Five Times Castiel Kept Their Appointment | NC-17ish | Dean, Cas
Title: Five Times Castiel Kept Their Appointment
Words: 1,300
Rating: NC-17-bad words and sexin
Summary: Title says it all, really
Notes: Based on an incidence in 5.04. For standing_fic because she demanded it, though these are five independent instances, with some help/cheerleading from timehasa_way I loves my flist, yo! Purely fun, unless you consider relieving yourself in public as srs bsns.
I.
Dean had spent all day long tracking a spirit that inhabited a local record store, haunting people who were trying to buy shitty music - like Britney Spears. And Creed. He was God damned tired and so stinking hungry, and all he wanted was a greasy double cheeseburger, extra onions and mayo, cheese fries, and a big, fat slice of peach pie. It was fucking Georgia after all. What was the point of going without some good ol’ homegrown fruit?
He did a whole belly-up-to-the-bar thing at the local diner, grinning wide when he ordered the Maneater Special, which included a fat bowl of chili, sour cream, cheese, and onions to start off the cholesterol fest. He slopped his way through the appetizer, through the sandwich and sloppy fries, and finally set his eyes on the buttery crust covering oozing golden peaches. He held a fork upright to the counter, licking his lips, and obscenely eyeing the damned slice. The fork lowered, eyes widening even more and just as the prongs broke crust, there was a bright flash.
When he opened his eyes, he was standing in an empty parking lot. He raced his eyes around and found Castiel, all Tax Man and flat faced. “What the hell, Cas?” he seethed.
“We had an appointment.”
“I had pie!”
II.
Dean’s anxiety and adrenaline ran him from the police station to the coroner’s office to a funeral parlor and finally over to a convenience store, where he picked up a handful of Slim Jims, six pack of beer, and the latest Busty Asian Beauties. When he got to the hotel room, he settled at the edge of the bed with his bag of goodies just beside him. He carefully set out the Slim Jims to his left, Busty Asian Beauties to his right, and then grabbed hold of a beer and took a long, healthy sip as he carefully navigated to the right TV channel.
He sighed with a smirk and sat back a little further, spreading his legs, grinning at the TV screen, ready for the greatest release of the last few weeks. Hell, the last few months, he figures happily. He waited for the words to bring him to the edge of delight. “And now, your American Idol is -”
Then a flash and he found himself at an abandoned field, Castiel at his side.
His breath was loud and his eyes angry. Castiel intoned with a grave face, “We had an appointment.”
“I was … damnit!” he cursed, throwing his arms into the air. “I was watching … "
“Oh.” Castiel’s head tipped to the side and he looked thoughtful, reading something in the cosmos. “Kris Allen won.”
Dean nearly shrieked at being spoiled. “Not Adam?!”
III.
Dean didn’t know how long it’d been, but he just really needed to get fucking laid already, and was fully intending on taking advantage of Mindy … Cindy … Sandy, whatever. He couldn’t stop catching how fat and juicy her lips were. Couldn’t stop imagining them sucking him down. Couldn’t stop dreaming of her D-cups squeezed between his palms while she rode him.
But then he didn’t have to dream any longer because they were in his hotel room, rolling over each other, clothes ripping apart to bare skin. She ripped open his button-up and pushed his tee up before trailing wet kisses down his chest. Then she was smirking up at him with wide eyes as she settled at his belt. In seconds, it was unlatched and she whipped it from belt loops with a flourish.
“Oh, yeah,” he sighed happily.
She dipped back down to open his fly when everything went white and he was lying on a tattered bed in an abandoned house. “Cas,” he barked.
“We had an - ”
“Cockblock!”
“I’m sorry?” Castiel said-asked, tipping his head to the side.
Dean snapped upright, tugging his shirts into place and trying to ignore the painful hard-on still trapped beneath denim. “You better zap me to the Bunny Ranch when we’re done here.”
His head tips further down. “You like rabbits?”
IV.
Dean had sucked down a fair share of beers, totally ignoring how truly awful Busch Light tasted, and just willing himself to intoxication. It’d been a long fucking day in the car and he just wanted to get drunk and laugh at the ridiculous mullets in the roadside bar.
Then his bladder was completely full and pushing against so many other internal organs that he all but ran to the bathroom. He cursed the lonely urinal and already-filled stall, plus the Lynyrd Skynyrd reject waiting in front of him. Closing his eyes and trying to do anything but hear the sounds of the running faucet and the Brett Michaels look-a-like who was pissing a God damned river at the urinal, he started humming some AC/DC in his head. The dude in front of him took the suddenly open stall and seconds later the urinal was free, so he shot over to it, unzipping his fly and just about to release the muscles holding it all in when a bright light flashed.
He stood before Castiel, dick in hand, and nearly crossed his eyes at the pain and embarrassment of this situation. “Fuck!”
To his credit, Castiel only took a half-second look down before gravely considering Dean’s face. “We … had an appointment.”
Dean rolled his eyes and then stared Castiel down. Silently, he released himself and grinned at the patter of urine on the angel’s shoes.
V.
Dean, gloriously, found himself in the middle of a sex shop to investigate the very unfortunate case of toys powering up on their own and injuring their owners. It was the strangest fucking thing he’d ever heard of, but at the moment, he was trailing fingers over lingerie and eyeing the “models” who guided customers to the back rooms for thirty minutes of service. His eyebrow rose as a deliciously skimpy woman approached him.
He asked a few questions about the customers on his list, but his notebook was forgotten when she offered to show him to the back for more information. She led him to an empty room and smirked. “I think I have just your type.”
His lips hitched up high and then he licked them and spread his knees a bit apart. “Really?” he asked, tipping his head with interest. “Well, alright,” he added on with a sideways nod. The grin stayed put as he tugged off the trench coat and suit jacket of his FBI Agent uniform and he even cracked knuckles out into the air. “My type,” he murmured to himself, imagining double Ds and the laciest red ensemble possible.
When the door opened, his eyes lit up and stared, unable to ignore the head-to-toe black leather, or the whip, or the opening in the buttless chaps as the escort turned to shut the door. But most of all, Dean couldn’t ignore the fat fingers curling around the edges of leather tassels or the bushy, black moustache. “Oh, you’re even prettier than she said.”
His heart pummeled inside his chest and his hands went up with a careful smile. “Look … uh, I think … there’s been a misunderstanding,” he finally managed as he stood tall.
But not as tall as this dude, who had at least another four inches - and likely another hundred pounds - on Dean. He snapped the whip into an open palm. “Oh, honey, don’t fight it,” the most-definitely-male dominatrix cooed. “Unless … you want to.”
“Yeah, see,” Dean started, but the guy manhandled him into the wall and fear shut him up.
The moustache burned a path up his neck and he winced while failing to fight against the guy. The room burned bright and suddenly Dean was standing before Castiel in an alleyway.
Dean leapt forward, arms tight around the guy’s neck even if he wasn't returning the hug.
“We had … an appointment?” he asked strangely.
“Oh, Cas, don’t ever change.”
Words: 1,300
Rating: NC-17-bad words and sexin
Summary: Title says it all, really
Notes: Based on an incidence in 5.04. For standing_fic because she demanded it, though these are five independent instances, with some help/cheerleading from timehasa_way I loves my flist, yo! Purely fun, unless you consider relieving yourself in public as srs bsns.
I.
Dean had spent all day long tracking a spirit that inhabited a local record store, haunting people who were trying to buy shitty music - like Britney Spears. And Creed. He was God damned tired and so stinking hungry, and all he wanted was a greasy double cheeseburger, extra onions and mayo, cheese fries, and a big, fat slice of peach pie. It was fucking Georgia after all. What was the point of going without some good ol’ homegrown fruit?
He did a whole belly-up-to-the-bar thing at the local diner, grinning wide when he ordered the Maneater Special, which included a fat bowl of chili, sour cream, cheese, and onions to start off the cholesterol fest. He slopped his way through the appetizer, through the sandwich and sloppy fries, and finally set his eyes on the buttery crust covering oozing golden peaches. He held a fork upright to the counter, licking his lips, and obscenely eyeing the damned slice. The fork lowered, eyes widening even more and just as the prongs broke crust, there was a bright flash.
When he opened his eyes, he was standing in an empty parking lot. He raced his eyes around and found Castiel, all Tax Man and flat faced. “What the hell, Cas?” he seethed.
“We had an appointment.”
“I had pie!”
II.
Dean’s anxiety and adrenaline ran him from the police station to the coroner’s office to a funeral parlor and finally over to a convenience store, where he picked up a handful of Slim Jims, six pack of beer, and the latest Busty Asian Beauties. When he got to the hotel room, he settled at the edge of the bed with his bag of goodies just beside him. He carefully set out the Slim Jims to his left, Busty Asian Beauties to his right, and then grabbed hold of a beer and took a long, healthy sip as he carefully navigated to the right TV channel.
He sighed with a smirk and sat back a little further, spreading his legs, grinning at the TV screen, ready for the greatest release of the last few weeks. Hell, the last few months, he figures happily. He waited for the words to bring him to the edge of delight. “And now, your American Idol is -”
Then a flash and he found himself at an abandoned field, Castiel at his side.
His breath was loud and his eyes angry. Castiel intoned with a grave face, “We had an appointment.”
“I was … damnit!” he cursed, throwing his arms into the air. “I was watching … "
“Oh.” Castiel’s head tipped to the side and he looked thoughtful, reading something in the cosmos. “Kris Allen won.”
Dean nearly shrieked at being spoiled. “Not Adam?!”
III.
Dean didn’t know how long it’d been, but he just really needed to get fucking laid already, and was fully intending on taking advantage of Mindy … Cindy … Sandy, whatever. He couldn’t stop catching how fat and juicy her lips were. Couldn’t stop imagining them sucking him down. Couldn’t stop dreaming of her D-cups squeezed between his palms while she rode him.
But then he didn’t have to dream any longer because they were in his hotel room, rolling over each other, clothes ripping apart to bare skin. She ripped open his button-up and pushed his tee up before trailing wet kisses down his chest. Then she was smirking up at him with wide eyes as she settled at his belt. In seconds, it was unlatched and she whipped it from belt loops with a flourish.
“Oh, yeah,” he sighed happily.
She dipped back down to open his fly when everything went white and he was lying on a tattered bed in an abandoned house. “Cas,” he barked.
“We had an - ”
“Cockblock!”
“I’m sorry?” Castiel said-asked, tipping his head to the side.
Dean snapped upright, tugging his shirts into place and trying to ignore the painful hard-on still trapped beneath denim. “You better zap me to the Bunny Ranch when we’re done here.”
His head tips further down. “You like rabbits?”
IV.
Dean had sucked down a fair share of beers, totally ignoring how truly awful Busch Light tasted, and just willing himself to intoxication. It’d been a long fucking day in the car and he just wanted to get drunk and laugh at the ridiculous mullets in the roadside bar.
Then his bladder was completely full and pushing against so many other internal organs that he all but ran to the bathroom. He cursed the lonely urinal and already-filled stall, plus the Lynyrd Skynyrd reject waiting in front of him. Closing his eyes and trying to do anything but hear the sounds of the running faucet and the Brett Michaels look-a-like who was pissing a God damned river at the urinal, he started humming some AC/DC in his head. The dude in front of him took the suddenly open stall and seconds later the urinal was free, so he shot over to it, unzipping his fly and just about to release the muscles holding it all in when a bright light flashed.
He stood before Castiel, dick in hand, and nearly crossed his eyes at the pain and embarrassment of this situation. “Fuck!”
To his credit, Castiel only took a half-second look down before gravely considering Dean’s face. “We … had an appointment.”
Dean rolled his eyes and then stared Castiel down. Silently, he released himself and grinned at the patter of urine on the angel’s shoes.
V.
Dean, gloriously, found himself in the middle of a sex shop to investigate the very unfortunate case of toys powering up on their own and injuring their owners. It was the strangest fucking thing he’d ever heard of, but at the moment, he was trailing fingers over lingerie and eyeing the “models” who guided customers to the back rooms for thirty minutes of service. His eyebrow rose as a deliciously skimpy woman approached him.
He asked a few questions about the customers on his list, but his notebook was forgotten when she offered to show him to the back for more information. She led him to an empty room and smirked. “I think I have just your type.”
His lips hitched up high and then he licked them and spread his knees a bit apart. “Really?” he asked, tipping his head with interest. “Well, alright,” he added on with a sideways nod. The grin stayed put as he tugged off the trench coat and suit jacket of his FBI Agent uniform and he even cracked knuckles out into the air. “My type,” he murmured to himself, imagining double Ds and the laciest red ensemble possible.
When the door opened, his eyes lit up and stared, unable to ignore the head-to-toe black leather, or the whip, or the opening in the buttless chaps as the escort turned to shut the door. But most of all, Dean couldn’t ignore the fat fingers curling around the edges of leather tassels or the bushy, black moustache. “Oh, you’re even prettier than she said.”
His heart pummeled inside his chest and his hands went up with a careful smile. “Look … uh, I think … there’s been a misunderstanding,” he finally managed as he stood tall.
But not as tall as this dude, who had at least another four inches - and likely another hundred pounds - on Dean. He snapped the whip into an open palm. “Oh, honey, don’t fight it,” the most-definitely-male dominatrix cooed. “Unless … you want to.”
“Yeah, see,” Dean started, but the guy manhandled him into the wall and fear shut him up.
The moustache burned a path up his neck and he winced while failing to fight against the guy. The room burned bright and suddenly Dean was standing before Castiel in an alleyway.
Dean leapt forward, arms tight around the guy’s neck even if he wasn't returning the hug.
“We had … an appointment?” he asked strangely.
“Oh, Cas, don’t ever change.”