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janie_tangerineI'm not sure of how 2014!Cas ended up being an influence in this but apparently that's what happened.
Title: and anywhere I lay my head I'll call it home
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word count: ∼13100
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: none really?
Warnings: mentions of alcoholism, implied past drug use (neither is explicit though, and none of that happens in the fic itself).
Disclaimer: they aren't mine, the plot is a prompt and the songs are Tom Waits's. Sorry, none of this whatsoever is mine.
Summary: wherein Dean is driving to California but gets sidetracked, and Castiel plays Tom Waits songs in the middle of nowhere.
A/N: written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
drunken_kurage at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
deancastiel's Everlasting Birthday exchange; my prompt was Human AU. While driving cross country to meet up with his brother for Sam's spring break, Dean's car breaks down in the middle of nowhere. The closest sign of civilization is a backwater, 'only the locals know about this place' kind of bar. Castiel is a mysterious guy who works in the bar some nights, singing covers of Tom Waits' songs. This was also supposed to have a proper fanmix to go with it but alas, RL happened and I didn't manage - but it could happen later. I changed the prompt a bit because it worked better with the plot I came up with but I hope it's still valid and that it fits the bill. Happy birthday! :D
A/N 2: all the songs mentioned have a link bringing back to my box.net account where you can listen to them/download them, except for one which is on youtube because I don't have the mp3 right now. Also, Auburn, Nevada doesn't exist as far as I could check - I took the name of a random place in Nebraska since it's where the Roadhouse is supposed to be and used it instead.
For the first time in his life, Dean Winchester curses his fear of airplanes.
Maybe, if he trusted those flying boxes a bit, he wouldn’t have decided to drive from New Jersey to California for his brother’s spring break, and if he had just flown, he wouldn’t have had to take extra vacation days and he wouldn’t currently be lost in Bumfuck, Nevada.
Or at least, he thinks that he’s in Nevada – considering how hard it’s been raining, he might as well have gone all the way to Texas without realizing it. He hasn’t managed to read a sign for the entire last hour and he has no idea of where he has ended up. He hasn’t even seen an exit in ages, but he probably missed all of them even if he’s been keeping a snail speed. Not that he has seen any other cars in a while – then again no one is so insane to drive in this weather.
He sighs and turns the music louder – Metallica aren’t made for driving at forty miles per hour – and decides that he needs to stop sooner than later. Who knows if he isn’t ending up in a completely different direction than the one for Stanford, and the more he goes on the more he risks having to go more distance when it clears and he finds out he took the opposite direction. He has another three days before Sam’s break starts, so he should be able to get there on time, but he isn’t going to take any chances. Also, if it starts raining any harder he’ll probably just crash the car and it isn’t the way he wants to die, so as soon as he sees an exit he’ll take it and –
As if someone read his mind, finally he sees an exit sign on his right; he can’t even read the town’s name, but it’s no matter. As long as there’s a town somewhere near, it can be named Bumfuck for real, for all he cares. He sees some houses in the distance some four or five miles later; from what he gathers, it has to be a small town at best and a handful of buildings at worst. He realizes that there’s a poor chance to find a place to sleep if it’s the case. It ends up being true enough – he gets out on the other side of town and he hasn’t seen a single light on. But then he sees an isolated two-storey building a bit farther down the road, and there are lights on inside. He gets as close as he can and makes out the name – The Roadhouse. Well, Dean thinks, if it isn’t a five star hotel at least it might be a bar, and they’ll tell him where the heck he is. He also can phone Sam, since his cell phone doesn’t have any reception in here. Or maybe it’s because of the rain.
He parks as close as he can, then gets out of the car. He closes the door and then runs inside the bar – he’s drenched to the bone when he’s inside, and it wasn’t even ten feet between the car and the door.
The inside of the bar is almost empty and the lights aren’t even all on; he can see a counter on his left and a small stage on his right, and maybe fifteen people sitting at the tables. The small stage is empty – the music he’s currently hearing is from a juke-box in the corner.
Dean moves to the counter, where a woman in her forties is cleaning a glass and a guy with a mullet that seems right out of the seventies is wiping the counter itself.
“Hello,” Dean says coming closer to the woman.
“Hello yourself. Did you get lost?”
“How did you guess that?”
“It’s only locals coming here usually, and as you can see, with this weather even less of ‘em. You’re a new face and no one ever passes through here, so it didn’t exactly take a genius.”
“Well, yeah. I was going to California for my brother’s spring break, but it started raining as soon as I passed the Nevada border and I have no idea where I ended up.”
“Lighten up, you’re still in Nevada. Auburn. Regarding how far you strayed, I’d need to know where in California you have to be.”
“Palo Alto.”
“Your brother’s got to be a smart cookie then. Well, you got off lightly – if you get back on the main road you’re about twenty miles off from a turning point that you obviously got wrong. I also hope you don’t plan to start driving again.”
“Not if I can help it. Is there some place I could sleep here?”
“This seems to be your lucky day then – there are rooms on the second floor. I don’t use ‘em for a hotel or anything since no one needs one here, but it’s just us four staying up there. Me, my daughter, Ash over there and my, hm, my other employee. There are some free ones though – I can give you one and charge you an extra thirty.”
Dean nods at her, marveling at his dumb luck. At least he won’t have to sleep on his car out in the rain.
“That’d be perfect. Could I have a drink now? Put it on my bill.”
“’Course. If you tell me your name, since I have to keep you up there, it’d be even better.”
“Sorry. I should have introduced before – driving for ten hours didn’t do me any good. Dean. Dean Winchester.”
“No need to apologize. I’m Ellen Harvelle. My daughter Jo should turn up at some point, too. What drink would you have?”
“Just a beer for now. I was wondering, do you have a payphone or something? I should call my brother and tell him I’ll be late, but my cell phone has no reception.”
“That’s why no one bothers with cell phones here when it rains like that. There’s a landline in the back room over there –use that one and I’ll put it on your bill, too.”
Dean thanks her before getting inside the room. He shivers as he dials Sam’s number – damn, he needs to find clean clothes somewhere. He has his bag inside the car, of course, but he isn’t looking forward to opening the trunk and flooding it with water. Not to mention that his bag is a duffel – his clothes wouldn’t be so dry anymore if he went out to take them. He sighs and waits for Sam to answer, tells him that he might be a day late or so since he’s stopping for the night here, gets through Sam mumbling that he should get over his problem with planes and then promises to drive safely. When he’s done, he realizes that the music coming from the main room isn’t a juke-box anymore.
It’s someone playing an acoustic guitar, and quite well, too; if he isn’t wrong it’s something by Tom Waits. Dean turns and moves back into the main room, and when he looks at the stage, he can’t help stopping dead in his tracks.
There’s someone on the stage playing that guitar all right; a guy that looks in his early thirties, who wears jeans and an old dress shirt. Dean couldn’t say how tall he is since he’s sitting, but he has a lovely face – all straight lines, with full lips that are chapped one second and not so much the following when he licks them. He has unruly dark brown hair that gives him a sort of disheveled look that sort of suits him, and when his eyes meet Dean’s for a second, Dean thinks that he has never seen a pair so blue in his entire life. He also has very nice hands – long, slender fingers moving swiftly on the guitar’s neck – and he looks quite pale at least under the low lights.
And then he starts singing.
“Inside a broken clock, splashing the wine with all the rain dogs… taxi, we’d rather walk, huddle a doorway with the rain dogs, ‘cause I am a rain dog, too…”
Shit, Dean thinks, unable to stop staring, he’s good. It’s not that Dean is that much of a Waits expert, even if he likes his music well enough, but he usually doesn’t like when other people sing his stuff because the voice is too peculiar to manage the feel of the original, at least for him.
But this guy, fuck. He has a low voice that goes from silk-smooth to barely audible rasps, and he can use it; it’s plain that he’s convinced of what he’s singing.
Also, he has chosen the perfect song for the evening, Dean thinks.
We danced and we swallowed the night, for it was it was all ripe for dreaming, oh how we danced away all of the lights, we’ve always been out of our minds.
He turns his back to the singer reluctantly to take the beer Ellen is handing him; but he can’t help glancing once in a while. He isn’t looking at anyone in the public as he sings, just doing his thing.
Aboard a shipwreck train, gave my umbrella to the rain dogs, for I’m a rain dog, too…
“Is he your other employee?” Dean whispers to Ellen, almost afraid that if he speaks he’ll ruin the atmosphere.
“You could say that,” Ellen replies. “He doesn’t do this every night – only when he feels like it – and he won’t change repertoire even if you plead him, but he’s good at it, isn’t he? Not as if singing’s the only thing he does.”
Dean is barely listening to her, though; he leans back against the counter, hoping that at some point his clothes stop dripping, and turns his stare on the singer again.
We danced and you whispered to me, you’ll never be going back home.
Dean shivers – the way the other man sings gets under your skin. It doesn’t make it crawl or anything like that, but he can’t help the way his stomach tightens. Nothing of it is related to the cold or his wet clothes. He asks Ellen for another beer, wondering if it’s just one song or not, but when it’s done there are a couple of people from the audience clapping – the ones that aren’t drinking or eating – and the man takes no notice. He adjusts the guitar on his knees gently, and Dean notices that he’s barefoot.
Then those long, elegant fingers start moving along the neck again, not as calmly as before.
If you’re looking for someone to put you out that ditch you’re out of luck; the ship is sinking, the ship is sinking.
Dean swallows, noticing the change of tone – he sounds almost angry now. He sounds definitely angry when he moves into the refrain, saying that god’s away on business. He sounds so disillusioned that Dean has to turn back to Ellen – he isn’t sure that he can look at the sad frown on the singer’s face as he keeps on singing that goddamn, there’s always such a big temptation to be good.
“Your employee should get a record deal,” Dean whispers. Ellen gives him a very sad smile.
“I’m not so sure it’d ever happen.”
“What’s his name, by the way? If I can ask.”
“He won’t kill me if I tell you. His name’s Castiel – but if you want to go and shake hands after, pretend you didn’t know.”
Castiel, huh. Quite uncommon, Dean thinks. It sounds like an angel name or a biblical one something like that – maybe it is. He could buy this Castiel person a drink, after – Dean has decided that he’d like to talk to him for a bit. He seems like an interesting person, and Dean can’t help wondering why he keeps on repeating with such conviction that it’s all over and god’s away on business.
And why he does it here in the middle of nowhere.
Dean turns his back to Ellen, the beer three quarters gone; he’s shivering in his wet clothes, but tries not to let it show too much. Castiel puts the guitar away when he’s done, the same few people clapping; he nods and then gets down from the stage, moving towards the counter. Ellen hands him a shot of bourbon, or so it seems, and he drinks it down with an ease that makes Dean almost envious.
“Do you need me for anything else tonight?” he asks.
“Well, we have a guest,” Ellen replies, nodding in Dean’s direction. “You could put on the sheets on the bed in room six. And see if you can find him some clothes – if he keeps his own on I fear we’ll end up with a corpse to deal with, but he’s only too sane if he doesn’t go get the ones in his car. They’d end up the same way.”
Dean half-blushes, wishing that it wasn’t their first introduction, but Castiel merely looks at him curiously; for the second in which their eyes meet Dean shivers. The man has an intense way of looking at you.
“Very well,” he replies, “I think I can find some.”
“Hey,” Dean says, clearing his throat. “Thanks, though if you leave the sheets there I can do that myself.”
“She pays me for that,” Castiel replies, sounding half-amused. Shit, his voice is different when he’s talking, but that low tone doesn’t fail to make Dean feel somehow warmer than he should, all things considered.
“Right. But, uh, I liked your set there. I could buy you a drink for the entertainment,” Dean blurts out, not knowing why he’s so fixed on this. He doesn’t even know the guy, for fuck’s sake. But there’s something about him that is drawing Dean in like a goddamn magnet and it’s not as if he’ll be back here after he leaves. He can afford to sound like an idiot grasping at straws.
“Why not,” Castiel says, always staring at him as if he half-likes what he sees. “I will be down soon enough.”
Then he leaves, going behind the counter where Dean sees a staircase.
“You made an impression,” Ellen says.
“I did?”
“He isn’t the kind that lets someone else buy him drinks,” she replies before moving to serve other people.
Dean is left shivering in his wet coat for the next ten minutes, and then he sees Castiel coming down from the stairs. He joins Dean at the counter and Dean swallows – for some reason having the guy next to him is making him feel as if the atmosphere in the room suddenly changed.
“What can I get you then?” Dean asks.
“Ellen knows what I like,” Castiel replies. Dean asks for another beer and Ellen hands Castiel a glass of whiskey. Dean tries not to stare at Castiel’s lips after he takes the first sip.
“I wanted to say – you’re good. Just – real good. I might say wasted.”
Castiel smirks, and it doesn’t reach his eyes as he stares at the bottom of the glass. “I don’t think so, but thank you nonetheless. I don’t… I don’t do it for someone else.”
“You do it for yourself, huh? Can’t say I don’t get it. And at least you have good taste.”
Castiel doesn’t comment on that but nods before taking another sip. “What brings you to town…”
“Uh, Dean. Dean Winchester,” Dean says, extending a hand.
Castiel looks at it for a second, as if pondering, but then he shakes it. His skin is warm and dry, his hands rough from the guitar playing but not from much else the way it feels, and damn but he has some long fingers.
“Castiel,” he answers without providing a surname. Dean doesn’t say I know.
“I was going to Palo Alto for my brother’s spring break, we don’t see each other as much as we’d like, but it started raining after I passed the Nevada border and I got lost. And ended up here. Not so exciting, huh?”
“And where do you come from?”
“New Jersey. Or well. I live in New Jersey, I’m from Kansas. I work with classic cars and the guy I worked for moved there, and I hadn’t much left in Kansas anyway. Still, the only thing that makes a difference is the numbers of concerts I go to. For now, at least. I haven’t seen many other perks.”
Castiel gives him another nod, and Dean realizes that they’re kind of too close for two people that have just met. But it feels rude to tell Castiel about his personal space issues, and it’s not as if it feels bad or anything, so Dean shrugs and takes another sip from his beer.
“What about you? If you wanna keep it mysterious, you can tell me why Tom Waits.”
“I haven’t found anyone else whose music fits my moods as well as his. And I don’t sing for other people.”
Dean nods at him, figuring that he doesn’t have the right to pry.
Then Castiel stares at him again, his face unreadable in the bar’s dim light. “But since you were so nice to buy a me a drink, I suppose I could sing a last one for you. I don’t do more than three each time.”
Dean can’t help feeling like this is a lot more than it looks like. The problem is that his Waits competence isn’t nowhere near vast.
“Oh. Well, I’d be an idiot to pass. It’s just, you’ll probably think my taste sucks.”
“Why would I?”
“I probably own three records of his. Waits, I mean. And one’s a greatest hits.”
“Led Zeppelin is more your thing, I guess.” Castiel eyes Dean’s wet t-shirt. Yeah, right.
“It is, but… well. Of the three I have, my favorite’s Rain Dogs. I guess anything from that one.”
“Not bad, for one who claims that he has no taste.”
Castiel gives him another strange look, one that lingers maybe a bit more than proper, before finishing his whiskey and moving back to the stage.
Suddenly, a cute twenty year old blonde is in front of Dean and he figures she’s Ellen’s daughter. Jo, if he remembers right. She takes Castiel’s glass and puts it in the sink.
“You know,” she says, “he really has to like you.”
“What?”
“He never takes any kind of request. Guess you’re a special snowflake,” she says before moving down the counter towards another costumer.
Dean swallows, his throat suddenly feeling dry even if he just had his second beer.
The few people that were still sitting stand up and either leave or go grab another drink; Dean figures that no one will complain if he takes a seat. Castiel sits on the stage’s chair again; for a second Dean thinks that he’s actually cradling the guitar before he starts playing. His voice is even rougher this round, as if he’s doing it on purpose; Dean can’t stop staring at his fingers as they pluck the strings.
My head is spinning round, my heart is in my shoes, I went and set the Thames on fire, now I must come back down.
Castiel raises his head, looking at him directly again; Dean holds the stare and he doesn’t even feel himself shivering anymore. Not when he feels warm all over, even if it’s a strange kind of warmth. His fingertips are tingling as Castiel keeps on (–now the clouds are covered over and the wind is blowing cold –). At one point he licks his lips, a small flicker of tongue that lasts a moment, and Dean bites his tongue in order not to gasp; it wasn’t even voluntary, but it’s threatening to turn the situation into something embarrassing. Even if it’d be probably too dark to notice, in case it did turn embarrassing.
I don’t need anybody because I learned to be alone, and anywhere I lay my head, boys, I will call my home.
There’s something raw in the way he sings, Dean thinks, and he aches to ask why, but as Castiel plays the last chord, he doesn’t find it in himself to speak. He doesn’t find it in himself to do nothing other than stare, his lips slightly parted, as Castiel gets down from the stage, putting the guitar against the wall and reaching for a packet of cigarettes inside the front pocket of his jeans.
“Was that satisfying?” Castiel asks, taking a drag and coming near him. He barely leaves space between that. Dean doesn’t mind.
“Satisfying would be downplaying it,” Dean manages, not knowing how to put it into better words. But Castiel smiles again around the cigarette, obviously pleased.
“Thank you,” he answers, and then moves just a bit closer. Another two inches and I could kiss him, Dean thinks, and he doesn’t even try to stop his brain from going there. It’s obvious that Castiel here is in the not so huge number of guys that do it for him and he won’t even try to deny it to himself. It’d just make him feel more uncomfortable.
“I would suggest you to go upstairs, though. There are some clothes for you on the bed – I don’t think you want to freeze to death, do you?”
“No. Uh, not really. Thanks, er, thanks for the song.”
“No hardship. Oh, the room’s lock is broken. If it makes you feel safer put a chair in front of the door.”
“Thanks, but… case is, I never lock my door when I go to sleep.”
He doesn’t leave Castiel the time to answer and goes for the stairs at once; what the hell was he thinking, when he said that? It had come naturally, and damn, it was obvious flirting, and he doesn’t even know if Castiel likes to ignore personal space for a general rule or if he might have been interested. The whole thing with both owner and daughter telling him that Castiel did like him somewhat shouldn’t have maybe have made him feel like he could say that so blatantly.
Still, he spilt the milk, right? At worst nothing happens and they don’t see each other anymore.
Thing is, he’d kind of like to see Castiel again.
He shakes his head, gets to the second floor and finds his room; it’s not big, but the bed is large enough for two and there are clean clothes on it. Considering how hard is still raining outside, he isn’t going to complain. There’s a small bathroom annexed, so he has a quick hot shower and then puts on the clean flannel pajamas that were on the bed. They fit, though they’re maybe a bit tight; they’re probably Castiel’s, and Dean bites his tongue again. He shouldn’t get hard thinking that he’s wearing the guy’s things, damn it.
He puts his wet clothes on the heater before turning off the light and getting into the bed.
He obviously can’t go to sleep; he turns and tosses, but the one thing he can think of (or hear) is Castiel’s voice as he sings that we’ve always been out of our minds, and it’s having effects, indeed. He’s this close to give in and have a quick moment with his right hand when there’s a knock on the door.
Only one, and not overtly loud, but it’s enough to make him bolt out of the bed.
Dean’s hand shakes slightly as it opens the door, and –
Castiel is indeed on the other side. He looks somewhat different though – he seems less assured than he was downstairs, and when he looks up at Dean, there’s nervousness in his eyes. Not overt, but it’s obvious that he doesn’t know whether he understood Dean’s invitation for what it was.
Dean’s throat goes dry all of a sudden.
“You said you slept with the door open,” Castiel says, and his voice is low and rough again. He smells of cigarettes, Dean notices.
“I do,” Dean replies. “If you want to come in, I won’t be the one stopping you.”
Castiel stares at him for another long moment; Dean doesn’t know what he’s seeing right now, but he has to like it, because then he moves forward, pushes Dean inside the room, kicks the door closed and smashes their lips together.
Dean moans, opening up; Castiel’s tongue meets his as his hands reach up for Dean’s back. Dean puts his own arms around Castiel’s waist, pressing him closer, feeling as if he’s just been swept by some kind of tornado. Castiel is kissing him either as if it’s the last thing he ever does or as if he hasn’t done it in years, and his tongue is wet and hot and perfect against his; Dean kisses back trying to keep some semblance of control as they fall into the bed. The top of Dean’s pajamas lands on the ground maybe a minute after then, and when they part both of them are breathing heavily.
One of Castiel’s hands runs along Dean’s hip as he looks down at him, approvingly if the glint in his eyes means what Dean thinks it means; Dean can’t help moaning as he feels Castiel’s long, fine, calloused fingers skimming along his stomach and his side. Never mind that the kiss Castiel presses on his pulse point a second later is unbearably gentle, in comparison of what happened until now.
“Why, you like what you see?” Dean asks, not exactly managing to make it sound as flirty as he was hoping; Castiel looks up at him, his eyes almost glowing in the faint light coming from the one streetlamp outside.
“It seems promising,” Castiel answers, and Dean shivers – shit, he needs Castiel to stop talking if he wants to last. He reaches up so that he can undo the buttons on Castiel’s shirt, and for a second Castiel seems to freeze. It’s gone almost suddenly though; he closes his eyes and lets Dean take it off.
Dean can hear thunder outside as he looks at Castiel’s frame; it’s as pale as the rest of him, but there are a couple of visible scars on his hip and on his shoulder. Dean moves forward and kneels on the bed, kissing the nearest one (on the shoulder); he feels Castiel suck in a breath as his hand closes on Dean’s back. His arm feels rough as well, and Dean doesn’t say anything when he glances down at the other and sees a white, vertical and not exactly linear scar that goes from elbow to wrist.
He feels some tension leaving Castiel’s shoulders when Dean moves his head up and kisses him on his lips again, slowing it down. Dean wasn’t wrong in his first assumption – those lips do feel good when you can kiss them. He lingers when they’re about to part, biting slowly on Castiel’s lower lip, kissing the corner before moving away. Castiel has a hand on his neck, his left, and Dean shivers as his very rough fingertips move until they meet the small of his back. Dean’s cock is hard enough to ache by now, and when Castiel moves closer it takes a glance to see that those jeans must be constricting. Dean’s hands go to the button and Castiel leans down, almost arching back, as Dean pulls it open along with the zip and takes his jeans off, throwing them on the ground, bringing Castiel’s underwear along. Castiel lets out a relieved moan at that, and Dean moves back up so that he’s on top, his hand on Castiel’s hip, the one with the scar. It’s a strange one, looks like a knife wound but something’s off about it; Dean doesn’t linger on that and runs his thumb over it, twice, slow.
When he meets Castiel’s eyes again, there’s something soft that wasn’t there before; Dean has no idea of what he’s doing right here, but from the way Castiel’s cheeks are flushing, he can’t complain now, can he?
He leans closer until they’re face to face, trying not to moan when his cock brushes against Castiel’s.
“Did you have anything in mind?” Dean asks.
“I wasn’t even sure you would let me in,” Castiel replies, a little breathless. “Do you?”
“Well,” Dean whispers, “I’ve been thinking about those hands of yours for a while. You think you could put them to use?”
“I think I could,” Castiel says, reaching down with his left hand. He runs his fingertips along the head of Dean’s cock and oh shit, if that bare touch feels so good Dean can’t wait for the whole deal.
“Good,” Dean manages as Castiel motions for him to turn; they switch positions and Dean moans without shame when Castiel’s entire hand closes around his cock and gives one slow stroke and then another. Dean loves how Castiel’s fingertips feel as the squeeze before stroking again, the kind of rough that creates delightful friction. And those fingers are long, and when Castiel moves up the pace a bit Dean can’t help thinking that this was a pretty damn good call.
“And think about some other ideas, while you’re there,” Dean manages before he’s overcome; Castiel moves his wrist a bit, stroking faster, scratching at the head and then squeezing when Dean gets too close; he’s good at drawing this out, Dean thinks, but then he doesn’t anymore because it feels just too damn good. He closes his eyes and focuses on how warm everything feels and not on the rain beating down on the window; when he opens them again he looks up at Castiel. His pupils are blown, his lips wet and a darker shade of pink than they were on the stage this evening, and Dean has to reach up and bring him down for a kiss, except that it’s when it becomes too much. He comes with Castiel’s tongue in his mouth, the kiss nowhere near refined, Castiel’s other hand clutching his shoulder, and he can’t help letting out a whimper as he jerks up. Castiel’s hand keeps on stroking him through it, and every part of him seems overly sensitive now. They aren’t kissing anymore but Castiel’s teeth are grazing at his neck, and Dean is half-sure that he’ll show up at Sam’s with a couple of hickeys.
No matter, when you just got the best handjob of your entire life.
When he’s coherent enough to talk again, he brings his hand on the side of Castiel’s face, feeling a bit of stubble under his thumb.
“So, did you think?”
Castiel gives him a small nod, but doesn’t elaborate. He looks somewhat all right but considering that Dean has his hard-on pressing against his thigh, he’s damn well sure that he needs a hand down there too. And he doesn’t get why Castiel isn’t saying it – he seemed pretty straightforward before.
“Do you want to keep me guessing?” Dean asks, moving his hand to Castiel’s wrist and lifting his hand up, sticky as it is. Castiel’s mouth tightens and his eyes narrow when Dean licks it clean (and considering that he doesn’t do this with guys that often he’s marveled at his own ease), and then he lets out a soft breath when Dean kisses the inside of his wrist and then up until he gets to the elbow. There’s no mistaking about the white-ish scar now – that’s the kind you get when you used to shoot up but haven’t done it for a while – and Dean should worry, but point is, he doesn’t give a shit. People do stupid things for good reasons, and considering what and how Castiel here sings it isn’t too hard to do the math; but considering how old that scar is and everything Dean has seen this evening, the guy is one hundred per cent clean and that’s all he needs to know.
“Want the favor returned? Or maybe you want it returned differently? I’m all ears.”
“Mouth,” Castiel replies before shaking his head and looking down at him again. “I mean, yes, but –”
He sounds somewhat out of words, but he was clear enough; Dean takes pity on him and flips them both again.
“Got it. No need for fancy explanations.”
Before Castiel can answer he moves back, thankful that the bed is large, and kisses the scar on Castiel’s hip again (this one is old, too, but it never turned to white, or hasn’t yet) and then moves further down. He hasn’t done this in ages, but he isn’t even worrying about screwing up. The way Castiel’s hips are jerking up in small motions, as if he’s forcing himself not to thrust fully, is making him want to make Castiel enjoy it. He swallows, then bends down and licks a stripe from tip to root and shit, the sounds coming from Castiel’s throat are enough to make him think he could be ready for round two soon enough. He doesn’t let that get to him and takes the tip in his mouth, sucking on it slightly; he doesn’t rush it, and he’s sort of strangely delighted when Castiel gets harder as he takes more of his cock in. He doesn’t manage all of it, but he doesn’t complain when Castiel start thrusting his hips up for good. Castiel’s hands reach down, skimming through his hair, strangely gentle in comparison to the way he’s fucking Dean’s mouth, but Dean won’t be the one to complain. He keeps his hands on Castiel’s thighs, following his thrusts, taking him as deep as he can. He feels spit falling from the sides of his mouth, and spit is not all that is to it probably, but he doesn’t care, not when Castiel is saying his name as if it’s the last word he’ll ever speak.
It doesn’t take much longer; when he feels Castiel still before giving a last spasm, Dean moves back a bit and swallows. Mostly he manages, even if at some point he has to lean back; he moves so that he can wrap his hand around Castiel’s cock comfortably and strokes him through the end of his orgasm, and then he looks up and damn. Castiel’s eyes are barely open and you can only see pupil, his mouth is slightly parted as he moans low in his throat and he’s flushing in the good way, his body completely relaxed. He’s a damn sight, indeed, and when it’s over Dean can barely manage to grab his wet shirt from the heater and use it to clean them up – he probably wasn’t going to be able to put it on tomorrow anyway, considering how soaked it still is.
He drops back down on the bed; when Castiel opens his eyes, his pupils are not as blown as they looked like before, and his mouth is slightly curled up again. Dean’s hand finds its way and he buries his fingers in Castiel’s hair (it’s softer than it looks like), and for a second the only sound is the room is the both of them breathing.
“Should I go?” Castiel asks then, barely audible, as if he expects Dean to say yes.
Dean doesn’t know why that sounds slightly melancholic, but it’s been ages since he shared a bed with someone and it’s been longer since doing it felt this nice.
“Not if you don’t want to,” Dean replies, as honestly as he can; when Castiel doesn’t move, he moves so that his hand is on Castiel’s hip.
Castiel lays his head on the pillow and closes his eyes.
Dean grabs their covers and covers them both. As he falls asleep, too, he can hear Castiel’s voice sing, and anywhere I lay my head I’ll call my home over the sound of thunder trying to drown it out.
--
He’s alone when he wakes up the morning after, but he had expected that. There’s a plain gray t-shirt on the bed, with a note on it.
I wouldn’t want you to wear yours, after all.
No signature, but Dean can figure out who was it. It’s still raining out there, but nowhere as bad as the evening before; it’s enough to actually see the road.
Dean goes to wash his face and puts his clothes on before moving down to the main room; Ellen is behind the counter, Castiel is cleaning tables on the other side and the rest of the bar is empty. The juke-box is playing something, which is most definitely early Waits; Dean isn’t surprised.
“Slept well?” Ellen asks, slightly smirking.
Figures that someone heard them.
“Best sleep I had in ages,” he replies. Too bad that Castiel has his back to him, but he lights a cigarette a second after Dean speaks. “So, could I have some coffee? Then tell me how much it is.”
“Sure thing,” Ellen answers; she goes in the kitchen for maybe a minute and comes back with coffee and a place of apple pie. Good apple pie, by the looks.
“You can’t drive to California without eating anything,” Ellen explains.
“Well, since there’s nothing better than good apple pie and this looks awesome, I won’t be the one complaining.”
Ellen smirks at him again and Dean drinks the entire cup of coffee before moving to the pie. Which is pretty damn good, and freshly baked, too; definitely not a bad start to the day.
Then he turns to his right and Castiel is right there.
“Man, you’re scary when you do that.”
Castiel tilts his head slightly, as if he doesn’t get what Dean means. “Scary?”
“Don’t walk up to people without them hearing you. Anyway, uh, last night… it was pretty damn good.”
“I can’t say it wasn’t,” Castiel replies. His eyes are smiling – his mouth isn’t, but it’s a good look on him, nonetheless.
“Well,” Dean says, “if I end up here again, I wouldn’t mind buying you another drink.”
“If you end up here again,” Castiel says. It’s obvious that he thinks Dean won’t. Which would only be reasonable – this was a detour and Nevada isn’t exactly next door to New Jersey. Why should they see each other again?
“I’d say never say never,” Dean replies, but before either of them can say anything Ellen comes back inside the room and lays a check in front of Dean. It’s for fifty-five dollars; Dean had expected more, considering that it had to cover room, drinks and breakfast, and the call to Sam.
“To get back where you got lost, you need to turn right and go straight – you can’t go wrong because there’s a sign for LA at the first crossing.”
“Thank you again,” Dean says, handing her sixty dollars. “Keep the change.”
“Why, if every client was like you,” she tells him before leaving. Dean takes his car keys and looks over at Castiel again.
“Have a good trip,” Castiel says.
“Thanks. See you next time I stumble here, since I’m half-sure that you don’t move that much.”
“I don’t.”
Castiel doesn’t say anything more and Dean is wary of just touching his shoulder in the light of the day, and so he turns his back, gets on the car and starts driving. He doesn’t notice Castiel staring at him until he leaves, and keeping on staring at that window for a long while after he’s gone.
part II and ending
Title: and anywhere I lay my head I'll call it home
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word count: ∼13100
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: none really?
Warnings: mentions of alcoholism, implied past drug use (neither is explicit though, and none of that happens in the fic itself).
Disclaimer: they aren't mine, the plot is a prompt and the songs are Tom Waits's. Sorry, none of this whatsoever is mine.
Summary: wherein Dean is driving to California but gets sidetracked, and Castiel plays Tom Waits songs in the middle of nowhere.
A/N: written for
drunken_kurage at deancastiel's Everlasting Birthday exchange; my prompt was Human AU. While driving cross country to meet up with his brother for Sam's spring break, Dean's car breaks down in the middle of nowhere. The closest sign of civilization is a backwater, 'only the locals know about this place' kind of bar. Castiel is a mysterious guy who works in the bar some nights, singing covers of Tom Waits' songs. This was also supposed to have a proper fanmix to go with it but alas, RL happened and I didn't manage - but it could happen later. I changed the prompt a bit because it worked better with the plot I came up with but I hope it's still valid and that it fits the bill. Happy birthday! :DA/N 2: all the songs mentioned have a link bringing back to my box.net account where you can listen to them/download them, except for one which is on youtube because I don't have the mp3 right now. Also, Auburn, Nevada doesn't exist as far as I could check - I took the name of a random place in Nebraska since it's where the Roadhouse is supposed to be and used it instead.
For the first time in his life, Dean Winchester curses his fear of airplanes.
Maybe, if he trusted those flying boxes a bit, he wouldn’t have decided to drive from New Jersey to California for his brother’s spring break, and if he had just flown, he wouldn’t have had to take extra vacation days and he wouldn’t currently be lost in Bumfuck, Nevada.
Or at least, he thinks that he’s in Nevada – considering how hard it’s been raining, he might as well have gone all the way to Texas without realizing it. He hasn’t managed to read a sign for the entire last hour and he has no idea of where he has ended up. He hasn’t even seen an exit in ages, but he probably missed all of them even if he’s been keeping a snail speed. Not that he has seen any other cars in a while – then again no one is so insane to drive in this weather.
He sighs and turns the music louder – Metallica aren’t made for driving at forty miles per hour – and decides that he needs to stop sooner than later. Who knows if he isn’t ending up in a completely different direction than the one for Stanford, and the more he goes on the more he risks having to go more distance when it clears and he finds out he took the opposite direction. He has another three days before Sam’s break starts, so he should be able to get there on time, but he isn’t going to take any chances. Also, if it starts raining any harder he’ll probably just crash the car and it isn’t the way he wants to die, so as soon as he sees an exit he’ll take it and –
As if someone read his mind, finally he sees an exit sign on his right; he can’t even read the town’s name, but it’s no matter. As long as there’s a town somewhere near, it can be named Bumfuck for real, for all he cares. He sees some houses in the distance some four or five miles later; from what he gathers, it has to be a small town at best and a handful of buildings at worst. He realizes that there’s a poor chance to find a place to sleep if it’s the case. It ends up being true enough – he gets out on the other side of town and he hasn’t seen a single light on. But then he sees an isolated two-storey building a bit farther down the road, and there are lights on inside. He gets as close as he can and makes out the name – The Roadhouse. Well, Dean thinks, if it isn’t a five star hotel at least it might be a bar, and they’ll tell him where the heck he is. He also can phone Sam, since his cell phone doesn’t have any reception in here. Or maybe it’s because of the rain.
He parks as close as he can, then gets out of the car. He closes the door and then runs inside the bar – he’s drenched to the bone when he’s inside, and it wasn’t even ten feet between the car and the door.
The inside of the bar is almost empty and the lights aren’t even all on; he can see a counter on his left and a small stage on his right, and maybe fifteen people sitting at the tables. The small stage is empty – the music he’s currently hearing is from a juke-box in the corner.
Dean moves to the counter, where a woman in her forties is cleaning a glass and a guy with a mullet that seems right out of the seventies is wiping the counter itself.
“Hello,” Dean says coming closer to the woman.
“Hello yourself. Did you get lost?”
“How did you guess that?”
“It’s only locals coming here usually, and as you can see, with this weather even less of ‘em. You’re a new face and no one ever passes through here, so it didn’t exactly take a genius.”
“Well, yeah. I was going to California for my brother’s spring break, but it started raining as soon as I passed the Nevada border and I have no idea where I ended up.”
“Lighten up, you’re still in Nevada. Auburn. Regarding how far you strayed, I’d need to know where in California you have to be.”
“Palo Alto.”
“Your brother’s got to be a smart cookie then. Well, you got off lightly – if you get back on the main road you’re about twenty miles off from a turning point that you obviously got wrong. I also hope you don’t plan to start driving again.”
“Not if I can help it. Is there some place I could sleep here?”
“This seems to be your lucky day then – there are rooms on the second floor. I don’t use ‘em for a hotel or anything since no one needs one here, but it’s just us four staying up there. Me, my daughter, Ash over there and my, hm, my other employee. There are some free ones though – I can give you one and charge you an extra thirty.”
Dean nods at her, marveling at his dumb luck. At least he won’t have to sleep on his car out in the rain.
“That’d be perfect. Could I have a drink now? Put it on my bill.”
“’Course. If you tell me your name, since I have to keep you up there, it’d be even better.”
“Sorry. I should have introduced before – driving for ten hours didn’t do me any good. Dean. Dean Winchester.”
“No need to apologize. I’m Ellen Harvelle. My daughter Jo should turn up at some point, too. What drink would you have?”
“Just a beer for now. I was wondering, do you have a payphone or something? I should call my brother and tell him I’ll be late, but my cell phone has no reception.”
“That’s why no one bothers with cell phones here when it rains like that. There’s a landline in the back room over there –use that one and I’ll put it on your bill, too.”
Dean thanks her before getting inside the room. He shivers as he dials Sam’s number – damn, he needs to find clean clothes somewhere. He has his bag inside the car, of course, but he isn’t looking forward to opening the trunk and flooding it with water. Not to mention that his bag is a duffel – his clothes wouldn’t be so dry anymore if he went out to take them. He sighs and waits for Sam to answer, tells him that he might be a day late or so since he’s stopping for the night here, gets through Sam mumbling that he should get over his problem with planes and then promises to drive safely. When he’s done, he realizes that the music coming from the main room isn’t a juke-box anymore.
It’s someone playing an acoustic guitar, and quite well, too; if he isn’t wrong it’s something by Tom Waits. Dean turns and moves back into the main room, and when he looks at the stage, he can’t help stopping dead in his tracks.
There’s someone on the stage playing that guitar all right; a guy that looks in his early thirties, who wears jeans and an old dress shirt. Dean couldn’t say how tall he is since he’s sitting, but he has a lovely face – all straight lines, with full lips that are chapped one second and not so much the following when he licks them. He has unruly dark brown hair that gives him a sort of disheveled look that sort of suits him, and when his eyes meet Dean’s for a second, Dean thinks that he has never seen a pair so blue in his entire life. He also has very nice hands – long, slender fingers moving swiftly on the guitar’s neck – and he looks quite pale at least under the low lights.
And then he starts singing.
“Inside a broken clock, splashing the wine with all the rain dogs… taxi, we’d rather walk, huddle a doorway with the rain dogs, ‘cause I am a rain dog, too…”
Shit, Dean thinks, unable to stop staring, he’s good. It’s not that Dean is that much of a Waits expert, even if he likes his music well enough, but he usually doesn’t like when other people sing his stuff because the voice is too peculiar to manage the feel of the original, at least for him.
But this guy, fuck. He has a low voice that goes from silk-smooth to barely audible rasps, and he can use it; it’s plain that he’s convinced of what he’s singing.
Also, he has chosen the perfect song for the evening, Dean thinks.
We danced and we swallowed the night, for it was it was all ripe for dreaming, oh how we danced away all of the lights, we’ve always been out of our minds.
He turns his back to the singer reluctantly to take the beer Ellen is handing him; but he can’t help glancing once in a while. He isn’t looking at anyone in the public as he sings, just doing his thing.
Aboard a shipwreck train, gave my umbrella to the rain dogs, for I’m a rain dog, too…
“Is he your other employee?” Dean whispers to Ellen, almost afraid that if he speaks he’ll ruin the atmosphere.
“You could say that,” Ellen replies. “He doesn’t do this every night – only when he feels like it – and he won’t change repertoire even if you plead him, but he’s good at it, isn’t he? Not as if singing’s the only thing he does.”
Dean is barely listening to her, though; he leans back against the counter, hoping that at some point his clothes stop dripping, and turns his stare on the singer again.
We danced and you whispered to me, you’ll never be going back home.
Dean shivers – the way the other man sings gets under your skin. It doesn’t make it crawl or anything like that, but he can’t help the way his stomach tightens. Nothing of it is related to the cold or his wet clothes. He asks Ellen for another beer, wondering if it’s just one song or not, but when it’s done there are a couple of people from the audience clapping – the ones that aren’t drinking or eating – and the man takes no notice. He adjusts the guitar on his knees gently, and Dean notices that he’s barefoot.
Then those long, elegant fingers start moving along the neck again, not as calmly as before.
If you’re looking for someone to put you out that ditch you’re out of luck; the ship is sinking, the ship is sinking.
Dean swallows, noticing the change of tone – he sounds almost angry now. He sounds definitely angry when he moves into the refrain, saying that god’s away on business. He sounds so disillusioned that Dean has to turn back to Ellen – he isn’t sure that he can look at the sad frown on the singer’s face as he keeps on singing that goddamn, there’s always such a big temptation to be good.
“Your employee should get a record deal,” Dean whispers. Ellen gives him a very sad smile.
“I’m not so sure it’d ever happen.”
“What’s his name, by the way? If I can ask.”
“He won’t kill me if I tell you. His name’s Castiel – but if you want to go and shake hands after, pretend you didn’t know.”
Castiel, huh. Quite uncommon, Dean thinks. It sounds like an angel name or a biblical one something like that – maybe it is. He could buy this Castiel person a drink, after – Dean has decided that he’d like to talk to him for a bit. He seems like an interesting person, and Dean can’t help wondering why he keeps on repeating with such conviction that it’s all over and god’s away on business.
And why he does it here in the middle of nowhere.
Dean turns his back to Ellen, the beer three quarters gone; he’s shivering in his wet clothes, but tries not to let it show too much. Castiel puts the guitar away when he’s done, the same few people clapping; he nods and then gets down from the stage, moving towards the counter. Ellen hands him a shot of bourbon, or so it seems, and he drinks it down with an ease that makes Dean almost envious.
“Do you need me for anything else tonight?” he asks.
“Well, we have a guest,” Ellen replies, nodding in Dean’s direction. “You could put on the sheets on the bed in room six. And see if you can find him some clothes – if he keeps his own on I fear we’ll end up with a corpse to deal with, but he’s only too sane if he doesn’t go get the ones in his car. They’d end up the same way.”
Dean half-blushes, wishing that it wasn’t their first introduction, but Castiel merely looks at him curiously; for the second in which their eyes meet Dean shivers. The man has an intense way of looking at you.
“Very well,” he replies, “I think I can find some.”
“Hey,” Dean says, clearing his throat. “Thanks, though if you leave the sheets there I can do that myself.”
“She pays me for that,” Castiel replies, sounding half-amused. Shit, his voice is different when he’s talking, but that low tone doesn’t fail to make Dean feel somehow warmer than he should, all things considered.
“Right. But, uh, I liked your set there. I could buy you a drink for the entertainment,” Dean blurts out, not knowing why he’s so fixed on this. He doesn’t even know the guy, for fuck’s sake. But there’s something about him that is drawing Dean in like a goddamn magnet and it’s not as if he’ll be back here after he leaves. He can afford to sound like an idiot grasping at straws.
“Why not,” Castiel says, always staring at him as if he half-likes what he sees. “I will be down soon enough.”
Then he leaves, going behind the counter where Dean sees a staircase.
“You made an impression,” Ellen says.
“I did?”
“He isn’t the kind that lets someone else buy him drinks,” she replies before moving to serve other people.
Dean is left shivering in his wet coat for the next ten minutes, and then he sees Castiel coming down from the stairs. He joins Dean at the counter and Dean swallows – for some reason having the guy next to him is making him feel as if the atmosphere in the room suddenly changed.
“What can I get you then?” Dean asks.
“Ellen knows what I like,” Castiel replies. Dean asks for another beer and Ellen hands Castiel a glass of whiskey. Dean tries not to stare at Castiel’s lips after he takes the first sip.
“I wanted to say – you’re good. Just – real good. I might say wasted.”
Castiel smirks, and it doesn’t reach his eyes as he stares at the bottom of the glass. “I don’t think so, but thank you nonetheless. I don’t… I don’t do it for someone else.”
“You do it for yourself, huh? Can’t say I don’t get it. And at least you have good taste.”
Castiel doesn’t comment on that but nods before taking another sip. “What brings you to town…”
“Uh, Dean. Dean Winchester,” Dean says, extending a hand.
Castiel looks at it for a second, as if pondering, but then he shakes it. His skin is warm and dry, his hands rough from the guitar playing but not from much else the way it feels, and damn but he has some long fingers.
“Castiel,” he answers without providing a surname. Dean doesn’t say I know.
“I was going to Palo Alto for my brother’s spring break, we don’t see each other as much as we’d like, but it started raining after I passed the Nevada border and I got lost. And ended up here. Not so exciting, huh?”
“And where do you come from?”
“New Jersey. Or well. I live in New Jersey, I’m from Kansas. I work with classic cars and the guy I worked for moved there, and I hadn’t much left in Kansas anyway. Still, the only thing that makes a difference is the numbers of concerts I go to. For now, at least. I haven’t seen many other perks.”
Castiel gives him another nod, and Dean realizes that they’re kind of too close for two people that have just met. But it feels rude to tell Castiel about his personal space issues, and it’s not as if it feels bad or anything, so Dean shrugs and takes another sip from his beer.
“What about you? If you wanna keep it mysterious, you can tell me why Tom Waits.”
“I haven’t found anyone else whose music fits my moods as well as his. And I don’t sing for other people.”
Dean nods at him, figuring that he doesn’t have the right to pry.
Then Castiel stares at him again, his face unreadable in the bar’s dim light. “But since you were so nice to buy a me a drink, I suppose I could sing a last one for you. I don’t do more than three each time.”
Dean can’t help feeling like this is a lot more than it looks like. The problem is that his Waits competence isn’t nowhere near vast.
“Oh. Well, I’d be an idiot to pass. It’s just, you’ll probably think my taste sucks.”
“Why would I?”
“I probably own three records of his. Waits, I mean. And one’s a greatest hits.”
“Led Zeppelin is more your thing, I guess.” Castiel eyes Dean’s wet t-shirt. Yeah, right.
“It is, but… well. Of the three I have, my favorite’s Rain Dogs. I guess anything from that one.”
“Not bad, for one who claims that he has no taste.”
Castiel gives him another strange look, one that lingers maybe a bit more than proper, before finishing his whiskey and moving back to the stage.
Suddenly, a cute twenty year old blonde is in front of Dean and he figures she’s Ellen’s daughter. Jo, if he remembers right. She takes Castiel’s glass and puts it in the sink.
“You know,” she says, “he really has to like you.”
“What?”
“He never takes any kind of request. Guess you’re a special snowflake,” she says before moving down the counter towards another costumer.
Dean swallows, his throat suddenly feeling dry even if he just had his second beer.
The few people that were still sitting stand up and either leave or go grab another drink; Dean figures that no one will complain if he takes a seat. Castiel sits on the stage’s chair again; for a second Dean thinks that he’s actually cradling the guitar before he starts playing. His voice is even rougher this round, as if he’s doing it on purpose; Dean can’t stop staring at his fingers as they pluck the strings.
My head is spinning round, my heart is in my shoes, I went and set the Thames on fire, now I must come back down.
Castiel raises his head, looking at him directly again; Dean holds the stare and he doesn’t even feel himself shivering anymore. Not when he feels warm all over, even if it’s a strange kind of warmth. His fingertips are tingling as Castiel keeps on (–now the clouds are covered over and the wind is blowing cold –). At one point he licks his lips, a small flicker of tongue that lasts a moment, and Dean bites his tongue in order not to gasp; it wasn’t even voluntary, but it’s threatening to turn the situation into something embarrassing. Even if it’d be probably too dark to notice, in case it did turn embarrassing.
I don’t need anybody because I learned to be alone, and anywhere I lay my head, boys, I will call my home.
There’s something raw in the way he sings, Dean thinks, and he aches to ask why, but as Castiel plays the last chord, he doesn’t find it in himself to speak. He doesn’t find it in himself to do nothing other than stare, his lips slightly parted, as Castiel gets down from the stage, putting the guitar against the wall and reaching for a packet of cigarettes inside the front pocket of his jeans.
“Was that satisfying?” Castiel asks, taking a drag and coming near him. He barely leaves space between that. Dean doesn’t mind.
“Satisfying would be downplaying it,” Dean manages, not knowing how to put it into better words. But Castiel smiles again around the cigarette, obviously pleased.
“Thank you,” he answers, and then moves just a bit closer. Another two inches and I could kiss him, Dean thinks, and he doesn’t even try to stop his brain from going there. It’s obvious that Castiel here is in the not so huge number of guys that do it for him and he won’t even try to deny it to himself. It’d just make him feel more uncomfortable.
“I would suggest you to go upstairs, though. There are some clothes for you on the bed – I don’t think you want to freeze to death, do you?”
“No. Uh, not really. Thanks, er, thanks for the song.”
“No hardship. Oh, the room’s lock is broken. If it makes you feel safer put a chair in front of the door.”
“Thanks, but… case is, I never lock my door when I go to sleep.”
He doesn’t leave Castiel the time to answer and goes for the stairs at once; what the hell was he thinking, when he said that? It had come naturally, and damn, it was obvious flirting, and he doesn’t even know if Castiel likes to ignore personal space for a general rule or if he might have been interested. The whole thing with both owner and daughter telling him that Castiel did like him somewhat shouldn’t have maybe have made him feel like he could say that so blatantly.
Still, he spilt the milk, right? At worst nothing happens and they don’t see each other anymore.
Thing is, he’d kind of like to see Castiel again.
He shakes his head, gets to the second floor and finds his room; it’s not big, but the bed is large enough for two and there are clean clothes on it. Considering how hard is still raining outside, he isn’t going to complain. There’s a small bathroom annexed, so he has a quick hot shower and then puts on the clean flannel pajamas that were on the bed. They fit, though they’re maybe a bit tight; they’re probably Castiel’s, and Dean bites his tongue again. He shouldn’t get hard thinking that he’s wearing the guy’s things, damn it.
He puts his wet clothes on the heater before turning off the light and getting into the bed.
He obviously can’t go to sleep; he turns and tosses, but the one thing he can think of (or hear) is Castiel’s voice as he sings that we’ve always been out of our minds, and it’s having effects, indeed. He’s this close to give in and have a quick moment with his right hand when there’s a knock on the door.
Only one, and not overtly loud, but it’s enough to make him bolt out of the bed.
Dean’s hand shakes slightly as it opens the door, and –
Castiel is indeed on the other side. He looks somewhat different though – he seems less assured than he was downstairs, and when he looks up at Dean, there’s nervousness in his eyes. Not overt, but it’s obvious that he doesn’t know whether he understood Dean’s invitation for what it was.
Dean’s throat goes dry all of a sudden.
“You said you slept with the door open,” Castiel says, and his voice is low and rough again. He smells of cigarettes, Dean notices.
“I do,” Dean replies. “If you want to come in, I won’t be the one stopping you.”
Castiel stares at him for another long moment; Dean doesn’t know what he’s seeing right now, but he has to like it, because then he moves forward, pushes Dean inside the room, kicks the door closed and smashes their lips together.
Dean moans, opening up; Castiel’s tongue meets his as his hands reach up for Dean’s back. Dean puts his own arms around Castiel’s waist, pressing him closer, feeling as if he’s just been swept by some kind of tornado. Castiel is kissing him either as if it’s the last thing he ever does or as if he hasn’t done it in years, and his tongue is wet and hot and perfect against his; Dean kisses back trying to keep some semblance of control as they fall into the bed. The top of Dean’s pajamas lands on the ground maybe a minute after then, and when they part both of them are breathing heavily.
One of Castiel’s hands runs along Dean’s hip as he looks down at him, approvingly if the glint in his eyes means what Dean thinks it means; Dean can’t help moaning as he feels Castiel’s long, fine, calloused fingers skimming along his stomach and his side. Never mind that the kiss Castiel presses on his pulse point a second later is unbearably gentle, in comparison of what happened until now.
“Why, you like what you see?” Dean asks, not exactly managing to make it sound as flirty as he was hoping; Castiel looks up at him, his eyes almost glowing in the faint light coming from the one streetlamp outside.
“It seems promising,” Castiel answers, and Dean shivers – shit, he needs Castiel to stop talking if he wants to last. He reaches up so that he can undo the buttons on Castiel’s shirt, and for a second Castiel seems to freeze. It’s gone almost suddenly though; he closes his eyes and lets Dean take it off.
Dean can hear thunder outside as he looks at Castiel’s frame; it’s as pale as the rest of him, but there are a couple of visible scars on his hip and on his shoulder. Dean moves forward and kneels on the bed, kissing the nearest one (on the shoulder); he feels Castiel suck in a breath as his hand closes on Dean’s back. His arm feels rough as well, and Dean doesn’t say anything when he glances down at the other and sees a white, vertical and not exactly linear scar that goes from elbow to wrist.
He feels some tension leaving Castiel’s shoulders when Dean moves his head up and kisses him on his lips again, slowing it down. Dean wasn’t wrong in his first assumption – those lips do feel good when you can kiss them. He lingers when they’re about to part, biting slowly on Castiel’s lower lip, kissing the corner before moving away. Castiel has a hand on his neck, his left, and Dean shivers as his very rough fingertips move until they meet the small of his back. Dean’s cock is hard enough to ache by now, and when Castiel moves closer it takes a glance to see that those jeans must be constricting. Dean’s hands go to the button and Castiel leans down, almost arching back, as Dean pulls it open along with the zip and takes his jeans off, throwing them on the ground, bringing Castiel’s underwear along. Castiel lets out a relieved moan at that, and Dean moves back up so that he’s on top, his hand on Castiel’s hip, the one with the scar. It’s a strange one, looks like a knife wound but something’s off about it; Dean doesn’t linger on that and runs his thumb over it, twice, slow.
When he meets Castiel’s eyes again, there’s something soft that wasn’t there before; Dean has no idea of what he’s doing right here, but from the way Castiel’s cheeks are flushing, he can’t complain now, can he?
He leans closer until they’re face to face, trying not to moan when his cock brushes against Castiel’s.
“Did you have anything in mind?” Dean asks.
“I wasn’t even sure you would let me in,” Castiel replies, a little breathless. “Do you?”
“Well,” Dean whispers, “I’ve been thinking about those hands of yours for a while. You think you could put them to use?”
“I think I could,” Castiel says, reaching down with his left hand. He runs his fingertips along the head of Dean’s cock and oh shit, if that bare touch feels so good Dean can’t wait for the whole deal.
“Good,” Dean manages as Castiel motions for him to turn; they switch positions and Dean moans without shame when Castiel’s entire hand closes around his cock and gives one slow stroke and then another. Dean loves how Castiel’s fingertips feel as the squeeze before stroking again, the kind of rough that creates delightful friction. And those fingers are long, and when Castiel moves up the pace a bit Dean can’t help thinking that this was a pretty damn good call.
“And think about some other ideas, while you’re there,” Dean manages before he’s overcome; Castiel moves his wrist a bit, stroking faster, scratching at the head and then squeezing when Dean gets too close; he’s good at drawing this out, Dean thinks, but then he doesn’t anymore because it feels just too damn good. He closes his eyes and focuses on how warm everything feels and not on the rain beating down on the window; when he opens them again he looks up at Castiel. His pupils are blown, his lips wet and a darker shade of pink than they were on the stage this evening, and Dean has to reach up and bring him down for a kiss, except that it’s when it becomes too much. He comes with Castiel’s tongue in his mouth, the kiss nowhere near refined, Castiel’s other hand clutching his shoulder, and he can’t help letting out a whimper as he jerks up. Castiel’s hand keeps on stroking him through it, and every part of him seems overly sensitive now. They aren’t kissing anymore but Castiel’s teeth are grazing at his neck, and Dean is half-sure that he’ll show up at Sam’s with a couple of hickeys.
No matter, when you just got the best handjob of your entire life.
When he’s coherent enough to talk again, he brings his hand on the side of Castiel’s face, feeling a bit of stubble under his thumb.
“So, did you think?”
Castiel gives him a small nod, but doesn’t elaborate. He looks somewhat all right but considering that Dean has his hard-on pressing against his thigh, he’s damn well sure that he needs a hand down there too. And he doesn’t get why Castiel isn’t saying it – he seemed pretty straightforward before.
“Do you want to keep me guessing?” Dean asks, moving his hand to Castiel’s wrist and lifting his hand up, sticky as it is. Castiel’s mouth tightens and his eyes narrow when Dean licks it clean (and considering that he doesn’t do this with guys that often he’s marveled at his own ease), and then he lets out a soft breath when Dean kisses the inside of his wrist and then up until he gets to the elbow. There’s no mistaking about the white-ish scar now – that’s the kind you get when you used to shoot up but haven’t done it for a while – and Dean should worry, but point is, he doesn’t give a shit. People do stupid things for good reasons, and considering what and how Castiel here sings it isn’t too hard to do the math; but considering how old that scar is and everything Dean has seen this evening, the guy is one hundred per cent clean and that’s all he needs to know.
“Want the favor returned? Or maybe you want it returned differently? I’m all ears.”
“Mouth,” Castiel replies before shaking his head and looking down at him again. “I mean, yes, but –”
He sounds somewhat out of words, but he was clear enough; Dean takes pity on him and flips them both again.
“Got it. No need for fancy explanations.”
Before Castiel can answer he moves back, thankful that the bed is large, and kisses the scar on Castiel’s hip again (this one is old, too, but it never turned to white, or hasn’t yet) and then moves further down. He hasn’t done this in ages, but he isn’t even worrying about screwing up. The way Castiel’s hips are jerking up in small motions, as if he’s forcing himself not to thrust fully, is making him want to make Castiel enjoy it. He swallows, then bends down and licks a stripe from tip to root and shit, the sounds coming from Castiel’s throat are enough to make him think he could be ready for round two soon enough. He doesn’t let that get to him and takes the tip in his mouth, sucking on it slightly; he doesn’t rush it, and he’s sort of strangely delighted when Castiel gets harder as he takes more of his cock in. He doesn’t manage all of it, but he doesn’t complain when Castiel start thrusting his hips up for good. Castiel’s hands reach down, skimming through his hair, strangely gentle in comparison to the way he’s fucking Dean’s mouth, but Dean won’t be the one to complain. He keeps his hands on Castiel’s thighs, following his thrusts, taking him as deep as he can. He feels spit falling from the sides of his mouth, and spit is not all that is to it probably, but he doesn’t care, not when Castiel is saying his name as if it’s the last word he’ll ever speak.
It doesn’t take much longer; when he feels Castiel still before giving a last spasm, Dean moves back a bit and swallows. Mostly he manages, even if at some point he has to lean back; he moves so that he can wrap his hand around Castiel’s cock comfortably and strokes him through the end of his orgasm, and then he looks up and damn. Castiel’s eyes are barely open and you can only see pupil, his mouth is slightly parted as he moans low in his throat and he’s flushing in the good way, his body completely relaxed. He’s a damn sight, indeed, and when it’s over Dean can barely manage to grab his wet shirt from the heater and use it to clean them up – he probably wasn’t going to be able to put it on tomorrow anyway, considering how soaked it still is.
He drops back down on the bed; when Castiel opens his eyes, his pupils are not as blown as they looked like before, and his mouth is slightly curled up again. Dean’s hand finds its way and he buries his fingers in Castiel’s hair (it’s softer than it looks like), and for a second the only sound is the room is the both of them breathing.
“Should I go?” Castiel asks then, barely audible, as if he expects Dean to say yes.
Dean doesn’t know why that sounds slightly melancholic, but it’s been ages since he shared a bed with someone and it’s been longer since doing it felt this nice.
“Not if you don’t want to,” Dean replies, as honestly as he can; when Castiel doesn’t move, he moves so that his hand is on Castiel’s hip.
Castiel lays his head on the pillow and closes his eyes.
Dean grabs their covers and covers them both. As he falls asleep, too, he can hear Castiel’s voice sing, and anywhere I lay my head I’ll call my home over the sound of thunder trying to drown it out.
--
He’s alone when he wakes up the morning after, but he had expected that. There’s a plain gray t-shirt on the bed, with a note on it.
I wouldn’t want you to wear yours, after all.
No signature, but Dean can figure out who was it. It’s still raining out there, but nowhere as bad as the evening before; it’s enough to actually see the road.
Dean goes to wash his face and puts his clothes on before moving down to the main room; Ellen is behind the counter, Castiel is cleaning tables on the other side and the rest of the bar is empty. The juke-box is playing something, which is most definitely early Waits; Dean isn’t surprised.
“Slept well?” Ellen asks, slightly smirking.
Figures that someone heard them.
“Best sleep I had in ages,” he replies. Too bad that Castiel has his back to him, but he lights a cigarette a second after Dean speaks. “So, could I have some coffee? Then tell me how much it is.”
“Sure thing,” Ellen answers; she goes in the kitchen for maybe a minute and comes back with coffee and a place of apple pie. Good apple pie, by the looks.
“You can’t drive to California without eating anything,” Ellen explains.
“Well, since there’s nothing better than good apple pie and this looks awesome, I won’t be the one complaining.”
Ellen smirks at him again and Dean drinks the entire cup of coffee before moving to the pie. Which is pretty damn good, and freshly baked, too; definitely not a bad start to the day.
Then he turns to his right and Castiel is right there.
“Man, you’re scary when you do that.”
Castiel tilts his head slightly, as if he doesn’t get what Dean means. “Scary?”
“Don’t walk up to people without them hearing you. Anyway, uh, last night… it was pretty damn good.”
“I can’t say it wasn’t,” Castiel replies. His eyes are smiling – his mouth isn’t, but it’s a good look on him, nonetheless.
“Well,” Dean says, “if I end up here again, I wouldn’t mind buying you another drink.”
“If you end up here again,” Castiel says. It’s obvious that he thinks Dean won’t. Which would only be reasonable – this was a detour and Nevada isn’t exactly next door to New Jersey. Why should they see each other again?
“I’d say never say never,” Dean replies, but before either of them can say anything Ellen comes back inside the room and lays a check in front of Dean. It’s for fifty-five dollars; Dean had expected more, considering that it had to cover room, drinks and breakfast, and the call to Sam.
“To get back where you got lost, you need to turn right and go straight – you can’t go wrong because there’s a sign for LA at the first crossing.”
“Thank you again,” Dean says, handing her sixty dollars. “Keep the change.”
“Why, if every client was like you,” she tells him before leaving. Dean takes his car keys and looks over at Castiel again.
“Have a good trip,” Castiel says.
“Thanks. See you next time I stumble here, since I’m half-sure that you don’t move that much.”
“I don’t.”
Castiel doesn’t say anything more and Dean is wary of just touching his shoulder in the light of the day, and so he turns his back, gets on the car and starts driving. He doesn’t notice Castiel staring at him until he leaves, and keeping on staring at that window for a long while after he’s gone.
part II and ending
