Fic: "Pale Rider" [NC-17 - Dean/Cas, written for deancaskink]
TITLE: "Pale Rider"
AUTHOR: nanoochka
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Dean/Castiel
SPOILERS: 6.18
WARNINGS: Misuse of cowboy hats.
WORDCOUNT: 2,386
SUMMARY: The trip to nineteenth-century Wyoming is hardly the start of it; Sam can joke about cowboy fetishes all he wants, but the kid is closer to the truth than he knows.
DISCLAIMER: Lies, all lies.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I have nothing to say for myself except that this was written in a single evening, un-betaed and on an empty stomach, in response to the cowboy kink prompt at deancaskink . I was compelled by the grace of John Wayne. That is all.
"Pale Rider" by nanoochka
The trip to nineteenth-century Wyoming is barely the start of it; Sam can joke about cowboy fetishes all he wants, but the kid is closer to the truth than he knows. Closer, probably, than he even suspects, though Dean doesn’t miss the weird look his brother shoots him when Dean inclines his head upstairs with a gentle clearing of his throat and a significant look at Cas.
They meet in the spare bedroom ten minutes later, Dean begging off for a nap, Cas with some excuse about the war that strikes Dean as oddly convenient, given how quickly he can switch between true urgency and a straight-faced lie. Though he disappears from the living room before their eyes, Dean finds Cas upstairs when he closes the door behind himself, appropriately haloed in a mist of dying sunlight and dust mites swirling in the air, half-shadowed and inviting. Dean swallows at the sight, mouth dry, pants tight, and he locks the door for good measure, takes a moment to lean back against the wood and just drink Cas in long and slow.
“This is much better than the blanket,” Cas deadpans from the opposite side of the bed, indicating the getup Dean acquired in Wyoming, his shiny Sherriff's star. Dean can’t help but agree, closing the distance between them in a few steps, spurs clanking against the rickety wood floors. For a moment Castiel’s fingers play upon the edge of the footboard, something between an impatient tap and a languid caress, and then he, too, sidles the rest of the way into Dean’s personal space with a look that’s half smirk, half enticing smile.
There’s very little need for small talk when Dean is standing decked out in spurs, a badass duster and an honest-to-god cowboy hat, so he just hauls Cas closer by the lapels of his coat and crushes their mouths together. Urgency and muscle memory make short work of what good manners they possess, gentleness swallowed up by the angry clash of teeth and slick tongues, Cas biting painfully into Dean’s bottom lip with a grateful huff of air.
Dean ignores the sharp tug of Castiel’s fingers in the short hair at the back of his neck. Instead he strips him quickly, efficiently, smoothing his hands under clothing and against soft skin as the layers disappear. Within seconds Cas is naked, coat, jacket and white shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, pants and boxers around his slim ankles.
Somehow Cas has single-handedly found his way into Dean’s pants without Dean noticing, that is until a sure-fingered grip closes around his thickening cock, free of underwear for the sake of authenticity. He gasps, mutters a slow, grateful, “Damn, boy,” into Castiel’s mouth, and resists the urge to moan when the angel responds to the playful drawl with a growl of his own, dark and appreciative.
Together they divest Dean of his belt and holster, Castiel still pumping him in firm, unhurried strokes as he smooths back the flaps of Dean’s trousers with his free hand, giving himself more room. The gesture is almost fastidious, in its way, a brief note of unspoken tenderness. Both Cas’s wrist and the head of Dean’s cock brush the hem of his waistcoat on each upstroke, the wool deliciously rough against his sensitized skin. Pulling back from the kiss with a parting nip, Dean sweeps back the long panels of his duster, looks at Cas from beneath the brim of his hat with a question to which he suspects Cas already knows the answer.
As usual, though, Castiel works according to his own agenda, sinking to his knees with a decisiveness Dean can’t help but support, hands steady against the span of Dean’s pelvis. His cock slides past Castiel’s lips, guided with snake-charmer surety, and a groan escapes from deep within Dean’s chest as his hips buck once, helpless and needy for more of that wet, demanding heat. Cas sucks him off fast, a virtuoso of Dean’s every twitch and moan, cheeks hollowed-out and revealing each sin-perfect swirl of his tongue against Dean’s slick length. He comes with Castiel gripping tight around the backs of his thighs, pulling him in close, and the satisfied pop with which Castiel releases him from his mouth makes Dean go a little weak in the knees. The sudden lack is visceral, Sheriff of Frontierland or no.
The stars have yet to clear from Dean’s eyes when Castiel licks his lips in entirely too feline a manner, drawing himself smoothly up to full height so he can discard his shoes and the remainder of his clothing. Fingers clumsy, Dean follows suit, struggling to get through seemingly endless layers of oilskin and wool and cotton until Castiel moves to help. His fingers are deft against rows of buttons on his waistcoat and undershirt until Dean is naked to the knees, and he has to kick his boots off, spurs clattering, to get his trousers the rest of the way down.
He goes to remove the hat, but Castiel’s hands stop him, circling firm around Dean’s wrists. “Not that,” he says, and Dean lowers his arms obediently.
Head tilted with approval, Cas slides backwards across the faded duvet to settle against the pillows near the headboard, eyes focused and intense upon Dean’s. His cock arcs in a hard wet line that smears against his stomach, stark against the dark thatch of hair that surrounds it, pale skin pink with arousal. Dean knows right away what he wants to do, what Cas wants him to want-they’ve always shared this, a seamless, comfortable communication that renders speech redundant. The way Cas parts his legs a bit more, invitation blatant, makes Dean jerk and advance towards him abortively as he remembers his open duffle bag on the floor. He swoops down to snag the bottle of lube, which he tosses onto the mattress and follows with his body, sinuous and easy as a cowboy’s swagger.
Feeling Cas’s skin hot to the touch, Dean settles over his hips and effects a long, slow drag up the spine of Castiel’s dick, hisses and shudders at the slick prod of the head against his ass. Cas is just upright enough that Dean can brace himself against the angel’s shoulders, pushes in to steal a kiss from that rough, plump mouth, licking it open until Castiel’s lips are slippery and red. Dean hears his name released in a murmur, a quick, impatient plea; he grinds down again in response, hands sliding into the wilds of Cas’s hair to hold them together, open and hungry and tasting, and he feels the brim of his hat brush Castiel’s forehead. It can’t be a coincidence how his spent dick starts to stir itself back to life.
Noticing, Cas clamps his fingers down upon Dean’s hips, holds him steady and right where he wants friction the most. “Dean,” he prompts, voice testy, and Dean can’t help the dirty, slutty little laugh that escapes him.
“You want me like this, Cas?” he asks. One hand abandons its refuge in that dark mess of hair to tip his hat forward, eyes glinting as their gazes meld, going for the full Eastwood smoulder. “Want me to ride you hard, just like this? Put you away wet?”
“I want you to get on with it,” Cas grates out. Though Dean would be within his rights to point out that Cas is, at times, an unfathomable tease, little more than an embarrassing squeak escapes him as he feels those fingers slide deftly into the crack of his ass, nudging lower until they are prodding and circling at the tight furl of muscle that all but bears Castiel’s name.
His cock is getting fat and ready again, pre-come beading at the tip in anticipation, and Dean gives an experimental rub against the centre of Castiel’s chest, levering himself up with his thighs as he would on horseback, making himself loose and easy for that hand to keep opening him up, little by little. Dean fumbles for the lube and volunteers some of that slickness to ease the way, wipes the rest on Castiel’s dick in the hopes he can speed things along after all.
Cas works in a finger and then eventually two until Dean whines low in his throat and shifts petulantly, begging without begging, his scalp tingling and hot beneath the hat. A wave of heat travels down his whole body and prickles the sweat at the base of his spine, building as Cas nears his prostate with the tip of one finger. Dean arches into it with all the wantonness of a common saloon whore. He couldn't give a fuck how he looks; he just wants those clever fingers splitting him open, pressing into the centre of him until the world flashes white.
Finding those fingers withdrawn much too soon, however, Dean starts to curse, “Fuck, Cas-” but is cut off in a shout as the pressure is replaced with the head of Castiel’s cock. He remembers a moment too late to keep his voice lowered, and then Castiel is too hot and thick inside him for Dean to care.
The initial push inside isn’t quick, isn’t easy-it burns and overwhelms. Cas tugs Dean forward to capture the groan in his mouth, arms tight around Dean’s back. When he’s all the way seated Dean arches his spine and blinks up at the ceiling not obscured by the rim of his hat, throws a hand out to catch it before it slides off his head. Cas grunts in approval, hips jolting up into him with a bolt of fire and the first glorious swipe against Dean’s prostate, punching a cry from them both. Still clutching the hat, Dean digs the fingers of his free hand into Castiel’s shoulder and starts to rock, tentatively at first through the receding pain, then with increasing boldness, grinding himself into that perfect pressure with near-obsessive focus.
It must be that Castiel is close, Dean thinks, because his thrusts overtake the pace within seconds, shoving in and in until Dean has to seal their mouths together to hold back his yell of pleasure. There’s nothing steely or Clint-like about the sounds clawing their way out of his throat. All the restraint is gone between them, racing each other closer to the spot Dean knows is just about within reach, cock sliding and slipping in a combination of sweat and pre-come against Castiel’s stomach. Cas fucks him open, well and truly, and gasps Dean’s name over and over against his lips like he’s waited a hundred years for this, presses bruises into skin with his fingertips. Their eyes meet, hold, and Dean begins to let it go.
Dean’s hips work so hard he actually begins to ache, pounding them both silly, slamming the headboard against the wall so hard there’s no way his brother and Bobby can’t hear it downstairs. The sound of flesh slapping together just boils Dean’s blood even more, pulses with such heat that he chokes on oxygen when the wave finally breaks and his release shoots across Castiel’s skin in thick ropes, catching the underside of his chin. He bucks through it and clenches his fist in the stiff fabric of the cowboy hat, head thrown back, lets out his breath on a low moan when Cas glides his mouth against Dean’s throat and bites down at the moment of orgasm, hard and swift. Dean just rides him through it, ignoring the rubber in his limbs as Cas slows his thrusts and pants for air like a lathered beast, their chests heaving damp and sticky together.
A few minutes go by as the world finds its axis again. Dean clutches Cas against his body until he’s sure he’s regained the capacity for speech; higher brain function is probably too much to hope for, what with his synapses still firing. Sure enough, first sound that emerges is an undignified, “Nnngh,” though Cas grunts in agreement and buries his face against Dean’s sweaty shoulder.
After another pause, Cas says, “I think I’ve started to understand your fascination with the Old West,” words muffled and awed, “though it explains a lot.”
In spite of himself, Dean chuckles, and breaks away long enough to push the sweat-tangled hair back from Castiel’s forehead. He’s still flushed but looks less wiped than before, not that Dean would have suggested this over letting Cas grope Bobby’s soul. Some things are off-limits, kind of like how Dean wouldn’t break out the cowboy gear for just anyone.
With a smirk still playing on his lips, Dean removes the hat and plops it down on Castiel's head, barking out a proper laugh when it all but sinks over his eyes, slightly too big about the crown. Still, it’s a good look for him, especially when Cas glowers and lifts the brim so that he can glare from underneath with such ire that Clint would surely approve.
He must catch something in Dean’s smile, because Cas sighs and says, “I know there’s probably something inappropriate you’re longing to get out of your system, so you might as well get it over with.”
Looking wounded, Dean snatches up another quick kiss before Cas can think twice about his allotment for post-coital groping, and disappear off this Earthly plane. He melts into the press of Dean’s lips, mouth opening for the lazy sweep of tongue and the gentle scrape of teeth, hands working around the back of Dean’s neck to hold him in place. They let themselves make out without hurry, sated and relaxed, content to indulge each other a while longer.
The thing is, Cas has a point, and so does Sam, when it comes down to it-if anything, their recent jaunt through time has only intensified Dean’s fetish for all things Western. Though he’d never admit it out loud, Cas is right to predict what's waiting on the tip of Dean’s tongue, even while currently occupied drawing nonsensical patterns across Castiel’s soft palate.
He affects otherwise for as long as he’s constitutionally able, but eventually can’t hold back the quiet snort that drifts into the kiss, his muttered cry of, “Yee-haw.” Although the force of Castiel’s eye-roll could reverberate sound waves through the air, Dean grins when he hears the quiet snort in return, and thinks he tastes a smile.
Fin
AUTHOR: nanoochka
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Dean/Castiel
SPOILERS: 6.18
WARNINGS: Misuse of cowboy hats.
WORDCOUNT: 2,386
SUMMARY: The trip to nineteenth-century Wyoming is hardly the start of it; Sam can joke about cowboy fetishes all he wants, but the kid is closer to the truth than he knows.
DISCLAIMER: Lies, all lies.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I have nothing to say for myself except that this was written in a single evening, un-betaed and on an empty stomach, in response to the cowboy kink prompt at deancaskink . I was compelled by the grace of John Wayne. That is all.
"Pale Rider" by nanoochka
The trip to nineteenth-century Wyoming is barely the start of it; Sam can joke about cowboy fetishes all he wants, but the kid is closer to the truth than he knows. Closer, probably, than he even suspects, though Dean doesn’t miss the weird look his brother shoots him when Dean inclines his head upstairs with a gentle clearing of his throat and a significant look at Cas.
They meet in the spare bedroom ten minutes later, Dean begging off for a nap, Cas with some excuse about the war that strikes Dean as oddly convenient, given how quickly he can switch between true urgency and a straight-faced lie. Though he disappears from the living room before their eyes, Dean finds Cas upstairs when he closes the door behind himself, appropriately haloed in a mist of dying sunlight and dust mites swirling in the air, half-shadowed and inviting. Dean swallows at the sight, mouth dry, pants tight, and he locks the door for good measure, takes a moment to lean back against the wood and just drink Cas in long and slow.
“This is much better than the blanket,” Cas deadpans from the opposite side of the bed, indicating the getup Dean acquired in Wyoming, his shiny Sherriff's star. Dean can’t help but agree, closing the distance between them in a few steps, spurs clanking against the rickety wood floors. For a moment Castiel’s fingers play upon the edge of the footboard, something between an impatient tap and a languid caress, and then he, too, sidles the rest of the way into Dean’s personal space with a look that’s half smirk, half enticing smile.
There’s very little need for small talk when Dean is standing decked out in spurs, a badass duster and an honest-to-god cowboy hat, so he just hauls Cas closer by the lapels of his coat and crushes their mouths together. Urgency and muscle memory make short work of what good manners they possess, gentleness swallowed up by the angry clash of teeth and slick tongues, Cas biting painfully into Dean’s bottom lip with a grateful huff of air.
Dean ignores the sharp tug of Castiel’s fingers in the short hair at the back of his neck. Instead he strips him quickly, efficiently, smoothing his hands under clothing and against soft skin as the layers disappear. Within seconds Cas is naked, coat, jacket and white shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, pants and boxers around his slim ankles.
Somehow Cas has single-handedly found his way into Dean’s pants without Dean noticing, that is until a sure-fingered grip closes around his thickening cock, free of underwear for the sake of authenticity. He gasps, mutters a slow, grateful, “Damn, boy,” into Castiel’s mouth, and resists the urge to moan when the angel responds to the playful drawl with a growl of his own, dark and appreciative.
Together they divest Dean of his belt and holster, Castiel still pumping him in firm, unhurried strokes as he smooths back the flaps of Dean’s trousers with his free hand, giving himself more room. The gesture is almost fastidious, in its way, a brief note of unspoken tenderness. Both Cas’s wrist and the head of Dean’s cock brush the hem of his waistcoat on each upstroke, the wool deliciously rough against his sensitized skin. Pulling back from the kiss with a parting nip, Dean sweeps back the long panels of his duster, looks at Cas from beneath the brim of his hat with a question to which he suspects Cas already knows the answer.
As usual, though, Castiel works according to his own agenda, sinking to his knees with a decisiveness Dean can’t help but support, hands steady against the span of Dean’s pelvis. His cock slides past Castiel’s lips, guided with snake-charmer surety, and a groan escapes from deep within Dean’s chest as his hips buck once, helpless and needy for more of that wet, demanding heat. Cas sucks him off fast, a virtuoso of Dean’s every twitch and moan, cheeks hollowed-out and revealing each sin-perfect swirl of his tongue against Dean’s slick length. He comes with Castiel gripping tight around the backs of his thighs, pulling him in close, and the satisfied pop with which Castiel releases him from his mouth makes Dean go a little weak in the knees. The sudden lack is visceral, Sheriff of Frontierland or no.
The stars have yet to clear from Dean’s eyes when Castiel licks his lips in entirely too feline a manner, drawing himself smoothly up to full height so he can discard his shoes and the remainder of his clothing. Fingers clumsy, Dean follows suit, struggling to get through seemingly endless layers of oilskin and wool and cotton until Castiel moves to help. His fingers are deft against rows of buttons on his waistcoat and undershirt until Dean is naked to the knees, and he has to kick his boots off, spurs clattering, to get his trousers the rest of the way down.
He goes to remove the hat, but Castiel’s hands stop him, circling firm around Dean’s wrists. “Not that,” he says, and Dean lowers his arms obediently.
Head tilted with approval, Cas slides backwards across the faded duvet to settle against the pillows near the headboard, eyes focused and intense upon Dean’s. His cock arcs in a hard wet line that smears against his stomach, stark against the dark thatch of hair that surrounds it, pale skin pink with arousal. Dean knows right away what he wants to do, what Cas wants him to want-they’ve always shared this, a seamless, comfortable communication that renders speech redundant. The way Cas parts his legs a bit more, invitation blatant, makes Dean jerk and advance towards him abortively as he remembers his open duffle bag on the floor. He swoops down to snag the bottle of lube, which he tosses onto the mattress and follows with his body, sinuous and easy as a cowboy’s swagger.
Feeling Cas’s skin hot to the touch, Dean settles over his hips and effects a long, slow drag up the spine of Castiel’s dick, hisses and shudders at the slick prod of the head against his ass. Cas is just upright enough that Dean can brace himself against the angel’s shoulders, pushes in to steal a kiss from that rough, plump mouth, licking it open until Castiel’s lips are slippery and red. Dean hears his name released in a murmur, a quick, impatient plea; he grinds down again in response, hands sliding into the wilds of Cas’s hair to hold them together, open and hungry and tasting, and he feels the brim of his hat brush Castiel’s forehead. It can’t be a coincidence how his spent dick starts to stir itself back to life.
Noticing, Cas clamps his fingers down upon Dean’s hips, holds him steady and right where he wants friction the most. “Dean,” he prompts, voice testy, and Dean can’t help the dirty, slutty little laugh that escapes him.
“You want me like this, Cas?” he asks. One hand abandons its refuge in that dark mess of hair to tip his hat forward, eyes glinting as their gazes meld, going for the full Eastwood smoulder. “Want me to ride you hard, just like this? Put you away wet?”
“I want you to get on with it,” Cas grates out. Though Dean would be within his rights to point out that Cas is, at times, an unfathomable tease, little more than an embarrassing squeak escapes him as he feels those fingers slide deftly into the crack of his ass, nudging lower until they are prodding and circling at the tight furl of muscle that all but bears Castiel’s name.
His cock is getting fat and ready again, pre-come beading at the tip in anticipation, and Dean gives an experimental rub against the centre of Castiel’s chest, levering himself up with his thighs as he would on horseback, making himself loose and easy for that hand to keep opening him up, little by little. Dean fumbles for the lube and volunteers some of that slickness to ease the way, wipes the rest on Castiel’s dick in the hopes he can speed things along after all.
Cas works in a finger and then eventually two until Dean whines low in his throat and shifts petulantly, begging without begging, his scalp tingling and hot beneath the hat. A wave of heat travels down his whole body and prickles the sweat at the base of his spine, building as Cas nears his prostate with the tip of one finger. Dean arches into it with all the wantonness of a common saloon whore. He couldn't give a fuck how he looks; he just wants those clever fingers splitting him open, pressing into the centre of him until the world flashes white.
Finding those fingers withdrawn much too soon, however, Dean starts to curse, “Fuck, Cas-” but is cut off in a shout as the pressure is replaced with the head of Castiel’s cock. He remembers a moment too late to keep his voice lowered, and then Castiel is too hot and thick inside him for Dean to care.
The initial push inside isn’t quick, isn’t easy-it burns and overwhelms. Cas tugs Dean forward to capture the groan in his mouth, arms tight around Dean’s back. When he’s all the way seated Dean arches his spine and blinks up at the ceiling not obscured by the rim of his hat, throws a hand out to catch it before it slides off his head. Cas grunts in approval, hips jolting up into him with a bolt of fire and the first glorious swipe against Dean’s prostate, punching a cry from them both. Still clutching the hat, Dean digs the fingers of his free hand into Castiel’s shoulder and starts to rock, tentatively at first through the receding pain, then with increasing boldness, grinding himself into that perfect pressure with near-obsessive focus.
It must be that Castiel is close, Dean thinks, because his thrusts overtake the pace within seconds, shoving in and in until Dean has to seal their mouths together to hold back his yell of pleasure. There’s nothing steely or Clint-like about the sounds clawing their way out of his throat. All the restraint is gone between them, racing each other closer to the spot Dean knows is just about within reach, cock sliding and slipping in a combination of sweat and pre-come against Castiel’s stomach. Cas fucks him open, well and truly, and gasps Dean’s name over and over against his lips like he’s waited a hundred years for this, presses bruises into skin with his fingertips. Their eyes meet, hold, and Dean begins to let it go.
Dean’s hips work so hard he actually begins to ache, pounding them both silly, slamming the headboard against the wall so hard there’s no way his brother and Bobby can’t hear it downstairs. The sound of flesh slapping together just boils Dean’s blood even more, pulses with such heat that he chokes on oxygen when the wave finally breaks and his release shoots across Castiel’s skin in thick ropes, catching the underside of his chin. He bucks through it and clenches his fist in the stiff fabric of the cowboy hat, head thrown back, lets out his breath on a low moan when Cas glides his mouth against Dean’s throat and bites down at the moment of orgasm, hard and swift. Dean just rides him through it, ignoring the rubber in his limbs as Cas slows his thrusts and pants for air like a lathered beast, their chests heaving damp and sticky together.
A few minutes go by as the world finds its axis again. Dean clutches Cas against his body until he’s sure he’s regained the capacity for speech; higher brain function is probably too much to hope for, what with his synapses still firing. Sure enough, first sound that emerges is an undignified, “Nnngh,” though Cas grunts in agreement and buries his face against Dean’s sweaty shoulder.
After another pause, Cas says, “I think I’ve started to understand your fascination with the Old West,” words muffled and awed, “though it explains a lot.”
In spite of himself, Dean chuckles, and breaks away long enough to push the sweat-tangled hair back from Castiel’s forehead. He’s still flushed but looks less wiped than before, not that Dean would have suggested this over letting Cas grope Bobby’s soul. Some things are off-limits, kind of like how Dean wouldn’t break out the cowboy gear for just anyone.
With a smirk still playing on his lips, Dean removes the hat and plops it down on Castiel's head, barking out a proper laugh when it all but sinks over his eyes, slightly too big about the crown. Still, it’s a good look for him, especially when Cas glowers and lifts the brim so that he can glare from underneath with such ire that Clint would surely approve.
He must catch something in Dean’s smile, because Cas sighs and says, “I know there’s probably something inappropriate you’re longing to get out of your system, so you might as well get it over with.”
Looking wounded, Dean snatches up another quick kiss before Cas can think twice about his allotment for post-coital groping, and disappear off this Earthly plane. He melts into the press of Dean’s lips, mouth opening for the lazy sweep of tongue and the gentle scrape of teeth, hands working around the back of Dean’s neck to hold him in place. They let themselves make out without hurry, sated and relaxed, content to indulge each other a while longer.
The thing is, Cas has a point, and so does Sam, when it comes down to it-if anything, their recent jaunt through time has only intensified Dean’s fetish for all things Western. Though he’d never admit it out loud, Cas is right to predict what's waiting on the tip of Dean’s tongue, even while currently occupied drawing nonsensical patterns across Castiel’s soft palate.
He affects otherwise for as long as he’s constitutionally able, but eventually can’t hold back the quiet snort that drifts into the kiss, his muttered cry of, “Yee-haw.” Although the force of Castiel’s eye-roll could reverberate sound waves through the air, Dean grins when he hears the quiet snort in return, and thinks he tastes a smile.
Fin