Chapter Text
“You reek,” says Sam, looking up from his homework with a scowl as soon as Dean walks into the kitchen.
“Hello to you, too, bitch,” Dean tosses back, extra-casual to cover his spike of anxiety. There’s no way he smells like sex, is there? Maybe he’s just sweaty. He gives his pits a surreptitious sniff.
“Not BO, stupid. You smell like smoke.”
“Oh.” Dean swallows, remembering how Cas hadn’t even set aside his cigarette while Dean rode him. He’d held it between his lips and puffed the smoke up into Dean’s hair while Dean gasped and moaned and bounced on his dick.
“Were you smoking, Dean?”
Sam sounds way more scandalized than a high school kid ought to be. God knows Dean tried a cigarette or two under the bleachers when he was Sam’s age. Then again, he wasn’t an extra-credit, dipped-in-genius-juice nerd. No straight A’s for Dean. Or straight anything else, for that matter.
Unexpectedly, it’s John who saves him from the fraternal inquisition. Their dad stumbles through the doorway and grunts at Sam, “Don’t be a priss. A man’s entitled to his vices.”
As if to prove the point, he grabs a beer from the fridge, then waves it at Dean. “No cigs in the house, hear me?”
“Yes, sir.” Dean makes a beeline for the shower, hoping that’s the end of it.
It isn’t.
The next evening, Sam ambushes Dean as he’s heading out the door, talking fast like the fine print in a commercial. “Smoking harms nearly every organ in the body, Dean. It causes lung cancer, heart disease, type two diabetes, reproductive–”
“Take a breath, Samantha. I’m not going out to buy smokes, I’m just gonna hang out with Cas.”
Sam’s eyes widen. He doesn’t know their neighbor nearly as well as Dean does, but ever since learning that Cas is a detective, he’s viewed the man with something near veneration. He sounds devastated when he asks, “Did Castiel get you started smoking? Is he, you know, like, a pusher?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, no. I don’t even smoke, okay?”
“But Dad thinks you do, too.”
“It’s better for Dad to think that I smoke than–” Dean cuts himself off. “It’s better.”
“Better than what, Dean?” Sam’s voice gets higher, louder. It’s damn lucky that John’s passed out in his room, dead to the world. “What are you doing with Castiel that’s worse than smoking?”
Dean slams the door on his way out.
But Sam is, unfortunately, very smart.
“So now Sam’s all up on my case about secondhand smoke.”
Castiel takes a pillow from the couch and drops it on the floor. Dean sinks to his knees, still talking, half his mind on what he’s saying and half on the filthy twist of shame and arousal that comes from realizing Cas has him as well trained as any dog.
“He figured out that we’re fucking, and I must’ve done all right raising the kid because he doesn’t care that you’re a dude or that you’re ten years older’n me, but he keeps leaving articles about smoking in my room. He wants you to quit, just hasn’t worked up the balls to tell you.”
Cas steps close and runs a hand through Dean’s hair. “Do you want me to stop smoking?”
Dean snorts. “Dude, smoke all you want, I don’t care. By the time it kills you, I’ll be long gone.”
Cas doesn’t argue. Dean has told him enough times how often they move, how any day John might get a wild hair up his ass, throw his sons and suitcases in the car, and burn rubber.
Cas just hums thoughtfully and cups Dean’s face in his hands, thumbs drawing warm circles on his cheekbones.
As usual, Dean is captivated by Cas’s intense blue stare. Minutes tick by, until Dean has to break the silence, even if he can’t break the eye contact. “Hurry up and stick your cock in my mouth before I get bored and ride you instead.”
It’s an empty threat. First of all, Dean could never tire of kneeling for Cas, and second of all, it’s not like the other option would disappoint either of them.
Cas’s lips curl in a faint smile, as if he heard everything Dean didn’t say. “Impatient,” he murmurs. He grips Dean’s jaw in one big hand. “Impudent.” With his other hand, he opens his pants and draws out his cock. “Show me what that mouth is good for, boy.”
So Dean does, choking on it, sloppy and eager while Cas stays quiet and restrained, even when he comes, flooding Dean’s mouth on a long sigh.
Afterward, Cas tidies himself up and moves to the couch. Dean follows, almost panting with his own pent-up need. Cas’s left hand finds the remote and resumes a nature documentary; his right settles in Dean’s lap. A gentle squeeze, a few firm rubs, and Dean’s coming in his jeans, pleasure crackling through his body as he white-knuckles the couch cushions.
He takes a minute to catch his breath, then goes to the bathroom to try to clean up. When he emerges, Cas asks out of the blue, “Does your father still think you smoke?”
Dean flops onto the couch next to him. “He’d better. If Dad knew I was sucking dicks instead of cancer sticks, he’d lose his shit.”
To Dean’s surprise, Cas actually turns away from the screen. He searches Dean’s face for a long time, but damned if Dean knows what he’s looking for.
“That’s–you–I don’t even know where to start,” Cas says at last, fumbling words in a way he rarely does. He shakes his head and starts over. “Dean, you’re an adult. You don’t have to stay with your father.”
“But Sam does, and I gotta stay with Sam. Anyway, if I don’t take care of Dad, who’s gonna?” Shifting in discomfort–only partly due to his wet jeans–Dean waves toward the TV. “C’mon, man, watch the show. You’re missing all your favorite bugs.”
That week Dean picks up more hours at the garage, and Cas’s schedule must change too, because they don’t see each other for days. It almost makes Dean wish he’d asked for Cas’s number. They’ve been fooling around for three months, and this is the longest stretch of time that Cas’s driveway has been empty whenever Dean looks. But Cas’s newspaper gets taken in, and his trash gets taken out, so he must be home when Dean isn’t.
Sunday Dean has off work. He makes waffles and bacon, because Sammy deserves some semblance of normality even if John is already drinking by the time the table is set. As Dean drowns his plate in syrup, trying to think of an excuse to go outside and check if Cas is home, there’s a knock on the door.
Dean jumps up to answer it with his mouth full. There’s Cas, wearing threadbare sweats under his trenchcoat, hair even messier than usual.
Delighted, Dean sings out, “Hey sunshine,” only it sounds more like “eyy thun-ine,” which is a good fucking thing because God forbid anyone in his family overhear such an affectionate greeting.
“Hello, Dean,” answers Cas politely. “I’m sorry to trouble you on a Sunday, but my car won’t start. I wonder if you could take a look at it when you have time.”
Dean gulps down his food. “’Course man, I’ll come right now.”
“You don’t have to–” Cas breaks off, his eyes tracking Dean’s tongue as Dean licks syrup off his lips.
Dean responds with a hot stare of his own, aiming to communicate how badly he needs what (he hopes) Cas is offering. “It’s fine, I was nearly done. And I’m not the growing kid around here anyway.” He grabs a jacket and shouts over his shoulder, “You better eat the rest of my waffles, Sammy, and the bacon!”
“It’s Sam!” his brother yells back. “What about the game?”
“I’ll be back in time to take you,” Dean promises, and scoots out the door with Cas.
There’s one house between Dean’s and Cas’s. As they walk past it, Dean sees that Cas’s driveway is still empty. “Where’s your–”
“I parked in the back.”
Cas’s narrow driveway goes alongside his house to a garage behind it, but Dean has only ever seen Cas park in the front of the driveway, just off the street. He once told Dean that the garage is crammed full of crap he’s inherited from various family members and doesn’t know how to get rid of.
When they turn to walk down the driveway, Dean finally spots the banged-up old Continental parked as far back as it can fit, right at the garage door. He wonders if Cas has been parking like this for a while. Maybe he was actually home, all the times Dean thought he was out.
“Why?” he asks.
Cas leads the way past his car and through the back door into his house. “So you could ‘work on the car’ in private, of course.”
“Oh. Right.” That doesn’t answer the question of whether he’s been doing it all week and, if so, why. But Dean is buzzing with anticipation, thrilled to be alone with Cas, and they don’t have much time. So he forgets about it, and starts to strip.
“You’re in a hurry,” observes Cas, taking off his shoes and hanging up his coat.
As Dean peels his shirt over his head, he says through the fabric, “Can’t take too long, gotta drive Sammy to a soccer game.”
“This is why I wanted you to wait, and come over when you’d have more time.” Cas sounds mildly exasperated. He moves close enough to pinch one of Dean’s nipples.
Dean yelps, fumbling with the button on his jeans. “I couldn’t wait,” he confesses breathlessly. “It’s been too long, I want–I need–ohhh fuck.” Cas has a thumb on each nipple now, rubbing in little circles. The stimulation sends hot sparks straight to Dean’s cock. It bobs in front of him, flushed and hard, as he pushes his jeans and boxers to the floor.
“Beautiful,” says Cas, in a tone of detached admiration that makes Dean squirm. He feels like a piece of art that has pleased Cas.
Then Cas yanks Dean forward by his nipples until he’s close enough to kiss. Dean moans with the electric-sharp sensation, which leaves his mouth conveniently open for Cas to explore.
Cas owns the kiss with tongue and teeth as his hands roam over Dean’s shoulders and pet through his hair. His touch is confident, but Dean’s is desperate, as he grabs Cas’s hips, lines them up, and grinds their cocks together through the cotton sweatpants.
“Shit, you feel so good,” Dean mumbles into Cas’s mouth.
He could come like this, with Cas’s hands on his skin and Cas’s cock hot against his own. He should do it, finish them both off fast, then get dressed and go home, but–
“Fuck me.” He pulls back to gaze pleadingly into Cas’s eyes, cupping one hand over the man’s cock. “Want this inside me.”
Cas actually thinks about it for a moment, then nods. “Bedroom.”
Time is of the essence, so when they get there Dean goes straight for the lube in the bedside table and dives onto on the bed. Two fingers in, he looks up to see Cas has gotten himself naked and is fumbling with a box of Trojans.
Dean blinks. They haven’t used condoms for over a month, not since they both got tested. “What’s that for?”
“Protection, Dean. For me, you, and your other partners.”
“Other–” Dean is equal parts mad and confused now. He takes his fingers out of his ass. “What the fuck? I’m not sleeping around.”
Cas looks at Dean, so damn composed, only a little furrow between his eyebrows. “You mentioned ‘sucking dicks’ the other day. I distinctly heard the plural.”
Dean gapes. “It was–it was just a fucking expression, Cas! I’m not sucking anyone else’s dick!”
“Oh.” Cas gives him a few more seconds of that inscrutable stare, maybe using his detective powers to figure out if Dean’s telling the truth, then nods and sets the box aside. “I see. A simple misunderstanding.”
He moves forward, as if Dean’s gonna want to let the whole thing slide and pick up where they left off.
Dean jumps off the bed and slams a hand in the middle of Cas’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. “Hang on, buddy. You thought I was screwin’ around, and you weren’t gonna say anything about it? Just buy a box of condoms and carry right the fuck on?”
Cas looks down at Dean’s hand, still wet with lube, then back at his face. “Yes?” He tilts his head. “Why does that upset you?”
“Because if I thought–if you were–” This is so obvious Dean can’t even explain it.
He shoves Cas, hard, making him stumble, and still the man’s face is a blank mask.
Usually Cas’s stoicism really does it for Dean. The way Cas fucks all slow and calm while Dean’s sweating and sobbing and begging to finish gets him off like nothing else. But right at this moment, Dean hates it. He wants to see Cas crack.
“Jesus, try experiencing an emotion for once in your goddamn life!” Dean shouts, and storms out of the bedroom.
Halfway down the hall, he hears heavy footfalls behind him, and then a hand on his shoulder is spinning him around and slamming his back against the wall. Cas’s other hand fists in his shirt, and Dean’s breath stutters. The mask is gone. The face in front of him is wild, blue eyes hot with fury, lips pulled back and teeth bared.
“You think I didn’t feel anything when you made me think I was only one of who-knows-how-many partners?” Cas growls. “It carved me hollow, Dean. I didn’t show you, because I thought you didn’t want to see.”
He leans in, fingers digging into Dean’s shoulder, mouth burning against his ear. “You want to hear how I lay awake night after night, weighing the pain of breaking things off against the agony of carrying on? You want to know all the insane thoughts from the darkest parts of my soul? How I long to brand you, heart and soul, so you know you belong to me and no one else.”
“No, I don’t want you to tell me,” Dean answers hoarsely. He can feel Cas start to draw back, so he yanks him close again. “I want you to show me.”
Cas’s eyes darken, and his heart rate picks up where their chests are pressed together. “Are you sure?”
Dean swallows. This is dangerous talk, in a life shaped by loss and impermanence, but something about Cas makes Dean reckless in a way nothing else ever has. “Show me I’m yours, Cas,” he demands. “Fuckin’ claim me.”