My DeanCastiel AU!Fusion Fic
Title: Dream As If You'll Live Forever [Part 1/2 of the Con!AU]
Author: Commodoresexual
Rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Bobby/Ellen, Sam/Jo
Warnings: Written for the AU!Fusion challenge at deancastiel. Boys are owned by Kripke, and alas, even in an Alternate Universe I do not own them. EDIT: Now properly beta'd, for your viewing pleasure.
Word Count: 5,999 words.
The Prophet Chuck (Author's) Notes: I'll admit it, I banged out this over the weekend, because I was having such problems with writing this when I wanted to be writing more Plan. So I ended it at part one and figured, 'Hey, if people like it I'll keep going because I have part two plotted if not written. If not, no skin off my nose!' EDIT: Due to surprisingly popular demand, there will be a Part 2! Look For, 'Live As If You'll Die Today' later on this month.
Summary: AU #19: Cas hasn't spoken a word to anyone in years and is a drifter who works various odd jobs to finance himself. Dean is a guy with a violent temper who grew up in foster care and has just gotten out of prison for a stupid judgment call. The two cross paths in a pay-by-the-week boarding house run by an eccentric older couple (Bobby and Ellen).
Welcome To
Haven, Kansas
Population, 1746.
The man stared at the sign for a few moments, standing there of the side of Route 12, before he turned towards the direction of the town. Looking at the road ahead as if it would say something about Haven - whether to enter it or pass it by. After a moment, he turned and brooded on the sign again.
Ellen had been watching him do that for five minutes - this dark haired stranger in the trench-coat that looked like it had seen better days, jeans and button-down shirt that was rumpled from probably sleeping on the bus. The bus that had dropped this stranger off, just up her driveway. She wiped her hands on her dishtowel, and made a decision.
She was known for that. People in Haven always said, Ellen Singer would take one look at you and know whether or not you could be trusted carry the church offering or if Sheriff Carlyle should be escorting you out of town. She made decisions, just like that, snap of the fingers. And she'd go through every single one of them, no matter how insane they looked at the time, because later on, they were never crazy at all.
Some people called that psychic. Ellen called it good common sense. Same common sense that had her running the cleanest boarding house in all of Reno county, hands down, for seven years now.
Her boots scuffed up pebbles as she reached the end of the drive, the wind flattening Bobby's old work shirt against her back. She looked at the young man, who kept looking at the sign, and she said with rough warmth, “Hey, kid.”
The dark haired man looked over at her, blue eyes fixing on her brown ones, sad and distant. He didn't say a word, just waited for her to speak again.
That was when Ellen knew she had herself a new boarder.
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Hutchinson Correctional Facility, Kansas, One Week Later
“Winchester!” Bill the guard ambled up to Dean Winchester's door, fluttering an envelope at him. “Up and at 'em, son. Get your stuff together.”
The green-eyed man on the bed, dressed in the solid blue uniform of all prisoners, put down his Vonnegut book long enough to give the guard a flat, suspicious look. This had better not be this shit with Gonzales. Man came after him with a weapon after … well, Dean was well within his rights to punch his lights out. He'd done a lot worse to the others who tried that, once he had gotten his feet underneath him. He picked the book back up, growling out a short, “Why?”
“Don't get your pink satin panties in a twist, son. You got an early release.” Bill waggled the letter at him. “Your lawyer got you sprung, early, on a technicality.”
Dean rose from the bed slowly, putting the book down in a way he knew was hurting the spine, taking the letter and staring at it like it might bite him. “My lawyer was a disinterested pro-bono asshole who couldn't even plead down a first offensive down to the minimum for wiring a car. I'm doing a solid five, Bill, because that guy was a dick.”
“Nah, this is the work of your new lawyer. Who is waiting outside for you, with all your papers, as soon as you get off your lazy ass.” Bill arched an eyebrow. “Unless you wanna stick around. I hear Gonzales is looking forward to talking to you after you had yourself a little temper tantrum and pushed his head through that window.”
“Everyone saw him come at me with that shiv.” Dean muttered, running one hand through his short, light brown hair. “Guy's got a worse temper than I do, and that's saying some shit.” He finally cracked open the paper, and read it. Early release. Apparently they never found the car he stole, and without it there wasn't a crime, yadda yadda. He frowned as he eyed the letter, where it was signed at the bottom, 'S. Wesson, Esq.' “Never even heard of this guy.”
“He's heard of you. Now are you coming? We've got guests who need this room.” Bill drawled, looking bored.
Dean waved the letter at Bill, even as he moved to grab his beloved collection of books, and the odds and ends that two years in prison had garnered him. “This doesn't make any sense. Who'd give a fuck about me?”
“Guess God's got something bigger on his plate for you.” Bill opened the cell and tossed Dean the duffel bag he'd been carrying.
Dean's eyes flashed, but it didn't seem wise to get into a fight with a guard on the day he was getting out. So all he muttered was, “Yeah, well, after thirty years it's nice to see he cares.”
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Bobby Singer sighed as he stared out the window, leaning on his cane and glowering at the young man in the garden, pulling up weeds with the thoughtful meditation of a Buddhist monk. He turned that glower to his wife, as she came out of the kitchen with a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses, saying gruffly, “That boy some kind of idjit?”
Ellen gave her husband a flat look, as she put the pitcher down on the table. “That's the third time you asked me that, Bobby, and for the third time I'm telling you, no.”
Bobby huffed, tugged on his cap, and stared out the window again. “We sure he's not a serial killer then?”
“Robert. Singer.” Ellen said, her tone tart as she put her hands on her hips. “I think you'd better apologize to me for saying I'd let an insane killer into our home without as much by-your-leave.”
Bobby grunted, pushing the living room curtain aside again. “He doesn't talk, El. You didn't think that was mighty peculiar behavior when you introduced yourself?”
“Sure I did. Then I saw the world of hurt in that boy's eyes, and I knew this was a soul that needed tending. Besides, I don't know what you're bitchin' about, you've been after me to rent those rooms out for near a month now, ever since Ash and Becky moved out to get their own place, so we could get some help around the place. What with Jo being too busy with the new baby and her promotion to come down and help me with the gardening, and her 'sweet baboo' husband of hers, finally getting that break he's been waiting on, and not able to clean out the gutters and such.” She nodded towards the window, to the slow and careful weeding of their newest guest. “Room rented out. Help around the place. Ta-dah.”
Bobby ran one hand over his rough beard, and sighed. When his wife had a point, she had a point. “Well, I'd feel better if I knew his damned name. I can't be calling out, 'Hey You' when I'm telling him grub's on, El.”
“Call him by his God-given name, then. He registered with us using a valid state's ID and everything, another reason you shouldn't be giving me guff.” Ellen said primly, as she headed back into the kitchen. “It's in my accounts book, if you're curious to know.”
Bobby was. He limped from the living room to Ellen's office, to the desk where she kept all their neat ledgers, for going on twenty-five years now. He flipped open the guest book and sighed as he read the name printed in neat, blocky, male-patterned handwriting, “Now what the hell kind of name is Castiel, anyways?”
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Dean doesn't breath out a sigh of relief until the prison gates are shut behind him. Two years - two years of living through one stupid ass mistake and he'd made himself this promise but he makes it again to himself, his work boots crunching the gravel under his feet - never again. He won't go back to prison, won't sit in a twelve by ten box just feeling his soul shrivel up. He'll mind his goddamned temper. He won't take what's not his, especially when he's not minding his damned temper. Which isn't going to be a problem anymore, anyhow.
There's a car on the lot. A responsible looking car, that probably had oil changes when the car needed it and not a moment before, was probably washed within an inch of its responsible, Japanese manufactured life once a damned month. Dean's lips pressed together and this had to be 'his lawyer', and he was prepared for just about anything. Some gorgeous young woman who fell in love with his pretty face, some old retired codger who took these kind of cases because he was bored. What he didn't expect was the tallest motherfucker he'd ever seen step out of that car - what was that anyways, a Camry? - dressed in a black suit and a red tie, and sunglasses on his face.
Dean stared at the young man, with the scruffy dark brown hair, whose mouth was curved into something close to wonder. Mentally flipping the gorgeous young woman with okay-good-looking young man, Dean spat out a simple, “Dude, if you did all this to get laid, I'm telling you right now I'm not your type. Save it for the gym.”
Then he started to walk towards the bus stop as the young man's mouth dropped open in shock, because no way was he getting into a car with a creepy stalker driving a Japanese car. Especially not a damned Camry, for fuck's sake. He'd hitch first.
“Damnit … Dean! Wait!” Ah-hah, Mister S. Wesson's brain seemed to have finally caught up with his mouth, and Dean heard shoes shuffling over the pavement quickly after him, and he found himself in the shadow of the looming young man who spoke so very earnestly. “I swear I'm not here for any kind of - uhm - no - see I'm married?” He held out his hand, with a golden wedding band, and Dean slowed to look at it. Well-worn. Probably a ring of pale skin under it, someone who never took the damned thing off, not even to shower. He stopped, and gave S. Wesson a long, hard and distrustful look, but stopping was enough to get the young man to start talking again, “I just made full associate at my law firm, and my boss, Zachariah -”
Waitaminutehere. “Tall guy? Balding? Fishy eyes?” Dean's lips twisted as S. Wesson nodded his head in acknowledgment. Ah-hah, suddenly this made a lot more sense. S. Wesson, new lawyer, worked for Zachariah, former lawyer. “Yeah, I know him. Great guy. If he's your boss I feel strongly you're gonna be promoted soon. 'Cuz the man's not only a dick, he's a Godfuckingawful lawyer too.”
One corner of S. Wesson's mouth lifted up. “I know. That's why I asked for your case, well, one of the reasons. He agreed to let me take on your appeals. I've been trying for eighteen months to get it overturned, and finally, I did!” He smiled like the sun, and Dean felt a twinge in his chest. Like maybe he wanted to return it. He doesn't. He stopped smiling a long time ago, when there was nothing to smile about.
“Well, congratulations. I'd be bullshitting if I didn't say I wasn't grateful.” Dean said slowly, “And I'm out now, so good work there, lawyer boy. But … what the hell do you want from me now?”
S. Wesson stood motionless there for a long few seconds, inhaled deeply, before he pulled off his sunglasses. Brown eyes, flicked with green, and suddenly that twinge in Dean's chest is a full-on choke hold. I know you, but how? S. Wesson pressed his lips together, and then he grinned in this lopsided way that almost, almost made Dean smile back. Two times in ten minutes. Who the hell was this kid? He looked at Dean, eyes imploring. “What I want now … is to give you a ride. Make sure you get settled right. That okay?”
Dean's eyes flickered to the car, and then to S. Wesson's face, then back to that damned Camry. He sighed, deeply, before he shouldered the duffel. “Sure, lawyer-boy. S'not like I wanna hang out here anyways.”
S. Wesson breathed out, a happy sigh escaping his lips. “Okay. Good. And, ah, my name's not Lawyer Boy. It's -”
“Dude, stow the chick-share. I know your name. It's Wesson. We'll leave it at that.” Dean shook his head, as he headed over to the passenger side of the Camry. “All I want to do is get the fuck out of here.”
He looked over his shoulder. Wesson had his lips pressed together - and with that face Dean knows Gonzales would have lo-ved Wesson on Cell Block A - then sighed. “Right. I imagine the last two years have been Hell for you.”
Dean felt his lips curve into a bleak smile in answer.
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“He's on the damned roof again.” Bobby observed dryly as he limped back inside, using the cane to pry open the door and then to slam it shut again. “He was there when I left for the garage, and he's still up there. If he's tryin' to learn how to fly, he's doing a pisspoor job.”
“Oh for God's sake, Bobby. So the boy's a little unusual.” Ellen said dryly, as she set the table for dinner. “You build custom cars for giggles. Jo likes REO Speedwagon. Our son-in-law loves lost causes. We don't exactly have the patent on normal, 'round here.”
“Meybe not, but we're not sitting on the roof, mooning off at the horizon.” Bobby grunted, then looked at the plates. “We expecting company for dinner?”
“Our son-in-law, and one of his special 'guests'.” Ellen rolled her eyes, as she went back into the kitchen.
“Oh for the love of - another former con?” Bobby sighed. “Doesn't he know he can't help everyone? And most of the people he wants to help are downright ...evil?”
“Yeah, well, he thinks he can save 'em, and God knows I'm not going tell the boy he can't try.” Ellen came out with a steaming tuna casserole, and Bobby breathed in appreciatively.
“Oh, so I guess we're both forgetting Ruby then - all smiles and sweet talk and trying to get our stupid son-in-law alone in some closet somewhere and when that didn't work she made off with my mother's china and our good silver?” Bobby snorted softly, going to pour everyone iced tea, five glasses.
“The sheriff caught her before she got out of town.” Ellen reminded him, before nodding towards the door. “Besides, you want to talk him out of having another con here for us to try and coddle? There's his car.”
“Gladly - maybe this time the damned boy will listen to some sense -” Bobby finished pouring the last glass, and limped towards the door. He opened his mouth as his idiot son-in-law opened the car door, but those words died when he saw the man stepping out of the passenger seat. Tall, hard looking, and the late day sunlight caught the glint of wary green eyes.
Bobby let out a long exhalation. Well Hell. There was no way Bobby was going to say anything now. Not when it was plain as the nose on his face why their idiot son-in-law had gone through all this trouble. He'd finally saved the right soul, the one he'd been looking for nearly fifteen years.
*******************
Dean had to admit, when he got out of prison he didn't think he'd be staying anywhere as nice as Ellen Singer's boarding house. He figured some scummy walk-up apartment with bugs and a sucktastic mattress. He didn't expect the sprawling two story house sitting right on the inside of the Welcome to Haven, Kansas sign, lots of grassy open land and a far distant barn, with a gravel driveway that stopped with a beat-up old truck and sweet-as-pie refitted 1977 Camero. He barely registered what Wesson was saying, and made himself clue in again.
“ - so you'll be staying with my in-laws - they're good people. Ellen runs the boarding house,” A comment Dean refused to do anything but roll his eyes to because the sign kind of made that obvious, “And Bobby runs an auto repair shop in Haven. I'll stay long enough to make sure you're settled in, but then I gotta get back to the office after that, then back home. On Monday I'll come by, drive you to meet your parole officer.” Wesson said as they stepped out of the car.
Dean wanted to ask him why the hell he cared - what the hell was it about this particular petty car thief that some kid lawyer needed to save personally - but that was pretty much when he looked over the house again and his gaze caught on something he hadn't registered before.
Namely, the man sitting on the roof.
The man who was looking right back down at him. Dark, almost black hair sticking up carelessly. Big blue eyes, face pretty enough that Gonzales would have been chomping at the bit. Hell, Dean had only swung that way once or twice, and he found himself suddenly wondering what those lips would feel like on his skin - as full as a woman's, with a man's force and heat.
Then he shook himself out of it, because for God's sake, there was a crazy man on a roof staring at him, and even if Dean had been in prison for two years, the first thing he was jumping like a horny teenager was not going to be Crazy Roof Guy. Even if he did have fucking gorgeous blue eyes. Even if they had gone from dreamy to sharp with interest when his gaze met Dean's.
Nope. Not having sex with Crazy Roof Guy.
Didn't keep him from missing half the damned conversation, again, with Wesson, who finally asked, “Hey? Dean? Are you even listening to what I'm saying?”
“Hm? Ah. Yeah.” Dean decided that assent was better than anything else. “Golden, man. Whatever you want.”
Wesson gave him a long, hard look, shook his head a little and chuffed a laugh. “Okay then … I'll go inside and talk to my in-laws. I'll be right back, and you're going to stay right here?”
Dean looked at Wesson, felt his mouth twist ever so slightly. “Man - where the hell would I go?”
For some reason, that relaxed the set of Wesson's broad shoulders, and Dean wasn't sure why, but he was glad to see it. Hell, he was definitely not sure why that eased him. So he ignored that confusing problem for the one on the roof, namely the gorgeous blue eyed crazy man he was not going to sleep with.
Who was gone.
Dean stared at the empty spot, said “Fuckingfuckfuckityfuck,” and then he rubbed his face a little. Obviously, he was losing his damned mind. Had he even asked Wesson if there was some crazy guy who liked to sit on roofs, here? Had Wesson even seen Crazy Roof Guy?
Maybe prison had driven him nuts, and this was all some surreal dream that any minute now, he was going to wake up from. He'd wake up in his tiny box of a cell, to the peeled and cracked white paint above his head and be filled with that helpless rage of his own stupidity.
He stared at the sky above his head, late-day blue, waited to see if it would morph. It did not, and instead, a throat cleared itself. Male, and Dean tilted his head to see a gruff man in his late fifties, baseball cap firmly on his salt and peppered dark hair, dark eyes looking out from a sea of crinkled skin. The man looked up at the sky, then at Dean, before saying curtly, “You talk?”
Dean felt his eyebrow raising again, before he retorted, “On occasion. If there's something worth saying.”
Apparently sarcasm would not get you glared at in the Singer household, because the man, who had to be Bobby, suddenly smiled. “You, I like. C'mon in, boy. Dinner is on the table.”
Dean exhaled, shouldered his bag and headed up the porch stairs. If dinner went like the rest of this day, it was going to be damned weird.
*****************
He was not wrong.
Second he stepped into the house, he found himself on the end of the most assessing stare he'd ever seen, from Mrs. Ellen Singer, the lady of the house. After she spent a long moment lazering his skull with her eyes, she nodded, told him to drop the bag by the stairs because she'd show him his room later.
If that wasn't strange enough, he sat down at a table set for five people, and while he only had his GED, he was pretty sure that there were only four people in the room. He gave his hosts an odd look, and then Wesson, but eh. Like this day could seriously get any more left field. Besides, the woman was feeding him casserole that tasted like it came directly from Heaven.
Seemed wrong to almost choke on it, when Crazy Man From The Roof suddenly appeared at the dining room door, stopped abruptly and looked as startled as Dean did. Dean stared at him. Crazy Man, true to form, stared right back and there was challenge in that gaze. Just not the kind where he wanted to pound in Dean's face. No, not that kind of pounding at all.
“Oh, there you are, Castiel.” Ellen turned towards the Crazy - Castiel, and the young man looked at her and lifted his eyebrows questioningly. Ellen tilted her head for a moment, “Honey, if you got a question that needs asking, you know you can speak your peace here."
“Which requires talking. Y'know, with words.” Bobby muttered into his plate.
Dean looked from one, to the other, then over to Wesson who looked a little freaked out himself, then Dean shook his head a little. “He wants to know if he can join us for lunch. I guessing since they are five plates, that yeah, that was kind of the idea.”
Castiel's gaze zoomed towards him, as well as everyone else's. Wesson looked impressed, “You got all that from a look?”
Dean shrugged, balancing a mouthful of delicious tuna and noodles on his fork, “You can learn a lot from a look.” What he didn't expand on was that in prison, it was a necessary form of survival. You didn't know what the man next to you was thinking by just looking in his eyes? You could end up with a mouthful of broken glass in your next meal.
Ellen was looking at him, those brown eyes almost as piercing as Crazy - Castiel's, as she murmured, “You surely don't.” She smiled, and popped a mouthful of noodles into her mouth. “Welcome to Haven, Dean Winchester.”
******************
Everyone, excepting the still silent Castiel, walked Wesson outside to his car to wave him off. Dean wasn't sure himself why he did so, but it seemed like the thing to do. So he lifted his fist in the air and pumped in a half-mocking way, before he turned to find both Singers looking at him. He met both of their intent stares, cleared his throat, and let his eyes fall to the Camero again. “Great car. Classic. Don't see many like this anymore.”
The Singers exchanged a look, and Bobby answered. “Thanks …guess you know about cars, huh?”
Dean's expression softened, and he sighed as he looked at the Camaro. “Yeah, I did, once upon a time.” Two years ago, working full time at a Jiffy Lube and trying to put himself through a trade college so he could put cars together, for real, maybe go into business for himself. Independent at last. Hah. “Know more than most people who say they do, anyways.”
Then Bobby's lifting an eyebrow at him, and this time it's the kind of challenge that makes Dean want to hit something, but instead he just lifted his chin, and nodded to the car again. “You let me crack open that hood, and I'll even show you.”
That was how, twenty minutes later, Dean Winchester found himself with a job down at Singer's Garage.
Yeah. Really weird day.
*****************
The room he was in is down the long hallway away from the Singers, and it was everything he could have wanted, and since all he wanted was a frigging bed without bugs in it, this big soft bed next to this window that looked out to long, stretching fields and endless horizon is pretty much … awesome. Yeah, awesome. It has a chest of drawers, for the pathetic amount of clothing he owns, and bookshelves for his almost-totally-complete collection of Kurt Vonnegut books and a few other odds and end novels he has. Like Dickens Tale of Two Cities. He has always had a soft spot for that fucking tragic Sydney Carton, giving it all up for love and for principle. He liked to think that if he had prison to do over again, and he never ever will, but if he did, he wanted it to at least mean something this time.
Not in half-assed sentimental and drunken rage over some guy who can't take care of a good car.
He doesn't want to think about that tonight, though. Tonight he just wanted to enjoy the first shower he's had by himself for two years. He wanted to enjoy knowing that while he was washing himself he doesn't have to watch every single damned minute for a knife or a come-on glance he's not coming on to. It was nice putting clean towels to his naked skin, to wrap one around his waist. Nice to shave himself in a bathroom of clean white tile and blue accents. He wiggled his toes in the soft plush blue carpet, and ran a hand through his damp hair. He liked the feeling of unlocking the bathroom door and stepping out into the cool hallway, the breeze wafting through the air slapping his bare chest and upper body like a hard kiss.
He was not thinking of Castiel. He was not.
He was so steadfastly not thinking about Castiel when he was done pulling on his sweatpants, and grabbing one of his books to pretend to read, that he nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the man at his window. Looking at him curiously, like a bird in deep contemplation. Dean swallowed a yell, and growled at the man as he moved to the window, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” He stopped and sighed, rubbing his face. “Of course you are - you hang out on roofs for kicks.”
Castiel leaned on the window frame, late night wind sending his dark hair flying this way and that, and the light from Dean's lamp gave him this kind of full body halo. His face shifted into an silent expression of, 'Are you coming, or what?'
He was not going to do it. He was not going follow this madman, dressed in jeans that hug slender hips, a gray t-shirt that set on strong slender shoulders, the color bringing out the glow in his blue eyes. He was not - ah, the hell with it. He sighed as he propped open the window all the way, and started climbing out as he grouched at Castiel, “I just want you to know, I'm not entirely sure you're not a figment of my imagination.”
Castiel stepped back, in a way that that almost made Dean curse at him to watch out for the edge, but Castiel apparently has the balance of a cat, and he just stood there, waiting. Dean paused long enough to grab a flannel out of his bureau, and toss it on over his sweats, not bothering to button the shirt up. He climbed out the window, just in time to see Castiel scale his way along the edge of the roof, and he hurried to catch up. Wind slid across him, chilled his skin a little, but he kept doggedly following the other man, until they came onto a little side porch, obviously only accessible from the attic itself. Castiel sat himself down on one side of the porch - damn it was tiny - so Dean eyed the other man and took the other half.
He glared at the other man, who just looked at him intently, before pointing upwards, and then to the darkened horizon, then back to Dean, his entire face saying, 'See? This was completely worth it.'
So Dean looked up to the sky, the real honest to God night sky with more stars than he can count. He looked outwards, towards the darkened fields, to the houses far distant that twinkle lights back at him. He felt something rest in him, a quiet he hadn't known was possible. It was probably the first time he had ever felt at peace in … well, ever. He breathed in, deeply, and it sort of settled in his skin. This was all real. All of it. He was not waking up in his cell; he was sitting on a house, with a room, a shower, real food and a job. There was a warm person next to him, that he had actually decided to spend time with instead of being locked in without his consent.
He let his lungs fill with night air, once more, and turned towards Castiel, towards the man who is a solid line of heat next to his body. He looked into that delicate face, into the blue eyes that are just a few shades lighter than the horizon itself. Dean breathed out, watched how that made Castiel's mouth part, tongue flickering out to lick his lips. Which was … Jesus, that was damned hot. For a guy. For this guy.
“I'm not sleeping with you.” Dean said, his voice drawn low.
Castiel simply lifted one eyebrow a fraction of an inch, and Dean knew that look instantly. That was the look that said, 'Do you want to bet?' and he huffed out a laugh, before he stopped in surprise. He hadn't laughed, not really, in over two years, and the sound of it actually shocked him to silence. That was when he felt Castiel's hand slip across his neck.
That was when Castiel's mouth closed over his, and he forgot to breath for a moment, even to move. He sat still like that, unblinking, before he shifted his lips ever so slightly, not sure if he was going to move closer or away. But the slide of lips against lips dragged a sharp breath out of the other man, and it was the first time Dean heard the man make a noise. Suddenly he wanted to hear more - more helpless little noises dragged from this quiet man's mouth. His lips parted, and his tongue slipped over Castiel's lower lip, looking for entrance and then finding it a few delicious seconds later.
Oh, then there was warmth and heat and Castiel's tongue moving over his. Suddenly, the man wasn't beside Dean but in his lap and that was just fine with him except he can't remember if the man climbed over him or if he dragged Castiel over. Doesn't matter, because Castiel's hands were on his bare skin and his mouth was some kind of welcoming oven that tasted of mint and pure want.
He pressed his hips up, Castiel pressed down and ahgodyes, there it was. Him hard and practically begging against friction and it felt so damned good. His hands slid up under that light cotton t-shirt to stroke over over nipples already peaked and waiting to be tweaked, then back down over a flat stomach, to Castiel's waistband, unbuttoning, un-zippering, and he growled as Castiel sat up but he realized it was just so he can get those jeans down over Castiel's hips.
A greedy push down, where he can feel warm, too hot flesh. Castiel was pushing him down on the cool wood of the porch. He saw dark sky and then he saw Castiel's face over his, framed in stars. He felt Castiel's mouth on him, demanding, and he surrendered to the sharp teeth and soft lips. He could feel Castiel's hands - oh, slender delicate fingers moving over his chest and then over his stomach and his sweatpants are shoved down. His boxers as well and he was diamond hard now - Castiel was sliding over him, shifting, moving and yesfuckyes,
Castiel's cock slid over his tantalizing and he leaned up, closed his lips and teeth around Castiel's Adam's apple and just sucked because he still wanted to hear that throat make noise. Castiel's breath was fast and sharp against his skin, and he could feel Castiel's stubble curving beard-burn into his cheek. He pumped up, fingers digging into the other man's hips to drag their cocks even faster against one another, feeling them slip in sweat and pre-come and Jesus, was that moaning? Yes, that was Castiel moaning as he slamned his mouth back into Dean's, and sweetfuckingchrist, he was coming all over Dean's abdomen and cock, while he was still fucking Dean's mouth wholeheartedly.
And that was it, that's all because God Damn, Dean has been in prison for two years. He was coming so fucking hard he was seeing white flashes behind his eyes and his entire body was jerking from the pleasurable pull of it. In two years, Hell, in all the years he has had sex, he never had an orgasm so fucking intense. He wasn't sure if it had been the wait or the oh random sexy of it all, or maybe it was the man who had stopped mauling his mouth and was now just sliding soft, sated kisses across his lips, before taking off his t-shirt to wipe them both clean. He gently tucked Dean back into his boxers and sweats, gave him another smoldering kiss that left Dean weak-headed and weak-kneed. He got to his feet, tossed his shirt silently over his shoulder. His upper body was surprisingly wiry - tight, lean muscle that Dean kind of wanted to devour.
That look must be on his face, in the dim light, because Castiel smiled at him, and then tilted his head at him questioningly, as if asking, 'Here? Again? Later?'
Dean surprised the fuck out of himself by nodding his head yes, and watched Castiel's smile reappear, grow brighter. Then Castiel was gone, a shadow moving towards the bedroom window lights, and probably back to his own room. For his own part, Dean kept smiling for a full minute and a half - before he realized just what the fuck happened.
He groaned as he covered his hands over his face, and fell back flat against the porch again, muttering to himself. “I had sex with Crazy Roof Guy. On the roof.”
Surreal. This entire fucking day was too surreal to be believed. He had to be dreaming. He had to be. He put two fingers on his arm and pinched himself hard, just to be sure. But no, he was still wide awake, staring up at the stars, his heart still pumping hard from orgasm, not to mention all the possible orgasms in the future.
He snorted as he finally pushed himself up to his feet, to climb back to his room. Fuck it. If he needed ruby slippers to get out of this messed up situation, he'd worry about that tomorrow. Besides … all things considered?
Maybe living in this crazy dream world with dorky lawyers and gruff married couples and houses in the middle of nowhere with a insanely hot insane blue-eyed sex god wasn't going to be as bad as he thought. Maybe, just maybe, for once he could be optimistic.
Maybe.
He'd see what tomorrow would bring.
*****************
Part Two is here
Author: Commodoresexual
Rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Bobby/Ellen, Sam/Jo
Warnings: Written for the AU!Fusion challenge at deancastiel. Boys are owned by Kripke, and alas, even in an Alternate Universe I do not own them. EDIT: Now properly beta'd, for your viewing pleasure.
Word Count: 5,999 words.
The Prophet Chuck (Author's) Notes: I'll admit it, I banged out this over the weekend, because I was having such problems with writing this when I wanted to be writing more Plan. So I ended it at part one and figured, 'Hey, if people like it I'll keep going because I have part two plotted if not written. If not, no skin off my nose!' EDIT: Due to surprisingly popular demand, there will be a Part 2! Look For, 'Live As If You'll Die Today' later on this month.
Summary: AU #19: Cas hasn't spoken a word to anyone in years and is a drifter who works various odd jobs to finance himself. Dean is a guy with a violent temper who grew up in foster care and has just gotten out of prison for a stupid judgment call. The two cross paths in a pay-by-the-week boarding house run by an eccentric older couple (Bobby and Ellen).
Welcome To
Haven, Kansas
Population, 1746.
The man stared at the sign for a few moments, standing there of the side of Route 12, before he turned towards the direction of the town. Looking at the road ahead as if it would say something about Haven - whether to enter it or pass it by. After a moment, he turned and brooded on the sign again.
Ellen had been watching him do that for five minutes - this dark haired stranger in the trench-coat that looked like it had seen better days, jeans and button-down shirt that was rumpled from probably sleeping on the bus. The bus that had dropped this stranger off, just up her driveway. She wiped her hands on her dishtowel, and made a decision.
She was known for that. People in Haven always said, Ellen Singer would take one look at you and know whether or not you could be trusted carry the church offering or if Sheriff Carlyle should be escorting you out of town. She made decisions, just like that, snap of the fingers. And she'd go through every single one of them, no matter how insane they looked at the time, because later on, they were never crazy at all.
Some people called that psychic. Ellen called it good common sense. Same common sense that had her running the cleanest boarding house in all of Reno county, hands down, for seven years now.
Her boots scuffed up pebbles as she reached the end of the drive, the wind flattening Bobby's old work shirt against her back. She looked at the young man, who kept looking at the sign, and she said with rough warmth, “Hey, kid.”
The dark haired man looked over at her, blue eyes fixing on her brown ones, sad and distant. He didn't say a word, just waited for her to speak again.
That was when Ellen knew she had herself a new boarder.
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Hutchinson Correctional Facility, Kansas, One Week Later
“Winchester!” Bill the guard ambled up to Dean Winchester's door, fluttering an envelope at him. “Up and at 'em, son. Get your stuff together.”
The green-eyed man on the bed, dressed in the solid blue uniform of all prisoners, put down his Vonnegut book long enough to give the guard a flat, suspicious look. This had better not be this shit with Gonzales. Man came after him with a weapon after … well, Dean was well within his rights to punch his lights out. He'd done a lot worse to the others who tried that, once he had gotten his feet underneath him. He picked the book back up, growling out a short, “Why?”
“Don't get your pink satin panties in a twist, son. You got an early release.” Bill waggled the letter at him. “Your lawyer got you sprung, early, on a technicality.”
Dean rose from the bed slowly, putting the book down in a way he knew was hurting the spine, taking the letter and staring at it like it might bite him. “My lawyer was a disinterested pro-bono asshole who couldn't even plead down a first offensive down to the minimum for wiring a car. I'm doing a solid five, Bill, because that guy was a dick.”
“Nah, this is the work of your new lawyer. Who is waiting outside for you, with all your papers, as soon as you get off your lazy ass.” Bill arched an eyebrow. “Unless you wanna stick around. I hear Gonzales is looking forward to talking to you after you had yourself a little temper tantrum and pushed his head through that window.”
“Everyone saw him come at me with that shiv.” Dean muttered, running one hand through his short, light brown hair. “Guy's got a worse temper than I do, and that's saying some shit.” He finally cracked open the paper, and read it. Early release. Apparently they never found the car he stole, and without it there wasn't a crime, yadda yadda. He frowned as he eyed the letter, where it was signed at the bottom, 'S. Wesson, Esq.' “Never even heard of this guy.”
“He's heard of you. Now are you coming? We've got guests who need this room.” Bill drawled, looking bored.
Dean waved the letter at Bill, even as he moved to grab his beloved collection of books, and the odds and ends that two years in prison had garnered him. “This doesn't make any sense. Who'd give a fuck about me?”
“Guess God's got something bigger on his plate for you.” Bill opened the cell and tossed Dean the duffel bag he'd been carrying.
Dean's eyes flashed, but it didn't seem wise to get into a fight with a guard on the day he was getting out. So all he muttered was, “Yeah, well, after thirty years it's nice to see he cares.”
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Bobby Singer sighed as he stared out the window, leaning on his cane and glowering at the young man in the garden, pulling up weeds with the thoughtful meditation of a Buddhist monk. He turned that glower to his wife, as she came out of the kitchen with a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses, saying gruffly, “That boy some kind of idjit?”
Ellen gave her husband a flat look, as she put the pitcher down on the table. “That's the third time you asked me that, Bobby, and for the third time I'm telling you, no.”
Bobby huffed, tugged on his cap, and stared out the window again. “We sure he's not a serial killer then?”
“Robert. Singer.” Ellen said, her tone tart as she put her hands on her hips. “I think you'd better apologize to me for saying I'd let an insane killer into our home without as much by-your-leave.”
Bobby grunted, pushing the living room curtain aside again. “He doesn't talk, El. You didn't think that was mighty peculiar behavior when you introduced yourself?”
“Sure I did. Then I saw the world of hurt in that boy's eyes, and I knew this was a soul that needed tending. Besides, I don't know what you're bitchin' about, you've been after me to rent those rooms out for near a month now, ever since Ash and Becky moved out to get their own place, so we could get some help around the place. What with Jo being too busy with the new baby and her promotion to come down and help me with the gardening, and her 'sweet baboo' husband of hers, finally getting that break he's been waiting on, and not able to clean out the gutters and such.” She nodded towards the window, to the slow and careful weeding of their newest guest. “Room rented out. Help around the place. Ta-dah.”
Bobby ran one hand over his rough beard, and sighed. When his wife had a point, she had a point. “Well, I'd feel better if I knew his damned name. I can't be calling out, 'Hey You' when I'm telling him grub's on, El.”
“Call him by his God-given name, then. He registered with us using a valid state's ID and everything, another reason you shouldn't be giving me guff.” Ellen said primly, as she headed back into the kitchen. “It's in my accounts book, if you're curious to know.”
Bobby was. He limped from the living room to Ellen's office, to the desk where she kept all their neat ledgers, for going on twenty-five years now. He flipped open the guest book and sighed as he read the name printed in neat, blocky, male-patterned handwriting, “Now what the hell kind of name is Castiel, anyways?”
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Dean doesn't breath out a sigh of relief until the prison gates are shut behind him. Two years - two years of living through one stupid ass mistake and he'd made himself this promise but he makes it again to himself, his work boots crunching the gravel under his feet - never again. He won't go back to prison, won't sit in a twelve by ten box just feeling his soul shrivel up. He'll mind his goddamned temper. He won't take what's not his, especially when he's not minding his damned temper. Which isn't going to be a problem anymore, anyhow.
There's a car on the lot. A responsible looking car, that probably had oil changes when the car needed it and not a moment before, was probably washed within an inch of its responsible, Japanese manufactured life once a damned month. Dean's lips pressed together and this had to be 'his lawyer', and he was prepared for just about anything. Some gorgeous young woman who fell in love with his pretty face, some old retired codger who took these kind of cases because he was bored. What he didn't expect was the tallest motherfucker he'd ever seen step out of that car - what was that anyways, a Camry? - dressed in a black suit and a red tie, and sunglasses on his face.
Dean stared at the young man, with the scruffy dark brown hair, whose mouth was curved into something close to wonder. Mentally flipping the gorgeous young woman with okay-good-looking young man, Dean spat out a simple, “Dude, if you did all this to get laid, I'm telling you right now I'm not your type. Save it for the gym.”
Then he started to walk towards the bus stop as the young man's mouth dropped open in shock, because no way was he getting into a car with a creepy stalker driving a Japanese car. Especially not a damned Camry, for fuck's sake. He'd hitch first.
“Damnit … Dean! Wait!” Ah-hah, Mister S. Wesson's brain seemed to have finally caught up with his mouth, and Dean heard shoes shuffling over the pavement quickly after him, and he found himself in the shadow of the looming young man who spoke so very earnestly. “I swear I'm not here for any kind of - uhm - no - see I'm married?” He held out his hand, with a golden wedding band, and Dean slowed to look at it. Well-worn. Probably a ring of pale skin under it, someone who never took the damned thing off, not even to shower. He stopped, and gave S. Wesson a long, hard and distrustful look, but stopping was enough to get the young man to start talking again, “I just made full associate at my law firm, and my boss, Zachariah -”
Waitaminutehere. “Tall guy? Balding? Fishy eyes?” Dean's lips twisted as S. Wesson nodded his head in acknowledgment. Ah-hah, suddenly this made a lot more sense. S. Wesson, new lawyer, worked for Zachariah, former lawyer. “Yeah, I know him. Great guy. If he's your boss I feel strongly you're gonna be promoted soon. 'Cuz the man's not only a dick, he's a Godfuckingawful lawyer too.”
One corner of S. Wesson's mouth lifted up. “I know. That's why I asked for your case, well, one of the reasons. He agreed to let me take on your appeals. I've been trying for eighteen months to get it overturned, and finally, I did!” He smiled like the sun, and Dean felt a twinge in his chest. Like maybe he wanted to return it. He doesn't. He stopped smiling a long time ago, when there was nothing to smile about.
“Well, congratulations. I'd be bullshitting if I didn't say I wasn't grateful.” Dean said slowly, “And I'm out now, so good work there, lawyer boy. But … what the hell do you want from me now?”
S. Wesson stood motionless there for a long few seconds, inhaled deeply, before he pulled off his sunglasses. Brown eyes, flicked with green, and suddenly that twinge in Dean's chest is a full-on choke hold. I know you, but how? S. Wesson pressed his lips together, and then he grinned in this lopsided way that almost, almost made Dean smile back. Two times in ten minutes. Who the hell was this kid? He looked at Dean, eyes imploring. “What I want now … is to give you a ride. Make sure you get settled right. That okay?”
Dean's eyes flickered to the car, and then to S. Wesson's face, then back to that damned Camry. He sighed, deeply, before he shouldered the duffel. “Sure, lawyer-boy. S'not like I wanna hang out here anyways.”
S. Wesson breathed out, a happy sigh escaping his lips. “Okay. Good. And, ah, my name's not Lawyer Boy. It's -”
“Dude, stow the chick-share. I know your name. It's Wesson. We'll leave it at that.” Dean shook his head, as he headed over to the passenger side of the Camry. “All I want to do is get the fuck out of here.”
He looked over his shoulder. Wesson had his lips pressed together - and with that face Dean knows Gonzales would have lo-ved Wesson on Cell Block A - then sighed. “Right. I imagine the last two years have been Hell for you.”
Dean felt his lips curve into a bleak smile in answer.
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
“He's on the damned roof again.” Bobby observed dryly as he limped back inside, using the cane to pry open the door and then to slam it shut again. “He was there when I left for the garage, and he's still up there. If he's tryin' to learn how to fly, he's doing a pisspoor job.”
“Oh for God's sake, Bobby. So the boy's a little unusual.” Ellen said dryly, as she set the table for dinner. “You build custom cars for giggles. Jo likes REO Speedwagon. Our son-in-law loves lost causes. We don't exactly have the patent on normal, 'round here.”
“Meybe not, but we're not sitting on the roof, mooning off at the horizon.” Bobby grunted, then looked at the plates. “We expecting company for dinner?”
“Our son-in-law, and one of his special 'guests'.” Ellen rolled her eyes, as she went back into the kitchen.
“Oh for the love of - another former con?” Bobby sighed. “Doesn't he know he can't help everyone? And most of the people he wants to help are downright ...evil?”
“Yeah, well, he thinks he can save 'em, and God knows I'm not going tell the boy he can't try.” Ellen came out with a steaming tuna casserole, and Bobby breathed in appreciatively.
“Oh, so I guess we're both forgetting Ruby then - all smiles and sweet talk and trying to get our stupid son-in-law alone in some closet somewhere and when that didn't work she made off with my mother's china and our good silver?” Bobby snorted softly, going to pour everyone iced tea, five glasses.
“The sheriff caught her before she got out of town.” Ellen reminded him, before nodding towards the door. “Besides, you want to talk him out of having another con here for us to try and coddle? There's his car.”
“Gladly - maybe this time the damned boy will listen to some sense -” Bobby finished pouring the last glass, and limped towards the door. He opened his mouth as his idiot son-in-law opened the car door, but those words died when he saw the man stepping out of the passenger seat. Tall, hard looking, and the late day sunlight caught the glint of wary green eyes.
Bobby let out a long exhalation. Well Hell. There was no way Bobby was going to say anything now. Not when it was plain as the nose on his face why their idiot son-in-law had gone through all this trouble. He'd finally saved the right soul, the one he'd been looking for nearly fifteen years.
*******************
Dean had to admit, when he got out of prison he didn't think he'd be staying anywhere as nice as Ellen Singer's boarding house. He figured some scummy walk-up apartment with bugs and a sucktastic mattress. He didn't expect the sprawling two story house sitting right on the inside of the Welcome to Haven, Kansas sign, lots of grassy open land and a far distant barn, with a gravel driveway that stopped with a beat-up old truck and sweet-as-pie refitted 1977 Camero. He barely registered what Wesson was saying, and made himself clue in again.
“ - so you'll be staying with my in-laws - they're good people. Ellen runs the boarding house,” A comment Dean refused to do anything but roll his eyes to because the sign kind of made that obvious, “And Bobby runs an auto repair shop in Haven. I'll stay long enough to make sure you're settled in, but then I gotta get back to the office after that, then back home. On Monday I'll come by, drive you to meet your parole officer.” Wesson said as they stepped out of the car.
Dean wanted to ask him why the hell he cared - what the hell was it about this particular petty car thief that some kid lawyer needed to save personally - but that was pretty much when he looked over the house again and his gaze caught on something he hadn't registered before.
Namely, the man sitting on the roof.
The man who was looking right back down at him. Dark, almost black hair sticking up carelessly. Big blue eyes, face pretty enough that Gonzales would have been chomping at the bit. Hell, Dean had only swung that way once or twice, and he found himself suddenly wondering what those lips would feel like on his skin - as full as a woman's, with a man's force and heat.
Then he shook himself out of it, because for God's sake, there was a crazy man on a roof staring at him, and even if Dean had been in prison for two years, the first thing he was jumping like a horny teenager was not going to be Crazy Roof Guy. Even if he did have fucking gorgeous blue eyes. Even if they had gone from dreamy to sharp with interest when his gaze met Dean's.
Nope. Not having sex with Crazy Roof Guy.
Didn't keep him from missing half the damned conversation, again, with Wesson, who finally asked, “Hey? Dean? Are you even listening to what I'm saying?”
“Hm? Ah. Yeah.” Dean decided that assent was better than anything else. “Golden, man. Whatever you want.”
Wesson gave him a long, hard look, shook his head a little and chuffed a laugh. “Okay then … I'll go inside and talk to my in-laws. I'll be right back, and you're going to stay right here?”
Dean looked at Wesson, felt his mouth twist ever so slightly. “Man - where the hell would I go?”
For some reason, that relaxed the set of Wesson's broad shoulders, and Dean wasn't sure why, but he was glad to see it. Hell, he was definitely not sure why that eased him. So he ignored that confusing problem for the one on the roof, namely the gorgeous blue eyed crazy man he was not going to sleep with.
Who was gone.
Dean stared at the empty spot, said “Fuckingfuckfuckityfuck,” and then he rubbed his face a little. Obviously, he was losing his damned mind. Had he even asked Wesson if there was some crazy guy who liked to sit on roofs, here? Had Wesson even seen Crazy Roof Guy?
Maybe prison had driven him nuts, and this was all some surreal dream that any minute now, he was going to wake up from. He'd wake up in his tiny box of a cell, to the peeled and cracked white paint above his head and be filled with that helpless rage of his own stupidity.
He stared at the sky above his head, late-day blue, waited to see if it would morph. It did not, and instead, a throat cleared itself. Male, and Dean tilted his head to see a gruff man in his late fifties, baseball cap firmly on his salt and peppered dark hair, dark eyes looking out from a sea of crinkled skin. The man looked up at the sky, then at Dean, before saying curtly, “You talk?”
Dean felt his eyebrow raising again, before he retorted, “On occasion. If there's something worth saying.”
Apparently sarcasm would not get you glared at in the Singer household, because the man, who had to be Bobby, suddenly smiled. “You, I like. C'mon in, boy. Dinner is on the table.”
Dean exhaled, shouldered his bag and headed up the porch stairs. If dinner went like the rest of this day, it was going to be damned weird.
*****************
He was not wrong.
Second he stepped into the house, he found himself on the end of the most assessing stare he'd ever seen, from Mrs. Ellen Singer, the lady of the house. After she spent a long moment lazering his skull with her eyes, she nodded, told him to drop the bag by the stairs because she'd show him his room later.
If that wasn't strange enough, he sat down at a table set for five people, and while he only had his GED, he was pretty sure that there were only four people in the room. He gave his hosts an odd look, and then Wesson, but eh. Like this day could seriously get any more left field. Besides, the woman was feeding him casserole that tasted like it came directly from Heaven.
Seemed wrong to almost choke on it, when Crazy Man From The Roof suddenly appeared at the dining room door, stopped abruptly and looked as startled as Dean did. Dean stared at him. Crazy Man, true to form, stared right back and there was challenge in that gaze. Just not the kind where he wanted to pound in Dean's face. No, not that kind of pounding at all.
“Oh, there you are, Castiel.” Ellen turned towards the Crazy - Castiel, and the young man looked at her and lifted his eyebrows questioningly. Ellen tilted her head for a moment, “Honey, if you got a question that needs asking, you know you can speak your peace here."
“Which requires talking. Y'know, with words.” Bobby muttered into his plate.
Dean looked from one, to the other, then over to Wesson who looked a little freaked out himself, then Dean shook his head a little. “He wants to know if he can join us for lunch. I guessing since they are five plates, that yeah, that was kind of the idea.”
Castiel's gaze zoomed towards him, as well as everyone else's. Wesson looked impressed, “You got all that from a look?”
Dean shrugged, balancing a mouthful of delicious tuna and noodles on his fork, “You can learn a lot from a look.” What he didn't expand on was that in prison, it was a necessary form of survival. You didn't know what the man next to you was thinking by just looking in his eyes? You could end up with a mouthful of broken glass in your next meal.
Ellen was looking at him, those brown eyes almost as piercing as Crazy - Castiel's, as she murmured, “You surely don't.” She smiled, and popped a mouthful of noodles into her mouth. “Welcome to Haven, Dean Winchester.”
******************
Everyone, excepting the still silent Castiel, walked Wesson outside to his car to wave him off. Dean wasn't sure himself why he did so, but it seemed like the thing to do. So he lifted his fist in the air and pumped in a half-mocking way, before he turned to find both Singers looking at him. He met both of their intent stares, cleared his throat, and let his eyes fall to the Camero again. “Great car. Classic. Don't see many like this anymore.”
The Singers exchanged a look, and Bobby answered. “Thanks …guess you know about cars, huh?”
Dean's expression softened, and he sighed as he looked at the Camaro. “Yeah, I did, once upon a time.” Two years ago, working full time at a Jiffy Lube and trying to put himself through a trade college so he could put cars together, for real, maybe go into business for himself. Independent at last. Hah. “Know more than most people who say they do, anyways.”
Then Bobby's lifting an eyebrow at him, and this time it's the kind of challenge that makes Dean want to hit something, but instead he just lifted his chin, and nodded to the car again. “You let me crack open that hood, and I'll even show you.”
That was how, twenty minutes later, Dean Winchester found himself with a job down at Singer's Garage.
Yeah. Really weird day.
*****************
The room he was in is down the long hallway away from the Singers, and it was everything he could have wanted, and since all he wanted was a frigging bed without bugs in it, this big soft bed next to this window that looked out to long, stretching fields and endless horizon is pretty much … awesome. Yeah, awesome. It has a chest of drawers, for the pathetic amount of clothing he owns, and bookshelves for his almost-totally-complete collection of Kurt Vonnegut books and a few other odds and end novels he has. Like Dickens Tale of Two Cities. He has always had a soft spot for that fucking tragic Sydney Carton, giving it all up for love and for principle. He liked to think that if he had prison to do over again, and he never ever will, but if he did, he wanted it to at least mean something this time.
Not in half-assed sentimental and drunken rage over some guy who can't take care of a good car.
He doesn't want to think about that tonight, though. Tonight he just wanted to enjoy the first shower he's had by himself for two years. He wanted to enjoy knowing that while he was washing himself he doesn't have to watch every single damned minute for a knife or a come-on glance he's not coming on to. It was nice putting clean towels to his naked skin, to wrap one around his waist. Nice to shave himself in a bathroom of clean white tile and blue accents. He wiggled his toes in the soft plush blue carpet, and ran a hand through his damp hair. He liked the feeling of unlocking the bathroom door and stepping out into the cool hallway, the breeze wafting through the air slapping his bare chest and upper body like a hard kiss.
He was not thinking of Castiel. He was not.
He was so steadfastly not thinking about Castiel when he was done pulling on his sweatpants, and grabbing one of his books to pretend to read, that he nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the man at his window. Looking at him curiously, like a bird in deep contemplation. Dean swallowed a yell, and growled at the man as he moved to the window, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” He stopped and sighed, rubbing his face. “Of course you are - you hang out on roofs for kicks.”
Castiel leaned on the window frame, late night wind sending his dark hair flying this way and that, and the light from Dean's lamp gave him this kind of full body halo. His face shifted into an silent expression of, 'Are you coming, or what?'
He was not going to do it. He was not going follow this madman, dressed in jeans that hug slender hips, a gray t-shirt that set on strong slender shoulders, the color bringing out the glow in his blue eyes. He was not - ah, the hell with it. He sighed as he propped open the window all the way, and started climbing out as he grouched at Castiel, “I just want you to know, I'm not entirely sure you're not a figment of my imagination.”
Castiel stepped back, in a way that that almost made Dean curse at him to watch out for the edge, but Castiel apparently has the balance of a cat, and he just stood there, waiting. Dean paused long enough to grab a flannel out of his bureau, and toss it on over his sweats, not bothering to button the shirt up. He climbed out the window, just in time to see Castiel scale his way along the edge of the roof, and he hurried to catch up. Wind slid across him, chilled his skin a little, but he kept doggedly following the other man, until they came onto a little side porch, obviously only accessible from the attic itself. Castiel sat himself down on one side of the porch - damn it was tiny - so Dean eyed the other man and took the other half.
He glared at the other man, who just looked at him intently, before pointing upwards, and then to the darkened horizon, then back to Dean, his entire face saying, 'See? This was completely worth it.'
So Dean looked up to the sky, the real honest to God night sky with more stars than he can count. He looked outwards, towards the darkened fields, to the houses far distant that twinkle lights back at him. He felt something rest in him, a quiet he hadn't known was possible. It was probably the first time he had ever felt at peace in … well, ever. He breathed in, deeply, and it sort of settled in his skin. This was all real. All of it. He was not waking up in his cell; he was sitting on a house, with a room, a shower, real food and a job. There was a warm person next to him, that he had actually decided to spend time with instead of being locked in without his consent.
He let his lungs fill with night air, once more, and turned towards Castiel, towards the man who is a solid line of heat next to his body. He looked into that delicate face, into the blue eyes that are just a few shades lighter than the horizon itself. Dean breathed out, watched how that made Castiel's mouth part, tongue flickering out to lick his lips. Which was … Jesus, that was damned hot. For a guy. For this guy.
“I'm not sleeping with you.” Dean said, his voice drawn low.
Castiel simply lifted one eyebrow a fraction of an inch, and Dean knew that look instantly. That was the look that said, 'Do you want to bet?' and he huffed out a laugh, before he stopped in surprise. He hadn't laughed, not really, in over two years, and the sound of it actually shocked him to silence. That was when he felt Castiel's hand slip across his neck.
That was when Castiel's mouth closed over his, and he forgot to breath for a moment, even to move. He sat still like that, unblinking, before he shifted his lips ever so slightly, not sure if he was going to move closer or away. But the slide of lips against lips dragged a sharp breath out of the other man, and it was the first time Dean heard the man make a noise. Suddenly he wanted to hear more - more helpless little noises dragged from this quiet man's mouth. His lips parted, and his tongue slipped over Castiel's lower lip, looking for entrance and then finding it a few delicious seconds later.
Oh, then there was warmth and heat and Castiel's tongue moving over his. Suddenly, the man wasn't beside Dean but in his lap and that was just fine with him except he can't remember if the man climbed over him or if he dragged Castiel over. Doesn't matter, because Castiel's hands were on his bare skin and his mouth was some kind of welcoming oven that tasted of mint and pure want.
He pressed his hips up, Castiel pressed down and ahgodyes, there it was. Him hard and practically begging against friction and it felt so damned good. His hands slid up under that light cotton t-shirt to stroke over over nipples already peaked and waiting to be tweaked, then back down over a flat stomach, to Castiel's waistband, unbuttoning, un-zippering, and he growled as Castiel sat up but he realized it was just so he can get those jeans down over Castiel's hips.
A greedy push down, where he can feel warm, too hot flesh. Castiel was pushing him down on the cool wood of the porch. He saw dark sky and then he saw Castiel's face over his, framed in stars. He felt Castiel's mouth on him, demanding, and he surrendered to the sharp teeth and soft lips. He could feel Castiel's hands - oh, slender delicate fingers moving over his chest and then over his stomach and his sweatpants are shoved down. His boxers as well and he was diamond hard now - Castiel was sliding over him, shifting, moving and yesfuckyes,
Castiel's cock slid over his tantalizing and he leaned up, closed his lips and teeth around Castiel's Adam's apple and just sucked because he still wanted to hear that throat make noise. Castiel's breath was fast and sharp against his skin, and he could feel Castiel's stubble curving beard-burn into his cheek. He pumped up, fingers digging into the other man's hips to drag their cocks even faster against one another, feeling them slip in sweat and pre-come and Jesus, was that moaning? Yes, that was Castiel moaning as he slamned his mouth back into Dean's, and sweetfuckingchrist, he was coming all over Dean's abdomen and cock, while he was still fucking Dean's mouth wholeheartedly.
And that was it, that's all because God Damn, Dean has been in prison for two years. He was coming so fucking hard he was seeing white flashes behind his eyes and his entire body was jerking from the pleasurable pull of it. In two years, Hell, in all the years he has had sex, he never had an orgasm so fucking intense. He wasn't sure if it had been the wait or the oh random sexy of it all, or maybe it was the man who had stopped mauling his mouth and was now just sliding soft, sated kisses across his lips, before taking off his t-shirt to wipe them both clean. He gently tucked Dean back into his boxers and sweats, gave him another smoldering kiss that left Dean weak-headed and weak-kneed. He got to his feet, tossed his shirt silently over his shoulder. His upper body was surprisingly wiry - tight, lean muscle that Dean kind of wanted to devour.
That look must be on his face, in the dim light, because Castiel smiled at him, and then tilted his head at him questioningly, as if asking, 'Here? Again? Later?'
Dean surprised the fuck out of himself by nodding his head yes, and watched Castiel's smile reappear, grow brighter. Then Castiel was gone, a shadow moving towards the bedroom window lights, and probably back to his own room. For his own part, Dean kept smiling for a full minute and a half - before he realized just what the fuck happened.
He groaned as he covered his hands over his face, and fell back flat against the porch again, muttering to himself. “I had sex with Crazy Roof Guy. On the roof.”
Surreal. This entire fucking day was too surreal to be believed. He had to be dreaming. He had to be. He put two fingers on his arm and pinched himself hard, just to be sure. But no, he was still wide awake, staring up at the stars, his heart still pumping hard from orgasm, not to mention all the possible orgasms in the future.
He snorted as he finally pushed himself up to his feet, to climb back to his room. Fuck it. If he needed ruby slippers to get out of this messed up situation, he'd worry about that tomorrow. Besides … all things considered?
Maybe living in this crazy dream world with dorky lawyers and gruff married couples and houses in the middle of nowhere with a insanely hot insane blue-eyed sex god wasn't going to be as bad as he thought. Maybe, just maybe, for once he could be optimistic.
Maybe.
He'd see what tomorrow would bring.
*****************
Part Two is here