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Fic: Graveyard Shift (Supernatural)
Title: Graveyard Shift
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anactoria
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/contains: Smut, futurefic, fallen!Cas. Possibly the fluffiest thing I've ever written.
Word count: 4100
Summary: “Dean.”
He finds Cas looking right in his eyes and swallows hard. Tries to take his hand back, but Cas catches it and holds on tight. He pulls Dean in closer, and something kindles in his eyes, then. Not a reprimand, and not just the waning adrenaline kick of a hunt. Heat and want and the offer of reassurance all mixed up together.
Okay, so maybe this is a different kind of reminder. A reminder that Cas is here, with him, right now; that they’re both alive and kicking, give or take a bum knee. They haven’t lost each other yet.
Or: Dean is injured and has to sit out a hunt; sulks about it; eventually there is sex.
Notes: Written for the Destiel Smut Brigade Fall Challenge. Many thanks tobuffenator for the super-efficient beta!
There’s a chime as the door of the liquor store opens, letting in a breath of smoky, fall-smelling air and a couple of sniggering college kids dressed like Walking Dead zombies who already look well on their way to drunk. Dean won’t card them unless they manage to piss him off, but he gives them the evil eye on principle, because neither of them is Sammy or Cas.
The kids don’t seem to notice, exchanging friendly shoves as they head for the beer aisle. Dean drums his fingers impatiently on the countertop, eyes flicking to the security monitor mounted above the counter.
On the screen, nothing happens. The street in front of the store is empty, the cemetery gates across the road chained and padlocked. Nothing moved in the shadows behind them. A streetlight picks out the edges of a Celtic cross that looks one good kick away from toppling over; plays over the wings of a crumbling stone angel with folded hands and a serene, prayerful face, so unlike the real thing it almost makes him laugh.
Almost, but not quite—because the real thing isn’t the real thing anymore. Cas is out there with Sammy, somewhere amid the headstones, digging up the bones of the local dude who’s been haunting his old friends since he died in a Halloween prank gone wrong nine years ago. Cas is human now. Hitting his head or being tossed into a gravestone too hard could kill him. Plus, he didn’t grow up like Dean and Sam did, learning to watch your back; whatever you’re hunting, chances are it’s stronger’n you are. And tonight, Dean isn’t there to look out for him. All he can do is sit on his ass, nursing the busted knee he got last week courtesy of a Hulk-sized vampire, until the two of them show up on the monitor or at the door.
It isn’t even that Dean doesn’t trust them to have each other’s backs. It’s just that he doesn’t trust anyone the same way he trusts himself. (He doesn’t distrust anyone the way he distrusts himself, either—but that’s a thought for another crappy night, no use in dwelling on it now.)
He tried to argue the point, insist on coming along for the ride anyway, but the problem with being part of a trio instead of a duo is you get outvoted. Sam’s pissy face and arms crossed over his chest and Dean, that’s the same leg you broke—and Cas, the traitor, backed him up.
So, compromise. Dean’s been allowed to come along, but he’s on lookout and making-nice-with-the-locals duty. Which has so far involved talking himself into a job covering the graveyard shift at the liquor store opposite the cemetery. (“ID’s fake but the expertise is real! C’mon, Sammy, that deserves a laugh.” It didn’t get him one.) The store surveillance camera just happens to cover the cemetery gates, plus it’s the Friday before Halloween, and there’s a steady stream of partygoers passing through. If there’s ghost-flavored gossip in town, Dean’s gonna hear it.
Basically, Sam and Cas figured out it was easier to humor him than fight it out—this job is one step up from being left at the bunker and told to hold the fort—but at least Dean’s in limping distance of the cemetery if things do go south.
Not that he’s had any indication of whether they are going south in the past—he checks his phone; no messages—two hours. The wait itches like fire ants under his skin.
“Yeah,” one of the college kids says as he approaches the counter. “So, Kirsten Chen said if I got the booze, we could go for a walk by the gravestones tonight. KnowwhatImean?” He grins at his buddy, tongue practically hanging out, and makes a honk honk boobs gesture in the air. Something tells Dean that Kirsten Chen is in for a disappointing night.
Dean pulls out his cell again, fires off a quick text telling Sam to look out for incoming drunk freshmen (which definitely isn’t an excuse to check in) and when he looks up, the kid is tapping his foot and eyeing him impatiently. He dumps a six-pack on the counter. “C’mon, man,” he whines. “I ain’t got all night.”
Dean looks the kid up and down, and flashes the smile he usually reserves for uncooperative supernatural assholes. “ID?”
----
It’s an hour later, almost closing time, when Cas finally shows.
“Where the hell have you been?” Dean demands, to cover up the little skip his heart does when Cas shuts the door behind him, turns the sign to ‘Closed’, and slumps against it.
Cas squints at him. “In the cemetery,” he says. He looks down at himself. “That’s why I’m wearing so much of it.”
There’s mud all over his jacket and his boots, a smear of grave dirt on his cheek that might be covering a bruise. He straightens up, rolls his shoulders, and grimaces. Makes his way over to Dean and leans against the counter instead.
“Where’s Sam?” Dean gets to his feet, determinedly not wincing as he puts weight on his injured leg. He leans across the counter to cup Cas’s cheek in his hand.
Cas takes in a sharp breath but doesn’t pull away. Dean feels the heat of a bruise forming beneath his skin. Spirit must’ve tossed him into a gravestone.
And you weren’t there to stop it. Dean tries to ignore the little voice, the cold twist of failure in his gut.
“There were witnesses who needed to be… reassured,” Cas informs him. “The college students you mentioned. Sam felt he would be better able to deal with them alone.” He frowns a little, maybe at the implication his people skills still suck, or maybe because he doesn’t know that’s the implication. Dean is never sure anymore if he really doesn’t get things, or if he’s just pretending not to get them so that Dean can pretend he’s still the Cas he was when they first met, awkward and alien and impervious to hurt.
Except that he closes his eyes a little, turns his face into Dean’s touch like a cat. His breath is warm against Dean’s palm though the rest of him is cold from the October night. Smells of dirt and smoke cling to him, the acridity of burning bones a graveyard memento, and there’s a crumbling stone angel on the monitor above his head.
“I shoulda gone with you,” Dean says, before he can stop himself.
“Dean,” Cas says, and that’s all he says, but it’s heavy with the weariness of an argument they’ve already had a dozen times.
And Dean’s already lost it a dozen times, and right now the whole thing is academic, so he just sighs and says, “Yeah, yeah, I know.”
He slides his hand down Cas’s arm, laces their fingers together and squeezes. Cas smiles at him faintly, the weariness dropping away.
“C’mon,” Dean says. He motions for Cas to come join him. “Looks like you earned yourself a drink.”
Cas’s smile brightens, reaches his eyes. “I would like that,” he says, and drops into the swivel chair behind the counter.
Dean pops the security tag off of a Scotch bottle, takes a pull and hands it over. (He’d never admit it, but after making his way through the Men of Letters’ stash, cheap bourbon’s become a last resort. So maybe having a home has turned him a little soft.) His fingers brush Cas’s over the glass.
It doesn’t spark through him like lightning, the way their touches did back before Cas was human, when having him in any of the ways Dean wanted was too impossible to think about. It’s easier now, loosens something inside his chest. A reminder that Cas is still here with him; still clinging on tight to this dumb human life he’s for some reason decided he wants.
Cas takes a long drink from the bottle, passes it to Dean, and settles back in the chair. He stretches, tipping his head back, and Dean’s mouth goes dry. He wants to kiss the hollow of Cas’s throat, feel the flutter of Cas’s pulse under his lips. Doesn’t want to think about why.
Only then, Cas goes still and squinty-eyed, and it isn’t until he sits forward, eyes fixed on some point above his head, that Dean realizes why. The video monitor above the counter. The stupid cemetery angel in the middle of the frame.
“Cas,” he says, fingers tightening around the bottle. “What?” Voice as gruff as he can make it, which Cas ignores (of course). Instead of answering, he scoots the chair closer, looking in Dean’s eyes with something like his old intensity. He pulls the bottle out of Dean’s hand, setting it down on the counter, and presses Dean’s fingertips against the pulse point in his neck.
Dean holds them there when Cas lets go, hovering, just brushing the skin. Cas’s fingers slide up his palm, find the delicate skin on the underside of his wrist. After a moment, it occurs to Dean that Cas is doing the same thing, feeling the blood thrum in his veins.
He wonders for a second if Cas is making a point. Maybe this is a reminder that he’s been worrying about Dean’s mortal ass since they met.
He dismisses the thought almost as quickly as it comes. Cas had a choice in the whole ‘being mortal’ deal. Dean didn’t.
(And the one time somebody dangled the idea of immortality in front of him, it looked exactly as horrific as it was intended to. He’d gotten madder, punched harder, to punish Cas for making him think about it.)
“Dean.”
He finds Cas looking right in his eyes and swallows hard. Tries to take his hand back, but Cas catches it and holds on tight. He pulls Dean in closer, and something kindles in his eyes, then. Not a reprimand, and not just the waning adrenaline kick of a hunt. Heat and want and the offer of reassurance all mixed up together.
Okay, so maybe this is a different kind of reminder. A reminder that Cas is here, with him, right now; that they’re both alive and kicking, give or take a bum knee. They haven’t lost each other yet. Cas’s pulse quickens beneath his fingers.
Maybe it’s something they both need. Hell, they live enough of their lives among the dead.
It’s the last thought Dean has for a long moment, because then he’s being tugged closer still, and all he can manage to do is straddle Cas’s hips and drop ungracefully into Cas’s lap. The swivel chair gives an alarming creak under their combined weight, and Cas mutters something irritated and thoroughly un-Cas-like under his breath and uses his foot to brace them against the counter. He leans up, then, curls his hand around the back of Dean’s neck and brings their foreheads together; breathes warm against Dean’s lips before he kisses him.
Dean can smell the cold night air on his skin, taste the smoky bitterness of whiskey on his tongue. He sucks it into his mouth and lets his eyes close, just feeling it for a moment: the slide of lips against lips, the warm weight of Cas’s hand at the base of his skull. How they move and breathe together. How it already has him half-hard in his jeans, because apparently something about Cas turns him into an overgrown teenager.
He pulls back, reluctantly, before they can get too wound up to let it go. All three of them are sharing a motel room on this trip, which is starting to look like a big mistake. It’s gonna be a long, blue-balled night.
“We better go,” Dean says, with a sigh. “Head back to the motel.”
Cas regards him through narrowed eyes. His mouth is red from kissing, and if Dean didn’t know better, he’d say that was the beginning of a pout on his face. “Sam will be there.”
“Tell me about it.” Dean makes a face.
Cas’s eyes flick toward the door, then. “The sign says ‘Closed’.”
Yeah, because he turned it that way. Dean raises an eyebrow, ignores the relief and the need that sparks up beneath his ribcage, just for a moment. “You planned this? Sneaky sonofabitch.”
“You told me I needed to work on my sneaking,” Cas reminds him. Then he goes quiet, worrying at his lower lip, and Dean figures that maybe this conversation is shading a little too close to previous ones they’ve had about Cas’s lack of hunting experience, to the one they’re not having right now.
“Yeah, you gotta work on that whole ‘understanding context’ thing, too,” Dean tells him, with a theatrical roll of his eyes to make it clear they’re not having that conversation now. He disentangles himself from Cas and gets to his feet. “I’ll get the light.”
There’s always the risk somebody’s been having too good of a time to notice the ‘Closed’ sign, and they’ll just see that the light is on and roll on in. Exhibitionism isn’t Dean’s thing, or it isn’t with Cas, anyway. He’d rather have Cas all to himself, any day.
He locks the door and closes the blinds for good measure, and by the time he makes it back behind the counter, Cas has lost his jacket and is working on the buttons of his flannel. Dean climbs back into his lap and bats his hands away, taking over. Cas doesn’t object, just makes a pleased noise somewhere in his chest and works his hands up under Dean’s t-shirt. They’re still cold from the outdoors, and Dean shivers at the touch. Cas smiles up at him and kisses him again, soft and easy, right up until he catches Dean’s lower lip between his teeth.
The sensation is a shot straight to Dean’s cock, makes him breathe in hard. It still isn’t enough. He shoves Cas’s shirt off of his shoulders, and then Cas is pulling back, trying to get Dean’s button-down off and pull his t-shirt over his head both at the same time, and there’s a short, frustrating tangle of limbs and clothes before they’re pressed together again, skin against skin, hot and perfect and so damn alive.
Dean lets his hands roam. The stupid chair is in the way of him being able to palm Cas’s ass, so he trails his fingers up the path of Cas’s spine—which makes Cas arch into his touch with a gratifying, needy little moan—runs his palms over the lean muscles of Cas’s arms, the planes of his chest.
His thumb catches on the edge of a scar, then, and makes him go still, his arousal momentarily forgotten.
Cas has scars, now. Not just the ones he inherited from where Jimmy Novak fell off his bike as a kid or whatever. There’s a still-red ridge of tissue over his abdominals, where a wendigo sliced up the skin three months ago, and would’ve done worse if Dean hadn’t been there to distract it. And there’s an ugly mess of a scar on the back of Cas’s right shoulder from a knife-wound in January—the day before Dean’s birthday, and that didn’t do either of them any favors on the contemplating-mortality front—and a permanent dent in his thigh from where he got tossed into a fence by one of Crowley’s buttmonkeys, and a shiny pink patch on his forearm where he burned himself trying to make goddamn pancakes—
Cas’s mouth at his collarbone stops his thoughts in their tracks. Cas is looking up at him, eyes sharp, like he knows exactly what kind of crap is running through Dean’s head. He doesn’t say anything, though. Just presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss there, then another, and another, trailing lower until he finds Dean’s nipple and sucks it into his mouth with just the barest hint of teeth. The almost-pain of it makes Dean squirm, and he feels Cas’s smile against his skin.
It surprised him, at first, that Cas was good at this stuff, figuring out what makes Dean tick—what will get him from half-asleep to rock-hard in the space of a minute, what makes him hot all over with need, what makes him shake apart and come so hard it’s like blacking out. Even the kinky shit he’d never admit out loud to wanting, but that Cas somehow finds and gives to him anyway. Cas just throws himself into all that stuff, without embarrassment. Like he knows better than anybody that the life he’s chosen is just the blink of an eye, so he’s determined not to waste a second of it worrying about what anyone else will think.
Cas moves his attentions to the other nipple—and at the same time, he finds Dean’s hand with his own, the gentle brush of his fingers a startling contrast to the press of his teeth. He pulls Dean’s away from the scar on his torso, coaxes the fingers open. Then he lifts his head and puts Dean’s hand to his mouth.
For a second, Dean can’t figure out what he’s doing, wonders if this is some new weird Cas-thing. Then the pink tip of Cas’s tongue flicks out, and he drags it up Dean’s palm, getting it good and wet, his free hand fumbling open the fly of Dean’s jeans.
Oh, yeah, that’s a plan Dean can get on board with. He finds Cas’s zipper and returns the favor, a little clumsily, because he only has his left hand to work with. His cock twitches in anticipation at the sight of Cas with his eyes closed, all wrapped up in his task; at the low groan Cas gives when Dean palms his hard-on through his boxers.
Cas opens his eyes, then. There’s a light in them that’s a little bit teasing, but mostly it’s just pure fucking unadulterated want, and Dean knows he’s done for. Cas smirks and takes him in hand and strokes him firmly, just this side of too hard, and Dean’s hips stutter and his eyes fall closed and for a moment all he can do is feel, hanging on to Cas’s shoulders for dear life, thrusting up helplessly into the slide of Cas’s palm. His touch isn’t cold anymore, his hands warm from Dean’s skin, Dean’s pre-come getting all over his fingers, and Dean needs it like he needs oxygen.
He breathes through it, through Cas’s low chuckle in his ear. “Fuck,” he gets out, and his voice is ragged.
Cas pauses what he’s doing, at which Dean makes an undignified noise and tries to roll his hips into Cas’s grip, and actually looks like he’s considering it for a moment.
“We could,” he says, at last. “But we don’t have lubricant. And I don’t think the floor would be comfortable.”
“Man,” Dean groans into his hair, “stop talking.” Then he figures kissing might be a better incentive for Cas to shut up and get on with the task at hand, so he ducks his head and presses his tongue between Cas’s lips.
Cas takes him in easy, kisses back, his mouth hot and urgent. Dean can feel the press of Cas’s hard-on, the sticky-wet spot on the front of his boxers, and he fumbles with them until Cas’s cock springs free and he can wrap his spit-slick fingers around it, using his thumb to smear pre-come around the tip.
“Yes,” Cas breathes against his mouth. “Please.” Insistent, with the roll of his hips, but there’s something sure and joyful about it, too. Something that makes Dean’s heart skip in his chest in ways he tries not to think about too hard. Like Cas is just so happy that he gets to be here with Dean right now, trading handjobs behind the counter of some crappy small-town liquor store. It’s crazy.
Only Cas looks so damn good, wrapped up in it like this, and he fits perfectly in Dean’s hand, and his skin is flushed and warm and human and his touch draws sparks of pleasure up from the base of Dean’s cock as he jacks Dean firm and steady.
So okay, maybe Dean’s pretty damn happy he gets to be here, too.
Dean almost gets caught up again, almost forgets what he’s doing, but Cas thrusts up into his grip, his cock jerking, muttering, “I said please,” and oh, yeah, it’s on.
That’s all there is for a little while, the slide of tongues and cocks and hands, the slow build of pleasure low in his belly that suddenly isn’t slow anymore. Dean’s almost fucking there when Cas lets go. He makes a frustrated noise in his throat, trying to get up the brainpower to ask, What the hell are you doing? He bites it off when Cas’s fingers sneak back, find their way behind his balls and tease gently at the rim of his hole.
They hesitate there, just a second, before Dean gets out, “Yeah, Cas, yeah,” and Cas presses just the warm, wet tip of his forefinger inside. He’s biting his lip, his face bright and open like he’s still amazed at Dean letting him do this.
It’s just the tip of Cas’s finger, but it’s so inescapably there, so intimate. Dean didn’t know what to do with it, the first time, and it still startles him a little, no matter how often they do this. It’s that that has him coming, in the end, grabbing at Cas’s shoulders again as his balls draw themselves up tight and light pulses behind his eyes and he spills over his belly and his boxers and probably the front of his jeans because that’s just his luck.
He’s totally forgotten that he was supposed to be getting Cas off, too—but that’s cool, because it seems like Cas has himself covered. He hauls Dean further into his lap, if that’s possible, thrusting against the wet mess of come on Dean’s stomach, his cock trapped hard and hot between their bodies. He kisses Dean, deeper and harder, and the tip of his finger is still in Dean’s ass, and Dean just goes with it, still lightheaded from his orgasm, just holding on and riding it out through the aftershocks until Cas comes between them with a rush of wetness.
They’re both breathing hard, Cas’s eyes shining up at him, chest heaving. Dean leans in to kiss him again, catching Cas’s breath. Cas is warm all over, now. The faint salt taste of his skin clings to Dean’s lips, and he smells like sweat and sex, not smoke and dirt. The graveyard is gone from him, for now.
----
“That,” Cas says, a little later. “That was.” He pauses, face scrunching up like it always does when he’s forgotten his train of thought. “I forgot I hit my head.” He gives a tired little laugh.
They’re still wrapped around each other on the swivel chair. Dean’s legs are starting to cramp, and he has a nasty suspicion they’re gonna find themselves stuck together with crusted jizz when they get it together to move.
“Yeah,” Dean manages. “I’m still checking that out when we get back to the room.” He feels lighter than earlier, though, the cloud of worry lifted from over him for now, and he pulls back to grin at Cas and waggle his eyebrows. “Even if we did just get done playing doctor.”
Cas gives him an ineffectual shove. “I think I preferred it when I didn’t understand your jokes.”
Dean makes a mock-offended face and extricates himself (crusted jizz: as predicted), hunting under the counter and coming up triumphantly after a minute with a box of tissues. Cas is already on his feet, wrestling with his shirt.
They don’t talk a whole lot as they clean up and dress. They just bump against each other as they move around the small space. A brush of elbows, a steadying hand on a shoulder. Little touches that don’t need to be reassurances, right now, but could be, some other time. Cas snags the bottle of Scotch and tucks it under his jacket before they leave, because apparently he’s a quick study when it comes to the important things in life.
When Dean lets them out, there’s a plastic skull laying on the ground outside the store. Cas grabs it while Dean locks up and shoves the keys through the letterbox, turning it over in his hands.
“Humans have always been fascinated with skulls,” he says. “You—we—put them on everything. Memento mori.” He holds it out.
Dean takes it and frowns at Cas, not sure what he’s getting at, but his expression is just thoughtful, not troubled. Maybe he isn’t getting at anything. “Yeah, well,” he says, as lightly as he can. “Don’t think we need the reminder.”
Across the road, the angel watches them with blank stony eyes.
Dean tosses the plastic skull in the trash and turns away from it, back to the man by his side.
Author:
anactoriaPairing: Dean/Cas
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/contains: Smut, futurefic, fallen!Cas. Possibly the fluffiest thing I've ever written.
Word count: 4100
Summary: “Dean.”
He finds Cas looking right in his eyes and swallows hard. Tries to take his hand back, but Cas catches it and holds on tight. He pulls Dean in closer, and something kindles in his eyes, then. Not a reprimand, and not just the waning adrenaline kick of a hunt. Heat and want and the offer of reassurance all mixed up together.
Okay, so maybe this is a different kind of reminder. A reminder that Cas is here, with him, right now; that they’re both alive and kicking, give or take a bum knee. They haven’t lost each other yet.
Or: Dean is injured and has to sit out a hunt; sulks about it; eventually there is sex.
Notes: Written for the Destiel Smut Brigade Fall Challenge. Many thanks to
buffenator for the super-efficient beta!There’s a chime as the door of the liquor store opens, letting in a breath of smoky, fall-smelling air and a couple of sniggering college kids dressed like Walking Dead zombies who already look well on their way to drunk. Dean won’t card them unless they manage to piss him off, but he gives them the evil eye on principle, because neither of them is Sammy or Cas.
The kids don’t seem to notice, exchanging friendly shoves as they head for the beer aisle. Dean drums his fingers impatiently on the countertop, eyes flicking to the security monitor mounted above the counter.
On the screen, nothing happens. The street in front of the store is empty, the cemetery gates across the road chained and padlocked. Nothing moved in the shadows behind them. A streetlight picks out the edges of a Celtic cross that looks one good kick away from toppling over; plays over the wings of a crumbling stone angel with folded hands and a serene, prayerful face, so unlike the real thing it almost makes him laugh.
Almost, but not quite—because the real thing isn’t the real thing anymore. Cas is out there with Sammy, somewhere amid the headstones, digging up the bones of the local dude who’s been haunting his old friends since he died in a Halloween prank gone wrong nine years ago. Cas is human now. Hitting his head or being tossed into a gravestone too hard could kill him. Plus, he didn’t grow up like Dean and Sam did, learning to watch your back; whatever you’re hunting, chances are it’s stronger’n you are. And tonight, Dean isn’t there to look out for him. All he can do is sit on his ass, nursing the busted knee he got last week courtesy of a Hulk-sized vampire, until the two of them show up on the monitor or at the door.
It isn’t even that Dean doesn’t trust them to have each other’s backs. It’s just that he doesn’t trust anyone the same way he trusts himself. (He doesn’t distrust anyone the way he distrusts himself, either—but that’s a thought for another crappy night, no use in dwelling on it now.)
He tried to argue the point, insist on coming along for the ride anyway, but the problem with being part of a trio instead of a duo is you get outvoted. Sam’s pissy face and arms crossed over his chest and Dean, that’s the same leg you broke—and Cas, the traitor, backed him up.
So, compromise. Dean’s been allowed to come along, but he’s on lookout and making-nice-with-the-locals duty. Which has so far involved talking himself into a job covering the graveyard shift at the liquor store opposite the cemetery. (“ID’s fake but the expertise is real! C’mon, Sammy, that deserves a laugh.” It didn’t get him one.) The store surveillance camera just happens to cover the cemetery gates, plus it’s the Friday before Halloween, and there’s a steady stream of partygoers passing through. If there’s ghost-flavored gossip in town, Dean’s gonna hear it.
Basically, Sam and Cas figured out it was easier to humor him than fight it out—this job is one step up from being left at the bunker and told to hold the fort—but at least Dean’s in limping distance of the cemetery if things do go south.
Not that he’s had any indication of whether they are going south in the past—he checks his phone; no messages—two hours. The wait itches like fire ants under his skin.
“Yeah,” one of the college kids says as he approaches the counter. “So, Kirsten Chen said if I got the booze, we could go for a walk by the gravestones tonight. KnowwhatImean?” He grins at his buddy, tongue practically hanging out, and makes a honk honk boobs gesture in the air. Something tells Dean that Kirsten Chen is in for a disappointing night.
Dean pulls out his cell again, fires off a quick text telling Sam to look out for incoming drunk freshmen (which definitely isn’t an excuse to check in) and when he looks up, the kid is tapping his foot and eyeing him impatiently. He dumps a six-pack on the counter. “C’mon, man,” he whines. “I ain’t got all night.”
Dean looks the kid up and down, and flashes the smile he usually reserves for uncooperative supernatural assholes. “ID?”
It’s an hour later, almost closing time, when Cas finally shows.
“Where the hell have you been?” Dean demands, to cover up the little skip his heart does when Cas shuts the door behind him, turns the sign to ‘Closed’, and slumps against it.
Cas squints at him. “In the cemetery,” he says. He looks down at himself. “That’s why I’m wearing so much of it.”
There’s mud all over his jacket and his boots, a smear of grave dirt on his cheek that might be covering a bruise. He straightens up, rolls his shoulders, and grimaces. Makes his way over to Dean and leans against the counter instead.
“Where’s Sam?” Dean gets to his feet, determinedly not wincing as he puts weight on his injured leg. He leans across the counter to cup Cas’s cheek in his hand.
Cas takes in a sharp breath but doesn’t pull away. Dean feels the heat of a bruise forming beneath his skin. Spirit must’ve tossed him into a gravestone.
And you weren’t there to stop it. Dean tries to ignore the little voice, the cold twist of failure in his gut.
“There were witnesses who needed to be… reassured,” Cas informs him. “The college students you mentioned. Sam felt he would be better able to deal with them alone.” He frowns a little, maybe at the implication his people skills still suck, or maybe because he doesn’t know that’s the implication. Dean is never sure anymore if he really doesn’t get things, or if he’s just pretending not to get them so that Dean can pretend he’s still the Cas he was when they first met, awkward and alien and impervious to hurt.
Except that he closes his eyes a little, turns his face into Dean’s touch like a cat. His breath is warm against Dean’s palm though the rest of him is cold from the October night. Smells of dirt and smoke cling to him, the acridity of burning bones a graveyard memento, and there’s a crumbling stone angel on the monitor above his head.
“I shoulda gone with you,” Dean says, before he can stop himself.
“Dean,” Cas says, and that’s all he says, but it’s heavy with the weariness of an argument they’ve already had a dozen times.
And Dean’s already lost it a dozen times, and right now the whole thing is academic, so he just sighs and says, “Yeah, yeah, I know.”
He slides his hand down Cas’s arm, laces their fingers together and squeezes. Cas smiles at him faintly, the weariness dropping away.
“C’mon,” Dean says. He motions for Cas to come join him. “Looks like you earned yourself a drink.”
Cas’s smile brightens, reaches his eyes. “I would like that,” he says, and drops into the swivel chair behind the counter.
Dean pops the security tag off of a Scotch bottle, takes a pull and hands it over. (He’d never admit it, but after making his way through the Men of Letters’ stash, cheap bourbon’s become a last resort. So maybe having a home has turned him a little soft.) His fingers brush Cas’s over the glass.
It doesn’t spark through him like lightning, the way their touches did back before Cas was human, when having him in any of the ways Dean wanted was too impossible to think about. It’s easier now, loosens something inside his chest. A reminder that Cas is still here with him; still clinging on tight to this dumb human life he’s for some reason decided he wants.
Cas takes a long drink from the bottle, passes it to Dean, and settles back in the chair. He stretches, tipping his head back, and Dean’s mouth goes dry. He wants to kiss the hollow of Cas’s throat, feel the flutter of Cas’s pulse under his lips. Doesn’t want to think about why.
Only then, Cas goes still and squinty-eyed, and it isn’t until he sits forward, eyes fixed on some point above his head, that Dean realizes why. The video monitor above the counter. The stupid cemetery angel in the middle of the frame.
“Cas,” he says, fingers tightening around the bottle. “What?” Voice as gruff as he can make it, which Cas ignores (of course). Instead of answering, he scoots the chair closer, looking in Dean’s eyes with something like his old intensity. He pulls the bottle out of Dean’s hand, setting it down on the counter, and presses Dean’s fingertips against the pulse point in his neck.
Dean holds them there when Cas lets go, hovering, just brushing the skin. Cas’s fingers slide up his palm, find the delicate skin on the underside of his wrist. After a moment, it occurs to Dean that Cas is doing the same thing, feeling the blood thrum in his veins.
He wonders for a second if Cas is making a point. Maybe this is a reminder that he’s been worrying about Dean’s mortal ass since they met.
He dismisses the thought almost as quickly as it comes. Cas had a choice in the whole ‘being mortal’ deal. Dean didn’t.
(And the one time somebody dangled the idea of immortality in front of him, it looked exactly as horrific as it was intended to. He’d gotten madder, punched harder, to punish Cas for making him think about it.)
“Dean.”
He finds Cas looking right in his eyes and swallows hard. Tries to take his hand back, but Cas catches it and holds on tight. He pulls Dean in closer, and something kindles in his eyes, then. Not a reprimand, and not just the waning adrenaline kick of a hunt. Heat and want and the offer of reassurance all mixed up together.
Okay, so maybe this is a different kind of reminder. A reminder that Cas is here, with him, right now; that they’re both alive and kicking, give or take a bum knee. They haven’t lost each other yet. Cas’s pulse quickens beneath his fingers.
Maybe it’s something they both need. Hell, they live enough of their lives among the dead.
It’s the last thought Dean has for a long moment, because then he’s being tugged closer still, and all he can manage to do is straddle Cas’s hips and drop ungracefully into Cas’s lap. The swivel chair gives an alarming creak under their combined weight, and Cas mutters something irritated and thoroughly un-Cas-like under his breath and uses his foot to brace them against the counter. He leans up, then, curls his hand around the back of Dean’s neck and brings their foreheads together; breathes warm against Dean’s lips before he kisses him.
Dean can smell the cold night air on his skin, taste the smoky bitterness of whiskey on his tongue. He sucks it into his mouth and lets his eyes close, just feeling it for a moment: the slide of lips against lips, the warm weight of Cas’s hand at the base of his skull. How they move and breathe together. How it already has him half-hard in his jeans, because apparently something about Cas turns him into an overgrown teenager.
He pulls back, reluctantly, before they can get too wound up to let it go. All three of them are sharing a motel room on this trip, which is starting to look like a big mistake. It’s gonna be a long, blue-balled night.
“We better go,” Dean says, with a sigh. “Head back to the motel.”
Cas regards him through narrowed eyes. His mouth is red from kissing, and if Dean didn’t know better, he’d say that was the beginning of a pout on his face. “Sam will be there.”
“Tell me about it.” Dean makes a face.
Cas’s eyes flick toward the door, then. “The sign says ‘Closed’.”
Yeah, because he turned it that way. Dean raises an eyebrow, ignores the relief and the need that sparks up beneath his ribcage, just for a moment. “You planned this? Sneaky sonofabitch.”
“You told me I needed to work on my sneaking,” Cas reminds him. Then he goes quiet, worrying at his lower lip, and Dean figures that maybe this conversation is shading a little too close to previous ones they’ve had about Cas’s lack of hunting experience, to the one they’re not having right now.
“Yeah, you gotta work on that whole ‘understanding context’ thing, too,” Dean tells him, with a theatrical roll of his eyes to make it clear they’re not having that conversation now. He disentangles himself from Cas and gets to his feet. “I’ll get the light.”
There’s always the risk somebody’s been having too good of a time to notice the ‘Closed’ sign, and they’ll just see that the light is on and roll on in. Exhibitionism isn’t Dean’s thing, or it isn’t with Cas, anyway. He’d rather have Cas all to himself, any day.
He locks the door and closes the blinds for good measure, and by the time he makes it back behind the counter, Cas has lost his jacket and is working on the buttons of his flannel. Dean climbs back into his lap and bats his hands away, taking over. Cas doesn’t object, just makes a pleased noise somewhere in his chest and works his hands up under Dean’s t-shirt. They’re still cold from the outdoors, and Dean shivers at the touch. Cas smiles up at him and kisses him again, soft and easy, right up until he catches Dean’s lower lip between his teeth.
The sensation is a shot straight to Dean’s cock, makes him breathe in hard. It still isn’t enough. He shoves Cas’s shirt off of his shoulders, and then Cas is pulling back, trying to get Dean’s button-down off and pull his t-shirt over his head both at the same time, and there’s a short, frustrating tangle of limbs and clothes before they’re pressed together again, skin against skin, hot and perfect and so damn alive.
Dean lets his hands roam. The stupid chair is in the way of him being able to palm Cas’s ass, so he trails his fingers up the path of Cas’s spine—which makes Cas arch into his touch with a gratifying, needy little moan—runs his palms over the lean muscles of Cas’s arms, the planes of his chest.
His thumb catches on the edge of a scar, then, and makes him go still, his arousal momentarily forgotten.
Cas has scars, now. Not just the ones he inherited from where Jimmy Novak fell off his bike as a kid or whatever. There’s a still-red ridge of tissue over his abdominals, where a wendigo sliced up the skin three months ago, and would’ve done worse if Dean hadn’t been there to distract it. And there’s an ugly mess of a scar on the back of Cas’s right shoulder from a knife-wound in January—the day before Dean’s birthday, and that didn’t do either of them any favors on the contemplating-mortality front—and a permanent dent in his thigh from where he got tossed into a fence by one of Crowley’s buttmonkeys, and a shiny pink patch on his forearm where he burned himself trying to make goddamn pancakes—
Cas’s mouth at his collarbone stops his thoughts in their tracks. Cas is looking up at him, eyes sharp, like he knows exactly what kind of crap is running through Dean’s head. He doesn’t say anything, though. Just presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss there, then another, and another, trailing lower until he finds Dean’s nipple and sucks it into his mouth with just the barest hint of teeth. The almost-pain of it makes Dean squirm, and he feels Cas’s smile against his skin.
It surprised him, at first, that Cas was good at this stuff, figuring out what makes Dean tick—what will get him from half-asleep to rock-hard in the space of a minute, what makes him hot all over with need, what makes him shake apart and come so hard it’s like blacking out. Even the kinky shit he’d never admit out loud to wanting, but that Cas somehow finds and gives to him anyway. Cas just throws himself into all that stuff, without embarrassment. Like he knows better than anybody that the life he’s chosen is just the blink of an eye, so he’s determined not to waste a second of it worrying about what anyone else will think.
Cas moves his attentions to the other nipple—and at the same time, he finds Dean’s hand with his own, the gentle brush of his fingers a startling contrast to the press of his teeth. He pulls Dean’s away from the scar on his torso, coaxes the fingers open. Then he lifts his head and puts Dean’s hand to his mouth.
For a second, Dean can’t figure out what he’s doing, wonders if this is some new weird Cas-thing. Then the pink tip of Cas’s tongue flicks out, and he drags it up Dean’s palm, getting it good and wet, his free hand fumbling open the fly of Dean’s jeans.
Oh, yeah, that’s a plan Dean can get on board with. He finds Cas’s zipper and returns the favor, a little clumsily, because he only has his left hand to work with. His cock twitches in anticipation at the sight of Cas with his eyes closed, all wrapped up in his task; at the low groan Cas gives when Dean palms his hard-on through his boxers.
Cas opens his eyes, then. There’s a light in them that’s a little bit teasing, but mostly it’s just pure fucking unadulterated want, and Dean knows he’s done for. Cas smirks and takes him in hand and strokes him firmly, just this side of too hard, and Dean’s hips stutter and his eyes fall closed and for a moment all he can do is feel, hanging on to Cas’s shoulders for dear life, thrusting up helplessly into the slide of Cas’s palm. His touch isn’t cold anymore, his hands warm from Dean’s skin, Dean’s pre-come getting all over his fingers, and Dean needs it like he needs oxygen.
He breathes through it, through Cas’s low chuckle in his ear. “Fuck,” he gets out, and his voice is ragged.
Cas pauses what he’s doing, at which Dean makes an undignified noise and tries to roll his hips into Cas’s grip, and actually looks like he’s considering it for a moment.
“We could,” he says, at last. “But we don’t have lubricant. And I don’t think the floor would be comfortable.”
“Man,” Dean groans into his hair, “stop talking.” Then he figures kissing might be a better incentive for Cas to shut up and get on with the task at hand, so he ducks his head and presses his tongue between Cas’s lips.
Cas takes him in easy, kisses back, his mouth hot and urgent. Dean can feel the press of Cas’s hard-on, the sticky-wet spot on the front of his boxers, and he fumbles with them until Cas’s cock springs free and he can wrap his spit-slick fingers around it, using his thumb to smear pre-come around the tip.
“Yes,” Cas breathes against his mouth. “Please.” Insistent, with the roll of his hips, but there’s something sure and joyful about it, too. Something that makes Dean’s heart skip in his chest in ways he tries not to think about too hard. Like Cas is just so happy that he gets to be here with Dean right now, trading handjobs behind the counter of some crappy small-town liquor store. It’s crazy.
Only Cas looks so damn good, wrapped up in it like this, and he fits perfectly in Dean’s hand, and his skin is flushed and warm and human and his touch draws sparks of pleasure up from the base of Dean’s cock as he jacks Dean firm and steady.
So okay, maybe Dean’s pretty damn happy he gets to be here, too.
Dean almost gets caught up again, almost forgets what he’s doing, but Cas thrusts up into his grip, his cock jerking, muttering, “I said please,” and oh, yeah, it’s on.
That’s all there is for a little while, the slide of tongues and cocks and hands, the slow build of pleasure low in his belly that suddenly isn’t slow anymore. Dean’s almost fucking there when Cas lets go. He makes a frustrated noise in his throat, trying to get up the brainpower to ask, What the hell are you doing? He bites it off when Cas’s fingers sneak back, find their way behind his balls and tease gently at the rim of his hole.
They hesitate there, just a second, before Dean gets out, “Yeah, Cas, yeah,” and Cas presses just the warm, wet tip of his forefinger inside. He’s biting his lip, his face bright and open like he’s still amazed at Dean letting him do this.
It’s just the tip of Cas’s finger, but it’s so inescapably there, so intimate. Dean didn’t know what to do with it, the first time, and it still startles him a little, no matter how often they do this. It’s that that has him coming, in the end, grabbing at Cas’s shoulders again as his balls draw themselves up tight and light pulses behind his eyes and he spills over his belly and his boxers and probably the front of his jeans because that’s just his luck.
He’s totally forgotten that he was supposed to be getting Cas off, too—but that’s cool, because it seems like Cas has himself covered. He hauls Dean further into his lap, if that’s possible, thrusting against the wet mess of come on Dean’s stomach, his cock trapped hard and hot between their bodies. He kisses Dean, deeper and harder, and the tip of his finger is still in Dean’s ass, and Dean just goes with it, still lightheaded from his orgasm, just holding on and riding it out through the aftershocks until Cas comes between them with a rush of wetness.
They’re both breathing hard, Cas’s eyes shining up at him, chest heaving. Dean leans in to kiss him again, catching Cas’s breath. Cas is warm all over, now. The faint salt taste of his skin clings to Dean’s lips, and he smells like sweat and sex, not smoke and dirt. The graveyard is gone from him, for now.
“That,” Cas says, a little later. “That was.” He pauses, face scrunching up like it always does when he’s forgotten his train of thought. “I forgot I hit my head.” He gives a tired little laugh.
They’re still wrapped around each other on the swivel chair. Dean’s legs are starting to cramp, and he has a nasty suspicion they’re gonna find themselves stuck together with crusted jizz when they get it together to move.
“Yeah,” Dean manages. “I’m still checking that out when we get back to the room.” He feels lighter than earlier, though, the cloud of worry lifted from over him for now, and he pulls back to grin at Cas and waggle his eyebrows. “Even if we did just get done playing doctor.”
Cas gives him an ineffectual shove. “I think I preferred it when I didn’t understand your jokes.”
Dean makes a mock-offended face and extricates himself (crusted jizz: as predicted), hunting under the counter and coming up triumphantly after a minute with a box of tissues. Cas is already on his feet, wrestling with his shirt.
They don’t talk a whole lot as they clean up and dress. They just bump against each other as they move around the small space. A brush of elbows, a steadying hand on a shoulder. Little touches that don’t need to be reassurances, right now, but could be, some other time. Cas snags the bottle of Scotch and tucks it under his jacket before they leave, because apparently he’s a quick study when it comes to the important things in life.
When Dean lets them out, there’s a plastic skull laying on the ground outside the store. Cas grabs it while Dean locks up and shoves the keys through the letterbox, turning it over in his hands.
“Humans have always been fascinated with skulls,” he says. “You—we—put them on everything. Memento mori.” He holds it out.
Dean takes it and frowns at Cas, not sure what he’s getting at, but his expression is just thoughtful, not troubled. Maybe he isn’t getting at anything. “Yeah, well,” he says, as lightly as he can. “Don’t think we need the reminder.”
Across the road, the angel watches them with blank stony eyes.
Dean tosses the plastic skull in the trash and turns away from it, back to the man by his side.
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This is such a wonderful observation about Dean:
It isn’t even that Dean doesn’t trust them to have each other’s backs. It’s just that he doesn’t trust anyone the same way he trusts himself. (He doesn’t distrust anyone the way he distrusts himself, either—but that’s a thought for another crappy night, no use in dwelling on it now.)
And this is such an awesome description of Cas and his relationship with Dean in the later seasons:
Dean is never sure anymore if he really doesn’t get things, or if he’s just pretending not to get them so that Dean can pretend he’s still the Cas he was when they first met, awkward and alien and impervious to hurt.
I wish *all* the writers on the show shared this insight. :)
Loved it!
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This was very sweet.
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Thank you so much for reading! I'm glad you liked it. ♥