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Dean probably could’ve picked a better place than a crummy motel bed, and a better time than the thirty minutes it takes Sam to go get breakfast, to introduce Cas to the world of human sex and angelic orgasm.
But, you know what, damn it; he didn’t expect it to go like this.
Everything starts off perfect. Cas crawls eagerly onto Dean’s lap and shoves him down into the mattress, pinning him there with a fire in his eyes. Dean’s hands roam and Cas’ tongue explores; zippers hiss and half-pained, half-pleasured grunts fill the air. The headboard bumps against the wall and a universe, an entire spiraling, expanding cosmos of wonder and fear and awe and joy bursts in a gaze that Cas never strays far from Dean’s eyes. His hands grip Dean’s shoulders, then trace down the backs of his thighs, and his trench coat is gone and the blankets are pooled at the foot of the bed, and Cas is stretching Dean open, filling him, his hips jerking with an earnest, at moments frenzied, at others tender, attention.
It’s as Cas’ breathing quickens and his thrusts speed up into an erratic, desperate pace that Dean, hazy-minded though he is, begins to notice something going wrong.
The lamp on the nightstand is trembling.
Something in the walls, too, is starting to rumble. Like an earthquake’s first, temperamental gurgles warning everyone they might want to go jump into a bathtub or brace themselves in a doorframe.
“Uh … Cas?” Dean says, but it comes out breathy and strained, and the scratch of his voice against Cas’ throat only drives the angel crazier. “Cas … Are you …”
“Uh huh,” Cas grunts. Dean feels his muscles tense up, just as the window panes start to rattle.
“No, I mean—Are you about to—”
“Uh huh.”
Dean can’t get the words out, and in a moment, it’s too late, because Cas comes with a groan pulled deep from his throat.
Not that Dean hears it.
No, he’s a little distracted by the lamp that explodes, and the television that shatters, and every single window of the motel room simultaneously bursting into shards of jagged glass that shoot outwards towards the parking lot, as over it all there radiates an eardrum-splitting, generally cataclysmic boom of what Dean guesses is angelic energy Cas probably didn’t mean to expel.
Dean’s ears are still ringing when the dust has quite literally settled (maybe not literally; there’s still clouds of it floating in the air). The lamp is sparking with golden bursts of really safe-looking electrical current, and somewhere in the parking lot a car alarm is bellowing its offense. Dean and Cas, out of a reflexive scramble of sheer surprise, have ended up on completely opposite sides of the room. Cas’ hair is a bird’s nest. Dean still hasn’t done up his pants.
That’s how Sam finds them minutes later (minus the undone zipper, which Dean finally masters his fumbling fingers to close up). He’s got a grease-speckled paper bag in his fist and a jaw apparently unhinged.
“Are you guys okay? What the hell happened?”
Dean glances at Cas. He’s still looking dazed and far too happy, the idiot.
“It. There was a spell,” Dean makes up. No, that won’t work; there are hex bags in every corner of the room. “That’s not true. It was nothing. We’re—Don’t—”
“I had an accident,” says Cas, in a voice so monotone Dean would’ve laughed, if his ears weren’t still pounding and his head reeling.
This was gonna be an issue. If Cas ended like this every time …
“You had an accident,” Sam repeats. His eyebrows are halfway up his forehead and oh crap Dean just realized the bed is in a complete disarray.
Well, so’s the rest of the room. But.
“No one’s hurt, so, no big,” Dean says, too loudly.
“There are dead birds everywhere,” says Sam, gesturing outside.
“Well.” Dean doesn’t have much of a response to that.
“It’s odd that no one’s come to check on us,” Cas says after a minute. He’s looking out the window, at the motel parking lot and … yeah, you’d think someone would’ve reacted to a wall of windows blowing out and crows dropping out of the sky. The car’s still bleating too. He looks over at Dean, eyes flicking for a moment down at the debris, and there’s a glimmer of … not surprise, so much as intrigue, in those baby blues.
Oh, crap, thinks Dean, and his stomach sinks at the same time as it squirms.
Cas might’ve just racked their hotel bill into the quadruple digits, but damn it if he didn’t enjoy doing it.
A sweep of Cas’ hand repairs the windows, and Dean grabs the paper bag from Sam and starts digging into his Egg McMuffin like everything’s perfectly normal, but no amount of eye-avoiding from Dean or nonchalance from Cas can make Sam stop staring at them suspiciously.
* * *
“I apologize for earlier,” Cas says in Dean’s ear that night; they’re at a new motel, Sam across town interviewing the victim’s sister — the case is looking to be some kind of shifter, which is a pain, but a far cry from demigods and Horsemen and Leviathan and all the other crap they’ve had to deal with — something that can die with a good ol’ stab of silver sounds like one mojito and a beach chair away from a vacation. Dean jumps when Cas speaks; not that personal space is exactly an issue for them anymore, but it still surprises him every time.
“Yeah, that was …” Dean slams the trunk closed, shouldering his duffle bag. “Unexpected. Put mildly.”
“I didn’t know it was going to feel like that,” Cas says, and he has a way of being just blunt enough to make Dean uncomfortable, and just honest enough to make Dean’s insides squirm again.
“It usually doesn’t. I mean, it feels pretty awesome, but … the windows usually stay intact.”
They start for the room. Cas is walking quickly behind Dean, but sideways, fighting to maintain eye contact like he needs to explain himself and is worrying Dean’s angry. Which, he isn’t. If anything, he thinks it’s borderline hilarious.
Inconvenient, but. Hilarious.
“I was overwhelmed and unable to contain my … self,” says Cas, struggling over the words. Dean unlocks the motel room, glancing at him. “Angels aren’t meant to lose control like that.”
“Well, you know what they say when you fall off a bike,” says Dean, which wasn’t fair and he was openly teasing the guy, because Cas’ face goes all scrunchy with confusion. “You get back on. You just need some practice.”
Cas blinks at him. “Can we practice now?”
A grin spreads Dean’s lips. “I like it when you get all romantic with me.”
Sam’s just stepped off the bus and is approaching the hotel when a series of echoing booms precede the power blinking out for six blocks in either direction. He’s not all that surprised when he steps up to their room to find a squirrel dead on the sidewalk and Cas, his cheeks pink and hair mussed, hurriedly fixing the windows.
* * *
Dean can’t always help Cas build up his stamina in a hands-on capacity. One morning, he sends the angel into the bathroom to take a shower, giving him express, explicit instructions on what to do once he’s in there. Maybe if he’s on his own, the sensations won’t be so … intense.
Dean’s leaning against the dresser talking to Sam when the overhead lights explode and the windows shatter. They hit the floor, Sam crying out in shock, as the sky rains glass.
Dean’s ears are still tingling when a voice calls from the bathroom.
“Dean. It didn’t work.”
Sam finally knows what’s up, from the way Dean laughs himself silly.
* * *
Sam isn’t so much okay with it as he is content to feign absolute ignorance, which is good enough for Dean. Cas manages to finish himself off in a shower without cracking the glass sliding door — but the mirror was another story. Sam suggests they try camping — nothing to shatter — but the result is scorch marks across the dead leaves and a small fire, not to mention a family of chipmunks that didn’t deserve such a fate. Dean’s riding a constant high now between giddiness and the beginning pangs of frustration, as Cas gets angrier and angrier with himself.
“Stop holding your breath like that, you’re gonna pass out,” Dean says, disconnecting himself from Cas with a wet pop and a slickness at his lips; Cas’s face was turning red.
“I don’t—have—breath,” Cas points out. Still, he seems to exhale something, because his shoulders drop and color returns to his face. “Keep going.”
Dean has to admit, he doesn’t mind when Cas orders him around.
He does mind when Cas blows yet another TV set, because damn it, it’s not like he can read himself to sleep with the lamp in pieces too.
The outbursts get less intense, though, and at the same time, Cas’ orgasms last longer. The more of his own energy he internalizes, the more he enjoys the experience, the more his eyes light up (literally, for a split second his irises turn golden), and — most importantly — the more he makes this keening noise from the back of his throat that makes Dean go all fuzzy and stupid.
They’re getting closer, at any rate. And damn it if they aren’t putting the time in getting there.
* * *
Sam’s in the other room the night it happens. They’re staying in a cabin just outside of town, Dean and Cas doing he doesn’t want to even think about it in the bedroom while Sam sits on his laptop, deep in Research Mode. He’s finally putting together why that sister acted so strangely (Dean won’t be happy, because his shifter theory was wrong, and this is careening into demigod territory), when the walls give a … telling rumble.
“God damn it,” Sam mumbles. He’s just about to save his open tabs when the lamp hanging from the ceiling rattles; somewhere in the distance there’s the telltale boom of a transformer blowing, and a spark flits up Sam’s power cord and shorts out his laptop. He doesn’t have time to react before the entire cabin is plunged into darkness.
There’s a pause where all Sam can hear are the window panes rattling in their frames.
He realizes it, apparently, at the same time as Dean.
“WE DIDN’T BREAK THE WINDOWS,” Dean bellows from the next room. It’s so loud Sam jumps. “THE WINDOWS ARE STILL INTACT. WOOO. YES. HIGH FIVE.”
Under his whooping, Sam can hear Cas laughing. He’s not sure he’s ever heard the sound before.
He can’t help the grin. He wishes he could, but. Sam thumbs his laptop, part of him pissed off, another part just riding the edge of disgusted, and a last part grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.
There’s a small thump on the roof, and he really hopes it wasn’t a bird.