Chapter Text
"You'll regret this," the witch said, smiling while burning a piece of paper.
"Yeah, well," Dean clicked the safety of his gun, "I'll just add your name to my regret list." He shrugged.
Then she started mumbling bullshit.
"Oh, shut up." He aimed at her forehead and shot.
And just like that, she was dead. One for the team.
"Dean!" Castiel said, placing his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, man." Dean shrugged with a big stupid smile on his face. It's funny how Castiel thought a witch could hurt him when he—they—had killed much scarier creatures.
He didn't mind it, though. Getting attention from the person—angel—he liked? Who was he to say no to that?
Sam clearing his throat brought him back to reality. They were doing their staring thing again. "Let's just take what's important and get out of here," Sam said.
"Important?" Castiel tilted his head.
"Yeah, dude. Books, spells?" Sam gestured at the bookshelf behind him.
Oh, right. Sam was still into this witch-spells shit.
It was after midnight when they cleared the witch's house and body. They were in the Impala heading back to the motel. Everything is fine except it was hot. It's so freaking hot!
Dean tossed his jacket at Castiel in the backseat before starting to drive. He rolled all the windows down. But it was still hot. And Castiel's blue eyes—that caught his every time he looked at the rearview mirror—didn't help at all.
"I swear it's like an oven in here," Dean said, fanning himself with his hand.
"Dude, you're flushing," Sam said.
Everything was fine until Castiel decided to rest his palm on Dean's head. Dean involuntarily yelped when he felt the place of Castiel's hand burning and pricking.
"What the fuck was that?!" Dean shouted as he pulled over, turning his head to Castiel. "What the hell did you do?!"
"Dean, you are warm," Castiel said.
"You're sick?" Sam asked.
He is fine, he was fine! He can handle a small fever, he could—if Castiel hadn't touched him. And now his whole body is burning.
"Let's switch," Sam said slowly, his eyes darting between them. He got out of the car before giving Dean any time to protest, so Dean slid into the passenger seat.
Dean's breath hitched. His skin isn't just warm anymore. It's starving. Every nerve ending is screaming toward the spot where Castiel's hand had been, and without thinking, he grabs his wrist and presses the palm back against his forehead. There. More.
"Dean?" Castiel's voice was confused, but he didn't pull away.
This isn't a fever. He knows this feeling, but it isn't supposed to be this aggressive. It isn't supposed to take over his whole body like this. More importantly he isn't supposed to feel this now!
His eyes won't stop slipping back to the man—angel—behind him, and everything he'd fantasized about some—most—nights is there, visualized in his mind in high definition.
"Fuck." Dean lets out a whine and leans toward the door, trying to hide the bulge starting in his jeans from Sam and Castiel, even from himself. But he can't let go of Castiel's hand. His fingers are locked around his wrist like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
He is so pathetic. What is he? A teen who gets a boner anytime, anywhere?
"Hey, Cas. Can you heal him?" Sam said from the driver's seat. "Looks like a bad flu or something."
Dean can feel everything inside him diving south when Castiel's fingers—still pressed to Dean's forehead—twitch slightly with grace.
"I… can't," Castiel said slowly, squinting his eyes like he was solving a hard—let's not use that word—solving a confusing math problem.
"What do you mean you can't?"
"I can't heal him, Sam. Physically, there is nothing wrong with him."
And yeah, maybe there is something wrong with him, because why the hell did he pull Castiel's hand down from his forehead and press those fingers against his own lips? And why the fuck is his tongue already sliding out to taste them?
"Dean!" Sam's voice was sharp. "What are you doing?!"
Dean doesn't answer. He can't. His mouth is busy sucking on two of Castiel's fingers like they're the only source of water in a desert. They taste like grace and something sweet.
"Dean, did you touch anything from that witch's house?" Sam asked, his voice strained, as he pulled into the motel parking lot.
All Dean can do is shake his head—a small, desperate motion—while he keeps Castiel's fingers in his mouth. His jeans are painfully tight now, and every suck pulls a small sound from his throat that he can't control.
"Sam," Castiel said quietly. "I believe Dean may be under a spell."
"No shit, Cas! What kind?"
"I don't know"
Dean lets out an embarrassing sound when Castiel pulls his fingers out.
More, more, more, MORE! His mind screams at him. He wants more touch from Castiel. No, he needs more.
Lucky for him, Castiel is the one to carry him to their room while Sam opens the door for them. He buries his head in Castiel's neck, nosing his throat. Castiel always smells nice, and now he smells nice and EXTRA delicious. And when he's about to lick his throat, Castiel drops him onto the bed.
"N-no—" His hands flew out, catching Castiel's trenchcoat. Don't leave. He manages to keep those words from escaping. But he can't control his hands when one of them slides to the back of Castiel's neck and the other searches for skin under Castiel's cuffs.
Castiel froze and Sam went silent.
Fuck, I need more. Give me more. He bites down on his lip until he tastes copper. The look on Sam's and Castiel's faces is bad enough from what his hands are doing. They don't need to know what's in his fucked-up head too.
"Cas, we need to find out what this is," Sam said, already pulling the witch's books out of the bag. "Dean, try to... I don't know... not grab him for five minutes?"
Dean wants to say something smart. He wants to say fuck you, Sammy. But all that comes out is a small, pathetic whimper when Castiel gently pries his hands away.
Castiel took two books and sat on the edge of the bed next to Dean's head. "I will stay close," Castiel promised, and Dean's body immediately turned toward him like a flower turning to the sun. Traitor.
He buries his face in the crease between Castiel's thigh and hip, his hand wrapped around Castiel's thigh, and it takes all the strength in the world to keep himself from grinding against Castiel's body.
They flip through pages for what feels like hours but is probably twenty minutes. Then:
"Found something," Sam said. His voice was strange. Tight. "It's... Cas, come look at this."
Castiel moves to stand beside Sam. Dean whimpers at the loss. Again.
He watches Castiel's face as the angel reads the page. Watched those blue eyes go wide. Watched his brow furrow.
"Well?" Dean's voice cracked. "What is it? How do we break it?"
Neither of them answers.
"Sam. Cas. Someone talk to me."
Sam rubs his hand over his face. "Dean, it's... the spell makes you..."
"Makes me what?" He has an idea—
"Aroused," Castiel said flatly.
Yep. He wishes to go back on time before killing that bitch. Only to kill her again but slowly.
"By the first person who touched you after the spell was cast. Which was me."
Dean's brain short-circuits. "What?!" Fuck that witch! What the fuck is this spell and why the fuck does it exist in the first place???
"The spell creates a... need," Castiel continued, reading from the book. "For continued touch from that specific person. Without it, your body will..." He paused.
"Will what, Cas?"
Castiel looked at Sam. Sam looked at the floor.
"If you don't... complete the spell..." Sam said quietly. "Your body just... shuts down."
Silence.
"Complete the spell how?" Dean asked, even though he already knows. He can feel the answer in his throbbing dick, in his sweaty palms, in the way he can't stop staring at Castiel's mouth.
"Reaching orgasm," Castiel said. "With my help."
Good for you, angel, to say these words out loud shamelessly.
Dean wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants to crawl under the bed and never come out.
"No. No way. Find another way."
"Dean—" Sam started.
"I said find another way!" Dean's voice broke. His eyes are wet. He blinks furiously. "I'm not gonna... he's not gonna... Cas doesn't..." He can't finish the sentence.
I mean, what if he mistakenly touched some random person on the street? Or God forbid he touched Sam? Gun. Mouth. Now.
Castiel closed the book. "There is no other way."
"Then I'll take my chances."
"You will die," Sam said.
"Then I'll die!"
The room goes silent.
He can't do that. Yeah, it is something he's been wanting for years, but not like this. No way like this. So he stands and walks toward the bathroom.
"Where are you going?" Sam asked.
"My problem. I'm gonna solve it." He goes inside without looking at them. Well, he just said 'I'm gonna jerk off, leave me alone'—how can he say something like that to their faces?
After five minutes, he stumbles out. His dick—believe it or not—is harder than when he entered the bathroom.
"It didn't work?" Castiel said. His gravelly voice sends electric shocks down Dean's spine to his groin.
Oh great. Now even his voice is gonna affect me? Is this some spell complication or what?
Dean shakes his head. "Where is Sam?"
"He said he'll stay in another room."
Of course he will.
Dean lies on the bed and drops his arm over his eyes. He can't face Castiel with a mountain between his legs—a mountain that's there because he's aroused because Castiel touched him.
"Dean—" He felt the mattress dip when Castiel sat beside him.
"Cas, you don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." Castiel's hand comes up to cup Dean's jaw, and Dean moans—actually moans—at the contact. "I want to help you."
Castiel's thumb brushes over Dean's bottom lip. "Tell me what you want me to do," he said. "I will stop if it gets too uncomfortable."
Dean lowers his arm and looks into those blue eyes. Those stupid, beautiful, blue eyes.
Fuck self control.
"I don't want you to stop," he whispered.
And he means it.
"Touch me, Cas." He grabbed Castiel's other hand and guided it under his shirt. He sighs at the touch.
His free hand reaches Castiel's neck and slides up to his hair, bringing Castiel's head down to his own neck.
"Tell me what you want, Dean," Castiel said next to his ear. That deep voice. His breath. His name. All of it makes him whine.
He needs this. He's going to die if he doesn't let Castiel touch him. That's what he keeps telling himself when his mouth opens to say: "Off. I want your clothes off. I want to feel you."
Castiel pulls back just enough to shrug off his trenchcoat. Then his suit jacket. Then his tie. Dean watches each piece fall to the floor like it's happening in slow motion.
His body rises when Castiel's upper body is bare. More skin. His mind screams like a starving lion found a stray deer. His hands are everywhere on the poor angel's chest and back.
"You too," Castiel said softly. "You don't want to take off your shirt?"
Dean's fingers fumble with the fabric. He's shaking—from the spell, from the need, from the fact that Castiel is sitting next to him looking at him like that.
"Let me." Castiel's hands replace Dean's, and the shirt is gone in seconds.
Dean gasps when their skin meets. Castiel leans over him, pressing his chest against Dean's, his palms stroking Dean's sides, and Dean arches into the touch like a cat starved for attention.
Dean's hands are on Castiel's shoulders and back, pulling him down. Closer. More.
"Where?" Castiel asked. "Where do you want me to touch you?"
Dean can't say where exactly he wants Castiel's hand. You'd need to press a gun to his temple to hear him saying 'My nipples, my dick.'
Castiel takes the hint—half the hint—and lets one of his hands slide down. Down his stomach. Down to the waistband of his jeans.
"Here?" Castiel asked, his fingers hovering over the bulge.
"Jesus, Cas—" Dean's hips buck up on their own. "Yeah. There. Please."
Castiel unbuttons Dean's jeans with careful, slow movements. He pulls down the zipper. Dean holds his breath.
And then Castiel's hand is finally inside Dean's boxers, wrapping around him, and Dean sees stars. He unconsciously spreads his legs.
"Like this?" Castiel's grip was tentative.
"Tighter," Dean gasped. "And move your—fuck, yeah, like that."
Castiel's hand moves up and down. Slow. Then faster. Dean's brain shuts down. He can't think. He can only feel—Cas's palm, Cas's fingers, Cas's breath on his neck.
Dean is making all kinds of sounds he never knew he could make when he finally feels it. Saw the light at the end of the tunnel.
"I'm close," Dean warned. "I'm gonna—"
"It's okay, let go, Dean," Castiel said simply. "That's the goal, isn't it?"
Dean comes with a strangled cry, his body shaking, his nails digging into Castiel's back.
For a moment, there is nothing but relief.
Then the heat comes back.
Worse.
Dean pants, staring at the ceiling. His dick is still hard. His skin is still burning. His mind is still screaming for more.
"It didn't work," Castiel said. It wasn't a question. He pulls his hand out and, with a simple press of grace, he's clean.
Dean shakes his head. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes—from frustration, from embarrassment. He chewed on his pride and let his best friend jerk him off, but his body is still betraying him.
Castiel props himself up on his elbows. "Do you want to try... other ways?"
Dean swallowed. "Other ways?"
Castiel doesn't answer. He just looked at Dean with those blue eyes, and Dean knew.
He knew they weren't done.
"Other ways," Dean repeated, his voice hoarse. His body is still trembling, still hungry, even after— That didn't count, his mind hisses. It didn't work. You need more.
Castiel doesn't move. He just stays there, half-naked, blue eyes watching him.
"Yes," Castiel said finally. "Other ways." He tilted his head. "Do you want me to…?"
Dean's mouth goes dry.
He should say no. He should tell Castiel to get out, to find Sam, to burn that damn spell book and never speak of this again.
Instead, he nods.
Castiel moves slowly. Deliberately. He slides down Dean's body, and Dean's breath catches in his throat when he realizes where Castiel is going.
Oh god. Oh fuck. He's going to—
Castiel hooks his fingers into the waistband of Dean's jeans and pulls. The denim slides down Dean's thighs, then his calves, then falls to the floor. His boxers follow a second later.
Dean is completely bare under him.
He wants to close his legs. He wants to cover his face. He wants to disappear.
But his body won't move. His body wants this.
"Beautiful," Castiel murmured, and before Dean could comprehend what he said.
Castiel lowered his head. Dean forgot how to breathe.
The first touch of Castiel's tongue is like lightning. Dean's back arches off the bed, a sound tearing from his throat that he doesn't recognize. Wet. Warm. Cas.
Castiel's hands gripped Dean's hips, holding him down as Dean bucks and gasps and whines. The angel's mouth is doing things Dean has only dreamed about. Things he'd been too ashamed to ask for. Things he doesn't know where the hell Castiel learned them from.
"Cas—" Dean's voice cracked. "I can't— It's too—"
Castiel hums around him, and the vibration shoots straight up Dean's spine.
Ohfuckfuckfuck.
Dean's hands flew down, fingers tangling in Castiel's dark hair. He doesn't know if he's trying to pull him away or push him closer. Maybe both.
The pressure builds. Faster. Hotter. Dean's vision blurs at the edges. His thighs are shaking. His stomach is tight.
"I'm gonna— Cas, I'm gonna—"
Castiel didn't stop. He doubles down, and Dean shatters.
He comes with a broken cry, his whole body convulsing, his fingers pulling Cas's hair, his legs locking around Cas's shoulders.
For a moment, there is silence.
Then the heat returns.
Again.
Dean stares at the ceiling, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. His chest is heaving. His dick is still throbbing. His skin is still on fire.
"It didn't work," Castiel said, his tone soft. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat up. "I'm sorry, Dean."
Dean can't speak. He can only shake his head.
Why isn't this working?
Castiel reached out and gently wiped a tear from Dean's cheek. "There's one more way…" he said quietly.
Dean closes his eyes.
He already knows what it is.
"Cas…"
"I know."
Is he really gonna let his friend—best friend—the angel of the Lord... fuck him?
"Do you want to stop?" Castiel asked.
Dean opens his eyes. Looked at the angel straddling him—bare-chested, patient, wanting to help.
"No," Dean whispered. "I don't want to stop."
Castiel nodded. "Then tell me what you need."
Dean swallowed.
"Everything," Dean said.
The word hangs between them like a confession.
Castiel doesn't move for a long moment. He just looks at Dean like he's memorizing every detail.
Then Castiel leans to murmur against Dean's ear: "Tell me if it's too much. Tell me to stop, and I will."
Dean nodded, not trusting his voice.
Castiel's hands begin to move. One slides under Dean's back, lifting him slightly. The other travels down—down his stomach, down his hip, down to the space between his legs.
Dean holds his breath.
"Relax," Castiel whispered. "I have you."
Then Dean feels it. A finger. Slick with something—Castiel's grace, maybe—pressing at his entrance. A slow intrusion that makes his whole body tense.
Oh god. He's inside— He's actually—
"Oh fuck—" Dean's whole body tenses.
"Breathe, Dean," Castiel whispered. His free hand comes up to rest on Dean's chest, right over his heart. His forehead presses against Dean's. "Breathe with me."
Dean tries. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. Castiel's finger pushed in slowly, and Dean gasped at the strange sensation—not pain, exactly, but pressure. Fullness. Castiel's hand is on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, grounding him.
"That's it," Castiel said softly. "You're doing so well."
He waited until Dean's breathing evened out before moving. The finger slides out, then back in. Deeper this time. Dean's hands catch Castiel's shoulders, gripping him like a lifeline.
"Another," Castiel said. It isn't a question.
Dean nodded frantically.
The second finger joined the first, and Dean's back arches off the bed. The stretch is more intense now—a burning sensation that makes his eyes water.
Dean's hands are everywhere—on Castiel's back, his shoulders, his face. He pulls Castiel down, needing him closer, needing to feel all of him.
"Shh," Castiel murmurs. "I have you. Just breathe."
He moves his fingers slowly. Scissoring. Stretching. Preparing. Dean has never felt anything like it—the invasion, the intimacy, the way Castiel is watching his face like every small sound Dean makes is important.
A third finger joined without warning this time.
"Cas—" Dean's voice broke. "I can't—"
"You can," Castiel said. "You're doing so well, Dean. Just a little more."
The pressure builds. Different this time. It isn't just in his body—it's in his chest, his throat, his bones. He can feel Castiel everywhere. Inside him. Around him. Part of him.
Castiel pulled his fingers out slowly, and Dean whimpered at the loss.
Then Castiel shifts. Dean hears the sound of a zipper—Cas's zipper—and his heart nearly stops. He can feel his face flushing.
Oh fuck. This is really happening.
Castiel positions himself between Dean's legs. His blue eyes never leave Dean's face. "Last chance to stop," he says.
Dean shook his head. No way he's gonna tell him to stop now. Not when he can feel the angel's hardness against his rim.
"Don't stop. Please don't stop."
Castiel pushed in.
The stretch is nothing like the fingers. This is more—fuller, deeper, everything. Dean cried out, his nails digging into Castiel's back, his legs wrapping around Castiel's waist on their own.
"Breathe, Dean," Castiel said, his voice strained. He's holding still, giving Dean time to adjust. Pressing his forehead against Dean's. Their noses touch.
In. Out. In. Out.
Dean's body slowly relaxes around him.
"Okay," Dean sighed. "Okay. Move. Move, Cas."
Castiel moved.
Slowly at first. Pulling out almost all the way, then pushing back in. Each thrust sends waves of heat through Dean's body—not the curse's heat, but something else. Something good. Something that leaves Dean whining and pleading.
"Faster," Dean begged. "More— I need more—"
Castiel obeyed. His pace quickens, and the room fills with sounds Dean would be embarrassed about later—the wet noise of their bodies, the creak of the bed, the broken moans falling from Dean's lips.
When Dean opened his eyes, he could see Castiel was trying not to let any noise slip from his lips by biting them.
Those tender pink lips. What would they taste like? His mind tells him he can go and lick them.
He can do this, right? This wouldn't be stepping out of bounds, right? He already had the angel's hand, mouth, and now his dick. Kissing will be the least thing Castiel will regret giving him today.
So he slides one hand from Castiel's back to his neck, pulling him down until their lips touch. He can feel Castiel stiffen at first, then thaw.
And, oh my. Those lips are sweeter than sweet. Nothing he could imagine.
He tried to keep the kiss soft, but God help him. He's in the clouds with the pace Castiel is keeping and repeatedly hitting that spot. He bit Castiel's lip, and the moment Castiel opened his mouth on a groan, Dean's tongue was already there, exploring a cave he'd only visited in his dreams.
"Cas—" Dean gasped against Castiel's lips. "I'm close. I'm so close—"
"Then let go," Castiel said against his mouth. "I've got you."
Dean comes with a scream. With a sound he's never made before—loud, broken. His body convulses around Castiel, pulling him deeper, holding him there. Waves of heat crash over him, through him, out of him.
For a moment, there is nothing.
Then—
The heat doesn't return.
Dean lies there, panting, his body limp. His skin is still warm, but it's a normal warmth. Human warmth. His warmth. Castiel-inside-him warmth.
"Dean?" Castiel's voice was careful.
"It's gone," Dean whispered. Tears are streaming down his face now, but they aren't sad tears. They aren't shameful tears. They are relief. "Cas, it's gone."
Castiel lets out a breath Dean hadn't realized he was holding. He pulls out slowly, carefully, and Dean feels a warm liquid escaping.
Holy shit, did Cas come inside me?
Castiel places his hand on Dean's chest. A soft blue light glows under his palm, and Dean feels the mess on their chests disappear. The sticky feeling between his ass cheeks fades. The scratches on Castiel's back heal.
"I'm still tired, though." He isn't pouting.
What a way to show your gratitude to your friend who probably saved your life. But to be fair, coming three times in less than an hour is exhausting. He didn't even do it when he was young, not now when he's almost forty.
"I did that on purpose," Castiel says simply. "You need sleep. If I healed you completely, you'd only sleep for four hours. You need more."
Castiel shifted, lying down beside Dean instead of on top of him. His arm wraps around Dean's waist. His chest pressed against Dean's back.
"Cas," Dean said finally.
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"Always,"
Dean's eyes flutter closed.
For the first time in hours, his body feels like his own.
And as sleep pulls him under, Dean thinks everything should be fine. That this maybe will let the angel feel something toward him, something that brings them together more.
When he wakes up tomorrow to Castiel's face watching over him while he sleeps, he could press a kiss to his lips. Hug him and cuddle with him like high school sweethearts.
He might even slip a soft, low I love you.
But his perfect picture shatters when Sam wakes him.
"We need to hit the road," Sam said, handing him a paper coffee cup.
When Dean doesn't say anything. Doesn't take the cup. Only looks at him bewildered, Sam answered the unspoken question: "Cas said he'll beat us to the bunker."
Yeah. What else did you think was gonna happen, Winchester?