After the
Hunt

Fresh off a hunt that went sideways, Dean Winchester is vibrating with adrenaline and bloodlust, every nerve still singing from the fight. When Cas materializes in the motel room to check on him, Dean doesn't ask — he shoves the angel against the wall, teeth bared, needing something to break against. It takes three seconds for Cas to yield, to let himself be manhandled out the door and into the backseat of the Impala. The cramped space is already charged with the smell of sulfur, gunpowder, and Dean's sour-sweat fury. He doesn't bother with care; he hauls Cas's hips up, forces his jeans down, and rams inside dry. Cas cries out — pain and want tangled — and Dean groans through every grinding, desperate thrust, one hand fisted in that dark hair, the other braced against the fogged window. The angel's wings rattle against the astral plane, half-manifested, pinned by the roof. Dean fucks him like he's trying to exorcise something, hard and mean and unrelenting, burying himself so deep Cas can't breathe. He comes with a bitten-off snarl, grinding into Cas's heat, and stays there, softening, refusing to let go. The Impala's windows are completely steamed over. Outside, the night is silent. Inside, Dean's forehead presses to Cas's shoulder, and neither of them speaks.