Here, have some ridiculous fluff, another of my frequent, necessarily breaks from the angst fest that is . Written for Writing Prompt Wednesday prompt 17: Transportation AUs.

What is Writing Prompt Wednesday?

Writing Prompt Wednesday is a feature I run on my Tumblr. Followers, readers and friends suggest themes for AUs, and I come up with a list of prompts based on the suggested them. Then, based on those prompts, anyone who wants to join in writes up a short story (or a long story, I guess) and posts it to Tumblr (or AO3, or FF dot net, or wherever) and tags it Writing Prompt Wednesday! If you cross post to AO3, make sure you add the story to the Writing Prompt Wednesday Collection. You can read all the prompts on AO3 or by searching the Writing Prompt Wednesday tag on Tumblr.

This story is for Week 17: Transportation AUs.

You can read more about Writing Prompt Wednesday and see this week's prompts on my unforth-ninawaters dot tumblr dot com.

This week, I chose this prompt:

"That's my bicycle!" "Then maybe you shouldn't have left it unlocked!" "Even if it's unlocked that doesn't give you the right to steal it!" "And besides can you PROVE it's your bicycle? I've had the same bike for years!" "Oh come on can you at least try to come up with a convincing lie?" "Depends - how bad do you want your bike back?" "So you're acknowledging it's my bike?!" "No but maybe I can help you find your bike." "YOU'RE RIDING IT RIGHT NOW."

Relationship: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Characters: Castiel; Dean Winchester

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting; Bottom Castiel; Top Dean; Strangers to Lovers; Sassy Castiel; Writing Prompt Wednesday; Anal Sex; Bicycles; Thief Castiel; Ridiculous; Fluff and Smut; Fluff

Dean didn't think he'd ever had a worse day. Granted, that wasn't saying much – over all his life had been pretty good, shit days were surprisingly, pleasantly few and far between – and, like, starving kids in Africa or Syrian refugees definitely had worse days literally every single day of their lives - but, by his standards, the day had sucked. His train had broken down, forcing him to return home, retrieve his bicycle and start his commute over again. To make up lost time, he'd taken the sneaky back route through the park, not considering that it'd stormed the night before. It wasn't until he'd arrived at Sandover's headquarters that he realized he'd splashed mud all over the legs of his only suit. Part of him thought he should fucking bail then – he was already 20 minutes late and he was filthy – but he needed a fucking job. Without a source of income he couldn't even afford to get the damn suit dry cleaned. So, despite his misgivings, he'd gone in, sweaty and dirty and windblown. The interviewer, some douche bag named Adler, had laughed in his face and then proceeded with the interview anyway, making it clear in every exchange that he was mocking Dean and had no intention of hiring him, but was determined to belittle him and make it clear how unworthy Dean was to even consider a job at Sandover. So really, the day was already shit. Exiting the office building to the discovery that his bike was gone was just the fucking cherry on top of the sprinkles on top of the icing on top of the chocolate sauce of how much his day sucked.

And great, now he wanted ice cream, too.

With a resigned sigh, Dean dug his wallet out of his pocket. The announcement on the busted-ass train had indicated it was going to be out of commission for hours, blocking the tracks all the while, so there was no taking public transit home. It was easily a six mile walk back to the closet that his landlord had marketed as an apartment, and Dean was rapidly going from "broke" to "penniless," but fuck it all. If he was going to be forced to live on ramen for a month he was going to eat some goddamn fucking ice cream first.

His favorite ice cream parlor was only a slight detour on his trip home. Shucking his suit jacket and slinging it over his shoulder, rolling his dirty pant legs up to the knee, Dean started off at a quick pace, ignoring the discomfort caused as his poorly broken in dress shoes rubbed his heel raw. Thinking about the pain wouldn't help and bitching and moaning about it wouldn't get him home faster and at least there'd be ice cream to see him through the last two miles of his trip. The day was swelteringly hot but the city streets were a-bustle with people. Despite his odd appearance, none gave him a second look, which was at least something. He could only imagine what a fucking moron he looked like with his pale-ass hairy legs exposed from knee to dress socks. At least the park was gorgeous. Beneath the beautiful green canopy, the air was cooler, the sun was obscured, and Dean could pretend that his undershirt wasn't so soaked with sweat that his dress shirt was sticking to his body. With a start, he realized there was no reason to wear his dress shirt, either, so he took it off, balled it up, and shoved it down the arm of his suit jacket. A woman walking by froze in her tracks to stare with obvious appreciation at the vision revealed; his undershirt was so damp it was nearly transparent, which, hell, was kinda gross in his opinion but if she thought it was hot, who was he to argue? He shot her a flirty smirk and she blushed and moved on.

Things weren't so bad, really. It was a beautiful day. Dean had nowhere to be. His bills were paid for the month, so as fucked as he was, he had at least two weeks during which he could pretend he wasn't. By the time he made it across the park, he was even feeling kind of good. The nice thing about rock bottom was the freedom that came with it. Sure, life sucked, but there was nowhere to go but up, right?

Stepping around a blind turn near the park exit, Dean squawked and leapt back as some asshat on a bicycle nearly ran him over. It was a nice bike, body painted a chrome blue, the same make and model as his own,;it even had the same fancy-pants seat that Sam had gotten for his last birthday and kept Dean's ass from getting sore and…

…wait one fucking minute…

"That's my bike!" Dean shouted. "You fucking son of a bitch…" Taking off at a sprint, Dean reached down, snagged a rock, and hurled it at the rider. He missed by a solid five feet, the rock instead dinging the paint on an unoffending car parked nearby, but it got the rider's attention. The man – tall, thin, dark hair destroyed by sweat and wind – shot Dean an impish grin over his shoulder. "Stop you asshole, that's my fucking bicycle you're riding!"

"Then maybe you shouldn't have left it unlocked!" The man called back, but he slowed. The son of a bitch could have just biked away, but Dean didn't bother questioning his good fortune that the guy had, for some reason, decided to stop instead. "Hypothetically, of course!"

"Even if it's unlocked that doesn't give you the right to steal it!" Dean snarled, pulling up alongside the bicycle. His lungs burned, sweat streaked down his cheeks. He felt like he was running through a goddamn lake, the air was so thick with humidity. Asshole could have stopped biking, but no, instead he continued to cruise along at a decent clip, just slow enough that Dean, running his hardest, could pace him down the sidewalk.

"Can you prove it's your bicycle?" the asshole continued, eyes twinkling. Very blue eyes, Dean noted appreciatively as they passed through a patch of dazzling sunlight. Appreciatively? What the fuck have I got to appreciate? Gonna appreciate kicking his ass and getting my bike back, that's what. "I've had the same bike for years!"

"For fuck's sake, come on, can you at least try to come up with a convincing lie?" Dean snapped. Asshole was still smiling at him, hot damn were his teeth perfect, and seriously Dean would have thought the bastard pretty hot if he wasn't riding Dean's stolen bicycle.

"Depends," asshole quirked his head to one side and shot Dean a considering look, "how bad do you want your bike back?"

"So you're acknowledging it's my bike?!"

"No, but maybe I can help you find your bike." A smirk and a wink and fuck was asshole hot with his perfect-ass pink lips and his too-ideal-to-be-accidental five o'clock shadow and his t-shirt stuck to his chest with sweat.

Wait, wait, what? The guy was a fuckstick!

"YOU'RE RIDING IT RIGHT NOW," Dean shouted, furious.

And caught his foot on a loose rock.

And face planted hard into the stone coping around a tree.

And pain lanced through his chin and mouth.

And seriously how could today get any fucking worse?

Starving kids in Africa, Dean tried to remind himself as the world spun. Fucking first world problems. He got his hands under him – or so he thought – but vertigo twisted his stomach and he collapsed back to the ground with a groan, slamming the side of his head into the coping again. His ears rang and he noted bemusedly that something was splattering the ground in front of him.

That'd be blood. My blood. Fucking fantastic.

"Hey – hey, how many fingers 'm I holding up?" A divine vision, dark hair and stubbled skin and blue eyes and pink lips, swam in and out of focus.

"You know you're really fucking hot, right?" Dean muttered blearily.

"Yep, I know," asshole grinned. "You're not so bad yourself. Come on, I've got a first aid kit at home. Lemme take you back to my place, do something about that lip. Least I can do, considering I stole your bike."

"Gee, thanks," Dean muttered. He wanted to sound spiteful but there wasn't any heart in it. At least the jack off was helping him. "That mean you're giving it back?"

"Huh? Hell no," laughed asshole, a sinful sound that tingled down Dean's spine. A possessive hand closed around Dean's shoulder, a second closed around his waist, and with difficulty, the asshole hauled Dean to his feet. "Finders, keepers!"

"All I wanted was some fucking ice cream," Dean groaned as the world spun.

"How about this: to apologize for keeping your bike, I'll treat you to a cone," said asshole brightly. "Least I can do."

"Yes," Dean nodded and instantly regretted it. "It is the least you can do."

"Aw, come on," asshole smiled. "Don't be like that. I'm sorry I stole your bike, okay?" With a nudge, he got Dean walking, leading the bicycle with one hand and supporting Dean with the other.

"But not sorry enough to return it," said Dean grouchily. As little as Dean wanted the help of the fucking gorgeous, lean, strong, bright-eyed dude – definitely do not want his help! – his attempts to stand on his own ended poorly. Resigning himself to the need for support, he leaned into the stranger and tried to pretend it didn't feel damn good.

"Nope."

Clearly, it'd been way too long since Dean had gotten laid. Here he was, a sweaty, bloody, disgusting mess, perving on the biggest asshole he'd ever met.

He smells nice, too.

Thanks, brain. Seriously not fucking helping.

The walk to asshole's apartment was mercifully short and, as a bonus, was on Dean's route home. In fact…

"That's where I was going," Dean said dumbly, pointing at the ice cream parlor. Cones Abroad had the best ice cream in town, even if the décor – which featured stylized, brightly-colored paintings of winged ice cream cones visiting prominent tourist attractions all over the world – left a lot to be desired. The building was small, only two stories, tucked between two skyscrapers; the exterior was painted sky blue and dotted with fluffy clouds shaped like scoops of ice cream and dollops of whipped cream, topped with sprinkles, chocolate sauce, cherries, nuts, the whole shebang.

God I pity whatever poor douche bag lives in the apartment on the second floor of that monstrosity. It's a fucking miracle they got permission to paint it like that, considering the city ordinances.

"Zagat's 2016 said we have the best ice cream in the city," said asshole proudly.

"I love the rum raisin swirl," mumbled Dean. Asshole stopped before a bike rack embedded in the sidewalk before the store and leaned Dean's bike against it. For a wonder, there was even a spare lock there. "What, you steal bikes often enough that you've got a fucking lock?" The guy hummed noncommittally as he secured the bicycle in place, and what he'd said finally processed. "Wait, whaddaya mean we've got the best ice cream?"

"I own the place!" chirped asshole. "Like I said – it really is the least I can do. Won't cost me a penny!"

"Swell," Dean snapped. "Look, fuck it, I'm going home. And I'm never getting your fucking shitty-ass ice cream again." He managed a single step before a hand on his shoulder arrested him. "What?"

"At least let me clean the blood off…" An earnest, vulnerable expression flickered across asshole's face for a moment, a glimpse beneath his carefully constructed mask. The look was gone so quickly that Dean wasn't sure he'd really seen it.

"If this is your way of apologizing, you're shit at it," Dean grumbled.

The sunny, toothy smile that the asshole directed his way was dazzling, and Dean realized in wonder and confusion that he was falling head-over-heels in lust for this cocky SOB. Bemused, he allowed himself to be steered to a small door beside the store front, painted with glass paint so that it integrated into the surrounding brick seamlessly. Asshole unlocked it and helped Dean up the stairs. The second floor of the building wasn't large but the interior design made it appear bigger than it was. All the walls had been knocked out to form an open, airy studio apartment. Counters separated the kitchen area from the rest, folding screens divided a small living room from the bedroom, and gauzy fabric formed a canopy around the bed frame. The whole place was sleek and polished and utterly at odds with asshole's erratic behavior in a way that Dean couldn't have explained.

"Have a seat, I'll be right back," asshole said, gesturing at the couch.

Tossing his suit jacket aside, Dean walked over to the sofa, catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror placed perfectly to make the room seem bigger than it was. Fuck but he was a sight, and not in a good way. The product in his hair had given up the ghost, leaving tufts stuck to his forehead by sweat or dangling limply about his ears. His skin had grown cherry red, the early signs of a sunburn he hadn't felt forming that'd surely get worse before it got better. White-edged tracks showed where sweat had coursed along his cheeks, down his neck and onto his undershirt which, he feared, was so sodden it would drip if he wrung it out. Blood added its own trails, maroon as it seeped sluggishly out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin. Splotches of red on his shirt, kept bright by the wetness that prevented them from drying, marked where he'd bled on himself. Mud made ugly brown splatters on the navy fabric of his pants; as he walked he left a trail of brown dust as dried chunks flaked off. Glancing at the pristine dark leather couch, he sighed. There was no way he could sit on that. He'd ruin it.

"Sit!" repeated asshole assertively, coming back into the room carrying a large white plastic box emblazoned with a red cross.

"Look, you're a cockbite but I don't want to ruin your fucking couch," Dean grumbled.

"What makes you think I bite?" said asshole, startled. "You into that kind of thing?" Spluttering on nothing, Dean tried to figure out how to reply to that obviously completely inappropriate question with something other than, 'I dunno I'll try anything once.'

"Really, now? Anything?"

"Fuck, did I say that out loud?" Dean groaned. Asshole grinned and nodded. With two broad strides, Asshole crossed the distance separating them, and though he was shorter than Dean he managed to loom into Dean's personal space, crowding him towards the couch. This close, asshole's body was hot and Dean registered for the first time that he no longer was overheated – the room was air conditioned, chilling his sweaty shirt against his skin.

The first aid kit made a dull whump as it landed on the couch and asshole turned his inappropriate nearness into inappropriate touch. Asshole's hands enwrapped Dean's waits, tugged at the damp edges of Dean's shirt, rucked it up to expose Dean's skin to the room. Goose pimples made sudden, painful pinpricks down Dean's belly, but he couldn't have said it they were caused by the temperature or by the light brush of calloused fingertips over sensitive skin.

"What are you doing?" asked Dean in strangled tones.

"Forgot to grab a towel to wipe the blood off," said asshole, a hungry expression on his face. In the dim light of the room his eyes were dark and growing darker by the second as he stared at each inch of Dean's abs as they were exposed. "Gonna tell me to stop?" Asshole emphasized the question by 'accidentally' flicking a nail over Dean's nipple. An embarrassing high pitched noise that definitely was not a whimper leaked from Dean.

"I don't even know your fucking name!" The words were partially smothered as the asshole hefted the shirt over Dean's face and haphazardly used the sopping fabric to soak up the blood still leaking slowly from between his lips. Pain flared brief and bright and did absolutely bull crap to stop his burgeoning arousal.

"Castiel" was the gruff reply.

"What the fuck kinda name is that?" The undershirt yet obscured Dean's vision and he shivered as chilled fingers ghosted over his torso, mussing through the hair thick over his chest, tracing downward as the strands thinned down Dean's midriff, thickened again below his belly button. In a shamefully high-pitched voice, he exclaimed, "That's not really your name, is it?"

"Nope," said the guy whose name might as well be Castiel, "but it's what I want you to scream when you come. That gonna be a problem?"

Is that a problem?

The shirt pulled free of Dean's head and his vision cleared to show him the gorgeous thief: sweaty, bright-eyed, dark-haired, and absolutely delicious looking.

I wonder if he tastes like ice cream?

"Kinda cocky, ain't cha?" Dean tried to sound half so cocky but he mostly sounded breathless and excited.

If today is gonna suck, I might as well have it suck in a good way. I'm pretty sure he's out of his fucking mind, but he's hot and he's interested and as long as we use a condom, no harm, no foul, right?

"Not as cocky as I'm about to be…" said Castiel smugly. Pulling Dean close, indifferent to Dean's sweat-tacky skin, Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean's back, strong fingers cupping the muscles of his shoulder blades, and painted sultry kisses over the curve of Dean's neck. Arousal flared heavy through Dean's veins, thickened his cock.

"What the fuck does that even mean?" Dean gasped.

"Fuck if I know," Castiel muttered, kissing his way up Dean's neck, along his chin, to nip at Dean's lips. "It sounded better in my head. Fuck, but you're so hot I can hardly fucking think straight. I'm so glad I stole your goddamn bike."

"So you DID steal it!" crowed Dean triumphantly.

"Hypothetically," Castiel agreed. Dean wanted to argue the point but Castiel wrapped a hand around his clothed erection and kneaded roughly. Suddenly, it was impossible to give a damn about anything beyond the bizarre-ass hot dude and how many different ways they could figure out to get each other off.

"Bed?" Dean gasped. He grabbed hold of Castiel's shirt and reluctantly disengaged from an incoming kiss in the interest of getting to see what kind of fine musculature was hidden beneath the shapeless cotton. The view didn't disappoint; the dude was fucking cut, every line of a shaved six pack beautifully defined, hip bones that Dean could break his jaw on, a trail of black hair like a big, bold arrow pointing down at the impressive bulge pushing at Castiel's fly.

"Couch," growled Castiel, pushing Dean down on the fancy sofa. Dean's skin stuck unpleasantly to the leather, friction making a weird whiny sound as Castiel shoved him around. "Bike's aren't the only thing I ride."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" Castiel climbed up on to the sofa, straddling Dean.

"No, I'm distracting you from calling the cops. Is it working?" With deft, sure movements, Castiel undid the button and fly on his pants, revealing a thicket of dark hair surrounding his large, uncut cock.

Holy shit…maybe next time, he'll fuck me.

Castiel flailed his legs, trying to get his pants off, but the jeans were too tight and he couldn't do it.

Wait…NEXT TIME?

"I planned this poorly," Castiel muttered. Hopping off the couch, he shimmied out of his pants; Dean took the opportunity to tug his belt off and undo his pants, but before he could pull them off Castiel was back on him. "Better!" Castiel leaned over and grabbed the first aid box, jerked it open and pulled out a large bottle of lube.

"So do you fuck all the people you rob?" Dean asked, refraining from rising to the bait of asking why the fuck the guy kept lubricant in the first aid kit.

"Only the hot ones." Castiel gave him a wicked grin, reaching into Dean's pants like a fucking pro and yanking Dean's erection through the opening. Pulling a condom from fucking thin air, Castiel rolled it down Dean's cock and upended the bottle over Dean's dick, coating it liberally in lube so cold that Dean's jaw dropped and his eyes bugged.

"You are such a fucking asshole!" Dean wheezed out.

"Got that a little mixed up, big boy," Castiel's grin widened, showing gums and perfect white teeth. His hand wrapped around Dean's cock, spreading the lubricant around. Dean almost protested the damage done to his pants, but he held back. The fucking things were ruined anyway, what was the point of complaining now? And the hand on his dick felt insanely good. It'd been way too fucking long since he'd gotten laid. "You're the one who is going to be fucking this asshole." Before Dean could formulate any kind of response to that, Castiel was over him, lowering his ass. Dean's cock brushed over Castiel's hole and Castiel spread easily, sinking all the way down in one firm movement. "And doesn't it feel fucking amazing?" Dean nodded fervently, grateful for the twinge of pain that surged through his split lip and grounded him in the face of unexpectedly intense pleasure. "Still regret that I—" Castiel shifted and groaned, head lolling back, eyes slipping shut. His voice was husky with emotion as he continued. "—that I stole your fucking bike?"

"Maybe we can do a bike share or something," Dean suggested, panting. He wrapped his hands around Castiel's hips, tensing and relaxing his grip to keep from pulling at Castiel, restraining himself barely from forcing the man to start fucking moving. The guy hadn't even fucking prepped himself, he deserved a minute or two to get used to having Dean's cock in him. For that matter, Dean needed a minute or two himself. Castiel's ass felt fucking amazing, the ideal tightness, the ideal heat, glorious pressure compressing Dean from every angle. Every instinct said to thrust.

"Don't like that idea." It was small vindication that Castiel sounded about as desperate as Dean felt. "Don't want to share." Experimentally, Castiel rolled his hips and Dean groaned as the tight rim jerked at his cock. "This is my ride." Grabbing the back of the sofa with one hand, leaning forward to rest the other on the armrest behind Dean's head, Castiel lifted himself an inch or two then eased back down.

"What, you gonna steal my dick, too?" I'd be totally cool with that. Holy shit that feels good.

"Depends," Castiel drew the word out in a long moan as he pivoted his hips, dragging Dean through his channel at an odd angle that was obviously doing some seriously good shit to the man. "You gonna make me do all the work every time? Cause if that's the way things are, I got stuff in the box under the bed I can ride, and none of those dicks are half so sassy as you are."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Dean tightened his grip on Castiel's hips and he waited until Castiel opened his mouth to answer – waited – waited…

"We—"

…and interrupted with a teeth-rattling thrust. Castiel groaned explosively and, chest heaving, met Dean stroke for stroke as Dean surged up from the sofa. Neither attempted to speak again. The feelings were too intense. Dean tried to remember if he'd ever been with someone so enthusiastic, so vocal, so abso-fraggin-lutely stinkin' hot. No memories would come. Hardly anything would come besides "shit, Castiel," and "more – more – more!" and bursts of heat that flooded his body each time he stuffed Castiel full.

"Right there," Castiel panted hoarsely. "Right…fucking…there…" Releasing the back of the chair, Castiel leaned back and took Dean deep, wrapped a hand around his own cock and jerked off roughly. It was fast and filthy and Dean wasn't going to last long – Castiel was obviously not going to either – and fuck if he cared. The son of a bitch could keep the fucking bicycle if he was going to fuck Dean's brains out this completely.

"Coming…" Dean moaning. "Gonna fill that tight ass of yours, gonna…shit…Castiel…Cas…coming…coming…"

"You do that," whispered Castiel vaguely. "You…" Castiel broke off with a guttural moan, hips thrusting into his own hand, back on to Dean's cock. Dean stared, awed, as the first rope of come painted his belly, followed by a second; it was fucking mesmerizing to watch the man climax. "Come on." Pulling in air desperately, Castiel circled his hips. Pleasure flared a fucking billion pinpricks of light in Dean's eyes. "Do it, do it – fuck me, fuck me you gorgeous bastard." Digging in with his fingertips, Dean obeyed, fucking up hard and fast. He couldn't have said when his orgasm hit, couldn't have said when the pleasure searing him reached fucking incandescence, couldn't have repeated the shit that Castiel babbled as Dean pushed into him again and again, over-stimulating him into incoherence. None of that fucking mattered. All that mattered was the high that left Dean drunk and dizzy and blissed out the high that, shockingly, didn't instantly fade as he realized that he'd just fucked virtual stranger.

Stilling with a content sigh, Castiel drooped onto Dean's chest. Their clammy sweaty skin met with a wet thwap.

"I gotta get back to work at some point," said Castiel, making no effort to move. Lazily, he swirled a finger through the curled tendrils of hair plastered to Dean's scalp, dreamy expression showing him still gone.

"You do that." Dean trailed a hand down Castiel's spine, still somehow uncertain of he was allowed to touch. Castiel curled his back up into the touch like a fucking cat; Dean almost thought he could hear him purring.

"What, that's it? Not gonna offer me your number? Not gonna say 'thanks for the awesome fuckin' ride?' " There was no bite in Castiel's words, though; he mouthed them against Dean's shoulder, nuzzling at Dean's neck.

"One of us got taken for a ride, anyway," said Dean.

"Fuck, I love your come backs," Castiel nipped his shoulder and Dean squawked. "I think we need to talk more about this stolen bike situation. You've made some compelling arguments that it's your bicycle but I'm still not entirely convinced."

"Dude, really?" Dean rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to laugh. His dick slipped free of Castiel's with a slimy slapping noise, slick condom smearing Dean's thigh with lube. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Date?" Fuck but Castiel sounded so fucking hopeful and absolutely irresistible and Jesus Christ on a flapjack Dean was screwed. "I know a great place to get ice cream…"

"…yeah," Dean surrendered with a shrug that jostled Castiel. "Sure." With a comical, adorable scowl, Castiel burrowed closer to Dean, effectively pinning him to the couch. "Why the fuck not. But you still stole my bicycle." Castiel needn't have bothered; Dean had no desire to move. It wasn't like he had anything better waiting for him anywhere else. Which implied that what he had here was not actually good, which was obviously fucking bullshit, cause Castiel – or whatever the fuck his name was – was too fricken cute.

"Yep, and it took me on the fucking ride of my life," hummed Castiel.

"Suck up," Dean teased.

"In your dreams…" Castiel latched his lips onto Dean's collar bone and belied the words by sucking a bruise into his flesh.

"Fuck that, you're easy," Dean laughed as the pain of the hickey clashed with the afterglow of his orgasm and left him feeling like he was floating feet in the air instead of sweat-glued to a goddamn leather couch and pinned in place by a dude scarce smaller than himself.

"So're you…" Castiel leaned up, assessed the red mark he'd left on Dean's shoulder with a frown, then bent down to give Dean a matching hickey on the other side.

"Maybe just a little." As Castiel collapsed against him, laughing, limp with post-orgasmic euphoria, Dean thought that he could get very used to the rich sound of Castiel's laughter, the hard feel of his body, the perfect abrasion of his stubble against Dean's pecs. Moved, he wrapped his arms around Castiel tight and held him in place, pleased with the way Castiel gasped in surprised wonder but didn't resist.

Maybe the day wasn't so bad after all.

"So…what's your name?" asked Castiel innocently.

"Dean," Dean replied. "And that's actually my name, you asshole."

"Mine's Jimmy," Castiel offered, blue eyes glittering with mischief. "But you should keep calling me Castiel. Or master, if you prefer."

"In your dreams," Dean echoed Castiel's early jaunty words and kissed Castiel's forehead.

"I'm keeping your bike," Castiel whispered as he slumped against Dean.

Well, no relationship was perfect. But this one seemed to be off to a damn good start, somehow. Really, what was the point on dwelling on a bit of thievery between lovers-turned-whatever-the-fuck-they-were? Bygones something something bygones.

"You're naming a flavor after me."

"Deal!"

Endnote: For updates, fanart, lgbtqa stuff, and whatever other random stuff I feel like posting, follow my on tumblr at unforth-ninawaters dot tumblr dot com!