Ficmas: Post #2 (misc)
Basically just posting these as I finish suitably-sized batches of them, now. :) Post 1 was almost entirely J2; this is a bit more of a melange.
For de_nugis:
Sam/Dean curtain!fic with lots of weather conditions, please.
In December, it snows, and they're both of them caught by surprise. It's not that snow is unusual at this time of year, or even that they've never had a white Christmas before -- Dean remembers a particularly bad year in deepest Minnesota, holed up in a motel whose pipes had burst under the sheer weight of the weather. It's just that they've never really been anywhere the way they're here, Sam with his pick-up parked next to the Impala in their broad front drive, coming home with a tree slung in the truck bed like some suburban dad. The cookie-cutter normality of it all was already weird enough, and then it just had to go and freaking snow.
They've never exactly lived greeting-card lives. Dean's got what looks like half a holly bush in one gloved hand, dragging it behind him across the grassland that flanks their house. Beside him is Sam, arms full of hastily-chopped kindling, his breath puffing out in pale clouds of warmth, cooling on the air. They're already something out of a Coca-Cola commercial, All-American Winchesters, and when Dean opens his mouth and feels a snowflake settle in it, it's somehow the last straw. House in the 'burbs was one thing, regular-guy jobs another, but getting snowed on as they drag home their festive spoils?
"Jesus Christ," Dean says, leaning back to stare up at the sky. "And snow, too? I'm startin' to think there's something supernatural goin' on here, Sam."
It's crap, obviously. He doesn't really believe it, so much as he can't quite believe this, but it's worth voicing it just for the half-smile Sam gets on his face, this stupid fond look right before he drops his armful of wood into the grass.
"Whoa, hey," Dean starts up, because that was a shit ton of wood, and now it's going to be lying there getting snowed on, and that'll be a load of effort wasted. Sam, though, is faster, both hands going to Dean's biceps, holding him still.
"Dean," he says, a world in that one word, and he leans in, brushes his mouth over Dean's half-parted one. His lips are freakishly cold, but Dean chases them anyway, making a whine in his throat when Sam pulls back and straightens.
"Hey," Dean protests, but Sam just grins at him and starts to gather up his wood again, stacking it in the crook of his elbow.
"Nothing's going on here," he says. For a guy who's been to hell and back, he certainly has an air of conviction still about him, a way of putting others at their ease. Dean puts it down to the lawyer in him. Sam always was an argumentative little fuck. "No djinn, Dean, no angels, no demons. Just us." He unfolds again, wood restacked, and glances upward. "Us and snow. And, uh." He nods towards the cottage. "Blowjobs in front of a roaring fire, if that's cool with you? I'm fucking freezing."
The snow is falling more thickly now, clinging to the soft hair at the nape of Dean's neck. A roaring fire sounds like just the thing. Sam's mouth could only make things better, and after all, there's nothing like a little bit of incest to shake off the illusion of Uncanny Valley idyllicness.
"That's cool with me," Dean says, tightening his hold again on his holly.
The snowflakes are still pretty thin, not enough to do much damage to the wood, but they pick up their pace on the downslope, just to be safe.
For cherie_morte:
Dean's first thought is that he's dreaming. Hell, he even thinks he might have had this dream before: himself, suspended in the wet-velvet warmth of something that's somewhere between a hot chick's pussy and the innards of a pie. It's a good dream. Dean's a man of simple pleasures, and those are two great tastes that taste great together. They picked up some excellent cherry pie just that afternoon at a mom-and-pop diner not far from the motel. Dean was so enamoured of it that the dark pie-craver inside of him got through not only his own slice, but also moved onto Sam's when he spent too long pissing about in the bathroom, which, let's face it, no self-respecting pie lover would abandon his pie to do. No, Sam just doesn't appreciate pie. Dean, on the other hand --
He shifts, rolling onto his back in the bed, shaking off the dream with some reluctance. Or rather, he tries to shake it off. What actually happens is that the dream proceeds to slide down the fronts of his thighs, pooling all wet and warm and gross on the sheet beneath him, which is the point at which Dean realises it isn't a dream at all, but -- "Sam!"
He can tell from the tone of Sam's laughter that he hasn't been asleep. Or, at least, if he has, he's been awake for a while, just waiting for this; waiting for Dean to wake up and taste his fucking revenge, like Sam actually cared that much about pie in the first place. "Dude," Dean says indignantly, "cream? Really?" He kicks off the covers and pulls himself into a sitting position. A sticky sludge of cream dribbles down the front of his shirt, and it's -- yeah, it's nasty.
"What's the matter, Dean?" Sam's coming closer; Dean can hear the doppler-shift of his voice, the creaking of bedsprings. "Thought you liked dessert? Thought you liked it so much --" (he's on Dean's bed, now, the whole mattress dipping and spilling a whole load more cream onto Dean's legs) " -- you just had to eat mine too. Couldn't help yourself?"
Dean shifts uncomfortably, too grossly sticky to waste time arguing the whole pie-stealing point. "I like dessert, not body-temperature cream, you asshole."
Sam makes a noise in his throat, but he doesn't say anything, just throws one leg over both of Dean's until he's straddling his hips, squishing a tidal wave of cream up between their bellies, and that's -- okay -- "You're gonna get it all over yourself," Dean warns hesitantly. "You better get off."
Sam's breath catches on his surprised little laugh, and Dean just barely has time to berate his dick for getting all excited about it after Sam just fucking pulled a stupid prank on him when Sam's big hands are on his wrists, pinning them down to the mattress over his head. Under the sugar-milk smell of the cream, Dean's beginning to pick up the scent of Sam's new sweat, the raw sex-smell of him, and it's -- okay, also a weirdly appealing combination.
Above him, Sam is clearly having similar thoughts. "Oh," he says, "I'mma get off, all right." He rocks his hips down against Dean's, and Dean pushes back unconsciously, biting his lip.
"Okay," he gets out, "Jesus, yeah, whenever you want, but was the freaking melted Cool Whip really necessary?"
Sam laughs again at that, nips at the soft place at Dean's throat that always makes him shiver. "Oh, I think so," Sam tells him. "I wanted my goddamn dessert."
For vicious_sock,
Misha/Sebastian, something flippant bottom!Misha
When it comes to Sebastian, the thing to be wary of -- well, no, rewind. When it comes to Sebastian, there are many things to be wary of, as any fool could see. Sebastian likes to take naked pictures of himself and then post them on the unsuspecting internet. Sebastian is distressingly good at lulling people into a false sense of unease with his upper-crust English accent (not, for the record, acquired through any actual time spent in England) and then pouncing on them with his foofy French cheek-kisses once he's sure they think he's an undemonstrative Brit. Sebastian is the type of man given to checking out the asses of every woman he sees, and then not even trying to pretend he wasn't. All things considered, Sebastian is basically a skeevy asshole, and Misha probably shouldn't be friends with him.
The trouble is -- well, no, rewind. It can't really be narrowed down to one thing, this trouble with Misha. The fact is, while he tends to be slapped with the label 'eccentric' rather than 'skeevy', Misha's kind of an asshole himself. He's not ashamed of it. Nor is he ashamed of the fact that, for whatever reason, he kind of likes being pinned between the wall and all Sebastian's muscle, while Sebastian mockingly tells him how dahling he looks in that outfit and how badly he wants to see Misha's pretty little knickers. (Even the panties were Misha's idea, despite the fact that Sebastian, predictably, gets off on it wildly.) See, Misha's problem has always been that he's more than half crazy, and crazy is as crazy does. Which, at the current time, happens to be Sebastian.
"Aren't you lovely," Sebastian coos in his ear, the calm before the storm, "aren't you lovely, you little motherfucker?" Then the sharp pinch of his fingernails at Misha's waist, the slam of his hips into Misha's, and that's what Misha's been waiting for.
"Oh," Misha says, ground out against the bolt of Seb's jaw, "sweet as fuckin' pie, you bet your ass." He curls his hand around Sebastian's throat, exerts just enough pressure to make Sebastian nervous, and that always gets Misha what he wants, which is to say, thrown on the nearest horizontal surface in a heap, ass up.
"You," Sebastian hisses in Misha's ear, "are a naughty little tease, aren't you? Dirty little fucking slut." (This is the nature of Sebastian's dialogue, always: the first sentence sugar-sweet and lightly pitched, and then its follow up, dark and filthily low. Misha likes it, grinds his ass up and back against Sebastian's dick. It's a big dick, which is another plus.) Misha whines, protests, but it's all for show, as Sebastian well knows.
"Who said anything -- oh -- you're the one making assumptions, you lout --" (Sebastian muffles a snigger against Misha's shoulder; all right, perhaps too far --) "-- about what kind of girl I am --"
"Oh, you arse," Sebastian cuts in, his voice round and laughing, stripped of its play-highs and sex-lows. "Give over." And he hauls Misha's jeans and underwear down over his backside together, smacks him hard. Misha hrrms against the pillow, pleased.
It works for them.
For candesgirl:
Cas is too close. Dean knows it; can feel the living heat of him all down the length of his side, and probably, this is the point at which he should take a step back, remind Cas what personal space means. But this is Cas, Cas alive and close and himself, and Dean can't bring himself to push that away when he never thought he'd get it back again.
They don't really do the whole gift-giving thing, the Winchesters, but there are some scraps of things Dean'll wrap up just because, necessities he may as well make look pretty, get a laugh out of it. He takes a step, making for the bed where he left them in a pile, and Cas moves with him, that silent warmth never leaving him. Dean takes a breath, and Cas interrupts before he can speak: "Dean."
He turns. He shouldn't; he knows Cas is too close for this to be safe, but he's weak, oh God, he's weak, and this is Cas all up in his space; Cas's wildly mussed hair and pink, parted mouth. Dean can't help the way his eyes go to it, though this little thread of panic leaps in his chest as he watches it drop open a little, as if Cas will figure him out, be disgusted, disappear.
Cas can't disappear anymore. Not the way he used to; and he doesn't do it the human way, now, either, just says Dean's name again, Dean, in a voice that sounds as breathless and dizzy as Dean suddenly feels. And then he leans in, before Dean can take stock of anything, where he is or where they are; Cas leans in, one hand on Dean's shoulder, and he's kissing him. Cas is kissing him.
It's strange, something about it expert in the way that a computer is expert, infinite knowledge of the mechanics of everything it has never put into use. Cas is like that now: sure, but somehow awkward. His lips are soft, so goddamn soft, but he's pressing them hard against Dean's, insistent until his mouth slides open over Dean's slack one.
Dean -- God. He's frozen by the enormity of it, the crazy newness, but then Cas's tongue brushes tentatively at his lips and he feels the swooping heat in his belly, the soft touch spurring him on, making it real. He moves, then, moves his lips reflexively, except that this is nothing like any other kiss he's ever had; Cas is nothing like any girl he's ever kissed, or any guy. This is Cas, Dean's salvation, this complicated tangle of power and disillusioned grace petting frantic at Dean's shoulder, cupping his face. This is Cas's hand on Dean's jaw, holding him still, and Dean can't breathe under the magnitude of it.
He lifts his hands, more by instinct than judgment, and fists them in Cas's hair, pulling him in. It's thick and soft and messy, warm between Dean's fingers, and Cas moans hot against Dean's mouth as Dean hauls him closer, the wet inside of his mouth catching on Dean's lips as they shift against each other. The sound of it is like a hook in the pit of Dean's stomach, keying him up, and he opens his mouth wide, lets their tongues meet in a hard wet slide in the space between. All at once, it's filthy, the sound of their kissing slick and obscene in the quiet of the room, Cas's hand on Dean's face angling him down so his jaw goes wider against Cas's, the two of them open entirely to each other. Dean's tonguing at the roof of Cas's mouth, stroking over the hot flat of his tongue, and Cas's hand is fisted in the lapel of his jacket like it's the only thing keeping him upright. Fuck, Cas. Dean gets his lips around the tip of Cas's tongue and sucks, imitation and promise, and when he draws back they're both of them panting, chests heaving with their restless breaths.
"Dean," Cas gets out. His face is pink, flushed to the throat, and his hair is every-which-way, mussed by Dean's clutching hands. "I --"
And it's as if Dean can't hear it, can't bear to have to stop kissing Cas for a second, not now that he's started, not now the floodgate has finally been opened. "Yeah," he says, "yeah," and then he's chasing Cas's mouth again, snatching a sucking kiss before he sinks his teeth into the swell of Cas's lower lip and sucks. God, Cas. He feels Cas's thumb come up, stroking over the corner of his mouth; feels the sounds he's making in his throat, cut off and helpless and so fucking into it.
Yeah, Dean thinks, and goes on kissing. There'll be time for everything else afterwards.
For elfladyarwen,
It's not a date. Dean has been pretty clear with all parties on this front: he and Cas are not on a fucking date, okay? Yeah, so maybe it's Christmas and maybe Dean's happier than he wants to admit to have Cas back; and maybe they've been watching each other differently, openly, since Cas's return, but still. Dean Winchester does not date.
That said, their not-date is fucking awesome. Cas, for a start, is way less picky than Sam when it comes to where they can eat, so they wind up at some incredible Italian place and Cas just eats and eats and eats, and doesn't say a word when Dean asks for pie too. Cas is all soft-haired and warm, on the edge of a smile all evening, and then they make out in the car in the parking lot when they get back to the motel after. As not-dates go, it's pretty amazing.
What follows might have freaked Dean out, oh, a year ago, but this Dean's gone through too much for too long to start creating his own problems when something like this is shoved in his lap. He and Cas have had a -- thing -- going for years; and maybe Dean was too dumb and wrapped up in himself to work it out before, but this isn't before. This is now, and if Cas is happy to slum it with Dean Winchester, then Dean's more than happy to work him into things slow, the two of them all furtive about it like teenagers, and it's good, the secretive thrill making it oddly more exciting.
Watching The Game is another skill Cas has recently learned, alongside such necessary tricks as French kissing and, yet more important, making fun of Sam's hair. One night, Sam's away on some extended run, seeking out a next of kin for evidence, and Cas is Watching The Game with Dean when, abruptly, he slides off the couch and sets his hands on Dean's knees.
"Uh," Dean gets out stupidly, "Cas, what are you -- what are you doing?" They've been necking on and off for hours, hands tracing the shape of each other through their clothes, and, really, he knows what Cas is doing, but somehow it's like his brain can't quite process the reality of it. Not when it's Cas down there on the floor between Dean's legs; Cas, who burned once with holy power.
The Cas on the motel carpet is pink-cheeked and half-smiling, one eyebrow quirked. They strung up little colored lights along the windowsill -- Cas's idea -- and the soft glow lends Cas this incongruous ethereal edge, all wrong with the way he's so clearly turned on, line of his dick clear and hard in his pants. He says, "Dean -- Dean, I want to." He pauses. "We have to start somewhere, you must agree." And then, before Dean has a chance to argue, Cas has his hands in Dean's pants, fumbling with the buttons, pulling Dean's dick out cradled in his hand. He starts out slow, these wet little licks around the head, but by the time Dean has breath enough to speak, Cas has moved on to mouthing at as much of Dean as he can get in his mouth, working the rest of him one-handed, and Dean --
"Jesus," he spits, the blasphemy too familiar to bite back. He brings one hand up tentatively to Cas's jaw, half-intending to push him away, but then Cas sucks at him sloppily and Dean can't do it; just flattens his palm to Cas's cheek and works on breathing, trying not to fuck right up into Cas's mouth.
The sight of it, of Cas's pink lips stretched wide around him, drooling wet and messy around Dean's cock -- God. Dean can feel the thrust of it through the smooth skin of Cas's cheek, can feel the way the muscles in his shoulders shift as he works, his desperate swallowing and his choked-off moans. It's obscene, ridiculous, and Cas is so fucking into it that Dean can't help shooting off in what might have been an embarrassingly short space of time, if Cas had ever gotten any experience to compare against. As it is, Cas doesn't seem to mind, fisting Dean's dick just to hold it steady like he doesn't want to lose any of it, his throat working urgently as he swallows down spurt after spurt.
They're a boneless tangle on the couch afterward, one leg of Dean's jeans all sticky with Cas's come where he rubbed himself off, when Cas says, "Laryngitis." All thoughtful and low, like it's something he's been considering. Dean blinks.
"Huh?"
"My throat," Cas elaborates, "it feels as if I had recently recovered from laryngitis."
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Um. I'm sorry?" he ventures. It's kind of a weird comment to get, post-blowjob, but then, Cas is kind of a weird guy. Dean likes that about him.
But Cas is shaking his head, one hand coming up to card through Dean's hair. "No, I like it," he confesses, soft. "I like the way it makes me sound. As if people might know what I'd been doing to you." And Dean can hear it, now that Cas mentions it, in his voice, the new burn of gravel under his usual rasp. The thought makes Dean's stomach pulse pleasantly, and he hauls Cas in, kisses his temple.
"Maybe they will," he says. "Maybe later, you can see if you can get me sounding like that too, huh?"
Cas just laughs, a low laugh, well-fucked. Dean takes it as a yes.
For de_nugis:
Sam/Dean curtain!fic with lots of weather conditions, please.
In December, it snows, and they're both of them caught by surprise. It's not that snow is unusual at this time of year, or even that they've never had a white Christmas before -- Dean remembers a particularly bad year in deepest Minnesota, holed up in a motel whose pipes had burst under the sheer weight of the weather. It's just that they've never really been anywhere the way they're here, Sam with his pick-up parked next to the Impala in their broad front drive, coming home with a tree slung in the truck bed like some suburban dad. The cookie-cutter normality of it all was already weird enough, and then it just had to go and freaking snow.
They've never exactly lived greeting-card lives. Dean's got what looks like half a holly bush in one gloved hand, dragging it behind him across the grassland that flanks their house. Beside him is Sam, arms full of hastily-chopped kindling, his breath puffing out in pale clouds of warmth, cooling on the air. They're already something out of a Coca-Cola commercial, All-American Winchesters, and when Dean opens his mouth and feels a snowflake settle in it, it's somehow the last straw. House in the 'burbs was one thing, regular-guy jobs another, but getting snowed on as they drag home their festive spoils?
"Jesus Christ," Dean says, leaning back to stare up at the sky. "And snow, too? I'm startin' to think there's something supernatural goin' on here, Sam."
It's crap, obviously. He doesn't really believe it, so much as he can't quite believe this, but it's worth voicing it just for the half-smile Sam gets on his face, this stupid fond look right before he drops his armful of wood into the grass.
"Whoa, hey," Dean starts up, because that was a shit ton of wood, and now it's going to be lying there getting snowed on, and that'll be a load of effort wasted. Sam, though, is faster, both hands going to Dean's biceps, holding him still.
"Dean," he says, a world in that one word, and he leans in, brushes his mouth over Dean's half-parted one. His lips are freakishly cold, but Dean chases them anyway, making a whine in his throat when Sam pulls back and straightens.
"Hey," Dean protests, but Sam just grins at him and starts to gather up his wood again, stacking it in the crook of his elbow.
"Nothing's going on here," he says. For a guy who's been to hell and back, he certainly has an air of conviction still about him, a way of putting others at their ease. Dean puts it down to the lawyer in him. Sam always was an argumentative little fuck. "No djinn, Dean, no angels, no demons. Just us." He unfolds again, wood restacked, and glances upward. "Us and snow. And, uh." He nods towards the cottage. "Blowjobs in front of a roaring fire, if that's cool with you? I'm fucking freezing."
The snow is falling more thickly now, clinging to the soft hair at the nape of Dean's neck. A roaring fire sounds like just the thing. Sam's mouth could only make things better, and after all, there's nothing like a little bit of incest to shake off the illusion of Uncanny Valley idyllicness.
"That's cool with me," Dean says, tightening his hold again on his holly.
The snowflakes are still pretty thin, not enough to do much damage to the wood, but they pick up their pace on the downslope, just to be safe.
For cherie_morte:
Dean's first thought is that he's dreaming. Hell, he even thinks he might have had this dream before: himself, suspended in the wet-velvet warmth of something that's somewhere between a hot chick's pussy and the innards of a pie. It's a good dream. Dean's a man of simple pleasures, and those are two great tastes that taste great together. They picked up some excellent cherry pie just that afternoon at a mom-and-pop diner not far from the motel. Dean was so enamoured of it that the dark pie-craver inside of him got through not only his own slice, but also moved onto Sam's when he spent too long pissing about in the bathroom, which, let's face it, no self-respecting pie lover would abandon his pie to do. No, Sam just doesn't appreciate pie. Dean, on the other hand --
He shifts, rolling onto his back in the bed, shaking off the dream with some reluctance. Or rather, he tries to shake it off. What actually happens is that the dream proceeds to slide down the fronts of his thighs, pooling all wet and warm and gross on the sheet beneath him, which is the point at which Dean realises it isn't a dream at all, but -- "Sam!"
He can tell from the tone of Sam's laughter that he hasn't been asleep. Or, at least, if he has, he's been awake for a while, just waiting for this; waiting for Dean to wake up and taste his fucking revenge, like Sam actually cared that much about pie in the first place. "Dude," Dean says indignantly, "cream? Really?" He kicks off the covers and pulls himself into a sitting position. A sticky sludge of cream dribbles down the front of his shirt, and it's -- yeah, it's nasty.
"What's the matter, Dean?" Sam's coming closer; Dean can hear the doppler-shift of his voice, the creaking of bedsprings. "Thought you liked dessert? Thought you liked it so much --" (he's on Dean's bed, now, the whole mattress dipping and spilling a whole load more cream onto Dean's legs) " -- you just had to eat mine too. Couldn't help yourself?"
Dean shifts uncomfortably, too grossly sticky to waste time arguing the whole pie-stealing point. "I like dessert, not body-temperature cream, you asshole."
Sam makes a noise in his throat, but he doesn't say anything, just throws one leg over both of Dean's until he's straddling his hips, squishing a tidal wave of cream up between their bellies, and that's -- okay -- "You're gonna get it all over yourself," Dean warns hesitantly. "You better get off."
Sam's breath catches on his surprised little laugh, and Dean just barely has time to berate his dick for getting all excited about it after Sam just fucking pulled a stupid prank on him when Sam's big hands are on his wrists, pinning them down to the mattress over his head. Under the sugar-milk smell of the cream, Dean's beginning to pick up the scent of Sam's new sweat, the raw sex-smell of him, and it's -- okay, also a weirdly appealing combination.
Above him, Sam is clearly having similar thoughts. "Oh," he says, "I'mma get off, all right." He rocks his hips down against Dean's, and Dean pushes back unconsciously, biting his lip.
"Okay," he gets out, "Jesus, yeah, whenever you want, but was the freaking melted Cool Whip really necessary?"
Sam laughs again at that, nips at the soft place at Dean's throat that always makes him shiver. "Oh, I think so," Sam tells him. "I wanted my goddamn dessert."
For vicious_sock,
Misha/Sebastian, something flippant bottom!Misha
When it comes to Sebastian, the thing to be wary of -- well, no, rewind. When it comes to Sebastian, there are many things to be wary of, as any fool could see. Sebastian likes to take naked pictures of himself and then post them on the unsuspecting internet. Sebastian is distressingly good at lulling people into a false sense of unease with his upper-crust English accent (not, for the record, acquired through any actual time spent in England) and then pouncing on them with his foofy French cheek-kisses once he's sure they think he's an undemonstrative Brit. Sebastian is the type of man given to checking out the asses of every woman he sees, and then not even trying to pretend he wasn't. All things considered, Sebastian is basically a skeevy asshole, and Misha probably shouldn't be friends with him.
The trouble is -- well, no, rewind. It can't really be narrowed down to one thing, this trouble with Misha. The fact is, while he tends to be slapped with the label 'eccentric' rather than 'skeevy', Misha's kind of an asshole himself. He's not ashamed of it. Nor is he ashamed of the fact that, for whatever reason, he kind of likes being pinned between the wall and all Sebastian's muscle, while Sebastian mockingly tells him how dahling he looks in that outfit and how badly he wants to see Misha's pretty little knickers. (Even the panties were Misha's idea, despite the fact that Sebastian, predictably, gets off on it wildly.) See, Misha's problem has always been that he's more than half crazy, and crazy is as crazy does. Which, at the current time, happens to be Sebastian.
"Aren't you lovely," Sebastian coos in his ear, the calm before the storm, "aren't you lovely, you little motherfucker?" Then the sharp pinch of his fingernails at Misha's waist, the slam of his hips into Misha's, and that's what Misha's been waiting for.
"Oh," Misha says, ground out against the bolt of Seb's jaw, "sweet as fuckin' pie, you bet your ass." He curls his hand around Sebastian's throat, exerts just enough pressure to make Sebastian nervous, and that always gets Misha what he wants, which is to say, thrown on the nearest horizontal surface in a heap, ass up.
"You," Sebastian hisses in Misha's ear, "are a naughty little tease, aren't you? Dirty little fucking slut." (This is the nature of Sebastian's dialogue, always: the first sentence sugar-sweet and lightly pitched, and then its follow up, dark and filthily low. Misha likes it, grinds his ass up and back against Sebastian's dick. It's a big dick, which is another plus.) Misha whines, protests, but it's all for show, as Sebastian well knows.
"Who said anything -- oh -- you're the one making assumptions, you lout --" (Sebastian muffles a snigger against Misha's shoulder; all right, perhaps too far --) "-- about what kind of girl I am --"
"Oh, you arse," Sebastian cuts in, his voice round and laughing, stripped of its play-highs and sex-lows. "Give over." And he hauls Misha's jeans and underwear down over his backside together, smacks him hard. Misha hrrms against the pillow, pleased.
It works for them.
For candesgirl:
Cas is too close. Dean knows it; can feel the living heat of him all down the length of his side, and probably, this is the point at which he should take a step back, remind Cas what personal space means. But this is Cas, Cas alive and close and himself, and Dean can't bring himself to push that away when he never thought he'd get it back again.
They don't really do the whole gift-giving thing, the Winchesters, but there are some scraps of things Dean'll wrap up just because, necessities he may as well make look pretty, get a laugh out of it. He takes a step, making for the bed where he left them in a pile, and Cas moves with him, that silent warmth never leaving him. Dean takes a breath, and Cas interrupts before he can speak: "Dean."
He turns. He shouldn't; he knows Cas is too close for this to be safe, but he's weak, oh God, he's weak, and this is Cas all up in his space; Cas's wildly mussed hair and pink, parted mouth. Dean can't help the way his eyes go to it, though this little thread of panic leaps in his chest as he watches it drop open a little, as if Cas will figure him out, be disgusted, disappear.
Cas can't disappear anymore. Not the way he used to; and he doesn't do it the human way, now, either, just says Dean's name again, Dean, in a voice that sounds as breathless and dizzy as Dean suddenly feels. And then he leans in, before Dean can take stock of anything, where he is or where they are; Cas leans in, one hand on Dean's shoulder, and he's kissing him. Cas is kissing him.
It's strange, something about it expert in the way that a computer is expert, infinite knowledge of the mechanics of everything it has never put into use. Cas is like that now: sure, but somehow awkward. His lips are soft, so goddamn soft, but he's pressing them hard against Dean's, insistent until his mouth slides open over Dean's slack one.
Dean -- God. He's frozen by the enormity of it, the crazy newness, but then Cas's tongue brushes tentatively at his lips and he feels the swooping heat in his belly, the soft touch spurring him on, making it real. He moves, then, moves his lips reflexively, except that this is nothing like any other kiss he's ever had; Cas is nothing like any girl he's ever kissed, or any guy. This is Cas, Dean's salvation, this complicated tangle of power and disillusioned grace petting frantic at Dean's shoulder, cupping his face. This is Cas's hand on Dean's jaw, holding him still, and Dean can't breathe under the magnitude of it.
He lifts his hands, more by instinct than judgment, and fists them in Cas's hair, pulling him in. It's thick and soft and messy, warm between Dean's fingers, and Cas moans hot against Dean's mouth as Dean hauls him closer, the wet inside of his mouth catching on Dean's lips as they shift against each other. The sound of it is like a hook in the pit of Dean's stomach, keying him up, and he opens his mouth wide, lets their tongues meet in a hard wet slide in the space between. All at once, it's filthy, the sound of their kissing slick and obscene in the quiet of the room, Cas's hand on Dean's face angling him down so his jaw goes wider against Cas's, the two of them open entirely to each other. Dean's tonguing at the roof of Cas's mouth, stroking over the hot flat of his tongue, and Cas's hand is fisted in the lapel of his jacket like it's the only thing keeping him upright. Fuck, Cas. Dean gets his lips around the tip of Cas's tongue and sucks, imitation and promise, and when he draws back they're both of them panting, chests heaving with their restless breaths.
"Dean," Cas gets out. His face is pink, flushed to the throat, and his hair is every-which-way, mussed by Dean's clutching hands. "I --"
And it's as if Dean can't hear it, can't bear to have to stop kissing Cas for a second, not now that he's started, not now the floodgate has finally been opened. "Yeah," he says, "yeah," and then he's chasing Cas's mouth again, snatching a sucking kiss before he sinks his teeth into the swell of Cas's lower lip and sucks. God, Cas. He feels Cas's thumb come up, stroking over the corner of his mouth; feels the sounds he's making in his throat, cut off and helpless and so fucking into it.
Yeah, Dean thinks, and goes on kissing. There'll be time for everything else afterwards.
For elfladyarwen,
It's not a date. Dean has been pretty clear with all parties on this front: he and Cas are not on a fucking date, okay? Yeah, so maybe it's Christmas and maybe Dean's happier than he wants to admit to have Cas back; and maybe they've been watching each other differently, openly, since Cas's return, but still. Dean Winchester does not date.
That said, their not-date is fucking awesome. Cas, for a start, is way less picky than Sam when it comes to where they can eat, so they wind up at some incredible Italian place and Cas just eats and eats and eats, and doesn't say a word when Dean asks for pie too. Cas is all soft-haired and warm, on the edge of a smile all evening, and then they make out in the car in the parking lot when they get back to the motel after. As not-dates go, it's pretty amazing.
What follows might have freaked Dean out, oh, a year ago, but this Dean's gone through too much for too long to start creating his own problems when something like this is shoved in his lap. He and Cas have had a -- thing -- going for years; and maybe Dean was too dumb and wrapped up in himself to work it out before, but this isn't before. This is now, and if Cas is happy to slum it with Dean Winchester, then Dean's more than happy to work him into things slow, the two of them all furtive about it like teenagers, and it's good, the secretive thrill making it oddly more exciting.
Watching The Game is another skill Cas has recently learned, alongside such necessary tricks as French kissing and, yet more important, making fun of Sam's hair. One night, Sam's away on some extended run, seeking out a next of kin for evidence, and Cas is Watching The Game with Dean when, abruptly, he slides off the couch and sets his hands on Dean's knees.
"Uh," Dean gets out stupidly, "Cas, what are you -- what are you doing?" They've been necking on and off for hours, hands tracing the shape of each other through their clothes, and, really, he knows what Cas is doing, but somehow it's like his brain can't quite process the reality of it. Not when it's Cas down there on the floor between Dean's legs; Cas, who burned once with holy power.
The Cas on the motel carpet is pink-cheeked and half-smiling, one eyebrow quirked. They strung up little colored lights along the windowsill -- Cas's idea -- and the soft glow lends Cas this incongruous ethereal edge, all wrong with the way he's so clearly turned on, line of his dick clear and hard in his pants. He says, "Dean -- Dean, I want to." He pauses. "We have to start somewhere, you must agree." And then, before Dean has a chance to argue, Cas has his hands in Dean's pants, fumbling with the buttons, pulling Dean's dick out cradled in his hand. He starts out slow, these wet little licks around the head, but by the time Dean has breath enough to speak, Cas has moved on to mouthing at as much of Dean as he can get in his mouth, working the rest of him one-handed, and Dean --
"Jesus," he spits, the blasphemy too familiar to bite back. He brings one hand up tentatively to Cas's jaw, half-intending to push him away, but then Cas sucks at him sloppily and Dean can't do it; just flattens his palm to Cas's cheek and works on breathing, trying not to fuck right up into Cas's mouth.
The sight of it, of Cas's pink lips stretched wide around him, drooling wet and messy around Dean's cock -- God. Dean can feel the thrust of it through the smooth skin of Cas's cheek, can feel the way the muscles in his shoulders shift as he works, his desperate swallowing and his choked-off moans. It's obscene, ridiculous, and Cas is so fucking into it that Dean can't help shooting off in what might have been an embarrassingly short space of time, if Cas had ever gotten any experience to compare against. As it is, Cas doesn't seem to mind, fisting Dean's dick just to hold it steady like he doesn't want to lose any of it, his throat working urgently as he swallows down spurt after spurt.
They're a boneless tangle on the couch afterward, one leg of Dean's jeans all sticky with Cas's come where he rubbed himself off, when Cas says, "Laryngitis." All thoughtful and low, like it's something he's been considering. Dean blinks.
"Huh?"
"My throat," Cas elaborates, "it feels as if I had recently recovered from laryngitis."
Dean raises an eyebrow. "Um. I'm sorry?" he ventures. It's kind of a weird comment to get, post-blowjob, but then, Cas is kind of a weird guy. Dean likes that about him.
But Cas is shaking his head, one hand coming up to card through Dean's hair. "No, I like it," he confesses, soft. "I like the way it makes me sound. As if people might know what I'd been doing to you." And Dean can hear it, now that Cas mentions it, in his voice, the new burn of gravel under his usual rasp. The thought makes Dean's stomach pulse pleasantly, and he hauls Cas in, kisses his temple.
"Maybe they will," he says. "Maybe later, you can see if you can get me sounding like that too, huh?"
Cas just laughs, a low laugh, well-fucked. Dean takes it as a yes.