Time Between the Two of Us

Summary: After the summoning of Raphael, Castiel is reeling with the news the archangel dropped on him. Dean, who firmly believes in escapism as a coping mechanism, helps him forget his troubles for a time when Castiel decides to do something a little unorthodox.

A/N: This takes place between Raphael being a buttface, and the scene in the car, at the end of episode 5x03. For the purposes of crazy!hot!impossible!sex, Castiel wasn't cut off from Heaven when he was resurrected. Just because, if he was, he'd have limited mojo, and then this whole thing wouldn't work... and you want it to work. Trust me.

Dean runs the towel over his hair again, even though it's mostly dry. He has no idea what to say.

Across the tungsten-lit motel room, Castiel stands rigid, his hands balled into fists, wide eyes glittering wetly. He's still soaked, but as Dean watches, the water wicks itself from cloth and skin. "Why would He allow all of this, Dean?" the angel asks, anguished. "What you said had merit: our Father would not refrain from interfering if He knew."

"Cas..." Dean drops the towel. His inhale is slow, measured. "I'm not saying you're wrong, man, but I don't know what else to tell you."

Castiel's eyes dart away, fixing on nothing. He bites his lip and Dean watches him blink, graceless tears spilling, catching the light. He's never seen an angel cry. It feels even more sacrilegious than anything else that's happened lately, and Dean's not even sure if that's worse than actually seeing tears pick their way through Castiel's stubble.

Not to mention that it rips his heart right in friggin' half, but a specimen of manhood such as himself can't dwell on stuff like that. It leads to talks about feelings and (usually) Sam's scrunched up face, and then Dean blasts out his own and anyone else's eardrums with his tapes in the car, still trying to not dwell on whatever it was.

But this is Castiel, with reddened eyes, standing there, forlorn. There's just as much between them as with Sam but in different places, all of it gained over a much shorter span of time, the depth and breadth of which continues to astound him - and he might be starting to understand just how much he owes to Castiel.

Phrases like "you should show me some respect" and "I can throw you back in" bounce their way around Dean's skull, Castiel's commanding intonation still sending a shiver up his spine. That was a voice that spoke volumes regarding all the ways the speaker could twist you up and around whichever finger they so chose. But hot on the heels of those memories speeds a much more recent, much nicer sound bite. No words, just everything Castiel needed to say in the vowel-filled space of an orgasm. And Dean said it all right back, instantly, and just as loudly.

The new dynamic between them allows for more personally interpretive communication, much to Dean's delight. He never was very good at talking things out.

As he thinks these things, Dean moves closer, jeans rustling across his thighs. His thin black t-shirt suddenly seems confining, like the steam from the bathroom became all the room's air and it's stifling - even if it's actually cold enough that his nipples are poking through the worn material. He can feel heat radiating from the angel; even feet away, the guy is like a furnace.

"You don't think it's possible, do you?" Dean says, watching Castiel carefully. The tears still haven't stopped. He doesn't want to ask this, but he needs to, needs Castiel to tell him what he can't readily discern. "The idea that dad's a deadbeat, that the black sheep of the family is the one who brought you back?"

Still looking away, Castiel says stiffly, "I don't kn... no, I don't." He turns swollen, blazing eyes on Dean and Dean stops breathing. "I don't believe any of that was true." The angel nearly vibrates with sudden anger. When he speaks, every word is sharply delineated in the air. "I know He's out there somewhere!"

But then, suddenly deflating, he seems to fold in on himself. "But He isn't, not anywhere," Castiel says in a very small voice. "Dean, I've looked everywhere."

Dean looks at him helplessly. Castiel breathes and when he does it becomes a gulp of air, his exhale shuddering, his eyes stolen oceans. Dean can't help it, he surges forward, wrapping the angel up tightly in his arms. Castiel shakes with a wracking sob, and Dean feels new tears soak through his t-shirt. "Shh, Cas," he soothes, "it'll be all right."

"But it's not, and it won't, and Dean, what is this?" the angel moans. "I don't like feeling like this."

"This is... grief, and what people call a 'drop' - 's when you feel depressed after a fight," Dean says, drawing back, trying to look Castiel in the eye, very human emotions. "You don't need to be focusing on the negative." He strokes the angel's hair a bit, smiling when Castiel meets his eyes. The tears have stopped but his eyes are pathetically red, his brows drawn. He sniffles. "How do I... not... do that?"

"We could go somewhere, get something to eat," the hunter suggests, and Castiel's lips purse to the side as he considers it. "I do not -" "Require food, right," Dean says exasperatedly. Castiel gives him a small smile. "I was going to say I do not think I am interested in tasting anything tonight."

"Hmm... taste," Dean murmurs, grin evident in his voice, tilting his head. His breath curls against Castiel's face and he feels it back on his own skin, they're so close. "Last night was a smorgasbord," he says, remembering in a heady rush all that pale skin, fabricated moonlight throwing the angel's orgasm into sharp, memorable relief. Dean remembers sounds, tastes, sensations and goes weak in the knees. He tries not to let it show. "Now, you thinkin' continental?"

"Yes, what was it you said..." Castiel's eyes twinkle in merriment. "A condom, a chocolate bar -"

"- and honeydew on toothpicks, yeah," Dean says, and snares Castiel's lips with his own. Castiel shudders and moves in to the kiss, his mmph of approval lost when Dean swallows it, licking into Castiel's mouth.

Castiel moves back, pressing kisses to Dean's lips, chin, jawline. Dean's fingers card through his hair, and Dean's lips find his pulse point, baring teeth that nip and pinch. "I will - mm, always... be interested in... tasting - ah, you, Dean," Castiel barely manages to say, as Dean sucks tiny love bites into Castiel's throat. "Any and all of your tastes." The angel licks up behind Dean's ear, suckles on the lobe. Dean whines, needs. He's half-hard and gaining, hips seeking friction on Castiel's thigh.

In unspoken concord they break apart, panting, Dean rucking up his own shirt. Castiel shrugs out of his trench coat. "I just need to not think for awhile, Dean," he says, moving in to Dean's space and attaching to Dean's collarbone the moment it's in view, fingers scrabbling across Dean's chest, tweaking his nipples. Dean hisses, tosses his shirt aside. "What did you have in mind?" he asks, guiding Castiel back up, nipping into his mouth, dancing with the angel's tongue as it draws along his own.

"I - ah! I want to take you," Castiel says, the rest of the sentence lost in a hitching moan when Dean yanks open his suit jacket, tugs up his shirt, runs warm callused hands over the taut flesh of his stomach. "Take me where?" Dean asks breathlessly, lips working over the angel's neck, hands on Castiel's belt.

"Anywhere, everywhere, any position and all of them - Dean, I want to show you what you've shown me."

Dean's hands find his hips and still, gripping tight. He's breathing hard, they're standing cheek to cheek and Castiel suddenly needs to see what's going on behind his eyes. "Dean?" He ducks back, around, chasing his lover's elusive gaze.

The hunter's cheeks are red. Castiel frowns. "Dean, what's the matter?"

"You, uh," Dean's voice is harsh, and he has to clear his throat. "You want to fuck me?"

"Yes," Castiel says simply, and Dean's perfect lips gape apart. One of Dean's hands slides out of Castiel's shirt, and rubs at the back of his neck. Castiel knows what those thin bristles of hair feel like, smell like, and he has to quell an urge to rub his face where that hand is moving.

"Cas, I, uh," Dean says, turning redder, and Castiel moves closer, nosing at Dean's face so he'll look him in the eye. Mere inches apart, and he can see every fleck of gold and granite in those green eyes. "Dean," he says quietly. "I want to show you just how wonderful you are."

"Oh, yeah?" Castiel can see Dean's cockiness returning and it's not a welcome guest. "How is your di-"

"Dean." His tone brooks no argument; the hunter's mouth snaps shut. "Everything I know about sex, I learned from you. Quite recently, might I add." Castiel's eyes are softer than the line of his lips. "In all the time I've known you, Dean, I have seen the low value you place on your self-worth. I would like the chance to prove you wrong, as well as provide... an escape, of sorts."

"Kinda like a get-out-of-Apocalypse-free card?" Dean jokes. Castiel recognizes the tone but the sentence still goes over his head, so he replies like he normally would. Literally. "We cannot stop the Apocalypse with sex, Dean."

Dean laughs at that, if a bit ruefully. "Yeah, I wish."

"We can, however, forget about it for a time."

"Sex as mind-bleach," Dean says, laughing again, though this one is resigned and completely bereft of humor. "Can't say I haven't been there."

"With you," Castiel says, cupping Dean's jaw, "I find I am able to... postpone my troubles, for the time we are together. Not because that is all I find with you, but because you are all I wish to find -"

"Shut up and kiss me," Dean growls, slamming their mouths together so hard that blood wells, bright copper amid the taste of toothpaste and Dean. Castiel suckles on Dean's tongue as it maps his mouth, moaning when stubble snags his lips around the edges.

The angel tastes like coffee and chocolate and some kind of baking spice, cardamom or cloves. Dean wants that taste to linger in his mouth for days, and he kisses Castiel like he can lick every drop of it from his mouth. Their hands roam fervently, finding skin and claiming it, pinching, stroking, drawing warmth up from where their bodies press together. Castiel kisses up the line of Dean's jaw, finds his earlobe and suckles fiercely, sharp hmm of pleasure drowning Dean's ah! of surprise.

"Can I have you, Dean?" he inquires, steam and words from his lips, brushing Dean's ear. Dean's eyes roll back, his hips buck forward. "Yeah, Cas," he groans, "yeah. Take me." He breathes the end of that sentence into Castiel's neck, and takes the tendon there between his teeth. He's trying to undo the buttons of Castiel's dress shirt without looking, but Dean's never been very good with tiny buttons and he's about to just rip the thing apart. He gets it open one way or another, and rucks up the undershirt beneath to expose lithe, pale-skinned abs.

"Take you -" Castiel bares his neck further, one hand fumbling with Dean's belt - "where?"

"Anywhere, Cas, shit," Dean says, mostly focused on doing the same to him. He gets the zipper down before Castiel does, shoves the slacks down til they disappear with the angel's socks and shoes - and then he's got Castiel in hand, flushing beneath his fingers and swelling obscenely. Dean grins at his angel, takes in the lip pinched crimson between white teeth, and then Castiel's got a firm grip on him too and their hands slide together, drawing twin gasps.

Hips follow instinct. The heads of their cocks slide together, their hands working feverishly, sparks flying along the lines of their nerves as they rut together. Dean's lost in it, he doesn't realize they're moving through their thrusts like some crazy hip-fuck dance until the bed catches his knees. He sits down, hard on the mattress, and smirks like a lucky fox when he's presented with Castiel's tasty cock. Right there at eye level, how considerate. Don't mind if I do.

He's got his lips around the head and his tongue in the slit before Castiel can finish forming his name, and the way that one syllable becomes twelve is sweeter music than any Dean's heard. One of the angel's hands scrabbles through his hair - Dean grins, humming around the dick in his mouth, answering Castiel's shiver with a shoulder-roll shake of his own. He's rusty at this but after the fiasco last night, he knows just how much he can take - and so he does, barely choking instead of retching when he tries to draw breath.

The rhythm he sets is slow because it has to be, going this punishingly deep, his throat fluttering around the head every time his lips bury themselves in wiry curls. Every stroke back up comes with a swirl of his tongue and a hearty suck, wet and hot, and Dean knows Castiel is losing his mind up there. The stuttered groans and abortive jerks of the angel's hips beneath Dean's firm hands are evidence to that, and it's all turning Dean on like crazy.

"Dean," Castiel says, warning. Dean pulls off with a sloppy swirl of his tongue and smacks his lips on the head. Castiel shudders, exhale in a guh, one hand to his face. "Dean, the things you do to me -"

"What, me? I'm just havin' fun." Castiel eyes him like he's committing a cardinal sin and worse, he's doing it wrong. "What?!"

The angel shoves him backwards on to the bed and Dean yelps despite himself, despite fully expecting it to happen. Strong, pale hands grip his waistbands tight and with a shoof of fabric Dean finds himself fully nude - well, Castiel leaves the binding clothing around his ankles, with what looks for an instant like a very satisfied smirk.

Dean's got no time to worry, though, as in the next moment Castiel flips him over, pulling his hips up and baring his ass shamelessly. The purr that rumbles through the angel's chest - and Dean knows it's because he's luxuriating in the sight of Dean so displayed - sends a surge of twinges cramping through Dean's gut that manifest in his cock twitching violently, a few drops of precome beading and sliding from the tip to stain the comforter.

"Cas? -" and the name becomes a gasp, because Dean's not expecting a tongue to circle his perineum like it's sampling something sweet. Castiel fucking moans as he tastes, glorious tongue flicking, smoothing, laving over the little entrance. Dean squirms, wanting more, but he's so embarrassed and doesn't even know why. He's eating me out like a fucking girl, why do I - an equally embarrassing noise escapes him and he closes his eyes against the helplessness of it, hips canting backward, muscles fluttering, desperate to be tasted.

Castiel's tongue spears Dean open and Dean discovers a whole new register to his voice.

"Cas, fuck, god - your fucking mouth -" he can't stop voicing obscenities. Sex talk with an angel is still so new and so thrillingly wrong, and he doesn't even care. "Christ on a fucking craah! Caaas," the name is paragraphs long in one flat vowel, and he begins a new one when Castiel nudges a finger in alongside his tongue.

It burns. Of course it does, it's been years since he's been fucked by a guy, and he almost never gets up in there himself unless he's drunk and feeling particularly frisky. More recently a few girls have asked, pulling out their own harnesses and scary purple additions, but Dean never really got into the mood for that, with them.

Now, with Cas? Dean feels like he could take anything and still beg for more. And Dean really tries not to beg, ever.

"Cas, please, oh god, please -"

Well, tries being the operative word.

"Shh," Castiel hums into Dean's skin, just above his puckered rim, and the skin reacts to the sensation, drawing in. Dean can feel it, flexes experimentally just as Castiel slips that finger in to his second knuckle. "Shit!" Dean bites his lip, Castiel wriggles a bit. "Do that again."

Castiel slides in deeper, crooking his finger up, and there's something he brushes against - Dean simultaneously tenses and relaxes, sees nothing but static and star-spots. "That, right there, what the fuck?" he asks breathlessly. "What was - oh god, oh god -" because Castiel's not about to just tease something that can do this to Dean. He lays on it, sliding in spirals and circles, varying pressure, breathing harsh against Dean's skin. "I love it when you lose control," he sighs, nipping Dean's left buttock, his thigh, pressing stubbled cheek to smooth flesh as he slides his unoccupied hand around to clasp Dean's rock hard, dripping cock.

Dean may let out a whimper when he does.

Two fingers, now, slick with lube that Cas pulled from somewhere and circling Dean's prostate, the hunter a writhing, grasping mess. He's been begging Castiel to just get in him, something he sincerely hopes no one else can hear. "Just be done and come on, Cas, I'm not a friggin' girl."

"You will be grateful for this consideration when I am inside you," Castiel says, and that voice saying "inside you" so seriously casts another nerve-searing wave of desire. Dean's cock jumps in the angel's hand, and he seriously doesn't think he'll ever be able to carry on a conversation with Castiel again: every time he hears that voice, he'll be insta-hard and needy. "Caaas," he whines into the mattress, hips searching back for more of those fingers. Castiel swipes roughly over his prostate to shut him up, growling, "Make those animal noises if you like, but don't fucking rush me."

Oh, and that's it, the hottest thing, a kink Dean knew but didn't know he had - and he seizes up, coming so hard he sobs it out, clenching helplessly around Castiel's fingers. "Say that again," he says when he can, voice wrecked, after-shock shudders breaking the words.

Castiel's still milking him through it, adding a third finger between languid pulls of Dean's softening cock. "Don't," he pulls his hand away just when it becomes too much, and Dean can hear him licking his fingers; Dean's cock jumps, starts to fill again. Dean would be incredulous if he had the presence of mind. "Fucking," Castiel twists his hand inside Dean, grazing the prostate and skating on past it, opening Dean's body as wide as it will go and earning a groan that he must feel at his fingertips. "Rush," he pulls the fingers out slowly, Dean's whimper at their loss is somewhat dampened both by the pile of comforter against his mouth and the impulsive wiggling of his ass, an undeniable plea for attention.

Dean feels the blunt head of Castiel's cock probing his entrance and sucks in a noisy breath. He holds it, the angel pauses, the world halts in its spin -

"Me," Castiel snaps, and sheathes himself in one, devastating stroke.

The noise Dean makes at being filled is wondrous, a feral cry layered in feeling. It also echoes, and he notices that before he notices that in place of a bed beneath him, his hands and knees rest on cool marble. The darkness doesn't really register at all.

Then Castiel pulls out, the long, slow slide of him grinding along Dean's inner walls, sexual torture at its lingering finest - and punches back in, Dean's wail bouncing sharp and bright against unseen walls, to be followed by yips and moans and shrieks as Castiel sets a punishing rhythm.

Dean is eventually aware of a warm body draped over his back, just before hot lips strain for the back of his neck. "You should try to be quieter," Castiel says, a sibilant murmur Dean can feel inside and out. "You are a work of art, but I believe it is still illegal to fuck in a museum." Dean can't help a low moan at the shape and texture of that word in the angel's mouth.

Then "Wait, a what?" Dean tries to force himself to whisper; it ends up coming out in harsh fits and starts, to the timing of Castiel's hips.

Castiel's laugh is more devilish than it has any right to be, and he says, "I've always wanted to visit the Louvre."

Dean knows what that is. He knows where that is, and he clenches his ass tight as he can to try and hold Castiel still. "Are you telling me," he demands not-so-sotto-voce, "that we are fucking in a museum, the museum in France?"

"It's not the only -" "Cas!"

"Yes," the angel says, grinding forward, his cock flexing so deep in Dean that Dean forgets what he's talking about. Oh, yeah. "Why the Louvre, exactly?"

"You said anywhere," and the scene changes, shadows and marble becoming cloth and smoke. "I tend to take things literally." There's rue in his tone Dean's not touching right now; this is supposed to be helping the poor guy relax.

"Where are we now?" Dean's looking around but he can't see much beyond pillows and draperies, tasseled and drowning in golden thread, jewel tones and wooden boggles in Middle Eastern style.

"I believe," Castiel says, digging his nails into Dean's bare hips, "we are somewhere in Saudi Arabia." Dean's prepared for the pull-out and fuck back in, but he can't seem to keep himself quiet. The second, third, fourth thrusts he's all right, but on the fifth Castiel angles his hips up and damn, Dean didn't know he could howl like that.

Voices erupt somewhere close by, canvas flaps against the wind. Dean hears a sword being drawn -

All sound fades to breezes playing through long, linen curtains, and the slap of Castiel's hips against Dean's ass. Whatever this is below him, some kind of carpet made of silk, is far too soft and expensive to not fuck on. "New York," the angel answers the unspoken, pulling out. He flops Dean unceremoniously to one side - the constricting jeans disappear, along with boots and threadbare socks - and he lifts one of Dean's legs, slides in again like they were meant to fit together. "Penthouse over - unh, Central Park."

That's the first remotely sexy noise he's made. Dean cranes his neck and makes sure Castiel can see his shit-eating grin. The angel scrunches his face up, thrusts hard. "Dean, you -"

Dean doesn't give him time to bitch about it, throwing his leg all the way over, not breaking their connection. Once he's on his back, he uses his legs to draw Castiel in close. Their hips work in such a synchronized rhythm that it's not staccato pounding or thrust-and-catch at all, just swaying and Castiel pressed so deep inside of Dean, a drunken tango where the dancers interlock. Dean reaches up to swipe sweat from Castiel's brow and just drinks him in, flushed and dark-eyed, calm distance dashed aside by carnal fever.

"The things we do to one another, huh?" Dean says, agreeing with what he's reading on Castiel's face.

The words seem to strike Castiel where Castiel's voice has been striking Dean all evening, and his hips stutter harder, faster. Strike and again, hammer and nail, Castiel is the weapon and Dean, the forge.

He pulls out and Dean's whole body moves with him - Dean hadn't realized just how hypnotic a good, long fuck can be. "Up," Castiel snarls, yanking on Dean's arm. The hunter comes up on unsteady feet, only to be manhandled back against a wall. It's not an interior wall, either, but rough natural brick, and Dean can hear a train whistle faintly over the bustling sounds of nearby civilization.

"I don't just want to love you anywhere," Castiel says, pressing in, capturing Dean's lips in a move that's more tearing, claiming, than a kiss. "I want you anywhen."

A large vehicle drives by somewhere close but Dean's too focused on the impatient angel in his arms to care about being seen. He's got one hand up the back of Castiel's shirts, the other cupping his bare ass, pulling hips against hips and his erection, now thoroughly back in the game, duels with Castiel's in the closing space between them.

Hazily he thinks of that show Sam likes to watch - thinking of Sam is painful, and thinking of Sam during sex should be prohibited, but what his brain feeds him makes him smile. He slides his face up Castiel's, burn and catch of both their stubble, mouthing toward his ear to murmur, "All of space and time - where do you want to start?"

"Dean..." Castiel sags in his arms -

Then spins him, catching up behind him, cock slotting perfectly into the cleft of his ass. Dean can't help but shiver. He hears the click of the lube bottle - what, was that in your pocket? - but he still isn't really prepared for the fat shove of Castiel, nor how tender his ass is already. He yowls, something close to a cat that's been skewered, but the next few thrusts and those after that soon have him panting, gasping for more.

All around them changes abruptly.

"Scotland, 1328," Castiel says raggedly. The wall is waist high and Dean stumbles forward, catching his hands on rough-hewn stone. There's fog, low on the ground, and the sounds of unseen fighting ring out all around them. "Fuck!" He bucks backward, deepening Castiel's onslaught and the angel roars, clutching him, biting his shoulder blade, dragging hard nails down his arm.

Cloudy moor becomes a beach, the wall a sturdy pilaster beneath a massive wooden pier. "Coney Island," Castiel gasps, but Dean's already chuckling, twisting and shouting to be heard over the waves. "That's New York twice, Cas, doesn't count!" He gets a slap on the thigh for his snark, and a change of scenery; sand becomes gravel - "Santa Cruz, then, bitch," Castiel snarls, angling up for that spot that has Dean sagging, entirely unable to protest being labeled the same as Raphael – his head flops back on Castiel's shoulder, litany of Castiel's name and some garbled filth spewing forth in increasingly higher tones. "Fuck, Cas, Cas, I -" The angel fumbles around their bodies for Dean's cock, and clamps down tight on the base. Dean hisses, fumbling with his fingers. "Easy!"

"Shut up," the angel says almost petulantly. "You've already come once, and you told me coming dry hurts you." The grip around him eases up slightly, massaging in little pulses. "I never want to hurt you, Dean."

"Me neither," Dean says, his chest growing tight. Time has sped up slightly, otherwise the sun is on a marathon track as it sets. Time-lapse light paints the wood beneath Dean's hands; sets what skin he can see ablaze in ruddy color. He wishes he could see what it looks like on Castiel's face. "Cas -"

"1944, Berlin," Castiel grates in his ear, slamming him flat against the wall, now stories high and made of brown painted cinder block. Dean flinches, hips unconsciously seeking friction - the surface is cold on his engorged cock, despite the afternoon warmth, but one agonizing drag and he's gasping for more. Castiel obliges, quick rocks of his hips into Dean's, his hand pressed between the scorch of Dean's cock and the cool of the wall. He strikes so deep into Dean that the hunter feels more than pierced; split open, overcome and so goddamn full. Dean rises up on his toes, mouth gaping, mind blank, all chill and nerves aflame as Castiel takes him like an animal, all poise and sense forgotten, pressing Dean's cheek to the wall.

Wind rustles through trees, howls down the alley they're rutting in. Somewhere nearby, they can hear a crowd roaring.

It's like we're bringing love to all the chaos, Dean thinks hazily, then, don't say that, lame. What he does say is, "Hitler can suck it!", loudly, and it's awesome even if his voice does crack when Castiel thrusts deepest again, and then all he can do is count his own heartbeats as his eyes cross.

Castiel rips him away from the wall and he goes down on his hands and knees in lush, mossy grass, beside a manicured hedge. There's some kind of stilted yet lively classical music being played on a twangy sort of instrument, and Dean can hear laughter and bubbling conversation nearby. "18th century France," Castiel murmurs, reaching and grabbing Dean's forehead, yanking back his head til he feels overextended, his breathing harsh. The angel licks a stripe up the side of Dean's neck and says, hot on his ear, "One of Louis XVI's garden parties. Try to be quiet."

His hips like a piston, he pounds into Dean with a sharp slap of flesh and all the stealth of a Gatling cannon. Dean's eyes slip closed, he's just trying to keep his breaths from coming in gasps that shriek through his overextended throat. It's not working. Castiel is fucking him through time and he doesn't know if he'll survive the onslaught, the angel's cock a blessing that splits him into atoms as they writhe together. Castiel's other hand digs painfully into Dean's hip, pulling him back and down harder, faster, impaling him on searing hardness. Dean drags in a sobbing breath.

"Sacre bleu!"

"Merde," Castiel mutters and Dean laughs high, hysterical. The hedge and the distant spinet become a weed-sown hillside, and the sound of a motorcade. "Wait, this is..." the angel sounds confused, running his hand almost absently through Dean's hair. "Doesn't matter, keep moving," Dean grunts, clenching around Castiel, digging twitching hands into the overgrown ground and driving back, hard. His knees sink in and he could care less - sparks shoot from somewhere behind his balls, radiate upward in a firestorm of wantneednow and Cas that all but consumes him. He tosses his head, whining, "Fuck, Cas," he growls, and Castiel lays a hard, open-palm smack to his ass.

It almost, almost covers the sound of a gunshot.

"I know where we are," Castiel says, wonder and alarm, and then they're not. Wherever this is now looks like a furniture store, at midnight. Dean runs his fingers through a deep pile carpet, wincing at the price tag on the couch in front of him.

Then Castiel's pulling out. Dean hisses as the cool air hits. "Cas, what're you, hn -" The breath is punched out of him when he feels the angel's tongue probing, teasing the tenderized flesh, sweeping inside and stroking him almost lovingly. Castiel lets out a groan that Dean can feel up through his teeth.

Blasphemy kicks out of his stomach and mouth, he's mumbling filth, rocking back on Castiel's face. His tongue is all at once soft and hard, fucking in and out in neat little strokes, Castiel's lips sealed and sucking around Dean's rim. Dean's whole body is performing ' dance in some bizarre fit of sexual epilepsy, he can't control the feral unh - unh – unh being ripped from him in a steady, reactionary stream. His cock is hard enough to cut diamonds, slick and wet.

The absence of that tongue in his ass is a crime and Dean whimpers his displeasure, hips swaying, shadows dipping and sliding slick across his skin. "Cas -" his whisper is sub-vocal but the angel always hears him, always - "Cas, take me away."

Castiel flips him neatly on to his back (Dean feels expensive carpet become silk sheets) and re-sheathes himself in one fluid motion. He hovers over Dean, eyes with the whole night sky within them burning straight through the hunter lying lissome and impaled beneath him. "You really are -" he breathes, but Dean cuts him off with a groan that's more heat than anything, his body clutching Castiel's cock possessively. "Don't tell me I'm your pretty princess, Cas."

The angel chuckles fondly, drawing his hips back. "I wouldn't dream of it, Dean," he says, and on the name he fucks forward, deep, striking a sound from Dean that spills warmth through Castiel's veins. "You are astounding, colorful -" on each endearment he plunges deeper, a punishing depth and power to his strokes, and he knows Dean's fingers are white where they've gathered fistfuls of his jacket, "- but most of all, you are so very generous, Dean."

Dean's "Is that so?" is more of a long, drawn-out whine. His skin, the muscular rim pulls at Castiel as he moves. "Yes," the angel groans, buried to the hilt in his hunter. "Yes," with lips and teeth attaching to Dean's neck. "You give me so much," he says, shapes of an exhale into Dean's skin.

Eyes rolling back, Dean grapples at Castiel's back with his legs, heels sliding up, bunching the angel's suit jacket. Jostling, sweet smack into one another and Dean grabs for the headboard, the wall, anything - one hand finds the back of Castiel's neck. Their foreheads meet, slip of sweat, and the two just pant each others' air as Castiel plunders Dean, the drag of cock inside him like the ebb and flow of some erotic tide. Dean tongues sweat from his lips, then catches Castiel's in a breathless kiss, a practically graceless meeting of mouths. Castiel sucks Dean's bottom lip in, holds it between his teeth, with one strong hand clasping Dean's thigh - his tongue breaks the hold of his teeth and fucks Dean's mouth in time with his hips, a low growl building in his chest.

Dean can feel Castiel in all spaces, everywhere, reverberating around and through him. Dean's hands run rampant across the angel's back and for one transcendental moment, he would have sworn he felt Castiel's wings beneath his questing fingertips. He sucks Castiel's tongue into his mouth, wracked with a dirty shiver as he does.

When they break apart so that Dean can breathe, Castiel rears above him, and Dean drinks in the sight. Hair sex-tousled, color high on his cheeks. Castiel stares at him staring for scant moments before suddenly radiating power, the angel's eyes darkening, pupils blowing wide til only the catch light defined those pits of black. "You are mine," he says fiercely, and all the lights in the place - that Dean hadn't even looked at properly - blow out, thick windows rattle, and a threatening hum arises.

"Tell me how you really feel," Dean gasps. Castiel takes him seriously.

"You make me - feel so - unnh, so hot, Deannn," Castiel moans, diving to nip at Dean's jawline, nosing into his pulse. "So fucking hot," the angel snarls, and he clamps down on Dean's throat as the hunter shudders beneath him. Dean can feel his heartbeat within Castiel's mouth and he makes a needy noise, thrashing, his skin stretching. Castiel's holding on, sucking hard, drawing out everything Dean has to give.

The place they're in now doesn't smell like the expensive bedroom, and there's sun on Dean's face, but he keeps his eyes closed. He doesn't much care where they are in the face of how fucking good this feels. Castiel's tongue is laving over the marks of his teeth and Dean can feel it on his cock, trapped between their bellies. He torques his hips down but Castiel's pulling out, guiding him up on his knees and around. The angel lies back with a encouraging smile and Dean straddles his hips, reaching to position Castiel's cock again, smirking when it flexes in his hand and Castiel hisses in between clenched teeth. A single bead of sweat is making its way down his face.

The head of him breaches Dean once more, who sinks down the length with a shuddering sigh.

When he's seated to the hilt, Dean twists his hips experimentally, rock and hop, smirking when Castiel tosses his head against the ground with a little moan. "Do you even know where we are right now?" the hunter asks smugly, grinding down again. The head of Castiel's cock skims Dean's prostate, and his eyes flutter against his will. Electricity sluices through him, a little sound exits.

"I know where I am," Castiel says above him, hands running possessively up Dean's thighs. "I'm inside you."

Dean raises himself slowly, holding Castiel's gaze. "That's good enough, I guess -" then he's slamming down and a noise he'd would never admit to making comes out so Dean gives up on talking; Castiel snaps his hips straight up, and Dean remembers why talking is overrated. So fucking full, he'll never get used to it - he jerks up and drops back down, bounces, grinds on Castiel's cock, working back mindlessly on to hard, fat heat. "God, Cas, you are so fucking -"

"Shut up, Dean," Castiel breathes, taking hold of Dean's cock. Nimble fingers slide the length and twist on the head, thumbing the underside, clench and ripple and echo of what it must feel like for the molten hardness inside him. Dean remembers, remembers what it was like to enter Castiel and he moans, thinking of giving even as he's taking, shocks along nerves. Apropos of everything, he finds his eyes watering.

"So fucking good," he whispers, head thrown back and he can see the sky, a gorgeous full blue like it's never been before.

Dean snaps his head forward and actually looks around. Eyes go wide as hubcaps. "Cas," he whispers hoarsely. "Cas, is this -"

"On the seventh day, the Creator rested." Castiel slows his movements til they're deep, sensual. "Everything was new, and pristine." He sits up, drawing his legs beneath Dean, holding the hunter in his lap, pinned on his cock. Dean strokes through the angel's hair, looks down at him, incredulous.

The angel gives him a tired smile. "I thought, since it's the Apocalypse, I should show you what it was like when everything..." One hand gestures a flourish toward the open spaces.

Dean has no words. The untouched splendor around him prickles his eyes and constricts his chest, so he gazes down at Castiel and hopes everything he's feeling can be read in his eyes, because he sure as hell has no idea how to say it. One trembling finger finds Castiel's chin and tips him up, those blue eyes shining, and when Dean's lips meet his they're both shaking, inhaling sharp and quick.

Castiel is the first to close his eyes. Tears escape reddened lids, and he tilts his head to kiss Dean deep and properly.

They shift as they kiss and remember the heat, Castiel flexing inside of Dean. Fingers catch against stubble, lips raw with it, neither of them caring. Joined at the hips, they rock, slowly at first, building up speed like a locomotive, heat and steam coursing through veins from one to the other and back again. The kiss turns filthy, wide-open mouths, tongues tangling, desperate and wanting. Dean draws himself upward, thighs tensing - his lips leave Castiel's and he has a brief glimpse of the angel's eyes, wide black and cobalt-limned; his lips flushed and kiss-plump, parted and shiny and wet. Then Dean slams back down, Castiel's eyes roll up and Dean lets out a wanton cry, throwing his head back - Castiel leans back, plants a hand in the brand new earth, and strikes up into Dean with a sound that's both helpless and incendiary, Dean screaming harmony.

Dean falls forward, hands planting themselves on Castiel's chest, attempting to ground himself. Like a buzz in the periphery, he knows he'll have a sunburn when this is over, but he's too focused on fucking down on Castiel filling him up, reaching for nirvana with every urgent twitch of his hips, to care about the sun. Every thrust kisses his prostate, singes his cells, kicks him closer to the sky. "So close... so close, baby," he pants, mindless in the things he says. "God, Cas, I love you -"

Castiel's eyes fly wide and his entire body tenses, he utters a few choked syllables and comes, violently, lighting Dean up like a pinball machine with a sudden rush of wet heat deep inside. That and his groan shake something loose in Dean, whose hips stutter down, and his orgasm hits in a velvet wave. His cock pulses white over Castiel's stomach, his mind so much blissful static, body clenching fitfully.

Suddenly weak, Dean slides forward, letting his chest strike Castiel's - and the mess has already disappeared. Perfect grass becomes a motel bed, cheap comforter sliding and bunching beneath his legs when he stretches them out.

Castiel slips out, but he doesn't move, holding Dean there atop his chest. It's still evening here, still dark, but Dean can smell the fresh-sex scent of him just fine without his eyes, can hear breaths and beginnings of words as rumbling sighs within the chest below his ear. And gradually, as his breathing slows, Dean's night vision adjusts. When he's regained enough strength to lift his head, Dean revels in the sight of his angel's face, as he leans in for a kiss. Castiel looks wrecked, spent and satiated, his cheeks reddening as Dean gets closer.

Dean, licking across the angel's chapped lips, thinks he could kiss them forever. Beneath him, Castiel moans contentedly.

The shape of his name as it's murmured into his mouth is lightly teasing, and Dean eats the sounds from Castiel like pudding, great lazy swipes of his tongue. Castiel sucks on him for a moment, then tries to pull back. "Dean, what you said..."

"Mmm?" Dean licks the lines of Castiel's lips, worrying the plump bottom one with gentle teeth. "What'd I say?"

Castiel stills. Not abruptly, but Dean feels it. He pulls back on an elbow, studying the body beneath him. He knows exactly what he said. "Cas, I -"

"You don't have to say it," the angel murmurs, still looking at Dean but with eyes so shuttered it's like they're closed. Dean brings up a finger to Castiel's chin. "Cas, I really do love you."

Blue eyes like the night sky shine like it, too.

"God help me, I do," Dean whispers. "You just kinda... waltzed into my life, and... and now I don't think I can friggin' live without you."

He ducks to kiss Castiel again, with a tenderness that leaves them both flushed.

"If it's any consolation, I don't think you'll have to," the angel says softly. "I love you, as well, and I will do anything within my power to stay by your side."

"Cas... that's fucking awesome." Dean burrows happily into Castiel's shoulder, breathing deeply. "I'm gonna snuggle you now - don't ever tell anyone." He's got a reputation to maintain, after all.

Castiel's chuckles are a warm burr against his cheek, lips pressing a kiss to his temple, and Dean is incredibly content. It might have something to do with the fact that he knows, without even having to waste thoughts on it, that now, Castiel will always be with him. Profound bond, and all that.

Otherwise known as pretty goddamn perfect.

Eventually, Dean rolls to the side, reaching for his phone. "Two hours," he says, and sets an alarm, then collapses back into Castiel's arms. "Then we gotta hit the road."

Their fingers entwine. Castiel studies them, pale and almost spindly mingling amid tan and scarred. "Just like... Thelma and Louise," he says. Dean huffs a laugh. "What?"

"What you said, before... 'hold hands like Thelma and Louise'." Castiel finds Dean's green eyes easily in the dark. "Though there is no cliff here."

"The cliff was a metaphor, anyway, in this case," Dean says, yawning. "But no, no cliffs. No more suicide missions, okay, Cas?"

The angel nods, snuffling in closer to Dean's neck. Dean can feel the regular rise and fall of his chest, the muted thud of his heart. Hard to believe he's not human, sometimes, Dean thinks with a smile. Sometimes, he's just a regular guy. Well, not regular, even by human standards. Dean's dick gives a valiant but very exhausted twitch. Cas is... he's... he's fucking amazing.

Castiel exhales deeply, low rumble of sound in his throat, lips working against Dean's skin. "What was that?" Dean murmurs.

"I said, there is no better time than that between the two of us," Castiel says drowsily.

Dean falls asleep thinking that's the truest thing he's heard in a good long while.

*FIN