Archive of Our Own

The springs of the motel couch are broken, and so, in what is easily the funniest thing Dean has ever seen in his life, it collapses inwardly as soon as Sam throws himself down onto it. The imploded seat clamps down on his ass and Sam is trapped inside it, and for a good ten minutes, he flails around like a turtle flipped onto its back, making furious threats to fart on Dean’s pillow or pee in his car or smash all his tapes, while Dean just laughs himself breathless. Finally, Castiel takes pity on Sam and takes his hands to haul him out of the mess of springs and cushions.

It’s two days before Christmas – one the busiest times of year in Vegas – and every room in the motel is booked out, so there’s no chance of switching to another room where the furniture isn’t all falling to shit beneath them, but they do move across the hall to hang out in Sam’s single instead, complete with Dean muttering sourly that he doesn’t know why Sam couldn’t trash his own room. Nonetheless, they cram themselves into the smaller room and settle into what Dean calls ‘Christmas spirit’, but what could be more accurately interpreted as irresponsible levels of inebriation, while they work through the material for their case. They have store-brand cardboard cartons of eggnog by the crateful, and even though they aren’t even sure if they like it, they waste no time in getting through it, pausing between re-fills to insist that festive alcohol definitely helps with the investigation process.

The case is this: last week, two missing strippers turned up in a locked hotel room, holding hands, which is kind of cute, and decapitated, which is less cute. There’s no sign of the heads, no sign of breaking-and-entering at the hotel, nor any evidence about who or what might have caused this, and so far, research into whether this had happened before is coming up blank. Newspapers clippings and police files are strewn all across the coffee table, sorted semi-logically into piles of possible links between victims, but at the moment there is no real sense of order.

“We’re not getting anywhere with this,” Sam finally admits after they’ve been batting around the same ideas for more than an hour – vengeful spirit, some sort of weird vampiric suicide pact, straight-up crazy people – and he pushes a hand roughly backwards through his hair. “We should... I don’t know, make a plan for what we’re going to do tomorrow.”

Dean stretches with a long groan, careful not to upset his cup of lukewarm eggnog as he throws his arms along the back of the couch. “Let me guess – research.”

“Yup.” Sam sounds way too cheerful about that. “I’m gonna call it and say... a morning at the library? See if anything like this has ever happened before—”

“Sure, have fun with that.”

“—and then we’ve got an interview with the guy who found them at eleven, so you can do that while Cas and I pick up the autopsy report or – wait, shit.” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. “Shit, no, actually, I’d better do the interview – I mean, since you’ve got that weird lunch date with the mother of one of the victims and Cas is just awkward – so how about you do the research, and then—”

“I’m not awkward,” Castiel interrupts, frowning.

Sam cuts himself off mid-sentence, and for a second he doesn’t speak, simply pressing his lips together. He and Dean exchange a look. Then Sam takes a deep breath and blunders on as though Castiel had never spoken, trying to keep from smiling.

“So,” Sam says, “does that sound okay? If you and Cas do the research in the morning, and then I’ll do the interview while you have that lunch date, Cas can grab the autopsy report, and we can work from there.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dean says.

“Alright, then. It’s a plan.”

“I’m not awkward,” Castiel repeats, more insistently this time.

Sam tries – unsuccessfully – to smother his laugh into his cup of eggnog, and when Castiel shoots him a wounded look, he quickly starts pretending to cough and choke, and excuses himself to the bathroom. On the way out, he claps Dean on the shoulder and whispers, “Good luck, man.”

Dean gives him a withering look before he disappears and then twists back to look at Castiel, face set into the calculatedly gentle expression of a long-suffering parent about to explain to their child why the Tooth Fairy is a little low on funds at the moment. “Cas,” he starts.

Castiel stares at him, not taking any bullshit. “Am I awkward?”

“Yes.” Dean replies instantly and feels only a tiny bit guilty for the speed and ease of his answer when Castiel’s brow furrows into a frown. “Babe, you got thrown out of a whore house.”

Castiel huffs. “Only because I tried to engage the woman in what I, apparently foolishly, thought would be a reassuring and positively life-affirming discussion of her childhood,” he says, in a thoroughly sarcastic and pissy tone of voice that indicates he still doesn’t entirely understand what was wrong with his actions all those years ago.

Dean gazes at him with a sort of hopeless smile. “Cas, just re-run that sentence through your head again.”

Castiel’s shoulders slump. “I didn’t know the etiquette of the situation,” he says crossly, looking down at his hands.

Dean slings an arm around Castiel’s shoulder and pulls him clumsily against his chest. “Look, it’s not a bad thing,” he says comfortingly. “It’s... cute.”

“Cute,” Castiel echoes. He doesn’t sound reassured by this.

“Cute.” Dean nudges Castiel’s cheek with his nose. “Come on, you have to admit you can be a little... goofy, sometimes. With small-talk, and pop-culture, and everything. I mean, you can’t deny that your first attempts at, you know, seducing me or whatever – that was just painful for everyone involved.” Seeing that Castiel is still sulking, Dean lets his hand slip down his back to sneak around his waist, and squeezes him. “Not that that one turned out too badly, though.”

Still sulky, Castiel shifts like he’s going to pull away, but reluctantly lets himself melt against Dean’s chest

“So what if you’re awkward?” Dean says. “You’re also a lot of other things - like smart, and occasionally funny, and ridiculously good-looking in winter hats.” He pushes Castiel a little away from him so that he can see his face. “Okay?”

Castiel doesn’t look entirely appeased, mouth still drawn into a thin line, and he only jerks his shoulder in a non-committal sort of shrug. Dean leans in to kiss him then, and he tries to remain bad-tempered and unreceptive but Dean is relentless, pressing in again and again with quick, close-mouthed kisses until he can feel the curve of Castiel’s lips as he fights back an unwilling smile.

“You’re insatiable,” Castiel grumbles and pulls away, scowling like that’ll help him to stay grumpy in spite of all Dean’s efforts.

Dean grins. “You love it,” he says, and he kisses Castiel again, teasing his mouth open even as Castiel still tries to hopelessly pretend that he’s not interested, until Sam comes back and throws a cushion at them. Then Dean swears and flips him off, and Sam complains that he should keep a spray bottle so that he can squirt them like badly behaved pets when the PDA gets excessive, and Castiel settles comfortably against Dean’s side, and they open another carton of eggnog, and Dean thinks the conversation forgotten about.

________________________________________

Castiel doesn’t stick to the plan. Dean isn’t sure what part of him is suddenly completely incapable of sitting to a carefully pre-calculated series of events, but as soon as Dean pulls the Impala up the curb outside the library, Castiel is squinting out of the window like he’s forgotten to turn the stove off and saying, “There’s something I have to do.”

“What?” Dean says incredulously and stares at him. “No way, man. No way. You are not gonna ditch me to do the boring work on my own—”

“I’ll be back soon.” Castiel reaches across the space between them and lightly touches Dean’s shoulder, a gesture of comfort, and then he is gone.

Dean huffs. Great. He couldn’t have the boyfriend whose weird habits only went to the extent of things like eating bananas with peanut butter, or collecting buttons, or something like that – no, he had to have the boyfriend whose hobbies included disappearing into thin air at a moment’s notice. Nonetheless, he swings out of the car and heads into the library to get some serious research done, whether Castiel is around to help him or not.

It’s difficult and it’s boring, but Dean manages to stick it out for a few hours and get some fairly decent information out of city records and old newspaper articles, including maybe some stuff that they could use, which he files away inside his jacket to show Sam later. It’s coming up towards eleven-thirty and Dean has that lunch date with the mother of the deceased, so he calls it a day – or at least, a morning, since, who knows, he’ll probably be back here later – and packs up.

He’s just heading down the main road in town looking for somewhere to grab a coffee before he moves on when he spots Castiel coming up an escalator from the depths of a seedy-looking shopping mall. He looks surprised to see Dean there, and makes some vague, off-hand comment about having been investigating some of the places that the victims frequented before asking how the research was going. Dean eyes him suspiciously, not sure exactly where strippers would spend a lot of their time, or what was so important that Castiel couldn’t wait for him so that they could investigate it together, but Castiel gives him a disarming smile, and he figures it doesn’t really matter.

________________________________________

At this stage, Dean can’t remember who first suggested it, but Christmas Eve sees them all piled into Sam’s room playing the Cheesy Christmas Movie Drinking Game. They've upgraded from eggnog to straight tequila - Castiel's idea, because it’s his favourite drink, and because he liked the little plastic sombreros that came on the bottle lids - and they're sprawled in all directions, anywhere they can see the TV set. Sam has thrown himself all over his bed, limbs all akimbo; Castiel has dragged the armchair around to curl up in, balancing his shot-glasses very carefully on the arm; Dean is sitting on the floor, leaning against the foot of Sam's bed.

Aside from the generic rules of any drinking game, such as the punishment for everything being a shot, as well as the illegality of using anyone's real names or the word d-r-i-n-k, the rules of the drinking game are imprecise, and as they've long since forgotten who was going to drink when, they just take to yelling out at random corny moments and insisting that it's everyone's turn to (insert hilariously inappropriate beverage-consuming synonym here). No-one is particularly coherent or sober, but they're having a lot of fun.

“Every time there’s a montage of Christmas decorations!” Sam declares, pointing wildly at the screen.

They dutifully tip back their glasses and instantly re-fill.

“Every time the parents don’t believe in Santa!" Dean yells.

Sam bursts out laughing, high-pitched and screechy. He's a giggly drunk. “Dude, how can they not believe in Santa?" he says incredulously, his head lolling back against his headboard like he's too drunk to even support the weight of his head anymore. "Where do they think the presents are coming from?!”

"Maybe Santa wipes their memories every Christmas," Castiel says. His tone is solemn and he's staring intently at the screen like he's trying to work out all the mysteries of the universe through it - not too different from usual, to be honest - but he's slumped almost entirely over onto one arm of the chair, his head dropped so low that he's less than an inch from only being propped up by his tequila bottle.

Dean cackles. "Plot twist: Santa's part of the Men In Black."

Castiel frowns down at him like he's an idiot. "In your society's depictions Santa typically wears red," he tells Dean in a tone so condescending that he can almost feel the crushing weight of the consolatory head-pat.

“Kris Kringle!" Sam suddenly yelps. "Someone said it, someone said it! Who was it - Cas, you've gotta--"

"Feathers!" Dean interrupts. "Feathers! You're not supposed to--"

Sam flails his arms around trying to correct himself. "Shit - damnit, Feathers, it's your turn to... to, shit, what was it - the D-word! D!"

Dean rocks over sideways laughing. “He wants the D.”

Sam throws an empty shot-glass at Dean, which still has lingering traces of tequila inside that splash down one side of Dean’s face, but for all his exclaimed, fuck you fuck-head’s, he laughs as he pours his next shot. Castiel, on the other hand, remains oblivious and obediently takes his shot.

“Take a shot when there’s an overly sentimental gift!” Sam calls out, barely seconds after he’s tipped back his glass – his voice is still rough with the burn of the alcohol, but he doesn’t seem to care. However, he’s also the only one who actually drinks, as Dean are too busy clumsily leaning into over, resting his chin on Castiel’s knee, and asking him with a tipsy grin if he wants the D.

Castiel squints at him. “I don’t think it’s my choice,” he says at last, fingers playing with the rim of his shot-glass, and Dean knows that he still thinks ‘D’ is referring to the need to take another shot. “I thought it was decided for me based on the quality of the chosen Christmas movie.”

Dean laughs so hard he cries.

Beyond that point, things rapidly deteriorate. Sam rolls over onto his stomach so that he can smush his face into his mattress and still see the TV, and is the only person still even playing the game as he shouts out bad Christmas movie tropes at random intervals and swigs his tequila straight from the bottle; Dean decides that he can’t be bothered to crawl up into the armchair to be with Castiel, and instead drags him shamelessly onto the floor, where some pretty weird shit is now going down – mostly a lot of making out and trying to find interesting multiple uses for the plastic sombrero from the tequila lid. They can think of a few, although not many which are PG-13.

Sam slowly falls silent – not even snoring – and so, mildly worried that his brother might have died, Dean hauls himself up and stumbles over to the bed to check. Nope, not dead – just staring blankly at the still-flickering movie like he’s somehow bypassed the movie, the universe, this plane of being, and is now busy gazing through time and space.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean says and punches him in the shoulder like the loving sibling he is. He takes the bottle out of Sam’s hand and sets it gently onto the bedside table before grabbing handfuls of Sam’s clothes and using it to heave him around until he’s actually fully on the bed and lying in a rough estimation of the recovery position.

Sam struggles, flailing around like an octopus out of water, and makes sure to insist that he isn’t tired and wants to watch more TV like a loud, whiny baby, but eventually Dean gets him sorted out and he collapses contentedly against his pillow.

Dean heaves a sigh – “Christ, why do I keep him around?”- and drags a hand over his mouth, still a little concerned looking at Sam totally passed out, but he’s breathing, snoring now, and they already took the precaution of arranging various bowls around the room in case of tactical or accidental spewage, so Dean figures he’ll be okay.

“Well... ‘night, Sammy,” he says, and with that, he heads back over to where Castiel is still stretched out loosely on the carpet. He extends a hand, which Castiel takes, and he pulls him up onto his feet with enough force that he comes up, stumbles, and falls into Dean, until they’re pressed flat against each other. Dean smirks at him.

“It’s getting late,” Castiel says, eyes on Dean’s mouth. “We should head back to our own room.”

“I could not agree more,” Dean says dramatically. Then, because he is currently filled with more alcohol than sense, he decides it’d be a good idea to follow the melodrama of this statement with a dip any cheesy rom-com could be proud of, except that he doesn’t as much sweep Castiel off his feet as he does nearly knock him into a wall, and they both wind up staggering blindly for balance. Castiel doesn’t seem to mind, though, and twists his arms around Dean’s neck anyway. They kiss, long and slow, and Dean uses his hands on Castiel’s waist to push him in the direction of the door.

They’re both more than a little drunk as they stumble across the hall back to their own room, clinging to each other for support, and as Dean fumbles in the pocket of his jeans for the room key, he crowds Castiel against the door without a single thought to who might see them. It takes several attempts to fit the key to the keyhole, but at last Dean gets the door open, and he shoves his hips forwards into Castiel’s to push him inside.

The door swings closed behind them at some point, settling with a click, but Dean is busy. He kisses Castiel lazily, open-mouthed, and Castiel melts against him as they tread clumsy, badly-coordinated steps together into room like a blind waltz – and then suddenly Castiel pulls away, face serious.

“What’s up?” Dean asks.

For a second, Castiel hesitates. His eyes flicker over Dean’s face like he’s looking for something, or maybe just trying to buoy himself up to something. His lips press together.

“Cas?”

Castiel inhales through his nose, exhales from between his teeth. He swallows. “Sit down.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, surprised, and he gives Castiel a questioning look, but Castiel’s only response is a short nod, and so Dean doesn’t ask. He does as he’s told, turning and sitting on the edge of the bed, and then looks up expectantly. He wonders idly if maybe Castiel has got him something for Christmas that he’s too excited about to wait until morning – it’s the sort of thing he does, getting over-excited about things, in his own quiet, twitchy way – or that it’s something private which it wouldn’t be appropriate for Sam to see, or if there’s some, grand and cheesy, romantic speech coming. Castiel sure looks nervous enough for the latter. He’s standing at the foot of the bed, arms loose at his sides, and his fingers are clenching and unclenching into fists. His cheeks are pink, although that could be the result of many things, such as the excessive drinking that had been going down in Sam’s room, or the way that Dean had held onto his hips with tight fingers to keep them pressed flush as he kissed him breathless.

Dean is just about to ask if he’s feeling alright when Castiel rolls his shoulders back and shrugs out of his trenchcoat.

The coat hits the carpet with a muffled thump, but Castiel doesn’t so much as flinch. His eyes are fixed on Dean, unblinking – a little wide, a little uncertain, but dark and determined and filled with a kind of intensity that sends a shiver ghosting up Dean’s spine. For a moment, neither of them move or speak. They just stare at each other, Castiel standing in his suit with his legs braced solidly apart, Dean waiting on the bed trying to work out what exactly is going on.

Slowly, Castiel twists out of his suit jacket, turning it carelessly inside out as he pulls his arms from the sleeves, and Dean’s eyes are drawn to the subtle shift of the muscles of Castiel’s arms under his thin shirt sleeves, the elegant flex and tense of his hands once he’s free of the jacket, holding it by the collar, pinched between one thumb and index finger. Castiel lifts the jacket to shoulder-height before letting it fall to the floor. The cotton of his plain shirt is by no means substantial enough to hide anything; Dean can see the shape of him, the narrow lines, the faint peaks of his nipples through the fabric because the room’s heating is faulty.

Dean’s tongue instinctively slips out to wet his lips. He doesn’t know why they’re getting undressed like this, thinks it’s a little weird, but he is more than down with it and certainly not going to complain. He jerks his shoulders free of his own jacket.

“Wait – don’t.”

Dean looks up, startled, and sees that Castiel has abruptly stopped undressing himself. The uncertainty is back in his expression, his eyes creasing at the corners. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, nervous, but he doesn’t back down.

“Don’t,” he repeats, his voice low. “Just... wait.”

“Cas,” Dean says. He’s confused, frown pulling down between his eyebrows. “What are you doing?”

Castiel stalls at the question, and for a few seconds his hands drift at his sides, like he was going to stick them in his pockets or push them through his hair or touch his clothes and got mixed up halfway through. His nerves are pretty fucking cute, Dean will admit, even if he has no idea where they’re coming from, but then Castiel does the unexpected. He draws in a deep breath, chest inflating, and then he tips his chin up defiantly and looks down at Dean through his eyelashes. “I’m seducing you,” he says matter-of-factly. His cheeks darken as though embarrassed, but he holds his ground. “Properly, this time.”

Dean’s mouth falls slightly open and his eyebrows lift. He isn’t quite sure if this the dumbest fucking thing Castiel has every schemed up or the cutest, but either way there’s a rush of heat all under his skin at the thought of him planning this. He lets his hands fall from his clothes to rest on his thighs and he nods. “Okay.” He can work with this. He nods again in encouragement, and he waits.

There is a beat where Castiel hesitates, thrown out of his rhythm by the interruption, but then he shakes out his shirt sleeves and plucks at the cuffs to unbutton them, undeterred.

There’s something bizarre about a silent striptease, with the thick hush of the motel room only broken by their breathing, the rustle of Castiel’s clothing as he works, and the distant glitzy soundtrack of the nightlife on the street outside, but it doesn’t feel weird. The lack of music, the lack of a performance – it feels more genuine. It means that there’s a kind of intensity in the room, electricity in the space between them, and with the way that Castiel holds Dean’s eyes as he removes his tie in one slow, smooth pull, it’s all affecting Dean more strongly than anything has in a long time. He swallows hard.

Castiel lets his tie fall to the floor and curls two hands into the material of his shirt, around his waist, and pulls the hem out from where it’s tucked into the waistband of his pants. Languidly, he lifts the hem maybe a little higher that he really needs to so that there is the brief flash of his stomach, the sharp upward crests of his hipbones – pale, smooth curves that Dean knows from experience fit perfectly to the curve of his thumb. He feels his mouth come up dry at the thought of touching, pressing his lips to the skin, opening his mouth to taste the shine of sweat there.

Then Castiel is working the shirt open from the collar down, fingers deft and careful on the buttons, and Dean can see the flush already spreading across his collarbones and chest. Dean’s eyes flicker hungrily across every inch of exposed skin, his hands twitching on his thighs with the need to touch and take, but he keeps still. Castiel is taking his sweet time about getting his clothes off but he keeps his eyes on Dean the whole time, and that, paired with the way he rolls his bottom lip between his teeth as he works, letting it swell up pink and obscenely kissable, is enough to have Dean shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He’d already been well beyond interested in getting Castiel naked when they were back in Sam’s room, and now he’s so hard it’s distracting, heat pooling low in his abdomen and between his legs, a slow-starting pulse that has him pressing his lips together to keep his breathing even, because, goddamnit, it’s ridiculous for him to feel this needy – Cas hasn’t even taken his freaking pants off yet.

Finally, finally, Castiel reaches the last button, frees it, and shucks the shirt gracelessly. It falls, forgotten, and Castiel is exposed – the tightness of his body, all skinny sinew; the faint, pale scars of a long-ago banishing sigil carved into his skin; the dull glimmer of sweat on his chest, in his collarbones. Castiel takes a moment like that, his hands skimming lightly up his sides and trailing lazily back down over his chest, and Dean aches with how much he wants to replace those hands with his own. He digs his fingers into his legs, forcing himself to be patient; he spends too much of his time taking what he wants, knowing that Castiel would give him anything, give him the world if he could tie it up neat enough, and just this once Dean is going to sit quietly and let Castiel enjoy himself – even if means that Dean is at risk of spontaneously combusting at the mere sight, the heat in his veins so fierce now that his head is spinning with it.

There’s an awkward moment where Castiel stoops to hurriedly take off his shoes and socks, and Dean can’t suppress a little laugh at Castiel’s flustered haste as he fumbles with his shoelaces, but the sound soon dies in Dean’s throat because Castiel is barefoot now and reaching for his belt. Dean stills, his heart a jackhammer inside his chest, as Castiel unbuckles his belt.

And that's where Castiel stops. For the first time since Dean had accidentally interrupted him, Castiel looks uncertain. His nose screws up a little at the end and his hands fidget in the air before moving to the button and clasp of his pants. There he pauses again, fingers jerking, and he looks up to meet Dean's eyes. He seems to find something reassuring there, especially after Dean's mouth lifts in a slight, encouraging smile, and when Dean teases, "Come on. What are you waiting for?", Castiel's lips even twist momentarily like he might smile back.

Then, fast, as though Castiel is acting on impulse and letting the speed of the moment carry him onwards despite his nerves, he unclips, unzips, and drops his pants.

Holy shit.

Dean doesn't know if he said that out loud or not - he might have done, because Castiel looks sharply up at him - it's hard to retain any cognitive thought process, though, with the breathtaking gut-punch of arousal that Dean is hit with, because Castiel is wearing women's underwear.

Small, far too small, and fucking frilly like Castiel wants Dean to straight-up have a heart attack on Christmas Eve, they're a delicate, pearly sort of shade of ivory or cream, lace at the waistband and around his tops of his legs, one sweet crinkled bow at the forefront: the kind of cute panties Dean would have said belonged to a sweet, blushing virgin or a school-teacher or something. Here, however, it’s downright obscene. Castiel is already fully hard, cock curving away from his stomach, and the satin strains desperately over it like the very fabric could split. There's already a dark stain of wetness just where Castiel's cock stretches the material most. On anyone, the panties would have been hot; on Castiel, they're absolutely sinful.

"Dean?" Castiel says, concern and anxiety in the questioning lift of his voice. He steps out the loose folds of his pants, crumpled around his feet, and moves towards the bed where Dean is sat.

"I - yeah yeah, I'm good," Dean rasps. "Jesus, Cas, you—" He can't even finish. He is almost painfully turned on, sparks brushing against his every nerve ending, and Jesus Christ, the way Castiel casually hooks his thumbs into the waistband of the underwear to adjust it as he walks closer, Dean's somewhat impressed that he was able to form words at all. "You, uh - you look good."

Castiel tips his head a little to one side, considering this. "Thank you."

Then he's stepping closer still, right into Dean's space where Dean is sitting up neatly, fully-dressed. Dean shifts his ass on the bed and tries to subtly adjust himself, the crotch of his jeans digging agonisingly into his erection until there could be the perfect imprint of the back of his zipper on his swollen cock, but then, once again, distraction takes the form of Castiel as he moves in to straddle Dean. One leg either side of Dean's thighs, Castiel remains standing and so Dean's face is pressed into his stomach, the smooth slope of his lower abdomen, the sharp V of his hips, and, most importantly, the tautly-stretched waistband of Castiel's underwear.

Dean doesn’t even try to resist anymore; he presses his lips to the skin, open-mouthed, and licks a wet line over Castiel’s stomach which causes his hips to unconsciously pulse forwards into Dean. He lets his palms glide up over Castiel's thighs, twists and rucks up the fabric of the panties, and then slips his hands behind to playfully snap the elastic at the legs where the panties are too small and dig into Castiel's ass, and he pulls him in close. Castiel lets out a short gasp as his cock bumps against Dean's chest, and Dean can feel the muscles in Castiel's stomach tense and flutter as he tries to hold back from shamelessly grinding forwards into him.

"So," Castiel says suddenly, and his voice is more than a little wrecked, hoarse and breathless; the sound goes straight to Dean's dick. Castiel pushes his fingers through Dean's hair, ruffling it al backwards, and lets his hand slide around to cup the nape of his neck warmly in his palm. "As far as my attempts at seducing you goes – is it working this time?"

“Christ.” Dean huffs a laugh, letting his head fall forwards to rest against Castiel’s stomach. “Yeah,” he manages roughly, knowing that Castiel will be smirking because it’s the understatement of the month and Castiel fucking knows it, “yeah, Cas, it’s working.” And then he twists his head, letting his nose graze over Castiel’s skin as he moves, before he opens his mouth again and carefully sucks a mark into the soft skin of Castiel's waist, an aching bruise that knocks all the air out of Castiel’s lungs, throws his head back, throat working to try and drag in oxygen. Castiel’s hips snap forwards, seeking friction anywhere, and with a dry satin rustle against his skin that lifts shivers down Dean’s spine, he presses into Dean’s chest, grinds down over his stomach and abdomen, slowly, messily, like he’s barely even aware of what he’s doing, until he’s settled in Dean’s lap.

Dean’s heart is leaping furiously inside his chest, pressed flat against Castiel’s now, almost every inch of them in hot, solid contact, and he takes a second to collect himself. He skates his hands up and down Castiel’s body, feeling the sweat damp on his skin, and tries to concentrate on these details to calm down. Castiel is heavy in his lap, sitting far enough up his pelvis that his ass is settled perfectly over Dean’s cock, which is still agonisingly clothed, in two layers, no less, but that’s okay, Dean can work with that – except then Castiel rocks his hips, slowly like it’s an afterthought, and Dean lets out a sound that wavers in an embarrassing territory belonging neither to a gasp or a moan. Dean’s eyes flutter closed, but he feels Castiel’s hand come down from his neck to grip the front of his jacket – and jesusfuckingchrist, Dean’s still wearing his jacket, when Castiel is currently dry-humping him in nothing but lacy women’s underwear, shit – to hold him close as he moves in lazy rolls, his body pitching beautifully under Dean’s hands..

“Fuck,” Dean gasps out, his voice cracking, and he thinks he was planning to say more after that, maybe, but it breaks up into meaningless noise when Castiel churns his hips, his ass grinding down mercilessly on Dean’s cock, and every infinitesimal shift is breaking Dean apart – the way he clenches like he’s trying to get Dean to fuck him even with all his clothes on; the way his movements have wreaked havoc on his panties with the waistband slipping lower and lower until the satin is riding low and loose at the base of his cock, having lost all restrictive power and now serving no purpose but decoration; the way his cock, now freed, bounces slickly against his stomach and leaves shining patches of pre-come; Jesus, the way he breathes – and Dean’s fingers are tightening to vices on Castiel’s waist.

Castiel kisses Dean like he’s got all the time in the world, and it’s absolutely filthy, their mouths open so wide that it starts up a sharp ache at the hinge of Dean’s jaw, tongue pushing to the back of his mouth, air hot and wet as they breathe ragged, teeth scraping, graceless. It’s getting harder, though. As the tension and heat builds, Dean is losing the ability to keep control of himself long enough to kiss and breaks up instead into broken gasps so needy that there’s the hard edge of a whine to it, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to beg. He bites down hard on his lower lip and curls his toes up tight inside his boots and pretends he’s not shaking.

As Dean closes in on himself to try and hold it together, Castiel pulls back a little, just enough to tilt his head other to the side and press his mouth against the hollow at the edge of Dean’s jaw, his lips wet and warm over Dean’s pulse-point. Dean stills, every cell in his body finely aware of the light scrape of Castiel’s teeth over the skin, and he’s breathing like a marathon-runner waiting for the real contact – and finally, there it is, Castiel’s mouth flat against Dean’s throat to lick and bite and suck like he’s trying to leave a fucking scar. Dean lets out a high sound without any real words and unconsciously jerks his hips up so hard he nearly lifts his ass right off the bed, and that gets Castiel too, punching a low groan from deep inside his chest as his mouth jolts and falls from Dean’s neck, and, in the first real display of Castiel losing it since this whole charade started, Castiel slides back on Dean’s lap so that he’s no longer grinding down on Dean’s dick, but rutting them together.

Dean’s rambling, no idea of the words spilling over his lips but he can feel a fuck fuck holy oh my fucking Christ vibe going on and that’s it, that is it – he is officially done. He’s done letting Castiel play at being a stripper, letting himself by teased and toyed with, because he’s at that level of almost-close which is so frustrating he could scream and, well, that’s just not the way it works.

In one smooth move, Dean stands up, lifting Castiel with him, turns, and tilts him down roughly onto the bed. Castiel bounces a little on the mattress before the springs settle, and he’s gorgeous all spread out like that, chest heaving, legs a wide V where he fell, pale panties rumpled and debauched. He looks up at Dean with wide eyes, but he doesn’t complain; to the contrary, the flush across his cheeks and collarbones deepens in colour, and his eyes move greedily over Dean’s body in the two or three seconds when it’s standing over him before Dean tears violently out of his jacket and outer shirts all in one go and drops down to join him.

Dean crashes into him hard, a chaotic mess of hands and clothes as he tries to gets his jeans unzipped while Castiel snatches at his T-shirt to haul it over his head, while still trying to kiss and grind desperately into each other. Then at last Dean’s gets his jeans and boxers shoved down around his thighs and he was going to wriggle all the way out of them but he gets distracted by the overwhelming wave of need as his cock springs free, and he just slides against Castiel, searching for friction. Heat hits him like a freight-train, knocks the wind out of him, and his head falls forward, breathless, and he’s barely even conscious of what he’s doing, just rolling his hips forwards and forwards because every movement, every sweat-slick drag of skin-on-skin is hitting Dean hard, tightening in his chest and stomach. His breath is gasps, broken half-groans – “Cas – fuck, Cas, I – god” – and he’s shaking now, no doubt about it. Castiel reaches a hand between them, down into the wet mess of sweat and pre-come and desperation, and wraps a hand carefully around both of their cocks.

From there, everything just sort of disintegrates. Dean isn’t sure of the details. There is just the heat of Castiel moving beneath him, rocking up into his own hand as Dean fucks down into it, their whole bodies rolling wildly; the idea of maintaining any real sense of rhythm is quickly lost as their hips snap blindly faster and faster. Castiel writhes and moans and Dean shudders above him, heat a flashfire under his skin everywhere they touch - and everywhere they don't, as sweat is collecting cool and sticky at the small of Dean's back as the intensity builds and builds, and fuck, he's close, no, he's really fucking close.

Dean crushes his mouth wetly against Castiel's collarbone, panting against his skin, and he can feel the taut arch of Castiel's body back and up as he throws his head back. Castiel is losing it too, no longer breathing as much as he is letting out these high, shaky noises, and he's saying something but he's incomprehensible and he fists one hand into Dean's hair tight enough to hurt, and shit, that sends a whole new rush of heat juddering through Dean's body, white-hot, blinding, and he jackhammers - and fuck, fuck, shitfuckjesusholy-- and Dean comes hard.

Below him, Castiel seizes up a few seconds later, and comes with one last strangled cry, his body slowing to the last few instinctive upwards pulses of his hips. The action drags Castiel's cock against Dean's one last time, and even now, as he's riding out the aftershocks, tears out a shallow groan out of his throat. Then, without further ado, Dean collapses boneless onto Castiel's chest, sticky with come and sweat as it may be, and lies there thinking that he'd be content to never move again.

Slowly, Dean becomes embarrassingly aware of the fact that he’s still tangled in half his clothes – his boots and socks still on, his jeans and boxers pushed down around his knees – and he reluctantly rolls off Castiel to kick out of the rest of them. Once he’s finally naked, he twists back to scoot in close to Castiel’s side. At the shift of the mattress, Castiel slowly opens his eyes, and, upon seeing Dean naked, he moves to take off the now-damp panties, but Dean smacks his hand.

“Hey, now,” Dean says, still hoarse and breathless.”No need to take those off. I like ‘em.”

Castiel flushes pink but he looks pleased with himself, wriggling a little where he lies, and instead he pulls the panties back up properly, fitting his softening cock back inside and adjusting the waistband comfortably on his hips. “So,” he says at last, exhaling slowly. “How was that?”

Dean pushes his face into Castiel’s stomach to muffle a laugh. “Okay, Cas, I’ll give it to you,” he says. “That right there, that was a lot of things... but that was definitely not awkward.”

Castiel looks like he’s gonna damn near burst with pride, this smug little half-smile on his lips, and it’s so fucking stupid in how adorable it is that Dean can’t help but stretch up to kiss him.

“Bravo, Casanova,” Dean murmurs against his mouth, smiling, and nudges at him with his nose. “Consider me seduced.”

________________________________________

Furniture in motels in Las Vegas is very unreliable. When they get up late on Christmas morning, suits and ties donned for the next day on the case, carrying on as normal, Dean stops by the receptionist to file a complaint. Elbow propped on the counter, he does his bit as a good citizen and regretfully informs that not only has the couch collapsed, but the bed is also mysteriously broken, and frankly, the quality just doesn’t meet Dean’s standards.

The receptionist is mortified, and as she blushes, she promises to get someone in to see if the damage can be repaired and to otherwise find them a new room or give them a full refund, which is very kind.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” Dean says. “These things happen all the time. But – oh. Now that I think about it,” he leans across the counter thoughtfully, his mouth twisting into a smile, “the desk was a little rickety, too.”