And Twist
TITLE: And Twist
RATING: NC-17
WORD COUNT: ~3600
FANDOM: Supernatural
PAIRINGS: Dean/Castiel
SUMMARY: My take on the events of 5.03 "Free to Be You and Me," slightly AR at the end. Also, porn.
WARNINGS: Explicit sex. Handwaved vessel consent issues; let's all pretend Jimmy went to Heaven when Raphael blew Castiel up at the end of S4.
NOTES: I found this on my computer. I think it was supposed to be a blindfold fill, where the prompt was something like Cas having sex for the first time and then getting obsessed with it. Pretty sure I had other ~scenes~ planned but I kind of like where it ended. The title is absolutely not from 3OH!3, why would you think that.
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and its characters are not mine.
They find an actually sorta nice motel room and eye each other for a couple of hours, while Dean gets sloppy tipsy on the other beers in the cooler. “Only the best for you fuckin’ surviving,” Dean slurs out, raising his bottle in Cas’ direction. Some of it spills on the ground, and Dean watches the way Cas’ eyes trace it and thinks of how his too-loose tie swung through the air in the alleyway behind the brothel.
“You were a great help,” Cas nods, and then fuck it, Dean’s stupid enough to crowd into his space and knock him down on the bed. He bounces when his back hits the mattress and fuck if just that isn’t enough to make Dean’s dick twitch.
Not that drunk, heh. The benefits of being a minor alcoholic.
“You’re in my personal space,” Cas points out, but there are red spots on his cheeks and his mouth won’t stay all the way closed. Plus, hi, fucking angel of the Lord, well sort of now, but he could still crush his skull if he didn’t like anything.
Instead, when Dean attacks that mouth with a ferocity that jolts out from his spine and sorta frightens him, honestly, Cas pushes his tongue right back. They both have so many fucking layers on, and it’s hard to get them off between the kissing and the way Dean’s pretty sure he has a goddamn obligation to feel Castiel everywhere. His skin hums with heat, some strange sign of the inhuman thing inside. Kissing over the angel’s heart is like pushing his lips against a speaker.
They’re chest on chest, and bare legs in between bare legs, awfully quickly. Dean’s actually laughing, again - laughing this much two nights in a row has to be some kind of goddamn record for him - as he spikes up Cas’ hair with his fingers and licks the water still rolling down his neck. (It’s pouring out, but hey, the power’s back.) “Stuff in my - hold on -” And he presses one more sloppy kiss to Cas’ lips as he breaks away to rummage through the bag, grinning stupidly as he pulls out the lube.
When he comes back, well, Dean’s pretty fucking proud of the way Cas’ eyes went all silver-tinged navy, dark and shining with grace at once. It shouldn’t be possible, but he shouldn’t be in bed with a fucking angel either. Heh. “Like that ass, huh,” he offers, sweeping his hips up in one slow grind. “You can -” he starts, because fuck it, he used to do this a lot, paid better than pool, and none of the very closeted businessmen had their wings all but fall off for him, but then he’s on his back and Cas opens both their fingers up to snatch the lube out.
“Do you know how much I had to study it,” Cas heaves out, flipping them and rearing over Dean. He’s supernova hot in about fifty different ways, fuck, the water droplets on Dean’s skin just sizzling away when they touch. And now he can’t stop picturing it, Castiel puzzling over these diagrams with his asshole brothers and trying to figure out his cock and liver and elbows so he could fix him.
Dean looks up at him, the thing that put him together and takes him apart, now, with one slow finger. Another moves inside, when his breath stops jumping, and Cas bumps his forehead against Dean’s thigh and yeah, sure, he spreads them too quickly, like he’s the virgin here.
Cas is pretty okay, though, his gaze attached to the two fingers screwing into Dean. Fine, it wasn’t the best idea to drag the virgin angel to a brothel to fuck some chick named Chastity who was wearing a really cheap negligee. Especially when said angel looked really hot and fucking badass protecting your soul to call the archangel that killed him a little bitch, his clothes skin-tight with the pouring rain hitting them. Much better to get him in your bed and kiss him until it sears and the back of your knee all but pops with sparks because he’s hitched it over his shoulder - holy fuck. (Ha, ha.)
Dean absolutely does not yowl and grip the bedsheets when Cas enters him for real, warm and full and gripping his shoulders. He doesn’t. He just knows Cas is some stupid bastard whose idea of fixing him involved blowing up the size of his prostate so every thrust hits it, and Dean’s going urk like a moron, and already clenching up, and he’s seriously not going to last as long as the virgin.
Cas keeps saying his name, eyes trained on him too-intensely. This could be any one of the dumb moments they’ve had lately except his dick is in his ass, and just the drag of Dean’s cock against Cas’ lower stomach, the skin soft, is gonna make him scream, untouched.
He pulls out, and Dean - oh fuck it, he whines, and then Cas rams back in, and it’s so fucking stupid but he’s definitely got some kind of magical dick because it doesn’t even hurt, it just shoots an ache through his whole body. The headboard keeps clanking against the wall and there’ll probably be damage to the drywall or people from the room over bitching but fuck that, because a hotass angel’s screwing him into the sheets.
If Dean closes his eyes there’s a hard burst of light behind them, like Castiel’s true form. Fucking wings and all, looming over him, and Cas has no rhythm left any more, just jerking hips punching against Dean’s prostate over and over. That’s it, he fucking paints Cas’ belly with his come, and his thrusts smear it all the way up to his chest. Dean looks on, half in awe, half because he’s still washed over with how goddamn - or maybe, like, heaven-sent is a better adjective, ha, ha - awesome that was, his orgasm torn out of him and melting from his body at once.
“C’mon, Cas.” His voice sounds like someone ran a cheese grater over his vocal cords, and he fucking enjoyed it too. He knows his ass is a mess, but he still clenches up around Cas, shoving his neck down and kissing him messily. Their stomachs rub together, hipbones (and Cas’ are sharp against his waist and thighs), chests. God, he’s gonna love the fucking bruises, hopes they stick around like the handprint.
Cas’ eyes flash silver a few times, and okay Dean totally should’ve expected it but the lamp pops into a hail of sparks as he gasps, spills into him, and then flops over his chest. It’s hysterical, six feet of angel fucked out with his first orgasm and spread all over him. Dean is leaking out his ass and that’s disgusting and he’s still kinda giddy.
“Dean,” Cas says, eventually. (Dean is totally not pressed to his body, not at all.) His voice sounds no different than usual, which is fucking hilarious. “I may be a virgin, by all senses of the word. But I am no innocent.” He turns his head, and he has these big stupid puppy eyes and that’s it, Dean’s gone. “I believe I would like to experience many things I have observed, and with you.”
Dean’s eyes go wide, because he is never going to get over the angel who pulled him out of Hell asking him to let him experience everything. The rest of his face stays impressively neutral, though. Otherwise, he’s getting too close to being some high school chick who just gave her first blowjob behind the bleachers.
“Yeah, sure. Of course.”
Dean wonders what would’ve happened if he’d known what would happen. He probably wouldn’t have spent the next few months so fucking sore, ha, or exhausted. But yeah, there’s still no way he would’ve said no.
“May I stay here?”
Dean grunts out a yes that will have to stand for don’t ask dumb questions.
*
A whisper of “Dean” wakes him up the next morning. It’s still raining, and the clock fizzled out when they fucked last night too, but Dean suspects it’s the asscrack of morning. Holy fuck - and man, Dean has to find some phrases that don’t make him giggle like a twelve-year-old - he’s sore.
Sore, and heavy, because the angel that made him so sore is still naked and wet between his legs as he sinks down on his cock, slow.
“Oh, fuck!” Dean absolutely howls, and clamps a hand over his mouth because seriously, those poor fuckers next door. (Or, not fuckers. Or, maybe they were, they just weren’t as loud as he was with Cas, and - God so tight this line of thought is not important any more.)
“Yes, exactly.” Dean can’t help it, this laugh barks out of him - three days in a row, what the fuck - and he cups the back of the angel’s neck and smashes their mouths together. There’s no technique, at all, and he winces when the edges of teeth drag together, and he’s sure his breath tastes like ass. It’s so awesome.
Cas keeps riding him, his eyes wide and shiny and blue, even when the morning’s dull and gray. Dean’s pretty sure he’s riding the edge hard the entire time, but he doesn’t come until he looks up at the ceiling and there are two enormous wing shadows flared out, the feathers twitching.
*
They do research all day, and nothing turns up but it’s kind of exhilarating when Castiel looms over his shoulder while Dean Googles freaky accidents (and they may have released Lucifer from his cage, but that shit still works). Angels probably don’t have to breathe, but Cas’ breath dusting his ear and neck makes him squirm. His fingers creep over his shoulder, over the handprint -
Fuck it. It’s been a long time since he got laid, and even longer since it was with someone that meant even a little bit. (Maybe not ever this much, either. He shuts his mind up.)
Cas is in his lap in the next moment, like he read his mind - probably did - and pulling them both out to stroke them together. Dean looks up at Cas, who’s looking down at their dicks as intently as he studies old Latin manuscripts. And goddamn if he doesn’t know the right pace, the way to twist his wrist and keep his thumb going through the slick of the head.
Dean fights off the urge to pass out in the chair when he comes.
*
Dean’s in a diner by himself, on his second milkshake - strawberry so it’s fine, that shit is healthy - when Cas pops into the booth right next to him. He thinks to get all affronted and give him the personal space speech again, but this guy gave him the three best orgasms of his life and is keeping him from going crazy lonely, so. He skips it.
“My Father is proving very difficult to find,” he grunts, crossing his arms and furrowing his brow. Clearly, he’s pissed off, but Dean is at the stupid hormone-flooded stage where he thinks it’s cute as hell. (Or, maybe that’s a bad phrase, too. Hell was… not cute.) He wants to drag his lips along Cas’ frown lines. “I figured I would… relax a little bit.”
“You don’t know the meaning of the word,” Dean scoffs, but he’s grinning, and then Castiel isn’t next to him because he is crouching under the table pulling his zipper down. “What the fuck!” He can’t even exclaim it, because the cute waitress in the little miniskirt and platforms is gonna come zipping over to the table and he knows his answer to her what’s wrong, sweetie is gonna be either some horrible animal groan, or oh, nothing, just got my angel boyfriend sucking my dick under the table in between searching for God.
He thought boyfriend.
It doesn’t matter, because Cas’ fingers keep running across his shaft, and he feels his heartbeat in his dick and pulsing through his forehead too. There is no way he should be turned on. Fluorescent lights make him wince overhead, the shitty red glitter-flecked plastic tables have funny stains on them, and he can hear the hiss of grease bubbling. None of that shit is sexy. That doesn’t matter either, because he looks down and all he sees are his still-clad thighs, the slim line of Cas’s shoulders under that dumb trenchcoat, and his dick, which is definitely half-hard at this point.
Cas slips his mouth around the head, and Dean watches the head of his dick interrupt those pink lips and - yeah, fuck, totally sexy.
Dean makes himself very busy. He circles his own lips around the straw, rising out of his milkshake, and that’s kind of fucking hilarious. His fingers flip through the napkin dispenser and the white slips of tissue go spilling out all over the table. The tap of his foot against the linoleum floor has never been so jittery in his life.
And all the while, there’s an otherworldly mouth on him, lips curled so tight and buzzing up and down against his cock. It’s like Cas is trying to learn humanity by sucking it out through the head of his cock, and Dean - yeah, Dean thinks he might be okay with that. The blowjob isn’t particularly skilled, because Dean has to inch back and forth depending on the way the fucking drool starts slipping down into his balls. But Cas takes him deep, easy, like he doesn’t have to breathe or swallow - probably doesn’t - and he keeps doing that thing that makes Dean go stupid when his slit rubs up against the soft wetness inside someone’s cheek.
He has to try really hard not to scream when he comes. Hey, he figures, he’s been in enough diners like this. There’s gotta be less jizz on the floor than in the soup of the day when the head cook is pissed off enough.
“It is very difficult to fit wings under one of these tables, I have learned,” Cas comes up with, eventually, slipping onto the other side of the booth. His face is the same as ever.
Dean’s laugh in response is a little hysterical.
*
Dean’s stopped missing Sam. This is what gets Dean to call Sam again, of course, because the thought absolutely fucking terrifies him. He’s got his baby and cheap burgers and pie and a lot of really awesome orgasms, and he’s left a whole lot of evil shit behind him, and he’s too used to it. At night, he passes the fuck out, exhausted, and doesn’t let his dreams twist him with thoughts of Hell, or Sam with jet-black eyes and rust red slashed over his mouth.
It’s like Dean’s losing himself, going through the motions while the world crumbles around him; there’s awful, awful shit on the news every day, hurricanes and lightning storms that wreck too many towns. Michael’s probably having creepy angel jerk-off fantasies about his ass, which is pretty darn occupied in a couple of ways lately, but the fact remains that if Michael finds out where Dean is, he’s probably gonna make those encounters with Zachariah and Raphael seem like driving his car on a breezy summer day, humming along even with the skips on the tapes he’s played way too much.
He can’t do this alone. Cas is a big help, and also a big distraction with his wide-blown eyes and - well, the guy always had sex hair, it actually kinda calmed down from that night in the barn. But Sam’s a phantom limb that no longer aches, and it’s freaking him the fuck out.
“Dean, this is ridiculous,” Sam sighs, tinny through the phone after he’s caught Dean up with everything. “We - I’ve kind of got Satan on my ass. Who knows what he’ll do if he finds you with me -”
“And I’ve got Michael on my ass!” Dean huffs out. “I don’t know what he’s doing, but it’s not like Zachariah and crew are rolling out the red carpet to me to remake Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, and oh, man, you didn’t even meet Raphael - point is, the angels kinda suck, well, not Cas -” Actually, Cas totally sucks, just, heh - “And we’ll figure something out.”
As if he’s been summoned just by the mention of his name, now, Cas flaps into the room. Dean only needs to run his eyes up and down the precise lines that map out Cas’ body, hear the flutter of his trenchcoat as it settles, and it’s a stupid Pavlovian response but his dick knows it’s in for some Happy Fun Time -
“Okay.” And it’s so weird, to feel the exhale he doesn’t even breathe out that’s his love for Sam when he’s thinking about hoisting Cas up onto his knees to straddle him, when the angel’s actually pressing into his hip, already hard. “Where are you?”
“Uhhhhh,” Dean gets out. Smooth, but Cas’s hands are already undoing his belt and then the angel’s dick’s right in front of his face already, pretty and musky. In some attempt to keep him at bay at least until he can remember what the hell his name is, Dean slides a hand up to Cas’s stomach and strokes him there, so smooth. “Harrisburg? Pennsylvania?” Yeah, that’s right. It was September, but a foot of snow had dumped here the other week.
He hears one of Sam’s stupid snorting chuckles on the other end. “What’s up with your voice? I’m in Virginia. Shouldn’t take too long.”
“Nope,” and Dean has to all but snap his mouth shut because Cas’s cock presses up against his cheek, then, and the head inches toward his lips. He hasn’t actually done that before, and while - he took it up the ass, he’s okay with just about everything now, he would prefer not to be learning what angel spunk tastes like while he’s on the phone with Sam. “Call me when you get closer. See you soon, Sammy.” His voice is impressively even, all things considered. And there are many things to consider.
“This is a good thing, Dean,” Cas intones, and nods. Dean presses the heel of his hand to his mouth, because it’s that same heaven-sent dry sex voice he uses for everything while the head of his dick draws circles with his own wetness on Dean’s cheek, and his laugh is gonna be a little hysterical if he lets it out.
Dean’s closed lips tipped up into a smile, and he inclines his neck just a bit to the side. The phone drops out of Dean’s hand, and bounces easily to the carpeted floor.
*
He’s okay with just about everything now, Dean repeats to himself a little later, when Cas wakes him up by keening his name a few times. He’s tempted to tell the angel to jerk himself off while he watches through half-lidded eyes, but Cas looks like his ice cream cone went plop on the ground, considering his exaggerated frown.
Dean nods, and that’s how he ends up pressed against the headboard. His thighs are still slick from before, but they rub together, and okay, yeah, far from bad, but it’s still weird -
“Hey,” he grunts, before he gets a kiss in the small of his back. It’s only dry lips, so he’s not going to admit how much his body, going by instinct, tries to curl up into the kiss there, a heavy crush and only half a breath at once. Because, hey, angel - Cas is and can do a lot of crazy, dizzying things.
One finger moves inside him. It’s different than the other times, Dean can feel it. The fingers don’t move wide and fast to split and prep him. A hand slides under his stomach, just brushing his cock. Not touching. Enough to get him gritting his teeth and holding his forehead against the headboard hard enough so that it hurts. “Cas,” he breathes into the slide of the second finger.
Cas takes his time, pushing in gently until Dean starts clenching back against the knuckles of his borrowed fingers. Dean doesn’t fucking whimper when Cas finds his prostate and drags his fingertips across it, slow, easy, like someone pressed pause on the apocalypse so they could have really awesome sex.
He totally does, though, when Cas trails his thumb down between his balls and ass and presses. It’s not even hard, just firm enough to make him suck in breath and whine it out.
When Dean comes, Cas has barely even touched his cock. He’s just been stroking fingers inside him for a while, and Dean has felt it building, teetering on the edge of - it’s like a sneeze, or an itch in that one part of his back that he can’t get to, only it fucking rules. Normally, he’d squabble about the wet spot, but he’s pretty sure his brain has been vacuumed out and replaced with the Fourth of July. Cas even provided some nice sparklers to take the place of his nerves and blood.
“Was that enjoyable for you?” Cas asks. He looks the same as always, which is so unfair. Next time, Dean is gonna have to spank him, or come on his face, or something. Dean is really gonna have to stop thinking like that.
But he just lets a blissed-out grin stretch his face out. “Shut up,” he teases, flopping an arm around Cas’ back and drifting off.
RATING: NC-17
WORD COUNT: ~3600
FANDOM: Supernatural
PAIRINGS: Dean/Castiel
SUMMARY: My take on the events of 5.03 "Free to Be You and Me," slightly AR at the end. Also, porn.
WARNINGS: Explicit sex. Handwaved vessel consent issues; let's all pretend Jimmy went to Heaven when Raphael blew Castiel up at the end of S4.
NOTES: I found this on my computer. I think it was supposed to be a blindfold fill, where the prompt was something like Cas having sex for the first time and then getting obsessed with it. Pretty sure I had other ~scenes~ planned but I kind of like where it ended. The title is absolutely not from 3OH!3, why would you think that.
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and its characters are not mine.
They find an actually sorta nice motel room and eye each other for a couple of hours, while Dean gets sloppy tipsy on the other beers in the cooler. “Only the best for you fuckin’ surviving,” Dean slurs out, raising his bottle in Cas’ direction. Some of it spills on the ground, and Dean watches the way Cas’ eyes trace it and thinks of how his too-loose tie swung through the air in the alleyway behind the brothel.
“You were a great help,” Cas nods, and then fuck it, Dean’s stupid enough to crowd into his space and knock him down on the bed. He bounces when his back hits the mattress and fuck if just that isn’t enough to make Dean’s dick twitch.
Not that drunk, heh. The benefits of being a minor alcoholic.
“You’re in my personal space,” Cas points out, but there are red spots on his cheeks and his mouth won’t stay all the way closed. Plus, hi, fucking angel of the Lord, well sort of now, but he could still crush his skull if he didn’t like anything.
Instead, when Dean attacks that mouth with a ferocity that jolts out from his spine and sorta frightens him, honestly, Cas pushes his tongue right back. They both have so many fucking layers on, and it’s hard to get them off between the kissing and the way Dean’s pretty sure he has a goddamn obligation to feel Castiel everywhere. His skin hums with heat, some strange sign of the inhuman thing inside. Kissing over the angel’s heart is like pushing his lips against a speaker.
They’re chest on chest, and bare legs in between bare legs, awfully quickly. Dean’s actually laughing, again - laughing this much two nights in a row has to be some kind of goddamn record for him - as he spikes up Cas’ hair with his fingers and licks the water still rolling down his neck. (It’s pouring out, but hey, the power’s back.) “Stuff in my - hold on -” And he presses one more sloppy kiss to Cas’ lips as he breaks away to rummage through the bag, grinning stupidly as he pulls out the lube.
When he comes back, well, Dean’s pretty fucking proud of the way Cas’ eyes went all silver-tinged navy, dark and shining with grace at once. It shouldn’t be possible, but he shouldn’t be in bed with a fucking angel either. Heh. “Like that ass, huh,” he offers, sweeping his hips up in one slow grind. “You can -” he starts, because fuck it, he used to do this a lot, paid better than pool, and none of the very closeted businessmen had their wings all but fall off for him, but then he’s on his back and Cas opens both their fingers up to snatch the lube out.
“Do you know how much I had to study it,” Cas heaves out, flipping them and rearing over Dean. He’s supernova hot in about fifty different ways, fuck, the water droplets on Dean’s skin just sizzling away when they touch. And now he can’t stop picturing it, Castiel puzzling over these diagrams with his asshole brothers and trying to figure out his cock and liver and elbows so he could fix him.
Dean looks up at him, the thing that put him together and takes him apart, now, with one slow finger. Another moves inside, when his breath stops jumping, and Cas bumps his forehead against Dean’s thigh and yeah, sure, he spreads them too quickly, like he’s the virgin here.
Cas is pretty okay, though, his gaze attached to the two fingers screwing into Dean. Fine, it wasn’t the best idea to drag the virgin angel to a brothel to fuck some chick named Chastity who was wearing a really cheap negligee. Especially when said angel looked really hot and fucking badass protecting your soul to call the archangel that killed him a little bitch, his clothes skin-tight with the pouring rain hitting them. Much better to get him in your bed and kiss him until it sears and the back of your knee all but pops with sparks because he’s hitched it over his shoulder - holy fuck. (Ha, ha.)
Dean absolutely does not yowl and grip the bedsheets when Cas enters him for real, warm and full and gripping his shoulders. He doesn’t. He just knows Cas is some stupid bastard whose idea of fixing him involved blowing up the size of his prostate so every thrust hits it, and Dean’s going urk like a moron, and already clenching up, and he’s seriously not going to last as long as the virgin.
Cas keeps saying his name, eyes trained on him too-intensely. This could be any one of the dumb moments they’ve had lately except his dick is in his ass, and just the drag of Dean’s cock against Cas’ lower stomach, the skin soft, is gonna make him scream, untouched.
He pulls out, and Dean - oh fuck it, he whines, and then Cas rams back in, and it’s so fucking stupid but he’s definitely got some kind of magical dick because it doesn’t even hurt, it just shoots an ache through his whole body. The headboard keeps clanking against the wall and there’ll probably be damage to the drywall or people from the room over bitching but fuck that, because a hotass angel’s screwing him into the sheets.
If Dean closes his eyes there’s a hard burst of light behind them, like Castiel’s true form. Fucking wings and all, looming over him, and Cas has no rhythm left any more, just jerking hips punching against Dean’s prostate over and over. That’s it, he fucking paints Cas’ belly with his come, and his thrusts smear it all the way up to his chest. Dean looks on, half in awe, half because he’s still washed over with how goddamn - or maybe, like, heaven-sent is a better adjective, ha, ha - awesome that was, his orgasm torn out of him and melting from his body at once.
“C’mon, Cas.” His voice sounds like someone ran a cheese grater over his vocal cords, and he fucking enjoyed it too. He knows his ass is a mess, but he still clenches up around Cas, shoving his neck down and kissing him messily. Their stomachs rub together, hipbones (and Cas’ are sharp against his waist and thighs), chests. God, he’s gonna love the fucking bruises, hopes they stick around like the handprint.
Cas’ eyes flash silver a few times, and okay Dean totally should’ve expected it but the lamp pops into a hail of sparks as he gasps, spills into him, and then flops over his chest. It’s hysterical, six feet of angel fucked out with his first orgasm and spread all over him. Dean is leaking out his ass and that’s disgusting and he’s still kinda giddy.
“Dean,” Cas says, eventually. (Dean is totally not pressed to his body, not at all.) His voice sounds no different than usual, which is fucking hilarious. “I may be a virgin, by all senses of the word. But I am no innocent.” He turns his head, and he has these big stupid puppy eyes and that’s it, Dean’s gone. “I believe I would like to experience many things I have observed, and with you.”
Dean’s eyes go wide, because he is never going to get over the angel who pulled him out of Hell asking him to let him experience everything. The rest of his face stays impressively neutral, though. Otherwise, he’s getting too close to being some high school chick who just gave her first blowjob behind the bleachers.
“Yeah, sure. Of course.”
Dean wonders what would’ve happened if he’d known what would happen. He probably wouldn’t have spent the next few months so fucking sore, ha, or exhausted. But yeah, there’s still no way he would’ve said no.
“May I stay here?”
Dean grunts out a yes that will have to stand for don’t ask dumb questions.
*
A whisper of “Dean” wakes him up the next morning. It’s still raining, and the clock fizzled out when they fucked last night too, but Dean suspects it’s the asscrack of morning. Holy fuck - and man, Dean has to find some phrases that don’t make him giggle like a twelve-year-old - he’s sore.
Sore, and heavy, because the angel that made him so sore is still naked and wet between his legs as he sinks down on his cock, slow.
“Oh, fuck!” Dean absolutely howls, and clamps a hand over his mouth because seriously, those poor fuckers next door. (Or, not fuckers. Or, maybe they were, they just weren’t as loud as he was with Cas, and - God so tight this line of thought is not important any more.)
“Yes, exactly.” Dean can’t help it, this laugh barks out of him - three days in a row, what the fuck - and he cups the back of the angel’s neck and smashes their mouths together. There’s no technique, at all, and he winces when the edges of teeth drag together, and he’s sure his breath tastes like ass. It’s so awesome.
Cas keeps riding him, his eyes wide and shiny and blue, even when the morning’s dull and gray. Dean’s pretty sure he’s riding the edge hard the entire time, but he doesn’t come until he looks up at the ceiling and there are two enormous wing shadows flared out, the feathers twitching.
*
They do research all day, and nothing turns up but it’s kind of exhilarating when Castiel looms over his shoulder while Dean Googles freaky accidents (and they may have released Lucifer from his cage, but that shit still works). Angels probably don’t have to breathe, but Cas’ breath dusting his ear and neck makes him squirm. His fingers creep over his shoulder, over the handprint -
Fuck it. It’s been a long time since he got laid, and even longer since it was with someone that meant even a little bit. (Maybe not ever this much, either. He shuts his mind up.)
Cas is in his lap in the next moment, like he read his mind - probably did - and pulling them both out to stroke them together. Dean looks up at Cas, who’s looking down at their dicks as intently as he studies old Latin manuscripts. And goddamn if he doesn’t know the right pace, the way to twist his wrist and keep his thumb going through the slick of the head.
Dean fights off the urge to pass out in the chair when he comes.
*
Dean’s in a diner by himself, on his second milkshake - strawberry so it’s fine, that shit is healthy - when Cas pops into the booth right next to him. He thinks to get all affronted and give him the personal space speech again, but this guy gave him the three best orgasms of his life and is keeping him from going crazy lonely, so. He skips it.
“My Father is proving very difficult to find,” he grunts, crossing his arms and furrowing his brow. Clearly, he’s pissed off, but Dean is at the stupid hormone-flooded stage where he thinks it’s cute as hell. (Or, maybe that’s a bad phrase, too. Hell was… not cute.) He wants to drag his lips along Cas’ frown lines. “I figured I would… relax a little bit.”
“You don’t know the meaning of the word,” Dean scoffs, but he’s grinning, and then Castiel isn’t next to him because he is crouching under the table pulling his zipper down. “What the fuck!” He can’t even exclaim it, because the cute waitress in the little miniskirt and platforms is gonna come zipping over to the table and he knows his answer to her what’s wrong, sweetie is gonna be either some horrible animal groan, or oh, nothing, just got my angel boyfriend sucking my dick under the table in between searching for God.
He thought boyfriend.
It doesn’t matter, because Cas’ fingers keep running across his shaft, and he feels his heartbeat in his dick and pulsing through his forehead too. There is no way he should be turned on. Fluorescent lights make him wince overhead, the shitty red glitter-flecked plastic tables have funny stains on them, and he can hear the hiss of grease bubbling. None of that shit is sexy. That doesn’t matter either, because he looks down and all he sees are his still-clad thighs, the slim line of Cas’s shoulders under that dumb trenchcoat, and his dick, which is definitely half-hard at this point.
Cas slips his mouth around the head, and Dean watches the head of his dick interrupt those pink lips and - yeah, fuck, totally sexy.
Dean makes himself very busy. He circles his own lips around the straw, rising out of his milkshake, and that’s kind of fucking hilarious. His fingers flip through the napkin dispenser and the white slips of tissue go spilling out all over the table. The tap of his foot against the linoleum floor has never been so jittery in his life.
And all the while, there’s an otherworldly mouth on him, lips curled so tight and buzzing up and down against his cock. It’s like Cas is trying to learn humanity by sucking it out through the head of his cock, and Dean - yeah, Dean thinks he might be okay with that. The blowjob isn’t particularly skilled, because Dean has to inch back and forth depending on the way the fucking drool starts slipping down into his balls. But Cas takes him deep, easy, like he doesn’t have to breathe or swallow - probably doesn’t - and he keeps doing that thing that makes Dean go stupid when his slit rubs up against the soft wetness inside someone’s cheek.
He has to try really hard not to scream when he comes. Hey, he figures, he’s been in enough diners like this. There’s gotta be less jizz on the floor than in the soup of the day when the head cook is pissed off enough.
“It is very difficult to fit wings under one of these tables, I have learned,” Cas comes up with, eventually, slipping onto the other side of the booth. His face is the same as ever.
Dean’s laugh in response is a little hysterical.
*
Dean’s stopped missing Sam. This is what gets Dean to call Sam again, of course, because the thought absolutely fucking terrifies him. He’s got his baby and cheap burgers and pie and a lot of really awesome orgasms, and he’s left a whole lot of evil shit behind him, and he’s too used to it. At night, he passes the fuck out, exhausted, and doesn’t let his dreams twist him with thoughts of Hell, or Sam with jet-black eyes and rust red slashed over his mouth.
It’s like Dean’s losing himself, going through the motions while the world crumbles around him; there’s awful, awful shit on the news every day, hurricanes and lightning storms that wreck too many towns. Michael’s probably having creepy angel jerk-off fantasies about his ass, which is pretty darn occupied in a couple of ways lately, but the fact remains that if Michael finds out where Dean is, he’s probably gonna make those encounters with Zachariah and Raphael seem like driving his car on a breezy summer day, humming along even with the skips on the tapes he’s played way too much.
He can’t do this alone. Cas is a big help, and also a big distraction with his wide-blown eyes and - well, the guy always had sex hair, it actually kinda calmed down from that night in the barn. But Sam’s a phantom limb that no longer aches, and it’s freaking him the fuck out.
“Dean, this is ridiculous,” Sam sighs, tinny through the phone after he’s caught Dean up with everything. “We - I’ve kind of got Satan on my ass. Who knows what he’ll do if he finds you with me -”
“And I’ve got Michael on my ass!” Dean huffs out. “I don’t know what he’s doing, but it’s not like Zachariah and crew are rolling out the red carpet to me to remake Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, and oh, man, you didn’t even meet Raphael - point is, the angels kinda suck, well, not Cas -” Actually, Cas totally sucks, just, heh - “And we’ll figure something out.”
As if he’s been summoned just by the mention of his name, now, Cas flaps into the room. Dean only needs to run his eyes up and down the precise lines that map out Cas’ body, hear the flutter of his trenchcoat as it settles, and it’s a stupid Pavlovian response but his dick knows it’s in for some Happy Fun Time -
“Okay.” And it’s so weird, to feel the exhale he doesn’t even breathe out that’s his love for Sam when he’s thinking about hoisting Cas up onto his knees to straddle him, when the angel’s actually pressing into his hip, already hard. “Where are you?”
“Uhhhhh,” Dean gets out. Smooth, but Cas’s hands are already undoing his belt and then the angel’s dick’s right in front of his face already, pretty and musky. In some attempt to keep him at bay at least until he can remember what the hell his name is, Dean slides a hand up to Cas’s stomach and strokes him there, so smooth. “Harrisburg? Pennsylvania?” Yeah, that’s right. It was September, but a foot of snow had dumped here the other week.
He hears one of Sam’s stupid snorting chuckles on the other end. “What’s up with your voice? I’m in Virginia. Shouldn’t take too long.”
“Nope,” and Dean has to all but snap his mouth shut because Cas’s cock presses up against his cheek, then, and the head inches toward his lips. He hasn’t actually done that before, and while - he took it up the ass, he’s okay with just about everything now, he would prefer not to be learning what angel spunk tastes like while he’s on the phone with Sam. “Call me when you get closer. See you soon, Sammy.” His voice is impressively even, all things considered. And there are many things to consider.
“This is a good thing, Dean,” Cas intones, and nods. Dean presses the heel of his hand to his mouth, because it’s that same heaven-sent dry sex voice he uses for everything while the head of his dick draws circles with his own wetness on Dean’s cheek, and his laugh is gonna be a little hysterical if he lets it out.
Dean’s closed lips tipped up into a smile, and he inclines his neck just a bit to the side. The phone drops out of Dean’s hand, and bounces easily to the carpeted floor.
*
He’s okay with just about everything now, Dean repeats to himself a little later, when Cas wakes him up by keening his name a few times. He’s tempted to tell the angel to jerk himself off while he watches through half-lidded eyes, but Cas looks like his ice cream cone went plop on the ground, considering his exaggerated frown.
Dean nods, and that’s how he ends up pressed against the headboard. His thighs are still slick from before, but they rub together, and okay, yeah, far from bad, but it’s still weird -
“Hey,” he grunts, before he gets a kiss in the small of his back. It’s only dry lips, so he’s not going to admit how much his body, going by instinct, tries to curl up into the kiss there, a heavy crush and only half a breath at once. Because, hey, angel - Cas is and can do a lot of crazy, dizzying things.
One finger moves inside him. It’s different than the other times, Dean can feel it. The fingers don’t move wide and fast to split and prep him. A hand slides under his stomach, just brushing his cock. Not touching. Enough to get him gritting his teeth and holding his forehead against the headboard hard enough so that it hurts. “Cas,” he breathes into the slide of the second finger.
Cas takes his time, pushing in gently until Dean starts clenching back against the knuckles of his borrowed fingers. Dean doesn’t fucking whimper when Cas finds his prostate and drags his fingertips across it, slow, easy, like someone pressed pause on the apocalypse so they could have really awesome sex.
He totally does, though, when Cas trails his thumb down between his balls and ass and presses. It’s not even hard, just firm enough to make him suck in breath and whine it out.
When Dean comes, Cas has barely even touched his cock. He’s just been stroking fingers inside him for a while, and Dean has felt it building, teetering on the edge of - it’s like a sneeze, or an itch in that one part of his back that he can’t get to, only it fucking rules. Normally, he’d squabble about the wet spot, but he’s pretty sure his brain has been vacuumed out and replaced with the Fourth of July. Cas even provided some nice sparklers to take the place of his nerves and blood.
“Was that enjoyable for you?” Cas asks. He looks the same as always, which is so unfair. Next time, Dean is gonna have to spank him, or come on his face, or something. Dean is really gonna have to stop thinking like that.
But he just lets a blissed-out grin stretch his face out. “Shut up,” he teases, flopping an arm around Cas’ back and drifting off.