Fic: The Personal Touch, NC-17, Dean/Castiel
An AU that takes place during Season Four. Thanks to sisterofdream and ifreet for support and sharp suggestions!
The Personal Touch
Dean works hard, okay? He's on the road a lot-or, well, always. He spends most of his time either hunting down leads or deliberately putting himself in physical danger. The nearest thing he has to friends are a cantankerous old scrap metal dealer who used to be buddies with Dean's dad, two women who run a hunter's bar Dean hardly ever gets to go to, and his brother.
So, yeah, the closest he gets to having some semblance of a social life is when he either has a beer with any of those people in between bouts of fear and violence out on the job, or when he's hustling strangers in bars.
He generally does that either for money, since pool sharking is actually the honest way to acquire cash in his family, or for sex. It's not like he gets to date people, what with his itinerant lifestyle, dangerous occupation and unpredictable travel schedule. In fact, Dean's gotten so bored with pick-up lines over the years he's actually made a game of coming up with the most outrageous ones possible and waiting to see if they result in him getting slapped in the face or ridden like a pony.
He can see the pick-ups inwardly rolling their eyes at his reality television producer / talent scout / film director storylines, but he usually ends up getting laid anyway, so the fun's kind of gone out of the game.
And, well, there's also the whole thing where he was just dead for four months.
Dean isn't really sure which, out of this combination of factors-or maybe all of them, hell, it's not like he's known for his keen emotional insight-moves him to pick up the yellow pages in his latest cheesy motel room, flip to the Escort Services section, and dial up a date, but that's exactly what he finds himself doing one evening.
Sam's planning an all-nighter at the local university library. Dean has the motel room to himself, and is both bored and disinclined to hit yet another bar to score yet another pickup. So hey, if he's ever going to try to dial a date, this would be as good a time as any.
One of the businesses listed claims in their ad to offer "the personal touch," and Dean's not sure if that means they'll literally touch his person or just leave a mint on the pillow afterwards, but either way he's game. He picks out one of Sam's stash of fake credit cards, made out to Mister Dean Forrester-heck, if he's getting the personal touch they might as well pretend to know his name. Dean dutifully reads out the card's information to the perky-voiced girl who takes his call and lets her know the name and room number for his motel.
"We'll send someone right over, Sir," she says cheerfully. "What kind of escort are you looking for tonight?"
"Surprise me," Dean says. It's not like it takes a rocket scientist to figure out how to get him off, and he's not feeling particularly picky.
He gets antsy waiting, so he opens the door to go grab a soda from the vending machine and almost walks right into the guy standing in the doorway.
"Hello, Dean," the man says in a grave and gravelly voice.
"Whoa," Dean says. "That was fast. And…" he gestures at the very male hooker-oversized trench coat, rumpled hair and all. "Not really what I'd pictured. No offense."
"This?" The man looks down at his body. "This is… a vessel."
"I guess that's one way of looking at it," Dean says skeptically. "But what the hell, I'll try anything once, right? Come on in."
He steps back, and the hooker walks into the motel room, looking about curiously.
"You sure got here fast," Dean comments again, locking the door as he surreptitiously checks that the salt lines remain undisturbed.
"It took longer than I had hoped," the hooker replies seriously. "We need to talk, Dean."
"Oh, yeah, you probably have ground rules," Dean says. "Well, lay them on me."
The hooker frowns, clearly confused.
"The rules," Dean says slowly, taking his outer shirt off and sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. "You're new at this, aren't you?"
"I am, yes," the hooker admits. "I am uncertain of your customs."
"Oh, well, I don't know about your usual johns, but mostly I think the deal is to make sure everyone's all latexed up and, uh, no freaky stuff? Unless you pay extra, I guess, but I really don't think we'll be getting into that tonight, so."
The hooker tilts his head questioningly.
"Listen, I think we can just improvise from here on out, okay? Why don't you take off your coat and come over here."
The guy does, working off the trench coat's sleeves like he's unfamiliar with them, accidentally pulling off one of his suit jacket's sleeves along with them until he just yanks both coats off and leaves them, after thoughtfully surveying the room, draped over a nearby chair. Mission accomplished, the hooker crosses over to Dean and perches uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.
"So what's your name?" Dean asks, tossing his socks aside.
"Castiel."
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Religious folks?"
"My Father transcends religion."
"Yeah, mine wasn't really into the whole church thing either." Dean shakes his head. "Sorry, dude. Talk about a buzzkill. How about we just stick to you and me for tonight, and leave our families out of it?"
There's a knock on the door, probably the maid doing her rounds.
"No, thank you!" Dean calls out loudly.
There is another knock.
"Seriously, I'm good, thanks! I'll let you know if I need anything." What, Dean can't even get laid in peace now?
The knocking stops.
"What's the matter?" Castiel asks, blue eyes wide and questioning as he studies Dean.
Besides the constant risk of death (again) for Sam and himself and the lingering concerns about who or what possibly could have had the juice to pull Dean out of hell and, more importantly, why?
"Yeah, nothing I really want to get into right now," Dean says. He sits further back on the bed. "How about you just suck my cock for a while?"
Castiel tilts his head briefly, as if listening, then looks down at Dean's lap and back up at his face. "Is that what you wish?"
"It's what I can get," Dean shrugs. "I wish for a lot of things."
"You must show me what to do," Castiel cautions, leaning over to open Dean's pants.
"Sure, I like that game," Dean says agreeably, scooting back on the bed to lie against the pillows propped up on the headboard.
He takes off the amulet Sam gave him and puts it on the nightstand, makes a move to take off his t-shirt and stops, hesitating. "Um," he says.
Castiel looks at him curiously, like Dean is the most fascinating creature ever to grace a microscope slide.
"I don't want you to freak out or anything, but I was recently, uh, burned pretty badly, so." Dean takes off his t-shirt slowly and tosses it aside. "There's a mark. I know it looks pretty bad, but it doesn't hurt or anything. I'm okay."
Looking intently at the mark, Castiel raises one hand as if to touch it, then appears to think better of it. He lowers his hand but keeps staring intently at Dean's shoulder, the handprint-shaped scar standing out bright against Dean's skin.
"It's okay," Dean says, roughly. "You can… if you want to."
Castiel puts his hand on the scar, gently, his palm and fingers slipping perfectly into place, and for the first time, Dean feels almost whole, like a piece of himself he hadn't even known was missing is back.
No one has touched Dean like this since he climbed out of that grave, and he's noticed that except for the burn on his shoulder and the tattoo on his chest his skin is whole, completely unmarked; soft and smooth as if he didn't live his life collecting battle scars haphazardly stitched together by Sam or their father.
Dean thinks he's been made new again, and he doesn't know why or how but it must mean he's a virgin now, and these touches are his first.
It probably shouldn't be with a hooker, but there's nobody else in Dean's life who can do it and this strange man who showed up at his doorstep seems to be making it into something almost special, letting Dean pretend he means it, letting him pretend someone cares.
He coughs, embarrassed by the sudden surge of emotion. He's probably the worst client ever. "We should, uh… you probably just want to get this over with and get out of here, huh?"
"No," Castiel says, and his gravelly voice has an odd ring of truth to it. "We have time, Dean. It will be all right."
Dean blinks. "Yeah, okay." He reaches up, hesitantly, and cups the back of Castiel's head, bringing him down for a kiss.
It's strangely sweet, awkward and almost innocent, like Castiel doesn't quite know what to do with his mouth except to echo the press of Dean's lips against his own, and that's when Dean remembers the game Castiel had proposed. Dean hasn't fooled around with an awkward virgin in way more years than he can remember, but given Dean's body so recently made new it seems kind of fitting, so he plays along.
"Open your mouth, buddy," he says gently, and Castiel does, letting Dean in where it's warm and wet and delicious.
Dean kisses him for real and Castiel responds, every move Dean makes mirrored back at him, and it's strange, but kind of good-after all, it's exactly what Dean likes, actually done back to him. He grabs onto Castiel's shoulders and pulls him down on top of himself, bodies pressed together, muscles firm under Dean's hands.
It feels so good, it feels-it almost feels real. They kiss for long moments, bodies pressed against each other on the bed, learning each other. When Castiel's questing fingers reach between Dean's legs, a low groan escapes Dean.
Castiel's fingers are gentle as they explore Dean's body, tracing over the insides of his thighs, his balls, his hardening cock. Dean sighs, lets himself sink into the soft sensations, lets Castiel touch him at his leisure. His hands gradually fan out, running over all of Dean, down his thighs to his shins, his calves and feet, back up to his waist, his chest, his sides, his arms all the way down to his hands, each one of his fingers. There's barely any pause at all before Castiel heads back up to Dean's neck and further, so softly Dean can barely feel it, his face, his jaw and mouth, the bridge of his nose, his eyebrows and eyelashes, his temples and the expanse of his forehead.
There is a careful intimacy to the touches, almost a sense of familiarity, of being known-Dean can't remember anyone ever having taken this kind of time to explore him in a way that wasn't directly sexual.
"You are exactly right," Castiel murmurs, almost reverently.
"I know plenty of people who'd tell you otherwise," Dean says, but he feels too good to pack much derision into it.
"Perhaps they cannot see you as I do," Castiel says simply.
His hands wander back to Dean's cock, lying heavy on his thigh, and cup it warmly while Castiel tilts his head, seeming to consider it.
"Can you put it in your mouth for me, sweetheart?" Dean asks gently, playing along with Castiel's game.
In response, Castiel bends down and takes all of Dean's cock into his mouth at once, a warm, wet, perfect shock.
"That's-oh, that's good," Dean chokes out. "Can you-can you suck on it, sweetheart, can you do that for me?"
The resulting suction almost makes Dean lose it. Firm and steady, and Dean feels like he's coming apart at the seams, curling his fingers in the sheets and gripping them tight.
Castiel doesn't seem to have a real sense of rhythm, but he doesn't seem to have a gag reflex either, so Dean is way beyond okay with that. Eyes closed, Castiel looks strangely intent, completely absorbed in what he's doing. Dean can't help bucking his hips, just a little bit, and Castiel doesn't flinch.
Dean holds out as long as he can, but Castiel's warm, wet mouth feels so good, the suction so awkwardly perfect, and Dean actually feels warm and safe and wanted for the first time since he can remember, and it's all so. Damn. Good. He can't hold out. He doesn't want to.
When he comes, Castiel swallows every drop.
Dean actually passes out for a while, every cell of his body feeling completely blissed out.
When he wakes up again, Castiel is patiently sitting next to him, watching him sleep, head slightly tilted as if he's listening to something, though the only sounds to be heard are the distant barking of a dog, a baby crying, a car engine sputtering out. The normal sounds of life.
Dean opens his mouth, catches himself on the verge of saying something stupid, too much, too soon, too ridiculous coming from a john who just bought someone's time for a while. He changes tacks abruptly.
"Dude, whatever you're getting for that, it's seriously not enough. You should freelance or something, that was-" Dean drifts off, Castiel staring at him as if he's some odd little puzzle not quite figured out. Awkwardly, he stumbles somewhere closer to the truth. "Let me-can I return the favor? I mean, is that okay?"
Castiel tilts his head, those startling blue eyes seeming to see right into Dean. "You wish to reciprocate?"
"Well, yeah. I mean, if that's okay?" Dean feels suddenly nervous. "Or is that extra? Do you need to save it up for the next guy?"
"There is no 'next guy'," Castiel says. "You are my only concern."
That has to be a line, a really obvious line, but hell, Dean isn't about to call him on it. He undoes Castiel's button and zipper, pulls him out of the nice wool slacks he's wearing, wets his lips and gets to work. He's never done this before, but he finds a rhythm to it, the cock firm and heavy in his mouth, sucking and licking, helping things along with his hand, and it seems to work, so he must not be messing it up completely. Castiel comes with a slight look of shock on his face, almost as if the sensations are surprising him.
"This experience," Castiel says, later, looking at Dean curiously as he lies in a lazy sprawl on the bed. "It has… formed a bond between us?"
"I, uh," Dean coughs. "Yeah, I mean, I guess so."
"Do you trust me?"
Dean looks at the guy, wondering. What the hell kind of question is that? But, he realizes, it's true. He kind of does. "Though I wouldn't say I'm the world's most trustworthy guy, myself," he warns, surprised at himself as soon as the words are out. He's used to playing on his looks, turning on the charm to get people to do exactly that, but now… maybe knowing he's in front of someone who does the same thing every day, professionally, is actually kind of freeing.
"Why not?" Castiel seems unperturbed.
"I recently spent some time, uh. Out of town." Dean fiddles with the hopelessly rumpled bedsheets. "I don't actually remember most of it, but I've been starting to have some dreams and I get the feeling that some pretty bad stuff must have gone down. I think… I think one of the people doing the bad stuff might have been me."
"You are a righteous man, Dean," Castiel says firmly.
"I don't know," Dean says honestly. "I don't think I get to say that anymore, not if I don't know what happened."
"Your memories may return over time," Castiel tells him, almost regretfully. "You are most resilient."
"Anyway," Dean shakes his head. "I don't know what I'm talking about. You don't even know me."
"I see you, Dean." Castiel presses the palm of his hand against Dean's chest, steady and solid. "Inside. You are known."
And it's crazy, it's stupid, it's ridiculous. But somehow, it's kind of comforting, too. Dean smiles, almost in spite of himself. "Yeah, well, thanks. For everything."
"Dean," Castiel hesitates, looking up at the motel's water-stained ceiling, then back down to look at Dean with earnest eyes. "Everything happens for a reason. Even this, I think, though it was not what I had expected." He leans forward, pressing cool lips to Dean's. "There are some things that I must say to you. Will you listen?"
"I…" Dean blinks, a little thrown, and weirdly, a little scared. "Sure, yeah. Okay."
"Good," Castiel nods solemnly, staring at him with those electric eyes that seem to see everything there is to Dean, and then some, and still find it all somehow okay.
More than okay, even.
"There is much to tell you," Castiel says.
And then he begins.
The Personal Touch
Dean works hard, okay? He's on the road a lot-or, well, always. He spends most of his time either hunting down leads or deliberately putting himself in physical danger. The nearest thing he has to friends are a cantankerous old scrap metal dealer who used to be buddies with Dean's dad, two women who run a hunter's bar Dean hardly ever gets to go to, and his brother.
So, yeah, the closest he gets to having some semblance of a social life is when he either has a beer with any of those people in between bouts of fear and violence out on the job, or when he's hustling strangers in bars.
He generally does that either for money, since pool sharking is actually the honest way to acquire cash in his family, or for sex. It's not like he gets to date people, what with his itinerant lifestyle, dangerous occupation and unpredictable travel schedule. In fact, Dean's gotten so bored with pick-up lines over the years he's actually made a game of coming up with the most outrageous ones possible and waiting to see if they result in him getting slapped in the face or ridden like a pony.
He can see the pick-ups inwardly rolling their eyes at his reality television producer / talent scout / film director storylines, but he usually ends up getting laid anyway, so the fun's kind of gone out of the game.
And, well, there's also the whole thing where he was just dead for four months.
Dean isn't really sure which, out of this combination of factors-or maybe all of them, hell, it's not like he's known for his keen emotional insight-moves him to pick up the yellow pages in his latest cheesy motel room, flip to the Escort Services section, and dial up a date, but that's exactly what he finds himself doing one evening.
Sam's planning an all-nighter at the local university library. Dean has the motel room to himself, and is both bored and disinclined to hit yet another bar to score yet another pickup. So hey, if he's ever going to try to dial a date, this would be as good a time as any.
One of the businesses listed claims in their ad to offer "the personal touch," and Dean's not sure if that means they'll literally touch his person or just leave a mint on the pillow afterwards, but either way he's game. He picks out one of Sam's stash of fake credit cards, made out to Mister Dean Forrester-heck, if he's getting the personal touch they might as well pretend to know his name. Dean dutifully reads out the card's information to the perky-voiced girl who takes his call and lets her know the name and room number for his motel.
"We'll send someone right over, Sir," she says cheerfully. "What kind of escort are you looking for tonight?"
"Surprise me," Dean says. It's not like it takes a rocket scientist to figure out how to get him off, and he's not feeling particularly picky.
He gets antsy waiting, so he opens the door to go grab a soda from the vending machine and almost walks right into the guy standing in the doorway.
"Hello, Dean," the man says in a grave and gravelly voice.
"Whoa," Dean says. "That was fast. And…" he gestures at the very male hooker-oversized trench coat, rumpled hair and all. "Not really what I'd pictured. No offense."
"This?" The man looks down at his body. "This is… a vessel."
"I guess that's one way of looking at it," Dean says skeptically. "But what the hell, I'll try anything once, right? Come on in."
He steps back, and the hooker walks into the motel room, looking about curiously.
"You sure got here fast," Dean comments again, locking the door as he surreptitiously checks that the salt lines remain undisturbed.
"It took longer than I had hoped," the hooker replies seriously. "We need to talk, Dean."
"Oh, yeah, you probably have ground rules," Dean says. "Well, lay them on me."
The hooker frowns, clearly confused.
"The rules," Dean says slowly, taking his outer shirt off and sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. "You're new at this, aren't you?"
"I am, yes," the hooker admits. "I am uncertain of your customs."
"Oh, well, I don't know about your usual johns, but mostly I think the deal is to make sure everyone's all latexed up and, uh, no freaky stuff? Unless you pay extra, I guess, but I really don't think we'll be getting into that tonight, so."
The hooker tilts his head questioningly.
"Listen, I think we can just improvise from here on out, okay? Why don't you take off your coat and come over here."
The guy does, working off the trench coat's sleeves like he's unfamiliar with them, accidentally pulling off one of his suit jacket's sleeves along with them until he just yanks both coats off and leaves them, after thoughtfully surveying the room, draped over a nearby chair. Mission accomplished, the hooker crosses over to Dean and perches uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.
"So what's your name?" Dean asks, tossing his socks aside.
"Castiel."
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Religious folks?"
"My Father transcends religion."
"Yeah, mine wasn't really into the whole church thing either." Dean shakes his head. "Sorry, dude. Talk about a buzzkill. How about we just stick to you and me for tonight, and leave our families out of it?"
There's a knock on the door, probably the maid doing her rounds.
"No, thank you!" Dean calls out loudly.
There is another knock.
"Seriously, I'm good, thanks! I'll let you know if I need anything." What, Dean can't even get laid in peace now?
The knocking stops.
"What's the matter?" Castiel asks, blue eyes wide and questioning as he studies Dean.
Besides the constant risk of death (again) for Sam and himself and the lingering concerns about who or what possibly could have had the juice to pull Dean out of hell and, more importantly, why?
"Yeah, nothing I really want to get into right now," Dean says. He sits further back on the bed. "How about you just suck my cock for a while?"
Castiel tilts his head briefly, as if listening, then looks down at Dean's lap and back up at his face. "Is that what you wish?"
"It's what I can get," Dean shrugs. "I wish for a lot of things."
"You must show me what to do," Castiel cautions, leaning over to open Dean's pants.
"Sure, I like that game," Dean says agreeably, scooting back on the bed to lie against the pillows propped up on the headboard.
He takes off the amulet Sam gave him and puts it on the nightstand, makes a move to take off his t-shirt and stops, hesitating. "Um," he says.
Castiel looks at him curiously, like Dean is the most fascinating creature ever to grace a microscope slide.
"I don't want you to freak out or anything, but I was recently, uh, burned pretty badly, so." Dean takes off his t-shirt slowly and tosses it aside. "There's a mark. I know it looks pretty bad, but it doesn't hurt or anything. I'm okay."
Looking intently at the mark, Castiel raises one hand as if to touch it, then appears to think better of it. He lowers his hand but keeps staring intently at Dean's shoulder, the handprint-shaped scar standing out bright against Dean's skin.
"It's okay," Dean says, roughly. "You can… if you want to."
Castiel puts his hand on the scar, gently, his palm and fingers slipping perfectly into place, and for the first time, Dean feels almost whole, like a piece of himself he hadn't even known was missing is back.
No one has touched Dean like this since he climbed out of that grave, and he's noticed that except for the burn on his shoulder and the tattoo on his chest his skin is whole, completely unmarked; soft and smooth as if he didn't live his life collecting battle scars haphazardly stitched together by Sam or their father.
Dean thinks he's been made new again, and he doesn't know why or how but it must mean he's a virgin now, and these touches are his first.
It probably shouldn't be with a hooker, but there's nobody else in Dean's life who can do it and this strange man who showed up at his doorstep seems to be making it into something almost special, letting Dean pretend he means it, letting him pretend someone cares.
He coughs, embarrassed by the sudden surge of emotion. He's probably the worst client ever. "We should, uh… you probably just want to get this over with and get out of here, huh?"
"No," Castiel says, and his gravelly voice has an odd ring of truth to it. "We have time, Dean. It will be all right."
Dean blinks. "Yeah, okay." He reaches up, hesitantly, and cups the back of Castiel's head, bringing him down for a kiss.
It's strangely sweet, awkward and almost innocent, like Castiel doesn't quite know what to do with his mouth except to echo the press of Dean's lips against his own, and that's when Dean remembers the game Castiel had proposed. Dean hasn't fooled around with an awkward virgin in way more years than he can remember, but given Dean's body so recently made new it seems kind of fitting, so he plays along.
"Open your mouth, buddy," he says gently, and Castiel does, letting Dean in where it's warm and wet and delicious.
Dean kisses him for real and Castiel responds, every move Dean makes mirrored back at him, and it's strange, but kind of good-after all, it's exactly what Dean likes, actually done back to him. He grabs onto Castiel's shoulders and pulls him down on top of himself, bodies pressed together, muscles firm under Dean's hands.
It feels so good, it feels-it almost feels real. They kiss for long moments, bodies pressed against each other on the bed, learning each other. When Castiel's questing fingers reach between Dean's legs, a low groan escapes Dean.
Castiel's fingers are gentle as they explore Dean's body, tracing over the insides of his thighs, his balls, his hardening cock. Dean sighs, lets himself sink into the soft sensations, lets Castiel touch him at his leisure. His hands gradually fan out, running over all of Dean, down his thighs to his shins, his calves and feet, back up to his waist, his chest, his sides, his arms all the way down to his hands, each one of his fingers. There's barely any pause at all before Castiel heads back up to Dean's neck and further, so softly Dean can barely feel it, his face, his jaw and mouth, the bridge of his nose, his eyebrows and eyelashes, his temples and the expanse of his forehead.
There is a careful intimacy to the touches, almost a sense of familiarity, of being known-Dean can't remember anyone ever having taken this kind of time to explore him in a way that wasn't directly sexual.
"You are exactly right," Castiel murmurs, almost reverently.
"I know plenty of people who'd tell you otherwise," Dean says, but he feels too good to pack much derision into it.
"Perhaps they cannot see you as I do," Castiel says simply.
His hands wander back to Dean's cock, lying heavy on his thigh, and cup it warmly while Castiel tilts his head, seeming to consider it.
"Can you put it in your mouth for me, sweetheart?" Dean asks gently, playing along with Castiel's game.
In response, Castiel bends down and takes all of Dean's cock into his mouth at once, a warm, wet, perfect shock.
"That's-oh, that's good," Dean chokes out. "Can you-can you suck on it, sweetheart, can you do that for me?"
The resulting suction almost makes Dean lose it. Firm and steady, and Dean feels like he's coming apart at the seams, curling his fingers in the sheets and gripping them tight.
Castiel doesn't seem to have a real sense of rhythm, but he doesn't seem to have a gag reflex either, so Dean is way beyond okay with that. Eyes closed, Castiel looks strangely intent, completely absorbed in what he's doing. Dean can't help bucking his hips, just a little bit, and Castiel doesn't flinch.
Dean holds out as long as he can, but Castiel's warm, wet mouth feels so good, the suction so awkwardly perfect, and Dean actually feels warm and safe and wanted for the first time since he can remember, and it's all so. Damn. Good. He can't hold out. He doesn't want to.
When he comes, Castiel swallows every drop.
Dean actually passes out for a while, every cell of his body feeling completely blissed out.
When he wakes up again, Castiel is patiently sitting next to him, watching him sleep, head slightly tilted as if he's listening to something, though the only sounds to be heard are the distant barking of a dog, a baby crying, a car engine sputtering out. The normal sounds of life.
Dean opens his mouth, catches himself on the verge of saying something stupid, too much, too soon, too ridiculous coming from a john who just bought someone's time for a while. He changes tacks abruptly.
"Dude, whatever you're getting for that, it's seriously not enough. You should freelance or something, that was-" Dean drifts off, Castiel staring at him as if he's some odd little puzzle not quite figured out. Awkwardly, he stumbles somewhere closer to the truth. "Let me-can I return the favor? I mean, is that okay?"
Castiel tilts his head, those startling blue eyes seeming to see right into Dean. "You wish to reciprocate?"
"Well, yeah. I mean, if that's okay?" Dean feels suddenly nervous. "Or is that extra? Do you need to save it up for the next guy?"
"There is no 'next guy'," Castiel says. "You are my only concern."
That has to be a line, a really obvious line, but hell, Dean isn't about to call him on it. He undoes Castiel's button and zipper, pulls him out of the nice wool slacks he's wearing, wets his lips and gets to work. He's never done this before, but he finds a rhythm to it, the cock firm and heavy in his mouth, sucking and licking, helping things along with his hand, and it seems to work, so he must not be messing it up completely. Castiel comes with a slight look of shock on his face, almost as if the sensations are surprising him.
"This experience," Castiel says, later, looking at Dean curiously as he lies in a lazy sprawl on the bed. "It has… formed a bond between us?"
"I, uh," Dean coughs. "Yeah, I mean, I guess so."
"Do you trust me?"
Dean looks at the guy, wondering. What the hell kind of question is that? But, he realizes, it's true. He kind of does. "Though I wouldn't say I'm the world's most trustworthy guy, myself," he warns, surprised at himself as soon as the words are out. He's used to playing on his looks, turning on the charm to get people to do exactly that, but now… maybe knowing he's in front of someone who does the same thing every day, professionally, is actually kind of freeing.
"Why not?" Castiel seems unperturbed.
"I recently spent some time, uh. Out of town." Dean fiddles with the hopelessly rumpled bedsheets. "I don't actually remember most of it, but I've been starting to have some dreams and I get the feeling that some pretty bad stuff must have gone down. I think… I think one of the people doing the bad stuff might have been me."
"You are a righteous man, Dean," Castiel says firmly.
"I don't know," Dean says honestly. "I don't think I get to say that anymore, not if I don't know what happened."
"Your memories may return over time," Castiel tells him, almost regretfully. "You are most resilient."
"Anyway," Dean shakes his head. "I don't know what I'm talking about. You don't even know me."
"I see you, Dean." Castiel presses the palm of his hand against Dean's chest, steady and solid. "Inside. You are known."
And it's crazy, it's stupid, it's ridiculous. But somehow, it's kind of comforting, too. Dean smiles, almost in spite of himself. "Yeah, well, thanks. For everything."
"Dean," Castiel hesitates, looking up at the motel's water-stained ceiling, then back down to look at Dean with earnest eyes. "Everything happens for a reason. Even this, I think, though it was not what I had expected." He leans forward, pressing cool lips to Dean's. "There are some things that I must say to you. Will you listen?"
"I…" Dean blinks, a little thrown, and weirdly, a little scared. "Sure, yeah. Okay."
"Good," Castiel nods solemnly, staring at him with those electric eyes that seem to see everything there is to Dean, and then some, and still find it all somehow okay.
More than okay, even.
"There is much to tell you," Castiel says.
And then he begins.