Chapter Text
Castiel has little reason to ponder over or think deeply about particular human rituals.
At least, he has no ... useful reason, nor a required one, to think too much upon those rituals of a more emotionally intimate nature. Such things he will not, and does not, do; not in the least because doing so is what got him taken - no, captured, returned to Heaven and reprogrammed for the first time he can recall after rescuing the righteous man.
After gripping him tight and raising him from perdition.
I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You. They feel I've begun to express emotions.
The man in his charge had cocked an eyebrow at him, plump lips lifting into something close to a smirk. "Oh, an' they can't have that, can they, Tin Man?" he'd said with a slap to the angel's arm and a bite of his own lower lip.
He has little reason to believe Dean Winchester's teasing (at first or second hearing seemingly flirtatious words, as was his comment about he and Castiel apparently somehow being akin to a pair of humans named Thelma and Louise) is anything other than that. For after thinking on the words enough to register the possible connotations beneath, as much as the angel would be willing to act on any such suggestion, or impulse, with Dean had he requested, or offered, soon enough it becomes obvious to the angel that Dean is simply utilizing his -admittedly peculiar, to Castiel, as he so often makes references the angel does not understand- sense of humor.
And then they spend some time together. Just the two of them, with no one else. Dean asks what Castiel plans to do with his 'last night on earth' and the angel, with all the swirling feelings inside him that he was told would only get worse, does his best to quash them, push them down and bury them deep within.
I just thought I'd... sit here quietly.
But Dean afterwards said something about Bert and Ernie (Castiel briefly wonders about them, who they are, and why their sexual orientation would be known to Dean) before adding that Castiel wouldn't die a virgin, not on Dean's watch. And without saying much else in words after an introduction besides "go get her, tiger", prior to an interaction most people would consider a disaster, surely, between Castiel and a woman in a den of iniquity. AFTER the interaction, screams and thrown objects preceding Dean's tugging of the angel down a hall and out a door, Dean had laughed. Head thrown back, hands on knees, he expelled a truly uproarious burst of mirth that the angel holds inside as much as he does his feelings, or at the very least attempts.
Yet Dean takes off his coat for him, afterwards; hangs it up in their dark little room, the current room they are residing in, or that Dean is, rather - this man holds the angel in his arms after exhorting him to get in bed. Castiel obliges, feeling something humans might refer to as weariness, although his is more akin to...wearing.
Springs of mattress move as Dean also gets in bed, having discarded some of his own clothes as well. Letting Castiel know, he shifts closer as he notices tension in the guy's shoulders, how his traps are drawn up nearly to his neck. Placing a gentle hand on his back, running fingers gently back and forth before taking the angel's shoulders in a firm and rolling grasp, he whispers to the angel, "Easy, Cas, I'm here." He licks his lips and swallows before clearing throat and saying he's gonna hang on to him, if that's alright. Asking in a manner so gentle, almost tender. Carefully extending an arm and waiting to see if the angel is okay with that, and if he will respond.
As if anything in Heaven or on Earth, or within his being, vessel or not, could exhort Castiel to refuse Dean Winchester anything.
The angel nods, utters a quiet "yes."
And Dean, not needing to be told twice, presses his front to the angel's back. Entwines their legs as he practically nuzzles his nose, his face into the skin of Cas's neck.
The angel feels a brief damp touch, of what he cannot place, but then Dean's warm breaths skate over him, causing shivers (which makes no sense to him, though Dean, having kicked off boots and socks and jeans now has pinpricks of goosepimples raising his leg hairs and causing his body to shiver, too).
So turns Castiel, flipping himself over to lie on his opposite side, feeling Dean's muscles freeze even as those bright green eyes grow wide. He is almost unmoving, seems barely to breathe as his eyes flicker over Cas's features ever so slightly. Cas, to his credit, only hesitates the briefest instant before he lifts a muscular leg and wraps it around Dean's. Pressing his own lips together then, the angel as if tentatively reaches to put his hand to Dean's shoulder, over and against the place he had branded his mark upon Dean's soul; his handprint settles there as if somehow burning again.
Dean grunts and practically lunges, his own fingers trembling against Castiel's skin, his neck and his face. But the angel doesn't withdraw or hesitate as Dean comes in, meeting him touch for touch even as his muscles jump.
Castiel is... overcome at Dean's movements, the slide and grasp of his fingers down the angel's ribcage and sides to hips and then curling in, tangling in scratching hair under clothes, tugging elastic and cloth down and away even whilst moving his body, pressing whilst rolling up and down as if his sole purpose at present is to dip and rise at Castiel's front and legs' juncture.
Nothing is said about this, save for a whispered query of "Is this alright with you, angel?" Lifting one leg as breath is expelled, a slow choking hiss as Dean turns head and rests lips to smooth skin. Letting thighs rest on top of his shoulders, as he'd slid his own weight down to curl under Cas's, as if half to hold him in his lap but more to provide this, such closeness that keeps the angel transfixed, his muscles jumping as his eyes go wide.
"Oh - yes, Dean," his voice breaks out of its gravel depths to grow high, almost rising to a squeak before he clears his throat, feels himself shake. Somehow, he seems to lose the capacity to form complete sentences. "What can, what should-"
"'S okay," Dean soothes, reassuring him, lips travelling along the other's skin now. "-You're okay. Jus' lemme do this for you, Cas." His voice is rough, tongue pokes between his lips and drags a stripe up Cas's leg to its juncture with groin, and then trails sharply down the crease, feeling soft prickle of follicles of hair and then the answering pinpricks of goosebumps that rise to the surface.
Lips curved into a small smile whilst kissing and touching pebbled skin, hearing gasps and feeling continuous muscle jerks that Cas strives desperately to still, Dean feels a warmth within himself of almost pride as he curves both hands around Cas's legs in a squeeze. Though his skin is all roughness and callouses, bears a crust of blood that so often remains... against the paleness of the angel's skin, his touches are soft. Feeling almost shakes him apart as he shifts and all right, caresses.
Cas very nearly growls, voice caught in his throat as he gasps and throbs, stiff and aching whilst feeling Dean- who settles his shoulders, still smiling, and stroking, fingertips rasping gently across skin- he carefully extends his fingers and hand, resting before curling them. And when the angel looks at him, into his eyes and utters "Dean-" he takes hold of Cas, takes to him.
Allowing him, giving him the means to let go.
For the first time, but it won't be the last.
Dean knows, even as the heat in his chest grows sharp, almost painful as he tugs, and sucks, and tastes, that he'll keep doing this, if Cas wants him to. Saying nothing, but still being here.
Being together.