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He’s gentle, you know, in his own way. It doesn’t mean there are flower petals and soft music and candlelight, no tearful declarations in the dark; but there’s a time and a place for showing off in the sack, and a guy’s first time with another dude just ain’t it.
This isn’t Dean’s first rodeo mind you but it’s been years. Not since Hell – before Hell, by his reckoning (and for the sake of sanity) – and it’s not like he’s ever done anything but hide it either – so forgive him if he’s a little unsteady even if he’d never admit as much.
Cas, though. The angel surprises him. Maybe it’s a little unfair after everything that’s happened to bear the memory of that night in Maine so close to heart (how his cheeks flushed and lips parted in his panic, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed with every desperate swallow of beer that still failed to steel him for Chastity reaching for his hand). He hasn’t asked if his (Emanuel’s) marriage to Daphne was ever actually consummated. Half of him (couldn’t handle a yes) doesn’t want to know, the other half (insists it’s different with women) doesn’t care. But he’s as comfortable in that skin as if he’d been born in it instead of inheriting it from some poor fuck of an ad salesman, as if he didn’t seem to spill out of the naked skin and fill the room with his presence, all power and confidence and light.
Yeah, the angel surprises him. Maybe he’s a little jealous of the lack of shame Cas shows: not only for what he is, but what he wants.
What he wants is Dean. In the end that’s what’s really making his head swim.
Rutting together fully-clothed like handsy teenagers would only be– well. They’ve done a bit of that, anyhow, on their way to the bed. There’s a certain elegance to the compromise offered by doing things as they are instead. Enough rolling and shoving and nipping along necks gives way to this: Cas, sprawled out and languid, shoulders braced against the mattress to let spine and hips roll; and Dean, a collection of planes and angles slotted to him from thigh to throat. Stretching one of the angel’s legs across the other forces space between them and Dean damns every inch of air touching Cas where his own skin doesn’t – even as he makes up for that loss with fingers tightening into a fist in soft, dark hair; with lips and teeth and tongue forming his friend’s name on every breath he’d otherwise waste between kisses; with the heated line of his cock sliding through the press of those thighs alongside Cas’ own erection. They crash and flow together and it’s a messy thing, real sex, sweaty and awkward and loud – he finds that holding the headboard does no good to quiet its clatter and bang and finally he gives up. All the better to hang on to Cas, Cas, to press fingers to his throat and feel the grit of his groaning, to dig into hips, to stroke his side or sweep hair off his forehead when it’s plastered down. Worry tries to gnaw at him and he denies it the satisfaction of ruining this. He’s always been a pro at denial; for once it’s worked out in his favour.