Fic: (Love Is Like A) Heat Wave (Dean/Castiel, NC-17)
Title: (Love Is Like A) Heat Wave
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~2,500
Summary/Notes: There's a heatwave in South Dakota, and Bobby's house doesn't have A/C. Spending the night on the porch seems a logical option. greatlywritten, this is for you. Because I said so. Just slipping this in before blindfold_spn spam time hits. ;)
Castiel had believed there to be unspoken human laws against this, all this skin laid bare to the dark, but the Winchesters have never cared much for human laws. It's hot, painfully, achingly hot, and Dean is loose with it, sprawled out on Bobby's stoop with his knees splayed wide. He's naked, beer-bottle sweating a cold wet trail against the outside of his thigh, and the angle of his head is wanton, immoderate reaction to the stimulus. On Castiel's other side, Sam is less brazen, but only just, jeans riding low on the spurs of his hipbones, sweat making rivulets down his bare chest. Between them, Castiel feels overdressed indeed, even without the trench-coat and blazer and tie. His collar is open, and it had felt like freedom, but Dean's languid sprawl shows up the flaws in this conviction, and Castiel feels the sweat prickle at the small of his back.
It's hot. Bobby's house doesn't have air conditioning, and there's nobody around for endless miles. Bobby is asleep in his little bedroom upstairs, but it proved too hot inside for Castiel, too hot for the boys. Outside is the only place they can any of them breathe, out here with the cicadas and the distant sounds of the railway. Dean is an indistinct shape in the dark, but when he sways one leg, Castiel can see outlines between, the soft swell of his genitals between his thighs. He swallows. The sweat licks a path down Castiel's tailbone, and he shivers, turns his head, seeking distraction.
On his other side, Sam is half-asleep in the quiet, nipples making hard little point on his chest. The sweat on his belly makes it gleam a little, delineating the edges of the muscles. The waistband of his jeans is too loose -- Sam's jeans are always too loose -- and Castiel sees the dark inside, the strip of paler skin where Sam's underwear usually sits. It is too hot for underwear, and that means Sam is bare under the denim of his jeans, the heft of his cock naked and hot against the zipper.
Castiel is -- not doing terribly well at distracting himself appropriately. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.
"Dean," he manages, after a long moment, "I think I'll take a beer after all."
Dean laughs a little -- leans over, his body a long pale curve from shoulder to backside. Castiel pinches his eyes shut and waits, needing the numbing chill of the bottle, the dizzying sensation of the alcohol in his belly.
"Hey," Sam interrupts, "me too," and he reaches over, hand brushing loose against the swell of Dean's bicep. He offers the touch as casually as Dean receives it, barely reacting, as if it's nothing, but to Castiel it is something forbidden and huge. Dean is naked, and Sam is touching him. Castiel is wrong inside, but the thought makes his belly dip hotly, wanting more. Wanting to touch Dean himself with Sam's courage, and with all the half-realised intentions Sam does not harbour.
The beer, when he gets it, is cold in his throat, but it kills nothing. This is going to be a very long night.
When they have drunk all the beer, Sam falls asleep. Castiel notices it rather idly, through the pleasant blur of alcohol, just enough to loosen his limbs and his tongue. Sam is sitting on one stair with his long arms spread along another, head tipped back. It doesn't look very comfortable, but then, nothing is, tonight.
"Hey," Dean says, leaning a little towards him. Listing, even. Dean is no longer perfectly sober. "You okay?" His body is a long, pale smudge in the shadows. Castiel wants to trace its lines with his fingers, slide his palms through the sweat at his throat, his waist. He wants to demarcate the edges of that vague shape with his hands, feeling out the angles and curves of it. He swallows, his throat as close as the air.
"Sam is asleep," he says. It is no longer what he is thinking of at all, but it will do.
"Huh," Dean says. He sounds unsurprised, amused, even, and Castiel is confused. Then Dean's hand finds Castiel's shoulder, hot even on the sweat-damp skin, and the confusion only escalates.
"Aren't you hot?" Dean's voice has a dark edge to it, a knife that cuts two ways. His fingers find Castiel's open collar, fumble open the first button. "I think you're hot, Cas." And another. Castiel is shamefully hard in his pants, another fresh layer of sweat prickling across the small of his back as Dean's fingers unbutton him slowly, undoing him as always. He could stop him, but it is so hot. The curve of Dean's throat glistens damply. Castiel can see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip, can see it licking the muscles of his stomach. His thighs. Dean pushes Castiel's shirt down his arms and off, and Castiel closes his eyes.
"Is it always so hot?" Castiel asks. His voice is oddly strained. He doesn't know why he is asking. "In summer?" he clarifies.
There is a strange look on Dean's face, teasing, maybe. Castiel isn't sure. "Nah," Dean says obliquely. "This is just 'cause you're here. Special."
He's joking, but there's a part of him that isn't, low and tense. His eyes glitter darkly, like cut jet. Castiel wants to touch him, wants to get his hands all over him, inside him. He says, "Oh." Swallows. "Do you mind?"
There's a second of space in which Castiel's words are swallowed up, a long, still moment in which Dean only watches him, face gone smooth and unreadable. Then, in an instant's dynamism, Dean falls forward, uncoiling, and kisses him.
It's not a gentle kiss, not careful of Castiel's inexperience, of his surprise. It's firm, hot as the world is hot tonight, Dean's mouth hot on Castiel's, Dean's hands hot when they slide up to grip the back of Castiel's neck. Dimly, Castiel concludes that Dean cannot genuinely mind the heat at all.
"Cas," Dean says, pulling back just long enough to feather Cas's name against his mouth. They're so close together that the shapes Dean's lips make are tangible, slow and sure, Dean's breathing warm against Castiel's face. Castiel makes no conscious decision to lean in, eradicate the distance again, but Dean is so close, so beautifully made that he finds there's no help for it. He curves a palm along the line of Dean's jaw, holds him still, swallows his gasp.
After that, things begin to blur. Dean kisses imprecisely, wet and deep, and Castiel surrenders to it with abandon, finding that precision is not what he wants when he could have this instead, Dean's urgency and the dry, hot skin of his shoulders, his spine, his waist. At the small of his back, Castiel hesitates, but Dean is beyond hesitation, hitching closer so his palm finds the centre of Castiel's chest, flattening over his heart. It's almost damp with heat, the broad, firm span of it, and Castiel arches into the touch, wrenching his mouth from Dean's on a whimper. His nipples are taut, peaked and sensitive with want, and Castiel wants Dean to feel him, suddenly, the way that he feels Dean. Dean is being careful with his hands, and Castiel doesn't want that. Not any more.
"Please," he manages. It isn't a sentence, but Dean seems to hear it as if it were, thumb drawing a deft line of sensation across Castiel's chest before the word is fully out of his mouth.
"Yeah," Dean says, "yeah. I got you, Cas." And Castiel believes him utterly.
Dean's thumb circles his nipple in quick, clever movements, and Castiel feels them resonate through him in ripples of heat. It seems impossible, but every twist is like a bolt of heat to his aching groin. Dean's mouth on his is frenetic, fierce and hot, nipping at Castiel's lips, sucking on his tongue. Castiel groans, skin tingling with the aftershocks, and Dean laughs softly, draws his hand lower, to Castiel's abdomen. Draws it lower, to Castiel's thigh.
"Oh," Cas says, breaking away, and Dean laughs again. Draws his hand lower.
"Just let me take the edge off," Dean tells him softly, and then his fingers are on Castiel's zipper; in Castiel's underwear. Dean is kissing him again and his hand is on Castiel's cock, curling capably around its length, and Castiel can no longer make sounds at all.
It doesn't take long. He's so hard already, the length of him full and aching, balls grown heavy with Dean's closeness, the way his skin looks, nacreous with night. Dean swipes his tongue through the slick place at the tip of him, and he jerks his hips, stutters upward, but Dean knows his task, and isn't thrown by it. "Yeah," he mutters, "yeah, yeah." The pad of his thumb moves lower, searches out a place beneath the head of Cas's cock that's almost painfully sensitive, and when Castiel moans, he shifts his hand lower again, jacking the shaft of him fast.
"Dean," Castiel says, though he doesn't know why. Dean's breath has gone tight and shallow in the stillness, rasping hotly between his parted lips, and Castiel closes his eyes. Their foreheads are pressed together, sweat making them sticky, and Castiel is too slack with this to go on kissing, but he breathes Dean's breaths as he works, taking what he can get.
"God," Dean murmurs, something in it reverent. Castiel barely has the coherence to query why before Dean is squeezing him, fist moving faster, slipping in the slickness that's pearled up from his slit, and God, he has no coherence any more. He is close, as Dean is close to him everywhere, and Dean wants this. Dean wants him to do this. Castiel is helpless before Dean's desires.
"Dean," he breathes, the tail of it twisting, and then Dean's thumb is pressing hard against the tip of him and Castiel feels it pulsing up from the root of him, orgasm wrenching from the pit of his stomach.
"Come on, Cas," Dean tells him, low, "c'mon, let me see you. Let me see you come."
That does it. Slick bursts out of him in long pulses as a cry bursts out of his mouth, something inchoate and wordless and new. Dean keeps stroking, though his fingers are slowing, and Castiel keeps coming, coating Dean's fingers, his wrists, the naked length of his thigh. He understands that this is something humans do often, but Castiel is not human and he has never done this. It feels like being taken apart and remade, and Castiel is suddenly, soaringly glad that Dean is able to do that for him, the way that he did it so literally for Dean. When the last of it is over, he's drained, breathless, but Dean is making low, hot sounds of appreciation, and Castiel tastes pride under a spark of lust.
"Shit, Cas," Dean is saying, "shit." His breath is quavering, and it takes Castiel a second to recognise that this is because Dean's arm is moving on himself, now, his fingers still covered in Castiel's ejaculate now wrapped around his own cock, working it fast and rough. "So, God, you're so --"
"Let me." Castiel's hand covers Dean unthinkingly, fingers slotting into the spaces between his. "Dean, please. I want --"
"Yeah." Dean's eyes are closed, head fallen back, and he lifts his hips into the tangle of their fingers, fucking up into them, slippery slick. He's beautiful, perfect, and Castiel feels a sudden, inexplicable desire to taste him everywhere, lick at the sweat in the hollow of his throat, taste the raw scent of him between his legs. He wants it so vehemently that it sets him shivering, and Dean's body torques and arches in response, hand and hips both moving faster.
"Cas," he's murmuring, "Cas, God," and Cas swipes his thumb over the crown of him as Dean had done, now squeezing, now pulling slow. Dean is throbbing, hot beneath his hand, and if he had felt hot at his shoulders, at his waist, it was nothing to the way he feels here, like velvet over flame, barely contained. Castiel leans in to mouth at the soft place beneath Dean's ear, and Dean makes a tortured sound like he's dying, sharp and high. Castiel reads it as a sign of assent, from the way both his own heart and Dean's pound faster, so he does it again, suckles at it gently.
"Fuck, Cas!" Dean spits, as Castiel teethes experimentally at his skin, "Jesus, Jesus," and then he goes still, abrupt and taut, every muscle in his body for a moment still and trembling.
"Dean," Castiel breathes against his skin. He opens his mouth, wet and slow, and licks over the indentations of his teeth.
"Shit," Dean whispers, and seizes up, and comes.
There's a lot of it, like hot wax on Castiel's fingers. Castiel feels his stomach dip hotly at the sensation, feeling dirty and sexy and powerful. Dean is murmuring and whimpering as he comes, and Castiel's hand is now the only one moving, slowing as Dean's spurts slow, releasing him finally with a reluctant squeeze.
"God," Dean groans out, low and rough in the empty late-night stillness. Suddenly, in the aftermath, it seems very still indeed, Dean's voice very dark and very human. "God."
Castiel doesn't know quite what God has to do with this, but he keeps silent. Years of observing human activity have indicated that this is a convention among them after sex.
Eventually, when Castiel's pulse has begun to return to normal, Dean turns his head, mouths wetly at Castiel's shoulder. Says, "Cooling off, huh?"
It is. It is getting very late, now. Castiel nods pensively. "You might, perhaps, be able to sleep inside, now."
So they are not going to talk about it. Castiel doesn't know whether or not he is surprised. Dean isn't much the talking kind, after all, and he suspects that, in its own way, Dean's nonchalant attitude is its own positive sign, his kiss to Castiel's shoulder a promise. Perhaps.
Dean pulls his arms above his head, stretching noisily, back forced into a deep arch. "Yeah," he allows, lazy and sated. "Dunno what we're gonna do with Sasquatch here, though."
Castiel spares a glance for Sam, fast asleep on the stairs, the broad expanse of his chest rising and falling with his breaths.
"He will be all right," he tells Dean. "It'll be light soon, anyway."
Dean snorts. "True enough," he says, getting to his feet. His thighs and fingers, Castiel notices, are white with their ejaculate. It makes Castiel blush obscurely. "Are you coming?"
Castiel's breath, so painstakingly steadied, catches in his throat. Angels don't sleep. Dean knows this. Castiel has no need to go inside with Dean, try and snatch some rest before the morning, and yet Dean has asked him inside anyway. There's a smile playing about Dean's mouth, half-embarrassed, a little upward quirk. Suddenly, intensely, Castiel wants to kiss it off his face.
"Cas?" Dean prompts, after a second. The smile is still there.
Castiel leans up and in, licks at the corners of it, and sets about kissing it into oblivion.
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~2,500
Summary/Notes: There's a heatwave in South Dakota, and Bobby's house doesn't have A/C. Spending the night on the porch seems a logical option. greatlywritten, this is for you. Because I said so. Just slipping this in before blindfold_spn spam time hits. ;)
Castiel had believed there to be unspoken human laws against this, all this skin laid bare to the dark, but the Winchesters have never cared much for human laws. It's hot, painfully, achingly hot, and Dean is loose with it, sprawled out on Bobby's stoop with his knees splayed wide. He's naked, beer-bottle sweating a cold wet trail against the outside of his thigh, and the angle of his head is wanton, immoderate reaction to the stimulus. On Castiel's other side, Sam is less brazen, but only just, jeans riding low on the spurs of his hipbones, sweat making rivulets down his bare chest. Between them, Castiel feels overdressed indeed, even without the trench-coat and blazer and tie. His collar is open, and it had felt like freedom, but Dean's languid sprawl shows up the flaws in this conviction, and Castiel feels the sweat prickle at the small of his back.
It's hot. Bobby's house doesn't have air conditioning, and there's nobody around for endless miles. Bobby is asleep in his little bedroom upstairs, but it proved too hot inside for Castiel, too hot for the boys. Outside is the only place they can any of them breathe, out here with the cicadas and the distant sounds of the railway. Dean is an indistinct shape in the dark, but when he sways one leg, Castiel can see outlines between, the soft swell of his genitals between his thighs. He swallows. The sweat licks a path down Castiel's tailbone, and he shivers, turns his head, seeking distraction.
On his other side, Sam is half-asleep in the quiet, nipples making hard little point on his chest. The sweat on his belly makes it gleam a little, delineating the edges of the muscles. The waistband of his jeans is too loose -- Sam's jeans are always too loose -- and Castiel sees the dark inside, the strip of paler skin where Sam's underwear usually sits. It is too hot for underwear, and that means Sam is bare under the denim of his jeans, the heft of his cock naked and hot against the zipper.
Castiel is -- not doing terribly well at distracting himself appropriately. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.
"Dean," he manages, after a long moment, "I think I'll take a beer after all."
Dean laughs a little -- leans over, his body a long pale curve from shoulder to backside. Castiel pinches his eyes shut and waits, needing the numbing chill of the bottle, the dizzying sensation of the alcohol in his belly.
"Hey," Sam interrupts, "me too," and he reaches over, hand brushing loose against the swell of Dean's bicep. He offers the touch as casually as Dean receives it, barely reacting, as if it's nothing, but to Castiel it is something forbidden and huge. Dean is naked, and Sam is touching him. Castiel is wrong inside, but the thought makes his belly dip hotly, wanting more. Wanting to touch Dean himself with Sam's courage, and with all the half-realised intentions Sam does not harbour.
The beer, when he gets it, is cold in his throat, but it kills nothing. This is going to be a very long night.
When they have drunk all the beer, Sam falls asleep. Castiel notices it rather idly, through the pleasant blur of alcohol, just enough to loosen his limbs and his tongue. Sam is sitting on one stair with his long arms spread along another, head tipped back. It doesn't look very comfortable, but then, nothing is, tonight.
"Hey," Dean says, leaning a little towards him. Listing, even. Dean is no longer perfectly sober. "You okay?" His body is a long, pale smudge in the shadows. Castiel wants to trace its lines with his fingers, slide his palms through the sweat at his throat, his waist. He wants to demarcate the edges of that vague shape with his hands, feeling out the angles and curves of it. He swallows, his throat as close as the air.
"Sam is asleep," he says. It is no longer what he is thinking of at all, but it will do.
"Huh," Dean says. He sounds unsurprised, amused, even, and Castiel is confused. Then Dean's hand finds Castiel's shoulder, hot even on the sweat-damp skin, and the confusion only escalates.
"Aren't you hot?" Dean's voice has a dark edge to it, a knife that cuts two ways. His fingers find Castiel's open collar, fumble open the first button. "I think you're hot, Cas." And another. Castiel is shamefully hard in his pants, another fresh layer of sweat prickling across the small of his back as Dean's fingers unbutton him slowly, undoing him as always. He could stop him, but it is so hot. The curve of Dean's throat glistens damply. Castiel can see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip, can see it licking the muscles of his stomach. His thighs. Dean pushes Castiel's shirt down his arms and off, and Castiel closes his eyes.
"Is it always so hot?" Castiel asks. His voice is oddly strained. He doesn't know why he is asking. "In summer?" he clarifies.
There is a strange look on Dean's face, teasing, maybe. Castiel isn't sure. "Nah," Dean says obliquely. "This is just 'cause you're here. Special."
He's joking, but there's a part of him that isn't, low and tense. His eyes glitter darkly, like cut jet. Castiel wants to touch him, wants to get his hands all over him, inside him. He says, "Oh." Swallows. "Do you mind?"
There's a second of space in which Castiel's words are swallowed up, a long, still moment in which Dean only watches him, face gone smooth and unreadable. Then, in an instant's dynamism, Dean falls forward, uncoiling, and kisses him.
It's not a gentle kiss, not careful of Castiel's inexperience, of his surprise. It's firm, hot as the world is hot tonight, Dean's mouth hot on Castiel's, Dean's hands hot when they slide up to grip the back of Castiel's neck. Dimly, Castiel concludes that Dean cannot genuinely mind the heat at all.
"Cas," Dean says, pulling back just long enough to feather Cas's name against his mouth. They're so close together that the shapes Dean's lips make are tangible, slow and sure, Dean's breathing warm against Castiel's face. Castiel makes no conscious decision to lean in, eradicate the distance again, but Dean is so close, so beautifully made that he finds there's no help for it. He curves a palm along the line of Dean's jaw, holds him still, swallows his gasp.
After that, things begin to blur. Dean kisses imprecisely, wet and deep, and Castiel surrenders to it with abandon, finding that precision is not what he wants when he could have this instead, Dean's urgency and the dry, hot skin of his shoulders, his spine, his waist. At the small of his back, Castiel hesitates, but Dean is beyond hesitation, hitching closer so his palm finds the centre of Castiel's chest, flattening over his heart. It's almost damp with heat, the broad, firm span of it, and Castiel arches into the touch, wrenching his mouth from Dean's on a whimper. His nipples are taut, peaked and sensitive with want, and Castiel wants Dean to feel him, suddenly, the way that he feels Dean. Dean is being careful with his hands, and Castiel doesn't want that. Not any more.
"Please," he manages. It isn't a sentence, but Dean seems to hear it as if it were, thumb drawing a deft line of sensation across Castiel's chest before the word is fully out of his mouth.
"Yeah," Dean says, "yeah. I got you, Cas." And Castiel believes him utterly.
Dean's thumb circles his nipple in quick, clever movements, and Castiel feels them resonate through him in ripples of heat. It seems impossible, but every twist is like a bolt of heat to his aching groin. Dean's mouth on his is frenetic, fierce and hot, nipping at Castiel's lips, sucking on his tongue. Castiel groans, skin tingling with the aftershocks, and Dean laughs softly, draws his hand lower, to Castiel's abdomen. Draws it lower, to Castiel's thigh.
"Oh," Cas says, breaking away, and Dean laughs again. Draws his hand lower.
"Just let me take the edge off," Dean tells him softly, and then his fingers are on Castiel's zipper; in Castiel's underwear. Dean is kissing him again and his hand is on Castiel's cock, curling capably around its length, and Castiel can no longer make sounds at all.
It doesn't take long. He's so hard already, the length of him full and aching, balls grown heavy with Dean's closeness, the way his skin looks, nacreous with night. Dean swipes his tongue through the slick place at the tip of him, and he jerks his hips, stutters upward, but Dean knows his task, and isn't thrown by it. "Yeah," he mutters, "yeah, yeah." The pad of his thumb moves lower, searches out a place beneath the head of Cas's cock that's almost painfully sensitive, and when Castiel moans, he shifts his hand lower again, jacking the shaft of him fast.
"Dean," Castiel says, though he doesn't know why. Dean's breath has gone tight and shallow in the stillness, rasping hotly between his parted lips, and Castiel closes his eyes. Their foreheads are pressed together, sweat making them sticky, and Castiel is too slack with this to go on kissing, but he breathes Dean's breaths as he works, taking what he can get.
"God," Dean murmurs, something in it reverent. Castiel barely has the coherence to query why before Dean is squeezing him, fist moving faster, slipping in the slickness that's pearled up from his slit, and God, he has no coherence any more. He is close, as Dean is close to him everywhere, and Dean wants this. Dean wants him to do this. Castiel is helpless before Dean's desires.
"Dean," he breathes, the tail of it twisting, and then Dean's thumb is pressing hard against the tip of him and Castiel feels it pulsing up from the root of him, orgasm wrenching from the pit of his stomach.
"Come on, Cas," Dean tells him, low, "c'mon, let me see you. Let me see you come."
That does it. Slick bursts out of him in long pulses as a cry bursts out of his mouth, something inchoate and wordless and new. Dean keeps stroking, though his fingers are slowing, and Castiel keeps coming, coating Dean's fingers, his wrists, the naked length of his thigh. He understands that this is something humans do often, but Castiel is not human and he has never done this. It feels like being taken apart and remade, and Castiel is suddenly, soaringly glad that Dean is able to do that for him, the way that he did it so literally for Dean. When the last of it is over, he's drained, breathless, but Dean is making low, hot sounds of appreciation, and Castiel tastes pride under a spark of lust.
"Shit, Cas," Dean is saying, "shit." His breath is quavering, and it takes Castiel a second to recognise that this is because Dean's arm is moving on himself, now, his fingers still covered in Castiel's ejaculate now wrapped around his own cock, working it fast and rough. "So, God, you're so --"
"Let me." Castiel's hand covers Dean unthinkingly, fingers slotting into the spaces between his. "Dean, please. I want --"
"Yeah." Dean's eyes are closed, head fallen back, and he lifts his hips into the tangle of their fingers, fucking up into them, slippery slick. He's beautiful, perfect, and Castiel feels a sudden, inexplicable desire to taste him everywhere, lick at the sweat in the hollow of his throat, taste the raw scent of him between his legs. He wants it so vehemently that it sets him shivering, and Dean's body torques and arches in response, hand and hips both moving faster.
"Cas," he's murmuring, "Cas, God," and Cas swipes his thumb over the crown of him as Dean had done, now squeezing, now pulling slow. Dean is throbbing, hot beneath his hand, and if he had felt hot at his shoulders, at his waist, it was nothing to the way he feels here, like velvet over flame, barely contained. Castiel leans in to mouth at the soft place beneath Dean's ear, and Dean makes a tortured sound like he's dying, sharp and high. Castiel reads it as a sign of assent, from the way both his own heart and Dean's pound faster, so he does it again, suckles at it gently.
"Fuck, Cas!" Dean spits, as Castiel teethes experimentally at his skin, "Jesus, Jesus," and then he goes still, abrupt and taut, every muscle in his body for a moment still and trembling.
"Dean," Castiel breathes against his skin. He opens his mouth, wet and slow, and licks over the indentations of his teeth.
"Shit," Dean whispers, and seizes up, and comes.
There's a lot of it, like hot wax on Castiel's fingers. Castiel feels his stomach dip hotly at the sensation, feeling dirty and sexy and powerful. Dean is murmuring and whimpering as he comes, and Castiel's hand is now the only one moving, slowing as Dean's spurts slow, releasing him finally with a reluctant squeeze.
"God," Dean groans out, low and rough in the empty late-night stillness. Suddenly, in the aftermath, it seems very still indeed, Dean's voice very dark and very human. "God."
Castiel doesn't know quite what God has to do with this, but he keeps silent. Years of observing human activity have indicated that this is a convention among them after sex.
Eventually, when Castiel's pulse has begun to return to normal, Dean turns his head, mouths wetly at Castiel's shoulder. Says, "Cooling off, huh?"
It is. It is getting very late, now. Castiel nods pensively. "You might, perhaps, be able to sleep inside, now."
So they are not going to talk about it. Castiel doesn't know whether or not he is surprised. Dean isn't much the talking kind, after all, and he suspects that, in its own way, Dean's nonchalant attitude is its own positive sign, his kiss to Castiel's shoulder a promise. Perhaps.
Dean pulls his arms above his head, stretching noisily, back forced into a deep arch. "Yeah," he allows, lazy and sated. "Dunno what we're gonna do with Sasquatch here, though."
Castiel spares a glance for Sam, fast asleep on the stairs, the broad expanse of his chest rising and falling with his breaths.
"He will be all right," he tells Dean. "It'll be light soon, anyway."
Dean snorts. "True enough," he says, getting to his feet. His thighs and fingers, Castiel notices, are white with their ejaculate. It makes Castiel blush obscurely. "Are you coming?"
Castiel's breath, so painstakingly steadied, catches in his throat. Angels don't sleep. Dean knows this. Castiel has no need to go inside with Dean, try and snatch some rest before the morning, and yet Dean has asked him inside anyway. There's a smile playing about Dean's mouth, half-embarrassed, a little upward quirk. Suddenly, intensely, Castiel wants to kiss it off his face.
"Cas?" Dean prompts, after a second. The smile is still there.
Castiel leans up and in, licks at the corners of it, and sets about kissing it into oblivion.