#meardmish

2. Dean startles awake to the bed dipping and groaning. He grumbles, blinking as he leans up on his elbow; before he can reach for his knife, a hand soothes through his hair, easy and soft and familiar.

"It's just me," Cas says, his voice a low burr. He touches the side of Dean's face, sliding his hand down Dean's jaw, rubbing his thumb at the corner of Dean's mouth. "Go back to sleep."

Dean's throat is so dry he has to clear it twice before he can talk; their motel room is stuffy, musty from old cigarette smoke and years of the heater baking the wood paneling. "Where's Sam?"

"He went back to his room," Cas says, kicking the ugly bedspread away. He stretches out along Dean's side, and the bed creaks and whines in complaint. "It's nearly two. He was falling asleep at his computer."

"Did he find anything?" Dean asks, the words breaking up around a yawn. They're in Idaho, too far from the bunker not to pick up a job for the return trip.

"Colorado. Something about desecrated graves near Grand Junction."

"Great. I fucking hate ghouls."

Cas huffs under his breath, then rolls over, hooking his thigh over Dean's and pressing his mouth to the corner of Dean's jaw. "Go back to sleep."

3. "Hold still," Cas says, his hand warm and sweaty at the curve of Dean's neck. He pauses there just long enough to take a breath, then slides his fingers down a little, skirting the place where a bent fence wire had gouged Dean's shoulder. "I can't see."

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding."

"So are you," Dean counters, reaching for Cas' arm. The side of it is red and raw from his elbow to his wrist; it must've happened when he tackled the werewolf to the ground.

Cas frowns at his arm for a second, then shrugs. "It's just a scrape."

"I can't believe you just rushed the sonofabitch."

"It had Sam cornered, and my gun was jammed," Cas says, shrugging again. He also has a bruise on his cheek, roughly the size of a fist and already threatening purple. "Let me see your shoulder."

"Okay, okay." It's actually starting to hurt now -- now that the adrenalin is wearing off -- a bright sunburst of pain that flares halfway down his arm every time he moves. He sits on the toilet with his back to the sink, taking a long, slow shot of whiskey as Cas runs the hot water and grabs a washrag from the rack. "How does it look?"

"It needs stitches."

"Great." Dean takes another shot, then sets the whiskey bottle on the edge of the tub. The label is covered in sticky-red fingerprints from Cas' bloody hands.

"Your brother's a better doctor than I am."

"He could be gone half the night dumping that body."

"Dean."

Dean tips his head back, pressing his mouth to the stubbly skin under Cas' chin. "I trust you."

4. It's a dull, gray morning; rainclouds are waiting on the colorless horizon, and the air is just cold enough that Dean's breath takes shape in front of his face. He loads the last of the gear into the trunk, then slams the lid closed and leans back against it, blowing on his half-frozen hands before tucking them into his pockets. Behind him, the vacancy sign buzzes louder than a swarm of bees. The parking lot smells like damp asphalt and the Biggerson's across the street -- syrup and burnt eggs and sausage grease and frying oil.

Cas comes out a few minutes later, bundled in a thick, army-green coat and a flannel that used to be Dean's. He walks toward the car, yawning, his boots crunching on the loose gravel scattered across the path, then nudges in to stand between Dean's legs and noses at Dean's jaw for a kiss. Dean pulls him close; he slips his arms inside Cas' coat, sneaking his hand under Cas' shirts, humming into the kiss when he finds warm skin.

"Morning."

"Morning," Cas says, his voice quiet, still sleep-thick.

He kisses Dean again. A gust of wind blows through the parking lot. Up on the interstate, a semi rattles by, blasting its horn. Dean lets his teeth catch the well of Cas' lip, then makes himself pull back. They need to wake up Sam. They're supposed to be getting an early start.

5. Cas sucks a kiss into the hollow of Dean's throat, then drags his lips up, biting at the corner of Dean's jaw before kissing Dean's mouth. He leans into Dean with all his weight, pinning Dean back against the scratchy cushions, shifting until his thigh is rubbing against Dean's dick. They barely have enough room to move; Dean has one foot on the floor, and Cas is holding onto the back of the couch with one hand. His other hand is knotted in Dean's hair; he tugs a little, then touches Dean's face, tracing his fingers down the line of Dean's jaw before pushing them into his mouth.

"You're gorgeous like this," Cas says, his tie hanging crooked and loose. He rides Dean's thigh for a few moments, shameless, making a low, dirty noise as Dean's tongue slips around his fingers. "I want, I want you --"

Dean's phone buzzes on the table; they were supposed to meet Sam at the morgue half an hour ago. Cas sits up on his knees, moaning as Dean nips at his fingers, sucks them in deep. Dean fumbles with the buttons and zippers on their slacks; once their dicks are out, Cas curls his spit-slick hand around both of them, leaning in close again as he starts to stroke.

"Fuck," Dean pants, arching up, trying to get closer, trying to get more. He twists his hand into Cas' hair, tugging until he can reach Cas' mouth, until he can kiss him, breathe in the noises he's making.

Dean's phone buzzes again. Cas chokes out Dean's name, his hips rolling as he fucks into his fist, fucks against Dean's dick. Heat coils around Dean's spine, pulling tight, ready to snap. He works his hand between them, wrapping it around Cas', threading their fingers together. His phone buzzes again, but Cas is coming, and then so is he, all over the front of his slacks, his wrinkled fed shirt.

+1. "Someone's coming," Cas says, just as Dean starts picking the lock on the haunted apartment.

"Who is it?"

"I think it's the property manager. It looks like the woman from the picture."

"Fuck," Dean says, shoving his lockpick in his pocket. They're in street clothes, and they don't have their fed badges. "I'll just --"

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," the manager says, her tone at least two parts suspicious. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Yes, you can," Cas says smoothly, before Dean can even blink. "My husband and I are looking for a new apartment. We saw your sign as we were driving by and thought we'd see what you have."

"Yes, of course," she says, finding her smile. "We have two units available -- this one, and one on the second floor. The second floor unit is larger, if you --"

"This one is closer to the car port." Cas eyes Dean sideways and sighs indulgently. "He's a little... particular about his car."

"Of course. I have the keys, so we can just step right in."

+

They grab a motel after lunch, Dean checks them in while Cas packs up the gear and texts Sam.

The room is a powder-pink disco nightmare. Dean almost chickens out when he sees it. Almost.

"Dean?" Cas asks, frowning at the art deco excuse for a couch.

"It's the honeymoon suite. You know, since we're married."

Officially, they're not, and they probably never will be. Dean is legally dead, and Cas technically doesn't exist, but Dean figures it isn't the paper that matters. He's lived his entire life outside the law anyway.

"I mean," Dean says uncertainly, because Cas has gone weirdly quiet," if that's -- if you -- we don't, um." He pauses, makes himself take a deep breath. "I just want you to know that I'm all in. You know, forever."