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Lord it's a hard life God makes you live.
With the cessation of holiday hours at Target, Cas once again has the onerous task of filling free time. He avoided that problem for the last four months. The final weeks of September and the entirety of October he devoted to refitting a living space in Bobby's old house. Whatever happened to the house—a fire, he thinks, with neat illogic, because fire follows the Winchesters, the fires of childhood homes and the fires of Hell, until they burn, burn, burn—much of it remains uninhabitable. The wind of a strong storm would likely topple two of the exterior walls; most the interior is nothing but char. But there are some salvageable things—always, always something to save.
When the weather turned cold and the winter wind bites through the newspaper on the walls, that thought makes Cas grin, as hard and brittle as the wind. It's a joke Dean wouldn't appreciate, but would have understood nonetheless. Wherever Dean's soul is now.
He arrived in Sioux Falls in mid-September. As far as he can tell, Lucifer sent him exactly three years into the past—an alternative past. What the value of "alternative" is remains to be discovered. Due to various circumstances, none of them relevant now, it took him six weeks to travel from the Sanitarium that housed Lucifer's garden and Dean's final resting place in 2014 to Bobby's house in Sioux Falls in 2011. Six weeks or negative one hundred and fifty weeks.
The destruction of the house, and within two weeks, the discovery of the Impala, proved to Cas that Dean and Bobby are no more alive in this world than they were in his own. He doesn't know what happened to Sam. The world hasn't ended; he has no reason now to search for Sam Winchester.
Whatever demise the Winchesters met, and Bobby by extension, it didn't happen here. Through his careful exploration of the first floor of the house—his drive for self-destruction takes the form of ingesting as many chemicals as possible to provide relief or stimulation, not breaking his leg on navigating derelict stairs—he found a few books that survived the fire, as well as a few pieces of furniture he could appropriate for his own use: a kitchen chair, a table he could repair, a bed frame. But no bodies. No bones. He tried not to decide if that was a cause for relief (foolish hope) or despair (funeral rites are human practices, and he's not, he's not).
One of the books contained photographs. His employee discount at Target purchased a collection of picture frames. He tried not to crumble the charred edges when he tucked the photos safely behind glass.
They litter the surfaces of his room now: Sam and Dean as children or as young men; Bobby and other hunters Cas made the acquaintance of before they died. He likes the photographs, pieces of memory frozen eternally, even if they aren't his memories. He likes them almost as much as he likes the books. Very little of Bobby's library survived, but he saved what he could and then added his own in the last few months. Short-story fiction and philosophy are his favourites, but he buys whatever hooks his attention, or whatever seems popular with the shoppers at Target.
Humans craft stories to explain the world to themselves. He always wanted to understand them, resolved himself to live among them, even if now he lives miles and miles from another living person and contents himself with a room full of paper-thin images and distant knowledge. Living here isn't much different to being an angel. In a way, he's gone home.
For all that it may be lonely, he likes the home he's made for himself here. It may not involve waking up in sheets that smell like Dean and sex, or coming into a kitchen to be greeted with the smell of bacon frying and Dean smiling. But Cas has known those desires were only fantasy for years. Here, a generator runs two lamps, a space heater, and a hot plate when he needs it to eat up cans of soup. The bathroom down the hall miraculously still has running water, even with one of the walls missing. It's cold, and he worries as winter sets its teeth into South Dakota that the pipes will freeze, but it's better than no water. All in all, the commodities are no different than what they had at the camp, but with the addition of no one trying to kill them, no Croatoan virus, no torture, no traumatized refugees.
No Dean.
His shift ended tonight at eight, but they sent him home at seven due to lack of customers. Early on the floor manager decided it was better for him to focus on stocking and cleaning rather than interacting with people, but no customers means nothing to stock. He had spent the last hour leaning on the handle of his mop in the children's section, reading Harry Potter. Now, two hours later and dinner already prepared and consumed, he wishes he had bought Chamber of Secrets when they told him to go home. He has National Public Radio playing on the radio in the Impala outside, but listening to it means keeping the door open, and the evening February chill is no match for his space heater. He lies on the box spring he pulled out of what he thinks is the living room, curled under the pink and green floral comforter he bought as a set from Target's clearance aisle, despite having no pillows to put the pillow cases on, and tries to let the soft voices debating abortion lull him to sleep. Questions of mortality no longer interest him, but the news will be on in another hour, the nightly debrief for any signs or clues what happened in this world to keep it from becoming his own. Until then, he has a bottle of whiskey to keep him occupied, as well Bobby's stash of pain killers and sedatives in the table drawer.
Perhaps tomorrow he'll drive back to Target to buy Harry Potter. His day off can involve learning what becomes of Harry.
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It seems to take ages for you to say anything. The twisting in his chest seems akin to torture. Melodramatic, perhaps, but torture is the only time he's had to impose the same ruthless determination to remain still and let the moment wash over him without touching him. How to stay patient and distant without actively trying to leave or lash out. You nod, and he swallows along with you.
All right? Honestly this time. You consent to pretend for one night. Once again, it feels as though everything has gone completely still, as though he's just floating in space, his heart beat loud and echoing inside his chest. He takes a deep breath and releases it on a laugh, accidental, when you say he can't tell anyone. It feels like relief. Like—happiness.
"Of course." Who would he tell?
At some point, he shuts his eyes. He leaves them closed for a moment, smiling softly to himself, enjoying the moment. Of course, he doesn't know what to do. His assumptions or fantasies for how things might occur displays a distressing lack of relation to how things ultimately play out. But he can try. He's thought about it often enough that putting it into practice shouldn't be too difficult. Improvisation is your forte. But backing out now isn't an option.
Taking the whiskey bottle from the table, he grabs his coffee cup and stands up to cross to the bed. He offers you the bottle and the cup to hold while he slides the blanket from his shoulders and wraps half of it over your own as he sits down next to you, shoulders pressed together. His knee rests on top of your thigh when he crosses his legs beneath him on the box spring. Sharing the blanket, settled close against you like this, he waits intently for your response, to make sure it's okay. To help, and in gratitude, he takes the bottle again from you and pours a couple shots of whiskey into each glass. He leaves the bottle on the floor, and then, tentatively, reaches for your hand, placing his on top of yours.
"Thank you." For doing this. For agreeing. He can't look at you as easily when he's seated next to you, which works for this moment. His face already feels overly warm. He's sure if he met your eyes it would turn an uncomfortable shade of red. The reflexes of the human body are strange and nonsensical. Instead, he concentrates on the whiskey in his mug, and eventually takes a sip. He wants to sit like this for a few moments before they go to bed. He's not tired yet.
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He watches your face when you keep your eyes closed for a while, traces the lines in the corners of your eyes and around your mouth. You look tired, Cas. Tired and too skinny and worn out. Worn thin. You'll fit right in with the ever-diminishing anti-Leviathan team. Not that there is anyone else at this point other than him and Sam. He hopes Sam will accept you being around. He hopes Sam will understand why Dean never told him about your world. Maybe he can ask you not to tell Sam what he did in your world. Sam's struggling with enough shit, he doesn't need even more piled on.
You getting up returns his attention to the present, and he watches you come closer. Takes the bottle from you, his shoulders tensing only a little when you wrap the blanket around both of them and press up against his side. This is just huddling together for warmth. It doesn't have to mean anything more than that. He holds out his mug for more whiskey, drains half of it right after you pour it. Looks down at his hand when you rest yours on top of it and tell him thank you.
"'s all right." He doesn't actually mind it so much. It's weird, being this close to another person. He hasn't done it in a long time, didn't think he'd ever do it again. But you wanted it; you're not going to tease him about it. And you're not going to tell anyone else. He's safe letting you sit close like this. Holding your hand like this, as he turns his own palm-upwards and interlaces his fingers with yours. "'m glad you're here. It's good to see you."
He's missed you very much. He's never really let himself think about how much. Apparently enough to make sitting with you like this more comfortable and soothing than weird.
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Those aren't the words of someone who shares a house with someone else. But that might be taking this too far. It's nice to here, whatever the context. It's very nice. His heart beats faster in the hollow of his throat as his stomach churns nervously. He wants to wrap his arms around you. To hold you. He'll get to hold you, later tonight. You agreed for the entire night. There's time for it. Right now, he can focus on enjoying holding your hand. He rubs his thumb along the side of your index finger, trying to remember that, and squeezes your hand tightly, hanging on. His head finds your shoulder.
"I missed you, too, Dean." During the last six months. Longer than that, actually. Sometimes it's felt as though he's been missing you for years. He's glad you're here too. He likes having you here, sitting here with you. After a pause, he adds more quietly, wonderingly, "I think I miss you all the time." In every moment where he can't see you. When he can't be close to you. Feel—connected to you.
He nuzzles his cheek against your shoulder. He doesn't miss you right now. Right now, he feels—content. Or as close as it's possible to be.
Taking another sip of whiskey, he tries to identify what else they should talk about before going to bed.
"Tomorrow you should take the Impala." Rather than leaving it here. Her here. If he doesn't want to leave the Impala here, unused and unattended, then he can't imagine what it's like for you. "Lots of black '67 Chevys exist; the Leviathans have either found a better way to track you by now or their ability to recognise the Impala won't make a large difference in the long run. The sacrifice isn't worth the slight advantage to stealth." Not with how much you love that car. How much a part of you she is. He pulls their joined hands into his lap, and tilts his chin up so he can your jaw and the corner of your eyes above the plane of your cheek. You should have your car, Dean. "I, uh, would like to go for a drive."
Right now. Can they go for a drive in the Impala and hold hands like this before going to bed?
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He just sits there quietly as you tell him you've missed him, holding your hand with one of his, the other wrapped around the whiskey mug. Turns his head a little when you continue—he's not sure what you mean by that, but he doesn't want to ask. Traces the creases and streaks of dirt on your jeans, wonders how many pairs you have. If you have more than one. If someone showed you how to wash your clothes or if you learned it by yourself. There are a lot of things you would have had to learn. He hopes you had some help with that, back in your world.
He does glance over at you when you tell him they should take the Impala tomorrow. Starts to shake his head—they can't do that, Frank said it's too dangerous, and while Frank's got a few screws loose, when it comes to being sufficiently paranoid, he's the best—but then stops when you suggest to go for a drive.
"Now?" He thought you wanted to go to sleep. Play house. Pretend to be in a relationship with him. But your expression seems to suggest that you do mean now, that you'd like to include going for a drive in his car in your last-night-on-Earth program.
It is what he came here for. He nods. "All right. I'll have to put the ignition back together first."
He's not going to hotwire his baby. Not when he has the keys right there in his pocket.
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Down the hallway, in what remains of the bathroom, there are three knives arranged next to the sink, including the machete he found in the Impala's trunk. He debates bringing them. Apart from one altercation, he hasn't seen anything that suggested itself as a Leviathan. It's dark out and the roads around Bobby's house are empty. The chance that something will find them, find you, seems minimal.
He goes outside to meet you once his boots are on, sliding into the passenger seat and crowding into your space again, so that there's shoulders touch. His hand settles against your thigh, mid-way between your knee and your hip; his fingers curl around the inside, hanging on.
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It doesn't take long. He's hotwired the Impala before, either out of necessity, or because he was teaching someone else how it's done. Hooking the wires back into place and replacing the panel is a matter of minutes, even though the only light he has is that of his phone. His phone reminds him of Sam, who's probably waiting for him to come back, so he composes a quick text. Not to worry. Will be back tomorrow midday. Bringing a friend.
He hits send, then looks around, eyes trailing over the interiors of the car. His car. So very familiar. He runs a hand over the steering wheel, a soothing, apologetic gesture. "'m sorry it's been so long." Muttered in the privacy of the empty car's interior. "Thanks for taking care of Cas."
As if on cue, the passenger door opens and you get in. Dean tightens his posture immediately, turns the key in the ignition. He can't help but grin when the engine comes to live with a familiar growl, the seat starting to vibrate underneath. He can feel you pressing against him, your fingers on his inner thigh, curling into the soft skin there. He turns his head to grin at you, not identifying the pleasant tension in his body until he meets your eyes.
Then he does, and his throat suddenly dries out, nervousness clenching his chest in a momentary, brief panic. He's pretending. He's supposed to be pretending. He shifts into reverse, backs the car up towards the road.
"This reminds me of high school. Or, you know, the fun parts of high school." The Impala settles onto the road, and he shifts into first, pulling away up the driveway. "Thing about switching towns every other week was that every time I'd figured out the good spots to take your girl for a nightly making-out session, we'd move."
That was not what he intended to say. He didn't mean to bring up kissing or making out. Too late now. He swallows, accelerates and shifts into second.
"Where d'you wanna go?"
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You're beautiful, Dean.
The first thing that comes to mind when you say this reminds you of high school is hunting werewolves. There isn't much he knows about your experiences with school, or as a teenager, but he knows you left earlier than expected in order to hunt. That you didn't like school. Though you apparently liked the sexual activity associated with puberty. His eyebrows creep up slowly.
Where does he want to go? To make out?
For a long time he stares at you, lips parted in surprise. He doesn't know how to answer that question. That wasn't what he meant when he suggested they go for a drive. When he asked you to pretend. He didn't expect that you would pretend—to this extent. But if you're offering—if you're willing to do that much . . . it would be foolish not to accept. If you regret it later, you can blame no one but yourself. He didn't force it on you. You offered.
Eventually, he looks down, a soft, shy smile curling up his mouth. He studies his hand on your thigh, the way his thumb smooths over the wrinkles in your jeans. He doesn't know what makes a spot—a make-out spot, or what criteria to use to analyse its suitability. He doesn't know of many "spots" around Bobby's house. But you asked him for his preference. "I think there's a . . . uh, a field. A few miles down Country Road 18." They could park there without being disturbed and—make out.
The box of tapes still sits in the foot-well of the passenger seat. They could listen to music, and . . . kiss. This night is becoming far more perfect than he thought it could be.
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He shifts in the driver's seat when you speak, not sure if he would like you to move your hand further up his thigh or take it away entirely. You should probably leave it there if they're going to make out. He glances over at you when you mention a field where they could park, careful not to meet your eyes. He just wants to look at you. You're still very much a guy, stubble on your cheeks, angular cheekbones and jaw, a flat chest under the fabric of your shirt. Somehow, that doesn't seem to matter as much as it should. It doesn't stop him from dropping his eyes to your lips and wondering what they would feel like.
He returns his eyes to the road, flexes his grip on the steering wheel. "There's a box with tapes by your feet. If we're gonna do this, we'll need some music." So pick a tape and put it on, while he finds that field you were talking about.
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Sex wasn't fulfilling to him, then. But this—is. This night with you is.
Keeping his hand on your thigh, he leans forward to snag the box of tapes onto his lap, rummaging through them for ones he might recognise. He knows your music by sound, but not by name. "What's the song that goes . . . " There is no way to finish that statement; he knows the sound but he can't reproduce it or think of a way to describe it. "It mentions birds. And freedom." He's thinking of Free Bird. "I like that band." He wants to listen to them.
He waits for your help to select the tape, and then turns it down low, so he can talk over it. Even with the snow and ice, the field off CR 18 isn't far. There are some things they should clarify before they get there. He watches his fingers pick at the creases in your jeans, smoothing them out over the top of your thigh and then plucking them up again. It could be read as a nervous gesture. He enjoys the sensation of the rough fabric against his fingertips, your thigh warm and solid beneath it, muscular. He wants them squeezed around his ribs, and your fingers digging into his shoulders, as his hips pound into yours.
Not that he plans to mention that.
"You've, uh—you've never done this before." Kissed him. They've never had sex here. "With—me. I died an angel." He sneaks a glance at you out of the corner of his eyes. "Any sexual desire I felt towards you I still confused as something else." Right? He never made sexual advances to you here? He pauses for a long moment, fingers trailing mindlessly up and down your thigh while he tries to think how he wants to phrase it. "It was—a mistake. The first time I kissed you. I don't, uh. I know this is—pretend. But I don't want to make a mistake this time."
And hurt you. He's not sure why it hurt you before, why this hurts you. But he knows that it does. He doesn't want to hurt you. If there's something you want out of it, that you can get out of it, kissing him, then he wants to give that to you.
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"Freebird. Lynyrd Skynyrd. Second top 40 of the band, but trust me, it should've been a straight number one." There you go, that's the tape. He waits until you take it, then returns his attention to the road. Drums his fingers on the wheel when the drums kick in half-way through the intro. You've got decent taste in music, Cas. You're also playing with the fabric of his jeans, pressing your fingers into his thigh. It makes his skin prickle pleasantly, the music distracting him enough so he can enjoy the sensation without having to think about it. He likes it that way.
Your words dull the pleasant buzz he's feeling and make him look over at you. Is that a question? When you glance over at him, he shakes his head, looks back at the road, flexes his grip on the steering wheel. "I dunno if you felt anything." He never got the impression that you did. "We never made out."
You're still stroking his thigh as you explain that kissing him was a mistake. Was it? Then why are they on their way to do it again? That makes him frown a little, but the frown smooths out when you continue. It was a mistake the first time, but you don't want it to be one this time. That makes some amount of sense.
"Why was it a mistake?" He glances over at you. What went wrong the first time? If you tell him, they can avoid it happening this time.
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He turns his face towards the passenger-side window, leaning his weight into your side, hand settling against your thigh. "I felt something."
The version of him that existed here, and died. He doesn't know how he wouldn't have felt something for you. He doesn't know when it started, if something changed in him the moment he saw you in Hell, but he should have been aware of it by now, even as an angel. He should have known he loved you, even if he didn't know how or whether to express it.
It's not something he sees a point in discussing. He doesn't want—to ruin whatever small amount of peace they've established for right now. He wants to pretend that none of that ever happened, or that none of it matters now. They're together; he wants to be together.
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He doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want to think about you, the you of this world, or the fact that you're not a girl. He doesn't need to think about it. Shifts a little so he can slide his arm around your shoulders, tug you in a little closer against him.
"Let's just pretend right now, all right?" That's what you asked for. He'd like to do that. Pretend for one night that things went differently. Pretend for one night that it doesn't matter that you're a guy, that they can do this and it won't be wrong, or bad, or doomed. Pretend for one night that they can do whatever they want. They can go back to the real world tomorrow morning.
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And you must be doing this for him. They wouldn't need to pretend if you felt otherwise.
He slouches down in the seat so your arm fits more comfortably around him without straining your shoulder, and twists into you. His nose brushes against your neck, between your jaw and the collar of your jacket, trailing up the line of your nose to nudge between your ear. You still smell the same, like sweat and hot metal, even in the February cold. He presses a soft kiss behind your ear, nuzzling with his nose before he opens his mouth to scrape his teeth lightly over the bolt of your jaw. They should pretend; he wants to pretend.
"Dean." Your name comes out as a sigh, fond, and he smiles against your skin. He loves you, Dean. Being with you makes him happy. He knows it would make him happy. "Maybe, uh, we can eat—burgers afterwards?" Whenever they get tired of making out? Or, more accurately, when it gets too cold for you and too sexually frustrating for him. He hasn't had a cheeseburger in years. But he remembers them. He remembers eating them with you, and your enjoyment for them. His fingernails rake up and down your thigh. They should eat cheeseburgers tonight, Dean; say yes.
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When he comes up to the field you mentioned, he remembers it. He's driven past it often enough. He slows down, pulls off the road, his arm around you tightening as the Impala bounces over uneven ground. He smiles a little when you suggest that they could get burgers, presses the clutch down and eases the car to a stop far enough from the road to be hidden from unlikely passer-bys. Then he shifts a little to the side to be able to look at you more easily.
"We could do that. If we can find a burger joint that's open." It's a good idea, but he's not paying it as much attention as it probably deserves. Your eyes are distracting him. The car's not moving now, he doesn't need to watch the road, and you're right there, pressed up against his side and looking up at him with those wide, blue eyes. "You've got the most unlikely eye-color, Cas."
He doesn't wait for you to reply. He leans in and pulls you in closer so he can press his lips to yours. His mouth is closed for now, the kiss careful, chaste. Exploring. Your lips are dry, the stubble around them strange, unfamiliar. He shifts a little closer, moves his hand that is not around your shoulders to rest on top of the one you've got on his thigh. Keep that there, Cas. That feels good.
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He misses you. He missed you. He's sorry.
Green eyes are genetically more uncommon than blue eyes; beyond that, the colour of his vessel's eyes have little to do with him. But he doesn't have a chance to respond because then you lean in. He gasps at the first touch of your mouth, jerking back a fraction of an inch before he stills himself and relaxes, letting you take your time to explore. He wants to deepen the kiss, but he waits for a while, head lolling back against your arm with a low sound of appreciation when you firm the pressure. It's difficult to remain passive. His hand clenches around your thigh, taking the cue to leave it there, palm digging down into the muscle as he pushes back into the seat, neck stiff, almost as though he's trying to get away from you.
He doesn't want to scare you off, or do something you don't like.
"Dean . . . " His lips brush against yours, muffling your name. His neck is starting to ache from holding it at an awkward angle. Opening his eyes, he stares almost cross-eyed at the arch of your cheekbone until you pull back. "Can we—go in the back?"
Like this, the steering wheel's in the way, and one of his arms is pinned uselessly between their bodies. He wants to pull you against him. He wants to touch you. He wants to be able to kiss you back.
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Something's not right. You say his name, and he pulls back, blinking. A little concerned. What's up? You want to go in the back. It takes him a moment to process that, but then he realizes that the position they're in is kind of awkward. Kind of uncomfortable. If not very uncomfortable. He nods.
"Sure, yeah. Good idea." He gives you a bit of a smile as he pulls away—reassuring. Encouraging? Mostly, he just wants to make you move quickly. He himself does, opening the driver's door and sliding into the back with comfortable ease. He likes knowing the dimensions of his ride like his back pocket. He's missed his car. Almost as much as he's missed you.
He sits in the back, one knee pulled up and resting on the seat so he can sit sideways, and waits for you to join him.
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He sits for a moment, flummoxed. This isn't going how he thinks it should, despite his desires and intentions. It doesn't make sense. He shouldn't—get what he wants. But he is. You seem willing. Very willing. And he's wasting his chance. You may not have done this before in this world, but that also means—you may not have the scars from it. Maybe it was never the act itself that bothered you, but something else. Something he did? He hadn't had sex before, the first time he had sex with you in his world. He might have done something wrong—gave you the wrong impression?—which ruined everything that followed. That seems like such a petty reason, if it was nothing but a misunderstanding that perpetuated for years and never was resolved. He should be angry about that. But he can be angry later. When you're not waiting in the backseat for him.
Pushing up on one knee on the seat, he turns around to look at you. You seem just as eager as before. It's strange. His eyes narrow. He wonders how far your eagerness extends. "Take off your jacket?" Please. He takes his off, leaving it on the seat next to him. His sweatshirt and flannel shirt follow, along with his gloves. In just his long-sleeve shirt from the camp, it's cold, but he plans to warm up soon. He crawls over the seat into the back, not as a graceful as he could be, but not exactly awkward. He's had a vessel for years; he's learned how to employ it by now. It lands him in your lap, his knee between your legs, straddling your thigh. One hand he braces on the roof of the car for balance as he leans over you. It effectively traps you in the corner between the seat and the door with his body.
"Okay?" With them positioned like this. While waiting for your answer, he threads the fingers of his free hand through the hair above your ear, tilting your head up so he can lean down to kiss you. It's far less hesitant now, the way he likes to kiss, direct and with purpose. He runs the tip of his tongue along your bottom lip to encourage you to let him deepen the kiss.
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And you do. As you clamber over the backrest, he's momentarily distracted by watching your feet with a concerned expression. Don't leave streaks of boot dirt on the ceiling, Cas. But you don't. Instead, you land in his lap, your face suddenly very close, his hands sliding up your sides and back to balance you. He nods when you ask him if he's okay, throat too dry to reliably produce words. You're really close like this. And your crotch is pressed right up against his thigh. He lets you tilt his head, meets your lips in a kiss as he shifts his leg to press up against you. His hands slide around to your back, and he curls his fingers into the fabric of your t-shirt, scraping against your skin as he parts his lips. He nudges his tongue against yours—an invite. Come on in.
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You want this. That's an extreme level of dedication to tonight.
He doesn't want to question it any longer. Whatever your reasons are—and he plans to ask in the morning—they're reasons that work towards the same outcome as his own desires. He should have drank more at the house. Doubting comes too naturally now, but he can try to ignore for the moment.
The slide of your tongue against his helps.
As he falls into the rhythm of the kiss, he twists his body and pushes with his hand on the roof until your slide further down into the seat, reclined so he can stretch out on top of you. It shifts his weight from his knees to his hips against yours, stomachs pressed together. His foot scrapes against the floor of the car as he shoves his body into alignment with yours, his thigh pressed against your groin in a mirror image to your thigh against his, locked together like puzzle pieces. The full body contact feels blessedly good. No one has touched him in months. He can't help arching into your hands, groaning in the back of his throat when they slide over his skin through his shirt. He wants more of your skin. He wants more of you, always.
Sucking on your tongue, his hand slides down your neck to your shoulder, trailing down the bare skin of your arm. The tips of his fingers brush under the hem of your sleeve. It's an accident when they skim over the bottom edge of raised scar tissue, the handprint he branded into your body and soul, but it makes him moan all the same in surprise. He'd forgotten. He doesn't know how he forgot that. You're the soul he found in hell and marked as his own. You're Dean. His.
Breaking away from your mouth with a rough gasp, he buries his face into your neck, gently biting at the skin around the collar of your t-shirt. His hips rolls against yours, blood making his dick twitch and harden. "Dean." He growls against your neck, and shoves his hips down hard against yours once. His hand finds your forearm near his side, grasping it tightly, before he changes his mind and instead worms his fingers under your t-shirt. He strokes up your side, and then across your stomach, shoving your shirt up to your chest so he can duck down to suck an open mouth kiss above your navel. Breathing hard, he works his way back up your body, scraping his teeth over the curve of your ribs, and licking over a nipple, before he presses a kiss to the center of your chest, palm smoothing across your collarbones.
He lingers there, just breathing. "Dean." His pulse beats steadily in the creases of his thighs, drawing his attention to the way his erection presses against the fly of his jeans. Raising up on his knees, he sweeps a hand through his hair and stares down at you. He doesn't know what to do now. Where you'll draw the line. Where they should draw the line. They still need the ability to work together, after all. His tongue sneaks out to prod his lower lip; his mouth feels swollen and numb. The car feels very warm now.
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He slouches further down when you nudge him, his t-shirt rucking up as his back slides against the leather of the seat. Your thigh settles against his groin and he makes an involuntary sound, a startled grunt in the back of his throat. His fingers clench into the fabric of your shirt and he rolls his hips up against you, his thigh pressing against your groin as he does. Cas. Cas, he's getting hard. He's not sure he's supposed to, with you being a guy and with this being a pretense. Supposedly.
He doesn't want to stop, though, not until you slide your hand under his sleeve and the tips of your fingers brush over the scar there. The touch makes a shiver run down his spine, makes him arch his back in surprise as you moan. He's suddenly very aware of how close you are, how your body is pressed against his as tightly as possible. You're a guy, Cas. You're Cas. You break the kiss moments before he would have, too overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of the reality of this moment to continue kissing you.
He breathes hard, curls his fingers more tightly into your shirt when you say his name. Twitches a little and tilts his head back when he can feel your teeth against his skin—a sensation that feels good-bad-right-wrong, that he wants more of but doesn't know how to handle if it continued. He lets go of you as you move down, breathing a little more freely when your weight shifts off of his upper body. He runs his fingers into your hair, quietly moans when you kiss his stomach, then lets his eyes half-close in an overwhelmed, blissed-out expression when you move further up to lick his nipple and kiss his chest.
Then you stop, and he's not sure if it's regret or relief he feels. Maybe both; deep, raw regret at the loss of stimulation, and relief because the stimulation was getting far too much. He blinks when you pull back and kneel, his hands sliding over your back down your sides to come to rest on your thighs. He just watches you look down at him for a few moments, shifts his hips a little. He's really hard, Cas. One brief glance at your crotch tells him that you are, too.
"I don't—" He has to clear his throat to stop his voice from catching, meets your eyes again. "I don't wanna pretend. I mean. I'm—not. Pretending." That much should be obvious. He's really not pretending. He wets his lips. "Maybe we—uh. Maybe we need to slow down a little."
Because this is really new, Cas. This is really surprising. He hasn't done this before, and if they continue like this, it's going to freak him out.
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He can't stop staring at you. You look—wrecked, Dean. You're staring at his groin, where his erection tents the front of his jeans, as if it's something startling. It makes him swallow, half turned on and half uncomfortably self-conscious. He doesn't know what you expected.
He doesn't know what he expected. Your words hit him like a physical blow. Rocking on his knees, he flinches back from them, breath coming in sharply and brow creasing in confusion.
You're not pretending.
"You—want this." The words come out slow, careful. Suspicious. This was suppose to be one night, Dean. His last night on Earth night, when he gets to have what he wants. What he never had. What he lost. He lost you. "Dean . . ." He starts to shake his head before he's aware that he's doing it. Falling backwards onto his ass, he shifts down the seat from you, towards the opposite door, putting space between them. He only stops because his spine jars hard against the arm rest; he can go no farther.
Several silent seconds stretch by as he stares at you. They're so far off the map right now that he doesn't know how to find his bearings, let alone which direction to go. He glances down, and wets his upper lip, uncomfortable with your admission. He still wants to eat a burger and go home and sleep with you in bed. He wants his last night. He doesn't want to have this conversation. But apparently they have to.
"Uh." He shakes his head again, and then digs his palm into his eye, rubbing it. He's too sober for this. "We can't—we can't have a relationship, Dean." He thought you knew that. Even if their relationship was different here, even if their pasts are different, that's still—a common fact. A universal truth. "Sorry to . . . break it to you." His voice drifts off at the end, sincerely regretful. He offers you a small, wistful half-smile. They can only have one night.
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So he doesn't take you shaking your head and moving away as anything other than what it seems to be—backing up and taking stock. Slowing down. Figuring out what just happened. He sits up as well, uses the few silent moments to gather himself, rubs his hands over his face and takes a deep breath. He's okay now. Glances over at you just as you rub your eyes and start to talk. Your words make him blink, make his eyebrows draw together a little when you meet his eyes. That's—not what he expected you to say.
"No." He shrugs a little. "I mean, I know. Relationships . . ." He trails off, shakes his head and laughs a resigned little laugh. "I've tried enough times to have one to know I'm a lost cause." He meets your eyes again, giving you a small half-smile in return. He's not relationship material. Another shrug, and he looks off to the side, a little awkward. "This was nice, though." He reaches across his chest, slips his fingers under his t-shirt sleeve to rub over the scar tissue on his shoulder. "You—" He turns his head back around, eyes slightly narrowed, determined to be looking at you when he says this. "This was nice."
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But that seems unlikely to happen now.
"So what, uh—." He swallows, aware that the atmosphere in the car has changed, become awkward. He doesn't know what to do about that, so he elects to ignore it as much as possible, striving for a relaxed and apathetic tone. "What did you mean? You didn't want . . . to pretend."
He asked you to pretend like they were in a relationship. That—they were in love, and happy, and had a house together. If you know that's impossible, what did you mean?
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More than enjoy. His eyes drop down to your lips, the tip of his tongue tracing over his own as he remembers what you taste like. He's never going to forget that taste, Cas. Never.
"We could still pretend the rest." He meets your eyes again, gives you a bit of a smile. "The burgers, and the sleeping. In your house." He would like that. He may be a lost cause when it comes to relationships, but that doesn't mean they couldn't pretend for one night. It's just one night. Nobody else ever has to know.
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He shifts against the door, leaning his shoulder more comfortably into the back of the seat, and slouching down so his leg presses against yours. "Do you enjoy sex? If you didn't, that would explain . . . a lot." In retrospect. "You used to talk often about sex; I never thought to ask you if that was, uh . . ." Something you said rather than felt. If it was a confidence trick, in a sense. "—an act. You're talented at conning people."
Is that part of it? Do you feel obligated to have sex? He didn't want you to feel obligated with him. He's glad that, at least this time, you didn't. That you enjoyed it. That you still want to continue the night.
His boot rubs against yours, helpless to express interest even though he knows they shouldn't have sex. He wasn't going to have sex with you. But now they're talking about it and you're looking at him like that and—you're attractive, Dean. He loves you. He wants to make you smile for him.
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