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“Master Cleanse, huh?”
Dean Smith looks up at the man behind him in line and immediately feels awkward. Like, sure, they’re in the check-out at an organic grocery, but Dean’s not really in with the granola set the way this guy clearly is. His clothes are loose and comfortable — a slightly oversized blue-grey linen shirt and loose, dark yoga pants — he’s unshaven, and his dark hair is rumpled and unkempt. Hell, the guy is actually wearing sandals. In September.
It’s a shame. He’d be a good looking guy if he cleaned up a little.
“You ever try an Ayurvedic diet?” the guy asks, and tilts his head to the side to look Dean over. “Better results, long-term. Not as much crash-fasting. Though a cleanse might be helpful if you eat the way a lot of people eat.”
“Good to know,” Dean says and turns his gaze back to his to his basket on the counter — two bottles of organic lemon juice, bulk organic cayenne, and a bottle of A grade light amber maple syrup — and hopes that’s a strong enough signal that he’s really, really not interested.
He catches some movement in his peripheral vision and turns to find the guy holding out a business card. He takes it reflexively.
It’s a surprisingly fine thing, mulberry paper with an understated raw edge. It reads:
Castiel Novak
massage - yoga - body work
“My number’s on the back. Let me know how your cleanse goes.” He smiles, touches Dean on the shoulder, and then leaves.
Dean’s in the parking lot before it occurs to him to wonder why this Castiel guy was standing in line behind him if he wasn’t going to buy anything.
* * *
Just looking at his Nalgene bottle, half-full of cayenne-maple lemonade, makes Dean’s stomach twist.
Wednesday had been fantastic. He got up with his alarm, even jogged in place a little before his shower. Carbs? Tossed out the night before. Bottle? Ready to go. Master Cleanse go-juice? Already chilling in the fridge just waiting to change his life.
He’d carried his bottle to every meeting and drunk deeply of the awesome, secure in the knowledge that he was going to make the Master Cleanse his bitch.
Thursday…well. He’d put a good face on Thursday, but the fact was he’d spent the whole day doing two things: his job and being hungry. Desperately hungry. Almost can’t-be-in-the-room-with-food hungry. He could smell the kitchen down the hall anytime anything came out of the microwave. Luther from accounting brought donuts to the P&R meeting and Dean spent half the time actually salivating.
Today?
Dean scowls at the bottle. It’s an inanimate object. He’s not going to let an inanimate object win, even if his guts ache and he’s 50/50 on whether he’s going to need to make another run to the men’s toilet for a new round of dry heaves.
Just seven more days.
Maybe I’ve just got a 24 hour bug.
No way Brad could do this and I can’t.
Yeah, he’s going to persevere. Power through. Kick it’s a —
Dean’s stomach flips and he grabs his trash can just in time to catch the bile and sickly-sweet lemonade that dribbles out of his mouth and down his chin. He chokes out a god damn it and reaches for his wallet. Pulls the mulberry paper card. Dials the number.
It rings once. Twice. He almost hangs up on the third, but then there’s a click and a muzzy-sounding breath.
“Hello. This is Castiel.”
“Yeah, uh, hi. This is Dean Smith. We met at the grocery store earlier this week.”
“Ah,” Castiel says, sounding a little more lucid. “I remember. The Master Cleanse. How is that? Going well, I hope.”
Dean sighs. “Honestly? I feel miserable. Throwing-up miserable. Is that normal?” He spares half a thought that maybe it’s weird that he’s asking this guy instead of Brad, but calling Brad means immediate defeat. Calling Castiel is more like calling tech support.
“Well, it’s not good.”
“Great.”
There’s a pause. “Would you like some help?”
Relieved, Dean slumps back in his chair and looks at his office ceiling. “Oh god, yes.”
“Okay.”
Castiel rattles off a series of questions, mostly about dietary restrictions, whether he drinks coffee, etc. Dean rattles off his office address. When they hang up, Dean calls Risa, his PA, and gives her Castiel’s name. And then, because he values his dignity, he pulls the liner from his trash can, ties the top shut, and drops it in the hallway bin.
Twenty minutes later, Castiel is standing in Dean’s office, wearing ragged jeans and a worn black tee that hugs his shoulders. It’s nothing like his love guru get-up, and Dean’s surprised at how fit he is. Like, he’s not a bodybuilder or anything, but he sure as hell looks like he could hold his own at the gym.
He’s also got a large silver thermos in his hands.
“You look terrible,” he says, and sits down on the edge of Dean’s desk. “Here. Drink this. Careful. It’s hot.”
Dean twists open the thermos and sniffs. The liquid’s a lightish brown, but not the right color for milky coffee. “Tea?”
“Yes. It’s called po cha. Tibetans drink it.”
He takes a sip. It’s a strange combination of flavors. Smoky and organic, not like the kind of tea he’s accustomed to at all, and it’s salty and creamy, but not quite like milk. After three days of lemonade, though, it’s delicious.
“What’s in this?”
“Pu erh tea, to take the edge off the caffeine withdrawal you’re probably having. Salt to help replenish your electrolytes. Organic butter for easy, fast caloric intake.”
Dean blinks, looks at the thermos. “Butter? Seriously?”
“Hey, count yourself lucky all I had was the American stuff. In Tibet they use yak butter. This is much milder.”
“Huh.” He takes another drink from the thermos. “So much for doing a cleanse.”
“Don’t feel bad. Most of my clients who try that crap either don’t make it through or don’t see a benefit..” Castiel raises his arms to stretch. He rolls his wrists, his shoulders, hums satisfaction before he lowers them. “Anyway, it’s just water weight and muscle mass that goes. Sure, cayenne and citrus are immune boosters, and maple syrup’s better for you than processed sugar, but all you’re doing with that is messing up your insulin levels and starving yourself.”
Dean stares at him.
“What?”
“That’s…not what I expected you to say. I figured you’d be all over this cleanse thing.” Dean frowns. “Like, I figured you’d be into the whole fasting thing.”
“Why, because I’m some kind of hippie granola bodyworker?” He cracks a smile and gives Dean a curious look. “You think I can do this stuff without knowing how bodies work? Fasting is a useful tool, but it’s not really a viable diet.”
It’s a rare thing for Dean to feel chastened. He’s either too important for the people around him to take him down a peg, or too competitive to let them. Castiel doesn’t really fit that model. He licks his lip and looks down.
“Speaking of, how the hell do you get through the day with that much tension in your back and shoulders?”
Castiel is off the desk and behind him almost before he realizes. The first press of fingers hurts enough that Dean almost shoves him away, but then something in his neck just releases and…oh. Oh.
“You’re like textbook repetitive stress up here,” Castiel tells him as he digs and pushes and pulls. “You should really come out to my place for a real session. What are you doing tomorrow? Do people like you have weekends? Four o’clock good for you?”
A noise that might be an affirmative comes out of Dean’s mouth more or less on its own and Castiel laughs.
He pats Dean on on the shoulder then steps back. He digs a glassine envelope out of his pocket and puts it down on the desk, then writes an address on a Post-It note. “When you finish that thermos you’ll probably be good for some easy solid food, like a sandwich. Simple flavors. Don’t go crazy. The orange pill is a multivitamin. Take it after you eat.”
Dean opens the envelope. “What’s the blue pill?”
Castiel smiles. “Muscle relaxer. Save it for after dinner. That’ll help loosen you up, and probably knock you out. Pain meds are fine if you’re on any, but don’t drink with it.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“Uh,” Castiel says with a slow grin. “Let’s just say no.”
Dean looks down at the packet, then back at Castiel.
“See you tomorrow,” Castiel says with a wink, and walks out the door.
* * *
Castiel’s place turns out to be a smallish, older house. It’s not a bad neighborhood — there’s a stained glass studio two doors down, a book shop and a cafe across the street, and it’s close to the college — but it’s not the sort of place Dean has been since college, and he feels a little awkward.
He parks on the street, double-checks the address, and is almost to the door when it opens in. A pale, dark-haired woman in a leather jacket starts to step out, then turns back to grab Castiel by the shirt. They kiss with an intensity that makes Dean swallow and look down at his shoes. His stomach does a weird flip, and he tells himself it’s just shock because…well, because.
She passes him on the sidewalk. Dean’s eyes follow her for a moment, and yeah, she’s pretty, but…
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, looking mussed and waves him in. He’s dressed in another one of those dumb linen shirts and pants with some kind of batik design on the trim. His feet are bare.
He hesitates. He glances back at the empty walk, then steps up onto the porch and inside.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Castiel asks, disappearing from the room into the adjacent kitchen. “Tea? Water? Something stronger?”
“Uh, water’s fine.”
The room is sparsely furnished, and what furniture is there — a table, a small wooden cabinet, and something that straddles the line between a bed and a sofa — is low and minimal. For the most part the floor is covered in soft, plush carpet and cushions. The lighting is soft: recessed lights along the ceiling edge, a lamp here and there. Everything is open and in rich colors. It feels luxurious, albeit not in the polished way Dean is accustomed to.
“Should I take my shoes off?”
“Mm, yeah. If you could.”
Dean kneels down to untie his his running shoes. He wasn’t sure what to wear, so he wore sweats and a t-shirt and sneakers. When he stands, Castiel is already waiting with a glass of water in one hand and a mug in the other.
“Sorry if Meg made you uncomfortable. She’s very enthusiastic about her work.”
“Her work?” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. The guy gave him a fucking muscle relaxer without a prescription, so prostitution is probably not out of the question here, but he didn’t expect that level of candor.
The corner of Castiel’s mouth ticks up. “It’s not what you’re thinking. She’s a tantrika. We study together.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Tantra is difficult to explain,” he says, and seats himself on the floor. He folds his legs into something that is almost but not quite a lotus position.
Dean follows suit. Well, tries to. He ends up cross-legged, but not the same way. Stiffer. More awkward.
“The term describes a variety of techniques that aim to promote swift liberation from ignorance by engaging the material in ways that render it spiritual. Some work is simple, like mantras and simple meditations and visualizations. Some is more intimate and complex.”
“Let me guess. Meg’s work is ‘complex.’”
“Very.” Castiel smiles, closes his eyes, and pops his neck. “But you didn’t come here to discuss the finer points of Eastern religion and philosophy. Did you take the muscle relaxer last night?”
Dean drinks his water, nods. “Knocked me on my ass. I can’t remember the last time I slept like that.”
“Good. That’ll help. Do you hurt anywhere? Any back pain? Shoulders?”
“Not really, no.”
“Okay.” He turns and slides out one of the cabinet drawers. He draws out a clipboard, clips a form to it, and hands it to Dean with a pen. “Fill this out. I’ll get the room ready.”
Castiel rises from the floor effortlessly and pads down the hallway barefoot.
It’s a good-looking form. Professional. Who the hell is this guy?
Dean fills in the top his details, then starts ticking off yeses and nos to the series of health questions. He finishes up quickly — he’s relatively healthy, always has been — and then drums the pen against his knee while he waits.
“Okay,” Castiel calls. “Come on back.”
There are three doors in the hall: one closed, one bathroom with the door ajar, and the one where Castiel is standing. The air is sweet with incense, and there are candles to complement the recessed lighting around the ceiling edge. A massage table dominates the space, but there’s a small set of shelves to the side, and a chair in the corner. Music — unfamiliar, electronic, but not unpleasant — plays softly.
“Strip down as far as you like,” Castiel says as he pulls the sheet back on the table. He takes the clipboard and puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder like he did at the supermarket. “We’ll start you face up. Back in a minute.”
Dean waits for the door to close, then drops his sweats. He folds them neatly and puts them on an empty shelf. He does the same with his t-shirt. He considers his boxers. Licks his bottom lip. Thinks about the hand on his shoulder. Thinks about the stab of jealousy he’d felt seeing Meg kiss Castiel at the door.
He takes them off and puts them with his other clothes.
The massage table is warm and pleasantly cushy, and the sheets are soft and smooth. He’s not quite sure what to do with his arms, so he clasps his hands over his belly and waits.
There’s a tap at the door, and Castiel comes back in. He’s traded his loose linen shirt for a white v-neck undershirt, and . His eyes are fixed on the clipboard. “So. Ever had a massage before?”
“Not really. I mean, uh, not professionally.”
Castiel smiles and puts the clipboard down. “Not a problem. I’ll be gentle.”
He winks and walks around the table to a spot right behind Dean’s head. There’s a click, then the sound of a pump bottle, and then strong, oil-slicked hands slide up under the back of his neck.
It doesn’t feel like Dean expected it to feel. Massage, in his mind, always seemed like it would be light and soft. Castiel’s fingers slide and grip and push, working his shoulders and his neck. Every so often he pauses, as if feeling for something, then digs in with a fingertip or the pad of his thumb, then resumes kneading.
“Too hard? Too light?”
“S’good.”
“Yeah?” Castiel’s smile is audible. He works down Dean’s arm, massages each finger before pressing into the flesh of his palm with deft thumbs. “Lot of tension in your hands, too. Desk work’ll do that.”
As Castiel works, Dean is stunned to discover just how many parts of him hurt. Everywhere those warm hands go is a place where the aches ease and switch off. Everywhere they haven’t been feels tense and sore. Fortunately, after his arms Castiel moves down the table to work his quads and calves with the same combination of strength and gentleness.
“You ever get knee pain? Hips?”
“‘Casionally.”
Castiel makes a thoughtful noise. “You’ll want to watch that. Your legs are a little bit bowed. More stress on those joints.” He pats Dean on the thigh, then walks up to the head of the table to snap a padded round face cradle into place. “Turn over and slide up.”
Dean rolls and shifts and settles, and then Castiel resumes, this time with broad strokes up and down his upper back.
God damn. How he never made time for this is beyond him. He feels loose and warm and better than he has in years. A stiff spot in his lower back pops under the pressure of Castiel’s hands and the sound out of Dean’s mouth is almost scandalous.
“Everything in its right place, huh?”
“Mmm.”
Castiel drapes Dean’s back, then moves down to the backs of his thighs. He’s dimly aware that it’s obvious he’s naked, but those hands don’t go anywhere they shouldn’t, which might just be the most disappointing relief Dean has ever experienced. Still, he’s not complaining. That thing Castiel did to his palms is happening to the soles of his feet now, and any part of him that wasn’t already jelly just relaxes.
“Good?” he asks as he covers Dean’s feet with the sheet and then rests a hand on his back.
“I never want to move again.”
“That means I’ve done my job.” Castiel’s hand slides up past the edge of the sheet and up Dean’s neck into his hair. It’s an intimate touch, and Dean pushes into it reflexively. It makes him feel warm, like he wants those hands all over him again.
“Go ahead and get dressed. Take your time. I’ll go make us some tea.”
When Castiel leaves the room, Dean feels the absence of his hand almost as intensely as his touch.
* * *
Dean books three more appointments. Real ones. One every two weeks. Castiel had refused to let him pay — “I invited you over,” he’d said. “Really. It’s fine.” — so Dean made a point of creating that professional relationship.
He is resolute in his intention not to think about Castiel kissing Meg.
On Tuesday, he goes to the bookstore on his way home from work. He looks through every book on Tantra they’ve got at the Barnes & Noble, and leaves more confused than he was before because half of them are literally just about sex, and half of them are confusing and full of Sanskrit words he can’t pronounce.
He doesn’t buy any of them, but that night he dreams strange, bendy dreams.
By Thursday he’s started to notice the way his muscles become tense over the course of his week. His right shoulder where it meets the neck aches when he’s at his desk for too long. The base of his lower back is stiff at the end of a long management meeting. His hands don’t feel relaxed anymore.
He tries rubbing them himself, pushing his thumb into the flesh, but it isn’t the same.
Saturday he drives through Castiel’s neighborhood on the way to the laundry to pick up his dry cleaning. It’s out of his way, and his appointment isn’t for another week, and he doesn’t stop. He just looks at the house as he drives by and wonders what’s going on inside.
Sunday, Dean mostly sits on his couch with with IFC droning in the background while he tries to wrap up a couple of reports. He adds a bottle of scotch to the equation when Eyes Wide Shut comes on.
The whole thing is irrational, and it’s pissing him off.
On Monday, he holes up in his office at lunch and calls Castiel.
The first words across the line aren’t “Hello, Dean,” or even “This is Castiel.” The first words are, “Please tell me you’re not doing that lemonade shit again.”
Dean laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, uh, it’s…” he pokes at the microwave dinner on his desk. “It’s some kind of penne thing.”
“Sounds inspired.”
“Not really.” He sighs and closes his eyes. “Look, uh, I was wondering if we could bump my appointment up a little earlier in the week.”
“Can’t stay away, huh?” And god, yeah, Dean can hear that smile. He can see it. “Let me check my book.”
“Yeah, sure.” He pokes at his microwave chicken penne. Wonders why he buys it. The chicken in it is dry and sad, the sauce is salty, and the penne’s rubbery. He slides it across his desk.
There’s a rustle of paper on the other line. “Not sure if this is too late in the day for you, but I could do seven tomorrow night. The house’ll be a mess because I’m doing a workshop —”
“What kind of workshop?”
Castiel stumbles over his words, then lets out a light huff of air. “Um. Not sure it’s your kind of thing.”
Dean sits up. “How do you know? We met, like, a week ago.”
“Yes, and…” He sighs. “Look, I say this with absolutely no malice or judgement whatsoever, because honestly, I would welcome you completely, but I’d also pretty much put money on this not being your thing based on the three times we’ve met in person.”
“Okay, but why?”
“I just…”
Dean lets out an irritated breath and Castiel stops. They’re silent, and for a moment he thinks the call got dropped. And then Castiel breathes.
“Okay.” He sounds wary, or maybe tired. “What are you doing right now? Other than eating terrible processed junk?”
“Um, nothing?” He looks at his calendar. “Couple of things this afternoon, but nothing I can’t reschedule.”
“Good. I just bumped your session to this afternoon. I’ll see you in, uh, twenty-ish? Thirty? Don’t worry about changing clothes.”
Dean swallows. He feels weird and light. He fidgets with his pen. “Yeah, I can do that.”
* * *
There’s something odd about Castiel when he answers the door. He is, if anything, more relaxed than the last time Dean saw him. He strokes Dean’s cheek with his thumb and stares into his eyes for a long moment, then blinks and turns away, like he’s just remembered something.
He vanishes into the kitchen, then comes back with two cups. He presses one into Dean’s hands very carefully, like every muscle movement is critical. “Drink this.”
Dean lifts the cup to his lips and regrets it almost instantaneously. “Christ. What is this? It’s like dirt and batteries.”
“Ayahuasca. Real light dose so you don’t hurl or have a bad trip. The first time’s the worst. Acquired taste — alkaloids are like that — but this other cup’s way less bad.”
He looks down at the cup, then back at Castiel. Everything starts to fall into place.
“Are you…are you high right now?”
Castiel looks down and laughs, then laces his free fingers through Dean’s. “Now he’s getting it.” He rests his forehead on Dean’s shoulder.
There is no possible way this is a good idea, but Castiel is warm against him, and his breath is soft, and Dean wants more of that. Has wanted more of it all week. He chokes the tea down in two brutal gulps. Castiel trades him mugs, and Dean is so intensely grateful for the strong flavor of ginger and citrus that it takes him a second to realize that Castiel has crouched down to untie his dress shoes.
“Gotta get you out of that suit,” he explains from the floor. “No suits allowed.”
Dean unbuttons his jacket and slides it down his shoulders. There’s no obvious place for it, so he tosses it at a pile of cushions, then undoes the cuffs of his shirt. He lets Castiel pull off his shoes and socks, and bites his lip when those hands move up to his belt. He fumbles with his shirt buttons.
“When’s this stuff going to kick in?” He feels dizzy, but there’s an even chance it’s nerves and the fact that Castiel is sliding the leather free from the buckle of his belt and moving on to the button of his trousers.
“Probably fifteen minutes? Don’t worry. It’ll be good. Promise.”
His shirt goes into the pile with his jacket and his socks. He puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder when he steps out of his trousers, and it’s impossible to ignore the fact that the guy’s face is barely inches away from the half-hard dick in his boxers.
Castiel must read his mind, because he slides the side of his face up against the fabric. “Silk. Nice.”
Dean bites his lip and swears under his breath as Castiel pulls the boxers down and puts them with the rest of Dean’s clothes.
“It’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it?” He says as he rises to his feet, completely ignoring any remaining shred of personal space. “Sex, I mean. You’ve never done ayahuasca.”
“Year or so. Year and a half maybe.”
“Mmm,” Castiel’s fingers trace along Dean’s collarbone. “That’s too long. Too pretty for that. Come on. Let’s get you on the table.”
Maybe it’s his imagination, but the light seems a little different on the way back to the massage room. Castiel pulls the sheet back, and Dean gets as comfortable as he can considering his nerves about the drug and the state of his cock.
The first stroke of Castiel’s oil-slicked fingers is almost like gravity, pulling the tension out of his neck. It’s not the same massage as before. Not even remotely. He can feel it — no, he can hear it — a steady hum in his bones as they turn less like stone and more like bamboo.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs. “Fucking holy shit.”
He feels like sun-warmed earth. Castiel’s hands shape him into hills and plains, push grooves into him for lakes and rivers. His fingers are breezes. His fingers are rain. The kiss Castiel places on Dean’s palm is a lightning strike.
“Told you. So good.”
He watches the ripple of the Milky Way above him as Castiel shapes him, remakes him, traces seasons down his thighs and calves. He’s dreaming. Time is completely gone; they’re like a dance of thousands of years.
“On your belly,” Castiel whispers in his ear, and Dean turns.
He presses his face into the dark while the sky caresses his back. Tastes rich soil. Smells flowers. Melts into it. Feels his foundations soften with the press of thumbs in the soles of his feet.
The hand on his back through the sheet becomes a hand in his hair becomes a hand guiding him up becomes a blue eyed angel kissing him with tongues of fire.
“Not in here,” the angel says. His fingers burn into Dean’s shoulder as he leads him to a new place.
The bed is soft and holds them perfectly. He touches the angel. Slow sure hands. A hot mouth on his cock. The rock and wave of the sea. He comes and comes, safe in the shelter of his angel’s wings.
* * *
He comes down slow. Castiel is looking after him, feeding him water, touching his face and his body. Kissing him. It’s dark outside before the last of the hallucinations taper off.
“This is what you do?”
Castiel nods.
Dean blinks. “It’s beautiful.”
“It isn’t.”
Castiel sits up. He’s wearing clothes again — those same battered jeans — and his face is hard. “This —” he waves his hand at his room, which is lush and soft. “I know how to make bodies feel good. I can nurture souls. I can pull people out of hell. And it’s great on paper, man. It is. But these things cost, Dean. They’re not cheap.”
“You don’t mean money.”
Castiel lets out a little huff of air. “No, the money’s…the money’s surprisingly good, actually. I mean, it’s risky. The DEA would have some opinions. I have to be careful about what I charge for and what I do for free because there’s not a judge in the state that wouldn’t do me for soliciting if I fuck up. Hell, most of the time I don’t touch clients except for the legal stuff. I mean, I guess I could plea freedom of religion or something, but…”
He drags his fingers through his hair. Dean thinks his hands might be shaking.
“Is it fucked up if I tell you that after everything I’ve done and tried and all the shit I do for people who are wide-eyed and in love with spirit, I’ve got no idea why I do it? That I don’t think there’s anything? That when I die I’m just meat? Don’t get me wrong. I love getting high, but it’s not about God. God left the building a long time ago.”
Dean slides closer to him. Cups his face. Kisses him on the mouth, soft and closed-mouthed. He doesn’t push. Just one kiss, then he pulls back a few inches.
Castiel stares at him, eyes narrowed. “What was that for?”
“You.”
“What?”
“That,” Dean says, then kisses Castiel again, still soft. “Was.” Another kiss. “For.” Another. “You.”
In a book, Dean thinks, this would be the moment Castiel breaks down. There would be tears, and more kissing. They’d make love.
Instead, Castiel pushes him away. Hard. “Get the fuck out of my bed.”
Dean slides off the edge, just barely catching his footing.
“Get out.”
“But—”
“Do I need a fucking white board in here? Do I need to spell the fucking words? I said get the fuck out.”
Dean does what he’s told. He goes to the living room and dresses himself in a rush. He doesn’t bother tucking in his shirt or tying his shoes. He just goes.
He hesitates, hand on the doorknob, at the sound of breaking glass. He’s got no script for this. No experience to draw on. Just an ache in his chest and jagged fear in his gut, and the keen awareness that he’s fucked something up terribly.
There’s another smash. Dean closes his eyes, opens the door, and walks out into the night.
* * *
The next day at work is a nightmare. His boss is pissed at some dipshit in Atlanta, which means Dean gets to listen to the fucking saga of What That Dipshit in Atlanta Did instead of finishing up the TCP reports he’d put off to get high and fuck.
Which, when he puts it that way, kind of makes the shitty day he’s having sound like cosmic justice, but that’s bullshit and he knows it.
He gets through. He works until after six. And then he drives to Castiel’s neighborhood, parks on the street and sits on the trunk of his car.
That workshop or whatever it is has to end sometime.
The lights are on but the drapes are drawn closed. A little after seven the first couple of people start to filter out. They look like pairs, holding hands, except for one trio. Dean sits and waits.
Castiel follows one last couple for the door. He’s in full love guru mode in his hippie gear, smiling and serene, though his left hand is bandaged.
Dean knows the moment Castiel sees him because his smile falters. Doesn’t vanish, but the mask slips.
The door closes.
Dean waits.
He dinks around on his phone, skims some articles from The Economist because they look interesting, and tries to ignore the fact that it’s getting dark and he’s still sitting on his car waiting for Cas to acknowledge that.
It’s full dark by the time he starts to wonder if he should give up. He shoves his phone in his pocket and stares up at the sky. There’s a little less light pollution out here than in his neighborhood. The view’s not impressive, but it’s not bad.
This isn’t going to happen. Dean checks his watch. Thirty more minutes. He’ll give it that long.
Castiel’s door opens. He steps out, wearing a gray AC/DC shirt and shorts. He leans against one of the posts of his porch and crosses his arms.
“You gonna sit out there all night?”
“I can if I have to.”
“Oh, for fuck’s…” Castiel rolls his eyes. “Do you want a beer?”
“Sure,” Dean says and slides off the trunk of his Prius. “Let’s drink.”
Castiel walks back into his house, leaves the front door open.
The remnants of the workshop are mostly cleared away, but the space still smells of musky incense and maybe a little sweat. Dean can hear a washing machine churning away somewhere near the kitchen. Castiel hands him a beer, then sits down on the low couch.
“Just so we’re clear,” he says, peeling at the label on the bottle instead of looking at Dean. “Yesterday was a mistake.”
Dean finds a large cushion and sits on it like a beanbag chair. “You want to tell me why?”
“Take a guess at how many people are dumb enough to fall in love with the temple prostitute. I’ll give you a hint: it’s not a small fucking number.” Castiel still doesn’t look up. “And it’s always either one of two things. They want a claim on me or they want to fix me. Fuck, sometimes it’s both.”
“Okay. And?”
“And?” His eyes are sharp with anger when he glares at Dean. “And I figured you’d be different, that’s what. Instead, you pushed and I caved. And what’s the first thing you do when I let you see what’s really behind the curtain? That kissing shit, like you’re the one who’s going to fill the void by being kind. Like I can’t already have that if I want it.”
Dean nods. “Okay. But to be fair, it’s not like I’ve got any idea what you actually do want. I mean, come on. You’re like five different people and I pretty much don’t understand any of them. The odds of me not fucking up weren’t exactly favorable.”
“What I want is someone who isn’t a part of, uh, all of this. What I do.” Castiel takes a long drink from his bottle. “That’s why I invited you in.”
“Which time?”
“Honestly? All of them.”
Dean sighs, puts his beer down on the floor next to the cushion. “So what, Castiel —”
“Cas is fine.”
“Okay, Cas, fine. You think maybe you could have just explained some of this instead of playing games? Like, how many drugs do you have to do before you start to expect a guy you’ve met a handful of times to read your goddamn mind?”
“Right, because you wouldn’t have shot me down in a heartbeat if I’d asked you out for a drink in the checkout line.”
Dean opens his mouth to argue, then closes it because he knows he can’t.
“There,” Cas says. “You want to know why I played games? That’s why. I wanted you, but there was no way I’d get in through anything but the side entrance.”
He lowers his head. Picks up the bottle. “Well. Aren’t we some sorry sons of bitches.”
Cas huffs out a humorless laugh and finishes his beer.
“So,” Dean says, eyes fixed on his beer. “You still want to go out for a drink sometime? Dinner, maybe?” He looks up at Cas and tries to read his face, but Cas’ expression is still.
“You’re really asking that?”
“I’m really asking that.”
Cas leans back against the wall, arms crossed over his knees, facing Dean. He tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes, like he’s trying to figure out what the catch is in what Dean’s offering. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Because…” He almost says something about being half a step away from pulling a John Cusack, but given what he can gather about Cas’ experience with creepy would-be boy- and/or girlfriends after the whole trip-and-fuck gig, he thinks better of it.
He takes a breath.
“Because I figure a guy who shows up at my office to tell me off for the damn Master Cleanse is the kind of guy maybe I should take a chance with? I wasn’t trying to find god or whatever last night. I just wanted to be close to you and figure out what your deal was. I still do.”
Cas scoffs and closes his eyes.
“One date,” Dean says. “One. Dinner and drinks, just try it on. You help me figure out your comfort zone, and I’ll try to stay in it. Workable?”
Dean fidgets with his bottle and watches Cas, who sits with his eyes closed for nearly a minute before he wets his bottom lip and nods.
“Okay. One date.”
* * *
They go out for steaks and play darts in a bar over a pitcher of incredibly shitty beer. When Dean takes Cas home, they kiss on the porch for almost an hour before Cas says goodnight.
Dean loves everything about it.
* * *
They don’t plan on holding out initially. Well, Dean doesn’t.
And then one chaste date turns into two.
On their third date — which is really more of a day of climbing rocks out in a state park, tripping on MDMA, making out, and having long, weird discussions on a blanket — Cas lets slip that maybe holding off for a while isn’t a bad thing.
“I fucked up with you, and I need to un-fuck up,” he says, and laces his fingers together with Dean’s. “You’re, like, the one person on the planet I want to have orgasms with enough to, uh…not. You know. For a while.”
So Dean says yes to waiting, and means it, but god damn does he struggle.
For one, there’s the whole “my boyfriend practically fucks people for a living and I get no action” thing. Then there’s the fact that it really had been a year and a half for him before their initial hook-up, and getting a taste (albeit a weird fucking taste in the form of a narcotic-assisted blowjob) makes him crave that contact. And, of course, “no sex” with Cas apparently doesn’t mean an embargo on kissing and extended make-out sessions on various sofas, floors, etc. because he’s a touch-addicted hedonist.
Dean hasn’t jerked off this much since high school.
They’re having dinner — there’s a late-night Thai place out by the local bus depot that Cas loves, and Dean’s warming up to — when Cas teases the idea of having sex in Dean’s office.
“It’s, like, karmic balancing or something.” His mouth is full of house special peanut pad thai and his eyes are tinged red from the joint they’d shared in the park. “Plus, you practically work in a temple to the profane. Perfect bookends, man.”
Dean fumbles his chopsticks. His whole body has decided, pretty much without his permission, to re-route everything to his pants.
“Plus, it’d be hot,” Cas says, either oblivious or deliberately enjoying the tease. Probably the second one, considering the way he licks the sauce from his lip. “What’s today? Thursday?”
“Yeah.”
“Do people work late on weekends, or…”
Dean shakes his head. “Friday nights are, uh,” he stammers. “Folks go home.”
Cas nods, tilts his head to the side. “I think you should work late tomorrow. You’ve got stuff, right? Reports or something?”
“Yeah.” Dean lets out a shaky breath, downs his cup of tea, and nods. “I’ll, um. Yeah.”
* * *
His floor has been quiet for hours, but the thing about work is that it can and does expand to fill all available space. Not that he’s as productive as he could be. He’s been distractible, watching the clock all day. The occasional inappropriate hard-on doesn’t exactly help either.
Still, there’s stuff to do. Like running numbers for TCP reports and reviewing brochure copy and dealing with six different vendors. He’s actually focusing at ten after eight when his phone rings.
“Dean Smith.”
“Evening Mr. Smith. It’s Bill from the security desk. There’s, uh, a Mr. Novak here to see you.”
His mouth goes dry. He swallows, tries to sound normal. “Excellent. Send him up.”
There’s a pause. “Send him up?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been expecting him.”
“Well, uh, alrighty. Will do, Mr. Smith.”
“Thanks, Bill. You have a good night.”
Dean leans back in his chair and takes his headset off. He’s already moved some things off of his desk — his inbox is on his print table, the Newton’s cradle and kinetic spinner are both on his bookcase — but he takes the time to move his keyboard and monitor, his name plate, and a few other odds and ends. The black leather blotter stays.
His door opens a few minutes later, and Cas walks in. He switches out the overhead light, leaving them illuminated by streetlights and a small lamp on Dean’s bookcase. He’ wearing his usual non-work grunge: old jeans, a Dead Kennedys shirt, a maroon zip hoodie, and a pair of sneakers battered enough that they may have never actually seen better days. He takes a measure of subversive joy in Cas showing up like this, even though he knows having a weirdo boyfriend instead of a trophy wife has got to be hell on his promotion potential.
Which, well, screw it.
“I swear, one of these days you are going to let me buy you shoes,” Dean says as Cas sinks down to straddle him on his office chair. He wraps his arms around Cas’ waist. “Also, you smell like weed.”
“I had it with dinner.” He nips at Dean’s lips. Dean catches Cas’ mouth with his own and they kiss, awkward through their smiles.
“Still want to do this?”
“Been thinking about it all week,” Dean says, sliding his hands under Cas’ hoodie. “All day. I had to take care of myself in a toilet stall around lunch.”
“Poor thing.” Cas’ stubble is rough against the skin of Dean’s throat.
Dean slides his hands under Cas’ hoodie and pushes it down over his shoulders. Cas tugs it the rest of the way off and lets it drop to the floor, then reaches in between them to undo the knot of Dean’s tie.
Their mouths meet again, tender this time. Cas’ hand brushes Dean’s cheek for a moment, then his fingertips drift down, with just a bare hint of fingernails, to his collar. Dean feels a hint of pressure, the practiced motion of Cas’ forefinger and thumb, and the top button of his shirt opens.
“Can’t wait to feel your skin,” Cas murmurs, working his way down, button by button.
“Can’t wait for you to feel it.”
Dean reaches for Cas’ belt and pops the buckle. His jeans are loose enough on his hips that he could probably pull them down with a single firm tug if they weren’t on his chair like this. He slides his fingers in to touch the warm skin under the waistband.
“Cuffs,” Cas whispers in his ear as he slides Dean’s shirt over his shoulders.
Dean raises one wrist at a time, and watches as Cas removes the cufflinks and drops them on the print table. He raises his arms to let Cas lift his shirt away, then tugs Cas’ t-shirt up over his head. The bare skin of Cas’ back is smooth under his palms.
Cas’ jeans open easily, worn denim soft in Dean’s hands. He still can’t shove them down with Cas straddling him, but he can slip the waistband past the curve of his ass and squeeze. Cas lets out a sigh of pleasure when Dean grinds up against him.
“Gonna get me out of these pants, Cas?”
Cas hums and runs his thumbs along Dean’s collarbones, then closes his hands on Dean’s shoulders and rocks his hips. “You want me to get you naked, huh? So I can pin you down on that big desk of yours?”
Dean’s fingers tighten and dig into the soft flesh below Cas’ hips. “Are you always such a fucking tease?”
“Only for you.” He winks, and shifts his weight onto his right leg. With a single movement he pulls them both to their feet, then uses the momentum to push him Dean up against the edge of the desk. It’s startling, sometimes, how strong Cas is, or how good he is at putting another human being exactly where he wants them to be.
Dean’s hands move back to Cas’ jeans, ready to shove them down his thighs.
Cas grips his wrist. “Hang on.”
He takes a small bottle of lube and a packet of condoms out of his pocket and sets them on the desk within reach. His breath hitches, nervous. For a second he seems to have trouble meeting Dean’s eyes.
“So, uh, we didn’t really talk about —”
“Right.”
Cas licks his lips. “You up for it?”
“If by up for it, you mean getting nailed to my desk?” Dean says as he reaches into Cas’ jeans and squeezes his cock. He pumps it slow and presses one of Cas’ hands to the front of his dress trousers. “I think we can safely say I’d like you to bang me until I can’t form a proper goddamn sentence.”
“God yes,” Cas growls. He drags his teeth across the skin of Dean’s throat and then nips at the skin. Dean tilts his hips forward when Cas’ hands go for his belt and huffs a laugh against skin when he hears the button of his trousers pop free.
“I need those to get home, you know.”
“You wanted them off,” Cas says as he practically lifts Dean up onto the desk and shoves him onto his back, ass flush with the edge of the wood. He tugs Dean’s trousers and boxers down his legs, then reaches for the lube. “And I am so completely done waiting.”
The first touch is a tease, just the drag of lube slick fingertips. The first push comes quick on its heels and Dean groans. Cas isn’t hurting him, but he’s not gentle either. If the night in his bed was giving, this is taking.
Dean hisses and makes a throaty little sound. He wants, more than anything, to be taken.
“Damn, that’s sexy,” Cas says. He takes hold of one of Dean’s thighs for leverage while he works him open. He teases the spot behind Dean’s balls with his thumb. “Such a slut for me.”
"More,” Dean rasps. “Two fingers. Come on.”
And oh, it burns when Cas obliges, but fuck it’s good. He white-knuckles the edges of his desk and moves in time with Cas’ hand, urging him deeper, faster. He’s literally never felt this needy in his life, but after weeks of stopping right before the edge, his whole body is screaming to go over the cliff.
“So hot and tight inside. So eager.”
Dean nods, eyes closed, already panting.
“Haven’t even asked me to touch your cock yet.”
Dean makes a sound that’s more whimper than moan because, fuck, it’s true. His voice deserts him entirely when he feels the first barely-there swipe of Cas’ tongue on his shaft. Dean rolls his hips, feels Cas’ fingers go deep, and arches up for another brush of tongue. Another. And another.
Cas laps at him and tastes him, even sucks lightly at one space of skin or another, but doesn’t take him fully into his mouth. It’s not quite a blowjob, but it feels amazing. And then, a push…
Three fingers in and Dean’s shaking, eyes fixed on the way Cas looks in the half-light. He’s beautiful and filthy. There’s nothing soft-focus about the way he’s working Dean’s ass, or sucking the pre-cum from his slit, but the contours of his body and the way he smiles when he sees Dean watching him are art.
“Thought you said no more waiting.” Dean reaches out, but the only part of Cas he can easily reach is the arm around his thigh. “Gonna make me ride that cock or what?”
Cas just flashes him a dirty grin, presses his fingers in deep, and then spreads them. It’s almost too much. Dean pants, head thrown back, eyelids fluttering. He feels bared and stripped to his core, like Cas has him by his goddamn soul.
“Are you always this bossy at work?”
“You should…should see me with my PA.”
“Yeah? Maybe we should invite her over sometime.” Cas relaxes his hand and eases it out slow. There’s a crinkle of a condom wrapper, but Dean’s head’s still spinning. His attempt to come up with a response gets cut short when Cas starts to ease inside.
Dean sighs a slow ‘oh fuck’ and moves to meet the movement of Cas’ hips.
With Cas’ cock in him, he’s all instinct. He doesn’t wait, or even give Cas time to slow down. Instead, Dean wraps his legs around Cas’ hips and sits up enough that he can pull Cas’ body down over him. Cas plants one hand on the desk for balance and starts to move.
The first snap of Cas’ hips is intense — they rushed the foreplay, he practically begged for that — but Dean rides it out and bites a mark onto Cas’ collarbone. He rolls and grinds, Cas picks up the rhythm, and fuck yes, this is exactly what he wants: a sweaty, greedy rut that’ll leave him fucked out and aching.
“Fuck. Yes,” he hisses. “Don’t. Fucking. Stop. Fuck.”
Cas might hear him. He might not. His eyes are shut tight, brows furrowed with effort. His lips are parted and there’s a flush creeping over his shoulders. He’s beautiful and animal and Dean clings to him, nails biting into the flesh of Cas’ back as they fuck.
“So. Good. Oh, Cas. So. Fucking. Perfect.”
He’s not a quiet lover. Not really. Every thrust is a little breath, and when he starts to tremble against Dean’s body, every breath is a letterless word or a plea or a cry. And it’s not like Dean’s thinking clearly right now, but this artless, desperate Cas makes the parts of his brain prepared to take notice light up with joy. Cas who gives, who does sex as art, coming apart is just…everything.
Cas trembles all over when he comes, one hand still planted on the desk, and the other gripping Dean by the shoulder. His voice is a stream of half-articulate sound as his hips move of their own accord.
To Dean’s surprise, Cas hardly gives himself a second to recover before pulling out and dropping to kneel and swallowing Dean’s cock down in a single, fluid movement.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs, fingers instinctively seeking Cas’ hair. Dean’s own hips aren’t perfectly still, and it’s easy to slip from getting sucked to fucking Cas’ face a little.
To judge by the sounds Cas is making, he’s pretty sure that’s not a problem.
When Cas slips his fingers back inside Dean’s ass, that’s it. Dean feels himself go tight, and the heat in his belly and the ache of his cock, and fills Cas’ mouth without the least bit of guilt.
Between his legs, Cas lets out a little cough, then a laugh. Then a whispered “holy shit.”
“You okay?”
“Fuck yes.” Cas kisses the inside of Dean’s thigh, then stands. He drops the used condom in the office wastebasket. “We should get ice cream.”
Dean laughs. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” Cas says, and reaches down for the nearest piece of clothing. “And eat it on top of the tallest parking structure we can find.”
“Jesus. You’re completely manic.”
“You love it.” He throws a rumpled shirt and pair of trousers Dean’s way.
Dean swallows. “I…I do, yeah.”
When Cas beams at him, Dean thinks he might love more than that, too.