[closed]

[sonofabitch]

WHO: Dean Winchester (sonofabitch) & Castiel (intercessor)
WHAT: taking a relaxing drive turns into a lot more
WHERE: not far from the MoL bunker
WHEN: amorphous canon divergence after they become a thing
WARNINGS: reckless driving & smut


It's hardly a secret that Dean loves his car. Whether it's cruising behind the steering wheel, air guitaring in the passenger seat, or even tinkering beneath the hood, he wouldn't hesitate to call it his little slice of heaven. Hell, he's even fucked in the back seat a number of times, not to mention all of the other memories he has growing up in the car that's become a home. For all the time he's spent in the Impala, he never would have guessed that he'd be driving around with the windows down and an angel riding shotgun. Glancing over at Castiel, he has to chuckle a little at the insanity that his life has become. There was a time when the craziest thing he might do was hunt a wendigo—now, he's lived through demons and angels and apocalypses and several deaths. Perhaps the most shocking development is the fact that he's ended up dating the angel who gripped him tight and raised him from perdition.

Things with Castiel have never been what Dean would call smooth sailing. In the beginning, when they were fighting Lilith and her seals, they'd butted heads over a lot of Heaven's ideas and orders. Once Castiel had officially joined team free will, there had been plenty of rough patches, too—disappointment in Dean, losing hope in their odds of winning, going down wrong paths of the wrong means supposedly justified by the well-meaning end. It had made them a family as fucked up as any other, but more than that, it had made Dean realize that he wanted more from Castiel.

Reaching for the volume on the stereo and turning down the Led Zeppelin pouring through the speakers, he stretches his right arm out to rest on the top of the seat behind Castiel. Of all the activities they do that might be considered dates for a couple of weirdos like a hunter and his angel, cruising around like this is one of Dean's favorites. Brushing the pad of his thumb down the line of Castiel's neck, Dean lolls his head to the side to give him a wink.

"You know," he drawls, eyes glancing to the road simply out of habit—it's straight for miles, and this late at night, there's not another soul driving the backroads of Lebanon, Kansas. "Before we left, Sam said he was gonna be gone for a couple days. We've got the whole place to ourselves."

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[intercessor]

There was a time when the only thing he'd wanted had been to follow Heaven’s orders down to the fiery letter. A time when the only thing that had brought Castiel satisfaction had been to smite on command; a time when he’d closed his fingers around Dean Winchester’s shoulder for the pure and simple reason that he deserved to be saved. Nothing personal.

Now, he’s learned to want … a lot of things. Now, the breadth of his knowledge has expanded to encompass not just the hospital-bed corners of Heaven, but the rumpled reality of Earth and its inhabitants. One inhabitant in particular, currently with one hand on the wheel of the Impala, the other reaching out to dull the volume of the radio.

It reminds him of something one of humanity's playwrights had written, a line Castiel hadn’t understood when he’d first heard it all those centuries ago, but which makes entirely too much sense to him now. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Strange that he should be thinking of that right now, with nothing but paved concrete stretching out in front of the two of them.

Or maybe apropos, considering how endless and full of possibility the open road is. As full of possibility as the late afternoon ahead of them.

Dean grazes the pad of his thumb against Castiel’s neck, Dean glances over at him with that look in his eyes, voice drawling in a way that Castiel knows means exactly one thing —

And Castiel realizes he wants him so badly, he can feel it in his goddamn toes. They squeeze, unseen, in his plain brown loafers at the implication in Dean’s words; at the wanting that never really leaves him, these days. Ever since the day he first discovered what Dean’s lips tasted like, and how it felt to hold him in his arms, and the way his face looked when —

We’ve got the whole place to ourselves.

He still wants to curl his fingers around Dean’s shoulder. And Dean’s wrist. And Dean’s waist. And Dean’s …

Well, the reason behind it isn’t so pure and simple anymore, and it’s become perilously personal into the bargain.

( Another thing Castiel’s learned about himself: he enjoys a little peril every now and then. )

“That’s rather fortuitous,” Castiel says, his voice slightly rough around the edges. He swallows, as though to clear a dry throat, but it doesn’t help change his tone when he adds, “I believe that also means I’ve got you all to myself.”

He cuts Dean a meaningful look through his lashes, a slight curl to his lips as he asks, “Doesn’t it?"

[sonofabitch]

Dean snorts a bit at the word "fortuitous," always amused at how Castiel could take the notion of something like getting lucky and draw it out with dictionary words. His level of English is often at odds with the things they discuss, one of the many idiosyncrasies that make Castiel into the being he is. The only angel who left his suit unkempt, hair ruffled, tie upside-down. A perfect creature with an imperfect skin. He's been a study in contradictions, but Dean knows that he isn't someone with room to judge.

Castiel's voice is always rough, but Dean is learning to tell the subtle differences in it. Right now, it's the husky sort of tone that speaks of lips parched for a kiss, a throat so close to swallowing thick and slow. Dean catches the look from the corner of his eye and turns slightly, body angled halfway between the dashboard and the passenger's seat.

"Yeah, you've got me," he replies with a chuckle, hand dragging down Castiel's shoulder to squeeze his bicep before he returns it to the steering wheel. "What're you gonna do about it?"