With Me (Dean/Cas NC-17)
Dean shows off his new home to Cas, including a sexy tour of his bed. But the incident with Samandriel followed by Cas's disappearance is still weighing on them, as is Naomi's influence (though Dean is unaware of it). So when Dean tries to dominate Cas, some of that uncertainty creeps in and Cas has to step up until Dean regains control. (3K words)
Contains: d/s switching, forced orgasm
-----
The first time Dean leads Cas into the Men of Letters’ bunker, Cas stumbles. It’s nothing obvious - he doesn’t trip over the threshold or anything - there’s just a stutter of his feet as he takes his first steps inside. But to Dean, who’s been hyper-aware of Cas ever since he popped back up out of nowhere after being gone for months, he might as well have fallen on his face.
“What’s wrong?” Dean demands.
Cas doesn’t answer right away. He stares at his hands as if he’s only just noticed them, flexing his fingers experimentally. Then he takes a few quick steps backwards until he’s standing outside again. He steps back in, then out, then in again. Finally he looks up at Dean with wide eyes. “The protective wards on this place are impressively thorough.”
“Why, are they messing with your mojo?” Dean closes the door behind Cas, taking the opportunity to look at him from all angles. He can see it in the way Cas stands - slightly off-balance, like he’s not quite sure where his limbs are - the same way he used to hold himself during the short time that he was human. So Dean knows the answer even before Cas gives it.
“It seems that, within this bunker, I have no mojo to speak of,” he says.
“Huh,” says Dean. “How could the Men of Letters have warded against angels? They were long gone by the time you guys showed up for the apocalypse.”
“They were aware of our existence,” says Cas, not sounding too bothered by his temporary de-powering. “They used our feathers and our blood in their spells. It’s possible that they protected their strongholds against us purposefully. But it’s more likely that my grace falls within the scope of a more general ward against unrecognized magic.”
Cas begins to step forward, peering deeper into the bunker, but Dean holds him back. “You okay, then?”
He thinks about it for a second, and then Cas gives him a small but genuine smile. “Yes,” he says. “It’s a relief, actually.”
“A relief? From what?”
Cas blinks rapidly and stares at the floor. “I…” he stammers, “I’m not sure why I phrased it that way. I just mean that… I suppose I feel safe here.”
Dean’s mouth twists in frustration. Cas has been like this ever since he reappeared: cryptic, oblique, and completely unwilling to explain where he’s been and why he hasn’t been answering prayers. What answers he has given have been vague and contradictory. There’s clearly something going on, but damned if Dean can figure out what it is. “I guess that’s good,” he mutters. Then he perks up as he adds, “Let me give you the tour, okay?”
Cas follows him throughout the bunker, nodding and smiling as Dean describes the water pressure in the showers, the vast storerooms, and how excited Sam has been about the library. “Careful with that; it’s sharp,” Dean says when he notices Cas inspecting the scimitar in its holder.
“You cut yourself on it, didn’t you?”
Dean pouts a little. “No.”
“Liar.”
They hold each other’s gaze there for a moment, Cas with one hand still resting on the scimitar’s hilt, Dean bent over with his palms pressed flat against the table that stands between them. The corners of their lips twitch with irrepressible happiness. It’s such a simple thing, to be together, but it’s a luxury they haven’t enjoyed for a long time.
But after a moment, Dean’s smile sags with worry and he asks one more time, “Where’ve you been, man?”
Cas breaks eye contact to peer intently at some bookshelves instead. “I told you,” he mutters.
“You haven’t told me squat,” Dean barks, more harshly than he’d meant to. When Cas flinches, he softens his voice. “Are you in trouble? Is someone keeping you from talking? Come on, give me something. We can help.”
Cas fiddles with the tassel on the end of a bookmark. He ignores the offer for as long as he can, scanning the book titles, pretending that they interest him. Finally he looks over his shoulder to find Dean still staring at him and waiting for an answer. “There is nothing to help with,” he says.
Dean’s shoulders slump as he sighs. But he accepts the answer, if only because he knows he won’t get a straighter one. “Okay,” he says, pushing himself upright and crossing to the other side of the table, where Cas is still standing against the bookshelf. “Okay.”
He’s better at talking without words, anyway.
He grabs Cas’s head between his hands, thumbs digging in under his jawbones to angle his face up for a crushing kiss. They stagger with the impact of it, Cas’s back slamming against the shelf so hard that a couple of books fall out and flap their way to the ground.
Dean’s hands slide down the sides of Cas’s face and trace their way down his neck, rough and claiming. He pushes the coat off of Cas’s shoulders and unbuttons his shirt, shoving his hands through to the hot skin underneath. Grabbing and pressing, he tells with his hands and the press of his body how unbearable the last months have been. His fingers digging into shoulders and between ribs bely the quiet desperation and sleepless nights.
Cas accepts Dean’s smothering kisses and responds with gentle touches, his hands twisting into Dean’s shirt and stroking down his chest, each touch a silent apology. He doesn’t protest when Dean manhandles him away from the bookcase and steers him toward the table, nor when Dean bends him over it so his face is pressed against the polished wood.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean mumbles to the back of Cas’s neck, nuzzling the furrow of his spine where it dips beneath his shirt. “You’re here now. You’re still mine.”
“Yours,” Cas breathes. He presses back to rub his rear against Dean’s crotch as Dean tears his suit jacket off and reaches around his to undo the buttons of his shirt. It’s hard to see with his face up against the table, but he turns his neck as far as he can until he manages to catch Dean’s eye. “You still haven’t showed me your bedroom.”
They don’t even bother picking up their clothes. Castiel’s coats, Dean’s shirt, and a total of three shoes are left in the library as Dean and Cas tumble into the hallway, still clinging to each other, stumbling, crashing into walls, nipping and kissing at every patch of exposed skin that they can reach. Castiel’s shirt falls away as they go, and Dean manages to kick off that last pesky shoe before they fall through the door to Dean’s room and slam it shut behind them.
Dean doesn’t give Cas time to comment on the room. On how he’s only bothered to decorate half of the walls. On how many chairs there are - more than Dean could ever need, even factoring in Sam. On how this is clearly the room of a person who has been waiting for someone to share it with him. Instead, Dean pulls Cas down into bed with him and crushes another kiss out of his lips.
Cas lies back, smiling and compliant, and lifts his hips so Dean can slide his pants and boxers out from under him. As Dean stands and takes off his own pants he keeps one knee pressed against Cas’s shin where it hangs over the bed, and when he reaches for the bottle of lube in his nightstand he has to stretch to keep one hand clenched over Cas’s thigh. Maybe it’s silly, but he can’t shake the feeling that Cas might fade and disappear if he takes his hands off of him even for a second.
Cas nods at the lube in Dean’s hand. “You were ready for me.”
“You don’t know that,” says Dean, unable to keep a tiny note of bitterness out of his voice. “You’ve been gone. For all you know I’ve been bringing dudes back here all the time.” He nudges Cas’s legs apart with his knees as he scoots onto the bed.
Cas opens his legs easily, making a space for Dean to kneel. He says softly, “Oh? And all these other men, were they in your bed with you when you were praying to me every night?” Then he gasps and arches as Dean presses two fingers, cold and slick with lube, between the cheeks of his ass.
“Shut up,” Dean mutters, leaning forward to kiss him as he slides his fingers inside one by one. “You know there isn’t anybody else.”
“Dean…” Cas groans. He tries to twist away. Dean holds him still with one hand held lightly around his neck. But when his gaping mouth tightens into a pained grimace and he says, “Dean, slow down!” Dean stops, two fingers buried in him almost to the second knuckle.
“Fuck,” Dean says. “Sorry. Forgot you’re not an angel in here.” He draws his fingers slowly back, then eases them forward. Tiny, gentle strokes opening Cas up bit by bit. “That better?”
Cas nods, his eyes fluttering closed, his cock twitching upwards and hardening. He reaches to stroke himself, but Dean grabs him by the wrist and slams his hand back onto the mattress.
“Let me,” he says, and he shifts both of their bodies so that he can crouch down lower between Cas’s legs and suck his cock. And Cas falls apart, panting, legs shaking, so much more responsive without the white noise of his grace drowning out physical sensation. He twists his fingers into Dean’s hair, and Dean allows it because he loves to feel the desperation in Cas’s grip. Cas whimpers, but doesn’t protest, as Dean pushes his two fingers in as far as they will go, pulls them almost all the way back out, and slides a third in beside them.
By the time Dean pulls away, letting Cas’s cock fall out of his mouth and sliding his fingers out of his ass, Cas is lost to the world. His hand slips free of Dean’s hair and falls to his side, where it clenches around a handful of sheets. His eyes are glazed and his jaw slack. His hips buck involuntarily against the air, and his legs are trembling where they rest over Dean’s hips. And it still blows Dean’s mind that he can do this. That he can reduce an angel to this.
When Dean brings his hips forward to touch the tip of his cock to Cas’s opening - just a touch - Cas moans so loudly that Dean would have been worried about a neighbor slamming on the ceiling if they weren’t in an underground bunker. “It’s okay, babe, look at me,” Dean murmurs, cupping Cas’s face in his hand and tilting it up. As Cas’s eyes clear and meet Dean’s, Dean presses gently but insistently forward. “Look at me. Look at me. Stay with me.”
Dean feels it as Cas gives way, and he slips an inch or two inside. Cas doesn’t so much as blink. He just stares up at Dean with that terrifying intensity, so vulnerable and yet so overwhelming, his eyes devouring Dean whole. It hits him that Cas is with him then, not just in the same room, not just in the same bed, not just because Dean is inside him, but at moments like these it’s like they are the same person, each filling in the gaps where the other isn’t quite complete.
As soon as the thought comes to him, he becomes aware that it won’t last. They can’t hold this balance forever. They will become two separate people, soon. Cas will leave his bed, and his room, and his life. And like always, there will be no guarantee that he will return.
Dean leans forward, slowly, and rests his forehead against Cas’s. Now it is Cas who is still, and it’s Dean who’s trembling. “Stay with me,” he repeats in a whisper.
“Dean…” Cas’s hands rise to grip Dean’s shoulders, his voice already soothing and apologetic. Dean’s hands grip back, tighter, hard enough to bruise, hard enough that his fingernails bite. There’s an explanation on Cas’s voice, another string of excuses that he can’t quite bring himself to put into words. “Dean, I…”
“No!” Dean barks. With one hand on Cas’s jaw he holds him, keeping their faces angled together. But he’s not claiming and commanding anymore. He’s holding on for dear life. “Don’t! Please, just…”
Cas catches him before he even knows he’s falling. With his arms wrapped around Dean’s body and his legs hooking around to press on the backs of Dean’s thighs, he pulls him the rest of the way in. Dean collapses against him with a moan, and it doesn’t matter that they’ve broken eye contact because Cas is still with him, all around him, limbs and breath and warmth.
Cas’s heels dig into Dean’s thighs like spurs, pushing him in and out, setting the pace. His hands are on Dean’s back and every grind of his fingertips and scrape of his nails writes into Dean’s skin the promises that he wish he could make. Dean’s face is buried in the crook of Cas’s neck. He has no will left, and no strength. It’s all he can do to cling to Cas as he’s pulled irresistibly toward orgasm and choke out, “Please, Cas. Please. This time… please, stay…”
When Dean comes he sinks his teeth into the muscle where Cas’s neck meets his shoulder, and doesn’t make a sound. His body tenses against Cas’s. His fingers dig in even harder, hard enough to very nearly draw blood at the points of his nails, hard enough to make Cas cry out as he comes right after, his legs still wrapped around the backs of Dean’s thighs and forcing him deeper inside.
As soon as it’s over, Cas lets go and falls back. His hands flop above his head, his wrists almost touching as though they were tied. He adopts this pose like a submissive puppy and looks up at Dean as if he hasn’t done anything at all.
Dean has to catch his breath as he pulls out and leans back onto his hands and knees. He’s still reeling with the suddenness of it, but the sorrow and desperation are gone. When he reaches down to run his hand up Cas’s chest, up his arm and around his wrists, he’s rough but he’s back in control.
“Stay with me,” he repeats once more, an order this time instead of begging.
And because Cas knows that now Dean can bear to hear it without breaking, he answers, “You know I can’t.”
“Yeah. I know.” But he doesn’t loosen his grip on Cas’s wrists.
Cas cocks his head, questioning. “Dean?” Then he arches up and sucks a pained breath through his teeth as Dean uses his free hand to give his softening cock a long, rough pull. His hands tug against Dean’s grip, but more as token resistance than an earnest effort to break free. Dean strokes him again, base to tip, squeezing him where he’s already raw and far too sensitive. This time, Cas writhes and shakes as the overstimulation makes his body convulse.
Dean loosens his grip and settles into a gentler rhythm. He can see it in Cas’s face when he realizes that Dean isn’t just teasing - he’s trying to get him to come a second time.
“I don’t think I can,” Cas pants weakly.
Dean doesn’t stop. He just leans down to nuzzle behind Cas’s ear. “Sure you can. Gotta make up for lost time, right? And I can keep this up all night, so sooner or later…”
Cas lies back and surrenders to it, but he can’t stop his body from bucking up off the mattress, fighting against Dean’s grip on his wrists, and letting his breaths grow so ragged that he’s moaning with each movement of Dean’s hand on his cock.
“Hurts…” he hisses.
Dean freezes. “Bad hurt?”
Cas blinks, startled. He looks down as he thinks about it, then he looks back up at Dean with a smile. “Good hurt,” he sighs. Then he whimpers and shivers as Dean begins jacking him off again.
It doesn’t take all night, but it takes a good long time. Cas is near to sobbing by the time the soft flesh in Dean’s hand begins to respond and harden. Then it’s just a matter of time before the pleasure overwhelms the pain and Cas’s strangled cries deepen into lustful moans. It’s a battle to reach climax again, and Cas’s body is rigid with the effort of it. His hands are clenched into fists, and his toes curl into the blanket. When Dean leans down to kiss his chest and belly, his skin is taught over rock-hard muscle and beaded with sweat.
But Cas fights his way toward it, and Dean pulls him along, until a single splash of white joins the cum already streaking Cas’s abdomen. That’s all, and then Cas’s cock spasms around nothing as he screams in frantic, overwhelming release.
Dean finally lets go. Cas immediately rolls over and clings to him, arms around his shoulders and legs locked around his waist. Dean returns the embrace and holds him while the aftershocks continue to make him jerk and whine.
“You good?” says Dean when Cas finally falls still.
“Can I stay here tonight?” Cas mumbles, his face still pressed against Dean’s chest.
Dean holds him tighter and scoots them both up so that they’re lying comfortably, pillows under their heads. “Psh,” he says. “Like you really think I’m gonna tell you no?”
Cas sighs contentedly as Dean finds the covers where they’ve been kicked toward the foot of the bed and pulls them up over Cas’s body.
Then, quietly, Dean asks, “You gonna be here when I wake up?”
Cas manages to banish his exhaustion for long enough to open his eyes and brush his fingers down Dean’s face. “Maybe,” he says.
“Okay,” says Dean. He slides into bed beside Cas and holds him close. They never get much time together. Dean is used to making the most of it. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now. You’re still mine.”
“Yours,” Cas whispers as he falls asleep.
Contains: d/s switching, forced orgasm
-----
The first time Dean leads Cas into the Men of Letters’ bunker, Cas stumbles. It’s nothing obvious - he doesn’t trip over the threshold or anything - there’s just a stutter of his feet as he takes his first steps inside. But to Dean, who’s been hyper-aware of Cas ever since he popped back up out of nowhere after being gone for months, he might as well have fallen on his face.
“What’s wrong?” Dean demands.
Cas doesn’t answer right away. He stares at his hands as if he’s only just noticed them, flexing his fingers experimentally. Then he takes a few quick steps backwards until he’s standing outside again. He steps back in, then out, then in again. Finally he looks up at Dean with wide eyes. “The protective wards on this place are impressively thorough.”
“Why, are they messing with your mojo?” Dean closes the door behind Cas, taking the opportunity to look at him from all angles. He can see it in the way Cas stands - slightly off-balance, like he’s not quite sure where his limbs are - the same way he used to hold himself during the short time that he was human. So Dean knows the answer even before Cas gives it.
“It seems that, within this bunker, I have no mojo to speak of,” he says.
“Huh,” says Dean. “How could the Men of Letters have warded against angels? They were long gone by the time you guys showed up for the apocalypse.”
“They were aware of our existence,” says Cas, not sounding too bothered by his temporary de-powering. “They used our feathers and our blood in their spells. It’s possible that they protected their strongholds against us purposefully. But it’s more likely that my grace falls within the scope of a more general ward against unrecognized magic.”
Cas begins to step forward, peering deeper into the bunker, but Dean holds him back. “You okay, then?”
He thinks about it for a second, and then Cas gives him a small but genuine smile. “Yes,” he says. “It’s a relief, actually.”
“A relief? From what?”
Cas blinks rapidly and stares at the floor. “I…” he stammers, “I’m not sure why I phrased it that way. I just mean that… I suppose I feel safe here.”
Dean’s mouth twists in frustration. Cas has been like this ever since he reappeared: cryptic, oblique, and completely unwilling to explain where he’s been and why he hasn’t been answering prayers. What answers he has given have been vague and contradictory. There’s clearly something going on, but damned if Dean can figure out what it is. “I guess that’s good,” he mutters. Then he perks up as he adds, “Let me give you the tour, okay?”
Cas follows him throughout the bunker, nodding and smiling as Dean describes the water pressure in the showers, the vast storerooms, and how excited Sam has been about the library. “Careful with that; it’s sharp,” Dean says when he notices Cas inspecting the scimitar in its holder.
“You cut yourself on it, didn’t you?”
Dean pouts a little. “No.”
“Liar.”
They hold each other’s gaze there for a moment, Cas with one hand still resting on the scimitar’s hilt, Dean bent over with his palms pressed flat against the table that stands between them. The corners of their lips twitch with irrepressible happiness. It’s such a simple thing, to be together, but it’s a luxury they haven’t enjoyed for a long time.
But after a moment, Dean’s smile sags with worry and he asks one more time, “Where’ve you been, man?”
Cas breaks eye contact to peer intently at some bookshelves instead. “I told you,” he mutters.
“You haven’t told me squat,” Dean barks, more harshly than he’d meant to. When Cas flinches, he softens his voice. “Are you in trouble? Is someone keeping you from talking? Come on, give me something. We can help.”
Cas fiddles with the tassel on the end of a bookmark. He ignores the offer for as long as he can, scanning the book titles, pretending that they interest him. Finally he looks over his shoulder to find Dean still staring at him and waiting for an answer. “There is nothing to help with,” he says.
Dean’s shoulders slump as he sighs. But he accepts the answer, if only because he knows he won’t get a straighter one. “Okay,” he says, pushing himself upright and crossing to the other side of the table, where Cas is still standing against the bookshelf. “Okay.”
He’s better at talking without words, anyway.
He grabs Cas’s head between his hands, thumbs digging in under his jawbones to angle his face up for a crushing kiss. They stagger with the impact of it, Cas’s back slamming against the shelf so hard that a couple of books fall out and flap their way to the ground.
Dean’s hands slide down the sides of Cas’s face and trace their way down his neck, rough and claiming. He pushes the coat off of Cas’s shoulders and unbuttons his shirt, shoving his hands through to the hot skin underneath. Grabbing and pressing, he tells with his hands and the press of his body how unbearable the last months have been. His fingers digging into shoulders and between ribs bely the quiet desperation and sleepless nights.
Cas accepts Dean’s smothering kisses and responds with gentle touches, his hands twisting into Dean’s shirt and stroking down his chest, each touch a silent apology. He doesn’t protest when Dean manhandles him away from the bookcase and steers him toward the table, nor when Dean bends him over it so his face is pressed against the polished wood.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean mumbles to the back of Cas’s neck, nuzzling the furrow of his spine where it dips beneath his shirt. “You’re here now. You’re still mine.”
“Yours,” Cas breathes. He presses back to rub his rear against Dean’s crotch as Dean tears his suit jacket off and reaches around his to undo the buttons of his shirt. It’s hard to see with his face up against the table, but he turns his neck as far as he can until he manages to catch Dean’s eye. “You still haven’t showed me your bedroom.”
They don’t even bother picking up their clothes. Castiel’s coats, Dean’s shirt, and a total of three shoes are left in the library as Dean and Cas tumble into the hallway, still clinging to each other, stumbling, crashing into walls, nipping and kissing at every patch of exposed skin that they can reach. Castiel’s shirt falls away as they go, and Dean manages to kick off that last pesky shoe before they fall through the door to Dean’s room and slam it shut behind them.
Dean doesn’t give Cas time to comment on the room. On how he’s only bothered to decorate half of the walls. On how many chairs there are - more than Dean could ever need, even factoring in Sam. On how this is clearly the room of a person who has been waiting for someone to share it with him. Instead, Dean pulls Cas down into bed with him and crushes another kiss out of his lips.
Cas lies back, smiling and compliant, and lifts his hips so Dean can slide his pants and boxers out from under him. As Dean stands and takes off his own pants he keeps one knee pressed against Cas’s shin where it hangs over the bed, and when he reaches for the bottle of lube in his nightstand he has to stretch to keep one hand clenched over Cas’s thigh. Maybe it’s silly, but he can’t shake the feeling that Cas might fade and disappear if he takes his hands off of him even for a second.
Cas nods at the lube in Dean’s hand. “You were ready for me.”
“You don’t know that,” says Dean, unable to keep a tiny note of bitterness out of his voice. “You’ve been gone. For all you know I’ve been bringing dudes back here all the time.” He nudges Cas’s legs apart with his knees as he scoots onto the bed.
Cas opens his legs easily, making a space for Dean to kneel. He says softly, “Oh? And all these other men, were they in your bed with you when you were praying to me every night?” Then he gasps and arches as Dean presses two fingers, cold and slick with lube, between the cheeks of his ass.
“Shut up,” Dean mutters, leaning forward to kiss him as he slides his fingers inside one by one. “You know there isn’t anybody else.”
“Dean…” Cas groans. He tries to twist away. Dean holds him still with one hand held lightly around his neck. But when his gaping mouth tightens into a pained grimace and he says, “Dean, slow down!” Dean stops, two fingers buried in him almost to the second knuckle.
“Fuck,” Dean says. “Sorry. Forgot you’re not an angel in here.” He draws his fingers slowly back, then eases them forward. Tiny, gentle strokes opening Cas up bit by bit. “That better?”
Cas nods, his eyes fluttering closed, his cock twitching upwards and hardening. He reaches to stroke himself, but Dean grabs him by the wrist and slams his hand back onto the mattress.
“Let me,” he says, and he shifts both of their bodies so that he can crouch down lower between Cas’s legs and suck his cock. And Cas falls apart, panting, legs shaking, so much more responsive without the white noise of his grace drowning out physical sensation. He twists his fingers into Dean’s hair, and Dean allows it because he loves to feel the desperation in Cas’s grip. Cas whimpers, but doesn’t protest, as Dean pushes his two fingers in as far as they will go, pulls them almost all the way back out, and slides a third in beside them.
By the time Dean pulls away, letting Cas’s cock fall out of his mouth and sliding his fingers out of his ass, Cas is lost to the world. His hand slips free of Dean’s hair and falls to his side, where it clenches around a handful of sheets. His eyes are glazed and his jaw slack. His hips buck involuntarily against the air, and his legs are trembling where they rest over Dean’s hips. And it still blows Dean’s mind that he can do this. That he can reduce an angel to this.
When Dean brings his hips forward to touch the tip of his cock to Cas’s opening - just a touch - Cas moans so loudly that Dean would have been worried about a neighbor slamming on the ceiling if they weren’t in an underground bunker. “It’s okay, babe, look at me,” Dean murmurs, cupping Cas’s face in his hand and tilting it up. As Cas’s eyes clear and meet Dean’s, Dean presses gently but insistently forward. “Look at me. Look at me. Stay with me.”
Dean feels it as Cas gives way, and he slips an inch or two inside. Cas doesn’t so much as blink. He just stares up at Dean with that terrifying intensity, so vulnerable and yet so overwhelming, his eyes devouring Dean whole. It hits him that Cas is with him then, not just in the same room, not just in the same bed, not just because Dean is inside him, but at moments like these it’s like they are the same person, each filling in the gaps where the other isn’t quite complete.
As soon as the thought comes to him, he becomes aware that it won’t last. They can’t hold this balance forever. They will become two separate people, soon. Cas will leave his bed, and his room, and his life. And like always, there will be no guarantee that he will return.
Dean leans forward, slowly, and rests his forehead against Cas’s. Now it is Cas who is still, and it’s Dean who’s trembling. “Stay with me,” he repeats in a whisper.
“Dean…” Cas’s hands rise to grip Dean’s shoulders, his voice already soothing and apologetic. Dean’s hands grip back, tighter, hard enough to bruise, hard enough that his fingernails bite. There’s an explanation on Cas’s voice, another string of excuses that he can’t quite bring himself to put into words. “Dean, I…”
“No!” Dean barks. With one hand on Cas’s jaw he holds him, keeping their faces angled together. But he’s not claiming and commanding anymore. He’s holding on for dear life. “Don’t! Please, just…”
Cas catches him before he even knows he’s falling. With his arms wrapped around Dean’s body and his legs hooking around to press on the backs of Dean’s thighs, he pulls him the rest of the way in. Dean collapses against him with a moan, and it doesn’t matter that they’ve broken eye contact because Cas is still with him, all around him, limbs and breath and warmth.
Cas’s heels dig into Dean’s thighs like spurs, pushing him in and out, setting the pace. His hands are on Dean’s back and every grind of his fingertips and scrape of his nails writes into Dean’s skin the promises that he wish he could make. Dean’s face is buried in the crook of Cas’s neck. He has no will left, and no strength. It’s all he can do to cling to Cas as he’s pulled irresistibly toward orgasm and choke out, “Please, Cas. Please. This time… please, stay…”
When Dean comes he sinks his teeth into the muscle where Cas’s neck meets his shoulder, and doesn’t make a sound. His body tenses against Cas’s. His fingers dig in even harder, hard enough to very nearly draw blood at the points of his nails, hard enough to make Cas cry out as he comes right after, his legs still wrapped around the backs of Dean’s thighs and forcing him deeper inside.
As soon as it’s over, Cas lets go and falls back. His hands flop above his head, his wrists almost touching as though they were tied. He adopts this pose like a submissive puppy and looks up at Dean as if he hasn’t done anything at all.
Dean has to catch his breath as he pulls out and leans back onto his hands and knees. He’s still reeling with the suddenness of it, but the sorrow and desperation are gone. When he reaches down to run his hand up Cas’s chest, up his arm and around his wrists, he’s rough but he’s back in control.
“Stay with me,” he repeats once more, an order this time instead of begging.
And because Cas knows that now Dean can bear to hear it without breaking, he answers, “You know I can’t.”
“Yeah. I know.” But he doesn’t loosen his grip on Cas’s wrists.
Cas cocks his head, questioning. “Dean?” Then he arches up and sucks a pained breath through his teeth as Dean uses his free hand to give his softening cock a long, rough pull. His hands tug against Dean’s grip, but more as token resistance than an earnest effort to break free. Dean strokes him again, base to tip, squeezing him where he’s already raw and far too sensitive. This time, Cas writhes and shakes as the overstimulation makes his body convulse.
Dean loosens his grip and settles into a gentler rhythm. He can see it in Cas’s face when he realizes that Dean isn’t just teasing - he’s trying to get him to come a second time.
“I don’t think I can,” Cas pants weakly.
Dean doesn’t stop. He just leans down to nuzzle behind Cas’s ear. “Sure you can. Gotta make up for lost time, right? And I can keep this up all night, so sooner or later…”
Cas lies back and surrenders to it, but he can’t stop his body from bucking up off the mattress, fighting against Dean’s grip on his wrists, and letting his breaths grow so ragged that he’s moaning with each movement of Dean’s hand on his cock.
“Hurts…” he hisses.
Dean freezes. “Bad hurt?”
Cas blinks, startled. He looks down as he thinks about it, then he looks back up at Dean with a smile. “Good hurt,” he sighs. Then he whimpers and shivers as Dean begins jacking him off again.
It doesn’t take all night, but it takes a good long time. Cas is near to sobbing by the time the soft flesh in Dean’s hand begins to respond and harden. Then it’s just a matter of time before the pleasure overwhelms the pain and Cas’s strangled cries deepen into lustful moans. It’s a battle to reach climax again, and Cas’s body is rigid with the effort of it. His hands are clenched into fists, and his toes curl into the blanket. When Dean leans down to kiss his chest and belly, his skin is taught over rock-hard muscle and beaded with sweat.
But Cas fights his way toward it, and Dean pulls him along, until a single splash of white joins the cum already streaking Cas’s abdomen. That’s all, and then Cas’s cock spasms around nothing as he screams in frantic, overwhelming release.
Dean finally lets go. Cas immediately rolls over and clings to him, arms around his shoulders and legs locked around his waist. Dean returns the embrace and holds him while the aftershocks continue to make him jerk and whine.
“You good?” says Dean when Cas finally falls still.
“Can I stay here tonight?” Cas mumbles, his face still pressed against Dean’s chest.
Dean holds him tighter and scoots them both up so that they’re lying comfortably, pillows under their heads. “Psh,” he says. “Like you really think I’m gonna tell you no?”
Cas sighs contentedly as Dean finds the covers where they’ve been kicked toward the foot of the bed and pulls them up over Cas’s body.
Then, quietly, Dean asks, “You gonna be here when I wake up?”
Cas manages to banish his exhaustion for long enough to open his eyes and brush his fingers down Dean’s face. “Maybe,” he says.
“Okay,” says Dean. He slides into bed beside Cas and holds him close. They never get much time together. Dean is used to making the most of it. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now. You’re still mine.”
“Yours,” Cas whispers as he falls asleep.