Angel Dust [Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, M]
Title: Angel Dust
Author: sumthinlikhuman
Rating: M
Warnings: slash, supernatural semi-voyeurism, some coarse language
Prompt: Supernatural; One-sided Dean/Castiel, benediction, "talk about a religious experience"
Summary: There is a fundamental issue with this arrangement and it is that Dean is going stir crazy
Notes: This is actually more of a Dean/Castiel’s-vessel fic, but Castiel hangs around in the back of the guy’s head and is a creeper, so I think that counts as his involvement. Also, I feel bad, but I couldn’t really get the prompt-line to fit in D: I’ll try harder next time!
Benediction - noun: 1. an utterance of good wishes ... 5. the advantage conferred by blessing; a mercy or benefit
---
There is a fundamental issue with this arrangement and it is that Dean is going stir crazy and Castiel does not apparently understand what the hell that even means. They have been in Nevada for two weeks, waiting for one of Castiel’s signs, and Dean has a craving for violence and booze and women that hasn’t been going away. The past three nights have been waking up to a hard cock with nebulous dreams, and the days afterward spent trying to avoid Castiel’s confusion masked in the knowing glances of the man Castiel inhabits.
If Sam were here-
But he’s not, and there’s no point dreaming, so Dean grips his cock in the shower and damns the fact that not even the cold water is doing anything for it.
Castiel being arounds means Dean is a fucking hair trigger, also, always on edge and bending to nervous habits and, for some unholy reason, acting on his best behavior. Which means no booze, no women, no violence or fire or even a freakish chain-smoke binge like he hasn’t had since he was sixteen and his dad caught him with the pack and made him smoke the whole thing until he was sick. Dean doesn’t know what it is about Castiel, or even if it’s Castiel rather than the man it inhabits, but it has his knee jiggling up and down at breakfast every morning and humming Metallica like he’s saying a prayer every night.
Castiel, for its part, seems to notice all that about as much as it notices that Dean’s about to get cabin fever or start writing REDRUM all over the walls of the motel room.
The one good thing, Dean finds, about having Castiel in constant attendance to him is that there have been no more flashing night terrors about Hell. He tries not to think about that too hard, afraid it’s just because he’s so focused on not going insane that he doesn’t have time to have night terrors, because he doesn’t want this to change. At all. Ever.
If Sam were here, at least they could commiserate visions and the sudden lack there of. But Sam’s not there, and that’s part of why Dean and Castiel are holed up in a motel room together like they’re on the run or something.
Dean’s been on the run before, has been dead and brought back through false information, and then through reality itself, and its starting to get old. His shoulders hurt and he hasn’t slept good in a week and he hates Castiel’s stupid fucking face that isn’t even its own face.
He wonders what Castiel’s face looks like. Then he thinks about when he was on the veil and could see the faces of Demons. He thinks about the broad expanse of Castiel’s wings projected with lightning. He thinks about bleeding and breaking glass and the feeling of his head being torn apart and his chest exploding, and he doesn’t want to see Castiel’s face any more.
One day in December, Castiel says, “We’re moving on,” and Dean thinks he’s going to cry with joy.
They go to Arizona and Dean sees the Righteous Hand of God do its work-a possession gone haywire or something, and Dean fights off a ghoulie he couldn’t even name if he tried and tries to not get his head swiped off as he watches Castiel slap a hand over the little girl’s face and pull the Demon out through her eyes and nose and mouth, crumpling it in his hands like a tissue.
They stay in Arizona that night.
Dean is adrenaline high, shaking, doing his nervous foot tap and wondering if that was sort of how Castiel brought him out of hell-grab hold of the bodily constraints, reach for the soul beyond and suck it back in until it just sticks, crumpled a little but flattened out again by a soothing hand.
“We need to talk, Dean.”
Dean gives Castiel’s body a look, wrinkling his nose a little, and demands, “‘bout what?”
“About the way you’ve been acting.”
“I’ve been acting fine-”
“Do you want to have sex with me, Dean?”
Dean almost chokes on his tongue, stares at Castiel and the bland expression. All he can think to say is, “Can you do that? Isn’t that a sin?”
“Explain to me how you think it’s a sin, Dean.”
“Uh, the whole thou shall not lie with a man as with a woman thing kinda gave me the impression that having gay sex was a no-no, so I’m gonna go with that.”
A smile creeps into Castiel’s expression, hidden in dark eyes that don’t actually show it. It’s one of the most disturbing things Dean’s ever seen, but he’s getting used to it-apparently Angels, or whatever Castiel is, don’t flash black or red or golden eyes; they just show expression behind the eyes they’re wearing.
Castiel points out, “The New Testament negates a great deal of the Old Testament. And anyway, most of the Laws of God are about cleanliness and not giving yourself to vice.” They stare at each other for a moment, before Castiel says, “You didn’t answer the question.”
Dean thinks about it, actually thinks about it, and then says, “Not really, no.”
“Then stop projecting in your sleep and go have sex with somebody so you’ll stop thinking about it.” Castiel makes this strange face, part smile and part sneer and all exasperated indulgence. “It’s not like you’re under house arrest or something.”
“Having sex once every couple of months isn’t going to-what do you mean projecting?”
Castiel stares at Dean, and Dean knows exactly what Castiel’s talking about, and probably the exact dreams he was loud about thinking about, and he wonders if it was the fact he was dreaming about a man or his brother that got Castiel to snap and ask about it. Probably both.
“So it has to be regular?” Dean grins rakishly, leaning back on his elbows on his bed. Castiel stares at him for a moment then says, “Alright.”
Castiel is up and taking off the now-classic jacket and unbuttoning the shirt before Dean can really grasp what the hell’s going on. When he does grasp it, Castiel is climbing on top of him, pressing him back into the bed, and Dean swears he can smell the sharp smell of Holy Water.
He pushes Castiel off, shuffles away, and doesn’t see the edge of the bed coming up until he’s fallen off it. They stare at each other for a moment.
“Okay, what the FUCK?”
“I give you permission.”
For some reason, the words open up a floodgate inside Dean, a warmth that has nothing to do with arousal. Dean keeps his ass planted firmly on the ground and stares at Castiel. After a moment, Castiel continues to undress-the shoes, the socks; arches its back to pull off the belt and slide the slacks down long legs that, alright, look pretty good for the fact that Castiel’s vessel is probably about Dean’s age.
Dean doesn’t know what compels him toward the bed, but he shifts onto his knees and crawls over. Kneeling beside the bed, Dean touches Castiel’s leg.
“Don’t do that.” There’s something about Castiel’s voice that’s different like this. “It’s not like you.”
“You won’t like it when I’m like me.”
Castiel presses his first and middle fingers to Dean’s sixth chakra, and Dean sees the dreams Castiel has heard in flashes like a film at double speed. His breath is rushed and unsteady when Castiel moves his fingers away, and he stares at the ceiling; when did he move?
Castiel leans over him slowly, not really looking at him, and in a flicker of light from beyond the sheer curtains of their room, Dean can see the shadow of its wings. He reaches out and touches Castiel on the shoulders, feels the muscles there that are too weak to sustain wings that big. Even if the body isn’t built for the structures, Castiel shakes like Dean is really touching the roots.
Dean rolls them then, spreads Castiel across the bed, and he can see in Castiel’s eyes that this doesn’t actually mean anything. Fruitlessly, Dean tries not to care, tries not to let that hurt him. He kisses Castiel, touching the throat where it connects to the jaw, and tries not to think that not caring if this happens is almost as bad as not wanting it to happen at all.
When Castiel’s arm come up and around Dean’s shoulders, and the lips under his begin to warm and press back in earnest, Dean pulls away. The look in those dark eyes is different, and there is a smile behind them but also on the soft, pliant mouth.
Dean laughs a bit hysterically. “Castiel said you were a religious man.”
“I can be religious and still like cock, you know,” the man says.
Dean barely kisses him, then asks, “What’s your name?”
“Kieth.” His voice is softer than when Castiel uses it, more gentle and genuine and melodic. Dean touches his face, and Kieth chuckles darkly. “This how you always apologize to guys you’ve stabbed in the chest?”
“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” Dean chuckles, and kisses Kieth until neither of them are smiling any more, they’re just panting into each other’s mouths and moving their lips sloppily and Kieth is pulling at every stitch of Dean’s clothes; Dean figures it’s only far.
He cups the bulge of Kieth’s cock and swallows his moan. They tussle on the bed, switch positions as Kieth yanks Dean’s jeans and boxer shorts off, and Dean is smiling and chuckling. It’s been a while since he’s had someone this forward in bed, which seems too ridiculous. Kieth nuzzles at the root of his cock, breathes hot air across it and stares at it with heavy-lidded eyes, and Dean thinks maybe, if life ever gets normal for him, he should just date a gay guy.
Kieth doesn’t spend as long as Dean would like on blowing him, but that’s fine, because Dean’s been watching the hand behind Kieth’s back, the one that he know ends with Kieth’s fingers buried deep in his own ass. Dean doesn’t question about lube and condoms and shit like that-he does grab his jeans off the floor and thumbs the condom out of his wallet, though-he just watches as Kieth pulls off, and. Fuck. He knows the guy’s name, but he can still see Castiel in those eyes, lurking, smiling and knowing and letting them sin even with the Final Judgment creeping toward them.
And Kieth seems to notice what Dean is staring at in his eyes. He takes the condom from Dean, rolls it onto Dick’s cock with gentle, certain hands, and whispers against Dean’s neck, “You think it’s weird having him smile at you? I’ve got him looking over my shoulder.”
For some reason, that makes Dean’s dick twitch. Kieth, sliding up Dean’s body, pauses for a second. He stares at Dean, brows furrowed a little, mouth turned down in a frown, eyes focused inward. Dean wonders if he’s thinking too loudly, if Castiel can hear him like this, and his face goes hot like the sun.
And then there’s tight heat around his cock, and Dean isn’t thinking about it too hard any more. He grips Kieth’s thighs with hands that have broken bones before, grips until his knuckles feel too tight and he must be hurting Kieth but-he’s stabbed the guy, and thinking about that makes him blink open his eyes and look for the wound. Instead, he sees the rapturous look on Kieth’s face as he sinks his body down on Dean’s cock. And that’s cool too.
Kieth stops, grips Dean’s wrists for a moment, and Dean has to struggle to keep still, because the last time he fucked anything was before Sam left, and that was in October. He’s stir crazy here, and Kieth is warm and deliciously tight and throbbing around him. After a moment of the stillness, their breaths hanging in the space between them, Kieth leans back slightly, grips the comforter with one hand and grabs Dean by the forearm by the other.
As their lips touch awkwardly and Kieth stutters on a moan, he whispers against Dean’s mouth, “Fuck me.”
It doesn’t take more prompt than that. Kieth grips the comforter with one hand and Dean’s arm with the other, and Dean supports Kieth by the small of his back, rocking into him. He’s gentle at first, not sure what he can get away with.
Then Kieth chuckles and says, “I saw the dreams too, Dean.” He grinds down on Dean’s hips, rotating his hips and giving Dean the hungriest look Dean’s gotten in-what feels like forever, honestly, but is probably closer to a year or so.
Kieth tumbles, not too gracefully, as Dean surges at him, smiles and laughs breathlessly as Dean grabs his wrists and proves that he’s stronger than he probably even looks, holding down a guy his own size and fucking into him almost brutally. The angle is all wrong, their legs tangled and his hips barely able to piston in and out of Kieth’s body. It doesn’t matter, because Kieth is still whining thankfully, gasping and clenching his fingers in and out of fists.
And maybe it’s the look on Kieth’s face, the parting of chapped lips and the flutter of heavy eyelids over dark eyes where Dean can see that other thing lurking in the background. Maybe it’s the tight, clenching heat around his cock, or the way Kieth keeps writhing and arching and rubbing his cock against Dean’s belly like a slut.
Whatever it is, Dean’s back and belly tense, and he’s coming hard, gripping Kieth’s wrists until they can hear the joints groan in both their hands. Kieth’s eyes slam shut, and he whines softly as Dean pulls back, as Dean scrapes his nails down Kieth’s arms and chest and belly, grips him and pulls.
Kieth doesn’t take long. He has his eyes shut the whole time, his mouth opened and snippets of obscene, delicious things slipping through his gasping. When he comes, his whole body flinches, and Dean finally pulls out of him.
Dean’s eyes burn and ache. The flightiness of being penned up and not having Sam isn’t gone, but he feels less stir crazy now. He strips off the condom, sitting on the edge of the bed, and ties it off as he listens to Kieth’s breathing calm down.
The next time Kieth speaks, it isn’t Kieth anymore, and the elation of sex slips off Dean’s body like a piece of silk.
“Are you better for now?”
Dean stands and walks to the bathroom. When he comes back, Castiel has moved, is standing opposite the bathroom door. He can’t look at Castiel, and stares at his clothes on the floor instead.
“Yeah,” he finally says, and wonders why it feels like he’s lying.
Author: sumthinlikhuman
Rating: M
Warnings: slash, supernatural semi-voyeurism, some coarse language
Prompt: Supernatural; One-sided Dean/Castiel, benediction, "talk about a religious experience"
Summary: There is a fundamental issue with this arrangement and it is that Dean is going stir crazy
Notes: This is actually more of a Dean/Castiel’s-vessel fic, but Castiel hangs around in the back of the guy’s head and is a creeper, so I think that counts as his involvement. Also, I feel bad, but I couldn’t really get the prompt-line to fit in D: I’ll try harder next time!
Benediction - noun: 1. an utterance of good wishes ... 5. the advantage conferred by blessing; a mercy or benefit
---
There is a fundamental issue with this arrangement and it is that Dean is going stir crazy and Castiel does not apparently understand what the hell that even means. They have been in Nevada for two weeks, waiting for one of Castiel’s signs, and Dean has a craving for violence and booze and women that hasn’t been going away. The past three nights have been waking up to a hard cock with nebulous dreams, and the days afterward spent trying to avoid Castiel’s confusion masked in the knowing glances of the man Castiel inhabits.
If Sam were here-
But he’s not, and there’s no point dreaming, so Dean grips his cock in the shower and damns the fact that not even the cold water is doing anything for it.
Castiel being arounds means Dean is a fucking hair trigger, also, always on edge and bending to nervous habits and, for some unholy reason, acting on his best behavior. Which means no booze, no women, no violence or fire or even a freakish chain-smoke binge like he hasn’t had since he was sixteen and his dad caught him with the pack and made him smoke the whole thing until he was sick. Dean doesn’t know what it is about Castiel, or even if it’s Castiel rather than the man it inhabits, but it has his knee jiggling up and down at breakfast every morning and humming Metallica like he’s saying a prayer every night.
Castiel, for its part, seems to notice all that about as much as it notices that Dean’s about to get cabin fever or start writing REDRUM all over the walls of the motel room.
The one good thing, Dean finds, about having Castiel in constant attendance to him is that there have been no more flashing night terrors about Hell. He tries not to think about that too hard, afraid it’s just because he’s so focused on not going insane that he doesn’t have time to have night terrors, because he doesn’t want this to change. At all. Ever.
If Sam were here, at least they could commiserate visions and the sudden lack there of. But Sam’s not there, and that’s part of why Dean and Castiel are holed up in a motel room together like they’re on the run or something.
Dean’s been on the run before, has been dead and brought back through false information, and then through reality itself, and its starting to get old. His shoulders hurt and he hasn’t slept good in a week and he hates Castiel’s stupid fucking face that isn’t even its own face.
He wonders what Castiel’s face looks like. Then he thinks about when he was on the veil and could see the faces of Demons. He thinks about the broad expanse of Castiel’s wings projected with lightning. He thinks about bleeding and breaking glass and the feeling of his head being torn apart and his chest exploding, and he doesn’t want to see Castiel’s face any more.
One day in December, Castiel says, “We’re moving on,” and Dean thinks he’s going to cry with joy.
They go to Arizona and Dean sees the Righteous Hand of God do its work-a possession gone haywire or something, and Dean fights off a ghoulie he couldn’t even name if he tried and tries to not get his head swiped off as he watches Castiel slap a hand over the little girl’s face and pull the Demon out through her eyes and nose and mouth, crumpling it in his hands like a tissue.
They stay in Arizona that night.
Dean is adrenaline high, shaking, doing his nervous foot tap and wondering if that was sort of how Castiel brought him out of hell-grab hold of the bodily constraints, reach for the soul beyond and suck it back in until it just sticks, crumpled a little but flattened out again by a soothing hand.
“We need to talk, Dean.”
Dean gives Castiel’s body a look, wrinkling his nose a little, and demands, “‘bout what?”
“About the way you’ve been acting.”
“I’ve been acting fine-”
“Do you want to have sex with me, Dean?”
Dean almost chokes on his tongue, stares at Castiel and the bland expression. All he can think to say is, “Can you do that? Isn’t that a sin?”
“Explain to me how you think it’s a sin, Dean.”
“Uh, the whole thou shall not lie with a man as with a woman thing kinda gave me the impression that having gay sex was a no-no, so I’m gonna go with that.”
A smile creeps into Castiel’s expression, hidden in dark eyes that don’t actually show it. It’s one of the most disturbing things Dean’s ever seen, but he’s getting used to it-apparently Angels, or whatever Castiel is, don’t flash black or red or golden eyes; they just show expression behind the eyes they’re wearing.
Castiel points out, “The New Testament negates a great deal of the Old Testament. And anyway, most of the Laws of God are about cleanliness and not giving yourself to vice.” They stare at each other for a moment, before Castiel says, “You didn’t answer the question.”
Dean thinks about it, actually thinks about it, and then says, “Not really, no.”
“Then stop projecting in your sleep and go have sex with somebody so you’ll stop thinking about it.” Castiel makes this strange face, part smile and part sneer and all exasperated indulgence. “It’s not like you’re under house arrest or something.”
“Having sex once every couple of months isn’t going to-what do you mean projecting?”
Castiel stares at Dean, and Dean knows exactly what Castiel’s talking about, and probably the exact dreams he was loud about thinking about, and he wonders if it was the fact he was dreaming about a man or his brother that got Castiel to snap and ask about it. Probably both.
“So it has to be regular?” Dean grins rakishly, leaning back on his elbows on his bed. Castiel stares at him for a moment then says, “Alright.”
Castiel is up and taking off the now-classic jacket and unbuttoning the shirt before Dean can really grasp what the hell’s going on. When he does grasp it, Castiel is climbing on top of him, pressing him back into the bed, and Dean swears he can smell the sharp smell of Holy Water.
He pushes Castiel off, shuffles away, and doesn’t see the edge of the bed coming up until he’s fallen off it. They stare at each other for a moment.
“Okay, what the FUCK?”
“I give you permission.”
For some reason, the words open up a floodgate inside Dean, a warmth that has nothing to do with arousal. Dean keeps his ass planted firmly on the ground and stares at Castiel. After a moment, Castiel continues to undress-the shoes, the socks; arches its back to pull off the belt and slide the slacks down long legs that, alright, look pretty good for the fact that Castiel’s vessel is probably about Dean’s age.
Dean doesn’t know what compels him toward the bed, but he shifts onto his knees and crawls over. Kneeling beside the bed, Dean touches Castiel’s leg.
“Don’t do that.” There’s something about Castiel’s voice that’s different like this. “It’s not like you.”
“You won’t like it when I’m like me.”
Castiel presses his first and middle fingers to Dean’s sixth chakra, and Dean sees the dreams Castiel has heard in flashes like a film at double speed. His breath is rushed and unsteady when Castiel moves his fingers away, and he stares at the ceiling; when did he move?
Castiel leans over him slowly, not really looking at him, and in a flicker of light from beyond the sheer curtains of their room, Dean can see the shadow of its wings. He reaches out and touches Castiel on the shoulders, feels the muscles there that are too weak to sustain wings that big. Even if the body isn’t built for the structures, Castiel shakes like Dean is really touching the roots.
Dean rolls them then, spreads Castiel across the bed, and he can see in Castiel’s eyes that this doesn’t actually mean anything. Fruitlessly, Dean tries not to care, tries not to let that hurt him. He kisses Castiel, touching the throat where it connects to the jaw, and tries not to think that not caring if this happens is almost as bad as not wanting it to happen at all.
When Castiel’s arm come up and around Dean’s shoulders, and the lips under his begin to warm and press back in earnest, Dean pulls away. The look in those dark eyes is different, and there is a smile behind them but also on the soft, pliant mouth.
Dean laughs a bit hysterically. “Castiel said you were a religious man.”
“I can be religious and still like cock, you know,” the man says.
Dean barely kisses him, then asks, “What’s your name?”
“Kieth.” His voice is softer than when Castiel uses it, more gentle and genuine and melodic. Dean touches his face, and Kieth chuckles darkly. “This how you always apologize to guys you’ve stabbed in the chest?”
“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” Dean chuckles, and kisses Kieth until neither of them are smiling any more, they’re just panting into each other’s mouths and moving their lips sloppily and Kieth is pulling at every stitch of Dean’s clothes; Dean figures it’s only far.
He cups the bulge of Kieth’s cock and swallows his moan. They tussle on the bed, switch positions as Kieth yanks Dean’s jeans and boxer shorts off, and Dean is smiling and chuckling. It’s been a while since he’s had someone this forward in bed, which seems too ridiculous. Kieth nuzzles at the root of his cock, breathes hot air across it and stares at it with heavy-lidded eyes, and Dean thinks maybe, if life ever gets normal for him, he should just date a gay guy.
Kieth doesn’t spend as long as Dean would like on blowing him, but that’s fine, because Dean’s been watching the hand behind Kieth’s back, the one that he know ends with Kieth’s fingers buried deep in his own ass. Dean doesn’t question about lube and condoms and shit like that-he does grab his jeans off the floor and thumbs the condom out of his wallet, though-he just watches as Kieth pulls off, and. Fuck. He knows the guy’s name, but he can still see Castiel in those eyes, lurking, smiling and knowing and letting them sin even with the Final Judgment creeping toward them.
And Kieth seems to notice what Dean is staring at in his eyes. He takes the condom from Dean, rolls it onto Dick’s cock with gentle, certain hands, and whispers against Dean’s neck, “You think it’s weird having him smile at you? I’ve got him looking over my shoulder.”
For some reason, that makes Dean’s dick twitch. Kieth, sliding up Dean’s body, pauses for a second. He stares at Dean, brows furrowed a little, mouth turned down in a frown, eyes focused inward. Dean wonders if he’s thinking too loudly, if Castiel can hear him like this, and his face goes hot like the sun.
And then there’s tight heat around his cock, and Dean isn’t thinking about it too hard any more. He grips Kieth’s thighs with hands that have broken bones before, grips until his knuckles feel too tight and he must be hurting Kieth but-he’s stabbed the guy, and thinking about that makes him blink open his eyes and look for the wound. Instead, he sees the rapturous look on Kieth’s face as he sinks his body down on Dean’s cock. And that’s cool too.
Kieth stops, grips Dean’s wrists for a moment, and Dean has to struggle to keep still, because the last time he fucked anything was before Sam left, and that was in October. He’s stir crazy here, and Kieth is warm and deliciously tight and throbbing around him. After a moment of the stillness, their breaths hanging in the space between them, Kieth leans back slightly, grips the comforter with one hand and grabs Dean by the forearm by the other.
As their lips touch awkwardly and Kieth stutters on a moan, he whispers against Dean’s mouth, “Fuck me.”
It doesn’t take more prompt than that. Kieth grips the comforter with one hand and Dean’s arm with the other, and Dean supports Kieth by the small of his back, rocking into him. He’s gentle at first, not sure what he can get away with.
Then Kieth chuckles and says, “I saw the dreams too, Dean.” He grinds down on Dean’s hips, rotating his hips and giving Dean the hungriest look Dean’s gotten in-what feels like forever, honestly, but is probably closer to a year or so.
Kieth tumbles, not too gracefully, as Dean surges at him, smiles and laughs breathlessly as Dean grabs his wrists and proves that he’s stronger than he probably even looks, holding down a guy his own size and fucking into him almost brutally. The angle is all wrong, their legs tangled and his hips barely able to piston in and out of Kieth’s body. It doesn’t matter, because Kieth is still whining thankfully, gasping and clenching his fingers in and out of fists.
And maybe it’s the look on Kieth’s face, the parting of chapped lips and the flutter of heavy eyelids over dark eyes where Dean can see that other thing lurking in the background. Maybe it’s the tight, clenching heat around his cock, or the way Kieth keeps writhing and arching and rubbing his cock against Dean’s belly like a slut.
Whatever it is, Dean’s back and belly tense, and he’s coming hard, gripping Kieth’s wrists until they can hear the joints groan in both their hands. Kieth’s eyes slam shut, and he whines softly as Dean pulls back, as Dean scrapes his nails down Kieth’s arms and chest and belly, grips him and pulls.
Kieth doesn’t take long. He has his eyes shut the whole time, his mouth opened and snippets of obscene, delicious things slipping through his gasping. When he comes, his whole body flinches, and Dean finally pulls out of him.
Dean’s eyes burn and ache. The flightiness of being penned up and not having Sam isn’t gone, but he feels less stir crazy now. He strips off the condom, sitting on the edge of the bed, and ties it off as he listens to Kieth’s breathing calm down.
The next time Kieth speaks, it isn’t Kieth anymore, and the elation of sex slips off Dean’s body like a piece of silk.
“Are you better for now?”
Dean stands and walks to the bathroom. When he comes back, Castiel has moved, is standing opposite the bathroom door. He can’t look at Castiel, and stares at his clothes on the floor instead.
“Yeah,” he finally says, and wonders why it feels like he’s lying.