Title: Without knowing how, or when, or from where (i love you)
Summary: PWP. Just shameless porn, really, set after Dean and Cas (hopefully) meet again in 7X17.
Author's Note: This is a sequel of sorts to my other fic: In this form in which I am not (nor are you). You'd be better off reading it to really get the context, but if you enjoy Dean going down on Cas with no real plot you can also read this as a stand alone :)
Many special thanks to janie_tangerine who helped, advised and provided the soundtrack to which this work was finished (Gaslight Anthem - Film Noir FYI)
Thanks to my darkforetold , who's the best at spotting runaway commas and put them in line, as well as giving advice and being there for beta work with really short notice. And finally to kallista85 because she's my habibi.
Title is, once again, from Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XVII for the sake of symmetry (and also, I love it.)
Dean — for that's his name — brings him back with his mouth and fingers.
Teeth scraping down his body and biting down on a nipple, coaxing out memories in the guise of shivers.
Dean treats his body like something well known, so he lets himself be called Cas over and over in a whisper and a cry, through lips so full and swollen they look like they've been feasting on something delicious and so much longed for.
He lets Dean shed his clothes, white pooling at his feet as well as the remains of months lived in pale anonymity, and he lets himself be pushed into the mattress, warm and pliant under a weight he's maybe supposed to remember but he still can't.
It is not familiar, the wet slide of Dean's tongue over his abdomen, up and down and taking its time to acquaint itself with the secrets of his flesh.
He, himself, knows nothing about his body. It feels like he's been trapped inside it, like he's supposed to be something else; he stopped trying to make people understand when the amount of medication started augmenting exponentially to his doubts, but maybe Dean would get it. Maybe Dean could find answers to his questions that do not involve anti-depressants and therapy.
Dean, with surprise and shocked recognition in his eyes; Dean who presented the institution with a stack of papers whose authenticity Cas doubts; Dean who took him out of there, claiming he was family, and the word had a different weight in the air as soon as it was out, enveloping him and making him trust this man on faith alone.
Maybe Dean has answers, and Cas would very well try to ask his questions if he wasn't completely lost in the motions of his body, blindly chasing Dean's fingertips as they crawl sweetly up his sides.
He is naked on a bed, in a motel somewhere in the vicinity of that building where all he ever knew was nothingness and white, and a man he knows nothing about other than his name and the kindness of his gaze is sprawled between his legs, completely dressed and panting soft, wet sounds inside his skin.
Naked as he is, his senses heightened and eyes that roll in the back of his head, all he can do is feel the scrape of cotton as the body hovering over his own slides up, tongue once more licking a stripe up the middle of his torso. He feels the scrape of fabric and something like static makes the hairs stand on end on his arms; he wants to reach out and touch, touch Dean and rediscover the shape of him, but there's something much like lethargy that keeps blocking him.
He lies back and takes it with his eyes closed, this trust that should be dangerous calming his heartbeat until it is as steady as it could be. He lies back and the warmth of Dean's breath is on his mouth, ghosting on his face in a way it didn't until now.
Because he let himself be undressed and pushed onto this bed with nothing but a look; no words or talks of when and where and before; nothing like a kiss or the reassuring weight of a hug.
Just hands peeling layers from his body, one by one, methodically easy. Like it was normal, a routine perfected through the years he can't recall, and he can almost see it.
He can almost see himself whole, back when memory and sensation were not an issue to consider every day at every waking hour. He can see himself being bared by this man, this Dean that doesn't speak as much as the situation would need him to, and be put wherever he is wanted, however Dean might take him.
A delicate wet sound is the only thing preparing him for the feeling of what has to be the tip of Dean's tongue licking the point of his nose.
It's a tender gesture, erotic and cautious at the same time, and the sweetness of it startles Cas' eyes open to find Dean looking straight down at him. Up close there are freckles on his face, small and close between, sprinkled in tiny constellations over his perfect nose. Some tried and got away to the distance of his cheeks, and Cas wonders if he ever tried to chase them with his tongue before, when everything was good. He must have, for he can't see why he wouldn't, a world of hidden figures, dots waiting for connection and someone to give them meaning.
This face so familiar in its angles and soft features, Cas knows. He might not know anything but this, and there might be questions other than did we use to be lovers? waiting to be asked, but as he parts his mouth and strains up for the couple of inches needed to taste Dean's skin he thinks that they can wait just a little more.
The moan that comes out of Dean, rumbling through his body and having him pressing down more firmly, has Cas desperate for more. If he can spend his near future learning and cataloguing all the different ways he can make Dean sound like that he'll be a content, amnesiac person for a good while.
Dean's arms come up his sides as he stills between his legs, bracing himself for movement as his hands meet Cas' head, fingers tangling in his hair.
He wants to tell Dean that he waited for this, that he wanted him before he even knew who he was, but he silences himself in favor of licking the contours of Dean's full lips, already shiny with saliva and parted on a broken breath.
Little licks, like a kitten would, to test the softness of the skin; the plumpness of a mouth he had heard screaming in his head in each nightmare every night and it feels so new he can't wrap his mind around it. Tracing the seam of those lips languidly, the tip of his tongue exploring between flesh and teeth, diving unsure into black heat and waiting for discovery.
His hands finally find the will to move, slipping up under the coarse softness of Dean's t-shirt, sliding on his back and finding scars, mapping the expanse of muscle underneath. He's warm, impossibly so, and he quivers oh so deliciously under the feather soft caress of Cas' untrained fingertips.
When he finds his shoulders, Cas grips at them and the flat of his tongue licks another stripe of wet heat across the short distance of a bottom lip, finally bringing it to his mouth, safe into the cage of his own lips.
He sucks at it gently, exploring and trying to bring back to life the memory of a first kiss that is now long lost; nothing comes to mind and he stops thinking about it as Dean inclines his head and closes his mouth onto his own, a whisper of a touch so soft and gentle Cas doesn't know what to do with it.
Eyes close again and he feels himself being pulled inside Dean's body, arms enveloping him completely as legs entwine and tongues meet like this is the first time, like this is new and perfect and beginning.
But it is not, how could it be? It is perfection in the way they slot together, how he allows Dean deep into his being with no questions asked, not a doubt as to where this is going and whether he even wants it.
He wants, and craves, and needs.
And Dean gives, and offers, and provides.
He's hard and he's been hard for a long while now; from when he first felt Dean's touch upon the tender skin of his belly, his tongue lapping on the fraction of his hipbone jutting out of standardized white boxer briefs he never really liked.
Dean is hard too, hot and pressing down on him through the layer of his jeans, and Cas moves, pushing up to meet him with an ease he never felt in the last months. Being frightened of losing control can do this to you, prevent you from the pleasure of abandon even if you had in mind an object of desire, which Cas never had. He had ideas and ghosts to keep him company, but nothing real to focus on.
Nothing as real as this, as the press of Dean alongside his body, warm and clinging to him like he's important, like he's not another John Doe who knows shit about his past. Like he had been cherished once, missed and now he's found.
He licks into Dean's mouth, nails scraping on the skin of his shoulders in between ancient cuts and wounds he will eventually demand the story of, and it's all so perfect he can't believe he could forget even a drop of it. Dean's body is a long curve of repressed power, back arching to accommodate their movements and Cas can only imagine what lies dormant underneath. A warrior and a champion; he does not expect anything less than a hero and he cradles this idea in the back of his mind as he cradles this body in the circle of his arms.
His eyes roll in the back of his head as Dean traces down a tortuous path with the wet pressure of his lips down to his neck, nibbling and biting and leaving traces to bear witness, to never forget again.
A groan crawls its way outside himself as he feels teeth biting down the flesh around his collarbone, Dean's hips sliding against his own in an idle rhythm; like they have time, like they can do this now and tomorrow and forever and never stop.
''Dean,'' he murmurs and he doesn't wait for the little sound that rises from around his bones to acknowledge him to go on, ''We were lovers, weren't we?''
He's curious, because how can he not be? This is nothing you can forget about. This, this digs inside you and never goes away. It carves a path inside yourself that maybe doesn't lead you home but pretty close nonetheless, and Cas cannot believe he can't remember the weight and shape of it, no matter what happened to him to make him the mess of jumbled senses and perception he now is.
Dean silently keeps nibbling at his skin, the flat of his tongue soothing where his teeth left little indentations in the soft spots of his neck; Cas would like to stop him — no, just leave them there; bite harder, brand my flesh with the imprint of yourself — and yet he doesn't. He vibrates low into his throat and waits for an answer.
''Dean—'' he moans again, and it's not familiar, not like this. Not around the shape of his lips turned into a silent 'o' of pleasure, not rolling out on his tongue as he licks his lips, too dry with pleasure.
Another press of Dean's hips and the length of him slides warm and solid between his legs, Dean raising his head to look at him through heavy lidded eyes, green obliterated by black pupils bloated in lust.
''No,'' he says and it's not a lie, Cas can tell. His head dips to kiss him deep and dirty, tongues rolling inside his mouth as he feels Dean's hand come between them. Dean bites and nips as he hears the sound of a zipper being pulled, jeans opening and sliding down Dean's legs in between pushes of his hips, filthy and powerful and more.
He pants and thrusts up into the hardness, seeking friction and release Dean will not give him yet, and he asks himself how he can accept this so willingly. There's bound to be something more than that because this feels so right it cannot, possibly, be only in his mind.
A slick sound is all that's left on his lips when they part from Dean's and Cas inhales as Dean slides again down his body, slowly and with purpose, kissing his way to the line of his boxer shorts. He laps at the skin there with the flat of his tongue, sucking on the flesh sweetly as his fingers catch on the material; Cas' body surges unprompted to help shedding what is left of this new persona, someone who doesn't know how or why but is still here, powerless and wanting, and a whisper of ''Why?'' leaves his parted lips.
Dean doesn't look at him, preferring to concentrate his gaze on the erection that stands proudly in between Cas' legs, hands hovering on either side of him and thumbing at his hips with infinite gentleness. He crouches in the space Cas' thighs allow him and as he folds himself towards him he glances up for just a second and says, ''I wish I knew.''
And Cas believes him, because in those eyes there's nothing but the truth and sorrow of time wasted and chances lost so there's really nothing left for him to do but fist his hand into Dean's hair and keep him rooted there.
Dean smiles a little smile, bitter and bright and with just a hint of perfectly white teeth, and then Cas is suddenly thrown dick first inside a hole of molten lava as that perfect mouth slides down over his erection and envelops him in wet, wet heat.
The sharp movement of his hips, unintentional and forceful, buries his dick even deeper into Dean's throat, and the choked moan that escapes him barely registers itself above the rush of blood in Cas' ears, above the burn of lust behind his eyelids and the pointed pain in his fingers as they grip tight on Dean's hair.
He knows it must be uncomfortable for Dean, this spastic movement his hips set themselves into, but the way he feels Dean going down to the root and taking him whole, sucking on the way up and just folding himself around the head of his cock drives away any half-hearted effort of controlling his reactions.
It is bliss, unadulterated bliss, this kind of relentless motion Dean's tongue imposes upon his flesh, and he fattens and swells inside that mouth and wishes he could never leave.
He strokes Dean's head, cradling the nape of his neck with both hands and he feels the purrs of pleasure shaking through Dean's shoulders, traveling down his body until he imagines his toes curling inside those heavy looking boots.
The bed dips under their weight and he realizes that around him Dean is moving, hard length of muscle swaying on the mattress as one hand abandons its rightful place around the bones of Cas' hip and he has to open his eyes and raise his head. He has to look down upon himself and watch the slide of Dean's head as his tongue shines around the tip of his erection, red and plump and impossibly wet, and bypass the sight entirely, focusing just lower; he zeroes on the sprawl of Dean's legs, open and raised on his knees as Dean's hand comes in between them.
He moans deep and loudly as he feels Dean's throat quiver around his dick and he pushes deeper into it, realizing that by now that hand is squeezing Dean's cock, slippery strokes up and down harmoniously emulating the motions of Dean's head. He can hear the faintest sounds rising from down there, the soft slap of flesh on flesh becoming frantic and hurried as he sees Dean's jean-clad ass push into his fist.
Dean fucks himself on his hand as he lets Cas fuck his mouth, with purpose and abandon, all his weight resting on his knees and his back arched towards Cas' dick, buried deep into Dean's body and breaching the confines of his throat.
Cas squeezes his eyes shut and tries to keep control, fingers roaming on Dean's cheeks, tracing and scraping lightly at the skin. From the darkness behind his eyes he maps Dean's face, fingertips knowing their path by heart even if it feels as new as everything else happening around him.
The gentle line of Dean's nose, not perfectly straight and probably broken in his youth; the flutter of his eyelashes as he hums contently along the flushed length of Cas', tongue traveling up in one tortuous slide; the plane of Dean's cheekbones that fit wondrously in Cas' palms as he cradles this beautiful face and paints its colors in his mind, green over strawberry blond and red, red lips.
Red, red lips that open wetly and suck his thumb inside with an obscene sound, stuffing Dean even fuller.
And as he feels those cheeks hollow once more, point of Dean's tongue lapping at the tip of his finger, lips closing around it and the plump, sensitive head of himself, Cas has no choice but open his eyes again as he is ungracefully betrayed by yet another moan.
Dean is there, looking up at him with fuck blown eyes and mouth dripping of his own saliva and Cas' shiny evidence of pleasure, and it's done. Cas comes, gripping Dean's hair tight, fingers going white with effort around the sweaty locks. He fucks Dean's willing mouth once, twice, three times and then with a shiver topples over an unknown precipice and spills inside that unbearable warmth.
He rides it out without a sound, not thinking, not knowing, unfolding under the soothing rasp of Dean's tongue as he takes it all graciously, licking him clean. It is delicate and loving, Dean taking his sweet sweet time as he pushes down and up and down again.
With no desire to regain his breath, Cas makes one last effort and pulls his hold once, dragging Dean up his body and crushing their lips together, seeking out their taste. Deep and filthy he swipes his tongue over Dean's, slippery wet and delicious and tasting faintly bitter of himself; head bent in an awkward angle as he pulls desperately at Cas' hair with a strangled cry, it only takes Dean two quick strokes into his hand for him to come, splattering white and messy on Cas' body, painting him in wonder and awe of what just happened.
It vibrates in between them, the sensation of someone else's bliss being branded on Cas' body for the very first time, and he just takes it, accepts it within himself with open arms and oh so greedy for what may come of it.
With a surprised quiver in his heart Cas bites down on Dean's bottom lip and swallows his orgasm whole.
''Dean— Dean, will you help me remember?''
Dean huffs damply next to him, nose nuzzling down Cas' neck as he licks the flesh there with the easiness of someone who's done this all his life.
''I will keep you from forgetting, Cas,'' he murmurs sleepily in his skin, and Cas believes him and goes to sleep.