Archive of Our Own

Castiel pokes his head into the movie room, eyes landing on Dean reclined in his chair. There are lots of lights flashing on the TV, triumphant music playing. He thinks it’s an Indiana Jones movie, but he can’t be sure. 

“Hello, Dean,” he says, and Dean jumps, turning to look at him. His face lights up. 

“Cas, hey, c’mere,” he calls, gesturing toward himself. He leans the back of the chair back up. 

“I just wanted to inform you that Sam brought back dinner,” Castiel says, entering the room. He stands awkwardly by the door. 

“Oh, sweet—wait.” Dean’s face turns suspicious. “What exactly did he bring back.”

“Uh, two boxes of pizza and a container of salad.”

Dean shivers exaggeratedly. “Blegh. No, dude, I’m not touching that until the salad has exited the room.”

Castiel rolls his eyes fondly. “The salad has not infected the pizza, Dean.”

“You don’t know that for sure. Better safe than sorry.”

“It would probably be for the best if it had.”

Dean gasps, hand on his heart. “You take that back.”

“Never,” Castiel says, deadpan.

“Cas!” Dean all-but wails. “You of all people should have my back on this one!”

Castiel isn’t sure what he means by that. He squints. “Why should I?” 

Dean drops the theatrics and smirks, looking him up and down. Predatory. A thrill runs up Castiel’s spine. 

He sort of has a feeling that whatever Dean says next will have nothing to do with pizza. He decides in advance that he’s not going to bother with puzzling out a connection between the two. 

“Come here and I’ll show you,” Dean says. “Shut the door.” 

Castiel doesn’t need any more invitation. The door shuts and he moves so quickly across the room, an onlooker could be forgiven for assuming that his wings work again.  

Dean laughs as Castiel plants himself in front of the chair. “Woah, eager, aren’t you.” 

Castiel tilts his head, feigning confusion. “Eager for what?”

“Uh huh,” Dean says, unconvinced. He pats his lap. “Come on.”

Castiel looks at Dean’s pajama-clad thighs and licks his lips. He doesn’t ever get invited into Dean’s lap. He’d been expecting Dean to yank him down and kiss him rough, biting. The way they usually do it, Castiel leaving hand-shaped bruises and Dean drawing little bits of blood with his teeth. Castiel staring, after, marveling at the beauty of it all, Dean breaking eye contact and tripping back into his pants and leaving without a word.   

He’s halfway convinced that Dean is going to wrench this away from him like some kind of joke. Laugh at him and say, Cas, man, that was not what I meant.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You coming?” He says it so nonchalantly, Castiel briefly wonders if he’s been killed and replaced by a changeling.  

Then Dean’s breath comes out almost unnoticeably shaky, and Castiel knows that this is real. 

Castiel swallows. “Yes,” he says, and clambers onto the chair, thighs stretched around Dean’s. He puts one hand on Dean’s shoulder for support. Dean’s hands come up to his hips to steady him, first touching lightly, then getting firm. 

Dean looks up at him, jaw working. “I had—an idea,” he says. 

“What was your idea?” Castiel asks hesitantly. Worried that just by asking, he’s pushing things too far. 

Dean purses his lips, removes one hand from Castiel’s hip and pulls him in by the back of his neck. Castiel inhales sharply through his nose. 

Dean pauses before their mouths make contact, short breaths puffing against Castiel’s dry lips. He looks deep in Castiel’s eyes, like he’s considering something. 

Then he presses his mouth against Castiel’s, and it’s—gentle. 

Castiel has never had gentle. Dean doesn’t do gentle with Castiel, doesn’t even do gentle with himself. 

“Wait,” Castiel blurts against Dean’s mouth, suddenly feeling sort of frightened. “What about dinner?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Dinner can wait. I already told you.” Like the salad thing was a valid argument. 

Castiel unthinkingly makes a face and opens his mouth to complain, but then Dean’s thumb starts rubbing circles into Castiel’s hip. Abruptly, he decides that the salad thing was definitely a valid argument. 

He tips forward, lips meeting Dean’s again. Dean opens his mouth and lets Castiel explore with his tongue, feeling the gaps between Dean’s teeth, the indents in his molars. Then he gets his hand in Castiel’s hair and pulls him back. Studies him. Castiel squirms at the attention.

“What, Dean?” he says after a moment.  

“You’re so pretty,” Dean breathes. Castiel’s mouth falls slightly open in shock, face growing hot. Dean doesn’t just say that type of thing—not to him. He chokes back a sound that he hasn’t ever made before. 

Dean smiles, teeth flashing. Then he says, “Pretty girl.”

Castiel stills. Girl?

“I’m not a girl,” Castiel protests, baffled, face still flushed. 

Dean narrows his eyes. His thumb stops rubbing Castiel’s hip, and Castiel immediately mourns the loss. “Said I had an idea, didn’t I?” Dean says. 

“Yes, but I—“

“Cas,” Dean says warningly. “Just lemme try something.”

Castiel wants to. He wants to give Dean everything. Anything. 

But. 

“I don’t understand,” he says. “Dean, I’m a m—“

“Uh-uh.” Dean puts his hand over Castiel’s mouth. It trembles a little against Castiel’s skin. “What’d I say?”

Castiel just looks at him, eyes wide. He could easily free his mouth. He doesn’t. 

“I said you’re a pretty girl,” Dean says forcefully. “My pretty girl.”

Castiel stares, silent. A smile slowly makes its way back onto Dean’s face. “Capiche?”

Castiel nods. Dean removes his hand, replaces it on the back of Castiel’s neck. “I capiche,” Castiel says, breathless. 

Dean nods. Then he takes a deep breath and kisses him again. Deeper, but no less gentle. He cradles Castiel’s neck, rubs his other hand up and down Castiel’s hip. 

Castiel whines into Dean’s mouth. 

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” Dean says, pulling back. “Being my pretty girl?” 

There’s a look in his eyes that Castiel can’t quite decipher.  

He doesn’t know if he likes Dean calling him that. He does like being called pretty, he’s discovering, and touched gently, like he’s something to be cherished. Dean is often so rough with him, like if he’s angry at Castiel for being—Castiel? An angel? A man?

It’s a puzzle that he can’t quite find all the pieces to. He rebuilt Dean Winchester from the ground up, stitched the decaying pieces of him back together and painted each freckle on his nose, has been blinded by the brightness of his soul over and over again, hell-hot, earthy, wrapped in the cold wet of purgatory, twisted with grief and aching with love and murderous with rage—and still Dean is a mystery to him.  He doesn’t know what Dean wants from him. He doesn’t know how Dean feels, and he doesn’t know what exactly Dean is hiding from.  

Still, he wants it. The roughness. Wants everything Dean is willing to give him and more, his body a gaping, yawning pit of need. He’s tried to shove it down. It’s a key part of humanity, the shoving down. Dean is excellent at it. Castiel wishes Dean were worse at it; he wishes he himself was better.

Castiel likes it rough. Right now, though, with one of Dean’s hands on his hip, the other soft on the back of his neck, thumb swiping back and forth in the short hairs there, he’s finding that he likes it gentle, too. Gentle the way Dean might treat a human. Someone who isn’t Castiel, hasn’t done the things that Castiel's done.  

He’s taking too long to answer. Dean huffs and drags him back in, tongue swiping at the crease of his lips. Castiel opens his mouth eagerly and Dean licks his teeth. 

Dean’s other hand comes up to cradle his face, fingers beneath his ear and against his cheek, thumb on his chin. Castiel sighs into the kiss and Dean hums, amused. He pulls back again and Castiel chases his mouth with a whine. 

“Ah-ah,” Dean says, tapping his thumb against Castiel’s bottom lip. “You haven’t answered my question, bud. Baby.” 

Castiel blinks, dazed. “What was the question?”

Dean exhales a soft laugh. “Look at you.” He presses his thumb into Castiel’s lip. Castiel inhales shakily. 

“I said,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close, lips brushing Castiel’s ear, “don’t you like being my pretty girl?”

Castiel shivers. He takes another moment to consider it. He isn’t a girl, is the thing. He inhabited a woman’s body, once, but he wasn’t a woman, then. He wasn’t anything. 

Now, he’s something—this male vessel has been his for so long that he’s grown attached to it, to every bit of it. He thinks he’s as much of a man as an angel can be. It’s one of those little human things about him that he cherishes greatly: the act of becoming. He’s a man because he chose to be. 

It’s grating, then, he decides, to be referred to as a girl. He doesn’t like it. 

No, that’s not right. It’s grating, yes, but there’s a heat in his belly that doesn’t just come from the gentleness of it all. There’s something else to it, something he doesn’t quite understand. 

He thinks maybe he sort of likes being forced into a box for Dean’s pleasure. 

Maybe he really likes it. 

“Cas. Answer me,” Dean says. Nips at his ear. 

“Yes,” Castiel gasps. 

“Yes?” Dean bites his ear again, gentle, always gentle. Laves his tongue over the spot. “You like being my girl?”

“Yes—ah—your—your pretty girl.”

Dean releases a low breath and grins against his ear. “Yeah, baby.” He pulls back and looks Castiel in the eye. Castiel is lost in his blown pupils, the millimeter of green at the edges, adrift in a sea of black. “My pretty girl, yeah.” He presses his thumb harder against Castiel’s lip and Castiel almost goes cross-eyed trying to look at it. He opens his mouth and flicks Dean’s thumb with the tip of his tongue. 

Dean groans and pushes it into Castiel’s mouth. Castiel wants to just taste it, hold it there, lick the salt from Dean’s skin. If he lets it sit in his mouth, unmoving, maybe it won’t pull back. Maybe he can stay like this forever, on Dean’s lap, breathing him in, learning how to taste, to make sense of the jumble of molecules, to form them into the sum of their parts rather than all of their moving individual pieces. 

He looks back into Dean’s eyes. Dean presses his thumb against Castiel’s tongue. 

Castiel hollows his cheeks and sucks. 

“God,” Dean breathes, eyes flicking across Castiel’s flushed face, his wet mouth. Something slips through the cracks of his shell, rapturous. “Good girl.”

Castiel moans. Good, good, he’s good. Dean thinks he’s good. 

Dean fumbles at Castiel’s loose tie with his unoccupied hand. Castiel tries to help him and ends up batting his hand away when all three limbs make the task impossible. He yanks his tie off and shucks his trench coat along with it, letting them both fall to the floor. Dean tries pulling his thumb out of Castiel’s mouth to work on unbuttoning his shirt, but Castiel makes a noise of protest and sucks harder, teeth coming down and stopping just short of chomping. 

Dean lets out a surprised laugh. “Need that back, sweetheart.” 

Castiel shakes his head, wide-eyed, and bites down softly, causing Dean to inhale, sharp. He knows he can’t keep Dean from pulling away. He just doesn’t want it to happen so soon. 

“Okay,” Dean says, bemused. “Okay, just—you gotta help me, then, C—uh, baby.” 

Castiel nods and starts unbuttoning his collar fumblingly. Dean lets his right hand hang in the air for a second before shoving it under Castiel’s shirt, squeezing the flesh of his waist. He pushes the thumb of his left hand further into Castiel’s mouth and pulls it halfway out, pushes it back in again. Castiel does his best to hold still and let Dean fuck his mouth; it takes everything in him not to follow each motion, not to refuse to give an inch. Spit wells up on his lips. He moans. 

He gets his shirt open, finally, and Dean’s eyes go impossibly darker, skimming up his stomach and resting on his pecs. Castiel pushes the shirt the rest of the way off, letting it join its brethren on the floor. 

Dean drags his right hand up Castiel’s side, and the friction distracts Castiel enough that Dean is almost able to get his left thumb out before Castiel catches on and bites down on the tip. 

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Cas.”

Castiel glares. 

“You’re bein’ a bad girl,” Dean says. 

Castiel’s cheeks feel suddenly like they’re on fire. He gasps, releasing Dean’s thumb. “Dean—“

“No, don’t talk.” Dean wipes his hand off on Castiel’s bare chest, catching his nails on a nipple. Castiel jerks forward in Dean’s lap. “Good girls don’t talk.”

It doesn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t good girls talk? What does speaking have to do with behaving, and being female?

Regardless, it leaves Castiel panting and nodding quickly. He wants to be good, he realizes, he wants to be a good girl, he wants Dean to tell him, over and over. He wants it more than anything he’s ever wanted—and he has experience with wanting. 

Dean grabs Cas’s pecs with both his hands and squeezes. “Should get you a bra,” he muses softly, lips brushing Castiel’s ear. “You got such nice tits. So big.” 

They aren’t, and this is all so confusing, and Castiel moans and knocks his forehead against Dean’s and rocks his hips, unable to get much friction from the way he’s sitting, inner thighs not-quite straining from the spread of his legs, in a manner that lets him know that were he still human, this might be difficult. 

Dean’s hands are almost scalding hot on Castiel’s bare chest and he wants them everywhere. He grips Dean’s shoulders, fits his hand over the place the scar rests under Dean’s t-shirt, and suddenly becomes aware that Dean is still completely clothed. He paws at Dean’s shirt, unable to get his shaking hands to cooperate. 

“Aw, you want my shirt off, babygirl?” Dean says patronizingly. Castiel doesn’t care. He wants to touch Dean’s skin. He nods desperately. 

Dean gives Castiel’s pecs another squeeze, brushes his thumbs over the nipples, sending a jolt through Castiel’s skin, straight to his cock. He leans in, speaks low into Castiel’s ear. “Say please.” 

“But—“ Castiel starts, mildly panicked. 

“Please, baby.”

“But, Dean, you said—“

Dean huffs. “You can talk when I tell you to.”

Castiel nods, relieved. He swallows. Clutches at the material of Dean’s shirt. 

“Say please,” Dean repeats. 

“Please,” Castiel says. 

Dean grins and removes his hands from Castiel’s chest, pulls his shirt off over his head in one motion. He tosses it somewhere behind him, over the back of the chair. 

He’s so beautiful—his strong chest, his soft belly, the trail of hair down his navel, his clavicles, his belly button. Every single freckle. Castiel knows it all intimately—still, he could sit and stare and catalogue for years. He could fill a hundred books on the intricacies of Dean’s body. 

He wants to get his mouth on all of it, wants to bite and taste, but he can’t reach from his position atop Dean’s lap. He presses both his palms against Dean’s flushed chest instead, drags his fingers wonderingly through the sweat gathered there. Up to his shoulders, back down to his stomach. Dean’s chest heaves. They’ve done this enough times that it shouldn’t surprise him, but Castiel still grins at the evidence of the effect he has on Dean. 

“What’re you smilin’ at?” Dean asks. 

Castiel shakes his head and kisses him again. He sucks Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth and rocks his hips forward again uselessly at the sound of Dean moaning, higher than his deep voice usually gets. Castiel delights in making Dean lose his iron grip on the pitch of his voice. His greatest dream is to make Dean lose control of everything, let the brightness of his soul shine through, the way it did when Castiel pulled him out of hell. He thinks maybe he needs Dean fully underneath him for that. 

But this, right here, is more than he ever thought he’d be allowed. He takes what he can get. 

Dean’s hands are on Castiel’s pecs again, nails digging into Castiel's flesh. Castiel’s cock throbs and he doesn’t want to stop touching Dean’s warm dewy body even a little bit, but he needs some relief. Reluctantly, he pulls one hand away to palm himself through his jeans. 

Dean bites Castiel’s lip sharply and slaps Castiel’s hand away. He leans back to look Castiel in the eye. 

“Don’t touch,” he says. “Good girls don’t touch either.”

This proclamation makes even less sense than the first. Castiel nods frantically. 

“Let—let me take care of you, ‘kay?” Dean continues, voice low. “I know what you need. Lemme take care of my girl.”

The words send warmth coursing through Castiel’s body, tingling at the tips of his fingers and toes. 

“Oh,” Castiel says, then immediately covers his mouth with his hand, wide-eyed. 

“Yeah?” Dean smirks. 

There’s a pit in Castiel’s stomach over his slip-up. Almost the way he used to feel the first few times he disobeyed heaven, a long time ago. “Sorry,” he says through his fingers. 

“Didn’t say you could talk.”

The pit grows. Dean pulls Castiel’s hand from his mouth, hesitates, and then presses his own lips to the knuckles. He releases it and Castiel feels so undeserving, and yet still aches to touch himself. He doesn’t; he puts the hand carefully back on Dean’s torso, counts the ribs he can just barely feel through Dean’s skin. 

“Good,” Dean praises, “good job.” Castiel moans and tries to recreate the feeling of his hand on himself, thrusting against Dean, but it’s just not enough. 

“So good,” Dean murmurs. “You want some help with that?”

Castiel nods.

“Hm,” Dean says. He raises an eyebrow. Castiel thinks maybe he’s supposed to say please again, but Dean hasn’t told him to yet, and he wants Dean to call him good again, so he can’t say anything, especially since he’s already made a mistake—what if it’s some sort of test?—but then maybe it’s not, and Dean just expects him to know, and to say please without being told, and in order for Dean to call him good—for him to be good—he has to say it—and Castiel isn’t allowed to listen to Dean’s thoughts, so he can’t pluck the answer from them, but he also can’t ask without breaking the rules and getting it wrong anyway, and he doesn’t know—he doesn’t—he—

Dean grabs his shoulders. “Hey—hey, Jesus, it’s okay. It’s okay.” His voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. It sounds kind of panicky. 

Castiel’s chest heaves. He realizes that he may be hyperventilating.

“Breathe, c’mon, sweetheart, it’s okay.”

Castiel wishes Dean would say his name. 

Dean drags his hands up and down Castiel’s shoulders, soothing. “In. Out.” He breathes as he says it. “In. Out. In. Out. Good, good girl, doin’ so good for me.”

Castiel breathes deep. His eyelashes are wet. 

Dean brings his hands closer to Castiel’s neck and rubs at the tense muscles there. “Wanna tell me what the hell that was?”

Castiel swallows. He feels sort of ashamed. “You didn’t tell me to speak.”

Dean’s eyes widen. His mouth stretches into an awed smile, the tip of his tongue between his teeth. 

“It’s okay,” he says slowly. “It’s okay. My pretty girl just needs more specific instructions, huh?” He caresses the back of Castiel’s neck. “‘M sorry, I should’ve known. Should’ve been more careful with you.”

Castiel’s head falls into the crook of Dean’s shoulder, breath stuttering. Dean wants to be careful with him. Like he was created for tenderness, and not war. Like he deserves care. 

Dean rubs circles into his neck, hands carefully making their way down to his shoulders, his back. Still breathing deeply. 

Castiel feels so warm. Safe. Dean is holding him. He’s Dean’s girl. 

He wonders if Dean treated his other girls this way. He wonders if Dean will continue to treat him this way, if he’s pretty enough, if he’s good enough. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asks softly. 

Castiel really wishes Dean would say his name. 

“You can talk,” Dean adds, an afterthought. 

Castiel nods into Dean’s neck. “Yes,” he rasps. 

“Okay. Good.” Dean drags one hand back up Castiel’s back and pets his hair, digs his fingers in and pulls softly, prompting Castiel to lift his head. Castiel closes his eyes as Dean thumbs away the tears from his lashes. 

When he opens them back up, Dean is leaning back, eyes tracing his features, taking him all in. 

“So beautiful,” he breathes. “Beautiful—beautiful girl.” The last part is rushed, his eyes briefly going wide, like he almost let something slip. What, Castiel doesn’t know.  

He kisses Castiel, then. Soft and deep, tongue tracing his lips, slipping inside, both hands framing his face. It’s so good. The gaping maw within Castiel wants this all the time, every day, every minute, every second. The sweetness of it on his tongue, the taste becoming greater than the sum of its parts, Dean’s thumbs tracing his cheekbones, gentle, gentle, gentle. 

Dean pulls one hand away, traces it down Castiel’s chest, scraping lightly at his belly. He dips his fingers underneath Castiel’s waistband. Castiel gasps, and Dean makes a muffled noise and kisses him harder, so he gasps again, trying to sound more delicate this time, like the type of girl Dean used to take to bed. 

It must work, because Dean groans and shoves his fingers further into the front of Castiel’s pants. He can’t get them very far, though: there’s a belt in the way. 

Castiel nips at his bottom lip. Dean moans and pulls away, lips pink and swollen, and Castiel wants to lick his mouth. 

“Still need you to say please,” Dean says, voice rough. 

It takes a minute for Castiel’s brain to buffer. “Oh,” he says. “Yes. Yes, please, Dean.”

Dean smirks and removes his other hand from Castiel’s face, palms at one of his pecs. He teases Castiel’s nipple and takes his hand out of Castiel’s pants, pressing it against Castiel’s clothed crotch, just shy of enough. Castiel loses his balance and tips forward again, burying his head back in Dean’s neck, hands on his bare shoulders. He mouths at the flesh there. His palm fits perfectly against the scar, his only proof that Dean is his, his greatest act of rebellion and his most beautiful work of art. They belong to each other, and Castiel being Dean’s is surely so much more obvious from the outside, but the shape of his palm on Dean’s shoulder proves that the opposite is true, too: that Dean is his, is his, is his. 

Even if Dean has to remake him into a girl. Even if Dean can’t say his name, can only call him sweetheart and baby. That Dean wants him at all is enough—and Castiel wants it, too. He wants to be a girl, for Dean, and only for Dean. It’s Dean’s own act of creation. Castiel has created himself, a man, and Dean has seen that and forced it into something else, just to make himself happy, just for his own pleasure, and it is good, it is good, it is good. 

Fuck, it’s so good.  

Dean presses his palm harder against Castiel’s crotch, strokes him through his pants a little, and then immediately eases off the pressure. Castiel bucks his hips forward and whimpers into his neck.

He needs to clarify something Dean said a few minutes ago.  “Dean,” he says. 

“Mm,” Dean says and does it again. Castiel bucks harder. 

“Can I—can I speak?”

Dean laughs. “Say please,” he teases. 

“Please, please—oh—please, Dean—“

“Mm, good girl. Yeah, go ahead. You can talk now.”

Castiel sighs, the tension in his shoulders releasing, only to be brought back again immediately by the press of Dean’s palm. 

“Dean,” he gasps, “more, I need—please, more.”

“So polite,” Dean coos. Castiel has only recently come to understand the phrase butterflies in your stomach. The feeling he gets at the tone of Dean’s voice, he thinks, surely counts as butterflies. Or perhaps something dirtier, closer to the earth. Fruit flies, maybe. 

Yes, that’s it. Castiel has fruit flies in his stomach. His body is like a giant watermelon, filled to the brim with fruit flies. 

It feels wonderful. He should share this with Dean. 

Dean presses into Castiel’s crotch again before moving away completely, and Castiel gasps out, “Fruit flies—“

Dean pauses, hands frozen above Castiel’s belt buckle. “Fruit…flies?”

Castiel didn’t mean for it to come out like that. His face burns. He’s glad it’s safely tucked away. “I—never mind.”

“…Okay,” Dean says. He goes back to getting the belt undone. He doesn’t bother taking it out of Castiel’s belt loops; just starts shoving his pants and boxers down once it’s unbuckled. “Up, hips up, baby,” he says. Castiel complies, putting the bulk of his weight on his knees, still feeling embarrassed. The feeling quickly dissipates, though, once he’s kicked off his pants and underwear and Dean gets his hands on Castiel’s ass. He squeezes and then smoothes his hands up and down the backs of Castiel’s thighs, and Castiel’s flushed cock leaks onto his pajama pants. 

“Such a nice ass,” Dean mutters into Castiel’s hair. “Should get you some panties, yeah? Somethin’ to show off how pretty my girl is.”

Castiel groans and presses his cock into Dean’s thighs, able to get better friction now that he’s naked. 

“They’d be pink,” Dean muses. “And—satiny. You’d look so good, baby.” There’s something behind his words that he’s not saying, obvious even in the state Castiel is in, but Castiel doesn’t care enough to call it out. Or perhaps he cares so much that he won’t call it out. 

Castiel thrusts against Dean, and for some reason there’s still fabric there, and not the soft skin of Dean’s bare legs. He takes his face out of Dean’s neck, leaving marks where he didn’t realize he’d been biting, and sits back, grasping at his waistband. “Off. Dean, take these off.”

Dean takes a breath and Castiel rolls his eyes. “Please,” he adds before Dean can say anything.

“I was just gonna take my dick out,” Dean says. 

Castiel shakes his head. “I want them off, Dean. Please.” 

Dean flushes. “Okay, but you gotta get up again.”

Castiel smiles. 

Dean pushes up, helping Castiel lift his hips and holding him there for a minute, squeezing the backs of his thighs. Castiel doesn’t need the help at all. It feels good anyway. 

Dean puts his hands on his own waistband and shimmies his pajama pants down, awkwardly lifting his own hips. “Didn’t—think this one through,” he puffs. “Oh, shit, I need—“

He executes a weird maneuver in which he shoves his hand underneath Castiel’s leg, grasping at something inside the pocket that’s already halfway off. His forearm brushes against Castiel’s balls and Castiel whimpers a little, nails digging into Dean’s chest. 

“Got it!” Dean says triumphantly. He yanks his arm out, brandishing a bottle of lube—which Castiel has become intimately familiar with the last few months. The speed and pressure of the motion against him has Castiel throwing his head back and gasping again. 

Dean absently scratches a hand through Castiel’s hair and then shoves his pants the rest of the way off. He tucks the bottle beside his lap on the chair and touches Castiel’s hips, rubbing his hands up Castiel’s sides in a soothing motion. He spreads his legs, forcing Castiel’s thighs further apart, and if Castiel were human, it would burn. Their cocks brush together. 

“Presumptuous,” Castiel manages to say to the bottle that Dean conveniently just had. He gets a little huff of laughter for his efforts. 

“Not presumptuous if you’re easy,” Dean says meanly. Castiel feels a hurt little stab to his chest, and his hips jolt forward, cock rubbing against Deans. Dean grunts. “And you’re just—fuck—gaggin’ for it, aren’t you, babygirl?” 

“I don’t—ah—have a gag reflex,” Castiel corrects him. He’s practically rubbing himself on Dean now, hips moving of their own accord, cock leaking onto Dean’s belly. 

“God, I know.” Dean’s voice turns dreamy. “You suck dick like you were made for it.”

Castiel thinks maybe he should’ve been made for it. That would have solved a lot of problems from the jump. 

The thought of taking Dean into his mouth, getting closer to forcing together the pieces of the puzzle that is the taste of his semen, is thrilling. “Do you want me to?” Castiel asks, not even attempting to hide his eagerness. 

“Not tonight,” Dean says, and kisses the side of his neck. “Wanna fuck you, like, yesterday.”

Castiel feels a pang of disappointment. It only lasts until Dean grabs his ass with both hands and brushes his fingers against his hole. More pre-come leaks from his cock, smearing against Dean’s belly. He groans and Dean sucks a mark into his neck, bites a little. So much softer than usual. No blood threatening to break free. 

Dean pulls back, mouth and hands both gone, and Castiel makes a sad noise at the loss. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart. C’mere, that’s it.” He grabs the lube, opens the cap, and squeezes some of it onto his fingers. “Gonna get you wet for me, how’s that sound?”

Saliva fills Castiel’s mouth. “Good, it sounds—yes.”

“‘It sounds yes?’” 

“Dean.”

Dean chuckles and squeezes Castiel’s asscheeks, slips his lubed up fingers between them. He presses one cold finger against Castiel’s hole and rubs, running his other hand up Castiel’s flank while Castiel shivers. 

“How’s that feel, baby?” Dean says into Castiel’s throat. He kisses Castiel’s Adam’s apple and pushes his finger in just slightly. 

Castiel just squeezes Dean’s biceps, breathing hard, grip tight enough to bruise, and he delights in knowing that he’s leaving another mark on Dean. 

Dean moans high again, hips jerking up. He pinches Castiel’s hip. “Fuck—asked you a question, pretty girl.” The finger against Castiel’s hole stills. 

Castiel whines. “It feels good, Dean, feels so good, please—“

Dean nips at his throat and pushes his finger fully in, lines up a second one at his entrance. Castiel’s cock throbs, flushed red. “Hah—ah,” he says. 

Dean gets the second finger in and fucks them in and out, and Castiel moves his hips with it, thrusting back against Dean’s hand. “More, Dean,” he gasps. 

“You gotta be polite,” Dean chides him. “Be a good girl for me, baby.”

“Do you want to fuck me or not,” Castiel bites out. 

Dean’s eyes narrow. He stops moving his fingers. He grabs Castiel’s chin and drags him down, forcing Castiel to look him in the eye. 

“What was that?” he says. Castiel’s heart thuds. He feels vaguely sick. He’s not sure where penitence ends and arousal begins.

He swallows. “I said, do you—“

“I heard what you said.”

“I know,” Castiel says, frustrated. “You asked m—“

Dean covers his mouth, fingers still tight on the sides of his face. Castiel’s hips twitch involuntarily, chasing friction. 

“I think you’re done talking,” Dean says. Castiel just nods, eyes closed tight. It’s almost a relief, to go back to forced silence. It’s so much easier to be good when he’s not allowed to speak.

Dean doesn’t let go of his mouth yet, just holds his face there as he slowly starts moving his fingers again. Castiel breathes thinly through his nose. Quickly, even though he doesn’t actually need oxygen. Dean curls his fingers, brushing up against Castiel’s prostate, and Castiel lets out a muffled yelp. 

Dean immediately releases Castiel’s face. Castiel lets his head fall back onto Dean’s shoulder. Then Dean curls his fingers again and Castiel yelps, louder this time. 

Abruptly, Castiel remembers that Sam is in the bunker. 

Dean hits Castiel’s prostate more directly and Castiel bites Dean’s shoulder hard, trying not to be too loud, not wanting to make his other friend uncomfortable. 

Dean makes a high breathy noise at the bite and bucks his hips up, cock rubbing against Castiel’s, which he realizes has been completely neglected. He wants to touch himself so badly, but Dean wants to take care of him, and he wants Dean to take care of him, so he just ruts harder against Dean, chasing any modicum of friction that he can get.

Dean grabs his hair and pulls him back to look him in the eye. Castiel marvels in the sting, gentle but not. 

“Don’t do that,” Dean says sternly, voice climbing back down with each word. Getting more masculine. “I wanna hear your pretty noises, ‘kay?”

Castiel glances at the door nervously but doesn’t say anything. Dean must catch on, because suddenly there are three fingers inside him and Dean is saying, “Sam has earbuds. If he doesn’t wanna hear my girl crying while I fuck her wet pussy, he can listen to some goddamn music.”

The feminine pronoun is a step further than Dean has taken this so far. Castiel nearly yells, both at the stretch in his hole and Dean’s words. My girl, my girl, my girl. 

He finds he no longer cares how Sam feels.

Dean smirks, proud of himself, and pulls Castiel in, still holding him by the hair. He crushes their mouths together, and this time it’s just wet, just sloppy, Castiel’s mouth wide open immediately and Dean’s tongue practically down his throat. He breathes heavily through his nose, open mouth unable to contain a single sound, even if they get trapped back in Dean’s mouth anyway. 

Dean twists his fingers and Castiel screams into Dean’s mouth. “Yeah, that’s it,” Dean says, pulling away wetly. “Good girl, so good f’r me, God. You think you’re ready for my dick now?”

Castiel nods desperately, pulling at Dean’s grip, Dean’s hand still in his hair. 

“What do you say.”

Castiel is back in the place he was before he started crying. Desperate to follow orders, eager to please Dean, his Dean. “Please,” he says without hesitation, voice raw. 

“Please what?” 

“Please can you fuck me, Dean, fuck—“ 

Dean spreads his fingers out inside Castiel, causing him to throw his head back and moan wantonly. 

“You’re so hot,” Dean breathes. He doesn’t follow it up with anything about Castiel being a girl. 

Slowly, he slides his fingers out. Castiel clenches around them, and when they’re gone he feels so, so empty. He must make a noise, because Dean shushes him gently and hefts his hips up, hands on his ass, not even waiting for Castiel to do it himself this time. Dean lines his hard cock up and pushes in, slowly, slowly, like he doesn’t want to risk hurting him. 

There’s a stream of noises coming out of Castiel’s mouth that he’s barely aware of. Dean makes a punched out sound when he bottoms out. 

Dean mouths at the hinge of Castiel’s jaw. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “Makin’ all those sounds, just for me.”

Castiel moans and shifts his hips to pull himself up Dean’s cock, but Dean grabs him, and he lets himself be stilled. “Dean,” he whines. 

“What do you want me to fuck?” Dean says suddenly against his skin, stubble scratching him. He doesn’t move. 

“…Me?” Castiel says, confused. 

Dean leans back and looks at him. “No, babygirl, what do you want me to fuck?”

Castiel is silent but for the heavy breathing coming from his mouth, trying to figure out what Dean wants him to say. His thoughts are syrupy slow, brain turned to mush. 

Finally, he thinks he catches up. “My…my pussy?” he says hesitantly, and Dean groans and clutches him tighter, thrusts up once. 

“That’s my girl,” he says. “Say the whole thing.”

Castiel swallows. His face is burning. “Please can you—can you fuck my pussy,” he gets out, screwing his eyes shut. 

“Yeah. Yeah, baby, holy shit.” Dean sounds equal parts delighted and wrecked. There’s a hint of disbelief in his voice, too, like he’s shocked that he’s getting what he wants, like he doesn’t know that Castiel will do anything for him, anything, and love it. 

And Castiel is feeling a wild hurricane of emotions, but above all else he loves this, loves it so much, loves being Dean’s girl. Wants to stay here on Dean’s lap and keep being his girl until the world falls apart around them, until Dean’s bones decay and longer. Wants to lock himself inside Dean’s casket and spend the rest of his existence under six feet of soil. 

Dean releases him, hands coming up to meet his soft waist instead, and, given permission, he immediately lifts himself up almost the length of Dean’s cock and slams back down. He does it again and Dean thrusts up to meet him this time, gripping him tight. Eventually, they work out a rhythm, Castiel practically bouncing in Dean’s lap. The only sounds for a while are the slap of skin on skin, the breathy noises Dean probably doesn’t realize he’s making, and Castiel saying, “Hah—ah—ah,” unable to keep his volume from climbing. 

He feels Dean’s cock through his whole body, like he’s being split apart. They’ve never done this before, in this position, but he thinks he’s doing a good job. He certainly feels like he’s doing a good job. 

Dean seems to agree. “Doin’ so good,” he moans, running his hands down Castiel’s waist. His fingers dance along Castiel’s inner thighs, getting deliciously close to Castiel’s aching cock, bouncing with the rhythm of his hips. “Think you deserve a reward, huh?”

Castiel nods vigorously.

Dean teases the coarse dark hair above Castiel’s cock. Castiel’s hips stutter. 

“You know what you gotta say,” Dean prompts. Castiel thinks maybe he’s forgotten that he told him to stop talking. It doesn’t matter, though: he’s been prompted, so he can respond. Dean already established this. 

“Yes, yes please,” Castiel gasps. Dean grabs his cock, thumbs at the head. Stares at Castiel, moving up and down above him, face and chest flushed, head thrown back. 

Dean pulls Castiel’s head in and kisses him again, just as wet and messy as before. He moves his tongue with the timing of his thrusts, jacks Castiel’s cock, and it’s so much, and abruptly, Castiel becomes certain that he’s about to ejaculate. 

He slaps his hand against Dean’s chest and Dean releases his mouth, a line of spit stretching between them before snapping. The hand on his cock stills. “What, sweetheart, what is it?” Dean asks. 

Castiel opens and closes his mouth for a moment before finally getting the words out. “‘M gonna come,” he slurs. 

Dean smirks and starts moving his hand again. “You think so?”

“Mhm.” It’s all Castiel feels capable of saying. 

Dean grips the back of Castiel’s neck with his other hand. “D’you think you deserve it?” he whispers into Castiel’s ear. 

Castiel doesn’t think he deserves much of anything. He wants it, though, and he’s always been willing to lie for what he wants. “Mhm.”

Dean nips his earlobe and comes down to suck on his neck. Castiel tilts his head to give Dean better access. His hips falter on a downstroke, when Dean scrapes his neck with his teeth, and he feels the pressure within him rapidly building. 

“I think so too,” Dean says. He twists his wrist. Castiel feels a little guilty. “You gonna come for me, babygirl?”

Castiel nods, hips starting to fail him as he gets closer to the precipice. He has a great amount of stamina, but even not-quite-angels get distracted. 

Dean takes over more, free hand coming down to hold Castiel’s ass, supporting his thrusts. He fucks up into Castiel, panting. 

“C’mon, baby,” Dean says. He starts babbling, surely close to coming as well. “Come for me. God, you’re so pretty, my pretty girl, c’mon, be a good girl and come on my dick—“

Castiel comes with a shout, painting Dean’s chest with thick strips of white. Dean fucks up a few more times before coming too. The wet heat of it fills Castiel’s hole and Castiel wants to keep it there forever. 

Dean rests his sweaty forehead on Castiel’s chest. His hands both come up to cling to Castiel’s back, thumbs stroking across the shoulder blades. For a few minutes, they sit there, silent, chests heaving together. 

Then Castiel puts his hands in Dean’s messy hair and Dean jumps, pulling away. He lifts Castiel up off his cock, and Castiel whines in protest as he feels Dean’s come leaking out of him. 

“Fuck,” Dean says after he sets Castiel down on his lap. He wipes his hand over his mouth. 

He’s got that look on his face. 

Castiel swallows. Dread fills his chest.

Apparently, the end still goes the same way. It doesn’t matter that two minutes ago, Castiel was Dean’s girl. 

“Okay, time to get up, bud,” Dean says, patting Castiel’s thigh. The loss of baby nearly makes Castiel choke on old tears. 

He breathes. Wets his lips. Closes his eyes. “Okay, Dean,” he says, voice rough from shouting. 

He picks himself up and climbs back off Dean’s lap. He feels kind of foolish, standing there naked, knowing Dean just made him come by calling him a good girl and Castiel just let him, and now they’re going right back to normal. He snatches his rumpled pants off the floor and yanks them and the boxers still inside them on at the same time. 

Castiel didn’t feel shame, before. 

Dean had helpfully included it in his crash course on being a human. 

Castiel tightens his belt and buckles it. He looks up to search for his discarded shirt and his eye inevitably catches on Dean, still sitting, looking down and tracing his fingers through the come on his chest. Breathing shallowly. 

Dean looks up and Castiel darts his eyes away. He finds his shirt and slips his arms in the sleeves. He hears the creak of the recliner as Dean stands. 

“Gonna have to bleach this,” Dean laughs weakly from behind him. 

“Yes,” Castiel says, fingers on his buttons. 

“Cas, I—“

Castiel turns around to find Dean standing awkwardly, sweatpants on. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean mumbles. 

Castiel doesn’t really know what Dean is apologizing for. He nods, eyes tracing the lines of drying come on Dean’s chest. 

“I’m, uh, I’m gonna go have some of that pizza,” Dean says. He looks down at himself. “Well, maybe…take a shower first.” He runs a hand through his hair, looks away. 

“That’s a good idea, Dean,” Castiel says tonelessly. 

Dean nods once. Then he takes a breath, nods again, and grabs his shirt. He stalks out of the room without another word. He doesn’t look back. 

Castiel just stands there. Frozen in time. 

It’s a few hours before he moves again.