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Everyone in the city knows that Angel Motors is not, and never has been, a legitimate business.
It’s always been there, as long as anyone can remember, and people certainly notice cars going in and out of the place, but no one ever takes their car there to get fixed. People have tried—whether they’re just passing through, or new to town, and figure they’ll check out the shop that looks shiny and clean and modern.
They are told, without hesitation, that the shop is full. They’re booked out for months, even though there’s no sign of anyone else around but the burly receptionist with a thick Russian accent. Most of the cars that are ever parked there, or seen going in or out, look as though they would cost an entire year’s salary for a normal person.
No, there is much more to Angel Motors than meets the eye. Many people have theories about it, and most stay away, knowing (wisely) that it is much safer just to speculate rather than going looking for trouble.
And so it stays that way for years, the shop having gained a notoriety that long precedes it and ensures that it is never bothered.
Until one fateful day in May.
~
It’s been a long week. Castiel has been dragged into meeting after meeting, forced to talk plans and logistics and expansion, but finally, he’s managed to procure some time for himself.
The shop is one of his favourite places to be—established by his father as a fencing front and one of their bases for whatever operations they could possibly need to conduct, but quickly adopted by Castiel as soon as he came of age. It’s his space, his to control, and no one can ever try to tell him what to do while they’re on his turf.
The last guy who’d tried to come through and intimidate him had left with several fewer fingers and a knife buried deep in his thigh. Suffice to say, Castiel doesn’t often get surprise visitors these days.
But today… today is different.
“Do you want anything for lunch, Alexei?”
Castiel’s guard shakes his head. He sits at the front desk, day in and day out, monitoring the cameras and making sure no one gets in. And if someone does… well, the drawers and filing cabinets in the ‘reception’ aren’t full of paperwork, that’s for sure.
“Alright, suit yourself.” Castiel adjusts his tie and rolls his neck out, sore from all the time he’s spent at a desk or in a meeting this week. Now’s his chance to relax for a bit, though.
Or so he’d thought.
The sound of a motorbike catches both his and Alexei’s attention. It’s loud, reverberating down the street enough that they can hear it clearly from inside the shop, and Castiel watches as it roars into view. There’s a man riding it, wearing a dark helmet and a denim jacket with the collar upturned, and going a lot faster than anyone with common sense would be around these parts. Still, it’s clear that the guy is confident and knows how to handle a bike—especially when he takes a sharp turn off the road and comes screeching into the small parking lot out the front of the shop.
He skids to a stop, leaving rubber on the pavement, and usually, Castiel would be pissed, but there’s something about this guy (and his balls of steel) that has him captivated. He takes a step forward for a better view, watching the motorbike rider through the huge, bulletproof windows that span the front of the shop.
The guy sets his foot on the pavement and kicks his stand down, then reaches for his helmet. Castiel isn’t sure exactly what he’s expecting—
But an absolutely beautiful man with bright green eyes are short hair mussed by the helmet is sure as hell not it.
The guy rakes his fingers through his hair (only serving to make it messier), then looks over towards the shop. Even though the windows are dark-tinted from the outside, and there’s no way it’s possible—it feels like the man is looking directly at Castiel.
For a second, he’s breathless, knocked off-kilter in a way he hasn’t felt for a very long time.
And then, before he even knows what he’s doing, his feet are carrying him outside.
He pushes his hands into his pockets as he walks through the automatic doors, letting his eyes adjust to the sunlight as he makes his way over to where the guy is still sitting astride his bike. “Can I help you?” Castiel asks, and now that he’s closer, he can see the way the guy’s lips slant upwards—teasing, cocky. The sun glints off the piercings in his ears and framing his lips, and Castiel feels his breath hitch as he notices the words that peek out from beneath the denim jacket.
Make me.
There’s a lot Castiel would like to make this man do—none of it suitable for the parking lot of his fake business.
“I sure hope you can,” the man drawls, and fuck, he really shouldn’t have let his thoughts stray in that direction, because now he can feel himself getting hard in his slacks. “My bike’s been making a bit of a funny noise, you see. I wanted to bring it by, see if you could… help me out.”
The way he looks Castiel up and down, tongue peeking out between his teeth, is not subtle. Maybe Castiel’s not the only one feeling some type of way about the stranger he’s just met.
Still, he wants to make sure. “You’re telling me you own a beautiful bike like this, and you don’t know what’s wrong with it?”
The man shrugs, loose and laidback. The grin he gives Castiel is enough to floor him, just the right side of feral. “I live in the neighborhood,” he admits, “and I’ve seen you around. People say this place isn’t open for business, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try my luck.”
Has this man really showed up just to try his luck with me?
There’s only one way to find out—there’s no way he’d usually do this, but for a guy who looks like sex personified, Castiel is willing to bend his rules just a little.
“We don’t do walk-ins, that’s for sure, but for someone like you… I’ll make an exception.”
The guy’s grin widens, and he swings off his bike with ease, leaving his helmet resting on the seat. Good fucking God, those bowlegs are enough to preoccupy Castiel’s mind for a week. “I’m glad to hear that,” he says, and there’s that twang again, so different to Castiel’s undernote of Russian that it makes him dizzy. “My name’s Dean.”
“Castiel,” he says without thinking, reaching out his hand. Dean takes it, his palm warm and calloused, and Castiel isn’t sure where he wants to look first—the tattoos that adorn his skin, those perfect lips and their piercings, or the green eyes that are just as captivating up close.
Fuck, the things he wants to do to this man.
Make me.
And there’s something about him, feral and cocky, that makes Castiel think that whatever he wants to do, Dean will probably be okay with. Anyone with the balls to roll up like this and make a thinly-veiled proposition has to be just the right shade of crazy.
Just like Castiel.
He smiles, and lets Dean’s hand go. “I can take a look at your bike now, if you’d like? Or… you must be pretty warm, riding in that jacket. Would you like a glass of water?”
There’s a spark in Dean’s eye that suggests he knows exactly what Castiel is up to, and is more than happy to go along with it. “Now that you mention it,” he muses, sliding his tongue out over his bottom lip to wet it, “I am awful thirsty. I could do with some water—or whatever you’ve got lying around your office.”
Yes, they’re definitely on the same page here.
Wordlessly, Castiel turns on his heel and walks back towards the building. He’s well-practiced in feigning carelessness while being hyperaware of what’s going on around him, and that’s what he does now, keeping an ear out for Dean’s footfalls. In the reflection of the glass windows, he sees Dean follow after him, all laidback swagger and eyes that are definitely admiring the way Castiel’s ass looks in his suit.
He can’t remember the last time he got laid, and if some beautiful man has shown up with that express purpose, who is not he not to indulge himself just a little?
They step through the doors and into the foyer of the shop—the only part that visitors ever see before Alexei scares them away. This time, though, Alexei only raises one burly eyebrow at the two of them before as they walk up to the desk.
“I don’t believe I have any meetings scheduled for the rest of today, but if anyone does come in, make sure we’re not disturbed.”
Alexei nods, then refocuses his gaze on the front doors again. Dean eyes him, but instead of fear, there’s an amused uptick of his lips.
“Nice guard dog you’ve got there,” he observes as Castiel ushers him through the door that says Staff Only. “I get the impression you’re not a fan of visitors?”
“I certainly don’t like having them unannounced.” Castiel makes his way along the empty hallway, ignoring the doors that lead off it—weapons storage, interrogation room, the garage full of stolen cars and bags of drugs. Instead, they stop at the door at the end of the corridor, and Castiel looks back at Dean, making sure he communicates the full heat of his intentions through his gaze. “For someone like you, though… I’ll make an exception.”
He pushes the door open and steps inside, gesturing for Dean to close the door behind him. “I’m honored,” Dean murmurs, and Castiel can tell that his voice is carrying the hint of a smirk even without looking. He hears the quiet snick of the door latching shut as he makes his way around his desk to his liquor cabinet.
“Did you want water, or something stronger?” he asks, pulling down a bottle of vodka for himself, along with a pair of glasses. Dean’s footsteps are quieter on the carpeted floor, but Castiel still hears him round the desk to stand right beside him, close enough to smell his cologne.
“I’ll take a bourbon,” comes that voice, so close to Castiel’s ear that it sends a shiver down his spine. “You’ve got some expensive stuff here.”
“I’m an expensive man,” Castiel quips back with a smirk, reaching up for the bourbon, then closing his liquor cabinet. When he turns to set the bottle on his desk, he finds Dean leaning against the dark wood, hands pushed into the pockets of his jeans. His medusa piercing glints, drawing Castiel’s attention down to his lips. “What made you come here today?” he asks, forcing his attention away to pour out their drinks.
Dean hums, the sound low and rich as it curls its way around Castiel’s body and holds him there. “I was curious,” he admits. “Like I said, I’ve seen you coming and going from here, and between the rumors and the fact that I can’t resist a guy with tattoos who looks like he could fucking eat me alive… what’s a guy meant to do?”
“Very brave.” Castiel sets the bottles aside and picks up the glasses—clear for him, rich amber for Dean. “But then again, you seem like the reckless type. If you know the rumors and you came to try your luck anyway…” He chuckles and lifts his glass. “I can sure as hell drink to that.”
That earns him a grin from Dean, and he knocks his glass against the rim of Castiel’s, then tips his head back and takes a long sip of his bourbon. Castiel watches him for a moment, admiring the tattoo on the side of his neck and the bob of his Adam’s apple, then raises his own glass to his lips. He’s been drinking vodka for so long that he hasn’t felt the burn in years, but it settles warm in his stomach, giving him a lick of adrenaline.
“Free bird?”
Castiel lowers his glass and meets Dean’s gaze, then turns his hand to admire his own knuckles. Free.
“They were a gift to myself, when I bought this place. My own part of the… family business, you could say, to run as I pleased and do with what I liked.” He runs his thumb over the last E, then downs the rest of his vodka and sets his glass aside.
“And that involves not fixing cars, I’m guessing?” Dean teases, but there’s a curious edge to his words, and Castiel levels him with a hard look that, for the first time today, seems to put Dean on the back foot.
“You may be here in my office, drinking my alcohol because you are attractive and charming,” Castiel warns quietly, “but I would caution you to watch your tongue, Dean.”
For a long moment, they hold each other’s gazes, locked in a showdown to see who will blink, who will break, first.
It’s Dean. Of course. He looks away, gaze slanting aside, then reaches for the lapels of his denim jacket and shrugs it off. Underneath is that t-shirt, with its goading words, and Castiel feels something prickle beneath his skin as Dean tosses his jacket over the back of Castiel’s desk chair like he owns it.
“And if I don’t?” Dean asks quietly, looking up at Castiel through his lashes with his lips curved into the shadow of a smirk.
And that’s all it takes for Castiel to break.
He steps forward into Dean’s space faster than either of them can blink, fingers curled into the front of Dean’s shirt. He shoves him back until the edge of the desk meets Dean’s hips, then presses closer, until there’s barely a hair’s breadth between them. This close, Castiel can count every one of his freckles, can see the speckled green of his irises, and can’t possibly miss the way his breath hitches.
Those perfect lips curve into a breathless smirk, and Dean’s chuckle, though quiet, feels as though it reverberates through Castiel’s bones and underneath his skin.
“I guess that’s my answer,” he murmurs, right before Castiel kisses him.
It’s hungry and bruising—there’s no finesse, no give and take. It’s pure dominance, clashing teeth, Castiel biting at Dean’s bottom lip and Dean’s tongue curling wickedly into his mouth. One of Dean’s hands slides around the back of Castiel’s neck, the other raking through his hair, and Castiel has never been so grateful for his tendency to keep the top long as he is when Dean curls his fingers into it and tugs. It sends prickles of pain across his scalp that only urge him on, make him grit his teeth and press himself against Dean from chest to hip, kissing him as though he can steal the very air from his lungs.
They kiss until Castiel barely knows which way is up, until he’s aching for more and his fingers are roaming Dean’s body of their own accord, pushing up beneath the hem of his t-shirt and sliding over warm, smooth skin. Dean is pulling at his suit now, pushing his jacket off his shoulders and tugging on his tie like it’s a leash (not something that Castiel ever tolerates, but just might make an exception for the right person).
Still. Today is about Dean, and about Castiel putting him in his place, cocky smirk and all. He lets Dean pull his jacket off, lets him unloop his tie and undo a few buttons on his shirt—and then he turns the tables.
He rucks Dean’s shirt up, shoving it past his armpits until Dean complies and lifts his arms over his head. There are even more tattoos on his chest, but as much as Castiel wants to pause and admire them, he keeps going, pulling Dean’s shirt off and tossing it aside.
Then, while he’s still disoriented and quick as a snake, Castiel curves his hand against Dean’s shoulder and shoves downward, knocking his feet apart and sending him to his knees on the carpeted floor. He’s beautiful there, all wide, surprised eyes as Castiel shifts his grip and tangles his fingers into that already-messy hair.
“Fuck,” Dean gasps out, but instead of succumbing to the dominance of Castiel’s hand, he lets his head hang, harshening Castiel’s grip on his hair. Again, there’s that smirk, and his gaze never leaves Castiel’s, those green eyes full of mystery and seduction and questions that Castiel desperately wants answered.
Today, Castiel has time to kill, and for someone as beautiful and intriguing as Dean, he has all the time in the world.
He can’t decide what he wants more: to take Dean apart slowly, piece by piece, or give in to the desperation that burns in the pit of his stomach. Instead, he just holds Dean there, head tipped back and throat bared, that breathless smirk curling at the corners of his mouth.
And then Dean bites his bottom lip, catching it between his teeth with his gaze never wavering from Castiel’s, and in that moment, he makes his decision.
“I can think of some better ways I could put that tongue to use,” he mutters, letting his voice go dark and dangerous as his lips form around Russian-accented syllables. There are few things that can make him slip back into the accent he was born with, but being unbelievably, undeniably aroused is most definitely one of them.
It seems that Dean doesn’t need any more invitation than that—his gaze drops to Castiel’s slacks, where he’s hard in the confines of the expensive material and has been for a little while now. The tiny dents his teeth had left in his bottom lip are smoothed over by his tongue, and there’s a darkness, a hungry look in his eyes as his hands go to the buckle of Castiel’s belt.
He makes short work of it, leaving it hanging open while he works on the button and fly, and then he leans forward to mouth along the shape of Castiel’s cock where it’s hidden by his boxer-briefs, and holy shit, Castiel may have bitten off more than he can chew with this one.
“Blyad,” he groans, curving his other hand against Dean’s skull as those lips work their way along the line of Castiel’s aching erection. “Definitely a better use,” he mutters quietly, and Dean pulls back long enough to smirk before there are fingers curling around the waistband of Castiel’s underwear and shoving them down past his hips.
Castiel’s cock springs free, bobbing up towards his stomach, and he knows he’s got a nice dick, but it’s still insanely satisfying to hear the quiet sound that Dean makes when he lays eyes on it—somewhere between admiring and desperately needy. His lips part, tongue swiping out to wet his bottom lip once again, but Castiel can’t help but toy with him for a moment. He tightens his grip on Dean’s hair, keeping him just out of reach of the head of Castiel’s cock and delighting in getting to tug him around just a little.
The growl that Dean utters in response makes Castiel chuckle under his breath. It’s frustrated and threatening but so fucking cute, and so he only teases Dean for another second or two before finally relaxing his grip and letting him go to town.
As it is, Castiel isn’t sure if teasing Dean and keeping him from what he wanted was such a good idea, because as soon as he gets his lips on Castiel’s cock, Dean is like a man who’s found his purpose. He’s just as talented with his mouth as Castiel had suspected he would be—more so, even—and currently, he seems hell-bent on sucking Castiel’s brains out through his dick.
He might just succeed.
Castiel reaches forward to brace himself against the edge of his desk with one hand, the other staying resolutely in Dean’s hair—partly to guide the movements of Dean’s head, but also to make sure that he doesn’t stop blowing Castiel, because holy fuck, he’s not sure if he ever wants this to end. Dean’s tongue is curling wickedly around his shaft and playing over the head, and the pace, the suction, it’s all fucking perfect. Castiel had not been wrong when he’d looked at Dean, at his lips, and come to the conclusion that those were dick-sucking lips.
“Ne ostanavlivaysya,” Castiel gasps out—if Dean stops, he might just die, and not the fun kind of death.
Dean glances up at him, those green eyes full of teasing and smug satisfaction, and winks. The little fucker. He has way too much power in his hands, Castiel decides, and tightens his grip in Dean’s hair, effectively keeping his head still as he starts to move his hips of his own accord. Dean’s response to getting his face fucked is (of fucking course) to moan, low-pitched vibrations that travel all the way through Castiel’s cock and drive him damn near crazy. And when it’s paired with the sight of Dean looking utterly debauched, hair wild, lips pink and spit-slick, medusa piercing glinting where it sits in his cupid’s bow?
No man would be able to retain his composure.
Castiel thrusts a few more times, tipping his head back with pleasure at the way Dean’s mouth feels around his cock, and then forces himself to pull back. He’s dangerously close to coming, and he wants it, god does he want it, but not quite like this.
Dean follows after him as he pulls back, lips chasing him for the gift of keeping in contact with his cock but Castiel holds him in place with a sharp tug on his hair. “On your feet,” he orders, and Dean is quick to comply, the perfect mix of grace and eagerness as he rises to his feet.
Castiel doesn’t hesitate to lean forward and kiss him, relishing the taste of his own precome on Dean’s tongue. He spends a few seconds learning the shape of Dean’s lips against his own once more, then releases Dean’s hair to let his hands wander south, to the button and fly of Dean’s jeans.
“Oh,” he hears Dean utter against his lips, and can’t help but smirk—because he might be selfish and dominating, yes, but he always gets his partner off, and if they can do it together? Well, that’s even better.
“Khoroshiy malchik,” Castiel murmurs against Dean’s lips, and Dean groans. His hands curl into the front of Castiel’s shirt, his grip faltering as the waistband of his jeans and underwear are shoved down and Castiel wraps his hand roughly around Dean’s cock.
Dean turns his head, breath curling warm against Castiel’s jaw as he gasps out his pleasure. He’s so responsive, so beautiful, and Castiel can’t help but mouth along the exposed line of his throat as his fingers tease over his cock.
There’s only so much teasing he can stand, though, only so far he can take Dean before his own insistent arousal starts to win out. Soon enough, the need curling in his gut becomes too intense. He lifts his hand and spits into his palm, then presses closer to Dean and takes both of their cocks in his hand, stroking them in sync.
Having Dean’s cock against his, hot and hard, is an intoxicating feeling. Castiel shifts his head, presses his forehead against Dean’s and lets his hair hang down in front of his eyes as they both want his fist moving. “Fuck, Cas,” Dean groans out, spurring Castiel on. He tightens his fingers just a little, rocking his hips against Dean’s as they chase their orgasms.
Dean, when he comes, does so with a filthy fucking sound, his fingers curled tightly in the front of Castiel’s shirt. He’s devastatingly beautiful, and Castiel can’t help but ache to know how he would look spread open on his cock, or laid out beneath him as Castiel rides him. Beautiful, he’s sure, and if only they had more time, and less desperation, but alas.
This is still fucking incredible, and all it takes is one needy, messy kiss from Dean to have Castiel spilling across his hand, his own come mixing with Dean’s and dripping over his knuckles.
For a few long moments, the only sound in the room is their ragged breathing as they each come down from their post-orgasm highs, chests heaving and temples damp with sweat.
“Well,” Dean says breathlessly, leaning back against the edge of the desk. Castiel pushes his hair back, attempting to rake it into place again, as he smiles that smirk that pushes all of Castiel’s buttons.
God, even after they’ve blown off steam, when he should be sated and cooling down, Dean still manages to get under Castiel’s skin and rile him up. He doesn’t know that anyone has been able to have this kind of effect on him before, and he knows that it’s fucking dangerous to get attached in any way, but fuck, he can’t help it. Dean is intoxicating.
Castiel tries not to let him know that, though. Instead of rising to the bait, he reaches past Dean into one of the drawers of his desk, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his hand clean, then tossing it into the bin and tucking himself back into his slacks. His lips quirk up into a quick, amused smile as he realizes that his shirt is still hanging half-open, the buttons undone, but makes no move to fix it just yet.
Instead, he watches as Dean does his jeans back up, his movements slow and languid. When he’s done, Dean leans back against the desk, curling his fingers around the edge, and fixes Castiel with another of those looks where his lips curve up and his eyes are bright with some knowledge or joke that Castiel is not privy to.
“Gotta say, Krushnic,” Dean says, his tongue curling around those syllables, even as Castiel’s blood goes cold. “You really do know how to fuck.”
Castiel is moving before he even realizes, crowding up into Dean’s personal space and curling his fingers around Dean’s throat. His other hand goes straight to the gun he keeps holstered on the underside of the desk, his eyes never leaving Dean’s as he draws it and presses the cold metal of the barrel up under Dean’s jaw, clicking off the safety.
Dean, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch. If anything, his smirk widens—as though this is exactly what he’d expected to happen.
“You know who I am,” Castiel states quietly. He presses his gun harder against Dean’s jaw, forcing his head back. “Why are you here?”
Dean’s tongue sweeps over his bottom lip, then catches between his teeth. “What, besides getting laid by a smoking hot guy?”
It only takes a slow tightening of Castiel’s fingers to get Dean to drop the cocky attitude—as much as he’s able, anyway. “Okay, alright,” Dean rasps, sucking in a breath when Castiel loosens his grip again. “I work for the Campbells.”
The Campbells.
The biggest rivals of the Krushnic Bratva, and Castiel let one of them walk straight onto his turf just because he was pretty. Idiot.
Castiel jams his gun into the soft skin just below Dean’s jaw, but this time, Dean doesn’t let his head move. Just holds Castiel’s gaze, and bears the discomfort.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just kill you now.”
Dean must be able to sense just how close Castiel is to snapping, because this time, there’s no smirk. No cockiness. Just those green eyes, truly earnest for the first time since they met. “If I wanted to hurt you, I could have done it a dozen different ways while your dick was down my throat,” he points out. “But that’s not why I’m here. I just want to talk.” He inhales a deep breath, then lets it out through his nose. Castiel realizes that he’s holding his.
“I’ve got knowledge that could bring down the Campbells, and I want to help you do it.”
Castiel sucks in a sharp breath.
If this is true, and Dean is who he says he is… the insider information he could have might be enough to bring down the Campbell mafia for good. Castiel lowers his gun a little, but keeps his fingers curved against Dean’s throat while he weighs his options, and the likelihood that Dean isn’t tricking him right now.
Make me.
Castiel had thought he’d been the one in control, but really, Dean had been holding all the cards all along.
Slowly, he lets his hand fall from Dean’s throat, clicks the safety back on, and takes a seat in his desk chair.
“I’m listening.”