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Dean turned the plate slowly in his hands, patting it dry with the dish towel before setting it on top of the stack in the cupboard.
He usually found the process of doing the dinner dishes soothing in its repetitiveness: pick it up, dry it, put it away. Pick it up, dry it, put it away.
But on this particular night, it was the opposite of soothing. In fact, Dean's pulse picked up more speed with every plate or piece of cutlery that disappeared off the drying rack and returned to its accustomed place.
This wasn't just any ordinary night. It was going to be their night. His and Cas'.
Cas himself was busy with the casserole dish, scrubbing at the crusty brown remains of Dean’s cooking with the aid of a kitchen sponge and various frustrated noises. His long, capable fingers had reddened from the effort. A small bit of soapy fluff sat on Cas’ forearm where he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves to keep them from getting them wet.
“You can just leave it, buddy,” Dean told him. “It’ll go easier if we let it soak for a couple hours.”
“No, I think I almost have it,” Cas said, redoubling his efforts but making no difference to the dish whatsoever. If he scrubbed any harder, he’d make his fingers bleed. And an injury, however minor, was the last thing Dean needed, with things going so well otherwise.
He’d worked hard to set a homey, comfortable mood for the evening: the smell of cheese, meat and potatoes still lingered in the air from their recent dinner, mixing with the cinnamon and apples of Dean’s homemade pie. The lights on the Christmas tree twinkled cheerfully, and the logs crackled in the fireplace.
It was time to leave the dishes alone and see where else the night would lead them.
So Dean reached into the sink, tugging at the sponge’s edge where its soft blue surface peeked at him from between Cas’ fingers. He'd meant to pull the sponge away from Cas, but he couldn’t get a good hold; not without dislodging at least some of Cas' fingers first.
Before he could think too hard about it, he wrapped his warm, dry hand around Cas’ cold, dishwater-wet one.
Cas went very still. The gentle trumpet solo warbling from the record player by the fireplace seemed to grow louder to compensate for the sudden absence of sound and movement.
Dean felt himself color, blood rushing hot into his cheeks as he withdrew his hand.
Stupid. He’d been planning to make a move, sure, but he should’ve been a lot more romantic about it than grabbing Cas' hand in a pool of gray dishwater.
Dean snatched back his hand and took a step away from Cas, clutching at the dish towel’s red-and-blue checkerboard pattern like a baby at its blanket. Cas kept his eyes fixed on the sink, interrogating it for some mysterious purpose of his own.
As Dean waited for Cas to look at him, to speak, anything, he realized that he was afraid. He hadn’t been so afraid since he’d come home from the war, ten years ago now (had it really been that long?). Even then, the fear of German panzers lurking just over the next hill hadn’t been anything like the fear he felt now, as he waited for Cas’ reaction: threaded through with desperate hope and bone-deep longing.
After another moment that seemed to contain entire lifetimes, Cas turned to face him.
Cas opened his mouth to speak, on the verge of dashing Dean’s hopes or making them soar. He raised his face up toward Dean’s, the fear in his eyes mirroring Dean’s own.
Dean’s entire body felt like pins and needles, unsettled by anticipation. Cas’ eyes were beautiful, Dean had always thought so, and his lips—
Cas abruptly looked away again, over Dean’s shoulder, the soft parting of his lips disappearing into a pained grimace. “It’s getting worse out there,” he said.
He stepped around Dean, shattering the moment like so much crystal, and approached the window that opened onto Dean’s driveway.
Outside, the snow flurries of an hour ago had turned thick and heavy, forming a pristine feather blanket on Dean’s front lawn. His mailbox wore a small but rapidly growing snowy hat, and his pride and joy — a brand-new ‘55 Chevy — winked cheerfully at him from among the white bounty, its ocean-blue paint job giving it the appearance of a stretch of ocean topped with whitecaps. Cas’ yellow Lincoln stood right behind it, just as snowbound. They looked like a matched pair: the sun and the sea.
“I should really get going,” Cas said, turning away from the window to address Dean. “I won’t be able to reach home at all if I wait any longer.”
Oh no. Please no. Dean had worked so hard on the food and the music and he’d polished every surface of his small bungalow until it shone. He’d been waiting so long for a chance to be alone with Cas. Since the very first time they met, really, that day when Cas walked into Dean’s hardware store with a question about a temperamental water heater.
Dean summoned what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “You can’t go now, Cas,” he said, struggling to keep despair and disappointment out of his voice. “What about the pie?”
Cas stopped short before he’d taken more than two steps away from the window, narrowing his eyes in confusion. “We ate the pie, Dean. It was delicious.”
“We didn’t eat all of it,” Dean said. “It won’t keep well.”
Cas took a deep, exasperated breath. But, unless Dean was fooling himself, there was at least a hint of hesitation in his expression.
“It’ll keep overnight, surely,” Cas said, though he didn’t sound sure at all.
“It won’t,” Dean insisted.
Now that Cas was facing him again, it was a fight to keep his eyes averted from where Cas’ shirt collar gaped open. Cas had pulled off his tie before starting on the dishes, not wanting to get soap on the silky fabric. As a result, there was a tantalizing hint of skin peeking out just below the vulnerable dip of Cas’ throat. The warnings about the temptations of the flesh that Dean used to hear from his old Sunday school teacher had never rung so true before.
"I have to go," Cas said. His voice tipped up at the end, turning the statement into a question.
“Or you could stay for a drink.” When Cas didn’t respond right away, Dean amended, “Half a drink.”
Cas turned his eyes to the ceiling in a mute plea for help. In the background, Ella Fitzgerald crooned about someone she was longing to see. “Dean,” he said; a sad, quiet warning. “You know I can’t stay.”
It was exactly what Dean had expected him to say. Of course he had. And still, he asked, “Why the hell not?”
Cas lifted both arms and let them fall heavily back to his sides again. “You know why. You know all the reasons why.”
“Tell me anyway.” He needed to hear Cas say every single stupid thing stacked against them so he could refute each one.
Cas didn’t answer straightaway. He let Dean’s demand hang in the air along with the scent of their recent meal and walked over to the chair where he’d hung his suit jacket. It was of sturdy, dark blue material that had nevertheless worn thin in a few places. Cas’ job at the downtown grocery store didn’t pay terribly well.
“My mother will start to worry,” Cas said, wiping fussily at a small blemish on the shoulder of his jacket but making no move to put it back on, or to so much as roll down his shirtsleeves. “She expects me home.”
“She’ll be fine on her own and you know it.”
Cas flashed a look of frustration at Dean. His mother had been a convenient excuse for all manner of things, for many years now. Cas liked to tell people that, after his father’s death, his frail mother had needed looking after, and the job had fallen to Cas because he had no sister to do it. It was why Cas had never moved out of his childhood home, he claimed. It was why he’d never married, or so much as courted a girl.
The only problem with that story was Mrs. Novak, who refused to be frail in the least. Matter of fact, Cas had told Dean that she’d made plans to spend the New Years holiday, just three days from now, skiing in Connecticut.
“You can give her a call if you’re so concerned,” Dean said. “Tell her the snow’s getting too heavy, and you’re staying the night with a friend.” He flashed Cas his most charming smile; the one that never failed to make Cas blush. “It’ll be the truth. Some of the truth, at least.”
“What about your neighbors?” Cas asked. In defiance of the blush that was indeed now rising on his cheeks, he tipped his chin upward. A challenge. But he also took a step away from his suit jacket and closer to Dean. “They’ll talk.”
“Let them,” Dean said, his voice cold with all the steel of his contempt. “I don’t give a damn about the neighbors.”
Cas’ face twisted with a pained grimace. “Dean,” he said again, packing more emotion into that single word than it ought to be able to carry without cracking under the strain. Maybe, in another life, Cas could’ve been a politician, or a preacher. He certainly would’ve made Dean see the light of God, in all the ways his old Sunday school teacher failed to. “Your reputation…”
“Will be fine,” Dean said mulishly. Sure, he was a bachelor who’d lived on his own for a decade, but he’d made sure to be seen with plenty of girls on his arm over the years. His hardware store had been in the family for generations, and he’d served honorably in the war. He figured all those things had to count for something. Besides, he wanted Cas; wanted him too much to worry about any nebulous threats to his reputation down the line.
Cas turned once again to face the window, shoulders slumping when he found the snow coming down thick and heavy out there. No sign of slowing down. Dean squinted, trying to make out the houses across the street, but it was no use — the air was saturated with white, visibility decreasing by the minute. Anything beyond his own front door was nothing but an indistinct blur of shadows and lights.
All concerns of reputation aside, it wasn’t safe to be traveling in these conditions. Dean steadied himself with a deep breath and decided to take a risk.
“Baby,” he said, his voice as gentle as the glow of lights on the Christmas tree.
He was almost sure no one had ever called Cas "baby" before. Judging by the hitch in Cas’ breath and the convulsive shiver that ran down his back, Dean was right about that.
“Baby,” Dean said again. From the record player by the fireplace, Ella sang softly about wanting someone to watch over her. “It’s cold outside. But it’s warm in here.”
Cas’ fingers curled around the back of the chair, white with tension, no doubt creasing the fabric. His tie lay on the table, rolled up neatly, waiting for him to put it on again. To shed fond names such as “baby” or “Cas” and become “Castiel Novak,” respected member of the community.
“What about my reputation?” Cas asked. His voice shook a little.
And, well… that was the one objection Dean couldn’t answer. Wouldn’t even pretend to.
“If you’re really worried about it, I’ll let this go,” he said. He wanted to reach out to Cas, to put a reassuring hand on his arm, but he didn’t dare. Not when the evening was still hanging in the balance. “Hell, I’ll dig out your car myself. Or you can go to one of the neighbors’ houses and ask to spend the night. Tell ‘em I made improper advances, if that’s what you gotta do.”
Cas’ head snapped away from his contemplation of the rapidly worsening blizzard outside. “Dean,” he said. He finally stepped away from the chair again and closer to Dean, close enough for Dean to imagine that he could feel the heat rising off Cas’ skin. “Dean, no. I would never.”
Slowly, giving Cas time to back away, Dean raised his hand. He let it settle on the side of Cas’ arm, still in safe territory. Friendly territory. “And I would never tell on you,” he said, ducking his head until he’d caught Cas’ eyes. “You know that, right? You know that you’re safe with me.”
“I know,” Cas whispered. “But I’m still terrified.”
They had that in common, but Dean didn’t think it would comfort Cas to tell him so. What Cas needed was someone steady; someone to reassure him.
Dean let his hand travel upward, ever so slightly, until it cupped the side of Cas’ neck — the neutral zone between a friendly touch and an explicitly romantic one. “Remember what you told me, that night at the bar?”
They’d known each other a few months by then. After their first meeting, Cas had kept coming to the hardware store with increasingly flimsy questions and excuses. Dean was sure that by now, Cas owned at least a hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise he hadn’t needed in the first place. Much as Dean had stopped going to his regular grocery store and started driving across town to the one where Cas worked instead.
Each time they’d met, Dean’s certainty had grown: that Cas was like him. Someone who preferred the company of men. That, in fact, there could be something between them if they let it grow. So one day, Dean had gathered all his courage and asked Cas out for beers at a bar about halfway between their two workplaces. A nice, safe place where nobody would know either of them.
They’d drunk beer and played pool, the hours passing faster than Dean would’ve credited. As the place had begun to empty out, the two of them had ended up on adjacent barstools, talking in quiet voices and leaning too close. Cas had been sweet and easy from the effects of the whiskey they’d switched to after their first two beers.
“I’m so tired,” Cas had whispered in Dean’s ear that night. “I’m so tired of hiding and so very, very tired of being lonely.”
Dean hadn’t taken him home that night. It wouldn’t have seemed right, with both of them under the influence of drink. But he’d whispered back, into the too-small space between them, “I’m tired too, Cas. But we don’t have to be lonely. Not anymore.”
All of which had led to the invitation for tonight’s dinner. To hours of nervous preparations, because Dean wanted his home, modest as it was, to look perfect for Cas.
Now, with the meal Dean had cooked for them put away and the two of them hovering almost as close as they’d been that night at the bar, Cas’ expression steadied, fear giving way to determination. “Yes,” he said. “I remember.”
Encouraged, Dean asked, “Mind if I move in closer?”
Cas’ lips quirked with the nervous beginnings of a smile. “You’re very pushy,” he said.
Dean let out a breathless chuckle. “I like to think of it as opportunistic.”
The sound of Dean’s chuckle seemed to unlock something in Cas. The curve of lips softened, and something very much like wonder lit up his face. “Your eyes,” Cas whispered, “are like starlight.”
Dean hadn’t the faintest idea how to respond to that. But there was no need anyway, because Cas stepped closer still, erasing the remaining distance between them. A trembling hand found its place on Dean’s hip.
“Have you ever been kissed, Cas?” Dean asked, his eyes flitting down to Cas’ lips and back up to his eyes.
Cas shook his head, swallowing hard. “No, I’ve… been with other men, but they never wanted… so I didn’t… I haven’t.”
Dean sucked in a shaky breath. He was of two minds: on the one hand, he ached with sympathy and regret for Cas, who had never known that particular kind of tenderness. On the other, Dean was fiercely glad, because he got to be the first to share that tenderness with him.
Cas was almost of a height with Dean, and they were standing so very close already. All Dean had to do was tilt his head just so, and lean in.
To start, Cas’ mouth was slow and hesitant beneath his. Dry too, until Dean darted out the tip of his tongue, licking at the seam of Cas' lips. Cas rewarded him with a deep, wanting sound. He melted against Dean, pressing their chests together.
And then, with a click and a whir, the lights went out.
The twinkles on the Christmas tree grew dark. Ella ceased her singing, cut off mid-word. The only light available to them now was cast by the flames leaping cheerfully inside Dean’s fireplace.
Dean stifled a burst of hysterical laughter with another press of his lips against Cas’. “Guess you won’t be calling your mother,” he said, smiling into the kiss.
“I guess not,” Cas agreed. He let himself be kissed again before he turned away to glance at the world outside the window once more. The view was white upon white, and even the distant blur of lights across the street had grown dark thanks to the power cut.
Cas started laughing then too. Dean could feel every uncontrollable burst and tremble of it where their chests pressed together.
"There's no way I could leave now,” Cas said happily, smiling at Dean, his eyes gleaming with sudden emotion. “The roads were already nearly impassable, but with the power out, there aren't any lights to navigate by.”
Dean’s other hand, which had hung uselessly at his side thus far, came up to cup Cas’ cheek. Happiness surged fiercely inside him. Cas was really going to stay.
“A bit of friendly darkness, just for us,” he said, his voice rough with anticipation, with the knowledge that the furtive fantasies he’d indulged for months were finally on the verge of coming true.
He pulled Cas into another kiss. It started slow and tentative, but quickly gained urgency, until all Dean could think about was getting the two of them horizontal together. Blindly, he started walking, pushing Cas ahead of him, letting the glow of firelight behind closed eyelids guide their steps.
When the growing heat from the fireplace told him they’d reached the hearthrug, he kissed Cas once more and stepped away. “This seems like a nice, cozy place to spend a few hours,” he said. “I’ll pull the curtains just in case.”
Cas nodded. His eyes had grown dark and hazy with arousal, his cheeks flushed with it, and it was an almighty struggle to step away from the heat of his skin.
Dean hurried about his task, making sure every curtain in the house was drawn, even those in the kitchen and bedroom. He paused briefly in the bedroom to retrieve a jar of something from the drawer of his bedside table. They might not do anything that required lubrication. But then again, it never hurt to be prepared.
When he returned to the living room, he found Cas still standing on the hearth rug, arms held rigidly at his sides, his face alight with nerves and anticipation. Looking at him there, so sweet and awkward and expectant, Dean thought he might be on the verge of falling in love.
Dean joined Cas on the hearthrug once more. His breath tripping over itself, he hovered one hand over the knot of his tie. “Would you like to see me?” he asked.
Cas swallowed hard, his hands white-knuckled at his sides. “Yes. Yes, please.”
There was a tremor in Dean’s hands as he tugged on his tie. It was stupid, really. Cas wasn’t his first lover by any stretch of the imagination. He’d been with men both during the war and after. Women too, though the pleasure hadn’t ever quite felt the same. There had always been a sense of going through the motions; often, it had been a struggle to keep himself hard.
Still, with all that experience under his belt, he should have been the smooth one; the suave one. And yet, it took him three tries to get the tie over his head and the topmost button of his shirt simply wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard he tried.
“May I?” Cas offered, hands already raised in anticipation of the task.
Dean nodded his assent and stood as patiently as he could while Cas addressed himself to his shirt buttons. But Cas’ hands trembled just as badly as Dean’s, and very little progress was made for a minute or two.
Finally, Dean tipped his head forward, touching his forehead to Cas’. The touch grounded him, clearing his thoughts a little. “Pants first,” he suggested. “Not so many fucking buttons. How about that?”
Cas laughed quietly. “Why not,” he said.
So they got to work on each other’s belts and zippers. Dean shivered as Cas’ fingers brushed accidentally across the growing bulge between his legs.
“Oh,” Cas said with quiet reverence. “You’re getting hard.”
“All for you, baby,” Dean said, Cas’ intoxicating proximity making him feel brave and daring. “That’s how much I want you.”
“Dean.” The word sounded raw as it fell from Cas’ lips this time; a broken, wounded thing. They kissed again, lost to the frantic heat of moving lips and roaming hands.
Somehow, Cas managed to undo Dean's pants and shove them down past his hips. Blindly, Dean extricated himself from them, his own hands slipping under the waistband of Cas’ pants, beneath his underwear, to get at naked skin.
The swell of Cas’ buttocks was the most tempting thing Dean thought he’d ever felt. He used his hold on them to pull Cas closer, his naked cock rubbing up against Cas’ clothed one. The friction felt like sparks up his spine, burning hotter than the fire at their feet.
“I want you naked,” Cas gasped into his mouth. “Please, Dean.”
“Yeah. Yeah, ‘course.” Dean’s hands were surer now, the feeling of Cas pressed against him settling him more and more. With deft fingers, he undid the top two buttons of his shirt, then lifted it up, along with his undershirt, and pulled them up over his head in one swift motion. He hurled them out of sight and bent to pull off his socks and underwear.
Straightening up, he felt a flush creep into his cheeks. He knew himself to be an attractive man, but still he was nervous. He wanted to please Cas; to be looked at and found satisfactory.
Cas’ reaction was beyond anything he could have hoped for or imagined.
“Oh,” Cas said softly, exhaling a shaky breath. “Oh, Dean. You’re… breathtaking.” His hands twitched at his sides, echoing the hungry desperation Dean saw plain as daylight on Cas’ face. “May I touch you?”
Undone by Cas’ desire, Dean could do nothing but nod. But it was enough: Cas stepped towards him, one hand outstretched. Though the front of Cas’ trousers gaped open and one of his shirttails had come untucked, he remained otherwise fully dressed. There was something arousing about this too: being so bare to the gaze of a clothed man.
Cas began his examination with a hand laid gently onto Dean’s shoulder. He seemed mesmerized by the trail of freckles that traversed Dean’s skin here; fainter now than they would be in the summertime, and hard to see in the scant light provided by the fire, but still undeniably there.
From Dean’s shoulder, Cas’ hand trailed up and over the back of his neck, and Cas went with it, circling Dean at a slow, measured pace. The black spots popping into the edges of Dean’s vision reminded him to breathe.
Another step, and then Cas stood at Dean’s back. His hand rested now between Dean’s shoulder blades, from palm to fingertips. The span of Cas’ hand was so large that it covered nearly half of Dean’s spine. Dean had never before felt so conscious of every single joint.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the hand moved lower, Cas’ palm lifting up, but his fingers blazing a trail until they rested, tantalizingly, just above the spot where Dean’s lower back swelled into the curve of his rear.
He felt more than heard Cas step up close behind him. The hardness between Cas’ legs pressed almost shyly between Dean’s cheeks, separated from Dean’s skin by a barrier of thin cotton.
Dean had never hated a piece of fabric more.
As if he’d read Dean’s mind, Cas asked, “Would it… would it be alright if I undressed myself now?” His voice shook, from nerves or eagerness or both.
“Please,” Dean managed. He closed his eyes as Cas stepped away, the better to hear every swish of fabric and every clink of metal as Cas shed his clothing.
Finally, Cas approached him again. His cock was bare against Dean’s skin now. Dean reached back to grab hold of whatever part of Cas he could reach — his hip, as it turned out. He pulled Cas closer and pushed back at the same time, rubbing up against the fullness between Cas’ legs. Cas groaned low in his ear.
“Dean. Oh, Dean. What should we… how would you…?”
“Dunno yet,” Dean said. “Wanna see you first.”
With effort, he stepped away and turned.
The sight of Cas stole the breath from his lungs. His skin was a few shades darker than Dean’s, and the fire painted fascinating, shadowy patterns upon it, sharpening its angles. Cas’ arms were strong from lifting heavy crates at the store, his midriff slim and his thighs ample. The cock between his legs was handsome in both length and girth, and Dean’s mouth watered as he imagined the weight of it in his mouth.
“I want,” he said, then cleared his throat to steady his voice, “to use my mouth on you while I open myself up. And then I’d like you to fuck me.”
Cas shivered, goosebumps erupting along his arms. He cleared his throat and gave a jerky nod. “That… yes. I’d like that very much.”
Permission received, Dean bent down to retrieve the Vaseline he’d shoved into his front pocket. He made a point of putting his back to Cas and bending at the waist, putting his rear on display. His reward was another low groan from Cas.
Unscrewing the lid of the small jar, Dean dipped his fingers in and scooped a generous amount onto them. Then he sank to his knees.
“Dean,” Cas moaned, an edge of desperation to his voice. Dean had never loved the sound of his own name before he heard Cas' voice curl smokily around it.
He was at eye level with Cas’ cock now — the heavy, tempting weight of it right there for him to taste. He gripped the base and darted out his tongue until it lapped against the drop of salty fluid at the tip. His own erection pulsed between his legs, neglected. He gripped himself for a long, slow stroke, moaning his pleasure into the silky skin of Cas’ cock.
“Dean,” Cas breathed above him. “Dean, please.”
“Yeah, baby. I’ve got you.” Dean made good on his word: he leaned in and sealed his lips around the tip of Cas’ cock. Cas let out a high-pitched, urgent sound that made Dean want to burrow right underneath Cas’ skin and never leave.
He steadied Cas’ cock with one hand and took him as deep as he could, all the way to the back of his mouth. With the other hand, he reached behind himself, massaging at his own rim with slick fingers before he pushed inside with one knuckle. The sensation felt odd at first, just as it always did, but he dwelled instead on the pleasant ache of Cas in his mouth, stretching his jaw, smelling of clean sweat and hot skin.
Above him, Cas grunted and moaned, sounding utterly undone.
“Dean,” Cas said again, an urgent whisper this time. "I won’t… I won’t last.”
Reluctantly, Dean pulled off him and sat back on his haunches. Deprived of Cas’ taste, he indulged himself instead by looking up at Cas through his lashes. In the play of light and shadows created by the fire, Cas looked otherworldly. An angel from on high, come down from Heaven to let Dean kneel before him.
It was a beautiful view, but it put Cas at far too great a distance.
“Come down here, baby,” Dean said, his words trailing off into a moan as he pushed his finger further into himself, brushing against the spot that caused molten waves of pleasure deep inside him.
As though he’d only been waiting for permission, Cas dropped onto his knees next to Dean. His lips were kiss-swollen already, but he didn’t seem to care. He dragged Dean into a demanding, heated kiss, pushing his spit-wet cock against Dean’s belly.
Dean eased another finger inside himself, the sensation of fullness making him moan against Cas’ lips.
“Can I help you get ready?” Cas asked, moving to kiss along the line of Dean’s jaw.
“Yeah,” Dean croaked, almost unbearably aroused by the idea of Cas’ strong, beautiful fingers moving inside him. “Yeah, do it.” He wouldn’t have said no if someone had offered him a million bucks to do it.
Blindly, Cas reached into the jar that Dean had set aside, scooping out the slick Vaseline and coating his fingers. Dean took the opportunity to kiss the stretch of skin, just below the dip of Cas’ throat, that he’d admired earlier.
Dean withdrew his own fingers to give Cas room to work. Cas was shy about it at first, pushing inside far more slowly and carefully than Dean himself had done. Dean rolled his hips down against Cas’ hand to encourage him.
“More, Cas,” he said, pressing the words into the heated curve of Cas’ neck. “I can take it.”
Slowly, Cas gained confidence. By the time he had two fingers inside, he was fervent and eager, trailing open-mouthed kisses down Dean’s throat as he worked.
When Cas added a third, Dean found himself moaning with every shove of Cas’ fingers into his body. “I’m good now,” he managed, through shaky, unsteady breaths. “C’mon. I want you inside.”
He gave Cas no opportunity to argue. Gentle but insistent, he grabbed hold of Cas’ wrist and guided his hand away. Then he scrambled onto all fours, equal parts terrified and aroused as he parted his legs to expose his wet, open hole.
“I can’t believe I get to see you like this,” Cas whispered. “You’re so beautiful, Dean.”
Dean didn’t respond; couldn’t have if his life depended on it. It wasn’t going to be his first time getting fucked, but it was the first time he’d felt quite so raw about it.
He waited in breathless anticipation, his face tucked up against his arms. Finally, he heard the quiet sound of shuffling as Cas positioned himself and the squelch of his fingers in the jar of Vaseline as he slicked up his cock.
Then, at long last, Dean felt the warm, wet head of Cas’ cock press against his entrance. He cried out as Cas slipped inside, stretching him almost to the point of discomfort, despite all their careful preparation.
“Are you alright?” Cas asked, the words choppy. He was breathing heavy already.
Dean took a deep breath to steady himself, trying to tell his body that it was alright to let go; to let Cas in.
Finally, he felt the tension in his muscles ease. Cas grunted as he slipped a little further inside.
Dean breathed once more before he said, “Now, Cas. You can move.”
“Alright,” Cas answered. His voice was deeper than Dean had ever heard it. He sounded broken and happy about it.
The first roll of Cas' hips was small and tentative, and then he pulled out so far that he slipped free of Dean's body. But the next time he pushed inside, the thrust went deep; deep enough that Dean thought he might feel it for a week.
He hoped he would.
Dean moaned at the sensation of being so full, so intimately joined with Cas. “Yeah,” he gasped. “Yeah, baby. Do that again.”
It took another couple of thrusts to find their rhythm, but Cas was a quick learner. He pulled Dean closer, manhandling him into position until his cock hit that sensitive spot inside Dean’s body with every roll of his hips.
Heat curled tight inside Dean’s body, his groin throbbing with it. He was loud and shameless, moaning his pleasure to let Cas know just how good it all felt.
Cas answered every single one of Dean’s moans with a deep, guttural grunt. “Dean,” he said, over and over again, sounding more undone each time. “Dean, I’m getting close.”
Dean felt his own climax approaching, his entire body drawing tight with it. He lifted up one of his arms, trusting Cas to keep him balanced, and reached between his legs for his cock. It pulsed with need, precome leaking from the tip to slick Dean’s way as he stroked himself twice, hard and fast.
With a shout, he spilled all over the hearthrug.
At his back, Cas tensed up. A rush of warmth filled Dean’s hole.
Dean winced in discomfort as Cas slipped out of him, his come trickling down the back of Dean’s leg. But it was all forgotten when Dean turned onto his back to see Cas kneeling above him, his soft cock still wet and his face flushed with his recent orgasm.
“Hey, baby,” he said lazily, reaching up to stroke Cas’ face. He was a little too far away to manage it, but Cas leaned down to meet him, nuzzling into Dean’s palm with unabashed affection.
“Thank you for this,” Cas whispered, and punctuated the statement with a soft kiss to the center of Dean’s palm. Eyes roaming over Dean’s prone figure, he said, “Should we clean up?”
Dean shrugged. “Eventually. For now, come here.”
Apparently, Cas was only too glad to oblige. He flopped down onto Dean, a warm, heavy weight that nearly knocked the air from his lungs.
“Can we do that again?” Cas asked, already sounding half-asleep as he molded himself against Dean’s chest.
“Yeah, baby,” Dean said, kissing the top of Cas’ head. His lush, dark hair was in hopeless disarray, and Dean was so very fond of him. “It’s cold outside, but it’s warm in here.”
Dean contemplated getting up to light a cigarette, but with the warmth of the fire at his side and Cas’ breaths deepening into sleep, he couldn’t bring himself to move. He wrapped his arm around Cas’ back. Cas made a contented sound, draping one of his legs over Dean’s, his cock resting soft and vulnerable against Dean’s thigh.
The morning would inevitably come, and with it the end of the storm. But Dean vowed to himself, then and there, that he’d keep Cas with him and keep him safe, no matter the cost.
They’d both been lonely for far too long.
Outside, the snow continued to fall.