castiel's lap, hands braced against the mattress on either side of his head, and it's such a moment that hits him that it has his heart all but bursting out of his chest as he leans back to get a better look at him, cheeks flushed and lips kiss-swollen, wet and parted and practically begging him to come back in for more – and he does, with a soft rumble in the back of his throat that sounds more like a purr than anything else, smooth and pleased and just slightly rough around the edges. )

[ castiel's mind is an easy, empty blank, all of his thoughts and worries and uncertainties vanished, gone, his senses flooded with dean, and nothing else. all he can hear and smell and feel and taste is dean, and the creak of the bed beneath their bodies is exciting in a way he hasn't felt in a long time. it's a preamble to more, to clothes off and skin on skin, to everything he's wanted so badly from dean since nearly the moment they met.

because it would surely be a lie to say that castiel hasn't wanted to fuck him since the beginning. it's embarrassing, and a little shameful to admit, because castiel doesn't generally.. think of people like that, or see them in that sort of way. sudden, instant attraction is very, very rare for him, and it makes him feel like he can't control his base instincts, like he's just some animal in rut and not a civilized human being. blame it on his strict catholic upbringing perhaps, and all the shame that was heaped onto anything surrounding the idea of sex, but that's really not it. he'd been perfectly, exquisitely obscene with meg during the entirety of their relationship, never been ashamed of what they'd done together.

really he supposes that there are simply very few people who are able to bring this out in him, to open him up and tap into that deep, visceral animal hunger that sleeps beneath all the cool ice and social ineptitude.

congratulations, dean winchester.

nevertheless, castiel is a locomotive now, charging forward hot and ready. when dean nudges him backward, he's all but happy to lie back, his arms around dean's shoulders pulling him down onto him and over him, the weight of dean's body against his own enough to have his blood surging and singing, heat pooling in his groin, spikes of pleasure rippling up his body. he rocks his hips up, smooth and feline, a low groan in the back of his throat, and when dean pulls back to look at him castiel is wide-eyed and flushed, his mouth wet and his dark hair a wild mess, his expression slack with warm adoration and want. he swallows the rumble dean breathes against his mouth, whining soft and desperate in reply, his hands dropping between their bodies. ]

I want you. [ he whispers, harsh but private, between their mouths while his hands find dean's, snagging them and urging them up beneath castiel's shirt while his fingers work at the buttons, popping them open one by one. ] I need you.

( when things like sex are involved, every sort of coherent thought that might have lingered, back or front in dean's mind immediately go out the nearest exit. never to be seen or heard from again, leaving him a blissfully blank slate and open to any sort of interpretation, any hook that might snag him by the mouth and pull him inward, forward and down into the depths of his libido, to have him give in to it so easily that there had never been a question in the first place.

but he always acts, and thinks later. doesn't even bother contemplating the repercussions of his actions, no matter how serious or not they might be, until after the fact and it's already too late to go back and change something that he might have, inevitably fucked up. he's always, always been more prone to instinct than logical thought, because that's always been sam's job, and it's too easy to get himself nice and lost in the touch and taste and feel of castiel's lips against his own, the warmth of hands seeking out skin, dragging nails just sharply enough to leave marks in their wake, tugging and pulling and begging without so many words, and dean is finding it more and more difficult to keep his head on straight.

not that he's been trying all that hard. congratulations, dean winchester, in-fucking-deed.

he presses that smaller body back against the mattress, breathes light and soft against his mouth even though it's becoming more and more difficult to keep those breaths even, steady as the knock of his heart against his ribs picks up with every subsequent movement. castiel is pulling at him, rolling his hips so fluidly that the slightest pressure is enough to have a moan catching in the back of his throat, brows furrowing even as those soft, long-fingered hands are reaching for his own and encouraging them beneath the hem of his shirt – and dean doesn't resist, not quite yet, following the dips and hollows of ribs and the cut of his hips, every inch of him silently begging to be marked by fingers and teeth, bruised and touched with the sort of reverence that might just border on pain.

there's that little voice, in the back of his mind that hasn't deserted him just yet, trilling high and sharp that he needs to slow down, that he needs to stop because this isn't just some fluke he picked up in a seedy bar, a dive taken just for the night, but the brakes are far from being put on and he keeps pushing forward, rocking his own hips downward to increase the pressure building between them, the heat spiking and curling low in his belly, flaring out sweet and hot and goddamn, why hadn't he done this before? why hadn't he thought of it?

dean bites at his bottom lip, sucks it between his own, burning up from the inside out. ) Hold on, hold on … we got all the time in the world, right? The whole night – ( his breaths are ragged, short and shallow, but he doesn't stop kissing him, doesn't stop those fingers from popping open the buttons of his shirt, or his own from mapping out the curve of castiel's chest, curling about either side of his ribcage and rocking down against him one more time. )

[ falling into bed with dean feels like one of the easiest things he's ever done. they're connecting so perfectly, so seamlessly, there's no fumbling, no awkward bumping of noses or elbows, they're tearing into one another like a scene from a damned bodice ripper and it feels incredible. since losing meg, castiel hasn't been entirely celibate, but he also hasn't really allowed himself to feel, to take a chance on anyone or anything. his sexual encounters have been brief, desperate things, and as time passed they've become few and far between - honestly, castiel can't remember the last person he fucked, some nameless man or woman surely, they as unimportant to him as he no doubt was to them.

but dean? there's a spark here. there's something full and strong that tugs at him, a gravity between them that pulls them inexplicably toward one another like stars in orbit. it's irresistible. it was only a matter of time before the thin barrier between them broke and they fell crashing into one another, violent and explosive.

and already dean's a good lover. but of course he is. how could he be anything but? he's experienced, with a liquid smile and an impossible charm, that he fucks like an animal should come as no real surprise and god castiel can't wait to feel it, wants him so badly that it aches in his very marrow, fills him up with heat from his crown to the tips of his toes. he knows he's half hard already, can feel the heat surging in his groin, the spike of pleasure when dean's hips rock down into his own enough to make him gasp and murmur.

but then dean's saying to hold on, and castiel is bewildered, for a moment.

until he's mentioning the whole night, and castiel all but melts beneath him, a hot shiver lancing down his spine, all of his body tightening up in anticipation. god, he's waited too long for this, burned for it so long that he's seared crisp inside.

so he tries to go slow, but it's so difficult when all he wants is to jerk up against him, to feel the bed creak and groan below their weight while they fuck like beasts in rut. now that his own shirt is open, he sets to dean's, sliding both hands easy up beneath its hem, palms gliding over his warm, broad back, over taut, shifting muscle and the sharp rise of his shoulderblades. go slow. go easy. it's so much easier said than done. ]

You feel so good.. [ he whispers, soft against dean's mouth, blunt fingernails dragging slow down over the backs of his ribs. ]

( there are very few things in his life that feel as natural as this – every touch, every press of lips against lips and slide of tongues burrowing its way to the base of his spine, a singular thing that leaves an impression within him, screaming that he should have thought of this sooner, that he should have followed any sort of inclination that his harrowed and bereft mind deemed fit to overlook. that he should have taken every opportunity given to him, whether he'd been consciously aware of it or not, and not even thought to think about the repercussions, because there would be none, because this is about as natural as something gets.

… at least, that's what he would have been thinking, had his conscious mind not seen fit to throw on the brakes, to reel him in and bring him back from everything that his physical self is chasing, the touch and the taste of castiel at his fingertips and the back of his tongue enough to have him groaning at the thought of it, the smallest thing that he knows he should follow – but doesn't want to, because –

… because why? has he even paused long enough to consider that? has he –

oh.

everything in him is putting on the alarm bells, telling him to stop because there's something he's been missing here, something that he's been taking for granted for who-knows-how-long, and the breath is catching in the back of his throat as the other rocks up beneath him, pushes up into every single touch he's giving him, and god, it's not enough. not going to be enough, even when he knows what it means to push forward with everything that he really, really wants.

they do have the whole night. they have the whole of – well. he might be taking things for granted, here, that there will be the opportunity for anything beyond this evening once he's gotten his thoughts out of his mouth, and even with every press of lips and hands and the sound of castiel's voice in the forefront of his mind, it's difficult to pull back, to rest the whole of his weight on his knees and peer down at the disheveled mess – beautiful, disheveled mess – beneath him, biting the edge of his tongue until it hurts and he tastes blood.

he groans, low and rough and wanting in the back of his throat at the pass of those nails against his ribs, and he hates everything in him that – )

I – you – fuck.

( he spits out the word, sharp and almost venomous, the whole of his body revolting against the process of his mind, and he allows himself the smallest lee-way, a nip to the corner of castiel's mouth that tastes too much like everything he's denied himself for too long. )

Wait, Cas. Just … just wait.

[ it's perfect, it's all perfect, warm movement and deep, good kisses - cas couldn't have asked for a better night if he had planned the entire thing start to finish.

for a guy like him, it's a fantasy, after all. lying under a magnificent starscape, watching the meteors streak the sky while he talked himself breathless about stars and space and all the things he's deeply passionate about - and all the while, laid out next to dean winchester. dean winchester, who looked at him with lowered eyelids and a lazy, easy smile, dean winchester who leaned in so close that castiel could smell the leather of his coat and the spice of his skin, dean winchester kissing his mouth, warm and good and deep.

it was like a dream.

and it's still a dream now, that that moment hadn't ended there on the grass, that they're locked together now, hopelessly entangled, arms and legs all hooked together needy and grasping and groping. castiel is forgetting how to be himself, he is forgetting all of his own awkward clumsiness because he's swept up in dean, because his insecurity is lost in the tide of their fervor and he's at last grasping this thing that he's been aching for for so many long months. dean feels so irresistibly good against him, heavy and real in a way that castiel hasn't known in so long, and every cell in his body is reaching for him, seeking to cling, to sink into him until he can taste and hear and see and smell and feel nothing but dean.

the kiss breaks, and dean's pulling back, looking down at him and castiel is sure that he must be a mess. rumpled shirt open, dark hair hopelessly mussed, face flushed warm and parted lips pink and wet - he watches dean with wide eyes, the black of his wide-blown pupils nearly eclipsing the clear blue, and there's such longing there, in his eyes, in his expression, in the faint crease in his brow. a longing so deep and aching that castiel cannot manage to hide it, it bursts from him freely, resonating in the marrow of his bones.

wait.

the word hits like a bucket of cold water, and this time dean isn't following it up. he's stammering, his words sharp despite the brush of his mouth. ]

What's.. what's wrong?

[ he asks, a tightness in his voice betraying him, giving away the sudden cold pit in his stomach. castiel's hands still, bunching loosely in the fabric of dean's shirt, and he stiffens against the mattress, pulling his head back just enough to look into dean's face, to search his eyes. ]

( dean has never been much of a user of words like perfect. they're too specific, when everything in his vocabulary tends to err on the side of vague, just to be able to cover his own ass when it all comes down to it – but this night, with this nerd and watching the stars streak across the sky like he's never seen anything else like it, such a wholly new experience that he hadn't known what to make of it even before he'd decided that he needed to cross that invisible line between them and take from his mouth what he hasn't thought about wanting ever since the guy showed up in the garage –

this has been pretty damned perfect. the night, castiel, the beers shared and the moments stolen beneath the stars, kisses that have only grown deeper and more desperate the longer he lets them stretch themselves out, and now that they're here, in the safety of their shared room, taking up space on the bed that is more than enough for just the two of them, clothes wrinkled and half-removed and hair a mess, it's something beautiful that he doesn't want to fuck up, doesn't want to risk inevitably working in the direction of something that doesn't need to go quite that far just yet, and of course it takes everything in him to put on the brakes, to pull back just enough to let the severity of castiel's expression sink into him.

he's gorgeous, like this. like – he really, really doesn't think he's ever seen something so breath-taking, so ready and willing to give himself over to anything dean might think to ask from him. with his wet lips, his pupils blown wide and searching from the lust pooling in the pit of his stomach, the pink of his cheeks from the flush that seeps down either side of his neck and dusts his shoulders with heat, it might as well be an image that belongs in a goddamned art gallery for how taken he is by it, and … and –

fuck, he just had to go and open his mouth. didn't he. he just has to have a conscience right this very fucking minute –

dean breathes out a low note, something that he hopes is in some way placating as he leans down to brush another soft kiss against parted lips, something of an apology that he hopes makes itself clear even as he's pulling back again, groaning low and almost miserable in the back of his throat as he reaches to sweep a hand back through his hair. )

I just. ( god, he's never done this before. how do you even – ) It's not – it's not you. You're fucking perfect. Perfect. And I want you. ( does he. does he. and it's that thought alone that is enough to have him halting, giving the sort of pause that ends in thoughts that he should have had before he let things get this far, and even though he's trying to do the right thing here, to be respectful and a goddamned gentleman, he can't help but to think that he's about to make a horrible mistake and this will never be offered to him ever again. )

I like you. A lot. And I don't … ( he is literally about two seconds away from raking his hands down his face in frustration. exasperation. because how does one say this without the other party thinking that they're full of absolute bullshit. ) I don't wanna mess it up. Does that make sense?

( he really, really hopes it does. )

[ perfect is, more or less, quite on the mark.

being with dean, being near to him like this, touching him, tasting him - it feels like coming alive again, like breathing fresh air after spending too long underground, feeling the sunshine on your face, hearing the breeze whisper through the trees. the world feels in color again, and castiel remembers just how sweet real intimacy can be. sex is all well and good, the physicality of pleasure with another human being is something that even he can always enjoy, but there's far more to it than that, with dean. this thing between them runs deep, they reach out to one another in every way, a deep yearning in the very marrow of his bones cries out for him, draws him near to dean and nothing will scratch that terrible itch besides this closeness. the feel of dean's kiss and the touch of his hands are all that can quiet the incessant, consuming need, all that can soothe the ache of longing that has gnawed his flesh and bones and spirit since the moment they first met.

and feeling that again, after so many long years, after the complete certainty that he would never experience such a thing again.. it is dazzling. captivating. he feels whole.

at least, of course, until the very moment that dean is stopping it. ]

But..

[ the words seem kind, in their own way, and castiel knows from experience that dean is a kind individual, that beneath all the bluster and charm and leather a warm, soft heart beats. it's what drew him to dean to begin with, it's the light that he saw buried so deep, a great capacity for love and loyalty and sentiment.

but dean winchester does not simply say no to sex. dean winchester does not turn down someone beneath him, hard and wanting, so very eager and entirely willing and castiel gives both of those in spades, would pour it all out for dean, strip himself bare and offer all of himself up on a silver plate for his consumption. never has he seen dean turn down the chance to score, to chase tail, and castiel cannot help but think that it is dean's kindness that is.. sparing his feelings.

because, truly, what could someone like dean really see in someone like castiel? he does't have the curves, the charm, the confidence. he's not beautiful or sleek or indulgent. he's.. quiet, and rumpled, awkward and stubborn and foolish, nose buried in a book and head in the clouds. he's so far and away from dean's type that it's laughable to think that he could have ever thought there was a chance. they had shared a brief moment, dean had been drinking, and now, well, now he must be sobering up, looking down at castiel beneath him half-dressed and panicking, wondering how the hell he has gotten himself wrapped up in this situation. and they are friends, of course, and good enough ones that it seems entirely feasible that dean would feel the need to let him down easy, to spare him the embarrassment of being turned down. ]

.. of course.

[ castiel's heart sinks like a stone, falling into the pit of his stomach and pulling at him like a weight, all the heat in his blood running cold, a tension rising in his bones that squeezes his chest and constricts his throat. dropping his eyes down and away, castiel clears his throat and nods sharply, to reaffirm. ]

I understand. That's very kind of you.

( and that is precisely – fucking precisely – what he wants to preserve. the whole of it, every little thing that they've been building up to, everything that he'd never thought he'd even come close to wanting, because if it all crumbles in his hands, slips through his fingers, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to forgive himself for fucking this up.

he's never turned down sex, now. never once in his life, not a single time since he'd figured out that he could easily bury, burrow away the troubles of his life beneath the sheets and some squirming, curvy thing. any woman he's ever brought into his bed, they've never meant anything to him beyond the warmth of their hands and mouths, the sounds they made in the dark for him as he pressed them open and brought them to the kind of release they had likely never felt before and likely never would again once he'd taken his hands away. they're all nameless, now, faceless in the shadows of the closet where he keeps all his skeletons, and the one time he thinks he might have found something real, something substantial, he isn't taking any risks that he doesn't know for sure will work out in his favor.

and that, of course, makes it awkward now, with the way castiel drops his gaze. refuses to look at him even as he spills the contents of his heart all around them, laying himself open and leaving himself vulnerable as he never has before, and there's something in the tone of the other's voice – something that falls flat, falls short of believing him, and that tugs at something at the very center of his chest in a way that nothing else has yet. something that nothing else has even touched. )

No. No you don't – ( he drops down again, closing some of the distance he'd put between them and curling his hands against either side of castiel's neck, thumbs pressing just beneath the edge of his chin to force his gaze back up – even if he doesn't quite look at him directly, his own eyes trained on how pink, how plush his kiss-swollen mouth is, and he gives in to temptation far too easily as he leans in and takes again from those lips, kissing him deeply, fervently, trying to drive home the meaning of his words.

that he isn't being kind, even though there is kindness in him. he feels he's being cruel, when he really thinks about it, having let them get this far and then reeling back, dangling something they clearly both desperately want right in front of the other's nose.

he kisses him, again and again, unable to pull himself away from it until he finds himself breathless all over again, and even when he pulls back he lingers, the very tips of their noses bumping against one another as he breathes in deep, shuddering, hard-pressed to keep to his newfound morals instead of stripping off clothing. )

Don't say that like you think I'm lyin'. Like I'm trying to let you down easy – because I'm not.

[ dean is trying to be sweet about it, trying to be kind, but castiel's gut still feels all twisted up, his heart heavy in his chest, and a lump sticks in his throat that he cannot for the life of him swallow down.

it's just so impossible to believe, to think that dean could turn him down for any other reason besides the clear and simple reason that he's gotten cold feet, that he's realized that too much beer and a nice pretty sky had led him to do something that he now regrets. it happens to the best of people. sometimes mistakes happen. sometimes you are caught up in a sweet warm moment and it becomes so very easy to let it go too far, to find yourself all tangled up in it until you're turned around and you've got to slam on the breaks once you realize you're skidding out of control.

it's not the first time it's happened to him. mostly with men. it's not uncommon for a guy of dean's type to pull back, to realize they've gone too far with another man, or that castiel simply isn't their type. he and dean have so very little in common once you really get down to brass tacks, and a pretty face can only get you so far.

his love life is so damned cursed.

but then dean's kissing him again, over and over and over until his ears are full of the sound of their mouths and castiel can hardly stand it. a bittersweet ache burgeons inside of him, filling him up, and he breathes a plaintive sound against dean's mouth, falling into the kisses so easily that he finds himself swept away again, pining and yearning and clinging, his fingers wrapped around dean's wrists and gripping tight, face upturned and seeking for more. it feels so good, kissing him, like their mouths are two halves of a whole and he's only been waiting his entire life for this, for dean, for this man he is so comfortable against, their souls cushioning one another, pulled together like magnets.

it's foolish, though. that's nothing but castiel's own childish, wistful desires talking. dean says he isn't letting him down easy, but castiel cannot bring himself to believe it, cannot understand how this could be anything but that.

but he has to agree, doesn't he? there's no reason to argue it. swallowing thickly, he nods. ]

Of course.

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