you're holy to me [Supernatural, Destiel]

It's past midnight, and they're at the only open restaurant for miles, a greasy, sparsely populated diner called "Pat's." They washed the grave dirt off their hands in the bathroom before taking their table, but lucky for them, they're not the only clientele with dirt and sweat caking their jeans. There's a few old truckers sitting at the bartop, and in the far corner, a group of teenagers are slap-fighting each other over a shared platter of french fries.

Eileen sips her coffee—two creams and no sugar—like it's heavenly manna, eyes closed and hands cupped around the mug. Her hair is pulled back, sweaty strands sticking to her cheeks and forehead. She'd taken a swing at one of their ghosts with a shovel and toppled over into the freshly-dug grave earlier. She was lucky to come away with just a couple of bruises and a finger bone stuck in her hair. Sam reaches across, tugs a strand away from her face and tucks it behind her ear. She smiles at him over the rim of her mug, pink cheeks rounded and eyes creasing. She sets it down to thank Cas and Dean for coming to help, fingertips to chin.

Dean signs, No problem. Winks. He practices with Cas, and he still can't help but glance at him for approval, wondering if he did it right. Then his eyes dart away again, like he's afraid to look directly at him. He's been like that all night. Did Cas do something wrong? Dean isn't sulking and needling him like he usually does when he's angry, when Cas has misstepped, but he is twitchy, worrying at his lip with his teeth and fiddling with his silverware while he waits for his patty melt and fries. When it comes, he eats less than he usually does, picking at his fries, dragging them through a pool of ketchup without ever bringing them to his mouth.

Something about this hunt has Dean distracted. Cas can't pinpoint what it is yet. He likes to think that he can read Dean fairly well by now, though they still misunderstand one another often. The only person who might know him better is Sam. But Cas knows there are things about Dean that Sam is not privy to, that only Castiel has been granted. He loves Sam, knows how important Sam is to Dean, but the thought still fills him up, a warm and bubbling feeling of pride. If they could see the smug way his feathers puffed and swelled—but they can't. Cas sips his black coffee quietly. Another thing for him alone to know.

"Dean, are you feeling all right?" Cas leans his head down, trying to catch Dean's eyes. Dean ducks away from him, shoving the fry into his mouth suddenly.

"'M fine," he says around the mouthful.

"You took a pretty big hit back there, man," Sam says.

"Yeah, and Cas pulled a Kool-Aid man and patched me up," Dean says, waving him off. "It's all good. Just, you know." Dean's knee is bouncing under the table. Cas's half-empty mug of coffee vibrates with it. "Ready to hit the hay, I guess."

Eileen makes a face at him. Dean makes a face right back. Eileen rolls her eyes. Dean flicks a balled up piece of napkin at her, making her laugh.

Dean had been very close to being badly hurt. They're all experts at dispatching angry spirits, but anyone would have been overwhelmed by the sheer numbers they'd dealt with that night, and Dean's not as young as he once was. If Cas hadn't been there to tear away the mausoleum door and free Dean, he would have gotten much worse than a few knocks to the head. The blood is gone now, and Cas doesn’t see any lingering signs of a concussion, but it’s hard to tell for certain when Dean refuses to look straight at him.

Sam and Eileen plan to keep pressing on through the night, hopefully to arrive back home before dawn. Eileen downs another cup of coffee before they pay the bill and head out. But Dean, usually content to push a few extra hours into the early morning if it means making it back to the bunker, insists that it'd be better for them to spend the night at a motel. Cas doesn't fight him on it, though it's unlike him. Dean hugs Eileen, pats Sam on the back, and lets them drive off in Eileen's Plymouth with his hands in his pockets.

Castiel watches him, a simple joy he has indulged in often in his time on Earth. The pleasing lines of his profile against the black sky, the wrinkles that gather by the corners of his eyes and the angle of his jaw. Castiel is allowed to touch him, now, in ways that he hadn't dared before. It was always Dean who had drawn up those invisible lines, and who was therefore the only one who had been allowed to cross them. Everything had been at Dean's pace, at Dean's say so. Even now, knowing the ways Dean says he loves him, knowing the many shapes his desire takes, Cas is uncertain how much he is allowed. Even just to watch is sometimes a line crossed, so he takes the opportunity greedily.

Dean catches him at it, and Cas can tell how it embarrasses him from how he flinches away, covering the skin of his neck with his hand. But he doesn't tell Cas to stop. He only nods to the Impala, an invitation.

It's a short drive, and Dean spends it fidgeting. He changes out the music twice in five minutes, he taps his fingers on the steering wheel, he adjusts the rearview mirror. He nudges Cas's knee reaching for the glove compartment and nearly drops the tape in his hand, but still manages to avoid looking at Cas for longer than a moment. Cas concentrates, trying to read him. His soul is as uncertain as he is, flittering and bleeding colors, too excited to be still. There's a thread of prayer tugging at the edge of his consciousness, too scattered to make any sense of, which isn't unusual, coming from Dean.

When they arrive, Dean tells Cas to wait outside while he books them a room. This, too, is common for Dean, who is still very aware of what strangers assume of two men sharing a single motel room this late in the evening. Even when those assumptions were false, he had been aware of them. Their family knows, and that alone had been a difficult matter for Dean to grapple with. Dean will not take his hand in places where strangers might see them, will shy away and become hesitant if Sam or Eileen or Jack happen upon them embracing in the kitchen or the library. The first time Dean had kissed his temple in front of the others, telling them good night as he left for their bedroom, Cas had almost shorted out the television in shock.

A poisonous thought occurs to him then. During the fight, his grace had flared, roaring to life, as he ripped the stone door from the mausoleum. Dean, bloodied, on his knees, had looked up at him, stunned. Not for the first time.

Once, he had demanded fear and respect, seen it as his due as a soldier of God. Now it sickens him to think that Dean could be afraid of him.

Dean re-emerges from the motel office with a key dangling from his finger. Cas looks closer for signs of unease or mistrust, but Dean is still so hard to read. Cas tries to make himself useful by carrying Dean's duffel, locking Baby's doors behind himself and trailing behind Dean at what he hopes is a respectful distance.

"Dean," he starts, choked with worry. Dean waves him off, fumbling with the key in the lock. The door swings open, and Dean rushes inside. Cas hesitates on the sidewalk. The lights flick on. He steels himself and follows.

The moment the door clicks shut behind him, Dean's fists are in the lapels of his coat. He goes where Dean bids, back pressed to the wood paneled wall. Here it comes. The wave of Dean's anger, his worry, his fear, cresting—

"Fuckin' finally," Dean says, and then Cas is being kissed.

Cas has been kissed by Dean forty-seven times. Humans, probably, would have lost count, or not counted at all. He has gathered this is not, generally speaking, something people keep track of past the first time. He can't understand why, because every time he is ruined again.

Dean's mouth crushes itself to his. Cas grabs the back of Dean's neck, fingers through the short hairs at the base of his skull, and Dean tilts back into them, lips parting on a sigh. The duffel bag drops from Cas's shoulder heavily. Dean's grip on his coat slackens, and then Dean's hands are snaking under the lapels to ruck it off, down over his arms and falling in a heap to the ground, half on top of the bag.

"Fuckin' finally," Dean says again, against the corner of Cas's mouth. "Christ, you're drivin' me crazy here, Cas."

"I'm sorry," Cas says.

"No you're not."

"No, I'm not."

"So fuckin' cool, Cas. Shit, if Sam and Eileen hadn't've been there I'd've—like, right there in the—the fuckin'—"

"The mausoleum?"

"Yeah," Dean says, lips and teeth on his chin while he yanks at Cas's tie, tugging it loose but leaving it tied.

"The police would've seen us."

Dean scoffs. "You could've—smited? Smote? Sm—you—Man, whatever, fuck cops."

Cas kisses his mouth again, tasting diner coffee on Dean's tongue. Yes, fuck cops, he thinks. If Dean had kissed him like this in the mausoleum he wouldn't have cared if Sam or Eileen or the cops or God or Death herself were watching. Dean sighs again, shoulders shaking with it, when their bodies slot against each other, "Fuck, Cas," and that sounds so much sweeter. Cas holds Dean's face, tracing the curve of his ear. He lets out a grunt of disappointment when Dean pulls away again.

"Okay, come on, work with me," Dean says into the hollow of his throat. He lays a kiss there, followed by a scrape of teeth. Dean's hands fall to his belt. Cas allows his arms to fall to the sides, letting Dean undo the buckle. Dean's eyes dart from Cas's hands to his mouth, but never higher. His lips are pink and bitten, and Cas wants to taste them again. Dean slides his belt free and it clatters to the floor. He pauses, hands at Cas's waist, taking in an unsteady breath, and leans down, forehead to temple. Their noses touch. Cas leans into him, and Dean sways away.

"I wanna…" Dean huffs in frustration, radiating heat. There are times when Cas believes him audacious, reckless. Other times he is as shy as a child. Cas is helpless, in either case. He wants to know what Dean wants. He hears the button of his trousers pop, feels the rough slide of Dean's fingers into his waistband, the edge of a fingernail catching on his skin. "Can't stop thinkin' about it."

"Yes," Cas agrees. Whatever it is that makes it so Dean can't think of anything but getting him alone, Cas wants. "Tell me."

Dean makes another frustrated sound. He's hidden his face in Cas's neck. Cas can feel Dean's heartbeat where he's pressed against him. He wants to hold it in his hands, and settles for resting his hand between Dean's shoulder blades. "I want—" Dean cuts himself off, and paints over the broken sentence by pressing his mouth to Cas's pulse. His hand nudges Cas's zipper down to cup him through his boxers. He's not quite hard, the touch tentative and exploratory. Dean's voice, when he finds it again, is a rasp. Nearly a whisper. "Want you to mess me up, Cas."

Cas tries to pull back to look at him, but his head thunks against the wall. Dean meets him halfway, moving far enough that Cas can see the splash of freckles across his pink face. Dean's eyes finally flit up to meet his. Castiel once set fire to millions of years of unconditional faith and loyalty for one grateful look from those eyes.

But something in him quails. Is Dean asking to be hit? Cas doesn't know if he can do that, not again, even if Dean asks it of him.

In the space of his hesitation, Dean moves, going to his knees. He bunches up the abandoned trenchcoat as a cushion. Cas holds his breath when Dean looks back up at him, embarrassed, but trusting himself to Cas's mercy.

"I—" Cas croaks, hating that Dean will be disappointed with him. "I don't want to hurt you."

Dean smiles crookedly, like he does when Cas has said something foolish and Dean is about to spend the next hour delighting in correcting him. "You're not gonna hurt me."

Relief floods his body. He's aware of Dean's taste in pornography, but that doesn't mean he's ready to apply the theory.

"I mean, a little choking's prolly okay," Dean says, going red to the lovely tips of his ears. "Just try to, y'know, remember to let me breathe once in a while?" And before Cas can ask him what exactly he means, Dean's sealing his mouth to Castiel's half-hard dick through his boxers. Cas sucks in a gasp, his mouth falling open.

"Dean," he breathes. Dean steals a look up at him through the fan of his eyelashes, then lets his eyes fall shut as he concentrates on mouthing his way up Cas's length and back down, laving his tongue over the shape of him and wetting the white fabric to translucence. It's not the first time Cas has had Dean's mouth, but if Dean had ever been so eager for it, Cas hadn't realized. His pink tongue, the sheen on his lips, the excited gleam in his eye when he sees how it makes Cas thicken—all are nothing short of miraculous.

Sex with Dean has been wonderful from the start. Even when there were uncomfortable moments, undignified sounds and bodily functions, even when something happened that made either Dean or Castiel retreat with wounded pride, only to return later with heightened understanding, it was wonderful because it was Dean. Cas had convinced himself this would never be possible, and now he is alive and every day he is allowed to see and learn and touch and smell and taste and fuck and feel. He is permitted to see Dean made vulnerable, stripped down in every sense of the word, not by celestial powers wishing them to dance to their tune, but because he's chosen to trust Castiel.

"Don't just hafta look," Dean says in a gratifying mirror of his thoughts, voice muffled against Cas's cock, his hands flexing against his thighs. Cas realizes his own hands are clenched tight in the ends of his shirt-tails. With conscious effort, he relaxes them. Dean's eyebrows flick up. Haltingly, Cas brings his hand to the crown of Dean's head, letting his fingers spread over his scalp, combing through his short hair and making a mess of it. Dean's eyes fall closed, and he leans into the motion. Cas hears him sigh, sees the slight flare of his nostrils. Cas thinks it very beautiful. He repeats the motion, cradling Dean's head in his palm. He makes a pleased sound, a little vibration that makes Cas's fingers clench.

Dean's hands slide up Cas's khakis, and he peels the mess he's made of Cas's boxers down far enough to get his mouth around the flushed cockhead that peeks over his waistband. Dean tugs it down further, underneath his balls, and wraps one rough hand around the base of him, his other gripping Cas's hip and holding him in place while he focuses his attention on the tip of his cock. If Cas wanted to, he could easily break free and move Dean however he wanted. Dean might even like it, if he did that. It's something Cas would be willing to test out. But not right now. Now, he just wants to see how much Dean will take on his own.

Fellatio is not Castiel's favorite act. Not that it’s unpleasant, to have his dick in Dean's mouth. Quite the opposite. But there has always seemed something distant about it, limiting the points of contact between himself and Dean. Everything between them is still new, and Cas wants everything, wants to try everything, can hardly stand to stop touching him once they’re alone and he’s allowed to. Kissing Dean is his favorite thing in the world, and a moment spent not kissing him felt almost like a waste, until now.

Cas realizes how utterly mistaken he had been. There's nothing wasteful about the look on Dean's face, the perfect cradle of his mouth when he takes Cas inside him. It has been good before, but never like this.

Dean hollows his cheeks and sinks down deeper, lips meeting thumb and forefinger. When he pulls back, the wet noise of Dean's mouth is sudden and loud in the otherwise quiet room. This has embarrassed Dean in the past, but he seems heedless of it now, and dips back down, taking a finger's width of him deeper into the close heat of his mouth. The head of Cas's cock nudges his soft palate before Dean reels back to take a deep breath. Cas holds himself very still, trying to let him set the pace.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean says. His eyes are wrinkled at the corners from how he smiles up at Cas. Dean licks his lips, like he's hungry. "Go on. Give it to me."

Something in Castiel rattles loose. He has tried to keep it tethered, but it wails within him now, a powerful hunger of his own, with claws and gnashing teeth. Cas feels unworthy of this, undeserving, but he wants, and Dean is finally asking. Dean wants this, wants Cas, wants to gorge himself upon him. How could he say anything but yes?

He grips Dean's hair with his fingers, a sharp tug. Dean's head goes with him, and his eyes flutter, but fall back open, heavy-lidded. In his other hand, Cas grips his cock and holds it to Dean's welcoming lower lip. He smears it there, sticky with arousal, and Dean laps it up as he goes until Cas begins to feed him his cock, bit by bit. He comes to rest on Dean's tongue. Dean accepts it like holy communion.

Cas is taken by the desire to keep feeding him, to fill him up until Dean is finally satisfied. He wants to give Dean everything. Around him, Dean goes lax, and Cas pushes inside until he can feel the flutter of Dean's throat. A sound escapes Cas, an involuntary, helpless noise. Dean swallows. Cas's hips stutter, and Dean coughs.

Within a moment, Cas has withdrawn, and he pets Dean's hair, holding his cheek and wiping tears from his wincing eyes. "Dean, I'm sorry—"

"No—" Dean starts, then coughs again, but he's shaking his head. His voice is rough and abused, but he's got a pleased tilt to his smile. "It's okay, it's good. For me, anyway. It's good. It's good for you, right? Don't—don't stop."

"Dean, it's— you are— remarkable, I—" Cas keeps scratching his blunt fingernails over Dean's scalp, watching him relax into it. His mouth is red and gleaming with spit and Cas's spend. "You're perfect," he murmurs, and traces Dean's plush lower lip with his thumb. Dean accepts it as easily as he accepted his cock, curling his tongue around it and sucking it into his mouth so that Cas can feel how ready he is, how open, how hungry. Cas presses down on his tongue with the pad of his thumb, and Dean moans around it, like it's exactly what he wants.

Cas lets his thumb slip from Dean's mouth when he looks ready to take more of his cock, but Dean surprises him, ducking his head to the tightening skin of his balls and sucking one into his mouth, then the other. His cock slots up against the side of Dean's nose and over his brow, and Dean grips it while his mouth works Cas over, practically nuzzling him. Then he's aiming Cas back where he wants him, mouthing the head and running his tongue along the leaking slit.

"C'mon, give it to me," Dean slurs. He's dripping all down his chin, but if he notices, he doesn't care. "Wanna see you. Yeah, c'mon, Cas." He slurps Cas back down, working his head and his fingers together.

In the bewildering way of human bodies that Cas has come to better understand, all of his senses have narrowed to Dean and his perfect, ruinous mouth. He can't stop it, it's rushing at him like an oncoming train, and yet he feels immense, endless. He is swelling with power. He finds the strength of will to flex his spectral wings, feeling them stretch and spread and fill the room. His grace expands with them, and he extends it out, to ease the ache Dean must be feeling in his knees, and in his throat. He can see the moment when it rushes through him, can see him startle, his eyes blinking open. He pulls off, still stroking Cas with a loose fist. In the awed green of his eyes, Cas can see the golden glow of his own power, and it makes his head swim.

Something bursts within him, white hot, and without him as well, flooding the little room with light and sound, the pop and burn of a dozen fuses. Cas comes, half into Dean's open mouth, but misses just as much, marking his flushed face with white. There's a stripe across his cheek, interrupting the constellation of his freckles, and some escapes his mouth, dribbling over his lips and chin. He swipes his tongue across it, trying to take more. Still hungry. Cas's cock throbs and pulses a few more weak gushes onto Dean's waiting tongue. Dean laves his tongue over the softening head until there's nothing left. Then, through the blissful haze Cas finds himself in, he realizes that it's gotten dark, and that Dean is laughing, low and rough under his breath.

"Holy shit," Dean coughs. "That was fucking awesome."

"What happened to the lights?" Cas croaks. Dean just laughs harder, sitting back on his heels and wiping his chin. The alarm clock on the bedside table is flashing green, 12:00. The overhead light flickers back on a moment later.

"Talk about blowin' a fuse," Dean says with a dreamy, satisfied grin. He is, as promised, a mess, hair a tangle and face streaked with Castiel's come. He is very beautiful.

"Dean," Cas says, choked with love for this man. "May I take a picture of you?"

"What?"

Dean's skin is so lovely when he blushes. Cas wants to remember it forever. He pats his thighs, then realizes all his pockets are on the floor, where his pants and his coat have fallen.

"I think my phone is in my coat. Is… is that all right?"

"Uh… sure, I guess," Dean says, and fishes around in Cas's crumpled up coat for it. He hands it up to Cas, shy again. Cas takes his phone with one hand, and cards his fingers through Dean's mess of hair with the other, as much to soothe him as for the tableau it makes. He snaps a photo. Dean looks soft and warm in the dim light, his eyes large and dark. The look on his face is fragile. Debauched, but tender. For a moment, Castiel forgets to breathe.

"This is a very beautiful photo," he says. Dean huffs, taking the phone out of his hand before he can get carried away.

"Okay, weirdo. Just. Don't let anyone see that."

"Of course not." No one else is allowed to see Dean like this. This belongs to the two of them. The thought warms him down to his toes. He realizes at last that he didn't even make it out of his shoes. His pants are bunched around them, and Dean is still fully dressed in front of him. He's hard in his jeans, shifting uncomfortably where he sits. Cas pulls his boxers back up, tugging his feet out of his shoes and almost tripping over his pants. In sock feet and shirtsleeves, he takes Dean's shoulder and helps him stand. "Dean… thank you."

"No big thing," Dean says, ducking his head. How he manages to look so bashful painted with come, Cas doesn't know. "I mean, I'm prolly gonna blow my load in like, two seconds, anyway, so, like—uh, yeah."

Cas kisses him once, softly, because he can't resist the urge any longer. He manages to control himself long enough to sit Dean down on the bed and fetch a washcloth. He dampens it in the sink, then returns, gently wiping Dean's face down until it's cool and clean. He sets the washcloth on the side table and bends to kiss Dean again, first on the temple, then his cheek, then his well-used mouth. He tips Dean's head back to kiss beneath his jaw, peeling him out of his flannel.

"You were—" Dean breaks off, letting Cas push him down to the bed. "You were so fuckin' awesome."

"My wings inspired you," Cas says, smug at the thought. He kneels over Dean's legs, tugging on his zipper and freeing him from his jeans. Dean sighs, his hips lifting with the motion, helping him along.

"Yeah, I'm feelin' pretty fuckin' inspired right now, man." He grabs Cas's tie where it hangs, wrapping it around his fist and tugging him down. Cas goes willingly, eager for another kiss. He palms Dean's cock through his boxer-briefs, feeling how hard he is just from that, just from having his mouth on Cas. Dean groans, pushing up into Cas's palm. "Please, gah, fuck."

Cas touches two fingertips to Dean's panting mouth, probing at his tongue. "Open," he says, and Dean obeys, eagerly wetting them. "Good." When he dips his hand back down, his grip on Dean's cock is still slick from Dean's mouth and his own precome. Cas is merciful; he moves fast, relentless and efficient, sealing his mouth to the crook of Dean's neck and sucking hard while he jerks Dean off. True to his word, it's over quickly. Dean comes, groaning, all over Cas's fist, one arm tightly holding Cas's shoulders, the other fisted in the quilt.

Dean sinks bonelessly into the sagging mattress, trying to catch his breath. His skin is still flushed and red, all across his face and down to the purple mark on his neck. The hem of his black shirt is stained, and his softening cock rests against his stomach, over the band of his boxers. Cas wants to take another picture, but he doesn't know if Dean will be as permissive in this instance. Cas's hand is sticky with Dean's come. He licks his palm, then sucks each of his fingers into his mouth, swallowing whatever he can. Now part of Dean is inside him as well. It's a pleasing thought.

From below him, Dean groans, "Holy fuck." He's peeking at Cas through his fingers. "You're tryna kill me."

"Sorry," Cas says, quietly thinking the first phrase blasphemous and therefore appropriate. He wipes his hand off with the wet washcloth, then pats it dry on his shirt.

"Quit lyin'." Dean nudges Cas's chin, and he realizes he is smiling. He allows Dean to tuck Cas's head against his shoulder. Once he's settled, Dean starts picking at the knot on his tie, unwinding it one-handed. "Fucked my shirt up."

"You told me to."

Dean laughs, eyes going hazy. "Sure did." Unknotted, he tugs Cas's tie free of his shirt and tosses it to the side. "Good job, buddy."

Dean pliantly lets Cas divest him of his ruined shirt, and he undresses himself as well, tucking them both into bed. Cas now knows from experience how Dean likes to be held when he sleeps. He often sleeps on his stomach, and in the past had kept a weapon close at hand. He forgets this when Cas is there, and wants this leg between his thighs and his arm draped over his front, palm to sternum, with Dean's hand atop to hold it there. Cas breathes in the sweat of his neck and lets him sleep.

In the morning, Cas hears his phone chime from the heap of clothes still lying on the floor. He carefully extracts himself from Dean's warm, inviting body. There's a text from Jack.

Sam and Eileen are still asleep. How did the hunt go? 😃

Cas smiles.

It went well. We'll be home in a few hours.

He pauses, then adds: Dean said I was very cool. 😎🧊🕶️❄️

Jack responds, You are cool!

Cas sets his phone aside when he sees that Dean is awake, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. When he's ready to get up, they share the shower, taking longer than they would if someone were waiting on them outside. Dean spikes up Cas's hair with shampoo, then darts out of the bathroom to grab his phone and snap a picture.

"That's blackmail, so you don't go sharing that other picture around," Dean says, ducking back into the heat when he starts to get goosebumps.

"I wouldn't," Cas promises, water flattening his hair to his forehead. Dean brushes it out of his eyes.

"Dunno why you want one anyway," he says, mouth twisting. He's still embarrassed.

"I have my grace back," Cas says. "And I have a very long memory. I remember the first creature to take breath on this planet's surface with vivid clarity. But… who knows what might happen tomorrow. If I lose this tomorrow, if I lose my power, and my wings, and my memory, I want to…" He holds Dean's face in his hands. He has committed Dean's face to memory so many times. He wants to do it again, so many more. "I want to remember this. How you… how you make me feel."

"How's that?" Dean looks solemn for the first time since last night. Cas wishes he would smile again, and so offers Dean a smile of his own.

"Awesome."

They linger until the water runs cold.

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you're holy to me

Supernatural

Dean Winchester/Castiel