on the bright side, there isn't a bright side - 11
Dean’s had enough sex (and not just with Cas, although by now he thinks he may be reaching a record for both quantity and quality with one partner, because damn Cas is one horny son-of-a-bitch) to know the basic rules: no bondage, unless they’re cool with that, no unexpected rimming, and above all no talking. No serious talking, anyways, because a) you’re not going to be able to think straight, so b) nothing you say in the bedroom (or wherever you happen to be) ever counts. Talking dirty, that’s fine-that’s great, if you’re into it, and Dean’s into nearly everything. But marriage proposals, divorce discussions, deciding whether or not to have children, brainstorming ideas to deal with the Apocalypse, etc.-no. You just don’t do that.
You especially don’t do it when you’re just fucking for fun, because you like it, to let off some energy. You especially don’t try to have serious discussions then, because maybe if you’re legitimately dating you can get away with it since sex is, like, an important extension of a loving connection between two people or whatever the fuck Sam would say about it, but not when there is no relationship and you’re just friends. Like Dean and Cas. Who are just friends, whatever certain irritating younger brothers might think.
But fucking hell, Dean just can’t stop thinking about this and it’s getting in the way of everything, including sex. Which is just not fair-not fair to him because aside from food and Sam sex is basically the only thing that keeps him going, and not fair to Cas because when you’re squirming on the bed with a vibrator up your ass (yeah, they’re back to the vibe-Cas can’t seem to get enough of it, and since complying means Dean gets a prime view he’s more than willing to go along with it), you really don’t want the guy working the vibe to be distracted.
All in all it’s got him bad-tempered and moody, especially when the not-as-good-as-it-should-have-been high from getting sucked off enthusiastically-always with the goddamned enthusiasm, it’s not fucking helping him here-by Cas fades sooner than it should have. “You know,” he says waspishly as he puts the freshly cleaned vibe back in its bag with all the other fun stuff, “you could do this yourself. You don’t actually need me.”
Cas, watching him lazily from the bed, tells him bluntly, “But I like doing it with you.”
“Yeah, well,” says Dean, and leaves it at that.
“Are you implying that you don’t enjoy doing it to me?” Cas raises himself onto his elbows to see Dean’s expression more clearly, because he still tends to grasp at straws when it comes to equivocal human communication and taking away even one all-important feature leaves him clueless. Dean doesn’t even want to imagine what it would be like for someone attempting to conduct a long-distance relationship with his friend. “If that’s the case, I’m perfectly willing to do something else.”
There is really no logical argument Dean can make to counter this. One, he loves doing this to Cas, loves stretching him out and being in control and making Cas beg for more and just watching him come apart; and two, they do do other stuff. Lots of other stuff. Maybe they’re not done Sam’s stupid list yet, but slow and steady, right? And their sex life doesn’t exactly lack variety. The only reason he wants to argue is that he wants to argue, which is a really dumb reason to have a fight.
So instead he asks, “Can you dream?”
It should throw Cas off, confuse him; there’s no possible logical link between the question and what they were talking about a second before. A total non-sequitur. Dean would have been thrown off, he knows that much. But Cas just gives him a searching look, as if he’s passed over any bemusement from the abrupt transition and gone right into burrowing into Dean’s soul to find out his motivation (and also possibly the chances of them going to get burgers in the near future). “No,” he says. “I have never dreamt.”
“Never? Or just, like, maybe you have but you don’t remember it?”
“Never,” says Cas firmly, in a way that doesn’t prompt further argument.
“Oh.”
“Is there a problem?”
“No, I just…” Dean drags a hand through his hair, and if he weren’t so distracted he might notice the way Cas’s eyes follow it, fixating on the messy spikes the action creates. It doesn’t help that he can’t pinpoint exactly what’s the problem here, only that it wasn’t there before the dreamroot and now it won’t go away. Fuck it. They’re friends, he’s allowed to ask, they’re friends and he has a right to be worried or curious or whatever the hell is going on with him. “You know those doors? The ones in your head?”
Cas stares at him blankly.
“Doors? You know? The doors with stuff behind them?” Okay, it’s a shitty description, but how can Cas not know what he’s talking about? It’s his own fucking head, for God’s sake. “C’mon, man. We were in your head, and there were all these doors, and Sam thought there were, like… memories behind them, or something.”
Cas’s expression clears, finally, and he says, “Oh, yes. I think I know what you mean-though that was only how your mortal mind processed your surroundings. I see it in a different manner. More complex. What of it?”
“So… they are memories, then? All of them?”
“Yes. Angels have an extensive cognitive database in which to store information. I’m assuming you took the liberty of investigating”-Dean nods warily, but Cas doesn’t seem particularly upset-“in which case you would have most likely seen some dating back several centuries.”
“Yeah, um… I don’t know. Maybe. There were some old ones, anyways. But, uh. The newer ones, I saw a few of those too, and they were… well…”
“Extremely vivid?” Cas supplies wryly.
“Well… yeah. Pretty extreme. Is that… now that you’re more human, is that actually how things are for you?”
“Yes.”
“Everything?”
“Yes.”
“Not just sex?”
“Not just sex,” Cas confirms, “although that in particular is very… stimulating.”
Christ. Everything? Everything’s like that to him, all the time? Dean only got a few seconds’ worth, and that was more than enough to leave his head spinning. It was too bright, too loud, too intense. Overwhelming. And being human is like that for Cas all the time?
As if reading his mind Cas continues, “It’s not all that bad, once you get used to it, just… different. As an angel my view was wider but more aloof; now it’s all up close. Different.”
“Huh,” says Dean.
“And now my extensive cognitive database is reminding me that the show with space travel is on in approximately two minutes, and unless there’s something else you want to say…”
There isn’t, because Dean still doesn’t really know what his problem is with the whole thing, so they end up watching Star Trek again. And that ought to be the end of it, now that Sam’s fully recovered and they’re ready to move on to the next disaster; however Cas experiences the world he seems to be coping admirably, making it totally useless for Dean to… worry, or whatever the hell’s going on with him. Except of course he’s Dean Winchester and when has anything about him ever made the slightest sense, and now every time Cas eats dinner or comes in Dean’s mouth while Dean’s sucking him off or hurts himself on a case-especially when he hurts himself-Dean can’t help thinking about it. And fuck, it’s not even that he’s actually worrying about it half the time, the thought just keeps popping into his head: whatever I would feel, this is ten times better or ten times worse or just ten times more. It’s kind of driving him crazy.
Which is partly why he’s here, doing what he’s doing; he figures he just needs a little distraction to tide him over until the apparent power of the realization wears off. The other reason, of course, is that he hasn’t done this in a very long time, and now that he’s mostly with a guy in bed there isn’t really a ton of opportunity to explore this particular kink of his without any forethought. Plus, the thing about kinks is that even if they’re pretty tame by kink standards they can still kind of weird people out-though it doesn’t take an expert to clue into the fact that Cas seems to take everything Dean suggests (not that he’s suggested a whole ton of weird shit, to be fair) with an attitude of extreme laissez-faire. When Dean makes the mistake of mentioning this to his brother, trying to point out the flaw in Sam’s whole brilliant list scheme in that Cas marked everything down as an open-minded maybe, Sam starts to worry that Cas will get used to “all your weird messed-up shit”, as he puts it, as a norm for sex that will carry over to any other relationships in which he might find himself. Dean points out indignantly that a) there is nothing weird about what he does in bed (basically. Kind of) and also b) there aren’t going to be other relationships because this isn’t a relationship to start with. He also privately thinks that c) there aren’t going to be relationships for Cas, period, considering how he only ever hangs out with Dean and Sam and also remember how the world’s probably going to end in a few months?
Anyways. Back to the fact that he’s standing awkwardy in the middle of a women’s lingerie store.
He would honestly take any number of monsters over this fucking intense (like, Cas intense) feeling of awkwardness. It’s almost as bad as the first time he jerked Cas off-not quite, because even though things have worked out in his favour based on that incident he can still recall the shrivelling mortification of the whole event, but this is pretty damn bad all the same. He figures any guy in one of these stores is going to feel out of his element, even if he’s with his girlfriend; even worse if it’s a guy shopping for his girlfriend; and holy fuck balls so help you God if you’re shopping for yourself. Not that he’s going to come right out and say that, obviously, especially not after he’s woven an intricate web of deceit to convince Sam and Cas he’s just going to get a desperately needed new pair of jeans and then driven to the absolute other end of town just to be sure. But still-this just isn’t a good place for a guy to be even if he has a legitimate reason for being there, and somehow when you think of how to describe a moderately hardcore male panty fetish “legitimate” isn’t usually the first word that springs to mind.
He’s here anyways, though, because Cas put down maybe for both cross-dressing and sensation play while Dean wrote a furiously blushing yes for each. There’s just something about women’s underwear-the way it feels against his junk, the way it looks, maybe even just the fact that he can wear it under the rest of his clothes without anyone any the wiser but knowing it’s under there-and whatever exactly it is, it turns him on. Hard. He’s gone commando before (out of necessity, not choice, and it’s a long story, okay), but somehow it’s just not the same. No slide of silk against denim, for one thing. God, it’s getting him kind of hot under the collar just thinking about it. Plus part of him’s secretly harbouring a hope that maybe Cas will be into it too, because picturing Cas in one of the tiny lace thongs on display in front of him is, well… nothing even needs to be said, does it, except that if he doesn’t stop imagining it soon he’s going to get a full-out boner right here in the middle of this store. And he’s kind of got a feeling that isn’t going to help matters any.
“Can I help you, sir?”
He jumps guiltily. It’s one of the sales clerks, a petite brunette he would usually be all over if it weren’t for the fact that going to all the effort necessary to get someone to come home with him seems kind of a waste of time when there’s a sexy part-angel already waiting in his motel room. Still, he does his best to flash her one of his most winning smiles and says, “Well, yeah, actually… it’s my, uh, it’s my girlfriend and I’s anniversary in a few days, and…”
The uncomfortable laugh that escapes his lips is apparently all it takes to seal the deal, because however awful this whole thing is for him it’s definitely not the first time a guy’s had to do something like this before. The clerk’s face melts into an understanding smile almost immediately. “Oh, well, congratulations, sir. Did you have anything particular in mind?”
“Uh…” He can feel his face flushing scarlet because yes, yes he definitely does have something particular in mind, and in fact would appreciate it if everyone could just clear out the store for a few minutes so he could pick out what exactly he wants without feeling like everyone in the entire world is staring and judging the shit out of him. “Not really, I guess. Just something… nice.”
“Sure. Do you happen to know her size?”
Size? Ha. Nothing here’s going to fit either him or Cas properly-that’s kind of the point. Both of them would fall out of even the biggest size of the most full-coverage panties this place has to offer. So, okay, just go for the hips: something tight enough to stay up but not so small it’ll be uncomfortable. “Medium?” he hazards, figuring most of the designs here are insubstantial enough to offer a fair amount of stretch anyways. That’s the beauty of lace. One of the beauties, anyways.
Fifteen excruciating minutes later he’s walking out of the store, feeling breath he didn’t realize he was holding whoosh out in a great sigh of relief. He played his part. Didn’t get caught. Or if he did, if that clerk did somehow guess he wasn’t just a guy awkwardly shopping for his girlfriend, she was nice enough not to say anything and it doesn’t matter because he’ll be gone in a few days to a new town where no one knows him besides his brother and his best friend and probably some demons too, since he tends to be so lucky.
Dean’s so relieved, in fact, that he forgets one of a hunter’s most important rules: cover your tracks. Cover your tracks, for instance, by actually buying the pair of jeans you said you were going to buy so that when your brother asks why the hell were you gone so long if you don’t even have any pants you don’t have to come up with a brilliant lie on the spot like, “They didn’t have any.”
“Really?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. “The mall didn’t have any jeans? Anywhere? In any of the numerous clothing stores that make a mall, you know… a mall?”
“That’s right,” says Dean stiffly. He’s fully aware that out of every lie he has ever had to come up with, this is possibly the least believable out of all of them. Not scared to die? Okay. Don’t remember Hell? Fine. No jeans at the mall? Bullshit.
“Maybe I should get Cas to check Revelation again… I don’t remember it mentioning this, but it sounds like another harbringer of the Apocalypse,” says Sam, hitting him with one of his best snarky bitch-faces.
Dean glowers at him silently.
“The fifth Horseman, maybe? Bad fashion sense?”
“They were all this fancy designer shit, okay? So shut up.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but as suspicious things go it’s not actually that suspicious-especially when you’ve got a small army of angry spirits haunting an old house newly up for sale nearby to deal with. So he goes back to the article about the house in question that he’s managed to pull up on his laptop with relatively little fuss, leaving Dean to skulk back to his own room where Cas is, out of one of the only strokes of luck ever to befall a Winchester, passed out on the couch.
Technically it ought not to matter; not wanting Sam to know is one thing, but the fact remains that if Dean has his way this is all going to end back in the bedroom with Cas anyhow. The thing is, though… well. He’s not doing this just for Cas, he’s doing it because he wants to do it, and after everything he’s been through he’s going to goddamned do something for himself for once, goddamnit. Besides, he doesn’t even know if Cas will be into it at all. Certainly he’s unlikely to find it weird-Dean’s not too worried about that. If Cas were going to find something weird, it probably would have been way back at the start when Dean offered casually to “help him out”. That was weird. No, he’s wondering more along the lines of will Cas get it? Because Cas sometimes still has trouble understanding human things, and this is just about as human as it gets: people invented underwear, people decided who got to wear what underwear, and people came up with cross-dressing, too. Maybe Cas hasn’t been human-ish long enough, or will never be the right amount of human-ish to have Dean in a pair of lacey panties do anything more for him than Dean in a regular pair of men’s underwear would.
So he goes into the bathroom, making sure to lock the door behind him, and unbuttons his jeans. They slide down over his hipbones to pool around his ankles. He kicks them out of the way, and even though it’s not necessary at all for him to grab the base of his shirt and tug it up over his head to join the pants in their corner he does it anyways-there’s just something about what he’s going to do that makes him want to be completely naked. He wants to look at his body, to see the contrast of bare flesh with lace and silk and how they hardly cover anything at all. Maybe it’s not normal to be turned on by your own body sometimes but, well, why the hell not? Right now he’s still in his usual boring grey underwear but his pulse is already starting to pick up in anticipation, and the cringe of shame he still feels at doing this adds a nice pink flush to his skin. Deep breaths. He turns on the tap to scoop some water down his suddenly dry throat. Ready? Okay.
His regular underwear is discarded so that he’s standing naked in front of the mirror; it’s kind of embarrassing, but he’s half hard already just at the thought of what he’s about to do. He reaches slowly into the bag and freezes, because the rustling of the tissue paper in which the clerk wrapped his “anniversary gift” suddenly seems as loud as fucking gunfire or something-there’s no way Cas can be sleeping through this, considering Sam can probably tell exactly what Dean’s doing three rooms over. Hell, Bobby probably knows what Dean’s doing three states over.
Relax. This supposed to be fun, remember?
The first pair he pulls out happens to be pink. Mostly pink, at least. He didn’t purposely pick them out-it’s the feel, it’s the look, the colour hardly matters-but it’s kind of tricky to spend much time in a lingerie store without seeing something in pink. The front is silk, with soft black lace lining the edges and curving up around the sides into the tiny back. Slowly, carefully, because he feels like his stronger, bigger body might tear them, he slips one foot then the other through. Slides them gently up, feeling the elastic in the lace stretch to accommodate the muscles of his thighs and, finally, the breadth of his hips. He closes his eyes and for a moment just feels, feels the way the lace sits in between the cheeks of his ass and how his cock weighs down the delicate silk and how the band hugs the skin just below his hipbones. His lips part in a low moan-fucking hell this feels good…
Dean opens his eyes and stares at himself in the mirror. He loves the contrast, the hard lines of his own body instead of the soft curves of the girls you see wearing things like this in the catalogues; he loves the obscene bulge, how tightly the fabric is drawn to accommodate him, and fuck, he just meant to try them on and save this for later but if Cas is out there and willing right now then-
“Dean?”
He jumps guiltily, eyes immediately moving to the door handle in panic even though he’s absolutely one-hundred-percent-plus-shipping-and-handling certain he locked it. Shitshitshitshitshit-
“Gimme a minute,” he calls back. How-he didn’t even hear Sam enter the room, Christ-
“Okay, well, I think there’s something you should take a look at,” says Sam from the other side of the door.
Dean yanks his pants back on, biting his lip as he feels the denim slide first against skin that usually isn’t bare and then against a very thin layer of silk. The shirt goes back on as well, and the old pair of underwear is shoved unceremoniously away behind the shower curtain with the rest of his clandestine purchases. One last check to make sure none of the lace is visible above the top of his pants and then he’s opening the door, growling a surly, “What?” at his brother (with his voice reflexively pitched a little lower than usual with over-compensatory Manliness) to mask the fallacious yet nonetheless insistent sensation of exposure.
Back in the main room, Sam’s cradling his laptop in his arms (seriously, the guy shows an alarming amount of devotion to his computer sometimes, considering it’s an inanimate object-and then Sam has the nerve to say the same thing about Dean and his car, which is clearly a different case altogether) and Cas is sitting up blearily, sporting even more spectacular sex hair than usual. Sam shows everyone excitedly what he’s found-a series of articles that, together, link an earthquake, a cursed dreamcatcher, and a fucking crazy old dude with a sort of ghost-trap responsible for the insanely haunted house they’re trying to deal with-and just as they’ve decided to leave it overnight a report comes through on the police frequency Sam’s tracking of a disturbance at, conviently enough, the exact same house. Looks like they’ll be going tonight after all, unless they particularly fancy scraping bits of the dumb teenagers who’ve just broken in off the walls tomorrow.
Which means that, yes, Dean is going off monster hunting in a thong. A lacy pink-and-black thong. One that isn’t really great for running, or ducking, or kicking down doors. Not only is this perhaps not the best idea he’s ever had, it’s actually downright dangerous; because instead of putting one hundred percent of his concentration into killing ghosts and keeping himself alive there’s always a little bit that’s busy trying to make sure his pants stay up high enough to hide his new underwear. Maybe only five percent, maybe even less, but still. When you’re hunting, five percent can mean the difference between life and death. And he really, really does not want to die wearing a thong.
Though he has to admit there’s still something a little exhilarating about it-something kind of sexy about getting all dirty and bruised like always yet having this one sensual secret to himself. Exhilarating enough that when he and Cas get back to their room close to one o’clock that morning, sore and exhausted, Dean’s not actually feeling particularly tired. His body is thrumming with an energy that’s been growing slowly ever since that afternoon in the store, and it’s enough that he can barely wait for the door to click shut behind them before he’s slamming Cas up against the wall, crushing his mouth against his friend’s in a hot, messy kiss.
Cas makes a noise of surprise that is muffled somewhat by Dean’s mouth, but he hardly seems displeased by the development. Kind of the opposite, really. His hands snake around Dean’s back, shoving off his coat and slipping under the hunter’s shirt to grasp the muscles of his shoulders, his sides, his pecs, everything within his reach; and somewhere in between the hot mess of lips and tongues and teeth it occurs to Dean that this is actually the first time he’s kissed Cas on the mouth. Not exactly the kind of thing that would have made it onto Sam’s list but yeah, it’s definitely something they haven’t done before. Huh. Weird. Sex without kissing usually just seems… incomplete, to Dean, though he supposes there’s been enough other stuff going on to make up for it. Anyways, he can ponder it later because right now he’s got Cas pinned against the wall with his mouth all loose and just fucking waiting for Dean’s tongue to do something to it.
He swallows each of Cas’s moans hungrily as his tongue licks stripes down the roof of the other man’s mouth, then sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth until it’s pink and swollen and slick, and he doesn’t know exactly where this is going to end up going but right now he really fucking likes the idea of seeing those lips around his cock. This is what he’s been missing, this feverish rush with no room for anything but now. He’s not thinking about whether the bruise already blooming on Cas’s cheek from their evening’s work hurts as much as a broken bone would for Dean. He’s not freaking out about the end of the world. He’s not even feeling the stomach-clenching anxiety of being a guy in women’s underwear by choice-just the rush of blood downwards as Cas’s thigh slips between his legs, pressing against the heady silk-lace-denim combination. Fuck. Grabbing at the guy’s ass he presses him forward, closer, grinding his crotch down against Cas and only letting go when Cas tugs insistently at the bottom of his shirt, and as for Cas it is completely unacceptable for him to still be fully clothed, Dean is definitely going to have to do something about that-
-nngh, but only after Cas stops doing that thing he’s doing with Dean’s nipples, pinching and pressing and tugging and fuck, is it just him or does Cas literally get better every time he does this? He shifts their positions so that when he kneads his hands more firmly into Cas’s ass it rubs his hard-on against Dean’s, and Dean can feel his cock sliding against the satin in a way that makes his shoulders arch back in pleasure-Cas seems to be struck by the terrible dilemma of whether to buck forward into the glorious heat between Dean’s legs or press back against the hands squeezing his ass, and Dean hasn’t actually technically fucked Cas yet, they just haven’t worked up to that, but if Cas is game then why the hell don’t they do it tonight because he’s turned on like crazy right now, like just touching won’t be enough. Cas is already undoing Dean’s pants, slipping a hand inside, and-
Cas falters for a moment, apparently confused. Then, with a low chuckle, he pushes the jeans a little lower on Dean’s hips and asks breathlessly, “Dean, why are you wearing female undergarments?”
There’s a sudden change in the direction of blood flow-away from his cock, which suddenly seems far less in need of attention than it did a second earlier, and up towards his furiously reddening face. His grip on Cas slackens instinctively, and even though Cas has certainly seen him naked before he’s suddenly, desperately wishing to be fully dressed. Cas hasn’t seemed to notice anything yet-his hands are sliding down the back of the now-open jeans over Dean’s mostly bare ass, still grinding languidly against him-but then Dean pulls away, and he looks up in bewilderment. “What’s wrong?” asks Cas, frowning slightly. It doesn’t suit him, that expression when his eyes are still dark with lust. Then again, apparently women’s undergarments don’t suit Dean, so it would seem they’re evenly matched now.
“Nothing,” he says gruffly. “I just-I’m tired. I don’t really feel like doing this right now.”
In fact, he’s feeling kind of sick. Sick from the mortification that’s snuck in to replace the urgent arousal of a moment earlier, twisting his stomach until he wants to throw up or scream or hit something or do anything other than be in these stupid panties with Cas in this stupid room. Why the hell did he think this was a good idea? It’s the farthest thing possible from a good idea, it’s just fucking weird is what it is-hell, even Cas thinks it’s weird. Clearly he’s gotten a little too comfortable doing this with Cas; he’s forgotten that there are some things that are just better to keep to yourself, and this is so fucking definitely one of them.
Cas looks utterly lost, because the guy who was tearing his clothes off feverishly a second ago is now totally frigid and this is Cas so obviously he doesn’t really get what he’s done wrong. Which makes sense because he hasn’t actually done anything wrong, except for be a normal human guy for once even though Dean was expecting something different from him and it was completely unfair and stupid and what the hell had he been thinking? So yeah, it’s not Cas’s fault at all but right now Dean still kind of hates him a little for making him feel this burning shame, and once that dies down a little it’ll just make Dean hate himself a lot for being such an asshole.
Cas tries to reclaim his mouth in a kiss, but Dean jerks his head away. “Dean-”
“I’m going to take a shower,” he announces stiffly. “Don’t wait up.”
And he turns his back on Cas and heads to the bathroom, leaving his best friend standing alone with his shirt half off and looking even more lost than the time Sam tried to explain what planking was.
Continue...
You especially don’t do it when you’re just fucking for fun, because you like it, to let off some energy. You especially don’t try to have serious discussions then, because maybe if you’re legitimately dating you can get away with it since sex is, like, an important extension of a loving connection between two people or whatever the fuck Sam would say about it, but not when there is no relationship and you’re just friends. Like Dean and Cas. Who are just friends, whatever certain irritating younger brothers might think.
But fucking hell, Dean just can’t stop thinking about this and it’s getting in the way of everything, including sex. Which is just not fair-not fair to him because aside from food and Sam sex is basically the only thing that keeps him going, and not fair to Cas because when you’re squirming on the bed with a vibrator up your ass (yeah, they’re back to the vibe-Cas can’t seem to get enough of it, and since complying means Dean gets a prime view he’s more than willing to go along with it), you really don’t want the guy working the vibe to be distracted.
All in all it’s got him bad-tempered and moody, especially when the not-as-good-as-it-should-have-been high from getting sucked off enthusiastically-always with the goddamned enthusiasm, it’s not fucking helping him here-by Cas fades sooner than it should have. “You know,” he says waspishly as he puts the freshly cleaned vibe back in its bag with all the other fun stuff, “you could do this yourself. You don’t actually need me.”
Cas, watching him lazily from the bed, tells him bluntly, “But I like doing it with you.”
“Yeah, well,” says Dean, and leaves it at that.
“Are you implying that you don’t enjoy doing it to me?” Cas raises himself onto his elbows to see Dean’s expression more clearly, because he still tends to grasp at straws when it comes to equivocal human communication and taking away even one all-important feature leaves him clueless. Dean doesn’t even want to imagine what it would be like for someone attempting to conduct a long-distance relationship with his friend. “If that’s the case, I’m perfectly willing to do something else.”
There is really no logical argument Dean can make to counter this. One, he loves doing this to Cas, loves stretching him out and being in control and making Cas beg for more and just watching him come apart; and two, they do do other stuff. Lots of other stuff. Maybe they’re not done Sam’s stupid list yet, but slow and steady, right? And their sex life doesn’t exactly lack variety. The only reason he wants to argue is that he wants to argue, which is a really dumb reason to have a fight.
So instead he asks, “Can you dream?”
It should throw Cas off, confuse him; there’s no possible logical link between the question and what they were talking about a second before. A total non-sequitur. Dean would have been thrown off, he knows that much. But Cas just gives him a searching look, as if he’s passed over any bemusement from the abrupt transition and gone right into burrowing into Dean’s soul to find out his motivation (and also possibly the chances of them going to get burgers in the near future). “No,” he says. “I have never dreamt.”
“Never? Or just, like, maybe you have but you don’t remember it?”
“Never,” says Cas firmly, in a way that doesn’t prompt further argument.
“Oh.”
“Is there a problem?”
“No, I just…” Dean drags a hand through his hair, and if he weren’t so distracted he might notice the way Cas’s eyes follow it, fixating on the messy spikes the action creates. It doesn’t help that he can’t pinpoint exactly what’s the problem here, only that it wasn’t there before the dreamroot and now it won’t go away. Fuck it. They’re friends, he’s allowed to ask, they’re friends and he has a right to be worried or curious or whatever the hell is going on with him. “You know those doors? The ones in your head?”
Cas stares at him blankly.
“Doors? You know? The doors with stuff behind them?” Okay, it’s a shitty description, but how can Cas not know what he’s talking about? It’s his own fucking head, for God’s sake. “C’mon, man. We were in your head, and there were all these doors, and Sam thought there were, like… memories behind them, or something.”
Cas’s expression clears, finally, and he says, “Oh, yes. I think I know what you mean-though that was only how your mortal mind processed your surroundings. I see it in a different manner. More complex. What of it?”
“So… they are memories, then? All of them?”
“Yes. Angels have an extensive cognitive database in which to store information. I’m assuming you took the liberty of investigating”-Dean nods warily, but Cas doesn’t seem particularly upset-“in which case you would have most likely seen some dating back several centuries.”
“Yeah, um… I don’t know. Maybe. There were some old ones, anyways. But, uh. The newer ones, I saw a few of those too, and they were… well…”
“Extremely vivid?” Cas supplies wryly.
“Well… yeah. Pretty extreme. Is that… now that you’re more human, is that actually how things are for you?”
“Yes.”
“Everything?”
“Yes.”
“Not just sex?”
“Not just sex,” Cas confirms, “although that in particular is very… stimulating.”
Christ. Everything? Everything’s like that to him, all the time? Dean only got a few seconds’ worth, and that was more than enough to leave his head spinning. It was too bright, too loud, too intense. Overwhelming. And being human is like that for Cas all the time?
As if reading his mind Cas continues, “It’s not all that bad, once you get used to it, just… different. As an angel my view was wider but more aloof; now it’s all up close. Different.”
“Huh,” says Dean.
“And now my extensive cognitive database is reminding me that the show with space travel is on in approximately two minutes, and unless there’s something else you want to say…”
There isn’t, because Dean still doesn’t really know what his problem is with the whole thing, so they end up watching Star Trek again. And that ought to be the end of it, now that Sam’s fully recovered and they’re ready to move on to the next disaster; however Cas experiences the world he seems to be coping admirably, making it totally useless for Dean to… worry, or whatever the hell’s going on with him. Except of course he’s Dean Winchester and when has anything about him ever made the slightest sense, and now every time Cas eats dinner or comes in Dean’s mouth while Dean’s sucking him off or hurts himself on a case-especially when he hurts himself-Dean can’t help thinking about it. And fuck, it’s not even that he’s actually worrying about it half the time, the thought just keeps popping into his head: whatever I would feel, this is ten times better or ten times worse or just ten times more. It’s kind of driving him crazy.
Which is partly why he’s here, doing what he’s doing; he figures he just needs a little distraction to tide him over until the apparent power of the realization wears off. The other reason, of course, is that he hasn’t done this in a very long time, and now that he’s mostly with a guy in bed there isn’t really a ton of opportunity to explore this particular kink of his without any forethought. Plus, the thing about kinks is that even if they’re pretty tame by kink standards they can still kind of weird people out-though it doesn’t take an expert to clue into the fact that Cas seems to take everything Dean suggests (not that he’s suggested a whole ton of weird shit, to be fair) with an attitude of extreme laissez-faire. When Dean makes the mistake of mentioning this to his brother, trying to point out the flaw in Sam’s whole brilliant list scheme in that Cas marked everything down as an open-minded maybe, Sam starts to worry that Cas will get used to “all your weird messed-up shit”, as he puts it, as a norm for sex that will carry over to any other relationships in which he might find himself. Dean points out indignantly that a) there is nothing weird about what he does in bed (basically. Kind of) and also b) there aren’t going to be other relationships because this isn’t a relationship to start with. He also privately thinks that c) there aren’t going to be relationships for Cas, period, considering how he only ever hangs out with Dean and Sam and also remember how the world’s probably going to end in a few months?
Anyways. Back to the fact that he’s standing awkwardy in the middle of a women’s lingerie store.
He would honestly take any number of monsters over this fucking intense (like, Cas intense) feeling of awkwardness. It’s almost as bad as the first time he jerked Cas off-not quite, because even though things have worked out in his favour based on that incident he can still recall the shrivelling mortification of the whole event, but this is pretty damn bad all the same. He figures any guy in one of these stores is going to feel out of his element, even if he’s with his girlfriend; even worse if it’s a guy shopping for his girlfriend; and holy fuck balls so help you God if you’re shopping for yourself. Not that he’s going to come right out and say that, obviously, especially not after he’s woven an intricate web of deceit to convince Sam and Cas he’s just going to get a desperately needed new pair of jeans and then driven to the absolute other end of town just to be sure. But still-this just isn’t a good place for a guy to be even if he has a legitimate reason for being there, and somehow when you think of how to describe a moderately hardcore male panty fetish “legitimate” isn’t usually the first word that springs to mind.
He’s here anyways, though, because Cas put down maybe for both cross-dressing and sensation play while Dean wrote a furiously blushing yes for each. There’s just something about women’s underwear-the way it feels against his junk, the way it looks, maybe even just the fact that he can wear it under the rest of his clothes without anyone any the wiser but knowing it’s under there-and whatever exactly it is, it turns him on. Hard. He’s gone commando before (out of necessity, not choice, and it’s a long story, okay), but somehow it’s just not the same. No slide of silk against denim, for one thing. God, it’s getting him kind of hot under the collar just thinking about it. Plus part of him’s secretly harbouring a hope that maybe Cas will be into it too, because picturing Cas in one of the tiny lace thongs on display in front of him is, well… nothing even needs to be said, does it, except that if he doesn’t stop imagining it soon he’s going to get a full-out boner right here in the middle of this store. And he’s kind of got a feeling that isn’t going to help matters any.
“Can I help you, sir?”
He jumps guiltily. It’s one of the sales clerks, a petite brunette he would usually be all over if it weren’t for the fact that going to all the effort necessary to get someone to come home with him seems kind of a waste of time when there’s a sexy part-angel already waiting in his motel room. Still, he does his best to flash her one of his most winning smiles and says, “Well, yeah, actually… it’s my, uh, it’s my girlfriend and I’s anniversary in a few days, and…”
The uncomfortable laugh that escapes his lips is apparently all it takes to seal the deal, because however awful this whole thing is for him it’s definitely not the first time a guy’s had to do something like this before. The clerk’s face melts into an understanding smile almost immediately. “Oh, well, congratulations, sir. Did you have anything particular in mind?”
“Uh…” He can feel his face flushing scarlet because yes, yes he definitely does have something particular in mind, and in fact would appreciate it if everyone could just clear out the store for a few minutes so he could pick out what exactly he wants without feeling like everyone in the entire world is staring and judging the shit out of him. “Not really, I guess. Just something… nice.”
“Sure. Do you happen to know her size?”
Size? Ha. Nothing here’s going to fit either him or Cas properly-that’s kind of the point. Both of them would fall out of even the biggest size of the most full-coverage panties this place has to offer. So, okay, just go for the hips: something tight enough to stay up but not so small it’ll be uncomfortable. “Medium?” he hazards, figuring most of the designs here are insubstantial enough to offer a fair amount of stretch anyways. That’s the beauty of lace. One of the beauties, anyways.
Fifteen excruciating minutes later he’s walking out of the store, feeling breath he didn’t realize he was holding whoosh out in a great sigh of relief. He played his part. Didn’t get caught. Or if he did, if that clerk did somehow guess he wasn’t just a guy awkwardly shopping for his girlfriend, she was nice enough not to say anything and it doesn’t matter because he’ll be gone in a few days to a new town where no one knows him besides his brother and his best friend and probably some demons too, since he tends to be so lucky.
Dean’s so relieved, in fact, that he forgets one of a hunter’s most important rules: cover your tracks. Cover your tracks, for instance, by actually buying the pair of jeans you said you were going to buy so that when your brother asks why the hell were you gone so long if you don’t even have any pants you don’t have to come up with a brilliant lie on the spot like, “They didn’t have any.”
“Really?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. “The mall didn’t have any jeans? Anywhere? In any of the numerous clothing stores that make a mall, you know… a mall?”
“That’s right,” says Dean stiffly. He’s fully aware that out of every lie he has ever had to come up with, this is possibly the least believable out of all of them. Not scared to die? Okay. Don’t remember Hell? Fine. No jeans at the mall? Bullshit.
“Maybe I should get Cas to check Revelation again… I don’t remember it mentioning this, but it sounds like another harbringer of the Apocalypse,” says Sam, hitting him with one of his best snarky bitch-faces.
Dean glowers at him silently.
“The fifth Horseman, maybe? Bad fashion sense?”
“They were all this fancy designer shit, okay? So shut up.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but as suspicious things go it’s not actually that suspicious-especially when you’ve got a small army of angry spirits haunting an old house newly up for sale nearby to deal with. So he goes back to the article about the house in question that he’s managed to pull up on his laptop with relatively little fuss, leaving Dean to skulk back to his own room where Cas is, out of one of the only strokes of luck ever to befall a Winchester, passed out on the couch.
Technically it ought not to matter; not wanting Sam to know is one thing, but the fact remains that if Dean has his way this is all going to end back in the bedroom with Cas anyhow. The thing is, though… well. He’s not doing this just for Cas, he’s doing it because he wants to do it, and after everything he’s been through he’s going to goddamned do something for himself for once, goddamnit. Besides, he doesn’t even know if Cas will be into it at all. Certainly he’s unlikely to find it weird-Dean’s not too worried about that. If Cas were going to find something weird, it probably would have been way back at the start when Dean offered casually to “help him out”. That was weird. No, he’s wondering more along the lines of will Cas get it? Because Cas sometimes still has trouble understanding human things, and this is just about as human as it gets: people invented underwear, people decided who got to wear what underwear, and people came up with cross-dressing, too. Maybe Cas hasn’t been human-ish long enough, or will never be the right amount of human-ish to have Dean in a pair of lacey panties do anything more for him than Dean in a regular pair of men’s underwear would.
So he goes into the bathroom, making sure to lock the door behind him, and unbuttons his jeans. They slide down over his hipbones to pool around his ankles. He kicks them out of the way, and even though it’s not necessary at all for him to grab the base of his shirt and tug it up over his head to join the pants in their corner he does it anyways-there’s just something about what he’s going to do that makes him want to be completely naked. He wants to look at his body, to see the contrast of bare flesh with lace and silk and how they hardly cover anything at all. Maybe it’s not normal to be turned on by your own body sometimes but, well, why the hell not? Right now he’s still in his usual boring grey underwear but his pulse is already starting to pick up in anticipation, and the cringe of shame he still feels at doing this adds a nice pink flush to his skin. Deep breaths. He turns on the tap to scoop some water down his suddenly dry throat. Ready? Okay.
His regular underwear is discarded so that he’s standing naked in front of the mirror; it’s kind of embarrassing, but he’s half hard already just at the thought of what he’s about to do. He reaches slowly into the bag and freezes, because the rustling of the tissue paper in which the clerk wrapped his “anniversary gift” suddenly seems as loud as fucking gunfire or something-there’s no way Cas can be sleeping through this, considering Sam can probably tell exactly what Dean’s doing three rooms over. Hell, Bobby probably knows what Dean’s doing three states over.
Relax. This supposed to be fun, remember?
The first pair he pulls out happens to be pink. Mostly pink, at least. He didn’t purposely pick them out-it’s the feel, it’s the look, the colour hardly matters-but it’s kind of tricky to spend much time in a lingerie store without seeing something in pink. The front is silk, with soft black lace lining the edges and curving up around the sides into the tiny back. Slowly, carefully, because he feels like his stronger, bigger body might tear them, he slips one foot then the other through. Slides them gently up, feeling the elastic in the lace stretch to accommodate the muscles of his thighs and, finally, the breadth of his hips. He closes his eyes and for a moment just feels, feels the way the lace sits in between the cheeks of his ass and how his cock weighs down the delicate silk and how the band hugs the skin just below his hipbones. His lips part in a low moan-fucking hell this feels good…
Dean opens his eyes and stares at himself in the mirror. He loves the contrast, the hard lines of his own body instead of the soft curves of the girls you see wearing things like this in the catalogues; he loves the obscene bulge, how tightly the fabric is drawn to accommodate him, and fuck, he just meant to try them on and save this for later but if Cas is out there and willing right now then-
“Dean?”
He jumps guiltily, eyes immediately moving to the door handle in panic even though he’s absolutely one-hundred-percent-plus-shipping-and-handling certain he locked it. Shitshitshitshitshit-
“Gimme a minute,” he calls back. How-he didn’t even hear Sam enter the room, Christ-
“Okay, well, I think there’s something you should take a look at,” says Sam from the other side of the door.
Dean yanks his pants back on, biting his lip as he feels the denim slide first against skin that usually isn’t bare and then against a very thin layer of silk. The shirt goes back on as well, and the old pair of underwear is shoved unceremoniously away behind the shower curtain with the rest of his clandestine purchases. One last check to make sure none of the lace is visible above the top of his pants and then he’s opening the door, growling a surly, “What?” at his brother (with his voice reflexively pitched a little lower than usual with over-compensatory Manliness) to mask the fallacious yet nonetheless insistent sensation of exposure.
Back in the main room, Sam’s cradling his laptop in his arms (seriously, the guy shows an alarming amount of devotion to his computer sometimes, considering it’s an inanimate object-and then Sam has the nerve to say the same thing about Dean and his car, which is clearly a different case altogether) and Cas is sitting up blearily, sporting even more spectacular sex hair than usual. Sam shows everyone excitedly what he’s found-a series of articles that, together, link an earthquake, a cursed dreamcatcher, and a fucking crazy old dude with a sort of ghost-trap responsible for the insanely haunted house they’re trying to deal with-and just as they’ve decided to leave it overnight a report comes through on the police frequency Sam’s tracking of a disturbance at, conviently enough, the exact same house. Looks like they’ll be going tonight after all, unless they particularly fancy scraping bits of the dumb teenagers who’ve just broken in off the walls tomorrow.
Which means that, yes, Dean is going off monster hunting in a thong. A lacy pink-and-black thong. One that isn’t really great for running, or ducking, or kicking down doors. Not only is this perhaps not the best idea he’s ever had, it’s actually downright dangerous; because instead of putting one hundred percent of his concentration into killing ghosts and keeping himself alive there’s always a little bit that’s busy trying to make sure his pants stay up high enough to hide his new underwear. Maybe only five percent, maybe even less, but still. When you’re hunting, five percent can mean the difference between life and death. And he really, really does not want to die wearing a thong.
Though he has to admit there’s still something a little exhilarating about it-something kind of sexy about getting all dirty and bruised like always yet having this one sensual secret to himself. Exhilarating enough that when he and Cas get back to their room close to one o’clock that morning, sore and exhausted, Dean’s not actually feeling particularly tired. His body is thrumming with an energy that’s been growing slowly ever since that afternoon in the store, and it’s enough that he can barely wait for the door to click shut behind them before he’s slamming Cas up against the wall, crushing his mouth against his friend’s in a hot, messy kiss.
Cas makes a noise of surprise that is muffled somewhat by Dean’s mouth, but he hardly seems displeased by the development. Kind of the opposite, really. His hands snake around Dean’s back, shoving off his coat and slipping under the hunter’s shirt to grasp the muscles of his shoulders, his sides, his pecs, everything within his reach; and somewhere in between the hot mess of lips and tongues and teeth it occurs to Dean that this is actually the first time he’s kissed Cas on the mouth. Not exactly the kind of thing that would have made it onto Sam’s list but yeah, it’s definitely something they haven’t done before. Huh. Weird. Sex without kissing usually just seems… incomplete, to Dean, though he supposes there’s been enough other stuff going on to make up for it. Anyways, he can ponder it later because right now he’s got Cas pinned against the wall with his mouth all loose and just fucking waiting for Dean’s tongue to do something to it.
He swallows each of Cas’s moans hungrily as his tongue licks stripes down the roof of the other man’s mouth, then sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth until it’s pink and swollen and slick, and he doesn’t know exactly where this is going to end up going but right now he really fucking likes the idea of seeing those lips around his cock. This is what he’s been missing, this feverish rush with no room for anything but now. He’s not thinking about whether the bruise already blooming on Cas’s cheek from their evening’s work hurts as much as a broken bone would for Dean. He’s not freaking out about the end of the world. He’s not even feeling the stomach-clenching anxiety of being a guy in women’s underwear by choice-just the rush of blood downwards as Cas’s thigh slips between his legs, pressing against the heady silk-lace-denim combination. Fuck. Grabbing at the guy’s ass he presses him forward, closer, grinding his crotch down against Cas and only letting go when Cas tugs insistently at the bottom of his shirt, and as for Cas it is completely unacceptable for him to still be fully clothed, Dean is definitely going to have to do something about that-
-nngh, but only after Cas stops doing that thing he’s doing with Dean’s nipples, pinching and pressing and tugging and fuck, is it just him or does Cas literally get better every time he does this? He shifts their positions so that when he kneads his hands more firmly into Cas’s ass it rubs his hard-on against Dean’s, and Dean can feel his cock sliding against the satin in a way that makes his shoulders arch back in pleasure-Cas seems to be struck by the terrible dilemma of whether to buck forward into the glorious heat between Dean’s legs or press back against the hands squeezing his ass, and Dean hasn’t actually technically fucked Cas yet, they just haven’t worked up to that, but if Cas is game then why the hell don’t they do it tonight because he’s turned on like crazy right now, like just touching won’t be enough. Cas is already undoing Dean’s pants, slipping a hand inside, and-
Cas falters for a moment, apparently confused. Then, with a low chuckle, he pushes the jeans a little lower on Dean’s hips and asks breathlessly, “Dean, why are you wearing female undergarments?”
There’s a sudden change in the direction of blood flow-away from his cock, which suddenly seems far less in need of attention than it did a second earlier, and up towards his furiously reddening face. His grip on Cas slackens instinctively, and even though Cas has certainly seen him naked before he’s suddenly, desperately wishing to be fully dressed. Cas hasn’t seemed to notice anything yet-his hands are sliding down the back of the now-open jeans over Dean’s mostly bare ass, still grinding languidly against him-but then Dean pulls away, and he looks up in bewilderment. “What’s wrong?” asks Cas, frowning slightly. It doesn’t suit him, that expression when his eyes are still dark with lust. Then again, apparently women’s undergarments don’t suit Dean, so it would seem they’re evenly matched now.
“Nothing,” he says gruffly. “I just-I’m tired. I don’t really feel like doing this right now.”
In fact, he’s feeling kind of sick. Sick from the mortification that’s snuck in to replace the urgent arousal of a moment earlier, twisting his stomach until he wants to throw up or scream or hit something or do anything other than be in these stupid panties with Cas in this stupid room. Why the hell did he think this was a good idea? It’s the farthest thing possible from a good idea, it’s just fucking weird is what it is-hell, even Cas thinks it’s weird. Clearly he’s gotten a little too comfortable doing this with Cas; he’s forgotten that there are some things that are just better to keep to yourself, and this is so fucking definitely one of them.
Cas looks utterly lost, because the guy who was tearing his clothes off feverishly a second ago is now totally frigid and this is Cas so obviously he doesn’t really get what he’s done wrong. Which makes sense because he hasn’t actually done anything wrong, except for be a normal human guy for once even though Dean was expecting something different from him and it was completely unfair and stupid and what the hell had he been thinking? So yeah, it’s not Cas’s fault at all but right now Dean still kind of hates him a little for making him feel this burning shame, and once that dies down a little it’ll just make Dean hate himself a lot for being such an asshole.
Cas tries to reclaim his mouth in a kiss, but Dean jerks his head away. “Dean-”
“I’m going to take a shower,” he announces stiffly. “Don’t wait up.”
And he turns his back on Cas and heads to the bathroom, leaving his best friend standing alone with his shirt half off and looking even more lost than the time Sam tried to explain what planking was.
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