Fic: Chick-Flick Moments
Title: Chick-Flick Moments
Rating: NC-17
Characters and/or Pairing: Demon!Dean/Fallen!Castiel
Genre: PWP
Warnings: D/s vibe, rough sex, gunplay, Cas' asexuality, demonic schmoop... No, seriously.
Word Count: 1900
Summary: This is pretty much Dean's version of romance.
A/N: IMPORTANT - This fic is part of my Darkside Verse, and probably won't make much sense unless you've watched the original trilogy of videos it sprang from.
A/N2: I felt like writing more Darkside porn, what can I say? And hey, who knew demons could be schmoopy? ...After a fashion.
It’s nearly 3 in the morning and they’re both standing in the parking lot of some run-down rest-stop when the need abruptly strikes. There’s no warning to it, and in seconds he’s got the angel slammed into the side of the Impala, biting at his throat as he scrabbles for the door handle. Sam will bitch like there’s no tomorrow when they pick him up from the motel later and he discovers the smell of sex permeating the car, but right now Dean doesn’t give a fuck. Castiel is absolutely pliant under his hands, allowing himself to be shoved into the back seat without a word, already lying back as Dean hurriedly climbs in after him and yanks the door closed.
There’s no room to do this elegantly. Kneeling above the angel, he strips Castiel as efficiently as he can manage, overzealous as a row of buttons pop and scatter. Castiel squirms and does his best to help, but mostly he’s trapped under the demon’s weight, the space too small for him to move very much. Finished, Dean tosses everything into the front seats, out of the way. His own clothing he doesn’t bother with, just unzips his jeans enough to get his dick out. It’s good like this.
There’s lube in his jacket pocket that he fumbles for, uncapping clumsily and promptly spilling. Cas doesn’t really need the slick - unable even to tell if it hurts when they do it without - but using it makes things easier, quicker. Dean applies it carelessly, pressing two fingers inside the angel without ceremony, a few ungentle thrusts and a scissoring motion and he’s done. Castiel’s unwavering blue gaze is fixed on him throughout, not a flicker of expression to indicate anything but willingness. He’s got one leg drawn up at a somewhat undignified angle to provide easy access, and when Dean leans further over him he tries to spread wider to accommodate. But the demon smirks fleetingly and slaps his thigh. “Not like this. Get up.”
They’ve done this often enough now that Castiel knows what that means. For a few moments they struggle to rearrange themselves, all tangled limbs and grunts of effort, until at last they’ve successfully swapped places. Dean lies stretched across the bench seat and Castiel awkwardly straddles him, holding on to a headrest for balance. Dean’s been achingly hard since outside the car, and it’s almost stinging relief as the angel begins to lower onto him.
He’s tight enough to make Dean’s head spin, make him curse gutturally and arch up into it. Sometimes when they do it like this he laces his fingers behind his head in some pretence of nonchalance and forces himself not to touch; just lies there obstinately and gets Cas to do the work, taking no small amount of malicious enjoyment in the angel’s obvious embarrassment as he’s made to fuck himself on Dean’s cock. Castiel doesn’t like that much; prefers Dean to be firmly in control.
He’s feeling generous tonight, though - stupidly affectionate even - so he gets his hands on Cas’s hips and pulls, gasping as he slides home. Grip tight enough to bruise, he manipulates the angel’s movements; grinding him down, coaxing him into rhythmic circles, setting the pace slow and lazy. He’s in the mood to make it last, tonight.
As the soft creak of leather and slick sounds of lube fill the car, Dean grins breathlessly. “Keep going like that,” he instructs, and above him the angel nods, obedient as always. He continues to rotate his hips like a pro - like he’s been taught, through hours of practice - as the demon brings his hands to grip Castiel’s thighs, splayed wide either side of Dean. Muscles shift under his palms as Cas lifts and lowers himself ever so carefully. He squeezes, relishing the contrast of the other’s bare skin against the rough denim of his jeans, zipper and buttons imprinting red marks in soft flesh. Idly, he reaches further back, to the place where tight, taught muscle is stretched around him, and rubs gently. Castiel doesn’t react one way or another to the touch. His unresponsiveness is pretty much par for the course, though, and Dean’s never felt any pressing need to change it. In fact, he suspects he likes it better this way than if the angel were getting off with him. That Cas submits to this solely for Dean’s benefit, without even the incentive of his own enjoyment, is one of the hottest experiences Dean’s ever discovered.
Still, it’s not like it’s completely one-sided, this arrangement they’ve got. Cas gets something out of it too, Dean knows he does. Those times he’s had the angel suck him off, Castiel’s done so as if it’s an act akin to worship. And whenever they fuck, Cas goes all soft and eager and grateful, welcomes it even though he never comes.
Dean wants more than anything, in that moment, to make it good for him.
His movements speed up, thrusting so hard that Castiel has to lean forward, brace his hands on Dean’s chest and ride it out. Meanwhile, Cas’s name is a breathy litany in his throat, closest he’s ever again going to come to prayer. He’s saying nonsense things, fragments of praise and mindless adoration, things that would no doubt leave him mortified if he were anywhere near his right mind right now.
“-Cas, Cas - fuck! - so good, need you-”
The angel’s breath hitches subtlety at the words and like a reward he twists his hips in the way he knows Dean loves, and that’s it, they’re both there, they’re-
And suddenly there’s a sharp rap at the window. Startled, Dean freezes against his will, and to his utter, incredulous disbelief he looks up to find some... some human peering in at them, wide eyed and clearly scandalised. “You can’t do that here!” comes the muffled complaint through the glass, sounding almost wildly irrelevant. “It’s a public indecency!” And fuck, Dean’s so close to coming he does not have time for this.
Before he even thinks about it he’s got his hand under the seat and on the gun kept stashed there. His eyes go demon-black as he pulls it, swinging it up and taking careful aim over Cas’s shoulder. “Dude,” he manages to hiss through gritted teeth, “you’re ruining the mood.”
For long moments the guy doesn’t react at all, paralysed by horror as his now frantic gaze darts between the barrel of the gun and the unnatural darkness of Dean’s eyes. Castiel is the only one moving in the odd tableau, turning his head to watch the stunned human over his shoulder. He’s still rocking his hips incrementally, because Dean hasn’t told him to stop yet.
Rapidly losing patience, Dean cocks the gun pointedly. He doesn’t particularly want to shoot out his baby’s back windows, but he’ll make a judgement call if their moronic peeping tom doesn’t make himself scarce in the next five seconds.
Luckily, the human chooses that moment to catch a clue. He stumbles backwards, disappearing abruptly from sight as he trips and falls. They hear him scrambling away across the parking lot.
Even so Dean stays as he is, gun outstretched and rock-steady, poised to kill something. He’s tense from the interruption, on edge. After a while, Castiel turns back towards him. His cheek brushes the metal weapon as he does so, grazes the inside of Dean’s wrist, and the demon shudders in response, hips snapping upwards. Attention effectively recaptured, he slowly brings the gun around, tracing the muzzle along the sharp line of the angel’s jaw. Blue eyes track the movement, and then Cas tilts his head back, offering up the pale column of his throat. Dean hums approval as he drags the weapon down, to dip into the pool of shadow at Castiel’s collar bone. He presses there, finger on the trigger, and bites his lip with unabashed want when the angel just lets him.
Down lower, past slim chest and flat stomach, until cool metal suddenly brushes the first slight trail of pubic hair. Then and only then does Castiel betray discomfort. He goes still, up on his knees, and quickly reaches down to try and halt Dean’s progress. “Don’t.”
It’s not a protest born of fear of being hurt, Dean knows. Technically, Cas can’t be hurt. And anyway, they both know that if Dean were ever actually going to pull the trigger, Castiel would probably allow it without a murmur.
No, this is just mere insecurity.
Dean lets his gaze drop to where Castiel’s dick is flaccid between his legs. In his stolen vessel he could never get it up, never experience either pleasure or pain while they fucked, and it was one of the few things that ever seemed to really bother him. More often than not he’s made shy by it, embarrassed by the inability, and hates for Dean’s attention to settle there.
Almost defiantly, the demon studies him at length. The gun is discarded absentmindedly, dropped with a clatter into the footwell, which frees his hand to reach out and touch. Once again Castiel tries to stop him, rearing upwards nervously. “Dean-!”
But a swift hard yank puts him promptly back in place. “Like it,” Dean promises distractedly, and he does, always has. For all Castiel’s shyness, Dean has never once taken issue with the... idiosyncrasy. He sometimes thinks that with the distinct lack of male hardness between the angel’s legs, it’s not - well it’s not unlike fucking a woman. He doesn’t mean that to be as insulting as it probably sounds. Only that Cas always seems so wonderfully vulnerable when they do this, all soft and willing. He’s Dean’s to do with as he pleases; to claim and own and, if it came to it, protect. Dean would kill for him as easy and thoughtless as he would Sammy, and he hopes like hell the Fallen angel knows that.
Castiel whines quietly as the demon strokes him, closing his eyes like he’s ashamed. Dean grins, knows immediately he’s going to chase that sound as often as possible in future.
He surges up into a sitting position, dragging Cas more firmly into his lap. The angel grasps tightly at Dean’s jacket, head ducked to hide his face against the high collar. Dean claws scratches the length of Castiel’s spine and Cas chastely kisses the shell of his ear, and like that they rut together, working for Dean’s orgasm.
He’s already close and within seconds he comes with his head thrown back, panting as he spends inside the angel. Castiel clings to him throughout, fingers curled in his clothing, and they stay like that until it’s over.
After a while Dean comes back to himself a little, blinking his eyes back to green. Sighing in wordless satisfaction, he bites lazily at the side of Cas’s neck and shifts until they disengage. He bodily lifts the angel and once again smoothly repositions them, laying Cas out on his back so Dean can sprawl atop him, heavy and possessive, his cheek on Castiel’s breastbone. He’d never admit it, but he likes these minutes of afterglow. Fingers comb through his hair, drag pleasantly across the nape of his neck - and damn, Sam was totally right. Cas is turning him soft. He really has to stop indulging in chick-flick moments like these...
There's a faint whir of sirens in the distance and the demon growls. If that little fuck back there called the cops, Dean's going to shoot him through the head.
Rating: NC-17
Characters and/or Pairing: Demon!Dean/Fallen!Castiel
Genre: PWP
Warnings: D/s vibe, rough sex, gunplay, Cas' asexuality, demonic schmoop... No, seriously.
Word Count: 1900
Summary: This is pretty much Dean's version of romance.
A/N: IMPORTANT - This fic is part of my Darkside Verse, and probably won't make much sense unless you've watched the original trilogy of videos it sprang from.
A/N2: I felt like writing more Darkside porn, what can I say? And hey, who knew demons could be schmoopy? ...After a fashion.
It’s nearly 3 in the morning and they’re both standing in the parking lot of some run-down rest-stop when the need abruptly strikes. There’s no warning to it, and in seconds he’s got the angel slammed into the side of the Impala, biting at his throat as he scrabbles for the door handle. Sam will bitch like there’s no tomorrow when they pick him up from the motel later and he discovers the smell of sex permeating the car, but right now Dean doesn’t give a fuck. Castiel is absolutely pliant under his hands, allowing himself to be shoved into the back seat without a word, already lying back as Dean hurriedly climbs in after him and yanks the door closed.
There’s no room to do this elegantly. Kneeling above the angel, he strips Castiel as efficiently as he can manage, overzealous as a row of buttons pop and scatter. Castiel squirms and does his best to help, but mostly he’s trapped under the demon’s weight, the space too small for him to move very much. Finished, Dean tosses everything into the front seats, out of the way. His own clothing he doesn’t bother with, just unzips his jeans enough to get his dick out. It’s good like this.
There’s lube in his jacket pocket that he fumbles for, uncapping clumsily and promptly spilling. Cas doesn’t really need the slick - unable even to tell if it hurts when they do it without - but using it makes things easier, quicker. Dean applies it carelessly, pressing two fingers inside the angel without ceremony, a few ungentle thrusts and a scissoring motion and he’s done. Castiel’s unwavering blue gaze is fixed on him throughout, not a flicker of expression to indicate anything but willingness. He’s got one leg drawn up at a somewhat undignified angle to provide easy access, and when Dean leans further over him he tries to spread wider to accommodate. But the demon smirks fleetingly and slaps his thigh. “Not like this. Get up.”
They’ve done this often enough now that Castiel knows what that means. For a few moments they struggle to rearrange themselves, all tangled limbs and grunts of effort, until at last they’ve successfully swapped places. Dean lies stretched across the bench seat and Castiel awkwardly straddles him, holding on to a headrest for balance. Dean’s been achingly hard since outside the car, and it’s almost stinging relief as the angel begins to lower onto him.
He’s tight enough to make Dean’s head spin, make him curse gutturally and arch up into it. Sometimes when they do it like this he laces his fingers behind his head in some pretence of nonchalance and forces himself not to touch; just lies there obstinately and gets Cas to do the work, taking no small amount of malicious enjoyment in the angel’s obvious embarrassment as he’s made to fuck himself on Dean’s cock. Castiel doesn’t like that much; prefers Dean to be firmly in control.
He’s feeling generous tonight, though - stupidly affectionate even - so he gets his hands on Cas’s hips and pulls, gasping as he slides home. Grip tight enough to bruise, he manipulates the angel’s movements; grinding him down, coaxing him into rhythmic circles, setting the pace slow and lazy. He’s in the mood to make it last, tonight.
As the soft creak of leather and slick sounds of lube fill the car, Dean grins breathlessly. “Keep going like that,” he instructs, and above him the angel nods, obedient as always. He continues to rotate his hips like a pro - like he’s been taught, through hours of practice - as the demon brings his hands to grip Castiel’s thighs, splayed wide either side of Dean. Muscles shift under his palms as Cas lifts and lowers himself ever so carefully. He squeezes, relishing the contrast of the other’s bare skin against the rough denim of his jeans, zipper and buttons imprinting red marks in soft flesh. Idly, he reaches further back, to the place where tight, taught muscle is stretched around him, and rubs gently. Castiel doesn’t react one way or another to the touch. His unresponsiveness is pretty much par for the course, though, and Dean’s never felt any pressing need to change it. In fact, he suspects he likes it better this way than if the angel were getting off with him. That Cas submits to this solely for Dean’s benefit, without even the incentive of his own enjoyment, is one of the hottest experiences Dean’s ever discovered.
Still, it’s not like it’s completely one-sided, this arrangement they’ve got. Cas gets something out of it too, Dean knows he does. Those times he’s had the angel suck him off, Castiel’s done so as if it’s an act akin to worship. And whenever they fuck, Cas goes all soft and eager and grateful, welcomes it even though he never comes.
Dean wants more than anything, in that moment, to make it good for him.
His movements speed up, thrusting so hard that Castiel has to lean forward, brace his hands on Dean’s chest and ride it out. Meanwhile, Cas’s name is a breathy litany in his throat, closest he’s ever again going to come to prayer. He’s saying nonsense things, fragments of praise and mindless adoration, things that would no doubt leave him mortified if he were anywhere near his right mind right now.
“-Cas, Cas - fuck! - so good, need you-”
The angel’s breath hitches subtlety at the words and like a reward he twists his hips in the way he knows Dean loves, and that’s it, they’re both there, they’re-
And suddenly there’s a sharp rap at the window. Startled, Dean freezes against his will, and to his utter, incredulous disbelief he looks up to find some... some human peering in at them, wide eyed and clearly scandalised. “You can’t do that here!” comes the muffled complaint through the glass, sounding almost wildly irrelevant. “It’s a public indecency!” And fuck, Dean’s so close to coming he does not have time for this.
Before he even thinks about it he’s got his hand under the seat and on the gun kept stashed there. His eyes go demon-black as he pulls it, swinging it up and taking careful aim over Cas’s shoulder. “Dude,” he manages to hiss through gritted teeth, “you’re ruining the mood.”
For long moments the guy doesn’t react at all, paralysed by horror as his now frantic gaze darts between the barrel of the gun and the unnatural darkness of Dean’s eyes. Castiel is the only one moving in the odd tableau, turning his head to watch the stunned human over his shoulder. He’s still rocking his hips incrementally, because Dean hasn’t told him to stop yet.
Rapidly losing patience, Dean cocks the gun pointedly. He doesn’t particularly want to shoot out his baby’s back windows, but he’ll make a judgement call if their moronic peeping tom doesn’t make himself scarce in the next five seconds.
Luckily, the human chooses that moment to catch a clue. He stumbles backwards, disappearing abruptly from sight as he trips and falls. They hear him scrambling away across the parking lot.
Even so Dean stays as he is, gun outstretched and rock-steady, poised to kill something. He’s tense from the interruption, on edge. After a while, Castiel turns back towards him. His cheek brushes the metal weapon as he does so, grazes the inside of Dean’s wrist, and the demon shudders in response, hips snapping upwards. Attention effectively recaptured, he slowly brings the gun around, tracing the muzzle along the sharp line of the angel’s jaw. Blue eyes track the movement, and then Cas tilts his head back, offering up the pale column of his throat. Dean hums approval as he drags the weapon down, to dip into the pool of shadow at Castiel’s collar bone. He presses there, finger on the trigger, and bites his lip with unabashed want when the angel just lets him.
Down lower, past slim chest and flat stomach, until cool metal suddenly brushes the first slight trail of pubic hair. Then and only then does Castiel betray discomfort. He goes still, up on his knees, and quickly reaches down to try and halt Dean’s progress. “Don’t.”
It’s not a protest born of fear of being hurt, Dean knows. Technically, Cas can’t be hurt. And anyway, they both know that if Dean were ever actually going to pull the trigger, Castiel would probably allow it without a murmur.
No, this is just mere insecurity.
Dean lets his gaze drop to where Castiel’s dick is flaccid between his legs. In his stolen vessel he could never get it up, never experience either pleasure or pain while they fucked, and it was one of the few things that ever seemed to really bother him. More often than not he’s made shy by it, embarrassed by the inability, and hates for Dean’s attention to settle there.
Almost defiantly, the demon studies him at length. The gun is discarded absentmindedly, dropped with a clatter into the footwell, which frees his hand to reach out and touch. Once again Castiel tries to stop him, rearing upwards nervously. “Dean-!”
But a swift hard yank puts him promptly back in place. “Like it,” Dean promises distractedly, and he does, always has. For all Castiel’s shyness, Dean has never once taken issue with the... idiosyncrasy. He sometimes thinks that with the distinct lack of male hardness between the angel’s legs, it’s not - well it’s not unlike fucking a woman. He doesn’t mean that to be as insulting as it probably sounds. Only that Cas always seems so wonderfully vulnerable when they do this, all soft and willing. He’s Dean’s to do with as he pleases; to claim and own and, if it came to it, protect. Dean would kill for him as easy and thoughtless as he would Sammy, and he hopes like hell the Fallen angel knows that.
Castiel whines quietly as the demon strokes him, closing his eyes like he’s ashamed. Dean grins, knows immediately he’s going to chase that sound as often as possible in future.
He surges up into a sitting position, dragging Cas more firmly into his lap. The angel grasps tightly at Dean’s jacket, head ducked to hide his face against the high collar. Dean claws scratches the length of Castiel’s spine and Cas chastely kisses the shell of his ear, and like that they rut together, working for Dean’s orgasm.
He’s already close and within seconds he comes with his head thrown back, panting as he spends inside the angel. Castiel clings to him throughout, fingers curled in his clothing, and they stay like that until it’s over.
After a while Dean comes back to himself a little, blinking his eyes back to green. Sighing in wordless satisfaction, he bites lazily at the side of Cas’s neck and shifts until they disengage. He bodily lifts the angel and once again smoothly repositions them, laying Cas out on his back so Dean can sprawl atop him, heavy and possessive, his cheek on Castiel’s breastbone. He’d never admit it, but he likes these minutes of afterglow. Fingers comb through his hair, drag pleasantly across the nape of his neck - and damn, Sam was totally right. Cas is turning him soft. He really has to stop indulging in chick-flick moments like these...
There's a faint whir of sirens in the distance and the demon growls. If that little fuck back there called the cops, Dean's going to shoot him through the head.