[fic] invocation
Title: Invocation
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Vague season 5
Warnings: Language, explicit sexuality
Word Count: 1400
Summary: There’s power in a name.
Notes: Originally written as commentfic over at deancaskink for the prompt “Cas really gets off on Dean saying his name, not just “Cas” but Castiel.” So in other words, this is really just porn.
Invocation
Night full of Nevada promise, and the motel room swelters in the close desert heat. Dean sprawls on top of the covers, limbs splaying too wide for the narrow bed to contain; Castiel above him is desaturated of color, washed to grey-blue by the moonlight filtering through the tiny window, a glorious spill of flesh punctuated only by the dull bronze glint of Dean’s own amulet where it rests against his chest.
He’s two fingers deep inside Dean’s ass, has been working him open for what seems close to an eternity. Dean’s more than ready, can feel the sweat pouring off of him, muscles gone slack and loose from the relentless onslaught. If there’s one thing he’s learnt since the first time they fell into bed together, three months and five states ago, it’s that Castiel is a fucking tease.
“Just come on,” he demands, aware of how needy he sounds and well beyond caring. “Hurry up and fuck me already.”
He expects some deadpan snark for his trouble, because Castiel’s mastery of sarcasm improves with every step closer he takes to becoming human. Instead, Dean gets an acquiescing head-tilt, Castiel pulling his fingers free and lining himself up, pushing in slowly until he slides all the way home and Dean’s so full he feels as though he could burst from it. And then Castiel just stops, holding himself still, a marble statue of an angel pinning Dean with that impassive stare.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Dean protests. He shoves his hips ineffectually, urging Castiel to move, but Castiel’s grip on him is implacable, keeping Dean tethered right where Cas wants him.
“Patience is a virtue, Dean,” Castiel murmurs; his poker face is smooth as ever, but Dean can see it in his eyes that the bastard is laughing at him. Castiel leans down until their faces are inches apart, turning his head to whisper hotly in Dean’s ear.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Say what?” Dean parrots, all faux-innocence even though he knows damn well what Castiel wants -- what Castiel always wants. It’s become something of a game between them now, a battle of wills to see who can hold out the longest. He scrapes his nails lightly over the ridges of Castiel’s shoulder blades, imagines wings coiled tightly beneath the skin, shifting restlessly in their desperation to burst free.
“Say my name,” Castiel responds, right on cue even as he begins to pull back again, sliding nearly all the way out, inch by torturous inch. He drags his tongue wetly across the exposed column of Dean’s throat -- Dean can feel the saliva trail cooling instantly on his overheated skin and he shivers with it, unable to help the moan that falls from his lips. His cock is full and heavy where it curves towards his stomach, dripping with precome, and he needs -- something, anything. He reaches down to touch himself, desperate for friction, but Castiel catches hold of his wrist, pins it effortlessly above his head. He’s rocking back and forth now with short, shallow thrusts that don’t go anywhere near deep enough or hard enough to get Dean off.
“Cas,” Dean protests, injecting every once of frustration he feels into that one syllable, even though he knows it’ll do him no good whatsoever.
“That’s not my name, Dean,” Castiel rasps, voice a curl of smoke and sandpaper that cuts right through the night. “Say my real name, the one I was given. The name of the one who raised you up from Hell.”
“Castiel,” Dean growls, unwilling to torture either of them any longer, drawing the syllables out so that it sounds like another language, Kastiyhel, archaic and holy in ways Dean still doesn’t quite understand.
He doesn’t need to understand in order to appreciate the effect it has, however: Castiel shudders all over as his composure slips away like oil down a drain. His hips snap forward like he’s been summoned, and Dean can only jerk and gasp in kind as he feels the head of Castiel’s cock bang into his prostate, white-hot pleasure building like static charge in his spinal cord, discharging throughout his peripheral nervous system until he can feel it in every extremity.
The position doesn’t change, but suddenly Dean’s the one with all the power as Castiel buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, whimpering softly. Dean breaks his grip easily, carding the fingers of one hand through sweat-damp hair and molding the other to the slope of Castiel’s shoulder, struggling to find purchase on slick skin, digging in hard enough to leave bruises that will fade within a matter of minutes.
Dean might not be able to sear his handprint indelibly onto Castiel the way Castiel has done to him, but he can do this: he can touch Castiel like no-one else ever has before -- like no-one else ever will, if Dean has his way -- can breathe Castiel’s name into the hollow spaces between them and just take him.
It isn’t an accident that the sound of his own name gets Castiel off more effectively than just about anything else. Names hold power for angels, and Dean knows that when he uses it in this context, he’s effectively binding Castiel to him, claiming him as his own. According to Castiel, it’s one of the oldest forms of magic that exists, and Dean doesn’t want to examine it too closely for fear of what he might find. Maybe one day, if by some miracle they make it through the end of the world in one piece. For now, though, he’s willing to just enjoy it while they can, because having Castiel so completely as his mercy is an undeniable turn-on.
“You like that, huh, Castiel?” He asks, smirking at the way Cas all but whines in response. “You like it when I use your name like that?”
“Yes,” Castiel breathes, the word pushing out of his throat in a hot rush of air as he sinks his teeth into Dean’s shoulder hard enough to be just the right side of painful. He’s fucking Dean in earnest now, hitting that sweet spot on every other stroke, but it still isn’t enough.
“Touch me,” Dean commands, and Castiel obeys only too willingly, grasping Dean’s cock and jerking him off without rhythm or finesse, out of time with the increasingly erratic pistoning of his hips, but Dean’s close enough to coming that it doesn’t matter.
“No-one else ever gets to do this do you, understand?” Dean murmurs, consonants brushing the shell of Castiel’s ear, proprietary even though he knows there isn’t another soul on Earth or in Heaven that Castiel would allow to undo him so completely. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“I’m -- oh -- yours, Dean, always,” Castiel responds breathlessly, rubbing his thumb over the head of Dean’s cock and smearing the fluid there. “You know I am.”
“That’s right,” Dean mutters, spreading his legs wider as he begins to feel the telltale tightening at the base of his stomach, grabbing Castiel’s ass and pulling him in as far as he can go. “You’re mine, Castiel.”
That does it; Castiel stiffens all over and keens loudly as he breaks apart, painting Dean’s insides with wetness. His hand on Dean’s cock doesn’t stop moving, and it only takes three more strokes before Dean’s coming right along with him, shooting thick and hot over Castiel’s fingers and his own torso, marking them both with his release.
Castiel slumps on top of him, and the only sound in the room is that of their rapid breathing, racing one another in the climb back to normalcy. It’s much too hot to be pressed together this closely, and Dean can feel the shower beckoning as the mess of sweat and come begins to dry on their skin, sticking them together -- but he’s too fucked-out to move, limp and pleasantly boneless in a way he hasn’t felt for some time.
Above him, Castiel makes a wordless noise of contentment, ducking his head to kiss the raised red handprint on Dean’s left bicep, tongue gliding over scar tissue that will never heal. It’s a gentle reminder that this thing between them goes both ways; that even as Castiel belongs to him, the angel owns Dean in kind.
Somehow, Dean thinks he can live with that.
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: Vague season 5
Warnings: Language, explicit sexuality
Word Count: 1400
Summary: There’s power in a name.
Notes: Originally written as commentfic over at deancaskink for the prompt “Cas really gets off on Dean saying his name, not just “Cas” but Castiel.” So in other words, this is really just porn.
Invocation
Night full of Nevada promise, and the motel room swelters in the close desert heat. Dean sprawls on top of the covers, limbs splaying too wide for the narrow bed to contain; Castiel above him is desaturated of color, washed to grey-blue by the moonlight filtering through the tiny window, a glorious spill of flesh punctuated only by the dull bronze glint of Dean’s own amulet where it rests against his chest.
He’s two fingers deep inside Dean’s ass, has been working him open for what seems close to an eternity. Dean’s more than ready, can feel the sweat pouring off of him, muscles gone slack and loose from the relentless onslaught. If there’s one thing he’s learnt since the first time they fell into bed together, three months and five states ago, it’s that Castiel is a fucking tease.
“Just come on,” he demands, aware of how needy he sounds and well beyond caring. “Hurry up and fuck me already.”
He expects some deadpan snark for his trouble, because Castiel’s mastery of sarcasm improves with every step closer he takes to becoming human. Instead, Dean gets an acquiescing head-tilt, Castiel pulling his fingers free and lining himself up, pushing in slowly until he slides all the way home and Dean’s so full he feels as though he could burst from it. And then Castiel just stops, holding himself still, a marble statue of an angel pinning Dean with that impassive stare.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Dean protests. He shoves his hips ineffectually, urging Castiel to move, but Castiel’s grip on him is implacable, keeping Dean tethered right where Cas wants him.
“Patience is a virtue, Dean,” Castiel murmurs; his poker face is smooth as ever, but Dean can see it in his eyes that the bastard is laughing at him. Castiel leans down until their faces are inches apart, turning his head to whisper hotly in Dean’s ear.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Say what?” Dean parrots, all faux-innocence even though he knows damn well what Castiel wants -- what Castiel always wants. It’s become something of a game between them now, a battle of wills to see who can hold out the longest. He scrapes his nails lightly over the ridges of Castiel’s shoulder blades, imagines wings coiled tightly beneath the skin, shifting restlessly in their desperation to burst free.
“Say my name,” Castiel responds, right on cue even as he begins to pull back again, sliding nearly all the way out, inch by torturous inch. He drags his tongue wetly across the exposed column of Dean’s throat -- Dean can feel the saliva trail cooling instantly on his overheated skin and he shivers with it, unable to help the moan that falls from his lips. His cock is full and heavy where it curves towards his stomach, dripping with precome, and he needs -- something, anything. He reaches down to touch himself, desperate for friction, but Castiel catches hold of his wrist, pins it effortlessly above his head. He’s rocking back and forth now with short, shallow thrusts that don’t go anywhere near deep enough or hard enough to get Dean off.
“Cas,” Dean protests, injecting every once of frustration he feels into that one syllable, even though he knows it’ll do him no good whatsoever.
“That’s not my name, Dean,” Castiel rasps, voice a curl of smoke and sandpaper that cuts right through the night. “Say my real name, the one I was given. The name of the one who raised you up from Hell.”
“Castiel,” Dean growls, unwilling to torture either of them any longer, drawing the syllables out so that it sounds like another language, Kastiyhel, archaic and holy in ways Dean still doesn’t quite understand.
He doesn’t need to understand in order to appreciate the effect it has, however: Castiel shudders all over as his composure slips away like oil down a drain. His hips snap forward like he’s been summoned, and Dean can only jerk and gasp in kind as he feels the head of Castiel’s cock bang into his prostate, white-hot pleasure building like static charge in his spinal cord, discharging throughout his peripheral nervous system until he can feel it in every extremity.
The position doesn’t change, but suddenly Dean’s the one with all the power as Castiel buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, whimpering softly. Dean breaks his grip easily, carding the fingers of one hand through sweat-damp hair and molding the other to the slope of Castiel’s shoulder, struggling to find purchase on slick skin, digging in hard enough to leave bruises that will fade within a matter of minutes.
Dean might not be able to sear his handprint indelibly onto Castiel the way Castiel has done to him, but he can do this: he can touch Castiel like no-one else ever has before -- like no-one else ever will, if Dean has his way -- can breathe Castiel’s name into the hollow spaces between them and just take him.
It isn’t an accident that the sound of his own name gets Castiel off more effectively than just about anything else. Names hold power for angels, and Dean knows that when he uses it in this context, he’s effectively binding Castiel to him, claiming him as his own. According to Castiel, it’s one of the oldest forms of magic that exists, and Dean doesn’t want to examine it too closely for fear of what he might find. Maybe one day, if by some miracle they make it through the end of the world in one piece. For now, though, he’s willing to just enjoy it while they can, because having Castiel so completely as his mercy is an undeniable turn-on.
“You like that, huh, Castiel?” He asks, smirking at the way Cas all but whines in response. “You like it when I use your name like that?”
“Yes,” Castiel breathes, the word pushing out of his throat in a hot rush of air as he sinks his teeth into Dean’s shoulder hard enough to be just the right side of painful. He’s fucking Dean in earnest now, hitting that sweet spot on every other stroke, but it still isn’t enough.
“Touch me,” Dean commands, and Castiel obeys only too willingly, grasping Dean’s cock and jerking him off without rhythm or finesse, out of time with the increasingly erratic pistoning of his hips, but Dean’s close enough to coming that it doesn’t matter.
“No-one else ever gets to do this do you, understand?” Dean murmurs, consonants brushing the shell of Castiel’s ear, proprietary even though he knows there isn’t another soul on Earth or in Heaven that Castiel would allow to undo him so completely. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“I’m -- oh -- yours, Dean, always,” Castiel responds breathlessly, rubbing his thumb over the head of Dean’s cock and smearing the fluid there. “You know I am.”
“That’s right,” Dean mutters, spreading his legs wider as he begins to feel the telltale tightening at the base of his stomach, grabbing Castiel’s ass and pulling him in as far as he can go. “You’re mine, Castiel.”
That does it; Castiel stiffens all over and keens loudly as he breaks apart, painting Dean’s insides with wetness. His hand on Dean’s cock doesn’t stop moving, and it only takes three more strokes before Dean’s coming right along with him, shooting thick and hot over Castiel’s fingers and his own torso, marking them both with his release.
Castiel slumps on top of him, and the only sound in the room is that of their rapid breathing, racing one another in the climb back to normalcy. It’s much too hot to be pressed together this closely, and Dean can feel the shower beckoning as the mess of sweat and come begins to dry on their skin, sticking them together -- but he’s too fucked-out to move, limp and pleasantly boneless in a way he hasn’t felt for some time.
Above him, Castiel makes a wordless noise of contentment, ducking his head to kiss the raised red handprint on Dean’s left bicep, tongue gliding over scar tissue that will never heal. It’s a gentle reminder that this thing between them goes both ways; that even as Castiel belongs to him, the angel owns Dean in kind.
Somehow, Dean thinks he can live with that.