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spn fic: Together, Here and Now
Title: Together, Here and Now
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: R
Words: ~1,600
Summary: Cas' tie looks like a five year-old tied it with his eyes closed.
Notes: Inspired by the recent stills of Team Free Will drinking beer in their fed suits. Beware semi-public sex and spoilers for the 9x09 episode synopsis.
Straight On Til Morning
The crime scene is the usual kind of circus, all squad cars and sirens and police tape and uniforms, and there are people everywhere, standing around in small groups or milling up and down the sidewalk. Dean doesn't see Cas at first; he's looking for a parking spot that won't block a fire hydrant, and Cas is lurking in the shadows at the mouth of the alley, his back facing the street. Then he turns his head, frowning straight at the Impala, and Dean feels it like a sucker punch to the gut.
"Looks like we got scooped," Sam says, deadpan.
"Yeah." Dean grips the steering wheel, thumbs tapping. "Looks like."
Cas is talking with one of the clowns from the coroner's office, a dude with mousy brown hair and a city-issue windbreaker, and Dean watches them as he ducks across the street and pushes through the throng of nosy neighbors. Cas shrugs his shoulders, waves his hands, scratches the back of his neck as the coroner's guy points at something down the other end of the alley. Everything about him is painfully, obviously human, and Dean has to clear his throat twice before he can speak.
"What are you doing here?"
Cas blinks like an owl, all wide blue eyes and a startled curl to his mouth. His tie looks like a five year-old tied it with his eyes closed. "I thought this might be a case."
"You should've called me."
"I didn't want to bother you."
"You wouldn't have bothered me," Dean grumbles, half under his breath. They haven't talked much since the Ephraim thing, just two or three phone calls and a handful of texts and one Blue Label-fueled voicemail Dean has since pretended didn't happen, and it has only made Dean miss Cas in a way he can't put into words. "You don't bother me."
Clouds press in above the liquor store on the corner, low and dark and threatening more rain.
"I wanted to be certain it was... your kind of thing," Cas says slowly, using the finger quotes Dean hates.
"Well? Is it?"
Cas hesitates for a moment, then catches Dean by the elbow and herds him deeper into the alley, toward a body crumpled beneath the ladder to a fire escape. It's a pudgy Asian dude in his late forties or early fifties, khakis and a polo shirt, muddy loafers, thinning hair, birthmark below his right ear. The stab wound to his chest wouldn't mean much, if not for the huge wing-shadows scorched into the pavement around him.
"Fucking angels," Dean mutters. This one's grace had ditched him at an awkward angle, causing his left wing to curve over a line of overflowing garbage cans. "And this is the second one in three days?"
A gust of wind pushes down the alley, ruffling Cas' hair. "The third in five. The first newspaper article did not mention wings, but it did say every window had been shattered in the building where they found the body."
Cas is still holding Dean's elbow; the alley is cold and suddenly silent, and Dean shifts his weight from foot to foot, reluctant to move away even though he knows he should. He has so many questions -- where did Cas get the suit and the fake badge, how did he get here without a car, is he still sleeping at the gas station, has he been on anymore dates. The last one digs at something sour in Dean's gut; his hands twitch up before he can stop himself, and he tugs on Cas' tie, unthreading the messy knot.
"You do this all by yourself?"
Cas makes a quiet, frustrated noise. "It took me four tries to get it looking as it did."
"I'll show you later," Dean says, smoothing his fingers over the new knot. His knuckles bump Cas' throat; Cas tips his head back a little, and Dean snatches his hand away. "Come on. Let's grab Sam and get out of here. I need a beer."
--
"What've you got, Sam?"
"I talked to a witness who said she saw a guy come out of the alley and disappear into thin air. Apparently, he was holding a dagger."
Dean sighs, then glances in the rearview mirror; with Cas in the backseat it almost feels like the good old days.
"This angel shit is above our pay grade, at least for tonight. Burgers or Chinese?"
--
Dean hits the john after two beers and a conversation with the bartender about any weird customers over the last few days. Just inside the door he bumps into Cas, who is leaning over the sink, watching himself in the mirror as he tugs and twists his tie.
"I wanted to -- I thought I remembered how you did it," he says, frowning.
"It's kind of tricky. Let me see." Dean moves in closer, crowding Cas back against the sink. Cas tips his chin up, just like he did in the alley, exposing his throat, and Dean wants to put his mouth there, kiss the long line of Cas' neck, a stab of arousal so sudden and sharp that his hands shake as he fumbles with the ends of the tie. "You start like this, okay? Then you cross over, and pull it around, and -- "
Cas reaches up and grabs Dean's wrists. His eyes are wide and dark and Dean looks away, frowning at a spidery crack in the floor tiles, at a grayish water stain on the ceiling. "Dean."
"I don't -- "
"Dean."
The plumbing rattles and whines behind the walls. Cas brushes his thumb over the inside of Dean's wrist, soft and slow, and Dean realizes that he has Cas pinned against the sink, that Cas is about to do something incredibly stupid, like talk. Closing his eyes, he grips both ends of Cas' tie and pulls. Their mouths meet slowly, Cas huffing out a startled breath before the distance disappears. He slides one hand up Dean's arm, curls it around the back of Dean's neck. Dean nudges his tongue against Cas' lips, swallowing a quiet noise when Cas' opens up for him, kisses him harder.
Cas deserves better than this, than a dingy public restroom that stinks of piss and stale water, than Dean pushing him back against the wet sink and mauling the collar of his shirt. Dean wants more of Cas' skin, wants more everything. He leans in closer, mouthing at the corner of Cas' jaw; Cas moans, the sound loud in the stillness of the tiny restroom, his fingers raking through Dean's hair and his cock hard against Dean's hip. Dean shifts until they are lined up just right, then rocks his hips until they are both panting, until Dean's legs are shaking and Cas is clawing at Dean's shoulders, his fingernails scraping the fabric of Dean's suit.
"Did you mean it?" he asks, breathless, his mouth open and wet against Dean's ear.
"What?"
"Last week. That message you left me." Cas cradles Dean's jaw in his hand, forcing Dean to meet his eyes. "You said you missed me. You said you wished you hadn't sent me away. You said you -- "
Dean kisses Cas again, all quick tongue and too much teeth and a desperate need for silence. He does love Cas, but he doesn't want to talk about it. Right now he's so close to coming he can practically taste it, and the night he left that message he'd downed enough whiskey to float a barge. "Yes, yes. I meant it. All of it. But I can't -- just don't, all right? Don't."
Cas shudders against him, his mouth falling open and his hands fisting in the sleeves of Dean's suit. Dean watches the line of Cas' throat, the way it flutters around the beautiful noise Cas' makes, and he leans in to press his lips to it, smelling sweat and motel soap as he sucks a mark into Cas' skin. Cas takes a deep, shaky breath, then slides a hand between their bodies. His knuckles trace the hard curve of Dean's cock, and Dean hisses out a moan against Cas' throat.
"I have a life in Rexford," Cas says quietly.
"Cas."
Cas turns his hand, slowly palming Dean's cock. "I know you don't think much of it, but I have a job I enjoy and people I consider friends."
"Sorry, I'm sorry. I never should've -- I didn't want you to go," Dean says, his heart beating in his throat, his hips twitching as he rubs himself against Cas' hand. He is so close, wants it so badly he's nearly ready to beg. "I'm glad you have a life there. I want that. I want you to be happy."
"I'd be happier with you."
Dean comes in a sudden, furious rush, his hand buried in Cas' hair and his flushed face hidden in the curve of Cas' shoulder. Cas wraps his arms around Dean, drawing him in, and Dean lets himself settle there for a minute. His teeth itch with how badly he wants to ask Cas to move into the bunker, for them to have breakfast and watch tv and study lore and drive off to jobs together; he hates this impossible position he has found himself in, having to constantly choose between Cas and his brother.
Noises murmur outside the door, upraised voices followed by footsteps. Reluctantly, Dean pulls away from Cas and straightens his jacket; Cas futzes with his tie for a few seconds, then gives up completely, sighing as he balls it up and stuffs it in his pocket. His face goes blank, narrowed eyes and a tight jaw, and Dean catches him before he reaches the door, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"Me too, Cas. Me too."
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: R
Words: ~1,600
Summary: Cas' tie looks like a five year-old tied it with his eyes closed.
Notes: Inspired by the recent stills of Team Free Will drinking beer in their fed suits. Beware semi-public sex and spoilers for the 9x09 episode synopsis.
The crime scene is the usual kind of circus, all squad cars and sirens and police tape and uniforms, and there are people everywhere, standing around in small groups or milling up and down the sidewalk. Dean doesn't see Cas at first; he's looking for a parking spot that won't block a fire hydrant, and Cas is lurking in the shadows at the mouth of the alley, his back facing the street. Then he turns his head, frowning straight at the Impala, and Dean feels it like a sucker punch to the gut.
"Looks like we got scooped," Sam says, deadpan.
"Yeah." Dean grips the steering wheel, thumbs tapping. "Looks like."
Cas is talking with one of the clowns from the coroner's office, a dude with mousy brown hair and a city-issue windbreaker, and Dean watches them as he ducks across the street and pushes through the throng of nosy neighbors. Cas shrugs his shoulders, waves his hands, scratches the back of his neck as the coroner's guy points at something down the other end of the alley. Everything about him is painfully, obviously human, and Dean has to clear his throat twice before he can speak.
"What are you doing here?"
Cas blinks like an owl, all wide blue eyes and a startled curl to his mouth. His tie looks like a five year-old tied it with his eyes closed. "I thought this might be a case."
"You should've called me."
"I didn't want to bother you."
"You wouldn't have bothered me," Dean grumbles, half under his breath. They haven't talked much since the Ephraim thing, just two or three phone calls and a handful of texts and one Blue Label-fueled voicemail Dean has since pretended didn't happen, and it has only made Dean miss Cas in a way he can't put into words. "You don't bother me."
Clouds press in above the liquor store on the corner, low and dark and threatening more rain.
"I wanted to be certain it was... your kind of thing," Cas says slowly, using the finger quotes Dean hates.
"Well? Is it?"
Cas hesitates for a moment, then catches Dean by the elbow and herds him deeper into the alley, toward a body crumpled beneath the ladder to a fire escape. It's a pudgy Asian dude in his late forties or early fifties, khakis and a polo shirt, muddy loafers, thinning hair, birthmark below his right ear. The stab wound to his chest wouldn't mean much, if not for the huge wing-shadows scorched into the pavement around him.
"Fucking angels," Dean mutters. This one's grace had ditched him at an awkward angle, causing his left wing to curve over a line of overflowing garbage cans. "And this is the second one in three days?"
A gust of wind pushes down the alley, ruffling Cas' hair. "The third in five. The first newspaper article did not mention wings, but it did say every window had been shattered in the building where they found the body."
Cas is still holding Dean's elbow; the alley is cold and suddenly silent, and Dean shifts his weight from foot to foot, reluctant to move away even though he knows he should. He has so many questions -- where did Cas get the suit and the fake badge, how did he get here without a car, is he still sleeping at the gas station, has he been on anymore dates. The last one digs at something sour in Dean's gut; his hands twitch up before he can stop himself, and he tugs on Cas' tie, unthreading the messy knot.
"You do this all by yourself?"
Cas makes a quiet, frustrated noise. "It took me four tries to get it looking as it did."
"I'll show you later," Dean says, smoothing his fingers over the new knot. His knuckles bump Cas' throat; Cas tips his head back a little, and Dean snatches his hand away. "Come on. Let's grab Sam and get out of here. I need a beer."
--
"What've you got, Sam?"
"I talked to a witness who said she saw a guy come out of the alley and disappear into thin air. Apparently, he was holding a dagger."
Dean sighs, then glances in the rearview mirror; with Cas in the backseat it almost feels like the good old days.
"This angel shit is above our pay grade, at least for tonight. Burgers or Chinese?"
--
Dean hits the john after two beers and a conversation with the bartender about any weird customers over the last few days. Just inside the door he bumps into Cas, who is leaning over the sink, watching himself in the mirror as he tugs and twists his tie.
"I wanted to -- I thought I remembered how you did it," he says, frowning.
"It's kind of tricky. Let me see." Dean moves in closer, crowding Cas back against the sink. Cas tips his chin up, just like he did in the alley, exposing his throat, and Dean wants to put his mouth there, kiss the long line of Cas' neck, a stab of arousal so sudden and sharp that his hands shake as he fumbles with the ends of the tie. "You start like this, okay? Then you cross over, and pull it around, and -- "
Cas reaches up and grabs Dean's wrists. His eyes are wide and dark and Dean looks away, frowning at a spidery crack in the floor tiles, at a grayish water stain on the ceiling. "Dean."
"I don't -- "
"Dean."
The plumbing rattles and whines behind the walls. Cas brushes his thumb over the inside of Dean's wrist, soft and slow, and Dean realizes that he has Cas pinned against the sink, that Cas is about to do something incredibly stupid, like talk. Closing his eyes, he grips both ends of Cas' tie and pulls. Their mouths meet slowly, Cas huffing out a startled breath before the distance disappears. He slides one hand up Dean's arm, curls it around the back of Dean's neck. Dean nudges his tongue against Cas' lips, swallowing a quiet noise when Cas' opens up for him, kisses him harder.
Cas deserves better than this, than a dingy public restroom that stinks of piss and stale water, than Dean pushing him back against the wet sink and mauling the collar of his shirt. Dean wants more of Cas' skin, wants more everything. He leans in closer, mouthing at the corner of Cas' jaw; Cas moans, the sound loud in the stillness of the tiny restroom, his fingers raking through Dean's hair and his cock hard against Dean's hip. Dean shifts until they are lined up just right, then rocks his hips until they are both panting, until Dean's legs are shaking and Cas is clawing at Dean's shoulders, his fingernails scraping the fabric of Dean's suit.
"Did you mean it?" he asks, breathless, his mouth open and wet against Dean's ear.
"What?"
"Last week. That message you left me." Cas cradles Dean's jaw in his hand, forcing Dean to meet his eyes. "You said you missed me. You said you wished you hadn't sent me away. You said you -- "
Dean kisses Cas again, all quick tongue and too much teeth and a desperate need for silence. He does love Cas, but he doesn't want to talk about it. Right now he's so close to coming he can practically taste it, and the night he left that message he'd downed enough whiskey to float a barge. "Yes, yes. I meant it. All of it. But I can't -- just don't, all right? Don't."
Cas shudders against him, his mouth falling open and his hands fisting in the sleeves of Dean's suit. Dean watches the line of Cas' throat, the way it flutters around the beautiful noise Cas' makes, and he leans in to press his lips to it, smelling sweat and motel soap as he sucks a mark into Cas' skin. Cas takes a deep, shaky breath, then slides a hand between their bodies. His knuckles trace the hard curve of Dean's cock, and Dean hisses out a moan against Cas' throat.
"I have a life in Rexford," Cas says quietly.
"Cas."
Cas turns his hand, slowly palming Dean's cock. "I know you don't think much of it, but I have a job I enjoy and people I consider friends."
"Sorry, I'm sorry. I never should've -- I didn't want you to go," Dean says, his heart beating in his throat, his hips twitching as he rubs himself against Cas' hand. He is so close, wants it so badly he's nearly ready to beg. "I'm glad you have a life there. I want that. I want you to be happy."
"I'd be happier with you."
Dean comes in a sudden, furious rush, his hand buried in Cas' hair and his flushed face hidden in the curve of Cas' shoulder. Cas wraps his arms around Dean, drawing him in, and Dean lets himself settle there for a minute. His teeth itch with how badly he wants to ask Cas to move into the bunker, for them to have breakfast and watch tv and study lore and drive off to jobs together; he hates this impossible position he has found himself in, having to constantly choose between Cas and his brother.
Noises murmur outside the door, upraised voices followed by footsteps. Reluctantly, Dean pulls away from Cas and straightens his jacket; Cas futzes with his tie for a few seconds, then gives up completely, sighing as he balls it up and stuffs it in his pocket. His face goes blank, narrowed eyes and a tight jaw, and Dean catches him before he reaches the door, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"Me too, Cas. Me too."