RockStarPeach

>My dearest friend ash_carpenter has recently been going on about how much she loves Dean/Cas (even more than RPF, which is a lot!) so I really feel like I should dedicate this to her. Also, I tried to throw a love in there as early as I possibly could, 'cause I know how much she adores that kind of thing.

I have more to this story planned, and I will probably write it, but this part does have a solid ending, so don't worry about being left hanging.

Title: Shootin’ You Straight
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Rating: Adult
Summary: AU. Dean Winchester is in a band and Castiel is a fan. Not of the music, of Dean. An opportunity presents itself one night after a concert and Castiel can’t pass up the chance of a lifetime. It's not perfect, but this is their story.
Word count: 5800

***



The whole thing is Anna’s fault, really.

Sure, Castiel has to take at least a little responsibility for his unhealthy affection for 12 Gauge that’s bordering on obsession. Especially considering he’s twenty-eight years old, and really, nobody over the age of about sixteen should fall asleep at night thinking of thick, calloused fingers strumming over guitar strings and soft background vocals. And they sure as hell shouldn’t be jerking off to those same thoughts.

Not that Castiel makes a habit of that, but it’s been known to happen. It’s not his fault that Dean Winchester is the single greatest example of manly perfection that the world has ever known.

The band’s premier album had hit the record stores when Castiel was twenty-four. He’d been too old even then to develop an instant crush on 12 Gauge’s lead guitarist, but knowing that hadn’t stopped him from falling head over heels in love. He hadn’t even listened to a single one of their songs on the radio when he’d seen the album cover, but his eyes were drawn to Dean with an almost unnatural urge to possess him, and he’d bought their first CD right there, and every one since.

He’d only gone into the record store in the first place to pick up Songs of the Serengeti, to help him sleep.

Their music is passable, though not something he particularly enjoys. Not beyond the picture in his head of Dean’s fingers working over his guitar, solid pads pushing down on the frets and calloused fingertips plucking out harmonies. But that picture is good enough, and so is Sam’s voice. Adam’s drumming isn’t bad and Christian’s base playing is so token and simplistic it’s almost non-existent, which Castiel is thankful for.

He wonders sometimes if the songs are written that way on purpose, and why Christian is in the band at all.

It’s good enough though. A mildly pleasant buzz when he plays it in the background as he’s raking the lawn or dusting the furniture or cooking supper, while he pretends that Dean walks through his front door and takes Castiel over the kitchen counter before they eat spaghetti together and live happily ever after.

And Castiel is content to worship from afar, he really is. Or he has been anyway, until 12 Gauge plays a show in Wichita and his sister drags him along with her.

They’re only about a half hour out, in Clearwater, so they share a cab in with an agreement to get home separately if Anna finds a party she can’t pass up. Castiel isn’t really the party type, but he can’t begrudge his younger sister her fun so he makes her promise to call him either way. He wants to be there in case she needs him but he also does want to see the show, see Dean Winchester play in person. Listen to those smooth, heartfelt chords, watch the slow grind of his hips against the back of his guitar, the bend of his knees and the way his fingers curl around the neck.

And yes, perhaps Castiel wants to pretend he is that guitar for a little while, but it’s not like anyone will know that. Least of all Anna beside him while she’s busy nursing her own pornographic thoughts about Dean. It must run in the family.

***

They’re not at the show more than twenty minutes before Anna finds a few kindred spirits and heads down front, hoping to sneak into the first few rows, where numbered seats have become meaningless and personal space is non-existent.

Castiel doesn’t mind, really. He’s happy thirty-two rows back, on the aisle. He has a good view, it’s not too loud and it’s not too crowded. Dean Winchester has never looked better, even with the slight bags under his eyes that the close-up screen reveals and the barely-there laugh lines that are just visible after twenty-six years.

He’s happily suspending reality and enjoying the band's fourteenth song of the night more than he thought he would, eyes glued to Dean’s mouth as he mumbles a soft background chorus into his microphone, when someone taps Castiel on the shoulder.

He jerks his head around and his eyes land on a man. Younger than him by more than a couple of years and certainly shorter. He looks a little like he just stumbled out of a Dungeons and Dragons tournament and is about to get into his Darth Vader costume, so when he speaks his words are surprising.

“How would you like a chance to get a little more… up close and personal with the band?” the man asks after he’s eyed Castiel up and down. He doesn’t sound like he’s really sure if he means it though. The guy clearly has no appreciation for the male form, looks as if he’s trying to ascertain whether or not Castiel would be a good match for someone else.

He must decide that Castiel passes whatever test he’s just been put through though, because he raises an eyebrow expectantly.

Castiel wasn’t born yesterday. He might miss out on the occasional social cue, but he knows what that means. The man might as well have said ‘How would you like the chance to be used a fuck toy if one of the guys decides you’re pretty enough?’ and Castiel knows what his reaction to that should be. What it is, at least in part.

Rock stars, Castiel thinks with an internal scowl. If you’re rich enough and famous enough you don’t even have to pick up your own one night stands. You get one of your roadies to do it for you.

Which is obviously what this man is. Sent out to scan the crowd, cart all the very prettiest people off somewhere so that after the concert the men of 12 Gauge can have their pick. Choose from a line of pre-selected women (and a few men, because Sam Winchester is openly gay and Castiel has his suspicions about Christian Campbell as well).

Castiel doesn’t really want to sleep with Sam. Oh, he’s sure Sam’s a great guy, with those big smiles and kind, kind eyes Castiel has gotten lost in with his hand on his prick, on more than one occasion. And he’s one of the most beautiful people Castiel has ever seen, but Castiel doesn’t make a habit out of sleeping with people just because they’re pretty. And certainly not before he gets to know them. His brother Gabriel says he’s a prude but really he’s just practical. His own right hand has never let him down, and he’s got a much lower chance of catching a venereal disease or getting his heart broken.

Yeah, both have happened before. A couple of times.

He’s smarter about things these days.

Still, the possibility of seeing Sam Winchester naked is an alluring prospect, in that ‘never in a million years thought it would happen fantasy’ sort of way that’s so much less appealing than seeing Dean Winchester naked. It’s a Winchester, at any rate, and any Winchester is better than none. Plus, if he goes with this man he might get the chance to see Dean up close, talk to him, maybe even shake his hand and that alone could probably fuel Castiel’s fantasies for a damn long time.

In the end, it really isn’t a hard choice. He nods dumbly and lets the guy lead him through the crowd and down a few dimly lit hallways, down some stairs and into the private parking lot on the south side of the Stadium.

The limo is already piled full with a half dozen other people, but it’s a short ride to the hotel.

***

The suite is nice. Big. Bigger than Castiel thought, with at least six couches and just as many plush chairs. They’re soft, a dark shade of red that warms Castiel instantly and they’re soft to the touch. The couch he sits down on feels like cotton balls under his fingers and he accepts a drink from a passing man with dark blond hair and a wide grin, ingesting a huge gulp before he even bothers to smell it to find out what it is.

Castiel coughs slightly, whisky he’s sure and something else… lemonade? He has no idea and it’s absolutely disgusting but the man looks down at him with a hopeful expression, like he’s looking for approval, and Castiel can’t help it.

He’s never been good at disappointing people. He holds his cup up, tilts it towards the man in salute, smiles a little and takes another drink. He has enough control to pretend that it’s good and the man walks on.

He barely manages to put the drink down on the table next to him when suddenly his lap is full of a scantily clad twenty-something. Pretty little thing, if Castiel had been into girls, all pale skin and dark hair, red lips and long lashes.

She kisses him, works a hand into his pants and despite himself his cock gives an involuntary twitch. His tongue swipes broadly across hers before he pulls back, shakes his head and lifts her off and places her at his side.

His cock is still growing hard, but he’s sitting here waiting to fuck Sam Winchester so it would sort of be a problem if it wasn’t.

“My apologies,” he says to the girl, when she looks questioningly at him. “I’m gay.”

“Oh,” she smiles and nods her head. “Here for Sam, then? Way to go! Not that I’d know personally, but I hear he’s great.”

“I…” Castiel starts, because he wants to say no. He’s not here for Sam, doesn’t really want Sam. He wants Dean, even though he’s more sure than ever that he can’t have him. “Yes. Sam.”

“Well I can tell you first hand that Dean is one hell of a giver,” she says, and Castiel tenses up, though she doesn’t seem to notice. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if it runs in the family, so I’d have high hopes for Sam, too.”

“Thank you,” Castiel tells her, shifting to sit a little further away.

He takes a look around the room and almost wants to reach for his abandoned drink. There are two women fucking on one of the chairs in the far corner and there’s a naked man snorting lines of white powder off the coffee table in front of him. The girl by his side winks at him and motions him forward, waves her hand over the naked man’s backside, like Castiel should bend down and press his nose into the over-exposed crevice.

He shakes his head as politely as he can, sits just a little bit stiffer and watches while the girl climbs onto the other side of the couch, into another man’s lap. Castiel spares a moment to admire her form before the main door opens up and Dean and Sam walk in.

“I’m telling you, man,” Sam is saying, smiling brightly. “You can’t even…”

Dean laughs out loud. “And you can just fuck off,” he says around a wide grin. “Did you really think she wouldn’t…”

And then Dean freezes, elbows Sam softly in the side and the rest of the room buzzes and chatters on as they step closer to the couch that Castiel is sitting on.

Castiel is not a child. He’s mature and experienced and he doesn’t get star struck and tongue-tied around overrated rock musicians. Even so, his mouth goes dry and his heart picks up speed and he can feel the skin on his palms clam up with sweat. Dean is right there, just a few feet away and he’s looking at him.

Sam’s smile turns predatory then and a thrill runs through Castiel because it’s directed at him, and even though he wants Dean, really wants Dean – like, he’s thinking about crying right now because Dean’s so close and he can’t have him – Sam will probably be an acceptable substitute. And it appears that Castiel is good enough for Sam as well, because Sam takes another step towards him and stretches out his arm, palm of his hand facing up for Castiel to grasp.

Castiel starts to stand, is just about to place his hand in Sam’s, his eyes still fixed firmly on Dean when Dean jerks like he’s just come out of some kind of trance and his hand shoots out to clamp down over Sam’s forearm.

“Go play somewhere else, Sammy,” Dean says, the words coming out low and rough.

“What?” Sam asks, screwing up his face and shaking Dean’s hand off him. “Dean, fuck off.”

“I’m serious,” Dean growls. “I want this one.”

Sam’s face twists up even more and Sam turns his head to stare at his brother. “Dean, you don’t even do guys.”

Dean just looks at him, doesn’t blink and his mouth is a hard line.

“Fine,” Sam sighs. “Whatever.” He rolls his eyes and wanders off.

Dean’s eyes soften then and when he holds out his hand Castiel nearly implodes.

Castiel has a feeling he shouldn’t be doing this. Dean Winchester has been the object of his fantasies for years but this is a stupid idea. One of two things will happen: He’ll either fall hopelessly in love with the musician after a night of what he hopes will be the best sex of his life, or Dean won’t live up to the picture he’s created in his head, shatter his illusions and leave him empty and missing something that he never really had in the first place.

Hell, both, knowing his luck.

It doesn’t stop him from blinking up at Dean and taking the offered hand. He lets the man of his dreams pull him to his feet with a flirty smile and lead him down the hall and into one of the bedrooms.

“I thought you didn’t do guys,” Castiel says, voice rough from the smoke-filled room he’s spent the past hour in. And then he kind of wants to kick himself, because seriously? Who just said that? The very last thing he should be doing at the moment is reminding Dean he’s straight, and sending him right on to one of the girls.

“I don’t,” Dean shrugs as he opens the door, waves his hand through the frame for Castiel to go first. “Or, I haven’t in a really long time, anyway.” He snorts out a huff of breath through his nose and shakes his head, following Castiel into the room. “Years.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow, not entirely sure whether he believes Dean or not. “So I take it I’m special, then?” Ridiculous as it is, the notion that maybe he is special sends a secret sort of thrill through him.

Dean just chuckles, low and to himself, walks around Castiel to grab the edge of the door in his hand and starts to close it, giving them privacy.

“What’s your name?” Dean whispers into Castiel’s ear, stretching his arm over Castiel’s shoulder to shut the door fully behind them, pressing in close and nearly pinning him to the solid wood.

Castiel swallows and tilts his head, body moving without conscious thought to give Dean more access as Dean’s nose nudges up behind his ear. Dean’s tongue snakes out then to lick a soft, moist line up the side of Castiel’s neck.

He shivers and falters backwards, knocking into the door and Dean follows, lips working now, pressing small open-mouthed kisses, sucking up the saliva his tongue had left behind.

“I can make up a name for you,” Dean says, and Castiel can hear the smile in his voice as well as feel it pressed up against his skin. “But I’d really rather you tell me.”

“Do you…” Castiel starts, but then Dean’s hand is on his side, working his t-shirt out of his jeans and then Dean’s hand slides up underneath it, over the over-heated skin covering his ribs and he has to stop, gasp and jerk into the touch. “Do you really care?” he asks. It’s a stupid thing to ask; of course Dean doesn’t care. He just needs to call him something, all part of his clearly practiced seduction, and ‘Bill’ would probably work for him just as well as ‘Castiel’. Hell, better probably.

It really shouldn’t matter, he knows that. Knows what this is, for Dean. An easy lay, no strings no mess. A way to wind down after a great show, and he doesn’t need Castiel’s name for that, just his body.

“I really,” Dean says, hand sliding up Castiel’s stomach and chest so that his fingertips tickle over a nipple, teeth closing down gently over Castiel’s jaw. “Really,” he continues, lips pressing a kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth, “want to know.”

Dean’s other hand leaves the door, grabs the other side of Castiel’s shirt and he presses in closer, pins him to the door with his hips while he works the shirt up and off with both hands. He stops before Castiel can get his hands free of the flimsy material, fingers twisting the cotton up tight and using it to hold Castiel’s hands there, above his head.

Dean looks at him then, head angled down slightly and straight into his eyes. Their ragged breathing is loud in the quiet room, loud enough to nearly drown out the bright sounds of the party going on outside, music and laughter and the occasional suspicious thud or moan.

“Please,” Dean asks, begs, and his eyes still don’t leave Castiel’s. “Tell me.”

He briefly wonders if Dean wants to know the names of all his lovers this badly, or if there’s something about him. Then he realises he’s being an idiot.

And that realisation is driven home when Dean’s lips curl up and his eyes crinkle in a smile that’s more predatory than it is friendly and he works a leg in between Castiel’s, presses his thigh up against Castiel’s groin. He’s hard, he can’t hide that now. Not that he was planning to, because he’s pretty sure Dean would take a lack of erection in this situation as some kind of slight against man and God.

When Dean says, “I need something to call you when I’m pounding your ass into the mattress, don’t I?” with a wicked smirk, whatever spell had existed between them for the briefest of moments is well and truly broken.

And if Castiel was thinking about giving Dean a fake name, using that as a way to distance himself so this could stay a fantasy in his head and not the slightly disappointing reality (Dean’s turning out to be kind of an entitled jerk), he’s not anymore.

He needs Dean to know. Wants to tell him not only his name but his entire life story because he’s not just an easy piece of ass like Dean’s no doubt used to. He’s a person, he matters beyond what goes on in this room and so do all the other people that sleep with Dean just because he’s famous and gorgeous and talented.

This may be nothing more than a convenient fuck but Castiel at least wants to make an impression on Dean, won’t settle for being so easily forgotten.

“My name is Castiel,” he says, taking several deep breaths as Dean finally slips the shirt over Castiel’s wrists, tosses it aside and brazenly slips his fingers under Castiel’s waist band, rough pads dragging along the tip of his cock, brushing down over the head before pulling free. “I have a brother, and a sister,” he continues breathlessly. “I’m twenty-eight years old and I work in advertising. My first boyfriend was called Timothy and he let me get to third base before he dumped me for a boy who worked at Orange Julius. I’m allergic to cats.”

“Castiel,” Dean breathes into the skin of his cheek, the air carrying the word like a song to Castiel’s ear, making him quiver and shake, grip Dean by his hips and pull him closer. Dean either didn’t hear anything beyond his name, or he’s choosing to ignore it. “I don’t know if you’re bullshitting me, man, but if you are I don’t even care,” Dean says, rolls his hips over Castiel’s. He slides their hardened pricks against each other, wringing a low-pitched moan from Castiel’s throat.

“Fucking love that name,” Dean tells him, biting down sharply on his earlobe before his arms are wrapped around Castiel’s waist and he’s spinning them around. “God, what is it about you?”

Castiel doesn’t answer. Probably because he knows Dean’s talking to himself, but if there’s anything about Castiel that Dean finds even remotely appealing Castiel would also really like to know what it is. So that he can keep on doing it, maybe use it to get Dean to fall in love with him and they can do this over and over, every night forever.

Dean walks them both over to the bed, biting at Castiel’s neck as he backs him up. He pulls back and gives Castiel a gentle shove when his legs hit something solid and Castiel falls backwards, sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at Dean. Dean’s mouth turns up at one corner and his hands go to his belt, slide the worn leather through the buckle.

The soft clinking sound of metal as he lets go and the ends hang loose is covered up by the sharp shock of a zipper being opened and Castiel’s eyes snap down, follow the slow slide of thick, calloused fingers. Time seems to grind to a halt, the metal teeth unlock one by one, each one springing free with a deafening pop and Castiel swallows, mouth going dry.

His heart speeds up, thumping so hard in his chest that he thinks it might burst right through his ribcage because – and Castiel doesn’t swear often or lightly, but – holy fuck, he’s about to see Dean Winchester’s penis. He’s going to touch it, going to have it inside him, going to get to hear all the noises Dean makes when he builds towards orgasm. He’s going to make Dean scream.

He bites down hard on his lip just to make sure he’s actually awake.

He’s had this dream before, and he’s a little too old to be waking up covered in his own come with his DVD of ‘12 Gauge, Live at Arrowhead Stadium’ playing on repeat. Last time Gabriel had taken pictures.

It’s not until he hears a warm chuckle come from somewhere over his head and Dean’s voice, pitched low and rumbling, all sex and good-natured humour asking him, “See something you like?” that he realises he’s been staring, but not really seeing.

Dean’s already taken himself out and his hand is working up and down his shaft. The head sticks out from his fist, red and thick with blood, tip glistening with pre-come and Castiel can’t help himself, can’t hold back for even another second.

He reaches his hands out and grabs hold of Dean’s hips. He looks up at Dean’s face, watches in mild amusement as Dean blinks and starts to protest, but then gives in and allows Castiel to tug his pants down further, spin him around and sit him down on the bed in one swift movement. It’s not like Castiel gave him much of a choice in the matter and it looks like Dean knows when to just go with something.

Especially when Castiel falls to the floor between Dean’s spread legs, cups Dean’s balls in his hand, heavy and full and so, so perfect. He licks his lips and leans forward, tongue darting out to swipe over the underside of Dean’s cock head and Dean groans, low and deep and tilts his head back, hand resting on the bed to hold himself upright as he starts to collapse.

His neck is bared, long expanse of tanned skin that Castiel wants to sink his teeth into, would be doing it right now if his mouth wasn’t occupied by something a hundred thousand times better. He opens his mouth wider, sinks down further. His tongue tightens up, works along the prominent vein in pulsing, sucking motions and a pungent tang bursts over his tongue, best thing he’s ever tasted, because holy shit, Dean Winchester’s cock is in his mouth.

And Dean is moaning steadily now, his hand is on the back of Castiel’s head, not forcing, not pulling, just resting there, his fingers clenching and unclenching in the short hair as he babbles, random sounds and vague praise.

“Yeah, fuck yeah,” he says, and when Castiel looks up again his eyes are closed, long lashes splayed over slightly freckled cheeks. His mouth is hanging open in between garbled sex talk (“Suck me, yeah, just like that. Harder.”) and his lips are glistening wet where he keeps licking them. Castiel wants to lick them too.

He will, once he gets a mouthful of Dean’s come, which judging by the way his head is thrashing slightly from side to side and the way his hips are starting to stutter up to meet Castiel each time he bobs his head down, won’t be long.

“Oh, fuck Cas,” Dean keens and Castiel has to clamp a hand down over his own cock to keep from coming in his pants. Castiel knows his name is unusual. He’s never really thought about it though, one way or the other, never really formed an opinion, doesn’t like it and doesn’t hate it.

But when Dean says it, shortened to one syllable but stretched out like it’s three, Castiel gains a whole new appreciation. It’s a great name. Fantastic even. Almost as good a name as ‘Dean’. Maybe even better, because when Castiel tries to say it, moans around Dean’s shaft and murmurs his name, it comes out garbled and ugly and yeah, he really just shouldn’t talk during sex. Especially when he’s got a mouthful of dick.

It just makes him look inexperienced and slightly retarded. He’s neither of those things.

And he intends to prove it by giving Dean the best blow job he’s ever had in his entire life.

He closes his mouth tighter, sucks harder. He changes up his technique each time Dean gets comfortable, settles into rhythm. He lets his tongue slide over the slit at the top of Dean’s prick, swirls it around and bobs back down, as far as he can. He swallows a few times until Dean is thrashing underneath him, begging incoherently and his hand is cupping the side of Castiel’s face so damn gently he thinks he might explode.

“Cas,” Dean pants, his face flushed and his eyes fluttering open to look down at where his dick is disappearing inside Castiel’s mouth. “Fuck, Cas, please. Please.”

Dean’s hips still and the pad of his thumb brushes over Castiel’s cheekbone. “Amazing,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “God, Cas. You’re…”

And then his hips start thrusting again, faster now, harder. And Castiel can’t take any more, can’t hold out for even another minute because Dean feels perfect under him, fits in his mouth like Castiel was built for this, like Dean was. Dean tastes better than a thousand Christmas dinners and the way he looks, the sounds he’s making, it’s like every wet dream he’s ever had come to life in front of him.

He fumbles a hand at the front of his pants, works them open and yanks himself out. Pulls on his dick a few times. A few more and he’s coming before Dean is, thick globs of white pushing past his fingers and landing on the floor in front of him.

He lets out a series of embarrassingly high-pitched moans and Dean’s hand tightens in his hair.

“Did you just…?” Dean starts to ask, sitting up a little straighter to look down at Castiel’s crotch, where his hand is still working him furiously through the aftershocks. “Fuck, that’s so hot.”

And then Dean’s gone, hips pitching forward so hard and fierce that Castiel nearly chokes as he lodges his dick halfway down his throat, hand pulling him in close and holding him there. It’s good, even though it makes his eyes water, but Dean being that far inside him has the unfortunate side effect of Castiel not being able to taste him when he comes.

He swallows anyway, doesn’t have much choice, and tries to commit every single detail of this to memory. Wants to be able to replay this over and over again, for the rest of his life, because he’s had better orgasms, sure, usually when another human being was actually touching his dick in some way, but he’s never given a better blow job, ever, and if ever there’s a time to shine, it’s when Dean Winchester picks you out of a line-up.

So yes, this is going down in the story of Castiel Milton as pretty much the best day ever.

Dean lets him go and falls back on his elbows and Castiel shifts a little to get better balance. He looks down at the floor sheepishly and then back up at Dean, embarrassed blush covered up by the flush of his recent orgasm.

“I messed up your floor,” he says stupidly, indicating the small pool of semen sitting offensively between his knees.

Dean just laughs, loud and quick, strips his shirt off over his head and tosses it over the stain. He steps on it to grind it in.

“There,” he says. “All fixed. Now get up here.”

Castiel once again takes Dean’s hand, allows Dean to pull him up. He falls forward onto the bed, half on top of Dean as Dean grins at him and brings him in close, arm around Castiel’s back.

“That was… Awesome. Thanks, man,” Dean says, and Castiel feels cold when he remembers what this is. Dean doesn’t care about him, was just using him for a little tension relief but Castiel let him, Castiel loved it, so he really can’t complain.

He opens his mouth to say ‘You’re welcome’ but that’s not what comes out.

“I have a goldfish named Spot 2. Spot died when my brother Gabriel overfed him one weekend,” he finds himself saying and even though he wants to stop, he kind of doesn’t. “I like history and I don’t understand football. I enjoy cooking but I don’t do it all that much. I’ve had a crush on you since your first album came out. I lost my virginity to a boy named Denis at our high school graduation party and I never called him after that. My last name is Milton.”

With each random, ridiculous confession he’s getting closer to Dean until finally their noses are touching and Castiel tilts his head, wants to kiss so badly he’s tingling with it, the anticipation making his head light and his chest tickle. It will probably be the most perfect kiss ever because Dean’s lips, Jesus.

But then Dean laughs, shakes his head and the moment passes.

“You are one weird dude,” Dean tells him, rolling them over and pressing Castiel down, pinning him and nibbling down his collar bone. “But you give head like a fucking porn star – trust me, I’d know – so I’m willing to overlook it.”

Castiel doesn’t have time to figure out of he should take that as a compliment or an insult before Dean is pushing up and off the bed, standing and fastening his pants. Once that’s done, he walks to the closet and pulls out a clean shirt while Castiel dumbly fastens his own pants back up.

“You’ll… you know,” Dean says, sliding his shirt down over his shoulders and into place, hand smoothing over his stomach as he turns back around to face Castiel. He looks amazing. Even better than he did during the concert, face still flushed and hair all sex-mussed, lips swollen from where he’s been sucking on Castiel’s neck.

“I’ll…?”

“Keep this quiet.”

Castiel’s eyes harden and he stands up too, grabs his own shirt off the floor and puts it back on.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t tell.”

And he won’t. Not even Anna when she asks tomorrow. He’s a private person, intensely so most times. He wouldn’t have said anything anyway, but Dean specifically asking him not to stings more than he’d like.

“Thanks,” Dean says, smiles crookedly at him before he crosses the room and wraps his arms around Castiel’s waist. Stupid arms, all strong and muscled and tanned. Dean kisses him then, not like Castiel wants, it’s not deep and Earth-shattering or anything. It’s quick and light, just a slight press of lips, a shift. The barest sweep of tongue over Castiel’s lower lip and then Dean’s gone, heading towards the door and motioning Castiel along with him.

He blinks and follows, because what else is he going to do?

Dean stops him after the door is opened just a crack, wraps a hand up in the cotton of Castiel’s shirt and pulls him in. Smirks down at him and drops a kiss on his cheekbone, just under his left eye. Castiel lets his eyelids slip closed, lets himself melt into Dean for just one more moment. He knows he’ll regret it but he can’t help himself.

Dean’s knuckles brush over Castiel’s chest and his nose slides along Castiel’s cheek, just below the bone and all the way to his ear. “Seriously, thanks man,” Dean rasps out. “And not just for keeping quiet. This was honestly the best time I’ve had in a while.”

Castiel just nods and walks behind Dean as he heads around the corner, back into the main room of the suite. Dean heads over to the bar and Sam smirks at him and hands him a bottle of beer. He leans in close and whispers something into Dean’s ear and Dean laughs, slaps Sam on the stomach and tilts his head back, taking a long pull from the bottle.

Castiel watches for a few seconds and then the blond man from earlier is back, offering him another drink. This one is bright blue and there’s some sort of smoke coming out of the cup.

“I was just leaving,” he tells him, and makes his way to the door. He puts his hand on the doorknob but before he turns it he glances back towards the bar. Wants one more look.

Sam’s gone now and the pretty dark haired girl who’d climbed into Castiel’s lap is now pressed in close against Dean’s side, hand settled low and possessively over his stomach while his arm is slung lazily over her shoulders.

Castiel sighs and turns the knob, steps out of the room and shuts the door firmly behind him, closing in the noise. He had fun, Dean hadn’t promised him anything and the fact that he’s left feeling oddly empty is completely his own fault.

This night will be a pleasant memory, he resolves, and takes out his cell phone to send a text message to his sister before he wanders into the lobby and asks the hotel concierge to call him a taxi.

By the time he gets home, he’s smiling.