Soundtrack: Angel with an Attitude – The Ditty Bops
A Chip on my Shoulder and a Halo on my Head
4:02PM Sammy: Need to talk to prof after class. Pick me up at 445 instead of 430
4:06PM Dean: gotcha
Dean is a red-blooded, all-American dude. Anybody that knows him could tell you that. He likes classic cars, classic rock, classic-style tattoos and women in little black dresses that can put back whiskey like it’s orange juice. Only thing that he can’t tick off the list is that okay, fine, maybe he likes guys too. And shit, he likes all kinds of guys. He likes huge bears of men like that-one-time Benny Lafitte, who’s now his best friend despite the time that they did the horizontal tango in Dean’s bed. He likes slender guys in sweaters that drink expensive, half-caf lattes and listen to Sigur Rós. He likes guys that wear t-shirts with stupid sayings on them and have holes in the collar that hit up the shooting range on their days off.
But he does not think that he likes Sam’s stupid professor. He knows this the instant that he sees Sam step out of one of the brick buildings on campus, the one that Dean always parks closest to when he picks his brother up to take him back home.
The guy’s hot, sure, but Dean can’t get past the monumental stick up the dude’s butt. His suit is pressed and his silk tie shines in the Kansas sunshine. His dark hair is neatly combed and parted to one side, and he has serious scowl marring what could have been one hell of a pretty face.
“Dean!” Sam exclaims excitedly, and peels from this idiot’s side to wrap his giant hand around Dean’s wrist and tug him forward. He claps Dean on the shoulder and says, “This is Doctor Novak. He teaches my Anthropology of Language class, you know, the one I really like? Professor, this is my brother Dean.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Professor Prissy-Pants says. Dean’s surprised to hear his voice is a deep, rumbling baritone.
The prof’s eyes sweep down Dean from his messy, unkempt hair that he possibly forgot to comb this morning before running to the shop, to his arms roped in tattoos and color, to his holey jeans and the combat boots that Dean has had since before he dropped out of high school. The hair on the back of his neck prickles at the attention, because he knows this isn’t the good kind of being checked out. He can feel the judgment radiating off of this Novak shit’s black suit (what the hell is he wearing that in May for, anyway?), the kind of bullshit treatment that he’s used to from intellectual types.
Dean pastes a smile on his face and thrusts out a hand. He says, “All good crap, I hope.”
“Mostly,” the professor says, and takes Dean’s hand in a firm grip. At least his handshakes don’t suck.
“Yeah, uh. Cool,” Dean says, “Sam talks a lot about you, too.”
“Sam flatters me,” Novak says, in that way people say shit when then don’t mean a damn word. This clown’s gotta know that he’s smart. You don’t just get to become Doctor Novak without some entitlement, right?
Where is any of the badass that Sam keeps coming home yapping about? Professor Novak isn’t like other professors, Dean. Professor Novak is really awesome, Dean. You would be really into Professor Novak, Dean.
Dean isn’t into this guy at all. He shoots Sam a look of confusion, which Sam pretends to be ignorant of and says, “Hey, Doctor Novak, Dean and I usually go for pizza on Fridays, you wanna come with us?”
“That’s, um,” Castiel says, “Thank you, Sam, but I do have all your final papers to begin grading. I do appreciate your invitation.” Of course, Novak is probably one of those weirdoes that’s on some experimental diet. Or maybe he just has a vendetta against pizza. Either way, Dean doesn’t like it.
Professor Novak gives them each a gruff goodbye before he trots off, his dress shoes clicking against the pavement. At the small faculty parking area, he comes up to the side of a hideous, 1990s Honda monstrosity.
Dean slides a glance over at his brother and says, “You lying fucker. You said he had a cool car.”
“He does,” insists Sam.
“That,” Dean says, pointing to the vehicle as it backs out of the space and rounds out of the parking lot, “is not a cool car, Sammy.”
“That’s not the one that he usually drives,” Sam says, “Maybe his other one is in the shop or something. I don’t know. I can tell you don’t like him, and you’re being stupid. Professor Novak is really awesome, okay?”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” mutters Dean, and Sam rolls his eyes.
They drop the subject on the walk back to where Dean has the Impala parked along the curb, and instead switch to talking about the smarty-pants pretty freshman girl in one of Sam’s entry-level science classes that he’s been harboring a crush on since the start of the semester. He’s thinking about asking her out to one of the local coffee places for tea and conversation. Dean socks him in the arm and congratulates him on finally growing a pair.
“Jerk,” Sam says.
“Bitch,” Dean replies.
They take the pizza home that night instead of staying at the little hole in the wall joint to eat it at an actual table, and it’s kind of nice. They split a six pack and shoot the shit in front of the television, and end the night on a vicious note when they swap the TV remote for Wii controllers and play a couple of rounds of Mario Kart.
It’s exactly the kind of unwinding that Dean needed after his long day at the shop and the encounter with Sam’s uptight professor.
When Sam splits from the game to shower, and Dean cleans up their mess of pizza and empty beer bottles and shuts off the lights in the apartment, he feels good. Life ain’t anyplace close to perfect, but he’s got it pretty good. So what if Sam’s professor thinks that Dean is some washed-up loser? Dean has a great job with a good boss, he’s got a place with his baby brother, and he’s got a belly full of pizza and quality beer.
Life ain’t bad at all.
Work the following Saturday is pretty standard for Dean. He wakes up, makes an executive decision not to shower since his hands will just be in the belly of a filthy beauty within a couple hours anyway, makes himself a pot of coffee and pours it in a mug, and jets off in his baby to Bobby’s shop, which sits about a fifteen minute drive across Lawrence.
“Mornin’, boy,” Bobby greets, when Dean trudges into the locker room and zips his jumpsuit over his t-shirt and boxers.
“Heya, Bobby,” Dean greets. He finished his coffee on the drive over here, so he moves to the cheap, stained coffee pot on the tiny counter crammed beside the lockers, and fills his tumbler with a second round of crappy joe.
Dean doesn’t dare start on the Talbot lady’s car without being sufficiently caffeinated. It’s an expensive-as-hell European model, and while the woman doesn’t know automobiles like Dean does, she sure as heck knows enough to know when maintenance is done wrong. Last time she spotted a sloppy job, Bobby got an earful in person and a strongly worded letter. Now no one’s allowed to touch Bela’s vehicle except for Dean.
So that’s how he spends his morning – keeping an eye on Bela Talbot’s girl and making sure she’s fine and fancy by the time that Bela comes in at ten that morning to pick her up. She pats Dean on the arm and says she’s satisfied with the job, which is about as close to praise as the lady gets, so Dean’s happy. And if Dean’s happy, the shop is happy.
AC/DC blares through the garage as they work, laughing and talking with their hands dirty. Garth has got some gig he’s auditioning for later in the evening at the neighborhood theater and enthuses about the opportunity to act. When Gordon asks what he plans to do if he doesn’t get the part, Garth just grins and says that he’ll swap to the technical side of things.
“I met that professor that Sam wouldn’t shut up about,” Dean says when the conversation lulls. The track playing in the garage transitions from She’s Got Balls to T.N.T.
“No kidding?” Garth says, “He as cool as Sam said?”
“No, he sucked,” Dean replies, “It was weird. I don’t get what Sammy was so over the fucking moon about. The guy drove this ugly car and wore a suit. It’s almost summer. Like what the hell, am I right? And you ever have somebody do that thing where you can feel them judging you? Yeah. He did that thing.”
Garth gives Dean a sympathetic pat to his shoulder blade and says, “That sucks, man. At least Sam’s almost graduated. It’s not like you’ll have to deal with the dude.”
“True,” Dean agrees. That gives him enough pause to consider why he’s so annoyed about the ordeal. Like, okay, nobody likes being judged by douchebags in suits. But typically, Dean can write them off for being the bags of dicks that they are and carry on with his day. Is it because Sam promised more out of the man? Heck, Sam’s practically infatuated with Doctor Novak.
Or is it because the bastard’s some kind of fucked up handsome?
It can’t be that. Dean’s not that stupid. He may be dumb, but he’s not shallow enough to be pissed off at a dude that was a dick to him just because he has a pretty face.
Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t have the time or the patience to deal with this crap today – so he buries himself in his work and decides to forget about it, at least for a little while.
The rest of the morning passes in heartbeat and Dean’s productivity is at a high. Even Bobby gives Dean a gruff “Good work, boy,” that has Dean smiling all the way ‘til one o’clock, when it’s time to punch out for his lunch break. He washes his hands in the locker room before he touches the computer to clock his lunch time, but he’s too lazy to swap his jumpsuit for jeans, so he just unzips the top half and ties the sleeves around his waist.
He decides on one of his favorite haunts, this café-slash-deli a couple blocks up from Bobby’s place that makes some killer sandwiches. At the thought of one of those roast beef subs, his stomach grumbles, and Dean snorts.
It would figure, then, that when Dean pushes his way inside and steps in line behind a young woman in business casual and a guy with work gloves sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans, that he hears a low, “Dean?”
And when Dean turns around, the bottom drops out of his stomach.
Novak looks absolutely nothing like the man he met yesterday afternoon. There’s no suit, no combed hair, no scowl – none of it. Instead, he has on a plaid shirt that looks like it hopped out of Sam’s closet buttoned over his chest and a pair of jeans riding low on his hips.
“Um, hey, Doctor Novak,” he says, and swallows, finding his throat dry.
The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to the elbow, and down to his wrists…are tattoos.
Really nice tattoos.
“It’s Castiel when I’m not working,” he offers a crooked grin, one that makes Dean smile back before he even realizes what he’s doing.
“Ha, okay, cool,” Dean says, and grabs at the back of his neck, “Hey, Cas. You, uh. You come here often?” Oh, son of a bitch. If that ain’t the oldest line in the book, Dean doesn’t know what is. He can feel himself turn red up to his ears and curses internally.
Cas seems more amused than anything. He replies with a careless shrug, “Sometimes. My apartment is a ten minute walk away, and it’s nice to get to work. I’m still grading papers. You’d think seniors in college would be able to craft a reasonably-constructed piece of writing, but every semester, they never fail to prove me wrong.”
Dean laughs at that and moves up to the counter to order his sandwich, as well as a coffee. He knows he’s already pumped his veins with caffeine today, but it’s one of those days, and he refuses to come home to Sam and be a dick.
“Would you like to sit with me?” Castiel asks, and gestures back to a table in the corner, where a laptop sits open and papers are spread across the surface, a coffee mug set a safe distance away.
It would be rude to say no.
“Uh,” Dean manages, “Sure. Cool.” If he says ‘cool’ one more time, he’s going to bang his head against the wall.
And that’s how Dean ends up checking out the ass of his brother’s Anthropology professor as they cross the café to his table. He lowers himself into the seat across from Castiel as Cas closes his laptop. Dean grabs at his own sleeves of tattoos self-consciously as he stares at the work on Cas’ arms. One of the sleeves is done in classic style, Dean’s favorite, while the other is hyper-realistic.
“Cool ink,” Dean says.
He said ‘cool’ again. Goddamnit.
“Thank you,” Cas replies, voice all formal and prim, like Dean just complimented him on his vast vocabulary or his teaching ability. At the counter up front, they call Dean’s name, and he climbs to his feet to collect his sandwich.
For a second, Dean wonders if he should take it easy on Cas and eat with better manners, but then decides that if the guy is already set on judging him that nothing is gonna change that. So he bites into the bread with a grateful grunt just as his stomach growls with appreciation.
“Your tattoos are also very well-drawn,” observes Castiel, “Do they have a particular meaning?”
Dean swallows and shakes his head, “Nah. Just ‘cause I like the look. You?”
“This sleeve is all imagery from myths of various cultures,” he says, and holds up the hyper-realistic half, “and this one is simply because I enjoy the aesthetics of classic tattooing.”
Dean licks his lips. Don’t tell him that’s hot. Don’t tell him that’s hot. Don’t tell him that’s hot.
“That’s hot,” Dean says, mouth full.
But Castiel laughs and says, “I, uh – thank you. I don’t think I’ve ever quite garnered that reaction before.”
“No need to apologize,” Cas says. He reaches for his coffee mug and takes a sip, grimacing at the temperature before he sets it back and goes on, “I have a few other pieces that I’m proud of as well – I watched a special on different styles of tattooing based upon culture and enjoyed it so much that I wanted to do the same. I have a lovely stick-and-poke from Japan on my back, and an Inuit piece done with a sewing needle on my side.”
“A sewing needle?” Dean gapes.
“Yes. It, ah. Hurt. Quite a bit,” he says.
“That is badass, man,” Dean says.
Was he…was he wrong about this guy?
But what about his stupid car?
“So, you work nearby?” Castiel asks.
Dean clears his throat and nods, “Yeah, um. The auto shop a couple blocks up.”
“Oh,” Castiel says, and Dean can’t tell what kind of oh that is until he clarifies, “Perhaps I should have taken my baby to you.”
Castiel folds his hands on top of his laptop and smiles down at them sheepishly. He says, “She’s a ’79 Thunderbird. I was rear-ended by a student last week and so the back needed some detail work. I didn’t want to drive a rental, so I’ve been borrowing my sister’s car. I’m embarrassed that you had to see me with it. It’s a disaster.”
“I’ll say,” Dean replies, and breathes a sigh of relief, “Sammy kept saying that you have an awesome car and I saw that piece a’ work and I thought – the hell?”
Castiel smears a hand over his face and says, “I am so sorry.”
“It’s okay, man. I’m relieved you’re not actually driving that piece of shit,” Dean assures him, “Mine’s a ’67 Impala, total beauty. Love her almost more than Sam sometimes when he’s not careful.”
Castiel chuckles and says, “I’m picking mine up tonight, so the Honda will be no more.”
“Damn, I hope I get to see her sometime,” Dean says, “Thunderbird’s a classic. And after ’77 they’re a lot more economical, far as classics go, you know?” He checks his watch – lunch is already minutes from being over. How the hell did that happen? “Shit, dude, I’ve gotta run. My lunch break’s almost over.”
“Of course,” Castiel says, “Let me walk with you outside.”
Dean doesn’t bother telling him no, and tries not to make any more of an idiot out of himself than he already has. He’s grinning like a moron as is, torn between being humiliated that he made such a quick leap to judgment and attempting to will away the half-boner trapped in his shorts.
“So, uh, it was cool running into you,” Dean says.
He turns and starts to walk, but a warm palm to the shoulder stops him.
“Dean,” Cas says, “This may be…forward of me, but I wondered if you would perhaps be interested in seeing my baby tonight?”
Dean stares. He says, “Like – like a date?”
“If that’s something that you would be interested in,” Castiel says. The way that he speaks is stilted and nervous, and he fidgets with his fingers. Cas starts to chew on his lip and then adds, “Sam seemed to suggest that – that you might like men? But if you’d just like to see the Thunderbird as a car enthusiast and perhaps a potential friend, I’d find that just as exciting.”
Has Sam been playing matchmaker this entire time?
That little sneak.
“I’d like that, Cas,” Dean says. His toes curl in his boots and on a surge of confidence he leans forward and pecks a kiss to Doctor Novak’s stubbly cheek. He winks, “It’s a date.”
Castiel’s face breaks into a wide, pleased grin, and he has Dean type his cell number into his phone, promising to text the address of his apartment so that Dean could find it.
Dean is walking on Cloud Nine all the way back to Bobby’s shop.
3:08PM Cas: Is eight acceptable?
3:15PM Dean Winchester: sounds perfect man see u then
Dean arrives home to Sam arranging and rearranging his hair in front of the bathroom mirror, looking highly suspect in a button-up and his good pair of jeans.
“I need the bathroom,” Dean announces, “Gotta shower.”
“Ugh, now, Dean? I’m in the middle of something,” Sam complains.
“What, fixing your hair? There’s more important shit at stake here, princess,” Dean shoots back.
“That sounds dire. What did you do?” Sam asks.
Dean licks his lips and avoids his brother’s eyes as he coughs, “I, um. Gotta date. So move. I look like I just got shat out the back of an engine.”
“A date?” Sam lifts his brows, “Since when do you date?”
“Since now, Chuckles,” Dean says, “Come on, Sam. I’m meeting him at eight.”
“So it’s a him.”
“Yeah, it’s a him, you nosy little shit,” Dean says, “Out.”
“As it happens,” Sam says, “I have a date too. With Jess.”
“The hot freshman?” Dean says, and beams, “No way! That’s awesome, Sammy.”
Sam preens, “I know.”
After a few more seconds of bickering between them, Dean finally pulls his brother out of the bathroom by the collar of his shirt and abandons him in the hallway. He makes quick work of shutting the bathroom door and locking it behind him, and ignores Sam’s protests from the other side, coupled with demands to know who Dean is going on a date with. Dean does not share that information.
He tries not to take too long in the shower, but he also doesn’t want to miss any engine grease or forget to get rid of the dirt under his fingernails.
By the time that Dean makes it out from under the stream of hot water, the apartment is empty and his phone is buzzing with a text from Sam that says nothing more than make good choices.
6:53PM Dean: u 2 bucky i do not need to be an uncle yet
6:54PM Sammy: Fuck you.
Dean struggles with the decision of what to wear and in the end goes with a t-shirt and one of his two pairs of jeans without holes in the knees. He looks pretty good when he checks himself out in the mirror, at least as good enough as he’s going to need to look for a casual date. He hopes that Cas doesn’t dress up, ‘cause that would be awkward.
All the way out of the apartment and to his car, Dean is nervous as hell. All the way out of the parking lot and to Cas’ place, he’s nervous. All the way from his car and to the building, he’s nervous. He buzzes for the apartment labeled C. Novak, and he’s more nervous than he was for the entire journey here.
Cas appears with a dopey smile on his face, and Dean feels a little less nervous.
“Good evening, Dean,” Cas greets.
“Hey,” Dean says.
“She’s just behind you,” Castiel says. He rests a hand on Dean’s arm and Dean feels warmth spread through him all the way down to his toes.
And god damn, that is a fine machine.
“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean says, and runs his hands over the hood. The Thunderbird is a deep blue-black color, beautifully painted and obviously loved and cared for. He grins and shakes his head and says, “She’s gorgeous.”
“I know,” Cas says.
“You wanna see my girl, too?”
And Cas agrees, so Dean leads him across the lot to the guest parking spaces, where his own beautiful baby is parked and sitting pretty. Castiel lets out an appreciative hum. He remarks, “She’s perfect, Dean. Absolutely lovely.”
And all at once Dean is kissing him. It should feel sudden, maybe. Strange. Dean barely knows this guy, and he’s got his tongue in his mouth like there’s nothing to it. Cas tastes like skin and dude and breath mints, a combination that has him leaning in for more before he has to pull back and breathe.
“Too much too soon?” Dean pants.
Castiel shakes his head, “No. No, I need more.”
“Fuck,” Dean says, “Me too.”
Dean leans in for round two. He brushes his lips over Cas’ stubble, up his jaw and to his earlobe, catching the soft, sensitive skin in between his teeth and reveling at the hitch in Cas’ breath at the attention. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along Castiel’s throat. He smells like some kind of spicy shower gel and it makes Dean shift in even closer.
“Maybe…maybe we should go upstairs?” Castiel suggests.
Dean lets out a bark of laughter, but sobers when he sees that in his jeans, Cas is in a state of affairs similar to Dean’s own.
“Is that too much?” Cas queries.
“No, I – shit,” Dean manages. If he’s on an actual date, like now – he likes the chatting and getting to know a person part. He likes figuring them out with their clothes on and then taking them apart with clothes off. But damn it, he feels feverish and needy and his dick is hard as stone in his boxers and he just wants to see all of Castiel’s tattoos and kiss each line of ink. He needs this more than he thinks he should, but logic can’t diminish that need.
“I really wanna be naked with you,” Dean breathes, “Is that weird?”
“No,” Castiel answers, “I find you very compelling. And your clothes are in the way.”
A breathy laugh escapes Dean and he says, “Then fuck it.”
Castiel’s lips tilt up and he agrees quietly, “Fuck it,” before leaning forward to cup Dean’s face in his hands and kiss him, hard. Cas’ tongue slips inside his mouth and he explores in long, attentive licks. Dean moans around Cas’ tongue at the attention.
Cas pulls back and swears. He grabs Dean by the front of his shirt and says, “Come on.”
Usually this part is prefaced by dinner and a couple of drinks, alcohol enough to prevent Dean from caring that he’s laughing like a teenager in between the kissing Cas all the way from the parking lot and upstairs to his second-floor apartment. They kiss in the elevator and kiss against the wall in the hallway, hair getting mussed and top buttons coming undone before they can even make it to privacy.
And Dean doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that they get coughed at by an old lady in slippers or that he’s making out with a man that he’s known barely over twenty four hours or that that man is Sam’s Anthropology professor. He just cares that he gets more Cas, that he can kiss him hard and breathe the scent of him into his lungs.
Cas is intoxicating all on his own and Dean is drunk on him.
For several heated seconds, Cas fumbles with the keys to his apartment, hands shaking when he finally gets the right one in and Dean sends them both stumbling inside, arms snaking around each other and grabbing and clothes and hair to pull each other closer.
“The second that I saw you, I knew I wanted you,” Castiel confesses in between kisses. His hands are up underneath Dean’s shirt, stroking skin with calloused fingers. He reaches up further and rolls a nipple between forefinger and thumb. The bolt of sensation that explodes through Dean has him crashing forward into Cas for another kiss.
“Bed,” Dean says, too incensed to care that he sounds like a caveman. Me Dean. Us bed. Us sex.
Cas hauls them both through a door and gropes to switch the light on before he backs Dean onto a plush-looking queen size. Cas turns out to be stronger than he looks, stronger than Dean thought he was. He pushes Dean back onto the mattress and pulls him up further onto it, boxing Dean in with his limbs.
This time when Cas kisses him, it’s vicious, all teeth and tongues and roughness. Dean whimpers at the sensation, hips tilting up to find something to grind against, someplace to get the friction that his body craves. All around him is Cas Cas Cas and he needs more, goddamnit. He needs to be kissed and he needs to fuck, and will somebody just pay attention to his dick, please?
When Cas finally lowers his hips and rolls his erection against Dean’s, denim rubbing together, Dean throws his head back and lets out a loud, needy moan. Holy hell. Cas keeps moving up against him and the man isn’t making a goddamn noise beyond the pained exhales.
“Cas, Cas,” Dean chants, and he moves his hands from Cas’ hair down to the buttons, rushing to open them so he can see every last inch of Cas’ skin. Cas moves back when the plaid shirt is open and throws it back. He’s tanner than Dean would have expected, and tattooed almost everywhere, on his abdomen, around his nipples, all the way from his wrists to his collarbone, color and lines and techniques as different as night and day.
“So fuckin’ gorgeous,” Dean squeezes out.
Castiel smiles and leans in for another kiss, nipping at Dean’s lower lip. With skilled hands, he reaches up underneath Dean’s t-shirt and peels it over his head, throwing it off someplace. Dean doesn’t pay attention to where it goes, just keeps staring at Cas, being consumed by him.
Cas’ hands are everywhere. His lips are everywhere. He strokes Dean’s skin and kisses his nipples and laves along his belly, nosing down to where Dean’s pants are ready to fly off.
“Top or bottom?” Cas asks.
Dean doesn’t even hesitate when he answers, “Bottom.” He needs to be fucked, and he needs to be fucked by this man. Right now. He wants to fuck Cas too, but he’s starting to think that they’ll have more than enough time to explore that avenue at a later date.
He pulls off of Dean and crosses the room to his closet, where he pulls down a bent-up shoebox. He dumps the contents on the bed – condoms and a couple of different kinds of lube – and throws the box on the ground before making quick work of his jeans.
Castiel Novak is naked in front of Dean, and it is goddamn glorious. He’s got a runner’s physique, slim but strong. Coils and whorls of ink cover most of his body, his legs and feet and – Jesus tapdancing Christ – on his ass. If Dean was hard before, he’s fucking titanium now. Cas’ cock hangs heavy and red between well-muscled, inked-up legs and holy shit, Dean has to taste it.
Dean sits up and crawls to the edge of the bed. He applies sloppy kisses to Cas’ nipples, to his chest, smirks at the soft sounds that he’s finally teasing out of the guy, little moans and whines smothered and swallowed back.
With one hand, he cups Cas’ ass and pulls him forward. With the other, he wraps his fingers around Cas’ cock and gives him a stroke before he swallows him down in one fluid movement. It works less smoothly than Dean pictured it working – he hasn’t sucked dick in like, four or five months at least – and he chokes a little, having to pull back.
Cas’ fingers thread into his hair, though, and his voice rumbles, “You look so amazing with your mouth on my cock.”
And damn if that just doesn’t do the trick. Dean bobs his head and takes Cas down, humming and laving and worshipping. Cas moves his hips into Dean’s face and Dean relaxes and takes it, even as Cas grips his hair and starts fucking into his mouth in earnest. Who the hell knew that a nerdy little dude in a suit would turn out to be wild, rough top in bed? Damn, but it’s nice.
But then Cas lowers his hands to Dean’s shoulders and pushes him off, guiding him back onto the bed. The heat in Cas’ eyes sends Dean’s fingers sailing to his fly, fumbling to kick off his jeans with very little grace.
Cas lifts a brow at Dean’s green triforce boxers, and Dean murmurs, “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Castiel murmurs back, and leans down, down, down to Dean’s erection. He nuzzles at it through soft cotton and Dean shakes under the attention. He doesn’t know how much longer he’s going to be able to hold out. And that’s stupid. Come on. He’s got great stamina. But here Cas is, freaking killing him with the kissing and nosing and the way that he’s running his lips over Dean’s erection in a feather-light touch.
“You’re killin’ me over here,” Dean whines.
“Be patient,” Castiel says. He still obliges, sitting back up enough to hook his fingers underneath the elastic waistband of the boxers and sliding them down Dean’s legs. For a long, tense moment, Cas stares at him, drinking him in, and it’s almost the same stare that he gave Dean when they met on the college campus and – shit, Cas wasn’t judging Dean at all, was he? He was checking Dean out.
There’s a shift of movement, and Cas has one of the bottles of lube in his hand. He pops open the cap and drizzles it over his fingers at the same time he orders, “Spread your legs.”
A shiver travels down Dean’s spine at the sound of the command in Castiel’s timbre. He’s obeyed before he even notices it, spreading wide and open to make way for Cas’ fingers inside him. He can’t help the string of words that spill from his lips, dirty pleas, “Please, need it, need you to fuck me with your fingers, please, God.”
The universe must hear him, because in that next second, Cas heaves Dean up, tilting his ass up for better access, and slides one finger in to the knuckle with a devious little half-smirk.
“You teasing bastard,” Dean says, “Need more. C’mon. I can take it.”
Cas pushes his finger in all the way. It’s good, so good, but Dean needs more than that. He clenches around that finger, tries to show Cas that he needs it, but Cas keeps teasing. He moves that single finger in and out of Dean’s body at a maddening, rhythmic pace.
When he presses in a second finger, Dean’s lips part in an ‘o’ of surprise. He lets out a gasp and rides back on those fingers, hips jerking forward to take more.
“Greedy,” Cas murmurs, and Dean can’t disagree.
Cas finds Dean’s sweet spot and rubs at it, working it over and over until Dean starts to soar higher and higher and hoooolyjesusfuck he comes all over his stomach with a broken, helpless cry.
“Holy shit,” Cas says, voicing Dean’s thought. Dean is limp and bendy and sated but goddamn it, he hasn’t even had Cas inside him yet.
So he says, “C’mon, baby, need it. Need to be fucked.”
Two fingers becomes three, but Cas’ attentions to Dean’s hole are no longer as controlled and sweet as they were before. His pace is punishing now and it’s making Dean’s brain go fuzzy with need, enough that he wonders if he could get hard again, even with the insane orgasm he’s already had.
Then the touch is gone. The cold hits Dean and he groans, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as Cas rips open a condom packet. The way that his hands tremble as he rolls it on makes Dean hot in his skin. Cas needs this, just like he needs it, and damn it, they’re both going to get it.
When Cas’ eyes flicker back to Dean, Dean lifts his hips up to give Cas better access, and Castiel gives Dean the most incredible, salacious grin that he has ever seen. Cas slides forward and pushes Dean’s legs apart impossibly far. He grips his cock in one hand and holds Dean steady with the other. He meets Dean’s gaze and says, “Look how open you are for me. Look at how wet you are.”
“God, yes,” Dean answers.
Only an inch in, Cas gasps out. Dean tightens around him and he makes another noise, a higher-pitched, needy noise before he slams in home and the sound of skin slapping together echoes in the bedroom. Dean tosses his head and moans something out, words he isn’t even sure of as Cas pulls back and fucks in again.
Dean is all legs in the air and taking it and God, he loves this. He loves the kind of guy that can jerk the power out of Dean’s hands and crush it in his fist. Cas pistons into him, fucking in hard, dirty thrusts that hit against Dean’s prostate with every jerk forward. By now Dean has accepted that every one of Cas’ neighbors can hear him howling out pleasure and need as he claws at Cas’ shoulders, nails biting into tattooed skin so he just has something to hang onto.
He clings. Cas tells him things, tells him what a good job that he’s doing and how gorgeous Dean looks getting fucked. Between each word are moans and gasps of pleasure, the sound of skin on skin, and the creak of the bedsprings as Dean gets slammed deeper and deeper into the mattress.
Then Cas hangs his head and slams into Dean one, final time. He manages only a surprised, “Oh,” before he slumps over onto Dean in a sweaty, heavy, wonderful heap.
Dean lets out a tired laugh and a low whistle before he wraps his arms around Cas’ sweat-damp back, holding their bodies together. He hasn’t gotten laid in over two months, so he may have been a little deprived, but Dean is pretty sure that he just had the best sex that he has ever had in his entire life.
“That was – frickin’ awesome, dude,” Dean says.
Cas mumbles something into Dean’s shoulder.
“Can’t hear you like that, Cas.”
“I said if we don’t do that again, I am going to very upset.”
“Well, I can’t have you getting all upset on me, can I?” Dean laughs back, lust-drunk and fucked out.
Only then, his stomach growls.
Cas snorts against the skin of Dean’s neck and says, “I agree. I can spring for Chinese, if you’d like. I have Netflix.”
Dean has never heard more perfect words in his life.
Cas doesn’t redress in his clothes, instead going for pajamas and loaning Dean a pair of well-loved sweatpants. The takeout place is pretty damn efficient in getting them their food, and no sooner has Dean chosen a movie to watch on Neflix than the buzzer goes off and they have steaming food out and ready for them on Cas’ coffee table.
And when Dean starts to fall asleep on the couch after dinner, and Cas suggests that he just spend the night, he can’t find a reason not to. So it was their first date. So they barely even know each other. Dean already knows a few important things about Doctor Castiel Novak, Professor of Anthropology: he has a ’79 Thunderbird, he’s covered in awesome tattoos, he has Battlestar Galactica and Batman in his Netflix queue, Sammy likes him…and he is nothing like Dean expected him to be.
12:14AM Sammy: You’re not home and it’s pretty late. Date go well?
12:16AM Dean: check it out (Attachment: mydateissleeping.jpg)
12:16AM Sammy: Awesome. Thank you for sending me a pic of my prof in bed with you. I will never unsee that, jerk.
12:17AM Sammy: He has more tats than I thought.
12:18AM Sammy: I’m happy for you.
12:18AM Sammy: Asshole.