FIC: Backseat Sonnet
Title: Backseat Sonnet
Author: blue_fjords
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1900
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Cas
Warnings: none other than purple prose and wanton use of poetry
Summary: Epilogue to J. Alfred Prufrock Grows a Pair: It was three weeks since they'd come together, and another line was going to be crossed. (Basically, Dean and Cas in the Impala after a lacrosse game.)
A/N: So when I wrote a high school AU for vulgar_snail's birthday, I had planned to have a porny bit at the end, but ran out of time. Sacrilege! So this is for the tweeps that wanted the porny bits, especially qthelights. Special thanks to paragraphs for the lightning fast beta. Poems quoted in here are by: DH Lawrence - Love on the Farm, Denise Levertov - O Taste and See, Solomon - Song of Songs (I did change 'him' to 'your' in case anyone is checking), ee cummings - I carry your heart with me, Ben Jonson - Song: To Celia (II), William Blake - The Tyger, and Pablo Neruda - Sonnet XVII.
It was too hot in the backseat, the windows rolled up to protect them from the driving rain. It landed with a loud rat-a-tat-tat on the Impala's ceiling, trying and failing to drown out the sound of Castiel's gasps and moans, the squeak of his sweaty palm against the glass of the window. The beating of Dean's heart in his chest, pounding out a rhythm of 'here' and 'now' and 'want.' But above all, 'Cas.'
He slid his hands up under Castiel's lacrosse jersey, the soaked t-shirt he wore underneath. His thumbs drew whorls in the damp flesh over Castiel's hipbones, even as his teeth and mouth and lips lavished attention to Castiel's neck, giving out slurping kisses in exchange for the taste of salt water skin.
"Dean!" Castiel gasped, throwing his head back, offering even more access, and Dean took it, greedy, always greedy for everything Castiel offered, but only willing to take when it was just them. "I know not what fine wire is around my throat," Castiel panted as Dean nuzzled his neck. "I only know I let him finger there my pulse of life," and Dean bit down, feeling skin between his teeth. Castiel's voice rode roughshod over his next words. "And let him nose like a stoat who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood."
"God, Cas," Dean choked out. "You taste…"
"How? How do I taste?" Castiel's eyes were huge, pupils wide and black in the darkness of the car, in the heat of lust. "To the imagination's tongue," he said softly, as Dean trailed his real tongue, no need to imagine it at all, down Castiel's neck to dip into his clavicle, "Grief, mercy, language," his voice hitched on the words, little half-moans as Dean's mouth closed over a nipple, "Tangerine, weather, to breathe them, bite, ahhhhhh!" His ankles drummed against the seat as Dean added a playful nip of his teeth, and Castiel's hands came up to cradle Dean's head, his fingers to grip Dean's hair.
"Savor, chew, s-s-swallow, transform," he continued in a breathy moan as Dean moved to his other nipple. He savored the sight before him: Castiel Novak the Great, coming undone in a private show, all for Dean, just for Dean. "Into our flesh our deaths, crossing the street, plum, quince," and damn if poetry wasn't weird. Weird and beautiful and profound and particular, just like Castiel, and wasn't he a lucky dog, Dean thought, that Castiel would share it with him? "Living in the orchard and being hungry, and plucking the fruit."
His tongue dipped into Castiel's navel as Castiel whispered the last stanza, whimpered at the ministrations of Dean's tongue. Dean drew back slightly, his hands hovering around the belt buckle of Castiel's jeans, the jeans he'd thrown on in the locker room, not even bothering to shower, so anxious to get to Dean, to this moment in the backseat of the Impala. It was three weeks since they'd come together, and another line was going to be crossed.
"Kiss me with the kisses of your mouth," Castiel murmured. "For your love is better than wine."
"The Bible, Cas? Really?" Dean teased, tapping his fingernail against the buckle, proud to recognize the verse, proud to share the knowledge of his knowledge with Castiel, like a secret handshake they had to get into their clubhouse.
"Shut up and kiss me," Castiel demanded, and Dean grinned, sliding back up his body to kiss him, fucking his mouth with his tongue, so deep, wet and messy, as one hand snaked down to unbutton Castiel's jeans.
Castiel let out a guttural groan at the brush of Dean's fingers against his cock, the noise reverberating in Dean's throat, as if he'd been the one to groan. And maybe he had, all those English classes spent watching Castiel, listening to him discuss poetry and prose, everything building up until each word from his mouth fell like a sonnet into Dean's ears, until Dean was conditioned to love him each time he opened his mouth.
It was too much, too hot, too intense, too perfect, and Dean should be frightened. He was frightened, but Castiel took the fear away, made him braver, even when he said things like, "and it’s you are whatever a moon has ever meant, and whatever a sun will always sing is you" with such conviction, as if he believed it, and meant it, as if it wasn't too much, but simply what was due to Dean.
"Is you, is you, is you," Castiel babbled as Dean's fingers gripped his slippery cock, memorizing the texture of damp, hot soft skin, the hardness and eagerness as Castiel's hips bucked up into Dean's hand, the look of shocked wonder on Castiel's face. Dean couldn't stop staring at his face, couldn't help drinking in the adoration. And then he rocked back on his heels, slipping from Castiel's grasp.
The Impala had large footwells, just enough to hold him as he knelt and wrapped his lips around Castiel's cock. Castiel's hands flailed for a moment, then his palm landed with a smack back on the window.
"Another," Dean rumbled low in his throat, squeezing the word out.
"I-I-I-" Cas stuttered.
Dean pulled off his cock and licked his lips. Castiel whimpered and his nails scraped uselessly across the glass. "Look at me, Cas."
His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, and still so surprised, as if he hadn't known that this was where his lust and Dean's lust would take them. As if this experience was completely new, and Dean felt a quiver somewhere in his chest to realize it probably was. Who else would the great Castiel Novak bare himself for? Who else would he allow to see him like this, give this kind of power to? Just Dean. He couldn't imagine what look he was giving Castiel back, what depths of desire and affection he was sharing, but God, he didn't want Cas to look away.
"Drink to me only with thine eyes," Castiel began, and Dean smiled, sealing his lips around Castiel's cock once more, not losing eye contact. "And I will pledge with mine." Castiel's voice was rough and raw, from yelling plays and commands on the lacrosse field, from moaning in the backseat of Dean's car. "Or leave a kiss but in the cup." Dean pressed kisses along the length of him, lips dragging in the pre-cum, tongue slurping, and it was filthy and perfect. "And I'll not look for wine."
"Dean," Castiel breathed, his eyes sliding closed as he came with a deep moan. Dean swallowed a little of it, lapped him clean, and it tasted…not like a tangerine or plum, but not gross. Nothing about Castiel could be too bad, even though Dean had tasted his own cum on the tongues of girls before and found it bitter.
"Cas, look at me," Dean begged. Castiel's eyes had been closed for thirty seconds, but that was too long to go without them. He didn't have a poem to tempt him with, only plain words. "You make me act crazy," he mumbled. "And think weird shit. Come on, man, open your eyes."
Castiel's eyelashes fluttered open as he laughed. "'Weird shit'?" His eyes sparkled deep midnight blue. "Tell me," he demanded.
"I, uh, I think you're beautiful." That was kind of boring, but Castiel, spread bonelessly and loose across the backseat, was beautiful, especially when his eyes opened wide and a ridiculous smile bloomed across his face in response to Dean's regard. "I think we should finish taking off your clothes," Dean said.
"I would like to see you naked, too," Castiel told him seriously. Two bright spots of color deepened on his cheeks. Dean laughed and pulled his shirt off, tossing it into the front seat before reaching for Castiel's sweaty jersey and undershirt. Willard High #47 hit the dashboard and fell with a plop.
Castiel was already sitting up again, hair on end and his hands skimming Dean's chest and shoulders and arms. "And what shoulder, and what art, could twist the sinews of thy heart?" he murmured, his lips following the path of his fingers.
"Only you, Cas," Dean replied, not sure at all if it made sense and not caring a bit about the context. Not when Castiel's lips were on his neck, sucking a bruise, and Castiel's fingers were trailing down, down to his belt and deftly unbuckling him, pushing his jeans and underwear down his thighs. He couldn't fight the gasp that escaped his lips when Castiel gripped his cock. "Jesus, Cas!"
"Lie back, lie back," Castiel murmured, and licked a stripe across Dean's fresh new hickey. Dean fell back against the sticky leather with a groan, and Castiel pulled his pants and tighty-whities (and why hadn't he worn his sexy underwear that day, dammit?) the rest of the way off, pausing only long enough to squirm out of his own and throw the whole bundle up front.
And then Castiel fell against him, every inch of his body pressed into Dean's, and Dean's brain short-circuited.
"Dean, tell me more about the 'weird shit,'" Castiel whispered. His tongue was fucking everywhere, tracing a jagged path along pectorals and abs and nipples and dipping into Dean's navel, laving his hipbone and now he could understand how Castiel lost the power of speech.
"Cas, I - fuck! Do that again, that there, please God, holy fuck!"
Castiel chuckled darkly and continued rolling Dean's balls between his fingers while he flicked his tongue into Dean's ear.
"Weird." Flick. "Shit." Flick.
"Oh, God, I, uh, your eyes!" Castiel's hand moved from his balls to his dick, stroking with long, calloused fingers. Dean had watched his fingers grip a lacrosse stick and imagined what they would feel like so many times, but the real thing put all his imaginings to shame. "Your eyes, I uh, I love it when you look at me." Just as Castiel was looking at him now, his eyes dark blue pools he could drown in. "I want you to always be looking at me 'cause I feel - shit! Fuck!" He was so close, so close, and now Castiel was thumbing at his slit, smearing pre-cum all along the shaft and he was going to come so hard. "This is, this is fucking embarrassing, but you make me feel loved."
He groaned out the word as he came.
Castiel watched him as he caught his breath.
"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where," Castiel said softly. "I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close."
The rain fell gently now on the roof of the car, a soft susurration, lulling them to sleep. Dean watched Castiel through half-shut eyes, brought his hand up to trace his mouth.
"I like the stuff you say. I like that you mean what you say."
Castiel smiled against his fingers and placed a kiss in the palm of his hand.
"It is difficult for me to use my own words," he murmured.
"Doesn't matter," Dean mumbled sleepily. "I hear you anyhow."
Author: blue_fjords
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1900
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Cas
Warnings: none other than purple prose and wanton use of poetry
Summary: Epilogue to J. Alfred Prufrock Grows a Pair: It was three weeks since they'd come together, and another line was going to be crossed. (Basically, Dean and Cas in the Impala after a lacrosse game.)
A/N: So when I wrote a high school AU for vulgar_snail's birthday, I had planned to have a porny bit at the end, but ran out of time. Sacrilege! So this is for the tweeps that wanted the porny bits, especially qthelights. Special thanks to paragraphs for the lightning fast beta. Poems quoted in here are by: DH Lawrence - Love on the Farm, Denise Levertov - O Taste and See, Solomon - Song of Songs (I did change 'him' to 'your' in case anyone is checking), ee cummings - I carry your heart with me, Ben Jonson - Song: To Celia (II), William Blake - The Tyger, and Pablo Neruda - Sonnet XVII.
It was too hot in the backseat, the windows rolled up to protect them from the driving rain. It landed with a loud rat-a-tat-tat on the Impala's ceiling, trying and failing to drown out the sound of Castiel's gasps and moans, the squeak of his sweaty palm against the glass of the window. The beating of Dean's heart in his chest, pounding out a rhythm of 'here' and 'now' and 'want.' But above all, 'Cas.'
He slid his hands up under Castiel's lacrosse jersey, the soaked t-shirt he wore underneath. His thumbs drew whorls in the damp flesh over Castiel's hipbones, even as his teeth and mouth and lips lavished attention to Castiel's neck, giving out slurping kisses in exchange for the taste of salt water skin.
"Dean!" Castiel gasped, throwing his head back, offering even more access, and Dean took it, greedy, always greedy for everything Castiel offered, but only willing to take when it was just them. "I know not what fine wire is around my throat," Castiel panted as Dean nuzzled his neck. "I only know I let him finger there my pulse of life," and Dean bit down, feeling skin between his teeth. Castiel's voice rode roughshod over his next words. "And let him nose like a stoat who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood."
"God, Cas," Dean choked out. "You taste…"
"How? How do I taste?" Castiel's eyes were huge, pupils wide and black in the darkness of the car, in the heat of lust. "To the imagination's tongue," he said softly, as Dean trailed his real tongue, no need to imagine it at all, down Castiel's neck to dip into his clavicle, "Grief, mercy, language," his voice hitched on the words, little half-moans as Dean's mouth closed over a nipple, "Tangerine, weather, to breathe them, bite, ahhhhhh!" His ankles drummed against the seat as Dean added a playful nip of his teeth, and Castiel's hands came up to cradle Dean's head, his fingers to grip Dean's hair.
"Savor, chew, s-s-swallow, transform," he continued in a breathy moan as Dean moved to his other nipple. He savored the sight before him: Castiel Novak the Great, coming undone in a private show, all for Dean, just for Dean. "Into our flesh our deaths, crossing the street, plum, quince," and damn if poetry wasn't weird. Weird and beautiful and profound and particular, just like Castiel, and wasn't he a lucky dog, Dean thought, that Castiel would share it with him? "Living in the orchard and being hungry, and plucking the fruit."
His tongue dipped into Castiel's navel as Castiel whispered the last stanza, whimpered at the ministrations of Dean's tongue. Dean drew back slightly, his hands hovering around the belt buckle of Castiel's jeans, the jeans he'd thrown on in the locker room, not even bothering to shower, so anxious to get to Dean, to this moment in the backseat of the Impala. It was three weeks since they'd come together, and another line was going to be crossed.
"Kiss me with the kisses of your mouth," Castiel murmured. "For your love is better than wine."
"The Bible, Cas? Really?" Dean teased, tapping his fingernail against the buckle, proud to recognize the verse, proud to share the knowledge of his knowledge with Castiel, like a secret handshake they had to get into their clubhouse.
"Shut up and kiss me," Castiel demanded, and Dean grinned, sliding back up his body to kiss him, fucking his mouth with his tongue, so deep, wet and messy, as one hand snaked down to unbutton Castiel's jeans.
Castiel let out a guttural groan at the brush of Dean's fingers against his cock, the noise reverberating in Dean's throat, as if he'd been the one to groan. And maybe he had, all those English classes spent watching Castiel, listening to him discuss poetry and prose, everything building up until each word from his mouth fell like a sonnet into Dean's ears, until Dean was conditioned to love him each time he opened his mouth.
It was too much, too hot, too intense, too perfect, and Dean should be frightened. He was frightened, but Castiel took the fear away, made him braver, even when he said things like, "and it’s you are whatever a moon has ever meant, and whatever a sun will always sing is you" with such conviction, as if he believed it, and meant it, as if it wasn't too much, but simply what was due to Dean.
"Is you, is you, is you," Castiel babbled as Dean's fingers gripped his slippery cock, memorizing the texture of damp, hot soft skin, the hardness and eagerness as Castiel's hips bucked up into Dean's hand, the look of shocked wonder on Castiel's face. Dean couldn't stop staring at his face, couldn't help drinking in the adoration. And then he rocked back on his heels, slipping from Castiel's grasp.
The Impala had large footwells, just enough to hold him as he knelt and wrapped his lips around Castiel's cock. Castiel's hands flailed for a moment, then his palm landed with a smack back on the window.
"Another," Dean rumbled low in his throat, squeezing the word out.
"I-I-I-" Cas stuttered.
Dean pulled off his cock and licked his lips. Castiel whimpered and his nails scraped uselessly across the glass. "Look at me, Cas."
His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, and still so surprised, as if he hadn't known that this was where his lust and Dean's lust would take them. As if this experience was completely new, and Dean felt a quiver somewhere in his chest to realize it probably was. Who else would the great Castiel Novak bare himself for? Who else would he allow to see him like this, give this kind of power to? Just Dean. He couldn't imagine what look he was giving Castiel back, what depths of desire and affection he was sharing, but God, he didn't want Cas to look away.
"Drink to me only with thine eyes," Castiel began, and Dean smiled, sealing his lips around Castiel's cock once more, not losing eye contact. "And I will pledge with mine." Castiel's voice was rough and raw, from yelling plays and commands on the lacrosse field, from moaning in the backseat of Dean's car. "Or leave a kiss but in the cup." Dean pressed kisses along the length of him, lips dragging in the pre-cum, tongue slurping, and it was filthy and perfect. "And I'll not look for wine."
"Dean," Castiel breathed, his eyes sliding closed as he came with a deep moan. Dean swallowed a little of it, lapped him clean, and it tasted…not like a tangerine or plum, but not gross. Nothing about Castiel could be too bad, even though Dean had tasted his own cum on the tongues of girls before and found it bitter.
"Cas, look at me," Dean begged. Castiel's eyes had been closed for thirty seconds, but that was too long to go without them. He didn't have a poem to tempt him with, only plain words. "You make me act crazy," he mumbled. "And think weird shit. Come on, man, open your eyes."
Castiel's eyelashes fluttered open as he laughed. "'Weird shit'?" His eyes sparkled deep midnight blue. "Tell me," he demanded.
"I, uh, I think you're beautiful." That was kind of boring, but Castiel, spread bonelessly and loose across the backseat, was beautiful, especially when his eyes opened wide and a ridiculous smile bloomed across his face in response to Dean's regard. "I think we should finish taking off your clothes," Dean said.
"I would like to see you naked, too," Castiel told him seriously. Two bright spots of color deepened on his cheeks. Dean laughed and pulled his shirt off, tossing it into the front seat before reaching for Castiel's sweaty jersey and undershirt. Willard High #47 hit the dashboard and fell with a plop.
Castiel was already sitting up again, hair on end and his hands skimming Dean's chest and shoulders and arms. "And what shoulder, and what art, could twist the sinews of thy heart?" he murmured, his lips following the path of his fingers.
"Only you, Cas," Dean replied, not sure at all if it made sense and not caring a bit about the context. Not when Castiel's lips were on his neck, sucking a bruise, and Castiel's fingers were trailing down, down to his belt and deftly unbuckling him, pushing his jeans and underwear down his thighs. He couldn't fight the gasp that escaped his lips when Castiel gripped his cock. "Jesus, Cas!"
"Lie back, lie back," Castiel murmured, and licked a stripe across Dean's fresh new hickey. Dean fell back against the sticky leather with a groan, and Castiel pulled his pants and tighty-whities (and why hadn't he worn his sexy underwear that day, dammit?) the rest of the way off, pausing only long enough to squirm out of his own and throw the whole bundle up front.
And then Castiel fell against him, every inch of his body pressed into Dean's, and Dean's brain short-circuited.
"Dean, tell me more about the 'weird shit,'" Castiel whispered. His tongue was fucking everywhere, tracing a jagged path along pectorals and abs and nipples and dipping into Dean's navel, laving his hipbone and now he could understand how Castiel lost the power of speech.
"Cas, I - fuck! Do that again, that there, please God, holy fuck!"
Castiel chuckled darkly and continued rolling Dean's balls between his fingers while he flicked his tongue into Dean's ear.
"Weird." Flick. "Shit." Flick.
"Oh, God, I, uh, your eyes!" Castiel's hand moved from his balls to his dick, stroking with long, calloused fingers. Dean had watched his fingers grip a lacrosse stick and imagined what they would feel like so many times, but the real thing put all his imaginings to shame. "Your eyes, I uh, I love it when you look at me." Just as Castiel was looking at him now, his eyes dark blue pools he could drown in. "I want you to always be looking at me 'cause I feel - shit! Fuck!" He was so close, so close, and now Castiel was thumbing at his slit, smearing pre-cum all along the shaft and he was going to come so hard. "This is, this is fucking embarrassing, but you make me feel loved."
He groaned out the word as he came.
Castiel watched him as he caught his breath.
"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where," Castiel said softly. "I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close."
The rain fell gently now on the roof of the car, a soft susurration, lulling them to sleep. Dean watched Castiel through half-shut eyes, brought his hand up to trace his mouth.
"I like the stuff you say. I like that you mean what you say."
Castiel smiled against his fingers and placed a kiss in the palm of his hand.
"It is difficult for me to use my own words," he murmured.
"Doesn't matter," Dean mumbled sleepily. "I hear you anyhow."